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Come to think of it, Argentina’s landscapes and terrain really do feel a lot like China.

It has the sea and a long coastline, grasslands full of cattle and sheep, similarly long rivers, remarkably comparable glaciers, deserts and giant waterfalls, and snow mountains that also happen to be the highest peaks in this half of the globe.

And in the country’s northwest, it has one more thing in common...

Before I went to northwestern Argentina, most of the Chinese-language travelogues I could find online were by travelers from Taiwan. Their descriptions had already made me deeply yearn for the place, with praise so lavish that my expectations kept rising. But once I actually got here, I realized the most fundamental reason was...

our compatriots from the Treasure Island simply haven’t had the chance to visit Zhangye in Gansu yet!!!

West of the Qinling and Taihang Mountains, the Loess Plateau connects to the Tibetan Plateau. In northwestern Argentina, amid the Andes, there is likewise a plateau—the Atacama Plateau by its formal name—with an average elevation of more than 4,000 meters, every bit as impressive.

This highland region lies mainly in two provinces: Salta and Jujuy. Salta is the great city of the northwest, with a status somewhat like that of our ancient capital Chang’an. I have such wonderful memories there that it deserves a dedicated piece of its own. Beyond that, there is also a string of lovely little towns embedded in brilliantly colored canyons.

Purmamarca is seriously good-looking, and it was also my favorite town on this route. It sits at the foot of a massive fiery-red rock mountain, like an enormous signboard. The locals gave it the bluntly straightforward name Seven Colors Hill. I forgot to ask whether it is also their sacred mountain.

I couldn’t help admiring the good judgment of the town’s ancestors for choosing such a treasure of a place to settle.

Guidebooks describe it as a “tranquil and peerless town.” Maybe that was accurate before the Wright brothers invented the airplane, but unfortunately the town has now become a giant tourist hub.

The streets are packed with visitors from all over the world, souvenir hawkers wandering about, and rideshare drivers at alley entrances aggressively drumming up business. That sense of remote isolation you might be hoping for is really nowhere to be found.

Only by climbing the small hill opposite can you quietly appreciate the magnificence of the Earth. I even started wondering whether the almost incantatory name Purmamarca might mean “God’s paint palette” in an Incan language.

Stretching into the distance are endless shades of reddish brown, silvery blue-green, and yellowish brown—so many hues that only someone with a PhD in oil painting could probably identify them all.

In Buenos Aires I bought a beautifully made postcard set, something like an “Argentina’s Top Ten Sights” theme, and absolutely loved it. While aimlessly wandering the streets here, I suddenly felt the scene in front of me looked familiar. I pulled out the postcard set to check, and well—let’s just say it wasn’t merely similar, it was exactly the same.

An unexpected little bonus surprise.

Later, I mailed those postcards one by one from the places where they were born to my friends back home. It felt as if I were traveling together with them.

Heading north from Purmamarca, over a span of 150 kilometers, the Quebrada de Humahuaca links the Andes with the Bolivian Plateau.

In Spanish, quebrada originally carries the meaning of “broken” or “shattered.” I think it is a perfect word for describing the land here. The name is exactly what you see.

Bleak and barren, as if heaven had taken a carving knife and gouged forcefully across the Earth’s surface. The wrinkles on the face of an elderly Incan woman and those of an old farmer on the Loess Plateau with white cloth wrapped around his head seem to come from the same source: this land they have lived on.

A young guy in Humahuaca asked me, “Those Seven Colors Hills in Purmamarca a couple of days ago weren’t enough for you, right? I’ll take you to see the Fourteen Colors Hill.”

After bumping along a gravel road to an elevation of over 4,000 meters, he proudly presented Jujuy’s great natural treasure to me: the Fourteen Colors Hill.

I said, huh, that’s it?

He clearly underestimated someone from China. I’ve seen some serious scenery. No wonder people say the richness of our natural landscapes ranks firmly among the top three on Earth.

To be fair, though, it really was beautiful. The sharp-edged mountains are layered with rich bands of color, like... an especially delicious Swiss roll cake. Calling it a marvel of nature would not be an exaggeration. The only problem was that the heat had made me irritable, and I lacked the patience to truly savor it.

