Familiar Faces; Tourist Trail Places

Lights, camera, action! The world came out of the mist of a heavy drunken sleep, slapping us in the face with the harsh reality that after waking stupidly early, popping for a bite with Alex and Stina and then returning to tend to our banging heads for a while longer, we were now 20 minutes and a very messy room away from checking out and getting on a long distance shuttle bus to Antigua. The sense of urgency provided us with a momentary distraction from what can only be described as a Category 5 hangover, and we managed, in the nick of time, to get out and on to the road for midday. Or did we? Half an hour passed with us barely surviving by the side of the road before I called the agency to be informed that Emily's iPod was in fact an hour fast, and that precious, special, delicious hour that we could have spent sleeping was instead spent by the side of the road sitting on our bags. Fortunately for me I was still pretty drunk and couldn't have cared less, so happily trotted off to purchase a big sandwich. After returning to a brief but satisfying frenzied attack on the sandwich, we waited for our bus to arrive. I managed to pass the time by sharpening my knife and singing Bohemian Rhapsody to passers by (including a couple of children justifiably scared of the lunatic singing man with the blade). The bus arrived and we hopped on to be greeted by a friendly group of girls, who before long were joining in on a sing song of unbreak my heart. Emily was notably quiet, which meant one thing: she was a burp away from filling a plastic bag, and I prepared for the worst. What I was not prepared for was my stomach going first. Two stops, two large messes and an icecream later (against the advice of the rest of the bus) I was feeling fine, and with Emily's understandable silence we passed the rest of the day bumping along towards Antigua. We arrived late (again), ate and passed out to the gentle sounds of the barking dog right outside our door. Bliss.

Antigua, the next day, was packed with tourists, clad with their fanny packs (bum bags), professional camera equipment set to automatic (pet hate of mine) and their entourage of people trying to sell them crap. In our typically dishevelled state we avoided harassment and moved to a super cheap but very basic hostel, and split off so I could watch Lewis Hamilton make history, and Emily ambled around getting to know the city. After missing each other a few times we ate, watched a DVD at a cool local hostel and passed out fairly early. Antigua uncovered a myriad of truths while we were there, I'm not sure how much this was the case with Emily, but while we were there we did nothing. The town was a volcano nested, colonial, cobble stoned haven that, in spite of the large U.S. population, was absolutely beautiful with so much to do. This, however, didn't really seem to matter as although we could appreciate the aesthetic draw of the area, doing anything just seemed like too much of an effort. It was pretty clear that we were missing the familiarity of home, whatever that was. With the benefit of hindsight I'm not too sure how much of that was due to me, and how much was Emily, but regardless, it was very clear that I was, in my mind, nearing the end of my tolerance towards travelling.

This was until we both received a more than welcome dose of familiarity, an old friend who we hadn't known long but who we had both wanted to spend more time with. It's funny how often people cite the term “it's a small world”, you hear it when people bump into each other at their local shops and it's probably so, but when travelling, the world gets a lot bigger and the supposed chances of bumping into someone decrease dramatically. This was the case when bumping into an old friend in an internet café. We had met Scott in Montanita, Ecuador, when he came down to see a friend of his who we happened to be partying with. He was only staying for a few weeks and we parted company around two or so days after meeting. Scott had then returned home, decided to go travelling himself and set off in a camper van from Canada through the USA. He had then carried on through Mexico to Guatemala, Antigua on this particular day, and was happily using the internet when he heard his name. The person saying it was me. Months after meeting in Montanita, Emily and I had travelled North through Ecuador, Columbia, sailed to Panama and smashed through Central America at a rather hard pace, and here we were in the same internet cafe. At the same time Emily was in a coffee shop using WiFi literally just about to write to his friend / ex wife, Kelly, to tell her that she had just uploaded the photos of Montanita. At that moment Emily received a message from me down the road saying that I had just bumped into Scott and began looking around the café to see how and where I could be to know this before realising that she hadn't actually started writing the message and that there was no way of me knowing. As it happened, after meeting Scott and parting after a short amount of time Emily and I had, on various occasions, said how it would have been nice to spend more time with Scott and to get to know him better. That chance had now arisen on a different continent, moving in different directions in a random internet café on a side street in Antigua.

Now I don't believe in fate, I don't really believe in anything like that, it doesn't make sense to me and I'd happily prefer to think of myself as the master of my future moving in my own direction on whatever stepping stones appeared in front of me. I can't really imagine myself taking comfort in predestinations or things being in the control of something that I can't see, touch, taste or smell, but sometimes you find yourself in the situations wondering how and why on earth things had come together in the way that they had. This was one of these moments when a sliver of doubt left me with questions. Emily and I had met because we had both chosen routes different from that expected, me seeking solace and new friends instead of going with a group of people who I had known for a fair amount of time, Emily branching away from the people she was travelling with, and being forgotten the day before when she was supposed to do her trek. When meeting Scott, Emily and I had been experiencing some tension considering our immediate proximity after meeting, uncertainties over the future and my natural inability to adapt to terrifically uncomfortable bus journeys and mundane food for long periods of time. If I had believed in fate then maybe, perhaps, I would have seen it as so and our unlikely meeting with Scott as a reminder of this, and even a push in the right direction for us, who knows. I certainly considered it and, in spite of the fact that there has never been a moment when I haven't wanted to be with Emily since meeting her (soft but resolutely and undoubtedly true), maybe a stark reminder that I had found something special and should treasure it more. Either way, fate or not, questions had been asked that had needed to be asked, and answered with clarity.

Emily and I were delighted to see Scott, we arranged to meet later on for food and drinks, and went our separate ways (well, Emily and I obviously didn't). We converged later that evening, ate and made our way out for drinks, catching up with Scott was brilliant and later on that evening we popped into the hostel we ha been to the previous night, sat under the stars drinking happy hour beers and had a deep, yet inebriated, conversation around a burning fire. A chilled, but really invigorating night for all concerned. We had discussed the possibility of going on to San Pedro, a cool chill out place on a lake with Scott once Obama had taken the White house. After another lazy day we met with Scott, after bumping into Alex and Stina from the previous post, to sit back and watch the election. Obama stormed the elections, and Emily and I retired for an early night planning to meet with Scott the next morning. The next morning came, however, and after waiting for Scott for a long time he had obviously slept in following another heavy night. Both of our minds were watching the calendar and although we wanted to travel on with Scott for a while, we decided that we didn't really have time if we wanted to visit Tikal and spend some time on Mexico's coastline. We decided, packed and began walking to the bus station. As we turned the corner to the station we luckily bumped into Scott and bode farewell sadly before going our separate ways. We had had a really good time in Antigua, along with some very welcome surprises, yet, as was always the case, the clock was ticking and it was time to move on.

Leaving The Ruins; Ruined

Another day, another destination, the long and sometimes exhausting travelling had been just that. Emily and I both felt frayed from a relentless stomp through Central America which had left us in the wake of many miles, many disappointments and, in all honesty, a great impression of the new environment that we had entered. South America had been long and hard, but with many treasures along the way (including the one that I had picked up and taken along with me), which had mad every mile worth the effort. I know that this is something that I have touched upon before but real travelling isn't as relaxing and care free as two weeks on a beach, and as time goes by it gradually wears you down. What Emily and I needed was a proverbial rabbit out of the hat in the form of something to lift our spirits, and we were not to be disappointed: in multiple senses of the word spirits were well and truly lifted.

After another day the destination in question was the Copan Ruinas, or using my impressive Spanish to kindly translate: the Copan Ruins. This was the first significant destination in what was once the territory of the vast Mayan Empire, a civilisation stretching from present day Honduras far into northern Mexico, which is pretty significant without access to Facebook! It comes as little surprise that we arrived after dark following a 7 hour journey that easily doubled our guidebook's flimsy estimation of 3 hours. After being dumped in the back of an overcrowded pick-up like a sack of potatoes, we arrived at our reasonably priced hotel before promptly leaving to satisfy our insatiable hunger. I threw down a mixed kebab the size of a hobbit, while Emily threw down the best part of a bottle of vino tinto (red wine). Each in our own way were both satisfied and looking forward to a day wondering aimlessly around the ruins, which we knew little about.

Morning came and after a nice big dose of caffeine and a bowl of granola we were feeling suitably intrepid. We clad ourselves with ample camera gear and set off, like the zealous conquistadors many years before, for a day of charging around the ruins shooting at will (please be assured that no indigenous people were harmed in the making of this blog). The weather was yet again overcast, but holding back from chucking down on us, and quite unlike the conquistadors of yonder year ambled down the quaintly bricked footpath to the well signposted archaeological site. However, upon entering the relatively unpopulated entrance, a war cry came as if from nowhere, the locals had spotted two Gringos heading towards them. Within moments it was like a scene from Zulu as we were outnumbered by prospective tour guides closing in from angles. In spite of the fact that in contrast to Zulu our superior technology was of little use, we fought valiantly for some peace and quiet, and eventually vanquished the tourist hungry guides. We were through the gates and home free. The site itself was remarkably quiet, and after kitting up we shot a few parrots sat on a fence before moving into the main area. What we came upon was simply stunning, no puns and clever linguistics required. The rather dense forest that encompassed the area had crept up and strangled the impressive old ruins, with roots busting from within the stone buildings and vines hanging down from the dark green ceiling which stood imperiously at the edge of each clearing. Furthermore, although there was a trickle of tourists on the grounds, the site was relatively quiet and on occasion found ourselves sitting upon a great stone pyramid, looking down upon the crumbling relics of a once glorious empire.

