Argentina wins ship, loses IMF

The economic situation in the nation is concerning.

The saga of the Argentine ship, the ARA Libertad, seized by a US hedge fund looks to have come to an end, the International Tribunal for the Law of the Sea in Hamburg has ruled that it should be released back to the country. As we wrote when it was originally seized:

The fund, Elliott Capital Management, has been engaged in a long-running legal battle with the Argentine government. It specialises in what is euphemistically termed "distressed debt" – it buys up bonds held by countries which are extremely likely to default, or which have already defaulted. As a result, it gets them for a pittance, around one fifth of face value.

Elliott had been waiting for the ship to enter a port in which it would have a chance to enforce the legal judgements it had been awarded in US and UK courts; but it now seems that the Law of the Sea trumps Elliott's desire that other sovereign nations act as bailiffs for it.

There is a fair amount of sympathy internationally for Argentina; although it defaulted on its debt a decade ago, the "holdout" creditors like Elliott largely consist of investors who bought the debt after the default, and have been hindering the nation's attempts to become a responsible debtor ever since.

The Jubilee Debt Campaign, for instance, is firmly on Argentina's side. Its director, Nick Dearden, says:

We are delighted that Argentina has won this case. It is a disgrace that a group of speculators can seize the property of a sovereign nation in this way and points to the need for a fundamental change in the international debt system. Hopefully the ARA Libertad will now be promptly released.

Argentina is still facing a case in the United States in which the supposed 'rights' of these vulture funds will be put far ahead the needs and aspirations of Argentina's people. We must stop these funds profiteering from economic crises, wherever it takes place. If we don't, then what is happening to Argentina today will be happening to Greece and other European countries in years to come.

Even while past defaults continue to haunt Argentina, its current economic situation isn't much better. The country has failed to meet a deadline set by the IMF over the fact that its official measure of inflation is woefully inaccurate. Official statistics show inflation of around 10 per cent, but the actual rate is more likely to be about 25 per cent. Indeed, Argentina clamps down so much on reporting the true state of its economic situation that there are even suggestions that it has forced McDonalds to discount the Big Mac in order to skew the Economist's famous Big Mac index.

Artificially depressing the reported rate of inflation doesn't just make the country look better. It also means that any inflation linked bonds – and it issued many during its debt restructuring in 2002 –  won't be as expensive to pay off.

Of course, that may be the least of the problems Argentina's creditors have. Although the country has won a stay against Elliott in the New York courts, there is every chance that it may still be forced to choose between paying Elliott and not paying its current creditors. And if it comes to that, it's clear which way Argentina will go.

The ARA Libertad, the ship seized in Ghana. Photograph: Getty Images

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad