Snapshot of the Week(s): Drivin’ USA

We haven’t written anything for a good while now. We haven’t just been lazy bums, we have been stupid busy since we left the Bahamas just over two weeks ago. We’ve been to seven states, three National Parks, driven 2316 miles (I counted) and had nowhere near enough sleep. You can see our Lego selves in our first stop, New Orleans, in the famous Jackson Square.

It all started back in Florida, where we spent our first night in the US of A sleeping on a bench in Fort Lauderdale airport. As far as airport sleeps go it wasn’t actually too bad, but it was hardly a glamorous introduction to our US adventure. From there we took an early flight to New Orleans where our tour could start in earnest.

NOLA was everything we hoped it would be. It’s very difficult to portray the feeling in the city without resorting to cliché, but the best word I can think of for the place is that it’s fun. The famous French Quarter positively buzzes with live music; jazz and blues and rock ‘n’ roll, street performers and artists decorate every corner and smells from the incredible Cajun and Creole cookery are almost as intoxicating as the liberal amounts of alcohol flowing day and night down Bourbon Street. We spent pretty much all our days wandering the streets, dodging the baking heat as much as possible and avoiding the occasional torrential downpour. We took a cookery class, did a graveyard tour and did a late night bar crawl, taking in the full range of opportunities the Big Easy has to offer. We were sad to leave when we ran out of time there, but we had a Steve to pick up in Vegas.

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St Louis Cathedral.
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Bourbon Street.
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A rather revolting “hand grenade.”

When we arrived in Vegas things got a little interesting.  Steve arrived, quite a bit little later than planned but otherwise in good health, but his bag (which included some clothes of ours also) had not made the connection. Luckily the nice chap at JetBlue customer services assured Steve that his bag would be on its way to our accommodation the next day. Reassured, but no less tired, we made the 3-hour journey to our lodge in Utah which neighboured Bryce National Park, arriving at a solid 4am. Although we had kept the lodge posted on the delay, it seems sleep had overcame them, resulting in some very ungainly banging and shouting on our parts. We managed to wake the poor owners and get a solid 3 hours’ sleep. The most frustrating part? Mark and I had booked the more expensive flight, so we arrived at a similar time to Steve and with plenty of wiggle room to get to the lodge at a reasonable hour. OH THE IRONY.

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Wow.

The next day revealed two things to us – 1) even with minimal sleep Bryce is an absolutely stunning destination, and we had a cracking day. 2) Steve’s bag wouldn’t be joining us in Utah that day. Or the next day. Perhaps the day after, when we’d already left though. 3 further hours on the phone later, and we were reassured that the bag would be with us in Vegas, by the following day, at 5pm. Definitely. Totally. 100%.

We spent the next day at Zion National Park, which though very busy – cleverly I arranged for us to visit on a Saturday in the Kids’ holidays – was absolutely amazing. Sadly, we had to leave fairly early to pick up Steve’s bag.

You can guess the rest I bet. Long story short: We didn’t get the bag back until two cities later, in San Francisco. On the plus side, Steve got some sick new threads at JetBlue’s expense.

As we’d dithered at the airport for so long, and then went shopping to replace our party clothes (Vegas is notoriously picky about these things) we arrived at the Strip after midnight, and proceeded to spent the next 7 hours, not clubbing or gambling (not quite budget traveller pastimes, after all), but drinking tinnies, people watching and climbing into fountains. It was a blast.

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The infamous strip.
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A sunrise dip.

One hungover day visiting the Hoover Dam, followed by another delightful 3am wake-up for the 5 hour drive to San Diego. San Diego was a combination of marine life watching and eating Mexican food, but sadly we didn’t have time to check out the city itself. I think the lack of sleep and the sheer amount of driving had caught up with us a little. This in mind, we awoke the next day at 4am to drive the 540 miles up the coast to San Francisco. We were supposed to be going to see a baseball game in the evening but the start time had changed to lunchtime, so we stood no chance of making it. Instead we drove up the Pacific Coast Highway and made a day of it. We drove through Los Angeles at rush hour, enjoying (not the right word) its notorious traffic, then cruised up the coast through Malibu to Santa Barbara where we stopped for an insane breakfast. From there it was another few hundred miles up the beautiful coast to San Fran, where we were staying with our friend Josh who we met down in Patagonia back in March. The drive itself was one hell of an experience, something of a bucket list moment for me, but I was glad to arrive in the city, over 12 hours after we set off. We watched Josh play softball (he won, convincingly), had a few beers and some incredibly spicy hot wings and passed out, somewhat exhausted.

As well as doing all the touristy stuff (a hell of a lot of Golden Gate Bridge photos), Sadie had the delights of a dentist appointment to deal with. As South America does not have a reputation for particularly safe dentistry, she had held off until she could see a clinician without the risk of infection/death. As much as nobody wants to go to the dentist when visiting a city, it was a huge relief to get rid of the pain that had been bothering her on and off since Christmas. Once the (hilarious) anaesthetic had worn off, we could still spend a productive afternoon in the city, capped off by an evening watching a pod of passing humpback whales off the shore.

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See? Bridge, innit.

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From San Fran, we had a lovely jaunt to Yosemite planned, which (of course) meant another ridiculously early start. Yosemite is only about 200 miles from San Fran but the roads aren’t great, meaning that it takes a while to get there. It is an incredibly beautiful place but it is SO busy, especially on weekends. Even with this in mind, it was one of the most beautiful places we have ever been to.

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After an incredibly sweaty evening in a nearby lodge, complete with a tarantula spotting, we were more than happy to return to Josh’s beautiful San Francisco flat (sans Josh sadly, as he had departed for Italia, until our reunion in Nashville in a few weeks). Words cannot really describe how grateful we are, not only to have been able to stay with Josh, but to have had the opportunity to kinda play-act living in the city for the last week. We’ve spent a lot of time people watching, drinking in parks and wandering around beautiful hipster neighbourhoods. Tie dye and flowers are everywhere, being a foodie is seemingly obligatory and colourful bongs line shop windows. Honestly, the only downside to SF is the price tag – I can only imagine what hippies of the past would think of an eight of marijuana selling for $60.

Originally when we first planned our great USA jaunt, we both said San Francisco was somewhere we would happily have stayed for a couple of weeks, but after a quick peek at the accommodation options (£70pp for a crappy dorm bed!) we quickly realised this was not within our budget. To have met Josh back in Chile, and has the opportunity to stay with him was beyond lucky, and as a result this city has rocketed to the top of both our lists (and Steve’s). So THANK YOU so very much Josh, for showing us your beautiful home and current hometown. We’ve both mused about returning for a workaway stint, so I’m afraid you haven’t seen the last of us yet (sorry).

