Day Four: The Early Bird Catches The Walk

What I had hoped would be a sound sleep was rudely interrupted by the Mother’s Day celebrations that were in full swing well into the night. And at 1am, with the MC still blaring out in between off-tune traditional music, my 4am rise only got closer and closer.

Needless to say, when we were finally woken hours later, I felt like I had barely slept and my legs were still aching from the climb the day before. But climbing Machu Picchu is not really the sort of thing that you can just reschedule for another day – it was the culmination of my South American trip - so there was no turning back, or sleeping in. Plus, if we were to claim one of the 400-only spots for the adjacent climb up to Wayna Picchu, we had to get to the top before the gates opened at 6am.

Throwing on some clothes to stave off the cold, we left our hostel to meet everyone amidst the smashed glass in the plaza – obviously Mother’s Day had been a good one. Once there, we headed out of town in the pitch black and I am glad that at least some of us had torches to avoid the rocks and pebbles along the road. Not really sure where we were going - and with our new tour guide still back in town, collecting the one person we forgot - we just aimed for the other flash lights ahead.

After about half an hour of walking along the bottom, passed the train tracks, we finally saw the sign that signalled the start of the stairs up. Again, I thanked God that there was someone behind me lighting the way with their head-torch, else the unsteady path below me would have tripped me several times and added another layer to my scabbed knee. And I thanked God for the full bright moon, which had peaked just the day before.

But being able to see my way was only one blessing, and one that could not save me from the affect of the steep climb. After just over 10 minutes, I was out of breathe with everyone else, clutching to the side of the path, sweat pouring out of everywhere, despite the time and the chill in the air. The path was an unrelenting stairway to hell, with each new step up, a new stair.

Finally, though, it levelled out and each step became much longer, allowing one step of ‘rest’ in between. Oh, the small things. And eventually, after an hour of trudging through the darkness, the sky started to lighten and we knew we were near the top. As expected, our speedy group were among the first arrivals at the gate, and so we made it about halfway down the line. Still not yet 6am, we waited to enter, scoffing down some of the breakfast and lunch supplies we had brought with us.

It was the usual confusion as the staff attempted to get a crowd of a few hundred people into a single file line, but with the sunrise blushing the clouds with its sepia tones, I was pretty happy to have just arrived at my destination, and to know that my climbing was almost over.

Day Three: Optional Extras

Having taken another “options” vote over dinner the night before, it was not such an early rise on our third morning, with another bus set to speed us through our first leg for the day. I am not sure if this was the reason why we ended up at Santa Theresa’s only club, drinking surprisingly good, but strong, cocktails until the early hours, or if it was the two for one cuba libres (rum and coke) at the restaurant before that egged us on, but I had to admit that my gashed knee and ripped pants enjoyed the momentary rest.

Heading , we got out to follow the train tracks all the way to Aguas Calientes, at the foot of Machu Picchu. Again it was an easy flat stroll through the selpa, and we arrived well ahead of schedule. Not much more than a final destination/resting point for hikers and tourists alike, Aguas Calientes is a reasonably charming town, with its chalet-style restaurants and hotels and train running through the middle. Unfortunately though, it is also filled with expensive food and drink and an inordinate amount of framed dead insects (butterflies and tarantulas).

Again, I blame the “options” voting system here, when I say that either wisely or unwisely, I forwent a siesta and instead followed some of the boys up Putucusi mountain for an early side-view of Machu Picchu. Eder had already warned us that it might not be such a good idea – not only after last night’s festivities, but also after a patch of rain came through during lunch to wet the many wooden log ladders on the climb. But stupidly, none of us were deterred from the 1900 or so stairs (so the Israeli guy ahead of us counted), which came in the form of an extremely slippery, seriously rotting, 25m-at-its-longest stair – conveniently missing several rungs along the way.

It’s no wonder, with my relatively petite legs, that I almost didn’t make it up. But with Eder adamant that he would hold my foot as I heaved the extra bit over gaps, there was no turning back. Besides, I didn’t come all this way just to shop for preserved animals. Little by little, we eventually made it up the unrelenting stairs to have our first taste of what we would see tomorrow morning. The impressive, but not-so-ancient remains of the Incan city lay open in front of us, clouded over by the passing storm.

Day Two: On The Up and Up

Our next day came much to soon – not because of the 6am start, but because of the damn rooster who started calling out at 3am. (I thought they were supposed to come up with the sun?) At least there was a hearty breakfast of pancakes, omelettes, paw-paw juice, and the best bread in Bolivia (very croissant-like) to keep me focused on the task ahead. Just to be sure, I filled up on coca tea to keep hopefully induce further alertness.

Our trek started on a flat road that led out of town, taking us past the abandoned train station – covered over like its adjoining village by a landslide almost 10 years ago – towards the river. Following its pleasant route between the mountains, we continued past the bend, taking in the view of the nearby peak with its white iced fringe. But the climb up started soon though, as we near the path of the Incans, and I thanked God in between stifled breaths for our frequent stops - cursing my low blood pressure every other.

Remembering that this was meant to be the “easiest” part of our journey, I was a little fearful when we finally arrived at our first stop and my lungs and legs were stuffed. Sitting down to rehydrate and snack on empanadas and bananas, our cameras were kept busy by the sideshow combination in front of us. Tied to various stakes around the balcony area were a wild pig, a picuro (badger-looking animal) and a monkey, who were all obviously very used to putting on a show for passing traffic. I really wasn’t sure what to make of the whole scene, except that I was pretty sure this wasn’t part of the original Incan pilgrimage.

Neither was the homemade chocolate displayed on the table in front of us, handmade by our hostess, which tasted so bitter and strong without the usual milk and sugar. But with a dot of her organic honey, which she claimed was the secret to her younger looking skin – and, at the 55 years she tells me, I would have to agree she is miles ahead, er, behind, native comparisons – I am treated to a much more pleasant experience.

Buoyed by the sweetness, but still a little worried about the next “harder” part of our climb, I approached Eder for some advice. Thinking about it for a moment, he called for a bottle to be brought over and offered me some alcohol to sniff. Perplexed by this apparent solution, which I had only ever seen used on weightlifters and boxers, I was hardly relieved to be leaving again. But as we set off again, the slow up and down of the next part of the trail turned out to be completely manageable – even without all the breaks.

The walk was so easy in fact, that only an hour and a half later we arrived at our lunch destination, before the group ahead of us had even eaten. Such was our luck, we ended up waiting in hammocks for them to finish, before settling down to our own three courser of guacamole, bread, chilli dip, stracciatella soup, chicken spaghetti bolognese and pineapple jelly. And with only a few more hours of walking left in the day, it was back to the hammocks for an afternoon nap. (Nothing says Inca Trail like a full-bellied siesta).

On the final leg of the day – supposed to take two hours, but taking us just over one – we passed by another group on the chain bridge – the Danish girls I had stayed with on the Isla del Sol – before arriving at the hot springs. But before we got wet, Eder explained that we had a few options to choose. Given the setting sun, if we were to walk to our hostel in the Santa Theresa, we would have to leave in just under half an hour, but if we chose to take a taxi bus there, we could stay until dinnertime. And, with the steam from the 35 and 40 degree waters rising in front of us, our choice was a bit of a no-brainer.

The heat is a welcomed treat for our soon-to-be-sore muscles and is the perfect accompaniment to a few cold beers. (It’s now that I start to understand how easy it was for the English girl I met to have ‘missed’ Machu Picchu – too hungover to make it out of bed on the last day).

Day One: Downward Madness

Picked up early than I expected, I was a little flustered after being shoved immediately onto a waiting bike. Particularly when everything was around the wrong way for my comfort – brakes, gears etc – and the rest of the group, I later realised, had been collected by car or had strolled to our meeting point. It didn’t bode to well for the next four days, I thought, where I would be climbing my way through the selpa (high altitude jungle) with thirteen others.

Of course it was the usual false start, and almost an hour before our minivan finally starting moving out of the city, retracing most of yesterday’s steps back to Ollantaytambo. Here we stopped to go to the toilet and get some snacks, and I armed myself with some more essential supplies of moisturiser (the altitude robs your skin of everything). We then got back on the road to climb up into the mountains and and zig-zag our way to our biking spot.

Again, it was not long before the journey left me nauseous - particularly because the driver specialised in speeding up around the corners – and I felt like I was on a slip-shot propulsion ride at the Royal Show. I really couldn’t see the logic in it all, unless he was trying to send us over one of the precipitous edges and force an early retirement.

After much head-bowing and closed-eyed concentration, we got to our starting point for the bike ride and dismounted to be given our wheels (I say that in the most literal of senses because most of our frames were being held together by hose-pipe and gaffer tape). Unlike my previous efficient encounter with the Death Road, we were left to pick an upturned bike and hope that the gloves and helmets fit. I don’t think any of us really got a perfect match – least of all the other Australian girl in our pack, who lucked out on getting something to protect her hands.

