Where Have All The Gauchos Gone?

The bus departed with a roar, and left us standing on the deserted street.  We walked to town, our footsteps ricocheting off the peeling walls, while the midday sun blazed down from a deep blue sky.  This scene may have worked well for "High Noon", but not for us.  We were in San Antonio de Areco for the "Day of Tradition", a popular gaucho festival, and expected to see a crowd of celebrating cowboys, and camera-clicking tourists, not Gary Cooper.

At our hotel, we learned that three days prior to our arrival, rains flooded the town, and the festival was cancelled.  We reminded ourselves that nomads do not dwell on the could-have-been, and ventured to the plaza.  The water has receded, and the old pulperia (general store/pub) resumed operations.  In the back patio, slabs of meat, the size of a human torso, were staked, as if in a pagan ceremony, around a smoking fire.  We settled at a shady table overlooking the river, and ordered the sirloin which, coupled with a liter of stout, quickly soothed our disappointment.

In the evening, the town provided the handful of visitors, with a sample of the cancelled event.  We watched as Martin, an incredible horse whisperer, performed an intricate and sensual, routine with his horse (Yes, he did kiss it on the mouth).  We were also taught the Chacarera, an Argentina's rural folk dance.  After the weekend, we start our Tango lessons.