The Amazing Argentine: A New Land of Enterprise

by John Foster Fraser

One of the failings of new countries, like that of youth generally, is conceit. Yet, on second thought, it is a useful offence, for it carries a people light-heartedly over rough ground which older nations dare not face and so turn aside.

In the new lands the settlers have the constant panorama of achievement before their eyes. They remember things as they were ten years ago, see them now, and are convinced that nowhere in the world has such progress been made as they are making. Anybody who hints a doubt is scowled upon. And the buoyancy of spirit, a sort of rampant optimism about themselves, is fostered by a bent of mind to read about what goes on in "rotten old Europe." A gracious Providence helps them to take notice only of the good things in their own country, and to have a quick eye for the bad things in other countries. Further, as all new lands need settlers, the official flag-waving and trumpet-blowing to attract immigrants is garish. You can, as a rule, reduce the value of the advertisements by half, and still be quite sure that more than justice remains.

I have been induced to write the preceding paragraph because, as I am not a hired agent to proclaim the wonders of Argentina, but merely a man who has studied some of its capabilities on the spot, I have no desire, in my endeavour to give a true portrait, to ignore the warts and occasional blemishes. Of course, the Argentine thinks his land the most remarkable in the world. In many respects I am disposed to agree with him. But it is not without spot. For instance, the first thing he is enthusiastic about is the climate. The freedom from severe winters, with the possibility for cattle to remain in the open all the year round, is an advantage. But in the Argentine winter (our summer) there are cold, wretched, rainy days which are depressing. In their summer (our winter) the heat is sometimes intense, especially in the northern region. I know of the fine, clear, bracing climate of the plains, filling one's veins with energy and the joy of living. I have enjoyed the charm of Mendoza, the healthiest of all the towns in the Republic. Where I am inclined to part company with the Argentine is when he wants to argue that the climate of the whole country is adorable.

Take Buenos Aires. The new arrival is not only entranced with the development and the encircling beauty of the city, but, with continuous blue skies and glorious sunshine, he is prone to underline the usual nice things about the climate. Then, one day, he feels uncomfortable, limp, saggy in body and mind. The slight breeze is from the north, and it seems to bring heavy inertia from the Brazilian forests. The old inhabitants have probably got used to the "norther"—they show no diminution in vigour—but the muscle-slackening and wearying effect on the new-comer is undoubted. Most of Buenos Aires is built on low-lying ground, much of it reclaimed from the shallow Plate, and the air is relaxing. Though the sun is delightful, it is anything but invigorating. So you reach the conclusion that, whilst Buenos Aires has usually most delightful weather, it has an indifferent climate.

There are striking changes in temperature in Argentina. Within half an hour of being broiled you may feel as though you had passed into a refrigerator. Hurricanes sometimes sweep vast areas, and everything—trees, buildings, crops—are mown down by the blasts. In the sandy stretches the sand is swept up like a thick cloud, and, though estancieros shut every door and fasten every window, it is not long before every room has an inch depth of sand. I have travelled all night in a sleeping car with double windows to resist the sand, but it filtered through nevertheless, and in the morning I found the only white spot in the compartment was where my cheek had rested on the pillow.

Life on a ranch has the glamour of romance about it. The town-bred Englishman, dissatisfied with his lot, lets his fancy roam to the prairies of North America or the pampas of South America, and his imagination glows with the conjured picture of cowboy life—quaintly dressed, always well-mounted, and with nothing to do but ride over the plains rounding up wandering cattle. As I have explained in an earlier chapter, many of the large estancias are not occupied by their owners; a manager with a salary is put in charge, and he usually has several young Englishmen as assistants. There are a number of peons. The manager, usually married, has a decent house. The assistants have a plain, bachelor establishment, and live in common. The peons rarely have anything better than ramshackle quarters. Distances are enormous. Frequently, outside the little clump of trees which is the distinguishing feature of all estancias, there is nothing to be seen as far as the eye can range but featureless prairie. The railways may be many miles away. The country has comparatively few towns—really a good point about an agricultural land—and though they are all attractive, only Spanish is spoken. Months may elapse between the visits of an Englishman to a town. He has to rise early; he has to work hard; the glamour of cowboy life soon goes; he and his mates have told each other all their stories; visitors are rare; there is practically no women's society. At first the tendency is to be homesick. But in time the man gets used to the life; possibly he may be happy. He, however, is far removed from refining influences. He may have a fondness for reading, but life in the saddle is so hard that at night, after supper and receiving instructions from the "boss" for the next day, and having a chat over work, there is little disposition to do anything except have a game of cards, and then turn in.

It is no unusual thing for an estancia to be fifty miles square. If so, it is divided into three or four sections, with a manager over each. Even then the property to be looked after is extensive. Though for food there is plenty of beef and mutton, there is little variety. The men are out by four in the morning, and breakfast is often no more than biscuits, washed down with maté (native tea). There is a solid meal about eleven o'clock, generally boiled meat, by no means always attractively served. After dark, between seven and eight o'clock, there is supper: meat, coffee, and biscuits. The surroundings are coarse and dirty, and sometimes disgusting. Of course, conditions are occasionally much better than these; but I think I am fairly describing the average quarters of the young Englishman who goes out to Argentina to be assistant on an estancia. What gave me frequent surprise was not that the life roughened them, but that so many retained the kindly courtesies of their homes in England.

The great thing is that the life is healthy. As years pass it gets a grip of a man, so that even if he has the chance to return to civilisation he generally prefers the camp. There is the driving of cattle to the railway and loading them—often difficult work—into the trucks to take them to the freezing factories. There is the cutting of alfalfa and the shearing of sheep. There is breaking-in of colts and looking after the stock.

A neighbouring estancia may be twenty miles away. But Sunday is a holiday, except for absolutely necessary work, and men will start off at two o'clock in the morning to have a jollification with friends, generally to witness some horse-racing, about which all the estancias for fifty miles round are excited, and with a bottle of beer as first prize. Maybe once or twice a year a wandering parson drops into an estancia. Whatever be the religious views of the hands—supposing they have any—the visitor is well received, and, be he Roman Catholic or Protestant, he proceeds to "fill them up." He brings them something they do not often think about. At the least he is a diversion. Undoubtedly his praying and preaching have an effect, because for several days after he has gone the men are serious, and language is not quite so ruddy as formerly. Then arises the question of the rival merits of horses over a level two miles, and the trend of thought changes.