GHOSTS, NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCES AND ICED UP NEIGHBOURS

Holy crap it's another blog from Dan, quick, get the family off to bed and pass me the bowl of nuts, this is one read I'm going to enjoy. Thank you Dan...thank you.

So because of all our various tenant problems, mainly that the guy won't pay his rent or move out of our house, we are currently failing miserably to pay rent in Sydney and a mortgage in London. Given our financial predicament, we thought what a cracking idea it might be to book a trip to Tasmania. After all, if you don't have the money the bastards can't make you pay for it, right?

After finding some rip-roaring fares on Virgin Blue we nip across the Tasman Sea and arrive in Launceston in Northern Tasmania. It's pretty grim, so we grab our hire car, slam it in first and get the hell out of there, leaving nothing but a trail of road kill and a whiff of burning rubber in our wake.

We opt for the scenic route taking in the Bay of Fires on the Eastern coast (nice long white sandy beach with no one on it) and Wineglass Bay further South (nice long white sandy beach with no one on it but you have to walk an hour to get there.)

All very pretty and the weather wasn't too bad either. I was fully expecting it to be chucking it down the entire time I was there, given I’d read the horrifying statistic that seven out of every ten days are rainy. Yes...I read it after I'd booked the tickets. Hey ho.

So we drive down to Port Arthur, a former convict settlement and the best preserved in Australia. It's a World Heritage site and, honestly it's pretty spectacular. They've done a spiffing job with the grounds. No one actually lives there anymore, it's just the town as it was back in the old days. We stayed at a guesthouse called Cascades (which also happens to be a convict settlement) about ten minutes up the road. Our cottage is sort-of cosy, it's where one of the soldiers used to live in the 19th century and looks like it hasn't been decorated since. There's an open fire place, a nice rocking chair and a faint hint of death about the place. Fuck, this cottage gives me the creeps. It's all decked out like a scene from Rosemary's Baby.

Alison decides this is a good opportunity to do the infamous Port Arthur Ghost Walk. I'm dubious but what the hey, not like I'm going to die or anything. So we follow this ample lady around the settlement who looked like she'd copped it in the face with a three iron. She recounts stories of death, mayhem and strange happenings to previous tour groups. All jolly scary. Of course, when the tour ends we have to jump back in our car and drive the ten minutes through pitch black forest back to the guesthouse. Meeting not a single other car on the way. Having been warned not to drive after dusk because the chances of hitting a wallaby or wombat increase tenfold. I opt to drive very slowly, the trees appearing eerily out of the shadows. Fuck this is scary. No radio. Nothing but silence. We arrive at our convict cottage. Now I'm even more spooked out. Fuck it, let's light the fire. I strike the match and watch the fire take hold. I glance around, the place is lit by one solitary light bulb in the ceiling. I glance towards Alison. I can't see her. Where the...? I suddenly realise the reason I can't see her is because the entire cottage has filled with smoke and my vision doesn't extend beyond the tears in my eyes. I start coughing, the smoke alarm beeps with a deafening blare. I start wafting a magazine near it. Nothing, blood pours down my ears. Smoke is everywhere. I open the front door. Alison goes nuts, she thinks the ghosts will get in. Outside, there’s nothing but total darkness and a lot of forest. Very Blair Witch. Whose great idea was this then? Eventually the fire righted itself and we went off to bed, wiping the soot from our faces. Neither of us slept very well that night, let me tell you.

We drove to Hobart the next day which is okay, not worth coming over the other side of the world for but there's enough to keep your interest for maybe...two hours. I kept thinking of that song Chris Tarrant used to play every day on Capital FM in the mornings. 'Hobart, Tasmania...that's my wonderful town!' It's not as wonderful as the song would have you believe. Tasmanian propaganda.

After a trip to the Cadbury’s factory (Alison's choice) and the Cascade beer factory (mine), we drove around to Cradle Mountain where it promptly rained for the rest of the trip. Nothing like going hiking in the pissing rain when you can barely see the person in front of you due to low cloud. And the cabin we stayed in there...oh don't get me started. It was called a cosy cabin and let me tell you there was nothing cosy about it. It was grimmer than a Tasmanian beauty contest.

So having had a vaguely interesting time we fly home. Now look, I know it was windy coming into Sydney airport and I understand the pilot does his best with the prevailing conditions. What I object to when we're less than two hundred feet from the ground is looking out the window and seeing ground, sky, ground, sky. I held on to Alison as hard as I could, until I realised she was sitting to my left. After apologising to the guy next to me for squeezing his hand so hard, I did a hail Mary and prayed for a positive outcome. The wheels slammed into the tarmac and I felt the aircraft swerve back towards the runway. Suddenly I was thrown forward in my seat as the pilot, apparently realising he was out of runway (and in Sydney the end of the runway is the Pacific), slammed on the brakes. The plane found its rhythm and we managed to slow. I thanked God I was still alive and had a sudden and urgent need to give money to Cancer Research or help out at a local old people's home.

So we're back in Sydney. It's a Monday night, about ten thirty and we're about to go to bed when the neighbours above us decide to have a karaoke party. Oh that's just...I sit there, stewing. Alison tries to calm me but this is not going to end well. A group of men upstairs are singing along to a Spice Girls track, and it’s by no means a decent rendition. I leave it fifteen minutes, before hopping out of bed, yanking on some clothes and walking up to their front door. I wrap three times. I can hear them inside. I wrap again. Nothing. They must be able to hear me. I knock three more times and suddenly the door is thrown open and the guy storms out saying things like 'Look we're allowed to be as noisy as we want until eleven, okay! It's just a bunch of guys having a bit of fun so don't start with your complaining because we're allowed to.' I was taken aback. I was only going to politely ask him to turn the volume down. We start arguing in the street. He's all over me, I hadn't even got a word out. Judging by the way he couldn't seem to make eye contact I surmised he must be on Ice. We argued some more. It ended with me threatening to inform the landlady, he practically chased me down the steps, berating me all the way. Jesus Christ. I got back in, slamming the door and breathing heavily. Felt like a scene out of Jurassic Park. Alison shook her head, her eyes giving me her 'told you so' look. I explained I hadn't gone off, he'd just started on me. She suggested he was probably drinking (or was on Ice). We sat there, unsure how to proceed. It had gone strangely quiet upstairs. Then I heard him come out of his front door and down our steps. Oh here we go. He probably went back to get the nine millimetre. Three knocks on our door.

'Don't you dare answer it.' Alison hisses. Three more knocks. I stand up. 'Sit down.' She says. I stand there. Three more. I go open the door, but Alison gets there before me. 'WHAT DO YOU WANT?!' She barks at him.

'Listen I just wanted to say I'm really sorry," the man stammers, ‘don't know what came over me. I'm not that type of guy normally. We'd just been drinking (or doing Ice) and I lost it. I'm really sorry.'

We accepted his apology and he asked if we fancied going out for a drink sometimes. 'Maybe' I replied, like yeah now I want to spend a couple of hours with you in an intimate setting, are you fucking insane?

Anyway, that concludes today's blog. I do hope you enjoyed it and I look forward to all your notes on grammar and spelling.

Until next time

Danster

WORKMEN, KOALAS AND RELIGIOUS VIGILANTES

It's been raining in Sydney. Storms, hail, thunder, lightning, dogs, cats, panda’s. You name it, we’ve had it. Our neighbours have decided to start doing some major work to their house which basically involves a skip truck reversing down the steep driveway outside our front door every day at seven in the morning. The workmen then have a chat, catch up on old times whilst leaving the engine ticking over. After maybe ten minutes they unload the empty skip and pick up the full one, then drive it away. Passed my fucking front door. It's like living in the middle of a building site. Then they start with the pneumatic drill for most of the morning followed by the occasional dumping of whatever they dug up. It makes a fantastic crashing noise. Tell you, I'm about ready to snap.

On the plus side we have been going in and out of the city on the ferry. One day last week on the way back, we were sitting outside, the sun was out, not a cloud in the sky it was all good when the captain comes over the speaker. 'Ladies and gentlemen if you look directly ahead you'll see a pod of dolphins.’ He says. Of course everyone goes nuts and sure enough as we're pulling in to Manly Wharf there are about thirty dolphins swimming past us. Pretty cool. In fact I'm so excited I tell a few complete strangers about it on the way back towards our house. They're like 'Really? Dolphins?' and they start looking out to sea, by which time of course, the dolphins are long gone and they hate me.

The Pope was in town a couple of weeks ago and honestly it felt like he was here forever. All these kids with brightly coloured flags walking around the city in groups a little like spiritual vigilantes. And, get this; they all have exactly the same backpacks. Red and yellow jobbies with World Youth Day printed on them. Maybe they're Vatican issued but it's a little strange. You can be sitting in a food court in the city, eating your sandwich or drinking coffee and suddenly the place will erupt with Chile's Holy Saint of Our Mother's Choir blaring out in full song singing happy birthday to someone called Rodrigo. And you cannot get away from these guys. They're everywhere. They're on the ferry, outside parks, at the wharf, even outside my house. How they find me with their John Lennon guitars and poorly played tambourines I don’t know. Do you remember, in school, the tambourine was always given to the kid with no sense of rhythm? Well that’s these guys, and they can’t sing either.

Tell you another weird thing that happened. We were walking through Manly the other day and we get to the beach. It had been raining quite hard but the sun was coming out. You know that sky where it's pretty much black but yellow sunlight streams from part of it creating rainbows and crap. Well that was what was going on here. Except as we looked out to sea at the forming rainbow we saw a funnel of a tornado, in the middle of a rainbow! The twister hit the ocean surface and started whipping it up. It was the weirdest thing and yet somehow quite beautiful.

Okay, I know what you're thinking. Dan's gone soft. I thought this was supposed to be a funny blog. When's it get funny? Huh? Say something witty, funnyman. Hurry up!
I don't know if it's just me but when the birds sing here it sounds like someone's being strangled. It's not like at home where they tweet, shut up then tweet again. These things moan about their breakfast, play some cards and then have a good laugh about it in the tree. I swear it feels like I'm in the middle of the Amazon sometimes.

