The Water Mystery Is Solved

Week 33 of the Quarantine

Hell and Paradise

SAN MARTIN, ARGENTINA – To remind readers… our adversaries are entrenched in two high valleys. In the Quebrada Grande are four farms… occupied by local families with deep roots in the area. That is where the local activist, Maria La Gorda (Fat Mary) lives.

We went to see her a week ago and reported on our visit yesterday.

On Sunday, we went up to the bigger, farther-away, higher valley – Compuel. It is a huge valley – perhaps of some 10,000 acres… maybe more.

But there are no trees… and no possibility of farming. More like Mongolia than Missouri, it is for herdsmen, not farmers.

Both paradise and Hell, Compuel is surrounded by majestic mountains. In the summer, there are shallow lakes, marshes, ducks, and lush grass. In the winter, the flowers shrivel, the cattle die, the water disappears, and a cold, bitter wind blows a gale through the whole valley.

Disappearing Water

At the bottom of the valley floor, a stream runs from north to south… finally coming to a narrow defile between the mountains, where it tumbles down about 10 miles to the small valley where our grapes are grown.

That stream has practically disappeared completely, leading some of our farmhands to conclude that the originarios up in Compuel had dammed the river.

We had thought of damming the river ourselves. The pass is so narrow, it would be easy to block it. Then, the resulting lake could serve as a huge reservoir, from which we could release water as needed.

It was a good idea, but beyond our engineering abilities… as well as beyond the range of our logistical support… So we forgot about it.

Compuel Cattle

In the meantime, the whole valley slipped out of our control. A severe drought five years ago forced us to remove our cattle. They were taken down to a lower valley.

Many died, unable to adjust to different food and a different climate.

And the survivors went soft, gradually adapting to an easier life. They got used to electric lights and mild winters. Then, it was impossible to take them back up to Compuel. Few would survive.

“Compuel cattle need to be raised in Compuel and stay in Compuel,” explained our former farm foreman, Jorge. “You almost have to create a special breed, a mixture of the mountain creole cattle and Brafords.”

On the Warpath

In theory, the valley floor is ours to use as we see fit. The pastajeros (shepherds) who live at Compuel are supposed to keep their animals up in the mountains.

But now, the originarios are on the warpath. They have seized the whole place… filling it with sheep, goats, cattle, llamas, and burros.

They don’t worry about the quality of the animals or about selling them… or even about keeping them alive. Instead, the animals are allowed to reproduce. Then, in the dry season, they have nothing to eat.

It is a long, hard ride to Compuel… up over three passes, the highest at 14,000 feet… and then out onto the broad valley floor to where the river comes down from the high mountains to the north.

Valley floor

(Credit: Elizabeth Bonner)

We left before first light, taking the long way around… to avoid the harder trail up over the mountain behind the house, and to spare the horses.

Then, it was a long, slow ride… the three of us – Elizabeth, our foreman Gustavo, and I – along with two dogs cheerfully trailing behind.

Heading for Compuel

(Credit: Elizabeth Bonner)

Inca Ruins

The old road follows an Inca trail. There were Indian terraces on the hillsides and remnants of old irrigation ditches. Stone walls – from terraces, fences, and abandoned houses – are all over the place.

Inca Ruins

(Credit: Elizabeth Bonner)

Indians were in the area for, maybe, 10,000 years… and the Spanish for another 300 years. It’s hard to know which ruins belong to whom.

When we finally crested the highest of the passes, we looked down on the vast valley. Then, riding down to the valley floor, we rounded a huge, rocky hill and came upon one of the most important of the Inca ruins.

Large squares or rectangles, outlined with stone walls, they are too large to have been roofed. Archeologists guess that they were a vast series of corrals. But it is hard to see why so many would have been needed.

Bits of broken pottery lie all over the ground. Last year, when visiting these ruins, we looked down and found a tiny puma head made of clay.

It was next to these old ruins – centrally located near the entrance to the valley, and near a fulsome supply of stones – that previous owners had recycled the Inca walls into a grand corral… along with two small houses, where the cowboys could stay out of the wind when they were up taking care of the cattle.

These two houses are now blackened shells, having been partly dismantled and then burned.

Disastrous Decision

We pushed on to a stone formation deeper into the valley. It is called the “Tower,” because it looks a bit like a medieval castle with a castle keep sticking up.

Looking more carefully, we see that it is capped by a huge stone that teeters on edge and looks like it might fall down at any time.

