Rufous-collared sparrow

It is common to see rufous-collared sparrows; it's a very common bird over there, and around here too. I remember when I was little, I went hunting for birds for the first, only, and last time. It wasn't a total success—in fact, I didn't catch any of the ones people usually get—but four or five sparrows did fall into the trap. Up until that point, I didn't know those birds were sparrows (chingolos). I was coming back happy with the four little birds, since one had managed to break free and escape. Over time, I learned they were rufous-collared sparrows. They spend their time singing, and they have a very loud song. They can live in captivity, but nobody keeps them—it's believed to be because they are so common. That time, we caught them using glue. That method is awful because their wings get completely stuck, and as they try to escape, they get stuck even more, making it hard to remove the glue later without hurting them. These sparrows lived for a few years in a large aviary until the day they were released. That same day or the next—I can't recall clearly now—while playing in the street, I ran into one of them about a block away. It couldn't fly well due to a lack of practice from being enclosed. It was a mistake to release them in the city; I should have taken them to the countryside.

Following this anecdote comes the memory of a primary school textbook that contained a poem dedicated to the rufous-collared sparrow. The book had poems about several small birds, and among them, one about the chingolo. The poem was by Leopoldo Lugones, which I transcribe below.

The chingolo is the most gaucho of the songbirds; its fame reached folklore, legends, and popular sayings, even inspiring poets, as demonstrated by Leopoldo Lugones, who sang to it like this:

When the countryside is at its loneliest,
and the house, in peace, stands open,
there appears through the doorway,
bold as can be, the chingolo.
It comes looking for a crumb
or a strand of broom straw,
which it certainly does not steal,
for the people are its friends.
It hops trustingly to the threshold
and asks for permission
with a short, concise chirp,
like a pinch of crystal.
Its pastoral attire
is graced by a lovely crest.
(If the cardinal is a cadet,
it is a gentle conscript).

To read a brief summary about the bird, I leave the following links:
http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zonotrichia_capensis
http://www.avesdelapatagonia.com.ar/chingolotx1.htm

And below is the Legend of the Chingolo:
Guillermo Perkins Hidalgo, in ‘Legends and Superstitions of Iberá’, published in Cuadernos del Instituto Nacional de Antropología No. 4, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1963, collects this version:

"The Chingolo. It still seems to walk with its leg irons, reminding the world of a sin. He was an impetuous man, full of pride. He possessed great strength and once committed the terrible desecration of knocking down the heavy portal of a church. For that, he was put in irons and taken to prison, from where he later flew away, doubly punished by Heaven's justice."

"The Chingolo, tiny and nervous, is the only bird that walks by hopping, as if hobbled by invisible leg irons..."

"The Chingolo is sociable and visits family yards in search of breadcrumbs and food scraps. It only moves away quickly when it senses the dangerous presence of a cat. That is why the saying goes, when someone arrives at a house like the Chingolo, unexpectedly, without prior invitation or notice, right at the usual mealtime:

He walks right in on his own,

just like the Chingolo!"

Feria COAS de las Naciones.

Durante la semana del 22 al 30 de noviembre de 2014 se llevó a cabo la Feria COAS de las Naciones en el Pabellón Azul de La Rural. A insistencia mía, concurrimos con mi esposa a visitarla. Ya hace muchos años, en una ocasión, había concurrido a una “Feria de las Naciones” y tenía un buen recuerdo, y me pareció que podía resultar interesante visitarla.

La feria fue organizada por COAS, ¿qué es COAS? Cooperadora de Acción Social. Se trata de una asociación civil que se ocupa de generar ayuda a los Hospitales Públicos. Uno puede conocer más visitando su webpage http://www.coas.org.ar/

La Entrada General costaba 60 pesos. Si lo miro por lo que fue la feria, es un pérdida de dinero que no valía la pena pagarlos. Si lo miro por lo que dice el ticket de la entrada “A total beneficio de los Hospitales Públicos”, entonces no me duele pagar los 60 pesos y en definitiva van a estar bien gastados/pagados.

La feria abría a las 14hs y se extendías hasta las 21hs, los fines de semana abría las 13hs. Nosotros concurrimos a eso de las 17hs y había bastante gente. Las boleterías, pequeños habitáculos portátiles, eran cuatro, dos para pagos con tarjetas y dos para pagos en efectivo. Los pagos con tarjetas concentraban la mayor parte de la gente que ingresaba por lo que la fila era más extensa.

Había varios carteles promocionado la feria, también había afiches, y otros tipos de publicidad como unas telas con las que envolvieron los árboles de los alrededores. El cartel de la fotografía se encontraba justo por encima de la entrada. Si uno lo ve, el logo se forma de un corazón cuyo contorno es una continuación de banderas con banderas y así podemos identificar las banderas de Chile, Alemania, Suiza, Brasil, Holanda, Australia, Pakistán, Reino Unido, Bélgica, EEUU, Francia, China, Venezuela.
En la misma página web de COAS dice textual “La Feria, como ya es tradicional, presenta una nómina de países participantes con lo mejor de sus respectivas producciones comerciales, artesanales y culturales: Alemania, China, España, Gran Bretaña, India, Italia, Vietnam, entre otros.”
Al parecer equiparan Nación con País, a mi modo de ver, existen muchas más naciones que países, dichas naciones (o grupos nacionales) de una u otra manera están incluidos dentro de determinados países y por la razón que fuere no han alcanzado una independencia.
Sea como fueren, en el mundo hay alrededor de 200 países reconocidos como tal, y si contabilizamos las naciones, la lista se vuelve más extensa.
Es lógico que la feria no iba a concentrar stand de todas y cada una de las naciones existentes, pero al menos esperaba encontrar, como número extenso 20 naciones, si me guío por el logo con las banderas, alrededor de 13 o 14, y si sigo lo publicado en la web page unas 7 naciones, al menos 7 y los stand argentinos.
La verdad que luego de recorrerla toda no encontramos prácticamente nada, un stand de productos característicos chinos y uno o dos de productos característicos árabes, y luego nada más. ¿Dónde estaban las demás Naciones? Simplemente no estaban, desilusionante.

Apenas uno ingresaba se encontraba con un puesto de salud del gobierno de la Ciudad donde tomaban la presión a quienes querían, solamente había adultos mayores.
Luego varios box que contenían productos de bazar, calzados, carteras, etc… todos con la leyenda Free Shop, o 4x3, o 3x2, etc… la gente hacía largas filas de espera para ingresar, llegaban a dar casi toda la vuelta al box.
Luego muchos stand de marcas conocidas y no tan conocidas de indumentaria, casi todo era textil y marroquinería, zapatos y carteras, bien podría haberse llamado Feria de Indumentaria que no engañaba.
Algunos stands regionales argentinos, por ejemplo de las provincias de Salta y Santiago del Estero, y de algunas localidades de la provincia de Córdoba entre las que recuerdo haber visto.
Un solo stand con libros que vendían a 75 pesos y en las librerías de Av. Corrientes se consiguen por 50 pesos.
Lo mismo con mucha de la ropa en venta, algunas prendas que se consiguen a 90 pesos en locales sobre Av. Santa Fe, allí en la feria las ofrecían a 199 pesos.
Podría seguir con otros productos que pude ubicar fácilmente su procedencia o los lugares donde los venden a mucho menor precio. Una desproporción.
Además que se trataba de toda indumentaria muy común y corriente, al ser llamada “Feria de las Naciones”, imaginaba que se podían encontrar productos y/o indumentaria que nos sea ajena, propia de otros países, pero no fue así, cuanto más se recorría, más se caía en lugares comunes.
A la gente parecía no importarle nada, se veía como compraban y bastante, muchos portaban bolsas con sus productos.
Un señor, en un stand de bazar argentino, consultaba por el precio elevado de un cuchillo, y el vendedor le decía “pero es importado de Alemania”. Con este criterio, cualquier feria se la puede catalogar “de las Naciones”, está lleno de productos importados, en algunos momentos históricos los hay más y en otros los hay menos, pero desde que existe el comercio existen importaciones/exportaciones, en su defecto hubiesen aggiornado un local con todos productos procedente de determinado país, pero ni eso.
Luego todo un sector de productos alimenticios, y se repite lo mismo, en su inmensa mayoría todos productos nacionales, embutidos, quesos, mermeladas, aceites, frutos secos, etc… Se me hace que son los mismos stands que participan de la Exposición Rural, luego Caminos y Sabores, ahora Feria de las Naciones, y el día de mañana la Feria de Artesanías, lo que quiero decir que no vi stand de comidas propias de otras naciones. ¿Está mal que así sea? En parte sí y en parte no, que propongan productos nacionales argentinos me parece muy bien, pero ¿y el resto de las naciones? Nada, no había nada. Eso está mal, si hablan y venden la feria como “de las naciones”, propongan algo de otras naciones. Pero no fue así.

A la entrada de la feria, había instalado un escenario. Quizás hay sido lo mejor de la misma desde mi punto de vista. Ofrecían danzas, unas pocas sillas y la mayoría de la gente de parado, tanto los que ingresaban y los que salían. Y se encontraba por fuera de la feria. En el momento que pasamos nosotros, estaban realizando danzas árabes, pudimos ver tres danzas, entre ellas un grupo de seis bailarinas, y luego una sola que bailaba en forma individual. Al lado nuestro, había una mujer con una chiquita, y la niña le dice “pero si es la profesora la que está bailando”.
Desconozco su había un programa con eventos, si hubo variedad de danzas, o si solo se trataba de danzas árabes.

Conclusión, esta feria dejó mucho que desear, reconforta saber el hecho que el dinero recaudado de las entradas va a ser destinado en artefactos para Hospitales Públicos, en definitiva hay gente que se va a beneficiar de los mismos para con su salud. Pero el recorrido de la misma y lo ofrecido en ella resultó una desilusión.

Disturbing situation

Situation.

