Don Fernando
January 10th, 2019. At the remote Sheep farm homestead of Don Fernando Peso, Los Lagos region, Chile.
In 2018/19 we walked a linear, 1000 mile route through Chilean Patagonia. We broke it down into sections which used horse trails and drover’s routes in some of the most remote areas of the country. We carried all our equipment and food for up to 9 days at a time. Often, the only people we met were the herdsmen, living with their stock in the summer pastures. The routes sometimes passed though farms, many days horse ride from the nearest road end, then many hours drive from the nearest settlement. We were often a surprising sight but we were always shown the warmest of welcomes.
In the morning we wake up in a bed made of sheep wool, covered with a home-knitted blanket. Odds and ends of many colours. I think of the comforting nature of familiar things known since birth, familiar to you only and intrinsically linked to a particular place. I imagine being from this place, and how comforting these objects would be to me. The wooden room, simple furniture, the smell of sheep wool. The sound of dogs outside. How comforting they are to me despite being an outsider. Feeling very much welcomed and a part of things.
The room has bare wood walls. The ceiling is made of boards and old newspaper lines the gaps. Papers with handwriting on too. A sturdy door that ties shut with twine. Typically Patagonian, through this door is a recently butchered sheep carcass, safely hung in the mesh meat store, out of reach of pests and dogs.
In the early half-light I gaze about the room and think to myself that ‘scrap’ must really only be a concept for those that have too many things. Here in these remote homesteads, everything is maintained, repaired, saved and then repurposed. A cycle born from neccessity perhaps, but there is still value at every stage of this cycle, ensuring that very little goes for ‘scrap’.
In the corner there is a a storage bag for fleece. Multiple pairs of jeans worn through, generations of denim, seams opened and re-sewn. Pockets, waistbands and all. Resources. In this cosy room of simple comforts, it is perfect.
Fernando milks his cows. The calves are in the barn and he leads them out to their mothers one at a time, deftly tying the parent’s hind legs together and pulling the tail aside as well. The calf has a caramel brown mouth, greedy with thick foamy milk running down its chin. Its long tail dancing happily. The mother is calm now and stands still whilst both calf and farmer expertly milk her. Fernando is 78, yet squats deeply to take cups of milk from the mother, rubbing his hands together to warm them. He is swift, rising up once the cup is full to transfer it to the bucket nearby. Cup to bucket to cow to cup. A marvel in his ‘save the world’ denim jacket. Embroidered hands cupped around an Earth, as his life has been cupped inside the mountains of his land. His face is beautiful. Deeply lined and deeply tanned, eyes also deep in sockets but shining. We sit around a perfectly small fire on simple wooden benches with sheep hides lain atop. He sticks our boots and socks in the roof to dry them and shoos the dogs beyond the doorway. Eager to know of us as we are him and with simple Spanish we learn a little of each other. When we don’t understand, he re-phrases in verbs that we might know.
Cafecito and pancito, the little things. Bread rolls in a cotton bag. Old roses around the door and enough slippers to share with wayward travellers. The clouds start to lift, showing the reach of the hills around the campo. The valley starts to stretch further away. Patches of sun appear and we go out with the children to gather calafate berries. Sweet children excited for these visitors, chatter away to us. Dogs follow and berries are stuffed in mouths turning tongues and fingers purple.
At lunchtime we are once more invited into the house, ushered around the table to feast on simple roast lamb and boiled potatoes. The soft, salty fat melts away, pancito dipped in the juices. Rice pudding made with the morning milk follows from a giant pot on the stove top. Stirred gently, stirred slowly.
