Saturday, November 22, 2008

Fiord of the rings

The Fiordland region of South Island New Zealand is deservedly regarded as one of the Earth's natural wonders. It is true wilderness. It is very, very, very wet. And it is spectacular. While even monsoon bound tropical regions might receive 2-3 metres of rain a year, parts of Scotland might get 4m, southern England gets just 75cm - Fiodland gets a whopping 7m of rain a year. It rains pretty much every day, especially in winter and spring - and it is big rain. While this is not good for your tan it is particularly handy if you have stunning glacially eroded Fjord-like cliffs plunging vertically into the ocean - and you like to see them plastered with awesome cascades.

Milford Sound is the most popular Fiord but we were there just before peak. With more spending power we would have considered a kayak trip or a trip to more remote Doubtful Sound but we were chuffed when our 99 capacity boat only had 11 passengers. Plied with free coffee we set out into the mist as Mitre Peak towered over us and waterfall after waterfall avalanched around us. We didn't even see it at its most spectacular - even more rain would have turned on the Cathedral group of falls, but it was jawdropping. We saw more penguins and seals and then we put on big sailors' coats and went to get close to one of the falls as the captain and commentator edged us nearer. Then one of the hands needed help with a tray of glasses. I took the tray and then it was too late. I had unwittingly fallen into a highly dampening game of cat and mouse. As the ship (for it was bigger than a boat) was adjusted with its prow under the falls, I had to side step under the rain of water in order to fill up the twenty glasses in the plastic tray I was holding. And there was a lot of water. And I got very wet as I disorientatedly shuffled back and forth. But they were filled. We laughed and we drank Fiord-rock-permeated-fresh-New-Zealand rainwater.

The road to Milford Sound, cunningly named the Milford Road, is pretty unforgiving. There are no petrol stations for 300km, plenty of passes, high alpine scenery, the long and treacherous Homer Tunnel and Gunns Camp. Just off the main road we stayed at the most wonderful caravan park. Passed down through the Gunn family from one of the area's original pioneers, the place was a marvel, packed with frontier trinkets and history and lavished with the most awful visual gags and puns around the grounds. The washing lines of burnt toast being readied to become clocks were a personal highlight.


Key Summit

Just a hint of Gunns Camp

The monstrous Milford Sound

Faffing under waterfalls

200-1500m waterfalls all around

Sheep country

We had one month in New Zealand, during which we were accompanied by our trusty steed, Fiddy. We flew into Christchurch on South Island via Auckland and went to the camper depot with fear and trepidation filling our hearts. We had signed up for a Wicked Camper you see. They are the cheapest, known for their rough and ready no-frills approach, but also known for the graffiti that adorns their vehicles. Most of it is amateurish, garish and vulgur. Some of it is downright offensive. We had already come across some examples online and we knew that some Australian caravan parks had banned Wicked vans. Its all publicity though I guess. At the depot we saw someone drive off with Cream (with the band emblazoned on the side) and then, after they tried to stiff us with a cheaper model we got Fiddy. He got his moniker as he has "750 Rebels" tagged down both sides. It turns out that 750 Rebels are an little known Australian stoner rap crew. Wicked also don't charge for scratches and dents. And it was very clean inside. The only irk was that on the back in childish spray graffiti was written "can you breathe through your ears?". It was just stupid. But we loved Fiddy from the off. It was automatic. It was a Toyota people carrier, converted to have a wooden bed base in the back, split into three; two compartments for storage and the middle one lifted out to form a table. Foam mattresses, duvets and sheets were included. In the back was a tiny sink unit, for connection to water bottle, a big camping gaz burner, a cool box and basic cooking and eating gear, with enough spare room to store all the goodies we would soon be buying from our favourite place in NZ: Pack'n'Save.

Fiddy had a weakness. Unlike real campers (sorry Fiddy) it only had the normal car battery, which had already been run down a few times. At first we didn't realise how weak it was. By the end of the month we had needed a jump start 4 times (thank heavens they provided jump leads) but we had also jump started 2 other campers. I had a habit of leaving the lights on but also the radio or any night lights were a menace when with the engine off.

Our itineray followed a figure of eight around South Island for 18 days and then an 's' up through North Island. We started with Christchurch town; Akoroa and a boat trip to see tiny blue penguins and tiny Hector's dolphins; stunning Alpine scenery at Mount Cook; more yellow penguin spotting on the coast; vintage Dunedin; stunning waterfalls and beaches of the Catlins area in the south of South Island; Milford and fiordland (next post); lovely, desirable but exclusive Queenstown; the glaciers (Fox and Franz Josef); surf vibe on the west coast; gorgeous tropical beaches of Abel Tasman national park; and the ferry view of the Cook Straight as we crossed over to the North.

From Wellington we headed north-east and saw the neo-deco of touristy Napier; surfside Gisbourne; the geothermal mecca of Rotorua; glorious lakeside Taupo; big metropolis Auckland; the start of famous 90 mile beach; and the quite gorgeous Bay of Islands are north of Auckland.

Every other night we would find a free park camp area or park in a tranquil or idyllic layby. The other nights we would check into a fantastic caravan park with kitchen gear, hot showers and often Internet and movies. On South Island we found Dusty's Caravan park in the quiet surf town of Colac Bay. Dusty had a pub, a campsite and farm animals you could feed. A terrific combination.

We had fish'n'chips once, and, apart from that, we always ate in or around Fiddy. We ate mostly as we do at home. It was great to eat loads of pasta, fried breakfasts, muesli, yogurt and cheese. Cheese, cheese, cheese. We ate over 6 kilos of cheese in a month - and that's not including some that might have been hiding in food already. And we had our fair share of beer, wine and, of course, Kniffel. You see, after my failed gambling debacle (back to Nicaragua) I had become invincible at Backgammon so we set about the Kniffel. Once we had dined, the ambient torch was on, the last of the wine was poured, the biscuits were opened, we would break out the dice and worship the gods of Kniffel. It is Yatzy, the 5 dice game, but played with German names, so you get to speak 'like zis yah' and we have played it religiously ever since NZ. Though we had already started in Columbia experimenting with soft Kniffling, we were now onto the hard stuff. We found Yatzy paper in some no name town in NZ (thuogh of course we crossed out all the Yatzy words and wrote their German names instead - on every page!) and we played 2-3 three line games every night. It kept our mathematical minds alert (we will never be shortchanged again) and helped to pass the time as we listened the sound of the lake, breeze, wildlife or a-road nearby.

