Mella Madness

“Emerald green of new growth is just beginning to show as the trees sprout from winter hibernation. The road winds between a lane of overgrown trees that have been trimmed to júst not touch the double-decker bus. Each time I hold by breath, here where I’m sitting in the top front seat, but no, the job was well done and we pass unscathed.”This was written two weeks ago, en route to Cafayaté. I cannot believe my time in this enchanting village is coming to an end tomorrow. It has been a relaxing, warm and wonderful stay in a town filled with restaurants, artisan shops, wineries, hotels and hostels. Most of the restaurants are centered around a tree-filled green plaza, where people stroll, sit or lie on the grass. Occassionally dog fights would occur, but it is mostly peaceful. When Louise and I (for new readers: Louise is my ‘companion’, my very pink suitcase on wheels) arrived at the plaza last Sunday evening at about 21h30, I was dumbstruck. All the restaurants were brightly lit, sidewalk tables and chairs filled to capacity, loud live music everywhere and people, young and old, strolling around. I thought I’d landed in Paris! There had been a religious celebration that day, which accounted for the presence of so many people, but it has not been much different every other night. I have loved having a beer or glass of wine at one of the restaurants after my work shift at the hostel, reading my book or just watching people go by.I filled my days with long walks on different roads out of town, or exploring the town itself and doing some wine tasting at the different bodego’s (wineries). I joined up with some English speaking guests at the hostel to visit a site where there are 3000yr old rock paintings done by the original people of the area, the Diaguites, and later by Inca’s who travelled through, or settled as their empire extended beyond the Peruvian borders. (The Inca’s annexed the area during the 15th century   imposing their language, religion, art and government on the Diaguites.)

At one place there are holes in the rocks that were made to represent the different stars and constellations. Only one man in the tribe was allowed to shape the holes, which are all the exact same size. They were used to predict the weather and rain – astrology, 3000 years ago! The rock paintings, which were often symbolic, were also used to inform the Inca’s when they should be on the move to be in time for the trade that occurred further south before the rainy season started. (Yes, that ís an ostrich – for a moment there I thought I was back in South Africa). There is an excellent wine museum, partly in a new building, and partly in the Enchanted Winery, an old family owned winery that had been replaced with another new building. The walls are covered in poetry about the earth, water, sun, air and wine, reflecting the respectful and romantic approach that is maintained towards the cultivation of wine in this region. Vines were brought to the Calchaqui valley in 1556 by the Spanish Conquerors, who came from the north (Chili and Peru). Huge clay pots were used for the fermenting process and subsequent storage. The above reminded me of a thought that I had had when living amongst the vineyards outside of Stellenbosch years ago.  I was taking a walk in the vineyards one day, when something I had been thinking about made me laugh out loud. The grapes were full and ripe, just about ready to be picked, and it suddenly occurred to me that my laugh might be caught up and stored in the grapes, and some day, someone might be taking a sip of wine and suddenly laugh without reason – my laugh, stored as ‘memory’ in the juice of the grapes. Possible, why not?

On one of my walks I came accross this monument, and the owner of the hostel explained that it was a monument to Pachamama:Here are some photo’s of other places and buildings of interest. I was astounded by the amount of graves of small children in the graveyard.One of the artisan markets, with woven and knitted items made from llama wool:These old Ford and Chev bakkies (trucks) are everywhere, still very much in use:Obviously the above is nót a Ford or Chef – or maybe it was the forerunner??

The garden, foyer and courtyard of our hostel:I have to share an emotional moment I had yesterday morning. I was leaving the hostel on a walk, when I literally stopped ‘to smell the roses’ – a deep crimson rose, of the kind that is deliciously fragrant. As I inhaled, I was jolted by immediate memories of my mother’s garden on our farm, Blaauwkrantz. So strong were these memories that tears welled up in my eyes, and I just could not pull myself away from that rose. I kept on pushing my nose into it, inhaling as if I could conjure up the real setting. It is said that smell is directly linked to the memory centre in the brain – well, I can most certainly vouch for that!

