The final leg

So it seems somewhat ironic that I type this leg up on a rainy afternoon, sitting in the office at home, having made it home- what many would call bland surroundings without a touch of adventure. The latter is true.
How am I feeling? Bath is still surreal and I am determined not to get too settled in before I head off again. It is actually good to be back. I am feeling more cheerful than I ever thought I would at this stage but I am aware the magic is fading and whilst there are still people to see, my inevitable itchy feet will return.

The last two weeks of Colombia, when my sister and mum joined me, were predictably amazing and also different. Mum was offended by the opening of my last post where I rightly said that South American life as I knew it would take a back seat in favor of smart hotels, flights and not buses, and nothing too wild. This was not supposed to come across as criticism, it was anything but. I was sick by this point so a quiet two weeks were ideal.
I met Larissa and mum in Bogota, a city I had spent a lot of time in and come to know pretty well. We spent the first night just taking it easy and in the morning, had a flight booked to go to Santa Marta. Whilst my friends had been enjoying the Northern reaches of Colombia on the Caribbean coast for weeks now and had returned slowly to cities such as Bogota and Medellin to tell me all about it, the region I felt had been kept from me, due to my own stupid mistakes with finances. I had voluntarily spent weeks at altitude and spent time being cold with only stories to go on as to how beautiful this place really was.

Tyrona National Park
And was Tyrona national park absolutely remarkable. We arrived at about ten at night when it was pretty dark on horseback with our luggage after the minibus dropped us in land. This was hilarious in itself as our bags disappeared on a cantering horse into the darkness with our guides on foot, trying to navigate through huge roots, sand canyons, and boulders when none of us could see a thing. We attempted this at speed too, with the only casualties being my flip flops and some water bottles. And no one eating dinner battered an eyelid when we clattered into the site- this was the first introduction as to how crazy this continent truly is.

 The three of us stayed in an 'eco- lodge', which was a wooden hut with dried palm leaves for a roof and two hammocks. It had an ipod dock so in true Obolensky style, kept our neighbours up with music and dancing on the wooden slabs for a floor so the whole building threatened to come crashing down among us. The coast was indescribable- white sands, turquoise waters. It was possible to ride to each beach as well. On reading the itinerary, it said it was possible to swim with horses but our receptionist looked baffled- 'you want to swim with the hoarses?' That became a catchphrase.
We met up with three friends I had made in Bogota as well and spent a couple of days with them on the beach eating coconut slices and drinking beer. Colombia had already worked its magic on me but mum and Riss was captivated.

Cartagena
I had heard so much about this city, before I had even come to Colombia. Where you hear about a city thousands of miles away when you are sweating it out in Patagonia, you can't help but have high expectations. It was the most memorable city I had ever encountered- we were all totally absorbed by its ancient fortifications and colourful streets. The beaches we passed on the three hour drive between Santa Marta and Cartagena were nothing to write home about but I forgot all about this when we were driven around the old city. We had a carriage ride in the dark around beautifully lit calles and found a cocktail bar on the top of the ancient sea walls.
The hotel was gorgeous too with a pool in the centre and pink flowers that grew up the old stone walls. The three of us enjoyed a fantastic walking tour around the city where we learnt about the Spanish Inquisition, religion and art. Three days were not enough here but necessary as we had two more stops on this two week tour.

Salento and the coffee region
Famously regarded as the place to detox after a week in Medellin, Salento has been a popular go-to area for anyone wanting to take it easy in the countryside and learn a thing or two about the best coffee in the world. Its a well known fact that Colombia's best coffee is exported and so unfortunately, nothing you can drink in Quindio will be anything better than what you can find in Sainsburys. 
However, learning about the process of coffee making and the poor deal that labourers get for working with the beans is something that has been kept from the rest of the world. The shear steepness of the hills and the difficult climbing terrain was something that really struck me- this is not idle work and yet, the lack of international recognition or appreciation and the poor rate of pay does not add up.
Part of the reason Colombian coffee is the best in the world is the pride that comes with it. Labourers are forced to forfeit if a 'bad' coffee bean is found in a kilo sack of their work in a day- this can be anything from losing a days work to paying on the spot and with such a bad salary, its not worth taking the risk. 
Salento is also famous for riding and so we took advantage of that with a beautiful path by waterfalls and through a valley.

Return to Bogota
Unfortunately Larissa and I were pretty sick by this point. I felt like I had burnt out anyway during those weeks and had not had the patience to take it easy after hospital so was vulnerable to every type of bug. I couldn't take advantage of those days in Bogota and spent a lot of it in bed.
This wasn't really a problem though as mum and Riss still filled their time admiring the street art which had sprung up dramatically in recent days due to Bogota's 425th birthday, and visiting museums which the city is well known for.
When they left on that Monday, a strange thing happened. I was ready to go back to Bath with them, lying in my bed and feeling too ill to check out and move to a hostel.

I somehow managed to fill five more days in Bogota before I too caught a flight unfortunately back to Lima and then to Miami so I ended up lapping myself. Luckily, as I was facing a twelve hour wait at Lima, I met someone from Santiago and so bud-died up with him so things did not get too depressing waiting in a very cold, Peruvian winter's evening. The rest of the journey was predictably painful- customs at Miami airport being responsible. I thought my passport would give me trouble and I was right when the official peered over at me and asked what I was doing in the continent for seven months. He was met with an expression and I longed to say 'definitely, like our fellow British girls in Peru, taking back a shed load of Cocaine'. I think this would have gone down like a lead balloon.

Colombia part 1

Up early writing this blog entry- since my stint in hospital I seem to be a boring shadow of my former partying self and the other twelve people in my dorm have now returned from the clubs, most of them with girls so I feel at nine, its time to get up.
Once again, I feel its appropriate to split a country into two different entries. The reason for this being is I am on the count down for my mum and little sister coming out next week and feel that once they arrive, travelling as I know it and Colombia will stop. No more hostels, no more being too wild and no more real independence. And whilst this might sound like I am walking to the gallows, I've had enough of money pinching and hospital beds for a while. Quite looking forward to upmarket hotels, flights instead of buses and also seeing the family, it would have been six and a half months. And on reflection, I feel like I am a changed girl.

I wasn't quite as strapped for cash as outlined in the last entry. Things did indeed look bad after Brazil but Colombia, as thought, is extremely cheap. I've set up base in Bogota which is a place used to getting back handed compliments. From what I gather, its the worse place to get stuck in Colombia as it rains for much of the time but these days, I feel chronically tired so days in front of the television don't seem so sinful. And neither does the rain. I seeked and still seek out cheap and free activities such as entries to the many museums in this neighbourhood.
And this leg of the travels, the penultimate one, I have met such a good crowd and one who is sticking around for a while like me. I haven't been entirely stuck in Bogota and managed to head out to San Gil, a charming town with a lot going for it such as rafting, waterfalls and caving, having been dragged out of bed by a new Dutch friend and forced to accompany her from Bogota.

San Gil
San Gil was deliciously warm after Bogota and small. Its a charming town and former capital of its province Santander. I had always wanted to do rafting and San Gil was only the 90th place in South America I had been to where it was avaliable but decided not to pass on the opportunity again. For 30, 000 pesos or a tenner, even my pitiful budget could stretch and I had a really good time, doing it with some girls who had been at Ralph Allen in Bath.
Mira, my dutch friend from Bogota, had told me about this traditional drink, called ayahuasca, a hallucinogenic drug of which is legal in Colombia, though apparently classified as class A in Britain. I was pretty sceptical- drugs aren´t really my thing and having dabbled once in LSD this trip in Chile, I was in no rush to mess around with DMT again. Mira and I went on a detox for the days before, cutting out drink and cigarettes as advised to online and only eating fresh fruit and veg with very little meat. We also soon made friends with a local called Fabio, who´s cousin was the Shaman and after a lot of talking with Fabio, his sister, his cousin and a couple of other gentlemen from the town, we decided to go for it. We were joined by another Australian called Xaiver, making the gringo grand total come to three. It is apparently is better to do it with a small number meaning you can get a lot of attention from the Shaman should things get too unbearably weird. It annoys me that many gringos do ayahuasca for the trip because it gives you, without sounding too airy fairy, huge insights into your character and spiritual well being.
Mira unfortunately did not have a good time that evening...the ´trip´lasts about eight hours of which you are violently sick at the start and things didn´t really pick up for her. Luckily, I had a great evening. Thats all I am going to write about ayahuasca as its a personal experience but hopefully the things I learnt will stick around for a while.
After two more days in San Gil, I took the bus back to Bogota whilst Mira went onto Medellin, back to the same hostel of which I am still in, giving myself a proper base in Colombia.