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Next stop avec Steven: Vancouver. Poutine, maple cinnamon whisky shots, the infamous Grouse Grind… it’s gonna be sweet.

Snapshot of the Week: Bahama Dreamin’

The last week has, without a shadow of a doubt, been the easiest week of our 8 months or so on the road. But for the generosity of Sadie’s Aunt Barbara, it wouldn’t have been possible. As it stands, we have spent 7 nights on Long Island, what Wikipedia calls “the most picturesque island in the Bahamas,” (quite an accolade), and we are not going to disagree with them.

Getting to Long Island was an interesting experience. After an overnight stay in Nassau airport, we walked to our gate to see what was essentially a large tin can with wings. There’s no way we’re on that, we thought. We thought wrong. The plane was so small that passengers were arranged according to weight to keep the balance right. There was no separate cockpit so you could see the pilots from your seat – apparently hijacking isn’t really a thing in the Caribbean. Still, it was probably the most interesting flight we’ve ever been on, and arriving at Deadman’s Cay (how cool is that name?) airport was definitely the least stressful airport experience we’ve had, as the terminal is the size of a petrol station all-night shop, and someone brings you your bag on a hand-pulled trailer. They even have a picnic table next to the runway, to have a cheeky beer while you wait. We knew then that it was going to be good.

Our days here have consisted of being chauffeured around the island by our hosts, seeing stunning beach after stunning beach, napping and drinking rum. I am struggling to think of a better way to pass a week. The beaches come straight from a holiday brochure – all white sand, water so blue that it looks Photoshopped, sunny skies and palm trees at a rakish angle like they too are getting into the relaxed, Caribbean spirit. The best thing about them, though, is that they are completely deserted. These beaches in other parts of the world would be teeming with tourists, touters and tat-merchants. Here you have them entirely to yourself. It is bliss.

 

We paddled with piggies, strolled down beaches and enjoyed Long Island’s regatta and my aunt’s adorable little boat. We also dived into the world’s deepest blue hole, which was more than a little heart-pounding.

Unless you have a fat wallet, Long Island isn’t somewhere you’d generally visit. Of the total population on the 80-mile-long island (less than 3000 people) we could count the tourists we’ve seen on two hands. Bahamas isn’t exactly a cheap destination to begin with, but Long Island and the Family Islands (i.e. the quieter, smaller islands) are pretty much reserved for the honeymooners and the wealthy Americans (God bless that almighty dollar). Combined with my aunt’s beautiful home, brilliant tour-guiding skills and endless supply of liquor, we feel incredibly lucky to be here.

Now, we will be the first to correct anyone who says our daily life is just like “a holiday”. It’s not. Although I happily spam social media with gorgeous photos, and feel incredibly lucky to see the amazing things we have, for obvious reasons we omit the bad stuff.

The days we spent willing the electricity, the water or the Wi-Fi back on. The overnight stays in airports, bus stations, and quite memorably, the street. The 24-hour bus rides or the days locked away in a hostel room with catastrophic diarrhoea.  The hours spent planning, working, or generally doing chores. While some days ARE absolutely holidays, a lot have just become…well…life. We don’t expect sympathy – we chose this, absolutely love it, and would much rather be here than working – but it isn’t all fun and games all of the time.

(Note: The next time you see a boastful, beautiful insta-traveller, showing of her perfect manicure and beautiful villa, just remember that 90% travellers get the shits. It makes me feel better anyway.)

HOWEVER, this week, we will eat a massive slice of humble pie and admit that this has been one hell of a holiday! Backpacking is hard? Pfffft.*

It’s time to move on tomorrow and return to budget travelling. We have an overnight stay in Fort Lauderdale airport (see?) and then on to New Orleans. I think it’s safe to say we’re both crazy excited to start our USA tour, as well as a little nervous at what this country will do to our poor, battered bank balance. We’ve got gumbo, voodoo, jazz and ghost stories to sample, then it’s onto the Sin City and its surrounding natural beauty. Next time you hear from us we’ll be in Nevada, shooting dice and with money burning holes in our pockets*, as well as with our good friend Steve in tow. It’s going to be a blast.

 

* We would also add how wonderful it has been, just to exist in a normal, family home for a little while. Sitting on the sofa, making dinner in a proper kitchen and going to the same bed every night has been honestly, pretty glorious.
**We will not be doing this. Our budget does not cover gambling, despite Mark’s assurances to the contrary.

Snapshot of the Week – Saying Goodbye

We are no longer in South America! Four and a half months, eight countries and god knows how many miles later, we flew out of Cartagena in northern Colombia to the Caribbean and the USA, our hearts full of both sadness that we were leaving and excitement for the next leg of our trip.

Following our last post, we had about a week left in Colombia. We’d heard bad things about Bogota – it’s reputation is of being a boring, dirty and crime-ridden city – but we really enjoyed it. It helped that our apartment was gorgeous and the weather was better than we dared hope for, but we spent our days wandering the streets of the historic centre… and shopping for tons of souvenirs. We bought a hammock for crying out loud.

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Our view. Not bad, eh?

From Bogota we headed to Santa Marta, but not before another cancelled flight with the always entertaining Viva Colombia. You will remember last time that our flight simply didn’t exist when we got to the airport. This time they had the courtesy to let us know our flight was cancelled, and instead we would have to take the afternoon one instead – as long as we confirmed of course. For this change they gave us a whole 11 hours notice. Nice, eh? A few hours on the phone, some passive aggressive tweets and some actively aggressive emails later, our itinerary was changed and we would leave a few hours later than we planned. Ah well, more time for shopping.

When we landed in Santa Marta we noticed one thing – the heat. We were back in the tropics, that was for sure. It was overwhelming, and even by the time we got into the taxi a whole 15 yards out of the terminal door we were dripping with sweat. Thank god for air conditioning. Santa Marta wasn’t the most amazing town in the world but it was pretty in places, and the nightlife on the Friday we arrived was fun, featuring street BBQ and a live band whose frontman went nuts on some kind of South American giant recorder. We actually went to Santa Marta to visit nearby Tayrona National Park, but the insane heat and corresponding hordes of mosquitoes put us off doing a hike, so we spent our last day on the beach instead. We had such a nice day that we didn’t even feel guilty about it.

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Sick clothing. Skin cancer is a serious business, folks.

