The stadium was amazing – a huge, circular structure with the pitch only a few yards from where we stood – but disappointingly the fans formed only patchy groups in the wet stands and the noise came mostly from above our heads where the “real” fans seemed to have arranged to congregate. Still, it was a good game. Flamengo, with a heavy footed Adriano (actually he was pretty heavy everywhere else too) struggled against a lively Cruziero side who, after conceding an early goal, came back to win 2-1. We got a metro back and at midnight I couldn’t quite believe I was wandering the dark streets of Rio de Janeiro but it seemed we had chosen a good area (Ipanema) and I found my paranoia easing with every mugging-free minute.

My carefully staggered storytelling style leads me back to Buenos Aires where you will remember La Boca – the colourful streets, the football stadium, the football match inside the cage. We actually visited this area twice – the second time with Niall so that he could see what Josh and I agreed was one of the best parts of town. We left him at the football stadium, having already done the tour ourselves, and arranged to meet him at the cage for a kickaround. To pass the time we went to an art gallery, which had been closed the last time we were there, and looked at some huge but otherwise fairly unremarkable photographs.

When we got to the cage we found Niall wide-eyed and with his shirt torn. He had been targeted by two guys who had tackled him to the floor, held him down and raided his pockets, stripping him of his camera. None of us could believe it – only a few days before we had been wandering around with phones, cameras and money with no real sense that we were in any danger of being robbed. We had even left our jumpers lying around while we played football.

We reported it at the police station and, feeling responsible, bought Niall a steak. If he hadn’t been on his own it wouldn’t have happened. It was a well-timed warning for Rio, particularly alongside the numerous stories we’d heard about robberies there, and it underlined the importance of moving in groups. Josh likes to point out that without him I would have been robbed by now, and this is probably true but I’m also pretty sure he would have been targeted too had it not been for my, admittedly less convincing, back up.

We were still being plagued by rain and our first trip to a deserted and windy Ipanema beach was not what I had imagined when I dreamt of Rio all those months before. Huge waves crashed heavily onto us as Niall and I, red with cold, struggled to stay upright. The tide sucked our legs from under us and even with a hazy glimpse of the green mountains at the end of the long white beach we all agreed it was a bit of an anticlimax.

It was Niall’s birthday on the Saturday after we arrived and with the “Favela Funk Party” on the Sunday (yep, a party in the favela…gulp) it promised to be a good weekend. We started the celebrations on the Friday with the Brazilian favourite, caipirinhas. These basically consist of cachaca, a spirit made from sugar cane, mixed with sugar, crushed lime and ice. They were so good we drank all of our cachaca and ended up too pickled to do anything beyond a local bar. On the Saturday we started things a bit more tentatively with just a few beers but once we got to Lapa where a busy street party was ill full swing we were tempted by offers of caipirinha by the pint.

When we eventually reached the club, Niall was picked out by the bouncers as being too drunk. A few minutes later any argument to the contrary was vomited along the busy street and the birthday boy ended up in a taxi with a plastic bag. Our association with such a spectacular wreck was enough to see us blacklisted from the club and we ended the night a few hours later after spending a while watching a ten piece band playing samba music and wishing that we could dance. The night was pretty bad and this coupled with the constant spells of rain and the windy beach amounted to a really disappointing first few days.

Bitterly hungover, the next morning should really have been a low point. Instead I was woken by excited shouting; bright sunshine filled the room. It was a miracle! The weather forecast predicted cloud and rain for the whole week and yet there wasn’t a cloud in the sky! It was hot! I dragged my physical remains out of bed and after a hurried breakfast, wasted no time in heading up to Christ to thank him for his part in the glorious day. Seeing Rio in all its sun drenched glory was amazing, the city is spread across such a stunning coastline and surrounded by towering green hills – from every angle it is a spectacular location.

Conscious that this may be our only day of sun, we headed to the beach which was buzzing with the bronzed and beautiful crowds who until now we had only seen in tacky postcards. I must say that surrounded by these pumped up thong clad beach types my own luminescent loins seemed deeply inexperienced and comically out of place. Being self-conscious is what travelling is all about though isn’t it?! Anyway, the sun eventually disappeared but our spirits were lifted and we approached the favela funk party with renewed vigour and enthusiasm.

Josh and I dressed down but soon realised we were the only ones that had and that any attempt to blend in was hopelessly futile. After being delivered to the door in minivans (which I assume were bullet proof) we, the gringos, were gathered in a separate line to enter. Once inside we were no more inconspicuous; it wasn’t a problem though. The crowd was mixed and friendly and although there was a lot of testosterone on display it tended to take the form of topless gyrating men rather than the embarrassing fistfights which are the mating cry of the Brits.

There was no hostility whatsoever and when we arrived the club was already crowded with an unmistakably Brazilian party atmosphere. Guys danced synchronised routines and the girls threw their ample posteriors around energetically. Typically of South America, drinks were paid for in one part of the club and collected in another but as they were priced at four beers for £2 I had little cause to complain. My favourite part of the night was a dance off which involved some of the more confident dancers getting up on stage and showing of their most impressive, or most sexual, moves. It was hilarious; I’m pretty sure their mothers wouldn’t have approved but then what do I know? This is Brazil.

It was an experience I will never forget and gave me the sense that there is a lot more to life in the favela than the prevalent drugs and violence. I had always been curious about life in the shantytowns but now my curiousity was heightened. The hostels always offer overpriced tours which are best avoided as most of the time you can go without them for a fraction of the price. For example, when we went to see Flamengo play the tour group who left before us were paying 75 reals. We went on the bus and got a ticket on the door for 20 reals! It was ridiculous. Still, when it came to the “Favela Tour” I didn’t feel so confident. Although I resented paying a lot of money just to walk around an area of the city, we both agreed it would be worthwhile – if only for the privelage of being able to take your camera without any worries.

It turned out to be a really exciting tour. First we were driven up to the top of the favela on the back of motorbikes driven by teenagers – an interesting shuttle which, as far as I could tell, has been set up specifically to taxi people in and out of the favela. Once at the top we left the main streets – busy with shops and stalls – and entered the more familiar narrow concrete alleys that I had seen so often in films like City of God. I had seen and heard so much about favelas at school and in the media that now wandering through one seemed almost as absurd as snorkelling after sharks or stamping around looking for snakes. I had always seen them as completely unapproachable places but, as our guide explained, the politics of the area creates a tightly controlled environment where drug dealers rule and where less lucrative crimes (ie. theft) is not tolerated.

To put it simply, robbing gringos in the favela will get you killed. The drug gangs make a horrendous amount of money– the business is highly organised, an integral part of the favelas, and they are careful not to attract unnecessary attention from the police. Everyone who enters and leaves the area is monitored by young guys with walkie-talkies - they are paid around 2,000 reals per week (this amounts to £35,000 a year) so it is easy to see how people get into this dangerous line of work. It is a fascinating but deeply worrying set up – anyone who knows anything about favelas will probably not find this a shock but it struck me harder than ever when I actually saw the scale of Rocinha – the population is estimated to be anywhere from 60000 to 150000 and the whole area is controlled by a 23 year old drug dealer.

It was a gloomy, wet day and the alleys were empty. Rain flows through them, carrying rubbish down into the lower favelas. The filth builds up the lower you get and at the bottom, fittingly, the drug dealers process and sell their product. A few open doors along the way gave me a sneaky peek into small but well furnished homes where small kids watched cable TV. Most of the houses have electricity, cable, even the internet – all of which is hi-jacked from pylons struggling under an amusing tangle of wires. Young women padded around barefoot doing washing. In spite of the rain, a number of small bars and shops were open with music blaring out of little radios. A number of locals stood around drinking and smoking, seemingly indifferent to our tentative invasion.

Approximately 10% of the favela population are involved in the drug trade. Most work in the city and it was good to see that part of our money was going towards a youth centre/ crèche where parents could leave their children for the day. One of the kids, who was white with light brown hair, had been nicknamed “gringo baby”. The tour guides (who inevitably make the same jokes day after day) had made so many jokes about gringo visitors being the child’s father that he had started calling any white people “father”. The tour operator agreed that these jokes must be stopped in order to prevent any lasting psychological damage to the poor guy.

Our trip was coming to an end. Although I was vaguely aware of the depressing situation I would find myself in when I got home I was also excited to be putting a full stop on the end of such a well executed adventure. It was pretty amazing, considering all the stories we’d heard, that we hadn’t suffered any serious physical, financial or psychological damage ourselves. Niall had a catalogue of catastrophes to take home with him – even as he got on the bus to the airport he stepped nonchalantly into a cycle lane and was almost run over by a bike. Still, there was time...

On our last night the two local teams, Flamengo and Fuminense were playing the second leg of their Copa Sud America match – an irresistible local derby which we hoped would be louder and more exciting than the game we had seen on the first night. We went with Raphael, a Fluminense fan who worked at our hostel (and who provided me with a shirt for the game!) and Declan, a charismatic Irishman who we had met a few days before. Before the game I found myself alone in the stadium toilets and considering that perhaps wearing a Fluminense shirt was not a particularly good idea. Unlike English stadiums, you see, the home and away fans are not kept separate in the Maracana. At the last game we had seen police holding back crazed Cruziero fans who seemed to have an aversion to the Flamengo supporters that surrounded them. This suddenly came to mind as I stood entirely vulnerable and I hoped that I wouldn’t turn around to see a wall of black and red (Flamengo) shirts between me and the door. I don’t ever want to die in a toilet.

Thankfully no such incident occurred and I was particularly glad to be alive when we walked out into the stands. We were now in the higher section where all the noise gets made and we sat down among a large group of Fluminense fans banging drums, holding huge balloons and waving incredibly large flags – something which I noticed requires considerable skill. These were the real fans. When we arrived I was given a massive balloon and I can not express my childlike joy. This balloon was everything. It meant I was one of them! In this group I was invincible! If I needed the toilet again I would just hold it in…
At the players came out onto the pitch we all released our balloons and the fans really got going. The chants were filled with music and dancing, the smoky air with flags and flares. The players gave them plenty to shout about too – each team scored and had a goal disallowed and by the end, with the scores level and Fluminense looking set to win with an away goal, two Flamengo defenders were sent off for desperate last ditch tackles! We danced and clapped when we were supposed to and even joined in a few of the more basic chants. It was such a good night that I bought the shirt off Raphael when we got back.

