The Amazing Argentine: A New Land of Enterprise

Argentina has several navigable rivers, and two, the Plate and the Parana, up which it is possible, for light draft steamers, at any rate, to go hundreds of miles. If one pretends there is no Amazon in existence the Plate discharges more water into the ocean than any river from Hudson's Bay to the Magellan Straits. A learned book informs me that the volume of water rolled into the ocean is 2,150,000 cubic feet per second, which seems "prodigious." At Monte Video the width of the river is sixty-two miles; so it is no trifling creek. The Plate is the muddiest stream I have ever come across. This is not to be wondered at, considering that it and its tributaries scour many thousands of miles. As a matter of fact, the estuary is being filled up. Within knowledge, the depth opposite Monte Video has lessened by fifteen feet, and though dredgers are constantly at work, big liners moving up to Buenos Aires have sometimes to force a way through two feet of mud. It is quite likely that in the fullness of time Buenos Aires will not be a port, but an inland town.

Sometimes Argentina has floods which ruin the crops, drown thousands of cattle, break the railway banks, and reduce strong men, who thought they were rich, to tears at the prospect of poverty. Or there are droughts which shrivel everything up. Away back in the 'thirties, Buenos Aires Province had a drought which lasted for five years. Scientists, who know all about these things, say that the rainless zones are extending, and that in the far future the whole Republic will be a rainless zone, and umbrella sellers will go into the bankruptcy court. The prospect is not immediate, and if we are wise we shall not worry over a trouble which may have to be faced five hundred years hence.

Considering you can get a sweep of level country for 2,000 miles, with scarcely a hill that would make a decent bunker, when a gale gets on the rampage it runs away with itself. There is the zonda, which so disturbs the elements that the thermometer jumps fifty degrees in about as many minutes. Then, although there are those millions of cubic feet of water emptying itself out of the Plate, there comes the suestadas, which blows so hard that the water cannot get into the ocean, and, as a result, the upper streams rise and tumble over their banks. Next there are the pamperos on the plains, which either grill you with their heat or give you a chill from their rawness. I did not suffer myself; but these hateful pamperos are so charged with electricity that they give you a shock which produces a sort of paralysis, "perhaps twisting up a corner of the mouth, or half closing one eye, or causing a sudden swelling of the neck," as one authority records.

Parts of the Republic are yet to be explored. Persistent man is having a rough time in the Chaco region. When our ancestors invented hell they had no knowledge of the Chaco. It is all swamp and forest, and mammoth mosquitoes and fever, and pestiferous Indians who do not like the white man, and put a spear into his back whenever they get the chance. The Chaco Indians are amongst the few of their race who have not been subjugated. There are rivers which come trailing from goodness knows where; but when they reach the Chaco they are evidently so disgusted that they burrow underground. When it rains, fish several inches long drop from the clouds. Under a torrent a dip in the ground will become a pool, and in it will be found fish a foot long. They do not drop from the clouds. There are no little streams by which they can have arrived. Where do they come from? The easiest explanation offered is that they were formerly much smaller, did arrive on a storm cloud, and have been lying in the mud since the last storm.

I heard yarns, vouched for, but which seem like travellers' tales. There is a little bird which sits on a branch and twitters. Others come round, and are apparently mesmerised. Then the little bird attacks one, maybe much bigger than itself, and kills it without any resistance being offered. There is another bird which lives on friendly terms with the Indians, hops in and out of their mud huts, and is known as the "watch bird," because it always raises a peculiar cry when a stranger approaches.

In its physical aspects the Chaco is strange, with swamps, arid plains, and mighty clumps of forest. Here grows the quebracho, which means the break-axe; so it is a very hard wood. It is to get this wood that companies have men working in the Chaco, hundreds of miles from even a vestige of civilisation. Bullocks are employed to drag the trunks, and the poor beasts have a bad time of it. Then there are light railways to carry the trunks to the mills. Originally the quebracho was sought because it made serviceable and long lasting "sleepers" for railroads. Now it is chiefly wanted for the tannin in it; it is said to contain 50 per cent. of tannin.

