Travel Blog

Rio de Janeiro: The Perfect Place to End a Six Month Trip (if you're a millionaire)

rsweet — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 07:20:00 GMT

Our trip has come to an end. The months of working shitty jobs and dreaming about travelling only seem like yesterday, it's all gone so fast! The last time I wrote we'd just moved out of Alex's lovely apartment in Buenos Aires and into a hostel on the wrong side of the 16-lane highway separating the city. Each walk into San Telmo (the picturesque old district) involved a dice with death as drivers in Argentina seem to regard pedestrians as points to be won rather than humans to be avoided. Every Sunday a huge antiques market swamps the streets, so we spent the day looking at beautiful things we can't afford and buying snacks to numb the pain of being poor. On clear Sunday nights the square is turned into a tango arena, full of couples of all ages dancing to music blaring from rigged up speakers. We were with Alex and his friends Kelley and Emma, spectating a safe distance away. Inevitably I smiled at someone and was coerced into dancing.. I say dancing, but staring at the floor and following his feet woodenly can barely qualify! Each of the girls had their turn on the floor, and I had an old man's phone number by the end of the night. No, I don't know how I get myself in these situations either. Claire is trying to teach me the 'no, I don't want to talk to you' face, but I'm a bad student. We spent the rest of the night watching jazz and drinking Malbec, then Claire and I braved the walk home across the scary road, dodging the tramps colluding under the overpass.
Exhausted by a hectic week in the big city, we took a minibreak to Mendoza; home of Malbec and.. erm.. I'm sure they do other stuff there too. It was snowing as we disembarked from our overnight bus, so we dug out even more layers from our ever-growing rucksacks and set off for a day of exploring. Mendoza isn't particularly pretty; nice parks and wide streets but it's got nothing on the old colonial towns of Ecuador and Colombia. But we weren't here for the buildings, we were here for the wine. In our usual well-organised precision-travel way we realised we had no change for the bus, ran around fruitlessly asking shopkeepers for half an hour (no one EVER has change in South America), grabbed the first bus that came along which obviously ended up being the wrong one and ended up outside the police station looking lost. Once pointed in the right direction we eventually found Mr. Hugo, renter of bikes and pusher of wine. We rented our bikes (no helmets of course) and pedalled off along the road to our first winery. They're all located conveniently along a 12km stretch of the same road, so it's a simple case of cycle.. wine.. cycle.. wine. Easy! Even we couldn't get lost! We visited old wineries in converted barns, new wineries made of blonde wood and aluminum, family wineries with Grandma on the bottle and even a winery with each blend named after a different constellation. The vineyards look eerily barren in winter, and it continued to snow sporadically but the tastings and the fifteen jumpers we were each wearing kept us warm. Wobbling back from our final winery we noticed a policeman on a bike flashing his lights at us. Uh oh. Worried that we were about to get done for drinking and driving, we pulled over to the side of the road. Fortunately, it was just that I had dropped a glove and hadn't noticed.. the sole job of the tourist police is to follow drunk tourists on their bikes and make sure they don't get in any trouble! Quite drunk by now, we managed to get safely home on the bus after yet another glass of wine with Mr. Hugo and got tucked up into bed nice and early.
The next day saw us fulfilling my mum's wishes and finally going horseriding. We drove into the mountains and drank maté (herbs and hot water drunk through a weird metal straw.. ubiquitous in Argentina but definitely an aquired taste) to keep warm then mounted our shaggy ponies cowboy style, reins in one hand. Claire had a comically tiny pony. The countryside was beautiful; huge snowy mountains, wide plains covered in cacti and little rushing streams. We walked, trotted and begrudgingly cantered along the rocky trail, faithfully followed by the requisite pack of dogs. The ride successfully knackered us out for our night bus back to Buenos Aires, lucky, as it was one of the cheap 'semicama' buses with no leg room and overactive air conditioning.
Our final weekend in B.A. was a flurry of finding friends we'd made previously on the trip and meeting their new travel buddies. Mothers, spoilt daddies' girls, sexually predatory groups of men... we met them all. parties in Buenos Aires don't get started until after midnight and rarely finish before 6am, so we were thoroughly knackered by the end of our blowout 'goodbye Argentina' weekend. Always eager to make the most of every available second, we spent our days doing amazing graffitti tours of the city, visiting modern art museums and watching the group aerobics in the park, then spent our final day exploring the antiques market again with our ever glamorous and disdainful French friend Ornella.
After our best overnight bus experience yet (free whisky anyone?!) we pulled up in Puerto Iguazu to visit the huge Iguazu Falls. It was warm. More than warm, balmy! We immediately changed into shorts and flipflops and paraded our white, pudgy legs around the town. I blame the breaded goods. The next day Alex and Emma turned up, our hilarious friends from Georgia and Alabama who have the best accents ever and taught us how to play dominoes properly. We visited the falls two days in a row, once just lying on the beach and taking in their awesomeness, and once to ride the speedboat directly into the falls. Seriously. We were soaking, freezing and slightly shellshocked afterwards. The falls are incredibly massive, stretching from Argentina to Brazil. Rainbows decorate the spray to unbelievably paradisical effect. The park is also dominated by very cute and terrifyingly brave little animals called coaties (somewhere between a raccoon and a ferret) who will literally jump onto you to claim your cookies, as happened to Emma. Perfectly timed, just as the tourist train chugged past, turning us into a shrieking spectacle of hilarity. It was scary AND we lost our Chips Ahoy! Undefeated, we continued our picnic by the waterfalls, but on cautious lookout for furry little thieves.
We said a sad farewell to Alex and Emma before leaving for our final destination: Rio. We crossed the border with no hassle and were an hour early for our bus. We began to be slightly worried as we noted that Brazilian buses are not as plush as Argentinian ones. We'd got used to the 160 degree recline, the little meals on trays, the free wine, the good films. Our horrible single-decker bus pulled up and it dawned on us that we had just spent 78 pounds.. our most expensive ticket ever.. on our worst bus so far. I plaintively questioned the bus attendant 'no food?', 'no movies?' He chuckled, patted me indulgently on the head, and spent the next twenty four hours smiling at me patronisingly and chucking me under the chin each time he passed.
Once in Rio we found the cheapest hostel we could and settled down to write an emergency plea for somewhere to stay on couchsurfing.org. The cheeky utilisation of a misleadingly attractive photo ensured many replies and we were staying at the lovely Arlindo's house by 8pm the next night! We'd spent the day walking on the beach trying to ignore the rain, and walking around the centre trying to escape the prostitutes, so were glad to crash his houseparty. We didn't get to bed 'til 5, then spent the entirety of the next day eating junkfood, playing on the wii and playing uno. Ah, laziness. ten days in one city is a luxury, so we can waste a day or two if we want! Claire and I are incapable of sitting still for too long, however, so the next day was spent proactively visiting the beautiful old district of Santa Teresa, set on a hill and reached by jumping on a cute yellow tram which travels at breakneck speed. We imagined ourselves living in the ornate crumbling houses and stopped for lunch at a tiny restaurant overlooking the city. From our hilltop vantage point we could see the bay, Christ, the sugarloaf.. everything of note in Rio! We met Arlindo at his college after sunset and he took us to a favela, one which has been liberated by the police so is no longer controlled by drug lords. It even has a funicular! We rode to the top of the hill, then wandered the winding streets through the houses varying in completion from shacks to proper blocks of flats, led by little boys in oversized tshirts who chanted 'money, money' at us. We found the golden statue of Michael Jackson who overlooks the city in true Godly fashion (he filmed 'They Don't Care About Us' here) and took photos with him. Then, we followed the winding steps all the way to the bottom of the hill, avoiding the open drains and trying not to be nosey and look through people's windows. I am my mother's daughter. I cannot avoid snooping. Arlindo showed us how to do lots of the touristy things without paying, the best being the back trail up the Sugar Loaf (big rocky outcrop with awesome views over the city) then the cable car down for freeee. We had a few lazy beach days perving on the impossibly beautiful men in their teeny tiny spanky pants and moved to our next CouchSurfing host, who lived up a huge hill. Convenient.
After making a sweaty and disgusting first impression with Pedro we all went out for beers and snacks, then had an awful night's sleep on his sofa. His surname is Botafogo, one of the areas in Rio, which means that his family used to be one of the richest and most influential in the city! Unfortunately that is no longer, but he does have a lovely apartment. We spent the day with him at a nature photography exhibit and wandering around the botanical gardens, taking it easy after too many drinks the night before. That night we lugged all our stuff to the CouchSurfing weekly meeting-slash-party and drank caipirinhas at a bar opposite the beach while meeting all of the lovely people who open up their houses to travellers. We went home with our third and final host Tato, who is 6ft 5 at least and really quite scary the first time you meet him! After another beach day we went out for the last time with Arlindo (even though we weren't staying with him, we liked him so much that he couldn't get rid of us!) to Lapa, where they close off the roads, set up millions of cocktails stalls and have a huge party in the streets. We danced to samba underneath a viaduct, drank passion fruit caipirinhas and learned a few choice Portuguese phrases to make the overly affectionate Brazilian men go away. SAI!
After getting home some time after 4am we woke with raging hangovers and Tato took us hiking in the Tijuca forest, the biggest urban forest in the world. In exchange for our little beds in the laundry room we made him bloody marys and a slap up meal, then had a few beers and cachaça chasers with his friend before hitting our beds hard. His dogs are the cutest little pug and Brazilian terrier called Lila and Cacao, which we dressed up in bow ties and designer jumpers and took to the bar with us!
Today we caught some last-minute rays on the beach, tomorrow we plan on hitting downtown and buying some choice tat for souvenirs, then tuesday afternoon we fly home! It's been an incredible trip but I'm excited to come home.. can't wait for my first trip around the world via the medium of wine with dad!

