Leaving Argentina

I was startled this morning by a man offering café con leche. It was light outside our bus and the surrounding station was active. My question awoke before I did, ‘Donde estamos?’. The man laughed before he moved on, ‘Jujuy, San Salvador de Jujuy’.
I woke Jackson and we scrambled of the bus, the last to claim our mochilas before our bus departed en route to Bolivia.

We passed through a busy market, not fully awake or receptive. I was wearing colorfully striped pants, slippers on my feet and a headband suspending my hair up and back.

The city we awoke in was too foreign. The faces of the people around us darker and longer than what we were used too. I had read that Jujuy was where Argentina begins to become Bolivia. I felt the transition as a shock, early in the morning.

We attempted to catch a bus to camping out of town. A vendor brought coca leaves to a bus driver, who in turn stuffed the leaves in the side of his mouth. On all streets a small mudslide was being cleaned. Walking over and around the mess, a small part of what has happened all over Peru and Bolivia became reality for us.

The only news which that had made it internationally is the stranding of tourists at Maccu Piccu. Thousands very safely stranded. I was wondering how long is would take the story to surpass Haiti on BBC news. It took less than a day.

We headed out of the busy, muddy city center to find a place to camp.  ‘Today is hippy hang-out day. Everyday is hippy hang-out day.’ is what we started saying in El Bolson. It endures as we continue to camp, wear colorful, dirty clothes and hang out with traveling minstrels.  That day we hiked 16 km in sandals along a riverbed and felt more and more like we were entering the jungle.

We hitchhiked successfully out of Jujuy, sitting in the front of a truck with a garlic farmer. He had indigenous blood, was jovial and loved all the music he played for us. Every few minutes he would change the song and explain to us each of the instruments.
He would let go of the wheel and mimic playing his own instrument, a small guitar with 10 strings.

The buildings are more basic now. Made out of mud bricks and corrugated metal. Surrounding all the existing town are the remains of older Quechan villages.  We are speaking more Spanish with more people, predominantly girls and women. Who knows why it works out like that.