Crossing the Andes ... to the Brazilian beaches

Brazil (the second time)

lou — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 22:02:00 GMT

And so I´m back in Brazil. The obvious place to round up the trip, with thousands of miles of beaches, good food, great parties ... you see I´ve been feeling lately I needed a holiday.

We´re travelling along the coast, South to North, just skipping the Bahia coastline I´ve already ticked off. Winter is biting at our ankles, with its incessant rains and lows of a ´muito frio´ 15 degrees, so we´re planning this part of the trip according to meteorology.

Florianopolis

First stop, Florianopolis. To cross the island, the city runs a nausea-enducing bus service. The drivers pull into the stations like racing pits and switch passengers in relay race style. They approach speed bumps like skate park ramps and take corners on two wheels. The locals seem accustomed to this. I don`t recall seeing anyone even bat an eyelid as we passed so close to another bus that the driver had to readjust his wing mirror. Although I was unconscious. So, we try to avoid long bus journeys, walking along rugged, rocky cliffs and through forest trails to reach some of the best beaches. The island is a surfer´s paradise with colossal waves to challenge the best and calmer waters for beginners. A 12 year old kid spins 360º in the air as Etienne achieves the standing position. Climbing over boulders, we land on the nudist beach. Disappointingly, there are no naturalists, only surfers switching from wetsuit to surf short. Not so disappointing.

Ihla do Mel

Ihla do Mel is tiny in comparison and amazingly rustic. People walk everywhere (they don`t have far to go) as there are no cars or motorbikes, and it´s even difficult to get around on bike as trails are in sandy ground. We´re here off-season and it´s very quiet. We´re often the only ones wandering along beaches. Even the crabs seem surprised by our presence, scurrying away as we approach then freezing to check back on us before disappearing down their burrows. The beaches are littered with colourful shells and the delicate bones of starfish that are shaped more like spaceships than stars. Patrolling vultures hobble along the shoreline looking for fresh deliveries from the sea. They´re devouring a dolphin carcass as we approach the fort, which looks out towards the phantom battleships 400 years ago. Now the horizon is only lined with immense cargo ships like high rise cities on a distant shore.

Curitiba

We make a brief stop in the city of Curitiba, the self-proclaimed ´City of the Future´. There´s a so-called 24 hour street signposted from blocks away as one of the key visitor attractions. It reminds me of the Wayfarers Arts shopping arcade in Southport and is closed. The town centre resembles that of many other cities, with modern shops and restaurants surrounding central plazas and men dressed as clowns handing out balloons to crying children. There is a space age transport system which collects passengers in bubble shelters on the street and deposits them in buses that run like the tube. Only they`re punctual and efficient. It`s surprisingly pretty impressive. And as I`m contemplating a career in town planning, we stop for a cold beer in a terrace cafe on an old cobbled street lined with lanterns that cloak everything in an orange glow. Ah, the past, why the need for such change?

Ihlabela

Ihlabela is an island for yachting enthusiasts. Rich Paulistas come with their oversized SUVs to stay in summer houses or upmarket pousadas and station themselves on a beach where they sit and drink cocktails all day long. We show up with our backpacks and wander about looking for a cheap place to sleep, feeling a bit like we`re trespassing in someone else`s playground. We´re adopted by a big black mongrel who follows us along the different beaches, chasing and bringing back baby coconuts like he´s been our pet for 10 years. We stop for açai, a sorbet style fruit from the amazon served with banana and granola, and soak up some sun while the waiter waits for us to do a runner. We pay up and move on, leaving the dog with people who are chewing on freshly grilled meat. We see him the next day riding the ferry back and forth. And so concludes the story of the dog that chose chicken.

The Emerald coast

We arrive in Ubatuba late in the evening. The dingy streets are empty save for a few unsavoury looking characters drinking Skol on the benches around the squares. The bus driver has dropped us off a good few blocks from the centre and with the shutters all down it`s difficult to tell whether this is Quiksilver surfexlusive or Poundland. We find a cheap Chinese hotel and overdose on MSG before crashing out for the night. The daylight transforms the place: shopping streets are bustling and we discover we´re just one block from the beach. And the coastline is stunning, spotted with lush green islands and stretches of beautiful sandy beaches emerging from the Atlantic rainforest. Following local the directions, we scale down a cliff and wade through a river to reach the beach. Bemused tourists who´ve walked an hour from the road try to calculate our path and steal our inside knowledge. Until I´m almost washed out to sea. The following day we take the bus a little further around the coast and are rowed across a saltwater lake to reach the beach. We find ourselves alone with the ocean, like Madonna and Adriano Giannini. We play in the waves but the current is pretty strong and I almost lose my bikini. Not that there`s anyone here to glimpse my Brazilian. Oh yes, I had depilacão before the beach and got more than I bargained for. Or less really. But it was a work of art, best viewed with a mirror of course, which she handed me afterwards.

We take a local bus to our next destination, passing churches on the highway built like factories for the mass processing of catholicism and giant billboards educating about Dengue fever. We arrive in Paraty, a really cute, well preserved colonial town. Our visit coincides with the Divino festival. It´s not a great coincidence - there is usually a festival of some sort going on in Brazil. As if they need an excuse to party. The streets are decorated with colour and there is music and dancing every night. With caiparinha. Or caipiroska. Or caipifruta. During the days our hangover cure is usually out at sea. We kayak around small islands close to shore and relax on a boat tour manned by the biggest seafaring bossanova musician in town. Biggie we salute you! Then the rains start. And don´t stop. For days. And days. We shelter with the mosquitos in the hostel and watch storms unfolding out at sea. Then make a break for it.

The local buses in Brazil have a turnstyle system to prevent fare dodging. You alight at the back (or sometimes front), pay your R$2 to the conductor and pass through to the front of the bus. It´s much like getting on a ride at the fairground - kids ride free if they´re small enough to squeeze under the turnstyle. Lifting over a backpack that is half your body mass is no small feat. Sometimes a sympathetic driver will let you on at the front - where you leave your bag, get off the bus and realight at the back to pass through the turnstyles. Conductors can´t just take the money and turn the turnstyle. Rules are rules. Our bus to the port of Angra dos Reis is packed with school kids. It seems a long time since I was last on a school bus (it is) and it brings back some memories of when the girls were bigger and tougher than the boys and my most pressing decision was which boy to to elevate to number one position in the weekly Top 10. Me and number 1 squeeze into a plastic seat with our bags and watch the kids snatching each others hats and pretending to throw bags out of the window.

At Angra we buy corn on the cob drenched in salty water and dripping butter and board a ferry boat to Isla Grande. It´s another of Brazil´s beautiful islands - beaches, waterfalls and forests were we disturb a group of marmoset monkeys. (They also show up at the beach later. I suspect we were followed). We take a yacht around the island (private charter if you don´t count the 8 other tourists) to snorkel in some of the best spots. It´s almost idyllic. Bar the freezing water and the 30-odd snorkel clad school kids on field research for marine biology.

Rio de Janeiro

We find ourselves a little gem of a hostel on the internet - cheap (for Rio), brand new with sauna and indoor pool and available for our two-week stay. We arrive at reception of Crab hostel, passing through the electronic ID entry system and electric fencing, and provide all our personal details. They take copies of our passports and photograph us for their records (Welcome to US immigration control). We pay for the first night then take a quick guided tour - the tiny square pool, a kitchen where we´re not allowed to use the freezer or oven, and our bedroom which since partitioning has space for only one bed. And then the breakfast ... we move out the next day an find ourselves an apartment in the heart of Ipanema.

Ipanema, the land of vegetarian restaurants, sushi bars and upmarket churrascarias, where ladies dress for the gym or the catwalk and walk with designer pooches dressed in coats and booties. We walk along the beach and pass into Copacobana. The beaches are almost indistinguishable but the centre is a real contrast, built up and polluted with pavements lined with hawkers and traffic bumper to bumper along the streets. We stick to the beach and watch the fitness junkies playing volleyball, football, footvolley etc. This is a city where the body beautiful comes as standard (with some work).

Not to be outdone, I get in touch with my inner goddess at Blyss yoga school and Etienne attends the gayest Brazilian Jiu Jitsu club in Rio. I don`t think he planned it. In a sport where an official wrestling postion involves having another man´s groin in your face - ´the north / south position´ - the signs are perhaps not immdiately obvious. Yes darling, your hair is a lovely shade of brown, and the way the florescent tubing catches your eyes ... In the evening we check out the nightlife in the trendy bars of Leblon, the studenty street bars in Gavea (where we´re almost struck by a falling tree during strong winds) and the grungy Lapa which has a feel of Hackney about it. We dance samba and drink cachaça and dance samba and drink cachaça and dance samba and fall asleep in big leather armchairs. Rock and Roll.

We take a couple of days out of the city to visit the clean and beautiful beaches of Arraial do Cabo. Etienne learns to dive. I do nothing. It´s lovely. Back on tourist duty, we take a sky tram into the arty district of Santa Teresa, a cable car up sugar loaf mountain and a train to the top of Corcovado to see Christ the Redeemer and his amazing panoramic view of the city. We stroll around the botanic gardens spotting monkeys in the atlantic rainforest that encroaches on the city all around.

We also visit Rocinha, Rio´s biggest favela, as part of an organised tour. My expectation is poor people living in shanty towns with few if any basic amenities and limited contact with the bigger city. I hop on the back of a motorbike taxi and hold down my skirt as he zooms up the hillside to one of the highest points in the whole city. As we begin the tour, a man passes us wearing a silver machine gun across his chest, his hand resting on it inconsequentially. He´s the favela´s answer to police control (the real police stay out of the area, although are always stationed at the boundary). Apparently it is completely safe for us to be here as they´re simply maintaining order and watching out for ´trespassers´. Although many other people also carry guns, and it´s not clear what their role is. We start at a gallery of graffiti art from where we can look across the rooftops of residents to the city boundaries below. The houses are solid concrete, cubes of colour and as homeowners can sell their roofspace, people simply build upwards without any though to structural damage. The highest, unstable vertical streets are often lost in landslides. The people who live here generally work in tourism in the city; in hotels, restaurants and bars. Although the kids have bigger aspirations: girls dream omarrying a rich man or becoming a top model, an pose for tourist photos like they´re adding to a portfoli; boys dream or being famous footballers or drugdealers, inspired by the 24 year old multimillionaire drugdealer who presides over Rocinha. As we weave down through the houses it becomes dirtier with the rubbish from the prime real estate being washed downstream to those less fortunate. Oh, and it ultimately ends up in the cities beaches. No swimming here then.

