1,000 miles gone - Big Sur to Bear Country

A holiday within a holiday. Are we being greedy? Probably, but lifes not always going to be like this, so we're going to make the most of it. And so, our slightly longer than a month road trip along the west coast of the US starts with a flight out of Costa Rica, into LA. I don't see Family Back that often, and this being the second time I've come to visit in two months, feel spoilt at the opportunity to spend some time with them again. And Seren and Kai sort of seem to remember who I am, but have the added distraction of the far more interesting Becky to entertain them. Or is it the other way around, as Becky sets about putting makeup on Seren and laughing hysterically at her in her clothes, especially a very fashionable but slightly too large bikini which is worn on our first outing to the pool. Michael, Chloe's Dad is having his holiday crashed by us and babysits, allowing the four of us a rare venture out at night. Twice!

We pillage camping equipment and electronic devices generously offered to us, and we are soon on our way in our rental SUV. Or is it? I have no idea what kind of car it is as I know nothing about cars. But its big. And we can sleep in it if we get desperate.

We've chosen a corker of a weekend to start our travels on, Labour day weekend. The last big hurrah of the American holiday season, and as such everything is booked. But we manage to steal a last minute camping spot at the start of Big Sur, a splendid stretch of road running along the coast between Los Angeles and San Francisco. But can we get out of LA? No. Not without a slight argument with the GPS device, which leads us inland on route 101 instead of along the coastal highway 1. We do what every modern day person would do, and blindly follow every instruction the machine gives us. She does have a lovely computer voice after all.

Somehow we manage to make it onto route 1. I take over the driving and in blind panic, manage to swiftly reverse our progress by heading us back to LA. Its called a freeway for a reason. Everyone is free to overtake, undertake, ignore signalling amongst many other things. Turn offs can either be on the right hand side or on the left, and a road can very swiftly fork into two. Which is what takes me unawares. That and the automatic gearbox. Its like a dodgem car, especially on the brakes! The only thing they've got right over here are the pool lanes, which allow cars with 2 or more people to get ahead of the rest.

We drift along the coast, stopping for photographs of kite surfers jumping into the sky and sea lions basking in the late evening light. The scenery is stunning, rolling uphill and along cliff edge. We listen to Rolling Stone Magazine's Top 500 Rock Songs as a movie set backdrop slides by. Arriving late at the campsite, we soon realise that Americans 'Know how to camp', staying in a shielded-off camp surrounded by redwood trees. Pine fresh smells, and not from a 'shake n vac'. We park our newly borrowed double decker tent in-between trailers, winnebagos and SUVs with the crackle of campfires in our ears.

Hitting the road as we wake, we continue where we left off. Skateboard brand towns pass us by, Ventura, Santa Cruz, where we stop for an amazing bite to eat and a passing look at surf shops, making our way lazily up to San Francisco. The Sat Nav is now our friend and guides us skilfully to our hotel, The Red Victorian, owned by Sami Sunshine. I strongly suspect thats not her real name. We seem to have entered some kind of hippy paradise. Each room is originally decorated to reflect its name, such as 'The Summer of Love', 'The Peace Room, 'The Rainbow room'. You get the gist. We're in the Skylight Room. And yup, its got a skylight. Overlooking Haight, a main street that runs all the way into the centre of San Fran. Sami Sunshine's peace paintings line the walls of the hotel. One of them I quite liked.

We love the town. It feels creative, trendy, exciting and active. We visit Chinatown, the Golden Gate Bridge (Which the Sat Nav navigates us over twice!) and trek around the whole town. A trip to SFMoma gallery and a look at the 'Georgia O'Keefe/ Ansel Adams' exhibition finds us both agreeing on the genius of Ansel Adams and the extremely ordinary O'Keefe. I could paint a shell better than that! Ansel Adams provides a glimpse of the next stage of our trip with beautiful black and white photographs of nature, particularly Yosemite National Park which we will soon be visiting. Fisherman's Wharf is overrun with sealions, who swamp a floating pier. Becky buys me a shirt which feels equal parts lumberjack and equal parts Shoreditch chic. I luvs it.

Driving the car over the Golden Gate bridge, and then doing it again, we head for Napa and wine country. We've got the camping vibe which is easier after a tasting at a local vineyard in Calistoga. Then on to Guerneville. Nope, we didn't see anyone pulling faces, but a particularly mad bodybuilding barman provided some good entertainment. A Kayak down the serene river and a much needed shower-dip did us a world of good.

And next thing we know is, we're in bear country. Yosemite exchanges grape vines for ragged woods and looming pines. Winding our probably SUV along to White Wolf campsite, bear warnings are everywhere. Pictures of bears crossing the road, photos of bears invading people's campsites and prising the doors off the hinges of cars give us ample warning of who we could be sharing our tents with. This is warning enough to make putting all food and strongly scented cosmetic products into bear boxes the first job when we set up camp. Bear proofed bins are locked down with caribinas, red warning signs tell cars to slow down, a bear has been run over here recently. Apparantly bears can smell a sealed can of coke in a glove compartment of a locked car in a valley from the farthest cliff top. They also have a sense of smell ten times that of a bloodhound. Information such as this is the reason I am turning my head to survey the campsite as I write this. Bear shit near our tent this morning is another pretty damned fresh reason. So it is true!

John Muir, a naturalist who worked in these woods sums up how I am feeling right now. Sorry if its pretentious, but i'm going to quote him now, so hold on.

"Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you and the storms their energy. While cares will drop off like autumn leaves."

A thousand miles gone. How many more to go?

View '1,000 miles gone - Big Sur to Bear Country' photos here

Costa-ri-ka-ka-ka-ka!

Finally we arrive at our destination, and new home for a while. We have to spend a night in San Jose, and choose to spend our time here satisfying a shopping urge. Aaaaahhh… the sweet taste of consumerism. Actually, thats really all there is to do in San Jose, a city we are less than taken with.

With relief to our wallets, we take a 5am bus (theres only one a day!) out to the West coast. And, walking along Samara beach, we are transported to a tropical paradise. Lush palm trees and jungle loom onto a heat hazy, sandy shoreline, waves breaking breezily along the perimeter. We almost manage to miss our bus the next day the next morning, the only thing we have to do all day, as we are told four varying times of departure. Luckily our taxi driver knows the truth and screeches to a halt managing to catch the bus as it is about to leave. An old yellow ex-American school bus runs us into Nosara, two crates of tiny-weeny yellow chicks cheep all the way along a bumpy pot-holed dirt track.

And almost without realising it, we are walking through the door of Innocent Surf School, Becky's new place of work, meeting Gemma, who greets us with a squeal and a warm hug. The shop is funkily decorated with colourful beanbags, projector beaming surf movies all day long onto a crisp white wall. Ru, Gemma's other half, arrives soon after, returning from a surf lesson, along with Jack and Al, the team surf is complete.

