Standing on the 3,500 meters high salt flats I feel breathless and dizzy, but not as bad as I felt coming over the mountains at 4,500m. It’s reassuring to hear that the 30 year old girl sitting next to me on the bus feels the same and I’m not about to expire from altitude sickness, or at least if I go we’ll go together.
(bottom pic = wizard behind curtain)
Even down at 2,300 m in Purmacarma ( Ben Nevis, my go to bench mark, is 1300 m ) I keep getting sudden attacks of shorthness of breath as my lungs cast far and wide for more oxygen. Climbing up to a viewing platform feels like a HIT session, but once my breathing settles from imminent cardiac arrest to feeling slightly out of puff, the view is guess what? Breathtaking.
If you think 60 is old, try 600 million years, the age of the oldest green/grey tinged layer of rocks making up one of Purmamarca’s renowned hill of seven colours. The air is redolent of wood smoke and incense and muddy roads, which fills me with “the sense of something lost and nearly forgotten.” *
Having been way too hot and hindered by the trousers and jacket I didn’t need in Cafayate, I arrive in the mountains wearing skimpy shorts and a t-shirt. Clocking the ski jackets and long trousers the rest of our bus is wearing when we board in Salta, I should have seen it coming. Who knew it could be cold in the mountains? Everyone but us, clearly. Damn our weather ap.
(A cold me.)
Luckily there is a daily market in the square selling all things alpaca, and we jumper-up before dying of hypothermia.
(Pic – after years of being constrained by the need to dress conservatively for work, Clive pushes his retirement boundaries to the limit with his choice of jumper.)
Our charming Brazillian stallholder, who looks like a louche version of Clint Eastwood, (picture below, our friend, not Clint) invites us to listen to his band that night.
After lama disco (veggies look away now – not a shimmy on down with a lama, but a stew, delicious, tastes like very rich beef) we tip toe up to the the doorway of the bar but lose our nerve; but while scurrying back to our hostel we bump into Clint, who is definitely on something, if not things, and he lures us back to the bar. We pray this isn’t another Istanbul barber moment (long story, but it ended with us sprinting up side streets and wearing disguises for the rest of the holiday). The bar has its fair share of his disciples, all wearing his alpacan cardies, but there are locals here too. The place slowly filled with more and more people, musicians came and went, playing pipes, saxaphones, drums, while the central core of the band sang heavenly argentinian folk on guitars, and everyone except us joined in, and some people danced, in a joyous bubble of merriment and mountainous high jinks.
While up in the mountains we find out more about the Incas, who built an empire similar to the Romans in Europe. Unlike the Spanish who ruled South America through death, destruction and slavery, the Incas conquered through peaceful assimilation; they offered local men women, who would then teach these men their language, religion, culture, and of course, have their babies, so mixing the genes. Only if the locals turned down their offer did they get their heads chopped off. Seems fair.
In a local museum we witness the shocking site of a perfectly preserved, mummified child, buried alive as a sacrifice to their gods. Found by mountaineers in 1999, and initially taken to Cusco in Peru, these three children are now displayed in rotation in a cryofridge. If you’re interested here is a link:
The freezing cold and low oxygen levels preserved their bodies, but together with high levels of alcohol and cocaine found in their hair, meant that they probably died quickly. Let’s hope so.
Tomorrow we are heading for Mendoze, where Clive’s Spanish teacher lives, and one of the main red wine growing regions of Argentina.
*Graham Greene.
Travellinglight 