Fiddy had good legroom once the table was down and the foam mattresses were in place for bed. And out on the road it performed well. Though fuel economy was dismal in spite of my tinkering with the overdrive control and experiements with freewheeling. We covered over 5000km in a month that was filled with the most awesome scenery. You could never tire of the gorgeous farmland, alpine rising, swathes of beach, tropical forest, waterfalls (spring rain had them pumping everywhere) and the sheep. There are a lot less of them than there used to be - down from 135 million to 40 million or something - and all the best lamb is exported - but they are everywhere - and we loved them. When we get caught in a sheep jam we would happily watch them flitting past us in hazy delight. Often the farmer would race up on his quad bike and remind us to move on and stop oggling his flock. In Kaikora we wook a long walk around the spectacular rocky penninsular and decided to check the sheep show at the end. We expected the coach party to arrive any minute but instead we were sat down on the porch, given tea, and then given a private show featuring wool, shearing, rams, sheep and lambs, which we got to feed, which was nice.

And we took a lot of walks. We walked up dormant ski resorts, mountainous ravines, waterfalls, nature walks, swamp walks, coastal walks - always stunning scenery - most of it jawdropping. I couldn't tire of the driving through endless fields, flanked by huge towering immaculate bushes, with lakeland and snow-crested mountains rising in the distance.

And on North Island we were not disappointed by geothermal Rotorua. We took the plunge in the mud spa (a long held fantasy for me fulfilled), saw geysers, boiling mud pools, mud volcanoes, all kinds of bubbling muddy things all over the place - and we found Kerosene Creek. Off the beaten track and famous as a car crime spot. We wandered up the path and found a hot stream, with mini hot waterfalls, no one around and indescribable magic.

Kaikora private sheep show

Colac Bay farm (and pub)

Fiddy enjoying the Catlins view

Arthur's Pass

Turning heads on Easter Island

Easter Island is also known as Isla de Pascua. That's Spanish. Now your Easter Island was on of the last places to be colonised by humans, along with New Zealand, back in 4-500 AD. It is under Chilean control but the island is definately more Polynesian than Latin American, and there is a typically relaxed independence movement. The island is only 25-35km in diameter. All the natural resources have been raped by years of unsustainable farming of the land and sea, and by thr removal of the forest. And the indiginous wildlife has pretty much been wiped out by humans and/or introduced species. But there is a beach. And there are big stone busts. Big, big stone busts. Yes, those ones you have seen on TV. They are everywhere.

It turns out that the big eared and the little eared tribes started fighting at about the same time that the belief system altered to focus around a strange birdman cult. But it is generally agreed that the statues were erected by families to display wealth and to curry favour. In reality all the statues were knocked down during the fighting (17-18 centuries if I remember rightly) but some enterprising locals and some Japanese sponsorship has seen many re-erected in the last 50 years - in their original locations, on original plynths, and to spectacular effect.

There are statue sights all over the island and we had a scooter for three days and set out to see pretty much all of them. The island had one good road but most it was interconnected dirt tracks. We had ill fitting helmets, plenty of sunblock under the scorching blue sky, and we burned up the island - it was my scooter-piloting coming of age.

The views, statues, burial grounds, cliffs, volcano cones, tumbling Pacific ocean, warm locals, cheap prices and Polynesian-Latin mis made it a very special place. And then we found the crater lakes. Inland there was the volcanic crater lake at the site of the mining of most of the statues. The heads had been carved out of the rock and then transported downhill from here to the resting places (always on the coast facing inland). The 'mine' looked like it had been abandoned mid-shift as there are hundreds of Moai (that's the correct name for the heads) scattered all around in various stages of erection, including a 21m giant.

Ranu Kau, the other crater lake, is one of the most cosmic places I have ever witnessed. It is right by the sea, so there are spectacular paths up to the rim, and on the seaward side there are a series of temples and platforms (called Orongo) precariously perched with high cliffs down to the Pacific on one side and the steep slope into the moonscape of the extinct volcano and its microclimate that has resulted in unusual algal growths across its 1 mile diamater.


Wild horses on the beach

Anna didn't take the wheel but wants a scooter now

The side of the mine. These guys were on their way somewhere

Typical island view

Santiago de Chile

The border crossing high up in the Andes en route from Mendoza to Santiago was spectacular. There was still snow on the ground and lining the high peaks rising up all around to over 6000m. There were winding roads, the jaw dropping route of the old railway, ski lifts perched around the scree slopes of the border crossing. Generally stunning, remote and desolate mountain scenery all around.

On arrival in Santiago we suffered our biggest burn of the entire trip. We had read about dodgy taxis in Santiago but thought little of it as it is such a modern feeling city. Not only did our driver try to palm the 10,000 note I'd given him to replace it with a 1000 - but he also had a meter that ran like a fruit machine on Red Bull. As I was too busy berating him for trying to be so sly with the palm (the Chileans have cunningly made the 10 and 1 thousand notes identical colours) I hadn't twigged that the 6,000 on the meter was outrageous. We realised afterwards that he also dropped us in a garage opposite the hotel, presumably so that we wouldn't have the opportunity to get a second opinion about the metered fare. And I was so nice to him. What an thoroughly unpleasant chappie he turned out to be.

I should opint out that we only stayed one night in Santiago before going to Isla De Pascua but then we came back for a few more so I will slip those in here:

On our return to Santiago we junked Barrio De Brasil for Paris/Londres and found a huge room filled with lovely antique wooden furniture in a very attractive area. And we set to exploring different districts in Santiago. We got lost on the cable car ride, found the arts and design area, did some shops and museums and then hit the zona rosa. And we decided that for our last night we should treat ourselves to a slap-up meal. We chanced upon a seafood restaurant and were able to indulge in ceviche - our favourite dish that we had originally experienced when we had 'arrived' in Latin America in San Blas in Mexico back in May. This time we had a huge plate of salmon, prawns and white fish cooked in lime juice, weashed down with some local white. It was fantastic. We can't wait to try the lime trick with the salmon back home.

