The LAST POST of Our first year!

We had arrived in Santiago Airport. Something that, way back when, in our little end terrace in Mickleborough Avenue, Nottingham, seemed like a

Santiago The capitol and the end.

Santiago was yet another bow in the ribbon like country that is possibly one of the most diverse in the world.

Chile is divided in its climate, socially and politically. It is 4,300 km long and 175km wide. In the north, like San Pedro there is desert. In the South like Tierra Del Fuego, Alpine and snow, glaciers fjords and lakes. The centre is Meddeterneanesque. We had finally reached the capitol after having travelled the length and breadth of this country over the past year. Not only was it the capitol but it was our final stop in Latin America, the last place we would be visiting on our year in South and Central America and the fly away point to Australia.

Being a big city, and still scared of having our only hope of getting into Australia stolen, we accepted recommendation and checked into a hotel in the centre. However boardinghouse-like, we felt safe. We would have 3 days here. Apart from all night vigils protecting our belongings, we would do a bit of sightseeing. But not in the usual military manner, we would just wander, chill and visit whatever took our fancy. There are only so many Cathedrals you can see.

Parks and museums, getting cultured again.




Santiago is essentially a very big, bustling city. Being 5th biggest in South America it has its share of traffic, overcrowding, skyscrapers and smog. After reluctantly shopping for new trainers (I loved my old ones) and buying yet more T.shirts for Jez, we stumbled across a really amazing park. Cerro Santa Lucia has striking views across Santiago, beautiful water fountains, waterfalls and monuments cut into the rock. We happened to be there for sunset and it really was special sight. An oasis in the middle of all that bustle.

The Plaza De Armas was a traditional South American Square. Ornate, grand, full of people relaxing in the sun and soaking up the greenery in the midst of art exhibitions and the odd protest.




We had heard that the Museo De Chileno de Arte Precolombino had really a really great exhibition of artefacts found before the 16C when that xenophobic, psychopathic slave trader Colubus arrived. They were incredible. It took us right back to the jungle, busts/heads of indigenous people chewing on their coca leaves. Corridors of priceless Gold and spectacularly designed jewellery, laden with multicoloured stones and precious shells, wood sculptures which looked like totem poles but intricately carved with figures of men and women. All in all there were 11 rooms with 450 pieces of art going from 1250BC until 1532AD and the exhibitions, dedicated to Nazca, Mochica, Huari, Chancay and Inca cultures made it a really nice summary of all we had experienced and learnt in South America.

Will we get to the airport?
We roamed the city killing time before our outrageously timed flight. It was dark when we had to take the elusive bus to the airport that only left from key points hidden from public knowledge. A taxi driver took us to what was meant to be a bus stop but informed us that there was no way we would catch it for another 2 hours and he would have to take us all the way in his car. 15 minutes later, after completely ignoring his protests the bus did in fact come. Clutching our bags like our life depended on it we had never been so happy to be on public transport.

Australia awaited.

Valparaiso and Vina Del Mar
Out of the bus in Valparaiso we avoided the taxi drivers and middle aged women renting their spare bedrooms out and jumped onto the first bus that looked like it was going to town. I knew where I wanted to go, found the place in the book, mentally marked places of reference to show our buses progress, we even asked the conductor to tell us when we got to the right spot and drop us off, there's nothing like a bit of local knowledge. Obviously after all this careful planning we managed to overshoot our stop by several minutes and, Amanda shouting expletives at the useless conductor, we disembarked; Only to have to walk back the way we came to find our hostel. On top of all that we had to climb an enormously steep hill in order to get there. Lucky for us it was one of the nicest places we'd been to for a while, Casa Aventura, big double room, equipped kitchen, free tea and coffee and breakfast in the mornings. Nice staff too, willing to go out of their way to help with info or tips on where to go, what to see.

We could feel the end of our adventure in South America coming to an end, kind of like that pre-christmas snow feeling, muted and content, but sadly heart-rending at the same time. Like there is a tightness in the chest, so innocent that you can hardly feel it, only when you think about it do you remember its there, but its there all the time. Like leaving a lover, or the death of your pet dog it leaves an imperceptible hole in your soul that you only notice out of the corner of your eye.

The Ascensors of Valparaiso
It was sedately then that we started to explore Valparaiso that day. Originally built in the small bay down at the waters edge, the town’s port became so successful that what was a small settlement quickly grew to cover the surrounding hills and valleys too. As a result it’s impossible to go anywhere without feeling your ears pop with the constant ups and downs. Whether for wheelchair friendliness, or just to accommodate the fat rich people, the powers that be have built huge, mechanical "ascensors" up the steepest of the hills, tram-like carriages on rails that are constantly ferrying people up and down to and from the higher levels. We loved these relics of a more decadent past instantly, choosing to ride on them even when we didn't want to go anywhere particularly.





We wandered into the centre of town, and area still mostly dominated by its massive port. Trade has suffered here a great deal since the building of the Panama Canal, they still seemed to have a lot of boats coming and going though, and loads of navy ships just off shore looking impressive and dangerous.





Views to dive for.
The buildings in this town are generally of corrugated iron and wood, painted in all sorts of rich pastel shades. It really is a good looking place, even more so for being slightly shabby, rundown and well past its glory days. The place is obviously on the decline, but yet retains enough of its former glory to stay endearing to the travelling passer by. The Mrs Haversham atmosphere here is like a magnet and source of inspiration to artists and poets from all over the world. The views are exquisite, jumping out at you as you turn unawares around corners. Not only out to sea, also inland across colourful rooves and undulating hills. There are also random murals spread around the town, paintings and abstract designs in the parks, walls covered in colour. Most of the better murals are painted in a certain area (up a particularly steep hill). They are apparently famous worldwide. We took a walk around, looking at the various churches, funkily designed park benches, vistas, and stylish plant pots, eventually arriving at one of Pablo Nerudas old houses, "La Sebastiana". Neruda is (was) South Americas most celebrated poets, he lived in Santiago but, being one of the few poets to actually make loads of cash before he died, he had houses all over the place. This one in particular is built on the edge of a steep cliff, four stories tall it is crammed with the physical expressions of the poets mind. He married an artist and shared the house with a builder friend, quite a combination for interior decoration. Consequently there are huge windows looking out over the city, interesting nooks and crannies housing amongst other things a bar (Neruda is credited with inventing his own cocktail) and a toilet with a see through door. The walls sport murals and collages depicting scenes of the sea, sailors and the history of the town. One room has a massive open fireplace in the middle and a porcelkain dog like Joey's in Friends. Very cool. I especially like the study, like a scene from Harry Potter.

The bath, after Jez has used it





Vina del Mar
We woke up early the next day and boarded the train to Vina Del Mar, a more touristy resort about half an hour down the coast. I love taking trains to places, they don't have nearly enough trains in South America. Unlike Valparaiso, Vina del Mar sports beaches, touristy shops, an actual shopping centre and pretty ice cream stalls. We were quite literally out for a day trip to the beach. Being a holiday resort town, they have bigger more expensive hotel complexes, like the Hotel Del Mar, where
I couldn't even afford a bed on the lawn.




Forcing my girlfriend to buy clothes.
We wandered down to the beach, found a nice bakery to get some lunch from and bought a milkshake. Then, as we were very soon to fly out to Oz, I dragged a reluctant Amanda through some shops to try and get her some new clothes. Unlike most girls, Amanda hates shopping and can never commit to buying anything. She is far more likely to look for four hours, get in a mood because she "can't find anything", or there's "nothing that will fit me". I have stood in shops with about 3 square miles of floorspace, all covered in racked clothes with Amanda saying, "theres nothing here". I wasn't going to put up with this today. I forced her to try stuff on, then, after returning to the same shops for the third time I just sent her out and put what I wanted her to have on the card. She needed more clothes and if she decided to buy them when we got to Oz the prices would tripple.

Shopping done, laden with new bags, happy and tired, we got the train back to Valparaiso, found a supermarket and bought eggs for an omlette. Time was running short. Where before we'd counted what we had left in months, then weeks, now we worked in mere days. Due to go off to Santiago tomorrow, the last place before Australia, we had a drink that night, we were sad/happy, one adventure was almost over, another was about to begin.

Pinochet.
That night we found some people talking about Pinochet, the guy who looks like the harmless old man living next door, but is actually a psycho dictator type, hell bent on ethnic cleansing and mass population control. His 17 year rule started in 1973 after the bloodiest coup in the history of South America, a continent not averse to bloody military coups. He rampaged through the rest of the 70's and 80's, finally leaving power in 1990 with a legacy of over 3000 dead and many many more missing. Since then Chile has become Latin Americas fastest growing economy, the effects of his misrule are almost invisible. Perhaps thats why the Chillean people seemed to be so reluctant to talk about it. If you didn't know it happened you could easily believe that this country had been at peace for years and years. After he was taken into the open arms of another evil polititian (Margaret Thatcher) I heard that he was trying to claim that he was medically unable to stand trial. At the moment he is back in Chile, the supreme court having decided that this is rubbish. I hope they throw the book at him, preferably a big heavy book at that, with spikes on it.

The next day we waited for our bus to the capital by wandering around the town one last time, after a quick lunch at the hostal we picked up our bags, now far heavier than they should be, and said goodbye to Valparaiso. Last stop, Santiago...

Chiloe. Island of ghost ships, goblins,witches and sheep.
It did have to happen really. If you go through 12 months in South and Central America escaping any form of theft it would be a miracle. We had been lucky so far but to be robbed in the last 2 weeks was heart breaking. At least we had our passports. Later we found out that Australian Working holiday Visa’s have numbers on them directly associated with the passport you had when you applied. We would not have been allowed the visas for Australia if they were stolen! At the VERY last minute I moved mine from the bag that was stolen!

Chiloe was booked and we were going to explore the island.




Our Chiloe Posse.
We were picked up by the company outside of our hotel and after a quick tour of the local ports and fish factories in Puerto Mont we were on the car ferry within no time. It was a wet, windy, cold and foggy day. We stood out on the deck and gazed at the water, not being able to see far, dazed and pensive. A sea lion with a baby followed our ferry, and as we watched them play our minds were diverted a little bit and we became excited about the day ahead. It was time to meet the rest of our group and put a smile on our faces.

Chiloe is the second largest island in Chile, second to Tierra Del Fuego of course. Charles Darwin apparently ‘discovered’ the island in 1567 but dismissed it as forlorn and deserted. When the Spanish were colonising the country they got as far as Chiloe but the Mapuche Indian warriors turned them away. The island was cut off for 200 years and supposedly relied on a ship once a year sent from the Viceroyalty in Lima. I personally don’t think they relied upon anything. There is a huge traditional culture of subsistence farming, fishing and woollen handicrafts.

The local's Livelihood



The people built amazing houses and churches. Made from the native Alerse tree, 9 of the churches are protected national monuments. Distinctive by the wooden shingles designed to protect them from the rain they are decorative and unusual and certainly a symbol of this mystical island.

Traditional wooden shingle houses.


Chiloe’s mystical legends.
There are many many legends and mystic tales to be told about this place. Settling into a cabin on the shores of the island, sat by the roaring open fire, wrapped in blankets, listening to stories told by the locals, so friendly and happy to relate what they have grown up believing in, eating curanto, the freshest of fish, would be the real way to experience Chiloe. We were told different versions of the story whilst on the island but these explanations from www.chiloeweb.com/chwb/chiloeisland, by far explain them the best.

La Pincoya.
“This goddess of extraordinary beauty personifies the spirit of ocean and shore. The abundance or scarcity of the marine harvest depends upon this lovely creature.

Pincoya rises from the depths of the sea, half-naked, draped in kelp and dances on beaches or wave tops. When facing the open sea in her dance there will be an abundant harvest of seafood. However if she turns her face towards the land there will be a want of food.
If the scarcity is prolonged due to the absence of Pincoya it is possible to entice her back by magic ceremonies conducted by witches or magicians.

Pincoya is so beautiful, sensual and attractive that she makes fish swim with their mouths open.

Pincoya comes to the aid of shipwrecked islanders and at times fishermen come across her amongst the rocks combing her long red or blond hair” She is aid to entice them into the sea.

El Traucho.
A deformed and ugly dwarf with course and swollen features, roughly dressed with a conical cap. His feet are mere stumps, his voice only grunts, he carries a stone axe or wooden club called "Pahueldún". He lives in the forest and possesses superhuman strength. With his little stone axe he can fell any tree, no matter how large or hard, in only three strokes. He walks with the aid of "Pahueldún". He is usually found seated between the trees weaving his clothes of bark.
He likes to chase and attack women with the intention of stealing their virginity. Despite his repugnant appearance, he engenders an irresistible attraction in the hearts of young girls and inspires erotic dreams. Once aroused, the girls arise and leave home, searching for him in the woods. With one look he seduces them, they fall to the ground whereupon he ravishes them.

If anyone tries to bother him he throws them into the air turning them rigid with deformed hands, arms and legs, killing them with his glance or leaving them to die within the year.

The legends are a plenty and apparently if you ask any local they will be happy to tell any one of them. They have used these tales to entice tourists to the island, some making a living by selling their woollen hats, scarfs and finely made coats. You bloody need them in that cold!

The wool from which the hats come!



Others sell handicrafts based on creatures such as Brujos, who have a secret society on the island. To become one, one must perform evil acts, even killing a family member to acquire magical powers. Brujos can fly, wearing the vest made out of the skin of a virgin worn inside out. Who wouldn’t buy a leather key ring of a witch to remember Chiloe by!

Chiloe really reminded us of home. Places like Dartmoor and Wales. It was all the myths, certainly it was because of the climate….more specifically rain, but it was the type of rain and the smells. However, even if that passport had gone, it would be a long time until we saw England again.

Admiring the fort in Ancud



On the ferry heading back to Puerto Montt, the scene of the crime, Jez’s face suddenly went opaque. I said to him “ what was I the bag?”. After much persuasion and realisation that saving it till when the trip had ended would not be a possibility, he told me, it was all the Cd’s of our photographs. Normally this would not be a problem, I have copies. On this ONE occasion, most of them were together and it was the bottom had fallen out of our world.

Facing up to reality. How many photographs of the last 12 months were stolen?
We nearly ran to our bedroom from the minibus but were scared of what
we would find when we checked our rucksacks for the missing CD's.
There was a slight chance that Jez could have been mistaken but that
chance was not to be.

In that bag was:
The bag itself, a present from Jez's Dad.
15 Cd's, over 3000 photos from 10 different countries.
Mini Speakers that Andy had bought us.
Our travel towel.
A special flask that Manjit and Dawn bought us.
Jez's favourite naughty T.shirt.
The mobile phone charger.
All of our toiletries, tablets and potions.
Jez's spare glasses and prescription sunglasses.

Other things we have either lost or had stolen on this trip:Our travel plug, left in a hotel room in Brazil.
1 pair of shoes left in a hotel restarant in San Juan Del Sur, Venezuala.
1 sleeping bag left on a bus to El Calafate.
I special torch/head lamp, a present from Steven and Sarah stolen in
the Salt hotel by our guide.
Two battery chargers left in hotel rooms.
Many toothbrushes and toothpastes.
Jez;s coat, stolen from the Spanish school in Antigua.
Jez's dive cards and credit cards, stolen in Peru.
Jez's spare pair of prescription sunglasses, pickpocketed in Bolivia.
100 dollars given away in a book by Amanda. (by accident)
Our 35mm pocket camera, under Igazu falls.
100 dollars given away in a book by Amanda. (by accident)
Our 35mm pocket camera, under Igazu falls.

Thankfully, for some reason that he canot remember, Jez copied
photogaphs onto his Mums computer when he went home for Stephen and
Sarah's wedding. The first thing we did was email her to ask 1) if
they were still there and 2) could she keep them for us. Waiting for
an answer was like am eternity. We also mailed Andy to ask him if he
had any copies, needless to say, 5 months later we still have had no
reply. The intensity of sadness was literally gutting.

Help from the lonely planet web forum
My spirit guides sent me an idea. Post a help message onto the Lonely
Planets chat forum and ask anyone if they could retrieve pictures
hidden on hard drives right through from Mexico to Bolivia.(a thing
that Jez just does) Within 3 hours I had recieved 11 responses and all
of them awaiting further instructions as to the whereabouts of the
computers and where the files were hidden. Complete strangers
restoring our faith in humanity. In Chilie one person had gained some
smelly socks by robbing us and across South America other people of
all nationalities were willing to give their spare time to help a
fellow traveller in their moment of anguish. It made
it all better.Thank you to all those people in the world that can be
as selfless and make such a difference.

Hearts lifted we just wanted to get out of Puerto Montt and onto
Santiago and get into Australia without having anything else stolen.
Our passports have never
been so precious and we guarded them like our life depended on it.

Puerto Montt. Not a great welcome to Chilie.

The bus ride from Bariloche to Puerto Montt turned out to be a joy. We were aware that a new Australian adventure was just hiding around the corner and or time in South America was drawing to a sighing end. Sad as this was, our spirits were lifted high as we drove through the primeval forest that separates the far south of Argentina and Chile. Surrounded by huge evergreen trees, all lightly dusted with snow and teeming with animal life. I half expected a Grizzly Adams type character to come lumbering through the brush, bear in tow, to stop the bus for a ride to his log cabin.

