I returned home a couple hours ago from exploring the very northwestern corner of Argentina, during a 10-day trip that will now be marked in my personal life history book as one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had. Prior to leaving for Argentina from the US I had not even heard of the provinces Salta and Jujuy, sandwiched between the Andes Mountains and Chile to the east and Bolivia to the north, let alone would I have expected to find such bliss while there. I am apprehensive about blogging of my experiences and relaying stories from my travels, because I know that no choice of words will amount to the real thing. How to capture the taste of the sweet, freshly steaming humitas? The kind and patient eyes of the woman from whom I bought my pendant and who told me of her adventures parachuting off the nearby cliff with her husband and daughter amongst condors? The feel of they dry high-desert air, which dried the skin of my face and refused to let my recently purchased moisturizer (finally found a beauty store that carries Clinique products!) repair my damaged skin? The temporary escape into a lifestyle, far removed from city smog and deadlines, so much more tranquil and simple than that to which I have grown accustomed? The prisms of color splashed onto the awesome geology that encircled us; rock formations of the most vibrant reds, purples, and greens jutting hundreds, thousands of feet into the air? Perhaps when the approximately 500 pictures waiting to be uploaded from my camera onto my computer make their way onto this blog, they will fill in for the thousands of words I will surely leave out.
It is no easy task to summarize the events of ten amazing, adventure-filled days in a single blog entry, and I could (and probably will) write on forever, so skim if you get bored. My apologies for all the word vomit.
Day 1: Left BsAs with Tara and Kristin via plane at 7:20am, landed in Salta a few hours later (our first impressions in 3 words: fresh air, mountains, agriculture). We were quite the comical trio, and realized upon landing in Salta that although we had booked reservations for our hostel, we didn’t have the address or any idea as to how we were planning on getting there. Ditched the “let’s not appear like tourists” goal and frantically searched for someone who could help us/a computer (both scarce) and eventually convinced a seemingly bored, Facebook-browsing office worker in the airport to kindly assist us. One embarrassing walk with rolly-suitcases and city gear down a stretch of road meant for cars, one 45-minute collectivo (bus) ride, and another embarrassing walk down broken sidewalks and curbs unkind to rolling baggage later, we made it to our hostel, aka Heaven. Note to self: selecting hostel’s on hostelworld.com based on “fun level” rating pays off.
Hadn’t stayed in a hostel before, but was half-expecting flee-infested living conditions bordering on the comfort level of Hedrick Hall (aka, not comfortable). Was pleasantly surprised, and contrary to what I had expected, we were greeted with open arms and clean sheets. Youthful atmosphere. Later enjoyed an awesome (free) dinner of freshly baked pizza in the outdoor patio area; Red Hot Chili Peppers, twinkly lights, and Coronas made for a perfect combination. Had so much fun chatting with Tara and Kristin and our new friends from Hawaii and Australia. Were ready to retreat to our room when the guys that worked at the hostel (Fernando and Hernan) asked (?) if we were planning on going out with them later that night. Sure! Enjoyed the Salta night life, a glowingly green drink whose name translates to “skin of iguana,” and tried (after some hesitation) the local custom of chewing coca leaves (“No son drogas, chicas!” Takes an entire pool-sized amount to make a gram of cocaine, or so they told us.) Fended off creepy Paraguayans and were later perplexed by the 3 peso charge required to leave the club. Upon arrival back to our room at approximately 5:30am (yes, as breakfast for excursion-goers the following day was being prepared in the kitchen), we spread our heavily smoke-scented clothing about the room to air. The amount of smoking in the clubs in Argentina is unbearable. Everyone smokes, and a lot. Quite sad.Before the night’s festivities, we enjoyed going to MAAM [Museo de Arqueologia de Alta Montana de Salta], where we viewed 600-year-old Incan children who were discovered by archaelogists in the high peaks of the Andes in 1999 after having been naturally mummified since their burial in the 1400s preceding Spanish conquest) delicious empanadas [30 pesos for a dozen], walking around Plaza 9 de Julio, and stepping inside an awesome church [Iglesia y Convento San Francisco] which literally looked like a pink and white frosted cake from the outside…super ornate inside as well. Sat in the pews and pretended we were religious, when some kind of service began. I fell asleep, yikes. Think I’m more of the soccer-game-on-Sunday type of girl.
