Cafayate y La Quebrada de las Conchas

Some ways south of Salta, we are on a little two-lane country highway, Ruta 68, traveling down the middle of a broad, fertile valley, the Lerma. This road runs parallel to lines of dark green mountains on either side. Wide rocky rivers, muddy braided channels snaking through, little country towns where the traffic slows to a crawl. This green is medicine for my long-dry eyes. Deciduous trees, corn fields, cattle pasture, all of it very familiar. This valley could be Virginia or Vermont, and the mountains my own Blue Ridge, though these are a bit more rugged, more like the Rockies in form if not in size.

I left Salta today in early afternoon on this Flechabus, my first single-level bus in a while. On the ride I realized I left that city in much better shape than when I found it. This could be a good measure of a place: at the end of your time there, what condition are you in? Despite spending much of my day yesterday walking concrete sidewalks and up and down a small mountain, my Achilles is much better, and my general physical/emotional/psychological state is much improved. I really, really liked Salta and I feel infused with the good vibes of the place and the people I met there. I don’t know that I’ll ever see any of them again, Jorge or Candela or Hiroko or Ragal, but I’ll take a little bit of their spirits with me.

Gracias a Salta. Salta la Linda, they call it, and I see why. I wasn’t ready to leave, but last night I felt enough energy to get back on the road. I was in a slightly manic state after a good day, which might have had something to do with drinking yerba mate for about my first eight waking hours, followed by a good night where I doubled my money at a casino. We’re only talking about being ahead the equivalent of twenty dollars, but that’s significant for a person sitting on my rapidly diminishing funds. With Argentinian prices, which appear to be very affordable with the exception of transportation, that’s a day. I won myself an extra day in Argentina. So I was on a little bit of a gamblers-travelers high, and walking by the bus terminal I decided to take my winnings and buy a ticket for the next day. Put my chips on black and let it ride.

My time is also short. It is halfway through the month of March, and I need to be working in Montevideo April 1st. If I’m not, it will be very hard to get a teaching job in the middle of the month, and I don’t have the margin for error to stay in an expensive town for a month without working. Even if I didn’t need to start working, my friends Clint & Lili happen to be coming to that city the first week of April, carrying a small suitcase of my belongings, including my laptop, and I both want and need to meet up with them. So I intend to be in Uruguay within ten days, and I still have a long way to go. A thousand miles from Salta to Buenos Aires, and then a boat crossing over the Rio de La Plata. Argentina is a big country, and the distances between places are significant.

We have stopped at a little hamlet called Talampala on the side of the road. An old yellow capilla, an empanada restaurant, a couple houses, dogs wandering around begging. The valley has narrowed here, mountains closer on either side, vegetation drier and more scrubby, more Montana than Vermont, but no less charming. This stop has been a perfect amount of time to use the bathroom, have a smoke, drink some mate cocido from my thermos, order and eat three empanadas, and take some pictures of the surroundings.

The empanadas, like the ones I got yesterday in Salta, are small and thin-crusted. Called simply de carne — none of this cut-with-a-knife elaboration — these contained mostly cubed potatoes, with a little bit of minced meat and egg. Three for forty five pesos, about a dollar. I’ll take it, and my belly is happy. This trip is relatively short, four hours, but nothing is rushed in this country, so we still got a nice, almost thirty minute pausa, and no one seems anxious to get back on the road.

A little farther south we have come to the desert, a still-green desert, but wiry trees, cacti and rocky cliffs. Somewhere along the way we imperceptibly left el Valle Lerma and crossed into La Quebrada de las Conchas. The first part of the name is an interesting word that I haven’t seen much. It usually means broken, from quebrar — to break — but here it means something like ravine or canyon or simply, a stream — a “break” in the surface of the earth. What it looks like is a wide, dry red river valley with cliffs and mountains on either side, in the center this ribbon of green, willow-like trees and grasses along a modest but vital river. The second part, the conchas, is about shells. I don’t see any of those.

