Hindsight

Argentina

Pampas and Mesopotamia Regions

Alberto looked at his fields from the kitchen window. Not close, but close enough. Close enough for Alberto to set his morning coffee down and have a look-see.

It was the first week in November. Alberto suspected there was a problem. He stepped from the kitchen and crossed the porch. The screen door clanging shut was barely audible over the crunching gravel beneath his feet. Alberto was deliberate; his actions with purpose. The sounds a distraction from the problem that loomed before him.

The crops were not coming up. Sprouts should be visible. No late frost or blight reported. Yet there was most definitely a problem. Alberto dropped down to one knee and reached into the ground. Who says farmers don’t get dirty? What he pulled up was unsettling. He stood up and looked down the field. He started to walk. Periodically he stopped to check the row. He stepped across rows while he walked and checked neighboring rows. They were all the same. He continued this procedure while he retrieved his cell phone and called his neighboring farmers. He ordered them all back into their fields. Each one was provided instructions, report back to him immediately. Time is money. If he could get replanted in ten days, there would be a crop to harvest. If not, it would be a long winter.

The calls came in one by one. Everyone was reporting the same thing. Some more extensive than others. Meeting tonight in town at the hall. Eight o’clock, the text message read. Alberto stared off into the distance, the Andes clearly visible. Two more calls to make…the first call was to the local botanist at the University in Rosario. The second was to the Minister of Agro-industry, Alberto’s cousin José.

~~~

“José speaking.”

“José, it’s Alberto.”

“Alberto, how are you?”

“Not good. We have a meeting scheduled tonight at eight o’clock. I have called the University in Rosario and spoke with the botanist, Angelina Montero. She will be here tomorrow. I think you should be as well.” José hesitated before questioning his older cousin. José had the job that Alberto did not want.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“I honestly do not know. My fields and those of my neighbors and their neighbors are ruined. I will have to replant and by extension so will everyone else.”

“They can’t be saved?”

“No, they cannot. I am more worried about the soil and a barren field than I am a poor season.”

“I will see you tomorrow at ten,” José said.

“She will be here at nine,” Alberto responded.

“Nine, it is.” The call ended. José did not want to but knew that he must. He stood up and walked down to the president’s office. Bad news never gets better with age.

Alberto’s thoughts returned to the evenings meeting and the establishment of a plan.

~~~

Jesus Maria, Argentina

Alberto arrived at 6:45 p.m. Neighboring farmers began to arrive around 7:15. By 7:50, there was a packed house. Standing room only to the event nobody wanted to attend. The average Argentinean’s farm is over 400 acres. More times than not, the farmer’s children choose city life over the family farm. The Quinterro’s enjoyed farming. Their farm grew by acquisition. It seemed to work for them.

At 8:00, Alberto took the stage and everyone sat down. “Okay, let’s get started. You all know why we are here. Tomorrow morning, I will be meeting with Ms. Montero from the University in Rosario. José will also be present.” Everyone knew the Quinterro family and most knew José personally.

“I see many of you brought samples. Mine are on the table over there.” Alberto motioned with a wave of his arm. “I expect Ms. Montero and José by nine o’clock tomorrow. If you haven’t brought samples but wish to do so, please provide the seed used, fertilizer, disease suppressant, and when you planted. Any questions so far?” Alberto asked.

Alberto was all business. Everyone in the room knew he had their best interest at heart with his own.

“My fear is the soil, not a poor season. Whatever this is, it struck quickly and effectively. I personally estimate an 83 percent destruction of all cereal grains planted on Quinterro land. If affected, some of my fruit trees and grapevines will be showing stress soon. For those of you that have similar crop selection, let’s stay in touch. This is not the time to be competitive. Assuming this is blight but isolated, we may have to burn our fields to destroy whatever it is. If that is the case, then this season is likely over now.” People began to stir and mumble. Many, if not most, were not financially sound. The Quinterro’s and a select few could survive. A lost season was the difference between one and done for the majority.

“Quiet, please,” Alberto said. The mumbling died down. “Let’s think about it. If it is a spore, we cannot take the chance that it’s still in the soil to destroy newly planted crops. Water could spread the spore…and wind. If we burn the field, we lose the topsoil and will be forced to fertilize and likely plant alfalfa or a similar crop to stave off soil erosion. That’s my thought process. We will know more tomorrow. For now, does anyone have any questions for me? Anything I’m not considering?”

The room fell silent, there were no questions for Alberto. There were no items missed or what if’s not considered. It was a bad situation that could get substantially worse.