My apologies. I digress. Back to business Adams. And behave yourself! We were at the entrance to the Parque Nacional Calilegua. The 10th national park we have visited out of the 19 that exist in Argentina. Covering an area of 76,360 hectares it protects a terrain of peaks, sub-tropical valleys and cloud-forest on the Eastern slopes of the Serrania de Calilegua. The vegetation varies dramatically according to the altitude. On our way in we had seen Mangoes and Bananas growing in the roadside fields. But the park was something else. 300 species of birds and 60 species of mammals. Including Pumas. Which I had no wish to get too close to! We walked dirt roads in the "Yungas" and our driver, following behind, picked us up at regular pre-arranged intervals. The biting flies and the humidity eventually drove us out of the forest. That and the fact that a park patrol was blocking the track as they examined where a vehicle had plunged down a jungle ravine. And into the dense vegetation below. There would have been no survivors. You could lose an army in a place like this, never mind getting lost yourself! The drive home in the dark was nerve-wracking. Indians sitting on the road. Having a chat. Crossing it. Walking along it. Often with their backs to the traffic! The odd car with no lights on kept coming at us. Or was going the same way. Kids were riding bikes without any lights. Horses wandering about. And as for number plates. Well, what are they? It was 9pm when we got back. The others went out for a meal. Looking for Llama meat again! But I’d had enough travelling for one day so I got my laundry sorted out, showered, and hit the sack. Setting my travelling clock for 5.30 am!

It was a beautiful morning as we set off for Humahuaca via Purmamarca , the "Hill of the Seven Colours." And Tilcara. Seven contrasting colours can indeed be distinguished in the rock strata. Every bit as bright as in the glossy tourist brochures. We called in to see the church of Santa Rosa then into Purmamarca. Population a little over 200! Living in single storey adobe buildings. And plenty of dogs. With a flourishing market square. Selling all manner of things. But mainly souvenirs and textiles. I spent some time watching a lad making mud and straw bricks and laying them out in the sun to dry. Wandering about I found a colony of feral pigeons living on one of the houses. In the holes where bricks had been omitted to accommodate the roof poles. About six pair. Not exactly prime examples of the breed. But existing at an altitude of 7000 feet, in pretty barren country, what can you expect? The roofing was simple. Poles first. Then bamboo. Then mud. The reconstructed Pucara or Indian fort at Tilcara was well worth the slog up the hill in the blazing sun. Strategically situated at a height of 8000 feet at the head of a valley it was first discovered in 1903 and reconstructed in 1950. It would have taken some storming. Steep sided, covered in large cacti. And with some pretty sheer drops. You would have been able to see an enemy coming for miles such was the view. Uquia was next. It has one of the oldest churches in the region. And for me, one of the oddest. Built in 1691 the walls of the nave are hung with 17 th century paintings of winged angels. "So what." I can almost hear you say. Well these angels were in full military dress! Angeles Arcabuceros. There was also a Baroque altarpiece.

We crossed the Tropic of Capricorn at noon. This is a parallel of latitude at 23 degrees 30 minutes South of the Equator. It is the Southern boundary of the tropics. The farthest point South where the sun can be seen directly overhead at noon. Not to be confused with Henry Millers book of the same name. The sequel to the once-banned "Tropic of Cancer." Both books works of sexual liberation well-known to every schoolboy of my generation! By now I had a thing about runny noses. Mine had stopped running but was crusted up inside. And I was definitely feeling a bit dizzy and light-headed. Typical symptoms of acute mountain sickness. The dreaded Soroche. I had noticed that all the Indian kids had runny noses. But put this down to a lack of handkerchiefs. Or coat sleeves. As a boy I well remember my father explaining to me the function of the apparently useless buttons on the sleeves of my jacket. That they were put there purely and simply to stop me wiping my nose on them. I believed him of course. It seemed pretty logical to me at the time. The runny noses I can understand. But what about the missing front teeth in at least half of the adult Indians that I saw? Lunch was taken in the Pena De Fortunato, Humahuaca. Accompanied by live Andean music. Which, played properly, will make the hair stand up on anyone’s neck. Then, this being Argentina, how about a tourist visit to a cemetery? To a cemetery that is still in use! I stayed in the coach. It seemed the right thing to do. The cemetery, at Maimara, has to be seen to be believed. Situated on the side of a very steep hill. As a lot of the cemeteries are in the North West. Nearer to God I suppose. Due to the rocky nature of the ground, burial is probably impossible so the bodies are mostly interred in home made mausoleums. Breezeblock, box-like structures. Lying on their sides. Open fronted. Giving the place the air of a construction camp. Or a building site with flowers. And ornaments.