Similarly, our descent was started with no real instructions and I was glad to have already conquered Bolivia. I feared though, for the other members of my group, knowing that many of Peru’s roads are rumoured to be worse. And the path we were on was certainly a forerunner with its u-turn bends and snaking blind corners. Add in some speeding cars, trucks and other cyclists, and faulty brakes, gears and handlebars, and you might imagine some of the peril.

Luckily the first part was a bitumen road, in moderate condition, and those of us who either didn’t have brakes or didn’t use them, cruised down easily from 4300m. A few stops later, each one calling for more and more mechanical assistance (I think the idea of maintenance hasn’t reached Peru yet, and so quick fixes are the norm) and we were seated with our packed lunch of cheese rolls, fruit and various sweet and savoury biscuits.

But as soon as we were back on our bikes, the menacing gravel appeared, threatening to send each of us skidding into the watery roadside trench. Again, there were no instructions, and no real guide either, after he (Eder) was forced to swap bikes with Dutch guy Eric, whose brakes and gears had both given up. Needless to say there were a few minor mishaps, some preliminary baths if you like, but we were definitely more fortunate than the other group who had a more serious broken-in-half mishap.

Our ride finished quite early in the afternoon, not taking the five hours we were originally told, and we piled into the minivan, unsure what would fill the rest of the day and night. But like much of the rest of our individual travels throughout South America, it is beer and conversation that warms us up after our freezing cold showers, sending us to bed in anticipation of our first day of hiking.

Sightseeing in the Sacred Valley

It seems I can’t escape my confusion with money and I had to race off first thing in the morning to get more out to pay for the hidden entrance fees on my tour. Apparently all I have paid for is the bus and guide - the agent I bought my ticket from obviously forgot to mention the other 70 Bolivianos (AUD$35) I must produce to get into the National Park areas.

I eventually get back onto our cozy tourist bus, and we pick up various people around town, almost filling all of the velvet blue velour seats. The street sellers are already clustered around the main square, Plaza de Armas, and its lesser sister-square, trying to convince anyone who looks remotely like a foreigner to buy their jumpers, scarves, batteries and massages. People complain about the aggressiveness of their tactics, but I have been to Bali: I have seen much worse.

Our first sight is Sacsayhuaman (pronounced “sexy woman”) - the Incan walled complex – which, at only a few kilometres out of town, we pass by without stopping. Our tour guide takes this marker though, as an opportunity to begin a short history on the Incans. We are told that over 8 million of them existed at their peak, but that contrary to popular belief, most of them were not killed in battle with the conquering Spanish, rather, forty per cent actually died in the sixteenth century from syphilis (although various other web sources say it was a combination of smallpox, typhus and influenza).

We are also told how gold was not seen as important to the Incans (only used for decoration of tombs, temples and ceremonies), but that it was a different story for the Spanish, who immediately used the Incans as slave labour to extract it for trade and wealth. We then start our descent into the Sacred Valley where maize covers the fields of almost all available space, providing ample fodder for local beer production, and company for the many scattered cacti.

Our first stop is at the pueblo C’orao – which in Chechuan means grass, and was the original Incan place for llama sacrifice. But all we find here is a typical souvenir market, set out in eight identical rows, and a scruffy looking man selling photos with his glazed llamas (who is a bit too quick to remind me that I have to pay for the privilege of each shot). A sign behind him announces the opening times as Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, and I suddenly realise why these are the only days that tours are available too.

I get back on the bus with another pair of colourful llama legwarmers - who can resist their fluffy warmth? – and we pass through more villages that have been hit by successive earthquakes (1350, 1650 and 1950), strangely consistent in their devastation. Eucalyptus trees spread themselves once again across the unfamiliar landscape and our tour guide informs us that they were planted in nineteenth century to stop the effect of erosion, during their six month-long rainy season (October to March). We are also told that people chew the leaves too, for its medicinal properties, but I can’t help but smile when I think of all the koalas that do the same, and drop out of trees completely high.

As we drove on, I looked out at the mud-brick adobe gateway leading to nowhere, at the steppes climbing their way to the top of monstrous deep-wrinkled mountains that frame the sides of the valley, and breathe it all in. We stop at Mirador Taray to get the best view of the Sacred Valley, which, at more than 200km long, was so named because the Incans believed it to have the most fertile soil. The Urubamba River twists and turns its way throughout the panorama, all the way to foot of Machu Picchu.

Next we arrive at the town of Pisac – 32 kms from Cusco – self-proclaimed on an entering wall mural as the artisanal capital of Peru. But it’s really just another larger winding market, and so the only thing I buy is food. I taste my first wholemeal empanada which is definitely the worst I have had yet, and take a further punt on an alfajore-look-a-like that tastes more like a hammy Tartaric acid than dulce de leche. I guess the fertile soil hasn’t really been put to such good use after all.

Fortunately there is choclo (literally “corn”, but a savoury version of our sweet vegetable) and fried cheese (much like haloumi) at the next archaeological site of the Incans and where are told that the terraces carved here formerly produced a range of hot (fruits, coca leaves) and cold (potatoes, barley and wheat) goods at the bottom and top levels respectively. But the relentless snaking path starts to hurt my head and tummy soon and I can’t help but curse the intelligence of the Incans for not realising the beauty of tunnels. Add to this the inane repetition of Blondie’s “Call Me”, which is apparently the only song the driver has, and I am well and truly ready for our ‘typical’ Peruvian lunch.

That is until I saw the garish orange-clad Pocahontas-esque girl waving us down at our destination. Now I am not sure if it was the clip-on black plaits that she wore, or the looks that she copped from traditionally dressed locals that put me off, but I was not really in the mood to pay 35 soles (AUD$18) for an all-you-can-eat banquet being served to pan flute renditions of the Beatles and Phil Collins. The restaurant next door, with its 8 soles (AUD$4) three course menu was, in my book, much more authentic.

From here we head to our final two destinations – Ollantaytambo, the incomplete gatekeeper town of Machu Picchu and Chinchero, a former Incan town - believed to be the birthplace of the rainbow - transformed by the Spanish when an adobe colonial church was built on its former ruins. I can’t resist bargaining for some carved wooden kitchen tools before scoffing down another choclo and cheese combo, and a meat stick and heading back to the bus. It will be an early start tomorrow, and a few heavy days of walking, with the start with the Inca Jungle Trail and my pilgrimage to Machu Picchu.

Inca 101

Arriving way too early in the morning to check-in, Andy and I are left doing the only thing that a traveller can at 530am: Facebook. A little while later, I feel ready to brave a shower, which luckily is hot, and I head to conquer the bag room, which is stuffed full of backpacks from those already up at Machu Picchu. Knowing that the clock is definitely against me, I head out straight away to check the local scenery and organise my own tour.

Like most of the travellers here, I haven’t booked six months ahead for one of the coveted Inca Trail spots – which only allows 500 people per day a day, including guides - regulated to protect the significance of the ancient path. Instead I must opt for one of the other ‘alternative’ routes that run almost every day of the year. Following on from my recent biking exploits, I am instantly attracted by the four day Inca Jungle Trail that involves a day of mountain biking before two days of hiking, hot springs and a final climb for sunrise over the fallen dynasty.

Figuring I probably need at least a day to sort myself out, I find one such place, which will give me a student discount and keep me safe from the horrors of tenting for only USD$125. I also spy the Sacred Valley tour for the next day, which I think will be a good way to absorb some preliminary Incan history.

I wander further down the hill towards the San Pedro Markets to grab one of their famed juices and trail through the fresh cheese, caviar, chicken soup kitchens and obligatory alpaca goods. Throwing caution to the wind about my baggage allowance, I indulge in some strong coca chocolate - ready for my next role in the States as Aunty Collette – excellent for making fresh hot chocolate.

After here I make my way towards Avenida del Sol to the Cathedral and Convent of Santo Domingo, built on the site of the Incan House of God (Suntar Wasi), their Coricancha Church and the palace of Incan Wiracocha. Here I am amazed at the accuracy of Incan construction – with stones being perfected moulded together in angles, without need for cement or binding. I can fully understand why it took more than 100 years to construct.

Finally it is about time to check-in (the weird booking ‘system’ at Loki’s Hostel means that I basically have to wait for someone to leave before I can get in, despite my reservation), and so I stroll back, stripping down to my t-shirt when the overhead sun starts to burn away the layers of cold I have amassed in the last few weeks. I eventually make it into my room and promptly fall asleep only waking later to confirm my tour in American dollars, and finish my night with a beer and a plate of chips in the Loki’s bar.

