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A 45-minute bus ride brings us to Purmamarca and the striking Cerro de los Siete Colores -`hill of seven colours', with its scarlet, orange and violet layers. This is "one of the best examples" of the coloured rock indicative of the region, our guide book trumpets. We clamber up a nearby hill and linger over the view, spooning hot, salty roquefort empanadas into our mouths, grease dribbling down our chins. Hunger sated, we uncork a bottle of local red which draws appreciative stares from two fellow holidaymakers. They head over; introductions are made; red wine decanted into vessels. The taller is a football manger from Israel, the shorter an Italian student fed up with bunga bunga and the dwindling job market. They're here to craft a better view of life before heading home. Impromptu picnic over, we mooch into town with a view to ice cream. As we approach the main square we hear shouts and music. Rounding a corner we come up against a riot of colour and noise: people dance in the street, brightly dressed and swigging from beer bottles; a grinning lorry driver is being held hostage by a mob of revellers. Everywhere people are spraying foam at each other: families and friends and lovers all slick with soapy bubbles. We glance at each other and smile - carnival! We duck into the nearest shop, pick up our own foam cans and head into the fray shrieking and waving our cans in the air. A group of children spot us: easy targets. They weave through legs brandishing their cans at us and whooping. Battle commences - I get a face full of foam before I can even find the trigger. My teammates are picked off one by one. At one point I wave a tissue woozily above my head - yield! - but the admission of weakness only spurs our foes on to greater victory. We regroup in the safety of a weaver's stall, who eyeballs the cans pointedly. "No fighting here" she grunts, gesturing at her array of tecnicolour shawls. We shuffle into an alley, panting, and shooting nervous glances behind us: Nothing. As the sun slopes off behind the hills we head to the bus stop - the day is spent. We perch on the dusty kerb and watch the hulking Cerro de los Siete Colores fade into dark. Suddenly, the carnival din grows louder as the crowds surge from a nearby square and descend on the bus stop. From the corner of my eye I see a short pair of legs and a wicked grin as a plume of foam hits me square on the nose. I splutter and start, then roar after my wily opponent. Game on.