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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Nature & Wildlife
- Published: 03/13/2021
I spent my childhood and adolescence in the fruit growing valley of Río Negro, in northern Patagonia, Argentina. During the 20th Century, the construction of a vast system of dams and irrigation canals has transformed the sandy but fertile soil of this region into an extensive green belt divided into neat farms. Tight rows of poplars act as windbreaks to protect the apple-harvest and side crops from fierce Patagonian winds.
My father managed a lovely farm called Achalay, bordered by the Neuquen River. I grew up by this river. Over time, I stayed in or visited various parts of Patagonia, by road, air and sea, down to Tierra del Fuego and Cape Horn - as well as the Falkland Islands - but I do not claim to know its entirety. It’s a vast region with enormously contrasting landscapes of immense beauty, either manifest or concealed from undiscerning eyes. I say this because the scrublands are usually traversed at high speed by tourists who wish to spend their holidays at some of the glorious resorts in the mountains or by the seaside. Tourism is a flourishing industry; due to the Covid-19 pandemic, it has come to a standstill.
For no reason that I know of, the desolation of the steppes and tablelands holds an enormous fascination for me. From the farm, standing on the banks of the Neuquen River, I used to gaze out at the buttes with sparse vegetation that seemed to extend forever. They were entirely different from the shady, cool farm with its organized, busy life centred round the care and harvesting of apple-crops. Nevertheless, I quote Charles Darwin: “....Why, then, and this is not just my own personal peculiarity, have these empty spaces fixed themselves so indelibly on my memory?” (Voyage of the H.M.S. Beagle). Perhaps desolation exerts a unique sort of magnetism on some people.
When the Neuquen was shallow enough, I would wade across its pebbly basin and wander for hours on the wild side, the stretches of magic and imagination, unknown, untamed and untouched.
When the sun was not too hot, I would lie on some sandy beach and gaze up at the huge sky, seemingly empty, till I fell asleep. Nobody ever disturbed me. Nobody seemed to miss me, either. Before darkness closed in, I would be back at our red-tiled chalet, breathless and hungry; no questions were asked.
But I was a cautious child: the rare sight of a figure on the distant slopes, maybe a lone horseman or a hill dweller, would determine me to retrace my steps, scamper back across the rippling Neuquen to our “safe” side. Nowadays, I am grateful for the unusual freedom allowed me, though I do not think it was intentional. My mother was simply of the dreamy sort, not at all authoritarian, and extremely busy cooking, sewing, mending, knitting. My father seemed too immersed in his own responsibilities to wonder about my whereabouts, except on one memorable occasion when I set fire to a haystack by the corrals...but never mind that.
Seemingly, whatever went on outside our home and my mother’s beloved garden and vegetable patch was of no consequence. Most days, I hung around with the farmhands’ kids; until I was ten I attended the rural school with them. I had orders not to enter their adobe huts, especially on Sundays, yet vigilance was minimal. The dark, musty interiors, windowless except for the tiny cooking areas, seemed scary. Siesta time was ideal for breaking rules; but any time served to satisfy my infinite curiosity for the occult, the shadowy and even savage side of Nature. The farm, with its secret glades, shaded canals, marshes, willow-trees and countless other charms, was the ideal place for a child with my inclinations.
My father took us on trips to other areas of Rio Negro Province, such as the resort city of Bariloche, overlooking Lake Nahuel Huapi. But more often we drove in other directions, to estancias, where the landscape was barren and totally different from our green valley. Everywhere we went I seemed to take with me an exciting mixture of curiosity and adventure.
The sad part is that, looking back, I realize that a sombre process was already functioning during my childhood, when words like ecology and biodiversity did not form part of our daily vocabulary. Gradually but inexorably, the most charming aspects of the farm were disappearing, thanks to technology and commercial interests. My father’s job, as administrator of the farm, was to turn it into a money-making concern. First to go were the varieties of apples that had low market value: Black and Red Winesap, King David, Yellow Newton Pippin and others which I have forgotten, gave way to Red Delicious and Grannie Smith. Today, in the big city of Buenos Aires, one can rarely buy anything else. Then down went two fantastic rows of Japanese Peaches, the giant flat variety that we used to pick off the trees and bite into, their juice running down our chins and arms. No, said my father, we can’t afford to keep them any longer; it’s apples, apples, apples....all the way.
I grew to hate apples, which appeared on our table either fresh or in various recipes, seven days a week. There were stacks of apple crates on racks in an icy-cold storehouse, for the winter months. The only fun part was hunting for mice, occasionally finding a nest with baby mice, which I quickly hid from my father’s eyes, lest he destroy them.
Along with the disappearance of exciting fruits and the row of eucalyptus trees by our house, several acres of scrubby, untended sand dunes by the river were eventually “cleaned up”, levelled, fertilized, irrigated and sown with alfalfa. When poplar cordons had grown sufficiently high, walnut trees were planted. I admit that this grove of towering walnut trees eventually became a sensational success, but I had lost another of Nature’s playgrounds, where partridges and hares and other little wild animals, even snakes, had been my friends.
