helenargentina's Journal

AFTERMATH OF THE STORM

It is early March, almost three months have passed since the storm cut our harvest season short and much on the farm appears back to normal. Just appearance though, below the surface simmers the lingering effect of the storm’s devastating destruction. Trees and vines have produced new leaves, yet no new fruits. The few peaches that withstood the storm and steadfastly clung to their branches were so severely damaged that we could not even sell them for jam making for which inferior fruits are used. The amount of plums yielded by our 1200 trees was laughable; about ten crates, which we decided to dry ourselves. A grape harvest is scheduled for early April. The vines however bear such a reduced quantity, that the harvesters, who depend on weighty bunches closely cropped together, have steeply increased their price to even set foot on the property. Costs are up when spending must remain down. No income can be expected anytime soon. It is a strain and it shows! The area becomes slowly economically depressed. Many people feel low on energy. The good cheer so characteristic for the people here is hard to find.

The storm hits our area at the worst possible time, late December, the height of summer in the southern hemisphere. Week-long stretches of over a 100 degree temperatures (>45 Celsius) makes sprouting of most seeds impossible; thus making any effort to replant the vegetable garden sheer lunacy. Many in the area use their garden crops to supplement their subsistence level incomes, not being able to replant turns out a heavy blow. I have not even bothered to look at my gardens; it is one mess of hip-high tangled weeds. Like many I lack ‘animo’, the desire or will to work. Yet among all the sadness we praise ourselves lucky; on New Year’s Eve an even more damaging storm strikes just beyond our neighborhood and plunges two villages in a starkness of winter out of which their plants will not be able to renew.

New Year starts with a ferocious heat from an unyielding sun beating our house relentlessly out of a constantly cobalt blue sky. In the heart of the summer we usually languish on our vine shaded patio, but without leaves on the vines there is no shade to shield us and we flee to the relative cool of our house. But the house is equally exposed and we find little relief. Even inside we cannot escape the after-effects of the storm!

Government workers descend on our area a few days after the storm; first we attend a meeting in which all the ins- and outs of the government’s support are outlined. So many people want to crowd in the tiny space where the meeting is held that the government workers run overtime and tell their story twice, each time to a different audience. Afterwards we are approached by worried neighbors who have very little faith in our language skills and who want to make sure that we understand every bureaucratic detail to which we will be subjected. I am queried thoroughly. Fortunately I pass the test; nonetheless, as time passes we realize that people keep an eye on us as they casually inquire about assessors showing up, papers being delivered, checks received.

Our crops are assessed for damage and we score 96% of crop failure, commensurate with our own assessment of a total loss. In the two swaths of devastation cut by wind and hail our property was situated so close to the center that we were hit ferociously. It explains why neighbors merely 700 meters away fared better. In the damage reports the storm’s path can be traced clearly. By mid-April we receive our first government check and even though the amount is a far cry from our usual income we are grateful for the help; the check ensures we will be able to meet expenses necessary to coax next year’s crop to maturity. Even so, our crops might not complete their lifecycle despite our best efforts; we rest in the hands of unreliable fate, God’s unfathomable will or our unknown karma. For the first time I understand with complete clarity the standard local response to any event in the future “Dios quiere” or “God willing”.

Its early May; we harvested our grapes with the help of our neighbors and exchanged our labor in return. The vines yielded a pittance; yet, hauling even a mere 5.000 kilos with only a few people demands stamina and insistence, especially when the sun stabs, the earth is hard-packed, one breathes dust from the scorched land which radiates unbearable heat. In four days both properties are picked clean, a few rows remain for our house wine.

Then, as the season ends, Arn is called back to the States to say farewell to his father. He takes the first available flight, but not before the wine barrels are filled to their rims. We leave summer behind; it has been a sorrowful season in which we could not escape nature’s wrathful force. We were entangled in its capricious branches, and came out the worse.

DECEMBER 2008: DISASTER STRIKES

Our fourth harvest season starts with the picking of apricots. It is early morning and I am writing this blog while sitting in the shade of our pergola laden with large bunches of plump, yet unripe grapes. I listen to the harvesters chatting; I hear the muffled sounds of fruit being dumped from basket into crate; I revel in the bright cascading song of a nearby bird; the washing machine hums in the background. All is well; just a quiet domestic scene in the country!

I have put in a full day’s work already; picked fruit to make liquors: a French one from apricot pits, ‘liqueur de noyaux d'abricot’; and a Dutch one, ‘boerenmeisjes’ (farmers girls), which are brandied apricots. At dawn I deliver crates, tarps, ladders and baskets to the field. At eight I pick up the first load and truck it over to the buyer. By nine all housework is done, the liquors sit in glass jars in the sun, coffee and laptop are at hand; and I feel exceedingly happy. This relaxed scene is a far cry from our first year here, when everything was an effort, all faces unfamiliar, and many obstacles hindered our path. Then, I often felt like crying, now I go smoothly with the flow. I realize I have adjusted; adjusted to the climate, which is hot and dry, adjusted to the people with their friendly and outgoing ways, adjusted to the cultural customs and agricultural practices which are reminiscent of Italy and Spain a century ago. Adjustment! It has been a long haul, but with stamina and energy we moved over and through many hurdles to reach the other side, where the fruit of our labor is sweet.

AND THEN………DISASTER STRIKES……. my quiet reverie of domestic bliss and rural contentment is shattered to pieces in one single stroke of ill-tempered weather. On Decembers 20, amidst preparations for the upcoming holidays we are hit by a hailstorm so powerful and fierce that it rips all crops from the trees and damages the vineyard beyond recognition. We lose it all for the season in one blast of nature’s fury.

The morning starts normal enough; we make a third pass through the orchard assisted by one harvester; full cases are delivered to a nearby distribution center. We eat a late lunch and, despite being tired, we decide to forego our siesta in order to prepare for Christmas. We write cards, hang ornaments; just the usual, simple. The air feels unusually heavy and Arn has been complaining the entire day that something does not feel right. He is not far off the mark as we are about to learn. When he returns from a walk with the dogs he announces the approach of very severe weather. White clouds (the bad kind) have gathered overhead and despite the fact that we still see a stretch of clear sky, he is not fooled. We get as much ready as we can: we bring the animals to safety; ledge and lock as many doors and windows as possible in the short amount of time that is granted, but no sooner are we safe inside our house or the storm releases its pent-up anger. A brief period of complete silence is followed by deafening clangs of stones beating on iron; huge rocks are hurled with force against our roof. The sound is terrifying, but I have learned that our sink roof amplifies any sound and I am not too concerned. Until I look outside that is; then I watch in horror as chicken-eggs size hail tears through our heavily laden arbor and bounces off the patio; arm-thick branches are ripped from their trees; and a thick canopy of leaves is shredded to smithereens as if delicate fabric is pelted with a thousand heavy golf balls. A lightening spectacle sets the sky aglow in yellow streaks; and thunder claps, like a drum set on full blast, hurt our ears. The wind is violent; it shakes the peaches loose and hurls them in the mud. I know nothing else to do then to sit with the dogs, and comfort the one that is shaking like an aspen leaf. The ferocious force of the wind and the terrible sound of the hail subside 20 minutes after it has begun. I open my eyes and see water enter our living room and hear the electricity go out with a bang.

Outside we find nothing but destruction; the red patio has turned green with leaves and is covered with broken furniture; the ground is littered with ripped-off branches and splattered fruit. It is eerily silent; no sound breaks through the air. Initially we react by rote, clear a path to drain water; call in the cats who preferred their own shelter during the storm, inspect beams near the house for breakage and clear the gutters from debris to avoid further water damage inside the house. Signs of life reappear after about an hour: I hear the plaintiff call from a mom-bird whose fledgling chick I have rescued that same morning from the jaws of one of our dogs, obviously the chick did not make it; we hear the muffled sounds of people calling and crying; we hear a continued trickle of water draining off any remaining surfaces. Next we check our crops: the peaches which were ready for harvest lie bruised and battered on the ground; the lush foliage of the vines is tattered to pieces and the vineyards look like a bunch of scrawny cats; my vegetable garden has been leveled to the ground. It has seen better days.

That same evening we listen to the first devastating assessment of a neighbor grower: vines are damaged beyond repair for this year and up to the next two years to come; the few hanging peaches, which were scheduled for a first pass of harvest, are so severely bruised that the factory will not even want them; the plums have so many broken branches that they are at severe risk for an attack by any existing micro organism. We will have to start spraying immediately and we must plow as soon as a tractor can enter the fields. That evening, with the stroke of a pen we are declared a disaster area, which will make governmental funds available to aim for survival of the farmers and their workers. How many will achieve that goal remains to be seen.

The aftermath of the storm brings a mixture of sorrow and joy. It is such a time of raw emotions that any misplaced or misperceived word; any moving event brings tears or anger, both barely kept at bay, to the surface. We experience incredible support of people who rally around us and offer us what they can. Yet, despite it all, we show signs of shock and depression. When the first helpers march onto the property, shovel in hand so to speak, I break down and cry.

It is a week later; we have heard many stories; how the storm was heard and seen for many miles around; we have seen with our own eyes how the storm has cut two paths of incredible destruction around a peaceful center, the eye of the storm, which suggests a tornado. We have received calls from people who saw the storm and its devastation on the evening news. The area of Calle Larga has been the center of the world for a brief period of time; then life moves on, even though it remains the center of our world, a fragile one at best.

This time I see no silver lining, perhaps it should be ‘no silver lining yet’; I know times will turn better again, yet I cannot see or feel beyond the ‘here and now’ of this devastation. Outside Christmas reigned, hopefully with good cheer for many people; there is a New Year to come. If we failed to send you a holiday card, for whatever time is left of it I wish you the best. Above all, to you and to our ailing world; may the New Year bring peace, health, happiness and a measure of prosperity. I wish each of you good times to come, Helena

Helena Louwe

Calle Larga Vieja, Atuel Norte

Mendoza, Argentina

hlouwe@hotmail.com

WINTER 2008

In the winter of 2008 we take another major turn; finally we are able to live the life we envisioned before we left the States. Already many things fell into place over the three years we have lived here, but one important part was missing: travel. This winter we had the time and the opportunity.

Early in the season, immediately after our major crop is in, we travel to Chile, to meet up with friends in Santiago. We travel south-American style, by bus. Long distance travel by bus beats everything; the busses are comfortable, part of a trip is by night, so we can sleep, and we donot have to put up with bad traffic conditions. Argentina has a very high accident mortality rate, and although these are not all due to road accidents, they are certainly a major part. Bus travel is safe, fast and cheap.

Our trip to Chile takes us over the Andes, skirting the foot of the highest peak in the entire Americas, Aconcagua, where many mountain climbers come to try their luck; along extensive stretches of the now dilapidated wooden railway tunnels, once built by the Brits to protect the tracks from continuous built-up of snowdrift; and down the scariest, steepest, most numerous hair-pin turn descent I have ever witnessed! Simply sitting on the downward side of the bus, inexplicably attracted to stare down this unbelievable abyss makes me lightheaded. Over the mountains and along the sunny slopes on the Chilean side we enter wine country where to our surprise the vines still have red-tinted leaves and large bunches of fruits. Our vines back home have already been hit by a first frost which has turned the leaves in a brown crumbled mess and gives it a wintry look. The long switchback descent gets us to the plains just before Santiago, where we arrive when the sun sets.

Santiago takes us by surprise, a busy colonial city with wide boulevards and beautiful parks which allow for leisurely strolling; stately buildings alongside tree-lined avenues; a colorful vegetable market with a variety of dried and ground-up spices; a fish-market where fishmongers peddle their ware and where we eat a local dish of fish stew. We are shown around by our friends who arrived here a couple of days before we appear on the scene. After Santiago we head for the coast; four drivers to one rental car!