Becky has a week off before she starts work and we settle into a tropical life of sand n surf. The very next morning, Gemma takes us out for a lesson. She's an amazing teacher. And after 10 years of pretend surf trips, we suddenly realise what it's all about. We are fully immersed in surf life. Everything is either 'sick' or 'awesome', and apparently someone surfing well is 'shredding'. Ru very very patiently explains the rules of the surf competition as Becky and I break concentration and laugh at the ridiculous names of the surfers - Taj, Clay, Koko Ho, and Wiggoley Dantes (who we call Wiggly Dance).

Gem and Ru are both so warm and generous and manage to make us feel at home within days of being here. Ru is a mac geek and is currently building a new website with a team who work for facebook. I suddenly go from feeling thousands of miles away from my old life as a web designer in London to feeling strangely close to it all, despite being in the middle of the jungle!

Costa Rica has the richest abundance of tropical wildlife in the world. I think. And we are witness to this on a daily basis… Howler monkeys scream at night, a man drives by trying to sell us a boa constrictor. Prodigy album cover style black and red one clawed crabs cover the surf drenched paths near the beach. Washed up baby turtles need rescuing by Innocent Gem, rays skim the surface as we bob on a board out at sea. And a turtle pops his head up to say hello as I am waiting for a wave. I find a baby boa writhing on our patio floor freshly-beheaded by a gardener, who we suspect doesn't want to meet its grown up self during his 9-5 job. Becky doesn't like it when I move it inside to the bathroom, rightly so as we are lately told that others boas smell them and come to find those in trouble. A recent road side sighting of a 9ft beauty confirms her fears.

Yan's big night out for Jack's leaving do rocks the boat as a normally lazy night life is turned into a shot slamming 2 am finish. A worried Becky is found pacing the floor of our new pad as I return, whistling after my big adventure.

Becky starts work and instantly settles into the Innocent lifestyle of early morning surfing, followed by hose shower, then a day at work. Early morning rises are followed by early bedtimes; a start contrast to our lives in England. I, however, have nothing to do bar prepare for Becky's 30th, sunbathe, and surf, and I struggle to find a rhythm. Am I on holiday? Or is this my life? I'm bored bored bored, poor me, and feel like a spare part. It's hard to meet people not attached to the surf school. I also feel a little detached from the real world; no phone connection, and very expensive internet connections.

So, to avoid the growing tension I am causing, get a bit of space, and buy a computer, I fly to LA. I mean, what else can I do? It's a great plan, and as I return from a lovely time visiting Graeme, Chloe and family, life starts to take off for me in Nosara. I get a job at the Beach Cafe, working for our new friends Joe and Chris, in my old career as a coffee shop Barista.

I feel plugged back into the real world, as I meet people left, right and centre, and even acquire some freelance design work with my newly purchased MacBook Pro. MMmmmmmm! Everyone in Nosara uses Macs! It's like a living Apple store. I even get some work fixing up machines and trying to resurrect dead hard drives.

We're actually getting quite good at surfing (Despite the above photo) . Becky is hardcore and bravely battles behemoth waves with 'I didn't even notice how big they were'. Our villa is amazing, a steal at the price we are paying. Our poor landlords wanted the burden off his hands after a string of bad luck that involved in the course of a week his father dying, losing his job, and crashing into the Hudson River after a flock of geese flew into the plane's engines. We're pretty much there to pay off his debt with his property manager, the manic but lovely Frenchie Agnes.

Everyone here either seems to be a surf instructor, yoga teacher or estate agent. And after a bit of a wobble, we reverse our decision to leave Nosara, and decide to come back for another season. Vanessa and Cottey pay us a visit, and it's great to be able to share some of these experiences with them. I hope to have more visitors over the next six months. We have a spare room, so come on over!

View 'Costa-ri-ka-ka-ka-ka!' photos here

Cotapaxi/ While I Blister On The Bum

We return to Quito, and can't wait to get the hell out of here again. So we head to the sister hostel of where we are staying 'The Secret Garden- Cotapaxi', a 2 hour bumpy ride from town and near a big old volcano. And we love it as soon as we get there. The hostel overlooks miles and miles of lush green countryside all the way up to the clear skies surrounding the volcano. The hostel itself is like a warm country house, log burning fire blazing away near two giant sofas, Dalmation dogs padding around making a nuisance of themselves, long communal table with board games stuffed on a shelf. All this... AND a compost toilet.

And the people are great too. Lazing about in hammocks and sofas, reading books and chatting. Jodi, the new manager hails from England and makes us feel comfortable straight away. Absolutely exhausted from our rainforest extravaganza, we can do little els the first night, barely able to muster the strength to play scrabble and drink a glass of wine. Meals are all inclusive and served up at a family style dining table, delicious food cooked from allotment grown produce. I try not to think of what kind of compost they thrived on.

The next day and somehow i've managed to find myself booked on a horse riding trip. Its something I never feel entirely comfortable with despite wanting to let the inner cowboy in me out. But my favoured option of fishing is no longer in season and I succomb to Becky's love of horse riding. Which starts really nicely, the sun shining as we able down a winding country lane. But ends in bitter cold misery as a sleet rain descends upon us. Hands barely able to function and bum feeling not just a little uncomfortable we dismount with immense relief.

[NB. Holly. You have complained about my blog containing too many graphical details as to the inner workings of my stomach and other unpleasant ramblings I may have innocently detailed in these here pages. So be warned, you may not want to read the next paragraph my sensitive little sis!]

Returning to the warm comforts of home, I immediately jump into the shower to bring some life back into my frost bitten skeleton. And as the blood starts pumping back into place, I shriek in horror as I feel what I believe to be two snake fangs sinking into my bum. Yelling in horror, Becky runs down stairs to see what all the fuss is about. 'Somethings bitten me, where the hell is it?'. But the culprit is nowhere to be found. The revelation slowly dawns on me that I actually have saddle sores on my bum as Becky points out that I have a perfectly mirrored blister on each bum cheek. Rather like a flesh Rorscarch test. Not being able to stretch to see it for myself, I get Becky to take a photo of the offending (In many, many ways) area and show it to me. Which she does with relative glee.

As a consequence of forgetting to delete these photos, two days later, a Dutch lady who is looking through our snaps gets a bit of a shock and politely hands it back to us looking rather embarassed. Any explanation as to what it is only make makes matters worse and us seem more perverted. And I now can't help singing 'While I Blister on the Bum' to the tune of The Violent Femmes 'Blister in the Sun'.

