northern argentina, & the sacredness of going offline

Northern Argentina was honestly ruly never on my bucket list and yet, somehow, it became one of the most beautiful trips ever.

When my partner and I decided to visit my parents in Paraguay, we thought "why not explore a neighbouring country while we’re there?" So we planned a slow road trip through the Salta and Jujuy regions in the north-west of Argentina.

Months before the trip, we made one decision that changed everything – we would go completely offline. Just us, the road, and the land of beautiful argentina.

At first, I romanticised the idea of it, but when the time actually came to switch my phone off, I realised how deeply attached I had become to being constantly available. My phone had somehow turned into a safety blanket, especially living far away from family it had always been comfortable to me to know "familiarity was just a call away". I suppose many of us know this feeling when the weird contradiction of technology making us feel both connected and deeply anxious at the same time.

Before going offline, I automated my business, pre-planned projects, tied up every loose end I could. I delivered my final project at 10pm the night before leaving, only to wake up at 3:30am for the start of our adventure. But somehow that just made the surrender even sweeter.

And once we left for Argentina, something inside me finally softened and slowed down.

the sixteen-hour road through nothingness

16 hours of nothingness

We began with a sixteen-hour drive from Paraguay into Salta in our little Jimny 4x4. It was a road so straight and endless it almost felt surreal.

We watched the sunrise spill across the plains while driving through wetlands where I secretly hoped to spot capybaras. We stopped at lonely petrol stations because running out of fuel simply wasn’t an option out there.

The road we had dreaded most somehow became a meditation. Maybe because there was nothing to distract us from simply being there.

In Europe, even in the mountain village I live in, space is rare. But here, it felt like there was space for the nervous system to finally exhale, and at the same time the spaciousness felt somewhat intimidating.

salta & ancient memory

The first days, my nervous system almost reacted like it was detoxing. I slept deeply, dreamed vividly, woke up exhausted. It honestly felt like my body was recalibrating after constant digital input.

But also, something shifted. I became fully immersed in what was in front of me. I noticed how rarely we are fully with our lives and lovers anymore.

I’m not naturally a city person, but Salta really surprised me. We wandered its urban streets eating fresh hand-cut empanadas and eventually found ourselves inside the Museum of High Altitude Archaeology which is home to the famous Children of Llullaillaco – three Inca children sacrificed over 500 years ago in a sacred mountain ritual, their bodies preserved by the freezing altitude of the Andes.

Standing there, looking at one of the "preserved" bodies, I felt goosebumps move through my entire body. There are moments while travelling where history no longer feels distant or intellectual, but somehow it feels almost like an ancient blood memory, almost alive.

And for me, northern Argentina carries this feeling everywhere. The land itself feels so ancient and sacred. The mountains themselves feel alive... in a deeply humbling way. It reminded me how much wisdom and history and spirituality existed long before modern life arrived.

Also, Salta has very beautiful historic churches and buildings. It is very chaotic yes, but never too much (and I am usually easily overstimulated especially in cities)

going where the wind takes us

On our way towards our next stop called Tilcara, we stumbled upon a local market in a small place called Vaqueros. And oh myyyy, I felt something inside me come alive again. Locals selling homemade kombucha, kefir, raw honey, herbs, cacao pods, handmade clothing, art, produce, plant medicine. I bought humitas which is fresh corn paste steamed inside corn husks, both savoury and sweet. I began speaking Spanish again.

After spending years travelling and living throughout Latin America, Spanish once felt natural to me, but after years back in the german-speaking corner of europe, I had become a little rusty and shy, and that's why markets are beautiful in that way.

tilcara – another world

Tilcara felt like stepping into another world. Red mountains surrounded the tiny town of Tilcara. Giant cacti stretched across the landscapes like ancient guardians. At night, the stars filled the sky so intensely it almost didn’t feel real.

Our Airbnb overlooked the valley, and every morning I woke to sunlight slowly setting the mountains on fire. I don’t think I’ve ever had a more beautiful view from bed. The sunrise felt like ritual. I would wake early, sit outside with cacao, and simply watch the mountains glow beneath the morning light.

Garganta del diablo (waterfall hike)

One morning we hiked Garganta del Diablo (“The Devil’s Throat"). The trail led us through endless cacti fields and colourful mountain ranges before narrowing into dramatic red canyons carved by water and time. Although it’s considered one of the more touristy hikes in the area, we barely encountered anyone (generally, we quickly came to realise that this part of argentina was not touristy at all) At the end of the trail, hidden between canyon walls, was a waterfall.

We climbed onto warm stones and laid in the morning sun listening to the water roar around us.

Butterflies flying through the air. Cacti towered above us. Ancient rock surrounded us. Life felt so simple, and so easy.