There are absolutely astounding vistas, all kinds of geologic features, and I am glued to my window for the rest of the ride. Watching the view go by is better than most movies. I absolutely have to come back here while I am in Cafayate. Somehow three hours on a bus have taken me from Vermont to Utah.

✦✦

Nighttime, waiting for my dinner sitting at a sidewalk table in front of Restaurante El Hornito, the little oven. A no frills patriotic nostalgic Argentine place, adobe walls with a gaucho theme. Long rustic wooden tables, wooden benches, a few blocks on a side street from the plaza. Next to me on the street are these big stainless steel ovens on rollers in which are baked trays of empanadas, and their radiant heat cuts the chill of the desert night. We are a week away from fall on the calendar of the southern hemisphere, and up here you can feel it. What a mystery, fall. I didn’t have onelast year.

I’ve ordered a tarta de verdura, which seems to be similar to the pastel de acelga — chard pie — I know from Perú. This could perhaps sound unappealing but can be fantastic. Like a quiche with a top crust and without all the eggs, a filling like what you might find in a spinach calzone. I’ve also ordered two empanadas de carne. All food items shall be wrapped in dough! And being that this is wine country, I ordered a quarter-liter of wine which came in a metal carafe. No frills. I love that they will sell you a quarter liter, a half liter or a liter of wine. This is a local white, Torrontes, a varietal primarily grown right here, and likely the dregs as it’s the house white wine. But they are local dregs, and that goes a long way.

I came into Cafayate — which because Argentina is said ca-fa-sha-tay — around five o’clock, a quaint little dusty town in the the valley that opens up beyond the quebrada. A striking place at first look, stepping off the bus a little ways out of town. Rugged mountains above grapevines stretching to the horizon, a town made of adobe and concrete painted to look like it. A wide green plaza, just as big as Salta’s, though this town is a fraction of the size, a simple church in earth tones. It’s definitely touristic as these things go, but not in any way overrun. I’d say there are five locals to every tourist, and most of these are Argentinos. Lots of people drinking mate, some drinking wine.

After an evening tour of various hostels, I ended up at La Casa de Árbol, with a bed in a dorm room with only one other person. There’s a nice shaded patio in the back, and I took my guitar out there and played some quiet music so as not to disturb the other guests.

Something I like about Argentina — another thing, as there is much to like— is that dinner is a thing here. And especially late dinners, which suit my nocturnal patterns perfectly. It’s almost ten at night and all the outside tables are taken at this restaurant with people eating and drinking; half the inside tables are full. This is as opposed to Colombia, Ecuador and Perú, where the majority of restaurants don’t serve dinner at all, and the ones that do are closed by eight o’clock. My waiter, who is in charge of the streetside empanada ovens in addition to table service, plus making deliveries on his moto, is working hard, likely for very little in the way of tips. I’m glad not to be a waiter anymore.

✦✦

My third night in this little tourist-wine-desert town. I like it here. I find myself drinking wine every night. It’s cheaper by the ounce — or here, by the milliliter — than any other beverage, and it’s interesting to me how much my tastes are affected by place and culture. There is plenty of drinking in Perú, but for some reason it didn’t make much sense to me there, and alcohol sort of dwindled out of my existence. Here in Argentina, drinking, and especially wine, make more sense, at least while I’m traveling. Tonight, here at La Casa de las Empanadas, I am on my second ceramic flask of a local malbec. It’s sixty-five pesos, roughly a dollar fifty, for a quarter liter, and not bad at all.

I ordered six empanadas on the recommendation of the waiter — he advised that it was el minimo — and it turned out to be about the right amount. Each one had a different filling. They were a little blackened in spots outside, but I just thought of them as smoky as I savored each one, not knowing which kind it was going to be until I’d take a bite. The best were the Don Coro: blue, parmesan and mozzarella cheeses, white and red onions; and the Calabresa: salame, green olives and cheese. From the sound of it, you might take this to be some kind of a foodie-fusion empanada place, but it is as rustic as can be, almost all local people. In keeping with the Argentino lifestyle, they don’t start serving dinner until eight-thirty. I came at eight and they weren’t open yet, so I walked slowly around the plaza, by the packed standing-room-only church, past all the cafés with heartfelt singers of musica folklórica, came back and they were open.

