The Seven Colors of Pumamarca

The hills above Pumamarca display their colors, above. Below, from top to bottom, our van waits in a Jujuy street for a much needed repair, below Pumamarca an old vendor sits in the shade next to the road at a choice tourist photo spot, the quintessential Jujuy photo spot is a frequented area in Pumamarca, and the Quebrada de Humahuaca winds away into the northwestern Andes toward San Salvador de Jujuy and Salta. - AC

I´m not sure if it was the fat old man sleeping next to me, overflowing and leaning against my shoulder, or the fact that the van was pulling to a stop next to a mechanic shop to have a flat tire changed that woke me up, but either way, I was happy to step out onto my own two feet and stretch my legs.

The folks at the tour agency the day before had told us there would be no more than four people in the truck, in addition to the driver and his assistant - whose job it seemed was basically no more than filling the driver´s mate with hot water through the curvy suicidal sections of mountain road. In reality, there were nine of us crammed into the van, in addition to the driver and his assistant.

Our excursion left Salta at 7:30 in the morning and was bound for Humahuaca, a small oasis in the northern Jujuy province. We took the Quebrada de Humahuaca, which is basically an ancient travel route along a grand ravine through the northwestern Argentine Andes. It was a trip, we hoped, that would bring us closer to the more indegenous side of Argentina.

In reality, Humahuaca is not far from the Bolivian border, it is rural, the people are simple and the landscape is rugged.

The first half of our nearly 14 hour excusion was pleasant. Everything we saw was new, despite traveling with a car load of old retired Argentines from Buenos Aires, even the cramped van was not umpleasant. Afterall, when you travel, all expectations go out the window.

Before long, we were pulling into Pumamarca, the home of Siete Colores, an unbelievable series of mountains rising up toward the ever-blue sky. From red, orange, purple, yellow, two shades of green, tan and brown the colors of rock detail the ages of weather and wear. At the base of the hills in a tiny little valley sits the small, simple town of Pumamarca, which obviously subsists almost entirely on the non-stop tour buses that pull in and unload passangers to take "the quitessential Jujuy photo."

Later we would disembark our little van a few more times. Once inside Humahuaca for an authentic but overpriced lunch of empanadas and locro. After that outisde the pueblo of Tilcara at the nearly 10,000 foot site of reconstructed ruins, before being forced into the museum for an entrance fee. And lastly again in San Salvador de Jujuy to take a "city tour," which was a walk through the provincial capitol building and the cathedral. After that it was a marathon ride in the van back to Salta.

As I slumped down on my suddenly feather-like bed in Salta, exhausted from sitting ackwardly all day long. My distaste for the fat old porteño that had been leaning on me for 12 hours, for the less than accurate tour agency description, for the possible under the table dealings of our guides and for the general contradiction between travelers who want to see the untouched wild places of the world and the tourist destinations they visit, I suddenly thought about my long day with a smile.

Sure, some of it had been less than desireable, but in reality, I had seen a piece of Argentina - and the world - that many people have not been to or even heard of. Of course, eveyone goes to the Bolivian salt flats, Machu Picchu and the Galápagos. But how many people have driven the Quebrada de Humahuaca? And of those, how many have taken the time to veer off the road and take in the seven colors of Pumamarca? So what if they´re all tourist traps in their own way? What amazing place isn´t?

- AC

Finally. Salta.

Joanna and Alex at the top of the the lush, green hill that Salta sits at the bottom of. We even got to ride a gondola, or teleferico, up the 3,500 feet.
Salta, Argentina`s very own `Christ the Redeemer.`

We have finally arrived somewhere that I feel like writing home about.

We pulled into a city called Salta in Northern Argentina late last night. A city with color, character and charm. And we get to call it home for the next few days.

It`s a city of less than a half-million and situated at the foothill of the Andes. The air here is drier, the people are more tranquilo, and the place is actually surrounded by lush, green nature. Vendors sell a variety of leather, woven and silver goods. There are a dozen different excursions to other parts of the province. And the general feel of this city is just, better, for lack of a better word.

Plus, Alex got his first Argentine haircut here. Yes folks, it´s business in the front and a fiesta in the back --- exactly what we in the United States like to call a mullet. It`s a subtle mullet, but a mullet nonetheless. I suspect we may get fewer stares, as Alex is one with the natives now ---save for the giant backpacks, fare skin and general wide-eyed gapes.

It went a little something like this ...

Alex (for the last three weeks): "I need a haircut."

Me: "Yes, yes you do."

Alex (today): "I`m really hot and uncomfortable. I really need to get my haircut."

Time passes. We come across yet another one of a million peluquerias. This time, the one with the red and white striped barber pole and a dozen hairstyle competition trophies, this one caught our eye. A man with dark slicked back hair did the dirty work. I told him in Spanish, "Cut it just like his current style, only shorter." The barber nods in understanding.

