An ox-driver of southern Brazil, smeared with the blood-red mud of his native heath
More than two hours of riding brought us to the almacén or pulpería, the general store that is to be found on or near every large estancia in Uruguay. As the day was Sunday scores of gauchos with that half-bashful, laconic, yet self-reliant air common to their class, ranging all the way from half-Indian to pure white in race, with here and there the African features bequeathed by some Brazilian who had wandered over the nearby border, silently rode up on their shaggy ponies one after another out of the treeless immensity and, throwing the reins of the animal over a fence-post beside many others drowsing in the sun, stalked noiselessly into the dense shade of the acacia and eucalyptus trees about the pulpería, then into the store itself. Most of them were in full regalia of recado, pellones, shapeless felt hat, shaggy whiskers and poncho. With few exceptions the “Oriental” gaucho still clings to bombachas or chiripá, the ballooning folds of which disappear in moccasin-like alpargatas, or into the wrinkled calfskin boots still called botas de potro, though the custom that gave them their name has long since become too expensive to be continued. These “colt boots” were formerly obtained by killing a colt, unless one could be found already dead, removing the skin from two legs without cutting it open, thrusting the gaucho foot into it, and letting it shape itself to its new wearer. A short leather whip hanging from his leather-brown wrist, a poncho with a long fringe, immense spurs so cruel that the ready wit of the pampa has dubbed them “nazarinas,” a gay waistcoat, and last of all a flowing neckcloth, the last word of dandyism in “camp” life, complete his personal wardrobe. It is against the law to carry arms in Uruguay, yet every gaucho or peon has his cuchillo in his belt, or carries a revolver if he considers himself above the knife stage. Every horseman, too, must have his recado, that complication of gear so astonishing to the foreigner, so efficient in use, with which the rural South American loads down his mount. An ox-hide covers the horse from withers to crupper, to keep his sweat from the rider’s gear; a saddle similar to that used on pack animals, high-peaked fore and aft, is set astride this, and both hide and saddle are cinched to the horse by a strong girth fastened by thongs passed through a ringbolt. On the bridle, saddle, and whip is brightly shining silver, over the saddle-quilts and blankets are piled one above the other, the top cover being a saddlecloth of decorated black sheepskin or a hairy pellón of soft, cool, tough leather, and outside all this is passed a very broad girth of fine tough webbing to hold it in place. With his recado and poncho the experienced gaucho has bedding, coverings, sun-awning, shelter from the heaviest rain, and all the protection needed to keep him safe and sound on his pampa wanderings.
As they entered the pulpería the newcomers greeted every fellow-gaucho, though some two score were already gathered, with that limp handshake peculiar to the rural districts of South America, rarely speaking more than two or three words, and these so low as to be barely audible, apparently because of the presence of “Pirirín” and myself. The rules of caste were amazing in a country supposed to be far advanced in democracy. Though the gaucho, in common with most of the human family, considers himself the equal, if not the superior, of any man on earth, he retains many of the manners of colonial days. “Pirirín” and I, as lords of the visible universe and representatives of the wealth and knowledge of the great outside world, had entered the pulpería by the family door and were given the choicest seats—on the best American oil-boxes available—behind the counter. The sophisticated-rustic pulpero greeted us each with a handshake, somewhat weak, to be sure, because that is the only way his class ever shakes hands, but raising his hat each time, while we did not so much as touch ours. To have done so would have been to lower both the pulpero’s and the by-standing gauchos’ opinion of us. Then he turned and greeted his gaucho customers with an air nicely balanced between the friendly and the superior, offering each of them a finger end, they raising their hats and he not so much as touching his.
Yet these slender, wiry countrymen, carrying themselves like self-reliant freemen, with a natural ease of bearing and a courtesy in which simplicity and punctilio are nicely blended, take the stranger entirely on his merits and give and expect the same courtesy as the wealthy estanciero. If the newcomer shows a friendly spirit, his title soon advances from “Señor”—or “Mister,” in honor of his foreign origin, be he French, Spanish, Italian, English, or American—to the use of his first name, and he will be known as “Don Carlos,” “Don Enrique,” or whatever it may be, to the end of his stay. Later, if he is well liked, he may even be addressed as “Ché,” that curious term of familiarity and affection universally used among friends in Uruguay. It is not a Spanish word, but seems to have been borrowed from the Guaraní tongue, in which it means “mine,” and probably by extension “my friend.” To be called “Ché” by the Uruguayan gaucho is proof of being accepted as a full and friendly equal.
In theory the pulpero establishes himself out on the campaña only to sell tobacco, mate, strong drink, and tinned goods from abroad; in practice these country storekeepers have other and far more important sources of income. They are usurers, speculators in land and stock, above all exploiters of the gaucho’s gambling instinct. Thanks perhaps to the greater or less amount of Spanish blood in his veins he will accept a wager on anything, be it only on the weather, on a child’s toys, on which way a cow will run, on how far away a bird will alight, or on whether sol ó número (“sun or number,” corresponding to our “heads or tails”) will fall uppermost at the flipping of a coin. This makes him easy prey to the pulpero, who is usually a Spaniard, Basque, Italian, or “Turk,” and an unconscionable rogue without any other ideal than the amassing of a fortune, yet who somehow grows rich at the expense of the peons and gauchos, instead of meeting the violent death from the quick-tempered hijo del país who despises yet fears him.
