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...

CHILE, Patagonia, Monday 1st October

It is easy, when travelling, to become a little nonchalant about your destinations after a while. You are constantly on the move and constantly being impressed. You can take it for granted. Touching down in Patagonia, however, brought home to me the true magnitude of my trip. From deserts to ice bergs. I had made it to Patagonia! I was beside myself with excitement and trundled along the long, deserted road from Punta Arenas to Puerto Natales grinning stupidly out at the greyish-brown expanse of scrubby nothingness, dotted with the occasional sheep. I felt extremely pleased with myself.
Puerto Natales is a small, boxy town with pastel corrugated tin houses. It has been forced to scrub up its act since it became the last port of call for hikers on their way to Parque National Torres del Paine. The streets are a gortex and fleece hub of trekkers, tour shops and equipment rentals. I knew I wanted to see Torres del Paine but wasn´t sure how I was supposed to go about it; so I did what I normally do and just turned up.
I checked into a cosy hostel and spent the remainder of the day quizzing the owner and other hikers re. suggested routes, stocking up on dried fruit, nuts and chocolate and generally readying myself for the off the next day. In the evening I went out for dinner with 2 nice Chileans and a Cambridge boy, ate an huge amount of lamb and went early to bed.
The following morning, after a hearty breakfast, our bus picked us up and took us off to Torres del Paine. It was a spectacular drive through the valleys, the giant, craggy Torres looming above us, past grazing herds of lamas and along breath-taking turquoise lakes of icy glacier water. This looked promising.
I had adopted 2 boys (are there no female travellers in South America?) who were doing a similar route to me and so, laden with gear, we set off in the direction of our first ´refugio´ set on the banks of Largo Pehoe. The sun was shining but the wind was brutal. Leaning into it we struggled through open grass land, along rivers and up hills, stopping every so often to refuel on chocolate. Our last couple of hours were spent traversing the hillside that overlooked the lake, which was stunning. I have never seen water that blue, almost luminous. Apparently it has something to do with the fine sediment that reflects the light in a certain way... Whatever, it is beautiful.
We arrived at the refugio late in the afternoon to find it expensive, cold and seriously lacking in hot water. It was very smart though, with big windows over looking the lake, just not quite up and running yet being so early in the season. Shared hardship united us hikers and we all snuggled around the fire, swapping stories and comparing notes, blisters and muscle ache. Quite a little comunity.
We were up early the next day and soon swish-swishing in our waterproofs through a damp, grey morning towards Largo Grey and the Glacier. It was a long day walking through woods and scrambling up and down stoney mountain sides, the peaks of which where hidden from us in thick grey cloud. Still, it was worth it. The Glacier lay there enticingly in the distance, appearing closer than it was due to sheer size. Like a great white tongue pertruding down the mountain side, its ragged edges glowing blue like the crystals we used to make in science class. We scrambled about by the waters edge, posing for photos and attempting arty shots before the long walk back to the refugio. We returned to find that there had been an uprising among the guests and we had all been bribed into silence with a free dinner. Splendid. So we all ate a hearty 3 course meal, rounded off by a much applauded chocolate flan from one of the hikers (who received almost celeb status for this generous act) and followed by stretching lessons from an Adonis-like Italian physiotherapist. Very amusing.
Up again at an early hour and our longest walk yet to refugio Las Torres, 24kms away. It was a beautiful day and we spent most of it walking alongside Largo Nordenskjold. We had sparkling blue water to our right and snow capped mountains above us to our left. In the sunshine it was hot and we ambled along in t-shirts, stopping to take photos, eat toffee and fill up our water bottles from the icy, pure mountain streams.
Exhausted we arrived at the refugio which was in better working order. We chatted to a nice couple who assured us that the Torres, our final venture and climax of our trip was beautiful and well worth the pain of getting there. It turned out that the guy is my friend´s boss in London (small world) so we gossiped about him (sorry Alan!) while waiting for dinner. Another 3 course meal and another early night.
At 5.50am I was shaken awake and we bleerily stepped into a grey, drizzally morning. We had to catch a shuttle back to town at 2.00 so we had to haul ass up Las Torres in order to make it back down on tie. Half awake and with indignant, overworked muscles screaming at us, we plodded doggedly uphill for 2 hours. It was hard workd and our energy was at a very low ebb. That is why people climb Las Torres first, they have the strength... But it was the weather that did it. Driving, slanted rain, fierce winds and no sign of Las Torres buried deeply in the clounds. The path took us along a narrow ledge over a gorge and the wind was such that I was worried that I would get blown off. Half way up we sheltered in the doorway of a closed refugio and took stock. We were cold, wet and exhausted. The weather was relentless and unchanging so we took an executive desicion to return to base where it was warm. There was tea and the liklihood of being whisked off a mountain by a gust of wind was more remote. We laboured back down to the refugio dissppointed but a little relieved. I tucked myself into a corner by the fire and thawed out. Nevermind. Next time.
Back in Puerto Natales for laundry, internet and another good dinner. We bumped into a few of our fellow hikers and had a nice evening drinking well deserved beer.
What a wonderful few days. I am much appriciative of my 2 escorts Matt and Mike, who kept me going on bribes of toffee, made sure I was heading in the right direction (thankfully) and pulled me out of bogs. I hope that the photos and endless stream of entertainment I provided made it all worhtwhile...
I am now back in Puerto Montt and awaiting a pick up that will take me back in the direction of Santiago. Goodbye Southern Chile and Patagonia, it has been an adventure.

CHILE, Santiago down to Puerto Montt, Monday 24th September

Jumping off cliffs or climbing active smoking volcanoes and sticking your head into them... I do wonder at the lemming-type impulses that overcome us sometimes. Coughing from the sulphur gasses, legs burning from over-exertion, an ice-pick in hand, I pondered this as I watched spurts of molten hot magma and hoped that whoever was responsible for monitoring the activity of Volcano Vallaricca was doing their job. More adventures in South America...

I returned to Santiago just under a week ago, via a stunning drive through the Andes, zebra-striped with melting snow and found myself in a ghost town. Ah yes, the National Holiday. There go my plans for changing travellers cheques, doing laundry and generally sorting myself before I head south. Plenty of backpackers where at a loose end so I made lots of new friends, drank lots of beer and played lots of card games.

