La Paz

My bus to La Paz arrived at 6am. Still half asleep, I made my way to Adventure Brew hostel near the bus station. It would be a a week before I would check out.

Some of my days were spent just walking around; sometimes alone, sometimes with friends, and one day on a walking tour. La Paz has an interesting feel to it, sometimes reminding me of the cities of Vietnam, although with its basin like structure, the countless hillside house lights look like a giant constellation of stars wrapping around the city at night. There are numerous markets; some selling clothes, some selling food, and in the witches market, some selling llama foetuses and peculiar powdered potions. And then there is San Pedro prison, a bizarre compund with its own unique community locked up behind four walls. Many travellers here rave about the book Marching Powder which documents the strange life going on within the prison.

Much of my time in La Paz was spent with Willem and Alies, who I had previously got to know well in Sucre. On Sunday I agreed to join them to see some wrestling. In my naivety, I originally assumed it was real wrestling; possibly some kind of Bolivian Judo. In reality, it was as fake and staged as Hulk Hogan in his prime. As the fighters worked up the crowd, it was obvious who was a goodie and who was a baddie. There were numerous overly dramatic throws, air-bound punches and fake faces of agony. At one point even a couple of tourists were dragged into the ring to join in on command. Most of the foreign tourists sat at the front happily went along with the fun, although an hour later they were all clock watching, leaving the locals at the back to do all the cheering and jeering.

The following evening I was walking back to my hostel with Willem, Alies, and a couple of other people we had just met. Alies was walking a few metres infront of me talking to the guy. I was walking behind talking to the girl, aware of Willem immediately behind me. Just moments later, the girl I was talking to asked where Willem was. I turned around, but he wasn´t there. He had vanished. I shouted to Alies to stop walking. The new guy and girl checked the two nearby open restaurants to see if he had gone to the toilet, while I walked back to check around the corner, but he could not be seen. I stopped for a moment to think of what possibly could have happened. He had literally been right behind me ... or had he? I started to doubt if I knew for certain if the figure behind me had been him.

Maybe a couple of minutes passed, and there was still no sign. We all stood looking lost in the street. "Should I be worried?" Alies asked me. "Nah, there's no need to be worried", I replied. This was a bareface lie. What I was actually thinking was "Yes! Of course you should be worried! Willem has just dissapeared from the side of the street! He had no reason to suddenly run away, and there's nowhere left he could possibly be! Of course you should be worried!". But I hid that thought. Alies walked alone back down the street to peer around the corner I had already checked. In her own words, this is the moment she felt her crying face come on.

Willem suddenly emerged from one of the restaurants. He had been feeling ill, and upon seeing a toilet door, he promptly made a move; he chose the women's toilet, where we did not think to look. And he vowed to never suddenly dissapear again.

Just north of La Paz there is a road. It is known as The World's Most Dangerous Road, or if that name isn't scary enough, Death Road. Until a new road was built nearby a number of years ago, the steep twisting cliff bends claimed countless lives and vehicles. Now the new road has been built, most deaths, albeit rarer deaths, are tourist cyclists. And I think it is no underestimation to say that the majority of La Paz's tourists give it a flirt. I hastily booked myself a ticket on Tuesday evening, and woke up more than once on Tuesday night wondering why ... not for the first time in South America!

The following morning I found myself on the tour bus to Death Road. I chose to cycle with Gravity Tours, by far the most expensive company, and also the original. I was very quickly pleased with my decision. The bikes were high quality and tested before each use, and safety was the primary focus ...well, safety and fun. And fun I certainly had. Most of the journey is downhill, so the only tiring parts for most of the way were on my braking fingers. And as the hours past by, I became happier to increase my speed ... usually followed by an inner voice telling me this was neither the time nor the place to scour for my cycling limits.

Deaths are not particularly common on the road anymore, but they do happen to the foolhardy or those pushing themselves too far, and our guide told us the story of those who had fallen off the edge at each particular interval.

