A gem in the mountains: Tilcara

Salta, along the main square

Salta 'la linda' – 'the beautiful' – was only a stop on the way, a means to break up bus rides into smaller increments. We wondered, afterwards, if it had been worth it to exchange serene, relaxed Cafayate with its wonderful hostel for what now seemed a small price to pay. The beauty of Salta – its well preserved colonial buildings – remained at least in part hidden for us behind bustling crowds, noisy traffic and Salta's own 'Black Friday', with advertisements booming out over the whole centre of town through massive loudspeakers. The hostel we found was nice, however, its beautiful courtyard with roses, a big avocado tree and a plum tree heavy with almost-ripe fruit inviting to just sit and enjoy.

We boarded the bus to the little town of Tilcara, about 3 1/2 hours away, in the middle of the afternoon on Friday, our clothes clinging to our bodies in the 30+ degrees Celsius. The buses, this year, have been well climatized so far, not too hot and not too cold, nothing like the 'open-window air condition' we experienced on the trip through the Paraguayan chaco last year.

The road soon started to climb through lush forests where they eyes could feast on all shades of green. Clouds, threatening rain all morning in Salta, drew ever closer together, however, and the windows were fogged with mist that turned to light rain. After a while it became so foggy that it was impossible to see anything to the left or right of the road, and still we climbed higher and higher. Was this the kind of weather that expected us in Tilcara, a small mountain town where we were hoping to hike? Our hearts sank. 

Eventually, however, the sky brightened again, the clouds lifted, and here and there even a hint of blue showed. The landscape had once again changed: the forest had disappeared, fields turned to pasture with sheep and a few cattle, and colourful rocks rose to both sides of the narrow valley. We arrived at Tilcara shortly after seven, entering on a dusty, unpaved road that seemed to contradict what we had read about the town: charming, it had said, an interesting mix of native community and art scene. This first impression was definitely not very encouraging. One can't forget, however, that bus stations are not usually the most representative part of a town, and as soon as we headed towards the centre the picture changed. 

The hostel we had tentatively decided on was full, and the hostel owner sent us on to another one around the corner. Here, we were welcomed by friendly Ricardo, the manager, who had a very adequate room with private bathroom for us in one of the thick-walled, ochre adobe buildings. The large, treed courtyard looked very inviting, too, as did the separate building with the communal kitchen where we would be served breakfast the next morning. Soon we decided to stay two nights: with the weather improved we could look forward to a nice hike the next day. 

We awoke to sunshine yesterday morning, but it was much cooler than it had been in the last little while: at 2,400m Tilcara is situated in the 'pre-Andes' mountains. Around nine-thirty we shouldered our day pack and started climbing the road behind the hostel, soon reaching the outskirts of town. Already the view was spectacular: Tilcara is nestled in a valley surrounded by coloured rocks dramatically set off against massive, rugged mountains. The vegetation is sparse where no water is readily available, which was most of the way up towards our destination, the 'Garganta del Diablo' (yes, another one; it seems the devil has many throats). Soon after we left the last buildings behind a rocky path veered off the narrow dirt road still accessible by car. Slowly making our way up the switchbacks we gained better and better views of the valley below. Cacti – especially the 'cardones' which must be closely related to the saguaros we knew from Arizona – lined the path, many of them full of buds, a few with beautiful white blossoms already fully opened. 

After a one-and-a-half hour hike on the winding foot path we reached a little hut. A sign beside it told us we had arrived at the entrance to the 'Garganta del Diablo'. For 10 pesos each we received a pamphlet with some information about the place and gained the right to descend into the depths. An even narrower, steep path led down to the creek whose waters were directed into a narrow channel a little bit downstream likely to be used to generate electricity for the town. 

We walked upstream through a narrowing canyon, the path crossing the shallow water from time to time. Here, a different variety of plants were growing along the water's edge, with soft leaves and no thorns, among others a kind of lupine, while the walls were covered with succulents like in the photo above. After a while the water showed algae growth – strange. When I stuck my hand in I was not surprised to find the water relatively warm. Swallows were darting back and forth, and a big hummingbird hunted for insects, its flight pattern familiar yet not even approaching a plant once. After maybe fifteen minutes we reached the little waterfall that poured down into the canyon. 