Our next and final stop on the continent was Cartagena. It’s an absolutely beautiful colonial town, and as a popular cruise stop, it has long been considered a tourist hotspot, unlike the rest of Colombia. Even my Nana has been there (on a cruise, she isn’t exactly the backpacking sort) back in the 90s. It is easy to see why. The old town is full of tiny little streets just begging to be wandered, brightly coloured houses with slanting roofs, draped in ivy and bougainvillea. In fact the only thing that stopped us staying in the old town non-stop for three days was, once again, the blistering heat. The mercury nudged past 35°C every day we were there, and the humidity was well above 80%. This caused forays out of the shade to be actually painful and thus it limited our time that we could spend exploring a place where we could happily have got lost for ever. Luckily, we met a couple from London at our Airbnb who were more than happy to knock back the beers with us, so chilling at home in the shade was fun anyway. These guys had done a very similar trip to us, but with one notable difference: they had done it in a campervan. They were in Cartagena to arrange the shipment of their van (they called it “the Bongo”) back to the UK, which sounded like a colossal bureaucratic ball-ache, but I must admit I felt a pang of envy at their adventure.

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Cartagena you pretty.
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Posing twerp #1.
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South America’s final selfie.
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Posing twerp #2.

We also had to spend a good chunk of our last day once again re-arranging a flight. Our next stop after Colombia was the Bahamas, but to get there we had to get to Fort Lauderdale first. Originally we had 2 hours and 45 minutes to make our connection in FL, which would have been tight but do-able. However, JetBlue Airlines decided to move our flight back just over an hour, meaning that there was no chance of us making our second flight on to Nassau, so we had to cancel and book a different, more expensive flight. Even after we did this, the joy that is US customs and immigration nearly caused us to miss our connection anyway. 1 hour and 45 minutes after landing, we finally were able to grab our bags and sprint through the airport to our check in desk, where we made our flight by the skin of our teeth.

A night in Nassau airport and a flight on a washing machine with wings later, we arrived in Deadmans Cay, Bahamas. Of all the places we have been in over 50 countries around the world, this has by far and away the best name of all of them. It is also one of the most beautiful. We are staying with Sadie’s aunt (which is a relief as the hotels on this island are insanely expensive) and being spoiled rotten. We plan on chilling out, snorkelling and drinking rum for the next week or so before heading back North to the USA – and through their delightful customs and immigration again. Yay. Next time you hear from us will be in New Orleans, where jazz and gumbo will be the order of the day. Take a look at our personal highlights of South America for some ideas if you fancy a trip!

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Hey Bahamas!

Snapshot of the Week: Ecuador-able.

Ok, we play pretty fast and loose with the definition of “week.” Never mind. We have blasted our way through another country so it’s time to write some inane crap about it so you can laugh at us. Our Lego chaps took this time to find Jesus, hence the giant and rather beautiful church behind them.

Our story picks up where we left off, in Cusco, Peru. Specifically at the airport, where we managed to miss our flight. Did you know that flights close an hour before departure in Peru, even domestic ones? No, me neither. Anyway, some begging and gentle bribery later (we gave him sweets), the nice chap from Star Peru popped us on another flight and we were on our way to Lima. From there we headed to Mancora, which was honestly kind of a disappointment. We were looking forward to getting our beach and party on, but the town was pretty dead and unfortunately still deep in recovery mode from the recent floods. Consequently, the town was crawling with bugs and swarming with mosquitoes, which is never pleasant. Still, we made the best of it before leaving in the middle of the night to head to Cuenca, across the Ecuadorian border. Incidentally, at this border – one of the most prolific drug smuggling routes in the world – the police searched people’s bags. This is understandable of course. It took bloody ages, and all the more so because they DIDN’T HAVE A BLOODY DOG. Honestly, I swear they don’t actually give a shit about the drugs, they just have to look like they’re doing something. (In fact, that is definitely the case).

Anyway, Cuenca. Cuenca was back up at altitude and very pretty. We’d checked the forecast in advance and were prepared for a solid few day of rain, but shockingly (for us at least) we actually had a couple of lovely sunny, cool days, wandering the streets and visiting the nearby national park…which looked strangely a lot like the Peak District. This experience was marred somewhat by one big error in judgement on our parts – we went for a hair cut. In Mark’s case, it went pretty well, albeit rapidly (seriously, like 5 minutes), so I made the unwise decision of saving a few pennies ($5 as opposed to the god-knows-how-much I would have shelled out in the Bahamas in a few weeks). THIS WAS A BAD IDEA. I asked, repeatedly, for just a couple of cm off. I’ve been growing my hair for donkey’s years and only needed a little off to freshen it up. Unfortunately, the mean bad lady decided she knew best. In under ten minutes of dry cutting, I lost about 4 inches of hair. If you’re a boy reading this, you may shrug. If you are a girl, FEEL MY PAIN.

Anyway, we moved on (geographically speaking – I’m still crying inside) to Montanita a few days later, with more than a little bitterness and some anxiety about the bug situation which lay ahead. Luckily, we had no need to worry. Despite being insanely close to the equator, Montanita was a much cleaner, less buggy, altogether way more fun version of Mancora. Now we are not ones for “party towns” as a whole. Although we both like a night out (well, I do) and a beer or two (well, Mark does) our travel style is less “lash lash lash” and more “bit of culture, then Netflix and bed”. It’s not the drunken revelry as such, or even the accompanying overpriced food/beverages/clothing. It’s more this feeling that we Westerns have taken over a town and basically replicated our home countries, complete with chips, sex and shitty 90’s dance…only with less laws and less clothing (I’m looking at you Koh Phi Phi). Now, no one is going to call Montanita the cultural capital of anywhere – it is a partying surf town after all – but thanks to an avoidance of tack and the inclusion of a bunch of Ecuadorian tourists, it managed to get the balance just right. We had a cracking time, met a delightful Bostonian-cum-Texan called Chris, and had our usual night out followed by Mark drunkenly wandering off. The latter bit was less fun.*

We spent our last day in Montana visiting Isla de la Plata, which are supposed to be like a mini-Galapagos, or a Galapagos for poor people. We saw sea turtles, and exotic birds aplenty, included the hilarious-looking and equally hilariously named blue-footed booby. We also took this opportunity to get sunburnt to shit.

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Don’t know if they were kissing or fighting but we are going to assume the former.

