Diez Pesos
At the bus station at Tilcara, a man calls out loud the name of the final destination of the bus. Some travellers hand over their bags and the man approaches with a bunch of paper baggage tags.
They are official tags, coloured blue and white, the colours of Argentina and have something on them about the Ministry of Transport and the word "seguridad" is prominently included in the design. He takes a tag, wraps it around a large hold bag and tears off at the perforated mark and sticks the corresponding number onto a passenger's bus ticket. He then works his way through the crowd, and when the bus arrives he calls out to the passengers to follow him and he directs them to the correct stand.
Almost everyone has paid their ten pesos, but some people in the queue have not. So, when the man leans down to pick up the bags and heave the heavy laden rucksacks and cases up to the luggage compartment of the long distance coach, 1.5m above the ground, those people who have not been tagged, pay up their ten pesos and the man hands out the stickers - he had been saving time by doing this before the coach arrived.
And, then a protest. "No es una obligación", comes a foreign voice speaking Spanish, I detect it as British, and the Spanish is quite good but stilted and the tone is aggressive. I'm not sure if that was the speaker's intention but a scene has been caused; and now the queue is being held up. The passenger won't pay ten pesos but barters for 5 pesos. We are lucky we are on time; a sign on the door of the ticket office warns of delays of buses coming from the Bolivian border due to police checks- this is a big drug smuggling route.
Whilst the bartering may be fine at the market, the tone most defintely isn't. It isn't jovial and friendly but aggressive and firm and lacking in composure and respect. And, the man holding his bunch of luggage tags is confused and shaken - not even the Argentines travelling the long distance coach have been bartering: when in Rome, do as the Romans do. The tagger opens his mouth to say something and I notice that he has only two teeth; only his two front incisors remain. He must be about thirty five - only three years older than me. He tells the passenger calmly that it his job and he must charge 10 pesos. The passenger is determined and intransigent; he remains aggressive and angrily coughs up only 5 pesos.
The queue progresses again.
The Hill of 14 Colours
Yesterday, I went to Humahuaca, at the heart of the world heritage site of La Quebrada de Humahuaca (and I wrote about it in a previous post if you are curious- see the Hill of 7 colours). I was trying to - and did eventually - reach the dizzying heights of the Hornocal viewpoint at 4350m above sea level. Chewing my coca honey sweets seemed to alleviate any effect of altitude sickness- although I am still convinced it was all a placebo anyway. The view was awe-inspiring and while I gazed at the multi-coloured zig-zag syncline before me I couldn't help myself worry about the 150m descent I had strolled down to get a better view. The signs had been there; evita descender- (VD) puede sufrir complicaciones fisicas debido a la altitud - avoid descending - you may suffer physical complications due to the altitude. There was even the unnerving presence of an ambulance stationed in the visitor's car park. However, it was fine. The people who descended, took their time to ascend - and so did I. I reached into my pocket and scoffed more honey coca leaf laced sweets just incase. It's only a placebo anyway...
Getting there, the sights and sounds of Humahuaca
It took me two hours to organise a trip to the Hornocal. When I had arrived at 11am, salesmen in the bus station had been calling out "el hornocal", touting for business. A man even went by curb crawling in his 4x4 and called to me out the window. But, I politely declined. Instead, I went for a wander around the main square and bought some coca honey sweets from an elderly lady selling all sorts of goods - bunches of bagged up coca leaves lay next to boiled sweets and other objects I couldn't identify. My sweets were 70 pesos or 2 bags for 100 - I took one - it was cheaper than in Purmamarca when I had gone to the salt flats. I asked her how to get to the viewpoint and she directed me to the edge of the town to the metal bridge.
Sweets in hand, I headed off with my small rucksack to the metal bridge. There, dusty 4x4s were all lined up outside the local travel agency. I went to enquire, and a man on my way said they would be leaving shortly. I sat down on the road side and waited. The man headed back into town to gather more clients.
The local market was on. Activity had spilled out onto the dusty road. Wooden and plastic boxes were filled, transported and emptied. A lady rushed past with patchy coloured fruit. Ladies were warming up empanadas on mobile barbacues equipped with wheels. They made them fresh, and cooked them on the grill. Ham and cheese, cheese, basil and onion, meat empanada, which in this neck of the woods is a synonym for llama.