The Garganta del Diablo itself was hard to see (and even more difficult to photograph) even after we climbed down a short ladder at the point where the water was directed into the channel. A narrow path led to a couple of view points, but the hole was so deep and the walls so twisted that we couldn't see all the way to the bottom. Yet it was impressive, as was the view out towards the valley through the rock walls. 

 The way back took a lot less time, as always when on a downhill path, all the while with the panoramic view of the valley.

This morning we walked to the (re-built) fort of Pucara at the edge of town, a pre-Hispanic settlement that had its most important period between about 1,000 and 1,400 A.D.

Soon it will be time to shoulder our backpacks again and head for the bus station: the bus to La Quiaca right next to the Bolivian border leaves in 45 minutes. This time the ride is short, only about two hours, and we have almost reached the end of our travels in Argentina. Tomorrow we will cross into Bolivia.

Quebrada de las Conchas

It is seven in the morning at the 'Salta por Siempre' hostel in Salta. Every once in a while a passing hint of a breeze finds its way through the wide open window now, suggesting that it might have cooled down since we went to bed around midnight. The fan whirred most of the night, keeping the temperature at a level that made it possible to sleep.

Yesterday's hostel in Cafayate felt cooler, yet we knew our planned excursion to the Quebrada de las Conchas would be hot, and we needed to make sure to take hats, sunglasses, sunscreen and water. Walter rang the door bell at about 8:45, and to our surprise we found that we were the only ones for the excursion. That was really nice, since it afforded the opportunity to ask lots of questions and go at our own pace. 

 

The drive to the Quebrada led us through extensive grape plantations once again. We passed one 'bodega' after the other. Soon, however, the landscape changed back to the native vegetation. Walter explained that the wineries weren't very well liked by the local population because they use a lot of water, of course, and, as he put it, are insatiable in their quest for more land.. The area with its high amount of sunshine (signs boast of 360 sunny days per year) and little rainfall produces excellent wines. Another thing Walter lamented was the way these big wineries had treated the native vegetation, burning large swaths of land to make room for their plantation. This led to the decimation of the Algarrobo trees to such a degree that the government decided to put them under protection. The trees had been an important source of firewood and lumber for the native population who, Walter explained, took only what they needed so that the trees continued to grow. Parts of the trees die off every year, and that's what was mostly used. The algarrobo not only has beautiful dark, very hard wood, but traditionally their seeds were used to make flour for bread and flowers and leaves for medicinal purposes. 

Seeking shade under an algarrobo tree

 

After a little while the red sandstone cliffs of the quebrada (which means ravine, canyon) rose on both sides of the road. As far as the eye could see the beautifully coloured landscape stretched out in front of us, with strangely shaped rocks, hoodoos and dry riverbeds leading into the depth of these badlands. At our first stop Walter told us about the medicinal qualities of the different shrubs. Some were used to heal cuts, others as analgesics, others yet for colds, intestinal problems and to treat kidney disease. Several of them were also used as hallucinogens, but Walter said the knowledge of how to dose them safely had largely been lost and it was dangerous to experiment with it since even a small dose could be lethal. One shrub, the brea, had beautiful bark in various shades of pale green. It can produce leaves and flowers, or only flowers (and, of course, later seeds), depending on water availability: leaves are not needed for photosynthesis because mainly the bark is used for that.

We didn't see any wild animals, only the goats of nearby farmers, but armadillos, foxes and even pumas thrive in these arid conditions, along with many others.

During the summer months heavy rains, mostly from thundershowers, sometimes turn the dry ravines and riverbeds into raging streams. It is then that most of the erosion takes place, since the sandstone is very soft. There are caves and 'windows' that appear and disappear within a few years, and the constant change of the landscape is easily visible for someone spending time there regularly, as Walter does. Wind, the other erosive force, works more subtly.