Went to a koala sanctuary the other day. Those dudes are about the cutest things I've ever seen and in this place you can pet them and give them leaves and crap. Of course I end up next to this woman who listens in to my conversation with Alison. Here's a sample

Alison: (overhearing someone calling the koala a bear) Oh, is it a bear.
Me: Yes, it's a bear.
Alison: Really? You don't think of them as bears.
Annoying woman next to me: Actually it's not a bear, koalas are marsupials I don't know why everyone calls them bears. They're not bears.
Me: Shut the hell up.

Okay that last part was me getting carried away, I didn't say that but like Jesus lady, go bore someone else with your abnormal knowledge of koalas.

I've been feeling a little homesick recently as well. Hadn’t really hit me until recently. I don't know, just miss being able to go down the pub or grab lunch with friends I don't have to try with. It's been a little over six months since we left and I guess when you're travelling and doing loads of things you're distracted and don't think about it but maybe since we've stopped and since all the issues we have had with accommodation and money, I don't know. I kinda miss you guys.

Jesus, is he ever going to start saying funny crap? I didn't subscribe to this for a bunch of whiney, depressing crap. I get enough of that at home. Come on Dan, pull your finger out and start being funny or I'm just going to stop reading, mid sentence. Oh...where'd he go?

HOME AND AWAY, BILLS AND FRAGGLES

Well looky what we have here. Dan's got a new blog out. He said he was stopping, that guy is such a lying a-hole. I know he wrote that last one but he said he probably wouldn't be writing another for a while. Right, never believe a word this guy says, I think that's the moral of the story. Well I might think about reading it if it's short. We can't all be messing about on beaches every day, some of us actually have proper jobs.

Yeah so, it's a few days before we move out and I get an email from the people who own the house. They say they've received a $500 internet bill! What the...? Turns out, because they use this 3G wireless thing to connect to the internet it costs more...a lot more. And you know what else, the phone company bill you for just being connected to the damn thing. Isn't that just the biggest kicker you ever heard? Well maybe not for you, but for us it was devastating. We'd been going off shopping and for walks along the beach with the bloody thing connected. No one told me, no one explained any of this. UGH! What the hell else can go wrong here? First we lose our free accommodation, now this. We were once again plunged in to fits of depression. When will this end, how many more nasty surprises? Anyway, we pull ourselves together and just get over it. It's only money isn't it?

Strangely, ten minutes after reading the $500 email, Alison gets a call from the extras agency she signed up to saying they need her to be an extra on some Ozzy police drama called The Cut. They ask her if she knows any guys that might be able to come along at short notice...she says she does and volunteers me! Cheers fiancée! I have to say extra work isn't something I particularly saw myself doing at age thirty but what the hell, we need the money and it might be fun. Turns out we get paid to go to a beach just south of Bondi and watch half-naked girls playing volleyball! I know, it's an utter travesty.

We were asked to be part of the crowd cheering for the Australian volleyball team. So I get changed into my swimming shorts and t-shirt. As I’m walking towards the set, one of the wardrobe girls pulls me aside and says 'I think I can use you for something else, follow me.' Uhh okay. So I wander over to another trailer and she gets me to put on a suit. I am then escorted over to this volleyball court they've constructed and told to sit in the 'V.I.P.' area. I crack a couple of funnies to the guys sitting beside me. It's about twenty minutes later I realise that the two people next to me are the lead characters and they are filming the scene right here. GET IN THERE. So I got a starring role in the show which I'm sure I'll never see but weird how that all worked out. Ironically, the money we got from that job pretty much paid for the internet bill.

Moving day comes and we need to pack up all of our stuff and move to the flat in Manly. Now, I know what you're thinking. What stuff? You had one backpack, what the hell is there to pack? Well this is true but we have bought a couple of things since we got here. Like books and magazines for Alison, some extra t-shirts for me, a pet Kangeroo who I affectionately called Joey... We actually had to make two trips...oooo I hear you say, two trips. Look, if you're going to be sarcastic I'm not going to carry on, okay?

So the place we'd found to live in is perfect. It's cosy, the bedroom is also the kitchen which also triples as the living room but it's all nice. I did a little video on Facebook for those of you who really have nothing better to do. The lady who owns it has left all her pots and pans and sheets and things. She also left this bright neon blue, furry blanket on the bed. I swear it looks like they took a large, blue Fraggle, squashed him then rolled him out as far as he’d go and sold him off as a bed throw. Now I take animal rights pretty seriously and I think killing Fraggles is frankly not on, but it does get a bit chilly at night so I'll keep it to myself for now.

Alison got another call from the extras agency last weekend asking her to be in Home and Away. Rock on! So we drive about half an hour up the road, where they're shooting it. She has to be a caterer serving food to people at some posh house. I went to pick her up and saw the whole cast walking towards the trailers to get changed and I have to say I don't recognise one of them. At least with Neighbours they've still got Lou and Harold, but that's shot in Melbourne and I’ll be damned if I’m driving all the way out there for one job. No, I don’t care if Libby asked for me personally. With all this extra work Alison thinks it's a good idea that I sign up as well. I have to say, I'm dubious but what the hell, in for a penny in for a pound.

In the midst of all this we have also booked our wedding venue for May next year. Ooo I hear you all cry. Yeah it's this stunning castle thing outside Barcelona. Alison's had it on her favourites for about a year. We're starting to plan the wedding now and I gotta say, it's more complicated than I thought. I'm looking forward to swimming in the infinity pool and tasting the Cava they make on the property. Yes, did I mention it has 300 acres of vineyards...nice!

Well, I guess that's about all that's fit to print. See, that wasn't so bad was it? Relatively short and painless. Where have I heard that before?

WINE, SPONSORSHIP AND MASSAGES

So after our little stay at the not-so Happy Hostel we thought we´d take a three hour bus ride to a place called Talca south of Santiago. By the way I haven´t really talked about Santiago mainly because it´s one of the most unremarkable places I´ve been. Don´t get me wrong, it´s not offensive. There is a nice castle on a hill, it has an efficient metro and it´s not dirty or anything but there´s just not much to tell you so I won´t. So for those of you that were tuning in order to know all the specifics on Santiago because you were about to book your plane tickets, I apologise.

Now then, Talca is in the heart of the Chilean winelands so no further explanation needed as to why that´s a good idea. The bus from Santiago dumps us in the middle of nowhere. The hotel we´re staying in has some rather strange instructions like ´When you get to the bus station, call us then take another bus to the depot (takes 15 minutes) and we´ll be there to pick you up. Sound like a pain in the arse? Well it was. Of course the local bus never came. We tried calling the hotel from the payphone. Number didn´t work. Tried calling from my mobile, nothing. Alison´s mobile didn´t even get signal in Chile so that´s out. Well this is just great, now what? It´s blazing hot outside, our bags are really heavy and the bus station in Talca wouldn´t look out of place in Bangkok. No one speaks English or they do a good job of hiding it. I sigh quietly, I do love these moments. ´´Right, we´re taking a cab.´´ I announce. Alison looks unsure but sod it. So we find a cabby and he agrees to take us there, for suitable compensation I might add.

The place is way outside town, down a dusty road. We arrive and unload our bags, stroke the dog and pay the cab driver. It´s quite beautiful. Lavender dances outside our room in the breeze. Outside there´s a pool that looks like the dogs have been playing in it too much. The view is great. Apart from the dog the place appears to be empty. Including reception. An eighteen year old girl races passed us. ´´Oh excuse me, could you...?´´ I start to say but she´s gone. I can hear crickets from somewhere and is that...tumbleweed over there...

Eventually the girl comes back. She´s German but speaks good English, hurrah. She shows us our room. Nice. We say we want to visit vineyards. She tells us prices and how we get there. Turns out it costs a small fortune to get out of this place and will involve taking a bus, then a taxi, then another bus before meeting up with the van that will convey us to the tour...´´Uhh, what?´´ I say. The German girl smiles sweetly. ´´But the vineyards are closed at the weekend.´´ She adds this minor detail just for good measure. Well this is excellent. We´re here for two nights, it´s already late Saturday afternoon and we leave on Monday morning. I look up to the sky and shake my head. So you know what we do. Nothing. We stay at this German encampment in the middle of vineyards and see...absolutely no wineries. Nice going Dan.

Just to rub salt in the wounds, turns out they don´t sell any food and if we want anything to eat we´ll have to walk for forty minutes to the supermarket to get it. Oh, and we can´t use the kitchen either. They do do dinner though. Silly price but I´m hungry. ´´It´s vegetarian.´´ The girl mutters sweetly. I´m breathing deeply now. Things are spiralling and I´m going down with them. So what we do is sit in the sun, read and have dinner. They do sell wine (again for suitable compensation) so we get ratted. I read an entire James Patterson book in a day. Don´t think I´ve ever done that before. Go me, I can read!

So after the weekend trip to the vineyards in which we saw none, we hop back on the bus back to Santiago and then jump on another bus to a place over the border in Argentina called Mendoza. Now this is the heart of the Argentinean winelands. Surely we should be able to salvage our wine tasting experience. Of course Argentina comes through in fine style. After a lovely ride through the Andes we arrive at our hostel where we are greeted by this cross-eyed geek who´s singularly one of the most stupid people I´ve ever met. I thought he was being obtuse but Alison assured me it´s just lack of grey matter. I was trying to do some laundry. We hadn´t done any for a couple of weeks and I thought it was probably about time. Could I get through to Einstein? Nope. He didn´t have some piece of paper we had to fill out. When will you have the piece of paper? Don´t know. Where is the main square? Down there (points at a wall) and so on.

We booked ourselves on a wine tour for the next day. And did we sample the delights of Argentinean wine? Answer - yes! And what a glorious thing it was. For 20 pesos each (about 3 pounds) we had 6, yes that´s six glasses of wine to sample. Brilliant. We had so much fun that we decided to do it all again the next day. This time we hired bikes and made up our own tour. We had lunch at one of the places that had been recommended to us by the bike hiring company. Bet they got a commission or something. It was a fancy place behind an electric gate. We cycled in and were asked to remain in the car park until we could be met by the chef. Ten minutes later he came out and explained the prices (which were ridiculous by the way). I really wasn´t sure but Alison said we were here now so may as well.

