Senor Nice: Straight Life From Wales to South America

by Howard Marks

  ‘You must have found North and South America very different,’ I said rather lamely.

  ‘Yes, but there are many likenesses, too.’

  ‘Are there? Like what?’

  ‘Each is crossed from north to south by a great volcanic mountain chain nearer to the western than to the eastern coast. In each there is an independent mountain range on the eastern side. Each has two gigantic rivers. Each has on its western side a desert that contains an inland river basin with lakes. The shores of each are washed by the mightiest ocean currents.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of all that, but these are just geographical likenesses, you must admit.’

  ‘The similarities are not merely physical, Howard. Both continents were inhabited by races unlike those of Europe. Both were easily conquered by Europeans because of the superiority of the invaders in arms and discipline, and the immunity they possessed to the diseases they brought with them. The countries of both revolted against European control.’

  ‘Are there any differences?’ I asked with mild sarcasm.

  ‘Of course. And these, I think, are far more interesting than the likenesses. In South America there was a large sedentary population of aborigines cultivating the soil and others who had worked in some sort of industry for many generations. The Spanish and Portuguese conquerors immediately turned them into serfs, and intermarriage occasionally occurred. In North America, however, the English and French met aborigines scattered over a vast region, who lived mainly by hunting animals and had formed no habits of regular industry. They were mostly fierce fighters and it was found impossible to make slaves of them or use them for any regular labour.’

  ‘So was there never any question of Native American slavery in the United States?’ I asked, feeling increasingly inhibited by Eduarda’s textbook torrent.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘What about intermarriage?’

  ‘Very rare. The settlers usually brought their women with them. Apparently the only example of a mixed race – half-white, half-Native American – was when the Welsh came to America in the twelfth century.’

  ‘Whom?’

  ‘The Welsh.’

  ‘I’m Welsh, Eduarda.’

  ‘I know from your features and accent. But I’m not Native American, I’m afraid. I am one hundred per cent Spanish. My family is from Ibiza, where the first Pacha’s opened. It’s a coincidence, no?’

  I thought probably not but said nothing.

  ‘So, shall we go to Pacha’s, Howard?’

  Buenos Aires clubs use film, theatre, acrobatics, song and dance to take the punter on an erotic journey through pain and pleasure – a heaving carnival for the senses. Pacha’s, especially, attracts outrageous fashionistas, debauched hedonists and switched-on celebrities. Eduarda and I were escorted to join some of them in the heavily cordoned-off VIP area. The waiter brought two house specials. They tasted sweet and herbal.

  ‘These are fantastic drinks,’ said Eduarda. ‘A bit like ecstasy but completely legal.’

  We each drank two more.

  The DJs mixed garage, disco, drum ’n’ bass, punk, hardcore house, new wave and heavy metal. Erotic, exotic, chaotic and narcotic circus characters wove through the dancers. French maids with feather dusters and rubber-clad slaves with confetti cannons patrolled the edges of the crowd.

  ‘Let’s dance, Howard,’ Eduarda commanded.

  We walked to the dance floor. Discordant cacophonies of something like sound suddenly made me stumble as I unsuccessfully tried to tune in to a head-fuck mix of bass lines, wolf whistles and catcalls. Eduarda held out her hand to help me up and fell on top of me. Her eyes were ecstatic, her nostrils were smoking. Familiar but wonderful feelings tingled through my guts and skin. We swayed back to the VIP area.

  Several hours later, I was sitting in the back of Eduarda’s Mercedes with her head on my lap. She had fallen asleep, still clutching a half-full bottle of Pacha’s champagne. Our clothes were drenched with sweat and booze, and the car reeked of alcohol and cigars. The chauffeur, fed up of driving us up and down avenues gleaming with early-morning sunshine, woke her up.

  ‘Howard, it is almost nine a.m. I must get home. I have had a most wonderful time and will miss you and your wonderful accent. I have a friend, Raoul, who lives in Trelew. He works for a tourist company there. I’ll fax his number to your hotel. My driver will drop you off and then take me home.’

  ‘You don’t fancy coming in for a coffee?’

