Feeling high

When in the city of La Paz, you can go one of two ways; indulge in the chemical offerings that come with the intense nightlife or throw yourself at the many physical challenges that this erratic landscape provides. I chose the latter.

Again I think it´s been a little too long since my last post and with many of you still possibly nursing hangovers, I´ll try and keep it brief.

Starting way back on the 20th, apart from writing my blog, me, Max and Sascha played it safe and had a curry at an authentic English-Indian restaurant. Though the tikka massala wasn´t quite up there with what I usually get on Burton Road and the naan was more like a stale loaf of Hovis, it was still a very tasty meal and it did it´s job in offering up something a little different.

The following day, a Monday, was comprised mainly of walking the streets of La Paz with the standout period being a visit to the Coca Museum. Here , we learned about the benefits the coca leaf brings to the indigenous population and the other side of the coin; the mass scale production of cocaine. After a very informative tour, we sat down for coca tea and cookies that although green, were rather delicious.





Tuesday the 22nd hit me quick with an early start and an excursion to Tiwanaku, a pre-Inca site located close to the Peruvian border. Although there were many fascinating revelations, I´d have been more than happy to just read about this in a book as visiually it was a little underwhelming. I did eat more llama though and have a good sleep on the way back.









In the evening we went to a fancy restaurant for Sascha´s birthday (the day after) and I had my finest Bolivian pasta to date. On a roll I tried the tiramisu but this was largely frozen so I went home in a bit of a slump.



On the Wednesday I did very little apart from sit at an internet cafe trying to upload as many pictures as I could. I also said goodbye to the Dutch people as they went in search of the jungle for a few days. From Loki Hostel, I moved to Adventure Brew Too, where I enjoyed the daily free beer.

Of my previous 26 Christmas Eves, this one was not one of my best. In the morning I set out with a fairly warm group of people who individually were pleasant but nonetheless later showed a darker side as a collective. With the original objective of booking the ¨Death Road¨ bike ride together, things soon fell apart when we arrived at the biking office. In a short space of time, we discovered there were only four places available for the five of us. Naturally, I iniitally thought of alternatives like a different date or agency but then a disturbing silence and threatening atmosphere presented itself. I sensed the group looking my way until eventually I caved in and offered to pull out of the trip. With little thanks or consideration, everyone promptly agreed and continued to sign the papers and try on the gear. Meanwhile, my mood toward the group took a bit of a nose dive. The rest of the day was filled with some shopping for tea and then a buffet in the evening. Fortunately I was rescued by a fella called Ryan and we went for a few beers over the road with another great character, Andrew. We laughed about my miserable day and enjoyed a good session of man banter while overlooking the city.

Christmas Day started with a brief present-opening session followed by a trip to the bus station to wave goodbye to my close one-day friend Andrew. Me and Ryan then made our way to an English pub where we eagerly awaited Christmas dinner, as booked by the group I met the previous day. I suppose unsurprisingly, we got bumped off this as well, as overnight they made more friends and eventually filled the table of fourteen with new feet and faces. On the way out I made a point of waving goodbye, angered at their treatment of fellow travellers at such a time of year.

The result from the fallout was a spaghetti carbonara for me while listening to Chris de Burgh in an Italian retsaurant with Ryan. Back at the hostel we endured three hours of the fim Alexander.

Boxing Day felt a little more normal as it was largely dominated by watching football at a pub. After watching three games back-to-back, I went to book my biking tour and a three day trek up Huayna Potosi. As fate would have it, a few people had dropped out of the biking trip meaning I would be going with the group of scoundrels afterall. This made my day.

Despite a slight air of tension in the mini-bus, we all made it in one piece to the start point of the bike ride on Sunday morning. For those who may have missed Top Gear this Christmas, the road we were to cycle down is known infamously as the World´s Most Dangerous. Why? Well, it runs for around 65km and for the most part, there are sheer drops of up to two thousand feet with no barriers to be seen and rarely does it get much wider than eight or nine feet. Only in the last few years has an alternate road been built, meaning buses and trucks travelling from La Cumbre to Coroica no longer need to use this narrow and heart-stopping track.