On Thursday 20th I was scooped up by our guide Nico and swept off, along with Jen, Eric and Paul on our trip down South.
Out of Santiago and through field after field of blossoming fruit trees, stopping for a quick empanada lunch at Pomarie before arriving at Pichilemu on the coast. Jen and I went riding on the beach while the boys sipped beer. It was a beautiful afternoon but our enjoyment of the ride was hampered slightly by the oddness of our escort, a strange young boy who ogled shamelessly, muttered to himself and mooed provocatively at cows, hmmmm. We watched the sunset on the headland and had a good BBQ dinner at our nice, if cold, hostel.
Up early the following morning for cold showers (something I can´t get used to) and a long day on the bus. We stopped briefly at Santa Cruz to visit a museum displaying a collection of things from rocks, to cars and some indigenous artefacts thrown in for good measure. The museum is owned by an arms dealer who ticked off the FBI by dealing Iraq and is consequently not allowed to leave Chile. Still, he seems to have a keen appreciation for his native country and its heritage...
That night we arrived in Pucon, a small, touristy town set beside Lake Villaricca and under the disconcerting shadow of the afore mentioned volcano, named the same. Our plan was to climb the volcano the following morning so we got kitted out by bossy Frenchmen, ate dinner and went to bed early in anticipation of our 6.30am start.
Rain, however, put a dampener on that idea so we had a lie in and then visited Huerquehe National Park. Gorgeous lakes surrounded by snow capped mountains, icy waterfalls to hunt for... Just the job for a girl who loves to go hiking inappropriately attired. Trainers + snow = soggy feet but I discovered that the slipping can be controlled into a sort of skiing motion if armed with a couple of sticks. Needless to say, the cause of much amusement for the rest of the group.
On our return Nico was waiting for us with the news that the weather for tomorrow was forecasted to be beautiful and would we like to forgo the drive around the lakes for one more shot at the volcano? Well, lakes we have seen, active volcanoes we have not so the decision was not a hard one. That evening Nico took us to some hot springs where we spent a blissful couple of hours floating about in steaming hot water under the stars, sipping beer. Wonderful.
At 6.30 yesterday morning then, we were up, kitted out with waterproofs, wind-breakers, climbing boots, helmets and ice-picks and we set off on, I think, the hardest physical endeavour I have ever attempted. The sky was blue and cloudless and the volcano we´d seen glowing the night before was white with snow and smoking gently. We laboured uphill, one heavy step after another, through the deep snow, hypnotised by the boots of the person in front and the steady crunch of our ice-picks as we dug them into the mountain for support and balance, climbing gradually higher and higher until the snow became peppered with ash and the sulphur made our throats sting. It took us 6 long, tough hours. I´m not usually one to moan but I confess I began to whimper. Jen, Paul and Eric pressed cheerily onwards seeming hardly to be braking a sweat. Just as I was about to collapse in a heap and beg for mercy, we arrived at the crater, a huge gaping hole breathing smoke and belching sprays of lava. Incredible. That, and the breathtaking view, made all the pain worthwile. Delerious with happiness, and exhaustion, we posed for photos (although I was lothe to turn my back on a very obviously active volcano, meaning that I look a little nervous in most of the shots) and made our merry way back down the mountain mostly by way of sliding on our arses. Much more fun.
I don´t think a beer (drank on a chair lift) has ever tasted so good, nor a burger, neither do I think I have slept as deeply as I did last night.

This afternoon I sadly parted company with the others and am in Puerto Monnt for the night before I can catch a flight down to Patigonia. I am armed with all kinds of clothing fashioned from lama wool and so I hope I am prepared for the cold...

ARGENTINA, Mendoza, 17th September (See below for last week with Posy in Buenos Aires)

"Is, erm, no normale to fly with the condors"
"I´ll say", I thought as I surveyed the distant ground that was swinging to and fro beneath my dangling feet, not a normal occurrence for me at all. Two condors were sweeping above our heads riding the same thermal pockets as we were. I think another "wow" might be in order.
Paragliding over Mendoza, truly amazing. Once, that is, you have got over the initial butterflies made only more acute, I think, in the simplicity of the instruction: "Just run." Right, yes, just run off the cliff? Sure, no problem. That doesn´t in any way go against all my instinctive reactions when perched on top of a mountian at all... However, once strapped in you don´t really have much choice so you do Just Run. I was particularly lucky, we were able to get swept up in one of the air currents and climbed higher and higher where as the others glided in an elegant but swift decent. My instructor was as excited as I was and the other´s hurried to shake my hand on landing so that they might have similar luck next time.
The view, as you might imagine, was staggering. Just floating above the Andes at 2000 ft drifting in the air currents. The closest, I´d imagine to how it really feels to fly. I have literally just landed and am gabbling like a maniac. Needless to say, I´m still rather excited.

It is partially thanks to 2 slightly lost Swedish girls that adopted me on arrival to Mendoza. They had no where to stay so thought they´d check out the hostel I´d booked into. One of them mentioned wanting to Paraglide and I thought "¿Per que no?"

Now, I think it might be time for a celebratory glass of wine. Tomorrow morning I am off on the bus over the Andes back into Chile arriving in Santiago tomorrow evening. A day to sort myself out and then the journey down to Patagonia begins...

La le le la!

ARGENTINA, Buenos Aires, 13th September

¨Ok, two forward, one sideways? Hang on, what was that she just did? Slow slow quick-quick slow? Now I´m confused. Sorry, is that your foot? Why do we seem to be going in the opposite direction to everyone else?!¨

Ah, the romance of the first tango lesson. Posy and I were quickly adopted by 2 guys as useless as us and so giggling, but with grim perseverance, we bumped our way around the room until one of the instructors, tutting with dispair, would grab one of us girls and sweep us around the floor in a flawless tango, depositing us back to our partners exhilarated but none the wiser. I rapidly came to the conclusion that men ought to learn the steps so that we just have to follow. Much easier.
Our lesson came to an end and we slunk to the side, leaving the floor to the experts, and watched in awe as the young slinky couples stepped up and did their stuff, competing with each other and trying out new steps while Posy and I speculated which of the couples actually were couples. My my, what a sexy dance!
The tango hall itself was everything I´d hoped for. High ceilings with bare rafters, walls seeped in damp and covered in pictures (Che Guevara lurking on a wall by the bar). There were wires everywhere due to the crude stage lights rigged around the dance floor that cast a pool of light, leaving the rest of the room in a sultry gloom where onlookers could lurk and lovers smooch. Perfect.