Recife

In Brazil, the budget airlines tend to be cheaper than buses for long distances, so to save a couple of days of wasted lives we fly north to Recife. It´s an old city that famously comes alive for carnival, the streets packed with movement and colour. The rains are coming down heavy now so we tick off the principal attractions as quick as possible, wading through puddles in our flipflops under the shelter of an oversized umbrella. Decaying churches and once white walls of buildings past their glory years, where no sooner has the rain fallen on the hot streets than the damp is rising again as a black mould that tarnishes the paint and eats away at the brick underneath. We stop at the old fort and play with guns (unloaded) and coax mannequins in historical costumes back to life.

We´re sleeping in Olinda down the road. It is a picturesque version of the bigger city - a colonial movie set with artist studios and old churches two-a-penny, opening onto the undulating cobbled streets. Raphael arrives from Paris to hang out with the savages for a week; my overgrown curly hair and Etienne´s 5-day shadow. We take him to lunch to fuel up and work through the jetlag. For yesterday's Brazilian valentines day, we dined in one of the best restaurants - a delicious lobster in coconut sauce served in a large pupkin. Today it´s back to budget - friend fish, rice and feijão. Hafa is obviously delighted. But then, he´s not come for the food, he´s here for ...

Fernando do Noronha

A tiny island so far out from the Brazilian coast that we fly into a different time zone. It is one of the most beautiful places in the world. The beaches are so immaculate it's hard to believe a human being has ever laid foot here. The sand is golden and the sea is a clear, bright turquoise-blue. We hire a buggy and spend every day driving across the green, barren island to discover a different beach, largely deserted thanks to the restrictions on visitor numbers and the variety of options of places to visit. The snorkelling is amazing. Crystal clear bays are filled with reefs and visited by dragon fish, barracuda, rays and hundreds of other species. At the shipwreck near the port I watch a turtle bend her neck to allow fish to clean her skin, then rise to the surface to take a breath before disappearing into the depths. It´s equally busy with life around the underwater trails where we dive. We have a close encounter with a shark. Then giant spotted rays. And every hole seems to be filled with crabs or eels or lobsters. Back on the surface the sun is scorching hot and the sand is too hot to just lie around and tan. Life can be so tough.

Porto de Gallinas

We fly back into Recife and head to the resort town of Porto de Gallinas. Despite the fowl name, it's a nice little town with boutique shopping and good restaurants. We wander miles along the beach and out onto the sand bar that juts into the ocean, then swim to the tide pools that form in rocks just off the shore to snorkel with the stripey fish. Tourist feed bread to the blur of grey and yellow swirling in the water around them. We have no bread. The fish nibble me.

Natal

Next stop, Natal, reached in a bus filled with exhaust fumes. A defective AC system which the driver refused to turn off as it's too warm outside. We drive for 5 hours into the cold night with scarves over our mouths. When we arrive we blow the black soot from our noses and take a taxi to Ponta Negra. The driver is drunk. We drive down the highway at about 30km/h listening to his tour of the local attractions - a shop, a big house, the sea - and then arrive to find the hostel is full. Instead we have to stay in a hotel room with a seaview and a balcony overlooking the pool, cable television and all-you-can-eat breakfasts for the same price. And did I mention there's a Jacuzzi on the roof? We spend a lot of time in the hotel.

A buggy tour of the northcoast gives us access to the beaches and national park. The driver flies over dunes, eliciting hysterical shrieking from the up until now mute girl behind me. It's like being figurines in a remote control car, with hug expanses of sand all around us. For more thrills, we throw ourselves off a dune and zipline into a freshwater lake. As many of the Brazilian population don't know how to swim, rafts pluck people out of the water and take them back to dry land. We swim around happy in the knowledge that we're probably the only ones peeing in the water.

Sao Luis

It is the Sao Joao (bumba mei boi) festival in Sao Luis. Every night there are street shows of samba and other traditional dance, with dancers dressed in short skirts and feathers. Or in sequined cowboy costumes. And then there's the cow theme. And the drag queens ... really just another Brazilian festival.

From here we travel to Barrenhenses and the Lencois maranhenses national park. It is one of the most stunning sights I have ever seen. Neverending lines of white sandy dunes, with rainwater lakes filling the dips between them. The water is perfect for swimming in and drinking from - bright blue or green and spectacularly clear. We take a speedboat to the beach and imagine we're still amongst the dunes.

Amazonia

We fly into Belem at the mouth of the Amazon, where it gushes its brown waters into the Atlantic Ocean. It's a bustling city built up around the port. Boats arrive with tons of fish destined for sale at local markets, or to be transported onwards to other parts of the country (many of the fish I've never heard of so I guess it doesn't make it much further). Other boats leave the port full of live cattle or cargos of onions, garlic and carrots.

And then there are the passenger boats. We take one to the Island of Marajo, where water buffalo outnumber people - although there are still sufficient numbers to compete in the XIII Annual Quadrilha Festival (hundreds of costumed children dressed in a complicatedly choreographed line dance). We visit a local fazenda and follow a trail, walking through the forests with anteaters, monkeys and beautiful birds passing us by, then along the tidal rivers filled with fish that swim partly out of the water like frogs, in a tree hollowed out to form a canoe. The trail takes us to a beach where confused palm trees rise out of the sand, watched by others at the borders of the forest sitting high on their stilt roots awaiting the tide to come in and splash their toes.

Another day, another boat. We book ourselves a tiny cabin with bunkbeds and AC, opting not to sleep in a hammock for 3 nights tied up hip-to-hip with hundreds of other people. The AC breaks down. To begin with it's like being in a meat cooler. The workers on the boat can't alter the temperature so it gets switched off. An airtight container, with no air. A bottle of water leaks on the top bunk so we spend the night sharing the bottom bunk with the door open, dreaming of being in a hammock.

For the next two days, we sit on top deck and watch the banks of the amazon river pass by. Wide stretches where it's difficult to make out the banks, almost like being at sea, to narrow channels where we pass close to the small wooden houses built on stilts in small clearings. People row out to us in wooden canoes, collecting charity parcels thrown from the boat or tying themselves on for a free ride down the river. After meals, the scraps are thrown overboard and we watch them disappear in a splash, devoured by quick fish. Dolphins play around the boat, presumably devouring the not quick enough fish. And just as we feel we might go a little crazy, we arrive in Santarem.

Just out of the bigger city, the town of Alter do Chão is surrounded by jungle on three sides and the sandy beaches of the Rio Tapajos on the fourth (a tributary of the Amazon). Pink blossoms carpet the tiny plaza and parrots fly overhead. With a local guy and his wheelchair-bound friend, we hire some kayaks and go out into the flooded forest. It's incredibly beautiful although difficult to manoevre around huge spider webs hanging from the branches and fallen trees blocking the 'marked' trail. We make a stop at the manatee breeding area and one rises to the surface and lets me stroke his nose. Oh my god, he is just gorgeous. Manatees are my new favourite thing.

The next day we go with Ronaldinho (it's all about the teeth) and his tiny motorboat further down the river to a tiny village where we meet the local people. We're the only tourists and a little boy starts to cry when he sees us. The president take us for a walk through the jungle, guiding us through medicinal plants and pointing out nests of bees, wasps and ants we should avoid. To be honest, most of it was lost in the translation. Oh, that's right, there was no translation. I think I caught a few words about snakes and hospitals, then stopped trying to understand. We share a fish dinner with a family of 20 then start our river trip back in the dark. The sun goes down early here and by 6pm the only light is from the moon and the stars. And from our torch which I make the mistake of shining into the water at the bank and attracting candiru fish (also known as the deadly parasitic orifice fish).

We take a flight into the heart of the Amazon and the town of Manaus, so built up that it's hard to imagine this was once dense jungle. We spend 4 days at a lodge further down the river from where we fish for piranha, catch (and release) baby aligators and boa constrictors, watch the dolphins pass by, canoe through the flooded forest, walk through the jungle, swim in the river... the usual jungle stuff. We visit local people and I try my hand at rubber production, extracting liquid from the trees and sculpting it using wooden moulds and hot stream. I make a condom with the help of a little girl. It's thick, like the finger of a rubber glove. She adds more rubber until it's about the same thickness as the rubber boots. Which I guess explains why people have so many babies. We try out local delicacies like the firefly larvae, which apparently tastes like coconut, and the minty branches of one of the trees, which can be smoked only once the liquid is removed so not to leave lesions on the lips. It's amazing how people have learnt to use the forest, to live in harmony with it and respect the delicate balance, and sad to know that due to logging for timber and cattle and soya production, the jungle is being lost at an alarming rate. I take one last deep breath and fly out of the lungs of the world to begin my journey home.

Gallery: Brazil (again)

lou — Wed, 18 Jul 2007 03:29:00 GMT

Gallery: Argentina

lou — Fri, 18 May 2007 10:17:00 GMT

Patagonia and north

Argentina

lou — Sun, 29 Apr 2007 02:51:00 GMT

Buenos Aires

Well, it´s true what they say about Buenos Aires. It definately has a European feel to it. Only on a grander scale than I´d imagined, with huge highways cutting across the city and tall buildings looming over the pedestrians below. We spend a few days exploring the capital, from the cobbled streets of arty San Telmo where antique dealers work alongside couples dancing tango and dreadlocked hippies selling jewellery and bags, to the hip Palermo with its trendy street cafes, shopping malls and couples dancing tango in dance halls (where we get our baptism in Tango too).

The rich and powerful Argentinians of history are laid to rest in La Recoleta cemetary, in elaborate tombs laid out like streets of wealthy terraced houses. We pass by one of the many resident stray cats tucking into a fresh pigeon as we head to the only name on the list we recognise. Eva Peron´s grave is the star in this morbid tourist attraction. It´s a subtle plaque marking her place with her family, and relatively inconspicuous bar the crowd of tourists following the guided commentary. We discretely listen in as the heavens begin to darken above us. The downpour soon begins so we head to the shelter of MALBA, Buenos Aires´ answer to the Tate Modern. Smaller but equally obscure.

