Arriving in Salta early on a sleepy Sunday morning the streets are deserted, the shops shut, the locals enjoying a lie-in. Our apartment is on the less salbubrious side of town and there is a slightly menacing feel in the air as we drift into town, unable to book in until 3pm. It turns out this is entirely paranoia, and the next day with people milling up and down and the roar of traffic, we cease half-expecting to have our throats slit. The traffic system at junctions is bonkers, whoever gets there first has right of way, until the waiting traffic gets fed up and barges in, waving and shouting.

Our apartment is great. We have a coat rack! A large fridge! An air dryer! Domestic bliss. We have it for a week although we will be spending two nights away, one going South, the other North. The only meds we’ll take away are lomotil, as buses and bowels don’t mix well.

Visit to art museum.

Doorways in Salta.

After lunch we took the cable car up a hill for a view of Salta from above, but we felt hot and tired. We wilted like steamed spinach onto a patch of grass in the shade and then retired down the hill and back to our flat for a siesta. Mad dogs and Englishmen…..

Yesterday we headed south though the Calchaquai Valley, past massive rock formations up to Cafayate, a really sweet little town surrounded by mountains.

In Cafayate Clive booked us into a decent bnb (£22) for the night, right in the central (and only) square

Burra beer – with a kick like a donkey. (8% alcohol).

Clive’s Spanish is opening all kinds of doors. Last night we drank the waiters recommended Malbec which tasted divine, cost 6 quid but sells for 35 in the uk. In Salta a waitress gave us two free glasses of wine because she said most English people don’t speak Spanish. Today we walked just 5km to a local waterfall but my legs told me we are 1700 meters high (Ben Nevis is 1345 m high – which is why this region makes wine – it’s high, sunny, and dry ) and even though we set off early the sun beat down on the dusty road and I walked slower, and slower, and slower. By the time we arrived the cavalry sat by the road, aka Jose, who became our guide.

He was from one of four families living around the mountains who do the guiding. He showed us a tree that makes Mate tea, which Argentinians are obsessed with to the extent they take huge flasks of boiling water even onto planes so they can drink it whenever they want. I bought a mate straw today – like my own personal tea strainer. He held my hand as we climbed up to the waterfall in ever steeper steps, such a sweetie. The price he asked? 4 quid. The thing is the guides get paid in cash, which obviously we added to for a tip. There are queues everywhere for the ATM’s at all times of day – long, long queues, we think because they can only get out 20,000 pesos (20 quid blue rate, 60 red) a day out, and because of inflation everyone wants their money out of the bank (you only need to look at my savings to see that economics is not my strong point so please correct me if I am wrong). So anyone working in an industry that pays cash is at a distinct advantage.

There is no way in a million years we’d have found the waterfalls without Jose, which although minuscule compared to Iguazú, meant we could take a much needed dunk in the icy cold water. This water is channelled into a canal and feeds the town of Calafate.

After trying the wine ice-cream (horrid) we sat waiting for our minibus to return us 200 km back to Salta.

Tomorrow we go North, to the hill of seven colours, lama stew, the salt flats, and Humahuaca, which sounds like a smokers cough.