The next day we opt to climb up the initial stages of the Volcano. Glad to be on my feet instead of sitting down, we get dropped off by car at the foot of the Volcano and climb up to 5,000 meters. Which tests a few of the group, who struggle for breath at this height and have to take it slowly. A Snickers bar and a hot chocolate at the snowy refugio rewards our success. Before a group of kids enter, playing disturbingly mangled music through their mobile phones. So its doesn't just happen on the underground! Grrrrrrr.

At night we feed our new found hunger for Scrabble with anyone who will play. Jodi manages to win each and every game with ease as she organises kitchen staff and answers questions from dwellers mid turn. Our final game descends into rudeness as we spell out funny captions and take photographs of each other with such things as pieces stuck into our 'teef'.

We are sad to leave my second and Becky's top favourite hostel of the trip. But we've got a flight to catch!

View photos of 'Cotapaxi/ While I Blister On The Bum' here

An Amazon Adventure

The trip have dreamed of since reading Willard Price's Adventure series as a boy. The trip of a lifetime. And best of all, Becky's paying for it as my birthday present! We can't wait to leave Quito, a city we have approached hesitantly as each bartender and tour operator has warned us of being mugged at knife point. We're staying just off the neon strip in the new town prime targets for late night encounters with Ecuadorian dangers. Lou and Lee have joined us for our final trip together, before they head to the Galapagos and we head to Costa Rica for surf schooling.

We arrive at Lago Agrio, and despite being in the middle of town, evidence of Rainforest life is apparent, as we watch a boy walk past us on the way to school, a pet Sloth dangling to his shoulder. We are met by our guide... Is his name Lenin, Lennon or Lenny? As it turns out the Russian Dictator's name is popular amongst Ecuadorians, the current deputy Prime Minister sharing the same name.

Setting off in motorised canoe, we don't have to wait long to encounter wildlife, turning the first corner we see a group of Capuchin monkeys climbing through the trees (like Marcel the monkey from Friends). The boat drops us off at our lodge after a wonderous 2 hour whizz deep into the forest. But not so deep that the quality of accommodation is effected, our lodgings are wooden cabins positioned around a central square walkway. In the centre is a communal area where hammocks hang through 360°. Tarantulas are stationed on rooftops at military distance from one another, much to the dislike of Lou who has 'The Fear' of anything with 8 legs.

Our days pass packed with animal filled activity. They certainly keep us busy, with early morning bird watching, dolphin spotting, late night searches for Cayman and night time insect finding.

On the second day we go Piranha fishing, which is pretty much as grusome as it sounds. A crude fishing rod made of bamboo is loaded with well past its sell by date beef and planted in the water with lots of splashing to mimic a fish in distress. It takes quite a while to get a bite from the fish with deadliest teeth around, but once they do they keep on biting. A fish related competition ensues and I manage to even the scores between the German and English contingent by catching the second of the day. Lee manages to finally catch one on the second outing, and promptly kills it. But not before proudly posing for a picture with him beaming a prize winning smile as his catch bleeds it's last drop of life from its eye socket. His catch floats away as bait for the next batch of razor toothed biters.

And then we go for a swim... about 100m away from where we were fishing. A nervous paddle indeed, as the sun goes down on the horizon.

A day trip to the local community (calling it a village doesn't sound authentically Amazonian enough) finds me receiving a blessing from the Shaman, i'm now protected from Witchcraft, which is like a 'get out of jail free' card for the superstitious. I buy a black wooden ring for $1 and it lasts as long as you would expect it to at this price. Locals then make us Yukka bread, which we watch a local woman (Granddaughter to the Shamen) take from tree to edible pancake slices in half an hour. Luckily no lady spit is added to the recipe, as we have been warned of from fellow travellers.

Lenin, our guide, is half boy scout / half Tintin cartoon. He is obviously in a job he loves as he skillfully tracks down every bug or furry creature in the vicinity with a flash of his torch, looking for the red reflection of retina with every sweep, approaching each discovery with a slightly nerdy boyish enthusiasm which endears us to him. This approach is in stark contrast to another guide nicknamed 'Rambo' who, clad in a camoflage sleeveless top and far-too-short cut off denim shorts, baits crocodiles with chicken feet, climbs trees to manouveuer snakes towards cameras and fishes for Piranhas with a spear, wading in to knee height water to do so. But Lenin makes us laugh by the way he pronounces 'Rubber boots' - 'Wobbba Bwootz' and forgets the names of his 5 brothers and 3 sisters.

We have seen almost every animal the rainforest has to offer, except for the very shy Anaconda. Thoroughly happy, we set sail for the mainland and our next adventure. Willard Price, eat your heart out.

Play spot the monkey, spot the owl, spot the frog and spot the snake:-
View 'An Amazon Adventure' photos here

A Wobber

We're in Costa Rica. But you wouldn't have guessed it from this blog. I do have one very good excuse though- we got robbed. In the dead of night, someone crept into our house and explored each room for valuables, before noisily opening our bedroom door and stealing my beloved rucksack. Luckily our bedroom door scrapes on the floor in a way similar to scraping fingernails down a blackboard, so I woke up thinking it was Becky going to the loo, only to discover in a deep slumber that she was still lying next to me fast asleep. After a few hazy moments of particularly slow thinking I got up, thinking something was up and scared the guy off. How sexist to assume its was a guy. By the time I made it to the slightly ajar front door, the thief must have run off deep into the jungle. Just as well really, as I was scared shitless yet still shouting obscenities at nearby trees. Hope they didn't take it personally.

So, armed with a broom and frying pan (seriously) Becky and I scanned the area before attempting to warn neighbours that there was someone creeping about.

So the thief made off with my lovely rucksack, blue waterbottle, black notepad, security lock (ironic?), ipod cable, wallet with newly sent credit card and money, and most importantly... my notepad with 4 blog entries fully written up. It was almost as if the thief had read my blog entry on 'The top 5 things in my backpack' and targeted my most loved of posessions!

As a consequence, I have been unable to force myself to remember and rewrite these entries. Until now. So bear with me, I am about 3 months behind, but am slowly catching up with myself again. I'm 30, my memory isn't quite as good as it used to be.

Check back soon for new but very old rewritten blogs!

5 useless things I have sent packing

1. A second pair of jeans- Honestly, what was I thinking?
2. Aqua tabs from ebay- Ok, so how was I to know that they purified 25 litres at a time and no human can possibly carry that much water!
3. Skype travel headsets- The geek in me forced me to bring them. Becky took one look at them and ordered me to send them back. " All the internet cafes that have skype have them anyway".
4. Sports Sandals- I liked these until Becky started calling them "Sports Sandals". So far, have only been used when my flip flops broke halfway back from San Thelmo market.
5. My voice box. Perhaps only useless when asked to switch to 'Spanish' mode. Utterly useless so far.