So the chef shows us the menu all the while saying how great the restaurant is. ´´Look, we even won this award.´´ I look at the dodgy mock glass idol. It had some crappy engraving. I look around the restaurant. Not another soul. I´m starting to wonder if we have, in fact, entered the Self Deluding Restaurant. ´´It´s excellent food.´´ The chef said again. Really, excellent food you say? You, the chef thinks it's excellent food, well stop talking about it and bring some out my good man. We stayed and ate his "excellent" food which was wholly unremarkable. I thought he would have had a great career in Santiago.

We catch a bus to San Rafael it should take a couple of hours but a flat tyre means it takes most of the day. We arrive at our hotel. You know what it´s called ´´The Red Wine Club.´´ How cool is that? And was it nice? Ohhh yes. And was it the cheapest hotel we´ve stayed in the entire trip. Oh YES! And was it like a five star boutique, OHH YESS! Get this, we´d already booked to stay there two nights a few weeks ago for about 20 dollars a night! That´s 10 pounds! Then, they email me and say they are doing a promotion. Would we like to stay an extra night for free, receive a complimentary bottle of wine, go on a free vineyard tour and get a free massage? Does the Pope shit in the woods? Is a bear catholic?

So we go on our FREE wine tour which is all very interesting and one of the vineyards there is selling a 1985 bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon for, wait for it....ten pesos (one pound fifty!) Got to be a catch right? Must be corked or something? Well turns out some of the batch was corked and the vineyard couldn´t guarantee the quality so were just selling them off. You might open a bottle that smells like pig vomit or you might get lucky. We opened it and it was the strangest tasting wine but somehow very nice. It wasn´t corked but was unlike anything I´ve tasted. You get the idea.

So then it´s time for the FREE massage. ´I hope she knows what she´s doing.´ Alison mutters. The last masseuse felt like she had just read a book and then simply declared herself one. The time came, the doorbell rang. The receptionist found us and said ´´The masseuse is here.´´ We walked in from the garden to be greeted by...a bloke. My mind went crazy. A man. But....(I heard in my head ´´Would you like a free massage?´´ echoing over and over) how could this be? I´ve had men do massages before but the theme running through most of them is they hurt, quite a lot. I swallowed. He set his table up in our hotel room. Alison went first. He asked if she minded him being in the room while she got undressed. She said no. I said yes and he left the room. I sat there watching the TV, occasionally glancing over. She seemed okay...hmm. He finished. My turn.

´´How was it?´´ I asked. ´´I´m not saying anything. You go.´´ Uh oh. He started. Oil first, I could hear it squelching in his fingers. All fine. Then he goes for my shoulders. It was okay. All fine yes...OW! I don't know what he was doing but it bloody hurt. And he kept on and on doing it. Then the other shoulder. Wholly crap! More pain. I made a mental note to look up ´´Massage´´ in the dictionary and see if it said anything about them being pleasurable. JEEZ! He hit another spot. I nearly blurted out ´´ALRIGHT I´LL TELL YOU WHERE THE DEATH STAR PLANS ARE, JUST STOP!´´ But I refrained. On and on it went. Time seemed to slow. I was breathing the pain in deeply. But it still....OUCH!!! Damnit man, didn´t you go to massage school?! Just as I think it´s over he grabs my head with both hands and yanks it. This is it. Bye Ma! The man is trying to twist my neck off my shoulders. Tears are streaming down my face as something cracks. Finally he stopped. I sat up. Alison was smiling at me. ´´It´s okay?´´ He asks. I give him an unsure smile and nod. In my typical English way I say ´´Oh yes, very good, thank you so much.´´ He left. Alison looked at me. ´´Well?´´´She asked. ´´I thought he was going to kill me.´´ I said and rushed over quickly to hug her.

We wander back from a very mediocre meal that evening and settle in for a movie on the TV. Only problem is the the movie is Titanic. Ah well. What the hell. But, get this, when the commercials come on you know what company is sponsoring it? Guess? No? Royal Caribbean Cruises! Say what? Obviously someone in the marketing department was having a bad day or didn´t attend the relevant meeting to update his bosses on his plans for sponsorship that week. I suspect he´s working at Pizza Hut now.

Anyway the time has come, once more, to depart. Come on, it won´t be long before I return. Let´s not have any tears. Can we be brave? Good. By the way I don´t have the Death Star Plans so don´t email.

Chao

Dan

ESTATE AGENTS, GLACIERS AND HIKING

So I wake up to the sound of an alarm clock the day after the proposal. I´m utterly hungover, one might even go as far as to say I was still drunk. It´s 0500 in the morning, we have an 0800 flight to catch to El Calafate in Argentinian Patagonia. I move slowly to turn the alarm off and get myself out of bed. Alison looks almost as bad as me. We have to pack and be ready for some guy from the estate agency who´s coming round to check the apartment. He´s going to make sure we haven´t trashed it or anything. So we have a bit of work to do. It feels as if someone is ice fishing in my head.

We get everything ready and wait. 0530 comes and goes. It gets to 0545. We have to leave at 0600 to get to the airport in time. 0555, where the hell is he? At 0600 we are about to leave when the buzzer goes. He´s sorry, he went to the wrong place or some other equally unlikely story. I bark at him that we have to go or we will miss our plane. He tries to reassure me, there´s no traffic, it won´t take that long. He´s got thick glasses and he looks like he likes those Argentinian steaks a bit too much. He runs around the apartment looking through cupboards and making notes. He then says he will take us to the airport. Great. So we jump in his car and he floors it to the airport.

Now I think most Argentinians would agree with me when I say they can´t drive or perhaps more accurately they have a complete disregard for other users of the road. Not as bad as some countries but let´s say they´re in the top 5. I´m pondering on this as we speed through another red light and nearly end up on the other side of the in the central reservation. We are going so fast I can´t even see things through the window. Everything´s just a blur. I do notice, however, an ambulance. It´s lights are flashing, it´s siren is on and it´s in a hurry. We, it seems, are in more of a hurry because we race passed it! Let me repeat that for those that had nodded off. We overtook a speeding ambulance! I had to blink twice to make sure what I was witnessing to be true. Again, like Juan, our Bolivian taxi driver all those months ago, I wanted to tell our man to slow down. Did I know the Spanish? Nope. So in typical English fashion I sat there terrified to my very soul until at last he bounced the car up on the curb outside departures and we got out, shakily. He said goodbye and screeched away. It was then I realised he´d dropped us at the wrong terminal. Bastard. We trundled the fifteen minute walk to the other terminal, checked in and made our flight. No thanks to to our bumbling estate agent man.


So we arrive at El Calafate and immediately I´m hit with a cool blast of air. The temperature is markedly different from the seventy degrees in Buenos Aires. We jump in a cab to our hostel which is little like being in a school dorm but okay (as long as they don´t keep me up at night everything will be fine.)

Now bear in mind we´d just got engaged, what was the first thing we wanted to do? Yep, tell everyone we´d ever met. So we mosey on down to the nearest telephone and Internet places and we have a bit of a shock. First the Internet is painfully slow so Skype´s out of the question and second the telephones are painfully expensive.
It costs one pound forty per minute to make a call from mobile! Damnit. Well I have to call my brother and sister which I do but in terms of friends it seemed to take ages to actually find a way to tell people. Every time I wrote an e-mail and tried to send it was like waiting for a second Ice Age. Anyway, finally we told everyone that needed to know. Alison´s mum was particularly happy as the day we had got engaged was also her sixtieth birthday. Smooth!

So what is there to do in El Calafate? Glaciers. Big, crashing, noisy. They´re a bit cool (apologies for that one). We pay a quite insultingly large amount of money to go ice trekking on this one glacier called Perito Moreno. They strap on these iron claws on to our shoes called crampons and we go walking on the ice. It´s a beautiful day and whilst some of our group are behaving like children by throwing snowballs (Alison) I enjoy bumming around on the ice. It´s like looking at blue mountain peaks. The ice is so heavily compacted that when the sun shines through, it makes them look bright blue. I know what you´re thinking. Dan, I didn´t read this for some goddamn geology lesson, I read it to be entertain so entertain me, bitch. Okay. Man, you guys are a hard audience.

So as we finish walking down a steep bit we come across a table with lots of glasses set upon it. Hmm, I wonder. I can tell you´re thinking the same thing. Our guide then produces a bottle of ´Famous Grouse´ whiskey and smiles. I like his thinking. Then, just for a little extra class he takes his ice pick and hacks off some thousand year old ice from the glacier and tips it in to our glasses, quickly followed by the whiskey. Nicely done!


The next day we jump on a catamaran and see other glaciers and mountains. This time I get to play my favourite role by standing on the front of the catamaran and shouting "Ice berg right ahead!" Also Alison and I held our arms outstretched as the catamaran zipped along the water. I could almost feel Celine Dion behind me.

The day after we took a bus to a place called El Chalten about 3 hours north of Calafate. The Argentians wanted to incorporate the beautiful mountain range called Fitz Roy next to El Chalten into their territory in 1985. Chile wasn´t too happy about this, so they had a little race as to who could get there first. The sneaky Argentinians only went and built El Chalten as a way to say "Hey Chiliean neighbour, our towns already here, can´t have this slice." And the Chileans were like ´´Dude, this is so not cool.´´ But the Argentinians were already sitting down to dinner and had a bottle of wine open so the Chileans thought they´d let this one slide rather than cause a fuss.

So El Chalten is the youngest town in Argentina. I tell you this because I want you to be cultured so that next time someone stops you in the street and asks you "Do you know the story of El Chalten?" You say hold your head up high and say "Yes, Dan Grant told me." Anyway, we stayed in a nice cabin with a little kitchen and all was well with the world. We would do a few hours of hiking then come back to our cabin and get stupidly drunk on Argentinian wine.

So after all this fun we jump on another bus to a place called Puerto Natales (I hope you´re paying attention to all these names cos there´s going to be a test at the end). Natales is just over the border in to Chile and represents the gateway to the most impressive national park in all of South America called Torres Del Paine (roughly translated to Towers of Paine, or pain as we would soon discover). Natales used to be an old fishing village but now depends mostly on tourism. I have to say the weather here holds no punches. It´s rainy and windy and sunny, and snowy and did I mention windy? It´s like living in a hurricane 24 hours a day. I think bleak is a more descriptive word perhaps. I kept thinking, why would anyone settle here? The first Europeans to arrive must have actually thought "It´s crappy, rainy, cold and miserable. Perfect! Let´s build our houses right here." I think, good job we´re going hiking in this sort of weather, I love a challenge.


