Memories of the past, dreams for the future. Part 6

 Huanuluán & Yuquiche

(* indicates place name is marked on map in Part 2)

There were nine of us in two pick-up trucks, bumping slowly and crazily across the terrain with virtually no roads – Ringo, the driver in the pick-up I travelled in, knew the farm well and was keen that I should find all the locations I wanted to see.

L to R: Juan, the driver of the second pick-up, Patricia and Fabiana, schoolteachers, journalist Carlos with the white beard, next to him writer Ramón with recently purchased stylish woolly hat & coat, myself with ditto brown cardie & scarf, head teacher Bibiana, local landowner Oscar Díaz in blue boiler suit, and Ringo, driver of the first pick-up and local guide. Ringo’s son Carlitos took the picture.

I found that to translate this book I had to climb right inside it if I was going to do it properly – it became a part of me, and for brief moments I would also find myself inside the mind of the author Mollie Robertson.  She pulled the strings, and I saw what she wanted me to see.  And here at Huanuluán* I saw it.  I knew that stream, the gleaming pastures undulating in the fresh wind, the blue foothills in the distance, and all around me the young wildlife in spring which she described so well.  I wasn’t seeing it for the first time, but as if after a very, very long absence.  If my companions saw me looking misty eyed thankfully they didn’t remark on it, and I took as many pictures as I could.

Estancia Huanuluán*

 

Flamingoes and a bustard on the right

The most startling find was the sheep shearing shed, which had been abandoned as a workplace a couple of decades earlier following the introduction of more modern methods, and had been quietly sleeping undisturbed amid its memories and cobwebs.  The machinery said it all “Wolseley Sheep Shearing Machine Co. Ltd, London, England, 1895” – unchanged since the farm was established.  There were the holding pens, the back door full of cracks, and what Mollie called “Madame Guillotine”, the ceiling-high contraption which compressed the wool into bales.  After the shearing had finished she would play in the shed, now still, quiet and spooky as it creaked gently in the wind, and imagine ghosts lived there…

The sheep shearing shed as it may well have been in the 20's

...and no doubt the same gate!

"Madame Guillotine" - the baling machine

There were places specifically described which I wanted to see, and Ringo and local landowner Oscar Díaz found them – there were the prehistoric cave paintings where Mollie’s father had tried unsuccessfully to pursue the puma that was decimating his flock...

...which Oscar now guards carefully since so-called experts once hacked away at one of them to remove the top layer to take away, and left a heartbreaking terrible mess behind.

…And the waterfall where Mollie and her pony would refresh themselves after a long ride…

(Photo by Oscar Díaz)

…located within a gigantic rocky amphitheatre.

There had also been certain petrified trees in the twenties, but we learned that they had long since been removed piecemeal by visitors and souvenir hunters (no tourists in those days).

On the following day Fabiana and Patricia, the two schoolteachers, took us on “a mystery tour” as they called it, to see the lands known as Yuquiche*.  They’re hoping to set up a tourist trail through (low) mountainous country with strange rock formations...

...ancient native burial grounds, the cave of the last milodon...

... and more prehistoric rock paintings, with a stop at a remote self-sufficient farm whose natural spring has made the dry steppe bloom.

At Las Tres Golondrinas (the three swallows, after his three daughters) we met Sr Balbontín -

...Mrs Balbontín...

...one of his daughters and grandaughter...

...some of his livestock...

...a trout farm built by him...

...orchard...

They noticed us "aaahing" over the little newborn kids, one of which had been brought into the kitchen in a basket to warm up by the stove, and told us they can't afford to get fond of these sweet creatures because they are eaten when they've put on a bit of flesh... (It makes me flinch to even write this, I must admit.)

In winter when there's so much snow that they can't really venture outside, the picture below shows what Señora Balbontín and their daughter do - they discovered by chance one winter when idly playing with dough, that both of them had a knack for modelling, and using clay started to fashion little animals, baking them in the compartment of the cooking stove where the coals are, and then painting them afterwards.  They have found a ready market for them in Jacobacci, and when I tried to buy some, found that they were all spoken for, or weren't finished.  The naȉve designs and bright colours appear to conform with visitors' perception of the simple country life, and they can't get enough of them.  Their little cottage industry is helping them to buy a few home comforts from time to time.

On a walk round the property we were shown all the herbs which grow naturally, and one by one Sra Balbontín explained how they replaced most standard medicines, from antibiotics on downwards. We all have a lot to learn I think.