'El tren' - the train

'Los Castillos' - the castles

 

One of 'las ventanas' - the windows

... and someone watching through it from the other side

We stopped several times at special points of interest, walking away from the road into the hills a little, and once, on a particularly interesting stretch of road where, Walter said, the car would be much too fast to take it all in, he had us walk along the road for 1 1/2 kilometres to enjoy 'las ventanas', the windows. Other parts of the quebrada have been named according to the shape of the rocks: there are the castillos, high towering deep red rocks that indeed resemble castles, la sopa, the toad, garganta del diablo, devil's throat, and the anfiteatro, the amphitheatre. Here, two musicians – Los Quebrados - were playing musica folclorica Argentina with guitar and quena (the Andean flute). The acoustics are amazing, and Walter told us that musicians come to record their music here, especially in the evening or at night when the air is still. I was so enchanted by these beautiful sounds that I bought a couple of their CDs which, I am sure, will take me right back to this place and time whenever I listen to them. 

 

La Garganta del Diablo - Devil's Throat

After three hours we had by far not seen everything, but enough for one morning, and Walter took us back to town. Asked which of the plants would be the right one for my sore throat he suggested arrope de chañar, syrup made from the fruits of the Chañar tree (Geoffroea decorticans, or Chilean palo verde). He suggested I'd get it at the pulpería, the general store, around the corner. 

This was one of the more interesting stores I had entered. A group of older men was gathered in its cool, dark interior where shelves lining high walls were filled with everything anyone in a small town might need, from hammers to cooking oil, llama wool in big skeins to laundry detergent. We were greeted cordially, but my inquiry about the sore throat remedy was unsuccessful: all the store owner could offer me was the unprocessed fruit which was on display in a huge bag, right beside other products like beans and rice, for example. He suggested I'd make the syrup myself. :) Instead, he offered us a piece of the soft local cheese on his counter which served as an accompaniment to the beer the men were drinking. We were invited to join them, and since a cold beer sounded very tempting after the hot morning we followed the invitation. It didn't need this chance meeting for Cafayate to stay in our minds as a very friendly, relaxing town, but it was a nice end to our visit.

Not every day goes as planned

This inviting blue door in the photo opens to one of the nicest hostels I have ever stayed at, the Casa Arbol (“Tree House”) in Cafayate, another station on the way north. It is a small hostel, run by a woman from Malta and her Argentinian husband, very neat, with a small courtyard surrounded by the few high-ceilinged rooms, and a large, cozy outside sitting area. The first, small part of it is covered by a grape arbour loaded with not-yet ripe green grapes. 

The grey windows belong to our room

Cafayate, well known for its wines and situated in the second most important wine growing area of Argentina (right after Mendoza) is a town of maybe 10,000, quiet, its pace relaxed, with many great places to stay and to eat. We came back from another great meal of bife de chorizo, the wonderful Argentinean beef, accompanied, of course, by a bottle of 'Quara' Malbec, again from a local winery, a little over an hour ago. 
 
Tomorrow morning at 8:30 we will be picked up by Walter, a local tour guide, for an excursion the Quebrada de las Conchas, one of the highlights of this area. We can leave our backpack here at the hostel until we return sometime in the early afternoon even though we won't stay here another night (though it's very tempting!): later tomorrow afternoon we hope to catch the bus to Salta, about 3 1/2 hours away.
Today, obviously, was a day when things went more ore less according to plan, which cannot quite be said for yesterday.




Times here are always flexible, and the bus that was supposed to leave Tafí at 12:30 finally left the terminal at 1:05. We passed through a spectacular landscape, climbing higher and higher into country dominated by saguaro-like cacti that looked as if they were standing watch on the hillsides otherwise pretty bare of vegetation. Deep valleys and dry hills stretching far into the distance, dramatic drops right beside me (oh, how I love that extra thrill of having a window seat with a perfect view of an abyss!) and stone walls to hold small herds of sheep, rarely cows, during the night, small dwellings with solar panels to generate power in those remote areas - no way I'd fall asleep this time, especially since the 'cardones' (cacti) were just starting to bloom. It was a double decker bus, but the bus stopped to take on a load of school children at a school in the middle of nowhere, then every five minutes at a driveway or beside a small house to disperse them again. 

We arrived in Amaicha around 2:30 - and I felt as if I'd just been shoved into an oven! 

