Abel Navarrete doesn't leave home much. As infrequently as once every two years, he fires up his red Ford truck and drives the 50 km into Tres Lagos to resupply before heading back to Estancia La Pampa. He's the only person living out there, one lonely man in the middle of nowhere, with only dogs, horses, chickens and sheep for company. Despite his complete isolation, he's not a hermit, and he eagerly invites us into his house after we jump down from the cab of his cousin's truck.
His kitchen, where we end up spending quite a lot of time over the next few days, is charming in its own way. The wooden floors are unevenly nailed down. Chipped turquoise-blue paint covers the walls, except for the door, which is red and had a porthole-like window in it made from a coffee can and a pane of glass. The walls are decorated with six single-sheet 2008 calendars picked up at service stations. One features kittens, another puppies, and the rest are scenes from Argentina. Near the door hangs a small round mirror, with a long braid of auburn hair hanging from it. The braid is wrapped in faded pink fabric at the top, and a comb is embedded in it halfway down. I never found out the story behind the hair.
We sit down on a worn wooden bench and have a round of mate. I ask Abel how long he's been at the Estancia. "Just a few months," he replies. "I'm a recent employee." I think that's code for "longer than I can remember", or maybe, "I was born in that room over there".
It's late in the evening, and Abel has cordero (sheep) cooking in the woodstove. We eat it outside in the shade of the house, with homemade fry bread, homemade chimichurri, and large glasses of juice. I feel more than a little awkward, like my presence is a burden. But later that night Abel tells me how wonderful it is to have visitors, how much he appreciates the conversation. I remind myself over and over (especially when Abel is busy setting things out so I can have tea, or hunting down a scrap of fabric that I could use as a napkin) that this over-the-top generosity is completely normal in Argentina. It's just how things are here.
We camp out under some trees. Sunset is mind-blowingly beautiful, the clearest sunset I've ever scene, all yellows and blues, no reds or oranges at all. When the sun is gone, the stars come out, shining brightly over the pampa. For the first time since we've been there, the ceaseless droning of flies quiets down, and silence reigns.
In the morning, Abel serves us breakfast in the kitchen: homemade fry bread with homemade jam, and hot tea with sugar and lemon juice. Afterwards, Abel and Pablo get on horseback to go round up the sheep on some distant part of the estancia. I hang out with Frodo, an adorable puppy with white-blue eyes. He's always active, running around and trying to bury things. Every so often he runs up to me with a sheep head hanging from his mouth, flies buzzing around it, a good reminder not to let him lick me. I wander around the estancia, seeing what there is to see. It's easy to see how Abel can stay out there, just working day in and day out. There's just something so completely peaceful about the landscape. The endless yellow grasslands, vast blue skies, and a tranquil green lagoon. Over 150 miles to the west, the rugged peaks of the Fitz Roy range can been seen peeking over the horizon.
The men return with the sheep, and come inside for more food and conversation. I've settled into the routine of the estancia after just 24 hours there. I have a seat in the kitchen which is "my seat". I have a certain glass I drink from, a certain cat I pet all the time, a certain towel I use as a napkin. I know where to get water to wash my hands, and where to dump the water when I'm done. I know that Abel will keep offering me food if I don't say "no" eventually. Every meal is some variation of cordero, either by itself, or in a stew, or with potatoes. Bellies full, we return to our tents for another night under the stars.
On the third day, Kyle and I help load the sheep into the truck. There are over 300 sheep in the pen, but we're selecting the 40 skinniest sheep to be driven to Lago San Martin for fattening up. It's a La Niña year in Argentina, and the effects of the drought are starting to be seen. The sheep are dumber than a bag of rocks, and some need to be carried into the back of the truck because they refuse to walk up the ramp. The little lambs follow their parents obediently, long tails wagging. One incredibly thin sheep doesn't have the energy to stand up anymore. Abel and Pablo leave it in a pen by itself. "Dogfood," I think to myself, watching the sheep struggle to stand, then give up and lay its head in the dirt.
Before we say goodbye to Abel, he shows us his full gaucho regalia, which he keeps carefully stored in a plastic bag. There are black pants and a black shirt, embroidered with brightly-colored flowers. A red bandana for his neck, a red beret for his head. Best of all, there's a multicolored sash to go around his waist, and a large leather belt with the name NAVARRETE on it flashing silver letters. I would love to see the old gaucho riding down the street in Tres Lagos, with his name proudly displayed and his gray mustache neatly trimmed. It would be quite a sight.
Kyle and I write our names down for him, and he studies them carefully before re-writing them himself, in slow careful lettering. Abel never went past the fourth grade in school. "But," he says, looking around, "I'm happy here, and I have everything I need." I believe it. He seems like a very content man. Lonely, but content.
We load our bags into the cab of the truck, and Abel leans in to say goodbye. A whiskery kiss on each cheek, and firm handshake. Gratitude is written all over his face, and he says he won't forget us. I thank him for everything, his outstanding hospitality, his friendly nature, his food, everything. His eyes, which are dark brown with a ring of pale blue, absolutely shine when I say these things.
The truck rumbles up the 4 km long driveway, out of the valley and into the higher steppe. Pablo drops us off by the mailbox, the only object visible in any direction. He wishes us luck on our journey, and drives the other direction, back to Tres Lagos and onward to Lago San Martin. When the dust cloud settles, Kyle and I sit down in the beaming sun and chuck pebbles at rocks until another truck comes along to take us to another adventure.
