Wetlands along the Calchaqui Valley
"Make the Desert Bloom"
by Bill Bonner
From the ranch at Gualfin, Salta Province - "Today, we take time out of our regular program - in which we try to understand the Primary Trend in all its guises and glory - and explain what we are doing here. We have long-lasting relationships with four different countries. In each place, attitudes and customs are different. It takes a long time to get to know them; sometimes, you never do.
When we attended the recent funeral of one of our workers, for example, we noticed that there was a separate, very private gathering…to which we weren’t invited. Apart from the larger gathering of mourners, a group performed an ancient ceremony. The man’s dog was killed and laid out with a miniature saddle with reins and stirrups. Upon him was placed a doll – a manuca – meant to represent the dead cowboy. They were placed in a shallow hole near the house, and covered with dirt.
Our routine here is to take our place in the office in the morning - looking out on hundreds of acres of alfalfa...and watch the farm come alive. The sun hits the peak of the mountain on the other side of the river...and then creeps down, gradually lighting up the whole valley.
Along the bottom of the alfalfa field, two figures with shovels on their shoulders and rubber boots make their way along the canal. They are called locally ‘regadores’ - irrigators, who direct the streams of water so that the whole field is covered and every plant gets a drink. The grass feeds the cattle. It must be watered...baled...stored...and moved.
Up the driveway, around 8 am, comes a tractor, driven by the ‘tractorista’, nicknamed ‘Ojito.’ He stirs up dust on the farm road behind him as he drives over to a nearby hill where the ‘rollos’ of hay are stored. He backs the big, old tractor into a bale. The spikes mounted on the back of the tractor pierce the bale. Then, it is lifted and carried out to the corral on the other side of the road. There, the calves, recently weaned, and now being fattened for sale, turn their attention to the coming roll of dry alfalfa.
Farther down the hill, new workers appear...walking alone, or in small groups. They are the ‘socios’ (partners) of the farm. They work fields on their own...raising onions and peppers, mostly. We supply the land, the equipment...and marketing. They do the hand work. We split the revenue.
Up the hill too rides a young man with a big sombrero. Lazaro wears chaps and leather boots. He is a gaucho...a cowboy...in charge of the horses. It is he who drives the cattle from the pens to the fields...and to the corrals.
By this time, the ranch is fully in motion and Inez, a pretty, trim woman, the wife our ‘capataz’ (foreman) always on time, always neat and orderly, has called us to breakfast.
“The eye of the owner fattens the cattle,” say the locals. Fortunately, it’s not our eye! A son-in-law has taken up the challenge. He leaves early in the morning...visiting the ‘capataz’ and reviewing the day’s work plans. He coordinates schedules and supplies...he checks the humidity in the alfalfa before it is baled (it cannot be too moist or too dry)...he checks the calves...and negotiates with buyers. Comfortable in our office, we start a fire and warm our coffee as we work on our computer. Now someone else has the responsibility of ‘running’ the farms. We just come to enjoy them.
Every place has its own rhythms, patterns, and troubles. Here in Salta province, Argentina, we are in a constant battle with nature...and man, too. Nature brings us droughts...wind...pests...hot days and cold nights. It is a challenge to keep up with them. In theory, you bring in more sophisticated technology to master them. Tractors to plant and reap. Pumps bring up the water. Balers, harvesters, diggers - all the fruits of the industrial revolution are here. They are designed to help mankind get more out of every hour of work.
When we arrived in 2006, there were no farm machines with internal combustion engines on the place. The main source of power was an aged Percheron horse...who, knowing his work was done, died soon after we bought a tractor. Then, we added more and more machines. A backhoe, for example, was a major step forward. The local priest came to sprinkle holy water on it...as we all believed it would be a boon to everyone on the farm. Productivity soared, just as the textbooks said it would.
But gone was the quiet bucolia...and the lovely rusticity. In one pasture up in the hills, for example, the Percheron used to pull a hay cutter next to a bubbling stream. Clickety, clackety...clickety, clackety. Then, the workers raked it up by hand...and piled it onto an old-fashioned haystack. A more beautiful scene could scarcely be imagined. When we first saw it, we lay down on the haystack and imagined that we were in another century.