Four or five hours of downhill cycling later we had finished, but the day was not over yet. Only one of our group of eleven declined the optional ziplines. They were very long, very fast, and very very high. And they were great. On the second of the three I was offered the chance to do it Superman style. This means attaching myself to one of the organisers, then flying head first. The extra weight makes it even faster. And through a lack of volunteers and a lucky coin toss, I was able to do it again for the final zipline. Click here for a video.

There was a little more of La Paz I still wanted to see, but that would have to wait. A week after my arrival I took a morning bus to the airport. I had a flight to Rurrenabaque to catch, by The Amazon.

Leaving Sucre, and Potosi

Tuesday 8th April 2014

11:15 - Left Sucre hostel
11:40 - Bought a 1pm bus ticket to Potosi at Sucre bus station
13:00 - Boarded the bus to Potosi at Sucre bus station
13:20 - Disembarked the bus to Potosi at Sucre bus station
13:30 - Obtained refund for bus to Potosi at Sucre bus station
14:00 - Returned to Sucre hostel

Road blocks are common in Bolivia, and there had recently been many created by protesting miners. Strangely, it had been university students behind the blockade which delayed me, and not the miners.

On the second day of asking, I finally escaped the clutches of Sucre and arrived in Potosi. Upon many recommendations, I checked in to Koala Den hostel. Potosi is the highest city of it´s size in the world at 3977 metres. Luckily I was now acclimatised to high altitudes. Many centuries ago Potosi was the richest place in the world due to the discovery of silver in the mines, but this heydey has been and gone.

My first evening in Potosi and my full second day involved walking around, soaking up the atmosphere, and visitng the boring Mint museum. Most visitors to Potosi are there for one thing; the mines. Sometimes while travelling, morals and ethics come into play. When I first heard about trips to the mines in Potosi, I was sceptical. In such harsh conditions, do the miners really want a bunch of gawping foreigners watching them graft? I had a similar conversation with a Canadian guy back in Sucre, but he was the only person I could find who had conciously decided not to enter the mines on ethical grounds. But the reccomendations from those who had been were always excellent. Part of my second day in Potosi was therefore spent weighing this up, but also choosing the best way to do it. I opted to buy my mine tour with Big Deal Tours. Big Deal are the only tour owned, arranged and guided by miners themselves.

I awoke a little uneasy on the morning of the tour. Many people opt out of a visit due to claustrophobia, fear of the heat, fear of the noxious dust and gas, fear of wayward dynamite explosions, or simply because of the plight of the miners. No wonder it is nicknamed ´The Mountain That Eats Men´.

But my unease that morning was quickly amplified. I was informed by the hostel that there had been a phone call for me, and he would ring back again in ten minutes. This can´t be good, I thought, as I continued to prepare for the mines. Ten minutes later the phone rang, and I walked towards reception..

¨Hello?¨
¨Hello?¨
¨Hello?¨
¨Hello?¨
¨Yes, hello? Who is this?¨
¨It´s Yosef, the Israeli guy you met in the hostel last night!¨
¨Oh ... hi ... What´s up?¨
¨When I left for the bus to Cochabamba last night you asked me what time the bus departs. Are you coming here tonight?¨
¨Erm, possibly. I haven´t decided yet. Why?¨
¨I´ve left my laundry at your hostel!¨

Panic over. I told Yosef to ring me later after my mine visit when I will have decided if I was going to Cochabamba. I could carry one extra bag on one bus journey, no problem.

By the time I had settled again, it was time to go. I grabbed some bread from the breakfast table, and along with my current best friend Edmundo, we headed off to Big Deal. After changing into our mining gear, we visited The Miner´s Market. Tourists to the mines are encouraged to buy gifts for the miners. Possible gifts include cigarettes, alcohol and dynamite, but we were greatly encouraged to buy a bag of coca leaves which staves off hunger, and a bottle of fruit drink. Next we visited a refinery plant where the minerals from the mines are purified, and there was then a brief stop at a viewpoint over Potosi.