There are times, and have been times on this trip, when you find yourself being impressed upon by something bigger than yourself, and although I can only speak for myself in this respect it felt like at a time I really required it, I was granted with enough of a dose of perspective to wipe the slate clean. That is one of the great things that I have experienced when travelling. There have been points upon this journey when overwhelmed with the toils of a testing portion of my trip, which this section had very much been, when you are put in a position of being able to see the woods for the trees (a perfect time for a forest themed pun I'd say), and all the trivialities of the present become just that. I am aware that this echoes thoughts that I have rattled upon in the past, but the moments that I will look back upon with the most affection are not the 5 million visitors a year world heritage sites (which as it ironically happens I would imagine that this was), but the moments when you feel ground down by loneliness, fatigue or discomfort and something gives you a large dose of perspective. Because these, for me, are the moments that change me; when you are presented with the fact that the world will keep on spinning today's hindrances into tomorrow's history, and that it will continue on long after you do. Nothing like a good humbling to charge the batteries.

After a fair few hours of tramping around the grounds Emily and I strolled back to town for a spot of lunch and a perusal around the artisan shops before returning to an untimely power cut. As it happened just as we were forced out of our pitch black room just in time to bump into another couple checking into theirs. Keen for some people to drag out on the piss Emily and I pounced upon in a way that can be only described as predatory offering to take them out for a bite to eat. Alex and Stina (I think the spelling is correct) obliged and after going out for a rather banterous yet unspectacular culinary experience, decided to sneak in for a cheeky happy hour beverage at the local watering hole. As can be expected this one drink became 5 shots of a rather potent spirit called 'The Uterus', an obligatory 7 or so rounds of beer pong and a shed load of beers. Drunk is not the word to describe our state and for once Emily ended up much less pissed than me, which was evident in the fact that she still had the ability to walk. That particular talent was not exactly one that I possessed at that time and after eventually staggering back to the room all that was left was to conduct a large shouting match with the inside of the toilet bowl.

The next day we were leaving early on a shuttle bus to Antigua, and in our heavily inebriated state lacked the ability to see how much of a world of pain would come with our awakening. After being reinvigorated, and then subsequently deinvigorated (not a word but I don't care), both challenges and new adventures would face us as we said goodbye to Honduras and hello to Guatemala.

Rains, Banes and Automobiles

Up until Honduras the rainy season in Central America had little, in fact no, visible impact upon our daily drudge from country to country. The weather had been pretty nice for such a temperate climate, and from Ana to Wanda, and all of their breezy friends in between had neglected to blow upon our shores. But, as we were to find out, you can't avoid the rain in the rainy season.

Another morning came, along with another bout of packing, checking out and moving on, although we hoped that with Tegucigalpa, the Honduran capital and our next destination, being relatively near (146km) then perhaps the moving on would not take the whole day. Sadly, as any positive time:distance outlook is in Latin America, the ride would once again deliver us after dark, this time involving 3 buses. On this occasion, however, after dark was less appealing than usual, as Tegucigalpa had a reputation for being pretty dangerous. Meekly, we checked in, grabbed some food from the nearest eatery and bedded down for the night. This would only be a stop over city, before heading to the Bay Islands for some much anticipated scuba diving and snorkeling.

Yet another mammoth journey was about to begin, this time from the capital to San Pedro Sula, a different kind of capital (the H.I.V. capital of Latin America), and on to La Ceiba, the port town in which we would ferry across to the Bay Islands. The only real event of this journey involved me losing my wonderful little P.D.A., which had served as a great device for writing this blog (it's absence would later cause a mountainous delay in posting), the rest of which involved sitting doing very little yet again for the whole day. Once again the routine of arrive in the darkness, argue with taxi driver over the doubled fare, wonder round looking for a bed and crashing out was performed with precision and regularity, and we arrived wet, exhausted and a little agitated. Two days had taken its toll on us and our first major remonstrance occurred. The next morning it was pretty obvious that the air had not cleared from the night before, Emily and I were absolutely fine but the rain which had welcomed us off the bus and hammered down all night relentlessly had very much evidently not abated. We checked with the hotel staff only to find that it would be like this every day for the next couple of weeks, and would later find out that the ferry had been cancelled until further notice. The proverbial bubble burst immediately as we realised that our plans for finding Nemo under paradise skies were now down the baño (toilet), and it was back on the bus. We arrived back in San Pedro Sula and checked into a slightly nicer hotel (nice by our standards) with small but smashing little rooms, and went out to the most expensive restaurant in town (but still cheap by UK standards). We, like the weather, were pretty glum and a big steak, glass of wine and soft bed really helped keep our spirits up after three days of miserably uncomfortable buses and one big disappointment.

Like the others before it, the next day would involve another bus journey before hopefully hanging out in Copan Ruinas on the border of Guatemala for a few days. After a miserable few days we desperately hoped that Copan could offer up better times; but could it?

Worlds Apart

After a longer than expected delay in the border town of San Carlos, Emily and I were finally on our way to see the hidden treasures of Nicaragua, a country marked by many fellow travellers as a gem in the largely touristified, U.S. commercialised and apartment blocked mass of countries. After shooting through Panama and Costa Rica it was time to slow the pace down to that of Nicaragua.

Our first destination was the island of Ometepe, formed out of two dormant volcanoes in the middle of the seemingly oceanic Lago (lake) Nicaragua, which was said to offer adventure, cheap prices and a spot of relatively untamed travel. Before long all three proved to be accurate. After a long and unexpectedly draining journey on the ferry, an M shaped mass slowly appeared out of the utter darkness. Storms were crashing around in the distance and the rain had just abated as we stepped from the boat into an island submerged in darkness. Emily piled onto the back of a pick-up truck, bags in tow, along with about twelve or so other people heading towards any form of civilisation, and hopefully a bed. The truck bounded over tree vines, pot holes and fledglingly sporadic attempts to pave the road for 15 minutes, holding on to whatever we possibly could , before being dumped outside a locked and lifeless hotel. Fortunately the lifelessness was only temporary and we were shown to a basic room without power, running water or any kind of mosquito net. We doused ourselves in deet, the traveller's cologne, and bedded down for the night.

The following day we were able to ascertain that there had been a power cut the night before, resulting from the aforementioned storm, and that although this was a fairly regular occurrence, the Island was not in fact a trip back into the dark ages. Things were beginning to look up. We left our rather unimpressive hotel in the port town of Altagracia on the first available bus to Moyogalpa, a larger town on the other side of the larger volcano. After the quiet and unpopulated Altagracia, Moyogalpa was teeming with life, and more importantly traveller hostels, including our choice El Indio Viejo, which was cheap as chips, served great food (including chips) and had other people to hang about with. One recent detriment of our fast paced travelling was the lack of other human contact Emily and I had had, and luckily a break was due from this when we met a group of three pretty cool American guys and an enthusiastic Canadian beefcake. With a newly formed social group and the local spirit and coke priced at around 25p the only possible outcome was a hangover, which was only confirmed when we splashed out on a 25 cocktail order early on. The sun dipped, the daily shower fell and the guitar came out, with it's owner (another Canadian) and his cheeky Israeli travel buddy, to end the first of a few banterous and fulfilling days on the island. The next morning everyone headed off to climb the volcano at silly O'Clock AM (including Emily), which I was unable to do after losing my walking boots in Medellin, leaving me to a day of gargantuan beef burgers and a rather thick, weighty book by Tolstoy. The hikers returned and the drinking began again for another evening.

Sadly, however, our time being short meant that we had to leave the island after a few days and move on to Granada, a Colonial city in the centre of Nicaragua. After the usual bout of boats, taxis, buses (two; changing in the middle of nowhere in the dark) and another taxi we arrived worn out and in the dark once again. After trying three fully booked hotels we came upon a pricey but tempting hotel offering everything we desired: internet access, a spot of air con and a hot shower, all three of whcih being unavailable over the past two weeks. Against our usual nature we decided to splurge (the term for splashing out in Lonely Planet language) for one night before moving to a cheaper hostel the next day. The next day came and, to put it simply, we went. Granada appeared to solely be packed with tourists and people to harass tourists, and we were not interested in staying. We had planned to go onto Leon 'another' cultural city in Nicaragua but decided that it would be more of the same. We went back to the drawing board and came up with Esteli, a cool, quiet cowboy town at altitude in the North of the country, which sounded like a perfect place to mix in with the locals and prepare for a short, sharp hop through Honduras before slowing down again in Guatemala. Once again we threw ourselves on the first bus in that direction, preparing for yet another night arrival in a strange town.

Esteli, after arriving, eating, sleeping and awakening primed for some exploration was exactly what we had hoped for. We had managed to find a great cheap little Mexican restaurant and a DVD shop to stock up on a few rainy day films the previous night and were already growing to like the city. We arose early, something we had often being doing as we could not afford to drink much and had been going to bed before 11, grabbed breakfast and headed out to a beautiful 100ft waterfall in the foot of the surrounding hills. After swimming a while in the secluded pool we sighted three local men clad with machetes and watching us from the bank. My camera was sat in my bag on the bank and we immediately headed for shore in hope that these weren't planning to relieve us of our valuables. Unsurprisingly, they were local farm boys who had wandered down for a swim and were more interested in having a chat with us than robbing us. We talked for a while before letting them swim and prepared to leave. Just as we were leaving however a group of young Latin American students, two Nicaraguans and a Columbian, crossed our path and we immediately began chatting. Jorge, a local Estelian (if that's what you call them) said they were going up to the top of the highest point and asked us to join. We gladly accepted.

After a short while of waiting, the five of us hitched a lift on the back of a pick-up and were soon at the top of the hills. We lunched at the top, flipping the conversation between Spanish and English regularly, and grabbed a local bus back down to the town. Jorge, the son of a Scotsman and a Nicaraguan who had settled in Esteli after the Nicaraguan civil war, kindly invited us to his parents' cafe (La Casita) to hang out for a while, before some drinks in the evening. The cafe was beautiful, a local Garden of Eden, with a steam, cactus gardens and winding pathways, and we left absolutely charmed. Sadly, upon returning back to our hotel room we both fell asleep waking too late to meet Jorge.

The next day we were to cross yet another border after leaving warmed to the overwhelmingly cheap, cheerful and charming Nicaragua. Would Honduras offer more of the same or a stark return to what had so disappointed us before? Only time would tell.

