[Encuentros] Interviews, Demonstrations and a Memorial March in Uruguay

[Clif Ross]

Note:
	This post includes the first bit of writing I did
when I arrived in Uruguay a little over a week ago. It
introduces the previous two posts but I couldn´t
upload it before now because I could find no place to
read the memory card from my handheld, which is where
I´m writing things these days. I hope it provides a
little informative background that could be helpful
understanding this country. 
       The piece here ends with a new bit of writing
on the demonstration I attended yesterday in honor of
a Communist militant, Chaves Sosa, who was disappeared
and murdered thirty years ago and whose remains were
finally found and given a proper burial yesterday in a
demonstration that drew somewhere, as one marcher
estimated, “more than five thousand and less than ten
thousand” sympathetic people who really shut down much
of the city in a relatively successful
commemoration-strike.

March 8

	I arrived  in Uruguay on the all-night flight from
Caracas. All I saw of Argentina was the inside of the
airport: for three hours. Fortunately for most of that
time I was asleep on the comfortable couches the
airport provides. 

	The flight to Montevideo is half an hour, just long
enough to be served, and bolt down, a cup of coffee.
It took longer to get through the immigration line
which snaked around the office like a labyrinth.
Nevertheless, immigration processed me quickly once my
turn came and I was soon in the tourism office, being
guided through my hypothetical tour of Uruguay by a
friendly sixtysomething blonde. When I said I was
looking for an "economical" hotel, she directed me to
Hotel Casablanca and then made the call for me. This
turned out to be the best bit of counsel I could have
received. I was told the room would be $10 per night
or a little more than two hundred Uruguayan pesos. 
The woman told me how to get into Montevideo by bus,
gave me maps of the city and sent me on my way,
warning me to only take the buses that said
"Montevideo" or "Ciudadela". 

	Outside the temperature was perfect and the short
palm trees around the airport were the first 
indication that I had entered a new land. There were
more indications to come, most of them subtle, but
some quite dramatic.

        Uruguay and Argentina are known for their
large Italian populations and this inheritance
definitely gives the European feel to the culture of
these southern countries, more so than the Caribbean
Venezuela. It's not dramatic, the difference, but it's
perceptible. One Venezuelan I know in Caracas who
spent some time in Uruguay says she doesn't like the
country because she finds the people "withdrawn and
cold." This might be the case for the warm and
physically expressive Venezuelans, but for a North
American, I think she doesn't know what cold means.
The Uruguayans I've met so far are, indeed, somewhat
more reserved than the Venezuelans but that means very
little in relative terms. So far my contact with the
Uruguayans has been very limited but while perhaps
more reserved than Venezuelans, they're warm just
under the surface and need only the slightest display
of human warmth from a stranger to burst forth with
the renowned Latin hospitality.

       The immediately striking difference between
Uruguay and Venezuela is the fact that Uruguay seems
to have pretty much solved its garbage problem while
Venezuela is only beginning to comprehend that it has
one. This difference can be seen everywhere, starting
with the most basic problem of dealing with human
waste. Uruguay has public toilets, similar to those in
Europe and the more civilized centers of the United
States, like San Francisco. Nothing like this exists
in Venezuela to my knowledge, nor do the plastic
bottle collection centers that can be found around
Montevideo. Plastic collection centers are
supplemented by bins that the scavengers, who are seen
throughout Montevideo on their horse driven wagons
full of bags of plastic bottles, regularly search for
bottles and other recycleable items. And plastic
collection centers imply plastic recycling, something
that to my knowledge isn't even being discussed in
Venezuela. 

       These are just a few of the indicators of the
more advanced level of cultural development in Uruguay
which also hasn't seemed to have suffered the same
degree of widespread economic misery as has Venezuela
where poverty has afflicted upwards of eighty percent
of the population. Zibechi praises the social welfare
system which gets even higher marks under the Vázquez
government. Nevertheless, under Chávez Venezuela
threatens to catch up and surpass Uruguay if the
Bolivarian missions are as successful as they promise
to be. The welfare state of Uruguay will be lost in
the dust of the wake that the Bolivarian revolution,
especially if they maintain the neoliberal program
that Vázquez hopes to implement in conjunction with a
possible free trade agreement with the United States.
There´s not the same cultural diversity here as in
Venezuela. Often called the “Switzerland” of Latin
America, it doesn´t share that quality with its
European counterpart, if  you could call Switzerland
that. Frankly, I see little here that would warrant
comparison with Switzerland, except for size and the
fact that they both are banking centers.


