You Say Iguazu, I Say Iguassu...

So far the superiour South American snack to date has been the juicy and flakey saltenas pastries in La Paz. However, Argentina has produced some close competition with its parilla (sizzling hot plate of an assortment of meats, sausages, ribs, chicken, steaks and organs), the lunch menu and dazzling starter buffet at the luminous brick wall bohemian Cafe Clasico y Moderno with its accompanying piano has also been a joy. The multitudes of ice-creams have been sourced and destroyed with consumate skill. At Dylan´s ice-cream parlour we treated ourselved to a 1/4 kilo (the third largest portion available out of nine) vats of creamy dulce-de-leche and patagonico chocolate scoops. Suffice to say that the horror beach body of 2007 is returning.

Same outfit but different helados

Tuesday night brought us to our first tango experience after a day strolling around the NYC SoHo-lite Palermo area, and visiting Eva Peron´s grave at the Recoleta Cemetery. Le Catedral, tucked conspiciously in a darkened corner of Palermo with no neon signs or hints at the activities of the interior, housed what looked like a disused social hall with picture frames of fallen idols (namely that of Carlos Gardel) of the ballroom and a large papier mâché heart by the bar. The only light was emitted by the various candles on the tables and the spotlight on the main wooden floors of the dancing area where lessons in fleet footed assurdness took place in a smokey atmosphere. Matty and I opted not to join in (though if we were to, I would have definitely been the one leading) and instead looked on in sympathy at the rhythmless Westerners with their dragged heels following their graceful partners.

Following a cargo of like minded Japanese and American tourists we visited the historic Cafe Tortoni, which opened its doors in 1873 and seemingly has remained in that glossy evanescent era ever since. Formal waitors with slick side partings and furrowed eye brows ferried us two Submarinos - hot milk with a chocolate bar to dip in.

Some chick in Bueno Aires

Relaxing in the Japanese Gardens

Sinking in a Quilmes at the expat owned and lively pub The Gibraltor, we finally got our calling into the entertainment world after years of promise and heartache. A lady named Ingid, clipboard in hand, spotted the two of us propped up by the bar being ignored in turn by the pretty and slightly gothic waitress and approached us suspiciously. On introducing herself and handing over her business card, she propositioned us to star as models for an international advert promoting Tequila Cueva, which was to be directed by a famous Argentine director at the weekend. Somewhat baffled, we were escorted to the foyer by the lavatories for some headshots and completed details on our vital statistics and acting abilities (we lied). Confoundingly, we got hounded by numerous calls and texts the following day from our agent to confirm our availability but regrettably we were already on route to Puerto Iguassu on the Northern tip of Argentina.

Matty may have taken this picture but we all know he stole the idea from a postcard

Acting like children on the eve of heading over to Disneyland, we were excited to board the 19 hour bus on to our next destination. Like being on a business class international flight our soft cushioned laz-Boy eased us in to watching The Hangover on the private downstairs dvd player as a stewardess of stocky calibre brought us tumblers of Tia Maria on the rocks to send us to sleep to the songs of Marco Antonio Solis, who is fast becoming my favourite sleazy Latina superstar songsmith.

This man is my new hero, and he has a voice of an angel:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5nEwEjqDEQ

I shamefully booked a hostel in the wrong country (who knew that there was a Foz de Iguacu in Brazil as well as in Argentina) and so had to settle for a shabby hostel in Puerto Iguazu on the Argentine side of the falls. Our emergency ponchos were the order of the day on our first day at the falls and they shone under a constant sweeping attack from both rain and the vapours from the numerous waterfalls. We completed, in a haste, both the Inferior and Superior trail circuits and crept up close to the specatular water displays formed by the passing Rio Iguazu passing over a basalt plateau. Most impressive of which, reached after a short Indiana Jones dirt track train ride, was Gargant a del Diablo - Devil´s Throat. Tonnes of surging water plummeting in torrents towards the ground.