So, the Vegetarian Issue ... it´s now almost 20 years since I took the vow and I´ve managed to stay pretty much meat free for the trip, even faced with the ´choose the chicken part´ menus in Bolivia (I picked egg). But this is the land of the gaucho. Siga La Vaca is calling and my tastebuds are craving for a taste of the flesh. So what´s a girl to do? Opt for an all you can eat buffet and introduce the cow to the grass. Just a taster for now. But it tastes good. Etienne devours the rest of the herd and we head into the night for tango class. You gotta love the Argentineans.

Parque National los glaciares (El Calafate & El Chalten)

We fly south to Patagonia, on a cheap shuttle flight that makes hourly stops. We stepoff in El Calafate with the sun shining, the breeze warm and a queezy feeling in my stomach, which isn´t sure whether it´s going up or down. And we head to a parilla for more meat on a stick. After dinner (before dinner, after lunch, before lunch) we´re followed around by huge friendly dogs. Smart strays who´ve realised that accompanying you like your chosen pet gets them fed. And fed well judging by the size of them.

We take a walk to Lake Argentina as the winds pick up. It´s a beautiful scene with autumn tinted reeds blowing at the edges of turquoise waters and birds flying above on a treadmill in the sky. But it can´t even begin to compare with what awaits us. The Perito Moreno glacier is just breathtaking. It is immense. It stretches beyond my panoramic view and from the waters edge it towers high above. And it is a creamy blue colour, melting into a turquoise waters at its edge. Despite the now torrential rain and gale force winds, we continue the tour on boat to get a closer view. It´s freezing and we´re soaked through to the skin, but we brave it out on deck until numbness starts to take over.

Despite our intentions to cross into Chile, we end up a few hours north in El Chalten (hit the alarm clock snooze and the bus leaves without you). The journey is beautiful. Along the shores of turquoise waters set in the vast dry steppe stretching out to the horizon. We arrive at the foot of Cerro (mount) Fitzroy. The town is small and sparse, with a small selection of accomodation options and a few tiny grocery stores (the contents of which would present a challenge on Ready, Steady, Cook!). We somehow find ourselves in a flatshare arrangement with Rob and Carol. She is an insane athelete, the recent winner of a 100 mile (yes, one zero zero) race, and he is her more physically challenged entertaining boyfriend! They´ve just run 2 marathons, one in Ushuia and one in the Antarctic (yes, the A N T A R C T I C).

For a week, we trek for an average of 6 hours every day along various trails that start at our doorstep. Rob and Carol leave the house about 4 hours before we wake up, so it´s just the two of us. The landscapes are stunning, with forest covered hillsides hiding woodpeckers and wild hares, rivers snaking through wide valleys, and glacier lakes full of tiny icebergs. Sometimes it´s a tough uphill climb (especially with my rib still repairing itself) but the reward of reaching a peak where we can look out across Patagonia with fossils in the ground under our feet and whisps of snowclouds above our heads makes it all worthwhile. Oh, and tucking into cheese and salami sandwiches (yummy, meeeaat, mmmm).

Ruta 40 (Los Antiguos, Esquel, El Bolson & Bariloche)

Following in the footsteps of Che, the hop-on hop-off bus leads us north along the gravel track of Ruta 40 (it also breaks at a road cafe in the middle of nowhere where I get to kiss a Guanaco - no tongues). In Los Antiguos, we tour the cherry farms and buy sweet raspberry liquor from the only man in town not wearing a beret (we never did get to the bottom of that idiosyncrasy). Further north, we take a 4x4 tour from Perito Moreno to Cuevas de los Manos. Juan, our rude boy guide, has suped up the jeep with so many interior blue lights that it feels like travelling in a solarium. It´s a strange contrast of history and future. The cave, high above a canyon, was inhabited by people 10,000 years ago. It´s covered with ancient cave paintings of guanacos, ostriches and hundreds of hands. Apparently the paint was made by mixing coloured earth with urine and was then blown from their mouths. The guide compares it to the modern day Japanese who she tells us drink their urine for its health benefits (I shall be having a little conversation with my Japanese friend when I get home).

Continuing the unofficial Che pilgrimage we arrive at Esquel and invest in a Mate. It´s the national drink of Argentina - basically a special container from which you drink the tea of yerba mate leaves through a silver straw. Legend says that the Goddesses of the Moon and the Cloud came to the Earth to visit, but they instead found a jaguar that was going to attack them. An old man saves them, and, in compensation, the Goddesses gave the old man a new kind of plant, from which he could prepare a "drink of friendship". And so the Argentineans carry around flasks (like old people in the UK) and pass around these hot drinks like sharing a bong. For us it´s novel. And helps us camouflage a little (or amuses the Argys that the gringos have learnt to make mate).

We take a tour to Los Alerces national park, a series of long lakes surrounded by beautiful green forest. As it turns out, we seem to have chosen a popular destination for the over-60s. We stroll through the northern part of the park, taking plenty of breaks to catch our breath, pull up our stockings and wait for Mavis to catch up, before boarding the ferry to get a view from the water´s edge and each the ultimate attraction - aptly named El Abuelo (grangfather), a 4,000 year old tree. We decide to let the group leave without us and check into a lodge on the lake´s edge, joining an elderly couple and a fat ladrador with a wooden sign around his neck asking people not to feed him ´por favour, no me alimenta´. The wife takes a fancy to Etienne and chats with ´Francito´ (the little french one) whenever she gets the chance. We hitchhike to the start of trails, riding in the back of the bread delivery van with pumping dance music and blacked out windows, and find that we´re the only people on the paths. We pass fields of grazing sheep, climb hillsides covered in wild flowers, and cross streams where we fill our water bottles and take a break to eat lunch. We lose ourselves (really, we got very lost) in dense thicket and eventually emerge at a waterfall covered head to toe in spiky seeds shaped like mines. Heading back, we pick blackberries at the roadside and get covered in the dust blown into the air by passing cars and buses. Time to get back on the backpacker route.

We take a day trip to travelin, a welsh settlement town that still holds onto its heritage. The street names are typically Argentinean and it´s disappointing not to see signs written in unpronounceable gallic. But there are Welsh teahouses so we stuff ourselves with sandwiches and cakes watered down with a good brew.

Our next stop on Ruta 40 is El Bolson, a hippy town where the evolution of crafts has led to an small forest of trees carved into all manner of people, animals and abstract ideas post the last joint. From here we set out on a 2 day trek, spending a night at a refugio in the mountains (I am avoiding camping at all costs). At times it´s an almost vertical climb, at others we´re just rambling through forest. It´s all very beautiful although difficult to take in while I´m struggling to breathe and sweat is dripping between my shoulder blades. When we arrive at the glacier, I forget I was ever tired. Until I lie down on the thin mattress in my sleepingbag and pass out, sleeping soundly despite the loud, gutteral incessant snoring from one of the other 19 people in the room. Woken early by the sun streaming through the window and 19 people zipping open sleeping bags, I click my hip back into place and we have breakfast next to the beautiful setting of forest and mountain and glacier and sun before setting off. We take a longer downhill route to return, stopping for lunch at the crystal clear blue waters of Rio Azul. Flowing down from the glacier, it´s icy cold despite the hot sun so no swimming with the frozen trout now. We follow the horse trails the rest of the way to the pub marking the end. I rescue a tiny field mouse from the playful claws of a cat and settle down with a good pint of home made brew.

I don´t know what I was thinking when I got dressed this morning. We´re cycling around the lakes of Bariloche in the Parque National Nahuel Huapi (happy nappy), climbing steep hillsides and speeding down the winding roads, and I´m wearing a pair of skin tight jeans. Even on the flat I´stretching the denim to keep up with Mr Tour de France. There are no segregated cycle lanes and we´re edged off the asphalt by oversized cars and chased back on by oversized dogs. Nonetheless the setting is beautiful and there are enough miradors for regular de-saddling and reshaping. After 4 tiring hours we head back to the hostel to rest our legs. We meet our new room mate - a 50 year old man greets us in his Y-fronts. Unsure what to say or do, we make polite conversation and escape to the local irish pub for a refreshing pint. The next day is spent attempting a beautiful trek through a popular winter ski resort to a lake high in the mountains. We pass the ubiquitous Israelis carrying backbacks twice their size and greet the returning early birds - ´falta poco´ - as we climb the final stretch. Again, as we´ve come to expect from Argentina, the reward of reaching the top is worth all of the pain in getting there. Time to head back. I choke on a fly and almost collapse a lung.

Mendoza

My relationship with wine began with a bottle of Lambrusco as a teenager and has not developed much in sophistication since then. I am not exactly a wine conoisseur. But Mendoza´s principal industry being wine, it looks like I´m about to get an education. We hire bikes to tour the bodegas, starting the day at a working museum where we can follow the grapes through the whole process right up until I have a glass of red in my hand. And a white. Delicious. Then it´s back on the bikes and onto the next. And repeat. And tehre´s a chocolate liquor somewhere along the way. And olive oil. And more wine. And the 12km ride back to the shop!

Mendoza has the best tenedor libre (all you can eat) in the whole of Argentina. A huge dining room where you select from hundreds of different salad, potato and pasta options, have fish and meat cooked to order and gorge yourself on all manner of puddings and icecream. We pay 3 pounds and roll ourselve away.

We take a few days out to recover our health, bussing to a tiny village at the base of Aconcagua national park. The star attraction in Puente del Inca is the stunning colours and incredible rock formation that creates a natural bridge over the river, although the whole area is surrounded by mountains of amazing colours watched over by the highest peak in South America. Tiny villages are spotted along the deserted valley and lonely lorries pass through on their way to Chile. Naturally we spend the days trekking, meeting more horses and mules than people and watching the condors fly over our heads. The nights drop below zero so the only thig to do is entomb ourselves in sleeping bags and blankets - wimpy really considering the Argies voluntarily camping in the mountains around.

Salta

Before we arrive in Salta, we break the 24 hour bus journey with a night in San Augustine de Valle Fertil and explore the desert landscapes. The valley of the moon is not as visually impressive as its namesake in Chile although it´s amusing to follow a trail of unusual rock formations with painfully obvious names such as ´the mushroom´. Apparently it´s a site of worldwide paleantological interest but there are few obvious signs that the dinosaurs once roamed this land and even there most important discovery is officially housed in the Natural History Museum in London. At the Talampaya national park we cycle through a canyon to check out the graffiti left behind by our prehistoric ancestors and encounter animals like the fox who demonstrate an amazing ability to survive in harsh conditions.

