Mañana

Inside perspective on life in Argentina from a former resident of Oregon.

Courtesy: directoriobariloche.com

(EL BOLSON, Argentina) - Manana is a word that gets no respect from English speakers. Northerners say it with a whiney nasal quality that suggests it’s something less than it is, tomorrow. It’s a derisive codeword for “maybe never.” Argentines resent this because to them, manana has a very clear and precise meaning, sometime next week.

En dos o tres dias is Argentine Spanish for “maybe never”. At least that’s been our experience here in Patagonia.

We arrived in El Bolson just three days prior to the contractual deadline for the completion of our house. The Abraham brothers have the best reputation in town and were insisting throughout the previous nine months that they would meet the May 31st deadline without a doubt.

We harbored some hope that their prediction would come true, but were not surprised to learn that shit had happened. A few weeks before we arrived, the house under construction had been hit by a robbery.

Thieves with a truck had come in the night, broke in through the bedroom door and stole a window, an interior door, and the newly installed gas range.

To make matters worse, another one of the Abraham’s projects was also hit by the robbers who took nearly everything. This had thrown them for a loop because there would be difficulty replacing all the lost items as we were in the midst of a national transportation strike. The factory that made the windows had shut down until the strike should end.

Nonetheless, Javier and Cesar said we would have been able to occupy the house on schedule were it not for the gas company.

The Camuzzi gas company introduced us to the meaning of en dos o tres dias. That was the timetable we were given for the inspection of the gas connection. It was a Wednesday so we thought we were safe in coming down to the Camuzzi offices on Monday to find out the result of our inspection and pay our fee to get hooked up.

No way. We were told that we were in line for inspection, but it would be another few days, maybe even a week.

It seemed there was some big gas installation project going on over in el Maiten and that had to be all straightened out before they could come down and inspect us. With the gas inspector out of town, there was no telling how long it would take to get anyone to look at our connection.

Right on time, about ten days later on a Monday morning, Cesar called to say we had the inspection but flunked. A new vent would have to be installed on account of the gas furnace and hot water heater in the laundry room and by manana it would be done.

This took another manana and yet another for the gas company to verify the alteration so it was Friday before we could pay our bill and get the gas hooked up. Of course, this didn’t end our delays.

The Abraham hermanos gave us keys to the house so we could occupy on about the first of July, a full month after it had been scheduled to be complete. We were in, but it wasn’t complete. The robbery had caused more problems than just the missing items.

With the house locked up tight until our arrival, several other projects had been put on hold: painting not completed, lights and bathroom fixtures uninstalled, and location of the appliances. Once we were in the house, all these things got started up again, but slowly. Typically, someone would come to the house around eleven or so, work for a few hours, leave for lunch at one and promise to return “a la tarde”.

The evening would come and go and no one would return for several days. By this method, two or three days worth of work would stretch out more than a month, at least until the missing items would arrive. The washing machine (lavaropas) posed a special problem.

While our builders had gallantly offered to install our washing machine for us, the task would not be performed smoothly. First, there were the delays. The washing machine sat in its box in the laundry room for the better part of a week, waiting for someone to come and install it. One Saturday night, with visitors over for supper, we decided to try to install it ourselves.

Our guest Dionisio had some experience setting up washers. It was then that we discovered that the lavaropas was too tall for the space it had to occupy. Apparently, they had installed the laundry room counter at a height of about 83 centimeters, one less than the washer.

An emergency call to Cesar brought him to the house the next day, but the solution and final resolution was still several days away. At first, he tried cutting down the hard rubber feet of the machine to get it to fit. The machine fit in the space just barely, but when running, it rattled and shook unmercifully.

A quick look at the manual suggested that the machine needed space, breathing room if you will, to prevent excessive vibration. There would be another solution manana.

This manana actually did come the next day in the person of a young worker with a hammer and chisel whose job was to take up the ceramic tile under the washer to facilitate smooth operation.

Once the proper amount of floor had been broken out and the washer repositioned, Cesar and his worker took off wishing us luck. Unfortunately, the floor had not been broken out quite far enough and there was some residual rattling.

What’s more, when I pushed on it to steady the machine a bit, it moved back far enough to kink the water inlet hose, putting us back out of commission. Another emergency call to Cesar brought a “manana” response which turned into early the next week when the crew returned for more floor massacre and hose repositioning. The machine now ran smoothly, but for only a few days. A week after the problem had supposedly been fixed, the washer refused to fill with water.

Fearing another endless succession of mananas, I checked the manual before calling Cesar again. The lid had not been properly shut. It was wonderful to have an immediate solution to our problem.