Getting Sophisticated in Argentina

rsweet — Mon, 2 Aug 2010 04:00:00 GMT

We're in the final month of our trip, and have some creature comforts for the first time in months! It's lovely to be simultaneously warm AND dry! Last time I wrote was from La Paz; highest city in the world. An amazing place but reeeally cold. The mass of street vendors, food sellers, street performers and colourful toys and tat which crowd the sidewalks gives it the appearance of a fairground or festival, and there's always something roasting on an open grill! The discovery of duvets and hot water in our hostel caused much excitement, but any chance at rest was scuppered by hundreds of marchers celebrating the independence of Bolivia/inauguration of La Paz (no one really seemed to know what they were celebrating). From nowhere, the roads were filled with perfectly aligned baton-twirlers, orchestras and people in suits. All very classy.
We spent our day exploring the endless souvenir shops selling everytihng you can imagine which can be crafted from llama and alpaca wool, and then dived into the witches market to peek at the sacrificial items sold to offer to Pacha Mama. Llama foetuses, fake dollar bills and soapstone figures are offered along with coca leaves and alcohol to ensure good harvests and weather. They weren't too pleased with tourists gawking, so we bought chocolate covered strawberries on sticks as a peace offering and scarpered!
We met our friend Matthias in a lovely little bar where men played Buena Vista Social Club on echoey guitars and drank some amazing Bolivian wine. Who knew Bolivia made wine? Who knew it would be good?! Claire felt tired so went home once the salsa started, but Matthias and I found the locals getting hammered all along the main road which had been pedestrianised, and makeshift bars set up all along the street. Women stood over bubbling cauldrons of milk with rum and té con té (there's a long more than tea in that one), and we sampled something from a few stalls, ended up making friends with some locals, and were singing and falling off our stools by the end of the night. Walked home as the sun started to come up, and were once again rudely awoken by the marching bands!
The three of us set off to Uyuni after a hectic day of souvenir shopping and hard bargaining, and arrived at the crack of dawn in a place which seemed to be made entirely of dust. It was freezing. We got thrown out of a restaurant for giggling when the waiter appeared to have nothing on the menu at breakfast, then found a much more accomodating place which actually had food. The only reason you'd want to come to Uyuni is to visit the salt flats, and pretty much the only reason you'd want to visit the salt flats is to take hilarious perspective-bending photos of you eating/standing on your friends. Which we did. Seriously though, the salt flats are an incredible sight; white nothingness which burns your eyes stretches to the horizon without interruption. It splits into hexagonal 'tiles', and salt is flung into your eyes by the strong winds. We were glad we'd made all those alpaca purchases the day before!
We left Uyuni on our second consecutive night bus (can't get enough) and made our way to Sucre. No bus journey would be complete without an anecdote of frustrating incompetence, and this was no different. At Potosi we were required to change buses, yet were presented with fat disgruntled taxi drivers with huge wads of coca stuffed in their cheeks. 10 passengers to get to Sucre, 2 taxis. After much confusion, arguing and rearrangement of baggage, we were separated from Matthias and driven the two hour journey along the windy snow-covered roads. I was wedged between a mother & baby and a sleeping man, and was actually quite comfortable. Woke up holding said baby. Confusing.
Sucre was a blur of café lounging, city wandering and market eating. Matthias attempted to teach us the European way of lingering for hours over a coffee, which we failed miserably at. We ate fruit salads in the huge chaotic market bustling with ladies shouting their wares and kids begging for spare change. We ate fruit salads at stalls laden with fresh fruit, and were each bought a beautiful red rose by our lovely companion. While in Sucre we watched two harrowing films; The Karate Kid (so bad it's good) and The Devil's Miner, a German documentary about the silver mines in Potosi. As we were visiting them the next day we decided to watch it, and emerged a couple of hours later shaken and nervous. Basilio, the 14 year old subject of the documentary, spends 6-12 hours a day 2km away from daylight boring holes for dynamite, for $2.50 a day. So, we got all remorseful and white-guilt-y, and spent the next hour in a nice cafe bemoaning how 'unfair' the world is.
After sleeping in an actual bed (even if it was made out of a centimetre of foam) and haivng an actual (cold) shower, we got on a bus to Potosi, ready to explore the mines but pretty scared about it! We arrived in time for lunch and ate in a market, washing all the rice down with 'Simba', a flourescent green drink which tastes like apple sours. Mmm, food colouring and e-numbers. Our tour into the mines began by buying gifts for the miners from the market. Coca leaves, refreshments, which included 96% proof alcohol. Ouch. We got suited up in sexy orange jumpsuits complete with helmet, torch and utility belt, the drove up to the mine, an imposing mound with houses dotted all over it. The entrance to the mine is covered in llama blood from previous sacrifices, and requires ducking over to walk inside. An hour of ducking and wlaking is hard work, and I constantly banged my head against the stone roof and icy stalagtites. The cold air got warmer and dustier and smelled more like sulphur until we heard shouts of 'trolley! move!' and had to duck into an alcove and hide. Everything got hotter and sweatier. We stopped to meet Tio, the devil who controls the luck of the miners. He is scary. A big rough sculpture with tiny evil eyes and broken teeth. And, strangely, a huge phallus. We offered him some alcohol and a cigarette (devils have bad habits) and moved on deeper into the mine. Our relief at smelling fresh air when we turned around and got closer to the entrance was palpable. Matthias had bought some dynamite to explode, so we diffused the intensity of the experience with a hilarious game of 'pass the lit explosive'. Funsies.
Our next destination was Argentina which meant leaving our new best German friend (like a puppy, he needs constant attention), so we had a final meal of the biggest pizzas we've ever seen and headed off to the bus terminal.
We got an overnight bus to Villazón and stumbled out clutching our leftover pizza at 8am. Bought onward bus tickets with dollars as neither of us had enough money (we obviously didn't learn our lessons about always being prepared at Brownies), then got our stamps and walked across the border to La Quiaca. As usual, border towns suck and are full of meanies, but we had cold pizza to console ourselves with.
The first thing that struck us about Argentina is that no one speaks Spanish. They tell us they do, it's written everywhere, but every word that comes out of their mouths is entirely unintelligible.. full of 'j's, 'che's and other confusing sounds. Just when we'd got kind've good too!
After months of hearing how wonderful the buses are in Argentina we got our first cama (bed) bus to Salta. It was ok. Looked kind've like a boat inside -- lots of polished wood and loud prints. The difference between Bolivia and Argentina was dramatic, much more European and obviously more wealthy. Also, people were blonde! Café culture is incredibly popular here, so our German crash-course came in handy! Each drink is served with little biscuits, orange juice and carbonated water.. having a coffee is like a ritual, it's lovely. We spent our first night in a cafe off the main square lingering over hot drinks and trying to blend in with the locals -- mostly old men in chinos and neckerchiefs putting the world to rights. Some things are similar to Bolivia.. it's still cold, we still sleep in our sleeping bags, and we still eat dulce de leche for breakfast. For the remainder of our time in Salta we pedalo'd in the park, wandered round some art galleries and ate in an awesome traditional restaurant which served the best empanadas we've ever had. The waiters (all old men) wore gaucho pants and cowboy hats. AweSOME!
Our next stop before Buenos Aires was Rosario, place of Che Guevara's birth. We saw the incredibly huge Monumento Nacional a Bandera (huge obelisk, huge fiery torch), continued our café culture lessons, and watched some salsa. The best thing about Rosario? OUR HOSTEL HAD HEATING! I slept warm for the first time in two months.
Our excitement mounted as we got on the bus to BA the next morning. We were going to see Cecilia again! As always, however, the bus devils were to have their say. Half an hour in, one of the window hatches blew off the top of the bus, and required three men shouting and wielding screwdrivers to fix it back on again. After an hours wait we set off again to cheering and applause.. 150 metres down the road, the other one blew off. After two hours of waiting and the consumption of all our emergency secret snacks (defies the snack pact code but is ok in times of crisis) we were offloaded onto another bus and arrived in BA three hours late. After a hefty ripping off from our first BA taxi driver; 'no, we don't use the meter on sundays and it's twice as expensive' we found Cecilia and settled in a hostel. We spent our first night eating middle-eastern food and watching a jazz funk band with a few bottles of Malbec. Civilisation! Heating! Incredibly beautiful boys everywhere! Danced home singing reggaeton classics in Spanish, resolving to buy new clothes to fit in with the unfairly beautiful people who inhabit this city.
We spent our first day sightseeing in the sophisticated Recoleta barrio; Eva Perón's grave in the huge cemetary was a little disappointing, but some of the crypts are amazingly ornate, covered with sculptures of angels, stained glass, and complete with ladders down to the coffins below. You wouldn't want to be there at night! That evening we went to see Bomba del Tiempo, a group of percussionists who make amazing sounds out of a huge range of instruments, accompanied by guitars, singers and people who play little thumb-instruments. Apart from the circle pit (why doesn anyone want to make a circle pit?!) it was an incredible experience. Another incredible experience was the standing ovation we received for walking into a bar.. while a live tango show was in session. Being three blonde girls (Claire has relinquished all hopes of auburn) in BA has its advantages!
Our wonderful and amazing friend Alex gave us the use of his apartment while he was in Mendoza, so the three of us moved in the next morning, squealing with excitement and toting supplies. It was beautiful; a lovely glass-topped dining room circled by adjoining bedrooms, a bathroom (with BATH!) and even teenier kitchen. We were in heaven. Spent the next few days seeing all the sights.. the huge colonial buildings, the old metro with wooden carriages, the terrifyingly huge road with 16 lanes of traffic.. all interspersed with luxuries like salad, submarinos (hot milk with a bar of chocolate dropped in) and shopping. A trip to La Boca, the working class (and therefore scary) neighbourhood, saw us getting a bus to a patch of waste land, only to be threatened by an old lady who told us that taxi drivers would cut off our heads. Later, we discovered that this is a euphemism for being ripped off, but luckily we escaped with heads intact and wallets too. The Camioneta is a block of beautifully painted houses with lots of art and boutiques. We watched some free tango and drank submarinos in a cafe which used to be a brothel. We love brothels. We went on pub crawls, met lots of lovely people, went to the ornate and gilted Café Tortoni (one of the oldest in BA), and before we knew it it was time for Cecilia to fly home to Sweden.
We had a decadent final meal of 400g steak and amazing wine, then a huge night out which didn't finish til the sun came up. Then Cecilia had a flight and we had to volunteer with children. Not the best timing! Volunteering took us out to the villas (slums) outside of BA. It was pouring with rain which meant that not many kids turned up, but the next day was beautiful and teeming with children. Claire felt ill so had stayed behind, so I navigated the metro alone (scared? me?) and had a lovely day helping kids colour, make birthday cards and play chess. The community centre they've built is right outside a huge half-built and abandoned hospital which people now live in. You can see the flowerpots and washing lines through the unfinished walls. A chaotic scramble for cake, a dog fight under a table, and some lovely hugs later, we were back in the van and I was reunited with Claire. We cleaned the apartment, made brownies for Alex's return, and slept our final night in the apartment of dreams.
This morning we moved to a hostel and are back in San Telmo (the historic district) for an antiques fair. It's a beautiful day but nothing except the market is open as it's sunday! Only three weeks til we come home now.. not long til you won't have to read these interminable blogs!!

Things Get Cold in Peru and Bolivia

rsweet — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 07:51:00 GMT

Last time I blogged we were just leaving the (toasty warm and coastal) town of Montañita for Cuenca, city of beautiful colonial churches, Panama hats and anthropological museum.. including shrunken heads. Naturally we gave the churches a once-over, forgot to go to any hat shops, and headed straight for the shrunken heads. Which are weeeird. Grey-green skin, mouths sewn together like that Playstation game Abe's Oddysee (did that scare anyone else as a child?!), long black hair and pained expressions. We spent the rest of the time sitting in the sun with amazing ice creams, watching the Chulitas (indigenous women) walk by with their big pleated skirts, pigtails joined together at the back, and top hats perched on their heads. It's a good look. We took stealth photos of cute babies and Claire told me off for getting broody.

The next day was a typical day of border crossing travel. Bus past ugly town, border stamp in ugly building, women selling digestively challenging meats outside said ugly building, bus to colectivo station where ayudantes (conductors) interrogate you as to which country you're from and how gutted you are that you are no longer in the world cup. We followed the coastline as the sun set, bouncing along in the bus, me sat in the front seat with a bent pole sticking into my bum, Claire stuffed between old ladies, both of us singing along loudly to Puerto Rican songstrels Aventura to the amusement of our fellow passengers. I bonded with our bus driver when he gave me some disgusting pink biscuits, and we got dropped off right outside our hostel. Old men to the rescue again!

