Baños, Quito and Leeds

After a long journey, I arrived in Baños late in the evening and checked into Hostal Transilvania. There was apparently only one bed free, and I was tired. The hostel seemed pleasant and friendly, so I agreed to stay the night. I was then taken to the dorm room. It stank. I decided at that moment that possibly it was someones smelly shoes which were causing the stench, and so I said nothing to my host. For the very first time on my travels, however, I should have pulled out and hunted for somewhere else. I climbed into bed that night, but I couldn't fall asleep. My bed was right next to the toilet, and the aroma of urine continuously seeped through, even when the door was closed. I was aware of being awake as much as 90 minutes later - and aware of a tough night ahead.

Suddenly I awoke. It was daylight. I checked the time. 7:30. Luckily I had fallen asleep and stayed asleep. It wasn't long until I checked out of the worst hostel of my entire journey. Besides, I had plans for Baños. Back in the Cordillera Blanca I had met British couple Mark and Laura. They informed me of how they spent a while volunteering in Baños at a place called Fundación Arte del Mundo. Fundación Arte del Mundo is an after-school drop-in centre for kids, promoting a love of reading and the arts. After all my trekking, sight-seeing and general tourism, I was eager to finish off my journey with something completely different. Furthermore, staying in the same place for a week rather than keeping on the go sounded really appealing. I had had a Skype conversation with the leader, Karl, back in Vilcabamba, and so I was ready to go.

Most days at the centre involved a free morning followed by a meeting at 2pm. Here we would plan out the rest of the day and then complete some tasks that needed doing. This may involve cleaning or tidying up, but sometimes it may involve something more interesting. One day we had a series of rocks which both children and volunteers had been painting to decorate the courtyard, but with one rock spare I was asked if I wanted to paint it. I had been useless at art back in school, and I feared I would make a mess of it, but this was not the time to back out of stuff. And so I agreed.

The theme for the rock paintings was 'insects and bugs', and so after a little thought I decided that I would draw a worm. Vague memories of drawing worms based on The Mr Men worms from my childhood came back to me. And so I picked up my brush, mixed some paints, and painted. I was unsure if it was going so well, but as I began to proceed, I became exceedingly proud of my worm. Once it was finished, I was delighted. Numerous people complemented me on my worm over the next few days, and from then on, one part-time volunteer only knew me as Worm Man. I'm positive she didn't know my real name.

At 3:30pm each day the kids would arrive for an hour of reading. I was nervous about this on my first day. While I could read the Spanish words phonetically, I wouldn't understand most of it or be sure that the kids' pronunciation, or even my own pronunciation was correct. I walked into the library on my first day and hung around, unsure what to do. This did not last long. A kid soon approached me with a book. The formula every day was the same; The kid reads a page, then I read a page. Then the kid reads a page, then I read a page. And so on. And so for one hour every weekday I indulged in the adventures of Clifford The Big Red Dog, The Giant Sandwich, and everyones' favourite frog, Froggy. The more I read with the kids, the more confident I became and the more I enjoyed it. And the more I enjoyed it, the more I felt able to interact with the kids. While I always felt handcuffed by the language barrier, especially if a kid needed a small telling off, the connections between us grew stronger each day. I have never worked with children before, but by the end I knew that the only thing stopping me from totally running with it was the language barrier - and even with the barrier intact I managed to find occasional ways to hurdle over it.

Once reading time was over it was activity time. This would be something different each day. We made paper plate clocks, paper jigsaws and Chinese lanterns. One day the kids were hula hooping, and sometimes we proved that child labour really works by getting the kids to dig up weeds in the garden, or paint the outside wall. And they loved it all. One evening we also held a film night in which I spent much of the time selling popcorn and drinks outside. It was a great success.

My time in Baños was a real highlight of my trip. It was very different to everything else I had done over the previous three months, and I really felt like I got to know the place better than I usually would. Rachel at the foundation was spending a whole month there. I joked with her that she was 'Staying still travelling'; a phrase we reused over and over again. It was about quality, not quantity

I had plenty of free time in Baños for other activities too. While I took it fairly easy most days, including using the foundation's cinema for my own personal viewings, I also took a walk into the local countryside and a sightseeing bus trip. On the final day I joined the majority of the volunteers to do some ziplining. Just like my previous ziplining adventure it was great fun, including one upside-down zipline! My time in Baños was so good I extended my original 7 day stay to 10 days at the expense of a prolonged trip in my final destination, Quito, and I never regretted my decision for a second.

Baños also was the location for a significant event in my travels. I have had many temporary best friends during my journey, but two familiar faces re-emerged to say hello over and over again. Sometimes I would arrange to meet them. Sometimes I would emerge from bed in the morning and randomly discover them in my hostel. But Willem and Alies have truly been fantastic on/off companions for the whole trip; from Salar De Uyuni, to Sucre, to La Paz, to the Amazon, to Cusco, to Hauraz, to Baños we have both said hello and goodbye. The goodbyes eventually lacked any emotion, for I knew I would see them again. But this time, in South America at least, I knew it would be the last time.

We met in Baños in a restaurant on the main square to witness their ecstasy as the Netherlands continued their great success in the World Cup. Alies nearly exploded on every goal. And the following day they joined me to witness England continue their miserable world cup run; but it was not to be the saddest moment of the day. I had a bus to catch that evening, and on the corner of the main square in Baños I said my last South American goodbyes to my best friends.