Travel never fails to amaze me; it is the combination of planning and chance that gives way to surprises one never dreamt of encountering, often the highlights of my trip. It is this serendipity that enchants me. Also this time it does not disappointment me; two unexpected gems on this trip. One is a small coastal village, nestled in a cove along a crescent of sandy beach, just south of two bustling tourist towns. It is a tranquil fishing village where life of yore still beats strong. Colorful fishing boats return with their catch as we arrive late in the afternoon and we eat fish fresh from the sea. We stay in a cabin ill-prepared for autumn guests, but we beat the cold of the evening wrapped in blankets, heated discussion and two pits on the stove lit. The other surprise is a walkway along the ocean carved out in rugged grey-black rock, rimmed on one side by beautiful gardens and on the other by rolling turquoise waves crashing in white foam on the unforgiving shore. On the swell of one wave I spot a sea-otter smaller than I have ever seen, rolling with the punches as it were. A small island just off the coast harbors Humboldt penguins and many ocean birds. To have been here just at this time is a true delight.

Our trip back to the farm is with obstacles. The first winter storm has covered the Andes mountain passes in snow, and this, combined with a national holiday which has many Chileans travel to much cheaper Argentina, strands us at the border for many hours. We arrive in the early morning in Mendoza, much later than planned and our hotel room has been taken by other travelers. Accommodations in the entire city appear to be booked; no room to be had; but the resourceful hotel manager finds us a place in a lovers nest', a hotel room that you pay by the hour, in this case by the half day. Checking in is an alienating experience; every effort is made to ensure privacy which means that guests are shielded from all prying eyes and possible recognition. Reservation details are made through an intercom; then a wooden stick appears through a hole in the wall, a cloth bag attached to its end, the taxi driver tells us it is for payment. I am aghast. Long curtains in front of each room's carport shield the view of a license plate; and to top it off, when I wander around the narrow grass strip outside the property the following morning I see each worker avert their eyes and turn their back on me. They have been instructed well!

Back home we return to the groove of each day with visitors who help with the winter chores. We see the farm through their eyes which is a pleasure. People love to stay and, unexpectedly, we find visitors who allow us a second trip. This time we head north to Salta and Jujuy, Argentinean provinces with a history and geography very similar to the American southwest. It’s a land of tall saguaros cactus; erratic rock formations; colorful canyons and misty cloud forests. Large indigenous populations have remained intact with a culture distinctly different from that of the Spaniards whom they, centuries ago, fiercely opposed. We visit the places described in the travel guides, worthwhile to see for sure, but it is again the unexpected turns we take that make the highlights. A detour in the desert following a sign that invites guests to come for a meal. We wind through dusty streets up a steep incline to an ordinary home, where a family welcomes us to enjoy their home cooked meal. We sit in the shade of a steeply terraced vineyard while goat is prepared, chatting with the man of the house who entertains his grandchild while the women do the cooking. We thoroughly enjoy their hospitality. That same evening we end up on a centuries old finca, tucked away at the end of a dirt road, where a couple of stone dwellings form a tiny hamlet. Beyond, the mountains with only a goat’s trail leading into the wild. We marvel at the night sky so bright that the name Milky Way makes sense; no light pollution for miles which leaves us an unencumbered view of a milky haze punctuated by millions of twinkling stars. In the morning I walk through a bone-dry creek bed and end up at a spring where water seeps from the desert floor. Women fill their buckets, birds come for a sip and plants drink their fill. It is the only spot where I see human and animal activity. The rest of the hamlet is quiet and tranquil. Back in Salta we enjoy the city and its folkloric and musical scene for another couple of days before we return to our rural life.

It has taken us a full three years to get comfortable here, living the life we planned for ourselves. This winter’s travel has reassured us that it is all possible, just a pinch of extra work and a handful of organization and it works. We are grateful to the world travelers who enjoyed what we wanted to get away from for a bit. Wherever one goes and whatever life one chooses, something always beckons!

We are heading into spring with joy and trepidation; one never knows what the new harvest season will bring, but we are confident and happy. The same to you my reader, may your next season be happy.

ANOTHER SEASON’s END

We have finished another harvest season and as we clean up and balance the books we feel intensely grateful. Again luck was with us to a large extent; we had no major hailstorms and our crops did reasonably well. A late spring frost damaged part of the vineyard and decimated our plum crop; still….. we had an inordinate amount of peaches which fetched the best price yet, and our grapes made us the money we need to keep the finca running. Not everyone can say the same. High prices were due to a shortage of produce which means many people had bad luck. Living here we have started to realize that frost and hail do not hit everyone equally; there is clearly a corridor where bad weather hits more often, something the neighbors had been telling us, but which we mistook for misplaced local pride. Some foreigners have bought in these areas and slowly but surely we see expats leaving for greener pastures. It is sad, but it underscores the tremendous risks we all have taken and the unbelievable luck we have had!

When we bought our farm we had no idea what we were in for; we had not the foggiest notion about the amount of work a farm of this size requires, nor did we know that by having a variety of crops we multiplied our workload with each. Fortunately we also increased our chances for survival. This year when our plums yielded nil, nada, zilch, our other crops came through with flying colors. We were secretly happy; now, instead of a continuous harvest from November through April, we were able to take a break during February, the month designated to harvest our d’ Agen plums. And a break we took. We left the farm with a house sitter, who reveled in the stillness and tranquility of the place, while we took off for the mountains. This time I thoroughly enjoyed the trip.

We camped in the high Cordillera, in a valley rimmed by high peaks hiding on and off behind cotton-puff clouds. In the morning we awoke to snow covering the mountains and icicles on our tent. We took a hot bath in the natural thermal pools overlooking a valley so vast and tranquil that it took our breath away. Such a quiet pastoral setting where time had stood still and only nature presided. Condors flew overhead, thousands of geese grazed on verdant pastures and took flight en masse in the evening sky; sheep, horses and cattle roamed freely only to be driven back into the depth of the valley. Each evening we saw gauchos on horseback galloping by with dazzling speed and agility and we marveled at the team work between men, horses and dogs. We reluctantly left this enchanting place to return to the chores on the farm and our major harvest still to come.

The grapes were harvested in two long days of hard work, but all went well and we are cleaning up. We are preparing our last remaining grapes for homemade wine and the chopped up fruit (must) sits in four large barrels in our backyard. We pressed some of this must to make mistella, a dessert wine that is created by adding pure alcohol to unfermented grape juice. I have already bottled 20 liters of this sweet wine; a quantity that reflects the big hit it was last year. Our backyard is like a beehive with a multitude of bees swarming around the barrels, dipping into the liquid and often drowning. The dogs lap up the spilled–over juices and it is a miracle that no-one has been stung yet. I have picked the last remaining figs for canning, juiced pomegranates for a sweet winter drink and am picking and storing our walnuts to be shelled on a rainy day.

It is always a pleasure when the harvest season starts, but even a bigger joy when the season ends. We feel a sense of pride and accomplishment with the pantry full and tranquility returning. Now, with all the work done, we are off again, this time to Chile to meet up with friends who have come to visit us from the States. We are happy and content; we have come quite a ways since we arrived here only two years ago.

HOLIDAYS

The holidays are fast approaching and as we harvest our few remaining apricots and tend to our grapes I realize how far away Christmas really is. Planning Christmas in 38 degree weather (>100 Fahrenheit), with our minds and bodies occupied by early summer chores, is more than a stretch. Nothing is more alienating other than the actual festivities.

We live in a predominantly Catholic country, so Christmas is unquestionably the highlight of the season. The festivities start on Christmas eve around nine o’clock when large droves of people take to the road to gather with family. In our area people are mainly on foot; you see large families on the move, adults with sleeping babies in their arms, large shopping bags in hand, older kids taking care of the little ones. Outdoor fires are lit everywhere and a thick grey smoke hangs over the city and town while the smell of barbecued meat is carried on the wind. By 9:30 the streets return tranquil when every one sits down for their evening meal. The featured dish is suckling pig, and if that is too expensive other meat will do. Tranquility will not last long; at the strike of midnight a cacophony of sound blasts the town when firecrackers explode on every street corner and in every backyard. It is Christmas and with the traditional drink in hand, apple cider, holiday wishes are exchanged, everyone kissing anyone. This well-wishing lasts about fifteen minutes after which the traditional cake, a ‘buche de noel’ is served. Kids may receive some gifts of Toby or Papa Noel. The festivities on Christmas Eve remind me the most of New Year’s Eve in Holland or the 4^th of July in the States. More than anything it seems a secular holiday; no church bells tolling like in Holland, no Christmas carols or church-going like in the States.

On Christmas day people take to the road again, now in car or by bicycle. The country side is their aim today for a swim in the lazily flowing rivers or a dip in the deeper irrigation canals. A pick-nick along a river bank to escape the summer heat in town is the name of the game. In our area people will flock to Valle Grande, a narrow stretch of red-colored canyon through which the Atuel river flows; another destination is Nihuel, a town bordering a large reservoir where people go for boating and fishing. We stay home this day, since the roads will be clogged and the accident rate drastically increases.

This year we will host the Christmas Eve party for an expat crowd; all our Argentine friends have their own families to go to. Observing the Argentine ways we will celebrate late at night to escape the sun’s heat. Besides, we have work to do the day of Christmas Eve; our irrigation turn ends at three o’clock that afternoon. We will prepare a barbecue Argentinean style in our steel drum, the assorted side dishes will be brought by our guests; a potluck American style, whomever comes can bring whatever they like!

From our first year here I remember that Christmas Eve is just another day on the farm; tractors will run from early morning until the sun sets, fields will be ploughed, vines will be sprayed and harvesting will be carried on as necessary. And although people are busy with farming chores up till the last possible minute, Christmas time does not have that frenzied feel that I remember from either Holland or the States. Few decorations adorn the stores or the houses for that matter, no trees, few lights, no baking of cookies to share, no gift shopping or advertising. Just two days to mark the event, one day to celebrate, one day for recuperation, then back to work we go. Arn calls Christmas here a non-event, I savor the blessed reduction to essentials: sharing a good time with family or friends.

To all of you my readers, wherever you are and however you celebrate whatever holiday I send you my best and warmest wishes for the season. May blessings light your day and may peaceful times be had by all. Helena

AND THE BIRDS AND THE BEES….AND THE FLOWERS AND THE TREES….

It is spring again, the third spring on our farm and the beginning of our third harvest season. The early plums have bloomed in clouds of snow-white froth; soon followed by masses of the rose-tinted petals on the apricot trees and the pink blossoms of peaches. The quince is leafing and our late blooming plums have buds ready to burst. I have harvested olives till today, but I am ready for a new season with its fresh crop of early summer fruits. Just a few jars of canned peaches remain and I have refused to buy the store variety now that I have had a taste of homegrown and home-canned fruits.

Our lives have become guided by the seasons. I no longer think in months of the year, rather I follow nature changing, a more reliable marker of time in the (for me) still alien calendar of the southern hemisphere. In the two years we have lived here we have become familiar with the rhythm of the land and we have adjusted to a more relaxed life. On sunny days I have dozed in our hammock under the canopy of an apricot in full bloom, lulled by a symphony of buzzing bees and the fragrance of honey perfuming the air. Our dreams come true; it cannot get better than this!

Twenty-two beehives were placed in the orchard to help pollinate the blossoms; bees and hives were trucked in from Buenos Aires. Hooded beekeepers in moon-suits with smoking cans on a stick tend to the hives on a regular basis and they startle the dogs into a frenzy of barking. For our efforts, just making our land and orchards available we will receive payment in kind, honey, when the season ends. The bees have been busy; we have had an exceptionally prolific bloom this year thanks to a cold winter.

The winter has been long and harsh. Only now, after living here in a stone house, do I realize the intensity of humid cold and a polar blast. A scene described in the book ‘Angela’s Ashes’ by Frank McCourt, where the children have taken wood paneling and flooring in their rented apartment to stoke the fire, which only provoked laughter at the time, now hits home. I also realize how much we have learnt and how much more attuned we are to the natural world in its many forms. I now look to the west and the evening sky to get my weather report for the following day; a sunset in its full golden glory means I can pop in a wash during the night and count on a beautiful next day in which it will dry. The Cerro Nevado hidden in a circle of clouds means a polar blast is on its way and I hurry to get wood undercover. I have learnt to distinguish wood by its ability to kindle a fire, the heat it throws and the duration for which it maintains its warmth. No longer do I start my fires with the apricot wood we have in such ample supply; for that I go to the back of our property and find cane and poplar which burns in a flash, but will not last long. The apricot wood burns through the night and will last till the early hours of the morning; no need to have matches, just some kindling and fire will restart by itself. Even though we have learnt much, we are put in our place at other times, just to prevent us from getting smug!