We walked through 9ft wooden gates and along a path, and were confronted with something out of a David Guetta video. Bar, pool, big Ibiza-esque hotel complex. Massive cultureshock after dusty little towns and broken down buses! We tried to settle in gently with a beer at the bar, but 3am found us tightly bound in a circle hug to multiple Brits drunkenly swaying to Robbie Williams' 'Angels'. Classy. Shortly afterwards I lost Claire, found her on the other side of the pool, jumped in to get to her (obviously more economical than walking around the perimeter) and was promptly told off and sent to bed.

Andy and Charlotte arrived the next day as I was hungoverly lying by the pool and Claire was throwing up. We ran to each other in slow-motion and spent the next few hours catching up. The next few days were a blur of drinking, dancing and fire-poi, with trips to hot springs and the beach thrown in. I managed to stay up for 40 hours and watch two sunsets and one sunrise before admitting defeat and sleeping. Five days of carnage was eventually ended with a lovely meal for 10 and one (or two) final beers before we poured ourselves into a night bus bound further south. We vogued at the security film taken at the beginning of each journey and watched 'The Blind Side' in subtitles for the millionth time before falling asleep and being turfed out in Trujillo at 6am the next day.

There's nothing particularly exciting in Trujillo so we stayed down the coast in Huanchaco. We spent a morning exploring the Chan Chan ruins (very Labyrinth), an afternoon lying on the beach, and an evening geting our ears talked off by a lonely New Yorker who apparently had no need to breathe or ever stop speaking. Claire's good intentions of surfing were dashed by the grey sea and prospect of a cold shower, so we lazed on the beach and ate cake as the sun set. In case you hadn't noticed, our week with the Tweddles was a holiday from our holiday.

Our next stop was Lima, capital of Peru, and our chosen celebration destination for Claire's birthday. Andy and Charlotte had to organise the next leg of their travels so Claire and I sneaked off to the centre to look at museums and monastaries (shh). We visited the Museum of the Inquisition with its scary mannikins and real torture implements, and met a lovely French-Canadian called Pierre who tagged along with us to the Monastery of San Fransisco. We had an incredible tour through the catacombs (home to an estimated 24,000 bodies), the beautiful library and the gold plated dressing room for monks, complete with secret passageway (insert sarky comment about corrupt, pervy men in religion here). Pierre convinced us to go for a cocktail at lunchtime, so we went to a hotel off the main square famous for making Peru's best Pisco Sours. It's basically a cocktail made from fortified wine, egg white and lime juice, and is surprisingly yummy. And potent. We attempted to sober up with a slice of pizza, then headed back to our hostel for games of Scattegories, drinks on the terrace, and bi-lingual confusions with Pierre's Spanish friend.

The next day was Claire's 23rd birthday, long awaited and very exciting! We celebrated by shopping in the best department stores that Miraflores had to offer (including choosing some heinous purple sequinned outfits for photoshoots). As I have less than 500 pounds left for two months of travelling, I resisted the urge to splurge. Mentioning that it's your birthday gets you a lot of free stuff, as we duly discovered.. Starbucks muffins, Starbucks coffee tasting, taxi journeys, cocktails, discounts on jumpers from hot sales assistants.. it was a good day. We ate in a lovely vegetarian restaurant then indulged in SATC2. Again. It was much worse the second time. Inspired, we hit a kareoke club and proceeded to spend the next two hours screaming our voices hoarse. Andy's breakdown of Tasmin Archer's 'Sleeping Sattelite' into a mishmash of Lady Gaga's 'Telephone' and Beyonce's 'Single Ladies' was particularly crowd pleasing. Pants were thrown. We spent the night club-hopping and ended up meeting some lovely guys from Lima & Barcelona who got us into a huge club for free and tried to teach us how to salsa. Still not any good at salsa.

After an incredible week or so with the Tweddles we had to get moving and sort out our trek to Machu Picchu. We said some tearful goodbyes in the bus station then embarked on a 20 hour journey through some depressing desert/dust landscape, then some stomach-churning s-bend Andean mountains. Lovely.

Arriving in Cuzco early, we found our Tweddle-approved hostel and tried to get some sleep. The beds had duvets! We hadn't seen (or needed) a duvet in four months, but it is cold here unless sunny, which requires some advance planning in terms of layers. We organised our Inca jungle trek and spent a couple of days wandering the city and getting used to the altitude. Indigenous women walk around in traditional dress holding goat babies or llamas on tethers as photo opportunities which is quite cute but apparently also quite illegal, as we found when we watched them scatter as the police approached.

INCA JUNGLE TREK:

A four hour bus journey took us to the top of a mountain range, 4000m above sea level and the clouds, where our bikes and safety gear were unloaded. We freewheeled down the windy mountain roads, through freezing cloud forest into warm jungle, splashing through fjords made by glacier melt on the way down. Yet more Jurassic park comparisons were made, once again lost on me. Once we'd reached our destination, knuckles frozen and bums wet, we climbed back into the bus and drove on to Santa Maria, our home for the night. One of the girls on our tour was a gymnastics instructor back in Israel, so to the delight of the village kids we had a pilates lesson. The kids were all lying on their backs, giggling and trying to copy us, so eventually we disbanded and had a gymnastics display which ended up in a scrambling carnage of wheelbarrow races and cartwheels!

We spent the next day walking through jungle, coca plantations and along the Inca trail itself, a teeny tiny path cut into the side of a mountain with a couple of hundred feet drop to the river below. Everyone was very careful about where they put their feet! We stopped for a rest at a house where they brought out various animals for 'let's amuse the tourists' funsies. Monkeys, parrots, and a huge guinea pig/tapir called a picuro which drank chicha (a disgusting purple drink made from fermented black corn juice) were wheeled out as we sat there vaguely wondering where they'd got their animals from while cooing at how cute they were. That night we were corralled into the village's 'disco' and consequently had a much later start the next day. Dancing to Michael Jackson and Lady Gaga in an empty room has never been so much fun!

Our penultimate day was spent walking along train tracks past huge hydroelectric dams and epic mountain ranges. Our friend Sylvie from New Zealand said there's no point us visiting now.. we've seen all it has to offer already! That night we arrived in Aguas Calientes, a town populated almost entirely by tired tourists, and had our first hot shower in weeks. Cold showers when it's cold are like torture. Our group all had dinner together and received our Machu Picchu 'lunch' of stale bread roll, banana and cookies. Needless to say we ran to the market and bought our weight in fruit, cheese and imported goodies. Our snack pact (to stop eating so much crap) was temporarily on hold. Again.

Waking up at 3.30 to climb up to Machu Picchu was surprisingly easy, we huffed all the way up the huge slabs of rock arrayed in a manner resembling stairs (if your legs were 6ft long) in about an hour and watched the sun and the slowpokes come up. We had a tour of the ruin from a guide who looked like a Peruvian Andy Warhol, then had the rest of the day to ourselves. It was an incredible sight, especially for Claire and me who weren't expecting much and had considered sacking it off because we just. couldn't. do. any. more. treks. (sorry mum) We wandered around making up uses for the various rooms (virgin deflowering chamber, jelly moulding annexe) and had lunch at the watchtower overlooking the whole ruin. At 10am the five of us who were always at the front of the group and had therefore bonded (Leo the hilarious Korean, Sylvia the feisty Kiwi and Dan the sarky American) scaled Wayna Picchu, the mountain overlooking the ruin. The climb was intense but we did it fast and rested at the top stretched out over huge boulders. A burst of naive confidence led me to take the cavern trail down the other side of the mountain, around, and back up. I nearly died. It was fiercely hot, there were 'adventurously slippy' vertical rickety wooden ladders to scale, AND I forgot to actually look in the cavern at the bottom. Halfway through, stopping to breathe and eat an emergency fake snickers, I considered the possibility of making a home on the side of Wayna Picchu as I seriously couldn't muster the energy to climb back up the mountain. An hour and a half later I found Claire and Sylvia lying in the sun with some llamas and collapsed for a nap. We regrouped for the climb back down to Aguas Calientes, moaning about our sore knees and bitching about the lazy people who take the buses back, then headed straight for the hot springs to ease our cramping muscles. The hot water was too good to leave, and we ended up having to run from a restaurant without eating to catch the train back to Cuzco.

Our next destination was Arequipa, where we met our favourite Canadians Dave and Lauren for hilarious sightseeing fun. There's a museum with a terrifying 500 year old girl preserved in ice named Juanita, a 60 year old woman who sits on the street with coca leaves stuck to her face (for preserving the skin, darling), the pet section at the market of guinea pigs (food) and puppies (not food), and lots of unbearably cute children feeding pigeons in the central square. There is an entire section of the central market devoted to dog clothing. It is AWESOME. Dogs wear hats, skirts, tshirts and shoes here. Then, tragedy struck. Claire got a kidney infection and was bedridden for a couple of days, so, being the amazing and supportive friend that I am, I left her in the hotel room with a supply of cereal bars and apples and went on a trip to Canyon del Colca with Dave and Lauren. We went 5000m above sea level where everything is hard, cold and rugged, chewing coca leaves to avoid altitude sickness. We walked to the second biggest canyon in the world (the biggest one is a 6 hour hike away apparently), saw condors with wingspans of 3m and drank cocktails in some hot springs. A tour wouldn't be complete without a hilarious and awkward tourist show, so we watched and joined in with some traditional Andean dancing. One, the 'dance of love', involved simulating cunnilingus and beating up your partner. I didn't partake in that one. The trip was amazing, but it felt as if my right arm was missing. It's actually quite sad, we now think the same things, say things at the same time, and rarely need the company of anyone else. What will we do back home?!

Once reunited in Arequipa I woke up with a throat infection, so we had a day of watching crap American tv and moaning, then manned up and got a bus to Puno. It's cold in Puno. It's on the Peruvian side of Lake Titicaca and is pretty touristy. We took a boat to see the floating Uros islands and had some more awkward tourist moments.. 'come in my house, wear my clothes, hold my baby.. buy my horrible souveniers'. The islands themselves are amazing, built from interwoven reeds which constantly need to be relaid, but the tourist show is never fun. We watched the world cup final in a restaurant on the side of the lake, ate amazing pizza with a hilarious German guy then got a bus over the border to Copacabana in Bolivia. Entry? Free. For Americans? $135. Win.

Copacabana is a much nicer town on the other side of the lake with an inordinately large cathedral for such a tiny place. We got an early night in the coldest hotel room of all time (three layers, inside sleeping bag, under four blankets, still cold) then got up early for the boat to the Isla del Sol, reputed birthplace of the Inca people. We sat on the boat's roof and were chilled to the bone in minutes, bad plan. Two and a half hours later we unstuck ourselves and wobbled onto the island. We walked from one end to the other via lots of archeological remains and people selling dubious 'compulsory' tickets, and finished four hours later completely exhausted. Walking is much harder when you're 3,800m above sea level and you have ineffectual athsmatic lungs. The island was beautiful; huge cliffs, mirror-flat water, burning sun (still cold though). I have sunglasses-shaped tan lines now. It's not cool.