For a couple of weeks now, almost all media outlets—both audiovisual and print—have been covering and following a criminal court case that has gripped society as a whole. It involves the horrific crime of a young underage girl who was apparently approached by someone who attempted to assault her. As she defended herself from the attack, he beat her savagely. The girl fainted, and he then attempted to strangle her with his hands, as well as with some ropes or cord. Believing her to be dead, he contorted her body, tied her feet, placed a supermarket bag over her head, and then put her inside two heavy-duty trash bags before throwing her into a trash container. Later, a garbage truck picked her up, and the truck's compaction mechanism appears to have caused her death. Fortunately, the truck arrived at a waste-sorting plant, where the young girl's body passed through another machine that tears open the bags, and that is where she was discovered. Briefly and with some inaccuracies, these were the facts of the case.

The case gained notoriety due to a multitude of factors, ranging from interesting figures to pathetic characters who intervened—from the strictly judicial realm to the social sphere. Everyone expresses an opinion, just as I am doing right now.

It reached a point where, for several reasons—initially hints, and later increasingly strong evidence—pointers directed attention toward one individual: the janitor of the building where the victim lived (the sole victim in all of this being the deceased girl).

In the midst of all the media circus—which is beside the point to describe because it could become far too lengthy, nor is it the topic that concerns me—and in the midst of the ongoing legal proceedings aimed at finding the truth and bringing the accused person (or persons) of this crime to justice to be tried, the judge took an action during the process: ordering all the residents of the building to testify about this or that matter, which I am unaware of (and which is also beside the point).

This is where my inquiry or concern begins, from a perspective entirely outside the case in question. What worries me or draws a certain level of my attention as food for thought—and perhaps I am deeply mistaken or wrong, but I allow myself to raise these concerns, whether from a sociological, psychological, or criminological perspective, or whichever perspective should address this small event within a larger framework—is as follows.

To wit, the facts unfold like this: the judge summons all the residents of an entire building to testify. The building has 7 floors with 2 apartments per floor. Let us calculate an average of 2 residents per apartment. We are talking about 14 apartments. Subtracting the victim's apartment leaves 13; at two people per unit, that makes a total of 26 people. (A clarification that this is an assumption: there were 3 vacant apartments, and some were possibly occupied by more than 2 people and others by only 1 person). Let us stick with 26 as a general average.

The judge summons them urgently. He does so at night, from 9:00 PM onward, and perhaps even later. He sends one or several police cruisers with police personnel to fetch them and sends a police van to transport them to the Courthouse; what is certain is that there were several officers. The 26 residents willingly comply with the police request and present themselves at the Courthouse before the judge. Of course, everything turned out fine: the police picked up the residents not by force, but voluntarily, and brought them to the Courthouse before the judge, where they testified and returned to their homes. I do not know if the police brought them back as they finished testifying or if they returned on their own.

It was an unprecedented measure; at least, I had no recollection of anything like it in the last 30 years in the country, nor did I hear anyone in the media mention a similar precedent.
To be clear, we live under the Rule of Law, and every citizen enjoys all constitutional guarantees in their favor. In this case, these were not violated.

It is from this submissive and placid attitude of the citizens involved in the event that my concerns arise, because there have indeed been numerous cases in history—detailed in varied literature—where events like this did not end well.

The concern is how not a single resident refused to go; how not a single resident questioned being transported to the Courthouse; how not a single resident chose to show up immediately but travel to the Courthouse on their own, whether by taxi or bus; how not a single resident consulted their trusted lawyer (for those who have one); how not a single resident asked to be accompanied by their own lawyer; how not a single resident requested to go in an individual police cruiser rather than in the van used to take them all together (which, by the way, looked like a van used for police personnel transport); how no one considered hiring a private minibus to take them; how it occurred to no one to request transport from the judge or a court official via traditional rather than police transport. All the residents walked out one by one in a line without making a single comment to the press, despite 8 to 10 media outlets filming at the door—which, even if it might not seem like it, represent an additional (I would say extralegal) guarantee for citizens. Yet, it surprised me that not a single person said absolutely anything. No one decided not to show up, or to arrive later than scheduled; no one requested to be taken one by one; no one asked to be taken in separate cruisers or cars instead of all together in a van; no one asked for one of the journalists, TV reporters, or at least a camera operator to ride along during the transport in the van, even on mute... and several other alternative possibilities that come to my mind.

This passivity and complete submission to authority is what causes me a certain level of concern, setting aside that under the Rule of Law, it is (and was) the shortest, fastest, most trouble-free, and effective path, and that at the end of the day, the judge obtained what he needed, and the residents complied with the request of the justice system.

(originally published on 6/30/2013)

Thus Lived the Romans

 "Así Vivían los Romanos" (Thus Lived the Romans) is a small, easy-to-read book featuring numerous photographs. Written by four co-authors—J. Espinós, P. Masía, D. Sánchez, and M. Vilar—it serves as an introduction to Roman culture. While it does not delve deeply into the topics, it explains them clearly. It is a book aimed at a young audience as an entry point into the subject, but from a somewhat different perspective; as the authors themselves put it, "it addresses events that are not usually covered in traditional history textbooks." Indeed, no comments are made regarding military victories, conquests, emperors, or prominent orators, but it does detail the daily life of the common man—a fresh perspective. It seems that "Así Vivían" is part of a collection, so I still have others on my reading list whose titles might interest me.

(Comment written on 06/08/2010)

Experiences. Poor Customer Service.

I purchased a nebulizer, which wasn’t the cheapest nor the most expensive. And I did it because I had the convenience of being able to choose it myself without seller interference. Even so, I went over to the pharmacy section and asked the pharmacist a question, which she couldn’t answer—a question regarding the comparison between two devices. Despite the pharmacist's ignorance about nebulizers, I decided on one, went ahead, and paid for it. After paying—and not before—the cashier told me that after a week passed, I should come back to the store with the receipt and the warranty so they could stamp it. Doing this is wrong; they should stamp it at the time of purchase like any serious and responsible establishment. But these people seem to behave differently. I conjecture they do this because some people aren't interested in coming back, or can't, or lose the receipt, or give up on doing so because they don't find it important. As I was leaving the store, the alarm went off as always, because they don't deactivate certain products, so you have to wait for the condescending nod from those pathetic people working private security for the store.

A week passed and I returned as instructed. I waited in line, the cashier helped me, and told me he doesn't stamp warranties, that they do it at the pharmacy section. I headed over to the pharmacy section, which is usually at the back of the store, and I was greeted by a rude woman whose first words were that she doesn't stamp warranties either. I explained what the cashier who sold me the nebulizer had told me; she looked at the receipt and then claimed that wasn't the store. I told her that yes, that was the exact store where I made the purchase. She ended up saying she would stamp it for me, but with the original purchase date. Fine, stamp it and let's get it over with—what do I care about the date! I would have preferred they stamped it the day I bought it in the first place. She repeated that warranty stamps have to be done on the same day of purchase. Well then, get your story straight among yourselves, as you are nothing more than simple sales employees and nothing else! Then I left. I might not buy a product with similar features from Farmacity again; with other pharmacy chains out there, when you are treated so inconsiderately, I think the best thing to do is look for other options.

(originally published on 6/20/2013)

Movie “Cool Hand Luke”

 Movie “Cool Hand Luke” (1967) directed by Stuart Rosenberg

This movie is very good, with a great performance by Paul Newman. The film leaves, at least in my case, a sense of insecurity or injustice due to how well-acted it is. Furthermore, even though it is set in a different era, one cannot help but watch it through the lens of modern principles, which creates the feeling I mentioned. The contrast between right and wrong, legal and illegal, just and unjust runs throughout the film, building a sense of solidarity with the character. A great choice to enjoy classic cinema or for those who have never seen it to watch it for the first time.

(originally published on 09-15-2011)

... o la verdadera antigüedad...

Por una u otra razón, me llegaron algunos textos sobre la “situación mapuche”, pero sentía esa necesidad de conocer un poco más, me parecían insuficiente, incluso me daban la sensación que los textos que leí solamente se avocaban al tema desde una sola mirada, justamente la mirada mapuche.
Hay algo de información en la web Wikipedia en el siguiente link http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pueblo_mapuche
La cuestión es compleja, a efectos del mensaje del blog, voy a reducir el tema drásticamente a dos puntos: como pueblo originario y como reclamo de tierras.
La pregunta es ¿son un pueblo “originario” de algún lugar de lo que comprende el actual territorio argentino?, los textos que leí obvian la cuestión y se centran a hablar del “genocidio” como consecuencia de la Campaña al Desierto o bien como masacre de Estado, en definitiva categorías teóricas de estudio. Incluso dichas categorías o terminologías tienen sus vaivenes, porque no están suficientemente determinadas, y hay muchas divergencias, tanto en el ámbito jurídico como en el ámbito de las ciencias sociales.
La otra cuestión es el reclamo de tierras, ¿corresponde o no corresponde? ¿por qué a los mapuches sí y a otras etnias no? etc… y varios cuestionamientos del estilo.
No voy a ahondar en la materia, porque me excede y porque no es motivo para este blog, pero sí lo siguiente.
Están los detractores, aquellas personas que cuestionan esos dos puntos, al menos uno, el principal, diciendo que los mapuches no son originarios de Argentina (como sí lo son, o fueron, otras etnias, como por ejemplo los tehuelches) sino que se establecieron en el territorio a posterior, sometiendo a otras etnias que ya lo habitaban. Esto de por sí, ya tira abajo, o dificulta el sustento del reclamo por tierras.

Un paleontólogo, arqueólogo, historiador, escritor y docente argentino de nombre Rodolfo Casamiquela (1932-2008) http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rodolfo_Casamiquela escribió un libro titulado “Rodolfo Casamiquela , “racista-antimapuche”… o la verdadera antigüedad de los mapuches en la Argentina”.