However...

Such is the way things turn out we had decided to do this famous trek for 5 days in the national park called the ´W´. It´s called this because the trail takes you in roughly the shape of a ´W´. Anyway we start the walk. 4 hours north to a glacier and a hut-like structure that we would stay the night in. Of course, nothing is ever simple. Half way to our hut, the path is cut off by a running stream. In the middle is a large log. It looks stable. I take one step on to it. It rocks a little. But I´ve committed myself now so the next foot steps forward. The log flips and throws me straight in to the stream, my big backpack and everything. I lie on my back, water flowing around me. Alison is saying something to the effect of "Are you okay?" But I´m a man. And I´ve just made a fool of myself. So I immediately stand up, swear and carry on. I´m soaked, I think I´ve busted my knee and my pride is in little pieces next to that bloody log.

Alison, wisely leaves me to it for ten minutes before attempting communication again. By which like I´ve come off the boil a little and can communicate back. "I´m fine, just so stupid."

Anyway we reach the hut and stay the night. It´s rustic but not particularly endearing. Alison had banged her toe rather badly on the Inca Trail and the nail had turned a rather dashing shade of purple. It hadn´t really been causing any problems on our trip but the cold must have awoken the beast inside. Because the next day she could barely walk. And just to make matters worse it rained, hard. All day. And it was cold. And just not that pleasant. So by the time we got to the next camp we had decided we couldn´t carry on.

Back to Puerto Natales we go. Our hostel is somewhat surprised to see us but accommodate us. So we get to our room and settle in for all-night results coverage of the Paraguayan election. Man, why don´t we get this in England.

BROKEN TOILETS, CUBIERTOS AND HIGH JUMPING

Another blog in such quick succession? What is he, on drugs? Alas, my friends he is not. I wrote the last blog and it was so long I thought it might throw you in to the depths of despair by publishing it all in one go. I didn’t want to be responsible for a spate of suicides in the Greater London area so here is what I affectionately label Part 2.


So we spent Easter in Rosario and the day after our little ordeal with Luis the psychopathic nightman we get up at two in the afternoon and decide to go for a walk. I have to say it’s great being back in Argentina. It’s cheap, the people are friendly, you don’t feel like you’re going to be raped every time you step out of your door. It’s just a great country. We find a restaurant for dinner and I’m pumped. I want a good Argentinean steak and now. And get it I do. The food is impeccable, the service is good, the wine is divine. The only issue came when they delivered the bill. Something called Cubiertos for 5 pesos. Interesting. What’s that? I didn’t order any Cubiertos, whatever it was. So we ask the waiter, who can’t speak English, so he runs away and comes back with someone who can. Here’s how the conversation went:

Me: Hi there, (showing the bill) what’s this…cubiertos?
Waiter: It’s for this (he points at the knife.)
Me: The knife?
Waiter: For the cutlery.
Me: You’re charging me for the cutlery?
Waiter: (Nods and smiles)
Me: 5 pesos…to use the cutlery? What did you expect me to eat the steak with…my hands?
Waiter: (Smiles some more and shrugs) I’m sorry I’m from Germany...(leaves)

Rosario was nice but we were definitely ready to go after 4 days. So we jump on another bus back to Buenos Aires. Because we love this city, we have decided to rent an apartment in the San Telmo area. I had this idea that we would eat steak, drink wine, go jogging along the river, do some writing and just relax before we head off to Patagonia for a couple of weeks. Well the reality couldn’t have been further from the truth. You’ll think I’m making this up but I assure you everything I write is from truth (or truth as I recall it)

So it was Friday and we get to our apartment and immediately I’m worried. There’s these hippie student types just hanging around outside the building which is an old big window jobbie. So after clearing them off the steps to the door, we go in with the agent. First impressions? Nice, big, modern. Upstairs bit has bedroom and bathroom. Downstairs - kitchen, living area. It’s on the ground floor so when you open the windows, there’s the street…with the hippies. Not to worry, I’m sure they’re just there during the week. There was no fan or air con (bear in mind it’s 85 outside, I don’t expect you to feel sorry for me because I know in England it’s pissing it down and cold but stay with me if you will). The gas oven took as long to light as it takes to read the Book of Genesis out loud and the bed didn’t have sheets on it.

Also the agent wanted us to pay in cash, a fact they had omitted to tell us. So I had to go traipsing around San Telmo looking for a cash point that would accept my card (most of them didn’t), then when I finally found one, it would only let me take out a maximum of 250 pounds. So I come back sweating like a fat man who’d been chasing a runaway M&M and I’m not happy. After much discussion they agreed to let us pay the rest on Monday. The agent leaves. It’s not two minutes she’s gone when Alison yells downstairs ‘The toilet doesn’t work.’ She was right, it didn’t flush. More phone calls. The agency said they could get a plumber round tomorrow. I asked where I was supposed to take a dump in the meantime. She didn’t have an answer.

Then Friday night comes and San Telmo becomes a party town. Revellers out till late, drunks, noise. Brilliant. And it’s hot. I can’t open the windows without letting the whole street see my arse so I just have to lump it.

The following night, our neighbours upstairs decide to throw a party and are shouting and screaming until four in the morning! I mean literally screaming. And the jumping as well, let me not forget that. Were they engaged in some sort of crude high jumping competition? Who knows? All I do know as I gaze at the clock through cracked, sore eyes is that I want to kill people, but I haven’t got the energy or tools at my disposal. Then just as I’m starting to nod off (bearing in mind it’s now 0530) there’s noise outside. A different kind of noise. I crawl on all fours to the window, beaten. I look out to see, a market. They are setting up a market outside our apartment. With all the metal banging and yelling. What…the…hell.

So come Monday we take a trip to the ‘Agency’ (Sounds like the CIA but I assure you it’s a lot less impressive). And after barking at them for half an hour they eventually offer us another apartment in a district called Palermo. This place is nice and it is where I am writing to you now with a glass of Malbec at my side. It’s on the 5th floor, it has a sunny balcony, it’s quiet and…it’s got a toilet that works! It even has a remote to close the shutters, nice. So things at the moment are very satisfactory.

I suppose I’d better sign off, this has been far too long-winded. I need to learn the ancient art of editing. Well at least I didn’t leave it open ended like last time, although I know you secretly love those Eastender cliff hanger writings.

And so, with a heavy heart and even heavier stomach (need to lay off those steaks) I say Adieu.

Dan

BUS RIDES, FIZZY DRINKS AND EASTER EGGS

So I’m back. You probably all moved on since the last blog. Probably thought that Dan Grant has just given up on us. Maybe I should do something more useful than sit here hour after hour waiting for a new blog to come out.

Well here it is! Sit back and enjoy.
So we jump on possibly the longest bus ride I have ever known and frankly have no intention of repeating. It’s a 6 hour journey to Sao Paulo from Paraty and it’s just about bearable. The bus stops every couple of hours at these ridiculously remote service stops that look like someone’s house and appear only to bother opening when this particular bus pulls in.

Anyway we begin to see built up areas and I realise we are nearing Sao Paulo. Allow me to read to you what the Lonely Planet says about Sao Paulo.

DANGERS AND ANNOYANCES
Reports of crime in the city have increased and Sao Paulo is said to be less safe than Rio…if you’re driving, be aware that carjackings and red-light robberies are common after dark. It’s so bad that Sao Paulo recently changed a traffic law – it’s now legal (and recommended) to just slow down at red lights at night. If there’s no traffic, continue without stopping…

What the..? Don’t stop at red lights, crime worse than Rio?? Well that little paragraph had us scanning every car and every person as we rode along towards the bus station. Who was suspicious? That man with the hood, too obvious? What about that pregnant lady…a cunning disguise perhaps? Who knows? So we arrive fully prepared for urban combat. Unfortunately we have to stay at the bus station for 5 hours to wait for the night bus to take us to Florianopolis (which is a 12 hour drive).

Sao Paulo has the worlds biggest bus station. It’s like an airport - shops, fast food chains, internet cafes all very nice. But I swear there are some distinctly dodgy people walking around that place. Every time I made eye contact with someone I pictured them shoving a gun in my face and demanding my Lonely Planet Brazil (which they can have as far as I’m concerned). My mind then draws a picture of me unable to understand what they are after so I try desperately to do a translation exercise with the help of my phrasebook before they pull the trigger.

So for 5 hours we sat and ate then after we finished eating we ate some more. We don’t smoke, so what the hell else are we supposed to do? One thing I’ve noticed here. When you ask for something in English, even though the name of what you are asking for is the same in both English and Portuguese they just don’t understand. So I say ‘Sprite por favour.’ And the two-star Bob’s Burger employee stares straight back at me with a sort of cross eyed expression and says ‘Sprite?’ I look up at the menu lit up in front of me, a beautifully lit photo of a large cup of Sprite with ice cubes and a straw with big letters on the side saying Sprite. I look down at our missing link friend. ‘Yes Sprite.’ The mongoloid shakes his head and smiles. Then I do what so many of my compatriots do. I start saying it over and over again, varying things like volume, speed, pitch. Nothing. He asks his manager. I say ‘Sprite?’ The manager shakes his head, then an idea. I see it forming in his brain. ‘Ohhh…Sprite?’ I stare at him, a small frown on my now sweating forehead. ‘Yes, Sprite.’ And let me tell you, dear readers, he said Sprite in exactly the same way I’d had and I finally got my goddamn beverage.

Finally the time came and we got on the bus. Which was, I have to admit, quite funky. They had these chairs that turned in to beds. Actual flat beds with sheets and pillows. Brilliant. I actually slept for some of the way. Wayhay!!
So we arrive in Florianopolis at 6 Am, another beach location. Our guest house is lovely, the owner was slightly surprised to see us so early but offered us breakfast and spoke excellent English. Great, we’re winning. What wasn’t winning, however, was the weather. It was still raining. You may remember how I told you it rained the whole time we were in Paraty. Well it carried on here. Fab. So what do you do when it rains here? We thought let’s take a bus downtown and go see a movie at the multiplex. So that’s what we did. The ticket cost about 2 pounds each cos it was a matinee and we saw Charlie Wilson’s War which was not bad at all.