Mention has been made of singular birds in the Chaco. But there are others to be found elsewhere in Argentina. W. H. Hudson, in his instructive book "The Naturalist in La Plata," describes the ypecaha, which holds public meetings and has dancing performances. "A number of ypecahas," he says, "have their assembling places on a small area of smooth, level ground, just above the water and hemmed in by dense rush beds. First one bird among the rushes emits a powerful cry, thrice repeated, and this is a note of invitation quickly responded to by other birds from all sides as they hurriedly repair to the usual place. In a few moments they appear to the number of a dozen or twenty, bursting from the rushes and rushing into the open space and instantly beginning the performance. There is a screaming concert. The screams they utter have a certain resemblance to the human voice, exerted to its utmost pitch and expressive of extreme terror, frenzy and despair. A long, piercing shriek is succeeded by a lower note as if in the first the creature had wellnigh exhausted itself. Whilst screaming, the birds rush from side to side, as if possessed by madness, the wings spread and vibrating, the long beak wide open and raised vertically. This exhibition lasts three or four minutes, after which the assembly peaceably breaks up." Quite like a political meeting at home.

European domestic animals have thrived since their introduction, though there is a tendency, checked by the constant introduction of breeding stock, to develop local characteristics. This has been particularly remarked in sheep which have strayed and have been left to themselves for several generations. They grow bigger and bonier, and with their leanness comes the power of rapid movement, so that their flesh is scant and their wool has an inclination toward growing straight and stiff like the hair of a goat. In the outlands of Argentina ostriches, jaguars, and deer may be seen; but you can live for years on the prairies – and that is where most of the colonisation is going on – and never catch a glimpse of one of these.

The thing which lays hold of the seeing man, after he has remembered the ages during which the country, suitable for maintaining innumerable millions of men and beasts, lay dormant, is the way the land has been completely transformed in its inhabitants, human and animal, and how alien vegetation has found a thriving home. The early Spanish adventurers, as has already been told, had to start their settlement by bringing animals from Spain, and it was chance, the extraordinary reproductiveness of herds which strayed or were abandoned, which taught them they had come into possession of something more valuable than gold mines. Books of history chiefly deal with the lust and the cruelty of the early Spaniards. I have nothing to do here with the story of the way in which Spain conquered the land. We have not to lose sight of the fact, however, they began settling in these parts nearly four hundred years ago, when a voyage to the Americas was like a journey to another planet, when the ships were small and incommodious and dangers were great, and the world had no experience in the science of colonisation. The authorities freely gave tracts of land, but in their wisdom they always stipulated that European domestic animals should be introduced. A settler got land for wheat and maize and an orchard, and then more land, just in proportion to how many horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and goats he would introduce. The land could be obtained for nothing, but always on condition that it was put to its full use in the maintenance of stock. That was a rough and ready, and yet very statesmanlike procedure. The best incentive was given to the agriculturist and breeder. The more cattle he introduced the more land he put to the plough, the bigger was the grant given to him by the authorities. Thus possession and prosperity advanced hand in hand. Here is a lesson which might be learnt to-day and copied by such countries as Australia, where there are millions of acres of undeveloped territory.

Time came when the wild herds waxed so numerous that the local councils proclaimed that all such cattle were the public property of their own people. To prevent those who lived under another local council taking possession, the system of branding these cattle, when they could be caught, was introduced. When the cattle thief came on the scene, and he was got hold of, he was first branded on the shoulder and for subsequent offences branded in the hand, flogged and hanged. The straying cattle in a district belonging to the public, the public soon began to appreciate that here were cheap meat and cheap hides. They were hunted as the buffalo were subsequently hunted in North America, and it really seemed as though they were going to be exterminated. Regulations had to be made limiting the number of animals to be killed every year. Though there was still great slaughter, the herds continued to multiply amazingly, and, of course, wandered hundreds of miles away from any settlements. So the tide rolled on until two hundred years ago the number of cattle had increased to many millions. Carlos Gervasini, a Jesuit missionary, writing from Buenos Aires in 1729, says, "So numerous are the cattle in the neighbouring campo here that any landlord may take from ten to twelve thousand to breed from, merely for the trouble of lassoing them and driving them home. In order to take more than this number a special licence is required from the governor. The ships returning to Spain are filled with the hides, and none but good specimens of these are troubled about. As to the flesh, each man takes what he requires and leaves the rest to the jaguars and dogs." Some years later a visitor to Argentina said there were so many cattle that the plains were covered; and had it not been for the number of dogs which devoured the young the country would have been devastated by them. There were so many cattle that when the Spaniards were at war, and invading boats appeared, their custom was to drive vast herds pell-mell down the river bank and so prevent a landing.

