A walk in Rocinha

Rocinha is the largest favela in Rio, with over 300,000 residents. It's a slum, but it's not what you'd expect - a lot of the residents have televisions, cars and even credit cards.

Our guide's name is Luiza. She's grown up in Rocinha and she lives here still. She knows the streets of the favela like the back of her hand and she can lead us through the complicated tangle of alleys without once checking where we are.

"A lot of people are afraid of the favelas", she tells us. "The government pretends we don't exist. Other people see movies like City of God and think it's all guns and violence. There is some of that, like everywhere, but we are actually very safe. Everybody looks out for each other".

A guy with a AK-47 comes running up to us and says something to Luiza.

"He thinks one of you took a photo of him" she says. Claire had taken a photo of a motorbike in the alley and this guy happened to be standing behind it. She immediately deletes the photo. Luiza shows him and he smiles and gives us the thumbs up. Luiza explains that the gang members are paranoid about photos, because cops sometimes come in pretending to be tourists. They take a photo of a Rocinha gang member then come back later to arrest them.

The favela is governed by the Rocinha gang. As a result, it's a lot safer than some of the wealthier areas of Rio. Everybody leaves their houses unlocked. Nobody steals. Luiza gave us an example of how it works.

"If somebody steals my handbag", she says, "I tell this boy over here. I would have it back in five minutes, with everything inside. But the thief will be punished, and the gang is very cruel. Both arms, both legs, broken".

Luiza puts her fists together and indicates the snapping of joints. "It's cruel" she repeats, "but we prefer this way to the police. The police will still come in and take the thief, but they don't care about giving the handbag back". The police cause problems for people living in the favela; the gangs solve problems.

"This is our biggest problem", Luiza tells us as she leads us around the corner and points to the large sewerage drain in the middle of the street. It's completely open.

"When it rains", she says, "this drain overflows, and the street becomes a river.

"People here are ashamed of the open drain. They say, "Luiza! Don't show the tourists this, it's embarrassing". But I'm showing you, because every time there is an election the politians come here and they say, "Ah, yes, I will fix this for you, if you vote for me". But look, it's still open." She shrugs. "They never fix it. After the election, we cease to exist again".

It seems that the government turns a blind eye to the favelas, except when there's an election on. Recently they paid for a brand new hospital in the centre of Rocinha. Unfortunately, it's completely empty. There's no equipment, no doctors or nurses. Staff demand higher wages to work in a favela because they claim it's more dangerous, but the government won't pay them more. A handful of doctors work privately instead, and the hospital goes unused.

It's the same with the teachers. There are four intermediate schools in Rocinha but the teachers are always on strike, and the school is often closed. In Brazil it's a law to send your children to school from age six to twelve, punishable by imprisonment.

"But what can the parents do?" Luisa asks.

"If the government won't provide teachers, the kids can't go to school. Education is a big issue. If you don't have education, you can't get a job. Some kids join the gang because they can earn a lot of money. They get a flash car, gold chains, a cellphone. They live for the moment.

"They join the gang young, and they die young".

We spent three hours walking around the favela. I asked Luiza a lot of development and education -related questions, which I won't bore you with, but I will say that it was all very fascinating to learn about the rights of the slum residents. We visited one of the six free childcare centres, the free community samba school and the local swimming pool. We saw a sushi restaurant, a gym, internet cafes, banks and hair salons. We saw a twelve-year old boy sitting on the doorstep with a gun in his hand and we saw an American guy, now a resident, covered from head to toe in tattoos of Rocinha. I asked him why he chose to live in the slum, instead of in the U.S.

"This is my home now", he said to me. "I never felt that in the U.S., but I feel it here".

Nicola

Don't look at the fish!

Ilha Grande, where we took a boat to after Sao Paulo, is an island located off the coast of Rio de Janeiro. Literally translating to 'Big Island', Ilha Grande has been home to a leper colony, a high-security prison, and most recently a popular tourism spot. The entire island is a protected area, with largely undisturbed Brazilian rainforest and endangered species of monkeys, sloths, parrots and crocodiles. The island's one hundred and two beaches include Lopes Mendes beach, voted one of the top three most beautiful beaches in the world.