Bogota round 2
Because I was keeping a watchful eye on all spendings, I did not feel like I had made the most of Bogota so made an effort to at least do two things before heading to Medellín. Two things that caught my eye was the bike tour of Bogota and the climbing of the mountain (I say climbing, in reality we took a cablecar) with huge views  of the city. The latter we did at sunset, taking the cablecar in this orange glow and arriving at the top at dusk with almost a 360 degree view of the city lights. I did it with an Australian friend I had met in San Gil called Rob and another English girl called Emma who I had met earlier that day on the bike tour.
The bike tour was interesting in the sense of crashing into people on the pavement, jumping red lights and not managing to catch very much of what our tour guide said. It was nice to get some exercise and nice to see more of Bogota which I realised I didn´t know that well. We went to a coffee factory, a fruit market (of which I found a fruit I hadn´t had since the Peruvian jungle and thought I´d never get again) and a bull fighting ring, the unsavory sport that Colombia has adopted from Spain.
The next morning, after a pretty wild night out, Rob, Owen a new English friend and me decided to head to Medellín, supposedly the partying capital of Colombia and former ´most dangerous city´ in the world of Pablo Escobar fame.

Medellín
After travelling around a few South American countries, its interesting to me that in Colombia, they seem to actively feel the need to bend the truth on how long bus journeys take. Everywhere else, if they say a journey is 11 hrs, it will be 11 hrs on the dot. Here, whatever time span is given to you at the booking office, its necessary to add four hours. Apparently its the same in Central America.
All three of us were pretty hungover and the bus was empty so we lay across the seats, only just managing to stop ourself rolling off on the mountainous, windy roads. A journey that was supposed to take eight hours, getting us in at ten at night, took twelve meaning we didn´t get to the hostel till about three in the morning.
We had heard loads of great things about Casa Kiwi hostel but it was jammed with people so ended up heading to Pitstop hostel, which had a pool, a basketball and volleyball court. I hadn´t forseen I would have spended quite so many days at the hostel at this point, coughing only slightly and blaming it on the air conditioning on the bus.
It seemed like loads of friends I had made in the past few weeks were at Pitstop at the same time so it was so good to see everyone again. We had one big night and then I started not to feel myself. I ignored it till Sunday, not going out clubbing and just taking it easy until Sunday morning when the coughing got so bad I had to go and find antibiotics and get a consultation at the hospital.
I brought Nami with me, who was a med student and a good friend from Bogota. What I hadn´t forseen was that the hospital would keep me, that I had contracted a lung infection and influeza and that the clinic would have me on a drip for two days, whilst injecting me with stuff every three hours. Luckily insurance handled all of this. I had never been in hospital before and had no way enough Spanish to talk to the nurses very depth. Thank god Nami was there for the first day to tell me, as a med student, what was going on, that I had surprise visits from friends who came with fruit.
I don´t feel like I made the most of Medellín, feeling literally too spaced out to do a lot. I tried to go to the football final between Medellín and Bogota but couldn´t really cope with that so bailed and headed back to the hostel and to, praise the lord, a private room.

I flew back to Bogota in the end, whilst everyone else went to Salento. Everyone is returning on sunday night to Bogota though so it will be nice to hang out and chill a bit more. Right now, I am just filling in days until the family get here who I can´t wait to see.

Brazil. 2.

By the time we got back from Ilha Grande, the sands of change were shifting beneath our feet again. I had said goodbye to Jen but hoping I will get to see her in France in september. Livvy by this point had really mixed feelings about going home- remembering South Africa two years ago, I fully understood her point that it takes a month to settle into travelling, and then to go home when you are used to one way of life is a really big downer.

Saying goodbye at Books to Liv was really sad- at this point I thought I would be home mid October. It had been a great month travelling with her, I had not covered so much ground in so little time before and I still marvel over the contrast. She got on her flight with another Brit friend made at Books, and as his friend and I waved their taxi off, I suddenly felt pretty alone.
Though with this type of life, unless you are really socially inept, you are not stuck for long. I had already met three Aussies very drunk at a petrol station on the way to the favelas, Stacie and sisters Lucy and Bridget, and when they returned three days later from Ilha Grande, we became good friends.

They were on a totally different time schedule to me but on a similar route. Both parties wanted to get north, to the less well known towns of Jericoacoara and the national park of Lençóis Maranhenses and then to attempt to take on the Amazon and cross to Colombia. It was thirty hrs alone to Salvador and with the Aussies flying to Mexico on the tenth of July from Bogota, and wanting to see most places along the way, buses were no longer an option. So I broke my rule of not flying and flew to Forteleza with them.
This city doesn´t envoke nice memories for me, having got there at two in the morning and booked a hostel for 18 reales which smelt of cattle. It was one of the only places I feared for my belongings as well, being stalked by two girls of about fifteen who never took their eyes off us, in the bus terminal. Afterwards we laughed at the likelihood of a mugging from these two but we were glad to get out.

Jericoacoara
I felt pretty intrepid heading up to Jericoacoara. All other travellers I had met had not ventured that far north, it seemed a little big more origional than the classic gringo horseshoe and you had to get to these cut off town on buggies in the middle of the night through huge sand dunes. As we bounced along in the dark, swerving when coming across stray donkeys and admiring the moon, I felt incredibly happy.
The town itself had the same feel as Ilha Grande and even San Pedro de Actacama which I visited in late February. As it was a national park, there were no cars, just little dune buggies which churned up the sand roads between the little huts that made up the place. It had a huge amount of character, not least because of the dangerous gypies which hung around the beach at day and town at night. These guys were mainly from Colombia and Venezuela and we ran into the wrong crowd one night, who wanted to show us a good time with illegal substances. We met one guy who we nicknamed ´hannibal lecter´ because of the tattoo on his chest only visible in good light. Otherwise we would have avoided him at all costs. As we babbled away in Spanish, one Brit took me to one side and told me to leave because Hannibal Lecter´s tattoos showed he had committed serious crimes such as killing cops.

Aside from this, the tour we did of paradise lagoon and other beaches in little buggies was so much fun and make for some of my happiest memories of South America. It was sad to leave but we couldn´t get stuck.

Lençóis Maranhenses
This was a similarly beautiful place but bigger with a huge river running through the town we stayed in and several more lagoons hidden in giant sand dunes. One night, Lucy was convinced she saw Cayman eyes in the river reflecting light. Owing to the fact she spent three months volunteering in the amazon, we all believed her. The next day as we jumped onto the boat which pulled up at our hostel, we were promised adventure and we soon forgot that we all were pretty sick. The next installment consisted of going along the river then jumping off our boat, climbing a sand dune then ending up on a pastel white beach facing the roaring Atlantic. We ate delicious seafood too.