Sometimes I surprise myself by making the right decision. I don’t know how yóú make decisions, but mine are usually based on inner conviction, intuition or impulse. None of these methods are infallible and none are necessarily always right. I’m inclined to advise my clients and friends to weigh up negatives and positives, basing their decisions on which side carries the most weight. Once they’ve made a decision, they should sleep on it, and if it still feels right in the morning, it is a good decision. I wish I would practice what I preach, it might significantly decrease my bad decisions. Be that as it may, yesterday I made a góód decision, and I was extremely relieved about it.

Some background information: Cafayáte is known for its special wines made from grapes that are cultivated at high altitudes, especially the torrentés and malbec. It is also at the bottom end of the Quebrada de las Conches (conches means shells) a ravine of 50km towards Salta, through which the Calchaquí river runs, or rather trickles most of the year. The scenery, mountains and rock formations are spectacular and they have daily excursions of about 5hrs that one can join for $800 ($, with only one slash, is the sign used for pesos). Other options of viewing it is by bicycle, or taking a bus to the end point and hitchhiking back.

Two Danish girls staying at the hostel rented bikes and put them on the bus, travelling to the end point and cycling back. According to them it was downhill most of the way, excepting for two uphills. Very easy. At that stage I was under the impression that the river was flowing towards Cafayáte, so the ‘downhill’ made sense. (I think by now you are familiar with my ‘assumptions’.) It sounded like a brilliant plan which I was planning to execute myself, seeing I am keen on cycling and in need of exercise. That was until I heard the price for renting bicycles and the bus ticket, which added up to much more than the guided tour. The first seeds of doubt grew to fruition as I contemplated the 50km, a distance I have never ridden and probably would not be a good idea at 66yrs. I still had doubts as I booked the guided tour, but omigosh, after the first 10km in the minibus I realised what a catastrophe me on a bike would have been. The river runs the other way, there would have been many strenuous uphills, no shade and 50km is fár!! I relaxed, forgiving myself wholeheartedly for chosing the easier option, and had a superb day. Good decision (I still don’t know how I actually made it).

The tour operator was excellent, humorous, caring and full of enthusiasm. He stopped at eight places along the way, giving us ample time to wander around and enjoy the scenery. These were the first scenes we were presented with and it only got more impressive as we travelled through the ravine.We had to walk about 500m to the following scene, where many colours were visible in the formations:I was told that the red indicates the presence of iron, green is copper, brown is sinc, blue is cobult, yellow is sulphur and white could be salt or gypsum.

The Garganta del Diablo (Devil’s Throat) is at the turning point, and our guide encouraged us to scale the rocks that were off-limits, to reach a point where a solid flat slab lies at a 45° angle, as if it had been solidly pushed out of the earth, unbelievable.The site just before the Devil’s Throat is called the Amphitheatre, and has a marvelous acoustic. There was man playing a traditional flute, a beautiful haunting sound filling the huge space, sending shivers down one’s spine. It was our last stop, and quite a few of the tourists sat down in the ‘theatre’ and shared their mate (tea).

Each bend in the road opens up another breathtaking view, and about half way through we stopped at an artisan shop for some wine tasting and ‘selfies with llamas’ – what people find amusing never ceases to amaze me. The wine was excellent though, I sampled the sweet torrentés, very fruity and aromatic.Another soul enriching experience. I am so blessed. At one point, in a crevis in the green rocks, I spontaneously dropped to my knees, feeling deep and humble gratefulness and respect for Mother Earth, in all her glory. Pachamama came to mind, without me even quite understanding the meaning of the Inka earth/time goddess. It was just there.