On Ilha Grande we stayed two nights in a hostel overlooking the beach. On the first day we went snorkeling in Lagoa Azul (Blue Lagoon).

I'll be honest - I didn't snorkel. I'm not a huge fan of fish. Okay, I hate them. I don't care how colourful they are, the thought of swimming with fish completely creeps me out. The mere thought of one brushing my leg is almost enough to induce a panic attack. But it was a beautiful lagoon, so I got into the water and had a bit of a swim around the boat.

At one point Claire told me that I should put on her goggles and go under to see the fish, just for a second.

"They're beautiful," She said. "You won't regret it"

I disagreed. Fish to me are slimy and googly; at best interesting, but not beautiful. However I felt that it was silly not to do it, seeing as we were after all meant to be here to snorkel and see the fish. After three attempts ("Okay, here goes. Now. Oh I can't! Okay, okay really, now") I put my head under the water.

I would love to say I enjoyed it. The truth is, as soon as I saw the fish swarming around me I was seized by a slight hysteria and had to return to the boat.

Nicola

The Brazilian rules of driving

In Curitiba, Claire and I learnt about all the rules of driving that Brazilians don't follow. When we arrived we stayed with a girl called Bruna, who drove us around all day. First we went to the Botanical Gardens, then to lunch, then to her Mum's work, her Dad's work, the downtown, and finally to their apartment. After offloading our bags at the apartment Bruna took us down to a local bakery get some pão de queijo (pronounced 'pow jee keh-zhoo'), a cheesy tapioca bread and local delicacy.

While we were driving, Claire asked Bruna what was wrong with the seatbelts in the back. Bruna looked confused as she swerved sharply to avoid a truck.

"There's nothing wrong with them" She said. "What do you mean?"

"I mean", said Claire, "They're missing".

"I know", replied Bruna, while simultaneously pulling out in front of a car without indicating. "What's the problem?"

"My mum would kill me if she knew I wasn't wearing a seatbelt right now", I said. (She really would have).

Bruna was genuinely puzzled by this. "Why?"

"Because", I said, "It's dangerous". I'd never really had to explain the merits of seatbelts before. "And it's illegal not to wear seatbelts in New Zealand".

"Oh yes, it's illegal here too," Bruna said, "But nobody cares. And nobody wears them in the back!"

After thinking about this for a while she starting laughing at the idea of anyone voluntarily wearing seatbelts. "Why would you want to wear a seatbelt?" she asked. "They're so stupid!"

"They save your life?" said Claire.

"If you don't have seatbelts in your car, you're not allowed to drive it", I told her. "It's wrong".

Bruna suddenly became serious.

"Okay", she said, "I have to explain you girls something. Here in Brazil, we don't tell you whether your car is right or wrong. You just drive it". She smiled. "Okay?"

This seemed to end the debate because Bruna turned back to the road. "Is talking on a cellphone wrong too, when you drive in New Zealand?" she asked.

"Yes", I replied, eyeing the cellphone in her hand. "It's illegal. Because too many people crash when they talk on them".

"Oh yes. Here too." Bruna nodded sagely as she dialled a number and lifted the phone to her ear. "It's a big problem".

Nicola

Argentina loves Ham

After a week in Santiago we headed back to Mendoza in Argentina. The journey itself should only take about four hours, but took us close to the whole day after we arrived at the border and found ourselves to be the 27th bus in line waiting to cross (I counted).

With only two customs officers working for over 30 busloads of people, it took an achingly long five hours to get our passports stamped and luggage checked. Once we arrived in Mendoza we had to take another bus to Buenos Aires, so Stacey and I decided to splash out (read: I convinced Stacey that we should splash out) and upgrade to Full Suite bus seats.

The Full Suite bus is really more like a plane; with personal LCD screens, blankets, curtain dividers, seats that recline 180 degrees and a foot rest that comes right up - meaning a fully flat bed and an actual chance at a decent sleep. There was even a safety video at the start of the trip, much like a plane, where they announced that the toilet could be used for liquids only, no 'solids'. At first I thought I has misheard this (after all, what is one meant to do with one's solids? What if you really need to go?) but then they repeated it, just to be sure. No solids, not ever. We were also told not to take our shoes off, but I did anyway, and I didn't regret it for a second. (Who wants to sleep with their shoes on? I ask you!).

