The name of the town has nothing to do with Islam – it’s the name of a Patagonian thornbush (a barberry), which was once used by Magellan’s fleet as a source of oakum for ship caulking (from the verb calafatear).
Travelers compare El Calafate to Iceland – it’s got a similar windswept aspect. Even the stray dogs spent much of their time hunkered behind whatever windbreak they can find. The outlying houses don’t blend with the landscape; they seem to have landed, as if from space.
Our first stop was a bird sanctuary on the lake shore.
A spectacular side trip from Salta: Purmamarca, and over the hills to Salinas Grandes.
We spent the night in a wonderful spot just outside Purmamarca, with a view of mountains, and an incredibly soft, warm bed. Quite a contrast with our flat in Salta – the less said about that one, the better.
(new strategy – I’m adding text to the blog before I forget too many details, then updating with photos as I find time to sort through them)
Having read about Salta’s history as a mule depot on the overland route to Potosi, I was expecting a half-derelict colonial town on the edge of arid badlands. Instead, Salta turned out to be a thriving town in a region of fertile cropland, with scenic hills in the near distance.
It was a pleasant place to stay – bustling but not terribly crowded or noisy, tourist-friendly but not Disney-fied, and not a single plastic reindeer to be seen. Our only problem in Salta (same throughout Argentina) was adjusting to the daily rhythm. Most restaurants don’t even open for dinner until 8 PM, which meant Henry’s bedtime had to be adjusted, and all our morning activities delayed accordingly.
When not too tired, Henry had a great time out on the streets at night. The neer-do-well teenagers hanging out in the park were suitably impressed at his headstand skills, and taught him some new breakdancing moves.
It was hot during the day – not unbearable, but wearying. Smaranda happily stood out in the sun taking video of folk dancers, but Henry and I were strategically ducking into churches for shade. Our apartment was near the pink church, which isn’t far from the red church; we didn’t notice the blue church until the end of our stay.
Tradition Day at school
street festival
Smaranda arranged for a driver who happened to be an avid birder, and he took us to a lake with lots of birds – and provided binoculars and a spotting scope. We were a bit too far for my camera, but Smaranda got some good photos by holding her phone to the scope. We hired him again to take me into the hills the next day, while Smaranda and Henry explored the town.
jacana
whistling-ducks
great egret
bare-faced ibis
andean gull
cormorants
savannah hawk
cowbird
Golden-breasted woodpecker
above: lake and roadside. Below: another pond, known to be home to Southern Screamers.
The town of Puerto Iguazu offered one immediate contrast from Brazil: all streets had signs listing their names, and even the houses had numbers! In Brazil we’d gotten proficient at using plus codes to find our lodgings or other places, but that wasn’t necessary any more.
But who cares about the town, let’s get straight to the waterfalls!
coati feeding station
anhinga
plush-crested jay
They closed the park at 6 PM, just as the light was getting good…
Driving north from Brasilia, you pass
through endless fields of grain until you see some remarkable hills.
Climbing into these as the afternoon wanes, you get a sense of the
vastness of the South American continent. Except for the road, the
landscape is practically empty, and yet you’re still only a hop and a
skip from the coast. At the same time, the hand of man was very obvious,
in the form of smoke from wildfires. After dark we could see lines of
flame licking the distant hills.
Tucked into the hills is Alto Paraiso, a combination hippy enclave and
tourist trap. The forest here is thicker and a bit wetter than in
Pirinopolis – mosquito nets advised, even in the dry season.
In Alto Paraiso you can find a stupa, murals of Ganesh, Om signs, and people tattooed with chakras and mandalas. The main strip was a little crowded and noisy for my taste. Our first dinner was at a creperie where the crepes tasted of olive oil, and the bar across the street was hosting a terrible live cover of “wonder wall”.
We found Sao Jorge a lot more congenial – a smaller town, closer to natural attractions. Had a delicious buffet lunch that was recommended. Got lost trying to find the restaurant suggested for dinner, stopped at a quiet joint at the edge of town and had a delicious meal – filet mignon!
Brasilia is a strange city – some ultramodern buildings under construction, lots of sixties/seventies high-rises in some disrepair – kind of feels like Eastern Europe if you ignore the tropical heat and the red clay soil. Despite the high-rises, the city doesn’t feel dense, nor pedestrian-friendly. It feels like a city made for cars. There is no subway, though there are lots of buses. Crosswalks are in short supply. The city planners were obviously aiming for grand Parisian-style avenues, but forgot to provide any shade, so the effect is more oppressive than it is impressive. Putting the TV transmitter at the center of the grandest avenue felt strange to me at first, but it makes sense that the Fourth Estate should have its monument within view of the Three Powers (Executive, Legislative, Judicial).
Locals have been friendly and we have yet to encounter any pickpockets, police extortion, etc. Brasilians will tell you their city is safe, but regale you with crime stories about other cities. Also, whenever you ask, the local drinking water is safe to drink, but nobody drinks it because it’s “not very clean.”