Taking the backpackers option through the lake District.
Through the lake district we drove, having decided not to take the boat trip offered by most tour agencies for the knockdown price of US$300, although I’m sure it would have been lovely, boating across the lakes, we chose the more economical way of bussing it between them. We figured if we took the bus we could see them just as well through the windows. Besides, the boat trip took two days at this time of year from Bariloche boating across Lago Nahuel Huapi, Lago Fris and Lago Todos Los Santos always with the impressive Osorno Volcano looming to the left. We got the same views, and less of the sea sickness.

The border formalities were loads easier than arriving from the Bolivian side, I guess they grow less cocaine here, also the fact that we were’nt trying to smuggle psychotropic substances through might have made a difference to our state of relaxation. Within a few hours we were in Chile one again and possibly for the last time. A relatively affluent country, there was little difference this time in the state of the roads or buildings we sped past on the way.

After a few hours we arrived in Puerto Montt, Chile is a funny place, a bazillion miles from top to bottom, a stones throw from East to West. At any point in the country you can be back in Argentina on a quick bus, to get to the other end of the coutry you’re in though might take days.

The bus station from Hell.
The bus station itself was a dump, as usual in the dodgiest end of town. Puerto Montt's main industries have taken a bit of a hammering of late and there is big unemployment and corruption, so the dodgy end of town is very dodgy. Alternately guarding the bags Amanda and I took turns to wander around the bus and tour companies looking for a tour to what we’d heard was the magical island of Chiloe, and trying to book the bus out of here afterwards. Eventually we managed to do both. When I returned from my final fact finding mission however something was wrong. Amanda was sat, as she does, guarding the bags, her rucksack, mine, her daysack and another bag containing all our thermal understuff… As we loaded up I felt a particular lightness where my day sack should have been. Some sticky fingered, thieving scumbag had walked away with it. Obviously he/she must have sat near them, then waited for a moment when whoever was guarding them turned their heads and moved in. Quite daring really with everyone else milling about in the station. Of course I went around to speak to people nearby. Of course no one saw anything. I ran outside, up and down the road, checking everybody out, looking for my bag… without it we wouldn’t even be able to clean our teeth that night.

I'd rather take Disneyland.
All this time in South America and Central America. All those places dodgy enough to make Puerto Montt look like Disneyland and, within our last two weeks on the continent we get robbed. Maybe we let our guard down a little too early. We’d had a couple of close calls, in Ecuador, where I actually caught the buggers before they managed to get away, and in Bolivia where Amanda, super sleuth, solved the case of the missing ring. This was it though. This was us being robbed. Thinking about all the people who we’d met who’d had their whole rucksacks nicked, been swindled out of their cameras and MP3 players or held up and beaten up by desperate men I suppose we’d been lucky to only lose what relatively unimportant things that had got nicked, rechargers, wires, toothbrushes, cd’s (that, thank God we turned out to have copies of) and some spare glasses when I am planning to have laser eye surgery in Oz anyway.

Obviously Amanda didn’t look at it like that. I had to literally half carry her to our hotel, then go back and book the Chiloe tour and bus tickets alone. She was distraught. Tears one minute, anger the next. It’s the impotence that hurts most I think, not necessarily the violation, they didn’t break into our house and rifle through our undies, just took something that is ours, and there is nothing we can do about it. Your mind turns to what ifs, what if I’d turn around, what if I’d kept my hands on the bags… My mind specifically turned to what I would do to the scumbag if I ever caught him, I found myself walking down the street on the way to the police station looking for people with my bag on their bag. Could it have been him, could it have been her. It really plays with your head when it happens. The police were really nice, sorry it happened and all that. I asked him if this happened a lot, apparently they get about about 100 tourists a day robbed in peak season. Yes, ONE HUNDRED EVERY DAY. This was a small town, no wonder they’d finally managed to get away with one of our bags, they have their trade honed to a fine art.

We filled out the requisite forms (and are still, 6 months later waiting for a glimmer of hope from our not so quick insurance agency STA) and went off to the local mall for some shopping therapy. A big beastie hot dog or two made me feel a little better. I don’t see myself letting my guard down again in a hurry though. Amanda was completely paranoid for weeks afterwards, I have a chain that goes around all the bags now whenever we sit down long enough to be noticed. What a world eh…

Snowboarding for beginners.




Attempting to remove the worm.
Somewhere in Bolivia I think, probably in the heart of the damp, green Amazon, something bad happened to me. I don’t have a clue what it was, maybe a canny, hungry six legged beastie, maybe a rusty nail, who knows? Whatever it was I got to Bariloche sporting a nasty bump on my side. It was purple and an angry red, and it was growing. In order not to panic unduly, I booked an appointment with a doctor at a private clinic in town. For good measure Amanda booked in too to check up on her ulcer. The pills we got from Nicaragua lessened the problem for her but hadn’t gotten rid of it. We were afraid it might be one of those bacterial ulcers that just keep coming back again and again, she was due a blood test after our snowboarding and I was due a dose of insect repellent.

So Thats what a snow board looks like!





We were planning to leave the slopes a little earlier than on our ski day for the removal of my worm, we would also avoid the annoying queues on the way home. We could be forgiven then for wanting to get straight into it as soon as we arrived. The day started out well. There were far less students there on our return trip. We managed to get organised and up the mountain a good half an hour quicker than the previous day. The queue for boots and board was correspondingly smaller too. Fully laden we waited outside, feet like blocks of ice, hands clenched in the cold, looking expectantly for our instructor.

Time passed and passed……
It appeared that he was still at the bottom, with no knowledge of our lesson, we seemed to be the only ones booked in for snowboarding that day and no-body had bothered to tell him. Amanda went quickly into Spanish expletive mode whilst I urgently told the other instructors our position, namely that we had very little time and didn’t appreciate having nothing to do with it. He stared back through his designer wrapround shades impassively, what expression I could see said “yeah… what do you want me to do about it?” Being too cool for school didn’t impress me too much, Amanda boosted into overdrive and it turned a little ugly. Eventually we got hold of a guy with a radio and managed to contact our instructor who, an hour and a half late, rushed up full of apologies for our situation, which as it turned out was none of his fault.

Our first ever snowboarding lesson.



Getting straight into it we spent very little time on the less than baby slope, conscious as he was of our encroaching deadlines. Before we knew it we’d zipped through the formalities, “this is your board, there are many like it but this one is mine…” and started to hurtle uncontrollably downhill. I loved it, getting the hang of the main skill, not falling on your arse, quite quickly. Amanda got a little stuck at the getting off your arse in the first place stage and had to be helped up to the vertical every time she wanted to go. After a couple of hairy moments I started to feel comfortable, able to go all the way down our slope without falling over, more importantly I could also get back up on the death-trap ski-lift beast. Amanda however was having less fun. After our time was up, our instructor told us we were ready to go out on our own, wiping a proud tear from his eye, and Amanda went back to the equipment shed to swap her board for a pair of skis.





Exhausted, we sat on a comfy lump of snow to eat the sandwiches that I had fallen on fifteen times that day. They still tasted alright. As our time ran out we got in that one last run, Amanda looking like she was born with skis on (ouch!), and me, trying to look cool. As we joined the much smaller queue for the way down we took in the views all around us, the lake sparkling in the late afternoon sun, the white haired old mountains and the skiers zipping around underneath us. This was definitely the life. I don’t know if Amanda wants to go skiing again, I certainly want to try out my snowboarding legs at some time.

Like a duck to water



Off to the doctors.
We reached the bus stop all too quickly and started out towards home. I had time for a quick wash, then rushed out for the doctors, who diagnosed me with a local infection, nothing to worry about, take this antibiotic cream and everything will be ok. Amanda found out that her ulcer is caused by factors other than bacteria, which I think is good, though I’m not sure.

That cheese thing.
Feeling much better about my ever expanding egg, we went out that night, first for a couple of beers with some of the many people we met in our funky hostel, then to a restaurant. Not just any restaurant mind you, this night we were after the food Bariloche is second famous for (after chocolate)… FONDUE!!!

Every time we went walking through town, looking for chocolate, ski wear, new batteries or just looking (but mostly for chocolate) we’d pass these expensive looking restaurants selling fondue s their main attraction. I’d never partaken of a gooey cheese dip dinner before and quite frankly didn’t see what all the fuss could possibly be all about. Amanda on the other hand was keen to do as the locals do. So, as a reward for all our hard skiing, and to make us both feel better about being cripplingly ill because of our travels, we went and found our restaurant. Very posh it was, so we ordered loads of local wine, and a big bowl of cheese with dips. I was literally expecting a load of melted cheese, I wasn’t prepared for what came. Plates of veggies, bread and stuff, all around this beautiful cheese and wine type sauce… Not cheese on its own after all. You learn something new every day. It was lovely; definitely something I’d do again. Though, next time I might have the chocolate one.

Don’t Cry for me Argentina.
Sadly, we had to say goodbye to Argentina the following morning. I love Argentina, the places you can go there are incredible, some of the most stunning scenery in the world, and some of the nicest people. Definitely somewhere to go back to one day.

