Walker Elliott Rowe's Blog, page 12

FreeLancePortals launches new Freelance Market

A new startup has launched a new marketplace for freelancers: FreeLancePortals.  With eLance shutting down, it is the view of the backers of FreeLancePortals that the freelance market for programmers, writers, data scientists, lawyers, and other professionals needs another competitor.

The top-paying freelance market eLance has been shutdown and folded into Upwork. That has left tens of thousands of freelancers with no place to market their skills. Upwork was built from oDesk, which is known as a low-paying market for offshore freelancers.  That is the main reason that FreeLancePortals was started as entrepeneurs see an opportunity to fill that void.

The way these markets work is a client posts a requirement.  Freelancers write proposals with bids and earn points based upon feedback from other work.  Then the client picks a freelancer.  The portal takes a commission, which is typically 10%. FreeLancePortals will charge a flat $10 fee per project.  That is a huge selling point for them.  They say, “We are here to make a living, not a killing.”

Having been stranded like this, high earners on eLance have had to look for work on other sites.  High earners generally avoid Freelancer.com as that company located in Australia generally pays low Asian billing rates.

The Disappearance of the Permanent Job

Working freelance is the way of the future say some industry analysts.  However this type of work is not for everyone as it requires agressive marketing and a willingness to suffer setbacks.  Not all people have this personality or ability.

A freelancer can make a good living if they work hard and do quality work.  It can take a couple of years to build up a following.  So it is difficult to get started.

One problem in this market is competition from Asia, in particular India.  The Indian freelance market is rife with fraud and very low billing rates.  Their marketing people spam freelance marketplaces with proposals offering to work for $4 per hour.  Quality clients have learned to avoid those types of proposals.  A company who wants a website, whitepaper, or blog post that reflects well on their business will hire a quality writer.  Those who hire the lowest-bidder often find the have to pay another freelance to correct the errors of the first.

 

How to be Successful as a Freelance Writer

Here we look at how to be successful as a freelance writer.  You can also work as a freelancer programmer, lawyer, designer, or other.  But marketing to those markets is slightly different than the freelance writing market.

The key to being a success in the freelance market is not to bid too low and specialize in one type of writing, like IT (tech), proposals, or PR (public relations). A high billing rate shows the client that you are a quality freelancer. Also learn to avoid fradulent, illegal, and low-paying clients.  You should probably stick to the US market, as Europe pays lower rates with some exceptions and Asia pays very low rates.  Other good markets for quality writers who write in English are Israel, Russia, and the UK.  Canada pays lower rates than the USA.  German clients do not put out many requests for proposals. Occasionally you can find good work in France or Belgium.  While these are generalizations, they come from an extensive survey of writers.  You can find high-paying work in, say, Estonia, but on average they will pay far less that the USA.

To avoid fraudulent or low-paying customers pay attention to warning signs that tell you what kind of client you are dealing with. For example, in the freelance writing category, among the warning signs that the client is an SEO writing mill, whose goal is to churn out copy to attract search engines and not actual readers, are:

Don’t respond to proposals with the word “urgent” in it.
Avoid proposals that have spelling errors.
Avoid clients who set a high budget like $10,000, which is just bait and switch.
If someone wants to chat with you on Skype but the say they are too busy to talk on audio then they are posing as an American while actually writing to you from, probably, India.
Don’t take work requesting that you post reviews to Amazon.com.  Amazon is suing people for doing that.
Never give away free samples.  It violates the policy of some freelance markets.
Avoid any project that says your work will be checked for plagiarism by Copyscape.  That client is used to working with writers who commit plagiarism.  So they are going to pay high rates to quality writers.
For whatever reasons, these markets pay low rates:  Australia and The Netherlands.
Never look for work in Kenya.
While the Indian market is rife with fraud, occasionally you will find someone there who is looking for quality work.  But just look for the warning signs to know which client is honest and which is just writing SEO filler.
Arab countries sometimes pay good rates, but not usually.
Don’t offer to help someone with their thesis.  That is unethical.
Face it, the Chinese operate in a different way than the Westerner.  You will find that a Chinese client will not voice any complaint until it is time to pay.  So they do not communicate well. Then you can find yourself having worked for free.  The portal should have some kind of escrow mechanism so that the client needs to put up funds up front.  Plus there must be some dispute resolution process, with an arbitrator.

These are just a few tips to help you be successful in the freelance marketplace.  Sign up for FreeLancePortals.  The freelance market needs that kind of startup enthusiasm and backing to help clients find freelancers and freelancers find clients and to avoid an Amazon.com type of monopoly, with one website dominating the market.

