Coplas Pa'l Pata I'Lana by Mariana Carrizo: Couplets for Woolenfoot

I mentioned wanting to hear more stories, cultural archetypes and tropes from Latin America and Argentina in particular. Songs are a great place to find them. That same day I was listening again to Mariana Carrizo’s 'Coplas de Sangre' album. She is a folk singer, especially of bagualas [Baguala de Amaicha], vidalas [Vidala para mi sombra] and coplas [Strangeness and Awe] [Musical journeys], from the mountainous northwest of the country where there is a particularly strong tradition of folk music.

The album contains a story and song Coplas Pa'l Pata I'Lana. Primarily an Argentinian concept, the pata i'lana is the backdoor man, the side piece, the fancy-man, the lover. He is the counterpoint to the cuckold. In Mexico he is apparently known as Sancho, or Lechero.

It is the creeping subversiveness I find most entrancing. So-called innocence and experience and a dangerous game, transgressive of traditional morals is repackaged, little by little into something harmless, then into something good, then into a service, then something that could be sold, and then to something positively angelic. I marvel at the sleight of hand and wish I could make up a song about those with that ability who use it sometimes lightly, sometimes to more treacherous ends.

Best of all, we are never quite sure of the singer's take on it all. Smart, elusive, playful, she won't be pinned down. Are the women in the song pitiful or clever or simply acting as women abandoned in the home may do? Or, in modern times, now that women can apparently be pata i'lanas themselves, have they taken charge of their destinies? It is a thoroughly modern twist to a traditional idea. Or are we taken in wholesale, just as the pata i'lana is presented first as something naughty and indulgent and then into a commodity, sold to satisfy a need?

In some ways the song is an inversion of the supposedly macho tangos where the man rails against the woman who betrayed him. It is very much in the vein of Quiscaloro - people doing what they can get away with.

I think of it too against the contrast of Me voy pa’l pueblo, the song popularised by Los Panchos where the man leaves the woman at home to go drinking - an opportunity for the pata i'lana if ever there was one.

*

Story:

El limón debe de ser verde para que tiña a mora’o¹ y el amor para que dure debe ser disimulado, reza el pata i'lana.  

The lemon must be green to turn purple, and love, to last, must be discreet, so says the pata i'lana. 

El pata i'lana² dícese, del señor que tiene las patas, livianita³, livianita, como su nombre lo explica: “pata de lana”. 

The pata i'lana, they say, is a man whose feet are light as wool, just as his name suggests, "pata de lana." [feet of wool].

Este señor tiene la habilidad de entrar, introducirse y/o, o/y penetrar, primero en los ranchos, las casas, viviendas; luego pasa al dormitorio y luego a la señora prohibida, legalmente casada o simplemente con dueño⁴.

This man is able to enter, sneak into, penetrate ranches, houses, homes.  From there he makes his way into the bedroom, and finally to the forbidden lady, legally married or simply a common law spouse.

El pata i'lana entra calladito, calladito, sin meter bulla, sin hacer ruidito, sin ningún ruidito, no deja ningún rastro ni pa’entra’ ni pa’ sali’⁵. 

The pata i'lana enters quietly, quietly, without making any noise, without leaving a trace, neither on entering nor on leaving.

Generalmente el pata i‘lana entra cuando no está el marido de su presita⁶, aunque algunas veces, también entra cuando está el marido. 

Usually, the pata i'lana enters when the woman's husband is not at home, although sometimes he enters even when the husband is there.

Esto pasa cuando el marido tiene el sueño medio pesa’o o el ronquido medio fuerte y bueno, ahí aprovechan estos amantes para estar juntitos.

This happens when the husband is in a deep sleep or snoring loudly, and that's when these lovers take the opportunity to be together.

Algunos dicen que la pata i'laniada es una debilidad, pero los hombres pata i‘lanas se consideran muy solidarios, grandes de corazón, porque su misión en este mundo es acompañar a las señoras, esas que están solitas porque algunos maridos se la pasan trabajando o se van a alguna fiesta o reuniones laborales o viajes de negocios o otras ocupaciones, pero siempre solito. 