Santiago looks a bit like this

The valleys around Maipu

Another night bus brought us to the highly regarded city of Mendoza, in the foothills of the Andes, and famous for being the centre of the Argentinian wine industry. We found cheap digs in the centre and set out to explore the city, including Villanueva, the nightlife area. Mendoza had been hyped to us and we were a bit disappointed in the city itself, Although there were some nice plazas it lacked any of the charm of Barriloche and also Villanueva seemed to be packed with gringo superhostels and fairly uninviting superpubs, also not comparing well with less regarded cities like Salta.

But Mendoza has gorgeous surroundings including the wine valleys around Maipu. It was my birthday and we hired bicycles and set off on a wine tasting tour, closely followed by Staffan and Hans, the Swedish intellectuals. They were soon racing ahead however as we had to return to base following a chain malfunction. Bloodied with oil my bike creaked back into town to be replaced and then, in all the excitement, I muffed the map reading and we missed the first wine tasting. Meanwhile, the Swedes had got lost and also missed the first stop so we went together for the rest of the day on an odyssey of wine, cheese, sun and closed museums. Really, we had hardly tasted any wine as our winery hosts had seemingly failed to grasp the contextual link between sampling and purchase. Thankfully the day was saved when we arrived at the small boutique family winery, Carmelo Patti, as the sun began to set. Our bike rental told us it was a bonus birthday treat – and it was. We had a charming host, awesome wine and witnessed the world's largest guestbook. The wine was a but much for our wallets but Hans saved our faces by stocking up and we invited them to join us for dinner.

We did have an ulterior motive in truth as we had spotted that the free birthday diner in the all-you-can-eat needed to be accompanied by three paying guests. The Swedes and Anna fitted the bill and we gorged in food Disneyland. When we first arrived it transpired that we had a very proactive waiter who immediately plopped a huge sample leg of succulent beef on Anna's empty plate just be way of a taster. I was in heaven.

A wine tasting sans mucho vino

Hold it in

The Lake District

It was about time we had another night bus after two plane rides in Argentina so we went on the long trip across Argentina from Trelew, via the lake district hippy town of El Bolson, to Barriloche, famous as one of the great South American ski centres.

It was a charming town with a village atmosphere, and glorious lake and mountain views. But we did have trouble finding a room until a quick sprint around town landed us a room in a granny's lovely guesthouse. We took a chair life ride on a very windy day for more stunning views and rued our timing. The area had loads in common with Lake Tahoe and would be great to visit at the height of a snowy ski season. We had other priorities this time and again we were lucky to be basking in warming spring sunshine.

It actually happened in Peru but these bus journeys reminded me of the one bus journey where the conductor started a game of bingo on the upper deck. With the Spanish language instructions there was a bit of chat between the gringos as to the rules but one of the gringos didn't catch on. After about 10 numbers Anna let out the enthusiastic and accent-neutral cry of "bingo!" only to be deflated by looks of disbelief and the realisation that the house and not just a line was required. To preserve the equilibrium of the universe I should also mention something else that was forgotten in the Columbia blog; when we were walking the Corcora Valley track we often walked in the fields adjacent to the very muddy paths. This meant negotiating some fencing. There was one particular fence that I did not vault precisely that gave me a rather nasty 60 volts to the inner thigh!

Barriloche and a glimpse of the lakes

Penguin news

We thought all penguins huddled together on icy rocks in the Antarctic but Patagonia had other ideas. We got a flight from Buenos Aires to Comodoro Rivadavia, the closest place to the Valdez Penninsular that we could get a 'free' flight to. It saved us a 24 hour bus ride from BA but we did have to take a 5 hour bus to get to the gateway town of Trelew. Sounds a bit Welsh? It transpires that Northern Patagonia was settled by the Welsh and many towns and landmarks retain their Welsh names and there is a fair bit of Welsh heritage around. Our objective was to see thhe penguins and Punta Tombo and the whales at Valdez and we calculated that we would save money by hiring a car rather than paying for tours to both places. Of course it was siesta but we located the ebullient and diminutive Eduardo, thanks to the local tourist info, and promptly hired a cheap motor - which turned out to be a little more thanks to the milage limit and the 'cleaning fee'. But we were off, heading for the penguins and by tusk we were face to face with 175000 breeding pairs of Magellenic penguins. Or more like shin to face - they are little fellas and it was nesting season. And they burrow. They burrow like what bunnies are supposed to be. This was a big shock. In the scrubland and bush behind the beach the land was pitted and pock-marked with thousands and thousands of penguin nest-holes. And we walked amongst the penguins - some of the tracks had pengy bridges where there was a main thoroughfare for the little minstrels, and often the paths were blocked by their dallying as the wandered in search of the correct nest. IIt was understandable - they all do look pretty much a alike. And there were thousnads and thousands of them stretching off into the distance - but they didn't huddle. They waddled, lazed, lay, preened and squawked. And by sundown we were back in Trelew in some very shifty accomodation.

In the morning we drove up through Puerto Madryn and again visited the tourist info. These Patagonian info stops sealed our wonderfully symbiotic relationships with tourist offices in Argentina and beyond. We are no longer afraid of bum steers and mis-info. In New Zealand most villages on the map are just a tourist office and a farm so we kinda have to visit for any sign of (non-sheep) life. But we are not too proud. In fact we rather like window shopping in info point tourist tat meccas.

Anyway, we found out that we should drive to El Doradillo beach, just past the town but before the pricey (and off-road) entry into the Penninsula proper. The area is a major breeding ground for the Southern Right Whale and we were to have a close encounter. As we drove Anna was already spotting dozens of whales out to sea. Sometimes it is easy to confuse the spray from offshore reefs for the gentle giants but here we could stop on a headland and follow the arched backs, tailfins and blow spray from whales in all directions near the headlands and off to the horizon.

On our previous whale watching trips (in Vancouver; Killer Whales, and Puerto Lopez, Ecuador; Humpback Whales) we have been in boats and usually 150-200m at least away from the animals. We parked up at El Doradillo and started walking on the rocky beach. In the distance we noticed some people gathering at one spot so we picked up the pace. Then we looked out to sea. About 25m away there were three sea lions looking at us and following us along the beach. They were playing but also heading in the same direction up the beach in a hurry. When we got closer we could see a big (12-13m) whale just off-shore, only maybe 40m from where we and the other 10 or so viewers were standing.

