For years, the 'tren a las nubes' ('train in the clouds') cut it's way across steep Andean valleys, tunnels and countless iron bridges. An engineering marvel, the line includes 21 tunnels, 13 viaducts, 31 bridges, 2 loops and 2 zig-zags. Starting at 1200m and rising to 4220m along the Quebrada del Torro, the railway was originally built to connect Argentina and Chile. It later became a tourist train, then two years ago the train broke down on a bridge and it hasn't run since. Also running up the valley, along-side or opposite the railway line is a rough dirt road and we're gonna take the cowboy up it...
The start of the nubes route puts the V in valley. Under a grey sky we begin to climb up the giant cacti ridden Andean hills, banks of wispy cloud massaging the tips. A small root-like river winds a down wide stony bed, clearly fuller in wetter seasons. We pass tiny tiled villages, rusty iron girder bridges and carpets of trees and cacti. Rail and road intertwine. Wild horses dot the vista. Mountains display colourful scars of up to seven clearly distinguishable colours.
This ancient and largely untouched landscape would make a perfect setpiece for the 'Walking With Dinosaurs' tv series.
Random police checkpoint. Stop the record. "Your papers and international driving license." I hand him the papers and my distinctly non-international card, saying "...my INTERNATIONAL license...". An old Jedi-mind trick I know. He scans through disinterestedly, more focussed on the fact that our car has no licence plates. "This isn't the car you're looking for. You can go about your business. Move along..." We're waved along. Barn Obi Wan on the case. Close call. These bored border dudes love looking for loopholes to exploit.
Driving along round ever changing bends, the altitude starts to get to me and I start to think I'm Michael Knight, Lone Crusader. In Cowboy Kitt, I hum the theme. Sandra throws concerned sideways glances. Fortunately before I try to jump the canyon with the turbo boost San Antonio de los Cobres appears in view. As also did the Salinas Grande salt plains, glittering briefly on the horizon.
A strange and hopeless place, San Antonio used to rely on the Tren a las Nubes for income. A reasonably large town, containing 7000 isolated inhabitants on the desert Altiplano, it's become a bit of a ghost town. Even before you arrive, snotty, unwashed children of consistently poor dental hygiene literally run AT the car in a manic bid to push stuffed llamas or fancy stones on you. One immediately feels party in a horror film and lock the doors and speed up, flicking on the wipers in case you take down a kid. In town, one story high, everything's shuttered or flapping in the wind. An empty restaurant with a softly spoken, sad waiter serves us empenadas (which are the only thing on the menu and albeit tasty are still cold in the middle).
Post sustenance we step into the arid open. It's like a wild west frontier town, minus the tumbleweed. Locals immediately spot a white face and run up with just slightly more alpaca fur garmentage than they can carry. Scrambling back into the car we scream out of town on a mission for the Salinas Grande salt plains. What this town needs is a) the Tren a las Nubes to get rolling again and b) a quality dentist.
60km and a long time later we're still rumbling over a seemingly endless expanse of sandy stones, trying to avoid that trip destroying double-puncture. Either side is a brush plain sporadically pocked with backlit llamas and donkeys with fetching decorative earrings. The folk round these parts are certainly more indigenous looking. Far away are standing like silently sentinels are the dusty blue Andes.
The sun dips significantly in the sky and dust tornadoes spiral off with a sense of foreboding. We start to question our route taking. Have we taken a wrong turn? We'd been on the road that takes about two hours for a good three hours now, and not a sign or salt plain in sight. Driving past a hill we take the opportunity to climb up for an elevated vantage. At altitude this hill resembles a small mountain but from the top we spot the salt plains off ahead, stretching out like a brilliant white lake towards the distant mountains. Back down the hill the setting sun has set the Cowboy in shadow. Just round the next corner there's a sign saying Salinas Grandes and Pumamarca, our planned destination. Typical. Glad we climbed that hill.
The sun eventually falls gracefully from the sky casting the thin altostratus a brilliant orange and we're still trundling over stony desert roads. We start to re-evaluate. We're 60km away from Pumamarca and haven't yet reached the salt plains. We could sleep in the car. We've got an apple, a yoghurt drink, a stale roll, a tomato, 8 litres of still water and a warmish bottle of Cafayatten Torrentes. It's doable.
But it'd help to get a bite somewhere nearby mind. So when we finally reach the cross roads (Pumamarca and darkness right; random twinkling lights and dirt road ahead; salt plains, asphalt and random twinkling lights left) we hiked a left. Pulling into a tiny solitary garage off the road we find two men drinking mate tea in the dark. Sandra has a word while I keep the engine running. She returns and informs me that we need to ask for Veronica in that twinkling patch, and she should be able to fix us a sandwich. Bonza.
After a technically complicated photo of our headlights lighting the salt patterns under a star filled sky we eventually take a right down to find Veronica. Down a sand road we knock on a random door and get passed via two more doors, before ending up being shuffled into an empty room bar a table, tablecloth and chairs. Moments earlier the room was full of teenagers making lots of noise, but they're now in the next room and are joining the kids who peer round the corner and run off laughing. Chicos, this place definitely isn't in the Lonely Planet.
Veronica turns out to be a man and he has no bread for a sarnie. But he does have milanesa steak and mash and can fix us a big bottle of Fanta. We sit there enjoying a better than average meal and pop and Veronica charges us a whole 4 pesos (80p) for the trouble. As he describes how tranquil it is here and how we can sleep in our car in the village, a teenager rocks up and asks if we wanna stay in a room in town. So he walks us over and shows us a bare room with two beds, power and a shared family shower. Done. We grab the cowboy, the newest car in town by a good decade (and now covered in finger artwork), park up outside and unload.
Out in the back end of nowhere, with only ten dull streetlights to light the night every star beams it's little heart out. The whole cosmos is on display, including the milky way. Clear as a bell, a dense strip of stars spanning the night, with Orien, Cassiopeia and the Southern Cross standing distinct. A shooting star whizzes past in my periphery, too fast to properly catch, and I feel it kind of pointless to make a wish in light of what just happened. I just nod my thanks. I set up the tripod and blitz off a few reasonably successful snaps of the night sky before retiring to bed.
***
The following morning we rise early with lots ahead of us. Our host family, all busy in the kitchen preparing a tablefull of empenadas, see us off and leave it up to us how much cash to leave. Outside we realise this is a fully adobe town, called 'San Tuareo Tres Posos' (The sacred three wells), is literally on the salt plains. We briefly wander around and watch farmers chase uncooperative llamas and children head to school. Mud bricks dry in piles under the sun. Everyone bids us farewell as we drive off and rejoin the main road.
Heading back towards Pumamarca, we decide to take a drive on the salt plain. Stretching off in both directions, with the sun rising to the left, we take a right. Thankfully solid, the salt plains are crystallised into a blazing white sea of hexagonal geometric patterns. Apart from the odd silhouette motorbike or articulated lorry tearing down the raised tarmac a km away, we had the vast lake to ourselves. Photo op heaven.
In places it's farmed and piled in neat mounts ready for cleaning. I even gave the ground a cheeky lick, and it does what it says on the tin. Damn salty.
Finally able to tear ourselves away from the spellbinding and borderline hallucinogenic salt plains, we jump back on the road to Pumamarca. It turns out it's 60km of 4000m cactai pass, riddled with cliff-faced, break-smoking switchback turns. Good job we didn't take that right last night... Tis funny indeed how things work out.
Barns
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