Don´t go chasing waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you´re used to

Another day, another country to explore. This time a twenty minute public bus ride over to Brazil, to the large town of Foz do Iguacu where our initial hostel was provisionally booked. From this side of the national park we encountered a more scenic and wide lensed vista of the site. The park had more of a Jurassic Park feel to the tour with its tropical pine-green bus and rampant racoons darting into the bins and jumping on Matty as condors circled the air with intent. For this occasion we decided to entertain the drones of tourists on a clear day with our enchanting version of TLC´s classic, Waterfalls, to befit the stage.

Buenos Aires Song of the Day: Maria Mendez Grever - What A Difference A Day Makes

From the grande piano of the irresistable Clasica Y Moderna Cafe and Restaurant in central Buenos Aires. It took us a while to realise what the motif was and on realising it we dropped our forks and listened on in appreciation.

Here is the hobbit-like Jamie Cullum´s version on Jools Holland which is excellent

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1r6GcPqFSo

i-Pod Song of the Day: Johnny Cash - Hurt

The video to this is brilliant. Johnny Cash in his final and poignant ode to the world, wife June Carter alongside him, sings over a narration of his life in black and white. His regrets passing by in scenes from his illustrious past. The Nine Inch Nails original pales in comparison, which is rare. Johnny Cash was apparently a troubled Christian which may be why he wished to bind his life in such a way to preserve it prior to his death.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIbepKZC7Po

Small Dangers In Uncle Diego's Backyard

From a quickfire overnight stop in Santiago (yes, taking in some more lightly stuffed empanadas, Pisco Sours and a regrettable late night spinach and feta pie to counter the happy hour) we made our way on to the bus over the border to Argentina. We were fortunate in completing the trip as the crossing from Santiago to Mendoza is generally temperamental this time of year in accordance with the severity of the snow disabling the roads. Past winding intersections through the mountains and ski resorts, where the moguls and chair lifts pined for us with their fresh and steep runs, to a rustic venture into farmland and the litter of pale blue and white Argentine flags, a hangover from the World Cup and distant national pride.

At the bus terminal in Mendoza we experienced our first touch of menace from the legendary street thieves of Argentina. A pack of youths, greasy haired and with a fascinating penchant for hoodies, followed Matty and I in the terminal with an eye for the bounty of our rucksacks as we were searching innocently for tour information, rollerpigs in tow, and with no real awareness of the imminent threat. Fortunately for us, two security officers hauled us to the side and chased the four scumbags out of the building with microphones by their mouths and hands on batons to add a little hollywood magic to the scene.

At the Chilean / Argentine border. With newly acquired facial hair

I half expected McBain to find vengence in Mendoza:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-opAM0dRW0g&feature=related

This was not enough to put us off taking a little trip to Maipu, on the outskirts of the city, for an afternoon's bicycle wine tour operated by the charming Senor and Senorita Hugo (they gave us a complimentary beaker of vino tinto when we arrived, enough for us to truly adore them). The Mendoza region is famous for its reds, in particular the Malbecs which, I can assure you, were of vintage signature. The first winery offered an assortment of spirits to toast the day, their famous, garishly toxic green, Absinthe among them. It was a bad idea to throw down the throat a shot of the hallucinatory syrup, and the concoction allowed me to float with such grace on the cycle that we were escorted by a policeman on his motorbike for the final hour of our trip so that we would not fall foul of the rickety roads nor the threat of local opportunists with a thirst for our wallets. This surreal episode made us feel like either state politicians or renegade fugitives.

Mr Hugo`s wine tour, police in close pursuit

Yet another overnight bus, our longest to date at 14 hours in Cama class (this time a 150 degree reclining seat and hot meals including a sweet ham and cheese swiss roll which was all very odd) towards the capital of Tango, Parrillas and Maradona - Buenos Aires. Our first exchange with a porteño - our taxi driver - was memorable as we understood most of what he said and it considered both Argentina and England's dreadful plight at the World Cup:

Cab man - Where are you from?
Us - Londres
Cab Man - Buen, Ingles. Alemania, them sons of beetches!!