That evening I took the bus to Quito. I only had one evening there, so I strolled around the busy nightlife area around my hostel. It all felt very modern and developed. I already felt like I had one foot back home. But before long I was waking up for my final morning, and my journey home began. My original plan was to spend $25 travelling to the airport by taxi, but my hostel informed me that using the public buses would only cost $2.20, and so it was a no brainer.

I paid my initial twenty cents and stepped onto the crowded bus. It was packed. I began to wonder about the safety decision I had made. The rear zips  on my backpack were behind me and exposed, but I quickly realised my fears were rather unfounded. Even if someone did decide to unzip the bottom pocket from behind my back, all they would find were socks. If they opted to open the top pocket, all they would find were used and smelly socks. I had nothing to worry about.

I was on my final bus journey. Bus journeys in South America had been precious to me. They were a time to stop. They were a time to think. A time to relax. Everything over the past few months had gone so smoothly, and for that I could be grateful. I guess my experience meant I was always prepared and organised, but also rather precautious. I met a few people on my travels who talked of problems such as robbery or loss; Sometimes the stories were first-hand, sometimes they were taken from the grapevine - But for me, I could be happy I had done well. And besides, who would want socks from a back pocket anyway?

After a while the crowded bus began to die down, and I moved forward a step into a pocket of space. I looked down. The front pocket of my day bag, the bag which had been directly under my nose throughout all of South America, was open. I stared at it for a few seconds, bewildered. I was sure I had closed it before I got on the bus. I began to check my trouser pockets, almost oblivious to the open invitation to thieves I was still dangling in front of me. Blatantly on view in my front pocket were a series of my possessions. A torch. Some sunglasses. A pen. An iPhone. But one thing more than anything else was noticeable - maybe not noticeable to anyone else on the still crowded bus, but noticeable to me. My wallet was gone.

Ten minutes or so later I had transferred to a different bus. I had a seat, and finally some time to work things out. I took off my backpack and inspected everything. My backpack was just how I had left it. No socks gone at least. Meanwhile, somewhere else in Quito, a dirty thief  was scouring through the contents of my old wallet. The thief found a couple of dollars, a few British coins, and a scrap of paper written by Rachel in Baños recommending music I should listen to upon my return home. I simultaneously opened the money belt I had hidden underneath my clothing; the money belt I had worn each and every journey of my travels, never feeling like it had been necessary by the end of the day. Not until now. Not until this very final journey. There I found my passport, my flight tickets, most of the money I had taken out of the ATM the night before, and my bank card. Even with my losses the trip had worked out significantly cheaper than a taxi! I hope the thief felt severely disappointed with his loot. And I hope he detests Rachel's taste in music.

Months travelled : 3 and a half
Countries visited : 4
Favourite Country : Bolivia
Favourite locations : Potosi Mines (Bolivia), Death Road (Bolivia), Sacred Valley (Peru), Fundación Arte del Mundo (Ecuador)

By the following day I was back in Leeds airport. My journey was over. I walked through the 'Nothing To Declare' arch. "Hi Sir, where have you just come from?", said a voice. "South America" I replied. "Come with me", the customs official replied.

"Did you carry any coca leaves during your stay?" the woman asked me. Coca leaves are legal in various South American countries, but cannot be legally taken out of the country. They can be used to make cocaine. I had been handed them numerous times by guides to cope with potential altitude sickness, but I didn't recall ever putting a bag of them in my backpack. "So I won't find anything in your backpack?" the woman asked me. "No", I replied.

I barely paid attention as the woman opened my backpack and examined its contents. I had nothing to hide. And I was tired. Before long she moved over to a machine a few feet away from me. I believe she must have taken a swab of my backpack. The machine bleeped. "There's a trace", said the woman. "Coca leaves?", I replied. The woman replied with a single word. "Amphetamines".

For a moment I stood there, jaw open, eyes half closed, not fully comprehending what was happening. Before I had time for it to digest, she digested it for me. A trace can easily occur through cross contamination. I racked my mind back through everybody I had met or shook hands with over my entire trip. Who would or would not be likely to be on drugs? But it didn't matter. In the end Leeds airport customs were struggling to get rid of me as I asked a barrage of questions about drugs and how cross-contamination could occur. But once I repacked, I left.

My journey was over. I had little time to relax over the following few days; I had Glastonbury festival to prepare for and enjoy. But eventually life returns to normal. Normal, but with changes. The energy that travelling feeds into you takes a while to fade, and it's an energy that should be prolonged for as long as possible. While travelling, you have the freedom to do what you want, and when you want, but this should not be just confined to life on the road. This should be confined to every day. Every day. No matter where you are. No matter what you are doing. No matter what strangers find in your bags.

From the Cordillera Blanca to Cuenca

The final day of my trek only contained a couple of hours of trekking before we were driven back to Hauraz, and the following day was a day of relaxation. Once again I booked my own room and television. The Hobbit was my friend.

That night I took the night bus to Trujillo, and the following day I decided to visit the nearby ruins of Huacas del Sol and de la Luna. I opted out of going with a tour group and I travelled there myself; all I had to do was get in the right collectivo. Collectivos are tiny little buses that look they were built decades ago, look like they should have been taken off the road years ago, and look like they should have fallen apart months ago. Usually they are totally overloaded with people. Because of the strong grip of the Peruvian Gringo Trail and it's plush buses, I had yet to be herded into one in South America. Until now.

