With today's apologies going to Ira Gershwin, cold, not love, is sweeping the country. Its cold everywhere, even here, in the jungle amidst the snakes and cholera. One of the TV news channels reports its near or actually freezing over the lower 2/3 of the country. In Salta, where I’m headed, its 8 degrees celcius, or 46 fahrenheit. I didn’t sign up for this—I just wanted something that wasn’t 97 in the shade. On top of the cold, its continued to drizzle. So bad weather appears to have set in for the next few days. Oh, and one last shot at Iguazu, when I go to a jungle, I want a jungle. Where were the vicious snakes and dengue fever? Guns and Roses promised that if I went to the jungle, there’d be fun and games. Freezing in the rain hardly qualifies. The taxi driver was, mercifully, silent for our ride, and instead listened to a tango music station on the radio, thereby adding an additional local touch.
Oh, I also noticed this morning before leaving that the region near Cordoba has basically been on fire the last few days. And now its snowing in addition to burning. What, no locusts or rivers running with blood?. I was going to go to Cordoba, but decided it didn’t offer anything special, and would detract from the time I could spend in Los Glaciares. So I axed it from my plans. Good thing. Also, the New Zealand lady I met on the Tren a las Nubes, who lives in Cordoba (see next day’s post), said the town is interesting and it would be good to visit, but described it as somewhat “shabby” and not worth missing other sights for. So there’s something that worked out well.
Going to Salta wound up being a relative challenge. It was raining not only in Puerto Iguazu but also Buenos Aires, so flights were delayed all over the country (just about all domestic flights route through Buenos Aires). The third day of gray weather was pretty depressing.
Then, shortly before we landed in Salta, the clouds broke and it was crystal blue sky. Salta is a somewhat large size town (maybe the size of a Lubbock or Midland), close to the northern Andean Mountains near the Bolivian and Chilean borders. Surrounding Salta are flat growing lands, but on two sides, mountains. Its about 65, breezy and blue skies on the ride in. In short, its glorious. After going through some non-remarkable outskirts, we arrive in the Salta town centre, at my hotel, the Alejandro Primero. This is a really good hotel, particularly compared to the heaps I’ve been in the last few days. Yet, it costs about the same as those. The staff was friendly and, for once, fluent in English and helpful. And wearing faux gaucho outfits replete with baggy pants tucked into long socks, waist sash, and bolero jacket. Pablo the bell hop quickly ushered me to my room, pointed out all the sites, recommended places to go and to eat, and put my luggage away. Definitely a vast improvement.
I arrived around 3:30, later than I’d planned, so decided to spend the day walking the town. Its architecture is very much in the Spanish vein, rather than the French Baroque style that dominates Buenos Aires. The town centre has an old San Antonio feel to it. Likewise, the people look a little different here than in Buenos Aires. Whereas there, it’s a lot of pale people with dark hair and eyes, here it’s a more intermixed look, somewhat resembling south Texas. I began by walking around the magnificent Plaza, dominated by the pink Catedral Basilica. If you look at no other photos on my flickr site, check out the photos of this church and the stunning, terra cotta Iglesia San Francisco church three blocks away. They are outstanding. The Plaza is jumping, with Saturday evening services in full swing, and locals and tourists crowding the Plaza. Immediately across the paseo from the church, I notice several orange trees with oranges ripening on the branch. A number of mestizos are in the square, offering to shine shoes, while others are making candied popcorn and fruits for sale. In the less impressive but larger Plaza Belgrano in front of my hotel, teenage kids have rented various booths to sell cakes and other baked goods, and various other home-made foods. I head for the two “peotonals” and check out the people checking out the shops on a late Saturday afternoon. This resembles its cousin in Buenos Aires, only its less busy, and the shops are more downscale. I return to the main Plaza, and observe its transition from Saturday afternoon milling about to Saturday evening café style. Lots of stores were observing the 2 – 5 siesta, so around 5 things started really jumping again. The Church was having a special novena for its patron saint, the Virgen del Milagro. The church was absolutely packed, and had set up a special viewing screen outside the front entrance so that people that were not able to enter the church could observe and hear the mass. Nearing darkness, I headed for the Parque San Martin, a large and otherwise non-descript park, hoping to make the tram up the mountain before it closes. I get there just as it closes, but enjoy walking through the rather large flea market set up in the park. Among its highlights, hundreds of obviously pirated DVDs and CDs. Copyright infringement. Shocking what people will do to avoid eating from the garbage piles around here.
The town continued buzzing even at night. It was very well lit, and as the mass wound down people began to fill the cafés, bars and restaurants. The Plaza and surrounding buildings were lit very brightly. While walking at night I noticed two separate guys wearing Kansas City Chiefs gear. That’s too weird to be a coincidence. I bet you wouldn’t find two guys wearing Chiefs gear at the same time anywhere outside 50 miles of Kansas City.
I scouted restaurants in a certain area that Pedro the bellhop said had the town’s best. This was around 8:30, and there weren’t any customers in any of the places. I returned to the hotel, and put on a suit and shirt, after first having a nap. Actually it was me trying to watch Spiderman II, but turning into a nap instead. When I returned at 10 to the place Pablo suggested, I was hoping they’d put me at the bar or some out of the way table. No such luck. I was on the front row, in a room filled with mall haircuts, sansabelt slacks, Mary Kay makeup and Old Navy sweaters. And to make matters worse (or better, possibly), there was a floor show of “authentic” northern Argentine dance and music. Think guys in hats stomping the ground, while señoritas danced in billowing skirts incorporated into their movements. Other less sophisticated people not suited up like me are taking pictures, which I regard as vulgar. I may be obnoxious, but I’m not an obnoxious tourist. That explains why there’s no photos of inside either church-I didn’t want to photograph during religious services. I tried as much as possible to evoke James Bond. The original Ian Fleming novels explained that because he was alone so much on missions he would make an elaborate ritual of dinner, choosing the best restaurants and ordering the finest food and drink. Unfortunately, I didn’t have it in me. Instead I came off as the white guy that lived next to the Jeffersons, who everyone in Red, White and Blaine mistook for Guffman in Waiting for Guffman. Definitely an instance where the ego didn’t match the reality.
Salta is a surprisingly charming and impressive small town, with pleasant people and beautiful architecture. Or maybe it just seemed that way after spending the last couple of days in Brown Water Heights.
Tomorrow-El Tren a las Nubes
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