We had read repeatedly that the only way to really see the expansive Salta region of Northern Argentina was by car – it’s one of those situations where it’s not so much the places as the places in between. It wasn’t until the morning of our car reservation that we realized that our expired credit card wasn’t going to do the job. Standing in the hallway of the hostel, looking at a road map of the area and trying to figure out how the hell to do it all by bus, a guy asks me a few questions about the area, and then mentions, “we are thinking of renting a car, but neither of us drive stick”… And that’s how we came to spend the next two nights with Zach and Reem. Putting all of my trepidation aside about foreign roads, intersections without stop signs, and argentine drivers, I took the drivers seat for the southern Salta loop along the so called Ruta de Vino from the city of Salta to Cafayate to Cachi and back.
It felt like it took hours to leave Salta city — the road seemed to hop from one tiny town to the next, but eventually the houses disappeared and the greens turned to reds as we wound down into the “tortured” lanscape of the Quebrada de Conchas and Cafayate. If you’ve been to Utah or northern Arizona, the you have a pretty good idea is what it’s like. In hypnotic rhythm, the road wove in and out of the folded red rock canyons and arroyos. Soon, small, distinctive vineyards began to populate the vistas until finally we rolled in from the highway to the tiny town of Cafayate.
Cafayate is known for Torrontes – the refreshing white varietal with a sweet smell but surprisingly dry flavor, giving it’s nickname, the Liar Wine. Though we arrived in Cafayate too late to do any of the expected wine tastings and tours, we did manage to find a well rated wine bar run by a lovely old salteño who knew the world “through wine and stamps”.
Zach and Reem were a best case scenario, and we were continually enchanted, often enraptured, by their company. Both were recent med school graduates, doctors, taking a short break between the academic world and their first steps into their residencies. Their relationship was intense and close, but platonic. It seemed a rare kind of friendship, and it made sense: they explained that in med school you’re in a right unit, a group of six, for the entire education. Fascinatingly, they described their work with cadavers, how they are assigned to the one for an entire year, working through different assignments and explorations as a group, ending the engagement in a touching ceremony with the donor’s family. They were excited about being doctors, and loved talking about it — sharing the things they knew, and keeping our minds happy and challenged for the entire trip.
Leaving Cafayate meant heading north towards Cachi. We were told by the rental company that we wouldn’t be able to make it in the car, but it seems that it’s a rain based fear. Though we were lucky enough to be timing the stretch in a dry spell, slick clay patches and washed out areas were clear signs that the road suffers with a little moisture.
The long road to Cachi was memorably populated by long expanses of dusty emptiness, strange folds of rock, and utterly isolated communities around tiny country churches. Inevitably, The beautify of the drive made Cachi something of a anti-climax — but with great company, some rental bikes, and the ever friendly street dogs, it was another great stop on the road.
The need to get the car back to Salta by 11am meant leaving Cachi before sunrise, so quietly we took to the highways in the early hours. Just as we left town, the single headlight of a motorcycle in the oncoming lane seemed to jump and blink out of being. In the silent half-light of dawn, I could just make out a man and his bike tumbling across the highway, head over feet. The young doctors jumped into action, but with a rather unwilling patient — though a little stunned, the rider was seemingly unharmed, and embarrassed. He pushed the parts of his bike back in place, barely looking up, kick started it back in to action, and took off, barely having said a word. It was hard not to feel a little sad for our intense young doctors, though of course I’m glad the guy was alright.
As the sun barely started to warm up the skies, it made silhouettes of the saguaro like Cardón or Candelabra cactus and illuminated the small bands of wild donkeys along the highway. As we made our last mountain climb out of the valley, the pre-rise sun grew stronger and stronger on the horizon, and a growing silent but palpable anticipation of that moment when the naked sun would finally breach those mountain silhouettes. We would not have imagined how utterly breathtaken we would be as we made that final curve into the light, to discover that here in the mountain peaks, the Earth below was an ocean of thick white clouds, brilliantly warmed by a bright orange sun. Impossibly, as we slid into these very clouds, the landscape evolved like magic from the eternal red rock deserts to a jungle of wet greens.