April 12th, 2006 | The lowdown by Mark Burgess

Cuespo del Obispo: The Ride Is Half the Fun.

Among the most striking differences one encounters upon arrival in Argentina from countries further north on the continent (the food, the fashion, the accent, the architecture, the overall Europeanness all to be considered among them), the buses rank as perhaps the most obvious.

After slumming it through death roads and mediocre machine maintenance, suffering the break downs and “arrival times” that should never be trusted as more than faint indicators on the long trips that should never take so long in Peru and Bolivia, Argentine buses offer a prototype of how it should be done.

With lush, reclining seats, toilets one might actually use, televisions that work and play more than long-forgotten Van Damme films, and even the occasional hot meal, the luxury for those traveling in Argentina is unrivalled.

With this in mind, it might seem strange that the ride I am about to describe features none of these amenities. Perhaps after six months in the country I have simply been spoiled, and now suffer that irrational and unpredictable nostalgia for roughing it.

Cachi is one of the handful of towns near Salta worth a visit. It embodies the typical attractions of the Argentine north: a quaint, provincial feel, a charming central plaza centered around its 18th century adobe church, a slew of artisan stands, and gorgeous hills littered with cacti and condors stretching upwards to the foot of the Andes.

But Cachi is unique in one way: while the way to Tafi del Valle, Cafayate, and the Quebrada towns in Jujuy, though all featuring spectacular scenery, are paved in modern roads, the famous Cuesta del Obispo to Cachi is a muddy mess of blinding fog, lurching curves, stomach-turning overhangs and rapid ascents, all on a bus unparalleled in its hard, worn seats and the sounds of its struggling motor.

Marcos Ruedas must be the worst bus line in the country, but it’s the only one going to Cachi. And there is a certain justification for its rusticity: while porteños in Cafayate can slum it in wool pants and ponchos, and vacationing Tucumanos can feel bucolic on horseback in Tafi, there is something anachronistic in the means of transportation, all luxury cars and big bus lines. Cachi keeps it real, making the journey part of the experience, and forcing one to earn it just a little bit more.

Less than an hour into the ride, the road turns to stone and mud, twisting and climbing through magnificent gorges of red and brown and green. A window seat on the left-hand side will give you a glimpse straight down, at times hundreds of meters, to the shallow, rocky river at the quebrada’s base. On certain curves the bus comes to a near halt, calculating its angles as if by compass, scraping the outer ledge where one is bound to wish, at times, for some guardrails.

But before too long you are spared by the clouds, blinded into blissful ignorance, now only feeling the precariousness of the lurching calculations, hearing the engine rev, cough, gasp something less inspired than “I think I can,” feeling the wheels work on the rocky road but no longer privy to the mixed blessing of a front-row view. The dampness of the cloud seeps in through the airy windows, and the bus takes on the smell of mashed, soggy coca leaves, likely being chewed by your seat-mate.

And just as the deprivation of sight is making you anxious in the claustrophobia of this nebulous, gray mass, the bus lurches upwards, beyond the 2000m mark, and there is color again: blue sky, low, white clouds, high afternoon sun; the mountains in the far distance blue, then green, the closest brownie-red; the fields stretching out towards them in tall, dry, yellow grass, occasionally colored with the vibrant red of peppers, left in neat, cubic piles by farmers to dry in the sun.

At this altitude lines are drawn in a different way. The air is a bit thinner, clearer, the distinction between light and shade more precisely sliced, incision-like, so that its effect is of heavy lines separating sun and shade whose appearance yet manages to be soft and light, crisp and soothing. It’s as if one could walk that line like a balance beam, and a misstep into the shade would provoke only a feeling of floating, or bathing in a pond whose temperature is so ideal that you barely even feel the water. Giant cacti are everywhere, glowing in a halo with the sun at their backs, appearing like giant, ancient women, all unself-conscious warts and blond fuzz.

The road improves here, no longer struggling upwards but catching its breath, gliding gradually through these colors. And in its final twist before leading into the valley where the town of Cachi rests, one final shade is added to this already spectacular pallet: beyond the town, overlooking the hills and valleys with haughty condescension, are the snow-capped peaks of the Andes.

Marcos Rueda buses depart daily from the bus terminal in Salta, and twice on weekends. The four and a half hour ride costs $21.50 pesos each way.