We headed for La Paz in order to party away our being-cold-blues, and boarded a bus which kicked us out halfway onto a boat, without explanation, without our bags. Somewhat confused and a little nervous, we puttered across the lake to see our bus being tugged along on a little floating platform. Luckily nothing sank. We arrived in La Paz and had a day of wandering around slowly to catch our breath. Everything is harder when you're high up! We went to the witches market selling llama foetuses as sacrificial offerings to Pacha Mama (mother earth), scoped out the various alpaca jumpers, legwarmers and hats that we want to buy, and ate delicious little pasties called salteñas. No one at our hostel was any fun, so we sloped off to the Loki hostel and found our Swedish friend Niclaus. Many condiment-stacking games played and offensive Swedish phrases learned later and we're all thoroughly drunk at altitude and feeling a little woozy. The bargirl must have been drunk too, as every time I bought a drink she gave me twice the amount in change. Winner! Seeing as I have now 300 pounds left for 6 weeks (this blog took two weeks to write, sorry its so long!) every little helps.

Not long left now!

A Life of Crime in Colombia and Ecuador

rsweet — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 03:59:00 GMT

We've passed the 100 day mark now and are well over halfway through; left the sun behind us on the Caribbean coast for the chilly nights of living in the Andes. I know we complained about all the humidity and the sweating, but now it's cold! Just trying to live up to our British stereotype by complaining incessantly about the weather.

After the confusions between 'coffee' and 'coca' suffered on our hike to Ciudad Perdida we made sure the Salento was actually in the Zona Cafetera before leaving Manizales. Coincidentally, lots of guerillas and cocaine farmers live there too but we didn't run into any. Once convinced we jumped onto the usual slew of dilapidated minivans posing as buses, dressed up to the nines in our thermals and carrying our trashy romance novels. (It seems I have read all the good books that previous travellers have left in Colombia, and am reduced to bodice-ripping tales) It was raining when we arrived so we ran into the first hostel we saw - we are nothing if not well prepared and informed - which turned out to be owned by the loveliest man and best chef ever to leave Barcelona. A few days of his 9 course gourmet breakfasts including mango & wild trout sashimi and plantain & papaya crudites and we were on the verge of refusing to leave. Buoyed by our epic breakfasts we set out on a hike to a hummingbird farm via some wax palms. The palms grow 30-40ft straight up and are pretty epic, but not as impressive as the massive tree we saw in Mexico. Sorry wax palms. As usual, we had glossed over the word 'hike' and were subsequently shocked by the two hour vertical climb up rocks and through rushing rivers. (Damn rainy season). At our destination we drank some much needed aguapanela (basically just rough sugar dissolved in water.. cheap energy for poor farmers) and I enjoyed Claire's attempts to capture the hummingbirds with her inadequate camera.. she has lots of beautiful shots of empty bird feeders.

The next day we set off on a 'walk' to a coffee plantation, assured by Joseph (hostel owner and new surrogate father) that it would be a hour-ish stroll. Two hours, many blisters, and even more bloody river fording later and we conclude that we are lost. And then remember that Lonely Planet (or Swine, as we have renamed it for those who get the in-joke) strictly forbids wandering in the coffee district for fears of guerilla activity. Well, we scoured those valleys pretty damn hard and all we found were cows, coffee bushes and friendly farmers, so perhaps we should send them a note. Retracing our steps we realised we'd been stupid and gone the wrong way on a clearly marked road, and finally turned up at Don Elias's coffee finca feeling tired and a bit silly. We had a tour, learned lots about coffee (all in Spanish) and then had a quiz at the end. Seriously. Claire excelled, but I got stage fright. Now I'm not under pressure from a 16 year old tour guide, I can tell you that they grow bananas and plantains in the same fields as coffee for three reasons: fertilisation, shade and food for farmers. Facts abound.
Also staying at Joseph's gastro-hostel were a lovely artsy couple who were constantly sketching, taking photographs and befriending old men, we had a few drinks with them an a couple of 70 year olds who considered all-day drinking to be their profession "all thanks to God".

We left Salento satisfyingly full of food and tired from trekking, and turned up in Medellin after a horrendous night's sleep on a bus that played merengue at full blast from 8pm til 5am. I don't like merengue any more.
Medellin is a huge city sat in the trough of a valley with imposing mountains rising up on all sides. AND it has a cable car (Colombia: 2, Venezuela: 0). We spent a day napping in the botanical gardens and perving on the fat Botero sculptures in the centre, then had a huge night out with some Australian and British girls in a trance club outside the centre. We blagged our way in by saying we knew the DJ and emerged knackered several hours later, covered in ticker-tape and with a new appreciation for the mullet haircut.
We decided to blow away the cobwebs by paragliding over the city which was AWESOME. (This is the part where I turn into a little boy again). We were strapped to a random and chucked off the side of a cliff, then soared above the city for half an hour catching little gusts of wind and racing eagles. Words cannot describe it, but Claire has a fear of heights and loved it. (Also it was really, really safe mum, promise). We continued our trend of indulgence by watching SATC2 in a huge multiplex, it felt like being back at home and was really surreal to leave the cinema and not be in Bristol.

Feeling a little guilty at our overindulgence we decided to cut costs by forgetting to pay for our hostel. You snooze you lose, haughty receptionist! Touristy detour to a Salt Cathedral in a town called Zipaquira outside Bogota meant more overnight buses playing more merengue, but we loaded up with breaded goods and managed to sleep a little.
The Salt Cathedral was the most eerie and strange thing we've seen so far, they've turned the excavated caves into a huge cathedral, complete with hidden alcoves full of backlit salt crucifixes, a huge underground dome full of pews, and monks chanting on looped soundsystems. Couple this with the entirety of Bogota's primary school population descending on the site for a school trip and you have a very strange experience. After the 'educational' 3D video on salt excavation we were ready to move on.

Spent a day and a night in Popayan, a pretty colonial whitewashed town where all the streets are identical and everything has meat in it, much to Claire's disgust, then got a day's worth of buses across the border to Ecuador. Stamp, wander across bridge between countries, barter with money changers, stamp. Done.

Arrived in Quito around midnight and managed to find the most clueless taxi driver working in the entirety of Ecuador. We ended up showing him the way, and we get lost in fields! Slept in our first proper bed for days, had our first proper hot shower in ages, and woke up on our 100th day of travels feeling decadent. Banana splits for breakfast followed by lazy sightseeing. A chance meeting with a lovely Ecuadorian civil engineer led to an invitation to chocolate caliente, at which a suspicious American tourist chased us down the street shouting "it's a scam! it's a scam!" One innocent hot chocolate later, we were not dead and still in full possession of our wallets and maidenhoods. Felt like finding the American and telling him to chillax, but he was probably too busy lecturing prostitutes on their base morals. Once back on track we wandered through the beautiful Old Town with its fancy European architecture and incredible churches. In one almost every surface was coated in gold; the frescoes on the walls, the ornaments, the pews.. bling does not even begin to cover it. Four tonnes of gold. We walked past the monastaries where men wandered around with their lovely rope belts and nunneries where women are cloistered and make handicrafts (why are men never cloistered?), then found an enormous gothic basilica which had just finished mass and was emptying families in their Sunday best. Religion bit over we continued on our epic walk into the new town and skyped our families, before toasting our journey with pineapple margaritas and burritos in an amazing Mexican restaurant. It was coming towards sunset so we got a taxi to the teliferiQo (cable car: Ecuador: 1, Venezuela: 0) and rode up to the top as the sun went down. You could see the whole city as it began to light up for the night, and snow-capped mountains in the distance. It was incredible. Unfortunately we were joined by two philosophical Americans on the way back down, who were having a ‘debate’ (for debate read mutual ego-massage) about religion and the meaning of life. I don’t know whether we were closer to laughter or tears. We shared a taxi to the square near our hostel and walked the two minute journey back to a well deserved lie-down. Or so we thought. As we walked under the bridge to our hostel two guys cornered us and grabbed our bags. We both started shouting indignantly and Claire’s gave up, but I ended up having a tug of war with mine and kicked him in the shin. Ha! They both backed off and we walked away. It was all over in less than thirty seconds and they obviously weren’t trying that hard. Apparently tourists are fair game in Quito, we heard about loads of unsuccessful muggings while we were there. It was a bit of a wake-up though, it was the first time anything like that has happened to us, and it was on our 100th day! When we went out that evening we didn’t carry bags and stayed in really busy areas as we were both a little shaken up. We did find an amazing maze of alleyways where restaurants and bars spilled out onto the the streets which were full of mimes, musicians and food vendors. Claire bought a stick of chocolate covered grapes and we escaped the scary mime for an early night.

The next day we got up insanely early to get to the market town of Otavalo where we haggled our hearts out and took note of everything we want to buy ten times cheaper in Bolivia (sneaky). It wasn’t like the usual market towns where the indigenous people are cynical and only dress up for tourists and had a really lovely chilled out vibe. I had fun pointing out all of the visceral butcheries to the stubbornly-vegetarian Claire, and we spent a few hours wandering around before heading back to Quito. That night was a Saturday so we headed off to a series of bars and clubs before ending up at one named KY. Nice. Danced our flip flops off til 3am then collapsed into bed. Met Sally’s friend Steph the next day and did nothing but eat, drink hair of the dog, and lie around in parks. Perfect.

It had been over a month since we’d been to a beach (such hardships!) so we bussed to Montañita, unfortunately losing my beloved sleeping mask along the way. The Pacific coast is pretty grey and miserable, but it’s much warmer and the surf was awesome. We splashed out on a $20-each hotel room (mostly because we’d walked all the way down the beach with our bags and couldn’t be arsed to turn around) but got two of the best breakfasts of all time, free films, air-conditioning and newly born kittens everywhere, so couldn’t complain. After a shared $1.50 lunch (our room called for frugality elsewhere) we rented surfboards and Claire stepped up to the challenge of teaching me how to surf. First I endured the embarrassment of ‘practicing’ on the beach, then we headed for the water and I stood up on the third go! Claire was like a proud mother hen. My later attempts were much less smooth, and a surf instructor we named Sex Pest II (Sex Pest I was taken) spent the next half an hour ‘teaching’ me. I was too polite to say no. Claire gets annoyed because I have the customer service habit of smiling at everyone, which gets us into some sticky situations. Will have to work on my ‘go away’ face.

Achey and tired after travelling overnight and then using muscles we didn’t know existed while trying not to drown we had a nap at 6pm.. and didn’t wake up til 9am the next day. Best. Bed. Ever. We moved to a hostel in the centre of town which cost $3.50 per night (probably because it was just a shack with mattresses on the floor) and spent the day watching the world cup games and drinking sangria, then made lots of friends on the beach and had a night of pizza, awesome cocktails made on carts in the street, and dancing in an ecological finca/disco made of wood. There was fire poi, which I don’t think is the most sensible idea to perform in a wooden structure, but who am I to question Latin American safety standards?!

