Kevin’s existence at Estancia Los Potreros was a strange one.
To meet him, he was as English as they come but cut him in half and he was Argentinian through and through. I couldn’t work out whether the farm with its 2,500 hectares was a rich man’s play-thing or a make or break enterprise. His seventeen years in the city suggested he had made his money and was living the life of a country gentleman on the family estate, periodically flitting back to the UK to a swish Kensington pied-a-terre to collect tea bags and good whiskey.
On the other hand, the farm, though large, was barren land, good only for sparse grazing. The drought was long and hard and the stock had reduced by 25% this year, alone. His family collection of vintage cars, so evident in the beautiful photographs that lined the walls, had been sold, leaving only a dusty Model B Ford from 1936 mouldering away under the open shed where we had enjoyed last night’s barbeque.
Finally, as every good farmer has learned to do, he was diversifying to earn extra income from the shop, horses, accommodation and wine tasting.
I just couldn’t decide whether this was all for love or money.
Leaving Potreros, Cameron lumbered over the bumpy, dusty farm roads as an orange disc of gold was rising to our right. Before long, the highway started to rise from the 1,500m altitude that we had camped at for the last three nights and we entered another tangle of mountain-side switch back roads.
We stopped for the now routine breakfast on the road-side and pressed on to Jesus Maria for our first trip to the Disco.
Young and old collected at the glass doors. There wasn’t a queue and despite the Disco being part of a large chain across Argentina, we didn’t have to pay to get in. The place was busy, the lights were bright and the music pumping out of the speakers inside the entrance was quality 1980’s synth-pop.
Disco catered for every taste.
There was a section for the children of the 80’s who liked it cheesy and another for the youngsters with a taste for disco-biscuits. If you knew who to ask, you could get every type of powder or pill. I found Sharif and Leon chatting in the chill section and Col and Shay had gone to get themselves some honeys in the Jam area.
Sadly, when we searched for the bar, there was no draught ale, only bottled beers but they had a surprisingly good selection of wines for a Disco.
By the time we reeled out, bleary eyed into the morning sunlight, you wouldn’t believe that you could have had such a good time in a supermarket.
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