Andean Adventures

Andean Adventures

In my own frightfully worthless opinion on an even more worthless subject matter, I tend to think my previous blog entries have been lacking somewhat due to a sequence of events that conspired against me preventing access to the source material that make for interesting entries, that source being of course my diary. It is amazing how an innocuous occurrence can seemingly shape entire months of travel and become the leading influence on my decision making for most of my time in Argentina. A simple green book with a couple of random scribblings is hence the centerpiece of this ultimate entry coming to you from the beautiful Andes.

The Andes...

A quick brief (as opposed to long one…) on my diary; I discovered I’d left it, that most precious and irreplaceable of all travel items, on a bus all the way back when I was traveling around Iguazu Falls. Coupled with the fact that I lost it whilst making the special trip to the San Ignacio ruins, (which to remind you are about as memorable as any of the previous winners of Big Brother and only slightly more worthwhile) made it a particularly frustrating turn of events. By some minor miracle the bus company found it immediately and passed it on to my hostel in Iguazu. Now assuming I was dealing with anyone with even a single competent bone in their body, one would think that 2 weeks would be ample time to slip the diary into an envelope and shoot it down to my hostel in BA (incidentally under the same management as the one in Iguazu so both hostels even had regular contact with each other). Alas no, 2 weeks passed and unable to wait any longer, I was forced to request they send it on through to yet another associated hostel in the Lake District town of Bariloche, my next destination.

Bariloche is a charming outdoorsy town at the foot of the Andes set in what must be some of the most beautiful landscapes to be seen in Argentina. It’s quite a holiday haven for gringos and Argentines alike and its reputation as one of the primo ski towns along the Andes had made it my first choice to seek employment to facilitate my remaining time in South America. Unfortunately a blindingly obvious fact I had neglected to consider was the fact that being as it was, in Argentina, wages tend to match the incredibly cheap cost of living and for most Argentines, a 3 month lift pass is certainly not typically included within the general cost of living, particularly those who try and get away with only working in hostels and bars for a few hours a day as I was naively hoping to do. I came to the conclusion after an extensive and thorough search one entire afternoon, that the chances of earning more than say a free bed and loaf of bread each day were even less than that of finding a competent hostel worker (i.e. zero) and so I decided to suck it up, spend the cash to ski at my leisure and earn the money back at 7 or 8 times the rate back in Australia.

None of these photos are mine obviously and many are thanks to this gentleman here, Andy of Texas, taken whilst skiing in Bariloche. Even if the snow was a little average at the time, the views were top shelf.

After a horrible day of skiing on the asphalt-sprinkled-with-ball-bearings that passed for snow, I decided that Bariloche wasn’t the place for me to ski. Unfortunately when not skiing, there really isn’t much to do in the town except admire the views which don’t result to much more than the fogged-up windows of your hostel when it’s raining all the time. Basically passed the time by indulging in my staple pastimes of hanging about with other similarly bored travelers, going out until ungodly hours, and eating steak, including arguably the best one I've ever had at one Alberto's (you have to eat there once in your life…) One highlight was tenpin bowling South America style. I guess I probably could have picked up a job there as one of the poor kids who sits cramped-up at the end of the lane and manually arranges all the pins and rolls the ball back to you after every bowl. Up there with toll-booth workers for worst job ever.

There were a few days of clear weather that allowed us to escape the hostel cocoon during the day and head out to experience some of the world-class lookouts that showcased the amazing landscapes on offer. One in particular, Cerro Campanario, is supposedly quoted by National Geographic, no less, as being one of the 10 greatest vistas in the world. After seeing it twice both on clear days, I will hardly disagree with their esteemed judgement. I just wish that I had my own camera to take as many shots as I had wanted to.

About 90 of the 360 degree views able to be enjoyed from Campanario. The second time I went up (I had lots of time...) was even more stunning with clear skies to the horizon.

Despite the views, my time in Bariloche was turning into a bit of a Twilight Zone as one day morphed into another as I continued to wait for word on the bloody diary. Looking for anything that might help me pass the time more effectively, I got wind of an opportunity to head down south to a little hippie town by the name of El Bolson, where the Hostel International (HI) hostel was looking for some assistance in running the place for a week or two. Generally HI hostels are buzzing and packed with interesting travelers in most instances and so the prospect of hanging about and getting free board and food to basically do what I was already doing seemed an appealing if not irresistible prospect.

Turned out to be not quite so much a typical HI venue but more similar to that hotel in the Shining, or even Norman Bates’ cozy venue of Psycho fame. Firstly the place was a 4.5km muddy trail walk to the town, (a trail required to be traversed anytime you needed anything, food for example), there were no facilities whatsoever, and quite disturbingly, I was the ONLY guest. Yesiree, just me and the slightly crazy manager who sat rocking away in front of the fire drinking mat´e and playing Crosby, Stills and Nash exclusively on his guitar (quite well I might add. Must have plenty of time to practice…). Fearing for my sanity and wondering what would happen when I went for a shower, I needless to say hightailed it out of that place back to civilization.

More shots of mountains (all I have really...), this time again from the ski-fields in Bariloche.

Writing of slightly weird hostel experiences, I was lucky or unlucky enough (I’m yet to decide) to enjoy undoubtedly the most surreal series of events I’ve yet encountered in a hostel when staying in Bariloche. It is said that love is blind, but on this particular occasion I discovered rather hilariously that lust is clearly both deaf and mute. At 6:30am one morning I was awoken by the typically counterproductive efforts of completely twatted drunks trying to keep silent by “shusshhhing” each other at incredibly loud volumes, provided in this case by a kiwi guy and his date for the evening, a Bariloche local. It became pretty obvious that the kiwi did not speak a lick of Spanish and the woman was equally mute with English. This of course didn’t stop him from giving her the old leg-up to the top bunk so he could then proceed to get his leg-over. Somewhat mortified and completely at a loss as what to do, I continued to feign sleep during round 1 of these proceedings, at the end of which the remaining 2 occupants of the intimate 4 bed room stumbled in at around 7am.

The two lovebirds commenced round 2 blissfully ignorant to the rest of us and it was only after a sublimely timed “¿Contento?” posed by Jessie below me at the end of proceedings did the ice break. I won’t describe the theatrics that followed for the next hour in the room but I believe the 3 of us innocent (some more so than others) bystanders have a special bond after the experience. Was certainly great incentive to practice your Spanish with a beautiful woman walking about unashamedly naked in your room… (“¿Donde esta mi mombachas?” means “Where is my underwear....”).

