The Last Post

This is it - buckle up for the last ever post from me. Sad? I am. So let's start with a winge for old time's sake. Although I'm immensely depressed about having to come home (although it'll be lovely to see you all, obviously) I won't miss one phenomenon specific to travelling and that's the Packing Show. This is where you're treated to a special presentation of selfish thoughtless bastards stuffing various items into their plastic bags (for optimum noise pollution and maximum waking up potential) and zipping up bags over a massively drawn out period of time. Let's say at least one hour, cos that's what it was this morning. I hate them. I hate them so much for their lack of foresight - I mean, who wants to get up before they have to? All they need to do is engage their (admittedly microscopic) brains into realising if they do this the day before they can lie in longer. It's not bloody rocket science. It's packing. This will be the sound that reminds me of travelling the most - the noise of the traveller - the sound of the zip in the morning. Bags, jeans, hoodies, all being zipped up, all for the pleasure and priviledge of those other poor bastards in your dorm. So many awful things have I muttered about these peanut-brained imbeciles, so many horrible platitudes of unforgiveable venom, and now it's nearly over I stand by every one of them. And don't even get me started on the use of the snooze button in a dorm room. Immeasureable selfishness beyond any scale created.

That felt good. Always nice to have a blog rant - I'll miss these a huge amount now as this is the last post. Ever. What will take its place, I wonder? I shudder to think, but I imagine my vision will become impaired, at the very least.

Now on to more inspiring topics and the final step in Argentina - the legendary Iguazu Falls. There will be a picture posted on here, but I have to wait for it to be sent to me by my lovely assistant, Tessa. If you're reading this, Tess, let's not let the public down, eh? There's a certain poetic symmetry which comes tied into this touristy hotspot. Those who will cast their minds back so many months may remember it was in my first week in Canada that I visited the Niagara Falls and it seems fitting that Iguazu should be one of my final tours - now boths falls act as thunderous bookends to this little adventure of mine. There's a picture of Iguazu on the back of my Rough Guide and I always knew it would be one of the last things I would do while in South America, so when I arrived there was a finality about the trip - that's not to say something negative, but rather something significantly important beyond the attraction itself. This one signalled the end, but I was to go out with a bang.

My God. I was impressed with Niagara when I got there, but Iguazu makes it look like a runny nose. These falls lying on the Argentina/Brazil border are simply magnificent - there's no more apt word for it. As you approach you already feel overwhelmed, but as the day stretches out so do the falls, spread as they are over a gigantic distance with incredible views around every corner. You can stand above them watching them pound into the ground below, underneath them, feeling said ground tremble with the sheer volume of water, or even get in a boat and ride into them for that authentic all-natural shower you more than need after trekking around them all day. In short, set in the jungle landscape with Brazil in sight across the water, these falls are quite stunning and richly deserve their place in the seven natural wonders of the world. Is it in that? I think so. I'm so glad my trip was this way round as these waterfalls were well worth the wait and come in high in my top five experiences in South America. Water way to have a good time. Reference, anyone? Canada, you can have the white water rafting, but the falls belong to South America. One-all.

So that's it. After a week of excess in Sao Paulo that included dancing on stage with a transvestite at the gayest of clubs, much to the audible derision of the crowd, clubbing with dwarf messengers and an eye-watering proliferation of pornography at every turn, my time here is at an end. Seven and a half months. Not quite the year originally planned, but still a healthy stint in anyone's book. Once again, I suppose this is a good time to reflect on my adventure. Sort of a game of two halves really - Canada in the first and South America making up the last. The two places could not be more different - but that much is surely blindingly obvious. I remember saying when I summed up Canada that it wasn't an archetypal travelling experience, but South America definitely gets that mantle. Much more the Lonely Planet style of destination, with unpredictable bowel fluctuations to match (last poo reference ever. Sad) South America has been infinately more challenging as a continent to travel around, but these challenges have come with great rewards. I've seen and done things I never expected to for the last two and a half months and these experiences will stay with me for the rest of my life. I've met some extraordinary people, indigenous and otherwise, from every walk of life and, of course, some total wankers. Let us not forget the wankers. Of course, no-one will ever top the unbelieveable tosser I lived with in Canada. Affas set the bar high there and has made an indelible impression upon me - the stories of this knucklehead will resonate throughout my life. I think it is my duty now to teach others of the egotistical horror that lies within reach of all of us. How to be a bad human. Shudder.

