Mexico, Central & South America > Argentina > Buenos Aires and the Pampas > San Antonio de Areco > Articles > Polo in Argentina

It’s an unexpected feeling to be on a well-broken horse and wondering just how soon one’s going to bite the dust. The dust waiting to be bitten, in my case, was dry, Argentine dirt, and my insecurity in the saddle was entirely because the animal I was riding was just too darn good at its job.

I was taking a polo lesson at Estancia El Rosario de Areco in Buenos Aires province. It was my first opportunity to swing a stick in anger and I’d approached the lesson with confidence. “I might have some problem with the stick and ball bit…the team sports and batting things never been a big part of my life,” I’d told Juan Cruz ‘Juancho’ Guevara, as I’d mounted a schoolmaster polo-pony. Barely out of his teens, Juancho, was a four-goal player who with his three-goal handicap brother, Manuel, played abroad on the professional circuit, and taught at the family estancia out of season. I adjusted my leathers, adding rather smugly, “but I should be okay with the riding part.” I was wrong.

For twenty minutes or so, along with Ed, an English rider who’d already ‘played a bit,’ I walked and trotted around the polo field slashing away at the ball with the stick, and sometimes managing to send it trickling off in roughly the direction I’d intended. Combined with the steadiness of the horse under me, my ball-skills gave me the look of a poorly co-ordinated man playing golf very badly whilst pony trekking between tees.

Polo holds a place of its own on the list of daftly thrilling things to do with horses. Mainly that’s because of its daunting costs. To play even amateur polo requires a handful of expensive ponies, whilst at the high end of the game each rider in a team will count on a string of very costly mounts. Not for nothing has polo been called ‘a game to pass the time when your super-yacht’s gone into dock for repairs.’ And then there’s the sheer speed, power and aggression of the game. When it comes to risk polo is like a combination of hurling on horseback and actual cavalry warfare.

Polo originated in Asia, mainly in Persia and India. Still popular in the sub-continent today - the Pakistani army truck horses high up into the mountains to play an annual match against the tribal horsemen of Gilgit - at the time of the British Empire cavalry officers began playing polo. Rules were rapidly formalised and the size of mounts increased to make an even faster game that was exported to countries including South Africa, Australia - where ‘bush polo’ matches are part of the outback’s social calendar - and, of course, Argentina.

Perhaps favoured by skilful horsemen and a supply of cheap, good horses the Argentines developed polo into their national game, and have for many years played it faster and better than anywhere else in the world.

How much better? Well, handicaps are on a give-away goal basis with exceptional riders playing at six, perhaps, or seven or occasionally eight-goals. And whilst there are individually excellent players in the States, in England and, of late particularly, in Australia, the Argentines hold a monopoly on those who play at the highest handicap of ten-goals. It’s the polo-itus that holds Argentina in thrall that makes it so exhilarating to learn and play there. That and the sheer amount of pony-power on call, and the determination of the Argentines to enjoy themselves. Typically, the Guevara’s teaching style promises that their clients will have ‘fun from the very beginning,’ drawing from the fifty or so ponies on the estancia to match each pupils’ riding ability. “Anybody competent we can get playing a chukka or two in a real game – slow, maybe, but really playing – very quickly. You know, we want you to fall in love with polo, because if you are going to play then you have to love it totally.”

And as I over-rode and missed and dribbled the hard, little ball at my pony’s feet there was the occasional moment of perfection mediated by the shouted advice of Juancho as he cantered easily beside me. “Swing the whole arm, Gaspar …keep the horse on the line…faster…now, Si! Si!” And more and more frequently there would be the sweet, sharp ‘POK!’ as the stick-head hit the ball full on, just as the horse accelerated, and I’d see the white bauble streaking off down the field. And if I was really lucky – “Gaspar, venga! Rapido! – Ahora, back-hand…now, hit it!” – I was able to gallop down on the ball and with a wind-milling arm smack it back up the field, and spin the horse around and set off again. I was beginning to love the game.

But that was on the schoolmaster pony. Juancho had been demonstrating goal shots, fore-hands and back-hands from a little hogged-mane, almost-dun pony. “Now she’s a little old for professional level,” he explained suddenly dismounting, “but she knows everything of the game if you want to try with her?”

I swapped onto the ‘cat-coloured’ horse. She did indeed, know everything of the game. As she spotted the ball she accelerated into a short-paced choppy canter. Homing in on it like a cheetah running down a gazelle, and positioning herself so I got the ideal shot. My arm dropped down, the mallet head swung in a perfect circle and hit the ball just on the radius of its arc. There was another satisfying ‘POK!’ but much harder and sharper, and the ball soared away across the turf. It had been so easy. Obviously I was only a few weeks away from playing at, say, a two goal handicap, or maybe three, four, perhaps.

But the dun had accelerated and was almost up on the ball again. Once again, with consummate skill and an unsuspected natural ability, I swung at the ball. And miss-hit it, so it merely trickled off to one side. Which is when it looked like I’d eat Argentine dirt. The horse had already taken control, spinning around within its own length at a gallop, leaning far over to one side like a cornering motorbike, and following the ball’s new path, setting me up for another perfect shot. Except I had lost a stirrup, the stick was dangling from my wrist by its loop, and I was hanging halfway down the horse’s neck, with no chance of hitting anything except the ground.

I stayed on, just. And over the next half an hour of joyfully smacking the ball up and down the field I - sort of - learnt to anticipate the breathtaking power and agility of the little pony under me a little. But the real adrenalin rush came when Juancho and Manuel, giving me something like a thirty-goal handicap between them, joined Ed and I out on the field to ‘play.’ They passed the ball slowly enough that I could occasionally intercept it, or opened up their defence so that – with my pony doing all the smart stuff – I could charge in and try for a backhand shot to clear the ball. And somewhere I got a shot at the goal. Naturally I missed.

Polo is a bit like champagne. If you get a taste for either you can find yourself with a very expensive habit; in which case you’d better be wealthy or have generous friends who are wealthy and share your taste. After only a single morning as a beginner playing at playing polo, but with good ponies, I’d fallen in love with the game, as the Guevara’s had promised. Or threatened. If I wanted to learn more, and play, too, I could only see two options; making more money, much more money, than I do now, or moving to Argentina.

FACT BOX
The Guevara family of Estancia El Rosario (an hour and a half from Buenos Aries, in San Antonio de Areco) offer daily lessons and the opportunity to watch and play in matches to guests staying at their luxurious 19th century country house. Check www. Rosariodeareco.com.ar for information.

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