Some say that being a pata i‘lana is a weakness, but the men who are pata i‘lanas consider themselves very supportive, great-hearted, because their mission in this world is to keep those women who are lonely company, because their husbands are always working or attending parties, work meetings, business trips, or doing other things but never with their wife.

La mujer queda en la casa con las guaguas⁷, con los hijos, los niños ¿no es cierto? Y los quehaceres domésticos.

The woman stays home with the babies, with the children, isn't that right? And with the household chores.

Y es ahí donde el pata i‘lana brinda su ayuda a esta mujer sola, triste y abandonada⁸. 

And that's where the pata i‘lana comes in to offer his help to this lonely, sad, and abandoned woman.

Es ahí donde él acude⁹ a hacerle el favor; el favor, digo, el favor de acompañarla, sobre todo en las noches, porque a las mujeres a veces nos sucede de que nos da miedito la oscuridad.

That's where he comes in to do her a favour; the favour, I mean, of keeping her company, especially at night because sometimes, women get a little scared of the dark.

Entonces el pata i‘lana nos¹¹ acompaña en algunas ocasiones y de verdad que es una obra de caridad¹⁰, porque uno se siente protegida, contenida ante cualquier aparición de la oscuridad. 

So the pata i‘lana accompanies us on some occasions, and it's really a charitable act, because one feels protected, safe from any appearance of darkness.

Es una buena opción¹². 

It is a good option.

Así que usted, cuando tenga miedito, esté solita, agarre y llame al pata i‘lana, llame y ya haga su reserva¹³. 

So when you're feeling a little scared, alone, go ahead and call the pata i'lana, call and make your reservation.

Si llama dentro de diez minutos¹⁴ le regalamos dos más. Imagina dos patas i’lana y nunca más va a estar solita. 

So if you call within the next ten minutes, we'll give you two of them. Imagine¹⁵, two woolenfeet and you’ll never be alone again.

No se asuste por los nombres que le vayan a dar las otras opciones.

Don't be scared by the names other options might give you.

En el noroeste argentino se le llama pata i‘lana.

In northwest Argentina, he's called Woolenfoot.

En otros lugares se le llama “El Vientito”¹⁶. 

In other places he’s called The Little Wind.

En otros, el pata ‘i bolsa¹⁷.  

In others ?Bag foot

Modernosamente¹⁸ se le dice el amante a domicilio o simplemente el cadete¹⁹ solidario.

In modern times he is called the lover for hire or simply the "community courier". 

Tiempos atrás dice que el pata i‘lana era sólo una actividad del hombre.

In times past, it was said that being a pata i'lana was solely a man's activity.

Hoy esta labor también le atañe²⁰ a las féminas. 

Today, this task also includes women.

Así que también si algún hombre se encuentra solito puede llamar ya.

So if any man finds himself alone, he can call too.

*

Song:

Dele comida a sus perros pa’ que dejen de ladrar; y apague los faroles, que el vientito va a llegar. 

Feed your dogs so they stop barking, and turn off the lights, because the "little wind" is about to arrive.

Déjalo al triste a llorar y al tonto a cuidar lo ajeno²¹, sabiendo disimular se goza mejor que el dueño²². 

Leave the sad man to cry, and the fool to watch over what isn't his, knowing that pretending [how to disguise oneself] is more enjoyable than owning²³.

Yo soy como un angelito. Ay, que no sabe hacer diablura, pero sé entrar en la casa, salir por la cerradura.

I am like a little angel, who doesn't know how to be mischievous, but I know how to enter the house and leave through the keyhole.

Plantita'i simbol²⁴, hacerme el favor, hacerme el favor. 

Little simbol plant, grant me the favour, grant me the favour 

Juanito me llamo yo. 

I call myself Juanito. 

Zorro me dice mi vecina. 

My neighbour calls me Fox.

Cada [?vez] que está solita ya está lista tu gallina²⁵.

Each time she is alone, your chicken is ready.  

Cerca viene quien te mantiene, quien te mantiene.

Someone who takes care of you is coming near, who takes care of you

 

Ánima que andas penando detrás de este suceso, mi marido está en la cama, olvidé colgar el hueso²⁶.

Soul who is sorrowing behind this event, my husband is in bed, I forgot to hang up the bone.

Translation: The Outpost

---

1.  I find the lines also in the famous vals, La Zandunga:

El limón ha de ser verde
para que tiña morado,
el amor para que dure
debe ser disimulado.