Next, the marsh near our home was to be filled in... Daddy, Daddy, but we love to play in the marsh, we love to wade knee-deep in the sticky black mud, play amongst crackling winter rushes, flatten them down into hiding places and tunnels.... and what about the coots and other swamp birds that, come Spring, build their floating nests around the green reeds, rising and falling regally with the waters from the creek? And the water-snakes, tadpoles and herons? Daddy, please don’t get rid of the marsh, please please....
I do believe that my Daddy really did not want to fill in this low-lying area which we could view from the windows of our house, but we were always being told that “land here is too valuable to be wasted”. Wasted? So the marsh went, glades of wild creepers by its borders went, and an overgrown orchard of plums and cherries and asparagus beds went; and one day my brother went away to become an engineer and then I went away too.
I returned many times to the farm, but as the years passed its fascination waned. There were simply more exciting places in the world to visit, or else my senses had become too impaired to capture the magic I had once known.
Something once captured by the senses is stored in secret compartments of the mind. Patagonia is a region that a surprising number of people in the world still think of as legendary, non-existent. Many poets have written about Patagonia, some fictional, others real. Some of the best express the universal essence of concrete global, not local issues.
Unfortunately, velocity appears to have superseded everything in this cyber-technological world, thereby dispensing with truth in the headlong rush to compete and conquer. Where and what is, indeed, the Patagonia that I once knew, or the one that conscientious people are trying to save, today, from the ruinous advance of exploitation?
More precisely, I would have liked to explain here about the Tehuelche, Mapuche, Puelche and other indigenous dwellers of the South. Their fate was not mentioned during my childhood. I have since read a great deal about these true lovers of Earth. The history of conquests repeats itself on all continents: the same brutal treatment, carnage, injustice, matching reservations of barren salt-wastes for the ancient guardians of our planet. I wish I could do or say something to put time in reverse, make things happen another way. But no amount of wishing will help; nothing can change except through a sincere worldwide effort to resolve the wrongs, employing durable, fair measures.
Patagonia(Sylvia Maclagan)
I spent my childhood and adolescence in the fruit growing valley of Río Negro, in northern Patagonia, Argentina. During the 20th Century, the construction of a vast system of dams and irrigation canals has transformed the sandy but fertile soil of this region into an extensive green belt divided into neat farms. Tight rows of poplars act as windbreaks to protect the apple-harvest and side crops from fierce Patagonian winds.
My father managed a lovely farm called Achalay, bordered by the Neuquen River. I grew up by this river. Over time, I stayed in or visited various parts of Patagonia, by road, air and sea, down to Tierra del Fuego and Cape Horn - as well as the Falkland Islands - but I do not claim to know its entirety. It’s a vast region with enormously contrasting landscapes of immense beauty, either manifest or concealed from undiscerning eyes. I say this because the scrublands are usually traversed at high speed by tourists who wish to spend their holidays at some of the glorious resorts in the mountains or by the seaside. Tourism is a flourishing industry; due to the Covid-19 pandemic, it has come to a standstill.
For no reason that I know of, the desolation of the steppes and tablelands holds an enormous fascination for me. From the farm, standing on the banks of the Neuquen River, I used to gaze out at the buttes with sparse vegetation that seemed to extend forever. They were entirely different from the shady, cool farm with its organized, busy life centred round the care and harvesting of apple-crops. Nevertheless, I quote Charles Darwin: “....Why, then, and this is not just my own personal peculiarity, have these empty spaces fixed themselves so indelibly on my memory?” (Voyage of the H.M.S. Beagle). Perhaps desolation exerts a unique sort of magnetism on some people.
When the Neuquen was shallow enough, I would wade across its pebbly basin and wander for hours on the wild side, the stretches of magic and imagination, unknown, untamed and untouched.
When the sun was not too hot, I would lie on some sandy beach and gaze up at the huge sky, seemingly empty, till I fell asleep. Nobody ever disturbed me. Nobody seemed to miss me, either. Before darkness closed in, I would be back at our red-tiled chalet, breathless and hungry; no questions were asked.
But I was a cautious child: the rare sight of a figure on the distant slopes, maybe a lone horseman or a hill dweller, would determine me to retrace my steps, scamper back across the rippling Neuquen to our “safe” side. Nowadays, I am grateful for the unusual freedom allowed me, though I do not think it was intentional. My mother was simply of the dreamy sort, not at all authoritarian, and extremely busy cooking, sewing, mending, knitting. My father seemed too immersed in his own responsibilities to wonder about my whereabouts, except on one memorable occasion when I set fire to a haystack by the corrals...but never mind that.
Seemingly, whatever went on outside our home and my mother’s beloved garden and vegetable patch was of no consequence. Most days, I hung around with the farmhands’ kids; until I was ten I attended the rural school with them. I had orders not to enter their adobe huts, especially on Sundays, yet vigilance was minimal. The dark, musty interiors, windowless except for the tiny cooking areas, seemed scary. Siesta time was ideal for breaking rules; but any time served to satisfy my infinite curiosity for the occult, the shadowy and even savage side of Nature. The farm, with its secret glades, shaded canals, marshes, willow-trees and countless other charms, was the ideal place for a child with my inclinations.
