Cafayate, Argentina, was exactly what I was looking for. From the moment we stepped off the bus into the remote village in the northwest province of Salta, Argentina, the tranquility was undeniable. That doesn’t mean it was necessarily quiet: people barraged us with flyers for local hotels and excursions.
I had no expectations. I had read nothing about the place before arriving, so I experienced it much like a newborn entering a strange new world.
It was midday; the bus ride from Salta took four hours. A short walk from the bus depot, we arrived in the town square. It was a sleepy place, where donkeys roamed the square at night; the only nightlife happened in a small makeshift cantina with a guitar player in the corner and an attendant serving beers from the small refrigerator.
It felt more like a coffee house from the hippie 60s, with a friendly vibe and everyone chilling to the music.
Cafayate
Two restaurants and a sandwich place dotted the square. After lunch, we started searching for a hotel. The popular spot for backpackers and travelers was El Balcon, located just one block from the town square.
We weren’t in a hurry, so we strolled along and then turned onto Calle Salta, a few blocks from the square, where we came across Hotel Vieja Posada.
It was a hacienda-styled hostel tht had long since seen better days, with three wings all facing the middle court. The bunk beds sat on cement floors; the bathroom was in disarray—the shower couldn’t even be called a shower: it provided barely a thin trickle of water that turned freezing cold within minutes. I loved it—it had character; simply bathing in the morning was an adventure. After all, we were travelers, not tourists. It’s all about the experience, not creature comforts. And for $3 a night we could endure anything.
Most excursions in the surrounding area were run by the brothers of El Balcon, and there were plenty to choose from.
Our first choice was a day-long hiking tour; we were driven to various locations by van, where we’d disembark and roam, reload into the van, and then continue to the next hiking spot.
The natural landscapes were hidden just off the main road. Colored rock formations were quite striking. In some places, the rocks were cut, and the guide showed us the formations’ age by the number of colored rings.
There was a green tree with no leaves. Since there wasn’t enough water to support leaves in the desert, the tree adapted to photosynthesize through its bark, hence its color. Nature has an amazing ability to adapt.
On day two, we opted for a two-hour climb up a nearby mountain. The summit featured a twenty-foot waterfall. The hike was not as rigorous as it was dangerous; there were some difficult passages with no safety precautions.
We ran into other hikers from France and Argentina near the top, and traveled together to the summit.
A natural pool sat just below the waterfall. It was inviting; we’d worked up a sweat during the climb. But I’ve camped out more than enough times to know about natural pools.
Cold isn’t the word (just go to the linked photo gallery and look at the expressions on my compatriots’ faces)!
The hike down was a snap. Our guide recommended a place for dinner, and a lot of us—plus a Swede named Nik that I met shortly before—met up there. We ordered Locro (a regional dish of the Andes), empanadas, and white wine — bottles and bottles of it. We ate, drank, and laughed the night away. The bill totaled US$5 a piece.
Day three we took the winery tour: there are many wineries to visit, though I’d recommend Echart; it provided interesting history, showed the process, how to distinguish the grades, and let us witness the packing process —by hand.
The last time I had been horseback riding was on a family visit to Colorado with my brother, sister, and our respective families. It wasn’t exactly the open-range experience I’d hoped for; they put us all on pack horses that pretty much walked behind one another on a trail they had likely walked thousands of times.
I thought I could do better here. No doubt the $20 I paid was way overpriced, with my intermediary pocketing most of it. But it was well worth it. The horse was well-spirited; it was Paraguayan
My guides, a brother and sister, ages 14 and 16, were terrific. They let me ride freely, and we’d stop from time to time so that they could show me some of the local culture, like the grist mill that made the town’s bread.
The sheer quietness of the place engulfed me. It was splendid.
Kena, Al and I had all decided to leave that day at 4 pm, but I was having second thoughts.
As the time ticked away and the day faded, the guides decided we’d ride directly to the hostel, then lead my horse back to the ranch—rather than me going to the ranch and needing a truck ride back to the hostel.
Everything was going along smoothly, until we hit the entrance of town. As we trotted, clip-clopping along the now paved road, three across like a scene from the movie The Three Amigos, dogs began to gather. They were clearly agitated as they began barking. Kids and adults alike came out of their homes to see what all the commotion was about as we rode by. Then the dogs began to chase and bark even more.
They made quite a racket; I’d never seen dogs so upset by the presence of horses.
When I arrived at the Hostel, Kena told me, “You missed the excitement. All the dogs in the square suddenly raced together — like a wild pack — in one direction, barking!
Not only did I not miss it, I explained, but the dogs were actually confronting our horses; we were the object of the commotion. All she could do was laugh. “You wanted a riding experience!”
I said goodbye as Al and Kena left en route to Buenos Aires. I stayed four more days to savor the quiet and tranquility of the Cafayate desert, and I went riding several more times.
It’s a charming spot, but rustic; a very simple life for most who live there. The only noticeable connection to the modern world was the internet cafe.
Read about our time in Salta and Jujuy days before coming here >>