Before long we were at the mine entrance. We entered without hesitation; one Englishman, one Brazilian, one Frenchman, one Dutch girl, one German, and two Bolivian guides, one of whom was a miner. With our helmet lights on, we sludged through muddy cart tracks. The natural light quickly dissapeared. We would only see it again once we exited at the far side of the mountain. Despite being told it was not yet neccesary, all the tourists put on their face masks. Dust of many different minerals, some toxic, were floating around our noses. Many parts of the mine were too low to stand up straight, and so bent legged, I huddled down, often leaning on my tiring right leg. Everybody was grateful for the helmets which periodically saved our banging heads. Our guide was excellent, stopping now again to talk about the veins of minerals that could be seen on the walls, or explaining to us about the life of a Potosi miner.

Many miners, hard at work, passed us by. Some pushed minecarts along the tracks, sometimes requiring us to nestle ourselves flat against the tunnel walls. The carts fizzed past our feet. At one early moment I found myself seperated from the rest of the group when a few miners approached from the darkness. The largest of the group spoke to me in his indigenous tongue. His voice was deep and gruff. It was difficult to guess what he wanted, but I pulled my bag of coca leaves out of my rucksack. He gladly accepted. He continued to make gruff expressions. ¨Inglaterra¨, I replied. He grunted in a confused tone. ¨Inglaterra¨ I repeated. ¨Australia?¨ he replied. ¨Inglaterra¨ I responded, and he fully understood. The men moved on, and I caught up with the rest of the group.

The miner´s were clearly welcoming of our presence. One of our group had brought the miners some jeans as a present; a great gift in my view. Even once we had left the small cubby hole in which they were mining silver, they shouted their thanks from the shadows. Other miners were nothing short of delighted to have their photos taken with the foreigners, including one known as Rambo, who was very chatty, despite our lack of a common tongue. I wondered if it was the gifts which appeased them, but many often stopped to chat without asking for a present. Coming to the mines, with this particular tour at least, was no longer a moral issue for me.

As we strolled through the mines for well more than an hour, I realised all my earlier worry had been in vain. Neither the dust or the altitude significantly affected my breathing, even though the tiring low ceiling sections made us all out of breath. I had seen no deathly drops to fall down. I heard no dynamite explosions or impeding tunnel collapses. In a way it was almost as much of a dissapointment as a relief. And then we reached the ladders. I had known in advance that there was a section of three ladders, but each was only about one storey high. What I hadn´t anticipated, however, was that there was no comfortable point to stand in between each one. I had to place myself precaurioustly on a single beam to give myself a leg up to each following ladder 180 degrees behind my back. Not only did the altitude add to my already tired arms and legs, but it was a serious case of ´dont look down´ ... as if the darkness wasn´t there to disguise the dizzying drop. Once I reached the top, I regretted being slightly disappointed at the previous lack of danger.

But my attention was soon swayed. In a small cove at the top of the ladder, sat El Tio. The miners are Christians. A statue of Jesus looms on the outside hilltop. But inside the mine, their god cannot reach them. Inside the mine, they worship the only one who can protect them from accidents and lead them to veins of precious material. Inside the mine, the miners worship the lord of the underworld.

Every mine has a statue of Tio. He is offered cigarettes and alcohol. We sat by Tio as our guide made his offerings and wishes. He wished for more tourists. Guiding tourists through the mines twice a day won´t kill him as quickly as spending each full day as a miner. Our guide then told us to turn off our headlamps. We sat in pitch black alongside Tio. Not a sound was heard from the heart of the mountain.

For many tourists who visit the mine, the first sign of daylight is a relief. As we stooped through a long and low section of tunnel, natural light began to filter through. Before long, we saw clouds and sky. We had wallowed from one side of the mountain to the other over the course of two hours. Meanwhile, miners entered past us in the opposite direction. Many are proud of their jobs; proud to be miners. Yet many would love to get out. Some work there from as young as 12. The lungs of many begin to fail before middle age. If they cough up blood, they know their time has come.