The last two days have been very similar in their form. Sleeping in to sleep off the wine of the night before: however much sense it might make, I am not in any way accustomed to drinking wine. In Perú it was neither cheap nor good, and usually ultra-sweet. Next came the hostel breakfast: tortillas, which here are some kind of layered pastry, like scones; served with white butter and pear marmelada. Then drinking yerba mate with Argentinos, talking about the good things to do around here. Lingering on the garden patio, writing about Chile under the shade of old grape vines across the trellis roof, not eager to contend with the midday desert heat.

Yesterday I got out of the hostel around two thirty, walked out of town over the dried-up Rio Esteco to the crossroads of Rutas 40 and 68 to try to catch a ride out to the quebrada. Waited forty five minutes before a tan Toyota Hi-Lux pulled over. This vehicle is apparently the best selling one in Argentina, and maybe in Chile too, a sort of car-truck thing like an El Camino. I suspect they would be wildly popular in the states if they were only sold there.

The friendly couple who had stopped for me were going out to the quebrada to do some mountain biking, their bikes strapped down to the bed in back. I was grateful for the ride and happy to get off the dusty side of the road, and thanked them with heart. They were Ricardo, a man in his late 40s, and Laura — pronounced Lao-ra — both from Tucumán, the next big city south from Salta and likely my next stop. They turned out not to be a couple at all — though there seemed to be some chemistry between them — Ricardo is married to Laura’s sister. The wife/sister is a professional violinist, and was playing that afternoon at a wedding at one of the bodegas, what they call the wineries here. They had come along for the weekend to enjoy the surroundings.

Ricardo is a systems engineer by training, but works managing the construction of condos in the suburbs, and Laura works at a university in some kind of administration. When speaking to me they spoke clearly, though to each other I could only understand half. Such is the difference between knowing something of a language and fluency. As a language teacher, I appreciated their modified speech, and we talked most of the way out along the canyon. Ricardo kept criticizing Laura’s driving, telling her she needed to downshift going up a hill. She was learning to drive a manual, and this was his car, but she didn’t appear to be taking his advice.

This was my second time riding through this terrain: red hills, byzantine rock formations, grey river banked in green through desert. Perhaps it looked even better the second time. The start of their ride turned out to be exactly where I wanted to begin my explorations, La Garganta del Diablo — throat of the devil — the same name as the slot canyon I’d explored outside San Pedro in Chile. This was the first main site of the quebrada coming south from Salta. Ricardo said that if they saw me on the way back they’d give me a ride, I thanked them again, and they set off on bikes. I sat down on a boulder to look out over the valley before me, the first time I’d looked at it from a stationary view.

I walked up into the Garganta, this narrow, inclined canyon carved straight out of the red rock. It was singular, this hike, all twenty foot domes of smooth stone, mostly scrambling. I went in at the same time as a tour group of ten or so Argentinos of all ages, probably a family, but quickly left them behind. They had grannies and overweight people, and were constantly stopping for selfies. After fifteen minutes I was at the top of the trail, which ended abruptly along with the canyon, a sheer two hundred foot wall of curving, striated layers of rock. To go on from here would require ropes. The tour group caught up with me before long, more selfies, a little boy calling out Eco…eco…, sharing snacks and fruit, but I outlasted them and had the place to myself again.

Ate my jamon crudo sandwich and drank mate cocido from a thermos, savoring the refuge, quiet and shade of this strange beautiful hole in the world. Couldn’t understand why they needed to bring El Diablo into it. Walked out into the sun, still hot at five o’clock, down and south along Ruta 68, river below me to my right, red hills to my left. Three kilometers or so walking the white line on the side of the road like a tightrope, the occasional car passing, vultures soaring high above on invisible heat layers, I came to El Anfiteatro, the next site. This was another hole in the rock leading away from the river, with more cars in the parking lot here.

