One morning last week I first noticed the smell of a campfire. Then the other afternoon as I set out to walk with my dog Clyde there was a thick smoky haze in the air and a strong smell of fire. Enough to irritate my eyes and lungs. I asked a neighbor on the street where the fire was and he said it was to the north, a couple hundred kilometers. This week, the city of Buenos Aires is shrouded in smoke quite a bit, all depending on which way the wind blows.

I don’t know how big big fires are. They say that this one is 70,000 hectares, which is 173,000 acres. That sounds like a lot to me, though it may not measure up to some of the biggest wildfires historically. It is said to be contained within that area, but within the contained area it is very difficult to fight because it is in the delta area and there are lots of islands, plus the smoke is so bad that helicopters cannot get close to drop water. In addition to that I know that in Argentina there are not so many fire fighters. In the cities and towns all the buildings are made of cement and masonry so house fires are rare, and the overall population is relatively small. It is not a danger unless you are driving, and the police have closed some important highways due to visibility problems.

Well there are other menaces. When the smoke is over Buenos Aires, it is strong. Not only is the smell a nuisance, but it’s heavy pollution, like a bad day in LA in the 1970’s. Or like New York City in September 2001. I stay inside with the windows closed when the smoke is bad, and outside sometimes I can feel the burn on my eyes. They say that yesterday the carbon monoxide levels were fairly high (and lower today). Still not a grave danger, like I said, probably like a bad day in LA in the 70’s. And at least it is trees burning, not chemicals. My friend Pato was diagnosed recently with asthma, so I am sure it bothers him more. And fortunately most of the daytime yesterday was smoke-free. But it was back last night and is still here this morning.

In Colonia, Uruguay, it is worse, with burnt leaves raining down. And in Montevideo they can also smell the odor. Ironically, in Argentina there has been a hot political conflict for a few years against Uruguay for constructing paper mills that would be big polluters of the river between the two countries, but now it is Argentina who is polluting Uruguay.

This morning I picked up the newspaper. I thought it was a joke when a headline blamed the smoke on the soy farmers. But I learned that what is burning is not a single fire, but an amalgamation of 292 fires! They are lit by farmers. The farmers admit this. And they claim that the fires are a routine every year, and in a way they are, and that they got a little out of control this time. Some make the following analogy: that these fires are the cheapest way for the farmers to clear the land for agricultural purposes. The connection to soy is that since so much pasture land has been converted to soy production, that they are now clearing land to reclaim more space for cattle.

Sounds believable to me, and some of these farmers are friends of former president Carlos Menem, who I see as the Dick Cheney of Argentina. Menem helped out his powerful business associates to the doom of the entire country. And this resulted in the economic crash of 2001, and huge foreign debts than continue today. So you have to look at them skeptically.

In Rosario, the second largest city in Argentina, people are content with these events. Though this time the fires are much worse, these fires have affected them each year going back 10 years. Argentina has a peculiarity because though is a large country, but many things only matter if they happen in Buenos Aires. The Rosarians are content because since this fire affects the city of Buenos Aires this time, finally everyone is taking notice.

I think for people who have lived in Argentina their whole lives, what is happening now is just another one of those things that happens from time to time. Whether it be an economic crash, an agricultural strike, or a natural disaster. People here roll their eyes at these things.

First I must state my personal disclaimer. I believe that there is no such thing as “bias-free journalism.” If a journalist or newspaper is doing their job, they must interpret what they see and also decide what or what not to put on paper. All writing demands decisions like this. A journalist’s personal perspective decides what is relevant and what is not, and chooses the words; and each journalist and each newspaper has its own perspective or bias. That’s not something sinister, it’s good reporting.

This morning I happened to read a story about a Barack Obama quote that both John McCain and Hillary Clinton have turned against him. It concerned him characterizing working class Pennsylvanians as “bitter.” Clinton and McCain said that Obama’s remarks were “out of touch” and “condescending.” As a consistent reader of the New York Times, I know that they had endorsed Hillary Clinton in the New York primary. To see another perspective on the controversy, I turned to the Washington Post web site. In both newspapers I found the same quote from Obama, but edited slightly differently. (It may be a bit confusing with Obama quoting McCain and Clinton.)