In the declining job market in the USA for the middle class, working for yourself is a good option. So there is ample room for multiple freelance marketplaces.  Do not spread yourself too thin on too many sites as it takes a demonstrated work history on the freelance market to make it easy for you to find work.

 

 

 

The Match

by

Andrea Barbosa

Copacabana beach: the postcard of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, always loaded with tourists roaming around and basking in the sun. But not today. Soccer was on everyone’s agenda, everyone wanted to watch the game.

Pedro moved speedily, scouring the streets like a trapped mouse inside a laboratory labyrinth. His eyes hurriedly scanned the crowd, and he was glad to realize that he didn’t recognize anyone. He should be in a neutral zone, or perhaps everyone else was securing a viewing place. Who would not be watching the game at this point? From the street level, he looked upwards to the hills and observed the slum where he had descended from. Staring at it from below by the beach, those little colorful wood and cardboard shacks, some also made of brick and cement which littered the side of the hill, looked uninhabited, happy, friendly, peaceful even. Maybe today, because of the big game. But how unequivocal one could be, making such an assertion. The slum was dangerous, full of tricky, mischievous, back stabbing individuals who would do anything to get ahead.

People walked by in haste, trying to finish their last minute shopping and errands before banks and shops closed down earlier than usual. It was an important game, after all, and who would be crazy enough not to be in front of a TV? The streets were in chaos, and no one noticed his ragged clothes and bare feet trying to keep up with the pace of the busy pedestrians. Easy victims, he thought. People were too busy and too preoccupied to even notice him, and he felt even more invisible. He spotted a woman, absentmindedly counting her money after stepping out of a teller machine. Completely absorbed in her task, she was oblivious to his hunting eyes. A perfect prey. He slowed down and kept a short distance between them, observing her motions warily. She counted her money again, opened her purse and picked up her wallet. But she seemed to change her mind and instead, deposited the empty wallet back in her purse. Folding the stack of money in her hands, she cautiously inserted the notes in her jeans’ front pocket, never once noticing Pedro’s prying eyes on her.

Pedro ran like a hunted gazelle, jumping over flower pots and stray dogs obstructing the sidewalk, afraid the woman would soon realize her money was gone after he purposely caused her to trip over him. She had fallen on her hands and knees close enough for his swift small hands to pull the stack of notes from her pocket. In the midst of her pain and confusion, before she got up and noticed what had really happened, Pedro had disappeared from under her $100 dollars richer.

He finally stopped on a side street, breathless, still looking from side to side to make sure there was no one following him. He was panting and needed a drink of water; his throat was dry and itchy. He needed food too. It had been…since yesterday? Yes, his last meal of stale bread had been sometime yesterday. His stomach growled loudly. He looked at the beautiful new notes now crumpled up in his small dirty hands. The money he needed, with which he could eat and drink something substantial at least for today. And although most restaurants were also closing earlier, they would not serve a boy dressed like him. He had experienced the looks of disgust from patrons and waiters alike when he had tried to enter a restaurant before. Like a pesky insect, he was always sent out immediately, an unwanted, unsanitary creature who didn’t deserve to be there and was not worthy of being in their company or their space. How unfair it was. His mother had always taught him to be respectful of people and to pray every day, but no matter how much he prayed and how respectful he was of people, he was still looked down like a pest, a diseased and rabid hungry dog people were afraid of.

A street vendor was coming from the beach front with a basket full of fried seafood. On his left shoulder, the man balanced the strap of a huge white cooler which was probably loaded with soda cans. Pedro approached the man carefully, trying not to scare him, and touched his arm. “Sir, I have money, can I have some food and a soda?” The man stopped to look at Pedro and took the opportunity to put the heavy looking cooler down on the ground to stretch his arm, still holding on to the food basket. He scratched his head. “You tryin’ to mess with me, little fellow? If you have any money, it must be stolen, and I don’t want no stolen money,” he said. He stared at Pedro up and down suspiciously, trying to notice if the boy was carrying some sort of gun or knife to assault him. “Please,” Pedro implored. “I’m hungry. A nice lady in the street gave me money, I was begging,” he lied. The man scratched his head again, this time removing his cap, and used the back of his hand to wipe off the sweat dripping from his forehead. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’m in a hurry to catch the bus and get home before the game starts, so go ahead and take this, I’m done selling for today.” He handed Pedro a paper bag full of fried shrimp. The man opened the cooler he had placed on the ground, grabbed a can of soda, and gave it to the boy. “Now go and keep your money, let me try to catch the bus, I’m already late!” The man put his cap back on, lifted the heavy cooler and ran away without giving Pedro time to thank him.

