Brazilian Saddle Sores

By

Bruce Vaughan

Chapter One

A MEMORY REVISITED

It was one of those typical torrid, blast furnace, Mato Grosso days. From the cloudless sky, a relentless, scorching sun beat down onto the sparse, undulating, sandy terrain that reached, interrupted only by occasional poor scrub, to the far horizon in all directions. Dust, stirred into motion by several hundred hooves, turned the sweat patches into mudslides down my face, neck and shirt. A rogue steer had broken from the herd and, wide eyed with fear on finding himself alone, was running towards the sanctity of a scraggy patch of bushes and stunted scrub trees.  

My horse knew what to do as soon as I urged him forward, and we galloped to intercept the frightened animal before he reached the cover, where he could get entangled in the thick, coarse and sometimes treacherous undergrowth. I realized that, in spite of our best efforts, I did not have time to cut off the runaway. I had to get a lasso over his head before things got too difficult. I freed the rawhide lasso from the saddle and, without taking my eyes off my quarry, let out a wide loop as I started a slow easy swing. I allowed the heavy ring to slide a few feet away from my hand, to give better momentum for the throw. As the loop swung in a lazy circle over my head, my horse, caught up in the excitement of the chase, focused all his senses as, with ears standing erect, nostrils flared, he quickened his pace, closing the gap. 

Horse and rider were both oblivious to the rough, treacherous ground we were crossing; our minds and bodies were in complete unison, we were as one. Our sole objective was to get within range of those horns before their owner reached cover. I was standing in the stirrups, leaning over my horse's head to give me that little extra range. I released the loop at the bottom of the swing and watched as it breached the gap, decreasing in size as it went. Seemingly guided by some homing instinct, the loop, now just three feet in diameter, dropped over the steer's horns. With a quick jerk of the wrist the lasso made fast. At the same moment my horse, with no need for direction from me, stopped in his tracks and made a half turn, bracing himself for the impact. The steer became momentarily airborne and then spun before landing with a thud, half hidden by undergrowth. 

As I dismounted and ran towards the steer, I became thankfully aware of the boiadeiros, Brazilian cowboys, coming to my assistance. They positioned their horses to surround the hapless animal, while I grabbed the steer by the nose and horn, forcing his head to the ground. With the steer temporarily immobilized, I released the lasso. Now it was just me against a very angry, scared Zebu steer. I jumped off and ran to the protection of the nearest of the boiadeiros’ horse before remounting my own. Still snorting with rage and panic, the steer threw himself towards one of the horses. The rider let him come just close enough before spurring his horse in the direction of the herd, so that the steer followed. The rest of us circled the still snorting, head-tossing animal and, with a little whip cracking persuasion, he was coaxed, at first reluctantly and then happily, back to the herd.     

We had been in the saddle since daybreak and still had several hours of trail in front of us before reaching our goal; the loading corral, near the railway station. Our day would not end then. We still had to load the cattle onto the train that was bound for the company’s fattening farms in Sao Paulo. It was often an all night job, even when the train was on time, which was rare. All too often we had to hang our hammocks where we could and catch a little steep while we waited. 

We arrived at the little railway town of Ribas do Rio Pardo by early evening. The balmy tropical twilight turned the sweltering heat of the day into a surprisingly cool night within minutes. Rio Pardo was a typical Brazilian interior town, more of a village really, and like so many others, it consisted of just one dusty, or muddy in the rainy season, main-street. There were a few simple, mud and timber houses on one side of the street and the raison d'etre, the railway tracks, on the other. The most imposing buildings, and the only ones built of stone, were the station office and platform and the stationmaster's house. Both the important position and the relatively imposing residence gave the stationmaster great social status. The travellers' inn and only restaurant stood across the road from the station. Conrad Hilton would have had no competition in Ribas do Rio Pardo. 

       “We'll eat first,” I announced as we finished the final count before herding the cattle into the corral, “but don't take your boots off.   I want to load these gaiolas while we've still got a moon." Much to our surprise and delight, the train, or at least the gaiolas, carriages for the cattle, were there in the siding waiting for us.  

After a predictable and yet satisfying meal of gritty, half washed rice, beans and chewy, dried beef, accompanied by the ever present, thick, black, Brazilian coffee, that is constantly on the boil on most stoves, I sat for a while in front of the inn and watched the evening life of Ribas do Rio Pardo. I was twenty-two, going on twenty-three, and had been in the interior of Brazil for nearly two years, yet I felt as if I was almost a Brazilian. I spoke Portuguese with a true Brazilian peasant's accent, with all the right dramatic intonations and hand movements. The cowboys had finally accepted me as one of them. I felt at home and very much a part of this authentic, interior, Wild West setting. The year was 1958.  