So Posy and I finally managed to leave Cafeyate and head back down to BA. We awoke on the bus as it trundled into a service station to a bleak, grey morning, the rain pattering on the window. This was a far cry from the blue skies and scorching sun of up north! Buenos Aires was doused in cloud and rain as we pulled in and we made our way through gloom to our hostel in the barrio Palermo (the young trendy one). Still, it was lovely to be back in a big city and we spent Posy´s last few days making the most of it. Tango lessons, clubbing, sipping cocktails in beautiful ´twinkly´bars and eating as much Asian food as we could. After a stint in rural Argentina we were desperate for something other than meat, cheese and bread. Never thought I say it.
As seemed fitting with the weather, we visited the Cementerio de la Recoleta where Eva Peron is buried. An amazing place, more like a little city than a grave yard with some very grand family tombs, all standing at a storey high, shadowy staircases leading into the crypts below...
We spent a happy hour or so spooking ourselves out wandering along the ´streets´. I snapped away at everything and became entranced by the fact that every grave seemed to have its own cat. Imaginations worked overtime.
The following day we visited the barrio of La Boca. Set around the docks, it is the working-class barrio of Buenos Aires and, we were warned, a little more unsavoury. La Boca made up for being a little rough around the edges by being totally gorgeous. The houses are all painted in blocks of bold primary colours and even on a grey day the place seemed sunny. There was a wonderful market and brightly painted shop fronts offering cheery souvenirs and tango shows. We ate lunch in a wonderful cosy little restaurant, the walls covered in black and white photos and dark polished wood. Everything a little scruffy but beautiful.
Too soon it was Posy´s last night. We celebrated and commiserated with a Buenos Aires clubbing experience. Club 69, transvestites, raunchy police women and break dancers, what more could 2 girls want?
And then goodbye Posy! What a wonderful 2 and a half weeks we´ve had. I was extremely sorry to see her go, I´d rather got used to having some company and a good friend to talk endlessly with on topics of varying importance over bottles of Argentinean wine. Still, onwards onwards for me too. I left BA the following evening in the direction of Mendoza.¨

ARGENTINA, Cafeyate (yes, still) Saturday 8th September

Goat dung has to be mellowed for one year before it can be put on the fields as a fertiliser. Before then it is too potent for the soil, kid goats are allowed to remain with their mummies for 45 days and the nannies are played classical music during milking in order to relax them.

It might be fair to say that Posy and I know more about goats than either of us ever deemed necessary, but it was worth it for the cheese. Whilst slurping away at surprisingly yummy (and potent) wine ice cream, we wandered off along a dirt track to a goat farm in hunt of, well, goats. We were greeted by a friendly woman who showed us round the maternity wards, nurseries and daunting-looking milking apparatus. No wonder the goats need to be soothed whilst plugged into those things! The whole farm was a-bleat with baby goats frolicking around. Very sweet, we both decided we ought to eat goat before we left. True carnivores we are. We bought far too much cheese and took it back to our balcony, opened a bottle of local wine and enjoyed another blissful sunset.

Yesterday, in a sudden spirit of activity, we set off to explore the local natural wonders. It is moments like this that adjectives desert me and I am left saying "wow" a lot. I am not a geologist and my Spanish wasn´t good enough to follow the explanations of our guide, other than what Posy was kind enough to translate for me, so I will stick to the aesthetics.
We walked through dusty valleys, waded through shallow rivers, traversed narrow, earthy peaks and climbed into gorges in a strange, rocky landscape of staggering size and colour. Bright reds, yellow and green, multicoloured stripes, the size of which made us feel like ants. Vast, earthy and deserted with only the odd cactus and shrubby trees for company. How am I doing? I took about 1000 photos so that might help, although I doubt my little camera could capture the scale. Suffice to say that it was wonderful. I was reminded of Texas and also those huge David Hockney landscapes but it was altogether different too. Our insignificance by sheer size was magnified by the age of this landscape. We are a tiny spec, both physically and with time-wise. Very humbling. An amazing afternoon.

We are still in Cafeyate at the moment. Poor Posy is feeling less than brilliant after suffering a nasty bout of food poisoning (she should have opted for grilled goat like me) and we´ve put off leaving until she feels better. We have a lovely big room and will doubtless have to down grade when we move on. Great for me though, I have been lulled into the lazy contentment that a small town, friendly (and by now familiar) locals, and all the goat´s cheese I can eat, can induce. I´m in no hurry. But we will have to head off at some point. Posy leaves me in just under a week and we are keen to get back to Buenos Aries for a few days R&R (and some serious partying) before we sadly part company.

ARGENTINA, The North West, Thursday 6th September (see entry below for Buenos Aires)

Destination selected we set off for our first stop: Rosario. Rossario is the second largest city in Argentina and famous for being the birth place of Che Guevara. It is a smaller version of Buenos Aires but also has the nice relaxed feel of being a student town. We arrived in time for lunch and strolled along the banks of the Rio Parana, lined with lounging students, enjoying the notably warmer temperature. We idled around a few sights in the late afternoon sunshine, through pretty plazas and down streets heaving with young people in outside bars winding down at the end of the week. As instructed by our guidebooks we ate river fish for dinner and sampled a touch of the famous night life before retiring. We had a long way to go still.
The following day we were back on a bus to Cordoba. The landscape continued to be vast and flat, its hugeness rendering the odd tree dotted about as insignificant as a matchstick in the massive brown expanses of empty space. Every now and then a farm would appear but aside from that the emptiness was eerie.

In 2006 Cordoba was named Cultural Capital of the Americas. Quite a claim. We both promptly fell in love with the place and were disappointed to discover that (all geared up for a Saturday night out in another famously fun town) everything was closing at 12 that night due to the regional elections taking place there following day. Humph.
Oh well, back to English Time then. I had grown rather used to the ´drinks at 9, dinner not before 10´ way of life. We sauntered out to see what kind of life we could find before 12 and stumbled across a beautiful little restaurant to have a delicious dinner in before settling ourselves in a lively outside bar. Were soon adopted by a group containing 3 Argentineans, 1 Swede and an English guy, all of whom equally unwilling to adhere to the suggested curfew so we went and had a mini fiesta in one of their flats.
We spent a couple of days exploring the little streets, plazas and attempted to visit their abundant and very beautiful churches only always finding them shut. We went out with the Brit and the Swede, an unlikely but very amusing duo, to an incredible steak house where the fillets came the size of our heads and cut like butter. Wow. We had a lovely evening laughing at our double-act entertainment after which Posy (not feeling so good) had an early night and I went bowling. As you do.

