Oats and Beans and Barley Grow

I am sore. My butt, abs, thighs, neck--there's a marked stiffness in my gait, and jogging gives me a Quasimodo-esque quality. My feet are soiled almost beyond recognition; there's dirt caked in my toenails and the few flecks of pink nailpolish are now more of a tan color underneath a thick layer of dirt-dust. I have a slight sunburn under my eyes and on my shoulders, and my armpits smell. My hair is starting to resemble a wig.  Either I've developed a crystal-meth addiction and am now living on the sidewalk, or I'm back in the farming world.

I'm back in the farming world! It's so great to be doing something again.

So, I got into Mendoza (Argentina) on Wednesday, in hopes of finding a farm in the area. I must admit that I was feeling more than a little anxious--I had not really planned ahead, and had only begun to start to contact the farms on my list in the last few days. Hadn't taken into account the fact that MANY more people travel to Argentina than, say, Colombia, and in addition, I was entering Argentina at the peak of high season. Also, many of the farms don't have internet access, so it can take up to a week or two just to get a response from someone, and oftentimes, in Argentina, in January, it's a straight-up ''no.'' Well, really it's more of a ''we're so sorry--we'd love to have you, but we're up to our elbows in eager volunteers for the next three months! Maybe next year?'' I received a few messages like this, and started to wonder if I'd actually find anything.

Luckily, I speak Spanish. I called every phone number on the list, and found a farm! The family had been celebrating the holidays with other family in town and thus had not had time to check email or host any volunteers, and I guess I called at the right moment because they told me I could come immediately and stay as long as I wanted. Excellent. I packed up my bags and was out of the gringo-land hostel the next morning (although the hostel wasn't all that bad--I did meet an awesome girl who was into food justice issues and knew what she was talking about. It was so great to have a nerd moment with her and talk about philosophies and politics and not have to explain the history of things).

The trip to the farm was an interesting one. I arrived at the dusty bus terminal (one room, one bench in the center, no people anywhere), where I was told I'd be able to catch a bus to the town where the farm was located. I arrived around 2pm, and to my dismay found that the next bus left at 8pm. Luckily, a nice man overheard me griping over the fact that I'd have to wait six hours in a deserted ghost town, and he offered me a ride. He and his wife were heading that way anyway. So, (parents--close your eyes and scroll down a bit, please) I happily hopped into the car of this unknown man in a deserted town and off we went! We picked up their son on the way (his name was Nacho...actually, a common nickname for Ignacio, but I still think it's so funny that people are named Nacho) and we drove through vineyards and valleys and eventually got to the crossroads where the little farm is located. I thanked them profusely for saving me from wasting an afternoon, and off I went.

I immediately liked the farm. There were little homemade signs all along the road advertising their organic produce, preserves, and juices, and I walked by a giant bathtub with flowers growing out of it as I approached what I assumed was a workshop or at least a place I could expect to find another human. I was greeted by a barefooted french woman named Aurelia, who was another volunteer who had just arrived the day before. I also immediately liked her--she had a fantastic laugh. She explained to me that I had arrived during siesta, which meant everyone was probably sleeping or relaxing (score! We get a siesta here??) and brought me to the kitchen, where I met Jorge, a guy from Buenos Aires but now lives in Australia who had volunteered on the farm a few years ago and is now back visiting the family and helping out as well.  He reheated some lunch for me, a delicious mixture of veggies and millet, or some grain similar to millet, and I breathed out an enormous sigh of ''Yes, I'm back in the woods and eating organic vegetarian food with people who don't wear deodorant. I missed this.''

Later, I met Manu, who is a French man who is married to Maribel, who grew up on the farm, and now they both live here. Aurelia, Jose, Manu, and I spent the hotter part of the afternoon in the shade of the workshop putting labels on their signature organic applejuice, which they sell to to restaurants in Buenos Aires and also at the farmers market in Mendoza that would take place the next day. Then, we took a walk out to the gardens and picked green beans, also for the market. I took off my shoes, too, and I really enjoyed walking through the mud and letting it ooze out through the spaces in my toes. I kept singing a folk song from my Sharon, Lois, and Bram tape that I listened to as a little nugget, the one with the lyrics ''oats and beans and barley grow, oats and beans and barley grow, you or I or anyone know how oats and beans and barley grow!'' Not sure why, I guess it just seemed appropriate. I talked about Community Supported Agriculture with Jose in between the bean stalks, who knew all about it, and relished my round two of food system banter.

The suns stays out so late here! I love it! I can't get used to it! It completely throws me off--I mean, it's only been two days, but I'm always shocked to find out what time it is when I'm out in the field weeding or something and the sky is still well-lit and it's 8pm. Amazing. And ohhh, the sky here. First of all, you have a view of the Andes mountains and, early in the morning, you can see the snow at the top. Then, flat, green fields of produce or wildflowers, and then a bit further out, really tall pine trees. The neighboring farm grows sunflowers, and it's purely magical--just sunflowers packed together like corn in the midwest, as far as you can see. At sunset, the sky explodes with purples and reds and oranges, and at night, of course, since we're pretty far away from the city, it's just stars, stars, stars.

I love the mental strength that comes with working on a farm. Yesterday, I had to weed the strawberry plants, two rows of them, probably at least the length of two football fields, promise I'm not exaggerating. That's a lot of time squatting, picking around one type of green leaf to yank up another type of green leaf. It's a daunting task at the beginning, so you have to tell yourself that it's not all going to happen in ten minutes, that it's a task that requires time and patience (I tend to not have much of either one). But it is absolutely the most satisfying thing when, after about an hour or two, you turn around to see the work you've done. Just two neat little rows of clearly-defined strawberry plants. And then to turn your head the other way, you see that yes, there's still so much to do, but comparing the wild, crazy, weedy plants to your left and the clean ones to your right is a constant reminder of how much great work you've done. And, I mean, I like to tell myself I'm growing my gluteus maximus by doing all that squatting.

Next time you see me, this baby will have some serious back.