Inhabitants of the vine-growing districts of Argentina claim that their country produces more wine than California; and, judging by appearances as we entered the Province of San Juan, there seemed to be abundant evidence to support the belief that the yield of grapes is enormous. The soil is sandy and the seepage of snow-water from the mountains is ample to make up for the lack of rainfall.
Many of the vineyards are of great extent. Grapes of numerous varieties are grown, and for size and flavor they are unequalled by any I have ever seen anywhere. Wines of many kinds, and grades, are made, and they are of uniformly excellent quality. Even the champagnes are good. The price at which they sell is low in that part of the country—so low in fact that even the laboring class drink them with their meals. In Buenos Aires they cost as much as the imported article, owing to the fact that freight between San Juan or Mendoza and Buenos Aires equals or exceeds shipping charges from Spain, Portugal, and France.
The city of San Juan reminded us of Salta; perhaps it is not quite so large or up-to-date, but it is nevertheless not unattractive; we spent little time there as we had been invited to a finca, where there is a lake of considerable size, to shoot ducks.
One of my ambitions had always been to find a place where ducks and geese were really plentiful—in fact abundant enough to furnish an interesting pastime, observing them under conditions that were not too trying, and where they would also furnish good sport. We had heard of the wonderful shooting on Lake Titicaca, but upon our arrival the season was closed and there was little besides coots and grebes; however, at certain times of the year there is an abundance of water-fowl and sportsmen from La Paz get enviable shooting opportunities.
The marshes along the Cauca River, Colombia, had given better results. Teals, tree-ducks, ruddies, and an occasional pair of big muscovies could always be found; but the ducks were loath to take wing, and going after them in the dense grass and thorny shrubbery growing in the marshes was very trying work.
Then we had reached the rice-growing district around Los Sarmientos.
“Ducks?” they said. “Why, hombre, they are bringing them into Tucuman by the thousands. The government is paying a bounty of five cents a head on them as they are destroying all the rice. They are swooping down by the tens of thousands; all the lakes in the south have dried up, so they are coming here. When the flocks rise from the fields, the earth trembles.”
That was certainly good news; but when we arrived, the birds had departed for regions unknown.
Leaving San Juan at 6 P. M., we reached a station called Media Agua (half water) two hours later. Our new friend had sent a peon to meet us, bringing a wagon; so as soon as we could extricate our luggage from the pile on the station platform, we loaded the vehicle and started on the long drive across the cold, barren country. It was very dark and there was not much of a road anyway, so the wagon jolted along over the rocks or dragged heavily through deep sand. The cold was intense; we wrapped up in heavy Indian blankets, which, however, did not give complete protection from the stinging blasts.
At midnight the driver refused to go any farther and drew up at a lonely hut, where we spent the rest of the night. Early next morning we were off again. We now passed through large irrigated fields where wheat was grown, and also a good deal of maize. Then the desert began again, and from appearances there was not a drop of water within many miles.