Es autor de más de veinte libros y alrededor de 400 artículos de investigación, este libro en particular, breve, conciso y preciso, de 80 páginas, al parecer es una respuesta sensata, por medio del debate y de la ciencia, a una agresión en la modalidad escrache que el autor sufrió por medio de individuos que realizaron un “piquete” durante una charla en una Universidad en el año 2005, una manera violenta de manifestarse por parte de estas personas.

En una entrevista, Casamiquela contesta variadas preguntas con referencia al tema, muy interesante leerlas, y señala que estas agrepaciones mapuches, son esencialmente políticas, los mapuches en Argentina, solo tiene 100, no son originarios, y su reclamo es por tierras y nada más.  La entrevista se puede leer en este blog http://losmatuastos.blogspot.com.ar/2012/09/casamiquela-los-mapuches-son-chilenos.html

Existe un blog, que se dedica a reunir y publicar material de este autor, el mismo es http://casamiquelablog.blogspot.com.ar/ con mucho material para leer.


Otros links interesantes para acercarse al tema de los mapuches y su reclamo por tierras

¿Quiénes son los mapuches? - Por Rolando Hanglin - Para LA NACION
http://www.lanacion.com.ar/1727466-historia-mapuche

Los argumentos que invalidan el reclamo territorial de los mapuches.
http://www.lanacion.com.ar/1187505-los-argumentos-que-invalidan-el-reclamo-territorial-de-los-mapuches

El mito mapuche - Por Hugo Martínez Viademonte
http://www.rionegro.com.ar/diario/rn/nota.aspx?idart=703689&idcat=10101&tipo=2

La Patagonia, Chile, Los Mapuches y la soberanía Argentina.
http://lagazeta.com.ar/patagonia-1878.htm#.Usq1gGPBsPE.facebook

Casamiquela "Los Mapuches Son Chilenos" - Nota de Estela Jorquera.
http://losmatuastos.blogspot.com.ar/2012/09/casamiquela-los-mapuches-son-chilenos.html

http://elcaminodenuestrospobladores.blogspot.com.ar/2012/09/los-tehuelches-esa-otra-historia.html

Experiences. Society.

Yesterday at noon, I saw a man—one of those who watch over construction sites, or rather a caretaker for a lot enclosed by corrugated metal sheets and gates—furiouly tearing down some poorly pasted propaganda posters. They happened to be stuck right onto "his metal sheets." After ripping them off (there were only two annoying posters), he threw them onto the ground and began stomping on them violently to compress them as much as possible, leaving them in a corner between two posts where he had tossed them.

Further along, I crossed paths with a woman who was not particularly neat in appearance. She was talking to a meowing cat she was carrying in a bag; the feline had been captured in the Botanical Garden, and as she hurried away, the woman kept telling it, “Quiet, it’ll be over soon, hang in there.”

Then, just a few steps ahead, right in front of the police station, there was a sudden screech of brakes from a taxi driver, immediately followed by the shout of a pedestrian crossing a bit further behind with his family: “I have the right of way, I’m crossing!” He was a big, husky guy, and apparently, the taxi driver had cut ahead (illegally), so this man either hit the car, spat on it, or yelled at him, which prompted the driver to slam on the brakes. After that, they each went their separate ways.

I continued on my way, and just a block from there, a well-kept, fairly new car—a dark teal Passat with tinted windows—rolled down its window and tossed a bag into the street. It made a sharp clatter; it seemed to contain a plate and likely disposable cutlery from their lunch. A complete idiot, just like so many out there. A pedestrian watching from the sidewalk saw what happened and said out loud, in a thoroughly contemptuous (and completely justified) tone, “Oh, brilliant, what’s next?” The car sped off and went on its way.

It occurred to me to end with a quote by Arthur Schopenhauer (1788–1860): “Ordinary people have invented social life because it is easier for them to tolerate others than to tolerate themselves.”

Flor de Ceibo.

22 de Noviembre Día de la Flor Nacional "El Ceibo"

La flor de ceibo, también denominada seibo, seíbo o bucaré, fue declarada flor nacional argentina por Decreto del Poder Ejecutivo de la Nación Nº 138474/42 (23 de diciembre de 1942).

Es un árbol originario de América, especialmente de Argentina (zona del litoral), Uruguay (donde también es flor nacional), Brasil y Paraguay. Crece en las riberas del Paraná y del Río de la Plata, pero también se lo puede hallar en zonas cercanas a ríos, lagos y zonas pantanosas. Pertenece a la familia de las leguminosas. No es un árbol muy alto y tiene un follaje caduco de intenso color verde. Sus flores son grandes y de un rojo carmín. Su tronco es retorcido. Sus raíces son sólidas y se afirman al suelo contrarrestando la erosión que provocan las aguas. Su madera, blanca amarillenta y muy blanda, se utiliza para fabricar
algunos artículos de peso reducido. Sus flores se utilizan para teñir telas.

La Leyenda de la Flor de Ceibo.

Según cuenta la leyenda la flor del ceibo nació cuando Anahí fue condenada a morir en la hoguera, después de un cruento combate entre su tribu
y los guaraníes.

Por entre los árboles de la selva nativa corría Anahí. Conocía todos los rincones de la espesura, todos los pájaros que la poblaban, todas las flores. Amaba con
pasión aquel suelo feraz, silvestre, que bañaban las aguas oscuras del río barroso. Y Anahí cantaba feliz en sus bosques, con una voz dulcísima, en tanto
callaban los pájaros para escucharla. Subía al cielo la voz de la indiecita, y el rumor del río que iba a perderse en las islas hasta desembocar en el ancho
estuario, la acompañaba. Nadie recordaba entonces que Anahí tenía un rostro poco agraciado, tanta era la belleza de su canto.

Pero un día resonó en la selva un rumor más violento que el del río, más poderoso que el de las cataratas que allá hacia el norte estremecían el aire. Retumbó en la espesura el ruido de las armas y hombres extraños de piel blanca  remontaron las aguas y se internaron en la selva. La tribu de Anahí se defendió contra los invasores. Ella, junto a los suyos, luchó contra el más bravo.

Nadie hubiera sospechado tanta fiereza en su cuerpecito moreno, tan pequeño. Vio caer a sus seres queridos y esto le dio fuerzas para seguir luchando, para tratar de impedir que aquellos extranjeros se adueñaran de su selva, de sus pájaros, de su río.

Un día, en el momento en que Anahí se disponía a volver a su refugio, fue apresada por dos soldados enemigos. Inútiles fueron sus esfuerzos por librarse
aunque era ágil. La llevaron al campamento y la ataron a un poste, para impedir que huyera. Pero Anahí, con maña natural, rompió sus ligaduras, y valiéndose de la oscuridad de la noche, logró dar muerte al centinela. Después intentó buscar un escondite entre sus árboles amados, pero no pudo llegar muy lejos. Sus enemigos la persiguieron y la pequeña Anahí volvió a caer en sus manos.

La juzgaron con severidad: Anahí, culpable de haber matado a un soldado, debía morir en la hoguera. Y la sentencia se cumplió. La indiecita fue atada a un
árbol de anchas hojas y a sus pies apilaron leña, a la que dieron fuego. las llamas subieron rápidamente envolviendo el tronco del árbol y el frágil cuerpo de Anahí, que pareció también una roja llamarada.

Ante el asombro de los que contemplaban la escena, Anahí comenzó de pronto a cantar. Era como una invocación a su selva, a su tierra, a la que entregaba
su corazón antes de morir. Su voz dulcísima estremeció a la noche, y la luz del nuevo día pareció responder a su llamado.

Con los primeros rayos del sol, se apagaron las llamas que envolvían Anahí. Entonces, los rudos soldados que la habían sentenciado quedaron mudos y paralizados. El cuerpo moreno de la indiecita se había transformado en
un manojo de flores, rojas como las llamas que la envolvieron, hermosas como no había sido nunca la pequeña, maravillosas como su corazón apasionadamente
enamorado de su tierra, adornando el árbol que la había sostenido.

Así nació el ceibo, la rara flor encarnada que ilumina los bosques de la mesopotamia argentina. La flor del ceibo que encarna el alma pura y altiva de una raza que ya no existe.

Fue declarada Flor Nacional Argentina, por Decreto N°138.974 del 2 de diciembre de 1942. Su color rojo escarlata es el símbolo de la fecundidad de nuestro país.

http://www.caletao.com.ar/pol/simb/arg/fnacarg.htm
http://www.soloargentina.com/sobreargentina/simbolospatrios/
http://www.cbelo.org.br/simbolos_nacionales.htm (2006)

Decreto del Poder Ejecutivo de la Nación Nº 138474/42

La flor del Seibo o "Erythrina crista-galli" (también llamada Ceibo, Ceibo Macho, Chopo o Suinandí) ha sido declarada flor nacional. 

La resolución del Gobierno aprobó lo actuado por una comisión especial designada, la que en un informe, que en su oportunidad se diera a conocer, aconsejó la adopción en forma oficial de la flor mencionada.
La Comisión, que realizó los estudios pertinentes sobre los diversos antecedentes y proposiciones presentadas a consideración de la misma, estuvo presidida por el doctor Ricardo Helman, oficial mayor del Ministerio de Agricultura, integrándola, además, como vocales, los señores : profesor José F. Molfico e Ing. Agr. Franco E. Devoto, por el Ministerio de Agricultura; Dr. Carlos Obligado, por la Facultad de Filosofía y Letras; Ing. Agr. Emilio A. Coni, por la Academia de la Historia; Ing. Agr. Lorenzo R. Parodi, en representación del Museo de La Plata; Ing. Agr. Arturo Burkart, por el Instituto Darwinion; Dr. Horacio C. Descole, por el Instituto Lillo (Tucumán), e Ing. Agr. Alberto V. Oitavén. 