Pedro sat down on the floor, devoured the fried shrimp and washed it off with the soda. He felt better but his stomach still hurt a little, not from hunger, but from being too full too soon. He felt like taking a nap; however the streets were becoming too deserted. If someone was looking for him, and they probably were, he would be an easy prey to catch. He got up shivering from the thought, felt his pocket to make sure the cash was still there, and walked towards the beach front, where he found a coconut water kiosk still open. A couple of foreign guys sat around a small screen TV by the corner drinking beer, animated with the game that had just started. It was better for him to stay around people, besides; no one would notice him with their eyes glued to the screen. He didn’t move or make a sound. His life might as well be over; he was too nervous to watch it. But he knew he had to hang on till the very last hope. Everything would be fine, he thought with a hint of optimism, and then his life would move on as usual again. It all depended on eleven men running after a ball. These critical 90 minutes would determine if the terror of being caught could be avoided.

What had he done? What would his mother have thought of him? She often told him to be honest. She didn’t want him begging for money, she didn’t want him stealing, she didn’t want him involved with the drug gangs and she didn’t want him lying. But how? How could he survive in the streets if he was just plain honest like she wanted him to be, with no food, no clothes, barely a place to sleep in that tiny cardboard shack in the slum?

And when all those other boys kept teasing him and bullying him because he was the only fool who didn’t steal, didn’t smoke, didn’t do drugs? What kind of a slum animal was he?

He tried to hang out with them, in hopes of being accepted by Maroon, the gang leader, the one who sold the stuff. Something white to sniff. His mother had warned him to stay away from anything to sniff; it would kill him. He was afraid of it; besides, Maroon would never give it to him for free and he understood it cost a ton of money, the very money he needed to buy food and clothes to survive. Maroon barely took notice of him, but when he did, he would kick him as if he was shooing away a stray dog, or he would spit on him.

Pedro hated Maroon. But Valdo, Maroon’s right side man, was nicer to him. Valdo didn’t kick him or spit on him, and sometimes Valdo would even give him a slice of bread or the rest of his beer if he was drinking one, and most of the time, he was drinking one. Although Pedro didn’t like the taste of beer, it was better to accept the offer and take the last sip from the warm glass bottle than to drink the dirty tap water from his shack. Valdo treated him more like a pet, which gave him an almost warm, fuzzy feeling.

Two days ago, Pedro had followed Valdo, who had been drinking more than enough beer, to the place where Maroon hid the white stuff. Valdo didn’t seem to care he was being followed to the abandoned shack, the last one barely standing on the long filthy avenue in the middle of the slum. Valdo unlocked the door, entered the shack, and lifted a ceramic tile from the broken, almost barren floor, taking from it a small clear plastic bag filled with white powder. He left the small vault open while he sat on the other side of the empty shack to sniff the substance, and Pedro saw lots of bags hidden inside. He watched while Valdo enjoyed his alcohol and drug induced stupor, and when he realized the man was too high to notice him, he grabbed one of the bags, stuffed it in his pocket and ran off.

Pedro had seen one of his neighbors buying the white stuff from Maroon many times before, so maybe he could make a deal. He came to Manuel’s house with the bag and offered it to him. “A whole bag? Where did you get that, boy?” Manuel asked, surprised. “I need to sell it. How much can you pay me for this thing?” Pedro asked. “I can give you 300. I will pay you later though, I’ll get the money from the bet, tonight,” Manuel said. “300? I think it is worth more than that. What bet?” Pedro asked. “It is worth more, sure, but I can’t afford more than 300 and I can only pay you later. I bet money on today’s game, we will win, but you need to give me the bag now,” Manuel said. Pedro handed Manuel the bag and left, eager to come by later to get the money he so desperately needed.

~~~~~

Pedro was suddenly startled by effusive cheers from the guys watching the game. He had been daydreaming, thinking about how he had gotten to this mess. A goal! Had his team scored a goal? Were they winning? No! The cheers were from the tourists gathered around him. His team was losing. But there were still 45 minutes to go, though. Certainly, the team would turn it around and win. Pedro felt feverish. He was sweating heavily, and a queasy feeling took over his entire body. As his stomach churned, he got close to the sidewalk to vomit the fried shrimp. His mouth tasted sour but he had nothing to drink. He ran to the seaside and washed his face and mouth with the salty sea water, returning to be closer to the TV and the people for the second half of the game. He looked around, making sure there was no one he knew anywhere in sight.

What would his momma think of this? Too bad she was gone. He missed her so much. Such a tragedy. No one ever found out who killed her, when she died from a stray bullet, walking home from her hourly job as a housemaid. When he found her, lying on the unpaved sidewalk, a single bullet to the side of her skull, her brains were scattered all over the blood stained floor. The gang wars in the slum prevailed, and occasionally, a shoot out would result in a casualty. And his mom had been one. Would he also be a casualty of the drug war if they didn’t win the game?