Dos o tres dias is not to believed when buying furniture that has to be delivered. We discovered this when buying a desk. The unfinished pine furniture shop close to our house, Che Roga, took our deposit (sena) on a second desk for our spare bedroom/office. I was somewhat skeptical at the short time frame as I had come to realize that all the unfinished furniture was made not locally, but in some giant factory in Buenos Aires.

How long would it take to get here? In dos o tres dias, he said, maybe a week. To be certain, he put it down in writing; one week from that day he would send it by flete, delivery service. A week came and went with no word, no telephone response, and the shop shuttered and closed with no apology on the door.

A few more days and we discovered from a neighbor that the owner of the shop had “family problems”, left town and would not be back for two weeks.

Just before the two week absence was due to be up, Gail ran into Che Roga on her way into town. He said his father had died and he had been out of town attending to the necessary family affairs; the desk would be delivered manana, on Saturday en la manana.

We almost believed this but were totally unsurprised when no desk came, the shop remained closed and the phone unanswered. Monday morning we walked by Che Roga about 9, his usual opening hour, and found two paisanos on bicycles waiting at the door.

They worked for Che Roga from time to time assembling furniture that had been shipped in pieces from the big muebles de pino fabrica somewhere in Buenos Aires. There was no firm consensus between them, however, as to whether or not Che Roga would show up.

An hour and a half later, we found the paisanos gone and the shop shuttered. A friend later told us that Che Roga’s father had died several times. Perhaps the old guy kicked the bucket again.

Later on that day, I managed to reach Che Roga on the phone. No apologies were given, but I was told I could come and pick up my desk the next day in the afternoon. I didn’t want to seem picky, but I reminded him that he would send the desk.

This prompted a whiney song and dance about family problems and his lack of a working vehicle. Right then and there, I should have canceled my order and asked for my deposit back, but he had me over a barrel. Getting my deposit back would surely take as much time as getting the desk and then I’d have to start the same process with the other furniture store which is only marginally more reliable than Che Roga.

So I agreed to come and get it at five the next day if he would hire a flete to haul it one mile down the road to my house.

This time, manana really meant the next day. As I approached the corner could see the Flete, an 83 Ford F-150, idling in front of the shop. Inside the shop, Che Roga was nowhere to be seen.

He had left his thirteen-year old son in charge of collecting the money and handing over the merchandise. The kid knew nothing. Flaws in the merchandise? A shrug. Eleven pesos change? A futile fumble through empty pockets.

The location of Che Roga? Another shrug. Take it or leave it. It was a miracle that I got him to help me carry the desk out to the flete. Of course when I asked the driver if they had paid him, he answered that the charge was twenty pesos. Che Roga had told him I was to pay the twenty pesos for the delivery.

Even the best businesses in town operate on flexible expanding time frames. Cipres, the premier building supply shop took my order for 110 meters of chain link fencing on the 29th of July. I paid in advance and was told to expect delivery in 10 days.

Two weeks later, they said it would be in at the end of the week. At the end of the week, it was coming definitely Tuesday. One week after Tuesday, it was coming at the end of the week again. I keep thinking that my fencing is on some truck somewhere in a giant holding pattern circling the southern Andes and never touching down in the right place.

In the interim, my dogs are running amok in the neighborhood taking down citroens and molesting kids on their way to music lessons. The mailman doesn’t believe my promises that his nemises will ever be behind a fence. I hope it doesn’t take so long that they inform me that the price has gone up due to runaway inflation. Two hundred pesos more, please.

We are retired and have no real jobs now aside from taking care of ourselves and we shouldn’t be so irritated with all the demorras, delays. As North Americans, however, we have been unable to shake that dark cloud that overcomes us when we think a word has not been kept.

Moving is hard and moving to another country in your 60’s is even harder. We yanquis may be used to moving every seven years, but that doesn’t mean we like it. We would like to have the moving over and done with, but three months after landing, we are still messing with boxes and having workers tramping in and out of the house.

To be fair, I shouldn’t give the impression that everything here is difficult slow and inconvenient. There are some things that are marvelous, better than in el norte. One of them is delivery.

Since so few people have cars, most businesses deliver. Even our barrio, a full 2km from the center, is not too far for hauling out merchandise. Without extra charge, we’ve gotten laundry, dog food, furniture, nursery plants, tools and much more. If you play your cards right, you can order something up in town and ride home with the delivery person.

Some things we just order by phone and have delivered. Most deliveries come between 5 and seven in the evening. When we received delivery of some fruit and ornamental trees recently, we were able to glean some in sitio advice from the nurseryman on plant placement and care.

As someone accustomed to the convenience of paying bills by mail, I’ve been amazed by how convenient the process can be without any postal input. All the bills, gas,electricity, telephone, etc, come by courier. Each provider closes down their office several days a month and sends its employees out to hand deliver all the bills.