Us and Them

(These moments seem to grow in number the longer you are away)

Sitting the next morning on the ferry back to Copacabana I am witness to one of the horrible things about being a visitor in a foreign country. Having almost completed our journey back across, one of the owner’s does the rounds to collect our tickets. But it seems there are a few people aboard who haven’t bought them – a half-Australian, half-American couple and another German couple.

I suddenly remembered pieces of an earlier conversation of theirs where they said they would just try and bluff it back, not having left enough money to pay for the trip. And with no ATMs on the island, and only one that will work today at 230pm in Copacabana, I can’t at least partially understand - we are all out of money. The Danish girls we have been with have been forced to eat tomatoes, cucumber and crackers for three days, with only 10 centavos (5 cents Australian) between them. The English girls have 10 Bolivianos (AUD$5) to last until they get to La Paz tomorrow morning, and I have had to borrow 50 Bolivianos from Andy, just to make it back.

But despite all this, we have all still scrapped enough together to purchase our return tickets (albeit at the doubly-inflated return price of 20 Bolivianos). And now we must listen to the complaints of these others who have chosen to eat well instead of set aside the appropriate cash. So when they started trying to bargain their way back for half the price, I got really annoyed.

You wouldn’t do this back home, I thought, so what makes it any different here? Worst still, I hear one of them exclaim: “It’s only $2, what’s the big deal?” And I can’t help it when my mouth opens to clear the embarrassing air that has settled upon our boat. “It may only be $2 for you, but for him, it’s his livelihood,” I bark back, mustering all the disgust I can in my voice.

And so, despite all my equal moanings about changed prices, dodgy tickets and false information, I somehow knew this was different. It was the attitude of the two couples that really offended me. Clearly they were here just as tourists (talking of renovations plans for when they return, and what holiday they were going to book next), not as travellers. They were exploiting their position as affluent foreigners to make their own rules. They were not accepting the experience as it is – flaws and all. Why did you come here if you are not willing to take it all in? I thought to myself.

Hours later, on the bus again to Puno and I am reading Rolf Potts collection of travel stories - “Marco Polo Didn’t Go There” - struck by the distinction he continually makes between the experiences of the tourist and the traveller. And I realise that even with only eight days to go, I must make a choice to accept whatever this country, and the next, throws at me: stolen credits, wrong information, smelly buses. It is all part of being here, it is all part of being in Bolivia.

An Un-God-ly Climb

It was another early bus ride out of La Paz – but this time I opted for the more expensive, but less-people-and-smells, ‘tourist’ bus. Clearly working on Bolivian time, it arrived late and we ended up hanging around in the city centre for even longer. But with the many street stalls around, and my breakfast-less tummy grumbling, it was easy to hang some money out the window and score some cheap empanadas to pass the time.

Eventually our half-full bus drove steadily through rural towns where cows, llamas and chickens were all feeding off the grass, tied to stakes, and small crops of quinoa and wheat pushed themselves between shack-houses. We travelled towards our lakeside destination, Copacabana, via a curious water crossing at San Pedro de Itiquina. Needing to pay a 1.50 Boliviano (30 cents Australian) charge, we all had to get out of the bus, and watch as it was taken backwards across the water on a barge, with us taking another smaller boat, after paying for the tax.

Somehow we managed to lose a person in this short space of time but after driving around for a few minutes, the driver decides they are not worth waiting for any longer, and so we leave. Climbing up further on the other side, the day is remarkably warm, despite our 3800m height, (the lake which we are driving around – Lake Titicaca – may or may not be, depending on which section of Lonely Planet you read, the highest navigable lake in the world). And I am surprised once again to see Australian eucalyptus trees everywhere.

The experience is a bit like driving through country Victoria – somewhat of a Mount Hotham before the last lot of bushfires – there a chill is still in the air, but it is eventually no match for the warm sun above. Of course the journey is not the three and a half hours we are told, rather it is about five hours before we get the full way up to the winding roads that wrap around Lake Titicaca.

We eventually arrive at the top of Copacabana, and I can only assume it is for the benefit of the taxi drivers that we are thrown out so far from the main plaza. And with my growing collection of bags, walking is not really an option anymore, so I share a taxi with an English guy Andy who is nice enough to take one of my bags for me. We head straight to a tour office and grab our onward tickets for the ferry to Isla del Sol, before settling down for a quick bite at a local restaurant.

I opted again for the three course lunch special, which at less than AUD$3, more than amply fills me with soup, barbecued meat, salad and chocolate-covered banana. So good! We then trudged ourselves down to the water to wait to board our trip to the supposed birthplace of the Incan Sun God, and are entertained by a band playing various pompous tunes for a fiesta that is going on further along the bay.

Finally we got on, and I am instantly greeted by the owner who laughs at the size of my bags and takes delight in informing me of the 250-plus stone steps that will greet us at the other side. Apparently Lonely Planet didn’t think it was important enough to mention to would-be travellers. Hmmmm…Strangely enough too, as we coasted along to the island, my phone started to work for the first time in almost a month - in the middle of the lake. So Bolivian.

But unfortunately by the time we had arrived the driver had squashed any plans we had of trekking to the other side of the island to see the museum, and had instead offered to take us on a walking tour of the island, and to carry my bags up the stairs. Bugger the tour I thought, I would just pay for the luggage!

And when we get to the other side I am glad to have the extra help, as I still struggle to get up with just my handbag and heaving lungs. After about half an hour we reached the top (something tells me that this place will never be overwrought with tourists), completely knackered from the climb, and settle in to watch the amazing view. It’s just about the only thing to do here.

I look out as donkeys haul cloth packs stuffed full with goods up the bumpy paths, and traditional women in their knitted tops, full skirts and bowler hats attempt to sell a small collections of their handcrafts to the few guests. And before the sun sets and the cold sends us inside to play cards, I guess it is just as well that we are only here for a night.

D-D-Death Road

I was pretty tired and nervous when I woke up the next morning to take the bus to ride down Death Road. Having spent so much energy just trying to pay for the ticket, I was not sure if I should have read it as a bad omen and chosen to watch the Chuletas (traditionally-dressed women wrestlers) instead. And when the Scooby Doo Dodge van pulled up outside the hostel, I was almost back in bed.

But despite all this, and the knowledge that I was about to ride down a road that at its peak killed over 300 people a year, I jumped in and was soon shivering away with the other four people in my group. Sitting alongside the snow-caps at more than 4800m above sea, our starting off point was nothing more than a flat piece of dirt with a few potholes. It was here, in this bare desolation, that we were handed our gear and I cursed myself for not paying for the extra comfort of knee-pads and wet-weather gear. Eyeing off the other two couples kitted up in their polar fleece and clear plastic, I stuffed my jeans deep into my socks and took a deep breath. But getting onto my bike, I was instantly surprised at the ease with which the doubled-up suspension took care of the bumps and jumps in my path. If only I had known about these bikes in Melbourne, before flattening myself against its gauged tram tracks.

Next up were the instructions for our journey, with one of our two guides, Salamon, speeding through the gears, foot positioning and braking system with a little too much gusto for my liking. A little worried that I might have missed some of the Spanish, I of course got a second run through in English, and it was here that I learned we would be travelling a total distance of 64km, descending a monstrous 3500m to a final resting place of about 1300m. No wonder eight people have died on this trip.

But there wasn’t much time to register this before Salamon was asking us if we were ready, and, not waiting for a real reply, was already peddling off in front of us. Taking a sensible approach, I decided to take last position so that I could travel at my own pace for the first 32km of paved road, closest to our trailing van. And what a pace it was – speeding downhill about more than 45km an hour, I could barely see what was going on around me.

We sped through clouds, past tiny pueblos (towns) that were nothing more than a few roadside shacks selling water, lollies and chocolate. We competed with the many buses and 4WDs on the road, spinning around bends before skirting off the road to use our cameras and enjoy the view. But it wasn’t until we reached the tunnel by-pass that I got my first taste of the rubble road that would continue, and I got completely spooked as my bike took a spin in the dirt.

Quickly regaining my composure, we continued on to meet up with one of the couples and our other guide, who had requested to take a path without cars. Smart people. Here I dared to ask the all-important question of how to control my brakes and avoid the skids, and a new world was suddenly opened up to me. No sooner had I learnt the skill in alternating the back and front tension, than I was forced to put my understanding into practice, with the start of the dirt-laden Death Road.

Seldom used now by cars and trucks, who were luckily given an alternative bitumen road a few years ago, the track has been left for tourists like myself to experience the danger that for many years was the only passage through these areas (and so named after a government report in the 1980s that started the campaign for a new route to be built – this time, not by Paraguayan prisoners-of-war).

