Latinalicious: The South America Diaries (12 page)

When I was at school, my best friend Claire had a pony. I’ve forgotten his name but I used to call him Poo Bum, because he always had a constant trickle of shit running out of his behind. Apparently it was a medical condition that no amount of drugs from the vet would fix, but Claire loved that shitty-bummed pony like I loved my first Kylie album and first edition Game Boy.

Every Saturday morning I would accompany Claire to the field where Poo Bum lived and watch as she lovingly brushed his mane and tail, and then tacked him up and went riding. I was fascinated. As they trotted off over the hill leaving me swinging on the gate, a beacon in pink humming ‘Especially For You’, I would watch them in admiration and envy, and wonder when I would become a horsewoman myself. I waited a long time. Until now.

When my car pulled into Estancia Los Potreros — an impressive, sprawling Argentinean expanse of green fields and grazing horses that gives guests the chance to ride and get involved in
estancia
life — the vision before me was fresh from the pages of a Jane Austen novel. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and I instantly felt re-energised. Handsome,
young
gauchos (finally!) in neckerchiefs and flat caps leaned on fences, parakeets squawked in the trees, guides in jodhpurs carried tack, dogs barked and wagged their tails, horses whinnied, chickens pecked at the grass, and Kevin and Louisa Begg, the
estancia
’s king and queen, greeted me in matching berets (or
boinas
, as is the correct name) carrying a glass of lemonade on a silver tray. It was paradise after a few too many Quilmes beers the night before …

I’d walked into the Mate Hostel in Córdoba, having returned late from Capilla del Monte, to the roar of a group of roughly twenty Brazilian men singing some sort of soccer chant in front of a giant projector screen. In the dorm I found Mike, a bald-headed, tattoo-splattered man from Scotland, travelling alone till 2015 for reasons he did not divulge. Mike was lounging on a beanbag, swigging from a bottle of Quilmes, streaming a movie on the impossibly slow Internet connection and cursing every time it paused and churned.

On noticing that I wasn’t about to get any sleep any time soon, I did what any other normal, solo travelling female would do. I invited Mike out for dinner.

Over plates of fried chicken and chips in a street-side cafe off Plaza San Martin, Mike told me all about his two marriages, his stint in the army and the following years he spent packing boxes in cold food factories. Swigging yet more Quilmes, he talked at length about his lesbian daughter’s six-year marriage and the fact that he was stopped at customs in Bolivia for having the cremated remains of his two dead bulldogs in a vitamin jar in his suitcase. It was an interesting night. I was a little bit afraid of going to sleep in the dorm with Mike in there too once we got back, so eventually I did what I’d been trying to avoid in the first place: sat up in the lounge with the Brazilians and drank some Quilmes. And then I drank some more Quilmes.

So, justifiably I was knackered when I arrived at Estancia Los Potreros, but thankfully I was in good hands and just ten minutes after Winnie had been hauled into the gloriously maintained, 300-year-old farmhouse, I was sitting at the dining room table with the other guests, tucking into bacon and eggs. Shortly after
that
, I was saddled up on a horse, playing polo for the first time in my life.

Estancia Los Potreros, a 6500-acre organic working cattle farm with roughly 120 horses and 600 adult Aberdeen Angus cows, dates back to 1574, when mules were bred in the hills around Córdoba for the silver mining work in Peru. In the last century, the mules have been replaced by cattle, and four generations of Kevin’s Argentinean family have been running it for just under 100 years. The snow white buildings with their red corrugated roofs, surrounded by immaculate green lawns that by all rights should be hosting bowling championships between large-skirted ladies and men in top hats, reminded me of an England that hasn’t been seen in a very long time. English accents sounded out at every turn. Kevin Begg, as it happens, while Argentinean, was educated in England, and Louisa is proud to be a Hampshire girl.

I love a good love story, so I was intrigued to learn how the two met. An article from
National Geographic Traveller
, handed to me proudly over the table by Louisa (much to Kevin’s chagrin), details how sparks flew between them after Louisa came for a holiday at the
estancia
in 2005. She was supposed to go back home and start a job at a services company, but after meeting Kevin, fate had other ideas. A series of emails followed, a holiday to Ireland came next, and within days, Kevin proposed. Six weeks later, Louisa had packed her bags and moved to Argentina, where they’ve run the
estancia
together ever since. Aww.