Day 2: Will try to make this one shorter. After waking up at 2pm and washing the distinct smoky smell typical of the boliches out of out hair and skin, we welcomed the arrival of three more girls from our program (2 of whom also go to UCLA, Lianna and Lily) to join us for the day and night. Took a gondola ride up a high peak as twilight was setting in (but no Edward Cullen), and were able to look out across the city—gorgeous! Enjoyed a 30-minute hike down the mountain, where we found groups of local kids gathered in circles playing guitars and singing. We took a break and situated ourselves nearby, wishing we had the courage to approach them and be friends, but later becoming satisfied by singing “La Bamba” and “Twist and Shout” from a distance, relishing the fact that music has the beautiful capability of transcending cultural and linguistic barriers. Later that night enjoyed asado (BBQ) and a peña (folklore song/dance show) at the hostel…our new friends Fernando and Hernan amazed us with their musical talents; they both switched easily between 3, 4 instruments apiece, including their own voices. I reevaluated earlier judgments that had ignorantly dismissed them as “hostel workers and not much else.” Had a blast getting up and dancing. Both Kristin and Tara were selected from the audience to try folk dancing, which resulted in hilarity and one too many video recordings. (To upload later…)
Day 3: Took a full-day excursion to a town called Cachi, located about 4 hours west of the city of Salta.
The views along the entire drive were nothing short of breathtaking. Awe-inspiring rock formations of every color of the rainbow, 400-year-old cacti, snow-capped Andes in the distance, etc. No big deal. 
Ate dish popular of the region, locro, for lunch (delicious veggie stew with mysterious chunk of meat in the middle), and finished it off with some rice pudding, which I ordered simply because its name on the menu was Bella Vista (hah! Go Broncos!) De-lish. 
Wanted to kidnap the little 2-year-old boy sitting next to me on the bus with his parents—he was literally THE cutest little kid I’ve ever seen, and I feel like I’ve seen a handful of 2-year-olds. Thought of how much Amanda would love him as a gift from me from Argentina, though if we can’t even bring back plants to the states, I doubt that small children would make it through customs. Had dinner again at the hostel. Enjoyed conversing with “Victor” from Spain during the meal of odd-tasting spaghetti. Decided during the midst of the conversation that I was glad to not be studying in Spain—the lisp with which he spoke, characteristic of Spaniards, would have spelled horrors for my brief past of speech therapy and lisp-correction practices.
Day 4: Bussed south two hours to Cafayate with K and T. ADORABLE town. Enjoyed wine tours (organic winery called Nanni took the cake…especially enjoyed the sweet white desert wine special to the area called Torrontes. Were also muy jealous that our tour guide easily alternated between Spanish, English, and French throughout the tour.) Almost died of happiness upon later eating the most amazing flatbread EVER, which we bought from a guy making them fresh on the side of the road after following the scent of the bread from blocks away. Back at the hostel, lamented the fact that we were not at Backpacker’s again, but had cool roommates from France. Also met a gaggle of cute little kids gathered around a puppy in the foyer of the hostel. Learned the words for “paws” and “tail.” Kids are the most patient teachers. A second urge to kidnap children kicked in at this time.
Day 5: Took a beautiful hike through mountains starting 2.5km out of town. GORGEOUS. Words can’t describe.
It is not recommended to take this hike without a local guide, so we hired the services of a local 15-year-old kid named Axil to lead the way. He did the whole thing without water and with his hands in his pockets, while Kristin, Tara, and I huffed and puffed the whole way up. Very fun experience. Later ate dinner at a restaurant in the main plaza, where we didn’t realize there would be live music/dancing show. Before the show began, the lead guitarist/vocalist asked each table of people where they were from (in Spanish), “De donde son?”. When he arrived at our table, the inquiry was in English, “Where are you from?” Frustrating but comical: can’t blend in as locals when traveling with a pelirroja (redhead) like Kristin! Drowned our sorrows in two bottles of the sweet desert wine (eek) and later indulged in ice cream and more wine with the guys that worked at our hostel (who also informed us that it would take around 20 years to reach a point of Spanish fluency anywhere near to that of our English. Ugh. But true.)
Day 6: Woke up literally 2 hours after returning home from the bar with the hostel workers to catch a bus to Jujuy (region north of Salta). Ended up traveling way farther north than originally anticipated, and after 8 hours (slept the whole way) we found ourselves in the town of Humahuaca. Fell in love with the peaceful atmosphere of our hostel, and decided on point to spend 3 nights instead of the originally planned one night there. Enjoyed our first showers in approx. 72 hours and embraced the momentarily warm weather by walking around barefoot outside.
