Asado at Dos Rios

The train-tracks add a real charm to Dos Rios: although now they labour little more than coolers of beer and vast quantities of steak, they were installed to transport building materials from boats to the central buildings.

Where better to put a pool than within three-hundred-and-sixty degrees of verdant, sunlit Delta?
Read all about Hugo and Jane's project at http://www.dos-rios.com.ar/index.php?showPage=5

Return to EL Churqi

Who needs a pony?Yesterday Richard led the way up onto the fertile arable ground on his motorbike to check on the potatoes. I followed in the truck, struggling to keep up with the agile bike. After a maté with the contractors and a lot of agricultural tyrekicking, Richard gave me the helmet, an elementary lesson in starting the bike, a honda 250 modified to 300 cc, and told me he would see me at the farm! What you can see of my face in the photo is my 'return of the conquering hero' grimace.

A very health potato crop.

Hugh, Richard and Hugh's new truck.
A Transformation:
Summertime,

...in contrast to when I was here in winter



Summer in the highlands of Tucuman is wet: the days are remarkably simular to a good English summer; changeable and temperate. As a result the Aconquija valley has undergone a complete transformation from the dusty bowl I found in July. Welly boots have become a fundamental addition to the wardrobe.

Un Aguafuerte Porteño/ Inglés

Mientras estoy apurándome para el subte, los veo, en medio de los vidrios brillantes de las líneas de taxis y la espuma. Del café cansado vienen los sonidos débiles de la radio. Una banda sonora constante de hip-hop y regatón. Los choferes de taxis se apoyan en el mostrador, masticando el tiempo con el patrón, quien vive de sorber un café con leche aguachento y de limpiar vasos grasosos con un repasador amarillo.

A pesar de que el trabajo sea sencillo, los muchachos mantienen una estética claramente compleja y definida. Sus pantalones cuelgan de las caderas a consciencia antes de desaparecer en sus zapatos. Los abanicos de agua descansan en múltiples trenzas apretadas y africanas. De hecho, poseen el sentimiento de algo de “Mo-Town”: un souvenir elegante en plena edad del automóvil, de cines al aire libre y noches cálidas, de hamburguesas y coca-cola.

Me fijé que el lavadero está abierto veinticuatro horas, y me preguntaba que pasará durante la noche y si realmente existen los que quieren un auto limpio a las tres de la mañana. Sin embargo, pasé por donde están ellos en la noche vacía antes del amanecer, y aunque el flujo de autos mugrientos se hubiera reducido, todavía los chicos trabajan bajo las luces fluorescentes.

Whilst I am rushing for the subte I see them between the shining windscreens and the foam. From the dog-eared café come faints strains of the radio: an endless sound-track of hip-hop and reggaeton. The taxi-drivers lean on the bar chewing time with the owner, who lives to suck endless coffee and polish greasy glasses with a yellowed rag.

Whilst the work is simple, the lads’ aesthetic is clearly defined: trousers hang from hips before disappearing into black Wellingtons and the fans of water dust tight corn-rows. There is a distinct air of “Mo-Town here, an elegant souvenir of the automobile age. Of drive-throughs and close nights, hamburgers and coca-cola.

I note that the car-wash is open twenty-four hours a day and come to ask myself what happens during the night. Do they exist, those who want a clean car at three in the morning? I wander past in the vacant night before dawn, and whilst the flow of begrimed cars has eased, the boys continue to work beneath the fluorescent lights.

The 1600g Steak:

The Big Run.

Following the stimulus of sibling rivalry having heard Linz’s plans for the Brum half marathon, the adidas website informed me that I had 11 days and 8 hours of preparation if I was to run in the Buenos Aires half-marathon. I am in no position, then, to start my account of the endeavour with a ‘following months of preparation, highs and lows…’ introduction. Nevertheless, it has to be said that the rigours of Argentine bureaucracy cut with endless possibilities for loss in translation meant that having reached the point of donning my orange tee shirt left me feeling that half the battle had been won.
Despite being an athletic type, the buildings frowning down through the mist to the widest road on earth set me well out of my normal field of operations; there is something deeply cosmopolitan about the urban marathon: whilst being undoubtedly an elemental experience it very much feels the product of the metropolitan age. From the Plaza del Mayo reaching out along the Diag. Saenz Pena and away from the river, streets normally filled with the hubbub of shoppers rang with apprehension and a colossus of bouncing, stretching, jogging bodies. Soon currents of the lycra clad swung towards the start, to pool, leaping, climbing gantries and each other, vibrant with a Latin enthusiasm.
I found my feet, not as the flood gates burst from the beneath the starting gate, but as the density dropped around the plaza, allowing the establishment of a pace. Stuffing my head phones in I was caught simultaneously by Kraftwerk, the soundtrack of many sunny Somerset afternoon runs, and, as we swung round the corner past the Casa Rosada, the dancing vista of a thousand bodies pushing forward on the momentum of shared energy. It made me gasp for breath, even choke back tears. (Ed. Not really if Grandpa is reading). Needless to say, I had a swift check to make sure no one had seen me gurning like a wally, and headed on, grinning from ear to ear.