Sao Luis
The girls had a tip from a friend in Mendoza that Sao Luis was a great city to visit and it was also major enough to have an airport that allowed us to venture to Manuas and onto Columbia. Sao Luis had a beautiful historical centre, a great party vibe but we came away with little but bad memories from it. I have had the conversation many times before that its a shame when muggings happen because they can put you off a great place. Lucy and Stacie were robbed and threatened with a machete, and normally not girls to become paranoid, none of us felt safe crossing the street alone after that, owing to the fact we were the only gringos around and stuck out.
In addition to this, we could not fly to anywhere but Sao Paulo, right at the bottom of the country to get to Colombia cheaply. I was slowly burning through my budget with absolutely nothing I could do about it.

The final leg
We flew back to Sao Paulo, thousands of kms south, having wiped our foreheads for relief getting out of Sao Luis. I spent the next two days in Sao Paulo airport whilst we tried to get flights to get out of Brazil, for fear of spending money.  Stupid complications came up like restrictions on international credit cards on all flight websites and huge hidden costs, not to mention flights that went up by two hundred dollars in the time it took to click confirm. When we did book our flight to Bogota, missing out the Amazon completely, it was so expensive I cried in the airport. However, getting out of Brazil was an absolute must and having taken off on a flight that the Colombian football team were also on, I started not to feel so bad.

Right now I am in Bogota broke- the Aussies have left for Cartagena where I would have joined them but for the money. Essentially trapped in Bogota for a month but not worrying about it because the city has a great vibe and people are cool.

Brazil 1.

Having spent three and a half weeks in Brazil, I feel its justified to cover the place in two posts. Normally I would veer away from doing this, particularly as I have managed to lap the country three times and so, seemingly, there is much to write about. And there is. It was a good thing that Brazil turned out to be an assault on all my high expectations anyway, I really have had little time to miss Argentina apart from the sense of familarity.

Florianopolis
Liv needed to fly home from Rio on June 14th and Rakan two days after on some crazy flight plan that involved twenty hrs up in the air and in airports so he could get to La Paz. Therefore it was in everyone´s interests to stop off at Florianopolis on the way north of which we had heard really good things. It was nice to head north as well, to warmer climbs. Yes, I have become a spoilt Brit who chases summer.
Probably the most notable difference was the language on getting to Brazil. Suddenly strangers spoke to me and I could make out about 30% of what they were saying at best and only the palabras that were similar in Spanish. It was pointed out to me later that speaking Spanish back would only cause offence even though I thought it was going to be more useful than talking English. I could inevitably made myself look like the uneducated gringo who thought the whole of South America had no diversity in culture, people or language if I continued in Spanish. So I tried to drop it.
Florianopolis (or ´fuck off obelisk´) was an absolute gem of a place, an ´island´ though still accessible by land. It boasts white sands that drew me to Brazil-huge waves, coconuts, lazy days and great parties. Who cared that we were out of season- if you don´t know a place when its busy, you are less likely to miss any buzz its lacking. We stayed in Brazil´s fifth best hostel which had towering climbs and beautiful views over the lagoon and partied.  And we were joined by a second person, a girl named Jen and as we were all making the same trail to Rio, we went on together.

Rio
The journey was about eighteen hours and we all made the decision to avoid Sao Paulo (the biggest city in the south hemisphere) as it was said  it had great nightlife and that was it. Better than Rio de Janerio? Probably not.
We stayed at a hostel recommended by numerous friends called Books. Books isn´t in the Lonely Planet and I do not know why. As soon as we arrived, I knew it was going to be magnet and I would stay there for ages. Books was probably the hostel I made the most friends at, had the best location (five minutes from the Lapa steps) and had Felipe. Felipe was the owner of Books. When it is said you meet amazing people on the road, Felipe is the epiphany of that backpacker saying. I can´t really write why but can only give examples. His philosophy is amongst the most well intentioned, thought provoking and educating I have ever read. When Rakan´s foot got infected and he needed medical attention, Felipe took him to a hospital, spending numerous hrs and then took him back to his mum´s house when Rakan was treated like an additional son. When friends of mine ran into money issues, he did everything he could to make sure they could still get to Ilha Grande which took an enormous amount of trust in them, all for their well being. Apart from that, Felipe was always around for banter so much that when all my travelling crowd left (which had grown to about eight of us) he took it upon himself to make me find friends so those blues did not get to me so much.

Rio was an absolutely amazing city! I feel like I am addicted and I need to get back A.S.A.P. Lapa was a fusion of art, culture, music, coconuts, had great links to the famous beaches of Ipanema and Cocabamba. It was also one of the safest parts. One night, we went to a favela party, a party in the slums. Though this is a dangerous thing to do, we were in a warehouse and I really enjoyed myself, dancing all night to the famous Favela music and getting catastrophically wrecked. I could not even get up to do Christ the Redeemer with Liv, Rakan and Jen the next day.
We left for Ilha Grande, an island about four hrs away from Rio with the intention of returning within two days. The best thing Ilha Grande boasted was the seventh best beach in the world Lopez Mendez which had huge Atlantic rollers. However, shit weather set in and we went back to Rio.

The rest of Argentina

It would have been six weeks since my last blog entry and whilst this means that I could question my dedication and determination to blog this amazing continent, inevitably I find myself remincing. And mentally pinching myself. And not beating myself up for the pause in writing. For I have travelled five thousand miles since you last heard from me, met some more amazing and varied people and seen even more than I would normally see in a year.

After I left Cordoba, I headed back to my favourite city of Buenos Aires, having said goodbye to the geniunely brilliant and lovely family of the Novillos and having said goodbye to polo for a while. I worried my family sick when I got my dates mixed up and failed to meet my friend Tom in B.A who contacted my sister. Lack of internet was the reason for this and my mum told me, having been cool headed these past months, that she was worried sick and had googled Argentine bus crashes. Fortunately, the latter did not occur and I was soon back in the safe haven of Tom´s appartment and ready to meet one of my close friends from home, Livvy, at the aeropuerto, flying in from Madrid.

Meeting Livvy had been in the pipeline for a while but one or two of us at any time, thought it would never materalise. I have had hundreds of people back home flirt with the idea of coming to join me. And it didn´t seem real until I ran into the arms of Livvy at arrivals. I couldn´t wait to show her the country that had completely stolen my heart.

Liv is super organised...and I have gathered I am not. I think it shocked her that up until this point, I had never logged onto hostel world. (N.B- turning up in Iquique, San Pedro and Mendoza at wild times in the morning, trying to find a bed). We were both worried therefore about our ability to travel together. She also watches her bank balance like a hawk and I watch mine like a bored housewife- ie.  hardly ever. (N.B point 2- from the mess I am currently in, I have learnt from this).
We spent a few days in B.A- both of us having extreme fatigue, Livvys from travelling and mine a prolonged hangover from the parties of Cordoba. I think she liked B.A but was sorry that there was not enough time to show her Palermo in the light and some of the cool bars I had discovered.

Patagonia
We headed south and took the long 22 hr bus to Bariloche of Patagonia. What an absolutely beautiful landscape- it was not far off Wales in its bleakness (we had arrived before snow had come, therefore unfortunately, the skiing opportunites were off) and being a Cornish girl at heart, I found its expanse and its coldness facinating.  Frankily, it is in my plan to come back to Patagonia and do only Patagonia, you only need to google it to fall in love.
We booked an absolutely dire bus company- stay away from Crucero del Norte if you are passing by.
I had had such luck in South America and Argentina is thought to have the best buses but this was absolutely appalling. I was further appalled when I got to Bariloche I caught a fever. It was absolutely freezing at night but I slept in all my Peruvian jumpers only to wake up in a sauna. I felt very guilty for the amount of time I spent in bed but didn´t really want to suffer for months on end unless I found time to get over this bug. We only managed to do one excursion (a big shame in Patagonia) and set off to explore the lake district on bikes. Northern England boasts a lake district too, of Beatrix Potter fame among other things but she would have had a cardiac arrest had she seen Argentinas. Epically beautiful and just huge.