~~~~~

Before lunch time, Valdo had found him wandering in the slum. “Little traitor, you,” he said, accosting Pedro. “You got the bag from the hole, didn’t you?” Pedro jumped. “Maroon is furious, he wants it back,” Valdo said. “I don’t have it,” Pedro responded, shaking. “Then you owe him 500 for it,” Valdo barked while holding his arm in a tight grip. “I will get him 300,” Pedro managed to say. “300 won’t do. It is worth 500. He wants it tonight after the game, to celebrate the victory. And you better have it. We know where you live,” Valdo said, lifting his shirt to let Pedro see a knife tucked in his pants. “You thought you would get away with it?” Valdo laughed. “You’re nothing but a stray dog lost in the slum. Go get the money!” Pedro looked at him in shock. Tears filled his eyes but he forced them in. “I. I’m sorry. I was hungry. I’ll get the money after the game. I’ll give it back to you.” Pedro’s voice was slow and slurred. He got away from Valdo’s tight grip and ran down away from the slum to the sunny and festive city below. He knew Maroon had many other boys in his gang and they would be looking for him to make sure he would not disappear, that he would pay him back for the stolen drugs.

How could he have been such an idiot to give the bag to Manuel without payment first? What would he do now? He should have listened to his mom, but she was not there to give him a lecture anymore. There was no guarantee Manuel would pay him even if he won the bet, and he probably would not return the bag either. He knew he could not plead with Maroon. The bully would not spare him; he was furious and wanted his money back.

