Argentina.7:La Cabra

Up in Salta, June started just as cold and unforgiving as May had ended. Damn, I thought as I scrambled to get ready for another tour, I wish this country had proper head.

I crammed down another breakfast of medilunas y cafe and got ready just as the guide for our new tour popped his head into our hostel lobby. He came in and chatted with Jessie and Chris in Spanish. "We owe him another 10 pesos," Chris explained. I handed over a bill -- we had realized last night that they had undercharged us but weren't about to mention anything. Turns out they actually check things.

This time we were in a larger bus, filled nearly to the brim with more middle-aged Argentines. Our guide was Claudio, and he went through much the same routine as Eugenia had the same day. He didn't proffer much English, though, and Jessie had to prod him because I was the one in the van who understood virtually no Spanish. Oh well.

We cruised through the Lerma Valley, passing the Western Mountains shrouded in fog. Mist hung in every fold and crevice of the mountains as Claudio explained to us the various sections of jungle we would pass through. Here in the wettest part, the clouds hanging over the humid jungle actually created horizontal rain, ensuring dense vegitation grew below 1500 meters.

The road wound along the side of a canyon, eventually coming to an old iron and wood bridge where we stopped for pictures of the green mountains on either side. Ascending higher, we again passed that point where jungle abruptly thins and turns almost to desert. Claudio explained the coca story, but by now we were experts.

The head of the canyon opened wider to a beautiful valley surrounded by red rock cliffs. Climbing higher, we entered the territory of los cardones and again marveled at the dramatic colors painted on the rocks around us. Unlike the previous day's trip, this time the land was less barren, and it seemed like we were driving through a green-carpeted Grand Canyon.

High up to our left, Claudio pointed out that the canyon rim was prime territory for the Andean condor. We all strained to look, and one of the middle-aged Argentine men spotted one, though it took me a while to understand where it was given that I couldn't understand what he was saying. Just above the rim, though, a bird hung in the air. It didn't look particularly large, but the Andean condor is the largest bird in the Western hemisphere and boasts a wingspan of up to 10 feet.

We climbed higher, entering the section of road called Cuestra del Obispo, or Bishop's Slope, as Claudio translated it. This marvelously mischevious dirt strip includes 214 curves in only 20km. Sitting in the back of the van, our perspective swiveled constantly as we quickly wound our way higher into the mountains.

At the top of the climb we paused for pictures. The massive green slopes around us reminded me of both Scotland and Austria, though nothing prepared me for what we saw next in our first glimpse of Parque Nacional de los Cardones at 3290 meters.

There were no cacti involved in this first glimpse of the park, but living features were supplanted by an incredible geological display. A small valley lay below us, broken in the middle by uplifted rock layers that resembled books lying on their spines. Amidst the surrounding green, these books broke through with deep oranges and reds. To our left, a collection of small goblin-like rocks dotted the far side of the valley.

We drove on to where the park got its name -- a broad valley filled with more cacti in one place than any other in the world, except one in the US (Saguaro National Park, perhaps?)

Passing out of the valley, we got our first glimpse of Nevado de Cachi, a towering mountain that rose to a height of 6749 meters (over 22,400 feet). We pulled off in sight of the mountain at a small roadside stand selling all manner of dried goods. Claudio picked up a bag labeled muna and said simply, "Viagara. I use it myself."

Lacking a particular need for that, I instead bought dried apples, apricots, and what seemed to be giant rasins that tasted vaguely like licorice. We had little need for these snacks, though, as we soon pulled into our destination, the town of Cachi, which means salt in the native Quechua tounge.

"Try the goat," Claudio suggested.

We weren't quite sure what he was talking about, but we followed his gesture to a grill, where a man handed us each a forkful of brown meat. I curiously bit it off the fork, and my mouth danced with pleasure. The meat was tender, juicy, salty, and crispy all at once. It had a skin like duck but an intense flavor.

"Oh my god, I'm having this," Jessie cried.

"So much for the locro," I mused without disappointment.

The goat, it turned out, was served in unlimited portions, and I wrestled with a section of ribs as I washed the meat down with a giant bottle of Fanta. None of us could refuse a second helping, and we all wondered how America had neglected to cook up such a tasty animal.

"The Quechua must consider this a holy animal, because I'm having a religious experience," I announced. Time to add another animal to the list.

Stuffed, we wandered off through the cobbled streets of the town. Chris had run into a guy who had Spanglished with us in the hostel the previous day, so we headed off to his shop. In a small front room he displayed exquisite silver jewelry and paintings of the area, but he wanted to show Chris and I his trade.

The man handed Chris some wire and pieces of silver as he started a gas torch with a foot pump. Holding the silver, Chris looked more than a little confused. "This is the part of the story where Chris loses a finger," I joked.

Outside, we savored the sunlight and relative warmth as we all stripped off layers. I had spent pretty much the entire time since it got cold in Buenos Aires wearing four layers, including a fleece and a wool sweater, and still shivering. This was a welcome change, and Jessie exuberated in the liberty of wearing a t-shirt.

The way back followed the same road and was fairly uneventful, except for two odd sights. To satisfy some photographical desire of one of the Argentines, we stopped along the roadside where pimento peppers were drying and watched a dirt devil swirl in and sweep a number of the deep red peppers upwards.

Later, at a bathroom stop further down the valley, we spotted two black horses galloping down the road. For whatever reason, they were tied together at the neck and had their front legs bound. The ropes did little to slow them down, though, and their animal coordination was extraordinary as they navigated some kind of bizarre three-legged race.

That evening, back in Salta, we debated briefly before settling on a trip the next day to Humahuaca so we could see another UNESCO World Heritage site. Our quest for tamales sent us to El Rey de Bife, and while they were oddly out of tamales we enjoyed empanadas, tortillas, and humitas instead.

The evening ended with one final puzzling incident. I stopped in a pharmacy to buy a small pack of gum and handed the cashier 10 pesos (about $3.) He shook his head and indicated that he wanted smaller change. Legitimately having nothing smaller, I protested. He waved me away and told me just to take the gum.

"What was that all about?" I asked as we left.

"Monetas (coins) are so important here that people will literally rather give you something than give up change," Jessie replied.

"Are you serious?"

"People in Buenos Aires will save their monetas all week so they have enough bus fare."

This was another of the odd aftereffects of the peso crash six years ago. What was even more frustrating for us foreigners was that the ATMs only gave out 100 peso notes, and most places refused to change bills so large. Even the bank wouldn't break one. It became a game of adding up our separate tabs so we could get change in turn.