Update 19.09. 24  Two Argentinians have suggested that mora'o is primarily chosen to rhyme with dismula'o.  The unusual metaphor of love as a lemon is unclear except for, as pointed out, it is a fruit of the region. The idea seems to compare lemons that have turned from green to purple to lasting love, but the only way to achieve lasting love is to hide it. The implied comment within the context, being that love within marriage won't last, but the love of the lover, the pata i' lana will because it is hidden.  So, the purple lemon? A bitter, unusual fruit? Is "morado" a typo for "maduro", ripe, only the rhyme then doesn't work.

2. The pronunciation (and the title of the song) is with ‘i, even if the correct spelling would be “de” - "pata de lana", literally, “foot of wool”. 

Pata refers to the foot of an animal or the leg of a person, colloquially. Originally I had in mind some mythological randy, satyr-like figure. But if so, poetic licence applies because animals with wool, even satyrs and fauns have cloven feet, that are probably noisy. If the pata i' lana was some kind of half man, half wooly animal, what could it be I wondered?  A South American camelid?  Alpacas are not common in north-western Argentina, but apparently the domestic llama, or their wild, high-ranging cousins, the vicuña and guanaco are.  And they have soft padded toes rather than hard, cloppy hooves. But unlike the goat associated with Greek satyrs and fauns, camelids have no such reputation for randiness.  Camelids are associated in Latin America not with sex, but with sacred ceremonies and wealth because of their wool, meat and milk.   Perhaps then, woolenfoot just means a bloke in his socks, carrying his boots.  

The trouble with that is that I have never seen an Argentinian of any dignity - and they have much - remove his shoes in public.  At the milongas, they arrived wearing the shoes they danced in, unlike foppish Europeans who carried a shoe bag with their dancing pumps.

Eventually, I met a young Argentinian whose family was from the region, whose grandfather had been a coplero, and sang bagualas.  He told him, the pata i' lana traditionally wore a wooden slipper or sock over his shoes. 

3. The song is full of words with the diminutive ending “ita” or “ito”: livianita, patita, presita, solita plantita, calladito, ruidito, juntito, solito, miedito, vientito, angelito. It is the most obvious device in this song that affects the tone. The effect is to render the thing referred to cute, charming. The tone becomes informal, playful, whimsical, affectionate or exaggerated. It can make something seem tender or vulnerable. “Patita” referring to pata i‘lana turns something sneaky into something fun and harmless. Similarly, “juntito” [together] turns cheating on the spouse into something fun and understandable. Indeed the collective use of these diminutives, transfigures something morally transgressive into something light-hearted. “Livianita” adds to the idea of lightness in light-footed. “Calladito” adds the idea of being very quiet, in the exaggerated way you might tell a story to children, whispering, heightening how quietly he enters, “Miedito” turns a woman afraid of the dark “miedo = fear”, into a woman feeling a little fear, perhaps cowering supposedly cutely and supposedly needing protection. “Solita”, alone instead of “sola” and “presita” (darling), has a similar effect. “Juanito” turns the grown man Juan who may cuckold his neighbour into someone harmless.

But the teasing effect of the trope also makes us wonder how serious is the singer about the woman needing the company and especially the reassurance of the pata i'lana? If she is just pretending about being afraid of the dark in order to achieve an end and reduce the guilt of the act, perhaps the whole song is a kind of pretence, just as some say that tangos are not macho, but ironic.

4. The idea in society and in law of a woman being the property of a man in marriage no longer exists in Europe but persists, culturally in castellano, even if the meaning is simply of a non-legally binding partnership or of a proprietary or exclusive relationship.. 

5. Many of the words in the song are colloquially cut short: morado, para, salir, entrar, pesado etc

6.  Presa is literally prey, but here means the female romantic object of affection. Once more the traditional contrast is used to describe relations between the sexes of something weak and vulnerable against something strong and dominant.

7.  This word apparently comes from Quechua, meaning baby or young child, maybe because onomatopoeically, because they cry. It is particularly common in the Andean region. The same word is used for buses, in the Canary Islands, one theory being that young children could travel free so to travel by guagua was to travel very cheaply.

