Category: Argentina

Mendoza

Argentina’s three main industries are oil and natural gas, wine and tourism. The most striking thing about Mendoza, ground zero of Argentinian wine making, is the size of the vineyards. Looking down from the air miles before the plane landed, you see acres and acres of long, rectangular green plots all dependent on irrigation, as are the clumps of green trees, bushes and flowers that follow the roads through what is otherwise an arid semi-desert.

The Andes rise up to the west of the city like a Hollywood background set. The mountains were faint in the heat the few days we were there, as if you could push them over with your finger. They were gigantic, but also so seemingly insubstantial as to appear fake.

The first wine stock was brought to Mendoza in 1610 by the Jesuits. The trickle of immigrants from Spain and Italy became a flood when the train from B.A. arrived in Mendoza in 1885. Up until the 1970’s most of the wine produced in Mendoza was consumed in Argentina. Many different types of red and white table wines and blends of moderate quality were made; but the region was known for a red varietal from Cahors in France, unflatteringly called Malbec because the taste of it was “mal,” which means bad, on the “bec,” meaning mouth. The 1990’s saw the arrival of foreign investment, and the emphasis shifted to single varietals and from quantity to quality.

To achieve this quality, pruning is done twenty days before harvest to concentrate nutrients and to assure a dark, full-bodied character by sacrificing quantity. Because of the threat of damaging hail, many investors will spread their vineyards over a wide geographical area, specializing in blends of the same varietal from different microclimates.

I’ve written in a previous post about the importance of water rights to the snow melt from the Andes, which is stored in reservoirs and released at pre-arranged intervals to flow through canals and into the small trenches or the hoses that run parallel to the rows of vines. Without this resource there would be no wine making in Mendoza. What happens, then, if climate change causes less and less snow to fall in the Andes?

We spent all of one day in the Uco Valley, south and west of town and higher than most of the vineyards. On the way to the Clos de los Siete, gaining altitude, we passed vegetable gardens and peach, cherry and apple orchards.

The two-thousand acre clos is the project of seven foreign investors, French, Italian and Swiss, several of whom already own chateaux with fine vineyards attached in Europe. They are escaping the myriad regulations of France and seeking to produce fine wines in greater quantities than they can in Europe. Five of the seven have their own wine-making bodegas on the property. It is an impressive sight as you drive in, nothing but vineyards stretching to the mountains, punctuated only by the five strikingly different in style bodegas in the middle of each property.

Weather conditions are near-perfect for grapes; constant sunshine, low humidity and water that is full of minerals can be depended on. Spraying with chemicals is not required. Hail is a constant danger, and the better vineyards put up netting on the sides of vines to protect from it.
We visited three of the five bodegas, and were treated to a delicious lunch and wine samplings in the house-like apartment of one of the owners who was not there.

Their plants are only fourteen years old, and it takes one plant to produce one bottle of wine. They turn out one million bottles of Clos de los Siete (a red blend of grapes from all five wineries) a year, 80% of which is exported, which is why we see so much Malbec in the States these days. The producers are worried because 25 – 30% inflation has caused the Kirchner government to cut down on how much they can export, and importing the volume they require of real cork from Portugal and oak barrels from France is becoming difficult because the government wants the vineyards to use local products.

The three vineyards within the clos that we visited were Cuvellier de los Andes, diamAndes and Monteviejo.

Estancia de los Candellaria: The Pampas

Coming here from Mendoza we flew into the local airport in the middle of town on the La Plata. The airport police were as good as their word and my fuzzy jacket was waiting for me.

In the afternoon we were driven two hours west of the city to this small beef, llama, and horse ranch in the Pampas. It is a beautiful old house, very much in the estancia tradition; its glory is in the trees that encircle its huge lawn, planted about a century ago. Trees are not indigenous to the pampas, which is flat, with the grayish, flaky soil that makes it look like the Eastern Shore; broken, around here, by occasional wetlands and ponds.

The house is actually quite large, but built to disappear into the landscape of plane trees, the biggest ginko I ever saw, crepe myrtle, and masses of climbing vines that shield windows and interior patios from the summer heat. Suites of rooms and one enormous master bedroom open off a long corridor that leads down to a living room that runs the length of the house.

It has high ceilings, handsome doors, paintings, rows of bookshelves, and metalwork modern sculpture along with massive wooden furniture, some of which was made by our tall, eccentric host, Sebastian. The living room was the perfect place to gather for meals. This time of year, though, the place to sit is out on the covered terrace just off the living room with its two ceiling fans, and deep, comfy armchairs and sofas.

