Salinas Grandes, Purmamarca & Lipan: Day Trip from Salta

4.96

(151 reviews)

What’s the experience like?

It started with a sleepy “buen día” from our driver outside my hostel in Salta—he was already grinning, thermos in hand. I squeezed into the van next to a woman from Buenos Aires who offered me a bite of her medialuna. The road out of Salta was quiet except for bursts of cumbia on the radio, and I kept catching glimpses of green hills through the window fog. Our guide, Martín, told us we’d see three provinces today if we counted carefully—he winked like it was an inside joke only locals get.

The first real stop was Purmamarca. I’d seen photos of Cerro de Siete Colores before but standing there, the colors actually looked painted on—like someone had gone wild with pastels. Martín explained how each layer was a different age of earth (I tried to remember which color meant what but honestly, I got distracted by a dog sleeping right in the middle of the plaza). The air felt thinner as we climbed higher up Cuesta de Lipán; my ears popped and someone behind me started humming to distract herself. At Alto del Morado, 4170 meters up, it was so quiet you could hear your own breath—and then suddenly everyone burst out laughing because we all looked ridiculous trying to pose for photos without falling over from dizziness.

I didn’t expect Salinas Grandes to smell faintly sweet—almost like rain on hot pavement. The salt crunched under my shoes and when I touched it, it felt rougher than I imagined. We had about forty minutes to wander; some people took those classic mirror photos (I tried but mostly just squinted at the glare). A local guy showed us how they cut blocks from the salt crust—his hands were cracked but he smiled when someone asked if he ever got tired of all that white. “Nunca,” he said. Never.

Back in Purmamarca for lunch, I found myself eating tamales in the shade while watching kids chase each other around the church steps. The artisan market smelled like leather and dust; I bought a tiny woven llama that’s probably still somewhere at the bottom of my backpack. On the drive back to Salta, Martín played folk music and pointed out where old trade routes crossed these valleys long before tourists came for their day trip to Salinas Grandes. Sometimes I think about that endless white horizon and wonder if it’s really possible to touch the sky out there—you know?