I waited at the corner of the street where my hostel told me to stand. A steady stream of collectivos pulled up. A man hung out of each one yapping its destination on repeat. "Haucas del Sol?" I enquired to the first one I saw. He pointed further up the street. I walked nearer the back of the line of collectivos further up the street, but I failed to find the one heading my direction. I waited for twenty minutes next to the ever changing line of collapsing collectivos and yapping men, but I never stepped on any of them. After asking a couple more collectivo guys if they were going my way, I finally realised that I actually should be standing way up the street, not just a few metres away. And so I walked higher.

A collectivo guy barked in my direction further up the street; "Haucas?". I stepped on. Before long I was in a speeding collapsing box of metal, with various body parts of various Peruvians in and around the space I was trying to hold for myself. To them it was nothing. Eventually, one by one, the locals got off. My tourist stop was last. I was in an empty tin can by the time it was my turn to disembark.

Haucas del Sol and de la Luna are huge ancient pyramids. The murals within Huaca de la Luna were undiscovered until 1990 and are in remarkable condition. The colour is still there. Having arrived alone, I was the sole member of my guided tour. Often I get bored in such situations, but this tour I really enjoyed. Maybe it was because it was one on one, maybe it was because my guide was so good, or maybe it was because I had done it all by myself. I had let go of the Gringo Trail, and that is when independent travel is at its most fulfilling.

The following day I took a local bus to nearby Huanchaco beach ... and one hour later I returned again. The beach was deserted; a seaside ghost town. An hour was enough. I returned to Trujillo to sample a local popular fish restaurant. I was finally both on the coast of Peru as well as not feeling ill, and so it was time to try ceviche. Ceviche is raw white fish marinated in lemon juice, onions and hot peppers. I've never been a fan of sushi, but this was great. While I still feel that at least a flash on the frying pan does anything raw a world of good, the kick of the marinade made it delicious.

I returned to my guesthouse that night to relax. Residential Munay Wasi is just a regular home on a regular street, but the friendly Peruvian woman who lives there has opened up most of the rooms for travellers; and she soon becomes incredibly trusting of her temporary lodgers! I only stayed two nights, but on the second night she wanted to go and play cards with her friends, so she gave me the keys, informed me we had some new guests due at 10pm, and left me to it. And so for a few hours the guest house was under my control! The new guests arrived very late, but I gave them a small introduction before the owner returned a couple of minutes later.

And other than the start of a lengthy bus journey, that was it for the Peruvian section of my journey! Overall, I enjoyed Peru. My trek around Cusco was the highlight, but there were also little moments here and there which will always stick in my memory. But now it was time for my fourth and final country; Ecuador.

As soon as we crossed into Ecuador we stopped for a lunch. The timing could not have been more perfect. Just kicking off on the little border side cafe TV was a friendly football game; England v Ecuador. It was like the world knew that I had arrived.

That evening I finally arrived at my destination; Vilcabamba. Vilcabamba is an odd little place. Half the local residents are middle aged American expats. Just weeks after feeling like the oldest person in Huacachina in Peru, I was now feeling like the youngest person in Vilcabamba. But the place was small and pleasant.

On my first full day in Vilcabamba I went for a walk in Rumi Wilco; a small nature reserve. The walk was lovely, and I never saw another person for the entire trail. There were various different routes to take, and I chose to climb upwards to get some elevation very quickly. At one point there was a sharp narrow bend looking over a steep drop and I was forced to crawl underneath a rocky outlay jutting out around the curve. Afterwards I continued to climb higher and higher, and eventually stopped to relax at the peak. Looking down over Vilcabamba below, everything was very quiet. The odd ant-like person could be seen walking through the distant streets. I sat there for a while, enjoying the time and space I had. It was peaceful.

Much time went by. Eventually I got up and began to descend down the other side. I very quickly reached a massive spider web blocking my narrow hill-top path. Sat stationary in the middle was an ugly and fair-sized spider. Clearly this was a very newly built home for the spider, or really no-one had taken this trail for quite a while. For the second time that day I was forced to get on my hands and knees and crawl underneath my obstacle.

As I continued to descend down the hill I reached one of many forks in the trail. I was tired but enjoying my walk, and pondered whether I should continue deeper into the greenery rather than take the trail back down to the bottom. I took out my map. I had a decision to make. Eyes down, studying the routes, I caught something move in the corner of my eye. A spider, identical to the one I had recently ducked under, emerged from my back and crawled over my right shoulder. And so I spasmed.

The spider was even more startled than me. It promptly abseiled down my back. Presumably it found the floor and scuttled away. Presumably. I would check my back for signs of eight legs multiple times for the rest of the day.

Once I gained my composure a couple of seconds later I realised my legs were moving. As it turned out, my navigational decision had been made by my feet; partly to move away from the spider, but mainly because that was the way I was facing when the spider emerged. I didn't dare turn back to re-enter the territory of my foe; I was heading back to the park entrance, and my walk was coming to an end.

The following day I embarked on a second walk; this time up to the lofty peaks of Mandango on the other side of Vilcabamba. It was a tougher but less eventful walk, with nice views from the top. At the peak I walked along the upper edge of the cliff. My heart stopped for one second as my right foot slipped off the crumbling stones. It wasn't long before I then decided that too should signal the end of that walk, and besides, I had an important Skype conversation with a man call Karl at 3pm, but the details of this I shall save for my next blog entry.

I left Vilcabamba one day later to visit Cuenca; a pleasant city, if rather lacking in excitement. My stay there was short. My travels are soon coming to an end. Just two weeks remained. After three months of sightseeing, walks, and landmarks, I was finally looking forward to home. But before my outgoing flight I wanted to try something a little different. And Karl said it was fine ...