Yesterday we left Montañita for Cuenca, which involved more buses and epic views over the Andes. They played the usual series of gruesomely violent pirates films starring failed rappers, and we chose to look out of the window. So we are now in the place where Panama hats come from (long story, Wikipedia it) where we will hang out with the people we met yesterday and look at lots more churches, before travelling to Peru where we can FINALLY SEE ANDREW RCHARD MICHAEL TWEDDLE! We’re both a bit excited.

Colombia and Venezuela: We may not have any money, but we have the love of old men

rsweet — Wed, 2 Jun 2010 08:01:00 GMT

For those of you who are strapped for time and/or cannot be bothered to read a full blog, Venezuela can be summarised into a short list of good and bad points.
GOOD:
- The most amazing pastry and bread shops on every corner, accompanied by little men who wander around with flasks of delicious coffee which they sell in tiny plastic shot glasses.
- The friendliest and most eager to please people we have ever encountered
- Stunning landscapes to be viewed from fancy buses.

BAD:
- A somewhat crazed president who has restricted cash flow within the country, therefore disallowing anyone to access their money.
- Almost every attraction or sight we wanted to see being closed, broken or having just disappeared
- Us both getting really ill (true, not particularly Venezuela's fault, but it makes it much harder to enjoy being somewhere)

We sadly left Cecilia the stunning Swede in Santa Marta, boarding a huge and overly air-conditioned bus for Maracaibo, just over the border in Venezuela. We were accompanied by several huge Americans (they grow them tall over that way), a few tiny Colombian ladies (everyone over 40 is about 5"2) and the usual collection of quiet babies swathed in huge blankets. Turfed out at border control, wolf-whistled at by the border guards (professional? I think not) and passports duly stamped, we got back in our sleeping bags and sampled our first Venezuelan calorie-laden breaded treat.
An hour or so later the conductor sidled up to us and whispered "We won't be dropping you off at the terminal, that's ok, right?". Sleepy and somewhat confused we acquiesced and were duly chucked out at a police checkpoint at 11pm. Bemused, we spoke to a taxi driver to confirm where we were and how we could get to the terminal, and a jury of traffic officials, taxi drivers and general passers-by quickly accumulated. Questions such as "how did you get here?", "where are your mothers?" and "don't you know that venezuela is dangerous?" were bandied about, and then they proceeded to entirely ignore us while deciding how best to treat our unique situation.
"No, I won't take you to the terminal, bad men are there", was our taxi driver's response when we told him all we wanted to do was get another bus on to Coro, and suggested a hotel at the princely sum of $50 US each. Only having $50 BV (about a tenner) restricted us from making this decadent and highly un-fingers in broth choice. We finally persuaded him to take us to a cheap hotel by the terminal, which turned out to be a brothel. They call them 'love motels'. Romantic.
Undeterred, we unpacked our sleeping bags, stuffed our fingers in our ears and slept soundly til morning.

The next morning our bank cards refused us until we used our secret and sacred credit cards, and then only let us have 50 pounds. At least it wouldn't matter if we were robbed! Our bus to Coro broke down, and we were rescued by a sleek 'ejectivo' with tassels and shaded windows. Coro was hot. Stultifyingly, sweatily, temper-frayingly hot. The lovely man at our posada explained to us the delights of the Venezuelan black market, of which we were blissfully ignorant. He changed our emergency dollars, warning in soothing tones "don't forget this is illegal". Money we got out at the cash point was worth half as much as if we had brought lots of dollars or euros. Bum. We were woefully unprepared and could barely afford lunch.
In an attempt to make the most of Coro on the cheap, we got a bus to the national park. An incongruous desert stretching miles away from but sitting directly outside the city, we had fun running up and down sand dunes and watching the clouds roll across the sand. For about 15 minutes.

Reasoning that Caracas would be much easier to navigate and wheedle money from, we bussed overnight and arrived early at the terminal. Once it got light enough (and therefore safe enough) to leave the terminal, we ignored the baying taxi drivers and found a bus to take us to the metro. A huge man with a baseball bat took us under his wing, asking "have you used a metro before?" and guiding us gently towards the turnstiles. Seriously, we must look like clueless children sometimes.
We caused general hilarity on the rush hour metro with our huge backpacks and frequent bursts of song (we don't know many of the words to our Guatemalan favourites, but we try all he same), and tumbled out in the Sabana Grande region all rumpled and feeling like liberated sardines.
Holed up in another 'love motel' (we just couldn't get enough) we spent the next few days wandering Caracas, looking at museums, tall towers and the many beggars of varying levels of disfigurement, displaying them proudly to tug your heartstrings and therefore your wallets. Still unable to withdraw much cash, we economised by just eating bread and the occasional yoghurt. And a few guilty ice creams, but they were incredible.

Our next stop was the main reason we came to Venezuela, to see Canaima and the Angel Falls. Economising forced us to do this from Ciudad Bolivar, a hilly town parked on the side of a river with pavements swollen by market stalls and statues of Simon Bolivar everywhere. (Venezuelans are a little obsessed by him, sure he liberated South America but chillax) Money troubles caused us to spend an entire day with a lovely man called Edgar who helped us get cash while telling us his life story, as well as his (voluble) opinion on Chavez. We know a lot about Chavez now. We paid for our trip in a hotel on a hill whilst our operator sorted out his next tv deal with the mayor. It was all a little suspicious and felt a little bit like we were in some sort of gangster scenario. Gangster dons aside, he drove us to the airport the next day in his fancy car and saw us safely off in yet another tiny airplane. Claire was very brave.

Flying over Canaima was incredible.. huge mountain ranges, tepuis (table mountains), snaking rivers and cascading waterfalls. We landed and met our very sweet guide, then our rather dry group consisting of nice German girls and the kind of English guy who has been travelling LOADS and wants to tell you ALL ABOUT IT and know EVERYTHING about EVERYTHING. Squished into a dugout canoe with a huge motor, we buzzed against the current up fast-flowing rivers swollen with the new season's rain and tried not to be too awestruck by the incredible Jurassic Park-esque landscapes. (Or at least that's what Claire tells me, I have never seen it; much to her disgust)
We had an hour's climb to see the falls, which brought flashbacks of Ciudad Perdida and cries of betrayal from our still-blistered feet. It was awesome. Huge, thundering water emerging from mist and smashing over the edge of cliffs to the river and jungle below. We spent about half an hour up there (maybe I'm a modern, cynical arse, but once you've seen the waterfall, isn't it time to go and drink some nice hot coffee? It was cold) and then, to the 'oohs' and 'aahs' of assembled tourists the hidden top of Angel Falls emerged from the mists. That was quite impressive, and I felt a bit guilty.
We spent the night eating delicious Venezuelan food in our thermals and dodging the 6-inch moths who got their kicks from divebombing our candles. I have wikipedia'd why this happens and am still none the wiser.. anyone?! We bedded down in hammocks swathed in blankets like the bus-babies, and slept til sunrise.
In the morning the river was even higher and faster, and as we were going with the current we were back in Canaima in no time. Today was our 'behind the waterfall day'. V. exciting. We trooped off, back into our canoe, for a short stint across the lagoon. A short walk and discovery of poisonous yellow frog later, and we were standing at the entrance to the waterfall 'walk'. Terrifying. The water was so fast and so loud, it thundered above our heads, stung our eyes, pummeled our backs, and generally made you feel like a little leaf caught in a whirlpool. It was absolutely euphoric. We defied UK health and safety standards yet again by standing underneath and right next to the middle section of the waterfall -- the fear of imminent death made the massage feel all the better. That evening, we celebrated our dice with death via the medium of rum, and I merengued the night away with our guide.

Another tiny plane back to Ciudad Bolivar, and buses to Valencia (8 hours), Barinas (6 hours) and Merida (6 hours) finally deposited us in a terminal in the pouring rain. We got a bus, made a friend, and were soon drinking beer from plastic cups; still wearing our backpacks and soaked to the skin. Merida is famous for the world's largest cable car, a phenomenon that aroused the excitement of the 9-year old inside me and was the root cause of our long, long journey. The next day, we arose bright and early, determined to shake off the depression that long bus travel, lack of money, and a misbehaving digestive system induces. Arriving perkily at the cable car ticket office we sampled raspberry wine, bantered with teenage boys, and strolled up to the ticket desk. The cable car was closed. Had been for 18 months and would continue to be for two years. This straw broke our poor, aching backs. We left for Colombia an hour later.

Resignedly we caught buses from Merida to San Cristobal (5 hours) and then to San Antonio (3 hours), where we got our exit stamps and celebrated leaving Venezuela with a malt beverage and deep fried empanada (I am a little bit addicted to these). Belting out 'Perfect Day', we fought our way through the rain and against the traffic across the bridge that separates Venezuela and Colombia. Angels may have chorused as we arrived on Colombian soil, I don't quite recall.

Buses from the border to Cucuta (2 hours), Bucaramanga (7 hours) and Tunja (5 hours) signalled the last of our long bus travel for a while. The mischievous pixies of travel had not had enough fun with us yet, however. Blearily rubbing our eyes as we emerged in Tunja, we noticed a huge highway and city sprawl unusual for a little mid-country town. We asked our taxi driver where we were. 'Bogota', he cheerily replied, giving us a little city history and tour as extras on the way to our, hastily selected, hostel. Bum.

We struck off all the places we'd planned to see in between Tunja and Bogota (goodbye huge dinosaur skeleton and odd monastery) and dedicated the next three days to recuperation and self-indulgence. We got bikini waxes, drank copious amounts of wine, ate in actual restaurants and went to museums. We were escorted to one, the Museum of Gold (very cool) by two friendly policemen, one of whom whispered "have my sons" as we walked away. I'm not sure if he meant take them or bear them for him, but I didn't take him up on the offer. Luckily, Bogota has it's own (much smaller) cable car, so my inner Felix was indulged and we saw the city from nice and high up. Colombian elections meant that drinking was illegal in all bars, restaurants and clubs, so we bought litres of 'Clos' box wine and got giggly and anti-social in our hostel. Voting meant that small tents and pervy policemen sprang up over the city like wildfire, and huge police bands played rousing patriotic songs which scared the pigeons and disturbed the sleeping beggars. We wandered the city's old district eating churros (another addictive deep fried treat) and shaking off the men who follow you telling you you're pretty. Sigh, life is hard.

The time came to leave the warm cocoon of Bogota, so we boarded yet another 8 hour bus to Manizales in the coffee region. The views of the Andes were spectacular, but constantly winding up and down through hills meant the temperature changed every half hour and layers were constantly being adjusted. Lunchtime arrived and our last box of Clos was broken out, making the journey much more bearable. So last night we arrived in Manizales, slept in a lovely hostel and woke to meet yet another of those English guys who just loves to tell you EVERYTHING about his travels, because he's so worldly wise and fascinating. (You reading my blog precludes me from becoming one of those people.. I didn't make you do it, and I promise I'll never speak of it again once I'm home). This morning we got the bus to the centre, to find a hostel in the middle of everything, and ended up wandering around for an hour, picking up a lovely Human Rights lecturer called Jaime along the way. He called his wife to explain he'd be late because he was escorting two English girls to a hotel, and had to take a photo of us because she wouldn't believe him. Manizales is really cool.. set on a valley it has eight 'micro-climates' and incredible views (when it's not raining). After exploring the cathedral and the highest point of the city (very high, but lots of cloud so saw nothing) we sat down for lunch in one of the many little restaurants which serve set menus of soup with an accompanying plate of multi-carb delights. It was run by two old men who called us 'niña' and 'corazon', and treated us to grandfatherly smiles and cups of hot chocolate. Sufficiently stuffed with carbohydrate and full fat milk, we had a little lie down before coming to an internet cafe and blogging our little hearts out.