The Full Suite bus also meant an upgrade in terms of food. Usually on buses you get a ham sandwich (the ultimate combination of two Argentinian favourites: bread and ham). On our last bus we'd had a platter with about five different types of ham, followed by ricotta balls with chunks of ham. Needless to say it is hard to be vegetarian here. After my meat frenzy, which lasted about a month, I was really getting over it. I've been doing my best, but sometimes you just have to eat ham.

This time we received a cold plate, followed by a hot plate. The hot plate was a piece of beef, rolled up with cheese and ham, and served with mashed pumpkin and potato. The cold plate consisted of a bread roll, a piece of garlic bread with (spiced?) ham, a slice of ham with a slice of cheese, some cold rice with peas and carrots, a packet of breadsticks, a small savoury ham, egg and cheese pie; and the kicker: a slice of sponge roll, with a rolled-up piece of ham wedged in the middle. Honestly!

Nicola

Hugo and the inorganic farm

A few hours north of Cordoba is a place called San Marcos Sierra.

In September, we decided to spend two weeks working on an organic farm in an area of San Marcos Sierra, known as Rio Quilpo. We signed up through WWOOF Argentina ("Willing Workers on Organic Farms"), after trawling through about fifty possible farms, and we'd spoken to Hugo, the owner of the farm, a couple of times on the phone. I was excited at the prospect of doing some actual physical work - picking fruit, gardening, construction, cooking. I couldn't wait to get there.

We took a three hour bus to San Marcos Sierra, which broke down. We switched buses and continued on to where we were meant to meet Hugo, who wasn't there. We walked for four hours on the dusty road to get to his farm. I was very inappropriately dressed in jeans and jandals but at least we didn't have our bags, since we'd accidentally (but as it turns out, rather conveniently) left them on the other bus.

Eventually we got there. By this time I had fairly low expectations, but when we saw the place I was still overwhelmingly disappointed. It wasn't even a farm, let alone an organic farm - there were no plants, no garden, no greenery. It was a barren, dusty plot of land by a river. The only people there were Hugo, his 'woman', her son, and another guy called something like 'Hubano' who was helping out. The only animals were five mangy dogs.

Hugo was around his early 40's, with long, greasy gray hair, a beard, and a pot belly. When we turned up he was holding a bird with a broken wing. (I have no idea what he intended to do with it, because I highly doubt that he had any medical knowledge whatsoever that would have helped it). He showed us the room we were going to stay in. Suprisingly, there was an ensuite, though this was the one redeeming feature of the place. It had bunk beds with no sheets and no pillows, some scratchy blankets, and a fire out the back to heat the water for the shower.

Hugo was holding the dying bird the entire time he showed us around. "You can start work tomorrow", he said. "I have not organised anything yet. But we can do tomorrow". We asked him what we would be doing but he didn't seem quite sure. "Cleaning the river, cleaning up, that sort of thing", he said vaguely. "Is all natural here, because all day we clean, clean clean". I looked around. There was crap everywhere - bits of plastic containers, wire springs, broken chairs. He showed us the kitchen next, which was full of dirty dishes, random cooking implements and blatently non-organic food.

Hugo did feed us, I'll give him that. His 'woman' made an amazing pasta sauce, though we were the only three eating it which was slightly uncomfortable. Hugo sat there for a bit, fiddling with something on the table, then looked up and said that it was "time for marijuana". Of course. (I'm pretty sure, at this place, that it was always time for marijuana). I wondered whether he was expecting us all to get stoned together and how I could politely decline, but evidentally he just meant for himself. He lit up a joint on the gas stove and puffed away for about the next half hour, before announcing that he was heading off to a child's birthday party in the town and would see us at 8am the next morning.