I arrive in Salta with parasites. Nasty little bugs have invaded me and are digging tunnels under my skin. I´ve had some nasty encounters with mosquitos but this beats even the worst enslaught from my arch enemy. I can´t be sure where they came from - the hostel was filthy, as was the night bus, and I have an uncontrollable habit of playing with stray dogs. Given they are biting my ass, I am pointing the blame at the hygiene standard of Hostelling International´s Campo Base.

We hire a car and set out on a road trip of northern Argentina, following the route of the Train to the Clouds through green forest, colourful mountains and the open plains of the Puna. Bar a few trucks, we´re a lone vehicle travelling across a huge expanse as far as the eye can see, leaving behind a trail of dust thrown up from teh ravel road which covers everything at the roadside in a paint of grey. It´s a bumpy ride and we push the suspension of the Europcar. At the height of over 4,000 metres we reach the Salinas Grandes. These salt plains are not as expansive as those in bolivia, but the landscape changes faster and thereby creates a starker contrast. Plus this time I get to see the spectacle dry and experience the blinding sensation of the bright whiteness. We bend ourselves into shapes for the camera and get back on the road.

The altitude drops quickly as we drive to Purmamarca through mountina ranges of purple, blue, green, red, yello and orange. The little village is based at the foot of the Cerro de Siete Colores (mountain of 7 colours) and is a technicolour dreamcoat for geologists. It really is a very cute, picturesque place with a magical feel to it. We walk to a waterfall hidden away in the elbow of one mountain and bathe naked under a waterfall before wandering aound the crafts market. I take the wheel again and drive on along a beautiful road that winds through dense cloudforest. It is a rally of death. I brake quickly to avoid a suicidal dog, but my reaction is not as quick when a flock of birds cross in front of us and a wing collides with the windscreen. Beautiful butterflies are fllowing a similar fate so I slow to almost snails pace (although probably still caught a few of those too). I´m trying to minimise our impact on the environment we´re invading but it´s a difficult assault course. We pass a man beating a snake on the road and I accept defeat; a bag of nerves. Etienne has to take over. I close my eyes and hope we´re not the next victims as cars race around the bends and barely slow to pass us on the narrow one-lane stretches. In San Lorenzo we hire some horses and take a more ecologically friendly visit into the forest. The horses are disobedient and walk at their own pace up against the trees and hedges at the side of the road, battering us with branches and covering us with cobwebs from giant spiderwebs (at which point I totally freak out to the apparent amusement of the guide). Nature 1 - 1 Us.

Iguazu

We fly to iguazu and check into a smart hotel. Nothing but total luxury for the boy´s birthday. Unfortunately the rains ae coming down so it´s not quite the lounging by the pool drinking cocktails that we´d imagined - although picking grapefruits from the trees and tucking into them in front of a movie in English is a pretty good alternative. Little things, like English, can be so pleasing when you´re travelling. The rains have made the falls spectacular (although it´s tough to imagine them being anythign but). We spend 2 days at the national park, viewing the whole stretch from above and getting soaked from underneath. They are nothing short of phenomenal. We cross a wide tranquil river until we reach the Garganta del Diablo, where millions of tons of water tumble over a sheer drop in the earth´s plate. It´s astonishing. And deafening. And cold and wet. A specially constructed pathway takes us along the top of the falls where we follow the inevitable destiny of the rivers and streams that join together in a sudden vertical drop. And then there´s the pathway underneath which is perhaps more picturesque, with rainbows appearing in the spray created by the falls. Although equally as wet. It feels like an amazing priviledge to be here. The falls are one of the most beautiful things I´ve ever seen, set in a frest abundant with life (coaties, monkeys and butterflies that settle on your clothes). We cross to the Brazilian side to get a panoramic view from a little distance away before leaving the falls, and Argentina, behind.

Gallery: Brazil

lou — Mon, 12 Mar 2007 09:19:00 GMT

Brazil

lou — Mon, 12 Mar 2007 08:20:00 GMT

Pantanal

We arrive in Brazil with the tired eyes of soldiers returning from war. Our transit stop in Corumba gives us time to scrub the thick layers of Bolivia off our skin and reintroduce our bodies to vitamins and minerals before continuing on to the Pantanal, Brazil´s wetlands. Our lodge is surrounded by green save for the crystal reflections on the river running past our porch. Very pretty. The morning starts with fishing for piranha. Equipped with a wooden rod speared through an unidentifiable piece of flesh, I sit atop an old boat moored against the banks. One eye is on the calm waters and another on the alligator bathing in the shallows. Half an hour passes and nothing. My bait has been cooked by the heat of the river and the sun is baking me under cotton layers of mosquito defence. I`m starting to feel a wave of restlessness. I accept defeat early and go play with a tame baby capyvara.

Time to explore the real Pantanal. A jeep and boat safari. I am wearing karki and ready to go. The guide seems to know the area like he was raised in the swamp and spots life no matter how cunningly nature has camouflaged it. I fill my camera with Maribou Stork, Toucans, Blue Macaws, Kingfishers, Howler monkeys and a fresh water stingray. Soon enough we´re out of the vehicle and wading waist high through long grasses growing in the hot waters now covering most of the land. I´m contemplating how to best describe this experience in my CV for Mr Attenborough as we come to shallower waters and run into a sleeping alligator. Not peturbed, the guide stops us and indicates for us to circle behind it. Then he demonstrates man´s apparent superiority by lifting the tail of the alligator out of the waters. In my imagination the alligator snapped around and swallowed the little guide whole. In reality he splashed about a bit and swam off. Still, Mr Attenborough doesn´t need to know that.

Having concluded 4 legs good, 2 legs bad, I explore a little further with a horse as my guide. And a cowboy. Which is useful when we find ourselves amongst a migration of cattle - over a thousand cows being transfered to fertile land. They´ve been on the move for 4 days and are now walking skeletons. Some have even given birth during the pilgrimage and are closely followed by calves still bearing the umbilical cord. The heavens open and the rains come down as we gallop back to ranch.

Sao Paulo

We hire Nurit´s friends as our escorts for a few days in the big city and whizz through the highlights, inlcuding a stop for lunch in the best vegetarian restaurant in the world (not yet accredited by Michelin, but I may take him). We stumble across an all-female percussion group and svelte dancers of African heritage rehearsing for carnival. Nurit and I quickly pick up the routine and dance our hearts out with the only other people who seem to have loosened up for carnival, the neighbourhood bums. We later head down to the carnaval stage to watch the samba schools rehearsing and are handed red and yellow balloons and invited to join. Time to learn samba then. Fast. Two hours later we reach the end of the stadium with tired feet, soaked through by the rain, with the one repeated samba song still playing in our heads.

Salvador - Carnival

I arrive in Salvador in the midst of Carnival preparations with camarotes being erected along the streets, intersperced with police stands from where the city will attempt to make carnival safe. Parties have already started to enable to organisers to test the sound systems and businesses are hastily scrubbing out outdated information, introducing specially quadrupled prices for the festival period. Rob has found us a smart apartment in a top location close to the action and still far enough away to be able to escape the chaos. And right on the beach. With Air conditioning. And a washing machine. After 3 months of roughing it, this is ultimate luxury.

We don our best drag and join the beautiful homosexuals in the Os Masquerados bloco, following Margareth Menezes for a 6 hour dance-a-thon along Avenida Oceanica from Barra to Olinda. In the rain. The carnival spirit is amazing and everyone is ultra friendly. Our next bloco is the infamously popular Camaleo, starring the aging popstar Chiclete con banana (lots of the media lovelies are older and rougher around the edges than I was expecting). The crowd is completely insane. Squeeze in as many young affluent Brazilians as possible. And a few more. Add Skol and loud, repetitive cheesy music. Bake in the sun. Shake around vigorously. The result is mental. I follow Rob under the ropes to grab a stick of meat and take a break from the mobile disco, but outside of the protection of the ropes, Campo Grande is a pretty intimidating place to be. There´s a clear separation of wealth and race. Given that it costs $400 to be inside the bloco, many of the young, black Salvadorians watch from the roadside or follow as pipoca (popcorn), dancing as though inspired inside a boxing ring I am pickpocketed. For a crappy flyer. We duck under the cordao and go back to the pushing and shoving inside. After 5 hours of listening to the same songs over and over we try to make our escape and slip down a side road. We speak to a security guard behind the gates of a big house and spend 5 minutes trying to decifer the direction of home from his whispering before concluding from his uncomfortable, shifting eyes and the people watching us from the opposite side that it´s best not to attempt to break away. We run uphill back to the safety of our BPM prison and await release after nightfall. I miss the gays.

In addition to the blocos, there is something going on in every street (prostitution, drug-dealing...). In Porto do Barra, dense crowds are packed into all the streets. I have now developed a bronze camouflage and am hoping it will make me less of a tourist target. But it seems the robbers don´t discriminate as an opportunist tries to rip my watch from my wrist. He tries, but the cheap plastic watch is made of tougher stuff and I find myself face to face with the guy. I guess he decided from my piercing scream that he was no match for me and disappears into the crowd empty-handed. We visit the old town where a Japanese percussion group is making a trail through the cobbled streets and processions appear out of nowhere only to disappear again into the dark. We dance samba reggae in a cute little square with a rasta man and a little old lady who seems to have lived carnival all her life. Nurit and Javier arrive as our house guests and join us for some caiparinha on the beach as the Fat Boy Slim bloco passes and strobe lights illuminate the revellers urinating against the sea wall.

Outside of the city, carnival is far more tranquil. We take a minibus to Praia do Forte, a northern beach town, where we are introduced to the practice of squashing as many people into one vehicle as possible. A basketball player nonchalently sits on my knee when the driver indicates for him to squeeze in next to me. When we arrive, we reshape ourselves and stroll down to the beach to visit the turtle sanctuary and watch the local carnival effort – kids dressed as Exu (a 2-horned African god) competing for the chance to win a mountain bike. All very quaint. Our second escape is to the island of Morro do Sao Paulo where we simply lie on the beach. It´s gorgeous and we vow to return.