The La Cuenta Quandary

After a difficult night in the cockroach infested hotel in Los Chiles, we didn´t need to be asked twice to leave. An interesting border, Los Chiles, would require us to check out of Costa Rica, hop on a boat through the jungle to the swampy, hot and evidently isolated town of San Carlos.

The boat, although unsurprisingly late, which mattered little as we were in no rush, ambled down the large river lined with trees, vines and howler monkeys keen to let us know they were there. The boat was packed with locals who, it seemed, had some kind of competition on who could throw the most un-biodegradeable items into the river before hitting port. This was a dreadful thing to watch as so many forms of wildlife existed in this expanse of an ecosystem, and the locals seemed to think that waiting for a bin was just too much effort. One thing, which has been extremely great to see, is the fact that fellow travellers never litter, although contrastingly the people who have to live in these environments seem to think that lining their riverbeds, roadsides and nature reserves with crisp packets and bottles.

When arriving in the shanty-esque port we paid our entrance fee for Nicaragua, and went off to find a hotel. The first hotel sounded cheap and we went to throw our bags in the room. Upon opening the door we at one noticed the rat shit and ants all over the bed. Unsurprisingly we left promptly. With our bags in tow we popped to the port to find that the next boat to leave the totally isolated town (to the Island of Ometepe) was in two days and that there was no ATM in town, which posed a rather serious issue: Emily and I only had $40 between us. Luckily we found a hotel that accepted visa and had rooms with a fan, bed and little to no visible rodent excrement. It was perfect.

The days passed slowly, with very little to do other than sweat, shower and wander around the town, which in spite of its shabbiness had a certain charm. The locals were clearly suffering from a much more serious and long term La Quenta Quandary, the first sign of which being the many locals hanging around doing little at 11am on a Tuesday. Aside from fishing there appeared, 0ther than local subsistence trades, to be few possible jobs to hold up the isolated local community, yet the locals seemed outright friendly, warm and happy to chat about whatever subjects a local and scraggy traveller usually converse on. By the time we had gradually warmed to the already warm, rundown town, we boarded a 10 hour ferry up the lake to the island of Ometepe where adventures, scenery and poignent hangovers were awaiting.

Little Time for Coasting - 2nd Edition

Central America, another continent primed for exploits, exploration and, from myself, belated explanation. We had arrived in a land that has been largely eploited by their prominent Northern neighbour for many years; with the evidence of such as visibly clear as the Caribbean waters that lap against its coast. On the topic of coast, however, our journey would be a whistle-stop blur of bus journeys and hotels in backward towns for much of our time as South America had taken longer than expected. In fact, in spite of the relatively short distance left to cover, there would be little time for coasting.

Panama
The boat arrived in a small Panamanian port, scantily equipped for the tourist trade, and within little time captain Guido had offloaded his freshly developed seamen (which, yes could be misconstrued if your spelling leaves much to be desired) into a dingy bound for his local hostel. The crew spent one last night together quietly before heading off to Panama City the next day. The bus journey, although not a goliath trip of the Argentinian 22 hour standards, was the first of many 5-8 hour journeys to be taken every other day. We arrived in Panama City tired, hungry and smelly. The plan for Panama City was to hang for a few days and meet Luke, an old family friend from childhood, but upon arrival it turned out that Luke would have to be called away on business and that, in mind of our tight schedule, we may have had to stay much longer than expected. This posed a two-pronged problem: Emily was on a very short timescale which meant that staying longer would have meant that she would have to leave me to travel Central America solo, and then there was the fact that Panama City appeared to be dirty, uBer-Americanised (every corner that didn't have a US chain restaurant clung to it would have a poster of it!) and pretty souless. Obviosuly this may have been totally wrong but it was not a city that we felt drawn to stay in. With that in mind we jumped on the first available bus to Bocas Del Toro, in hope of some sun, sea, sand and scuba. This, however, was also not to be, as when arriving at the port and spending a night in a dark, airless, cold war-esque hotel room, the boat to the islands would require wasting a whole day waiting leaving only half a day there. It seemed pointless; so we left.

Costa Rica
After another 6 hours in transit, we arrived in Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica, a notoriously Americanised 'frat boy town', with reputedly decent waves and long days of sunshine. Upon arriving and tactically locating ourselves a few Km out of town we discoved that although the sunshine and fraternity 'douche-bag' population was plentiful, the waves were not. We spent two days eating tasty Western (culturally, not geographically) food and splashing around in the warm water, before leaving Puerto Viejo, and Costa Rica, with much gusto. After passing through the Capital of San Jose (yes, we did know the way) briefly, we hopped on another bus to Los Chiles, a tiny town bordering on Nicaragua, arriving 14 hours after leaving Puerto Viejo. In truth, the journey had been long and arduous and after dumping our bags in the cockroach and mosquito infested room, it was visible that each of us were spread thinly from the last week of relentless traveling. Racked with fatigue and unavoidable irritability we crashed immediately for the night, before crossing the border the next day into Nicaragua.

After a draining week of travelling through Panaman and Costa Rica, we were in need of a few days rest and very much looking forward to Nicaragua, reputed to be a great place to travel. But first we would have to get away from the hot swampy grip of San Carlos and deal with monetary matters.

Tragedy!!

Yes tragedy! But fret not, the feeling hasn't gone and I can go on, however my little mini computer, which I have been writing all of my blogs on, ended up being left by mistake on a bus through Honduras after an unexpected late night change in the middle of nowhere. This also resulted in me losing the 3 blogs I had already written and was planning to post soon.

These will be rewritten but the blog process will undoubtedly be more delayed that previously before.

Dodging the Darien: Land Ho!

We awoke in our sticky cabin gasping for fresh air, or any other variety of air that wasn't this. In spite of the many benefits of waking up next to a lovely lady, the bed in this cabin was either designed for one invariably large being or that of two dwarven folk stright from the hot mines of Mordor. In other words at best it was a bit of a squash, and as hot as a turkish bath. Like a recently pleasured man from a brothel we shot from our cabin to be once again bathed in glorious sunshine (which I doubt usually happens outside brothels), and had our first sight of land. The land was a collection of tiny palm fronged islands surrounded with coral reefs and clear blue water. After days on the boat we were all desperate for mooring so we could finally swim, yet time ebbed as the boat slowly coasted towards the islands. Eventually, we arrived and leapt from the boat like there was little or no tomorrow, splashing around and diving in to the warmest sea water I have ever experienced. After a while some locals turned up and dropped off some beers and fish for dinner, before drinking half of the aforementioned beverages and once again hitting the high seas. Johan and I swam off to an island with fishing line and hooks to make some rods, which turned out pretty well in the end. We grabbed a windsurfing board and set off to the coral reef to find Nemo, and then catch him. Sadly we found few fish that looked edible, and none who deemed our bait appetising, but managed to flail around in the water for a while watching the impressive fishies swim around the coral. We returned empty handed yet contented in time for lunch. Once again lunch was a total rain out, and the evening was spent slight sodden, however the numerous rums consumed after dark sent us merrily to our humid beds for another night.

The next day proved to be more of the same as we moved on to another paradise island, this time inhabited. After dealing with mundane immigration necessities we arrived at the larger island, leaping from the boat quicker than as if it had hit an iceberg. This time, while the locals prepared a fish supper, the girls went to explore the island while us lads decided to content ourselves with idle floating on the waves with various cans of delicious beer. My vessel, a rather flattering rubber ring, was perfect for such an endeavour, and many hours passed before we were called in to eat. That evening we were finally blessed with a noticeable lack of the usual dump of rain, enabling us to drink beer and rum on the beach around a bonfire whilst watching Yoshi, a cool Japanese fellow on our boat, do a fire-stick-twirly-dance-show-thing. A true castaway evening, and a great final night together on the boat. The next morning we would finally head for Panamanian shore and split off our separate ways. Although in some ways the journey had lacked some of the usually preferable comforts (chiefly space, being cool, and being clean), it had been a wonderfully memorable journey for everyone.

Dodging the Darien: Stormy Seas

After a long, hot night in the sticky sauna of our cabin, we awoke to a different world from that which we had departed the previous evening. The sea was a still, oily mass of deep, clear blue, and on the horizon the sea merged seemlessly with the sky, to the point where we could have been floating through it (this sounds over exagerated or romanticised but wait until you see the photos). But the stillness was not to last as stormy seas approached.

The morning also marked the beginning of Johan's 30th birthday and smiley faced yellow balloons were put up all over the boat in anticipation of the evening's pirate party. As days go the majority of ours passed with few events, people lying bathing everywhere like the plague had hit, books being read, and the preparations for dinner. Thus far nobody had been able to shower in anything other than salt water and after a sticky night's sleep everyone was hoping for a shower. A shower us what we got.

As the sun began to set on deck, and the smells of cooking wafted up from below, black clouds formed on the horizon in every direction. Captain Guido, a genuinely insane Bavarian with many years experience began to look uneasy, lowering the sails and generally tinkering with a sense of urgency. Our Westward course was quickly changed to that of Southwest, before changing to Northwest as one dominating wall of black matched our course. Donned in pirate gear for the now dissipating Pirate Party, there was a mixed sense of both excitement and nervousness as the impending blackness closed in. A hard rain began to fall (also providing a well received shower!) and the boat rose and crashed back down into the sea. After a tension filled 20 minutes it became clear that we had managed to clip the edge of the storm, constantly flickering with flashes of lightning, and the mood began to lighten. The party had been pretty much washed out but the night had been far from dull.