Anyhow, we got on our bikes and started the eleven thousand feet descent with a section of tarmac and plenty of wind in the hair. Myself and a couple of Dutch amigos set the pace for the most part and eventually we arrived at the true start of the ¨Death Road¨. From here on down, it was an epic and nerve-jangling experience; passing crosses, waterfalls, mammoth drops and the odd truck lying in the bowels of the valley. By lunchtime we´d made it to the bottom where a hotel pool and buffet dinner greated our trembling bodies.





Back at the hostel, me and the Dutch cyclists discussed our days triumph and were rewarded further with a free beer, although it came at a cost; carrying up two barrels of beer over four floors which greatly upset my fingers.

Monday was fairly calm and served mainly as a day of preparation for my mountain trek the following day. From the ¨Black Market¨ I managed to pick up some thermal gloves, a woolly hat and a few pairs of long socks. I enjoyed my free beer more than normal that evening, knowing it´d be my last for three days.

On Tuesday morning I was joined outside the Travel Tracks office by Cliff, a Kiwi (not in the same context as a mango or peach), and Sarah, a physio from London. We climbed in a van with two guides and for two hours rumbled our way up out of La Paz and towards the base camp of Huayna Potosi.

Often regarded as one of the world´s easiest six thousand metre climbs, the mountain is nevertheless one hell of a challenge. With base camp already at four thousand seven hundred metres, oxygen is already scarce and if you´re not already well aclimatised, you will doubtless fail the trek.





Arriving at around noon, we filled our bellies with rice, chicken and potato before taking a one hour walk to the base of a glacier for form ice-climbing. Here we mastered this art to a sufficient level and I also enjoyed a light snack of glacier ice while witnessing substantial areas of the glacier melt away as if it were being microwaved.





We returned to the refuge and proceded to play just short of forty games of ¨Uno¨ before another meal and an early night.



Again on Wednesday we rose early, this time climbing over five hundred metres with our fully loaded backpacks to High Camp. Sarah, being the smaller of the group undoubtedly had the hardest task as her backpack almost dwarfed her own body.





With the final day looming we ate plenty and were in bed for 6PM. Although shattered, we had much to ponder having seen roughly fifty percent of the previous days climbers fail the trek. We weren´t taking this lightly and this weighed heavy throughout the night.

With Thursday barely a minute old, we were awoken by our guides and promptly served breakfast. By 1Am we were geared up and ready to take on the six hour, one thousand metre high gauntlet that lay ahead. With two nights-worth of snow covering our path, life was made even more difficult but soon we got into a slow but efficient rythm.

Along the way, Sarah vomitted several times whilst me and Cliff took altitude sickness tablets and paracetemol at regular intervals. By the time the summit was in striking distance we´d covered several miles of terrain while also scaling two ice walls. The latter was only a few metres short of the summit, but covered in thick snow, it was equivalent to the travelator on the Gladiators. Only far more difficult. I hacked away with my ice axe like Michael Myers and my arms and legs behaved like the paws of a gerbil in it´s spinning wheel.



By 7AM we´d done it and oh my life was it worth it. From the peak we could see Lake Titicaca in Peru, the Amazon and the entirity of the Cordillera Real mountain range. As planned, I lit a Cuban cigar to celebrate the moment, despite the almost complete lack of oxygen.









The mood was soon quelled however with the realisation that we still had a two hour descent in the baking sun ahead of us. We made it but by the time we´d arrived back at base camp at noon, we were all completely broken.







The minibus took us back to La Paz and for most of the afternoon, I was a curled up ball of tranquility back in my bed. In the evening we rendez-vous´d for a meal with the returning Max and Sascha and reflected on one of the greatest chellenges of our lives. To celebrate the New Year we stood on the roof terrace at the hostel and enjoyed a panoramic firework display over the city. I barely made half past twelve and so it was a tired but exceptional end to 2009.