And then, I realised, I was the only white person there. Everyone had Andean features and I realised just how much I stood out. Nevetheless, I decided to wait and take it all in - after all the man had assured me that I'd be leaving soon. My attention was drawn to a Labrador cross which had walked up to a stall selling clothes. A table cloth had been thrown over the wood and the clothes piled up on top; the presentation resembling the Next Sale after boxing day. Then my draw dropped; the dog seemed to look around at the frenzied activity of the market around it, cocked its leg and relieved itself onto the corner of the table cloth. The owner did nothing, and while I was trying to stifle a laugh a second street dog came along and decided that it, too, needed to mark its territory. The sun was strong so within five minutes the damp had evaporated. No clothes had been sold in the time. And I am sure, whilst the damp had dried out, the smell would permeate for much time longer.
The first ten pesos
A haggered man approaches me. He has countless wrinkles on his face and clutches a light blue semi transparent plastic bag of patchy, moudly coloured vegetables. Hola he says and smiles, showing he has only two teeth, like the man from the bus station today. I smile and look away. I know that look - he is going to ask for money. "No te queiro faltar el respeto pero me puedes dar algo. - I don't want to disrespect you but could you possible give me something? - I say nothing and then he continues "Nadie me quiere" he tells me. - nobody loves me. And, I wish I didn't understand Spanish. I wish I could be in that tourist bubble that I know exists. And, my heart is broken. But, I will not fish out notes in my pocket - I'm not even sure what the smallest note I have is. I will not reveal where my money is stashed. (Most is in the safe at the hostel, I carry only the essentials and a 50 dollar bill just incase and my credit card - if mastercard is even functional here). So, with a heavy heart, I tell him no tengo nada - I have nothing...a massive lie. My camera is in my bag - the one taking the pictures on this blog you are reading - and is worth more than he would earn in a year or even two or three or four or more.
He holds out his hand and shakes my hand and I look him in the eye. His hands are coarse and very dry.
I sit back down and ten minutes pass and I wonder whether I should go now; I'm obviously attracting attention.
I rummage in my pocket and my hand comes across a worn 10 peso note.
He comes back again from the crowd. And I hand him the crumpled 10 peso note.
Te queiro papito, he tells me - I love you. And he disappears. And, the handing over of the 10 pesos was not to make me a martyr. Not at all; it was purely selfish - I just wanted that man to leave me alone. Was it me in the market or him that was intrusive? Maybe that makes me an awful person. Whatever, I get up and move away from the market. I find the man organising my tour and tell him my Argentine phone number and text him later to say I won't wait at the market because people are asking for money.
A serenade?
I head to the main square again, where the lady selling coca sweets is still in the corner.
I sit on a park bench and a few dogs come up to me and sniff my feet and wander off. I look up and a 6 or 7 year old girl is looking at me. "¿Quieres que te cante una copla?" - Would you like me to sing you a couplet? Can I really say no? And, she starts singing and sings quickly. I can tell she is nervous. And half way through she stumbles, forgetting one of the lyrics but quickly gets through that part. My Spanish is alright, I lived in Spain 8 years and sat a proficiency exam and passed with a distinction but from the lyrics all I make out is that she is singing about little hearts and chewing coca leaves like chewing gum. She finishes, I thank her and hand her 10 pesos. The first is torn and mangled. I apologise and hunt out a clean note for her. She is over joyed and runs off.
Two minutes later, another girl comes over.
¿Quieres que te cante una copla?
So, what are my thoughts about these 10 pesos? That, if people work for the money, don't be rude. The little girls worked for their ten pesos, the man with only two teeth heaved 20kg bags onto the coach grafted too. Perhaps it is my naivety but I feel that bargaining has its time and place. And there is a right and a wrong way to do it. And about the man who told me nobody loved him?
I don't know what to say.
Just off the bus, the bus driver unloads some of the luggage and takes the tickets and checks they are alright - suddenly he gets off and a different man is unloading the luggage - when some people pay and when others don't he yells out PROPINA.
