Carnival of the Jubilados - Adios Argentina - 5 Mar 2003
Static in Salta
Footy digression
Carnival
Rushing over to Iruya (pron. Irusha)
And so to the border
Donít cry for us Argentina ñ the truth is we really love you.
Decided to stay at the same hostel where weíd been before in Salta ëcos it was a nice place to chill before the privations that no doubt face us in Bolivia. Privations, nothing. Add petrol shortages, road blockades, demonstrations, bad roads and the rainy season. Suddenly it seemed all too easy to simply sit around in the pleasant summer warmth and put things off.
Pat had also been looking for a place to give Bertha a serious once over, as she hadnít been pulling right. Since we would be heading up high beyond 4000m it seemed wise to do all we could to help Bertha up those hills. So Pat diligently spent the day cleaning and adjusting the carbs and all sorts of tuning bits. I did wonder whether I was going to be in for a day of pampering to help me cope with high altitude, but instead we just relaxed.
On my part I spent the day washing all kinds of things that I had been putting off doing and desperately needed attention before they walked off in disgust all by themselves. You would be appalled by the amount of dirt that emerged from his biking trousers, or our fleeces. But by the end of the day everything was clean and sweet smelling, apart from of course the Bolton scarf that I was not allowed to wash in case it washed the luck out of it. If there is any luck in the damn thing, I hate to think where they would be without it. Relegated before Christmas as an embarrassment to the division.
I havenít yowled on about footy for a while and so I guess I ought to confirm that the mission re. The scarf continues. It is always worn for matches, whether this means donning it by the side of the road while riding through temperatures reaching the 40s or embarrassing myself in a public place where I sweat with my scarf on. The last great deflation was of course the failure to take all 6 points off Man U in a season having conceded a goal once again in the last minute of normal time. Weíd spent the morning trawling the cafes and bars of Cafayate to find someone showing the game which had been promised by Fox Sports channel.
Although we found a bar showing Fox, they seemed to have changed their scheduling and were showing, instead, the opening rounds of the Kuala Lumpur Amateur Tennis championships or some such. Chuffed I was not. We resorted to our usual second best method of following the game ñ watching the highlights come up on the Wanderers website. The down side of this (given the Wanderers last minute weakness) is that there is a huge delay between events happening and the reporting coming up. So, by our reckoning the game had been over for about 10 minutes and weíd been looking at the same highlight from the 88th minute for some time when the final nail in the coffin appeared. As webmaster Willy, in his role as Statto, pointed out to me the Trotters have bungled 10 points away this season through last minute laxness. By my reckoning, this would put us nicely in the middle of the table. Galloots. Maybe I need to produce a hat or safety helmet to be donned for the last 10 minutes of the game!
To cap it all, I went down with a mystery ear complaint. Having had a perforated ear drum 25 years ago and suffering from terminal hypochondria, I tend to think that any ear problem is the same thing and likely to get infected leading to some nasty debilitating effect on my brain. I was most concerned about having to change altitude a lot as we will be doing over the next few days. Embarrassingly, the manager of the hostel called the emergency paramedics out to see me even though Iíd simply asked for where I could locate a doctor. Humiliatingly, it turned out to be a blockage of wax ñ soon removed with the use of ear drops (three pounds 50 at the local chemist)
Finally I got my pampering, as Pat left on a mission to find bacon for breakfast to apologise for being a mithering idiot the day before. Bacon sandwiches with mayonnaise what more could you ask for?
Our relaxing time in Salta was marred by a trip to the post office. Read Zimbabwe, Bulgaria and other post office bureaucracy incidents into this space.
We mention carnival and you will be assuming that we are heading for Rio, but you should know us by now, we never do the usual thing. We of course were off to Humahuaca, pronounced Ummmmwhacka, which sounds remarkably like the song the imaginary dancing baby sang in Allie McBeal. Iím not sure I remember this episode, but it seems feasible. This is a little town in the North of Argentina in which the guide book describes the carnival festivities as boisterous. What boisterous actually means is what we were about to discover.
The journey up took us past views of ruins of a small Inca settlement perched on a hillock and a cemetery that was mentioned for its photogenic-ness (couldnít see it myself), we had seen far more picturesque places in the North of Chile. The custom of bedecking the graves and their crosses with flowers of brilliant colours that can only be truly achieved with the use of plastics. The promised ìasphalt all the way to the borderî was interrupted here and there by roadworks which as always had us running on the graded roadbase. Is it only Britain that shuts half the road and keeps the traffic running on tar while the work is carried out?
It was clear that we arrived in Humahuaca just in time and took the last two beds in town it seemed. It was no surprise that when we queried the price the chap was cool knowing that we had no choice. It was fair to say that it was not the inflation rate that would have expected. Reports of the ìbestî carnival event in Bolivia, Oruro, are that hotel prices are raised from about 5 USD for a room to 40 USD. I was so pleased that we didnít make it so far for carnival as I had been dreading asking for directions with my r-disability.