When we first arrived the heat in the afternoon was strong, but not humid. Since then it has reached the low nineties in the afternoon, but the humidity has set in; I can tell because the heat is more oppressive and my hair curls! This time of year the window curtains and doors are drawn tightly shut before noon, and they aren’t opened until the sun has set, so all day there is just a gloomy half-light in the hall.

Sadly, I can’t report much about activities on the Pampas, as I spent most of two days totally out of it with what I will refer to delicately as “an intestinal bug.” Believe me, that’s all you want to know about it.

The morning that I made it to the breakfast table I asked for tea and a soft-boiled egg. Argentinians do not eat eggs for breakfast, so it took some pantomiming to get across huevos in boiling water.

Ages went by and no egg appeared. Suddenly through the swinging door to the kitchen came not only Sebastian, whose English was excellent, but also the cook in her role as nutrition consultant. Both looked somber, and my first reaction was that the sole chicken had perished; but I knew this couldn’t be true as way before dawn every morning the clucking hens and crowing rooster pulled me into consciousness three and a half hours before the 8:30 breakfast.

The cook was wringing her hands, and Sebastian, earnestly explained that the cook could not bring herself to cook me an egg, as eggs were notoriously hard to digest and I would get sick again. Much better, they said, to have some quesos blancos and quince on a cracker. I promised just as earnestly NOT to touch an egg, and they went back through the swinging door. Ten minutes later out came not one, but TWO soft boiled eggs! Something was lost in translation. I thought it wisest to eat neither, both for diplomatic and digestive reasons.

Things I can’t report on are a trip to a local auction, a popular social occasion where typewriters, aged stoves and chicken were among the things auctioned, horseback riding out to prime the windmills that keep the Criollo horses and cattle watered, and a string of what I hear were superb meals.

To paraphrase Jefferson, I can’t write a shorter letter because I don’t have the time; but I also can’t sign off without saying I’ve never been anyplace where birdsong was more varied or louder – parrots, crows, and mourning doves that were so numerous they sounded like a camp full of children. Amazing.

 

Before leaving Bariloche, I had broken down and eaten an entire bag of cheese nachos while waiting at the airport. They made me thirsty, so I was in the restroom slurping water from the sink when I noticed a man walking behind me. Liz, you would have loved it; he paid me no mind, but I flew out of the men’s room!

Flying north to Mendoza we trade the chilly winds, lakes and green landscapes of Bariloche for the arid, Arizona-like topography of Mendoza; but one thing we don’t leave behind are the mountains. In Mendoza on most days you can see all three ranges of the Andes: the Preandes, that rise to 11,000 ft. (the foothills!) the Frontal Range at 19,000 ft., and the Border Range, the highest of which is 22,000 ft.

Mendoza is having a heat wave with temperatures near 100 degrees, but there is no humidity and so it is not enervating. This area only gets an average of eight inches a year in rainfall, and so the city and the ENORMOUS amount of acreage that is in vineyards and orchards is dependent on snowmelt from the Andes. Even before the Spaniards arrived the Incas had an irrigation system.

Now, water is strictly controlled. Buying land to create vineyards without checking on its water rights first (as Kendall-Jackson winemakers did) guarantees failure. There are many reservoirs and smaller water impoundments from which there are scheduled water releases. River and creek beds are completely dry (all their waters impounded) which is startling to the eye; canals carry the released water to its destination.

Our hotel, Entre Cielos, is super modern. It looks a bit like a concrete bunker, broken up by two-story pods with outer coverings, one of figs, one of mushrooms, etc.(see photos). The walls of the bedrooms are of poured concrete, not exactly warm and fuzzy; but it is the first hotel room I’ve ever been in that had a telescope on rollers! The best thing about Entre Cielos is its longgggg swimming pool.

I will skip our first day as we spent it in vineyards, which merit a blog entry of their own, but I don’t have time to write it now.

Our second day we spent hiking, first traveling south and west into the Preandes to the Potrerillos Valley. This is the jump off spot for lots of outdoor activities – white water rafting, windsurfing on the reservoir, swimming, and trekking.

The hike we took could have been into one of the arroyos of the Grand Canyon. It was a goat scramble to get into the little valley, but then it was a lovely hike along a stream up to a high waterfall. The fun, while there, was watching a young group repelling down the face of the cliff next to the waterfall (see photos). Hiking out it was so hot I felt like a potato crisp, and wet my hat in the stream several times to cool down. Fifteen minutes later the hat would be dry.