It had to happen I suppose. My travelling companions set me up. Beautifully. It was a lovely meal. Good wine. And the best steak I have ever eaten in the whole of my life. By far. They were so accommodating and solicitous it just wasn’t real. "You stay in Rod, you must be tired." "We’re just popping out to do some shopping." "We’re eating in tonight." "Dinner is arranged for 8pm." It was too good to be true. And I didn’t see it coming. Despite the polite queries of "is the steak alright Rod" from all and sundry during the meal. This was how I came to eat and hugely enjoy a very thick Llama steak! They had popped out right enough. Down to a local butchers to buy the meat. Then to see the hotel restaurant manager to arrange to have it cooked. With all the trimmings. And Andean potatoes to boot! At long last Giancarlo had managed to hunt down and eat some Llama meat. Not an easy task, as most of it is exported. It was beautiful and I enjoyed it. Now if they had told me beforehand what meat it was lying on my plate-----.

Friday the 31 st October. My birthday. An Old Age Pensioner now. And here I was in Argentina. In the middle of a tropical storm. Rain lashing down. Lightening flashing. And thunder rolling around the Sierras. At breakfast, Charlie, my Argentinian friend, gave the game away and led the chorus of "Happy Birthday To You."I should never have told him. When we were boarding the bus a day earlier he had deferred to me saying "age before beauty" and as I knew he was 70 I had insisted he get on first, as "I’m not 65 until tomorrow." And he had remembered. Outside it was particularly noticeable how one night of heavy rain had converted the dry river beds into raging torrents. Any fools camping in them, and I had seen one or two, would have had a right bad night. For sure.

Salta, capital of its province, lies in a mountainous and strikingly beautiful district about 1000 miles from Buenos Aires. With a population of some 400,000 or so it is quite a big place. Founded in 1582 there are still a fair number of old colonial buildings about. We arrived there mid-morning. And the birthday boy was in for yet another surprise. The bus wound its way up the 5000 foot high Cerro San Bernado. Using the road is only one of the ways to get up and down the hill. The others are by cable car or on foot. 1136 steps if you choose to walk it! Cable cars terrify me. And the boys knew that. Antonio gathered the group together at the top and gestured me over to him. He told everyone that it was my birthday. And after the singing had died down he announced that "as a special treat his three friends have paid for him to descend by cable car." And the bus disappeared back down the road! Naturally I was given a cable car to myself. For the ten minute trip to the bottom. Taking a photograph without standing up is not easy. Standing up is not easy. And I swear they arranged for it to stop briefly on the way down! At the base of the Cerro is an imposing statue of General Guemes whose Gaucho troops repelled seven powerful Spanish invasions from Bolivia between 1814 and 1821. Next was a "working" convent where nuns still live. So, obviously, the inside of the convent is not open to visitors. The Convent of San Bernado was built in colonial style in 1846 but the wooden portal, carved by the Indians, dates back to 1762 and is truly splendid. Hand carved. And quite beautiful. Antonio bought me a birthday cake from a shop just across the road and led yet more singing of "Happy Birthday" on the bus as we headed towards San Lorenzo. A wealthy neighbourhood just a few miles away. For lunch.

The wrought iron fencing surrounding El Castillo is made with Remington rifle barrels used in the war of the Triple Alliance. Some scenes from the film Taras Bulba starring Yul Brynner were filmed from the tower. Because of the particularly difficult terrain a deep foundation had to be excavated when the place was built. Requiring the use of dynamite for the first time in Salta. It was once the summer home of Luigi Bartoletti. An Italian gunsmith. And built in the style of an Italian Castello. To the design of an Italian architect. A certain Castagno. Also from Northern Italy. The stones used were carried by mule from the rivers in the valley below. And, as a complete novelty, cement was utilised in its construction! So you can see this is not your ordinary Hotel/Restaurant/Bar. Restored in 1984 it sits on an impressive site. The meal wasn’t bad either! We booked into the Victoria Plaza Hotel late in the afternoon. And were given a room on the 9th floor! You could see for miles! We then spent two hours walking around Salta in Giancarlo’s wake. The San Miguel indoor market was something else. I am firmly convinced that the cause of the severe bowel disturbances that I suffered off and on (and I chose those words carefully because it was off and on----off and on the toilet) can be laid at the door of either the Papaya I ate in that market or to a Bolivian meal eaten later on! The Sunrise Papaya is alleged to have more benefits than is believable, and maybe it has, but it did me no favours. It could have been the dirty, rusty, unhygienic-looking, knife with which the stallholder peeled and chopped it up for us. Although to be fair, I did hang back from eating any until I thought the knife had been used often enough on behalf of the others for it to be clean enough for me!