Decreto del Poder Ejecutivo: Buenos Aires, diciembre 2 de 1942

Visto el informe presentado por la comisión especial designada por el Ministerio de Agricultura para proponer la flor que pudiera ser consagrada flor nacional argentina y de cuyas actuaciones se desprende: 

a) Que la flor del seibo ha merecido la preferencia de gran número de habitantes de distintas zonas del país, en las diversas encuestas populares promovidas por
órganos del periodismo y entidades culturales y científicas,
b) que estas circunstancias han determinado el conocimiento de la flor del seibo en casi todos los países de Europa y América, donde ya figura, en virtud
de dichos antecedentes, como representante floral de la República Argentina,
c) que la flor del seibo, cuya difusión abarca extensas zonas del país, ha sido evocada en leyendas aborígenes y cantada por poetas, sirviendo también de
motivo para trozos musicales que han enriquecido nuestro folklore, con expresiones artísticas de hondo arraigo popular y típicamente autóctonas.
d) que el color del seibo figura entre los que ostenta nuestro escudo, expresión de argentinidad y emblema de nuestra patria.
e) que además de poseer el árbol del seibo, por su madera, aplicaciones industriales, su extraordinaria resistencia al medio y su fácil multiplicación han
contribuido a la formación geológica del delta mesopotámico, orgullo del país y admiración del mundo.
f) que diversas instituciones oficiales, civiles y militares, han establecido la plantación del seibo al pie del mástil que sustenta nuestra bandera,
asignándole así un carácter simbólico y tradicionalista,
g) que por otra parte no existe en la República una flor que encierre características botánicas, fitogeográficas, artísticas o históricas que hayan
merecido la unanimidad de las opiniones para asignarle jerarquía de flor nacional, por lo que las predilecciones, como se ha puesto de manifiesto en las
encuestas y concursos llevados a cabo, h) que además no existe la posibilidad de que una determinada planta abarque sin solución de continuidad toda la extensión del país por la diversidad de sus condiciones climáticas y ecológicas,
i) que la opinión de la mayoría de los miembros de la mencionada comisión especial, después de analizar en sus distintos aspectos la cuestión, se ha pronunciado en el sentido de que sea el seibo el exponente floral de la República Argentina. 

Por todo ello,
El Presidente de la Nación Argentina, en acuerdo general de ministros,
DECRETA :
Art.1°. - Declárese flor nacional argentina la flor del seibo.
Art.2°. - El Ministerio de Agricultura adoptará las medidas necesarias para que en los locales de la primera Exposición Forestal Argentina a inaugurarse el
24 del corriente mes en esta capital, estén representados el árbol y la flor del seibo.
Art.3°. - Comuníquese, archivesé y dese a conocer.
DECRETO N° 138474/42

La Noche Más Oscura.

La Noche Más Oscura - 2012 - Kathryn Bigelow

Este película cuenta la historia de como los americanos comenzaron la investigación, y como la llevaron a cabo hasta dar con el paradero de Bin Laden, y finalmente como lo encontraron y como lo mataron.
La trama es interesante, y está bien contada, se desarrolla a lo largo de varios años en el tiempo, aunque si bien algunos personajes se nota como sufrieron cambios, la protagonista está siempre igual.
Comienza con escenas crueles de torturas a sospechosos capturados acusados de terrorismo, pero llega un punto, tal vez casi por la mitad que las escenas de torturas desaparecen y comienzan escenas de persecución y seguimiento, más informático o visual, hasta que llega el desenlace con algunos pocos tiros.
Logran un poco de tensión cuando se desarrolla la acción final.
Se trata de una película americana, del año 2012, cuya directora fue Kathryn Bigelow.
El título original es Zero Dark Thirty, según pude leer, se trata de una expresión (¿expresión propia del mundo militar o expresión que se utiliza común y corriente en cualquier ámbito?) expresión que se utiliza para dar cuenta de las doce y media de la noche, cuando se cree es el momento de mayor oscuridad.
Está catalogada como un thriller, dramático y bélico. Básicamente es la historia de una venganza, basada en hechos reales. Al comienzo del fin dice específicamente “Esta película se basa de relatos de primera mano de sucesos reales”. Pero no ahonda más, por mi parte se lo creo, se sabe por los medios de comunicación que mucho de lo que muestra la película sucedió, las torturas, los ataques terroristas que se mencionan (Torres Gemelas, Hotel en Pakistan, base Chapman de la CIA en Afganistán, casa de Abbottabad, etc…) y también es conocido los casos de filtraciones de soldados de inteligencia americanos o casos de los soldados que dieron actualmente a conocer su historia y su participación en el ataque a Bin Laden.

La película recibió 5 nominaciones a los premios Oscar (2012) (A la mejor película, A la mejor actriz principal, Mejor guión original, Mejor montaje y Mejores efectos sonoros). Solo ganó uno a los Mejores efectos sonoros (Paul N.J. Ottosson).

Y además de los Oscar, otras nominaciones y premios:

2012: Globos de Oro: Mejor actriz dramática (Chastain). 4 nominaciones
2012: Critics Choice Awards: Mejor actriz (Chastain) y mejor montaje. 5 nominaciones
2012: Premios BAFTA: 5 nominaciones, incluyendo mejor película y actriz
2012: National Board of Review (NBR): Mejor película, director y actriz (Chastain)
2012: Círculo de Críticos de Nueva York: Mejor película, dirección y fotografía
2012: Satellite Awards: Mejor guión original. 5 nominaciones, incluyendo Mejor película
2012: Asociación de Críticos de Los Angeles: Mejor montaje
2012: American Film Institute: Top 10 - Mejores películas del año
2012: Directors Guild of America (DGA): Nominada a Mejor director
2012: Asociación de Críticos de Chicago: Mejor película, director, actriz, guión y montaje

En mi opinión la película está bien realizada, presenta un aire a documental, genera suspenso, sigue una línea argumental, aunque podría verse que por partes se pierde en el tiempo, pero hay que tener en cuenta que entre algunos sucesos pasaron algunos años. La ambientación está bien lograda, la música y los sonidos también. Y sobre todo recrean un hecho verídico, se apegue o no a la realidad de lo sucedido ya que hay que tener en cuenta que es muy pronto su realización con el hecho que pretende relatar, y porque aún muchas cuestiones se mantiene en secreto, algo que dificulta la tarea de los directores o de cualquiera que se aboque al tema.
En cierto momento (1:44 min) hay una muestra de pragmatismo, se genera una reunión, y en ella tres funcionarios debate con el cuarto que apoya la idea que Bin Laden se encuentra dentro del complejo, se trataría “del tercer hombre no identificado”.
Y se da el diálogo

- Hemos hecho un contraanálisis de su informe. Según el informe, esta conducta podría ser de alguien más, aparte de Al Quaeda.
- Se que concede un 40% posibilidades a que su hombre sea un alto mando de AlQuaeda. Pero también dice que hay un 35% de que sea un narcotraficante saudí, un 15% de que sea un traficante de armas kwaiti, un 10% de que sea uno de los parientes de los hermanos.
- En principio coincidimos con usted, la casa canta seguridad, canta alguien que quiere intimidar, incluso canta alguien malo. Pero no canta a Bin Laden.
- Ya sabe como va esto, si no puede demostrar que no es Bin Laden, demuestre que no es otra persona, como una narcotraficante.
- - Usted sabe que perdimos la capacidad de demostrar eso al perder el Programa de Detenidos, ¿a quién diablos voy a preguntarle? ¿eh? ¿a un preso de Guantánamo con abogado? Le dirá a su abogado que avise a Bin Laden.
-
- Ya se le ocurrirá algo.

En este breve diálogo se puede ver dos cuestiones, una el pragmatismo por parte de los americanos manifestado con la frase “ya se le ocurrirá algo”, la otra el cambio de política en consecuencia con el cambio de gobierno, y por tanto el cambio de partido gobernante.

Como comentario adicional, se ven las fuerzas de seguridad de Pakistan con los característicos palos largos. Resulta que son propios de los países Pakistan, India y Bangladesh. Se los conoce como lathi, considerado como “una parte integral del funcionamiento del policía”, también como cane stick, o caña, batón o palo largo. El largo de este batón puede llegar a los 2.4mts. En la época colonial estaban fabricados de bambú, actualmente se los fabrica de policarbonato. Su uso comenzó con los antiguos habitantes agricultores para acarrear el ganado. En su evolución terminó siendo utilizado por las fuerzas de seguridad.  Funciona como elemento intimidatorio, pero también para dispersar multitudes. En manos de un experto puede llegar a ser mortal.

Si hay algo que no me gustó, fue la actuación de la actriz principal, contrariamente a lo que señalan todas sus nominaciones a premios como “mejor actriz”, a mí me pareció pésima, es una personificación de una persona insulsa, siempre dando lástima, como dolida por todo, como que quiere llorar, le duele todas las situaciones que presencia, todo el tiempo como que quiere llorar, en muchos momento se la pasa con la boca abierta, en lugar de hablar con firmeza, la única vez que lo hace lo hace gritando como una histérica, misma actitud de histeria cuando escribe el vidrio con marcador, al final termina llorando como corolario de su trabajo, su carácter o vaya a saber uno porqué, de emoción seguro que no, dado que en ningún momento se la ve trabajando con ganas, más bien se la pasa quejándose, refunfuñando, mostrándose incómoda todo el tiempo. Parecía que venía avisando que de un momento a otra se iba a poner a llorar.

Link a la ficha de la película en las web de IMDB y FilmAffinity.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1790885/
http://www.filmaffinity.com/es/film961277.html

Movie “8 Women”

Movie “8 Women”  (8 Femmes, 2002), directed by François Ozon

This movie seemed interesting—at least reading the synopsis painted an intriguing situation. It wasn't novel, as it's a premise previously explored in cinema and literature; although not identical, something very similar was, in my opinion, better executed. 8 women in a house and a dead man. The movie is categorized as a comedy, but in reality, it's a mix where it's not quite clear what they were trying to achieve—something quite poor to my taste. Because it is also a musical, meaning that each of the protagonists sings a song throughout the film.

