Make like a gaucho

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Rachel Ward takes on the Penelope Cruz lookalikes and enjoys a horseback tour of scenic Patagonia

I’ve just come back from the holiday of my life. At 50 and a spoilt brat I’ve had a few of ’em, so that’s saying something. And since seclusion and wilderness were a large part of this one’s charms, I probably shouldn’t be sharing it, but I’m guessing the credit squeeze will slow the rush, especially when you hear that saddle sores, three days without a shower and sharing hunks of meat with swarthy gauchos is what you get in this package.

With today’s travelling masses and the smorgasbord of choices to be found on the web, finding the right holiday takes as much painstaking research as finding the right director for your film or surgeon for your nose job. Ultimately it comes down to the minutely shared sensibilities between client and consultant; often a very disappointing marriage.

Ideally, a travel agent should have a good understanding of the client’s hip pocket and ruthless attention to detail but, most importantly, an accurate reading of my interpretation of ‘romance’. So if romance is paramount, give Australia (and, through sheer overcrowding, most of Europe) a wide berth, and head straight for Argentina.

Poor Australia. Perhaps it’s not entirely our fault. The Spanish language alone, especially if one doesn’t speak it, transcends even the most mundane of instruction into something quite magical. Picture Penelope Cruz over our Kylie issuing seatbelt instructions. We share the same outback and livestock culture, so why can’t our stockmen wear sombreros and pink cummerbunds with a large knife tucked inside it, for extra virility? Why can’t our bridles be made of plaited rawhide with silver dingle-dangles and our horses perform without bucking or bolting and climb to 2,500 metres above sea level without a neigh of complaint?

Our first ride was in the foothills of the Andes in northern Patagonia, an area also known as the Lake District and part of one of the oldest national parks in Argentina. This ride was to take us three days and cover more than a hundred kilometres, past lakes and snow-capped mountains, through vast prehistoric woods and glacial river valleys. Words fail to describe the views. Ask the condors gliding silently on their three-metre wingspans what they reckon. The riding wasn’t hard, with late starts, late lunches and evening strolls into camp (perhaps seven hours a day). Nevertheless, meals and breaks were greatly anticipated and the Argentinean barbecues, or asados, were a revelation. At lunch we would descend from the peaks into a valley strewn with wild yellow amaryllis and a stream cold enough to chill the wine. Often a gaucho and a pack horse would somehow have descended in advance so that by the time we arrived a carcass would be stretched on a kind of crucifix and the meat smoldering over hot embers.

In the evenings, our appetites sated and the moon risen (and somehow our travel agent managed to organise a full one at that) the gauchos would suck maiti (a strange medicinal tea) through silver pipes and sing melancholic laments to the senorita who got away. The only sucking likely to be going on in Oz is on the tenth tinnie, and the only lamenting over a footy ball that got away, but perhaps if we all looked like Penelope Cruz (and I swear they all do) our stockmen might be tempted to cry into the embers and howl at the moon, too. But, in Argentina, no evening is finished without dancing. Not only do the gauchos saddle up for you, cook for you, open gates for you and sing for you, they dance with you too, and unlike the tangoing lotharios in Buenos Aires (I was abandoned on the dance floor and told rather rudely to go get some classes) they allow you to tread on their toes too.

Have I mentioned our hosts? The rides began and ended with a home-stay in an estancia (ranch). Fortunately for the rest of us, farming returns aren’t what they were. The combination of meagre pickings for cattle in the high altitudes of Patagonia and the rule of equal division of property on death has meant increasingly smaller land holdings and forced many stock and land barons to diversify into tourism. Many estancias now welcome fishermen, birdwatchers, trekkers and riders.

The best thing about these accommodations is their simple authenticity. Although very comfortable and stylish, there are, mercifully, no concessions to the usual tourist expectations. The water takes its time to heat, there are no double basins, no mobile phone reception, no gym, no minibars, no menu choices and occasionally shared showers. Expect personal photos on the walls, family pets that sit on your feet, shared meals under weeping oak trees, the smell of smoke in your hair and a lot of megabytes, not to mention fantasies, wasted on the movie star looks and charm of our intrepid leader, Jakob. Way too cool (not to mention old) to succumb to five-day stubble and a lilting accent, my girlfriend and I defiantly resisted his charms until he rode with his dog perched in front of his saddle and we learned that he spoke five languages fluently.

Finally, the romance of Buenos Aires shopping! Suffice to say that entering the arrivals concourse at Sydney airport, dressed in black sombrero, a patterned poncho, waving madly and pushing three suitcases (when I’d left with only one) my husband, mistaking me for some insane Patagonian gypsy, didn’t recognise me until I’d all but run him over. And despite the Penelope Cruz makeover, he wasn’t very enthusiastic about all the shopping either or my plans for tango lessons or my new barbecuing instructions, and even less so about the very expensive pink cummerbund I bought him. Bugger him! In my dreams I’m joining the panting league of single gals and following Jakob and his dog to the vast expanses of untouched Maasai land in Kenya where another riding holiday awaits.

Given our recent economic meltdown, it’s more likely I will sit tight and cross my fingers that Baz Luhrmann’s Australia offers a blueprint for tourist operators on how to get the romance factor right in Australia. Hugh Jackman lookalikes (with Blue Heeler pup up front) need apply, Paul Hogan and ya fricken shrimps on a barbie in a suburban backyard need not.

 
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