And once Carnival is officially over and we´ve had to say our goodbyes to Rob, we´re back on that boat with Posso Ayudar´s handing out a continuous supply of sick bags. After spending 3 hours searching for a place we can afford to sleep (carnival peak season has arrived here too now), we take a walk in the rain into the lush green centre of the island. Nurit and I entertain ourselves by adorning ourselves with flowers and doing a pretty good job of making Javi look like a fairy. For 3 more days we stay on the island, lying on the beach all day and occasionally rousing ourselves to eat acai, take a dip in the luke warm sea or watch an impromptu capoeira session. At night we eat chocolate banana pastries and drink daiquiris made at the fruit bars on the beach. Amazing. The carnival music has crossed the short stretch of water and we dance to the same music over and over, with the same enthusiasm every time. Even in the nightly downpours. And amongst all that I even manage to squeeze in a couple of tranquil yoga sessions.

Our last 24 hours are not so idealic. Nurit loses our key and after searching the beach for an hour we resign to sleeping on the floor of a friend´s place, with his cousin unconscious from drink and retching in the room next door. The next day we hijack the deck chairs in one of the posh hotels on the front and catch up on lost sleep. A last game of pool volleyball with Javi before we leave and I crash down on the edge of the pool and feel my rib crumble underneath me.

Lencois

My first stop is the local hospital which I stumble into when it reopens from siesta at 2pm. I guess there´s nothing so urgent to justify denying the doctors a long lunch and quick nap. The doc presses a stethoscope against my ribs and writes me a prescription for muscle damage, concluding that nothing is broken. From the x-ray I insist upon, I can make out some bones and the silouette of my breasts. There´s no evidence I have ribs so nothing to worry about. A weeks rest it is.

For a few days I wander around the town. A crazy Australian traveller confidently leads me to the Serrano where there is a small waterfall and deep pools in the riverbed which locals visit for a hydro massage. Heading back, he makes a detour and suddenly we´re lost in a maze of giant rocks where armies of biting ants carpet the floor and a suspiciously evil-looking toad the size of a dinner plate sits inconspicuously. I later befriend a local trekking guide and follow him to Ribeirao do Meio, a river on the other side of town which has also been harnessed by locals for their pleasure, this time a giant, natural waterpark slide. I help him to wash his dog in one of the pools and then attempt to wash l`eau de wet dog from my skin before stretching out to dry. Much easier than scrambling through the undergrowth in a desperate attempt to find our way home before dark. I vouch to only trust surfers on a beach. And maybe not even.

The area is surrounded by thousands of waterfalls, including one of the tallest in Brazil, the Cachoeira da fumaca. The bus drops me as close as I can get on 4 wheels and I follow a guide whose sense of humour developed around the same era as the mountains we´re climbing. At the top, I peek over the cliff edge and look down on the cascada, feeling the wet spray rising to moisten my face. It`s very beautiful but staring down 300ft has a dizzying effect. Another short tour takes me to a couple of intriguing caves, poco encantando and poco azul, which hide magical bright-blue lakes up to 40m deep and contain blind fish. In the second we´re able to swim in the tranquil waters (I put aside images of crippled fish). A Japanese guy gets a little too close to the edges and swims back in blind panic, desperately trying to brush a disturbed bat from his hair. He reminds me of Data when the goonies first encounter Sloth and the Fratellis and I laugh like a weeble in my life jacket. On our drive back to the town, we encounter an overturned lorry. And then another. I realise it´s a common occurrence with well-known handsignals for drivers to warn oncoming vehicles (other popular ones include `cows in the road` and `police ahead`).

Salvador ... again

I arrive at the bus station in the early hours and bypass the city, catching a speedboat to the island of Itaparica. I take a combi to a little beach fron hotel, opting for the front seat to avoid the cosiness of the back, and instead spend the journey being chatted up by the fare collector. I fully take the piss out of him when he flatters me on my perfume – a mixture of Nivea Factor 15 and 95% deet repellent. At Porta de Araia beach I´m the only human being. And save for a few fishermen on the beach in Cacha Prego, it´s the same story there. My thoughts echo in my head like tinnitus as I drag my feet through the lapping waves, amongst washed up urchins, carcasses of fish and other flotage. The sun is hot but the strong winds that are pebbledashing my skin promise a storm ahead. I pop home, avoiding the mangos that are being blown from the branches and are plummetting to earth like meteorites. I turn on the TV and flick through the options – Big Brother seems to have missed the point, filling the house with beautiful people, the news is full of stories of violence (largely provoked by Bush´s visit), and there are 3 channels devoted to football. I settle on trying to follow the hammy acting in one of the TV novelas.

Back in Salvador, I doss down with Serena and Daniel, a fun young Canadian couple living spitting distance from the beach. While they´re working, I work on my tan. I´m pretty dark now, and guess I could pass as a Brazilian to the untrained eye, but still I´m surprised when the middle-aged Essex man sat to my side assumes I have no grasp of the English language and comments loudly to hs friend about my ass. I`m even looking him in the eye as he says `with these glasses I can stare at er ass and pretend I`m talkin to you`. A confirmation that the FHM man really exists. Before leaving I make sure the wind is blowing in the right directionas I shake the sand from my towel. And let him know I´m English.

I check out a Capoeira show at Mestre Bimba (http://www.capoeiranyc.com/bimba.html). The speed at which they flip like gymnasts from one side of the circle to the other, avoiding oncoming kicks from their opponent, is pretty impressive. Part way through, I´m ´volunteered´ to go up and fight. My 6´3” opponent shows me a few attack and defense moves then claps my hand to start. I forget my self-diagnosed cracked rib for the moment and clumsily cartwheel in reflection to him.

For my temporary farewell to Brazil, the three of us head to Itapua to check out what is supposedly one of the nicest beaches in the city. We almost get there. Dan is robbed. Mugged at penpoint. By a man holding a biro to his head. A very aggressive man with 2 lookout friends. In broad daylight, on the main street. It seems rediculous how easy it was for the guy, but there was no way we were going to argue. And if he is really that desperate, he can now put up with the broken mobile that receives spam texts every 10 minute. Anyway, bye for now Brazil!

Bolivia

lou — Wed, 7 Feb 2007 23:57:00 GMT

Salar de Uyuni tour

The only ATM in town eventually co-operates so I´m able to liquidate myself and book onto a 3 day border crossing tour. In fact within an hour we´ve left behind the Chilean fruit bandits and are driving across barren no-man´s land towards Bolivia.

On the otherside we begin the whistlestop tour of the Bolivian antiplano: traffic light lagunas intersperced with vast stretches of nothing; geysers of hot, bubbling pools of mud; and giant rocks strewn out across the desert like a great work of Dali. We soon realise that the tour will be purely visual as, on the rare occasions that he speaks, we´re unable to decifer the toothless, mumbling taxi driver who has been sold to us as a guide. Nevertheless, it´s a feast for the eyes and at each attraction we have just enough time for some amateur photography before being whisked to the next. At Lago Colorado, I rush right down to the shores where hundreds of flamingos are feeding, getting close up to compensate for the weakness of my zoom. I wade back to the jeep through the deceptively wet marshland and emerge with muddy boots and a strong aroma of stale water and bird shit. I guess I wasn´t the only one happy that we had an appointment with the hot springs.

After a night spent in the most basic lodging in Bolivia, sharing a room with 6 others and a toilet with 45, we´re on the unpaved, unmarked road again for a day of more-of-the-same. We head towards the Salar where we´ll sleep in a hotel made of salt waiting for the first light of morning ... And it is the most spectacular sight I have ever seen. A thin slice of light emerges on the horizon creating a line of fire against a night sky tinged blue, reflected with perfect symmetry in the shallow film of rain water covering the salt land. As the sun rises, so its reflection comes closer until it is directly above us and directly below. It is stunning.

When we arrive in Uyuni there is no electricity power due to recent heavy rains. (Although this is an annual phenomenon also known as the wet season, Bolivians are yet to find a long term solution and seem to have resigned themselves to days without power. In Bolivia the mentality seems to be one of finding a way to cope with situations rather that finding a way of resolving problems for the long term). We visit the train graveyard on the edge of town and play amongst the rusting locomotives abandoned in the dry, unfertile land. I can´t resist lying across the antique tracks, stepping back 50 years, flickering black and white images of a damsel in distress. A train passes on the adjacent tracks and it´s suddenly Back to the Future.

Potosi

This town on the antiplano is dominated both physically and emotionally by the Cerro Rico, a mountain in which men, women and children have been risking their lives to mine silver, and later tin, for over 500 years. Abandoned by the state, they are now operated by private co-operatives, although the abundance of solicitors´ offices suggest they´re no safer. Nevertheless I join a tour. Woohoo! We stop en route to purchase dynamite and coca leaves, then begin our journey through the mines. As we go deeper, the temperature rises and the ceiling lowers. Despite walking in a semi-crouch position, I repeatedly bash my head against rock or pipes carrying in fresh air from outside (hard hat severly scratched but skull intact). We stand aside as a light and deep rumbling sound comes closer, and heavy trucks are pushed past us along the fragile rails. Some of the men are only boys and it´s somewhat disturbing to think about how difficult their life is. We pay our respects to Tio, the mighty, well-endowed devil deity before leaving the miners to continue their work. I´m not sure why this is a ´tourist attraction´. It´s certainly educational but something just doesn´t feel right.

Sucre

Outside of the congestion zone that surrounds the central market, the city is pretty. Narrow lanes lined with smart white buildings and parks adorned with tributes to the west (technically east) - although I fail to appreciate the attempted replica of the eiffel tower. I wander through cobbled streets up the the monastry that overlooks the city, where I watch the sunset framed by arches like a renaissance painting.

On the edge of town is a cement factory. Whilst digging for limestone, the workers stumbled across evidence of prehistoric life and in 1998 it was declared the largest dinosaur tracksite known on the planet. And so a tourist park was built. I take the Dinobus and pay the special high price for a foreigner´s ticket to travel back in time. To 1985. I am a 5 year old ear old having my photo taken with lifesize fibreglass replicas. I reach the archaeological site where plants, animals and giant footprints have been fossilised in the rock and am puzzled to find it´s a vertical wall . Apparently it is thanks to seismic shifting that we are now able to conveniently view it through telesopes at least 100m away. I feel cheated as I leave without the satisfaction of touching and resolve to stand in the footprints of giants at the Torotoro national park.