They were married in 2007. Kevin told me that, afterwards, he wanted to use the bridal gown fabric for horse ankle wrappings so they could get even more wear out of the expensive dress, but apparently Louisa said no. I’m still not sure if he was joking.

Anyway, I should tell you here, owning a fake Ted Baker polo shirt is the closest I’ve ever come to involving myself in polo. Louisa is a champion, though — one of the few female players in Argentina and the proud owner of numerous awards. I was terrified of hitting my poor horse about the head with an overzealous swing as I trotted across the field aiming for the ball, but surprisingly I did manage to strike the ball a good few times without injuring anyone. It was one of the most fun things I’ve ever done!

It didn’t take long to realise that the way people ride in Argentina is very different from how they do at home. There’s none of that fannying about trying to hold the reins correctly with both hands, none of that struggling to sit up as straight as possible while obeying an uptight instructor barking on about posture. Basically, in Argentina you just climb on, hold the reins in one hand straight out in front of you, kick, and you’re off. You ride like the gauchos do, which is to say you do what you want, as long as you don’t fall off. The saddles are huge and covered in comfy sheepskin, too. It’s all about comfort, seeing as gauchos have to spend so long on horseback.

At Estancia Los Potreros we rode out twice every day on huge treks. I cantered, too, for the first time ever. Bursts of wild mint, sage and rosemary assaulted our nostrils as we made our way through thick, yellow grass, past lush blooms of purple and red spring flowers. We kept our eyes open for wild boar, foxes, hares, condors and the elusive puma while we were at it, although, as in Torres del Paine, it’s really rare to spot a puma here. Before long the Quilmes hangover (and Mike’s cremated bulldogs) seemed like a distant dream.

We rode mostly Criollos and Paso Peruanos, which are different from any other horse, so I’m told, because they can walk at the speed at which most other horses canter, in a funny sort of hurried step that feels smoother than trotting. I felt so safe on my horse that I even helped to round up some horses grazing in the distant fields on my last night. Me — a real live gaucho girl — and the other guests cantered across the plains, driving the other horses through gate after gate and finally into the paddock behind the farmhouse. I never felt so confident around Poo Bum … so maybe I always just needed to come to Argentina!

During meal times we sat around the communal dining table for hours on end and heard all about Kevin and Louisa’s most interesting past guests, like the eccentric man they discovered hadn’t slept in his bed for three nights. On asking if there was a problem with his bed, he replied that he’d been sleeping on the floor to keep the resident cat, Rosita, company. Bizarre. You’d better be good when you visit, otherwise you’ll be talked about over dinner, too. And you’d be wise to get along with cats as well.

I learned a lot about the gauchos. They’re put on horses when they’re just babies, so they grow up fearless. Louisa told me about one kid, no older than seven, she saw riding bareback at a show recently. I can vouch for the fact that these gauchos are like no species of man you’ll find anywhere else. They’re absolutely amazing to watch in action.

On my first day I was riding a twenty-year-old horse that plodded along with me on it like a camel the entire time — no doubt chosen to keep me safe. But as soon as the resident gaucho Daniel got on, it turned into a wild, youthful stallion again, bucking and galloping across the grass at lightning speed as he competed in the weekly gaucho games. These were fun, by the way — try hooking a stick through a dangling loop from the back of a moving horse. I couldn’t, obviously, but the gauchos can do it pretty much blindfolded, with their feet not even in the stirrups. It’s enough to make you drool on your chin strap.

When Deb and Chris, a lovely couple from the UK, had to leave on my second day, we all waved them off at the gate like they were family members, and Deb cried as she was driven away, waving her hanky out of the window and promising to be back soon as she had started her own polo club back at home. I was surprised I didn’t wail when I had to leave myself — there’s definitely something magical about this place. Estancia Los Potreros is in the guidebooks but, being a bit expensive, it’s listed as a treat. You’ll also visit the
estancia
as part of an overland tour through Argentina if you go with the company Dragoman, but with that group, while you’ll get to ride, you won’t get to stay in the farmhouse. You’ll pitch tents around Kevin and Louisa’s house, taste fine wines in their dining room and do things a more rustic way, which, to be honest, would probably be just as great. It’s such a beautiful place that however you work it into your trip, it’s going to be amazing.

