ECUADOR/PERU and the parting shot...

All those people who told me that told me that Guayaquil was a bland city, with nothing to see and best avoided, were clearly talking rubbish. Sure there was someone who knew someone who was robbed at knife-point in broad daylight in the bus station, but there is always someone who knows someone.

I had most of the day to kill before my flight back to Lima, so I headed down to Malecón 2000, a major redevelopment along the banks of the Río Guayas. It is a slick waterfront promenade stretching for 2 1/2kms, heavily policed and a welcome respite to the rest of the steaming chaos that swarms the rest of the city.
I arrived in the morning and seemed to be the only person about save for an army of gardeners and security guards who bid me "Buenos dias" and most of whom managed to restrain themselves from the irritating "Fsssst!" of which they are so fond of using when they see women.
I strolled along past shiny new playgrounds and well equipped outdoor gyms and followed paths that wound through colourful gardens, cooled by sprinklers, over bridges that led across little streams and 'water features' listening to classical music that was being piped out through speakers mounted on lamp posts. All was calm and tranquillity and the slight breeze from across the water was very welcome.
I followed the promenade north to Las Peñas, a pretty barrio of colourful little houses and cobbled streets that wound steeply up to the lighthouse and small church where there is a panoramic view of the rest of the grey, smoggy city.
I pottered about happily for a few hours until it was time to gather myself up and fly back to Lima.

I arrived last night about 4 hours late, thanks to delayed LAN flights, but my Flying Dog Hostel pick-up was still there with my name on a sign. A welcome sight which saved me from battling with the scrum of taxi drivers all keen to take me to Miraflores for 3 times the price.
I slept my last night in a bunk bed (for a while I'd imagine) and awoke today with the best part of a day to kill in Lima. First things first: Manicure and pedicure, of course... For the equivalent of $10 it is hard to resist. So I sat by a window watching Lima rush by listening to lively Andean pipe music while 2 nice ladies clipped, filed, buffed and polished me into something a little more presentable.
Time for a cafe con leche where the friendly waitress promptly stepped on my feet whilst leaning forward to admire the results of my pampering. Hey ho.
I was then pursued by an American man keen to discuss Iraq and what we ought to be doing with "all those muslims." Oh God. I dived for cover in the Markets and picked up a few more souvenirs and now here I am, sitting in an internet cafe and, for the last time, perusing my scribbled note book for raw material that I type up in the form of this blog. Time for another little recap I think.

So, in the second leg of my journey what have I been up to? Well...

I've danced Tango in Buenos Aires, chased goats and drank wine in the North West of Argentina, paraglided over the Andes, stuck my head in an active volcano, been bashed about by the famous winds in Patagonia, wandered dizzily around at crazy altitudes, in Northern Chile and Southern Bolivia, been photographed sitting in my own shoe in the Uyuni Salt Flats, delivered dynamite to the miners of Potosi, mountain biked down 'the world's most dangerous road', visited the floating villages on Lake Titicaca and stayed with a family, tramped through the Amazon, hiked for four days to Machu Picchu, danced at an Ecuadorian wedding won prizes for dancing in a remote jungle town and visited a men's prison in Quito. And more, of course...

Travelling South America is by far more physically challenging than South East Asia. There the heat dictates that you spend much time reflecting on the mysticisms of wats and temples from the comfort of a hammock whilst sipping beer or fruit shakes. The atmosphere is one of inactivity and you could easily spend a week doing very little other than floating around in a big rubber tube. My fellow travellers were a younger lot there too, average age being about 22. Here people seem to be a little older, South America I think attracting a crowd of slightly more adventurous travellers who have flocked here despite the language barrier and endless tales of the dangers.
People are always asking me which country over the last 9 months was my favourite, which is an impossible question of course. I have no idea. India will always be very special as it was my 1st port of call and so totally different from London that I hit the ground running and did not look back. South East Asia was magical, fascinating and heaps of fun, Australia was a welcome island in the midst of my adventures to take a breather, see family, get spoiled and prepare myself for the next jaunt and South America was exciting, exhausting and infinately rewarding. I can't really imagine how the last 9 months could have gone any better and I am a very lucky girl to have seen and experienced so much.

So, with that, I ought to sign off. I am very grateful to people bothering to read this, knowing that people were kept me on it even when I didn't feel like it and it has been invaluable to me as a way of committing things to memory as well as paper.
Over mojitos in Buenos Aires, Posy made me promise that I would not stop there. And so this marks the birth of the sequel: What Katy Did Next (wotktdidnext.blogspot.com)
This is really a writing exercise for me as much as anything else and I can't promise to be even as remotely as interesting as I would be if I was touring the world but London has some noteworthy aspects too and I might just try and jot some of them down.

But for now that's all folks. I look forward to seeing you all very very soon! xxx

ECUADOR, Quito (written from Guayaquil - see below for Jungle parties and arrival in Quito) Monday 18th November.

"Roses man. I'm telling you, that's where the money is. F**king roses! When I get out that's what I'm gonna do, sell roses."
In a stark contrast to, well, just about everything, I found myself sitting cramped up with 5 other backpackers in the prison cell of Marty, a 35 year old Canadian drug trafficker, listening to his highly strung torrent of opinions on just about everything and harrowing stories of life inside and Ecuadorian prison. Not your average tourist occupation but a shocking and rather heartbreaking insight into a world far less sunny than the one most of us know.

Morbid curiosity, and a cynical sense of novalty, lead me to tag along to Visitor's Day with some of my fellow Secret Garden dwellers. One girl had been to the women's prison the day before and had enjoyed(?!) it so much that she was keen to see the men's too. So, laden with toilet paper, batteries and chocolate, the name of an inmate to visit scribbled on a piece of paper, we joined the rather festive throng of families all gathered outside to see their daddies/husbands/brothers/friends.
I was feeling a bit intrusive and a little like I was going to a zoo as we were thoroughly searched and ushered through the clunking metal doors into the prison were Ecuadorian men begged us for money and eyed the girls amongst us keenly. We were introduced to Fred a 58 year old Londoner who looked some 20 years older than he was, a result of the harsh battering that life has dealt him, I would imagine. He is serving 8 years for drug trafficking as seemed to be so for all the Western prisoners.
One chilling case was put to us by a young London guy about my age. His story is that he was set up by his hostel. He was backpacking, like us, when the hostel stole all his belongings, planted a substantial amount of coke on him and turned him over to the police. One year on and he still hasn't been sentenced. We asked him if there was anything we could get him and he just mournfully said "I only want my freedom." He could not bare to spend long with us, we were too reminiscent of a life not long snatched from him. If his story is true (and these things do happen) then I can't really imagine how awful it must be for him and his family.
Marty then bounded up and took us all in hand, seating us in his cell and chatting to us about his life and survival in the prison. They have to buy their own cells, money being made above or below board (Fred makes pies, Marty would not disclose such information). Guns and knives are everywhere and people are often shot. Fred is due into hospital to have the infect bullet hole in his stomach treated. They swapped stories of gang warfare and prison strikes in return for news of the outside world. "So guys, what's the plan tonight then? Tell me where ´we´ are going out?" Joked Marty. They were mostly open to questions but, every so often, they would say we were prying too much and could not tell us. Marty did not want more visitors, saying that it drew too much attention and made him vulnerable but Fred said he'd be happy to receive more so we took his full name to give to the backpackers who were visiting the following day.
Visitors are allowed in over the weekend and every 2 weeks they can stay over. Fred and Marty invited us to do so but my adventurous nature only goes so far. I was feeling pretty out of my depth as it was and, despite the warm hospitality of Fred and Marty, was a little uncomfortable. It was all a bit too much and I was relieved to step out through the barred doors and walk free.
We were all rather affected by the experience I think and talked of little else for the rest of the day. "It is nothing like the womens' prison." Remarked the girl as we left "They were a lot more sorry." It is true, Fred and Marty's only regrets were being caught, they both spoke sadly of the money they would have made if they had got through to Europe...

Time is running out for me at quite a rate now so I had to take my leave of Quito and, after 2 hours sleep (last Saturday in South America and all) I took the 9 hour bus back to Guayaquil in time for my flight back to Lima which is in just a few hours...

ECUADOR, Banos, Tena and on to Quito (written in Guayaquil Monday 18th November

I think it might be safe to say that, in my attempt to relax and just stay still, I failed totally. This might or might not come as a surprise to some of you. Since my last entry I have been scampering around Ecuador like a crazy thing.