Michaelangelo's David was on a brief tour of South America from Florence... A plastered reproduction inexplicably found at a lookout complex in Bariloche.

I finally got confirmation that my diary had definitely been sent a mere four weeks after it was found and that it would arriving the next day. Knowing this to be an optimistic proposition, I booked my ticket out of the town four days later to allow for any further (and inevitable) Argentinean incompetency. As predicted, promises of “mañana, mañana”, continued unabated with no sign of the diary. Then on the day of my bus, I was assured that the girl had just spoken to the bus station and they had it there waiting for me, all I needed to do was pick it up, get on my bus, and everything would be apples. Needless to say, the bus company had positively no idea what I was talking about and I once again failed the patience and calmness test that seem to get thrown at me disproportionately often. Even more frustratingly so, turns out that the diary had been there, only they had sent it on to the hostel and somehow neither party knew this was the case. I can just imagine that my diary passed me in some vehicle heading to the hostel whilst I was gleefully making my way to pick the damn thing up.

Anyways, that bus took me alongside the Andes all the way to Los Leñas, the biggest, best and most expensive ski resort in all of Argentina, the Aspen of the Andes. Well technically I headed for Malarque, a backpacker haven which was a lazy 2.5hr drive to the slopes each day but had the distinct plus of offering 50% off your lift pass in addition to offering far more affordable accommodation. Being very close to the end of my trip, I was planning on a solid 5 or 6 days of good skiing to celebrate. The first two days were a little sketchy weather-wise, but the third day was glorious. That is until I somehow completely snapped my decrepit rental ski (from Malarque) on the softest piste known to man.

More Andes... I'm really stretched for photographic material here.

Man I was pissed. Not only did it take me an hour to walk down the mountain during perfect skiing conditions, I had pay an extra 50 pesos to rent more for the rest of the day. Well I kept the rage up until I arrived back in Malarque ready to storm into the rental place and demand some money back for renting out such obviously haggard and worn equipment. The response I received was slightly different to my hopeful expectations to say the least. Hmmm, it seems I didn't/couldn't read the fine print on the contract I had signed...

Seems I owed some US$300 for a ski which would barely fetch 20 bucks at a garage sale (in its unbroken state…). What started as calm and collected discussion regarding various matters such as the obvious repairs and damage sustained previously to the equipment, my inability to read the contract and the failure on their part (despite several English-speaking staff) to explain the lack of insurance, quickly escalated when my explanations were met only with a continual shaking of the head, accusations and name-calling, and threats to call the police. Arguably the most rude and vile man I encountered in all of the world and had I not been up for a further 300 bucks I may well have attempted to break the other ski on his skull.

Suffice to say, that little episode led to a premature end to my ski holiday but whilst making a VERY firm complaint to the tourist office, I was fortunate enough to experience the flip-side of such obstinate and foul behaviour. In light of my problem, EVERY single person I encountered was sympathetic to my plight and went out of their way to offer advice and assistance, but one family in particular, the Kesslers of Buenos Aires, overheard my ranting and offered to assist me in negotiating a more reasonable outcome. For the next hour or more, they drove me around, sought the opinions of other rental stores and eventually through teamwork consisting of me raving furiously in English to Carolina, the daughter, followed by her translation to her dad, who then forcefully duked it out with the boor of a man at the ski rental and got my price down to a third of what was asked originally. An incredible example of kindness and hospitality for a complete stranger unlike anything I experienced outside of South America.

With broken skis in tow (they were after all the most expensive souvenir I’ve ever bought) I headed north to Mendoza, supposedly an adventure-loaded city that also has the added benefit of being the producer of some 70% of Argentina's wine. Unfortunately the quality of their wine tours is not quite up to scratch (I got offered to try only 3 tiny glasses!! Outrageous), but their wine is typically cheap and very good. Any bottle of $5 or more was pretty much guaranteed to be good or it least it was in my experience. Another upside of Mendoza was that I was joined by the only female seemingly able to put up with my company for extended periods, the delightful Ana whom I had met in Buenos Aires (incidentally the same venue where my camera was stolen meaning that I have no proof and all those mates of mine who doubt the possibility of such an outcome occurring will have to take my word for it...)

And one more, again taken from the top-10 lookout at Campanario.

The next few days were spent indulging in such romantic pastimes as drinking the above said cheap wine, going on horse rides (or more appropriately titled lumbering mule processions) through the beautiful Andean landscapes, eating fine meals and watching Scrubs on tele (my personal favourite). A fabulous time indeed but alas I needed to head back to Santiago whilst the temperamental mountain pass was temporarily clear of snow. This done, it was then a merely a waiting game for a day or two in Santiago before completing the final leg of my whole journey all the way back to Brisbane. Without my diary of course…

At this time of closure to my little adventure, if you have made it this far, may I thank you all for at least looking at the photos every now and then and responding to my emails, it made the world a much smaller and welcoming place... til next time, hopefully sooner rather than later.

Vamos Argentina!!

VAMOS ARGENTINA!!

Two famous sights of Argentina, the mega 16-lane Avenue 9 de Julio of Buenos Aires with its famous obelisk and below the impressive Iguazu Falls.

With my aspirations and dreams of attaining some tangible benefits from my journey shattered in Chile, I managed to regroup and refocus with alarming rapidity and was off the next day with my contingency plan. It's amazing what the lure of copious amounts of steak at a traditional Argentinean “Asado” put on by my Argie girls from the Inca trek can do for one's motivation. Of course Argentina has far more to offer than simply great-tasting and cheap meat (though it has to be asked, what more does one need?) as it is after all, since the great peso crash of several years ago at least, the most first-world third-world economy in the ummm, world. Basically it’s like travelling around Western Europe at south-east Asian prices. So for great food, great wine, ridiculously cheap beer, stunning women, and a world cup atmosphere more soccer-mad than the Berlin Olympic stadium, one needed look no further than just across the border. Vamos Argentina.

Arguably the three most famous Argentineans, Astor Piazzolla, Maria Eva Duarte "Evita" Peron, and of course, Maradona represented in the colourful Caminito region of La Boca, Buenos Aires.

So over the Andes I went on a 20-hr bus journey to Cordoba , the second largest city in Argentina and the home of my two favourite Argies, Jo and Sole, who had snapped me out my half-day case of depression with the promise of an all-I-could-eat meat fiesta. As you can imagine, I have plenty of experience with buffets, so after arriving freshly rejuvenated after a comfortable night's sleep in my buscama, along with a steak meal and wine of course, I commenced my pre-buffet routine of drinking copious amounts to swell the stomach and steering clear of any food.

