The white table cloth and the plastic tub

Photos courtesy Maria Bonner Lombardi

Friday, June 05th, 2026

Bill Bonner, from Youghal, Ireland

We took our leave from our daughter and son-in-law on Wednesday. The long trip took us northeast from Buenos Aires to Amsterdam, where we are now writing. The next flight will take us home to Ireland.

If we had one useful quality in our 40-year business career it was that we could sleep on airplanes. So, with that training on our resume, we dozed as soundly as an innocent puppy.

While in Argentina, we spent a lot of time at our house in the Calchaqui Valley.

“During the day, the sun bleaches out the colors,” Maria explained. “But mornings and evenings are spectacular...and not necessarily in a show-off way. The colors of the evening are subtle...and the last night we watched the full moon rise over the Apacheta Mountains. It was marvelous. The air is so clear. And the moon is so bright.”

It is late autumn in the Southern Hemisphere. Nights are hard and cold. We made a fire in the living room chimney each evening. In the morning, the fire was already burning in the office when we got to work. And Maria spoiled us by bringing us a cup of coffee, first thing.

On Sunday, after our coffee, we set out to Molinos — a dust-blown burg of adobe and cement houses with a very old church. The Conquistadores who brought sword and cross down from Peru were here only a few years after Columbus washed up in Hispaniola. The leading families of the area today are their descendants. They may have been murderous, but they were faithful murderers and built a church here in 1557 — one of the oldest in the New World — a monument to the curious human ability to butcher the heathen on Saturday and then preach the gospel of peace to them on Sunday.

On this Sunday, the church celebrated an anniversary. What anniversary, exactly, we never found out. But Salta province is older, and much more pious and moss-backed than the rest of the country.

Almost every community, no matter how backward or remote, sent a delegation. Natalio, one of the farmhands on the job when we got here and recently retired, gave us a warm embrace. Coca leaves in his mouth, sandals on his feet, he walked all night in the company of dozens of other pilgrims, to get to the celebration.

The priests — including the bishop from Cafayate — had set up in front of the church. To the right, left, behind and in front were flags representing the national government, the local government, the parish, the town...along with several banners that defied interpretation. Also present were representatives of the Gauchos — duded up in high boots, billowy bombachos, tight vests, wide leather belts with and a knife — the cuchillo — tucked in behind their backs. They sported neckerchiefs, and wide Salta hats. The firefighters were there too, in full regalia, including shiny gold helmets. And there were junior groups too, in school uniforms, or insignia that notified us which seat of power they aimed to sit down in. There were young police-in-training...teachers-in-training...even the gauchos-to-be.

In this part of the world — unlike most of Argentina — rank and privilege are still respected and resented. They are taken seriously, in other words. Thus it was that we were planted, literally — shoulder to shoulder with the grandees — Senators, Deputies, Mayors, Priests, the Police, the Military...and a very small group of large landowners.

And there we cooked, in the second row, in the unrelenting sunshine, for two hours.

All of the notables were recognized in a long ceremony. Each was given a framed certificate attesting to his contributions, whatever they may have been.

Eventually we heard our name called, unexpectedly, and greeted it with the same solemn cynicism that we accepted the ‘Good Citizenship’ award at our high school in 1966. Even the Unabomber was a better citizen. At least he meant well. And he was good at math.

We stepped to the front of the assembly — about 600 people — removed our hat, and received an award for supporting the community for the last 20 years.

Our support for the anniversary celebration was limited to one ‘novillo’ — a young bull, who was, at the very moment roasting over hot coals. But over the years we have covered the losses on our valley farms...putting up with sabotage, insubordination and open rebellion...while we paid salaries and brought in new machinery intended to make the local people more productive and less quarrelsome.

“That award cost me a lot of money,” we remarked later to a European friend.

The stage thus set, the drums rolled and the Mass began. Public-address systems are seldom to be trusted; this one was a triumph of unreliability, and much of the liturgy came across as a kind of sacred static. But the Mass runs on rails worn smooth by use — Catholic or Episcopalian, European or South American, it is everywhere much the same — and the story it tells has altered scarcely a syllable in two thousand years. One may follow it deaf.

Once the Peace had been passed and the wafer consumed, we were ready to withdraw into the shade for the feast. The aforementioned ‘novillo’ was ready...along with two others, given by other large ranchers.

But here again, rank has its privileges. There must have been 30 tables. But only two were adorned with white table cloths, glass cups, metal forks and spoons. The others — where hoi and polloi were seated — had no such luxury. They received their meals in plastic containers to be eaten with plastic cutlery. We also had bottles of wine — which we had brought to the fiesta — to irrigate the luncheon. Everybody else had Coca Cola.