And so came our last day. Pachamamas parting gift was a full day of magnificent sunshine and we spent most of the day on the beach, drinking coconut milk and being flung around happily in the crashing Ipanema waves. We had meant to move to Copacabana but our little room in Ipanema – which we had to ourselves the whole week – was too good to give up and a couple of trips to Copacabana confirmed it as a larger, more touristy version of what we already had.

In a generous, if slightly undignified, gesture, Josh gave away his camera to a small child who was selling chewing gum on the beach. I saw undignified because moments later every beggar, salesman and prostitute within a five mile radius was to be found lounging alongside us on the beach, gesturing towards what was left of our possessions. Josh left the beach in just a pair of shorts.

Before our flight we treated ourselves to one last slap up meal. I loved the Brazilian food and an all you can eat buffet seemed like the best way to say goodbye to each and every dish. I said goodbye to rump steaks, to roasted spring chickens, grilled sausages, lasagne, baked fish, beans, rice and roasted vegetables. Then I said goodbye to the fruit. I always joke, when I go to all you can eat places, that I might do a poo halfway through to make some room. This time I actually did it and I can tell you that it doesn’t work. There you go, I’ve taught you something. And on that bombshell I will bloatedly bid you farewell. ]]> Wed, 02 Sep 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=85958 0 -22.9 -43.2333333 The night was wild and stormy and the next morning we set out feeling glad that at least the rain had relented. The Iguazu Falls (which I will spell like that despite all the different spellings I saw – Iguacu, Iguassu, etc) are surrounded by a network of metal walkways and when you enter from the Argentinean side there is also a little train to take you to the furthest points. It feels a lot like a theme park which could very easily be depressing but actually the train does save a lot of time and the walkways allow people of all shapes and sizes to get right up to the edge of the waterfalls without risking their lives or getting into a boat.

If getting into a boat does take your fancy there are also a range of additional tours – we couldn’t resist being taken under the waterfalls. It was a spectacular and hilarious ride, the huge waterfalls loomed over us and the roaring of the water grew louder and louder until it was thudding onto the boat and then us. I believe I would have wet myself had the waterfall not been doing such a good job- we were all completely hysterical by the end.

We squelched along pathways afterwards feeling utterly immune to the sprays of the waterfalls and not at all troubled by the presence of dark, heavy clouds in the sky. Although the bad weather prevented us from seeing the falls in all their outrageously photogenic glory, the contrast of the dark, moody sky and the white clouds of mist rising from the waterfalls created stunning and atmospheric views and I couldn’t wait to see the Brazilian side the next day.

We wasted no time when we got back to the hostel. After a much needed hot shower and change of clothes we got in a taxi and, with the help of a friendly and alarmingly bug-eyed taxi driver, headed across the border. Foz de Iguazu, the town on the Brazilian side, was to be the penultimate stop on our world tour. We now had only nine days left.

The Iguazu experience in Brazil was very different. It was a bit less like a theme park, more like a National Park, and the visitors didn’t have the same sense of excitement. They day before we had literally seen grown men screaming and running for the train, it was like they were trying to be the first up Space Mountain in Disneyland. However, this more subdued atmosphere could also be blamed on the weather – a white mistiness had descended on the area and our first glimpse of the falls was comically bad. You could barely make them out!

As we got closer the landscape began to emerge out of the mist and we were thankful for it – miles of immense waterfalls which cut through the green forests and crashed down cliffs. The views were less varied but more extensive than the Argentinean side, and equally beautiful. Even awful weather couldn’t take anything away from such an awe inspiring landscape. After taking a few hazy pictures and immersing ourselves in the wet sprays of the Devils Throat, the most violently powerful of the falls, we were soggy and pretty well acquainted with the place. Warmer climates beckoned and dreams of defrosting on the beach in Rio.
]]> Mon, 31 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=85549 0 -25.55 -54.5833333 When I finally finished it off my plate was covered in blood – it looked like a tiny massacre had taken place and the bodies cleared away. I suppose with the size of the portions in that place that is pretty much what is happening every day. We walked out of the restaurant breathing heavily and toddled slowly to our bar where we could sit down and rub our bellies. We found a place with a live jazz band and didn’t move for the rest of the night. Mostly because we couldn’t.

We spent the next day exploring La Boca, a poor area of the city where colourfully painted streets filled with artists and Tango dancers underline the city’s unique character. It is also home to La Bombonera, the home stadium of football team Boca Juniors where Maradona made a name for himself. He is so idolised in fact that when we took a tour of the stadium we were shown a special box from which the Maradona family has the privilege of watching every game. The stadium itself is not particularly grand but on match days it would be filled with 80,000 Boca fans who passionately (and easily) drown out the 3,000 away fans who are squeezed into one end of the stadium.

Unfortunately, due to some familiar sounding issues around TV stations and money, the Argentinean league was on strike and we were not able to watch the first game of the season – initially scheduled for that week. Instead we found our own game, in a small cage on the corner of some multi-coloured streets, where we held our own against some typically skilful Argentinean and Spanish youngsters. Although my trainers now greet me every day with a wide, frayed smile, it was worth it to get a genuine feel for the area and its people beyond the insincere friendliness of the bar touts and the irritating tango dancers who think you want to have your photo taken wearing their hat.

During the day in Buenos Aires the most common way to pass the time seems to be shopping and the vintage shops of San Telmo caught my eye as I flicked through Time Out Buenos Aires (which would, for the duration of our stay, replace Lonely Planet as our Bible). We walked down a long stretch of road filled with huge white mansions, most of which seemed to be gracefully falling apart. Antique shops sprung up regularly, filled with old, intricate furniture, brass lamps, black and white photographs and costume jewellery. The best finds were a collection of clothes shops where you could get amazing items for a fraction of the boutique prices. I decided I had accumulated enough gaudy cardigans from Bolivia so managed to resist the temptation. I would later come to regret this decision when my hoody disappeared from a club but we can come back to thievery later.

The nightlife of Buenos Aires was the best we’d seen in South America by a long way and after a few days you realise that the most interesting time to explore the city is an intoxicated tour of the various bars, clubs and shows. During our stay we saw live jazz and indie bands, went to a massive hiphop club, a funky little drum and bass club, a bar with a VJ(!) playing 80s music videos and an amazing bar covered entirely in stencil graffiti. Every night there would be something to keep you entertained until the early hours.

One of these messy nights caused us to miss checkout – we were planning to move to another place because we were finding our current hostel, based in the city centre and inundated with trustafarians (middle-class white guys with long hair and beards who come travelling with their trust fund), slightly tedious. Luckily me standing in reception in my pyjamas, pleading ignorance in the voice of a pubescent chain smoker and with one eyelid securely stuck down, was enough to evoke what was either sympathy or fear in the hostel staff and they decided to let us leave. We moved to Palermo where boutiques and pretty streets are fused with a vibrant art scene which seems to spill out of the shops and colour their walls with bold and elaborate designs.

It is very difficult, when writing about a place, to describe the things which reflect the true character – beyond the buildings, parks and museums. One particularly fascinating scene which I saw on numerous occasions in Buenos Aires, was the lunchtime barbeque of the local workmen. The coals would be fired up and by lunchtime a nice collection of meat would be sizzling away ready for the hungry dozens. It was a very sociable set up, with all the workers gathering round to cook and take their share of the meat; it always made me smile. And hungry.

The week disappeared in a blur of late nights and lazy exploration. On the last day we made sure we stopped by the cemetery in Recoleta where Evita and various other famous, eminent and necessarily wealthy figures have their final resting places. The extravagant tombs form beautiful and spooky corridors of stone and statue where cats wander creepily as if they are waiting for their owners to wake from an eternal slumber. Nearby was also an interesting sculpture – a huge aluminium flower which opens every morning and closes every night.

With Buenos Aires suitably sampled and thoroughly photographed we got on our night bus to the Iguazu Falls. Knowing that this would be our final opportunity to experience the luxury of Argentinean buses we decided that only the very best would do. The “suite” ticket was not much more expensive but promised some deliciously unnecessary perks. We had a steak dinner with red wine, champagne and best of all, fully reclining seats with a foot rest that came up to create a completely flat bed! It was better than a plane. In fact, it was better than a lot of the hostels we’d stayed in! But I suppose that isn’t saying much.
]]> Sun, 30 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=85438 0 -34.6094754918088 -58.3552551269531 The tree-lined streets are dotted with fragrant shops selling smart leather goods and we meandered through the city getting a feel for the place and finding the city’s few attractions – including Rio Parana which I hear (and can easily believe) is the widest river in the world – to be fairly uninspiring. The most laughably anticlimactic attraction was the place where Che was born – a big office-looking building where a little sign on a lamp post outside quietly announces the city’s feeble claim to fame. Nevertheless Rosario was a very comfortable place to stay and our hostel, an intimate reggae themed place, had a great atmosphere and a good crowd.

Rosario has a large student population which promised live music, clubs and bars and delivered them happily in no particular order. I liked the bars, which were loud and filled with the entertaining banter of the well dressed Argentinean scenesters, but the live bands that we saw were of a disappointingly bland, generic variety – made up for young guys who were more interested in attracting women than playing music. Which is fair enough I suppose, Argentinian women are inarguably the most attractive we had seen in South America.

It was after one of these nights out that we found we had been robbed. At first I couldn’t believe it but we looked and rummaged and looked again and realised it was definitely not there. Someone had stolen our pie out of the fridge. Normally I would not relay such a marvellously unremarkable tale but in this case I feel that my whole view of Rosario was slightly tainted by this rare moment of heightened emotion. So please take absolutely no notice of my scathing review of Rosario, I was just hungry.