Loaded up with stuff for Australia, huge boxes of chocolate, Amanda’s cumulative shopping sprees, arctic weather thermal gear and beach wear alike, we sadly headed off to our last bus station of Argentina and sat, despondently on our bags. Through the beautiful forests of the Torres Del Paige, our next stop was our final country, Chile, yet again. We’d made it this far… what could possible go wrong with only a couple of weeks to go?

Masters of the slope?!?

Bariloche. Town of Chocolate, skiing, snowboarding and fondue.




Leaving Mendoza we sat back in our front seat position on the top of a particularly comfy bus and started to relax. Next stop Bariloche, by all accounts a very cool place in the South of Argentina. Set on the shores of the huge Lake Nahuel Huapi it is one of those small towns that still use the traditional wooden steep rooved houses you’ll find on Swiss postcards. Arriving in the daylight after a pretty good overnighter is a fairly rare thing on our travels. Mostly we sleep fitfully whilst my knees are agony and Amanda needs the loo, only to arrive in the dead of night in the dodgiest area of town possible. Straight into a cab we took the advice of the first tout we saw, a nice short plump lady who directed us to the “room 1004” hostel so named because it was situated in a tower block, the particular room the had been allocated to run their business from was in this room! As soon as we arrived we knew it was the right decision. The place was on the 9th or 10th floor with a big open common room, open fires to ward off the chill, books, groovy people, A BATH no less than two kitchens and, most impressively of all an incredible view out across the lake to the snowy white topped mountains in the distance.

The view from our bed!



Chocolate heaven.
After running around our new pad excitedly for a while going “wow!” at all the funky things they had we went for a little walk to “discover” the town. Apart from an incredible setting, Bariloche has everything going for it. The air was the texture of a proper Christmas, cold and crisp, the streets were lit like winter nights are supposed to be and there were happy people out. All the buildings in the centre were pretty, most of them businesses catering for the skiing, tourist and chocolate trade… that’s right, chocolate. Bariloche is famous for its sweet dairy confectionaries. Every third shop window displays rows and rows of home made bars, nutty, fruity, alcoholy, naughty. Pretty much every day I tried a new flavour. Amanda found her favourite and stuck to it. What an amazing place. We actually spent a good hour in a queue one day just to get more from the very special shop ‘ Mamuuschka’. Very much worth the wait.

After a days worth of chilling out, using the BATH (a major luxury when all you’ve had are mostly cold drippy showers for the last 11 months) and general chocolate scoffing, we decided to go skiing. The other great thing about Bariloche is that it costs next to nothing to ski. We went out to find a suitable ski school (cheap but good), hired our gear and looked up the bus times to the mountain. Yes you can take a bus to the bottom of the slopes here, its great. In all it was only going to cost us about twenty quid a day to do ski lessons, then, if we felt up to it, snowboarding lessons the next day.




Off to the slopes of Cerro Cathederal.
Up at the crack of dawn we got dressed in our warm clothes, bleary eyed after a traditional night in a hostel that involves much alcohol! Luckily we were still lugging the thermals and hats we tooled ourselves up with for the climb up Huayna Potosi. I knew it would come in handy sooner or later. Like Michelin Men we hobbled down to the bus stop and stood in a queue with many other similarly garbed folk. Some in obviously hired stuff like ours, others in brand named, brand new snowboarding kit.

Eager to learn



I only hope they can stay vertical on the downhill bits. It gets a little slippy up there so I’ve heard. Our bus came, already chokka full of skiers, we had to stand up all the way. This did nothing to dampen our excitement though. We found our agency and, along with a group of other novice skiers we headed off towards the lifts. None of them were 8 year olds, we seemed to have booked onto the right lesson, our instructor looked competent, big bum swaying confidently as she slalomed off the chair. Things were looking good so far.




The ski lift was freezing, no other word for it. After the third section our hands and feet were like blocks of ice. Then we had to queue for about half an hour in the snow for our skis and boots, which were inevitably freezing. No matter, the effort of getting back up after falling over for the twelfth time soon warmed us up.




Going it alone
Lined up, facing each other in two rows we skied backwards and forwards on what couldn’t even be termed a baby slope. For Amanda this was a brand new experience, she wobbled at first, fell over once, but got the hang of it amazingly quickly. I was very impressed. I had skied before, many years ago in France so I just needed a refresher course. We were both feeling a lot more confident very quickly. After a couple of hours we took a break. I went straight to the next biggest slope. No easy one mind you, and found my proper ski legs again. Amanda had a go and decided to go back to the lesson for a while to learn how to turn. She picked that up amazingly quickly though and was soon joining me cutting a swathe through the piste.

It was a glorious day all told. The sky was a brilliant blue, we were so high up I felt like I could reach out and touch it. A couple of puffy white clouds tried valiantly but eventually failed to get a foothold. Laid out before us was the most beautiful scenery. Lakes, valleys and pearly topped crags. The air was wonderfully fresh, like mother nature intended. Gradually we peeled off a couple of layers and started to look less stay puffed marshmallow, more chiselled ski buff. I was particularly impressed with Amanda, she’d picked it up like a natural, found her balance in no time at all. Soon she had also left the lesson to fly free.

We skied till the lifts were about to close. Then, with sore muscles we never knew existed, we slowly made our way through the queues to the bottom. A couple of warm doughnuts later and we were on the bus back to town. An amazing day. The following morning was booked in for the snowboarding lessons, I couldn’t wait.

Mendoza. Vineyards and fine Argentinean wine.




Another Andesmar overnight bus trip later, we arrived, tired and ready
for a shower in Mendoza at the foot of the Andes. We had both agreed
that we would pick a hostel that was recommended by the Footprints
guide, find it, visit it and then take the room. But…… it was like we
had entered a chapel. There were 'Silence' signs everywhere and our
bedroom would have been right next to the reception. Wall to wall. The
man hated us when we said we wouldn't be staying and because of his
attitude, even if there was no where else in town, we wouldn't be
going back.

Being introduced to the Park Life.
Familiar story, Jez left me with the bags and went on room hunt. Not
as familiar, I sat on a bench, under an intricately designed metal
bandstand, in the middle of a small tree flanked park, watching the
weekly antiques fair. It was beautiful. When Jez came back he was
excited, not only had he found the perfect hostel with an open air
heated pool and jacuzzi, BBQ and pool tables but he was very happy
with our choice of town for a few days. He had stumbled upon 4 main
squares, each of them with a local craft market on and live music. We
had also arrived on their Independence day, which was excellent in
terms of community comradery and high spirits but as we found out
later, not so great for making more purchases from the very wide, very
modern, potentially very cheap high street. The only shop that was
open was the tour agency with whom we wanted to visit the wine
bodegas. Lucked out yet again.

We now know every shop window ( they never did open) in Mendoza, were
locals of the Liverpool pub for a couple of nights and made many trips
to the markets in the park to make sure we would have our fair share
of matte cups when we eventually return to England.

Intensive Wine Tour experience.





Argentina produced the first wines in 1554 and they are now one of the
world's major producers. Italian immigrants introduced vineyards and
now Mendoza alone has 100's of bodegas. After being taken to a local
church which was closed so we couldn't go in and then across the road,
where the tour guides tried to force as many people as possible to buy
some ceramic lamps made by the octogenarian couple who had run the
business for their whole lives, we eventually reached the bodega.
Competent as we may be in Spanish, we are not up on all the vocabulary
associated with wine making and were promised an English guide. No
apology was given by anyone for the lack of one, just looks of
contempt as we made our own little tour. Looking at the machinery at
our own pace, wandering around the vineyards and almond trees,
investigating the beehives, it was like we were the English scum who
thought we could snub the group. Only the 15 year olds who had been
dragged along unwillingly by their parents understood. Together we
sampled more and more of the Merlot and the Chardonnay, pretended to
be interested in the way a good wine would cling to the glass when
swirled around and learnt about the smells and flavours and what they
represented. The owners of this little outfit were simply too posh. It
was obvious we were not going to be buying in bulk for our daughters
wedding, so we were not the ones to impress. Half cut and laden with
stickers from a 'special' No Entry permitted to the public section of
their little outfit, we were now set to go away and make our own wine.
All we needed was the know-how.

The best bit. Huge carriers full of the stuff.




Now this was fun. Even if we did mess about with all the equipment,
nobody was following us to care! We dressed up in the staff's outfits
and played 'an hour in the life of Argentinean wine makers'. More wine
tasting, and a bit more and a bit more, red and white this time, all
attemps at remaining adult like till the end went out of the window.
Like a pair of 12 year old's, doing a Neil and trying to drink back
the price of the tour, we joined the teenagers at the back of the bus
and showed ourselves up a bit! We had achieved what we had come to
Mendoza for, a little bit of Argentinean culture. We however didn't
behave very cultured ourselves. Some days, it just doesn't matter.
With 2 more weeks of out first year away to go, we have certainly
learned that life is not all about keeping up appearances!