We arrived at the aptly named guest house, Chill House, owned by two urbane Frenchman, which was decorated with an awareness of modernity and chic that was inevitable considering the Gallic pairs sense of sophistication and flamboyance on greeting us. Our first outing was to the San Telmo Sunday Market where we were promised vibrant stalls selling almost any handicraft possible, perfect for gifts back home. However, a bout of rain sent a shock of panic through the shop owners' spines and they promptly saved their artifacts from ruin with plastic covers, removing them from public view. We took solice in a door museum (puertos seem to be all the rage out here in Buenos Aires) and peering through the windows on to the square it was hard not to notice the neo-classicial architecture, hinting strongly at a Parisian influence. This was only amplified by the Obelisco centrepiece reminiscent of the Luxor Obelisk in Place de la Concorde, though the Argentinean model commemorates independence rather than being a gift from the Egyptian viceroy Mehemet Ali.


Hanging around in La Boca


Antoine and Kato, the French duo who quickly took the responsibility of our tour guides, urged us to head over to La Boca, a rather famously rough port district of the capital, in order to take in the tourist streets of the Caminito. The cobbled streets with brightly painted houses were accompanied by a rousing accordion and tango artists paraded their strutting dances within their taverns on every corner. The Caminito was laced with a gypsy carnival feel only strengthened by the tarot card and palm readers lurking with their hunched backs within their dens and the exquisitly crafted artistry of the signs of the bars and restaurants as well as the assortment of murals sprayed chaotically on the walls.




In the evening, after further consultation with our tour ambassadors, we stepped into a club called Konex, which was apparently the best Monday night out possible in the district. We were not left disappointed in the derelict warehouse hosting the night out where Brazilian and Argentine artists hypnotised the young and energetic crowd with a crescendo of African influenced drum beats and the under appreciated childlike tones of the wooden glockenspiel. Oh, and the Quilmes beers we had were massive.

Mendoza Song of The Day: Jamie T - Sticks ´N´ Stones
Straight out of the Mendoza Inn hospital radio burst out last years surprisingly good return single from Jamie T. Less cockney and lamentable teenage rebellion then his Streets impersonation of a first album. The further away from that southern nonsense the better. Tune.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zm9l9f7cNFk

Luna Perspectives

19 Days without laundry
3 Showers in 10 days
4 Consecutive days without a 2sie
26 Hours on a bus in 2 days
23 Hours in a JEEP in 3 days
2 Mexican soap operas that we are now addicted to
7 Times Madonna's Holiday was played in the JEEP
18 Days without a shave



The TURBUS looped a winding trail on to the clustered houses and labyrinth of tight alleys towards La Paz. It was just turning six o'clock in the evening as I shook off the last groans from my sleeping knees and turned up at the heavily guarded door of our proposed hostel for the night, The WildRover. Before settling in and unpacking we consulted a handful of tour operators as to the likelihood of joining a tour of the Bolivian Salt Flats, as we had only four days in Bolivia to play with before our return flight to Santiago. It quickly became apparent that in order to take advantage of the 3 day and 2 night excursion we would need to leave immediately on the eight o'clock overnight bus before reaching Uyuni, where the Salt Flat tours originate for before reaching the cold desert.


The Train Cemetery. Thrilling.



With weary abandon we were back at the bus station, a full two hours after arriving and with only enough time to secure a street sellers banquet of jamon y queso stuffed empanadas. Reaching the backseat of the vehicle it was a surprise to see next to us two Irish girls whom I vaguely recognised from Deco Backpackers in Queenstown. After a swift exchange covering the basics of our recollection from the South Island of New Zealand, we all reclined our seats to the full 140 degree extension and watched Old Dogs featuring the deft comic talents of John Travolta and Robin Williams, hastily dubbed in Spanish. At Uyuni after eleven hours of rocky roads, we were introduced to a ghost town of one storey buildings and a woodworm eaten quality of no redeemable value.



