Since the first time we went out on horse back, I have recieved constant criticism for wanting to be a gaucho. Gaucho this, gaucho that; I can't go anywhere without hearing how gauchos do things. Everyone who knows about my gaucho aspirations always chip in a comment too. I am constantly being told to do things that will improve my gaucho qualities. "Go make a fire James, show us you're a real gaucho; Go drop off the horse really far away, and walk back, it's gaucho training." Even though I recieve borderline harassment for wanting this status, I have taken it on my behalf to learn as much about being a gaucho as possible.
The first essential of being a gaucho is to have a really big knife. Knives are your tools for everything. Their uses include sheep slaughtering, making kindling, a weapon if you are attacked by a band of criminals, and are always usefull if you get a stray thorn from a caliphate bush (which is bound to happen). These knives are nothing to play around with, although toy can also be added to the list of uses. The average gaucho carries two at anytime; one pocket knife, and another swordlike monstrosity, all of which are as sharp as scalpels. The larger ones are called facónes, and are deserving of the unique name. The first really huge one I saw was fashioned out of an old machete. The long steel blade had been ground down to the finest edge. It was awesome, and cut through an asado lamb like a light sabor. I keep wondering if a knife can ever be too sharp, but until one of my fingers gets sliced off from checking the edge, I'm going to assume there is no such thing. Another essential accessory to the knife is the sheath. Sheaths are nice because they don't allow things to get cut unintentionally. Since the invention of the sheath, horse deaths by facón transportation have dropped dramatically.
Secondly, you must be able to leap over boulders on horseback going straight down a mountainside at full gallop. By leaping over boulders I mean you need to have keen horsemanship skills. The most important part of your horsemanship skills is your ability to use a whip. Frequent cracks without hesitation is the choice method of use. Personally, I think the horses like being smacked around a few times. You should see them out in the corral galloping around, ready to be sattled up. Its like a dog wanting to go for a walk; a really abusive one. These are solid horses too; not just your run of the mill thorough breds. These mutt horses have blood lines from all the wildest of escaped cattle rustlin' stock. I'm pretty sure their diversity in backgrounds have allowed them to express all the best qualities of each breed, or at least the qualities that aren't phased by the constant whipping. All of them are strictly gaucho horses. They don't even need brands. If you aren't their owner, or at least have the approval of the owner, they will probably eat you. Don't even attempt to feed them an apple, they don't like them. They would much rather go for gringo flesh.
The third, and most important skill for the manliest of men in the world is to be proficient in Home Economics. Blade, and whipping skills, are no match to needle point proficiency. The average gaucho must be able to cook a hardy meal complete with fresh tortas (because you are judged primarily by the quality of the bread you make); make a saddle, whip, or chaps; and also be hospitable if any guests happen upon your puesto. A gaucho without a warm fire, and Maté on hand ready to serve should be totally ashamed, and probably should leave the country (and go to Texas or something).
So far, I have a few skills down. I can make a pretty mean torta, I have a pocket knife that is fairly sharp, and I can catch and saddle my own horse without getting chunks bitten out of me. The problem with learning this, is that it is just the basics. I still haven't gotten into the social aspects like the quaker dancing, or the art of dirty double speak. They keep asking me if I jump like a rabbit, and if I like meat raw or cooked. I'm definately going to have to do some further investigations.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
Puma Day: Part two- "Can you feel it coming in the air tonight..."
If there were a sixth sense, intuition may be a strong candidate. At any moment it can warn you of coming danger, or make aware the danger that has already begun to unfold. It is hard to explain this phenomena, but it can be of great use to the person experiencing it.
It struck me one afternoon while checking the site of a freshly killed guanaco. As I walked through the strangely shapen landscape, a feeling of imminent doom sunk deep into my chest, squeezing in between my heart, and my stomach. As I took note of the steep, inescapable walls slightly angled to a single exit point, and hidden rock passageways leading to the middle of a long sloping corridor, it occurred to me that I had entered into a killing chute. This was an area specifically designed for death upon death of helpless victims by the merciless puma. In the middle of the chute was a large heap of debris, collected and stashed in a mountainous pile. A freshly slain guanaco lay hidden beneath the uprooted grass, neatly tucked into its camoflauged grave. The location was flawless in its construction. Even being there with three other people in the middle of the day, I felt like I was going to be attacked. As we unwrapped the grassy burial shrouds of the recently departed, a bloodied rib cage exposed itself revealing the damage the lion had done. The entire chest cavity had been licked clean, but the rest of the body was mostly intact. This cat was going to be here for days before leaving the kill. That's when it occurred to me, "This might be a good chance to see a cat."
