Salta Pt. II

So after waking up in Tilcara, and having full use of the rental car for a full two more days, we aprovechar-ed (the verb aprovechar in Spanish means to take advantage, and it has become one of my favorites. That was dreadful usage there in the previous line -- apologies if you speak Spanish) and drove our little white Chevy all across the north of Jujuy. It was a warm, bright, beautiful day and since none of us had ever seen any of the three major circles of latitute before, we started by visiting the -- wait for it -- TROPIC OF CAPRICORN, Y'ALL!!!!!! 2K10!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1111

That picture was pretty much it. Still, though, currently my favorite tropic by far.
After driving 25 miles out of our way to see the tropic and 25 miles back, we began an ascent up to the Salinas Grandes (salt flats, ironically located not in the Salta, but the Jujuy province) on a road chock-full of switchbacks and oftentimes lacking guardrails. At one point we were behind a truck of sulfuric acid covered in "PELIGROSO" signs and we had a fun time verbalizing our morbid visualizations of that truck slipping off the cliff edge in front of us or sliding backward into our car. Thought of you, Brooks House.
Again, the actual distance in kilometers was something ridiculously tiny, but the climb (4170 m above sea level) took about three hours -- enough time for me to take these sick photos:




Upon approaching the flats, we found a small outpost made of salt bricks -- tried the walls out of curiosity, before trying the ground in several places as well. I'm an adult? The outpost was owned by a toothless man who I'm pretty sure made his money strictly by charging tourists 1 peso to use the porta potties. While waiting in line to pay said peso, we overheard a man in front of us ask the salt-house owner whether he had any water. "No," replied the toothless man. "Anything at all to drink?" asked the tourist. "No," again. "Anything to eat?" "No." So just the bathrooms then.

Can't climb on the salt mounds. Bullllllllllllllllllllshit.

The salt flats were, as expected, extraordinary. And extraordinarily bright. Kat forgot sunglasses and after fifteen minutes of watching her wince and cover her face, I figured she was being a baby and loaned her mine. I barely made it five. Picture looking into the strongest white light, but not being able to tear your eyes away, even when the eyeballs feel like they're burning a little. We also got markedly sunburnt from about twenty minutes outside of the car -- apparently when UVlight shines from all directions, it ups the exposure. HOW BOUT THAT. The Salinas Grandes looked like fields of snow, if snow were gritty and had flavor and was comfortable to sit on. There's also a lot of fun to be had playing with perspective; since the horizon is so far away, one can play all kinds of cameratricks, standing on bottles and holding friends in the palm etcetera etcetera. We didn't, really, though we did take advantage of how cool the field of white looked for some good shots.

Far-off horizons add to the baller-ness of any photo, it turns out.

This picture is pretty nerdy but admit it, you're pretty jealous too.

After thoroughly enjoying the Salinas (which took maybe 45 minutes... there's a four-day ride across the Uyuni flats in Bolivia and I question how one makes the initial wonder stretch for almost a week), we drove back down the mountain (which took half the time) and landed in Purmamarca, a town even smaller than Tilcara. Purmamarca is famous for the Cerro de Siete Colores, or Hill of Seven Colors, which is as literal as you might imagine.

Had fun imaginary-naming the seven colors: PUCE, MAUVE, BURNT SIENNA.

In Purmamarca, we bought ice cream, climbed to the top of a hill overlooking the town, and got caught behind the oddest local parade, a group of children walk-dancing in unison to a snare and bass drum though the streets for no apparent reason whatsoever. Since hostels (hostel, actually, we found one) in Purmamarca were more expensive than Tilcara, we drove back to the town that had so charmed us the previous night and stayed there again. NOTE: this is one of the biggest shockers I've encountered traveling -- oftentimes the tiny, dirt-road towns offer more expensive housing than the big cities. Don't know why I expected it to be the other way, but I definitely did. I also continue to get surprised anytime food in Argentina isn't at least 25% cheaper than food in the US. I'm an asshole.

Purmamarca.

Bustling.