Aside from spinach pie, Rosario left me hungry for some real music, some decent places to explore and a bit more of an interesting art scene. We had not planned to go to Buenos Aires when we first set off in April but the more you hear about Argentina the more you realise it can not be skipped. By the time we reached South America we knew it would be one of the highlights and now, finally on our way there, I was sure it would not disappoint.
]]> Mon, 17 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=82298 0 -32.9511111 -60.6663889 It was, therefore, with understandable relief that we were able to bid farewell to the Bolivia buses and welcome the long, straight roads and the smooth, spacious new buses of Argentina, with their unlimited free tea and generous supply of films. The lavish luxury of these new buses was extended once we got off to the galleries, restaurants, cafes and museums of Cordoba. The streets were smart and lined with orderly rows of tall trees, the roads were wide and busy, the shops had shiny shelves filled with rows of goods. We hadn´t seen anything like this for a while. The dusty shelves of a typical shop in Bolivia would contain a scattering of products, most of which look like they belong in a museum. Suddenly we were surrounded by supermarkets, statues, electric buses and more tight jeans than Reading festival. Smart old men wore tweed jackets and cravats and everywhere seemed to me to have a sophisticated European feel to it.

This is all very nice on one level but when you are a traveller with little money such a transition is also a bit of a worry. We had come up with a few money saving ideas, one of which was to invest in hip flasks (secretly I had been looking for an excuse to buy one for a while) and when we got to Cordoba we were eager to try them out in the local bars. We filled them with frenet, the local spirit of choice although I´m not sure why because a) it is Italian and b) it tastes like leaves and medicine. Anyway, our experiment was a success - we topped up cokes in dark smoky corners while listening to reggaeton and hanging out with our room mates - a pair of quirky Finnish vegetarians. Niall, who had found his way down to Cordoba after being seperated from and then reunited with his bags (he really wasn´t having much luck with buses) topped off the night in characteristic style by vomitting a lomito out of the cab, which then refused to go on.

In case you are wondering, a lomito - meaning a small steak – is a kind of steak sandwich popular in Argentina. My first lomito also contained two eggs, ham, a slab of cheese, salad and mayonnaise. By the time I had finished my head hurt and I was pretty sure that if I listened closely enough I would be able to hear my heart faintly sobbing. It did taste pretty good but was nothing compared to my second Argentinian steak experience in one of the citys more credible establishments. It was the best steak I have ever had in my life. Over an inch thick and the most mouth wateringly juicy and tender piece of meat imaginable, I vowed to eat as many of these as possible before Brazil. No more ice-creams, no more snacks, I would even cut down on water if it meant that I could feasibly have one of these every night. It is a strange feeling to at once devote your life to the consumption of meat but there was no doubt in my mind - I needed to make the most of these.

Before we left Cordoba we visited the house in which Che spent most of his childhood - it is now a museum with some rooms still "intact" and some devoted to various articals and exhibits, my favourite being a a 500cc Norton motorbike identical to 'La Poderosa'- the Powerful One- which famously carried Che and Alberto across South America in The Motorcycle Diaries. Our own (only slightly less epic) journey continued the next day to the place of Che´s birth, Rosario.
]]> Wed, 12 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=81579 0 -31.4 -64.1833333 Tupiza that night but the tickets were sold out and we were forced into yet another early start in order to catch the 6am bus the next morning. It was a no frills affair – the bus was filled with the frost of morning and people wearing an unreasonable amount of blankets. We were forced to sit apart as it was already so crowded and we both found ourselves next to bulky Bolivians enveloped in hundreds of warm, enviable layers. I waited until my guy had fallen asleep before I considered cuddling him but eventually decided against it. In between broken sleeps I noticed a great deal of banter around a guy getting on with a huge wheelbarrow. It was a strange morning but when I did finally rouse myself somewhere towards consciousness we slowed and stopped off at a small mountain town for breakfast.

The landscape had changed once again and now we were in the presence of cows and goats who grazed in dry fields- I took this to be a sign that we were no longer so uninhabitably high in the mountains. Soon the sun drove all the cold from the bus, I was sweating now (you really can’t win with these Bolivian bus rides) and shedding layers as I looked out onto cactus strewn hills and immense, towers of layered rock. The landscape was that of a Western film. By the time we reached Tupiza I was wearing a t-shirt and feeling suitably smug to be able to do so.

The following three days were dedicated to hot showers and lie-ins. After the hotels of Potosi and Uyuni, our new abode seemed extravagantly comfortable. It even had a kitchen so we could make our own breakfasts and lunches and then consume unhealthy amounts of burgers and fried chicken from the street stalls by night. Relaxation and cholesterol aside, there wasn´t a great deal of anything in Tupiza and soon we were restless and eager to get to Argentina, our first stop being the capital of culture, Cordoba.

]]> Thu, 06 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=80662 0 -21.45 -65.7166667
Both salty and flat, the salt flats were everything I was expecting. The endless white desert was fascinating and, above all, provided the opportunity to take vaguely amusing photos of us treading on each other and swinging on Josh’s beard. Josh’s beard really does deserve a mention. Cultivated since our departure and affectionately known as “The Wedge”, it has received praise and extended stares the world over. It has become a tourist attraction in itself. Now, after almost four months, Josh’s meticulous beauty regime has been extended to include a daily combing of The Wedge, which is habitually twisted and tangled in times of reflection.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, in the middle of a salty nowhere getting back into our jeep. The roads were thin smudges across the landscape and we gazed out of the windows at the blankness until we reached our lunch stop, the Isla Inchahuasi. An island upon the salt covered in cacti, Inchahuasis claim to fame seemed to be the fact that it is so spectacularly out of place. Nevertheless, it is a good place to climb up for a view of the flats and the distant mountains. After lunch and some more time dedicated to the perfect photographic illusion (it’s actually really hard to do if your camera is clever enough to have auto focus) we headed towards these mountains.

Our hotel was located on the edge of the salt flat where the terrain suddenly turned brown and rough. It was fairly comfortable, with hot water and a dining area from which we could see the colourful beams of the sun setting behind the mountains. Its most notable feature however was that it was constructed almost entirely out of salt! The walls, the tables, the chairs, even the beds were carved out of the stuff! If your chips were a bit bland you could simply scratch a bit of table onto them! It was a beautiful looking building, with salt crystal chandeliers illuminating the white uniformity of the rooms. In one corner they had a huge pile of salt and a stack of salt blocks – I like to think they just make anything they find lacking: “No, sorry we don´t have a bar but if you just give me a few minutes…” etc.

That night we got to know the other half of our group, a trio of flatulent Frenchmen who had a mysterious collection of cuts and bruises. They told us that they had just come from La Paz they had been robbed on two separate occasions, once by a fake taxi driver and then again at the hands of some Bolivians they had befriended who had drugged their drinks and beaten them before taking (what was left of) their valuables. To add injury to insult, one of them had also fallen off his bike on the Death Road. It was fair to say that these were an unlucky bunch but it did make me realise how fortunate we were to get out of that place unscathed – particularly considering the risky nature of our adventures. Anyway, we played some poker, drank some palpably cheap wine and retired to our salty beds for a good nights sleep. The pillows, mattresses and sheets were made of more familiar materials.

We set off as the sun came up the next morning. Our first stop, after an hour or so, was unplanned. Our jeep suddenly went quiet and we found ourselves watching hopefully as our driver tinkered with the engine. His toolkit consisted of a screwdriver and a knife, it wasn´t very convincing, but after a helping hand from the driver of another jeep (there were loads, breaking down in this desert was not as dramatic as you may imagine) we continued on our way to see Volcano Ollague, an active volcano which I had heard smokes like a Feltham housewife.

Due to the somewhat dangerous nature of active volcanoes we viewed this one from a distance – the “mirador” an interesting set of rock formations which I found almost as impressive as the distant smoke-tipped spectacle. The rest of the day was spent driving between picturesque lakes where the high mineral content means not only a welcome collection of flamingos but also spectacular variations in colour from deep reds to rich greens and streaks of yellow. Around the edges the lakes were framed with thick ice, this and the icy wind gave us a taste of the freezing night which we had been frequently warned to prepare for. We also visited the surreal and other-worldly landscape known as Salvador Dali Desert because the strange rocks are set to have inspired Dali when he visited the region.

It was an indescribable day of sights and I am well aware that my descriptive language fails to deliver the necessary images – even my photos don’t do the places justice – but to attempt to describe the constant, often baffling, changes in landscape would probably mean me dedicating the remainder of the trip to sitting hunched in various internet cafés across Argentina and Brazil. Thankfully, the hotel we were staying in requires very little description. It was basic and cold. We huddled around a small iron oven for warmth, played cards and the Frenchmen attempted to play the Beverly Hills Cop theme tune on panpipes (their Ipods had, after all, been robbed) – eventually the bitter cold of the night began to set in and we retreated to the warmth of our beds wearing as much as possible. It was the kind of night where you wake up to find an arm has fallen out of your sleeping bag and started collecting icicles but I slept well and, at 5am when we had to get up, was even fairly chirpy.

We set off in darkness, with stars scattered generously across the sky and our bodies still clinging to the warmth of our beds. I joked that breaking down now would be the worst thing ever. Then we did. Our driver tried to restart it but the engine gave nothing but a pained groan and a clangy rattle. We shivered patiently in the back. He tried the screwdriver, then the knife but nothing seemed to work! We tried to roll back to the hotel but we had driven too far and down too many hills – eventually the driver told us to wait while he walked back and got another jeep. By the time we watched the sun rise from the icy windows of our jeep, my chirpy mood had frozen over. We had been sitting in the cold for an hour and my feet were so cold they hurt. Our driver returned in a new and improved jeep and, happily abandoning the frozen corpse of that which had taken us so far, we continued on to the steaming land of the geysers.

Pools of thick, muddy water bubbled furiously and everywhere cracks in the ground shot streams of warm mist which drifted over us and filled our nostrils with its horrifically pungent sulphuric odour. I was amazed at how active the geysers were – there was a constant hissing and bubbling – and we were told that this was the case 24 hours a day. In an attempt to thaw my frozen feet, I stood nonchalantly on one of the smaller holes and immediately hopped off as the scolding steam burnt through my thin shoe! My feet half numb and half burnt, I got back into the jeep. I wasn´t particularly enjoying our last day.

We had breakfast at the nearby hot springs where we were also able to revive our feet. While Josh and I sat on the edge watching our toes come back to life, Niall and the Frenchmen braved partial nudity and went in fully. I was tempted, the water was nice and hot, until I considered that one has also to get out of the springs at some point. I decided to devote all my energy to eating as much breakfast as possible.

