Wwoofing in Jujuy, Argentina

In April, my girlfriend and I spent a little under two weeks living and working on a farm in northwestern Argentina. It was my first experience with Wwoofing, and it was fascinating. We lived with a family who farmed strictly for sustenance, bartered with neighbors, and occasionally dabbled in tourism. You could describe them as campesinos. They instructed me not to use the word "indio" but this was how the father always referred to himself.

There was no technology on the farm, aside from a radio, a small black-and-white television, and a chainsaw. The workload was intense. At times I felt like a character out of Tolstoy novel, an urbanite learning the joy of sweating for my food, performing work that was truly useful and satisfying. These were tasks that humans have been performing for thousands of years: cutting alfalfa, harvesting potatoes, milking goats, taking them to pasture, caring for bulls, making bread, making cheese, and the never-ending burden of gathering firewood. Eight hours of work a day, sometimes more, on a diet of mostly carbohydrates. It was challenging. For me, the farm represented the return to basics that would be necessary for a sustainable future.

Of course, it gwas less idyllic than it initially seemed. Nagging questions of reciprocity and unspoken cultural tensions simmered below the surface the entire time, never letting us forget just how far removed our ways of life were from each other. Uglier legacies of patriarchy began to peak out from behind closed doors. Soon we began to question the intentions of our hosts in regards to our presence at the farm.

Finally a strange outburst of machismo of behalf of the father led to us leaving abruptly. It was unfortunate, but we were in total agreement that he had crossed the line and we really didn't have to put up with his shit. Was it an unbridgeable cultural divide? Or just the short-comings of one man, whose hardships I would never be able to understand? It's tempting to chalk up the breakdown solely to human pettiness. But it's hard to come to so severe a judgment. These were incredibly hard-working, self-reliant, contented people, and I admire them. I don't know if we could have had a more authentic, and indeed more raw, cultural exchange than we had. For that I am grateful.

I might write more about the nitty-gritty of life on the farm at some point. Right now I just wanted to share the general outline of my first experience with wwoofing (as far as I can tell, from conversations with other wwoofers and farmers, it was atypical). In a couple days we will head down to a farm outside of San Juan. I look forward to giving it another shot.