See the extraordinary whirligig. First no cattle. Then land granted to settlers who would introduce cattle. Then so many cattle they could be had by anyone for the asking, and this followed by wholesale slaughter, the extermination so thorough that a halt had to be called. Then further amazing multiplication, till the increasing wild dogs played havoc with the young animals. Then the dogs got so numerous, and their ravages so extensive, that soldiers were sent out to wage war on the canine pests. They killed untold thousands, but the people, instead of being grateful, chaffed the soldiers and dubbed them the "dog killers." The dogs started to increase again, faster than the cattle, but men refused to go out and kill the dogs when the only reward was to be nicknamed "dog killer." So the dogs were left alone, and they kept down the number of cattle. It was not till fifty years ago that a systematic massacre of the wild dogs took place, because just then the Argentines were beginning to settle down to scientific breeding.

It is astonishing how few dogs there are in Argentina. The dog may be the friend of man in other parts of the world, but not in Argentina. The Argentine hates the dog. In Buenos Aires the police have order to arrest every dog, whether it is with anyone or not. During the time I was in "B.A." I saw only one dog, and that was the property of Sir Reginald Tower at the British Legation.

That is not all the story. Not only did the wild dogs develop a taste for young calves, but the native Indians began to show a fondness for horseflesh. For centuries, although he could have had any number of cattle and nobody would have objected, the Indian maintained a preference for horseflesh. Then, suddenly, his fancy extended to cattle. When he started rounding up the cattle of the Spaniards there was trouble. Sheep were prolific, but mutton was contemptible food. None was so poor as to be obliged to eat mutton. The Spaniards regarded mutton much as Englishmen now regard horseflesh. The only use of a sheep was for its wool and fat. But the prejudice against mutton, after lasting for nearly three hundred years, finally disappeared.

Whilst there was an increasing carrying trade from Buenos Aires to Spain of skins, wool, and tallow – very profitable merchandise – Spain officially was not enthusiastic over this mean trading. What she wanted was gold and silver. As these came from Peru and Chili those countries were favoured whilst Argentina was the Cinderella of the family. What good was a country that had no mines but only grass to feed horses and cattle and sheep?

We think differently in these days, but in those far-off times Spain scarcely condescended to recognise Argentina. It was darling Peru that was always favoured. All regulations in regard to trade were made favourable to Peru. Spain accepted what she fancied from Argentina, and hampered her in seeking other markets.

Nothing, however, could stop the advance of Argentina. It was with reluctance that Argentina was raised to the first rank as a province, and was given liberty to export where she liked. Her trade jumped ahead. Then Argentina not only killed to get hides and wool and fat, but she had to begin breeding in order to supply the European demand. She began to dream dreams. There was little immigration; the people were the descendants of the old settlers. They knew nothing of Spain. They had no recollection of ancestors who did know anything of Spain. Spain meant nothing to them but a distant country which once lorded them and presumed to dictate to them. It was resentment at the relationship, combined with a desire to fulfil an independent destiny, that brought about the revolution and the declaration of a republic in 1810.

Since then Argentina has had many internal political troubles. She has had her set-backs. But the ebb has always been succeeded by a tumbling flow of fortune. The breed of cattle has been marvellously improved. The number of animals now runs into hundreds of millions. Vast areas now wave with wheat and maize. As you journey through Argentina, and see the land smiling with success, you know that beyond your gaze are thousands of square miles of soil as virgin as in the days when the Indians roamed free.

CHAPTER IX

"CABBAGES AND KINGS"

One of the failings of new countries, like that of youth generally, is conceit. Yet, on second thought, it is a useful offence, for it carries a people light-heartedly over rough ground which older nations dare not face and so turn aside.

