Father Mamerto Esquiu was a Franciscan monk. 1826 to 1883. Who celebrated his first mass when he was 17 years old. His heart is preserved at St. Francis Church and Convent. I didn’t go to see it. But I did go to see the place where he lived for most of his life. The house itself was preserved, rather neatly I thought, by building another house over it. Leaving enough space inside to walk right around the original dwelling. And to wander about its very Spartan interior. The story I was given is this. That as a very young child, maybe even as a baby, he wasn’t expected to live. His mother made a vow that if he lived for longer than five years she would dedicate his life to the church. He survived and thus from a very early age he was destined to become a monk. The room where he slept was tiny. A simple iron-framed bed. And a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs. And from this rather ascetic dwelling he served the community which he was part of. The photographs and paintings hanging on the white plastered walls show a handsome dark-haired man. Of obvious intelligence. Determination. And single mindedness. I was impressed. Back on board our vehicle the conversation turned, quite naturally, to religion. And our guide revealed that he himself had at one time trained to be a priest. But he had decided not to become one. Because, in his own words, "the church does not teach anybody how to fish. And it does not give them any fish." Make of that what you will. But I could see where he was coming from. Lunch was yet another steak in a biggish restaurant, Los Tronchos. Then bed! It’s a hard life being a tourist!

Next was the city of Tucuman. Catamarca’s big brother. The largest and most important city in the North. What people in Catamarca were telling me about Tucuman was interesting. Let me give you two examples. "In a "mixed marriage" of a couple with twins, where one parent hails from Tucuman and the other from Catamarca, how do you tell which child takes after which parent?" Answer. "you throw them up in the air and put your hands in your pockets. The Tucuman child will hang onto the ceiling. The other one will hit the floor." And how about this for a piece of friendly advice. "If you sleep with a Tucuman woman you will need to wash yourself afterwards. In Holy Water" Advice, I hasten to add, that none of us had occasion to follow! It seemed to be instruction time. I was lectured at length by Joe on what I can only describe as "Olive Oil snobbery." Think blended versus malt whisky. Only in this case it seems the younger the oil the better (as in Extra Virgin) and the darker the younger. Apparently I needed to know this. Because I had been introduced (in Spanish of course) to the various waiters who served us, as "a food writer and critic." Also as "an expert in Olive Oil." Which I detest! To sundry museum staff I was "a Professor of Archaeology!" It was at the Café Republica, where the waiters "knew" that I was a food critic and had gone to great lengths to get the best Olive Oil they could, that we met the street children. Jose Luis, Alfredo and Braian. And treated them to some sandwiches. Plus a bottle of coke each. It was Joe’s idea, after he’d previously seen the waiters chasing them out of the restaurant. We’d already given them our olives, boiled eggs and some bits and pieces. But it didn’t seem enough. So Joe invited them to join us. At an outside table. Where nobody would complain. We enjoyed their company and bought from them, for a Peso, (which is next to nothing) a pamphlet called Calle Esperanza. Roughly their equivalent, I guess, of "The Big Issue." But printed for and sold by street kids. This is a poor translation of a poem on the back page. By J.M.Serrat. My apologies to Mr Serrat. It is the best I can do :-

"Children of nobody

that look for life

tarnish the street

and give a bad name to the city....

Recently born

with innocence amputated

who redeem in the flock

their sin of existing....

Child without child

defenceless and afraid

who learn by force of sticks,

as the beasts, to survive."

So it was goodbye, and not before time, to Catamarca. And one more sleepless night. This time it was a party being held on an outside terrace. Disc jockey. Karioke. Off the scale decibels. The lot. The survivors were still dancing at 7 am. Men in smart suits. Elegant women in evening dresses. And no shoes. All slightly the worse for wear, swaying a bit but not actually staggering about. A few brave souls were sat inside the hotel disconsolately watching their country being beaten at rugby by Ireland. A single point adrift! I said nothing. They were big lads. Interestingly enough, for this our last breakfast in Catamarca, the scones were hot. It made little difference to their palatability. But it did make them easier to squeeze under the table legs! We travelled to Tucuman by the regular service bus. A distance of 135 miles. With a right motley collection of passengers. Stopping only for fuel. And for the driver to buy a large fresh fish from a roadside stall. Wrapped only in a carrier bag. Which he promptly stowed in the baggage hold. On a hot, hot, day!