Tomorrow we leave our lovely hotel (not quite a brothel but not the cleanest place) which overlooks the city and has a tv with grainy BBC world news (very exciting at the princely sum of 4 pounds each per night) for Salento, a pretty little town deep in the coffee-growing district. Even though the last couple of weeks have been pretty hard at some points, we have never met more people who are willing to go out of their way to help us or just have a little chat. Grandfatherly old men have given me gifts of ugly scrunchies, ladies give us little pinches whilst calling us 'mi amor', and little boys watch in amazement as I find Colombia on my itouch and show them where they live (I quite wanted to take this boy home). I don't really want to leave.

Pleasure and Pain: Boats and Jungles

rsweet — Sun, 16 May 2010 09:02:00 GMT

Ok mum, I feel bad about not blogging properly last time so here are the last two weeks in glorious detail.. and they couldn't be more different.

We arrived in Panama City at 5am and crawled onto some mattresses in a sinfully misnamed 'cinema room' in our hostel called Luna's Castle, a sprawling mansion of a hostel in the beautiful old town of the city. We had an incredible view of the skyscrapers across the harbour at sunrise, but were far too bus-tired to care.

Met A.J and Zak in the morning and were introduced to our new best Swedish friend-to-be Cecilia and a huge Serb bouncer called Mirko. We all piled into a jeep to get to the coast, stopping off at the world's largest supermarket on the way to buy 20 litres of wine and 12 litres of rum. Nice.

We arrived at a tiny river hours later after passing through miles of jungle and an Indian reservation, hopped into a dugout canoe armed with our 'supplies' and were taken to our 42 foot home for the next 8 days. 'La Twyla' was a somewhat dilapidated but very characterful yacht with a hilarious Valencian captain called Javier and a randy first mate called Jose who kept hopping off the boat at night to find prostitutes.

We spent three days exploring the stunning San Blas islands. There are 360something of them, some inhabited some not (all owned by women though, score) in varying degrees of paradisical amazingness.

White sand, palm trees, cute indigenous peoples, huge starfish, incredibly clear water you could see 30 metres through to the bottom, little kayaking trips, red wine at 10am.. what more could you want?!

The days were scorching and the nights were similarly balmy.. we quickly abandoned the cabins for sleeping on deck in the sea breezes and bed times quickly became a competition to see who could get the best mattresses in the best spots. One night we moored up next to the most stunning island yet and bedded down to watch an electrical storm on the horizon whilst the stars shone above our boat. The lightning was incredible and just far away enough not to be scary, one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

We ate lobster for dinner most nights and spent the entire time in varying stages of inebriation swimming, sunbathing or watching House on Hayley the boisterous Australian's handy laptop. It was absolute perfection.

The sail to Columbia was 40 hours over open water so we planned to get a 6am start, but our captain got drunk the night before with a visiting German who brought white rum and a pervy grin and we were delayed a couple of days.

The sail over open water was incredible.. nothing but bright blue water in every direction, huge rolling swells that give the boat the nicest motion to get you to sleep. Luckily no one was seasick and we had enough rum to keep us going.

We arrived in Cartagena, Columbia just as the sun was setting. The skyscrapers were strange seeing as we hadn't seen anything more technological than a radio for 8 days, and we cranked up Akon to swing us in in style. Eight days on a boat, even with a lovely group of people, is a long time.. so the boys and girls went our separate ways (without visas, exciting Prison Break-eqsue stuff) and the girls found the best hamburger vendor of all time. Seriously. Lobster is nothing compared to this guys. Each burger is a work of art crafted by a man dressed in surgical gloves, mask and apron.

The next day, passports stamped, we woozily checked into a hostel and explored the very cute and historical town of Cartagena. Huge fort with exciting tunnels and gigantic flag, check. Crumbling city wall, check. Prostitutes everywhere, check. After a week on a boat with no make up or more clothes than a bikini, the girls felt the need to get dolled up and hit the town. Luckily no one mistook us for prostitutes. We met the boys for a drink at a lovely bar on top of the city wall, then ditched them, had a quick date with hamburger man, and found a club. The club was full of sailors. White suited, shiny-shoed, military sailors. We danced sweatily with them until 2am when they had to go back to their boat, and had the best night out of all time.

Town seen and done, we ventured outside Cartagena to visit a mud volcano. Not the prettiest sight we've seen, but one of the best. Climb a rickety ladder, envelop yourself in creamy concrety mud, get rubbed down by a horny Columbian adolescent, lovely. We were then escorted to a lagoon, stripped, and rubbed down by old ladies. The wonders of travelling never cease. A thousand souped up schoolbuses later and we were back in the centre, rushing for our bus to Santa Marta. The bus was cold. Too much air conditioning.

We had claimed Cecilia the stunning Swede as our new best friend and travelling companion, and forced her to come trek to Ciudad Perdida with us. As Claire's mum pointed out, 'it's not a stroll'. She was correct. We had not done our research.

Day One involved climbing up 650 metres of sheer clay mountain face, stopping intermittently for pineapple and moaning. I have never sweated more in my entire life. We stopped at night in lovely little wooden shacks strung with hammocks and ate epic meals on multi-carb delights. The first night I was not well. Dizzy, sick and feeling awful. Claire made me feel better by sending me to bed and then eating all my chocolate.

It got slightly easier, fording rivers and sliding down cliffs, but the sweating continued and then mosquitoes got larger. We spent a morning in a cocaine factory, watching a man make cocaine out of leaves. Fascinating yet slightly unlawful stuff.

Day Four and we finally got to Ciudad Perdida. Hidden up 2,000 slippery mossy steps. It was beautiful, cloudy forests, picturesque waterfall, military practicing drills. Standard. Gabriel our guide took us around the ruins and filled us with facts which Iwon't bore you with, apart from the fascinating insight that women of the indigenous tribes are not allowed to chew the ubiquitous coca leaves as it raises their sexual appetites and the men can't keep up. Nice.

Today was the journey down, six hours of walking, running, climbing and slipping our way back to the beginning. Sweaty, bedraggledm dirty and tired, we presented a lovely picture to the shiny clean tourists who were about to begin.

Tonight is our last night with Cecilia so we will be celebrating in style before heading over to Venezuela.. if I can ever get clean!

Racing through Central America

rsweet — Tue, 11 May 2010 03:40:00 GMT

It's been a long time since I last wrote, and no one wants to read an epic essay, so I will try to be as entertaining and brief as possible (both quite feats for me to achieve). It wil get more interesting towards the end as I remember more! I have discovered an alter-ego in the past month.. his name is Felix and he is a 9 year old boy who enjoys climbing trees, lightning, teasing crabs and getting into lots of scrapes. Every time a new and unexplained bruise emerges or I get really excited about something juvenile Claire teases me for being Felix. Still cool.

NICARAGUA:

Granada: One of the most beautiful cities so far.. picturesquely dilapidated churches and old buildings, communal central parks full of playing children and women selling fruit juice, and a coincidental bumping into three separate groups of people including the Brazilian guys, our French friend Ornella and an Austrian girl we met in the jungle. We spent our days exploring the markets and nearby towns, and our nights getting drunk and swinging in hammocks. Good times.

Corn Islands: We persuaded Ornella to come with us and flew in another teeny tiny plane to the Corn Islands, another collection of impossibly beautiful Caribbean islands with incredible snorkelling and pristine waters. Sigh. Life is hard. Ate lots of fish, swung in hammocks, explored the island, drank rum on the beach, watched crabs scuttling around digging holes and saw more turtles whilst snorkelling. No sharks yet.

Isla de Omotepe: We spent a night on this island which is two volcanoes joined together.. very beautiful but hot and full of midges. There are sharks in the murky waters (which someone told me as we were swimming late at night.. not the best time to be told). We got a ferry overnight to Costa Rica; they overcompensate for the heat by air conditioning transportation to the max, so whilst I snuggled up in my sleeping bag on the seat/bench that served for a bed Claire alternately froze in the cabin or boiled on deck. Lesson learned!

COSTA RICA:

Tortuguero: Got a million buses and boats to this isolated nature-watching spot.. made a friend called Bony who took us to see monkeys, lizards and crocodiles (Felix was loving it) and hung out in the 'disco' fending off locals in the evening until it was time for our night-time turtle-watching trip in which we saw no turtles. The less we say about that the better, we were not impressed and very tired the next day!

Puerto Viejo de Talamanca: We were moving incredibly fast to meet the boys in Panama so we spent a night in hammocks in this lovely coastal party town. Played ring of fire with British girls and skinny dipped in the sea.. still on course to complete our mission of doing it in every Central American country!

PANAMA:

Bocas del Toro: Another group of Caribbean islands. (Can you tell I'm rushing this?!) We went to a gorgeous butterfly sanctuary and a beach full of tiny poisonous red frogs, and were ferried everywhere by water taxi. Hired bikes to explore the island and completed our skinny dipping mission. Had a big night out in a reggae bar and woke up hanging for our journey to Panama City..

Panama City: Buses, boats, taxis and 16 hours later and we arrived in Panama City and met the boys. Phew! It was an exhausting couple of weeks but now we can be lazy in Columbia.

Work Experience in Honduras: Pilots, Explorers and Kidnappers

rsweet — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 06:23:00 GMT

We have returned safely from the jungle, thankfully not eaten by jaguars or peckish locals (although the mosquitoes had their feast as usual).

Last time I wrote we were in the town of cowboy hats about to visit the Copan ruins. The entire town's electricity kept shorting out because of heavy rainfall so we spent a lot of time in hammocks reading by candlelight (v romantic), cooking by candlelight (a bit more dangerous) and showering by candlelight (downright impossible). The electricity came back on in time for us to watch The Hurt Locker projected onto someone's wall - amazing!

Honduras presented less activities than we had anticipated, so after seeing the ruins, which were pretty impressive and gave a clear picture as to how the Mayans lived, as well as how they ritually sacrificed thousands of virgins and threw them down stairs.

We speedily moved on to La Ceiba in order to organise our jungle adventure, which was the HOTTEST PLACE EVER. Unbelievable. Sitting in the shade was sweaty and exhausting! We found a tourguide willing to take us for the inconceivably large sum of 17,100 limpiras (about $900 or 600 pounds) .. considering our daily budget is 30 quid at the very most even the thought of this sum had us squirming in our already moist flipflops.

We swallowed our British miserliness and agreed to pop off to a cashpoint and get the cash. But we had to get it out 4,000 limpiras at a time (at a cost of about 3 quid per transaction, thanks lloyds tsb), and then our cards both stopped working. Great. Long story short, eventually we got all the money and then spent an hour sorting it all out into the appropriate envelopes, which made us feel like really organised gangsters.

