Stuck At The Bottom - Almost

I arrived in Punta Arenas, Chile toward the end of a grey winter afternoon, and immediately set out in search of a cheap bed - they had been getting rarer and rarer these days. I wasn't sure just how long I'd be sticking around - as far as I knew, there were only four ferries down to Isla Navarino per month: one each Wednesday, and here we were Monday. So if I didn't wind up hopping the next boat, I'd be sticking around for over a week, and while Punta Arenas was bigger than Puerto Navarino, I knew that having already had my dose of National Parks at Torres Del Paine, there'd only be so much to do there, especially in the heart of winter.

I found a decent little hostel to use as home base while I checked on the ferry times, and decided that boring city or not, I just wasn't ready to hop on another boat right away. It occurred to me that I had not surfed any couches in some time, and that that might be a decent option to flesh out the week until I caught my final southward ferry.

There were only a few people willing to host in Punta Arenas, but I was lucky enough to find one of them - a kindly Chilean woman (an empty-nester taken to hosting foreigners) who put me up for a few days in her quaint two-cat home. She worked days uptown, but we shared some pleasant suppers, and I learned a thing or two about Chilean language and culture that I surely would not have otherwise. She also lived plenty close to the docks too, so when the day came round to leave, I had only a short walk to the water.

This ferry was quite a bit smaller than my last, carrying only a few small vehicles, some steel storage bins and a wooden wagon or two. Apart from the crew, there were four passengers, two Chilean policemen being let off half-way, a young man from France, and myself. We were shown to our shared sleeping quarters - a slim hallway full of reclining chairs, not unlike those on a bus - told our dinner time and basically left on our own.

The weather, we were told, was not looking so friendly, but not so fierce as to hold us off departing on time. I primed myself for the worst once more, and was again pleased to find the bulk of the trip quite pleasant. Few if any waves disrupted our prompt dinners of simple food served alongside the usual quirky seaman-banter. The only down side as far as I could tell was poor visibility - despite being quite close to the shore at times, clear views of the beautiful mountains lining the Beagle Channel were rare and partial at best. After a 36-hour trip, the clouds finally broke on the morning of our arrival in Puerto Williams, considered by many to be the most southerly city in the world.

On our journey down, however, I had made a point of asking the crew about this title - surely they, who had sailed all over this region, would be the ones to ask about which place was really the furthest south. To my surprise, I was informed that some four hours onward by boat past Puerto Williams, if you hold fast to the northeast coast of the island, you will come to a little fishing port called Puerto Toro, which is apparently some 35km further south.

This little port, I was told, was the real southernmost city in the world. I had seen it on the map earlier, and wasn't sure what it represented exactly, for there are many naval ports further south than Puerto Williams, though these hardly count as cities. The cause for debate regarding which of the two cities deserves the title, the crewmen told me, hinges on the fact that while Puerto Williams is home to nearly 2400 residents, only some 50 or 60 people could be said to live in Puerto Toro - virtually all of which are fisher-people who come and go with the season - leading some to argue that it doesn't truly deserve the title of city at all.

It seemed city enough to me however, and I wanted to go there. I was frustrated by having come as far as I thought was possible, only to find some yet-further, more obscure little village at the bottom of the world. I asked the crew about options for getting down there at this time of year, and was told that only one official boat leaves for Puerto Toro per month, and that it had been the very one that I'd opted to skip out on roughly one week earlier, in Punta Arenas. So, it looked as though if I wanted to make it down to Puerto Toro, it would have to be by some unofficial means. I thanked the crew for the swift and safe journey, and wobbled out onto dry land once more.

There were a few other boats tied up to the small dock - most of them fishing vessels, full of young men unloading great baskets of glistening red spiny crabs, the majority of which were well over 18 inches across, their little claws snapping away, as they flew through the air, tossed into larger bins to be taken inland. I had read that Puerto Williams was little more than a naval base and fishing town, but I didn't know it was crab they fished here. Olivier - my french companion - and I made a mental note of this delicacy and set to wandering up the first and only road we saw, into the deserted heart of town - little more than a tiny plaza lined with a few shops all still sealed up tight. We would later come to learn that things in Puerto Williams don't really get moving until closer to 10 or 11 AM.

We managed to gain entry to one of the few hostels lining the plaza, by waking up the old Chilean fellow who ran the place. He was unphased by this intrusion and sat us down for tea and pastries. We two were hardly awake ourselves, but started to come around over the next half-hour or so as we chatted with our pleasant host. He fielded many questions for us - mostly about boats out of Puerto Williams. Olivier, like myself, was headed north to Ushuaia, Argentina, but was less interested in visiting Puerto Toro than I. We were told that there were a number of boats up to Ushuaia, at least three a week, on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, today being Friday. Olivier had a friend to meet there on Sunday and so decided he's like to leave on Saturday. I thought I'd likely do the same if I couldn't make it to Puerto Toro.

To make a long story short, many phone calls, and a several information-gathering missions around town later, the only option I had for getting to Puerto Toro within the next few days, was to charter a private boat to make the four hour journey around the bend of Isla Navarino, at a cost of US $300 - hardly a viable option for me at this point. It looked like I had little choice but to resign myself to the fact that I'd come as far as I was going to, and so I decided to enjoy my short time in Puerto Williams as best I could. I placed myself a reservation on the Saturday boat to Ushuaia as well, and our kindly host made a few calls to firm things up. That evening, Olivier and I savored a delicious crab supper at one of two open restaurants surrounding the plaza.

The following day, our boat arrived on schedule, and we two wandered down to the port captain's office, our bags packed and ready, to meet the crew and be on our way. As it happened however, the weather had fouled up some, and we were told that the port was closed until further notice. The two men who ran our boat - the captain and 1st mate, as it were - accompanied us back to our hostel - they were friends of our host, it turned out - to wait out the poor weather. We were told there was a chance it would ease up some by 6PM that evening, but come 6 the wind had only redoubled itself, chilled up significantly, and was now charged with snow - we would not be leaving that evening.

The seamen took a room across from Olivier and myself, and we all settled in for the night - surely things would be calmed down come the morning, we were told. One more night was nothing to me, these were all pleasant enough chaps besides, and we took our places around the little TV set and dozed. A few moments later, as if in response to our comfort, the power cut out. Our host assured us it was a common occurrence around here when weather was inclement, and hobbled out to the switchboard to see if he could fuse us back to normal. After a few teasing flickers of light and sound, he eventually gave up, and made for the candle drawer. At least we still had the fireplace, I thought. In truth, once we had the candles out, it wasn't so bad, really. With light enough to play cards, and/or chess, we managed to make due and have a few laughs, and before long, it was time for sleep.

