CPI: CHIPA PRICE INDEX

by Leo Redmond

September 12, 2009

Putting a finger on the peculiarities of the Paraguayan pulse is always a tricky affair. The pervasiveness of Paraguayan indirectness can stymie the simplest of questions. Are you going to the party tomorrow can be met with a myriad of responses.

One could make the case that cultural indirectness is indeed so profound that it is imbedded in the grammatical structure of the language. In Guarani all questions are asked in the negative form. Ndeho moa’i la fiestahape? You are not going to the party? How is one to answer this inquiry directly?

Against this cultural backdrop and the reality of widespread poverty in Paraguay, figuring out the financial and economic climate of rural Paraguayans is a daunting and delicate task indeed.

There is a way however to go about it without getting too personal, too professional and distracted by facts and figures. Beyond the traditional consumer price indexed basket of goods, such as flour, salt, oil and the like, to serve as a bench mark for measuring year on year inflation Paraguay offers a single consumer product that can get at the heart, or really the stomach, of the economic matter: chipa.

For the uninitiated, chipa, can be thought of as a corn meal Paraguayan bagel. The freshly ground corn is mixed with copious amounts of milk and lard, sprinkled with a healthy dash of anis seed, brick oven baked and served piping hot along the major paved thorough fares of Paraguay (now numbering twelve in a country the size of California) by industrious women touting massive baskets perched atop their perfectly erect heads.

For Paraguayans buying chipa is not really an option, but more a requirement born out of tradition, habit and hunger for a delicious snack. Without exception long distance buses traveling to and from the capital, stop and pick up a prearranged chipa woman, specifically at km 74 on Route Two, to sell their corn meal morsels to hungry passengers. Different bus lines work with different chipa companies, where the bus driver undoubtedly gets a free sample.

Back in 2002, a single chipa, the size of a good New York City bagel (Sara Lee supermarket bought, five to a sleeve “bagel” look a likes need not apply), sold for 1000 guaranies, the Paraguayan currency which floats freely against the dollar and is presently valued at 1 USD = 4900 guaranies. Thus, a chipa cost roughly twenty cents. To complete the comparison, a typical Paraguayan day laborer makes 25,000 guaranies or five dollars a day.

Over the last half dozen years however, while the price of chipa has remained stable at 1000 guaranies, the size has steadily decreased to that of a Thomas English Muffin. Unscientifically, this reflects two trends: the rise in the cost of raw materials (i.e. corn, lard) and the idea that 1000 guaranies is the Paraguayan psychological price akin to 99 cents.

Returning to Paraguay after a two year absence, I was eager (and hunger) to continue my chipa price index study on the rural economic situation of Paraguayans.

Traveling out to the eastern department of Caazapa, I made my requisite stop along Route Two to purchase my tasty, Paraguayan roadside snack. Driving in a private vehicle, I rolled down the window and opened my wallet, not knowing what to expect.

The woman, basket atop her head, leaned in and handed me a chipa. The size was back close to its original (2002 baseline) but the price was now double: 2000 guaranies. Being caught short, I had to reach deep into my pocket to make up the difference.

The sweetness of the snack was the same as I had remembered, but I got the feeling that over the intervening years this slice of rural Paraguayan life had become a bit more sour and hard to swallow. Chipa in hand, Paraguayans can attest to the following as they scratch out a subsistence living in an acute economic environment: the problem with “normal” is that over time everything gets worse.

LIFE IN PERSPECTIVE

The animosity between Paraguayans and Argentines is good natured but visceral. From boasts and brags of cultural superiority to a devastating 19^th century war, the Triple Alliance War 1861- 1865, that literally decimated the Paraguayan population (Argentina was helped out by Brazil and Uruguay but in their defense, Paraguay did start it, declaring war on all three), this rivalry finds its outlet in all forms of life.

Being South America, a soccer match played between the two national teams serves as unparalleled battle ground for this never ending war. Wednesday night in downtown Asuncion, the Paraguayan capital, in the form of a 2010 World Cup Qualifying Match, the latest Paraguay – Argentina skirmish was fought.

In an unprecedented turn of events, Argentina, a perennial soccer powerhouse and historically a shoe in for a World Cup berth, came to town needing a win to keep their flagging campaign alive. Paraguay, on the other hand, was in the position where a win would seal their invitation to the big dance in South Africa in June of next year. (After two years of home and away tournament play, only four out of the ten South American teams will earn berths to the World Cup). Although unknown on the world stage for anything else, in soccer circles, the small, six million strong land lock nation of Paraguay is a force to be reckoned with.

Qualifying for the World Cup at home and at the expense of their arch rivals, Argentina, were another loss would virtually eliminate them from World Cup contention was almost too much for Paraguayans to handle.

At kick off, the energy in the stadium was electrifying and the silence throughout the country was absolute. The nation had stopped, all motion suspended, everyone glued to their televisions and collectively holding their breath. Across the border in Argentina, there was no less concentration and devotion.

In this corner of the world, on that night, there was only one thing and one thing only that mattered: the best eleven men of each country playing ninety minutes of soccer to decisively determine the power, glory and right to go to the World Cup.