From Lima to the Cordillera Blanca

I spent my final day in Lima dragging my sneezy self through the city centre, before coughing my way through a night bus journey to Hauraz. There I booked a single room (as opposed to the usual dormitory bed), and hibernated until I felt the world was ready for me again. My room had a television, and Friends, The Big Bang Theory, Shrek 2, and various other on-screen joys became my best friends.

By the Wednesday I deemed myself fit enough to re-integrate into society. I joined a four day trek in the mountains and valleys of the Cordillera Blanca.

After the ease of my trek in south Peru, I didn't have any fears. However, days one and two proved surprisingly tiring. I wasn't quite sure why. Maybe because I had recently been ill, or maybe the trekkers around me were just fitter. The nights were very uncomfortable too, largely because I was squashed into a tent with two other guys, as if the cold and hard floor wasn't uncomfortable enough. Maybe I had just been spoilt on my previous fantastic trek. My previous trek was expensive, but this extra expense bought me a spacious tent, a great sleeping mat, insane amounts of ridiculously good food, two great guides, and plenty more. I had been spoilt, and this trek was highlighting that fact.

When I finally reached the highest peak halfway through day two, I was exhausted. The views finally began to come close to matching those from my previous trek though. We had reached a lovely snow-capped peak, and the valley we would descend down stretched far into the distance.

Half of our group made a decision on day three; Four Americans and one Spaniard were to speed ahead and finish the entire trek that day. Right from the start they set their pace, and a couple of Germans joined them in their initial haste. After an hour or so I found myself alone, and with a crossroads ahead of me I waited for the guide, our only guide, behind me. Once he caught up he informed me in broken English that we were not going the way to the end. This initial path had been a scenic detour, but we needed to turn back now. I was unsure how much of this the early pace setters had known, but the guide raced ahead to shout to the distant walkers.

Eventually five trekkers returned. I asked them where the two Germans were. They pointed in the direction of the hill they had just come from. "Do they know they need to come back?", I asked. "I think so", was the response. I wasn't so convinced. Eager to finish the trek that day, the four Americans and one Spaniard continued towards the correct distant valley. Meanwhile I waited for signs of the Germans, or our guide.

When our guide emerged from his high view point, I informed him that the Germans were still out there, but they were nowhere to be seen. Our guide therefore pointed out the way we needed to go and raced out into the hills to look for the Germans. There was nothing else I could do but head the right way with the two other remaining trekkers.

The views began to excel, and before long I found myself ahead and alone. My pace was good. I wondered if I would soon begin to catch up with the front pack, or at least find them with our chef eating lunch.

I walked through a sandy valley. I walked past a lagoon. I walked past trees, mountains, and increasingly great views. But I never reached a point to stop for lunch. Only then did I begin to wonder; were the front runners actually stopping for lunch today? Had our chef actually gone ahead to set up a lunch point? Where was I suppose to be? With the group now split in half, I suddenly realised I was the front runner of those spending the full four days on the trek. And I had been alone for a long time.

I eventually reached a campsite for a different tour company, and there I decided to stop. It wasn't far past midday, but I was hungry. On the previous day lunch had been around 1pm. I eventually backtracked a little and found a guide from another company with a couple of trekkers. I asked him if he knew where my company stopped for lunch. He asked me who my guide was. "Edgar", I replied. "I have heard about you!", said the guide. "You were suppose to wait at the lagoon for lunch, but you weren't there! Edgar has been looking for two Germans. They are lost. He is waiting for them at the lagoon!". I had past the lagoon a long time ago; There was no way I was going all the way back there. I was tired and hungry. I laid down on the grass, put my hat over my face, and decided to wait.

I don't know how long past. I sensed something had approached me. I must have been asleep. I uncovered my face to the sight of an inquisitive donkey wondering why I was sleeping on the grass. I sat up. The donkey began to sniff the contents of my bag. I had no food. If I did, it wouldn't have been for the donkey.

I had been waiting well over an hour before some familiar faces emerged. The remaining two unlost members of our group approached. They told me about the two lost Germans, but also that our campsite shouldn't be too far past the current one. I couldn't believe I'd almost trekked the full distance by little past midday. I had missed lunch though, and my energy was low. The final slog would not be pleasant.

I went ahead by myself to try and spot the camp, but after ten minutes I'd found nothing. I backtracked slightly to let the others meet me, and they were surprised it wasn't in sight. A guide from another company approached from behind, and so we enquired. He told us our camp was still an hour and a half away. My heart sank. I was starved. Luckily a couple of the trekkers from the new guide had some biscuits to spare, and before long I had enough energy to keep me going.

After half an hour of more walking our adopted guide and his food-giving tour group reached their own camp. We still had an hour to go. We were told our camp was beneath a waterfall.

Left foot.
Right foot.
Left foot.
Right foot.

"Waterfall!" shouted Olga from the forthcoming corner! I sped ahead.

Left foot.
Right foot.
Left foot.
Right foot.

"It's here!" I shouted back to Olga at the first sight of camp tents. And I was home.

It had been a hard day. I do not recommend skipping lunch on a trek. But more importantly, I actually enjoyed day three the most. The scenery was by far the best, and I had enjoyed speeding along by myself, and in a way, I had enjoyed the drama. Edgar and the Germans, I feared, were enjoying the day less so.

Only half an hour past until Edgar emerged from the trees. The Germans were not far behind. "What happened?" I asked them when they finally arrived. "How did Edgar find you?". "He didn't" they replied. "We weren't lost. We knew we had to turn back. We just went to see the hidden lagoon behind the hill". What an anti-climax, I thought. Maybe I had had the most exciting day after all. And to rounds things off, that night I slept really well. I had a tent all to myself.