To ease the discomfort…

When an old lady with an exaggerated sense of responsibility tries to do the right thing, it can backfire completely. If it hadn’t been for a young compassionate co-worker I might have been fired on my first day of work. The hostel:


It was my first 4 hour shift from 16h00 onwards when the doorbell rang.Front door and entrance (and a dog):


There stood a very tired cyclist who had been cycling for 3 days on terrible roads and was in dire need of a shower, bed and rest. This information only came to me later. All I knew at that stage was that she had not made a booking, and my dementia mind reminded me that all bookings had to be referred to the owner. The guest led me to believe that she could not speak English, so I approached a co-worker regarding the procedure and argued with her about first having to phone the owner. In the end I shrugged my shoulders, absolving myself from any consequences regarding the issue. All this in front of the guest, who suddenly and in perfect English reprimanded us for having this discussion in front of her, and how totally unacceptable it was. I saw the co-worker go red, and I apologized profusely, to no avail. I just left her to cope, and disappeared from the crime scene, hiding in the communal space. The guest was shown to a room, and the co-worker came to talk to me. She was so sweet, and typed the word odioso into Google Translate. It means odious, and this was what she used to describe the guest’s attitude. Well-said. I was wrong, I know, and when I checked the rules for volunteers again, I saw that it was only requests for bookings made by telephone that had to be referred to the owner. My mistake!! For Pete’s sake, I am 66yrs old and the owner a mere 30yrs, why on earth should I get into a tizz about such a trifling matter.  And all because I wanted to do the right thing, according to me. I never seem to learn, I’m always sure I’m right, and this mouth of mine has really gotten me into big trouble through the years. Even my mother told me once: “You’re such a nice person  but you’re so stubborn!”

To make matters worse, I was asked by the owner to move to the volunteers’ room and remake my bed for the guest. (I had been staying in an en suite bedroom.) As I was trying to maneuver Louise through the door, the hinge of the door broke and it came crashing down. The guest rushed over to grab hold of it, just in time. Unfortunately she had to sleep in a door less room that night.

All’s well that ends well, as the guest offered me some rooibos tea the next day – a gesture I sincerely appreciated as my provisions ran out weeks ago.  And I’m still employed!

Waiting for a bus can either be very boring or most intriguing. I’ve been warned that buses don’t stick to schedules, so I’m always at least an hour early. By the way, in all this time, only one bus has been late and none have been early. Punctuality is the name of the game. Or so I thought…

Back to my story… Perros territoriales- territorial dogs. Here I was in Humahuaca, a small village in the north, high up in the Andes mountains, waiting for a bus to take me south again. I’d found a bench under a tree, which I was inclined to think was normally occupied by the local vendors, but they would just have to tolerate me sitting there for a while. They’d stacked their bags, containers and food around the base of the tree which had a little built up wall around it. I was savouring a syrupy black coffee in a styrofoam cup which the señora had poured from a blanket covered box, not asking if I wanted it sweet or not.

(Spot Louise behind the tree.)

I was peacefully contemplating life in a village, when I saw an Alsation type dog haughtily trotting down the empty street on the far side of the parking area, nose in the air, not glancing left or right.

The scene (minus trotting dog):

The next minute one of the dogs lying beside the vendors stormed accross, barking furiously. Within seconds he was joined by others, appearing from all over – behind pillars, around the corner and even under the bench I was sitting on. They immediately started attacking the poor hapless dog, who by then was backed up against the wall, snapping in all directions to defend himself against at least 8 dogs. Luckily for him one of the vendors walked accross, shouting at the attackers to back off, which they reluctantly did. At the first opportunity the ‘intruder’ escaped down the street, tail between his legs and flattened ears.

Afterwards:

It occured to me that the same scenario could apply to tourists who arrogantly enter the territory of locals. The difference is that people are more susceptible to influences such as financial gain, and thus more inclined to suppress feelings of hostility. We (the travelers/tourists) innocently assume we are entitled to pass through, not realising that our presence might be perceived as (and actually is) intruding on tradional lifestyles. Tourism is in fact as impactful as colonialism, it’s just called by a different name. Unintentional maybe, but as powerful. In the chapel in Humahuanca there is a model behind glass, depicting traditional life as it used to be many years back.