We got down to town to see what was going on. Our hostel manager had promised both musica folklorico and tipico Andean. We failed to come across convincing outlets of such music. Could be the fact that we were out at 9 oí clock rather than Argy time. Back at the hostel we chatted with a charming Dutch couple who seemed to be on a fairly whistle stop tour down to the south. Theyíd arrived in HumaÖ after a 19 hour bus trip. They were going to take in a bit of the Carnival and then head down to Bariloche as quickly as they had come. Not really our idea of fun.
We all retired fairly early in readiness for the mayhem that was sure to happen on the morrow.
Our next advice re. HuamaÖ. Carnival came from a young Argentine who was staying in the same dorm as us. He pointed out on the town plan where the ìheadquartersî of each of the marching bands was and recommended a couple for us as places where to watch the build-up. On his say so we trudged up a steep hill (the altitude was getting to me ñ or was it all those fags I had as a young man?) only to find.. not a lot. Below us there were a few folk in a yard listening to a ghetto blaster and preparing a barbeque. We admired the shrine at the top of the hill and returned to town seeking further amusement.
The centre of town proved to be more lively than the previous evening. Youths, middle aged and jubilados (lovely word they have for retired folk, here) alike were pasting each other with scented talcum powder and then water bombing either with buckets or balloons full of, well, water. Added to the simplicity of water and talc where a range of sprays from shaving foam to fake snow. I am sure the old timers were sad to see all of this modern tat kicking around. My gut reaction is that, just as Shrove Tuesday is about using up the leftovers from winter (I stand to be corrected) the original idea would have been to simply use flour. Actually the modern version is much more pleasant and easier to wash out. As I changed lenses on the camera a chipper old dear snuck up on Hippy and gave her a good dusting. It was all down hill from there. As we tried to engage in a spot of lunch, the restaurant broke out into a squirty foam fest. We managed to eat and quaff before too much got on our feast.
A band began to play in restaurant. They were already, grey and blotchy from a multitude of dustings. This built the tempo of things still more as the gathered throng began dancing between the tables, meanwhile the squirting and dusting reached an all time height with foam firing from all directions. Iím afraid that you will mostly have to take our word for it, as bringing out the camera amidst this carnage would have created a tempting target. As it was the pair of us had arrived in the restaurant looking far too clean and it was inevitable that as the token gringos in the place we were due for a good bit of grief.
We nipped back to the hostel to get rid of the cameras that were, by now, getting to be something of a hindrance. On getting back to town we bumped into our room mates who had clearly been getting into the grotting up and drinking spirit. They seemed to know where the main procession was going to be starting from and led us up to the end of town where a large crowd were gathering. Just as we arrived the heavens opened and we were forced to take to the only cover that was available ñ under a truck. Things improved after about ten minutes and when we emerged there was a beautiful double rainbow framing the throng of expectant revellers which raised our spirits a little.
When eventually the procession began it was a seething mass of partying folk waving corn stalks in the air and moving along to the beating of drums. We were disappointed that the promised costumed devils had not appeared, but shuffled along with the tide of people flowing towards the main plaza. Pat was even presented with his own maize stalk to wave. It was a little battered but itís the thought that counts.
The procession shuffled the length of the main street and landed at the main square that had been the focus of the mess making activities. Nothing seemed to be happening much but we hung around awaiting the appearance of these Diablo chappies. We waited a bit longer and then a bit longer still. Eventually gave up and headed to a restaurant for dinner. The diners were, predictably, covered in white substances which was all a bit odd as this restaurant seemed to have been pretty much unaffected by the revelry. Indeed it was quite swanky by the townís standards. The meal was more ordinary than the surroundings ñ how often that is true.
Pat was hoping to get outrageously drunk, (it seemed only fair given that everyone else in the town was) but Mrs. Conservative here knew that we had a long ride the next day on dirt and a hangover would mean either an cancellation or a dreadful trip. After bemoaning the fact that I was boring, by the end of the meal Pat had changed tune and was feeling drowsy (hmm maybe tired and emotional), manís prerogative, I suppose. As we walked out the door, we could not have timed it better. Diablos a go-go. Costumed people were parading down the street with a multitude of shuffling, half-running folk behind. The costumes were amazing. The diablos, devils to you, ranged in size from toddles to adult, covered head to toe in a cross between jesters outfits and devilish manifestations of animals. Following behind were wild creations with headdresses more than 2m high of feathers, the kind of thing we have all seen on the TV of the more famous Rio version. I ought to find out the meaning of all this, I am guessing it is something to do with the good feathered spirits chasing out the bad. We joined in the procession and jogged around the town. Now that things were rejuvenating I was all for staying up and now Pat was keen to retire, so we headed up the hill to bed. We were content that we had finally seen the madness in full.
Rushing over to Iruya (pron. Irusha)
Up the road 75km was a little village of Iruya. Now we knew that the road rose 1300m and reached 4000m over a pass and the local bus took 3 hours. This we are now using as a yardstick for the quality of the road. So we set off minus luggage to see how the bike was going to cope in Bolivia where much of the road is over 3000m.