Gauchos in action at Estancia Los Potreros.

As I myself was driven away, I thanked Kevin and Louisa profusely. I might not ever be a proper horsewoman, wandering around the house in jodhpurs with a whip, smelling of fresh hay and saying things like ‘tally ho!’, but I think I’ve come as close as I ever will to living the hot gaucho-riddled
estancia
life that most women can only ever dream of.

18/10

It’s kind of hit and miss getting the buses here in South America, although I’m hesitant to complain out loud because people I meet keep telling me that no matter how shit you might think your bus is, it’s nothing compared to the kind of ride you’re going to get in Bolivia, or Peru.

‘Just you wait,’ they say, with an ominous glint in their eyes, which makes me shudder, because sometimes, short of putting a herd of pigs on the top deck and having them flick their filthy tails in my face all night while crapping in the aisle, I don’t see how travelling by bus can get much worse.

Let’s talk about buses.

I just paid the equivalent of AU$50 for my Córdoba to Salta journey and, seeing as I took the same class bus with the exact same company from Buenos Aires to Iguazu Falls (Andesmar) not long ago, I was expecting some modicum of comfort and safety. However, before I got on at the bus station, I was patted down behind a man who, having had the same thing done to him, had had a gun taken away and retained.

I saw another man boarding the bus with a machete, which apparently was allowed, unlike the gun, and he sat there holding it, eyes darting, as though at any moment he might be forced to use it.

You can go one class up, if you want, which I did with Autumn from Buenos Aires to Mendoza. It’s a lot more expensive (I think almost $100 for that one), but it’s worth it at least once for the experience. The best bus, the premium kind, allows for soft, padded, leather seats that mould to your bum cheeks and recline all the way back. Literally
all
the way back, so you’re basically in bed on a bus.

These premium buses also feature personal TV screens on the seat-backs with a host of movies in different languages, wi-fi (which admittedly doesn’t always work) and smiley men who can’t do enough for you, coming around every thirty minutes or so with a drinks trolley starring wine and champagne. Your food arrives in large steaming portions with those exciting peel-back lids, so dinner is always a fun surprise. It’s generally chicken and rice of some sort, followed by an unfathomably sweet dessert, usually topped with a dollop of
dulce de leche
and served with a shot of whisky, or more wine to ensure you beat that sugar buzz and pass out, comfortably numb.

On our premium-class ride from Santiago to Pucón, Autumn and I even got a game of bingo. A short guy with a fashionable mullet (I guess you could call him the entertainment coordinator) had stood at the front in his shiny waistcoat, grinning maniacally, enthusing into a mic and generally trying his hardest to make people excited about the twisty-turny ten- to twelve-hour journey that lay ahead. We couldn’t really play because our Spanish numbers weren’t embedded in our brains deep enough to follow as fast as we needed to, but it lightened the mood and, one would hope, made any secret machete-carriers feel a little less angry about being on board.

When I boarded this time, weary from my stay at the aforementioned Mate Hostel, with my head full of
Maestros Ascendidos
and still aching from the horse riding, I was disappointed to find my seat was not only
not
made of leather, but that it resembled a filthy seat on the London underground — one of the ones that are still covered in fabric and therefore hiding twenty kinds of human piss, sperm and rat’s feces (this has been proven with tests, I read it in the
Metro
). I sat down cautiously, wondering if the little bingo man in the waistcoat would hurry by and tell me I was in the wrong seat and that my comfy leather one was on another level. Then, when he didn’t show up I tried to recline the seat I was in, only to find it was stuck.

