Tim December 4th, 2007

December 1st-3rd

Flying from Calgary, Alberta, Canada to Buenos Aries, Argentina is a big transition at this time of the year. One minute I am wearing long johns underneath my jeans in -15C weather driving through polka dot inspired snow storms in the early morning. where even with Low beam headlights attempting to pierce the depth of the ensuing clouds of swirling white, we could barely see 20 yards in front of us. With Jaws gritted we reach the Airport and wished Debbie’s second in command, Elaine, a better experience in driving back to the ranch. Surprisingly everything was on time at the airport and we embarked on the Continental jet for a 14 hour journey southeast to a land of summer humidity and drastic temperature differences, in stark contrast to the Canadian winter that we had just left.

Argentina, for the photographers reading this blog, has a atmospheric light that contrasts Canada, having a dusty humid warmth that creates glowing images. Even when on the cool side of the spectrum the warmth of light shows through. Canada has a much crisper cleaner type of light inspiring a Fuji type of film experience. The blues and greens being more prominent for the most part then in Argentina.

Most of the last 3 days spent in Buenos Aires was business for Debbie. Being a professional Equestrian, she is on a quest for quality horses to ship home and sell to various clients. Argentina has a plethora of just about every type, size and style of horse, you just have to know what agent to contact and what services that you will need in order to exact the most efficient use of the time allotted. Once we are processed through the maze of the customs of Argentina at the International airport, Julio, ( Debbie’s agent ) picks us up, waiting with anticipation of the days events to come. Driving here in Buenos Aires is not something I would advice for the faint of heart. In fact being a passenger is not much better, except that you have your hands free to allow for the proper positions of clasped appendages for the prayer position. I imagine there are rules of the road down here, but for the life of me it isn’t discernable to me. As far as I can see they waste a lot of money painting lines on the roads that are ignored totally, never mind the signs. It seems that the main rule is to weave left and right as it seems fit to the driver using your side view mirrors as distance gauges from the car next to you. That is if you even have side view mirrors. Some only held on by a local type of duct tape it seems. Speed is another factor in allotting maximum fear for the visiting tourist, such as ourselves. Despite regular postings of "suggested" speed limits, it seems that here too they are wasting plenty of money in the posting any type of regulations. The real rules seems go as fast as your car will allow with the slowest on the right side of the road, leaving the speediest of them to attempt the sound barrier on the left, flashing their headlights and honking for those that dare occupy this lane at anything below 140km/hr. The fact that the roads are in various states of repair doesn’t seem to discourage the speeders. It is only a challenge to swerve with the right rhythm to avoid for the most part the deepest of pot holes and with little groans when the avoidance was off a hair. The bottom of the vehicle takes yet another bashing of the type only a Canadian 4×4 truck would attempt. Yup, this is a white knuckle and drool inducing carnival ride for those that want to see any part of this phenomenal country. I constantly remind myself that Julio is close to 45 years old and has no apparent scars as far as i can discern and that he has been driving like this since …..well, a long time. And that as percentages go we will likely survive this ordeal intact. Never the less Debbie huddles in the back seat, feigning kindness in offering me the front. She has wisdom of experience and at the same time I bluster up a macho demeanor that is not very deep, acting as if I drive this way at home and that hey, he could have gone up the sidewalk over there and saved a second or two for our immanent arrival at the prospective destination. Fortunately today we were spared somewhat by staying in the city to view a timely horse jumping event in Buenos Aires, that was being held not to far from the airport.

Thereby allowing a slower exposure to the ensuing rally of daily traffic for at least one more day before heading out to the distant breeding farms in the outlying areas of the city. Mostly hitting the maximum speed for these diesel powered sewing machines. Truly they are camouflaged formula one vehicles that look like the Ford Escorts of North America, with numerous small dents throughout to attest to their true ability at not getting entangled into anything major accident wise, with the tin armored representation of the skills of the machoistic driver.

During the last three days I was struck by the stark contrast of experience, first being in the downtown core mingling with Buenos Aire’s Equestrian elite, dressed in a manner I have personally never experienced. I, representing the plebeian state of mind of my culture and avoiding such conformities ally with the simple statuesque manner of the rural ranch life. Many of these people have homes that are basic with exquisite styling bringing out the rugged and practical aspect of life closer to nature. Simple in a way that is to my liking and for the most part not really doing without many of the things that we have all grown accustomed to. Mostly the homes and Villas are constructed of hand formed reddish brick and mortar applied in a loose fashion that maintains a feel consistent with the rustic atmosphere experienced out there, with dusty skies billowing warm hues against the cobalt skies and rows of Spanish style willows breaking the pool table flatness of the pampas. As you expand your vision into the distant horizons you perceive groupings of curious looking wild binocular eyed horses always looking out for something out of the norm to tentatively experience.

Once Julio and the gauchos ( South American Cowboys ) determine which herd is of interest, another gnarled gaucho leaps with enthusiasm onto his sheepskin saddle and kicks a fury of intent into the ribs of his mount, speeding as if he were on Ruta 28 ( highway 28 ) and that there are no gopher holes out there to be engaged. His progress expressed in a trailing cloud of umber dust, angled like a arrow towards the prospective herd. Rounding up the two year olds was a seemingly easy venture, as they were corralled in mere minutes allowing for the practiced eye of Debbie and Julio to pick out the best of the lot for further inspection and possible sale. Excitement was hanging in the humidity, as was the fog like dust clouds and silhouettes of wildness mussed the earth with Debbie in the fray maneuvering and cajoling her way through the reactionary mass of anticipation, to extract the one, the unmistakable chosen one.

To me they all kind of look the same but Debbie’s long practiced eye picks out nuances that seem mystical. Far beyond my blunt experience of sight, she sees a twist of foot or lightness of trot meaning the world to a professional. Me, I am glad to be able to perceive the difference in color never mind the apparent gender difference. Never the less I am caught up in the prospector like excitement of finding that nugget of gold, only needing polishing to bring out the  jewelers dream in equine beauty.

Next….Chile, Patagonia. In Torres del Paine National Park

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• Tim Schumm