A short trail led into a narrow opening a hundred fifty feet tall, a sign at the entrance saying this was a sacred meeting place for the Diaguita people native to this land, a central point of their cosmovisión. It was easy to see why, as inside it opened up to a vast room with sheer cascading walls of red rock. Just inside the entrance, tucked into an alcove in the wall, a long-haired indigenous man was playing a siku pan flute and accompanying himself on a little mandolin-type instrument. The sound took me straight back to Perú, and from his face and the sound I grasped immediately that this land was part of the Andean culture I’d spent over a year in.

An amazing space, a hundred feet wide and round and open to the sky. Acoustics to die for. Julian in Iquique had told me about this place, told me to bring my guitar. I wished I had, but was also delighted to listen to this man play the sound of the place rather than bring my own. Walked to the back of the room and sat down, leaning against the back wall. Tourists came and went, and I realized that because of the slight rise in the sand floor, I was invisible to them. Sipped my mate and enjoyed the hell out of the music, much of which reminded me of Perú, Andean-Spanish music. But one, which I recognized instantly as House of the Rising Sun, took me farther back, all the way to New Orleans, to the street in Chile where Emily and I played that song— she does a great rendition — and Perú again. It had been the second to last song we did at our last show at Chaqchao. Spun me around and around the room. Cosmovisión, indeed.

I listened to a dozen songs and felt lucky to be there at that moment. When I walked out I gave the guy fifty pesos and said gracias por la musica, did he play here everyday? and he said that usually there were other musicians. Vives por aqui? and he said, yes, the building in front. I’d passed a little stone, shed-like shack on my way in, had thought nothing of it, but that was his home. I asked if he had played House of the Rising Sun — saying the name in English — and he said he had. También toco esa canción, I said, y vivía en Nueva Orleans. He smiled and nodded, and I said Ciao. As I was walking out he still hadn’t started his next song, and I started singing, loud, which I had wanted to do the whole time. This place practically begged music from you. “There issss a house, in New Or-leans…” and he started playing it again. On my way out, I sang the whole first verse, the sound of his music more distant with every step.

Outside it was getting dusky and I started down the road towards the next spot, Tres Cruces, six kilometers on the way back to Cafayate. I realized I probably wasn’t going to see it, but it was the right direction either way. After a while I saw Ricardo and Laura in their lycra suits and helmets flying down the road and she yelled out ¡Nos Vemos! as they passed. I kept on along the dusty road, seduced by the panoramas around me rivaling the most dramatic vistas of Utah, and half an hour a car pulled up behind me. It was them, perhaps the only people who would pick me up out here before dark. I wanted to stay out here on the road in the magic hour, but I knew I needed to take this ride, so I got in. Muchas gracias por parar! I said, otra vez. They were sweet.

We didn’t talk much, the way it often is on the way back from a day’s outing. Ricardo had stopped criticizing her driving, but would give her long suggestive looks from time to time and she’d shake her head. We stopped a couple times at scenic overlooks to take photos. I’ve been taking pictures of of roads and mountains and trees and rivers for a year and a half, it was hard to believe how stunning these landscapes before us were. I expressed to them how lucky they were to live a few hours from here, and they agreed. A treasure, Laura said.

Back in town, they stopped at their hotel, just outside the plaza, and I thanked them and shook their hands. I was hungry and sat down at one of the many cafes on the street. Got a bowl of carbonada, a hearty brown stew with corn, called here choclo like in Perú, rice, red pepper, zucchini and beef, with a little lake of melted cheese on top. Just what I needed.

Came back to the hostel with a cheap bottle of red wine, planning to watch the Warriors play the Thunder on my laptop. They were without Kevin Durant, possibly their best player, but sometimes they play better and freer without him. While he is inarguably an all-time great, and I like him, I won’t be distraught if he leaves in free agency this summer, as most of the pundits expect him to. I honestly prefer the Steph Curry — Klay Thompson — Splash brothers — whipping the ball around — Steve Kerr dream style of basketball that won them their first championship, and came within a minute of winning a second.

The Dubs came out fierce, Draymond and Klay and Iguodala playing swarming defense, forcing Russell Westbrook into a 2–15 shooting night and Paul George 7–20. The wifi worked well enough, and it was lovely just to sit on this vine-covered patio, drink local wine and watch a game which was never close. Sometimes it’s just The Warriors Show, and this was one of those times. It’s one of my favorite shows to watch.