The ipod was a good idea. I had chosen a playlist in the week and it was very motivational to have a good mix of genres and tempos (all pretty upbeat) to accompany me. What was particularly good was that as it went from Grandmaster Flash, to Dire Straits and onto Echo and the Bunnymen, I had Willsy, Linz and Otto jogging along beside me!
My limited prep meant that I ran very much within my limits, preserving myself, and waiting for something to start complaining. However, the kilometre markers and drinks stations (and I regret to say a companionable pee in a hedge with lots of grinning fellow runners) jogged by in a most satisfactory manner! After commencing in the city, the middle of the route took us round the port and edge of the ecological reserve before heading back for a good slog up the Av. 9th de Julio with the Obelisk in view. For the last 3km I really got into the swing and removed my headphones as to appreciate the tango band playing on the corner of Independancia and San Martin and the crowds of people on the way towards achieving the grand finale after 1:54:17 minutes.
In Adidas’s rather smug pre-race booklet was a outline of the athletes recommended post-race warm-down. This included putting on a fresh tee, eating a banana and doing some stretches. However, instead, they cleverly organised it that all our bags, containing the aforementioned tee shirts and bananas, were in their tent along with about three useless goons attempting to calm the sweaty crowds. This started as a bit of a bore but rapidly escalated into an extremely entertaining chaos of shouting, singing and climbing over barriers. After getting over my truly English queue complex, I remembered I was the biggest person there and had a lovely time protesting in disgust at the proceedings. Whoever needs rock concerts?
My biggest feeling both during and after the race was the feeling of belonging the run afforded. Both the training runs and the ½ marathon afforded a distinct intimacy with the city that I feel thoroughly honoured to have been allowed to share in.

Ben's Gaff.

With all due gravitas I thought I would allow a discreet glimpse into the exclusive Buenos Aires batchelor pad, Chez Ben. Firstly we have the master-suite:

Designed to catch the morning sun, its ample windows fill the room with warm ambient light and offer a means of communication with the dancers upstairs.

Located just off Perón this southern elevation reveals the proud architecture of the building and offers not only a fine example of the Buenos Aires patio in the foreground but a majestic view of my slightly ajar front door behind.


Ben's Gaff prides its cosmopolitan views:

Working with the Gauchos.

Castrating a Colt with Ubi, Roberto, Richard and Hugh.


Me, learning the trade with Roberto


The end of the day

Round-Up!

Pack ponies and Polilla

Estancia El Churcqui

By 7 o’clock the mountains have edged themselves before the sun and the night makes itself known with an unambiguous cold. Despite the fact I have been here for nearly three weeks I still find this through-the-wardrobe winter alien and tonight is particularly bitter. It is advisable to retire, blinking smoke from your eyes to crouch with the tractoristas and gauchos, Lolo, Hugo, Machula, before the maize cobs smouldering in the kitchen grate; or burrow, as I have, in moth eaten blankets and amidst the crumbling splendour of the estancia.

Estancia buildings from the Polo pitch. (Click on the pictures to make them bigger)



This moment of peace is priceless. Priceless and short-lived. Soon the door will fall open below the rattling of voices and allow watery dawn to spill in, dripping darkness. And with it: the flood of the working day.

Three weeks of cold mornings has taught me not to linger, dancing barefooted, on the faded tiles and oak floor as I dress. It has also taught me to stow my bag of maize and my bridle deep under several layers of poncho so I can stuff my hands out of the freezing air as I cover the frosty ground of the Senega, kicking up fractious bursts of life from the Terns that litter the field like leaves. Perhaps this, corralling the horses first thing in the morning, is my favourite job of the day. There is something deeply satisfying in driving the herd, steaming and bucking in indignation, across the rocky tracks and through wire gates, up to the stone walled enclosures.

The Morning Round-Up


The Estancia, El Churqui, is vast and spreads down from the high mountainsides of Infiernilla and Carapunca into the town of Tafi del Valle. The buildings themselves are in a state of glorious disrepair and it comes with its own complicated social heirachy which starts with Julio: a professional polo player and el patron, (the 7th generation of the Zavaleta family who bought the Estancia from the Conquistadores) descends to a complicated colony of gauchos, tractoristas and farm hands.

Churqui from Infiernillo



The town too, is remarkable. Saturday night’s distractions commence with saddling horses, rather than calling taxis and conclude beneath sparse street lights and full of whisky, chasing shadows at a gallop through the streets.

Tafi del Valle Jineteada