By DANIELLE PERGAMENT
Source: The New York Times
- Bahia Bustamante combines Atlantic coastline, pastures, fields, desert and canyons. One way to see it all, and the stunning variety of wildlife there, is on horseback.
THE first thing you notice is the scale of everything. The unending distance between towns, the unfathomable stretch of land between you and the horizon, the vast expanses of sky.
The next thing you notice is the landscape — or, more accurately, landscapes. In one spot, you’re surrounded by low, scrubby desert pocked with thorny bushes. And you think: this could be the Australian Outback, or maybe the American Southwest. But then you approach the ocean, the navy blue Atlantic with its frigid whitecaps and craggy coastline, and your mind calls up images of Nova Scotia or Ireland. Then from some point to the south: a flock of hot pink flamingos flies by, so close you could almost pet them. You picture South Florida, perhaps, or the Bahamas. But, in fact, you’re thousands of miles from any of those places.
This is Bahia Bustamante, a private sheep farm in Argentine Patagonia, sprawling over about 210,000 acres, owned by a soft-spoken man named Matias Soriano. Set right on the waters of the eastern coast, about 1,000 miles south of Buenos Aires, the farm is roughly the size of the Hawaiian island of Kauai. Mr. Soriano, 41, welcomes up to 18 guests at a time, from August through May. Bahia attracts a certain kind of visitor — the kind who’s more traveler than tourist, who prefers roughing it to room service, who is happy to spend days kayaking, hiking, horseback riding or investigating Mr. Soriano’s private 65-million-year-old petrified forest — and then collapse with a scratchy lamb’s-wool blanket when the electricity shuts off at 11 p.m. But above all, it’s a place for people who will travel across continents to see a breathtaking combination of hundreds of disparate species, all converging on a single point on the map. Ultimately, that’s what drew me this far from home: I’d seen “Planet Earth,” I’d gone to the Bronx Zoo, I’d even come nose to nose with a hippo in the Okavango Delta in Botswana. But I’d never had breakfast with a penguin.
“Welcome to nowhere,” said Astrid Perkins, our 40-year-old rosy-cheeked guide (and Mr. Soriano’s girlfriend), as we pulled into what the staff members and farmhands who live here call “town” — whitewashed houses and a smattering of bright red picnic tables lining a rough dirt road along the beach. Half of these houses were built 60 years ago for the farmhands and their families; the other half (the ones a few steps from the beach) were added recently for guests, like my friend Lisa and me, who were visiting the edge of the world for a few days.
“Here’s the welcoming committee,” Ms. Perkins said, pointing over the hood of the Jeep. A few feet ahead, a dozen ostriches were walking toward us, curious but keeping a safe distance. They looked like a cast of ballerinas, their long necks craning above the car. Their prehistoric faces cocked slightly, examining us for a moment before they turned and glided away, the haughtiest of high school girls.
We drove on to our lodgings — a very comfortable, simply decorated house that would be our lodgings for the next week. (Rooms are $215 a night, including three home-cooked meals a day and all the malbec you can throw back.) All the guest rooms have a similar setup: two bedrooms, a neatly appointed living room, a modest kitchen and a porch a few feet from the South Atlantic.
Lisa and I dropped our bags and set out to explore. As soon as we started walking toward the water, we glimpsed a family of hares dash away, as two great egrets came in for a landing on the beach.
With such natural diversity, comparisons are inevitable to that other South America destination famous for its isolated and unique ecosystem — but for Mr. Soriano, the Galápagos, the Ecuadorean islands, aren’t a model, they’re a cautionary tale. The Galápagos receive more than 100,000 visitors a year, while Bahia Bustamante receives only about 400 annually. “The Galápagos are being destroyed by the traffic, and I won’t let that happen here,” he said. “We can accommodate 18 people at a time. That’s it.”
Mr. Soriano can keep things at that scale because it’s his land. Two years ago, the government turned the coastline and outlying islands into a national park, but the land is Mr. Soriano’s; he controls access to the ocean. And he’s quite happy to keep it that way.
“It’s been a family farm for over 50 years,” he said, scratching his woolly brown beard.
We were in the communal dining room, a cavernous hall lined with pictures of Bahia Bustamante in the 1950s. It looked exactly the same back then, only with horse-drawn carriages in place of Jeeps, and workmen in suspenders instead of baseball caps. We were sitting down to a lunch of spaghetti in tomato sauce and warm, garlicky bread.
For Mr. Soriano, protecting the eye-opening diversity of life here is an integral part of his business. “The government couldn’t protect the animals and the environment better than we are right now,” he said, “because we are controlling how many people come here.”
In few places in the world does such a variety of species exist in such proximity. First there are the domesticated animals — the sheep, dogs, cats and horses that roam freely over Mr. Soriano’s land. But traverse some of the hundreds of miles of roads that crisscross the pastures, fields, desert, dunes, beach and canyons that make up the property, and you might also see ostriches, foxes, armadillos and the majestic llama-like guanacos, wild cousins of the African camel.