Cheers erupted again from the small crowd next to him. Another goal! His eyes widened. His heart was beating fast. He inspected the men now standing around him, dancing and celebrating. In a bout of desperation, he wiggled himself among them. One of the men felt a hand in his pocket and turned around abruptly, facing Pedro with disgust. The tourist yelled something in a foreign language, but before Pedro could react, the man and his friends were hitting him in the head. He barely escaped from the tourists’ heavy hands, running all the way to the beach front without looking back. When he stopped to take a peek, he didn’t see anyone coming after him. His head hurt and his legs were shaking. He sat near the water and reached for his pocket. It was empty. In his carelessness and fear while running away from his assailants, he lost the stolen money.

~~~~~

Rio de Janeiro woke up engulfed in a dense fog, with cloudy skies and a breeze cooler than normal. The weather was conducive to the sullen mood the locals felt after the team lost the game the day before, like the remnants of a hang-over. Such a profound sadness was hard to explain to those whose countries were not so obsessed with a World Cup soccer game. People moved about in a procession as if going to a funeral; some were gloomy, still unable to comprehend the loss. Others were infuriated, blaming the coach, the players, everything that could have gone wrong to culminate with the shameful loss, the drama which resulted in the country’s elimination from the sought after Cup. Desolation reigned. It was a tragedy, the dream was over.

The garbage man swept the street, gathering the rest of a short lived euphoria from the day before: flags and small pieces of paper were scattered all over the place. He was upset to see so much waste. In a bad mood, he noticed a big piece of cardboard covered with crumpled newspaper sheets, a larger volume, which would require a bigger trash bin to dispose of. He approached it, and after sloppily lifting several newspaper sheets, he unveiled a gruesome scene. A frail, brown skinned homeless boy dressed in rags and bare feet lay on a pool of blood on the floor, eyes still opened wide as if he had seen a ghost. The knife that penetrated him was still visible, inserted deep into his navel. The man made the sign of the cross, covered the small body back with newspaper, and walked away, shaking his head in horror. He had seen robberies and pick-pocketing before, but had never found a dead body. “There’s a homeless beggar boy stabbed to death over there,” he said anxiously to the cop stationed at the patrol booth by the beach, as he pointed to the corner where he had just found the body. Then, picking up his sweeper, he crossed the street and resumed his tedious job.

Sunning A Mattress

Sunning A Mattress

by

Wina PuangcoI am on a couch with my friend. We have not seen each other in half a year. He has invited me over for the things we have in common: books, music, and a misunderstanding of people. He is sock-footed with legs crossed over each other but not touching, like stitching that is not yet a seam. He tells me about new friends he has made. I am envious. He tells me about the places they’ve been, and the movies they’ve seen, and laughed at, and discussed at length. When it is my turn to talk, I find I cannot tell him about where I have gone: that is, to the ocean with all our old friends. I cannot not tell him about the coffee we brewed, and the laps we swam from shore to skyline, how I cut my foot on a stone. I can’t say how I felt as we left the city in the dead of night like bandits on the run, windows down as we traded smog for salt air. I do not tell him about how we got up at dawn every morning for days, and baked under the sun, or how we lay on the bungalow floor, trying to read, and then ended up heading out to the beach instead to try and build something out of sand, only to become scavengers of pretty stones: looking for fragments to bring back. I could not say that we had planned the trip out for about a month, complete with maps, and playlists, and pit-stops, and that it had made me restless at my desk for days. I don’t tell him that he had not come to mind, or that if he had, no one had spoken up about it, because if someone had, then he would have been asked to come along. Instead, I tell him about a song I heard on the radio about never leaving your apartment, and hiding out behind a sofa that I imagined to be like the one we are sitting on. I tell him about how the song spoke to me, and how sometimes, I can see myself existing completely within the confines of my bedroom. I regale him with stories of bathroom cleaning, and dish-doing, and watch his posture as I begin asking him excitedly about whether he has discovered the many benefits of sunning a mattress at least twice a month: his spine pulls him up, and out, legs re-crossing one knee over the other, as though he can tell I am spinning him, a yarn.

Author Bio: Wina Puangco writes fiction, and makes zines. She was Prose Editor for Malate Literary Folio in 2010 and won a De LaSalle University Literary Award (Short Story) in 2012. She has been previously published in Stache Magazine,Driftwood Press, and Plural Online Prose Journal. Her series of short stories, “Science Lessons” also appears in TAYO Literary Magazine‘s 5th Anniversary Issue. She was named a finalist for the 2015 Sozopol Fiction Fellowship, the selection of which was made by Elizabeth Kostova and Steven Wingate. She has recently been named the newest addition to Plural Online Prose Journal’s editorial team. She also manages MoarBooks, a tiny independent press. 

Fishing Law in Chile

6 October 2015. Santiago, Chile.