Mum was barnacle encrusted and lazily wallowing in the shallows. The sea lions arrived and we noticed that mum was accompanied by a 6-7m calf gently nuzzling in and out of the water. We watched as the sea lions and the calf danced around each other, gyrating and breaching, right in front of us. They never got bored and we watched transfixed. It was a real privilage and very different to our experience in Baja Califorinia, Mexico where we were out of season and missed the whale extravaganza - and also in stark contrast to New Zealand where the Southern Right whales have been hunted to the point where there are only a few hundred left and are very rarely sighted near land. On this same topic we have since seen three more species of penguin in New Zealand but all in tiny numbers (there are only a few thousand left of a couple of the species) and those are only able to be seen because their habitats have recently been reintroduced by special reserves having all been destroyed by farming.

We only saw the tip of Patagonia, with the rest having to wait until next time. In our brief glimpse we saw what true wilderness it is, with its vastness, unspoilt and windblown land, and teeming ocean. The lesson - if you want whale watching go in season. We knew we would be in for a feast at Valdez - some people on the far end of the headland were seeing Killer Whales attacking sea lions in the surf whil we were at El Doradillo - and the places, like Vancouver, with small groups of resident whales pale by comparison, even if they do use 'western' techniques to market nature watching very well.

Behind you!


Some penguins

About the stats

We have has a lot of requests asking what the stats are really about. Well, we haven't but wanted to tell you straight anyway. Countries are big things with land, people, animals and different kinds of fruit sandwiches in every one; the driving includes what we have done in California, Patagonia and New Zealand - at some point it will be accurate as we have a captain's log; strangers befriended are the people we would like to think of as more that just ships passing in the night - those 46-or-whatever are the ones we know the names of, have stayed in touch with and/or aim to see again - we have met a few hundred people whose names and/or Amazing Race names we have logged but they can't really count as all having been befriended; we really have been counting the bus rides - the longest was 23 hours from Tepic to Acapulco a tyre change - and we have been on over 20 night buses all pretty painlessly... many of the bus journeys have been reallly spectacular - Colca Canyon with a 2000m sheer drop by the roadside and the Lake Titicaca dawn ride in Bolivia stand out - the worst journey was probably getting stuck near Medellin in Columbia because of landslides.

That reminds me. In the Bolivia post I hope the pictures give some idea of how amazing the scenery was. It is a fairly unforgiving place, the least developed country, the hardest to get around, but is also the most diverse and most spectacular IMHO when it comes to natural wonders that we have seen (and I am including NZ, where I write this).

Saturday, November 15, 2008

FunkiDeli Vs FunkyDelhi beef

I, uberlord of FunkiDelia, would like to make a statement to the effect that we (FunkiDeli Inc.) have nothing to do with the imposters who have taken the www.funkideli.com URL for their Funky Delhi festival. This could cause some confusion to my regular readers, particularly those in the UK, who may have come across the new Funky Delhi festival. I find it quite bizarre and coincidental that someone should use Funky Delhi a year after I put up the FunkiDeli - but then the dot.fi suffix is maybe not the first one you would check. When I tried to get Funkideli.com it had gone so maybe these guys were planning their site at the same time that I made mine.

Beyond the name shenangians I should point out that these guys seem pretty cool. In fact, we rather like it that their mission is after our own hearts, as they say:

"Our purpose is to spread diversified cultural expressions, joining together new talent with old and uniting together into one tribe. Magical lighting creates transdimentional visual experiences both inside and outside our mystical saddlespan. Poetic inspirations fused with acoustics by day….. mythology and full on parties by night!"

I couldn't have put it better myself. I should consult with them really though because I know that the best way to avoid transcendental saddlesore is to ensure that the transmogrification* of the rainbow bridge takes place under water. I would also junk the old talent in favour of greater focus on my own mythocrisy - but that's just me and my insular world!

*Transmogrication is the art of turning musical energy into space flight energy as devised and perfected by Sun Ra.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

El Classico

From the book we realised we had a toss up between Palermo (hip, trendy, big hostels, newer) and San Telmo (older, antique, guest houses) to stay in around Buenos Aires. We plumped for the later and found a sweet and cheap place next to San Telmo's square called Hotel Carly. It had high ceilings, an owner who prompty delivered us black market tickets for the weekends "El Classico" football match between Boca and River, and was on the doorstep of San Telmo's thriving eccentric bar and live music scene - with the antique's market in the square over the road, tango in the streets, music everywhere, endless corner cafes and endless charm - we were chuffed.

We had a bonza five days in BA. We saw musical-style tango at Tortoni's, the old cafe venue, we ate huge meat (well one of us did), drank wine, went to the football, found the Palermo Saturday market (where dozens of bars were filled with student designer clothing stalls), wandered the streets, saw the sights... and, yes, Anna saw her second ever footy match (excluding the mighty Pallo).

We decided to get the bus to the Saturday afternoon game. We got on to find a few quite loutish Boca fans on the bus, who were already missing teeth but enjoying beer. Some young couples in River jereys got on and the Boca fans started to sing and it was fun. Then the bus driver didn't pull over to pick up 25 River fans - we thought that was a good move but then at the next stop he pulled over to pick up about 30 very roudy Boca fans. They were mental. They rushed to the back of the bus, stripped the shirts oif the three River fans who were wearing the white with red sash (think Crystal Palace) and gave them a good beating as they tried to get off the bus. We then piled out with the rest of the passengers. I was keeping very quiet in case my native tongue casued offence and we avoided a beating, even though Anna got sat on during the melee. After a cab ride we got into the 60000 capacity stadium without fuss, watched the reserve match, and then enjoyed the awesome ticker tape parade to start the game, with huge multi-coloured streamers unfurled across the stands all around us. We were in the home end on teh lower tier under the away fans. But the game is such a potential flashpoint that only about 300 Boca fans were allowed in the stadium. The game was awful. River are terrible at the moment and Boca won through a cheap free kick with Juan Roman Riquelme being the only class player on the pitch. He proved it throughout the second half by constantly diving. the reserves looked like world beaters by comparison.