Also, one of my favourite things about Northern Argentina was how deeply craftsmanship still lives within everyday life. In Tilcara, local women sold handmade ponchos, carpets, scarves, socks, and woven goods made from llama and sheep wool. Every piece carried human touch and was so unique. I bought myself a handmade llama wool poncho which was expensive, yes, but worth every cent because it carried the energy of the land and the hands that made it. I think we forget how meaningful objects become when they are created in history and ritual.

the fourteen coloures mountains (hornocal) + purmamarca

From Tilcara, also vitied Hornocal, the famous Mountain of Fourteen Colours. Even now, I struggle to describe it without sounding dramatic... but tbh it looked unreal. Huge triangular layers of colour stacked upon one another like the earth itself had was a painting.

Wild llamas wandered through the landscape while rainbow mountains towered behind them.

And at over 4,300 metres above sea level even breathing felt different and slower. My body had to adapt to the altitude, and I was reminded again how fragile yet intelligent the human body is.

After Hornocal, we also wandered through Purmamarca. Purmamarca was filled with hand-woven clothing and carpets, and handmade items crafted from cactus wood.

Cacti wood

Before this trip, I honestly didn’t even know cacti had wood. And then we learnt something beautiful. These giant cacti can live for hundreds of years. They spend decades slowly growing towards the sky, adapting constantly to survive the harsh desert climate. Their roots remain relatively shallow and vulnerable, so as they grow taller, they develop arms to balance themselves against the wind and weight of their own existence. I couldn’t stop thinking about how human that felt.

How often we are taught that needing support or balance means weakness, when in reality even nature adapts itself in order to survive.

And perhaps what moved me most was learning that the cactus wood is only used after the cactus naturally dies. Never while it is still alive and growing. There was such deep reverence in that, the patience and relationship that is built through those seasons of growth. Beautiful things in life are often shaped slowly over time. At one point we even tasted cactus fruit straight from the plant which was so delicious!

Purmamarca markets

We wandered through little artisan markets between the colourful mountains. Altough we must say that most of these items were just there to attract tourism, and imported from China. So keep your eyes out for the locally handmade items if you want to support the lands and ancient practices.

the road that changed me forever

And then came the mountain pass I still feel in my body when I just think about it. One of the highest drivable roads in Argentina. Endless dirt roads winding through snowstorms, cliffs, narrow ledges, sharp curves, and altitudes close to 5,000 metres above sea level.

I have never experienced fear like that before... like real fear. In this rare case not anxiety about the future, but raw survival fear.

At some points, the road became so narrow there was barely space for our tiny Jimmy to pass. One mistake (ours or nature’s) and we would have disappeared into the mountains without anyone ever finding us.

Hours passed without seeing another car. And then, in the middle of nowhere, we encountered an elderly South African couple travelling the world in their overlander truck. Meeting fellow South Africans (I myself am born and raised in South Africa) in the middle of the Argentinian Andes felt almost absurdly synchronistic.

As we drove higher, snowstorms blocking our views, temperatures dropped below zero... and with that, my nervous system completely started freezing too.

At one point, we spotted two hikers who waved at us from the mountain tops. I waved back, genuinely believing they were just greeting us and very impressed by their ambition to climb this unpredictable mountain.

Only later did we learn they were actually asking for help and were close to freezing to death. The South African couple behind us ended up rescuing them.

That thought stayed with us for a long time... the mountains are so so beautiful, but they are also wildly humbling. Nature does not exist for our comfort, nature exists for itself. And strangely enough, that’s part of what made the experience so profound, because after surviving that road, every river, every mountain, every breath afterwards felt unimaginably precious. As I sat beside a river after descending from the pass and felt overwhelming gratitude simply to be alive.

cachi & the caves of fire

Cachi became one of the most magical parts of the trip where we could stil spot snow-covered mountains in the distance. There were endless red pepper fields drying beneath the sun, little city streets, and archaeological museums filled with pottery and ancestral artefacts.

We stayed in a glamping dome overlooking the Nevado de Cachi mountains, waking each morning to snowy peaks glowing pink beneath the sunrise. Here it was also very cold at night which is why we welcomed every sunrise with even more anticipation.

One of the most unforgettable parts of our entire journey was our day with René, a local guide from Cachi who took us into Cuevas de Acsibi - the “Caves of Fire.”

And honestly no photo could ever capture what this place feels like. The road there alone already felt surreal. We drove for what felt like forever through René’s family land. At some point I asked him how large the land actually was, and he laughed, explaining that even after generations, parts of it still remain unexplored. That’s how immense and wild these landscapes are.