In Banos I attached myself to a nice group of solo female travellers who had joined forces in Quito and Banos. Some of them had been rafting the previous day and, through their guide Eduardo, got wind of a fiesta in Tena, a town deep in the jungle. This sounded too good to pass up so I delayed my departure from Banos in order to tag along.
That night, Eduardo took us to a local salsa club where we were all whirled around at high speeds by sweet, and very patient, local boys who did their best to teach us the steps and had us spinning about in a manner that made it look like we knew what we were doing. After Ecuador I think I'll be a master...
With my extra day in Banos we hired bikes and cycled down to the impressive Pailón del Diablo waterfall on the road to Puyo. We wound our way through valleys surrounded by lush, green hills of fields and jungle, over rivers, through tunnels and stopping to take a heart-stopping ride on a cable car over a wide, deep canyon dangling precariously over a river. The waterfall was a short hike through pretty jungle and turned out to be the deafening, thundering, crashing tumble of water that I had been promised. Most satisfactory.
On Thursday my new travel companion Rachael, Eduardo and I took a bus to Tena for the fiesta which celebrates the town's anniversary. Tena only attracts tourists who are on their way to the jungle or on a rafting expedition and is otherwise just a functional little town set around the banks of a river, surrounded by dense jungle. It was once an important colonial trading post in the Amazon and is now the commercial centre of the Napo Province. It was a-buzz with activity when we arrived as people prepared for the night's revels, food stalls were setting up and people were milling about with beers.
Rachael and I ventured out later on in search of Eduardo and dinner. We settled ourselves in the concrete football pitch, which was the main focal point of the event with plenty of make-shift bars and a huge stage where people kept appearing to do blaring sound checks. We sipped peach wine and watched events unfolding. Children were having a very energetic game of football with a plastic bottle, young men sauntered about in search of young women and old men sat around drinking beer, people caught up over beef kebabs with plantains and there was a general sense of festivity and anticipation. During our hunt for dinner we were discovered by Eduardo and his friends who scooped us up and took us to a little outdoor bar where they were all drinking and making merry. They were a lovely bunch, most of them jungle tour guides and professional rafters like Eduardo and spoke good English.
Eduardo wanted to introduce us to his family so, with him and his friend Julio, we headed back out of town standing in the back of a pick-up/taxi.
We found Eduardo's family standing around a dance floor in front of a stage where a Mexican band were crooning. They greeted us warmly and commenced with the beer drinking. I am becoming rather familiar with the Ecuadorian way of drinking now: They half fill small cups with beer and with a "salute!" its bottoms up and all down at once. This is repeated, the cups rotating, until the bottle is empty. The beers went round and round, kebabs were devoured and finally the Mexicans left the stage to be followed by a salsa band and we all spun onto the dance floor where we stayed until we were all dripping with sweat and in need of more cold beer.
One man swirled me around in such a manic dash across the dance floor that we began to attract attention. People watched, laughed and took pictures of this crazy man whirling around a Gringa who was struggling to hold her own (but not doing too badly). I returned to the side of the dance floor, gasping and giggling to find that they were all pointing at the stage. "You have won a prize," Eduardo explained. "They are calling you over." Very bemused I shuffled across the now empty dance floor to the stage where I was given a Tshirt and a round of applause. By now a fetching shade of beetroot, I returned to my group, the music started again and we were swept up again and proceeded to wiggle around the dance floor...
Having exhausted ourselves and the music there we said goodbye to the family and the 4 of us went back into town to join the heaving throng of people that had packed out the football court and danced some more until we could barley stand and had to go to bed. A great night, lucky us to have been part of that.

On Friday we bussed it to Quito and on the bus a remarkable thing happened:
I was sitting in the window seat with Rachael next to me and my bag wedged between my feet and the side of the bus, the strap hooked over my knee. When I went to leave the bus I discovered that my camera (yes, I know again) was gone, as was the $10 that had been in my wallet. Someone, very small, had got into my bag, fished out the plastic bag that held my camera and passport, taken the camera and then folded up the plastic bag and put it back, taken out my wallet, removed the cash and put that back (cards and all) all while the bag was right with me, on my person. There was a little girl behind me so it must have been her but how and when I have no idea. Very annoying, as you can imagine, so close to my return home too! But I am very grateful that she did not take the passport or bank cards.

With that little cloud hanging over me we arrived in Quito and checked into the Secret Garden Hostel in the heart of the Old Town.
Quito is a rather beautiful city surrounded by green hills, rivers and waterfalls, with neat, clean streets, elegant plazas and cobbled streets of well maintained colonial houses painted in pastel colours. The streets are not as dirty or chaotic as those of Lima and the whole place feels a good deal more loved and better organised. Secret Garden has a roof terrace providing stunning views of the city both day and night as well as strong cocktails, large communal dinners and a great little social scene. Rachael and I had a wader about the Old Town in search of cash machines, down busy little shopping streets with teams of police everywhere. I have heard plenty of horror stories from Quito so that was a comforting sight. The Old Town used to be notoriously dangerous but has cleaned up its act recently shifting the reputation to the New Town which is the main backpacker hang out, providing banana pancakes, clubs, pubs and muggings with equal fervour.
Being Friday night the hostel was in full party mode and after a lively dinner we all struck out en masse to the New Town and its nightclubs and danced the night away with the Quito youth. A perfect place for my last weekend in South America...

ECUADOR, Banos, Tuesday 13th November (see below for Montanita)

Well, it seems that I have chosen well, Banos is wonderful. I am in love with it and all the people here.
Nestled in a valley, surrounded on all sides by green, rolling hills with waterfalls and hot springs in abundance, Banos is a major holiday destination for Ecuadorians as well as tourists. Its sheltered spot in the valley ensures a temperate climate all year and feels like a little bit of an Eden.
It is overshadowed by Volcano Tungurahua which smokes and sputters above the town, a grim reminder of the chaos that it has wrought on the town in the past. In 1999 the town was evacuated by the army on account of its grumbling (and killing of a tourist and guide due to its gaseous belching). The evacuation turned out to be a false alarm but the army wouldn't leave, having made themselves rather comfortable. In 2000 the inhabitants, desperate to return to their town and livelihoods, stormed the military check point and forced the army out. They still mark this day, of which they are very proud.
The town is small and has a lovely relaxed holiday feel. It has a leafy main plaza, complete with a Punta de Amore in the gardens, and a sombre, dark, gothic Basilica honouring the Virgin of the Holy Waters which they illuminate colourfully at night.

I arrived yesterday evening after my bus ride from Guayaquil. Even without passing field after field of banana plantations, I would have known I'd entered banana country when I tried to buy a bunch of small, sweet bananas from a woman selling them on the bus out of a huge sack. "Uno dollar." On receiving my dollar she dumped the entire sack of bananas on the seat next to me and stalked off the bus before I could say anything. What was I supposed to do with a whole sack of bananas?! I eyed it nervously, slid it under my seat and slunk off the bus in Banos abandoning the bananas to whoever chose to claim them. I am sure someone would.

Almost as soon as I had checked into my hostel I was swept off out to dinner and up to look at the volcano by my friendly room mates. We chugged up on the roof of a minibus and stopped to gawp as the volcano coughed up a great spurt of lava which then dribbled down the mountainside. Even our guide was impressed. We sipped local liquor overlooking Banos at night and then returned to town for a few drinks.

Today I hiked up the same hill again to see the views in daylight. I was joined for the first part of my walk by a cheerful group of school children and their teacher. They smiled and waved and a couple of them beamed up at me and bid me a very carefully pronounced "Good morning!" One little boy hurried on ahead to guide me over a stream instructing me where to step. "E ca, y e ca, y e ca... Esso! Muy bien!" He applauded once I had reached the other side safely. Sweet.
Children are often a good, honest reflection of their parents attitudes and it seems that foreigners are received warmly here. I bought a bottle of water from a smiling woman on route stopping to chat briefly to her little girl who too was smiles and giggles and delighted to have her photo taken.
I climbed on up the hill feeling warm and fuzzy after such beaming friendliness. The view was beautiful, the weather was gorgeous and the idea of sitting in hot water just didn't seem right, so I forwent the hot springs, for now, and settled myself on the pretty, sunny balcony of my hostel and languished in the sun for the rest of the afternoon. I was supposed to be relaxing after all.

Tomorrow I head on to Quito, where my room mates are now and have booked me a bed in a hostel. So reunions tomorrow night and another place to explore. Can't believe it is all nearly over...

ECUADOR, Montanita, (written from Banos) Tuesday 13th November

I began composing this in a damp internet cafe in Montanita on Saturday. Outside the temporary bar stands pumped out latino music in preparation for what was clearly going to be another big night.
I arrived on Friday evening exhausted from sleep deprivation induced by coldy fluy thing which I finally grabbed by the horns and pummelled with antibiotics.

After a lovely luxurious LAN Peru flight to Guayaquil in an empty plane I landed in the shiny Guayaquil airport and paid too much for a taxi to the bus station, to which I could have probably walked. Dodging the ticket touts trying to grab me this way and that screaming out various destinations, I made my way to the wall of bus company booths, also hollering. I located one offering my destination and hopped on a bus bound for Santa Elena.
I alighted at an intersection outside Santa Elena after a smooth air conditioned ride where I had an isle seat and all the curtains had been drawn, so no hope of an explanation of Ecuadorian scenery from me as yet...
Once at the dusty intersection, numerous men with badges round their necks pointed me to the bus stop that I needed and one of them sold me a ticket. I seated myself next to a policeman and a chicken sauntered up and eyed my quizzically, as chickens do.
They then bundled me onto a rattling local bus, full to the brim, and we bounced off down the road in the direction of the coast. For the next hour we chugged along a pot-holed road through various costal villages, all looking hot and scruffy, people lounging by the road in hammocks with a general air of inactivity. Finally I was shunted off onto the roadside and pointed down a dusty path to 'el centro' of Montanita. Once round the corner I spotted a few bronzed gringos mooching in a dozy sort of way and concluded that I must be in the right place.
I ambled down the main street, past people selling beaded jewellery and bars promising Happy Hours all night, and checked into a hostel. The day was grey and not too warm so I forwent the beach and made friends with a group of Russian guys staying at my hostel, the first Russians I have met travelling... I inadvertently shared my dinner with a Frenchman and suddenly felt too exhausted to have any more conversations with predatory men so slunk off to bed. A fruitless activity really considering all the bars were located right outside my bedroom and I had been promised that they would push on until 4am.
Miraculously, however, I did manage some sleep and awoke to another grey day. After a few hours on the beach I was bored and reminded myself that I often get bored when there is not much to do but lie on the beach so maybe I'd better leave Montanita to the surfers and seek adventure elsewhere.
Having decided this I skipped off to an internet cafe to do some research only to be cornered on the way out by Christian. Christian was one of the Ecuadorian surfer types who had tried to lure me into conversation on the beach, he had been trying to get me to eat a meal with him all day, even spotting me on my balcony where I had gone to ground. Once he'd cornered me for the third time I figured that actually I was pretty hungry and food might not go amiss so consented warily. Some hours later it was 2am and I was dancing with a man about a 3rd of my height in the heart of a local wedding... Funny how things turn out.
Christian turned out to be harmless enough but kept me well watered with beer during our very lengthy dinner (fish, plantains, rice and salad, yum). I politely agreed to have a dance with him and was plotting my escape when he suggested looking in on a wedding that was going on. Now that sounds more like it!
We arrived on the scene to join a group of other loiterers outside the entrance where the wedding could be seen in full flow. People were seated at tiny children's party-sized trestle tables on little stools. The aisle that ran the length of the room was already filling with wiggling bottoms of people of all ages as the music began. The father of the bride came to the door and smilingly waved the outside loiterers inside. The wedding had just become open to gatecrashers.

