En route from Puerto Iguazu (in the Northeast, near Brazil) to Salta (in the northwest, near Bolivia) on our second semi-cama bus of three (definetly not the style we'd grown acustomed to), I woke up to a start my iPod was playing Britney Spears' "womanizer." 'What the hell? How the heck did this get on here? Was I drunk? Am I drunk now?' I thought. Just as I was starting to deal with these pressing questions I heard a tiny voice saying "ugh, Jo.....
Know how we thought we got to Salta at 7 tonight?" The voice was not crappy music induced schizophrenia, as you may have guessed it was Gabs. She continued, "yeah it's actually 7 am tomorrow." I replied, in a panic, "um you mean the fact that we've been clinging to for the past day and half isn't true and we still have 12 more hours of bus ride?" "Yup," Gabby replied deadpan. 'What can you do?' we agreed. What you can do is hunker down watch the iRobot playing, hope the annoying australians making the same trip as you eventually shut up or pass out and, well, thank God that you only have these first world problems. And so that was what we did.
As Gabby alluded to earlier, any sense of ressentment I'd been harbouring toward Salta dissapeared instantly when I saw the city from above the mountains. I was in love. The more I travel the more I find certain places and times just "fit"'for whatever reason. There was the beach in Jaco, the moment I emerged into a street market full of lush plants from the metro in Paris by Notre Dame, or 'the' coffee shop in Inuvik. It's just a feeling of being at ease and a moment of pure bliss. This is how I felt once we arrived in Salta and this continued on for the day.
After I left Gabs to nap I set out to take the cable cars up Cerro San Bernardo. I walked through the beautiful San Martin Parque. The sun was shinning, people were laughing, the trees were blooming in wonderful colours - especially the purple ones. I was even getting the hang of Argentine street crossing/jay walking which is a bit like frogger except more insane and seemingly even more pronounced in Salta where stop signs or traffic lights are rare.
After my requiste two empandas with salsa and a fanta for good measure, I made my way to the teleférico (cable cars) with a new friend I'd made along the way. The teleférico was housed in a gorgeous building with stained glass windows that reminded me a bit of a Charlie and the chocolate factory feel (though that may have been because I'd just passed so many cotton candy vendors along the way). The views were spectacular, city all around to the west and to the east mountains. When I got to the top it felt even more magical there were beautiful gardens, local artisans selling items, a fantastic set of man made water falls, sooooo much sun and views, oh the views! As I gazed around in wonder, this phrase from nowhere kept coming into my head "Salta, salta, mi Salta"; I thought it both a bit strange and yet true. I finally peeled myself away to go meet Gabby at Plaza 9 de Julio, the main city square.
As Gabby mentioned, at my instenince (lest she receive * another* note calling her out for being lame) we went to check out Peña (folklore) music which Salta, in Argentina, is famous for. I'd chosen la Casona del Molino an old mansion with several rooms where musicians sit at tables with you and perform rather than one room with one stage.
We arrived close to 11:30 pm and as it goes in Argentina, things were just getting started and locals were just ordering dinner. So, when in Rome... We sat almost directly beside two performers in our room. A younger man and older man, one probably bass and one probably alto. They sang wonderfully together and though we understood none of the words I felt at times a sad happiness to their songs. Something a tad bit dark, but honest; raw. I was in heaven complete with my own jug of sangaria. As a sidenote, an older woman also taught Gabs a life lesson about what happens if a "grumpy face" is your "default face." See if you can find this "Waldo" in my photo from the night.
This morning over breakfast our host, Jorge, approved of my choice of venue as his personal favourite for Peña. He then helped us plan our next few days, shared so many stories about Salta and his life. I was so happy to have stayed here and learned from this kind man. He shared with us about his own personal troubles that stemmed from Argentina's economic collapse in 2001, how he had been affected and how he recovered with a new life of sorts. When we were telling him how badly I'd wanted to tour the ESMA building he said "oh you wouldn't find that interesting would you?" "oh, yes, very much so," we replied. He got very quiet and told us he'd gone to school in Buenos Aires, military college, he paused as if deciding to tell us more and then trailed off to pick up another fascinating conversation.
This man has helped Gabby and I so much and has truly provided us with a home. He and Salta have met us with open arms and they will be arms that will be difficult to peel away from as we move North before heading south to Mendoza. This time as we travel we will do so with a *planned* stopover in Cordoba so that I can realize two goals: seeing Che's adoloscent home in Alta Gracia (now a museum) and the museo de la memoria (a former detention centre) in Cordoba. We also, read Gabby, decided no matter the cost/logistics we were only traveling first class cama bus. In 5-6 short days she's gone from bargin hunting for bus fares (overnighters to save on hotels) to a baller. I love it.
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