¡Adios Argentina!

 

This lady is not for turning!

 

Those days of rest in Villa General Belgrano reinvigorated me. The quietness of the place, the pleasant talks with John, the Rotterdammer who runs the marvellous hostel, and the still-beautiful weather, all saw to it that I was fully rested for another bout of travelling; which I did, albeit on a small scale.

I wanted to go to the province of Entre Rios, which together with the province of Corrientes, makes up an area, called Mesopotamia. That is the land between the Río Parana and Río Uruguay.

 

Normally, when travelling one gets up early, takes the first bus available in order to arrive in proper time to find some lodgings. By now, though, I feel so much at ease with this country that I do not worry about the latter and I have so much time on my side that I do not yearn for the former. So I got up late, had breakfast, bid the people at the hostel goodbye and took a local bus into Córdoba. Local, since it is only 86 km.

 

There was a coach to Parana, the capital of Entre Ríos, at 4 PM. That suited me fine, since it allowed for lunch at that massive bus station – Córdoba truly is the hub of the country – and which would get me to the city at 10 PM. Six hours, only. Peter and I had been on buses – coaches, rather – for far longer than that.

 

Coaches in this country vary in terms of luxury from pretty good to excellent. They are practically always double-deckers. The lower floor has the toilet and the cama seats. That literally means "bed", but by which is meant reclining, airplane-like seats, like the ones in business class. With more leg room, though.

The upper level is semi cama, less luxurious, cheaper and, mostly, very good. In both departments TV-sets are so positioned that you will always be allowed to catch much more than a mere glimpse of the, mostly, abysmal output from Hollywood. Now in that respect Andesmar proved to be an exception. When Peter and I, in our mad dash through Patagonia, had taken a night bus from Comodoro Rivadavia to El Bolson, we were first treated a film called Shrek – which is hilarious – and after dinner it was Hidalgo’s turn, a beautiful film about a man and his horse.

But, as Peter would say, that is Andesmar for you! (I am more of a Flecha Bus-man, which was the reason I bought a ticket to Parana from that company. You see, Flecha keeps your data in their system, so you are issued a ticket in no time.)

 

As a matter of fact, the bus only pulled in at 10.30 PM. During my search for a cheap hotel through the centre of Parana two guys offered me their help. The inevitable question popped up, ¿vos, de donde sos?, which is castellano for what in español would be ¿Ustéd, de donde es? Holanda. Los Países Bajos. Now, they had heard of the place. One had a father who had been there on a trip through Europe. The other one knew about the continuous threat from the sea my home country faces in its daily struggle to keep its head above water. All very sweet, but you don’t want all of that at 10.45 PM. What you want is a hotel room. I duly found one a few moments later.

 

The next day I did get up early and took the coach to a small place, called Cólon.

When possible, I have a seat on the top floor, at the front. It serves two purposes. One has a magnificent view and it gets you away from the telly, because that hangs overhead!! Occasionally, though, it can be the worst place to sit in. Peter and I found that out on our way from Río Gallegos, in the Deep South, to El Calafate. The sun shone right in our face and the air co was off. We practically got cooked. But, when travelling at night, as we had discovered, one best sits at the rear. No lights, no people, on their way to the loo, bumping into you, wonderfully quiet. 

 

The same can be said of Cólon. Situated on the shores of the Río Uruguay and overlooking the eponymous republic, it is a lovely place, with houses painted in colours so beloved by the English. I stay in an orange-pinkish painted hotel on the main square near the river.

The main reason of my wish to be here, however, is the nearby national park El Palmar. Nearby, meaning 51 kilometres from here. 

The Rough Guide contains quite an enthusiastic entry about the place and Matthew, the bloke from London, had much enjoyed his visit to the park. It is, as the name suggests, a reserve for enormous palm trees. Called yatays, they once grew in much of this part of South America. Human behaviour, as so often, had put paid to that. The park sits on the Río Uruguay, which is a beautiful if not majestic river. Broad, its shores bucolic, sandy river banks alongside, it oozes tranquillity, and is much like, I imagine, the big Russian rivers to be. It makes it completely different from the Río Parana, which is a river that oozes rough power.

 

I spent the whole afternoon in the park, walking some 20 km in the process. The sun shone relentlessly and made an impressive impact on my tan by doing so!

 

I quite like Entre Ríos. Its countryside is very gentle. It is nothing like the vast and boring expanses of Santa Fé or Buenos Aires provinces, but friendly, sloping scenery with meadows and fields of a European scale, with woods strewn across it. It is an area I will definitively come back to.

Come back to?? Yes, come back to, since I am leaving Argentina tomorrow, Sunday May 20th at noon. I will take the bus across the river, to Paysandù, in the Republic of Uruguay.

 

Seven weeks it has been that I have travelled this great country. Seven weeks in which I have devoured the news, enjoyed its gastronomic treats and have been in the company of most pleasant company. A few days ago I still felt sad about the prospect of leaving the land. I still do, but at the same time it is like "mission accomplished." Why?  

Well, it seems that some mysterious forces have been at work and have conveyed the contents of my blogs to Gastón Gaudio, the Indec, the BCRA and SG. Let me explain.

 

Gastón Gaudio of whom I asked "will he ever play again?" responded to my plea and did again; and lost. As so often, La Nacion and I found ourselves completely in agreement. He should stop tormenting himself, declare victory and call it a day. Gastón, please, retire and live happily hereafter with your actress girlfriend Marcela Kloosterboer.