Salta, the cosmo capital of south America.

In accordance with tradition, and in line with South American bus company policy, we arrived in Salta well into the night. Thirstily passing immanently closing coffee shops and cafes we hopped straight in to a taxi, spurred on by a tout at the bus stop straight to our very posh hotel. The room they tried to fob us off with was tiny, right next to the main entrance and stuffy as hell. We asked to moved and ended up in a much better room, cable TV, en-suite, the lot. Happy and hungry we stepped out onto the main square, a stones throw from our new place and found the only café open past midnight. This was to prove a great find as we had breakfast here every morning we were in town. The coffee was lovely and Amanda was happily reintroduced to her favourite “submarino”, a hot chocolate drink that comes as a glass of hot milk with a bar of chocolate you are supposed to chuck in and stir.

Amanda gets that gleam in her eye.Up bright and late we spent our first day wandering around Saltas centre looking through the million shops and arcades they have. The weather was sunny with wall-to-wall blue skies. Amanda was on a hunt for new clothes. We were getting conscious that soon we would be flying to Australia, a country with much higher price tags on everything. Due to distinct losses in waistlines and much wear and tear on our tie-dye kaftans we were in need of a new wardrobe. A familiar glint appeared in Amanda’s eyes half way through the day so I left her (with a credit card!) to get on with it. Walking around the town I was struck by the Mediterranean vibe it gave off.

The city gleams.
The buildings were very European, set around a main central square, trees fighting with the outside cafes that littered the area for space. The Cathedral was unobtrusive but impressive nonetheless, and blended in like it grew there the way great architecture should. I fell for this place immediately. I liked the people's sunny disposition, the way they all sat around on the grass at lunchtime, the western-ness of the place with an indescribable Argentinean flavour. At midday all the shops closed for a three-hour siesta. Amanda, having to take an enforced break, came to say hello as I entrenched myself in a local Internet café to send a massive amount of photos to Stephen and catch up on the blog writing. She hadn’t bought anything at this time; it being a woman’s prerogative to look through all the clothes shops for five hours before deciding what she really wants is a pair of shoes. Later that afternoon she was going back into the fray for among other things a bag, shoes, a pair of jeans, a new belt and a partridge in a pair tree.

Not really knowing our next port of call we wandered into a few travel agents to find the prices of flights or bus journeys south. The distances here are enormous. We wanted eventually to get to Bariloche in the Pategonian highlands, but as it was a ridiculous distance away the flight prices reflected this, coupled with the fact that they diverted through Buenos Aires. We ummed and Aah’d for a good half an hour over taking the plane, but eventually our wallets won and we booked the bus. After that all that was left to do was go to the internet café again for an hour of Warcraft 3 while Amanda went out on the hunt again.

Our second day in Salta was about as energetic as the first. Amanda bought some jeans, had them taken up by a local tailor and then decided she didn’t like them. She also bought a bag, sone boots, a belt and a couple of tops. Clearly no thought had gone into the fact that none of these things were possibly going to ever fit into her bag. By the end of the day my rucksack was groaning like a fat post Christmas uncle every time I tried to move it. Getting to the bus station was going to be a trial.

That old devil the cows foot mug.
Salta for me was probably the nicest town we’d been to so far in the whole of South America. I found the centre to be delightful, the weather was not too hot, not too cold and I loved the café culture they had. If I had to move to South America, this place would be very near the top of my list for places to live. We wandered slowly through the indoor markets looking through the innumerable products the Argentineans are able to make from a cow, looking for a hoof mate cup for Amanda’s brother. We very nearly threw taste to the wind and bought one… but changed our minds, they really were disgusting.

All too soon though the morning dawned for the start of our great journey south. Just about managing to drag my rucksack to the pavement outside the hotel we got into the cab with the best looking suspension and headed to the bus stop. The first leg was an all day and all night run to Mendoza, Argentina’s most famous wine making region. We had no idea what to expect when we got there but were excited at least by the fact that there was free food on the bus, and even a movie. Trust me, life doesn’t get much better when you’re that easily pleased.

The valley of the moon.





We paid 4'000 peso's, 5US and about 3 pounds to one of the many tour
agencies running daily trips into the national park. Happy not to
mention the possibility of stumbling upon atitanic mines lest you
stray off the path, we made our first stop at Death Valley. Nobody can
live here and many people have died trying to cross it. Natural
sculptures impress across the landscape and actually being able to
have enough time to reach the middle would have been great. Next we
hunted for slat crystals in an old salt mine (highly frowned upon) and
eventually, just before sunset, we were dropped off at Big Dune. If we
could make it to the top the view promised to be spectacular.

We should have remembered not to be deceived by apparent steadiness of
sand dunes. Climbing them is harder then navigating thick thick snow
and stamina is needed. Not a great challenge but reaching the perfect
spot would make the trip. 2 smiling security guards later, stopping
people from climbing the Dune from more than one angle ( natural
wonder: national park: paying guests: rules) we positioned ourself to
watch.

As the sun gradually dipped it cast a spell over the valley and one by
one the volcanos were out to sleep. From their tip to their base they
joined the sand dunes and the sacred rock formations in relecting
mesmorisingly dramatic reds and oranges celebrating their years of
life in this dry, barren, empty and mystical place.

Not a place for modern man.

The mini bus was quiet on the way home.

From Bolivain salt flats to Chilean Desert.
Smuggling mind altering substances through the border.

Way way back in Peru, whilst meandering through the produce market in
Miraflores, Lima, a stallholder approached us, offering to sell us
coca leaves. If you read our blog regularly, you will know that these
are a widely accepted 'drug', legal in Peru and Bolivia. Leaves are
heavily used by the locals in some cases because they are free if you
know where to find them. They suppress appetite as eating a lot is not
a luxury some can afford and others like to heighten their mood to
take away problems of every day life. For locals coca is a tradition,
a way of life. For tourists it is another thing to try. Happy that we
were about to secure this experience, we paid our 50p and as we were
about to walk away to see how many leaves she had decided to give us
for the pleasure, she quickly motioned us to follow her deeper inside
the market. Once cosily sat amongst pungent smells and funny shaped
plants, she asked us if we had ever heard of the San Pedro Cactus.

San Pedro cactus.
Just the very night before at Friends House hostel, an Irish couple
had told us tales of this cactus. It is a completely natural powder
derived from the Atacama Desert cacti. It is traditionally used in
Shamanic trances and healing rituals, more modernly sought after by
backpackers for its hallucinogenic qualities. When the skin is peeled
and dried, its made into powder and consumed. Well for another 50p,
when you're in South America…do as they do. And so sought after…….

We had carried this around for 3 months. If we were to try it, it
would have to be the right place. As we got closer and closer to
Chile, we knew it should be there. Taking it back to its roots as it
were.

Foot and Mouth Paranoia.
The trip from the end of our tour of the salt Flats to the Chilean
border was about 20 smelly, tired, minutes. This was also the amount
of time we had to decide whether to take the cactus back to its home
town, the Chilean government not allowing any natural products
through. Even coca leaves are illegal!!! Throw it or smuggle it?
We got there and watched every bag being searched. I had visited an
Ecuadorian jail and the Chileans were supposed to be more 'western' in
their approach. This is not necessarily a good thing. Sod it! Having
been to the toilet there was only one solution….hide it in there.
Erase the picture of a customs system that makes sense. Yes it all
looked very official. Uniforms were worn, guns carried and fruit and
sandwiched confiscated. BUT, you could move freely from Bolivia to
Chile, as many times as you like. It was just the passport-stamping
thing you needed to stand in line for. The toilet was available for
use before, during, after and even if you had no business there. We
didn't know if we would actually pick up the powder but the Inca Gods
were in favour and we took it back to its birthplace.

San Pedro De Atacama. Barren and Beautiful
We thought we would be waiting for Australia for the culture change to
greet us but San Pedro laid the foundations well. The Atacama desert
is the driest in the world. There are actually parts that have never
recorded rainfall. San Pedro itself dates back to 10'00 BC when the
oldest human remained are catalogued as being from. The surrounding
areas are an archaeologists dream as the lack of rain secures a wealth
of artefacts, and legislation around their requisition is lax.

In the 80's, San Pedro was a very different village. A compulsory stop
gap for Chileans attempting to reach Calama after a 24 hour bus trip,
it was set in its traditional ways. No TV, no radio and a generator
allowed on for 3 hours each day. San Pedro then conjures up images of
candles, pepper tress and sheep herders wandering man made tracks in
the midst of the great volcano Lincancabur, at 20.000 feet. We found a
very different village and for that we were happy.