In 2013, the Chilean congress approved the Longuiera Law.  This law divided up the entirety of the fishing quota off the Chilean coast among 7 families in perpetuity. These quotas pass to their heirs.

These industrial fisheries were given 75% of the fishing quota. The rest were given to small fisherman.  It has now been shown that some congressmen who approved this law took bribes from the industrial fisheries.

In a video published by those who opposed the law, it is explained that prior to the Longuiera Law the industrial fisheries took 92% of the catch, valued at $8 billion.  This resulted in the collapse of the fisheries due to over fishing.

It was necessary to pass a new law in 2012, because the current law was to expire.  The new fishing law is called the Longueria Law, named for Senator Longuiera of the UDI far-right political party who championed the law.  (He was to be the candidate for the conservative Alliance coalition in the president election against Michelle Bachelet.  But the illness of depression caused him to drop out of the race.)

There are two types of commercial fishing in Chile.  There are fish like merluza and reinata that are sold in the fish market.  Then there are the oily fish sardines, anchovies, and jurel that are ground up and sold as food for cattle or canned. There are also tuna and lobster caught off Easter Island, but that is a different market entirely and the catch is not large.

In what has been called a divide and conquer strategy to gain the law’s approval, the battle over the quotas handed out by the law resulted in a split between the two unions that represent the small fisheries.  These fishermen typically go to sea in 10 meter or less open boats, while the industrial fisheries use purse seines and other large vessels.  The split in the unions was caused when one union supported the law as a means of securing their quota.  There are ongoing and often violent disputes with the small fisherman over this and related issues.  The small fishermen, for example, are resentful that their fishing boats must be fitted with GPS transmitters to monitor where they fish.

Under the new law, the government is no longer in the business of regulating the fishing quota. Instead the ocean off the coast is divided into separate regions with one of the industrial fisheries having control over each.  The quota is divided between these 7 families and their 3 businesses (collapsed into 3 due to mergers) and the small fishermen, called “artesanal” fishermen.

The northern coast is controlled by the Corpesca fishing corporation. That is controlled by the Angelini family business called Angelini Group. They control 90% of the fishing quota in the northern part of the country, which is 25% of the overall fishing quota across the whole of the country.

Criminal charges have been brought against persons related to the Angelini Group for bribes that were paid to members of the senate and congress who approved the Longueria Law.  Multiple politicians have been accused.  But politicians taking money from business is not illegal under Chilean law, yet, although such legislation is now under debate. What is illegal is the way the money was handed over, by creating fake invoices which were then presented to the tax authorities.

For example, in an interview with the investigative reporting organization Ciper Chile, Giorgio Carrillo, who was an advisor to Congressman Marta Isasim says he took 25 million pesos ($74,000 USD) prior to the vote in the new law.  Revelations of these bribes resulted in the resignation of the general manager of Corpesca and criminal charges.

In another example, Senator Jaime Orpis (UDI) is accused of money laundering, financial fraud, and soliciting bribes. According to testimony, Orpis asked Corpesca for $230 million Chilean pesos ($337,000 USD) between 2009 and 2013. Prosecutors have accused the Senator of taking this money as bribes because at that time the Longueria Law was under consideration.  The Senator has said that he requested this money but denies that this was a bribe intended to influence his votes and instead were used to support his political campaigns and the campaigns of others.

President Bachelete in her president campaign promised to revisit the Longueria law due to the bribery charges.  So far there has been no discussion of that in the congress.

Some of the members of congress implicated in the Corpesca corruption scandal, including Senator Longuiera, also have been accused of taking money from the Penta bank and SQM mining businesses.  All of these legal cases are still under investigation and prosecution.  Some individuals in those cases have been indicted and placed under preventive house arrest, including the founder of the UDI political party, but no one has been convicted and sent to prison, yet.

 

 

 

La Movilización de los Pueblos en América Latina

Por

Eduardo Frajman

foto por Noemí Galera

La ubicuidad de la protesta social es una de las más destacadas características del actual período de democracia en América Latina. Me refiero específicamente al brote de la multitud, a la insurrección de la calle, a la movilización del “pueblo” como agente activo del proceso político. Agente temporal, eso sí, transitorio, fugaz y, sobre todo, no violento. En nuestra región, la era de las insurrecciones guerrilleras y las revoluciones armadas es, con poquísimas excepciones, una reliquia del pasado. La violencia contemporánea casi nunca es ideológica, sino descaradamente criminal. En el ámbito político es la movilización pacífica la que se ha normalizado. Esto constituye una victoria, aunque imperfecta, del desarrollo social latinoamericano en el siglo veintiuno.