What else in BA? Well we eventually got in touch with Clare and Jorge and found out they live in San Telmo. We had already drubk in their local and we met them over wine and cheese. And, in the squares of BA, we found that memories of the Falklands War are very much alive and there are ongoing protests about the treatment of those that fought and suffered. The city was really enthralling. The steak sandwiches were filling. And our walking legs were willing.

BA looks a lot like this

San Telmo market square tat

Tango for cash at Tortoni

El Classico, definitely the worst quality top flight football game I have ever seen, even worse than Kups vs HIFK

Another slight change of plan

From Villazon we had a taxi combo across the border to Quiaca, during which we suffered our biggest disaster yet; I misplaced my green Tiger jacket top somewhere, possibly in the train station or in the taxi. I was distraught but have since bought a Puma replacement. There are no Tigers in South America you see.

We got a bus to Salta, marked by some hoorrid treatment at the hands of the bus people. After 150 buses we think we know the score and we were expecting Argentina to be maybe a bit more civilised than some others when it came to the buses. Well, the buses are certainly pricier (2-4 USD per hour opposed to 50 cents an hour in most other Latin countries) and yes, you can pay extra and go first class and get steak and wine (though we never saw it - it is a bit a myth - only if you pay through the nose) but we were not expecting the conductors to do nothing - all the tickets are prepaid and their are liggers at the bus stations who get out the bags and ask for tips while the conductors stand about... but at Salta we booked on a bus that was about to leave and Anna ran to get some food and drinks as thhey told me there wasn't a food stop. So we load the bags, I wait at the door and the conductor starts to get shirty. Then they try to close the door with me in it - and this is a proper big two storey luxury coach we are talking here. I have already explained she is just buying a drink - and then they start driving with me standing in the door well. Then the manager comes out and gets shirty (having just sold us the tickets) and they start driving away with our luggage before Anna comes in the nick of time. The company is Andesmar, they have the prettiest offices but they are bunch of tie-wearing used car sales-types, the food was terrible, the driver couldn't park the bus in the first bus station bay, and the bus was two hours late, and of course it made a long lunch stop - ar**holes. We had to get Andesmar a second time and they bodged the veggie food for Miss Deli - this lot deserve to be punished. I am so glad I got that off my chest.

Anyway, we arrived at Salta, which was quite a charming small city with a cool zona viva (music and bars area) and we spent most of our day there in the LAN airline office. We realised that we might be doing the wrong thing in planning to go to Melbourne to work for 6 weeks in order to fund that time plus a week in New Caledonia and two weeks in Perth. The combination of my ineligibility for the working holiday visa, our mutual dislike of work, the cost of living in Melbourne, horror stories about backpackers staying hostels for months,not having organised any free (houseswap, housesit or similar) accommodation - and the risk - the risk that we could work two jobs and still not make enough to cover the 9 weeks - and the potential - the potential to turn our month in SE Asia (veritibly rushing from Singapore to Bangkok) into a three month plus chill fest... well, it was big carrot to dangle, particularly as we had not really put down any roots. Since Whistler we had not had longer than 6 nights (Little Corn in the rain) in one place and we had not had that zen escape that we look for - especially on a trip this long.

So we tried to change our flights. They couldn't do it in Salta. They couldn't do it in Lan Cordoba. But at American Airlines in Cordoba we struck a rich vein. After a brief scare when it appeared that Lan had not rebooked our Easter Island flights as they had said, and finding out we were double booked by Finnair to New Caledonia, we got the new flights we wanted and then we got more, a lot more. Just as I was about to ask for the bill, which should have been 125USD each for a Oneworld ticket route change, a lovely AA representative handed us 520USD flight vouchers each. Over 500 bucks of free flights each - T-riffic. We had already changed our flights to fly on 6.12 from Auckland via Sydney to Singapore, and also to fly on 6.11 from Santiago via Auckland to Christchurch on NZ's southern island to get cheaper van hire and avoid backtracking. As a bonus also didn't include the Caracas-Lima flight we had not taken so we had a spare flight and decided to save time and money by flying from Cordoba to BA. When they gave us the flight vouchers we realised we could also save a 23 hour bus ride by flying from BA to Comadoro Rivadavia, the nearest airport to the penguins and whales in northern Patagonia. This was a tough decision because we could also bought return flights from to see the waterfalls at Iguazu - and we could have also got flights all the way to southern Patagonia to see the Glaciers national park. We reasoned we will see glaciers in NZ and Iguazu will have to wait until we come to Brazil - and moreover we wanted to see 350000 penguins.

So, happy, we got the bus to bustling Cordoba where found Tinajas, Argentina's largest all you can esat restaurant. The country is famous for its beef and steak but I will remember Argentina for the amazing steak sandwiches that we were regularly served in bars and cafes - I could never resist a "completo" normally arriving with lashings of salad, mayo, fried eggs and a pair of minute steaks a top a couple of large slices of bread. Unfortunately it was also impossible to escape the curse of white bread in Argentina. But back to Tinajas: food disneyland. For 10 USD so about 5... 6... 7... 8 pounds (little currency joke there for the sterling crash fans) you had access to high quality cruise ship style fare including an enormous meat grill counter as big as a house. This place had capacity for over a thousand. We were there three hours from the start and it was awesome. We would go back.

Bright side of the moon

We arrived in La Paz in the morning and, true to form, we outlandishly got on a bus straight to Oruro where we had the afternoon watching McDreamy from Grey's Anatomy's dodgy movie (in an ornate cinema on our own), before getting the night train to Uyuni. The train journey was filled with spectacular views of the Altiplano, wild rock formations and herds of alpaca. In Uyuni we repeated the tour agency runaround. Uyuni is a desert town of a few thousand that only seemingly exists to service the needs of young travellers going on multi day jeep rides to see the famous salt flats and the Atacama desert. That's why we were there and we learnt the lessons from our young drunken guide and paid 25% extra to go with Red Planet with their fluent English guide Oskar, who had rave reviews. Again all the tours are pretty much the same: three days, two night, all the tours stay in the same salt hotels, some tours have a driver/cook/guide, some an extra guide, some an extra cook: and all are in Toyota Land Cruisers with 6 tourists.