The setting is the 1950s, and they have used film music from that era, but I don't see the language used as being from that period. Thus, a mismatch occurs not only with the language but also with the situations being experienced or discussed. (The language issue applies in case it was translated literally, as the translation might have been "adapted" instead.)

Calling it a comedy is a stretch; I think it barely made me laugh. There are no genuinely funny situations; rather, the whole event is quite tragic. Yet, it doesn't quite reach black comedy either. The most they try to do to make you laugh is through some dialogue, but unfortunately, it is loaded with obscenities and verbal attacks rather than amusing situations.

There is constant belittling of one another, and the phrase “you know everything” keeps repeating to launch a new situation. A lot of drama and little substance. In themselves, the situations that unfold are very weak and fail to generate the slightest intrigue. One even imagines better-crafted scenarios, only to be disappointed by such ridiculousness when seeing what actually comes next, because not even the tragic events manage to generate interest.

It has an appallingly bad ending. Despite everything, the film won several awards at film festivals. Clearly, I must have missed something in my review.

Antes de Adán.

(17-06-2013) La lectura de este libro, titulado Antes de Adán y escrito por Jack London en 1907 publicado por Editorial Ediciones 29, es rápida y atrapante. Esta escrito de manera clara e ingeniosa. El autor intenta presentarnos un panorama de aquellos homínidos en algún momento de la evolución. No se identifica de cual se trata, da a entender que son los antecesores del hombre de hoy, pero ¿será así? hoy se sabe que muchas especies se extinguieron, y que aún quedan cuatro o cinco emparentadas con el hombre actual, como los chimpancé o los gorilas. Es una imprecisión aunque da cuenta que, si a partir de sus sueños se remontan a sus antecesores, no cabría dudas que se trata del hombre actual. Como fuera, presenta un panorama de ese mundo en el camino de la evolución y por eso lo veo ingenioso, más que nada porque uno está viviendo un día a día de alguien pero hace unos cuantos miles y miles de años atrás. Si bien el libro está presentado como “una obra maestra del terror que imperaba en tiempos remotísimos, el terror desenfrenado en tiempos remotísimos”, no me pareció como para tanto, no genera terror pero si una lucha por la supervivencia, aunque esta lucha si implica un terror a muchos peligros, también comprendía aventuras y descubrimientos. Al menos así se presenta el libro y me imagino que, como algo novelado, está en una versión muy liviana de los que debería haber sido la vida en aquellos tiempos, que se me hacen, habrán sido bastante duros y peligrosos, aunque habituales para la vida de entonces.
Así empieza “He aquí la historia de nuestros antepasados. Su historia es la nuestra. No lo olvidéis. Es seguro que hubo un día en que, abandonando el balanceo de los árboles, nos pusimos a caminar erectos. Pero igualmente lo es que, en tiempos aún más remotos nos deslizamos desde las orillas de los mares para emprender nuestra primera aventura en la Tierra.”
Esta idea, parece que le genera intriga, y vuelve sobre sobre ella a mitad del libro cuando escribe “Porque también Diente Largo tenía otro yo y cuando él se dormía, el otro yo retrocedía en sus sueños hasta los reptiles alados y las luchas de los dragones; y más allá, hasta la vida escurridiza de los primeros mamíferos; y aún, aún más lejos, hasta las playas cenagosas del océano primordial. ¡No me atrevo a decir más! Es demasiado vago: pero también demasiado complejo… y horrible. Únicamente he pretendido indicar esos panoramas y visiones, tan amplios como sobrecogedores, a través de los cuales he seguido a mi yo en el transcurso de la evolución, pero no sólo desde el mono, avanzando hacía el hombre, sino desde el gusano en lenta marcha hacia el mono….”
Por parte me recuerda a un libro de Tácito cuando recorre la Germania y va describiendo los pueblos con los que se encuentra. El personaje de este libro también menciona, aunque no describe, otros pueblos ¿o especies?, los hombres del fuego o los hombres de los árboles, por ejemplo. Esto me lleva a pensar, ¿para el autor existían especie más avanzadas que la que derivó el hombre actual? parece dejar la impresión que sí, ya que dichas tribus (yo las llamo especies, porque le mismo autor las diferencia muy bien) conocían avances tecnológicos como el hacer fuego o la utilización de flechas, que la tribu en cuestión sobre la que versa el libro, carece, no los tiene, aunque al final deja entre abierta la posibilidad de la mezcla entre uniones de dichas tribus (o especies) con la de la historia en sí.
Así que conoceremos las historias de Diente Largo, Oreja Caída, Diente Mellado, Dulce Alegría, Ojo Bermejo, Chalalaca, Marrow-Bone, Pelicalvo, Cantarina, Patizambo, Cara Ancha, Labio Largo, Cara Grande, y Cara Barbuda, que como se ve, portaban nombre y apellido casi todos ellos.
En buen libro para pasar momentos de disfrute de literatura novelada, que si bien hay muchos libros que versan sobre la materia, estos vienen más por el lado científico, ya sea por la antropología, o ramas de estudios de la evolución o más actualmente algunos ensayos sobre neurociencias.


Vocablos desconocidos:

(Definiciones de la RAE)

Aterido: (De or. inc.; quizá del m. or. onomat. que tiritar). 1. tr. defect. Pasmar de frío. U. m. c. prnl.

Recental: (Del lat. recens, -entis, reciente). 1. adj. Dicho de un cordero o de un ternero: Que mama o que no ha pastado todavía. U. t. c. s. 2. adj. Dicho de una persona o de una cosa: reciente (‖ nueva).

Yerma: (Del lat. tardío eremus, y este del gr. ἔρημος). 1. adj. inhabitado. 2. adj. incultivado. U. t. c. s. 3. m. Terreno inhabitado.

Rescoldo: (De rescaldo). 1. m. Brasa menuda resguardada por la ceniza. 2. m. Escozor, recelo o escrúpulo. 3. m. Residuo que queda de un sentimiento, pasión o afecto.

Calvero: (De calva). 1. m. Paraje sin árboles en lo interior de un bosque. 2. m. gredal (‖ terreno abundante en greda).

Meandro: (Del lat. Maeander, -dri, y este del gr. Μαίανδρος, río de Asia Menor de curso muy sinuoso). 1. m. Cada una de las curvas que describe el curso de un río.
2. m. Disposición de un camino. 3. m. Arq. Adorno de líneas sinuosas y repetidas.

Tris: (De or. onomat.). 1. m. Leve sonido que hace una cosa delicada al quebrarse.
2. m. Golpe ligero que produce este sonido. 3. m. coloq. Porción muy pequeña de tiempo o de lugar, causa u ocasión levísima; poca cosa, casi nada.

Manes: (Del lat. manes). 1. m. pl. Mit. Dioses infernales o almas de los difuntos, considerados benévolos. 2. m. pl. Sombras o almas de los muertos.

Restallar: 1. intr. Dicho de una cosa, como la honda o el látigo cuando se manejan o sacuden en el aire con violencia: Chasquear, estallar. U. t. c. tr. 2. intr. Crujir, hacer fuerte ruido.

Sierpes: (Del lat. serpens). 1. f. Culebra de gran tamaño. 2. f. Persona muy fea o muy feroz o que está muy colérica. 3. f. Cosa que se mueve con rodeos a manera de sierpe. 4. f. Bot. Vástago que brota de las raíces leñosas. 5. f. rur. Ast. Juego de la cometa.

Oquedad: (De hueco). 1. f. Espacio que en un cuerpo sólido queda vacío, natural o artificialmente. 2. f. Insustancialidad de lo que se habla o escribe.

Abalones: La palabra abalones no está registrada en el Diccionario. (RAE)
(Wikipedia) El término abalone puede referirse a:
las orejas de mar, gasterópodos marinos del género Haliotis;
el Abalone, juego de mesa de estrategia para dos jugadores.

Experiences. Elections.

Yesterday the presidential elections took place. And as always happens, words based on conjectures and speculations of all kinds prevailed—at least that is what I perceive—a single discourse: the discourse that everyone is wrong and everyone is right, alongside a multitude of small independent discourses in which everyone holds their own truth, together forming that single discourse. The truth is that, with the elections over, I can draw many conclusions that naturally do not escape this single discourse formed by all these mini-discourses, and which differ in no way from any of them. My conclusions are the truth; they are my truth, whether anyone likes it or not.

Finally, the candidate I voted for for the presidency ended up in third place, just as the polls predicted. The topic of the polls is interesting, though not much different from the rest. They tend to make front-page news after an election when they get it wrong due to a surprise turnout from the electorate; however, this almost never happens, which is why it is the exception. Exit polls usually show the final outcome. This election was no different: the ruling-party candidate won, failing to surpass 45 percent of the vote, and held a 20-point lead over the runner-up, who also happened to be a woman. The polls hinted at a potential runoff, but I believe that was just momentum aimed at reaching one rather than something grounded in real data. Once the voting ended, television was already displaying figures that later materialized with only minor differences.

Who encouraged that momentum I speak of? It is very difficult to answer: the media in the first place, and here is where interests come into play. The parties involved? Was it the ruling party itself promoting and/or choosing its rival? The rival, based on their own measurements, seeking a position and building on what real ground they had? The interests of certain powerful groups trying to maintain their power or seeking that space of power? The pollsters—whom do they answer to? Do they favor those who pay for their work? Do they act independently, delivering quality? We do not know; both scenarios are conceivable.

