Peñas of Salta

Experienced a bit of the deeper Salteño culture last night in the form of a Peña. The hostel innkeeper saw the group of us heading out to one and said, "No." He handed me a different card I had not seen. "No muy turistic." A taxi was required for the five of us and only four are allowed. He called and hooked it up so that we could all travel to the edge of Salta together. You could see his smile and how proud he was that he could do this for us and it was well worth it. Quite a ways out but with 5 large rooms for eating and listening, all painted a different pastel color and with naturally good acoustics, 150 year old building perhaps with an open courtyard. A half hour after we arrived we were allowed to be reseated back in the front room where four musicians had set up at a table, drinking with empanadas. But soon enough a drum came out, a classical guitar, and outstanding booming voices.

The folkloric tradition of the Peña in Salta is quite vibrant. By 11 nearly each room had performers. Some of the lyrics had the word Salta in them and several regulars in the crowd sang along as they sipped red house wine, tapped fingers in time to the passionate music. All acoustic and sung with power and conviction at what seemed to be almost pure joy that was expressed by the lead guitarist who would share his guitar from time to time but also sing like a mariachi. Maureen remarked how impressed he was that he could sing with such a huge smile constantly on his face. In his element, loving what he was doing. We ate humita, burschetta, parilla, papas con queso y marones. The place was packed and the taxi driver said every night it was full. We may have been the only non locals there, the three Americans, the Aussie and the German. A nice way to finish off our trip.

I was the last one out for the taxi and one was already waiting. I walked up and said, "Hey, I scored some digits of the guitar player!" They were a bit taken aback. As we made for the door the guitarist-singer waved me over and introduced himself. His name was Rodrigo. He saw me shooting some photos of the performance and I gladly shared emails with him and promised to send photos. 

Today, in day four of the bus strike with the country nearly at a standstill, we managed to find a bus running for locals to go from Salta to Buenos Aires, to pick up clothes to sell back here... For half the cost of the regular bus and likely not subject to the same regulations or maybe even safety guidelines so it will be an interesting 20  hour adventure. It is said if a bus runs during the strike the drivers of the buses wait at the terminals and with throw stones at them as they pull in. Kind of like scabs crossing the line at a coal mine if busses roll they are not happy. Somehow this under the wire transport is allowed. We go to a somewhat secret location stapled to our ticked by taxi, given to us only after we purchased. All locals in the tiny backstreet office...