We stepped in and Christian took me over to table where a jolly faced fat man sat perched awkwardly on his stool next to a tiny little guy whose size seemed rather fitting with the dolly-tea-party set up. They were, it turned out, Christian's flat mates and friends of the groom. Dolly tea party it was not however and, with a wicked grin, the larger of the two signalled to a waiter who produced several litres of beer and set them down. He winked at me and motioned to the pile that was already building up under the table and I came to believe that some earnest drinking was about to commence.
Endless "Salute!", endless cup draining and endless refilling. I was thankful that my female status excused me from participating too seriously in this game although they made damn sure I was drinking and not just holding the glass to my lips. Christian began to look a little wonky and I was relieved to escape when the tiny guy asked me to dance and we joined the wiggling throng of people all of whom moved with such grace and rhythm, age being no barrier. I towered above everybody on the dance floor and received some very odd looks but most smiled at me and my attempt to wiggle away with the rest of them. Such a happy occasion. The only person who did not appear to be all smiles was the surly faced bride who scurried around distributing presents and generally looking preoccupied. I returned to the table to find more beers had arrived and decided it was time to bow ought gracefully. Another dance and then bed. I excused and extracted myself from a hopeful Christian and retired at the reasonable hour of 3.00 leaving the party in full swing and Laurel and Hardy sitting on their stools toasting one another and giggling.

The next day I bid farewell to Montanita figuring that I'd pretty much drained it of its attractions, the wedding being a hard one to beat. I bussed it back to Guayaquil, accompanied by Christian whom I shook off at the bus station and taxied it to my hostel to try and figure out where I was planning on going next. Christian had mentioned Banos as a place worth a visit and a quick browse in a nice Australian girl's LP settled it. I was heading north and back up into altitude again. Ecuador is not a big country and I reckoned that I could probably have a fairly good shot at seeing some of its sights before flying back to Lima in a week so off I set.
Relaxing week for me on a beach? Apparently not.

PERU, Lima, Wednesday 7th November

In a tinny, clattering chaos, Lima reared its head from the cloud of overcast smog as we trundled towards it in the jostling stream of shabby traffic. I emerged from the bus depot and picked out a yellow taxi (supposedly the legit. ones, although mine was more a shade of home-painted orange) from the throng attempting to get me, and my bag, into their back seats.
We made our way towards Miraflores, the smart part of town, along a duel carriageway that acts as a main vein for traffic to and from the centre of the city. Sloping grass banks mown into advertisements and large billboards lined the roads. Back in a big city...
Lima looks to be one of those cities where growth has taken it by surprise and consequently sprawls outwards in a tumbling chaos of concrete and wiring.
Only when I ventured into the very centre of the city did I find some grand, ornate Spanish architecture.

I arrived yesterday half deaf after the dramatic drop in altitude from around 2,000m to sea level. From rustic, rural calm to fume-filled mania. But I am a city girl and rather enjoy big, noisy, smoky metropolises for some reason. I like the challenge of digging out their treasures.
My hostel, Flying Dog, greeted me warmly and I settled in. Miraflores is an area full of hostels, cafes, bars, restaurants and shopping centres. Smart Lima-dwellers (Limainans?!) strut or sip coffee and it feels safe after dark, thanks to the abundance of out door cafes brightly lit.

Today I taxied it into the centre. We battled through the traffic and finally a building not resembling a concrete shoe box appeared, as we passed a large corrugated-iron construction site which promised to be the new, shiny Estacion Central.
From the PLaza San Martin, banked on all sides by serious, grand stone buildings, I dodged the attentions of a beaming business man and went down the pedestrianised shopping street towards the Plaza de Armas and running the gauntlet of young men offering me tattoos, piercings, grass or charly and, failing that, just trying to talk to me.
Tucan, it turns out, are arriving in Lima early, so I left a note at their hotel arranging to meet them later. Carla is a Lima girl born and bred and I jump at the chance for a nocturnal tour of the city with a local.
I then joined the throngs in the Plaza de Armas and hopped into the Cathedral for some peace and quiet. The decor in the Cathedral was that of a calmer Spanish Catholicism than of that in Cusco. There was, of course, the usual gilt and colour but set in a cooler, high arched modesty. There was also some impressive carved wood to counteract the sparkle.

I composed this blog sitting in a smart cafe in Miraflores, served to me by a very genteel old waiter. It was my 3rd cafe con leche of the day and it has made me jittery. Time for another wander methinks...

PERU, Cusco and into the Highlands, Monday 5th November

Well my last days in Cusco flew by in a blur of dinners, bars, clubs and churches. Yes, in that order. After a dinner of alpaca (yummy and very healthy meat), we took off to th Irish Pub which was an inappropriate but convenient starting point for my farwell jaunt about town. We did the usual tour of clubs, I danced on the bar, again, the owner dressed up, again, I found my GAP friends and a good time was had by all. I finished off the night doing a salsa dance-off with a tour guide called Manuel.

The following day I waved off Carla, John, Daniel, Laurie, Dwain, Christine, Lina and Diana feeling elated to be master once more of my own destiny.
I checked out of the 3 star hotel and into Loki Hostel and went to have a wander about some of the many churches set in and around the many plazas in Cusco.
San Blas is a small church in a quiet plaza in one of the many slippery cobbled streets above the Plaza de Armas, populated with cheesy art shops, a solemn-faced man dressed as an Inca and numerous women and children in traditional garb dragging llamas and lambs into the paths of the tourists offering "Photo? Photo?"

The church is famous because of its magnificently carved pulpit, attributed in local ledged to Juan Tomás Tuyro Tupaq a Quechuan leper who prayed for a cure for his illness. The prayer was answered and the grateful Quechuans donated the pulpit without receiving payment for it. It is very ornate, depicting sombre saints mid-prayer or sermon, around which entwine a fluid mass of foliage. Interestingly, bunches of grapes hang from the chins of faces that resemble Inca Gods, which gives a funny juxtaposition to the pious imagery above.
The dark, heavy wood is a welcome relief from all the fandangle and bling that adorns the churches here. I sat in a pew and was almost blinded by all the shiny silver, gold gilt and clutter of colourful models of deities perched on all surfaces.
The same goes for the main cathedral which is cluttered with little shrines, the figures of some of them sinisterly up-lit, adding a touch of Victorian Gothic nightmare to the scene.
What is worth seeing in the Cathedral, however, and why I went, is the depicment of The Last Supper. Rather subversively, a roasted guinea pig is planted in the middle of their feast, as a nod and a wink to a known Peruvian delicacy.

I passed a quiet night in my hostel enjoying the surrounding buzz of backpackers and the easy chat to be had (the main focus of which being the Inca Trail).

Yesterday morning I was up at 5.00am and on a bus bound for Andahuylas, deep in the Central Highlands of Peru. I had originally planned to stop there for the night but discovered that I had inadvertently bought a ticket right through to Ayacucho, so thought I might as well save on a hostel bill and push through the full 24 hour journey.

The first leg was 11 hours. That took us through endless scenes of rolling hills and valleys patch-worked with dry-looking fields manned by whole families, still wearing traditional dress, tending horses, sheep and cows and struggling to prevent excited dogs from hurling themselves at the buses wheels as we passed.
The road went from being paved to a dirt track that wound its way around the hillsides along, sometimes alarmingly close to the cliff´s edge that was already a loosened avalanche of stone and earth, just waiting to happen pulling half the hill side, and us, down with it. I concentrated hard on keeping the bus on the road (an irrational exercise but unavoidable I find) and tried not to notice the little white crosses, set at the side of the road, marking accidents of those who had not been so lucky.
I was thankfully distracted by my travel companions: A Peruvian woman and her little one-year-old girl who was a gorgeous little bundle of fluffy, grubby, sweetly smelly, big-eyed, chubby-cheeked cuteness, who played contentedly with my bracelets, stole my water, climbed onto my lap as her mother slept and generally entertained herself by entertaining me. She was unfazed by the cliff so so was I.

We stopped for a hour at Andahuylas, a farming town (gathered by the endless shops selling fertiliser) but also in possession of a university. It is the only main(ish) town for some 7 hours so, consequently, holds itself to be rather important.
Whilst loitering in the bus yard (to call it a station would be grossly inaccurate) hunting in vain for something safe other than pork scratchings to eat, I got talking to a woman who´s son is living in Oxford. Well, I think that's what she said, my Spanish ain't great but I am thankful for a chance to practice and kill some time.

At 7.00pm I was on bus bound for Ayacucho, another 11 hour journey. This started pleasantly enough until I was awoken by the lights being switched on as 2 men, in civilian clothes with large semi-automatic shot guns boarded. Oh Goody. I prayed that the Lonely Planet was right when it said that terrorist power within the region was broken in the 1990s. One of the men, a huge guy who spilled over his seat, was put next to me where he presided Buddha-like for the rest of the journey, eyes half close, shot gun firmly in his lap. Of course, for the rest of the journey, in my angst riddled head, every unexplained stop in the middle of no here (and there were several) was some kind of guerrilla hold-up.
We arrived in one piece, however, and I was pleased to see the men depart on the outskirts of Ayacucho, cheerfully waving their revolvers (until then hidden) in salute as they saunter off.
I was much relieved to arrive at the bus terminal and took a taxi to my kitch but friendly hotel, who kindly accepted me at 5.30am in the morning, lead me without question to a clean room with a bathroom, with no mention at having to pay an extra night for checking in so early. Bless them.

I fell asleep, exhausted and arose a few hours later to explore the town. It is a reasonably sized colonial town with plenty of Spanish trade-mark plazas and churches, bells a-jangling. Most of the cheerful colours in which the buildings were painted had chipped off revealing plaster or simply bare brick. Some of the more official-looking buildings looked well maintained but otherwise the streets remain gently scruffy. The Plaza de Armas, of course, was in good nick and still lined with elegant arched arcades. Pretty gardens and shady courtyards could be seen through open doorways, including that of the university, which looked neat, well kept and rather inviting.
Some of the shopping streets have been pedestrianised, saving you having to zig-zag your way through the honking motor taxis (autos/tuk-tuk, depending which country you´re in). There is a large corrugated iron-covered market by the hotel which I am able to watch from my comfy spot on the hotel´s roof-top balcony. The bustle of the town is efficient without being hectic and I have spent a luxurious day in the hot sunshine, battling with my fluey feeling (attributed to over exertion and dampness of the Inca Trail) poking about the streets, shops and plazas and then reclining on my balcony.
I am the only white face around, causing one little child to shout: "Mama! Una Gringa!" After the hordes of tourists in which I have been caugth in the last few weks, I find this satisfactory.