You can watch Southern right whales breaching a few hundred feet off the beach and then see dolphins in the same spot the next morning. Sea lions surround themselves with their harems on the rocky shore, and sea elephants, with their trunklike faces, roll their blubbery bodies on the same sun-splashed rocks. Depending on the time of year, you might encounter more marine life: orcas, octopus, starfish, etc. (The “etc.” really is necessary.)
And then there are the birds. Bahia Bustamante is one of the Holy Grail destinations for ornithologists. There are hundreds of species: egrets, gulls, vultures, falcons, red knots, hawks, albatrosses, eagles, skuas, red plovers and several species that don’t exist anywhere else in the world. 
There are dozens of breeding grounds, including colonies of royal cormorants and rock cormorants. There are the giant petrels, which have six-foot wingspans and can fly 200 miles out to sea. And then there’s the steamer duck, which despite all physical evidence to the contrary, can’t take off and fly. I watched as they flapped their wings, got some momentum going — and for a second I thought, “maybe this time,” until they settled back down and quietly paddled away.
Although Bahia Bustamante isn’t an island, like the Galápagos or Madagascar, its isolated location means it essentially functions as one. “These animals have been left alone for generations without human intervention,” said Catherine Plume, a scientist with the World Wildlife Fund who has spent four years studying the species of southern South America. “And actually, they’re more closely related to animals from New Zealand and Australia than they are to other species in South America. When the continents broke off, these species were left here, blocked off by the ocean and the Andes.”
Bahia Bustamante has also been blessed with the sort of dramatic topography — points, capes, bays, all the pieces that make the coastline so jagged — that creates a safe place for animals to breed, according to Pablo Garcia Borboroglu, a biologist and researcher for the National Research Council of Argentina. Add to that the abundance of algae, seaweed and nutrient-rich water, he said, and you wind up with the perfect place for animals to live — or pass through, if you happen to be a right whale or a white-tufted grebe.
On our second evening, Lisa and I met up with our fellow guests — a conference of Patagonian sheep farmers, here to discuss sustainable and environmental methods of farming — in the dining room.
“It hasn’t changed much in half a century, and I plan to keep it that way,” said Mr. Soriano, pouring glasses of malbec from behind the bar. The room had turned dim and cozy, its huge windows overlooking the roiling Atlantic.
Mr. Soriano’s grandfather, Lorenzo Soriano, arrived on these shores in 1952 in search of seaweed. The young entrepreneur, who manufactured hair gel, needed it to make his products. Broke and desperate, the elder Mr. Soriano left his family behind in Buenos Aires to explore a place then known as Rotten Bay.
“When he got here, it was everything he dreamed,” the younger Mr. Soriano said with a laugh. “The shoreline was covered for miles with seaweed. Everyone thought he was crazy, but he saw the potential.” The rich find eventually led to what Mr. Soriano said was the world’s first seaweed farm, with 500 workers, houses for them and their families, a school for their children, and a thriving business. By 1968, the elder Mr. Soriano was doing so well he bought the two adjoining sheep farms, amassing a plot of over 200,000 acres.
Today, seaweed harvesting and sheep farming — not tourism — remain the primary sources of income for Bahia Bustamante. As far as Mr. Soriano is concerned, people who respect nature will always be welcome here — but the place is a farm first and foremost.
During our history lesson, dinner was served. Most of the food in Bahia Bustamante comes from within a mile of where we sat, including from the farm’s organic orchard and vegetable garden, which Ms. Perkins is expanding. All the flavors of our meals had the earthy taste of the land: warm lentil soup with hearty roasted vegetables; a green salad of bitter greens with sweet olive oil dressing; and platter upon platter of tender and salty fire-roasted lamb from animals that had been grazing outside only hours ago. We washed it all down with a few bottles of Patagonia beer. The place does have its high-end flourishes: the chef, who studied at the acclaimed Spanish restaurant El Bulli, also whipped up rich, creamy desserts each night to remind us of her provenance.
Since Bahia Bustamante doesn’t do any marketing of any kind — there’s a Web site, but the spot is not likely to be on a travel agency’s list, and you won’t be seeing a poster for it on a bus stop anytime soon — I was curious about how tourists ever found it. (I’d learned about it from Ms. Perkins, whom I’d met on a trip to Buenos Aires a few years ago.)
By Luke Jerod Kummer
Headstones inscribed in Welsh fill the graveyard at Moriah Chapel.
THE kettle in the center of the table anchors an elaborate Welsh tea service at the Ty Gwyn teahouse. An assortment of Celtic fruitcakes, tortes, spiced breads, fruit jams, and scones are spread on the table covered with a blue and white gingham cloth. In the corner of the room, a choir of a dozen people is softly singing the Welsh hymn “Awn Ymlaen Dan Ganu.” You might almost forget that you are a whole hemisphere away from Wales until a hostess, carrying a fresh tray of pastries, smiles and asks, “Les gustaría más pasteles?” (“Would you like more pastries?”)