Gradually people had begun to slip off to their respective cabins, and Johan and I settled on the deck for nightwatch, continually watching out for another storm cloud. When leaving Cartagena, Guido, the captain, had been warned about a Tropical Wave that would be heading along his usual route and had amended his course to avoid it. On the horizon to our right (the usual route) we watched the sky light up with extreme regularity and vivacity, thankful that we were on our amended course, while discussing music and pointing out cloud shapes (including Papa Smurf, a cow's head and an uncanny crocodile). In the heat of one debate on whether a cloud to our left looked like a nuclear fall out mushroom cloud or a lightbulb (with realistic flashy lightning), the captain came out and asked which direction the large black monster dead ahead in front of us was going. "it's not really moving much" I stammered in reply to his question of which I did not really know the answer to. In our haste to watch the exciting clouds all around us we had omitted to notice the impending darkness creeping right in our direction. As the black wall approached us, the usually warm wind blew cold and the waves grew harsh around us. Once again the captain redirected the boat to the north, but this time it was not enough to avoid the storm, and soon lightning was crashing all around us in the dense blackness that had swallowed us. With the boat moving at around 4 knots, which more or less equates to the speed of running our chances of avoiding it were always slim (have you ever managed to out manouver a storm on foot?) and it was to much relief when we cleared the storm with little incident. The next morning we would awaken to the paradisical San Blas and would have effectively passed the Darien Gap.

As mentioned in my previous blog, the Darien Gap is a vast roadless expanse of forest and marshland lying between Panama and Columbia. Although there are a few accounts of people passing through the Darien, it is as uncommon as it is dangerous. In addition to the natural impassability (boggy mashes clad with Mosquitos, surging rivers stretching for miles across your patch etc.) the population of the gap is almost solely cocaine traffickers and Columbian guerillas, neither of which being known for their warm hospitality when encountered (unless you count the fact that both may strongly insist on you staying with them for a while!).

For that reason stormy Caribbean seas, were nothing but a minor inconvenience in comparison to the alternative. All that was left for us to encounter was the palm fronged islands of paradise before the second leg of our journey began.

Dodging the Darien: Sailing from South America

The day had come, the journey split into two legs was about to reach the end of its first. The sun blazed down onto the Cartagena docks; sweat dripped down our faces as we carried the sum total of our travel posessions onto 'Seeadler', the three sailed boat that was to take us to Panama. As will be addressed in the second section of 'Dodging the Darien', although South and Central America are connected by land, the Darien Gap is an impassable mass of jungle and the only real way to pass between the two is via air or sea. As air would break my overland plans, the Caribbean Sea would have to provide my passage.

After loading up our stuff onto the boat and collecting provisions (Rum) for the journey, we set sail for Central America. From Rio to Cartagena through South America had taken 6 months at a lethargic pace, and had had many highs and lows in multiple senses of the word. As the boat slipped away from the slowly disappearing coastline of Cartagena the high spirits on board barely hid the pensive mood of each person reflecting on their own journey. For one or two on board this marked the last leg of their own adventure, but for all this provided an obvious point to look back over people they had met and places they had been. For me this had been one of great contrast: travelling alone and as a couple; sipping cocktails against the backdrop of a setting sun at the seaside and standing in awe under the dominating presence of cracking glaciers; Sandboarding down dunes in the middle of the desert and standing on top of the world just under 5000 above sea level (just under 2/3rds of the way up Everest); Standing alone in a landscape of Patagonian nothingness and partying in heaving crowds of Argentinians in Buenos Aires and Rosario. In fact there is so much I could list that this could go on for a very long while.

Sitting on the boat pensively, as the waves lapped against the hasteless vessel, I also sat wishing that I could know how many of the many miles I had travelled, how many hours I had spent in in transit (at an aroundabout guess it's 500 hours or 20 full days), which doesn't necessarily make that much difference but is still nevertheless interesting, quantitatively measuring the last six months of my life. On these travels my life had become our life, as two and a half months had been 24/7 with Emily, which in relationship terms of time spent together likely equates to just under a year. In fact in a recent conversation we worked out that we had never spent more than 6 hours apart since setting off from Cuzco in early August.

Hours passed and the sun set spectacularly over the sea, which surrounded us as far as we were able to see. The oval shaped moon shone fleetingly off the otherwise black waves and we began to settle into the routine of being on the boat, which was a necessity since we had 48 straight sailing before reaching the San Blas Islands. A few hours after sunset the captain's autopilot began to play up and I, while the autopilot was being fixed, was given the task of steering the boat due west for three hours before settling down with my new buddy Johan (a dutch guy who I paired up with from the off) to do four hours of nightwatch. Emily had begun to feel seasick, slipping off to a sleepy slumber in the baking cabin below, while Johan and I sat at the stern of the boat playing guitar, and singing whatever maritime themed songs came to mind. 2am came as the moon set below the water, encompassing the world into a shroud of utter blackness, and we were replaced by the next nightshift before slipping away into our own bouts of darkness.

A Taste Of The Caribbean

Cartagena, the last city on the South American leg of my overland adventure, is a hot, sweaty humdrum of life by the sea. It also happened to be the signal that we were now leaving the relative coolness of the Pacific coast and genuine coldness on the spine of the Andes, which had encompassed so much of my trip from Southern Argentina upwards.

We arrived on our air conditioned bus, stepping out into an early morning oven, and it was only 10am! We flagged a pickup truck taxi shoving the bags, Alex and myself into the back, and the girls (Emily and an Israeli) into the front. As we passed through the midmorning traffic to our hostel Alex and I sprayed each other with water from a bag (it tends to come in bags in Columbia) in the hope of some slight respite from the heat.

After dumping our worldly goods (not including my walking boots which I stupidly left in Medellin) by mistake, a group of us (Alex, myself and some other dudes) went out for a coffee and wander in the old town, while Em popped off for a swim in the sea. The old town was a gorgeous mix of rugged, run down and unarguably charming colonial buildings which looked like they had come off the set of Pirates of the Caribbean. We walked to the wall, partially crumbling and clad with rusty cannons looking out onto the water, for a little breeze, getting our first glimpse of the Caribbean Sea that Emily and I would soon be sailing to Panama on.

Five or so days passed within the still, sweaty walls of Cartagena preparing for our sea voyage to Panama. After a little wrangling and a few dummies being thrown from the proverbial pram by the ubiquitously insane sea captains, we chartered a 10 man sailing boat with a Bavarian lunatic captain at the helm. We met the 6 other passengers, who all seemed great, and went through the usual process of changing money, sorting out travel bags and storage bags required before leaving the shores of South America.

This also meant saying goodbye to Alex, who had pretty much accompanied us throughout Columbia and was an awesome travel buddy. He was to head off to Tyrona National Park to the East a few days before we sailed North-West-(ish), and would be sorely missed by us both. But thus is the way with travelling and as time goes by people leaving becomes an acceptable norm on the road. Columbia too would be sorely missed after flying up the rankings of 'best country so far', which in South America was to be the final addition. The beautiful landscape, overwhelmingly friendly people and generally raw nature of travelling there had, in itself, been simply wonderful and unforgettable. The following day would hark the end of one adventure and the start of another: the small but adventure-packed Central America beckoned across the warm waters of the Caribbean Sea.

Chasing The Dead

Medellin, the city that once brought corruption, drug trafficking and violence to Columbia, and in many ways the world, now brings style, panache and a relentless party scene to the northern portion of the continent. A city fledgingly growing in tourist popularity, it would become evident that the scars of the past were still healing and that museums wouldn't be necessary when so many locals could vividly remember Medillin's colourful past.

We arrived in darkness at an empty bus station after a long and rather spectacular journey ascending through coffee plant clad mountainsides. Emily, Alex and myself booked ourselves into a dormitory in the most popular party hostel in the city. This was the first time that Em and I had not got a double, but this hostel's were so expensive that we decided to go for the bunks for a few days. We were very keen to get a party on the go and started drinking immediately however we were so tired that the night ended early.

The next day we were planning to visit the grave of Pablo Escobar, the most notorious and famous Cocaine trafficker in history and once one of the most powerful and influential men in and around the Columbian region. We arose late and after a large brunch, caught the train to the graveyard on the Medellin equivalent to the tube. Near the end of the journey I took it upon myself to do some acrobatics for the already curious population of the train and hang upside down from the overhead bars. After a round of applause from those in the vicinity, we got talking to two groups of locals, who once informed of our destination not just told us the way but went out of their way to join us and show us the grave. As we reached the grave, the already darkening sky let loose an unflinching torrent of rain (Medellin is well known for it's once or twice daily downpours) and after taking photos we took shelter under a sporadically placed canopy outside. After visiting the grave, conversation, in Spanish of course, turned to Escobar and how he was contrastingly perceived by the people of Medellin.

In short the story of Pablo Escobar reads like something from fiction and is not as clear cut as the bad guy does bad things, rises to fame and riches and then is caught/killed. Most people know that he was a billionaire cocaine trafficker who was the worlds most wanted man for years before being shot dead by a Columbian task force in his own neighborhood. However, after rising to power he built schools, medical facilities and housing for many of Medellin's poorest people. His vast resources also gave him control of all levels of Police, Judges and Government officials (of which he became one himself for a while). Those who stood up or spoke against him would usually turn up dead within a very short period of time. With much help and encouragement from the U.S.A Escobar's empire was slowly chipped away by a secret and irrepressible Police task force, and a vigilante group of victims' families/friends (named 'Los Pepes') who in turn assassinated those who aided him. This consequently created two distant poles of opinion among those he encountered: one group seeing him as a Robin Hood character stealing from rich Americans and giving to the poor Columbians; another seeing him as the Devil himself.

As we stood huddled under the canopy, one of the friendly group of locals explained this polarity, telling of why many Columbians saw him more as a hero than a cold blooded villain. At this point another man coincidentally co-huddling from the rain told us in a passionately chilling but warm and friendly way, considering the topic, that Escobar was a devil and a killer. He went on to show us his disfigured arm telling us that it had been done by Pablo's men as a result of him helping the aforementioned 'Los Pepes' group against Escobar. We left warmed by the yet again unwarranted friendliness of the Columbian people but chilled by the afternoon rain and the stories we had heard at the graveyard. The night passed quietly in the midst of another downpour.