We winced through our animated sign language communication to the non English speaking operator who, I assume, knew very little of what we were trying to say through chattering teeth and expressive gestures as we traced the frost leaving our breath. We managed to plot our route into our JEEP and were introduced to our laid back and stonewashed jean sporting driver, Eddie and our cargo of fellow passengers herded at the back. Jaykar and Anita hailed from London, a delightful couple with a compelling surge of inquiry whilst Alexandria and Zachary, two experienced globetrotters from California, shared a balanced and friendly composition. On route to the train cemetery, our first stop which was as rusty and depleted as the name suggests, our 4 x 4 left a trail of dripping petrol from its underbelly, perhaps in homage to the Gulf of Mexico.


Most drivers have depictions of the Virgin Mary or The Passion. Eddie placed his trust in Caprice.

Eddie, for what would be a continuous practice every half an hour on the road, climbed out of his seat, stalled the engine and with a mysterious combination of waxy cloth and spanner type device, fixed the ghoul within the mechanics so as to keep the journey going. None of us quite knew what our driver was doing, but we soon were at ease once the ignition was rescued after another momentary lapse. Eddie smiled and confidently spouted 'No problem' before blaring out an absolutely intolerable mix tape of lost 80's synth songs which eroded the channels within the ear.



The Salt Flats, a breathing desert of blinding white hexagons and rock formations were lucid amid the sparseness. The horizon merged with the pale blue sky leaving the impression of floating in an empty universe. The group of us, after settling for lunch at Incahuasi (Fish Island - a shrine of lumbering cactus plants) decided to walk on to the desert for an hour to explore the enormity of the plains and we quickly got lost before Eddie finally found us marooned in the white canvas before our supplies of water evaporated alongside our confidence of survival.



Day two, starting at San Juan, a lonely town where our hostel was comprised of salt, we drove in the relative cool air of air conditioning to the Red Lagoon as the scenery changed vividly from desert to volcanoes and carved mountains. The active volcanoes waved a slither of smoke from the crater and the terrain evoked a lunar landscape with the canyons and forgotten amber caves as we reached El Desierto de Siloli and its famous Tree Stone.



Our reward for another day within the confines of our faulty vehicle was a horrific night out in a shambolic hostel where once the sun grew tired, the cruel cold of the desert seeped into the walls and under the doors throughout the night. Sleeping in our Peruvian hats, gloves, socks, three layers of jumpers and jeans was not enough to steer away the chill. After one final pizza in Uyuni to say goodbye to the group, we caught our overnight bus return to La Paz and its lofty heights.


Our new Bolivian mate soon after shared the insides of his gut with the table

With one day to finally complete a cycle of washing, shower, re-charge our i-Pods and ourselves after days in the wilderness, Matty and I stepped into a local den recommended by our guide book where we were promised lunch alongside the locals on Bozo Street. We were not misled, our feast of rice, potatoes and chicken was a simple but tasty affair and a gentlemen, in his fifties perhaps, with indigo ink stained fingers and grey ragged leather features joined our table for lack of space. As if to thank us for our welcoming embrace, he spent the duration of the meal carefully studying our faces in turn before violently vomiting into his hands as the waiter served his main course. The glistening palm with algae coloured flecks from the pits of his stomach were enough for us to softly leave and bid farewell to Bolivia as we walked beyond the stalls of the Witches Market with its llama foetuses drooping from the entrances over green bottles of remedies for almost all the ailments of the body.


The Witches Market featuring an equisite collection of Llama foetuses


i-Pod Song of the Day: Queens of the Stoneage - The Lost Art of Keeping A Secret
Strange how this song was released in 2000 and not a couple of years ago as I imagined. I guess I'm getting older. From the hard edged Rated R album. Top rated.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0l0nzPpvbFs