8.  No doubt, given the playful tone we are supposed to take this description tongue-in-cheek.

9.  Acudir - to attend or respond to a need or request

10.  From transgressive act to something harmless, to something charitable and good...

11.  “Nos”: the singer is a woman so the audience now refers to women

12.  As opposed to being lonely in the dark - and the dark must be quite dark in some Andean villages and ranches.

13.  The “charitable act” has now become a service - possibly even one paid for.

14.  All pretence is gone: from service to sales pitch...

15.  …including marketing!

16.  Because he can squeeze through keyholes and past locked doors.

17.  Uncertain - maybe because a bag over boots quietens the noise or stops dirt being brought in to the house?

18.  A version of “modernamente”.

19.  In Argentina, “cadete” has connotations of someone who runs messages, makes deliveries or performs services or errands i.e. someone who goes house to house doing these jobs.

20.  Atañer - to concern, pertain to, affect.

21.  Proverb ("refran"): https://archive.is/wip/KT887

22. Another saying in songs from the regions: From: Catamarcan songs in Cuentos y leyendas populares de la Argentina. Tomo VI, p155 and https://archive.org/stream/CoplasPopularesEnElEcuador/coplascarnabal_djvu.txt

23. Like “picaro”, which doesn’t have a good translation in English, it is quite a Latin idea: a fool, especially in the context of women, has what’s coming to him, “all’s fair in love and war”.  It is the one-upmanship between males that finds its apogee in the machismo of patriarchal or recently patriarchal societies. It is echoed soon after in the idea of “zorro” the crafty fox.  If he steals a hen by cunning then that is his nature and not too much harm done.  It is the way of the world.

24. Plantita i' simbol - i' here means "de" or "of", just as it does in pata i'lana. So simbol is a type of plant, specifically a sedge, of the Cyperus genus used for weaving baskets and mats. It is unclear whether it is also being used in some kind of incantation.

25.  The pata ' lana, who "takes care of" "his" willing and waiting hen, i.e. the woman, the neighbour who calls him fox.

26. Ánima que andas penando detrás de este suceso, mi marido está en la cama, olvidé colgar el hueso: This is a quotation from other folk songs. The Lydia Cabrera referred to was a Cuban writer and folklorist specialising in Afro-Cuban culture. The article says that hanging up the bone was a warning to the lover that the husband was at home.

Ánima is a country word for alma or soul. Hanging up bone also has another meaning. Traditionally, you hang up a bone in that area so that no suffering soul can enter the house and bring misfortune on the family. But on this day the woman "forgot" to hang up the bone at night, therefore letting the "sorrowing soul" - the impatient pata i‘lana - that, because her husband is in bed, he could in fact enter the house.

Thanks to JCM, GGM and MS for their comments.

Contrasts

On the way home from Wilderness Tango I stopped off at another milonga and felt almost ill with the contrast. I knew and liked the host but wild horses would not drag me back there or to the milongas along the M4 corridor that I have seen the same people frequent. The Devon and Cornwall dancers or those I met at Wilderness are very different. At this other milonga I spoke to another visitor almost in tears from the strain and who felt the same. Neither of us would return. It is not a place for unknown visitors: a tense atmosphere, a lot of hierarchy, ego, everyone for him or herself. Individualistic is the word. There was a tango king who reminded me of Henry VIII sitting in splendid isolation at one end with his queen and a loose entourage, some of whom I danced with and yet it was no consolation.

No-one I didn't know said hello. I felt transparent, people looking through me, as they do in London, notorious for its bad manners. Thank goodness I went there after Wilderness and not before as it might have been the end of me. Luckily, I knew a few of the dancers and am fortunate that I find initiating chat with strangers easy. But even so it was a deeply uncomfortable experience. I think it was only fatigue and a sort of appalled fascination that kept me there so long. The attendees created an atmosphere that felt hard, selfish, unkind and unwelcoming. The people were brittle, unreal almost. I had the distinct sense of watching androids and wouldn't have been in the least surprised if someone had told me it was so. You could not have had that thought watching nearly all of the dancers at Wilderness.

