Back In The Saddle

I was delighted to discover that my flight out of El Calafate wasn’t cancelled. I was not delighted to be flying in steady 50 MPH winds with gusts of up toe 70 MPH. I was told that these were fairly typical conditions for the area and that the pilots are well skilled in dealing with it.  As the plane bumped and dove and dipped (not unlike the ship in the Drake Passage), I did begin to question my atheism and some of my other life choices.  As I considered praying as a real option, I was reminded of Christopher Hitchens who when asked if he would believe in god on his death bed, said “ The entity making such a remark might be a raving, terrified person whose cancer has spread to the brain.  I care very much that people do not credit such things.”  Feeling like I couldn’t Hitch down, I didn’t pray and yet still survived the flight.  Although I did not praise the lord, I did praise the pilot.He was remarkable.

I had a three hour layover in Bariloche where it seemed every single seat in the waiting area was occupied, many by people significantly younger than me.  Do parents of today no longer teach their kids to give up their seats to adults, especially those of older vintage? I can glare and tut as well as any native born Brit, but it seemingly has zero impact on Argentinians.  I stood for over an hour until I had to do battle with a teenager over a newly occupied chair.  Physically, he probably could have taken me, but he was no match for the piercing death glare that was one of the most important things my mother ever taught me. 

The flight from Bariloche to Cordoba was pleasant enough, and I was sat next to a man who spends 6 months of the year travelling using a plethora of travel hacks that allow him to spend little to no money. That is pretty much his full time job. I was exhausted just listening to how complex some of these ruses are.  In Cordoba, my luggage appeared (again!) and I was greeted by my driver from Estancea Los Potreros which would be my home for the next three nights. 

I’d gone from 6 degree weather to 26 degrees in the space of a few hours, and it was fabulous to be back in warm, sunny climes.  The 45 minute drive wound through rolling hills carpeted with wild grasslands and trees suited to this dry landscape.  We arrived at the entrance to the Estancia (basically estancia means ranch) and my driver was delighted to find that I understood without being told the etiquette of opening and closing gates, (i.e. that was my job) as there were 5 gates between the main road and the hacienda.  After El Califate, Los Potreros appeared in the distance like a heavenly mirage.  Imagine you are stepping into a fantasy island set where horses and cows outnumber people, the hills are so green they make emeralds seem dull and the phone signal is as week as a cowboy’s promise to love you forever. 

I was greeted at the entrance to the hacienda by the owner, Kevin, and one of the guides who handed me a refreshing lemonade. I knew that all would be well. After changing out of my travel clothes, I joined the other guests on the veranda for afternoon tea.  Despite the name and location, Los Potreros is utterly English.  My fellow guests included Lena and Ivor, an older Finnish couple living in Oslo and Elena from Rio, both of whom departed the next day.  Remaining are Sarah (English), Chantelle (Chilean/Italian but living in London),Carolina and her 26 year old son from Bordeaux. I can’t begin to describe how happy I was to have company again.  Sarah and Chantelle came together and know each other because they both have horses at the same stable.  Sarah plays polo and Chantelle does show jumping. These are women that I would be highly unlikely to ever meet under normal life circumstances, but I am enjoying spending time with them precisely because of that.  I’m pretty sure that they both subscribe to the Daily Mail (and Vogue for Chantelle) but honestly that’s just part of the fun.  Neither Carolina nor Hugo speak English so I have been drafted in with my mediocre French to be their conversational liaison.  I’m so desperate for conversation, I’m perfectly content for it to happen even in a foreign language.

The estancia seems to have two categories of staff.  There are the Argentinian gouchos (cowboys) who look after the horses and cattle and do other cowboy stuff. They wear loose cotton trousers called Bombaches, wide floppy berets called Boinas and espadrilles known as alpargatas.  They are both aloof and daredevils, in other words - the definitive cowboys.  Then there are the “guides” who I think of as the estancia version of chalet girls. They are all blond, blue eyed and jolly having grown up using words like dressage, gymkhana and pony club. They all went to boarding school somewhere in Wiltshire, Somerset or Dorset and are charming, accommodating and delightfully naive.  I have to confess that I can’t actually tell them apart. In addition to the gouchos and guides, there are the estancia dogs! Each and every one is a gorgeous friendly thing who are happy to have their bellies scratched and accompany us on all our rides. 

The routine here is fun and active, but with plenty of rest and recovery time.  Breakfast is served at 8:30 and is always fruit, yoghurt and granola with eggs if you so desire.  At 10 we have our first ride. We are split into two groups, and I am with Carolina as the less experienced riders.  The saddle is neither western nor English, but a strange comfortable combination of the two.  Like riding a bike, it didn’t take me long to remember how to ride, but it took me a while to get the hang of posting (standing up and down) during a trot again.  I even managed a canter and some dodgy ravines on the first day. Lunch is at 1:30 and yesterday consisted of pizza cooked on the outdoor grill. I feel so sorry for the horses, as I can feel my weight shooting up with every meal.  Siesta is until 5 when we have tea and cake on the veranda followed by our evening ride on the Peruvian Paso horses. These are a breed known for their super smooth ride distingushed by a natural, four beat lateral gait.  It’s like riding a cloud. Drinks (all included) are served at 8 with dinner at 8:30.  This is not a place to diet.

The riding is amazing with scenery that would make John Ford rethink some of his cinematic setttings.  There are green rolling hills with mountains in the distance. Deep ravines sheltering cool, clear streams and miles of open grassland, rich with  varieties of flora I could never hope to learn the names of.  We saw many burrowing owls who live in little underground holes and unlike their cousins, venture out in the daytime.  We also saw dozens of condors as this is the only place they frequent outside of the Andes.  I never get tired of watching them. 

Today, our morning ride involved moving the heifers (year old cows from one field to another.  i gained a grudging complement from one of the gouchos for the quality of my “yeehaw”. I have never been so proud.