Argentine Patagonia is home to awe-inspiring glaciers, condors, rugged wilderness – and a community of Welsh immigrants who have preserved the culture and language of their homeland. The center of all things Welsh is a hamlet of many gardens but no stoplights called Gaimán, where both Spanish and Welsh are likely to be heard on the street. Gaimán (population 4,000 or so), lies in central Patagonia near the Atlantic in Chubut Province, where the cultures and languages have mingled for more than 100 years but remain distinct.
Charged with planning a trip to Argentina in January for my girlfriend, Nita, and me, I seized upon the possibilities of adventure travel in Patagonia’s southernmost corner. Although sleeping on a glacier sounded like great fun to me, I knew Nita would prefer something a bit cozier.
When I discovered Gaimán and its picture-of-quaintness tea services, I decided taking a three-day side trip here would make an excellent bargaining chip for heading farther south and exploring the wilderness later on. After flying into the nearby town of Trelew, we spent a night in the Hotel Touring Club, an outpost of bygone grandeur and local hospitality where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid once stayed while casing the bank across the street and then deciding not to rob it.
A taxi took us through fierce dust-blowing winds to a small railroad station that Gaimán has converted into a municipal museum, called Amgueddfa Hanesyddol. On exhibit are colonial artifacts, photographs and documents. When we arrived, Zoe Gauci, a native of Wales who had been jaunting around Latin America for the preceding nine months, turned with digital video camera in hand to the wizened museum curator.
“My grandmother speaks Welsh and no one else in my family does,” Ms. Gauci said. “Would you send her a message?” The curator, Tegai Roberts, whose own ancestors were among the colony’s earliest settlers, happily obliged. The half-dozen visitors listened to her speak in a strange musical language.
The efforts of British officials to restrict the use of Welsh in public stimulated interest in the 19th century in finding a new home in such places as the United States, New Zealand and Palestine. In the museum we learned that when Michael D. Jones, an ardent Welsh nationalist, realized that Welsh immigrants to North America had assimilated even more than the people who remained in the homeland, he looked for refuge to a nearly uninhabited place on the southern tip of the world.
In 1865, a clipper ship called the Mimosa, flying an Argentine flag with a red dragon, a Welsh national symbol, superimposed on it, sailed from Liverpool with 153 Welsh men and women. When it landed in Puerto Madryn, about 50 miles northeast of Gaimán, the passengers found a land nothing like the green hills they left. Only yellow shrub rose on the expanse of clay that an undying wind had swept dry as bone.
The first crops planted by the settlers failed because they didn’t understand that the growing seasons are reversed in the Southern Hemisphere. Each night they huddled in fear of attacks by what they thought would be fierce aboriginal people. Yet it was the aboriginal Tehuelche who ultimately taught the Welsh when to plant crops and how to hunt the guanaco, or wild llama, and the ostrich-like ñandú. Despite periods of drought and famine, the community survived and dispersed throughout the region.
During our visit at the museum in Gaimán, Mrs. Roberts told us that the Welsh also brought the first irrigation system to Patagonia. Thus, the valley of the Río Chubut, which surrounds Gaimán, is an oasis of poplar trees and violet flowers in the desolate plateau. Active farming and a healthy tourism trade in Gaimán have caused it to thrive in recent years.
Before going to the museum, we took a taxi to the Moriah Chapel just outside of Trelew. Built in 1880, it is one of the oldest on a 40-mile trail of 17 Welsh chapels that wends through the Río Chubut Valley. At each stop visitors can see where colonists gave thanks for their new home. At Moriah, a cemetery has some black slate headstones, imported from Wales and engraved with the names of many founders of the colony.
Over the years since the initial settlement, Mr. Jones’s dream of a Welsh-speaking realm has seen mixed results. While Welsh is widely spoken around Gaimán, it is usually a second language. Intermarriage with Spanish speakers became common, and many Welsh speakers have Spanish names. Recently, use of Welsh in local schools has led to a Welsh revival.
Each October, Trelew also is home to the Eisteddfod Welsh cultural festival featuring a two-day contest of bards, both Welsh and Spanish, that attracts more than 1,000 people from throughout Argentina and abroad.
But the most visible expression of Welshness in the area is the teahouses in Gaimán, which keep alive a tradition from the old country that starts at about 3 p.m. every day.
Mrs. Roberts’s sister, Luned González, a retired headmistress of Gaimán’s secondary school, said that Welsh women in Gaimán would celebrate nearly every occasion with steaming kettles.
“Every Sunday when I was a girl,” she said, “the church pastors used to go from house to house having tea.”