The Pampas

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.