Whatever hopes and dreams we had of clear weather, however, were shot through when we woke and looked out the front window at the fresh bed of snow blanketing the entire neighborhood - at least a foot on the ground already, and still coming down in earnest. This was the first snowfall of the year, we were told, and it looked to be a good one. Come to think of it, our host offered, a similar storm had hit last year around this time and not let up for a week or so. This was not encouraging news to my ears. The extra week I'd spent in Punta Arenas had meant that my schedule was now tighter than ever - simply put, I did not have a week to wait here in Puerto Williams if I was going to make it to Buenos Aires on time to catch my flight off the continent.

But nature, it seemed, didn't care much about my flight schedule, and the snow and wind kept on. It was not so bad as to keep us from leaving the house, but being that there is little if anything to do in Puerto Williams even on a fair-weather day, the five of us found ourselves clammed up for the better part of the day, still without power, crouched around the fireplace. We read mostly, leaving only for a quick walk about town to get some air, or a snack nearby in the plaza. Days are pretty slow in winter at the bottom of the world.

Conveniently, the old fellow who ran our hostel also owned the classier of the two restaurants surrounding the plaza, and so that second night, he had dinner delivered the fifty-odd steps to our door - a luxurious salmon and cheese gnocchi in cream sauce. The captain had taken the liberty of purchasing some beers which we chilled in a snowbank outside. By the time we had the table set, the beer glasses full, and the candles all lit, it seemed an embarrassingly romantic milieu for five men - basically strangers, after all - to be sharing a supper in, but we went ahead and enjoyed it nonetheless.

More cards and a few doozy chess games followed, as the snow continued to fall outside. Word had come in that the port in Ushuaia was now closed as well - a rarity according to our captain. What could we do but drink on, and hope things would clear up soon. I allowed myself to forget about my jeopardized flight schedule - the crew of our boat had already missed a flight due to the delay; that was just the way it went down here, they said - and we talked and laughed into the evening.

The following day - Monday - our luck seemed to change when news came in early that there was a break in the weather substantial enough to warrant the opening of both ports for a short period of time. So we downed a few quick cups of instant coffee, packed our things, and made for the yacht club where the boys had tethered their vessel. We'd have to act fast if we wanted to capitalize on this window of opportunity. Who knew when the next might come along?

The yacht club itself was built out of a big old old navy vessel that had been fixed in place and outfitted with office space, and a simple restaurant and bar. The whole place was still covered with snow, and the boys apparently had a bit of a time shoveling out their boat. There was a bit of a delay at the port captain's office regarding our passports however, which left us waiting for a short spell during which time the sun came out and slushed-up most of the snow crusting things over. This left us passengers - Olivier the Frenchman, myself, our kindly host, and one other local woman - some time to mill around the yacht club and snap a few photos of the lovely sunlit mountains surrounding the place.

Around 10 or 11, our issue had been cleared up, and we loosed our lines and set out toward Ushuaia. By this time, the wind was coming up once more, and the swells were rising accordingly. This little boat was equipped for the worst however, with two big Honda motors on the back, a reinforced hull, and a fully waterproof cabin outfitted with a dozen or so sturdy seats, and we sailed over those waves at upwards of twenty or thirty knots, frequently making good airtime.

It was a bumpy hour and a half, to be sure, but I was all smiles - I'd managed to escape from Isla Navarino, and would make it to Argentina with ample time to catch my flight.

I was on my way back home at long last.

The Pleasantness Of Plan B

There I was, back in chilly Oruro, getting ready for what I thought would be a harrowing few days of fly-by-night travel down the western coast of Chile. I had one crack at it, as far as I could tell, and was geared up to make it happen however I needed to. A stressful situation on the face of it, but I've actually grown to enjoy theses moments of tension at being unsure as to how exactly I'm about to get on with things. Shakes things up a bit. So, when the day came to catch my train, I made for the station first thing in the morning, to beat what I expected would be huge lineups of folks looking for a way out of town.

What I found were a few dawdlers milling around the grond gates, and before I even came within earshot, I could tell by their very posture that the trains were out too. I had asked around in the markets about train service in prior days, and had heard nothing unsettling. I had even seen a couple trains slowly poking around the outskirts of town, so it had not occurred to me that the angry folks in Potosi would have blockaded the tracks as well - but of course, they had. A small whiteboard sat out front of the main doors of the station indicating that train service was suspended until further notice, and appologizing for any inconvenience. Shit. There goes Plan A - foiled on step one. My head began swimming with ways around this circumstance...

If I waited until that evening and took one of the pricey detour buses down to Uyuni, I'd never make my 3:30 AM bus into Calama, Chile. I was going to have to try another tack. Could I maybe hitchhike (or as they sometimes call it down here, hacer el dedo - do the finger)? There would probably not be a whole lot of traffic in this already desolate place, let alone given the recent conflict in Potosi. It was not exactly the best time to thumb it in such a rush. I decided to head back to the bus station and see what I could make happen, stopping at my hostel along the way to gether my things - I would be leaving today, one way or another.

In the station, I was told that if I wanted to make it down south in a hurry, I ought to avoid travelling through Bolivia at all. Better to cut west into Chile immediately, where bus service was far more reliable, if a touch more expensive. My blood still hot, I bought a ticket for the next bus west, to Iquique, on the coast of Chile. That left me about an hour to spare, so I sat in the street outside the station and munched on delicious deep fried dough slathered with a sweet molasses sauce, and nursed a hot fruit drink - kind of like a steaming raspberry smoothy - called api, and watched the morning people wander about.

It occurred to me as I sat there, that if this bus of mine was really as fast as it claimed to be, I'd be on the coast of Chile by the end of the day, and could then be in Santiago within a day or so. I'd even have a couple of nights to relax there and enjoy the city before one final overnighter into Puerto Montt to catch my boat on the 20th - what kind of harowing journey was that? And so my great last-minute dash was over before it had even begun - replaced with a more-or-less comfortable, well-spaced ride down the coast. I suppose I should have been pleased, but was actually kind of disappointed. Having geared myself up for a big struggle, all I had to do now was relax, enjoy my doughnuts, and make chit-chat with pleasant travelling people until my bus arrived. Ho hum.

From then on, it was actually quite a pleaure all the way down. From Oruro we passed through all kinds of deserted landscapes, and the border crossing into Chile - at some lonely outpost out in the middle of nowhere - came and went without issue. We were in Iquique that evening, as promised, a touch late, perhaps, but with plenty of time to find a place to stay and a bite to eat. The only problem - apart from the shockingly higher prices; Bolivia had been a real treat - was that I had forgotten to change money at the border, and so had only a few Bolivianos, and a pocket full of American dollars. And here we were around 8PM on a Sunday night - nowhere to change money. My little hotel had agreed to let me stay on the promise that I would change my money and pay in the morning, but I had a feeling arranging such a service-before-payment deal might be a little trickier when it came to my supper.

