Goodbyes in Tilcara

When I wake up at 5am, the pena is still going strong. Fabian instructs me, bafflingly, to shut the door after him. I, shrug, get my pack ready and follow. He tells me, no, that the women are traveling with me, and he is headed towards the Bolivian border. So we say our goodbyes and in truth it does feel good to go back to bed.

Laura is ill with a headache and stomach pangs that morning when we go to breakfast. I suspect the altitude is getting to her. We part after breakfast to meet that afternoon for the bus to Tilcara. I take one last walk past the market and hike down the road towards San Isidor. Children play along the path as villagers walk their burros. I bottom out in the canyon and turn back in time to make my bus.

I find Laura laid out on the church steps. I sit on the plaza wall and write. We board the bus and a very white American man taps on the window summoning us outside. The ladies have a SUV ride into Humahuaca, the stopover point to Tilcara, but I was rejected. But the ladies deserve a comfortable ride. Beatriz gives me a hug and leaves in the SUV with plans to meet me in Humahuaca.

When I find them again, Beatriz gives me a hug hello, happy that I made it. As I search the town for an ATM I arrive back to the bus and Laura and Beatriz have managed to carry my overstuffed pack to the bus.We buy our three peso tickets to Tilcara and board the bus within a half hour. As I search the town for an ATM I arrive back to the bus and Laura and Beatriz have managed to carry my overstuffed pack to the bus. We pull into Tilcara and I’m taken aback. The town and countryside is beautiful. Its another adobe filled village with funky cafes and artisan shops. Its surrounded by red buttes and beige mountains. The place we stay is like a villa. There are murals on the walls and the toilet tank is of a bygone era, fitted high on the wall with a chord to activate the flush. The lamp shades are the multiholed skeletons of saguaro cactus.

I walk around town briefly and return in time for dinner. I meet up with Laura and Beatriz for our last meal together. The café is playing modern jazz and has a nice, mellow ambience. A dog with a gimpy front leg hobbles through the digs, and she looks familiar. Beatriz makes sense of it for me. The people who own our hostel run this place as well. We order a quinoa stew, corn stew, and a plate of steak and pureed squash. We share plates, as usual. I eat the most sumptuous steak on the planet, I imagine, and I’m no beefeater. Beatriz talks to me about my timidity and the warmth of Argentine culture and the coolness of mine.

I eat most of Laura’s lomo and squash. She is still feeling ill. I say goodbye as they leave for Jujuy and Buenos Aires in the morning. I listen to a hip jazz trio, part native, part beatnik. I return to my hostel sated.