Backlands (20 page)

If the southern cowboy, or gaucho, encountered the
jagunço
at this instant, he would regard him with understanding. The cowboy of the North is his complete opposite.

There is no comparison between the two in their bearing, mannerisms, speech, character, and habits. The gaucho is the more attractive and cavalier of the two. Son of the open plains, he spends his days in easy canters across the pampas, and he is more at ease with his natural surroundings, which nurture him. Daily life does not take on the savage character of the backlands of the North. He does not know the horrors of drought and cruel combat with the arid, parched earth. His spirit is not saddened by recurring scenes of devastation and misery, the sobering sight of the absolute poverty of the bleached soil, drained of life by the searing equatorial suns. His moments of peace and happiness are not disturbed or cut short by the threat of an unstable and fearsome future. He awakens each day to greet lovingly a splendid world that infuses him with life and energy. He goes through life with an adventurous spirit—he is jolly, talkative, brave, and brazen. Work is a diversion that offers him the sport of stampedes. As he traverses the flat pasturelands, he possesses the distances, his signature bandana, or
pala
, fluttering at his neck like a knightly pennant.

His clothing is like a holiday costume in comparison to the
jagunço
’s rough garb. The wide pants flare at the ankles to allow him free movement astride his hard-galloping or wildly bucking steed, often an unbroken horse. His breeches are not torn by the steely thorns of the brushwood, nor is his elegant poncho ever stolen by the gnarly boughs of low-hanging trees. Sweeping through the plains like a tornado, he strikes a heroic figure, clad in his large russet boots with their gleaming silver spurs, a scarlet silk bandana at his neck, a wide soft-brimmed hat on his head, a shiny pistol and dagger stuck in his belt. His horse, an inseparable companion in this romantic existence, is almost a luxury object. Its trappings are complex and ornate. A nomadic gaucho on a well-outfitted horse is a fine sight, riding through town in good form with confidence and a merry heart.

The cowboy of the North, however, is raised in very different conditions. His life is marked by continuous swings between happiness and cruel suffering, plenty and lack. The ever-present threat of the sun hangs over his head and through the seasons ushers in cycles of devastation and misfortune. He spends his youth experiencing a chain of catastrophic events. He becomes a man without ever having had a childhood. The specter of drought intrudes on the happy hours of childhood like an unwelcome ghost. He has to face a harsh existence too soon. His life is cursed. He learns that he is caught in a relentless conflict, imperiously demanding every ounce of his energy. He grows strong, clever, resigned, and practical. He is in a state of constant alert.

His appearance recalls, in a dim way, some ancient warrior exhausted from battle. His clothing is his armor. He wears a tanned leather jacket made of goatskin or cowhide, a snug leather vest, and tight leggings with kneepads that go to his crotch. His hands and feet are protected by calfskin gloves and skin guards. He looks like a medieval knight who has wandered into the present day. This armor of his, however, is of a bronze hue and does not sparkle or shine when the sun strikes it. It is dull and dusty. It clothes a defeated soldier.

The saddle, which he has made himself, is a replica of that used in the Rio Grande region but is shorter and more concave, and lacking the luxurious trappings of the other. Its accessories include a weatherproof goatskin blanket that covers the haunches of his animal, a breast covering, and kneepads. This equipment for horse and rider is adapted to the environment. Without it, they could not ride safely through the brush and over the jagged beds of sharp rock.

There is nothing more ugly or monotonous than this drab apparel—the reddish gray of tanned leather, without any decoration, not even a colored band. Once in a rare while, when there is a social gathering and the melodies from a guitar allow the backlander to rest from his labors, will he add a touch of novelty to his dress. He may then don a handsome vest made of wildcat or puma, with the spots turned out, or he may stick a bright red flower in his leather hat. This is a fleeting and rare occasion.

