Argentina's Fritzl

Nineteen years. That's how long it took authorities in the city of Mendoza, Argentina to fully investigate the more than 20 anonymous reports of sexual abuse, committed by Armando Lucero, 67.

The victim: his daughter. Now 35, she was violated, beginning at age 8. Tormented — sometimes even at gun point — she was not deprived of her liberty, unlike Elisabeth Fritzl of Amstetten, Austria. But she was psychologically controlled. Even in the clinic, where she delivered each of her seven offspring, now ages 2, 6, 11, 12, 16, 17 and 19. She would be discharged as a "single mother" with her new baby whose father was "unknown."

The unemployed Armando Lucero maintained a front as a good citizen in his community, even going to the children's school to pick them up. While on the homefront, he would threaten to take them away. As a result of the climate of terror, his daughter would do little all day except watch television. She slept in the kitchen on a mattress, where it is thought that many of the violations took place. Today, she has the developmental age of a 12 year old, according to her older brother, now 37.

His sister is one of six children born to Lucero's concubine, now 56, a justice official who chose to remain silent for 27 years. That silence broke on May 8, when after delicate talks by authorities, the justice official and her abused daughter testified against Lucero.

Years earlier, other family members had reported allegations of sexual abuse to the authorities. But when social workers would arrive at the family home, they were met at the front door by the justice official, who said "nothing was going on," and that "everything was normal," as reported by the victim's older brother.

That same brother met with two legislators, in the presence of three local journalists, two months ago. Their discussions added to the full enquiry that was underway. It was an order from Family Court, after a teacher heard a suspicious comment from one of the children, fathered by Lucero.

On May 27, DNA results confirmed Lucero's paternity for all seven of the children he had with his daughter.

Armando Lucero has fathered 22 children, in all: eight with his wife, six with his concubine and seven with his daughter. He now awaits trial on charges of alleged "sexual abuse with carnal access, aggravated by an undetermined number of times." He could serve up to 50 years in jail. His concubine, the justice official, could also face charges. For now, she is cooperating as a witness.

As more light is shed on the unfolding drama, one person is not surprised: the woman who married Armando Lucero when she was 13 years old. Fruit of that union were eight offspring in 10 years. But unlike the justice official, Lucero's wife was alert. "When the children were getting older, he began to approach them in a manner I did not like. I did not like how he touched them. Also he was too violent with me," she said.

Back in the mid-1960s, Armando Lucero worked in the city's Hotel Plaza, "But he left that job and gave it to me, I think so that he could stay longer with the children. Then I threw him out of the house. He left, leaving me with eight children, alone. I always had the sensation that he abused some of them but I could not prove it. I lost his trail until one of his sons, who he had with his new partner, appeared not long ago," she continued.

That son believes his father is ill and unaware of the damage he has caused — even to other daughters. Now living in Spain and Buenos Aires, they "were also abused by him, but were able to escape," said the son.

Lucero, too, was able to escape. When neighbours would suspect that something was not right, the Lucero family would simply move to another part of the city. Thus, Armando Lucero could keep hiding his dark side. He even tried hiding on the day of his arrest, when he was handcuffed and hunched over with a jacket over his head. To a peppering of questions from the press, he answered, "Yes, yes, I repent...of course...I don't want to live any longer...forgive me, forgive me for everything."

Funny thing about psychopaths. When they're cornered without any other means of escape, they know. They know they've done wrong. They know they have bullied. They know they have damaged. But up to that point, they are masters of evasion.

One wonders then, how many other Josef Fritzl's and Armando Lucero's go undetected? How many others keep perpetrating abuse under the blind spot of an enabling partner?

Those questions are far too complex for the prisoners in the Mendoza penitentiary. During their recess, when Armando Lucero was brought in and placed in solitary confinement, the prisoners furiously kept yelling, "Hand him over to us! Hand him over to us!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With thanks to Clarín, Urgente24, La Voz, TL9, the BBC, Telegraph and Guanabee.

Crossing the Rubicon

Even if you drive a jalopy on the digital highway, you can still embrace an aspect of new media. The journey may be nerve-wracking, but keep in mind four guidelines. One, if you can dream it, it is likely possible. Two, there's more than one way to reach your destination. Three, you may need to test some bumpy freewares before you find the one that's best for you. Four, it's going to take time to sort things out.

Take this example. You've recorded a presentation and created a digital audio file — a feat in itself. Now you want to post it to the Web. What do you do?

Blogger, for one, only accepts image and/or video files, no audio files. How are you going to get around this barrier? You search for more information and find that, Yes! you can combine audio with just one image and make a video file. If the size of the file is too large, then Yes! you can upload the heavyweight to an external site. That site, in turn, will generate a URL, which when posted to, and hyperlinked on Blogger, can be accessed by viewers.

