Back in the High Life Again

If I'd not long ago insisted on using song lyrics for the post titles on the blog, I would have certainly titled this entry "From salt to Salta". As it is, I've had to resort to using a long and - it must be said, pretty tortuous - opening sentence in order to try and squeeze in a rather average play on words. Still, what it lacks in humour or actual usability as a title it more than makes up for in terms of simple accuracy, because after our four days traversing the salt flats and a night in the utterly unremarkable Bolivian town of Tupisi, we arrived in one of  northern Argentina's undeniable gems, Salta.

Perhaps it was the two and a bit months we had spent winding our way across Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia with all the attendant culinary and toilet-related challenges. Perhaps it was tiredness after four days roughing it in a jeep. Perhaps it was watching the witless, crass, "what in the name of shitting hell is Tom Wilkinson doing in this", piss-inducingly awful  Jennifer Love Hewitt / Joe from Eastenders movie 'If Only' on the nineteen hour bus journey. Perhaps it was a combination of all of the above; regardless, I was certainly ready for the relative sense of order, wonderful cuisine and simple home comforts that Salta afforded us.

Billeted in a comfortable B&B in a nice suburb, Louise and I proceeded to do all of the things that we'd not been able to do for what seemed like a very long time - upload photos, use Skype, go to the movies, go out for the night without taking our own toilet paper and hand sanitiser - you know the sort of stuff. Lou also took to the hills for some horse riding, including some unashamedly Brokeback-style trotting from Scott and Dave. Lovely stuff, fellas.Which is certainly not to say that Salta is good for nothing more than horses, toilets, cinemas and the internet; it most certainly is. Which is why, after a day of "wow, this is just like home", we took to exploring the town and realised that it wasn't much like home at all. It was, in many respects, a whole lot better.

The centre of Salta takes the shape of a number of colonial squares, building up on a sliding scale from the simply charming to the damned impressive. The Plaza Nuevo de Julio, with its imposing French-style Cathedral and fascinating museum with mummified remains, is a perfect place to grab a table and sup a cold Quilmes or three. On the food front, La Monumental (four branches, every on a winner) served us what was at the time, and remains to this day, the best steak I've ever eaten. They also kick out a mean Milanesa Napolitana and a cracking House Red by the litre.

The streets, away from the workaday pedestrianised central strip, are worth a day's wandering in their own right. Local boutiques jostle for space with cafes and book stores, with just the right smattering of high-end tat for the increasing flow of tourists stopping by. On the food and fun front, when not eating at La Monumental, we marvelled at Zara's unique bowling style at the endearingly naff Bowling Pub, while Scott and I got to finally nail 'Easy Lover' at the even naffer 69.g bar. Salta is, in short, a cracking stop for the weary backpacker.

Mendoza, by comparison, was a little underwhelming, though certainly not without its charms. Our hotel was dirty and, with a clientele made up almost exclusively of grumpy Argentinian geriatrics, felt more like a Dignitas convention than a happy place to lay your head. We also committed the cardinal sin of South American travel and arrived on a Sunday, so were confronted with the usual Marie Celeste-style vibe across the city, almost dodging tumbleweed as we walked down the street. A stroll to the vast Parque General San Martin was well worth it, though, and was filled with all the people who weren't in the city. Splashed over more than 400 hectares, the park is fit to burst with museums, lakes, terraces and locals hawking an array of snacks from tables, poles, bikes and - in one case - a unicycle. It's also a great place to sit back and local-watch, as families decamp en mass for games of football and rugby, pensioners picnic serenely and young couples get pretty damned steamy in any available nook. And it seemed that each and every one of these people, regardless of their age or of the activity they were engaged in, were drinking mugs of Mate (traditional tea) through a dinky silver straw.

Monday through Saturday, however, things were far more welcoming in the centre, though the wine remained far more attractive than much of the architecture. The Hyatt Regency Hotel facing the main square is as plush inside as out, but offers a truly spectacular array of local wines for damned good prices in their wine bar. Top tips - buy by the bottle, and go for the truly exquisite Sangria de Los Andes (a discovery for which I take full credit). Also worth doing is the Bike wine route through vineyards in the countryside outside the city. Though my bike broke twice, I'd still recommend using Mr Hugo as not only did he come with a new bike each time, you get unlimited free wine back at his place after you finish your tour. Keen cyclist and wine drinker Jen fused her vast knowledge of both pastimes and convinced us to ride down the far end of the trail then work our way back, which had the dual advantage of making the journey easier and giving our gang a fair run of quiet vineyards.

And so it came to pass that, after three days of drinking, falling off bikes and taking bets on which of the unsmiling OAPs from the hotel would croak before breakfast the next day, we set off for the Chilean capital Santiago.

See you there...

Luke and Louise

(Posted by Luke)