When the festivities are over, the backlands cowboy sheds the spirit, which he has unleashed in the wild dance of the
sapateado
.
¹⁵
His sandals clack sharply on the ground to the beat of clanking spurs and the slap of tambourines, while guitars provide a rhythmic background of twanging, snorting chords. At the end of the dance he reverts to his habitual slouch, awkward and gangly, in a strange manifestation of lethargy and fatigue. It is easy to explain this permanent contrast between extreme strength and agility and long periods of apathy. He is a perfect translation of the environment at work around him. The man of the northern backlands has served a hard apprenticeship in the school of adversity. He has learned to confront his troubles and to react to them quickly. He journeys through life with the constant threat of ambush by incomprehensible surprises dealt out by Mother Nature, and he does not know a moment of peace. He is the long-suffering soldier who is weak and exhausted but ever brave and daring, constantly preparing himself for a facedown in which he will not be the victor but not allow himself to be vanquished. He shifts between complete repose and extreme agitation, from the lazy, comfortable hammock to the hard saddle, which thrusts him, like a bolt of lightning, along the narrow trails in search of his herds. He mirrors nature in these inconsistencies. He is passive in the face of the play of the elements, and he moves imperceptibly from one season to the next, from the greatest natural bounty to the penury of parched deserts that lie fallow in the refracted glow of blazing summers. He is as inconstant as nature, and it is natural that it be so. To live is to adapt. She has shaped him in her image: barbaric, impetuous, and rough.

The gaucho, valiant cowpuncher that he is, has no equal in the arts of war. To the shrill and vibrant call of trumpets he will hurl himself across the pampas, the butt of his lance set firmly in his stirrup. Like a maniac he will dive into the melee and with a gleeful yell will disappear into the vortex of the fight, where nothing can be seen but the flash of sword against sword. His horse becomes his projectile, and he will rout squadrons and crush his adversaries under the hooves of his horse. Either that or he will die in the struggle into which he threw himself with such little regard for his life.

The
jagunço
gunman is less theatrically heroic. He is more tenacious and resistant. He is more dangerous, stronger, and tougher. He rarely assumes this romantic and glorious pose. He tracks down his opponent with the firm purpose to destroy him by whatever means at his disposal. He is conditioned to long and ambiguous conflicts, for which he displays little enthusiasm. His life is one long, arduous conquest, performed as a daily task. He does not waste even the slightest muscular contraction, the smallest expenditure of nervous energy, without being certain of the result. He coldly sizes up his enemy. He does not waste a single swipe of the blade. In pointing the long rifle or the heavy catapult gun, he keeps his eye on the target.

If the gaucho misses his mark and his enemy does not fall, he collapses. He is very weak when he is placed at a disadvantage or when the outcome is uncertain. Not so with the
jagunço
. He retreats. But in retreating he is more tenacious than ever. He is demonic in baiting his enemy, who from that moment on is being hunted by a stealthy tracker—a man who hates him with an inextinguishable passion, one who sights him down the barrel of his musket and who lies hidden in ambush.

These contrasting traits are even more prominent when times are good. We can say that every
sertanejo
is a cowboy. Aside from crude efforts to raise crops along riverbeds, out of the necessity to cultivate grains, cattle ranching is the most appropriate activity for the people and the land. However, one does not find here the cheerful mood and the activity of the southern estancias. The roundup is a daily festive activity for the southern gaucho, and on special occasions becomes a showy display of horsemanship. Whether in the close confines of the corrals or out on the open plains, the cowpunchers, foremen, and hired hands chase the herd across streams and canyons, prodding stubborn steers or lassoing wild ponies, sometimes felling a rearing bull with the rapidly twirling silver-tipped
boleador
, as if it were a game of rings. Their movements are swift and sure, and they gallop at full tilt after each other, shouting lustily at the top of their lungs as if enjoying themselves at a wild celebration. When they turn to quieter work, they brand the cattle, treat their wounds, and separate the herd, taking some to slaughter, isolating the tame steers, and marking others to be broken in with sharp
chilena
spurs, distinguished by their long, pointed rowels. The same fire that heats the branding irons provides fuel for their barbecues, hardy feasts of meat cooked with the skin still on. Here they also boil water for their strong and bitter maté. So their full and varied life goes on, day by day.