The next day my "stress response" statistics for the previous day were predictably abysmal. It wasn't just the bank holiday traffic. The experience reminded me of a milonga that no longer exists in an even nicer village hall in the Dorset area that I had been to ten years previously. I had arrived (after checking with the amiable and accommodating host) with my young children, known no-one, been less experienced, less confident, more unhappy, danced almost not at all and only with a visitor. There had been many of the same people present as in this nearby location ten years later. They came from across the south. Someone had even forsaken the bank holiday milonga in Cambridge to come here instead.

I felt as though in the company of beautiful, shiny, beetles, protected from everything and each other by a hard carapace, twirling together but unable to feel or only in some beetle way that I was grateful not to understand.

Considering how much there was to do: the loos, the showers, the kitchen, the food, the milongas, the sound system, the classes, the extras, the bedrooms, the volunteers, the regular work of the farm, presumably meals for some of the VIP visitors and I don't know what else, Wilderness was well organised and had a lovely atmosphere. The kitchen, I think to the regular despair of the owner, was always fairly messy and in need of a good clean. No-one seemed to want to do the drying up, probably because the tea towels always looked a bit mucky. The bins regularly overflowed, you might have to go on the hunt for bread or milk but things always did eventually get tidied up. Some things - the milonga venue, the views, the sunny garden were wonderful and quite a lot of the practical things were just about OK.

Most of all, the important stuff was there, by which I mean very little in the way of affectation and I was aware of no unkindness. The place felt real, warm, human, compassionate. There were people who would probably help you if you needed it. I was there five minutes and my neighbour helped me repitch my tent. Campers invited each other for meals. All of this was perhaps a little less important if you were there as a couple, but as a solo dancer who didn't know many people, it was invaluable.

It was friendly and while that can often be a euphemism for bad dancing, the dancing was good, some of it great. There were many dual role dancers and a number of men beginning to try the other role, which always improves dance quality.

There was very little "tango hierarchy" and if I had any slight sense of this it was only from some of those I knew to be tango teachers, who have a vested commercial interest in maintaining a professional distance because of the desire and want and perceived need it creates.

One of the main ways this general ease with people happened was because there was time and there were spaces for conversation and for people to get to know one another: in the kitchen, in the garden, in the camping field. I didn't expect to miss it quite so soon.

If I travel to tango events again, I will likely be looking for those offering something similar.

Solace

Enchanted Wilderness tango began last year. It consists of up to 6 days dancing tango and optional camping in deepest Devon, twice a year.

A friend had told me, months previously, about this event, but it is over 500 miles from me, nine hours of straight driving - much longer with stops. Yet I met at least three people who had travelled from the United States.

But how did tango and camping work anyway when most people like to be clean and well turned out, not underslept with grass clinging to them and struggling to wash clothes? As someone at another event commented, they had been to the Devon event in 2023 and while there husband had liked it, his wife had found it "just a bit too wilderness". Besides, I had already camped overnight in May and again for 10 days in Kent during July/ August with my sons. I had no plans to go to Wilderness Tango. And yet, here, unexpectedly, I was.

I didn't want to commit to anything for more than one night so I tipped up at Southward Farm near Bere Alston on the Devon - Cornwall border for one night. By then I was beginning to find not peace, not a solution but some kind of equilibrium.  I didn't feel quite so shell-shocked but I did feel like something of a fraud among so many light-hearted people who had planned to be there and for a good time. I was just there, almost by accident. As I hung out my sparse washing and people exclaimed over how far I had come, I joked that I had simply turned right (south) instead of left (north) after Cumberlandia and ended up here. It was true but not really the truth.

The welcomes to the site and the to the milongas were warm and friendly. It was an immediate good omen. The host, Jonathan was relaxed, accommodating, experienced and interesting.

The setting was beautiful, in what felt like a hidden valley. You came round a bend in the the road that seemed to go on forever and there, suddenly below you was the river, the cottages, the camping field.  Sheep grazed in the field behind the farmhouse but presumably it was hard to farm that land. A market garden seemed to be set up on the slopes of the other side of the river. Southward Farm was on an obvious flood plain, meters from the river. I was sure the site must already have been flooded but forgot to ask. Part of the camping field, which sloped gently down to the river, was cordoned off as marshland.