Iguazu falls
We headed back to B.A, spent a few nights with Tom, then took the 18 hr bus to Iguazu falls for Brazil. Getting to the rainforest and experiencing my first and soon to be not my last, sense of real humidity. Having advised Livvy not to take malaria pills with her at all, I was relieved to find that catching it in Iguazu is nearly unheard despite what Lonely Planet says. We met some other people at our hostel and did Iguazu (just the Argentine side) with them after a couple of days. The reason for not leaving Puerto Iguazu and heading out straight away was the tropical rainstorm...the day in between arriving and the falls was incredibly boring...the town has abolutely nothing going for it. I clocked we spent about three hrs a day in the petrol station cafe.We soon realised Puerto Iguazu did not need anything going for it.
Getting to Iguazu, experiencing the volume of water, the wildlife (like watching an aussie girl we were with getting her lunch pinched by coatimundi, the infamous Argentine racoon) and the rainbows over the falls, we forgot about any resentments we had, about Puerto Iguazu or perhaps everything.
Going to Garganta del Diablo (The Devils Throat) and seeing the rush and power of the water is something that does not even bear writing about, because perhaps writing about it, similiar to Machu picchu involuntarily degrads it. After five or six hrs, Liv and a new companion called Rakan, took a taxi across the border. It crossed my mind to buy a jam jar, empty it then fill it with Argentine dirt to take with me like I meant to do with Cornish sand before I left home. Both plans never came into being, and irregardless I felt my insides turn and pretty upset leaving Argentina. Brazil had to have enough to live up to.

Cordoba

My mouth is dry. Dry from the dust and from trying to explain why vodka and coke is not a weird drink. Bar staff and friends alike have been baffled by my strange English ways...I need not go into the stupid things I and my friends at home have done when consuming vodka and coke to highlight its toxicity. But really, I have yet to understand why its so difficult to understand the drink that England seems to float on!

A little update...I really think I have found a home from home here in Northern Argentina. Despite the big tarantulas that seem to follow me around the estancia and the stray dogs attacking my door in the middle of the night bringing on a series of heart attacks, there isn´t anything better in the world that what I am doing now. And I will be surprised if I find a place better.

I have just returned from a polo practice- there are no tournaments for the next couple of months here giving the ponies and the people a well earned rest. However practices, usually consisting of four or five chukkas, ensure that the ponies do not get out of practice or unfit. Sitting here writing this, I am combing burrs out of my hair which is a daily task as well as out of tails, which is usually done with a fork.

Polo here is very different to everything I have experienced so far. Its very Argentine- rugs seem to be made out of what looks like disused potato sacks, ponies are transported in huge lorries that usually serve cattle and horses are fenced with cheese wire. Unfortunately, we had a horrible incidence the other day when a mare paniced and severed her leg on the fencing. I realised I am not squeamish as I held the leadrope whilst the vet stitched her up. The cut was so deep and big, you could see the bone. The vet then proceeded to cut up a plastic pipe to encase the leg in. Unfortunately, she took a great dislike to this and kicked back so hard it burst and undid all the stitching. The poor thing will not play polo again and I hope and pray she makes a swift and full recovery so the decision isn´t made to put her down.

I like to think I have got more out of being here than the average gringo travelling around. I have lived with Argentines now for two months and can genuinely say they are the nicest nation of people. At first, inevitably I was thrown by the language and the treatment of the ponies ( a lot harsher than this soft Brit has ever seen) but you have to look past that and appreciate these people make the finest polo ponies in the world. And they genuinely care for them because bad treatment of a horse does your job no favours.

My Spanish is coming on day by day, so I am told. English is not widely spoken here, a couple of international players (who spend time in palm beach) and a few members of the fantastic family I am staying with do but largely, every conversation I have is very stop, start, present tense Spanish. I am grateful for my GCSE. It was classic yesterday when told to put rugs on, I carefully removed seven horses´ rugs. The Spanish in this region of Argentina is very different. When spoken, one thing I have noticed is that people hardly move their jaws and everything comes out sort of mumbled. A couple of months ago, I wouldn´t even have recognised it as Spanish!

Aside from this, I have had really big problems with my card. It appeared it had been cloned and my worst fears were confirmed when calling Barclays, and they said that the card must be cancelled at once and a new one ordered to be sent to my home in England. I am fortunate that my friend Liv is coming to B.A in a week and a half so I won´t have to rely on Anglo-Argentine post. Complete nightmare and still in the throws of sorting it out!

My time with the polo ponies is coming to an end. This was the reason I came to South America and I am so grateful for the opportunity to work with them and for all the people I have met. Next weekend, its back to B.A to meet Liv and then onto Patagonia and then before I get thrown out of the country (three months has passed just like that), Iguazu falls and up to Brazil. Vamos!

PS- had to think hard before I wanted to write about this...the other night met a very cute guy who was absolutely thrilled I was English. He pulled out his phone (which had a ´Keep calm and carry on´ pimms style backdrop to show me his twitter which was so English, you´d be forgiven for thinking he was the BNP minus the racism). The least said about this the better, but I will be definitely using the English card more often.

A little more of the sweet life- Buenos Aires and Cordoba

Probably the happiest I have been for a really long time- Argentina is beautiful and wonderful, the people merry and very kind. A lot of banter to be had about the Malvinas- from hearing about it from the side of the Argentines, it is not as black and white as the British believe. Over supper one night in Puesto Viejo, I met a half American, half British Polo player called Mike. When he was at University in the States, he came back to B.A to visit family. The Army came and knocked on the door of his smart B.A mansion for conscription one day and the maid lied to them, saying Mike was back in Florida. He in fact hid in a rose bush for 5 hrs- Germany 1938 springs to mind. In fact, I do not want another conversation about it- the fact we went to war against these great people, who were so poorly equipped they borrowed jumpers from the islanders, for the lives of 1500 people is so ridiculous it makes me laugh. However, every time I pass blue signs on the Autopista that say ´Malvinas Son Argentinas´, I get a tiny little buzz.

I had made a lot of friends at Puesto Viejo despite the occassional frustration and language barrier. Why is it the tacking up a pony in Argentina is much more difficult than at home? The strings that the Argentines use for the girth or ´sincha´ I think are pretty complicated and the amount of times I rode off into the distance with a saddle looser than Lindsay Lohan on a Saturday night are countless. Poor Jorge lost his temper with me- ´punta madre!´ I shot back ´stupid dickhead´- all I got was Ýes´ with Jorge beaming at me. Sometimes a language barrier is a good thing.

Another thing I have noticed in Argentina is that most men do not believe in the concept of friendship between man and woman. Unwittingly, I said I had an ámigo´ in the city to the guys at Puesto Viejo who collasped into laughter. Its true I have an amigo and like the vast majority of my guy friends in the UK, he is a friend without the weird quote things you do with your fingers. Argentina it seems has a long way to go in that  sense- I have a boy in the city- yes. Is he a friend? Yes. Have we had sex? No. Will we? No. I was shown a  picture one day of one of the groom´s amigas, a pornographic shot with her bum on display. ´Beautiful, isn´t she?´ he said proudly. Beautiful is not what sprung to mind.

My internship in Canuelas finished on thursday and I travelled the 11 hrs to Northern Argentina, back to altitude. It was sad to say goodbye to B.A, a city I have grown really fond of, even though I am returning in a month anyway. Sadder still saying goodbye to everyone at Puesto Viejo and after a surprise leaving asado (Argentina BBQ) I hit the road. All through the journey, I contenplated what life was waiting for me in Cordoba. I had been warned it was more ´rustic, a river instead of a swimming pool, and less of a club, more of a training ground for young horses. After South Africa two years ago, I found that this is really the line of Equestrain work I want to fall into.