Our huge expenditure covered airfare to and from the jungle, so we boarded a teeny 19 seater at 5am and flew over some incredible mountain ranges as the sun rose. Then we landed. Not knowing where we were or remembering the name of our destination made our confused conversation in Spanglish with a very large, very armed guard much more exciting, but eventually we understood each other and he pointed to a plastic model of a plane in the distance.. we walked over and realised that is was actually a plane. That we had to fly in. It was tiny, just us, the pilot, and a man who kept using his phone (European health and safety standards obviously do not apply).

Despite my doubts that we'd even get off the ground, we took off and were happily cruising underneath the clouds along the coastline, until our rather hunky pilot offered Claire (riding shotgun) the controls. Again, a near-fatal moment for me. She did remarkably well, considering that we're both still alive, and though we had a few bumps we reached our destination half an hour later.

Met by our guide, Susimo, and his adolescent accomplice, we boarded a boat made from a hollowed trunk, which was to become our place of perpetual residence for the next few dys. We crossed a huge lake and wound our way down tiny rivers through forest and fields for a couple of hours until we reached Belen, our first night´s stay. We swam in the beautiful blue water on a white sand beach, watched Moskito women dance their tribal dances (discovered that our adolescent guide had remarkably scary snake hips) and slept in a wooden cabin on stilts! We were also given a tour of the town and conversed with our old man guide about how long horses are pregnant for (yes our spanish is that good).

The next day we woke at sunrise, smelling of woodsmoke from the firelit dancing, and got in our boat for 6 hours to take us into the jungle. Ragged children waved at us from the riverbank and we watched the amazing birds fly away from our scary boat.

Our next stop was las Marias, a village with no electricity or running water, where we befriended the cutest 4 year old girl and were adopted by a bunch of Honduran eco-tourism students who took us on a bird watching tour (parrots and other exciting birds that I can't remember the names of). We skinny dipped in the river at sunset -- we´re attempting to swim naked in every country that we visit -- and got bitten by mosquitoes as we listened to an egotistical Honduran student talk about himself for an hour. Egos abound everywhere!

The next day we had a big jungle tour which involved being punted up the river in another dugout canoe, walking through the jungle itself to a HUGE wooden viewpoint structure that looked as if it could collapse at any moment. Our guide stamped on an ants nest to show us the inch long army ants (terrifying, Claire lost all her alpha points by screaming when one crawled on her shoe and demanding the guide flick it away with his machete -- yes he carried a machete). After our jungle walk we swam in the river in our pants (we were not prepared, the Scounts wouldve been ashamed) and coasted through some mini-white water rapids, very exciting! On our way back they stopped to pick up three huge bushels of bananas from behind a rock and we ate them perfectly ripe and hot from the sun,

Arrived back to our cabin for a lunch of pasta, rice and yucca (three carbs, one plate, nice), then whiled away the evening in hammocks and watching Leon on Claire´s ipod (a master stroke).

Our final day was spent in Yamari, and en route we kidnapped an otter. They pointed it out, we squealed in delight, they picked it up, we squealed in indignation.

Apparently our guide´s brother has an 'animal reserve'. Hmm. We snuggled it the rest of the 3 hour trip in the boat, and I have been scratched to death. It was very cute though, nice to hold and stroke, like a particularly aggressive cat. In Yamari we kayaked and swam in the impossibly clear waters (something to do with algae), and ate yet more fish and rice. In the evening we went on a crocodile tour underneath the incredible stars.. you didn´t need torches the sky was so bright. We saw loads of little caimans and a few crocodiles, the our animal-bothering guide plucked a baby crocodile from the river and let us hold it. Claire again lost alpha points by dropping it and screaming.

Another sunrise wake up call meant that our trip was over and we had to fly back home. Luckily they didn't let Claire fly this time. Back in La Ceiba we washed our filthy otter-smelling clothes and went to bed early for our 3.30am bus to the capital, Tegucigalpa. It was a long day, but pretty easy to navigate. 5 buses, 18 hours and many latin american music videos later we arrived in Leon, Nicaragua.

Today we had a well deserved lie in then explored the town -- another beautiful old colonial city with a central park and the biggest cathedral in Latin America! Of course, no cathedral would be complete without huge plastic replicas of Jesus in immense pain.

We've had a cultural day of modern art museums and viewing national poet's houses, very civilised. At some point we will have to cave in and buy pants from one of the pavement stalls, as we have totally run out due to general forgetfulness and loss throughout the last 6 weeks. From here we plan to fly to the Corn Islands (such jet setters) for some tropical paradise.. because we haven´t had enough.. and then explore the rest of Nicaragua.

Just skyped my whole family which was hilarious, lots of jostling for camera space and childish rabbit ears behind heads!

Guatemala - volcanoes, couchsurfing and bed bugs

rsweet — Mon, 5 Apr 2010 06:46:00 GMT

I'll begin this blog with an update on our mosquito bites (always popular) -- having spent almost a week bite-free and forming a case against Deet as a conspiracy theory concocted by the global pharmaceutical companies I got ravaged the other day, and am causing general hilarity with my ill-timed and inappropriate itching bouts. Claire also got bitten by 55 bed bugs on each arm (she counted) and do you think she moaned? Yes. It was almost insufferable.
So after the Caribbean town of Livingston we ventured to a finca in the jungle for pursuits such as kayaking, skinny dipping and playing ring of fire in the dark after curfew (we got in trouble for disturbing the Mormon dentist missionaries). The kayaking was amazing, we got a bit lost amidst the mangroves and found a natural thermal pool called, appropriately, 'agua caliente'. Later that night we formed a bond of non-missionaryism with German and Austrian girls and some American guys and played drinking games until lights out, then continued with our headtorches on, which was terrifying as huge moths then began to fly into our faces. Ugh. We swam in the river which was full of phosporescent algae (amazing and slightly freaky), then lay on the deck and swung off the rope swing into the water until about 4am. The Mormon dentists woke us at 6. They have no respect.
We have decided to live our lives according to the whim of dice (see trashy 80s novel 'The Dice Man' for further info) and they dictated that we left the finca the next morning. Our next destination was Quetzaltenango, 200 miles away from where we were. Three buses, fifteen hours, many chickens and the hottest day of my life later, and we're there. My camera was not. Quetzaltenango (Xela for short) was beautiful, but slightly marred by my lack of camera, so we stayed there for a couple of days and met some lovely Guatemalan guys to practice our Spanish on, but left pretty quickly.
We moved on to Chichicastenango, a little Mayan hilltop town with a huge Sunday market, reached by a long and winding journey through mountains, brightly painted shopfronts and tiny farms. We made friends with some beautiful girls from Holland and spent the next few days with them. Attempted to haggle with the Mayan women over assorted handicrafts but they are hardcore!! Bought a beautiful tablecloth (typing that makes me feel very mumsy).
Continuing on our speedy trip around Guatemala, we caught the usual series of chicken buses to Panajachel on the coast of Lago de Atitlan, a huuge lake in the highlands surrounded by pretty towns and luxurious hotels. We arrived in our pretty town of San Pedro de la Laguna by lancha (small motorboat) on a windy day, and, hilariously, Claire and her luggage were drenched. I placated her with hot chocolate and the fortuitous arrival of both our French friend Ornella (see Mexico blog) and the Dutch girls. We went to dinner with them at the home of some French-Canadian boys, and were treated to freshly caught (with a harpoon!) fish, serenading, and tales of their lives as tree-planters (seriously) and getting arrested by the Guatemalan police (again, seriously). We had a beach day the following day, and explored our adorable little town (complete with a large Jewish population and delicious falafel). Having decided that we were having far too much fun and not doing enough gruelling 'life experience stuff' we decided to climb a volcano. 3,000 metres worth. We arose at 5 and slogged our way up the mountain behind our 60 year old mountain goat of a guide. The view from the top was absolutely stunning, we were up in the clouds and could see all of the teeny tiny towns dotted around the lake. That evening (after a loooong nap) we went for drinks and watched a band of 17 year olds do Buena Vista Social Club with synthesisers. Amaze.

Easter week in Central America is a biiiig deal, it's called Semana Santa and hotels get booked up four months in advance. We did not know this! Luckily (and thanks to a misleadingly attractive picture of us at our uni ball in second year) we arranged to meet a guy in Antigua via couchsurfing.org and stay at his house. Antigua is a beautiful colonial town with fountains, gardens and old crumbling churches; quite incongruous to the rest of Guatemala. We met our new friend Pampa in his friend's bar at 6pm, armed with rum and wine (our mothers taught us to never arrive empty handed) and rolled out at closing time, having spent an entire day's budget on beer. Oops. Slept on a mattress on the floor (better than other beds we've had) and drunkenly decided to go and climb Volcan Pacaya the next day. So we did.

Our second volcano in three days was pretty hardcore, but we manned up and got to the top with minimal complaining. The scenery was awesome, like nothing else I've ever seen before. Huge rivers of volcanic rock had cooled into scary black waves in between the forest, and mists of clouds gave everything an otherworldly feeling. Liiike.. Wuthering Heights meets Jurassic Park. Eventually we left all the greenery behind and scrambled over the fiercely sharp rock to reach the lava. Lava is very exciting, to say the least. I had badgered Claire with my excitement for the entire climb, and continued to do so as I hopped around on crumbling rocks, occassionally slipping just a little further down the volcano.. I calmed down eventually, before falling to my death.

We stayed with Pampa for another night, then got a million buses to Sipacate, way off the beaten track and on the Pacific coast so that Claire could fulful a lifetime ambition of surfing the pacific. We arrived in the arse-end of nowhere, got a boat across the canal to what was essentially the Butlins of Guatemala, and they had no surfboards! They did, however, have 5ft waves and black sand, so it was still pretty cool. That night we took advantage of the 6 beers for 4 pounds offer and got drunk whilst playing pool and talking about boys. We met some very sweet boys in our hostel from Guatemala City, who took us dancing on the beach and showed us how to salsa. You had to pay per song, and it was hilarious being stopped mid-flow by a short angry dance-nazi demanding cash. We danced until the early hours then got a tuk-tuk back to our hotel. I say hotel -- we slept on beds made from straw.

We spent yesterday and last night in Guatemala City (which is horrible) and slept in the most disgusting hotel so far. You could rent the rooms by the hour (not that you'd want to) and ours was full of dirty mattresses and huge cockroaches. We have a system of 'alpha points' earned for directions, ingenuity and other patriarchal necessities, and I lost all of mine by screaming like a girl when I saw my first roach. Niiice.

Transferred to Honduras this morning in a luxury bus, and we're now in Copan Ruinas, a lovely little town where all the men wear cowboy hats. Thinking about doing a trek through the jungle to earn back my alpha points, but will keep you posted.

UnBelizeable!

rsweet — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 08:53:00 GMT

I have been bitten by mosquitoes. Not just one mosquito, but a thousand hungry flesh-eating monsters, meaning that I spend most of my time sitting on my hands so as not to scratch, or being told off by Claire for giving in to my (already quite weak) willpower and flaying my skin with my nails. I have a cluster on my left thigh, nearly my bum (is that a haunch?!) which is the size of a golf ball and I am convinced it will hatch spiders in a week or so. I went around the island we were staying on, showing locals my arse, in the vain hope that they'd be able to tell me more, but I was either laughed at or propositioned. Fun times.