That night I went to bed with all my clothes on, so that no part of me had to touch the mattress or the blankets. With hardly any deliberation at all we decided to leave the next day. When we told Hugo (at about midday - there was no way he was getting up at 8am), he seemed fairly okay with it. He just shrugged. "Is it because of Hubano?' his 'woman' asked suspiciously. (She, by the way, was beautiful. I have no idea why she was there on that farm with him). We assured them that it was nothing to do with Hubano (or whatever his name was), or with them; it was just because we wanted to work on an actual organic farm. They seemed pretty satisfied with this. They drove us back into town and wished us well.

Nicola

Salt, salt, everywhere...

After Potosí we took the bus to Uyuni, home of Salar de Uyuni. Salar de Uyuni is the massive stretch of white salt, an ancient dried-up lake, otherwise known as the salt desert. We just did a one day tour, which started at 10am with a trip to the train cemetery.


The train cemetery was originally a trainyard, where trains were loaded up with minerals from the salt desert and taken to Chile. Eventually all the minerals were used up, and the trains were abandoned. They've been sitting there now for about forty years.



From the train cemetery it was about an hour drive into the salt flats. I'd seen photos before, but it was still incredible to actually be there, and to see such a huge expanse of white with no horizon. Walking on the salt is almost like walking on cut glass; crunchy like snow but not cold, like sand but not soft.


While we were at the salt flats we also visited Isa del Pescado, an island of cacti in the middle of the desert, so named because the shape apparently resembles a fish. (It doesn't. They should have named it Isla del Cacti, but that's Bolivia for you). Some of the cacti on the island were 800 years old or more, including a few that were actually labelled with names and ages -'Old cactus, 900 years' and 'Deceased cactus, was 1200 years, died in 2008'.

Nicola

The Potosí silver mines

In our last couple of weeks in Bolivia we stopped in the mining town of Potosí. We were only in Potosí for one day, and we spent it in the silver mines.

The silver mines were found under the Cerro Rico mountain by the Spanish Conquistadors, when they first came to the area. Originally the Conquistadors brought in African slaves to work in the mines; later they used the local indigeous people. The Conquistadors told the mine workers that God had forsaken them, and while they were in the mines they were at the mercy of the Devil. For this reason the miners started worshipping the Devil and they still do to this day. They call him 'Tio', or 'Uncle Miner", and there's a statue of him at the entrance to the mines. It's covered in coca leaves, coloured paper and cigarettes - all offerings from the miners. The miners give him offerings on the first and last Friday of every month; in return they ask for protection and good minerals. Over two million people have died working in the mines.

Our tour guide, Juan, was an ex-miner. He'd worked in the mines for seven years. Juan told us about one incident that had happened when he was working with a friend on the fourth level down, and their job was to stick dynamite in holes in the rock. His friend didn't stick the dynamite down far enough. When the dynamite blew, he lost the entire lower half of his body. They took him to hospital, but there was nothing left of him from the waist down. He died later that day. "The miners live for the now", Juan told us, "because they never know when they might finish".

Before going into the actual mines we stopped at the miners' market to buy 'presents' for the miners. These presents were big bags of coca leaves, cartons of juice, sticks of dynamite and bottles of 97% alcohol. The 97% alcohol was because it was a Friday, and as part of the Friday ceremonies for the Devil where the miners ask for protection, they also (inexplicably) get drunk. The coca leaves and juice were for energy down in the mines. "Miners don't eat in the mines", explained Juan, "So they need to chew coca to keep them strong". It was true - every miner we saw had a massive wad of coca stuffed in his cheek. (At first I thought they all had mumps). We all tried chewing some coca leaves. I have to admit, I wouldn't be able to make it as a miner. The 97% alcohol wasn't too bad but coca leaves made me want to gag. I stood there for a while awkwardly chewing the bitter, gummy wad, trying to jam at all in to the side of my mouth without tasting it. Eventually my mouth went numb and I spat it out when nobody was looking.

