The Whole Sordid Buzios Bunch

6:12pm and we arrived in Rio, the final leg of the adventure, one where the walls would hopefully collapse on me at the close of this year long fiasco. Through the heavily blacked out windows of the taxi cab it was difficult to make out the exhalations of the city, passing white washed amphitheatres and graffitied derelict buildings adding political slogans and caricatures to concrete. Our first night was spent at El Misti hostel in Botafogo - enough time for us to watch Fluminese gather an entertaining stalemate with Botafogo in a crowded bar where we ate a sizzling plate of chicken strips and spicy chorizo sausage before returning to our three storey bunk beds, swaying violently with every passing snore.

Going coco-loco on Ipanema (muscles not shown)

For the morning check out I wheeled rollerpig past the bear sized yet placid German Shepherd hostel guard dog towards Copacabana and our new hostel, CabanCopa (see what they did there). Excitement grew in waves as our havianas led us to the infamous stretch of beach, encased by mountains and ill-themed and hastily built high rise hotels and apartments. I managed to split my big toe on a crack in the pavement and solace was soon found from the excruciating pain in the murky depths of an Agua-Coca by Ipanema beach as blood gushed from my carved open skin.

The bruised digit was in better shape the next day, the camp limp was still on show, much to the public´s delight, but the wound was healing slowly, enough for us to take a bicycle ride circuit of the Rodrigo de Freitas Lagoon (Matty denied me the joy of a tandem). Shortly afterwards we took a brief tour of the Centro district, taking in the magnificent, if slightly overly ornate, Teatro Municipal as we then hunted down the largest plate on offer at the all you can eat buffet Temperante Restaurant near our accommodation.

Having a ball by the swaying fishing boats in Buzios

For our final short trip we opted to travel to nearby Buzios - known adoringly by the proletariat for being the Brazilian millionaire's weekend resort of choice. Suffice to say we did not fit in among the deftly paved stones leading to the bay and the fairy lit seafood restaurants. Brigitte Bardot unearthed the town in the late 60's and it has since maintained its allure and prestige within the country, enough for them to display an unflattering bronze bust of the silver screen nymph overlooking the rocking fishing boats.

We dined at a Chilean restaurant (utterly budget but copious amounts of frango y arroz was served) where we enchanted the hostess with our rowdy rendition of Chi-Chi-Chi Le-Le-Le! to remind her of our Andes allegiance. A curious turn of events ensued soon after. A Brazilian couple, sat at a table nearby, interrupted our meal intermittently with strange and sporadic queries. The blond girl from Sao Paulo (whose English was very good but her accent strayed towards Borat) and her beast of a boyfriend who looked the spit of Lou Ferrigno from the Incredible Hulk series, joined our table uninvited and continued to litter us with more questions in between our panicked sips of Caipirinha. Among the barrage of inquisition were 'Do you like dancing girls?' and 'Are you married?'. After consulting each other in Portuguese they asked the pair of us to join them for a trip to a secluded beach the following morning. Matty and I agreed nervously knowing that we would be leaving the next day back to Rio. They left shortly afterwards, leaving a trail of relief.

View from the Mix Bar, around the time we started mixing with the underworld

We gathered that the two of them were most certainly swingers and breathed easily knowing that we would never see them again. Until a few minutes later, that was, when The Hulk came back to the restaurant, clubbed a giant fist on Matty's back and demanded that we join them for a drink next door in his colossal baritone. We nervously dragged our feet to the Mix Bar and were relieved to see that the swingers had captured a South African traveler and had duped him into joining their sleaze fest the next day as well. Safety in numbers.

As the night unravelled we discovered that the Durban based tourist was nothing more than a narcotics dependent, negotiating on the beach with his local dealer and scoring off passing strangers in between hurried conversation. Amid our bewilderment, a Boston born lad named Eddie - all East Coast drawl and Tony Soprano ideals - came over to us in a serpentine swagger, and sneered through his discoloured teeth "tell yer boy to watch his back, he's messing with the wrong guy" as he pointed his opaque beer bottle towards the South African who was by now handing some dirty paper notes to a shadow in a hat. Wise guy Eddie then cornered the two of us and implored us to entertain three 'mature' ladies, sat on the bar stools in their evening dresses under a heavy miasma of Chanel #5, and to take them back to his 'castle'.

Me: I think they are going to hurt us
Matty: I know, just smile politely
l-r (A terrified Jack Johnson, A South African crack head, A Brazilian Borat and The Hulk)

It transpired that the ladies were nothing more than elegant night walking harlots and that Eddie was the ringleader of their twilight income. Who was to disclose us of their criminal intent but the Brazilian swingers who were the most trustworthy of all the sordid group. Each individual conspired against one another; the South African to obtain more funds for his hit, Eddie to sell the services of his petticoat squaws and the debauchees for their natural vice. It was all too much for two boys who just wanted a pudding before bedtime and we decided to take the brave choice of running away like lightning back to our hostel.

Back in Rio, on Pão de Açúcar

Buzios Song of the Day: Alanis Morrisette - Hands Clean
The Brazilians appear to have a fascination with Alanis, wherever we go, be it a juice bar, cafe or an emporium, they play either her best of or the entirety of her debut, Jagged Little Pill. Can´t complain though as it has been a while since I've listened to 'Alan Morrissey' as Thom Yorke calls her.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbrbhJttNu8

i-Pod Song of the Day: Vanessa Carlton - A Thousand Miles

I think somebody must have bought this on i-Tunes and added it to my i-Pod when I was not around as some primitive jest.
Ok, ok, I bought it, and must concede this song is brilliant. It reminds me of driving my pine green Saxo (1.1 litre engine, manual windows, tape player - the works) back home after a days work in the Volvo factory in Rotherham, shaping metal and being shouted at by gruff Yorkshiremen for not being strong enough to carry sheets of corrugated steel to the basement.