Almost made it into this list- My 10 year old rucksack which ruined my back, Thick ski socks which are useless for walking and horrendously smelly once they have been used as such, malaria tablets when nowhere near malaria zones.

Machu Pichu With A Splash

Or as Neil likes to call it`Pikacu`. Not to be confused with the yellow coloured, rosy cheeked Japenese cartoon character, we are off to the historical Inka site of roughly the same name. Preserved from Spanish invasion and subsequent pillaging by- a) Being evacuated by its residents so as to mask attention to its existence b) Being deliberately overgrown by forestry (they burnt it down to make it grow faster and cover the city) and c) Being bloody high up at the top of a mountain.

We all arrive at Cusco, minus Lou`s bag which has been lost in confusion at Copacabana when a bus fault meant we had to change buses. Several people reassure her that it has been found but seemingly do nothing to organise its retrieval. The toad like drivers of our next bus try to subtly move the bus out with our bags but not us on board. The whole bus is waiting for us and when so much time passes that it seems that short of lying in front its wheels, theres nothing we can do to prevent its departure. So we hop on and the drive puts his flipper on the accelerator.

The bus journey is a sales free for all as ice cream sellers, beggars, book salesmen and their wives are all allowed on to flog us their wares throughout the night. Keeping us rather on edge. Arriving in Cusco tired and not just a little emotional we crash in front of the TV in our hotel room to compose ourselves. Much to her relief, Lou is reunited with her bag the next day.

Cusco continues as Peru started. People pester us to buy massages, paintings, finger puppets (I succumb to one very adult looking child seller who amusingly calls a ghost finger puppet `Michael Jackson`), wooden carvings and an inordinate amount of llama patterned woolen products. All this has recently been beaten by one guy trying to sell me a shelving unit in the Rainforest despite me carrying my backpack at the time!

The Inka trail needs to be booked way in advance, so we sign on to the lesser known Larez trek which will take us to Machu Pichu over 4 days. Crazily enough we are booked onto a trip with some friends we met on the Uyuni salt plains trip. Its a little strange when you are travelling hundreds of miles and still bump into people going in the same direction.

Our guide is called Juan and according to his friend he is a 'chick magnet'. But there doesn`t seem to be any real evidence to substantiate this claim. He walks us along our daily treks introducing us to local communities, telling us about the land history past and present. Always adding his trademark `pero but` in every sentence and merrily referring to us as `amigos`. We are spoilt by being waited on by 2 porters, a chef called Cesar and his younger brother/assistant chef called... `Mike`. I think their parents fell into a similar trap when choosing names as mine did. Our meals are amazing and the tents are already set up for us by the time we arrive at camp. This ludicrous pampering even extends to a breakfast cuppa in bed in the morning. Normally coca leaf tea, which is meant to help you adapt to the altitude, we`re over 4,000m here. Juan even shows us how to chew the coca leaves to stimulate your legs on a long walk, rolling them up and chewing them in the side of your mouth. Very wild west.

We are a group of 4 added to but kept very separate from a team of 12 we name `Team A`. The llama wool sellers can even sniff us out up a mountain, as we are amused to see them setting up shop outside our tents! They are however very welcome as they sell us beers and much needed night socks (llama patterned of course!). On the first night, Juan tells us ghostly stories of murders on the trek. Then proceeds to have a very loud nightmare from a neighbouring tent. His cries echo throughout the campsite.

Local children are cunningly positioned throughout our treks, well aware that we come bearing gifts of toy cars, balls and biscuits which we trade in return for photographs of them and stories. We are priviledged to be allowed into one elderly couple`s house to see how they live. Guinea pigs (a delicacy in this country. Not much meat on and quite expensive) roam freely under their beds, adding warmth at night. How do they sleep? On another occasion we join a group of farmers and help (for want of a better word) them harvesting their crop. Truly back breaking work! The treks are long, but as we plod through lush countryside I am reminded of Yorkshire, but with llamas.

All is going well, when we stop by a stream for lunch and a bask in the sun. As i`m crossing a rock bridge with two drinks in my hand, a huge rock collapses and sends me leg first into the water with a splash. Holding my camera under my arm! Two porters have to help me out from under the bridge, still clutching the cups and a flooded digital SLR. OUCH! It works for 12 hours and then gives up the will to live. Luckily insurance should have that covered. Unfortunately, now I have 2 broken cameras in my possession with one of the wonders of the world a day away. So no way of documenting my every minute. Strangely liberating as it turns out.

I board an old colonial feeling train to Aguas Calientes, finding it strange not to be looking at the world through a viewfinder. The town is labyrinthian, a huge sprawling market saturated in Chinese restaurants. Our hotel is a kitsch mix of silken materials, embroidered curtains with spangly trims, reminding me of huge boxer`s shorts.

A 4am wake up call and we`re winding our way up a precarious misty path to Machu Pichu. We enter and are whizzed along to the far side to book entrance to Waynu Pichu, the neighbouring taller mountain you can climb for an aerial view of Machu Pichu. We`re hardly allowed to stop to take stock of what we have come here to see! Juan has kicked into`info guide`mode and obviously shows he is keen to deliver his learnt- by- heart historical monologue to his first batch of students. Melting in the morning sun and wishing to roam free we grudgingly traipse after him. We (well, not me) continue to take photographs as he talks, much to his annoyance. An hour and a half later he asks if we have any questions. `Wheres the nearest toilet?`. We are all busting in his captivity.

The site is impressive, only 10% needing complete restoration from how it was rediscovered in the early 1900`s. Even Becky who thought it would be a touristy disappointment was impressed.

As we climb Waynu Pichu, 'How did they put stone steps ALL the way up here?`, we are taken back in time (not that long ago actually as it turns out) to when this hilltop was inhabited by 700 Inka residents. Surprisingly undisturbed by commercial needs, despite its protector`s casual attitude to its preservation- A film crew managed to crash a crane into the most important section when filming a television commercial.The city and surrounding area are remarkably free from human interference. On the way out we collect a special Machu Pichu stamp for our passports.

After a couple of months at high altitude we head for Lima, this time by air. With little time before we need to be in Costa Rica, we have turned into jet setting `flash`packers.

Onwards and downwards!

I`m Firty

La Paz. Peace. Anything but. It feels like you've been beamed 20 years back. La Paz is a bowl like city, and the whole city slopes up from a central point, with houses the only thing to see on the horizon. Dried llama foetuses hang by the neck from witches' market stalls, and smells you wish you'd never smelt colour the wild, people-filled streets. Lee gets his bag slashed, but luckily nothing is stolen. Becky replaces her camera with a superior model.

We book a bike tour along 'The world's most dangerous road'. What better way to celebrate my last day in my 20's!