At least there was no admission fee. After traveling all around South America, I paid proper entrance fees at only four attractions: Machu Picchu, Iguazu, Torres del Paine, and Moreno Glacier—and all of them are world-class sights. Everywhere else costs at most just a few bucks. Back home, I’ve suffered enough from steep admission fees and mandatory shuttle buses.

The colors of the land come from different minerals. Argentina is rich in mineral resources. Back in the day, three neighboring countries fought fiercely over nitrate resources, effectively saving Bolivia the expense of building a navy.

Mining development has caused deep tensions between Indigenous communities and the central government. In front of the National Congress building in the capital, petitioners from Jujuy Province are a year-round presence.

The winding road through the valley reminded me of Panlong Ancient Road, whose endless curves I had already conquered—only to find myself winding through more of them on the other side of the world.

One trip here is like visiting Zhangye, Yan’an, and Kashgar all at once—totally worth it!

Argentina has its own “Chaka Salt Lake” too! Salinas Grandes, the world’s second largest, second only to neighboring Bolivia’s Salar de Uyuni.

There are many little azure lagoons in the salt flats. What it doesn’t have are the influencer-famous little train and swings—which really seems like a missed business opportunity.

At a salt flat, you absolutely have to take one of those photos where you appear to be attacked by a dinosaur. I thought I’d be going to Uyuni soon and could do it there instead. But my trip was unexpectedly cut short, which just goes to show: in life, you have to seize the moment.

Even if it’s only a tiny water channel, it still becomes a mirror of the sky.

For lovers of cultural and documentary photography, this is a treasure trove. Human activity in the canyon can be traced back ten thousand years, and the Inca Empire once ruled here as well.

It is hard to imagine how people in those times established settlement after settlement, overcoming the harsh natural environment and leaving behind their own distinctive cultural imprint.

The town of Tilcara is Argentina’s “Zhoukoudian,” one of the country’s oldest sites of human habitation. Every morning and evening, I walked its narrow cobblestone streets and bought bread alongside the locals.

The homes in town are colored with the same rich gentleness as the land itself. The murals on the walls feel like an open-air folk museum; every single one brings you closer to this place.

With a car, travelers can reach more remote mountain areas where traditional customs are still preserved. I didn’t have one, so I could only shoulder my backpack and squeeze onto battered local buses to make the round trip.

On the way to the town of Cachi, the straight uphill road looked like something out of a masterpiece painting.

The town itself was fairly ordinary, but the scenery along the way had already left me enchanted. The hardy shrubs rooted in the barren land reminded me of the resilient descendants of the Inca, while the fiery red mountains echoed the color of their skin.

Even the cactus, making a not-so-polite gesture, seemed to mirror their stubborn character.

Yes, South America has cacti too. These giants at the foot of the Andes flaunt their untamed power without restraint. Not only are they unique to this region, they are also an endangered plant.

So what kind of environment is this? The high Andes block moisture coming from the South Pacific, leaving the region dry year-round, with yellow earth, gravel, and sparse trees. At such high elevation, with huge temperature swings between day and night, it really isn’t a place well suited for human habitation.

But one kind of plant thrives here.

If you love wine too, you’ll probably find yourself happily lost in the wineries of Cafayate. This area produces some of Argentina’s best wine, and in my opinion, its distinctive flavors even surpass Mendoza.

Along the high-altitude wine route to Cafayate, the heat of the earth once again made you feel its energy—and even seemed to scorch you as well.

Threading through red foothills reminiscent of Antelope Canyon, the journey felt dreamlike, wrapped in endless ravines, cliffs, and misty light.

And once you arrive in Cafayate, there’s really only one thing left to do: spend your days lingering among its charming wineries. There are countless wineries in town. Pick any random person, and even if they don’t make wine themselves, they almost certainly have relatives or friends who do.

The warm and welcoming people of the northwest would even invite us to tour and taste at their wineries for free. Every winery label was so charming that I wanted to buy wine by the case and bring it home.

At night, sitting in an open-air restaurant on the town’s streets, you could enjoy some of Argentina’s best folk music and dancing. Eleven o’clock was when the night really began.

Good times always pass too quickly. Then it was time to say goodbye again. The next time we meet, which corner of the earth will it be in?

About the Author

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