Discovering The Lost City Of The Incas

The Peruvians at the camp (well Freddie and Huevo the skinny mute chef) challenged us to a game of football at sunriseseeing as we were missing out on the World Cupand I still had no idea as to whether England had beaten Germany in the Last 16. The locals, already well adjusted to the altitude of 3,500 metres clinched a fortuitous 3-2 victory in the first game (both of us were guilty of missing open nets). They were confident of a further humiliation and asked us to play again - this time the winner would receive cerveza from the loser. We managed to restore some national pride and won 3-2 to tie the series as the soft adidas ball arrowed from dumpsite hole to thorny bush beyond the flip flops that were playing the part of goal posts. I, rather foolishly, went through a delicious trade mark slide tackle on Freddy that crunched both our shins as we wheeled away in simultaneously agony. It was perhaps not the best idea to take out the hiking guide prior to a mount up the Sacred Valley.

Everyone likes the taste of their own brand

To reward the game, similar to the exploits of Michael Caine and Sylvester Stallone in Escape To Victory in uniting opposition, Huevlo treated us to a marvellous cake for breakfast that he somehow managed to bake using only a clay pot and a few freshly laid eggs. The meals that we had on the trek had been nothing short of spectacular. We were not prepared to have a gourmet chef prepare Peruvian classics such as stuffed capiscum in a light batter; yam croquettes; marrow and goats cheese and Lima styled spinach and potato frittas.

A short public bus trip alongside a handful of schoolgirls with neatly platted hair, we arrived at Ollantayambo, situated in a fertile river valley and sheltered by the dark shoulder of mountains encasing an ancient Inca village and its remains. We coincided the day with a public bank holiday where locals dressed in luminous ponchos and were entertained by a custard yellow shirted midget in the main plaza. We bypassed the circus and lept up the terraced ruins which were interesting enough before making our way on a magnificently slow train with perhaps the most formal and longest tanoy announcement which guided us to the town of Aguas Calientes on the foot of the famous Lost City of the Incas. Our hostel personally greeted us at the station with an amusing sign painted with 'Michelle Hones' which was as close to Matthew Rees-Jones as they could get at that solitary hour before midnight.

My alarm rang at four thirty in the morning. Those who know me well will realise that this is an unfortunate time to converse or interact with me, let alone send me up on a guided tour for sunrise. Freddy arrived at La Rochas red cape hostel to pick us up and led us towards Machu Picchu. A heavy mist blanketed the site, we could barely make out the terraces for the first hour, but this gave a remarkable mystery to the site. Once in a while we'd listen to Freddy's stories on the legends, turn around and the fog would clear slightly revealing a new feature of the remarkable stone constructions perched high up in between islet green mountains, like a matador skillfully draping his cape to reveal a bruised and bloodied bull. Our spritely guide informed us of many curious Inca facts and superstitions including their propensity towards the sciences of astrology, cosmology and their bewildering knowledge of geology - a long vertical lane carving in the ruins represented the fault line underground.




For the rest of the tour we strolled around the site like affiliates of Hiram Bingham, the American explorer who unearthed the Lost City in 1911, it has also been heavily suggested that he lynched the treasures and artifacts of the site before returning, with much pomp and ceremony back to Yale University. It was an experience hard to put into words, and one that the few photographs I have could not do justice to the magnificent sacred city (though I'll upload them anyway). We had to be dragged away before the end of the day in order to catch our train back to Cusco. After the five hour train and bus ride, we barely had time for a knap and unpack before our 7:30am bus awaited us, leaving for the town of Puno by Lake Titicaca. Peru's landscape deteriorated once away from the main tourist areas of Cusco and Lima. Half built brick houses stood motionless and neglected in arid corn fields whilst locals pottered around waiting for something and achieving very little.

Puno itself was a ghastly stopover, not worthy of its situation by the grand Lake Titicaca. Barefoot children ran down dirty alleys whilst dodging the trash on the streets as stray hounds yawned on top of featureless box buildings made of mud and cement. We befriended two UCLA graduates and dissolved the shameless town with the potent mixture of egg whites and Pisco brandy until yet another 6am start awaited our beleaguered bodies.