Yesterday I took it easy, wandering around the city, making phone calls and hanging out in internet cafes. Of my acheivements, I booked myself into the Hotel Copacabana where I am staying tonight in the same room once occupied by a certain Che Guevara. For supper our group of five enjoyed a very lively Lebanese meal and afterwards me and Cliff found a popular drinking spot to see out the night.



Today I moved into my hotel room, complete with four beds, two TVs, a bath and large balcony. With my three day Che trip starting on Wednesday, I thought it only fitting that I follow the route he took some forty four years ago, begining in room 304 but hopefully not ending in death in the hamlet of La Higuera.

Taking a break: In Pictures

Mmm, there´s some super pictures below from Tupiza and Potosi...


A great cure for constipation.


Arriving in style.


A low-flying-birds-eye-view of Tupiza.


I swear the horses were real.


Vanity hits hard when in such surroundings.


The narrow streets of Potosi. Damn wall.


Cerro Rico. You´d rather work at McDonald´s.


Not a laughing matter.


A team talk with the boss. Where´s the exit again?


Shit! Like a scene from Indiana Jones but this was no PG.

Pictures from another world: Part Two

As promised, all my photos are now up to date and on Flickr. Below I present to you some of the finer snaps from the second part of the Bolivian salt flat tour.


Alfredo reveals his secret stash of Kendal mint cakes.


Somebody pass me the salt please. Funny, in that the table is made of salt.


A denim dream but for the one in green.


Even the AA don´t make it look this easy.


Almost but not quite. Don´t ask what the frick the Canadian´s doing at the back.


I really struggled to get into this book, so I got on it.


A Salt lake sitting.


Global warming hits Manchester Piccadilly.


More reliable than a Virgin train in so much as you know this train isn´t going anywhere.

Pictures from another world: Part One

What a lovely Christmas surprise this is. Below we have a fine selection images from Chile and the crossing into Bolivia. While in La Paz, I shall try and get all the images up to date so we´re ready to roll once more in the New Year. I love captions.


Solar power. Useful when the sun´s shining.


This is what we did one Monday morning. Smug. Very smug.


You thought walking on water was impressive? Try reading.


These tourists came to see some amazing sights but not such bravery.


Similar to the moon but without an American flag on it. So, better.


Even the Megane would find this tough going.


This dancefloor was hot.


Welcome to Bolivia: the restroom at the border-crossing.


Swim in this stuff and you´ll have a mountain of problems.


A great place for sightseeing but not breaking down.


Hot springs, especially when you get it in your face. And on your hand. And in your hair. With people laughing.


Three´s a crowd? They seem happy enough.


Beats a zoo.


They beat sheep.


The party bus. Or just party boy. Bless.


Mmm. Fresh Bolivian spring water. Go on, take a sip...


If ever there was a sight to make a lazy traveller feel guilty...


Glass bottles provide the green space.


No dripping clocks but still a little weird.


Yours truly looking rock solid and wishing everyone a very Merry Christmas. Genuinely, that´s what I was thinking.

For the rest of my snapshots of mankind, please visit flickr.com/jmage right now. Entry is free and all positive comments will boost my ego.

PS Maybe this is better than a blog? I had more fun.

Taking a break

For one reason or another, I find myself having to write my latest post about the entire previous week. A grim task lays ahead but at least I´ve at last found a haven of calm where I can gather my thoughts. That place is La Paz.

Following my days in the desert, last Saturday I caught an early bus with Max and Sascha to the town of Tupiza, some seven hours away from Uyuni. The time it took isn´t so important however the experience was.

Starting off by descending into a dried up river bed, we soon enjoyed a break in a small town where the centrepiece was a Cesna plane impaled on a post and then it was the harsh climb up into the mountains. With no tarmac in sight or barriers to halt any possible disasters, we crawled along the dirt track for several hours, squeezing past other buses as they perched on the cliffs edge. A couple of times I dozed off and woke up with a four hundred foot drop staring back up at me. Despite containing no caffeine, this form of sharpening your senses was far more powerful than a cup of coffee.

