The Argentinian Northwest

The trip to the Northwest went pretty much exactly as planned. Yes, I have been trying to be spontaneous while in South America, but this was short trip, and I give myself credit just for doing it.

It was 6:44pm when I got out of the taxi at the Salta bus station, quickly learning that the next bus to Jujuy left at 6:45. Fortunately the guy at the ticket window did whatever it is they do extremely fast and I made the bus with not 30 seconds to spare, and arrived in Jujuy by 9pm.

Jujuy is the province to the north of Salta, one step closer to the Andes and Bolivia and the small towns I had hoped to visit. The plan was to go back to Salta, after exploring the far North, so I was glad to get to Jujuy so quickly and smoothly. I checked into the local Hostelling International hostel, which wasn’t great, but only had about 10 guests for about 100 available beds. (Side note: this was the first trip I made without any advance hostel reservations; though not for lack of trying, everywhere I called assured me it really wouldn’t be a problem to just show up.)

Tuesday morning I woke up and walked over to the Avis office, where after a brief moment of panic that my lack of an international license would prevent me from renting, I walked out with the keys to a compact, manual-transmission Chevrolet. The first obstacle was the garage’s exit ramp, which seemed like a 30-degree incline, although with a running start I magically made it up without stalling. Then it was the open road of Ruta Nacional 9, and onward through the mountains towards, but not quite to, Bolivia.

I ultimately visited four towns and put 385 kilometers on the car. The whole route is along the Quedabra de Humuhuaca, basically a valley with interesting geological formations. The area is reminiscent of Arizona, although the culture is significantly more indigenous—a quality that has been somewhat fetishized by the tourists, and exploited by the local entrepreneurs.

Purmamarca, the first town I visited, is known for its cerro (hill) de 7 colores, and the town seemed to be thriving on tourism with a giant flea market in the central plaza. The cerro was cool looking, although I had a hard time counting all 7 colors. Next I plowed ahead to the furthest town, Humuahuaca, where I had lunch in a quiet hole in the wall filled with local men (not one woman out of about 15 people). I drove a little further, hoping to check out Iruya, a town that Lonely Planet called “magical”, but was dismayed to see the poor condition of the gravel road that, after 52 grueling kilometers, would have either have killed my tiny car or lasted until sunset.

It was around 2pm when I turned back, giving me time to stop at Uquia (oo-KEE-ah) and later, Tilcara. Uquia was a really small place, only earning a spot on the map on account of its chapel, which was filled with paintings of Christian saints holding guns. Apparently, these paintings were placed here by missionaries hoping to assure converts that even the Saints, with all of their faith, were still warriors who knew how to protect themselves not just in the hereafter but in the now, as well.

The chapel and town square was the closest part of town to Highway 9, although something about this tiny town seemed intriguing, so I drove past the church up a gravel road, and after two blocks I ran into the town’s only restaurant. I went in for coffee and a tamale, and was impressed by the incredible care with which the restaurant was decorated. I asked the proprietor if they received lots of tourists, only to learn that they cater to tour companies and a group of 45 people had left not half an hour before I showed up.

I ended up talking to the owners, a married couple, for about 45 minutes. They had a really interesting story: she was from Buenos Aires but he was from Uquia, and they met while he was working in the capital for Exxon. He must have been fairly successful in the oil industry, because after his retirement he traveled the world studying organic farming and cooking methods, and then three years ago they moved back to Uquia together to open this restaurant. They grow all of their own produce organically, own a farm outside of the city, and sell marmalades and liqueurs. I thought about buying a squash marmalade, but after a free taste of their coffee liqueur I opted for a small bottle of that, instead.

After leaving Uquia it was 5pm and I only stayed for a little while in Tilcara, my last stop. Tilcara is the most developed of the towns and the only with 3- and higher star hotels, in addition to internet cafes.

After dropping the car off the Avis guy graciously drove me to the bus station so I could head back to Salta, and by 11pm I had checked into the hostel. I was staying in a dormitory room with three girls from France, and upon entering they apologized in advance for their alarm clocks which would be going off early the next day.

“That’s funny,” I said. “What are you getting up for at 6am?”

It turns out they had the same plan I did, to take the 16-hour scenic Tren a las Nubes. I couldn’t believe my luck to find friends to share the journey with before even arriving at the station, and was even more relieved at 6:30am when I realized that we were the only people there below the age of 40.

The train left promptly at 7:05am, and shortly after I began to panic. Firstly, I hadn’t been able to change my seat and was separated from the girls by an entire car. Then the empty seat next to me was filled by a man reeking of alcohol who immediately reclined and closed his eyes. Then I began to worry if I would possibly starve to death, as only a light breakfast and lunch would be served, and all other food would cost money. Not having time to stop at an ATM, I was left with only 50 pesos (less than 20 USD) and was sure I wouldn’t be able to afford anything more than crackers in the onboard bar/restaurant. I started hoping that I would survive the day.

Ultimately, my fears were unfounded, and I ended up enjoying the trip. About an hour into it I found the girls, sitting facing each other in a cluster of four seats, the fourth of which was empty. They invited me to sit down, and there I stayed for the next 15 hours. Food, too, wasn’t a problem, when an afternoon stop included locals selling empanadas (10 pesos the dozen) and sandwiches (3 pesos).

Matters of survival aside, the train was a unique experience. I’m not sure if I would use other adjectives (more laudatory words don’t seem to fit), but ‘unique’ was enough, and I’m glad I went. There were many times when you could lean out of the open windows and see nothing but the train, and mountains, with an accompaniment of llamas or cacti. So alone were we, that when I was wondering why we needed onboard security, it occurred to me that it wasn’t beyond the realm of feasibility to be held up, like in a bad Western, by bandits hoping to steal the wealthy tourists’ wallets.

The “climax” of the trip is a bridge over a wide gorge, built in the 1930’s. It’s impressive, although hardly the point of the trip, with the sheer experience of the train ride just as mystifying as the train’s destination. With spirals and zig-zags, the track is an engineering triumph. The train manages to climb higher than any other in the world without the use of cogs, eventually reaching 4200 meters (just shy of 14,000 feet) in altitude.

After a deserving night’s sleep, Thursday morning was for Salta, before boarding a bus for another long ride back to Buenos Aires. Salta is a nice town, and clearly has put a lot of money into making itself a tourist destination. The center of the city has a beautiful square, with colonial style architecture of the surrounding buildings giving it a very Old World feel.

Arguably the most popular attraction of the city is in this square, the Anthropology Museum of the High Mountains. Here they tell the story of the short-lived but far-reaching Inca Empire, which covered a huge portion of South America right up until the Spanish colonization. The main topic in the museum, however, is the Inca’s ritual sacrifice of children. Three children left to die on the top of a 16,000-foot volcano, and well-preserved by the elements, were brought to the museum and kept frozen and maintained. One of these bodies, on a rotating basis, is on display in a special see-through tank. The display is obviously highly controversial, but culminates a riveting story in a well-done museum.

The last part of my trip was another voyage, this time on a bus, for the 18-hour trip back down to Buenos Aires. The trip was easy, if not enjoyable, and a far cry from what you may expect if you’ve ever ridden Greyhound. I was in Executive class, the second highest, with only “Suite” class more expensive (with fully flat seats). The seats are in a 2-1 layout, so I had no one next to me, and recline about 160-degrees. A bus attendant serves crappy coffee as you board, and movies are shown on flat-screen TV’s. Dinner and breakfast, although almost inedible, are served, along with free wine and a nightcap of your liqueur of choice. All in all, Argentina has really figured out how to do long distance bus travel.