In early spring, just after Arn has come back from a trip to the States and he is irked by the dried weeds rampant in one stretch of land, we decide to burn it as we have seen many neighbors do. We head with tools and matches to the irksome land; it is a narrow strip bordered by apricots on one end and poplars on the other. We check the direction of the wind, which is towards the apricots. We start near the poplars still a good distance away and I set fire to the grass. Arn has headed back to the house for one thing or another. I am amazed how quickly the fire soars and how rapidly it moves. I have counted on the wind shifting but apparently not sufficiently; sure enough it turns and the fire runs towards the poplars, intensely dry after the winter months. My efforts to stop the flames have little result; the fire slithers and crawls and snakes around, straight for the poplars. Once the flames lick the lower limbs of the tree I get scared, after all one tree hugs the next and then the next and the next, fencing a good part of our property. Arn comes running back and together we are able to stop the fire’s way up the tree; it helps that the wind has shifted to its original direction. We dig a trench and are able to contain the fire within the dug perimeter. When the job is done I wipe sweat of my face and swear ‘never again’. It was a scary endeavor!

We have settled in, into the community and onto the land. We are comfortable: we know where to go and whom to ask; we lie in the hammock and sip our own wine; we share the table with neighbors and friends and delight in their company and the fruits of the land. Dog food is no longer a problem and neither is our trash; we turn it into energy and compost for the land. Who would have expected this miraculous turn around just two summers ago? We head into our third harvest season with confidence thanks to many helping hands along our way.

GOING NATIVE

It is a quiet day on the farm, the first gentle rain after a 2-month hiatus keeps us confined to the house. Work on the land has stopped, and although this is already a quiet time it is even quieter yet. We do not mind, rest is welcome and we are comfortable in front of the fire, doggies and all. We have learnt to make a fire Argentinean style, which consists of a large tree trunk stuck into the glowing coals, sliding it in as fire consumes the end; at the outset you have a tree lying about your floor, two of them if it is very cold. We love this relaxed approach to housekeeping: no sawing, chopping or splitting wood, no measuring and fitting of smaller logs, just dust and ashes. But who cares? ….....one sweep and it is out the door. We have started to grill our meat over the glowing coals in the fireplace; for today ‘chorizo’ is on the menu, a gift we received from a nearby ‘carneo’. No shopping, no pots or pans to clean. We love the easy-going lifestyle of the countryside and we have come to adopt many of its ways, although not all.

Animals are dealt with in a rather matter of fact way, nature in general takes its course. Many dogs and cats are left to wander the streets and fend for themselves, something that is hard to take for a Westerner. It is not that people here are mean to their animals, in general they are not, but unless they are an economic asset, they are not a priority either. Many people will not spend their hard-earned income on veterinarian care; spaying or neutering is mostly not done. It means that male dogs are welcome but females are not, after all who wants an extra litter of puppies. We have now two additional female dogs in the very early puppy stage. They were left along the street and wandered onto our property. We had already passed along many strays that came our way, but these last two pulled at our heartstrings and we let them stay. Their presence is an adjustment for all, especially on a day like today when front-row space in front of the warm fire is limited and elbows or paws are needed to make place, but their antics are charming and they warm our hearts. We must learn to harden ourselves, lest we end up like two of our Argentinean friends who have now a pack of 27 running in their backyard!!!

This year we made our first wine ever; a slightly fruity, clear-red liquid, 150 tasty liters of it in all. We almost did not get started; we were tired after the main harvest and had no interest in walking all the grape rows again. Moreover the instructions we found in a wine-making book seemed so complicated that it left us with a headache before we even started. Fortunately we ran into a Swiss couple on their world tour. They camped on our land for several nights and were itching to keep their hands and minds occupied. We did not object. They gleaned the vineyard of several hundred kilos of grapes, while we provided lip-service to helping. The book instructed us to get the grapes ready for fermentation that same day; but we had started the process on the spur of the moment so we were not prepared. Many ‘necessary’ items were missing or we did not know what they were. But in Argentina one does not despair. Our neighbor came over and showed us the ropes. Nothing to worry about: given the cold weather the grapes will hold out for at least another week; necessary items can be found or borrowed from relatives near and far. Buying is optional but strongly advised against. And then……..it turns out wine-making is easy: get a big oil drum, scrub it with sand, line it with something impermeable, chop up the grapes (grinder if you have it, or…..if you lack this implement, your own two feet), throw the chopped grapes, pits, skin and all into the drum, let it sit and ferment, using a hollow stick so that the fumes can escape. We borrowed an antiquated press for the next step, wringing all the fermented juice from the grape pulp, a process that took several days, each time you pass you give it a crank and another, and another and….. This fermented juice then sits for another 10 days or so to let the impurities settle and out comes your first clear wine, which you let age in a barrel of any type until you deem it fit to drink. Et voilà, ‘vino casero’, home-made wine Argentinean style; ‘vino patero’ if you used your feet for crushing the grapes. No pretense or snobbery; no hype or fads; no adherence to fashion just the simple creation of a drink that suits your palate with left over grapes and borrowed tools in three easy steps. I love it!

The final work of the season will be the preservation of black and green olives. We have several olive trees for family use which are now heavy with large, plump black fruits. The green ones were picked early in the season and the neighbor took about 50 kilos for processing. Preservation of green olives looked even more daunting than making wine! The black olives will be picked in the next couple of days and bartered for cold-pressed olive oil; about thirty kilos, or however many will fit in a pillowcase will be preserved in salt so they dry out and shrivel to half their size; when ready for use they are plumped up with oil and vinegar and any flavoring to your liking. Each house has its own recipe; I’ll have to add mine.

Nothing here gets done half-hearted, nothing is in small quantities either; we work with buckets, barrels, drums and vats under the clear skies outside with frost on the ground and ice on our breath. Yet when done you have something to show for, a full year’s supply or so you think. If we keep tasting the wine at the rate we have been there will be nothing left at the time it really gets good. But then…….another year and another harvest will come……all too soon!

Santé, proost, cheers …to good health and joyful living!

DRYING OUT

Rain kept the entire country in its grip for five days. It was the rain of the century! Older folks remembered no such rains nor did written records indicate any such downpours since data was kept. The sheer quantity of water that dropped from the sky was devastating: crops were lost, roads and bridges washed away, roofs caved in and walls crumbled. The rains have long since subsided and the country has been drying out; repercussions however are still felt and will be for a long time to come.

We were lucky: our roof held, our house stood and our grapes set tight. We experienced some minor inconveniences but nothing major broke or gave us trouble. The roof of the barn, our only mud structure, started sagging on the last rainy day. Water had found its way through the roof and was eating away at the mud bricks which hold the supporting beams; slowly but surely the roof tilted. Arn buttressed the beams with large tree trunks laying around on the property; it still sits this way, we are waiting for someone who knows how to fix this type of wall. Many houses in the area, constructed of mud bricks had similar problems; obviously in this desert climate long stretches of rain are not expected.

The worst of our problems was the financial loss we took on our grapes, many had gone sour and many were lost from its vines. We had to wait for a week before we could harvest and by the time the ground was dry and the heavy trucks could pass it was La Semana Santa, the week before Easter. Our first vineyard was harvested on Easter with chilly temperatures and mud still covering the furrows. Harvesters showed up at early dawn and worked till sunset. No sun had warmed the grapes and the sugar content remained below the required sugar level affecting the price badly. By late afternoon the grade crept up and when Arn accompanied the last load of the day he was in for a pleasant surprise; the winery upped the grade, just shy of its mark, to a passable level granting us our fist ten-thousand kilos for a good price. And so it went from then on; half our crop was up to standard, half did not make it.

A final surprise caught us off guard about a week after the rains had stopped: ants! We had noticed a few carpenter ants, big black ones, creeping up the walls, along the beams and into the roof. Carpenter ants eat wood and will destroy the wooden beams supporting the house, much like termites. We let it go for a few days thinking the onset of cold nights would take care of it. Big mistake!! Apparently many took shelter in the dirt of the roof hiding from the wet and cold during the rains. When the ants crawling around appeared in excessive numbers we took action and sprayed with an insecticide said to penetrate the nest. Well, it most certainly did! Ants dropped from the roof into the sink, onto the stove and into my pots and pans, each fall accompanied with a clear ‘plunk’. Cooking became a dance; it rained dead ants! Daily we swept away a black layer and even though I marveled at the heroics of the survivors (they haul their dead friends straight up a wall), I was more than happy to see them go.

It is the end of our harvest season for which we longed with all our might. We welcome the relative quiet of fall and we are looking forward to a season of rest and relaxation. Nonetheless, we look around at our work and know we have come a long way. Life here is no longer an unfamiliar blur of all work and no play. Part of our dreams has become reality: this summer we set outside on our patio under the shade of the grape arbor around food-laden tables in the company of friends. It took us a more than a year, but we have arrived!

To each of you: have a wonderful spring and enjoy the summer to come.

VINEGAR ON THE VINE

The un-seasonal rains have kept coming; an economic disaster for the area, for many small farmers and for us. This year will go on record as an exceptionally bad year for wines. Rains have pelted the entire province for many days at a time when the grapes needed sunshine and warmth to produce the necessary sugars. Wineries now are accepting grapes with a grade much below standard. Weather has been the vineyards’s enemy this year.

We have not even harvested, our soil is too muddy to be passable for the heavy trucks. Besides everybody is backed up and harvesters and trucks are in short supply. The pickers, a traveling band of nomads many from Paraguay have left the area to try their luck at other places; and, who can blame them? Daily we walk the vineyard and test the grapes for sweetness, many have turned sour: vinegar on the vine!!! As we speak another rainstorm is releasing its pent up water, annulling the drying of the earth which we welcomed with such great joy. Our harvest scheduled to begin tomorrow may be cancelled if the rain does not stop. Even the fact that the bodegas remain open during Easter weekend might not help us.

The atmosphere is gloomy. For a couple of days a frenzied rush on the vines and in the vineyards was taking place. Shouts of harvesters filled the air; beeping of horns to announce last call before departure of a truck; and, a low-rumbling sound of heavy diesel engines were our constant companion from dawn to dusk. Hourly we heard the creaking sound of heavily loaded trucks slowing down for the ruts in front of our house. People are trying to save whatever they can but with every step another obstacle is thrown in their path. Silence has set in again after the latest rains; an ominous sign. I am not easily given to depression, but this potential crop failure of our only moneymaker at this very last stage of production is too much. To calm my nerves I am writing this blog and to occupy my mind I have been laying a jig-saw puzzle. It is a trying time, but it will pass.

Every cloud has a silver lining and so does this one: the patio has returned to its original red sparkling color, the rains have washed away the sand; in addition, we are glad that we opted for a dry climate with occasional disaster instead of the rains of New Zealand, a country which had been high on our list of places to live. We would not have lasted with so many a rainy day!

COMMUNITIES

Earlier this month my father passed away, and, as expected, I could not be present to pay my last respect. Sadness was tinged with longing for the one place on earth where I belonged at this time but could not be. Many people helped to make a connection possible without actually having to be present, and I am forever grateful. My father was an avid traveler with an eye for natural and cultural beauty and he was remembered by friends throughout the world. We received words of comfort and remembrance from different continents and he would have taken great pride in this convergence of sympathy from far-away places on his behalf.

In the local community word traveled fast and people showed up at our doorstep to let us know they understood this was a time of sorrow. Later this month the mother of our neighbor passed on and we found ourselves in the strange circumstance of being present at the wake of someone we hardly knew. We have become part of everyday life in this community. It is here that we live and belong, but at times strong ties pull us many miles across the world into communities of which we are part as well. We dwell in the embrace of many social circles and we cannot always choose where we want to be.