Happily we made it in one piece and soon found our comfotable hostel in the centre of town. We bought our bus tickets for the Monday morning trip to Potosi and in the evening enjoyed pasta at one of the many Italian restaurants and a panoramic view over the city at sunset.

Sunday was another glorious day in the wild west-esque town of Tupiza, famed for the setting of where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid met their fate around a century ago. With this in mind, I set my sights on riding a horse through this rugged and fantastic scenery. Sascha agreed to join me and so for around five pounds, we set off behind our guide into the wild. Along the way we saw peculiar rock formations, cacti and a site which was once used as a refuge by the Incas. I got to ride a horse and wear a cowboy hat so that was job done. In the afternoon I slept then awoke for more excellent Italian food and another sunset stroll.

Although we were at the bus station on Monday morning, our bus wasn´t. It was soon clear that we would never be introduced to one another that morning so instead we rescheduled for the evening bus some ten hours later. In that void of time and space, we lounged by a hotel pool, had a read and a dip and said farewell with another wonderfully executed Italian meal. I kid you not, the food here in Bolivia is actually very good.

By nightfall we and our bus were at last united and on we hopped to endure nine hours of bumps, baby screams and black holes below.

We arrived in Potosi with the sunrise on Tuesday and the world´s highest city did not disappoint. Colonial and largely indigenous, it sits snug amongt a range of mountains some four thousand metres above sea level. Hanging over it, the haunting presence of Cerro Rico, a mountain that´s been mined for the last five hundred years and sadly is still to this day.

After an afternoon sleep in our room, we surfaced for some lunch then visited the city´s museum which centres around the fact that it was South America´s first city to mint a coin. I joined in with this and minted my own coin with a large hammer.

Back at the hostel we watched an excellent documentary film called The Devil´s Miner, a story of two young brothers condemned to a life working in the town´s mines. Some say as many as eight million men have died in Cerro Rico (Rich Mountain) since it was first discovered for it´s wealth and the life expectancy for a worker now lies no higher than forty five. One day before we were due to visit this Bolivian institution, the film made quite an impact on us.

The next day we and another thirty backpackers piled into a ´Greengo Tours´ minbus and headed north towards the mountain. First we were stopped off to pick up our kit and miners hats and then it was to the miners market. Here with instruction from our guide Julio, we bought gifts that we were to give to the miners as we passed through on our third-world tour. On offer were cigarettes, fruit juice, coca leaves (the leaf from which cocaine is controversially produced), a ninety-six percent alcoholic spirit, beer and dynamite. I went for the cigarette/fruit juice/dynamite combination. Sadly, our colourful but clearly weathered guide soon backed out of the tour which seemed to be down to a mix of fear and mental instability.

We joined another guide though and after a brief look at a procerssing plant, we entered the mine.

Inside we were treated to a labyrinth of dark passages, runaway mine trains, toxic dust and a whole load of fear. To see men actually working in these awful conditions just beggared belief. With twenty-four -hour shifts a reality, cave-ins common, alcohol abuse an inevitability and one death every eight days a fact, it´s no wonder the people of Potosi fear this piece of rock so much. Twenty years ago things were slightly different as at least then it was government owned and the miners had some forms of protection. Now the co-operative mines are run soley by the miners themselves and all that separates them from a lucrative success or an untimely death is, as they believe, the will of Tio (the devil of the mines).

Through the clouds of arsenic and asbestos we eventually emerged some three hours later. Outside, the guides put on a display to outline the power of the dynamite sticks we´d just handed over, by carrying out a couple of controlled explosions.

Physically and emotionally shattered we returned to Amigo Hostal for showers although this did little to dislodge the smells we´d inherited. In the evening we refelected greatly and had beers with cheesy nachos.