       The street merchants, called “buhoneros” in
Venezuela, are practically non-existent here and those
that do exist are practically all artisans, similar to
the sort of people you´d find on Telegraph Avenue in
Berkeley. They share with the culture of street
merchants in Berkeley perhaps also the countercultural
qualities of independence, political leftist ideas and
all the trappings of countercultural style.

	The coffee here reminds me of the Dutch coffee my old
girlfriend Oda drank on special occasions after her
return from the Netherlands.  It's often served with a
small glass of sparkling water or, in the lower class
bars, with a glass of tap water. If you order coffee
with milk it sometimes comes in one cup but more often
than not in two pitchers: one containing steamed milk,
the other containing the rich black oil of coffee from
the espresso machine.  The waiters ordinarily dress
the part with white shirts or jackets. The cafes are
called either a 'bar' or they may be called
'lonchería' or even "sandwichería" (I've also seen
"whiskerías" but I've stayed out of those places).

	I had my first meal in Uruguay in the Bar Hispano
which, at night, becomes simply "ispano", since the
"h" of the word is burned out (which is just as well,
it being a basically useless letter in spanish unless
connected to a "c"). I had a pascualina, which is a
Latin quiche, assumably with none of the "effeminate"
associations of its Anglo variant. It was a largely
unremarkable meal, except that the coffee came with
steamed milk in a pitcher and the sparkling water was
served in an elegant shot glass. 

       I had just checked into my room at the Hotel
Casablanca, for me a beautiful place, with brass door
knobs, a steep stairway with heavily varnished wood
bannisters, rooms from the 1920s with pine wood lower
walls and ceilings, lamps and a ceiling light and fan,
a balcony onto San Jose, the street that runs out
front. The card that the Spanish owner, Sra. Carmen
Fuentes Romero, gave me says in spanish, "Visit us and
you'll be our best propagandist" and I can confirm
that. Friendly and welcoming, Sra. Romero also
carefully attends to the details of the guest's needs,
making calls for me on the ferry schedule, directing
me where to buy a plug adapter (Uruguay is wired for
220 volts) and telling me to wait until I leave to pay
her. The rooms have cable tv so I tune in and out of
cinemax and HBO and local Tevé Ciudad, sometimes a
great station which was showing documentaries on the
dictatorship years in Uruguay and other interesting
political shows the day I arrived and was so tired I
could do nothing else but watch the tube. Watch the
tube and go out for my Pascualina.

	That evening I decided to try out the place
downstairs from the hotel, a small hole-in-the-wall
cafe I'd walked by a few times when I first arrived
and wanted to get to know the two or three blocks
around the hotel and the center of town.

	I walked in the place at ten or so at night and was
the only customer. I sat at the bar and looked over
the menu. "What is a 'bife'?" I asked. 
The cook, who doubled or tripled as a waiter and
dishwasher and probably manager, glanced at the menu
posted behind him. He was probably in his mid sixties
with a few sprigs of gray hair left around his
temples, curling out and around his ears. "Carne," he
says, "beef." I get it. What is called  "bistek" in
other locales is here merely "bife" which I order,
along with salad and fries. I'm on vacation from
everything, including a diet, at least for tonight.

