from: http://www.globeandmail.com
(Print Edition, Frontpage)
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It's smarter to barter for filling the larder, Argentines learning
Heather Scoffield
BUENOS AIRES -- Marta Gonzalez stands stoutly in a corner of a small downtown
community centre surrounded by her children and nieces, showing off her latest
collection of soap, hand cream and popcorn.
The food and cosmetics are not for sale, though. At least not for money. The only way
to do commerce in this place is by swapping your own stuff for hers: barter. It's the
oldest form of consumerism, and it's making a strong comeback in Argentina.
Ms. Gonzalez hopes to trade enough of her goods on this day to accumulate fruit,
vegetables, bread, snacks and clothing for her children to last through the next week.
She's here every week, and she's usually successful.
"I have no money, so I try to do all my shopping this way," she says. "Today, nothing
so far, but it usually moves."
This barter club in a residential neighbourhood of central Buenos Aires has been
around since 1995. But now, with the financial crisis and the problems in withdrawing
money from banks, Argentines are lining up to join such clubs.
And they're not poor folk, either. They're psychologists, carpenters, teachers or
financial advisers who are out of work, having trouble being paid or can't withdraw
their money from the bank.
When Argentina's president quit in the midst of deadly protests, and the country
embarked on the largest debt default in history last month, the new government put
strict limits on how much money people and companies could withdraw from the banks.
The result has been a severe liquidity problem, not to mention anger at the banks and
at the government. Even if people had a nest egg stored up just in case they lost
their jobs, they can't access much of that money now.
But unlike the middle-class demonstrators banging their pots and pans in front of
government institutions to protest against government mismanagement and corruption,
the people in the barter centre don't carry the same stress and anger. They seem
almost happy to have a partial alternative.
"This is such a lovely system; you can get so many things," Maria Carmen Monti said
from her wheelchair.
She supplements her pension by buying -- with cash -- tiny calendars, religious
pictures and ribbon. She puts them together to form a small decoration, which she
trades at the barter club.
The barter centre tries to encourage trade in goods made personally by the
participants -- homemade or home-grown food, clothes and handicrafts. Indeed, the
centre seems a lot like a church bazaar in Canada, except no money changes hands.
There are knitted sweaters, bottles of jams and jellies, baked goods, carvings.
On the windows at the centre, professionals have pasted signs advertising their
services -- hair cuts, psychoanalysis, babysitting, mechanical work. On their way
inside, people can pick up a photocopied magazine advertising hundreds of different
services for barter. The pamphlet also has pages and pages of classified ads for
people wanting to buy and sell televisions, stereo equipment and refrigerators.
"We put the accent on what type of work you do, on what you can produce and not on who
you are," said the co-ordinator, Carlos del Mazo, who has put together a code of
ethics for participants to follow.
Each of the 600 barter centres in Argentina has started printing credit coupons so
that people can conduct more-complicated three-way trades, he explained. And each
person sets his or her own price, marked in credits. Half a credit is worth
approximately one peso, which is worth just under one Canadian dollar, at least today.
With the crisis, some people have come forward to sell second-hand goods but the
centre discourages the practice, preferring to deal in new items, Mr. del Mazo said.
And some people are now speculating with the credits. Hugo Montoya is a connoisseur of
barter clubs and carries around a pack of coupons from clubs all around the Buenos
Aires area. He's a carpenter and can offer his services for goods in return. But he
mainly profits from buying something, with coupons, in one club, and turning it over
in another club for a higher price. The clubs outside of the city often have thousands
of participants offering any kind of item you could dream of, and so he has a lot of
choice.
With the liquidity crisis, some of Argentina's provinces have taken to printing their
own money replacement, too. One province has produced the Patacon, and another the
Lecop.
The currencies are actually bonds based loosely on debt outstanding owed by the
provinces. They look like normal pesos on one side, but on the flip side have a long
written description of the instruments used to back the currencies. They have been in
wide circulation for months now, although more and more stores are reluctant to take
them, in case they're worth nothing.
Still, with credit cards being turned away and savings frozen in the banks, many
Argentines, both buyers and sellers, must turn to the alternatives.
Many businesses have started informal lines of credit for their customers, hoping to
be paid if and when the crisis comes to an end. And many people offering their
services for sale have dropped their prices. Still, the fear of hyperinflation is
omnipresent, especially in grocery stores. There, already, prices of imported goods
have been rising quickly as the peso's value drops.
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