I awake that night to a ruckus at the door. There are fumbling keys and frantic talking and the hostess comes in and says something in Spanish and Fabian moves his things into my room, further words are exchanged and he moves them back.
In the morning an older woman walks by my door and tells me. "You are not Argentinian."
"No. Estados Unidos." She gives me a sour look and goes back downstairs.
Fabian has already established a rapport with the lady and her friend. I walk down the steps and we all go out for breakfast. Bread, café, two kinds of marmalade, manteca, goat cheese all for half an American dollar. Beatriz tells me, to no great surprise, that she hates Americans. When she sees an American she sees Bush, imperialism, killing, using the world at our disposal with little regard. She asks me if I know about Pinochet and the coup in Chile. Then she asks me if I know about the Argentinian Dirty Wars of the 80s: "The US intervened," she explains to me, and made it worse. I like Beatriz immediately and it doesn’t take long for her to warm up to me as well.
We are looking for a truck to San Isidor. Being who I am, I want to walk, but I keep this to myself. I want to keep the group together. We wait by the plaza as Spanish hippies lay out their jewelery for sale on the plaza, and await the next busload of tourists. The influx is such a trickle that I wonder how they eat, even in Iruya. Beatriz chats with them as they share the mate.
Fabian comes back to say that the next truck will not leave until tomorrow. Beatriz then disappears up the street and comes back with a ride. We breathe in the aire libre as things unfold at a decidely Iruya-like pace. We huddle onto the four chairs set up on the back of the pickup and pull on a woolen blanket. We head up a valley in between red and green shaded mountains past farms, natives on horseback, and Quechans towing pack mules to and from their farms. We splash through the river a dozen times and gradually climb the valley.
Once the stone on the road becomes too loose, we get off and walk the last several hundred meters to San Isidor. Its another small village with a blue steepled church and a mirardor. A cemetery lay high above town on the summit. A pair of goats play in a field and Laura, Beatriz’s companion, hugs one while I take the photo. Our group walks past a Jardin de Ninos and into the village proper to the comedor with llama woven crafts and food. I find a Andean style llama knit hat and pull it on to everyone’s amusement.
Inside a cultural center we meet with a pony tailed Quechan shaman of sorts. He describes the culture and demonstrates some ceremonial instruments that correspond with the seasons
. An enormous feathered condor skin, big enough to wrap around a grown man, hangs on the wall. We follow the switchbacks to the mirador and gated cemetery where the dead enjoy a vista over the town where they lived. The stones and crosses are draped in plastic hoops circled with pastel colored plastic flowers. We go back down to the truck with the shaman and pile in.
Its time for coffee again in Iruya, along with pan and queso. The hippies take their spot at a table in an adjacent dining room. We go into town to walk around the open market filled with clothing and work supplies, soccer balls, kettles of food on charcoal, and a papas fritas stand with mayonnaise, mustard and ketchup for condiments. At dinner we order Cordero estafado, a lamb stew, papa and quinoa tortillas and a traditional stew and pass each dish around. We open a bottle of wine. Beatriz gives me a Castelano lesson, "The pouring of the wine." : Deseo un vaso de vino, por favor. Por supuesto! Gracias! De Nada! "Lesson one." Fabian shows me how to twist the bottle after pouring to prevent spilling a drop.
As dark takes hold all of us walk to the mirador to see the town at night. Why does that sign have ice cream written in english, I ask. Fabian tells me that it is a brand name like McDonalds. "This is what I mean!" Beatriz says. So I say, "Cuando construyen un McDonalds en Iruya es el fin del mundo," which earns knowing laughs from my friends.
On top of town in an unlikely posh hotel, so we climb the steps of this apparition. The pristinely appointed lobby, exclusive dining and even the radiators stand in stark contrast to the rest of the town. Finely woven Quechan textiles are displayed under glass and for their price one could have food and accommodation in Iruya for a month. We pose for pictures in the lobby and then return to the dirt, garbage and dung covered cobble. A storm rattles the tin roof of our café. Beatriz whispers to me. She thinks the Quebec man at the next table is a Nazi. She showed him a necklace she received from a Jewish friend and he looked repulsed. I have a bad feeling about him as well and he sets me on edge when he asks me what I’m thinking.
Back at the hospedaje, the women plot out the rest of my route through Argentina. We take turns looking at each other’s photos and get to bed just as the all night pena outside our window stokes up.