  ‘I actually fancy coming in for something far more exciting than coffee, but I won’t. I have a busy day. See you again, I hope. You will enjoy Patagonia, I know.’

  I staggered into the hotel, legless and disoriented, and lurched through the lobby. The hotel had been invaded by about thirty Brits on tour with Saga, a company specialising in group holidays for the over-50s. They were at the bar having a welcome drink and getting to know one another. I could hear at least one Welsh accent.

  ‘I wish they would hurry up and check our bags in. I can’t wait to take off these bloody long stockings and have a shower. Eleven hours is too long for me. I told you before we left it would be.’

  ‘Gareth, will you stop complaining just for a minute,’ a woman, clearly Gareth’s wife, protested. ‘You haven’t stopped. They’re giving us a drink while we wait, fair play.’

  ‘It’s not a drink I need, it’s some bloody breakfast. I thought that was included.’

  ‘Not on the first day, Gareth. Saga made that very clear before we left home.’

  I couldn’t resist interrupting. ‘Where’s home, then?’

  ‘South Wales.’

  ‘I thought so. Same as me.’

  ‘Well? Sit down and join us. I’m Gareth Powell. This is my wife, Bethan. Have a drink with us by here. It’s free.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m Howard Marks. You’re on holiday, I suppose?’

  ‘Doesn’t bloody feel like it. Eleven hours on a plane!’

  ‘Stop it, Gareth, for God’s sake. Yes, we are on holiday, Howard. Where are you from in South Wales?’

  ‘Kenfig Hill. Do you know it?’

  ‘Know it! I should say. Gareth and I often used to go and pick dewberries on Kenfig dunes, didn’t we, love?’

  ‘That’s not all we did there, mind,’ added Gareth. ‘Well! Well! Kenfig Hill. Haven’t been there for donkey’s years. From Blackwood, we are.’

  ‘Gareth’s mother used to love making dewberry tart. It was her favourite after gooseberry.’ Bethan was clearly on one.

  ‘That’s a coincidence. I was in Blackwood not so long ago.’

  ‘Were you indeed? What the hell were you doing there?’

  ‘Just a bit of research – I’m a writer.’

  ‘Really! What’s there to research in Blackwood, other than why anyone would go there in the first place? Kenfig Hill’s better.’

  ‘Apparently Henry Morgan owned some property and lived in Blackwood. Some people even think he was born there.’

  ‘Oh no! Don’t you bloody start, please, about Henry bloody Morgan, for Christ’s sake. That’s all I hear about from Idwal from morning to night. He doesn’t stop. And he’s meant to be my best friend. He keeps going on about Captain Morgan having lived in one of our locals. So bloody what? I’d have thought someone with his loot would have had better taste than to move to Blackwood.’

  ‘Gareth, some people are interested in history. And Blackwood’s lovely, Howard. Don’t listen to him. My mother’s family came from near Kenfig Hill – I think it was Pyle. We called in on them when we went to the eisteddfod in Bridgend. It didn’t stop raining all day.’

  ‘Gareth, you must mean the Monkey Tree, yeah? People kept telling me it was haunted by Henry Morgan’s relatives,’ I said, sidestepping Bethan’s wittering.

  ‘I bet you didn’t see any ghosts; it’s hard enough to get a drink. The only spirits there are well behind the bar. History writer, are you?’

  Gareth and Bethan were just that little bit too old to have spent their form
ative years taking substantial quantities of drugs or to have taken much interest in the trials of a major marijuana smuggler. I dodged the opportunity to tell them my life story: ‘Sort of. I write about social issues, music, and sport as well. Where are you off to next?’

  ‘They’re taking us all over Patagonia for ten days.’

  ‘To the Welsh community?’

  ‘I bloody well hope not, Howard; I’m trying to have a holiday. Although that’s probably the only place we’ll be able to watch the Wales v. France match. We’ve done well this year, haven’t we? Did you see the games against England and Italy?’

  ‘Of course I did. Fantastic, weren’t we? Do you think we’ll win the Grand Slam?’

  ‘No doubt in my mind. We’ve got that old seventies magic back at last.’

  ‘So if you aren’t interested in the Welsh community, Gareth, why are you going to Patagonia?’