We are extremely lucky to have landed in this agricultural community with its strong sense of connection based on family ties and a shared livelihood with enormous inherent risks. Weather dominates our daily existence and hardly anyone can escape its fate. During the wake men were talking grape prices within minutes of exchanging ceremonial words of bereavement while women bemoaned the early onset of fall and the real possibility of losing a crop. Currently rain threatens the grape harvest and even though people are worried one knows that nothing more can be done, it is a matter of waiting and trusting and hoping and praying. It instills a certain kind of fatalism, a trait most prevalent in this area, something I would not have understood before. Under the pressures of living a farming life with so many risks the people in this community have become helpful, jumping in with advice and practical assistance; they are wiling to share and go to great length to give someone a break. One does not ask for things in return when one has extended a hand and one does not pressure someone to return borrowed goods. All will be equalized in the long run is their take; after all, we are all in the same boat. That this attitude is rather uncommon we hear from people in the larger community of San Rafael as well as from expats we know. Some expatriates starting their own finca have met with taciturn hostility that demands rather than gives; that will have you fall flat on your face without blinking an eye; that will find joy in your failure rather than extend a helping hand. In these areas you are on your own and life can be extremely harsh. Not even success may give you a break instead you could become the target of envy. It is very difficult to make it under these circumstances, nonetheless some do.

The expat community is a varied bunch of people. Most have come from North America and Europe to settle here. We are all immigrants, the last wave of many settlers that has come before. We are a community of sorts. What we have in common is that we have left hearth, family and friends to make a new home away from home. It makes for some commonality of experience. But it is also where commonality ends and differences begin: differences in national and cultural background; differences of gender, class and social status; differences in personality and personal history. I find myself gravitating towards those individuals who have chosen a similar existence, which is a life on a farm. It is the common experience that binds us, the common failures and frustration; the hardships and triumphs. It is with them that I feel most connected no matter their background or personality. Unfortunately very few foreign women live this way of life, the ones that do are a precious few and I share my daily stories with them. Women from the local community are my biggest allies; they point me in the right direction when I have no clue, they help me out with advice and practical knowledge; they lived this life for many years and have many answers. Speaking the language has been of immeasurable value and learning the local dialect and colloquialisms with its Indian influences has been most appreciated. It is my window to this world, however clouded it still is.

I have started to adapt to this life and with it comes a certain measure of loss with the world to which I once belonged. Experiences no longer match; my point of reference has shifted to what matters here. I am most acutely aware of this when we have oversees visitors whose outlook and approach to matters is naturally tied to another place. It makes for comic and disconcerting intermezzos. One friend has started to provide the very romantic with a sort of reality check in an effort to prevent big time disappointment: be prepared for loads of labor, mountains of paperwork and possibly, nothing to show for. Life here in a nutshell!

While writing this blog rain has poured continuously for five days, the vineyards are flooded and the sugar content of the grapes has dipped far below the required grade. At this time of year, total crop failure is a real threat and people are desperate. We hear heartbreaking stories: harvesters called in to pick the grapes out of the dirt where they had fallen after high winds kicked the ripe bunches of their vines; owners trying to prevent total loss of their harvest by cutting away the rotting fruit in a bunch; a hailstorm devastating a vineyard while harvesters were in the field to pick the fruit. We will not go to this extend, but we can relate.

MANAGING OUR FARM

We have a 7-hectares (17-acres) farm consisting of several vineyards and various orchards: peaches, plums and apricots. Each fruit has a slightly different lifecycle, which means that we harvest from early summer to late fall. Moreover, each variety has different requirements and is prone to different pests and diseases; hence, we find ourselves continuously faced with different tasks. There is little down-time on our farm! Prior to moving to Argentina we employed a manager to oversee the property and a contratista who managed the day-to-day activities. Since profits on a small farm are marginal at best we decided to work with only the help of our contratista. We became our own managers in August of last year for simple economic reasons. It has been an interesting experience for better and for worse.

We knew nothing of farming; we managed our 1/2 acre garden in Longmont, containing various fruit trees and vegetable plots, in the secure knowledge that the grocery store around the corner and our day-time jobs would provide for our basic needs. I love gardening but our livelihood did not depend on it; I could skip chores, neglect tasks, abandon the crop according to mood, weather or whim. Here we cannot afford this luxury; barring natural calamities we have no excuse for crop failure, others besides ourselves depend on this land. Constant vigilance accompanies our work. We have complicated our lives immensely since leaving the States.

Our neighbors applauded our decision to take the farm into our own hands; they, on many occasions had urged us to do so; in their view nothing could be as simple as farming and having a manager was considered a waste of money. They promised their help, we just had to ask. The problem with this scenario is our lack of knowledge, we simply do not know what to ask and when. We scan our crops and check agricultural alerts; we listen to experts and so-called experts without knowing the difference! There is so much advice that we donot see the trees through the forest and in making choices we are not always aware of the implications nor of our preferences. We do not even know we have preferences until it hits us square in the face. The haircut we gave our apricot trees is a case in point.

We have about 45 apricot trees lining various sections of the vineyards. Older apricots are stately trees with large overhanging limbs which form an archway providing shelter for wildlife and protection from the blasting sun. In the shade grass manages to survive providing much needed coolness in the evening and a welcome break in the monotonous tan-colored stretches of soil. The grass, native to a desert climate, grows from ever-spreading tentacles which grasp the soil tightly preventing the wind from kicking it up. I like to linger under these trees, lounging in their shade reminds me of the endless summers of childhood when time stopped and no care clouded the skies. Unfortunately we changed this landscape.

Apricots, in the current market, have very little value. In addition, harvesting tall trees is a messy business. Fruits on the higher branches ripen first, but they are very difficult to reach and pickers are not keen on climbing the trees; harvesting is aimed at the middle and lower branches. While harvesting, the overripe fruit from the top splashes to the ground when the tree is shaken, and, in no time a juicy, sticky pulp covers the grass. The question posed by many around us: why keep apricot trees as a cash crop? Why not plant a crop that has more value?

We learnt quickly that chasing the market is not such a good idea; trees need several years to mature and then some to reach full production. By the time the trees are useful as a cash crop the market most likely will have changed since, in many orchards, similar crops were planted at the brief time of its economic high. The value of a fruit crop vacillates with the natural lifecycle of a tree; one rides a wave of good earnings till the mass of newly planted trees reaches maturity causing the market to plummet. Then, at its economic low, trees are ripped out and a crop with better prospects is planted, starting a new cycle with similar results. We resisted advice to join this merry-go-round for our apricot trees; however, we took the suggestion for their rejuvenation to heart.

Rejuvenating these trees involved topping them, a severe cutback of their main branches, intended to encourage growth at a lower level and facilitate easier harvesting. We employed several laborers to do the cutting, all local people who took pride in their work and admired the ‘clear’ view and ‘clean’ horizon. My reaction to this drastic cutback was entirely different; instead of ‘clean’ and ‘clear’ I saw amputation and my response was rather visceral: a surge of anger, then my stomach tightened and I could have cried. Words of consolation that in a couple of years the trees will have regained their vigor could not comfort me. I miss their stately presence, I regret the loss immensely and I realize that the farm with all its plantings represents for me something different than the narrow economic view of gains and losses. Awareness comes slowly and the hard way.

In addition to apricots we have two hectares of plum trees; one field with three year-old plants and about 600 trees planted this last winter amidst our peach trees. These saplings have kept us busy. First, at the outset of the growing season an agricultural alert warned us for spider mite, something that causes fruit drop before the fruit is mature. Spraying was strongly recommended, but since we had no fruits yet we did not spray. Still our plants looked funny, the leaves had turned an unnatural color and some leaves showed damage. My agricultural almanac showed a lack of water; thus we ploughed the land and rerouted the water channels to accommodate young shallow roots. This seemed to help, but we had created another problem: someone told us that the roots were now exposed and the exposure would certainly damage the plants; we ploughed yet again creating a little border of soil over the exposed roots which returned us to the initial problem, shortage of water to the plants. Then someone came by and determined that something entirely different was afflicting the plants, a fungus. We bought a fungicide, sprayed the plants only to hear that the remedy was useless for this type of disease. By this time we felt thoroughly battered, drifting about like the proverbial leaf in the wind. We learnt that different people have a different take on the problem, assessment differs whomever you ask; we put our actions on hold and it appears that the plants are coming around, budding out as if it were spring! It leaves us bewildered, but makes a very strong case for the low-key approach of farming we see around us; one does not jump on every problem immediately, one allows nature to take its course. It is an approach that disagrees with our Western ways which desires control of all stages and at all time. I am not sure that the expenditure of tremendous amounts of energy is warranted, after all, most of our plum trees are returning to normal and a 15% failure of newly planted trees is not unheard of. Yet our contratista has noticed a welcome increase in production of our fruits and an improvement of its quality since our arrival. If only we knew when to expend our energies and when to let things go.

This year our apricots and peaches brought in a record crop each; moreover, market prices are up since hail and frost wreaked havoc on many orchards in the area. We expect good earnings and finally a positive cash flow, but getting the money is a different story!!! Receiving payment for delivered goods is an excruciatingly slow process and it is not unheard of that payment stalls altogether. This year we have to fight to receive money for our peaches. We brought in eight ton of good fruit, almost all first quality which begets a higher price per kilo. No problems were mentioned while we delivered our fruits, Arn and the fruits were received with smiling faces. However this changed after an incident occurring following first payment. We had sold the fruit on the condition that payment would be in cash at time of harvest. Contrary to agreement we received a check. Since a check is as good as money in most countries, we did not think much of this. However, banking in Argentina leaves much to be desired and many tricks accompany the trade. Banks and banking transactions are viewed with utmost suspicion. The check we received was as good as we could determine until a friend pointed out the cash-in date printed in bold on the front of the check; this date lay four months in the future. In addition we were told that the check holder has a limited time frame to cash this check, a week or so, and cashing in later presents its own problems, the least of which is the reliability of the payee. We decided to return the check and request cash as agreed. We did not know what we were in for; the request was considered as a personal affront and we had to argue long and hard that the agreement had been for cash in the first place. Reluctantly we were given the money and the altercation was smoothed over by saying it had all been a misunderstanding. Nonetheless, retaliation came quick and decisively. That same evening the truck of the fruit buyer rumbled into our driveway and without descending from his vehicle the owner announced that the fruits we had brought in were of inferior quality, at least 10% of it could only be accepted for jam making. Secondary quality fruit is sold at a lower price and therefore, he would transfer 10% of the total tonnage we delivered to this second rate price. He added that he was willing to show us the fruits and teach us how to distinguish the diference if we would be so kinid to show up by eight the following morning. We were stunned; the last of our shipments had been at least a week prior and our earliest delivery more than six before. How could he possible make a case that so many fruits had been of secondary qualit at this timey? We smelled a rat! We ignored his veiled attempt of couching this action as something that could be construed as kind-hearted; instruction on how to select fruit by quality, if necessary, should have occurred many weeks before. This was mustard served after a meal! We showed up at the next scheduled payment time and received a second installment in cash.In addition we received an accounting of the outstanding amount still due. Arn scrutinized this reckoning and was appalled at the accounting; many cases of fruit had simply disappeared. This was such blatant thievery that we could not let it pass. Since, we have been in many times to fight our case. Many errors had to be set straight on top of arguing the arbitrariness of the 10% decision. We have been steadfast and insistent and we are slowly making progress, the money keeps dribbling in. Nonetheles it has been a hard case to crack! Our former manager laughs and tells us this is what it takes. Our neighbors and friends in the local community assure us of the same: this is the way, the Argentinean way one might add. Each of them does battle every year; it is the name of the game, we will have to join the pack whether we like it or not. After all having a manager had advantages, unbeknownst to us, he took the coals out of our fires.

YEAR’S END
Early December I am called back to Holland where my father has fallen seriously ill. In the frenzy of securing a ticket on short notice I am sharply reminded of the disadvantages of a life so far away from loved ones, family and friends. Even though we chose with our eyes wide open and even though I value and enjoy our new surroundings, the location is a cause of rupture and disruption as well. My unexpected trip shows the fault lines of an expatriate life. On our farm apricots are ripening and with continued hot weather a harvest is expected by mid-month; Arn stays behind to take care of business while I cross half the world to be with family in my native country. Arn and I celebrate the holidays miles apart.

The long trip, the circumstances, the time of year, and, in addition, the fact that we have celebrated our one-year anniversary in Argentina put me in a reflective mood. Moreover, being brutally confronted with the very obvious differences in weather, society and culture make reflection inevitable and comparing almost inescapable. At times my mind short-circuits and I grab in the wrong bag of words, ritual responses, habitual answers, but then, the universality of people’s emotions, the basic good-will of most and the willingness to reach out especially during this time of year provides me with stability and connection.