We found the Amancay hostel I had read about on the internet without trouble, about fifteen or twenty minutes from the bus station, four and a half blocks from the plaza (I almost wrote 'main plaza', but I'm sure there is only one). The gate was closed, but not locked, and we walked up to the door. Repeated knocking didn't net any reaction from inside: could anyone sleep that deeply even if it was siesta time? We ate our lunch at a small table outside, knocked from time to time, waited ... After half an hour we decided to walk back into town and see if we could find out anything from the tourist office, possibly even find another place to stay. We had seen a few on the way, but I had so set my heart on this one after reading about it on the internet that I didn't really want to - not that anything was open for business. The whole town was asleep, except for a few men playing cards at the edge of the plaza in the shade. 
What to do, then? Ruefully we walked back along the dusty road to 'Amancay' - but still not a soul around. Again we sat and waited, and finally a pickup truck stopped outside the gate, and a man came in. He turned out to be a friend of the owner's, had seen us sitting there and proceeded to invite us in, show us the room we could rent, and tell us to feel right at home - all in a terribly fast Spanish with many dropped syllables and lots of 'soft gggs' , the hard to understand Argentinean lingo.

It took until almost eight before Sebastian, the owner, returned from his trip to Tucumán. To our disappointment he didn't speak a word of English, which made a trip to the Quilmes ruins with him (he's the main, or maybe the only tour operator here in town and supposed to be very knowledgeable, not only about the ruins but also about the history and story of the local natives of whom he is one) a futile undertaking. 

Last night we decided that it made little sense to go there for us after all, because it's kind of complicated: we'd take the bus from Amaicha, which would drop us off on the road half an hour later, then we'd walk (in the heat, likely without shade) for five or six kilometres, walk around the ruins, possibly again without any English information, walk back to the road (unless someone driving by gave us a ride), take the bus back to Amaicha about three hours after we were dropped off (likely again only very approximate times), take the bus to Cafayate at six, arrive around eight, find a hostel ...  It sounded like a rather forbidding task. 

Sebastian had suggested a restaurant not geared towards tourists with regional food, and around 8:30 we walked back into town, followed by his dog who turned out to get into scraps with each of the twenty or thirty dogs along the way, hiding behind us after incurring their wrath. At one time three other dogs attacked him at once, and I couldn't escape the melee fast enough and received a nip in the heel. It drew blood and hurt for a while, but now, a day later, it looks fine, and there is no sign of infection. Thankfully my tetanus vacination is up to date, and the dog didn't look as if it had rabies. To top it off, we found a 'Cerrado' sign on the door of the restaurant, and none other open either: it was still too early, I guess. Ruefully we picked up a bottle of Malbec at a supermarket, some bread at a panaderia, and walked back to the hostel.

But if all of that sounds like kind of a lost day - it wasn't. Sitting outside with bread and great cheese from the dairy we visited the day before, a place that had been founded by Jesuits in 1779 and produced cheese ever since, drinking wine, the almost full moon up above, a few timid stars showing between shreds of cloud, I felt very much at peace with the world.

The cathedral 'Nuestra Senora del Rosario' in Cafayate at sunset

A day in Tafi del Valle

This is the kind of place we're at: horses walking the streets between cars, browsing the grassy sidewalks (and sometimes pulling plastic bags with garbage from the garbage cans, tossing them out just for the fun of it!)

Tafí del Valle proved to be a wonderful place for us. The drive from Tucumán, though only 125 km, took about three hours and led through spectacular landscape. We left the fertile plains to ascend once again into hills, and within a short time entered a subtropical cloud forest. This time the ascent was so steep that the bus had to negotiate one tight switchback after the next. It felt almost like Columbia when I looked out the window and had only steep, thickly forested drops beside me. The road was amazingly good, however, and the driver very careful. 

A clear river tumbled over big rocks along the way, at first close by, later sometimes deep down in the gorge, and we often saw people fishing. It looked like a wonderful area to spend holidays. I already envisioned myself walking along the river, in this lush vegetation during our stay in Tafí del Valle. 

 

What a surprise, then, when suddenly the forest gave way to much drier hillsides again and then dropped down a little to a valley surrounded by only partly and much more sparsely forested flanks. It was as if this misty paradise had been an illusion.