A far cry from what the town looks like today. Now most of the activities are centered around selling products, which means consumerism has engulfed even a remote village such as Humahuanca. In spite of this acute awareness this morning I intend to keep on travelling, but with even greater sensitivity.

As I was writing the above, happy that I was staying occupied while waiting, I happened to look up, just in time to see a bus pulling out right in front of me. It was from the company I had bought my ticket and it was headed for Jujuy. In other words: mý bus!! 10 min EARLY, and it was already leaving… I hesitantly got up, sort of waving at the driver, not wanting to believe it wás my bus. My waving gained momentum as the urgency of the moment penetrated my befuddled mind and I realised that the driver was nót going to respond to my feeble gestures. Eventually he stopped and I checked with him. Yes, it was the bus to Jujuy, ánd I had two subsequent buses to catch to my final destination, Cafayáte. Chaos erupted. I charged back for Louise and my rucksack and everybody in the group of vendors started panicking. They were shouting and gesturing and the señora who had served me coffee grabbed Louise and ran to the bus, me following with my rucksack slung over one shoulder. I fell into my seat, not sure whether I had heart palpitations from shock or relief – probably both. Phew, angel-protection par excellence! Thank you for all the prayers I know are being said for me. I’m inclined to not ask anything for myself – my prayers mostly consist of eternal gratitude.

How does one put into words the exaltation of standing 4350m above sea-level on a windswept and barren hill over looking the colourful triangles of Serranía del Hornocal. Ice-cold gale whipping your face, slowly trying to fill your lungs with air low in oxygen, keeping movements to the minimum. The steep downhill trail to a closer viewpoint tempts and you go down, knowing that climbing back is going to be a process of one step at a time. My son said that at 10500ft above sea-level a person starts feeling faint after one hour, so no wonder the driver urged us to be back at the car within 30min, as we were at 14000ft. Truly a spectacular sight and wonderous experience.

The mountain range, which forms part of the Andes, extends from Salta through the Quebrada de Humahuaca (mountainous gorge) and then through
the Bolivian Altiplano to Peru.  The limestone formation is called Yacoraite, formed under the sea many years ago and eventually exposed through erosion.

Hornocul is reached by foot (12hrs), bicycle or car (my option). It is 25km  from Humahuaca and the road goes up a winding pass that takes one past the ruins of a town that once acted as defence post. The whole gorge was part of the Inca trade route. It is arrid country, and I was surprised to see some cows grazing halfway up. They are cared for by people living in the virtually isolated town with the ruins.


Back in Hamuaca I was pleasantly surprised to find a religious parade  filling the streets of the old town. There were quite a few bands playing, each with their own group of dancers, and the noise was deafening. I noticed that one man playing a massive bass drum was hitting away with one hand and closing his ear with the other!


The local cuisine is different from other areas, with llama meat being popular. I had a dish called locra (made of corn, pumpkin, meat an sausage) at one of the many arty restaurants.


The narrow cobbled streets are quaint  and filled with artisan shops, and as the cars park on the sidewalks, one literally has to squeeze in between them to avoid being hit by a passing car.


There is a massive bronze monument  towering up the hill from the town square in front of the church.  It was built in honor of the Army of Northern Argentina and the indigenous peoples who fought there during the country’s war for independence. 


The Iglesia de la Candelaria y San Antonio is an historical monument and was built by the Jesuits toward the end of the 17th century. It was extensively renovated after it had been partially destroyed during an earthquake in 1873, and has impressive rococo alterpieces and other artworks. One is not allowed to take photo’s, which I was unaware of until a lady friendly but firmly pointed it out to me – too late.



And the murals in town, ever present:


Humahuaca, the furthest point that I am venturing north in Argentina, and I have a kind of sadness at leaving this arrid rural simplicity which has reminded me of the Karoo in South Africa.

