Cafayate – a desert like no other

After staying in the roach motel in Tucumán and finally shedding the sentiment that accompanies living like a recovering heroin addict, I killed my bus-wait time by catching up with all this online business and making a belated “Happy Mother’s Day” phone call to my mother. I’ve decided that no matter where you go, food-wise, travelling sucks. In the states, it’s gross sandwiches fabricated who-knows-how-many weeks ago with potato chips to compliment the meal. Here, pretty much your only option in bus stations is pre-packaged food. I’m talking Saltines, Oreo’s, cookies… you name it. As long as it can be  artificially  flavored and  persevered, they’ve got it for sale in a South American bus station.

Something that  strikes  me nearly  every time  I get on a bus is the big hurry that all the  buses  seem to be in. I’m not  complaining   but it’s just kind of nerve-wracking to feel the driver shift into gear before the baggage doors are closed. If you’re last on the bus, you better be good at surfing. It’s rough waters all the way back to your seat as the bus lumbers and sways out of the station faster than should be legal. Also, one of my biggest annoyances on the bus is that without fail, whenever I sit next to a male local, he always feels that it`s well within his right to worm his way into my space. Most of them are no bigger than I am, and so can`t pull the “I have long legs” card. It`s just somewhat humiliating to be outright disrespected like that. I know it`s something small, but when I have to hammer my leg against someone else`s just to help them realize that I`m a person and deserve space just as much as they do, it gets frustrating.

Moving on, I really appreciate the perspective I’m gaining while interacting with other travellers. I don’t realize that I’m sheltered in ways I never think to question. My most poignant example comes from casual conversation with Dan and some other Israeli folks I’ve chatted with in my travels. After talking about the skewed perspective that many people have about life in Israel (i.e. many think it’s terrorist central with the kamakazi crazies blowing themselves up at bus stops every 20 minutes), I thought (almost triumphantly, I am embarrassed to admit) that I’d kind of gotten the skinny that most non-Israelis haven`t. I put myself in my place, however, the next day. Dan, Liraz, Onit, and I were at the lake shore talking to the guy who rents out boats when the mid-day siren went off. The other three asked what the noise was all about. Their concerned stemmed from the fact sirens like that are used during war time in Israel to warn everyone to flee to safe houses when an air attack is about to happen.  Whoa. I can’t imagine riding my bike around my neighborhood as an eight-year-old only to hear a siren like that of the Emergency Broadcast System and know it means I have to start  pedaling  furiously for my life. Reality check.

The country-side between Tucumán and Cafayate, at first, was very much like western Oregon. The rivers here are really dry, though. I don’t know if that’s because it’s winter, or if Argentina is having the same poor luck that much of the rest of the world is enduring in terms of precipitation. Once we started gaining elevation outside of Tucumán, the forest gave way to some crazy jungle paradise. It was unbelievable! The trees were so thick, and we followed this fantastic little mountain stream all the way and back down. I couldn’t locate it on a map to figure out what the area was called, but I think it might have been a cloud forest. What do I know, though? I’ll definitely not forget it. The road was really tight and windy… a two lane that shrunk to one in many places and didn’t have a center line for the whole ten hours on the bus. Craziness!
Next, the scenery gave way to something that reminded me very much of north eastern Oregon, or at least the way it looked when Nate and I drove through there in April, and finally we made our way into the prairie/desert that is the soul of Cafayate. I felt like I was on a bus headed for home! Except for the fields of sagebrush sparsely populated by 10-30 ft. tall cacti looking like petrified soldiers with too many arms, I was sure I was in Wyoming.

When we pulled into Cafayate, it was night time. Since I didn`t have a map of the city, I didn`t bother trying to cull a hostel out of my nearly useless Lonely Planet guidebook. The first hostel hawker who approached me was really sweet and cut me an awesome deal on a room. I`ve never stayed so cheaply! Also, I don`t know what happened, but by some miracle, I could understand every single word out of her mouth! In our conversations, she alerted me to two items I tend to forget in all my wandering. First, people often don`t know what to make of me because I travel with such a small pack. I`ve worked my way down to a medium sized purse (donated by Eleanor, along with several other items I now own second hand… thanks dear!) and a school-sized back pack. Since I don`t have the lumbering pack of a trekker, people don`t peg me for a typical tourist. However, I`m also a gringa (white) and my clothes are different enough to keep people from mistaking me for a local. It`s a fun little game for me. Item number two is I forget that I look very young. Ema, the hostel woman three years my senior, was shocked to learn my age and told me she wouldn`t have pegged me for a day over 18. Reminded me that I should be aware of what kinds of consequences this might carry (besides getting carded in the states all the time).

