Humahuaca

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I unwillingly welcomed the emptiness in my heart while I hugged my temporary travel soulmates goodbye. Their travels ended, mine never do. Which means saying goodbye to people is a weekly, sometimes even daily activity, which I rather avoid. I preferably just take off without telling anyone to evade the emotional shake-up of hugs and “I’ll-miss-you’s”, rather than explicitly conclude the short but intense time in which we shared our most profound sentiments, personal memories and honest laughs. To get my mind off things I focused on the words whispered by the cleaning lady in Tilcara, excited about the upcoming festival of Virgen de Candelaria in the tiny hamlet of Humahuaca.

Festivals always color in the daily life of places, making it the most suitable time to visit.

The fact that I was still rather sick I thoroughly ignored. I like to think I’m a strong woman and I see a sickness as a weakness I simply won’t accept, in this case easily suppressed by the local remedy for everything: a cheek full of a coca leaves and some mystic herbs drink called Fernet-cola. After I lined up behind all the hitchhikers I nevertheless snatched the first ride away that cut straight through the glorious sceneries of the Quebrada de Humuhuaca… lands where you can almost touch the sky. Obviously that’s related to Earth’s remarkable height here: 3012 meters above sea level, to be exact.

I arrived in a lousy half hour and instantly ran into a couple that offered me accommodation just outside the center for a rather good price. The woman invited me to enter the car so they could take me there… but once in it just didn’t feel right. The people were friendly, but the route they took was weird and my instinct had alarm bells ringing and red lights flashing. They didn’t want to stop when I asked them to, so I just opened the car door and jumped out with my belongings. From there I sauntered to the center, where I searched some dreadlocked porteño backpackers to inform where I could find a budget bed. After a group hug which included a tree they walked me to their humble shelter where I could spend the night for no more than four dollars. Nothing fancy, needless to say: A shed comparable to where westerners park their vehicle in but a bit shabbier, in there twelve beds, a kind-of-cold-shower and a basic kitchen (another shed with a gas cooker). That’s all I need to feel comfortable. Plus: The owners were lovely, which is even more important.

Whilst making some extra friends on the street and sending them to the same auberge I followed my roaring stomach to the small and cheap fruit and vegetable market. Sharing a kilo of peel-peanuts with some bohemian street vendors I informed what I could actually do in Humahuaca, as the lack of internet at the northern grounds of Argentina had prevented any prior research. Apparently I could ascend to the Monumento a los Héroes for starters, providing an excellent view over this town wrapped in between the reddened hill peaks.

A comparable view I obtained later on at the Peña Blanca, a high-up rock scattered with broken glass and smelling like piss… details that are however easily forgotten by the vistas softly hinting to a small version of the Parque Nacional Las Quijadas (San Luis). Those mountains really begged to be climbed, but for some unclear reason I had decided to wear a skirt and delicate sandals that day. I promised to myself I would never let ‘looking good’ win from ‘adventure’ again.

As my sickness was nevertheless raging through my body I decided to rest a bit using the excuse of that holy institute here called ‘siësta'. Integration right there! When I woke up I learned a handful of my new carnivore friends were cooking me a traditional guiso, but without the meat and animal fat and therefore all-vegan. Everything is possible in the country of steaks!

An adequate foundation for the tango class that was spontaneously initiated on the dusty patio of our hospedaje, as one hostel guest seemed to be a passionate teacher on holiday leave.

A pleasant distraction, but I spent enough time in Buenos Aires to be able to show off my own basic dance patterns on the milonga already… here in the north I was more interested in the folklore worshipped at this edge of the country. So I sneaked out and hasted to Plaza Padilla where a big stage was resurrected to host local bands entertaining the boozed up crowd.

My eye was drawn to the dude playing keyboards… wasn’t that the guy that gave me a ride from Jujuy to Purmamarca? Then I heard “yyyyyyyy la proximá canción es para la holandesa linda” and I knew it was him.

The plan to down some wines was easily plotted, but my body was letting me down frustratingly enough. I returned to my dormitory and slightly feverish combatted the ice cold night I certainly wasn’t prepared for. You would think two pair of pants, a top, shirt, sweater, jacket and a sleeping bag should do the trick, but I was freezing my balls of as far as I have those. Note to self: When traveling to deserts, don’t base your packing list on Aladdin and Sex And The City 2: Abu Dhabi… 45-degrees day temperatures are easily alternated with nights around freezing point.

Good news: the festival lasted not one, but two full days! So when on the second day the first rays of sunlight crept under my sleeping mask I jumped out of bed to follow the music. Together with some hostel-friends we followed the bands marching through the center, after which I stealthily moved into a side street to get rid of the clique. I’m a social animal and flourish surrounded by people, but once a group tends to become something permanent and I’m expected to follow a certain form of ‘group decision-making’ I’m out. I’m not traveling alone to make compromises with others.