Down the mines it was pitch black. We'd been kitted out with long pants, jackets, gumboot, helmets, headlamps and face masks to protect us, but I still felt horribly vulnerable. There was one entry point in and out. Most of the time we had to crouch through the narrow, low tunnels. The tunnels became warmer as we got deeper, which only added to my not-so-irrational fear that we would somehow get trapped in there. We heard dynamite go off below us. The tunnels were full of cloying chemical dust; at a few points the dust was so thick I couldn't take any photos. The dust was the reason we were wearing face masks, even though Juan assured us that one day in the mines wouldn't do us any harm. (For the miners, it does. They commonly die from silicious pneumonia within ten years of entering the mines). It was an unforgettable experience. On the other hand, I have never felt more happy to see sunlight than three hours later when we crawled out, blinking, gasping, sweaty and dust-covered.

Nicola

Rosa Maria with rescued baby spider monkey

Welcome to the jungle

After a week in La Paz we decided to head up to the Amazon jungle. This is one of the main things I was looking forward to in the trip so we wanted to pick a good tour. There are basically two different types of tours you can do for the Amazon - a pampas tour or a jungle tour. With a pampas tour you see a lot more animals, and with a jungle tour the focus is more on the environment. There are a few unethical tour operators here and it's important to choose wisely. We ended up paying quite a lot for an ethical, environmentally-friendly jungle tour based in Serere Park in the Madidi National Reserve. The park was founded by Rosa Maria Ruiz, a Bolivian environmentalist and acitvist. It's highly recommended and has been featured in the National Geographic, and it was worth paying extra to do.

To get to the jungle you first have to get to Rurrenabaque. The best and most expensive option is by boat; the worst and cheapest option is by bus. Since we'd splashed out on the tour, we unfortunately had to take the bus - a horrendous 20-hour journey around winding cliffside roads (again) on a cramped double-decker with about 80 other people. There was no air conditioning and no toilet. The road was unsealed for the first half of the journey, and we inhaled about a kilo of dust from the road through the open window. The wheels were so close to ther edge of the cliff that people sitting on the other side of the bus told us that when they looked out of the window, all they could see was the drop.

Rurrenabaque is suffocatingly hot. We had two nights there before and after the tour, and that was enough. We sweated constantly. I had a small block of chocolate in my bag and it quickly became a a small brown puddle (but don't worry - I just drank it). The moon in Rurrenabaque was red when we arrived, because they had been burning off a whole lot of rainforest for crop land. On our three hour boat ride down the jungle river to the lodge, Rosa Maria told us all about the problems they were having with illegal deforestation, hunting, and goldmining. The authorities deny that it's happening because they accept bribes to let it go through. Rosa Maria had a little baby spider monkey on the boat with her that she had rescued from the black market. It's mother had been killed when it was only a few days old.

Once we got off the boat it was a half hour walk to our cabin. The cabin was a big, single room on wooden stilts with a bathroom, big beds, wooden floors, a straw roof and mosquito nets for walls. When you lay in bed you could hear everything moving and shrieking in the jungle around you. It was a rather terrifying walk back to the cabin from the main lodge on the first night, especially after seeing a tarantula the size of a saucer on the wall.

Over the three days our guide took us walking through the jungle, pointing out monkeys and spiders and plants on the way, and on several boat rides through the river and the lakes. The boats are like wooden, dug-out canoes. All of them had holes in them so the person in the middle always had to be on bailing duty, scooping the water out with the bottom of a coke bottle. While on the river we saw countless birds, monkeys and crocodiles. Our guide got really excited every time we saw a crocodile. "Hola croc!" he yelled. "Wow, it's a big daddy one, four metre!". At night in the canoe we slapped off swarms of mosquitos and flying beetles, while shining the torch around to see all the crocodile eyes glowing in the torchlight.

During one walk through the jungle our guide pointed out some wild pig tracks. This didn't really bother me, until I found out how dangerous the wild pigs are. Back when the lodge was first set up a group of men had gone into the jungle and come across a group of about fifty wild pigs. They killed ten of them, but this just made them angry and they charged the men. Most of them escaped by climbing up tree but one didn't get high enough and the pigs pulled him down. They heard screams for a while. When the screaming stopped, they climbed down. They only found pieces of him. Another time when one man was running away from pigs, he climbed a tree but his bum was hanging down. The pigs ate his bum off, and now he has no bum. I was thinking about these stories as we were walking along and started scoping out the trees. I wondered how quickly I would be able to climb a tree if I had to. It didn't help that our guide kept sniffing the air and saying "Smell that? Pigs". I became suspicious that he was leading us on a wild pig hunt. I told him firmly that I was not interested in seeing wild pigs. "Don't worry", he said. "The pigs are smart. Usually tourists aren't lucky enought to see them".

