At the Polo

M told us we'd be going to see some of the best players in the world. I wondered if he'd perhaps meant the best in Argentina. Or maybe – not that I doubted his integrity – this was an example of Argentinian pride. They're famous for it and there's plenty of jokes doing the rounds like:


   How do you recognise an Argentine spy?
   From the sign on his back that says, 'I'm the greatest spy in the world.'

Hence my need to state that we were allegedly going to see the best polo players in the world. This from a person who knows nothing about polo except that Prince Harry plays it. See, reading the magazines at the super market checkout is educational.

Classy Hurlingham Club with it's manicured golf course, pretty gardens and perfect clubhouse is surrounded by a decidedly down market neighbourhood. Most of the streets are unsurfaced and the buildings are only partially built. We stop to ask for directions from people who have most likely never set foot in the club despite living in the suburb named after it. The difference between the rich 30% and poor 70% of the Argentine population is so obvious I feel uncomfortable.

The polo is exciting especially when the game approaches our side and the horses thunder past in hot pursuit of the ball. And he was right when he told us these are some of the best polo players in the world. But mostly we spend the match chatting and drinking mate with M and his wife and their friends who turn up later.

After the match we head back to Buenos Aires for dinner and a stroll around the pretty Puerto Madero. The Santiago Calatrava bridge and surrounding buildings are beautifully lit up and I curse that despite carrying our tripod around for a month I don't have it with me tonight.

We have dinner in a cosy place that specialises in grilled meat, but we make sure to leave space, because tomorrow is Sunday and that's the day when you cook asado.

Buenos Aires

As we reached the outskirts of Buenos Aires, one thought crossed our minds. This place seemed like a normal city. After our jaunt through rural Argentina it was a relief to see billboards, sealed roads and rubbish free verges. Of course the impression of normality didn't last long.

G waited for us at the bus station with our names on a cardboard sign. But it wasn't necessary. As soon as I spotted her I knew it was her, despite never having met. Within a few hours of reaching home we'd been introduced to the whole family and within a few days, we felt like we were part of it.

We were supposed to go to Buenos Aires the following day with G who took on the role of tour guide like an expert. But a man had been shot dead at a railway workers protest the day we arrived. Protests were expected as a result the following day.

By Friday it seemed that tensions had settled, so we headed down the Pan Americana for Capital Federal. Twenty two kilometres out of town we got stuck in a traffic jam that was crawling. After travelling just 1km in an hour, it turned out that the 5 lane highway was blocked by protesters. Police had negotiated for the opening of one lane of traffic. Twenty or so people stood in front of 1km of infuriated drivers chanting and beating drums. 'Welcome to Argentina' G repeated, a phrase we'd already heard many times.

Buenos Aires is supposed to be the Paris of the south and I wondered just how well the city would live up to this title. Pleasingly it did. But first we headed to the neighbourhood of Boca, an area where all the buildings are brightly painted. When it was first settled, the residents bought left over paint from the boats, hence the patchwork of colours.

It was very touristy with people dressed up in tango outfits harassing us to have photo's taken with them. Tango music blared from the stores and oversized Maradonas looked down on the crowds from every second balcony. But altogether it had a very relaxed and friendly vibe.

Back in town, blissfully map free we followed G to the Casa Rosada. In the square in front of it, riot police stood at the ready as there was another protest going on. A big fence blocked the square and the big backlog of pedestrians was siphoned through a tiny opening at one end. 'Welcome to Argentina!'

We then wandered through pretty San Telmo to Plaza Dorego which hosts an antiques market. Unfortunately it was already lunch time and there was few stalls and even fewer antiques, but the stores around the perimeter sold some of the most exquisite pieces I've ever seen. If I had a castle or a palace this would most certainly be the place to go shopping for furniture.

In the square the local restaurants were set up under big shady trees offering lunch specials and a tango show. We enjoyed a long lunch of the biggest steak I've ever seen, while watching the intricate footwork of the tango. Afterwards we were convinced that we needed a siesta.

By the time we reached Recoleta cemetery the gates were already closed so we had to be satisfied with a fleeting glimpse of the ostentatious mausoleums that jutted above the high wall. It seemed strange for a cemetery to even be on the tourist trail, but apparently no other place says more about Argentine culture which is obsessed with mortality. Interestingly, we would witness this just a few days later.

Our day trip to Buenos Aires ended with a drive home through the lovely suburbs of the north along with a stop in Via Flaminia, an ice cream shop where we had the biggest ice creams I've ever seen.

The following Wednesday we were at home with the family who had a day off because of the census. Everything had shut down across Argentina, except for emergency services as officials walked from door to door counting residents and taking down other vital statistics. We were mesmerised by the process that seemed hugely inefficient and expensive to the nation, but all we heard in response was the well worn phrase 'welcome to Argentina'.

As we waited to have breakfast we heard the news that Nestor Kirchner, the former president and current presidents husband had passed away that morning. For the next 48 hours the news channels relayed images exclusively from the unfolding drama, as his body was transferred from El Calafate to Buenos Aires and the people held tearful vigils in front of the Casa Rosada. Despite recognising the place, the apparent hysteria seemed so strangely foreign to us and when we asked about it, the response of course was 'Welcome to Argentina'.

Road to Salta & Quebrada de Humahuacha

Given our slow progress the previous two days, we still had a lot of driving to do and only one day left to do it in. Of course there would be more stupidly beautiful places so we tried to make a rule that we would only stop to take photo's of the most spectacular places.

