fresh n juicy chunks of oyster :: RTW travel blog

Here I am at 5 AM, sitting at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. My body is a wreck that is only kept moving by Coke's age-old secret ingredient, I haven't slept in a bed for three days and haven't taken a shower for four. I am wondering whether other people can tell already... How I got here I'm not quite sure and it is a long story that I'll have a hard time cutting short.
It all started last Saturday when I thought I had found the perfect guide in a tourist office. I insisted I didn't want to do 'estancia-tourism' (where they dump you on a ranch, feed you beef and after you're nice and juicy they slaught- umm sorry, send you on horseriding daytrips). The travel agent eagerly agreed and presented me with a 3 day horse-trek of some 320km from Cachi to Cafayate, two towns mostly in the middle of nowhere. I then spoke to the guide, Hugo, who explained to me for half an hour that horses could run fast and how much fun it'd be. And such is the story of how I got suckered in and booked on Monday for the following day. My skepticism was quelled by my child-hood fantasies of galloping day and night to deliver a vital warning of impending Indian attack to Fort Cafayate, Pony Express style.
Tuesday morning dark and early the guide, we caught a bus to Cachi. It turned out Hugo's newly acquired Swiss girlfriend would come along for the ride. No problem, she was great to have there actually, especially as another voice of sanity!
Once we arrived in Cachi Hugo started taking his time over things. It turned out he hadn't reserved any horses but there were some in a town called Saclantas "only 10 km away". Now, the Argentines are infamous for underjudging distances (after careful deliberation they'll tell you "four blocks that way" when it usually turns out to be 14) and in this case too I finally found out it is actually 35 km - after walking for an hour. I proposed we hitch-hike to Seclantas so as not to get there after nightfall.
An hour later we arrived but Hugo didn't know the way to the horses, at one point proposing to wade across a half-mile wide fast-flowing river. I found the farm a little later (asking directions helped) and had a chat with the owner Fido, whom I can only say amazing things about. From him I found out that the proposed trip was indeed impossible. Apparently it would take at least a week and besides the river was too powerful to cross by horse right now. I confronted Huge and after much Gollum-like twisting and squirming of his I find out that he intended to start for a day and then realise we couldn't make it to Cafayate and come back here. Charming bastard. I proposed a policy of honesty henceforth and we planned a shorter and more manageable route to Angustora, a farm another 35 km away. We spent the night in an empty house of Fido's and the next morning we were on our way.
The horseriding was amazing. The scenery was mindblowing, alternating between desert and lush green fields all the while stunning mountains as backdrop. My horse Vayo (no relation to the laptop) was high-spirited, fast and listened to most things I told him. Hugo's horse on the other hand buckled under his weight after an hour and had to be dragged half the way. We took our time and in the evening finally made it to Angustora.
The farm had no electricity or running water and sheep, goats and chickens roamed the land and lots of cattle grazed on pastures. A recommendation letter from Fido got us warmly welcomed by the family who were again, simply great (I don't want to keep waxing on about how hospitable and friendly the people in the countryside are). I had a really good time there! And I fulfilled another cowboy fantasy of mine by sleeping on the horse's blankets and saddle which actually turned out to be quite comfortable.
The next morning we left late. Too late in fact to realistically make the last bus to Salta which I needed to catch to honour the hostel reservation I had made for that night (no telephones=no cancellation). Hugo's horse started breaking down underneath him again and he was dragging it along painfully slowly.
I decided to head back by myself on Vayo. At that point Hugo started mumbling something about my having to pay extra for the horse, mumble mumble. Bollocks. After I gave him an earful about him being the most useless and disorganised guide in the world I galloped off with faithful horsey.
At this point the 'tour' as such luckily finished. And I don't want to sound whiney but I've but mentioned a fraction of Hugo's incompetence for lack of space.
Tourless, I rode back to Seclantas, only stopping for water but singing and whistling songs to Vayo to keep him in good spirits - he seemed to prefer the Monty Python theme tune and was a forgiving listener when I had to make up the lyrics to songs. Another fantasy of mine kicked in and I pretended to be the lonesome cowboy in the desert complete with flesh-wound, being carried home by my trusty steed.
Before I went mad I arrived in Seclantas but getting away from the middle of nowhere was harder than expected. After several 5-minute lifts from a pick-up truck, a van full of onions and a tractor I found myself on the main road to Cachi - only a swift 27 km walk. After an hour of mountains to my left and river to my right the first car approached. I held out my thumb full of hope but the asshole (probably tourist) behind the steering wheel of the half-empty 4WD Toyota waved at me condescendingly and cruised by in a cloud of dust.
I started feeling like a leaf in the wind happy to settle anywhere it would take me. I was getting increasingly friendly with the notion of sleeping by the side of the road huddled under my rain poncho when finally a van came - and stopped!
A husband and wife team were collecting tomatoes and onions from farmers waiting patiently at the side of the road and were driving them up North to Jujuy. None of that chain-supermarkets monopoly crap here: "local produce from local farmers" or something.
For the sake of being a leaf in the wind I decided not to be honourable, screwed the reservation in Salta and joined them on the way up towards Jujuy (if I don't chicken out I'll try to call the hostel and explain). In Jujuy state I was dropped off seven hours later not as centrally as I'd hoped and started writing this entry. But the past has caught up with the present and I'll have to ignore rules of tenses to continue.
A friendly truck driver from Buenos Aires namely took pity on me and took me to where I am now, the capital San Salvador de Jujuy. I seem to have stumbled right into the middle of carnival season so I will head further North today to some smaller village for some R&R and partying. Rio it ain't but I'll give it a chance.
Equally I'm still undecided on whether the horsetrek was the worst tour ever (in the traditional sense of the word) or the best possible 'tour' (in the non-tour sense of the word).
Or maybe it was all just an elaborate set-up and conspiracy, right from the start, planning for everything to go wrong... Maybe they knew that I am sick enough to even enjoy this sort of stuff? Well, it definitely beat getting slaughtered on an estancia with other Gringos.

[Would you believe it, I've edited out about half the photos this time and still ended up with loads. Find them in Albums Argentina 2 and 3.
Oh, and if anyone can come up with a less cheesy title to this post please suggest, I'll take the first option. I'm way too tired right now to think of silly puns on Westerns... ;)]