Despite the best of intentions and a commensurate amount of hard work, Paraguay, in terms of soccer, history and politics, is benighted and hapless. The national team, for as talented as they are, always finds away to let victory slip through their fingers, like a late opponent’s goal sneaking past the goalie’s outstretched hands.

The Paraguayan populace knows this all to well and, during the run up to the game, they were on their knees praying for a different outcome to the same old story.

On a night that will be talked about and lionized for generations, the national side did not disappoint. Playing as a team, aggressive and hungry for a win, Paraguay beat the Argentines 1-0. Paraguay hit the post twice before they found the back of the net. Tensions and jockeying for the ball were unrelenting throughout, ending in a red card for an Argentine player. Despite being a man and a goal down, the ultimate opportunity for vindication if not outright victory was Argentina’s. But the striker missed tapping in the superbly placed cross in front of an open net by centimeters in the final minute of the match.

As the ball spun out of bounds and into oblivion, the nation of Paraguay leapt up in euphoria as the national team stepped into history.

In a single, 1-0 victory over Argentina, the plight of Paraguayans was forgotten. No one left the stadium or turned off their televisions. This was not just soccer. It was life, renewed, reborn and rejuvenated.

As the players danced, the fans cheered and flags waved, the President of Paraguay, Fernando Lugo, stepped onto the pitch. With six million people enthralled to a Paraguayan victory, he did the only logical thing: he declared Thursday, the following day, a National Holiday.

Schools were closed. Government offices shut down and stores remained unopened.

The mundane transactions of life could wait another day. An Argentine loss, a Paraguayan World Cup berth. This was big. Down right momentous and needed to be put into proper perspective.

Real life Batman faces super test

ISTANBUL - The mayor of Batman, a city recently under scrutiny due to unsolved murders and increasing rates of female suicides, will sue the director of the "Batman" movie. (Click on title above for full article.)

Falcon Moon: I have just three words to say about this: "Oh. My. God."

Being There: Letter from A Friend

November 13, 2008

Selam,

Bu siralar firsattan istifade (issizlik + NY’da yasamak) degisik seyler yapmaya calisiyorum. Nerede ise hergun daha once yapmadigim sey yapiyorum. Boyle bir firsat belki bir daha ele gecmez.

Sali aksami bir evsizler evinde gonullu olarak calistim. Bina aslinda bir sinagog, gunduzleri ikinci katini cocuk yuvasi olarak kullaniyorlar. Aksamlari da 10 tane evsizin ayni odada kaldigi bir yurt gibi birsey oluyor. Benim saatlerim aksam 8:30’dan sabah 6:00’a kadardi.

Evsizlerin 2 tanesi beyaz, bir tanesi Latino, geri kalani zenciydi. Once onlarla oturdum, yapilacak/yapilmasi gerek seyleri konustuk biraz. Bazilari orada birkac aydir kaldigi icin ne zaman ne yapilmasini biliyor. Beraber yemek yedik (cereal ve sut), onlar da mikrodalgada isitilan hazir yemeklerden yediler. Hersey onlara bedava. Yatak, yemek, dus vs Sinagog karsiliyor.

Bir tanesinin laptop’u vardi, cep telefonu ve ipod zaten normal gibi. Bu sadece Amerika’da olur!

Saat 10 gibi isiklari sondurmem lazimdi, uyusunlar diye. Ama bir tanesi film getirmis, “Iron Man” diye. Abuk sabuk bir film. Oturup onu izledik yatak odasinda (zaten yatak odasi, mutfak, TV odasi hepsi ayni yer). Bazilari uyuyordu, horluyordu, bazilari bulmaca cozuyordu, bazilari muhabbet ediyordu, bazilari da film izledi. Baktim kimsenin sikayet ettigi yok, saat 11’e kadar filmi izledik ve bitirdik fimi. Sonra onlar yattilar.

Kendi aralarinda hic tartismadilar, bana karsi da cok iyilerdi. Ben de zaten “onu yapma, bunu yapma” demedim. Bazi seylere karismam lazimdi, ama “Offff, adamlar zaten zor hayat yasiyorlar, illa ki her kurala uymalarina gerek yok” diye dusundum. Oyle olunca da beni sevdiler.

Bir tanesi, digerleri yattiktan sonra, bir koseye cekildi, bulmaca cozuyordu. Onun yanina gittim. Bana suclu suclu bakarak ‘Hemen yatacagim, kusura bakma” dedi. Ben de “Onemli degil, benim icin sorun degil” dedim. Sonra gece saat 12:30’a kadar muhabbet ettik. Hayatini anlatti.

Buradaki adamlarin hepsi “Tek Kisilik Oda” plani ile devletin odemelere yardim ettigi odalari kiralamak icin sirada bekliyorlar. Bu bekleme 2-5 yil alabiliyor. O surede sokaklarda, ya da bu sinagog gibi yerlerde gecici kaliyorlar. O tek kisilik odalara ayda $250 veriyorlar. Geri kalan $2000 ini belediye oduyor. Boylece evsizlerin Manhattan’da kendilerine ait apartmanlari olmus oluyor. Guzel plan. Tabi biz Manhattan’a “pahali” oldugu icin gidemiyoruz. Ama onlar gidiyor. Olsun varsin.