I was going to stop off at Huancayo on the way down to Lima but I am suddenly exhausted and thought 3 nights in one place and a chance to see a bit of the capital is appealing. So Lima it is. Another 8 hours on a bus and I will be able to come to a standstill, for a day or 2...

PERU, Machu Picchu, Friday 2nd November

Tummies full of banana pancakes, we set off to the official start of the Inca Trail where we met our 10 porters and one cook. All small, wiry, weather beaten looking Peruvian men with ages ranging from 19 to 40. They use portering as an addition to the merge living they make as farmers. With 25 kilos laden on their backs (they would carry more if the law did not forbid it) they run the Inca Trail bent double by their burdens. How sad and wrong it is that the descendents of the ones who built Machu Picchu should have to trace the foot steps of their ancestors in the service of the White Man. Something is wrong there and their presence was a constant and rather shaming reminder of the tragedy of colonialism.
Our guide, a former porter himself, was Wilfredo, a nice, kind faced man who had endeared himself to me by assuming, due to my Spanish accent that I was, in fact, of Spanish origin. He is an endless fountain of knowledge but also (and this seems to be rare for a guide) is interested in us, our countries and our backgrounds. He, I learned, is from a family of 10 and lives with his parents in Cusco. The porters were of families of similar sizes, this seems to be the norm.

The sun was shining as we set off and the going was easy so, swinging my walking stick, I struck on ahead relishing the chance to walk alone in the landscape.
Our path skirted a mountainside, above a valley populated by a few small farming communities. A river snaked through the valley alongside which chugged the train laden with tourists and bound for Machu Picchu. I didn´t envy them.
A hot, 3 course lunch was served to us in a tent. Melissa was beginning to struggle due to the exertion at altitudes to which she had not yet become accustomed and made her displeasure known loudly. Everyone else, however, was in good spirits, no blisters, no tantrums. So far, so good.
Camp was set up for us in a valley surrounded by fields (this part of the trail being populated still with farmers and their families), and over-shadowed by steep sloped, craggy mountainsides, the tops of which were concealed from us by a drifting blanket of thick white cloud that dribbled rain on us half heartedly.
Melissa announced that there was no way she would be using the toilet, being faced with a porcline-lined hole, and, I suppose, proposed to cross her legs for the next 3 days. Thankfully, I got the single tent and retired relieved to be at a safe distance from the wineing, to which I have a low tolerance.

Day 2 of the Inca Trail is famous for being the hardest thanks to the relentless 1,000m (approx) climb up steep, uneven stone Inca steps to the top of Dead Woman's Pass at 4200m above sea level. You then descend again into the next valley and the campsite.
At 7.00am, after a remarkably luxurious breakfast prepared by our genius cook Christabo, we began the climb. The first leg was relentlessly uphill but mercifully lacking in steps, for which we all came to develop a mortal fear, and I skipped up with relative ease. We soon fell into formation spread along the Trail amidst other groups. I was in front with Laurie and Dwain (aged 45 and 48) hot on my heals, Christine and Diana (both in their 30s) were usually around 10/15 minutes behind, Lina (also 30 something) around 15 minutes behind them and Melissa (26) bringing up the rear, often as much as 40 minutes behind us and egged on by Wilfredo who has a lot of experience at dealing with straggling, mutineers and deserters. Age, it would seem, bares no relation to your success on the Trail and Wilfredo said that his oldest hikers were in their 80s! They made it, but many don´t. Whole groups have been known to turn back declaring that on one mentioned that they´d have to climb to get to Machu Picchu... One woman became hysterical 20 minutes from Machu Picchu´s Sun Gate and refused to take another step, having already hiked for 3 days. People are sick, people collapse and people drop dead. There are no helipads on route and once up those steps on the 2nd day you would have to rely on porters to carry you out. If no steps are involved then horses or donkeys might be employed but basically you can forget a speedy exit. In short, don´t hike the Inca Trail if you have a weak heart and don´t injur yourself on route. Most people, both young and old, do make it. Huffing and puffing, with tears and tantrums but they get there. The porters, it would appear, are super-human.
Ever upwards, higher and higher, we climbed, walking first though jungle and then along a steep path cut into the side of the mountain, following the sharp line of the valley below, and leading up towards the Pass. Once at the Pass, Laurie, Dwain and I joined the ecstatic masses who were rejoicing in their success and cheering along those still climbing. We were lucky, the clouds were low but we still got a spectacular view of the valley, the Trail weaving in and out of sight, dotted with slow-moving, ant-like hikers and porters, the latter being deciferable by their huge packs, often the same size as them, landen with chairs, food, tents and other equipment.
There was then the hour-long desent via endless steps into the next valley and our campsite. I had just got into my tent when the patchy rain took on the form of somthing altogether more serious and bucketed down on Lina, Melissa and Wilfredo, still somewhere on the Trail. Laurie, Dwain, Christine, Diana and I sat huddled in the meal tent sipping hot soup and coca tea wondering sypathetically about the others and, less sympathetically, taking bets on how late they would be.

Day 3 began with feeling of discontent. Laurie and Dwain´s tent had leaked during the night soaking them, their bags and their sleeping bags meaning a restless night and a grumpy morning. When paired with the leaking inflatable sleeping mat it was clear that Tucan ought to spend more time and money... Grrr.
The rain of the night before became a distant memory, however, as we hiked along with ever clearer and clearer weather.
Clouds had an amazing habit at of descending with such speed that the Inca ruins on the mountain opposite could be clearly visible one minute and then vanish in a white-out within seconds. The white-outs were displaced just as quickly and we snapped away with speed at what we could while we could see it. After another steep climb, we passed the remains of Inca settlements and check posts before plunging into jungle that became increasingly more tropical. After lunch was the most beautiful part of the Trail. Relavitely flat, the path wound on up and down, cutting tunnels through the rocks, with a sheer drop on one side and a moutain on the other covered in prehistoric, waterlogged moss and ferns dripping water on us as we passed.
We reached the summit of our last big hill and looked down on the town Aguas Calientes. From another Inca check point we could see Machu Picchu mountain and just about make out the Sun Gate. More terraces could be seen from our vantage point too and with light hearts we started the 2 hour descent down steep, narrow, uneven Inca steps that require the utmost concentration to save you from falling and breaking your neck. Porters run down in order to maintiain balance, or something like that, and passed us cheerfully, happy in the knowledge that the end was in sight.
The final campsite before Machu Picchu is very smart, with a bar and showers (if you care to wait for 3 hours) and so we dumped our stuff and went straight up for a well earned cervesa over looking the valley, thunder clouds gathering and rumbling ominously above.
Ever since the Fetish party I have been accompanied by 2 new friends who belong to a large group who are travlling with GAP. I have bumped into them repeatedly on the Trail and found them again in the bar dressed up in silly wigs for Halloween. They are a young, fun bunch of people and I have semi adopted them as a respite for the more 'sensible' members of my group who don´t like loud music and generally are in bed by 11.00. A few drinks with them and plans made for festivities back in Cusco.
It was our last night with our porters and an extra special meal, if such a thing is possible, was provided accompanied by pisco sours. We bought them a round of beers, which was recieved with much applause, and attempted stilted conversations with them in Spanish, teasing the younger ones who blushed at being in the presence of so many young blonds. We presented their tip envelopes individually and sung them the Birdy Song, much to their amazment. They were silent for a few moments and then attempted to copy it. We twittered around in the drizzling darkness outside our tents flapping our elbows and hopping up and down with much laughter. They then sang us a song and grabbed us up for the Wino (traditional dance of Peru, basically a side step to and fro holding hands with your partner) we all embraced, were swung around a bit more and then departed en masse to the bar.
After all this we were still in bed by 9.30pm. Early early starts the next day...

We were awoken at 3.30am by eager porters keen to get our tents down and be off in time for the 1st train back to Cusco. Christabo still managed to produce scrambled eggs on toast. We felt our way in the darkness to the entrance to Machu Picchu and settled ourselves down, the 1st in line, to await its opening at 5.30.
By 5.35 I was striding through the jugle at top speed totally alone in the early morning and excited, determind not to let anyone over take me. I wanted to get to the Sun Gate 1st. I emmerged out of the jungle at the Sun Gate and got my first glimpse of Machu Picchu appearing in the distance in the morning mist. I was supposed to wait for the others but seeing that path winding along the mountian side nicely deserted, I couldn´t resist it and plunged on ahead past another holy sight where people still make little offerings of coca leaves etc, and on to our destination.
The main gates had been open for some time by the time I rounded a corner and came face to face with Machu Pichu. 2 Argentinian women regarded me with surprise as I huffed out of the jungle appearing, apparently from no where looking desidely dishevelled. I explained I´d hiked for 4 days and they cooed with surprise and congratulations, eyeing my grubby clothes and unkempt appearance from eyes neatly decorated with eye shadow and face framed with gold earrings. I thought I´d better wait for the rest of my group before I started whooping and doing carwheels so I went to pass the time with a llama who was picturesquly grazing on a terrace.
I climbed up to get a proper look at Machu Picchu below and it had vanished in a blanket of thick thick cloud through which you could make out nothing. Groups of tourists sat patiently facing the white-out which just began to clear as the rest of the Inca Trailers arrived cheering and hugging each other. Elated after our pilgramage and Machu Picchu making a dramatic entrance through the clouds as if appearing on a stage set once the dry ice settles, posed for photographs and congratulated each other.
People from Aquas Calientes were already streaming in and it wouldn´t be long before the whole site would be swamped by tourists. We entered from the main entrance, stopping briefly to use proper loos (very exciting) and embarked on a 2 hour tour directed by Wilfredo who showed us the main temple, the ingenious irrigation systems and main house complete with flushing loo. Much has been restored and some of the houses have even been re-roofed with straw to give you a sense of what it would have looked like.
The mountiain of Wynapicchu towers over Machu Picchu and, if climbed, offers the famous ariel view displaying the shape of the condor. Totally exhausted but not to be out done by a mountain I climbed more steep, stone Inca steps that take you straight up, sometimes having to haul myself up on the wire ropes provided. This wasn´t hiking, it was climbing. Plenty of people were doing it, however, including many grey haired folk. Amazing really. I squeezed between rocks and climbed ladders to the very top where I was photographed by one of my GAP friends, perched on a rock hanging over Machu Picchu. Feeling extremely pleased with myself I made my cautoius way back down again with 2 Columbian gentlemen discussing Gabriel Garcia Marquez, what else?
Once back on solid earth I was worn out and people were beginning to stream in off the train from Cusco. Time to go. I ate an ice cream, sipped a coke and then borded the bus to the very comercially minded town of Aguas Calientes, built, it would seem, purly to accomadate the hoards of tourists on route to and from Machu Picchu. We all met in a restaurant and celebrated with beer before making our weary way back to Cusco via bus and train.
Hot showers, a qick dinner and we all passed out exhausted but happy. We did it.