The wide, leafy avenues so typical of so many Argentinean cities.

Unfortunately my best laid plans didn't account for Argentinean schedules. Whereas Eric C likes to let it all hang down, after midnight Argentinians prefer to only perhaps start thinking about the possibility of getting the bloody bbq started. I was nearly dead of calorie depletion by that stage and it was only the unbelievable smells wafting from the massive grill that seem to come standard with every Argie house that kept me going. And so the pattern of upside down hours in Argentina had begun and I saw more than my fair share of sunrises over the coming weeks.

The "pink house" in Beunos Aires from where Evita used to make her impassioned speeches to her adoring crowds.

Heading out to a restaurant for dinner was even more ridiculous. My second night there I headed out with the girls and we didn't even sit down, let alone order and eat, until 1:30 in the bloody morning. It took all my willpower not to use my mashed potatoes as a pillow but still we had to head out and dance until the really wee hours. It may have been my almost hallucinogenic state at the time but I swear being in some of those clubs was like being on Jimi Hendrix's "Electric Ladyland" album cover. The women were clothed of course, but my goodness, if I were a fisher of women, I would have been in some bountiful waters. None were as stunning as my two amigas of course (I have to assume they're still reading this...) but I would have been hard-pressed to even find even a lowly 7.

Chilling in Cordoba with Sol and Jo's friends.

Cordoba is a university town so that may have skewed the results in its favour but I very much convinced of the fact that it is a sin to be fat in Argentina (I was surprised not be excommunicated myself... the novelty blonde factor may have saved me). How all these women stay so slim and tanned is beyond me however, as very few of the girls I met seem to exercise (or admit to it at least) and eating copious amounts of meat and pastries seems to be the national past-time, surpassing soccer even. Dulche de Leche (plain caramel) in particular seems to be the staple condiment, and they eat it on anything, pancakes, toast, cakes, pastries, steak...

My fabulous hosts, Jo and her parents in Cordoba.

By the way, if you're ever over here, don't mention the war. I might have mentioned it once, but I think I got away with it... I made a few innocent gaffes with my gracious host, a veteran, (I inadvertently wore my Ghurka regiment shirt from Nepal...) but I was at least glad not to be an Englishman over here during the world cup. Of course it's pretty good natured now but most Argentinians are still adamant that the English started the Falklands War when they invaded 150 years ago. Not surprisingly you can buy all sorts of soccer jerseys in the stores, Japan, Netherlands, France, Brazil, Nigeria even for crying out loud, but you've got about the same chance as the Argies had back in '82 of finding an English shirt.

Jo's dog, arguably the ugliest I've yet seen. She is supposedly "smiling" here...

What you will have no problem whatsoever of finding however are all sorts of paraphernalia sporting the "greatest number 10 that ever lived", the Mano de Dios, Diego Maradona. They just can't seem to get over him over here, his image is everywhere, every sports store is full of shirts, scarves, hats, jumpers, jackets all plastered with his image (his image circa '86 of course, they don't mention his post '94 problems; it's like nobody remember the fat Elvis, they just remember the good times) and if you don't like the number 10 on your jersey, you're out of luck I'm afraid. Anyways, I bypassed the Argie supporter fare and went for a Dutch jersey instead because of all the Dutchies I'd met in South America and in honour of my nomination for quasi-Australian of the year, Guus Hiddink. That and I now have a guaranteed winner in the office ugly shirt competition every year.

La Boca Stadium, Buenos Aires, sight of a young Maradona's finest exploits.

By the way, I got a taste of just how soccer mad the Argentinians are a week or so out from the world cup commencing when driving through Cordoba one evening. Cordoba, despite being the second largest city in Argentina, has only two large soccer clubs, neither of which regularly feature in the top flight domestic comp dominated by the likes of La Boca Juniors and Riverplate. However, within only 5 minutes of a game being completed that resulted in one of the teams being promoted to the premier grade, all the streets were awash with flags, streamers, half-naked painted lunatics and manic drivers honking incessantly for hours. Furthermore, the next day they shut down central Cordoba for a massive celebration; it was like London shutting down because Crystal Palace made the premier league. Ridiculous.

Puerto Iguazu, located on the border of three countries.

After a week or more of lapping up the unbelievable hospitality put on by my overly generous hosts (whom I could never thank enough), I left Cordoba on a high having just seen Australia smash Japan and caught a bus to arguably Argentina's most popular natural tourist attraction, Iguazu Falls in the far north east of the country. Now I've raved about the buses already but deadset, it just cannot be overstated how good they are. The bus to Iguazu came with pillows, blankets, English-speaking films (ok, so Vinnie Jones has only ever made two good films…), snacks, hot meals, wine, champagne, and even whiskey for Pete's sake as a nightcap. A holiday in its own right.

Iguazu Falls... some of it at least.

Although it doesn't have any claims to being the highest, widest or most voluminous waterfalls in the world, Iguazu must be in line for the prettiest waterfalls. It marks the convergence of three borders between Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay but Argentina certainly has the best access to all the beautiful little cataracts that make up the majority of the falls. Brazil may have the best vantage point for viewing them as a whole but you can't beat the elevated catwalks on the Argentinean side which take you right above and between them all. Stunning.

The prettiest falls in the world?

The Iguazu River (which obviously feeds the falls) is actually suffering an acute shortage of flow at present but if what if I saw were the falls at their weakest, it must truly be a sight to behold when at full strength. The star of the show is undoubtedly the Garganta Diablo, or Devil's Throat, a giant horseshoe whose lip over which the water falls its greatest height, looks like what most would have imagined the edge of the world to be like.

The awesome Devil's Throat above and below the only half-decent facade to be seen at San Ignacio.

I made a brief stop at San Ignacio, one of the most impressive Jesuit missionary ruins sites in South America just south of the falls and if I wasn't all ruined out before that experience, I certainly was afterwards. What it lacks for in the superb natural wonder and tourist pulling power of Iguazu falls, it more than makes up for with a bunch of rocks with a bit of moss on them strewn across a big paddock. The only reason I mention it is that it was on the crappy bus to this otherwise unnoteworthy location that I lost my diary, a costly mistake that was to have ramifications that require a separate blog entry to detail. Oh the things to look forward to...

The very impressive architecture prevelant throughout Buenos Aires. A most beautiful city.

For me the only positive about San Ignacio was that I caught a bus from there, which took me to another bus (again with whiskey...) to Buenos Aires, what was to become my favourite city of South America, if not the whole trip. No doubt it is an amazingly vibrant and pulsing city at any time of year, but during a World Cup, the atmosphere is positively electric. I checked into the Tango City Hostel-Inn which was to become my home for the next two weeks as I, like so many others, struggled to escape the gravitational pull of this fabulous city.