Leave or spend, spend or leave? No Visa accepted here.
San Pedro itself is a bit of a hippy town charging US prices ( in our
bleary traveller minds) for beautiful things with no bank machine to
help you take part. Hotels and hostels that were less than 150 dollars
a night did not accept credit cards and only the well organised
backpackers managed to stay. Those with travellers cheques willing to
have that little bit more than usual squeezed out of them for
commission and those who read their guide book religiously were saved
from having to do yet another journey before rest and sleep. Even the
bus companies don't accept credit cards so the main junction leading
out of San Pedro resorts back to its historical past, a haven for
hitchhikers with no choice!

Previous debarkels stuck 'nowhere' with no money, had taught us to
always carry an emergency supply of dollars. In fact we followed this
personal rule so rigorously that we became a little obsessed and
rocked up to San Pedro with a t least 700 of them. Possibly just
enough to get us through a couple of days here!

The habitual room search.
Jez found us a gem although he may not have such a rosy picture of the
process he went through to find it. I was watching the rucksacks with
Emily, while our respective travelling partners went a hunting and Jez
trawled the place in the 45 degree heat for literally 3 hours to try
and find a place that was less than 4 times our average nights
accommodation, comfortable and chilly outy!

Jez struck gold. Just outside the village nestled in a small community
hidden away from the backpacker trial was a self contained flat just
waiting for us below the gracious Lincancabur volcano. Bedroom, living
room, massive double bed, 2 sofas, a fully equipped kitchen, bathroom
with agua caliente, a rustic garden with a BBQ. Everything we needed
to relax. Immediately the amount of time we would be staying
increased.

The Cacti experience!
In our wisdom,after a couple of days rest, we boiled some water, poured the San Pedro Cactus powder into it, gave it a stir and drank. Almost as the first drop hit our taste buds we wretched. We will never eat broccoli soup again. Even now, just thinking about it makes me feel sick. It was bitter, lumpy, green and revolting.

So, like you do, we set off into the Atacama desert, alone, for a wander. We had made ourselves sick several times,(made worse because we forgot the water) Jez had never made himself sick before and believe me it was a traumatic experience. Each of us behind our own little bit of dead bush, trying desperately to get the taste out of our mouths and the gunk out of our bodies.We came across some old abandoned mud huts, rested a while and then started to calm down and move with the flow, try be at one with this plant and the miles of sand ahead. If its such an ancient ritual,often used for healing, it can't be that bad for you!

A spanish missionary, cited by Christian Rätsch, tiraded….

"It is a plant with whose aid the devil is able to strengthen the
Indians in their idolatry; those who drink its juice lose their senses
and are as if dead; they are almost carried away by the drink and
dream a thousand unusual things and believe that they are true. The
juice is good against burning of the kidneys and, in small amounts, is
also good against high fever, hepatitis, and burning in the bladder."

An account of the cactus by a shaman is in radical contrast to this
rather contemptuous view:

"The drug first ... produces ... drowsiness or a dreamy state and a
feeling of lethargy ... a slight dizziness ... then a great 'vision',
a clearing of all the faculties ... it produces a light numbness in
the body and afterward a tranquillity. And then comes detachment, a
type of visual force ... inclusive of all the senses ... including the
sixth sense, the telepathic sense of transmitting oneself across time
and matter ... like a kind of removal of one's thought to a distant
dimension."

I think we agree with the missionary because we really did feel like we were dying. However, dreaminess, slight dizziness, nubness and tranquility would be the feelings that soon overtook the horridness.There were no halucinations as such but on San Pedro cactus, in 45 degree heat, with nothing but sand in front of you and behind you and at either side for miles, lost with no water and then faced with this:





We thought we were going to be eaten by the sky.

Getting close to the ancestors.



That afternoon, spurred on by the bowl of soup graciously provided by the tour agency, Amanda and I joined Robert and Tanja in a little hill walking over a long ridge, the salt flats gleaming a dull silver in the fading light to our right. Passing cacti and rocky scrub we trekked for about an hour till we reached a shadowy sheltered valley flanked by high stone cliffs. A little climb later we were at the entrance top our first cave, covered by a wooden wall and tiny, Alice in Wonderland door the guide produced a key and, one at a time, we all went in to have a look. Inside was dark and musty with only just enough room for one person to crouch down. Amanda went in first, as her eyes adjusted to the dim light she began to make out a shape at the rear wall, a skeleton, a couple of thousand years old, of a man, still dressed in the remains of the robes he was buried in. What's incredible about this place is that it has remained so long in this relatively well known spot and not been looted. In the second cave, this time big enough to fit everyone in easily, we found roughly made shelves lined with bowls of artefacts found in this and other caverns and over the surrounding area. Stone arrow heads, desiccated food, bone needles and other items of everyday life. The guide was paying me no attention whatsoever as I picked stuff up and looked about with my hands, he was showing the others the second mummified ancient corpse hidden in a cleft of rock. The temptation to pocket one of the many arrow heads (which were very cool) was great, but I considered all the other tourists who would be coming by to look in this cave. If we all started up our own private stolen collection there would soon be nothing left. I put everything back where I found it. Later Amanda told me she had the very same thoughts. While it would be cool to own some primeval artefacts as a memento of our trip to this weird land, it wouldn't be very ethical.

Snuggly in our salt Hotel.



At dinner that night half the local village turned up with their children who put on a show of pan pipe music and dancing. They had obviously practiced hard, bless em, and the tips they got from the wealth of tourists sharing our salt hotel that night probably rivalled their parents daily wage. Not a bad way of squeezing that extra Boliviano off the passing gringos. We played card games into the night, being forced to go to bed when they shut the generator down.

After breakfast the following morning I realised some bugger had walked off with my head torch. I asked everyone in the whole hotel if they'd seen it, then Rocky our guide, who shrugged and told me I should forget about it. Great lot of help he was. I was doubly gutted because it had been a present from my brother just before we left England. Feeling more than a little annoyed with the way this trip was going I grumpily refused to get into the jeep before I had done the rounds of asking everyone again, but was met with a wall of Spanish silence. I clearly wasn't going to get it back. Sorry Steve.

After the hour long detour to drop a friend of Rocky's off at her house in a neighbouring village we were back on our way.

Happily ignoring our grumpy guide.



Only the Aussies recognised the Viscocha.
Driving close to the Chilean border as we were we had to pass a Police checkpoint, all squat concrete bomb-proofed buildings with no heating whatsoever. The wind howled through the place and sent chills down all our spines. The soldiers were a welcome change from our surly, grumpy guide, at least they smiled at us and said hello. Formalities completed ensuring none of us were international terrorists or drug smugglers, we continued on to a mirador or viewpoint of the massive volcano that straddles Chile and Bolivia. We all used the time to find a quiet spot behind some rocks to have a pee, the volcano didn't take that much time to see. We stopped a little later in a new and much more interesting pile of rocks covered with moss. As we got out of the jeep we were delighted to discover loads of little fluffy chinchilla like creatures nestling in the nooks and crannies. Called Viscocha they looked like a cross between a rabbit and a squirrel. Very cool and utterly fearless. They must have had busloads of travellers stop to gorp here over many years to make them this tame. Our next stop-at-a-place-of-interest was at a rock, battered by the strong gusts of wind blowing over the surrounding plains till it had eroded at the bottom with and not the top. This left a formation contorted enough to look just like a small tree. The rest of our group had had enough of the interesting stops by this point and it was only Amanda and I that stepped outside to have a look and take a few pickies.

The famous rock



That second day we passed many different lakes, some distinctly non water coloured. The local natural chemistry had clearly had some strange effects on the waters. We passed the cleverly names green lake and blue lake before finally pulling up to the Laguna colorada. Emily asked Rocky what made the water so pink. "Its not pink!" he retorted angrily… "Its red!" Thus ending his in-depth scientific explanation.

After dumping our stuff in the dorm style barely upgraded cattle shed that we were due to sleep in that night we headed out to have a look. Skirting round the white borax mud that formed on the shores we found a tiny building, a mirador and information centre for the area. Unfortunately closed. On the way back we found more daring and walked closer to the red waters, mainly we wanted a better look at the flocks of flamingos that the lake supported. After getting my trainers stuck for the fifth time in the gooey shore we decided to get back to the barn, find a shop and get tipsy. Not as a party you understand, just so we'd be a bit warmer trying to get some sleep that night.

The 'red' lake and 'pink' Flamingos.




The night from hell.
A bottle of rum and many card games later we put on all our spare clothes, crawled into our sleeping bags and under all the blankets we could find and tried to sleep. As if the sub-zero temperatures weren't enough I seemed to have contracted advanced gut-rot that day which came back to haunt me with a vengeance at about 3am. No more sleep for me as I tried to navigate to the most disgusting toilets I had ever seen by candlelight. Morning couldn't come soon enough.