	I ask him how late he works and he says "until 11. I
come to work at 7:30 and leave at 11 at night."
	"How many days a week?"
	"Five days. Then on saturday I put in eight hours."
        I calculate something in the neighborhood of
eighty hours.
        "Why?" I ask.
        The man lifts the fries out of the boiling
grease and shakes the basket. He shrugs.
        "Nobody wants to work these days. And my boss
trusts me. So it's easier keeping me on double time
than hiring someone else for a second shift."
        "You have kids?" I ask.
        "Yes," he says, holding up two fingers.
        "That's why, huh?" I ask.
        He nods.
       "What's your name?"
       "Dante."
       The steak is cooking on the stove. The fries
are turning golden brown. Dante goes over and starts
to fix the salad. Then he walks back over and leans on
the counter, staring out the window.
       "Life isn't fair, you know? I mean,  some of us
work so hard we never have time to live. And then
there are the bored artists who don't know what to do
with all their free time. It's not fair," Dante says,
sadly shaking his head.
       "And time is all we have." I said.
       "That's the truth," he says, nodding and
putting the steak on the metal platter. 
He asks me if I'm Catholic after I say a few things
that might lead him to think of me as religious or
something like that. I say no, I was raised
Protestant, but I wouldn't call myself anything
because I can't deal with churches. He agrees, saying
he gave up on Catholicism when he saw how the priests
lived.
       "They live off our money in luxury and look at
how we live. Working all the time." He shakes his head
and puts the salad down in front of me. It's tomatoes
and lettuce. I sprinkle some vinagre on the salad and
he watches me.
       "Over eighty hours a week. Wow," I say.
       "Don't people in the U.S. work like that?" he
asks, pulling the fries out of the boiling grease
again and shaking them.
       "Some people do," I said, "But there are
laws..."
       He leans against the counter again.
       "It's exhausting," he said. "Especially at my
age."
        I ask him how old he is.
        "Sixty three," he says.
        I tell him he has to think about enjoying the
few years he has left. That no amount of money can be
worth it to work so much. He agrees.
       "How old are your kids?"
        "One is twenty nine and the other is thirty
five," he says, putting the steak and fries in front
of me.

        The next day I went out and began exploring
the 'hood. The hotel is pretty much in the dead center
of Montevideo and from there it's an easy walk to just
about anywhere I want to go in the city. 
       In the evening as I come out of an internet
center I hear drumming. I see a large crowd down the
street and walk down to investigate. A couple of
motorcycle cops blocking off the street are the only
official figures to be seen. I walk around them and
join the crowd. It reminds me of the mission of San
Francisco, both the way the people are dressed and the
spirit of the event. It's a group of women drumming to
celebrate international women's day. They all have one
side of their faces painted in wild swirling colors
with glitter and they seem delighted to be out in the
tepid night air, celebrating themselves and each other
with candombe drumming. I walk around the group, take
a few photos but eventually, not knowing anyone, I
start to feel outside of the celebration and I become
sad and return to my room.
 
       Several strikes and a walk to first base,
that's how I'd characterize the day. It's friday and
I'd hoped to be able to talk to Helios Sarthou but I
had no luck and only managed to leave a couple of
messages on his phones and talk to his secretary. It
was just bad luck because it sounded as if he wanted
to talk with me, or at least had left a message with
his secretary for me as to where he would be. I wrote
up a bit of the experience at Comunidad del Sur and
then went to Bar (H)ispano for lunch, this time having
a nice leek pascualina and coffee. I thought I might
be indoors the afternoon waiting for my tickets to
arrive from San Francisco, but by the time I returned
to my room the Snra. had signed for them and put the
ticket on my bed.  I wrote some postcards and managed
to buy stamps and mail them (THAT should make it a
triple star day) then I strolled around (bought a
fortysomething year old dictionary from a street
vendor for right around a dollar) and found myself at
Plaza Cagancha where Daniel has his stall and I was
looking at t-shirts, admiring, in particular, the one
that showed an upside down South America with a quote
of Galeano that says, "los tambores transmiten la
buena nueva los invasores no son inmortales". 

       I asked the woman at the stall how much the
tshirts were. She was a sixty something,heavy set
woman who was very friendly but looked a little the
worse for wear. She gave me a price which was probably
somewhere near ten dollars and I nodded. She asked me
if I was French. I said no, I was a gringo. "Do you
like Bush?" she asked. I laughed. "Nobody likes Bush,"
I said. She shrugged. "I don't know. It seems he still
has some support..." she said, sitting down. 
       And so our conversation started and eventually,
when I began to talk about the necessity of boycotting
U.S. products (by now her partner arrived, right in
the middle of my schpiel and she introduced me as a
North American) she introduced herself as Elida
Vilomar. She invited me to an event on the 17th, a
meal which would also be a reunion of political
prisoners. I said I'd love to go and said that I had a
poem called Your Cell. She wanted to hear it. I read
it and when I finished, I notice tears in the eyes of
her partner. 
       "Listen, I'm going to give you a number. You've
got to call this number so you can go to this event."
She gave me a couple of numbers and urged me to call. 
     
