Red Rock West

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Argentine mountains are like brake lights. They are bright red and it's a good idea to stop when you see them. Uh, lest you drive off a cliff. Sorta. Nevermind.

Unfortunately, the bus into Cafayate kept moving, so my pictures got all blurry. I noticed an Australian fellow a few rows behind me (of course, I wouldn't find out he was Australian, nor would I know that his name was Trevor, until he would later tell me that stuff) trying to take pictures out the window. Trevor was having difficulty getting shots from his aisle seat. He was further hindered when the old woman in the window seat next to him woke up and recoiled at the camera in her face. She appeared very very dismayed and very very elderly indeed, and Trevor fumbled awkwardly with his digital Canon, pointing and pantomiming at its many esoteric buttons and dials and lights to show her he was not, as she might suspect, taking pictures of her, which I don't think she believed, and maybe Trevor should learn some Spanish.

Eden, myself, Trevor, and a Swiss girl named Irene all checked into El Balcon hostel upon arriving into the beautiful little town of Cafayate. El Balcon is possibly the friendliest hostel we've stayed at since Rio's Tupiniquim, though their breakfast leaves a lot to be desired. That's been par for the course here in Argentina; if they spent half as much time on their breakfasts as they do on their steaks, they might give Brazil's morningtime ham and cheese sandwiches a run for their money.

That night we went out for, naturally, steak. Again. Another steak. I gotta say, Argentina makes great steak. Unlike the United States (where cows are fed grain and the hormone-infused entrails of their buddies), Argentina's cows are grass-fed. This produces a much richer flavored beef, and it's substantially less fattening to boot. However, after the first 17 steaks, I'm ready to eat something else. I guess I'll switch to pasta or pizza, which appear to be the only other things they know how to make.

I'd kill for some rice.

There was goat cheese, though. The next day. El Balcon has a deal that goes something like this: You want a tour of two wineries and a goat farm, where you will receive samples of wines and cheese at no cost whatsoever? Then

Red + Green = Christmas?

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Most desert plants don't get enough water to grow fully developed leaves. Chlorophyll for photosynthesis instead exists in the stems or trunks, rendering the trunks green rather than the leaves. As far as cacti go, I have no idea why they're green. And full of water. Friggin weird-ass freaky cacti.

hop in the fun bus -- it's free of charge and we're doing the drivin'. Then they have this other deal that kinda goes like this: You want to go check out all those mountains you saw for absolutely nothing on the bus ride in, and probably there will be some obnoxious French flutists along for the drive? Thirty-five pesos. We signed up for both.

It was at these two Argentine wineries I was introduced to a white called Torrontes, made from a grape of the same name. Torrontes is the wine you would have if wine were made out of prostitutes. That's right, it's a comforting tart.

We loaded up on wine and cheese, but that was for later. Next on the agenda was our 35-peso trip to the fiery red mountains. Per usual, the visuals don't necessarily "defy description" but it certainly would be a waste of time to do so. Instead, let me take this time to tell you something interesting I learned about Cafayate!

The Cafayates were one of the tribes that inhabited that particular valley prior to the arrival of the Conquistadores. (This could be the first time in my life I've ever had reason to write the word "Conquistadores" in earnest, and damn it feels good.) Anyway, the etymological root of "Cafayate" is Quechua, but the meaning of the term is disputed -- some claim it to mean "Box of Water," others to be a deformation of Capac-Yaco ("Wealthy People"), and still others say it means "Grave of Sorrows." I don't know which is the bigger downer between "Grave of Sorrows" and "Wealthy People," and "Box of Water" is just plain weird. So let this be a lesson to everyone: When naming your tribe and subsequent village of wineries, don't be high on peyote.

Wow, those mountains were beautiful, weren't they?

Still not exhausted enough, Irene and Trevor helped us stock up on apples and nuts to go with our wine and cheese and the four of us gorged ourselves accordingly. (At the nut store, some old guy started barking at me in Spanish which Eden and Irene helped to translate: He'd apparently pegged me as being of German descent and swore I looked just like an old war buddy of his. Tears welled up in his eyes and he looked like he wanted to hug me... but just in case this old war buddy owed him money, I got the hell out of there as fast as I could.) I probably won't crap for days.

More psychic predictions: Tomorrow, we shall get some wine ice cream, board a school bus full of children and ride it for several mind- and butt-numbing hours into darkness, and arrive into Tucuman with our brains crusted by sleep deprivation and partially frozen white bread tostadas.

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