Tonight is my last night with the group before they head off to Arequipa and I head off in the direction of Ayacucho in the Highlands. I have arrangements with my GAP crew too so a jolly night is anticipated. Before that, however, I have to move myself into a hostel. Something I´m rather looking forward to. I've missed being a backpacker and am excited for my final backpacking adventure. Home in 3 weeks!

PERU, Cusco & Sacred Valley, Friday 2nd November

Machu Picchu - Old Mountain. The only town not to be discovered and destroyed by the Spanish during their destructive ransacking of the Incas and their culture. Set on a mountain at about 2350 it is set high on a mountain and was surrounded and concealed by dense jungle. The Spanish arrived in Peru during a time of Civil War within the Incas. Consequently there were many betrayals and the last Inca strong-hold Cota Coca was destroyed. They never found Machu Picchu, however because it is possible that it had already been deserted. No signs of life were discovered, such as ceramic pottery or other day to day articles so perhaps it had been evacuated.
Hiram Bingham was the lucky guy to stumble upon Machu Picchu in 1911 while looking for other Inca settlements in the jungle. Since then it sprang to world wide fame as a mystical city in the clouds and I dread to think how many flock there per year now.

We were due to start our Inca Trail, following the ancient paths and stone steps built by the Incas for means of travel for (Incas only) to Machu Picchu, on Monday but we warmed up with the Sacred Valley on Sunday to get us in the mood. We visited Sacsay Huaman (pronounced Sexy Woman), a holy sight over looking Cusco. What remains, after the Spanish went to work, is the vast boulders (slotted together using the same means as the Egyptians) that formed the base of the temples. The structure is set on 3 levels representing the 3 tires of existence in which they believed: The middle world (this life and depicted as a Puma), the under world (the after life represented by a snake) and the plane of enlightenment represented by a condor. Animal shapes such as llamas (representing fertility and prosperity) can be found in the shapes of the rocks. People, including the ancestors of the Incas, if such a thing exists, are still baffled by how they managed to move these huge rocks into position from the neighbouring mountain.
From there we stopped off at a llama and alpaca farm to see these curious animals with their long, shaggy dread locks and comical human-like expressions of complacent good-humour. That is until they spit at you... There was, of course, plenty of opportunities to buy the hand woven fabrics dyed using natural dies which for once as apposed to the vibrant synthetic ones of which they are so fond.
Within the Sacred Valley is the little town of Pisac with a large bustling market selling tourist souvenirs and local produce. Before settling there for lunch, we drove up the mountain to the ancient farming terraces that offered a spectacular view of the valley below. The valleys are usually a sharp V-shape, leaving little room for farming and forcing the inhabitants to utilise the steep slopes for extra farm land.
We finished the day at Ollatambo (a small Inca town of mud brick houses, some with straw roofs) where we had a little warm up walk to the remains of the temple set on the mountain above the town. Across from the ruins, a huge human face juts out from the mountainside resembling a bearded white man said to be the protector of the Incas. They worshiped a long time before the Spanish ever set foot on the scene and, needless to say, they took shameless advantage of this fortunate coincidence in their likeness. From our vantage point we could also make out the shape of a llama in which the town was built. The Incas often built towns in the shape of an animal they held to be important. Cusco is built in the shape of a puma and Machu Picchu in the shape of a condor.
Ollatambo was celebrating its anniversary and the main plaza was filled with music and people dancing in traditional costumes. Tempting as it was to partake in the festivities, I was rather tired from the Fetish party the night before and we all went early to bed in anticipation of the start of our Inca Trail the following morning.

PERU, Cusco, Puerto Maldonado & Jungle, Saturday 27th October

We arrived in Cusco after the 6 hour drive from Puno through valleys banked steeply by ridged and terraced hillsides, alongside meandering rivers and through small farming villages accompanied by a leaking rain cloud which finally dumped its load on us as we checked into our hotel. Cusco is a beautiful town with steep, narrow, cobbled streets still lined with huge, sturdy Inca stones, with numerous churches and a grand Plaza de Armas where the Cathedral and Jesuit church battle for attention at right angles to each other. Elegant alpaca and countless silver jewelers line the streets alongside bars, cafes, pubs and restaurants that overlook the many plazas offering views of the surrounding mountains. I was quickly captivated and resolved to stay on once the tour moved on to Arequipa.
Members of the tour had tested my patience considerably and by the time I wrote the last blog I was talking loudly about desertion.
The performance of some of them over their food at dinner, rudely dismissing food, wrinkling their noses at the poor waiter, ostentatiously coughing flapping their hands in the admittedly smoky environment of the world’s highest Irish Pub was too much for Carla and me. We exchanged glances and did not attempt to dissuade them when they left early, leaving her, Daniel and me free to go clubbing.
I danced on the bar with the owner of the club dressed as some kind of monster (he was, not me) in anticipation of the Halloween we’ll be missing and then retired reasonably early to bed.

The next morning Carla dropped us at the airport and we flew the half hour flight to Puerto Maldonado and the Amazon Jungle. I stepped from the plane sighing with relief as the familiar wave of warm heat that I had grown so used to in Asia enveloped me. My muscles relaxed, my pace slowed and my demeanor brightened.
We all gathered around a man holding a Tucan Tours sign, who introduced himself as Pedro and met our 3 final additions to our group: A vigorous-looking Canadian couple in their 40s called Dwain and Laurie and an Australian girl called Melissa.
We made a quick trip to the market, full of tropical fruit and vegetables. Cute, bare foot children slumped against doorways chewing thoughtfully on the hems of their T shirts and broke into broad grins as we passed waving. People sipped Inca Kola perched on stools at make-shift bars and fake Havaianas flip-flops were on display everywhere. We were close to Brazil.
We were then all herded into a long boat, handed hot, oversized life jackets and ferried the 30kms down stream to Amazonia Eco Lodge, where we were given passion fruit juice, sat down and briefed.

It is in a beautiful spot on the Rio Madre del Dios in the twittering and chirping Amazon Jungle. Our rooms were rather smart wooden bungalows on stilts with roofs of palm leaf set amongst gardens that attracted macaws loud in both colour and audibility.
We were given 45 minutes with which to settle and eat lunch at long, allocated tables amongst other tour groups (gah!) before it was time to visit Monkey Island. There we fed bananas to several different species of monkey and oooohed and aaaahed en masse at their antics.

Back at the lodge we had a few drinks, dinner and were obediently in bed by 10.00, Laurie and I unified under our natural aversion to Group Tours.

At 5.00am we were awoken by a cheery Pedro and at 6.00 we set off on a trek through the jungle. We tramped along, stopping to examine termite’s nests, smell fruits and listen to birds, we sat high on an observation platform and floated about a waterlilly paved lake watching turtles and searching fruitlessly for anacondas. We were back at the lodge by late morning.

As the afternoon heat claimed to sedation level we dozed in hammocks strung up on a balcony over looking the river, lulled by the melodious clicking of the yellow-tailed weaver birds as they dived in and out of their nests suspended like earrings from the trees.
Affected, perhaps, by the omnipresence of mysticism and ancient folk-lore that surrounds places like this, a stout American woman was attempting to convince a stouter American man that she was able to occupy 2 realms of existence at once. John and Daniel sipped beer and played pool while others swam and Karina, the pet Tapir, waddled about the flower bushes absorbed by some secret errand. Amongst this peculiar but harmonious scene I slunk, half awake and in vain hope of a glass of water, savoring the moment of solitude and tranquility before the lunch bell would ding, the spell would be broken and people would stream from their individual preoccupations to sit obediently in their allocated seats to partake of the midday feed.

After lunch I left the Canadians enthusing about golf and returned to my isolation spot before we were all rounded up again and taken piranha fishing.
John had been drinking beer ever since we’d returned from our morning walk and, urged on by the receptive audience of Laurie and Dwain (also Calgary dwellers) he was putting on quite a performance, made more excruciating by his deafness which seriously impaired his volume control. “Give me a hand grenade!” he kept yelling, peering into the water and leaping about the boat causing it to rock fiercely. Fishing did little to subdue him and the jungle sounds were punctured by his exclamations of “Oh! A bite!” and “Where’s the barman? I want a cerveca.”
We spent a few pleasant hours fruitlessly fishing and returned for showers ad the bar while John went to bed.
Lights out once again at 10.00 and a dramatic storm rocked the jungle mercifully not tearing through the bungalows and morning arrive without any of us being struck by lightening.