We found a superbly equipped and staffed modern photographic shop which downloaded the images from Joe’s new digital camera to disc. And where he also purchased an additional memory card and a carrying case. At a discount. For cash. But only after some haggling. Giancarlo fancied dining out on traditional Bolivian food. So we flagged a taxi down. Driven by a Coca leaf chewing driver. And off we went. The neighbourhood got seedier and seedier as we left the city centre for the suburbs. And beyond. Incidentally the taxi driver normally works a 12 hour day and earns roughly £5. And can hardly afford to eat. Hence the coca leaves. This won’t impress a certain pigeon man and full-time taxi driver of my acquaintance! For certain. I’m still not sure what I ate that night but the place was less than impressive. We were in the "back shop" next to the traditional oven. With kids roaming about. And the odd bone-carrying dog. Locals wandered in and out helping themselves to the bread. Or to the occasional glass of lemonade. Peeling tubular steel furniture of uncertain age. Stains on the floor where the dog had puked up. The bar and the oven and us. All in the same room where the food was being prepared. On reflection I must absolve the Papaya fruit. If this is how they eat in Bolivia they can keep it! Back at our hotel we shared my cake and some wine with the couple next door who were on the same trip as us. A cultured man who spoke beautiful classless English. With a very pretty and pleasant English speaking wife who always expressed an interest in the birds that I saw. A man who I have since found out is Ambassador Edward R. Ablin of the Argentine Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Like Joe he too has a moustache. And you know what they say about moustaches. That they underline a nice nose! As it was the cake was just too sickly sweet to eat. So I left it in the hall. I guess the maid got it! Some birthday. As Edward put it "you have to be fit for this kind of holiday"!

We had already decided that a trip on the "Train to the Clouds" was just not on. It would have meant being on board the train in Salta by 6am. If it was running! And returning no earlier than 10 pm. Besides we could travel parallel to the line by road for quite a way. And get to see the terrain just as well. With the added bonus of being able to view the line from all sides. And not be stuck on the train simply looking out. And we could stop when we wanted to. So this is what we did. We opted for the Circuito Andina instead. Salta to Santa Rosa de Tastil. Over the high Abra Blanca pass to San Antonio de los Cobres. Then on to Salinas Grandes and back. Leaving the hotel at 6.30am. I was up bright and early. 4.00 am to be precise. Not because I was raring to go. Nor was I suffering from insomnia. Not at all. The problem was much more simple than that. Severe diarrhoea! Out came the Loperamide. And it stayed out. For days! We wound our way along the valleys. In heavy mist and rain. Fording the river repeatedly. Well below the railway line to the clouds. Engineer Richard Maury’s greatest achievement. There was a small cemetery high up on the mountain side. Built solely to accommodate those who lost their lives in the construction of this line. Borax is still being mined in the locality. Santa Rosa de Tastil, at an altitude of about 9,500, feet is the site of a pre-Hispanic village and has a small museum. We climbed slowly upwards and stopped at the Abra Blanca pass. 13,000 feet above sea level. The altitude was beginning to tell on me. Runny nose. Feeling sleepy. Choking for breath when I nodded off on the drive up. And breathing heavily at the slightest exertion. So I quit exerting myself. I’m good at that! The local Indians however play football at this height! Mixed male and female teams as there isn’t enough men up there to form two sides !

The road to San Antonio dropped down onto the Puna. A windswept, stony and treeless plain with large areas of salt flats. And wide variations in daytime temperatures. 35 degrees centigrade to minus 2 degrees. In Summer! There are herds of wild Vicuna, Guanaco and domesticated Llamas. Rodents include the Chinchilla but we saw only a single animal. It wasn’t very good for birds either as there was no standing water at all. The guide book describes San Antonio de Los Cobres as "a squat, ugly, mining town situated in a hollow in the Puna surrounded by hills". And that, in my opinion, is being charitable! Cobres means Copper. Which is mined here. We were still at 10,000 feet above sea level. The dusty main street was right out of a Spaghetti Western. Minus the hitching rails. The eating house, for that is what it was, no better than a small works canteen. But with modern phone booths. Whilst our party tucked in to various, less than ordinary local dishes, I settled for dry bread. Without any water. No way was I making a bad situation worse! Dust devils, mini vortexes of fine dust, swept tornado-like across the Puna. And I got to studying the Indians. Leathery-faced. Gap-toothed. The older ones wizened and bow-legged. The children all with jet black-hair. These are the Colla, the largest group of indigenous Indians, who speak Quechua. I have in front of me the Quechua for the numbers from one to ten. And a list of colours. It might as well be in Sanscrit! Only 3% of the total population of Argentina are Indians and the Colla represent about 30% of this number. Nothing really. There is a huge Indian dependency on tourism. In the cities it appears that they settle where they can. On the outskirts at first. In little more than shacks made out of corrugated iron and plastic. Then they move gradually nearer to the town. Living in unplastered breezeblock shanty settlements. But that is the superficial observation of a tourist. The reality could be much better. Or much worse. I really don’t know.

ROD ADAMS.

(To be continued)