This time, I did like the Romans, and this time they weren't paying. But, I didn't argue and me hice el sueco.
They are official tags, coloured blue and white, the colours of Argentina and have something on them about the Ministry of Transport and the word "seguridad" is prominently included in the design. He takes a tag, wraps it around a large hold bag and tears off at the perforated mark and sticks the corresponding number onto a passenger's bus ticket. He then works his way through the crowd, and when the bus arrives he calls out to the passengers to follow him and he directs them to the correct stand.
Almost everyone has paid their ten pesos, but some people in the queue have not. So, when the man leans down to pick up the bags and heave the heavy laden rucksacks and cases up to the luggage compartment of the long distance coach, 1.5m above the ground, those people who have not been tagged, pay up their ten pesos and the man hands out the stickers - he had been saving time by doing this before the coach arrived.
And, then a protest. "No es una obligación", comes a foreign voice speaking Spanish, I detect it as British, and the Spanish is quite good but stilted and the tone is aggressive. I'm not sure if that was the speaker's intention but a scene has been caused; and now the queue is being held up. The passenger won't pay ten pesos but barters for 5 pesos. We are lucky we are on time; a sign on the door of the ticket office warns of delays of buses coming from the Bolivian border due to police checks- this is a big drug smuggling route.
Whilst the bartering may be fine at the market, the tone most defintely isn't. It isn't jovial and friendly but aggressive and firm and lacking in composure and respect. And, the man holding his bunch of luggage tags is confused and shaken - not even the Argentines travelling the long distance coach have been bartering: when in Rome, do as the Romans do. The tagger opens his mouth to say something and I notice that he has only two teeth; only his two front incisors remain. He must be about thirty five - only three years older than me. He tells the passenger calmly that it his job and he must charge 10 pesos. The passenger is determined and intransigent; he remains aggressive and angrily coughs up only 5 pesos.
The queue progresses again.
The Hill of 14 Colours
Yesterday, I went to Humahuaca, at the heart of the world heritage site of La Quebrada de Humahuaca (and I wrote about it in a previous post if you are curious- see the Hill of 7 colours). I was trying to - and did eventually - reach the dizzying heights of the Hornocal viewpoint at 4350m above sea level. Chewing my coca honey sweets seemed to alleviate any effect of altitude sickness- although I am still convinced it was all a placebo anyway. The view was awe-inspiring and while I gazed at the multi-coloured zig-zag syncline before me I couldn't help myself worry about the 150m descent I had strolled down to get a better view. The signs had been there; evita descender- (VD) puede sufrir complicaciones fisicas debido a la altitud - avoid descending - you may suffer physical complications due to the altitude. There was even the unnerving presence of an ambulance stationed in the visitor's car park. However, it was fine. The people who descended, took their time to ascend - and so did I. I reached into my pocket and scoffed more honey coca leaf laced sweets just incase. It's only a placebo anyway...
Getting there, the sights and sounds of Humahuaca
It took me two hours to organise a trip to the Hornocal. When I had arrived at 11am, salesmen in the bus station had been calling out "el hornocal", touting for business. A man even went by curb crawling in his 4x4 and called to me out the window. But, I politely declined. Instead, I went for a wander around the main square and bought some coca honey sweets from an elderly lady selling all sorts of goods - bunches of bagged up coca leaves lay next to boiled sweets and other objects I couldn't identify. My sweets were 70 pesos or 2 bags for 100 - I took one - it was cheaper than in Purmamarca when I had gone to the salt flats. I asked her how to get to the viewpoint and she directed me to the edge of the town to the metal bridge.
Sweets in hand, I headed off with my small rucksack to the metal bridge. There, dusty 4x4s were all lined up outside the local travel agency. I went to enquire, and a man on my way said they would be leaving shortly. I sat down on the road side and waited. The man headed back into town to gather more clients.
The local market was on. Activity had spilled out onto the dusty road. Wooden and plastic boxes were filled, transported and emptied. A lady rushed past with patchy coloured fruit. Ladies were warming up empanadas on mobile barbacues equipped with wheels. They made them fresh, and cooked them on the grill. Ham and cheese, cheese, basil and onion, meat empanada, which in this neck of the woods is a synonym for llama.