And then slowly, the mountains began changing colour into red, deeper red... burning red. The kind of red that almost looks impossible in nature. And when we finally arrived at Cuevas de Acsibi, I genuinely felt like I had stepped onto another planet (how I imagine Mars to look like).

There were massive canyons folded around us in layers of crimson stone, shaped by wind, water, time, and something that felt almost sacred. Different textures, different shades, different formations.

We hiked through narrow passages where the rocks glowed fiery orange beneath the sunlight, and René shared stories the entire way; stories about growing up there, about storms flooding the caves within minutes, about getting stranded in the mountains, about pumas roaming the land at night and parrots building their nests high within the canyon walls.

You could feel that this wasn’t just a place he worked in, it was part of him. And I think that’s what made the experience so special. We weren’t just seeing a landscape, but we were experiencing the land through the eyes of somebody who belongs to it.

And after hours of hiking through these caves of fire, René surprised us with a picnic hidden between the mountains.

Fresh bread, homemade goat cheese, tomatoes from his garden, olives, local wine from a tiny nearby winery, vegetables grown on the land around us.

And then there was the meat.

For contextm I hadn’t eaten meat in around six or seven years and I thought I'd never eat meat ever again, but René explained to us that the meat came from a wild cow hunted on the land which meant not factory farmed, not mass produced, not medicated.

Wild cows roam freely through these mountains the same way deer would in other parts of the world. They belong to nobody. They live completely naturally amongst the rivers and valleys until they are hunted intentionally and respectfully by local families.

He described the preparation almost like a ritual; slow cooking over hours, using the animal fully, honouring the life taken, sharing it communally. Something about it felt profoundly different from the industrial relationship we often have with food in the modern world.

So, I tried a small piece (not because it suddenly changed my beliefs around eating meat, but because the experience carried so much intention, respect, and relationship to the earth itself)

Afterwards, we ate cayote for dessert which is a local fruit almost the size of a watermelon, stringy and sweet, served with walnuts. So simple but SO delicious.

We sat there for a while talking, listening to stories, completely disconnected from the outside world.

And I remember thinking that this is abundance. Not luxury hotels, or the newest iphone but food grown from the earth beneath your feet and stories shared face to face. Even now, when I think back to Argentina, Cuevas de Acsibi is one of the first places my heart returns to.

cafayate — wine, cheese & learning that not every place is meant

After Cachi, we made our way towards Cafayate. And once again, the journey itself felt like a dream. I genuinely think some of my favourite moments in Argentina happened while simply driving between destinations. Hours and hours inside our Jimmy, watching the landscapes completely transform around us.

One moment we were surrounded by snowy mountains and giant cacti. The next, we were driving through landscapes that looked lunar like white rock, red earth, strange formations carved by water and time. So many quebradas which are ancient dried out river banks where no water has flown through on hundreds or thousands of years. Then suddenly valleys of green appeared again, wild donkeys crossing the road, women weaving carpets by hand beside tiny roadside stalls, herds of llamas and vicuñas grazing. At times, it almost reminded me of parts of Africa. A continent my boyfriend and I both have a deep personal connection with. I think there was something deeply primal about these lands, so untamed.

And then we arrived in Cafayate.

Cafayate is no doubt beautiful, especially if you love wine, meat and shopping. The town itself felt more touristic than the other places we had visited, and at first, after the remoteness of Cachi, we struggled a little with the transition.

There was a central square filled with artisan stalls, restaurants, cafés, music, wine bars, and people wandering late into the evening. Beautiful, yes, just not what we were craving.

And I think that’s okay too, as not every place is meant to hold you in the same way.

Still, Cafayate gave us beautiful moments. One night, while wandering through the square, we suddenly spotted a wild donkey casually walking through town as if it belonged there more than any of us did. That somehow felt veeery Argentina to me. Wildness and everyday life existing side by side.

I think my favourite memories from Cafayate was finding a tiny family-owned winery hidden in the mountains outside town. I intentionally searched for somewhere small and local rather than a commercial vineyard, and I’m so grateful we did.

The owner named Miguel welcomed us personally and guided us through the entire experience himself, all in Spanish while I translated for my partner and even a few Australian travellers who had joined the tour.

And honestly his story moved me more than the wine itself. This vineyard had been in his family for generations. He told us about growing up there without reliable access to water, walking kilometres to rivers to collect enough water for the vines. Even now, he still processes the wine manually himself... bottling, labelling, harvesting, fermenting. It was pure devotion.

His son had recently begun working at a larger commercial vineyard nearby, not to leave the family business behind, but to learn skills he could eventually bring back home to support his father’s work.