On Thursday we made a slow start, having late breakfast before catching a lunctime bus to the judicial capital of Bolivia, Sucre.

We landed on schedule and went for a leisurely afternoon wander around the pretty and quiet streets. The whitewashed buildings the city is famed for really do make it stand out against the other places I´ve seen so far in Bolivia. I think mainly because it looks clean.

For supper we went to a supermarket and picked up some cheap salad which we mashed together later on.

Friday is a bit of a guess as I haven´t entered it yet into my diary and my memories are sketchy. The highlight as I remember was a visit to the city museum where the Bolivian declaration of independance was originally signed and a decent portrait of the ´Libertador´, Simon Bolivar, hangs today. We also climbed a bell tower and ate some good cuisine at a German restaurant.

Yesterday I was supposed to be going to Santa Cruz, some twenty hours from where I now sit but with Christmas and New Year looming I thought it best to make a change of plan and come here to La Paz for some festive fun. When it´s over, I shall head to Santa Cruz then amble my way back here before heading north to Peru.

Prior to getting the bus here yesterday, I managed to fit in an intense four-hour Spanish lesson with a friendly native called Isaac. Then it was a bit of lunch before hopping aboard the finest Bolivian bus I´ve seen to date.

And here I am in the countries capital perched over three and a half thousand metres above sea level where the air is thin but the pace of life is thick and fast. During the next couple of weeks I intend to relax a little, scale the world´s most dangerous road, have a party and then leave.

Meanwhile my pictures are still proving a bit of an achilles heal. Hopefully they´ll be ready in time for Christmas.

Another world

If ever I needed vindication of why I'm travelling, these last five days have provided it. Travelling through the deserts of Chile and Bolivia opened my eyes to amazing new sights while also consigning any doubts or fears for my trip to dust.

Last Sunday I began this journey by leaving the town of Salta, heading straight towards and then through the Andes. The coach ride alone was a memory in itself. Through Argentina and Brazil I've lived many a long journey but none so which have kept me as captivated as I was en route to San Pedro de Atacama. Pervesely seated beside a charming blind man called Ricardo, the coach snaked up high through the rugged mountains (like the Trough of Bowland after a steroids overdose) and then eventually down through the Atacama Desert via my first encounter with a salt flat that this part of the world is synonymous with. A little drama aided us on our way when crossing the Argetine/Chilean border as a flat tyre was disovered but then reinflated.

We landed in San Pedro some nine hours after our 7AM departure and the bus terminal as marked out on my map was little more than an open area of dust. As is becoming frequently the case, I took more time than neccessary in locating my hostel and this delay was fuelled by a lack of Chilean currency, choosing a hostel out of the centre and failing to summon enough energy at such a high altitude. (2,436 m)

Dazed and confused I rang the hostel and within a few minutes, the owner and his family had arrived to collect me in their pick-up.

After I'd unpacked and settled in at my hostel, I picked up a bike and cycled back into the centre where I joined a couple of Dutch friends; Max and Sasha; and an Aussie and Canadian called Mark and Robin. We found a cheap little restaurant and enjoyed a three course meal, followed by some Chilean beers at a nearby bar.

On the Monday, little was planned but in the end it was a day of great adventure. After making my way over to the hostel where the aforementioned were staying, it was soon agreed that a jeep ride to a nearby salt lagoon was a good way of letting the hours pass by. With the hostel owner at the wheel, me, Max, Sasha, Robin and a Welsh lady called Karam all piled into the back of his truck and set off into the baking desert. After around half an hour we arrived in this surreal oasis where against the baron landscape there were two deep blue lagoons and a handful of flamingoes.

Being no ordinary pools and with such a high salt content, we were able to float on the surface unaided and did so for a good hour, marvelling at the absurd nature in which we spending our Monday lunchtime. While there, I posed while reading a book and was then then washed down thoroughly with clean water as not to look like a man sized salt sculpture upon disembarkation.

