misadventures in Cafayate

Abandoning Buenos Aires and big-city life, I retreated to the northwest corner of Argentina for more of the slow pace I had found in Uruguay.

The first few blocks around the center of Cafayate have paved streets; beyond that, it’s dirt roads in all directions, with gorgeous hunks of mountains at the ends of them. The town square is disproportionately large, containing a fountain and the biggest patches of unnaturally green grass to be found anywhere in the town. On the north side sits a massive pink church – again, disproportionately large given the size of the town, but it likely attracts parishioners from the surrounding hills as well.

I arrived here from Salta on one of the most beautiful 5-hour bus rides I’d ever taken (not knowing the bus rides were to get better), my backpack and I spilling out of the vehicle and into the dust, disoriented. We’d driven over mountains, through vineyards, and down tree-lined streets, the leaves blazing yellow as fall approached.

As I strapped on my pack and headed down the block, I heard another girl ask me (in English, of course – I generally am THAT obvious), “Where are you staying?”

We made fast friends in the way two people who find themselves alone in the same place do. After sharing a meal, some wine, and our latest romantic exploits (of course), we became roughly inseparable, and only parted ways several hours – and a submarino each – later.

In the courtyard of my hostel sat a big brick BBQ, which was used for an asado that evening, celebrating someone’s (whose?) birthday. We lined all the tables up in the kitchen and ate family-style – hostel guests, hostel employees, past hostel employees, and some other locals. I invited Amanda, we made even more friends, and I may have overindulged, which made for an interesting day on Sunday: Amanda and I hiked up an entire mountain, mostly on accident.

We had signed on for a “walk” to see three waterfalls along the Rio Colora’o. It would in fact be quite a stretch to call what we actually did a “walk.”

Arriving at the meeting point on time the following morning, Amanda and I remained very much alone until about 45 minutes later, when a small van pulled up. The square was empty; Argentines are not early risers. The man who’d booked us on the walk was driving the van, and our guide, Nahuel, sat in the back with us.

The three of us were deposited on the side of a dirt road, with one lone tree casting angled, early-morning shade. Amanda and I waved goodbye to the van and turned to Nahuel, our immediate futures in his 19-year-old hands. He spoke absolutely no English.

After scaling a 8-foot vertical rock face to gain the start of the trail, we padded along after Nahuel as we following a stream upward, a stream we ended up crossing no fewer than 20 times, even as it grew and turned into what one could arguably call a small river. We stumbled around cacti, climbed through tiny holes in vertical rock faces, and skittered along the trail, upward.

Nahuel was infinitely patient with us. He climbed like a mountain goat – quickly, no hands required – and spent quite a lot of time waiting for me and Amanda as we hesitated at all of the river crossings and gingerly stepped past steep drop-offs. We’d inevitably round a corner to find him perched gracefully on a rock, taking in the view as he waited. He was a good sport, though, and we took several selfies with him in order to document the adventure.

The first two waterfalls were fairly unimpressive. Nahuel gestured to each of them somewhat shyly, and Amanda and I took our obligatory photos of them. The third and final waterfall, though, gushed into a pool of considerable size, so we stopped here for a while, wading and appreciating what the morning’s efforts had gained us.

By the time we arrived back at the dirt road, we were exhausted, and Nahuel was completely unfazed. In the summer months, at the height of tourist season, he might do that hike twice a day, several times a week.

I had two more nights in Cafayate, and by the time I left, I felt like I could recognize 80% of the town. There is something comforting about being in a place that’s so far from home, but that can still feel familiar. In my last days here, I ran into people I knew walking across the square, or when passing the patio of a restaurant where they were having dinner. I even ran into Nahuel a couple of times and split an alfajor with him.

It is true that as a basic human desire, we crave community. We want to feel like we belong, to be accepted, to know and be known. Travel often removes this possibility by definition, and that can lead us to important and meaningful experiences – if we are willing to have them. We engage with people we otherwise wouldn’t, perhaps first out of necessity, or out of loneliness, as we struggle to live outside of our comfort zone – as an outsider in a foreign place.

This search for community is in fact the meat of all travel: Trusting people we don’t know. Saying yes. Admitting vulnerability and accepting comfort. Sitting down to a meal with strangers, and standing up as friends. The cultures of the world are so magnificently different that these moments of connection are the most thrilling shortcuts to the nature of our shared humanity: It is truly the best education.

A tourist enters a place knowing what memories he is there to collect; a traveler enters a place knowing only that something will happen to him there if he is brave enough to remain open to the possibilities.

on standing still in Uruguay

If Buenos Aires is 2.9 million people and motion, blurred lights and stumbling wine-saturated down sidewalks in the wee hours of the morning, then Uruguay, across the Rio de la Plata from Bs As, is its slower-paced cousin.

Travel is movement, but it is important to incorporate stillness; our perspective of a place while we are moving through it is different from our perspective on a place as we stand still and allow it to move around us.