On being picked up from Villa Del Totoral by Ale Nouvilla, a beautiful Argentine woman and the wife of Carlos, my new family for the duration of May, I started to relax. So far, my days here have consisted on pinics by the river, a long polo tournament with a world famous tennis player playing, parties with the classic Cordoba drink Fernet. Like Asados and Mate, why we do not have Fernet in the UK facinates me.

 I have just got back from stick and balling with Delfie, the younger daughter of the family who when two days she saw me in a bikini clapped her hand over her eyes and said ´man, you are so white!´. Weird, I thought, considering I have never been so brown...

More of Puesto Viejo

I have decided to break my unwritten rule (excuse the pun) of not blogging the same place twice. This is due to the phenomenal amount of rainfall that has happened over the last fifteen hours and the boredom that that brings regardless of whether you are in the UK or Argentina.

 There is no polo today and its been rumoured it will take till Friday to allow the ground to dry properly. This means I will not ride- half the staff are thinking of taking off to Buenos Aires, as there is nothing to do. If the polo industry worked this way in England, you would probably be able to get two matches in per year- as it is, to prevent the ground being churned up and ponies breaking legs, the ground must be more solid and the pitches less of a lake. I am playing with the idea of heading back to Buenos Aires but I have heard all the interchanges are shut and cars are floating...

I have been given back my original lavish hotel room, a room which is blissfully frog, spider and beetle free, which is more than can be said for the broom cupboard I have spent the last week in. I have showered really infrequently due to the marine wildlife that decides to swim too close to my toes, that ahs sent me squeeling and running in to the pampas. In fact I ended up enlisting help for getting rid of a teenage  frog (a middle sized, confused one) and unfortunately ending up killing it, pushing it out with a broom. Sincé then, the whole frog population of Argentina has staged a siege.

So far, my days have been fairly unstructured which has been both great because it means I can ride, or swim or chill when I like but also a little unsettling. It seems its very much the Argentine way of life to work when you need to. I always spend the day at the stables and end up sending 60 percent of it making conversation (limited but getting there) and drinking Mate. This is a bitter lemon drink...I have not taken to it and pretend to like it but really...I wish I could be cool and sociable and Argentine like all the grooms. I do not even go near tea and I am a Brit.

I had a funny time taking out the owner of the club daughters out for a ride, one being six as of today and the other ten. They are half Argentine, half British, bilingual, incredibly confident and pretty much born on horseback. One the youngest going too fast and disappearing into the pampas, the eldest turns around and says "Izzy, you know if anything happens, everyone will hold you responsable"....

Argentina, Mendoza and Puesto Viejo

I have found the time to write this entry because I have put off sleeping, something I have come to do quite a lot and for prolonged periods of time due to the fact that this country is knackering.
So charged up on two old friends, diet coke and Bastille, and after a long Argentine lunch, here it goes.

I realise its been a while since I have updated-  since I have left Chile, left Biggy and Tom who went to San Pedro, had a hairy border crossing to Argentina from Chile. I realised that Argentina was to me what Brasil seemed to be to everyone else, the sole reason I came to South America in the first place. Weeks of Asados, beautiful people, vicious driving and long nights lay before me at this point- First stop was Mendoza where I met up with another friend from school Rosie, and we spent three days cycling through wineries, once on a tándem bike, getting awfully drunk but managing to stay in sync as we tasted exclusive Malbecs.
Mendoza was mostly a wonderful city with a huge beautiful park- San Martin. Really, with its beautiful entrance gates, huge fountains and lakes, you could have been in London.

I was still trying to sort out my internship at this point so carried on having to sneak off and skype various people- only once being ambushed in Spanish, which I somehow managed to gabble my way through. When Rosie headed north to Salta, I decided to head straight for Buenos Aires as my job was very close to starting. I was told only brief outlines as to how to get to Puesto Viejo, the polo club and the enstancia which did not sound particularly difficult. It is suitated only 60 kms from B.A

After the luxuruious cama journey I splashed out on, justifying the fact that I would be spending no money for the next month, I arrived in B.A horrendulously exhausted. There is definitely a pattern forming here! Hunting around and not finding the bus that was suggested to me I took, I took another which was supposably going to Canuelas. I had asked many people how to get to the right plaza in B.A Wheeling my huge bag along the crowded pavements, also having argued quite well I thought with a taxi driver because his meter was not switched on. Twice, two seemingly unassuming and friendly people, who were quite happy to help me, shunned me when I told them I was British so in the end, I told people I was German. However, this was not helpful either, because too tired to work on my Spanish, two girls rescued me when I thought I was on the wrong bus.
In the end, I ended up in downtown Buenos Aires, lost for the first time since leaving Bath but being looked after by the two kindest girls who allowed me to use their internet to contact the Estancia. In the end, a taxi was sent for me.

So thus far has been Buenos Aires for me- I cannot wait to get back to the true city that everyone will not stop raving on about. Getting to the Polo Club, I honestly had to pinch myself that I had made it. I had been given a Smart hotel room at least for my first week- its clean and utter luxury after slumming it in hostels...what a revelation that I do not have to sleep in my silk liner for fear of bed bugs!
So far, in between timing matches, preparing ponies for chukkas, babysitting and hacking out, they have given me five polo ponies to look after, I cannot be too long writing this because they need to do some stick and balling this afternoon.

This is definitely what I left home for...and its going to be very difficult to head back.

San (Buenos Aires it ain´t) -tiago and Valpo

On getting to Santiago at eight in the morning, a good two hours before the rest of Chile wakes up, I realised I had absolutely no idea what I was doing among the smog and dirt of what seemed to be a grimey take on Birmingham. I sat in the bus terminal for an hour trying to pull myself together, still feeling the affects of prescription sleeping pills my friends had given me before I left San pedro. In the end, I opted for a hotel my guidebook from 1997 promised to be cheap, clean and in good order. It filled two of those brackets...but in the last fifteen years, prices had perhaps tripelled.

Still the place had hot water (luxury!) and I had my own room with clean sheets...I decided to crash. Having foreseen that it would be a case of ´mouse alone in the big city´ before I left the North, I´d used Couch Surfing to see if anyone would be around to hang out for a coffee and could offer some accomodation. A lovely human rights laywer called Sebastian got back to me and I spent a really fantastic three days in his company, staying on his sofa and hanging out with his friends. Sebastian joked to me that Peru was stuck in the fifteenth century. If this be the case, Chile is in the 90s with businessmen who have looked like they´ve walked out of the film  and kids who dress like nineties rappers and Fine Young Canibals and Paul Simon being boomed out of every cafe.

Sebastian shared my love of Sushi and Piscola and suddenly the grime and intense Santiago seemed a little less daunting. I´m still not convinced on any charm of Santiago (it had a few nice European styled cobbled streets but due to the amount of earthquakes destroying Colonial buildings, ugly estates and skyscrapers seem to dominate it) and am in no rush to head back. Buenos Aires it ain´t.

In Valpo, my friend Tom from school has a job at the YMCA hostel and invited me to stay with him. I realised I was pretty keen to see a famaliar face and so travelled the small 1.5 hrs to Valparasia, a coastal city outside of Santiago. After a wild goose chase around Valpo to find the hostel (which in fact isn´t a hostel but a series of floors with gyms and loud areobics music played through the day), I finally found Tom. In the last three or four days I have been discovering a city which is in fact two cities in one, one resembles a coastal Santiago with grid streets and grey buildings the other colourful, like how I´ve heard B.A is and Bohemian. In fact every Chilean here looks like they´ve stepped out of The Porter in Bath. Valpo really is a city I can´t get my head around at all and with the joining of another friend of mine, Biggy, tonight I am looking forward to experiencing the night life- the real gem of Valpo.