Our final stop in our brief Ecuadorian adventure was 24 hours in Quito, which was basically a break in our journey on to Colombia, but a very pleasant one. Now, here comes the shameful admission: as you guys know, I plan ahead like the OCD madwoman I am, and generally this has worked out pretty damn well. Other than the odd “I wish we had another day here” or “I wish we had known about that place/could change our plans”, up until Cusco we didn’t really regret travelling this way at all. Given our vague disappointment with Mancora (and the forced flight we needed to get there in time) and the glowing reviews people had given Colombia, we were already somewhat regretting not allocating a bit more time there. Add in that we had booked a very expensive and entirely unnecessary flight from Quito-Bogota months back (we trusted the British Government website when it said the border was insanely dangerous – apparently it really isn’t anymore) and we were feeling REGRETFUL. We even tried to get a refund on the flight – intending to sacrifice a solid 24 hours on a much cheaper bus journey – but could only get about 75% of it back.

You can imagine the irony then, when we turned up at the airport, for our unnecessary, overpriced and regretful flight, only to find out IT NO LONGER EXISTED.

That’s right folks. Our airline hadn’t just cancelled the flight, they had terminated their entire contract with Quito Airport. Sadly for us, we had booked through a third party, Kiwi.com, who allegedly knew nothing of the sort, and thus didn’t let us know. In fact, they had confirmed the flight a mere 72 hours before. Very generously, they booked us on a flight 15 hours later (ha) and gave us a few dollars for a room and some grub. No refund for our accommodation in Bogota, no compensation for the 5 hours we spent chatting on the phone to them, the day we had lost in Bogota or the fact that had we known a few days earlier we would have got the damn bus and saved a fortune! Forgive my French, but what a bunch of fucking cunts.

Anyhoo, we finally arrived in Bogota yesterday. The sad part is, although the Quito hotel we were forced to stay in was absolutely beautiful, the apartment we had booked in Bogota rivalled it entirely. Seriously, look at that view.

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Coming soon to an IKEA catalogue near you.

Lastly, our next week in South America is our last. One week today and we’re leavin’ on a jet plane and heading North, via the Caribbean. Be rude not to, wouldn’t it?

 

*He’s sorry. Very sorry.

 

 

 

Snapshot of the Week: Macchu Pissing it down

As those of you who have been following our story know (and if you haven’t why not?), we haven’t had the best of luck when it comes to the persistent scourge of the British – the rain. Thankfully, as we headed to Cusco, the dry season was in full swing, so our 5-day hike across the Salkantay Pass to Macchu Picchu would be unaffected by drizzle and downpour, and instead we would bask in glorious sunshine as we soaked up the scenery. Probably.

As we arrived in Cusco, we were pleasantly surprised. What we had half-expected to be a small mountain town, famous only as a gateway to Macchu Picchu and the surrounding Sacred Valley, turned out to be a fairly large city, with a stunning historical centre full of churches, little cobbled streets, great restaurants and beautiful plazas. The only downside to Cusco was the fact that there are so many tourists. I appreciate the irony of a tourist complaining about this but bear with me. There are two types of traveller in this part of the world: Backpackers and holidaymakers. Where there are the former, prices are low. Where the latter tread, prices correspondingly rise. In Cusco, there were both types present, meaning that we (who are most definitely in the former category), have to battle with the prices that those on their 2-week holiday have brought with them. Bearing in mind how poor Peru is as a country, some of the prices in restaurants, bars and shops in Cusco were not a long way shy of disgraceful. That said, there were still plenty of bargains to be had, it just took a good Google before leaving the apartment.

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Before our trek, we had a few days to acclimatise to the altitude before heading off on the hike. Cusco is at 3300m above sea level, so not as high as Lake Titicaca or the Salt Flats that we had previously visited, but more than enough to make you think twice about the six flights of stairs up to the apartment (*wheeze*). We spent those days in the Sacred Valley, at the Incan ruins of Ollantaytambo, Chinchero and Picay with our Canadian friend, Obaid, as well as buying yet more crap made of alpaca fur. We also got our first glimpse of Peruvian rain the day before we left, which was a little surprising as we were in dry season, but it was only a temporary blip, best get it out of its system before the hike. We bought some snacks, rented our gear and went to our ridiculously late briefing before our 4am pickup the following day.

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Sacred Valley

Day one was a cloudy affair, but we had the novelty of sleeping in an igloo under the stars which kind of made up for it. A trek up to Humantay lake was enough to test our legs on the first day and, although the view was stifled by low clouds it was still a very pretty lake. Anyway, it was only a practise for the following day, the 4620m Salkantay pass.

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We awoke at stupid o’clock the following morning to see a blanket of thick, swirling pea soup over the mountain. Trudging up the valley at a glacial pace, it soon became clear that this would not be lifting any time soon. 4 hours later, at the summit of the Pass, we saw absolutely fuck all. What should have been amazing scenery was completely obscured by fog, and to add insult to injury it started hail-stoning through the drizzle. Dry season my arse. Not only was this incredibly disappointing and disheartening, it was depressingly familiar after our misadventures in Patagonia. Surely this couldn’t happen twice?

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Our view of the Salkantay Pass…
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… and what it’s supposed to look like

Unusually, the summit was nowhere near the day’s end goal. We had at least another 7 hours to go, most of it downhill, which sounds easy. Sadly, as we got over the mountain, it became evident that we had been in something of a rain shadow on the ascent side, so on the descent it absolutely threw it down. At the lunch stop 3 hours later, everyone was drenched and miserable. Why had we paid for this? Our waterproofs had long given up the fight and we had still seen nothing of the scenery. Still another 3 hours from our end camp with the rain firmly set in, we departed our mess tent in low spirits, for the first time ever seriously contemplating quitting a hike. We weren’t physical wrecks, but we were so miserable what was the bloody point?

We were heading down to our camp in the jungle. Our guide had warned us that this place was full of insects and therefore had strongly recommended that we get there before dark. This brought us up against the next obstacle of the day – the group’s pace. We were clearly the fastest two of the eleven of us in our party (along with a Canadian girl named Britany who seemed to find the whole thing a piece of piss.) It soon became obvious that if we waited for everyone else there was absolutely no chance we would get there before sun down, and we were not having that, so at the halfway point we told the guides we were off and blitzed it down the mountain.  The day’s rain had turned the paths into something Glastonbury would be proud of, but we were racing the sunset and we had no intention of losing. As we sped off through the quagmire, the rain mercifully slowed to a drizzle (that fine rain, soaks you through, worst kind of rain that fine rain), and we ignored our rapidly-growing blisters on our toes to arrive at the camp just as the last rays of sunlight dipped over the top of the valley. Success. We had a hot shower (amazing) and were clean and dry by the time the rest of the group arrived an hour later.