I made a decision that afternoon to depart to La Paz on an overnight bus. The bus was hot. As I lay awake in my semi reclining seat, I had an overly hot heater by my left leg, an achy right leg, and no working toilet. But I had been reminded that day how many have it so much worse than me in South America. And meanwhile, a bag of Israeli laundry lay dormant in Koala Den hostel, Potosi.

Sucre

Upon arrival at The Beehive Hostel in Sucre, it impressed. Friendly atmosphere, laptops to hire, a choice of eggs, porridge or fruit for breakfast, laundry service, spacious dormitories, regular events such as meals or activities, and a guitar. With my backpack still on my back, I uttered the words "best hostel ever" countless times within ten minutes of arrival. This was reason one.

As I have already mentioned, there is scarcely little English spoken in South America. Spanish, naturally, is paramount. While Sucre has plenty of Spanish Language schools, one-on-one lessons are available in The Beehive Hostel for just 30 Bolivianos an hour; less than three pounds. It would cost ten times that much in England. This was reason two.

As a result, I have now been firmly rooted at The Beehive for over two weeks, primarily to learn Spanish. I didn't actually believe that I had much hope - Languages had always been a million times harder than any other lesson at school - but after 2 weeks of one on one lessons with Abi, I have to say I have impressed myself. I know verbs, I know nouns, and crucially, I know much of the grammar necessary to piece it all together. And with so much time on my hands until my return flight to England in June, it was a perfect way to spend two weeks. At the most basic of levels, hablo Espanyol.

I've also seen many people come and go over the last two weeks. Julian, my Spanish-speaking Danish interpreter who I met in San Pedro, moved on after three days. Hoi-Yuen, my replacement best friend, was gone after about a week. Willem and Alies re-attached their backpacks today. And countless others.

In between visiting the market, visiting the cemetery (much more interesting that it sounds!), visiting the ancient dinosaur tracks, scaling a nearby hill for a view of the city, relaxing in the central square, and having my beard shaved with a straight razor, eating out has been another major experience. One day Julian, Hoi-Yuen and myself found a small cafe offering a set menu for next to nothing. The first course was a small plate of various beans and vegetable bits. I can't claim it pleased me much, but Julian was quickly even less pleased. As he squinted at his plate, a small insect was taking a casual stroll between some beans. Julian chose not to take a further bite. I duly took a closer inspection at my own plate. Moving a few bits and pieces about, I saw no movement, so I gingerly continued to plough my way through. 30 seconds later Hoi-Yuen asked me a casually question; "Oh, you found one too?" she said, indicating to the side of my plate. Camouflaged within one of the perimeter painted swirls of my plate, a motionless insect lay dead. It was twice as big as Julian's. My natural reaction was to rocket myself out of my seat, perfectly timed to nearly crash into the simultaneously emerging waitress. She replaced my plate, but I no longer felt like beans.

Now, however, it is finally time to move on. I am ready. I was unsure where to go at first, and recent road blockade protests have limited bus routes some days. However, last night we rented a DVD documentary from the hostel; The Devil's Miner. As a result of this, tomorrow I intend to backtrack to a town I previously missed; Potosi.

From San Pedro de Atacama to Sucre

Salar de Uyuni is the largest and highest salt lake in the world, and is the final segment on the three day jeep journey from San Pedro de Atacama into Bolivia. The internet is rampant with horror stories of basic accommodation, cold nights, altitude sickness, dangerous drivers, drunk drivers, fatal crashes and unsympathetic tour companies. It is also full of rave reviews of the nature. Joined by numerous members of my hostel, Julian and myself crossed the border into Bolivia and boarded our jeep. Joining us in our jeep were Helen and Andrew from England and Corinne and Jen from Germany. Our driver spoke no English, but Julian continued his job as my side-kick interpreter. And very quickly I discovered our driver was very safe and steady. Why a toy dinosaur sat upon the dashboard, however, we did not know.

On day one we visited a series of beautiful lagoons. Gradually and initially unnoticed, our altitude rose. Soon we disembarked at a rocky steaming geyser and further lagoons. And the altitude rose. My head was gently massaged by pain, but the view from the window disguised my brain's rhythmic beats.

