The Puna – Llamas, Salt Flats, and Slow-Motion Hiking.
Remember Iguazú Falls, where we were practically trampled by what felt like half of Brazil’s population?
Well, our Puna Desert experience was the glorious antithesis of that chaos.
We stepped into the vast, echoing emptiness of a landscape so devoid of people, noise, and Wi-Fi that it felt like landing on another planet.
Welcome to the Puna, where the horizon stretches into eternity and silence has its own peculiar soundtrack.
The Puna is Mother Nature’s ultimate flex: a high-altitude plateau featuring salt flats, volcanoes, and rock formations sculpted by millennia of relentless wind.
Add air so thin you feel like you’re sipping oxygen through a cocktail straw, and you’ve got yourself one breathtaking (quite literally) landscape that’ll make your lungs work harder than they ever signed up for.
Our three-day adventure began when Alejandro, our guide, materialised at exactly 9:00, not 8:59, not 9:01, with the punctuality of a Swiss train but infinitely more charm. For eight glorious hours, we bumped, bounced, and occasionally levitated across dusty off-roads, surrounded by snow-capped Andes that looked like they’d been painted by a particularly show-offy god.
We met the locals, too, though exclusively the four-legged variety. Llamas posed for photos like seasoned influencers who knew their best angles, while their shy cousins, the vicuñas, bolted at the mere sight of us. A fox made a brief celebrity cameo, and a few rare birds circled overhead as if conducting a census on these strange humans invading their peace. At nearly 5,000 meters above sea level, even breathing became a cardio workout.
Conversation devolved into dramatic pauses worthy of a telenovela, and our attempts at hiking resembled slow-motion yoga more than actual trekking.
After eight hours without spotting a single tourist (hallelujah!), we rolled into Tolar Grande, population: 160.
Which, considering there’s absolutely nothing for miles in any direction, fully justifies the “Grande” in its name.
Our accommodation was a simple B&B with hot water, a comfy bed, and food that didn’t come from a snack bag, pure luxury after a day like that.
That evening, however, the altitude hit me like an uninvited guest who overstays their welcome.
Headaches, dizziness, and the general sensation that my head had transformed into a helium balloon.
Dinner plans? Promptly cancelled. I collapsed into bed and finally slept like a rock after two nights of restless tossing.
Morning greeted us with what the locals optimistically labelled “breakfast”: instant DIY coffee, tea bags, and dry biscuits that could double as roofing materials.
But honestly? Nothing could ruin my mood. Because there on the TV, right in this ghost town at the edge of the world, were live images of the 20 hostages being reunited with their families after 737 unbearable days.
I cried right into my lukewarm coffee. Joy and relief have a way of cutting through altitude sickness.
Fueled by happiness (and copious amounts of jam-derived sugar), we headed to the Salar de Arizaro.
You might think, “Well, you’ve seen the Dead Sea, what’s new?” Oh no, my friend.
This was an entirely different universe! Miles upon miles of shimmering white salt stretched to the horizon, reflecting the sky like nature’s own mirror.
I couldn’t resist my inner Instagram diva, next thing I knew, I was striking influencer poses like I was auditioning for “Salt Flat Vogue.” Don’t judge.
Altitude makes you do strange things.
Our next stop was Desierto del Diablo, because apparently every breathtaking site in Argentina must involve the devil somehow.
Walking even 800 meters here feels like running a marathon underwater, so imagine my face when Alejandro cheerfully handed us hiking poles and announced,
“Let’s climb that dune!”
Climbing felt like starring in a slow-motion movie scene where the heroine heroically gasps for air every five steps.
But oh, the view from the top! We could see all the way to Chile… or at least it felt that way. Worth every wheeze and puff.
Lunch happened in a “restaurant,” which is a generous description of someone’s living room with four tables.
You have to book in the morning, not because it’s fancy, but because it’s literally home-cooked by an actual family.
The meal was pure comfort food: meatballs with fideos and warm soup that tasted like childhood. And on the TV? Those same heartwarming reunion scenes.
I swear, the entire desert seemed to glow with happiness that day.
After a brief siesta (yes, we’d gone fully native), Alejandro whisked us off to see El Cono de Arita, a stunning natural pyramid rising from the endless salt flats.
Walking toward it, I felt like I was exploring another planet. And since no one was watching, I did what any sane person would do at the end of the world…I danced.
Just me, the wind, and the profound gratitude of being so wonderfully, wildly alive.
We returned just in time for a golden sunset that painted the desert in impossible colours.
Our final day was all about retracing our steps back to civilisation.
We waved goodbye to the “grand metropolis” of Tolar Grande (population: 160, give or take a llama) and hit the road at 8:00 sharp.
To keep things interesting, Alejandro took a different route so we could see El Desierto del Diablo from a fresh angle.
Turns out, even the Devil looks better in morning light.
We stopped at the famous cargo train line running between Argentina and Chile, the highest train track in the world!
The bridge alone is a jaw-dropping feat of engineering, clinging to the cliffs like it’s defying gravity.
As Alejandro joked, “The only problem with this train is that it runs once a month, and no one knows exactly when.”
Basically, if you ever plan to see it in action, bring a good book… or maybe two.
After eight hours of off-road ballet (and more dust than any facial exfoliant could dream of), we rolled back into Salta City.
Small problem: it was only 17:00, and our bus to Chile wasn’t until 1:00 a.m.
Spending nine hours at a bus station wasn’t exactly how I’d pictured my glamorous life of adventure.
Luckily, Alejandro came to the rescue again. Honestly, the man deserves a cape.
He called a friend who ran a boarding house, and miracle of miracles, she had one room left with one single bed. Did we care? Absolutely not.
The room was tiny but perfect: a quiet courtyard, a hot shower, and a bed that looked like heaven.
We rested, grabbed dinner, stocked up on empanadas for the long journey (because priorities), and got ready for our next chapter: an 11-hour night bus across the Andes to Chile.
After dancing alone in the devil’s desert at 5,000 meters, what’s a little bus ride?