The practicalities were in place.  There were places to charge your phone, places to dry clothes or towels, a washing machine if you needed it.  And it was cheap: £12.50/£15 per camping pitch.  A surprising boon was that you could help yourself to home made bread, butter, cheese, coffee, tea etc.  A coin-in-the-slot for the shower kind of place it was not.  There were three showers between the campers and if occasionally one had to wait it was never for long.

I nearly didn't stay though.  I was initially given a corner pitch, "flattish", said Rosie, a  young woman on car park duty who reminded me of Margo in the Durrells: smart, centered and no-nonsense.  My pitch was under an ancient oak and high winds were forecast. I really wanted to find a flat spot and the next day moved to one, auspiciously, as my neighbours regaled me with invitations for breakfasts, which I never managed to make, and dinner, which I did. 

I showered in one of the horsebox conversions.  There were no instructions on how to use the thing and disquieting notices on the boiler telling you not to install it in a bathroom. It's fine I told myself against the strong whiff of gas.  It will be to do with ventilation of which there's plenty.  But the temperature soared to a scalding forty degrees. I heard later this had been a problem last year too.  As I had done successfully in the other horse box on the night I arrived, I turned the shower off to see if the temperature would reduce while I soaped. When I turned the machine on, there was an alarmingly large blue flash of gas and the temperature was still soaring.  I turned the darned thing off and thanked heaven I had brought a rain jacket.  Donning this over my soapy self and barely maintaining decency, with two bags for the day and washing bowl of crockery I stumbled  down the path towards the indoor shower avoiding the quizzical look of a man coming up the way.   In the utility room I put some washing in the machine only to discover, some five minutes later, water pouring out of where the front of the dispenser drawer had been.  Fortunately there was a second machine and the event did at least lead shortly to the application of an "Out of order" label.  But I had a reliable shower, my clothes were clean, my tent repitched, calm regained and I did stay.  My laundry vanished temporarily when the drying room became a kind of therapy room but I found it again in the farmhouse. Nothing was unsurmountable and I guess it all added if not quite to the decided charm of the place, then certainly to the experience. 

So when, next day, I encountered the legs of a man without his pants coming backwards down the steps of what appeared to be an attic to the barn, I was rather unabashed. Since the front of him faced me and I was not fast enough in my volte face, we did encounter one another.  It was all rather what I had, if not come to expect, then  at least not be surprised by.  With a perhaps European savoir-faire or insouciance, he seemed to suffer no disquiet as he sauntered towards the shower. I muttered a hasty good morning and tried hard to forget who it was. I won't remember once he has clothes on, I told myself and did a reasonable job in that respect.  Perhaps that's the difference between men and women - do the men take pleasure in the remembering? I think I'm supposed to be more up-to-date than that, so let's just put it down to individual difference.

One of the great pleasures of those days was the discovery that Beto Ortiz, the Argentinian DJ and dancer has an Argentinian folk band. We chatted in castellano then borrowed an ancient guitar from the farmhouse and sat in the kitchen one morning singing songs from Latin America, the best of which, for me, was when he sang Quiscaloro.

Another pleasure was the animals.  On my way in to the site I stopped to watch a stoat or weasel like creature on the road.  Later, on my one expedition to the shops I sat in my car for five minutes as a panic-stricken squirrel ran up and down wn the road, unable to recall that safety was in the hedgerow.  Chickens wandered in and out of the kitchen, clucking comfortably.  We learned quickly that they would peck at your feet if you let them and break the skin.  A sord of elegant, dark ducks shimmied in unison away from passing humans.  Unlike the individualistic hens they moved together, turned together in admirable, telepathic collaboration.  

Stopping to say hello to a Welsh lady with a ukulele, her dog, Ted, came to lie against me so I too lay on her mat his warm body against mine listening to her delicate voice sing her own songs while the clouds passed quietly overhead in the blue sky and the mysterious river ran silently on. In the milonga a tiny slip of a dog slept on my stomach overcoming any desire I might have to dance. At night, the cry of the owls echoed across our tents. 

I made it, on one day as far as the Morrisons for some vegetables.  It was in Tavistock, twenty minutes drive away. The rest of the time, despite my intentions to find a swimming spot or visit the sea, I didn't manage to leave the site at all. I was profoundly tired - from the driving, trying to keep clean with the few clothes, the overall strain of the previous six days. I sat for long spells in the kitchen or the garden, chatting, only to find it was suddenly 4 o' clock.  