Fully defrosted and revitalized, the mornings mishaps were actively repressed and we proceeded to our final stop, Laguna Verde. This was a huge, deserted lake surrounded by red rocky mountains where the sulphur content repels flamingos but demands photography with its brilliant green water. Our driver said something in Spanish about the landscape being similar to Mars and that it is used by NASA for training purposes. That is at least what I decided he was saying – it could have been anything really. I have to confess that despite a tenfold increase in my vocabulary I probably only know about ten words of Spanish and most of them are only of any use when bargaining for alpaca jumpers or looking for a train station which is on the right hand side (I don’t know the word for left).

Anyway, so began our epic drive back to civilisation. It really was epic too; once we had bounced over the surface of Mars we crossed vast stretches of sand, slate, rubble and rock, splashed our way through icy frozen streams which trickled down through the valley from frosted mountaintops and eventually watched the sky changing colour as we roared across the flat, limitless landscapes before Uyuni.
]]> Fri, 31 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=79707 0 -17.4333333 -66.9166667
Along the way we stopped off at the processing factory where lots of complicated separating procedures take place, eventually producing silver, lead and… something else. Obviously I was listening, taking in and fully understanding the science involved but I won’t bore you with the details. The machines were a lot louder than our guide. Basically they crushed up rocks and then took all the nice shiny bits out using machines that went round and made lots of noise. Really though, it was a pretty elaborate looking process and I just enjoyed the crowded collection of machines busily spinning, whirring, grinding and stirring.

Our next stop was the entrance of the mine. We switched on our headlamps and stooped carefully through the tunnels, trying not to hit our heads too many times and listening to the strange hissing of the pipes along the walls. We stopped at a point where the air suddenly turned warm and sickly. A young boy and (I assumed) his father pushed a big metal cart full of rubble along the metal tracks. It was hard to imagine children working in mines despite the prominence of working children across Bolivia . We had been served by children in restaurants, seen them shining shoes in the towns and cities, even been told off in a hostel by one for trying to use the wrong shower! There was a certain charm about it at times- like if a chubby four year old with a chocolatey face brought you your change or something – but this was a bit more disturbing.

We became used to the smells and sensations of the tunnels and soon found ourselves crawling on our bellies through the dust. Josh had been unsure about going into the claustrophobic mines but he didn’t seem too phased now that we were in there – even less so after a drinking session with some miners who we found relaxing at the end of their working day. With dust tickling our throats we climbed up and down spinning trap-like stairs and crawled shuffled and squeezed our way around the rocky tunnels, their wonky wooden beams looking set to collapse.

Eventually we felt a welcome rush of fresh air. We filled our lungs and moved excitedly through the well ventilated corridor to freedom, my helmet rattling happily along the ceiling. Once outside we were given a dynamite demonstration. We all stood silently as the bomb was constructed – it looked pretty harmless at first, like a little round plastic bag full of sweets, but the fuse gave it a menacing touch and, once lit, a sense of imminent destructive power. Oblivious to this, the guide passed the fizzing explosive to Josh who jokingly accepted and then quickly attempted to hand it back. But he wouldn’t take it! He managed to pass it on to an Irish girl whose fleeting moment of enthusiasm was quickly replaced with genuine concern as she failed to find a willing recipient. Eventually the guide took it and ran off onto some wasteland where he planted it before returning to safety. We waited until we started thinking it may not have worked when suddenly a bang shook the ground beneath us. I would not like to be in a mine when one of those goes off. No sir.

Potosi had introduced us to a harsher climate. Although sunny, the wind was bitter and patches of ice testified to freezing nights. We had come prepared – layers of long johns, fleece and alpaca kept us toasty – but as we set of towards Uyuni on a colourful little bus I noticed that we were practically naked compared to the bulky, blanket clad locals who shuffled onto the bus and shuffled sideways down the inadequate aisle.
]]> Tue, 28 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=79257 0 -19.5836111 -65.7530556 We eventually were permitted to cross and made it to La Paz where we got a bus to Oruro. I hoped it would be a nice, uneventful journey but no… A young boy selling biscuits got on (which is not unusual) and, in what I can only assume was a desperate marketing ploy, started singing loudly (which is). And I use the word “singing” loosely. It was so loud not even my headphones could block out the sound. I suppose the idea was to subject the helpless passengers to ear shattering renditions until someone bought something just to shut him up. Eventually, it seemed that someone had.

Oruro is a busy, modern market town with good street food and a distinct lack of gringos. The latter was underlined when, after a meal, our waitress start taking photos of us on her camera phone. We were planning on getting a train to Ururo but decided that a stop at Potosi along the way would be worthwhile. After another bus, from which we watched the amazing changing hazy layers of another desert sunset, we were there – checking into the kind of hotel room you normally only see in the movies when someone is on the run. Breakfast wasn’t included but we did find some chicken bones in the corner. Still, a bed is a bed, even when it is creakier than an old people’s home and partly constructed out of flattened cardboard boxes.]]> Sat, 25 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=78326 0 -17.9833333 -67.15 Clearly I was ready for a change of scene and after eating away our hangovers the next morning we said our farewells and took the (nice and short) bus ride to Copacabana. It was a fascinating and beautiful trip through miles of arid mountain farmland until we came to the calm expanse of Lake Titicaca. Along the shore cars and coaches were being loaded onto flimsy wooden rafts and ferried across. We joined this surreal traffic and Josh and I decided to remain on the bus as we crossed rather than take a separate boat. Safely on the other side we continued our journey around the lake

When we reached Copacabana the sun had begun its slow descent into the lake which stretched as far as you could see. The golden light cast spectacular shadows as we came down into the town and I couldn’t help but think that this was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen. I dribbled to think that there would also be fresh trout in every restaurant. I´m really very easily pleased sometimes.

The ferry to Isla del Sol, a scenic island on Lake Titicaca, left early the next morning and we headed to the Northern part which was supposedly the most spectacular. The lake looked even bigger and in the light of day snow capped mountains were visible on distant shores. The day was sunny with a cold breeze and we made the most of it by walking up into the dusty hills where we found a maze of Inca ruins and striking views in every direction. Challapampa, where we were staying, was sandwiched beautifully between two sandy beaches and we spent the rest of the day relaxing and eating more trout.

Aside from the incredible surroundings, one incident stood out for me that day. We had just finished eating when a pair of local kids appeared mischievously as the window. The smaller of them, a little boy with a dry face and a wonderfully snotty nose, was particularly excited to meet us and let out an incredible fart – way beyond his yeas – which we all found genuinely hilarious. I rewarded him and his slightly less controversial sister with a couple of sweets I found in the bottom of my bag. I also decided to demonstrate my own abilities when we got outside (by now Josh was unimpressed with even my most creative morning expulsions) but, disappointingly, little Snotface was gone.

We explored the south of the island the next day – more Inca ruins and scenic trout consumption – before heading back to Copacabana for a final night next to Titicaca. By the time we were delivered back, the sky had clouded over. As we got off the boat, huge clouds of dust blew across the town. Then, for the first time in South America, it rained. Actually it was more like hail and it didn’t last long but I couldn’t help noticing that Copacabana didn’t look quite as attractive this time around as we power-walked to our hostel, making strange faces into the gritty wind.
]]> Fri, 24 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=78012 0 -21.8 -65.0833333
We were to explore the pampas – a wetland region which supposedly teems with wildlife. No sooner had we climbed into the boat than we saw our first alligator. We all pulled our cameras out and went crazy. They were everywhere! There were so many that soon our reptile induced hysteria wore off and we stopped taking photos. But it seemed that the moment you lowered your camera some new and exotic creature would poke its head out for an unbearably fleeting and photogenic moment. I sat at the front of the boat, my fingers carefully poised above the camera buttons so that I could turn it on and take a photo in a matter of milliseconds.

Families of turtles basked lazily in the sun and pink dolphins emerged looking pale and alien but the most charming visitors of the day were definitely the squirrel monkeys. We pulled right up to their tree and soon we were covered in tiny fury creatures who chattered happily and scampered along our arms, backs and heads in an outrageously sociable manner. Eventually we arrived at our “eco-lodge” which was large and could only have been more comfortable had it not been placed on the bank of the river whose deadly contents we had spent much of the day admiring.

Day two. I woke up confused in a wooden shack in the Bolivian pampas. Vivid dreams lingered in my head and I was pleased to see that the malaria tablets I had started taking were doing something. After breakfast we crossed the river and I found myself recalling that the side effects of malaria tablets could also include suicidal tendencies. I was stamping through soggy marshland in a pair of Converse and rolled up trousers looking for dangerous snakes – could this be considered suicidal? Reassuringly everyone else was doing it too. I couldn´t help noticing that they all had wellies on though. Josh and I had not been surprised to find that the boot collection could not cater for our unreasonably large feet but suddenly we were becoming very conscious of our vulnerable ankles.

The more we searched the more we all wanted to find something. We were all spread out searching different areas, it was a strange feeling, being on your own with your thoughts while looking for something which terrifies you. Like when I was snorkelling for a shark in Thailand , I began to lose my fear and just really want to see something. Suddenly there were shouts – Emmanuelle, a French girl, had found something. We all gathered round excitedly but it turned out to be a disappointingly small and harmless snake. After a few photos and some tentative touching we continued our search. It was hot and the marsh sucked our feet into the water.

Soon Emmanuelle was shouting again! She had seen something BIG. We scattered around the area, trampling carefully, everyone focused on any rustle or strange shape. Then our guide shouted, t was on the move! It came close by me- I could see thelong grass parting and giving away his position. It was fast though! We were running after it – I decided to let the guide go first and soon he was standing on its tail. It was huge! He carefully pinned the head down with a stick and then slowly picked it up. It was, he announced, a cobra. I HAD JUST BEEN RUNNING AFTER A FIVE FOOT COBRA!

Our guide, Oscar, allowed us to hold it briefly and I am not going to pretend I wasn´t scared but we´d searched for so long that I felt I needed to have it in my hands. It was heavy and thick with muscle. Its scaly skin was smooth and surreal. After letting it go we spent a few more hours searching and eventually found what we were after – an anaconda, albeit a very small one. I wasn´t complaining when we headed back to the lodge. I hoped that the afternoon wouldn´t consist of stomping around in the shallows of the river looking for alligators.