It is a circuitous solution, to be sure. And it's only partial, for next, you have to find a hassle-free software, plus an external site to make it all happen. The road can get awfully convoluted.

That was my experience. Exasperated, I was ready to throw in the towel, when all of a sudden, I received some help from a bedroom in Scandinavia. No, no. It was not Sven with his massage oils, you naughty reader. But rather, a boy presenting a how-to on his computer. As a videocam tracked the cursor on his monitor, "spikensbror" patiently showed us how to synch an image to a sound file, then upload the results. His presentation on YouTube made it look so easy. At last, I could solve my problem! I followed spikensbror's example, not before downloading the freeware Movie Maker for my Windows XP. In the process, I jumped another hurdle in the mushrooming field of new media.

Care to have an overview of that hot field? How about making money from it? Dawn Boshcoff of BOSHmedia and president of the Professional Writers Association of Canada (Toronto chapter) discusses some good stuff here and here. And who do you think put together those photo-audio files of the presentation? Yep, the former jalopy driver that's me. There's no turning back now. I dumped the old clunker. Though the Maserati is a stretch — for now.

Waay before podcasting

Audio recordings have come a long way since my first exposure to this medium in 1957. Back then, my dad tried to figure out how to operate the buttons and reels of a portable apparatus the size of two breadboxes. When he had mastered the simplest of functions, my Mom called us children. She asked each one of us, in turn, to speak into the microphone and tell a favourite story, or sing a song we had learned. I was eight, my brother was six, and my sister was three.

It was a time of innocence in Caracas. And not, for Venezuela was under the dictatorship of General Marcos Pérez Jiménez. Unbeknownst to us and most others, that iron-fisted rule was about to crumble.

On January 23, 1958, the general fled Caracas with an estimated $250 million, or one half the national treasury. You'd think everyone would be jubilant. Not quite. Some saw in P.J. the strong arm the country needed. And in fairness, he did more for economic growth, as well as for law and order, than did all the subsequent governing bodies. But oh, at what a price!

After his ouster, the commander of the country's navy, Wolfgang Larrazábal, took charge in an interim government. No one knew what lay ahead. Immigrants were apprehensive. They had arrived in droves when a war-ravaged Europe could not offer them work. With well-compensated sweat, the immigrants helped build massive projects that positioned the oil-bound nation as the most modern in Latin America. At least for a few decades.

The majority of Venezuelans saw the flight of Peréz Jiménez as a cleansing. There'd been too many years of brutish undercurrents from his police force, the dreaded National Security, dubbed Gestapo. With the change in government, there was hope that civic freedoms, including free speech, would be restored.

My dad was not about to waste any time in making his sentiments known. So he invited his brother-in-law to come over. My uncle Pedro Pablo Benedetti was a businessman who didn't share my dad's passion for politics. But he was good company, and after a drink to celebrate the occasion, the two men set up the recorder for this moment in history. Only my dad took the mike. That he had an audience of one was a plus.

The audio recording remains to this day. In it, my dad revs up his oratory to a feverish pitch, when all of a sudden, you hear two little words in the backround: "Ah pues." Translated loosely that would be, "Oh, brother." You'd think my uncle's phrase would help keep things in perspective for my father. But oh no. Henrique Hedderich Arismendi had a visceral need to vent. He'd been victimized for too long — jailed even for voicing a youthful opinion on democracy — by governments known more for the rule of thugs than the rule of law. It was the dawn of a new age and he wanted that known. For posterity.

Play it forward — credibly

Enough with the confusion! As a cautious adopter of new technology, I have a bunch of questions. Some get answered on the Web. Others get the red-carpet treatment. Those are the questions I pose to tech-savvy people I know and trust.

Can you say the same about answers you find on hobby forums or social marketplaces, online? I can't. That's why I stay away — for now — from the likes of Facebook and Twitter. My reasons are these. I like the personal. I prefer not being misinformed by those with shallow knowledge. And I believe that knowing the person, or being referred to a source you can trust, ensures better information. At worst, there are checks and balances. Call me old school.

Here's a for instance. Recently, I was frustrated. After offering a photographer-friend some post-processing on a large image, I realized I was missing a key component: how to transfer that file, back and forth, online. Sending the image of 12 megabytes by email was out of the question; it was too large. And using a file transfer protocol for uploading the file was impractical. Reason being, my FTP experience is limited, my friend didn't mention her familiarity with the protocol, and my website plan provides me with only so much space.

