Argentina.

Last night, looking out of the window of the 4x4 farm Subaru, we passed the bold black letters on the main gate, resplendent even at that late hour against the freshly applied coat of white paint. They spelled out “La Corona”. By then it was dark already, so the next day was my first chance at discovering the lay of the land in this privileged and remote estancia. As I later found out, its history was one of fortune and adventure, having entered into an old Scottish family - the Campbells - from a carpet merchant who defaulted on a due payment, scraping together a sorry compensation of dangerous, uncivilised lands in the Argentine pampa. At the time it lay still astray from the bosom of civilised society, the rule of law, roads, or railways. A small consolation for the unsuccessful deal. Some men already farmed it, mostly for sheep, but they had to garrison several ‘puestitos’ around the estancia to defend themselves as best they could when the native Mapuche warriors came to raid. It was not unusual for men to die there. Women and children were not allowed to stay. Luckily for the family, a few decades later the government in Buenos Aires decided to clear out the riff-raff through one of the early ‘Campanias’ that eventually brought about the Argentine state as we know it. With the indigenous tribes subjugated, the land became rather more appealing, though still quite remote. An adventurous, ambitious ancestor, decided to leave Great Britain behind and seek good fortune in these foreign lands of his. Due to the lack of roads, railways, or shops, he took the house apart brick by brick, put it on a ship and unload it in Buenos Aires to begin his pilgrimage to the pampa.

I was the second to wake up. Woody grew up in a farming family, so he has grown accustomed to getting up ahead of the day. Patrick and Santiago like to cut it fine, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes still while our manager briefs us on the day's work. I guess I’m somewhere in the middle, or at least I am on my first morning, I was adamant on making a good first impression with my colleagues of the next months.

Woody and I walked toward the ‘encargado’s’ office where the morning and afternoon briefings occur, between the tractor shed and the old water tower. He saw my anticipation and warned me: ‘The men aren’t very talkative in the morning, but they’re great guys. I don’t speak much Spanish but they do chat with Patrick sometimes.’ I resolved not to be overly friendly and inquisitive, so as not to risk sounding like a petulant visitor. This was a good decision. ‘Buenos dias, Amedeo, encantado’. After standing around for a few minutes, a thin, serious man arrived and stood across from us. Again I introduced myself: ‘Buenos dias, Amedeo, encantado’. He waited in silence for a minute or so before assigning tasks. He was not a man of many words. ‘William conmigo al tractor. Patrick y los chicos con Enzo y Brian’. And again, to me ‘Emilio, con Patrick’. ‘Amedeo’, I protested. ‘Si, Emilio’. It’s then I settled on my spanish pseudonym, Amadeo, which I gratefully go by for my Spanish interlocutors.

Patrick, Santiago, and I, hopped onto the hitched trailer, while Brian drove the large red tractor to a cattle field, Enzo hanging off thes side of the cabin. We were bumbling along the uneven ground, our legs dangling off the side of a trailer packed full of razz mataz rolling about around us: enormous wooden trunks, spools of metal wire, and an assortment of other bits that resembled rubbish more than materials. Our task was to remove old fencing that had fallen to pieces, in a muddy patch in the middle of the enclosure. ‘There used to be a water tower here, where they bore a hole’ Patrick explained while pointing at the swampy area. I was grateful for this new friend and guide. He is one of seven brothers, brought up on a Portuguese vineyard, with an enviable sense of clarity on his ambitions as a farm manager, for which he was studying at university, and now gaining field experience.

As I’ve experienced with other unpaid activities, such as waitering at soup kitchens, one often feels there isn’t enough work to go around for all the eager volunteers. Enzo and Brian got to work taking apart the relics of the old fence with their wire cutters, quiet and reserved as on our earlier meeting. Patrick, being the most experienced of us three, and who obviously had proved his worth to the men prior to my arrival, grabbed the only remaining spade and got to work digging holes around the old posts. Scouring for a task, I picked up old wire where it lay and threw it into the trailer, upon receiving Enzo’s approving nod. Keen to make myself more useful, and perhaps gain the respect which was shown to Patrick, I went to help Enzo hoist a stubborn post out of the ground. I got into position, put on a competent face, ready to attempt this new task - entirely alien to me, a product of urban upbringing. Then my right foot felt strange. I looked down and noticed I’d submerged it firmly into a great green cow poo. ‘Mierda’ I muttered looking at my trainers. Enzo spoke at last. ‘Bienvenido a Argentina.’ I knew then this would be very good.