Anyway, moving on from darker times, this has been a journey for me in more than just a physical sense. Have lessons been learned and personal demons assuaged? Not quite, but I think we'll get there someday. Travelling on your own affords great time for personal reflection and I've done a lot of that. I know more about myself now and my abilities and limitations, but the question is, will this make me a better person? Who can tell? But I'm sure it'll make me a better singer, at the very least.

Final thanks to Sebastian, although I can't see that page yet. I'm sure England will be friendlier to the Guardian website and I'll check it out there. And Callum and Nina, although you managed to both put a comment on different posts to the last one I know you meant well. God bless us, everyone. Merry Christmas and until next time. Love Andrew X

BA Fracas

The pure excess of it all. Buenos Aires was recommended for its nightlife and in this respect it has not been a disappointment. I got into the city after another eventful bus journey, this time - having decided after a couple of wines, a beer or two and some English-speaking films that this was the best bus I'd ever been on - a little shit threw a rock through the window and, while once we enjoyed space and comfort by the cama-load, we all got squeezed into the front of the bus and I got stuck next to a paranoid junkie hag who kept thumping her fist on the seat while describing her much-hated flatmate. And frothing at the mouth a little too. Mad old bint.

Anyway, this has easily been my least cultural city. I'm feeling guilty about this as well because there are plenty of things to do, but I've managed to circumnavigate them all by hopping on board the beer train - all aboard, next stop drunkenness! (reference to The Office, in case anyone thought I was that much of a twat. I expect a witty retort to that last declaration in the comments please) These are the things I missed out on:

- Seeing beautiful coloured houses made out of zinc-corrugated metal sheets in the Boca area.

- Missing a football match in Argentina. Two have been played since I arrived.

- Going to a tango bar and watching the forbidden dance in its home.

Unforgiveable, obviously, but let's not dwell on the negative and have a look at those memories I will be taking with me. They are as follows:

- Going to Maradonna's nightclub and... well, just look at that picture.

- Getting thrown out of a karaoke bar (oh yes, the obsession continues) for creating a limbo stick with my leg on a table and smashing lots of glasses. Did I mention I was mad? Sometimes I have been sick. I am so lonely.

- Getting thrown out of lesbian club for having a penis. Allegedly.

- Singing with a live band at the hostel in front of a packed house. Don't Look Back In Anger and Twist and Shout, if you're interested.

- Eating more juicy and huge steaks than you could shake a colon at. It has become more coal than brown trout now.

So you see, although some time does seem to have been squandered, Buenos Aires has been a landmark city for me, affording many stories and classic nights I'll never forget. I may be carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders now that the post-binge demons circle close by, but that'll pass and I'll be left with the memory of Jono from Oz stumbling from the room at 7:30am for a nightcap in nothing but a poncho, a Las Vegas Gun Club cap and one sock. Wrong, of course, but in equal measure, surprisingly right.

I did actually do a couple of culturey things, but these tales seem a little more blog-friendly. I know what you people want, don't I? If I'm wrong then I should give you what you really want and detail these other more culturey things discussed earlier. After the rock/window/thrown incident on the bus I arrived at the Milhouse Hostel and with a few hours to kill before my room was ready I decided to take the walking tour to familiarise myself with my new city. To be honest, and if I'm nothing else I'm honest, it was a little dull and took in around five seperate churches where everyone was praying like the plane was going down and I felt a bit uncomfortable. At one point I wandered into a non-gringo area and got fairly forceably removed by an elderly lady with more strength than you would have initially credited her with. I think Jesus was helping her.

I also went to the famous cemetry, which we were told we 'must' go to by the hostel staff. This was quite interesting, but I'm pretty sure I saw a similar thing in France with my family a few years go. It consisted of hundreds - maybe even thousands of small to huge very religious structures all with varying degrees of big marble angels or sometimes even Big JC himself - milking it, as usual. Too much? Bit of a religious one, this. Didn't see that one coming. Anyway, Iguazu Falls next, then onto Brazil for my final border crossing of the trip. El buggero.