Tucuman has about four times the population of Catamarca and is the capital of the smallest province in Argentina. Founded in 1565 it was an important centre for mule trains en route from Bolivia to Buenos Aires. Its economy used to depend upon sugar, citrus fruit and tobacco (which are still important) but nowadays it has sugar mills, chemical plants, textile mills. And distilleries! The Congress of Tucuman (1816-1820) was attended by 29 representatives from 14 provinces who, although unable to agree on a constitution, issued its famous independence declaration on 9th July 1816, making plain the aims of its leaders against Spanish rule. General Belgrano’s victory in the battle of Tucuman during the Wars of Independence effectively ended the Spanish threat to restore colonial rule over the River Plate area. We were to stay at the Hotel Garden Park. A four star job. I saw the sign in the distance. "Hotel Garden Park 5 star" and thought great. I’ve never stopped in a hotel rated that highly before. But we drove straight past it. And stopped at the four star bit. Right next door to it! Some you win, some you lose. We were in and out of the place in no time. With a couple of hours to spare, we jumped straight into a taxi. Giancarlo obviously had a bee in his bonnet. About where we were going to get something to eat. And what we were going to eat. It was an interesting meal. I’ll say that for it. Talk about culture shock! I was to find out, the hard way, all about Humitas and Tamales. You have never seen anything like them. A Tamal consists of ground maize with potatoes and meat. Wrapped in the leaves of the maize plant. Shaped into a fist-sized round ball. And secured in two places with a strip of leaf. Then boiled. Or baked. A Humita consists of powdered maize and goats cheese. Wrapped and tied up in leaves as before. But shaped like a parcel. And tied in the middle. Cooked as before. You unwrap them and eat the contents directly off the leaves. If I said that neither was to my liking I would be grossly understating the case. Put it this way. If ever they appear in front of me again I shall eat the leaves. And throw the contents away! Apart from the spicy Chimichurri relish, Natalia, the darkly attractive waitress and a long-backed, long-legged blonde girl sat at an adjacent table "La Posta" was a dead loss. To me anyway. Giancarlo though, polished off his meal with some gusto. And nearly all of mine too! I was told that the President of Argentina had once eaten there. I couldn’t help but wonder if he came back for seconds?

In the afternoon we visited the Villa Nougues. High up in the Sierras above Tucuman. Where the well-off residents of that city have their summer residences. Built with the profits accumulated from the sugar cane industry. Above the stifling heat. And away from the biting insects. Looking down on heavily wooded steep valleys, bamboo thickets and of course, the city of Tucuman. You could smell the money. Large, quite beautiful houses. Swimming pools. Tennis courts. And with their own little church. It was well-worth seeing. But no more so than the brilliant Red-Tailed Comet. A Hummingbird to die for. With its startling green and red colouration. Combined with, in the case of the males, a long deeply-forked red and black tail. It was soon culture time once more. An old Benedictine Monastery (where Joe bought some Lemoncello liqueur) came and went. As did a huge statue of Cristo Bendicente up on a hill at San Javier affording really magnificent views. Particularly of the storm that was quite clearly heading our way! We just had time, in the fading light, to fit in a visit to the El Cadillal dam which supplies water and electricity to the city (as well as permanent irrigation for 80,000 hectares of land) before the weather broke. Back at the hotel the rainwater was streaming down both sides of the road. In a torrent six feet wide and about eight inches deep! We stayed in that night. I even gave the meal a miss. What little of the maize meal I had eaten earlier was fighting back. And I wasn’t sure which way it was going!

I am not used to seeing big flowering trees in city centres. And certainly not with blue blossoms. The Jacaranda trees are a sight for sore eyes. And were very much in evidence as we set off on a brief city tour before heading out for Tafi Del Valle. Via the Valles Calchaquies. Our guide on this leg of the circuit was Antonio. The bus driver (who probably owned the bus) was Pedro. A well-matched combination of silent, but skilled driver and voluble, but knowledgeable, fixer. Both were big men. Pedro was huge. Antonio just big. In every way. A larger than life Major Domo figure, he habitually wore a brown leather Stetson hat. Gold neck and wrist chains. And two watches. Only one of which worked. He knew everything and everybody. From hotel and restaurant management to the Indians selling their textiles, wood carvings, silver jewellery, leatherwork and pottery. And where to find them. We worked to his itinerary. He organised our stopping places. With the Indians we encountered in the most remote spots. With the owners of the establishments at which we ate. With the museums. The markets. The lot. He was good at his job. And loved it. He got on with people. And he spoke English to me. Nothing was a problem to him. He took us to the Museo de la Industria Azucarera, in Bishop Colombre’s house in the Parque 9 de Julio. Outside is his first mill and inside a display on sugar making. From there it was on to the Casa Historica and the original room where the Declaration of Independence (mentioned earlier) was drafted and a modern museum set up. We then experienced a virtuoso display of driving by Pedro along the twisting precipitous roads through the rainforest jungles of the provincial reserve of Quebrada del Rio los Sosa. By now I was suffering. And I mean suffering. It was a crisis situation. The maize that had been fighting back all night was quite clearly winning. I needed a pit stop. And badly. The Humita / Tamale meal was on it’s way out. Whether I liked it or not! We negotiated yet another hairpin bend. And unexpectedly stopped. By a large statue to El Indio. And a small Indian market. I leapt out of the bus and drew Antonio to one side. "Where are the toilets" I beseeched him? He sensed the urgency in my voice. And rose magnificently to the occasion. He gestured expansively with one arm. And then with the other. To his right. And to his left. There was nothing to be seen but dense jungle. Clinging to the mountains. On both sides of the road. "The toilets" he said in English. "Are on the left. And on the right." I chose the right. And from that day onward I carried a roll of toilet paper in my camera bag!

ROD ADAMS.

(To be continued)