After another day of cafe crawling we took a obscenely luxurious night bus to Tucuman. Our plan was to head up to Cafeyate in the heart of the wine region, surrounded by dramatic, rocky landscape, perhaps with a waterfall or two...
Stupidly it had not occurred to either of us to check the time of our connecting bus from Tucuman and were told, as we tumbled off the bus at 6.30am, that the bus to Cafeyate had just left and the next was not until 2.00pm, getting in at 8.30pm. Damn.
Still, not to be discouraged, we took the opportunity for more chatting and 7 hours passed surprisingly fast.
It was the bus ride, however, that completely salvaged our spirits. After the endless stretches of impossibly straight roads it was exhilarating to suddenly be on hair-pin-bend roads that twisted up into the mountains, higher and higher between steep, scrubby hillsides, dripping with with bizarre trees dangling foliage like chandeliers, over-hanging deep ravines in which wound narrow, low rivers. Then we emerged into wide yellow-brown valleys dotted with distant farms and settlements, enclosed by barren, reddish mountains. Now this is Argentina. We both felt that we had finally left Spain behind and entered something far older. The complexions of our fellow passengers darkened and we were surrounded by more and more indigenous faces, our own fairness growing increasingly incongruous.
At 8.30pm and by now deep in the middle of what seemed to be no where we came to Cafeyate, a welcome oasis from the endless blackness on either side of the narrow road. A friendly girl from our hostel greeted us at the little bus station and led us through neat, well-lit streets to our digs and checked us into a beautiful room complete with 2 beds, onsuite and a balcony. We bot decied that it might be an idea if we came to a standstill for a day or two, having travelled for 22 hours by this point.
After a much needed sleep we awoke to bright, hot sunshine, blue skies and the sould of bustle from the street below. The weather had become steadily warmer on our jouney north and by now I was delighted to be back in linin trousers, flip flops and vest tops once again. We wandered around the main plaza for a late breakfast and set out to explore.
Once again Spanish influence was everywhere in the pretty, ordered streets and tidy little plaza, overlooked by a freshly painted church and lined with little umbrelled cafes. Souvenier shops sell alpaca gloves, scarves and ponchos, unthinkable in this heat, and Argentinean tourists flock by the bus load on day trips from Salta, streaming into Bodegas and emmerging laden with wine boxes. Posy and I hunted out a Bodega just outside of town, the oldest, and managed to get some wine tasting in between the bus loads.
In the evening we made our way, with chilled wine and goats cheese, out of town, past simple, sturdy little bungalows and children skipping on the sidewalk, up a little hill to watch the setting sun cast its pinky light on the surrounding mountains and felt extremely smug to have found ourselves somewhere so beautiful.
In the next day or two (no rush) we will head up to Salta. But in the mean time we have some hard core lounging, a little more wine sipping and some exploring to do. What lucky girls we are...

ARGENTINA, Buenos Aires, Thursday, 6th September

The lifting of the clouds and bright sunshine pouring through the window the following morning was enough to prise me away from my cosy TV marathon and go and explore the city that was taking on a much more attractive shape in the sunshine. I spent the day wandering around this dauntingly large city, getting my barings and investigating other Barrios which might be more appropriate for Posy and I than the rather soul-less centre in which I was staying.

The city is supposed to be the most vibrant, classy, sexy city of South America and I spent a happy day adjusting myself to the rhythm of of its streets teaming with elegantly dressed, extremely good-looking Argentineans. I walked up wide boulevards jam-packed with testosterone driven cars honking and jostling with each other, through grand plazas and through heaving pedestrianised shopping streets before arriving in San Telmo an altogether quieter corner of the city with cobbled streets, cheerfully painted houses and plenty of bars, cafes and restaurants in which I could envisage Posy and I sitting for many a happy hour. Perfect.
The following day she arrived beaming and announcing that her taxi driver looked like Antonio Banderas. Bienvenido a Argentina!
We were so happy to see one another after so long that it might come as a surprise to some of you to learn that we talked non-stop for 16 hours after that. Posy was delighted with San Telmo, the hostel, and was sufficiently impressed at the poshness of the bathrooms, of which I was particularly proud.
We set about doing some hard core catch up over a long lunch which was soon followed by a long dinner. So lovely to have her with me.
We continued in that manner for the following 3 days in Buenos Aires, strutting around in the icy winter sunshine, Posy cheerfully translating the endless appreciative whoops from our local admirers who found the sight of 2 blondes hard to ignore. We visited the Museo de las Bellas Artes, ate life changing steak in a buzzy, chaotic local Parrilla, got fussed about by endless waiters, drank delicious wine and generally had A Good Time.

By our 3rd day, however we thought we´d better go and see some more of the country before we got totally imbedded in the city and considered taking up permanent residence. The only problem was where to go, the country being so vast and Posy having such little time. Most people, we discovered, head up North East from Buenos Aires to the staggering Iguazu Falls which, at a length of 3kms and a cascade of over 70 deafening metres are promised to reduce the onlooker to ´giggling, shrieking messes´(according to the Lonley Planet). Given my apparent passion for the odd cascada and seeming willingness to go to great lengths to see them, you might think that I´d be on that bus before you could say "splash." We did have to take into consideration, however that the journey was over 20 hours both ways, which is pushing it even for me. It wouldn´t have been so bad if either of our guide books could promise us much more than a succession of uninteresting towns, landscapes of burned palm trees and toad infestations on route. Hmmmm.
So we began to look to the North West ´off the beaten track´ via buzzy little student towns, pretty, remote villages, gorgeous countryside up to the foothills of the Andes and into wine country. Ah ha... One town even promised that we could combine wine and walking. Splendid.

CHILE, Santiago/Valpariso, Saturday 25th August

South America, what have a learned so far? Well all those Spanish lessons weren't for nothing, Pisco Sours are delicious, Chilean buses are very luxurious and when the Lonely Planet warns me that I might get mugged I ought to listen...