It didn´t, although we did keep the hunting theme going – now we were catching piranhas! We drove our boat to a quiet spot where trees grew out of the water scattering the sunlight and creating a scenic and atmospheric environment. The setting had attracted a lot of fish too; as soon as we dipped our lines in the water the red meat on our hooks was attacked furiously. The problem was there were all so small! Their little mouths would not go over the hook, they just happily nibbled away until the meat was gone. When someone did manage to pull in a little flapping carnivore we were often told to put it back in as it would be too small to eat. It was frustrating for the others but I managed to avoid the problem by not catching anything at all. We kept at it for a couple of hours and although Josh was doing well we both pined for the richly rewarding waters for Fiji. In the end I managed to catch one piranha.

That night we got to eat our catch – they were small and bony without much meat and although, to be honest, we would have been better off eating the meat we had spent so long feeding them, there was a strange pleasure in devouring something dangerous. Still, an alligator steak would have been more filling.

The sounds of the Amazonian pampas create a fascinating and endless chorus which Oscar was eager for us to appreciate. So it was that we found ourselves floating down the river that night with the engine turned off and only the clear star lit sky illuminating our way. Fireflies flickered in the trees and birds shrieked strangely. After a while we started singing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”. It just felt like the right thing to do.

The next morning we got up early to listen to the morning medleys. I have to confess that I wasn´t particularly interested but the howler monkeys woke me out of my sleepy stupor with their crazy banter and seeing the sun rise from the river was worth getting up for. It was our last day. We had stomped the marshlands looking for snakes, fished for piranhas in the river and driven the boat up and down admiring its diverse contents. There was only one thing left to do – swim in it.

Even with my newly acquired suicidal tendencies this part of the trip was not something I was deeply enthusiastic about but to have swum in an Amazonian river did seem something to be proud of. Besides, all we needed was to find a few pink dolphins and none of the other (more worrying) creatures would come anywhere near us. So we searched. It was the first grey morning we had seen for a while, slightly cold with the sun hidden in cloud. The banks of the river were bare and we didn´t need Oscar to tell us that the hundreds of alligators and camen were all stealthily enjoying the warmth of the river. After almost an hour of searching we had only managed to find a couple of baby dolphins who, Oscar said, were not enough protection. He had explained on the first day that if we failed to find dolphins to swim with, it wouldn´t be safe. Now, seeing our restlessness and growing impatience, he seemed to change his mind. There were after all only three people (guess who) who were stupid enough to want to go in anyway. We were in a wide part of the river where the banks were reasurringly far away but as we got undressed I couldn´t help thinking about how many dangerous reptiles must be lurking in that murky water.

Meh. This was no time for logical thought. We stood on the side of the boat and dived into the brown water. It was warm and much nicer than it looked – when I came up Josh was still standing there hugging himself. He finally managed a feeble and effeminate jump into the water, which would have probably caused me to drown with laughter had I not already been climbing back into the boat. We splashed around, laughing the kind of laugh that comes out after you get hit in the face with a football or fall over in the street, before eventually deciding we had endangered our lives enough for the day. Ironically, as we towelled ourselves down a pink dolphin made a belated appearance but disappeared again as soon as we got back in the water. They really are useless. And they look like penises.
]]> Wed, 22 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=77746 0 -14.4666667 -67.5666667 Our group of around ten or twelve set off at speed, gliding down the mountain on smooth, curving roads. The whole ride was completely effortless; the pedals were merely footrests as we coasted along. The only thing which concerned me slightly was my front wheel, which rattled excitedly, even on the tarmac… I reported this ominous sound to our guide and was immediately given a new bike with better suspension and wheels which sounded a lot healthier. It was a well timed upgrade because the next part was the infamous Death Road.

Unlike Dead Woman’s Pass on the Inca trail, Death Road has earned its name with an extensive collection of tragic tales. Essentially it is a narrow, rocky road on the side of a mountain with dizzying drops and awkward bends – in the days when the road was used by buses and coaches in both directions, wheels would simply slide off the loose road and coach loads would be lost. Graves along some of the trickier curves serve as very real reminders. Now, however, a new road has been built and the traffic along Death Road consists only of tour groups rattling down on mountain bikes to earn a free t-shirt. As if insisting on giving the riders a challenge, our guide explained that the rules for this road were different and that now we would be riding on the left in the event of traffic. This, combined with the fact that the brakes were the wrong way round, added a wonderfully confusing new dimension to the ride.

I had decided to take it slowly but gravity and increasing confidence gently spurred me on. By the end we were flying down the dusty, uneven roads, our whole bodies vibrating, aching hands locked onto the handlebars and teasing the brakes. It was an intense experience made all the more epic thanks to the views of the valley. Dense cloud forest like we had seen along the Inca trail lay all around us and we rode through streams and even under a large trickling waterfall. When we came to the end I couldn’t believe we had already covered 64km! We had only one minor casualty, a lady who had had a slight disagreement with her bike and got a couple of scrapes but she looked as happy as the rest of us as we ravenously destroyed the buffet at the end of the day.

The next day the three of us attempted a more standard prison visit, citing Sebastians name as we entered the side door and looking as close to casual as one can hope to look when confronted by large men with oversized guns. They were not interested in letting us in but we were helped by a kind woman whose husband was also a prisoner and, she said, a friend of Sebastians. She offered us the use of her room in the family/visitor section of the prison and Niall took her number gratefully. As we left the woman, in a manner not quite befitting one with her baby in her arms, started offering strangers cocaine. We had met one of the prisoners outlets. It was strange to think that she was paying for a room in a prison by selling the cocaine manufactured there by her husband. I had to admit that at this point I was ready to call it a day and read Marching Powder instead.

We spent the rest of the day and much of the next admiring the alpaca jumpers of the local stalls and also checked out one of the museums which had a hilarious collection of fiesta outfits among other less bizarre exhibits. We also bought tickets to Rurrenabaque, the jungle region up North which we were all excited about seeing. For our last night we treated ourselves to an “Interminable” pizza from the famous pizzeria nearby – it was a 24 inch monster which we struggled to eat even half of. More difficult and uncomfortable than the consumption itself was the guilty journey back to the hostel trying to avoid the hungry eyes of begging families. It was worth it though, with ample cold pizza and a collection of games to keep us entertained, we boarded our bus for the longest journey so far, a bum numbing twenty hours. And they didn’t even have a toilet on board.
]]> Tue, 21 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=77657 0 -16.5019326360668 -68.1605529785156 As usual we wandered out into the streets to get a feel for the place. It seemed a very poor city, families of beggars sat on the dirty pavements and most of the shops and buildings seemed very run down or abandoned. We would later find out that beneath the surface of La Paz lies a surreal, and often strangely accessible, underworld. Wandering breathlessly up the steep streets we stumbled across our first interesting site. I began to suspect that the cluttered stalls were part of the infamous Witches Market when I noticed a pile of dead llamas. They were small – babies – and while many were still covered in fluffy hair most were dried out like prunes. Among the other things available at the stalls were herbs, statues and skulls. I had read that llama fetuses are buried under houses for good luck and I assumed these other offerings would be used in similar rituals. Disappointingly the women who looked after the stalls looked no different than those who sold alpaca slippers – there wasn’t a warty nose or a pointy hat to be seen. I decided to save the souvenir shopping for another day.

Back at the hostel we bumped into Niall, a guy who we had met in Cusco. We had only spoken briefly as he was about to catch a bus but during that short time we had hatched a plan to buy a car and drive it to Brazil. We’d decided that a VW Beetle with a novelty horn would be most appropriate. We headed ou to a bar with a few of his room mates and it soon became apparent that this was not your usual gringo bar. For a start it had no visible sign or even lights to indicate where it was. It appeared simply to be a house with large metal gates. After pushing the buzzer and waiting for a while a small, seedy looking man appeared who eyed us for a moment before letting us through. It was all very sinister and I soon realized why. A waiter carried a tray over to the table next to us and delivered two beers and a small square slate with a couple of straws and a neat wrap of cocaine. We were in a coke bar!

I was excited to see such a novel approach to customer service but soon I felt like I was having a Hunter S Thompson moment. Around the group young, pretty girls and boys were randomly kissing each other and the conversation became frantic and strange. I had been around people on coke before but they had never freaked me out like this. A blonde Irish girl was offering me a reflexology massage. I don’t even know what that is but my reflexes told me to get out of there.

In the spirit of the fascinatingly corrupt world which we now seemed to be a part of, our sites became set on the local prison – San Pedro – made famous by the book Marching Powder and by stories of tourist tours where gringos have, in the past, been able to see inside the grounds, seen prisoners openly manufacturing cocaine and even sampled the prison wares. Since CNN conducted undercover investigations these tours have been made illegal but rumors still flew around about tourists successfully bribing guards. We decided to have a look at least.

After hanging around uncomfortably for a while (the prison guards with their huge shotguns are not the most approachable of fellows) Niall and I walked up to the gate. Josh had decided that visiting a prison was not for him. From the main entrance we could see into the prison courtyard – a mix of women, children and prisoners made it only slightly less intimidating. Then we heard someone shouting to us in English. A Dutch guy, who we later found out was named Sebastian, called out to us and asked if we wanted to talk to him. He could tell us all about the prison and what goes on! We said yes. The guards said no. We were ushered away (by which I mean they looked at us and we quickly made ourselves scarce) but not before Sebastian gave us a number to call him on. It was an exciting breakthrough and a few minutes later we had another. This time an opportunity presented itself in the bizarre form of a five foot American called Dave, a prisoner with only nine days of his sentence left, who could now leave the prison for short periods of time.