No faltan casos de inmensas movilizaciones populares en otras partes del mundo. Instancias recientes incluyen la Revolución Naranja en Ucrania (2004), la Revolución de los Cedros en el Líbano (2005) y la Revolución de las Sombrillas en Hong Kong (2014), pasando por la Primavera Árabe y las enormes protestas de los Indignados en Grecia y España en los años 2011-2012. Sin embrago, en estos casos el brote popular se dio en contextos autoritarios o semi-autoritarios, o fue desplazado por otros actores políticos y rápidamente relegado a los márgenes. En América Latina, por el otro lado, las grandes revoluciones callejeras en Ecuador (2000 y 2005), Costa Rica (2000), Argentina (2001-2002) y Bolivia (2003 y 2005) marcaron el principio de la era de las sociedades en constante movimiento, donde los actores del juego político entre las elites partidarias se ven permanentemente forzados a tomar en cuenta el potencial del alzamiento popular y la disrupción de la vida cotidiana.

Pocos años han hecho esto tan evidente como el 2015, que ha visto, hasta ahora, masivas protestas en contra de la corrupción y la crisis económica en Brasil, marchas de indignación en Argentina, la deposición de un presidente en Guatemala, demostraciones estudiantiles en Chile y múltiples alzamientos populares en el Ecuador. En México continúan las caminatas de dolor y furia sobre los cuarenta y tres desaparecidos en Ayotzinapa, en Bolivia los mineros de Potosí descienden sobre la capital demandando proyectos de infraestructura, en Colombia los granjeros ocupan el Ministerio de Agricultura, en Costa Rica los sindicalistas amenazan a responder duramente a las críticas de los medios de comunicación.

Mientras que en los países “desarrollados” es principalmente una herramienta en disposición de grupos de interés específicos, la protesta social en América Latina es eminentemente populista. El populismo, según el pensador argentino Ernesto Laclau, es el proceso de “crear al pueblo” por medio del manejo simbólico de la acción política. La movilización masiva adquiere legitimidad cuando es entendida como representativa de la voluntad popular, y la pierde cuando es vista como la irrupción de una minoría perversa sobre la ciudadanía. El “pueblo,” cabe subrayar, nunca representa al Pueblo, a la ciudadanía en su totalidad. El concepto del “pueblo” es, adoptando la terminología de Laclau, un “significante vacío.” El secreto de la legitimidad está en apoderarse de la identidad popular, temporalmente, para un fin específico. Los titulares mediáticos alrededor del mundo, por ejemplo, hablan del “pueblo” de Guatemala en rebelión contra su presidente corrupto, pero la realidad es que estas movilizaciones se dieron más que nada en centros urbanos, con poca participación de campesinos o grupos indígenas.

Está de moda en ciertos círculos ideológicos despreciar el papel de la movilización populista como una manifestación antidemocrática de la tiranía de la muchedumbre. Pero este rechazo instintivo es injustificable si se toma en cuenta el papel que ha jugado la movilización en tiempos recientes. El poder de las masas gozó un apogeo a mediados del siglo veinte, los días de los poderosos líderes populistas – Perón en Argentina, Vargas en Brasil, Cárdenas en México, Velasco Ibarra en Ecuador, Calderón Guardia en Costa Rica y el rey sin trono, el peruano Víctor Raúl Haya de la Torre. Fue sofocado durante los años sesenta y setenta por las peripecias de la Guerra Fría y las dictaduras implacables, y gradualmente resucitó como parte integral de la ola de redemocratización latinoamericana. El populismo de la calle se dio a ver en miniatura, por ejemplo en la figura de las intrépidas Madres de Plaza de Mayo en Argentina, y en grande, como en la demanda masiva de elecciones “diretas já” en el Brasil de 1984. Varios de los más importantes investigadores de la democratización en Latinoamérica, como Guillermo O’Donnell, Juan Linz y Manuel Antonio Garretón, señalaron la importancia de los brotes populares para empujar a las elites gobernantes hacia la apertura y la negociación.

Los años noventa, en el contexto de la homogenización política y económica del “Consenso de Washington,” sirvieron de suelo fértil para el florecer de dos nuevas formas de movilización. La primera fase le perteneció a los “nuevos movimientos sociales,” muchos de ellos inspirados por las Madres argentinas y, posteriormente, los Zapatistas mexicanos, para los que la revolución violenta no era más que una cortina simbólica. Estos novedosos colectivos revelaron la capacidad de grupos tradicionalmente silenciosos – las mujeres, los campesinos, los indígenas, los desempleados – de hacerse ver y oír después de siglos de invisibilidad. Introdujeron además nuevas formas de acción política que han persistido como parte del repertorio de protesta latinoamericano: las marchas de los cocaleros en Bolivia y de la confederación indígena CONAIE en Ecuador, los “piquetes” (cortes de ruta) de los desempleados en Argentina, los “cacerolazos” de las víctimas del neoliberalismo, arrastradas nuevamente hacia la pobreza, y las manifestaciones espontáneas, facilitadas por la propagación de los teléfonos celulares y las “redes sociales” virtuales. La segunda fase, impulsada por la crisis del neoliberalismo del fin de siglo, se caracterizó por las épicas movilizaciones populistas, durante las que los nuevos movimientos se unieron a los tradicionales (i.e., los sindicatos laboristas) y, más sorpresivamente, a las clases medias hasta entonces solipsistas y apáticas, para demandar el regreso del estado benefactor y la re-priorización de la justicia social. Fue esta segunda fase la que culminó con las guerras populares que derrocaron a múltiples gobiernos neoliberales y eventualmente llevaron al regreso de la izquierda al poder en varios países latinoamericanos.