Was there some external storage we could each access upon registering? I searched for clues on forums related to photography. Nada. The professional ones didn't address the issue; the popular ones were full of wild goose chases from wannabes, wishing to sound well-informed. Nor was Google helpful when I inputted logical key words. Perhaps I wasn't logical enough.

Something had to be out there. But what? And where? I scratched my head some more, when ... Bing! The light bulb went off. Certain I'd get, not just any old answer, but the straight goods, I emailed a friend who teaches at RMIT University in Melbourne, Australia.

Ric Lombardo answered: "I haven't had much experience with it but a very clever IT student I met at the university union this morning, where I pick up my newspaper, told me that this [Megaupload] would be ideal for you. If you go into the site and click on the FAQ area you'll find the following information ..."

It was a timely response. With intellectual honesty, Lombardo disclosed the limits of his experience. He was able to source with precision a good answer. And he went beyond the call by pointing to FAQs related to my needs. That's quality information. No pretense. No bull. Just the goods. Right in my mailbox. Try getting that from anonymous posters on the web, hiding behind their avatars.

Consider, too: In less than 48 hours, the information from an Australian in Melbourne spanned 15 time zones, covered over 10,000 miles, and hit the nail on the head. That's a remarkable transformation in the sharing of knowledge. Yet, some things never change. Without credibility from the source, information is, and will always be, useless. The opposite is a win-win-win. For the provider, for the medium, and for the recipient — multiplied when played forward.

That's worth more to me than a 1000 'friends' on Facebook. Now go ahead. Burn me on the stake for heresy.