Now, let us get into the comments and speeches following the election. This is where all sorts of things begin to blossom. I will try to make this as broad as possible—at least covering everything I can recall. Let us not forget that each and every one of them is right, possesses the truth, and together they form the truth. I will try to always start with the negative, solely for the purpose of drawing something good out of it, because what is negative is what needs to be improved—it is the "ought to be," it is what we aim for. Someone must care; I refuse to believe that no one wants to fix what is wrong, or that people act purely from an individualistic perspective to benefit themselves rather than the whole, when in fact, to benefit oneself, one should benefit the collective.

Let us start before the polls opened. Just one day prior, the designated election board authorities had confirmed only 20% of the total envelopes sent out. Bad and true, the lack of organization was beginning to show, as I will discuss later, and that is wrong. Was it done on purpose? We will never know. I believe that the bureaucracy of the National and Provincial Governments was the primary factor influencing this apparent disorganization. Points to consider include errors in the electoral rolls, along with shortages and delays in issuing ID cards (DNI). As usually happens with ID deliveries, everything is rushed at the last minute, and this was no exception to the rule of experience. As Napoleon once said, "Dress me slowly, for I am in a hurry." Clearly, trying to do on the last day what was not done all year was logically going to turn out badly, as it did. In one case, the Registry staff decided to go on strike for "decent wages"—haha, what more is there to say? It is bureaucracy and apathy from the governments in turn.

Another point to consider is the poll watchers and the citizens. The latter deserve a special paragraph for two reasons I will now explain, one of which involves collusion between the government and the citizen. First, regarding the poll watchers: the more, the better, in my view. However, there was a noticeable absence of poll watchers from opposition parties or those with fewer members. The issue of party membership is a peculiar case due to the lack of oversight and accurate data; nevertheless, minor political parties must guarantee the election one way or another using whatever tools are at hand, one of which is monitoring the voting process itself. Therefore, I believe it is advisable that in every election minor political parties address this issue, even if it means providing training (however minimal, as watching a poll does not require much). It is essential to motivate potential poll watchers so they carry out their duties with enthusiasm.

For this—returning to the point regarding citizens and the government—motivation is needed, preferably in a tangible, positive form. The reality is that citizens do not want to serve as poll watchers; they go under compulsion because it is a public obligation. There is always a mix: some are volunteers, while others must attend due to their roles (teachers, judicial officials). But facts reveal that the average person tries to avoid an activity that consumes an entire workday when it could be a day of rest. When "we fought" for the right to vote, having gone through the sad experience of being unable to vote, now that we can—during our longest uninterrupted period of exercising it—why not strengthen it? This is precisely when we should strengthen the institution rather than devalue and neglect it. Citizens should be motivated to find a way to make it something positive rather than negative, as it is currently viewed. 

Political parties should encourage participation beyond campaign propaganda and getting out the vote (a topic that touches on "voluntary voting," an idea I agree with), while the government should provide motivation and training—motivation above all. Currently, a total of $60 (around US$ 3) is paid to the head of the polling station. Each station has at least a head official, an alternate official (both election board authorities), and then the poll watchers. At my station, there were three, with the number varying between three and four across stations. Well, those $60 were split among the five or six people at the table. The math is simple: 10 pesos for sitting all day attending to voters, plus the count and any issues that might arise. That is bad—if you are going to encourage people with financial compensation, let it be real compensation, not a mockery.

Now that the country is emerging from the crisis, with an economic recovery, full coffers, and a surplus, money is not lacking. I know nothing about economics, but you do not need to be sharp to do simple math: pay more—no matter how much, $60, $100, or $150 pesos to each person at the table, rather than a total sum to one person or split among everyone—so that money enters the system. This could then be offset (in case it affects inflation) by the State selling foreign currency. There is a clear lack of interest from the State in motivating the people working at nearly 80,000 polling stations.

Moving on to election day itself: the usual issues occurred—heat strokes among the crowd, lack of space, disorganization, those arriving at the last minute, and those arriving first who were forced to stay at the station due to the absence of required officials. There were occasional troublemakers escorted away and a few misunderstandings, but overall, everything proceeded normally. There were no acts of violence; the media would have covered them instantly, as blood is what sells most. Fortunately, there was none. On this point, the Minister of the Interior was right when he stated that everything proceeded with total normality. It is understandable that he exaggerated a bit afterward, but that is natural given his role; it is logical for him to defend and highlight it, because he must (strictly speaking, it should be "ought to") answer for any problem. A judge later confirmed that "no electoral crimes were recorded," except for three minor infractions.

Then there were the usual irregularities that show the worst of the country and the worst of human nature—both from those who act wrongfully and those who fail to act when they should. Cases were reported of people renting babies to cut ahead in line; in rural provinces, there was manipulation of indigenous communities, taking advantage of their lack of civic awareness and making fun of their names; fake and duplicate IDs; and dead people voting. 

Unbelievable as it sounds, deceased individuals vote due to bureaucracy and administrative negligence—there are significant numbers of deceased citizens still registered on the voting rolls. These are all news items one reads in the media that have become so common they pass almost unnoticed, along with damaged ballots, stolen ballots, etc.

Voting was scheduled to end at six in the evening, but due to irregularities, the hours were extended. In the Capital, it was stretched to seven in the evening—one hour more—while in the Province of Buenos Aires, it was extended until the last person in line had voted. Long queues formed because many voters show up at the last minute—a mark against the citizens. Even though I voted at noon, there were long lines and frustrating waits; in my case, as well as several others with whom I had the chance to talk (no fewer than eight or nine people), it took around an hour and a half.

Once the day concluded, complaints from candidates and their spokespeople began to surface. Among the main contenders—those with the most airtime on television, all of whom lost the election—almost a majority (though not all) focused their primary accusations on a shortage of ballots. This occurred mainly in a section of the suburban area (conurbano), one of the regions with the highest voter density and an economically struggling area (to put it mildly). It seemed almost everyone agreed that, for some reason, the Government or someone benefiting the Government had managed to prevent ballots from reaching their destination at the polling places. The second major accusation was that once the ballots arrived, they systematically vanished or were looted. It was stated publicly, and later shown in the media, that formal complaints were filed by the legal representatives of various political groups.
The initial reports to the media were made hastily. Consequently, within minutes, the Minister of the Interior appeared on air to defend the process and counter the accusations, arguing that it was the political parties' own negligence for failing to send out the ballots as required, as they apparently had not done what they were supposed to do. Regardless, this election left a bad impression on me. Earlier, the media spoke of the Government's refusal to allow international observers. The absence of electronic voting—at least in major urban centers, which are numerous—allows these accusations, whether founded or unfounded, to proliferate. Electronic voting should already be implemented to avoid suspicion.

Tempers flared, leading the runner-up candidate to accuse the President and his wife (the election winner) of celebrating prematurely as a tactic to buy time while counting votes that excluded major urban centers. This accusation eventually faded since the declared results held true, but it remains an interesting dynamic: on one hand, the celebration was premature compared to past elections; on the other hand, it is true that the initial numbers excluded major urban centers, and yet the predicted result came to pass. Could everyone have been right? Perhaps. In my personal opinion, the President had data confirming his victory; otherwise, he would not have taken that risk, especially given how cautious they tend to be. While some losers alleged fraud, others countered that "since time immemorial, the loser always claims fraud."

In the end, the losers acknowledged the winners, and the winners celebrated. What remains beyond doubt is that general disorganization was the true winner.

(originally published on 10/29/2007)

Experiences: The Fire.

The day of the fire, I got scared out of my mind. That day I was sitting down listening to music at a moderate volume—quite low, actually, because I like listening to music very quietly—and sitting at my PC chatting on MSN. I had the windows open. It was hot. It was late afternoon; I don't remember the exact time, but I think it was around five o'clock.

Then I heard some screaming, but I ignored it. The neighbor downstairs had a habit of screaming—in fact, she screamed all the time; whenever she spoke, she shouted. Her daughter lived one floor further down, right below her. Her daughter had a habit of shouting back, repeating what her mother said—I gather it was her way of mocking the nuisance caused by her mother's shouting. Screaming was just a habit in that family. So I paid no attention to the screams I heard because I assumed they were the usual ones.

Except that day, they weren't those kinds of screams; they were screams about a fire. I was still as calm as could be at the PC, listening to music and chatting, but the shouting kept going. At one point it struck me as odd, so I went to the window, and I heard the shouting was something like "Get out, it's on fire!" I started to get worried. I didn't know what was happening, and I couldn't see anything from that window, nor could I see down below. But the women shouting were the mother and grandmother of the girl whose apartment was on fire—yes, the grandmother lived in the building too.

Fearing the unknown gravity of the situation and hearing all that shouting, I turned around and opened the other window. As I looked out, a black cloud of smoke that had engulfed the entire light well of the building was rising fast. Right then, my previous concern turned into pure terror. The first thing that popped into my head was: close everything and head down. So I immediately closed all the windows and grabbed essential items like my keys, watch, and documents—I don't know how I managed to waste time on that, though I always keep them in the same spot—and I also grabbed a handkerchief, put on my shirt, and just before leaving, it crossed my mind that maybe the fire was at the very bottom and I wouldn't be able to make it out. A very silly thought; I don't know how my mind found time to process such things at that moment. Others might have bolted instantly just as they were.

Since the shouting continued, I thought about opening a window again to ask if it was possible to get down. The black cloud was almost at the top by then. I opened the window lightning fast and yelled, "Can we get down?" The two women who were shouting—and who clearly weren't going downstairs—heard me and replied, "By the stairs!" They had heard me, but they hadn't understood what I actually asked. So I closed everything up again and rushed to leave.

When I opened the door, a wave of white smoke rushed in. I slammed it shut instantly, without even setting a foot outside. My fear doubled. I told myself deep down that I wasn't going to make it out of this one, but I immediately convinced myself that I had to leave and push forward all the way to the bottom. Since the smoke that rushed in made me realize I couldn't see a thing, I went to grab my flashlight—since that day, I always keep a flashlight right by the door (already loaded with batteries).