Part of the Aussie crew passing through BA, the French sisters, Mel&Bec. Like the Argintinean wine...

Two weeks pass surprisingly easily in Buenos Aires. Obviously in a city of some 12 million, there is a lot to see and do, with many distinct, fascinating and varied suburbs such as Recoleta and La Boca to be explored, but in my experience at least, most of one's time is frittered away through a combination of watching football, drinking beer, going to restaurants, watching football, going to tango shows, drinking beer, waiting at police stations to lodge stolen property reports, watching football, sampling all the really, really cheap wine, eating lots of steak of course, going out all night to clubs and finally drinking beer.

Brazilians in BA going nuts after cheating their way to victory over the Socceroos.

Being world cup and all, a typical day was to wake up well into the afternoon (unless an important game was on in the 10am slot), eat, watch football until about 6 at a local pub, realise you have no time left to do anything that day, sit around talking with your mates at the hostel about how you are definitely going to see some sights the next day but in the meantime, yeah, I'll have a beer, but don't worry, I've got this one, you get the next etc, and before you know it, you're out eating a steak and either staying up all night playing pool in the hostel or dancing until 7 in the morning at some fancy club. A vicious cycle...

Blue Steel...my wannebe-Brazilian mate from Israel with an incredible resemblance to the merman himself.

There was a lot of shouting going on in Buenos Aires because beer was just so damn cheap. You can't say no when you can get litre of quality domestic beer for less than $1. Even in a pub you would pay no more than $2 for a tallie and so if you start having a few quiet ones at say 9ish, by the time anyone is even thinking about heading out (generally about 2ish), you've knocked off several litres and spent less than what you pay for pint back home. 'Twasn't only the beer either, quality wine set you back only about $3-4 and a bottle of the not-quite-so-finest vodka required only Argentinean spare change... All in all, when you're only spending $6 a night on the hostel, what else are you to spend your money on?

Some more very European architecture in B.A. Couldn't get over just how rich this city and country must have been back in the day, evidence of wealth everywhere.

It was of course nice to have a stable crew at the hostel who were all stuck in a similar sort of twilight zone of planning itineraries around football results. I dare say the economy would have faced a serious downturn once Argentina were knocked out of the cup and thousands of backpackers gave up the dream of being present for the biggest party ever. Of course, having Australia in the cup gave it extra value this time and it was always a fabulous time when we got a crew together at a local venue, particularly when we were winning, or drawing at least. The ecstasy and the agony, Harry's goal vs Croatia and that bloody dive by Italy respectively....

My second-favourite Brasilian fan.

The best game for me however was definitely the Brazil game particularly because I was one of only three Australians in the biggest Brazilian bar in Buenos Aires. We had been wandering about with a few folks from the hostel in an absolutely dead-end part of town looking for a non-existent "great Aussie pub" when by chance we stumbled upon a small bar packed with Brazilians. Unfortunately it was a private party but one gent kindly directed a taxi for us to a packed out big-screen bonanza complete with 1000 or so scantily clad, yellow painted, drum-beating absolutely crazy Brazilians.

One of my four half-time expert commentaries.

Being easily the most vocal of the Aussie tribe and the only one who could "speak Spanish", I proved quite the novelty and was interviewed at half-time for Argentinean television no less than 4 times, all in Spanish. I daresay there were some very confused Argentinians after trying to comprehend those half-time analyses. The fact I had my bright orange Dutch jersey on (in support of my new idol Guus of course) and a Brisbane Lions scarf very similar to Ronaldhino's Barcelona didn't help. And whilst we may have ultimately lost the game, I enjoyed arguably the proudest moment of my life when, live to air throughout Argentina, I was challenged to a beer-skulling/chugging competition with a Brazilian dude. Needless to say, I pumped him by a good 2 seconds. Never have I been prouder to be Australian.

My about 5 seconds after finishing my beer with the Brazilian guy about 3 seconds after he finished his...

Was also fortunate enough to be in Buenos Aires for two international rugby matches, one entirely despicable performance from Wales first up, and then the following week, the mighty All Blacks whom I saw live for the first time for a total of about $8. Super quality match as well, los Pumas had about 10 phases on the kiwi line in the last 5 minutes when only 6 points down.

The All-Blacks during the haka. This, like many of the photos on this page, are not mine due to my camera being stolen. During this time, I was down with plebs almost getting crushed to death.

Obviously the stadium in which the games took place is primarily a soccer stadium and it was amusing to see the efforts they had made in the name of crowd control. In Australia, we have a copper sitting on a fold-up stool on the boundary; in Argentina, they have a moat.... Mind you when making our way to the outer seats when the All Blacks commenced their haka (without the throat-slitting of course...) the moat counted for nothing as we were nearly crushed to death by marauding Argentinians desperate to see the action. Scary stuff.

During the Wales match. Notice the moat running down the side from which some guy had to scoop the ball out with a 5m pole any time someone kicked for touch. You certainly didn't want to cop a fierce covering tackle whilst dashing down the sideline.

Despite all this football and beer, I did actually get around to seeing some of the fabulous locations and meet some of the local Porteños (residents of Buenos Aires) which thoroughly enriched my experience. One thing I definitely took away from my interaction with these folk, both from Buenos Aires and all over South America for that matter, was a new appreciation for just how lucky those of us from Australia, Europe, U.S.A. and the like are to be able to sample all that these great countries have to offer on a relative whim.

The vibrant colours of Caminito, an avenue in the working class La Boca district.

Not to get all preachy or anything, but the fact is I was able to travel as I have for almost a year after saving for only one year as a graduate pretty much straight out of university. So many people in Argentina especially, equally well-educated if not more so, can only dream of such possibilities due to factors completely out of their control. A qualified gynecologist I met for example, someone who delivers babies every day, was earning around US$5 an hour. A sad reflection of a country which only five years ago had a peso valued more than 3 times what it is now. Still, means a lot of cheap beer for us backpackers....

The famous and overly ostentatious cemetery in Recoleta, final resting place of the very rich and famous.

Unfortunately that newfound appreciation didn't last very long as I a) had my camera stolen no doubt by one those I had been earlier been feeling sorry for and b) I was about to embark on a journey towards the beautiful Lakes District town of Bariloche at the foot of the Andes where events dictated by factors out of my control were to slowly sap my appreciation for being here in this fabulous country.

Eva Peron's grave in the same Recoleta cemetery.

Til next time....