Dave was genuine, there was no doubt. Barefoot and disheveled in a crusty fleece, years of dirt seemed engrained into his feet and hands. Underneath, however, was a normal guy. I had just finished reading Midnight Express and I really felt for these convicts locked away in strange and corrupt foreign surroundings. When he asked if we were interested in seeing inside the prison we said yes. We had spent an hour shuffling suspiciously outside it, it was hard to say that we weren’t. Dave told us that for twenty Bolivianos (about two pounds) he could bribe the guard and we would be allowed in as visitors. He would also want five for himself. Compared to the hundreds we were expecting to have to pay the guards this seemed a stroke of luck. We had seen lots of visitors going in and out the prison so we were confident it could be arranged. Nevertheless, it was all very dodgy…

As we followed this haggard little man towards the prison, the sense that we were doing something stupid, actually illegal, was inescapable. He took the money and disappeared into the police station to get us our visitors stickers but eventually re-emerged shaking his head and in a hurry. He explained that there were no stickers left and we would have to travel seven blocks away to get them. We only had an hour or so until the last visiting hour and we didn´t fancy a night in the prison so as Dave hurried off we hurried with him, keeping a safe distance in order to avoid the attention of the police. We grew more anxious. He asked us to buy him some chicken as he hadn´t eaten all day. He was doing us a favour so, reluctantly, we did. By now it was too late to go back – we had followed him around for about twenty minutes. Eventually we came to the place and he told us to wait for him. Then, predictably, he disappeared. We never saw Dave again. We probably deserved it. Neither of us were particularly surprised and we both knew it was always going to be a risky operation but the fact he left us holding his leftover chicken did seem an unnecessary insult.

As we stood in the middle of the busy Bolivian market I reminisced about the very first scam I had experienced on my travels. The art student from Beijing – also known as Dave. In spite of the irritating loss of money and pride, part of me was relieved. It would have been a lot more painful to be done over by a prison warden, especially if we were inside the place! We headed back and called Sebastian – he knew Dave but confirmed that we had been had – tere was no way of getting people into the prison now. We could visit a certain area, however, and talk through the bars. We vowed to do this as long as we survived the Death Road, which Niall and I were cycling the next day.
]]> Fri, 17 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=76911 0 -16.5019326360668 -68.1605529785156 My (basic) understanding is that areas of land were being privatised and made available to foreign companies. The farmers working the land in these areas were understandably furious and there had been clashes with police resulting in a number of deaths. In a bid to make themselves heard, protests sprung up across Peru - roads were blocked with rocks and bridges burnt. Cuzco was targeted specifically in order to have the most impact. We had met a number of travelers who had come from Arequipa and had only made it to Cuzco by walking or hitchhiking for days over many miles after their coaches had been forced to stop. Some had to postpone their Inca treks because their feet were so badly blistered. So that ruled out Arequipa...

We decided that Puno and La Paz were the two most desirable options but the roads in that direction had also been heavily affected and any bus ride involved a certain level of risk. After much debate and solemn analysis of our shrinking bank accounts we decided to fly to La Paz. It would be worth the extra money just to know that we would actually get there. But my problems didn't end there. I received a text from my mum saying that she'd just collected my yellow fever certificate from the doctors and asking whether I wanted her to post it to Peru. I would need it to get into Bolivia.

This was slightly annoying as the nurse hadn't mentioned this certificate. I thought I had been completely organised - carrying around a print out which she had given me of all my immunisations and assuming that this was all I would need. Now I had to work out what to do. I couldn't hang around in Cuzco until it arrived by post - we had been there for so long the days were already becoming tedious, particularly now because after paying for the flight we had little money to amuse ourselves. Apparently it should be possible to sign a waiver at the border but this involved an airport discussion which I was neither comfortable with nor capable of. Eventually I decided to go to a hospital and get a replacement. It would prove to be a long and difficult morning.

I got up early and, with a list of hospitals torn out of my guidebook, made my way to the first one. The hospitals were crowded and typically confusing. Even with my new phrasebook I struggled to explain my situation and in order to save myself reliving this series of deeply uncomfortable moments I would like to skip to the part where (hours later) I found myself in the right room with the right person and the right certificate in my hand. I was going to get another jab. Then it occurred to me - I had the certificate in my hand! I could just leave! But what if I get stopped at the border? I was unsure. It had taken me three and a half hours to get to this point and I really didn't want it to all be for nothing.

A friendly nurse called me over and for the last time I attempted to explain, in Spanish which was not so much broken as destroyed beyond recognition, that I had already received the jab but did not have the certificate. I gestured to the certificate and then the door, with an expression which I hoped was something in between hopeful and inquisitive. Amazingly, she seemed to understand! She disappeared into another room. A stern looking women in a senior position asked me when I had received the jab. I showed her my print out. She shook her head. She would not be able to give me the vaccine a second time. I pointed hopefully at the certificate - my hopefully inquisitive expression became comically exaggerated. She shook her head; no injection in Peru, no certificate in Peru.

My heart sank. I should have just kept my mouth shut! I pleaded and my Spanglish reached new depths - a mix of English words in a foreign accent and Spanish words which I invented freely. I tried to explain that without this certificate it would be very difficult for me at the border into Bolivia in a couple of days. They might not even let me into the country! This came out "Sunday... Bolivia... difficult... please..." - I was sweating like a sumo in a shell suit and getting increasingly frustrated. Eventually, with a sigh, the stern woman took the certificates and filled it out with details of my previous jab. Yes! I took the certificate and thanked them desperately. Then I got out of there before they could change their minds. I had my certificate. I had my plane ticket. I was going to Bolivia.]]> Thu, 09 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=75453 0 -6.9833333 -76.4666667 Eventually a bulb broke the darkness and the wooden gate was opened. Floating head torches filled the path as we marched excitedly along the rugged trail. As we moved, the stars began to disappear and a faint glow crept up from behind the mountains. Josh and I were near the front of the group and I heard Selsa approaching behind us. In a low voice, careful not to excite the rest of the group, he whispered:

“Anda now we are gonna ron.”

It took me a moment in my sleepy state to work out his accent and in that moment he was gone. Running away from the group. The excitement as we ran off in the dark towards Machu Picchu was incredible – it wasn´t an easy path and we ran up and down treacherous steps with our torches flashing across the path in front of us. Gradually the glow from the mountains grew stronger and we were able to see without torches – the path was narrow and to our right hand side a sheer drop fell to the valley below where the early morning train clunked its way up, filled with tourists. This spurred us on.

Then, disaster. From behind me I heard Josh shouting desperately. I looked back to see the contents of his backpack strewn across the path. The zip had worked its way open. But Josh was only interested in one item. The single item which had gone off the edge.

“My fuckin passport..!”

His voice was filled with fear and panic. I felt it rushing through me. It felt like the worst thing that could have happened at the worst possible time. We were all in shock. Selsa repeated our swearwords and it was clear from his expression that he was as traumatized as we were as we peered over the edge into the bushes.

The path was built into the mountain side and was reinforced with a stone wall of around 8 or 9 feet. Below this wall was a small mossy platform around two feet wide which dropped into bushes and trees. The vegetation made it unclear how steep or how far the drop was but it was clear that the slope was far to steep to attempt climbing down. It was almost vertical. The ledge seemed a long way down but Selsa was already starting to lower himself off the Inca trail and down onto it, with the ominous words, “This is my first time.”

He seemed to think he could see it in the bushes. We were all terrified. The longer I saw him down there on his own the more useless I felt and when he asked me if I would come down and help him, I didn´t hesistate. I climbed down, ripping my trousers as I stretched desperately to find the mossy patch where I could secure myself. Adrenaline pumped through my whole body. I was still scared that Selsa would fall as he crept further and further towards the bushes but now at least I had hold of him. I held on to the wall with my other hand and, lying back, dug my heels into the ground.

He reached further and let out a cry. He had it! He pulled it out of the trees and we all shouted with unrestrained relief! It was an amazing feeling. We pulled each other up to safety. There were no words. Strangely no sooner were we back on the Inca trail than I was thinking of the time we had lost and wanting to get going again. Others from the group were catching us up! We dusted ourselves off and the run to Intipunktu continued. With my heart pounding and my head spinning I dragged myself up the last few steps to Intipunktu (The Sun Gate). I sat down heavily, laughing and dizzy with exhaustion. When I looked up I saw Machu Picchu.

Taking photos every few steps, we walked gently down towards the ruins. Along the path Selsa showed us a huge boulder reaching up into the sky like a mountain. Beneath it were piles of stones – offerings left by those who had arrived safely to Machu Picchu before us. We dutifully drew out our stones and created a small pile along with some of Selsa´s coca leaves. He prayed out loud and in English, thanking the Pachamama for helping us to reach Machu Picchu and although neither of us said a word, we both thanked her too. Whatever you want to call those invisible forces of nature which are beyond our control, there was no doubt that they had worked in our favour and we were extremely lucky to be there on that clear morning. Especially the passport.

With more button pressing than an Australian casino, we snapped our way down into the ruins. I will not attempt to describe them as everyone knows what the famous Inca city looks like but I will say that they were more beautiful than I had imagined and in the dim light of the morning they looked calm and undisturbed. For a while. Then I noticed the tourists. I do not mean to sound arrogant but after three days of trekking, sweating, broken sleeps and undesirable toilet experiences you feel a million miles away from the clean and colourful groups with their North Face fleeces and elaborate bumbags who come puffing up the stairs from the bus stop. To rub salt in the wounds which these people- with their confused and pitiful glances towards the flapping crotch of my filthy trousers- had opened up, we were told that the 400 tickets to climb Huayna Picchu were already sold out.

It was 6.50am. We had been up since 3.15am and had RUN along the Inca Trail risking life, limb and passport to get here first – now we find we had been beaten to the ticket office by 400 Americans wearing matching tour group t-shirts who celebrated by jumping or pretending to push the mountains in order to get the ultimate facebook profile picture. Selsa went to get a drink, Josh went to the toilet and, left alone, and I suddenly found myself in a very real state of depression. I stared in disbelief at the extravagantly expensive hotel, built only 100 yards or so from the ruins. I watched more and more tourists climbing complaining off the buses and I found myself in disbelief, hating everything around me.

In retrospect this was clearly the result of a comedown after the massive release of adrenaline that morning combined with the exhaustion of the early starts and I do appreciate that not everyone who wants to see Machu Picchu should have to walk for three days and do chilly, scenic poos. I do think, however, that a small percentage of tickets should be reserved for those who invest time and money in the Inca Trail. And there I will end my beef. Incidentally, my depression didn´t last long. As we climbed back up p the top of the ruins for our first lesson of the day my mood lifted immeasurably. This was no doubt helped by the well timed appearance of the sun which, as it climbed slowly from behind the jagged mountains, cast spectacular beams of light onto Machu Picchu and Huayna Picchu. As Selsa taught us about the history of the city, it lit up slowly behind him.

