Final Days in South America, Huacachina and Lima

Hola Chicos,

This will be our final blog entry and the last pearls of wisdom we’ll be sharing with you. Savour them. It has been an absolute pleasure keeping you all informed of our adventures, escapades and mishaps these past few months. Thank you for contributing multiple thousands of views to our blog. We couldn’t have done it without you.

When we left you last time we had just finished the Inca Trail and seen Machu Picchu in all its glory. The end of the Andean Adventure signalled the beginning of our final week in South America.
We decided to soothe our wearied muscles by going for a massage. Around Cusco’s central square – the Plaza de Armas - there were plenty of attractive Peruvian women offering an hour-long massage for an extremely cheap price; this bargain simply could not be missed. We opted for a Full-Body Inca Massage after quickly and firmly declining the offer to have a his-and-his massage. How an Incan massage is different to every other massage out there is still beyond us. We enjoyed our hour of pampering nonetheless.

The utmost planning had gone in to our Inca Trail booking so that we would be able to watch the Champions League Final upon our return. Our original plan had been to watch the final in Paddy's Pub, the highest Irish Pub in the world at 3400m. However, due to circumstances out of our control we did not quite make it to the Pub in time for Kick-Off. Nonetheless, the Final was memorable and we have to give our congratulations to Bayern Munich. We all know, however, that Manchester United should have won and were unfairly robbed (Please note that all views expressed in this previous sentence are those of Benjamin McCarthy only and should not be seen as reflecting the views of his co-authors or the blog as a whole. Manchester United were in actual fact eliminated fair and square.)

Our last night in Cusco was celebrated in (manly) style with pizza and 2 hours of poker - we were still feeling the need to regain our manhood after our massages. All this hard work was undone, however, when Ed and Ben booked themselves on a chocolate-making course. Nevertheless, these 2 hours of delight were definitely worth the sense of emasculation. We began with cacao beans, roasted them, peeled them, mashed them (we were declared the winners of the mashing competition, this time not by ourselves) and then turned them into godly chocolate. Our tour guide - who looked suspiciously like one of Willy Wonka's Oompa Loompas – completely fooled us when we made a typical Maya Hot Chocolate. She declared the secret ingredient to be human blood from the tongue. Ed had unwittingly volunteered himself and was about to have a glass shard stabbed through his tongue. Fortunately our tour guide decided honey was a preferable flavour to have in our drinks.

Ed, the blood sacrifice

CHOCOLATE!!

We finished by pouring our chocolate into moulds and adding flavours of our choice. The chocolate had been destined as presents for our families. Ed lasted a total of 2 minutes before deciding the chocolate looked too enticing and he had to gobble it all up himself. Tom was completely oblivious to the drama unfolding in the chocolate factory as he had remained at the hostel, glued to the Championship Play-Off Final, cheering on his beloved Crystal Palace at Wembley. After a nerve-shredding 120 minutes, his team clinched a return to the Premiership after 8 dire years in the 2nd tier of English football. He talked about little else for the next week.

Chocolate-making was our final activity in Cusco before we moved on to Huacachina, an oasis in the middle of the desert of South West Peru. The Quechua language was heard less frequently the further away from Cusco (the former Inca capital) we travelled. Quechua is the one of the official languages in Peru (as well as in Bolivia and Ecuador) and is extremely bizarre, verging on the unpronounceable. In fact, George Lucas deemed the language so ‘alien’ that some of the Star Wars extra-terrestrials use it as their dialect! As if we hadn't done enough adrenaline-seeking this trip, our activity here was sand-boarding. We spent the afternoon honing our non-existent board skills before facing substantial sand dunes which surround the idyllic town of Huacachina. We had not quite mastered the art of turning on our boards, so straight down the slope we went. We picked up some pretty rapid speeds – although how much control we really had is still open to debate. There are no chair-lifts in the desert so instead we were given the treat of being driven up the sand dunes by a loud and ferocious dune buggy. It is not often that the trip uphill is more exhilarating than the ride back down!

Ed getting some air

Ben getting some air

View over Huacachina

Our last bus journey of the trip took us to our final destination; Lima. Boy have we spent a lot of time sitting on buses - over 150 hours, almost a whole week! We headed out for our last supper together and lived out our highlights, of which have there been so so many. We cannot quite believe what a fantastic and varied trip we have had. We may as well give up the pretence of calling it a trip, it has been more like a 10-week holiday! We have enjoyed the beautiful beaches of Rio, the power of the waterfalls in Iguazú and ventured all the way south to the one of the largest glaciers in the world. We have survived some crazy nights out in a Rio favela, Buenos Aires and Curitiba to name but a few. We have scrambled to the summit of an active volcano, battled through the driest desert in the world and driven along the spectacular Salar de Uyuni Salt Flats. We took on the altitude and made our way to the highest capital city in the world and tackled the infamous Death Road. Even illness could not stop us as we trekked up and down mountains and through the Amazon rainforest on the Inca Trail. Having seen the high-octane adventures which came before, you can probably guess how we chose to conclude our expedition. It was only fitting that as our last activity we should see The Hangover III – throughout our 2 months travelling together we have definitely formed our own Wolf Pack. We’ll let you decide which of us played the role of Alan.

Now, as we all say goodbye to South America we also say goodbye to the blog and to you, our faithful followers. We hope you have enjoyed reading about all our adventures.