Eventually, after much wandering, I took the advice of a local fellow and made my way through the somewhat greasy evening streets of Iquique in search of a particular Chinese food restaurant where they apparently changed dollars. I found the giant golden sign, as per my instructions, and sure enough, they changed my dollars, and I dined on Chinese that evening, to celebrate.

Despite the pleasant sea-side feel of the place, I decided the following morning, that I'd rather burn my two extra days in Santiago, and so hopped on the next bus out of town - it would be no less than 24 hours. Ian and I had taken a daylong bus or two back in Peru, so I was preparing myself for the worst that morning, but again I was to be disappointed. This turned out to be one of the most pleasant bus rides of my life - of any length.

The gorgeous double-decker bus was outfitted with comfortable reclining seats, leg-rests, silken curtains, and pleasant stewards doling out all the pillows and blanklets you could squeeze into your crannies. We were also treated to movies played at appropriate times (and, I remarked, at appropriate volume!), ample snacks and the cleanest of on-board toilets. Roads were well-paved and smooth making for a virtually bump-free ride. There was one aptly-timed dinner stop, at a beautiful bus-stop/mall waiting area. I felt like I was in another world.

And truly, I was - Santiago only confirmed this realization. When I stepped off the bus that first morning, and sat for a coffee in the bus station - I could have been back in Vancouver. Crowds of well-dressed busy-looking people bustling about, newspapers in hand, on their way to some obviously important daily dealings. I grabbed the busy morning metro into the heart of town, and a few stops later, rose back up to the surface, and made my way along the cool, grafitti-lined streets, staring too long, I'm sure, at all the hip-looking young people with their chunky haircuts ad thick-rimmed glasses.

This was a South America I had not yet seen, and over the course of the next few days, I drank it in, making a point of relaxing in the various funky cafes around town and doing my touristic duty of snapping far too many photos of the more impressive buildings in and around the busy downtown core. Parks and public gardens were easy to find, and I made the rounds of those as well, pausing here and there to devour another short story and/or hotdog piled high with fine savory closeslaw, diced tomatoes, avocado and mayonaise - completos they call them.

My overnight bus into Puerto Montt on the 19th went as well as those kinds of things can go, and I arrived early on the day of my boat's departure with just enough time to sit for a pleasant breakfast nearby and take a breather before boarding. Not originally designed as ferries, the ships run by Navimag have been making this three-day cargo run down to Puerto Natales for years. Ocasionally, adventurous travellers would have a word with the crew, and manage to weasel their way on board, for the three-day trip down the coast of Chilean Patagonia.

Eventually, as news began to spread that this kind of thing was being permitted, and tourists began to show up in greater and greater numbers, the clever seamen decided to start charging them hundreds of dollars, and soon enough the ships were equipped with some modest comforts, including cozy bunkbeds, lock-and-key washrooms complete with hot showers, and a kitchen and dining area more than able to accomodate and feed a boat-load of hungry tourists.

It being wintertime at present, the boat wasn't as full as it is in the tourist-heavy summer, and so the few of us onboard were shifted to nicer rooms if there was space. So rather than sleeping in a 16-bed dorm hall, I shared a 4-bed room. My three French roommates were pleasant enough chaps, and not at all difficult to get on with. Again, I'd more or less been expecting the worst from this trip as well, so this couple hundred-dollar upgrade was a nice way to start the trip.

My other concern had been food - eating on a boat, in my experience can sometimes be a bit of a drag - but sure enough, the crack crew served us up three squares, promptly and with a smile from dock to dock, and although it wasn't gourmet, it was far more agreeable (and varied) than the fare Ian and I had had to deal with on our river-boat journery back in Peru. It seemed I couldn't have a tough time of it even if I wanted to. Plan B was bound and determined to please.

The real treat of this trip however, was the scenery. Our route wound through all manner of canals and passes that cannot be reached by land, and so we had a chance to observe many mountains and rocky outcrops that can't be seen in any other way. The weather wasn't always ideal - there were a few instances of sharp sleety wind - but when it cleared up, it was mre than worth it to brave the cold and spend some time up on deck to snap a few photos. As far as waves go, there was one night where I was up to bed pretty swiftly after supper, but nothing in comparison to what I'd been through on my way down to Ecuador with Captain Tom. Overall, a delightful journey, and I arrived in Puerto Natales on the morning of August the 23rd in good shape.

I took a room in a pleasant little hostel run by a little dumpling of a lady called Teresa who has greeted me with freshly baked bread each morning for the past few days. Admittedly, there is not much to do here in the city of Puerto Natales itself, but not too far outside rests one of Chile's most prized national parks - the famed Torres Del Paine. Being that I am now quite close to the end of my journey, the pursestrings are pretty tight these days, but I thought I may as well take advantage of the wintertime prices and have a quick look around anyway.

As I mentioned above, weather this time of year is kind of crummy, but you've got the bonus of being able to view the place in relative privacy - when I ventured out by van the day before yesterday, it was just myself and a young Chilean couple with child. We drove around from 9AM to 6PM and made a number of stops throughout the sizable park, a few choice photos of which I offer here. (Unfortunately, the torres themselves - the impressive granite towers after which the park is named were not visible this day. The beautifully jagged mountains you see below are known as los cuernos - the horns - another main feature of the park.)

So, I'm off to Punta Arenas this fine snowy day, from whence I hope to catch my final ferry down through a variety of other Patagonian channels (including the famed Beagle Channel through which one Charles Darwin fatefully sailed all those years ago) to Puerto Williams on the little blob of land just south of Tierra Del Fuego known as Isla Navarino. This, many say, is the most southerly settlement (i.e. a place where folks actually live) on the continent - although who really deserves this infamous title is admittedly a hotly contested issue. At any rate, this could well be the final destination of this trip before I turn on my heel and begin the return journey.

We'll have to see what I can see when I get down there I suppose...

Ok, off to catch my bus! Talk to you soon!

Getting - As They Say - A Move On

So, at last check-in I was still in La Paz, having just snagged my mail, and thinking gleefully about all the things I could potentially get up to the coming week or so in Bolivia. One big to-do was paying a visit to the famed Salt Flats of Uyuni - apparently one of the most desolate and unique environments on the planet. Crazy wildlife too, including several rare species of flamingo. Also high on my list, as I mentioned earlier, was making the trip over to Potosi - famed as the highest city in the world (4060m). Since the latter was closer, I figured I'd start there, and then cruise southwest through Uyuni and the salt flats on my way toward the Chilean border.

Unfortunately, things aren't exactly peachy in and around Potosi just now - recent disputes regarding borderlines have erupted into violence and other general nastiness. While nearly all of the folks I asked told me that things ought to be calming down fairly soon, they added that I'd probably be wise not to go heading there just yet. That's fine, I could wait (not like I had a choice - bus service into Potosi was frozen until further notice anyway), but rather than hanging around La Paz for another few days, I decided I'd head down the road some to nearby Oruro. A pleasant little town, and railway hub, Oruro has provided me a lovely spot to sit and read and people-watch, and generally kill time waiting for this Potosi thing to blow over.