Yet, when we arrived at our destination it was not a disappointment, even if the landscape was rocky once again. The little town looked quiet and inviting, and we shouldered our bags and headed for the hostel we had chosen as our starting point. I was anxious: we had 10 Argentinean pesos left by now, and still didn't know if we would find a place to exchange money. The first relief was the hostel: not only did they have a room for us, a sign on the door also said they accepted Visa – if things got really tough we could always pay that way, even though it would mean we'd have to pay a lot more. The hostel felt like a wonderfully welcoming place. Small and relatively new, it is about a fifteen minute walk from the town centre. Its services include not only breakfast but supper, too, so we wouldn't go hungry either. They gave us little hope that we'd be able to exchange money that day: not only was it a Sunday, but also the day of the presidential election. The bank was definitely closed until the next morning, and nobody knew of any 'grey market'. 

 

Thus we headed back into town soon. Johann's idea that we might be able to change money at one of the better restaurants didn't pan out: yes, Tafí was very much a tourist place, but obviously for Argentineans way more than for foreign tourists: again, we didn't see any. Someone directed us to the gas station as a possibility, someone else mentioned a supermarket – nothing. We were almost resigned to getting the regular exchange rate at the bank the next day when Johann suddenly headed into one of the many souvenir shops. Here, unlike most of the others, an older man sat in the back behind the till. Marvel of marvels: he was very willing to do a deal, not at 14.4:1 as in Mendoza, but 13:1, which is very much acceptable for us. Now we could breathe easy again! He would have taken more than $200, assured us there would be no place to exchange money in Cafayate, where we will be heading next, nor even in Salta, a sizeable city definitely visited by tourists – but of course he wanted our business, and it is hard to imagine that he is right..

A wonderfully fragrant  broom-like shrub that grows along roadsides everywhere

Verbenas

These worries behind us, we could concentrate on pleasant things again. Yesterday morning we decided to hike up to the Cerro de la Cruz, a hike of about an hour up a rather steep rocky hillside, from where we had a wonderful view of the valley. 

 Again I was delighted to find many blooming flowers, some of which I know from my own flowerbeds in the summer, like the verbenas that bring colour to dusty roadsides and rocky paths alike. Here, I found them not only in red but in a very pale lavender as well. It's always wonderful and still surprising to find them growing in the wild. 

This beautiful plant was visited by a hummingbird while we watched, vibrant metallic green and much larger than our ruby throated hummingbirds at home.

About a quarter of the way up we gained a hiking companion: a large brown dog who followed us all the way to the top, lay down beside the cross while we sat there to enjoy the view, and came down with us again - until we encountered another group of hikers, with their own following of village dogs. There are many dogs - all of them friendly - in these little towns, and they readily attach themselves to anybody walking anywhere for a little while.

 It's time to say goodbye once again to a group of nice people. Best of luck and a big thank you to Tony and Silvina, the hard-working owners of the Nomade hostel, and their two cute little boys Gaetano and Timoteus. They are in the process of adding on a second floor, a sign that the hostel is becoming better and better known. 

This is the view from the front steps of our hostel this morning. The misty, cool day yesterday has given way to a warm, sunny one today. I wish I could capture the fragrance of those white blooming shrubs on this blog!

Leaving the city life behind

The slightly seedy charm of the Tucumán hostel

It's getting close to midnight, and it is more quiet than it has ever been since we arrived in South America a week ago. After travelling from one city to the next on our slow way north to the Bolivian border we have now arrived in a small town of little more than 5,000 people. Tafí del Valle is about 125 km west of San Miguel de Tucumán, the capital city of the province with the same name.

Tucumán was the latest in the string of towns we visited, and we arrived there late in the afternoon yesterday after a six-hour drive from La Rioja. The landscape changed quite dramatically on the way: from the dry, thorny brush country with cacti just coming into bloom and scattered herds of cows, sheep and goats the road ascended into the hills. As soon as we turned downhill again the vegetation had totally changed: lush green, leafy trees had taken over from their thorny cousins, and even from the top we could see that the plain below was home to a much different kind of agriculture. Large stubble fields stretched into the distance, some wheat fields still unharvested, tobacco plants stood in neat rows, large slatted sheds awaiting them for drying and storage. More and more frequently sugar cane fields appeared on both sides of the road, and soon traffic was slowed by big trucks heaped with chopped sugar cane. Every once in awhile a column of dark smoke indicated the location of a sugar factory. 