One comment (one?) again this week, this time from long-time contributor and stalwart of the blog, Al. Thanks for the important advice, Al - I think we've all learnt something there. Now, I don't want to push you, but this is the penultimate posting ever, and if you have something to say to me, now would be a good time to stick it in the comments. Time is running out to slag me off in print, don't miss this golden opportunity.

Where's Willy?

Plagued as I have been by this phenomenon throughout my adult life it shouldn't have come as a shock, but recently an old personal demon came back around and I thought you'd might like to know about it. It happened, as it usually does, around a packed table and was the direct consequence of a girl passing round some jewellery - a braclet, to be exact. 'Haven't you got tiny hands?!', she declared with delight. Then silence. A succession of beats go by as we stare at each other and the table becomes sucked into our conversational oblivion. As her eyes flick from mine to my hands I know what she's thinking, I know what the table's thinking, everyone knows what I'm thinking and I'm pretty sure I know what you're surmising and I have to say, this puts me in an impossible situation. What can I possibly do? Nothing is said about it, but then it doesn't need to be - the damage is done. I attempt humour to diffuse the situation, but short of bringing out photographic proof with a postage stamp next to it for scale I still haven't come up with a solution for the social pariahs that hang from my wrists. People will always assume the worst, or smallest, when they see my girl hands, but only a select few know the real truth. I, of course, am going to leave this enigma right there, but I feel it necessary to add that I have size 10 feet, which has to count for something, doesn't it?

Anyway, this is a travel-based blog, is it not? I shall, therefore, endeavour to leave further proportion-based blether aside from now on and just give you the facts, which are as follows: Whereas once life on this trip ambled on for me with a nonchalent swagger, things are starting to take on a much more feverish momentum these days and I find myself in the grip of a compulsive desire to go and see as much as is humanly possible within these dying days of the trip. To this end things have become a lot more hurried and the fact that since my last posting I have been to two more countries bears testament to this. The date of re-entry looms ever closer, but despite the multitude of bus travelling this will incur, I have decided to pull my finger out and resigned myself to a juddering and sleep-deprived last three weeks in South America. Dammit, when will I be here again?!

Utterly revolting. Upon this personal revelaton of travelling enlightenment some porky kid went and ruined it all by spewing up all over the floor right next to me on the latest bus. Mum tried to clean it up with some newspaper, but the smell was grotesque and made me feel like hurling myself. Maybe I've been a bit hasty... Actually, maybe if Mum didn't cram the fat shit's face with every E number under the sun during a particularly windy journey through the Argentine mountains this might not have happened. Just a thought. The boy had more Es than Saturday night at the Ministry Of Sound and he was totally wired - I think he shat himself as well. Good God, only another 3,000km to cover. Like the colour on the boy's face, my new-found spirit of adventure is quickly draining.

But where were we? I don't think I said anything about Chile, which I really should. I was only there for what amounted to around 60 hours, easily the most whistley of stops so far, but lying right on the weekend it definitely had its moments. There was a huge warehouse rave on the Saturday night in Santiago which, although wasn't really what I'd had in mind when I made the 24hr journey down from northern San Pedro on the Bolivian/Chilean border, still was a good old shin-dig and interesting to see how they do things down here. Good, but no Great Yarmouth in the 90s. Then Sunday brought with it touristico-a-plenty and along with the city's zoo, I ended up on a cable car with a flame-haired beauty called Jordan overlooking the entire city. Unfortunately, far from being the buxom slutty type, Jordan was a 25-year-old Leicester fella with a penchant for baboon vaginas. Still, it was a special time for me and I had to fight the temptation for the old yawning wandering arm trick as Santiago spread out beneath us. Just joking mate, and if you're reading this, how about them pics? From here we rounded a troop and after a splendid steak dinner we ended up seeing the evening out in spectacular salsa style at a local club in the Latin Quarter. Lots of hip-shaking and slightly awkward-looking fun. After this the hand of God has pointed me in the direction of Argentina, which is where I am now.