Whilst walking around the mall something else occurred to me. Brazilians don’t wear glasses. Seriously I have not seen one Brazilian wearing them. Maybe they don’t like being called four eyes. Maybe they all have perfect 20x20 vision. Maybe there’s a trade embargo on them, who knows? I have yet to see one pair, weird no?

Anyway, the weather improves and we have a nice few days on the beach. Then it’s time to go and we’ve booked a flight from Florianopolis to Rosario in Argentina. So it’s farewell Brazil. Well not quite, because the flight we booked doesn’t leave Florianopolis till 1800, then it flies one hour south to a place called Porto Alegre where we then have to wait 5 hours until we leave (around midnight) for Rosario thus arriving at 0155 in the morning. Confused? We were.

As I’m sitting on the plane watching the sunset I look down and see the baggage guys loading the plane with various pieces of luggage. As usual they are in that ‘couldn’t give a toss mode’ throwing it around, kicking it etc. However I quickly realise there’s no conveyer belt taking the luggage up in to the plane; they are lifting each piece individually. And all I could think was the airport surely could afford to buy them one conveyor belt. They could even share it when there’s more than one flight. It would be good for them, and it would be good for me so I don’t spend my time with this stuff running around my head and we could get on our way!

So we arrive in Porto Alegre airport and here we must wait and wait and wait some more. We wander around looking at shops pondering how we are going to kill this much time when Alison notices there’s a cinema on the top floor. A cinema! In an airport. Brilliant! What an inspired idea. So we amble up there and guess what there’s a movie starting in 20 minutes. Hallelujah! We buy tickets to see a film called Vantage Point. Not bad, bit like a long episode of 24. Anyway, that kills a couple of hours straight off. Before you know it we’re boarding our next plane to Rosario.

Now because it’s Easter and everything was booked in Rosario we ended up booking a Holiday Inn. We didn’t want to, but everywhere else was full. So we arrive at Rosario Airport at 2 in the morning, only to find it’s so late all the immigration people have gone home. I mean, what the hell! So we’re herded in to this room for about the length of the Bronze Age. Then a guy from the airline comes out and makes an announcement, in Spanish. Everyone groans. Then 5 minutes later he comes out again and makes another announcement, suddenly everyone stands up and heads back towards the immigration area. We, like the sheep that we are, followed them. They had located some passport people who were now under so much pressure to get the queue moving I swear they would have let Osama Bin Laden in.

Anyway, exhausted and more than a little tetchy we emerge through arrivals fully expecting no one to be there, but to our great surprise there was a guy holding a sign with my name on it. Ace. He drove us (like the absolute lunatic he was), to the Holiday Inn. We walk through reception and we meet the man who is going to have a great impact on our lives. He is called Luis. We explain that we have been trying to let the Holiday Inn know for the last week that we were coming at 3am. They had booked the transfer so surely they wouldn’t do that if we didn’t have a reservation, right? Wrong. Luis was possibly the most unhelpful, couldn’t-give-a-toss nightman I have ever had the misfortune to meet. He said our room would not be ready until 3pm, then just looked at us. So we said ‘Fine, we’ll sit in reception and wait.’ And that’s what we did looking like a couple of Albanian goat herders we sat and dozed and tried to avoid the mozzies. From 3 in the morning until 9 we sat there. He didn’t offer us a damn thing unless you count strange looks. Only when the day staff started to come in did he bother to say ‘You can get some breakfast, the restaurant has opened now.’ I wanted to tell him where he could stick his breakfast but I was hungry and coffee sounded nice.
Eventually the manager came over. Totally different attitude. Very sorry, totally understood our position. Offered us a nicer room etc etc. Luis by that time had gone home. I thought about leaving him a special ‘Easter egg’ of my own but what the hell, life’s too short.

And here is where I must leave you. With that thought of my ‘special’ Easter egg. There’s more, much more. And I shall be posting it as soon as I figure out how to get out of the Tango lessons Alison has planned for me.
Until that time.

Arive Derche

The Dan

SNAKES, AMPHIBIOUS NAVAL BOARDING TEAMS AND RAIN

Yep here it is. I know you´ve spent the weekend trying not to take out your frustrations on your nearest and dearest at the way I left the last blog hanging. I know that the tantrum in the living room and subsequent argument was not really about which movie to go see. Fear not, here is the thrilling conclusion to the previous ramblings.

So we opt for the 3 hour walk to the beach on Ilha Grande. And as a snake thrashes away unseen through the greenery, bear in mind I´m wearing sandals, I am beginning to think this wasn´t the best idea I´ve had. I look around at the jungle canopy above us. The air is hot and thick, it feels like there´s an Iguassu (waterfall) pouring down my back. There are snakes and spiders and all kinds of other nasty things here and we still have 2 hours to go. You´ll be pleased to know we made it. Was it worth it? Was it fuck.

Okay first, the beach. It was stunning. About a mile of pure white sand bending to the right. In fact the sand was so fine that when you walked on it it let out a squeaking sound. I just thought it was Alison´s runs coming back but nope, it was the sand. There are no boats allowed to pick up and drop off here and no parasols or chairs. No sunbathing, no swimming no breathing. Just kidding about the last three.

Now because you can´t get boats from here you have to walk 20 minutes back to another beach to get the boat back to town. In that walk you are gently raped by monkeys and scratched by palm trees with a grudge against white folk with no tops on. So after our 15 minutes of enjoying the beach we wander back to catch the last boat back to town. And we sit at the back of the boat for what seems like an hour still tied to the pier. People are getting annoyed, nothing is happening. Eventually the captain decides (under threat of mutiny) to cast off. We just get underway when I hear someone whistling. I look back to see a guy waving. He wears silly Brazilian trucks with a girly pattern on them. He has perfected the surf-dude look down to a tee. He seems to be trying to attract attention. ´Don´t go! Wait...´ He barks in Portuguese. He´s obviously got there a fraction too late and don´t forget this is the last boat back to town. I look at him, then I turn to the captain who´s got Bob Marley blaring out of the stereo and is blissfully unaware of what is going on behind him. I look back at the man, this poor guy who´d missed the boat by the slightest of margins.
You know what I did. What any normal, sane, right-thinking person would do in that situation. Nothing. I actually sat there and just stared at him. He carried on shouting and whistling. I just couldn´t bring myself to do anything about it. My mind began justifying my actions by saying things like ´Well he should have got there earlier.´ But as we sailed away, knowing full well that chap had a 3 hour walk, in the dark, with the snakes and other nasties back to town, I heard a strange voice in my head. I can´t remember the details but the basic gist was ´You´re going to hell Daniel Grant´.

So the next day, for lack of a better idea we decide to go back to the same beach, Lopez Mendes. Why not. It wasn´t a bad beach by any stretch of the imagination and now that we´d learned the hard way, we decided to take the boat there...AND back. Good thinking Sherlock.
I almost gave it no attention whatsoever when I saw the large Brazilian Naval battle cruiser parked in our bay. I just thought ´Hey look, a warship.´ Then went back to the brainal equivalent of the television colour bars. But as our boat pulled away I heard what sounded suspiciously like a siren. Sure enough a smaller patrol boat was speeding its way towards us. Lights flashing, the whole show. People looked at each other, I glanced at the battle cruiser, wondering if she was preparing to blow us out of the water with those two big cannons sitting on her deck.
The patrol boat pulled up alongside our little innocent tourist boat and (I kid you not) a guy called Ronaldo boarded with his crack amphibious search team and announced something to us in Portuguese.Boy I sure was glad I didn´t speak the language cos he sounded pissed.
So I sat there in blissful ignorance until a small thought came across me. Had I remembered to hide my stash?
Ronaldo finished making his speech and then went to the ´bridge´ or as I prefer to call it, the little hut where the captain sat and steered the boat. The captain translated what Ronaldo has said in to English.
´They´re just making sure everything is in order on the boat, please wait 10 minutes.´ Like a bunch of Goofies we nodded in earnest agreement with the plan. 45 minutes later Ronaldo and his crack amphibious team were still serving the Captain his own six-pack for dinner and we were still bobbling around on the sea like a shark with no fins. Every so often, out of view of Ronaldo and his crack amphibious team, the captain would give a look to us that said he´d been given such a severe bollocking, I thought the boys were going to take him round the back and give him thirty lashes. So what did I do whilst all this seriousness was going on? What any decent, western tourist does in these situations...I got out my camera and filmed the whole thing for the benefit of you. See video.
After an hour Ronaldo was happy to let us carry on to the beach. The captain by this point had soiled himself, he´d obviously not filled in the right form or failed to make sure the boat had life vests or some other trivial failing. I found myself feeling sorry for the poor chap and as we motored passed the Oil Tanker Terminal on the way to the beach all I could think of was, I don´t think I want to be a ship captain after all.

So after all that excitement it was time to leave Ilha Grande. So we caught the ferry to the mainland and then a taxi to the bus terminal. After waiting an inexcusably long time the bus rolled in and we got on. Except this bus was like a citybus not like the coaches we´d been using thus far. And it was packed. So packed that we didn´t have a seat. So for 2 hours I had to stand to get to our next destination of Paraty. Was I amused? Was I fuck. However as it turned out I thought Alison had paid for the tickets. Only when we got off, stiff as a randy elephant, did we realise that neither of us had paid for our tickets. I´m sure you´re assuming I went straight up to the bus driver, money in hand to correct the mistake immediately. Well you´d be wrong. We scarpered to a waiting taxi who floored it to our guesthouse. Ha. Every so often the good guys triumph over the commies!

And thus, here we are. Paraty is a beautiful colonial town with cobbled streets and a lovely harbour. It has over a hundred beaches in its vicinity and is one of the most beautiful places in all of southern Brazil. Of course I don´t know this first hand because ever since we arrived it hasn´t stopped bloody raining. I mean it started raining four days ago and it literally hasn´t stopped since. At one stage I was walking back to the guesthouse, drenched, cold and rapidly losing my tan, I started conversing with God.
´´God´´ I said ´´You promised you wouldn´t flood mankind again after Noah, what gives?´´
God replied ´´You believed me on that? HA! Dickhead.´´
So yes, here we are stuck in a beautiful beach location with sod all to do except write these bloody blogs. Well we leave tomorrow for a 24 hour bus journey to Florianopolis. That´ll be a hoot!