So, yesterday afternoon (Friday), I ask around about how things are going, and am told that the local government is now in the midst of talks with the concerned parties and that there's a chance things could be settled as soon as Monday. That's great, I think to myself, and have a look at my schedule. OK, so Monday, that's the 16th. Whoa, wait the 16th? My big ferry to the bottom leaves Puerto Montt, Chile on the 20th... that's cutting it a little close, no?

I pull out my map and instantly realize that there is absolutely no way that I will be able to 1) see Potosi (a day or so, minimum), 2) travel south through Uyuni, and visit the salt flats (most tours are at least three days in length), 3) cross the border into Chile, and 4) make the epic journey down to Puerto Montt (nearly two days straight travel in itself) in a mere four days. Seems I'd forgotten just how far I had to go. OK, I thought, so maybe I'll have to forget Potosi this time around. I'll come back when things are a little calmer. There's still the salt flats - that's all I really wanted to see anyway. Surely I can arrange a shorter trip somehow.

Having sliced Potosi off my list, all I had to do now was make it down to Uyuni, have a quick look around the flats and make for the border. It would be tight, but I could do it. I pulled out my guide book and did a little research about train trips from Oruro to Uyuni - apparently a lovely journey through some amazingly raw territory. Unfortunately, due to the relative remoteness of the place, service was pretty sparse, with only a few trains a week; the 1st-Class train departing at 3PM Tuesdays and Fridays, and the 2nd-Class departing at 7PM (well after dark) on Wednesdays and Sundays. At this point, it was about 6PM, on Friday, which meant that not only had I just missed a day-time train leaving earlier that day, but that the next train out of town headed for Uyuni was roughly two days from now, on Sunday evening. It would put me in Uyuni somewhere around 2AM Monday morning.

Well that sucks, I guess I'll have to bus it. I gathered my things and made for the main terminal to see about bus service to Uyuni. As it happens, since most people make this well-known journey by train, bus service is also quite infrequent, with one single overnight bus per day. I asked about prices and was told, that since there was a problem with the road at present, the bus had to make a huge detour, and thus the current fare was something like four or five times the normal rate - far more expensive than the train - and therefore not a very savory option for me at this point.

One moment I'm sitting in Oruro sucking on a delicious coffee while leisurely planning my trip, and the next moment I'm struggling in vain to find a way out of the city and make my boat on time! How the hell was I going to get out of here? I pulled out my guidebook once more and sat to think a minute. Leafing through the various sections on travel in this region, I noticed that some bus lines in Uyuni offered service to Calama, Chile - a little city not far across the border with Bolivia - at 3:30AM on Monday mornings, of all times. That meant that if I were to hang around Oruro until Sunday, and catch that 7PM train, I'd arrive in Uyuni around 2AM, and have an hour and a half to shuffle over to the bus station, and catch that (12-15 hour) bus to Calama!

That might work! By the time I got to Calama, it would be Tuesday (the 17th) afternoon some time, and I'd even have a chance to sleep that night! Plus, I'd still have two full days - Wednesday the 18th, and Thursday, the 19th - to make the massive drive south across the better part of Chile, and arrive in Puerto Montt sometime Thursday night, with plenty of time to catch my ferry the following day (Friday, the 20th).

This absurd blitz of travel has since become Plan A, a rather silly title perhaps, given the fact that there is actually no Plan B. In other words, this had better damn-well work. Thankfully, I can book some of the longer bus trips in advance online, but not the shorter ones. Moreover, since the train station here in Oruro is closed today (Saturday), I'm forced to wait and buy my train ticket on the day of travel - something my guidebook explicitly advises against. I'm hoping that if I arrive first thing in the morning Sunday, and work my magic, I should be fine. Then it's just a matter of whether my night train to Uyuni arrives such that I have enough time to make my 3:30AM bus to Calama. Fingers crossed on that one, I guess.

Anyway, I figured since I'll (hopefully) be on the move for the next week or so, I ought to drop this line now. My ferry is some three days long, so, if this works, the next time you hear from me, I should be pretty near Tierra Del Fuego. Talk to you then!

Wish me luck!

Peru By 2: Rise Early, Move Swiftly, Drink Much

Now then, where were we...

Ah yes - deep in the heart of the Peruvian jungle! So anyway, once we had shaken off most of the ancient mystical spell of the Amazon, and found ourselves back in Iquitos, we were faced with an important choice - how to get out of Iquitos. You'll recall that we only had two options: plane or riverboat. In light of the fact, however, that we had only just a few days ago completed an epic five-night riverboat journey to get there, and given also the relative brevity of Ian's trip, I allowed myself to be talked into opting for the far quicker (and far more expensive) plane trip - the first of my travels so far - to nearby Tarapoto, a smallish city just on the western cusp of the jungle, from whence we could travel by land, first west, and then southward along the Pacific coast.

So we flew. And after one night's rest in well-situated-but-otherwise-boring Tarapoto, we nabbed a lengthy bus to the quaint little town of Chachapoyas. I had heard from a travelling friend that there were some wonderfully well-preserved and incredibly beautiful ruins to be visited nearby, so we decided to make that our first stop. As it happened, however, they were just far enough away so as to require an early morning ride out to the site, so we had to wait until the following day. We rose at the ungodly hour of 3AM and made our way down to the minibus pick-up site, where we met with a small gaggle of other puffy-eyed travellers, and set off towards the ruins of Kuelap.

After a few hours drive we arrived on site and were, to our great dissatisfaction, actually too early. The folks who ran the entrance booth had yet to arrive, and so rather than wait around, Ian and I decided to wander up the little stone path and have a look around - surely we could purchase tickets later on. It was a pleasant walk up the site - actually an ancient fortified city balanced atop a high mountain plateau - and we were able to snap a few photos of the impressive outer walls of the thing as the sun made its way up the mountainside. It occured to us then, that we might be able to find a bite to eat somewhere while we waited for the place to open up, and asked some of the workmen engaged in restoring the site where to find some grub.

They directed us downhill to some little stone homes with smoking chimneys, where we found a few tubby Peruvian women cooking up simple fare. I broke fast on a heaping plateful of tallarin - basically spaghetti, coated in a savory meat-flavoured oil - and Ian enjoyed the local specialty of cecina - thinly cut dry beef (or pork) which has been smoked (read: hung over the fire until black and stiff as an old boot), tenderized (read: pounded by hand between two rocks until flimsy) and then briefly deep fried. It was a bit like hot oily jerky - quite salty, and a real work-out for the jaws, but delicious if you were up for it.

