T.N.T

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I'm standing outside a ramshackle building located on a salt flat in the middle of the Atacama desert. Somewhere around here at some point in the past, two officials stood facing each other. One of them used the toe of a well-polished shoe to swipe a short line between them in the ashen earth. The two looked down for a moment and silently contemplated. Finally, the other official rubbed his freshly shaven chin, gave a few short nods of his graying head, and said "Bueno. Ok."

The officials have faded away along with the drawn line. And aside from this small shack of an outpost guarded by a few Argentine soldiers, the border between Argentina and Chile may as well not exist. This is the driest desert in the world - parts of which have never seen rain in recorded history. Never.

And with the exception of this border control, there is no sign of civilization within hundreds of miles out and a few thousand meters down. We are at 4,200 meters above sea level and oxygen is a rare commodity.

Humanity's frail concepts of territory blur and distort in places like this. The validity and meaning of imaginary lines becomes questionable; their integrity weakens. Here the border between the two countries exists only as the line of space between the ammunition primers and firing pins of the soldiers' side arms.

Outside the shack, three buses from different companies are lined up. Passengers - a mix of mostly European tourists and traveling locals - mill around outside the structure chatting and waiting for their group's turn to be stamped out of Argentina. The Chilean border control is actually another hour down the dusty road. This, of course, adds to the annihilation of the border's sense of identity and fixed location.

I should have been standing here 24 hours ago. I should be in the port city of Antofagasta on the coast right now.

But on what should have been my last night in Salta, one of the guys working at the hostel informed me that the road into Chile had been closed due to some dynamiting that was going on. Of what? No one can say. Why on one of the only three days per week that the buses run the route? No one can say.

So yesterday yielded one more day in Salta.

Last Day in Salta

On what I hope really will be my last day in Salta, I get up, shower, and have breakfast. This hostel serves a good variety of pastries along with the coffee and bread, which is great.

Without so much as a word to anyone, I grab my backpack and fly out the door toward the center of town. Things to do.

I still have quite a large quantity of Brazilian Reals to exchange. The money changers I had expected all over the highly touristic border between Brazil and Argentina never materialized, and I had no time to go looking for a bank.

So I walk the 15 minutes to the city's main plaza where I know there is a bank right next to the cathedral. I go inside and ask the guy at the front if I can exchange here.

"Solo Dolares y Euros" he says, shaking his head.

Plan B. I walk around the edge of the plaza, attempting to look a little more like a tourist than usual. I gawk. I walk slowly.

I am fishing.

At the corner opposite the cathedral, I get a bite. A mustached man in sunglasses standing against a pillar with his hands in his pockets murmurs "Dollars?" as I walk by.

Not making eye contact, I drop the tourist show, resume my global nomad commando speed, and dart down a side street. The guy was on auto-pilot and never really noticed me.

I lean up against a wall next to a pastry shop and start doing some math in my head. I run several different conversions between Reals and Argentine Pesos, using different rates to gauge which will be fairly profitable to the black market money changer, and which are a rip-off. Then I do a few more for Chilean Pesos as this is what I will actually need in a few days.

I probably look stupid standing here in the middle of a small street staring blankly up at the sky. That's because I am stupid. I should have done all this on a computer at the hostel. But I had really been hoping the bank would do the exchange. Oh well.

Armed with a small database of figures in my volatile and unreliable short-term memory, I walk back to where the camel (slang down here for money changer) is standing.

This time I stop in front of him.

"Dollars?"
"Can you change Brazilian Reals to Chilean Pesos?"
He shakes his head, "No, only to Pesos Argentinos."
"Good enough." I tell him how much I have and how much I expect. He calls to a friend over my shoulder for the official rate between the two currencies.
"1.5", his friend calls back. This is blatant bullshit. I think it is also a scare tactic. Camels want you to suddenly be aware that you are surrounded by a small pack of them - armed with their rigged pocket calculators and ready to intimidate and pressure you into a lower rate. But we're in the middle of a bustling plaza. And math is math.

Don't these fools know I was battle-hardened in the streets of Prague, Bratislava, and Marrakech?

I give the guy a thin smile and shake my head, "No it's not. I checked this morning."

The highly irritating and repulsive dance of negotiation begins. In the end, the guy gets a profit, and I get close enough to the amount I wanted. I pull out the wad of Reals and he shoos me over to yet another friend standing on the other side of the pillar. "Give it to him, not me!"

The shorter camel with a ball cap pulled down over his eyes counts out the Argentine pesos and we exchange. I flip through the larger bills checking the weight of the paper and running my thumb over the slick counterfeit-proofing seal. This is mostly bravado, but it never hurts to check for the obvious fakes.

The guy does the same with the Reals. We exchange indifferent thanks and I walk away.

-

Later in the day I am sitting in the hostel checking my email. My new roommate from Rotterdam stops to chat for a bit and we make plans to climb San Bernardo in the early evening to see if we can get some photos of the sunset over the city. I remember my earlier terror at the idea of running or biking up. But walking isn't out of the question and the sun will be much less severe by 5:00.

At 5, we start walking up the highway out of town to where the paved road up the hill begins. The weather is perfect and the climb, although long, isn't very strenuous at all. There are a lot fewer people on the road at this time of day, but the cable cars are still busy running back and forth.