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Occasionally rain is pretty.

Thankfully the next day was dry, and was only a short one. A five-hour hike along a flat road, the only excitement coming from running over a recent landslide site for fear of death by tumbling boulder. The real problems were from the previous day’s efforts, Sadie’s feet were riddled with blisters and my shins were throbbing with shin splints. Hardly ideal. We arrived at the camp by lunchtime a little battered, and said goodbye to half the group who were doing the four-day version of the trek. Still we had a lazy afternoon which was pleasant, and made the decision not to do the optional Llacapata hike the next morning, simply due to the state of our feet and shins. This unfortunately meant some waiting around the next morning but there was not a lot we could do about that. We then hiked to the pretty (but again incredibly touristy) town of Aguas Calientes, our base for the night before Macchu Picchu the following morning.

4.30 am and we are queuing for the bus to MP, as I shall now call it. The only reason anyone is in this town is to visit the famous Inca city, so by 5am there is a line 500m long, 3 or 4 people wide, waiting for the first buses. I don’t know what the solution is, but this system is absolutely nuts. The only alternative to this is to walk and climb the almost 2000 stairs up to MP, but somehow at half four in the morning we didn’t fancy it, so the overpriced bus it was. I say overpriced, this bus was US$12 and took 20 minutes or so. In Peru you can get a three course lunch for US$3, so it was a bloody scam.

As the bus twisted and turned its way up the mountain, something became quite apparent – we could see jack shit out of the window. Our old friend fog was at it again. What made this even more heart breaking was that the previous day had been absolutely gorgeous. We had bumped into the four-day trekkers from our group at the hotel the night before, and they were all sporting some impressive-looking sunburn to go with their glorious photographs. This would obviously not be the case for us. We were given a tour around the city, unable to see anything more than 20 yards in front of us. Extremely pissed off, we made the decision to head up to the famous Sun Gate, the end of the Inca Trail, where the view is meant to be stunning. Obviously, we could see nothing. There was more fog than a Pink Floyd concert, and now it was cold and raining, so at the top we found a little shelter and waited. And waited. The cloud had to break at some point, right?

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Amazingly, it did. 2 hours of freezing our arses off later, the swirling mist lifted, and the famous view of the city materialised. We were left speechless, not to mention incredibly relieved. We took, at a conservative guess, one billion photographs, met a lovely American bloke from Portland called Steve who insisted we stay with him when we are in the North Eastern USA, and headed back down the mountain much happier. As we troped towards the exit alongside a few thousand other relieved tourists, the fog descended again and the city was lost again. It was visible for about an hour. Only this time with the fog, we got rain. We made the decision to return to town on foot, and arrived absolutely drenched once again. Kind of fitting really.

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Snapshot of the Week: Bye to Bolivia, Hello Peru

So when we last posted we were in a little hippy town in Bolivia. Since then we have spent an ungodly amount of time on buses, been to the highest navigable lake in the world, crossed into Peru, seen some condors and got drunk. It’s been an interesting week or so to say the least. Our Lego amigos can be seen at the staggeringly beautiful Colca Canyon in southern Peru, home to the giant Andean condors.

Our journey out of Samaipata to Copacabana (on Lake Titicaca, not the one in Rio de Janeiro) was a monster. A sweltering shuttle bus, a taxi that smelled rather alarmingly of petrol, a ridiculously long and winding coach ride, a freezing cold wait in a bus station and a minibus journey including a perilous-looking water crossing, and we arrived in Copacabana 30 hours later. Not only were we tired, dirty and  dishevelled, but also out of breath due to its not inconsiderable 4000m altitude. Still, our hostel was absolutely beautiful, the view was stunning and there were llamas in the garden (although these turned out to be evil), so we were pretty pleased with ourselves.

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View from our balcony of Copcabana town.

The pretty little lakeside town was the perfect cure for our travel-weary souls. Cheap, chilled and gastronomically varied, Copcabana overflowed with bargain alpaca goodies and hipster travellers. For the first time in our wanderings, we were absolutely surrounded by English accents and an all-too-familar herbal scent. Honestly, how they partook I cannot imagine, I could barely breath at that height never mind share my precious oxygen with a joint.

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Bitches love alpacas.

A few quiet and wonderfully cosy days spent recuperating were followed by a jaunt to Isla del Sol, a stunning island on the Bolivian side of the lake which served as a holy place for the Incan Empire. Bordered by azure waters, the island is dotted with llamas, terraces and preserved Incan steps, with the odd overpriced cafe selling local trout. We spent the day mosying around with an amusing 19 year old Croydon boy who was slowly partying his way across South America. The only downside to the day was the 2 hour boat ride to and from the island – devoid of travel sickness drugs, a speed over 10mph or a roof. BRR comes to mind.

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Gateway to the Incan Kingdom of Isla del Sol.

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Originally we had planned to make our way to Puno, the Peruvian town on the opposite side of the lake, before moving on to Arequipa, but last minute we decided to ditch the allegedly underwhelming Puno in favour of one more night in Copacabana and a “direct” bus to Arequipa. Now, I don’t know about you fellows, but paying double the usual rate for two bus journeys and a ninety minute wait in Puno, followed by an additional 3 hours of traffic jams, did not feel particularly direct. In the end we arrived at Arequipa late at night, tired and more than a bit irritable. The latter was probably not helped by the fact we had agreed to leave at 3am the following morning for a tour of Colca Canyon with a couple of Aussie mates we had met back in Mexico.

The Canyon itself was worth the ludicrously early start. The reason we went was for the condors, but the scenery was gorgeous, and we had a cheeky dip in some natural hot springs as a bonus. That night we were utterly knackered but glad we had done it.

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Colca Canyon.
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The world’s largest flying bird.

We spent Saturday here drinking, and Sunday suffering (well, Mark did anyway). Tonight we head off to Cusco, back in the mountains, to prepare for our Macchu Picchu trek for which we are woefully unprepared. Five days at altitude, in the cold, in tents, with big old bags, upset stomachs and a hell of a lot of steps… doesn’t sound too fun. We are both wondering why we signed up for it in the first place to be honest. That said, it is meant to be one of the most scenic treks in the world (however I believe we heard that about the W and look how that turned out…) and obviously Macchu Picchu tops a lot of travellers’ bucket lists, so the dread is tinged with excitement.

Whatever happens, it will be interesting to say the least. Wish us luck.

Oh yeah, and here is some photographic proof of the aforementioned llama attack:

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The best thing that ever happened. Ever.