The second thing I did almost instantaneously was pull out the handkerchief I had grabbed. One mistake I made was not wetting it; it's common knowledge that when using a handkerchief to cover your mouth and nose in a fire, you should wet it so it acts as a filter. Well, I didn't wet it; my mind couldn't think that far ahead, though I should have. Fire smoke isn't just regular smoke; it's filled with lots of harmful particles, some of them so large you can actually see them floating around.

With the handkerchief in hand, I turned on the flashlight, opened the door again, stepped out, and closed it behind me. Later, I forgot whether I had just shut the door or actually locked it; a doubt crossed my mind about whether I had left it open, but no, I had closed it.

As I started walking at top speed, I realized that even with the flashlight, I couldn't see anything—I could barely make out a tiny faint beam of light. I reached the stairwell with my mouth and nose covered by the dry handkerchief, which wasn't doing much good. I couldn't see anything, but by feeling my way around, I managed to locate the stairs. Feeling along the wall, I started going down. Since the steps are wider on the wall side, I pressed myself against the wall, terrified of slipping, missing a step, and tumbling down. This left me with a few scrapes on the back of my hand as I used it for balance.

I finished descending the first flight, accelerating my pace more and more. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. Reaching the fourth floor, I saw a clear area, so with about three steps left, I jumped. I realized there wasn't as much smoke there—smoke tends to rise, and the fire was on that very floor. Realizing this calmed me down significantly. All of this happened in a span of time I can't measure; it felt instantaneous.

When I landed after jumping those last steps, I made a small noise. Walking down the hallway on that floor were two or three people—I can't recall exactly, but I'm almost certain there were two: the building superintendent and another man. Both were crouching. The superintendent had a fire extinguisher, and the other guy had a flashlight and a broom. As I came out and jumped, I saw them, and hearing the noise, they turned around and saw me. The only thing I thought to ask them was, "What about the people upstairs?"
Two or three elderly people lived upstairs who couldn't possibly make it out on their own. Given the situation, I thought they had passed away—which luckily turned out not to be the case, but that's what crossed my mind at the time. The superintendent replied, "You can't go up any further." He was right; it was impossible. In fact, I had just come from up there.

I didn't offer to help or join them; I think my sole priority at that moment was getting out of there. Honestly, a mix of the shock and what I had seen—the sheer volume of smoke—made me focus only on escaping. Besides, there wasn't a specific task requiring my help, and on top of that, I was angry that nobody had bothered to ring all the doorbells to warn everyone to evacuate.

This outraged me even more when I got downstairs and saw the owner of the affected apartment crying and worrying about her dog rather than about the people in the other apartments—a reaction I found quite deplorable. I suppose one has to be in that person's shoes, but as much as you might love a dog, fellow human beings should come first. I say "should" because clearly that isn't the case for many people. The woman who made it out first didn't even bother to ring the other doorbells to notify anyone else about what was happening.

Anyway, after the superintendent answered me, I continued heading down while they kept moving toward the burning apartment. I finally reached the ground floor. There were only a few people there. I stood there watching for a little bit as other residents started coming out, along with that woman sitting there crying over her dog. I didn't ring any intercoms because I assumed someone had already done it.

Then the superintendent came back down—or I don't recall clearly—and shortly after, the firefighters arrived, followed by a police officer. A moment later, an ambulance parked at the corner. People, mostly those who had self-evacuated, started gathering around the entrance. The police officer took charge of clearing everyone back to make sure they weren't in the way. As soon as I got out, I stood by the neighboring building. But there are always onlookers—those useless people who have no need to be there yet end up right in the middle of everything—and they were certainly there. So the police officer was busy moving them along. At the same time, several residents returning from outside and the usual busybodies were gossiping and jumping to conclusions about what happened, joined by passersby and curious onlookers crowding around to watch the scene.

The firefighters geared up with their oxygen tanks and axes and started heading up with the hose from the fire truck. Of course, it's not like in the first world; firefighters in Argentina face many deficiencies, and despite the commendable work they do, the government and most of society look the other way, ignoring the needs of this profession.

After a while, they turned on the water. I'm not sure how they entered—whether through the main door or by rappelling from the roof. My window was open almost halfway, as was the glass pane; I imagine it was to check if the fire had reached the inside of my apartment or if there was no need to go in to extinguish flames. The apartment below had also been forced open; later, I managed to see that one of its windows was broken. Finally, you could see the affected apartment, which was completely destroyed—the fire had consumed everything there.

I saw all this once I was able to return, but while the firefighters were working, I stayed downstairs. The superintendent of the building next door evacuated his building as a precaution. At that point, the extent of the damage was unknown, and there were fears of an explosion or collapse.
After a while, more evacuated people kept coming out of the building: one guy in shorts and no shirt; a woman who came out with her baby girl wrapped in a towel (she mentioned she had been trapped in the bathroom, terrified, and had placed the baby in the bathtub); and another young man who was taken to the ambulance to be given some oxygen.

Standing against a wall, listening to a group of gossiping neighbors—which annoyed me greatly—I took advantage of the neighbors evacuating the building next door to go make a phone call. It was then I realized I was still holding the flashlight—a large, very noticeable metal one. I had completely forgotten I had it with me. I walked to the convenience store a block away and made my phone call. On my way back, I noticed soot all over my arms. Later, when I looked in the bathroom mirror, I had soot all over my face and body. I was filthy, all from that heavy black smoke.

A couple more police officers had arrived due to the gathering crowd and the unfolding situation. Finally, after a couple of hours of work, once the firefighters ensured everything was clear and the fire was fully extinguished—luckily with no fatalities—they gave the green light for people to re-enter.
Having returned and watched closely, as soon as I saw it was safe to go in, I went right ahead. That's when they stopped me to sign some paperwork for the fire department—me and another person who was also heading inside. We signed the form and went upstairs. Water was dripping down the entire staircase. My fear was about my open door—I don't know what I was afraid of, but it worried me. When I got up there, I saw that I had indeed closed it.

I stepped inside, and the carbon monoxide alarm was blaring. It didn't stop for quite a while. I opened everything to air the place out, but it was impossible; the smell of smoke was overwhelming. It didn't fully air out until months later. Everything was black—the amount of soot was unbelievable. I had to clean everything multiple times just to make it somewhat decent.

A little later, the loud neighbor peeked through the hallway door, wandering around to see what had happened, and asked me what the noise was. I told her it was the carbon monoxide alarm, and she left.
Sometime later, the entire family from the burned apartment—grandmother, mother, and daughter—moved out.

And that is the chronicle of the day of the fire.

Experiences. Hail.

A year ago, around 7/27/2006, a hailstorm hit the city. It wasn’t just another natural event; it was because it practically never happened, it wasn’t usual, and it was the result of what is now known as “climate change.” The size of the hailstones and their consequences made the event stand out in the media, which by the way, to a certain extent magnified it or created that feeling that it was more than it actually was. Furthermore, it is going to be remembered by quite a few people, mostly car owners who were the main victims of the event, finding themselves caught off guard and affected.

That was a normal day like any other, and there didn’t seem to be a storm coming like the one that unfolded. I was with a friend drinking mate, chatting, using the internet, and listening to music, when suddenly the day turned black, it darkened, and it started to rain. Nothing out of the ordinary, but shortly after, the rain got heavier, and we began to hear a loud noise on a corrugated sheet metal roof. I looked out the window and they were hailstones, but they were large hailstones. I grabbed the little camera and the two of us went out into the street, where there was already a woman who had also come out with her little girl to see the hail. The rain, the darkness, and the hailstones were impressive—the size of the hailstones—and right then we saw a car pass by with its rear window smashed, and we looked at it in surprise. A short while later, two, three, four, and all the passing cars had broken rear and front windshields, and all the sheet metal was dented by the ferocity of the storm. I remember we were under cover and yet we still got a little wet from the splashing. And we began to see how some drivers who park their cars on the sidewalk would come out and put them under cover by pulling them up onto the sidewalks, preferably on all the corners. It was so severe that there were injuries from the impacts received, and there were also traffic accidents, although this is common with or without hail. And then the usual: flooded streets, evacuated people, and everything that happens whenever there is a severe storm.

A link
http://www.lanacion.com.ar/826643
(originally published on 7/27/2008)

El Éxito De Los Perezosos.

(29-01-2008) Libro El Éxito De Los Perezosos de Ernie J. Zelinski. (Edición 2002; Editorial Vergara). Es un libro que está orientado para hablar de las virtudes de la creatividad contra la labor diaria o en exceso. El libro deja mucho que desear. No me gustó mucho. Tiene un título un tanto engañoso. Tiene una idea buena, en el ocio, la relajación, la distracción y todo lo que es debido a fomentar en la gente, en cierta medida, para afrontar y resolver los problemas que tienen su origen en el trabajo. De por sí, está escrito de una forma particular, que no me gustó, una hoja sólo contiene frases, no más de cinco, y el texto está en la otra hoja, es decir, poco más de la mitad de lo que es realmente el libro, ocuparía el texto completo y no así como está presentado.
El peor de los capítulos es que uno en el que se detiene a hablar muy mal de los adicto al trabajo, hablando de ellos, olvidando muchas cosas y acusándolos de todo tipo de males, en lugar de hablar bien o al menos criticarlos, se encarga de hablar mal como una chismoso de poco monta, de los cuales ni siquiera tendría que tocar como tema, ya que no es lo que trata de decir y/o transmitir el libro.
También contiene en su ataque a los adictos al trabajo, frases como que descuidan "las cosas buenas de la vida", es decir, frases abstractas, sin sentido, que no dicen nada.
El libro no dice mucho más que uno no sepa, contiene muchas citas de autores diversos. Se habla de países del primer mundo, donde las oportunidades son diferentes de los países sub-desarrollados. En algunas ocasiones, habla como con desprecio por quienes trabajan.
También habla cosas acertadas para mi gusto, no es que sea todo malo lo poco que escribió. No presenta mayores opciones para la creatividad, ser independiente, y dos o tres más, pero el sistema es diferente, no alcanza con eso, creo que faltaron mayores opciones a su idea, las hay y muchos escritores las explican, pero lo cierto es que este autor no lo hace.
La necesidad del trabajo mal pago y excesivos, directamente no se trata en el libro, se dedica a hablar mal de los que están en esas condiciones, pero evita presentar soluciones/visualización, la ignorancia de la realidad del sub-desarrollo es clara en el autor.
Es cierto que el discurso de los países que son poderosos en varios aspectos en el mundo, como EE.UU. y Canadá, pero evita a tratar el tema del precio que se paga para ser poderoso, y tal vez ese precio viene del trabajo y el esfuerzo de muchos de sus conciudadanos moderadamente regirán también, con respecto a los países que no lo son y, en efecto, quien trabaja duro tienen su recompensa o retorno.
No sé si el autor, en un país del sub-desarrollo habría tenido la oportunidad que tuvo en un país desarrollado como para poder escribir ese libro que no es para nada recomendable a mi modo de ver.
La diferencia desarrollo/sub-desarrollo la menciono al solo efecto de comentar este libro, en realidad las diferencias son otras y cubren varios aspectos, culturales, estabilidad, economía, educación, etc… en definitiva son otros los parámetros. Pero al sentido de comentar este libro, utilicé esos dos conceptos.

