Wanderlust Travel Magazine (UK)
Argentina
Devil’s deserts, floating volcanoes, a town at end of the world... North-west Argentina is the spectacular and surreal land you never knew existed, where you have to respect the creativity of Mother Earth
The rugged north-west of Argentina is the wild land that you never knew existed – devilish sands, surreal volcanic cones and a town at the end of the world...
As we descended from the pass, a vast yellow-green plain opened up ahead, rippled by the wind. At first it looked empty. But every now and then there was a rapid burst of movement: a small flock of ostrich-like rhea, or a family of guanaco or vicuña – wild ancestors of llamas and alpacas respectively, and both equally skittish at the sight of our 4WD. We pulled up by some rocks where a mass of chinchillas scampered, and where pumas are known to prowl.
It was several hours since we’d driven out of the city of Salta on Route 51. My companions and I were in north-west Argentina, heading to the puña grasslands and seduced by the promise of salt flats, volcanoes and high desert plains. It was an area utterly unknown to me, except for a whisper from a knowing soul that had described its landscape as something from another planet. So here I was, winding the Rio Toro gorge in search of a hidden side to the country that few others take the time to see.
As we drove, the mountains on either side were shrouded in heavy cloud, but we could still make out their multicoloured streaks – a geologist’s dream. Gradually climbing in altitude, we eventually broke through the cloud. The sky was suddenly clear bright blue and the temperature warmed.
We shed a few layers and drove on, stopping first at a forest of giant cacti, many of which were over 100 years old. Known as cardon grande (or the Argentine saguaro), these cacti are slow growers, managing just a few centimetres a year, and have incredibly long roots to help them cope in the harsh climate. Our guide, Jorge, had already explained that temperatures in the Salta region can range from 30°C below freezing to 40°C above. Now he expressed concern at the cacti coming into bloom so early in the season: “We have had freak weather this year and these are flowering several weeks earlier than they should.”
Into the wild
As we drove along we kept spotting train tracks. Here, the road followed the route of the Tren a las Nubes – the Train to the Clouds. In the early 20th century, Argentina wanted access to the Pacific and so reached an agreement with Chile that would see the two countries build a railway running from Salta across the Andes to the port of Antofagasta. Construction of the line, which was designed by American engineer Richard Maury, began in 1921 under some of the most inhospitable conditions on the planet. Extreme weather meant that work was only possible during the summer months; even then, labourers could only work for 45 minutes at a time due to the altitude. It wasn’t until 1948 that the line was completed, only for politics and economics to lead to its quick demise.
We stopped again at the archaeological site of Tastil. Despite the arid surroundings, this spot was once home to a community of over 2,000 inhabitants, until it was conquered by the Inca in the 15th century. Today, the largest settlement in the region is the dusty, windswept town of San Antonio de Los Cobres, with a population of around 7,000. Many work as miners in this mineral-rich landscape, while some make
‘The mountains on either side were shrouded in heavy cloud, but we could still make out their multicoloured streaks – a geologist’s dream’
⊳ llama-wool handicrafts. We stopped briefly for lunch – a simple choice of eggs, chicken or llama – before pressing on.
After crossing the Abra Alto Chorrillos, a high pass at 4,560m, the landscape grew increasingly wild; we really felt we’d arrived in Argentina’s high puña. There was little sign of human habitation, but the wildlife appeared to be flourishing despite the harsh conditions, especially the slender, delicate-looking vicuña. Prized for their very fine wool – the Inca would allow only royalty to wear vicuña garments – they were nearly hunted to extinction by the 1970s. Now fully protected, their numbers have increased to around 350,000.
The devil and the end of the world
Passing a desolate former train station, we reached the Salar de Pocitos salt flat. Only it wasn’t flat – the surface was twisted and tortured. Jorge explained that there are two types of salt flats: “You wouldn’t take salt from here; that’s from the smoother type. But they mine lithium from this.”
The landscape started to change again, the salt flat first giving way to rocks, and then to great red ridges. “Have any of you been to Jordan?” Jorge asked. “Then I have a surprise for you...” He pulled up in front of one cliff-face that was scored with markings and crevices reminiscent of the Treasury at Petra. “This is Los Colorados,” Jorge said. “To me it is perhaps the most beautiful place here.”
The road narrowed and wriggled through a deeply shadowed gorge before broadening out into a valley surrounded by streaked red-clay hills and myriad rock formations, the result of ten million years of erosion. This is known as the Labyrinth or the Devil’s Desert, so named because, according to local legend, the shape of a mysterious figure appears on a certain rock in a certain light. We ascended a track, hairpinning up seven curves, to be rewarded
with a jaw-dropping view over the desert as it glowed a deep burnished red in the late-afternoon light.
The sun was sinking fast as we reached the remote village of Tolar Grande, far closer to Chile than to Salta. With its seemingly deserted streets and abandoned industrial buildings silhouetted against the dimming sky, it felt like The Town at the End of the Universe. This was once an important mining community and pit stop on the rail line between Chile and Argentina. Then the mines became unprofitable, and the train stopped running. But now a combination of a resurgence in mineral mining and the small but increasing number of tourists coming here, means that the population is slowly rising again.
We checked into a small but comfortable government-owned guesthouse that surpassed my expectations. But Wifi was only available at the village school, so the next morning I joined a couple of fellow visitors pacing up and down outside the building, trying to get a connection. I also explored the village’s handful of streets, its small church, its crumbling adobe dwellings. By 10am I had seen precisely three people and two dogs.
Respect to the rock
From Tolar Grande we ventured out to Ojos del Mar (‘the eyes of the sea’), small turquoise saltwater lakes that are home to stromatolites, prehistoric living organisms. While we contemplated the elemental landscape, Jorge talked about the people of the high puña and their connection to Pachamama, Mother Earth. During August they celebrate the festival of Pachamama, digging holes in the ground and making offerings to the goddess. Jorge showed us the string tied around his wrist, known as a yoki, which acts as an amulet to protect the wearer until the the next year’s festivities.