La luna, the moon!! She rose in all her glory over the Andes mountains, and blessed me with misty rays from between the clouds after a rather taxing day.

Louise and I started the day like this (down, not up thank goodness), on our way to try and catch a local colectivo (bus) from Jujuy city centre to the bus terminal.

We found one (we always find one), and were soon on our way to Purmamarca, a popular tourist destination further north. I had made an Airbnb reservation (and paid for 2 nights) in Humahuanca, still further north, without knowing if and when I would be able to get transport from Purmamarca, whether a few hours there would be enough to fully experience the colourful mountains, if I would be in time for my booking and if I would be able to walk to my destination (my budget is now non-existent). If this sounds confusing to you, just imagine what was going on in my heart and mind. All these uncertainties were taking their toll and not being able to communicate was not helping at all. And then the WiFi was not working at the place I was staying last night, which drove me into frenzy, until I decided that it would be of no use whatsoever to panic, today was going to happen either way. The landlady of the place I was staying at gave me such a motherly hug and fond farewell this morning, I was on the verge of tears. Maybe she sensed that I was confused and uncertain.

I díd get a bus in Purmamarca and 4 hours wére enough to fully appreciate the splendour of the mountains, ánd a lady started talking to me as we were waiting for the bus. I caught the word frío which is ‘cold’, so I could fully agree with her. She carried on chatting, asking me if I was travelling solo and, I gathered, spouting forth about the non-necessity of men (with her husband standing a few feet away), but eventually I had to admit no comprendo, hablo un poco español. She was most amused, told her family about it and promptly came and gave me a proper Argentinian greeting (a hug, cheek to cheek, with a kiss to the side of your cheek) when they left. All the time saying suerte, suerte which means ‘good luck’. All little gems that bring relief and add meaning to a complicated day.

The route north is along the Rio Grande (Big River) which is mostly dry at this time of the year, as are all the rivers in this part. The riverbed is covered with stones which they are harvesting in various places. I don’t know what happens when the river comes down, but there are huge trucks and other equipment, as well as roads and mounds of stones.

Pulmamarca is definitely worth a visit in spite of the touristy feel of the place. It is off the main route, so be sure to buy a ticket to the town itself. For me it just happened by accident, and had it not been for a lady warning me about it, I might have ended up in the wrong bus. The attraction is the different colours of the hills surrounding the town, aptly called Cerro de Siete Colores (hill of seven colours). This whole area is called Quebrada de Humahuaca (quebrada means ‘broken’) and is best explored along the Ruta Nacional 9 between Purmamarca and Humahuaca.

My natural curiosity and yen for exploration made me follow the trail in the middle of the following picture:

And this is what came in to view as I got to the neck:

I had met a couple from Buenos Aires on the way up, and the man was keen to tell me about the spectacular view, so when I ‘wowed’ at it, I looked back at them and we all cheered and waved our arms in the air, sharing a moment of sheer enjoyment.The town has many local artisan craft markets, shops and stalls and a few restaurants and old little church

Even the stalls close for siesta time:

Lunch for me was stirred-fried vegetables with fried rice, a little bland a usual, but tasty:

And the ever present dogs…

I was in for a shock when I saw the road Louise and I were going to have to traverse to get to Casa Valentina, my Airbnb booking for the night. The wind was blowing, dust everywhere and no even pavement or road to ease our way, and having to cross the Rio Grande, which is not so big at this point. Louise was on her back, and I hate that, it means I have to carry her.

At least there was a perfectly clean room waiting for us after 750m of struggling. A room without windows, I might add…

I went in search of a restaurant after a refreshing shower and discovered a completely different town from what I had experienced on the outskirts where I’m staying. Narrow cobbled streets, town squares, many little shops selling handicrafts and souvenirs and lots of restuarants. It was getting dark, but I took a few pictures.

The last was a sneak photo – the shops have these beautiful old display cabinets and are really old-fashioned, but the owner wouldn’t allow me to take a picture. I can’t wait to do some walking about tomorrow.

