If I say I had to wait 10 seconds for a ride from San Miguel de Tucumán to Tafí del Valle I’m of course exaggerating… it was much less. Argentina heart female/solo hitchhikers. While a very wealthy man who owns the biggest villa in the village talked about his childhood in Tafí, I watched the lush intriguing jungle slowly transform itself into stretched out green highlands of a beauty unheard of.  

I think I understand why every living soul with a backpack commanded me to include this on the budget bucketlist.   

That obviously implies that tourism is out of control. The main street full of hipster handicrafts made in China and American chai latte coffeeshops missed its appeal to me so I quickly ran passed, almost slamming a kid off a pony in my hastiness. I was accepted by a Couchsurfer here, the only one in town, but that didn’t really work out because: A) internet is absent in this remote mountain hamlet and that’s the main way of communication in 2017, especially in the travelers world; and B) well, I forgot. That cost me 180 pesos per night, as that was the absolute bottom price I could negotiate a private room for… certainly not bad for Inflation Center Of The Universe Argentina, self-pat-on-the-shoulder. Quiqui, the owner of my hospedaje, and his lovely wife immediately welcomed me as their long-lost granddaughter, kidnapping me with a stockpile of stories they finally had an audience for.   

So after I watched all photo albums of 3 family generations and ignored all their attempts to pair me with one of their grandsons I managed to swiftly escape to get to know downtown Tafí a bit, which is bigger than you think. 

In order to flee from the tourism mania I scored a humita, some corn pastry that basically qualifies as the only local snack that’s vegan (if you remove the cheese), which I flushed away with a fernet ´n coke at the riverside. Landscapes are nice if you remove the people. While the street tickled my feet I stared at my stunning surroundings outlining Argentina’s northern hiking Walhalla. Philosophizing with my eyes pointed at the inviting mountains I made up the route I would follow the day to come. This was gonna be good.  

After I downed the breakfast of fresh fruits and the local sweet specialty of ciruela that my hosts had generously prepared for me I followed my hiking boots into the immaculate scenery no less than 2 kilometers above sea level. The sharp green reflections and lavish river streams reminded me mildly of Boquete (Panama), a mountain community that still won’t let go of a piece of my heart that I left there once… While random thoughts whirled through my consciousness I ignored the Jesuit temple the old couple had recommended me to visit and focused on my first point of orientation: Loma de la Cruz. While the sun infiltrated my skin with its destructive rays I punished my knees with the steep ascend up to this valued look-out point, compensating me with an exquisite view over the entire valley Tafí is lucky to be located in.   

I watched the many tourists make selfies and turn around, which was the sign for me to walk exactly the other way in the direction of Cerro Pelao. An excellent decision… whatever words I’ll use to provide you with an adequate description of the panoramas surrounding me, they will do reality short. It hurts me to know that there are people out there who have no idea places like this exist.   

I continued my quest over the hill tops with exhilarated happiness, running up and down chased by the clouds that played in the sky at the same height as I was, until a sign warned me to stop and turn around. If you’re a pussy.  

I’m not doing things twice. You think that if I walk 3 hours I’m returning via the exact same path?! I’m not saying that vegetation until armpit height which make the spiky rocks invisible combined with the sounds of rattle snakes are the most excellent hiking conditions… but hey, at least no tourists! The very best thing of being entirely alone is that you can sing out loud. To be honest, I won’t let crowded city centers or full metros ever hold me back to share my musical non-talent with the world, but here I could do it unacceptably loud, which is pure bliss. I may or may not have sung along with the entire oeuvre of the Sound of Music.   

One hour later I descended the Pelao, off-road. With bleeding legs, ankles rashed by nettles and a few ticks I had to remove I grinned from ear to ear. Sometimes I’m like a little boy. Also planning-wise, as obviously as you stumble down into a valley that means you have to get up again somehow… in a landscape that’s brutal. After thundering from slippery tree trunks into ponds swarming with mosquito eggs and my arms ripped open by flourishing cactuses (not the thing to hold on to when falling, Steph) I finally got my alternative excursion going again, the sun draining the last drops of liquid out of my skin that had slowly turned into leather. When after another 2,5 hours finally civilization came into sight I let myself fall backwards into the grass where goats grazed freely around this crazy intruder.   

