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Published: March 22nd 2013
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Iruya--The Hidden Kingdom of Shangri-La From charming little Tilcara, I traveled an hour to the transport hub of Humahuaca where my suitcase was flung on top of another ancient bus. I was in Northern Argentina´s Quebrada de Humahuaca, a World Heritage Site, a land of indigenous adobes in multicolored canyons, and we were headed to the end of the road. After an hour, we turned off the asphalt and onto a dirt road and wheezed and switchbacked up to the cloud-shrouded 4000mt/13,000 ft pass of the red, green and violet gorge.
Repeatedly, we came within inches of the precipice as we rounded the dozens of curves. No guardrails here--just white-painted rocks to mark the edge of the road. I was lucky to have a front-row, window seat on this thrilling, roller-coaster ride though we did have to stop a couple of times for barfing passengers.
As we descended below the clouds, the gorge narrowed. Then magic: we rounded a corner, and set on a ledge at 3,000 meters/9,500 ft and climbing the canyon was a little adobe village with a yellow and blue church looking like the mythical, hidden Himalayan kingdom of Shangri-La.
It had taken us 2.5 hours to traverse the last 50 km/30 miles, but it was so worth it.
The bus stopped at the end of the road far below the village of Iruya, and we were left to climb the steep, rocky, flagstoned walkway up to the town and much further up to a place to stay. The mostly-pedestrian town climbs the mountains on both sides of the gorge with the only flat parts being the small church plaza and the soccer field.
Lucky for me, hostel manager Irma met the bus, offered a dorm room for less than $10 and helped me lug my too-heavy, not very-rolling suitcase up to the top of the steep, stony street. Since I was the only one who took her offer, she let me have a three-bed dorm all to myself. Although the hostel was primitive--no TP, soap or towels in the bathroom, I had my own room and was in heaven!
Iruya was not for everyone. I fell in love with it, and my planned New Year's holiday stretched to two weeks as I hiked a myriad of trails all up and
through the canyons. Once, I ran into a friend from Tilcara's hostel, Kathleen from London, who had come from Humahuaca for a day trip. We enjoyed climbing up to the miradors, and while she granted that Iruya was unique, she found it too boringly quiet and the bus ride an anxious nightmare. How curiously different we all are, and how wonderful there's such a variety of places to satisfy us all.
Holidays and Rituals The town and hostel were fabulously peaceful from the time I arrived just after Christmas until January 3rd. That day, I walked out my hostel and met a onslaught of 20 people puffing up my street. I thought it was a tour group though none had ever ventured this far before. No, Irma, warned me, it was the start of the Argentine winter holidays, aka high season--always my dreaded nightmare. Overnight, the town was overrun with young people from Buenos Aires, and the hostel's kitchen and common room were bursting with young rowdies.
For New Year's, just before the tourist invasion, I shared the hostel with a group of young university students, from Buenos Aires of course. They were
To pueblos past the end of the road
from the mirador/viewpoint at the end of my street loud, funny and rambunctious women who were on holiday and out to party. I joined them in the little plaza outside the church for wine and waiting for midnight. I love fireworks and was happily surprised to see the rather good show put on by this little mountain town. It rivaled the paltry ones put on by my Santa Barbara hometown for the 4th of July.
I also sadly realized that my hometown and many other small American towns and cities only have their annual fireworks for our independence day. How much better to unite with the world and have fireworks for the universally-celebrated new year instead of for a nationalistic event!
Between Christmas and the Day of the Three Kings (Jan 6), I was drawn by loud music in the streets and often joined little sunset rituals. Children, accompanied by a boom box playing Christmas and Andean music, a live drummer and various mothers, carried a baby Jesus and walked and danced up the streets, until they arrived at one of the many creches around town. There, they performed a line dance with handkerchiefs in front of the creche and deposited yet another
baby Jesus in that cradle, which is how, in northern Argentina, there come to be many baby Jesuses, often of quite varying sizes, in the little cribs.
A Slice of National Geographic
With a population of 1000, Iruya, at the end of the road, was by far the biggest town in the mountain range. It had been a minor stop on one of the colonial routes from Peru to Buenos Aires in the 17c, and had changed little since that time, having been cut off from the world until the mid 20c. Plaques around town proudly touted the town's 21c entrance into the modern world, such as the advent of street lighting in 2008.
In 2010, a bridge was built over the river from the commercial, tourist mountain to one of the two more populous residential mountains (the second residential area still had no bridge). Before that, during the cold, summer rains, people had to wade through the thigh-high river when they needed to buy anything and twice daily with their kids on their backs for school. In 2011, they got a hospital (where I got a free hepatitis A
Exciting switchbacks
White-painted rocks mark the road's edge shot), and 6 months ago an ATM though no bank yet. There was of course, no internet or wifi, but still lots of changes in a short time.
Yet Iruya was incredibly modern compared to neighboring indigenous pueblos, that are composed of 5 to 20 houses of related families and reachable only by walking up the dry riverbeds and canyons--some 3, 6, or 12 hours away. They are, of course, completely cut off in the three months of the rainy season. Irma, from my hostel, had lived in one of these pueblitos, never leaving it until she was 16 and journeyed to Iruya to find a husband. What a jump from the 16th to the 21st century!
One day, I set out for the closest of these pueblos, San Ysidro, 8 kilometers, 3-4 hours away. First, I crossed to and through a residential neighborhood. For this, I had to descend a steep, powdery slope and hop stones across a creek. Just a few feet below, unseen by those crossing, the creek plunged down a high waterfall (I saw this only when I was walking around on the cliffs opposite the
creek crossing). Hopefully, no one has fallen into the creek and down the waterfall with their heavy loads of propane tanks, groceries or kids strapped on their backs. In winter, when the creek rises, this neighborhood would also be largely cut off from the commercial part of Iruya.
The path wound through the neighborhood of charming adobes with their rounded, outdoor ovens, banners of colorful laundry blowing in the wind, and fields of potatoes, beans and grazing sheep. At the end of civilization, the path descended to the mostly dry river bed over fist-size stones that had my feet aching at the end of the day. Mostly, I was alone the entire way, passing only a few people who would leave the riverbed and disappear up side canyons to who knows where. Condors flew overhead as I passed grazing cows and a herd of wild donkeys whose elderly leader chased a young interloper up the canyon and out of sight.
The trail was difficult to find, but fortunately, an occasional horse or donkey with supplies or a rider would pass, indicating the way. However, after 3.5 hours, I was stopped
Iruya in its panoply of mountains
the buses (bottom left) stop at the bottom of the steep, stony walkway by the river when I failed to find a crossing, was unwilling to plunge in and get my boots wet and so had to turn back. Those who came during the tourist invasion had better luck by hiring guides or seeing others who were crossings. Those who made it to San Ysidro reported a magical, incredibly peaceful town and people whose simple way of life was humbling. I'm looking forward to finding other isolated towns in my travels.
After a couple of lovely weeks of hiking and exploring, I needed to leave as the hostel had been booked by a big group from Buenos Aires. I would have another great ride out of the canyon, and then on to Yavi, population 150, another end-of-the-road, adobe hamlet with lots of hiking possibilities. Northern Argentina had won my heart!
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Paula
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thanks Tara-beautiful pictures and writing that captures the heart of the people, land, and your interaction with heart. hugs safe travels