The sun and the moon were playing games with the light. I couldn't tell whether the sun was still up just enough to barely illuminate the area, or if the moon was shining with sunlike intensity. I was beginning to drift off, slowly feeling the night coming on hard. Just when I was about to slip away, I heard a swish of the grass. I perked up a bit, but maintained my silence. I didn't want to move because whatever it was might spook if I made a sound. I wasn't sure if my imagination was playing tricks on me or not. Maybe I had accidently brushed against some grass or something? There was silence for a series of minutes, but then came a loud serious of crunches. The guest of honor had arrived.
The moon shown bright, but only bright enough to see the pale silhouette of the beast. Its smooth grey coat, and fluid like curves seemed to become one with the night. I stared hard through my binoculars, straining to see the motionless cat. The only thing that confirmed that I was still looking at the animal was the low sound of crunching bones echoeing off the canyon walls. The bones made hollow sounds as they tumbled back, and forth against its incisors. The cat was buried deep in the carcass. It was completely engulfed in eating, but from time to time, it would jerk its head up out of the animal, look around, then jam it right back down into a juicy hunk of guanaco. It started to get violent watching this cat work over the 250 pound carcass. The cat would grab enormous hunks of flesh, and start rocking back and forth with it, maneuvering its body for leverage. With full body motions, the cat would rip entire muscles from their bones. This cat was on a mission, and it wasn't going to stop until it had devoured more than its share. I sat there for forty five minutes, or morek, listening to the thrashing, and shifting of the gorging puma. It was very interesting observing the feeding habits of this mysterious cat. The most interesting part was that it seemed like it didn't want to be seen by anyone while stuffing its gullet with as much meat as it could fit. It was like a person who had gone on a diet, but had to have that late night chow session without anyone knowing. There was a faint dog howl in the background, a swish of grass, and then silence ensued.
I searched the carcass with the binoculars for a number of minutes. The cat had disappeared without a trace. The event had begun, and ended, with a swish of the grass, but everything prior, and everything after, was totally up for interpretation. I sat there debating what I should do. I wanted to get back to the Estancia, but I had no idea where the cat was. That was the scariest part of the entire episode. During the feeding, I had no problem sitting there within pouncing distance from the cat because I knew it wasn't at all interested in me. Now the situation was a little bit tense. The cat probably wasn't too hungry, but what cat could resist an after dinner play session. I slowly backed down from my rocky perch, ducking behind any grass I could find. Safety was just over the top of the hill, but I had to be out of site of the obviously advantaged cat. I crawled, stopping frequently to listen (like it would actually help). As I crested the ridge, I positioned myself against a rockface, making sure it couldn't attack from behind, and moved steadily down the rocky ledge. Out of site from the kill, I lowered myself to the other side of the wall, and slowly made my way back. Two hundred meters felt like miles as I stepped silently down the path. As I distanced myself from the spot, I gradually felt a calming feeling come over me. I made it back to the house safely, but was weary of every shadow until I was in the safety of my own room.
That intense feeling of not knowing what could happen was definately unsettling. After being within meters of a hungry puma, and not hearing it at any point other than when it was feeding, I have found a new respect for not only the stealthyness of the cat, but for the darkness and what it conceals.
It struck me one afternoon while checking the site of a freshly killed guanaco. As I walked through the strangely shapen landscape, a feeling of imminent doom sunk deep into my chest, squeezing in between my heart, and my stomach. As I took note of the steep, inescapable walls slightly angled to a single exit point, and hidden rock passageways leading to the middle of a long sloping corridor, it occurred to me that I had entered into a killing chute. This was an area specifically designed for death upon death of helpless victims by the merciless puma. In the middle of the chute was a large heap of debris, collected and stashed in a mountainous pile. A freshly slain guanaco lay hidden beneath the uprooted grass, neatly tucked into its camoflauged grave. The location was flawless in its construction. Even being there with three other people in the middle of the day, I felt like I was going to be attacked. As we unwrapped the grassy burial shrouds of the recently departed, a bloodied rib cage exposed itself revealing the damage the lion had done. The entire chest cavity had been licked clean, but the rest of the body was mostly intact. This cat was going to be here for days before leaving the kill. That's when it occurred to me, "This might be a good chance to see a cat."
It took me a couple of days to finally have the whole plan laid out, but it wasn't really much of a plan to begin with. The plan was to get to the spot when the cat was most likely to be there, and see how close I could be without spooking him. That's pretty much as far as I got. I had no escape plan. The only really solid plans I was coming up with was where to sit. The most exciting place I found was a rockoflauged hole near the death trench. Large stones provided sufficient body coverage for a very close up viewing, but was definately a little too close for comfort. The only problem with the spot was that I had no place else to go if the cat did stumble upon me. I kept having this reoccuring vision that I would look up, and the cat would be right above me with a toothfilled smile. Finally, by Sunday, I was mentally ready for the encounter.