I guess Part III of this recap will actually contain the most epic story of the trip. Don't miss it. May post again this afternoon, as I don't work today, it's raining, and Megavideo only lets me watch two episodes of How I Met Your Mother per hour. TIL THEN.

Things I forgot to write about part 3: SALTAAAA

(really, "Northwest Argentina" is more accurate but that doesn't have the same ring)

Keeping with the "go on a trip and write about it over a month later" theme, here's a post about my 7-day trip to the northwest of the country. Almost everyone who spends time in Buenos Aires visits Mendoza and Iguazu Falls (maybe Patagonia too), but the provinces of Salta and Jujuy are a lot more obscure. Salta and Jujuy (pronounced hoo-hooey, FYI, which makes it the most fun) are areas with absolutely insane geography -- painted mountains next to lush green landscapes next to intense canyon formations next to sweeping salt flats in a cluster of NWern cities. I traveled with my roomie Kat and friends Matt, Chris, and Elizabeth -- the first three took the TEFL class the month after me, and Elizabeth was visiting Chris from Delaware. The trip to Salta itself is 22 hours by bus. Our bus did not serve food, but it did show four extremely inappropriate films in a row -- Taken, about being kidnapped in a foreign country, The Transporter 2 and Blood Diamond, both incredibly violent, and The Bank Job, which has several scenes of full-frontal nudity. This was on a bus full o'kids and old women.

After a first day/night in Salta uneventful save a sudden downpour (which would come to be how I remembered the city of Salta... keep reading) and the viewing of an excavated body at the city's archeological museum (Chris and Elizabeth are archaeologists so they were absolutely enchanted, and I got a discount admission with my old student ID, so really good time all around), we woke up on the morning of New Years' Eve and rented a car to drive north. Chris drove stick and five people splitting car-rental costs made it even cheaper than a bus, so we rolled out of Salta in our tiny white Chevy - after stocking up on NYE supplies, of course - and drove to the town of Tilcara.

Salta has a pink cathedral.

We first encounter our hawt car.

The trip took us five hours, though it can't have been more than 200km away, due to the incredible climb/wind of the road -- in this single journey, I both learned what "switchback" meant and experienced carsickness for the first time (just nausea, but I had to close my book!). We also encountered cows in the road twice and goats three times. The scenery went from lush green mountains that looked as though a pterodactyl could fly out at any minute to dry, painted mountains with actual swirls of different browns, pinks, purples, even blues. Several times we got out of the car for photo ops (just one perk to renting instead of bussing!) or to just gape for a while.

We finally reached Tilcara, an tiny Andean mountain town with dirt streets, where every restaurant touted llama as their specialty. We went to a late NYE dinner where we sat in the garden (eating outside! on New Years!) and got llama meals and local beer. We were still eating and drinking when midnight arrived and the fireworks started. Argentina has absolutely no fireworks laws, so from every direction for about an hour the sky lit up to celebrate 2010. The celebration was still going on when we made our way from the restaurant to the square, where live music was playing and young people folk-danced. Upon returning to our hostel, we discovered its backyard was also a campground housing hundreds of dreadlocked Argentine hippies. We moved outside to celebrate with them around their enormous campfire -- highlights of New Years' early morning included an impromptu pan-flute off and a girl with a painted face and short shorts dancing hypnotically for literally four hours straight (pretty sure she was on E?). It would not have been hard at all to beat NYE 2k9 (snowed in sitting at home), but this went above and beyond.

Chris bought an alpaca sweater. Behind him is a Tilcara street and a glimpse of the mountains.

New Year in the city square -- we brought our own champ to merrywash.

Hippies galore and our favorite dancer, affectionately nicknamed "gyration station" by Elizabeth.

Saltatrip PART 2: THE DELUGE coming soon!

Also, a post about the men in my life (don't get too excited, I'm talking about my students.)

LOST

Why is this photo so weird?

Luckily for me, Argentines are obsessed with LOST (also, humorously, Two and a Half Men, Criminal Minds, syndicated Friends episodes, and Notting Hill. Notting Hill plays every day). Almost any Argentine I speak with about tv mentions it (though most say "Lohst" and it's adorable), and then we commence a five to ten minute Spanish/English discussion about what became in the month of August 2009 one of my biggest loves.