We had Michi and Franzesca from Switzerland, and Sanna and Teresa from Sweden. And, in Oskar, we had a real gem. Within two hours of setting out into the desert, driving at high speed across the broken rocks, Oskar told us about the recent death of 15 people when two jeeps had collided and how drivers were more careful now (!) and then we broke down. In the middle of a salty desert. With the most amazing infinite view all around, some peaks in the distance. But thankfully with no misunderstandings as Oskar made us at home. We relaxed, talked, took photos, enjoyed it like another sightseeing stop and realised that driving thousands of kms in the desert brings with it certain risks and the likelihood of mechanical malfunction.

We only stopped for an hour and by the end of the tour we had seen the salt flats, salt factory, salt piles, palm oases, rock dunes, "Dali Desert" of rock formations, the Atacama desert, and the incredible site of the tyre tracks of the jeeps looking like cosmic ploughing across the rocky landscape (I think they should stick to tracks as the wind will take centuries to blow away the tyre tracks, which are everywhere). And we saw the money shots. The red lake and the flamingos, the green lake and Oskar took us to stone cemetaries and more wonderful formations, and he was riveting throughout. We learnt more Spanish and more Bolivian history and even more about Bolivian current affairs - we had warned him we were going to get our money's worth!

Just before our visit Bolivia had had some civil unrest whereby the President, Evo Morales, a social reformer and former farmer, was trying to get a new constitution passed, which would have required a great deal of wealth redistribution, something not enamoured by the wealthy of the Santa Cruz region, in control of the country's mineral and gas resources. A stand off had developed where a militia army of farmers and peasants had blockaded Santa Cruz and shots had been fired. The whole state and some other areas had been off limits to tourists for a few weeks and the situation had not cleared though it had cooled. This meant that we couldn't go to see the big cat sanctuary in Santa Cruz as we had hoped. So, after returing in the evening to Uyuni, we shared a room with the swedes (very kind of them) and we got a few hours kip before the night train to the town of Villazon on the Argentinian border.

We had to stop for a quick bite in the desert

The red Lake Colorado with flamingos

Hot springs at dawn

Another stunning sight in the Atacama desert

Alligator, alligator, alligator

From Copacobana we got up before dawn, the bus was cancelled, so we took a shared taxi to a ferry crossing and then the fastest local 'collectivo' minibus in the universe to La Paz. The journey was my favourite so far. The lake, the mountains, the passes on the way into La Paz (at 4200m, the highest capital in the world) and then the sprawl of the outskirts before the vast valley of the city itself. We were early and by 1130 we were in the Amaszonas Airline office booking ourselves on the afternoon flight to Rurrenabaque, the jungle town at only 100m altitude, on the Amazon delta.

Rurre was stiflingly hot andn seemingly only existed to service the needs of young travellers going on jungle or, more likely, pampas excursions. We booked on for three days with the popular and cheap Fluvial tours after a long afternoon of visiting some of the 30 tour agencies and talking with all the other gringos doing the same. Of course we expected to be going bush away from civilisation. We didnt realise that all the agencies work for about 4 companies and all the 'lodges' are within a few hundred metres of each other on the same stretch of river 100km from Rurre - and that in the evening everyone (maybe 70 people) converge on the same river lodge because that it is the only one with cold beer! So all the toing and froing selection a tour was pretty pointless - well, not entirely - we ended up with Diego as our guide. His poor English, youth (named Guito, jnr guide, by the others) and inability to hold his liquor leading to us missing both the night and sunrise walks in the pampas did mean that we picke3d a turkey!

But on the upside the 4 hour jeep journey was fun; our group was the best group of course (with Mike and Anita, Matt and Jess from the other New Zealand, Steven and Lisa from Preston, and us); on the first trip up river we were blinded by thousands of alligators of all sizes from pencils up to 5m; we saw hundreds of the world's biggest rats looking very cuddly; lost track of the number of crazy birds we saw including the stunning Bird of Paradise; and we saw the cute pink river dolphins, which a bit disconcerting as they look like mini-monsters as they break the murky water's surface with their stunted fins (not a dig at my countrymen:)).

We had jungle huts at night, plenty of good food, went anaconda hunting the next day and eventually found them after 3 hours in driving rain. We were soaked but enjoyed every minute. On the last day we fished for piranhas and took photos as Mike and Steve got their legs teased by pink dolphins. We were sad to find that our the Dutch couple that we kept seeing everywhere, Michael and Anne, broke down and had a horrid 9 hour journey back. Meanwhile we continued to marvel at the memory of all those alligators.

We got back to find that the rain had washed out all the flights out of Rurre. Because it is in the jungle the airstrip is just mud so any rain renders it useless for days. We were in the third flight out but that could have been a week away. So, I got a motorbike backie to the bus station where Mike and Anita were also faffing over the choice of buses. We plumped for the next departure but had to be content with the back row - for the 17 hour journey to La Paz - along jungle tracks and then up the Andes along some crazy roads, up the replacement for the world's most dangerous road, which still feels pretty dangerous. We played silly games with the Zealanders and the time flew past. We had one stoppage to negotiate a part of the track that had actually been removed. We had to pile up the back of the bus and we rocked to near horizontal before making it.

World´s biggest rats... and some alligators

Rustic accomodation

Luckily that one was blind

The world´s highest navigable lake

...or not. Our book says it is. And then says it isn´t. We will leave that for Lonely Planet´s new owners, the BBC, to sort out.

We went on another nutty journey by bus from Puno in Peru to Copacobana just over the Bolivian border, skirting Lake Titicaca. At 4000m there is a chill in the wind tempered by the piping hot sun streaming through cloudlesss sky. Copa is a small tourist town with a street of tat and plenty of boat options for getting to Isla Del Sol; the Island of the Sun and the legendary Inca birthplace of creation - which I always thought was in Manchester. Hang on, someone is saying I have made that joke before. Well, there it is again in case you missed it.

The island has a lovely Inca trail walk through the middle of it with glorious 360 views of the lake and snow tipped mountains in the distance. Along the track there are various ruins, shrines and carvings. And, at the end, there was quality coffee in the village before the boat back. Copa had a lovely laid back traveller scene and was refeshing after the hustle of Peru.

Lake Titicaca is a beautiful sight

Ticking the box marked...