The bus, rickety, rusty and with broken seats, stopped at Copacabana (she was a show girl), a heavily Catholic coastal resort, with all the gloss that Puno should have contained. The town is famous for its rather bizarre ceremony of blessing motor vehicles on mass and we saw decorated and proud trucks paraded through to the bay. We continued on cleaner and straighter roads with a stark and quiet backdrop on our way into the Bolivian capital of La Paz, for the next leg of our adventure and the paper dream of an end to the continuous travel and early rises.

Aguas Calientes Song of the Day: The Doors - Hello, I Love You
We were drawn to the Putucusi bar in Peru by a dreadlocked Peruvian with a lazy attitude that wascompelling as was his offer for happy hour drinks. Alongside games of Cluedo and Ludo on theglass tables was a tremendous soundtrack featuring The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan andthese LA rockers.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzM71scYw0M

Lares: Headaches, Downpours And No Sign Of Them Incas

The city of Cusco in Peru, sits approximately 3300 metres above sea level. I had been previously warned by my travel doctor in Wellington that appropriate measures would have to be taken in order to counter the curse of altitude sickness. Our tour operator, Carlos, also advised us vehemently that we should stay in Cusco for at least 3-5 days in order to acclimatise to the thin air before embarking on our much anticipated Lares Inca Trek. We thought better of this elaborate patter and gave ourselves a modest afternoon at a higher gradient, we had little choice in the matter after the delay from the last flight from Lima, which was not ideal. We managed to cope ok, only our chests did tighten whenever walking uphill, but this did not cause alarm.

Our hostel, Sumac Wasi, was hidden in a busy cobbled street ('Gringo Alley' as the natives baptised it) and although the second floor was under the light dust of construction, we were treated to an alluring courtyard, upon which a lone shimmering green hummingbird flirted with the blossom of a Chinese Rose tree.

Immediately I was impressed with the historic capital of the Inca Empire (and another UNESCO World Heritage Site) thanks to its sepia setting, cathedral in the main square and colourful markets down the narrow alleyways. Surprisingly the hawkers were not adept at making the blood rush with their empty promises in woven baskets, and instead favoured a more passive sales technique, which suited us just fine. On checking in at Wayki Tours who were operating our four day adventure, we found out that we were the only two to be in the group (we had half expected an excitable group of Scandinavians but were left disappointed) along with our guide, chef, assistant to the chef, horseman and three mules.

I'll stick to the Coca Te, thanks

We got picked up by our guide, Freddy, at dawn after a night of half hearted packing for the camping trip. After a three hour bus ride through a bustling market town we arrived in the town of Lares where the start of the four day trek would begin. Amid a confusing tranquility we soaked by the locals at the medicinal hot pools with their steaming copper coloured waters reminiscent of the splendor of a Roman Bath. The three hour walk that followed was an awakening to the dramas of reaching higher planes. Both Matty's and my lungs appeared to heave unpredictably with each forward step and the temples of our foreheads throbbed uncontrollably with the first gentle ascent. On reaching our first campsite, in the village of Wacawasi the both of us headed straight to our ready made tents for a deserved rest.

I managed to consume some dinner and polite conversation with Freddy on the benefits of Indigenous management of a Peruvian tour operator, before reaching for the confines of my sleeping bag at 8pm. Matty was faring somewhat worse. After taking an emergency visit to enrich some vegetation with his own brand of fertile nutritious exponents whilst the mountain slopes sighed, he collapsed in the tent with not even a mouthful of dinner. At this point I knew something was wrong. We had both been struck by the silent plague of altitude sickness on our first full day of the trip to the Sacred Valley.

Matty feels ill. An ideal time to document his demise

In the morning, we felt a little better after taking some medication (Matty having to down a thick brown syrup that Freddy guaranteed would rid him of the devils within the colon), our tent on close inspection emitted the dour scent of disease from the convulsions from our weakened bodies. Passing angels would have feared to tread within the canvas of our sleep at that moment.

Lares Hot Springs

We gathered our three forlorn mules who had the thankless task of carrying our luggage, tents and equipment and began the next day's walk to our next destination of Espaycocha as the storm clouds began to lurk.