As part of their market research we were encouraged by Fabiana and Patricia to comment on the tour, and I know we all found it enchanting.  If I had one doubt, it was the assumption that toilet functions required no special thought and could be performed anywhere.  I’m not being squeamish – at least not in the way you may think.  There was a very strong icy wind blowing constantly and pitilessly, and it’s an area of massive boulders and green pasture – so you either chose very poor concealment in knee-high grass, or you climbed for a while and braved the icy draft round your exposed nether regions.  Just you try telling yourself to hurry up before your bottom goes blue and see how far it gets you…  And meanwhile your fellow travellers are waiting impatiently below…  But don’t ask me what the solution is – I have no idea!

Er - pit stop please?

WHAT???   HERE???

-oOo-

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Memories of the past, dreams for the future. Part 5

Ingeniero Jacobacci
(* indicates place named on map in part 2)

As we headed west the balmy 25ºC spring temperatures began to descend, and by the time we arrived in the town of Ingeniero Jacobacci* it was 5ºC and a dry, icy wind was blowing strongly and steadily.   It’s a small, sleepy city of some 6,000 inhabitants, where its young people sometimes refer to it as Jacobacity… in 2009 one of the destinations of the Dakar rally, with an attractive railway station...  (front & back)

(Google image)

(mine)

… shops whose signs tell you they open at 9 a.m. and start to show signs of life at 10 a.m., with a brief pause for siesta between 1 and 6 p.m., and where the only place to get a late drink is at the casino.  It’s also the starting point of the tiny “La Trochita” (narrow gauge) railway...

…made famous by Paul Theroux in The Old Patagonian Express, and which travels 400 km south west to Esquel.   

The people we met were kind and welcoming, and it felt as though all wanted to open their homes to us, which I found very moving.  We were treated like celebrities everywhere we went, though at the small hotel where we stayed the royal treatment was sometimes of the more tabloid variety. 

Reservations had been made some time in advance by telephone, and on checking in, my travelling companions Carlos and Ramón found that they had been given a room to share.  Ten minutes after I had been shown to my room there was a knock on the door and I opened it to find the old crone standing there:  “Er – I was just checking to see that you had been given your key” she said, standing on tiptoe slightly and looking over my shoulder.  Not discreetly – she looked over my left shoulder first, and then moved her head to look over my right shoulder as well. 

I refrained from asking her whether she thought I was a midget limbo dancer and had gained entry by sliding underneath the door, and later on told the men.  We wondered if this was why they had been given a room to share, so that each would keep an eye on the other and not go a-wanderin’ at night…  To my alarm, they hatched a plan to get her to repeat the performance, while in advance they would both hide under my bed, in a deliberately poor attempt at concealment, and as she looked over my shoulder they would both grin and wave at her in unison.  Fortunately this plan didn’t get very far, and my ‘reputation’ was saved… 

However, the two men subsequently derived some amusement from conversing in deliberately loud voices in the presence of the two ageing guardians of their hotel’s reputation, about the “high level meetings” being held with a mysterious “property tycoon” who wanted to build a “large hotel with many rooms” nearby, and I had a hard time keeping a straight face.  Every time we came in from anywhere they would ask them if the “property tycoon” had called. 

In all fairness I should add that their food was excellent, their manner unfailingly polite and they dealt promptly with my disaster with a bottle of cologne, which I dropped in my room and it exploded spreading shards of glass far and wide.  I had only myself to thank thereafter for the powerful lingering stench of lily of the valley that greeted me every time I entered the room, and the old crone probably had nothing to smile about anyway.

That freezing wind never stopped, despite the brilliant sunshine and blue skies, and consequently we tended to scurry everywhere so as not to be outside for too long.  We were unprepared for this icy spring weather, and hadn’t brought enough warm clothes. 
The purchase of such items for an overweight person is always fraught at the best of times, since you always end up underestimating the size you need – and in Argentina the news still hasn’t permeated through that overweight people need larger sizes.  In Buenos Aires you get surprised looks from store attendants when you ask for anything larger than the equivalent of a British size 16 – and you imagine their pitying glances following you as you leave the store. 

Here in Jacobacci our hotel hostess pointed us in the direction of the one smart clothes store.  The counters were lined with nicely made up ladies willing to help you, the shelves choc full of woolly jumpers…… sorted by colour and texture.  This made for a pretty display, but a nightmare as pile after pile were brought before me, with the attendant indicating how the gorgeous pale blues would match my eyes, and the soft sage greens would set off my light coloured hair…  as with increasing despair I burrowed through them looking for size tags.  Purple stripes and polka dots would have been fine – all I wanted was something in the right size to keep me warm.   When I realised that there were now three attendants on the case and we still weren’t getting anywhere, my morale started to plummet in the way it had before the lapband.  I had to call a halt and march out of the store with head held high, though I didn’t feel it.  We’re a self-conscious lot, aren’t we?

