Mella Madness

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:

Exit, not departure. According to my online dictionary, the latter means leaving a place, whereas the former means the way in which one leaves. A slow exit has its merits. And by slow I mean by foot, down a 200m dirt driveway, having to negotiate my pink suitcase around mud puddles, very successfully I might add.I waited until they were all doing yoga on the lawn before my grand exit – I had no intention of having witnesses. My ‘long walk’ towards a new adventure. Time for reflection, for a farewell. The gate at the end of the driveway was only the beginning, as I had 6 blocks to go to catch the local bus, and 6 more once I got to Santa Fe. I made it, and am on the night bus to Puerto Iquazu, my next destination.

The last couple of days have been eventful, as usual. On Friday I joined the yoga class outside, and impressed the instructress, Laura, with my abilities. Stretching felt good and relaxation at the end of the hour with the smell of grass and the warmth of the sun on my body, even better. Laura very kindly offered me her bicycle, and on Saturday I explored Sauce Viejo from one end to the other, discovering big houses, deserted houses, old cars, parks and even a sandy beach at the river.
Two interesting guests joined us as volunteers during the weekend. One is a drone fundi that came to plot the area and record videos for marketing. He is from Spain, living in Buenos Aires, where he’s launching a project to drop tree seeds with a drone, to counteract deforestation. Research needs to be done to establish the most beneficial way of preparing the seeds beforehand, but he is hopeful that the necessary funding will be obtained and people contacted. Admirable, to say the least.

The other person is a young traveller from Spain who has spent the past 3 years in Argentina. He is brimming with information and has given me some excellent tips and places of interest to explore. These young travellers have a unique way of doing things. They are well equipped with cameras (with huge lenses), have music, videos and series on their computers, with earphones. They have sleeping bags, very few clothing items, boots and a warm jacket and everything fits into a rucksack. They brew teas with curcuma, cocoa leaves, thistle or any herb that is cleansing and energizing, they are open minded and alternative in their approach to life and people, and they are ingenious about finding jobs to pay their way.  I’m half traveler, half tourist, which suits me – I’m trying to act my age. 

Do you know how complicated it is to paint the SA flag to scale? It was quite a job and required thorough research, but the result is spectacular, don’t you agree? On the stoep wall, with all the other flags:


I invariably land up on the back of a bike, no matter where I am. This time Alejandros wanted to buy poles at a sawmill on Monday, and invited me along. Don’t make assumptions (the 3rd of Ruiz’s The Four Agreements). I never asked how far we were going  I just assumed it was at the next village. Well,  35km on the highway, passing cars and going like crazy, and me holding on for dear life. But it was FUN!! And then a further 15km to have lunch at a special little restaurant that does ‘family cooking’, as they call it here. My first empanada, freshly baked, crisp and tasty, and fish from the Parana river, firm white fillet, well prepared, although a bit too salty. And white wine from Mendosa, the rest of which I had to cope with on the back of the bike. Holding on with one hand just felt too perilous, so I shoved the bottle down the front of my top. Much safer…


The man at the sawmill was about my age, and proudly showed me the meal they were cooking next to the reception bungalow.  He also wants to travel, he said.Of course the mate was made and offered, and much to my surprise sugar had been added. Not so good.  Which reminds me: Ale pointed out to us that all the ground coffee sold in Argentina has sugar added to it. We didn’t want to believe him, but it is clearly stated on the package.  What a disappointment.I did my first Argentian constellation!! On the grass outside, with 4 beautifully sensitive people. The horses were around, the river in the background and the late afternoon sun shining through the trees. One of the Spanish volunteers did an a excellent job of translating while representing as well. I am só excited, would love to pursue this avenue of work. On Tuesday, my last night, Alejandros barbecued meat and stir fried vegetables as a special treat, much appreciated.

The parting gift this morning was a turtle that appeared from the forest, making its way accross the grass to the river, literally falling down steps and into the water. It came up twice, as if in greeting. Goodbye turtle, goodbye Camino del Indio, goodbye Alejandros and goodbye Ale. Thank you for an incredibly special time.

Never judge a book by its cover, the saying goes. That is the case with Camino del Indio, the place that I’ve been staying and working at. The mere name, which means ‘the way of the aboriginal people’, indicates that it is a sanctimonial place, where people respect nature, the ancestral ways and unsophisticated manner of existence.