My husband sent a message.  He hoped I was recovering and included the heart emoji with a bandage around it.  I realised that was indeed what was happening: rest and healing.  Heart rate variability is a measure of good health.  Mine soared to new heights while I was at Wilderness.  My heart rate dropped, my breathing slowed.  I even slept relatively well, considering it was camping with two cold night of the five and rained often overnight. 

For all that things could be a little idiosyncratic at Southward farm, the flip side was that the whole place was unique, original, with creativity in every corner.  There were beautiful, hand-painted chairs.  

Some, in the buddha barn, had been wedding chairs.  Jonathan had the colour scheme and the design in mind and his mini army of volunteers had painted them.  Some were covered in a vibrant floral design which matched the tablecloth on the DJ's table.  It had been a duvet cover.  The place was eclectic in its elements and yet and it all somehow worked which is a great skill.  Jonathan was a guy who could do the big picture and the detail.  

The DJ desk was unobtrusively in one corner.  It was a contrast to the next DJ spot I saw elsewhere, up on a stage with the protagonist in embarrassingly overt solitary, physical, self stimulation with the music.

Some attendees chimed with the original, hand-made or personalised aesthetic.  From the musicians like Kevin, to the bunting made by his wife, Cheryl for their van to the wholesale van conversions that others had built, to the personalised therapies available on site.   That, after-all is what dancing tango is - improvised, personal, creative, unique. 

One compost loo was designed like or from a boat.   I was delighted with them.  Wasting 15 litres of drinking water per visit to a flush toilet, adding liquid chemicals that clean the bowl but pollute our water is unconscionable and unnecessary. The windows were etched glass dinner plates that let in light but maintained privacy.  It was inspired. The showers were similarly original  although the floors tended to flood.  There were brushes to sweep the water but they were broken.  Everything felt a bit like a work in progress.  Some parts worked and others needed enhancement or repair though nothing was totally non-functioning. You just weren't quite sure if you might go into the shower and blow up. Still, this was the third iteration of the event with no dramas I had heard of yet. 

Of course there were gypsy caravans for sleeping, a hideaway cabin - the Beehive - and a presumably all mod cons holiday cottage for those less inclined to the quirks of the site.

The dance venue itself, the Buddha barn, named for the paintings there of the eponymous sage, was lovely, all original, artistically designed, just the right size for the numbers. The floor, though indeed slippery, was for me, perfect, one of the best I've found. In the same venue there were free cumbia and chacarera lessons in the evening and Tai Chi / Qi Gong if you were up early enough

There was a space to hang out next to the salon, with the ubiquitous, calming hens.

 

And then there were the other extras: a free Alexander technique workshop, with private sessions available (recommended) with Gunda Fielden, a practitioner of thirty years experience.  There was reflexology for a fee.   There were walks from the site if you were so motivated.  I had problems with my knee and would have liked some kind of physical therapy on site but perhaps that was the reflexology I didn't try.

Best of all was the shared kitchens and the sunny garden where I had long conversations about the limits of freedom, the reliability of information, immigration, 5g, campaigning, famous Argentine dancers, the spontaneous evolutions of well-established tango steps, the Alexander technique and tango, how the milonga protects empaths.  Someone asked about heterosexual dancers at queer events. Others listened because many times over those days people came up to me to say what interesting conversations they had overheard.

It was a respite from life and modern life in particular.

Apart from that the event was lovely in itself, it saved me and restored me. Twelve days after my initial departure for a three day festival, to my home and family.  For that I am grateful and relieved.

If I was to improve anything, I and I know others who felt the same, would prefer savoury snacks at the milongas over cake and biscuits. Perhaps a couple of the uncomfortable sofas in the dance area could be upgraded.  But it was that kind of place: of course one sofa would be fine, one not and one half OK.  Flatter tent pitches were already being dug into the slope on its upper reaches, an improvement that if it continues will considerably enhance the camping.

I found the extent to which people imbibe "truths" from teachers somewhat demoralising. Someone of ten years dance experience told me they had been told to dance every beat of D'Arienzo, whereupon I danced it with them on the beat, on the half beat and on the double time. "What rules?" So instead of classes where people are easily gulled into false or unquestioned beliefs I would prefer social dancing and other activities like the ones they already had, but expanded.  