We’ve had a blast.

Adiós xxx

Inca Trail and Machu Picchu

Hola Chicos,

For months we had been looking forward to tackling the Inca Trail and visiting the ruins of Machu Picchu. We had booked our place on the 4-day trek as far back as January (crazy! Men can actually do a bit of planning) since permits to walk the Inca Trail are limited to 500 each day. This was to be the highlight of our trip. Alas, the night before we were due to start the Inca Trail, disaster struck. Ed had been afflicted with a stomach parasite which made his chances of doing the Inca Trail very slim. His Harley-Davidson-riding-Doctor advised him not to take on the Inca Trail or things could get a lot worse. However, nothing could stand in Ed's way. So, as our alarm went off at 4.45am, Ed, equipped with 5kg worth of medicine, made the heroic decision to take on the 43km hike.

DAY 1:
After an hour and a half van ride, during which we tried to catch up on missed sleep, we arrived at Ollantaytambo and met the rest of our tour group. We cannot believe how lucky we have been with our fellow voyagers so far and this tour was no different. A Canadian, two Americans, three Germans, and 5 stunning Norwegians. They would form an integral part of our next 4 days as we went through both thick and thin with them.

After our group was dubbed "The Sexy Llamas" by our tour guide Johan, the trail began at KM82 with a slight climb through the Andean mountains. The scenery is absolutely breathtaking, snow-capped mountains surrounded us on either side, exotic plants lined the side of the paths and after an hour, our first Inca ruin appeared 300 metres below us in the valley.

Llactapata

This site is called Llactapata (High Town) and was used by the Incas as a location where those about to use the surrounding Incan trails could trade goods. We were given this explanation by both Elias and Oscar - two of the most cheerful and cheeky tour guides we have ever met. We also discovered that the Inca Trail we were embarking on was used mostly as a pilgrimage and it is actually possible to reach Machu Picchu in 8 hours.... Not quite the same.

We were pleasantly surprised at lunch when we were ushered into a marquee with elegantly folded napkins, as if we were in the middle of a London restaurant. We were served a 3-course meal with food of an exceptional quality. How the chefs managed to whip up such tasty dishes in the middle of the Andean mountains is beyond us. One lunch they even managed to rustle up a cake! Yet again, as with the Salt Flat tour (see relevant blog entry), we were eating better than we had been for the rest of our trip.

Our dining room

The walk during the afternoon was very pleasant, with most of the kilometres lying along a flat ridge. Ed powered through and admirably got through the first day. We arrived into our campsite Wayllabamba at 4pm, and after another filling meal headed to bed, ready for our 5am wakeup the next morning.

DAY 2:

We had a 5 hour climb to reach Dead Woman's Pass, our first high pass of the trek at 4198m. We believed we had grown accustomed to the high altitude after 3 weeks of not venturing below 2,500m. However, for the last 200 metres of the climb the absence of oxygen was taking its toll on some of our group, meaning we had breaks every 30 metres or so. The pass is named Dead Woman's Pass due to the shape the ridges and rocks form when viewed from afar. 

At the top of Dead Woman's Pass

Difficult to spot unless its pointed out to you, but in the valley it is possible to see the face and breast of a reclining woman.

At the summit, to celebrate we were each given a squirt of Pisco to drink (a spirit distilled from white grapes) from the penis of an Incan doll.

Ben and Ed getting a little squirt

We had not found the ascent as difficult as Johan had made it out to be. However, the descent was as knee-jarring as it gets and was certainly less enjoyable than the ascent. Each foot had to be carefully placed otherwise it was a dangerous drop and the certainty of a broken bone. We were all relieved when the 600 metre drop ended and we arrived at our campsite Paqaymayo, in high spirits at 2pm just in time for a spot of lunch. We spent the afternoon playing card games. 'Spoons' is definitely one to bring in for the dinner parties, especially when mixed with Pisco.

DAY 3
None of us slept well that night but Tom definitely takes the crown. The illness which Ed had managed to recover from was now afflicting Tom. In a similarly fearless manner to Ed, Tom, with the determination of a salmon swimming upstream, motored his way through the morning and made it to lunch before any of the rest of the group. The previous evening, after a few Piscos had been downed, Ben agreed to carry one of the porter's bags for the morning. Oh dear god are those bags heavy, a bulky 25kg, and you feel every kilo of it. At times, Ben was climbing up the steep stairs on all fours. The altitude makes all physical exertion twice as difficult.

Ben with the porter's bag

The porter whose bag Ben was carrying was aged 63! How the porters manage to do this is a mystery to us all. They run along the Inca Trail and have tents, marquees and food ready for us when we arrive in to camp. For our group of 14 walkers we had: 28 porters, 2 chefs and 3 tour guides. Each porter was assigned a different job, some were responsible for the tents, others for the groceries, and even a couple of porters to carry propane tanks! We were being looked after very well and the porters definitely made the trip more of a holiday than an arduous trek.

