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We have finally left Buenos Aires for a little trip up North. We almost didn´t make it as Brian was struck down with a serious case of man flu and started weakly implying he might be too ill to travel further than our front door. I immediately went out and bought a large box of tissues, a kilo of Vitamin C - niftily compressed into a small dissolvable tablet and a family size Disprin dispenser, all of which I then forced on him at regular intervals, despite his feeble protestations that a cold needs to work it´s way through the body and doesn´t need interference from nagging girlfriends bearing ridiculously over-priced placebo drugs.
The morning of our departure I woke up at 2.30 in the morning with a very bad back (amazing I had slept at all really given the amount of coughing and spluttering emanating from the bed next to me; I´m a martyr to other people´s illness, me). Luckily I have been carrying with us a supply of prescription pàinkillers for just such an occasion, so I knocked them back in a nurofen cocktail, added a splash of Vitamin C for colour and luck, assured Brian that we would make it safely through the next 24 hours and pushed him (gingerly) out of the door, where we hobbled and spluttered our way to a taxi and the hygienic safety of the airport. Unfortunately he had to manage both the bags, which may have gone some way to explaining his tetchiness.
Landing at Salta airport was amazing - we are in the North East of Argentina, in the Andes and near the borders with Chile and Bolivia, and so we got sweeping views of the mountains, some with a little bit of snow still perched on top. The sky was a deep shade of blue dotted with wispy white clouds and far below were verdant green valleys dotted with houses and the odd swimming pool. We hired a car at the airport and drove hesitantly into Salta, Brian all the while bitterly complaining about the fact that my driving licence was ´conveniently´ stolen during my traumatic pick-pocketing incident in Buenos Aires a couple of months ago, leaving him to do all the driving. Luckily his tirade can´t last long before he has to reach for another tissue and he can then switch to his favourite subject - the severity of his illness. I listen sympathetically and make the appropriate noises in between his sneezes.
The road to Tilcara is dotted with terracotta coloured villages. The first thing I notice is that they all have chimneys - a sign we are definitely heading into chillier climes. The roofs are all hung about with washing lines and rows of brightly coloured clothes swing in the breeze, the higher the better in order to catch the most of the sun during the day. The local people look very different to the portenos, they´re stockier, darker and look more indian. They also wear quite a few layers of clothes, including woolly hats. Now I´m convinced it´s going to be chilly. As we drive we find that every few miles the traffic slows for a police check - around every town there seems to be local, national and regional police checkpoints. They invariably wave us through as we look so obviously foreign, but it must be a real pain for the locals. Apparently they´re looking for drugs, as this is a well known drug route from Bolivia. Let´s hope we can make it through with the painkillers and the disprin. Apart from the incessant road-blocks the roads are easy to navigate; long and smooth and the verges are well manicured, unlike most of the cars we pàss, or pass us (Brian´s driving remember), most of which look like they are held together by the rust that is enveloping their body-parts.
As we approach the last few kilometers to Tilcara we enter the Quebrada de Humuhuaca, a range of mountains renowned for the amazing variety of their colours. Either side of us tower mountain ranges darkening in the rapidly approaching dusk, it´s a little too dark to see the colours in all their advertised brilliance, but we can see traces of them that look as if they will become vibrant and contrasting in the light. For now we just want to get into town and check into our hotel and nurse our various ailments.
Tilcara appears to be a ramshackle but quaint village (population 3,300) with dusty streets and there seems to be little regard for cars, pedestrians or animals, everything just flows effortlessly down and around the main square which, as we cautiously approach, I´m pleased to see houses a variety of market stalls, stocked with gaily coloured ponchos, llama embroidered hats, cactus wood carvings and, darn, Brian suddenly picks up speed and the stalls disappear as quickly as they appeared, like a little mirage. The first time we´ve picked up any speed since leaving the airport. Our hotel is lovely though, a little boutique oasis in a dusty desert - http://www.lasterrazastilcara.com.ar/
The day after we arrive we take a wander around town (the stalls, I am pleased to see, remain in place) and then head up to a place called Pucara, it was an ancient fortress that was re-constructed in the 1960´s, and now stands high on a hilltop surrounded by towering, and very prickly, cacti. We have almost recovered from our original illnesses but because we are at 2,600 metres, we have now succumbed to a slight case of altitude sickness and have persistent headaches. Another quick delve in the medicine bag and I discover that I´ve brought along a rather out of date stick of something called 4Head, I think it is similar to tiger balm - anyway, lo and behold, it works, and our headaches disappear.
That evening we go out to celebrate - Brian tries a llama steak (verdict; disappointing), and I have trout which comes complete with head and glazed eyes that I have to cover with a limp piece of lettuce before I eat it, I really don´t like being stared at by something I am about to devour. There is an Andean band that comes and plays in the restaurant and they´re very good, they even sport traditional ponchos and bowler hats, but, the curse of pan pipe bands the world over, they just can´t resist the urge to take a Simon and Garfunkel song and turn it into something cheesy.
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