A travel-bag memory

“Let memory be your travel bag.”
—- Aleksandr Sozhenitsyn

Many volcanic landscapes in Guatemala satisfied my youthful wanderlust, back in 1975. The most memorable began with a sign pointing to a small house in a bamboo grove. From the shadows, a Ladino emerged with more salt than pepper in his moustache. He tipped his hat in greeting and led me to a rusty gate, where for a small fee, his grandson took me down the bank to the Sanarate River. There, at a confluence, natural pools received cool-river and hot-spring waters. I soaked for awhile in perfect warmth. Then trailing my guide, I walked along the hot stream as it narrowed, and narrowed still, above the flow more curls of whitish steam and stronger whiffs of rotten eggs. We passed a caramel-coloured cow, oblivious as it chewed on silky grass. While in a misty clearing, just beyond, rivulets of boiling water cut through coarse sand, swerving by rocks draped in amethyst lichen. We stopped at a row of cacti. Gingerly picking a ripened pear, the boy crouched to rub it in sand. Then he dipped it in hot water to peel and reveal its ruby flesh – so succulent! Ahead, vapour hung like a dense drape as sulphur pinched our nostrils. Sprays of tiny, yellow orchids with maroon spots framed the side of a cliff. While deep within it, water bubbled, pressured to hiss through small holes in the rock. Before dripping and running downstream to pools of perfect warmth.

~~~~~

P.S. Reader Liz had hoped for photos of this location. I have none, for the finding was spontaneous, based — if memory serves — on the mention in a guide book I had on hand: Four Keys to Guatemala. Or, perhaps it was an earlier recommendation from a fellow traveller. What I have just found was a description in Spanish. The photos that accompany it are, no doubt, taken in the vecinity. But I'm also pretty certain the photos are not of the very source I was privileged to witness, over 30 years ago, and which remains, to this day, a vivid memory.

Allied forces

Not every dim circumstance has a silver lining. But there was a glint in the rush-hour traffic of north Toronto, on a rainy night last November. It was then that a public transit bus scraped the driver's side and banged the front-wheel well of my mid-sized, silver Pontiac.

Before I knew it, a revolving light swirled in my rear-view mirror. At the same time, I heard a 'tap-tap' to my left. I rolled down the window as freezing raindrops slid in.

"Are you OK?" asked the bus driver in rain gear.

"I think so," I replied.

"You know, I have the right of way," he added buoyantly before returning to the bus, diagonally ahead. I was puzzled.

'Tap-tap'. I again rolled down the window.

"Are you OK?" asked the tow-truck driver.

"I think so," I replied, wondering why a tow truck was parked behind me. Its revolving light was too brightly reflected in my rear-view mirror.

Ahead, passengers stepped off the bus. They scurried to the side of the road, where another city bus had stopped to take them further on their journey. There were no visibly injured parties.

Two hours passed. No reporting police were in sight. By then, I realized I had a companion: my camera. I normally don't travel with one over short distances. But I did that night for a light assignment the following day.

The camera was a soother. Using the dashboard as support, I began to shoot with a slow shutter speed. How ironic, I thought. The ad on the back of the bus read: "Minimize road rage." Was there a connection? I continued to click objectively as though I were documenting something interesting, as though the incident had not happened to me. I should have been more aggressive. I should have gotten out and used multiple points of view. But my door wouldn't budge, it was cold and rainy, and I was too rattled to function normally.

Another two hours passed. Finally, a young policewoman arrived. She went over to the bus driver and a supervisor-come-lately from the transit company. The threesome talked a good while.

Tap-tap. I again rolled down the rain-streaked window.

"So what happened?" asked the policewoman with attitude as brittle as her chewed-off French manicure.

"The bus barrelled down the median before it switched lanes and hit me," I replied.

"Oh, REAL-ly?" she asked in forced disbelief.

Could she not see the obvious positioning of the vehicles? My anxiety grew. Was I being used as a scapegoat for the transit company? My suspicion gained ground. At the end of her procedure, the policewoman charged me for careless driving.

"You're at fault," she said with gusto.

Staff members of my auto insurance company were more thorough. So was their associate who came by my home to take a sworn statement. But the real angel was the tow-truck driver.

Glen Witney of GW Towing had not witnessed the accident. But arriving within five minutes, he was not blind to the position of the vehicles upon impact, a reality the policewoman preferred to overlook.

"My job doesn't end with the accident," Witney informed me. True to his word, he provided testimony to the auto insurer. It bolstered the photographs and drawing I had submitted to the Claims Adjustor.



It took four months to process the claim. In the end, my insurer informed me that I was "not responsible for the incident as per the Fault Determination Rule 10.4" *. My deductible was refunded.

The trial for my "careless driving" is set for November 2, 2009. As partial evidence, I will enlarge the photographs of the scene, grateful again to a staunch ally: my camera. Consider keeping one in your glove compartment. It could be your only bright prospect.


* Revised Regulations of Ontario 1990, Reg. 668

Barbie's back

Barbie's 50. And she's still turning heads. Even mine as I arrived at a neighbourhood park last Sunday. Above, four Barbie kites fluttered in the clear blue sky as tweens, below, tugged the lines.

Mattel introduced its teenage fashion model at the New York Toy Fair on March 9, 1959. Ever since, Barbie has continued to "inspire several generations of girls to dream, discover and explore a world without limits — all without ever leaving home."

Has Barbie done that much for girls? I decided it was time for a straw poll and some word associations.

"Perfect body, perfect hair and perfect face," says Toronto teenager Cindy Glorioso, when she remembers what Barbie meant to her. From the age of two until she was 10, Glorioso collected 30 Barbies and 20 outfits. Most of them were given away in recent years, except for three Collector Barbies that were gifts from an aunt. Her mother, Irene, who never played with Barbie, recognizes their investment potential.

Memories of the plastic doll are mixed for 50-something Alison Rowe from Ottawa. Growing up in Caracas, Venezuela, she wanted a Barbie because two of her grade-school friends, both Americans, had the "it" girl.

"I was so excited as I opened the long, narrow box," Rowe recalls. But her heart sank when she saw the "ugly" brunette with side-glancing eyes and a bee-hive hairdo.

It got worse. Young friends were setting up their Barbies, accessories and "gobs of outfits, including a queen-like costume and a wedding dress," Rowe recalls. Whereas, she arrived for the play date with a brown paper bag from the local supermarket. It held her one Barbie and two dresses — one of which she made herself in sewing class.

“Just pitiful,” Rowe remembers. It was impossible to keep up. For one, American imports were costly. For another, her mother did not encourage her to play with a voluptuous doll. As a result, Rowe's earlier fascination hit the dust. Did Barbie care? Not at all. At the house of more adoring fans, she simply drove off in a red convertible with her boyfriend, Ken, and her BFF - Best Friend Forever – Midge.

Barbie's 50th anniversary has inspired more than just girls "to dream." The occasion marks a publicity blitz that is sure to increase sales. Shareholders could use the relief from that result. In 2008, the company lost 58 per cent of net income from a four-year high of $600 million U.S. in 2007.

Will the company generate strong sales beyond 2009? The Barbie timeline would indicate 'yes!' Mattel has proven to be a formidable marketer of its flagship product, ably responding to trends, even ahead of time. Witness Miss Astronaut Barbie in 1965 and Barbie for President in 2000.

Nationally and internationally, there are many more markets for Barbie, even though she does not always appeal to the buyers. Some mothers view the doll as a hook, creating a need to buy even more products and accessories.

"It's a bottomless pit," says Rowe. "Even if I could have afforded it, I wouldn't have indulged my daughter. I view Barbie as a meat market — giving girls the wrong impression."

No matter what your opinions are on the world-famous doll, one thing is certain: Mattel can sure think outside the long, narrow box.