Cafayate

So here we are in the middle of nowhere.

 

Definition of the middle of nowhere: a day driving dirt roads amongst the deserts and plateaus and forests and Mars-like landscapes of the region of Salta in Argentina.

 

We set out yesterday out of the city of Salta, where we picked up our very questionable rental car (a flashy red Fiat Palio). The fact that there was no downpayment, no truly official contract, and such a very brief revision of the car's iffy state confirmed to us our previous thinkings about South American businesses and the conditions of the roads around the province.  

We left Salta at 10.30 AM, and the first scenery we hit outside of town was luscious green fields, big hills so covered with green trees that you couldn't tell whether there was any green ground beneath them. The cars accompanying us on the road were your classic Argentine beauties: 1970's masterpieces, Fords, Mercedes, Chevrolets. Some cars even had two badges on front, eg Mercedes logo AND a Ford label. Interesting.

 

As we went farther and farther South, the mountains began to climb, and fields were squished into valleys. The road got narrower and narrower, into a slight carving into facade. Fewer and fewer cars marked the road, and next thing we knew, we were in a valley surrounded by mountains thousands of meters tall, green as green gets, with a brown-red river slithering through. Streams would intermittently rush across the road; our little Red Monster did not appreciate this, but kept up. At one point, we got out just to absorb the fresh air after the polluted valley of Salta, and in doing so stepped on a biting ant hill. All part of the nature.

 

The river slowly was dwarfed by gigantic, treeless hills, so tall the clouds ate their summits. Comic cacti lined the horizon. Every so often, the mountains had cracked open, showing incredible red and blue minerals in the rocks, almost as if the earth were bleeding and bruised with nature's roughness.

 

Green got darker, the road steeper and more winding as we inched our way up to the higher part of the region. No more cacti, only green green mountains, so steep, with violently deep cuts from creeks making their way down them. The climb took a couple hours, on dirt road, with cows and sheep crossing from time to time, and many dogs chasing the Red Monster (I can understand, it was a handsome vehicle). Then, through clouds and creeks and fauna, we were at the top. Over 3,000 meters high, with a chapel and a white cross to mark it. As we peeked over the edge, we saw our route snaking its way up, and patted each other on the back for our bravery (or foolishness, whichever).

 

And then we turned around.

 

Mars. People, I tell you, we went to Mars. We had clouds at our back, and what we looked over to was a blue sky engulfing a Martian landscape. The ground was red. There were llamas (OH MY GOODNESS THERE WERE LLAMAS) roaming in their alien-like manner. Rocks jutted out into mountains sporadically, every one a different color, be it blue, red, brown, purple. The road, now Ruta 40 (a road that spans over more than 5,000 kilometers from North to South Argentina, sort of like an unpaved vertical Route 66) was the only sign of human existence. The air was thinner, and the wind whipped our Monster from side to side. The llamas remained unperturbed by the gusts. The sun was fierce, burning anything exposed to a scorched red.

 

We drove down from the plateau into the famous Valles Calchaquìes, which brought all of the above into a beautiful visual symphony: green fields lining the rivers, followed by a layer of desert with barren trees windswept to the side, all surrounded by the most interesting rocks closing in the valley. Colors I have never seen. Formations I have absolutely no explanation for. And all of this, home to delicious wines from the vines growing near the water.

 

As dusk set in, we knew we were behind schedule, and according to the hitchhiker we dropped off in Agnastaco, we knew we had another couple of hours to go to reach Cafayate. Our star driver (in a manual, mind you) zigzagged perfectly on the bumpy roads, until disaster struck: a flat. Dammit. To be honest, it was a miracle that we had lasted that long, but in the dark, we put our emergency lights on, and hoped for the best, despite the fact that in driving five hours from Cachi, we had encountered perhaps 20 cars. Both ways. In the meantime, we fumbled about trying to get our spare out the back, and tried to look like we had a clue.

 

The gods were on our side. It was like a Formula One pit stop; within a couple minutes, Dutch guardian angels landed and within 10 minutes had replaced the tyre. They made us swear to buy them a beer in Cafayate. No problem, man.

 

And through the star-spangled sky we drove.