By the afternoon we reached our basic accommodation, and a late lunch. I devoured the Smash and frankfurters eagerly, blindly in the hope that food would somehow mask my increasing quease. Shortly after the meal, I decided to relax in my bed, but this did not last long. It became soon apparent that positioning myself into a horizontal position only accelerated the increasing altitude sickness, and shortly after, and with little choice, I had to hastily scamper to the toilets.

Later that afternoon we visited a further lagoon. Tinged with shades of red and a colony of flamingos, it was the most striking of all; and I know this from revisiting the photos on my camera. Marginally smearing the occasional tourist photo was the British man sat tightly on the lagoon-side mound, trying full-heartedly to enjoy the view. And to an extent I did.

I struggled to consume much of my meal that evening, and for the third time that day I was forced to gingerly meander to the toilets. My usual cubicle was full, and so were the others. Twenty seconds ticked by. No doors swung open. I no longer had a choice. As I bowed in honour to the left sink of two, one thing above all was confusing me; why was it just me who was struggling? There is apparently no way to predict who will suffer from altitude sickness ... even the fittest of athletes with no previous issues acclimatising to great heights can find themselves stricken down. But what frustrated me most as I struggled to drift to sleep that night was why no-one else was reporting any more than a minor headache.

I awoke some three hours later to the sound of uneasy breathing patterns. I lay awake. None of my roommates were sleeping well. The night silence was tainted with the sound of irregular inhales, occasionally followed by a sudden jolt and a giant gulp of breath. Awake, I got out of bed and strolled to the bathroom feeling hugely improved. Upon arrival I discovered both sinks had now been ladened with vomit. With selfish comfort, I no longer felt alone.

By the following morning I was on better form than most of my room. Maybe it was all relative, but my spirits were higher than most. I was the one on the up. The less said about the morning state of the bathroom, the better.


Day Two featured an isolated span of rocky outlets, further pretty flamingo lagoons, and a rocky landscape overlooked by a distant steaming volcano. But the highlight of the day was in the evening; The Bolivian Jeep Drivers vs Pescado Hombre Amigos high altitude football match!! Pescado Hombre Amigos was an in-joke within one of the other jeeps. It translates as Fisherman's Friend Brothers, or something similar. In other words, it's locals vs tourists.

I instantly set myself in defence. Straight from kickoff a teammate at right-back received the ball. I looked ahead. He had no support, and so I ran. A moment later I found myself out of my comfort zone, steaming with the ball down the right wing. As the opposition approached and as the ball skipped over the hard grass surface, the ball slipped out of play, so I instantly turned around and sprinted back into my defensive position. And that was me done. I was exhausted. The high altitude pulls the breath out of anyone unclimatised and foolish enough to push themselves, and I was the first to discover this.

But the game goes on, and after a dodgy start, Pescado Hombre Amigos and myself began to adapt. We became increasingly used to the speed of the ball, the quickening breathlessness, and the ever increasing night darkness. It wasn't long until the goal at the far side of the pitch was no longer insight for me, and before long, the ball was only invisible when just metres away. But the games goes on. We were always chasing the scoreline, but after we scored maybe our third or fourth goal Willem from Holland declared 'Next goal wins', and after a cagey 10 minutes a roar erupted from the shadows at the far side of the pitch. We had scored. Whether we actually scored more goals than the Bolivians, I'm not sure anybody knows ... but we claimed the victory anyway.

A fellow teammate offered me the "Most Improved" award ... and after the change I had experienced over the past 24 hours, I gladly accepted! I was the Pescado Hombre Amigos defensive rock.

The second night of the journey was very comfortable, and despite the early start, I was ready at 5:30 am to travel to the salt flats to witness the sunrise. The flat salts spread over and beyond the horizon, and driving upon it felt like floating over water. Breakfast was served after a walk around a bizarre and alien cactus island sitting in the middle of the flats. And before we set off again, someone organised a birthday salt flat Harlem Shake. Click here. I'm in there somewhere.