I only danced half of one afternoon milonga because one milonga a day is enough for me and many others.  The milongas were £15 each which I, used to the £4 Edinburgh milonga, thought steep.  But with that, we are exceptionally fortunate.  Milongas in Scotland are usually no more than £10 unless for special events and usually include snacks. Special events are more.  In the south, £15 is apparently not uncommon.  But with the camping included, £30 / day for the whole experience and the bread etc thrown in, it was a good deal. Some milongas with performers can cost nearly that alone and I was delighted there were none.

I wasn't always there for the full extent of the evening milongas. But the music I heard was for the most part high energy.  Of softer music, in tangos, I heard one Demare tanda  one afternoon, no OTV / Carabelli the entire time though someone told me they had heard the lovely tango Lo vi en tus ojos, and one great Fresedo instrumental, though it too was rhythmic rather than the gentler Fresedo.  Someone did play some softer music in a second set - although I remember only one of the Fresedo tracks was a classic number.  There was good Caló, which is smooth. There was Rodriguez, which I feel as softer rhythmic music, after I mentioned it to one of the DJs.  There was someone I wanted to dance soft music with and I waited and waited.  Hours passed. I begged the DJ, twice for D'Agostino and was relieved when it appeared. 

I don't remember much in the way of classic De Angelis which is strong but relaxing. I heard two good Donato rhythmic tandas but sadly no Laurenz tango tandas at all during any of the evening milongas when I was present. Or rather, I heard a good Laurenz track, but no great tanda.  One DJ played Jose Garcia, which is lovely.  There was plenty of Pugliese, which can be soft but strong. No-one played excessive high drama.  Instead it was more the kind of vocal drama of Troilo with Marino.  I heard Uno at least four times that weekend and have no doubt it was played more.  Someone even played Patatero Sentimental by Di Sarli twice in the same set. There was quite a bit of Guardia Vieja, so the music often veered between two ends of a spectrum.

Overall, there was just a lack of balance in the sets between soft and rhythmic. I remember dancing a lot in the first half of one set but then being exhausted.  It isn't up to the dancer to manage their energy.  It is up to the DJ to play music that keeps people dancing but allows them to dance music that is high energy and  then relaxing.  Few DJ's would play a milonga followed by D'Arienzo or Biagi, so why play, say, Biagi and Tanturi next to one another?  I have watched someone dance milonga - and tango for that matter - in a crowded space with long pauses very well.  It is a way of countering overly high energy music, but it is atypical and shouldn't be necessary if that is your reason for doing so.  I have seen no milongueros viejos nor professional dancers who dance milonga very well, dance this way. 

I am not referring to a personal preference: it wasn't the music I heard and certainly not the balance that I heard in the traditional milongas in Buenos Aires where the milongueros viejos went, following, for the most part, the DJ Dany Borelli and they certainly wouldn't have danced to anything from the 1920s.  That music they dance to is popular for excellent reasons.  But the music I heard is not peculiar to the farm.  I rarely hear DJs play the music I heard in the UK, or Europe. DJs here say, Well it's Europe, it's different.  But music is feeling and feeling is pretty universal so I don't find that a persuasive reason.  The milongueros viejos have decades of dance experience.  They like, collectively, the music they do for good reason.

Overall, I would love a weekend of social dancing and opportunities for other music - to listen to, to dance, to play, to sing. I saw at least three campers with ukuleles and wished I had heard more of them play or play together.  I wouldn't want anything too structured: just a time and a place to get together, because all of the impromptu jam sessions of folk music I have heard have been far more magical than any programmed performance by an individual.   I would like to here more Argentinian and Latin American folk music and stories from that part of the world. There is a whole other culture, indeed cultures, taking into account the different regions within a country with their own symbolic references from la llorona or la difunta correa to la pachamama to el pombero. It was a great place for stories and Jonathan's partnership with Beto is a key part of it. Argentine tango with Argentinians, ideally a few of them, for me is pretty important.

But even if none of this materialised, Wilderness Tango, as it is, is still special.

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The Enchanted Wilderness

Video:  dancing.

Video: chill out space next to the salon