Northern Chile Continued

So it seems like I am finally blogging some of what I´ve been up to in Chile, whilst about to leave the country, ironically. I have come to appreciate Chile, not loving it but certainly not hating it, having been through a worldwind of emotions since I left Peru and struck out truely on my own. It is very difficult to describe Chile to someone who´s never been- it is truely no surprise that in Britain, people have little idea of what the country and its people have to offer because of the expense of variety and because of the links and contrasts it has to the West. To me, I feel like it was the beacon of South America (due to its protected economy and obvious wealth) yet still parts are horrendously dated and pretty ugly.

I figured that this would be a good time to update, as I feel that I am nearly on the verge of the next chapter of my adventures, with Argentina looming in the distance. San Pedro, having been promised to me by various people of being amazing, was just that- pretty spectacular. I grew fond of my hostel and of the locals in San Pedro that were, for some mystery, not hateful and distrustful of gringos but genuinely welcoming. In fact, I made a good friend there called Enrique, whom I booked my riding tour through, who was very informative about the local party scene, and all that that entails. Like Britain, there is a big north, south divide but unlike Britain, Northerners are not dismissive of the superiority of the South. Enrique, being a ´lake district boy (his words not mine) was convinced he´d hate the desert and miss the lush and expanse of greenery in the South, but it is impossible for the beauty of the Actacama Desert not to stir something in you. (Trying not to sound like a Lonely Planet pounce ...).

 One interesting thing in San Pedro, was that it lived up to every preconception I have of a Wild Western town including the odd drunk passed out on the pavement at one o´clock in the afternoon. Enrique told me, that whilst he was in to other drugs, the strongest cocaine you could get in northern Chile was in San Pedro and was as easy to come across as cigarettes. He informed me that the people passed out on the pavement were once respectable wealthy businessmen who´d made their fortune in Santiago but blown it all on the white powder. I left San Pedro after two days but frankly, if I were made of money, I´d have happily have stayed a week longer. The trouble is, is that absolutely nothing can be done independently, and as a little gringo, I was paying gringo prices for everything so I decided to cut my loses and head south.

From San pedro, having experienced the beauty of the salt flats and survived a 30 hr bus journey to Santiago with a broken seat and an addiction to sleeping pills, I arrived in Santiago. The Actacama Desert lost all of its appeal on this journey, with nothing to watch but miles and miles of sand reaching out to the horizon and the odd Condor here and there. I did a lot of thinking on this journey, mainly because my ipod died after two hours and Avengers in silence with Spanish subtitles could only hold my attention for so long. Still at least the Chileans have caught on to the fact that not everyone wants to watch violent movies through the night on top volumn, something their Peruvian counterparts have yet to realise.

The beginnings of Chile, a short update

My last weekend in Peru for the time being was spent in Camana, a beach resort, quote on quote for Arequipeans ´playground of the rich and famous´. Certainly as Mat and I drove through the streets, we got the same reception as Djiango in the opening scenes of ´Djiango Unchained´ when all the locals come out of their houses, shocked to find a ´nigga on a horse´...this time it was ´two gringos on a motorbike´. Indeed, we took Mat´s Chiliean dirtbike Ellie on the three hour drive from the city, on barren and deserted desert roads, meeting and narrowly missing the odd dump-truck coming in the other direction. I´d been to the beach two weeks earlier but this time, we sorted out a hostal on the waterfront and spent the weekend lounging around, drinking beer, eating watermelon and chilling. I was in two minds whether to leave Peru and stay on for another two weeks but the rest of the continent was calling, and with a desperate urge to get back to sea level, abandoning the idea of La Paz for a while, I  headed straight to Chile.

After a night with absolutely no sleep, I said goodbye to Arequipa and headed for Tacna, a stopover point in southern, southern Peru. One famous Wild Rover saying is ´Arequipa...you may check out but you may never leave´ but I took the plunge. Managing to confuse myself both with the exchange rates from Soles to Pesos when I got there and then the fact that you take what amounts to a Collectivo to border hop in, I met Jim, an Australian whom I travelled on to Arica  and finally Iquique with. He was extremely helpful and was a calming influence when, remembering I´d lost my customs card that was given to me on arrival from Miami, lent me money to pay the authorities off. I didn´t end up seeing much of Arica but headed straight to Iquique with Jim in tow, arriving very early in the morning and breaking that golden rule of not arriving in a strange town with no where to stay at an ungodly hour of the morning. It was easy to find somewhere to stay though.
I instantly took a great like to Iquique. Realising that I´d missed some comforts of home (Cornwall), I felt at ease amongst the surf crowd. The locals were very friendly, gringos didn´t seem to stand out so much, the sea was warm and comparitively uncrowded. Everything was really chilled, something that Peru wasn´t in the same way. Feeling pretty spontanous, I decided to get my hair cut and dyed, taking advantage of the tax haven. More photos of that one later..! Getting back to the hostel, Jim left a note saying he´d left for Santiago (he´d spent a week longer in Chile waiting for his yellow fever vaccination to take hold) and was going back to Aus, suddenly I felt pretty alone and sort out Couch Surfing for people to meet. And finally having exhausted Iquique, I got a bus to San Pedro de Actacama.
Arriving in the famously the driest place of earth where its said never to have rained, (what a contrast to rainy season in Arequipa and Cusco!) I felt really exhausted and spent 45 minutes wandering around with my huge bag trying to find a hostel once again at one in the morning. All  the hostels seemed to have no vacancies. Having little idea of the expenses of San Pedro, I pretty much leapt at the first open door insight, and meeting a lovely Brazilian couple who were my room-mates, fell alseep straight away. Turns out I´d found the best hostal in San Pedro, hostal Florida.

Cusco and Machu Pichu

Having said to myself that I would not blog any of my trip to Cusco and the hike to Machu Pichu, I've found myself on a comedown after a manic week, so sitting here on my sunburnt bum and thighs (really attractive), I've decided to give it a go. I've try to avoid writing about it because its not the kind of experience I can blog. But I've found diet pepsi (not quite diet coke but beggars can't be choosers, right?) and feel confident. Also on skyping my mum last night, it seems that she's circulating this blog far and wide and people are actually demanding the next instalment..
So, having made up my passport number on my bus form for the ten hour trip to Cusco and then having to pay a made up fee of five soles to change it at the bus terminal, we were all set for our trip from Arequipa. We decided to go Cruz Del Sur, the only bus company I knew from my trip to Lima and maybe the most luxurious yet reliable on the Peruvian roads. Anyone who's ever travelled with me will know that despite the fact I'm tiny, I can't sleep on coaches/trains/boats/cars, so basically ended up sleeping on top of Mat- poor guy. It was halirious to think we'd contemplated taking Mat's bike, because my bag was at least twice the size of me and the roads dark and dangerous.
We finally made it to Cusco in the early hours and I realised that the countryside around Arequipa was pretty barren with mountains and the desert and no greenery- So as a true Brit, I was pretty happy to see the jungle. On getting off the bus, we were asked by a man whether we were in Cusco which made us look less clueless. It was six thirty in the morning and all I wanted was a coffee- all shops at the bus terminal were shut, the Peruvians missing a trick. In the end, Mat and I managed to get to the main square, after paying a fair amount for a taxi (difficult when you don't know the town). In the main plaza, we found two cathedrals, the biggest of which we looked inside during a service- it was just beautiful, almost, almost rivalling Arequipa but not quite. The music was beautiful. Cusco was way more Gringo infested and Touristy than our hometown of Arequipa and everything far more expensive- we even found a North Face shop.

 I was quite happy to get to the Wild Rover Hostel but not thrilled to find we didn't get any discount despite Mat having worked in both La Paz and Arequipa's Wild Rovers. However, the accomodation was really nice in the end, although opposite the bar, I felt quite spoilt that we got a room to ourselves and without the classic hostel dorm. Both feeling pretty knackered, we slept for the entire day. Despite Arequipa being high, Cusco is much higher and I really noticed walking around the town being slightly out of breath. Mat and I decided to waste no time and get on with booking the jungle tour- four days in total hiking to Machu Pichu with mountain biking and zip-wiring thrown in for an extra thirty dollars. We met our guide Jimmy who briefed us in the evening and warned us of a six thirty start the next day to get to the place high up in the mountains where we were to mountain bike.