Tourists on the salt flats are also encouraged to play the role of creative artist. Cameras combine with props, and with a little creativity, size and distance perception becomes distorted. The toy dinosaur on the dashboard now made sense.

Our excellent three day trip ended in Uyuni, but Julian and myself decided to join Alex, Chris, Natasha and Nina from New Zealand the following day in a journey to Sucre to celebrate Alex's birthday. I had no idea what would happen next.

Valparaiso and San Pedro de Atacama

I go to bed at night, close my eyes, and just seconds later its the morning. I must be working hard.

I had a great final couple of days in Valparaiso. Tom, Pablo, Sarah, Anna and I scaled Valparaiso's steep streets, ate it's Chilean food, and visited the former house of poet Pablo Neruda. But before long the crowd was moving on, and after a little deliberation I opted to buy a bus ticket north towards the border town of San Pedro de Atacama.

The journey north was 24 hours long, but Chilean buses are of good quality, and my seat reclined to near horizontal. As we made our first on-route stop I met Julian from Denmark, my new instant best friend until the next one! Julian helped further my basic Spanish on the bus, and proved a great aid when language barriers arose.

San Pedro de Atacama is a small rural looking town on the Bolivian border. It's rustic feel still persists somewhat, but it has naturally morphed into a tourist hotspot full of hostels, international restaurants, and most notably, tours to its scenic desert surroundings.

On my first evening in San Pedro I embarked on a tour of Valle de la Lunar, a good tour of the rocky desert, culminating in a seemingly lunar landscape. The following day I joined Julian on a tour of various lagoons and salt lakes. I found this tour less interesting, and I was certainly less excited than the South Americans on the return journey who frantically danced and sung along to the grating Spanish pop songs blurting out through the minibus speakers.

That night, however, I felt uneasy. I wasn't 100% why, but it was possibly because I had been a little out of control lately. I had been joining San Pedro tours almost by default, riding on the tourist line. In addition to that, I have been constantly niggled by the fact that I didn't purchase flight tickets in which the date is movable, meaning that if I were to reach my final destination in June too soon, an early return to England would not be an option without purchasing a new flight ticket. For the first time on my travels, I didn't close my eyes at midnight and immediately awake to the morning sun.

The next day I chose to explore alone. I visited the few corners of tiny San Pedro I'd yet to see, booked myself onto a unique sounding evening astronomy outing, and researched for myself exactly how and when I wished to proceed. The most obvious next step was to take a three day trip across the salt flats to Bolivia, but with many horror stories about the journey on the internet, including fatal road crashes, I was insistent on ensuring I chose the right company and the right departure date. After much deliberation, I booked my journey for a couple of days time, leaving the rest of the afternoon plus all of the following day to relax and recharge. And that afternoon I did just did that, and in my laid back state, unrushed and untroubled, I felt right again.

Just one hour later I found myself rushing through the streets of San Pedro! As fast as I could I scampered to find an ATM, a money exchange place, and the agency for my tour. My few hours of relaxation had almost worked too well, and all of a sudden I knew no less than seven people who were doing the tour with my company the following day; one day before me! I was now ready for it and wanting to join my friends. And so a few hours of downtime was followed by a madcap rush to rearrange my plans and get myself sorted for the next day's big journey.

I just had enough time to prepare my things and join Julian for a meal before we attended our nighttime astronomy tour. Being our last day in Chile, we had some spare pesos to use up, and so we opted for a three course meal. Time was short, but in the heat of my recent rush I failed to recognise the error of our ways. What Julian's excuse was, I don't know. After making our order we realised we had set the clock too tight, and what resulted was a last minute madcap shovelling food race! Never before has fish, potato and mushrooms been devoured so quickly! After a small sprint to the tour bus there was little else for us to do but laugh!