Our one-year anniversary in Argentina has come and gone; we would have let this day pass unnoticed were it not for our British friends who arrived at the same time a year ago. They throw a party. Three couples are invited, all of whom settled in the region November 2005. We ran across each other in the expat community which is still relatively small. Our paths have been in many ways similar; we all struggled with water at the onset of our stay, sometimes too much as in leaking roofs; sometimes too little as in not a drop from the faucet. We talk about our obvious ignorance of farming matters, our lack of basic knowledge of techniques and implements: we are shown the grapevines tied upright along supporting wires instead of along as is needed; we hear of the (mis)-use of a tractor for treetrunk removal with the unintended result of the engine dropping out, the trunk was hooked to the wrong end of the tractor! We add our own tale of misfortune, a break-in and the subsequent stealing of Arn’s mountain bike. The locals strongly suspect our handyman whom we had hired despite many warnings. These warnings were accompanied with a gesture that has become so familiar since; an index finger pulling down the lower eyelid of one of the eyes while invoking the word ‘ojos’ (eyes). Being on the look-out is the message. Well, we were on the look-out for awhile but, as time progressed we relaxed into our normal routine of giving the appearance of vigilance while in fact being rather sloppy. Anyone aware of our casual ways could take advantage when the opportunity would arise, and so they did.

We all had to deal with the rather primitive conditions in which we found our homesteads at arrival; all of us had outright fixer-uppers. Moreover, we all owned acres that had been either abandoned or totally neglected. We all are still renovating, remodeling, or planting, and we all are in dire need of a break from it all. Our remodeling adventure went out with a big and unexpected bang. Our very last job involved laying a cement patio connecting our house to the barn; an area through which the stiff southern wind whirls daily, depositing heaps of loamy sand from the vineyards behind. We had lived with this daily nuisance for awhile, tossing ideas around that would solve the problem while creating a natural environment that could take weather’s abuse. However, fantasies of soft contours and lush plants had to give way to something that could stand up to the harshness of the elements: cement. I hated and hate the feel and the look of it; to placate me we agreed on staining it red. Our handyman assured us he knew the process, had done it before and insisted on applying a coat of red pigment mixed with oil on top of the dried cement. Since he had many times shown us the local ways we reluctantly agreed to something we had severe doubts about. We have regretted our decision ever-since. Red dye tracked all over the patio, our white-haired cat turned into an unnatural looking redhead shunned by her sister and mother; the black and tan coat of the dogs transformed into a deep chestnut which rubbed off against the creamy yellow of the newly painted house. Big blotches of stain were left in the ditch creating a red wave with every irrigation turn. It surprised me that the leaves of the nearby trees did not turn the same color!! Our efforts to solve the problem made matters worse; water applied to the area soon turned the graveled driveway into a sea of red, drainage carefully calculated to run away from the house had a mind of its own and pooled where we did not expect or want it. Our ‘contratista’ dryly commented that water always finds the lowest place. We had amply shown we did not know.

Fortunately a welcome transformation took place in the company of our new-found friends, people with similar experiences in a strange and sometimes harsh land. Our mishaps and misadventures, our stupidities and clumsiness, our hardheadedness and sheer bluster were spun into stories resembling stand-up comedy. Our frustrations turned into laughter, our irritations melted into a comic strip in which we only faintly recognized the underlying hardships. We had a long afternoon of sheer joy and hearty pleasure.

I traveled this past year to the two places where I lived for an extended period of time: Holland and Colorado. In each place people asked whether I long to return and my answer each time is an unequivocal ‘no’. I miss each place in some ways: the charm of Holland, biking or iceskating along the canals, its picturesque old towns and ‘brown cafes’, its quirky politics and spirited debates; I miss the natural beauty of Colorado’s mountains with hikes along its streams or blooming meadows, its musical scene in majestic natural settings, and surprise, surprise, I even miss the snowstorms, I would have loved the blizzard of December 2006 with snow on the treetops and a few extra days off of work. Most of all I miss friends and family especially around the holidays. Yet I love the adventure we have chosen, I love the place where we have landed with its beguiling simplicity, its uncompromising climate, its natural abundance and its tight-knit community. Each life comes with its drawbacks and so does this one; simplicity comes with much extra work, the natural abundance of our fruit crops is courtesy of the climate and again much hard work, the tight-knit community comes with responsibilities, sharing and availability always.

Missing friends and relatives is the hardest and the easiest remedied; our place is finally in a condition worthy of guests. We are looking forward to sharing our bounty with whomever heads this way; we offer a farm life in a quiet setting with opportunity to use muscles or hands, we cater to the senses with fresh produce and home-made goods, and above it all you can ski here in your summers and raft and kayak in some of the dreariest months of your winter.

Despite it all we are extremely lucky, 2006 has been good to us. To all of you: happy 2007, may your year be prosperous, healthy, happy and filled with love and laughter.

Helena; hlouwe@hotmail.com

MOUNTAIN TRAVEL
In late spring, after the land is readied and nature does the remaining work without our intervention, we take another trip. This time we head to the south-western part of the Mendoza province, the state where we live. It is the land of massive mountains, snow-capped peaks and narrow passes; it is also the land where the two rivers that flood the narrow strip of fertile land around San Rafael originate. We have done our homework; we have read the tourist guides, informed ourselves online and gathered advice from friends who headed the same direction. Thus prepared we set off.

Each time we leave the boundaries of the oasis of vineyards and orchards between the rivers Atuel and Diamante, I am aghast. The change from fruit-producing greenery to barren land devoid of obvious signs of life is so sudden that it is a shock to the system. I have not gotten used to this desert-scape despite the frequent remarks that the desert has its own beauty. My mind’s eye pictures the saguaros studded Arizona deserts, the golden hills of the Colorado sand dunes and the canyon-lands of Southern Utah, but this dusty land does not compare.

We drive for many miles through endless wasteland, only an occasional ramshackle dwelling dots the land. We pass a drying lakebed; its intense white reflection captures our attention from afar. Getting closer we notice a small settlement and a sign indicating that salt is mined; even here, in these harsh conditions, people live and work. I cannot imagine. The landscape changes drastically as we get closer to Malargüe, the mountain town where we plan to stay. Life sustaining water runs through the irrigation ditches and tall poplars and birdlife appear. Beyond the borderline of trees we see fields of wheat. Malargüe was once a wheat producing community, but since the land was covered by 30 centimeters of volcanic ashes in the early 20th century, it abandoned farming, instead its focus became tourism. An old dilapidated flourmill at the outskirts of town is being restored to serve this purpose. We have come here as tourists as well.

The town itself has not much to offer, its main charm is its unspoiled simplicity. We are here to see the sights of the surroundings: the majestic mountains; a flamingo packed lake; and, a witches’ cave. We head straight for the tourist office, we have learnt by now that beauty is only revealed when one knows where to look. We request a guide to show us around. An older gentleman shows up, every bit the mountain man: tall, muscular, leathery tanned with piercing blue eyes and a long white beard. He speaks perfect English with an old-fashioned British accent. We are utterly surprised until I see his name, which I mistake for Dutch, but no, he is of Danish descent, born in Argentina as a second generation immigrant to a Danish father and a British mother. He learnt British English at home from his mother.

We set off to the Laguna de LLancanelo, a shallow lake where Chilean flamingos breed. The lake is located in a vast expanse of dry desert shrub surrounded by cone-shaped hills of reddish and gray colored rock. It is the land of 800-volcanoes, among which the snow-capped top of the Cerro Nevado. Our guide takes us first to one of the volcanoes and we climb to its rim along a rocky path of sharp-edged lava stones. On top we have a view of the lake which is much larger than I expect. We are here to spot flamingos. At first I see nothing but then when my eyes are adjusted to the glare of the sun on the water I start making out small islands of coral pink. These are flamingos tightly huddled together to withstand the midday heat; they appear as a circle of color in a glass-colored lake. The circles will break apart in late afternoon when the individual birds disperse to feed. We select three large groups of flamingos, then head down the mountain to find a site for closer viewing. The walk down is precarious, the lava rock sits atop sand and does not allow for a foothold; it is easy to slide and roll down. Moreover, the desert bushes are not the plants one wants to grab onto in case of a slip. The guide shows us how to descend and also which bushes are without thorns, just in case. He himself is 83 years old and he tells us he needs to take his time and deliberately chose each step. He used to run up these hills but no longer. We take our time.

By late afternoon we arrive at a viewing site along the lake; we have hiked about a mile along its muddy shore to get closer to one of the flamingo groups we spotted from up high. The birds are already feeding and unfortunately have moved much farther into the lake; even through my binoculars I get but a distant view. I am sorely disappointed; I apparently expect a zoo where animals are on display for the spectator’s pleasure. Just as I ponder the ridiculousness of my reactions I spot an undulating banner of pink somewhere in the distance; a formation of about twelve birds is flying low over the water, necks curved, feet outstretched, wings reddish pink with a flutter of black. They are heading straight for us. We could not have been better positioned to take in this splendid view; the sun is behind us and a wall of dark maroon mountains functions as a color-coordinated backdrop. It is a marvelous spectacle of color and grace. We follow the waving ribbon until it disappears out of sight. I feel blessed to have been here at the right time and in the right place. We head back for town and a late evening meal.

The following day we are on our own. We decide to explore the area by car and by afternoon we will visit the witches’ cave, La Caverna de las Brujas in the nearby mountains. The track through the mountains is more of an adventure than we expect; the land is hilly, the road, a main thoroughfare to the east coast, is in dire need of maintenance. We bounce around potholes and over slabs of stone, scamper over gravel and slither through mud. We notice many herds of long-haired goats along narrow trails in the steep hills; scraggly sheep with their young dart about. It is spring all right! Around midday sheepherders come down the mountain for lunch; some are on horseback, many on foot. At one time I see a shepherd on horseback in full gaucho attire: leather saddle and stirrups, a poncho and the military green flaring pants, a sombrero to cap of his looks. He is a handsome man. I realize that nothing here is done simply for looks though; this is still their way of life. We notice the shelters where animals are rounded up for the night; large corrals securely enclosed with a wide, sturdy fence of tightly woven branches, tumbleweeds and thorny bushes. Refuge against the harsh elements and wild animals; pumas still roam this land. We venture deeper into the hills until we arrive at our turn-off for the caves.

The landscape changes completely; we enter a mountainous track and find ourselves encircled by splendid white peaks against the backdrop of a blue sky. It is rocky as always but here evergreen bushes give some color to the land; the bushes are heavy with buds which carry the promise of red blooms. Behind small rocky outcroppings a minuscule plant flowers in pink. It is here that the caves are located. When we step out of the car we have to hold on for dear life; the wind howls so fierce that we can barely stand straight. A guide coming out of a stone building to greet us, tells us, that this wind is nothing, it always blows like this; wait till the snow comes and the below zero temperatures hit, then life is almost impossible for humans. At such times they have to remain indoors with all shutters securely closed and everything bolted down until the storm passes. We are near Patagonia.

We enter the caves with one other family and a guide, each a hardhat with miners lamp on our heads. It is no sight and I suspect it is not for function but rather to add to the general experience of caving. I am sorely mistaken, never in my life have I been on such a climb-over, drag-through, crawl-under, get-wet kind of outing. I bump my head repeatedly against the very hard rocks and I am exceedingly glad that the small torch on my hat illuminates my path without the use of my hands. At one point the soundness of the minimum admission age of nine is demonstrated clearly; the arms of the youngest member of our group are too short to easily reach the ladder on the opposing wall over an immensely deep abyss. She is very scared, fear written all over her face and I am glad that her father is in the position to reach out and lift her over. The guide entertains us with ghoulish and scary stories and I realize it is the 31 of October, Halloween in the States. The caves are the perfect setting for this day. When we enter daylight the weather is changing, the sun still shines but dark clouds gather and the temperature has dropped a good 10 degrees Celcius. We hurry back to town before the snow hits.