When we returned to Rurrenabaque one of the first things we did was book a flight back to La Paz. There was no way I was getting back on that bus. It was a small 20-seater plane, not high enough to stand up in, but I felt safe for the entire forty minutes.

Nicola

The chicken lady

During our stay in La Paz we took a short trip to Coroico to stay a night at an animal sanctuary. To get to Coroico we hopped on to a local minivan with about ten other people. One of those people was a tiny local lady with about five teeth.

The lady was wearing typical local dress - a blue floral apron over a red woollen jersey and a long green skirt, with a thick grey polarfleece blanket pinned around her shoulders and a brown woollen hat on her head. She had a 2.25 litre bottle of Coca-cola and a little plastic cup with her. Every ten minutes or so she got the man next to her to pour her some coke and she would sip away happily.

After about half an hour of her sipping away happily, we stopped in traffic. The lady leaned out of the window and motioned to one of the street vendors who were selling chicken, rice and potatoes in small plastic bags. (This is the Bolivian version of takeaway food - they just put anything in a plastic bag, including soup and cups of tea).

"Chicken!" she croaked at one of the vendors. He handed her a small bag, which she poked her nose into then all but threw back in his face. "I want wings!" she said. "Don't your chicken have wings?". He scurried away and came back a minute later with another bag, which she checked suspiciously and accepted.

She sat there for a bit, nibbling absently at her chicken. Soon she tucked the bag away at her feet, only to pull out a massive plastic bag full of coca leaves. (I swear, this woman had a picnic hidden under her skirt).

I offered her some peanuts in the hope that she would share her coca with me, but no such luck.

Alpaca shopping in La Paz

Most of our time in La Paz was spent between the Loki and the markets, buying up large on the sweet alpaca wool attire.

La Paz is bursting with alpaca produce. Our bags are also bursting with alpaca produce. I managed to kit myself out with two alapaca jerseys, two pairs of mittens, legwarmers and about four pairs of socks, all ready for the London winter.

A bit lower down from the alpaca markets is the witches' market, complete with all sorts of good luck charms, including dried llama fetuses (to bury in the corner of a new house) and various aphrodisiacs and potions. The smell from the dried llamas made me gag but I bought a good luck charm for attracting money. On the same day I lost my cash passport card, accidentally ripped a $100 Boliviano note in half (luckily it's only worth $20) and was unable to withdraw cash from about four different ATMS. Since then I've lost my second cash passport card and realised I'm about $1500 short of what I will need for Argentina and Brazil. I'm hoping the good luck charm is going to start working soon.

Nicola

Wisdom from a taxi driver

While travelling through South America, I've spent a lot of time in taxis. Some have been good taxi rides, others have been terrifying. You never know, when you get in a taxi, which one it's going to be.

One of my favourite taxi rides was in Colombia. My sister and I went to a free rock concert in Bogota, held about thirty minutes away from the centre of town. At the end of the concert we jumped into a taxi for the ride back.

"Hello, beautiful girls", the taxi driver greets us. He flicks the light on and turns around to get a better look. "Yes, very beautiful", he nods. "Beautiful girls are trouble though. Do you know why?" We shake our heads.

"They're expensive", he says, rubbing his fingers together. "They want the Mercedes, the nice house, pretty clothes. You give them money, money, money. Muy costoso".

We nod. He looks at us. "Mercedes are expensive here", he says. He adds this as though Mercedes might be cheap in other places.

The taxi driver then tells us a bit about himself as we drive along. He asks us where we're from. We go through the requisite question-and-answers, which usually go like this:

"Where are you from?"

"New Zealand"

"Ah, New Zealand! It's a beautiful country"

"Thank you "

"So you speak Dutch?"

"No, English"

(Pause) "But New Zealand is in Europe?"