Yesterday we flew back to Cusco and were reunited with Carla.
From the Sacred Valley Tour we were to finish in Limatambo 80kms from Machu Picchu and the start of the Inca Trail so we had a few hours to sort ourselves out before it was time for dinner.
Jo is leaving us as of tomorrow and so this was her last night with us all. Carla took us out to Fallen Angels, an amazing place where you eat off tables that are old fashioned baths full of fish covered with a glass table cloth and sit on leopard-print stools. It is possible to get hitched up on all the barbed wire (used to imitate a rose bush) in the bathroom and the lights are turned low casting sultry, sexy shadows in the dim light. We had a delicious dinner of their famous steak and were sipping on fresh passion fruit martinis when the Fetish Party started…
Carla had warned us of this but we were not quite prepared for the sights that came flooding in after 10.00pm. Spandex, leather, lace, black tape and PVC were just a few items on the menu of Peruvian elite and their outfits. I was reminded of that scene from the opening of the film ´Blade´ and when the DJ actually played that particular track I just waited for blood to start pouring from the ceiling. We had a great time though, dancing around a huge metallic sculpture of a sinister-looking angel and tore ourselves reluctantly away at around 3.30am in order to be reasonably fit for the Sacred Valley today.

Tonight we enjoy our last night of civilisation in the remote little Inca town Limatambo and tomorrow, bright and early we embark on the beginning of the Inca Trail.
More to report in 4 days…

Peru, Puno & Lake Titicaca, (written from Cusco) Wednesday 24th October

Tours everywhere, and I´m on one too... The shame of it! Oh the endless nights of stilted conversation at dinner time with people you would never choose to spend so much time with. What an odd way to travel. Some of my fellow passengers are tour veterans and never leave their country without having someone with their name on a placard waiting at the other end with an exact itinerary for the next 4 weeks. It is bringing out the rebel in me. Last night I was forced to adopt some new people purely to oil the joints of conversation once again. Carla continues to be a salvation and I am told I am not allowed back into Cusco unless I have collected a respectable amount of new play mates for us to party after the Inca Trail.
We have been joined by two Canadian girls, doctors, who have turned out to be drabness personified and refuse to eat, drink or , for the most part, talk. Yawn. Jo and Daniel continue to be the winging duo (thankfully Daniel takes my teasing graciously), John trots about after us all, hand to his ear trying to catch what is going on and I stride on ahead impatiently, looking for means of escape.

But enough of my moaning, I am a very lucky girl, I have seen a huge amount in the past few weeks, have had lots of fun and am planning to desert in a week anyway.

Continuing with the update. We crossed over the boarder into Peru from Bolivia on Sunday 21st. Most of the day was spent driving alongside Lake Titicaca, the world´s highest navigable lake. Flat farmland lay between the lake and the mountains which climbed the mountains on the Peruvian side by means of ancient terraces, some dating back to the Incas. We passed simple little farming settlements with mud brick houses and straw roofs and arrived in Puno late in the afternoon. Puno is a small lakeside city with brown buildings, tidy, narrow streets (tuk-tuks buzzing up and down) and some nice colonial buildings. Usually it is a tourist thoroughfare and the streets are full of the usual tourist gubbins, but we arrived to a ghost town. They were having their National Census and consequently the whole town was essentially under house arrest until 6.00pm that evening.
We ventured out after the appointed hour to find the streets beginning to liven up. After another dull dinner Carla produced coupons for free drinks from the bar upstairs and we proceeded to dance non-stop for 4 hours, dragging our reluctant companions with us and requesting Elvis for John who turned out to be a rather nifty jiver. Salsa lessons, the YMCA and the usual Shakira wiggling and it was high time for our bed...

We were up early, as usual, the next day and taken in a caravan of rickshaws to the port where we bought presents of rice and sugar for our ´families´ and joined the other pink, sun-hatted tourists on a boat bound for the reed islands.

Centuries ago the Uros people struck out for the middle of the lake to escape the warring Inca and Colla tribes on the shore, they adapted remarkably and having been living on floating reed islands ever since. There are between 5 and 10 families on each island and they have a shelf life of around 10 years before they have to be rebuilt.

We putted up to an island and were greeted cheerily by our hosts who stood in a line shaking our hands as we disembarked. They still live in reed huts, although they now have solar panels which provide them with electricity. Their main income is fishing and tourism and, I have to say, I was a little disheartened to see quite how many boats laden with tourists there were parked at each of the islands. The whole thing felt a little staged. But charmingly so. Our guide gave us a lively history lesson aided (or not as the case may be) by a little girl who relished the attention of these strange white visitors and nearly drove the guide to distraction, climbing all over over him and his presentation and distracting us by just being so damn cute. Little monster.

We were shipped to another island, via traditional reed boats, joining a flotilla of other bobbing sun hats and whirring cameras, where we were encouraged to buy an array of handicrafts. Then we were back on our motor boat for a 3 hour ride deep into the heart of Titicaca and the island where we were to spend the night.
We were all assigned ´mothers´ from the group of traditionally dressed women squinting at us from the shade and were lead off to our ´homes´ for the night huffing and puffing up paths that wound past little houses, gardens, meadows of grazing sheep and little babbling streams. Jo, Daniel, John and myself were grouped together.
The families that take in tourists have adapted their homes accordingly, providing proper toilets (although no running water) comfy beds in separate rooms and electricity. The rest of the family seemed to live in comparative simplicity, eating by candle light and washing out of buckets (as we saw the 2 boys doing cheefully in the morning sunshine). We were given lunch of vegetable soup, potatoes and squeaky cheese in our rooms and left to rest for a while until ´Mum´ poked her head around the door and said "Vamenos?" She then lead us slowly, crocheting all the way, to the soccer court where there were about 40 other tourists ambling about awaiting further instructions. We were scooped up by our guide again and taken up the hill to a sacred sight and to witness the sunset over Titicaca. A little shaky from the altitude, we devoured hot chocolate and descended again in time for dinner with our ´families´.
We ate a dinner of soup, potatoes and onions in their tiny kitchen, watched curiously by their youngest son, a little boy of about 10, and Daniel and I attempted a patchy conversation in our limited Spanish.
Time for another rest and then ´Mum´ reappeared and solemnly dressed Jo and me up in the traditional garb: 2 knee length, full skirts (usually they were at least 5), an embodied blouse, a tight cummerbund and long black scarf to cover our heads. They boys emerged from the other room wearing woolly hats that covered their ears and ponchos and we were lead to the ´fiesta´: A room full of giggling tourists taking pictures of one another. The musicians appeared and we spent a funny couple of hours dancing to cheery Peruvian pipes, drums and guitar music. Our ´families´ dutifully invited us to dance and stood twirling us around or leading us on a dizzying turn of the room in a long line gathering speed as the music dictated.

Pancakes were wafted under our noses early the following morning to wake us up and we bid farewell to our hosts and set off for Taquile Island for lunch. The island has a few pretty squares, rolling trails, a few pre-Inca ruins, simple houses and terraces, gorgeous scenery, and not much else. We spent a quiet few hours there before the 3 hour boat ride back to Puno.
I had adopted some new friends and brought them along to dinner with us, which cheered things up hugely.

Today: Cusco and the beginning of our Amazon and Inca Trail adventures...

BOLIVIA, La Paz (written from Puno, Peru) Tuesday 23rd October

Death Road: Pretty much what it says on the tin. The world´s most dangerous road where many a vehicle has tumbled to its doom down the 200m+ cliff faces as it struggled to pass something coming the other way. It has claimed the lives of entire bus loads of people and when offered the chance to ride down it on a mountain bike, well, how could I say no?

That isn´t exactly how it happened. I´d promised Mummy that I wouldn´t but then the whole group was doing it, I was told that it wasn´t as dangerous as all that (the road being closed to traffic now) and I am clearly very susceptible to peer pressure.

So, up bright and early, we climbed into a van laden with mountain bikes and made the 45 minutes climb up out of La Paz, over the other side of the mountain and the top of Death Road on La Cumbre. It was icy cold and there was snow at the peaks of the mountain. Brakes checked and pep-talk over, we mounted up and began our descent. The first half of the ride is easy. Not officially Death Road yet, we skimmed down the new paved road which was nice and wide with handy barriers to stop you from dropping off he edge. The downside is that it is open to traffic and I was occasionally surprised by a loud ´HONK!´ from an impatient lorry exasperated by my reluctance to hug the right side of the road (yes the one with the big cliff).
My application of the brakes at every turn soon dropped me behind Daniel, Flo, Martin and the two Canadian guys who´d joined us for the day. They whooshed on ahead fearlessly. Jo and John were even more cautious than me and I found myself in the middle of the group and largely alone, which was wonderful. I had fantastic views down the mountain side and valleys clad in dense green jungle, as I glided along.
There was an option of hopping into the van that always trailed us for the uphill bit but I am never to be out done so I joined the die-hards on he uphill slog at around 3,200 metres above sea level.
I thought I was going to die. I had to undo my helmet in order to allow my mouth to gape wide enough to take in the maximum oxygen and I kept putting my hand on my heart to reassure myself that it hadn´t exploded. I found this calming. Still, I did it, wheeling my bike up the final pinnacle to join the other riders gasping on the roadside. We were rewarded with bananas and energy bars and then told: "Right, now we are going to do Death Road." Our guide pointed to a narrow track that lead away from the main road and zig-zagged its way out of sight down the mountainside, loose grass and crumbly-looking stones the only thing between road and a sheer drop. It was potted and bumpy with large loose rocks and plenty of opportunities for skidding (especially if you planned to apply the brakes as fiercely and relentlessly as I did).
Well, here goes nothin´. Our guide pointed out that buses and lorries used to pass each other on this road and they didn´t always fall off so we would be fine.
Righty Ho then... Daniel, Martin, Flo and the Canadians disappeared in a cloud of gravel and gingerly I began my descent, hugging the non-sheer-drop side and squeezing the brakes so hard that my hands were aching by the time we came to our first stop. But Wow. What a view! As we descended he climate became warmer and more tropical, waterfalls spattered the road, the air became denser and more humid, flowers appeared and the great ravine yawned below us thick with jungle.
It took us 4 hours all together to get from around 3,700 to 1, 300m, stopping regularly for photos and snacks. I gained confidence and discovered that loose stones where better negotiated at a speed and soon got into the rhythm of swerving pot-holes, building up speed, reducing speed and consequently finished a very respectable 5th (1st girl, hee hee). We arrived at the bottom elated and buzzing, we drank a celebratory beer and then went to a pretty little restaurant with a tropical garden, swimming pool and much needed showeres for lunch.
Back to La Paz and out to celebrate our survial and comeserate Martin and Flo´s departure. A lively dinner, followed by dancing to the tunes of a schitzophrenic DJ, cheered on by enthusiastic Brazillians who towered over the Bolivians on the dance floor. Then off to another club where the creme de la creme of La Paz gyrated and sniffed conspicuously to equally unpredictable music.