       I said I would and then she said, "No, let's go
now and I'll call my friend and introduce you." 
       We walked over to a pay phone in the artesan's
market. As we walked over she said, "I was a political
prisoner myself. You know how long?" 
       I shook my head.
       "Fifteen years," she said.
       We weren't able to get through to anyone but
she left a message then urged me to try calling later.
Just on a hunch I asked if she knew how to get in
touch with Jorge Zabalza, the Tupamaro who once said
he excelled in one thing, and that was in being a
political prisoner. Ruben had suggested that I get in
touch with him. Yes, she did have his number in fact. 
       "I know him well. He was captured the day my
brother was killed." 
        She gave me his number then urged me once
again to get in touch with the Crisol, the
organization of ex-political prisoners.
        I said I would and then I bought the tshirt
and said goodbye after promising her again that I'd
call her the morning of the event.
       I stopped by Daniel's stall to say hello and he
said there was going to be a rally in support of the
printer's coop tonight at 7:30. Then he smiled. 
        "Come at 8:00. You know, Uruguayan time." Then
he added,"Zabalza is going to lead the march."
        Zabalza! I was walking to first base, led by
the ever brilliant Universe.

	It could have been any rally in the U.S. but for the
mate steeping in the wooden cup and being passed
around small circles of friends gathered in the Plaza
Libertad just off Avenida 18 de Julio. The mate and a
the distinctive candombe rhythms were all that
distinguished this gathering of workers in solidarity
with comrades under attack as a distinctly Uruguayan
event. The Union of Unemployed Workers were there with
a banner, as were any number representatives from an
array of left parties joining the workers of
CoProGraf, the seventy five member printing
cooperative which took over, and recently has received
orders to evacuate, the largest print shop in Uruguay.

       The workers, said Gerardo Sosa, president of
the cooperative, "took over the plant because the
owner abandoned it. The workers took it over in
defense of their work and their families." Since then
it has "been under worker control and we have shown it
to be a viable business," says Gerardo, something the
previous owner failed to do. Gerardo says the workers
plan to keep the business going under worker
management.
	The so-called "progressive" government of Tabaré
Vázquez, Gerardo maintains, "has attacked us directly"
by jailing three workers and bringing the others up on
charges of "illegal appropriation." 
	There have been numerous occupations throughout
Uruguay and Argentina and Gerardo believes the current
attack on his workplace is an attempt by the
neoliberal government of Vázquez to break the worker
movement. In that sense the Vázquez government hasn't
been any different from previous governments. "I think
that people had real hope that this (Frente Amplio)
would be a left government coming into power but
lamentably it has shown by its actions that nothing
has improved. To the contrary, things have taken a
turn for the worse because no previous governments
would make such deals with management as this supposed
leftist government has done. It seems it's easier to
deal with openly right wing governments  than this one
that's pretending to be progressive."
	The rally took to the streets, led by coop members
holding a banner that said "Trabajar no es delito" (To
work isn't a crime). They briefly blocked traffic as
the thousand or so protesters crossed Avenida 18 de
Julio, rounded the plaza on the other side then back
onto the Avenida and up Ejido to occupy the street in
front of the jail. The music score was provided mostly
by the protestors clapping,  chanting, singing and
drumming but a beat-up little red car with speakers
strapped to the roof and a trunk that looked like it
was ready to spring up any moment also provided some
low quality mono recording for the crowd. 
        When the crowd arrived at the jail it made
room for the little red car to inch its way up to the
front of the jail and then Gerardo read statements of
support from worker's organizations.
	Then Luis Alberto, Elida's brother, came over to tell
me that he'd run into Zabalza and would be happy to
introduce me if I'd like to meet him. We made our way
through the crowd to a doorway across from the jail
where a tall man with his hair tied back in a ponytail
was standing. He watched me as I arrived, observing me
carefully with his sharp blue eyes. He politely shook
my hand and agreed to an interview, saying he lived
outside of town in a "popular barrio" called Santa
Catalina. I said I'd be happy to meet him there and we
set up a meeting.

