After a couple of days filled with wine-tasting and partying, it was about time to have a couple of days of wine-tasting and partying and horseback riding. A long drive took the gang from the wine region of Cafayate to the cattle-filled hills of the Pampas, many hundred green miles. Rio Ceballos, and the ranch of Kevin welcomed us with open arms and an abundance of wine, as had been done for Drago passengers for fifteen years.
An Argentinian of Scottish descent, Kevin tended the ranch and its 6000 acres of land that had been in his family for a hundred years. His fondness for fine wines and meat and affinity with horses, combined with his entertaining story-telling and impeccable English accent made him an excellent host. During the first night's wine-tasting, he told of his family history, bits and bobs about Argentinian ditto, the Falklands and the insane dollar-to-pesos debacle. Intertwined was a game of guessing the essence and a whole lot of facts about the wines we were sampling.
Next morning we got up, ready for a day on horseback. Whether the horses were ready for us is a different question, but words from the wise say they were. Natalie, in particular, having grown up on a farm and ridden since before she could walk, was as giddy as a kid in a candy store. On Christmas. With its parents gone and babysat by its favourite aunt. Her enthusiasm was contagious and made the ride more enjoyable for the rest of us, most of whom had sat on a horse at most 2-4 times. As extremely well trained and calm as the horses were, putting a bunch of n00bs of various ages on horseback is going to stir some problems, but the rides were still fairly bereft of incidents. Other than Lee nearly got kicked and Keith, on the upper scale of age, actually fell off and onto his back, things went well. My horse Marengo would constantly try to eat, which they're not supposed to, and I had to tug the reins ever so often. Eventally pretty much all of us felt confident and familiar enough to actually venture a bit of canter (which is like third gear after walk and trot), and no one fell off.
Music and gaucho lifestyle goes hand in hand, but the local minstrels played neither country, nor western. Traditional latin music, including samba (which in Argentina is, quite contrary to the upbeat Brazilian type most of us would associate it with, a sad ballad-style number) and tango. Us in the audience got to participate playing the rhythm section, dancing was encouraged (it didn't occur as such, though there was much twerking) and I got to try the charango, a ukulele-like local instrument with five double strings. After the performance a jamming session took place, with piano, guitar, congas and harmonica, and a truck blues was improvised. After the talk of the war of 1982, I decided to thrum the strings of the A-minor, G, F and C and sing my version of Another Man's Cause, helped out by Carlos on charango and Jack on drums. And there was much rejoicing.
Similar to when you go skiing, after a big night out you still easily get up the next morning, ready and eager to shred those slopes, or rather in this case, ride those horsies. Before that, though, we had to catch our food for the night. The gauchos and gorgeous guide girls showed us the ropes, so to speak, and we all had our tries at throwing the lasso; first at a very stationary tree trunk, and then at very mobile calves. Some of us managed to snare the tree, but none caught a calf.
The day before had been spent in the lowlands, with quite a lot of trees, bushes and other vegetation, but this day we rode up, to the Top of the World, the highest point of the ranch and with a nice view of the surroundings, including a glimpse of Cordoba, our next destination. The landscape, much more grassy up high, and more windy, could easily have passed for Rohan. Other than the occasional appearance of potrosis (smaller enclosures of low stone walls), the whole experience was quite Rohirrimesque.
A stay at an Argentinian cattle ranch is not complete without a big-ass barbecue. Asado, they call it. It's a tradition, or an old charter, or something, and it's as meaty as a Belgian Blue. Different cuts of beef and some delicious sausages, downed with Malbec and the odd tomato made for an excellent last meal at the ranch.
As is my inclination when travelling, I tend to buy headwear. Sometimes ones of questionable quality just to get some protection from the rain and sun, sometimes nice handiwork, sometimes just a baseball cap with a logo from wherever I want to brag about. As the gaucho headwear is very defining, and I seem to fit in one, I bought a nice gaucho beret. At the same time, I contributed to the local schools, as the proceedings from the merchandise went straight to the community.
To summarize: I gauchoed up; horseback riding, guitar playing, meat eating, beret wearing, lassoing and wine-tasting at an Argentinian cattle ranch.
Fun factoid: It is well-known, to those who know it well, that Napolen's horse was named Marengo. The horse I was allocated was Marengo, and so one concludes that my ride was over 200 years old, and quite the equine celebrity.
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