At first, we thought they were changing our mailman, but in a country with high postage fees and without bulk discounts, dedicated delivery makes economic sense. Once you’ve got your bill, you can pay it almost anywhere. You can pay at banks, kiosks, grocery stores, or special pago facil (easy pay) stores. You just put your bills in your pocket and pay them anywhere.

We got our first gas bill today and were floored. 46 days of home heat, cooking, hot water and local taxes cost 98 pesos, about $32. Since we live in Patagonia, however, we are entitled to a government subsidy for gas consumption, 55 pesos.

The Argentine government wants to encourage people to move to and stay in Patagonia so we are able to stay warm and cook our food for less than 30 cents a day. Likewise, the bills for other public services like water, garbage and electricity are equally low.

This is the result of living in a country with a populist progressive government. Basic services are either run by the government directly at low cost or subsidized. Call it tax breaks for the poor.

There are also exceptions to the Manana/pocos dias rule, notably Javier Rodriguez. When we asked around town for someone to build and install iron gates and fences, everyone said Javier Rodriguez was the most reliable. We tried him out on a trash can.

Since a big rubber trash can like most folks use in the US was inordinately expensive (300 pesos) and out of character with customary practice, we asked Javier if he would make us a trash bin from a 55 gallon drum like the ones most people here use.

The drum is laid on its side, stands up on little iron legs and is cut in half with a hinge installed to effect a lid that renders the contents safe from marauding dogs. We wanted it black and customized with two compartments, one for trash and the other for recyclables. No problem, Javier Rodriguez smiled. Three days, 250 pesos.

Three days later to the minute, his assistant arrived with our bin and placed it in its new home. The fence and driveway gate was a much bigger job. Diez dias, Javier Rodriguez chirped. Exactly ten days later he and his assistant showed up to dig the holes, set the posts and install our new iron gates. This man has the soul of a norteamericano.

When I told him so as he was installing our new mailbox, he chuckled that it was the only way, “Por cualquier cosa que necesita, llamame,” he smiled, took my 100 pesos and scurried off to his next job.

There are also taxis, our most reliable service at little cost. Actually, el Bolson does not have what you would call a proper taxi, a distinctively painted car with a meter.

The taxis in Buenos Aires are black with yellow tops and in Bariloche white with blue tops. Here, we have remises, something that would be called a black car or private car service in the US. They are just standard passenger cars with a radio and a sticker on the driver’s side door.

They operate on zone fares, a standard flate rate from point A to point B. From our house to anywhere in the center of town is a flat six pesos, about the price of a cup of coffee and two small croissants at anyplace in town. Since moving to the house, we’ve broken the daily 12 peso habit of coffee and medialunas in the cafe and spend some of that on remises instead. Getting one, even on a rainy day, is never a problem, about as convenient as having your own car.

El Bolson has six remis companies scattered through town, each operating 6 to 10 cars. All the drivers at “Piltri Remises” know us and our house and all we have to do is mention our name on the phone and they come at once to the house or say “a casa” if we step in a car on a cab stand and they take us home. Most times, and especially from home, we call Pepe.

When we dial up Pepe el Albano on his cell phone, he usually tells us how many minutes it will be before he will arrive. Like any responsible cabbie, he gives long estimates, so if he says “diez minutos,” you can be sure it will be less than that. Mostly he says, “cinco.” If he’s tied up on an out of town trip, he’ll send one of his companeros with apologies.

Everyone obeys the strong code of loyalty between the regular customer and driver so much that if we try to get in one of the other cabs in town when Pepe is on duty, they refuse us. As soon as we so much as look at another cab, they have radioed Pepe and he is on the way to whisk us home.

Remis transportation beats having your own car by a long shot. Used cars are disproportionally expensive here making a reliable 6-8 year old car cost more than five thousand dollars. Along with all the usual maintenance, fuel and insurance costs, a car would cost us the same $500-$600 a month to operate that it costs in the US.

During July and August, the coldest and rainiest months, our remis bill has run us about 300 pesos ($100) per month. A bus trip to Bariloche, the big city about 80 miles north, costs 18 pesos, about half the price of fuel in an economy car.

The past two months have been a seemingly endless round of tasks associated with settling into a new house. There is still a lot to do both inside and out. This past week, there was a break in the rain and I spent most of three days digging up sod and preparing the soil for our raspberry patch.

As the task neared completion under approaching storm clouds, I reflected that I would not have the physical and emotional stamina to do this in a few more years. Moving, or more properly homesteading which is what we are doing, is not an activity for the elderly. Settling in here has been neither quick nor easy.

But as I finished my day’s digging and hauling topsoil, I looked around at the freshly planted apples, cherries, plums, gooseberries, strawberries and currants and imagined how sweet they would all be in January when we finally might be settled in. It will be then that we will be able to finally get our legal residence and retrieve the rest of our possessions from customs. But that is another story.