Mate in Humahuaca

I sit in the bus with Quechan women in bowler hats and colorful sweaters heading for the Andes. The town I arrive in reminds me of small Quechan towns I’ve been to before in Peru. Adobe, cobble, an unlikely internet café , but the landscape is like the high desert in Arizona, if it wasn’t for the hulking saguaros. But for that, this is Quechan territory through and through: textiles, pan pipes, sheep, chicken, goats and dogs everywhere. The restaurants serve little else but meat and potatoes, if and when they decide to serve at all.

When I enter my hostel I waken a napping porteno. He’s excited to practice his English on me. A group of twenty something, educated and well dressed, portenos invite me for mate. Its my first time trying the tea ceremony. The silver cup is filled to the brim with loose yerba tea and the head of the ceremony holds a thermos of hot water. She fills the cup and the person sips through a bombilla, a curved metal straw until the brew is consumed, then the cup is passed back to the person with the thermos.

They chit chat rapidly in Castelano and I understand nothing but a few words. The group slowly files out and its me and two others. We talk about books. She likes John Irving and I think of Garp and try to remember who played him in the movie, but can only remember Mork. Surpringly that rings a bell with her. Its Robin Williams, I recall, my memory of home is as distant as the geography.

I find a nice restaurant, Casa Vieja, to eat llama steak and listen to traditional music and vanquish half a plateful of boiled red potatoes.

Salta, for a day...

As I ascend the stairs of Hostel Terra Oculta at 5am, the young concierge comes down the stairs, "full" he says. I crouch down in the dark on the sidewalk with a Lonely Planet and without a clue. I find a sleepy concierge at Condor Hostel who gives me a brief tour. I crawl into bed at 6. I awaken several hours later with the rest of the dorm and walk out into illuminated Salta. I like it, but I’ve had my fill of plazas, malls and cafes for now and my mind was set on getting out. I immediately decide to go to Humahuaca, a small, Andean village settled by Quechans, descendent of the Incas.


People pedal curious looking chain driven cars down the sidewalk through the park close to the bus station. A tractor train decorated with Daffy Duck and Tom and Jerry graphics pulls cars full of ninos. I wander deeper into the barrio. Shards of glass are glued to the top of walls to deter burglars. A sermon blasts from a loudspeaker that can be heard for blocks. School children jump the wall of a school, and another group play futbol in the street. Close to the evangelizing loudspeaker, witch face graffiti is tagged on a electric pole with a phone number underneath. I eat pizza that night then wander the square. I gather dried fruit and salami, cereal, cookies for whatever the next few days might bring. I want to break free of the turista umbilical chord and simply wander.