Snapshot of the Week – San Pedro, Salt Flats, Sucre and Sickness

I love alliterative titles, is that sad? Probably. Do you know what else is sad? Missing a whole town on your tour because you can’t leave your hostel due to food poisoning. More on that later. First, look at our little Lego chappies enjoying the staggering, other-worldy scenery of the Atacama desert. Behind them are the Tres Marias, pillars of sandstone in a salty plain which… well I don’t know what they represent because I don’t speak Spanish, but they look cool.

We enjoyed San Pedro de Atacama and its surrounding desert, but the real reason we were in the Northern-most tip of Chile was a stop on the way to Bolivia, and the ridiculous natural beauty that this country possesses. After an early morning start (and a terrifying minibus ride later), we found ourselves at the rather chilly (or Chile?) and very casual Bolivian border, ready for a 3-day adventure. We were going to see some salt flats, but before that we had red lakes, geysers, altitude sickness, flamingos and multi-coloured deserts to look forward to.

So day one. Starting at 2500m and peaking at 5100m above sea level, we felt light-headed and then some. The locals recommend chewing coca leaves, which does help, but nothing can prepare the body for this kind of change in oxygen levels so quickly. Ploughing through the astoundingly beautiful Salvador Dali desert, both of us struggled to hold down our breakfast. Still, the natural scenery blew our minds a little. Photos don’t do the place justice, but frankly nor do my powers of description. Seeing a lake that is bright red, full of flamingos with an active volcano behind it is one of the highlights of our entire trip. A low point however, was our accommodation that night. 4200m above sea level, it was absolutely FUCKING FREEZING. It also wasn’t very soundproof, so we could hear the delightful effects the altitude was having on our fellow guests’ stomachs in the nearby bathroom. Lovely.

On the plus side – we watched Moana, the new Disney flick. Highly recommend.

The next day was also pretty amazing, with a variety of odd rock formations and llamas aplenty. That afternoon we arrived at the entrance to the flats and the famous ‘Salt Hotel’, which, unsurprisingly, is made almost entirely of salt. It was a massive step up from the previous accommodation (although technically it was a step down, at a far more palatable 3800m), complete with a private room and salt crystal floor.

We awoke at 4am for the sunrise. Now, for anyone who knows me, it is a fairly common fact that I a) love my sleep and b) could probably count the number of sunrises I have seen on two hands. However, I can honestly say I have never been more pleased to have been awake at such an ungodly hour. It was amazing. Wonderful. Mindblowing. Just look at the photos for goodness sake. LOOK AT IT.

 

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The day consisted of slack-jawed admiration, ozone-free, cancerous sun burn and the optical illusion poses now mandatory for this particular trip, taken with the help of our new Brazilian friends with whom we shared our 4×4.

We ended in Uyuni, with a plate full of chicken, which we were soon to regret. Oh so much regret.

During our thrilling eight hour wait in Uyuni for our overnight bus on to Sucre, Mark’s stomach started to rumble. Growl. Bellow. He then made very good friends with the restaurant toilet, and mid way through our – otherwise fairly comfortable – journey, he projectile vomited through the bus doors and set off a series of crying infants.

Arriving in Sucre worse for wear and definitively smellier, I was feeling smug. For once, I had not succumbed to the dreaded traveller’s diarrhoea, the bane of every backpacker. My stomach had finally developed into an iron clad cave of strength and digestion.

A little over an hour later I was bent over a toilet, and there I remained for the best part of three days. Sadly this meant I couldn’t even get through a dinner with a couple of brilliant Aussies we had met back in Mexico (who we persuaded to join us early in Sucre) without cuddling the nearest basin.

Thankfully, after a long day of travel, some SuperNoodles and a New Girl marathon, we are both on the mend and looking forward to exploring our home town for the next four days, Samaipata. Delightfully quaint, this wifi-free hilltop town is the new Mecca for hippies (AKA hipsters before hipsters were cool) and is the ultimate chill destination.

Essentially, the perfect place to nurse our shattered souls and battered bowels (apologies for the visual) get some much-needed miles in our legs and watch season five of New Girl. Hell, we may even do some yoga. Watch this space.

Snapshot of the Week(s) – Taking a Holiday from the World’s Biggest Holiday

We are getting super lazy with these blogs. We have an excuse though – we’ve been entertaining. In the verb sense of the word, not the adjective, although hopefully we are a little of both. As you can see, our Lego chaps are taking this to heart too, enjoying themselves at a lovely vineyard, savagely using pint glasses for a 2013 Malbec.

Last time we wrote a blog we had just done the W, were heading to Valparaiso and we were excited to be welcoming Mark’s parents to Mendoza a few days later. We are now back in Chile and the folks have been and gone, and we’re preparing ourselves for a new country tomorrow, Bolivia, which is Sadie’s 50th country!

I know this will make you roll your eyes at our #firstworldproblems, but non-stop travelling is actually pretty damn tiring. After the W trek we had a whirlwind few days in graffiti-laden, multi-coloured Valparaiso with our friend Josh who we met on the hike. Valpo was a wonderful surprise, a city where street art is on every single corner, funiculars run up and down the perilously steep hillsides and breath-taking views are around every corner. Even an enormous forest fire in the region couldn’t spoil our enjoyment. Two days later, we had to say our goodbyes as we headed to Argentina and Josh headed back to California.

We arrived in Mendoza and breathed a sigh of relief. Due to sharing with 4 people, we had a really nice apartment, and nine whole days in a town, so we could unpack, shop for more than one day at a time, do our washing, and just generally live rather than be on the go all the time. It was Sadie’s idea to stay for that bit longer – largely because juggling her work with being on the road can be somewhat frustrating when you only have a few days to experience a place. As a result, we made the most of our first few days there by doing precisely nothing, other than working and planning our Asia trip for Autumn (now all booked). We also solely ate in and did bugger all in the way of activities, in preparation for the pounding our wallets would take once the parents arrived.

We spent the week in Mendoza as a four being, frankly, ridiculously indulgent. We were spoiled rotten with the food, the wine (obviously) and the sunshine. We had enormous lunches, incredible steaks, toured vineyards and drove to the Andes to see Aconcagua in all its snow-capped glory. We drank more wine and ate more red meat than we had in all our previous weeks on the road combined. It was amazing.

 

All too soon, it was time to leave and head back to Chile. La Serena was a beach resort with not a whole lot going on, which was fine by us. We wanted a pool, a beach and a balcony, which we had. We broke up our week by taking a trip up the the unbelievably beautiful Elqui Valley, spending our days at what has to be the most stunning poolside I have ever been to, and our night stargazing at an incredible starry sky. Our cameras were incapable of capturing the night sky, but it left all four of us speechless and feeling very, very small.