The upper ranks are not completely impermeable. The doors — stiff as they are — swing both ways. While most of the people at our table were white, elsewhere we were far outnumbered by those of mixed blood, referred to locally as ‘indio’ or ‘indigenes’ or ‘mestizos.’ The large landowners were pure white. So were the priests. But the politicians, dignitaries and merchants were of every shade. Seated near us, for example, was a young woman we’ve known since childhood; she is the daughter of our former ranch foreman, who is one of the most intelligent, dignified and honest people we have ever met. He grew up in the mountains, in a house with a dirt floor and no running water. His daughter was sent to the city for her high school...and then went on to a university. She is now in charge of the tourist office — and sits at the table with the white tablecloth next to her father’s former employer.

It has been more than 400 years since the locals were introduced to the Europeans’ yoke and lash. But they still live in ways we can scarcely fathom. Most striking is their indifference to cold. It can be freezing outside and not much warmer inside. Still, they make no attempt to heat interior spaces, instead going about their business, smothered in coats, sweaters and thick wool blankets.

Almost ten years ago, we ‘invented’ the cheapest, simplest hot water heater on the planet, fully expecting that all the locals would want one. It is nothing more than a thin stainless-steel tank, painted black...covered in glass, with internal baffles, forcing the water through a maze to heat it up (from the sun) before it comes out the other end. No power required. No moving parts. It provides enough warm water to take a bath or wash dishes in the evening. But so far, none of the families on the ranch has imitated it.

The other thing we introduced was passive solar heat to the living space. Here, with almost uninterrupted sunshine, it is easy to put a glass wall on the northern side (the sun arcs through the northern sky) and you will have so much heat you’ll have to open the windows to let it out. It will give you too much heat in the summertime, but that is easily managed by planting a grape vine or a tree in front of it.

The heat costs nothing and involves no machinery, switches, or electronics. We built a small house out of adobe, stone, mud, and glass to prove our point and expected a rush of adoption by the locals. The little house is sublimely simple, elegant and ingenious...if we say so ourselves. But, so far, both Architectural Digest and the locals are unanimous. They want nothing to do with it.

People have their own ideas about comfort and culture. Out at the furthest reaches of our farm — high in the mountains about an 8-hour ride on horseback — is a house lived in by an intelligent woman with a gimpy leg. They locals, with brutal frankness, call her ‘the cripple.’ It is freezing cold up there. But her kitchen has no door...it is as open to the weather as an eagle’s nest. Go figure.

The meat came to the table soon after we had sat down. Our neighbor tried to explain the cooking technique.

“There was too much meat to cook and serve in a normal asado (grill). They wrapped it in a wire cage and put it in the ground on top of hot coals. It slow cooks overnight and comes out very tender.”

Argentina is known for its good beef. We’ve tucked in at the finest temples of the culinary arts in Buenos Aires, as well as the humblest local dives. Generally, the neighborhood favorites give the most satisfaction; they don’t bury the taste in sauces or disguise it with complex confections. But we never had a tastier ‘bife’ than the meat that come up out of the ground on Sunday.

“Santiago!”

One of the oldest and biggest of the landowners boomed out. He, too, was a member in good standing of the gauchos’ league, dressed in a traditional gaucho get-up.

Santiago had been one of his own workers, now similarly costumed and helping to serve the multitude.

“Bring us some bread,” he commanded.

Santiago smiled and went on his mission, coming back with a woven basket with freshly sliced ‘French’ bread.

“We need some more knives, too” continued the man, clearly accustomed to giving the orders.

Again, Santiago politely complied. Four hundred years of practice, on both sides of the exchange, give such a transaction a seamless grace.

The feast completed, the small tribe of white people crossed the plaza to the ancient hotel nearby for a coffee. It used to be the residence of the ruling family...the Isasmendi...lords of a vast domain of lakes, mountains, rivers and (mostly) deserts. Except for modern conveniences, the large house has little changed from the 1700s.

There were hundreds of people outside, going hither and yon as the party broke up, but few entered the hotel. At one table there was a family group that appeared to be German. Another city couple came in dressed in hiking gear. Otherwise, no one.

“Not many clients,” we said to the manager whom we’ve known for many years.

“No...poco.”

Turning to another landowner, “I wonder why more people don’t come in...at least to have coffee.”

“Different people,” came the answer.

And there, in two words, was the whole of it — four centuries of distance between the white tablecloth and the plastic tub.

Regards,

Bill Bonner