A mob moved out from Las Flores, a shantytown of trash heaps and metal shacks boiling over with refugees from the financial collapse of what was once Latin America's wealthiest nation. Within minutes, 600 hungry residents arrived on the scene, wielding machetes and carving knives. Suddenly, according to accounts from some of those present on that March day, a cry went up. "Kill the cows!" someone yelled. "Take what you can!" Cattle company workers attempting a salvage operation backed off. And the slaughter began.
"I looked around at people dragging off cow legs, heads and organs, and I couldn't believe my eyes," said Alberto Banrel, 43, who worked on construction jobs until last January, when the bottom fell out of the economy. "And yet there I was, with my own bloody knife and piece of meat. I felt like we had become a pack of wild animals."
The desolation of that day, neighbor versus neighbor over hunks of meat, suggested how profoundly the collapse has altered Argentina. Traditionally proud, Argentines have begun to despair. Talk today is of vanished dignity, of a nation diminished in ways not previously imaginable.
Argentines have a legacy of chaos and division. In search of their "workers' paradise," Juan and Eva Peron declared war on the rich. During the "dirty war" of the 1970s, military rulers arrested tens of thousands of people, 15,000 of whom never resurfaced. And when then-President Carlos Menem touted New Capitalism in the 1990s, the rich got richer - many illegally - while the poor got poorer.
Yet some things here never really changed. Until last year, Argentines were part of the richest, best- educated and most cultured nation in Latin America. Luciano Pavarotti still performed at the Teatro Colon. Buenos Aires café society thrived, with intellectuals debating passages from Jorge Luis Borges over croissants and espresso. The poor here lived with more dignity than their equals anywhere else in the region. Argentina was, as the Argentines liked to say, very civilized. Not anymore. Argentines have watched, horrified, as the meltdown dissolved more than their pocketbooks. Even the rich have been affected in their own way. The tragedy has struck hardest, however, among the middle class, the urban poor and the dirt farmers. Their parts of this once-proud society appear to have collapsed - a cave-in so complete as to leave Argentines inhabiting a barely recognizable landscape.
With government statistics showing 11,200 people a day falling into poverty- earning less than $3 daily - Buenos Aires, a city once compared to Paris, has become the dominion of scavengers and thieves at night. Newly impoverished homeless people emerge from abandoned buildings and railroad cars, rummaging through trash in declining middle- and upper-class neighborhoods. People from the disappearing middle class, such as Vicente Pitasi, 60 and jobless, have turned to pawn shops to sell their wedding rings. "I have seen a lot happen in Argentina in my day, but I never lost hope until now," Pitasi said. "There is nothing left here, not even our pride."
Late last month, on the eve of the 50th anniversary of Eva Peron's death, thieves swiped the head of a new statue of her. Nothing, really, is sacred here anymore. Ads by concerned citizens appear on television, asking Argentines to look inward at a culture of tax evasion, incivility and corruption. But nobody seems to be listening. Food manufacturers and grocery stores are raising prices even as earning power has taken a historic tumble. A large factor in both the price rises and the slump in real wages is a 70 percent devaluation of the peso over the last six months.
But the price of flour has soared by 166 percent, canned tomatoes by 118 percent - even though both are local products that have had little real increases
in production costs. Severe hunger and malnutrition have emerged in the rural interior - something almost never seen in a country famous for great slabs of beef and undulating fields of wheat. In search of someone to blame, Argentines have attacked the homes of local politicians and foreign banks. Many of the banks have installed steel walls and armed guards around branch offices, and replaced glass windows decorated with ads portraying happy clients from another era.
Economists and politicians differ on the causes of the brutal crisis. Some experts blame globalization and faulty policies imposed by the International Monetary Fund. But just as many blame the Argentine government for runaway spending and systematic corruption. The one thing everyone agrees on, however, is that there is no easy fix. Statistically, it is easy to see why. Before 1999, when this country of 36 million inhabitants slipped into recession, Argentina's per capita income was $8,909 - double that of Mexico and three times that of Poland.