The New York Times:

“Here’s what’s rich,” Mr. Obama said. “Senator Clinton said, ‘Well I don’t think people are bitter in Pennsylvania. I think Barack is being condescending.’ John McCain said, ‘How could he say that? How could he say that people are bitter? He obviously is out of touch with people.’ Out of touch? Out of touch? John McCain — it took him three times to finally figure out that home foreclosure was a problem and to come up with a plan for it, and he’s saying I’m out of touch?”

The Washington Post:

“Here’s what’s rich: Senator Clinton says, ‘I don’t think people are bitter in Pennsylvania. I think Barack’s being condescending.’ John McCain says, ‘He’s obviously out of touch with people.’ Out of touch? John McCain, it took him three tries to figure out the home foreclosure crisis was a problem and to come up with a plan for it, and he’s saying I’m out of touch? Senator Clinton voted for a credit-card-sponsored bankruptcy bill that made it harder for people to get out of debt — after taking money from the financial services companies — and she says I’m out of touch?”

The New York Times, the newspaper that endorsed Hillary Clinton in the primaries, left out the final sentence that was critical of her. I could not find out who the Washington Post endorsed, or if they endorsed anyone, but Obama won the primary there by a huge margin. I am not calling either newspaper unethical, but pointing out that their editing of that one quote was probably influenced by who the editors wished to win the primary.

It is an unusual moment here in Argentina. There is no meat. In a country famous for beef, most markets are without. It would be like Japan without fish, or Italy without pasta. I recently wrote about a trip through the province of Entre Rios. Right now that province is in-passable. Farmers and their supporters have been blockading roads to prevent the transit of all goods to the markets.

At the same time, in the streets in Buenos Aires and other cities throughout the country there have been many seemingly-spontaneous rallies, called cacerolazos, named so because people leave their homes with casseroles/pots and pans, and bang on them to make noise. It is synonymous to a popular uprising, and I understand it was a common occurance during the economic crash of 2001 when things were truly bad here.

Though it appears to be a popular uprising, I have noticed that these cacerolazos have been filled almost exclusively, not with the huddled masses, but with well-dressed, middle or upper-middle people in generally upper-class barrios. A local daily, Pagina 12, describes how the protesters this time around are banging on high quality stainless steel pots and teflon-coated woks in place of the cheap beat-up aluminum pots of years past. As I walked past one the other night the attitude was more like a street party or soccer rally, than something really critical to these people. Also, it is obvious from viewing coverage of the events in the farming areas that the protesters are not salt of the earth struggling farmers, as you can see their shinny 4×4’s parked nearby and that the protesters are all well dressed.

What is going on?

Since the economic crash in the year 2000, the Argentine peso has maintained a low value relative to other currencies. This is partly just the course of economics but also the policy of the federal government. Anytime the Argentine peso begins to rise against the US dollar, the national bank buys dollars to bring the peso back down, maintaining more-or-less a 3 to 1 ratio between the peso and the dollar. This has been hard on the public, but also it has helped the country climb out of huge debts by increasing worldwide demand for Argentine goods and services. Accompanying this, the government has put pressure on the prices of basic goods to allow everyone to keep eating meat and everything else. And aside of the usual corruption and efficiencies of this banana republic, the people are getting by.

Argentina is a big world-wide exporter of agricultural goods: beef, corn, sunflower, soybeans, etc. Soybeans? I never have even seen a single tofu cake in any market here, and most are owned by asian people. Well, Argentina grows a lot of soybeans, and all of it is exported. It is a very important exporter of soybeans in the world. This has been accompanied by a decline in production of other food items that are consumed more within Argentina: less corn, wheat, and other agricultural products. Obviously there are farmers who are converting to soy for the export demand.

What seems to be happening is that the soybean farmers are getting rich because of the low value of the peso. Plus the price of soybeans has been rising worldwide. There are independent farmers in the mix, but the soybean market has helped more to grow large agro-corporations. Meanwhile, other people of all walks of life are dealing with high inflation, unemployment or sub-par wages, and very expensive goods from abroad. And this includes rising prices on food. The government is raising the export tariffs on soybeans to moderate its production in favor of other crops, so now those farmers are pissed cause they can’t get as rich as easily.