The following morning we once again arose later than planned but with much to do. The main plan today was to continue the Escobar trail and visit the prison that he had at one point built and voluntarily incarcerated himself in. As per usual in Columbia there was absolutely no tourist information whatsoever and we left with only the name of the train stop and of the prison itself ('La Catedral'). We arrived at the train stop and eventually managed to divulge the fact the we would need to take a bus and then walk 30 minutes from one of the drivers. 15 minutes later, Alex, Emily, a Korean named 'J' and myself left the bus and started walking up the side of the steep valley under the direction of the driver. We walked for around half an our before flagging down a jeep in the opposite direction to be told that it would be another hour walking up the snaking mountainside road. There was only another hour or two of daylight remaining and we became concerned that we would not be able to reach La Catedral without help. We sat by the roadside under the watchful eye of a scabby dog waiting for some form of assistance to appear on the road almost unpopulated by vehicles. As it happened, much to our surprise, and very luckily, a pickup truck (ish) with a large empty wooden cage presumably used for sheep or large vegetables appeared within 10 minutes. The driver was more than happy to provide our passage, and dropped us off close to the prison. I say prison but that is not exactly the case and requires another delve into the story of Pablo Escobar.

After being publicly caught out on one of his many crimes, Pablo Escobar became wanted by the Columbian government. After much negotiation Escobar gave himself up on the condition that he would only be tried for one minor crime (getting immunity for the rest including shooting down a commercial airline) and that he could design and build his own prison. As ridiculous a set of demands as that sounds, the Columbian government accepted in a bid to stop him bombing government buildings and assassinating everyone in his path. Once inside his meticulously designed palatial mansion, the Columbian government decided to do a U-turn on their agreement and ascended the steep hill to arrest Escobar. However, as it turned out, Escobar had also included hidey holes, automatic weapon storage areas and escape hatches (well wouldn't you?), and when assailed disappeared into the night.

The prison, as hinted before was no longer exactly a prison but after Escobar's demise had been ripped apart possibly, for various reasons, by those who contrastingly hated him and loved him. The site was then given to the church and now, painted in bright oranges and greens, looks out over the spectacular views of a city that both benefited and suffered under its previous inhabitant. We walked back down for a while, eventually managing to flag a returning taxi to the bottom of the mountain.

That evening Alex, Emily, myself and a number of other people from the hostel managed to acquire a taste of the Medellin lifestyle that is touted so passionately as the best in Columbia. Many drinks were drained in quick succession and an inebriated Emily and I watched on as the rest of the boys clamoured into the masses of Columbian girls in hope of taking home a local beauty. Unsurprisingly the next day was basked in a shroud of hangover, and the day was spent watching TV before leaving on (hopefully) the last night bus of the trip (due to the much smaller size of Central America). The three of us settled down in the cramped bus for a night of broken sleep before awakening to the hot hot heat of Cartagena.

Stopping For A Coffee

Salento was a name that we had heard a few times from other travellers on the route north through Ecuador and Columbia as a great place to chill and enjoy a coffee. That, as we were soon to realise, was to be the understatement of the trip and after hopping on a bus in Cali bound for Armenia (strangely enough not the ex USSR ruled state on the juncture of Eastern Europe and Asia), we were on a local Collectivo (non direct bus) to Salento. The lush green hills ubiquitously spotted with dark green coffee plants rolled by as we trundled through the countryside for an hour before arriving in Salento. At first impressions it appeared a small and friendly town, spotted in the middle of a vast countryside of hilly coffee plantations, but after luckily meeting the friendly English owner of the hostel we were looking for (in the wrong direction) we started to get the impression that it was to be so much more.

We checked into the Plantation House hostel and talked with the owner for a while about what there was to do in the small town. He suggested that we go for a wander and then have a coffee at Café Jesus (the name of the owner) before heading out to play a curious local game in the centre. We ate well and then popped around the corner to try on of Jesus's famous coffees. The coffee itself wasn't just great but amazing: rich, perfectly roasted and less than a week since it had been lovingly plucked by Jesus himself (once again the coffee owner). We stayed for a matter of hours knocking back the most amazing expressos and brandy coffee's that I imagine that I will ever have the pleasure to taste and left grinning. What's more, everyone in the town stopped to say hello and welcome us to the town, hoping that we enjoyed our stay. We were starting to wonder what more we could possibly ask for in a place.

We returned to the Plantation House to pick up enough people to constitute two teams for the local game that we were about to participate in. Upon arriving we were guided to the children's section by an amused group of locals, who then went on to explain the rules of the game. In short the game requires each person to throw metal shotputs into a clay bank, rimmed with a metal ring and small packets of gunpowder, which explode when hit. In theory the game seemed simple but in practice was far more difficult than anticipated, and we definitely showed the crowd of highly interested (and slightly inebriated) onlookers how useless a pack of Gringos can really be. Once again the locals were extremely warm and especially made us feel at home, and after a similar reception at the local billiards hall it was becoming clear that Alex, Emily and I were beginning to fall in love with Salento, Columbia, and the warm people we encountered pretty much everywhere.

The next day we set off on an hours walk to a local plantation owned by an old man named Don Elias, although after getting a bit lost we were quite late and ended up doing the tour with his slightly grumpy wife. Still, her slightly damp mood could not dampen ours as, after being shown the process of how they grow and prepare the coffee, we were about to have a cup that had been picked and dried less than 24 hours prior. We were very excited to say the least and trotted home content under the approaching shroud of nightfall. After two wonderfully chilled days in Salento we were about to enter the contrastingly mental world of Medellin. Exciting times were ahead.

Burnouts and Party Droughts

Unfortunately partying was not to be our given activity. Before catching the bus Emily had started to feel sick and I wasn't exactly feeling too dapper. The particular bus that we had chosen was definitely not the wisest due to it stopping to pick up every single waif, stray and waiflike stray that it could find. The journey that would usually take around 1.5 hours took three of which around half way through Emily broke into a fever and began shivering and breathing heavily. We arrived after what seemed like a lifetime, hailed a cab and secured a room to go and die in. I popped to the shop to grab a few provisions, checked us in properly and returned to the room to sleep for the next 24 hours. The next morning I was in a similar state with stomach cramps, dizziness and a terrible headache. Emily was beginning to recover but also still feeling bad, and the next few days were spent in semi convalescence, eating little and watching films on Emily's computer.

After a few days of seeing nothing further than the end of our road Emily, Alex and myself decided to go out to explore the city, in honesty was nice but not particularly beautiful, and after a little while we were ready to return back to our apartment for a well needed dose of Anchorman. Cleverly we decided that this would be perfectly complimented by 2 litres of white rum and some various mixers for Mojitos. This, which seems plainly obvious in the cold light of day, was actually a very stupid idea considering the fact that I had been vomiting less than 24 hours prior and Emily was still feeling crap. The next morning we experienced something of a physical regression to feeling dreadful, spending another day lying around feeling sorry for ourselves before rousing to watch the Presidential Debate on CNN whilst chowing down on a Chinese buffet (pun duly intended).

After five days in Cali we were more than ready to leave and Salento, a small town deep in the heart of the coffee district sounded like the perfect cure for a tough week in the city. What we didn't realise then was how perfect perfect was to actually be.

Lost Souls and Hidey Holes

Another diversion, another 12 hours of bus time. We were heading to Tierradentro, an archaeological site hosting Pre-Columbian tombs and statues of animals, gods and men. This was also the closest that we would be going to the so called F.A.R.C territory, travelling to around 30km from the once front line (Columbia's equivalent to the Ghaza Strip) between the Government and the Guerillas. We boarded an early bus which would take around 6 hours, travelling out of the relatively grimey city of Popyan into lush green sub-tropical mountains.

The local bus stopped sporadically along the way picking up welly-clad farmers holding baskets of vegetables, buckets of milk and other various items straight from the ground/tit. The clouds rolled in and the weather turned surprisingly cold as the landscape began to resemble a wilder Welsh countryside, and we bumped along the rough gravel track. Later we arrived at a town called Izca to experience our first real police check, which involved them routinely toothcombing through the bus and everyones bags for drugs (us) and semi automatic sub machine guns (one would assume).

After returning to our seats we hit the road again to be dropped off at a random crossroads in the middle of nowhere. Luckily an old man and woman turned up in an equally old lorry and offered us a lift. We gladly accepted and spent the short journey happily chatting with the old couple. Once dropped, we found lodgings before schmoozing down to the museum, stopping for a brief chat with every local who passed. It was already beginning to dawn on us how friendly and happy to help everyone was, which was a large difference to the rather rude local receptions in Peru and Bolivia. The small museum was just that, small, but quite interesting, and since we had arrived too late to visit the tombs, we gathered a map and walked up to watch the sunset from a beautiful viewpoint hosting some of the aforementioned statues and some not so statuesque local children, keen to show us their trees climbing skills. We returned, ate well and retired early to enable an early bird start to the tombs the next morning.

In spite of a hard bed dipping as low as the current U.S. Economy, we managed to raise, pack and leave pretty early, breakfasting before climbing up through the forest to the first set of tombs. The guard at the top happily chatted about the chambers for a bit before giving us a lemon and letting us in for a peruse. These were not lit, so we used out torches to explore the perfectly preserved burial places. It's difficult to fully detail them, but they were fascinating, displaying carvings and paintings of no-one knows what (literally, since historians no nothing about these people).

The second set of tombs took around an hour to descend and climb to, and were lit well enough to really see the ornate pillars, bone holes and pottery. Sadly we had a bus to catch approaching and had to return to the village in time to get back to Popoyan. We arrived late and went to bed early after Emily began to feel unwell. The following day we would leave for Cali, where some overdue party time was required.

Finally A Real Challenge!!!

Columbia! Not even remotely your average tourist destination, which is why we're both so extatic to be have the opportunity to travel northwards through it. The home of cocaine, corruption, Shakira and modern day guerrilla warfare, Columbia has only recently become safe enough for backbackers to travel through due to ubiquitous gang warfare and virtual civil war. In fact Columbian government is still only in control of around of 70% of the actual country, however most of the 30% is dense jungle with little actual population (including wanted military commanders and suspected national terrorists). The reputation of Columbia as a raw, energetic and ocassionally hairy travelling experience is something that has been backed up by everyone who I have crossed paths with along my route North. This was a destination high on my list and something that I was very much looking forward to. The time had come for my final country in South America before sailing to Panama.