And as we set off along a barely started let alone finished road, sheer drops to my left hand side and road corners dedicated to accident prone cyclists, I wonder if I will make it to the big 'three-oh'. In 5 hours we wind down 64km of road and 3600m of height, almost losing Lee to a badly timed skid inches from the precipice. Relieved and exhausted we reach an eco-nature reserve. Monkeys, bears and parrots cheer our success.

A funny tummy greets me as soon as I step foot into our hostel room. The best timed illness I have ever had thretens to ruin my birthday the next day, as I cling to the toilet and rest my head on a well placed sinkbowl. But a breakfast of Pringles and coke fuel my recovery on a 3 hour trip to 'The Isla del Sol'. I am fighting fit to spend my first day as a thirty year old on an island where the Inca dynasty originated. It cheers me up to receive open cards with messages from friends and family, and I'm not ashamed to say I had a tear in my eye as I read ¨getting old¨greetings from my nearest and dearest. Thanks Becky, you lovely, sneaky thing!

A boat trip to the island from mainland Copacabana, and a long trudge up the virtual cliff face along Inca steps, and we're in the most amazing spot in the world, overlooking the reflecting surface of Lake Titikaka. Our hostel owner promptly ruins the suprise but not the effect of the biggest birthday cake I have ever seen... who would have thought I could understand 'cake' in Spanish, I must be improving! Local girls tuck into and consume 4 slices of cake in record time and pose for a lovely birthday group shot. Face mask, flower pot hat, chocolates from Lee&Lou, stripy scarf and a rainforest trip - how lucky am I?

Well timed Easter day fireworks explode in the sky as we tuck into a wine soaked trout dinner served by giggling teenager waitresses. What a place to be on such a wonderful day!

View `I'm Firty´photos here

Floating on Salt / Surfing on Sand

The bus trundles through the Atacama desert pass, winding along endless desert road and eventually plonking us at San Pedro de Atacama, a little oasis in the middle of nowhere, but seemingly populated with every English person outside of the UK. Tourist central but somehow unspoiled.

We sandboard down dunes, pretty difficult without surf (or as it turns out candle wax) which is needed to get started. Pockets full of sand and sore thighs. We watch the sun go down from the Valle de la Luna. Beautiful red skies over endless desert terrain. All seems perfect until I realise I've lost my credit card, left in a machine. Once it's cancelled, we're down to just one card between us as I've forgotten my other pin number and Becky's debit card is one strike. Doh!

3am the next day and we're waiting for our tour bus to take us to the amazing Tatio Geysers. And at 5am, feeling angry, cold and tired, we return to bed realising it's not turning up for us. The tour company refunds us and gives us a new tour, to the salt lagoons, gratis. An interesting floating experience with pockets of freezing water on top of hot water at our toes. The last pictures from my handycam show us floating in the sun, toes in the air and smiles on our faces. Then the tour guide drops it, leaving it unable to focus. Silently, I pray that my run of bad luck is limited to 3.

And maybe it has, as I meet a couple of fellow countrymen (should that be countrypeople?) over the washing line at the hostel. They're from Crystal Palace, 5mins from where we used to live. They're also called Lee&Lou (pop duo or kids' tv presenters?) and are on honeymoon. They recommend a tour company and before we know it we are booked on a 3 day 4x4 tour to the Bolivian salt plains with them and 9 others. 6 english, 2 dutch, 2 french, 2 czech, 1 spanish in total.

First stop is the Bolivian border control, which should hardly be called that. Much easier-going than the thorough searching of their Chilean counterpart. A bus wreckage I am taking photos of turns out to double as the toilet, as mid-shot a lady stands up to finish her business.

Bolivia feels different immediately. Amazing landscapes, horrendous toilets and local women dressed in a uniform of bright coloured shawls, bowler hats resting on their heads at jaunty angles and long black dusty dresses bulked out with layer upon layer of petticoatage. The people are noticably more shy; either avoiding eye contact altogether or giggling at me to my face. Much to my amusement.

The team bonds as we are driven by our Bolivian guide, Emilio (Estevez), to flamingo populated lakes, bubbling sulphur stinking geyser ponds, salt plains, desert sculpted rocks, volcanoes and endless desert dust.

Disaster strikes as Becky loses / has her camera stolen at a thermal spa. A day in and with so many sights to see, she mourns the loss of her camera and picture-self-sufficiency, as I try to offer mine as a healer.

TV theme tune pop quizzes, Marmite challenges, sharing box wine. ¨Baby duches¨and taut sheets keep our 6 person dorm awake and laughing like teenagers on a sleepover.

We stay in a small village, where the hostel owner's 8 year old wheeler-dealer son harasses us all for shower money. He'll go far. Our mixed nationality football team takes on and narrowly beats the locals. The altitude plays its part, and at 4,000m, our lack of fitness shows as any burst of speed results in a wheezing fit. One highlight shows us all bending over for air as a local 12 year old bursts through to snatch a goal.

An early start on the final day and we are slap bang and sleepy in the middle of 12,000sqkm of salt plain as the sun is rising. The salt is crystalised at our feet in an alien hexagonal pattern and the brilliant white landscape makes me feel like we are in a toothpaste commercial. This craziness continues as we are driven to a salt island covered in cacti. It feels like Spongebob Squarepants might pop up at any moment. We then create team pictures using the white salt plains as our photographic studio backdrop. Funny as hell.

Its Lou's birthday, and arriving at our final destination we celebrate with pizza and wine, presenting a llama-leg-warmer present.

Fantastic!

View ¨Surfing on Sand¨photos here
View ¨Floating on Salt¨photos here

Top 5 things in my backpack

1. Waterbottle- filled daily and during agua emergencies. A kind lady filled it up at the Brazilian checkpoint. Bless you whoever you were.
2. Gaucho knife- Despite the initial shock, this has proved itself a most useful item. So far used to cut both salami and sewage pipes. That reminds me, better give it a wash.
3. Finisterre clothing- body warmer and merino tops. Light, compact, warm and stylish (even on me. And the kind people in the shop sent me a new one out without the last having been returned. Love them. http://www.finisterreuk.com/
4. Black moleskin pad. Its in my pocket now. Thanks Al and Moira.
5. HSBC plus account. You've got to pay monthly but theres no charge for ATM withdrawls. Pity I lost the card.
   

Things that almost made it into the top 5:- Foldable wash bag. Salamon walking boots. Becky (Entertainment and Translation purposes). Headtorch. Dry bags.

Cafayate

It was pretty. We did a wine tour.

Pumamarca

Stripy red hills. Argentina 1 - Bolivia 6. The saltiest quinoa soup. Red mud footprints. Llama stew. Chance book swapping with a french jewellery maker/ translator in the street. Gin rummy with a local named 'Air'. Pan pipe parties.