"It's in Oceania"

"Oceania! How far away is it on a plane?"

"About twenty-four hours"

"That's very far away!"

"Yes, it's very far away."

"Do you have husbands? Boyfriends?"

"No"

"Don't worry. You can get Colombian boyfriends"

This is said reassuringly, as if we're worried. He glances back at us.

"My girlfriend is black", he says. ("Mi novia es negrita"). He pauses. "But I like her".

At first I think, how nice, he used the diminutive to refer to his girlfriend - "My novia es negrita", rather than just negra. Later I think he may actually have meant "My girlfriend is a little bit black".

Nicola

The Colca Canyon

While we were in Arequipa, Peru, we took a trip the the Colca Valley and Colca Canyon. The Colca Canyon is twice as deep as the Grand Canyon in the United States, making it the deepest canyon in the world. The Colca Valley was once inhabited by the Incas, and by the Collaguas and Cabanas before them, and their ancestors continue to cultivate the steep Inca terraces that decorate the valley.

Nicola

Sandboarding in Huacachina, Peru

We arrived in Huacachina at night, and didn't see the massive wall of sand dunes that the small town is famous for. When we woke up in the morning and had a look outside we realised we were in a small oasis in the middle of a sand desert, with mountains and mountains of sand surrounding us.

The reason most people stay in Huacachina is for the sandboarding. First you get on a sandbuggy along with about 10 other people, and the surly driver takes you speeding and bumping over the dunes before stopping at certain spots and grunting one word prompts - 'photo', or 'boarding'. With no more information besides that, you pile out and take photos or grab a board from the back of the buggy. The driver hands you a piece of wax candle to wax up your board then grabs it off you and waxes it more if he thinks you haven't done a sufficient job.

We arrived at the first small hill, and our driver/guide stood in front of us. "You can go standing up", he said, "or lying down. Lying down is good, go real fast. Who wants to go first?"

We took turns sliding down the dune. It was pretty easy. Once we were done he instructed us to walk to the next one and pointed in the general direction of it.
The second hill was much the same as the first, maybe slightly steeper. I assumed, naively, that the third hill would be a small step up again. We piled back in the buggy and the driver/guide zoomed erratically over the dunes in a seemingly random direction to the third dune. We got out.

"Walk up there", the driver said. He pointed. We walked. We came to the edge of the dune. We peered over the edge, to what was an almost vertical drop about a hundred and fifty metres below us.

A couple of people shrugged and just went for it. Claire started to sit on her board. He reached his hand out:

"No!" he barked. "Do that way, go to hospital!"

From the way he said this, I was quite sure he would have seen people go to hospital before. Probably every time he takes people to the dunes, in fact. He looked away, then mumbled something about death. I just stared at him.

We decided to walk down the edge of the dune and started to head off, but before we left one girl came forward. She lay down on her board in the way he'd shown us, belly down, facing the front. "I feel like my head is going to hit the front of this board' she said uneasily.

The guide pulled her forward and pushed her, speeding, down the dune. About half way down she lost her grip, smacked her head on the front of the board and started tumbling down the dune, limbs flailing, until she skidded to a halt at the bottom.

We watched in horror. Our guide, on the other hand, didn't seem surprised. It was almost as if he was waiting for something to go wrong, and he didn't even go down to check if she was okay. "She didn't open her legs wide enough" he said dismissively.

When we reached the bottom of the dune, on foot, we saw the girl for the first time after she'd fallen off. She'd scraped the skin off her face and looked pale and badly shaken up. We all piled somberly back into the dune buggy and drove back to Huacachina.
Nicola

Cordillera Blanca - Breathtaking, and not just because of the altitude...

The Cordillera Blanca ('the white range') was a truly majestic place to visit in Peru. It is the highest mountain range in the world outside of the Himalayas, with many of the summits reaching over 6000m. Taking in the spectacular landscape really helps one to relax immediately upon arrival.