Change of Plans in Chile

Change of Plans in Chile

At last the time had come, after many delays and deliberation, I was heading to what I was hoping to be my ultimate destination of this little jaunt, Chile. The whole premise of this trip, apart from having a great time experiencing the world, was to land both some quality work and personal experience with my Australian company GHD in their office in Santiago. I was still hopeful of a positive outcome and was looking forward to the opportunity to working and living in the city and all that it entailed; finally my spanish would improve, I'd learn how to dance the tango, I'd be able to write off my self-indulgent holiday as professional overseas experience, you know, that sort of thing. Yep, I was in Chile for the slightly-longer-than-short-haul.

Upon my arrival into San Pedro de Atacama, my first port-of-call upon departing Bolivia, one thing became abundantly clear, I certainly wasn't to be staying in Chile without finding some way of earning some cash. I have never experienced such a shock by simply passing a few kilometres over a land border. After enjoying my complementary ransacking by drug authorities, I was surprised, not to say extremely disappointed to discover that prices had suddenly increased fourfold or thereabouts for most typical items.

One of the main tourist attractions in San Pedro, the three sisters. Fascinating...

Bottled water suddenly cost more than fine Bolivian wine, I was paying far more for a dorm than a private hotel room and spending time writing this overly time-consuming blog became a serious financial outlay. No more restaurants unfortunately as well and I was forced to commence my staple diet of banana hotdogs for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Not surprisingly, there were very few Bolivians about (as evident by my newfound total lack of ability to understand a single word of the high-speed garble of Chilean spanish); I dare say the cost of living is more effective than the Berlin wall at keeping Bolivians out of this most prosperous nation in South America.

Some of the landscapes typical of the Valle de la Luna just outside San Pedro de Atacama.

Not only were the costs of everything astronomically higher, but I found San Pedro, the bee's knees so far as tourist hotspots of northern Chile are concerned to be pretty lifeless and bereft of unmissable sites. Admittedly the Atacama Desert, which I bypassed due to its similarity to my much cheaper Salt Flats tour, may be somewhat impressive but if like me, you're not keen for several more days of bum-numbing 4-wheel-driving, there isn't a whole lot to do. So with the decision to hightail it out of there made remarkably easily, I had only one afternoon during which I needed to occupy myself. The Valle de la Luna (another one) was only 20 odd km away (a short distance in theory) and so with yet another Dutchie I met in the hostel, Saco, it was on yer bike off to catch the "unforgettable" sunset.

My Dutch (as usual) mate Saco, exploring the tunnels in and around the Valle de la Luna.

Hmmm, so 20km is not quite as short as I had convinced myself, particularly considering my bizarro athlete state of being, and the high altitude we were still at. I was relieved to firstly get there without suffering coronary failure, and secondly to discover that it was actually worth the pain I was no doubt to feel the next day. An impressive tunnel tour through the incredible sculpted rock features was first up and then it was a further ride into the park to appreciate the stark landscape which stretched off until the Andes.

Our vantage point from where the sunset would have been great...

We completed our tour with a far more difficult than it looked hike up an impressive sand dune to a great vantage point where we missed the sunset by that much. Still the dusk light did nothing to diminish the eerie landscape that stretched on around us as far as the eye could see. And then it was an entirely unpleasant uphill ride back to San Pedro...

The dune which further convinced me I never wish to have to hike out of a desert.

With memories of my bus adventures in Bolivia fresh in my mind, the prospect of a 24 hour bus trip to Santiago was not one I looked forward to with eager anticipation but I was pleasantly surprised to find the quality matched the prices here in Chile. Climate control, personal headsets, films in english, food and even a complimentary lost luggage service. By that I mean they actually lose all your luggage at no extra cost (I seriously recommend you tip the guys who pack your gear under the bus). Thankfully I only had two days in Santiago having to wear the same clothes until my pack finally arrived, minus a commission fee of one small black bag containing all my electronic gear, mobile, chargers, connections etc. Sneaky bastards.

Hardly budget backpacker style, more like business class in a plane. Better yet was to come in Argentina.

Santiago is as first world as they come, very modern with, to my disappointment very modern prices, reflective of its thriving economy. Mind you, despite its economic success, I think they must have had a major devaluation of their currency in recent times as they still hand out 1 peso coins. Considering there are more than 500 pesos to one dollar, you'd pretty much need a life-size piggy bank to save up for that bicycle you've always wanted. It also feels quite different to any other major South American city I've yet visited in that it appears at least to be absent of regions of absolute poverty, and feels quite European almost. That and the fact that its main street is named after its liberator, the decidedly un-South American sounding Bernard O'Higgins.

Pretty much my only photo in Santiago, I was hoping to stay longer and choose when to take my shots... Above is the military barracks.

Kind of reminded me of my hometown of Brisbane; similar size, similar cost of living etc, and like Brisbane, Santiago really has bugger all to offer tourists as far as I could tell. So with little further ado, I headed straight for GHD to discover my fate. Unlike Brisbane, Santiago has an extremely efficient public transport system and holy crap, the suburb where the GHD office is, Los Condors, might as well by uptown Manhattan with all its schmick apartment blocks, wide tree-lined avenues and expensive cars.

My gracious hosts Christina, Maule and Ian on their last day in Talca.

Anyways, following a chat with the very accommodating director of the office, Roberto, it was decided I should return in a week to allow him to see what might be available. In the meantime it was off to Talca, a smallish city about 3 hrs south of Santiago to kill a few days with my "inside man" of GHD Santiago, Ian Spruce (the guy who had been telling me all along I really had bugger all chance of work...) and his girlfriend Christina and overly-large but beautiful dog Maule. After spending only three days in Talca, and enjoying their incredibly generous hospitality over that time, I have newfound respect for how Ian managed to put up with living there for over a year....

One of the days I was in Santiago they had a free cultural day (finally something cheap in Chile!!) where there was all sorts of musuems and performances available to the public, including these dancing cowboys, who as far as I could tell were limited to performing the ol' Heel and Toe whilst waving about a hankie above their heads.

So, back to Santiago for a few days where I enjoyed the company of Nicki, a lovely Australian girl from the office who only a month or two prior, through a much more concerted display of pragmatism, diligence and, dare I say it, planning, had scored the exact position I had been hoping for myself. The writing was definitely on the wall, but still I persevered and it was off to see Roberto to find out my destiny, to achieve my ultimate goal, to fulfil the driving ambition, the culmination of my travels, to realise the very reason for my embarking on this journey around the world....

Umm, no? Nothing? Hey, that's cool, just figured I'd pop round since I was in the area and all...