The Train of Porters

Ben survived a gruelling hour before handing over the bag, we had arrived at our first ruins of the day. These ruins were called Runkuracay, a circular city build on the side of a mountain. The ruins were used as a resting place for runners who ran back and forth through the 2,000,000km² of the Inca Empire, stretching from Columbia in the North all the way to Chile in the South. These runners would run along the trails at about 15km/h for four hours at a time, stop at one of these resting places and pass their messages on to the next runner. It was essentially a huge relay race. A few years ago there had been a marathon run along the Inca Trail. The winner was a 50-year-old farmer who also worked as a porter who ran it in 3h45. This feat became more and more impressive with each thigh-high step we climbed.

At these ruins Johan explained to us the basics of the Inca religion. There are three main domains occupied by the gods: Hanan Pacha, which consisted of the sun, moon and star deities; Ukhu Pacha and Hurin Pacha, which were the realms of Pachamama (their version of Mother Earth). The Incas worshipped anything which brought life to people, this included mountains with glaciers as they possesed water. It was possible to see a channel that the Incas had build from a mountain glacier passing through the Sun Temple all the way to a substantial stone which represented Pachamama. At the peak we could see three different ecosystems all in one panoramic view. At the top of our picture were the mountains, level with us were tufty brown grasses, below us was the rainforest.

It is possible to see the three different ecosystems

We continued climbing for another 45 minutes to Abra de Ruunkuracay (3998m) where we had some staggering views over Cordillera Vilcabamba. The walk down brought about a game called "The Singing Game" introduced to us by the Norwegian Babes. Now, all through our travels we have been singing, yet this was the first time fellow travellers had joined forces with us. The rest of our group were in for something truly unique and, in some cases, scarring. The singing (or in some cases, screeching) went on for a thoroughly enjoyable 3 hours as we began to descend into the rainforest. We were now walking on the original Inca Trail, the rest had been destroyed by the Inca's themselves to prevent the Spanish Conquistadores from finding their hidden cities. We passed through caves hollowed out by Incas themselves 500 years ago and were dogged by vertiginous drops for the rest of the afternoon.

Entrance to the Inca tunnel

Our ruin-spotting continued as Sayaqmarka - a huge town built up on the side of the mountain - loomed large ahead of us. We could not spend as much time here as originally planned as we were running slightly behind schedule. There was still time for a few photos, though.

View over Sayaqmarka

We had made it to our final high pass of the trek at 3700m, by now used to the altitude, where we could see the Urubamba Valley below and the snow capped peaks of Salkantay 3,000m above us. No rest for the wicked as we were whisked off quickly and treated with another delight - the ruins of Phuyupatamarca (The Town Above the Clouds) at 3650m.

Phuyupatamarca

Darkness was drawing in as we reached our final ruins of the day, Intipata. After a team photo we made our way to our final campsite. There was no way we wanted to be walking down the Inca steps without vision, so we covered the final leg of our day in rapid time, arriving in camp just before the sunset. 

Team Sexy Llamas

DAY 4:

We camped for our final night near Winaywamba (Forever Young), a ruin made up mainly of agricultural terraces. Sleep was hard to come by and the 3.45 alarm gave us the excuse we needed to give up the fruitless attempt to fall asleep. This was the day we were to finally see Machu Picchu; our many months in South America had been leading up to this moment. We made our way up 50 metres of dangerously steep stairs titled the "Gringo Killer" and reached Intipunku (The Sun Gate) just in time to see the sun's first rays light up the city of Machu Picchu. We had arrived and what a magical sight we were greeted by. Not a bad thing to see first thing in the morning.

View of Machu Picchu from the Sun Gate

Our epic trek did not end there, however. We still had to wander the remaining few kilometres downhill to the Lost City of the Incas. The distance was covered rapidly and effortlessly, as the mythical Machu Picchu was tantalisingly close. As we neared our goal, we crossed many other travellers, huffing and puffing in the opposite direction to us. It occurred to us then that most tourists take a single day-trip to Machu Picchu and are satisfied with that. We, on the other hand, had opted for the full-blown 4-day 43-km pilgrimage to this Incan icon. And after a tough trip, arriving at Machu Picchu was made all the sweeter. We felt warm and fuzzy inside.

Machu Picchu in all its glory

Our leader showed that he was a veritable 'jack of all trades, master of all' by launching straight into a detailed history of this New Wonder of the World, having already guided, sheltered, fed and protected us over the preceding 3 days. Machu Picchu is thought to have been built in the 15th Century for the Inca Emperor Pachacuti. The citadel remarkably managed to escape the greedy clutches of the Spanish Conquistadores (the only settlement of note to evade capture) but was consequently abandoned and fell into disrepair. Although many rumours circulated about a fabled Inca City, it was not until 1911 that Yale history professor Hiram Bingham III 'discovered' Machu Picchu. 'Discovered' is, of course, a very contentious term as locals had been aware of the over-grown ruins for centuries (it is even said that upon arriving at Machu Picchu, Bingham was shown round by a farm boy named Pablo, who described MP as his 'back-garden' - Machu Picchu's very first tour guide!) Perhaps Machu Picchu's UNESCO plaque best explains Bingham's contribution, crediting him as the scientific discoverer of Machu Picchu. Bingham remains to this day a colourful yet controversial figure. Believed to be the inspiration behind Indiana Jones (intrepid explorers, university professors, PhDs, keen hat-wearers - there are certainly some striking similarities), Bingham also provoked an on-going dispute between Yale University and the Peruvian government due to his indiscriminate excavation of artefacts.