I should have known it wasn’t going to be a classy journey when the bus pulled up at the terminal in Córdoba, actually. The windows looked like they hadn’t been washed for a month. When I got on, two children in the seats opposite mine were prodding at a goldfish in water, inside a plastic drink bottle. While watching the poor fish slowly lose its will to live, I struggled to find the most comfortable position in my dirty seat, just as a large, buxom woman in her fifties, with shimmering blue eye-shadow and red lipstick, settled herself next to me, and gently reclined. Grrr.

I noticed from her profile as she played with her phone that, thanks to all her make-up, she looked a bit like a clown. I was afraid of her, not least because when someone you don’t know takes an aisle seat of any kind next to you, you’re going to have to ask to climb over them at some point, and there’s nothing more awkward than climbing over a stranger at very close range in a moving vehicle, never mind one who looks like a scary clown.

Shortly after we set off, the TV screen flickered into life and I found myself quite excited at the prospect of a movie. When they start the movies on these buses, they usually serve the drinks and food. I readjusted my travel pillow and waited, looking all around me for the fold-down tray but failing to locate it.

A movie called
Ricky
came on. It was French with Spanish subtitles. Worse than that, it appeared to be a serious drama about a baby boy with chicken wings sprouting out of his shoulders. I sat there, pondering the highs and lows of birthing a flying baby, listening to French accents mingle with Spanish as the people on board, most of whom were clearly too far away from a screen to be able to read the subtitles, started calling their friends on their phones. The drinks trolley still hadn’t come. Perhaps they’re just waiting till a bit later, I thought.

It got to 11 p.m. My stomach was growling, I really needed a wee, my mouth was parched,
Ricky
had long finished but I could no longer ask the clown if I could climb over her, because she was asleep. I switched on my Kindle and started reading
The Gringo Trail
to take my mind off things. The guys in this book (an hilarious account of travelling South America) always get themselves into sillier situations, so I thought perhaps the words would soothe me to sleep. I was just getting into another tale when I noticed a strange noise coming from the clown. She wasn’t snoring. Rather, as she slept, her red-painted lips were pressing together and releasing as though she was blowing up an invisible balloon and I watched for a moment, baffled. This blowing motion then grew faster and started to incorporate her tongue, resulting in a half lip-smacking, half hissing sort of sound — like Anthony Hopkins in
Silence of the Lambs
.

Was she making out with some sexy guy in her own mind? Was she alone in her tasty little dream world, eating a chocolate ice-cream? Either way, her night-time soliloquy was deeply unsettling, so I put
The Gringo Trail
away and fished out my iPod. Luckily I had all of this to hand because people always tell you never to put your bags in the overhead shelves on buses, no matter what class of journey you’ve paid for. On a bright note, you can always reach your gadgets when you need them. On a not so bright note, due to the lack of room beneath the seats, this usually means you’re trying to sleep with your legs scrunched up on top of your rucksack.

At some point, with my head crumpled into the travel pillow and my knees up around my chest, I managed to drift off. When I woke up, my iPod shuffle had decided to play Disney’s
Tangled
soundtrack, which I thought was quite appropriate, seeing as I was now so contorted I could have, once disentangled, run away with the clown to the circus. She was awake now, tapping into her phone again, her red-lipstick cracked and dry and fading. I wanted to ask her what she’d been dreaming about but decided it would be way too much effort, plus I didn’t want to hurt her feelings with the suggestion she sleeps like Hannibal Lecter.

The food and drink never came. I’ve never taken a bus ride in Argentina or Chile where at least
some
kind of sustenance hasn’t been shoved at my sleeping body, but we got no snacks, no water and definitely no bingo. I’m not entirely sure why this particular Andesmar bus ride was so different, but when I finally stepped off in Salta, tired, angry, hungry, thirsty and even more afraid of clowns than ever, it was not a moment too soon.

Getting buses here is part of the adventure, I should add. And it’s inevitable that you’re going to have to take a lot, as the continent is just too great (and expensive) to fly everywhere. I shouldn’t moan, really. But just you try and stay perky after your fifteenth, long-haul overland journey in a row.

I should tell you, too, leave the goldfish, guns and machetes at home, but do bring a whole lot of patience, a good book, some snacks, a travel pillow, a sense of humour and quite possibly your own secret stash of tequila.

19/10