One Heck Of A Ride

190 I Discover Argentina’s Great Hunting perch on the bare branches above us. One parrot tried to land on my shotgun’s barrel, and I tried to swing around and shake it off before shooting it as it flew away squawking. It must have presented quite a sight, because Ralph couldn’t stop laughing. It was so contagious that I had to join him in laughing at myself. The birds we call “partridges” in the States are called “perdiz” in Argentina. We spent an afternoon hunting them using bird dogs that pointed and held coveys until we moved into range. Anyone who has hunted bobwhites in the American South would have felt right at home. Before I’m accused of trying to exterminate another country’s birdlife, readers need to know that Argentine farmers considered all the species we shot to be pests capable of denuding their fields almost overnight. The amount of seed and grain these birds consume or carry off is staggering and reaches into the hundreds of tons. If shooting could not control them, it is a safe bet to say those farmers would find other means, including poison, which A sunset in Argentina would have been even more efficient in reducing bird numbers. Everything we shot, including the parrots, was picked up, cleaned, and delivered to orphanages and needy families by boys the outfitter had hired. Argentina offers wonderful wingshooting and big game hunting opportunities. It also has a culture, history, and a multitude of traditions that make it among the world’s most interesting places to visit. And so do many other South American countries. I’d like to return to that continent with Marty, just to experience more of it. An interesting side note is due before I close this chapter: On our flight to Buenos Aires, I noticed a small advertisement for “Paulin’s Cafe” in a magazine someone had left on the plane. It caught my eye because the name was spelled the same as mine, and I thought it would be fun to visit it while we were in Argentina’s capital city. As we walked the street named in the ad, looking for the place, I realized we had walked past it twice before eventually finding it. It was a hole-in-the-wall-type of place, no wider than 15 feet and perhaps 56 feet long. There were no tables or chairs, only a U-shaped bar with stools, and no one in the place spoke English. Ralph and I were given menus in Spanish with pictures of the meals, and we simply pointed to the dishes we wanted. It wasn’t long before a family arrived, and the woman spoke English. It was nice to have an interpreter, but we already had ordered our meals. No matter. We had a truly great lunch at my namesake’s cafe, and the experience added to our Argentine adventure.