When I have more, dear readers, you will too.

Until that time, live long and prosper.

Dan

BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE, FAT LADIES NOT SINGING AND COTTON TAX

I know what you´re thinking. Dan´s blogs are like buses, you wait couple of weeks for one then two come along in the same week! I know but so much has happened I figured I needed to get myself bang up to date so I shall carry on from whence I left off.

So we check out of the crap hostel in Buenos Aires cursing the day the owner was ever born and we jump in a cab and hop foot it to the airport where the airline, Aerolineas Argentineas (never heard of it either, I swear these guys just make up these companies) decides, in their infinite wisdom, to not sit us together. Like we pissed them off or something, so one of us had to sit in front of the one another other, like we´d misbehaved or something. They claimed it was something to do with having no available seats. I just thought it was because I was wearing shorts.

So the flight takes us to Iguassu Falls which are arguably the most beautiful falls in the world. I´ve only ever seen Niagara and they beat the hell out of them. The Argentian / Brazilian border goes right through the middle giving Argentina the lion share of the falls.
So we are picked up on the Argentinian side by a guy with shaved head and sun glasses and built like a stone toilet. And he speaks English, bonus! He´s going to take us to our hotel...in Brazil. So we speed to the border and before you can say ´Some guy called Hose asked me to carry the package for him´we were across the checkpoint. CLICK. The locks on the doors locked simultaneously. I looked and Alison, she just looked straight back at me, I thought she was thinking ´Do I have something on my face´but actually she was also concerned with the door locking situation. We both turned to the driver, he just smiled and said ´Welcome to Brazil.´

We went to both sides of the Falls. Brazilian and Argentinian. I preferred the Argentinian, Alison preferred the Brazilian (because you didn´t get wet, sissy) and we had a jolly good time cavorting around in the mist and seeing them from every angle possible. Lovely.

In the evening we found a goldmine of a restaurant. Don´t ask me what it was called or where it is, because we spent about 2 hours trying to find the damn place. Bloody Lonely Planet and their devilishly incorrect mapping department. But once we got there it was great. You ordered your wine, then these guys would start coming around with metal kebabs. Upon each was a different sort of meat. ´Sirloin sir?´ to which the reply is´of course´. He would then cut off a generous portion and move to the next table. Then another guy would come along and say something like ´chicken hearts sir?´ to which I said ´Yes of course.´ It was only after he´d put it on my plate did I replay the conversation and...did he say chicken hearts? I stared at it, pondering on my next course of action. Another waiter interrupted my thoughts. ´Pork chop sir?´ Well it would be rude not to. And so it went on...and on...and on. Within ten minutes I had a pile of meat that I could accurately describe as a pyramid. Great. But really, chicken hearts?

When we got to Rio, things changed. Firstly I was very disappointed in Rio. I was really looking forward to it but it just feels like someone will grab your stuff at the first given opportunity. Also the Lonely Planet scares the crap out of you with the ´Dangers and Annoyances´ section so when you arrive you´re primed for gang-rape, murder, torture and carjackings. The Brazilians ar very conscious of their appearance, non so as people in Rio. The beach, Ipanema was like a fashion parade...of not a lot. I think there´s some sort of massive tax embargo on importing Lycra or cotton here. Because everyone has almost nothing on. Seriously, they must have to make the most out of the little material each shop is ´rationioned´ so they create these bikinis and ´trunks´ that really leave nothing to the imagination at all. I must say I felt completely at home with my bleach-white complexion and scraggly legs as I walked along the beach trying to find a spot where the guy´s next to me biceps wouldn´t push me in to the sea every time he sneezed. We found a spot and made camp. Not in the least self conscious as I examined my slightly wobbly belly and looked at the abundance of six packs stomping past me and thought ´ooo you´re just like everyone else, who wants that?´
I tell you another thing. There´s nothing I like more that coming to a yellow sandy beach and looking out over the surf to see...three oil supertankers sat on the horizon. Last one to the sea´s a sissy.

We wanted to know about the Brazilian psyche, so Alison had a chat to the girl on reception at our hostel. We wanted some travel advice and the Lonely Planet (don´t trust it, it lies and deceives) said some town north of Rio called Nova Frigburgo was nice. The girl stared at Alison and said ´ Why would you want to go there, doesn´t even have a beach.´ Like a place that doesn´t have a beach was the most ridiculous thing in the world. She also said ´Brazilians don´t like anything unless it is beautiful. Brazilian don´t go anywhere unless it is beautiful. Brazilians need to be surrounded by beautiful things and beautiful people.´ I guess that´s why there aren´t many Brazilians in Sherpherds Bush.

A word about Brazilian TV as well. Not to put too finer point on it, it´s shit. And it´s all in Portuguese!? So one evening we´re flicking through the channels and we come across a 24 hour news station so we think ´let´s watch this for a laugh.´ The picture showed a news helicopter pumping out live pictures of what appeared to be a police rescue. They were on the top floor of a block of flats. Onlookers were staring from the street. Police were trying to keep order. On closer inspection however we realised it was the fire brigade. They use the term Bombardiers for fireman, really helpful. We thought it might have been the bomb squad. No. What they were doing was helping a rather overweight lady from her flat to an ambulance. That´s it. Fat lady needs crane shocker. Send the copter, we´ve got a breaker!!! We sat in awe for over an hour, transfixed. We were hungry but we just couldn´t leave. Enthralling. Eventually they got the poor dear in to the ambulance and drove away , the back throwing out sparks. And we thought, it´s only a matter of time before this comes to the UK. Can´t wait.
You know they have a channel here where all they show, 24 hours a day is...wait for it...pictures of cows. Cows eating. Cows mooing. Cows shitting. Seriously the camera follows the cow around the field and they pump this out to cable! Someone somewhere must be getting off on this. Me, I just thought it was weird.

´What comes next after the cows?´ Alison asks, eager for us to leave this Internet cafe to go to dinner. A good question and the answer is coming next.

We move to an island 4 hours southwest of Rio called Ilha Grande. For those with non-degree level Portuguese, ala me, this roughly translates to Big Island. Boy they must have been up all night thinking of that one!
So we check in to our hostel where I am promptly nearly whacked in the face by a bat and not the baseball variety either. I yell ´Look where you´re going! What are you, blind?´

So Ilha Grande has one of Brazils most beautiful beaches but...and here´s the kicker...you have to walk 3 hours through the jungle to get to it. Or...(there are no cars on the island) you can take a boat which takes an hour. So what do you think we opted for, easiness or snakes and monkeys? Yep, jungle it was. And it was a grueling hour and a half up, then another hour and a half down. And the humidity...Jesus I´ve never sweated like I have here. It runs down my body like a waterfall. I intend to write a very strongly worded letter to Sure deodorant when I get back.
So we walk and walk, and just for good measure we walk some more and...you´ll have to wait till next time because I´m out of time.

What a cliffhanger. God I bet you can´t wait for the next installment. I can´t. Wow. Brilliant.

Until next time my friends,

Dan

SMASHED GLASSES, LOVE HANDLES AND DUBIOUS HAIRCUTS

So it´s been a little while since last I wrote. I quickly discovered that Brazil is expensive! Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted.

Ah yes La Paz. Well just before we left I had a little run in with a rather strange German guy, (we´ll call him Adolf for the sake of this story) who threatened to ´Smash your glasses in to your face!´ Not very nice I thought. I know what you´re thinking. You´re pondering what could have got this guy, who had obviously not heard of the English word deodorant, so worked up. The answer was strangely simple. I was using the computer a little too much. See, the hotel we were in had a free Internet connection, an invaluable tool in my burgeoning blogging career such as it is.
So Adolf decides I´m on the ´good´ computer and wants it for himself. So he starts off all nice but when I inform him I had only just sat down and ´I´m terribly sorry ol chap but I might be here for 15 minutes or so´, our villain decides to morph in to a German translation of Jekyll and Hyde. It was like I´d pressed all the right buttons, immediately hitting Def con 1. I´m like, hey what happened to Def con 4,3 and 2? Of course he wasn´t interested in having that sort of conversation which is when I suggested to him that he may be being an ´impatient prick.´
Sometimes my emotions get the better of me and I fear this was one of those occasions. And so, inevitably this is not what Adolf wants to hear and he promptly turns a light shade of purple and explodes at me. He got close to my face to really push home the point of how serious he was. I thought about offering him a Tic Tac but didn´t think this was the moment.
I chuckled at this silly foreigner and went back to the computer. As he jumped up and down, I started to fear he may just combust in front of me. When he realised I had no intention of moving he suddenly just gave up. Although as a parting shot he said ´If you ever call me a prick again I´ll...(here it comes) smash your glasses in to your face.´ What he didn´t realise is that my eyesight is so bad, I need really, really thick glasses, also I have titanium frame, almost indestructible. Who´s laughing now Jack? Or Adolf or whatever you´re stupid name is.

So after that little bit of fun we try and check out of the hotel to catch the plane to Buenos Aires. Except, of course, there´s always something. The hotel accused us of not paying our phone bill. We had, of course, but the fuckwit on the desk hadn´t put the piece of paper with the rest of our bills. So Reception Guy says he has to call his boss, bear in mind this is 5 in the morning on a Sunday. Oh this is going to be good. After a couple of minutes talking Spanish to one another, he hands the phone to me where the manager says he doesn´t remember us paying for the calls. I say ´Well I did.´To which he says ´You didn´t.´ This Bolivian version of Wimbledon goes back and forth for a time until I run out of patience. So I counter his version with the best thing a customer can say in these situations. I said ´Are you calling me a liar´ He started backtracking immediately. ´No sir, I just can´t remember...´ I said ´That´s not my fault, we paid yesterday blah, blah.´ You get the picture. Man I´m on fire today.

On the taxi ride to the airport we were both like ´La Paz sure likes its confrontations. Don´t think I´ll recommend it to my mum.´ And I didn´t. Not that Bolivia was high on her list of worldwide destinations.