On my way back home I was wondering about the ‘reflection’ on the clouds in the east, when it suddenly dawned on me: the moon! I stopped in my tracks in the middle of the dirt road and waited for the magic to happen. Even then I was not expecting a full moon, but there she was – hallelujah!!

Don’t think a thousand steps get you to heaven. It only takes you to the top of Cerro San Bernardo, a hill overlooking Salta, a beautiful city in the north of Argentina. Although, with the spectacular backdrop of the Andes mountains, an exalted feeling is not precluded. It’s just the sweat and shortness of breath that brings you back to earth.

A man-made waterfall greets one at the top, which was not too bad as it is the end of the dry season here and no natural waterfalls to refresh the weary climber. I love the energy of running water. I was amused by the sign at the fall and still don’t quite get it. According to Google Translate zona cardio protegida means area of cardio protection. I thought if I stood there for a while, my heartbeat would return to normal…

Yep, that’s a cable car – as usual I opted for the more challenging way of getting to the top, feeling very superior. I sheepishly have to admit that it probably had more to do with dinero (money) than the physical exertion.

Just a slight diversion here. There was a documentary made a few years back, fast-forwarding the decline of planet earth once humans ceased to exist, and how nature would take over again. Somewhere there was a scene showing packs of dogs roaming and scaveging for food in the absence of man. I am seriously beginning to feel that here – roaming dogs are everywhere. On the streets, in the parks, in the city centre, and a lot on the San Bernardo stairs. Just lying there, obviously not belonging to anyone. I remember Paolo Coelho writing about the dogs of O’Cebrero on his pilgrimage to Santiago, and how fearful I was as I approached that town on my own Camino – I never saw any dogs. But now I seriously am becoming concerned.

Salta was founded in 1582 and the name is derived from the Diaguita word sagta which means ‘beautiful’, so I feel quite justified for having called it a ‘beautiful’ city in the first paragraph. For me, there is always beauty in everything, but seeing all the colonial and pre-colonial buildings around Plaza 9 de Julio, a tree-filled green park in the city centre, the name is easily justified. Most striking is the Iglesia y Convento San Francisco (church and convent of St Francis), which was started in the mid-18th century and the facade, done by Italian architect Luigi Giorgi, was only completed in 1870.

Two of the oldest surviving buildings (although both have been restructured as result of earthquakes and wars) are the Cabildo de Salta and the Convento San Bernardo (Convent of St Bernard). St Bernard is the patron saint of Salta, hence the hill named after him too.

This door is the only original part of the convent and was carved by indigenous craftsmen in 1762.

Something really upsetting is displayed in one of the museums here. It is a head piece that is carved out of turtle shell. It was fasionable in the 18th and 19th centuries and was worn by women, as shown in the illustration:

It is Miracle Week in Salta this week, with a huge parade and festival ending it on Sunday. The cathedral on the plain has daily ongoing services which are publically broadcast and people are queuing for communion and blessings, bringing little bunches of red and white carnations that are being sold on street corners. Quite inspirational, the piety accompanying it all. Although my poor mother would have had a fit, as she believed that red and white flowers together predicted death. Just goes to show how supestitions can govern one’s life. The flower arrangements in the church were different though.

Workaway has bestowed me with another friend who invited me for lunch today. She responded to my application, stating that she no longer accepted Workawayers, but would love to meet me as my vocation was of interest to her. She has etablished and runs a language institute in the city and has suggested that I teach English classes there in exchange for Spanish lessons. So I might come back to Salta in December or January!