We awoke early to a humdrum of noise, loud talking and banging in our shitty hostel (from the rude and ignorant staff), checking out as quick as possible barely stopping to air our grievances. We hopped in a taxi and were whisked to the border to pass through immigration. After being offered an excellent rate by a street exchange person we asked to change the $25 dollars in our kitty, before realising that the calculator was rigged to show a lower value than mathematically correct. When found out the cheeky entrepreneur slipped off into the shadows to wait for another unsuspecting tourist. In a moment of inspiration Emily disappeared off armed with my calculator and the $25 to find another conman touting in front of a policeman. The conman tried to pull the same scam before getting loudly caught out by Emily and ending up having to give a better exchange rate than anywhere else. After getting the policeman to check the validity of the notes she returned triumpantly. We continued to await our Columbian entry stamp, whilst watching the other conmen bandy round the touchéd tout, laughing about how he had been stung by a stupid Gringo.

After finding the terminal we commandeered a bus heading North to Popayan, which would take pretty much the entire day. After leaving the typically rundown border town we found ourselves in a landscape totally different from that of before. The land stretched out far beyond us, a patchwork quilt of farmland golds and greens everywhere, as the subtropical greenery clung to the sides of dominant mountains everywhere. As the driver threw us around winding mountainside roads like he was Lewis Hamilton, we clung to our armrests hoping that his skill as a driver matched that of the talented F1 driver.

Hour after hour of hairpin bends passed and my own ability in holding my food down came into question as the enthusiastic driver swerved left and right to avoid potholes, pedestrians and other vehicles. For a change the bus did actually have a toilet if I did feel ill, however my pride was at stake and after five and a half months of similar journeys without any throwing up, I didn't want to be starting now. Fortunately as I started reaching the point where being sick seemed an inevitability, the bus stopped for a 30 minute dinner break. Maybe I could make it after all.

We arrived in Popayan, after spending the last 30 minutes of our journey watching possibly the most gory film ever made, which I am sure the little girl 2 rows down will be having nightmares about for some time to come. Like most South American cities after dark it had an air of being a little dangerous, which, considering the fact we were now in Columbia, was probably accurate. We jumped in a taxi, found a cheap hostel and spent the evening eating poor italian food and drinking beers with our new friend Alex (from England).

The following day passed uneventfully in Popayan, which was pretty uninteresting due to it's near total destruction in the earthquake of March 1983, and subsequent rebuilding. An early night was then had as morning after we were to leave on a bus out to Tierradentro: home to well preserved pre-Columbian burial tombs and stone carvings of animals and gods. We would also be heading close to what was, in recent years, the front line between the Columbia Government and the F.A.R.C.

Crossing the Line

Arriving in Quito was reminiscent of an arrival at a water abundant town after a spell in the desert. The nightbus journey from hell had been just that and my decision not to take a jumper or any valium on the bus was almost instantly regretted. Every moment of every minute on the 8 hour journey was duly experienced and arriving at 5am in a dark and deserted Quito was tough. However, after finding a room in a splurgesque hotel called the Magic Bean we crashed immediately. We awoke to discover the delights of our hostel and the surrounding area, reacting like delighted children: the room we had was more of an apartment with a sofa, furnished private kitchen, fast wireless internet and massive comfy bed; the surrounding area a myridic mix of trendy bars and restaurants in a variety of colours, shapes and sizes. We ventured out to buy some dvds, food and wine, and holed ourselves in our luxurious pad for the rest of the day.

The next day was not quite so wonderful when we went to check for possible revised dates that Emily could change her flights to, to discover that one flight was to be discontinued a week after she was scheduled to fly to Italy. This potentially meant that there was a possibilty that Emily would have to leave in four days to catch her flight, and that we would have to spend three months apart. Both in a state of shock at this possibility spent an evening looking timid and nervous. Fortunately, the next day we were told that there must have been some problem on the website and that she could change them. Utter relief. Emily and I would therefore be able to travel Central America together before both returning to Blighty for Christmas. We spent the remainder of day exploring the old colonial capital of Quito, which was not as enjoyable as hoped due to the altitute sickness that had set in.

On our final day in Quito, we caught a local bus to the monument on the Equator, clad with cameras, tripods and enthusiasm for some silly photos of us jumping from the Southern to Northern hemisphere. We returned to find half of Quito powerless, so popped off for a candlelit dinner before bumping into an old friend from Montañita and Canoa. Obviously this had to be celebrated by getting blind drunk, which, I can tell you, is extremely advisable before catching a long distance bus the next morning. Unsurprisingly a painful 7 hour journey to the Columbian border followed, which, complemented by a terrible night in a truly shitty hostel, left us desperate to get over the border to Columbia and adventures anew.

Emily

In recent posts many of the usual "I..." comments have been posted in the form of "we...", and the very essence of my travel has evidently changed to a different one from that of before. In fact travelling seems so different now that travelling doesn't seem so much like the travelling I knew before. So why write about Emily now? Well in truth, in my mind she has become virtually synonomous with the time in Canoa and many of the very best moments are specifically Emily related. Before, we were pretty much unsure about what was going to happen and how right for each other we actually were, but of late things have gotten more serious, and since we're likely to be together for a while to come it is something more than significant enough to deserve an explanation on the blog. But these thoughts will mostly be set out later in a post that kind of falls in between a profile and the usual rundown of travel events. But first; the vital statistics:

Name: Emily Elizabeth Hale
Birthplace: Austin, Texas
Age: 24
Hair: Brown (also visible in picture)
Eyes: Blue (speckly)
Status: My girlfriend
Occupation: Largely unknown; potentially Hobo.
Met: On the road to Machu Picchu - it was "romance on the ruins"
Time together to date: 1 Month 1 Week
Likes: The worlds tallest people; Geese; the Sun; Arrested Development; talking in German; Piggytails; Earth colours; Mexican food; getting on random buses; new music; Qechuan; Avocados; returning through recently locked doors; moisturizer; various local cats and dogs.
Dislikes: Bicycles; Heights; being tickled; me scaring her everywhere; sugary juices; hawkers; shoes; stereotypical Texans; being cold (which is often).



So onto the story in hand. We left Montañita on a local bus bound for Manta, with hopes to arrive early and go straight to Canoa. Unfortunately we appeared to have climbed aboard the slowest bus in the whole wide world, soon to be discovered to be bound for the most depressing, drab and dull coastal city in the whole wide world. We checked into the most depressing, drab and dull hotel we could find and settled down for an utterly exciting night in. Morning came and we shot for the bus station like a rabid rabbit thirsty hound from the proverbial gates, in search for a Canoa bound bus. We found one with haste and we soon bumping down the bumpiest road in the whole wide world before arriving in Canoa.

Canoa was powerless to our charms. Well actually it was just plain old powerless after a pack of locals had stolen the powerlines for the copper. The place was full of deserted beach stands and there was almost nobody about. We checked into a stupidly cheap hostel (£1.50 a night each) and went off to explore the town. Before long we had gravitated to the Gringo owned, and populated, hangout which was to be both our daytime and fiesta hotspot, and were soon surrounded by a great bunch of people. After an early night the first night, we hit the beach the next day for a spot of book reading and sunbathing in the hot equatorial sun. Unsurprisingly I reddened in a matter of minutes and retreated to the shade to read my book and drink a cold beer. With little to actually do in Canoa (especially considering my inability to surf due to my sore rib) the days were spent chilling or recovering from the previous night's whoring from happy hour to happy hour in the local beachfront bars before finishing the night off at the Surf Shack.

It was at this point that the most romantic story of our, and possibly all, time occurred. One heavy evening at the Surf Shack Emily, myself, Lee (from Australia) and Justin (from NZ) were ploughing our way through an adult sized portion of Jagermeisters, cocktails and beers. Justin, myself and Pete, the owner of the Surfshack went into ultra competitive mode betting who could play the Nintendo Wii the best, and who could slap the other's belly the hardest. Emily and I drunkenly decided to go for a moonlight walk on the beach and stopped at an empty beach hut. At this point after somehow emmersing ourselves in sand, losing one ring, one pair of flipflops, my jumper and the room key (to be recovered later) we decided that this was the perfect moment to exchange 'I Love You's. We returned to the bar, announced it to everybody (who in their highly inebriated states were nothing short of extatic) and staggered back to our room.

In an extra special 'morning after the night before' debriefing (after retriving some of our lost items), we both agreed that we had totally meant what we said and that it felt natural. Things were beginning to become serious and any remaining doubt on whether we would continue together during and after travelling diminished. The rest of the Latin American Adventure would continue to be described in plural terms rather than the singular one I had had before and continued to expect.

We spent a couple more days doing very little in Canoa, including me being able to go out surfing now that my rib was better, before leaving on a dreadful night bus to Quito. The time for beaches had ended and the cities perched on the spine of the Andes once again beckoned.

Image: The Route So Far...

Surfing Swell

After another long and tedious night bus journey - I'm starting to think that after so many terrible night buses that it might just be better to go through the day when possible - we crossed the border into Ecuador and arrived in Guayaquil at Silly O'clock in the morning. Rather than wasting a day of potentially good weather we jumped straight onto the coastal bus to Montañita, a reputed haven for partying, sunning and waves big enough for surfing.

Finding accommodation was like the proverbial tale of 'Goldilocks and the three bears', with our first hostel being out in the middle of nowhere and run by a strange man who hardly made us want to spend any more time than necessary. We left the very next day to a place that didn't have holes in the roof. In fact the second place that we moved into was on the other end of the scale. Consisting of a pretty room with a sea view and a hammock outside it, it seemed idyllic. However that night we realised our mistake of staying on the main street: Emily was sick that night and we attempted to go to sleep early. This was not exactly possible due to the bars bellow playing their music so loud that it shook our whole room until 2am. The search continued. Finally we tried a place which had, at first impression, seemed too expensive, however after haggling our socks off we got it down to £7 a night for the room. The place was brilliant! Our room had wonderful sea views, a jacuzzi that we never ended up using and hot showers. This is where we would stay for the next eleven days.