View `Pumamarca`photos here

Llama Farmers

Wwoof! Thats the name of the game as we rock up at the organic farm where we will be working for the next three weeks in a concerted effort to stop haemorrhaging money and do some good for a change. We are at 2,400 meters and the altitude is apparent as we struggle up to be greeted by our host, Roberto, who is standing uphill. We say hello to his wife Christina (from New Zealand) and son Reymi (aka Nahuel, aka Campion) out of breath and feeling dizzy. The other residents, llamas, donkey, horses, goats, chickens, and ducks, greet our arrival feigning disinterest, which we wish was the case with Blacky the dog who scares the life out of us with a whirl of hyperactivity. As he continues to jump on us, we retreat into the volunteer's house out of pure desperation.

The farm started 10 years ago as a plot of land with a tent on it and now proudly boasts herb gardens, vegetable patches (we pick broccoli, silverbeet, rhubarb, runner beans, lettuces, and strawberries fresh for our dinners), pond, main house, volunteer house (all adobe/ mud brick built), fields, shop and semi built green house. The farm overlooks the entire valley of Tafi del Valle, and at 2,400m we are living above the clouds that move about the valley to make every glance different from the next.

We are introduced to the other two volunteers, Joelle and Eden (who find my name strange... ironic?) and set about trying to make ourselves useful, painting a sign to feature in a photo opportunity for Roberto-led tours around the farm, then stripping, sealing and painting doors and windows; cutting, picking and separating herbs to be sold as medicines; digging trenches to escort rain water off the premises (it takes all day for the two of us to dig a 15cm x 30cm x30cm trench); and building steps from bamboo cane and mud amongst many other things.

The house is basic but homely once we settle in, and the other girls leave it all to us having had an unproductive experience. The whole building has been built from wood, or lashed with llama skin and mud brick. Roberto shows us how to make mud brick, which is brick made from straw water and... urm... mud left to solidify in the sun. Precarious electric cables hang from the wall and we have to boil our shower water as if waiting for a cup of tea, 20mins prior to a wash.

Day 5 strikes and the toilet is flooding the bathroom, giving us a most unwanted foot spa. The girls before us said it was ¨fiiiiiiiinnnnnne¨ to flush paper down the loo, which we were both doing for the first few days until I stopped, seeing there might be a small problem. Unfortunately it is only us left to face the music and Becky gets the brunt of the blame as Roberto sets about making her life a misery with snide comments and digs. They should have told us this was the case, or put up a sign... but as we set about trying to help Roberto solve the problem, we feel like dumb Europeans who are now a hinderance rather than a help.

There's no other way to repair the problem than by digging up most of the area in front of the house, ruining it for tour groups who provide a much needed income during the low season. After over a day's worth of digging, I strike shit. 7 feet down and covered in mud. Roberto has mysteriously disappeared, but as Becky provides me with a much needed scented facemask I scoop the unwanted blockage into a bucket. I am at the mercy to whatever is emerging from the blocked pipe... which seems to be full of tree roots, to the point where it is no longer a cylindar, more of a rectangle and cracked in several places. The clever tree has spent the last 10 years drinking from the sewage supply. Eeeeew! Us stupid Europeans are now in the clear, but no apology is offered by Roberto, despite his amazement that it is unbelieveable that the system has worked up until now. In fact he takes the bizarre tact of seemingly further trying to wind up Becky with tales of his 100m records and opposing views on religion. It's fair to say that Argentinian men find it hard apologising.

A strange atmosphere (and smell) lingers for a few days, only healed by Roberto's admiration of Becky's transformation of the offending loo's door into a work of art. After several draft designs, a scenic valley view filled with a gaucho on a horse, condors and a rhea, all masked by painted-on, surrounding brick-work is taking shape. Is a new career path for Becky revealing itself?

The simple life suits us after fleeing the city and our days slip by in ritualistic fashion. Waking to the sounds of hens (they sleep high up in the trees outside our window for protection) / breakfast of mango chutney, cereal, toast and coffee/ work / amazing slap up lunch / siesta for me / leftover dinner / vino patero and an ipod movie, game of cards or book before falling into bed kitted-up in thermals and a well-deserved, animal-noise-interrupted sleep.

Becky and Christina get on like a house on fire and little Reymi gradually seems to warm to us, going from a quick runaway whenever we approach to coining the greeting 'Bucky and Lan' whenever he sees us. We observe the daily life of a farm; gauchos herding cattle, chickens sprinting after flies, Roberto breaking in a wild horse, the dog watching (and biting) the llamas at night and moths fighting to get into our cosy bunk. Our one night out in town results in a local couple driving us home at 2mph. I cook at least 5 crumble puddings using 'THE OMA'S' fruit harvest... mmmmmmmmmm!

We are sad to leave this life and family we feel we have got so close to. Feeling we have made a difference and learnt a hell of a lot, Roberto helps us onto a bus 5 hours after it was meant to arrive! Argentimes!

View `Llama Farmers´ photos here

Operation Bikini Reclamation - an update

This is Anwar`s response
__________________

hi luke i found the bikini
hahahahaha
very nice !!!
how I will send you this man?
__________________

Anwar is clearly much busier than my brother.

Operation Bikini Reclamation

And so disaster strikes. We´re on a bus to the farm and Becky realises she has left her beloved bikini at the hostel. As we won´t be near a computer for ages (or at least thats what we think will be the case) i send my beloved brother a text and ask him to contact the owner for us in one simple, concise email. This is what he sends. He obviously isn´t as busy at work as he leads us to believe.
____________________

Anwar,

Not sure if you are a guest or owner/ member of staff but my brother (yan walton, he looks a bit like nate from 6 feet under) recently stayed at your hostel with his girlfriend becky bradley and he has asked me to get in contact with you on their behalf:

Unfortunately a major situation has occurred in which it seems that becky has left a green bikini of hers at your hostel and is now on a bus in 'the middle of nowhere' regretting this disaster and wondering how she can get on with her life. The bikini was of huge sentimental value to becky, having been in her belongings for upwards of 6 months and is vital for a number of reasons:

1 - prevents sunburn
2 - covers her 'womanly bits' from prying eyes (such as yans)
3 - is a fashion statement due to green being 'like, totally 2009'
4 - serves as a constant reminder of the dangers of nuclear weaponry (bikini atoll being the site of many test of nuclear bombs during 1940's and 50's)
5 - is an important item of clothing in preventing hypothermia when sunbathing

Yan has failed to further brief me on how he wishes to proceed with what we are now calling 'operation bikini reclamation' but has requested that I inform you that he will shortly be in contact with you. He also requested that if possible you keep the bikini in a suitably safe environment, perhaps an actual safe would be a possibility.

