I also brought along retired artist friend Sharon Roslund. She'd collected 14 suitcases of clothes to give to the poor. She'd made contacts in the Buenos Aires Self Realization Fellowship group, and they would do the distribution.

When I heard  14 suitcases, I said it was folly and ungraciously washed my hands of it. Sharon did all the logistics for getting them from here to there, and it worked like a charm.

Here she is at an art museum, getting a headwrap from a gracious headwrapped Frenchwoman.

We stayed in a vacant apartment that Gautam had bought during a previous currency crisis. It was in Villa Crespo, where the funky meets the hip. The parrot outside the windows was an unexpected plus.

These are the estuary park where Gautam, Pelusa and I spent the afternoon catching up, and a cool pre-theater restaurant.

We toured the opera house where they were rehearsing Tales of Hoffman. They were rehearsing the extras, who moved about but had no lines.

With all their belongings in the van, they were half way though a trip from Mexico to Tierra del Fuego, promoting peace and borderlesness along the way. They had just come from Bolivia where "the people are friendly but the cops and soldiers will kill you". The crew was guy, wife, daughter, dog. You can see his wife doing the wash in a tiny bucket inside the van amid whatever belongings didn't fit in the back or on the roof.

The guy was a lawyer taking some time off.

Old Town Salta

Cristobal wanted to see a show, so we saw this one in a banquet hall style restaurant. The beaming picture in the background is the restaurant's owner.

The dog density is less than India, but there are always dogs on the street roaming around looking for a handout. Some are pets, some are feral. There is a law that every cafe must have at least one dog. Here are some examples.

This is me with a wad of coca leaves. Last time I came through here, Gautam disuaded me from trying them, and I've regretted it ever since. I chewed some. The world seemed just a bit brighter and I felt jittery. Then I chewed more and more, and that was all I got. Not ready to plow a hot uphill field all afternoon. You must have to chew them continually to get the full effect.

Cristobal said he'd brought coca leaves into the US with no problem. The web says "illegal but tolerated". I didn't bring any home.

The last pic is an alarming collection of herbal remedies found in a general store.

Pucara de Tilcara
In Tilcara, we stayed in quaint woodsy cottages laid out on a (very) steep hill. Good way to get your heart rate up. Something they don't tell you in the ads: The road up there is a mile of dirt, rocks and ruts. In rain, it'd be unpassable without a Jeep. Wonder if anyone's ever gotten stranded.

Traces of human habitation go back 10,000 years. The Pucara was a fort created in the 12th century by the Omaguaca tribe as a military and administrative center. It covered 51 acres and housed 2,000 people living in square stone buildings with low doors and no windows.

Pucara is Quechua for "fortification". The Omaguacas were conquered by the Incas, then the Spanish, who used it as a transit point for the silver mines of Potosi. Eventually, the site was abandoned and looted. The partial reconstruction was done in the 1950s.

Gaurdian of the Mountain

Sharon was tired, so Cristobal and I did the hour-long drive to Cerro Hornocal. It took an hour to get there, but then we encountered the endless road to the top*. We arrived minutes before sunset. We parked and walked up to the top of a plateau.

On the way in, we passed under an arch. An Indian woman stood there. I asked her about the geodesic dome. I thought it was a science experiment. It was a lot more mundane than that. It stored snacks that she sold during the day.

The woman told us the plateau was closed for the evening. But Cristobal told her we'd be just a few minutes and drove on. And just a few minutes it was--it was freezing at that altitude!

On the way down, she asked for a ride back to her village. I wondered she would have done if we hadn't been there--the last ones on the mountain. But she said she'd never been stuck.

I decided that she was the legendary guardian of the mountain, whom people didn't believe actually existed. Her presence ensured that no one would be killed-- there were signs warning about tumbling rocks, wild animals, and altitude sickness. In the morning, she would turn into an eagle and fly back up.

I decided she was the legendary Guardian of the Mountain, whom no one believed to actually exist. Casting spells, she protects visitors from the proclaimed hazards on the mountain: falling bounders, wild animals and altitude sickness.

She wouldn't agree to a picture until I had Cristobal tell her all that. Then she decided that one picture--just one (as if that made any difference). As soon as I snapped it, she ran.

Then came the eye opener. She didn't want it posted on Facebook because other villagers might see it and she'd get in trouble. You can't see much of the village in the picture, but it was all like that--a few square blocks of decrepit-looking lowrise brick houses.

Does Not Translate Well

In the last pic, the camera decided on its own to give me the Eminem treatment. Perhaps it was the camera's hint, but I'm not sure if I like it or not.