My father took us on trips to other areas of Rio Negro Province, such as the resort city of Bariloche, overlooking Lake Nahuel Huapi. But more often we drove in other directions, to estancias, where the landscape was barren and totally different from our green valley. Everywhere we went I seemed to take with me an exciting mixture of curiosity and adventure.
The sad part is that, looking back, I realize that a sombre process was already functioning during my childhood, when words like ecology and biodiversity did not form part of our daily vocabulary. Gradually but inexorably, the most charming aspects of the farm were disappearing, thanks to technology and commercial interests. My father’s job, as administrator of the farm, was to turn it into a money-making concern. First to go were the varieties of apples that had low market value: Black and Red Winesap, King David, Yellow Newton Pippin and others which I have forgotten, gave way to Red Delicious and Grannie Smith. Today, in the big city of Buenos Aires, one can rarely buy anything else. Then down went two fantastic rows of Japanese Peaches, the giant flat variety that we used to pick off the trees and bite into, their juice running down our chins and arms. No, said my father, we can’t afford to keep them any longer; it’s apples, apples, apples....all the way.
I grew to hate apples, which appeared on our table either fresh or in various recipes, seven days a week. There were stacks of apple crates on racks in an icy-cold storehouse, for the winter months. The only fun part was hunting for mice, occasionally finding a nest with baby mice, which I quickly hid from my father’s eyes, lest he destroy them.
Along with the disappearance of exciting fruits and the row of eucalyptus trees by our house, several acres of scrubby, untended sand dunes by the river were eventually “cleaned up”, levelled, fertilized, irrigated and sown with alfalfa. When poplar cordons had grown sufficiently high, walnut trees were planted. I admit that this grove of towering walnut trees eventually became a sensational success, but I had lost another of Nature’s playgrounds, where partridges and hares and other little wild animals, even snakes, had been my friends.
Next, the marsh near our home was to be filled in... Daddy, Daddy, but we love to play in the marsh, we love to wade knee-deep in the sticky black mud, play amongst crackling winter rushes, flatten them down into hiding places and tunnels.... and what about the coots and other swamp birds that, come Spring, build their floating nests around the green reeds, rising and falling regally with the waters from the creek? And the water-snakes, tadpoles and herons? Daddy, please don’t get rid of the marsh, please please....
I do believe that my Daddy really did not want to fill in this low-lying area which we could view from the windows of our house, but we were always being told that “land here is too valuable to be wasted”. Wasted? So the marsh went, glades of wild creepers by its borders went, and an overgrown orchard of plums and cherries and asparagus beds went; and one day my brother went away to become an engineer and then I went away too.
I returned many times to the farm, but as the years passed its fascination waned. There were simply more exciting places in the world to visit, or else my senses had become too impaired to capture the magic I had once known.
Something once captured by the senses is stored in secret compartments of the mind. Patagonia is a region that a surprising number of people in the world still think of as legendary, non-existent. Many poets have written about Patagonia, some fictional, others real. Some of the best express the universal essence of concrete global, not local issues.
Unfortunately, velocity appears to have superseded everything in this cyber-technological world, thereby dispensing with truth in the headlong rush to compete and conquer. Where and what is, indeed, the Patagonia that I once knew, or the one that conscientious people are trying to save, today, from the ruinous advance of exploitation?
More precisely, I would have liked to explain here about the Tehuelche, Mapuche, Puelche and other indigenous dwellers of the South. Their fate was not mentioned during my childhood. I have since read a great deal about these true lovers of Earth. The history of conquests repeats itself on all continents: the same brutal treatment, carnage, injustice, matching reservations of barren salt-wastes for the ancient guardians of our planet. I wish I could do or say something to put time in reverse, make things happen another way. But no amount of wishing will help; nothing can change except through a sincere worldwide effort to resolve the wrongs, employing durable, fair measures.
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Shirley Smothers
03/22/2021A beautiful and somewhat sad history of your Country. Thank you for sharing. Congratulations you deserve SHORT STORY STAR OF THE DAY!
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Sylvia Maclagan
03/23/2021Thank you, Shirley. Yes, it's a sad history of my country, but it's happening worldwide. So tragic, I love nature and animals. I'm happily surprised at it's being short story STAR of the Day. Best wishes, Sylvia
Help Us Understand What's Happening
JD
03/22/2021You write so beautifully, Sylvia. I really enjoyed this short story of your childhood in Patagonia, and then your thoughts of how things have changed and how so much has disappeared. Lovely mix of joy and sorrow. Thanks for sharing your stories on Storystar. Happy short story STAR of the day! : )
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Sylvia Maclagan
03/23/2021Thank you so much, Jd. I'm surprised that it's short story STAR of the day! Yes, my childhood was glorious, but as I grew up I realized how devastation was beginning. My Dad taught me, so yes, it's a mix of joy and sorrow. Best wishes, Sylvia
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Steven W Kimball
03/13/2021I could visualize the beauty of, and your feelings for, Patagonia through your writing. Thank You.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Sylvia Maclagan
03/23/2021Thank you, Steven! Yes, Patagonia is beautiful and I'm fortunate to live here. Best wishes, Sylvia
COMMENTS (5)