Once finished, we wandered back up to the site entrance and found the rest of our tourist friends, all seated around the local guide who would be showing them around the site. We asked to join their group, had a few introductions, and were soon on our way. It was a lovely time, and all very beautiful, but reading about ancient ruins is more than a mite less interesting than seeing them, so rather than try to capture the beauty of the place in words, I'll refer those of you interested to the following photos.

One particularly enjoyable aspect of the tour for us was the fact that a few of the tourists we'd bumped into were from France, giving Ian - a dyed-in-the-wool Montrealer - and, to a lesser extent, myself, an excuse to converse in French. (I must confess that after some seven and a half months of trying to make due in Spanish, my French is pretty much shot. I reach for the words, but they simply do not come. It will take, I think, some time fully immersed in a French-speaking culture for my language to return, but that's another story...) They were intersting enough folks, but a touch serious, and we quickly asserted ourselves as the clowns of the group.

After the tour, Ian and I had planned to spend the afternoon making the some-3-hour climb down the side of the mountain atop which the site was situated into a nearby village where we were told rides could be had back into Chachapoyas. As it happened, the other members of our group had planned on the same and so after a short bite to eat, we all set off together. It must have been about mid-morning, for the sun was still climbing, but out of the protective shade of the site, it's heat could be felt en serio. As we walked on down the steepening slope, our group slowly sectioned off into smaller units, as often happens when folks walk together, and Ian and I inevitably fell once more into our particular brand of talk/song/argument/laughter, although for some reason - perhaps because we were marching, rather than seated on a bus or boat - today, we were particularly given to singing.

Nothing in particular really, although we did seem to favor the Beatles, Kinks, Doors, and various other artists having contributed to the great mass of eminently singable rock-songs of yesteryear. At any rate, as the day wore on, and the sun reached it's peak, the heat came on something fierce, and it soon became clear that the morale of our group was dwindling. The hot, sweaty walk was wearing our European friends down, there was no hiding it. It was perhaps in response to this fact - although Ian and I certainly didn't conceive of it this way at the time, we were just having fun - that our singing became all the more fervent. Whistling, humming, clapping, it didn't seem to matter. There was no tune we couldn't handle that day, and soon enough the laughter was flowing, and requests were coming in from all sides. Don't get me wrong, we were hot and tired too - it was one long walk down - but once we got started, we couldn't stop, and were almost saddened when we finally reached our destination at the bottom of the hill.

Exhausted and sunburned, we all sat in a line along the shady side of a little string of shops and took a moment to rest. Incidentally, a largeish truck had driven a few of its rear wheels over the small curb of the one bridge out of town, making us effectively stranded there until the crack team of Peruvian passersby were able to shimmy it loose. And so boots came off, food was produced and/or purchased, and a little roadside luncheon ensued while we all waited. The French had packed bread, ham, cheese and tomatoes, and so made themselves delightful little French-tourist sandwiches, while the rest of us had to make due with fresh avocadoes, bananas, mandarins, and big fat Peruvian peanuts (which tasted, to my naive amazement almost exactly like raw peas). Luckily, a German girl among us had brought along some salt and spices of which we all made good use, until at last the truck was freed-up, and we all went our separate ways.

Our next stop was Chiclayo, on the coast, which, as it turns out, would wind up being the only city (apart from Lima) which I would visit more than once, despite having already made my way down this road - the Panamericana - to meet Ian earlier in the month. We took a room at the same little cheapie place I'd stayed prior, and after goofing around a bit in the city's huge central market, rewarded ourselves for the big trek with a delicious meal of clay-oven-pizza and a sizable carafe of vino. It would be big travel the next few days down to Chimbote and then on to the little coastal city of Casma, from whence we planned to make a short dash East into the heart of the Peruvian Andes, to Huaraz. We wound up arriving in Casma in the late afternoon, just a touch tardy, we learned, to find buses up to Huaraz that day, and so opted to spend the night there, and leave early the following morning, again.

With little to do in Casma that night, we found ourselves out wandering the streets once more in search of a cold drink. We found a place, in a little square on the edge of town, and sat for a few as the sun went down. The following morning we stumbled out into the still-dark streets and caught our little minibus up into the hills. As the sun rose we shook the sleep from our eyes and took in the breathtaking views offered on all sides. It had been hard for me to drive past these incredible mountains on my way down to meet Ian, but seeing them now in the fresh morning sunlight, it was well worth the wait. Soon after we began to see the string of glaciated peaks along the horizon, we began to descend, and as we wove switchback after switchback down the face of the hill, the beautiful city of Huaraz began slowly to emerge, nestled into the bosom of its great snowy matriarchal guardians.

Incidentally, the day of our arrival in Huaraz was none other than Huaraz Day, and the great sweeping streets and main plazas were all clogged with marching bands and soldiers in full get-up, and the sidewalks all lined with Peruvians of all ages come out to see the festivities. It was all very nice, and Ian and I made sure to count our blessings at having arrived on such a lucky day, but we were pooped from our lengthy bus ride too, and pushing our way through the crowds began to wear on us after a while, especially when it became apparent that finding a cheap room might be harder than we thought. We eventually did find one however, not far from the main square, and after a short rest, we ventured out once more, to soak up some of the festivities in better humour.

The following day, we figured that since we'd made it this far up already, we'd better have a crack at venturing a little further into the mountains to have a look around at this incredibly beautiful and rugged part of the world. Ian wasn't too keen on making any serious climbs, and I'd already had my fill of that in Equador anyway, so we figured we'd just ask around about a suitable daytrip, and see how far up we could get before we started to tire out. The folks at our hotel suggested a lovely little glacier-bound lake not too far up, and gave us directions on how to get there. We'd risen early this day, as usual, but had shared a leisurely breakfast before asking at the front desk, and so it was a bit late in the morning before we actually got moving.

We found a little bus stand nearby, as per our directions, and were quickly scooted up to the last little village on the outskirts of town where we were dropped off and commenced our walk up to the national park of which this particular lake was a central feature. It was hot and dusty throughout, but once we got into the wider spaces, and could see the snowy Andean peaks on the horizon ahead of us, we knew we'd be in for a good walk. The heavy silence of open space swept through the valley all around us, and we settled into a steady rhythm, our breath growing heavy for the altitude. Not only had Ian never been up this high before (3500-4000m) but we had only just yesterday been at sea level, making our ascent a rapid one, even by the standards of seasoned climbers. So we were pushing our luck a bit. That said, it was nice to sweat a little, and again we laughed and chatted in our customary way as wandered along.