The Presidenta angered people when she referred to the strikers as holding the country hostage. She has also threatened to halt the exports of any goods which are being withheld from the general public. (By the way, I happened to hear one of her recent speeches on the radio, and Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, aka CFK, is a great public speaker.) She pleads that these measures are for helping all Argentines more. I am not sure if the government’s overall strategy with the under-valued peso is the best route, and if all the tax dollars from these tarrifs end up in the right hands, but given the where things are now, I have to agree with her. These farmers are getting rich because of the cheap peso, and production is declining on essential crops, so things need to be balanced for the general public. This is about food, not luxury items. The government has a responsibility to act.

Meanwhile, the Argentine people are getting testier from their beef withdrawals. Plus, who likes paying taxes, so now people everywhere are pissed at the government. This reminds me of the whole politic a few years ago around inheritance taxes in the US. It sounded truly unfair the way G.W. Bush presented it, but its repeal ended up helping only people at the very very top of the economic ladder. (At least, though, in the US the soccer-moms didn’t shut down the interstate highways.) I don’t think that the soybean farmers will suffer much due to an increase in their tariffs, and it could really help if that money is used to better things for others in the community. Meanwhile, let them eat fish and chicken.

Roll back a few years in history, make that nearly 20, and I was in art school in New York, and with my first boyfriend Robert, still waking up about my sexuality and other things of adulthood. As a California native, my family was far away, but Robert’s family instantly accepted me and embraced me. For 6 and a half years, he and I were never open about our relationship to his parents, but later, after it had ended, we found out that we were fooling no one. It really didn’t matter one way or another, as I always have felt a strong love from Jim and Maggie, as family. We spent countless weekends in their home in suburban New Jersey, combing yard sales, grilling hamburgers, telling stories, and just spending a quiet time in an oasis away from the city.

Being that his parents were 40 years older than Robert, they were already retired when I met them. Maggie has an engaging colorful personality. Well, a charming nuttiness, maddening to Robert at times, but a person completely unmasked. Jim was a World War II navy veteran and had recently retired as chief of the local fire department when I first met him. Both never traveled farther than a few hundred miles from home, but Jim told stories about his days in the Pacific with the merchant marines and before that growing up in Long Island City, Queens, as the son of Irish immigrants. And he and I shared many glasses of Jim Beam.

Robert and I were also partners in art, and our collaborative work was well received. We were graduating with honors from the School of Visual Arts in Manhattan in 1990, but shrugged off attending the graduation to receive that recognition. Instead we went to Europe for a few weeks. In Ireland, we looked for the home of Jim’s parents or grandparents. Along the way we were received generously by members of his family, and made our way to an out-of-the-way corner in th northwest, crisscrossing the infamous border with Northern Ireland, guarded by soldiers with large canons. Incredibly verdant and beautiful, the countryside that is. We arrived at what appeared to be an ancient ruin, a stone house that was once the home of James McCormack’s family. After returning to New York (and New Jersey) we had stories to share with Robert’s parents on the front porch in the evening with the familiar concert of cicades and crickets in the background.

I have not been as close touch with Robert and his family for several years, but chat with Robert at times, and occasionally visit his folks in New Jersey. (Nothing has changed in that house.) Back when Robert and I were together, Jim had successfully battled throat cancer, not from smoking but from fire-fighting. Robert has been out of touch for a while, and I found just a couple weeks ago why. His dad has not been doing so well, due to his heart and other complications, and Robert has been his full-time care-giver. Well, just last Thursday evening James Michael McCormack passed away. I am thousands of miles away from New Jersey, but I miss Jim.

We have just arrived safely in Buenos Aires. Thursday before last, my boyfriend Guille (Guillermo) and I set out to visit his friend Pato who lives in the province of Chaco. We call her “Pato Chaco” so as not to confuse her with my friend Pato, who we refer to as “Pato Macho.” He’s hardly seething with machismo, actually sensitive and gay, but macho here means male. My dog Clyde is un perro macho, though he’s castrated. The full name of Pato Macho is Patricio and Pato Chaco’s is Patricia, the final “o” and “a” signify male or female. To confuse things more, Patricia’s last name is Blanco, the male form of the word for white.

