Lo Atamo’ Con Alambre

Lessons in Repair from the Comechingones Mountains. 

By Sepp Zammuto

Illustration by Nini Vilac

Every time the hostel’s wheelbarrow gets used, it looks worse. It must be a century old. The bed’s surface is a crusty desert interspersed with tiny oases of blue paint that once, in its glory days, covered everything in a shiny ocean. The rear frame is so warped that the left handle rests an arm’s length below the right. The flat tire, along with the corrosion of the axle bracket, causes the wheel to drag across the dirt instead of roll. Dozens of wires weave in and out of the frame, holding together the exhausted pieces that desperately want to part ways and retire. 

I push the poor vehicle out into the sharp winter air of Villa de Merlo, Argentina, where I’m working maintenance and reception at Casa Grande Hostel. Nestled at the foot of the weathered Comechingones mountains in the central province San Luis, this is home for the month. Famous for its unique microclimate, it draws weary travelers from all around Argentina to recharge. Tasked with bracing a garden post, I pray the wheelbarrow will hold as I load it with heavy stones. 

As I pass the grill, the right leg creaks. Weaving around the bar stools, it breaks. Rocks scatter, and the frame slams to the patio stone with a deafening bang. A few Bonaerenses, sharing a morning mate nearby, look up, startled. 

“Y bueno, lo atamos con alambre,” one of them chuckles. We tie it with a wire. 

Staring at the wreckage, frustrated, I thought there was plenty of wire on this thing already. Who was so determined to keep this skeleton alive? 

My boss, Collin, is a master of making do. It wasn’t until after I showed him the debris that I understood this phrase wasn’t just a practical instruction, but a national philosophy. “This,” he told me, proudly brandishing a rusty pair of pincers, “is a tenaza. It’s probably the most important tool here in Argentina. Because… Todo es atado con alambre.” Of course, the phrase isn’t just a quirk. In Argentina, tying things with a wire is a logical response to the much larger economic problem of hyperinflation.  

While stocking up on groceries, my friend Valentino explained that Argentinians try to convert monetary value out of pesos as quickly as possible by buying goods, USD, or durable assets that can hold their value over time. This way, he says, you might outrun inflation. Because of these circumstances, he’s forced to be extraordinarily sharp about his personal finance, relying on impromptu, survivalist tactics to ensure his security. At home, my first instinct would be to Amazon Prime a replacement and move on. Most of us live disconnected from each other, accepting things as broken, a privilege some don’t have. Beyond repairing physical possessions, many Argentine communities have no choice but to start binding their lives together with the wire of raw human connection. 

Looking around Merlo, life doesn’t feel isolated and disposable. After the crushing loss to Spain in the World Cup final, instead of staying indoors in collective heartbreak, everyone immediately flooded the streets. Folks launched fireworks, banged on pots, and proudly waved their blue and white stripes. I realized that the magic of atarlo con alambre isn’t just about being resourceful when things are broken, but bringing together a community in shared joy and resilience in the moment they fall apart. 

Feeling this kind of togetherness, it was hard not to reflect on how isolated life can feel back home. Walking through Merlo’s small shopping center with a fellow volunteer, Marcia, she asked me flatly if I ever felt ashamed to be an American. Looking around at shop windows flooded with U.S. pop culture merchandise squeezed between local bakeries selling alfajores, I understood why she asked. But shame is unproductive if left alone, breeding confirmation bias that validates our country’s worst stereotypes of individualism and the pressure to accumulate. There are always things to learn from elsewhere to improve our self-awareness rather than giving in to self-defeatism. Maybe we can take some wire to an American instinct to consume that is undeniably broken, but doesn’t need to be deserted. 

Back on the patio, I clean up my mess. I bring the wheelbarrow back to the shed. Taking the tenaza, I cut a fresh length of silver wire. Twisting the metal tight, I bind the warped frame back into place. As I lift the handles, sure enough, the wheelbarrow holds.  

Amidst the NSOP frenzy of moving bulky crates and unstable bins into our dorms, I will again feel the campus hum with the relentless drive to buy more. But this time, I will carry the memory of my Argentine roommates, who seem to understand implicitly that what we already have is usually functional. And, if it’s not, it probably can be with a little wire from University Hardware on 113th.