Met some tight guys, Nick and Worth, from North Carolina (both starting college this fall, so Amanda’s age), and ended up going out to dinner with them later that night after buying more sweaters and scarves made out of alpaca fur than we could imagine. Ate dinner at a restaurant called Casa Vieja, where the waitress seemed to hate us for no apparent reason and jipped us of our dessert (gave us dessert menus and then when we were ready to order, told us the restaurant was closing and we couldn’t have any. Puta.),so we stepped into the next open restaurant we could find and ordered 2 portions of flan w/ dulce de leche to share amongst the five of us. Decided two portions were not quite satisfying enough, and so ordered four more plates of it (cleaned the restaurant of their flan supply) and ate every last bite. A-MA-ZING.
Day 7: Opted out of plans to awake early and go south to Tilcara for the day, and instead spent all day bumming around the hostel reading/writing/eating. Had one of the more interesting experiences of my life on this day, and am still not quite sure what to think of it. T, K, and I decided to take the morning to ourselves (a bit of alone time was needed after spending 6 straight days with each other), and so I headed into town with book and sketchpad under arm. I situated myself on one of the sixty stone steps leading up to a huge monument, but looked in the direction opposite of the impressing statue and instead tried to capture on sketchpad the scene of the local artisan fair before me. Mid-drawing, I was approached by two 9-year-old kids who were curious as to what I was doing. I instinctively dismissed them as beggers and slyly secured the partially-unzipped compartments of my backpack, however I soon discovered that they were harmless, and we enjoyed a short conversation and language lesson (I learned local words for “dog” and “grandma,” and taught the boys “hello,” “bye=bye,” and “puppy” (“dog” proved too difficult for them to pronounce). Although this was an interesting experience, it was not the interesting experience to which I earlier referred. That came next.
After reading a chapter of The Zookeeper’s Wife in the sun right outside the main plaza, I went to the Folklore Museum where I enjoyed a tour given by a kindly looking old man. The other tourists were a family from BsAs, who kindly helped me with translations when I didn’t understand. When the tour was over, I stuck around for a couple minutes to ask our tour-guide to clarify a couple points I hadn’t completely understood. He elaborated, and then asked me some questions about myself and my life. I was mid-response on “What kind of work does you father do?” when he abruptly grabbed hold of my arm, looked me in the face, and informed me that I had a “gran pena” (“significant troubles”) that needed resolving. He then said, “Mi padre me enseño como conocer a la gente” (“My father taught me how to know people,” if my translation is correct). He then told me he had a gift for me and led me back into the final room where the tour had just finished. He retrieved a small leather pouch from behind some other objects on a bookshelf and procured a small white stone with a gold center, which he placed into my palm and closed my fingers around. He then embraced me in a hug, stroked my hair, and trembled a little all while murmuring stuff in Spanish. I wasn’t quite sure what to do, but figured he was solving my “gran pena,” whatever it was. He then told me then that I was “very intelligent, but too sensitive.” My first reaction when this was over was, “Sweet! I just got cured of something by a witch-doctor sort of figure.” But was confused by his subsequent invitation to join him for dinner that night. I played neutral, and said I was here with two friends, one of whom was sick and might need my help tonight. After he gave me a pamphlet of poetry he had written, which had his website and contact info on the front, I bid him adieu and walked quickly back through town and over the river to our hostel on the skirts of town.
In the hostel, I found Tara taking advantage of the 1-peso-per-half-hour Internet, explained what had just happened, and tried to portray the urgency of needing to look up online more about the strange man I had just met. At this point, I was still contemplating whether or not to go back and join him for dinner tonight—the invitation seemed a bit weird, but I also didn’t want to later kick myself for not having taken advantage of a great cultural opportunity. In our Internet search, we discovered that the man was a very distinguished man in the area—author of 14 books about indigenous culture, had been a professor of indigenous language Quechua at a university in BsAs, was owner and founder of the museum I had just visited, etc. Seemed legit. Later asked the man who owned the hostel whom we had grown to trust throughout the past few days, Ruben, what he thought about the man. I could tell he was answering the question carefully. He spoke slowly and seemed to pick his words with utmost care and consideration. Basically, he informed us that this man, although very renowned and distinguished renown in his areas of study, is not a good man, and not well-liked by the local people of Humahuaca. He informed me that the invitation to dinner was probably an invitation to more than dinner, if you know what I mean. He shared with us a quote that translated more or less to, “He speaks of the indigenous people, but not to them,” as a means of illustrating his attitude toward locals and how he doesn’t allow anyone but people from outlying provinces into his museum. I was very glad I talked to Ruben about my experience, and opted to stay in the hostel that night for dinner. Enjoyed a delicious meal of homemade oatmeal and crackers with honey with Tara and Kristin.