 

In Tucumán we drove by several side-by-side soccer fields before we had even reached the bus terminal, teeming with people, just like in many smaller communities we had passed through on the way: Saturday must be 'futbol' day. We took a taxi from the bus terminal and were dropped in front of the 'Tucuman Hostel', recommended in the Lonely Planet. It might have had a downward turn since its printing (ours is more than six years old), since it seemed to be in need of a major overhaul, an impression that was not helped by the young man at the reception desk who showed a remarkable lack of enthusiasm. But we did get a room with clean sheets and a reasonably clean bathroom, and the house itself surely had seen more prosperous days, as still evident in its high rooms with solid wooden doors with coloured-glass windows over top and beautiful floor tiles.

We had a bit of a problem: not anticipating any troubles changing money at about the same exchange rate as in Mendoza, but finding no place to change money (inofficially, anyway) in La Rioja we had only 300 Argentinean Pesos (about $25 Canadian) left after we paid the hostel. We needed to try and find a money exchange in Tucumán, and soon, which, we were told, was nearly impossible on the weekend.

We put our bags in our room and walked downtown nonetheless: maybe we'd be lucky. Another option was to find a good quality restaurant where they might be happy to exchange 'dollares'; we had made that experience last year in Puerto Iguazu. We didn't find either, however, and surrounded by milling people out to spend money and have fun on a Saturday evening, stuck time and again behind a couple or a group of people moving excrutiatingly slow, but not leaving much room to pass I caught myself thinking, 'what are we doing here? We didn't come to Argentina for this.' A case of sudden and extreme 'crowd fatigue' had set in, and a sideways glance at Johann told me that he, too, had been hit by it. 

 

What to do, then? We could stay at the hostel for another night and try our luck Monday morning, or escape the city and take our chances that we'd find a place to exchange money in Tafí del Valle, a town we had long marked as a desirable destination. The money we had left would be enough to take us there, to buy some bread, cheese and a bottle of wine for supper, and to pay a tip to the men lifting our bag in and out of the belly of the bus – here in Argentina the tip seems to be expected, unlike other South American countries where we have travelled.

                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Obviously we made it to Tafí, and things have worked out well – but right now it's time for me to go bed, and I'll continue tomorrow.

La Rioja - a quiet day

The cathedral

It's nine in the evening here in La Rioja, and the fan in the courtyard of “Residencial Anita” is still running full speed. Together with the tarp that serves as a roof over the courtyard it manages to keep the temperature at a bearable, even pleasant level in the afternoon. It was 28 degrees Celsius today, and a month from now it will be really hot.

We hadn't booked anything here but had decided to try our luck at one of the accommodations mentioned in the Lonely Planet. Critiques online didn't seem to confirm the positive description in our travel guide, but we have learned that one cannot necessarily give too much credence to the opinions of other people; standards and expectations are too different. The taxi dropped us off at 'Residencial Anita', and they did have a room for us – warm water, air condition, wifi, but no breakfast. The room and bathroom looked clean, and it was quiet – good enough for us to spend a night here, especially when dusk was already starting to set in. Little things like the missing toilet seat or – noticed only when we took a shower – a missing shower head are small inconveniences one can live with for a couple of nights.

We spent a very leisurely day here. Late in the morning we walked the fifteen or so minutes into town to have a look around. I had read about La Rioja's Museo Folclórico, folklore museum, and we got a really interesting guided tour in English.

We heard about the patron saint of the city, St. Nicolas de Bari, and the strange figure of Jesus Mayor (Mayor Jesus) and the celebration that honours both on December 31 (and the following two days), with huge processions to which people come dressed according to which of the two they follow – the biggest celebration of the whole year.

There is a room with wine making equipment, the most interesting of which – to me - was a tanned cow hide stretched on a frame, sagging in the middle so that it looks like a bathtub (accomplished by piling sand on it while it is still pliable), where children tread the grapes to extract the juice, with a hole to drain the juice. Other rooms have kitchen equipment on display, saddles, musical instruments. The last room we visited was reserved for the mythology of the area, dating back to pre-Inca times. The Inca arrived a hundred years before the Spanish and were here not long enough to lastingly impose their religion. The indigenous beliefs from before the Inca are still present alongside the strong Catholicism.