Anyway, I still don't think they're going to play the premiere here on Feb. 2, but at least AXN network is having a marathon of each season on every weekend leading up to February (this weekend is season three! My favorite! Benjamin Linus! It's not Penny's boat! WE HAVE TO GO BACK KATE!). So right now I'm debating between going to the pool or watching LOST all day tomorrow. Maybe I will try to skip out for the Paolo/Nikki episode.

Latest trends

So I do at times lament that though I'm living abroad, I'm not in a very "engrish"-y country (i.e. most of the time when signs/etc. use English, it's correct and as a result not humorous). But sometimes Argentina helps me out. Yesterday I saw a woman with a shirt that said "Okay... I'm JUST behind You!!" The "just" was in gold leopard print.

How to pick up a package in Argentina*

1. Get text message from old landlord that a package arrived two hours after returning home from retrieving deposit.

2. Travel back to old apartment again to pick up package. Get handed package slip with instructions to obtain package from a post office branch in Retiro (two subte rides // 45 minutes away). Since it is 3:40 and the office closes at 5:00, decide to go tomorrow.

3. Wake up, take the subte with two transfers to Retiro (the city's insane bus station // pickpocket central), cross nine intersections to arrive at indicated post office kiddy corner to station.

4. Enter a large room full of people waiting. Listen to a man calling out numbers, have no idea what numbers to which he is referring. Ask two different people before getting led to an obscured ticket dispenser; take number 567. Realize that the man is currently on number 422.

5. Wait in this room while about one or two numbers are called per minute. After 30 minutes, get handed number 496 by a man who is giving up and going home. Wait 30 more minutes.

6. When 496 is called, take package slip and passport to the man behind the glass, who examines both, tears off one section and hands it back to you (wonder why on earth it took so long to do that for 74 others). Gape for a second when he tells you to go to wait in the other room.

7. Enter another wide room full of people, realize that this time the number called is a five-digit one on package slip. Listen for any kind of order or continuity in recitation of numbers, find none (55743, for example, could be fifty-five seven four three, five five-hundred seventy-four three, or aaaaaany similar combination). Panic that you will never get your package due to the shitty quality of the microphone and your beginner/intermediate Spanish listening abilities (remember vamos a escuchar? not helpful here).

8. After thirty more minutes and more fretting that "66336" has already been called, listen closely and think that maybe, maybe that number has just been recited. Enter the mystery door into a long hallway to find the man with the microphone and verify.

9. Show him the slip with "66336" and have him give you a package addressed to Samuel something. See the real package, ask for that one instead, and get handed it while being asked "what exactly is inside?" Since you don't know and are desperate to GET OUT OF THE POST OFFICE, guess and say food. When he nods, take tha package and run (/walk quickly to the exit of the strange hallway).

10. Shoot the man who stops you at the end of the hallway an "are you freaking kidding me" look when he tells you you need to pay for the package, get waved ahead, and finally exit the building. Cross nine streets again and find the subte to head home.

11. When the subte doesn't come for 25 minutes, open the package and start eating the Cracklin' Oat Bran inside. Upon its arrival, jam into the train with the hundreds convened in wait and try not to hit anyone with the corners of the large box. Fail.

12. Four hours and fifteen minutes after leaving for the post office, arrive home. Promise yourself never, ever, to take the USPS for granted again.

*NOTE: despite the cynical tone of this blog post, still one of the best packages I've ever received (thankyou thankyou thankyou Ryeon!)

Things I forgot to write about part 2: Uruguay

This one I would really kick myself for never writing. About three weeks ago I went on an epic weekend adventure to Uruguay. Nobody really knows Uruguay apart from the joke that 13-year-old boys make but it's a tiny country home to 3 million very very friendly people. Apparently Uruguyans move to Buenos Aires to experience city life, and Argentinians visit Uruguay to go on vacation.