We also had the opportunity to scratch something off Sadie’s bucket list. We went on a two-hour, twisty, bumpy drive to Punta Choros to go to the Isla Damas marine reserve. Here we spent a good chunk of our time on the boat being surrounded by a playful pod of bottlenose dolphins. The penguins, otters, sea lions and pelicans were all amazing, but the dolphins really were a highlight of our entire trip so far.

Our last few days by the Chilean seaside really flew by, and it was with more than a little sadness that we said goodbye to Mark’s parents. We had become used to our luxury, to our slower pace of travel, to a break from being on the go non-stop, and to having company. It also made us realise what we missed about home. When you’re travelling it is so easy to forget that your friends and family are continuing their lives without you. That although people may take a polite interest in your trip, when you are 10,000 miles away you don’t really play a part in their lives any more. The stark realisation made both of us quite homesick, and the only way we knew how to deal with this was to crack on Northwards.

We are writing this from the Atacama Desert in Chile. It’s a landscape like nothing else on earth. Honestly, it looks like the moon – and it’s at such an altitude that you get similarly light-headed. We head off to the salt flats of Bolivia in the morning, so we’ll see you on the other side.

As always, thanks for following, and sorry for being lazy bloggers.

P.S We only have 8 weeks left in South America before heading Stateside. Insane.

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Snapshot of the Week(s) – A Wet and Chile Adventure

It’s been an interesting fortnight since we last posted a blog. We left Argentina and headed to Chile, where we were to take on the W – a 5-day hike in the Patagonian wilderness, so named because the trail forms a 70km W-shape around the mountains of the Torres del Paine National Park. You can see our Lego hombres in the picture enjoying the scenery.

We maybe should have known what was awaiting us in Patagonia from our first few days in Chile. In a small, picturesque town called Puerto Varas, we were battered with torrential rain for two days before getting an absolute scorcher. We made the most of said weather by heading out to a volcano and some waterfalls, being treated to Chile’s ludicrously pretty scenery. If only such weather could be guaranteed. However, we left Varas full of excitement, and a little trepidation, at what was to come down at the Southern tip of the world.

The Torres del Paine National Park is located a few hours’ flight south of Varas, taking us to the fifth-most southern settlement in the world. Essentially we were more southern than David Cameron, an achievement in itself. A couple of days to acclimatise, sort our kit out and mentally prepare ourselves later, and we found ourselves on a bus to the National Park, and once we saw the famous Torres things started to get seriously real. As we checked in to our refugio, a kind of hostel meets hotel meets hiking shelter, we saw the weather forecast on the board – wet. Google had reliably informed me that we were due some showers, so I could make my peace with this, and we went to bed with a bit of a Christmas Eve feeling.

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Dinner with a view, night one.

We awoke the next morning, and the famous Torres had disappeared behind a veil of low cloud and a thick mist lay over our refugio. It’d clear later, I was sure. However, as we headed up the mountain it became clear that my certainty was somewhat misplaced. The fog thickened, and the rain began to fall, and fall hard. A 6 hour hike up to the base of the Torres and a spectacular viewpoint (or mirador as the Hispanophones romantically call them) revealed precisely nothing – we couldn’t see 20 feet into the pea soup. Slightly devastated, but a little sated in the knowledge that we had 3 more days to see some cool stuff, we headed back down the mountain as the rain kept pouring. I vowed that if the rain stopped overnight, I would head back up to the towers at sunrise with our new Aussie friend Tim, a man whose preparation for the hike didn’t include buying boots, trousers or gloves.

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The stunning Base Las Torres viewpoint.

5am came around, but I didn’t need my alarm to rouse us. Instead, the pounding rain on the roof of the refugio a few feet above my head in my third-tier bunk bed (these are scary) did that for me, and it was clear that dragging ourselves up a mountain in the pitch black and rain would be both pointless and dangerous. Instead, we had a late start, assured that day two was easy, a 5-hour hop, skip and a jump along the “shortcut” to Los Cuernos refugio. What hadn’t been accounted for was the effect of the previous few days’ rain. Within 200m of setting off, we got to a point where, the previous day, there had been a path. Now it was just a landslide, maybe 30m wide, of shale, mud and water falling down into the ravine below. Today was going to be fun. The path on the W frequently crosses little streams and rivers, but they pose no problem to hikers. Unfortunately today, these streams were anything from small rivers to raging torrents, all of which had to be negotiated on foot, or clambered across on bridging trees. We saw multiple people fall in and be washed downstream, soaked and battered. This wasn’t just hard going, it was downright dangerous. And still the rain fell. We arrived at Los Cuernos refugio damp both in person and in spirit, as not only is hiking in the rain a little depressing, but in two (very expensive) days we had seen precisely none of Torres del Paine’s famously stunning scenery. We played Jenga in our hostel with our new amigos, two Quebecois Canadians and a Californian named Josh, and it got intense, pretty quickly. We all resolved that tomorrow would be a better day.

Honestly, if there were one thing we should have learned from our experience on the trail, it’s that such aspirations were beyond misguided. Dragging on our still-soggy boots the next morning, we were greeted once again by our now all-too-familiar foggy companion. Unlike yesterday’s “moderate” walk of 6 hours, today included similar terrain and distance, but with the added 4-hour excursion up into the heart of Valley Frances – one of the park’s highlights and a notoriously difficult walk which has been closed the previous day. We left, worried that this walk would be closed and nervous that we would miss our last chance to see the famed Torres. This fear was compounded by a local guide, who claimed that in all her ten years hiking the park, she had never seen anything like the rain from the previous two days. That, in fact, the paths we had walked just the previous day should have been closed, were it not that the rainfall was so very unprecedented the park staff simply hadn’t reacted quickly enough. I asked her what she thought about Valley Frances, and with a shrug, she said “If there’s no view, there is no point.”

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There is a colossal mountain behind these clouds, I am told.

As we manoeuvred our way uphill it became quickly apparent the extent of the rain’s damage. The path has been replaced almost entirely with a stream, surrounded by a muddy terrain which could rival even Glastonbury’s finest fields. Hopscotching my way across the “path” I was plagued by two rivalling emotions. While I prayed that the path would remain open and we could chance a peek at Patagonia’s most famous valley, I was exhausted from the previous day’s antics and concerned that we’d be hiking up a potentially dangerous and certainly arduous terrain, to only, once again, be greeted by a wall of cloud. I don’t walk because I enjoy walking for the sake of it – I walk to actually see things, and I was becoming more jaded by the minute. Interesting then, that upon seeing that the path was indeed very closed, I felt a wave of anger. That we couldn’t even attempt to see what we had came all this way for, felt somehow worse.