 

Then there is the Indec, the nation’s statistical bureau. I, as armchair Chief-Economist to the Nation, have been crunching the numbers and discovered some inexplicable gaps in the flood of numerical information, which is fired at you on a daily basis. 

As you all very well remember, I had written that I thought the increase of sales of basic goods should be a sign that the poorer part of the nation is joining in. Well, it is official! The boom has reached the rust belt of GBA. Supermarket sales in dismal San Miguel, Moron, and other outer suburbs to the South and South-East of the metropolis have been surging ahead. By rates of 20 to 25 percent, in volume, let alone in pesos. The Indec merely confirmed what I already had figured out.

 

The trade figures and the nation’s reserves did not add up. I thought it had to do with money pouring in from under the mattresses and from the accounts held in Uruguay. Well, you already guessed it, the Banco Central de la Republica Argentina or, simply, BCRA and I could not have been more in tune. The money is indeed coming back into the economy. There is money simply everywhere and, if there is not, the banks will see to it, that you will have a credit card in no time in order to join the party.

 

La Nacion had an article about the rich-poor divide of the country. Seventy percent middle class, thirty percent poor. It is a bit more intricate than that.

I would say that there is an upper class of five percent of the population. These are rich people, by any American or European standard. They live in those high-rises of 20 to 40 stories, with amenities like sauna, gym, swimming-pool and parking places, and containing apartments of up to a few hundred square meters, with dependencias for the maid. More likely, though these days, they live in the gated communities, which in castellano are called countries. These pop up everywhere, but are mostly found in the North-East of GBA, along the Panamericana.

 

This a stretch of motorway – six to eight lanes each side – leading from the Capital Federal onto Campana, after which it becomes a regular motorway to Santa Fé. In fact, the Panamericana is an idea from the 50´s, emanating from the US, and which was to link the whole of the American continent by road. It originates in Alaska, goes through the West of Canada and the States into Central America and henceforth into the South of the continent, linking cities such as Bogotá, Lima and La Paz with each other. Obviously, it reaches Argentina as well, although I do not expect any self-respecting porteño to think of the Panamericana as a symbol of American unity. Still less so, for him to feel any urgency to be linked to such odd places as La Paz or Quito!

 

No, the Panamericana is where GBA becomes California-like. Here are the leafy suburbs, where the upper layer of the vast Argentine middle class lives. You see, five percent may be rich, but seventy percent is considered middle class; middle class, in terms of wealth, varying from the West-European to the East-European sort.

This is the segment of society that sends its kids to primary, secondary and, quite often, to tertiary education. That has a taking for gardening, sports and pets; dogs, especially. As Peter commented, the trend these days is definitively towards a third dog. 

It is a part of society where every household has a car. (Never mind its date of birth – some of which may predate mine.) It is also that part of society that reads books and newspapers – few countries have literacy rates as high as this country; that goes to the movies, eats out, goes to concerts.

In short, that makes this country so completely and utterly different from the rest of this continent. The middle class suffered heavily during the crisis, el inferno, as Nestor Kirchner calls it; especially those segments of the middle classes that have no bank accounts in Uruguay.

 

But these days the middle classes are having a field day. The consumer boom goes on relentlessly. Car sales will surpass the half million mark this year. Last year 1.7 million TV-sets were sold. They are now stocking up on all kind of electronic gadgets. Personal was delighted to be able to announce that is the first mobile operator on the continent to offer 3G-technology, making Argentina the 17th country in the world to have so.

 

Now, here is where the Panamericana comes in. It is the focal point of all shoppings, as the malls are called in castellano. And leader of the pack is none other than Carrefour. The French chain has so many outlets in GBA that these days none of its 13 million inhabitants is very far from a sun-dried tomato. 

 

That leaves 25 percent of the population that, according to Argentine standards, is deemed poor. At the height or, better, depth of the crisis in 2001/2002 a staggering 54 percent were rated as such. One fifth of the poor lives in squalor. They live in shanty towns, called villas miserias. These are real slums, where your European idea of South America comes to life. But they are getting less miserable, as more and more of the slums get drinking water, electricity and proper sewerage. But it is still miséria, nonetheless.              

 

Then there is the matter of SG. As you all undoubtedly remember from an earlier blog, I was a bit worried by the lack of exposure Susana Giménez seems to get these days. But then yesterday, after I had returned from the national park and had gone to the kiosk to buy a newspaper, guess who stared at me triumphantly? Exactly, la Diva! Her pretty face was embellishing the cover of Cara. Looking at me defiantly, as if she was saying "vos, holandés, what do you think? Me out of the nation’s spotlights?" Like Lady Thatcher before her, she could have said: "now, this lady is not for turning!"

Indeed she is not.  Come back in another 16 years, when I will be retired and live in Mar del Plata, reading La Nacion and, of course, severely disagreeing with the economic policies of the day, and she will still be there; a mere chick of 79 by that time. But, no doubt, the wizards of Avon will be able to keep her blond and good-looking. 

 

My mission in this country has been accomplished, therefore. From now on, I will no longer have the lovely combinations of coffee and La Nacion, and of beef and Malbec. I am bidding this great nation of such friendly, warm and helpful people goodbye. The nation that oozes safety and security, where you don’t have to be afraid of getting ripped of, where people queue for the bus, and lace their talk with lo siento, permiso, disculpe, perdon, gracias, por favor and where someone, who bids you "que tenga un buen dia" actually means it, unlike the American equivalent of have a nice day; such a polite people. 

Things will be completely different from now on. 

 

Argentina, mi país, adios! I am gonna miss you. Sorely so!!