There is Pachamama, for instance, Mother Earth, or Mother Nature, the most revered of all since the gives and protects life. She is responsible for food and fertility and bequeaths all things necessary for a good life – but only as long as nature is respected and cared for. There are celebrations where big holes are dug and filled with agricultural produce, from corn to potatoes, grapes, olives, etc., then covered – an offering to Pachamama. Our guide told us that even one of the candidates for the upcoming presidential election closed his campaign by having a ritual for Pachamama. Will it make him successful?

Most gods – other incarnations of Pachamama, mostly, responsible for different aspects of life – are female, but there is also one important male god who is responsible for the thriving of livestock. A lesson on local witch rituals – a bit tongue-in-cheek, but not totally, I think - completed our education for the day ...

By now it is past midnight, and we returned from an excellent meal in the restaurant our landlady recommended to us yesterday about an hour ago. She warned us: before 9:30 or even 10pm there would be little hope to get something to eat. Yet when we came by the 'Le City' at the smaller of the two plazas and looked at the menu around 8:30 last night we were invited to stay: the parilla was smoking already. With the help of the waiter (and with some gesticulation to make up for the lack of words) we decided on 'Bife de chorizo' (Rumpsteak) and once again were not disappointed. Argentineans do know how to cook meat! The Santa Florentina Malbec, grown locally, recommended by the waiter, was a good choice as well. We are not sure if he didn't have the Gato Negro on the wine list we had asked for or if he just didn't want to serve Chilean wine. It's nicer to try local wine and support the local industry anyway. 

 

Since it was so good we had the same meal as yesterday, sharing the meat, but this time we left out the french fries and had two salads instead. I couldn't resist: I had to try the local olives, and was not disappointed.

The afternoon found us at the two plazas. Keeping the siesta time in mind, we left a little after five, only to find most shops still locked up. Streets and sidewalks were deserted, and so were the plazas. Here and there someone was stretched out on a park bench, sleeping. We sat on a bench in the shade and let the world pass by. Every time I am here in South America I am touched by the loving attention given to elderly people by their children and grandchildren. Actually, come to think of it, I only remember seeing women or girls with their mothers or grandmothers or grandfathers. What do boys do, I wonder? Often an elderly woman or man can be seen walking with a child on each side, guiding them carefully, giving support. Their faces are turned attentively to the older person, and each gesture speaks of loving devotion. Family, as we have heard time and again here, plays a huge roll. 

Children are everywhere, and mostly seem to be indulged, rarely scolded. Babies and toddlers are carried around rather than pushed in strollers, by mothers as well as fathers. Of course they are still up and about even now; the three small kids of our landlady here just walked up to their quarters and were shushed when they passed by the guest rooms.

La Rioja is not a town geared to tourists, at least not at this time of year. We didn't see a single 'extrajero' (foreigner), at least not one from a visibly different background. Wherever we went we were treated with politeness, but nobody made a fuss over us, which feels nice.

Tomorrow we'll find a bus to our next destination, Tucuman, a much bigger city about six bus hours north of here. From there, we hope to make our way higher up into the mountains to get away from the cities for a bit.

It's nine in the evening here in La Rioja, and the fan in the courtyard of “Residencial Anita” is still running full speed. Together with the tarp that serves as a roof over the courtyard it manages to keep the temperature at a bearable, even pleasant level in the afternoon. It was 28 degrees Celsius today, and a month from now it will be really hot.

We hadn't booked anything here but had decided to try our luck at one of the accommodations mentioned in the Lonely Planet. Critiques online didn't seem to confirm the positive description in our travel guide, but we have learned that one cannot necessarily give too much credence to the opinions of other people; standards and expectations are too different. The taxi dropped us off at 'Residencial Anita', and they did have a room for us – warm water, air condition, wifi, but no breakfast. The room and bathroom looked clean, and it was quiet – good enough for us to spend a night here, especially when dusk was already starting to set in. Little things like the missing toilet seat or – noticed only when we took a shower – a missing shower head are small inconveniences one can live with for a couple of nights.

