Introduction: Red Hills and Colonial Memories
In Argentina’s northwest, nestled in the embrace of the Andes mountains, lies the province of Salta. Far from the bustle of Buenos Aires, where dry winds stir up red earth, this land feels as though time flows differently.
Here, colonial architecture heavily tinged with Spanish colonial heritage lines the streets, and the simple lives of local people have slowly taken root. White-walled churches, cobblestone streets, the sound of guitars echoing in plazas. The air at 1,200 meters altitude is crystal clear, dry yet gentle.
Salta’s charm lies in the intersection of nature and culture. To the north stretches Quebrada de Humahuaca with its colorful rock mountains, while to the south lies Cafayate, a wine-producing region. The people live quietly in the present, carrying the pride of indigenous peoples and Spanish traditions.
It was to such a land that I suddenly felt drawn to visit. Alone, without purpose. I simply wanted to touch that red earth landscape.
Day 1: Red-Brown Streets and Afternoon Empanadas
A little over two hours by plane from Buenos Aires. I landed at Salta’s airport just past 10 AM.
Stepping out of the airport, the first thing that caught my eye was the Andean mountain range floating beyond the dry hills. Below it, I could see the city of Salta with its red-brown roofs stretching out. The sky was vast and endlessly blue.
I took a taxi into the city and dropped my luggage at a small inn in the old quarter. White walls with wooden window frames, a courtyard inside, and sunlight streaming across the worn tile floors. After unpacking and catching my breath, the clock pointed exactly to noon.
In the afternoon, I walked through the city. I passed by Salta Cathedral and made my way to Plaza 9 de Julio. Children chased each other while elderly men sat on benches reading newspapers. The entire city seemed to be taking an afternoon nap.
I had lunch at a small restaurant. I ordered empanadas filled with beef and olives. The crust was crispy and fragrant, the filling juicy. As I bit into it with my hands, the savory meat and spice flavors spread gently through my mouth. In my glass was local Torrontés wine. The citrus aroma wafted subtly, light and refreshing on the palate.
In the evening, I climbed Cerro San Bernardo hill. Looking down at the city from the cable car window, the red-brown roofs melted into the Andean ridgelines beyond. The hilltop was windy, and the breeze brushed against my cheek.
For dinner, I went to a restaurant near the plaza. A folk music performance began, and the sound of the charango colored the night. I ate lamb stew while surrendering myself to this quiet night, perfect for the beginning of a journey.
Day 2: Colors of the Quebrada and Vicuña Shadows
At 6 AM, I left the inn while it was still dark. Today’s destination was 200 kilometers north to Quebrada de Humahuaca, registered as a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Swaying in the van, I watched the scenery gradually change. First dry grasslands, then rock mountains closing in, colors intensifying. Red, yellow, green, purple. These colors, which change according to mineral content, were like the earth’s own paint palette.
At 10 AM, I arrived in the village of Humahuaca. In the small market, hand-knitted textiles and folk crafts were displayed. Aymara language mixed with tourist voices. The vicuña scarf I picked up was unbelievably soft.
Leaving the village, I headed to the Hill of Seven Colors in Purmamarca. The rock face seemed to flow in layers. The colors change with the sun’s position, and the red becomes even more intense in the afternoon. I sat alone at the foot of the hill, sipping mate tea from my water bottle. A local boy came over and casually struck up a conversation. We talked in Spanish, halting but genuine. His name was Miguel. School was in the afternoon, he said.
In the afternoon, I went to Tilcara village. Stone churches and a small museum, dry air and quinoa fields. Somehow nostalgic landscapes continued.
On the return journey that evening, I dozed off in the car and woke to find the sky already sunset-colored. The evening sun painted the Andes, and I could see a herd of llamas in the distance.
That night, I had a quiet dinner in the inn’s courtyard. Chicken stew and couscous, and another glass of Torrontés. The wind passed through, and stars twinkled quietly.
Day 3: Morning Market and Quiet Farewell
On the last morning, I woke a little early and went to the city market. At the greengrocer, unfamiliar fruits were lined up, and spice aromas drifted from the butcher shop. I bought freshly baked chipa (cheese bread) from a bakery in a narrow alley and ate it on a bench. The city was still quiet, and the sunlight was gentle.
I returned to the inn to pack and walked through Plaza 9 de Julio one last time. Just like yesterday, an elderly man sat on a bench reading his newspaper, and pigeons walked at my feet. I couldn’t tell whether the landscape had changed during my journey, or whether my way of seeing had changed.
In the afternoon flight, I headed back to Buenos Aires. From the airplane window, the red earth slowly receded into the distance. That air, that tranquility, was no longer here.
Conclusion: What Felt Real Though Imagined
This journey never actually took me anywhere.
But even now, I sometimes remember the bitter taste of mate tea and the sound of Andean wind. Salta’s tranquility seemed to touch something deep within me.
A journey that, though imagined, felt as if it truly happened. The red-brown earth, gentle people, and quiet time. As long as these remain in my heart, perhaps I can say this journey truly existed.
