The reign of England’s first Elizabeth saw the peak of Crown-sponsored piracy, as the Spanish Empire’s treasure ships and possessions were relatively easy pickings for her depleted treasury, weakened her arch enemy King Philip of Spain & Portugal, delayed his invasion plans and sharpened up the battle readiness of her English fleet for when the Spanish Armada finally sailed in 1588.
Sir Francis Drake, the most notorious of Elizabeth’s ‘sea dogs’ and known to the Spanish as ‘El Draque’ (the dragon), was so feared and vilified that he had a massive bounty of 20 million ducats on his head and long after his death his treasure seeking exploits were a spur to fame and fortune for adventurous young Englishmen.
The love-hate relationship between the Argentines and the English doesn’t go back quite this far but arguably dates from what in this particular Spanish colony’s eyes was another clear act of piracy, when the British first established a small garrison on the then uninhabited Falkland islands in 1765. At this point, state-sponsored buccaneering had given away to trade as England sought to challenge the maritime power of the Dutch, Portuguese and Spanish, but though she insisted that her privateers no longer had legitimacy and required that they either fly a red flag signifying ‘no quarter given’ or a black flag ‘quarter will be given’ rather than the White Royal Navy Ensign, these orders were often ignored, and anyway the English reputation for piracy on the high seas was too deeply ingrained to easily change.
Fast forward a century to the now independent Argentine republic and to a new phase in the Anglo-Argentine relationship as a fresh generation of enterprising English ‘pirates’ immigrated there in increasing numbers to make their fortunes from this rich but undeveloped ‘land of silver’. Fear and loathing temporarily turned to mutual admiration and self-interest as English finance, agricultural and engineering expertise, aspirational sporting pursuits (Polo, Football and Rugby in particular), education and culture helped to transform the country for a few gilded decades into South America’s largest economy and Buenos Aires into the most sophisticated and European of the continent’s cities.
Plunging commodity prices presaged the collapse of this economic miracle and the brief honeymoon period gave way post 1945 to scapegoating and asset seizure by the populist government of Juan and Eva Perón, which nationalised Anglo-Argentine businesses, and finally to war as Argentina invaded and briefly occupied the Falkland Islands in 1982 to assert their long standing claim to sovereignty of ‘Las Malvinas’.
Image courtesy of MARCA Sports News
With their claim ‘Las Malvinas son Argentinas’ still not satisfied, conflict in the South Atlantic has given away to arguably the world’s most intense sporting rivalry (with the possible exception of Cricket’s ‘Ashes’ series between England and Australia) as the two countries’ ruthless opposition in international football reached new heights of acrimony after Diego Maradona’s ‘hand of god’ goal in the 1986 World Cup quarter final.
My mother Jill’s family in their own small way represent a case study of this roller coaster relationship, as in the space of three short decades my grandfather Ted’s engineering business rapidly made the family’s fortune. By the late 1940s however with the economy on the skids, life for Anglo-Argentines and their business interests descended rapidly from gilded to uncomfortable to untenable under the rapacious regime of Juan and Eva Perón. Proclaiming themselves the defenders of ‘los descamisados’ (‘the shirtless ones’), and blaming the English community for the vast gulf between the wealthy and the poor, the Peróns set about dismantling British economic power – nationalising the railways, in return for cancellation of war debt, and seizing the assets of many English-run industries, so that my grandfather had no option but to move the family and his business lock stock and barrel across the River Plate to Montevideo in Uruguay. The peak was in 1953, when a torch-bearing Peronist mob charged down the street from the Casa Rosada (the Pink Palace, as the presidential residence is known) and burned the palatial Anglo-Argentine Jockey Club to the ground. A few days later, Perón dissolved the club itself, and the state took over the ‘sport of kings’ too.
My mother’s childhood and early teenage years before all this upheaval must have been idyllic. She was brought up in Hurlingham, a prosperous palm tree lined Anglo-Argentine enclave west of the city which is centred around the upper crust English sports club which lent the town its name. Modelled on the highly respected Hurlingham Club in London, which in the late 19th century was the governing body of Polo worldwide, its founder had the idea of bringing together all the British subjects that lived in Buenos Aires so that they could meet socially and practice every imaginable English sport within one institution. The club was the social centre of my mother’s early life and I like to imagine her there as a small girl, cheering on her dashing godfather, the world famous (in Polo circles), Luis Lacey.
The mutually convenient love affair may have been brief, but respect for English sport, culture and institutions have endured the nightmarish Perón years and the Falklands conflict, although they are mostly a shadow of their former selves. The only Harrods department store outside of London still opens its increasingly shabby doors every morning on Calle Florida, ‘merienda’ (afternoon tea and pastries) is still a popular staple in many Buenos Aires cafés, and I pick up a copy of the English language newspaper ‘The Buenos Aires Herald’ for my commute to the office on ancient English built rail track and rolling stock to Retiro, the city’s crumbling English built central station. Our six year old daughter attends Northlands, one of the many Anglo-Argentine private schools which date from the late 19th century, and the house we rent in Martinez, one of the city’s riverside communities, wouldn't look out of place in one of London’s suburbs, were it not for its sub-tropical garden.
Most enduring of all though is the Hurlingham Club itself, which last weekend with my father in tow (on a first visit for nearly thirty years), has by all accounts hardly changed, according to several older club members I plied with gin and tonics who happily reminisced about my mother Jill, her parents Ted and Phyllis and their glamorous polo playing friend Luis Lacey. One of them, an ex-boyfriend from my mother’s schooldays even popped home to fetch a sketch book containing one of her life drawings, which he kindly gave me as a gift. And while the preservation of English identity and culture is quite rightly no longer the club’s raison d’être (speaking Spanish on club premises was banned until a few decades ago), ironed copies of the British newspaper The Times can still be found in the billiards room and dusty, faded team photographs of long forgotten, moustachioed gentlemen in their striped blazers and whites still hang in the darker recesses of the cricket pavilion.
The most welcome change of all that the club these days embraces its dual identity is found on its dining room menu, where in addition to the expected classic English roast with all the trimmings, they also serve a couple of the pricier Argentine beef cuts- bife de chorizo (sirloin strip steak) and bife de lomo (tenderloin), with lashings of Chimichurri, that classic Argentine salsa on the side.
Salsa Chimichurri
For me this classic garnish is the essence of Argentina, as glorious garnishing fish or seafood, as it is the cornucopia of cuts at a local parilla (grill house).
1 cup E V olive oil
4 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup parsley, coarsely chopped
3 tbsp red wine vinegar
3 tbsp red wine
1 tsp salt
1 tsp thyme, finely chopped
1 fresh bay leaf, finely chopped
Freshly ground pepper
Mix all the ingredients of the Chimichurri together and let it sit for a few hours before use.
Later that afternoon we even found ‘Flagstones’, the house where my mother was brought up. On an impulse I rang the bell and told our story to the relaxed and friendly Swedish family who were renting the place and who were more than happy to show us around.
The decor looked like it hadn’t changed much since my grandparents left in 1949!
What an intriguing historical departure from your usual travels. That amazing heritage must be the source of your never-ending Wanderlust!
Wow .. I just read this again .. what amazing storytelling