Wwoof! Thats the name of the game as we rock up at the organic farm where we will be working for the next three weeks in a concerted effort to stop haemorrhaging money and do some good for a change. We are at 2,400 meters and the altitude is apparent as we struggle up to be greeted by our host, Roberto, who is standing uphill. We say hello to his wife Christina (from New Zealand) and son Reymi (aka Nahuel, aka Campion) out of breath and feeling dizzy. The other residents, llamas, donkey, horses, goats, chickens, and ducks, greet our arrival feigning disinterest, which we wish was the case with Blacky the dog who scares the life out of us with a whirl of hyperactivity. As he continues to jump on us, we retreat into the volunteer's house out of pure desperation.
The farm started 10 years ago as a plot of land with a tent on it and now proudly boasts herb gardens, vegetable patches (we pick broccoli, silverbeet, rhubarb, runner beans, lettuces, and strawberries fresh for our dinners), pond, main house, volunteer house (all adobe/ mud brick built), fields, shop and semi built green house. The farm overlooks the entire valley of Tafi del Valle, and at 2,400m we are living above the clouds that move about the valley to make every glance different from the next.
We are introduced to the other two volunteers, Joelle and Eden (who find my name strange... ironic?) and set about trying to make ourselves useful, painting a sign to feature in a photo opportunity for Roberto-led tours around the farm, then stripping, sealing and painting doors and windows; cutting, picking and separating herbs to be sold as medicines; digging trenches to escort rain water off the premises (it takes all day for the two of us to dig a 15cm x 30cm x30cm trench); and building steps from bamboo cane and mud amongst many other things.
The house is basic but homely once we settle in, and the other girls leave it all to us having had an unproductive experience. The whole building has been built from wood, or lashed with llama skin and mud brick. Roberto shows us how to make mud brick, which is brick made from straw water and... urm... mud left to solidify in the sun. Precarious electric cables hang from the wall and we have to boil our shower water as if waiting for a cup of tea, 20mins prior to a wash.
Day 5 strikes and the toilet is flooding the bathroom, giving us a most unwanted foot spa. The girls before us said it was ¨fiiiiiiiinnnnnne¨ to flush paper down the loo, which we were both doing for the first few days until I stopped, seeing there might be a small problem. Unfortunately it is only us left to face the music and Becky gets the brunt of the blame as Roberto sets about making her life a misery with snide comments and digs. They should have told us this was the case, or put up a sign... but as we set about trying to help Roberto solve the problem, we feel like dumb Europeans who are now a hinderance rather than a help.
There's no other way to repair the problem than by digging up most of the area in front of the house, ruining it for tour groups who provide a much needed income during the low season. After over a day's worth of digging, I strike shit. 7 feet down and covered in mud. Roberto has mysteriously disappeared, but as Becky provides me with a much needed scented facemask I scoop the unwanted blockage into a bucket. I am at the mercy to whatever is emerging from the blocked pipe... which seems to be full of tree roots, to the point where it is no longer a cylindar, more of a rectangle and cracked in several places. The clever tree has spent the last 10 years drinking from the sewage supply. Eeeeew! Us stupid Europeans are now in the clear, but no apology is offered by Roberto, despite his amazement that it is unbelieveable that the system has worked up until now. In fact he takes the bizarre tact of seemingly further trying to wind up Becky with tales of his 100m records and opposing views on religion. It's fair to say that Argentinian men find it hard apologising.
A strange atmosphere (and smell) lingers for a few days, only healed by Roberto's admiration of Becky's transformation of the offending loo's door into a work of art. After several draft designs, a scenic valley view filled with a gaucho on a horse, condors and a rhea, all masked by painted-on, surrounding brick-work is taking shape. Is a new career path for Becky revealing itself?
The simple life suits us after fleeing the city and our days slip by in ritualistic fashion. Waking to the sounds of hens (they sleep high up in the trees outside our window for protection) / breakfast of mango chutney, cereal, toast and coffee/ work / amazing slap up lunch / siesta for me / leftover dinner / vino patero and an ipod movie, game of cards or book before falling into bed kitted-up in thermals and a well-deserved, animal-noise-interrupted sleep.
Becky and Christina get on like a house on fire and little Reymi gradually seems to warm to us, going from a quick runaway whenever we approach to coining the greeting 'Bucky and Lan' whenever he sees us. We observe the daily life of a farm; gauchos herding cattle, chickens sprinting after flies, Roberto breaking in a wild horse, the dog watching (and biting) the llamas at night and moths fighting to get into our cosy bunk. Our one night out in town results in a local couple driving us home at 2mph. I cook at least 5 crumble puddings using 'THE OMA'S' fruit harvest... mmmmmmmmmm!
We are sad to leave this life and family we feel we have got so close to. Feeling we have made a difference and learnt a hell of a lot, Roberto helps us onto a bus 5 hours after it was meant to arrive! Argentimes!
View `Llama Farmers´ photos here
La Paz. Peace. Anything but. It feels like you've been beamed 20 years back. La Paz is a bowl like city, and the whole city slopes up from a central point, with houses the only thing to see on the horizon. Dried llama foetuses hang by the neck from witches' market stalls, and smells you wish you'd never smelt colour the wild, people-filled streets. Lee gets his bag slashed, but luckily nothing is stolen. Becky replaces her camera with a superior model.
