The Delights of Cafayate

We're making our way down south from Salta to San Juan. Our first stop--and what has turned out to be the best one so far--was the charming town of Cafayate. Surrounded by vineyards, full of friendly people and delicious things, Cafayate is a true oasis in the Valle Calchaquí. At night, the plaza de armas is atmospheric as hell.

Our first night there, right after we got off the bus, we met a guy named Carlos in the street. He invited us to come see his hostal, the Hostal Benjamin. Since it was late, he offered us an amazing rate on a room for the next two nights. I don't even feel comfortable telling you how cheap we got this room for.

Some people just have good energy. Carlos is always running around the hostal doing something, but no matter how busy he is, he will accommodate you. He helped us rent bikes and catch buses. He even bought us a bottle of Malbec when we left Cafayate. (Unfortunately the bottle was dropped and shattered at the bus station, by a party who will remain unnamed).

There´s a reason why Carlos runs his establishment with the tenacity of an athlete. For something like 16 years he was a featherweight-class fighter who won titles in Argentina and Canada and probably other places. Just a few years ago he gave it up in order to run the Hostel Benjamin with his family. I asked him if he'd ever fight again (he's only in his mid-thirties). ''Who knows,'' he said, and threw up his dukes.

The big thing to see near Cafayate is the Quebrada de Las Conchas. It's an epic gorge of red sandstone named for all of its fossilized shells. Through the gorge flows a creamy orange river with beaches of white sand and strips of clumpy green vegetation. The road from Salta winds more or less downhill through the gorge, but, strangely, the river alongside the road flows in the opposite direction.

The eons have carved out some pretty groovy cavities, windows, pillars and walls in the sandstone. Most people take a guided bus-tour through the Quebrada that lasts all day. If you do that, it should cost about 150 pesos a person.

There are lots of amazing canyons in this part of the world, and lots of tours you can take. Most of these tours, in my experience, seem to consist of things like, "If you look closely at this column of stone, you can see the form of a monk." So instead of that, we rented bikes and took a bus to the Garganta del Diablo (where most tours of the gorge begin). From there, we biked 55 kilometers back to Cafayate.

It was hands-down one of the best choices we made on our trip. For most of the time we were the only people in sight. Originally we had the impression that we'd be leisurely coasting downhill. Hah! There were hills, flat stretches, and some strong winds ablowin. It turned out to be an awesome and a much-needed work-out.

Including all the breaks we took to inspect the geology, the bike trip was six hours total. The last stretch was about 12 flat KM past vineyards and sand dunes, which was the hardest part (Ginny kicked it into gear and beasted me). I highly recommend this as a day trip.

The next day we were tired but not as sore as we thought we´d be. There's always that inner struggle when you're traveling between seeing as much as possible or just giving in to your tiredness and taking it easy. It was MayDay, El Primero de Mayo, International Worker's Day... so not a damn thing was open. It happens a lot in Argentina. We couldn't have even left Cafayate if we wanted to. So we just walked around town aimlessly for a while, and that, let´s be honest, is one of the most sensuous pleasures known to man. That´s how we came across this building, which should be in the guidebooks:

 

A man and a woman were working in the junkyard out back. I got the man's attention. He came to the fence and quietly answered my questions for a few minutes. His name is Manuel. He's a ceramist. He used to do something before this but it's been many years that he's done only this. Sometimes his sons help him.

This building is his workshop. He started work on it thirty years ago; it's been many years since he's touched it, so for him, he supposes, it's finished. He incorporated forms from the region, the Valle Calchaquí, in order to celebrate "nuestra raza." He graciously took us inside the workshop for a minute. That building you see is one large room inside, full to the brim with ceramics (he asked that we not take any photos). Tables and walls covered in plates, bowls, masks, paintbrushes, tools... Full of natural light from so many windows. It's a very lovely and well-used workshop.

After that we went through the artisan's market. Cafayate has an abundance of small vendors selling artisenal wine, and I really like that. The town is best known for a white wine called Torrontes. We had some good dry versions of that one.

Cafayate was the first place I ever heard of or tried a wine called Mistela. This wine on the left is actually a white wine. I don't know how they make it but my guess is that they put it in whiskey barrels for a while, because Mistela has the color and a faint flavor of brown liquor. 15% abv. Syrupy sweet with a kick at the end.  I usually hate sweet wines, but this stuff is awesome. We bought some.

Back at the Hostal Benjamin, Carlos had been cooking locro on an open fire since 8am, to celebrate MayDay with his friends and family. He offered us some for lunch. Locro is a beef stew, and Carlos was adament that his is way more authentic than what you normally find. He puts in beef and pork and some bonus animal parts, like intestine and chicken skin. Also: pumpkin, corn, garbanzo beans, and green onions sprinkled on top. We sat on the patio with Carlos' family, eating locro and drinking mistela and growing drowsy in the autumn sun. Then we retired to our quarters to pass our second day in Cafayate in utter idleness, like a good worker should.

Wwoofing in Jujuy, Argentina

In April, my girlfriend and I spent a little under two weeks living and working on a farm in northwestern Argentina. It was my first experience with Wwoofing, and it was fascinating. We lived with a family who farmed strictly for sustenance, bartered with neighbors, and occasionally dabbled in tourism. You could describe them as campesinos. They instructed me not to use the word "indio" but this was how the father always referred to himself.

There was no technology on the farm, aside from a radio, a small black-and-white television, and a chainsaw. The workload was intense. At times I felt like a character out of Tolstoy novel, an urbanite learning the joy of sweating for my food, performing work that was truly useful and satisfying. These were tasks that humans have been performing for thousands of years: cutting alfalfa, harvesting potatoes, milking goats, taking them to pasture, caring for bulls, making bread, making cheese, and the never-ending burden of gathering firewood. Eight hours of work a day, sometimes more, on a diet of mostly carbohydrates. It was challenging. For me, the farm represented the return to basics that would be necessary for a sustainable future.

Of course, it gwas less idyllic than it initially seemed. Nagging questions of reciprocity and unspoken cultural tensions simmered below the surface the entire time, never letting us forget just how far removed our ways of life were from each other. Uglier legacies of patriarchy began to peak out from behind closed doors. Soon we began to question the intentions of our hosts in regards to our presence at the farm.

Finally a strange outburst of machismo of behalf of the father led to us leaving abruptly. It was unfortunate, but we were in total agreement that he had crossed the line and we really didn't have to put up with his shit. Was it an unbridgeable cultural divide? Or just the short-comings of one man, whose hardships I would never be able to understand? It's tempting to chalk up the breakdown solely to human pettiness. But it's hard to come to so severe a judgment. These were incredibly hard-working, self-reliant, contented people, and I admire them. I don't know if we could have had a more authentic, and indeed more raw, cultural exchange than we had. For that I am grateful.

I might write more about the nitty-gritty of life on the farm at some point. Right now I just wanted to share the general outline of my first experience with wwoofing (as far as I can tell, from conversations with other wwoofers and farmers, it was atypical). In a couple days we will head down to a farm outside of San Juan. I look forward to giving it another shot.