He had visited the place more than thirty years before. The memory I had of the Quebrada de Humahuaca, examined area of the Argentine altiplano to cercana Bolivia, was that it was dusty quiet villages with a strong Indian influence. Now returning I noticed a big difference. The area maintains its Inca roots, but the life of peoples has turned to tourism. The facades of the houses are the same but painted with attractive colors and many were converted in the business of local products. The girls who serve wear traditional clothes clean but also speak Quechua and Castilian, know themselves understood in English and French.
The village square Purmamarca looks much nicer than what I remembered. The beds have flowers, Care paths are, tents of the vendors are very neat. No doubt everything looks much photographed. Some French tourists who passed me were fascinated taking photographs to a flame and a child who received exchange for posing. But despite it all looks so good I missed and forgotten that people remembered overpost have visited so long ago. But everything had changed so much or was my memory that I was playing a trick?
Secretly, sought to find, somewhere in, that air of real people who do not care about what people think tourists
We are looking for hosting. He recalled that in the seventies, with my parents, had stopped at an inn where the door did not close properly. Now, Instead, the inn we had chosen had all the comforts of XXI century, Satellite TV channels around the world, wifi, thermostat controls the temperature of the room and more. But the outward appearance, stone walls, respects the traditional architecture of the area.
We took a while before continuing recognition of the area to get used to the height. We drank tea in the sun, sitting in comfortable chairs while we verified our email. Then flip through the guide and plan what we would do that evening and the next two days. Purmamarca, Tilcara, Humahuaca and Uquía were some of the people would visit but I, secretly, sought to find, somewhere in, that air of real people who do not care about what people think tourists.
The Hill of Seven Colors was, obviously, so striking as before. The ruins of the Indian village known as the Tilcara Pucara, were reconstructed, marked with a particular journey. Each village had a local history museum and archaeological very well presented with clear explanations and lighting according to the exhibition. The path through the valley and did not lift a cloud of fine dust that I remembered that was brought up in clothes from suitcases; that road was paved. To admire the lush hills that dominate the area and should not stop at the roadside, Now there are gazebos place to park the car and a couple of posters that explain what is being. The fascinating exhibition of local products is now organized with a start time and end well respected. Shops accept credit cards and local food restaurants offer multi-language menu.
The Quebrada de Humahuaca is now much more attractive than in the seventies but still I kept looking at least a corner with that look ...
I must admit that the Quebrada de Humahuaca now looks much more attractive than in the seventies, but I still kept looking for at least one corner with that air… “What if we are going to Iruya?”, I proposed to my wife pointing at the map a village outside the main tourist circuit. She loved the idea. The way we knew it was ground, broken, mountainous, zigzag, moments of cornice and, especially, came to exceed 4.000 meters.
We took the road. All descriptions fall short when one faces those endless curves. As we climbed the truck, gasolera, throwing more and more white smoke. Shortly after passing the port the way down in a succession of snails, as we say at sharp curves.
A distant cloud of dust told us that a vehicle was coming up. As we approached we saw that it was a rickety bus that climbed laboriously. The driver had been very concerned with the effort of your engine and let me cum all the responsibility of the cliff to let him pass. After the scare, I was glad to see that old group hoping to find in the town I was looking wearily.
On reaching the square opposite the church my hopes crumbled. He was full of backpackers barullentos waiting for the next bus
After much bustle in the distance we saw, between hills, the tower of the church Iruya. The road still reserved for us one last challenge, we had to ford the unpredictable River Iruya, but luckily this time had little water. If rain fell around the story could be very different.
On reaching the square opposite the church my hopes crumbled. This was full of backpackers barullentos waiting for the next bus to return to Humahuaca. Maybe when peace would be.
The side of the square was a railing on a precipice from which we had a spectacular view of the river canyon Iruya. Taken some pictures we move through the narrow streets of the village and, for my joy, I did find there what I wanted. Old bars with faded posters, half rickety chairs and tables, plasters poorly maintained, Street dust, the villagers chatting in no hurry, a boy who was going through a very slow donkey. The opposite of what had become the people of the Quebrada de Humahuaca. That was the Argentine North I remembered. I was happy to Iruya.