Chewing on my market lunch at the plaza I gave as many lectures about the importance of school and the cruelty of child labour as there were kids begging me for money. They can get all the healthy food in the world from me, even if that means I have nothing to eat myself, but the day has yet to come I infest a pure child with our poisonous monetary system. You're too young to be wasted, you can’t eat money my sweet youngsters, go out and play to escape as long as you can!

I looked up when I heard a procession approaching from a distance. The entire population of Humahuaca seemed to be part of a band somehow, mainly panflute-orientated, all musicians singing and spitting along with a deformed face full of coca leaves. All of this of such questionable quality that I would have pulled up the average level if I would have joined one of those ensembles spontaneously (FYI, that’s bad news). But well, the people seemed to be happy.

There was a porcelain doll entering the church for the first time, giving blessings to everyone, so if that’s not a reason to celebrate until the sun comes up I don’t know what is. Never in my life did I hear such an exhilarated speech wailing through the city streets, people waving with handkerchiefs and flags while playbacking along with the anthem. You would think Jesus Christ himself had taken the effort to pass by, handing out free condoms and lollipops, hearing that man holding the microphone losing his shit.

Well, if a puppet is a reason to drink for 11,5 thousand people, why shouldn’t I be one of those? So I tracked down my clan again and bought a bottle of Fernet Branca.

Remember that I once wrote that my memories related to liquor nights are generally not my proudest? Right…

So I needed to pee really badly from all that Fernet ‘n coke, but downtown Humahuaca was swarming with police. Being the decent human-being I am I therefore rang a doorbell of a hostel, requesting to empty my blather. The answer was a firm ‘no’. So I presented them the option: “It’s your choice, either you let me use your bathroom like a lady, or I drop my pants right now to do it here in front of you.” It was the last one. And I happen to be a woman of my word. Yes, let that sink in for a bit.

If you wonder how that night ended… Shrieking through the midnight streets of Humahuaca we headed to the gymnasium where the concert of a great artist of our time was scheduled: the grand El Chupachichi (literally translated: suck titty). As we refused to pay money we tried to convince the grumpy bouncers to let us in for free, using different foreign accents claiming this was “ze only night in ze coe-ntry”. After our 56th attempt we were officially requested to leave the site. Then we started drinking Fernet pure, which is definitely not recommended to try at home.

Then I sneaked to bed and set an alarm for my Steemit interview with Travel+ Leisure Magazine, which I did like this:

The worst thing is that this time, 2PM, was a good estimate. Or the best thing, as in my life I will get my 8 hours of sleep, sí o sí. I have no boss that calls me angrily or sensitivity of what other people think: Freedom of sleep, my revolutionaries!

The afternoon I dedicated to visit all museums downtown had in store for me. To sum that up: Couldn’t find Museo Ramoneda (I thought I did, but standing in a kitchen with the parilla going I realized I accidentally broke into someone’s residence), they Archeología Museum was closed, the Museo Aparicio was also nowhere to be found and the Folklore Museum missed an owner so was shut down until further notice. Good times.

I saved the best for last however: El Hornacal. This kind of clinical-sounding name refers to a sight you most probably saw before flipping through the pages of some random travel magazine or quickly scrolling through a travel blog. Makes sense, as this place is absolutely dazzling. Purmamarca has the Hill of the 7 Colors, here the marketing-claims mention 14 colors … who’s your daddy now, huh? Of course I refused to pay for a tour bringing me there, opposed to every other backpacker I met… but the hitchhiking situation as well as the devastating heat didn’t seem to be that favorable. The first vehicle that stopped was actually a touring car.

“I’ll take you for 200 pesos”, the man winked.
“50.”
“Ok, 150 my friend.”
“50.”
“Right, 80!”
“50.”
“… 50, alright…”

Don’t negotiate with me. I’m Leo, I always win.

Three dollars to see this astonishing eye catcher is definitely money well spent. It caused one of those adrenaline moments in which you wonder if this is really existing… some things are so good it almost feels lie it’s a giant screen dropping down once you lean on it. Some kind of Truman-Show-Illusion. But it wasn’t, Argentina really is this attractive, in case you needed more proof.

I told some co-globetrotters (I was about to spend some future travels with) I felt lightheaded, which made them hand me a stock of coca leaves to beat the vertigo caused by the 4300 meters above sea level. Gallantly I filled my cheek, smiling inside because I knew very well that wasn’t the cause of my light-headedness at all... it was the sight of this marvel of nature.

It doesn’t matter how many travels I make, my brain absorbs every single detail of the grace I present it with like an eager sponge…

And in the case of El Hornocal… well, that can be just too much at times.

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