Cochabamba and no Toro Toro

I arrive at the Sucre bus station to find that the agency has forgotten to reserve my seat and the bus is now full. But there´s always a way. I bargain myself an uncomfortable folddown seat next to the driver and spend the night watching the bus veer around tight corners, negotiating landslides and stray dogs waiting at the roadside for scraps thrown from the bus to which they have become accustomed. (The main method of waste disposal in Bolivia is to hurl things to the side of the road and wait for them to vanish. Although I heard about an advanced town where waste is collected and dumped at the river source, polluting the town´s only water supply).

I spend a day in the city trying to find a way to Toro Toro - I have a choice of a twice-weekly, 10 hour ride in a chicken truck (10 hours being the Bolivian laissez faire estimation) or a privately chartered flight. I chat with the only other foreigner about the waterfalls and crystal clear pools, the ancient river banks impregnated with Cretaceous life and the caves of stalagtites sheltering blind fish. It is very tempting. But it´s rainy season and the idea of squeezing through flooded caves in the pitch darkness is not calling to me. It´s time to move again.

I awake early and head down to the bus station where I take the last seat on a bus to Samaipata as it is pulling out of the garage. I have the front seat at the top of the bus, with the best view I could ask for so I make myself comfortable and prepare for the real-life movie ahead. The scenery is amongst some of the most beautiful I have ever seen.

The bus stops a few times in order to, I presume, fix some problems - it later transpires there are people sleeping underneath with the bags so they were probably stopping to check they were still alive. There are a few scheduled stops for breakfast and lunch, but otherwise we are making good progress and I mentally plan what I will do for the evening. Just an hour and a half away from my destination we pull up behind a line of trucks and buses and sit waiting. And waiting. And waiting. News comes that the rains have caused a waterfall to flood the road and the traffic has created mud levels so high that vehicles are trapped, unable to move forwards or backwards. Nothing is moving tonight. So a night on the bus it is.

I wake early the next morning to a bus full of mosquitoes and am amazed to find I have been bitten only once. Through my trousers. But they´re still hungry so there´s still time for a full body job. I climb down and walk along the train of vehicles until I reach the site of the disruption. A little digger is moving mud to the side of the road, allowing 5 or so buses to pass until one gets stuck and the surrounding crowds are brought in again to pull it out. The rain is still coming down and the water is still running across the road. But it´s being ignored. No-one seems to have had the forethought to divert the water away, and so the mud continues to build up. It´s incredible. A crowd of about 500 people surrounds the road, watching the vehicles pass, or not, and shouting conflicting instructions to the next driver in line. And still the water is flowing. Perhaps out of exasperation, perhaps just out of boredom, I start to dig a small ditch to divert some water. I´m joined by a few kids, and watched by puzzled faces of adults. It is working until people start to come to wash their shoes (n the muddy water) and break down the banks. Eventually 2 big diggers arrive and literally dig a new, deeper road. When the next rains come, it´s going to be the same story again. Another case of Bolivia finding a way of dealing with a situation rather than solving a problem. I head back to the bus shaking my head and wait for our turn to pass through.

Samaipata http://www.samaipata.com/ingles.htm

Twenty seven hours later I have arrived in Samaipata, translated from Quechua to mean ´resting place in the mountains´ - and I understand why the minute I step off the bus. Already I love this place. A cute little town surrounded by beautiful mountains and forest, and populated by friendly locals and expats. Within hours I´ve met a great bunch of people and adopted them as my companions in the town for the next week.

We take a tour to Amboro national park. The track is still muddy from the rains but the guides are crazier than they are sensible, and plough through, skidding sideways and leaving the jeep in a ditch. We continue on foot through the Parque de Helechos (giant fern forest) and are a little more friendly with the inhabitants than I´d anticipated - flat brown slugs that secrete yellow liquid when provoked, a rattlesnake that spits venom onto the guides machete and an array of wierd and wonderful caterpillars.

After a day of rain that passes with food and movies, it´s time for an education so we pay a visit to El Fuerte, "one of the most remarkable pre-colombian ritualistic sites in the entire world". We don´t have a guide so invent our own stories and explanations for the impressively carved rock and surrounding walls. The stories are brilliant and most likely very accurate. On the way back we visit the waterfalls at Las Cuevas, wading through sinking mud to reach the furthest and stripping off to swim in the deepest pool, tinged red by the mud. I am eaten alive by the waiting mosquitos.

We spend a night at the home of an Israeli family living almost self-sufficiently on an organic farm in the mountains. They´ve learnt how everything works through trial and error: buying a goat out of milk; introducing too many roosters and creating a mini cock fighting factory; and planting banana trees where they were doomed to failure. They share their home with visitors up to 365 days a year so there´s not much privacy. Although they´ve managed to have 2 kids. We spend our time there in complete relaxation mode - painting pictures, making origami animals and eating massive helpings of vegetarian food. Our only contribution to the working farm is a short spell pulling peanuts from the ground under the supervision of their 3 year old son (who orders us around in 3 languages) and shelling them once dried.

To the Brazilian border

We arrive at the bus station in good time for the start of our 20 hour journey and wait an hour while they slowly load bags onto the roof of the oldest bus in Bolivia. There is a laid-back feeling, the passengers resigned to the fact we´ll get going eventually. The bus pulls away from the station and there are immediately problems with the engine. Or was it the tires? They play around with a few things and fill the bus with fumes before starting up again. Just 2 hours later the bus pulls to a halt. I manage to decifer that the road is impassable due to the rains (and they couldn´t anticipate this?) and we have a choice - continue along another route that will take an extra 5 hours and cost another 10 bolivianos or we go back. Someone decides we´ll continue. Probably the biggest, loudest man. But we decide not to pay - a decision the driver accepts as he reaches our seat then continues down the bus collecting money from donors.

It´s surprisingly easy to sleep on the bus and we only really come around at about lunch time as we pull in for lunch at which point our ETA is re-quoted - we should arrive at 9pm. So another 6 hours to our already impressive journey time. We sit down to study Nurit´s map and locate ourselves in San Jose de Chiquitos, a town founded by the jesuits and a tourist detination for many. We´re tempted to spend the night, but given our track record we´re reluctant to delay our arrival in Brazil any longer. Even when the restaurant owner ups the 6 hour estimation to 9 hours! So we´re resigned to entertaining ourselves on the hot, and by now stinking bus, as we drive through the middle of nowhere with no realistic arrival time. Finally, at 2.30 AM we arrive at the border town ... and find the border closed. So, another night on the bus which now feels like home. When we finally cross into Brazil the next day, despite being exhausted and feeling the dirtiest and most disgusting I have ever felt in my life, I am unable to stop smiling.

Gallery: Bolivia

lou — Wed, 7 Feb 2007 07:53:00 GMT

Chile

lou — Thu, 18 Jan 2007 23:55:00 GMT

Arica

*Flies - only carnivores allowed*

After a 19-hour bus journey from Lima, with commentary from a fast-talking Peruvian Japanese car importer, I arrive in Tacna. I`m subject to close inspection before I cross into Chile, with bag scanners to search for contraband fruit. Whether it`s to protect the province from the supposedly eradicated fruit fly as the flyer I`m handed suggests or to protect the economic interests of local producers comes down to the effectiveness of passport control for flying pests.

My experience of Chile begins in the Sunday market where I`m immediately confused by the currency change, not helped by the fact a pair of shoes costs the same as a tube of toothpaste. I settle it by consulting the internationally traded commodities of Mr. R. McDonald and take a stroll up the Morro, the site of Peru`s defeat in the war of the Pacific and now just a big statue on a hill.

I take a tour out to Lauca National Park. We pass through deep valleys, along desert roads lined with geoglyphs and candelabra cactuses, stopping to experience the earth`s magnetism pull the car backwards uphill (or to be fooled by an optical illusion?). We take lunch at an eco-retreat with a community of Hare Krishnas. The vegetarian food is very good but clearly the flies have been waiting for fresh meat and my patience fails as my foot is bitten for the 20th time. Sod the f'ing yoga principles, I`m outta there. We drive to Lago Chungarâ, surrounded by the snow-capped cotacotani volcanoes. There`s an abundance of wildlife - vicuñas, viscachas (like giant rabbits with long tails), mice, flamingoes and the domesticated llama and alpaca - and a real feeling of wilderness. I wander amongst it for a while then sit back and take it all in over a nice hot cup of coca tea.

San Pedro de Atacama

*a scene from star wars*

It`s a really laid-back little town with dry dusty roads and lots of inviting places to hide away for lunch. I join a group of Chileans for a spanish-narrated trip to the outskirts of town. The lunar landscapes, caused by the erosion of the salt mountains (which I eroded a little more, but I have my souvenir), are like something out of this world. Walking across the Valle de Meurte I am expecting to run into R2D2 and C3P0. I cross the high ridge of a dune above the Valle de la Luna and watch the sunset over the desert and the multitude of stars begin to emerge above me.

Gallery: Chile

lou — Sun, 14 Jan 2007 01:49:00 GMT

A quick dip

Peru

lou — Sat, 13 Jan 2007 14:00:00 GMT

Mancora

*1st stop the beach*

The border crossing is pretty straightforward. I sleep through most of it, arousing to a semi-conscious state to get my exit stamp in Ecuador and entry stamp from the Peruvian official who offers to be my boyfriend. When I`m forcibly awoken at the bus station in Piura, I`m in a completely different land. Desert. Litter. Tuk-Tuks and taxis the size of SMART cars.

I meet up with Christina and we head out to Mancora, a surfy little town on the coast. We spend the next few days eating ceviche and fruit on the beach, lazing in the sun and avoiding the transparent charms of the colombian bracelet sellers. It`s tiring. We join the lively little community after dark - swigging rum on the beach to the sound of waves crashing against the shore, chatting with the locals like a bi-linguist (post rum) and dancing to a strange mix of reggae and salsa. Thanks to an over-enthusiastic dance partner, I end up injured and have the pleasure of sitting it out listening to a drunken gringo whose chat is worse than the Colombians`. On our last night our bent key breaks in the hostel door. I learn that arguing with a swaying security guard stinking of Pilsner is a positive waste of energy and we camp out in another room until the morning when we can take up our case with the owner. He gives us the spare key. Case closed.