The jump from Bolivia to Chile and now Argentina has been both sudden and alarming in its differences. It seems odd that the richest and poorest countries lie so close to one another, but I suppose it's this duality which makes up the majority of cities around the world - the rich living so close and so oblivious to the poor - that it shouldn't come as such a surprise. Bolivia was made up of makeshift homes and shops, with dusty streets, dirty faces and signs thrown together by twine and poster paints that really hoped they'd be enough to entice money from pockets. The main difference I've noticed in Chile and Argentina is that they don't suffer from that desperation and come across with a much more arrogantly European self-sufficiency where you can buy if you want to. They don't care. This is not to say that they're not nice and in some places architectually stunning, just like Europe, but it's sad now I've seen the back of their poorer neighbours and I almost miss being accosted on every corner by someone selling something. Almost. I guess it signals the beginning of the end and that's the really sad thing. Are you feeling sad? Course not - some of you buggers will be seeing me again soon - lucky swines! I digress... I see Peru and Bolivia as the Oliver Twists of South America - always craving more, but being irresistably constrained and repressed by forces beyond their control. It all ends well for Twist and I wish the same fate for South America's grubby-faced urchins. All this literary and political metaphor seems a long way from last week's 'P-Day' declaration, but it's been a total culture shock going from one extreme to the other in the last week and I felt compelled to share it with you - whether you like it or not. You got knob gags and bodily fluids as well, what more do you want? Shesh.

Just the one comment to thank and that's to another Anonymous. Thank you, whoever you are. I was starting to get worried there weren't gonna be any! Come on, why not join the party - you'll be glad you came. Until next time.

Snow Informer

God I feel guilty. I just went into a restaurant, up to some local people happily eating lunch and demanded to see the menu in pigeon Spanish. Let me elaborate. There were three people sitting at a table, no-one else about and one of them was the spit of every waitress I've ever had since getting into Peru and Bolivia. Oh God, this is where it all starts - it's a mere hop, skip and a jump from here to shaving my head and stating that Bernard Manning was a misunderstood genius. Christ. She really wasn't happy either, so I decided to do the right thing and sit outside. So embarrassed. I said 'lo siento', which I think means 'I'm sorry', but judging by the reaction it may as well have been, 'Nice moustache, fatty', which would have been entirely accurate, but possibly inappropriate given the circumstances.

Uyuni is the starting point from which you take the now legendary salty flat tour, that takes in the various natural wonders surrounding the southern areas of Bolivia. Literally everyone loves this tour and since I arrived every single person has shown me photographs or gushed enthusiastically about the bizarre and unique landscapes that make up the tour. (Another) one not to miss then. I wasn't sure how a huge mass of salt - deposited after sesmic activities filtered out a massive lake - was gonna make it into my top five things to gush enthusiastically and show photos of, but I was keen to find out. It's a three-day tour and after an evening in Uyuni where some Nottingham lads got banned from the hostel for putting Bruce Forsyth, 63 years old down as their contact details - seemed funny at the time - I got a good night's sleep, met my tour group and day one began with the spectacular salt flats themselves.

So two hours in and there we were. The climax of the trip started, curiously, at the very beginning, but when we got there.... I don't know what it is, maybe it had been built up too much, but I found the whole thing a little underwhelming. Was I missing the point? Frankly, I can't see it. But to me, after the magic of Machu Pitchu or the terror of Yungas Road, it all seemed to pale (it was all white) into insignificance. Maybe that's a bit strong, the lack of scale provided by an all-white horizon allows for 'crazy' pictures like above, but really I couldn't help thinking the whole thing would have been much more exciting for people who'd never seen snow before. It is indeed a unique landscape and I'll probably never see anything like it again, but sadly it didn't envoke the passion or pant-quaking wonderment those before me clearly felt.

The rest of the tour went by the book. We saw more amazing sights than you can shake a llama at and a couple of charming Irishes meant there was some good craic as well. Green lakes, red lakes, flamingoes in a stinking sulphur lake actually called Stinking Lake, but I have to say, the most extraordinary sight for me was a distant late-night lightning storm which fired up the star-encrusted sky and mountains far away. No pictures of that, obviously. Truly beautiful. There were also hot springs to get into, but these were detrimental to me in two ways:

1) Everyone else seemed to be the same shade and carved from mahogany, whereas I seemed to be the same shade and carved from raspberry jelly.

2) I said 'doesn't he ever shut up?' about a loudmouth private in the British Army to his commanding officer accidently. Got changed pretty sharpish after that.