We found a very modest shop on the other side of town with much simpler merchandise and cheerful country folk running it, and suddenly I was in my element – and found myself buying a cosy large cardigan, hardly noticing that it was brown, a 70’s colour I normally detest, plus gloves, black and white scarf and brown woolly hat.  We were all laughing together as we tried things on – what a difference in approach.  I’m afraid I shall never be a city person, despite having been brought up in Buenos Aires, one of the biggest cities in the world.

With the weekend between now and the final presentation at the Centro Cultural on Monday, the head teacher of the local school had organised what turned out to be two most surprising and wonderful journeys.  She knew I wanted once again to see the farm, Estancia Huanuluán*, where Mollie Robertson had spent 4 very happy years as a child from 1918 to 1921, and this is where we headed on the following day. 

I'll tell you about it in the next post - I took loads of pictures. 

-oOo-

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Memories of the past, dreams for the future. Part 4

The Patagonia you don’t see in postcards

(* indicates place named on map in Part 2)

After a late night asado with friends in Viedma* when the success of the evening and the presentations had been analysed from every angle, we had another early start to head west 600 km.  I was still running on adrenalin, and hardly noticed the burning behind my eyelids.  My two companions were always entertaining, alternating at being the straight guy and the funny one, and they made me laugh a lot.  I was fortunate that they too enjoyed photography, and whoever was driving willingly screeched to a halt if someone saw a good subject, though I think I tried their patience a little with my enthusiasm for dust pictures.  (I may try yours as well.) 

Valcheta Police Station – I was told that in out of the way places the police station was always built to look unusual and imposing, so as to inspire respect.

When we stopped for lunch in Valcheta, I had another first – I was recognised by the restaurant owner from the article in the paper and the brief item on the evening news the night before, and they made me feel like a minor film star (WHY hadn’t I put on make-up? Should I just smile?  Should I check there was nothing stuck in my teeth before smiling?  What intelligent remarks could I make?  How does one eat and look famous AND refined at the same time?) 

From here onwards was the area known as La Travesía, literally ‘the crossing’ the drought-ridden, windswept, unforgiving steppe which would lead us to the outer reaches of the foothills of the Andes. 

If you have an image in your mind of Patagonia, perhaps it’s the majesty of the snow-capped Andean chain, the surprise of a pale green lake and the torrential rivers in the midst of the purple haze and the blue ice of a glacier, the breathtaking danger of its precipices...?

That is certainly the postcard view of the Andes west of route 40, the north-south highway that roughly divides looking up from looking down:  you look up at this unattainable beauty, pay homage to it, climb it, photograph it to death, do jigsaw puzzles of it. 

As you travel east from this point, you find yourself admiring the gentler colours and shapes of the foothills by looking into the distance at shoulder level.  Still further east - the land we were traversing now - the unique and special raw beauty of Patagonia is appreciated by looking down at your feet, by keeping quiet, crouching down and listening to the life going on around you despite the wind.  Nature’s perfection is there:  you just have to slow down to see it. 

And at night you are dwarfed and awed by the Milky Way sweeping from one horizon to the other, uninterrupted by mountain or city light, the velvet background black as ink and the Southern Cross pointing the way…

During the afternoon we reached the main road opposite the entrance to Talcahuala*, the first farm where Mollie Robertson had lived between 1916 and 1918.

The next picture is a view of the old house where she lived, which I took 18 months ago.  Today we had a long road to travel, and didn’t stop for very long.

From here we gazed at the view at shoulder level –

("Simpsons" sky?)

…and came to a juddering halt when we caught sight of these horses and I fell instantly in love with the foal.  He was nervous yet curious as to what I was up to, and pranced hither and thither, wondering whether to stay or flee...

(At my camera club a new member once asked about a technical term he had heard us use - "High or Low R Factor" when describing animal and baby pictures, and what it meant.  We had to explain that it was "Aaaaaaaah!!" factor...  This foal's aah factor is stratospheric as far as I'm concerned...)

Shortly after that the paved road ended and we were enveloped in dust again.  (Try not to cough). 

When they're coming towards you, you roll up your window and pray the windscreen won't take flying stones...

But when you get behind one of these monsters and you’re travelling in a tiny Vauxhall Corsa, you wind up the windows, change down and charge….

Next time I'll tell you about the next presentation in the town of Ingeniero Jacobacci* and how I almost found myself cast as a scarlet woman...

-oOo-

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