Hmmmm. So with pride shattered and feelings of complete failure and inadequacy, I had to summon all my willpower to look beyond the hazy fog of depression that had descended upon my mind and try to see the positives of not having to sit in an office for 10 hours a day for the next several months. But what to do? Well, the world cup was approaching, I had several friends to visit, and I do really, really like steak.

Entonces, VAMOS ARGENTINA!!

Budget Bolivia

Budget Bolivia

Bolivia - An exciting place

When I first arrived in South America, I had no intentions of seeing Bolivia due to my carefully formulated and foolproof plan to simply knock on the door and gain employment with my company GHD in Chile. Over the course of my time during Peru however I had been picking up distinctly non-good vibrations, and certainly no excitations from the Santiago office and with seemingly less onorous demands on my time of arrival in Chile as a result of that diminishing likelihood, Bolivia came distinctly within the radar for a number of reasons. Obviously I was keen to check out this relatively unknown country of high plateaus, Andean mountains, Amazonian jungle and blinding salt flats but I was also fortunate enough to have the chance to travel with yet more Dutch friends of mine who had coinciding plans. Of course the fact that it was dirt cheap added to its appeal. That and the cocaine...

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One last day of shopping for gringo goodies with my beuna amiga, Devin, one of several folk whom made my time in Cusco so enjoyable.

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It was hardly as if I'd been living an exorbitant existence in Cusco, a thoroughly affordable place in it's own right, but tales abounded from many a traveller of just how much bang your buck could achieve in Bolivia. High adventure for low cost was the general gist of it and so, following a few days completing a few essential Cusco experiences (I finally bought a damn finger puppet...) and saying goodbye to all the great folk I had met there, I headed south towards the Bolivian border.

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Puno, the Monte Carlo of the Andes, only with much shittier boats.

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Of course there was one more stop to make before leaving Peru indefinitely; one can hardly ignore the essential experience of Lake Titicaca, which at 3800m is the world's highest navigable lake and straddles the border between Peru and Bolivia. Its a pretty important place supposedly as Indian legend says the sun god had his children, Manco Capac and his sister Mama Ocilo, spring from the frigid waters of the lake to found Cuzco and the beginning of the Inca dynasty. The majority of the lake actually falls in Bolivian territory but the Peruvian town of Puno is considered the best site from which to embark on a tour of the Lake's islands, both those formed by natural and man-made processes.

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Several of the some 40-odd floating islands near Puno.

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There are a number of floating islands made up of the reeds that grow abundantly in the lake's shallows which have been habituated and continually replenished with fresh top layers of reeds by the Uros people who initially settled on them to escape those land-lubbering and war-mongering Incas some 500 years ago. These islands in particular are the main attraction of the countless tours of the lake that as always are shoved in your face immediately upon disembarking your bus.

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Close up of the islands - like walking on a big spongy mattress and below, a touch of home. Not only did I spot the Aussie flag in one of the few residences on the island, there was also a huge number of eucalyptus gum trees, supposedly imported from Oz for their erosion prevention qualities and the islander's thriving trade in koala skins.

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Tis certainly amazing how dexterous the folk who continue to reside permanently on the islands are with their reeds. They eat them, drink them, live under them (all their shelters are constructed from the reeds), sleep on them, and of course they use them to make useless trinkets that tourists lap up by the dozen. Another blatant tourist trap those crafty islanders employ are trips in their admittedly impressive reed boats, reminiscent of old Viking ships. I unfortunately fell for this one expecting to cross over to one of the main islands and forked out 5 sol (ok, it was only like $2) which is still quite a lot to sit in a boat over what eventuated to be a distance that Thorpie could cover in about 24 seconds.

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Alas the ride to the main island on the agenda, Isla Taquille, was undertaken in the far less exotic diesel engined tour boat which was only marginally more hasty than the long-pole powered reed boats. After some 90 minutes of puttering across the open expanse of water (early suspicions that the lake was in fact quite large, proved correct), we finally arrived at Isla Taquille supposedly for a true Titicaca experience. Seemingly this simply involves hanging out with a whole bunch of gringos in the town square for an hour whilst the locals try to flog you stuff that isn't even half as impressive as the little reed keyrings on the other island. Alas this memorable encounter had to end, and so it was then another 3 hour journey spluttering back to the mainland.

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Scenes from Cocacabana town, our first stop in Bolivia. Another example of whacked or spot-on priorities depending on your point of view.

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The next morning I was met by one of my many Dutch friends, Charlotte, and the two of us headed to the border where I left Peru with the distinct hope of returning some day. We didn't move much beyond the border as we chose to stay at another Lake town, the infinitely prettier Cocacabana (the highest port south of Havana...). Our first impression of Bolivia was certainly a positive one, a fabulous trout meal (a Titicaca specialty), sunny weather, and a beautiful hotel with stunning views of the lake (and hot showers with PRESSURE!!) for around $6 each. A highlight was the hike up the neighbouring mountain which provided views over the town and a spectacular vantage point for watching the sunset over the lake which stretched beyond the horizon.

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Cheap wine and a three month growth. Enjoying the sunset over Titicaca.

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Alas our Coca experience proved to be a blip on the radar so far as quality is concerned for it seems the deeper you head into Bolivia, the drop in standards more than keeps pace with the dropping prices. Our rickety bus to La Paz was a case in point and proved two things; the lake is even bigger than I had imagined, and the buses in Bolivia are entirely shithouse. At least the same cannot be said of the vista one experiences when first driving into La Paz, the highest capital city in the world and surely also one of the most spectacularly located. Basically a huge depression surrounded by a ring of Andean peaks with the city sprawling up the slopes seemingly until they become too steep to support any more dwellings.

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The spectacular setting of La Paz.

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(Below left) Maybe they're taking things a bit far when they start counterfeiting cars as this "Toyosa" suggests. The bowling ball shaped woman aptly sporting a bowler hat is also a very common sight in Bolivia.

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We checked into the first of several dive hotels in central La Paz (again super cheap - we had a room for four people to ourselves for around $10 - of course only two could safely support the weight of a human body) and headed out to start making the most of the cheap luxuries on offer, namely the restaurants with meals for which we paid only between $3 and $4. Certainly not fine dining by any standards but thoroughly edible and undeniably good value for the cost.

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(Below) Myself, Joram and Charlotte eating out again at the markets in La Paz.