I have decided to name her Louise, this pink companion of mine. Not that we’re suicidal, or that we’ve murdered anyone (yet), but yesterday she almost got me into big trouble. I had spent the day wandering the streets, sleeping on the grass, watching the river and generally waiting for the night bus to Salta. Louise was at the place I had stayed, where the host had kindly agreed to keep my luggage for me until 5 o’clock. By that time I was tired, hot and thirsty and Louise persuaded me to have a beer on the way to the bus terminal, which was 5km away. They don’t serve small beers in Argentina, the smallest is 500ml. So a slightly inebriated Louise kept on tripping on the uneven pavements, almost pulling me down with her a few times. I decided that it would be best for both of us to catch a bus for the last 3km. Good decision…

Corrientes was founded in 1558, but not much of the old town still exists, as it was a battleground for 2 big wars, the last in 1865 -1870. There are quite a few stately colonial and 19th century buildings, often centered around plazas.

There is a shaded walkway all along the Parana river, and at this time of the year the Lapacho trees (pink trumpet tree, or tabebuia impetiginosa) are in full bloom, some also along the river.

The Parana, as I have said, is the largest river in Argentina, and even has some beaches along the banks. Not swimming weather yet, but I am sure they are packed during summer.

I spoke about the murals in Buenos Aires, and in Corrientes they are everywhere, real wors of art.

I saw this abandoned power station, and it made me wonder about Eskom in South Africa. On the building is written: Agua y energia electricia.

The fruit here and everywhere is tasty, sweet and not too expensive. I bought 3 tangerines from a street vendor for R1 each, and they were the freshest, juiciest and sweetest I have ever tasted – they had their stems and leaves still attached.

The next few pictures tell a sad little story I witnessed while Louise and I were having my beer. The little girl’s mother was trying to entertain children for money, while she (the girl) had to sit on the bench:

Sometimes the mother would check on her…And then she got tired…

There are só many women and children living on the streets, begging or trying to do something for an income. Quite tragic and sad. But there are also many happy families: fathers, mothers and lots of little kiddies, often 3 or 4, close together like the family next to the little girl. My general impression here is that people are happy – even the statues have smiling faces!

San Ignacio Mini merited a stop as the best Jesuit-Guaraní ruins are to be seen there. Together with 3 other sites close by, it was declared a World Heritage site in 1984, for its ‘arcitectural beauty and evidence of unrepeatable history’.

As a former UNESCO Director General stated: “It is a matter of protecting the universal inheritance of humanity, not just preserving the past, but engineering a future more in keeping with the greatness of the human condition.” If this is the intention of world heritage sites, it was accomplished for me. I learnt about the Guaraní people, original inhabitants of the Argentinian Litoral, as that area in the northeast is known. How they had lived in communities of up to 2000 people, and very much in harmony with nature’s rhythms. How they regard words as more than a means of human communication, but a conduit to the divine. Their whole culture, its stories, myths and traditions, is orally transmitted, and they sing the messages given to them in dreams by the gods. According to them, the word is the soul, and to lose it is to die. “When the earth did not exist, amidst the ancient darkness, when nothing was known, He made the fundamental word open like a flower and, with Him, it divinely became heaven; this Ñamandu did, the true father, the first one.” (León Cadogan)

The first Jesuit Mission, or reduction, was established in 1609, and they were well-established and fully functioning by the time the Jesuits (Society of Jesus) were decreed to leave Argentina in 1768. They had grown in numbers and population, and had created a novel social construct different from any other where missionaries and original inhabitants intermingled. Cultural interchange was occurring, and every form of art and artisan activity was used to fulfil the evangelizing mission, The Guaraní took this a step further and created an art form which is now known as Guaraní Baroque. It was mainly wood and stone carvings, but was regarded as world class and filled every available space of the reduction. Unfortunately very little of it remains as the missions were all destroyed during the War of the Triple Alliance with Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay against Paraguay in the late 1800’s.

The reduction was completely enclosed by walls, and all activity took place on the inside. There were many private dwellings and areas designated for a vegetable and fruit garden, and one whole courtyard had all the workshops and shops, such as blacksmith, carpenter, ceramic, rosery making, bakery, spinning, etc. They thrived on music, dancing and plays and both Guaraní and western musical instruments were used. The presence of the Guaraní is strongly felt while walking amongst the ruins, especially as the beautiful old trees and plants serve as reminders of their connectedness to nature.