The three Indiana Jones

As well as its undoubted strategic and historical significance, Machu Picchu also possessed religious importance for the Incas. Machu Picchu is the site of the intricately-built Temple of the Sun. The Temple's bricks are held together without mortar. Instead, they are perfectly-carved blocks of granite which have been painstakingly-smoothed with balls of haematite (iron ore). The blocks then fit together as though part of an elaborate, high-stakes game of Tetris. Paradoxically, the lack of mortar makes the Temple more resistant to earthquakes, as the building is far more supple than its neighbours. The Incas' reverence towards the Sun is on clear display as the Temple has two important windows, which the Sun's rays will precisely pass through on the Summer and Winter Solstice.

The Sun Temple

While Machu Picchu's buildings are impressive, it is the Lost City's surroundings which are truly amazing. Machu Picchu is dwarfed by the imposing mountains which encircle it on every side. These mountains are all covered in thick, lush vegetation and prompted the romantics amongst us to ask the ultimate 'What if...?' question; 'What if there was another Machu Picchu-style city just waiting to be discovered?' Although the probability is remote, having seen how impenetrable the jungle is, we are unwilling to rule anything out. Never say never. Given its location, Machu Picchu should be entirely inaccessible. Unfortunately it is not. Instead, it is crawling with camera-wielding photo-snapping tourists who appear to be entirely engrossed in the most mundane fungal growth on the most routine brick of the most derelict Incan wall. They have little respect for their fellow travellers or the importance of the site (Machu Picchu is, after all, a sacred place) and they will go to ludicrous (not to mention very loud) lengths to obtain the perfect photo. One tourist was even overheard asking whether it would be possible to move Machu Picchu, a 500 year-old mountain and settlement, a few inches to the right in order to suit his aesthetic needs. After the tranquil 4 day Inca Trail, the return to the hustle and bustle of civilisation was a slight shock to our systems. On a more serious note, grave concerns do exist about over-burdening Machu Picchu with tourists and UNESCO may soon include MP on its List of World Heritage in Danger. We therefore feel very grateful to have appreciated the legendary (an overused word but on this occasion very appropriate) Lost City of the Incas before it suffers any further damage, whether at the hands of nature or man. Both the trek and Machu Picchu itself surpassed every expectation.

Machu Picchu and its surroundings

24 Hour Challenge

There is a well established tradition that those who wake at the painful hour of 4am on the Inca Trail should be awake to see that same hour come by again, 24 hours later... Given that Tom's health was still fairly precarious, it was up to Ben and Ed to carry the baton for the three nomads. The night started with a meal with those who had accompanied us on the four day hike to the Lost City. We were delighted to hear that the American man had proposed to his girlfriend with absolute success! The only way to celebrate of course was Pisco shots. Ben and Ed were the only ones to partake in this activity which got the night off to a cracking start. The restaurant owner then came to our table to give us a tutorial on how to prepare the perfect Pisco Sour. In pairs we added 6 ice cubes, 3oz of Pisco, 2oz of sugar water, 1oz of lemon juice and 1oz of egg white to our cocktail shaker and proceeded to smash it all together (which takes some serious physical effort). They went down oh so smoothly. 

After a meal that settled the stomachs and treated the tastebuds our guide moved the party to a bar. At said bar Ben was most generous in funding a round of that British favourite: the Jägerbomb. Sheer comedy resulted as Ben had to teach the bar staff how to make the beverage. They should have donated the drinks after such a well delivered session of cocktail education. The guide (still guiding) shifted us to yet another bar where games ensued (Ben was dared to steal a balloon from behind the bar which, after 5 minutes of sweet-talking with the bar girl, he did). Casualties fell as three more clubs were graced with the dance moves of The Sexy Llamas, but eventually Ben and Ed were the last standing. When the church tower struck 4 and the 24 hours were complete, Ben turned into a pumpkin and the boys called it a night. 

From Death Road to Prisons to Paradise

Hola Chicos,

Throughout our South American odyssey, we had felt irresistibly drawn towards La Paz or - more specifically - drawn towards Death Road, which lurks just outside the Bolivian capital. Now that we had arrived it was time for the talking to stop and the action to begin. While the Top Gear crew drove it in the comfort and relative safety of their cars (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXLxszv9eCM), we were going to bike down the World's Most Dangerous Road (WMDR). 

Death Road in all its glory

Built in the 1930s by Paraguayan prisoners of war, the North Yungas Road was barely known outside of Bolivia until the 1990s when its fame (or infamy) rocketed after the Inter-American Development Bank dubbed it the WMDR. 'Does it deserve its nick-name?', I hear you ask. Well, let's review the evidence. Exhibit A: along the road's entire 42km length there is 1 barrier, maybe 2. These barriers are as useless as a solar-powered torch, a chocolate tea-pot, an inflatable dart board... They are entirely ineffectual at preventing cyclists from plunging to their deaths. As our guide put it quite concisely; "My rescue rope is 100m. The drop is 600m. You do the math." 

The beginning of The World's Most Dangerous Road

When you then consider the fact that the WMDR's average width is 3.2m (scarcely enough for 1, let alone 2, vehicles), that clouds often obscure the road below, that cyclists plummet down at speeds nearing 50kph and that Death Road is not even a road but rather a higgledy-piggledy jumble of gravel, rocks, rivers, sand and branches you really have yourself a deadly cocktail. We were dicing with death, playing with fire, dining with the devil...whatever you want to call it, 60 years were shaved off our life expectancy as we mounted our bikes. Mums, we are deeply sorry. 