That evening, the stake out was on. I dressed warm, layering from head to toe in the most stealthy clothing I could find. The kill site was a mere 200 yards away from the Estancia administration property. It wasn't too far that I couldn't get home, but it was too far for anyone to hear my screams. I set out about eight o'clock ready for the impending carnage. I moved downwind from the kill, making sure not to reveal my presence. Slowly moving from rock to rock, I peaked my head out from time to time to varify that the lion had not arrived yet. My heart was pumping fast, and the adrenaline was making me sweat. I could just see it, me popping my head up only to face a lion staring right back, again with the toothfilled smile. It was near twilight when I got to the spot that I planned on viewing the puma from. It was a different spot than the originally hidden rockoflauged spot, but I felt like I had a better chance at survival. It was 25 yards away; close enough to hear exactly what was going on, but far enough to sneak away if need be. I layed down, and ceased movement from there on out. No puma was going to get the best of me. My body turned stonelike, and I slowly became one with the hillside. I had melded with the ledge so much so, I stopped feeling my arm. Apparently it had become a rock as well with the lack of blood flow going to it. I readjusted myself, and decided I would just lay there as if going to sleep.The sun and the moon were playing games with the light. I couldn't tell whether the sun was still up just enough to barely illuminate the area, or if the moon was shining with sunlike intensity. I was beginning to drift off, slowly feeling the night coming on hard. Just when I was about to slip away, I heard a swish of the grass. I perked up a bit, but maintained my silence. I didn't want to move because whatever it was might spook if I made a sound. I wasn't sure if my imagination was playing tricks on me or not. Maybe I had accidently brushed against some grass or something? There was silence for a series of minutes, but then came a loud serious of crunches. The guest of honor had arrived.
The moon shown bright, but only bright enough to see the pale silhouette of the beast. Its smooth grey coat, and fluid like curves seemed to become one with the night. I stared hard through my binoculars, straining to see the motionless cat. The only thing that confirmed that I was still looking at the animal was the low sound of crunching bones echoeing off the canyon walls. The bones made hollow sounds as they tumbled back, and forth against its incisors. The cat was buried deep in the carcass. It was completely engulfed in eating, but from time to time, it would jerk its head up out of the animal, look around, then jam it right back down into a juicy hunk of guanaco. It started to get violent watching this cat work over the 250 pound carcass. The cat would grab enormous hunks of flesh, and start rocking back and forth with it, maneuvering its body for leverage. With full body motions, the cat would rip entire muscles from their bones. This cat was on a mission, and it wasn't going to stop until it had devoured more than its share. I sat there for forty five minutes, or morek, listening to the thrashing, and shifting of the gorging puma. It was very interesting observing the feeding habits of this mysterious cat. The most interesting part was that it seemed like it didn't want to be seen by anyone while stuffing its gullet with as much meat as it could fit. It was like a person who had gone on a diet, but had to have that late night chow session without anyone knowing. There was a faint dog howl in the background, a swish of grass, and then silence ensued.
I searched the carcass with the binoculars for a number of minutes. The cat had disappeared without a trace. The event had begun, and ended, with a swish of the grass, but everything prior, and everything after, was totally up for interpretation. I sat there debating what I should do. I wanted to get back to the Estancia, but I had no idea where the cat was. That was the scariest part of the entire episode. During the feeding, I had no problem sitting there within pouncing distance from the cat because I knew it wasn't at all interested in me. Now the situation was a little bit tense. The cat probably wasn't too hungry, but what cat could resist an after dinner play session. I slowly backed down from my rocky perch, ducking behind any grass I could find. Safety was just over the top of the hill, but I had to be out of site of the obviously advantaged cat. I crawled, stopping frequently to listen (like it would actually help). As I crested the ridge, I positioned myself against a rockface, making sure it couldn't attack from behind, and moved steadily down the rocky ledge. Out of site from the kill, I lowered myself to the other side of the wall, and slowly made my way back. Two hundred meters felt like miles as I stepped silently down the path. As I distanced myself from the spot, I gradually felt a calming feeling come over me. I made it back to the house safely, but was weary of every shadow until I was in the safety of my own room.
That intense feeling of not knowing what could happen was definately unsettling. After being within meters of a hungry puma, and not hearing it at any point other than when it was feeding, I have found a new respect for not only the stealthyness of the cat, but for the darkness and what it conceals.
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