From Cuzco To Lima

The pace has barely stopped. Sometimes travelling can feel like a train ride; a set track in which you see and do exactly what everyone else has seen and done before you. In South America, it's known as The Gringo Trail. While the attractions of the trial are usually worth a visit, I've been searching for that 'wow!' moment a lot lately.

My Gringo Trail all started after my fantastic Lares trek. I spent one extra day in Cuzco to relax, and then finally moved on to Arequipa. There I visited Santa Catalina; an old nunnery like an enclosed village stuck in the middle of one of Peru's most populous cities. Following this I went to Museso Santuarios; the new home of Juanita, the incredibly preserved frozen Inca mummy sacrificed on the nearby mountains hundreds of years ago. She looked good for her age.

The pace continued. Arequipa is the gateway to Colca Canyon; the second deepest canyon in the world after the nearby but less accessible Cotahuasi Canyon. I took a two day trip to witness the lofty views and local settlements.  The highlight though was the deep gorge itself, and the massive condors that glided above, seemingly never needing to flap their wings to elevate their huge weights.

The pace continued. My two day trip was followed by a night bus to Nazca; home of The Nazca Lines. Nazca itself was rather void of interesting sites, and despite it being the base for one of Peru's most famous attractions, I was staggered to barely spot another western face in my first 24 hours. However, the evening lecture at The Maria Reiche Planetarium introduced The Nazca Lines to me wonderfully. The Nazca Lines are ancient shapes, drawings and lines cut into the stony desert at various points between 900 and 200 BC. Despite their epic size, modern day humans only noticed the patterns as an offshoot of the invention of the aeroplane. Since then, various theories have developed about their original use and meaning, but their relation to the stars and sun makes the astrological argument for their meaning very convincing.

Most tourists to Nazca choose to fly over the lines to witness the designs themselves, but I had not heard or read great reports about taking the expensive vomit-inducing air rollercoaster, not to mention the fact that many governments advise against flying over Nazca due to a large history of fatal crashes. And so I opted out of a night of worry in my bed, and I took a land tour of the attraction, including a few elevated view points. As the occasional tiny plane banked and circled above my head, I felt no jealousy or regret.

And the pace continued. By nightfall I had arrived in another new destination. Huacachina knocked me back for a couple of moments, it was like Peru had evaporated and I was suddenly in a holiday resort. A series of modern looking restaurants circled a small lake, and almost every t-shirted or bare chested cool dude youngster I past spoke with a British accent. I'm not sure where they all came from! Unfortunately this was the start of a period of man flu which has stifled my travels somewhat, but I did take a morning trip to The Ballestas Islands. From our swaying boat I saw hoards of birds, penguins and seals ... if only my deteriorating health had let me appreciate it fully.

Huacachina is popular amongst the young tourist crowd for sandboarding and dune buggies, but regrettably I wasn't feeling up to it. Equally it didn't feel like a place to relax, and so the pace continued, this time to Peru's Capital; Lima.

I'd heard many unsavoury stories about Lima, mostly involving robbery. I therefore opted to stay in the nicer Miraflores area rather than the city centre. While it seemed void of any major attractions, I was surprised at exactly how pleasant it was! As I wandered around, my man flu taking an ever a tighter grip, I walked through a small city park; Parque Kennedy. A tiny section in the middle had a number of stumps to sit on, all facing a lone piano ladened with the words 'Play me'. Almost every stump was occupied, and the small crowd listened lovingly to the excellent young Peruvian who had currently opted to sit at the piano. I found a central vacant stump and occupied it. And the pace finally began to slow.

Ten minutes later, to a small applause, the young pianist played his last note. Without hesitation he instantly stood up, and without looking back at his audience, but smiling with pride, he walked away. Within seconds he was just another face in the crowd; another t-shirt clad twenty-something walking through Parque Kennedy. But he was proud And after a week of Nazca Lines, Condor Canyons and bare-chested cool dude tourist sand surfers, I realised something; it was moments like this which I travel for.

Cuzco and The Sacred Valley

The week long wait for my trek disappeared in a flash. My time was mixed between exploring Cuzco, exploring Cuzco's nearby ruins of Saksaywaman and Qenqo, being ill, and a day trip to Moray and some salt mines. But before long, it was Monday.

My trip was excellent, possibly the highlight of my entire journey so far. Not too full of stories unfortunately (for me, at least), but my pictures alone will hopefully highlight how amazing these four days were.

Day One

I didn't mind getting up for a 5am start. I was ready. Before long my group and I were at the start of our trek, but we didn't put one foot in front of the other until our chefs had cooked us up a breakfast, including freshly made pancakes, cooked in the middle of nowhere. It was clear from the start that our chefs and porters, plus our two guides Willian and Junior, were going above and beyond the call of duty for our group of eleven trekkers.


And then the hike began; uphill. It would continue uphill for one and a half days. I was more surprised than anybody though how easy I found it. As people around me began to get breathless, I found the trek a breeze. Over two months of high altitudes and long city walks in South America had paid off.

As the day went on, and we ascended higher and higher, the scenery got increasingly beautiful. By the time we got to our camp in the evening most of us had been walking in darkness for a while. Again, in the middle of nowhere, our crew managed to erect a little neighbourhood of tents for us, and a quality of food far superior to some of the restaurants I′ve eaten in in Peru.