I ferried across the Rio de la Plata from Buenos Aires to arrive in Colonia del Sacramento. From here, I intended to make my way to an estancia further inland that was reported to have horses and hammocks and other conduits of relaxation.

Once off the ferry, I bought a ticket with a bus company called Turil and – per my instructions from the estancia owners, Miguel and Monica – told them I was getting off at Km marker 114.5, Route 1. These directions sound specific, but armed with only subpar Spanish and no map, they quickly become questionable. Thankfully, the people who work at Turil are really nice, and the driver gave me the sly head nod when we got to Km 114.5.

After swiftly exiting the bus, I was essentially on the side of a road in rural Uruguay with nothing much else around.

Another young American couple got off with me. Briefly they thought me Argentinian, and we all clomped through some Spanish phrases together before realizing we could relax into English. A few minutes later, Miguel of Miguel & Monica fame collected us from the side of the road and drove us to El Galope.

Upon arrival, I pretty much climbed directly onto a horse.

The only other guest at the estancia when we arrived was a tall German girl who was also keen to ride the horses, so off we went. My steed Orcu and I got along pretty well. We rode until the sun started to set, and it was so beautiful and calming I could have burst from happiness. Fortunately I didn’t, because soon after followed a delicious dinner that included a massive pot of fondue, courtesy of Monica.

I took some deep breaths at dinner. Homemade wine from the neighbors, good company, and interesting conversation: This is what I had been hoping for in Uruguay. Miguel and Monica lead a good life. “Retired” vagabonds themselves, they finally settled when they had a son, but reluctant to give up too much, they devised a plan to bring the travelers to them, building the estancia and hosting folks from around the world.

After dinner, all six of us hit the sauna. In between sessions, we dunked ourselves in the cold pool outside and trotted around in the moonlit grass, not believing our luck that we were in such a magical place.

The next morning, I woke up and read immobilized in the sun for a while. A dog named Tupac wandered in and out, and several cats joined me at different intervals, including a pretty tortie. In the afternoon, we walked down to the nearest goat farm, finding Victoria’s house unattended but picturesque.

Later, as I lounged in a hammock, reading, Monica came out to chat, and she shared some mate with me.

In Uruguay and Argentina both, yerba mate is the drink of choice. A caffeinated infusion steeped in a gourd and consumed via a silver bombilla, which serves as both sieve and straw, mate has a strong culture surrounding it. For one thing, people take it everywhere – on the bus, to friends’ houses, while walking the dog. Even at the zoo in Buenos Aires, you can refill your mate mug at one of the many hot water dispensers littered throughout the park. Mate is also highly shareable, but an important thing to know is that if someone hands you a mate gourd, etiquette dictates that you finish everything in it before handing it back.

I find mate just another example of the culture of community found in so many places around the world. The U.S. is a very individualistic society; when I travel, one of the things I find both difficult and admirable is how much more is shared – food and drink, living space, belongings, time, money, thoughts. Sometimes it takes me a little while to catch on, but I always try to adopt a similar mindset as I find it helps me to slow down, enjoy a place more deeply, and connect with people more meaningfully.

When I left El Galope, Monica took me to catch the bus in a little town called Nueva Helvecia. On the drive, she pointed out a few things to me, like the rec center where she goes to swim in the winter. I asked her candidly if she ever felt a bit trapped living in such a small and drowsy place. She laughed and assured me that Buenos Aires was never far away if they ever felt the need to be overwhelmed.

Nueva Helvecia was founded by the Swiss, so half the street names are German, and half are Spanish. Most of the houses and buildings have coats of arms outside the front door to show what family lives there.

Then there’s the movie theater, which Monica said was slated to be closed, but the townspeople wanted so badly to keep it that they pooled their money and bought it. It was showing surprisingly relevant films.

Monica dropped me off at the bus stop where I waited for the smaller bus, which would take me to the larger bus on the main road, which would take me back to Colonia del Sacramento, where I was to spend a night before ferrying back across into Argentina to catch a flight to Salta.

Alas, more movement.

Colonia is the definition of quaint. All the streets are gorgeous, paved with gray/blue cobblestones and lined with the prettiest trees. The original streets are paved with the runoff for water down the middle instead of along the sides, by the sidewalk. This is apparently a Portuguese design, and Colonia is the only town in South America outside of Brazil with Portuguese influence.

I’d booked a bed in a hostel for the night, and for an extra few pesos, I joined a nebulous group for a spaghetti dinner. Heaps of spaghetti. And wine. Australians (of course), two girls from Nova Scotia, a French couple, and a few hangers-on like me.

Once full, a group of us took to the streets, tromping through town to the water with a stop or two on the way to buy more wine. We perched on some rocks and watched the waves, passing the bottles and telling stories in our shared languages. A dark place, an expansive view, and a late hour make us more willing to dispense secrets, and the air was full of laughter and whispers, sly smiles exchanged and hands reaching for hands surreptitiously.

Hours – how many? – later, we wound our way through the empty streets, back toward our beds.