It was a stunning road that went through a river valley and rose gently up to the top and then we were faced with the most amazing views into the gorge. Good old Bertha did us proud again. It was breathtaking; we looked down on a fertile river valley, where the river had cut down 40m below the cultivated area. The sheer face that was left behind was cut into sections by the beginnings of scores of new transverse rivulets. The whole scene looked somewhat unstable from our side of the valley but beautiful in the severity of its precariousness. As we wound down a promontory of land into the main river valley, it appeared that the there was a cliff face at the end. The steep end was in fact almost as we had thought and the road descended sharply by a couple of hundred metres by a set of hairpins. From there was more gradual descent along the gorge to Iruya.
The town itself was tiny, but oozed picturesqueness. The narrow cobbled streets wriggled steeply up and down the hillside. The neat adobe houses lined the alleyways. As local Amerindians coaxed loaded donkeys through the streets it felt a little like the town that time forgot. Until we entered a rustic house for lunch and cable TV was blaring in the corner.
The ride back was to be a bigger test for poor old Bertha as the rise up was far less gentle. She made it of course ñ did you have any doubts? I did. Now first gear seems to be on the way out I have to negotiate slippery hairpins in second with a lot of clutch-slipping. Weaving through the valley we went through a little town where the children were gathering for their own parade of diablos. As with children the world over there were those who proudly stood with their chest out to have their photo taken and those that were shy and hid round the corner of a building. We were chased from the town not by the diablos but a pack of dogs. In our experience dogs tend to enjoy barking you off their territory but actually never follow through with anything more serious. This was the exception to the rule, one rather vicious mongrel of rotweiller size wrapped its jaw around my ankle. As I felt the jaws closing I was thankful for my bike boots which prevented it taking a proper hold. The force of the bite left my ankle achy but intact. We left town with Hippyís piercing scream echoing from the fronts of buildings. Pretty eerie ñ the locals looked somewhat dismayed but made no move to give the dog a good hiding. Probably trained to bite gringos. Not such a bad idea.
It was all going well untilÖ. The grey cloud covered the sky and we feared rain and got worse ñ hail. If you have ever biked or cycled in hail you will know how it stings. I now know how buildings must feel when we sand blast them. Wearing only ordinary trousers for leg protection I laid my hand on my knees and huddled behind Pat using my bike gloves and armoured jacket for protection against the gravel sized chunks bombarding us. You may say why didnít you stop and take shelter? Well, the shrubs were at the height which may give the odd rodent sanctuary but Iím afraid their offer little relief for us humans.
On return to HumaÖ.. filling up we found that your little jaunt had not been without injury. No, not my ankle. The frame for the panniers had completely snapped through again at the place where it had been welded before. There was no way that it was sensible to continue tomorrow loaded without getting it fixed. But this was fiesta time and a Sunday so any businessman worth his salt, was drinking the profits. Apart from the man who ran the tyre repair shop who happened to have a welding set ñ as you do. He did a fairly credible job and this time we added a bit of extra splinting to what is obviously a weak spot. All for the princely sum of one pound fifty. Oh how I love heathen workers in highly Catholic countries.
With everything functioning we had a short ride up to the border and as we had some Argy money to get rid of decided upon a night at the town of Yavi as it is preferred to the border town itself. We did not really get up to much in town as the weather seemed to be getting what we expect to be more and more Bolivian by the hour. We chatted for ages with a Belgian traveller who has found a place to veg. For a while. He was quite venomous in his attack on the world bank/IMF and all of the developed nations that benefit from the likes of Argentina. He did not really tell us much that we did not already know and feel a bit ashamed about. Although there were one or two donkeys in the town that seemed to have had their hind legs talked off we managed to escape in time to get in to see the local mad church.
It says something for the wealth of this area at one time that the whole of the altar and floor to ceiling, pulpit and any other moveable or immoveable objects were completely covered with gold leaf. Not so extraordinary in the wealthier parts of Europe, but this town was really quite basic in itís adobeness. There was a strange phoenix-like creature stood on the balcony at the back that bore an odd resemblance to many of the pre-inca petroglyphs that we have seen around and about. Another example of the Catholic Church managing to embrace traditions of local cultures in an effort to pull the punters. We were not allowed to take flash photos regrettably ñ probably worried that the reflection from the gold would damage tourists cameras. Never quite have understood this rule that you can take pictures without flash but not with. There really were not any sensitive pigments that would not have withstood hours and hours of flash abuse.
Donít cry for us Argentina ñ the truth is we really love you.
So, thatís it folks. We arrived in Argentina in September and are leaving in March. It says something. But for the language and the reaction of the tiniest minority of people we could certainly see ourselves settling here.
We watch the development of the economic situation and itís (obvious) effect on the politics with great interest. We move on with reluctance but feel that we need a bit of time for things to settle down before we commit to somewhere like this.
What happened to the devil may care pioneering spirit?