We spent our last vacation day in the mountains visiting Las Leñas, a ski resort considered the Argentinean equivalent of Aspen in Colorado. It is here that the South American jet-set gathers in winter. The setting is spectacular, although the ski-town leaves much to be desired. We visit La Laguna de la Niña Encantada, a high mirror-like mountain lake that has become a place of pilgrimage. A grotto of the Virgin Mary is set under the natural overhang of a towering rock; folded pieces of paper and colorful cloths, each representing a promise to go with a supplication, are tucked into natural crevices or tied to a branch. Photos are stuck behind riverstones and candles are lit in front of a blue draped statue of the virgin. Beliefs are strong and Catholicism is alive and well. It is a peaceful setting until two busloads of schoolchildren are dropped off for a short recess. Tranquility is replaced by exited screams and loud chatter produced by jubilant kids on a school-outing. Time for us to hit the trail home.

We return to the heat of the plains and find our finca well on its way to our second harvest season.

EXPLORATION

Settling in Argentina came with the promise of travel to its wild hinterlands and beyond. In addition, we have an entire new continent to discover with places of indescribable beauty of which we have seen but pictures. To date we have not gotten much farther then the local tourist attraction, the Cañon Atuel, on a crowded day. Recently we made it a point to go exploring.

From our property in wintertime, when the poplars at its perimeter have shed all their leaves, we see the dimpled top of a wide-based, cone-shaped mountain singularly placed in the landscape. I have looked at this mountain many times without knowing its name; it has the appearance of a volcano that has blown its top not too long ago.

Locals tell me it is the Cerro Nevada and yes, it is a volcano. Extinct? One is not sure. I hear from someone that a soil sample taken from her land revealed a white layer of volcanic ash not so deep below the surface. In my research before departing I placed all seismic and volcanic activity at a convenient distance from our place, but I was sorely mistaken. One Saturday morning when I visit the local grocer I am greeted by the excited owner whether I felt it? Felt what? Did I not feel the shaking and the trembling of the earth? Did I not hear the sound of the land? No, I heard or felt nothing. He pushes a salami hanging above the counter into a wide swing to indicate its sway during the time of the tremor. That is a pretty good swing I remark; yes 4.9 on the Richter scale. I think he is joking but later his tale is confirmed. When I inquire I learn that a small village located only 15 km from our house disappeared in its entirety during an earthquake mid-twentieth century. It has been rebuilt but that is none too reassuring!

One Sunday morning we pack a lunch, grab our raingear and hiking boots, several bottles of drinking water and set out to explore the Cerro Nevada. The map indicates a secondary road leading to a small settlement, Punta del Agua, located at the foot of the volcano. To find this road we drive along a gravel thoroughfare, through sleepy towns where only chickens and pigs are busy in the streets; we move along adobe settlements which become poorer as we head into drier land; we finally reach a sign on which we make out the name of Punta del Agua. We are on the right trek.

The road is initially hard-packed dirt, bordered by low rounded shrubbery, on their branches brown-papery leaves covered with a thick layer of dust. Thorny bushes and an occasional spindly tree fill out the landscape, dry riverbeds intersect the land. No footpaths or animal trails. There is wildlife though, but of the dead kind. Soon into our journey I notice a skeleton, bones bleached white, of a rather large animal, a cow or a horse. We see many more bones along the way. At one point a maroon-colored hide forms a tent over the skeletal remains of a cow. Black vultures circle the sky. It is a forbidding land, hardly any water, little food. It places the tale of our manager in proper perspective. He is a descendent of a group of Welsh immigrants who almost all perished of thirst during their first winter in Argentina. They settled along the coast and despite the ample presence of sea water, the desert just beyond the ocean did not yield a drop to drink that winter.

We cross over many washes where water has not passed for a very long time; dirt has become fine sand in which it is easy to get stuck. Arn negotiates these washes expertly, but not without trepidation. He has been stuck in the soft sand of a neighboring farm, unable to dig out without the help of an available tractor. No tractor in sight in this forsaken land. We have driven for more than two hours without seeing a soul. We step out of the car, sniff the air for water, scan the horizon for signs of life, strain our ears but only hear the wind, no other sounds, not even a bird just the soaring vultures. Back in the truck I steal a glance at the gas gauge, still a half full tank. I am increasingly anxious, no longer enjoying the day or the clear blue sky.

We see the Cerro Nevada looming ever closer, a dusting of snow covering its flanks. The road starts climbing; large blocks of black basalt are now strewn along the land, fewer trees dot the landscape. The land is stark and dark in every shade of grey and black. It reminds me of the land of doom pictured in the Lord of the Ring. When we barely make it out of the bottom of a drywash I scream out loud. I want to turn back; rather know what we are in for however long it takes than continue on an increasingly nerve-wrecking path. Arn agrees, but proposes to hold out a little longer, the map indicates a settlement nearby, if we donot get there within half an hour we will turn around.

We move on, winding along a narrow path until, around a bend in the road, we see a truck, heavily loaded with firewood, slowly making its way towards us. The truck creaks to a halt when we flag it down; three men on the front-seat, all heads turned our way, not saying a word. We show the map to inquire but receive just a blank stare; then I mention the name of the nearest settlement and ask how far. Still one hour. Road passable? A nod and a toothless smile. We may as well go on.

It is late afternoon, we have not hiked one step, so, when we are back to the familiar landscape of bushes and low brush we stop to stretch our legs. I look for a trail where we might walk, hike about 100 meters along an open stretch of land and am stopped by a sharp stab in my foot. An incredibly long thick thorn has pierced the sole of my hiking boot and the skin of my foot. When I look closer at the surrounding vegetation I notice enormously long thorns (2-3 inches/6-7cm) jutting from the branches in an amazing multitude. It makes the desert impenetrable and our hiking endeavor impossible. Moreover, I have lost my desire to hike; this adventure is way beyond my liking.

We happen upon the settlement indicated on the map; we find it along an intersection of two dirt roads, a few tents and trailers sit alongside large earth moving equipment. Apparently this is a road construction site. We see few people; it is Sunday, a day of rest. We decide to move on, but not before, just out of town, being stopped by a car sitting sideways across the road, blocking our way. The driver eyes us, then our vehicle and asks whether we have tires for sale. We are taken aback by this question, and a little leery; after all we are many miles from civilization. No need, this man who owns a sizable plot of land, is a rancher, he has a herd of free-roaming cattle, doesn’t get to town much and is always in need of tires. We only have the tires under our vehicle and need those to get back home; with a handshake we part ways.

Another hour to Punta del Agua and since it is our only way out of the desert we continue on. We arrive early evening; the town is an unexpectedly delightful little place, an oasis of flowers and greenery in the middle of a vast stretch of desert shrub. The town’s water supply is run-off snowmelt from the volcano. Creeks are gurgling alongside the dirt roads, people are hanging out in their gardens or amble on the main plaza. It is late though, we have little time to linger; we make a swing through town before heading back to the main highway, which takes us to our home in less than two hours. We should have taken this road to begin with! So much for heeding our desire for exploring and adventure! Next time we will ask before setting out.

Only a few days later we meet Jorge, a mountain climber, camper, hiking guide and rafting specialist. He tells us of the beauty of the land, of the mountains and the wide open spaces where he disappears for days on end; he listens to our tale of disappointment then laughs and tells us we have gone the wrong direction; next time take the opposite way west and north and we will find what we are looking for. Our next journey is planned!

TIMES A-CHANGING

Spring is in the air. The farm is bustling with activity, the days are getting longer and the sun is reaching higher. All fields have been ploughed; the land is a bare brown, prone to dust-devil swirls when the wind kicks up. We planted 600 plum trees on a beautifully warm sunny day; 80 more will go in this week. We enclosed our ‘potager’ (flower and vegetable garden); I dug trenches to guide the waterflow, then planted strawberries and English peas. New floodgates are installed and water again floods our land. We are ready for a new season.

It is not only human activity that indicates spring is on the way, it is more than anything the changes in nature that make me notice. In Colorado, around this time of year I would smell fall in the air. I donot associate early spring with smell, rather the quality of the light changes, the sounds are different, the air seems lighter. The almond tree shows that my senses have not betrayed me; one early afternoon it bursts into glorious, white, unbridled bloom. Hope for an almond crop this year is slim; it is unlikely that we will have no frost in the next three weeks. Every morning I visit the tree and check its blossom, hoping against hope that the low temperatures did not affect it, and every day it stoically remains in bloom. I am overjoyed until I learn that it is not the blossom that is susceptible to frost, rather it is the earliest formation of the bud, when the fruit is nothing but a droplet, high in water content, that frost will decimate its development. Several more risky weeks to come.

I have noticed the changes in birdlife. In Colorado the western meadowlark, a yellow-breasted bird, heralds spring from every high post it can find, singing its cascading song loud and clear into the world, even when the ground is still dusted with snow. To my surprise I find a similar bird here. One day from the top of the apple tree I hear a meadowlark-like song; a red-breasted bird sings its joy to the world. Despite the difference in color it turns out the same bird. I see the first hummingbird (Dutch: kolibri) of the season drinking from a salmon-colored blossom in our front yard. It is a glitter of iridescent green, purple and red. It returns several afternoons before we lose track of its where-abouts. For a couple of days now, parrots have checked out the old caracara nest in the walnut tree next to our house. The nest is a rambling affair of sticks and twigs balancing precariously on one of the lower branches. The parrot flock consists of five birds, noisily chattering as one can expect from these social birds. They make communal nests so they can keep up their talk. I am glad when I see this flock move on. To be awakened day after day by these loud-mouth birds is not my idea of a pleasant morning. We see the black-necked swan on a nearby lake and I know spring is around the corner.

The dogs are changing too, from a cold-induced lethargy to wide-eyed curiosity. They greet each new day with unrestrained joy, tumbling out of their sleeping quarters every morning full of life, in expectant anticipation. They jump in front of the tractor, play in the newly traced furrows, dart behind butterflies, and chase the cats in wild abandon. In general they are so exuberant that they would knock us off our socks if we let them.

We notice and feel a change in ourselves. For the first time in these many months since arriving on the farm Arn and I feel more at ease. Just like the air, we feel lighter, better able to deal with whatever life throws us. We know now that however we plan the day something unexpected will happen, just this morning a little kitten wandered through the kitchendoor with a mind determined to stay. But the constant interruptions no longer disturb us; we just change with the flow and ease into the new situation. We also know that a solution will come, mostly of its own accord. This more relaxed state of mind frees us; after opening my birdbook a couple of months ago following my first break, we are now ready for travel. We have planned a short trip to celebrate Arn’s birthday and are eager to explore the neighboring city of Mendoza. We are looking forward to music and museums, luxury and leisure, bookstores and tango bars, wine and a well-cooked meal without lifting a finger. We are excited to expand our horizon, once again, and we are glad to get a break from the never ending chores on the farm. A new harvest season will soon enough be upon us!

To all my readers; a happy summer ending, may life be good, your crops plentiful and your work well rewarded. Que te vaya bien. Helena

WIRED, HOOKED and ……….

........connected! Connected by Internet to the outside world that is. The local whiz-kid set us up at home, wireless and all. We are ecstatic; a home connection for a reasonable fee is almost unheard of in the rural areas. Due to the young man’s technical wizardry and his insistent mind can we now sit at our dining room table, each behind our own laptop, and let the world come in. And, what a world it is!

The news explodes into our living room, invades our kitchen, our garden, our minds; the world’s hot spots present themselves at our dining room table and our conversations become fiery and make our bloodpressure rise. I was not prepared for this onslaught. I know, we have choices, we can select other sites, find more calming influences and yet…..; the world hooks us. Its unrest is omnipresent, it permeates all news and information sites; there seems no escaping. I am saddened by the increased suffering created by more wars and violence; I am thoroughly disheartened by the inability of our leaders to calm the raging fires, to find a way out of the deep-dug trenches of unwavering political convictions; and, I am disgusted by their instigation of and contributions to the situation; oil on fire.