Finally, today is a day to celebrate. For the past three weeks I have been suffering from an acute case of traveller's bottom and as such have enjoyed nothing other than fizzy gravy or man-pats in the seemingly endless feud between my digestive system and the toilet. Today though, dear and dare I say it, concerned readers, my arse has been spared this acutely perpetual onslaught and I passed a good old-fashioned English brown trout. I was so relieved I almost cried. Whereas once I considered I had bitten off more than I can poo in South America, I can now rest easy in the knowledge that I am finally victorious in World War Poo. Just thought you might like to know - today shall ever more been known as P-Day.

A late thanks to Matt from the post before last for assuring everyone that the fanny on my face was not the only fanny in the vicinity. Thanks for that. And also to Steve for getting involved on the anecdote front and blasting my so-called difficult journey out of the water with one of his own. Good work, son. Rob has also finally verbalised his feelings, which I'm sure has been enormously cathartic for you, mate. Know that I feel the same. Don't judge us. I might quickly add that I'm now in Chile after a last-minute change of plans. It's nice here, but a bit pricey. More to follow.

Death Proof

Now you can call me Old Mr Picky if you like, but when a transport company, say for instance a bus company, tenders a specific duration of journey time, say for instance three hours, I would like to think that said journey would be completed in and around that given period. Well, based on these apparently insane assumptions it was disappointment all round for my recent bus journey from Puno to La Paz - the first of my destinations in Bolivia. So after telling me it would take no longer than three hours I arrived in the middle of the night after an eight hour journey, complete with two changes of bus and a little boat trip thrown in for good measure. I'm really not sure why this compulsive lying occurs - I'm going to these destinations anyway and would buy the ticket regardless of the time it takes. No sense means nonsense and here is a prime example of why.

La Paz is said, by some people, to be the capital of Bolivia. Unfortunately to some others this is not the case and I'm yet to discover the truth. Either way, it's a very important city for the Bolivians, bringing in the majority of the country's wealth through it's financial and touristic facilities. Again it's a city set down in the valley of some mountains and old volcanoes and really looks the part as you come in from the top and look down into the bustling metropolis below. There are many things to see and do in the city itself, but mostly people come to La Paz to party and it really doesn't disappoint in those stakes. It's right up there with the drunken hedonism of Salvador and maybe even better cos there was also karaoke thrown in. That was a strange affair and I'm pretty confident it wasn't only for singing, but also doubled up as a brothel. Loads of fat Bolivian women in slutty clothes mewling all over some fat Bolivian men and even a German friend of mine got a dance. No extras though. I must say, I was quite the cult hit in the karaoke bar - at least I think that's what they were chanting. Either way, lots of fun to be had in La Paz at the Loki hostel that never sleeps (closes at 1am) and the surrounding discos - just for you gringos out there.

One of the most popular attractions in the surrounding areas of La Paz is mountain biking down the Yungas Road. In itself that doesn't sound that impressive, which is why no-one locally calls it by that name - opting instead for the far more chest-beating and ball-clacking colloquialism of the Death Road. Exciting, eh? Since I began travelling around South America, this has to be the most frequently raised must-do trip - a few people even mentioned it to me in Canada before they knew I was heading down, so this made it an essential during my time in Bolivia. It's known as the Death Road because it currently holds the record for most amount of deaths on a single stretch of road. I think a road in Baghdad took over for a short period of time recently, but, thankfully, more people died on Yungas and the record was returned to its rightful owner.

The 64km road is split into two sections - the first of which is a pretty well-maintained asphalt surface that acts to lull you into a false sense of security, but although 35mph on a pushbike overlooking Bolivia's mountainous countryside is no picnic, it's a full-on Sunday afternoon punting down the River Camb with jam sandwiches in comparrison to the second half - known as the Death Road Proper. Once you finish the concrete section - which includes 5km of uphill, the less said about the better - you turn off the main road onto the pain road. On first glance it looks like the mouth of a gravel quarry and being cloaked in thick fog only served to heighten the menace. 'Keep on the cliffside edge in case of oncoming traffic.' I'm sorry, what? OK, and if any arrive out of the fog I'll be sure to jump to the safety of the 600 metre drop. They're not making this any easier.