On the edge of our seats

DISCLAIMER: We hasten to add that survival, and not suicide, was our preferred outcome of the descent, so we went to the best bikers in the business.

Our guide was a maverick renegade. Originally from Brazil, he had taken the Death Train to Bolivia to work at the Death Road. We did, however, have confidence in him and so we began our perilous adventure. We drove up to 4700m and toasted the Pachamama (the Bolivian version of Mother Earth) with 96% alcohol, dousing our bike tyres, the ground and our tongues with it. We grew used to the bikes by gliding along 22km of the smoothest tarmac until we reached the Gates of Death Road. We half-expected to see a 3-headed dog blocking the way but were instead greeted by a flock of condors circling overhead. Even the members of our group who had not seen Hitchock's 1963 masterpiece recognised that as far as omens go, this was not particularly positive.

The ride started tentatively but as the miles flew by, we grew in confidence. Numerous crosses line the WMDR to commemorate those who were less fortunate than us, and the rusting carcasses of buses also served as a chilling reminder. The road used to claim over 300 lives a year and although this number has fallen slightly, the WMDR remains the site of Bolivia’s worst ever road accident (over 100 fatalities in a 1983 pile-up). We do not like to exaggerate but the slightest misjudgement and you are staring death in the face. One mistake and you’re a gonna. 

Crosses lined the route down

Due to the 3600m vertical drop between start and finish, the vegetation changes dramatically. We began the ride surrounded by rainforest but ended in scenery reminiscent of a Mediterranean country. Our victory beer tasted like survival and was sweetly savoured. We nearly choked on the last gulp, though, when we were informed that we’d have to drive back up Death Road in order to return to La Paz. Even our victory swim in an icy river did little to relieve the dread and it was not until we returned to our hostel that we knew we would live to fight another day. 

Survival!

Our time in La Paz was punctuated by protests and a particularly remarkable expression of discontent took place one evening at a Dutch restaurant. The protagonists? Yours truly. We had gone out for dinner with a group of guys and gals from our hostel but the meal was a complete fiasco. The waiter simply did not appear to take our orders. Even after he materialized, the orders had to be painstakingly repeated to him, as if teaching a geriatric dolphin how to spell. We then waited 90 minutes for our food to arrive and when it did it ranged from tepid to stone-cold. The situation grew even more farcical given the food had arrived before the cutlery. 20 more minutes elapsed before the knives and forks showed up. The frozen food was then whisked away to be microwaved but was returned to us dangerously hot. We eventually decided that enough was enough and called the manager. Tom, full of panache, displayed his grasp of the Spanish language by bamboozling and battering the manager into submission. The result? We got our meals for half-price, thus saving us a considerable sum of money. The greatest irony? The food, though cold, was absolutely divine - probably the best we’ve eaten all trip. The seasoning for our potatoes was the finest this side of the Atlantic.

Some of you may be aware of the infamous San Pedro prison in the centre of La Paz. Ironically, this prison is sitting on the most expensive real estate in the city – the astounding story of this prison does not stop here. Once you are convicted by the heavily corrupt Bolivian judicial system you must pay the equally corrupt prison-guards an entry fee of 25 Bolivianos (£2.50). In regular prisons, guards are responsible for everything that occurs. In San Pedro, the sole purpose of the guards is to prevent people from breaching the perimeter. However, the guards are more than happy to allow the prisoners out for a night on the town if the bribe is large enough. The running of the prison is left to the inmates themselves. Cells – not provided for by the government – are bought and sold by inmates; prices tend to fluctuate in the San Pedro housing market in a similar fashion to the outside economy. There are 6 different standards of room, ranging from a 3m3 room to a spacious studio apartment. Every inmate is free to kit out their cell as they wish. Many own flat-screens with cable TV and even Wi-Fi.

Families tend to live with their husbands in the penitentiary. This includes the little children who are free to come and go from the prison as they please. For this reason, if a fight is going on between the inmates, as soon as a child is spotted, the word “Niño” (child) is shouted out and, by the rules of the prison, the fight must instantly stop. Some may argue their parenting skills are superior to many of those in the UK.

You may ask how the prisoners are able to make any money to pay for their stay in the prison. There are three main ways (only one legal). An inmate can buy another cell, set up their own shop or restaurant and sell goods to the other prisoners (food is not provided by the guards in the prison). We have heard that this food is better than that found outside the walls of the prison. Alternatively, they can organise crime outside of the prison – arranging the theft and ransom of cars is a favourite, which the prison guards are only too willing to assist in, as long as they get a share of the profit. The third and most shocking way is the manufacture of cocaine. The purest cocaine in the world comes from Bolivia. The best cocaine in Bolivia comes from San Pedro Prison. The children tend to be the mules to transport the drugs out of the prison. Naturally the guards are in on it, as long as they received a share of the profit. Beginning to understand the corruption of the Bolivian government yet? There is a fascinating autobiography about an English man convicted for drug trafficking who spent 6 years in this prison. It is titled ‘Marching Powder’ and Ben could not recommend it more highly. On the basis of the blurb, Ed also heartily endorses it. 