Montañita held two specific attractions for Emily and myself: Em being a suntan tootin' Texan (although at this point I have to mention that she is actually an Austin girl and not a stereotypical redneck) was very keen to spend some time lying on the beach, while I was more interested in the massive waves that crashed in at high tide. The problem was that after learning in South Africa and getting reasonably good, I seemed to have forgotten by the time I got the chance to try again. This was confirmed when I grabbed a board, went out onto the waves and could barely catch one. It was time to go back to basics.

The very next day I was out on the board with a rather lacklustre instructor and a hellbent determination to have myself surfing again. The instructor kindly changed the stance that I was used to, bringing what little knowledge I did have down to 'scratch' again. Consequently for that reason, and the fact that my big toenail was virtually hanging off after snake hunting in small boots in Bolivia (a sight which has made many a person shudder to my own personal amusement), the lesson was an overall failure. I did get some fundamental principles under my belt but actually surfing would require many more hours practice. In spite of fatigue, I was out on the water the very next morning with a board, and a big toe clad in gaffa (duct) tape, ready to dominate some waves. In spite of regular failures I managed to catch a couple of waves and returned pleased. The following day would prove to be a much larger test when the pacific swell was rumoured to be bringing in 10ft waves. The 10ft predictions turned out to be a vast understatement and I stood on the beach, board in hand, timidly watching 15ft waves smash down onto the shore. This was well beyond my capacity as a budding surfer and in all honesty I was more than reserved about going out. A couple of fellow surfers in their learning stages trotted past (surfers appear to trot without it looking too mince-esque) and invited me to stick with them for safety. That was that; I was convinced to go out there and make those thundering tubes my bitch! We found somewhere to the left of the channel that was a little more forgiving and paddled out. It would be incorrect for me to say that I managed anything more than a meagre crouch on the board that day, and at one point I found myself riding on top of a tube before the front collapsed, taking me down with it. The dumped wave threw me around for what seemed like an eternity before launching my board into my shoulder, leaving my to paddle limply to the shore to thow up a litre or so of salt water and take a well deserved rest. It had been a dogged fight, but after three hours the ocean had beaten me; temporarily.

In the following days I continued to go out before some young local surf scamp launched his board into my ribs hard enough to keep me out of the water in Montañita, but definitely not for good. Fortunately the town that we were both so apprehensive to leave offered so much more than great waves: there were people, parties and amazing food to fill our idle hours. In spite of only having two real clubs (and that's pretty debateable) the party scene was relentless and the routine of eating well, chilling at someone's hostel drinking local spirits, and then sitting outside the cocktail stands run by the local surf boys until 'Silly AM' became quickly adopted. It also seemed that Montañita was a place that the young gap year students skipped, leaving the mid-to-late twenties travellers to enjoy great company and conversation.

In our two week stay there two groups of friends had come and gone, and after stretching out our time as long as possible. It was time to say our goodbyes to the friendly, accommodating locals and carry on up the coast. Our next destination was Canoa which hopefully promised more of the same in a much more relaxed environment.

In Search Of Sunshine - Part 2

Mancora, frequently recommended as the sunshine haven of Peru, and described by an anonymous author in my lonely planet as 'Paradise', seemed upon first impressions to be a little desolate. Admittedly there was a rather pretty beach, and the sun was already beginning to shine, however, the rather quiet down appeared to be quite heavily populated without actually having anything to do.

We checked into a slightly pricey hotel consisting of hammock fronted cabins surrounding an enticing looking pool and overlooking the beach. After three days on night buses we collapsed to recover some of the lost sleep from 3 night buses in 4 days. When we awoke the sun was shining and the Pacific Ocean, that could be seen from our cabin, was a stilled deep blue. The next day we would be celebrating Emily's 24th birthday, and if our first impressions were to be correct then this would be a cool place to spend it. After jumping in the pool and going for a wander on the beach we went in search for food, to be presented with a large selection of stalls selling various seafood dishes. There were well over 20 restaurants with exactly the same menus and after much deliberation we picked one of the mirror image stalls because it had a picture of a happy looking lobster next to its name. Emily returned to the beach while I disappeared to explore the town and seek some birthday provisions and a present from the poor selection of shops. Emily returned burnt and feeling unwell and we settled for an early night.

The next day was spent indulging ourselves (meaning eating as it had become quickly obvious that there was nothing at all to do in Mancora) as a birthday treat and the evening was passed at The Point, Mancora's one and only party hostel, drinking cocktails, smoking weed and wondering why the rest of the hostel's population were coked off their eyeballs. The following morning was spent tending to hangovers, hoping for more sun (which had decided to hide) and looking for other beaches to try. While looking through my lonely planet we spotted another beach resort circled, this time in Ecuador. We packed our bags and headed off to find a bus to Montanita, which would hopefully endear itself to us more than Mancora.

In Search of Sunshine - Part 1

Firstly yes, may I acknowledge and apologise for the recently reduced blog frequency before my last post. This will now be dragged back from famine to feast frequency and stories anew will flow once more. Since Cusco, the primary target of a warm beach with sunshine has resulted in a manic dash north to reach a beach. This may seem a little odd that we had a desperate need to skip a large portion of Peru in search for a beach but it's time to dispel a plausible illusion: I've been pretty much solidly cold for fucking months now. Buenos Aires hit zero on a regular basis; the frozen south did what it said on the tin; Northern Argentina and Rurrenbaque provided brief warming respites, but the rest of the time working through Northern Chile, Bolivia and Southern Peru have been spent at altitudes of between 2500 and 4200 meters above sea level. For those who were too busy writing on their pencil cases or trying to stifle rogue erections in GCSE science, the higher you are the colder it is. Hence, when travelling the 'West Side' route of South America, you're almost constantly moving along the spine of the Andes. So, the search for sunshine became one of code red priority and plans were put into action.

The route to sun...

1. Lima, the capital city of Peru, and my jumbled namesake, is a large dark bustling city comprised of two main areas: Miraflores, the expensive, rich and pretty area, and El Centro: the cheaper area where the people stare and the shadows seem to loom everywhere menacingly. Naturally we went for the cheaper option and made sure that any evening deployments for food were done in taxis. In the evening Emily and I went to eat in a nunnery, which sold steak (holy steak I would presume) which could be eaten while the french speaking Peruvian nuns sake Ave Maria to us. Naturally after such a sacred experience we went out to get sozzled. We did so with efficiency and awoke to a day awaiting our next bus with impressive hangovers. Stage 1 mission: Accomplished

2. Trujillo, after an amazing nightbus journey, was to be the cultural stop on our route North. Home to the pre-Columbian (I'm not really sure what that means) city Chan Chan which once ruled the society of local fishermen for miles afar. Trujillo itself was confusing and busy, and finding a bus to Chan Chan proved time consuming (yet still much cheaper than paying five times the price for an excursion). After being dropped by the bus in the middle of nowhere, we walked 3km to the Chan Chan ruins to find the ancient mud/sand city wonderfully preserved. In fact the preservation wasn't at all preservation but reconstruction, from scratch, and the whole place, in spite of its historical significance was a rather farcical attempt to recreate a seaside Machu Pichu. We fled to a small fishing village, destroying two bottles of wine as effectively as the years of pacific wind and rain would have destroyed an abandoned Chan Chan. The next leg of our journey would hopefully be our last for a short while, as it would be to Mancora, the reputed sun, sea, sand and surf spot of Peru. Finally, after months of cold, would tomorrow be the the start of sunshine?

Above The Clouds

Here we are; the supposed epoche of a journey around South America, the don; the daddy; the godfather of tourist detinations: Machu Picchu. Historically, for those who have only just retreated their proverbial cage like Mowgli from his respective jungle, this is possibly the prominent example of the history of south america: The Europeans arrived, trashing the place like unwanted houseguests, bringing with them 'culture', 'society' and religion (they definitely brought this one) and in return literally obliterating the cultures, societies and religions. Things were knocked down, things were raised; complex webs of society ripped apart to cater the growning need for indo slaves. Nations, Powers and societies rise and fall throughout time, some being deliberately erradicated from history. Machu Picchu is a hidden treasure, frozen in time so lucky American and Japanese tour groups can exclaim how 'purty' it is/was (and whatever the Japanese equivalent would be). But perhaps, in contrast to the initial intent to enlighten the present through the gems of the past, we instead continue to rip apart and destroy these remaining gems through our own form of disneyland colonialism. Thinking back to Puno and the fact that an ingenious and beautiful society of people living independently and simply on self made islands, is now little more than a ride in the 'Kooky Ancient Peru' section of the South American theme park.

So, from the above it's evident that I managed to see Machu Picchu. From my arrival in Cusco this is how Operation Picchu 'went down'. Solo, and in need of a bit of a social scene I arrived at the ever popular Loki pleading and begging for a bed. The tears were thick and steady, and the face of a 7 year old who's just fell off the swings did its job. I was given habitation and went off in search of a party. Sat at the bar and sunbathing in the garden were the strings of previous stints in party hostels, desperately attempting to recover in time for another celebration that night. Old faces mix with new, and the almost tribal releasing of the demons was performed with an evergrowning skill in this field. The next morning, however, distaster had stuck: earthquakes, hurricaines, volcanic activity and the fires of hell had descended to create a world of pain (or at least that's how it certainly felt). Too much time in Cusco would be bad news; I needed to get me a large slice of hot piping culture and the Picchu was calling. I booked a tour and retreated to another hostel to hang with a throng of Irish boys who were all dressed in togas and wedding dresses upon introduction. We chilled, bantered, ate and smoked through the next few days. Picchu Preparation was a major success.