So we get to the airport and fly to Buenos Aires via another Bolivian city called Santa Cruz. Of course they don´t have a connections corridor. Oh no. You have to come out to the check in area and go back through security again. Perfect! Except...this airport hasn´t seen fit to invest in X-Ray machines or metal detectors, no, far too simple. This airport has to search everyone and everything...by hand.
I´ve never been patted down so thoroughly in my life. At one point I even thought I was guilty. The guy went through our bags with such meticulous detail I thought, shit he´s going to find that suntan lotion I didn´t pack and think its liquid mercury or something. After about 15 minutes of ball-cupping and making me feel shitty about my love handles he let us through.

So we get to Buenos Aires on a Sunday. And as we drive in I know I´m going to love this city. It just has such a cool vibe. Feels like Spain or France or somewhere.
Anyway, we get to the hostel which, at first, looks great. Bit too colourful for my tastes, a real YOUTH hostel but not offensive. So the child on reception, who still has braces on her teeth, shows us to our room. We´re trying to save a bit of money and this place is a bargain. We find out why when she opens the door to our room. First, it´s not a double bed it´s two singles. Okay not what we asked for but I can live with it for a short while. The room had no windows however and the two beds were the most basic I´d ever seen. I thought, this is perfect for Mother Teresa but I need something a little softer than concrete to lie on. Seriously, it looked like a jail cell and when she closed the door I felt like banging a tin cup against the door or whistling. I made a mental note to buy some cigarettes as soon as possible for protection. When we looked at the shared bathroom I immediately wished I hadn´t. Hair in the plughole, water and something else (let´s not go in to details, we all know what we´re talking about) everywhere, no toilet paper, kind of slippy, lovely.

That wasn´t the best of it though. Nope. The best was to come at 0600AM when the we heard children playing outside, screaming, shouting at the top of their sweet little voices. The property was next to a fucking nursery or something and the nursery opened early. Of course the hostel had failed to mention this when we checked in. Mistake.
So with bloodshot eyes we ´spoke´ to the child on reception and asked to move. To be fair she was very helpful and said we could relocate to another room. Great! Still looked like prison (no windows) but at least it had a double bed with a matress.

So we went and explored Buenos Aires. Gotta say, one of my favourite places I´ve been yet. It´s got steaks to die for, some of the best wine, all for the price of a doughnut in England! Fab. We did a lot of walking in the two days we were there which was fun. Alison had the shits, which wasn´t.

It really feels like London and then you turn a street and you swear you´re in Paris. Then you get to a park and it feels like Sydney. It´s great. Had a little haircut which turned in to a committee. Let me explain. Because no one speaks English trying to tell them what I want involved about 4 people. So the guy would cut and then the others (hairdresser, receptionist, Alison, random bloke in the next chair and dog) would discuss it. Then he would cut some more. Of course whenever you turn these things over to a democracy it always ends up being a compromise with everyone going away not really happy and that´s what happened. Because when I say a little haircut, I mean it´s been two weeks now I need another bloody one! NOTE TO SELF: Next time I need a haircut try not to do it through a branch of the United Nations. I don´t know what the Spanish is for ´Get a haircut´ but I´m sure that´s what people are saying as I walk passed them. I look like a Fraggle.

Buenos Aires has the widest street in the world (16 lanes of shimmering concrete). All very impressive until, that is, you have to cross it. Oh sure they have zebra crossings but why would anyone pay any attention to those. It´s a bit like trying to cross the M25 during rush hour with nothing but your outstretched hand and the occasional ´Whoa! WHOA!´ Boy that was a fun, underpant-changing situation.

All in all though we liked it. So much so that we have booked ourselves an apartment for 2 weeks at the end of March. We need a holiday from our holiday. All this travelling is getting a bit tiring.

There´s more to tell but the guy who owns the Internet cafe is growling at me, maybe he´s just hungry but with an ugly tattoo like that I´m not taking any chances. I will write soon, because I know you all log on every day to check if Dan´s written another blog and try to cover the bitter disappointment when there isn´t one. Then things start getting smashed and you shout at your boss for no real reason. It turns you nasty and I understand that. So here´s part one of this particular blog. Not sure how many more parts are coming but what the hell, numbers were never really my strong part.

Adios

Dan

BIG BANGS, ILLEGAL TOUR GUIDES, RECKLESS CABBIES

Hello once more from La Paz, the world´s highest capital...like you care!

It´s been suggested by some that my blogs have been in the glass-half-empty category of writing. So with that in mind I will try to make my inane ramblings a little more positive. So here goes...

Half our group on our tour of Bolivia had diarrhoea, a few had to travel back to La Paz early to see an emergency doctor. The tour leader was about as useful as a chocolate tea pot and some of the places we stayed didn´t have running water. I could write an entire piece just on the quality of the toilets... I won´t though, you would think I was making it up.

So let´s start where I left off before. Travelling from beautiful Copacabana to La Paz (not quite so beautiful but interesting in its own way). We arrive at the hotel, very nice 3 star job, meet our two other companions an English girl called Charlotte who knows my dad and has met him, weird! And a Swiss girl who liked to order cheese cake at every given opportunity called Barbara.

So we take a flight the next day to Bolivia´s second city Sucre. Spanish colonial stuff etc. Met our hotpant-stringy-vest-wearing tour guide who is also called Barbara. Right away we´re thinking she´s not really putting out that air of ´´this girl knows what she´s doing´´ and she didn´t disappoint. We found out that she wasn´t technically able to work as a tour gude legally in Bolvia, nice one boys! I won´t bore you with how much this ´tour´cost but we debated over whether we really needed a tour here or not. As it turns out we didn´t. We spent 3 days in Sucre, our only source of information was the Lonely Planet. Did some horse riding to a nice waterfall where we all put ourselves in mortal danger by jumping off the top of it in to a slightly muddied pool. Our Spanish-speaking horse riding leader merely watched from the sides, chewing coca leaves, occasionally spitting them on to his horse.

So then we meet the rest of ´the group´all of whom are in the middle of a 45 day trip around South America. Mixed up of English, Danish, Australian and Northern Irish. All very nice but then our fuckwit of a tour leader gets involved and things rapidly descend in to...well fuckwitness.

We discover she has a penchant for going to the Spa, not telling anyone what the plan for the day is, whether the towns and citys we stay in are safe and a general feeling of ´fuck you guys it´s my holiday too.´ I had to pinch myself every so often and remind myself that she was not a petulant twelve year old, she was in fact our tour leader.

So we travel to Potasi (the worlds highest city) via these taxis. It takes 3 hours and here´s where I need to tell

THE STORY OF JUAN
Juan grew up in a small Bolivian village just on the outskirts of Sucre. He had strict parents who used to beat him with long sticks made of Llama dung. Juan harboured an ambition, he wanted more than anything to be a racing car driver. Everytime his head hit the pillow (also made of Llama dung) he dreamt of winning the Bolivian Grand Prix (well first he dreamt there was a Bolivian Grand Prix then he dreamt of winning it).
Juan tried as a kid to make it, borrowing his fathers donkey cart and attempting to do doughnuts in the back yard. But as Juan grew up he realised his dream could not come true. He spent years feeling down, his life meant nothing. Then one day as he was taking the donkey for spins when he saw a Toyota dealership. His mind raced, maybe just maybe he could do something about his dream. He bought himself a 90´s white Toyota Corolla. A thing of beauty, now he could finally realise his dream. With no qualifications or testing he immediately became a taxi driver ferrying unsuspecting tourists from Sucre to Potasi. Oh boy he loved seeing the incomprehensible terror on his passengers faces. That delicate smell that would emanate from the back seats as he overtook the fourteen wheeler on a blind corner with a thousand foot drop and no crash barriers.
Juan just loved the challenge of Bolivian roads. Everytime he set off he would say a little prayer thanking his God that the Bolivian government hadn´t discovered the heretical English words ´road resurfacing.´ He loved to chew coca leaves, spitting them out his window utterly unaware they would fly in to the face of the person sitting in the left back seat.
And his love, more than anything, was to get to Potasi before his other Taxi driver comrades. It was competitive and they made it difficult for him but Juan lwas a born risk-taker. He simply had to cross that finish line first, it didn´t matter how many Llama or Alpacas he would instantly turn in to dog food. Nor would he consider minor adjustments to his beloved vehicle like seat belts or workable brake pads. If God wanted him dead, he would have crashed already surely.
He could see the tourists sitting behind him trying to work out the Spanish for ´Slow the fuck down´ but he knew that even if they found the words in their Latin American Spanish Phrasebook the sheer terror would be too much for them to utter the words. Only mumbles and high pitched whimpers would be the only sound that would emanate from their stupid white mouths.
And so ends the Story of Juan. We must assume that he still drives with the same disregard for others and we salute his God for having the power to keep him alive in the face of such reckless abandon. Chao Juan!


So we arrive in Potasi looking for a toilet and a new bum. The Spanish discovered silver in Potasi and decided it would a spiffing idea to send hundreds of thousands of African slaves and local Bolivians down in to the mines to go get it for them. 8 million people died in these mines under some of the most atrocious conditions imaginable. So now they send tourists down there, each happy because they are allowed to buy a stick of, wait for it...DYNAMITE with them. Yes dynamite is a readily available commodity in Potasi. You can walk in to a store, buy a couple of sticks under the guise of ´I´m taking it to the miners as a present.´ HA, they are so gullible. So the tour leader (not Barbara, this one is competent) asks if we want to set a stick off (I remind you we are still talking about DYNAMITE...whilst down in the mine! I mean...do Llama attempt to kill themselves when they cross roads...fuck yeah! So we go in to the mines all singing ´´Hi Ho´´ our dynamite and matches at the ready and basically we are happy campers. See attached video for what actually happened when it when bang!

Once we´re finished blowing up parts of Potasi we get a bus to the worlds largest salt flat and the small town of Uyani which looks like some old fool was walking through the desert and thought ´´No water, utterly exposed to the elements, temperatures reaching -20. You know what, this is the perfect place for a town.´´

So we jump in some slightly dubious 4x4´s and drive up to the 12,000 square kilometer salt flat which is simply one of the most breathtaking sights I have ever seen. And because it was flooded, this being the rainy season, the blue sky was perfectly reflected in the water making you feel like you were on some other planet, strange.