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Or so I thought. As a further example of my inability to escape the company of those from the Nether regions, I met up with two good mates from Cusco, Joppe and Joram, who took the stereotype of the "tight Dutchman" to an altogether new level. They swore by eating only at the giant markets in the centre of town where you could buy a tasty chicken and rice meal for 60c, or a choripan for half that. I was quickly convinced of their logic and was soon eating there at every opportunity as well. My favourite were the incredible amount of fruit stalls served by the typically rotund fruit ladies who could whip up a monstrous fruit salad totally from fresh produce of your choice again for less than a dollar. A litre of fruit juice made to your specifications set you back a ridiculous 2 bolivianos.

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Considering there are more than 6 Bolivianos to one Aussie dollar, 2 Bolivianos is hardly a noteworthy sum but it of course still represents a not inconsequential amount to locals. There seems to a spate of counterfeiting currency in Bolivia at present and one ultra-suspicious gentleman refused to accept a slightly tarnished 2 Boliviano coin I presented as payment. My seemingly logic arguments of the futility of counterfeiting such an inconsequential sum fell on deaf ears and I was forced to find an alternative note to pay for my internet.

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My beloved fruit ladies...

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All that eating at local markets complete with their non-existent practices of hygiene did of course catch up with me when a 25c hotdog played havoc with my bowels preventing me from heading out on the popular Choro trek just outside of La Paz. The disappointment of that missed opportunity was softened by the knowledge that we experienced more or less the same environment whilst completing arguably one of the most enjoyable experiences I've had on my entire trip.

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The money shot of the bike ride down the "World's Most Dangerous" road.

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I write of the WMD, or World's Most Dangerous road where the only weapons of mass destruction to be found were the madcap Bolivian trucks hurtling down the 65km stretch towards Brazil. It's a lot safer than it sounds, it merely has the title because it was officially listed by the WHO or some other international organisation of repute as being the road with the most fatalities in a particular year. Of course it also lures a lot of tourists to buy a T-shirt of the "I did it" ilk. I also picked one of these up (it was included in the cost!!) and it is amazing how many people you run into all over the continent all sporting similar apparel.

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Obviously it is not the safest road but I get the feeling that most of those fatalities were the result of coked-up Bolivian truck drivers trying to deliver their "merchandise" across the border as quickly as possible, a risky proposition on a single lane, two-way dirt road winding down some 3.5 vertical kilometres on the sides of mountains. All in all it makes for one hell of bike-ride.

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A shot of whiskey/straight metho to toast to our hopefully good health before commencing. Thankfully nobody rode off the edge that day.

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Apart from a brief stretch of up-hill riding (ridiculously exhausting at some 4000m) it's pretty much just a point your wheels down and hold on tight situation. The first 25km or so are on pavement where you actually dodge in and out of the slower moving traffic but the real fun begins when you hit the 40km+ of dusty gravel road with the side of a mountain on your right, and a several hundred metre vertical drop on your left for much of the time. Being the vehicle descending, the rules of the road are of course that you need to remain on the left. Being that it is barely wide enough to support one vehicle width, it is a slightly nerve-wracking experience when passing an oncoming vehicle....

Some of the unnecessarily distracting scenery encountered on the way down. Below is me watching the second guy make it up the tough up-hill section. That's right, estoy numero uno...

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The amount of commemorative crosses you pass on the way down is enough to keep your wits about you but I have rarely had more fun than when just going flat out down that hill, sliding round corners and letting go of the brakes, all the while trying not to be distracted by the incredible scenery all around me. I seriously recommend anyone passing through Bolivia to make it one of your priorities. An exhausting, dusty, exhilarating and entirely satisfying experience I will remember for a long time.

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A very dusty but satisfied crowd at the end of the ride. Next was the dangerous part; driving back up the road...

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(Below) Me and Charlotte at the ridiculously schmick dessert restaurant in La Paz complete with classy faux waterfalls.

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Following this we had a few more days in around La Paz where we were eventually joined by our other Dutch friend Danielle, and spent our time in a variety of pursuits such as a hiking a beautiful local day trek, exploring the bizarre Valle de la Luna (valley of the moon), having our shoes cleaned by the terrorist-looking shoe shiners (they all wear balaclavas supposedly to avoid being recognised and thus avoid bringing "shame" on their family due to their lowly-esteemed profession), and also eating copious amounts of the best icecream I've ever had for a fifth of the price that you would pay at Cold Rock.

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Some views from the day hike I did with Charlotte, Joram and Joppe. You can see the first stretch of the bike ride winding down in the the background. Below is the view out towards Brazil and the beginning of the Amazon rainforest. I think.

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The other activity that preoccupied much of my time in La Paz was shopping for the ridiculous amounts of Alpaca wool clothes that I made the mistake of offering to buy for my family. Once this two day mission (which they better be especially grateful for) was over, I left myself a good two hours to simply put all 11kg of the stuff in a box and post it back to Australia before with immaculate timing, jumping on a night bus heading for Uyuni. Like my Mumbai experience, this was to prove frightfully insufficient.

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Another shot from our lookout point of the WMD road.

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Who'd want to be an electrician in La Paz? Typical of the chaotic disorganised feel of the city, these wire criss-crossed all over the city and often were directly under roof water discharges. Crazy.

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For starters, the amount of money I had planned for posting turned out to be horribly short due to the fact that the information lady, upon confirming my quoted price from my previous questioning, had never in fact even heard of Australia. Austria sure, but Australia was evidently one of those mysterious countries in the "rest of the world" category which happen to be double the price. Setback number two was that the box lady was adamant that the cost of postage would be the same whether I put my cargo in one large box as in two smaller ones. I was sceptical but assumed that, being that it was her profession, she may have some idea what she was talking about.

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Taking the concept of the zebra crossing to the next level. Supposedly these crazy dancing zebras are necessary to ensure the drivers stop at the lights. That or it's a novel way of reducing unemployment.

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Umm, no. After filling in all the forms with a detailed description of all the items and wrapping up the boxes up securely and addressing them ready for postage I was informed that I would be of course required to pay the postage for two 6kg packages rather than one large 11kg package. Apart from being some $50 or so more expensive, it was also highly time consuming and damaging to my best laid plans of catching an imminently departing bus. Once again I failed the patience and calmness test in dismal fashion. Despite my pidgeon spanglish rants of "not my fault, not my fault. Your fault. Me no pay more!!" I was eventually forced to fork out the cash and sprint back to my hotel which quickly turned into a forlorn power walk considering the difficulty of physical exertion at that altitude...

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Main governing square of La Paz.