The night was cold however, and along with the problems of high altitude, everyone in our group slept very poorly. All except one person; me. I slept like a baby. Memories of my three day tour through Salar De Uyuni two months earlier came back to me. How I had suffered. How I had struggled to get through the night. How the tables had now turned.


Day Two

After a great breakfast, the trek restarted. It was now tougher than before; at least a couple of hours of tough uphill. Even before the struggle began we were looking down at the clouds. Our group proceeded slowly as we gradually made our way towards the 4780 metre peak. A couple of us needed to be carried by up our emergency donkey for part of the way. Meanwhile, I continued to be surprised by my energy. I found myself going back down at some sections, just to photograph views I had missed.

Once we reached the summit, the hard part was over. The trek was downhill from now on. The views continued to excel though; the scenery was spectacular around every turn. After another great lunch, we ventured down a steep hill and eventually into a village. Part of our group were eager to conquer the trek as soon as possible and steamed ahead. Meanwhile, I preferred to hang around the back with the slower walkers and saviour the views. I was in no rush.

The village at the base of the valley, however, was bizarre. Around every turn was a local person, seemingly frozen to the spot and staring into space. It was like something from a horror film. At one point I reached a tiny little bridge. Standing motionless like a statue was a little girl by the side of the bridge. I joked that maybe she was the bridge keeper. I wondered if I had to pay her a toll to cross the bridge, and so I put it to the test. I cheekily began to stroll over. The little girl silently followed me over the bridge directly behind me. Upon reaching the other side there was nothing to do but turn around and go back, and so the little girl traced my steps behind my back once more. And that was that. But she never charged a penny. I left the girl to guard her bridge forever more.

Before the day′s walk had begun, our group had decided to incorporate the short walk from day three into day two. Obviously this prolonged our day, and I believe some of the trekkers who I was joining near the back were beginning to regret this decision. They were finding it tough. It was already dark when we began to tread the paved road to our next campsite. I was walking with Robin and Pamyna when we suddenly got overtaken by the emergency donkey and his owner. Another member of our group was being carried to the campsite. However, this was the assurance we needed that we were going the right way. I speeded up to keep the donkey in sight, periodically flashing my flashlight backwards to reassure the others of the way.

Suddenly a car approached from behind me and stopped by my side. Robin and Pamyna had managed to hitch a lift! I reluctantly got in. I didn't want to cheat on the trek, but it was now dark, and those in the group who had gone full steam must have arrived an hour ago at least!

My ride only lasted seconds though. When we caught up with the donkey I jumped out. I was determined to finish on foot. The remainder of my journey was spent speaking broken Spanish to a donkey owner, a donkey, a dog, and one exhausted trekker. I was sure I would be arriving at the campsite as one of the very last, but I had had a great journey.

Upon arrival at the campsite though, I was confused. Robin and Pamyna were the only ones there! It wasn't until an hour later that the leading pack of trekkers stumbled in, exhausted! They had managed to get lost and had spent much of their time wading through the woods! But that night, everyone slept much easier.


Day Three

Since we had incorporated day three's walking into day two, we had a free morning. I decided to backtrack a little along the route which the lost people had taken. I had been absent for the big group story of the journey, but I was willing to at least see where the action had taken place. My lone journey involved cowering under a thinly branched tree in a hailstorm, discovering a football pitch at the edge of a small village, and peering to my right to the sight of three angry dogs hurtling towards me; but I survived my lone morning adventure unscathed.

The group had a final lunch before a farewell ceremony for most of our crew. The chefs and porters had worked incredibly hard, and their part in the journey was greatly appreciated by all. The rest of the day was spent in our van steering around high mountain roads, and in the tourist train to Aguas Calientes. There we spent a very comfortable night in a hotel. Day Four promised to be big.


Day Four

It was a very early start, but it was necessary to beat the crowds. Before long I had endured a short sleepy bus journey and a long queue. We had a walk after this which I expected to be long. I was shocked after just five or ten minutes when it was over. Down below the walkway, from the exact viewpoint of every single picture you have ever seen, was Machu Picchu. It was suddenly there.

Machu Picchu is a complete Inca city which had lay buried and unfound in the jungle for centuries. It wasn't discovered again until 1911. Much of the staircases, terraces and temples from the site are still largely intact, all set in fantastic Andes scenery. The quantity to see is nearly as plentiful as the tourists, but not quite.

Our guide, Willian, proved to be a fantastic Machu Picchu guide too. His knowledge was excellent. He guided us around half the site, and left us to explore the second half by ourselves. Machu Picchu is one of the second wonders of the world, but more significantly, it was the grand finale of a fantastic trek.

From Copacabana to Cuzco

I remember being sat at home last February. A Facebook status flashed on-screen; Denny Brink, the American I travelled with for many weeks in India, was going travelling in South America. Something triggered inside me.

Several months later I found myself in Copacabana, halfway through my journey. Copacabana is a little tourist town on the edge of Lake Titicaca. It's rather uninspiring other than a pleasant viewpoint from a nearby hill, but the following day I took an early boat to Isla del Sol on the lake. Lake Titicaca is the highest navigable lake in the world at 3812 metres, and Isla del Sol is a beautiful and relaxed island on the Bolivian side. I spent the day enjoying the extremely pleasant stroll from north to south, finished off by some trout and chips.

I returned to Copacabana that night and booked a bus across the border. The Bolivian section of my journey was now over. Bolivia had treated me well; from the excitement of Death Road and the Potosi mines, down to the little things like the old style English bowler hats which the women wear, and the people dressed up as zebras in major cities helping children and adults cross the street. But it was now time for a new country.