Experiences. Snow.

July 9, 2007: in Argentina, it is a national holiday that commemorates the Declaration of Independence, an event that took place in 1816. But right on this day, something extraordinary was about to happen: it snowed in the city of Buenos Aires and in several other towns. This caught everyone's attention because, in the entire history of the city, there was only one prior record of snow, back in 1918.

So, all the porteños were delighted with this natural event, the media covered it non-stop, some people were seeing snow for the very first time, and the young kids were filled with joy. Taking advantage of the technology of the time, many were taking photos and filming the event. On the tragic side, which is always present, there were several deaths and many people living below the poverty line suffering from the intense cold—consequences of political neglect and citizen indifference.

The truth is that today brought a natural phenomenon that might not happen again for many years. Snow fell—it was indeed real snow—but it didn't accumulate on the ground because the soil temperature wasn't below 0°C. As the snow hit the "warm" ground, it melted into water, although it did accumulate on plants and cold surfaces such as car roofs, and I could even see it piling up on trash bags. In some areas, the snowfall was heavier, and as night fell, it began to subside.

Here are some interesting links to visit:
•    http://www.me.gov.ar/efeme/9dejulio/index.html
•    http://www.lanacion.com.ar/informaciongeneral/nota.asp?nota_id=924315
•    http://www.infobae.com/contenidos/325742-100884-0-Histórica-nevada-la-Ciudad-y-sus-alrededores

Experiences. Coins.

I board an empty bus where a young woman and a young man had just stepped on before me; I was the third. I see the girl print her ticket using an exact coin, then take her ticket; next is the young man, who puts in the exact ninety cents and takes his ticket. It’s my turn. I put in a coin, and when I reach for my change, surprise! Two ten-cent coins. Evidently, one wasn’t mine. I pick it up, walk toward the back, and as I pass, I offer it to the girl. She says it isn’t hers. Then I offer it to the young man sitting right behind her; he says it isn’t his either. Fine, I kept the ten cents. I wasn't going to take them to the driver for ten cents; it wasn't worth the trouble. Nor did I know that I was about to lose five from the total amount gained. Later, I ended up giving them away along with a couple more coins, but that’s beside the point.

So, in the afternoon, I get on another bus. A woman—one of those thoroughly rude people who had previously cut in line—gets on and buys a ninety-cent ticket. She pays with five coins, exact change, takes her ticket, and sits down. It’s my turn. I get a ninety-cent ticket and pay with a one-peso coin again. When I go to collect my change, I find three coins: twenty-five cents. One was mine, and fifteen cents belonged to someone who wasn't me. I immediately realized that those belonged to someone already sitting on the bus, likely the last person who had boarded. So as not to look like a true thief of fifteen cents, the first thing I do is offer them as the change that "had been left behind" by the desperate woman who boarded before me. Like any slow-witted person desperate for a paltry fifteen cents, she first shakes her head no, and then the penny drops. She smiles and says, "Ah, yes." I hand them to her, and the shameless woman takes the fifteen cents that actually belonged to someone else—someone who, I assume, was sitting on the bus and didn't care much about the coins if they had abandoned them. That’s how it is: for some people, fifteen cents are worth more than their own honesty.

(Originally published on 4/19/2008)

Hotel Danubio.

Hotel Danubio - 2003 - Antonio Giménez Rico.

Hotel Danubio es una película española del año 2003 dirigida por Antonio Giménez-Rico catalogado como de género crimen (imdb).
La película es una remake de otra del año 1955 llamado Los Peces Rojos. Esta remake sigue prácticamente la misma línea argumental que la primera, incluso hasta respetando la ambientación, solo cambia el final. Esto hace que me sea posible compararlas. Es casi inevitable.
Puede darse el caso de aquellos que hayan visto primero la versión del año 1955 y luego la del año 2003. Puede darse a la inversa, aquellos que primeramente hayan visto la versión del año 2003 y luego la de 1955. E inevitablemente hay quienes no hayan visto ni la una ni la otra.
En mi caso particular, primero vi la de 1955 y luego la de 2003. A quienes no hayan visto ninguna de las dos, recomiendo verlas en dicho orden. A quienes vieron la del año 2003, que se permitan ver la de 1955.
En esta película, con relación a la anterior, hay variados cambios de nombres. Los hechos ocurren en 1955, está vez en “algún lugar” de la Costa de la muerte, no especifica donde, en la anterior película los hechos se daban en Gijón. Ambos lugares se encuentran al norte de España.
Esta vez, el Hotel, se llama Hotel Danubio, es justamente lo que le da nombre al film. Personalmente, lo veo desacertado, quien desconoce puede representarse la idea de algo relacionado con el río del mismo nombre, me pasó, y nada tiene que ver.
El comienzo de la cinta, con relación a la anterior, carece de la puesta en lugar, la lluvia, las olas, el agua, el mar, la tormenta, todo eso ya no se encuentra, apenas un solo choque de olas contra la costa y nada más.
Los cuadros y pinturas con motivos marinos por doquier, en esta remake, casi no se notan, o no están, o no se ven, o no se los muestra.
A quien no vio la primera, le puede resultar interesante, novedosa, pero a quien vio la original, difícilmente esta remake le atraiga más o igual.
Algo positivo que tiene, es el color. Aunque la anterior, en blanco y negro, ambientada hace más de cincuenta años, la ausencia de color le da un aire pasado, anticuado.
Al comienzo, no se muestra de que teatro se trata, luego sí, y se ve que se trata del teatro Savoy.
Como todo transcurre en la época del franquismo, la referencia se hace evidente cuando se muestra claramente en primer plano un sobre con una estampilla del generalísimo.
Otro cambio es la Editorial, esta vez se trata de la “Editorial Júpiter S.A.”. Desconozco si existe o si existió realmente, más que nada en la década del cincuenta.
En el comentario de la otra película, me quede con ganas de hacer alusión a una frase, pero no sabía como insertarla, ahora sí, dado que la frase también cambia, en la anterior película la protagonista, en un momento dice “soy barriobajera” (¿sería el lenguaje propio de la década del cincuenta?, no lo sé) pero en esta remake, dice “se la va a tragar” y lo repite, con referencia a la llave, me hago el mismo cuestionamiento ¿sería el lenguaje propio de la década del cincuenta?, no lo sé, pero en este último caso, tampoco me lo parece.
Algunos de los cambios, da la sensación que recortan la película, siempre teniendo como referencia la primera. Y también existen ausencias como la parte del editor, la parte de lo publicado en los diarios, de algunas charlas menores con personajes secundarios, de la investigación policial, pareciera que la película es más corta, pero al mismo tiempo, los diálogos se vuelven más lentos. En esta película, todas las situaciones se resuelven más apresuradamente, tal vez sea por eso, que algunos diálogos se vuelvan más lentos.
Uno de las pinturas o cuadro que hay en la casa del protagonista, es el de un todo con los árboles detrás, es muy similar o igual al que aparece en la película anterior, pero este parece estar ampliado o más grande.
En varias oportunidades habla del “delito”, se dan todo los elementos del “delito”, es una terminología jurídica, y policial, no obstante, en la anterior película, más que relacionarlo como algo estrictamente jurídico-policial que efectivamente era, lo relacionaba más direccionalmente con la literatura, la ficción y la realidad.
El final es diferente, del cual no voy a hablar, pero es otro de los cambios que se ven en la remake.

En cuanto a las canciones, en este caso,  el director al igual que en la película anterior, nos muestra pasajes del teatro de revista musical español. En un blog, encontré algo interesante que copio textual :
“ Hotel Danubio. Su importancia radica única y exclusivamente en mostrarnos cómo una chica del conjunto de la gran vedette “Celia de Matos” (evidente guiño del guionista a Celia Gámez y Virginia de Matos) se ve envuelta en una investigación policial. Sus ensayos se suceden durante la puesta en escena de Yola y La hechicera en palacio, concretamente con los números “¡Mírame!” y “Estudiantina portuguesa”. ” 
El link a dicho blog es http://larevistamusical.blogspot.com.ar/2010/02/la-revista-musical-espanola-traves-del_21.html
Explicación más que convincente y completa, resulta en pocas palabras. La inclusión del musical (que por cierto está en la primera) me pareció afortunada, más que nada porque pareciera que lo extiende un tanto más y permite que se disfrute, no cortándolo a medio desarrollo.

Links a la ficha de la película en los sitios de IMDB y FilmAffinity
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0382085/
http://www.filmaffinity.com/es/film335415.html