The second difference is the money. Because Argentine locals are only allowed to hold a limited amount of foreign currency (in order to try and help prop up the chronically falling Argentine Peso), there is a thriving dollar black market. But you need dollars in cash, which Carsten and I have not equipped ourselves with. If only we had, we could be travelling in Argentina for two thirds of the price. Instead, we have had to deal with the baffling electronic banking system here (see Why I cancelled my bank card).
And the third difference is that things REALLY shut down on May 1st, Labour Day. Had I attempted to get to Salta airport from Tilcara that morning (a 3½ hour drive), I would have almost certainly missed my afternoon flight. Thank God Carsten was on the ball about this. He spotted a potential problem when we arrived in Tilcara, and so we went to the bus station to see what options were available. Nothing doing. Not one bus or rapidito on Labour Day.
As soon as we checked into our hotel, we asked about an airport transfer. “On the 1st of May??” came the incredulous response from the hotel owner. “Let me ask, but…”. When we saw him that evening, the result of his phoning all the local taxi services was negative. Not one Tilcara taxi company would do an airport transfer on Labour Day. “Well, I suppose I could run you down…. but it will cost you a lot”, he said hesitantly.
This was kind – sort of – but obviously very inconvenient for him, so I decided to say farewell to Carsten and Tilcara a day early and stay overnight in the town of San Salvador de Jujuy, which is 1½ hours’ drive to Salta. Surely, I thought, there will be something between the (major) towns of Jujuy and Salta, even on May 1st. And, after all, my flight wasn’t until 15.30.
On the morning of May 1st I got up early and made my way to the bus station, a new station inconveniently located on the outskirts of town. Both town and the bus station were deserted. Just one bus company’s ticket office was open – all the others having closed down for the day. They didn’t have a bus until 4.30 in the afternoon. What to do? A rapidito maybe? “Maybe…. They leave from the centre of town”, came the uncertain reply.
To get to the bus station, I had been able to find an Uber quite easily. To get back into town to find a rapidito was another matter. No cars available flashed up repeatedly on my phone. Eventually a local yellow cab arrived to drop someone off, and I got into it.
“To the rapidito terminal for Salta, please”
“There isn’t a terminal. But if we’re lucky, we might find a rapidito on Calle Dorrego.”
He took me there and started cruising down the road with the window down, shouting “Salta?” at every pedestrian in sight. There were only three or four of them. After 5 minutes or so of this, he gave up and dropped me off at a junction saying I should wait and ask around for a Salta rapidito. My confidence that I would make the flight ebbed away with every minute that I waited at that lonely, desolate junction.
After what seemed like an age – in truth it was probably only 15 minutes or so – an energetic man appeared from nowhere.
“Salta?”
“Salta!”, I replied desperately.
“Come with me.”
He took me to a neighbouring street where there was a run-down taxi office. Outside on the pavement was a bench with a bored middle-aged lady sitting on it.
“Wait here.”
