Jujuy, Salta, Cordoba & the Joys of Waving at Tourist Attractions as You Whiz Past

Hating on Arizona abroad.




May day, though enjoyed around the rest of the world, continues to grate upon the collective soul of Americans, even those abroad (yes, we have labor day, but why not both? We're America, we should always strive to be the best, goddamnit.).

We arrived with bittersweet emotion to Jujuy. Our in-bus film of the day was clearly an instant classic that somehow bypassed mainstream cinema. "The Improbables," or something along those lines, starring Ice Cube, as a down and out drunk ex-high school quarterback with nothing to prove in a small town, is forced forced to babysit his studious, and fatherless, niece. Their tumultous relationship takes a turn for the uplifting as they find a common bond in football, high school football, nonetheless. Through this shared experience they form an unbreakable bond after she "improbably" makes the high school football team as the backup quarterback. CUT. That's when we arrived, no doubt missing the inevitable break in the unbreakable and the even more improbable mending after the football game in which she orchestrates the game winning drive with him watching, minus the tall-can-- which he dumped out halfway through the 2nd half, promising himself never to drink again. Welcome to the uniquely indigenous (by Argentinian standards) city of Jujuy, just short of a denounment. (1)

Horse carriages among fancy cars fill Salta´s street.

You might think I'm digressing a bit here, as this blog isn't about my desire for a broader selection of inspired sports tales that, instead of playing up racial stereotypes, do perhaps that, inspire (could we break this cycle, perhaps getting Tyler Perry to direct the black Mighty Ducks. Now that would break some cinematic barriers). But, you'd be wrong, because if you were asking yourself right now, "Why would Jason be discussing the merits of Ice Cubes latest direct-to-Netflix-queues-across-America instead of Jujuy?", it's a simple answer: May Day.




Apparently Argentina celebrates May Day like it's the half birthday (and literal interpretation) of the day of the dead. Outside of our Friday arrival, which welcomed us with a bustling bus station, the town was completely dead. No stores were open, no markets hawking goods, and the next morning not a soul in sight, excepting apolice officer and the person manning the bus ticket center where we got our ticket out of town as soon as possible. Jujuy may be a great city, but neither of us can vouch for anything but it's eeire silence, or dedication to laziness, on and immediately following May Day. Thus we headed to Salta craving something improbable, but not Improbable.(2)




Waterfall on top of the park up the aerosilla in Salta.



Salta. A big city, but much of the same May Day Melee. Much of the local business was closed because of the holiday and because we were there on a Sunday and it's Argentina, so nothing happens on Sundays anyways (they definitely abide by gods day off). We did manage to do a bit of sightseeing. We took in the Marina-like (without the Marina-ites) downtown drag, sampled the local beer (aptly named, Salta Cerveza), checked out the central plaza and rode to the top of the cities central hill in an aerosilla. It was an enjoyable few days in an all-together beautiful city, but rather uneventful, as far as eventful goes. Vini, Vidi, Vici. Yada, Yada, Yada.



The aerosilla in Salta.


Our last stop in the mad-rush back to Iguazu was a city both Beth and I had been looking forward to since we arrived, (and incredibly difficult to pronounce correctly by Argentines' standards) Cordoba (or Core*duh*Buha, as far as I can tell, at least). A university town by guidebook, an apparent Rastafarian destination by the looks of our hostel, a great base for natural beauty according to locals and an Argentinian cultural center/UNESCO world heritage site via Wiki. We only had 3 days/nights, so we "planned" our trip in order to take advantage of these specific traits.

Day 1: wandered the city. Checked out the college portion of town and attempted to relive our college days throughout the day by a) eating McDonalds French fries, b) not studying or working, c) drinking exceedingly strong and excessive amounts of booze (though without the express purpose of going out to hit on girls (and getting shamefully denied) (3) and d) enjoying the semi-carefree existence only those without the weight of daily responsibility can.

Salta

Day 2: day trip, which I will go onto with great zeal and an excessive amount of detail in the next post.

Dirty War Memorial in Salta


Day 3: Culture, with a capial C. And a dabble of history. Museums, historical centers, churches, and the occasional interesting architectural achievement sprinkled in, defined our last day. We visited the modern art museum, no threat to the MOMA, but worthwhile in that it was free. Wondered the center square, even venturing into the ancient, if conventionally ostentatious, church (no residual scars to show on my part). And finally found ourselves in the most interesting and powerful, if incredibly depressing, experience to date, the former headquarters of the Argentine secret police. If you've been keeping up-to-date with the blog (I don't fault you if you have, but if you haven't you might want to reference the Bariloche entry briefly discussing the dirty war--wikipedia might be a better source though) then you'll remember the senseless kidnapping, dissapearance and presumable murder of thousands of political dissidents in the late 70s and 80s. This former headquarters and detention center has been turned into a memoral for those that dissapeared. It contains first hand accounts by family and friends of those that were lost. Anything from photo albums to the written memories and even the occasional coloring book created by children of the vanished. I spent hours wandering the halls, looking at the past and present of the families and watching beths tears slide down her cheek as she flipped through the loss, and life, of an effected child. Incredibly powerful and hopefully a deterent for future political misgivings.

One of the saddest rooms in the world.

Hope from inside one of the cells.

We left for iguazu the next morning feeling that we barely scratched the surface of the city, but grateful that we were able to spend the few days there that we did. Our list of reasons to return steadily grows longer the more time we stay...

(1) Beth loved the movie and really wanted to finish it, hence the bittersweet, as in I was bitter about the movie and the city, Beth was sweet about the movie and the "holiday."

(2) what we were really interested in was the quebrada de Humahuaca. Something like "the Hill of the seven colors." But, since we had a week to make Iguazu--to intercept Beths cousin Courtney who was on her way to visit--we were forced to witness its blur at sunset. To which we waved, but snapped no photos in our moment of mourning. Please feel free to google pictures, we did, they were nice.

(3) We heard tell of a drink entitled "The Torremoto (earthquake)" that is a curious blend of effeminate/potent ingredients. Beth was curious, I was willing to brave new ground. With that in mind we went to the store and purchased the three simple ingredients: white wine, Fernet and (proverbial drumroll, please) cookie dough ice cream (not true, the final ingredient is pineapple ice cream). The exact equation was unknown to us, so by applying the scientifically tried and true guess'n'check method, we concluded two scoops of ice cream, a heavy glug of chilled white wine (almost to the top of the glass), stir to fully integrate piña ice cream, and top with a shot of fernet. Boom, excellence and a gay and festive evening drink for all to enjoy, if a bit emasculating.