In the new lands the settlers have the constant panorama of achievement before their eyes. They remember things as they were ten years ago, see them now, and are convinced that nowhere in the world has such progress been made as they are making. Anybody who hints a doubt is scowled upon. And the buoyancy of spirit, a sort of rampant optimism about themselves, is fostered by a bent of mind to read about what goes on in "rotten old Europe." A gracious Providence helps them to take notice only of the good things in their own country, and to have a quick eye for the bad things in other countries. Further, as all new lands need settlers, the official flag-waving and trumpet-blowing to attract immigrants is garish. You can, as a rule, reduce the value of the advertisements by half, and still be quite sure that more than justice remains.

I have been induced to write the preceding paragraph because, as I am not a hired agent to proclaim the wonders of Argentina, but merely a man who has studied some of its capabilities on the spot, I have no desire, in my endeavour to give a true portrait, to ignore the warts and occasional blemishes. Of course, the Argentine thinks his land the most remarkable in the world. In many respects I am disposed to agree with him. But it is not without spot. For instance, the first thing he is enthusiastic about is the climate. The freedom from severe winters, with the possibility for cattle to remain in the open all the year round, is an advantage. But in the Argentine winter (our summer) there are cold, wretched, rainy days which are depressing. In their summer (our winter) the heat is sometimes intense, especially in the northern region. I know of the fine, clear, bracing climate of the plains, filling one's veins with energy and the joy of living. I have enjoyed the charm of Mendoza, the healthiest of all the towns in the Republic. Where I am inclined to part company with the Argentine is when he wants to argue that the climate of the whole country is adorable.

Take Buenos Aires. The new arrival is not only entranced with the development and the encircling beauty of the city, but, with continuous blue skies and glorious sunshine, he is prone to underline the usual nice things about the climate. Then, one day, he feels uncomfortable, limp, saggy in body and mind. The slight breeze is from the north, and it seems to bring heavy inertia from the Brazilian forests. The old inhabitants have probably got used to the "norther" – they show no diminution in vigour – but the muscle-slackening and wearying effect on the new-comer is undoubted. Most of Buenos Aires is built on low-lying ground, much of it reclaimed from the shallow Plate, and the air is relaxing. Though the sun is delightful, it is anything but invigorating. So you reach the conclusion that, whilst Buenos Aires has usually most delightful weather, it has an indifferent climate.

There are striking changes in temperature in Argentina. Within half an hour of being broiled you may feel as though you had passed into a refrigerator. Hurricanes sometimes sweep vast areas, and everything – trees, buildings, crops – are mown down by the blasts. In the sandy stretches the sand is swept up like a thick cloud, and, though estancieros shut every door and fasten every window, it is not long before every room has an inch depth of sand. I have travelled all night in a sleeping car with double windows to resist the sand, but it filtered through nevertheless, and in the morning I found the only white spot in the compartment was where my cheek had rested on the pillow.

Life on a ranch has the glamour of romance about it. The town-bred Englishman, dissatisfied with his lot, lets his fancy roam to the prairies of North America or the pampas of South America, and his imagination glows with the conjured picture of cowboy life – quaintly dressed, always well-mounted, and with nothing to do but ride over the plains rounding up wandering cattle. As I have explained in an earlier chapter, many of the large estancias are not occupied by their owners; a manager with a salary is put in charge, and he usually has several young Englishmen as assistants. There are a number of peons. The manager, usually married, has a decent house. The assistants have a plain, bachelor establishment, and live in common. The peons rarely have anything better than ramshackle quarters. Distances are enormous. Frequently, outside the little clump of trees which is the distinguishing feature of all estancias, there is nothing to be seen as far as the eye can range but featureless prairie. The railways may be many miles away. The country has comparatively few towns – really a good point about an agricultural land – and though they are all attractive, only Spanish is spoken. Months may elapse between the visits of an Englishman to a town. He has to rise early; he has to work hard; the glamour of cowboy life soon goes; he and his mates have told each other all their stories; visitors are rare; there is practically no women's society. At first the tendency is to be homesick. But in time the man gets used to the life; possibly he may be happy. He, however, is far removed from refining influences. He may have a fondness for reading, but life in the saddle is so hard that at night, after supper and receiving instructions from the "boss" for the next day, and having a chat over work, there is little disposition to do anything except have a game of cards, and then turn in.