I am reminded of a conversation I had this summer with one of the workers. Seated on the rainwater cistern in the warm sun, feet dangling, biting in the juicy red, ripe flesh of a pomegranate, spitting the seeds in the nearby garden while two young boys were practicing their slingshot skills and a pigeon fell out of the tree. He had never been good at shooting he said; his aim was unsteady, he never enjoyed practice. Besides he was not interested in shooting at ‘nuisance birds’. Then he added a comment that never left my mind: ‘whatever their nature, all creatures want to live’. How the conversation ambled from practice shooting to one of the more recent wars in the Falklands (Malvines for Argentineans) I do not remember, but I remember the connection to his previous statement that all creatures want to live. He felt strongly that the war had been a waste; that it had created hardships for people who were not interested in, or would benefit from, its outcome. He was keenly aware that the country boys who were summoned to war had fought someone else’s battle; some paid with their life. We sat silent for a long time, each with our own thoughts.

For one full year we were out of the turbulent fray of world news and its subsequent spin. For a long time we were so preoccupied by our own lives that we hardly had time to think, let alone be interested in events beyond the walls of our house and the fence of our land. News reached us nonetheless, carried by mail, by mouth, by paper, but without its pictorial images it did not have the gut-wrenching impact. Nonetheless, we were drawn into political discussions on many occasions. Argentineans are well informed in general and many have an opinion on a wide variety of topics, which they express without any hesitation. I fit right in! What strikes me each and every time is how different their take is on the political events of the day, different from the spin and the smokescreen talks; how astute they are in seeing through the lure of engaging words, how easily they detect the untruth of self-serving chatter. They do not take the bait; they have been there before.

The weather forecast was often brought by our workers; they would let us know whether to haul wood, cover the plants or plough the land. I also relied on predictions carried through the air. Our area has a large population of bare-faced ibis trekking to and from their feeding grounds, the flooded fields. I see them flying overhead morning and evening in small family groups. When the weather is changing, especially when a cold front moves in, they aggregate in larger flocks and fly in V-formation away from the cold. They flee only to return when weather improves. They are my weathervane, much like the Canadian geese in Colorado. I rather liked it that way.

We thoroughly enjoy the opportunity to check information online, now from the convenience of our home. Research is not something we could easily indulge in before: San Rafael has few bookstores and even fewer books in a language we master. Regretfully no libraries at all. I have missed the quiet atmosphere of a library, the smell of books, the ready available knowledge just a handreach away. The Internet fills the gap in some ways. Thus I was able to research the signs of canine pregnancy, with the baffling realization that we might have a pregnant dog. We were able to figure out the needs of our many plants and act accordingly; we can salivate over the opportunities for travel. So nearby and yet so far away.

Being wired has created delight and disillusionment; connection and thorough disconnection; it turns out a blessing and a curse.

OFFICIALLY WINTER

It is early July and winter has officially started. We have had a string of cloud-covered days and some rain. Rain makes life even more inconvenient than it already is: water seeps under the door and through the roof, muddy feet and muddy paws are everywhere, nothing remains clean for long and if one thinks that the windshield wipers work when one wishes, think again. We haul wood from the outside pile under cover of the shed and discover that the roof leaks like a sieve; the wood is thoroughly soaked and tending a fire becomes a struggle. We go through our butane gas tanks, used for a single gas heater, like crazy. Amidst this all Bianca comes into heat and attempts to escape at every opportunity. We watch her like a hawk, lock her up inside the barn and discover a better way of dealing with the dogs while gone. They like their new location.

We receive visitors with some regularity. The locals normally call late afternoon during their ‘media tarde’, which means mate with cookies. Overseas guests arrive at any time during the day and often stay for a meal. I have learnt to keep my pantry stocked and mostly I have soup ready for unexpected guests. Lately it seems that I cannot keep up. It is winter, less farm work, so more people make social calls. One in particular is memorable. Two older gentlemen, one of whom we have met on our very first day in town, come calling one evening. Arn has just stepped inside with an overseas guest, exhausted and drained after a day of physical labor and stress. I arrived home earlier, set the dogs free, fed all animals, started a fire from wet wood, straightened out our morning mess and put a soup on the stove. Just as I think we can sit down for dinner we hear a car in the driveway followed by handclapping, the local doorbell. We are surprised to see two gentlemen, pastries in hand, an invitation to tea. They step inside and the house is immediately filled to its rafters. Several languages are spoken at once and in my haste I forget which one I am supposed to use, Dutch tumbles out of my mouth where Spanish would have been a better choice. A jumble of words, a cluster of coats, outstretched hands, introductions and lots of confusion. All of a sudden Arn recalls a phone call he received a day prior, which he thought was from the carpenter, now he realizes it must have been from these gentlemen arranging their visit. The timing corresponds to the carpenter’s appointment for six, which he did not keep. Apologies and laughter.

While I run around to get refreshments and the overseas guest crashes asleep on the kitchen floor, the stage for the evening is set. The two gentlemen are in their seventies and long-time friends, they worked many years in the same place in town; now they are both retired. They could not be more different; while one is distinguished, amiable with an old-world flair, inclined to in-depth conversation and personal talk, the other has a rapid-fire brain bursting at the seam with encyclopedic knowledge which spills out at any opportune moment. We travel around the world at lightning speed; from Leningrad to Moscow, from Rawalpindi to Islamabad, from Rotterdam to Scheveningen, from Mauritius to Argentina. The world map is spread out on the table and we all peer with far-sighted eyes. An amazing variety of topics is brushed upon: music and zoology, dance and politics, social systems and telephone codes; we haphazardly jump from one topic to the next country to the next topic etc. By the end of the evening my mind whirls with bebop and jazz, tango and waltz, Watergate and Iraq, prairie dogs and armadillos. Then the lights falter and we sit in a pitch-black house, not unusual on a rainy day, but, since it does not rain that often I am not prepared. Time for the visitors to go. As we say our good-byes to these seventy year old gentlemen I am exhausted while they can still party. I realize my mind travels in a much slower lane. The soup sits forgotten on the stove. We have dined on the dainty tearoom pastries they brought and cannot eat one bite more. We go to bed early.

The following day we are in town to pick up the first payment for our grapes; a miserable amount, twelve more to follow. Instead of selling our grapes for the abominable low price per kilo at time of harvest we opted to convert it to wine which then is sold on the international market in twelve equal monthly installments. It is a gamble, prices may go up or down as the market goes. Fortunately we only have to make the decision how to sell, the bodega does the rest. We would not have the know-how or the connections. The current market price for wine per liter converts to exactly the same grape price per kilo at time of harvest. No gain here. The grapegrowers are not happy and they make their feelings known by blocking the main road to Buenos Aires, which is the lifeline for fresh produce to the city. I understand their anger, the money for the amount of work is laughable, yet, I am not sure that the prices are set by politics and market manipulation as the Argentines seem to believe. I fear this low price might be all we can expect for the future, after all many vineyards are established all over the world, and in five years when the new stock is ready for production we might see a glut on the market. Some claim overproduction is already here. Rumor has it that France has a wine-reserve that would cover a year’s consumption in the US. We just plug along, what else can we do? Our vines are pruned, some poles are replaced and the vineyard is being readied for next year’s production. We hope to beat the odds with a variety of crops; an additional 600 plum trees will be planted to replace the peaches which are nearing the end of their productive years.

The winter has not been cold enough according to the locals; we hear a steady stream of complaints and concerns. Trees that produce stone fruits, fruits with a centerpit, need a good winterchill for production, which has not happened yet. The risk is an early bloom followed by a late frost, a deadly combination for any fruitgrower. That the entire region must have had a warmer winter than usual becomes evident when out of the blue the re-opening of the irrigation canals is announced well before schedule. The snowmelt in the Andes has been early due to high temperatures; the large water reservoirs are filled to capacity. Many people in our area have been caught off-guard; not all the ditches are clean yet. Everyone drawing irrigation water is obligated to contribute communal labor for canal-cleaning and maintenance. The work is assigned proportionally to the amount of water drawn. Arn and our contratista have completed our obligation, but announce upon their return that many have not yet fulfilled theirs. It is no surprise, since usually the floodgates are opened by early August. We do not want our irrigation water yet since we need to keep the trees dormant till most risk of frost has passed. Water now will awaken the trees, a sunny, high-temperature day will do the rest: force the trees into bloom, which, if followed by frost will kill any chances for a harvest. We are in a quandary. A solution comes the day before our first water turn. Several neighbors are planting new plum trees early, an option we do not have since ours will be planted amidst the peach trees. With new plantings on fallow land water is more than welcome; several neighbors have vied for our allotment and we have dispensed our water rights for the next two scheduled turns. A lucky break.

CARNEO

It is not long before I have a chance to attend another carneo. It will be a small affair; two one-year old hogs for a family of seven. I am intend on being present on the first day since I do not wish to miss the slaughter, but as I arrive at first light one pig has already been killed. The carcass is open and its butchering has begun. Dogs sit at attention; a caracara (carrion eating bird) hovers nearby.

Obviously this family has done a carneo many times before, each member understands its role, few words are spoken but the work proceeds smoothly and without hesitation. Only the youngest child of twelve receives at times instructions or is corrected. Occasionally a voice is raised if one is in need of something urgently, but this is rare. The father, who does the butchering, is very deliberate in his motions, looks and feels before he makes a cut, at times receives advice from his children. It most reminds me of a surgery; a head surgeon with his assistants.

First the liver and gallbladder are removed and handed to the mother who immediately separates the gallbladder and throws it on the roof. The caracara swoops down. Then the digestive tract is cut from its connective tissue, once all is loose the entire tract is removed in one piece and placed in a wooden crate. The mother separates the tongue, the stomach, the larger and smaller intestines and the urinary bladder. The tongue is laid aside while all other parts are taken to the vineyard and emptied of their respective fluids, then placed in a pail with water, vinegar and lemon. Again all motions are deliberate and careful, aimed at preventing damage to any usable parts. It is like an experiential class in anatomy amidst the sounds and sights of nature.

All parts of the digestive tract are thoroughly cleaned and later scrubbed with a combination of lemon juice and flour, a process which removes the inner lining and leaves the surfaces smooth and clean. The surgical team continues cutting and slicing until finally the hog’s insides look like a butcher store; a piece of cane is placed between the outer edges of the ribcage and the hog is hoisted onto a thick branch in a nearby tree. The younger son slings a stone at the caracara and hits its target right on. With a cry the bird moves from the scene. By now it has had its fill.

It is time for the second pig to be slaughtered but not before we all receive a small shot of mostella, a sweet wine, in celebration. Tables are cleaned, knives are sharpened and clean rags are provided before the pig is hauled from its pen. It has a piece of iron threaded through its nose, which serves as a holding pin and steering device; it cries in distress and the sow, its mother, which now has three other piglets to care for, responds; it rears up on the fence, tries to climb over but fails, then snorts loudly. The hog is lead to a wooden table where its feet are tied, its snout bound with a piece of rope, then, with one quick motion it is laid on the table, turned on its side and a sharp knife inserted into the jugular vein. Briefly it struggles but within minutes the fight is over and the animal lifeless. The mother catches its blood in a pail, constantly stirring to prevent coagulation; subsequently it is strained through a sieve so that only the ‘pure’ form remains which will serve as the basis for blood sausage, to be made today. Then the pig’s skin is cleaned with scalding hot water and with the use of a canning lid all hair is removed, the paws are washed and the nails clipped with tools from the toolbox. The same process of butchering follows with only one difference; this hog, from the same litter as the previous one, is considerably smaller and with less weight. It alerts the mother to look for its cause; disease or parasites. The reason is soon apparent; something that feels like an additional vein is found in the intestines. Everybody is made to feel and look, since this is a parasite and everyone should know its appearance. The intestines and everything related to this bodypart are destroyed in the fire. It is a disappointment, good food which cannot be used.

When the pig is hoisted to drain I decide to go home. Although the experience of the two carneos does not make me a vegetarian, hardly an option in Argentina, I cannot look at it as only a food processing event. Seeing the pig struggle for its life, its mother rear in defense, the presence of scavenging birds and the ultimate power that rested in this case with us humans, all make me pause and think of the utter fallibility of life. One expat who happened upon a similar experience told me how the butchers at the carneo he attended briefly said thanks to the animal just after its slaughter. I have not observed the same, but certainly I have seen a quiet waiting till all signs of life subsided before butchering, I have seen an awareness that all things come at a price, for some higher than for others. I see a certain reverence in the way one deals with food; one does not waste a scrap. My supermarket experience provided me with only 1/10^th of the full story.

