Day one:
I board a flight to Tucuman in the early morning. It's a two hour flight from BA and I swiftly arrive in the home of Argentinian independence. A rental car makes an efficient yet inspiring journey through luscious forests and hills up to Tafi Valle. I stop there, despite the wind and rain and scour the regional shop for something to eat. I settle for some typical salami and stock up on coca sweets to help with the altitude. The weather is cold and blustery, reminiscent of Wales in autumn and I start to worry I have packed for the wrong trip. I take a few pictures at the lake and carry on up to Amaicha del Valle. I stop here, spurred on by hunger and stumble across two lovely ladies prepared to take my order of beef, raviolis and salad. Heartened by their warmth and speed of service, I am drawn to the simple housing here, the picturesque square and a tourist information which is no more than three men sat in deck chairs.
I continue on the route 40 ( the immensely long road marking the length of the country) and head to Cafayate, by now a little restless and ready to put my hat down.
I head to the square for some locro ( a corn soup containing no less than vicuna which is distressing but tiredness relieves it somewhat)
Day two:
After a good night's sleep in a basic hotel just off the square, i pay the few hundred pesos and start the long journey to Antofagasta. The whole way, I am under the impression that this is not a road most travelled and as I climb higher onto the Andean plateau, I am struck by the immensity, vastness and total solitude of my incomparable surroundings. It is a sight for sore eyes, made all the more sore by the dusty roads and growing tiredness.
I become slightly concerned for the rental car, as it traces very old tracks, mountains and even volcanoes. It is obvious from the views that the car needs to suffer this pure nature and the layers and layers of prehistoric earth.
On arrival, I head to the prebooked hostel, Incahuasi, which contrary to expectations, is locked and dark. I am not sure whether the altitude or pure fear of being left out in the cold takes over but I am left a little short of breath. After being given a few leads, I head to find the supervisor of the hostel who is at home in her small, clay home preparing dinner for her large family. She tells us that wifi is down a lot in these parts and perhaps the booking did not go through. However, she comforts me with news of a spare room in the hostel; a very traditional looking room with old ornaments and a couple of in-house cockroaches lurking. Despite their unwelcome presence, the place is inviting and I am grateful for anywhere indoors. I meet a pair of middle-aged travellers staying here from Rosario and they flood my mind with ideas for excursions and visits around these special parts. My somewhat limited, urban imagination just didn't expect these worlds.
Day three:
The next morning, I am served a simple breakfast of french toast and marmalade before setting off on a gentle hike towards the volcano, an ultimate goal. However, distances prove a lot longer than the eye tells me, so I head back for a rest and some lunch after wandering the plains alongside llamas, vicunas and flamingos, vowing to come back in the afternoon.
In the meantime, I move to a self-catered apartment and make a simple lunch with some products from the only little supermarket. It stocks very little, due to transportation issues and I am reminded of the simplicity of the villagers here. Products we Londoners take for granted like olive oil, most fruits and veg simply don't exist here. I settle for some tuna salad, fried zapolla ( a type of courgette ) and some white rice. This basic meal, followed by some sneaky Aguila ( argie dark chocolate) almost puts me to sleep like a lizard on the terrace overlooking the clay coloured cordillera and the main square.I am finally at peace, after months of discovering the humdrum of porteno life- I got what I asked for when I asked for solitude.
Later on, I drive to the volcano but it is difficult to reach its base, given the sea of hardened lava surrounding it. There is none around , only those uninformed enough to walk the trek to the base of the volcano in searing heat. I make it halfway up the volcano and then lie down on the rough, rocky slant supported by my backpack and soak in lands I have never even seen in photos. My very own safari, as it were with no guides and only lost tourists. The lava beneath me mixes with the echoing old bones of wild foxes that once crept around these parts. This volcano is the great, symbolic mound of death and destruction; a great reminder to the people of Antofogasta and beyond that we are forever at its bleak yet dormant door.
