Salta Province: The Day From Hell

Things began to unravel with 24 hours to go in our car rental.

We decided to spend our last night at Purmamarca, the last town of any size before the road climbed to the west. Purmamarca is on the map for being home to the “Seven-Coloured Hill”, a Arizona-esque rock formation that really is seven distinct, stacked shades of rock. The rock is cool to pick out from the highway, but the charm ends there (we actually had a hard time locating it since we thought there was more to the sight than a simple photo op). The area is owned and operated by some very proud indigenous groups who are happy to explain the troubles progress has brought and equally happy to make a buck. Think Manitoulin Island without the water.
The llama I had for dinner tasted curiously like steak though it was a good deal more expensive. About halfway through dinner a small, folk band entered the restaurant and began to toot away on horns and flutes. We spoke and drank a little louder over the noise. An hour later we received the bill, with a few extra surprises: a 10 peso charge each for the “concert” and 2 peso charge each for cutlery. We hit the roof. The waitress smugly explained that the 10 peso concert fee was advertised outside. I went to check. In South America, everyone wants your money. Some people beg, some rob you with a knife, and others do it with a pen and receipt.

We continued the night at the only local pub in town, drinking away in celebration of making it so far. Some other travelers introduced us to coca leaves, the famed local solution to dealing with altitude. Chewing and sucking on a big wad of leaves for an extended period of time, you look and smell like a local while one side of your mouth goes numb. Coca is used to make cocaine, an industry that as we know, causes problems in every country it touches. In terms of the effects, Coca leaves are as similar to cocaine as potatoes are to vodka. I don’t think they do anything to dispel altitude sickness but most of the people in this region of the world swear by them, and then again we don’t really have any idea how altitude sickness works. The air of the bar was thick with smoke as we stumbled home (I couldn't believe how many cigarettes my European friends demolished in just a few hours).
Water is safe to drink from the tap in most of Argentina, but it’s generally not recommended in these dry, rural highlands. Up till now our car was a mess of plastic bottles we had purchased along the way. The next morning, starting a long day much later than desirable, I think all I had was a few swigs of leftover water to combat a dehydrating night of drinking. On its own this was a little foolish.

Like I mentioned, we don’t really know a lot about altitude sickness. We know that over 2500 m, some people get varying degrees of nausea, disorientation, all those fun symptoms. It doesn’t matter how fit you are or how old you are, but the only way to feel better is to descend. What we do know are things that you should avoid in order to reduce your chances of altitude sickness: don’t drink alcohol, get plenty of sleep, and drink plenty of water. These were things we should have considered before driving to 4300 m instead of doing exactly the opposite.
The first view of the salt plains – a giant sea of white shimmering in the burning sun – from afar is very different than you’ve ever seen. As we drive the empty road toward the anomaly, the endless dry plain turns from brown to a light frost to pure, solid white in all directions. Salt. Once upon a time this land sat at the bottom of the ocean, but over the passing of the ages, rose to the heavens. The salt water eventually evaporated, leaving behind these huge crystalline carpets in Argentina, Chile, and most especially Bolivia. Some trucks harvesting the cheap commodity into piles are the only disruption in the landscape. It is said that these salt plains may become a great commodity in the future manufacture of lithium-ion electric car batteries, giving these poorer regions a possible trump card after years of economic difficulties. Whatever the case, you have never seen anything like it, it’s a mesmerizing, out of this world experience. Like every backpacker to the region, we take advantage of the lack of depth perception with a serious of humourous photos.
I don’t remember if I had a headache at that point, but if the standing in the beating sun for an hour didn’t do it, then the subsequent drive along the gravel Route 40 (yet again!) did. We were making great time on the flat rally road to nowhere, when suddenly the gravel took on a washboard property. Speed cut to less than 40 km/h and everything was rattling. It was hot. There was nothing anywhere. We were 16 km from our destination when we heard the boom of the rear left tire exploding. Certainly I had the headache by then.
Replacing the tire with our spare wasn’t a problem. The remainder of the drive into town, though scary to do without a backup wheel, was fine. Finding a replacement in town, San Antonio de los Cobres, proved to be less successful. San Antonio is an old mining town that has been down on its luck for quite a while. It’s difficult to understand lack of opportunity until you arrive at a place like this. It’s dry, barren, and heartbreaking. It’s a large, spread-out town, yet there’s no traffic, just the kids walking home from school. You look into weathered, dark faces and see empty states. As we were about to enter a nondescript storefront that served as a restaurant, a man walked by, stoped and held up his hands asking for money. I’ve been asked for money only a few times while in South America, but the sadness of the gesture here was overwhelming; Axel gave him a 20 note. No one had cars, much less replacement parts. Nonetheless, we tried. Eventually we found the only tire shop in town, essentially a backyard shop near the entrance to town. The guy’s mouth was packed with coca leaves. No way, he said.

With no other option we risked the drive back to Salta without a spare, passing the once-grande San Antonio welcome sign as the road began its long descent. We pulled into Salta after dark. The routine drop off with the rental agency went sour when we mentioned the wheel: 600 pesos cash, the owner demanded ($200). Oh did I mention we used my credit card for the rental? And that I had already bought a bus ticket out of town for the next day? For over half an hour we debated with the owner – asked to see receipts of the “new” tire, tried to establish a deadline for buying a replacement on our own, and on and on. I say 'we' but the reality of that was me translating frantically the angered responses of both parties. It ended with us pledging to buy a new wheel ourselves. I gave 100 pesos to the guys and made them promise to cut up my credit card the next day.

I didn’t go out that night or celebrate my final night in Argentina. I drank several glasses of water, took some ineffective aspirin, and collapsed, exhausted, from the most draining day of my trip so far. Moral of the story: beware the rental car.