Too soon it was time to leave La Paz. It is a nice city. It sprawls across a large valley, surrounded on all sides by mountains. The streets are a chaos of traffic and market stalls selling anything from deodorant to car parts. Smart, suited people pick their way between vendors in traditional clothes and men in balaklavas crouch by the side of the road ready to pounce and try and clean your shoes.
There is a handsome cathedral and elegant Plaza de Armas where at 6.00pm every day, solom faced boys doing military service marched to a badly played bugal in a ceremony that involves taking down and folding up flags. There were classy cafes serving proper coffee (very exciting, amazingly the coffee in South America is usually awful) and good cheap shopping.

But onwards onwards as usual, I am running out of time and Peru is a calling...

BOLIVIA, Potosi, Wednesday 17th October

Once upon a time, there was a big hill that was full of silver. The Incas named it a sacred place, extracted the silver and paid homage to Pachamama (Mother Earth) appeasing her with sacrifices of lamas (and the occasional virgin) but generally living a peaceful existence. Then the Spanish arrived. They soon sniffed out the silver and began to mine it forcing the Indians into slavery. The missionaries flooded in and informed the Indians that they were evil to worship Pachamama and the only way they could save themselves from eternal damnation was to work in the silver mines. To avoid confusion as to who was boss, the Spanish put up a large, ugly church on top of the hill.
By the 18th Century Potosi was one of the richest towns in the world. The Spanish built according to their wealth, throwing up elegant mansions, grand churches and pretty plazas on the money they were making off the backs of the Indians.
Millions of Indians died in the silver mines and during the transportation of silver and other toxic minerals. Imported African slaves were also put to work but soon died of altitude and the cold.
An African slave was the most expensive commodity; a horse second; a lama third and an Indian fourth, being free. They were forced to hand over 35% of their local population for use in the mines, under pain of death. But that's ok, everyone knows that Indians don't have souls anyway right?
No Spanish man would enter the mines, the fumes and frequency of accidents being a little off-putting to a cultured gentleman. So, in order to keep them in check, they invented Tio. Tio was the Indians' pronunciation of Dios: God, but also translated into Uncle. The Spanish invented a God that would watch over the miners and kill any who were not working hard enough, attributing any accidents to the laziness of the miners and the anger of Tio.
The greed of the Spanish was such that, inevitably, they killed the Goose that Laid the Golden Eggs and the mine was emptied of silver.

Today the mine is still being worked by the Indians and, tragically, their conditions are little improved. They are self employed and pay the owners of the mine $25 a month for the privilege of mining. There is no pure silver anymore but minerals such as zinc, copper, tin, and some that can be separated to make silver. They have to buy all their own equipment such as boots, helmets, lamps and dynamite and if they wish to use the digging machines they have to pay the mine owners a further $10 for every 2 hours of use. This means that most of the digging is still done by hand as it was in the colonial times. The miners work an average of 15 hours a day from 7pm to 12pm, more if they are not finding enough minerals. They send the minerals to the owners of the mine who also own the labs that test the quality of the minerals and therefore dictate how much they should pay the miners. Once they've bought the minerals from the miners they separate them and sell them on for a tidy profit.
Miners still die from the toxic gasses in the mine and the irreparable damage done to their lungs by the dust from drilling. There is no compensation and no allowance for ill health.

Dressed in bright yellow boiler suits and armed with dynamite, coca leaves and cigarettes for the miners we cheerfully made our way up to the mine, giggling at our outfits and posing for photos with dynamite. We were soon sobered, however, by the enclosed darkness of the mine and the shadowy figures of the miners, working tirelessly in the gloom, their cheeks puffed out with coca leaves, accepting our gifts with a nod and back to work. They live on a diet of coca leaves, 95% alcohol and cigarettes while they are down in the mines. They still make offerings to Pachamama and Tio to keep them safe and yield the minerals they are looking for.
It was a relief to return to the sunlight, I can not imagine what it would be like to spend 15 hours a day down there.
We were a silent group descending the mountain and returning back to the elegant, colonial side of town where our hotel was. Back in our 4 star hotel I washed off the dust and reflected on the injustice of it all. What decides that I can return to such comfort when people are living in such crippling poverty, forced to work under such conditions?

So that was Potosi. We arrived yesterday from Uyuni and pottered around the centre of town, which still reflects the slendor of the 'glory days' during the Spanish occupation. The parts of town that were reserved for the Indian slaves are no-go areas still.
We had an entertaining evening drinking jugs of Carpirinha. As a group we get on pretty well but I shall miss Martin and Flo, who are leaving us in La Paz. Jo is prone to moan about things and I still haven't forgiven John after an argument we had over pisco sours about the 'white picket fence' and how I was young and foolish not to know that it is the only existence worth persuing. Hmmmm. Daniel, however, has improved hugely on closer aquanitance once I was able to attribute his creepiness with shyness and eccentricity. Carla continues to be brilliant. So, funny group of missmatches we are, we make our way up to La Paz tomorrow and pick up a few more people before heading off to Lake Titicaca and Peru. How time flies.

BOLIVIA, Uyuni , Monday 15th October

Dust everywhere! I opened my bag to find that it had got right into the middle of my clothes. That and my shampoo had exploded again from the constant varying of altitudes. Humph.
But what an amazing 3 days we have just had. I sat down at the end of day 1 to find my words swimming on the page in front of me and concluded that I was not yet qualified to write coherently at 4,300 meters above sea level. As a result my note book is a series of bullet points saying: "Dust", "tired", "red lake" and the like. I'll now attempt to join up the dots.

Day 1
We crossed the boarder into Bolivia in the morning, a rickety little windswept shack greeted us and our passports were stamped. I began to wish that I had not been so optimistic in getting dressed, we had ascended considerably already and the wind was icy. Our cheery tour guide Roberto met us at the boarder with 2 4WDs (very luxurious for 7 of us) and breakfast. "Welcome to Bolivia, here we have lots of cocaine!" He said waving coca leaves at us and chuckling to himself.
From the boarder we drove through a red, dusty, volcanic desert. Our 'road' (dirt track at best) wound between volcanoes and passed lagoons of unbelievable colours. Lagoon Blanco, Lagoon Verde (the colour of a swimming pool due to the magnesium particles being stirred up by the winds) and settled for the night at Lagoon Colorada which was the colour of rust. A red lake gleaming in the evening night, dotted with pink flamingos... I have run out of adjectives again.
Before reaching the lake we drove through Salvador Dali country, named so because of the likeness to the landscapes he used in his dream-like surrealist paintings. Sweeping hillsides of red sand punctuated with strange rock formations, seemingly baring no relation to their surroundings. And we got to climb out of the car and go for a walk amongst sulphur stenching craters of bubbling grey mud...
Our digs for the 1st night were basic dorms in a drafty building. The altitude was getting to some of us by this point, Jo was being sick, Martin had a headache and John spent a restless breathless night gasping for air. Aside from the inability to write and dizziness I seem to have escaped unscathed (so far). Coca leaf tea was distributed as a remedy. It has a bland taste put it does perk you up, especially if you chew the leaves. A slightly numb mouth and a foul taste in my mouth was all I had to show for my experimental chomping, I didn't chew for long enough apparently. Funny to think that that bitter, harmless-looking little leaf is the cause of so much trouble...

Day 2.
Dropping 1,000 metres seemed to help my writing abilities so I was able to scribble more yesterday evening. I felt a great deal more like me after a shower and putting on clean clothes.
We were up at 5.30am and dragged our sleepy, headachy selves into the 4WDs for a long day of driving. The first half of the day took us through some more stunning scenery. We stopped at a couple of lakes, still frozen from the night's minus 7 temperatures, and poka-dotted with clumps of flamingos. We were lucky, it is the season for them now. Lots of photos taken.
We bounced and bumped along for about 6 hours altogether, stopping in a remote little village for lunch. Soaking up the sun to warmed chilled bones, I sat on the dusty pavement and pondered on the outfits worn by the local women. It seems that they wear the same clothes no matter what age thy are and, given the standard solid build and customary long black plaits, hung with tassels down their backs, it is impossible to tell from behind what age they are. They all wear these full knee-length skirts, puffed out from wide waists by 100s of petticoats which peak out from under the hem line. Their little legs are clad in crude knee-length stockings, often rolling down and on their heads are perched funny little bowler hats that do not sit on the head but almost hover above it (Charlie Chaplin style) sometimes with a ribbon of flower stuck in the brim for decoration. Carla says that they have been dressing this way since the Incas.
We arrived at our Salt Hotel to hot showers and warm(er) rooms. The whole hotel is made of bricks of salt including the bed bases, tables, stools and floors. We were fed another good meal by our cook Jacqueline and were delighted to be able to buy some wine to go with it. Bolivian, not as good as Chilean but much cheaper!

Day 3.
And a lie in until 8.00. Bliss. We did not have to drive far until we got to our destination of the day: The Salt Flats. Once another large inland lake like Titicaca it now stands as an empty flatland of shimmering salt that stretches on for miles. It is so flat and so white that there is no perspective so we entertained ourselves for ages taking photos of each other climbing out of shoes, hats and wine bottles or sitting in each other's hands. We then drove to what was once an island in the lake for a BBQ lunch set in the middle of the salt complete with frilled table cloth. The island offered wonderful views from between its cacti. We went digging for salt crystals and then drove on to a salt 'factory' (a family home where the entire family works on breaking down and packaging the salt for sale to the markets). Restraining ourselves from purchasing salt lamas, ash trays or pen stands, we made our way on to Uyuni, a little town on the edge of the salt flats and home to a train cemetry. It is said that the train company never recovered from its robbery by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, on the run from the law in North America, and was reduced to the sad pile of rusting engines that lie there today.
A few photos taken and then time for hot showers and de-dusting before a dinner of pizza that I am promised is the best in Bolivia and a well earned beer I think. Onwards to Potosi tomorrow...