Back to the near present: Last Thursday we left for the province of Chaco, more than 1000 kilometers north of Buenos Aires. Though I have been living in Argentina for a few years now I had only driven a car once before here, and aside from adjusting to the given that stop signs here meaning nothing, it was not terribly difficult. I rented the car from a place in the neighborhood, a nearly new Ford Ka compact. With Fernando Peña on the radio, we set out on Avenue 9 de Julio during rush hour; with 10 lanes in either direction and no one paying attention to the lanes, it was a real derby, but soon enough we were on the highway leaving the city.

Leaving the province of Buenos Aires one crosses a spectacular bridge in the direction we are going and after paying the toll, you are instantly greeted by a checkpoint. The police confront each car and either wave you past or motion you to stop or pullover. Well, we were stopped.

The officer asked for the car registration and insurance and my drivers license. He slowly looked through it all and asked us for a blue card. I asked what that was. He said it’s an official authentication, stamped by a legal agent, from the owner of the vehicle that proves that I am authorized to drive the car. According to him, without that there is no way to tell that we had not stolen the car. It did not matter that I presented the rental contract from the agency with my name on it. He suggested that since we were only 1 hour from where we started that we return to ask for the blue card. We thanked him and continued on our way with no intent of returning to Buenos Aires. We knew that was chamuyo (bullshit) but we didn’t know that that was only the beginning of our tense encounters with the police of the province of Entre Ríos.

Entre Ríos is a very green province. There is a lot of cows and farms there, like in most of rural Argentina, but like the name of the province suggests, it is surrounded by two large rivers. On the east boundary is the River Uruguay, and the city of Gualeguaychu which has the best-known Carnaval of Argentina. It attracts tourists from all over the world, and has also more topically it has been famous for blockading bridges to neighboring Uruguay. These protests are to prevent the construction of paper mills on the Uruguay side of the river, by Spanish and Finish corporations, which could seriously harm the environment of the river for both countries. Not even meetings between the presidents of Argentina, Uruguay, and Spain, and hearings in the Hague, have been able to resolve this conflict. A little further up the River Uruguay is the town Colón is a popular riverfront town with pristine beaches that attract thousands of Argentine visitors from Buenos Aires.

On the west boundary is the River Paraná. It is a river with roots in the Amazon in Brasil and cascades over the spectacular Iguazú Falls. Downstream in Entre Ríos it’s transformed somewhat into a red-brown color from the turbidity of the soil. Rich with fish, the Paraná is popular for sport fishing. At the south end of Entre Ríos both rivers merge into a delta and form the Rio de la Plata, the immense river that runs past the city of Buenos Aires and eventually into the Atlantic Ocean.

We head between the two rivers, and straight into the middle of the province, where there is not too much more than farms, ranches and more farms and ranches. And a lot of hardly touched forest and plains. Argentina has such a low population density, that there are many areas that are untouched or hardly touched. I like traveling through desolation, something meditative about it. But also this was the most direct route to where we were heading northward to the provinces of Corrientes and Chaco. This day we planned to stop over in La Paz. At the north end of Entre Ríos, along the River Paraná, La Paz has beaches and forest and hot springs. A seemingly perfect retreat to pass an afternoon and night.

Well, that experience with the first police checkpoint put a small damper on all this, but not too bad, we played it as well as possible. Except for one thing. We were on the wrong route. After 10 kilometers or so we realized this and turned around to pass the same checkpoint and same toll bridge. We were all ready to explain that we were heading back to Buenos Aires to get a blue card, even though the police officer probably had never expected us to actually do that. Like people in the US who travel with a thermos of coffee, all Argentines travel with a mate and a thermos of hot water. At this point Guille began the practice to lift our mate at each checkpoint, to make it visible so that we would appear as much like normal drivers as possible. We didn’t even see the cop who had recently greeted us at the bridge, and made our way back to the Buenos Aires side of the river, and then back over to the Entre Ríos side via another bridge.