Barely worth a mention, but we also visited the witch market in La Paz. We have unanimously voted this the most anti-climatic tourist attraction in the world.

Copacabana (not to be confused with its Brazilian namesake) on the shores of Lake Titicaca was the perfect remedy for the hustle and bustle of La Paz. Lake Titicaca (we’re sure there’s a pun to be found somewhere in its name – any suggestions?) is the largest high altitude lake in the world. In the middle of it is the Isla del Sol (Sun Island) where, according to Inca mythology, the Sun was born. The island is absolutely picturesque and has hardly changed since the birth of the Sun. The Island and its inhabitants could not be any further removed from the Western society we are used to, which is why we were staggered to see characters such as Winnie the Pooh, Spongebob Squarepants and ‘Ello Kitty appear on the kids’ clothes. It is truly amazing that such childhood characters transcend differences in geography and culture and appeal to youngsters both in Europe and on an isolated island numbering 2500 inhabitants. 

We are currently in Peru about to take on the world-famous Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. Watch this space.

The Hellish Mines and the Highway through Hell

Hola Chicos,

An extremely uncomfortable four-hour bus journey was necessary to escape from barren Uyuni to Potosi. The lady who sold us the ticket thought it worth specifying that the road between the 2 towns was tarmac. In Brazil, Argentina and Chile we had taken tarmac highways for granted. Not so in Bolivia. Here, they were the exception and not the norm. Throughout our travels, the fearsome reputation of Bolivian buses had reached our ears so we were pleasantly surprised when our driver turned on the engine and the bus was not overcrowded. Unfortunately, the cheapest tickets become available just as the bus pulls away and the sound of the motor was the cue for Bolivians to swarm our vehicle. A tidal wave of bright-coloured clothes and dubious smells overwhelmed us as men and women perched themselves on our arm-rests while others sat or lay in the aisle. The bus became a market-on-wheels as the new arrivals tried to sell us all sorts of weird and wonderful items. Thankfully, the journey was in the day-time and - by South American standards - mercifully short, so we were intrigued by the spectacle rather than worried.

Potosi was once the largest and richest city in Latin America but as we walked around the streets it became manifest that it has tumbled down the rankings. Now, Potosi's principal claim-to-fame is as the world's highest city (4070m). Potosi owed its wealth to the riches in the rocks mined from the mountain on which the city clings. Therefore, Ben and Ed, undeterred by the Lonely Planet's warnings, decided it would be a good idea to go on a tour of the silver mines. Tom, well and truly deterred by LP's horror stories of explosions, falling rocks, runaway trolleys, asbestos and silica dust, wisely decided to opt out.

The company we were to brave the mines with were incredibly amateur, and made us begin to feel a little anxious about what we had got ourselves into. Before we entered the pit we were given a taste of the coca leaves with some quinoa ash. This numbs the mouth and takes away the sensation of tiredness and hunger. The miners constantly have a ball of coca in their mouths the size of a tennis ball, it is easy to understand why they need so much coca once you have experienced what it is like down the mine.

The dynamite

We were kitted out as if the Earth had undergone a nuclear apocalypse and made our way to one of the 500 entrances to the mountain. We were met with a baptism of fire when, a mere 100m into the darkness, our guide started shouting at the top of her voice to retreat as quickly as we could. We clambered our way through the darkness, our lungs suffering from the thin air, now filled with carbon monoxide, asbestos and dynamite fumes. From the murky depths emerged a 1.5 tonne trolley, trundling along the rails which run like arteries throughout the whole mine. We quickly lost the first member of our group...

...who decided that the dark and claustrophobic environment was not for her.

Our guide was extremely informative, if a little grumpy, and with each new fact she dropped, the idea of staying in the mine became less and less appealing. All the miners work for themselves in groups of 3-6 and there is no large company which employs the men. Each miner can expect to earn between B$80-200 a day which is the equivalent of £8-20. This is all dependent on the rocks which the miners manage to excavate. Silver is the most profitable but there is also copper and tin present in the mine. There are 3 types of miners; the Helpers who push 1.5 tonne trollies out from the bottomless depths of the cave to the freedom of the outside up to 10 times a day; the Assistant Manager who oversees the helpers and aids The Manager, who is responsible for using the dynamite and electing where to continue digging. 5 years are spent at each level before "promotion". Some of the boys working down there were as young as 14. We found it hard to believe but apparently there are some 16,000 men working in the mine, we saw a total of 20 in our whole 3 hours in the mine. Most miners can expect to die aged 60 of respiratory problems due to the carbon monoxide and asbestos in the mines. Lonely Planet had convinced us that - in theory -  a few hours exposure should not do us too much lasting damage... These mines are the places of nightmares.

Miners at work

As we rounded another dark corner, our tunnel vision provided by the dull lamps came to rest on an ominous horned statue... The Catholic Spaniards began the tradition of devil worship among the Bolivian miners. An icon of the Tío (named Uncle due to the protection the devil supposedly provides) is situated in each mine to receive sacrificial offerings of alcohol, coca, cigarettes and llama foetuses from the miners. In return the devil guarantees good health and fortune. The icon of the devil looked completely in its place in the hellish environment of the mines.