       I didn't plan well on Saturday but things
turned out unexpectedly well. I'd planned to meet
Zibechi and then going to Santa Catalina to meet
Zabalza after he finished work in his butcher shop.
That's not how things turned out, but that was okay.
At least it started off right. I arrived at Zibechi's
on time and found my way to his apartment. He was more
friendly than the first time I met him at the office
but his cold had also progressed and the symptoms were
more evident even though he claimed to be feeling
better. He asked if I'd eaten and I said yes and then
asked if I could videotape  the interview. He agreed
and asked if he could drink mate during the interview
and I said, sure, it would be a good prop. 
       Zibechi is serious, clear and organized and a 
wealth of information on popular movments in Uruguay
and Argentina. His book, Geneology of the Uprising
(Geneología de la revuelta), on Argentina, is an
example of his knowledge put to good use and hopefully
the book will come out eventually at AK press. 
       A little later, when I have time to go over the
interview I´ll transcribe sections of it. Basically
what Zibechi was arguing was the peculiarities of
Uruguayan history, politics and the current state of
the economy were such that the core of the left was
organized labor, and that it had a pretty marxist view
of the situation vis a vis U.S. imperialism  as it is
expressed in current free trade policies. The unions
have grown under the Frente Amplio government even as
Vázquez attempted to sign on with U.S. free trade
agreements. Zibechi seems optimistic that the base of
the FA, the unions, the strong left parties with clear
ideology would continue to push through the
half-opened doors of a Uruguay under the FA.
       I ended up leaving Zibechi's, getting lunch and
then trying, without success to find my way to a bus
stop for the 124, without success until I found my way
back to the hotel and got directions to the bus stop
from someone who told me it also took about an hour
and a half to get to Santa Catarina where I was
supposed to meet Zabalza at one thirty. I called
Zabalza and we rearranged to meet the following day.
Meanwhile Helios Sarthou had called and left me his
cell number so I called him and set up a meeting with
him for the afternoon. That required that I scramble
out and catch a bus to his home in the neighborhood of
Malvin. 
       I arrived and bought an apple and an orange
from a street vendor selling produce out of the bed of
a sixty year old truck. The two cost somewhere around
20 cents and the orange was dry and the apple was
mushy, so I suppose you get what you pay for even in
Uruguay. I finished the fruit then, still fifteen
minutes early, I went down to the beach and watched
the boats sail around a nearby island, a small piece
of land not more than half a kilometer from the beach,
covered with exotic palms. I went down to the beach
and chose a rock from among the numerous pebbles then
went back up to find Helio.
       Helio is a delightful man: passionate in his
anger and his laughter. His expertise in law is as
impressive as his committment to social justice. The
details of that interview will also have to wait until
I sit down  to write a book, I think because it´s an
hour or more of material and Sarthou speaks quickly,
clearly and doesn´t waste words, packing in an
hour-long interview what it might take others a few
hours to think through, or even a few decades to even
consider. Essentially what Sarthou said is that not
only is Vázquez betraying the party, the workers and
the country with neoliberal policies, but he´s acting
in violation of the law (and Sarthou should know,
given that he teaches labor law). Sarthou explains
this by saying that  “Tabaré never was a social
fighter” and he has no conception of where the people
are at or what their needs are. 
       Sarthou left the FA in disgust before they even
came to power but he spoke of how many of the people
put all their hope in the new government. “It was
impressive, in a country of three million people, to
see somewhere over a million people in the streets
celebrating the (FA) victory in October of 2004.” Many
people still hope in the FA government, but Sarthou
isn´t optimistic. “They´re going the wrong direction,”
he says. They should have negotiated on the debt as
Argentina did, but instead they happily agreed to pay
the whole thing, a debt incurred by an illegal
government, the Bordaberry dictatorship, an illegal
debt, and then they set about designing neoliberal
economic policies, inviting in transnationals (like
the paper plants which promise to polute their rivers
while offering minimal employment opportunities) while
neglecting to strengthen MERCOSUR agreements. 
       While Sarthou isn´t optimistic, he´s a fighter
and he doesn´t appear prepared to up the struggle and
let the neoliberals have the party. He and many others
in the FA have formed the Corriente Izquierda, the
Left Current and, while a minority in the Frente,
they´re a voice of the left, nevertheless.
	