We were lucky enough to enjoy the scenery of bright jade lagoons, ancient Keshu ruins, perfect snow capped mountains and patchwork green valleys from the comforts of Llaganuco Lodge (aka Casa de Charlie), two hours away from Huaraz. The lodge is amazing and Charlie and the staff do everything to make you feel at home and to inform you of what you can do in the area (such as the walk to the ice of Huaraz, and the beautiful Laguna 69 trek). There are delicious three course meals to eat by candlelight, hot water showers, plus there are orthopedic beds and down duvets - even in the dorm room!

We would definitely recommend this place to anyone travelling to Peru, but make sure you get used to the altitude before venturing off on the treks, and do not drink the water in the mountain streams - there are lots of donkeys around these mountains!

Claire

Food, glorious food

The chiva ride

Bumpy ride on a pimped-out chiva to Tairona National Park in Northern Colombia.

Chivas are a Colombian mode of transport, using the base of a bus or truck with a modified body made out of either metal or wood. Seats are wooden benches, and they have doors instead of windows.

Our chiva driver could not have had more lucky charms in the front of his chiva. Horseshoe, check. Requisite photo of a patron saint, check. Three crosses, check. Spanner so he could get out and tighten the front tyre every 20 minutes..um..check.

We had about five people in our little chiva and it was struggling with 20km an hour. We had to stop a few times so the driver could tighten the aforementioned front tyre. But that didn't stop this guy trying to overtake everything around him.

Nicola

Guatapé

Guatapé, a cute lakeside town two hours from Medellín. The tiny chivas and the brightly painted houses lend a kind of Disneyland feel to things.

Something sweet?

Colombia's obsession with sweet things is not doing me any favours. Ok it's my obsession with sweet things, and I'm not doing myself any favours by being in Colombia, Land of Delicious Sweet Things. Today it was sweet doughy bread filled with arequipe, a caramel sauce similar to dulce de leche. And a cinnamon roll. And half a Gol bar. The problem is there are so many sweet things available here, and I’m the kind of person who wants to try everything – so needless to say I’ve been eating a lot.

Arequipe, cinnamon rolls, tres leches cake, milk fudge, dark chocolate, gelato, peanut squares. They’re available everywhere. They’re even available on the public transport, which is something I initially found really odd. Buses are one of the best places to buy snacks. There are people who seem to make a living hopping on and off public transport and selling food to the passengers.

An example: a couple of days ago we took a bus to Guatapé, a cute Disney-esque lakeside town two hours from Medellín. On the two hour bus trip we had no less than eight different people hop on and off the bus peddling their wares.

It goes something like this. A man hops on the bus (it’s usually a man), wipes the sweat off his face with a hankerchief and introduces himself.

“Hello, good day, my name is Diego Estéban Ramirez". (Pause. Wipe brow). "Today, I have with me chocolate bars. These are imported chocolate bars, ladies and gentlemen, of excellent quality. I have two flavours - " He produces them with a flourish "Rollero and Golpe Black” (He proceeds to hand them out) “Here you go, here you go, here you go”. (We all sit there, having a moment with the chocolate bars. The first time this happened I thought, ‘Yay – free chocolate!’, but this is just so you can look at it). Diego Estéban Ramirez (or whoever he is) goes back along the bus collecting them up again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. This is a very economical price today ladies and gentlemen, just a thousand pesos for both” (less than £1) “Two for you Sir? Thank you. And for you? Thank you”. Our host collects up any money and/or remaining chocolate bars, then hops off the bus.

They aren’t always that lengthy. Sometimes people just jump on and move quickly up the aisle, firing off their produce as they go: “agua-jugo-gaseosa” (‘water-juice-soft drink’) or “pan-mani-chuchirron” (‘bread-peanuts-pork crackling’) until somebody puts their hand out. Or not.

The curious part for me is that the buses actually pull over to pick these people up. Most commonly they’re selling dry breadsticks and round wafers, or bags of chip and pork crackling. Surely the buses could sell this stuff themselves, but no. It’s a surprise every time. On the way to Guatapé we were also treated to a fifteen minute presentation from a man trying to sell (pirated) children’s DVDs - but I’m only interested in the sweet things, of course.


Nicola

Taganga

Taganga itself wasn't hugely impressive, but it was just a twenty minute walk through cactusus and red sand to get to the beautiful Taganga coastal beaches.