Five kilometres later we spotted our first Llama sign!

Should we have hired a car to drive around Salta? Absolutely. Should we have learnt the road rules? Probably. But, seeing as few Argentines followed them, if they even knew them, we were just like the rest of the rabble on the road. Driving down this road, we wondered if the speed limit could really be 60 and sometimes down to 40 kilometres per hour. Figuring it must be in miles per hour even though that didn't make a lot of sense either, we drove at 100 and we were still overtaken.

Next came the hairpins on a dirt road wide enough for 1.5 cars. There were very few places to stop as we descended through the clouds.

Cafayate is south of Salta and the next place we wanted to head to was north. Unfortunately there seemed no obvious way to avoid the city and we found ourselves in the very centre battling the traffic. Despite no lane markings, no use of indicators, cars moving fluidly around each other and right of way rules at intersections that seemed based on a battle of wits we made it through thanks to Jeff's skilful driving. He blended in so well with the manic drivers that no one even honked!

On the other side of town, the road narrowed to 1.5 car width and wound through leafy forest that was a total contrast to the desert landscapes of that morning. But past Jujuy, the next provincial capital north of Salta, we were back into the colourful, barren canyon.

It was already getting late and our destination, Humahuaca was a fair drive away, so we made few stops and for the first time in the last few days we weren't blown away by the view.

Other than the colourful walls and pavement made out of local stone, the town of Humahuaca was a disappointment. Around the main square, make shift stalls were full of souvenirs, their vendors hassling tourists who walked past. And there, amongst the native people we stood out, but we didn't feel very welcome. On top of that the streets were littered with rubbish.

In contrast Tilcara back along the route to Salta was a lot friendlier and prettier. From the top of the hill where we ate burgers in the company of a stray dog, we watched the sun set over the coloured peaks nearby.

Quilmes & the road to Cachi

We'd nearly given up on finding the ruins of Quilmes. Bumping down the rough bitumen road surrounded by cacti, we felt like we were in the middle of nowhere, except for the tiny villages the popped up every now and again.

When we finally reached the turnoff Jeff commented that the next five kilometres of badly corrugated road would be a very long trip. Nearing the hillside the ruins seemed to materialise in front of us. Camouflaged perfectly against the hillside were lines of stone walls climbing up into a valley.

There was a very brief tour, but it was only in Spanish so we were free to explore and guess the purpose of all the different shaped spaces. We wandered amongst the waist high walls and cacti until we found a path leading up the side of the hill to what appeared to be a lookout post. The city was a defensive one after all, the Quilmes Indians having survived contact with the Inca's but not the Spanish.

Up at the lookout the view to the obviously sprawling city was excellent. On the hill above, more lookout posts had now become apparent. So we kept going up and at each spot we realised there was even more and we could climb higher. But from back on the ground, the lookout posts were almost invisible.

 If the 5 kilometres to Quilmes had been bad, then the road between Cafayate and Cachi was excruciating. We travelled one hundred and fifty three teeth rattling kilometres until Jeff's hands felt like they were crawling on the inside. But my god was it worth it!

Salta! Not Salt-a

The guy at the bus ticket counter stared at us blankly when we said we wanted two tickets to Salt-a. Of course it was one of the many pronunciation mistakes we would make on this trip. We tried saying it a few different ways before he realised we were talking about Salta! He said it in a beautifully staccato way that I have since repeated to myself frequently while walking down the streets of Salta! An exclamation mark is required every time.

To be honest, it's a long way from Mendoza and San Juan and I genuinely wondered if we'd made the right decision to head so far north when our next destination would be Iguazu on the other side of the country. But whenever we mentioned we were headed to Salta(!) the reaction was always 'Ahhh, Salta(!) muy linda!'

And yes, Salta really is beautiful, with its old buildings, cobblestone streets and citrus trees whose fruits you can pluck while walking down the footpath.

We'd decided to rent a car to drive to the nearby canyons but we arrived on Sunday afternoon during the seemingly perpetual siesta, so we figured we would accomplish little that day. On Monday it turned out it was a public holiday for Columbus Day (which was actually the following day but they moved the holiday to Monday) and we could only hire the car from Tuesday.

So we ended up with a whole day to wander the streets of Salta! Now there isn't a huge amount to do in town, with just a few pretty churches (which were already closed for siesta by the time we organised the car hire) to look at and a nice town square. We had a lovely lunch of Super Panchos while sitting on a park bench watching the activity in the square of which there was actually quite little. In fact, with the amount of traffic that day, we figured driving would be a piece of cake.

After checking out the churches we wandered to another park, where most of the locals were hanging out and celebrating their day off. They had row boats for hire in the tiny lake which were very popular and everyone was eating ice creams, fairy floss or fruit cups. We wandered through the markets which were primarily selling gourds for mate. In fact, I can't imagine there is sufficient tourist demand for mate gourds and I'm sure every Argentinian already has 20 at home, so I'm not sure how so many stalls selling this and only this actually stay in business.

We then checked out the cable car that would take us to the top of the hill, but decided the view probably wouldn't be that exciting. Of course we could have walked to the top to get some exercise, but sitting in the park eating a fruit cup seemed like a much better idea. Hey, do what the locals do right?

Next Stop: The slowest 190km in Argentina