Hardly wide enough for a single car, let alone the double lane of traffic that used to frequent its rocky surface, it is no wonder that the chassis of many vehicles can still be seen at points along the bottom, and that the start our journey involved lots of dust. Luckily we stopped several times along the way, with each of the guides taking turns to explain the next part leading us further down. A mixture of winding bends, steep descents, waterfalls, and gravel sections, each section needed a different approach, to avoid a catastrophic end.

Needless to say it was a pretty hairy ride, but I soon got the hang of the corners and rocks and started to ease off on my braking. I passed the two other girls, and headed up to the front where the boys were throwing in a few jumps. Not wanting to be outdone, I of course attempt a couple of these too, but mostly just end up wet or sore bum.

And with the last section (my favourite) a steep 55km an hour cruise into a waiting bar, I suddenly realised that I was not the least bit afraid anymore, rather, was contemplating buying my own bike again when I get back to Australia.

A Small Note To Travellers

The delay in recent posts is because I have spent much of the last week trying to use my credit card to pay for things again. For future reference: when you come to the end of your trip and you are in a country where everything is so cheap, don’t rely on your credit card working.

Unfortunately it seems Bolivia is still working from a manual system that is controlled by a third party “Enlace”. These guys apparently act for Mastercard and Visa here, although my bank in Australia hadn’t heard of them nor had them listed in their directory. Anyways, long story short, if a transaction is to go through, Enlace must given an over-the-phone authorisation so that money can be returned to businesses as per usual.

The only hook for me was that apparently each time I tried to get this going, I was told there was no connection to my bank – the National Australia Bank – and they could not approve my spendings. Not so great when your available cash is not so available. And not so great when all your bank can offer is a bypass authorisation to this process (which was not acceptable to the store-owners) or a phone number in America (which did not connect).

I guess I can only be happy that less than 24 hours after getting a cash advance on my card, it was stolen. Goodbye problems – for now.

Braving Bolivia

Having scoffed down a street-side “milanesa” (supposed to be a breaded filet, but it was more like a hamburger) I got on the bus to Sucre and instantly realised that we had been conned into a cama price, despite only having just enough room for my legs (heaven help my travelling partner Alistair who is over six foot).

The bus driver was still outside spruiking our departure, trying to fill the last remaining seats – one of which happens to be next to me. Of course I prayed that he had no luck, but this is Bolivia, and my little white-girl Australian wishes don’t mean anything at all here. (And so starts the worst bus ride in the world).

Never mind the Death Road, this was Death itself. Once we got driving, fluoro lights blinded us throughout the night, and the driver made sure that even the passing cars could hear his horrible Bolivian music. Not only just the seats, but the aisles were crowded with people and their parcels – which had been stuffed into whatever space they could find above and below. The familiar horse blanket smell of my tour returned in full force, and I clamoured to spray enough perfume on my clothes to overpower it.

Our first stop was after only a few hours for a “baño” (toilet) break, but we ended up staying much longer than the usual 15 minutes, with the drivers sitting down to eat dinner and chat with their other driver friends. Needless to say I didn’t sleep at all between Uyuni and Potosi and when we arrived at the highest city in the world – 4060m above sea – it was not only my heart that was agitated. Here we were told to get off with everyone else, who were staying in town to make the passage down the infamous silver mines, despite paying for an onward ticket to Sucre. Of course I questioned the driver further, as to the location of our next bus, and he mumbled something about it being around the corner. But was 130am, pitch black and my lungs could hardly breathe from the altitude and the diesel fumes that were being pumped out of our bus. I was in no mood for being fobbed off.

So I stood my ground and asked him again firmly, proving that my Spanish was not as bad as he thought it was, to which I was told to get back on the bus. Still not sure what was happening, Alistair and I were taken around the corner, where the bus stopped again. It is here that I asked the only other person with us, a young Bolivian guy, where he was going and what was happening. He politely told me he lives in Sucre and that a bus will come along eventually, but that it might take a few hours. I then probed further and asked how much he had paid to get there, to which he gave me a figure more than half ours.

I am livid at this stage, having been lied to about the price and the timing of our journey, and instantly thump on the driver’s door to demand some answers. I still don’t get any, but when bus passes a half an hour later, we are pushed through to the front, probably given someone else’s seats.

Aboard, we are greeted with an even more potent stench than before – matured over several hours no doubt – but fortunately no lights or music. I slowly drift in and out of consciousness, each time praying for the two hours to pass quickly, but it is almost 5am before we reach the terminal in Sucre, and my hopes of getting an early connection to Santa Cruz are immediately dashed when I find the terminal all closed-up except for the many waiting passengers. And I am further crushed when I see that no buses will leave until the afternoon.

So stumbling up the hill and around the corner with Alistair, I go to the closest hostel, and check in for a hot shower and a few hours sleep. Waking up a short while later, I go to buy my bus ticket out and join Alistair for a walk into town. But there’s really not much to see here – in a town of only 200,000 – bar a few closed museums and churches. And with Sunday siesta in full swing, sampling some chocolate is all that I have to fill in my time.

It is then that I call my friend in Santa Cruz to explain I won’t be arriving for her party that night, to which she tells me about the cheap flights here. And it is with this glimmer of light, that I jump online to book a ticket. But this doesn’t work, with only international flights appearing, so I head to the office in town to purchase one there. But they are closed too, any given Sunday, and I am told that I must go out to the airport itself - which I do with much urgency.

Once there, I am told there is one available in an hour or so, if I don’t mind going via La Paz rather than direct, and that they will reserve my ticket while I collect my bag and passport. So I haul my arse into a taxi, paying the high tariff just to get out of here, but when I return it seems things aren’t so easy after all. The group of French in front of me are politely informed that there are no phone lines out of the airport at the moment, and that the credit card machine won’t work. Of course nothing changes in the time it takes them to scrape together enough cash – there being no ATMs here either – and I am left with only one option. Suddenly it seems there is another seat on the direct plane, and I am told to take another expensive taxi to the their office in a downtown supermarket to pay there.

I quickly do this, but it is the same story there - there is no line out, and I must pay in cash. But time and money has gotten the better of me, having already missed the bus I tentatively booked, and being a low cash position for the next week, I cannot afford to pay in Bolivanos. And so I must return to the airport again, just to collect my bags and tell them that I can’t fly.

Once there, I try to arrange a payment in Santa Cruz, but it won’t work, and it seems I am stuck here until tomorrow, when hopefully, I will find a machine that works. Completely crestfallen, and not wanting to get back on the dreaded Death Bus, I walk back out the front of the airport where a sign stares back at me: “Sonrisa – estas in Sucre!”…Smile – you are in Sucre!

I think not.

(The next day I did of course get on a flight...but no, I wasn't game enough to eat the pork-laced empanada on board)

Salty Sonrisa**

It is an early awakening, to catch the sunrise over the salt flats, which at 530am are freezing but mercifully close to our hotel. We drive to the centre of it all and continue to brave the cold until we can no longer push the buttons on our cameras, taking shots of its immense whiteness. At about 40m thick at its deepest, and taking in about 12,000sqkm, the Salar de Uyuni is truly impressive (and I shall be voting for it in the upcoming new 7 Wonders of the World competition).

Formed many years ago – about 40,000 – when prehistoric Lake Minchin dried up, leaving two smaller lakes, and two salt deserts, it provides the best blank canvas for taking distorted perspective shots. But before we can start on those, we huddle around one of the salt-brick tables that have been erected beside the Isla Pescado – a cactus-laden oasis in the middle of it all – and attempt to warm our insides with cake, yoghurt and coffee.

It takes a while for the sun to rise sufficiently for us to take our photos, but eventually we are able to stay out long enough to fool around with the perspective, taking shots of ourselves standing on Pringles packets and each other. And, after sitting more hours than I would like to count in a car for the last few days, we are happy to almost smell Uyuni on the other side. Bolivia, here I come!

**(“sonrisa” = smile)

Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?

After going to bed at 830pm I had half expected to wake up early, but when I hear Sean coming back in from the bathroom, and ask him the time, 130am doesn’t really sound so good. Not particularly when my heart was pounding through my chest at an alarming speed. I decided that it was probably best to get up and get some fresh in air in the hope that some more oxygen might calm it down. But all that greets me on the other side is darkness and the cold.

In fits and starts, I spend the night alternating my broken sleep with walks outside, paracetamol and water, and music on my iPod. Finally, after three scary awakenings, it is morning and breakfast is being served. It is not much – just some stale bread, jam, coffee, tea and a flask of lukewarm water – but it is enough to get us all going for the day.

But obviously our driver Jesus has other ideas, and seems very content to be locked up in the warmth of the family’s kitchen, forgetting almost completely about us. We wait patiently for him, trying not to shiver in the cold, realising that this is actually his family. Our car is then loaded up with him, our stuff, empty bottles, his cousin and everything but the kitchen sink, and we finally head off - the last to leave from our ‘resting’ place.