       Sunday the buses run irregularly in Montevideo,
as probably everywhere else in the world. But
Montevideo is a step aside from the rest of the world
and here the buses seem to run later or more
irregularly -- especially to the "popular"
neighborhoods. And this morning I'm on my way to a
"popular" neighborhood, Santa Catalina, where Zabalza
lives and works.
        I have to get on the 124 and Zabalza tells me
that it takes about an hour to get to his butcher
shop, where I'm to meet him at 1:30. Several 125s
pass, in fact a blur of buses of different numbers
passes in the forty five minutes that I wait for the
124 and finally it arrives, just as I'm preparing to
give up and call Jorge. 
       It takes only half an hour or so to get to the
end of the line where I exit. The butcher shop is
right there and I can see Jorge in the window. I go in
and he says something about an hour change. I don't
understand at first. He points to the clock again.
It's one o'clock. "It's twelve," he says. "The hour
has changed." Then I get it. Daylight savings time. Of
course, they're preparing for autumn in March. How
could I forget? I'm on the REAL other side of the
planet, the south, the real mirror image of my
northern world, not the fake, created East-West of my
McCarthy created childhood.
       Jorge suggests I leave my pack there and go
down to the beach for a while, which I do. 
	I find my way to a cafe by the beach where I buy a
bottle of water, watch people on the beach and do a
little writing.
       I am distracted by two beautiful women in
bathing suits on the beach nearby. Their beautiful
dark skin, the smooth, perfect curves of their
bodies... Still, I manage to concentrate and write a
few paragraphs as I sip my sparkling water and take
occasional glances at the enormous body of water, the
glistening blue sky and two beautiful women in bathing
suits.
       I return to the butcher shop just as they're
cleaning up and I go outside to read about Bachelet's
inauguration until they're done and Jorge is ready to
go out for our interview.
       Jorge locks up and we go to his car where he
takes off his t-shirt and throws it in the front seat
of his car. He walks, bare chested, to the sports bar
and I follow him in.
	My head is pounding from caffeine starvation. I had
gone through the whole village in search of a cup of
coffee, having missed getting a cup before leaving the
center because I was running behind this morning. Now
I need caffeine but I'm still not ready to order a
coke or pepsi. As we approach the counter and Jorge
orders a beer, I mention that I need a coffee.
       "There's no coffee here. How about a mate? You
know, it has four times more caffeine than coffee and
one or two other stimulants besides," Jorge says. "My
mother was Jewish and when I went to Israel I took
mate with me. I gave a friend some and he tried it.
Afterwards, he said he liked the effect better than
coffee. He said coffee didn't have anything like the
kick mate had." He smiles and then turns to the woman
to order a beer. They exchange kisses as is done here:
putting cheeks together then each kissing into the air
beside the other. I watch this and notice the images
of Che on the wall. Then I realize everywhere I´ve
been here in Santa Catalina has had an image of Che,
except Zabalza´s butcher shop which, instead, has
photos of Raul Sendic (the father), founder of the
Tupamaros who died last year.
       We sit down to the interview (another one which
will have to await a later transcription) and Zabalza
talks briefly about his life as a Tupamaro, the
original Tupamaros (there is a similar, but separate
group in Venezuela, founded and formed by Venezuelans
and exiled Uruguayans in the 70s and still active
today). His critique of the FA is similar to
Sarthou´s. He sits in the café drinking the 1.5 bottle
of beer as he does the interview and details how
former Tupamaro comrades have betrayed their ideals
and collaborated with Vázquez in the design of a
neoliberal government. He mentioned that Vázquez had
tried to cut a free-trade deal with the U.S. but the
U.S. wasn't interested. "Nothing sadder than a whore
who wants to sell her body but can't find a buyer," I
said. Jorge nodded, smiling ironically. Then Jorge
goes to the bathroom and emerges to excuse himself. He
needs a nap.
       I leave and get on the bus that winds its way
back into the city center.

Tuesday, March 14 

       I woke a little before eight this morning and
went out to ask Señora Carmen for some hot water for
my mate (she's amused that a North American has so
quickly developed a taste for the local passion and
she claims I've "creolized" myself) then I quickly
launched into the writing, focusing on my experiences
the day before with the Barrikada group, in particular
Pablo and Gustavo (the latter who I mistakenly called
Esteban in my earlier post).

 
       Around noon I went out to buy another
transformer, having fried the one I'd bought the week
before by trying to heat water for my mate. On the way
down to Av. Uruguay I passed a small group of people
carrying a PIT-CNT flag. I'd been by the office the
day before and only been greeted by an unpleasant man
who told me to return in the late afternoon if I
wanted to talk to someone. 