The original homestead was that of the founder of Sauce Viejo (the name of the town here), and is next door to our humble abode. It is part of the same property, but is currently not in use. In a previous blog I had referred to it as the ‘workshop’, not realizing the significance of the building. The one that had corrugated iron sheets ripped off during the twister in February, evidently 50 of them, most ending up in the trees of the surrounding forest.

Furthermore, a movie was made in this house, depicting the retired life of the 80yr old surviving spouse of the previous owner. Her name is Bella. It is called ‘Dilettante’ and was made by her daughter, as final product for a degree in filmmaking. Only 3 people act in the movie: Bella, her caretaker Kata, and a lone man living on the property, named Cecil. It’s on YouTube, and Ale kindly let me watch it on his computer. Very poignant and thought-provoking, made me view life here in a different way.

I have come accross the word ‘dilettante’ in Argentina a few times. First in Buenos Aires, where Renato’s friend Christian referred to himself as dilettante, then in the film, and then Ale also referred to one of our guests as ‘dilettante’. It means a person who is interested in and can easily talk about many different things, but does not have an in-depth knowledge of the subject matter. It seems that there are quite a few of them around…

The guest I am referring to is a young man (19yrs) who pitched up late one night, literally blown in by an icy wind. He happens to be a knife maker, who was on his way to do a further course in knife-making. Initially I was completely intrigued, trying to understand the process and taking photo’s of one of his creations. The handle is going to be crafted from special wood from Thailand, with engravings.

The patterns on the blade are the result of a sheet of metal being rolled out and folded double many times, up to 150 in this case. The grooves close to the handle are made manually with a small round file – time-consuming and detailed work. The sheaths are hand-crafted too, and the final product is sold for $800 (USA) in Argentina. By eleven o’clock I gave up and went to bed, feeling sorry for Ale who was victim to a monologue which carried on well into the early hours of the morning. According to Ale, the young man has a keen interest in many things, and is quite knowledgeable, yet he called him a dilettante. How would I know, ignoramus with un poco español.

An inscription on the kitchen wall says: ‘Cocinar es Alquimia’, meaning ‘cooking is alchemy’.

Ale, who is vegetarian, has turned out to be quite thé chef. My contribution to the cooking process has been oats porridge every morning, which is served with sliced banana and a generous dollop of dulce de leche, the popular chocolate/caramel spread that is eaten on bread. Ale, on the other hand, has produced home-made bread every day, savoury pizza with salsa and mozzarella, topped with fresh rocket from his garden

and pascualina, a pie made with chard and eggs. The chard is chopped and fried with garlic, finely chopped leeks and carrots. The dough for the pie is made without yeast or baking powder, only flour, salt, oil and water is used. The bottom layer of rolled out dough is filled with the chard mixture, and then topped with 4 or 5 raw eggs. This is covered by the top layer of dough, which is spread with egg yolk. He baked the pie in the clay oven outside, which by the way, he had built. Evidently his mother is the best pascualina maker in the world, and he must be a close 2nd!

The days are speeding by, each bringing its own element of surprise or satisfaction, such as horses grazing in front of the house, yoga on the lawn, friends dropping by or unexpected guests arriving. On Tuesday for example, we were going to have a light lunch because it was going to be pizza night, but come 2 o’clock (yes, our official lunch time), friends arrived and a pascualina pie was promptly made. Ánd we had pizza that night, albeit at 10 o’clock, which is not that abnormal anyway.

I’ve been helping Ale make a new garden for pumpkin (actually butternut), squash, green peppers and tomatoes. The process involves collecting many wheelbarrows of horse manure and compost, cleaning out the grass and weeds, digging the soil (my idea, he was just going to make mounds) and then spreading first the manure, which had to be chopped fine with a spade, and then the compost. The manure and compost have to be mixed by hand, so as not to hurt the earthworms, and the mounds are covered with a thin layer of soil. The result looks good, but my hands have aged considerably and my nails will take weeks to recover – broken, and blisters everywhere. The sad part is I will not see the plants grow or taste the harvest.

