How it all began.

What are we doing in Argentina?

Gualfín, July 17th, 2023

Dear Reader, 

On Thursday, I left off promising to write again with the backstory of how we ended up in Argentina…after all, what are we doing here? 

It’s a very good question. 

The legend goes that twenty or so years ago, my dad came down to Argentina with a colleague…a prospector. Doug wanted to show Dad an incredible piece of land…and see if he might want to go in on the purchase of it with him. Apparently, Dad saw the property and fell head over heels. He called my mom on a satellite phone from the “phone booth”, a spot on the top of a hill where he could get service, to tell her about it. A few months later they traveled down together, and purchased it. Doug did not end up being part of the deal. 

A few months after that, my parents brought those of us who were still living at home, of which I was the eldest, to visit the new place. Now, for my readers who are not familiar with my family history, I’ll give you a little background. Back in December of 1994 my dad purchased a dilapidated chateau in the French countryside. In early 1995 we all went to live there. The house was dark, cold and mold ridden, with only one bathroom which I was terrified to use because I had to walk down a long, shadowy hallway to get to it. We lived there through the interminably grey winter, till spring when my dad moved us into the nearby farmhouse. The fireplace smoked awfully, but it was warm. And there were two bathrooms. We were sent to a French school in the town of Montmorillon, about a ten minute drive away, where our fellow classmates had never met an American. It was the height of the Clinton scandal. One day, our little brother, Henry, was bullied. At home, my dad gathered us and told us to stick by our brother and not to let anyone hurt him. So we spent our break times in the playground together. Those were rough times; character building to say the least. But as a result, my siblings and I are very close - like a tribe.

The chateau, called “Ouzilly”, is fixed up now, and graciously plays host to siblings, in laws, grandchildren, friends. She’s been the set for numerous special occasions, dinners, parties and get togethers over the years.

Playing croquet on the lawn at Ouzilly.

So, this was just another one of our family adventures as far as we were concerned, visiting a new home in a faraway country.

The “sala”, main house at Gaulfín was dark, rundown, uncared for. The single bathroom had a shower which produced just one stream of brownish, warmish water. Our meals mostly consisted of tough goat meat with lots of ligaments and tendons, grated carrots, boiled potatoes, “queso de cabra”, goats’ cheese, and “pan casero”, homemade bread. We took long horse back rides, and had picnics. We met “la gente”, the people. The “capataz”, farm manager, at the time, was Jorge. Marcela, his wife, was a school teacher. They were salt of the earth types. Kind, gracious…and thoroughly respectable. 

I don’t remember how long we stayed or many other details of this trip, except I that my poor dad strained his back while we were out riding one day. And since there were no doctors nearby and no painkillers, he lay in bed unable to move. Every so often he’d moan and call out “Wine! Bring me some wine!”. My cousin who had joined us on the trip fashioned a bar from which he could hang to stretch out his back…Dad eventually recovered, but this should serve as illustration of how remote and rough it is here.

But still, I could see that it was magical, high up in the mountains, with dramatic light and romantic allées of trees leading up to the house. I liked it. 

Dramatic sunset light plays off the mountains at Gualfín.

A couple of years later, we returned. By now, I was living in London, attending The Guildhall School of Music and Drama. Naturally, I was in the drama department. I had a two week holiday around Easter time, which coincided with the vacation of my brothers, attending French schools in Paris. We all met in Buenos Aires and headed up to Gualfín. Because I had to get back earlier than my siblings, I left Gualfín with my eldest brother, Will, for Buenos Aires, where I’d take a plane to London. I was very excited because I’d been chosen to play Dulcinea in Man of La Mancha, and rehearsals would start the Monday after I returned. 

The flight from Salta was uneventful, and I arrived at the airport in Buenos Aires that night in plenty of time. At the check in counter, I handed my passport to the attendant. The lady took it with a smile. A pause as she examined it. Then a flicker of confusion crossed her face. Finally, she looked back at me and on an inhale she spoke. 

“Henry Bonner?”, she asked.

I felt my heart rise to my throat. 

What? No.”

She handed me the passport, on which was a photograph of my younger brother, Henry. We shared the same dark hair, light eyes, and strong jaw. But I was not him. And he was not me. And I had to get back to London. My mind raced.

The lady shook her head, there was nothing she could do. She’d cancel my flight and refund me the credit. I could rebook at any time. That was all fine and dandy, and I thanked her. But what was I to do? There was no way to contact my father at Gualfín. And I knew no-one in Buenos Aires. I sat down for a moment to steady myself. On the verge of tears. Then it came to me. I did know someone in Buenos Aires! The guide who had helped organise our trip. Lovely, sweet, perfect English speaking María! Dad had had the forethought to give me her number, just in case. I went back to the lady at the desk. She graciously called María, who picked up right away. 

“María? Hi, it’s Mariah. I’m at the airport. My dad has my passport and I have Henry’s and I can’t get on the plane.”

“I’ll be right there.” She reassured me in her soft, slightly accented voice. 

Sure enough, some thirty minutes later María showed up. She drove me to my parents flat at 999 Arroyo in the Recoleta neighbourhood. The apartment had internet so I was able to email my teachers to tell them I couldn’t get back in time. Luckily I also had the music to the whole show recorded on CD. I listened to and learned my whole part in that flat in Buenos Aires. To this day, I can still sing most of the tunes! 

However, I think the stress overwhelmed me, because I spent the first couple of days lying on the couch in the living room listening to my music and sleeping. My stomach felt like a basketball. María had managed to reach my parents and tell them what had happened. There wasn’t much they could do…they would be back in Buenos Aires by the end of the week to catch their flight back to France. I would just have to wait. 

After I recovered from my stress attack, I felt better, and wandered around Recoleta, which is a lot like the 16th arrondissement of Paris. I stopped into a church and knelt down to pray. I visited the Cementario de la Recoleta. It was so peaceful there. The trees swayed in the breeze - it was a  perfect autumn day. The big avenues were like the ones I knew in Paris. It felt comfortable to be there. Like some place I’d been before. 

“I could live here.” I thought to myself, as I strolled along.

The Recoleta Cemetery.

I met María at her office and she took me to lunch. In the evening, we went to eat empanadas and listen to live music. The week went by. I was independent and loving it. By the time my parents showed up I wasn’t ready to give up my freedom. But, back to London I must go. I had learned my parts and Dulcinea was calling. I said goodbye to my siblings and my parents. I’d see them soon. London wasn’t far. 

“Remember, we’re just a phone call away.”, said my dad, as he put his arm around me. 

So that’s how it all began. As the years went by, my father purchased a few more acres in Argentina. The project grew to include not just cattle ranching but wine making, onion and spice growing and even commodity cropping. My brother Will started a wine club as a platform to sell our wine. And my husband Adrien, with his knowledge of Spanish and interest in agriculture and food, presented himself as a ready candidate to help run things. We came down in June. This will be our home for the next couple of years, and these are my journals through which I’ll share with you my experiences. Thanks for following!

Abrazos,

Mariah