Where's Matty?

Freddy, our mid-twenties Peruvian tour guide, was full of positivity and a rich layer of gentle humour enough for us to trust him to the contours of the second day. He reminded me somewhat of Charlie Brown, with his eyes slightly close together and boyish quips. It appeared that the highlight of his day would be to tease Vicento, our horse man. On hearing the energetic courtship of two donkeys beyond some farmland Freddy nudged Vicento and ordered him to join in on the equine passion.

A nice feature of the hike was that every passing farmer or villager, dressed in rainbow ponchos and fake plastic flowers on their bowler hats, would greet us warmly with a formal 'Buenos Dias Chicos'. It was apparent that there was a community feel to the Peruvians high up in the mountains. This local charm was not enough to see us through our walk up to the summit of a 4600 metre mountain, which is higher than the plane I jumped off for my skydive in Taupo and half the height of Mount Everest. The make up of shingle and stone was deteriorating for the calf and thigh muscles and as the rain began to pour down I felt utterly miserable. Matty had the heavy eyes of a zombie and few words were shared for most of the morning.

Truck load of folk in Ollantaytambo

After lunch, we opted to ramble for a further three hours in order to reach a more dry base and as it was all downhill we agreed that this would be better than to camp by Lake Epsaycocha, 4500 metres up with a high risk of being caught in a storm that night.

Our silence broke with that of the emergence of the sun late in the afternoon, revealing lush valleys, lagoons and streams with cold foamy waters. On reaching our base for the night, after a full nine hours hiking, we collapsed on the hard ground with a well deserved beverage in our hand. I may only have fond memories of this episode as the drink we had was Coca Te, where the leaves contain cocaine and is illegal in the US and UK. I think a Class A warm cup of tea is the only way I can start my day from now on and was enough to lead us through the next few days towards the Lost City of the Incas.

Coca Te. Coca Loca Te.

Valparaiso, How Absurd You Are...

After a little headache was brought on by one too many happy hour Pisco Sours, Amaretto Sours and Mojitos at our brand new local favourite haunt, Cafe Utopia in Bellas Artes, we decided to take a little trip to the seaside to brighten our spirits and also to make the most of our last few days in Chile. After a simple enough transfer from the efficient Metro to the bus station at Universidad de Santiago, we sat on the comfortable back seats of the TURBUS for a swift hour and a half route to the seaport of Valparaiso. We passed a fairly uninspiring window view, passing smooth hills and some soil rich farmland on a rather dull day. We could have been driving through any countryside outside an urban complex.

This was to change though once we parked at our destination, clouds gathered ominously and the soft scatter of rain began to descend. Although without the aid of a spray of natural light, the city exuded an impression of containing much character by the way the box houses tilted on the hill overlooking the harbour. I couldn't quite make out the colour of the paint work and this added to the sensation of holding a photograph negative close to the eyes.

The UEA 7 a side FA Cup winners reunite for another scalp. Yes, my jeans are far too big, they were the only ones I could find in the market in Santiago.

We were recommended a little restaurant off a sinister side alley, one that I would not have felt safe walking down at all any time after sunset, called Casino J Cruz Social

http://www.capitalcultural.cl/p4_cc/site/artic/20040513/pags/20040513154823.html

which ranks amongst the most memorable dining experiences to date. The decoration was a debris of cheap collectibles from the world over within glass cabinets scrawled and signed on the panes with tip-ex by past customers. The dated floral table cloths were also blitzed with biro ink, messages from all the guests who'd eaten under the same roof in the past forty years. It was hard not to feel nostalgic about the place, and even more so when the elderly and eccentric waiter arrived and delivered us the only dish that was available by the chef, the highly regarded Chorrillana - heaps of hand cut chips (like the ones Dolly makes for me when I'm well behaved), scrambled eggs with onions and garlic and finally a liberal sprinkling of chopped pepper steak (which Matty devoured without delay).