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Of course despite my panic, turns out I had nothing to worry about as I had yet again overestimated the quality of service availabe in these countries. The Bolivian time lag constant was in my favour on this occasion and despite turning up 20 minutes late to the bus station, where I found that my bus in fact was leaving from the train station (of course, how stupid of me...) and hence was forty minutes late, I still had to wait for another half hour before we headed off. And this was the only bus for that entire day that ran arguably the most popular tourist route from La Paz to Uyuni, the launching pad for tours of the famous salt plains.

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More tastes of home, the green and gold of the Aussie wattle plant with some gum trees in the background. Both are pretty common around La Paz.

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They should really issue public health warnings to all those considering travelling by bus in that part of the world. Firstly the engine was exposed in the driver's cabin and one was required to step over the gaping hole when boarding and for the rest of the night an unfortunate Brit had to keep the door closed with his leg to prevent the fumes billowing through to the rest of us. Much worse was the fact that despite wearing a three layers, not to mention a down jacket and complimentary blanket, and taking TWO valiums, I couldn't get an ounce of sleep primarily due to the deafening chatter of teeth and knocking of knees. I'm talking serious arctic conditions, the windows were completely iced over and I had no feeling in my face, hands and feet for most of what was a very ordinary journey.

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The reason why people go to Uyuni, the trippy landscapes of the salt plains.

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After enduring such a painful trip it was entirely disheartening to disembark in what must be one of the most unwelcoming, desolate places on the continent. Understandably at 7am on a freezing morning (well below zero), the place gave the impression of a deserted ghost town; one almost expected some tumbleweed to blow down the dusty streets but I dare say the place was too arid for any vegetation to grow at all. And in truth, it wasn't entirely deserted, we were of course met by an armada of tour operators all plying their trade of flogging the only reason why anyone would want to pass through such a place.

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A Toyota, or possibly a Toyosa, speeding across the seemingly endless expanse of the Salar de Uyuni.

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Thus loaded up with 12 flyers that I was too debilitated to resist, I hobbled away on my numb stumps for legs to another dingy Bolivian hotel wondering how I was going to fill up a whole day in this place before being joined by my Dutch girls the next day. After lying comatose under 6 blankets for several hours, I spent the rest of the day sifting through the dozens of tour operators (I think there are more than 50 companies in a town of only a few thousand people) and ultimately flipped a coin to break the deadlock between the companies offering the best deals. This more or less required about 50 coin tosses as there is little discernible difference between any of them and its pretty much luck of the draw as to whether you get a pimped up beast-from-the-east (i.e. a landcruiser) or a clapped-up pickup truck running on it's third engine.

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Charlotte and I atop some of the memorable rock sculptures encountered during our 3-day salt plains tour.

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A quick aside, I mentioned that the giant pimple that is Uyuni only exists on the tourist radar for its proximity to the salt planes, but there is one other redeeming feature which almost makes Uyuni a worthwhile destination in it's own right. MinuteMan Pizza. A super restaurant run by an American expat with his Bolivian wife which makes the best pizza I've had in my life. Period. Had I stayed any longer in Uyuni I may have considered setting up camp on the street outside.

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Anyways, with a tour booked and stomach still in shock from the previous night's feast, I met the girls early the next morning, by the state of them they had also neglected to bring their fur-lined down suits on board the arctic express from La Paz. Unfortunately for them they pretty much had to jump straight into our cramped 4WD (there were two more Dutchies in our group, they're a virus I swear) and head out to the flats. We at least had time to squeeze in a quick breakfast as MinuteMan's. They also make arguably the best pancakes....

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Aww, he's so cute. I'm referring to the llama if there's any confusion. Which there is not...

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From Uyuni, it was pretty much straight out to the surreal and blindingly white expanses of the Salar de Uyuni, via a quick stop at the unique Cemeterio del Locomotivos and several tourist trinket traps. I did at least fulfill one of my main South American ambitions in that I got to hold a llama.

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Me at the helm of one of the many locomotive corpses scattered about the Cemeterio de Locomotivos.

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The interior of the salt hotel, constructed inside and out, furniture and all, of yep, you guessed it, salt.

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The Salar de Uyuni is huge and you essentially spend half a day driving across its seemingly endless plains all the while attempting to set new land speed records for 1990 model Toyota (and Toyosa one suspects) landcruisers. Two noteworthy stops are however the impressive and aptly named Salt hotel, and the distinctly inappropriately named Isla Pescado (Island of fish). Where the hell any fish were in one of the driest places on earth I have no idea, I personally think the title of Isla de Fálico Cactos would have been more suitable.

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Me standing on the mysteriously titled Isla Pescado with the many cacti which cover the island in the background. I guess there may have been fish about there at some stage for below is some fossilized coral which was somehow under water a long long time ago.

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The next few days followed a similar theme of surreal out-of-this-world landscapes interspersed with long periods of mind-numbing driving followed by freezing nights in dive hotels in the middle of nowhere. The highlights package was worth it however and you tend to forget the hours of pent-up tedium when reflecting upon the many impressive landscapes we encountered.

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Me, Danielle and Charlotte above Laguna Colorado and below is the aptly if not overly imaginatively named Laguna Verde, or Green Lake with a big volcano in the background which I cannot remember the name of.

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Of particular note were the numorous coloured lakes, Lagunas Colorado and Verde in particular, and the Desierto de Salvador Dalí, the scene of (many of?) his most famous paintings, with its incredible naturally sculpted rock features including the immediately recognisable rock tree.

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I tried to recreate the scene of Dali´s famous melting clocks with my watch but it just didn't quite fit the scale....

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People went bananas about the flamingoes as well but I shall again be one of those irritating traveller types and express my distinct lack of enthusiasm for this "highlight" of the tour. When you have seen several million of the things lining a lake in Kenya, you are hardly quick draw McGraw with the camera upon the distant sighting of anything pink.

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Alas the end of the tour for me also signalled the end of my oh-so-brief jaunt through Bolivia and also this oh-too-bloated blog entry. One last and typically freezing night in Bolivia was followed by pre-dawn excursion to the geysers, which I enjoyed for all of the 15 seconds I could bare to be out of the car, and then the infinitely more pleasurable and sirenesque hot springs which they almost had to winch me out of. It was then to the drop off point where a bus was waiting to make the short trip over the nearby Chilean border.

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Me and an entirely fake geyser. There were real ones however.

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It was certainly said to say goodbye to Charlotte and Danielle, the last of my many good Dutch friends from Cusco but it was just as sad to say goodbye to the Boliviano and all it entailed. Gone for good were those 30c juices and $4 hotel rooms; I was in for some serious culture shock in Chile. But at last the time had come to get to Santiago and achieve my main ambition and inspiration for this entire trip. Time to get a job....

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Goodbye Bolivia...

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