Our first stop is Arbol de Piedra - strange rock formations formed in the sand by volcanic eruptions. I ask Jesus when we will get to the hotel at the Salt Flats and he says six o’clock, but I can’t understand why when it is only 150km away. But when smoke starts appearing in the front passenger seat and we all have to get out while Jesus and his cousin fiddle under the 4WD, it starts to make sense. Luckily two other tour groups are behind us, on the same route, and they stop to keep us company.

I instantly recognise the English couple from my hostel and I chat to them about the quality of their experience so far (they did the smart thing and checked the tourist office’s comments book before booking). But it is much the same story - no sleep, no real guidance from their tour person, and plain pasta and soup for dinner. I guess it is all a pretty hit and miss experience.

It’s an even rockier ride to the next Laguna Onda, where more bashing of the vehicles’ underneath goes on. Desert mechanics seems to only have two fixes: either that, or pouring water on it, and it is not long before Jesus has stopped again to blow up the tyre by hand. Oh brother!

The next few lagoons, Laguna Heidonda and Laguna Chiarcota, pass by much like the others, our fatigue for them has already arrived, so that when we get to Laguna Cañapa we are all glad to have lunch as a distraction. Getting back on our trail, and car trouble plagues us again, this time the brakes don’t seem to be working and when our tyre gets stuck going uphill, we end up sliding backwards into a rock edge. From his seat in the back, Sean says we were lucky it didn’t roll.

Thankfully though, it’s nothing serious, but it is not too long before the back wheel needs to be changed completely, and the ‘road less travelled’ tactics of our 19 year old driver start to wear thin. It becomes a running joke with the other groups we bump into, with each meeting requiring a list of our new problems.

Frankly I have no idea how Jesus keeps track of where we are going ‘cos we just seem to drift through endless amounts of barren landscape. But our final stop in San Juan de Rosario arrives before we make the last 2 hours to our ‘hotel’ at the salt flats. In the dying light of the day, we pass by the cactus-laden hills and some sad-looking quinoa crops and I can’t help but wonder why farmers here haven’t realised that rocky soil doesn’t grow much. (Except wine of course!)

Finally the Hotel de Sal arrives with its warm insides and hot showers (although the solar-powered lights don’t go on until 7pm, and then get turned off at 9pm, with no warning). We settle down for a dinner of soup, and, well, Spam. Calling it that is perhaps even being too kind. It was totally inedible and tasted rather like cat food, so, after sharing a bottle of wine, and playing a few games of Uno, it is another early night for us - with another early rise ahead to see the sunrise over the flats.

Four Wheel Driving With Jesus

Having left sunny Santiago behind, I strangely enough relished the idea of being on a bus for 24 hours, travelling the San Pedro de Atacama. Located in the northern-eastern part of Chile, it is the gateway town into Bolivia’s natural wonders. That is, a tiny (less than 5000 people) adobe town full of tour companies and souvenir shops. I did of course partake in both, and booked myself on a three-day 4WD trip to Uyuni.

It is the first of many early starts when I arrive at the office the next morning at 7am. Our group, consisting of two Spanish girls Mar and Kristina, and English boy Alistair, and an Irish man Sean, haul our bags on top of the van and pile inside to gather heat. But it is a bit of a false start when we are made to wait outside the chilly border crossing office for over half an hour. Sean is quick to point out that this is nothing compared to his last two and a half hour wait, and the five hours he spent the time before, but I still think it should have been on the itinerary.

Quintin, our first driver, then continues down the road on a silent climb to a 4300m height. The drone from the engine is so loud that even my iPod can’t out blast it. I watch as tufts of grasses stick up like tee-pees from the red brown dirt, and touches of snow cover the tops of the two mountains beside us, daring the blue sky to melt it. We then stop at the Bolivian side of the border, strangely quite a distance into their country, to get our stamps. Their puny flag flies above the office, barely holding its own against the fierce wind.

But luckily for us, tea, coffee and breakfast is served straight away, warming us up from the bastardly breeze cutting through us. It is here that we also say goodbye to our spacious van, and cram ourselves into a rather aging Land Cruiser to head towards the entrance of the national park. We make a pit-stop here for the toilet and to get our carbon-copy entry papers, which despite your passport stamps and various logbook entries, you still have to keep with you as proof of a legal visit.

It is not too long before our first stop - Laguna Blanca – arrives. Mostly covered over in ice, which beams the sun back into our eyes, it is a pretty impressive sight in the middle of nowhere. It seems Nature never gets it wrong with her colours, mixing white with blue, brown and green in perfect harmony. Laguna Verde follows, but is not as green as its name might suggest because there is no wind. Apparently, so Jesus (pronunced “He-sus”) our second driver tells us, its presence brings up the colour - although I am yet to confirm that scientifically.

It is here, at just over 4000m, I start feeling a little dizzy, and so ask to have some of the coca leaves that are being smooshed into Jesus’ cheeks. Tasting a little like bitter green tea, they are meant to help with the effects of altitude sickness, which, for a person like me who is allergic to the medicinal drugs, is the only way around my drowsiness. But another relief comes soon, in the form of hot springs, which are so sweet compared to the bitter cold.

Next up are the stinky geysers, spewing out their steam from grey and orange pools that happen to match my jumper. Lying along a nearby fault line, they are formed when water contained in underground reservoirs is heated up by volcanic activity – in this case, from the Volcano Ollague – causing it to boil and steam out of the earth. Our final stop for the day is at the Laguna Colorado – a ‘red’ lagoon that is coloured by the algae it contains, which the many flamingos feed on. It is here that we also get up close to the llama-like animals “vicuñas” that are protected in the park due to their scarcity.

We then make our way to our homestay/hostel, which is located a few hundred metres from the waters eddge and I try to go to the toilet. But it seems there are some renovations are going on – that is, lots of cement and dirt on the floor, but from what I can see, there is nothing new happening. Still fighting the intolerable cold, we sit down to eat our lunch of boiled vegetables, tomato, cucumber and eggs. I really have no idea where this combination comes from, but it quickly disappeared into our cold stomachs, lining them for our afternoon nap.

But what we don’t realise, until we take our stuff to our room, is that the only heat our bedroom has ever seen, is perhaps a few drops of sweat when it was first haphazardly built. I scratch at the plaster, knowing for sure that it is still wet. After a few sighs, we all end up snoozing off minor headaches. After all, there’s nothing left today but dinner.

Viña Del Mar

The next morning arrives a little too early for me, the night being full of the drunken hippies making ridiculous amounts of noise and mess. But with my bus going back to Sanitago later in the afternoon, I force myself to take one last trip up the lifts to see the ‘Gallery in the Sky’ – an open-air display of art. But call me stupid, or call me blind, because I once again find myself stumbling around, finding nothing.

The streets in town still aren’t really busy, despite being a Monday, but lots of students are moving around, hopefully doing something. Wanting to make the most of the coastline, I decided to take the train to Viña Del Mar, but it seems you need a card to travel, and they are a little too expensive for just one trip. So I jump on a minibus and let the warm sun melt the chill in the air as I make my way there.

I watch as a young boy hangs from the front door of our ride, shouting out our destination and trying to get more passengers for his driver. He can’t be more than 15 years old, and I wonder if this will be the start of a career, or just a way of avoiding school. We zoom along at break-neck pace and in no time at all, I am thrown me out at the main square where I walk up to the Palacio Vergara.

I think that it must be seniors’ day though, because the grounds have been filled with bus-loads of them who are moving about slowly. The main building is of course closed, being the first day of the week, but there is a strangely modern amphitheatre behind, that fills in some more time.

Known for its plants and greenery, Viña is dotted with plant pots and trees, but it is also home to a fair share of tin-shaking beggars who line the river crossing (well, that’s what it looks like on the map, but actually there is no water below, just a crude dusty carpark). Horse and carts follow me up the 12 blocks to the main stretch of beach and as I turn onto the waterfront, I instantly think of Port Melbourne and St Kilda.

High-rise apartment blocks wait silently for the summer again, with a handful of markets stalls and a wooden boardwalk winding a path along the back of the sand. I soon stop to grab some lunch, realising that there is not much else to see here, and think that a nice salad and some reading might calm my tired nerves. But the first place I visit, despite its extensive menu, only has ham and cheese toasties, cakes, and ice cream on offer, so I am forced to move further up after only one drink.

Aptly named “Enjoy Viña Del Mar”, the next restaurant is probably the only place that you will do such, this time of the year. Its slick stainless steel and white décor makes it stand out from its position on a tiny inlet, and I order what turns out to be the biggest latte I have ever had. I gladly let it run down my throat as I read my book in the sun and consider that some places are probably only best when enjoyed in warmth.