We toured the various points of interest and significance, waiting patiently for other tour groups to finish taking photos before we moved in to take our own. Luckily the city is interesting enough that the swarms of tourists do not detract too much from your appreciation but after a couple of hours, with more and more groups arriving by the minute, we had seen everything and were ready to leave. We thanked Selsa for all his knowledge and passion and for going, so dramatically, beyond the call of duty as our guide. Our tips seemed pathetic but he seemed moved and genuinely thankful for our time together. It was a sad goodbye but his final words “Look after your passport!” were well chosen.

We got a bus down to Aguas Calientes where we ate well and relaxed in the hot natural springs which give the town its name. Then we hung around waiting for the big group and the three hour train ride home, every now and then reminding each other exactly what had happened that morning. Ironically it had been the expensive Berghaus backpack which had been at fault while my ridiculous Peruvian manbag (I was dressed completely inappropriately as ever) handled the challenge without any complaints. On the long journey home, tired from the days emotions, I thought about my life back home and especially Shion. I had never wanted a bed and a cuddle so much in my life. I couldn´t wait to talk to her and tell her what we´d been doing.
]]> Wed, 08 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=74417 0 -13.1582206375527 -72.5303649902344
The path was fairly flat and asked little of the various tourist groups who plodded along cheerfully. I was expecting a fairly large group but our entourage was immense – an army of 30 porters, all heavily laden with oversized packs, joined our group of 22 (not including the 5 or so guides), striding past (sometimes jogging) in order to get ahead and prepare our next rest stop. At first I resented this pampering and I wished we could have had a small group with a couple of tents and a camping stove but from the first meal (cooked by our personal chef and eaten in our dining tent at a long table with stools) I felt nothing but grateful for their efforts. By the end of the trip they would be heroes.

With Josh feeling terrible, our guide took the two of us on a slightly shorter route to see the first of the large ruins. In fact this was the best part of the day as we separated ourselves from the densely populated path and were given very interesting lessons about Inca history and the local flora and fauna. The ruins themselves (Patallacta) were well preserved and set spectacularly at the bottom of the valley alongside the river Wilkamayo (or Uru Riobamba) which we followed for most of the day. That evening we ate well and retired to bed early in preparation for the infamous climb up to Dead Womans Pass the next day. During the night Josh shouted happily to himself and I hoped that the rest was doing him good.

The second day is known as the biggest challenge of the Inca Trail and I couldn’t have been more up for it. After the relaxed pace and frequent stopping of the previous day I couldn´t wait to push myself a bit harder. Thankfully Josh seemed to be back to normal and we set off at an impressive pace, eager to distance ourselves from the crowd. With long strides and measured breathing we climbed steadily through the mossy “Montane Rain Forest” where the exotic looking Unca trees twisted their way up to form a cooling canopy and eventually we emerged onto the steep, sunny steps which led up to the pass. I marched up them, maintaining a steady pace and stopping only for photos and to offer water to the sweating porters- their packs looking impossibly heavy as they trudged up.

Inspired by the strength and pace of the porters I soon reached the top. The views on either side of Dead Womans Pass (so called because the mountains are shaped like a woman lying on her back – nothing sinister) were dramatic and rewarding. I spent some time at the top taking photos and trying to breath normally again. Our guide had suggested that we take two stones – one for Dead Womans Pass and one for Machu Picchu – which we would then leave as a traditional Inca offering to the mountains and to Pachamama, the Inca equivalent to Mother Nature. I liked the idea and I proudly perched my stone at the top of a pile. Josh had fallen behind and, although I had intended to wait for him, after fifteen minutes or so I was getting cold and decided to carry on alone.

I dedicated the journey downward to Michael Jackson, dancing quickly down the rocky stairs to a lively mental megamix of all his hits. I had just completed a complex merging of You Wanna Be Starting Something and Another Part of Me when I realised I had already reached camp! I had even beaten most of the porters down! The camp had incredible views in every direction and I washed in a cold, clear stream while the tents were being put up. Directly in front of the camp was the deep Pacamayo Valley ; The Inca Trail wound up the mountain to the left of the valley and gave an enticing glimpse of tomorrows walk. It was only 11.45am but we were done for the day so I made myself comfortable, watching the clouds floating in and filling the valley and enjoying more of our chefs delicious cooking before a chilly night of llama clad lethargy.

We were woken early with tea (a very nice touch) and after a filling breakfast zigzagged our way up to the first set of ruins. This was to be a very informative day with lots of ruins and although we were eating and sleeping with the large group it had become apparent that we had our own guide, Selsa. This was perhaps because the other group were all part of a larger tour of South America and they were worried we may not fit in. In any case, being able to distance ourselves from the group was a definite advantage as we could walk at our own pace rather than in a frustrating cluster and have interesting discussions about anything we were curious about. On this occasion we were taught about Inca architecture, particularly in relation to the social politics of the time. It was good to be able to see more than just a ruin.

Later, as we continued our trek up the mountain, I found myself in a predicament. We were hours away from the next toilet stop and I sensed that I might not make it. Also the toilets are so bad that waiting for one seemed a bit pointless really. I was far enough in front to sneak off the path and find a suitable rock to hide behind… A miserable pair of boxers told me that I was not the first. Watching my step, I decided to proceed. I was, after all, a man of the mountain now.

Happily relieved, I caught up with Josh and Selsa and made it to the top of the mountain. The views were mind blowing and made even more satisfying by my recent excretory accomplishments. After a short rest we stomped our way down the familiarly steep, rocky paths and stairs until we reached the complex and interesting ruins of Sayaqmarka. Another lesson followed, this time about the Inca kings and the history of the Inca trails themselves. It amazed me how recently a lot of the trails and ruins had been discovered. Feeling well informed, we continued down the mountain side and into the “Cloud Forest”.

Although there were no clouds (at least not at first) the transition as we entered the Cloud Forest was clear. You could feel moisture in the warm air and dense vegetation suddenly appeared on each side of the trail. Soon we were enveloped in trees and bushes which created a beautiful and atmospheric walk. Every now and then the foliage would give way to incredible views of the mountains, the most memorable being from the top of Phuyupatamarka where we got our first glimpse of Machu Picchu . There were also some agricultural ruins visible from this summit. These sites are always spectacular as the farms made use of iconic Inca terracing – huge, perfect steps which climb down the mountain.

The walk back down to our campsite, via the ruins of course, was an endless rocky staircase with more of the same leafy vegetation disguising steep drops on one side and the jagged mountain wall on the other. It was the most scenic walk so far, although the steep steps were cruel to our feet. One of our group, a hilariously competitive guy whose name I never learnt, decided to run all the way down. Knowing that this would be the main topic of conversation at dinner that night I was disappointed not to find him crumpled at the bottom of some of the trickier stairs but when we got back I was pleased to find that, in his haste, he had missed the final ruin, WinayWayna, which had an amazing row of thirteen water fountains and the best looking terraces so far.

That night we had a “ceremony” whereby the porters all came and stood uncomfortably in front of us – telling us their names, ages and whether they were married or single (the main guide, Julio, had an irrepressible sleazy streak and enjoyed playing translator/ cupid for the porters and the younger girls of the group. We then handed out tips. It was a bizarre and uncomfortable ceremony for all concerned and I felt bad that Selsa, our own guide, had not been particularly involved. Afterwards we made sure that he knew how grateful we were for his personal tuition and he in turn expressed how lucky he felt to have such receptive students who he was able to be so open with. I got the impression that he didn´t often reveal his religious side so openly and I was glad that he felt comfortable enough to do so with us, particularly as religion is such a key part of understanding the Incas and the reasoning behind these spectacular mountain constructions.

We were also told the plans for the next day. We would be getting up in the middle of the night and walking the 6km to Machu Picchu for sunrise. We asked whether we would have any chance of climbing Huayna Picchu, the mountain which rises over the lost city affording amazing views, Selsa explained that the number of daily visitors is restricted to 400 and these tickets disappear fast. In order to have we would have to move very quickly. We both agreed it was worth a try.
]]> Fri, 03 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=74369 0 -13.2547222 -72.2633333 We arrived five days before the start of our Inca trek which we had booked so many months ago (luckily, because the next available trek was in three months time!) and we stayed in a highly recommended hostel called Loki (we had also stayed in Loki, Miraflores) which was on a steep but utterly beautiful cobbled street overlooking the city. The hostel itself is a beautifully converted 450 year old building and the views are unbelievable, especially considering the fact that we were paying six quid a night. Like Loki in Lima (where we played football, beer poker, etc) the hostel offered a range of activities, an optional evening meal and a noisy bar crowded with young travellers all wearing the same alpaca jumper.

Purely by chance our visit to Cuzco coincided with Inti Raymi, the ancient Inca festival of the winter solstice, and we were greeted with excited crowds and colourful parades featuring costumed dances and elaborate floats with giant models representing Inca legends. Even without this wonderful display, the history of the city is reflected spectacularly in the elaborate colonial architecture of the Spaniards and in the resilient Inca walls and arches which seem to be part of almost every street.

Being invaded by the Spanish and then by the tourists has led to a cosmopolitan, if slightly tragic, new South American city where local women sell their wares outside quirky Irish pubs and the Inca ruins indifferently upstage the grandeur and pomp of the invaders that wiped them out. Beyond the terracotta roofed houses which climb up the hillsides around the city there are a number of Inca sites and our most rewarding outing involved visiting a number of these.

We took a public bus (our first in South America!) up to Tambo Machay where ceremonial water fountains flow out of the stone and are fed by a mysterious hidden channel of unknown origin. We then walked down to Puka Pukara, which offered us amazing views of the region, and Quenqo – where I was told off for climbing up to look at some of the more interesting but admittedly dangerous carvings. I was enjoying wandering around these scenic sites in the mountains but I was not blown away until we got to Saqsayhuaman. Here giant rocks weighing up to 130 tons are fitted together perfectly to form imposing and impressive walls – the stonework is so staggering that apparently the Spanish refused to believe that the Incas could possibly have been capable of such construction and even today there are those who have other worldly theories and explanations. These are people whose hobbies include online gaming and tripping off the local cacti and they are probably best ignored but they do underline the unbelievable feats that the Incas achieved.