I softly resumed the singing… abruptly put to a hold again by a condor flying by at maybe 3-4 meters away from me, graciously sliding into the valley. So sudden and so overwhelming I touched my cheek to feel surprised tears rolling down, comforted by the cotton clouds crawling through the highlands. This might sound odd to you, but I just wasn’t prepared for such unexpected right-in-your-face-beauty. You know, if you walk into something like a Macchu Pichu or ski passed the Mont Blanc (check & check), you know it´s gonna be good. Your brain anticipates on the awesomeness. But sometimes that sneaky bastard Mother Earth enjoys her own little shock factor.

Slowly I descended the mild side of the mountain and walked back the last 10km over the dirt road slithering under the burning horizon, slowly stripping my body from its original layer of skin. I shortly stopped at my general happy place, the cemetery, where Latin-Americans celebrate death with abundant colors and screaming silence. When I strolled passed the open grave with the little signal ‘reserved’ I felt sudden chills crawling up my spine however, and made a swift turn backwards.   

As there was no TV (a modern invention I despise anyway) or internet I decided to buy a bottle of wine for chatty Quiqui to vouch for my own little dose of entertainment. Worth. Every. Cent. 

Just before hitting the hitchhike path again I slammed myself out of bed at 6AM. Why? Because some random tourist-office-guy told me so, that’s why. Waterfalls on the agenda, once again: Cascadas de Alisas. I realized soon enough I was the only foreigner crazy enough to listen to this advice. The place was abandoned. As I had to pass through a dense forest and there were zero signs to indicate any sense of direction this was a doomed mission.   

After 2 full hours zigzagging through the impenetrable bush-bush, drowned in its abundant flora, I had to admit to myself I might need a guide. Which presented itself in the shape of a 14-year old girl followed by 3 loyal dogs, who I found via a hand-written carton sign with incorrect grammar.   

I had walked all the way back to the village to find this little angel, now I had to walk that whole steep mountain up again… because yes, guess what, this specific waterfall presented itself on top of a mountain. The sun shone relentless, but it didn’t seem to have any effect on the bright little girl who swiftly ran ahead of me while I was almost coughing my organs out. I really should have drunk that 5th coffee in the morning, this was serious. After a few dozens of side tracks and shadow-less detours you can imagine what energizing effect the clattering sound of the fall had on me.   

And overdoses aside, out of the 18293 waterfalls I visited in South America by now, this one is definitely an 8/10, the last point earned by the bright rainbow coloring in the collapsing water. After hydrating my body with the pure mountain water and wetting my head with the freezing liquid I initiated my descend again. Worth the pain!  

No time to lose, time to go to Amaicha del Valle! 

With my life in my backpack I rushed to the highway, where I encountered an impressive 14 hitchhikers with very sad faces. Normally I’m the only one, but in high season the entire northern stretch of Argentina is swarming with young porteños in search of a cheap bohemian holiday. Playing guitar in the shades they told me “we tried for 4 hours… forget it, it’s not going to happen. Try it and you’ll see.” So I did that, I tried it… after which in a time span of 20 seconds a car stopped to offer me a ride straight to Amaicha, in full sight of the waiting travelers. Sometimes I have difficulties making friends…   

The car filled with 3 generations of local ladies drove me passed the ever-changing landscapes of the Salta province. I saw green highlands unfold themselves into dry steppes full of cacti, prospering in the incomprehensible heat trembling in between the sceneries.   

Once there I tracked down the cheapest campsite I could possibly find: 40 pesos, $2,50 with the luxury that goes with that. At a rocky stretch of dust without any shades I pitched the tiny tent a Paraguayan Couchsurfer once gifted to me, consisting of just 1 layer… which means I’m screwed if it would start to rain. But well, apparently rain clouds show themselves only once a year in Amaicha, which makes it so unique that all accommodation is provided for free for a day (I was told), so that would have its upsides too I guess.   