Space, a night lit evening with French astronomer Alain, was well worth the fast scoffing and short sprint. Not only was it a totally original experience compared to the usual tourist fare, but Alain clearly had a great passion for his subject. At his small observatory in nearby Solor, Alain introduced his crowd to the basics of astronomy, before aligning his telescopes to various planets, stars and constellations in the night sky. The telescopic views of the moon particularly, in which he kindly took pictures of with our own cameras, were really stunning.

Later that night, and with little rest, I prepared to cross into Bolivia on a three day journey through Salar de Uyuni. It is there where my next blog entry will continue.

Santiago and Valparaiso

Things change fast. Just a few weeks ago I was sat in Leeds at my desk at work with no future plans. Now I'm in South America. Sometimes I catch a moment to pause and suddenly realise that it's real, I really am back on the road ... and there's still well over three months of it left!

Even over the last few days things have changed fast. It's incredible how you can say goodbye to people each and every day like they are your best friends, almost forgetting that you had no idea they even existed when you woke up. And its new people each day.

My first few days in Santiago included a walking tour, a museum, a cathedral visit, and a couple of lofty hilltop views of the city. One of the first people I met was a Brazilian guy called Eric, who I joined for some food and drink on the first night, and amongst other things, we talked about travelling in South America. Prior to leaving home I had anticipated that my lack of Spanish, and indeed my inadequacy at learning languages, may become an issue on my forthcoming journey. I therefore bought a Latin American phrasebook in preperation. However, chatting with Eric made me realise that I can remember Spanish words easier by thinking of English words and names that remind me of the Spanish word.

It was Sunday evening when my language skills were first really put to the test; I went to a cafe for a cheese burger alone. After somehow bumbling through a couple of options the waitress offered me, I hit a stumbling block. 'Quen-ta?', asked the waitress, or a similar sounding word to that effect. 'Quen-ta?' I replied, scrambling to the Q section of my Latin-american dictionary. A few seconds later the waitress herself was scouring for the word on the pages, but even after moving me to the C section, we failed to find it. "Errr ... si!" I answered, giving up the ghost and blindly accepting whatever I had been asked. As it turned out, 'Quen-ta' appeared to mean 'Would you like your chips placed literally inside your burger, and have the whole thing swimming in a sea of a light mayonnaise?'. Despite the mayo-sea though, it was rather good!

After finishing my meal, I proudly prepared myself to redeem my language frailties; Eric had taught me the word for 'bill' a couple of nights earlier. To trigger my memory, I knew I had to think of the first name of my favourite film director, Quentin Tarantino, and remove the last letter. The word for 'bill', it turned out, was 'Quen-ta'! I later discovered that 'cuenta' (as it is really spelt) means 'bill', and 'cuanto' means 'how much'. Possibly I had been asked one of these, and maybe I actually was defining the quantity of sauce on my burger!

I've now moved on to my second destination in Chile; Valparaiso. Valparaiso is the city of hills, graffiti art, and friendly street dogs. I met a bunch of people on a great walking tour yesterday, and today we caught a bus to nearby Concon to try sandboarding on the ocean-side sand dunes.

After the trip we found a couple of locals whose truck was stuck in the sand, but there was little help we could offer. It turned out that they had pulled off the road to smoke marijuana, but now were stuck in the sand ... but at least they were chilled out about it.

I've now returned to my hostel to plan where I will go next. Only time will tell cuanto fun it will bring. Ciao mi amigos!

A New Journey

Israel. Italy. USA. Tunisia. Iceland. Taiwan. Turkey. Morocco.

Eight countries visited in the four years since my year-long journey in 2009. All short journeys, and all unblogged. I didn't honestly think I would embark on a large backpacking adventure again, and yet here I am, ready to embark on three and half months in South America.

It's difficult to say what will be the same and what will be different. I predict I will travel at a slower and more relaxed pace than last time. I predict I will no longer slum it in £1 hotel rooms with dirt smothered walls and plagues of mosquitoes. And I predict day one will not be a lonely and worrying experience for both me in my first locale, and for my luggage left behind in Heathrow airport. But with travelling, only one thing can be foreseen; nothing will be as expected.

This is my journey from Santiago to Quito ...