That evening we had dinner downtown, and were able to walk through the park at the very center of Mendoza. Unlike Bariloche, many houses in Mendoza have walled courtyards and bars on their windows, and often shops will have the sliding metal outer protection that goes up at 8 a.m., down at noon for lunch and a siesta, up at 5 p.m. and down at 9 p.m. As a result, there are four traffic jams a day, and the usual time for dinner is at 10 p.m.

In our group we have several hard-core Redskins fans determined to watch the Skins play the Seattle Seahawks Jan. 6th. They agreed to meet at 6:30 p.m. in Mary P.’s room, where plenty of beer was stashed. They had ordered pizza from the hotel kitchen and we gathered at the appointed hour, only to find that ESPN was featuring a soccer game.

Fred and I came in to watch for a while before we went for supper in the dining room. In Room 5 discontent reigned. It was a scene out of a sci-fi movie; everyone in the room was trying to get the game on THEIR appliance…and failing.

Mary P. and Betsey U had iPads; they were annoyed because the battle between iPad and Adobe meant that they didn’t have access to the Flash Player…which meant that all they could get was a schematic rendering of action on the field. The men were also stuck with only schematics, while Betsey and Mary gave by blow by blow accounts, enthusiastically cheering on the Skins early gains while trying to imagine them in their minds.

Several of us were trying to call the States with iPhones, dialing 011 for the United States and getting a Spanish speaking recording that, although we didn’t understand it, clearly was telling us we were morons.

Then Billy L. picks up his Blackberry, hits his son Philip’s number in his contacts, and instantly reaches him, AT the REDSKINS GAME! So then we get first hand comments but still can’t see the game.

Belatedly I remember I have my computer, go get it, and Mike U. GETS THE REAL GAME (not the schematic game) via NFL. Contentment reigns. Fred and I go up for dinner and some good Malbec and come back an hour later. Contentment no longer reigns. The Redskins are losing and their quarterback is hurt. We all go to bed.

On our two-hour flight from B.A. we flew across what reminded me of the badlands of Wyoming, vast, uninhabited, hilly and BROWN. Just as when approaching Jackson Hole, you begin to see snow-capped mountains in the distance, and then, suddenly, you drop into this jewel of a valley, and green, blue and white are the colors that strike you.

Green – as it is summer now, trees are out and HUGE roses are strutting their stuff everywhere. Blue – because the biggest lake in Argentina is here, as well as many smaller ones. Our guides say the color of the water is more beautiful since the Chilean volcano that spewed ash all over the area, causing some mysterious chemical change. White – because 12,000 ft. snow-capped mountains surround; to the west the Andes form the border with Chile, the same area of the plane crash described in “Alive.”

We are in a hotel on the lake which would be lovely if it weren’t an “art” hotel. Two-thirds of the art is strikingly bad. Our room has three paintings: one of a fat women in see-through underwear sitting on a man’s lap, one of a woman who looks like she is having sex with the sheet, and one of two people kissing with their tongues forming a rope of tongues outside their mouths….I am NOT kidding. Our friends got landscapes and animal portraits in their rooms….oh well.

We came on a day that in Maine would be called “a sparkler;” crystal clear and no humidity with sun glinting on far-off glaciers and on the white caps on Lake Haupti. The air is so dry that you need smotherings of sunscreen, dark glasses and water, water, water all the time.

Yesterday our guides, Diego and his two cute sidekicks Letti and Melissa, took us on what was supposed to be a mellow kayaking trip on a smaller lake that isn’t as susceptible to the Patagonian winds.

My idea of kayaking was the open, beaten up, plastic jobs which we use to gunk around in, close to the shoreline, in Maine; stopping to pick up shells or chance a swim.

Luckily, here we were in seagoing fiberglass two-seater kayaks with skirts to keep the water out and pedals to steer, and had an hour’s lesson before we set out. The first half of the trip was reasonably calm, but suddenly the wind attacked the lake. Oddly, the boats were most stable going into the wind, but at some points on the way home cross winds put a shiver down your back.

Diego admitted, when we had all safely landed, that he had been anxious when told he was in charge of this group of sixty and seventy somethings who wanted to explore the best of Patagonia, especially when his mother told him he was crazy to take us. Then when the wind came up his anxieties must have peaked. Landing in the strong current of a creek was tricky, but all landed, and Diego pronounced he was proud of us (mostly I think he was relieved).

Once I was out of the kayak, I leaned down to pick up my paddle and whoops….the swift current filled the kayaking skirt hanging down in front of me and off I would have gone, except for the swift action of Leti, who held up the paddle for me to grab. That afternoon we spent on a casual hike up to an overlook with a spectacular view over lakes and mountains.