Sol de Manana. Geezers!
Soon enough it did come and loud engines revving outside woke those that were asleep. After breakfast we were whisked away once more. Rocky informed us that we were going to miss the scheduled trip to the local hot springs, not sure why, I just don't think he could be bothered. Our first stop was instead the Sol de Manana (tomorrows sun), a huge area of volcanic gas vents, erupting continuously from the ground like the ground had opened up to reveal a passageway to Hell itself. The air outside was utterly freezing, A brief respite could be had by thrusting your hands into the sulphurous gasses, you just need to be prepared to get severely burned and stink of rotten eggs for the rest of the day. The smell was overpowering.

Amanda and I wandered around for a while, peering into hole full of bubbling boiling mud, each vent a different shade of brown or red. If Bolivia was a school, this was definitely the chemistry department. Like some mad scientists laboratory, full of bubbling crucibles and pungent smells. Jumping back into the jeep, grateful to warm ourselves up we left behind the flatulent earth and headed to the border. We did manage to stop at a hot spring on the way, diverted into a concrete pool there were already travellers there, most dipping their toes in, though a couple were crazy enough to have brought along their Speedo's.

This was the point where we said goodbye to those in the group who were planing to stay in Bolivia. Camille, Tanja and Robert stayed with Rocky, while Amanda, Emily and I (thankfully) through our bags onto another jeep to be taken by a different guide to the Chile border. This time our driver was really nice, he even smiled at us.

Rocky nearly kills Camille. Literally
Saying goodbye to our salt flat companions we continued on. We later heard from Camille that Rocky proceeded to get drunk on the way back to Uyuni, and then started to fall asleep at the wheel. The new occupants of the jeep got so concerned that they insisted that Rocky sat in the passenger seat while one of them drove back. They stopped for a break a little later and caught him having another beer on the sly. I don't think he got a very good tip when they got back.

At the border we all transferred to a shuttle bus to get into Chile, delayed for about an hour while two Israeli guys railed at the driver because they wanted to sit next to each other or something. Eventually, one hour later, we were on the way, quickly through the Bolivian exit post, then, about half an hour later, from dirt tracks to well maintained tarmac roads we were passing proper road signs and houses with windows. We took this as a sign that we were leaving Bolivia. It had certainly been an experience visiting the poorest country in South America. Our eyes had at last been opened to a culture so completely alien to our own. That was after all part of what we came away for. Chile on the other hand could be ripped out and deposited next to Spain. We found later, the prices especially were particularly European. It felt like the end of an adventure. Sat on the edge of our seats we were both wondering what the beginning of the next one would be like.

A last memory of Jeremy in the Salt.

The Salt Flats of Uyuni. Would you like fries with that?
We woke very early on the day we were to leave for the salt flats. This was almost entirely due to the frost that had begun to cause my eyelashes and beard to snap off. I experienced a brief moment of panic when I couldn’t feel my feet, but relaxed when I realised it was just the sheer weight of bedding pressing down on my legs, cutting off the blood supply.

Bolivian Salt Flats Posse.



Excited we splashed our faces in frigid tap water, put on our morning layers and left the big fridge we’d been sleeping in to get some breakfast. On the way we passed some guys we’d seen in Coroico, then Rurre, then again in La Paz, this was a school trip to die for… a bunch of privileged little grots from Wiltshire spending two months or so travelling with a couple of teachers through Peru, Bolivia and into Argentina. We said hello and left before dashing back to our bags and unpacking the guillotine. A little later on, loaded up with bikkies and bottled water, having finally located the last post office we would find in Bolivia, we arrived at the tour agency and met our fellow salt-flat adventurers, Camille and Emily and a punky German couple called Tanja and Robert. We recognised Tanja straight away, she had been staying in the same hostel as us all those months ago in Utilla, Honduras when we were learning to dive. Its really insane who you meet, small world indeed.

Soon enough our jeep came dramatically round the corner and out stepped our guide. He introduced himself happily, as Romer, though Camille exclusively called him Roca and I couldn’t help calling him Rocky for the entire journey. The rest of our group had been worried about listening to bad Bolivian music all the way to Chile from this guys stereo as other tourists they’d heard of had been subjected to that atrosity, so immediately I produced to MP3 player and plugged it straight into the van system. He wasn’t impressed. I think he’d been hoping to torture us for three days. He’d have done it too if it wasn’t for us pesky kids. Suffice to say, our bad western music managed it put him in a foul mood for the beginning of our trip, a precursor of things to come perhaps.

Any one for a salt dice?
To begin we drove away from Uyuni to the Salar itself, the surrounding countryside eventually changing from the mountainous scrubland of greys and muted browns, to the shining white flat salt flats. I began to feel as if we were driving through the arctic as we got closer and closer to the Salar proper. On the “official” border to the salt flats we stopped at a salt farm to have a look around at big mounds of raw salt, raked up like piles of leaves in an English Autumn. We were met by loads of salt “farmers” who wanted to see some ID before we sped on, around the little camp were the usual array of stalls and shops, with a special Uyuni twist, salt carvings, salt dice, salt cellars, salt shakers, salt everything… I bought a couple of dice, then licked them… yep, definitely pure rock salt. We wandered off around the man made humps of salt that littered the local area, a guy in a tweed coat and big boots was in the process of scraping with a big shovel all the salt into a big mound. The trucks come later to pick all these piles up and take them away to chip shops around the world.

Driving on we entered a ghostly white, endless expanse of white on every side. All around us were miles and miles of salt flats from what I assume (though our grumpy and sulking guide started out the trip by telling us nothing whatsoever and kept going) was the bottom of a seriously salty inland sea once upon a time. The Salar de Uyuni (fact bit) is the biggest salar in the world (followed by one in the States with the Salar de Aticama in Chile coming a close third). It is made up of salt, of course, more than 10 billion tonnes of the stuff, in some places it is 10 metres thick. Altogether the salar covers an area 12,000 km square of high altitude (3,650m asl), inhospitable landscape which burns you by day and freezes at night. Not a place to wander about in alone. The latest deaths were as recent as 2002 when a local family got lost and froze somewhere in its vast expanses.

We began to see a dark mound appear in front of us, getting bigger and bigger as we sped closer. Eventually we could clearly make out a mound of something that we were driving towards. Camille asked Rocky if it was made of rock from under the salt, or earth on top of it. He didn’t even acknowledge the question.

Enormous green erections



Isla de Pescadores, or Fish Island, is made of Rock that juts harshly out from the surrounding landscape like an angry pimple. It is double pretty because of the huge cacti that cover it, enormous spiny green fingers pointing to the ever blue sky. They grow up to 12 metres high at a rate of about 1cm per year… some of these monsters were up to 1200 years old! We stopped and wandered around for three quarters of an hour (and no more!), before spending another ten minutes finding out where the bloody driver had hidden the van. Obviously we were not the only tourist group there, far from it. Every gringo traveller on the flats seemed to have picked this spot to park their jeep and have lunch. It was like trying to find a needle in a needle stack. It only made matters worse that after we’d left him Rocky had decided to drive our jeep round to the other side of the island, behind a large pile of rocks to set up our picnic. I could picture him sniggering to himself, muttley style. We only found him by following the trail of unseemingly loud Bolivian music he’d put on as soon as we were outside.



Taking advantage of the flat, bleak surroundings, we all trooped out to an uninterrupted part of the flats to perform camera trickery with perspective and distance after lunch. This involved someone standing well back from the person being shot and the cameraman taking pictures that make him or her look tiny in a series of amusing poses. Kept us happy for ages. Till Rocky screeched to a halt next to us and told us all to get in with much horn blaring lest we be late. He seemed to have picked up everyone else’s stuff from the picnic table except our bottle of water. After a brief argument where Amanda lost it completely and started to shout at him in broken Spanglish he gave up and turned round for the 20 second journey necessary to pick it up.

Things went downhill from there…
For the rest of the day he refused to talk to us. I was sitting in the front passenger seat and decided to assume the role of guide, pointing out interesting herds of vicuña and llamas in the distance. The MP3 player was in constant use, though every time he turned it down I would wait about three seconds and turn it back up again saying “sorry, they can’t hear it at the back”. It became a sort of battle of wills throughout the day. Every time the jeep stopped I would unplug it and take it out with me, I was seriously afraid he might accidentally “drop” it if I left it unattended. After several hours of amusement playing “annoy the grumpy guide” we rolled up outside our hotel at last. No ordinary rest house this, oh no… this was one of the fabled salt hotels of the Salar. A building made entirely out of salt bricks cut whole from the surrounding ground. On close inspection they proved to be rock hard, and taste just like salt (Duh!). Most of us had a lick, contracting several unclassified diseases and viruses along the way. Amanda and I loved our room, a little piece of salty heaven, double salt bed, a little salt table and a salt shelf to put our stuff on. After 9pm they had electricity from the generator outside (we were very excited) so I could recharge the MP3 and further get up Rocky’s nose the next day. This was great.