After midnight the young owner of the hostel, from Buenos Aires, came home from a night out. In fact he was still in the midst of a photography gig at a bar, taking pictures for hire of tourists, and was just back to roll a joint. He sat down to watch the game with me — I am finally in a country where people like basketball. We talked about Manu Ginobili, how he is un poco famoso in my country, how I once served him a plate of pasta as a server in New Orleans, and Manu had said it reminded him of his nonna. He loved this. We talked about the Spurs and the Kobe-Shaq Lakers, about my Warriors. The game ended and we shared stories about living in and getting out of expensive cities, San Francisco and Buenos Aires, respectively, and he told me how he’d started a hostel. He loves it, always meeting new people, showing them the hospitality of Argentina, and he has a great comfortable vibe here.

Then his friend, who appears to be staying at the hostel indefinitely, living in my dorm room, came in and joined in on the conversation. The joint which had been resting on the table was sparked and passed around. They explained that they make videos, short one minute youtube travelogues. Unlugar unminuto is the concept, and the name of their channel. When I told them I had worked in film as an editor, they got very excited and wanted to show me a bunch of videos they’d published or were working on for feedback.

The videos were decent, interesting, pretty shots, pleasant and even stirring acoustic guitar, but the editing was very repetitive. All the clips were about the same length, a couple seconds each. After a little while all the footage and places started to run together. I told them that as soon as our brains figure out the formula of something, we start to tune out. If we know what’s coming, we don’t have to watch. You have to change it up and keep the viewer off guard a little bit. It was the first time I’d given video feedback in Spanish. I kept it concrete and simple: pick your favorite five or so clips, and let them play longer. Give some space and variety. They agreed with this suggestion, but said it would be difficult, because then they’d have to cut some things, as if every single image was a precious stone they’d be throwing away. I said that making difficult choices is what editing is about.

They wanted to see some of my stuff, and I showed them a few things I could find online: a trailer for a feature I helped make, a music video. They couldn’t understand the words but were nonetheless moved. I missed having movies to make and work on and live inside. That world seemed very far away, and at the same time I was glad to be in the movie of my life rather than making one.

Today, I rented a mountain bike and rode out in mid-afternoon in the opposite direction as the day before, up towards the hills to the southwest. Steadily climbing four miles on a washboard dirt road, eating the dust of passing motos. At the end of the road was a Diaguita village and the Rio Colorado, a clear little rocky stream. There was a little house, with a man sitting at a table outside. He welcomed me and then proceeded to try and sell me a tour of the first circuit: three waterfalls and a mirador, one hour each way, three hundred and fifty pesos. He said with a serious face, se recomienda una guía.

I had already spent my money on the bike, had seen this movie many times, and wasn’t having it. Muchas gracias, pero no gracias. Es dificil, he said. There is no path; you must cross the river many times. I was unfazed. Resignedly, he suggested una colaboración for his community, to watch my bike: fifty pesos. I handed it over, he gave me some vague directions, and I walked up the little dusty road towards the mountains.

After a little ways I found a confluence of two little rivers, and followed the one to the right, which he’d told me was the Colorado. It turned out there was in fact a path, often one on each side of the river. While it was true that many river crossings were required, there were always enough rocks to hop across, and I never even had to take off my shoes. It was a winding and narrow little canyon, stepping it’s way over boulders up into the mountains. Proud old trees, golden cattail grasses, red rocks to scramble on. A lovely little corner of the earth.

Forty five minutes up, I came to what I decided was the first waterfall, though I’d already passed a dozen small ones. Given that it was late afternoon, I decided this was far enough. Ate my salame and queso sandwich, and soon a tall young man with hair pulled back in a little ponytail came down the trail. I asked him if this was the first waterfall, and how far up the next one was, if it was worth the effort. From his slightly halting Spanish, I could tell he was a foreign tourist, and asked where he was from. Estados Unidos. I smiled, and said podríamos hablar en inglés si queremos — we could speak in English if we wanted to.