I'm not sure if being mugged by 10 year olds makes it better or worse. Obviously it doesn't do much for the old pride but 20 year olds might have made more of an impact, so to speak.
It was a miserable rainy day in Santiago so I thought I'd try out the weather in Valpariso. The town is a humming port and also generally accepted as the cultural capital of Chile. Most of its buildings are heritage listed and it came highly recommended by guide books and fellow travellers so I went to check it out.
As soon as we left the valley in which Santiago sits, the clouds lifted and sun shone. We drove along through valleys between the foothills of the Andes, past huge vineyards and arrived in Valpariso 2 hours later. Easy peasy.
Whilst sipping a cafe con leche and watching people bustling about on the docks I consulted my good friend the Lonely Planet which suggested a circular walk that took in the best sights. As some of you may know, the Lonely Planet is an indispensable guide but their maps leave much to be desired.
I huffed and puffed my way up several steep hills away from the crowds and down pretty, if scruffy, cobbled streets lined with shabby houses painted bright colours. There were some good views of the harbour, the weather was beautiful and all was well with the world. After a time though I began to feel I'd wandered a little off pist. There were no cars whistling at me any longer - yes their cars actually have a horn that wolf whistles, very clever - and not many people either. Hmmm. A young guy approached me and said in broken English
'Please, round here much steal, be careful.' Yes yes I know that's what everyone's told me, I'm not stupid, I thought, thanked him, turned a corner and bash! 3 kids hurled themselves at me. I was on a fairly steep hill and they had me over pretty easily. A grim tug of war ensued over my camera, which was strapped to me. They won leaving me sitting on the road forlornly clutching the strap that I had wrapped around my hand in the struggle. I was less than impressed, as you can imagine but my only thought really was that I still had my bag and I suspected I was in an area where the saying 'lightning never strikes the same place twice' rule did not apply. I hot-footed it back down the main road to the harbour, took a steep lift up to another gorgeous part of town and licked my wounds in a friendly cafe. I felt a little shaken and extremely foolish.
I spent the rest of the day pottering around this safer, more touristy area. Neat, cheerfully painted little houses, steep cobbled streets, I would up load some photos but, well...
So there is my wake up call I guess. Day 3, pretty impressive, well done Kate. Still, I've learned my lesson and promise to be much more careful from now on.

Mugging aside though I am having a great time here in Chile so far. Santiago is a nice town, especially the Barrio Brazil where I am staying, lots of old colonial mansions, slightly derelict but picturesquely so, friendly little cafes full of locals and some buzzy bars.
I climbed the Convent-come-Military Bastion: Cerro Santa Lucia, which winds its way in a chaotic manner past the neo-classical Terrazzo Neptune (fountains a-squirting), along crenulated archways and up steep steps cut into the rock, right up to the pinnacle on which sits a rather sombre church and any number of courting couples lurking in grottos and between rocks. The view ought to be spectacular, being the highest point in Santiago, but the smog blocked out anything that might have resembled a mountain and merely gave a view of Santiago´s uninteresting skyline. I picked my way down around the lovers and teenage pot smokers and left them to it.
Yesterday a fellow backpacker and I went to have a look at what Santiago had to offer in the way of its art collection. Housed in a very grand building are some bored-looking Spanish colonial ladies and, as promised by the Lonely Planet, some bleak landscapes and a whole load of contemporary stuff which was lost on us as we really needed to be able to read the explanations. Still, it was fun poking around and having a good guess.
I had my 1st South American steak at a fantastic local restaurant, full to bursting with gabbling chileans slurping yummy wine and eating steak that bled satifactoraly all over the plates. Huge chunks of meat! I look forward to more of that...
Two of my companions were very keen to, ahem, ´commune´ with the locals and so the rest of went along for the ride and followed pretty Chilean girls to Santiago hotspots where we danced until the early hours to latin beats.

Today a had a fantastic flight over the Andes, cloudless skys and breathtaking views of snowy peaks. And now I´m in Buenos Aries and it is cold and wet. I celebrated my arrival by finding a hostel, curling up in bed and watching Harry Potter. Not formost on the ´to do´ list for Buenos Aries I know but I am still sleep deprived due to jet lag and not keen to catch a cold just before Posy joins me.

Tomorrow I suppose I´d better go shopping for a new camera...

CHILE, Santiago, Wednesday 22nd August

So goodbye Australia and Buenos Dias LAN Air. Well, eventually. I was delayed for 3 hours. Between avoiding the advances of a persistent Philippino Film maker I found myself a quite corner and began to ponder on past and future adventures. 6 months into my travels, eek! That is worth pause for reflection I think...

Ok so camel riding in the Rajasthan desert, the Taj Mahal, I've been painted bright pink with 'playing Holi', stayed with Burmese hill tribes in the north of Thailand, boated, floated and swam down the Mekong, taught Cambodian children who to read 'The Flopsy Bunnies', sped around the highlands of Vietnam on the back of a honda and drunk rice wine with a village chief, I've danced the sun up on a beach covered in glow paint, seen an opera at the Sydney Opera House, chased a dingo (kinda) and cuddled a koala... It is really hard to imagine how I can top all that.

Well, finally we took off and landed a few hour later in Auckland where I wandered around inspecting numerous sheep-themed merchandise before re-boarding the plane for my longest flight yet. As if to set the scene my neighbour introduced himself and announced that he was a part of a dancing troupe touring the world performing, you've guessed it, the Argentinean Tango. Very appropriate. I was bourne into Santiago discussing Tango lessons in Buenos Aires and writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The scene for my South American adventure has been rather well set...

Once we landed, bemused and travel weary, we were bustled about taken to cash points and sorted into minivans where a cheerful driver handed out sweets and drove us to through the industrial clutter of the outer burbs, river lined with piles of rubbish, snow capped mountains appearing faintly through the smog on either side, into Santiago. We passed through narrow cobbled streets lined with Spanish colonial mansions, pizzas with parks and playgrounds and I began to feel that I was very much back in Europe. Much closer to home, in one way and in another even further removed. I find myself in a country where English is not the language of choice and I am a little uncertain of how and where to start. Having said that, when sitting in a little cafe drinking cafe con leche served to me by a moustached and smiling waiter, bouncy latino pop music thumping in the background I can't help feeling pleased to be here. So far, me gustsa.

