THE GAUCHOS OF THE PAMPAS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VIII, Issue 48, 28 November 1891, Page 630

THE GAUCHOS OF THE PAMPAS.

II T would be difficult for one to imagine a ■* ’ - being who leads a wilder and freer life A* 1 than . th ® < j‘ auc ho of the Pampas. His I fw? domain is that immense track of level country which stretches from the mouth ■ . th® ®t° Plata to the foot of the snow c lad Andes—an almost boundless llA,* lift L ..n--, scope, beautified by groves of palms and covered with a carpet of Howers. With Spanish blood in his veins, and blessed with a magnificent physique, which shows to the best advantage when sitting astride his blooded horse, this monarch of the South American plains should be, as he probably is, the happiest creature under the sun. When he is herdsman and breeder, in turn, he is at liberty to sell his land to any of the States that border on the Pampas, and in the wild forays of the frontier his red poncho is seen and feared by the enemy. Of course the Gaucho knows the trails of the Pampas as the cowboys of the West know their cattle grounds. He builds his hut of the stalks of the giant thistles that cover portions of the plains at certain seasons of the year. Sometimes the dwelling is merely an enclosure, destitute of a roof, and almost invariably he surrounds it with hedges of cacti, which often resist successfully his bitterest foe, the Pehuenches, or Pampas Indians.

The Gaucho shows best when mounted. Then, indeed, does he confirm to himself the romantic title of the Centaur of the Pampas. If he be the owner of a large herd, he will appear in a white shirt with white trousers well laced, a rich poncho over his shoulders, boots of polished leather with enormous spurs jingling at the heels, a wide-brimmed hat with a fantastic band, and in one hand a rebenque or cattlewhip, made of cow hide, with a handle of massive silver for his grip. Such, briefly photographed, is the Gaucho. He has comrades, of course, whose attire does not equal his, but by-and-bye they will become owners—then for the silver spurs and the embroidered trousers ! Like the Comanches, the Gaucho seems to live on his horse. He is hardy and sparely built, like the Bedouins of the desert. His pillow is often bis saddle, and his bed-covering his inseparable poncho or the glittering stars. When he first saw the light of day in the rude cacti-enclosed hut of his parents, he was left to swing from the roof in a queer-looking cradle of bullock’s hide, the four corners of which were drawn towards each other by strips of the same materials. What a childhood he had ! More than once before he could walk his mother gave him a sharp knife a foot long to play with, which perhaps accounts for the quick manner he has of using it when he quarrels with some rival ata fandango at some estancia. He was taught to ride before he walked, and his childish amusements consisted in riding fractious colts and lassooing dogs and birds about the hut. Sometimes the Gauchos are descended from excellent Spanish families, but life on the boundless Pampas has weaned them from the restraints of civilisation as it exists in the Argentine Republic. That they are not altogether ‘ wild ’ is shown by the fact that in almost every hut is found a small image or picture which came through the hands of the simple priests of Mendoza or Cordova. They will carry their children for miles across the Pampas, and face the dread pampero, to have the little ones formally baptised, and in like manner they will carry their dead across a horse for burial in consecrated ground. Sir Francis Head, the famous rider and traveller of threequarters of a century ago, spent much time among the inhabitants of the Pampas. He rode, hunted, ate, drank, and slept with them, and left his impressions in a quaint old book of London make called • Head’s Narrative.’ Sir Francis accords genuine hospitality to the Gaucho. In the summer, when the huts are infested with fleas and bincliucas (bugs as large as black beetles and unpleasant bedfellows), the whole family sleeps on the grass before the dwelling. When a traveller arrives at night he places his saddle or recado close to the sleeper most suited to his fancy. There is nothing to assist his judgment but a lot of bare feet and ankles, but the close observer can generally tell whether he is to dream alongside a Gaucho belle or by the pillow of an aged crone. In winter, when the winds that sweep the Pampas force the traveller to draw his poncho close, the hut is the bed-chamber. The guest’s supper is cooked on a great iron spit, and he is invited to seat himself on the skeleton of a horse’s head to enjoy it. The family sit around on similar stools, and with their long knives cut large mouthfuls from the roasted haunch. A lamp made of bullock’s tallow lights the hut and leveals the bridles, spurs, and lassoes that hang from pegs of bone on the walls. Plump children, good natured, black-eyed, and nearly naked, lie around and thump each other playfully while they eat, and the family poultry wink drowsily at the guest from their perches in one corner. The Gaucho turns no wayfarer from his humble domicile. His hand is always as open as his heart. He will ride thirty leagues a day without fatigue, and brand cattle from sunrise to sunset without a mouthful of food. When night comes he will sometimes ride to some lonely pulperia, or drinking shop, and make merry with companions of his own ilk. Here he sometimes meets strangers, and cana flows too freely. Music and dancing are always on the programme. When the rout is at his highest, a hot word or a jealous look brings two Gauchos face to face, and the ever ready knife flashes in the lamp-light. With the Gauchos a sharp word often means a sharp blade. At times, at these uncurbed fandangoes on the Pampas, two swarthy rivals are asked to

try their improvisators talents against each other to the musical accompaniment of a guitar. The crowd forms a circle round the wall, and the contest begins. Verse succeeds verse alternately from the contestants, and the spectators applaud vigorously each ‘hit.’ Both men in the middle of the floor are doubtless well filled with cana. At last one taunts the other in sarcastic song—tells him to go back to his hut and sing to the tame vultures he keeps there. The jeered improvisatore becomes angry and strikes back with compound interest. Word follows word, jeer succeeds jeer, amid the taunts and laughter of the crowd. At length one of the poets throws down his lyre, and Apollo transforms himself into a God of War. The challenge is quickly accepted, knives are drawn, and some Gaucho leads across the Pampas and through the starlight a horse whose burden is a dead man in embroidered and bloody garments. The scene is too often repeated for the Gaucho’s good ; but his nights at the pulperias do not make him any the less the king of horsemen and the prince of lassoers. As the Arab’s best friend is his horse, so is the steed of the Pampas the Gaucho’s dearest companion. He manages his horse as if it were part and parcel of himself. When he wants to mount he places one end of his lance on the ground beside the animal, catches it with one hand at a point a short distance above his head, and, with a dexterous spring, seats himself securely on the steed’s back. A Gaucho horseman will clutch the mane of a galloping horse and land on his back with the ease of a practised acrobat. At the present day the Gauchos number many thousand souls. They occupy established settlements on the Pampas, and seem to be gradually losing their wildness. Now and then a foray of Pampas Indians swoop down on the grouped huts like a lot of red eagles ; the stockades are set on fire, and the women and children mercilessly massacred. When the men return, a hunt for vengeance is organised. The tocsin of war is sounded under the walls of every post, and woe the Indian who falls into the hands of the avengers. When stirred to resentment by wrongs, the Gaucho can outdo the savage in cruelty, and his lance often conies home tipped with the long black tresses of the Pehuenches belle. No other people in the world possess a country like the Gauchos. It seems to stretch from horizon to horizon, as boundless as the ocean, but far more beautiful. It boasts of groves of palms of countless species, miles of clover and blooming cacti, towering thistles of stately beauty, and a carpet of flowers such as can be found nowhere else under the sun. We must add to this a soft sky and an atmosphere that breeds no malaiia. Is it a wonder that the Centaur of the Pampas enioys life where God has placed him ?