Obviously the real victim in this whole escapade is none other than becky bradley herself, with yan holding little regard for said bikini most due to bitterness caused by item 2. Thank you for any help that you are able to offer, yan and becky are genuinely grateful whilst I am merely bored at work on a friday afternoon.

yours sincerely

Luke Walton (brother of yan walton, friend to becky bradley and the stars)

____________________________

This will unfortunately probably be the funniest thing on the blog for a while, if not forever. Unless we let Luke make another guest appearance.

Check the blog soon for ´Operation Bikini Reclamation´progress

Iguazu Falls

They fall and then they keep falling! We`re in Brazil and after fleeing the city it feels like an instant tropical change. The heat whacks us into snooze mode as soon as we step off the bus. Making it all the easier to relax into the Brazil way of life.

A Short bus journey (or at least it should have been, but Becky let me do the talking!) across the border, yet another passport stamp collected, and we find ourselves walking up a red dirt track to ´Hostel Natura´. And... this is what paradise looks like. Surely this is a health retreat, not a hostel? The owner, Anwar is so relaxed he is almost horizontal, and rightfully so as we relax straight into his place that has two fish filled lakes (which i swim in), hammocks idyllically stretched between two paired trees ,pool table, cachassa stocked bar and buffet meals laid on by his Aunt/chef. A-MAZE-ING. The people are great and the party like atmosphere almost knock the main attraction, the waterfalls, into second place. But not quite. We spend two days walking paths on both the Brazilian and then the Argentinian side of the falls and are increasingly stunned at every new angle. I pack my exhausted camera up at the end of the second day of spectacular splashing splendor and we revel in a Caipirinha fuelled send off.

Departure day, and Becky kicks off the first ever ´Miteyvegimar´challenge. As the title somewhat cryptically suggests, its Marmite versus Vegimite. Literally, a bite to the bitter end. Blindfolded contenders opt for their favoured yeast extract covered slice of toast. Marmite suffers a 5-2 loss as we cross back into Argentina in a hysterically loud Brazilian taxi and head west in with a sulking Becky clutching her beloved tub of Marmite.

View my Flickr photos of Iguazu here

Buenos Aires

24 hour bus journey from Barlioche and a numb bum. A taxi ride to our new apartment for a month and we`re 2 hours early so set up camp in cafe on the opposite corner. An old retired RAF colnel starts talking to us and a quick glance at his watch reveals that BA is an hour ahead of the rest of Argentina. A mad dash across the road and the owner is still there to meet us. We´re in and the flat is great. An open plan kitchen living room with bedroom at the top of side stairs. Its only when we start taking a closer look that the cracks appear. Broken blinds, torn bedding and a number opf coooking utensils which require Crystal Maze style ingenuity to cook a good feed. I end up boiling Spaghetti in the kettle.

We´re staying in Palermo, Buenos Aire´s version of Shoreditch, which has a lively square for late night drinking and tonnes of boutique style clothes shops where Becky searches for ´floaty dresses´. San Telmo is our second favourite haunt and should be twinned with London´s Notting Hill, antique shops and sunday market.

The main objective for the month spent in BA is for us, especially me to learn some Spanish. Which I take to like a duck to molten lava. Two days into lessons, I lay awake at night, hundreds of new words spin uselessly around my head colliding with scattered verb tenses whichi am similarly unable to control. What the hell was ´Cat´in Spanish again??? A question I struggle to answer for at least 4hours which Becky resolves the instant she wakes up.This pretty much sums up our different Spanish capabilities as Becks whisses through every verb tense known to man and gobbles up vocabulary as if there is no tomorrow. I check out of my Instant Spanish/ ¨Did I not mention I was a COMPLETE BEGINNER??¨ group sessions in favour of the spoon fed one on one tutor sessions.

Our perfect month in BA is further hindered by another Yan problem. Primarily massive shooting pains in my right leg, which I can only explain to the casual observer when doubled up in pain as ´A heart attack, but in my leg´. It seems I have syatica,did Spanish do this to me? Nope,probably the huge back pack that I lugged around a mountain over 9 days. Not the first time this 4 year football related injury has hindered me, but as I and indeed WE struggle to sleep or sit still for one meal/ drink, it is easily the most painful it has ever been. I am constantly distracted by it and miserable as a consequence, feeling like a geriatric trapped in a nearly 30 year old´s body. However regular house visits (yes in this country they come to you) from a physio (he speaks bad English, I speak bad Spanish), enough pain killers to tranquilise a horse and twice daily stretches (you may have seen the photos on Becky`s facebook) and i`m slowly on the mend. But I spend 6 weeks avoiding a computer, the reason for lack of blog entries, and now I judge restaurants and bars not by the menu or the ambiance but by how comfortable their chairs look!

But through these ups and downs we manage to thorougly explore Buenos Aires. Making friends from Spanish school, crazy dancing Germans and mad American cat-scaring chefs(yes thats you Batya). We even attempt a Tango lesson which very suprisingly I enjoy more than Becky though I fail to remember even a simple 8 step sequence or control my `Woman´in any way, shape or form. Nothing new there.

One thing I feel I should mention to would be travellers is the need for secure pockets. So far we have felt safe and sound whilst we´ve been away. But a bustling subway rides finds me a near-victim of a pick pocket. Get zip pockets! And also be wary of men carrying winter coats underarm on a blistering summer´s day. Especially when he sidles up to the two blonde tourists who are not quite sure how they stick out like a sore thumb! My second warning is, carry your rucksack on your front when walking through thief laden bus stations. They only want your shiny blue water bottle!

However, Buenos Aires is great and we are lucky enough to receive some inside tips from a couple of Local´s, Kate a friend of Paul´s and Jorge, my cousin´s husband´s cousin´s husband. Confused? Don´t blame you. Top tìps include a very exclusive restaurant catering only for 12 people a night and set in the owner´s trendy house, serving a pescaterian cuisine. An amazing and not unboozy Valentine´s night is spent talking to coupled up guests from across the globe. The hosts make us feel as comfortable as if their home was our own. Desnivel was another recommendation which Jorge was kind enough to take us to himself, exactly the type of authentic place frequented by locals we were looking for. Serving steak three would struggle to finish. Thanks also to Jorge for taking me out around town showing me local haunts and kebab shop bust ups, where we finished the night munching the most delicious chorro pan in a futile attempt to sober up.

Buenos Aires ended on a high, a two day trip to Uruguay. Colonia is a beautiful, quaint town with cobbled streets and unreasonably expensive lunches if you happen to find the wrong place. With a quiet atmosphere which we tried to ruin with a brilliant dune buggy ride around the area.

Two months in and after a month in the city we are ready to head north...

