Argentinian kit for export
Late March. 3 p.m. in Madrid . The customer at table 8 points to the waiter at the television. “The European Commission is working on a survival plan in case of a military attack, cyberattack, or climate catastrophe,” reads the long and disturbing headline.
" Have you seen Manuel? "?" the customer asks. Manuel quickly unloads the coffees he ordered at table 12 and, as if watching a tennis match, his gaze flicks between the customer and the device hanging from the ceiling. This is scary ", he comments.
“People and households must be able to remain independent during the first three days, ensuring access to essential needs such as water, food, medicines and basic services before outside aid arrives,” the document says. Union preparedness strategy to prevent and respond to emerging threats and crises ”.
As time goes by, Manuel's irritation turns into pragmatic fatalism, at least in the media where - with concern, but also with humor - there is a debate about what a survival kit for those 72 hours. Canned food, medicine, a coat, a flashlight, batteries, a cell phone, a cell phone charger (assuming there's somewhere to charge it), glasses, and hygiene products, say the most anxious. A deck of cards, an online Sudoku puzzle (if there's internet), cash, a pet (a non-negotiable item), pet food, and a beach chair to wait for government aid, which will supposedly be ready to provide it after those first three days, others comment sarcastically.
With all due respect to the Spanish people and the rest of the member states of the European Union , we Argentines have been surviving without a kit for a while now. Ours is pure heroism. We don't stockpile food because There is a lack of money and there are too many markups If there was any "canuto" left, it was to buy dollars at 1340 pesos before the exit from the stocks brought them down to less than 1100 We are essentially alive. We fight insecurity by shutting ourselves in our houses as soon as the sun goes down and We are not worried about the first 72 hours Until state aid arrives. We know it won't arrive after that either. We don't trust basic services, because they're basically useless. Nor do we trust private services, which, after they discharge us, never address our complaints again. We replace remedies with herbs—preferably generic—and we are strong out of necessity: a retiree in Argentina has more defensive resistance than a samurai and a teacher trains in wrestling before entering the classroom or greeting the students' parents.
Banks don't provide banking services; there's credit available, but they don't issue credit cards, and only bus users stop at bus stops.
The potholed streets strengthen our physical prowess and are dark for the sake of romance. We pay taxes multiplied because we like to give, not receive. And we are generous by nature, especially when we go to vote.
lanacion