The gauchos were originally called “gauderios,” that is, lazy, good-for-nothing rascals. To-day that word is an exaggeration, for they have a certain merit of industry and simple honesty. There is considerable vendetta among them, gambling rows and love affairs especially, much of which goes unpunished, particularly if the perpetrator is a “red” and his victim a “white.” Punishment for fence-cutting or sheep-stealing is surer: as in our own West in earlier days the loss of a man is largely his own affair, while the loss of a flock of sheep or a drove of cattle is serious. To make matters worse, the country comisarios, or policemen, are often subsidized by certain estancieros to the disadvantage of others, and the juez de paz is quite likely to be a rogue, in either of which cases the friends of “justice” usually get off and their enemies get punished.
According to “Pirirín,” the average gaucho is an incorrigible wanderer. Paid but ten or fifteen pesos a month “and found,” and satisfied with quarters which most workmen in civilized lands would refuse with scorn, he is given to capricious changes of abode and is likely to throw a leg over his faithful horse at the least provocation. Among these incurable pampa wanderers there are not a few “poor whites,” often with considerable Anglo-Saxon blood in their veins, its origin lost in their Spanicized names. Hospitality is the first of the virtues of the estanciero, and any genial horseback tramp who turns up may remain on the estancia unmolested for a day, a week, or a month, as the spirit moves him. There was a suggestion of our own cowboys among the group that finally overflowed the pulpería, though the gauchos were less given to noisy horseplay and had far more dignity and courtesy. Some of them could read without having to spell out the words, and while “Orientals” in the mass are not a nation of readers and there is considerable illiteracy, these countrymen were much more in touch with the world’s affairs than the same class in the countries of the West Coast.
The gaucho may still occasionally be heard thrumming a guitar and wailing his sad, Moorish, genuinely Oriental songs, invariably sentimental and deeply melancholy, with never a comic touch, like a lineal descendant of the wandering troubadour of the Middle Ages or the street-singers of the Mohammedan East. When he is not making music or love, he is sucking mate and talking horses. He has more than a score of words for his equine companion, running through every gamut of color, behavior, and pace. His obsession for this topic of conversation is natural, for he has an instinctive horror of going on foot and the horse is to the resident of the pampas what the ship is to the sailor; without it he is hopelessly stranded. Yet his interest is entirely of a utilitarian nature. He is racially incapable of any such affection for his mount as causes other races to spare it unnecessary suffering; if he coddles it at all it is merely for the selfish motive of his own safety or convenience. Among the picturesque types of the campaña and the pampa is the domador, the professional horse-breaker. His customary fee is five pesos a head, “with living,” and his methods are true to his Spanish blood. Instead of being broken early, the colts are allowed to run wild until they are four or five years old; then a drove of them is rounded up in a corral and the victims suddenly lassooed one by one and thrown to the ground. With half a dozen peons pulling on the rope about his neck until he is all but strangled, his legs are tied and a halter is put on and attached to a tree, where the animal is left to strain until he is exhausted, often hurting himself more or less permanently. Then his tongue and lower jaw are fastened in a painful noose that forces him to follow the peon, who rides away, jerking at the rope. Finally, when the weary and frightened animal is trembling in every limb, the brave domador mounts him and, with a horseman on either side to protect him, and pulling savagely at the colt’s sore mouth, the potro is galloped until he is completely worn out. It used to be beneath gaucho dignity to ride a mare, and to this day no self-respecting domador of the old school will consent to tame one. Sometimes the female of the species draws carts, with her colt running alongside, but on the larger estancias she is allowed to roam at large all her days.
In the evening, with the gauchos departed and the pulpería officially closed to the public, we added our bonfire to the sixteen others in honor of St. Peter and St. Paul, which we could count around the horizon, and gathered about the table with the pulpero’s family to play “lottery,” a two-cent gambling card game. It was long after midnight when “Pirirín” shook off the combined fascination of this and the pulpero’s amenable daughter. From my cot behind the pulpería counter I saw the day dawn rosy red, but clouds and a south wind promised rain before my companion roused himself. We got into an araña (spider), a two-wheeled cart which did somewhat resemble that web-weaving insect, and rocked and bumped away across the untracked campaña behind two half-wild young horses. Never was there a let-up from howling at and lashing the reeking animals all the rest of the morning, an English education not having cured “Pirirín” of the thoughtless cruelty bequeathed by his Spanish blood. Through gullies in which we were showered with mud, up and down hill at top speed we raced, until the trembling horses were so weary that we were forced to hitch on in front of them the one the mucamo was riding. In Tacuarembó this owner, or at least prospective owner, of thousands of acres and cattle went to the cheapest hotel and slept on an ancient and broken cot in the same room with two rough and dirty plowmen, while I caught the evening train for the Brazilian border.