As we descended (4,700m-1,300m) the fog started to clear and once again I found myself surrounded by breathtaking scenery. This time it was in the shape of the Bolivian jungle complete and for a more pictoral description please refer to the picture provided at the top of this posting. Something that raised the blood pressure along the way, even further, was the proliferation of crosses peppered along the route, announcing the final resting points of some less fortunate fellow travellers. Statistics are varied about Yungas and the inaccuracies are staggering, ranging as they do from 4-5 people a year to 200-300. I'll go for the latter as it makes me look harder. Not an altogther effortless exercise, I'm sure you'll agree. Anyway, seeing the crosses really brings home the very real danger of the road and as you tear down the dusty track you tend to squeeze both your brakes and sphincter in equal measure.

The five-hour ride is not easy and certainly not for the faint-hearted (I refer you to my earlier comments about how right hard I am) but it is definitely worth the buzz that surrounds it. Truly one of those 'once in a lifetime' experiences that makes you feel glad to be alive. There were a couple of hairy moments and now I think I have acquired permenant partial clawing to my hands because of the constant grip of terror on the handlebars, but I wouldn't have missed this one for the world.

Thanks this week to another Anonymous - I'm losing track of you now. Who's who? I just don't know. Blue Hawaii, I find your suggestions absurd and ridiculous. Next thing you'll be telling me is that my ball in the mouth during dinner was inappropriate. Preposturous. Finally Al, you and possibly many others will be relieved to hear the face fanny is now no more. My sister said she wouldn't pick me up from the airport if I didn't get rid, so rid it is. Hasta luego.

2,000 KM, But No Paddington

As I think we discussed in an earlier posting, I don't think I could ever be a 'lad'. It's true, I have the required equipment, I love beer, women's bits and I even went to the World Cup last year, but I've never really been one to celebrate the numbskullery of this subculture and my first night in Arequipa was a prime example of that. Arequipa is Peru's second largest city and it was in arriving that I met big burly Dutchman, Tom. Now Tom's a nice guy, but even for a Dutchman his obsession seems a little excessive. It occurred slowly over a 'getting to know you' couple of beers at the local bar, but it soon became apparent that Tom only had one thing on his mind. The conversations started becoming more and more graphic until this Englishman began squirming uncomfortably on his chair. Everything that I would say would soon become turned to smut. For example, I had cooked that day and:

'...I just rubbed my eye and it's stinging from the chilli.'

'For sure, after I'm cutting chilli I (motions with his fingers at knee-height) with a girl! It was so funny, I think so!'

And also:

'I left a pair of pants at the rafting. So annoyed.'

'Ya, all girls here have pink panties. They're not having G-strings either, here, I think so.'

The worst and most frustrating part of this is when you're having a conversation and in the middle of it he just stares away at some girls while I'm in the process of granting him my gold - and you know I have the gold. He has the attention span of a Mayfly with a sexual urgency to match. I don't suppose his life expectancy will be all that far off either when his girlfriend returns on Monday to catch him in the act. I think so.

So that was my first night in Arequipa, but let's not have that taint yours and my opinion. How about some descriptive detail about this newest city of mine, hmm? All Peruvian cities I've been to so far have consisted of narrow roads populated with noisy, polluting cars zipping around with a purpose and focus to rival a crack whore on coupon day and Arequipa is no exception. Mario Kart has nothing on these crazy bastards. If you get a chance to look up from the terrifying speed and noise - it's like an early nineties rave with all those horns and whistles - you'll see some fairly spectacular architecture that let's you know, without doubt, that you're in a South American city. Not least of this is the obligatory town square, which is always an ornate affair with huge imposing constructions built around palm trees and other spiky fauna unique to the continent. Quite a good nightlife here too, I've heard, but before any of that frival, predominately people come to Arequipa as a base from which to take the Colca Canyon trek and other outdoor pursuits which lie a stone's throw from Peru's second city. Not wanting to buck the trend, this was also why I had arrived here and as soon as the laddy fug from the previous night cleared, I made my way to book myself one of these tours and after an early night I set off first thing for the Colca Canyon and the famous condors which lie in wait therein.