El impacto de la protesta social es determinado por su contexto específico, pero su presencia continúa siendo impactante a lo largo de la región. El levantamiento guatemalteco en repudio al ahora ex presidente Otto Pérez Molina es una instancia de la protesta en su papel más positivo: un pueblo clamando en contra de un liderazgo criminal de la peor estirpe, un pueblo que no pide más que responsabilidad y transparencia de sus gobernantes y justicia de sus instituciones políticas. El cambio fundamental que requiere la sociedad guatemalteca, por supuesto, no emergerá de las marchas callejeras, que son en última instancia llamaradas transitorias. Pero esta realidad no les resta importancia. Su significado moral es aún más evidente en el resto de América Central y en México, donde la urgencia de la lucha contra el narcotráfico y la inconcebible violencia que este ha engendrado han dejado poco espacio para otras cuestiones políticas, económicas o sociales, y la movilización es en gran parte un instrumento de denuncia, de reclamo por la seguridad y la dignidad perdidas, catártico pero impotente.

En Venezuela, en contraste, la absoluta polarización ideológica ha creado un ambiente insalubre para la movilización ciudadana. Al igual que el resto de sus vecinos, Venezuela experimentó un alce en la protesta social durante los años noventa, pero su impacto fue atenuado por la estruendosa presencia de Hugo Chávez, primero con su fallido golpe de estado en 1992, y luego con su inesperada victoria electoral en 1998. Su Revolución Bolivariana instituyó un lenguaje político maniqueo, enfocado en la vanaglórica y mesiánica figura del mismo Chávez. La oposición venezolana, por su parte, adoptó en respuesta una posición igualmente inflexible y, en última instancia, anti-democrática, como lo demostró el asimismo fallido golpe de estado contra Chávez en 2002. La muerte de Chávez y su lamentable decisión de elegir como su sucesor a Nicolás Maduro, un acólito sicofántico sin preparación o capacidad, han creado una atmósfera que el ex presidente uruguayo José Mujica acertadamente calificó como “in-madura.” Una de sus consecuencias más funestas ha sido la efectiva criminalización de la protesta ciudadana – ejemplificada por la reciente e indefensible sentencia a trece años de prisión del líder opositor Leopoldo López. En Venezuela ha emergido uno de los vástagos más temibles del populismo: la ruptura social entre dos “pueblos” en completa oposición, en la que ambos campos han perdido la fe en la capacidad de la negociación política o la deliberación democrática de resolver sus diferencias.

Con la profundización de la crisis económica mundial, el resto de los gobiernos de izquierda en la región se han debilitado y, por consecuencia, se han convertido en blancos más atractivos para una nueva marea de movilización social. Libres del binarismo venezolano, en estos países la protesta es animada, energética y multifacética. A diferencia del chavismo, el kirchnerismo en Argentina, el evismo en Bolivia y el correismo en Ecuador fueron precedidos por levantamientos populares. Néstor Kirchner, su sucesora Cristina Fernández, Evo Morales y Rafael Correa ascendieron al poder mediante promesas de renovar el contrato social, de reemplazar la lógica del capital por la lógica de la justicia. La izquierda acusa a estos líderes de haber traicionado a sus bases de apoyo y de haber cooptado a los movimientos sociales que les propiciaron legitimidad pero evitado su integración real en los círculos del poder. La derecha los acusa de promover políticas económicas “ineficientes,” de intolerancia a la crítica de los medios de comunicación privada y de reemplazar la democracia representativa por una política plebiscitaria basada en el apoyo acrítico de la masa popular. Ambos lados concurren en sus críticas a las estrategias de liderazgo monolíticas, personalistas y dinásticas.

Los oponentes de los líderes de izquierda, entonces, provienen de ambas alas del espectro ideológico, cada una de las cuales ha logrado generar sus propias encarnaciones del “pueblo” en movimiento. El “pueblo” argentino ha sido personificado por los piqueteros y los movimientos sociales, pero también por las insurrecciones del “campo” en 2006 y 2008 lideradas por las grandes compañías agro-industriales, por las marchas de indignación alrededor de la misteriosa muerte del fiscal Alberto Nisman y por las multitudinarias demostraciones demandando la protección de las mujeres frente a la violencia doméstica. En junio de este año el “pueblo” ecuatoriano liderado por la derecha salió a las calles para rechazar furiosamente nuevas leyes impositivas y, casi simultáneamente, liderado por la izquierda, para protestar la falta de acciones que promuevan la pluriculturalidad. La situación es similar en Brasil, que estos días se balanza en una cuerda floja sobre el abismo de la inestabilidad del que parecía haber escapado. Esto se refleja en las demandas de los pobres por mantener los logros de los años dorados de Lula, en los imperdonables llamados de ciertos sectores de la clase alta a un nuevo golpe militar, en la ira generalizada frente a los escándalos de corrupción.

La efervescencia callejera en todas estas naciones sugiere que se aproxima una etapa de cambio en la región, quizás incluso una nueva oscilación pendular. La movilización de los pueblos sin duda jugará un papel protagonista en la nueva era, como la ha hecho en el presente momento. El poder popular es contingente, sin embargo, potencialmente constructivo o destructivo. “Millones ya, imponen la verdad,” dice el canto de protesta. Hay que tomar cuidado de idealizar la capacidad del “pueblo” de reconocer o avanzar la verdad. Al mismo tiempo, el que descarta la importancia de la participación multitudinaria malentiende la realidad política latinoamericana.