Way out in the far northwest of Argentina’s vast territory lies the sparsely populated, seldom visited province of Catamarca. Remote Antofagasta de la Sierra, 500km north of the provincial capital, is about as far from Buenos Aires, literally and figuratively, as you can get.
The tiny town nestles among sandy red bluffs in the middle of a huge open valley, black cinder cone volcanoes sprouting across it like mushrooms. Llamas and alpacas graze, and pink flamingos line the lake beside the town. To the north, huge salt flats reflect the sky and to the west, the mountains rise up to meet the Andes.
We drove there from Tucumán on Christmas Eve, the day after torrential rains.
No-one can tell us if the roads are passable or not – even the police with walkie-talkies can’t get through to anyone in the area. But we decide to try our luck and put our Argentine friend’s little car to the test.
The policeman looks at us dubiously from his luxury hardcore 4WD patrol car and wishes us luck.
We drive south along Ruta 40 into Catamarca, leaving the clouds behind us. We pass through rugged canyon country, past isolated adobe huts. In one village the locals are decorating for Christmas celebrations – they invite us to the party, if we don’t make it to Antofagasta.
The first river crossing comes not long after – a red, milky torrent that completely obscures the road. I wade across – not so deep – the car sprays water everywhere and scrapes the bottom, but we make it.
The road is gravel now, and we turn into Ruta 43, the ‘highway’ we will follow through 200 km of surreal, spectacular scenery. We cross three more flooded rivers, but the little Golf holds out, and we pass from the river valley, lined with red crumbly sandcastle cliffs, to the altiplano.
Up here, the air is thin, and distances start to stretch out to unreal proportions. The only signs of life are camouflaged herds of delicate vicuñas, small ladylike relatives of the llama. We reach the pass, 4,000 metres above sea level. Before us stretches a strange jumbled-up white sea of mountains, expanses of salt, sand dunes, and turquoise pools, with the tips of a few Andean peaks visible in the distance.
We run, laughing and out of breath, over the stones, the only humans for kilometres.
The road winds down onto the altiplano proper, known as the ‘Puna Catamarqueña’. We pass one tiny adobe town, and then on into a wild, windy world of open sky and volcanoes, rising black and foreboding out of the pale valley.
The straight paved road gives way to gravel, and we advance in a cloud of dust towards Antofagasta de la Sierra. We curve around the flanks of a volcano, twisted black lava piling up on each side of the road. At the foot of the volcano lies a green lake, speckled with pink flamingos, and there, at the foot of a red cliff, is the town.
It’s dusk on Christmas Eve. The town children are rehearsing a Nativity play in the square. The air is cold – at 3,440 metres above sea level, Antofagasta nights are freezing year round – in winter, the temperature can drop to -20?C.
We find lodging with the lovely Doña Pascuala, who shares Christmas dinner with us, and then climb the hill behind the town. It’s only small, but the altitude renders us weak and panting. From above, Antofagasta is just a smudge in an endless expanse of wind and wild rocks. The disappearing sun turns each mountain orange and purple in turn.
After dinner we join the rest of the townspeople in the plaza. The tiny castle-shaped church is packed with people, spilling out into the square. A group of old men with equally old instruments and very little musical talent squall periodically on accordions and drums.
This is a different Argentina. The faces streaming out of the church at the end of the service are indigenous, their dress more Bolivian than porteño. Here, in Catamarca, native resistance to Spanish occupation was among the fiercest in Argentina.
Throughout the 17th century, the tribes in the Calchaquies valleys, over the mountains to the east of Antofagasta, waged a ferocious rebellion against the invaders, which only ended with the construction of several fortresses in the region and the near total genocide of many of the local tribes. Judging by the faces I see, some must have survived in Antofogasta, protected perhaps by its isolation over the mountains.
It’s past midnight, and a wooden virgin is being paraded through the moonlit streets of town. In this desolate landscape of red rock, seemingly so far from the modern world, we almost could be in ancient Bethlehem.
The children of Antofagasta eventually begin their interminable nativity play – we nearly manage to sit through until Christ’s birth, but cold and tiredness drive us inside.
The incredible road trip to Antofagasta is its main attraction, whether you do it by bus from Catamarca city or preferably with your own or hired wheels – but there’s plenty to explore in the surrounding area, particularly if you have your own transport.
For amazing views, you can climb the nearby volcano, clambering across old lava flows, in a few hours round trip. An indigenous fortress and ancient rock art are located just a few kilometres from town, and further afield is the Salar del Hombre Muerto (Dead Man Salt Flat), which can be visited on a tour from Antofogasta if you don’t have a car.
And after a few weeks in hectic Buenos Aires, space, silence and isolation are tourist attractions in themselves.