It didn't take long the following morning to find myself with a new stamp in my tired passport. Just a couple of hours later, I checked into a hostel in Puno on the Peruvian side of Titicaca. I instantly set out to find some food, and the steak I ordered at La Estancia restaurant was infinitely better than anything I had tasted in Bolivia; a good sign for things to come I hope. In a mirror to Copacabana, there isn't anything special to do in Puno other than a trip to the lake, so I took a stroll.

After a small walk around Puno's minor sights, I sat down in front of a statue in a plaza. There was a protest nearby; men with flags on sticks chanting in Spanish, but this was nothing new in South America; I had seen many vocal protests marching through the streets in Bolivia. As I sat down, a smartly dressed local man began talking to some tourists directly to my right. "They are campaigning for the university dean they wish to elect" he said. "Be careful, it could get dangerous". For that split-moment I didn't believe him; I had never seen an issue at a South American protest; But right on queue, at that exact moment, noise flooded the air. To the sound of roars and clacks I looked to my left to see flag poles swinging at bodies. From around the corner the opposing campaign had approached, and a clash of wood ensued. It lasted for maybe thirty seconds before fizzling out.

With time on my hands, the other tourists and I stayed rooted to the statue steps. The only following attacks were vocal chants. Eventually shielded police arrived to form a wall between the sides, but no violence erupted for a second time. Locals casually drifted past the clans and the police wall to continue their day, totally unfazed by the chants, speeches and flagpoles. It felt completely safe again, though how the supposedly most educated section of Peru's youth could act like animals on the basis of an election, I do not know.

The following day I awoke early yet again to begin my two day trip to the Peruvian side of Lake Titicaca. Along with Jonathan from my hostel, I was taken on a boat with a large group of tourists to The Uros; a large group of man-made floating islands. Both the tourists from the plaza the previous day and my guide book had warned me about how the islands had been tainted by tourism, but it wasn't until I got there that I realised the extent of this. On the surface The Uros are fascinating; tiny floating islands made of reeds on the lake, but the islands are dominated by tourist restaurants and stalls, thus scouring the face of what would be an otherwise intriguing and original cultural habitat. This in itself is an interesting topic, one which me and Jonathan discussed at length, but I agree with my guidebook when it says "This form of tourism on the Uros islands is now well established, and whether it has done irreplaceable harm or will ultimately prove beneficial, it takes place in superb surroundings."

Eventually we moved on and were boated to Amantani island. There, me and Jonathan would stay the night with a local family. Our family were really nice; Lucresia, Richard and young Isabella. Other family members, such as the grandfather, occasionally popped over and said hi. As Quechan speakers, they spoke no English and very little Spanish, and combined with the little Spanish me and Jonathan spoke, communication wasn't always easy. However, they were incredibly friendly, and Lucresia made us some great food. I also enjoyed sharing musical skills with Isabella on her tiny loosely strung children's guitar.

In the afternoon, the entire group from our boat went on a short trek to the top of a nearby hill to see the island from on high. Afterwards, we returned to our homestays for some more homecooked food, before moving to the local school for some traditional dance. The music was provided by a small band, including our host Richard on a guitar-like instrument. Dancing was never going to be my cup of tea, but after a couple of indoor sessions of Amantani ring-a-ring-a-roses, plus one more outdoor jig around a fire, I was happy it didn't go on longer than it needed to.

The following morning me and Jonathan ate our final Amantani meal (well, in truth, I think pancakes is more a tourist meal than a local meal), we paid our hosts their money (plus a bag of pasta), said our thanks and goodbyes, and returned to the boat. All in all, it had been a very pleasant experience, and much more authentic than the previous day's floating islands visit. The boat then took us to visit and walk around Taquile island, and finally, we returned to Puno.

My following day was a much called for lazy day, and following that, a seven hour bus journey to Cuzco. After checking into my hostel I hastily walked over to a coffee shop in the main square for an important meeting. Five years after my incredible journey to India, I re-met Denny. Denny was travelling southwards through South America, and I was heading north. There was always going to be a meeting point. We spent that evening and the following day walking around Cuzco, eating food, playing our old card games, watching a free dance show (including a bit of Peruvian ring-a-ring-a-roses), and largely reminiscing about all the fun times we had had in India. For us both, it is still the pinnacle of independent travel.

If South America is to topple India's crown, it's chance may be coming. On Monday I embark on a four day trek, topped off with a day at one of The New Seven Wonders Of The World; Machu Picchu. I've decided to do my trek with Llama Path, the most popular company on Trip Advisor. To squeeze on to this tour I now have a one week wait until my trek begins, and so in Cuzco I will explore, wait, and take a break from my travels. Time to slow down ...

Rurrenabaque and The Return To La Paz

I was leaving the high altitude of La Paz for the low lands of Rurrenabaque. As soon as the plane was in sight all the tourists started taking pictures. The plane was tiny, like a wind up toy. Once we got inside, it seemed even smaller. It had no toilet, no cabin crew, and not even enough space to stand up straight. This was when I realised I would be getting no on-board meal.

I was sat in the very front seat. Directly in front of me was the plane door, and directly in front of that, the cockpit. The pilot, the co-pilot, and every dial and instrument was in plain sight. After a small delay the propellers began to rotate, the plane began to move, and we were off. We left the ground like a feather caught in the wind.