The Devil, El Tio

We ventured 2km into the depths of hell before turning back. During this time Ben had hit his head countless times on the low ceilings, these mines were not built with Westerners in mind. Having had a shovel thrust upon him, Ed tried his hand at a bit of rock-shifting. Just a few minutes taste of the back-breaking and lung-shattering work was enough for the rest of the group to realise that they did not want to give it a go. We emerged from the mines slightly shaken up but glad that we had gained a little insight into what working in the mines entails. We cannot imagine ourselves ever returning willingly into one of these mines.

Our journey to La Paz that evening was a feat of travelling-genius. Our never-say-die attitude enabled us to bend the laws of time, space, fatigue, altitude, hunger and probability. The odds were stacked against us, but somehow, through sheer determination, we made it. The Bolivians are notorious for their spontaneous road-blocks or 'bloqueos' (this word still sends shivers down our spines). Whenever, the workers have the slightest grievance they decide to inflict as much damage and mayhem on the rest of the country's citizens and roads. While the French might express their discontent by going on strike, the Bolivians do what they do best - they block. We had been assured that the roads to La Paz from Potosi were clear and we would be there after a routine 8-hour journey. At 1.30am our bus ground to a halt. Huge explosions sliced through the night air and shook our bus.  Ben and Tom were petrified and their minds immediately leapt to the worst case scenario - were we being held up? Ed, meanwhile, was blissfully immersed in Friends Season 1 and did not seem to notice. It was not until the sun rose at about 6.30 that we discovered that frustrated miners had shut off the road. Having seen the horrors of the Potosi mine, we found it hard not to sympathise with them. However, our sympathy was disappearing faster than you could say 'Lake Titicaca'. There we were; 4000m high. 4 hours drive away from La Paz. With nobody to drive us. And no roads to drive on. Challenge accepted!

'Of Mice and Men'

'Of Ben and Ed'

Anybody see the similarity?

At 9a.m. we decided that the only option was to stride boldly through the block. We were not the only ones to think of this solution, though, and it appeared as if half the population of the Andes had had a similar brain-wave. It felt like we were part of a mass-migration and Tom likened it to a scene from 'Of Mice and Men' and the American Dust Bowl of the 1930s. We strode, shimmied, tip-toed and hobbled our way through 5km of angry miners who were blowing up dynamite left, right and centre. A jumble of rocks littered the road making it impossible for any mode of transport to pass. Even if a bus had tried to get through, we had a feeling that the dynamite may have been used in a more destructive way.

Fortunately we picked up a taxi at the other end of the roadblock. Our over-friendly driver decided to give us a completely unnecessary tour of Oruro, the town we now found ourselves in. If any of you have heard Bolivian music, you will be aware that it consists of panpipes and a somewhat repetitive drum rhythm. Our taxi driver decided - on our behalf - that we wanted to hear this music as loud as the car speakers would allow. Our patience was wearing tenuously thin.

After walking another 2.5km through Oruro we crammed ourselves in to a minivan which promised us that we would "definitely" get to La Paz. After all our trials and tribulations we were more than sceptical. 3 hours of predominantly off-road driving ensued in order to avoid the blockades (think the Paris-Dakar rally and triple it and then you'd be close to the conditions we endured). We finally arrived in La Paz, or what we thought was La Paz. We had actually arrived in El Alto, 9km away from La Paz. In any other country this would be no issue, grab a taxi. In the centre of La Paz, however, there was a further protest and, just to be different, a road-block. We had to crawl 3km through another demonstration, keeping our heads down to attract as little attention as possible from the dynamite-wielding miners. This did have one advantage and provided us with proof that every cloud has a silver mining (sorry, lining). Since we had to walk rather than drive into La Paz, we were able to appreciate the city's buildings sprawled across the imposing, snowy Mt Illimani at sunset. Our breath was taken away - and not just due to the altitude of the highest capital city in the world. Stunning

This journey should have taken us 8 hours. It took us 22. But we made it safe(ish) and sound(ish).

Salar de Uyuni - Tour of the Bolivian Salt Flats

Hola Chicos,

Our first stop on our 3-day adventure to the Bolivian salt flats was the Bolivian border control. Possibly one of the most amateur and pointless procedures we have gone through. Ben's Spanish was put to the test when he was confronted as to why his passport stated he is from the UK, when he had written on his immigration form that he lived in England. After a diagram and vigorous gesticulations the light dawned on the immigration officer. By the time Ed and Tom arrived to have their passports checked, the officer seemed scholarly in his differentiation between the United Kingdom, Great Britain, Northern Ireland and their constituent parts. We were slightly anxious about the quantity of coca (a bitter leaf chewed to increase alertness, reduce hunger and altitude sickness, cold and pain) we were transporting over the border. Not to worry, our bags weren't even checked. Passport control wasn't even compulsory, just loosely suggested. Welcome to Bolivia!

The company with which we had booked our tour was conspicuous through its absence. We found ourselves surrounded by several attractive señoritas and decided that the tour they were on was probably the best one for us. How right we were. With an unsuspecting Swiss girl we were bundled into a jeep with our Bolivian driver, Filemon. Unbeknownst to them a juggernaut of English humour was heading their way. For the next three days we were transported through desert, salt and ice in a battered Toyota 4x4.

Our 4x4

Our first port of call was the inexplicably named Laguna Verde. As some linguists may be aware, verde means green. Contrary to its label, the lake possessed a rather sickly looking brown colour. Perhaps Laguna Marrón would have been a more apt title. This laguna was also our first experience of doing exercise at altitude. After a 20 metre climb we were left clutching at oxygen molecules.

