Me, learning the trade with Roberto
The end of the day
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Working with the Gauchos.
Castrating a Colt with Ubi, Roberto, Richard and Hugh.
Me, learning the trade with Roberto
The end of the day
Me, learning the trade with Roberto
The end of the day
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
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.
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)