Today, per capita income has sunk to $2,500, roughly on a par with Jamaica
and Belarus. The economy is projected to shrink by 15 percent this year,
putting the decline at 21 percent since 1999. In the Great Depression
years of 1930-33, the Argentine economy shrank by 14 percent. What had
been a snowball of poverty and unemployment has turned into an avalanche
since the default and devaluation in January. A record number of Argentines,
more than half, live below the official poverty line. More than one in
five no longer have jobs.
"We've had our highs and lows, but in statistical and human terms
this nation has never faced anything like this," said Artemio Lopez,
an economist with Equis Research. "Our economic problems of the past
pale to what we're going through now. It's like the nation is dissolving."
Every Argentine, no matter the social class, has a crisis story. Amalia
Lacroze de Fortabat, 80, one of the country's richest women, was forced
to offer up paintings by Gauguin, Degas, Miro and Matisse at a Sotheby's
auction in May. For many of Argentina's well-to-do, the sale was the ultimate
humbler, a symbol of decline in international stature. Those suffering
most, however, are the ones who had less to begin with. On the morning
of her 59th birthday, Norma Gonzalez woke up in her middle-class Buenos
Aires home, kissed her husband on the cheek and caught a bus to the bank.
There, before a stunned teller, the portly redhead, known by her family
and friends mostly for her fiery temper and homemade meat pies, doused
herself with rubbing alcohol, lit a match and set herself ablaze. That
was in April. Today, Rodolfo Gonzalez, 61, her husband, keeps a daily
vigil at the burn center where his wife is still receiving skin grafts
on the 40 percent of her body that sustained third-degree burns.
She had no record of mental illness, according to her family and doctors,
and has spoken only once about that morning. Argentina long had the largest
middle class, proportionally, in Latin America, and one of the continent's
most equitable distributions of wealth. Much of that changed over the
last decade as millions of middle managers, salaried factory workers and
state employees lost their jobs during the sell-off of state-run industries
and the collapse of local companies flooded by cheap imports.
Initially, Rodolfo Gonzalez was one of the lucky ones. An engineer for the state power company, he survived the early rounds of layoffs in the early 1990s when the company was sold to a Spanish utility giant. His luck changed when the company forced him out in a round of early retirements in 2000.
He was 59 and had worked for the same company for 38 years. Yet he landed a part-time job, and with his severance pay safely in the bank, he and his wife thought they could bridge the gap until Gonzalez became eligible for social security in 2004. Then came "El Corralito." Literally translated, that means "the little corral." But there is nothing little about it.
On Dec. 1, Domingo Cavallo, then the economy minister, froze bank accounts in an attempt to stem a flood of panicked depositors pulling out cash. Most banks here are subsidiaries of major U.S. and European financial giants that arrived with promises of providing stability and safety to the local banking system.
But many Argentines who did not get their money out in time - more than 7 million, mostly middle- class depositors, did not - faced a bitter reality: Their life savings in those institutions, despite names such as Citibank and BankBoston, were practically wiped out. Virtually all had kept their savings in U.S. dollar- denominated accounts. But when the government devalued the peso, it gave troubled banks the right to convert those dollar deposits into pesos. So the Gonzalez family's $42,000 nest egg, now converted into pesos, is worth less than $11,600.
As the family had trouble covering basic costs, Norma Gonzalez would go to the bank almost every week to argue with tellers and demand to see a manager, who would never appear. As prices rose and the couple could not draw on their savings, their lifestyle suffered. First went shows in the Buenos Aires theater district and dinners on Saturday night with friends. Then, in March, they cut cable TV. Around the same time, the Gonzalezes' daughter, Paula, 30, lost her convenience store. Separated and with two children, she turned to her parents for support. The Gonzalezes had been planning for 18 months to take Norma's dream vacation, to Chicago to visit a childhood friend. After the trip was shelved as too expensive, she seemed to break.
"I can't explain it, and maybe I never will be able to," Rodolfo
Gonzalez said. He added: "But maybe you can start to figure out why.
You have to wonder: Is all this really happening? Are our politicians
so corrupt? Are we now really so poor? Have the banks really stolen our
money? And the answers are yes, yes, yes and
yes."