A few minutes later I catch Alex checking himself out in the mirror. He snickers a bit.

Me, slightly worried: "Are you sure you want to keep it that long in the back?"

Alex: "When in Rome." He smiles.

Alas, Alex is the proud new owner of a haircut only the Argentines, and David Bowie, should really be allowed to have.

- JMH

El mate, el bombilla y el yerba

A mate filled with yerba and a bombilla. Everything you need for an afternoon pick-me-up. Below, a close up of the yerba, and bottom, porteños enjoying mate in a park in Buenos Aires. - AC

Those who frequent North American coffee shops have undoubtedly seen or heard of Yerba Mate. For a while it was the alternative craze among the caffeine addicted and the fad happy in the United States. In South America, most notably Argentina, Uruguay, Bolivia, Peru, parts of Brazil and Chile, mate is a way of life, a part of the culture and history. It is a daily drink, a social drink and, of course, a stimulant.

Contrary to some popular belief, according to Wikipedia, mate´s effects do indeed stem from caffeine. However, the "buzz" produced by mate is different than a cup of coffee known by most early risers in the United States. The mate buzz itself is more smooth, and the crash is not nearly as harsh due to a different chemical cocktail than coffee or tea.

While most widely available in the United States in tea bags, mate in South America is a much different experience. The tools consist of a mate - traditionally made of a hollowed out gourd, and a bombilla - a straw made of metal (traditionally silver) or reed. The bombilla is open at one end and usually filled with holes or slots at the other, which act as a filter. The herb itself is called yerba, and consists of dried, chopped and ground up flakes and twigs of the yerba-mate plant, a small evergreen tree native to the region.

Preparing mate is quite simple: Pour or spoon yerba into a mate until it is about three-quarters full. Add hot water - never boiling - to fill the mate. Hold a finger over the mouth end of the bombilla and insert the slotted end down into the infusion until it rests at the bottom, then release your finger from the exposed mouth. The concotion is not ment to be stirred, but the bombilla remains stationary in the yerba. A mate full of yerba is generally good for about 25 or 30 minutes.

It is customary in Argentina to drink mate with friends. A group of friends sitting in the park sharing mate is a common sight. The general custom is for one person to drink until the bombilla makes a slurping sound, refill the mate with water and then allow another person to drink it´s entirety. The yerba will last for half and hour or so and can be infused many times effectively, but often people will add in a bit more, or a spoonfull of sugar now and then to refresh the taste.

In taste, mate is most similar to a strong green tea, although it has a unique taste all it´s own. It is very earthy, grassy, herby and natural. When drank traditionally out of a mate, the taste is quite a bit stronger than traditional teas. Often, the mate will get more smooth after a couple of mates of water go through the yerba. And in Argentina, it is not uncommon to add in sugar to sweeten up the rather strong, earthy taste.

- AC

Niños y perros

When I first bought my plane ticket to South America, I fully intended to kidnap a little Latin baby.

I have since changed my mind.

The children here, at best, are little monsters. They run around, un-hushed by a parental or grand-parental unit. They stay up past midnight, and are generally louder than your average American child.

Argentine dogs, on the other hand, even stray dogs, are the most well-behaved critters I have yet to set eyes on. Yes, they shit on the sidewalks and in the street. Gross. But they are wily little guys. Most are mangy-looking, some even beyond the help of a clean household and nice family. But beneath that shabby "fur" they`ve got a good head upon their shoulders. For example, they look both ways before crossing the road. Sometimes, they even wait for the light to change from red to green. I might become an animal lover.

- JMH

Blips in the radar

I understand that a huge part of travelling is leaving behind expectations for, well, anything, and rolling with the punches. Truth is, I`m no good at that, but boy do I get my daily lessons of life as ¨easygoing.¨

Take, for example, the chicken pox. Who in the world would have guessed I would be in that .001 percentile that, A) gets chicken pox as an adult, and B) gets chicken pox for a second time. But the bumps came, I itched (mostly I tried not to), and they left. So be it.

Then again, almost more frustrating than getting sick in a foreign country, is learning to not sweat the smaller stuff - like slow Internet, misguiding directions, or inconsistent everything. Like not finding a hostel your travel guide swears is the best place to kick back, relax and enjoy nature. Because it doesn´t exist. Or it does exist, guiding you for one hour with encouraging signs through mid-day piercing sunshine and some serious humidity. But, as is true for Block Island, Telluride and even Tahoe, this quaint little river town had an offseason. And apparently that season is now.

Then there`s missing ham. No, no - stolen ham. Having slept in well over 10 different accommodations in our month here, we have, thus far, managed to secure all our valuables. Unless it was in a fridge. Some drunken traveller at one hostel not only ate some of our unopened ham, but took the whole package. Fortunately we were ingenious enough to throw together a cheese and cracker sandwich to sustain the following day`s adventure. We´ve eaten more than enough ham in our month here anyway.

