The towns begin to stretch thin across the Pampas, dotted with the remains of the agricultural model: abandoned train stations with faded signage, grain silos standing as monuments, and empty streets lined with vestiges of European influence. Most are locally known as pueblos fantasmas. A plaza with a war memorial to names no one says aloud. Sometimes, a single bar or café doubles as the town's social engine. Fernet in the evenings and card games slapping the Formica tables.
The station house still stands, though the trains no longer stop—Coronel Dorrego, Puan, General Pinto. Outside town, fields stretch forever, the kind of landscape that reminds of endings. The general store might sell anything from horse feed to mobile credit. You'll find the same posters curling on the municipal wall: a bingo fundraiser, an election ad, a folk concert that happened last July. When someone dies the town notices but without surprise, only the confirmation of a rhythm.
Sundays hum with the smell of hot meat. Constructions fold in on themselves: corrugated tin roofs, shuttered facades, single-story houses with geraniums in chipped pots. Old Peugeot pickups rust in slow motion behind wire fences. Teenagers hang out at the gas station and talk about Buenos Aires like it was a planet. The older ones watch. They remember when the town had more, even if they don’t say it. But they keep it running, showing up to mass, to the club, to the vote. Not a lot changes here, but then again, not everything needs to.
Pico
Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2025.