Life in the North is very different. Unlike the southern cattle rancher, the backlands landowner lives on the coast, far away from his vast estates, which in some cases he has never seen. He is heir to a historic vice. Like the colonial land baron, he lives like a parasite from the revenues of his large land holdings with no fixed boundaries. The cowboys are his submissive serfs. Their contract is for a percentage of what they produce, and so there they stay on the same plot of land—being born, living, and dying anonymously in their hovels and wandering the trails of the backlands. They spend their entire lives faithfully tending herds that do not belong to them. The absent owner understands their unequaled loyalty and does not oversee them. He barely knows their names, if he knows them at all.

The backland cowboys, dressed in their characteristic leather clothing, throw together their wood and thatch dwellings near waterholes as hastily as if they were pitching tents. They are resigned to a servitude that gives them little reward. The first thing they do is learn their ABC’s, the only requirement of an art of which they, like their forebears, become masters. They must learn to recognize the brands of their own and neighboring ranches. The term
irons
is applied to all the various signs, markings, letters, and artful designs and initials that are branded with fire on the animals’ flanks. These markings are complemented with small angular notches cut in their ears. Once branded, the steer’s ownership is secured. He can break through fences and wander freely. However, he carries the indelible mark that will return him to his rightful pasture. The cattleman is not content just to memorize his own brands; he learns those of all the other ranches as well. Sometimes, if he has a great gift for memorization, he gets to know not only all the animals in his care but his neighbor’s as well, including their genealogy, their habits, names, and ages. Thus if a steer shows up in his pasture whose brand he recognizes, he will immediately return it. If not, he will keep the animal but will not take it to market or use it for any labor, since it does not belong to him. He will allow it to graze and let it die of old age. If the runaway is a cow that gives birth to a calf, he will brand it with an artful replica of the brand of the mother, and he will repeat this process with all of the animal’s descendents. One of every four calves, however, he will set aside for himself. That is his pay. He establishes the same arrangement with his unknown neighbor that he has with his absent landowner, and he adheres to this strange unwritten contract, which no one has documented or enforced, without judges or witnesses.

It sometimes happens that after many years he will decipher the unknown brand, and then the happy owner will suddenly receive not only the lost and since forgotten animal but all its progeny. This seems fantastic, but it is a well-known custom in the backlands. We mention it as a fascinating example of the backlands’ ethical code. The great landowners, who own the herds, know it well. They all have the same labor agreement with the cowman, expressed in a single clause that gives him one-fourth of the products of the ranch in exchange for his husbandry of the herd. The landowner is confident that the cowboy will never cheat on the percentage.

Accounts are reconciled at the end of the winter, and this often takes place without the owner’s presence, which is a formality that may be dispensed with. The cowboy scrupulously separates the great majority of the new head of cattle that belong to the owner and brands them with the sign of the ranch. On his portion he places his own particular brand, and he will either keep or sell the animals. He writes to the boss, giving him a minutely detailed account of what has happened on the land—signing his name as “your friend and cowboy,” eschewing the more servile “your friend and servant”—and then he gets on with his labors.

The work is sometimes very tiring but it is the most rudimentary possible. There is no cattle-raising industry in the North. The herds live and multiply in a random fashion. They are branded in June and the new steers proceed to wander in the brush and get lost along with the rest. Their numbers are reduced by severe epizootic infections, among them the
rengue
, a type of lameness, and a disease called the
mal triste
, a form of leprosy or hydrophobia. The cowboys are not prepared to deal with these epidemics. They limit their activities to riding the endless trails. If the herd comes down with an epidemic of worms, they resort to a remedy that is better than mercury: prayer. They do not need to see the afflicted animal. The cowboy just turns toward the beast and intones a prayer while tracing indecipherable kabbalistic lines in the dirt. What is even more amazing is that sometimes the animal is cured.