And there`re expectations for time (or punctuality), something the general Argentine population has no sense of. Yes, yes, the buses depart precisely on schedule, something you are likely to learn right after you`ve gotten the hang of not showing up on time. But when someone invites you over for a churipan (a divine sausage sandwich) party at 9:30ish, make sure you`ve eaten a snack, and maybe even dinner #1, before arriving at said party around 10:30 or 11 p.m.

But the best part of it all is that in the end, hindsight bias and all, it usually makes for a story. A funny story even. At least for those involved. Even after a month trying to adapt to life on the road and the ways of another culture, we continue to bitch and moan about the small stuff - and laugh about it even more.

- JMH

Things I´ve Seen

Photography is part of the reason I travel. There are so many different places with their own visual story to tell. Here are just a few images of some of the places we´ve seen in the last couple of weeks.

- AC

7 Cascadas outside La Falda about an hour and a half from Córdova, Argentina. Quite resorty but a nice change from the concrete jungle.

The Cathedral on Buenos Aires in Córdova may still stand strong as a testament to history, but most of the people in the bustling modern metropolis don´t even slow down as they pass by for work, lunch or leisure.

Hippies outside the Cultural Center in Buenos Aires´Recoletta barrio play traditional music on traditional instruments on a Saturday afternoon.

The architecture in Buenos Aires often reflects many different styles, leaving buildings grand and unique, often colorful and imposing.

The food in Argentina may not be diverse, but it is hard to imagine better beef. Often served with a tapas style spattering of vegetables and paired with a nice local Malbec, the lomo is always good to the last bite.

Although I didn´t manage to find the tomb of Eva "Evita" Perón, el Cemetario Recoletta in Buenos Aires was a ghost world of history and tourism.

72 and counting

Like every kid with chicken pox, I decided this morning after my shower that I better count just how many bumps/blisters cover my adult body. I`m at 72 today. The worst is my face. I`ve got about 11 or so on my now-ugly mug. Enough to keep the perverted construction workers from whistling at me each time I walk by to get coffee or a water, though. Not necessarily a bad trade :) But the medicos promise me that if I don´t pick, the marks won`t be permanent. Let`s just say me and my vanity are crossing our fingers.

Of course I feel like kind of a freakshow for being one of the very, very few adults who get chicken pox for the second time. Seriously, as most of my friends would concur, I`m exactly the person this would happen to. Especially while travelling abroad.

But according to various Googled Web sites, ¨people cannot get chicken pox twice.¨ Again, only me.

Needless to say, it`s not the worst ailment I`ve ever been afflicted with. I remember it being much worse as a child. According to my adolescent memory, I was the first kid in Mrs. Schwartzman´s first-grade class to get the chicken pox. I think it`s the only sickness where you actually get to play with your friends. The moms of my classmates wanted us all to get the virus at the same time and get it over with, so we got to play together after school that day. But what followed could only be described as itchy hell. I vaguely remember my mom soaking me in a vat of calamine lotion followed by ice packs. I`ve definitely taken the route of calamine lotion this time around, too.

As it happens, that cold/cough that I couldn´t kick after leaving Buenos Aires was likely a precursor to my second bout with varicella. Turns out not only do a get a note to stay home from school - just like when I was kid - but now I`m taking herpes medicine. Or so I understand it in Spanish. Alex and I are planning to take this week off from language school and start right back up on Monday.

Assuming I look normal again, of course.

- JMH

Adventures in Health

Joanna smiles if only for a moment in the new hotel room, pineapple pizza in hand and face covered with calamine lotion at the safety of a less than deadly diagnosis. - AC

The word for mosquito bite in Spanish is picadura.

After hearing horror stories of malaria and bird sized South American bugs, we did our research before leaving the United States. Argentina, we were relieved to learn, does not pose a threat of malaria or even of exsessive insects, especially not in the middle or south of the country. The northern borders with Bolivia and Brazil can be dicey, but still not as dangerous as other places.

Both in Buenos Aires and now in Córdova, we haven´t seen an inordinate amount of bugs. Both of us got some picaduras in BA, but nothing out of the ordinary.

It didn´t raise suspicion when relatively normal looking picaduras started showing up on Joanna´s legs and hands. At first only a few, very itchy. But then, after a day and a half they seemed to multiply like an alien invader from a bad science fiction film.

Upon awaking Monday morning to find nearly 50 bites we became concerned. After four hours of class she had noticed half a dozen more. We asked the staff at school to please call a docter, which they had explained was no big deal.