AUSTRALIA, Melbourne (see entry below for Sydney and the Blue Mountains)

If, like Charley, you are searching for some confirmation that you are in Australia and haven't, after 2 months in Asia, done a full circle and come back to England, Melbourne might not be the place to come. Especially in winter.
When I was suffering from similar concerns in Sydney, I was able to round a corner and come face to face with the Harbour or Opera House, which was reassuring. In Melbourne it is harder. There are no 'postcard' landmarks to remind you where you are. As you pull your coat round you, glance up at the grey sky and dive into a welcoming looking pub, complete with roaring fire, it can be tricky to convince yourself that you are anywhere other than England.
I do not mean this as a criticism by any means, merely an observation. I think Melbourne is a great city. It is not as picturesque as Sydney and does not have any 'show-stoppers' like the Opera House but it is a pleasing city to explore. It offers plenty of little bohemian nooks, crammed full of funky cafes, bars, vintage clothes shops and galleries, all pleasantly casual and some nicely scruffy. I can sit on a slightly fraying sofa in a cosy cafe, walls adorned with flyers for music gigs, fringe theater and alternative therapies, drinking good coffee and eating delicious food without parting with very much money. I can sit for hours over the same cup of tea without anyone batting an eyelid.
Generally the whole place feels much more laid back, just not so different from London. It even has its Arts Centre spread along South Bank...

In order to pinch myself, and reassert the ozziness of my location, I booked myself onto a 'Melbourne must' a trip along the Great Ocean Road.
At 7.30am I was scooped into a minibus by a very cheerful guide called Chris who enthusiastically welcomed us all abored and chatted merrily as he bore us West out of Melbourne.
We had a fantastic day, which seemed as long as 3 by the time I was deposited back at my hostel at 9.00 that night. Our first stop was morning coffee at Bells Beach, a world famous surfing mecca, supposedly featured in the film 'Point Break'(although actually filmed elsewhere). With the wind ripping around us we hugged our tea and marvelled at the surfers, tiny black specs amongst the swells being flipped about like bath toys, and wondered at their sanity.
A quick stop at the lighthouse where children's TV show 'Round the Twist' was filmed (some of you may remember it) and off onto the Great Ocean Road. It is a spectacular drive which winds its hair-pin way along the coast, up along cliffs and aside beautiful unspoiled bays, lined with steep green hillsides. Stunning.
We stopped for lunch at a little caravan park cafe where Chris said he'd eat his glasses if we didn't see any wild koalas. He was right. Up in the trees all around the site where little grey lumps of fur, mostly fast asleep. I was rather disappointed to have my rumour that they are constantly drunk on eucalyptus and sleepin it off (occasionally falling gout of a tree and killing someone as a result of their stupor) quashed. The boring fact is that the leaves they eat are so indigestible that they are forced to sleep for 20 hours a day in order for their bodies to break down the fibres of their diet. So to catch one awake is pretty lucky, to catch up away with a baby even luckier. We were lucky on both counts. Awwww
After lunch we drove inland and up into the rain forest where Chris took us for a walk through a lattice-work of prehistoric tree ferns, criss-crossing above our heads as we scuttled along the forest floor quietly fearful we may disturb a nearby snoozing TRex, or at least I was.
We all dozed for an hour on the bus while the tireless Chris drove, awakening us by giving us a history of The 12 Apostles.
The 12 Apostles are large rock stacks in the ocean. There were 12 but since then 3 have collapsed. They had originally been named 'The Sow and her Piglets' but the tourist board did not deem this name suitable for a popular tourist attraction and so they remaned it The 12 Apostles. The name has no religious reasons as such and, considering the unstable nature of the rocks, to call them The 12 Apostles leaves them potentially liable to claims of false advertising. I think the 1st name was better, if rather unromantic.
Anyway, none of it matter really because they were just a dramatically beautiful as all the guide books promised. The early evening light was just behind them, the turbulent water thundered beneath them and the effect was satisfactory to say the least.
We had one last stop to a shipwreck cove, the coastline around that stretch is extremely perilous and not one to sail around on a dark night... and then it was the 2 hour drive back to Melbourne. Few. Chris put a film on for us and chirpily dropped us off at our various hostels where we all came to rest exhausted.
The rest of my time in Melbourne past all too quickly hangin' out with Charley and before I knew it I was back on the 12 hour bus to Sydney where I received yet another lovely warm welcome from Roger and Co. My room waiting for me again. It will be hard to leave but I am looking forward to it too.
Next stop: South America!

AUSTRALIA, Sydney (written 31st July)

How hard it is to draw myself away from the luxuries of family living once again. Returning to Sydney was like coming home. Another warm welcome from Roger, Joanne, Sam, Alexi and James. They have made me feel so much a part of the family here, my little room was all ready for me and plans were quickly put in place for showing me the famouse Blue Mountains before I galloped off to Melbourne.
This morning I was up bright and early (remarkable considering lack of sleep after the inevitable Saturday night) and gliding along in Roger's cosy car out of Sydney and up into the Mountains. "They are not looking very blue today," lamented Joanne but they looked pretty damn blue to me and quite breathtaking. View points are dotted along the cliffs, jutting out on pinicals over huge valleys and canyons coated in thick bushland and they do indeed have a bluish tinge, a result of the rising vapours from the eucalyptus. The scale is what had me clutching to the railings of my overhang and breathing "wow". The space is truly emmense, over 1,000,000 hectares of sandstone peaks and deep-cut valleys, a proportion of it still unexplored. It makes you feel painfully small. Anyway, we 'did it' in a very civilised way for so cold a day, and with so short a time availble. We drove to the pretty little town of Leura for a delicious brunch and surveyed the Three Sisters from what Joanne assured me was the best vantage point, tourist-free. She was right, the town on the other side was a chaos of tour busses and jostling bodies all struggling to grab a peak. We sailed past happily to more remote cliff-tops and photo opps.
On our way back to Sydney we stopped at the home of late Norman Lindsay an artist, engraver and illustrator of the children's book series "The Magic Pudding" (familier to those growing up in Australia in the middle part of the last century). Along with his children's illustrations he spent most of his time paying a questionable tribute to the female form. Based New South Wales he created quite a storm with his daring potraials of wicked-looking nymphs and strumpets with spikey, deamon-like features, limbs akimbo. His large garden was full of buxom, betailed pan-like figures lurking in the undergrowth and frolicing around his huge Roman aphitheatre-style swimming pool. A workaholic and doubtless impossible man, his sucess could mainly be attributed to by his industrious second wife who got him organised and sold his work. In a moment of wavering wifly loyalty, she scarpered to America with a trunk load of his best pieces. On the train the box in which there were stowed caught fire. When faced with the singed images, the train porters where so horrifed that such 'filth' could be transported into their country that the merely fed the flames leaving nothing but a pile of ashes and a rather sheepish Mrs Lindsay who returned to Australia and broke the news to her husband.
"Nevermind," he said "I'll just have to start again." This, I think, goes to show a degree of patience that is bordering on saintly and must make up for his tricky artistic temprement. He painted well into his 80s.
So another wonderful week in Sydney...
And now off to Melbourne to lounge in arty cafes and catch up with Adam and Charley.