I was feeling a little guilty and it had taken me a long time to make the decision, but instead of actually trekking there, I was taking the easy route and a nice comfy bus would be ferrying me to all the destinations of note. Memories of sleepless nights and Falkland survivor feet informed my choice, for the most part, but also time is beginning to become a factor now and the bus route is a good two days shorter than the trek. Plus I broke a nail last time. Taking the bus, however, came with its own pitfalls - obviously. We stopped everywhere. Now, I'm not at the point where the stunning Peruvian landscape is something to be taken for granted, but this guide's insistant stops for every llama turd we passed by, or every old person were pushing me dangerously close to saturation point. To start with everyone was being polite and dutifully snapping away at every stop, even though half the time we didn't even know what we were snapping at. I even think I got mild RSI from all the clicking. RSI from politeness - how English can you get? Eventually, though, as the bus began to slow we would join forces in a weary shaking of the head and, although appearing sometimes upset at the rejection, the guide would signal the driver to carry on and not stop for a clump of alpaca wool caught in a hedge.

After the needlessly long bus journey, we arrived at Chivay, an old city that sits comfortably in the Peruvian mountains close to the condor-infested Colca Canyon. There was a planned trip to some hot springs included in the afternoon, but after hearing about the skin flake McFlurry springs at Agues Calientes outside Machu Picchu, I decided to give those a miss. One story came back about a woman actually letting her baby take a shit in one of those springs - that's a bit much, isn't it? So spending the afternoon reading instead, our small group of four were eventually summoned at 6:30pm for our evening's entertainment. There were several other groups staying in the same hotel as us, so common sense would dictate that we would all be going to see the same show. But this is Peru and common sense left town a long time ago. We got in our bus and went (literally) about 15 metres down the road to a restaurant where we were the only diners there. Music and dancing is generally one of those things you can let blend into the background in a restaurant setting, but when you're the only wallets in sight, there's no escaping it. There were some interesting techniques, including a young girl getting savagely beaten by a knotted rope - actually really hard - but for the most part the entertainment, in front of four guys who met 12 hours ago, served to merely exercise buttock clenching muscles. And I can tell you, you could bounce coins off my bum-bum now. Ah well, tomorrow was the day we were here for anyway and I drifted off, tight-buttocked and dreaming of the majestic condor.

So another early morning (5am) was necessary to catch the awesome birds in full flight through the incredible canyon and after a quick breakfast we set off for the main purpose of the trip. When we got there the scenery was amazing. The sun was shining and around 100 people were sitting - their feet dangling of a cliff's edge and their fingers poised, just waiting for a glimpse of the birds. I found myself a spot and started to do the same. Wait. And wait. And wait. Guess who's too good for the canyon today? Yep, after two day's journey, an unprecedated amount of outstretched palms and bugger all sleep the condors didn't come out to play. What made this even more frustrating was a grinning Swedish twat who laughed about how he's been there eight times and this was the only time there had been a no-show. That's helpful, isn't it? You may have been wondering about the picture for this posting and I can tell you I've vetoed any pics from this tour cos it was such a letdown and have instead put up a photo I took of a dog with an erection. Quite apt, I thought, as both the dog and the tour have potential, but ultimately they were pointless.

Never mind. Forgetting the condor calamity (I'll never forget it) going back to Arequipa was cultural, entertaining and a fitting end to my time in Peru. I went to see Juanita, the frozen child sacrifice of the Incas found in a local volcano, at the local museum and then spent the Friday evening jigging till the early hours with thoughts of condors nothing but a distant memory - I'll never forget it. So after sod all sleep and a six hour bus journey, I'm about to cross the border into Bolivia and now, I feel, would be an appropriate time for some thoughts on my second South American country. Unlike Brazil, every kilometre in Peru creaks with age and tradition unique to the continent. At every stage you are under no illusion as to where you are - from the bright and ancient clothing to the perpetual music piped into every place, tradition is not something easily forgotten here. Just like Juanita, time has been frozen for many Peruvians and if it wasn't for the cacophony of engine noises from the busy streets, you could easily believe you were in a different era altogether. Certainly smells like a different era sometimes. Myterious, beautiful, charming and challenging all at once - but enough about me! Meep-meep! Last one of those, I promise. But the above really does describe Peru. That and a distinct lack of bastard condors. I'll never forget it. And now to Bolivia...

No true comments from the last post. I can only assume this is because I put this one up so quickly afterwards. Yes, that's what I'll assume. Just simply a quick hello to Matt and Lee - hope being back isn't too depressing. See you in Bolivia.

