My study abroad program focuses on cities in the twenty-first century. We are exploring the complex social, economic, and political problems in three developing cities on three different continents: Buenos Aires, Hanoi, and Cape Town. Having just completed the first month of the program in Buenos Aires, I have begun to map out the complex web of interlocking actors and institutions that define the urban environment. In Buenos Aires, we discovered the newer “European-inspired” neighborhoods, gated communities, and tourist attractions. In order to gain a broader understanding beyond the government-sponsored city brand, we also visited three local shantytowns: Villa 31, Villa Itati, and Villa Soldati.
Unfortunately, Buenos Aires is home to numerous shantytowns, or public land that has been repurposed by a community to form a neighborhood. Although I struggle with the concept of poverty tourism and am very aware of my privilege to navigate these spaces, visiting these shantytowns have shown me the power of community in the face of adversity. The residents come together to build homes and share resources. Without official government support, they must rely on each other to form a working neighborhood. Out of the three, I spent the most time at Villa Soldati.
Villa Soldati is in the southernmost neighborhood of Buenos Aires: Barrio Ramon Carrillo. Historically, the southernmost section of Buenos Aires was a thriving port. However, as yellow fever made its way to the Argentinian coast, those with money pushed north to avoid the sickness. Those without resources were forced to stay. This move characterizes the current population divide in Buenos Aires. Typically, the north is home to wealthier individuals, while the south deals with more difficult conditions. True to this generalization, Barrio Ramon Carrillo was initially characterized by its marshland and frequent flooding. The general misfortune turned around when a dairy farm was introduced into the area. However, this plant was soon closed due to economic hardship, and a city dump took its place. Illegal dumping and frequent trash fires came to characterize the area. In attempts to boost economic prosperity, the military junta created an amusement park in the 1970s. Despite expecting to attract 15 million people per year, the first year brought only 1 million visitors. Shortly after, the park was abandoned. The government pulled out their investments from this neighborhood in order to put more money into northern Buenos Aires. The neighborhood is now home to a soccer stadium, the city’s recycling center, and the soon-to-be Olympic neighborhood for the 2020 Olympic Games. Essentially, unwanted and hit-and-run infrastructure. Right next to this large recycling plant is Villa Soldati.
Despite the generalizations that doom this neighborhood to misfortune, Villa Soldati is an example of collective strength despite dire conditions. Most of their success is due to the generosity of the Catholic Church and a phenomenal man whom I got to know very well: Father Pedro.
It took us two hours on four different modes of public transportation to reach Villa Soldati. Upon arrival, Father Pedro escorted us to a church. The streets were littered with trash and large roaming dogs. We seemed far away from the glittery cobblestones of my homestay neighborhood. While receiving an introduction in the decaying church, we enjoyed traditional Argentinian desserts. I couldn’t help but wonder if that food would have been better suited to someone that actually needed it.
Outside of the church was an old, stained white van. We hopped in, sliding onto makeshift wooden benches instead of car seats. We drove slowly through the neighborhood along dusty roads. Soon, we reached the main area of Villa Soldati. Villa Soldati, like the other shantytowns I’ve visited, is characterized by stacked, tight-fitting houses. The power lines disjointed and weaving, the pavement uneven and mismatched. There are no provided services in a shantytown. If you want electricity, you must find a way to hook up to it. There was little color in the neighborhood. There was one grey “public space” that was essentially a 30-foot by 50-foot cement square with one dilapidated bench. Father Pedro told us that this was where people got married. I tried to imagine such happiness in this dark space.
When we first arrived we bumped into a little boy with his father, both of whom greeted Father Pedro enthusiastically. The little boy proudly motioned towards Father Pedro, pointing at his bright blue soccer tee. This boy was a proud member of the church soccer team, a clear representation of the importance of community building in the neighborhood. As we continued to walk through the neighborhood, we heard music pouring out of open windows, and saw curious children poking their heads behind glass. We walked through with large backpacks and pocketed iPhones, taking notes in $40 notebooks. What was our place in this environment?
After an hour, we left the shantytown to return to our wooden bench in the van. During the ride back, we learned that this church is known as the “eyes of the neighborhood.” Not only providing religious services, the church also brings needed community building services and events. The church has a satellite center for those dealing with drug addictions. The bulletin board outside of the church showcased a multitude of open sports teams and available support groups. I thought back to the little boy, proudly wearing his soccer jersey. Most importantly, the church has helped in the creation of a free private school for the residents of Villa Soldati. It currently houses 120 students, each year increasing in size. Education is the answer, Father Pedro told us.
On this drive back to the church, we passed by a large white building. This was the municipal government-sanctioned recycling center. Two weeks later I came back to take a tour of that recycling plant. My tour guide was a pretty 26-year-old woman, fresh out of college. She informed me that she was scared of the area surrounding this plant. So much so, in fact, that her and her colleagues meet in a different neighborhood to take a private car to the plant, instead of the public transportation that I had just used. When I asked her about the shantytown that was a mere 100 feet away from where we stood, she replied quickly, dripping with disgust, “No!! We have no relation with them.” The stigmatization of the shantytown is evident not only in the recycling center but also in the entire city of Buenos Aires. When I told my home stay mom that I was visiting a shantytown, she replied: “There is a terrible drug and violence problem. Be extra careful.” Despite the obvious improvements and the hard work of the church, society seems to dismiss the areas as “dangerous.” This is problematic. Is the “violence” problem not a result of the residents, but rather a figment of this stigmatization? What message does the municipal government send when it places large unappealing buildings near these shantytowns? Further, by what standard do we judge these neighborhoods? Who has the power to define what is “clean” and “safe?”
As we sat on the subway on the way home, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Father Pedro had said. “The last thing these people will lose is their dignity.” Is dignity a human right?