Street art in Valparaiso

We trawled the streets for shelter, and were reduced to mild irritation on being ignored by one B&B and our other top pick being shut down for the month for renovations. This led us to a promisingly signposted hostel Pata Pata halfway up the rainbow coloured steps of Templeman. We were alarmed to find that the door was opened by a sweet smiling two year old Chilean boy who promptly ran away back into his cot. The manager greeted us seconds later and with his small lopsided beard, round trustworthy face and generous overspilling stomach, depicted the archetypal Latin man of leisure. The hostel was 'homely' in a way that felt like arriving unannouned at a friend's relatives house and asking to stay the night by mark of association. The baby boy, who loved to try and play the didgeridoo to entertain us, provided company in the television room as we attempted to avoid his angular toys scattered on the floor. He didn't appear to attach any desire to sit still and listen to my reading of the Spanish version of 'Three Little Pigs' (Los Tres Cerditos) though, which was his loss, the ungrateful swine.

In the morning, after having our prayers answered from a higher being for the wish of a clear day after the uncomfortable artillery of an overnight storm, we approached the city with a dose of positivity and anticipation in equal parts. Valparaiso is known as the 'Cultural Capital of Chile', a newly appointed UNESCO World Heritage Site and was home to the notorious Chilean poet (and considered to be one of the most influential poets of the 20th Century), Pablo Neruda. Although in the past 'Valpo' was known more for its swarm of drunken sailors, doe-eyed and ugly mouthed prostitutes and blue collar sleaze, it is now considered a jewel of the nation and commonly referred to as 'Little San Francisco'.

Chile has impressed with its reputation for a solid economy of a steady export trade (mainly copper, accounting for a third of the world's total, and wine) which is reflected by the high value, in South American terms, of its currency as well as the impressive infrastructure and general lack of visible poverty that I had assumed.

It was easy to see why this place has such luminary plaudits. The rich bohemian vibrancy is apparent from every cafe, restaurant and window sill within the Old Quarter. Houses are painted striking shades of the palette, often to compliment the pigment of the neighbouring buildings so that the streets reach a technicolour synchronicity as if a consequence of the collective brushwork sneeze of the Impressionists. Artwork of the spray canned variety is also thrashed adoringly on walls, abodes and on the ground, as wild canines stroll easily by and ignore the public clamour within the docks.

World Cup fever reaches the walls of the Allegretto Pizzerteria in Valparaiso

After Valapraiso and one final day in Santiago to sample some more ham and cheese empanadas, we set off for Peru to prepare for the Inca Trek in the coming few days. Our connection flight from Lima to Cusco was delayed, leaving us stranded in the Peruvian capital for one night before we were allowed on the next domestic flight. This, we thought, was going to be an issue as after what felt like months queuing at the LAN desk for news of a refund and overnight stay at nearby accommodation we were handed a voucher written elegantly by Maria the LAN air stewardess for the Hotel Rwanda. Thankfully we mis-read the coupon and were not actually treated to a night of genocide and Don Cheadle. Instead, the majestic Hotel Ramada, with its Spa, massage tables, delicious three course meal and spacious twin room was in order - and all free of charge.

Backpacking has never felt so relaxing and has created, I fear, a false impression for Matty. One that I'm not willing to correct just yet.

Flying past the Andes and beyond Chile

Lima Song of the Day: The Beatles - And Your Bird Can Sing
A classic from Revolver. The fab three's (Ringo doesn't count) sunny chorus managed to scale the heights of my in flight playlist (along with Avril Lavigne and Bob Dylan) to ensure that we touched down in Peru with swaying arms and tuneless humming that even the blood red stamps of immigration couldn't tarnish.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ApI7YXQTVZQ

i-Pod Song of the Day: Bruce Springsteen - I'm On Fire
The Boss is at his best on this moody yet moving two minute lilt from his huge 'Born in the USA'
album. The structure of the melody urges you to follow the tracks that the freight train running through his head have passed.

http://www.brucespringsteen.net/songs/ImOnFire.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzQvGz6_fvA