Now exhausted, The descent is on automatic and the sound of footsteps carry me back. Fortunately, my weariness helps me forget my concern about the rapidly emptying bottle of water and i carry on down this strange hill, grateful to have seen this day and to have been a transient part of its drastically different routines.
Day four:
I wake up early, in a sensible attempt to flee the cosy Antofogastan nest I have made for myself and make solid attempts to head back to Salta from here. On my way out, am diverted to the town square, where the Feria de la Puna is taking place, a traditional festival to celebrate the indigenous community's life in the mountains. I know I will not be back in a hurry, so I stay and take pictures of the old and the young, the gauchos and llamas, the community at its most alive. The villagers captivate me with their colour, pride of place and joyous vibe. I watch a octogenarian woman light a cigarette, only to throw it as an offering to Pachamama, or mother earth into a hole dug up especially for the occasion. The children follow suit, throwing wine, spirits, coca leaves into the hole as part of the ritual.
Unfortunately, the locals warn me against travelling up the challenging roads to Tolar Grande, as there is no help for miles should a flat tyre decide to catch me out. So, I choose to go back on myself back to Cafayate, another long and uncomfortably sticky journey but make it to the Quebrada Saltena and there find just enough strength to marvel at both sides of the road, stopping to take pictures and awaiting the next bend with curiosity. I hit the Garganta del diablo, the throat of the devil and decide to take a rest in its special natural chambers . It is a jaw-droopingly huge rock, carved out from years of evolution and erosion and is, in fact, million of years old.It is not difficult to understand why it became a sacred, indigenous relic back in the day.
After a fly-by visit and with layers of old rock etched in my mind, I arrive in Salta and as if awoken from the strange, nomadic dream I have been in, I realise it is a friday night with little chance of a hotel room for the night at this very last minute. Fortune favours the brave, it seems, as I land the only room left for the night in an old hotel by the plaza central. Granted it has no windows the walls are marked, the doors creak but the painting above the bed is Van Gogh's La chambre de l'artiste'. So, artist or not, I settle here and at least my illusions protect me from this new batch of cockroaches under my bed.
Day five:
A narrow road in profoundly green hills takes me up to Jujuy in the morning and I am eager to leave the city behind. A winding, scenic ride and sights of birds, perhaps even condors, keeps me entertained until I reach a man-made lake named Dique las Maderas. I stop here to take pictures and stretch my legs, pleased with the progress en route.
I reach Jujuy and am more at ease here in this town The friendly atmosphere is contagious and I find my mini goldmine of a veggie restaurant serving quinoa and continue on my path to peace to stay in Yala, the nearby national park. I instinctively lean towards staying in Las Hortensias b and b, a set of cabanas, or cabins nestled in dreamy countryside, with a pool, tennis court and countless geese to play with. In the afternoon, I head up to the lagoons on a hike not expecting to be surrounded on all sides by the most wonderfully scented, oversized magenta /violet hortensias (hence the name of the residence) and am so startled by these that I lose my way to the lagoon and just trace these around the mountain, finding more birds and deer along the way. It is a hive of natural wonders and I don't notice the hours pass as i weave my way along the paths. I come back down only with the intention to find a cheap fill at the base. The draw of freshly made empanadas, tamales and papas makes my mouth and eyes water and I am sold to this cosy street side restaurant for the night.
Day six:
The next day, I head up the mountain to Purmamarca and a day of shopping for the most colourful looking bedspread ensues. I stop only to eat some quinoa pasta, fresh avocado salad and coca cake at Gabriels restaurant. Another short drive later on takes me to Tilcara, home of the Incan settlement and a spectacular botanical garden, which I am sure is one of its kind, given the enormous cacti and international herb collection. A delight to see it all and take in more stunning views the length of the quebrada. I meet a local artist who sells me a miniature indigenous looking print, whilst talking to me of the perils of living in a large city.
I eventually leave behind the colours, fabrics, leather and souvenirs of the picturesque mountain villages and head back down to Yala to eat a picnic of empanadas once again.. it turns out you can't get too much of a good thing. `These are magical settings and magical days and I would wholeheartedly recommend anyone to do just the same.