Matty is also guilty for singing along merrily when I played this on through the PSP speakers in the dormitory.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cwkej79U3ek

Sailing On A Toy Wooden Boat

It had dawned on me that I had not done anything to irk the authorities of late and so Matty and I decided to remedy this by taking an illegal trip over the border from Brazil to Paraguay, to venture deep into the markets of Ciudad de Este. We had been promised, by our hot/cold receptionist, that we could get anything under the stalls, from pirate DVDs, automatic weapons and Class A drugs. I was more interested in a golf umbrella which I bought for some Argentinean Pesos, as well as two packs of AA batteries. I live for danger.

However, having not had either of our passports stamped for departure from Brazil or entry into Paraguay (it was raining and we didn’t want to get wet socks whilst queuing up at immigration) we rode our luck whilst on the public bus returning over the bridge back to Foz do Iguacu. Two customs police officers boarded the bus and began to search everyone’s bags for the legality of merchandise that they had just bought. Matty and I were sat at the back of the bus and opted for the brave move of showing them our booty of lithium batteries along with a confident nod and closed mouths. Our plan worked a charm as most of the bus were shepherded towards the dark roof of customs and the police station whilst we were not given a second glance. Silence is easy to hide your nationality and guilt.

We sat expressionless amid the rows of chattering passengers with questionably large sacks of luggage on our trip to Sao Paolo. Behind us were two shadowy figures, one with a striking resemblance to Sachin Tendulkar - had the Little Master eaten one too many bakewell tarts as a child - and the other accompanied our 19 hour journey with a continuous chorus of throat hacking and shifty looks towards our rucksacks. The Brazilian buses paled in comparison to the Argentine equivalent - no three course meals, snacks, videos of Marco Antonio Solis or even a Tia Maria to drown the excesses of the day.

Shrimps on Paraty beach

A revelation that we had not entertained prior to arrival was the stark differences between Spanish and Portuguese. Naiveley we assumed that they would be too similar to worry about and opted not to purchase a pocket sized phrasebook and instead bought another bag of fruit candies. Having only just mastered key conversation in Argentina we were now in a completely alien environment, dabbling limply at the haphazard slippery soap of common exchanges as the ricocheting diphthongs completely wrong footed us. In written form, the language is not even phonetic, which compresses the pressure of the quandary. The best I could manage at Sao Paulo bus terminal, when attempting to order lunch, was to point fervently at a glass counter of danish pastries and shout ’Two Creams’ at the disconcerted staff members.

The Brazilians themselves delivered the festival of colour and shade that I had envisioned. From light skinned through rich caramel and on further still to darker tones and from tall to curvy (and by curvy I mean very Queen Latifah) a mix akin only to the melting pot of people found in London and New York. An accessory shared by huge hand fulls of the public are the train track braces that I also sported as a sulking teenager - underlining the smiling necessity shared by all individuals.

From the bus terminal via Bob’s Burgers (as much of a McDonald’s rip off as Cleo McDowell’s restaurant in Coming to America), we finally halted at midnight at the colonial town of Paraty where the entire historic quarter is listed as a UNESCO heritage site. A town full of violet allure with its uneven cobbles streets running through peacock feather painted boutique shops housing wooden toy boat models and galleries for affluent tourists as easy keepsakes.

Couldn´t even befriend a Wilson

By the idyllic beach surrounded by lush forests I ordered two coconut waters to quench our thirst. The waiter nodded approvingly and returned with one single cerveza. Being unable to speak the language or conquer the inflections of the vowels is like being an insect trapped in a hot car.

The cobbled streets of Paraty

On board the oddly Oriental themed boat ’Banzay’ for a day’s cruise soaring serenely through sweeping islands and hidden blue lagoons. The real highlight was not the emerald bays nor the swarms of green and black striped tropical fish following the boat, but the exquisite guitarist / commentator and his sweet acoustic lilts as well as the fruit platter which was an eden for the senses after the packed lunch we made of one crusty plain bread roll with water.

Bike rides on lady cycles are not fun

We ventured beyond the town on our second day and explored the waterfalls and laid back farm lands by bicycle. We were handed two luminous lime green and maroon coloured girl’s bikes, complete with large baskets and absolutely no gears. This meant that the majority of up hill trails had to be navigated by foot as the local children laughed at our feminine transportation as we trudged on under an angry mist of sweat.

To reward the exercise the sun went down alongside streams of icy Caipirinhas (which we still can’t pronounce) - a blend of clear cachaça, crushed ice, brown sugar and heaps of lime. We were joined by a Brazilian man named Carlos by the stools of a bar who was on vacation and amused us with his stories of oil rigging in Abu Dhabi as well as his churlish response to an Argentine man who mocked him for Brazil’s loss to The Netherlands in the World Cup Quarter Finals: Better to suck on an orange than a big German sausage.

Paraty Song of the Day: Crowded House - Don’t Dream It’s Over
I probably should have included a Crowded House song whilst in New Zealand, but they were rarely on the radios or television, which was strange, along with the lack of any repeats of Flight of the Conchords. The rotund but kind faced guitarist on the Banzay strummed along with a hushed tranquility. He got some of the words wrong though, which is pretty unforgivable.

You’ll never see the end of the road while you’re travelling with me

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZZfuCJ970w

i-Pod Song of the Day: Scott Matthews - Elusive
They call Mr. Matthews Wolverhampton’s answer to Jeff Buckley, which is high praise indeed (and not really that accurate). A whispered lullaby of a song that I ripped free off the i-Tunes single of the week a year or so ago.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NAcP-HT_wM0

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