I had met two other solo travellers, Winnie (a Canadian) and Delfin (from Spain), on the bus and got chummy with them. We found some sub-par dinner at a street cafè: pizza with olives and bell peppers. The cheese was un-identifiable, the olives were rotten, and I can`t vouch for the bell peppers because I don`t like them in the first place. We chowed down anyway, and by morning I was no longer harboring the worry that my stomach was going to be torn to shreds. Breakfast, as per the usual, was an egg and some yogurt that I picked up at the mercado across the street. It`s a weird life. You`d think you could just eat in restaurants all the time, but it doesn`t work out like that for two reasons. One, it`s terribly unhealthy. It`s awfully hard to come by anything that isn`t fried and the rolled through the salt bucket. Two, the portions are not what the majority of you (the Americans reading this, at least) are used to. In a restaurant or hostel, “breakfast” is always white bread with jam (butter if you`re lucky), and coffee with milk. You couldn`t find a place serving anything bigger to save your own life. I`ll just cook my own, then, thank you. If I`m going to eat like a bird, I`m going to make it count nutritionally. Okay… food is a pretty boring subject, so never mind about lunch and dinner.

Winnie, Delfin, and I went on a winery tour in the morning to kill time before the Quebranda (desert gorge) tour in the afternoon. If I had thought to get up an hour earlier, I could have done the five hour hike to a waterfall outside town instead. C`est la vie! After this wine tour, I`ve had my fill of bodegas. Although, I must say the wine here is incredible. And disgustingly cheap! A bottle of GOOD wine runs anywhere between $2 and $7. Amazing. If it weren`t for the small pack I mentioned earlier, you could bet your bottom dollar I`d be packing home lots to share. I highly recommend Argentina, even if it`s just for the wine! At the second (of three) bodegas (wineries) that we visited, they were selling cheese, too. They had some for sample with the wine, and it was delicious. And if you`ve spent much time in the kitchen with me, you know what an incredible statement THAT is, because I`m about as close as you can get to hating cheese and still eating it. This stuff was so good that I had the guts to buy a whole package.

After the wine tour, we spent an hour eating white rice, fried chicken, salsa, and white bread at a street cafè. At least it`s cheap, eh? Then, we loaded up into one of the death-trap vehicles that I am becoming surprisingly accustomed to riding around in. Meant for 12 and hauling 15, we headed out for the desert with Pedro, one of the most animated guides I`ve ever seen. The Quebrada de Cafayate was beyond words. It`s miles of giant landforms eroded away by wind and water with colors so variant and plentiful that you can`t keep your eyes still. Everything looms above you, looking deceptively smaller than it is. When you catch sight of a person or a vehicle against the enormous engulfing background, it nearly takes your breath away. Pedro drove us from place to place where we got out and hiked around as he pointed out different plants and landforms. The colors, he says, come from the abundance of metals in the soil there which oxidize as they are exposed. He was also a wealth of knowledge on desert plants, pointing out one especially plentiful bush whose trunk and branches never came in any other color but neon green. Turns out the plant does most of its photosynthesizing in the trunk and branches: cool!

As far as the company for the day, I have to admit there were some issues with a clingy guy from New Zealand. His name is Sam and he looks, acts, and talks just exactly like Napolean Dynamite. He turns what is normally a charming accent into fingernails on a chalkboard. The worst of it was, he decided that I was to be his pal for the day and so followed me practically everywhere. I kept dropping lines about my boyfriend and doing my best to be barely civil in the hopes that he would leave me alone. But, to no avail, I thought I had just escaped him and he`d be right there again. Nonetheless, I was still able to more-than-appreciate the glory of the Quebrada. The last place we went was called “The Ampitheater,” a small canyon, a maximum of 50 ft wide with walls looming well over 270 feet above our heads. Pedro, in his bantering way, sang us an amazing Spanish love song to demonstrate the acoustics from which the place gets his name. He had an incredible voice!

The sun had been sinking in the sky as we made our way to the turn around point on Route 68. Winnie, Delfin, and I all needed to go to Salta, which is farther along the same road, so we had decided earlier in the day to bring all our gear and flag down whatever bus or farmer we might to get us to Salta. Pedro knew the bus schedule and said it was best if we just waited for the bus coming from Cafayate. He stayed with us until it showed up and sent us packing with a smile. What an awesome day!