BACK TO YESTERYEAR

I grew up in Holland during the fifties and sixties, a time of small-scale neighborhoods, of family meals and daily shopping; of seasons that were distinct and well-defined, when strawberries belonged to early summer and mushrooms to fall; a time when the bicycle was the main means of transportation, and vacations were few and far between. I recall the summers as hot and the winters as cold. Argentina in 2006, reminds me a lot of my childhood.

I am not sure that weather has changed that much, only that in many places its harshness has been mitigated by central heating, air conditioning and improved construction. In Colorado, where we lived since the 80s, many times colder than where we live now, I seldom wore a coat, not even in winter. I moved from a heated house to a heated car to heated offices. Stores and businesses were toasty warm, as were busses and airports and theatres. Here in Argentina I experience the coldness and coziness of my childhood. Our old farmhouse has thick stone walls, but no insulation; a vapor barrier protecting the house from moisture rising through its foundation is absent; both omissions create a constant sensation of damp chilliness. Wind creeps though the window cracks, under door ledges, and cold seeps into my bones. When I step outside it is often not that chilly; on a sunny day I can sit with a book in the vegetable garden by early afternoon, enjoying the peaceful quiet and the warmth of a low-hanging sun.

During the house renovation we removed the customary low-slung ceilings made of chalk-covered cloth; we opened walls to create bigger rooms; we removed doors and laid ceramic tile all in the name of beauty, airiness, and light. At times I saw people frown their eyebrows, wrinkle their foreheads; few however questioned our decisions but unmistakably a silent warning was signaled which we chose to ignore. We remodeled the place in the heat of summer as if there was no tomorrow, certainly not a cold winter to come. We are the proverbial city dwellers coming to live in the country, bringing our city habits, city tastes and city expectations. Fortunately I remember some tricks to deal with this damp cold. Curtains now hang in front of windows, blankets cover the drafty openings where once were doors; rolled up towels are placed in the windowsills and against door ledges; a roaring fire lights the fireplace, a pot of soup sits on the stove, and the oven bakes cookies on a low heat. Rooms are heated one at a time but the combined efforts create a cozy house where we find a measure of warmth and comfort. If only the chores did not take the best part of a day!!!

As our farmhouse in cold times reminds me of my childhood, so does townlife. Stores are small, often family-run businesses with a wide array of articles stacked high along walls, heaped in storage bins or displayed on a variety of racks. Shopkeepers start the day with a sweep of their sidewalk and place their wares on the street in plain view of all who happen to pass by. At times one trips over an errant broom, a wayward fruit. Fruitsellers with handdrawn carts are stationed on many corners and fruits are weighed with a handheld scale. Mate* vendors on bicycle go from store to store, filled thermos flasks placed in baskets hanging from the steering wheel. During siesta streets are swept and waste pails emptied by groups of walking workers, broom in hand, trailing a wooden cart to dump the dirt. At night I have even seen horse-pulled buggies completing this waste removal. Only once did a compacting garbage truck pass me by. Despite it all, the town has a look of disarray.

* mate = the national brew of strong tea

A wide variety of stores exist all specializing in the sale of one thing or another: bread, pastries, meat, vegetables, fruits, hardware, glass, cleaning stuff etc. Bakers sell bread by weight, potato chips by the ounce. Butchers cut meat while you wait and saw bones for the dogs. Dietary stores peddle dried herbs, medicinal teas and dispense advice when asked. Pharmacies make potions, salves, and tinctures according to specification as long as they have the ingredients. Bandages are sold by the meter and pills can be bought individually. One can find about everything if one knows where to look, which of course we do not. Little by little though the town releases its secrets, it is a matter of asking and trying many different places. More and more trees show through the forest.

Farmlife is yet of another era, a generation or two before my childhood. The neighbor once proudly told me how self-sufficient his family is, no need for much shopping, they are sustained by the abundance provided by their finca. We see how this is done when we are invited to a carneo, the butchering of farm animals and the preparation of their meat for winter. The carneo we attend is a two-day affair, of which we unfortunately miss the first, the day that the animals are slaughtered, in this case five pigs and a cow. When we arrive on the second day we find a barn full of people, all relatives and neighbors, bend over long wooden tables busy cutting and slicing meat. The people at each table have a different task to do: grinding grease to make lard for cooking; scraping meat from pigs’ heads to be used for head cheese; chopping organ meat to be ground for sausages. Huge quantities of ground meat sit ready in large wooden troughs. The woman of the house sprinkles fresh herbs from the garden and a variety of different spices over this meat, which is subsequently mixed with a quick slapping hand motion. Outside a fire is tended with the trunks of large poplars. Over the fire two huge kettles with boiling water serve a variety of purposes: tough skin is cooked tender; fat is melted to a soup like consistency which will harden to lard when cold; and stuffed stomachs are boiled to head cheese. I help the women with chopping and slicing, using a borrowed butcher’s knife which everyone is supposed to bring. By noon most of the meat is ready for its final preparation, but first lunch is served at long tables; every one joins. On the menu is barbecued meat from the just slaughtered animals, green salad, home-made wine and bread, soup as a second course. I find out that a carneo is always held during the early part of winter, when cold will avoid spoilage. I learn that the attending families are all living in a two-mile radius, each helping the others during these carneos; they have already completed five, this is the last of the season. I am shown pictures of parents, grand parents, children and grandchildren and am informed that the families are mostly of Spanish descent, some Welsh and Italian influences. After a leisurely lunch we are back to work; stuffing ground meat in cleaned intestines; filling pig’s stomach with chopped organ meat, sowing the openings shut with twine. By late afternoon many sausages hang under the rafters in the barn for drying, others are boiling. Ten hams are salted and stored in large wooden boxes to age. We break for a home brew of herbs with lemon and sugar accompanied by thick slices of a sweet bread. People get ready for the home stretch, still enough work to keep them busy till late evening. Arn and I are cold and tired and ready for home. We gather our uninvited guests, two three-week old puppies, who we find with overstretched bellies, barely able to move. We say our goodbyes, then, leave with a bag full of home-made sausage for our own parrilla. We will need to invite many guests, for which we will soon have an opportunity; the world soccer championship is scheduled within a week. No need to go shopping; this life of hard work has its own rewards!

LOST and FOUND
The day arrives that Bianca, the eldest dog turns up missing. She is eight months old and increasingly independent, taking off for whatever catches her fancy. When one morning Arn and I leave for town, the dogs remain unleashed since dark clouds threaten and they will not be able to find shelter if tied up. It is not the first time we let them roam free. In a few short hours, workers will be in the fields and at the house; we will return soon thereafter.

When we come home by mid-afternoon, Juanita, the younger dog, comes bounding down the driveway, ears flapping, feet pounding. One huge leap across the irrigation ditch and over the entrance bridge; then follows the usual greeting ritual for dogs the world over. We notice the absence of the older one, but do not pay much attention. I later ask the cleaning lady where Bianca might be: running in the fields with the contratista is her response. We get back to the chores of the day.

When the sun sets the contratista returns from the vineyard alone. He has been pruning the grape vines. Bianca is not with him, moreover, she was not at the finca when he first arrived. A first inkling something might be wrong. When she does not appear at the kitchen door when I start rattling pots and pans in preparation for our evening meal I know something is amiss. The first clatter of kitchenware in the late afternoon brings our dogs and cats out of hiding, wherever they are. Not this time.

Tonight is our last irrigation turn of the season; four hours of flooding the fields, two hours more than the customary allotment since the neighbor has decided to forego his turn. We are happy with the extra water; it means we can irrigate all three vineyards as well as the two orchards before winter’s rest. Usually we have only two hours irrigation time, sufficient only to flood half the property; tonight we can water it all. I hope for Bianca’s return before we start. It will be damp and cold, especially after nightfall.

During irrigation, furrows and ditches are opened or closed to regulate the water flow. Tonight our water turn starts after dark; work will be done by the light of a torch, in this case, a mine-worker’s lamp attached to the head. I see the light move through the vineyards, the orchards, the vegetable garden the plum field. We are assured that our entire property is walked tonight and anything amiss will be noticed. By midnight Bianca has not returned.

Our night is restless, we are keen to all sounds but nothing out of the ordinary occurs. By dawn we decide to search on foot. We will not cover much ground but we already canvassed the neighborhood by car the night before. We start north of our farm, cross a fence, then a vineyard followed by an abandoned orchard where native vegetation has reclaimed the land. Tall grasses wave in the wind, dew covers the ground, the first rays of a weak sun dry the mist in the air, turn the tops of the trees an amber hue. It is beautiful. Through the tall grasses several dogs appear, they eye us warily; most trod off. Bianca is not with them. We get a glimpse into dog world; now we know what our dogs were up to when no command, however strong, could urge them back to our finca once they were headed across the field. They held their own coffee klatsch in the morning, their ‘thank God it is Friday’ in the evening. We stumbled into their private hang-out, and it is posted ‘no need for humans’.

Our walk, although beautiful is unsuccessful. In the meantime we talk to the school kids, the neighbors, the farmers and workers in the fields. The word is out, not much more we can do. The general consensus is that the dog is ‘stolen’. When I am incredulous, after all, new puppies aplenty in this rural land, the answer is simple: farm dogs are always needed, and one prefers a grown dog for the job, not a puppy. I shake my head in disbelief; a healthy, vigorous dog turns out a hazard! Despite the local belief Arn and I remain convinced that something else is amiss. We keep on the look-out. In the afternoon I grab my bike for another search. I cannot sit still and let more time pass.

I turn south this time, steer my bike over dirt roads and head for the river. I cannot imagine that she has strayed this far, but then again who knows. Something edges me on. I stop at the riverbank located on a steep promontory. A vast expanse of spiny bushes, interspersed by the tall white plumes of pampas grass, borders a shiny ribbon of water, the blue-shaded mountains of the ‘Cordillera’, the Andes mountain range, as its backdrop. For awhile I take in the view, see the birds of prey soar through the sky, hear the chatter of finches in the nearby bushes. The sounds of nature are interrupted by a farmer whose land I have trespassed. I tell him my plight; he directs me to a narrow path where he has seen a ‘Montenegro’ a few hours earlier. I set off in the direction.

Not soon after my chat with the farmer my bicycle breaks down; one of the pedals has loosened and fallen off. I have no means of repair but my bare hands and try as I might the pedal does not want to stay in place. I must walk back. I decide to take the short way home, through the fields. I want to be back before nightfall. I carry myself and my bike across ditches, over fences, around pools of water; I trudge through the mud of irrigated vineyards, I trip over barbed wire and fall over branches; with intervals I call for the dog. No response. Before long both tires are flat, courtesy of the spiny bushes, once the hallmark of this land. By sunset I arrive at the farm empty handed, disgusted and defeated.

It is not long before I am urgently called outside. Bianca has appeared out of nowhere through the south-facing vineyard, wet and limping. Her hind leg is badly swollen, her eyes are sunken deep in their sockets and her snout appears hollow. Her pelt has lost its luster. If ever a dog could be pale she is yet a shade lighter. She appears in shock and soon she collapses. No injuries other than her badly swollen leg are apparent. The contratista suggests we take her to the vet by morning, but I assess there might be no tomorrow. We close the house and set off for town.

At the vet’s we are greeted with the comments: ‘boy has she grown’ and then; ‘this dog has lost a lot of blood’. We figured as much. The vet examines her and tells us that a fractured thighbone has severed the main artery to the hind leg. The swelling caused by its bleeding has clamped the artery shut and stopped its blood loss. She is lucky to be alive. With this type of injury not much can be done other then stabilize the fracture with a cast. We leave her behind while we go into town to eat. Late at night we return home.

It is a week later and much is back to normal, some added chores. I am amazed how quickly a dog returns to doing what it does best: running the fields, sniffing the dirt, carrying sticks and tearing up whatever we want to keep whole. We do not know what has happened; the local story has changed from thieves to hooligans: ‘someone has beaten her’. I take it with a grain of salt. It tells me what one assumes, not the actual facts. Time will tell how things will turn out; fortunately we do not know the future.

Helena
Atuel Norte, June 6, 2006
hlouwe@hotmail.com

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