  ‘Well, I am a bit interested, but I’m not fanatical. I’ve lived all my life in Wales without bothering to learn Welsh, so it’s no use me pretending I’m that keen. What I’m looking forward to is seeing the glaciers in the south of Patagonia. It’s the best part of the world for that.’

  ‘I want to see the penguin colony,’ said Bethan. ‘I love penguins. I’m not a bird lover generally, but the way penguins walk is fantastic, I think. I’m not fussy about seeing the sea lions, though. Mind, I would have liked to see the whales, but they’re out of season, according to the guidebook.’

  The tour manager announced the group’s bags had been checked into their rooms. Gareth and Bethan got up to go.

  ‘I’ll give you Idwal’s number in Blackwood tomorrow at breakfast down by here. He will tell you all you want to know about Henry Morgan, and a lot more, I’m sure. It’s a job to stop him talking, I’ll warn you now.’

  The next morning Gareth and Bethan were waiting at a table; they had finished their breakfast some time ago. Gareth was dutifully clutching a piece of paper.

  ‘Here’s Idwal’s number. We’re off in a few hours. I wouldn’t have minded staying here for a few more days, but that’s what it’s like on these tours: you never get enough time.’

  ‘I’m also going to Patagonia, funnily enough, probably the day after tomorrow. Shall we exchange mobile numbers?’

  ‘Mine doesn’t work over here, Howard, but I’ll take yours. All the best. We’ll meet again, I’m sure.’

  I spent the rest of the day reading my guidebooks on Argentina, moving from one culture café to another. In the evening I made notes and ate another mountain of beef. The following morning I took a city tour to bring the right measure of reality to my guidebooks. The bus stopped at Teatro Colón, the world’s largest opera house, drove past Aristotle Onassis’s first business (a river ferry) and drove through the old artists’ quarter of La Boca, where I had drunk maté with Eduarda and where Maradona’s football club, Boca Juniors, had turned itself into a shrine. A little later I gazed at the balcony where Madonna had sung ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina’ and paid my respects at Eva Perón’s grave. I watched professional dog-walkers exercising up to thirty leashed dogs at a time through the city’s lush parks and some old men pissing at street corners.

  The next morning I checked out of the Amerian, took a cab to Newberry, Buenos Aires’s domestic airport, and caught the first flight to Trelew in the Chubut Valley. At least Trelew was a Welsh name. I hadn’t found any Welsh place names in Brazil. Trelew means home of the lion, which failed to make much sense. Perhaps the Welsh words for puma and lion were the same.

  After a few hours over a barren wilderness, the plane landed at a small airport. A great statue of a penguin with a black head dominated the arrivals hall. Murals of dolphins, sea lions and whales covered the walls. Signs warned against the dangers of bringing in animals, foodstuffs or other carriers of viruses or bacteria into Patagonia, the world’s biggest complex of nature reserves and wildlife sanctuaries. I could find no hotel accommodation desk so just walked outside to where passengers were boarding a public bus destined for Puerto Madryn. I couldn’t believe my luck. Puerto Madryn was named after Madryn Castle, the former North Welsh home of Sir Love Jones-Parry, one of the founders of the Welsh colony in Argentina. Punta Cuevas, where the Welsh first landed over 150 years ago, was part of Puerto Madryn.

  I got on the bus, which for fifty-body shaking miles bounced along a straight and empty grit road spearing through thousands of square miles of flat military-green thorn scrub. The sea magically sprang into view, and I could see the tops of buildings nestling in a cove on the coast. A long pier with a massive cruise ship on each side stretched out into the ocean. Shops by the harbour sold motorboats, kayaks, canoes, jet skis, windsurfing boards and deep-sea fishing and diving gear. Puerto Madryn was not a typical Welsh village; it was a thriving North American-style water-sports resort and marina.

