I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...
Day Eight: It is worth noting at this point that Brandon is in possession of the thousands of photos taken during the trip, and as such, I am not able to pretty up these posts in the manner to which I am accustomed. However, rest assured, they will be made evident as soon as possible. Now, moving on...
Our overnight bus from Arica to Calama was the most uncomfortable ride I have yet experienced, partly due to the spoiling we had just received the days before on the excellent Peruvian bus lines. I cannot say much in favor of Pullman Bus in Chile other than it got us where we needed to be. Granted, we left half an hour late and arrived more than an hour late which meant that we three couldn't take a short trip to my house to freshen up. This meant that we were stuck waiting in the Calama terminal, surrounded by dogs (of course) for about forty five minutes in anticipation of our bus, which was again Pullman, to Salta, Argentina.
The bus arrived on time, and we boarded it along with a group of traveling nuns from Mexico. Since I had not slept at all on the previous bus, I promptly passed out. I was awoken an hour and a half later in San Pedro where we debused to pass through a very cursory Chilean immigration checkpoint. They simply stamped our forms and passports, and then put us back on the bus as a dust storm began to kick up around us. Side note: that weekend Calama saw up to 102kmhr winds. The bus continued, and about another hour later we stopped at a Argentinian immigration checkpoint that was literally in the middle of nowhere at the base of the Andes where we were about to attempt the pass. This time, the bus attendant took five people at a time into the little building where it was once again a simple matter of stamp-stamp-go. We never once passed through customs. I then fell back asleep.
I awoke much later once we were already up in the mountains and preparing to head back down on the Argentina side. We had driven right into a snow storm that stayed with us all the way to the first town of Jujuy, and even into Salta itself. The going was slow in the mountains, and as we came down we saw hundreds of people playing, building snow men, having snowball fights, etc. People were even driving around with miniature snowmen on the roofs of their cars. I would come to learn later that it was the first time that the towns of Jujuy and Salta had seen snow in ten years. Everything looked spectacular decked out in white (palm trees covered in snow is an interesting spectacle. As are cati.) I had at times the distinct feeling of having strayed into Christmas.
We made it into Salta shortly after night fall and were able to walk to the hostel from the terminal as snowflakes continued to gently drift in the air. Walking in the front office I immediately spotted Ryan, sitting alone and enjoying a novel. We were shown to the room he was staying in, dropped our gear and, after introductions, Ryan led us back out into the snow to a small sandwich stand serving made to order, delicious, and cheap milanesa (a breaded cut of beef). We got our sandwiches to go and headed back to the hostel to enjoy them and meet our new hostel mates. Later, we ended up going out into the city to experience the Argentine culture which is, among other things, a fantastic mix of European influences and New World sensibility. The highlight of an evening filled with live music was a place called La Casona del Molina, which was a large house in which each room was filled with tables of people eating, drinking, and playing traditional music on guitar and singing. The place had a fantastic atmosphere, but unfortunately for us there was nowhere to sit and we couldn't stay long.
Day Nine: The next morning, BT and Chris were freezing. They lacked the proper attire for the snowy, wet cold. Ryan too wanted some warm socks, gloves, etc. and joking claimed he was going to find an entire suit made out of llama wool, complete with ears. Thankfully, there was a feria nearby selling all sorts of wool garments and such and before long everyone was bundled up properly at the expense of a few pesos (at the time it was approximately four Argentine pesos to one US dollar.) Ryan then led us to the plaza in the city center where we dined at a fine restaurant and BT and I got our first taste of Argentine beef (and pork, and chicken, and blood sausage, and chorizo) in the form of the world famous parrilla style (aka asado, also aka barbeque.) We were to have an asado that night at the hostel, so Ryan and Chris decided to wait on meat. BT and I said bollocks to that, because as we all know, there is no such thing as too much grilled meat.
Salta itself is a beautiful city, retaining much of its colonial architecture, and is populated by incredibly friendly people that speak a beautiful, much easier to understand version of Spanish in comparison to Chile. Everything is, like in Perú, fantastically cheap and the food is delicious and offered up in quantities that would make even the greediest American blush. Even though it was uncharacteristically cold and snowy when we were there, Salta still presented us with its irresistible charms and I was immediately struck by how Calama could be so close, and yet so absolutely opposite.
That night was one of the crowing experiences of our trip. The hostel hosted an asado in which the owner and his friends used their age and parrilla experience to prepare the most fantastic meal of grilled beef that I have ever eaten. We feasted on the finest of meat prepared by hands that had the art of grilling in their blood. Almost every guest in the hostel was there including Fins, Frenchies, Spanairds, a Swede, and plenty of Argentinians from other regions. The drinks of choice were the peculiar liquor fernet combined with coke, and the local beer simply named Salta itself. Fernet must be mentioned as it is a pungent, dark liquor that is part of the massive amount of Italian influence on Argentina. It is extremely popular, and only one brand, Branca, is accepted (though cheaper alternatives can be found, you are socially shunned if caught drinking them. Cheap fernet is also considered bad for your health.) BT, Chris, and I all agreed that it was more or less like drinking diesel fuel spiced with potpourri. The Argentinians must realize this as well, though they don't acknowledge it, because they drown the liquor in at least half a liter of coke per jigger. Once the meal was thoroughly inhaled, and not a morsel left behind to testify to its existence, some Argentinians that Ryan and I had become friendly with broke out a big bag of coca leaves and started in chewing them like cattle on cud (or crackers with fat chews in their cheeks.) They showed us how you are supposed to bite the stem of the leave off, chew it up, and stuff it into your cheek like a hamster. After you have a significant lump of chewed leaves in your mouth, you take a pinch of baking soda and rub it in your cheek. The only discernible effect this has is to turn the inside of your face numb, but supposedly it is supposed to act as a stimulant like nicotine or caffeine, though I slept like a baby that night nevertheless.
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