I

I had the rest of the day free so rented a bike for 250 pesos (R80) and took to the woods on my bicicleta. Nobody had warned me that the National Park had so many hills!! Up I went, pushing most of way, and down again, pulling on both brakes as the road was bad and full of stones, and ending up in hospital was not on my agenda. All worth the effort – being low season, I was completely on my own in the forest, and the view of the Parana river belonged just to me. I could peacefully eat my sandwich and contemplate all without having to clamber for a place as I had to at Iguazú. What bliss…

There was one solitary young man walking with a plastic bag to one of the comunidad aborigens (townships for the aboriginal people) that are located all around the outskirts of town. I passed him before getting into the forest, but then I stopped for a rest and was putting down my helmet and rucksack when I felt stinging bites on my calves, under my tight fitting jeans. I looked down to find my tackies full of tiny ants, and they were everywhere – how they managed to get up my jeans so fast remains a mystery, but I was determined to get rid of them before they climbed any higher. I was just about to yank off my pants when the lone man came up the road. So I had to wait, and by the time he had disappeared round the corner, they were biting me at the waist. Was I glad to be rid of those jeans! If it’s not the pesky gnats, it’s the ants…

To update you on the pink travelling companion – yes, I pushed and pulled it very far after the bus had casually dropped me off at the side of the highway outside San Ignacio. Of course I took a wrong turn agáín, based on anóther assumption… I was looking for house number 306 (that was the number in Iguazu) in stead of 1636 (the San Ignacio one) – completely opposite direction.

Note the pink travelling companion waiting to hit the road…

Is it possible for the soul to expand? If indeed, mine doubled in size after my Iguazu experience.

The indigenous people of this region,  the Guaraní, revered the falls in the Iguazú river. Iguazú is derived from the Guaraní word for ‘big water’, a very apt description for one of the world’s great natural wonders. It is made up of 250 individual falls, spanning a distance of 3km. 


I was blessed by that same water when I went on a boat that goes into the spray of two of the falls, one quite huge, and one lesser one. I was petrified beforehand, but once on the boat the adrenalin kicked in and the excitement became overwhelming.

Approaching the falls, one wonders if one will come out alive, and not quite knowing what to expect, the first torrent of water came as a huge shock that left me breathless. I was still gasping and trying to wipe the water from my eyes, when the next shower hit me. This repeated itself several times, leaving me completely exhilarated and exalted.  By the time we had gone through the second waterfall I was soaked and shivering  but as we sped back through the rapids, I turned my face to the sun, closing my eyes and allowing my body, mind and spirit to soak up the warming rays, and that’s when I realised that my soul had doubled in size. Such a meaningful blessing.

This is one of the falls we went into:


I was sure my gnat-bites would stop itching after the water-blessing, but no go – still huge welts that itch like mad. My cousin Lynton reckons spirit earth has a sense of humor.I spent the rest of the day exploring the 3 different routes that lead to different sections of the falls. The one to the biggest fall, called Garganta del Diablo (Throat of the Devil), is a 1,1km walk on metal walķways accross the river:


Throat of the Devil:


Some of the falls one can view from lower down, and get quite close up. This one is called Bossett:


Bossett Fall, and Adam & Eve on the left:


A view of one of the larger sections:


Puerto Iguazú regards itself as the tourist capital of Argentina, as the falls are the most popular tourist attraction. There are shops and restaurants galore, and although quieter at this time of the year, I am sure it is packed during summer. It is quite hot, and I was relieved to rid myself of winter clothes and join the locals in wearing shorts and a T-shirt.  The town is quite small, and the room I booked through Airbnb is very central and cheap, only R150 per night. I was fortunate to have had sunny weather yesterday, as we had a proper thunderstorm and rain today, the first of the season. They haven’t had rain in 2 months, so the river is low and the rain-forest quite dry – no need for raincoats.

A mural accross the street from my hotel: