Between the rough start and the bitter end, Tilcara proved to be a delight. The Waira hostel isn’t the Hilton, to put it mildly, but who would expect the Hilton for a hostel rate? I have read some reviews whose writers obviously did. Still, I wouldn’t mind a bit more luxury, like a hook in the wall to hang up the wet towel, or a night lamp (or at least the ability to trun off the light from the bed) – but fortunately I have a headlight thus don’t have to bed down in pitch dark. The shower is really hot and I must be fast, as nothing separates the water from the rest of the bathroom. But what it lacks in facilites, the manager and his wife make up with heart. They are really caring. Or maybe not. The hostel feels like home. Or maybe it doesn't. Read on.
****
May 27
It starts well. Clean underwear day, clean everything day. On the road, it’s a big deal. I wash the underwear in the shower (if there are hooks to hang them) and take the rest to the cleaners, if I find any. It’s like a laundromat, but I don’t have to operate the machines. I leave the package, and pick it up later, usually after 24 hours, clean, dry, ironed, folded. It costs one peso a piece, not a big investment. If I don’t find any, I just recycle. I didn’t come across any laundromat in Buenos Aires, thus was quite desperate by the time I got to Montevideo. There I found one just across the hotel. Here in Tilcara the hostel offered to do it, unlike in Salta, where it was bluntly refused.
Breakfast here is early, the continental part is good, the coffee undrinkable, like everywhere. There is a sign that a second cup costs 5 pesos. I would think twice about drinking a second cup even if somebody would pay me 5 pesos. I just use the hot water and my dwindling supply of Nescafe. Then I drink tea. There is nothing better than good honest black tea. It can’t be ruined.
Upon the advice of the manager, I walk up the Pucara (fortress) and finally see Pre-Inca ruins. It’s on a mountaintop, with a 360º panorama. The ticket is also valid to the Archeology Museum, thus I walk down to the town. A gate along the way displays “Grapes for sale”, I buy some for dinner. The farmer’s market is more exciting, than the museum.
I decide for the same restaurant like the day before. The ravioli seems quite attractive retroactively. It was a filling portion with freshly grated parmesen. Today the manager recommends Spanish lentils. I take my chances. It’s a stew made of lentils, carrots and potatoes, with some meat and sausage. A bit more salty than my taste, but still very good and filling. I will try to copy it at home.
In the afternoon we walk to the Devil’s Throat gorge/waterfall with Antonio, a young Italian guy. The day before, when I was at the deepest point of despair, he appeared out of nowhere and offered me a shockingly bitter, traditional mate tea.
On the way back, we descend on all five. So much about the clean pants.
Antonio is a chef, and makes tiramisu for the entire hostel after dinner. I bake sweet potatoes, but just for myself. On the way down from the hill we discovered organic yogurt, it’s heavenly. First yogurt in Argentina without sugar and additives.
May 28
At breakfast I meet an old French guy with a really impressive moustache. He is travelling since March, and laid back 6,000 km in Argentina. And all that speaking only French.
He goes on to Chile as well, thus I might see him again in San Pedro. He makes no firm plans and no reservations. Maybe I should travel like that next time. But for that, I should leave the work computer at home.
We try to make it to the Waira Caves with Antonio. This trail isn’t marked, you should go with a guide. The manager explains the path in detail, to no avail. At one point the trail turns too dangerous to continue. We walk between sandstone cliffs in steep, increasingly narrow riverbeds. Where we turn back, it becomes too steep, too narrow, too unstable. But we have an incredible view of Tilcara and the mountains.
As we walked up, two cows were just killed and four men just started to skin them. On the way back, they they are still working, now inside and taking gthe cows apart.
“I have to see that,” says Antonio. “It’s my job. I’m a chef.”
I definitely don’t want to see it, I'm just a part-time vegetarian, thus continue walking toward town.
Life is never simple. The employee of the manager washed my clothes, and neatly folded them into a bag. It was sitting on the table, ready. The manager told his wife to count it (as I didn’t before). Thus we counted together, I paid the ten pesos and she took the bag away. I thought she wanted to fold them again, as the counting destroyed the order. But no, she took them right into the washing machine. Of course, there is no dryer. Only the sun. And that doesn’t shine at night.
“It will dry,” says the manager, but he knows just as well as I do that it won’t. I’m leaving tomorrow at 9:45. Not only I won’t have clean pants, but I will have to drag a wet bag along. I would like to cry. Of course, no refund, no remorse, no consolation. Maybe they aren’t that caring after all. I wish I had taken it to the professionals in the village. I don’t know how the hostel in Cusco did it. Perfect service, full breakfast, for half the price. On top, I hung out my towel on the clothesline – as there is no place to hang it in the room -- and it disappeared by now. I’m left with the two tiny camping towels of my own. Those won’t dry either overnight, thus I have to skip the shower either in the morning or at night. Or maybe I will use the sheet in the morning. That way it will be washed after me definitely
I’m glad I will be in Chile in two days. Maybe that country takes tourism seriously, not just wants to milk the money.
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