It is no unusual thing for an estancia to be fifty miles square. If so, it is divided into three or four sections, with a manager over each. Even then the property to be looked after is extensive. Though for food there is plenty of beef and mutton, there is little variety. The men are out by four in the morning, and breakfast is often no more than biscuits, washed down with maté (native tea). There is a solid meal about eleven o'clock, generally boiled meat, by no means always attractively served. After dark, between seven and eight o'clock, there is supper: meat, coffee, and biscuits. The surroundings are coarse and dirty, and sometimes disgusting. Of course, conditions are occasionally much better than these; but I think I am fairly describing the average quarters of the young Englishman who goes out to Argentina to be assistant on an estancia. What gave me frequent surprise was not that the life roughened them, but that so many retained the kindly courtesies of their homes in England.

The great thing is that the life is healthy. As years pass it gets a grip of a man, so that even if he has the chance to return to civilisation he generally prefers the camp. There is the driving of cattle to the railway and loading them – often difficult work – into the trucks to take them to the freezing factories. There is the cutting of alfalfa and the shearing of sheep. There is breaking-in of colts and looking after the stock.

A neighbouring estancia may be twenty miles away. But Sunday is a holiday, except for absolutely necessary work, and men will start off at two o'clock in the morning to have a jollification with friends, generally to witness some horse-racing, about which all the estancias for fifty miles round are excited, and with a bottle of beer as first prize. Maybe once or twice a year a wandering parson drops into an estancia. Whatever be the religious views of the hands – supposing they have any – the visitor is well received, and, be he Roman Catholic or Protestant, he proceeds to "fill them up." He brings them something they do not often think about. At the least he is a diversion. Undoubtedly his praying and preaching have an effect, because for several days after he has gone the men are serious, and language is not quite so ruddy as formerly. Then arises the question of the rival merits of horses over a level two miles, and the trend of thought changes.

The rural roads, as I have said, are shocking, especially after wet weather, for they are no more than tracks across mother earth. But man is an adaptable creature, and the Englishman gets used to the bad roads. The very discomforts facilitate companionship. No man out on the road and needing a meal has the slightest hesitation about dropping into an estancia and making himself at home. Young fellows will spend their money; and, as they cannot get rid of it after the way of the towns, it goes in buying horses to race or ponies for polo; because if there are a dozen youngsters within hail they invariably form a polo club. Folk think nothing of travelling across country many miles to witness a polo match on the Sunday. Usually the matches take place at different estancias on successive Sundays, and if there should be a homely English girl about – well, she receives as much attention as a real beauty would get in Mayfair.

Where two or three men are gathered together in England the odds are that conversation will turn to golf. Wherever men living in Argentina meet, be they Spanish, Italian, or English, they talk about horse-racing. I cannot recall that I ever met a man in the Republic who was not interested in horse-racing. I have already described what goes on at Palermo. But besides the swagger races at Palermo, and the races amongst the natives, the English like to have their camp races every few months. Not only is there the excitement of the contests, but there is real warmth in the hearts of men meeting old friends. Everybody knows what every horse has done; everybody is acquainted with the riders. There is betting, but nothing like to the same extent as amongst the born Argentines, who are gamblers, every mother's son, and will bet on anything and everything.

Sometimes one reads in English newspapers and telegrams how, on the arrival of emigrant ships in Australia and New Zealand, there is hustling amongst the ladies of those countries to get hold of the girls who are arriving as domestic servants. Every new country has its domestic servant problem, and Argentina is no exception. Unless wealthy, most people in the towns live in small flats, which is partly due to the excessive house rent, but also because servants are scarce and dear. The foreigner who has to make shift with an Argentine servant is either driven mad or deserves a medal for an angelic temper. I confess that at Cordoba I did meet with an English family who had nothing but praise for their native servants. But mostly I had to listen to tragic stories of dirtiness, theft, and unblushing lying. The trouble with so many of these Latins is that, even when willing, they seem quite incapable of learning. Of course, this applies to the lowest classes. When you get amongst the business folk you find they are quite as cute as North Americans – as the Argentines always speak of the people of the United States. After having a dozen incompetent servants in twelve unhappy months, many an English housewife ceases her search for a decent servant and does the work herself.