On Friday Ale decided to put another layer of clay on the stove, which meant 5 barrows of clay had to be brought from the river, and I softened the clay while Ale fixed and plastered the oven. And I thought my hands had taken a knock after the gardening…

I seemed to have chosen an excellent time to visit here, as the rainy season hasn’t started and there are no insects around. Spiders, scorpions and mosquitoes abound in summer, but I have only had to deal with gnats, those tiny miserable little ‘muggies’ that sting without you being aware of it, creating itchy welts. The spiders are coming though… We discovered a huge web, at least 3x2m, high above the ground between the trees that line the pathway to the gate, which was covered with hundreds of minute spiders, little black dots hanging there like stars. I tried to photograph them, not very successfully though. When we arrived there again the next morning, the web was intact but the spiders had disappeared. We discovered them clustered together back in their nest. We’ve been watching them, and they seem to come out in the afternoon and move back to the nest in the morning. And we’ve found two more similar webs in the vicinity – who knows how many more there are in the forest. I’m think I’ll be happy to leave pretty soon!

More than 40 species of birds have been recorded on our grounds, and I’ve seen about half of them, such as eagles, water birds, kingfishers, owls and many others. There is a bird, called the benteveo comun, which has a very specific call almost like the ‘Piet-my-vrou’, and the locals have named it ‘bicho feo’ as a result of this. To me it sounded like ‘beat your fear’, and in the beginning, when I was emotionally vulnerable, it was a very encouraging sound to hear as I worked outside. I had a good chuckle at myself a few days ago, when I disvovered that ‘bicho feo’ actually means ‘ugly bug’!

Grateful contentment at the end of each day, sitting on the bankie and watching the sunset over the river:

Mate is a culture, not a tea. It is used as means of inclusion, of creating companionship. It is ingrained in the culture, and when you are invited to participate, it is a sign of acceptance. On Sunday I came to fully appreciate the extent of the habit, or more aptly, the ritual. Let me first explain the process of making mate:The first step is cleaning the mate, as the container is called. It is made of wood, or other material, and is shaped like a small urn, with thick sides.


The yerba (pronounced ‘sherba’, the herbs that the tea is made of)


is poured into the container at an angle, and a little cold water added at the low point. The water is heated (90°, never boiling) and poured into a flask. The bombilla is inserted into the yerba at the low point,  straight up against the edge. Only then the water is poured from the flask, against the stem of the bombilla, to run down under the yerba, until the water just appears at the top through the herbs, frothing a little. The leaves are never completely covered and remain dry on the higher side.


The person to make the mate always drinks first, as initially it is very strong and bitter. Drinking involves sucking on the bombilla, about three small sips, until there is a gurgling sound, indicating that the container is empty. It is refilled with water from the flask, not moving the bombilla, and passed on to the next person who sucks until the gurgling sound is heard. If one is using a litre flask, then halfway through the bombilla is removed and inserted at the other side of the mate, where the yerba is still dry, and the process continues.  Mate is drunk immediately after pouring in the water, it doesn’t have to draw.

Back to Sunday…  Ale spoke about a traditional band that was performing in Santa Fe, so we took the local bus and spent the afternoon and evening there. The band performed outside a cultural training and art centre, which is housed in a converted old mill, I gathered. I was impressed by all the little kids that had been brought there, and many of the exhibitions were interactive – none of the ‘don’t touch’ type. They were loving it!

The band was good, the instruments being used mostly traditional, and the performance unconventioal, mostly to entertain the children.And then of course the eye-opener for me:  half of the people there were carrying flasks and mate, drinking and sharing all the time.  That is how it is done here, be it outdoor entertainment, markets or indoor festivals, where people gather, they carry their mate. Some have smart carry bags, some have  loose bags, others just carry it in their hands. A sneak photo…


We walked down one of the main streets of Santa Fe which has a pedestrian walkway in the middle, and discovered a beautifully restored manor house.


Further down we went into the station building, which now is used as entertainment arena, as trains no longer run to Santa Fe. We stumbled upon a huge festival, celebrating the diverse cultures that make up the Argentinian people. People were seated to watch the various folk dances,

and next door was an area ás big with

food stalls from the different countries. We settled for pizza and beer, enjoying the ambience (and watching mate being shared…)


Later we carried on down to the river where a brightly lit old bridge invited the classic picture:


And then it was homeward bound, walking a good couple of blocks (like twenty) to a point where we thought we could catch a bus. Much to our dismay, the bus came from a different street and we had to cross over and run – two blocks of full speed running for this old woman!! I made it just in time (of course Ale is 20-something and was way ahead of me) and collapsed into a seat, shaking with laughter and exhaustion.  Life never ceases to be exciting!