And then, I realised, I was the only white person there. Everyone had Andean features and I realised just how much I stood out. Nevetheless, I decided to wait and take it all in - after all the man had assured me that I'd be leaving soon. My attention was drawn to a Labrador cross which had walked up to a stall selling clothes. A table cloth had been thrown over the wood and the clothes piled up on top; the presentation resembling the Next Sale after boxing day. Then my draw dropped; the dog seemed to look around at the frenzied activity of the market around it, cocked its leg and relieved itself onto the corner of the table cloth. The owner did nothing, and while I was trying to stifle a laugh a second street dog came along and decided that it, too, needed to mark its territory. The sun was strong so within five minutes the damp had evaporated. No clothes had been sold in the time. And I am sure, whilst the damp had dried out, the smell would permeate for much time longer.
The first ten pesos
A haggered man approaches me. He has countless wrinkles on his face and clutches a light blue semi transparent plastic bag of patchy, moudly coloured vegetables. Hola he says and smiles, showing he has only two teeth, like the man from the bus station today. I smile and look away. I know that look - he is going to ask for money. "No te queiro faltar el respeto pero me puedes dar algo. - I don't want to disrespect you but could you possible give me something? - I say nothing and then he continues "Nadie me quiere" he tells me. - nobody loves me. And, I wish I didn't understand Spanish. I wish I could be in that tourist bubble that I know exists. And, my heart is broken. But, I will not fish out notes in my pocket - I'm not even sure what the smallest note I have is. I will not reveal where my money is stashed. (Most is in the safe at the hostel, I carry only the essentials and a 50 dollar bill just incase and my credit card - if mastercard is even functional here). So, with a heavy heart, I tell him no tengo nada - I have nothing...a massive lie. My camera is in my bag - the one taking the pictures on this blog you are reading - and is worth more than he would earn in a year or even two or three or four or more.
He holds out his hand and shakes my hand and I look him in the eye. His hands are coarse and very dry.
I sit back down and ten minutes pass and I wonder whether I should go now; I'm obviously attracting attention.
I rummage in my pocket and my hand comes across a worn 10 peso note.
He comes back again from the crowd. And I hand him the crumpled 10 peso note.
Te queiro papito, he tells me - I love you. And he disappears. And, the handing over of the 10 pesos was not to make me a martyr. Not at all; it was purely selfish - I just wanted that man to leave me alone. Was it me in the market or him that was intrusive? Maybe that makes me an awful person. Whatever, I get up and move away from the market. I find the man organising my tour and tell him my Argentine phone number and text him later to say I won't wait at the market because people are asking for money.
A serenade?
I head to the main square again, where the lady selling coca sweets is still in the corner.
I sit on a park bench and a few dogs come up to me and sniff my feet and wander off. I look up and a 6 or 7 year old girl is looking at me. "¿Quieres que te cante una copla?" - Would you like me to sing you a couplet? Can I really say no? And, she starts singing and sings quickly. I can tell she is nervous. And half way through she stumbles, forgetting one of the lyrics but quickly gets through that part. My Spanish is alright, I lived in Spain 8 years and sat a proficiency exam and passed with a distinction but from the lyrics all I make out is that she is singing about little hearts and chewing coca leaves like chewing gum. She finishes, I thank her and hand her 10 pesos. The first is torn and mangled. I apologise and hunt out a clean note for her. She is over joyed and runs off.
Two minutes later, another girl comes over.
¿Quieres que te cante una copla?
So, what are my thoughts about these 10 pesos? That, if people work for the money, don't be rude. The little girls worked for their ten pesos, the man with only two teeth heaved 20kg bags onto the coach grafted too. Perhaps it is my naivety but I feel that bargaining has its time and place. And there is a right and a wrong way to do it. And about the man who told me nobody loved him?
I don't know what to say.
Just off the bus, the bus driver unloads some of the luggage and takes the tickets and checks they are alright - suddenly he gets off and a different man is unloading the luggage - when some people pay and when others don't he yells out PROPINA.
This time, I did like the Romans, and this time they weren't paying. But, I didn't argue and me hice el sueco.
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