Salta La Linda

Though most of my memories in Salta were made at peñas, I would be remiss if I didn't at least share what else I got up to in this province.

Salta, affectionately known as Salta la Linda by other Argentines, is known as the heart of Argentine folclore and the soul of the country. The downtown has amazingly well-preserved Spanish Colonial architecture, which is surprisingly rare in the rest of the country. Though certainly more Andean in feel, it still preserves many of the rich traditions of the pampas and Rio de la Plata, but perhaps with its own Salteño flare.

To welcome myself to the north, I grabbed the two staple "norteño" dishes: a humita and a tamal. Both are wrapped in corn husk and made from corn flour, though one is sweeter than the other and one contains meet. To be honest, I'm not sure which one was which, but what I can say is that my general aversion to corn flour made me not want to try these dishes again. That, and, birds started eating my food, which was clearly unappetizing as well. I have made up my mind that these will be the first, and last, humitas and tamales I will try, but I'm glad I at least gave them a shot.

I then visited the High Mountain Archeological Museum (MAAM), focusing on archeological finds from throughout the high mountains in the Salta province. The province, after all, stretches all the way into the main cordillera of the Andes, bordering Chile.

The first part of the museum builds you up to the Incan culture. The Incas are not natives to the region—they conquered much of Salta, Jujuy, and La Rioja, even down to Santiago, but they are not the indigenous population. But regardless, as they were the last civilization to occupy the land before the Spaniards, and were known for their, how shall I say it, lack of respect for other indigenous communities, they left the strongest mark on the pre-Columbian history of Salta.

The museum showcases some textiles and tools used by the Andes, as well as begins to describe the ritual importance of the mountains, the techniques the Incas used to keep their empire together, and how the Quechua people saw life and death as fundamentally different from how we do.

To go into a little more detail on each of those points:

1. Woven textiles and fabrics were incredibly important to the Quechua people and their subjects. The Andes are cold and high up, hence nearly requiring wool garments even in the summers at night. More important families in the empire would weave their clothes with patterns, whose meanings are still not deciphered (according to the museum).

   
   

2. As mountain tops were the closest to the sky, they carried extreme ritual importance to the Quechua. They saw them as their way to interact most closely to the gods. At the top of mountains, they would often construct shrines made of stone, decorated with woven pennants and offerings for the gods for strength, good rains, and good harvests.

   
   

3. The Quechua people did not practice human sacrifice frequently, but when they did, it was often at very important moments in time. Typically, this was done at times of great instability in the empire, often at the death of an Inca (emperor) or during unrest. During these ritual times, the Inca or other elites in the empire would select children from families from far-flung corners across the empire, and they would parade them to the capital at Cusco. There, at the center of the Quechua world (see this post), they would marry the children to sew unity and respect between the families, and therefore, between the regions. Then, after the marriage, they would march the children back to where they came from, lead them up to the peak of a particularly important mountain, and bury them alive.

Little did I know, but the three lessons from the start of the museum were sneakily preparing me for what the next room had in store: a seven-year-old boy who was sacrificed in this exact manner.

I won't include a photo, first because photos were not allowed, but also, out of respect for him, his lineage, and of course, the reader. But if you are squeamish, you may want to skip the next paragraph.

The boy was perfectly preserved, embalmed by the cold, dry air of the high Andes. He sat frightened with his knees in his arms, all underneath a tattered ceremonial-woven poncho. He looked like he died in pain, shivering himself to his eventual demise, unable to wait until his life was finally taken from him. He was so small. His feet were tiny, even compared to the rest of his body, and his head was misshapen by ritual binding. He had a dark skin complexion, clearly born and died in a time where there were no white people, nor mixed people on the continent, and his face and hands were covered in wrinkles. He had a clear underbite, which may have been manipulated using the head-binding technique to generate the royal look.

I stared at the boy for many minutes, contemplating what he must have gone through and how he must have felt in his last moments.

While observing, I couldn't help but begin to think about the ethics of this museum. Of course, the sacrifice is unethical—that's not under debate—but it's what they did and back then, it was okay. They saw the dead as closer to the living than we do, and for the Quechua people, at the time, it was ritual and honor. The ethics I was imagining were about the museum. This child was sacrificed; it happened. But he was sacrificed for a purpose, at a specific time and place. The exact manner of his sacrifice unified him with his gods in the way that the natives intended, and his presence there, therefore, somehow play into the harmony of the land. So, I imagined, to fuss with this harmony and this intent must be greatly disrespectful to the locals. The museum presents the boy as a showcase—as something to demonstrate how different, and perhaps even gives an opinion on how cruel this was. And I saw it as, though honest and a fair critique, still disrespectful to the child and his death.

I ended up discussing this with Rosalia, who is Quechua, at La Casona del Molino on the night of my birthday. She had generally similar thoughts to me, saying that the people of her hometown don't love the idea that the child had been removed from his final resting place, and reiterating that, in her culture—even if nowadays, she lives a modern lifestyle—it is traditional to see even those who died in the pre-Columbian era much closer to today than we do.

Let's lighten up the mood a little bit. How about pretty landscapes and horses?!

The next day, I decided to visit a wine region of Salta called Cafayate. Though the destination was the wine, really, the trip was more about the drive there. The route from Salta to Cafayate passes straight through the Quebrada de las Conchas, a vibrant red-rock gorge carved out of the brightly oxidized stone, resulting in bizarre formations and eye-catching landscapes.