Bulmaca-adam yillarca evsiz yasamis, NY’da. Central Park’da yattigi gunleri anlatti. Uzerine yattigi beton yerleri kiyasladi, nerenin betonunun daha iyi oldugunu anlatti. Betondan betona fark varmis. Bir keresinde yagmurlu bir gece saat 3 gibi uyanmis, etrafini su basmis, hem sagindan, hem solundan su irmak gibi akiyormus. Battaniyeleri islanmis. Sehirdeki diger baska evsizleri biliyor, onlari anlatti; “Bu adam 20 yildir sokakda, su kadin ilk baslarda cok guzeldi, ama su an yuzu cok yaslandi vs.”

Sinagog’dan cok memnun, ozellike sokakda yatmayla kiyaslayinca. Sinagog yasaminda degistirmek istedigin ne var diye sordum. Dusundu, dusundu, herseyden cok memnunum dedi en sonunda. Erken kalkmak zor olmuyor mu dedim. Sorun degil dedi. Tek istedigi sey camasir yikayacak bir yeri olmasi. Bir de bazilari cok horluyor, onun cozumu de kulaklarina pecete dolduruyor.

Bir sonraki sabah 5:30’da bir kisi haric hepsi kalkmisdi. Yataklarini vs. hepsi kendisi topladi, sessiz, sakin, itisme kakisma yoktu. Cok medeni adamlar, ciddi ciddi surpriz oldum biraz.

Sonra hala uyuyan adami kaldirdim. Hic acelesi yoktu. Bana verilen gorevlerden biris bu adamlarin hepsini sinagog’dan 6’da disariya cikarmakti. Hepsi gitti, ama o yavas adam acele etmedi. Ben de zaten acele ettirmedim, muhabbet ettik o yatagini yaparken, pantalonunu giyinirken. Ne yapacaksin bugun dedim. Dedigi “Ilk once Starbuck’s gidecegim, saat 9’a kadar oradayim. Sonra 9’da kiliseye gidecegim. Orada pinpon, bilardo, TV ile oglen 3’e kadar zaman gecirecegim. Belki biraz sandalye uzerinde uyurum. Oglen yemegini orada yiyecegim. Sonra da yarin aksam tekrar buraya gelecegim” dedi.

Bana sen nerelisin dedi? Ben de Turk’um dedim. Istanbul’mu diye sordu. Yok Ankara dedim. Bana “Yav, siz niye Istanbul’u falan Yunan’lilarin elinden aldiniz? Haksizlik degil mi bu? Niye Yunanlilari kovdunuz?” dedi. Ben de “Ohh, onlar eski olaylar, koprunun altindan cok sular gecti” dedim. Ayrica Yunanlilar istedikleri zaman Istanbul’a bizi ziyaret edebilirler dedim, sakasina. Ama adam bana kil kil bakti.

Sonra soyledi bana: Gunduzleri gittigi kilise Yunan kilisesi imis. Zavalli evsizin beynini yikamis Yunanlilar.

Optum,
Volkan

RICHARD: YOU MUST ADD JELLYFISH TO YOUR OBSESSION WITH PAINTING HORSESHOE CRABS

by Vincent Czyz

Dear Richard,
Thanks for the postcard of your painting

“Girl with Horseshoe Crabs.”
Sorry the health-food store in Montclair went under,
they made vegetarian chili like nobody’s business.
The quantum physicist you mentioned, who says consciousness
is mostly empty space with a few thoughts whizzing through,
a grand inner dimension that can float a galaxy of ideas
but hardly feel a dimple in its overall capacity,
I got a feeling he’s right.
What’s life like in Istanbul?
Forget about the minarets and Byzantine cathedrals for a minute,
think of the Bosporus

dividing the city into Asian and European sides,

think of the jellyfish I see,
lots of them, hundreds sometimes.
The most primitive, I’ve read, are 95% H2O,
which has got to be how life got started,
as tiny envelopes of seawater. So there they are,
our ultra-great-great grandparents,
adrift in water sloshing against the cement shoreline,
a wall along the road that follows the strait.
Circular echoes of ocean,
the ones around here are divided into four equal parts,
sea-animal mandalas spangling the water,
silver dollar to Frisbee size, milky and translucent.
I like to watch them sort of sway in the current
just beneath the surface—
they’re a good way to meditate.
This must be the lure of the lava lamp,
magma that predates even your trilobite look-a-likes
in lethargic motion,
I’m surprised you aren’t onto jellyfish in your paintings.
I guess because they don’t have shells,
no husks to leave behind,
I s’pose they just dissolve when they die.
I wish I could get them floating around my room,
they help my thoughts circulate is the thing,
they lullaby my soul side to side.
Mother-of-the-sea is how the Turkish name for them translates,
probably because they’re only 5% different from seawater,
but a five-percent difference might be all there is
between consciousness
and the vacuum.