We spent a very leisurely day here. Late in the morning we walked the fifteen or so minutes into town to have a look around. I had read about La Rioja's Museo Folclórico, folklore museum, and we got a really interesting guided tour in English.

We heard about the patron saint of the city, St. Nicolas de Bari, and the strange figure of Jesus Mayor (Mayor Jesus) and the celebration that honours both on December 31 (and the following two days), with huge processions to which people come dressed according to which of the two they follow – the biggest celebration of the whole year.

There is a room with wine making equipment, the most interesting of which – to me - was a tanned cow hide stretched on a frame, sagging in the middle so that it looks like a bathtub (accomplished by piling sand on it while it is still pliable), where children tread the grapes to extract the juice, with a hole to drain the juice. Other rooms have kitchen equipment on display, saddles, musical instruments. The last room we visited was reserved for the mythology of the area, dating back to pre-Inca times. The Inca arrived a hundred years before the Spanish and were here not long enough to lastingly impose their religion. The indigenous beliefs from before the Inca are still present alongside the strong Catholicism.

There is Pachamama, for instance, Mother Earth, or Mother Nature, the most revered of all since the gives and protects life. She is responsible for food and fertility and bequeaths all things necessary for a good life – but only as long as nature is respected and cared for. There are celebrations where big holes are dug and filled with agricultural produce, from corn to potatoes, grapes, olives, etc., then covered – an offering to Pachamama. Our guide told us that even one of the candidates for the upcoming presidential election closed his campaign by having a ritual for Pachamama. Will it make him successful?

Most gods – other incarnations of Pachamama, mostly, responsible for different aspects of life – are female, but there is also one important male god who is responsible for the thriving of livestock. A lesson on local witch rituals – a bit tongue-in-cheek, but not totally, I think - completed our education for the day ...

By now it is past midnight, and we returned from an excellent meal in the restaurant recommended by our landlady yesterday about an hour ago. She warned us: before 9:30 or even 10pm there would be little hope to get something to eat. Yet when we came by the 'Le City' at the smaller of the two plazas and looked at the menu around 8:30 last night we were invited to stay: the parilla was smoking already. With the help of the waiter (and with some gesticulation to make up for the lack of words) we decided on 'Bife de chorizo' (Rumpsteak) and once again were not disappointed. Argentineans do know how to cook meat! The Santa Florentina Malbec, grown locally, recommended by the waiter, was a good choice as well. We are not sure if he didn't have the Gato Negro on the wine list we had asked for or if he just didn't want to serve Chilean wine. It's nicer to try local wine and support the local industry anyway.

Since it was so good we had the same meal as yesterday, sharing the meat, but this time we left out the french fries and had two salads instead. I couldn't resist: I had to try the local olives, and was not disappointed.

The afternoon found us at the two plazas. Keeping the siesta time in mind, we left a little after five, only to find most shops still locked up. Streets and sidewalks were deserted, and so were the plazas. Here and there someone was stretched out on a parkbench, sleeping. We sat on a bench in the shade and let the world pass by. Every time I am here in South America I am touched by the loving attention given to elderly people by their children and grandchildren. Actually, come to think of it, I only remember seeing women or girls with their mothers or grandmothers or grandfathers. What do boys do, I wonder? Often an elderly woman or man can be seen walking with a child on each side, guiding them carefully, giving support. Their faces are turned attentively to the older person, and each gesture speaks of loving devotion. Family, as we have heard time and again here, plays a huge roll.

Children are everywhere, and mostly seem to be indulged, rarely scolded. Babies and toddlers are carried around rather than pushed in strollers, by mothers as well as fathers. Of course they are still up and about even now; the three small kids of our landlady here just walked up to their quarters and were shushed when they passed by the guest rooms.

La Rioja is not a town geared to tourists, at least not at this time of year. We didn't see a single 'extrajero' (foreigner), at least not one from a visibly different background. Wherever we went we were treated with politeness, but nobody made a fuss over us, which feels nice.

Tomorrow we'll find a bus to our next destination, Tucuman, a much bigger city about six bus hours north of here. From there, we hope to make our way higher up into the mountains to get away from the cities for a bit. 

One of my favourites: the bougainvillea