The view from Saqsayhuaman is probably the best way of seeing Cuzco in its glorious entirety. We walked home along a cobbled pathway gazing lovingly at the city in front of us until we were once again consumed by its narrow stone streets and the buzz of the celebrations grew louder and louder. With the climax of the festivities the next day, an event which I understood involved most of Cuzco making the journey up to Saqsayhuaman to witness a llama having its heart and lungs torn out by a priest, we decided to have a quiet night – taking part (and winning!) the hostel pub quiz. My only useful contribution was our team name, Inca- pacitated, which I had thought of the day before and was, in truth, the only reason I particularly wanted to take part.

I awoke the next day to find that Josh, in his usual way, had got up ridiculously early and disappeared. He had gone up to the ruins (where the parade would eventually be marching and the final ceremony taking place) five hours early. I had no desire to spend ten hours on a hillside so I was pleased to discover a note on my bed from Nicole, a fun loving self proclaimed pothead from Philly, telling me to meet her in the Plaza de Armas. I headed down there with Mia and spotted Greg, a laid back and hilarious American whose first words upon seeing me were “I thought I´d be able to spot your tall white ass.” It seemed he had also received the same message from Nicole and when she appeared we spent a bit of time watching the strange performances in the Plaza de Armas before following the herd up to the ruins.

The crowds were filtering in constantly and the hillsides were covered in hundreds of local families and a sprinkling of tourists wearing suncream and ridiculous paper hats. Well, we were anyway. We found a spacious spot where we had a decent view and could also stretch our legs out and made ourselves comfortable for an hour or so, eating anything and everything that the numerous sellers brought our way and admiring the colourful spectacle of the colourful crowd blanketing the bold ruins.

Eventually music began to echo around the site and the dancers, soldiers, Inca leaders, princesses and flower throwers arrived in flawless formation and began their elaborate performances. This lasted around 3 hours and although I was impressed by the choreography and energy of the dancers, the crowd provided just as much entertainment. Everyone around us seemed to have a plate full of potatoes with a guinea pig balanced on top, ice cream sellers squabbled over turf and as the crowd grew increasingly dense we found ourselves becoming amusingly intimate with our neighbours and our outstretched legs being gradually pushed back towards us by shuffling Peruvian bums.

Disappointingly the slaughter of the llama was carried out in a suspiciously secretive manner – with people huddling over something and then holding up something which was supposed to be heart or lungs - I wasn´t convinced. I was hoping for a much more gruesome climax but being part of the biggest Inca celebration was nevertheless a memorable privelage. After another evening sampling the alcoholic and musical offerings of Cuzco I retired to bed wondering whether Josh´s early ride and five hour wait on the hill had paid off and provided him with a better view of the llama sacrifice. It hadn´t.

The next day we moved to a fancy hotel which was included as part of our trek and rented some walking boots in order to preserve my disintegrating trainers and my stoic feet. They would, after all, soon be facing their greatest challenge. The Inca Trail.
]]> Thu, 25 Jun 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=73352 0 -6.9833333 -76.4666667 The tourists were not the only thing lacking in this desert - from the top of the mirador we were afforded a vaguely impressive look at what was apparently a tree (I thought it looked more like an inbred octopus) and something else which was either hands or a lizard but appeared to be neither. Slightly disheartened, we climbed a small hill which also promised a better perspective but in fact delivered the opposite. We were looking at nothing but an endless expanse of desert. I had already done this tour. It was still only 7.30am. Eventually we returned to he hostel for breakfast where we studied the Nazca lines in much more detail on a souvenir sugar bowl.

The city of Nazca is nice enough and seemed particularly well maintained after Pisco. Before our evening bus to Cuzco we hung around the streets drinking mate de coca (which I hoped would help with the impending altitude sickness) and spent an hour in the Museo Antolina. The museum was very informative and managed to arouse the enthusiasm towards archaelogy which had eluded me during my scathing analysis of the lines the day before. They even had a scaled down model of the lines so you can wander around them feeling like Gulliver and finally get a sense of their complexity.

Full of tea and anticipation, we got on our bus. This was to be the most arduous journey so far in spite of our coca consumption which continued on the bus in the form of leaves. When we came finally came over the mountains and looked down upon the huge sprawling Inca capital it was a beautiful site to see, even whilst miserably trying to solve the problem of how to shit and throw up at the same time.

Allow me to interrup that image with a more uplifting diversion. So far I am aware that I have represented the effects of altitude in a rather negative light. However, some of the less hysically devastating effects are actually quite funny. Your spongebag, for example, becomes boobytrapped - full of exciting surprises when you next take a shower or brush your teeth. The pressure is such that when you open a sealed container, the contents are often lavishly ejaculated in whichever direction it happens to be facing. My favourite incident so far was when my roll-on deoderant fired its plastic ball at me. The pop of this fragrant little plastic cannon was one of those comedy noises that you don´t imagine actually exist in real life and it made me very happy. Incidentally- with regard to the aforementioned problem on the bus - I managed, after much soul searching and pre-natal style breathing exercises, to keep my bodily fluids to myself.]]> Mon, 22 Jun 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=72790 0 -14.8333333 -74.95 We spent the afternoon being shown around the National Park which was, rather strangely, a desert on the coast. In spite of some beautiful cliffs, this was a bit of a disappointment. By the end of the tour it had become a comedy sketch - the guide taking us from one barren expanse of sand to another and struggling to rouse anything close to interest from even the most dedicated members of the group. Typically the museum was in ruins - another victim, we were told, of the earthquake two years ago. It was shocking to see how little the area had recovered, even in it´s prime tourist spots. The final anticlimax was flamingos - or at least that is what we were assured they were. They were so far away they could easily have been grizzly bears for all I knew, nevertheless we amused ourselves by feigning enthusiasm with other members of the tour.

The next part of our journey took us further South into this desert region. Soon the gentle plains became huge mountainous dunes and we arrived in Ica just as the sun disappeared behind the largest of them. It was a spectacular but also slightly disconcerting site - we were here for the sandboarding and I had no idea the dunes would be so imposing. With this in mind we got some boards the next morning (and a tutor who seemed to just want someone to hang out with) and made our way to one of the smaller dunes to practice falling over and see if we could master the art of minimalising oral sand intake. We had signed up for a dune buggy ride and sandboarding later that afternoon and the idea was that we would do all this in private before we started making fools of ourselves in larger groups.

In fact it was fairly simple to stay up while flying down a sandy slope and although neither of us were able to turn, slow down or have any real control over where we were going, by the time the afternoon came we were confidently surfing down with the best of them.The slopes became increasingly large until we were basically sliding down a mountain of sand from top to bottom in a matter of seconds. We lay on our fronts and used our legs to steer or slow down (although no-one seemed to be interested in either) and shot off at ridiculous speeds, screaming into the distance and shrinking to specks as we reached the bottom.

We were driven around the dunes in a dune buggy and although I hadn´t anticipated this part of the experience to be of any great significance, it turned out to be the highlight. Because we had chosen a later excursion the sun had started setting as we were sandboarding and now, as we hurtled around the dunes, the low orange sun cast beautiful shadows across the immense landscape and we could see the lights of the towns which sit comfily nestled in between the dunes. These tranquil images, particularly that of the palm fringed oasis of Huacachina, were juxtaposed wonderfully with the manic roar of the dune buggy which bounced and skidded as it flew up and down the dunes. It was like being on a really fast, really dangerous rollercoaster - which is, I assure you, a good thing, particularly when you make it safely home to the hostel.

The near death experiences continued into the night - an earthquake disturbing the peace of early morning. True to form, I paid it no attention whatsoever. I was only interested in resting up for some more sandboarding and when I finally woke we rented two snowboards - a progressive step as these are larger, faster and have better control than the wooden boards they give you otherwise. We spent the afternoon climbing up the larger dunes and coasting down again. Josh tired quickly - which I suggested was surely a sign that he should stop getting up early - but I could not stop, I pushed myself to go higher and higher. I was completely addicted.

A sandboarding joke was doing the rounds which I liked because you can pretty much apply it to any sport or hobby. It goes:

What is the hardest part of sandboarding?
Telling your parents your gay.

If I was being pedantic I would point out that actually the hardest part is trudging up the steep sand slopes in the baking hot sun - as much as we enjoyed going down the dunes, summoning the energy to climb them was proving difficult and eventually I had exhausted even my deepest reserves. After two days we were bruised and aching for a new setting. ]]> Wed, 17 Jun 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=71774 0 -14.0869444 -75.765 We stayed there one night and I found myself a local attraction on more than one occasion. During one amusing incident the entire giggling contents of the local girls school emptied out onto the street in front of us. I must confess that I am completely used to this by now and in fact quite enjoy my role as the local freak. I amuse myself by saying hello and conversating with as many embarrassed and giggling people as possible, I even did a few kick ups with a group of local boys who were stunned to see that my remarkable frame was capable of any form of athleticism.

Leaving my fans behind, we climbed aboard an overnight bus to Pisco. This was a rough eight hour journey, the whole bus shook with a deafening rattle and a constant exchange of passengers meant that the lights flicked on and off along with loud music. At 3am someone said something about Pisco and after asleepy and confused exchange with the driver we grabbed our things and jumped off the bus. Everything, that is, but my phrasebook which I discovered had fallen out of my pocket while I had slept. To say I was devastated was an understatement. I felt like I had left my tongue behind.

We checked into a hostel in a run down street and caught up on some sleep. Walking out the next morning I realised it was not simply a bad choice of hostel - the whole of Pisco was in a terrible state. It looked like some sort of apocalyptic nightmare - every building was in a state of disrepair, mangy looking dogs wandered between piles of rubble and bricks in the street. I was amazed that I had not heard anything about this, there was no mention in the guide but I was told that the city had suffered a devastating earthquake two years ago. We wandered around aimlessly (as we tend to do) and booked ourselves on a trip to the nearby Paracas Nature Reserve and Ballestas Islands, which are tiresomely referred to as "the poor mans Galapagos", then we headed back to our hostel and did the only thing there is to do in Pisco - waited to leave.]]> Sun, 14 Jun 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=6097 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=71757 0 -13.7 -76.2166667