So Machu

At last, the bus of travelling cliches has come to town and I had a ticket. I've finally been on a bus with chickens on it - long since an ambition of mine after hearing about them from just about every other traveller. That's not all though - I also had two young boys staring at me and practically (and unnecessarily - there was room elsewhere) sitting on top of me for most of the journey, some luggage fell from the roof on to the road nearly causing a pretty serious accident and, to cap it all off nicely, and old lady had to get off for a pee and everyone made a big point of staring unabashedly right at her throughout. Yes! I've been on that bus everyone else has been on! Tick.

The reason for this bus journey was as the first part of my trip to the mystical and spectacular Machu Picchu - the main reason people come to Cuzco. Normally you would see the ancient ruins as part of a four-day trek, but as space on these treks is limited and my plans were fairly last-minute, I wasn't able to book the trek and had to, instead, settle for transport to a city, Aguas Calientes, just outside the ruins. You stay in this city for one night before getting up early the next day to see Machu Picchu in all its glory. Good that the ancient city has glory, cos the city outside is a prefabricated nightmare. That Cuzco is clean was a welcome surprise after staying in other less hygienic places, but the sterile atmosphere that accompanied Aguas Calientes is not something you needed to be around for long. Doing the trek would have meant missing this plastic tourist trap and that would have been an enormous plus, let me tell you. I'm not one to avoid touristy places, they're normally touristy because they're of interest, but this place looks like Peru by Disney. My advice - avoid like the plague.

Anyway, leaving McPeru behind, you set off very early (5:30am) to try and avoid the thousands and hopefully catch an incredible sunrise through the legendary Sun Gate. Unfortunately this wasn't to be as the cloud lay heavy all around, but this still managed to lend the ruins a spectral quality which added to the overall haunting beauty. Even though I'd seen the pictures, nothing can quite prepare you for the majesty of this place. It's not only the ruins, but the landscape that it sits in - absolutely spellbinding. A city in the clouds and mountains amongst the lush pastures of Peruvian jungle, it really needs to be seen to be believed. Look at that magnificent natural beauty in the photo - and the ruins aren't bad neither! Meep-meep! I scaled the mountain next to the city, called Huayna Picchu, for the ultimate bird's eye view and that's the picture I've attached above for your pleasure. Pretty tiring to get up there, you can see by what a sweaty bastard I am, but well worth it. As an addendum, if the justification of my backwards cap is being brought into question, I should probably point out that I am (obviously) a black person. Now let's have no more of these trivial inquiries - time is pressing and I must away, post-haste, in order that I may cap some bitch. Word etc.

After a good six hours looking and climbing around the ruins it was time to go. I took the train all the way back to Cuzco this time, instead of getting the Chicken Express, but this did not pass without incident. As soon as I got onto my carriage there immediately began some good-hearted banter with some wobbly 50-something Mexican ladies. There was a Spanish lady opposite who would translate, and she started by telling me they wanted to flirt with me all the way back to Cuzco. Fine with me as it was all pretty funny and I suppose it made a nice change for them too to be flirting with me rather than a coronary. Apparently they were also offering themselves two at a time for me, which I can only imagine would be like being hit by a bouncy castle driven by Mr Stay Puft marshmallow man. I also think Greenpeace would have been involved at some point and maybe even a Japanese schooner or two. Do you see? I'm comparing them to whales.

Getting back into Cuzco (actually unplanned, but very welcome) I had one more night of Diablo-based samba with a couple of Aussies I met on the mountain. This really did signal the end of my time in Cuzco, though, with my next stop being Arequipa the following afternoon. Needless to say, I'll let you know how that goes - all in good time, my pretties. All in good time.

Thanks to a really old friend, Rhian, for such a kind comment. Facebook is a wonderful thing, eh? And Glenda, such blatant disrespect for the blog could lead to you being banned. Choose your words carefully next time, or pay the price. Now to Anonymous - I don't get it! A bigger baby than me? Does that mean you're younger than me? There's loads of people younger than me - millions, in fact. This could take some time. And finally, Rob. He who revels in my personal anguish and pain - help me discover the mystery identity of Anonymous and I'll keep my eyes open for a banana skin precariously placed next to a busy road just for you. Bweye!