Back in La Paz, time to plan for the Uyuni Salt flats.

The ‘Majestic’ hotel proved yet again to be our haven. The Irish girls stayed with us and relished all 12 hours worth of their sky TV, however tired. We were that tired we even missed our free brekkie. Later in the day we met up with the girls in a natural food café to make up for it. Uyuni called and we had to find the best deal on Gringo Street. Best, in this case, had to encompass not only price, friendliness and good reports but also a night in the Salt Hotel along the way. We decided that we would wait till we reached the town closet to the Salt Flats to negotiate our way through the agencies. It has always proved to be a better option! All we needed was a bus to the train station and a ticket for the train.
In case you missed the image of our wake up call.



Waiting, waiting, waiting we prayed that we had made the right decision in letting someone else make our decisions for us and do the leg work. (A travel agency) The bus didn’t seem to be coming and without its timeliness we would miss the train. Time was of the essence, we had very little of it left in South America and we really had so much we wanted to do! The day in La Paz just chilling and of course buying in bulk to send home all the little things we may possibly still like when we get home, was a luxury we couldn’t afford. An extra day would not be acceptable to our itinerary. That’s how tight our plans were. One day in a train station town, could mean one day less snow boarding or one day less wine tasting!!!

The yocals bus, doin' it in style!
Every single person on that 4 hour bus trip wanted to catch the overnight train to Uyuni. Every single person on that bus was anxious, scared and impatient. So much so that when the bus reached the train station with exactly 3 minutes to spare, people were literally stepping on top of each others bags, pushing past the already tight bus aisle and blocking out the fact that every one else wanted to get off too.

A glorious train ride
We caught the train and were sat next to Camille and Emily, who we had met first in Coroico on death road and then in Rurrenebaque on the pampas trip. Excellent. They told us of a tour agency that was assured to go to the Salt Hotel. Their price sounded good. After hours watching lakes and flamingoes pass by the train window, sending us happy dreams and a relaxed nights sleep, we arrived in the town and after the normal investigation, we booked with them: Olympus tours. 50 dollars inclusive for 3 days, can’t be bad.

All we want is a bed.Could we find a hotel that was reasonable…NO! It was 11 at night and we wanted our beds and all the hotels were either dives or full. The tour agency did offer us a room with no bed, completely empty, very cold and grotty. Needless to say we made them escort us to every hotel in the area and eventually we found what was more of a boarding house. Toilets and sinks through the middle of the open air corridors, a bit like a prison! Nice. No plugs to recharge the batteries for the camera, or to fill our hot water bottles, no light in the toilet and two bloody beds!. We slept in our clothes, and our thermals and more clothes and our Huyana Potosi mountain climbing gear and we were still freezing. We were warned but MY GOD!!! This was going to be a hard trip!

The Bolivain Amazon.




First order of the day, before even getting our usual feast for breakfast, was to get down to the airline office and book a flight out of Rurrenabaque for when we got back from the jungle. Most of those who had arrived came by bus, and had no wish to leave the same way. For that reason flights out were at a premium. Space was precious. As soon as it opened I was in the front of the queue, seats had sold out till a couple of days after we returned from our trip, no problem, time wasn’t a massive issue for us and it might be nice spending the day on the hammock outside our room (when we eventually did get back from the jungle however we discovered that the hammock had gone for a walk at about the same time our janitor got arrested… bugger!). Tickets in hand we settled into brekkie, then, late but full, rolled up with Clare and Ruth to see who was coming with us on our jungle expedition.

Meeting our Jungle group at the riverside.




Still girls even in the Amazon!

The boat left directly from the docks it Rurre this time, no need for a dusty few hours in the back of a bumpy truck. Along for the ride, apart from the two Irish girls were the two Dutch guys and a couple from America. She was of the up for anything, rough and ready adventurous type you see swigging beers with the lads and having a laugh, her husband had brought along his white shorts and a t-shirt and expected silver service. It soon started to rain heavily and all his illusions were quickly shattered. I liked him though, he put a brave face on it from the start, even though he clearly wanted nothing better than to go back home and have a shower. He was a brain surgeon.

Camp pong!
A couple of hours later, soaked through to the skin, we arrived at our jungle camp, a serious jungle camp at that. At first we sat around for a while, hoping to be noticed by our guide, we didn’t know who that was at the time. Then, bored we went in search of the camp toilet, and wished we hadn’t bothered. It was so bad that the first time I tried to use it I nearly threw up. The second time I was wiser, and went round the back of it and peed up against a tree. Amanda, being a lady had no such option, there wasn’t a door so much as a thatched wall pointing to the camp, anyone else walking past at any other angle could see everything. I had to go to the loo with her and stand guard.

Coked up Indian guide. The best.
Finally we met our guide,Feizer a real life Amazon Indian born deep within the forest. This was the real deal, he walked through the jungle like it was a part of him, through the rain on that first night we took a short hike through the trees before dark. Ever-present in his cheeks was the telltale bulge of a wad of mashed coca leaves that he chewed from the moment he got up to the time he went to bed.




Every now and then he popped a little bicarb of soda in as well to help break down the chemicals he wanted to extract. After asking him a few dozen times he produced a big bag of leaves and we all had a go. It takes a while to start working but soon makes your cheeks, then your whole mouth go numb, the gooey refuse that comes off the leaves is what you have to swallow, supposedly giving you energy, helping with altitude, keeping you awake, and most importantly for the Bolivian people, taking away the feeling of hunger. Not a drug I would be likely to take up in the near future. It has an extremely long tradition. In Santiago before we flew away we visited a museum that housed many statues and pottery images from Inca and pre-Inca times. Many of the faces depicted there had the telltale bulge in their cheeks, evidence of a habit that has lasted in Bolivia for thousands and thousands of years.

Wet bed riddled with mozzies.
Back at the camp we sheltered under a plastic tarpaulin chatting to put off the inevitable first night in the jungle. It wasn’t just the creepy crawlies we wanted to avoid; our beds were completely covered with mozzie netting. Most of them however were seriously damp, this was the rainforest after all. Above a tightly packed group of wooden frames with thin mattresses on them was erected a plastic sheet that roughly shielded them from the rain, unless any gusts of wind blew in, there were no walls to speak of. The American woman thought it all very quaint and exciting; her husband was having quiet words with her about catching the next boat away.

After a fairly good night sleep considering the odds we were up against we woke up to yet more rain. Breakfast was great (I can’t remember it but I think any food would have been great at that point). Asking our guide if he ever got to go to Rurrenabaque for a break he looked shocked. He didn’t like to leave the forest and said he felt hemmed in the “city”, realizing he meant the tiny town we’d just come from we all shut up. This camp was seriously his home, the only place he felt comfortable. Off on a walk that day he started to show us some of the lore he knew of the surrounding nature, what termites tasted like mint (they really did!)…

Wedding bliss under the shade of a rubber tree.
During this morning stroll through the rainforest Feizer showed us a rubber tree which he cut with his machete to reveal a white gooey substance oozing out. He asked if we were married, if not he would perform the ceremony right there… we were happy to. I know we are looking for a great place to have a commitment ceremony but wellies and ponchos doesn’t quite fit the picture. Very happily though, under the protective canopy of our friendly, if sticky tree, we used the rubber to follow the traditional Amazonian ceremony by sticking leaves to our ears and one to my nose (although it should really have been a bone sticking through) while he performed the Bolivian Indian marriage ritual. It was actually very cool, and quite touching. So now Amanda and I are married, properly and legally according to some cultures. Many thanks to the Claire and Ruth for being witnesses…

Jungle delights: penis trees and large spiders.



During that walk, and another later in the day, we got to see more of the forest and the plants and animals that live in it than in any jungle walk we’d so far done. A strange honey moon! It really does pay to have a local guide sometimes. He showed us a garlic plant used as a natural antiseptic, the Chuchiweso plant, the Kinina antimalarial bush, a local form of Viagra gained from the vines of a tree, the sangre del toro or bulls blood plant, used to induce labour in pregnant women, a water vine called the una degato, which he cut and allowed us all to have a drink from. Apparently, if you let the water stand for a few days you can get drunk from the fermented mix.We walked past the empty shells of enormous snails and at one point found a massive spider hanging on his web. Feizer stopped, lit up a cigarette, blowing smoke all around the eight legged monster to pacify him. Then he picked it off its web and calmly placed it on Amanda’s face. I was taking photos and telling her to be quiet, I didn’t want the spider to wake it up too much. It was my turn next.










We came across a tree called the palmera hombre (man palm) that sported huge phallus growths, pointing proudly into the sky. We also found several black mushrooms that the native shamen use as the active ingredients for their allahuasca ceremonies, used to send people into deep trances with wild hallucinations on their quest for their spiritual totems.3 days in the jungle and were experts. Just don’t leave me there alone. Especially with those spiders!!!

My beautiful wife.