I don't have much to say about the day, just that it was loads of fun to get out of the van every few minutes and admire what was around us. Here's some pictures, because there's no way my descriptions would do these landscapes justice.

On my birthday, I decided that it would be fun to go horseback riding! I hadn't had a true gaucho experience, so I was excited to finally head out to an estancia and get a glimpse of the rural life.

The owner of the ranch, Enrique, was a complete legend. He was funny, goofy, and absolutely in love with the gaucho lifestyle. He loved to joke around with us, he had is old man sayings and habits, and looked like a natural in his leather getup at the asado pit. And when I mean he has his sayings, when a family asked to get a picture with him, he pointed to a sign on the wall that said "Todo es possible con Enrique!" (Anything's possible with Enrique!) while proudly proclaiming it himself out loud too. He, in a different life, is also an oil engineer, and makes frequent trips out to Chevron in Houston. He was unfamiliar with ABS though, but it still made for a good jumping off point in our conversation.

A little bit after meeting Enrique, he sent me and a few others off with his henchman José for our ride. We rode through the lush green hills of Salta, getting cloudy views of the foothills of the Andes. We passed by settlements made from adobe, farms that had been harvested for the season, and just locals doing their day-to-day thing. It was so peaceful, and a wonderful, rustic view at the simple, calming, fulfilling life of the Argentine countryside. My horse, named Bambino, was rather stubborn and fickle, and would alternate between being way behind the other three horses, and way ahead of them. He also had a compulsive need to always have a flower in his mouth, which was, of course, adorable. Even if it led to José having to pull them out of his mouth and give him a loving verbal scolding. Luckily, Bambino doesn't speak Spanish, so the scolding meant nothing to him and he continued to be happy, eating his flowers for the whole two hours.

When we got back, we sat outside while the filet mignon finished up on the grill. Enrique, feeling a need to give me something for my birthday, gifted me a high-altitude wine because I refused his offer to give me a second two-hour riding session in the afternoon. (My plan was to take a fat nap before the peña that night).

As the asado was finishing, we talked about his equestrian past, with him showing us photos of his youth, riding at competitions all over the country. We discussed briefly how the gear and styles of riding differ between the provinces, and he told me with full certainty that he can tell where a gaucho is from just given what they're wearing and how they're riding their horse. I thought that was so awesome, given that I'd only seen the gear they'd given me for the day, but I'm sure with a lifetime of study, it would be simple.

Also, while the asado finished, we enjoyed some empanadas salteñas. While recognizably empanadas, the empanadas salteñas are noticeably different and hold nearly a legendary status in the rest of the country. They're too made with meat and peppers, just as typical Argentine empanadas, but they've got a few other surprises up their sleeves. Or should I say, in their wraps? First, they contain diced potatoes—a tradition native to the Andes. But more noticeably, they're juicy. When you bite into them, they actually are quite soupy on the inside. Not proper soup dumplings like xiaolongbao or khinkali, but definitely on the soupier side as far as world dumplings go. Typically, they're also served with this sauce made from freshly grated tomatoes and fresh cut chilies that gives such a nice kick to an already delicious dish. Argentines all throughout Córdoba and Mendoza were telling me that I simply had to get empanadas salteñas, and boy they did not disappoint. (This was not my first time having these, it was just most convenient to bring them up here...)

Once the filet was ready, José, the two other tourists, Enrique, and I sat down with all the ranch hands and chefs who prepared the food and tend to the horses. Enrique, in his old age, can't do much horse riding or tending anymore, so he's more just a character that brings joy and spirit to the estancia. I couldn't help but notice that while I was enjoying my filet mignon (which was delicious, by the way), that the ranch hands were having locro. That orange stew that I found so repulsive on May 25th in Saldán. Though I'm not one to usually give foods I don't like a second chance, I requested a bowl. I disliked it less, in fact, it may be fare to say I was okay with it. I was able to finish the whole bowl, but I kindly refused a second afterwards. Its taste was that similar nutty, earthy cream that I got from Pancho Barrón, but truly, I got much less of the textures that made me dislike it so much the first time. So, I'm glad I tried it again, even if it wasn't the favorite.

Locro is a dish from the northwest, and I figured that I had to at least try it in its homeland. But also, it's hardy, full of nutrients, and is exactly what gauchos need as fuel for their work, so I figured that if there was a time to try it, now is it. And, I didn't have to pay any extra for a bowl. In addition to the locro and filet mignon, I also had a version of Argentine coleslaw, a chorizo, and the infamous blood sausage (also something I was not willing to pay for, and instead waited until it was included in my meal). I didn't hate the blood sausage, but I didn't finish it. I frankly didn't find it to have much of a taste, good nor bad, but instead, it was very dry and had a texture of eating like shredded beef jerky. It was stringy and you didn't really have to chew it much. I suppose if I have to eat it again, I would, but it wouldn't be my first choice.

My day at the ranch was so wonderful and peaceful—a perfect calm way to spend a day in between two major peña nights. And, as I described in my post about peñas, that night did not disapoint either.

Much like Córdoba, Salta is romanticized in the hearts of Argentines but mostly overlooked by foreigners. And again, I found it to be charming, friendly, and welcoming. But this time, instead of influenced by European ideals of education, it was deeply rooted in native traditions, music, and food, often mixing those native elements into the fabric of everyday life.