As we trudged (what a wonderful word) our way on to the next refugio, the cloud began to lift a little, and actual rays of sunshine started to peek through. Bathed in glorious vitamin D, we managed to catch a glimpse of one the W’s amazing snow-capped peaks and the turquoise lake practically glowed in the sunlight. The weather continued to clear, and after settling into our fourth refugio, we comforted ourselves with the thought that our final day, which included a visit to the famous Grey Glacier, would redeem all our past misfortunes. On our very first night some fellow walkers, who had just completed their trek, heralded this day as their personal highlight (though, admittedly they had more to choose from) and the weather was most definitely on the up.

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This is what we came for.

This time, our hopes weren’t entirely in vain. While the sky turned a shade of grey-blue, the clouds began to lift and the Grey Glacier revealed itself in (almost) its full glory. Sadly, we couldn’t spare more than an hour at the mirador, and as we walked away the sky above the glacier cleared and we saw the full, magnificent extent of this almighty ice cube. Somewhat sated, we boarded our boat/bus combo home and were greeted with, what I can honestly say, is one of the the most bittersweet moments in my life.

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The beautifully blue Grey Glacier.

As we drove out of the park, the sky turned a brilliant shade of blue and the park revealed all the wonders it had hidden from us. It was almost absurd, looking at the snow capped peaks which framed every step we had taken the past 4 days, but simply could not see. The Torres reared their peaks like a cruel mirage. The mutterings on the bus were all the same: It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all…but at least, finally, we had seen what we came all this way for. The park truly did live up to every reputation which preceded it. It was worth the money. It was worth the effort.

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What it’s supposed to look like.

…But fuck the people arriving that glorious evening.

Snapshot of the week – Into Argentina

20170220_164647.jpgSo when we left you last time we were about to head off on a ferry across the Rio de la Plata into Argentina. We were both a touch nervous, with our money having being severely challenged by Uruguay’s daft cost of living, and with the slightly strained reputation of Anglo-Argentine relations. Within minutes of arriving in Buenos Aires however, our fears were allayed.

Our digs in BA were amazing. We stayed, as ever, in an Airbnb with an Argentine couple who had a beautiful house just out of the centre. As nice as the house was (with free espresso, a pool and Netflix – literally could have stayed there forever), the real stars of the place were Juaquin and Olivia. Not our hosts, but the resident Beagle and kitten. We both instantly fell in love with them, making it even harder to leave after our 6-day stint.

BA was a wonderful surprise. We were expecting a bit of a sprawling metropolis, complete with Latin America’s usual aversion to waste management. Instead we were greeted with what can only be described as a French-Spanish-Italian-English-Argentine fusion of architecture, food and people. A city founded largely by European immigrants, the sparkling tree-lined streets of its prosperous Northern neighbourhoods are filled with neoclassical buildings, with enough French balconies and cute little café’s to make even the almighty Paris a little green with envy. The city’s abundance of pizzerias and distinctive pizza style – a mixture between stone baked and deep pan with a LOT of cheese – are a huge source of pride and an everyday reminder of the city’s Italian heritage. Argentina’s three greatest loves – wine, beef and tango – were abundant and as brilliant as you would expect. You can even see our Lego selves doing a little Tango, unsurprisingly they were braver than we were.

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Unsurprisingly, given our status as stoic Europhiles, the city was just our cup of tea.It was one of the few places we have visited where we could utterly imagine living, and we were very sad to leave, but leave we must. Puerto Madryn’s wildlife-filled coastline beckoned, along with another delightful 19-hour overnight bus. But this was a different bus. This was a fancy bus. Mark begged us to book ‘Executivo’ – first class seating with comfier chairs and ‘dining service’ – I was too intrigued to resist. The experience started off well enough, with a very comfy reclining chair and suitably empty bus, but as dinner time rolled around, and we were greeted with a little snack pack of various biscuits and a cup of tea, we started questioning the hefty price tag (£100 for a damn bus journey). But, in true Latin American style, of course something else was in store. As the bells of midnight chimed (there were no actual bells, only a less ominous digital clock) we shushed our growling tummies and pulled the blankets over our tired heads, only to be greeted by, what else, our dinner. At 12.30am we tucked into a hot dinner with red wine aplenty, as you do.

On arrival in Puerto Madryn, slightly bleary-eyed but not too horrendous, we decided to spend our day planning how to see all the wildlife the area had to offer. Unfortunately, we were kind of stopped in our tracks by one small problem. Everything cost a bloody fortune.  Argentina’s continually turbulent economy has resulted in massive inflation across the board. Awful for locals, and cataclysmic for the country’s budding shoestring tourism. In Autumn 2016 the tour we wished to take was £35pp. At the date of writing, it is now £75pp. Thankfully, we met two brilliant English lasses who had sensibly rented their own car, and were willing to share. We had an incredible day frolicking with the Punto Tombo penguin colony, and our wallets breathed a sigh of relief. Due to our time and budget restraints, we were unable to visit the other major national park – Peninsula Valdes – which was a real shame, but the penguins alone were well worth the journey.

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Alright fella?
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One tiny bit of the colony.

Another 18 hour bus journey later – this country really needs to invest in a budget airline – and we found ourselves smack in the middle of the Argentine lake district, in the delightful town of Bariloche. This was an extreme source of relief, as at 7am the same day, swaying with sleep deprivation in the Esquel bus station, we made the startling realisation that Mark had printed off the wrong tickets, and our bus, for which we had no tickets, was leaving. Thankfully our bus driver understood our desperate pleas, and off we popped for a stunning journey through the alps.

Bariloche, our current residence, is simply beautiful. It looks like a little Swiss/German Alpine town, complete with St Bernard dogs and Milka. (Somewhat uncomfortably, this Germanic influence is at least in part present due to Bariloche being the desintation of choice for justice-fleeing Nazi war criminals, but we can gloss over that). The town itself is not the highlight though, the surrounding national park is what attracts travellers from across the globe. The pristine blue lakes, dense forests and dramatic mountains, interspersed with hiking trails are the perfect combination for those, like us, seeking a bit of fresh air and exercise, but not enough to batter our bodies into submission. That comes next week, when we hit the Torres del Paine. Watch this space.

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