We returned to the town invigorated but with slightly scented towels. After a shower and crisps, I, along with Max and Sasha joined the tourist brigade for a late afternoon excursion to the Valley of the Moon. Fairly self-descriptive, the trip took in a number of valleys and rock formations caused by the volcanic activity in the area and was finished off with a panormic view across the mountains at sunset.

Once back in San Pedro and suitably fed, myself and Sasha agreed on finishing our stay with a late night trip to a party in the Death Valley, a short ride out of town. After a couple of beers in a cosy bar, we jumped in a jeep and headed for the strobe lights in the desert. The scene was as expected with people around a fire, a DJ spinning some tunes and a bar to keep you tanked up until the early hours, AND it was all set in a naturally formed discotheque with the lights bouncing off the rock faces surrounding us. Gradually the numbers swelled and by 5AM wed had enough beers, rum and pisco to last us until Bolivia. By 5.30AM I was tucked up in bed awaiting my alarm some one and a half hours later.

Not surprsingly it came and was most unwelcomed. In part this was due to my lack of sleep but more so that the upcoming day was to be the start of the three day trip across the Bolivian salt flats. Our jeep group was composed of me, Robin, the Dutch guys and another couple from Vancouver. We crossed the border with little problems although Sasha was beginning to pay for the previous nights excess and the increasing altitude was providing little sympathy.

Once into Bolivia, we were treated to a few stops at some large and colourful lagoons, one against the backdrop of an impressive volcano, before we rolled up at some thermal pools for a recharge followed by hotdogs and salad for lunch.

In the afternoon, we visited some geysers where I got too close and was ambushed by some volcanic mud. Largely happy that it missed my eyes, it did however leave its sulphiric mark on my sleeve, camera, eye lid and hair.

By mid afternoon we'd arrived at our accomodation for the night which was no more than a scattering of buildings in the middle of the desert. After a brief rest we checked out one more lagoon which was home to many a flamingo.

That night, with no showers and the temperatures plummeting, we wrapped ourselves up in everything and enjoyed a hearty meal of soup and spaghetti, served by our lovely guide, Alfredo.
The next day involved a little more time on the road but a touch less interesting sights to observe. Nevertheless, it was stunning with more lagoons and flamingoes as well as a stop at an area covered in crazy rock formations. With the day drawing to a close we arrived in a little village where we to stay but our jeep route was blocked down a backstreet by another jeep so Freddie took a detour. Sadly when we were facing up a narrow street, his brakes failed him and slowly we rolled backwards with only a wall and our fears standing in the way. After a few seconds, we collided with the wall but there was minimum damage and we all lived to tell the tale. Alfredo was temporarily upset but soon regrouped and made us chicken for tea. That evening I was last in the shower queue and missed out on a hot shower to my utter outrage.

Thursday was to be our last day of the trip and also the longest. With my alarm torturing me at 4AM we were all out and in the jeep within forty five minutes in search of sunrise over the Salar de Uyuni. Though Freddie took his time getting up then also running into another couple of village roadblocks, we did make it in time and had plenty of laughs jumping around taking pictures on the enormous and earie salt flats. Warn out and only 7AM, we were driven to an island in the centre of the lake where we had breakfast on salt chairs and tables, then climbed to the summit for pictures and little air.

With the sun now shining brightly we drove to the middle of the blindingly white expanse and tried our hand at doing the usual photo trickery with mixed results.

From here we visited the Salt Hotel, made completely from salt, and then had more chicken for lunch.

Our trip was concluded with a visit to a train cemetery on the outskirts of Uyuni before we were dropped at a hostel in the town. For tea I had a llama burger which went down well, mainly becuase of the comedy rather than it's taste and our group had a toast to an excellent few days together. Robin waved goodbye and Sasha was sick.

Today the plan was to be in Tupiza, some seven hours of cliff hanging roads away but due to Sashas illness, this has been postponed until tomorrow, when herself and Max will be able to join me. Until then, a trip to a local town has been earmarked so this should tie me over although after such an amazing few days, I'm happy to just reflect for a while.

