I had been told - mostly by Tucumanos - that Tafi del Valle in the Tucuman Province was every bit as lovely as Salta and that it was a shame that it wasn't on the circuito turistico in the way that the two provinces oop North are.
After a number of glorious days in Cafayate, where the BD drove around the Plaza watching me drinking coffee but not having sufficient pelotas to stop and speak to me nor offer an explanation for his tonteria, I went on to Tucuman alone. Or rather in a remise with a sweet driver and a couple from Capital. It worked out perfectly as the buses from Cafayate to Tafi leave at a deeply inconvenient horario - taking the excursion meant I saw Quilmes and Pachamama and Tafi AND my luggage was removed door to door.
Quilmes - much hyped ruins along the ancient Inca trail - taken over last year by indigents and only recently recovered. Interesting in principal, but as everybody told me when I asked 'Why isn't Tucuman popular with tourists?' - Nada Que Ver. Quilmes is a rather dull series of garden walls climbing a steep dry hill. You seriously need some imagination to get excited about the place. Nothing like the Pucara in Tilcara, Jujuy, which is a real village with an Inca church at the top and a stupendous view down the Quebrada forever.
Next - the Pachamama Museum at Amaicha. A really ingeniously decorated space, using Inca motifs, just as you would expect from the artist who owns it. Inside there is some interesting geographical information about how the gorges were formed and some dioramas of Inca tribal life. And then a number of rooms dedicated to the owner's painting and weaving. Very clever businessmen some artists are.
The drive of another 100km to Tafi is pretty enough if you like Wales in Autumn - not something I would come to the end of the World to see. And then you drop down into Tafi from a height of 3042m above sea level through a rolling green environment of sheep huts that soon turns into summer homes for rich Tucumanos escaping the 40 degree heat of the city. For S.M. de Tucuman is an infierno of a capital and Tafi is, well, cold. The temperature dropped so much when the afternoon drizzles set in that I had to put on every cover-up I had brought and then go shopping for a wool wrap.
I hated Tafi personally. It's in a basin surrounded by green mountains which makes it cooler but also means every breath you take is full of pollution. The cars are as pervasive as the wild dogs and lunatics. In a city of 8000 inhabitants, two-thirds as many as Cafayate, there is about a tenth of the charm. There is no pretty central plaza with iglesia. The wild dogs outnumber the cars and I was forced to observe chocques between the two. Then, finally attempting to relax at a sidewalk cafe, the local loony grabbed my half eaten empanada from the plate and rammed it into his mouth, not before returning to grab the limon slice from the plate and squeeze it all over the pastry. Apparently it's a regular occurrence here and the locals simply shrugged their shoulders.
It was delightful to get on the bus to Tucuman, that is until it stopped at every pueblo and parada in the valley and pandemonium broke out - just without the chickens. There is a great section of road on the way to the capital as you climb out of the pozo of Tafi over the mountain and down to Tucuman. The hills are cloched in trees and ferns tighter than a skinhead's beanie as the road snakes along clinging to the precipice. The photos were taken through a grubby window as people hurled themselves back and forth at every bend on the cornisa, screaming at the driver for a non-existent seat or their money back. Never has a bus station looked so calm.
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