The owner of my hotel, Elsa and I went to the fiestas patronales of a town further along the gorge. Bugger Sixto and his bloody closed museum, I was going to discover a little living regional folklore by myself.
Right by the side of the main road is tiny Uquia – again, like the other gorge settlements, it had a lovely church and narrow dirt streets winding uphill to the wall of coloured rock above. The church was even prettier than Iruja’s with the same precious angel warriors – the Angeles Archabuceros (angels with arms) - and a Baroque gilded altarpiece, made in the Kingdom of Potosi in Bolivia. A church built in 1691, said the useful notice, with an interior whose decorative wealth contrasts with the simplicity of the facade.
Uquia’s main street was crammed with stalls selling an eclectic assortment of goods – fruit, second-hand clothes, woolly socks, bags, empanadas, cds and tapes. Under a large awning at the top of the hill there was an old table-football game with metal players and a row of hastily assembled diners with grilled chicken and lamb – they were all full with people shovelling in food in time to race down to the main square to watch the procession.
The parade was as colourful and kitsch as anything I’d seen. First to march down the hill and through the square were musicians in lime green berets with white bobbles, playing drums and long sets of pan pipes which they thrust at each other like weapons. Then came musicians in similar berets but red - both bands trying to outdo the other in cacophonous noise. The churches' saints were carried past decked in plastic flowers in lurid shades and the poor saps who had been given the privilege of hoisting the glass boxes then lined up in the blistering heat while the town priest exhorted us all ito join in an interminable religious sing-song. God it went on and on. I was about to leave when the priest announced the final treat, a desfile (parade) of gauchos. I was desperate to see this - I really hadn't seen any gauchos in Argentina, much to my huge huge disappointment.
Right by the side of the main road is tiny Uquia – again, like the other gorge settlements, it had a lovely church and narrow dirt streets winding uphill to the wall of coloured rock above. The church was even prettier than Iruja’s with the same precious angel warriors – the Angeles Archabuceros (angels with arms) - and a Baroque gilded altarpiece, made in the Kingdom of Potosi in Bolivia. A church built in 1691, said the useful notice, with an interior whose decorative wealth contrasts with the simplicity of the facade.
Uquia’s main street was crammed with stalls selling an eclectic assortment of goods – fruit, second-hand clothes, woolly socks, bags, empanadas, cds and tapes. Under a large awning at the top of the hill there was an old table-football game with metal players and a row of hastily assembled diners with grilled chicken and lamb – they were all full with people shovelling in food in time to race down to the main square to watch the procession.
The parade was as colourful and kitsch as anything I’d seen. First to march down the hill and through the square were musicians in lime green berets with white bobbles, playing drums and long sets of pan pipes which they thrust at each other like weapons. Then came musicians in similar berets but red - both bands trying to outdo the other in cacophonous noise. The churches' saints were carried past decked in plastic flowers in lurid shades and the poor saps who had been given the privilege of hoisting the glass boxes then lined up in the blistering heat while the town priest exhorted us all ito join in an interminable religious sing-song. God it went on and on. I was about to leave when the priest announced the final treat, a desfile (parade) of gauchos. I was desperate to see this - I really hadn't seen any gauchos in Argentina, much to my huge huge disappointment.
In the bright midday they came/roaring past/Cowboys on horses/raising whorls of dust. The earth thudded beneath our feet and we all breathed in. Not only were the riders dressed in all the paraphenalia of the gaucho with studded belts, cravats and starched shirts. Not only were there women in flamenco dresses, fierce female warriors and children squeezed on board. Not only were they carrying huge Argentine flags and other standards. Not only were they even more glamorous than I'd imagined with black hair flowing and proud faces. As they raced through the square, much to my amazement, each group skidded perfectly to a halt in front of the church and raised their hats to the holy saints and then galloped away, one hand on the reins, the other flourishing their headgear at the cheering crowds. I couldn't make a sound/my jaw had fallen to the ground.
I walked the 10km home - it was my final evening in the gorge, the gorgeous gorge, the break in the desert, La Quebrada de Humahuaca de Jujuy and the sun had cooled to a perfect temperature. I wanted to gaze properly at the walls of coloured rocks above and the blue ribbon of the Rio Grande below. I didn't want to leave.
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