Day 8: Bussed 3 hours north to small town of Iruya for the day. Dustiest, most uncomfortable bus ride I have ever experienced, but quite a kick. Marveled at how the buses still manage to function after traveling continuously upon roads barely-paved. Iruya is just below the Bolivian border, and is a town sandwiched in the valley between rock walls a thousand feet high. Absolutely breathtaking. Peaceful and quite. Enjoyed a short hike up to a lookout point, during which we stumbled upon horses and the outdoor recreation area of a school.
We walked down some steps leading to its basketball court and again couldn't believe what we saw…2 sides of the court were completely surrounded by chain-link fences, separating the court from the drop-offs below…surrounded by distant huge towering rock walls…echo-y, eerie feel. Very cool. Supported the local economy by buying peace sign earrings from a girl about my age, who kept saying “paz y amor, paz y amor” (peace and love), then somehow survived the 3 hour bus ride back to Humahuaca.Back at the hostel, we found our usually-peaceful lobby now filled with 14 high school-aged kids from England who had just completed eight full days of backpacking throughout the northwest. Later discovered that their expedition leader was to be sharing the upstairs portion of our room that night. Our reaction can be deduced a brief description of this guy. [Name: Simon. Physical appearance: fit, blonde hair, piercing blue eyes. Profession: outdoor excursion leader by summer, teacher by other seasons. Professor by other seasons. Subject taught? Biochemistry, at a university in London. Age? Twenty-five.] Needless to say, we felt a bit unaccomplished after speaking with him. But very thankful that the gods seemed to be smiling upon us and endlessly casting attractive gentlemen in our path throughout the trip, for earlier we had met in the hostel lobby a very nice guy from BsAs and his dad and brother, who played guitar/sang for us (Jason Mraz, mom!) and later invited us to play “The General is Coming” (Yahtzee) with them.
Also, necessary to mention: Kristin and I discovered a delicious alternative to peanut butter/banana/honey sandwiches! Mixed bananas, honey, dry oatmeal, and finely-chopped peanuts in a bowl and then scooped the mixture onto crackers...DE-LISH. Shared it with the Argentine family we met, and think they thought we were a bit loco.
Day 9: Chilled in the morning, collected our freshly cleaned, sun-dried laundry, and packed for the journey back to Salta before flying home out of the Salta airport back to BsAs. We were all very ready to go back home after so much time spent traveling. I read outside in the sun, alternating between The Zookeeper’s Wife and El Leon, La Bruja, y El Ropero (The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe—in Spanish). Met some cool kids from France on the five hour bus ride, and enjoyed sitting with Kristin up at the very front of the bus on the second level, where we embraced the beautiful views of the country out of the front and side windows…reminded me of being on the ride Soarin’ over California at Disney’s California Adventures theme park. Upon arrival in Salta, enjoyed a final dinner and exchanged gifts with the hostel owners (they gave us CDs with their music for a sketch of the hostel I drew for them), and then went to bed.
Day 10: Went to airport to fly back home to BsAs.
Throughout the trip, Kristin, Tara, and I continuously reflected about how amazing our trip had been. Literally, nothing went wrong. I have never been on a trip that went so smoothly. We had zero hick-ups, except for Kristin struggling a little with mysterious and recurrent food poisoning. Met the coolest people in the world, and decided that hostels are some of the most interesting places on the planet. Met people from all over the (developed?) world: France, the Netherlands, Belgium, Spain, Australia, New Zealand, other parts of the states, etc. (none from Africa, Asia, or the Middle East). Everyone we met had interesting travel stories to share, or interesting perspectives to offer. Sooo much fun. K, T, and I have resolved to spend at least one night upon returning back to UCLA in the hostel in Santa Monica, just for kicks. Perhaps we’ll even seek out part-time employment? Also, we are planning on buying a Lonely Planet guidebook to Los Angeles (after seeing one in a bookstore here) so we can explore our own city, which is a travel destination for so many others.
Wheeeeeeeeeew that was a lot of writing. If you made it to the end of this, congratulations, you now know way more about minute details of my travels than you probably ever wanted to know! 3,628 words, really? Why is it so much more difficult to reach that word count when writing school papers?
Love to all,
Allison