Up and Down To Neruda’s Merry-Go-Round

Obviously, with all the gifts that were given to us at the winery, breakfast was a rather late affair, and my plan to get to Valparaíso had to wait until after lunch. Just a short two-hour ride on the bus, Chile’s colourful coastal city – known to locals just as Valpo – was a bit of unknown entity to me (short of the lychee liqueur by the same name that I used to pour in a cocktail bar). What I was thinking was: sun, sand, and sweet drinks.

And I guess I was right on two accounts – well, one and a half. When I arrived at the bus terminal, the morning sun had lifted the hill-grown chill from the air, and people were busy going about their Sunday market trading. But as I scooted up the steady incline to my hostel, it would seem that I would have to wait until Viña del Mar to get some beach, with the waterfront here being taken up by a steady flow of ships and boats into the large seagull-infested harbour.

I dropped my bags in a garishly painted room, grabbed an empanada at the corner shop, and headed down the hill. And so started the not-so-sweet part. Filled with an even bigger number of stray dogs than Bariloche, the many laneways, alleys and quaint streets are also home to an unpleasant stench of the animal kind. Not quite the accompaniment I had hoped to go with my fresh-baked pastry.

Also lining the unfortunate streets were a disproportionate number of alternative-lifestyle types – so explains the many hippie-like individuals I spied in my brief tour of the hostel – who seem to have all just made it out to see the middle of the day. I took no notice though, despite feeling like I am constantly being watched, and head to the city’s clock tower to take its adjoining Ascensor (“lift”) Concepción up .

Now this is where it gets confusing. Not only because Lonely Planet has misnamed one of these integral transportation devices, but because this apparent solution to the city’s vertical challenges is not as simple as a quick up and down. Just to make it interesting, Valpo is set around a series of hills that rise and fall with alarming randomness throughout its suburbs – don’t bother coming here if you have bad knees. Thus, when wanting to reach a particular street in town, the ordinary map is not really very helpful, and a more geographical one is non-existent.

I make it up to the top, to see an excellent view of the harbour, and find some interesting jewellery and art in the mini-markets above. I then decide to take in some more of the multi-coloured houses and complementary graffiti and stroll around so many ups and downs, that soon I am walking around completely lost. I am just glad that it is Sunday and there are not too many people or cars about.

I eventually make it back to the ascensor - which doesn’t appear to run to a timetable, rather, it moves when the controller at the top rings a bell to say that it is on the way – and pay again at the bottom. I follow the Lonely Planet guide and walk along to the next one, to see the Palacio Barburizza – home to the Museum of Bellas Artes. But when I get there, I not only realise that it is the wrong lift, but am told that the museum is no longer open, and was closed years ago when it stopped making money (well, what did they expect when it was free to get in?) Just to be sure, I take the right lift – El Peral, which just happens to be cheaper because it is run by the local council – and quickly make my way past the young boys trying to lure me into their path to steal my stuff. (They are very cunning here, wearing all the bling - ipods, cameras and the like - to make them look like tourists or richer than they are).

But the locals are rights, and it is indeed closed. I take a final spin down past the Monumento a los Héroes de Iquique masouleum, dedicated to Chilean navymen who died in the War of the Pacific, before I realise the time and know that I must hurry if I am going to get to see Pablo Neruda’s old house before it closes. Of course the taxi driver tries to screw me again, but I am getting good and somehow manage to force him to put on the meter before he launches into a recital of his favourite Neruda poem.

Luckily when I get to La Sebastiana (named after its builder Sebastian, who Neruda said was like a poet when fashioning it) it is still open, and I squeeze in as the last person. And what a way to finish the day! I am instantly attracted to the impressive design and interior, built around the view of the harbour, and fashioned to Neruda’s love for play, From his collection of paintings, furniture and trinkets to his “cloud” chair that overlooks the view, he was meticulously in collecting pieces to fill his life and house with joy. And how could one go past the circular room with its carousel horse?

My personal favourite though, is the quirky bar – stuffed full of trinkets that each have their own story – and I quickly sneak in a photo, despite the prohibition on taking them. I am pretty sure Pablo wouldn’t mind.

Graves, Shells and Bulls

After ending my day of museums with a special night-time tour of the horrendously bad collection at National Museum of Bellas Artes, I was ready to pack the whole thing in. But out of respect to Salvador Allende, and the history that had not yet made history, I decided to catch the train out to see his tomb, and try and redeem the situation.

Buried in the ‘general’ cemetery, as opposed to the more exclusive Catholic one across the road, I was told Allende’s resting place would be easy to find. And it was. Unlike Recoleta, in Buenos Aires, this place was full of genuine mourners – there to pay their weekend respects. Again, I was the only tourist interested enough to make it past the lines and lines of names, dates and lives past, set out in sterile blocks.

Located straight off O’Higgins Street, the Allende family tomb has been added to the collection of deceased Presidents of the Chile, right next to a tribute to Jesus Christ. And it is definitely one of the most modern ones here, sticking out of the ground with its marble plinths like a sore thumb. I can’t help but think: so it is in life and in death.

Realising then that my phone too has gone dead (bad pun, I know), I hurried back to the hostel, to meet up with Kylie and Nicole who are set to accompany me to Chile’s largest wine producer – Concha Y Toro. (Ok, so I guess I am all about second chances, and ending on a good note. Hence why I chose to submit myself to more South American wine, despite previous shadey encounters. Oh, and there is nothing better than sitting in the sun and indulging).

Surprisingly close to the city centre, it seems you can take the metro train all the way there, and within an hour, we were touring the beautiful gardens of the estate. Set up by the Concha y Toro (Shell and Bull) family in 1883, the vineyard was established on the original site of their summer home, and includes more than 23 hectares of park alone. Now privately-owned by a group of investors, it is also the largest international exporter in Latin America – with very good reason.

Clearly out to impress their guests, our guide treats us to a taste of their 2005 “Amelia” Chardonnay, which has spent 8 months in French oak before completing its fermentation in oak too. Definitely no ‘Musuem’ red here. Our second glass, taken in the underground cellar, comes from the Casillero de Diablo range – of which its Cabernet Sauvignon has been named fourth best in the world – and has also spent eight months gestating in American oak. Do I need to say anymore?

Top this off with the individual plate of cheese we all receive, with another glass accompanying it, and the free “regalo” (gift) glass we get at the end, and we are definitely satisfied. Argentina could certainly learn a few things from their neighbours.

Questions and Answers

My first day in Santiago was much like the weather – a little overcast, but a warm-ish 20 degrees. Following a hearty breakfast of eggs, toast, fruit and coffee, individually prepared by the cook/cleaner, I hopped straight on the metro and made my way into town. I walked past the many street vendors with their woollen cardigans, squawking plastic parrots and knitted scarves, past the demonstrations of useless kitchen products (think Demtel), and ended up at the Palacio de la Moneda.

The Presidential Palace of the Chile, it is probably best known as the site of Salvador Allende’s last speech as leader of the struggling country, before troops stormed its doors, and he committed suicide. But like the days, and indeed the many years that followed Allende’s demise, its doors are closed to unofficial visitors and I instead disappear below, into the cultural centre located underneath.

A relatively new place, that has not yet made it into the Lonely Planet guide, its modern edgy design greatly contrasts the streets above. Housing several different spaces over its three levels, the centre contains galleries, art-shops, an arthouse cinema, a bookstore, cafes and restaurants – all of which are full with lunching businessmen and women. A few local tourists float around with me through the traditional Mapuche display, and the collection of religious relics below, but I am basically the only real foreigner here. (And so it continues through my most of my visit).

Taking in the Chilean Museum of Pre-Colombian art – which gave a comprehensive tour through the years and cultures of Latin America – I then made a pit-stop at El Rapido for a fish and cheese empanada. Having grown so fond of these readily available bites, I consider myself to be somewhat of a mini-expert now, sampling them across three countries. And these would definitely make my top five for their crunch, spice and yes, you guessed it, oozing cheese. I just can’t get enough!

From here, I made my way past the glum Cathedral, and slightly more lively Plaza de Armas, to the National Historical Museum to see if what they had to say about Salvador Allende, and the oppression that followed his ousting by Pinochet’s military coup. I passed patiently through the many ceramics, pieces of jewellery, clothing, portraits and weaponary on offer, many of which I have seen in other such museums, and excitedly arrived at the most modern additions. But what awaited me at the end, was not the detailed account I had hoped for, rather, the sad half-pair of glasses Allende once wore, and newspaper clippings reporting his futile death. No mention whatsoever of the next 27 years of oppression, and the affect it has had on South America’s leading economic nation.