       I've been spoiled here in Latin America, I
confess, where, as a gringo, I've gotten used to
walking into a space and being treated like a prince.
Not that people like North Americans, but they do love
North American revolutionaries and do everything they
can to make them feel at home. We're given preference
over all others because we are, admittedly, a rare
breed. And so, when I walked into the office and was
treated like ANYONE ELSE, I took it as a personal
insult and decided immediately that I wouldn´t waste
my time with this union. My, aren´t I spoiled... But
when I saw this group of sympathetic-looking workers
with the PIT-CNT flag I had a change of heart. 
       I turned around and ran to catch up with them
and ask them if they knew of anyone in the union with
whom I could talk, explaining that I had so far had
only a brief, unhelpful exchange with an unfriendly
secretary at their office. They laughed and said I
should stop by their local, the metal-worker's
section. Then they invited me to follow them to the
demonstration. It was a "partial general strike"  and
they were on their way to the National University to
participate with all their other comrades. I said I
hadn't heard about the strike and I asked what it was
all about. A young man with short black hair and a
thick black mustache explained that they were going to
honor the remains of the first murdered "desaparecido"
of the dictatorship, Ubagesner Chaves Sosa, a militant
of the Communist Party of Uruguay (PCU). They invited
me along and I said I had to go get my camera but that
I'd catch up with them.

        One fellow with long, curly black hair tied
back into a pony tail, offered to give me names and
directions to their union headquarters and he
patiently detailed directions, bus lines, phone
numbers and names in my notebook while his comrades
waited for him. 


       I ran back to the hotel and got my camera then
rushed back into the street and off to the University
where I'd been the day before.


       It's a fairly long walk from Rio Negro and San
Jose (where my hotel is) to the National University
but I decided to go by foot since there seemed to be
few buses traveling down Av. 18 de Julio. There also
seemed to be fewer people out in the street and some
of the stores were closed. I stopped first by the
Plaza de Libertad to see some of the street vendors
like Daniel and Luis Alberto, who had become my best
friends and contacts for information and leftists over
the past week. I told Daniel I was off to the march
and he said he'd see me there. 


       Several blocks from the National University I
could see why the traffic was so light on the "avenida
principal" of 18 de Julio: the street was blocked off
by demonstrators, many of whom were carrying the red
flags of the communists or the red, blue and white
flags of the FA or the red and black flags of the
anarchists. As I approached I saw a stage, planted in
the center of the street and a large crowd of several
thousand. I approached the Barrikada kiosk and talked
with Gustavo for a while before wandering into the
crowd where I began to tape. After a while I went into
an internet center and found, to my delight, that it
read the memory card to my PDA so I was able to send
out the piece I'd written that morning to readers in
the U.S.


        As I worked on the computer I heard a familiar
voice singing (it turned out, predictably, to be the
voice of Daniel Viglietti), applause, the voice of
Eduardo Galeano, applause, applause and more applause
as people streamed out of the National University,
holding up placards with images of the disappeared.
The next day I read excerpts of Galeano's words in La
Republica:

"We are taking the first steps... on a road for the
liberation of memory." He spoke of the "fatalism that
forces us to think that reality can't be changed."
Nevertheless, "reality is a challenge that opens free
spaces and doesn't cage us in fatalism."


       Other speakers railed against what is called
the "Law of impunity," the "Ley de Caducidad," the law
that prevents the prosecution of the members of the
military dictatorship (1973-1985) by imposing a
statute of limitations, effective immediately after
the dictatorship turned over power. One Frente Amplio
senator in attendance yesterday, Senator Rafael
Michelini, said he would make an effort to repeal this
law, but, as I pointed out in an earlier post, Vázquez
has made a notable effort to avoid keeping this
particular campaign promise that some here say was
largely responsible for getting him elected. Like the
people of North America prior to the fraud that
brought the current fascist regime to power in the
U.S., Uruguayans were largely unhappy with having
their democracy stolen by U.S.- backed military thugs.
 


       I returned to the crowd, ducked into a deli for
a quick lunch since it was by now two o'clock and I'd
been running all morning on mate and yogurt with
protein powder and a few crackers. While I was eating
the hearst covered with flowers and carrying the
remains of Chaves Sosa passed by, initiating the
march. I grabbed my camera, recorded a little of the
passing (catching a shot of Daniel saluting the hearst
with his fist) and then returned to finish my meal and
then run out to join the march.