Candida, Kat, and I left on the ferry from BsAs to Uruguay early Friday morning -- the ferry, by the way, is nothing like I pictured. It's enormous, with stores and seats and cafeterias and bars. After three hours we crossed the border (easiest passport stamp I've received yet) and hopped on a bus to Montevideo. There we bought churros, got pooped on by a bird (actually not me, but both Kat and Candida), and spent so much time converting Uruguayan pesos in the supermarket that we almost missed our second bus to Punta del Este. Almost.

Montevideo.

The ever-eloquent Lonely Planet refers to Punta del Este as the place "where South America's rich and famous come to play." We went about two weeks before the ON-season, and thus got to benefit from the miles and miles of beaches and terrific nightlife without being shoulder-to-shoulder with people on the sand. We got hooked up by an awesome guy named Pepe (his actual name is Jose Maria, and he's my friend Candida's college roommate's brother's friend Fonz's best friend from school... following?) who had met us like once before but found us a free place to stay (with his equally sweet friend Raul) then proceeded to show us around all weekend. Both boys are from Montevideo but have familial summer homes in Punta del Este. Pepe's five-bedroom was under construction so we stayed at Raul's place on the beach. No actually right outside window was the ocean. When we got there it was already dark, so we napped then went out at 3am to experience Punta's legendary nightlife at a club called Diablito, where we got to see the sunrise on the ocean. You can be a little bit jealous, it's cool, remember how I missed Christmas?

Raul and Pepe, our amahzing tour guides.

This beach had a hand sticking out of the ocean which seems cool until you find out that it was created by the sculptor to memorialize his son, who drowned.. It was a lovely beach, though.

We spent an awesome day on the beach, lying out for four hours not realizing that Uruguay is right under the hole in the Ozone layer. After retreating our somewhat-burnt selves for an agua break, we (oh so stupidly) went out to another beach. All attempts at covering up were no good, and each of the five of us got red red red (this, by the way is the sunburn I've been alluding to for the past few weeks. Good heavens). Still, you know I love a good day at the beach, and we also got to see CasaPueblo (at the point of Punta [haha] the waves become bigger and the beach becomes rocklike and craggly and you feel like you're in Ireland a little bit. Casapueblo is this huge, weird structure (part of which is a hotel, apparently) where we enjoyed cold drinks for our warm faces. Later Pepe took us in his car over the camel bridge (totally jumpable, if you were wondering) and Raul bought us chevitos, which are like burgers except with steak meat and with every topping imaginable (I had mine with egg, bacon, ham, tomato, onion, lettuce, and three sauces). We made it back to Montevideo on Monday and took the ferry home at sunset.

Another gratuitous beach photo. Refer to tags of me in facebook "Christmas Party" albums to see the after-effects of this day at the beach.

Casapueblo and the disorienting coast at Punta's Punta.

Ferry nice.

I omitted like 800 details just now, but two posts in one day is tiring. I just didn't want to forget to post the beach pix that pre-empted the epic burn. Also, I just came back from a week in Northwest Argentina (feat. the craziest landscapes/downpours I've ever seen) and wanted to clear the air before I made 4-5 posts about that XXperience.

HAPPY 2k10! January 4th and I'm still sweaty at 12:51 am.

Things I forgot to write about part 1: POLO

Umm over a month ago now I went to a polo match. Polo's huge among Argentina's elite, and the primary p Polo Ralph Lauren model is an Argentine player named Nacho. Nacho is his first name. As mentioned in the Mendozz (part 3) post I'm terrified of/terrible at riding horses, so obvi I was fascinated by these people who managed to swing mallets and sprint toward goals while doing so. I learned polo is played in eight seven-minute periods, or chukkas (no really, chukkas) and that they switch the horses every so often but never the four players on the field. These guys are literally in a squatting position for an hour and a half. I learned also that when you don't understand the game, it's easy to get bored after about four chukkas. Luckily everybody I know went (tix were about $5 because it was only the first round of playoffs, later I think they're closer to $100 or $200) and dressed up and it was a day, Argentina-style.

An important play is happening (/about to happen?)

Fancy schmance for the match

A good thing to do when you lose focus at a polo match is to take macro mode photos of the free bag and informational book the models give you before the match.