We were now on our way finally. Totally relaxed, driving along, looking forward to arriving in La Paz in the afternoon. But very soon we hit another checkpoint. This cop told us to pull over between two other cars that were recently pulled over. I had to put the mate down and handed over the registration, insurance card, and my New York State license, as the police officer had asked for. I began to make stupid comments about whatever I observed as a way to relax us. Directly along side of us were a couple dozen cars that looked like they had been there some time, and Guille and I wondered aloud if they had all been seized.

The officer returned and mentioned nothing about a blue card as did his colleague previously, so it seemed to be going ok. After asking me questions about why a yanqui like me is in Argentina and Entre Ríos, he explained in nice words that in Argentina it is the law to have the headlights on even during the day. Not just on, but with high-beams, he emphasized several times. Mine were off. I respectfully agreed and apologized, and added that more than being the law, that driving with headlights lit is safer. My Spanish is pretty good now, but when he started walking away and Guille followed him it was obvious I didn’t understand something, and Guille had to come back to explain to me that we were asked to get out of the car and follow him.

We went to the side of the road to a small brick and plaster building where we all sat around a desk like civilized people. The officer was pretty fat with the reddest eyes I have ever seen in someone who didn’t reek of alcohol. I guess he’s an officer with training. He pulled out a sheet of paper to show us, a grid of numbers and dollar amounts. He pointed to the top of the paper where there was an official number, as if to demonstrate that it was in fact authentic, just in case we had doubts. The paper was confusing enough to appear official, with law descriptions accompanied by their codes, and with columns of various prices. Basically every infraction had a base price of 300 pesos, with discounts or increases, depending on when you pay it. He pointed to the one that corresponded to my infraction, and explained that I could pay something like 268 pesos now or later on pay 380 pesos. I understood immediately what the game was to tempt me with the lesser of 2 evils, and though it was significantly more money I asked to pay 380 pesos later. Later on, Guille explained that this is also a good strategy because these infractions are easy to get dismissed.

But Gordo didn’t want me to take that option. He knew that we were at the beginning of a travel and primed with cash, and I even admitted that we had enough on hand. But I added that we would rather not cut short the trip. He was very understanding and invited us into another room. At that point I realized it was best that I keep my mouth shut and let Guille manage things. The cop asked about how much money we had and sympathized with us that the fine is very extreme. He suggested that with a “colobración” (handout) he could send us on our way. 100 pesos even did the trick, and we wasted no time getting back to the car and driving off. Even though fastened seat belts are also prescribed by law, it was wiser to take care of that detail a few hundred meters down the road. But the high-beams were definitely lit.

We were on our way into the middle of Entre Ríos. It is not the busiest route but important enough that gigantic buses and trucks pass through this part. We passed through a few more checkpoints and in addition to holding the mate visible, we adopted a laugh. The cops in Entre Ríos do not take well to people who get all heavy and serious. The laugh we adopted, and used in every instance we spotted a police officer, was not a guffaw; a civilized ha-ha-ha-ha (that’s “jajajaja” in spanish) that says, “I am amused by all this just like you are.”

We arrived in La Paz without being stopped again. The beaches there were small and not so sandy, and Guille refused to go in, but I was all too eager to get in the water. I loved it, knowing the fish in me. We camped in this enchanted eucalyptus forest that overlooks the river, in a modest campground that was very peaceful with few people. At night we cooked asado (barbecue) over wood and it was “espectacular.” After a good night’s sleep in the tent, the next day we went to the thermal baths. This was a complex of 9 pools, some like large swimming pools, and others smaller. All were clean and well-maintained, and distinct temperatures were posted. It was hot and humid, semi-tropical, so I was skeptical about throwing myself in hot water. But it was so sublime, floating in saline hot mineral water. Blissful is a good word. I tried every pool from the hottest at 39C (102F) to the mildest at 34C. We ate sandwiches of leftover meat from the night before and walked a trail down the the river front where I threw myself into the cooler fresh water. After several hours at this retreat, the foot I broke 3-1/2 years ago never felt better and we hit the road, feeling all relaxed and rubbery and re-charged.