There, we stopped for lunch… circumnavigating the Tower, looking for shade. But in the midday sun, there was no shade to be had. So we huddled against a large rock to get out of the wind.

“We used to keep 250 cows here,” Gustavo explained. “And when we saw any animals that belonged to the local people, we told them to get them off… or we’d shoot them. They don’t have the right to this grass.

“We should never have taken the cows out of the valley.”

“But they were starving…” we replied.

“Most of them would probably have survived. And now, we’ve lost the valley. We’ll put a few cows here in the summer. But it’s so full of useless animals, none of them will have much to eat.

“Look at it… It’s a disaster.”

Attack of the Curious Llamas

This was a comment from an experienced cattleman. What we saw were groups of cows – 10 here, 20 there… hundreds of them in total – grazing on what little grass was left.

Sheep were abundant, too – with dozens and dozens of lambs bouncing as if carefree over the clumps of eaten-down grass.

One of the peculiarities of the place is that when the water dries up, the land that appears is lumpy… as if it were bubbling up. The horses find walking on it difficult. They have to make their way over and around the clumps of dirt and grass.

In addition to the skinny cows… and both white and black sheep, with scraggly wool and spindly legs… there were dozens of burros and llamas. The burros ran off when we approached them. But the llamas are curious. They approached us.

Elizabeth’s horse was startled by them… it panicked and started to run. Her horse had recently been brought up from the farm below; it had never seen these strange-looking beasts.

Gustavo dismounted and tried to shoo the llamas away…

“Go ahead,” he yelled to Elizabeth.

We put our horse – who had no fear of the llamas – between the animals and Elizabeth… like running interference in a football game… allowing her to get away from them.

Not Strictly Legal

The most useless animals – llamas and burros – seemed to be in the best shape. They appeared healthy, at least. The burros looked sturdy and well-fed. The llamas had thick, almost luxurious fleeces – dark brown or tan – that would have been good additions to any living room.

The locals make no attempt to control breeding. And they can’t sell their animals in any quantity. Instead, they let nature take her course.

But nature is cruel up here. On our short ride, we saw five or six dead cows. They get thin and weak… and then die.

And the worst is still ahead. It won’t rain until December or January.

“You know, in the old days…” Gustavo began.

We cut him off.

“I know… I know… The owner would have come up here, shot all the animals, and burned down the locals’ houses. But we can’t do that.

“This is 2020… and we’re foreigners. We’d be crucified in the press… and in the courts. We’d end up in jail for the rest of our lives.”

“Yes, of course… But we don’t have to do it. Some of the guys around here – including the governor… I mean, the ex-governor… your friend – they call in the Bolivians.”

“I only met him once or twice… The Bolivians?”

“Yes, they are some really nasty guys. But they get the job done. And everybody knows they mean business. So they don’t have to use violence. They would just go to visit these originarios and let them know that bad things will happen to them if they don’t straighten up.

”Otherwise, we’re going to have to fix the corral… and they’re going to destroy it again. But after a visit from the Bolivians, they won’t want to do anything.

”You know, this is not North America. This is Argentina. A lot of things happen here that aren’t strictly legal. I mean, who changes his money at the official rate? Nobody. And what businessman declares his income honestly? He’d have to be crazy.”

Gustavo laughed.

“And if you tried to respect all the laws, you’d soon be broke… and crazy.”

“Sounds tempting… I mean, calling in the Bolivians… But once you start down that path – unless you’re the governor – bad things can happen to you, too. It’s like paying a hit man. Then, he can control you.

“Sounds like it would make a good movie plot. But what makes you think you can trust them? The ex-governor, he’s got power… friends… connections. He might be able to use those Bolivian guys. But us? No thanks.”

Nothing Illegal

After an hour or so, we had finished our lunch… We remounted and continued on to the middle of the valley. We stopped by a small stream still running with water.

“They haven’t blocked it,” noted Gustavo. “At least not down here. But this time of year, it won’t reach the end of the valley. It will sink into the ground and come up again further on down the mountain.”

This was what we wanted to see. So we headed south to the end of the valley, vaguely shadowing the meandering stream.

After about a half an hour more, the tiny river came to a pool… and didn’t go any further, about a mile short of where the valley ends and the water splashes down between the rocks.

“That’s all there is. They didn’t block it. It just doesn’t go any further. The water goes into the sand.”

Having satisfied ourselves that there was no reason to call the police – or the Bolivians… we turned our horses around and headed home.

Regards,

Bill