Before long we were above the clouds. Mountains and rivers could be seen far below between the gaps. Looking behind me however, there were a few worried faces; many were not comfortable with the lightweight aircraft. At one point the air pressure must have changed and the plane dipped like a rollercoaster, accompanied by numerous yelps and screams. Being so close to the pilots could be unnerving too. I could hear every beep, or succession of beeps, from the cockpit, some very much like warning beeps. At one point the pilot appeared to be knocking the control wheel then gesturing to the co-pilot how it wasn´t functioning!

But all was in order, and forty minutes later the plane began to descend. I watched the altitude dial in the cockpit count down. As the plane banked left close to the nearby mountains, we landed on an isolated runaway in the middle of a green field. As we stepped out of the plane the humidity attacked like a furnace. A short bus ride took us to the terminal; a hut in a field. It was hard to comprehend that only forty minutes earlier I had been in the busy, chilly, high-altitude city of La Paz!

I spent my first day in Rurrenabaque gently walking around, sheltering from a sudden heavy downpour, and choosing which Amazon trip I wished to take. I chose a Pampas trip; a river journey.

By the following morning I was in a jeep accompanied by five other tourists; three Australians and two Danes. The three hour journey to our motorboat however was across a very rugged road, and we got stuck in the mud twice. The first time, it took a lot of pushing and tactical positioning of stones to get the vehicle back on track again. The second time, we needed to be towed out.

We eventually arrived at the pick up point beside The Yacuma River. As we waited for our boat to arrive I briefly spotted two eyes and a snout floating in the river. It soon descending down back into the murk. I had no doubts about what I saw, it looked like a crocodile. It was a caiman, the crocodile´s cousin.

My group stepped into the boat and before long we were whizzing down the river. A variety of birds could be seen sitting in the neighbouring trees and flying into the distance. As we continued towards our lodgings we paused outside the lodgings of another tour company. A group of Israelis were lingering on their boardwalk, edging closer and closer to a caiman waiting below the edge. One eager Israeli bent over and stretched his camera gradually down towards the caiman. The caiman looked up. The Israeli moved his arm closer. The caiman maneuvered himself vertically and appeared to bend at the knees. Now, I am not Steve Irwin, and I am no animal expert, but I became uneasy. I had seen crocodiles form this position in Australia. It is the position of a beast ready to pounce upwards and snatch. I wasn´t certain this was the case, but without realising I found myself shouting out loud; ¨Step back!¨ I exclaimed! I wasn´t the only shouting voice in my boat. But the Israeli was too occupied with the caiman, who was now even more tightly poised. ¨STEP BACK!¨ I heared myself shout even louder, but the words mingled with the other screams from my boat. The Israeli eventually took a step back, and the caiman relaxed. Later that day I asked my guide if the caiman was ready to pounce. He replied ¨maybe¨, but that he has got in trouble before for advising members of other tour groups about safety. All the while during the incident, the group leader of the Israelis had been sitting and watching. He had said nothing.

In addition to further caiman and birds, we saw howler monkeys hanging in trees, an anaconda in the grass, and a docile sloth curled up in a ball up in a river-side tree top. We also went swimming with pink dolphins, although they kept their distance of a few metres.

Later, in a separate part of the river, we went pirahna fishing. While a lot of fishing in the river is classed as unethical, piranhas are not an endangered species. Everybody found the activity easy. We attached some meat to a hook, through it into the water, and very often the string would go tight. Unlike the cartoons though, the water didn´t bubble in a frenzy at the slightest hint of meat. Each piranha we caught was about three inches long, and everyone caught many.

It felt like about half an hour had gone when our guide informed us we were nearly ready to go back. Piranha was for dinner. And then my line went tight. It went tighter and heavier than ever before, maybe twice as much. I reeled it in. ¨It´s massive!¨ I shouted the moment I saw water draining from skin and fins upon the water top. My initial reaction was that it wasn´t a pirahna. We had caught maybe twenty during the last half an hour, and none were like this. ´Can I catch this? Do I need to throw it back?´ I thought, but all I heard around me was screams of ´Get it in the boat! Get it in the boat!´, and so I reeled it in further and dangled it over the boat. As it dangled there, hanging heavy upon one small hook, I realised the situation I was in. Just one foot away from me, swaying vigourously, was an angry beast with razor sharp teeth. Our guide quickly confirmed it was indeed a piranha. My aim was to eat it that night, not for it to eat me. I stretched my arm as far as I could, and my feet as far back as I could. I stood there as the paranha, multiple times bigger than our previous catches, struggled and swayed infront of my knees. Our guide scrambled over and removed the beast from my clutches. And credit to the chef, we had a feast that night.

I awoke on the final morning of our three day tour to the deep hoots of monkeys in the trees on the opposite bank of the river. It was so loud it was as if they were right outside our lodge. My time in the amazon was excellent, and I was actually rather happy with my new collection of about fifteen or twenty mosquito bites ... I had genuinely expected many more. Our jeep on the return journey got stuck in the mud once more, plus it got a flat tire. Our driver struggled to change it, and did so while lying under a very unsecure jack. But I was blessed on the return flight to La Paz with a plane high enough to stand in, a cockpit behind closed doors, and even one member of cabin crew serving a free drink! I was returning to reality.

I spent my final days in La Paz exploring the parts of the city I had yet to visit, and taking a day trip to the ancient ruins of Tiwanaku. Special mention must also go to the Bolivian clown who turns up everyday at San Francisco square ad libbing interactions with the passing cars and people. If Bolivia´s Got Talent exists, he should go on it.

Tommorow I catch an early bus to Copacabana. The Bolivian section of my trip is nearly at an end.