Instead it was left to Pablo Neruda, Chile’s most famous writer and staunch socialist, and a quote of his from Book of Questions: “Porque anduvimos tanto tiempo creciendo para separrarnos?” (roughly translated: Was it because we walked so long together that time separated us?) to provide some sort of answer.

Argentinean Also/Ands...

So again, like Brasil, there were quite a few observations that just couldn’t be missed, but didn’t find their place in my postings…

1. Argentineans have some sort of strange system/obsession for collecting glass bottles. Basically, if you want to buy a beer, you have to swap a bottle or pay a deposit until you bring it back. Even on the bus, our waiter sternly reminded us to give them back to him. My only thought can be that they just reuse them all, because glass recycling is hardly a lucrative industry.
2. Argentineans are not as disinterested to serve you as the Brazilians, but they definitely think they are somehow better than you, and will take any opportunity to remind you of that. On one occasion this meant the taxi driver – who I had just caught out trying to take us the longest way possible – insulted us by saying that he was the whitest person in the taxi and refused to take our money. Fine with all of us but my ‘darker’ skinned Ecuadorian friend.
3. There is a real dog/poo problem here, which no one seems the least bit interested in cleaning up. Particularly in Buenos Aires, you will have to walk with your eyes down, but also in Bariloche, where you will have to look out for them chasing cars.
4. Again, like Brazil, Argentineans are mostly pretty friendly, willing to help you when you are lost, but they still have no idea about giving you the right directions and won’t admit that they just don’t know.
5. A lot of people in Argentina speak really good English – especially in BA – but saying that, in other more provincial places, like Mendoza, they can get quite rude when they don’t understand your accent in Spanish.
6. Argentinians and Uruguyians love to talk about locations in terms of blocks or “cuadras” – it sounds so American, but it is just how most of their cities/towns are planned out, so I guess it makes sense.
7. If you are staying in BA, you will have to get used to doing the chicken-run (so called by my Argentinean Spanish teacher in Perth) across the mostly six-laned highways. It’s either that, or join the poo on the tarmac.
8. Despite all the traffic, car manufacturing in Argentina has a pretty splotchy past, with almost no production throughout the 80s and 90s. And it shows – ever wondered where all the old Fiats, Renaults and Citroens have gone? Argentina! Out of every three, at least one or two cars should be at the tip.
9. Further to this, their windscreens are in the worst condition ever, if you happen to chance upon a new model that is. Even on buses, most of them look like they have been used as stunt cars.
10. They have the worst diets here. Apart from the meat-cheese-bread-meat routine, on buses you will often be given three different types of sweet biscuit as a snack, and most dinner tables will dose children as young as toddlers with soft drink. A random article I read in “Women’s Health” here said that more than 70% of people don’t have more than 2 serves of fruit and veg a day. And it shows. Although there are not a lot of overly obese people, most people carry their fair share of love handles and rolls. Not so great when the average height is for men and women, is not much more than 5ft 3” and 5ft 8” respectively.
11. And finally, although I can’t really complain about this, ice-cream is everywhere – especially in dulce de leche (I can’t believe this stuff hasn’t made it out of the country yet – check the link beside).

Biking in Bariloche

The trip to Bariloche was pretty eventless – the buses still full from the end of Holy Week, people clamouring to swap seats to be with their friends. Bad 80s music blared us out of Mendoza and our waiter (aka the second bus driver) got on the microphone to mumble us through some instructions about dinner, breakfast, lunch, the toilet and bus stops. But sitting in the last seat at the back, my much improved Spanish failed to help me figure it all out. Fortunately I had some rice cakes and avocado just in case.

But as we drove through the night, and into the morning, I woke up to find a completely different landscape – one that looks a little bit like home, and a lot like Dampier. Low-lying sparse vegetation covered red rock-faces, with deep blue lakes (ok, so there aren’t any of those in Dampier, but there is a deep blue ocean) threading themselves in between. I scrambled for my camera several times, trying to capture the rocks as they transformed into higher mountain peaks lined with bright yellow, orange and red autumn leaves, but the smudges on the window got the best of me, and my inspiration.

But as we leave the bus station, and head into town, it is pretty clear that I won’t have to go too far to find some more scenery. The crowning jewel of the Lake District, Bariloche is a remarkably quaint town, full of more chocolate shops and Swiss-style chalets than tourists, and I was glad to have arrived with two Swedish girls to enjoy the sights on bike and horse.

The next morning we woke up – after our hearty-included-in-our-room-rate dinner (a backpacker first for this trip) – early to take the bus out to the Cerro Campanario. And at 25 pesos, it is certainly not the cheapest chairlift ride, but it is definitely worth it (particularly when we see the poor couple clamouring up the dirt path below us). Apart from having the most amazing view in the world, there is also chocolate and dulce de leche cake, fresh cream and hot chocolate at the cafe at the top. What more could three girls want?

But heading down to collect our bikes from a nearby rental place, my flip-flop-wearing, cardigan-wearing, stuffed-full-of-cheese-and-wine body was not quite prepared for the biking that would follow. Worse still when one of our group is a regular cycler and I came to the sad realisation that my university-trained butt was going to be hurting. We slowly, but surely went up and down the slopes, passing through chilly lake crossings, grey stone bridges, and amazing panoramas all the way to the cemetery.

Yes, a bit of a strange place for it to be, but I guess it makes sense to the many avid climbers, skiers and lovers of the mountains that are buried there – including two Olympic athletes. We next stopped at the jetty on Lago Escondido to have an apple by the water and catch some breathe before taking the treacherous path to another lake at Villa Tacul. And it is here that bad memories of my bike-tram smash a few years ago return to haunt me, and I start to get a little shaky with all the downhill adrenalin.

Luckily I survive it all, and we get back on our wheels for the last stretch, passing through a cute tea shop to sample their amazing rose hip stuff, and splurging on their hand cream too. But with the last 7 kilometres a series of killer inclines, oily hands is probably is not the best cycling accessory. Particularly when the slope seems deceptively slight – until you hear the cars groaning beside you.

And perhaps that’s the reason behind all the chocolate. As soon as we are off our bikes, we immediately head straight into town for some milky goodness – this time Abuelo Goye, one of the oldest companies in town - and feel the sugar return to our aching bodies, in preparation for another day.

Hi-Ho Hikers

The next morning is a frightfully early start, after we ended our night with more wine in town. Amanda and I had stupidly booked ourselves for some hiking – Mendoza-style - and it was apparently essential that we wait for at least an hour before moving from the hostel, precious sleep-time wasted. Our mission for the day was the Cerro de la Virgen, although the name meant nothing to us until we saw it rise up before us in the car to Cachueta.

Maxiaventura’s HQ, a kirky cabin erected out of pine wood and string, holding only a chair and computer inside, looked like it belonged to a boys’ clubhouse or scout troop - not a safe, secure adventure tours company. And it certainly paled against the nearby hotel, touting the virtues of its hot springs, and other tour establishments we had passed along the way. Make sure you check the ropes, was all I kept thinking to myself.

Thankfully Amanda had reminded me to replace my near-permanent flip-flops with a pair of sneakers, because the hike to the top was nothing short of challenging, and a sombre reminder why smoking is never good – no matter how much wine you consume. A few slides down the gravel, which our guide Daniel happily reminded us equalled one round each at the bar, and we made it to the abseiling spot, where we could finally rest easy, hanging parallel to a 20m drop. Nice.

A much needed break then arrived, with lunch at the bottom of the second drop, which was the epitome of basic. Some fruit, a loaf of bread, cheese and ham - so Argentinian. At least I wasn’t the 18 year old from Buenos Aires who was instructed to make our sandwiches while Daniel went to set up the ropes for our rock-climb.

It was about here, that Amanda and I started to flake, and were not fazed at all when we were told that the rock-face was too busy to climb now, and that we would head to rafting instead. We were already dreaming of our next round of liqueurs and how nice it would be in the water with them in hand.

Making our way to the mouth of the rapids, a popular camping and picnicking spot for locals, we of course fell asleep, happy to have a rest from all the activity. But one dip of our feet into the icy water and we soon woke up and lost all aspirations about going swimming. It was positively freezing! To make matters worse, our cowboy hosts were intent on not only soaking the competitor companies’ rafts, but also filling our own with icy water by making us perform tricks and chants. What’s that about tourists being monkeys?

Fortunately though, you are never to far from a bar in South America, and the little store next door to HQ was also home to some strong Andes ‘red’ beer. It's warming stout was the most soothing remedy to our overworked bodies.