The next day myself and a small bag, containing all of the essentials required to deal with mountains, rivers and the odd jungle puma (which is a threat I live with from day to day), were plucked from Loki Hostel at a quarter past ridiculously early O'clock to be dumped on a bus with a load of strangers who i'd be sharing my "life changing Machu Picchu experience" with. Most of which were couples from South America's favourite colonial exploiters of yesteryear, and a rag tag selection of solo travellers: myself, a south korean who spoke virtually no english or spanish and responded to polite enquiries into his health and happiness with "Machu Picchu!", and an American girl. The latter traveller was a bundle of locally crafted bags, piggietails and a sweet smile below her slightly sun reddened nose. In spite of our first day being a 30km downhill mountain bike ride, she couldn't ride a bike, but had been promised transport by the cash hungry Peruvian tour office. I'm not sure if there are sayings about the value of a peruvian promise, I'd imagine that it would be that it's worth its weight in dust. So many interesting surprises would rear their ugly, disfigured heads when the time was right. The first of such being 'no car; you ride'. Emily and myself hung back and I bunny hopped around the bumpy tracks while Emily tried to find out the range of ways to ditch it off the bike. This was going to result in her really hurting herself, so we gave up and walked. We arrived late, shouted at our ambilivently incompetent guide, ate and slept.

The next day we were to walk through the jungle side of Machu Picchu across the mountians. Due to rain we left late, and the beginning half of the day was sodden. As we climbed the sun came out and dried our wet clothes. With the sun the sand flies came out and immediately began looking for exposed places to bite us; the found them. To begin with, the repellent worked, but apparently it's not as effective when you accidentally drop it off a cliff and can't use it anymore. The climb rose and fell on the narrow trails clinging to the steep sides of the mountains, with the slightly lagging hoards in close pursuit. Even with a decent level of concentration required you could not help but be awed by the landscape surrounding us: the green mountains rose and fell sharply in every direction, with snaking whitewater rivers powerfully fighting their way through the valleys. The clouds, when present, were effectively blown through natural wind tunnels that the imposing valleys created and would dance around the summits quickly but daintily. On this trip describing some of the natural beauty I have seen thus far has been difficult and pictures never really do justice to what I'd love to share but just can't. Anyway, I digress. As the hours passed, the sun dipped and the bite count mounted on my legs; we were all pretty tired and in need of some rest when we arrived at the hot springs. Locally known as 'Gringo Soup', the big pool of hot springs steamed in the distance like an oasis for fly bitten trekkers. We were in the pool quicker than the water draining from the side of the mountain, and it was pure bliss. As we splashed around in the hot pools, beer sitting by the side of the pool, the sun dipped behind the imposing mountains.

By the next morning the itch from my many many bites had begun to drive me crazy, and by many I mean from my knees down to my ankles possibly a couple of hundred. Furthermore, my shorts were soaked from swimming from the day before leaving me with my coarse jeans to persistently irritate my bites. Walking for hours was going to be a challenge. After of two hours of walking, and our first sighting of Mighty Picchu from below we arrived at Aguas Calientes (Hot Waters). The plan was to lunch and then take an arduous climb to a viewpoint over MP, however walking in my jeans was now beyond being an option and Emily was tired from the last few days. We slipped from the group and went off to find more hot springs to bathe in. Later that evening major arguments errupted between the guide and the group regarding the fact that the scenic (and not so cheap) train journey back that we had paid for had now been replaced with a much cheaper and time consuming journey in a cramped minivan. In addition to this the day that we had paid to spend at Machu Picchu would be shortened as we would need to leave much earlier. The weasel of a guide was verbally attacked from all sides by seven furious trekkers and slumped away quickly saying there was nothing he could do and that he would wake us at 4am in time for a sunrise at Machu Picchu. 4am came and passed and we were eventually awoken on the cusp of 5am by the guide, questioning why we hadn't left. Shouting followed. The little shit had fucked us over one last time and we left hastily to board a bus to MP in hope that we hadn't missed our tour.

Machu Picchu recieves thousands of visitors on a daily basis; for a reason, it is a wonderfully preserved and magical place, that in spite of my aforementioned thoughts pulls the crowds for a reason. Sadly the past 24 hours had put the seven of us in a dreadful mood, hardly prepared to be taken by the surroundings. Furthermore the thick, wet clouds clung to the mountain and visibility was minimal. The tour was good and the place definitely worth visiting but our consequently sour moods an the unlucky weather ruined our experience to one of the big boys in world heritage sites.

The van returned late, and Emily and I spent the next couple of days in Cusco planning our route through northern Peru n our way to Mancora: the most highly recommended beach spot in Peru, where we planned to pass a few weeks. Long bus journeys were ahead to get there and unknown intermittent stops along the way as the Equatorial line beckoned us Northwards.

Reflections Upon A Big Lake

WARNING, THE FOLLOWING TEXT IS RIDICULOUSLY SELF INDULGENT AND SHOULD BE APPROACHED WITH EXTREME CAUTION!

At this current moment I am in Puno, Peru; lying in bed trying not to throw up everything and anything that I ingest. I'm not remarkably ill, just feeling crap enough to not want to go wandering round the city. So after reading the best part of a book, I have still been left with a sizeable amount of time for reflection and writing. This, from a writing sense, couldn't really have come at a more appropriate time, as in a few days I will be reaching the four month mark, and, what is loosely to be, the half way point of my travels. Thus, before catching up on my most recent activities I thought I'd lay down some statistics, retrospective thoughts and hopes, wishes and dear-santa-dreams for the future.

Stat time: In the four months of my wayward journey I have:
Slept in 39 beds;
Visiting 25 cities;
Spanning 5 countries;
Travelling by Plane, Bus, Taxi, Car, Boat, Moped, Raft, Tuk-tuk (ish) and Foot;
Reading 15 books;
Narrated in 38 Blogs.

In fact it's definitely been a whirlwind of varied experiences. I've made countless acquaintances, some good mates who I will likely keep in contact with for a long time after my travels (rollcalling Matt, Bobby, Rob, Hannah, Kat, Majo, Andy and Adam in no particular order). In spite of looking back over so many activities, experiences, people, hangovers, sunburns, natural wonders, traces of forgotten empires, stunning landscapes and thousands of miles covered so far, it feels like it's shot by in such a whirr that it contrastingly seems like I have really lived the last four months and also that it has all been an eventful dream devoid of the reality that I've known in my previous 24.92 years. Perhaps this all sounds a little excessive, I don't know, but after a third of a year living out of a backpack and moving every few days, in it's very nature, life itself has been excessive. And what's more, there are around another 4 months, going through at least 10 countries before heading home to take on whatever unseen challenges may appear.

People say that travelling changes you, that your perspective on life changes somewhat and that it will set a new or more clearly defined direction to the way you step forth. I'm not so sure I can say that I have been profoundly affected in the aforementioned ways thus far, but who can say that this will not appear at latter stages. Some things have, however, dramatically changed: I can sleep pretty much anywhere at any time (still, sadly, excluding buses though) in spite of shaggers, talkers, door bangers, barking dogs, flickering lights, shitty mattresses, squeaky beds etc. I can now read anywhere for remarkably long periods of time, I can now play the charanga that I bought in La Paz, speak decent spanish, and pack in ten minutes in the dark while utterly hungover at 6am. Disregarding the trivial and light nature of these I have now fell into a routine state in constantly changing situations and places, everything about travel seems pretty natural to do, with the unexpected becoming the norm.

Who knows what's to come but I look forward to it. I know as a virtual certainty that the latter half will be more challenging in many ways, but hopefully as rewarding in parallel.

So, mind dump out of the way (thank god for that I hear you murmer from your semi-sleeping states), what's been going on of late? Where we left off last I was escaping from La Paz with the gusto of Gordon Brown after his weekly drilling at Prime Minister's question time. Lake Titicaca, sitting at over 4000 meters above sea level and setting part of the border between Bolivia and Peru, would be my last destination in Bolivia and my first of Peru (funnily enough). On the Bolivian side I visited Copacabana, checked into a quiet hotel with the noisiest doors on earth. In my first real feat of exercise for what feels like months I set off to climb one of the massive hills overlooking the bay, which may sound quite simple but feels like a 10km run at 4000m above sea level. The view was spectacular and remarkably photogenic.

The next day I boarded a vessel to the Isle del Sol for a 3km walk along the ridges of the island. Although I had spent the morning with a few people I took the first available opportunity to split so I could don my iPod and powerwalk to the southen port. The views across the lake were beautiful at every twist and turn of the path, and the sun poured down on the island with very little respite leaving me with the beginnings of a rather nice tan. We returned on the boat as the sun dipped below the snow capped mountains in the distance and ate early. I passed the rest of the evening working through a book before turning in for an early night.
The next morning I awoke feeling pretty sick and scoffed down a selection of drugs in hope that I could get to Puno without throwing up or dying. Upon arrival I checked into the first available hotel, threw up, booked a tour for the next day to the floating islands, and retreated to bed to feel sorry for myself (which I did with expertise). The floating islands on the following morning were an interesting experience: around 300 people living on islands made entirely of the reeds that cover much of the lake. They speak an entirely different language (very little spanish) and spend their days hunting ducks, fishing and building various forms of homeware out of reeds. Or at least that's what they used to do before the tourist invasion, nowadays they spend their entire days harassing tourists to buy tat made of reeds and giving boat tours for a few pounds. Not that this is something that they are to blame for, but more than anything to me felt like another distinctly wonderful culture that had been turned into a South American Disneyland by the relentless tourist trail. An interesting day but also rather saddening upon seeing the exploitation that we sometimes bring upon the innocently diverse cultures that we visit around the world. That evening myself and an english guy called Richard went for a stroll around Puno, which to our surprise felt remarkably clean and more affluent than Bolivia despite its proximity. That (being this) evening the sickness returned leaving me with much time to reflect upon the past four months and the next section of my trip: Cuzco and Machu Pichu.