Flickr album for Buenos Aires

Becky`s Barlioche

8 days. Becky´s second home. Tato´s hostel. Uncomfortable bed. Bum target. Over the counter injection. Lake beaches. Bike ride. Frey Refugio, snoring man touching me up. GVI peeps. Fondue and lost sunglasses. Over and out.

>Flickr photo album for this chapter

Walking on a Glaciar

Now, some of you may have noticed i haven`t updated this blog for a while, or even in fact since i started it. You´d be right. I can explain this, honest, but am not going to now, but in my `Buenos Aires`post that will be coming shortly. You may think this is a feeble attempt to keep you reading. And you´d be right. For now though, read on as if nothing happened here. Cheers...

... And so we arrive at El Chalten, which looks to me as if it has been constructed in a matter of days. Those days being fairly recent. We watch as the main road is literally started and finished during our short three day stay here. El Chalten is a higgledy piggledy accumulation of no more than one storey buildings spread over a loose hub of a town. Our hostel owner laughs when we ask where the centre of town is saying ´There is no centre, it just is´. The same could also be said of his hostel which seems to have been created by a builder with only a scant grasping of either stability or protection from the elements. The first night there i have the pleasure of a mid sleep shower as the poor excuse for a roof decides i need an early wash. The hostel is however full of a nice bunch, with nationalities ranging from Indian, German through to Israeli. The latter decide on the second night to pack for their next day´s travels at midnight thus disturbing the entire room only to add a 1am shower (not togeter i don`t think) to the pot. These very same guys have already endered themselves to us by firstly dictating to us how to trek around the mountain and then proceed on a 12 hour trek in the rain with only fleeces for comfort. They returned shivering wrecks but still not wanting to lose face. The fateful third night features my first night of ´Stomach complications´and the whole dorm tucks themselves to sleep to my ´sounds´eminating from the ensuite. I am embarassingly aware, yet unable to do anything about them.

Anyway, all is not doom and gloom and El Chalten is a lovely town with a lot of character, far less polished that El Calafate and far more discreetly touristy, surrouded by rolling hills and mountains. With that in mind we sign up for a glaciar walk...

... and at 7 am the next day we shelter from the rain in the cimbing centre doorway with a man who turns out to be our guide for the day. As the two other trekkers turn up, Dutch girls, we set out on what looks to be a soggy experience. And i´m not wrong as the rain continues to pour during out 4hr trek uphill, our winch river crossing, our sliding down mud flats until, after our stepping down boulders in what seems to be avalanche territory, it spills us out onto the foot of a glaciar. By now, my waterproof boots have given up the fight and my feet are swimming in 3 inches of water. This, however, is nothing compared to the others who don`t appear to have a dry bone between them. Becky´s raincoat waved the surrender flag early and as we attach crampons and make our way up onto a solid block of ice i can see her whole body shaking from the cold. The glaciar is amazing though, and we trudge between walls of ice and slide down giant ice cubes to our 10m climbing wall... of ice. Each of us in turn dons a hat and ice picks and attempts to Spiderman it up the freezing wall, whilst the others huddle together like penguins in the icy breeze and rain. Both of us manage to make it to the top, beating the Dutch girls to it,bt becky makes it with a lot more style and grace as i return to earth a wobbling, sponge-legged mess.

On our return back, obviously still in the rain. One of the Dutch girls is clearly far from enjoying herself and is stumbling due to physical and emotional exhaustion. And lagging some 50m behind the others, i witness her fall awkwardly on her hand, lifting herself up,pulling her glove off to reveal one finger at a 90 degree (where the hell is the degree sign on this keyboard???) angle from where it should have been. Our up til now silent guide very calmly and cooly (no pun intended) pops it back into position with instant relief to all involved, particularly the owner of said finger.

We return from our 12hr cold shower at a gallop and seel refuge in our bunk where we stay eating chocolate and drinking tea for the next 24hrs straight.

Note to selves, Ice climbing must always be accompained by sun.

> Flickr photo album for this chapter

Torres del Paine

After a nice gentle start, two days spent relaxing, eating the occasional steak and having spent an new year a day early with Becky´s new friends Debbie and Rich, we prepare for a 10 day trek around Torres del Paine, a nearby national park. Pain being the operative word.

Becky prepares food rations, kit list and itinerary. I sit back and stare in complete shock.She, having spent the last 3 months doing this type of thing is well into the swing of things. I on the other hand have spent the past 3 months drinking and eating too much, as is required with Christmas, and it takes me the best part of 3 days to catch up with her. She shows me how to pack a rucksack properly (which i still haven`t quite mastered), cook a slap up camp meal with just an onion and packet of `smash´ potato and tell the difference between a juvenile, sub adult and adult condor which fly above us. After her GVI training, i am her first student.

2 days in and after solid rain, we are suffering and Becky`s morale in general is at a low. As we wake and put on our still damp clothes and pack up our still wet tent, she informs me that she is more used to the sun and heat up north. Defeat seems imminent as the day continues in the rain. Setting up camp, we decide to get into the nearest Refugio and get a warm meal and bottle of wine, with my smelly socks drying underneath the table. This decision saves the rest of our trip, as Becky wakes me to say that she sees glimpses of sun (it does exist!) and morale is boosted.

We embark on a walk known as the Q, which involves a complete walk around the circuit of the park, plus a couple of extra bits. This walk features, amongst many other things, bubbling footblisters, 2 days of solid rain, an entire day being eaten alive by swarms of mosquitoes (I cannot explain the sheer horridness of this), climbing up precarious cliff face ladders, wind that would almost knockyou off your feet, crossing rivers all the while carrying and cooking all our food and worldly possessions. However, 5 days in, we climbed to the highest peak to observe the highlight of the trek, Grey Glacier from above, an amazing sight amazingly on the clearest day of the trek! Well worth the blood, sweat, bites, uncomfortable roll mats and porridge breakfasts!

Somehow, an idle conversation between Becky and another girl at a campsite basin, has turned into rumor as someone comes over to ask if i was the one who hadn´t slept for two whole nights (bit of an exaggeration) before making the final steep walk... What a legend, but in fact more to do with an inability to sleep on roll mats that any rock and roll excess i´m afraid.

We have covered 131.4 km in under 8 days and return to town to enjoy a steak feast that has acted like a carrot on a stick for the past 10 days.

Flickr link to ´Torres del Paine`album

Arriving at the end of the world...

After a 29 hour journey. I arrive at Punta Arenas. Becky is there to greet me and is a sight for sore eyes, to say the least. After over a day of travel, on 3 different planes with no onboard entertainment (thanks Iberia) and a slight accident with an exploading aftersun bottle, am sure the same cannot be said for me.
And so the journey begins...