We had long joked that in Cusco, Peru we would see everyone again that we had met so far on our trip. We were not strictly correct. We did see Amber again, though we don´t know how her date went. No, instead it seemed that we saw every other caucasian tourist in the world in Cusco. The Peruvian marketing Darth Vaders have done a remarkable job. Cusco has a pretty colonial heart. Though to our eyes it is not that different from Popayan (Columbia) or Cuenca (Ecuador) and certainly Cartagena (Columbia) is its equal. However, the world and his wife are there. The place is packed with North American tourists (stop pretending to be Canadian already!) and everyone is queuing for pizza, cash, burgers and tours.

Of course, most people are there because Machu Picchu is the hottest destination in South America. This is a bit of a sensitive subject as a lot of people spend a lot of effort and money on coming to MP and it is the centre piece of their trip. But we really didn´t get it. We really wish we had had the cojones not to go. They say they are trying to limit the numbers on the Inca Trail and at MP but all they are doing is coining it big time. We did make the mistake of getting the train, when we found out afterwards that it is actually possible to avoid the train and walk part of the way on the train tracks. So it cost us a large chunk of change. But what was really disappointing was the site itself. Compared to Tikal (Guatemala) or Palenque (Mexico), the two most impressive sites we have seen, it just doesn´t seem very cosmic. The hilltop location is awesome, but just in Peru in the Cordilleras and the canyons there is much more spectacular scenery. And of course MP is crawling with visitors, many of whom rejoice at seeing as they have just walked 4-5 days to get there. Ultimately the combination of Cusco and Machu Picchu, the atmosphere and numbers, are what we try to avoid most of the time.ñ

But we had to go, of course. We had to tick the box. But we also had a very special friend to take with us. You will remember the a certain bear originally arrived at Paddington train station after a very long journey from darkest Peru. Last year, while doing life laundry back in Brighton, I found said lonely and ruffled bear in the loft - some 28 years after I had first been given him as a present. We thought it was time for him to return to his homeñand and see the sights. After seeing the mountains and valleys, we left Paddington bear around the corner from the Mortureros in Machu Picchu, where has a great view of the site, the valley, the train and Putucusi.

The 800m high rock that is Putucusi has special significance for us. The day before we visited the site of MP we climbed this imposing edifice. There were vertical sections of collapsing ladders, some 50m long. But at the top we were rewarded by a quiet, serene and delightful view of Machu Picchu. It was the highlight of our time in the area. Of course it seems harsh to knock one of the world´s great wonders but we were just very uncomfortable with it. Perhaps it is in the context of wider Peru - which seems poorer and more disturbed than even Bolivia and seems well beind Ecuador developmentally. And that so much wealth is in Cusco when the rest of the country is a mess. And how so many people we met were not going anywhere else in Peru. It seemed sad somehow.

San Blas plaza over Cusco

The train to Machu Picchu

On the lookout for marmelade... or was it jam

Huanca Picchu - quite a mouthful

Harry Kipper and Colca Canyon

Arequipa is Peru´s second city. Though it has since been renamed. By me. It has a lovely colonial style heart, that we found very useful for changing Easter Island flight times with LAN, our favourite South American Oneworld group airline. After just a few hours we carried on apace back up across the altiplano towards canyon country. Having been to the Grand Canyon and had such a mind blowing experience we were unsure about what to think of Peru´s canyons. Cotahausi Canyon is the world´s deepest at 3354m (twice as deep as the Grand Canyon), and just around the corner is Colca Canyon, the world´s second deepest, and easily accessible from the village of Cabanaconde. The local hostels have a good system going where they book you into the ´oasis´at the bottom and give brief instruction on how to take a long walk to and from the bottom over two days. Before the off we found lone Bristolian, Amber, and roped her into joining us.

The canyon was about 30 degrees in the sun and 15 out of it, with a pretty harsh wind blowing at times. Distance perception was difficult, gazing across the plunging valley towards the specs of villages we would be visiting. Of course, as ever, we were in the wild, but not alone. There was a steady stream of tourists doing similar walks, many gutted that they had forked out for a guide when we and others hadn´t, and a steady stream of mules ferrying supplies to the villages and the tourist oasis. We had a corking two hour lunch breather and arrived after a total of eight hours walking, at the oasis at nightfall. Our lodgings had a spring-fed pool which, though chilly at 6PM, was still just what was required. Our hut was made of bamboo that really looked like it had just fallen together accidentally. We had sleeping bags and extra blankets and were feeling very smug that we were walking independantly when it transpired that half the visitors were getting up to leave at 0130AM to walk back up as part of their ´tour´. Ouch. The four hour walk, almost vertically up, was a serious test, particularly for asthmatic Amber, who was lovely company throughout.

We jumped straight on the bus after the walk, just as we had done at Huaraz, and back at Harry Kipper we droped by Juanita, a mummified sacrificial victim who, after lying sedate for 500 years, had been exposed after her volcano had erupted, melting her icy covering and revealing her perfectly preserved torso, including skin and tissue. We stayed the night in the family-run El Tumi Del Oro near the plaza and prepared for another night bus.

Canyon action

Mules were all the rage

None of this performance wear for me. I carried a plastic bag through the canyon and I´m proud

Oh no not another oasis

Dune

We have a regular trick of avoiding capital cities. So far we have swerved Ottawa, Washington, Mexico City, Belmopan (though we have been singing the theme tune ever since we saw Belize´s Police Academy on the outskirts), Guatemala City, Tegucigalpa (ok we did crash one night), Managua (though we did spend some quality time at the airport), Bogota, Quito, and now we swerved Lima.

With the capitals we have only spent quality time in San Juan on Puerto Rico and Caracas in Venezuela. Our two nights in ´prison´ in San Jose (Costa Rica) were eminently forgetable. It is just that, so often, the capital cities seem to offer much less in charm than they do in prospective aggravation - and you can´t see everything. Buenos Aires, from whence I write, would be an exception to our logic- it really is a destination in itself.

So we swerved Lima because we had read about Huacachina; an oasis in the desert. And it was. It was actually in the desert. Neither of us had ever seen endless dunes of sand trailing off towards the horizon. It was stunning. And around a little lagoon were a dozen hotels, and lots of gringos, like us. In the morning we took a walk up one of the dunes. And we took some of the local sandboards. After an exhausting yomp through the sand we got the top, overlooking the oasis, and we tried some sandboarding, in the company of some friendly Bristolians, who were doing exactly the same thing. Unfortunately the local boards were fat planks with velcro ankle strapping. We had been given wax; candle wax; to grease our descent but it really wasn´t happening. Back down at the oasis we sought an alternative and chanced upon a friendly Canadian restauranteur who had a stash of real snowboard and boots - apparently every year a load of Brazilian and Chilean nutters turn up for a sandboard fest and leave their old gear.