To the north we went, eventually to meet up with Pato Chaco late that night. Coincidentally, in front of an asado restaurant named Chori Pato. Though she lives in the province of Chaco, we traveled with her to the province of Corrientes, just across the river. This is the same river, the Paraná, but here it’s upstream, and even more tropical. The water is clear and turns along the north border between Argentina and Paraguay, a bit closer to Iguazú Falls and the Amazon much further upstream. We had another 2 days of bliss, camping again on a cliff overlooking the river in a town named Itá Ibaté.

The campsite was a lot more crowded than the in La Paz, but generally friendly. There were many Correntinos (from the province of Corrientes) and Brazilian tourists. We cooked asado again, but this time with more vegetables than meat since Pato is vegeterian, sort of. The riverfront was just steps down a short trail so we made several trips down to the beach during the day, and even enjoyed midnight swims in the tepid water under the moonlight. There was even a simple bar there that served ice cold beer till late at night.

In Corrientes the police were very pancho (laid back). We never encountered a problem, and when driving most checkpoints seemed abandoned, with the officers sitting off to the side in the shade sipping mate or whatever. After a few days, we were on our way back to Buenos Aires, and the entire province Entre Ríos was between us and our destination, but so was La Paz and its thermal waters, which we decided deserved an encore. Guille and I arrived in La Paz late afternoon the same day, and went directly to the hot springs. The complex is open till 11:30 pm and you can leave and return as much as you want with a single admission of 12 pesos per person. We stayed till closing and camped in the Eucalyptus forest that night.

We left very early the next morning, before the sun rose, and set out into the middle of Entre Ríos again. The road has many potholes in parts, but I enjoyed the drive. I spotted lots of interesting birds that I could not identify. At one point we napped on the side of the road, savoring the fresh air.

After that, we began to cross police checkpoints at various junctions, and at one they stopped us and asked for the documentation. I couldn’t find my license. I thought the police officer had asked me to come with him so I followed him. Between all the other checkpoints, my license ended up shuffled in with registration and insurance card. The moment I located the license I proudly presented it to him. He turned to me puzzled because, he had already said I could go. Realizing that, I snapped back to the car and we took off.

Further along, we hit more checkpoints and at one there was a menacing fat guy looking us down. This gordo was not so pleasant, and motioned to me to pull over to the side of the road, and requested the usuals. He said nothing about the blue card, the lights were lit, our seat-belts on, everything in order. He takes all my identification over to the side to confer with the other officers. This took maybe 5 minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. He comes back and says that my foreign drivers license is not valid in Argentina. We explained that the rental agency said it was OK, and not one other police officer questioned it before. He asked me to get out of the car and Guille followed. We had just filled up for gas for the final time, and I as careful to keep only about 50 pesos in my wallet. As Guille coached me, I had the rest of my cash stashed in another place, safe from the police.

I soon realized why the first cop was such a jerk, it was the “good-cop/bad-cop” game. We went into a small office constructed below the bank of the road where there was an older, more pleasant gentleman, Sergeant Fernando Veldez. Here he pulled out the official sheet and indicated prices similar to the one before. But he wouldn’t grant me the option to pay later since I was not a citizen. We hemmed and hawed and I showed him how little money I had. Still no resolution so Guille went to the car and brought back some more money, actually the last few pesos he had. In all we gave up 110 pesos this time. We had asked the sergeant to leave us a few pesos for the tolls and to eat, and he did. That reminded me of some years ago when two friends of mine were mugged in New York and they begged the mugger to leave them with subway fare, and he obliged.

He gave us an official receipt with official-looking figures on it that totaled to 110.43 pesos. With that, if there was a problem again, my license we would be fine, supposedly. We drove on and passed a few more checkpoints and when we finally crossed the bridge to the province of Buenos Aires, I felt safe again. And we said “fuck you” to Entre Ríos. (Though, I am am told that the only police in Argentina worse than the ones in Entre Ríos are the ones in the province of Buenos Aires, outside of the capital.)

It is a shame. Entre Ríos is a beautiful place, and reasonably close to where I live in the city of Buenos Aires, but I will never go back. At least not in an auto.