The Polo Trip
The day we were leaving for Buenos Aires, there was a blizzard in Calgary and I had a horrific case of gastro flu that kept me chained to the toilet, vomiting on the hour. It was not a fortuitous start to the trip.
A while ago, my husband and I were a couple of newlyweds flush with freedom and money - we had both finally finished university and had entered our professions. While I would have preferred to stay home, being somewhat of a homebody over Christmas my husband wisely pointed out that once we have children we won’t be able to travel internationally so easily. Unable to argue with this logic, I acquiesced - as long as horses would be involved. We booked a flight to Argentina, and a Polo Day the day after we arrived, on Christmas Eve. Having been obsessed with the novel Polo for years, I knew that Argentina and polo went together like Canada and hockey. If you're going to try the game, try it there.
So, so sick
When we landed in sunny Buenos Aires, I was still weak and tired, but thankfully not sick anymore. It felt incongruous to fly from -30 to plus 30 degrees Celsius in the course of one day - our poor bodies were in shock. Not to mention, all the banks and ATMs in the entire city were out of money. This happens sometimes in Argentina. Thank goodness my mother-in-law had slipped us a $100 USD bill as she dropped us off at the airport in Calgary. This tided us over until the banks got currency again, a few days later.
We checked into our hostel in downtown Buenos Aires, and slept. The next day, on Christmas Eve, the shuttle bus for the Polo Day picked us up. After an hour’s drive out of the city to the pampas, we pulled into a beautiful estancia. Huge sparkling-green polo fields stretched before us in every direction, ringed by massive trees.
We had asado for lunch - barbecue beef, cooked low on the charcoal asado grill, served with salads, bread, and chimichurri sauce. It was delicious. We chatted with out host, Celia, and began to gain an understanding of Argentine culture, their love of family, food, and horses. Argentinian’s celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve with a massive party, she said. She made us promise we would go to a nightclub - but not until at least 2AM. That’s when the party would be barely starting.
You wouldn’t have known he had barely ridden before.
We watched a match, and then we got to ride the real polo ponies! They were all beautiful, fast and lean Thoroughbreds. They taught us how to hold the mallet, and how to swing. We practiced at the walk, trot and canter. It’s particularly hard at the canter, to time the stride with the swing of the mallet. It was super fun, but the 40 degree heat was a little too much for our Canadian bodies, not yet acclimatized.
That evening was incredible. Our host cooked everyone at the hostel a Christmas Eve asado on the rooftop of the townhouse, and we set off fireworks and partied late until the night. With another couple we befriended, we hailed a cab and went to a nightclub, like we had promised Celia we would. We stayed until four in the morning. Exhausted and barely able to stand up at this point, we returned and slept, while the hostel party continued to rage until well past dawn. Fact: the Argentines know how to party.
After a few days, we ended up in Mendoza, the wine-growing region of Argentina that became world-famous for its Malbec. After a few days exploring the region, including white-water rafting and a bicycle wine tasting tour, I signed us up for a sunset trail ride that would be followed with another asado and a campfire. It sounded perfect.
Why was it so goddamned hot? We did nothing in Mendoza that day besides get food and lay around. Mid-afternoon, we boarded the shuttle van. We met the rest of our contingent. There was an American couple, a few British ladies, and a gregarious Brazilian couple who didn’t speak much English besides shouting “what the fuck?!” with huge smiles, and passed around a communal cup of hot mate. Yerba mate is a strong tea drank from a metal straw, which filters out the leaves. We passed the mate around the van, energized by the caffeine. Drinking a hot drink on a hot day sounds worse than it was - it’s actually a very refreshing drink.
We were brought to the usual depressing trail-horse scene - an assortment of horses fully tacked, in the hot sun. But, they were sleek and well-fed.
I was assigned a cute pinto, and Jeff got a lanky bay gelding. One gaucho took the front of the line, the other the rear, and single-file we snaked through an evocative desert. It felt like stepping back to some distant time - primal and yet familiar.
#betweentheears
One of the gauchos was a real macho type. He’d kick his horse forward and haul him back with a heavy hand, making him rear, and then beat the poor horse with the end of his reins so he burst forward in a spurt of speed. Several of the beginner riders nearly fell off as he shaved past them, showing off. What a jerk, I thought. The non-riders in the group seemed to be impressed with this cowboy show, but I could tell he wasn’t much of a rider. Seeing the spur marks on the horse’s flank and lathered mouth, I despised him.
Asado
A campfire was made, and the gauchos began to sing. The first guy, the less macho of the two, was surprisingly good. I enjoyed listening to his voice as he sang in Spanish, slowly strumming his guitar. Then the macho guy took over. I was transfixed. He sang soulfully in an incredible voice. Softened by the long ride, the wine, and the trillions of stars overhead, everyone around the campfire silently wept. We didn’t know what he was saying, but it was immeasurably beautiful and sad. I had written him off as an insensitive, unfeeling prick, and I was wrong. No one can sing like that without a deep range of emotion, joy and pain, love and suffering.
As the van snaked down the mountain, and the sky grew pink in the east, my heart was bursting because I had realized three things:
Horses are a universal language.
Everyone contains multitudes. Don’t think you know someone.
I had just fallen a little more deeply in love with my husband.
The next day, we were eating breakfast on the boulevard when we heard someone scream merrily, “WHAT THE FUCK?!” The Brazilians, walking by! We exchanged cheek kisses (me feeling desperately sophisticated), and gazed into each other’s eyes, remembering the night before without words. That’s what I always hope for when I travel: a soul connection.
Tiny road in the Andes
Hola, guanacos.
The rest of out trip was not quite so enjoyable, though it was eventful. We rented a car and drove deep into the Andes mountains on perilous roads that made me fear for my life. We had an utterly miserable New Year’s Eve in the middle of nowhere. On our last night, in Buenos Aires, we got chased out a hostel by a very angry proprietor brandishing a baseball bat at Jeff! But that is another story, for another time. When I choose to think about this trip, I remember the warmth of the Argentine horse people I met, the smell of the sagebrush in the desert, and the feeling of my horse rocking and swaying beneath me, as we followed the setting sun and rode over the horizon.
This was such a fun piece to write. I loved looking back on these memories, these photos and videos, and even some of my earliest Instagram posts. Thanks for reading! Feliz Navidad!
