I can honestly say that I do not make a good gaucho. Why? Well my tenure as a gaucho lasted only lasted minutes and I have still not decided whether or not I was a victim of a joke- a rather funny one I might add- bad luck, or that I just can’t ride a horse. Either way, my string of good luck ended shortly after I mounted a horse the first morning on the Santa Maria Estancia in Benito Juarez, Argentina.My time in Argentina had been very relaxed for the first couple of weeks. I was getting adjusted to a new continent, language and culture while coping with post-Africa withdrawal, a symptom I am still dealing with. I arrived at Santa Maria estancia (ranch) a day before the planned round-up of their cattle. It only happens twice a year and is very similar to what we do at home. It is the time when the calves are worked and in this case shipped off to market. I was very lucky to show up a day before and I was instructed to be at the barn at 5AM to meet the gauchos.
Gauchos are famous in Argentina just like the cowboys are famous in the American West. Both ways of life are romanticized about through literature and both are slowly disappearing. A gaucho way of life consists of drinking a lot of mate, a drink that is like a combination of green tea and coffee, eating a lot of meat and a little bread in between. They are Argentine cowboys.
So, I met the gauchos at the barn at 5AM as instructed, ate lots of bread, drank lots of mate and then went to saddle up the horses. Everything was going well until I actually got on the horse. This is where everything got interesting because it turned into my own mini-rodeo. The horse got spooked or something and started jumping around trying to buck me off. I am by no means an expert horseman and I was holding of for dear life. I was able to stay on but in the process I felt my groin start hurting. I thought nothing of it at the time because everyone was laughing at the Gringo (me). They either gave me a wild horse as a joke, the horse just got spooked, or I did something wrong. Either way, it got my blood pumping very early in morning.
Once everyone else was saddled up, we took off to round up the cattle. They only knew one speed to ride and that was full speed ahead. I was again just trying to hold on to horse as it was trying to catch up with the rest of the horses that were far in front of. After a solid ten minute sprint across a freshly harvested wheat field, we found the cattle and started to bring then back to the pens. In the process, the sun began to rise over the pampas plains turning the field of knee-high wheat stalks into a field of gold. It was beautiful but I had no time to admire the scenery because I was busy rounding up stray cows and calves, again trying just to stay on my horse that was becoming increasingly annoyed by my slow pace.
Once the cattle were in the sorting pens, I was relieved because I thought I would finally be able to get off of my horse tend to my ailing groin. But no, they also sort the cattle in the pens on horseback. This is where true horsemanship becomes a factor because it can become very technical in close quarters. This is also where my lack of horsemanship became very evident. One man got off of his horse to watch the gate hole with his leather whip as we herded the cattle to him. He let the cows pass but held the calves. This went on for about an hour and by the end of it, I could not longer ride because o the pain in my leg.
Finally, I was able to dismount. I took my first step and fell to the ground. It felt like my groin was torn in half. Unable to help, I sat on a stump and watched as the men branded, tagged and castrated the calves. It was exactly the same process as at home only with inferior equipment which makes the process much harder. Once finished, I slowly made my way back to the barn, unsaddled my horse, slowly gimped back to the house where I would remain for the next three days watching bad re-runs of Walker Texas Ranger. I made it out of the house one time to visit the Argentine national glider championships in the neighbouring town of Chavez. I was able to take a ride in a glider and convinced the pilot to do a couple of flips as well. Riding in a glider is like floating on air because of the silence.
My only regret is that I didn’t take my camera to document the morning. In my sleepy state, I simply forgot to take it with me. There is a famous artist, Molina Campos, which depicts gauchos in his paintings. I have chosen this one to depict my first and only morning playing gaucho.