AUSTRALIA, Queensland - New South Wales (see entry below for Fraser Island)

Back in Brizzy I was met off the bus bronzed and triumphant by Jonathan who took me out for a lunch of Vietnamese noodle soup, very welcome after 3 days of beef. I spent my last night in Bris-Vagas in a most bohemim way: Back in Jonathan's friend Don's Queenslander huddled in a corner by a heater sipping tea and watching the 'boys' play a very serious and totally incomprehensible game of cards.

And then farewell Queensland. Despite all my little quibbles with it I was sad to leave. I have had a great few weeks. It was lovely to spend time with my Grandfather and Kathy, who has had to put up with a constant stream of people traipsing through on a daily basis and has produced some wonderful meals, oh how I shall miss home cooking when I am back on the road again... Jeanie organised us all so well, I loved spending time with Jordie and Briony and it was great to see all three brothers: Jamie, Jonathan and Tim together for a change. Geography dictates that it was a rare family reunion.
My Grandfather and Kathy refused to let me take a bus into town with my heavy bag and Kathy kindly escorted me to the bus station in a taxi. We grabbed a quick coffee, snatching a brief moment to have a good chat before I charged off down the coast. I shall miss Mount Ommaney, not to mention the Centenary Shopping Centre...

Next stop: Byron Bay. I followed two fellow travellers to a beautiful guesthouse near the centre of town with small immaculate rooms and set off to see Australia's most easterly point, Cape Byron. In the golden evening light we climbed the headland and reached the summit and lighthouse just as the sun was setting. Byron Bay is a lovely stretch of beach and from our view point we surveyed the darkening swells of the ocean, the keen surfers little black dots amongst the waves and felt glad to be up on the hillside awash with orange sunlight absorbing the final warmth before the sun, and heat, vanished. Feeling extremely pleased with ourselves we descended back into town to sample a touch of the famous Byron nightlife. The town itself isn't pretty, just another beach town really but without the gaudy coloured high-rises of Surfer's Paradise and the Gold Coast and it has a pleasant laid-back feel. As for the evening's entertainments, well that was watching the scantily-clad girls strut and boys pose with decreasing finesse as the alcohol took control of their limbs and laughed at them from a safe distance.

I had been trying to meet up with Jazz so after a day pottering about in Byron and eating yummy sushi I was on a night bus headed for Foster, a coastal town a few hours north of Sydney where Jazz was lodged with a troublesome if charming 19 year old from Fulham...

AUSTRALIA, Qeensland//Fraser Island 24th July

"Ok guys, don't drive into the ocean and don't feed the dingos. See you in three days"
One minute I am at a punk gig with my 3 uncles and a whole crew of aging rockers, (giggling at the bouncing bald patches of the fans as they bounced up and down in vigorous appreciation of The Saints) the next I am in a bright pink 4x4 with 6 people I've just met bouncing along a sandy track on the world's largest sand dune.
After a couple of weeks of hard core 'family stuff' and the luxury of not having to make any decisions I found myself once again adrift and directionless with only me as a guide. We had a lovely final dinner all together, Kathy cooking up quite a storm for the masses, and everyone began to scatter. My parents to Japan, Tim soon to Beijing, it was time too for me to get back on the road again.

With a few days to kill before I was due back to Sydney I thought I'd follow the enthusiastic recommendations and head over to Fraser Island. Within minutes of my arrival at Hervey Bay I had been recruited to fill the last place in a jeep that was to leave the following morning. Clutching our happy hour 'stubbies' we were all introduced, given a safety briefing, focusing mainly on the disadvantages of damaging the 4x4, and told to wrap up warm because it was going to be freezing.
Bright and early the following morning we elected a driver, piled in and set off for the ferry via a stop at the supermarket to stock up on 3 days worth of food and (yes of course) booze.
3 Koreans, 3 Germans, 2 Irish, 2 Canadians, 1 Italian, 1 American 1 girl from Taiwan and moi. Gears grinding we set off bunny-hopping along the narrow sandy tracks through the woodlanded interior of Fraser Island.
Our first day took us to Lake Wabby. Still, green waters, almost deserted, it was enclosed with forest on one side but had steep sand dunes sweeping down to its banks on the other, down which, if you were not afraid of the cold, could be sprinted to land you with a splash in the otherwise still, crocodile free (I'm promised) water. I was content to take photos and shout encouragement. Tides dictated much of our movements so we set off in good time to reach our camping spot in plenty of time and avoid attempting to erect tents in the sudden darkness that descended at 6.00. The drive to our campsite along the beach was across beautiful wet sands reflecting a sparkling mauve sunset, not surprisingly we set up tents feeling very jovial and a night of festivities commenced...
After a bitterly cold night (thank God I brought 2 sleeping bags) we were up early with the sun in order to pack up and get to the Champagne Pools - large rock pools up the coast - before the tide rose any further and we were stuck for the day. We climbed up Indian Head overlooking the sea and watched dolphins and whales cavorting in the serf. No sharks spotted but we had been assured that plenty were around and the water was very much no-go. So we frolicked (briefly) in the shark-free Champagne Pools and caught some rays before mosying back down the coast stopping to inspect the remains of a 70 year old abandoned ship and multicoloured sand canyons.
We had camping down to a fine art by now and we were set up and fed much more efficiently than the previous night. We were, however, camped in a lonelier spot and our cooking smells attracted some unwelcome guests. I am not proud to reveal that, when it comes to dingos, I am something of a wimp. When the boys were playing football and a hungry female came trotting into camp I am afraid that me and another girl sprang behind the jeep and cowered as the braver girls shooed it away. Throughout the night they became bolder and it took more and more to frighten them off although the camp was then manned by brave boys, happy to demonstrate their heroism.
We spent our final hours on Fraser Island lying on the banks of stunning Lake Mackenzie a huge, glass-like, blue water lake surrounded by fine white sand. Inspired by a tourist brochure we spent an entertaining hour building a cross-dressing sandman called Fred and then spread ourselves on the sand to luxuriate in the sunshine before it was time to catch the ferry back to the mainland.
We returned to our hostel elated and one piece, much relieved to find that we had not done any damage to the 4x4s and delighted to all pile into one rowdy dorm, have the hot showers we'd been fantasising about sleep in real beds under blankets. A wonderful 3 days.

