Patagonia on ‘Petizo’

Riding high with gauchos in Argentina

Our borders are closed, but we are still part of planet Earth’s team of seven billion. In this series, we shine a light on the people, places, experiences, cultures, and travel moments that make the world a better place. Think of it as inspiration for when our borders finally open. This week, Sharon Stephenson rides with Patagonia’s gauchos.

There’s a carcass of beef hanging from the ceiling, suspended by hooks above an open fire. It has been slow roasting for hours, dripping fat, salty tears into the flames below.

Once in a while Miguel, the smiley but silent gaucho (Argentinian cowboy), pokes and prods it, before going outside to smoke and sip yerba mate, the bitter, caffeine-rich tea that is beloved by South Americans.

We are in Patagonia, the vast, arid landscape of more than a million kilometres that sprawls across the southern tips of Chile and Argentina. It’s so grande (big), that if you dropped New Zealand into it, you would need all of Interpol’s resources to help you find it again.

Depending on who you believe, the name Patagonia means ‘‘land of the giants’’ or ‘‘land of the big feet’’.

But what everyone can agree on is that the region dates to the arrival of Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan, about 1520, when he thought the local Tehuelche people were 10 feet (three metres) tall. While that’s probably an exaggeration (or the result of too much yerba mate), you can see Magellan’s reasoning. How could a land of such immense space not have colossal inhabitants to match?

The great slash of the snow-quilted Andes Mountains divides Patagonia in two. On ‘‘that’’ side are the glacial fjords and temperate rainforests of Chile, and on ‘‘this’’ side Argentinian steppes, grasslands and deserts that stretch for miles.

We drive an hour from San Carlos de Bariloche to a 10,000-hectare estancia (farm), which has been rearing beef cattle for a long time.

Life hasn’t been kind to me in the height department, but kindness comes in the form of Miguel who assigns me a 9-year-old male horse named, appropriately, Petizo (short in Spanish).

I take one look at Petizo’s liquid brown eyes and fall in love. Fortunately, Petizo is a gentle soul that somehow senses my confidence low. He looks as me as if to say, ‘‘don’t worry, I’ll look after you.’’

Miguel shows us how to ride gaucho style, with the reins held loosely in one hand and, although it feels a little awkward at first, by the time we set off in single file, I relax into Petizo’s slow, gentle rhythms.

He has made this journey so many times, he ignores my feeble attempts to steer him or encourage him to go faster or slower: this is his territory and he’s going to zig-zag his way through it the way he’s always done.

We ride though mostly flat terrain, a labyrinth of trees shedding their leaves for winter and mountains with sharp peaks that pierce the cloudless sky. This is beauty no architect can dream up, and no urban planner can plan for.

By now, the sun is high in the sky, and it’s time to wander back to the dining room. They have been busy in our absence, preparing the asado (barbecue), and making mounds of empanadas, delicious pockets of pastry filled with beef, ham or cheese.

I’m not a meat eater, but I have to admit the smell filling the small room is seductive – smoky, salty, fatty, and charred, the essence of the Patagonian countryside.

Through the gauchos’ broken English, we learn of their deep and abiding love for the land and their horses.

‘‘I’ve lived in the city, but I always come back here,’’ says Jesus, a 30-year-old gaucho who cuts hunks of meat off the carcass with a scarily sharp knife.

‘‘These valleys and steppes get under your skin, and it’s hard to stay away. I am a proud Patagonian first and Argentine second.’’

As we drive back, we try to keep the smugness out of our voices as we share stories of the trek when, for one glorious morning, everything was right with the world. Considering how much is wrong with it, that’s not a bad achievement.