Trujillo / Huanchaco

*ruins in the desert*

Despite great historical significance, there`s nothing much to report about Trujillo. It`s a busy city with more buses than people and internet cafes on every corner (in which you can opt for a private booth - a curtain around a terminal that does not disguise the heavy breathing!).

We visit some of the ruins on the outskirts. Chan Chan, the largest pre-hispanic city in Peru, inhabited by the war-loving Chimú people is now a huge sand-coloured edifice, camouflaged by the surrounding desert and largely destroyed by the Spaniards, grave robbers and the elements. The older capital of the Moche people, with the colourful Huaca de la Luna pyramid temple, is pretty impressive. The stories of human sacrifice and gruesome offerings to the Gods are really interesting although the guide prefers to chat about the fiestas for Navidad and Nuevo Año.

We stay out on the coast in the fishing town of Huanchaco watching the daily activities from the shore - reed fishing boats (caballitos) take tourists out to sea to be soaked by the waves then stand drying against the sea wall, full-wetsuit clad men reminiscent of 007 or the Milktray man pull weeds from the ocean floor, and the kids catch fish with their hands in a scoff to both. We consider trying to surf but watching the surfers skilfully skimming around the pier supports I decide the water is too cold.

Lima (Miraflores)

*Christmas in the capital*

From everything I read about Lima, I am expecting a city permanently covered by a big, dark cloud. As it turns out the district of Miraflores is modern, clean and pretty damn posh. The sun is shining as housemaids take pampered pets along the cliff top walkways to the special pooch parks and budding sports pro`s volley balls across the tennis courts. I head to the mall for a Starbucks mocha frappuchino.

As it turns out, I later discover that the old town matches the profile I`d expected. Some big interesting buildings (why is everything yellow?) and a whole lot of people, cars and pollution. And set 3-course menus for $5 which promise all sorts of pain later.

On christmas eve I visit a tiny, poor village of Quebrada Verde in the north of Lima and help to distribute xmas presents collected by the hostel to the kids. Small cars for boys, dolls for girls, a chocolate vanilla lollipop for those who are last in the line. I am wearing a santa hat in the mid-day heat. The kids seem a bit bewildered. So am I. Christmas day is fairly traditional - I get up late and watch a movie, eat too big a dinner and lie on the sofa watching TV. Oh, and walk to the beach in the sun for some fresh air :0)

My christmas present finally arrives on the 27th. It`s the first time I`ve ever collected anyone from an airport and in all the excitement I forget to prepare my sign: "Esteban".

Cusco & Machu Picchu

*Crazy and Beautiful - and very wet*

We fly into Cusco (avoiding the Backpacker Special 30-hour bus ride) and spend a few days wandering around the town, drinking coca tea to acclimatise and avoiding the overly persistent tour touts. Outside the tourist centre of the city it`s easy to get lost and we find ourselves in a busy street market clearly not intended for tourists. Lots of local produce including raw meats slowly cooking under the watch of local flies, unusual looking vegetables and herbs, and what looks like dried, skinned cats although turns out to be nothing more sinister than llama foetuses. We outwit the drunk pickpockets, who started drinking before christmas and will probably stay inebriated until long after new year, and head back to the safety of touristville.

Ready for some realy trekking, we head out to the local ruins, scoffing at the idea of taking a bus to the furthest site and walking back. We return exhausted with sunburn and sunstroke. All the perfect ingredients for new year`s eve celebrations! Which are completely crazy. After some warm up drinks at the hostel (Adam, John "In the morning...") we head en masse to the central square to join the thousands of people already waving sparklers and eating pig and potato from tiny stalls. All wearing yellow pants to bring luck and prosperity in 2007. As the big hand strikes midnight, the olympic laps of the central square begin. Firecrackers go off all around us. It becomes a hilarious game of crossing the minefield avoiding the mini explosions as the police sit in their cars at the side of the street looking on, with firecrackers going off under their vehicles.

I spend the next few days incapacitated. After a few hours in the local hospital, almost fainting as I watch my vains pump blood into a little testing pot, the doctor diagnoses Salmonela AND Guardia Lamblia. He prescribes antibiotics and rest. So the next day we take a taxi, a train and then an early morning bus to Machu Picchu to do some trekking around the famous Inca city. Whoever said I`m not hardcore.

It rains for most of the morning and we get our anticipated cloud-only view from the Intipunku, the Gate of the Sun. Nevertheless we can test out our waterproof ponchos and are looking pretty damn cool. As we approach Machu Picchu, the sun breaks through the clouds and blue skies appear. We stand and look at the picture postcard sight in front of us, with one eye on the grazing, spitting llamas nearby.

We spend an hour climbing Huayna Picchu, the mountain overlooking the site, up steep steps and through a small, damp and muddy cave. At the top we are rewarded with an amazing view over the surrounding valleys with Machu Picchu nestled above it all. It is breathtaking, and not only because I have climbed up from 2380m with my little parasites. The journey back is tough. There`s a sheer drop to the right of the huge stone steps (how did the little Incas climb this?!) so I pin myself against the wall on my left like an old lady needing a stannah stairlift and take tentative steps until the ground levels out again. Returning to the site, we wander around the terraces, temples, and living quarters, discretely listening to the tour guides tell fantastical stories to wide-eyed tour groups. We consider running tours of London with imaginary stories of Gods and wars and a little sexual intrigue for good measure. Watch this space!

Lake Titicaca

*A family affair*

We arrive in Puno, a brief stop for tourists heading to the islands on the lake with nothing of any discernable interest of its own. We take a tour out to one of the reed islands of Uros. The ground is made of reeds, the houses are made of reeds, the boats in which they get to places not made of reeds are made of reeds. Supposedly this is how people live although there`s no real evidence of inhabitation. Our suspicions that this is just a tourist attraction are further fuelled by the tin roofs and smoke from cooking fires in the distance.

The tour continues to the natural islands of Amantani and Taquile - huge mountains protruding from the lake. In Amantani we`re introduced to our new family. Our father meets us off the boat but we don`t see him again until we leave. I suspect he has a mistress. Our mother is very nice and cooks up some delicious samples of meals. We have delirious, hunger-fuelled dreams of being served the pineapple we gave as a gift but never see it again. Our brother is training to be a tour guide but is still at the age where candy is a better tip than money. He takes us to the start of a climb to the highest points - the temples of Pacha Mama and Pacha Tata, and leaves us to tackle it alone. He is obviously wise enough to calculate the tip:guide time ratio and decide that his time is better spent playing football. We make it home safely before the storm starts and get cosy in our sleeping bags, sharing a single bed made of straw.

Arequipa

*Misty Misti*

Arequipa is another town that people seem to visit only to use as a base to get elsewhere. The Colca Canyon, the deepest in the world, is another painful 6-hour bus journey away so we decide instead to check into a nice hotel and spend all our time eating in the gardens, watching movies and playing table football. I`ll give you that sport my boy, just remember you can`t beat me at pool! We venture out to the Misti volcano mirador, but the views are obscured by the clouds so instead we wander around the town and buy icecream beans in the market, a fluffy white fruit encased in a long green shell. Very addictive.

Nazca

*sick bags and grazed knuckles*

Despite the cloudy skies and intermittant rain, the local agent assures us that turbulence is worse during the hot days so it`s the perfect time to fly. I`m all for that. The lines are amazing from above - a spaceman, a giant spider, a dog, an enormous monkey, birds... Impressive, although their sense of perspective was a bit off. The pilot flies like Nighthawk, turning the 6 seater plane sharply in both directions so the lines are visible from both sides. I`m beginning to feel queasy when a musty food smell fills the cabin and the Colombian in front of us begins sweating profusely. The pilot hands him a tissue, opens the window and continues to loop the loop.

We later borrow the agents car and drive it into the desert to see the lines close up. It`s pretty much impossible to make out the shapes from either the official viewpoint of the small hill recommended by the guidebook but we´re able to get close enough to examine the depth (very shallow) and width (very narrow) and ponder how they`ve survived all this time without being blown away by the wind.

At 5am the next morning, we`re climbing Cerro Blanco, the highest sand dune in the world. As the sun rises, our tops become makeshift headscarves and we start work on our 5 litres of water and vast supply of dried fruits and nuts. From the summit the view is beautiful, but we´re not here for the scenery. We strap on our sandboards and tentatively push ourselves over the edge. I elegantly slide down the first slope in a stop-start motion, my board jamming in the sand every time I get up a little speed and forcing me to my knees. It takes me about an hour to descent the longest slope, although I give up three-quarters of the way down as I feel the cramp in my calves kicking in. I opt for sledging the rest of the way. Which is harder to control and I hurtle down at breakneck speed gaining a few superficial cuts to evidence the days battle.

Ica / Huacachina

*Oasis in the desert*

We arrive at a little resort in the middle of the desert. We spend the days lounging by the pool, sleeping in the sun and listening to the resident parrot immitating the neighbour´s peacock. We rouse ourselves for a stroll around the murky green lake described by my guide book as `curative green sulphur waters´ and watch the dune buggies navigate the vertical slopes of the enormous, imposing sanddunes surrounding us.

Gallery: Ecuador and the Galapagos

lou — Sun, 17 Dec 2006 06:41:00 GMT

From the cloud forests in the north through to the edge of Peru

Galapagos

lou — Sun, 17 Dec 2006 06:38:00 GMT

Isla San Cristobal

We´re greeted on arrival by a pair of sealions at the little harbour and I'm lucky to get the unique opportunity to catch them on camera. By the end of the day I´ve seen more of them than pigeons in London.

The afternoon is spent trying out some off-road, high-speed mountain biking. It dawns on me that booking this trip with a kiwi company might mean I´m in for more action than I´d bargained for.

I then have a full day in my wetsuit. The dives are amazing and I get my first taster of swimming with sharks (white-tips) and playing underwater with the sealions, who are far more playful in water than their alter-egos on land. There are also turtles and a variety of bright, colourful little fish. I come up with a nose bleed and a stiff neck.

A bit of time back on dry land to lie in the sand with the seals (until they go for me), spot the marine iguanas camouflaged on the lava rock, and get close up to the bright red crabs and all sorts of birds (bright red-beaked oyster catchers, nesting frigates, blue-footed boobies etc etc).