We make it to the top in plenty of time to walk around and wait for the sunset. When it comes, it is a bit lackluster due to some clouds covering the sun. But within a few minutes the city's lights begin their shift and this is almost as nice to see.

"This is a perfect place to bring a girlfriend," says Rotterdam as he snaps off another photo of the lights. I assume he's thinking of the pretty girl he has been dating in Buenos Aires for the past few months.
"Yeah, too bad we didn't bring any." I pause, "wanna hold hands?"

Thank God the Dutch appreciate sarcasm.

-

Rotterdam had wanted to find a nice place to eat and I concurred as I have been surviving mostly on empanadas and pasta for the past few days. We require red meat. We require red wine.

So we're sitting in a very posh restaurant in the historical center looking over the menu. I feel a moment of social panic as I look down and see a fine cloth napkin on either side of my dinner plate. I know how to deal with all the various silverware, but two napkins? What if one is reserved for some special purpose like calling the waiter's attention? Is there such a thing as a dessert napkin? Forget it - frou frou nonsense. We're here to eat dead cattle.

The choices for lomo (steak) is extensive and impressive, but in the end we both opt for Lomo al Champiñon. The thick steak comes out drizzled with a mild brown mushroom sauce. The beef is surrounded by small dumplings of what I think is boiled potato. They happily and gloriously soak up the excess sauce which has pooled on the perimeter of the plate.

Rotterdam selects the wine - a CabSav from the Lopez winery which he visited yesterday. Normally I like a stronger, spicier red to go with steak - a Shiraz or in some cases a French Merlot. But the CabSav proves to be an excellent choice. It has just enough dry kick to it to accentuate the richness of the beef.

It is all very delicious.

I do not have much of a sweet tooth, and I almost never order desserts. But restaurants like this almost always have one more trick up their sleeve. I order a Pancake al Dulce de Leche. It is...Forget it. I don't even know how to begin to describe this one. If you don't know what dulce de leche is, your life is sorely incomplete and I can only confuse and/or depress you by describing it. It is sensational. Just incredible.

The bill comes. For the steaks, the wine, the bottled water, and the desserts, it comes out to $20 USD each.

God bless you, Argentina. I shall return.

Meanwhile, Back at the Border

So like I said, we're all standing here waiting to get stamped out of Argentina. Finally, the driver of our bus ambles out of the control office and calls for our group to line up. As usual, I end up stuck near the end of the queue.

Once I finally get into the cramped immigration office and my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I see two women sitting at small desks with computers, passport scanners, stamps, and paper scattered all over. A stocky older man working in the next room pushes his way into the office, raises his hands high up over his head and calls "Buenas tardes! Buenas tardes!". It looks like he is trying to get our attention to make some sort of formal announcement about a further delay in the already lengthy process, but one of the women stamping a passport cracks a grin in apparent anticipation for what must be habitual antics. The man works his way around to the other woman who is assaulted with a quick hug, kiss on the cheek, and various inside jokes. He then squeezes over to the other - now giggling - for more of the same. He then moves down the line of travelers shaking hands furiously and wishing every last one of us a good afternoon.

This man continually lives in the giddiness felt at the onset of altitude sickness and wouldn't have it any other way.

Stamped out, I return outside to do some more milling. A group of English girls is standing near the front of our bus talking. I drift a little closer to try and listen - out of boredom rather than any real nosiness.

Suddenly, the shorter and less talkative of the girls slumps straight down and begins to fall back. I'm too far to catch her before she hits her head on the ground, but another guy standing closer has also seen it and breaks her fall from behind just in time. In Spanish he calls into the office for medical attention and a tall bolts out to help. Together, they carry the girl inside to lay down.

She'll be ok. With the limited time and exertion to which she has been exposed, this is just a bit of altitude shock.

Less than one minute after all this, I start to feel a little dizzy and wobbly myself. But I know it is ridiculous. Altitude sickness is a very real and serious thing to be treated with respect. But it is also highly psychological. I find it hard to believe the two of us hit our breaking point at the exact same time. I stand still, relax, and focus on taking slow, deep breaths.

I'm fine. There is much worse than this to come. There is Bolivia. There is Colca Canyon. There is Cusco. I will adjust. I will be equipped with a wad of coca leaves in my mouth to multiply my oxygen intake.

But for now, I am fine.

Once the whole group has finished, we board the bus followed by the now conscious and once again chatty English girl and continue on our way.

So far I haven't seen the slightest bit of evidence of dynamite having been detonated. But with the memory of last night's dinner fresh in my mouth, I'm not really complaining.

The driver's assistant passes out Styrofoam cups and an envelope each of tea and instant coffee. I put the coffee in my backpack and drop the teabag into the cup and wait for the assistant to come by with the hot water thermos.

I sip my tea and glance at my watch. 4pm. 3pm Chile time.

One more hour and I will be in a new country. Five more beyond that - Antofagasta

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Photos

salta at Night
Salta at night from san Bernardo

Comments

[Bione]

No rain?
I can't believe you're in a place that only has a bus 3 days a week. I love the pics so far.