And sitting there listening to him speak so passionately about the land, the vines, the climate, the family history reminded me

once again how disconnected we have become from the origins of the things we consume. Even the wine tasted different there because you could feel the relationship and story behind it.

And although I barely drink alcohol, I deeply appreciated experiencing wine in this context, so we bought a few bottles for ourselves and our families as little pieces of the story we wanted to carry home with us.

The rest of our time in cafayate honestly I just read for hours on end. I was glued to my book "the red tent" and wow, that was a journey itself haha! Highly recommend.

Leaving Cafayate towards Salta, the landscapes transformed once again into intimidating red canyons, and for seven hours straight, I simply stared out of the car window just watching the earth unfold.

I think that’s one of the biggest things this trip gave me: the ability to simply observe again. To exist without constantly needing stimulation. I realised again how much beauty we miss because we are always trying to fill every empty moment.

calilegua national park

Our final stop before returning to Paraguay was Calilegua National Park and arriving there felt like entering an entirely different country again.

After almost two weeks of desert mountains, red rocks, and high-altitude landscapes, we suddenly found ourselves inside lush rainforest and thick jungle mist. The contrast was unbelievable.

We stayed in a tiny village called San Antonio, deep within the national park. Reaching it required hours of driving on mud and rough dirt roads through dense jungle landscapes where jaguars, tapirs and countless other animals still roam freely.

The village itself was incredibly small, basically untouched by tourism and we both really enjoyed that, especially after Cafayate.

Years ago, one travel agency from Buenos Aires had briefly brought attention to the area, creating a sudden wave of visitors travelling to San Antonio, but because the village had no hotels or tourist infrastructure, locals simply opened their homes to travellers. And that vibe still remained. The “restaurants” were often just people cooking meals inside their homes.

Both dinners, we ate at a woman’s house where only two small tables existed for guests. Everything she served came directly from her garden: vegetables, herbs, spirulina, papayas, fruits I had never even heard of before. She made us the most delicious home-made meals and fresh spirulina smoothies while her cats sat on my lap.

Those are the moments I treasure most while travelling, being so intimate with place. The feeling of being welcomed into their real life.

learning to honour what the land gives you

The weather in Calilegua shifted quickly. Thick fog covered the mountains entirely for days, limiting visibility to only a few metres at times. We had originally hoped to do guided hikes and wildlife spotting, but local guides honestly told us it wasn’t worth it because the animals wouldn’t be visible in those conditions, and I also appreciated that honesty because in many heavily touristic places, tour operators would still sell you the experience regardless of whether it would actually be appropriate.

So instead, we slowed down and cozied up in our little place. I sat with mama cacao while listening to rain. I harvested herbs and fruit from the permaculture garden surrounding us and even added some to my cacao so I could be even more intimate with the lands itself.

My boyfriend even spotted his first toucan and the joy on his face alone made the whole rainy jungle experience worth it.

returning to paraguay

Eventually, we decided to leave one day earlier than planned and begin the long drive back to Paraguay, because we suddenly realised how much we wanted one extra day with my parents before returning to Europe.

And so we drove back through endless roads once more, and at one point we passed through a town called Palo Santo, which somehow felt fitting after everything this trip had become. The south american wood that is considered sacred and to relieve stress, regulate the nervous system and slowing the mind - all that this trip had supported me in.

It was one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen after travelling to nearly forty countries, but I don’t think beauty alone was what changed me. I think it was the presence that the digital detox gave me. I think it was finally stepping outside the constant noise long enough to truly hear myself again.

That life is not found in notifications and instagram, but here.

In rivers.

In mountains.

In ancient cultures.

In nourishing food from the earth.

In silence.

In awe.

In being fully alive inside your own life again.

In time with loved ones.

the unexpected lesson my brand taught me

For so many years, I believed my business could only survive through my constant presence, constant posting, constant availability. But Argentina again showed me something entirely different.

While I was offline, sitting beside rivers at 4,500 metres above sea level, drinking cacao at sunrise and wandering through ancient red mountains... my business was still deeply alive.

People were still finding me and enquiries were still arriving. My medicine was still speaking for itself.

And the months after that trip became the most abundant months I have experienced in all five years of business. And that was not the result of "doing more", but because I finally allowed myself to receive support from the very brand ecosystem I had spent years birthing and rooting.

That trip reminded me once again that a brand is not just something you create to only attract clients, but a truly aligned brand can hold you, too. It can become a

living ecosystem that supports your nervous system instead of constantly draining it. A space that continues breathing even when you step away. A foundation strong enough to allow rest, presence, grief, joy, travel, softness, and life itself.

Freedom is not building a business that requires your constant exhaustion to stay afloat. Freedom is creating something SO rooted in truth that it continues speaking even when you go silent for a while.