The two who came were not doctors but paramedics, emergency responders. In a whirlwind of rapid Spanish and quick evaluation, the long haired one who constantly spat out wisecracks produced a needle while explaining in broken English that she was having an allergic reaction.

Joanna´s eyes instantly welled up and her body language screamed uncertainty. "Un momento, por favor," we asked them. We asked what the injection was - an antihistemine. We asked if it was necessary - no, but it would help. We asked if we could speak with our school administrator who could translate, to put the mind at ease and make sure we knew what was happening.

That´s when our needle toting medic got offended. He took the needle apart, practically throwing things back into his bag.

"Our time is precious," he told us.

It seemed that if we didn´t want to take his "treatment" on faith and trust his training, and ignore the fact that he hadn´t asked about other medications or anything besides allergies and that none of us were speaking our true trusted native tongue, then he would just go and we could suffer our fate alone.

Some four or five hours later, after having a pharmacist tell us we should consult a doctor and arriving at the public hospital to find the office of an alergist closed, taking a cab home defeated, recieving frightening advice from a family doctor at home and then concurrant advice from a doctoral student in our hostel, we found ourselves in the emergency room of the private hospital three blocks from our residence.

Lip quivering and eyes puffed and red from sporadic crying and fear, Joanna´s mind raced to her terrifying unexplained 10 day stay in a Venice hospital years earlier.

"I can´t do this again. I don´t get it, there´s more." It seemed every few minutes a new picadura would appear, unexplained and more itchy than the last.

The very nice doctor who saw us in the ER told her in broken English not to be scared, it wasn´t dangerous and looked like an allergic reaction, after consulting with her boss she settled on a shot, benedryl, a similar but intrevienous dose of what she had taken - to no avail - earlier. The doctor wrote a note in Spanish for the hospital´s Dermotologist to squeeze Jo into the schedule in the morning, and in the meantime the shot should help the itching and if there was a fever or swelling of the lips and/or tongue we should come back immediately.

Panic replaced sleep through the rest of the night in our small room at the noisy party happy hostel.

By 9:30 the next morning we were again staring at the tile floors in a steril, incandesently lit hospital waiting room among a crowd of quiet nervous looking people.

Finally Alejandro, the Dermatologist, called her name. Like all the others, he pronounced the A more firmly than the H in Hartman.

His calm demeanor and unhurried pace was a welcome change. He took his time, he looked into a book. His colleague came into the room for a medical device and Alejandro asked for a cosultation. They both examined, discussed and settled.

Smallpox.

Joanna´s eyes got wide. My brain raced, wasn´t that what killed the Native Americans?

Alejandro saw our concern. He consulted his book, he explained in Spanish, eventually we understood.

Joanna, somehow, has succeded in once again coming down with a rare illness. Something that might not be abnormal when rolling off the tongue, but for a traveler, for an adult, she is strange.
When we climb onto planes headed for exotic locations we pack antibiotics, immodium, we get innoculated for yellow fever, we bring malaria pills and pepto bismol. It is these things that are written up in the health section of the travel guide; watch for these syptoms, if this persists seek medical help. But we never prepare for the illogical, for the strange and extremely abnormal.

Somehow, my traveling partner has managed to become a statistic, one of a miniscule percentage of the population who twice in their life suffers through an illness we all get once.

But now she´s fine, she´s not scared anymore. Alejandro gave her some pills for the symptoms and we splurged for a comfortable hotel room with a private bathroom and all the American TV she can handle. A recovery center of sorts.

And beside picadura, we learned a new word.

In Spanish varicela means chicken pox.

- AC

The dollar is strong

Buenos Aires is said to be the most expensive city in the country, but right now the dollar has about three times the buying power as the peso.

Here are just a few things you can get for a nice price: Remember, US$1 = 3 pesos

- Roundtrip ticket from Baltimore, MD to Buenos Aires, Argentina = US$800
- 1 liter of local beer = 5 pesos
- 1 week of Spanish class and housing = 650 pesos
- Internet access for one hour = 1 peso
- (Relatively cheap) tango show = 40 pesos per person
- Cafe con leche = 4 pesos
- Steak = 5 to 35 pesos
- Beef empanada = 2 pesos
- One-way subway fare = less than 1 peso
- International stamps = 4 pesos each
- McDonald´s Meal Deal = 12 pesos
- All-you-can-eat Argentine buffet = 16 to 40 pesos
- Harry Potter book in español = 39 pesos
- Cheap men´s haircut = 7 pesos
- 2 tickets to B.A.´s "Broadway" production of La Joula de Los Locos (The Birdcage) = 120 pesos
- New heels and a little black dress = 145 pesos
- One-way overnight bus ticket to Cordoba (a 10 hour trip) = 100 pesos

Unfortunately the economy here is bad for the locals, but certainly a benefit to the traveler, particularly those with the dollar, Euro or pound.

- JMH