       I followed the march to the Obelisk at the end
of Av. 18 de Julio then, as we turned down Artigas,
ran into another deli for a second course and a bottle
of water since I'd left my water at home in the rush
to get to the march. As I emerged from the deli I ran
into Daniel and so I walked along with him and
listened to him as he offered his views on the FA, the
Tupamaros and the situation of Uruguay, especially of
the poor. 
       "I'm a communist by formation," he said when I
asked him about his political affiliation," but I'm
more involved with the CI, the Corriente Izquierda.
They have some good people in that organization, even
if it's a very small part of the FA with little
influence. They're doing what they can for the people.
All around Montevideo, I don't know if you've been
there, but circling the city, on the outskirts, are
all the poor. We're a very poor country and the poor
here are really poor. The CI is doing what it can to
represent their interests under this neoliberal
"progressive" government."


       As we walk along I wonder whether I'll ever
again have the same associations with the word
"progressive." Here it has come to be synonymous with
"neoliberal" and even "conservative."

       Yesterday, in response to my post about the
anarchists, I got an email from a friend in Venezuela
who complained about all the labels and how his
response to people trying to label him was the middle
finger. I understand that reaction (Dare I say, a
reaction one might characterize as essentially
"anarchist"?) but also recognize that we use symbols
(like language) to understand reality and ONLY
symbols. 
       Of course it's irritating as all hell to see
people mistaking the symbols for the reality (as for
example, mistaking people who hold up red flags with
hammers and syckles for communists rather than asking
if in fact those people represent the community
ownership of the means of production; people who wear
crosses for Christians rather than asking whether or
not those people are anti-imperialists allied with the
poor, peaceful, humble and meek against the rich,
powerful domineering representatives of oligarchies
and empires... have I made my point or did I even need
to do so in the first place?). But I know of no other
way, other than inarticulate intuitive knowlege, that
is, mysticism, by which to understand reality.


       And so the symbology is changing here in Latin
America as the reality changes. Vázquez, who was
elected by leftists as a result of his mastery of
their symbols, many feel  has ultimately turned out to
be a hypocrite and a liar, that is, he has betrayed
the symbols, done the opposite of what he said he
would do, shown a lack of integrity between his words
(symbols) and his actions (policies). Some here feel
he has thrown a few more pesos to the poor, though not
to empower them as Chavez in Venezuela is attempting
to do in the Missions, but like those U.S. liberals of
yore, LBJ who committed genocide and crimes against
humanity in Vietnam while throwing pennies to the
ghetto dwellers in the U.S, the welfare is rather to
silence them, to buy them off with pennies.


       One Uruguayan put it to me this way the other
day: "Here in Uruguay we're good at coming up with
great ideas, but in the end we do little to follow
through on them. So we proposed Mercosur here in
Uruguay, and we got other countries in the region on
board,  but now we're pulling back and behind the
scenes trying to get out of MERCOSUR and cut a deal
with the U.S. empire." 


       In defense of the people of Uruguay, I don't
know if that's altogether fair. I'm not sure that the
people of Uruguay want out of MERCOSUR now and into
the free trade zones of the Empire, but certainly
Vázquez has demonstrated that HE does and his
government is willing to do what it can to make any
deal possible with the likes of Bush and his cronies,
a pathetic indictment of a national leader. After all,
not even Poland nor France stepped lightly into that
dark night of turning their countries over to Hitler,
but Vázquez, Uribe, Fox and others seem to be falling
all over themselves to give their countries away. One
might have some sympathy for right wing lackeys like
Fox and Uribe, but when one arrives to power using the
symbols of the people but governs under the symbols of
empire and oligarchy we have a special word for them:
traitor, a word some are beginning to use here to
describe Vázquez. And many, like Gerardo Sosa,
president of CoProGraph, better to battle an open
enemy than a traitor.


       Regardless of Vázquez's timidity before the
military, their status of impunity is anything but
assured. Yesterday a judge ruled that Bordaberry, the
former dictator, can be tried for crimes, including
the murder of activists like Chaves Sosa. The
headlines of La Republica shouted, "Permiso señores,
la historia se abre paso: la Justicia ordenó juzgar al
dictador Bordaberry" (Make way (or Excuse me) sirs,
history is opening a way: Justice orders trial of the
dictator Bordaberry).