After about two hours, we came to the entrance of the national park, and were told by the only other person around - a young fellow selling entrance tickets - that it would likely be another three hours or so up to the lake - but well worth it. We had been told that minibuses back into town stopped around 6PM, and were a bit wary about making it back down in time, but I for one, was excited to have a go at it. Ian indulged me at first, and we started up toward the sizable mountain looming before us. It was a fair bit steeper now than it had been before, and we were both puffing pretty hard. I was doing my best to encourage Ian to continue, but began to back off some when he started complaining of headache and diziness. As I had learned in Equador, such symptoms are not to be taken lightly, and so when he informed me that he'd be far happier sitting to enjoy the afternoon sun at the mountain's base while I went on ahead and had a crack at making it to the lake, I was bummed, but decided it was probably the best idea.

We agreed on a meeting time, after which he would head back down toward town and wait for me there, and I set off up the hill at my best pace. I knew it would be tight, but I wanted to make it. It wasn't long before I was puffing good and hard, and after a few breaks, I realized that I really didn't have sufficient water to be taking a trek like this so fast. I resolved to slacken my pace some, and continued on. Soon enough, I bumped into some folks coming down, and interrogated them about how long it ought to take me to make it to the lake. Whatever they told me, it was more time than I had to work with if I wanted to make it back down in time to meet Ian, so I thanked them and hustled along.

It's a funny thing being so high up in a place like that - the sun is hot, and you're working hard, so with a heavy coat on, you'll sweat to death, but take it off, even for a moment, and that high-altitude wind will make you sorry you did. The trick is to keep a good enough pace to stay warm inside, but not sweat too much and overheat, so that's what I tried to do, jogging a bit wherever the trail flattened out, and slowing-up again when it steepened.

Just as my water was running out, I noticed some young Peruvian kids coming down at a pretty good pace, and it occured to me that they might be able to share some of their water with me if they had any remaining. I greeted them and asked if they had water to spare, but unfortunately they did not. What they did have, however, was a few grocery bags full of crystal clear glacier ice, a sizable hunk of which they offered to me with a smile, and for which I thanked them profusely. Perfectly safe and pure, they assured me, and delicious too. A touch cold in the hand, but oh-so-sweet to my dry mouth, and I did my best to make it last as I pressed on. I couldn't devour it too slowly, however, for the sun and my warm hands were shrinking it as fast as I could consume it.

To make a long story short, I eventually did make it to the lake, but only after another hour or so of climbing and finally scaling a near-vertical rock wall (with the help of some strategically placed steel cables - obviously installed to facilitate the climb). Exhausted but elated, I jogged across a few of the huge boulders lining the amazing blue-green lake, and sat for a moment to soak it up, and make chit chat with the few other tourists who had made the trek up earlier in the day. I knew I didn't have much time to tarry however if I wanted to catch Ian before he left, and so after snapping a few photos, started back down the hill at a good clip, stopping only at a small glacial waterfall to drink my fill, and top-up my waterbottle so that Ian might have a taste of the Andes too when I reached bottom.

There are few things as satisfying as cruising down a mountain one has just climbed at well over five times the speed of ascent - gravity, once the hateful enemy, is now on your side, carrying you on and down over your own heavy footprints. I am not exaggerating when I say that the mountain it had taken me over two hours to climb, took me a mere 35 minutes or so to decend. I was flying down that sucker - laughing as I passed several of the same folks I had met on my way up, each step taking me lower and lower into thicker, juicier air. It was a hell of a time. Despite my best efforts however, I was still late - almost 45 minutes late - for our appointed meeting time, and I was afraid Ian would be halfway back to town by now. Happily, he had decided to hang around, and we two made the journey back down together, both of us sun-burned again, and more than a little tuckered out from what had turned into quite a long day. We slept well that night.

The following day we had planned to make up for the trek by visiting some nearby hotsprings, and so after a leisurely breakfast and popping into a local music shop to hijack a guitar and sing songs in the street for a while, we set off in a taxi. We arrived around mid-morning at a big gated complex, paid our entrance fee and strolled down a little pavillion toward what seemed to be the place to be. To our surprise, the complex was quite full, with folks all lined up along the walls, waiting to enter various doors, all labelled with numbers indicating temperatures in degrees celcius: 33, 36, 46, 48, 56. What was behind these doors, we wondered to ourselves as we sat in our line of choice - little hottub-like pools? Moreover, why was everyone just waiting around outside? What was taking so long?

We asked some folks next to us, and were told that each group of people (could be one person, could be five) were given 15 minutes inside, though they could take longer if they liked. When they were through they'd come out, and the next group could go ahead. Seemed a strange process to us, but we sat and waited our turn like everyone else, and a whopping two hours later (what else did we have to do that day?) it was finally our turn. We passed through our door (48) and found ourselves inside a small changing area which opened up into a kind of natural dry sauna-cave cut right into the side of the mountain. There was a small light, and a little rickety bench, but that was it, you were just sitting there in a 48 degree cave, sweating it out. It was unlike anything either of us had seen before in our travels, and although I'm not sure I'd wait two hours again for another crack at it, it was a fairly pleasant experience, and left us both red-faced and refreshed.

Since we were planning on heading into Lima on a long busride the following morning anyway, that night found us in search of cerveza once more, and after stopping for a bite at a little street-food kiosk by the name of Sex Burger - where we indulged in some delicious sandwiches worthy of the name, I can tell you - we found our drink, at none other than Mr. Beer Bar. Evidently folks in Huaraz have a thing for goofily named establishments. But goofily named or not, Mr. Beer did not disappoint, and we put away our fair share that night, as we chatted it up with a few locals, and joked with the pleasant owners of the place. (They talked us into leaving our emails and have written us since.)

Up first thing the following morning, as per usual, we set out on foot and a touch behind schedule towards the bus station. In my groggy wisdom, I was sure I had the map all figured out, and that we had plenty of time. However, when the station did not appear where I thought it ought to have, things quickly became serious, and we found ourselves speed-walking down the busy streets of Huaraz with only minutes to spare. There was a moment when I thought we wouldn't make it, but as luck would have it, just over the next knoll the station emerged, and we shuffled our thick-headed selves through the check-in process and had just enough time to share a pained smile and take our seats before the bus pulled out of the station.

It was a long ride, but coming down out of the Andes, the views were splendid, and when we weren't napping, we both enjoyed them very much through the huge second-story windows of our double-decker bus. We arrived in Lima late that evening, excited to have come full circle, and cabbed it uptown, arriving just in time to find a cheap double near the city's main plaza and pass out.

As luck would have it, the following day happened to be none other than Peru Day - that is to say, Peruvian Independence Day - and here we were in the country's capital city! We rose early and filed out into the streets to catch some of the festivities - we had been informed that there would be a sizable parade, and that Alan Garcia Perez, the current president of Peru would be passing by. As it happened, said parade was actually taking place on our very street, such that we walked directly into it upon exiting our hotel. That's handy, we thought, and took our place among the other lookiloos hoping to catch a glimpse of their beloved president. As in Huraz, the streets were lined with young soldiers as far as you could see, decked out with bayonets and rifles, only now riot police were also out in full force as well, lest things get out of control.