Then we spend the next few days driving around the superlative-exhausting Reserva Nacional de Fauna Andina Eduardo Avaroa with some of the most stunning landscapes I´ve ever had the pleasure of seeing. Truly it was like a safari for landscapes, with every turn of a corner we´d see a new canyon or snow-capped mountain. Bear in mind we are over 4000m above sea level at all times. Deserts, laguna, flamingos more Llamas. Lovely. There was a particularly stunning volcano and turquoise lake called Laguna Verde which I couldn´t help myself I had to take some video of, have a look.

What wasn´t lovely however was the places we were staying in. The bed on the first night was like being strapped to a silver birch tree trunk, the toilet smelled of...words can´t even describe what it smelled of. There were flies, dogs and babies crying in no particular order. The food was simple but as we found out later totally unfit for human consumption. We´ve used up most of our emergency supply of Imodium. On the plus side though I think I´m losing weight.

Second place we stayed in was worse than the first, don´t get me wrong I´m all for character building exercises but really, do I have to pee next to a pile of rotting rubbish which should have been the shower. Seriously guys...come on now, maybe start with the mantra ´let´s not make the tourists (our biggest source of income) sick to the point of emergency evacuation. I tell you, that night was like an orchestra of flatulence. I understood why they had no smoking signs all over the place. And to top it all off no running water, good effort chaps.

So with everyone feeling tickety boo and some of our gang speeding back to La Paz with critical stomach issues we hop in to the landcruiser and see some more rock formations. Then head back to Uyani and a night train. I won´t bore you with all the things that went wrong after that suffice to say it ended with one of our group in tears because our fuckwit tour leader was nasty to her. We had to all sit down and have it out with her. It was like Tour Group Therapy.

So we catch the night train back which was actually pretty decent and now we´re back in La Paz awaiting a flight to Buenos Aires which we should catch tomorrow. So Bolivia has been eventful and beautiful and stomach challenging. I sure won´t forget her in a hurry.

I just read this back, is it me or do these things get longer and longer. Must try the ancient art of subbing down my ramblings to something easy to read, with grammar people can actually decipher. Oh well, there´s always next time.

Chao!

Dan

POO-HOLES AND PHOTOCOPIERS

Well hi there,

So after the long and somewhat laborious Inca Trail thing, seriously there's a train, why would you walk it?

So we leave the tourist empty Cuzco and jump on a bus to Arequipa, Peru's second biggest city, next to, wait for it, two active volcanoes. Nice. It's all white stone and not an unpleasant place to be for a few days. Wondered around a monastery or two, ate some local food which was fine. Although because we're totally stuck if we get to a restaurant and actually decide this isn't the place for us. By that time we've already sat down they've already started to wait on us. I kid you not, we went to three, yes three different restaurants. All of whom we sat down in and were given menu's. All of whom we decided weren't right and had to stand up in front of everyone else eating there and leave. I do love those uncomfortable, awkward moments.

Then we booked a little two day trip to the Colca Canyon which is supposedly twice the size of the Grand Canyon and whilst it was impressive I kept thinking to myself ''What's the difference between a canyon and a valley cos this sure looks like a valley.''

Anyway spotted some condors from miles away drifting on the currents and whilst I had to contend with some very loud Canadians on the bus there and back, it was all I could do from turning around and saying ''Why can't you say it quietly, she's sitting right next to you for Christ sake!''

So we jump on another bus to Puno, on Lake Titicaca which, frankly is a bit of a poo hole. It basically has one street where you get harassed by every restaurant, Internet cafe and local wanting to sell you something. We have a good deal on a hostel, only $20 a night, bargain, although the smell of raw sewage makes my eyes water somewhat. Also there seems to be a disproportionate amount of photocopiers in this town. It's only small but seemingly every shop has a photocopier. I swear if I needed to photocopy something this would be the place, the competition was fierce.

So to get ourselves out of this Poohole, Puno, and we book a little trip to a couple of Lake Titicaca's islands. Once we're on the lake, I relax and slap on the suncream. Damn that sun is strong. We're at 4000m and in the shade you feel like you might lose one of your testicles and in the sun you burn within 3 minutes, can't win.

We arrive on Amantani, I won't bore you with the introductory crap suffice to say it looked very picturesque and met the family we were to stay with. Buenos Dias I said friendly. Nothing. The old woman with black headscarf just started walking up the impossibly steep hill towards her 'house'. Then I realise she only speaks Quecha. Not even Spanish. Ace.

It wasn't an unpleasant place, the room was basic but functional. The toilet however was something altogether different. An outdoor shed hiding what was basically a hole. And the smell. If there were words in English I would use them but I've wracked my brain and I just seem to locate them. Fun for all during the night when realised you needed to go. Oh sure the stars were amazing but trying to find the shed with no power, holding your nose and aiming accurately. Frankly it all got the better of me.

So after that fun little episode we visit another island, do a bit of sight seeing, meet a very nice Israeli girl with her tagalong friend from New York and we have a very nice dinner with them.

Next day we head over the border to Bolivia and a town still on Lake Titicaca called Copacabana. A nice little place and our hotel is stunning. A large domed shaped building with perfect views of the lake from our room. And the room is enormous. It has 4 beds. Two twins and a double up a ladder. So we've basically been bumming around, sitting in the sun, reading. I've been listening to my Spanish CD and keep getting weird looks from other guests as I recite ''No Habla Espanol.''

We move to La Paz, the capital, tomorrow where we start our 11 day tour of Bolivia. We are having a truly great time, and whilst there are moments of challenge, bus stations to name but a few, my impressions of South America seem to get better and better.

I hope you are all well and I shall write soon to bore you all stupid with more inane tales from the Southern continent. Frankly if you're read this far you're either really bored at work or are doing it out of politeness. I appreciate either reason.

Till next time.

Dan

Inca Trail

Guten tag,

After the relative calm of the Galapagos we jetted off to Lima which, if I´m completely honest is a bit of a shit hole. The traffic and general feeling of impending doom to the tourist kinda wears you down. There were a couple of nice churches and Alison started hearing voices in her ears inside one of the catacombs which I just took as being the dodgy llama she´d had for lunch. So from Lima we join up with a bunch of children who all want to walk the Inca trail with us. They´re all gap yearers or students and I feel about as old as God. But they´re pleasant enough so we all catch a flight to Cusco which is in the mountains. A nice main square, not much oxygen etc etc. The first hotel we stay in is nice. A cross between a youth hostel for the under 25´s and a 10 year old Travel Inn. Not bad and as we settled down to sleep we wondered why we hadn´t said anything to the 20 people downstairs getting pissed, their voices gently echoing up the stairs almost nestling between myself and Alison.

So with bloodshot eyes we drove to some other Inca place, I wasn´t paying much attention at this point. All very impressive and old. Not sure why the Inca´s decided to live up the top of mountains. Obviously their town planning hadn´t gotten as far as worrying about skanky students doing a 4 day walk to get up to the damn place. Camping is not my thing. If I was in any doubt about that, the Inca Trail (God bless you) finalised it. It was cold, you could barely get in and out of the things, and Alison kept taking up my side which I really hate. So we walk. And walk. And walk some more. Up and up and up, then a little down, then up some more. Frankly it all got a bit tiresome and we started getting a bit ratty with other members of the group who all seemed to be from Norway or Sweden and seemed to be world-class hikers. And as they raced passed us for the 30th time leaving us in their dust I wondered if they´d be able to down a cup of tea nearly as fast as me. I doubt it! Ha. Obviously to our Scandinavian chums it was a race and they won, by a country mile and then some. (In fact they even had time for coffee and biscuits and a little snooze by the time we racked up)

So the guide comes up with the genius plan to try and to the 4 day hike in 3 days. Marvellous. And I thought this just couldn´t get any more fun. So we do it and through the cries of misery, 3 day old underwear and tears of abject hopelessness we finally make it to Machu Picchu which, to be fair is pretty spectacular. Could we have taken the train? Yes. And we should have. And so, on the way down (on the train) I have to resist the urge to scream from the window at those who are just setting off on their wet, ´life-enhancing´ journey. "For God sake, turn back!" I could not, however bring myself to carry it through. A nice touch on the train is the airline service you are treated to. A box of sandwiches, drinks...then, the train hostess (I assume that´s what she was called) treated us to a fashion show. Music started to blare out of speakers and she and her male colleague started cat- walking along the ´isle´ showcasing the best in Peruvian Alpaca (bit like Llama wool stuff). I was lost for words as the entire carriage started whooping and whistling at them. As the train pulled in to the station I started to wonder what other comedy life events the Sun God got in store for us.

Stay tuned for more rambling dispatches from the Southern American continent.

Dan

BACK FROM GALAPAGOS

Hello UK chums.

We have just returned from a staggering trip to the Galapagos Islands. What a place. Highlights, let´s see, swimming with Turtles, sea lions and sharks. Lowlights, slight seasickness on the boat in rougher seas, a little sun burned under my arms. After a somewhat tumultuous goodbye at the airport with familes wailing and tears streaming down my face like a big girl we board the plane to Quito via (get this) Amsterdam - Bonaire (wherever that is) - Guayquill - Quito. Mammouth 15 hour job. We were a little shagged when we finally reached Quito, Luckily our friendly man from the hotel was there with a big board and in shining letters ´Daniel Granto´.

Hotel was nice. After reading the guidebook security section on Quito and the different and varied ways of robbing, mugging, stabbing and killing tourists I think it´s fair to say we must have spent the first few days being terrified to our very essence and utterly paranoid of everything and everyone. A little trip on a local bus up to the Equator, which was all very jolly, looking at everyone on the bus and wondering how long it would be before someone asked us to hand over the cash and-or my sun cream. Luckily never happened (touch wood) Then Galapagos. Quite a small yacht-type boat. Keeps 12 people happy. Plan normally was sail to an island overnight. Then snorkel followed by walk or vice versa. Then sail again. That was life for the past 8 days and it was about as close to heaven as I´ve been in some time. Anyway, I promised myself I´d keep this short. We fly to Lima tomorrow and start the Inca trail the day after. Apparently it´s pissing it down consistantly. Hope I don´t lose my ´tan´, I spent many an hour working on that ´just got out of the Solarium´ look. I look a little like a beetroot but I´m hoping it will settle down to Adonis soon.

Hope all of you are well, I shall update when we´ve done the Inca Trail.

Chao!