The Daily Telegraph - Argentina, train to the Clouds
February 11, 2009
Michelle Jana Chan explores Argentina's high Andes on one of South America's great rail journeys.
Thirty years ago, Paul Theroux wrote: "It is almost axiomatic that the worst trains take you through magical places." The high-altitude Tren a las Nubes – "Train to the Clouds" – in Argentina's remote north-west has not lost its magic, but has relaunched with brightly-painted carriages, comfy seats, shiny steel bathrooms and even an on-board medical clinic which dispenses oxygen to dizzy passengers. Do not even hope to boast afterwards about riding with chickens or goats.
For three years, the train had been relegated to a siding while the rail operator and government feuded over money. Now there is great relief in Salta, the starting point of the journey, that the service is running again. Founded more than 600 years ago by the Spanish, the pretty city of Salta has a candy-pink cathedral, high-walled convents and winding cobbled lanes. What makes it different from other colonial cities in Argentina is the presence of an indigenous culture. There was a strong Incan influence in this region, and I spotted locals wearing striped ponchos and ojota sandals made of plant fibre. It feels closer to Bolivia than Buenos Aires – as it is.
On a Friday morning before dawn, nearly 200 of us – mostly Argentinian tourists – gathered on the platform in the cool, milky darkness. It was calm for a train station, partly because we were carrying only daypacks rather than lugging suitcases. This is not a journey from A to B but from A back to A, and there is something special about that. We were riding the train just to ride it. That is a precious thing in a world where we all seem to be rushing somewhere else.
The Train to the Clouds is a proper iron workhorse running on narrow-gauge tracks and belching diesel fumes. As we pulled out of General Belgrano station, our guide, Alejandra, began the on-board commentary. The attendants were an entertaining bunch who kept passengers informed and alert; no mean feat on a 16-hour journey.
We sat back and got on with what we had all come to do: gaze through the glass and watch the landscape roll by. There were lush lowlands of tobacco fields and herds of cattle. A man on horseback cantered past wearing guardamontes, the stiff rawhide chaps that protect gauchos from thorns and cactus spines.
As the cultivated land petered out, breakfast was served: coffee and sweet croissants called medialunas. I brushed off the flakes of pastry as we passed through the town of Campo Quijano where Richard Fontaine Maury, the American engineer credited with designing the railway, is buried beside the tracks. Sadly, by the time the project was finished in 1948, improved air and road links had rendered the route obsolete. Alejandra told us 400 men died in the construction. Half an hour later, we felt the echo of their work in a shudder. The train jolted to a halt on a cliff at El Alisal and a switch was thrown. We lurched and rolled backwards, zigzagging steeply up another track. The Train to the Clouds is notable for using switchbacks to ascend instead of a ratchet wheel. I headed to the bar to buy a steaming cup of maté de coca, said to ward off altitude sickness. We corkscrewed around a hill and entered the Quebrada del Toro gorge. Pampas grass wafted along the river banks. The landscape turned lunar, stripped by wind but studded with giant candelabra-like cacti. There was an occasional lone guanaco, the wild cousin of the llama. At times, we left the dazzle and sharply entered the blackness of roughly-hewn tunnels.
Lunch was served: rice and chicken, with stewed fruit for pudding. Alejandra reminded us to eat lightly in the increasingly thinning atmosphere.
The towering cacti gave way to thorny bromeliads and stubby brush. The arid altiplano here is the most extensive area of high plateau outside Tibet. It is crisscrossed by Inca trails but nowadays largely uninhabited; its adobe houses and stone corrals are mostly in ruins.
We reached the terminus at 3 o'clock, crossing the slender Polvorilla Aqueduct at more than 4,000 metres (13,000ft) above sea level, the highest point of the journey. We piled off to stretch our legs and the notorious El Zonda, the dry föhn wind that blows on the eastern slope of the Andes, kicked the dust up around us.
The engine was unhooked, moved to the other end of the train and our seats reversed. My ears popped as we descended 10,000ft, backtracking to Salta. The setting sun lifted burnished hues from the stratified rock, before darkness melted around us. There was a glimmer of stars, then a smear of Milky Way.
We sat back, listened to the hum of the engine and dozed, until we whistled back into Belgrano station before the clock struck midnight.