The tractor-powered machinery makes different sounds...and comes with problems of its own. Sand dulls the gears. Dust clogs the filters. The bright sun cracks the hoses. A mechanic spends all of his time keeping the machines running. But he needs parts that must come - most often - from abroad. They are expensive...and sophisticated. New tools, equipment and skills are needed. So, technology becomes another problem. Another challenge! More to think about...to worry about...more to spend money on.
As for man, he is a challenge too. When we arrived in the Calchaqui Valley we expected to be greeted warmly...almost as saviors. We were coming with new energy, new hope, new machinery...and new money...to make the desert bloom. The reception was friendly...but reserved. Then, after a few years, many of the locals became hostile. They had been told that foreigners were oppressors...just the latest generation of white colonialists and imperialists who had first invaded in the 16th century. They believed they were the rightful owners of the land, not us…that it had been given to them by their ancestral gods and was theirs forever.
In this fantasy, they were aided by a law, unwisely adopted by the legislature in far-away Buenos Aires. It gave special rights to ‘indigenous peoples’ living in a traditional way on their traditional lands. Who was an ‘indigenous person?’
It was left open. And soon, like Americans who believed they could determine their own ‘gender,’ many of the locals decided to become ‘indigenous.’ One of the chief’s fathers was German. Others had pick-up trucks and passports. In a next-door valley, a vast farm was practically abandoned after an ex-wife claimed ownership...because she claimed to be an ‘Originario.’ With no clarification, it looked as though anybody could claim to be an indigenous person and assert ownership over whatever land he wanted. Which is just what happened.
Houses were squatted...or new ones built on someone else’s property. Originario cattle grazed on adjacent land. And nothing could be done about it. On our ranch, at least two unwelcome houses were built. A local judge issued a ‘stop work’ order. But they kept building...and now the houses are occupied. And our fields are grazed by goats, sheep, llama and cattle that are not our own.
Self-proclaimed ‘originarios’ burned down a couple of our remote cabins and tore up a water line to the corral. They had used these things more than we did - since they keep their cows on our property. But they were making a point - that they could do whatever they wanted. But comes the good news. Now, maybe, they can’t.
“Milei has changed the law,” a neighbor told us. “They got rid of that open-ended provision that allowed them to take our land.” “Now, there’s no longer any doubt about who the owner is. And I’m tempted to try to get the troublemakers off my farm. But I’m not sure the courts will go along. They’re very political down here. Besides... they’re not bad people. They’re actually good people. They just got some pretty stupid ideas. I just hope the Originario War is over.”
We don’t know if it’s over. But there at least seems to be a truce. But Dear Readers might be wondering why we bother to fight at all. After all, the ranch is not profitable. It’s a money loser. We’d save money if we simply raised our hands, and surrendered the title to the Originarios.
“That would be a dirty trick,” said the friend. “It would quickly dry up. All the big farms in the valley are losing money. You wonder why anyone holds onto them. You can make a very poor living by cultivating a small patch. Like the Originarios do. A little corn. A few goats. And dozens of cattle somewhere up in the mountains. They get by...but just barely. Running a big operation just doesn’t work. We’re too far from the markets. Our costs are too high. We have to irrigate in order to feed the cattle. Other places have rain.”
So why are we here? When we were still in our 20s we got the idea that we would like to see how people in other countries lived. This was not a desire to visit, but to live there. To dig in. To find out what it was really like. We borrowed money and launched a magazine - International Living - many years before we had ever lived overseas. Thus began a career in publishing...and a half a century of living internationally.
It takes about ten years in a place before you really understand ‘how it works.’ And by then, you’re no longer a visitor. You’re part of the place. And it is part of you. That’s why we are still in Argentina. France. And Ireland. We live in all three places...as well as the US. And returning to each place, we find old friends, old shoes, familiar houses...and unsolved problems.
We are here - at least for now - for better or worse. Like a love affair, it began as an adventure. But it has become more like a marriage. We know how it started. We want to see how it will turn out."