Forty-two years later I stood once more in the street between the Ribas do Rio Pardo station and the inn, or where it had been. In many ways time had stood still for that small corner of Brazil. The station was still there and so were the houses in the main street, still very similar to the ones I had known however there were some unmistakable changes to the scene. The railway no longer carried passengers and therefore the stations along the narrow gauge railway line, that originated somewhere in Paraguay, had been closed down for many years. The old station building now stands sadly abandoned, dilapidated and forlorn, overgrown with creepers and bushes. Ribas do Rio Pardo, now no longer dependent on the railway for its very existence has turned its back on it. The town, now a sprawling well planned suburbia, has taken on a new, modern life that exists away from the railway line and closer to and more dependant on the new highway that passes a few miles up the hill from the railway. It is now a flourishing, independent little township that has almost forgotten the old main street along the railway track.  

Rod Paxton, the present manager of the fazenda that I used to work on, back in the fifties, accompanied me on this little glimpse into the past. 

The previous day I had collected my one suitcase at the Campo Grande Airport and headed for the exit; not too sure of what I would find. It had been forty-two years since I had left Mato Grosso and forty years since I had left Brazil, after working for a Brazilian company owned by the British meat conglomerate Vestey. 

"Are you Bruce Vaughan?" a very English voice enquired from the sea of Brazilian faces. I looked to see the friendly smile of a man in his fifties. Both hair and beard were graying but the casually dressed body was that of a healthy, active man. 

"Yes," I replied, with a degree of relief that must have shown. 

"Welcome, I'm Rod Paxton."  

This moment was the culmination of two months correspondence that had started with a sudden 'well why not?' notion. I was scheduled to attend a Council meeting in Rio Grande do Sul in April 2000. It was to be my first visit to Brazil since I left in 1960. The idea of revisiting Mato Grosso started off, as I have said with, 'wouldn’t it be nice. It's worth a try, well why not,' thoughts, which usually get no further than that. I tried to find the address for Frigorifico Anglo, Vestey's Brazilian company, through the Internet. No amount of searching however could come up with the information that I needed. Eventually, through Nick Wykes, a friend of my brother who had some business dealings with Vestey, I was able to find out that the company had not only moved office from Sao Paulo to San Jose do Rio Preto but had also changed its name from Frigorifico Anglo, to Agropecuaria CFM. I never did find out what CFM stood for. I wrote a letter to David Makin, the General Manager, asking if I might visit one or two of the farms I had worked on. I waited for some weeks without receiving a reply and finally asked Nick Wykes for more advice. His suggestion was to send the letter to the London office and ask that it be included in their courier bag for Brazil. This turned out to be sound advice. I included my e-mail address in the letter and was delighted to find a reply in my inbox ten days later, making me welcome. 

The Mato Grosso fazendas and Tres Barros, my first posting, were my first choices for the visit. My time was limited and I also did not want to over stretch my welcome. Fazenda Tres Barros, when I knew it, had been a mixture of citrus and dairy farm. It was a beautiful remnant of the past, having originally been the private estate of a rich landowner dating back to the slave days. I was disappointed to learn that the whole estate had been switched to sugar cane. There had been some confusion during the correspondence about Mato Grosso, as I referred to the fazenda near Campo Grande as Ligacao, which was the name we knew it by when I was posted there. I was told that they did not have a property by that name nevertheless I was welcome to visit Estrela and Lageada. The company did have a third fazenda in those days, called Mutum but I was told that it had been sold already. 

Rod Paxton had a few things to buy from the supermarket before heading back to the farm.  

"You mentioned that you were on a fazenda called Ligacao," he said as we drove through the very modern Campo Grande, a quantum leap from the scruffy little town I remembered. 

'Yes, that was the closest to Campo Grande. Has it been sold?" 

"I think you must be thinking of Estrela, which is where we are going. There is an old railway station close by called Ligacao and one of the divisions of the farm in named Ligacao." 

"That must be it,' I said.” When I was there it was just known as Ligacao." 

I was delighted to find that I would indeed be staying at the fazenda where I had been posted all those years ago. 

"I have a friend staying with me at the moment, who you may be interested to meet." Rod mentioned, as we were leaving Campo Grande on a wide, open, paved highway. "Richard Turnley used to work for the company until he retired a few years ago. His last post was manager of Tres Barros, where I understand you were stationed." 

"Yes, that was my first posting." Things were getting better all the time. Although I would not be visiting Tres Barros, I would be able to compare notes with a man who knew it intimately.  

"I was sorry to hear that Tres Barros was changed into a cane sugar estate." 

"Well Richard can tell you all about that. He used to manage one of the cattle farms before going to Tres Barros and was given the job of converting it to sugar." 

"That must have been hard." I said. 

"He was a little uncertain but became very interested in the whole process. You can ask him about it yourself." 

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