At this point it may have dawned on you that you are now the blind man on the bus. Despite all these lovely pictures I have painted, you will not be able to see them, at least in this post, as the internet here is achingly slow and I' lost 45 minutes of my life trying to fight this. When I arrive in a town where the internet moves faster than a Bolivian pentioner, I'll be sure to put them up. Until then just use your imagination, ci?

Latin love affair

After forty six days of intimacy with this country, my relationship with Argentina is finally all but at an end. Though we have shared many happy times together, it is now time to move on and allow myself to become embroiled with the volatile offerings of Bolivia.

I eventually bid farewell to Buenos Aires last Wednesday afternoon aboard a none-too-flamboyant ´Brown´ coach. I opted for this company to bring me to Salta, not because I understood the words´ meaning, but because they had the shortest queue at the bus station. I queried the decision at the time but when I actually got to the bus and found my seat, I cursed it. Of all the seats on the coach, mine was the one directly beneath a constantly rattling panel and this melodic nightmare was to follow me through each of the twenty hours that finally landed me here in this city, albeit with a slightly wired mind. Not everything was a dark shade of brown however. Lighter tones were found in the form of free meals and regular snacks.

Looking to save costs, I set about finding my hostel on foot but my efforts were thwarted by my inept map reading skills which led me ten blocks in the wrong direction. I had a brief regroup though with some agua to help soothe the pain and within another half hour, I was at last in sight of Backpackers´ Home.

I´d heard good things about the city of Salta but despite a vigorous walk around the centre, that also included a museum visit, I was left unconvinced. It´s farely pretty as far as Argentine cities go but I wouldn´t like to add much more.

For (free) supper, I shared empanadas with a group of guys of which one was a geologist and who had an interesting plan up his sleeve. It was no less than aiming to scale a nearby volcano. The greatest alarm came at hearing it is still regularly active and its peak is around six thousand metres up in the sky. It´s fair to say, I´m still weighing this up as I speak.

Yesterday, having at last received my deposit from my flat on Darlington Road, I chose to splash the cash and spend a day seeing the nearby rock formations while tasting the local wines.

The 7.30AM start seemed a little brutal but I was in good shape and the mini-bus journey throughout the day was a breeze. In the morning we travelled some two hundred kilometres taking in the incredible Quebrada de Cafayate, a mountainous gorge that runs parrallel with the Andes. This range is noted for it´s bright red rock and unearthly formations which me and fourteen others were duly treated to. Prior to encountering such wonders, we saw the dramatic change in landscape as in a matter of minutes it went from lush, rainy, tree-covered mountains, to a dry, sun-soaked and barron plateau, high up in the clouds.

Our first port of call was the Garganta del Diablo (The Devil´s Throat), a deep canyon which was once a waterfall but is now an earie hole where us travellers revel in photographic bliss.

Along the next stretch of tarmac, we were lucky enough to survey some condors as they circled above the landscape, before meeting some llamas and then catching a glimpse of a rock known as ´The Titanic.´

By early afternoon we were in the scenic town of Cafayate where we visited a couple of wineries, had a steak dinner, tried red wine ice cream and played table football with locals in the town square. After some ´free time´ we stopped off at a castle formation and a natural amphitheatre, where hippies played folk music for us in what was similar to the Albert Hall but much taller and with far less seats.

By 7PM we were back in Salta, where I had a nap on my bunk ahead of free pizza for dinner.

Today I´ve been preparing for my next phase of the trip which involves a brief passing through Chile tomorrow (and maybe THAT volcano) and then across the Atacama Desert and salt falts into Bolivia and the town of Uyuni. This evening myself and a Dane called Christian hope to take a cable-car up above the city to get some nice panoramic views then it´s one final asado steak dinner back at the hostel to draw things to a close. I have a ten hour bus trip to look forward to tomorrow which takes me to San Pedro de Atacama which I hope is more pink than brown.