The journey through the jungle was just beautiful but before long, we were climbing up windy roads similiar to ones I'd seen in Sierra Nevada in Spain and up to the snow peaked mountains. Jimmy informed us, pointing to a peak on the right, that Machu Pichu was three days hike from there. We were all in a small minibus having picked up everyone from other hostels, a mixture of Germans, Canadians, Argentinians and one other American girl. After three hours, we left the minibus and I was presented with a mountain bike- it sounds basic but I can't remember the last time I rode a bike but after much re-adjusting of the seat (even I'm shorter than the average Peruvian) I was onboard. We wore protection which made us look like people out of sci-fi movies and with a little push, I was on my way. I lasted about three minutes before I was convinced I was going into the huge gutters on the side of the road, breaked hard and jack-knifed, coming off and sliding along the steep road quickly. Splitting the helmet in two, I completely wrote off my mountain bike and caused a massive egg on the side of my head. No one else saw apart from the minibus who was following us, who rescued me and put me on Jimmy's bike. I think I hurt my pride more than my head but I was happy to wear a proper motorbike helmet after that. Going into the jungle was pretty spectacular and sureal, the climate getting more humid with every passing minute. It was all downhill and quick, and I realised that despite the pain in the back of my head, I was really loving it, gripping the handlebars for dear life, swerving and not colliding with kamikazi tour buses.

After lunch, three hours more treking brought us to a local family's house, on the side of a mountain, a haven with puppies, parrots and even a strange ferret creature which Jimmy insisted was an otter...the Canadians and Brits knew better. We were given origionally coffee beans (starbucks eat your heart out) and it was the most delicious coffee I've ever, ever had and will probably ever have. On getting back to Cusco four days later, we stocked up! With the local family, we were treated to a traditional family meal of soup, rice and chicken, and with everyone getting along really well, Mat and I called it a night and went to bed.

The next day saw seven hours trekking through the jungle, Jimmy telling us all about the Inca culture which was facinating, all about Pacha Mama. He painted the three levels on my face. We followed the river for a few miles, crossing it a few times over bridges. We passed many trees which trumpet flowers grew on- the strongest hallucinogens in the world. On getting to the hostel that night, we all got pretty drunk, mostly to forget our sunburnt, huge bug bites and sore feet.

The next day, Mat, I and Abi (The American girl on our tour) went zip-wiring. Ever since my mountain bike incidence, I was skeptical of Peruvian adventure tours but as I zipwired 250 metres above a roaring river I forgot all of this. It was amazing! We were joined by a big group of Canadians who were tough but told us that they'd just done a lot of the Inca trail and got altitude sickness and had to be rescued by horses.

After this, we joined our group who spent the morning hiking and entered the district of Machu Pichu walking along the railway tracks and crossing sketchy rail-bridges. After a full on day, we were really happy to get to the town, where we were going to spend our last night before hiking the Machu Pichu at four thirty the next morning.
I thought I was tough and fit, but on the ascent of 1800 steps before it was light, I really struggled. It costs 9 dollars to get the bus up but I made it. I can't really write about Machu Pichu..or at least I could, but I don't really want to. I know now that its one of my favourite places in the world, the way the clouds change around the mountains and the views, particularly when you climb the peak Wayna-Pichu is just amazing. We spent the day here exploring, climbing Wayna-Pichu (our ticket only allowed us two hours up there) and walking to the Inca- Bridge. In fact my ticket didn't add up to my passport in anyway shape or form (Very Peruvian) but Jimmy managed to sweet-talk the Peruvian officials at the checkpoints along the way.
After the day here, we left Machu Pichu and got our three hour gringo-rammed train back to Cusco, the boys drinking beer all the way, me collasping in a state of exhaustion.

Mat and I spent two more days in Cusco before bouncing back to reality and taking the bus (the company Ciel because we were joined by one of our German friends and another Brazilian who didn't want to splash out) to Arequipa.

Arequipa Life

Almost lost track of what week and how long I've been here- in the best way possible, all days are starting to blur into one. In the last day, I've gone down with travellers sickness which has given me a chance to sit down and tackle this entry- it seems like this blog is popular and I like the fact I am never sure completely who I'm writing to.
I'm happy I went to BOOTS and stocked up on medicines before I came- even though Peru is ridiculously cheap, cosmetics, most clothes and medicines are pretty expensive. Plus it seems like an effort to walk the 1.5 miles to the shopping centre, with three streets to cross in between. If there's one thing you need to know about everyday life here is that there is next to no order on the roads- a nightmare if you're driving or in a vehicle (almost flying through the windscreen of a public bus is a regular happening)  but a disaster if you're crossing the road as a pedestrian. Its ironic that drivers take a blind bit of notice of zebra crossings and traffic cops blow whistles without seeming to direct traffic. You just need to take your life in the hands and run. At school yesterday, I was informed that two of my friends were late because their bus driver had decided to get out and give another bus driver a knuckle sandwich!!

Sitting here typing this, I can't help but be a little bit annoyed at the fact that this sickness has come on now. Not only am I missing a mornings teaching to rest up, I'm taking a ten hour bus journey to Cusco this evening, stopping by at another hostel in Arequipa on the way to wait for my travelling companion to finish his shift. On getting to Cusco at 5:30 tomorrow morning, its time to tackle the Inca trail. Luckily, I've managed to get myself free accommodation because the hostel in which this guy works has a sister hostel in La Paz and Cusco. There was an idea that we would take this guy's motorbike all the way (he'd bought it in Santiago and ridden it through Bolivia to Arequipa), but with the steeps hills, plus two people, two backpacks and guaranteed rain, we decided to go back to Cruz Del Sur.  Still despite complaining about illness, I'm lucky I didn't notice the altitude when getting here and maybe more lucky, that as the worst cook in the world, I haven't given myself food poisoning.

I've managed to go riding since I've been here, a memorable ride up a canyon that leads, if you follow it for many, many hundreds of miles to Cusco. Even though my guide was sleazy (my first salsa lesson in the middle of no-where..really?) and the horses skinny, the scenery was fantastic and I managed to see the whole of the city from the top. The ride jolted me but for the reason that whilst you are in the city, it is easy to forget you're nestled away in the Andes. One thing to watch out for is when you book things, the tour operators seem to have little contact with the guides. I paid 85 soles for four hours- upon my guide Annabel (yes that was his name) picking me up in his pick-up truck with his brother from the house, he told me he worked in distance,  not hours. At first I took comfort in him not over-working his horses for the needs of tourists but getting back to the house I realised I was only in the saddle for two hours. On being picked up, Annabel definitely took the piss a little bit in picking up lots of his cousins, driving around a few districts of Arequipa. Once we got to the stables, he seemed pretty keen for me to wear a cowboy hat and we spent the first hour galloping along dust tracks, in and out of trees, playing cowboys. As we were riding pretty much on the doorstep of my back garden, I decided to ride through the drive way and up to the house, banging on the gate. My house mates were a little bit surprised!

We met a few Ex-pats when riding through the district which Annabel handed out riding leaflets to. An older Canadian couple seemed interested and I recognised  the woman from the Facebook group Ex-Pats Arequipa which keeps our house entertained. Ex-Pats Arequipa is as the name suggests an exclusive closed group on Facebook that you have to ask permission to join. Started up probably innocently as a way for foreigners living in the city to meet up with one another, it now seems to harbour posts such as where to get air mattresses in the city and even inquiries about strip clubs. My house mates scoff at it because its just a way for people to show off the affluent life they're living in Peru. As one of my house mates said 'get to know the characters on Ex-Pats'.