  Somewhat disappointed, I got off the bus and located suitable accommodation, the Hotel Peninsula Valdes, checked in, and went for a walk into town looking for anything Welsh. Eventually I came across streets named Matthews, Roberts, Humphreys and Love Jones-Parry. Relieved, I walked down Love Jones-Parry until I came back to the promenade. A large monument, designed in 1965 by the famous Argentinian sculptor Luis Perlotti, commemorated the centenary of the Welsh landing in Punta Cuevas. Now excited at making some headway at last, I took a cab to Punta Cuevas and asked the driver to wait for me. Strolling along the shore, I was confronted by a statue of a Native American Indian perched on top of a pile of stones. He was holding a bow in one hand and shielding his eyes from the sun with another. A notice stated that this was El Indio, another Luis Perlotti statue. It commemorated the gratitude of the Welsh to the Tehuelche people, whose shared expertise had ensured their survival. Some caves with boarded-up openings were nearby. I read another notice, which stated the Welsh had landed here and lived in these caves. There was no other acknowledgement of their presence. Disappointed again, I got back into my cab and returned to the hotel.

  Why had the Welsh chosen to come to this desert steppe – ravaged by icy gales in the winter and sucked dry by suffocating hot winds in the summer – in order to live in prehistoric living conditions? Had things really been that bad back home in the valleys? Where were their families now? Confused and unsettled, I ate some magnificent shellfish, drank a bottle of Malbec, and resolved to call Eduarda’s friend in the morning.

  My Spanish hadn’t entirely deserted me: ‘Buenos dias. Puedo hablar con Raoul, por favor?’

  ‘Quien llama?’

  ‘Soy Howard Marks, un amigo de Eduarda en Buenos Aires.’

  ‘Ah! Bien! Bien! Soy Raoul, Raoul Roberts. Como está, hombre?’

  We met in the lobby of my hotel. Raoul Roberts was stocky and dark with twinkling blue eyes and a mouth permanently itching to smile. Although of Welsh male ancestry, he did not speak Welsh, but he had learned English as part of his tour-guide training, and that together with my street and prison Spanish enabled us to communicate effectively.

  I gathered from Raoul that the Welsh had chosen Punta Cuevas as their landing point because of reports sent to Wales by two of the potential colonisers, Lewis Jones and Edwin Roberts (no relation to Raoul), who had made a preliminary investigation of the area. Puenta Cuevas lay in a sheltered natural harbour comprising a semicircle of rocks some eight miles wide and twenty-two miles long, where building materials in the form of soft clayey cliffs and timber from a nearby wreck were available. Jones and Roberts were obviously not experienced colonisers as they had neglected to find out whether there was fresh water immediately inland. There wasn’t. Five members of the 153-strong group died within a month.

  With cold, hunger and thirst as their permanent companions, search parties crossed the desert on foot, nourishing themselves by sucking blood from vultures and praying that no Indians would attack them. How could they possibly succeed where the Spanish, French and English had failed? The Welsh adventurers eventually found fresh water near the estuary of the Chubut River and set up sm
allholdings and a fishing community at a place they named Trerawson.

  Argentina was not simply being generous in offering the Welsh a large chunk of its land; such a colony in the area also suited Argentinian interests. The government needed to strengthen its presence against threats from Chile and from England because of the Falklands/Malvinas dispute. England was the common enemy of Argentina and Wales. The Argentinian minister of the interior, Dr Rawson, keenly supported the establishment of a Welsh colony and gave his name to the country’s first Welsh settlement, where they were officially granted rights of abode. Used to working in mines, the Welsh found farming difficult. At first ignorant of the different seasons in the southern hemisphere, they sowed crops in autumn instead of spring and had to face one failure after another.

  They were saved from starvation by athe Tehuelche tribe, who set up camp close by, thereby beginning an astonishing relationship with the Welsh settlers, teaching them how to handle cattle, ride horses and hunt. The two communities bartered meat and pelts for bread and butter and even staged their own sports fixtures. The Welsh won the shooting; the Tehuelche won the equestrian events. The bond established between them has held until the present day. Nevertheless, the first few years were tough for the settlers, and the population fell. Over the years, the Welsh learnt to irrigate their fields and were eventually able to export wheat. The population recovered and then increased. Remembering their debt, the Welsh took abandoned Indian children and orphans into their care and taught them Welsh. Intermarriage with local Spanish-speakers was encouraged, provided they learnt Welsh.