Yes, I prefer solitude over drunk people screaming at night… I was the only guest here, besides that cat spying on me. 

As internet is a very abstract concept here, and the tourist information employees were even worse informed than me, I had no clue what to do here or why I went here in the first place. Some fellow backpacker suggested I visit the El Remate waterfall, but came back on that when he saw my facial expression. I started roaming to stumble upon a slightly overpriced Pachamama museum, a homage to Mother Earth. It would be nice if Mother Earth is honored by not throwing plastic all over the place, but alright:  Museum, check. Really pretty, thanks for that. (budget tip: most can be seen through the many gates too).  

Ok, what more? Nothing more. That’s it. No worries, Amaicha has great vibes, which translates itself in young kids with primitive music instruments playing hippie for the holidays, smoking their responsibilities away with weak marihuana. I ordered myself a humita sprinkled with the rucula I took with (yes I travel with a bag of rucula, who doesn’t nowadays?) and a sufficient supply of wine to enlarge the possibilities of me dancing along on the folklore music that was performed on the moon-lit plaza. While my patched backpack started conversations and subsequently friendships I submerged in the haze of light-heartedness.  

I slept really well. Too well for a tent that doesn’t have space for both me and my stuff… which meant I had to sleep with my legs thrown over my backpack while my spine pinched into the rocky ground (I didn’t bring a mattress either) and my head rested on my washing bag full of stinky clothes. First class travelling, I’m telling ya! I noticed that this time no mice but ants had devoured my breakfast. I guess they needed it more than me… (keep up the vegan spirit). I didn’t see a reason to stay another day in Amaicha, so I packed my stuff and marched out of town under the shade of a headscarf.   

The ancient ruins of Quilmes 12km down the road seemed a good bet, those Inca’s never fail to please me. So I passed the 4 other hitchhiking groups and started walking into the right direction with my thumbs up. Soon a delivery van halted and invited me in… only when I got out at the Quilmes intersection I found out all those hitchhikers I passed where loaded in the cargo space, without any fresh air or light. At least I got the princess’ seat!  

Annoyingly I realized I had to walk another 5 kilometers on a dusty shade-less road in order to reach my next sight. But soon enough I also arranged a hitch for me and that blonde girl walking ahead of me.   

My new friend… my new example in life. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Erin: the Stephanie 2.0. This wild creature that walks the dry desert of northern Argentina in tight leggings and cowboy boots blew a lock of hair out of her bright eyes and gave me an amicable punch with her arms full of self-inflicted scars and do-it-yourself-tattoos (one saying “don’t get mad, just pack”). After she quit her job as the only female fire fighter in town she grabbed her bag filled with a tent and just 2 outfits: 1 for cold weather, 1 for hot. Just wash it in a sink whenever it starts to smell, easy as that. Zigzagging through lands her heart desired to explore she looked forward to meet up with both of her boyfriends, one in Peru and one in Colombia, none of them capable of taming her.    

While strolling through the constructions of bygone times and taking in the mind-broading views of the stretched out desert I listened to her insane travel stories of nights sleeping in public parks, the time she got arrested when she demonstrated for social rights and fought a group of cops and that occasion 3 armed men tried to rob her in Nicaragua… and regretted it. You see, you just don’t rob Erin. If you rob Erin with a knife then you should be prepared to have that knife slammed out of your hands with her bare fists while receiving a kick in the face from her cowboy boots. She showed the scar on her hand as a proof I didn’t even need. If there’s a female version of a ‘bromance’ then that’s what was going on. This woman was me, but the X-rated version. It’s good to know there are always higher goals in life to work towards to.  

As a true team we joined forces to hitchhike to the next stop: Cafayate, the city of wine. While chewing on coca leaves to expel the hunger and save the food-money for wine instead (poured into a coca cola bottle to avoid drunkenness-in-public-fines – great insight, thanks), we talked about everything we agree on, which is everything… completing our world views and ending each other’s sentences.  

Erin.   

Until we meet. 

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