Mr Hugo Has Entered the Building

Following the advice of some fellow travellers, Nicole, Amanda and I took the bus out to meet Mr Hugo, who is as well-known for his bike rentals, and is he for his post-tour parties. Located in Coquimbito, about 20 minutes out of Mendoza, his house, and the place of our rental pick-up is in the heart of the Malbec strip. And as we get off the bus, Mr Hugo appears immediately, like an Elvis-mirage, yelling “I am HERE! It is me, Mr Hugo!” like we have been waiting for him all our lives.

A quick pat of the various animals around and we are kitted up with our bikes and sent on our way with a bottle of water and a basic map. (It seems no helmet is necessary in these parts). But when we are given a rough guide to where we should head – up and down the same street it seems – we know they have seriously underestimated the abilities and determination of three Australian girls, each travelling solo.

As soon as we head off the main road Urquiza onto Montecasseros, the smell of fermenting grapes hits us and we hurry to catch a tour of the museum at the Rutini vineyard. Set up in 1979, it houses over 5000 objects from the hand-harvesting days, including animal skins, claypots, and tools. Unfortunately though, as good as the tour guide is in consistently translating her speech into English, the ‘Museum’ red we taste at the end is not quite at the same standard as their reknown ‘Felipe’ reserve drop, which comes in at 79 pesos (AUD$ 35) a glass, and we leave still thirsting.

And so starts our magical mystery tour on the bikes. Taking off for the furthest point we are aiming for, we head out onto the freeway, using the gravel shoulder road as a bumpy alternative to playing chicken with the speeding cars. A few kilometres later and it seems we are not much closer to finding Don Bosco’s, despite having stopped at the church of the same name, to check out its beautiful interior.

Realising that we are getting nowhere fast, we head back along Route 70, watching the strange numbering system change and reverse itself at least twice. Finally, hidden behind an obscure bush, we see the Don Bosco sign, saying 100 metres ahead. Of course it is not 100, but 300 metres ahead, and closed. But we are only too happy at this stage to admit defeat and have some cheese and crackers on its front. (It is Good Friday after all, so technically, no one in a Catholic-way should be drinking anything today).

Finally, back on the suggested trail, we arrive at the Familia de Tommaso bodega (vineyard), and realise that our chances of an immediate table are pretty slight, so we settle down for some tasting instead. Our first is the particularly vinegary offering of a one year old who has missed the imported oak. The next is a big improvement, having had 6 months in oak, and finally, the “Malbec Roble”, with its one year toasting in the barrel, slides down our throats like caramel.

Our host boasts that it has won many silver medals, but when we question where – “internacional” – we then wonder who else is making the stuff and is in competition (apparently only California – France uses it solely for its Bordeaux blend). Sadly too, the Torrontes, which I had such high hopes for, disappoints, disappearing inside me like water. But the sunken barrels, light breeze, and low tables outside improve our weariness, as does a bottle of their not-so-fine, but drinkable table (Malbec) red.

Our next stop - Viña El Cerno - is only a passing visit, after I spy a strange stash of other people wine out the back, stacked in glass flagons, and none of us is particularly impressed by the four glasses we alternate between. Perhaps we are just spoilt Australians, trained a little too well in our wine discernment, but nothing seems to be hitting the walls the way it should.

I finally earmark Trapiche to be our saving grace, having had a few too many of their bottles on our first night here, and considering it a pretty amiable liquid. But in our way stands a policeman, who it seems is intent on making us go home. What starts as a friendly warning that the winery is already closed and the road we are on is not safe, soon sours when I respectfully take on his advice, and attempt to continue forth. Not taking too kindly to my disobedience, he proceeds to reverse his car, spin it around and cut me off at full speed. Dangerous alright. (Trapiche is actually closed, but that is not the point).

Feeling the day almost over – it was after 6pm at this point – we chance upon a liqueur place that is only too happy to stay open and continue serving cocktails and chocolates to passing tourists. Taking a seat in the garden, I order an amazing concoction of grapefruit liqueur, lemonade and grenadine that eased the pain of failed attempts, and settles as sweetly as the setting sun.

Two blocks back to Hugo’s, and we are seated with free-flowing plonk, empanadas and heated conversation with some Americans, and it is here that I realise why his place is such an oasis, after a hard day’s work at tasting.

There's No Home Like A Vegetarian Restaurant

Feeling a little anxious to lift the anti again, after a pretty flatline stay in Córdoba, I was only too happy to get on the bus to Mendoza and get right to the heart of Argentina’s grape-growing region. But it seems my agitation would have to wait at least six more hours, when I am seated next to a very nice but very inquisitive old man. Wanting to know everything from my mother’s profession, to my little sister’s name, I struggled to find patience with his constant chatter. And when his speed for speaking clashed with my foreign accent, the conversation became truly painful, with most things being repeated at least twice, if not thrice.

And to make matters worse, despite my ‘cama’ status, there was no food, no drink, no pillow or blanket. No comment.

It was then a scary little knock at the dingy door of the only place that could house me for the three nights I am here – Mendoza Lodging. I only mention the name, because it is best avoided, particularly when you are looking for a clean place, with friendly people, a washing service that does just that (as opposed to the other washing-dying-in-one service that doesn’t usually mention the latter) and something more than stale bread for breakfast.

But not to be totally down on the situation, where there is a will, there is almost always an Australian, or in this case, two. So when I met up with Nicole and Amanda, my luck changed somewhat. Nicole and I took a walk around in the unusual sights of Mendoza’s Museum of Modern Art, mistakenly taking a leaking roof and a tastefully painted air-conditioning vent for additions to the rest of the conceptual art display, which, apart from that, was full of more rotting fruit installations and things that looked like they had taken the least part of a cigarette break to put together.

We headed from here back down the busy pedestrian strip, away from the Plaza Independencia and towards Mendoza’s markets. But it seems everyone who was not already away on holiday, was staying at home to eat for Easter, and they were almost all closed. Feeling the growing sun on our backs, we decided to find the tourist office to plan our wine tour the next day, and stumbled across a flier for a vegetarian restaurant a few blocks away. Having spent the last hour or so bitching about how little of the red, green, yellow and orange stuff they eat here, we basically ran the whole way there.

And what awaited us was the most delicious spread of broccoli, beans, peppers, carrots and salad we could fit in. And with a dessert included, that we didn't even get to, it was a total steal for 24 pesos (AUD$10). Thank you “Green Apple”.

Che-Sera, Sera...

After two sleeps on the first day, and a lomito (steakburger) and Malbec that night, I was still a little confused about how many days I was staying here for. Perhaps it is the constant getting on and off buses that had started to make me weary, but I was delighted to be informed by someone else that I have only been here for a day, and still have two days to explore further afield.

Having chatted with an English guy Jamie about the sights and sounds of Córdoba – he was quite the veteran of the town with 10 days already under his belt, though God only knows how he did it – I decided to join him on a collectivo (mini-bus) for an hour trip out to Alta Gracia, to visit the house, town and museum that made up Che Guevara’s childhood.

Despite being born in Rosario, and moving to Buenos Aires as a baby, Che and his family eventually settled in this northern town to escape his chronic asthma woes. But before getting there, I first have to overcome some woes of my own, when I realise that the Easter holiday week has left almost all the tickets out of here sold. It is a mini ticket-fiasco with the first three companies shooing me away with no seats, and the next trying to sell me a semi-cama ride (only semi-reclined, and totally squished) for the 12 hours, at a ridiculous price. I politely decline.

Finally though, at the ‘Penguin’ desk, I stumble across the last ticket on early departure for the next day – with a basic cama chair to sit in. I snap it up eagerly and we make our way to the local bus station to go to Che’s house. But it seems ticket issues are the theme for the day, and unlike the other bus station, they seem to just keep printing tickets indefinitely for our destination. Thus the line to get on each passing time-marked bus doesn’t seem to work or get smaller. God only knows how people deal with this daily.

Eventually we travel back past the red brick student apartment blocks of Nuevo Cordóba and out into the flat fields of corn towards Alta Gracia. But again, Lady Luck is not on my side, and when we arrive with the impending rain, a sign sits on the white picket fence saying “Cerrado: Abuelo”. Apparently someone quite significant in the town has died, and everything is shut for business. With not much choice, I clamour at the door of the café/restaurant next door, in the hope that someone will have pity on our grumbling tummies.

Soon the owner appears, and doesn’t need much convincing to feed us, despite the embargo, but I still don’t manage to find out who the important person is that has spoilt our trip. Instead we enter into the shrine that she and her husband – Héctor Celano - have created to commemorate his poetry and musical career, complete with trips to Cuba to meet influential leaders and friends of Che and Fidel Castro. It’s a loose connection, but I decide that it can perhaps be strengthened by a review of “The Motorcycle Diaries” and the more recent “Che” (part one) with Benicio del Toro. I know am clutching, but at least I can see his original grave sight in central Bolivia.