This week at school, our subject was health which saw the kids drawing the human body, labelling it and drawing assault courses in the Gaucho with thick, colourful bits of chalk. One of the girls found an abandoned puppy that must have been no more than 2 months old, named it Dobby and has refused to be parted from it- even though its a straggly, pretty revolting stray, its very cute! We've had quite a lot of rain since my last post, interrupted with really strong sun. As sunscreen is so expensive here, I've decided to cut corners and not use it, hence my shoulders, face and back, accustomed to British winter, are pretty red.

Anyway, my window is closing to recover and pack for Cusco!. Whilst being this bad at home would mean I wouldn't leave the house for two days, I sort of relish the being tough and getting on with it attitude. Hopefully, I will survive to write up Machu Picchu- this being a trip I never thought I'd make this early in my trip but making the future easier because I can just go straight to La Paz from Arequipa in three weeks to cross the Peruvian/Bolivian border.

The only thing I want is a diet coke...Peruvians are obsessed with sugar, they just don't have it here.

Week One

So I just had this good entry written and the computer crashed..and none of it saved, all from trying to copy and paste the Spanish for Avocado. This is too stressful for very early on a sunday morning. I've set up a new blog on a different website-  Sorry Wordpress is useless!


(I will try and remember exactly what I wrote..) At the moment, I am sitting in my pyjamas and its about seven in the morning- still jetlagged, even though its been a week since I left the comfort and safety of the UK and everyone else. The house is silent as no one else is up yet- this jetlag has left me bailing on nights out..completely unheard of so it must be serious. It is fair to say I am loving it here. Arequipa is mostly what I envisaged- a sprawling city at the foot of three volcanos with an old colonial centre with a divide here between that and the slums. I've spent quite a lot of time sitting on the colossal Cathedral steps watching yellow taxis whiz around the square narrowly missing each other, many stray, seemingly wordly stray dogs go about their business dodging them. Foreseeing that the altitude of the city would take some getting used to, I spent two days sleeping managing I think to not really notice the difference in air between here and Lima and certainly not get 'altitude sickness'. I am really happy to be here.
They call Arequipa the city of 'Eternal Spring' and its easy to see why. Apparently I've arrived in 'wet-season' meaning that excursions that I wanted to do such as the three day trek across to Misti (Arequipa's most iconic volcano) isn't advised because the ash is too slippery. However, I've seen little rain so far- on the contrary its been really hot but nice.


I've had two days at HOOP- (Helping Overcome Obstacles Peru), the school is in the poorest slums of the city, a district called Flora Tristan. The kids are great- very friendly and talkative, most keen to learn English. Some are as young as four and are too shy to talk up in class which means I get to practice my Spanish. I've found that Peruvian Spanish is really great- it is spoken slowly and clearly, and unlike on the continent, when speaking to native speakers they are happy to have a conversation and don't try and correct you. It is a half an hour trek to the school by public bus- a mini bus that runs a long a busy route in to the centre which basically means you run at its swinging doors whilst its moving at about 20 mph. It is the kids summer school really, meaning that its a short day. Lessons begin at 10:15 and finish at quarter to twelve with a half an hour play in the Gaucho (playground) afterwards with footballs and skipping ropes which is good fun. Managed to find three girls which a mutual love of horses so, so far, I've spent my time skipping about and playing with them.


The food of Arequipa is questionable. Mostly you get what you pay for and I've had some great meals out so far. All are relatively cheap- one of the housemates I share with has got himself a job at the Peruvian version of Mitchel and Star and apparently meals there go for 120 soles or thirty pounds which is by far the most you'd probably pay here. Last night, we found a quirky Spanish Tapas bar which two of my friends loved as they hadn't been home to the UK and Belgium respectively in six months and had missed cheese and 'good ham.' I just missed good wine- Peruvians seem to be under the impression they can re-create or rival Chilean and Argentinian wine..definitely not. Another good meal I've had is Abarzo- a beef stew with Amarillo (a Peruvian Chile) for 10 soles. Coming in at the worst was el menu a dia (a deal for 9 soles in which you get three courses) which sounded good on the board outside 'pescado con arroz'. I was further convinced by seeing the crowd inside consisted of wealthy looking bussinessmen. It was revolting- an avocado served up with the worst sort of mayonaised vegetables to start, then the fish with rice then an orange jelly. Coming back to the house, I was informed that places like that really were only for emergencies.


In terms of the place being dangerous- so far I've come to feel mostly like at night if I've been by myself for a little bit, as at danger as I would be in Lawrence Hill in Bristol. I did one unwise thing of hailing down the first Cab I saw when going into town (Taxi Libre- not a respectable taxi firm, if its a taxi firm at all), agreeing the fare for five soles only to find he didn't have I.D. Still, it was fine and I won't be doing that again...You hear of bad things even with the good taxi companies and I'm cautious because where I live is relatively far out of town and there are no other Gringos (westerners) living near by, as hostels are based around the Plaza. Not sure if that makes any difference or not.


I've been to one Gringos party scene so far- an Irish hostel called Wild Rovers which has two sister hostels in La Paz and Cusco. Partied the night away with Brazilians and Germans but turned up with two Peruvians who knew and loved the Inbetweeners and called one another wankers. It doesn't feel that far from home.


People are starting to wake up around me. Today we are taking the kids with the highest attendance records at the school to a waterpark (similiar excursions run every month to reward consistent and well-attending kids). Entry is three soles so we're all left wondering if swimming is a good idea or whether its going to be a bit gross. Still I'm looking forward to getting in a bikini as I hear the UK is under three foot of snow or something.

1

I'm Izzy, 19 years old and very close to going off to South America. On the sixth of January 2013, I leave idyllic, peaceful and bubble-like Bath, Somerset for Arequipa, Peru to begin my eight months on the other side of the world.

6th January- Miami
So I'm not even in the continent yet as currently I am facing a seemingly long wait of nine hours at Miami Airport, gateway of the Carribean and South America- place of boulchy immigration and to what I imagine is my first taste of native South Americans!  After establishing that I wanted a pen at this cafe by my gate, I realise my Spanish just isn't that good and the staff are circling like sharks to ensure I return said pen- its very distracting and will probably cause writer's block.
I am so unbelievably tired and cannot grasp that A- I'm no longer in the UK as I haven't been outside in hours and B, I'm going to the continent I've wanted to go to for years. Hmm..also C, I've left familarity in a haze of fatigue and other things... and won't return for eight months. My journey's started and I can't acknowledge it.
If I'm honest I want someone I know here with me now- I'm pretty lonely which is a feeling that will return to me at some points during the next eight months. I'm asking myself, have I in fact for once taken on something too ambitious. I'm determined but I'm worried that I've been too blasé about S.A and it is just as dangerous as the cynics say. I'm lacking energy and the sharks want their pen back. Will update in a bit, with a bought pen!
7th January- Lima
So I've landed and I wonder how long it will take me not to write in this diary so much. I've got a pen! Ran off with it in the Cruz Del Sur bus terminal after acquiring it to unlock a padlock that I managed to fuck up somehow. Basically it locked without me confirming a combination code on my backpack- looking back it was definitely because my head wasn't in the game and I had already been panicing on arrival in Lima. Most people will know now probably of how badly I got ripped off on one taxi fare..I obviously look like the timid girl who would pay anything as long as it got me to a bus terminal and out of smoggy and grimy Lima. This is the last time that approach will work. My card got rejected so I couldn't even really pay him leaving me wondering more this time what I'd do about budgetting and money full-stop. I remember actively deciding that I didn't care about being ripped off this one time with made up exchange rates- too tired and too worried.
Lima is not growing on me but after a fresh change of clothes I feel better. No wonder no one has anything nice to say about the capital! The Peruvians seem a little reserved but genuinely kind. Ahh...had to pinch myself I'm here!! My mind carries on wandering...just as well as this wait is eight hours.