His name was Jordan, in his late twenties, and he was from Nederland, Colorado, a place where I’d once spent a winter. He sat down on a stone and we had a good conversation. He’d been traveling three months, from Lima south and east through Perú, then a month in Bolivia. I said it was rare to meet an American in these parts, and he said he’d only met three or four since he left Perú. Lots of Europeans, very few Americans. Now that I thought of it, I don’t know if I’d met a single one in Chile or Argentina, though I had heard some amidst the crowds in San Pedro by their accents, and of course for awhile I was traveling with my friend Emily.

We talked about the places we’d traveled, the state of the states at present, about being in Latin America while our country puts Latino immigrant children in cages. Our accursed president had recently declared a national emergency in order to commandeer billions of dollars to build his white whale of a wall on the Mexican border. We agreed that it wasn’t good. The difference between us was that he was planning to go back in a couple months, to try to buy some land in the Rockies, try to get back with his ex-girlfriend who had left him suddenly last fall. Why, I asked. Why go back? He didn’t have a good answer.

The day was waning, and I said I was going to head down, so we walked back together. He had chacos and just tromped through the river at every crossing, waited for me as I hopped from stone to stone. At the bottom I got on my bike, wished him luck with his travels and the ex-girlfriend and going back, and we said goodbye. He was going to Mendoza next, and I had a feeling I wouldn’t see him again.

✦✦

Later that night, sitting out on the hostel patio, the hostel staff and a couple friends were preparing an asado, which seems to be just about the pinnacle of Argentino social life. A rack of beef ribs, somehow fastened to a metal cross stuck in the ground, leaning over a bed of coals. They were drinking Fernet and Coke out of big cups, the mixed drink of this country, playing Cuban music from a boombox. A good scene. I sat nearby, occasionally joining in on the conversation, but mostly doing my own thing. Then the carne was done and they all went inside to feast. About five minutes later the hostel owner popped his head back out — querés juntar?

I was mostly full from my earlier empanada dinner, but there was no way I was going to turn down an invitation to join my first Argentinian asado. I went in and sat at the table where everyone was eating with their hands, which they assured me was only because they didn’t have enough forks and knives. A couple of steak knives were passed around, the primitive carnal nature of it only added to the ceremony for me, and ribs are good for gnawing on anyway.

All the steak, plus potatoes, onions and carrots, were on a big butcher block in the middle, and there was minimal conversation as the meal was all-consuming. The carne was absolutely delectably delicious, tender and smoky. I thanked them for including me, told them — honestly — that this was the best steak I’d had on my whole journey, and it wasn’t even close. ¡Bienvenido a Argentina! they said.

Afterwards my roommate, the friend of the owner who was helping to make the one-minute videos, got his guitar and told me to get mine. Everyone went out on the patio to listen, and at first it was tentative, him playing quiet blues and me picking along even quieter. Then he asked if I knew any blues, and inspired by the man in el Anfiteatro the day before, I tried my best shot at House of the Rising Sun. It’s a hard song to do justice to, and I could only remember about three verses, but I closed my eyes and tried to channel New Orleans and the 60s and everyone got quiet and clapped at the end. Cantás muy bien, the guy said, and after that he just wanted to quietly pick along. I was honored and played some Dylan and Neil Young and someone requested a CCR song, Bad Moon Rising, which I’d never played before, but I got out my laptop and did my best and they were all very appreciative.

Then it was time for bed for the people who had to work in the morning, and thus quiet time. I didn’t want to stop playing, carried on quietly with a couple picked instrumentals, and the night ended up with the owner wanting to play me traditional Cafayate music off the internet. He told me about Carnival there, said I had to come back to see it, and played me five or so songs. The last one, La Serenata, made him extremely emotional for reasons that were not explained. He started crying, asked me to forgive him with tears running down his face, and went to bed. Music, especially when paired with alcohol, can do that sometimes. And so it was just me still sitting out on the quiet night patio to ponder the night, struck by the spirit of this place, trying somehow to get it down in words.