There may be a Merchandise Marks Act in Argentina. What I am quite sure about is, that it is the very paradise of the faked imitation article. There are certain things in Europe, be they mineral waters, or field-glasses, or razors, which are well known. It is possible to get the real thing in Buenos Aires, but it is six to one you get a faked article. The Argentines fake French wines of well known châteaux. You pay a big price expecting to get a good cigar, and more likely than not you get a brand with a well-imitated band. All the well-known Scotch whiskies are imitated, and there are half a hundred "famous" whiskies that are never heard of outside the Republic. I searched the whole of Buenos Aires to get some briarwood pipes made by well-known manufacturers. I was offered pipes bearing their names, but they were all fakes. "Sheffield" cutlery is often the shoddiest product of Germany. England has still a reputation for turning out a first-class article, but my experience was corroborated by men I consulted in Buenos Aires; it was impossible, or exceedingly difficult, to get the genuine thing. I am not going to write that Argentina is responsible for the shiploads of imitation muck which is dumped upon her shores. But there are certainly some manufacturers in some parts of the world who make cheap and nasty things, affix well-known English names, and do an enormous business in exporting them to the Republic.

The "fool" Englishman is to be encountered on the boats sailing to the Argentine. He does not read the newspapers, except the sporting columns, and "books are so dull"; but somebody has told him Argentina is a wonderful place with no end of "stuff" to be picked up. So with a first-class ticket to "B.A.," and enough cash in his pocket to keep him at the Plaza Hotel for a fortnight, he hopes to make his fortune.

"No end of Johnnies make lots of money," he explains as a preliminary to proceeding to do the same himself.

"What do you intend to do?" is quietly asked.

"Oh, anything. I think I'd like to go on one of those estancia things; awfully jolly riding about all day rounding up beastly bullocks."

"Got any letters of introduction?"

"Yes; I've got two from a fellow at my club, awfully decent sort, who met a couple of ripping Argentines in the Riviera summer before last, but smelling with gold. They ought to put a chap in for something worth having; what?"

That is not a fancy picture. I have met two of that type in one voyage, and the above is a fairly good example of their hopes and credentials. Without any qualification they land in Buenos Aires and have the haziest knowledge what they propose to do next. Possibly they have some vague ideas that wealthy Argentines will be down at the wharf eager to help good-looking young Englishmen. The young Englishman proceeds to use his letters of introduction, and finds that one of the men is in Europe and nobody ever heard of the other. What next? The Englishman does not know. He cannot speak a word of Spanish. He hangs round the hotel lounge, and spends a lot of time in the American bar downstairs. At the end of four days he confides to you he is "fed up with the stinking hole," and has wired to the "old man" to send him enough "stuff" to take him home. Then at the end of a week he returns to England in the same boat as that by which he arrived, quite convinced Argentina is a place which he was jolly lucky to get out of.

There was another young fellow, somewhat more spry than the example I have given. I met him in the street one morning, and he was furious. He had been in the running for the secretaryship of an English company that had some big contracts in Argentina, and he had been ruled out at last because he did not speak Spanish. That was his grievance. He knew he could mess along somehow, and could always get somebody to explain if he had to talk business with an Argentine who did not speak English; so what was the good of having to swat to learn the lingo?

One of the biggest financiers in Argentina told me one day that whilst plenty of young Englishmen made their way – indeed, if competent, they were preferred to other foreigners – he was astonished at the way others missed their opportunities. My friend, an Englishman himself, but who has lived all his life in the country, and speaks Spanish more fluently than he does English, has his finger in many concerns. Young men who have come out to posts, and are not making the progress they hoped, go to him to see if he can give them a helping hand.

"Delighted," he says; "I want to help my own countrymen as much as possible. How long have you been in 'B.A.'?"

"Eight years."

"Then you speak Spanish like an Argentine, eh?"

"Well – er – no; but I've picked up enough to scrape along on."

"Could you take charge of a hundred Argentines and talk business to them as well as an Argentine?"

"No; I wouldn't like to say that."

"Could you write a technical business letter in Spanish?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Good day, my young friend. I should have been glad to have helped you, but I want a man who would not be sure to make mistakes."