By Ed Merrison

That’s the problem with small towns: the lack of choice. The long, enthralling drive from Salta had left us peckish, but a lack of options meant we had to wait for the curiously named ‘Los 3 Chinos’ restaurant to open at who-knows-what hour. No choice but to watch the handful of village kids spill onto the dirt football pitch. No choice but to watch lightning flash innocuously above the vast mountains. No choice but to place our beer on the jagged mud wall and amble onto the arena for a kick of the ball.

We had joined Ruta 40 that afternoon in Cachi, and made a tough decision not to stay in that beautiful, spotless town of cobbled streets and adobe houses whose low roofs ducked modestly beneath the grandeur of the sierra. We had given the romantic evening air of Cachi’s Plaza 9 de Julio a miss, and with it the chance of seeing the dying sun bathe the façade of Iglesia San José in deepening shades of gold.

Photo By: Elizabeth Clancy

But we did not regret swapping this for the play of morning light in Molinos, after the street-game laughter of boys and girls had given way to peaceful slumber in a $30 hospedaje. Taking its cue from Cachi, Molinos cast a calming spell that remained unbroken as we followed the Río Calchaquí south to Cafayate.

The winding, crushed-rock road commanded a slow pace, ideal for soaking up scenery and spotting roadside hitchers such as the San Carlos farmhand off home for siesta or the two girls escorting their wizened abuelita to a doctor’s appointment.

Photo By: Elizabeth Clancy

Along the route, the river kept the valley floor green and fresh, where elsewhere the elements had battered rock into otherworldly shapes, most notably the pink arrowheads of the Quebrada de las Flechas.

In Cafayate, we ditched the car in favour of bikes hired for the cost of an empanada, back-tracking up Ruta 40 to taste limey torrontés wine at the 150-year-old Bodega La Banda before a sobering dip in the retro town pool.

Where Molinos appealed for its simplicity, Cafayate was full of places to stay and reasons to linger. Indigenous stallholders sold everything from ceramics and Andean rugs to ponchos woven from the wool of the baby llamas we would later see roaming the puna between the mining town of San Antonio de los Cobres and the shimmering salt pans of the Salinas Grandes.

Photo By: Elizabeth Clancy

Instead of having to wait for the 3 Chinos – who, incidentally, never showed up – we could take our pick of places to delve into north-eastern cuisine.

Upon good advice, we ended up with local malbec and barbecued baby goat at a packed house at El Patio, where dreams evoked by the timeless landscapes were sung over the relentless strumming of a guitar.

Photo By: Elizabeth Clancy