Oh HI there faithful readers!
It’s 10 a.m., the sun is sliding gentle morning rays through the window shutters of my room here in Cordoba, and I am feeling especially perky and productive – it seems the opportune moment in which to get cracking with the first Argentinian update.
I believe I left you last in sleepy San Pedro de Atacama, following the descriptor-defying Salt Flats… Since then, I have crossed a border, lost a phone, gained several kilos from mass carb consumption, discovered wine ice cream, slept in a shed, had my boots stolen by dogs, watched someone’s knee being healed by smoke and, best of all, found myself in excellent company throughout. I shall elaborate, but first I shall back-track slightly:
San Pedro to Salta. I spent a very pleasant few days recharging the proverbial batteries in the unabashedly touristy but nevertheless agreeable little town of San Pedro de Atacama in northern Chile. It also provided a very handy rendezvous point at which to meet up with British Katie and Canadian Mark, with whom I had originally hit it off back on Lake Titicaca (we had been narrowly missing each other in various locations ever since, and so it was a triumphant and hard-earned reunion!). I also managed to reconnect with Californians Ian and Nicole from the Bolivian ashram, and very nice it was too. Pleased to have been able to have a few catch-up drinks with both couples, I repacked my increasingly shabby-looking backpack for the millionth time, stocked up on a load of dollars in anticipation of their value and scarcity over in Argentina, and joined Katie and Mark on a cross-border bus to Salta.
Salta. The three of us arrived in north-western Argentina and, having dozed on-and-off throughout the 12-hour ride, were simultaneously very tired and very wired. A few beers and some live music at one of the town’s peñas seemed the best course of action, so we dumped our stuff at the hostel and headed out into the night. For reasons that we can no longer quite grasp, a few innocuous bed-time beers were transformed into caipirinhas, mojitos and some awful champagne/Red Bull-based concoction, the memory of which I don’t care to re-summon. We ended the night/began the following day in the Argentinian equivalent of a greasy spoon, in which I chomped on deep-fried goodness and mourned the loss of my phone, which I had put down in one of the bars and mysteriously failed to pick up again. Oopsy…
The following few days saw us wandering unhurriedly through the sodden streets of Salta (it rains fairly solidy at this time of year apparently), remaining outside for long enough to admire the colourful cathedral and surrounding buildings before ducking into cheap food joints for shelter and empanadas.
After Katie and Mark had bid me farewell and headed off eastwards, I paid a visit to the city’s archaeological museum and had a look at some fascinating and perfectly-preserved Incan child sacrifices; by bizarre coincidence, we had met a bloke in the bus station back in San Pedro who it turned out had discovered these mummies, so I was pleased to be able to clap eyes on the fruits of his labour!
Cafayate. With a day to play with before pressing on towards Cordoba, I headed out of the city and into the surrounding countryside, which afforded me an interesting glimpse into the region’s geology and economy. The rain cleared almost as soon as we left the valley, as the orderly tobacco fields on the city’s outskirts gave way to plunging gorges and multi-coloured rock formations. These were followed by a series of sprawling but orderly vineyards, one of which we stopped at to sample a couple of the local varieties. Our final stop was the town of Cafayate itself, where we were serenaded over lunch by a gaucho with a guitar and a winning smile. New-found pal Elena from the Ukraine and I also sourced the afore-mentioned wine ice cream – quite a strange but satisfying sensory experience! A very fine day out all in all.
Casa Grande a.k.a. Bonkersville. I was conveyed to Cordoba by means of a 14-hour night bus from Salta, which was followed by another 2-hour local one out into the countryside. I was due to take on another volunteer project in the village of Casa Grande, and arrived a bit travel-weary but eager to get stuck into a week of gardening, veg planting any generally making use of myself. The region is verdant and bucolic, and reminded me a little of England in springtime. The discovery that my host, a Frenchman named Yannis, lived in a run-down shack in a forgotten dell on the edge of the village and seemed vaguely surprised to find both myself and himself there did not deter me; the weather was mild and the view was beautiful, so on arrival I sat down at a makeshift table in the garden and got chatting to my host, along with German Anton and Austrian Evelyn, who were also volunteering for the week.
It soon became apparent that Yannis’ world-view was heavily esoteric; he spent the following few hours soliloquising about various government conspiracies, the perils of modern vaccines and the singular healing properties of sodium chloride. I had also been under the impression that I would be living with his family, but it turned out that his partner had recently upped sticks and taken the kids with her – an event which, judging by his heavy sighing and rolling of yet another cigarette every time it was mentioned, was clearly still causing him some degree of anguish.
I enquired as to the kind of work we’d be doing; he surveyed me with Yoda-like superiority, informing me that we would only work “when the universe is ready for us to work”, and that I should simply allow myself to “be with and work on myself” in the meantime. Right. The conversation then moved on to the various benefits of tobacco, which is apparently wholly undeserving of the bad press it receives. As if to prove the point, he beckoned to Anton, who had been complaining of pain in his knee following a trek in Patagonia, and proceeded to ‘heal’ it by spending several minutes blowing smoke all over it from various angles. Surreal is one word for it. Hilarious and bonkers are two others.
My sleeping quarters, it turned out, were what was essentially a dog kennel next to the main shack, and it was on discovering this that the novelty of finding myself in such a bizarre situation began to wear off. The temperature dropped rapidly with the setting sun, and I shivered sleeplessly through the night, emerging in the morning aching and tired to find that Yannis’ three hounds had naffed off with my walking books and deposited them some yards down the hill, covered in slobber and (if possible) stinkier than ever before. I experienced something of a sense of humour failure at this point. I went to thank Yannis for his kind hospitality (and he is very kind and has a good heart, truly) and to inform him that, regrettably, I had decided to move on. I said goodbye to Anton, who seemed to have taken on the experience as some kind of personal endurance test, and made a swift exit with Evelyn back to the bus stop, where we jumped on the next bus back to Cordoba. I’ve slept in some pretty basic conditions so far on this trip, but at this point I am not above opting for comfort over ‘authenticity’. I sincerely wish Yannis the very best, the mad old codger.
I’m going to bring this post to a close, as I’ve banged on for a while now. I’ll save Cordoba itself for the next one, in which I’ll also be giving you the low-down on Rosario, where I’m headed tomorrow 🙂
Peace out for now friends. Thinking of you. Lots and lots of love x x x x x