So, in the afternoon we went back for real - and in style. The action started with a dune buggie ride. Their were 8 of us and our driver, Rico, and he took us on a roller coaster ride across the sands. We didn´t expect it at all and it was great fun, really exhilerating - a blast. And after a few wild rides we were taken to the tops of a series of progressively higher and steeper dunes to do some boarding. We felt a bit guilty at first that we had the nice boards - but it turned out the most of the others were going for it head first at amazing speed and had no interest in the aesthetics of carving. We managed a few good runs but the wax would only last for a few metres before the board got very sticky - that was our best excuse for poor technique! And we watched the sunset across the dunes. Marvellous.

An oasis in the desert

Stylin´ it

Our driver prepares to frighten us some more

Sunset dune zen by Burton

Peru and big mountains

We considered going from Vilcabamba into northern Peru´s Amazonas but the transport links, and our schedule, didn´t allow it. So we got the early connection across the border to Piura, in Northern Peru. On the way, at Loja bus station, we saw a familiar face. Judith, the Swiss guide, from Guatemala, who had unfortuntely not been our guide on the Pacaya volcano when we had shared the shuttle ride there.

In Piura we stumbled across her other half, Victor, as we tried to get bus tickets up into Huaraz and the Cordillera Andes. Judith and Victor you see are serious mountaineers, experienced guides and were on the way to hire a mule and set off on a two week hikey-climb into the wilderness. And we were going to see the mountains. It was a different world of adventure. But we enjoyed a nice afternoon, a cozy night bus and a stress free morning on our way to Huaraz. In true amazing race style Anna and I picked up stupidly fast connections via Trujillo, Chimbote and another night bus to arrive in Huaraz the night before our extreme buddies. We asked around, nearly paid for a guide, but then the lovely people at gave us a map to Lake 69.

The next day we went on an six hour walk that took us up to 4800m and the stunning Lake 69, nestled in amongst 4 of the Andes´ highest peaks, all over 6000m and snowcapped. The last couple of hundred metres were torchure, even though we had spent quite a few days over 3000m, and we experienced the tiring effects of altitude. Huaraz was a hustling mix of adventure tourists and mountain market centre, with a constant flow of people, great value Chinese food and a kind of frontier spirit in awe of the mountain gods. It was very cool and we would´ve loved to have gone further into the wilderness ourselves.

The Cordilleras await

Lago 69 at 4800m

We always look like this

Some big mountains

Vilcabamba´s serene valley

Via Loja and a suitably extensive bus journey we arrived at Vilcabamba and the Izchayluma hostel; probably the best market place in the whole of Ecuador. There were flyers for it everywhere we went and everyone on the bus was going there - and luckily we had reserved. If we had described the place to ourselves we would have probably hated it but in reality it was a real triumph, definately in amongst the best places we have stayed and probably a hostel-of-the-year contender. German owned, Izchayluma has a great location looking down the valley above the village of Vilcabamba; the massage/healing and horse riding town of southern Ecuador, and a neat tourist trap on the way to Peru. The village itself is charming and not too dusty, and the hills around are dotted with the homes of the wealthy (a famous, as yet un-named, Spanish tennis star) and tourist lodgings. Izchayluma pitches itself as a spa at hostel prices. It is big, has a pool, has a big restarant, has a bar and has a lot of locals popping in for afternoon snacks on their tourist trails - but somehow it retains some charm - even though it is a mega-hostel. All with gorgeous views down the valley.

Unfortunately Anna really didn´t get to enjoy it so much as she was ill with some kind of stomach infection and maybe flu. While she was laid up I was able to take full advantage of the facilities, and enjoy the company of some of the lovely people we met there. The food was also ace. I will never forget the that I ended up rep-eating it was so good. Vilcabamba is known as the valley of longevity as, apparently, residents live to unfeasible ages. To be honest we didn´t notice that at all - our impression was of a sweet village where every horse was for sale, rent or consumption.

Back at the palacial hostel someone had made a couple of mistakes. Firstly putting a table tennis table in the bar; and then allowing someone wearing an Arsenal shirt to play on it. This was like a red rag to me, and even given alcohol intake and low light, I set about dispatching a series of dirty Gooners. Secondly the owners arranged a pool tournament. After faltering through the early rounds I met the rather affable Charles in the final. He was on his way from Alaska to Antarctica, driving a Nissan Patrol, and was taking along all kinds strangers on the way. he very kindly offered to drive us into Peru and to see some otherwise less-travlled areas - we would have loved to take him up but our new (and daft schedule) meant that we had to decline that adventure. Back to the action; I reached the black but... just as I was lining up the stroke... on the random juke box comes... Bruce Springsteen´s The River. Regular fans of this column will know that last year at about this time, with the help of an old recording of my father´s voice, I performed (well stumbled through) this at my father´s wake. The song is not without emotional significance for me. So I crumbled. At the last hurdle... on the black... I faltered and missed. Smooth Charles however couldn´t finish so, in tears, I stepped back up and finshed off - trying to ramble to him about how I wasn´t just emotional at being hostel pool champion. The prize (of cooking rum) was duly shared amongst the gathered hoard of Gooners and Irish (if there is a hostel bar you can guarantee our cousins fro the sceptred isle will have sniffed it out).

In Vilcabamba I face one last test. The hostel had been designed, built and was run by Germans. The food was ace. And they had bred a champion. A ping pong champion. He appeared in the Deutschland world cup footy top - the one with three stars - for each of their spawny victories. If anything was going to incite me to a higher level of ping-consciousness this was it. 40 years of hurt. Jules Rimet´s still gleaming. It was close. And I had the shallow end. But I ended victorious over 3 sets. In the diming light. With the moths circling and the sweat pooling. There can be only one. Ask what you can do for your country... etc. etc.

The Vilcabamba view from the restaurant

Good German food here

Where did you get that hat?