This weekend I find myself in Salta, a colonial town right in the north of Argentina, near the border with Bolivia, in a hostel with walls painted the colour of a mexican sunset and constant re-runs of a pirante copy of “Benjamin Button.” Having been spoilt by Cordoba’s clement climate, arriving in Salta in what turns out to be the rainy season was a bit of a shock. Rain in Argentina should mean dramatic downpours followed by brilliant sunshine. Salta has managed to produce only a measly english drizze. I am very non-plussed. The only solution was to get out of the rain, and the only way out of the rain was to go above and beyond it. So yesterday morning, me and an American friend headed up into the mountains. We cut through the jungle and its misterious steam-shrowded hills and up into the mountains, where cacti stand like solitary western rangers on the top of barred mountains, and goats perch precariously on scraggy rocks. The town we reached is called Humauaca, and stands at nearly 3000 meters above sea-level. We wedged a bunch of coca leaves into the side of our mouths and ventured out. Silence. A lonely quechuan woman wandered along a cobbled street with a sleeping baby strapped to her back. We smiled and said hello but she didn’t respond.

Moments later we were beseiged; not by the weather, as we were accustombed to in Cordoba, nor by cowboys or indians as the setting seemed to befit, but by a large group of little boys with water balloons and silly string. In Humahuaca, its carnival time!

In the central square were hourds of people: locals, hippies, backpackers and truck drivers were all jumping up and down to the beat of some wild salteño music, covered in flour, dripping with water and matted together in a spider’s web of silly string. Back in wiltshire we give carnivals a go now and then. There is Pewsey carnival and the Malbrough Mop, where kids go hyper on candyfloss and teens lurk in the corners, conspiciously intoxicating themselves. But never have I witnessed something so wonderfully enjoyable and inclusive as the festival at Humahuaca. Age was unimportant, as was race, language, and hopefully your trousers because it was going to take quite some time to get all the gunk out. The music was vibrant and spirits were high, and all of this energy was coming from a town with a population smaller than Lacock sat teetering on the edge of the world.

This country is full of surprises, and being here has shown me how many I have missed and just what a lot I will have to come back for. In less than 2 weeks I will leave Argentina, and the parting will surely be heartbreaking. But with the same confidence that I felt when I first moved back to england age 9, I know I will return. There is something in the water of Argentina that will never let me go.