Isla Floreana / Isabela

Snorkelling at Floreana we observe the surgeon fish keeping their territory clean - the guide puts an urchin bang in the middle of their living room and they push it out like a game of blow football. Also ´play´ with some star fish (choc chip and blue) and a sea cucumber.

Isabela´s like a tiny piece of paradise. White sands, clear blue water, cute little houses (and the essential beach bar). Although it´s got a bit of an unsavoury history as the colonial prison where guys were forced to carry sharp lava stones twice their weight to build a wall to keep them in (!) and punishment involved being shut in a 20 foot steel tube in the midday heat for days.

We hike to Volcano Chico in the Sierra Negra to see the second largest crater in the world. Only the other one isn´t live. Walk across lava fields checking out lava tunnels and the different types of rock and ash. This place would be a geologist´s heaven. And it doesn´t even smell of eggs.

The next day wé start the morning at a breeding centre for the Giant tortoise and see a just hatched baby. The cutest thing i ever saw. Even more than puppies. This one is going on YouTube. The centre is really interesting, with a heavy focus on tortoise sex.

For the rest of the afternoon I´m back in the water. Should really have been ON the water, in my kayak, but I get taken by a big wave. I swear the penguins were laughing at me. I rescue myself (with a bit of help) and then nearly fall out again laughing at Nick trying to get Camaron back in his Kayak. Cameron is a big ginger american kid who lives in his wetsuit and whose name in Spanish means Shrimp (irony not lost). He provides me with much amusement during the tour - mainly imagining the jokes and faces Rob and Dan would be making.

Isla Santa Cruz / Santa Fe

Santa Cruz is the tourist capital of the Galapagos so as the boat pulls in my senses are overloaded with internet cafes and souvenir shops. And a very nice luxury hotel with hot showers. Bliss.

We drive out to the highlands to see the Giant Tortoise in the wild. Witness some live tortoise sex. I later find myself inside an empty shell in an interpretation centre immitating their dropped jowels faces for some very unflattering photos. Also visit the Charles Darwin Research to see Lonesome George, the 120 year old who´s too slow now to get himself any, So there goes the subspecies.

At Tortuga bay there´s a bit of time for sunbathing, swimming and watching turtle sex in the laguna.

My last dive is a success by my standards. No nose bleed, see some cool stuff like an enormous spotted ray and I don´t run out of air so there´s enough for the sealions to play with at the end (eating my bubbles). But the boat ride back is rough. I hurl myself off the boat as we reach dry land and then hurl off the jetty. Woohoo, my first bout of food poisoning. Watch the bright coloured fish tuck in to my lunch. Want not, waste not.

Ecuador

lou — Sun, 17 Dec 2006 00:00:00 GMT

Quito - Old Town

*starting out in the Capital*

Rain. Lots of rain. There´s about 4 hours of clear sky in the morning. On good days. I take my Spanish classes in the afternoon and wake early to see some sun and leave the hostel ...

I visit the cathedral and climb to the top of the bell towers - a rope bridge across the ceiling then a vertical climb up fixed stepladders. Surrounded by nothing. Health and safety officers would have a field day. Only there are none. A great view of the city from the top, including the blue hearts painted on the roads (signifying a fatal accident) and the policia at a ratio of about 1:1.

Mountains surround the city. I take the cable car up to 4100 for a mini trek in prep for a full day climbing Guagua Pichincha volcano to 4800m. Proper hard work on the old lungs. And legs. And everything else.

Given that Quito is right on the equator I figure I should see the official monument, built by the French who miscalculated the precise location (can´t win em all darlin!). It´s pretty dull and mega touristy. I head up the road to the Quechua museum on true equator line and get myself a bit of culture. Shrunken heads, blow pipes and alpaca everything.

Bosque Nublando - www.reservaloscedros.org

*10 days volunteering in the cloud forests, research project tracking the endangered brown headed spider monkey*

Woken by fat naked german man going to the bathroom in the hostel in Quito. Another good reason to leave the capital. It´s a 4 hour bus ride north to a tiny little town called Chontal that has about 12 houses, a shop selling wellies and other supplies, a small cafe, and a Kareoke bar. Just the essentials. Then a 4 hour trek to the reserve. Mules take my bag but I´m forced to carry myself.

Arrive in the middle of nowhere, a million miles from civilisation, surrounded by primary forest and ´nature´. I have my own room that I share with 2 gigantic cockroaches and a couple of moths from one of 900 species in the area (some of which I confuse with birds). There is a hot/cold shower - 100oC or 0oC - and the toilet reminds me of the drop holes at Glastonbury. A private version. It´s luxury really.

Spend most days trekking into the forest to look for the elusive monkeys. Forest is spectacular. Inadvertently end up falling in rivers and sliding down steep muddy trails comically nicknamed ´Mount Doom´. I learn not to trust the big stones in rivers even if it means the river ends up in my wellies. There´s also a bit of real work to do digging ditches and clearing trails. I don´t think I´m made for manual work. Our `day off´ includes swimming in the river (freezing) and baking chocolate cookies. Chocolate. Mmmmmmmm.

Spend most evenings watching movies in Spanish and reading my dictionary. Simultaneously.

No sightings of the spider monkey. But we do run into an Andean Spectacled bear having lunch in a tree. I proper cack myself. Pull out my tiny pink pocket knife to arm myself for defence as Sara aims her camcorder (Canadians are made of sturdy stuff)! Amazing sight, although when he starts climbing down the tree we leave sharpish.

Otavalo

*Some christmas shopping*

Really cute little town and nice friendly people. Including the guy playing the bamboo saxophone who lets us take his photo then insists on exchanging e-mail addresses. Market day is really colourful and not the tourist hell I was expecting. Get fully into the swing of bargaining down prices and end up with more than will fit in my backpack. Tempted by hog roast for lunch but it´s a little off-putting with the pig staring me in the face.

My first experience of dancing to tradition live music with local dudes a foot shorter than me. Drunk dudes. I excuse myself after being belted across the head once too many times. We try out the opening of a new club. I am 10 years older than most people in there. And stand out like a drag queen. We leave and are escorted home by one of the local strays (dogs not men).

Papallacta

*Thermal spas in the mountains*

I arrive in the rain (so far Ecuador´s climate is pretty much like Southport). Spend the afternoon sitting in hot thermal waters chatting to a very beautiful couple from Quito. Suddenly realise I´m talking in Spanish. I congratulate myself. The clouds disappear to reveal the picture postcard around me - lush green mountains and the snowcapped volcano in the distance.

I attempt to spend a day trekking across the mountains to see the lagunas. There are no marked trails but I´m unphased and the wilderness is stunning. I end up climbing down steep hillsides, through rivers and across marshland, finding myself face to face (almost) with 2 wild deer who´ve obviously never been shot at with a rifle. I admit defeat and turn back when my options come down to rock climbing or cliff diving.

Tena

*Jungle/river treks*

The ´walk´ through the jungle includes a 20m climb up a waterfall wearing a bikini and wellies, and swimming in plunge pools and lagoons. The mosquitos target my arse - the only part of me not covered in 100% DEET. Cunning little buggers. Learn a little about the medicinal plants and construct a roof slat using a palm leaf. I´m ready for anything now.

After a night sleeping in cabañas in the jungle, we have a pleasant day out on the river. On grade III rapids. With helmets and life jackets. I lose count of the number of times I´m thrown out, mainly by the English boys who seem to find much amusement in it (ok, mainly Dave).

Baños

*Angry volcano*

We hire some bikes and take a downhill tour of the waterfalls. A fairly easy ride bar for the road tunnels without lights which I ride through wearing my sunnies. Never ride a bike in the dark. The main waterfall, Pailon Del Diablo, is pretty big and impressive but I´m holding out on awe until I get to Iguazu.

Trout for lunch. Which we catch ourselves. Lolita, Liad and Nir get lucky straight away and then watch the fish take the banana (!) from my line and swim away. Maybe the fish were making a statement about my vegetarianism. Which is lost on me. Loli and I eat fried pig for lunch the next day.

We hire a quad and jumpfrog through the town with my foot on the brake. Attempt to go up the mountain to get a view of Tungurahua volcano but stopped by a road block and then the clouds set in. I attempt with the boys the next day, via an almost vertical 3 hour scramble to the top. Stop at the statue of the virgin for a breather and then continue up, rescuing a cow from a ditch on the way. Still no view. Head down and treat ourselves to the most expensive hot chocolate in Ecuador as we finally get our view of the volcano spewing ash.

Nariz Del Diablo / Cuenca

*Scenic train ride*

2 hour bus ride to Riobamba, night in overpriced hostel, 2 hour bus ride to Alausi ... then catch the train for a 45 minute round trip in the mountains. Sit on the roof. I feel like a proper tourist. The dutch guy next to me is making an amateur video so I have the pleasure of being able to watch it through his camcorder. The view is nice but very similar to that from the window of my seat on the bus. Except there is a sheer drop about 10 inches from the edge of the rails. Impressive engineering. Or stupid. I get sunstroke and spend a further 5 hours on a bus to Cuenca.

Nice city. Bit of a cosmopolitan feel to it. Catch a Christmas parade of kids dressed as angels and sheep. And 4 sets of Maria y Jose. The Queen of cuenca leads the parade into one of the big impressive looking churches. She´s about 20 and the most western looking Equadorian I´ve seen.

Vilcabamba

*time to relax and unwind*

My first day of relaxation includes a 2 hour guide of the area on horseback led by the local cowboy. My horse likes to race the others so I get my first experience of cantering. And galloping.

My second day of relaxation is a 4 hour trek to the highest point in the valley. At times we´re walking along thin trails with bottomless drops to either side. I develop a mild fear of heights and do a lot of it on my arse. When we get back to the hostel I learn that 3 people fell to their death on the trail in the last year. Maybe I am becoming a superhero.

I give it one more shot and start the morning of my third day with a massage. Decide relaxation isn´t for me so catch the night bus to Peru.

[Whilst in Vilcabamba, I attended a very emotional little benefit concert for a lady who went missing whilst travelling in Baños. Her husband and son both played, and talked about her disappearance. You can read about Jenny at www.jennypopeappeal.org]

Gallery: Peru

lou — Fri, 13 Jan 2006 09:20:00 GMT

The land of the Incas