CHILE, North towards Bolivia, Friday 12th October

I am rather warming to this. As we continue our journey northwards I am reconciling myself to the whole tour idea with the novelty of constant company and the comfy beds and private bathrooms of 3 star hotels...

Heads light from pisco sours drunk at the Barrio Inglesa of Coquimbo, a little fishing port close to La Serena, 7 of us were piled into a truck driven by the owner of our La Serena hotel. The deal was he´d drive us there if we bought him drinks. Hmmm, I could spot a flaw in the logic there. So with Tango blaring, we made our cramped and merry way to the bus station to catch our midnight bus to Antofagasta.
Stirring from a fitful sleep, I opened my eyes to find a very different world speeding past us. We were deep in a bleak, brown desert of rocky hills and dust storms. At midday we pulled into Antofagasta, a busy little city further up the coast with a cathedral that looked like it was made of icing sugar and plenty of cafes in which to while away the day. We were just treading water to break up the bus journeys.
After a hearty parrilla dinner Carla, Martin, Flo and I decided that 9.00pm really was too early to retire, even if sleep deprived like me, and so we set off in search of nightlife. Carla has a remarkable nose for a Happy Hour. So that was Antofagasta: Sugary architecture, a healthy cafe society, good pisco sours and awful 90s dance music.
And off again. Our bus took up further north the following morning and turned inland to San Pedro de Atacama an oasis town in the middle of a sparce but dramatic wilderness. What had previously been a small town for cattle farmers has become a tourist hot-spot, attracting those on route to Bolivar and the salt flats or those who have just come to see some of the strange and wonderful volcanic, desert surroundings. There are salty lagoons in which to float, eerie moon-like landscapes and volcanic geysers spurting towers of steam into the air. Plenty to keep a photo-opp-hungry tourist happy.
After 5 hours of relentless, never changing desert we arrived in the dusty little town which is mostly constructed with clay bricks bound with straw. "This place would melt in the rain." I pondered aloud before Carla pointed out that we were in the desert and it never did. There we dusty streets over populated with tourist offices and restaurants, a lovely little plaza with a pretty white-washed church, shady spots to sit and generally a feeling of holidays. Cap and short wearing tourists of all ages tramped about in the sleepy siesta heat lured into to shady courtyards for ´cervesas´ or ´cafe´ or were piling into minibuses to visit the nearby attractions. The identy of the town has transformed to one of total homage to the tourist dollar, real estate prices have rocketed and the original inhabitants have been pushed out into the desert to make room for the socks and sandels crew. Ho hum. Having said that though, it has remained picturesque and I am always loathe to condemn a place for providing what I have come for as much as anyone else...
I was already predisposed to like San Pedro de Atacama anyway, it is hot! I happily swapped flip flops, loose skirts and vest tops for fleece jackets, alpaca gloves and wooly socks. The heat seems to be suit me best.
We explored, drank fruit shakes, booked ourselves onto some tours for the following days and went out for dinner at one of the many restaurants. Desert being desert, the temperature cruely plummets as soon as the sun goes down, so no balmy evenings for me alas. Fortunately most of the restaurants provide an open fire as the center point of their dining areas so I was able to avoid the woolies for the time being.
What I took at first to be a tourist trap turned out to be full of locals (I was relieved to discover that there was such a thing) and Carla seemed to know them all so we were soon dancing around the fire to a mix of Latin and European beats. Being in the middle of nowhere puts no dampener on the Chilian party spirit and so once the bars were closed we set off into the desert to buy wine (?!) and then we trundled off to ´Sophies´s House´, Sophie leading, a group of revelers, and some dogs, trotting obediantly in her wake. We finally arrived at Sophie´s half-built dwelling under a stunning blanket of stars unlike anything I have ever seen before. The blackness of the desert night showed off the constlations of the Southern Hemasphere beautifully and I kept nearly falling in holes as I walked along gaping at the heavens.
A fire was lit, warming us but extinguishing the stars and our music filled the desert with the cheery but intrusvie noise of human-ness.
A lazy morning followed our revels and in the afternoon we were packed in a minibus and taken off to float about in salty lagoons. Oddly, as you lower yourself into the icy water, your feet are scalded by the piping hot water at the bottom. A strange reversal that had us bobbing about desperately trying to mix the hot water below us with the icy water that lapped at our shoulders. We watched a stunning sunset over the salt encrused plains and tourquise lagoons, illuminating a back-drop of mountains and volcanoes in a purple light. We sipped our complimentary pisco sours and felt serene.
An early night and up at what some of my fellow travellers have elegantly dubbed ´The sparrow´s fart´ ie. very early in the morning. 3.30am infact. I´m not sure even a sparrow is doing whatever sparrows do at that un-Godly hour. We piled into another minibus and set off on a 2 hour journey through the darkness up to an icy 4000 metres above sea level. The windows frosted and I began to wish I was wearing more clothes. Minus 7?! You have got to be kidding me. What in the name of anything reasonable would posess anyone to get up at 3.30am and go and shiver at dizzying altitudes, I wondered. But the sight of the geysers belching forth boiling water and towers of steam into the icy early morning air almost made it worth while. Dangling my frozen feet in some hot springs to thaw out, although excrusiating, cheered me up no end and I began to feel better about the whole venture. More pictures were taken, of course, and we decended to a more reasonable altitude where we could feel the sun and people were less likely to pass out or throw up. It is a funny sensation being so high, taking 3 steps too fast can have you gasping for air and your head spinning. Oxygen had to be administered to one girl and others felt painfully nauseaus. Once back in oxygen plentiful air we sampled lama kebabs (delicious) and made our way back to San Pedro before midday but totally exhausted.
Tonight is our last night of comfort before we hop over the boarder to Bolivia and embark on our 4 day safari to the famous salt flats which, I have been promised, are stunning and quite often the highlight of people´s South America travels. I have also been promised a minus 15 night tomorrow as we sleep out somewhere open and very basic and plenty of dust...
A half frozen, dusty, unshowered but satisfied Katie should emmerge in 4 or 5 days so watch this space...

CHILE, onwards and upwards, Monday 8th October

My most recent self discovery is that I have a commitment phobia. The idea of a solid month (no, more) with the same people, being shepherded around by the same guide through me into such a panic that I was forced to go for a walk and take deep breaths. 7 months of self determination and suddenly I´m in a box, on a conveyor belt, I´m a name on a long suffering tour guide´s list. What am I doing?! A deep revulsion was stirred within me and I resolved to break fee and run for the hills as quickly as possible. Still, as I was out taking my deep breaths, I took stock. I have paid for this after all, it will take me to some amazing places that I otherwise might not visit (into the Amazon, for example) and it will save me the angst of arriving at places like La Paz at 4.00 in the morning and trying to figure out which of the taxi drivers were legit and worrying if they will take me to my hotel as asked or just drive me around from ATM to ATM at gun point as I have told is a nasty habit of some of them... To be relieved of that is a definite advantage, no doubt for my parents too. Plus, it might not really be all that bad. The jury is out.

Since my last entry, I was scooped up from Puerto Montt by Pachamama Tours again and joined a lively group of Australians, lead by our guide (a Bob Marley enthusiast called Hector) who took us back up North to Santiago stopping at a few journey breaking fill-ins on route to admire a waterfall and do a spot of wine tasting.
We were back in Santiago by Wednesday and I settled back into the Casa Roja way of life: Pottering to the fridge in reception at around 7pm for a bottle of beer, being transferred to the bar/building site at the back of the hostel at around 10.30, either heading out to Bellavista in search of nightclubs or just sitting in the bar wondering how it got to be 6.00 in the morning. A new group of friends and some funny stories to show for my days back in Santiago. On my last night my two friends from Patagonia, Mike and Matt materialised again, as did a few other familiar faces so it was only fair to go out and celebrate. On Saturday I tore myself away from the sun bathing and post-Rugby celebrations to make my way over to Hotel Libertador in the centre of town to hook up with my Tucan Tour. I sat on my bed in my 3 star hotel room with a sinking heart, talking to Jo, my New Zealand roommate and veteran of Tucan Tours, this being her 3rd.
That evening I met the rest of the group: A nice Swiss couple, around my age, Flo and Martin, a lively 65 year old Canadian gentleman called John and another Swiss guy called Daniel who seems world weary, bored and creepy. Hmmm, perhaps better if I don´t mention this blog to any of them... It will make the character studies more entertaining anyway. Our guide is a nice young Peruvian girl called Carla who took us out for dinner in a buzzy area of town, had us drinking happyhour pisco sours and, surprisingly, singing karaoke. Even Daniel, who announced that he just didn´t ´Do That' was up crooning ´Creep´ into the microphone by the end and I have some great pictures of a vigorous performance of 'Like a Virgin' by Carla, Jo and Martin. John announced that this was why he travelled with young people and hated 'oldies', he rejoiced in the fact that he was off travelling the world while his children worried about him and is so obsessed by the idea that he has to do What The Locals Do that Carla has to order everything for him.
On arrival back at our hotel I found that Carla and Martin had been plotting and we were back in taxis and back to Bellavista to go clubbing.
"Last night in Santiago" Carla explained. We chose a club with the largest queue that was busy IDing everyone as they walked in (a sure warning sign to the age group of the clientele). Carla managed to jump the queue for us and we were in straight away and bumping and grinding with the youngsters of Santiago. We watched the humiliation of 3 couples who were dragged up on stage to prove how sexy they were by means of the girls performing lap-dances and provocative banana eating on their grinning boyfriends and decided by 2am that enough was enough. We were being bashed on all sides by grinding teenagers and we had a 6.30 start the following morning.
I went to bed feeling better about things but still hatching a plan for an early escape. If I follow this tour all the way to Lima I´ll only have 10 more days before I fly home and the idea that my independent wanderings have come to an end is just too depressing. I think I might ditch these guys at Cuzco, after Machu Picchu, and rocket up north towards Equador and some sunny beaches before I return to an English winter...

However, it is early days. So far we are up as far as La Serena. A night bus will take us up to Antofagasta tonight an onwards towards the start of the silver route in Calama. Then on to the driest desert in the world and the stunning Salar de Uyuni before pikcing up a whole new group of people in La Paz. It can´t all be that bad...