Well, we waited as long as we could stand it, and saw some interesting things go by, including some well-disciplined squadrons of soldiers, and an impressive horseback marching band, but as far as the president goes, we saw little more than a fleet of sleek black cars cruise by with tinted windows. So much for that. We were hungry for all the waiting, and since residual police presence uptown restricted our movement and thus forbade us going to the spot of our preference, we sat for a shitty breakfast at the first open place we could find. Only later did we realize that it was also the closing day of Annual Peruvian Food Week, or some such thing, and one of the main boardwalks just around the way was full of buffet tables and mobile kiosks serving up all kinds of goodies from around the country. We sampled a few things, despite being stuffed from our crummy breakfast.

An enjoyable morning, but time was on our minds this day - Ian's trip was now over half-gone, and so we set ourselves to planning our next step - south to Arequipa. Turns out the only bus thereto the following day was a 17 hour doozy leaving first thing in the morning. Well we knew how to handle that one didn't we - go drinking. (I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that this little strategy of ours - drinking heavily before all instances of early morning and/or lengthy bus travel - was not something we planned at all, but rather noticed as a trend in our behavior. Of course, once we did notice it, we promptly took ownership thereof, and began celebrating it as a kind of absurd tradition.)

Since we were back in Lima, and staying in the same part of town, we thought it might be nice to make the short trip out to Miraflores once more and see if we could find the selfsame spot where we'd enjoyed ourselves so much before, and the site of Ian's brush with true Peruvian love - The Flying Dog. Of course, our state of mind last time we were there was not exactly conducive to remembering things like directions, and so it took us quite a while to get there. We were about ready to give up, when a casual glance down a sidestreet triggered some dormant muscle memory, and we knew we'd found it. We bellied up to the bar once more and had made some new friends in no time. Young men this time, who after a few rounds, eventually convinced us to accompany them to a favorite German-style bar of theirs just around the bend.

Once there, however, it quickly became evident that at least one of our new drinking partners was interested in more than mere brotherly camaraderie with his new-found foreign friends - particularly, yours truly - which he made clear quite openly. This was not quite as awkward as one might imagine, however, since this chap was actually a quite pleasant fellow with a decent sense of humour and a good command of English, and I was able to laugh us all through the sometimes delicate dance of love without incident. In the end, a good time was had by all, as were quite a few too many drinks. Suffice it to say, we were more than well-prepared for the lengthy bus ride awaiting us in the morning.

As planned, we boarded our bus early in the day, and didn't arrive in Arequipa until 3AM that evening - the following morning, that is. We found ourselves a taxi, and asked him to take us to a place of our choosing. As it happened, however, Arequipa was particularly packed at this time - part of the celebrations surrounding Peruvian Independence Day - and we wound up driving around town in the pitch black of early morning for some time, trying to find a place with space enough for two more. We eventually found a decent spot not far from the center and flopped out until around noon, when we woke hungry for breakfast, which we found not far from our front door in the form of delicious trout ceviche.

Known as one of Peru's most cultured and artisitc cities, Arequipa is full of little posh cafes and restuarants, many of which we availed ourselves of in the two days or so we spent there. One favorite memory is of an uptown French-run bistro called El Mono Blanco - The White Monkey - where we sat for beers and french-onion soup, and made hilariously innacurate sketches of one another late into the evening. Our second day in town, I became suddenly possessed by the strange notion that the heavy hooded sweater I had purchased back in Equador was now clogging up my pack, and that it had to be sold or swapped at once, along with a few other pieces of clothing that had fallen out of favor. Leaving Ian alone to trip around some local museums, I caught a cab to the daily flea-market over on the wrong side of the tracks, and set about trying to part with my goods.

Remarkably, this was an easier process that I'd thought, for on the whole, folks seemed more than interested in talking to the clothes-peddling foreigner, and having a look in his little bag of tricks. But despite all the attention I was getting, actually selling my stuff was another matter - folks simply didn't want to pay what I expected, and in the end I wound up parting with most of my things via swaps, or letting them go for mere pennies. Except the sweater which had precipitated the whole journey - on that item I could not be moved. I knew what I paid, and I would not accept less than half of that price. Eventually, I took the advice of some locals and decided to head to another part of town, where fancy sweaters such as mine are sold at cost in shops, along with other hand-made goods, and try my hand at street-selling there.

On the way, I explained my situation to my cabbie, who, to my surprise, took an intense interest in my one item, and actually made me the best offer I would receive that day. In my stubborness however, I turned him down, although I did take his number and promise to call him if I couldn't find another buyer. He dropped me at a local market and I immediately set to wandering about, sweater in hand, calling out to passers-by, and doing my best to look approachable. I'll tell you, after having spent so much time shutting down peddlers, it was an interesting experience to be on the other end of the sales pitch for once. Selling in the street is harder than it looks, but I did my best, cracking jokes, and talking up my product to obviously uninterested (and slightly bemused) bystanders. Despite my best efforts, however, I was ultimately unsuccessful - I still have my sweater. (When I called up my cabbie later that day, he no longer had the spare money to buy, or so he claimed.)

That night, Ian and I shared a delicious and overpriced supper at swanky Topitop Restaurant overlooking Arequipa's beautiful central plaza - now lit-up and glittering from end to end - before boarding another cheap overnight bus into Cuzco. There was obviously some kind of ventilation problem on this bus, for the cool air of Peru's southern flatlands whipped at our quivering blanketless bodies all night, and we arrived in Cuzco, around 6AM the following day, half-frozen, and half-dead from fatigue, neither of us having slept a wink. Inside the bus-station, we were immediately snatched-up by a particularly persuasive hostel-pusher, who seemed to have an answer to all our questions, and was quick to lower his prices to suit us. He swept us off, free of charge, to what turned out to be a lovely little hostel a few blocks from the center, where we would wind up spending two nights.

After sleeping off the ride, we again woke around noon and made for the heart of town where we sat for some time people-watching from a second-story cafe balcony. Still too tired to make the rounds of this obviously interesting and historically rich city, we killed time uptown until we got hungry for supper. We found the latter at a local rotisserie chicken joint, and sat shoulder to shoulder with hungry locals watching Harry Potter and abusing our all-you-can-eat-salad-bar privileges. Early to bed that night.

The following morning, Ian woke early, convinced that he must change his flight home. He had been considering for some time trying to organize a return flight out of Lima, so as to skip the long ride down to Buenos Aires, his present departure city. So, while he dashed off to see about making this change, I returned uptown and sat again in our second-story cafe to doodle and catch up on some journaling. A short time later, Ian returned having successfully changed his departure city to Lima. Wonderful! This would leave us more time to explore the many remaining wonders of Peru. Speaking of that - hadn't we better go see about buying our train tickets to Machu Picchu? Oh yeah! We'd better not forget that one. So off we went to the train station, which we found closed for lunch, and, after killing an hour in the market waiting for it to open, eventually learned was not even the right one.

