Cuesta del Obispo, "Bishop's Slope",Valles Calchaquíes,
Salta, Argentina
"Tales From The Calchaqui Valley"
Murder, intrigue and hard luck farming from
high in Argentina's great northwest...
By Bill Bonner
San Martin, Argentina - "Valley Tales…“The valley is a special place,” commented a neighbor, whose family has been farming here for generations. “It drives some people crazy. Everything is so hard to do…it’s almost impossible to make any money. When new people come in, they bring up experts who tell us how to improve our herds or how to manage our fields. They’re always a disaster. Things that work in other places don’t work here. And things that sound good on paper never work at all. And maybe it’s the isolation…or the altitude…but the valley is full of eccentrics, dreamers, and nuts.”
We weren’t sure which category he put us in. But after 15 years, we had to acknowledge that the valley takes its toll. “Poor Fermina came to visit,” Elizabeth reported. The role of the landowners (those who actually spend time here) is complex. We keep people employed. We bring money into the valley (all of the farms lose money). We come with new machinery and new ways of operating…always hoping for a breakthrough that will finally justify our investments. But we also act as intermediaries between the special life of the valley, its families, its customs and its rituals…and the outside world.
Broken Hearts: Fermina’s son – Fernando – was the second of the mysterious deaths on our farm. Two years ago, Carlos inexplicably and improbably drowned, accidentally, in a reservoir. At least, that’s what they say. Nobody believed it. More recently, Fernando, a gardener, died for no apparent reason at all. “Fermina says he died of a heartbreak,” Elizabeth told us. “That family has so many problems. She’s now alone. Fernando, who must have been about 40 years old, lived with her all his life.
There are other members of the family…and she has at least two grandchildren. But something went very wrong. She never sees them. The grandchildren’s father is in jail…he got a 5-year sentence for beating his wife. And the wife – the mother of the children, Fernando’s sister – is in prison for murdering her youngest child.”
“Well, how can we help Fermina?” we wanted to know. “She has to go to Salta for treatments for breast cancer. She asked if we could help find somewhere she could stay. I told her we’d ask Sergio to look for a hostel near the hospital.”
Broken hearts aren’t the only danger. One of our distant neighbors is a smart agricultural engineer who came from Australia more than 20 years ago. He bought a large farm up in the mountains and put in an extensive system of irrigation. He planted onions. He tried quinoa. He tried alfalfa. He tried grapes. Nothing worked as he hoped.
Maybe it’s the loneliness or the frustration, but then, he took up drinking. That led him to drive off a cliff into the river. He broke a leg and was stuck in his car, while the river water was rising. He was only saved because a faithful friend went looking for him, and found him trapped in the wrecked car.
Lately, he’s turned to tourism. We had our doubts about it when we drove up to visit. Like Gualfin, his ranch is far away and is only accessible by a treacherous, narrow road winding along the side of the mountain. Another friend, who drove up a couple years ago, was so terrified by the road, he couldn’t go on. His wife had to complete the drive. And even we, who are accustomed to the roads of the area, and equipped with 4-wheel drive, still don’t dare to look down as we drive to the Australian’s place. “You don’t understand,” he explained. “Tourists love it. It’s the highlight of their trip. They don’t get that kind of thrill in Paris or New York. They tell their friends back home.”
The Paris of the South: Among the other dreamers in the valley are a “French” couple who got excited about high altitude wine and bought a small vineyard about an hour up the river. Neither is actually French, but they live in Paris…and we enjoyed visits with them when we were both ‘locked down’ during the pandemia. They were staying at a local hotel, with nowhere else to go. So, the management of the hotel, ordered to close its doors, simply handed them the keys and told them to make themselves at home. When we realized they were there, we went to visit.
It was strange, almost spooky, the four of us dining alone in the abandoned hotel. He, Orlando, is a neurologist. More importantly, she, Virginia, is a psychiatrist. Both are witty and charming. And now we have someone to call if either of us starts barking at the moon. Orlando comes here on his vacations to make wine. The bottles are shipped to Paris, where he sells them at very high prices – visiting the finest restaurants in person.
“Our wine is much richer than French wine,” says Orlando. “It’s the soil…the sun…the altitude. Everything is more intense.” Orlando is intense, too. He sneers at other wines…and regards oak barrels – a staple of most high-priced winemakers – as a sin. His wine is excellent. But making it is not easy. One year there is a drought. Another year is an early frost. And this year? “It was a nightmare; the grapes were ready to pick and we couldn’t find any cosecheros (pickers) to pick them. Everybody had grapes to pick…and the pickers were all in town, getting their welfare checks and getting drunk.”
The intensity seems to affect everything and everyone. Sergio is our own “administrador.” He comes every week, bringing news, spare parts, and food, from the city. His roundtrip is about 15 hours, over bumpy…often impassable…roads, while listening to the Grateful Dead.
“I came through the pass…at the Colorados (a stretch of red hills),” he reported yesterday. “It almost never rains here…but it was raining yesterday…just enough to put a slick layer of mud on the road. There were a couple big trucks there. They couldn’t make it up the hill. Their wheels just spun around. They are just going to stay there until the sun comes out. Tomorrow, I guess.”
Lambs to the Slaughter: Sergio comes with dreams too. “I have an idea,” he said, at last night’s dinner. “Sheep.” Ours is a cattle ranch. But along with Sergio at the table, an empty bottle of wine in front of him, was a veterinarian who made the case.
“Sheep are not a commercial enterprise around here. There are a lot of them. But there is no real market. People sell one or two, especially during Holy Week. [The custom is to eat a lamb for Easter Sunday.] But we’re trying to find ways to give the local people something to do…ways that they can earn money. The mayor of Seclantas [a nearby town], for example, is building a licensed slaughterhouse…so they can sell their sheep. And he got a refrigerated truck that will take it to the city.”
“Everybody knows that things from here taste better,” interrupted Sergio. “The wine…the fruit..and the meat too. You get a lamb from down on the pampas and it is not at all the same taste as a lamb from up here. Because the grass is richer. The idea is to develop a breed and a brand – Calchaqui Lamb…or Gualfin Sheep – so we could sell good animals in quantity at a good price.”
You can learn marketing and brand management in business school. Or you can learn it by going into business yourself. Sergio didn’t bother with either. Just as well; real knowledge probably would have quashed the plan. “If it’s alright with you, we’ll start with 50 animals. We’ll get a breed that gives both good wool and good meat. We’ll sell the meat in the city. And we’ll sell the wool to local artisans to make ponchos.”
“Three to one,” was the cryptic remark from Sebastian, the vet. “You can feed three times as many sheep per acre…maybe 5 times. A cow weighs 10 times as much as a sheep. But you get 2 lambs per year, not just one calf. And with three times as many sheep, you end up with 6 times as many young animals. I believe you can make 3 times as much money, too, if you manage it right. Because sheep only take half as much labor.”
Our heads spinning with single digits, it was left to Elizabeth to come up with a plan of action. “Yes…let’s raise sheep. And we can sell them like Orlando sells his wine. We’ll get a 3-legged lamb and lead him around from restaurant to restaurant. Nice and fluffy. Cute. And when people ask how come the leg is missing we’ll explain...This is a Calchaqui lamb. Not a normal lamb. It is so tasty, we didn’t have the heart to eat him all at once.”
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