Free In Patagonia by Bruce Chatwin Page A

His eyes were a particularly cold shade of blue. His face was netted with a regular pattern of burst blood vessels and his stomach showed signs of indulgence in food and drink. His dress was the result of meticulous planning: the Norfolk jacket in brown herring-bone tweed, the hardwood buttons, the open-necked khaki shirt, the worsted trousers, tortoiseshell bifocals and spitand-polished shoes.
    He was making notes in his stud book. His man Antonio was got up in full gaucho rig, with a knife or facón thrust diagonally across the small of his back. He was parading a group of Australian Merinos before his employer.
    The rams panted under the weight of their own fleece and virility, mouthing a little alfalfa with the resignation of obese invalids on a diet. The best animals wore a cotton oversheet to protect them from dirt. Antonio had to undress them, and the Englishman would plunge his hand in and splay out his fingers, laying bare five inches of creamy yellow fleece.
    â€˜And what part of the old country d’you come from?’ he asked.
    â€˜Gloucestershire.’
    â€˜Gloucestershire, eh! Gloucestershire! In the North, what?’
    â€˜In the West.’
    â€˜Damn me, so it is. The West. Yes. Our place was in Chippenham. Probably never heard of it. That’s in Wiltshire.’
    â€˜About fifteen miles from me.’
    â€˜Probably a different Chippenham. And how is the old country getting along?’ He changed the subject to avoid our geographical conversation. ‘Thing’s aren’t going too well, are they? Damned shame!’

16
    I SLEPT in the peons’ quarters. The night was cold. They gave me a cot bed and a black winter poncho as a coverlet. Apart from these ponchos, their maté equipment and their knives, the peons were free of possessions.
    In the morning there was a heavy dew on the white clover. I walked down the track to the Welsh village of Trevelin, the Place of the Mill. Far below in the valley, tin roofs were glinting. I saw the mill, an ordinary Victorian mill, but on the edge of the village were some strange timber buildings with roofs sloping at all angles. Coming up close I saw that one was a water-tower. A banner floated from it, reading ‘ Instituto Bahai ’.
    A black face popped over the bank.
    â€˜ ¿Qué tal? ’
    â€˜Walking.’
    â€˜Come in.’
    The Bahai Institute of Trevelin consisted of one short, very black and very muscular negro from Bolivia and six ex-students from the University of Teheran, only one of whom was present.
    â€˜All men,’ the Bolivian sniggered. ‘All very religious.’
    He was making a makeshift spinner from a tin can and wanted to go fishing in the lake. The Persian was dousing himself in the shower.
    The Persians had come to Patagonia as missionaries for their world religion. They had plenty of money and had stuffed the place with the trappings of middle-class Teheran—wine-red Bokhara rugs, fancy cushions, brass trays, and cigarette boxes painted with scenes from the Shahnama.
    The Persian, whose name was Ali, swanned out of the shower in a sarong. Black hairs rippled over his unhealthy white body. He had enormous syrupy eyes and a drooping moustache. He sank back on a pile of cushions, ordered the negro to do the washing up and discussed the world situation.
    â€˜Persia is a very poor country,’ he said.
    â€˜Persia is a bloody rich country,’ I said.
    â€˜Persia could be a rich country but the Americans have robbed her wealth.’ Ali smiled showing a set of swollen gums.
    He offered to show me over the Institute. In their library the books were all Bahai literature. I noted down two titles— The Wrath of God and Epistle to the Son of the Wolf, Bahai Ullah . There was also a Guide to Better Writing .
    â€˜Which religion have you?’ Ali asked. ‘Christian?’
    â€˜I haven’t got any special religion this morning. My God is the God of Walkers. If you