The station we wanted was on the other side of town, so we hopped in a cab and found our way there, and purchased two overpriced return tickets from Ollantaytambo to Aguas Calientes (also known as Machu Picchu Pueblo), for the following morning. We would have to bus it to Ollantaytambo in the morning in order to catch our train, and since that would involve rising relatively early, we promptly made for Paddy's, a posh second-story establishment that billed itself as the highest Irish-owned pub in the world which we'd spotted earlier in the day. A few pints of Guiness and much loud talk with some rather boisterous European tourists made for a pleasant, if expensive evening.

The next day we rose early, managed to make our way through the now-familiar motions of a quick breakfast, walked down to the minibus terminal, and were soon on our way to Ollantaytambo. A few hours later we arrived, enjoyed a peaceful lunch, and boarded our train without incident. Next thing we knew, we were winding our way through a gorgeous mountain-rimmed valley as the sun slowly set. We arrived in bustling little Aguas Calientes shortly after dark, and hustled off immediately to the official Machu Picchu ticket office to buy our wildly overpriced entrance vouchers, and before so much as sitting down, pin-balled back across town to the bus stand to book our also wildly overpriced tickets up to the site itself, with a mere twenty minutes to spare before it closed for the day.

That bit of business taken care of, we found ourselves a satisfactory room, dumped our goods and hit the streets in search of some cheap grub - a couple of delicious hamburguesas complete with hickory-stick potatoes, and a strange hot honey-fruit drink, very pleasant if not for its having a consistency just a bit too much like snot. Afterward, a beer or two in a little backstreet hole-in-the-wall was just the ticket to wash it all down.

The next day found us standing in line for our bus amid throngs of other bleary-eyed travellers around 4AM. Warm coffee and chocolate brownies helped to snap us out of it, and around 5AM or so we had boarded our bus and were off up the hill into the famed cloud forests of the Sacred Valley. Amazingly, even though we had been among the first groups to arrive by bus, there were still many hundreds of people in line ahead of us by the time we arrived at the entrance to the site. These folks, we learned, had journeyed up the hill on foot around 2 or 3 AM in order to make the front of the line and get a chance to climb Wayna Picchu - a nearby mountain that offers incredible views of the site. The Peruvian government allows precisely 400 people to climb it daily, on a first-come first-served basis.

I thought for sure we'd be among the first 400 if we caught the first bus up, but apparently underestimated the zealousness of my fellow travellers, and unfortunately - if a bit hilariously - Ian and I wound up being numbers 403 and 404 in line. That is to say, we missed our chance at the famed climb by two spots. It was hard for us to complain too much however, since the two girls in front of us - numbers 401 and 402 - had already visited the site once, and having missed their crack at Wayna Picchu the first time, had returned today precisely to climb it. We laughed with them, and did our best to console them regarding their bad luck.

What can I say about the site itself? Amazing to be sure, and Ian and I spent a full six hours (6AM to 12PM) exploring its many nooks and crannies, venturing up to some of the outer regions of the complex, and also making the well-trodden rounds within its center. Visibility was a bit poor at first - it is a high-altitude cloud forest afterall - but things cleared up a bit by noon, and we managed to snap some decent shots of the ancient Incan city. It was a marvelous climax to our trip, and, we both agreed, all grumbling aside, well worth all price.

After a short for lunch - sweet biscuits and water - we found ourselves quite ready to be on our way, and casting one final glance about the place, headed back down to the exit, and boarded the next bus back into town, the air around and between us now carrying something of the flavour of denouement. A quick rest in our hotel, and an unremarkable supper later, we found ourselves back in our little hole-in-the-wall bar for another brew or two, and for once, an early night.

Our return travel the following day involved all the same steps in reverse order - an early morning train back to Ollantaytambo, where we gulped down egg sandwiches and hot chocolate, and a shortish minibus ride back into Cuzco. As we'd done upon our return to Lima, once back in Cuzco, we ceremonially retraced our steps, enjoying a second rotisserie chiken dinner, and more drinks at Paddy's, although this time our rowdy chit-chat was replaced by some subdued reminiscences about our trip. Ian's flight out of Lima wasn't for another few days yet, but it was a long bus ride away, and he intended to head out a bit early so as to have some time there to reflect and prepare for home. It had been a wonderful trip for both of us - more than we'd both expected in many ways - we had much to look back on that last night.

I left for Puno the following morning, after a hurried breakfast in the market, and a few last words of farewell. Ian left for Lima later that same day, August 6th - exactly one month after his arrival. Not a long time perhaps, but a full one, and more than sufficient for us to have had a decent look around this amazing country - a thorough perusal, one might say, if one were partial to such quips. For Ian, the end of a journey, and for me the end of a wonderful chapter in my ongoing adventure.

Since we parted ways, I've been exploring the western portion of Bolivia, and enjoying it very much. A dry, dusty country, breathtakingly high up, and therefore chilly despite the ample sunshine. One higlight has been a short stay in Copacabana, a lively little Bolivian town on the banks of Lake Titicaca, where again I was fortunate enough to have arrived smack in the middle of the biggest festival of the year. The craziness of the festivities was a bit much for me at first - everyone swilling beer and blaring loud repetitive music; garbage discarded all across the beach and people tar-and-feathering everything with wine and confetti, etc. etc. - but I'd loosened up some by the end of my stay there, and managed to join in a little.

But as fun as it was to be part of such a fiesta, it was no comparison to what I felt when I finally arrived in La Paz a few days ago, and made the long-awaited walk down to the Central Post Office, where I was happily met by all my mail, and even a thing or two I wasn't expecting! Thanks so very much to everyone who took the time to send along such thoughtful items. It was an incredible pleasure to tear into all those bubble-wrapped parcels, letters and postcards. Couldn't have come at a better time as well, given my sadness at having just lost a superb travel-mate, so again, a million thanks.

So. Having got this update off, my plan was to head southeast toward Potosi - famed as the highest city in the world. However, this morning I heard that there is some conflict in that region at the moment, with neighbouring states up in arms about border-lines and who exactly has rights to what. So, I may have to come up with a new idea, and more importantly, another way to find my way south into northern Chile.

Shockingly, my flight out of Buenos Aires leaves in just under a month - on September 10th - leaving me precious little time to make it down to the southern tip of the continent. It's going to take some squirming to make it happen at a healthy pace, I think, but I'm looking forward to the challenge of filling out what I can hardly believe to be calling the last big leg of my trip! How time flies!

I'll be talking to you all very soon.

Best wishes from chilly La Paz!