We are now in Livingstone in Guatemala, Enrique is crooning in the background in Spanish, and a homeless man just leaned into the open window of the internet cafe and stroked my arm, quite gently.

Our bus ride to San Christobal was bearable but very windy, we were glad to finally get off the bus and stumble to our hostel (one of the few times we've done so without getting lost!) Did lots of Mayan cultural things in the town that the Zapatistas (a guerilla group in defence of indigenous Mayan tribes) originated from, including visiting a museum-slash-medical centre and watching a 12 minute video on traditional village births. Ouch. I will not be giving birth, or looking at an avocado in the same way, in quite a long time. Mehm, if you want more info about this part get Charlie to forward you the facebook message, as I cannot be arsed to type about it again.. there are more exciting things to write about, like islands!

We left San Christobal in a tiny bus crammed full of people and were rudely halted by a roadblock 2km from our destination. So we walked, in the blistering sun, through 3 lanes of stationary traffic, getting beeped at by large trucks holding larger men. A few more buses and taxis later we arrived in the jungle, and dumped our stuff in a little cabana deep in the forest, over a stream. We'd met a lovely French girl from Nice who had a characteristic hatred for rain and Canadians, so had dinner and drinks together before nodding off to the screeching of howler monkeys in the treetops.

The next day it rained. Not just rain, but 'I can't see my hand in front of my face and everything on my body is wet' rain. We´d come all the way to the jungle to see Mayan ruins at Palenque, so, being very British, we struck out armed with waterproofs. It was beautiful, but enthusiasm can only go so far when you're in the middle of a monsoon. Later that day we went to see some waterfalls called Agua Azul, which was one of the most beautiful watery things I have ever seen, and totally eclipsed the rain. Photos soon. We swam, as it was impossible to be any more wet, and hitched a lift home with a tourbus full of Hungarian pensioners.

Another long and arduous journey followed, this time across the border to Belize. I changed money through a chicken wire fence in a covert operation that rivalled drug smuggling, it felt good, but dirty. Bus, taxi and a boat later, and we arrived in San Pedro, subject of the Madonna song 'La Isla Bonita' and Caribbean paradise. Claire quickly got tired of me singing the song at full volume, but the locals seemed to enjoy it. We stayed in an MDF coffin of wonders next to the tiny airstrip, and paid about a tenner for the privilege. Our days were spent on the beach and our nights were spent being chatted up by 14 year old drug dealers (they sell one spliff for $20 and stupid Americans actually buy them). We went to a 'party' with locals which turned out to be a night of drinking rum and squash in someone's apartment whilst watching pirate reggae dvds and making up huge fictional fiance's with an acute jealousy problem. San Pedro was a bit pricey, so we got the boat over to the much smaller and cheaper Caye Caulker. Much nicer hostel and reeally laid back. We drank lots of Belizean beer, swung in many hammocks, and attempted to understand the Creole slang that everyone speaks. On our last day we went snorkelling in the protected marine park. We saw huge fish, a nurse shark, sea turtles and spiny sea stars.. all very exciting! I got nibbled by a 4ft manta ray, one of the simultaneously scariest and most fun experiences of my life, and we thought about free diving down to a cave 15m down but my tiny ineffectual lungs prevented me. Sailed back blasting reggae and drinking rum (two constants in Belize) and went out with the boys in our hostel for a big fish dinner followed by many more beers.

We travelled all day yesterday, making a quick stop at a miniature version of the Blue Hole (a natural limestone cave you can go swimming in), and arrived in Livingston this morning by boat. It has a similarly laid back Caribbean feel to Belize but everyone speaks Spanish again so we're a bit buggered. Went on an epic adventure along the coastline, crunching shells and chasing vultures. We need to get away from the coast to give our burnt bits time to heal!

Bienvenidos a Oaxaca!

rsweet — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 10:00:00 GMT

We're about to leave beautiful Oaxaca for San Christobel de las Casas (where all of the revolutionary Zapatistas hide out), it's been an amazing week full of culinary adventures, cramming Spanish, and journeying to strange geological sites!

In an attempt to escape the smog and pollution on our final day in Mexico City we headed to the Modern Art Museum in a huuuge park outside the centre. They had an amazing collection incuding Frieda Kahlo, Remidios Varo and Diego Rivera and we spent many a contented pretentious hour musing around the building pontificating on the value of modern art (we're literature students, give us a break!)

The 6 hour bus journey from Mexico City sped by as we watched awful American films dubbed with even worse Spanish. I hid behind my eye mask as Claire got progressively petrified by a Mexican horror film called "The Orphan", and arriving in a new place at 10pm in the dark without a map did nothing to help her qualms! We got lost for an hour. No one in oaxaca can read a map. We later found out that our hostel is literally around the corner -- I don't use the word literally lightly.

Oaxaca is much more chilled than Mexico City; it's less polluted and much friendlier. It doesn't have the exciting pace that the capital does, but is full of artisan markets, cool bars and green parks. We took a week-long Spanish course of 4.5 hours a day -- seriously, my brain has never attempted to squeeze in so much information -- and had the afternoons free to explore the city. There's always dancing in the Zocalo, it's a constant party here!

We learnt more in 5 days than we could've in weeks struggling alone, and although we still can't hold a conversation we CAN listen, nod, and interject the occasional sage 'si', 'no' or 'quiza'. We found some fun people in our hostel who had met some American ex-pats via couchsurfing, and had a few amazing nights out fuelled by mezcal (traditional Oaxacan liquor from the same agave plant as tequila) and beer with lots of lime.

School finished for us yesterday, so armed with our cardboard 'diploma' (very cute) we braved the huge market that most gringos fear to set foot in, and discovered why. It was AMAZING but totally overwhelming; miles and miles of tarpaulin strung up over scaffolding and covering stalls of fruit, vegetables, animals (puppies and bunnies included, Claire had a most uncharacteristic cuteness breakdown), restaurants, clothes, cowboy hats, pirate dvd's and everything inbetween that you can possibly imagine. We had a fantastic meal in one of the restaurants (more a clay hut with a plastic bench outside), and have still survived so far with no upset stomachs! I trust a kitchen that I can see into far more than a fancy restaurant with the kitchen hidden away. We spent the evening with our flung-together group of Americans, Belgians and Italians in one of their apartments.. Claire and I bought dessert. You'd expect it to be cheap, no? Ten pounds and eight fancy cakes later, and we're hoping we can find their bloody house and tell them just how much we spent! We didn't of course, we're far too polite.

Today we explored Hierve el Agua (wikipedia it), which was INCREDIBLE. We swam in thermal pools, gaped at the crazy rock formations, and hitched a ride home with French, Mexican and Japanese guys, stopping to see the biggest tree in North America (in the Guiness book of records, no less) and eat a fantastic meal consisting of 5 different kinds of fried meat. We may have also gone via a mezcal factory. Soo, shotting the entire way home, we rolled into our hostel, washed the day's dirt and woodsmoke away, and sat down to update y'all on our travels.

Off on an 11 hour bus ride now, fun. xx

Mexico City - The End

rsweet — Sun, 7 Mar 2010 10:24:00 GMT

So after our exciting encounter with Leo the deported Mexican we continued our mission to know the streets of Mexico City blindfold -- we explored the Aztec ruins in the city centre, spied on the mariachi bands in Garibaldi Plaza, and went for churros (long doughnuts covered in sugar, mm) and hot chocolate in the dead of night (safely mum, dont worry!) We were escorted by long-haired engineering students who wanted us to dance with them in the mariachi square but managed to shake them off and find the sugary goodies.

Yesterday we went to Teotihuacan, an ancient Aztec settlement. The bus ride there was a bit of an eye-opener, none of the beautiful Spanish architecture we're now used to but row upon row of ugly naked concrete housing, piled all the way up the hills surrounding the city. We were accompanied by thousands of Mexichan schoolkids on their Easter 'lets learn about our culture' trips, and they ran rings around us getting up the 248 steep steps to the top. Imagining the sacrifices was pretty scary, it would've been pretty intimidating to live there 2000 years ago! The Temple of the Sun was huuuuuge, we walked down the Avenue of the Dead and admired the smog from Mexico City in the distance.

Today we began with some standard religious observations and went to see the Virgin Guadalupe cloth in all its glory before setting off for the most exciting part of Mexico so far -- the Xochimilco floating gardens! Imagine a tropical Venice. We hired a boat and got punted around the canals for an hour, encountering floating mariachi bands, restaurants, and lost barge poles along the way. This was our favourite place so far, we wandered through the market looking at all of the alien chillies and decapitated chickens, then ate lunch in the heart of the market -- bullied into it would be more apt -- by a tiny mexican matriarch. We chose our food by wandering into the kitchen, and shared chillies stuffed with cheese, delicious rice soup and tortillas. Not knowing Spanish is actually quite fun, it gives you license to wander into kitchens, gesture wildly, and get away with pretending not to understand the men and their lewd catcalls!

We've booked our Spanish course and hostel in Oaxaca, so after our 6 hour bus journey tomorrow we should hopefully be able to give those men a piece of our minds!

Mexico City - The Beginning

rsweet — Fri, 5 Mar 2010 08:46:00 GMT

So, after our 16 hour wait in Madrid airport we finally boarded our plane to Mexico, complete with an army of Russian athletes! Claire was hugely unimpressed with the lack of good movies, so much moaning and twelve hours later we touched down on Mexican soil, crumpled and some of us covered in coffee (she gets mean when she´s angry).

We braved the metro into the Zocalo (centre), it was hot, crowded and full of men with bags full of speakers selling mariachi music.. needless to say we didn´t buy any. The central square is awesome, it´s made up of huge colonial buildings and a beautiful cathedral. The police presence was huge as apparently a priest was killed recently (bad for him, good for us), so we sought our our hostel with help from a kindly policeman! Our hostel is clean, lively and incredibly central, so we took a quick shower (cue Charlotte moment as I swallowed Mexican water for the first time and expected the worst -- not yet luckily) and headed back out to explore. The countdown to the 200th anniversary of Mexican independence is in full sway, which meant there were traditional dancers grouped around the four corners of the cathedral -- weirdly similar to Morris dancers!

Our hostel has an amazing view over the Zocalo so we bedded down with beer and a new American aquaintance to cover cliched topics such as accents, facebook and ´the state of the world´. We also discovered that Claire is a marriage prepper!

After an amaaazing nights sleep (new earplugs best investment ever) we had a breakfast of watermelon and refried beans (not together) before setting out for a full day of exploration. The Spanish colonial influence is really obvious here; the streets are really wide and lined with trees and the architecture is beautiful. We saw the Presidential Palace with Diego Rivera´s harrowing murals and the main Park and art gallery in the morning, and on our way back to check out the Aztec archeological site we met a little man called Leo who sold us a sob story of being deported from California and trying to get back to his family.. we struck up a friendship and he showed us around the beautiful goldplated post office and naval centre, then invited us to come stay with him in Cancun!

We´re looking for spanish courses now, and then we´ll move on to oaxaca before travelling further east to the coast.