AUSTRALIA, Brisbane/Queensland 11th July

I do wonder who it was who 1st looked out over the untamed mass of Australian bush, scorched by an unforgiving sun, ravished by bush fires, kangaroos bounding about in the foreground and thought to himself: "What I really feel like right now is a Devonshire Tea."
Well someone certainly thought it and it has caught on like, well,a bush fire. Picturesque view points around the Glasshouse mountains are, it would seem, incomplete without one and you just make damn sure that you sit nicely at the table and don't even think about trying to wander off in the direction of the wild kangaroos, to see them from a different perspective, you will get shouted at. And it is not just cream teas but Aunty Maureen's Fudge and Hot Meat Pies, their incongruity rendering them absurd but also rather endearing. Like wandering back into an Enid Blyton novel that's found itself in rather a surprising landscape.
All this I observed from the back seat of our hire car as we pootled up towards the fashionable beach town of Noosa, in a caravan of family-laden vehicles. In one car: my father driving, Jeannie, my oldest uncle Jamie's wife directing and me in the back with my 12 year old cousin Briony both plugged in and enjoying the ride. In the other car, leading the way is my uncle Jamie, my Grandfather, my mother and 14 year old cousin Jordie who is very certain which side of the back seat is his and will not be moved. In this merry manner we spent a happy day seeing some of the northern Queensland coastline. I glimpsed a few of the surviving 'Queenslanders' (fine wooden houses on stilts with beautiful wide verandas) and admired the gorgeous sweeping white-sanded Pacific beaches whilst struggling to ignore the concrete of the beach-side towns and villages looming over us which destroyed the effect somewhat. Surf culture has its draw-backs.

Back to Brisbane. My Sydney friends, a little dismissively, refer to Brisbane as "Bris-Vegas" due to its reputation for being tacky and full of, well, not much. My middle uncle Jonathan has done his damnedest to disprove this theory, displaying a patriotism that I found surprising for one who spends most of his time living in Valencia. After coffee at the 'bohemian West End' strolling around the pedestrianised shopping areas Down Town, tea in a beautiful old Queenslander, Saturday morning breakfast in the trendy Valley and a day exploring the Art Galleries of the smartly set out South Bank I am in a position to argue. To an extent.
The major downside, as far as I can see, to Brisbane is the manner in which it has been developed. Town planning failed tragically and the result is that the old and new live together awkwardly, unlike Sydney where the two have been married together nicely. Like an American town, Brisbane has sprawled, mile after mile of suburbs, wide, low rise concrete units, industrial estates, shopping centres and drive throughs. Amoungst this rubble beautiful streets containing surving Queenslanders cower, increasingly boxed in by the incessant development and throwing up of apartment blocks obscuring a once beautiful view of the river, the best view of which is from a highway which they have seen fit to build along its banks.
Having said all of that, however, I have been lucky enough to see some great parts of Brizzy too. The city centre has a nice buzz to it and the pleasing atmostphere of a city on the up. The South Bank has been very neatly put together and houses some good galleries. The Valley on a Saturday was heaving with young hungover folk catching up over eggs and bacon and perusing the markets in preparation for a night out at one of the many clubs and bars in the area. There is fun to be had, culture to be absorbed and to top it all off I am off to a Punk gig with Jonathan and his ageing rocker buddies in the campus of the Queensland University in a week. That will gather me some ammo for the Sydneyites... Perhaps.
Bisbane also has the huge advantage of being where my family are and there is a lot to be said for that. A family "barbie in the backyard" (for the real Ozzy 'experience') excursions with Jonathan, a good catch up with my now 90 year old Grandfather, and a chance to get to know my little cousins better. My parents and I have also been having some great evenings in in our little 'serviced apartment' eating much-missed home-cooked food and catching up properly before they head off to Japan (and typhoons... eek).

We had a family jaunt up to O'Rilies in the mountains along the south coast of Queensland over the weekend. Another spectacular drive through vast, sun-scorched plains, stunning views of golden valleys and into dense forest as we climbed.
An evening tree-top walk in the crisp, icy air on arrival and a beautiful sunset viewed from Jamie and Jeanie's jungle lodge sitting room with panoramic views (to be enjoyed inside sipping wine in warmth and comfort).
The following day I was straining at the leash to explore more jungle and find some waterfalls (can't resist them) so I set out with Jeanie, Jamie, Briony, Jordie, Jonathan and Dad as far as the 1st waterfall where a good-natured Jonathn and I split from the collective and embarked on an 18km hike. After Kao Sok the going was a doddle, clear paths, no leaches and waterfalls at every step, I counted 11 so even I couldn't miss them. We charged around and managed to be back in time for tea. All gathered again, Jonathan slunk off to catch his breath (discreetly, not one to outdone by his little niece) and the rest of us compared notes as we struggled to salvage cake and mini meat pies from the jaws of Jordie who gathers, devours and, if necessary, fights for food with the determination common to 14 year old boys mid growth-spurt.
Once again we huddled in front of the fire and enjoyed another sunset and cheerful baramundi dinner in celebration of Dad's exam results.
Then goodbye O'Rilies and off in different directions. One car to the airport to meet youngest uncle Tim off his flight from Beijing, the other home via Tamborine Mountain and the other car, including me, off to Dream World.
Briony was kind enough to include me in her birthday treat to the vast theme park so after a moderate breakfast (terrified about it reappearing) we drove off in the direction of an enormous tower which loomed over the motorway growing alarmly as we approached...
I now know how it feels to plummet 39 storeys and now understand the eerie silence in which its passengers ride the Giant Drop. you leave your scream at the top and are capable of not much more thn a whimper until you reach the bottom and get that gratifying rush of adrenline when you discover that you have survived after all. Most exhilerating. We had a great time being thrown around, turned upside down and being shot out of things at insane speeds and returned to the Family Fold full of excitment and gabbering about our adventures, to which our good natured family listend without comprehension.