The surreal environment we were surrounded had led the next desert we drove through to be christened the Salvador Dali Desert. One could imagine the melted clocks. This was the first occasion of many we realised the importance of our driver. We were truly lost in "the ethereal haze, and we really got a sense of the awesome power of nature" (we are profoundly sorry but simply could not resist), with one grain of sand resembling every other.

Salvador Dali Desert

After our disappointment at the thermal baths and geysers in Chile (see 'Deep in the Desert' entry) we were pleasantly surprised by their Bolivian counterparts. We were given half an hour to bathe in the 38 degree baths. We loved every minute of it, especially with the panoramic views we gained of lakes, volcanoes and baby-blue sky. We were reluctant to leave the warmth of the waters - it wasn't only the pool that was smoking hot... The geysers we then visited possessed an astounding violence and power which had been critically lacking in Chile.

Aguas Termales

Visiting the sulphur-steam-spitting-geysers took our breath away, yet no way near as much as our ascent to 5000m. For those of you who have never been higher than Ben Nevis, 5000m is the equivalent of: 125,000 Olympic issue ping-pong balls, 1,026.69 male giraffes, 6 Burj Khalifas or one 5,000m Olympic running race (competed vertically, Mo Farah eat your heart out).

Over lunch we got to know the rest of our tour group a little better. Two Swedes, two Dutch, one Swiss, all female. Ben was a little too preoccupied with the tricolore salad to notice the rest of the group. After our filling lunch we called in on Laguna Colorada, a crimson lake spanning 60km². Unfortunately by this stage we were waning as the altitude began to take its toll. Two of our lady friends were severely affected by altitude sickness, leading to hallucinations and multiple bathroom breaks.

Laguna Colorada

We woke up the next morning having experienced a truly frigid night. We asked Filemon what the temperature in our rooms had been. He answered '2 degrees', which struck as positively tropical. It was only when we asked what the outside temperature had been ('12 degrees' ??) that it dawned on us. Night-time temperatures in the desert are always below zero. Bolivians need not waste their breath by uttering the words 'minus' or 'negative'. Freezing temperatures are a given.

We began the second day at the Arbol de Piedras, a random assortment of gigantic rocks which looked lost in the wide expanse of the Desierto Siloli. There is one fascinating rock formation which looks similar to a tree - maybe after copious amounts of coca leaves.

The Tree Rock

We had a fantastic time clambering up the 30-foot high rocks. Then Tom and Ben made the unwise decision of jumping from a 3 metre high monolith onto the solid sand below. Tom went first and after almost smashing his face into a rock, Ben foolishly followed. He was not so fortunate and ended up spraining his left ankle. Two weeks on and he is still struggling to walk.

3 metre high monolith

The rest of the day was spent flamingo hunting. After visiting 4 lagunas with a fecundity of flamingos, we have probably seen enough to last us a lifetime.

Today was also the day that the rest of our 4x4 experienced our magical voices. After a 3 hour concert, during which Ben's iPod was exhausted of all possible karaoke tracks, it was ruled by Filemon that the favourites were the 'drum one' (In the Air Tonight - Phil Collins) and the 'Hispanic one' - (Hips Don't Lie Shakira). Tired out by our physical routine to 'In the Air Tonight' we headed off for an early night in a hotel built out of salt blocks in anticipation of our visit to the salt flats at sunrise.

The sunrise was enchanting. The salt flats looked blue against the orange and yellow sky which was laced with wispy clouds. The white salt feels and looks like ice, spreading out as far as the eye can see in every direction. This was definitely the most striking thing we have seen this trip. We were now standing somewhere in the middle of 12,000km² of the white expanse, nobody could be seen for miles around.

 

For our well-earned breakfast we headed off to Isla Incahuasi. The salt flats had originally been a huge sea, when the sea had dried up only the salt was left. The traditional story behind the salt is that it is the breast milk of one of the mountains surrounding the flats. We're not sure we totally buy that one. Isla Incahuasi is an island of dead coral from when it was covered in water, which is now overgrown with cacti. The island looked so out of place in the totally flat landscape of the salt. I think we all suffered a couple of stabs from the spines and we can confirm that they really do hurt.

View from Isla Incahuasi

While we made our way to the centre of the salt flats we asked whether we were able to drive the car. After being told by Filemon to keep it a secret, we all had a go at driving the 4x4 across the salt flats. All went smoothly, and Tom even managed to get the car into second gear (Tom is yet to take his Practical. Or, for that matter, his Theory). Thankfully there was nothing for him to crash into. It is quite a bizarre experience standing on the salt flats, with nothing around but the white ground and the brilliant blue sky. At the centre of the flats we took loads of photos to take advantage of the false perspective we could get as everything looked exactly the same for miles around. Some of our attempts are below.

We waved goodbye to the salt flats and made for our last stop on the tour - a deserted train cemetery in the outskirts of Uyuni. It had an eerie and morbid feel to it, which left us feeling a little uncomfortable. Ed, on the other hand, felt very at home. He loves powerful vehicles.

The past three days have been an unbelievable experience. From the Desert to the Salt Flats, via lagunas, geysers and cacti. Decent way to spend the weekend.