Brazilian Beaches

Ultimately, our time at Iguassu Falls ran out. I was gutted to be leaving Foz du Iguassu, a town which does not have much to offer, but leaving the breath taking Iguassu Falls, knowing that I may never have the opportunity to visit again was something to lament.

No matter, the beautiful coastal town of Paraty would take my mind off it. With its myriad old Portuguese colonial buildings, complete with brightly coloured doors and window shutters, hanging baskets, cobblestone streets (which flood daily at high tide in some areas of the town) and its wealth of fun filled activities, it is an understandably popular spot with locals and tour groups alike, which has fortunately managed so far to retain its old charm and character.

An early morning spent kayaking in the millpond bay, around a small island dense with tropical vegetation (and the owner’s washing line!), followed by an afternoon of horse riding up into the hills for magnificent views of the bay, even on a cloudy, rainy day, set us all up with a huge appetite for a fantastic home cooked meal courtesy of some of our more culinary minded group members!

The nature of these tours as I have come to learn however, is that there is never enough time – days are filled with activities, nights with too much good food and parties and all too soon it is time to move onto the next destination.

Fortunately for us, our next port of call was a little splash of paradise in the Atlantic, just south of the Rio coastline, the stunning Illa Grande.

Arriving in the boat, you would be forgiven for thinking you had just arrived in the Ko Phi Phi (Thailand) of 20 years ago. Illa Grande, though much bigger, boasts the same aquamarine waters, crystal clear and teeming with life, the same white sand beaches, sweeping hills lush and rich with tropical vegetation. When we finally docked, the picture could not have been more different. Absent were the drunken gap year students, the crazy party bars and the constant hum of a party, which have their place. I am just glad Illa Grande is not that place. The strict planning laws have ensured that Illa Grande has not yet and hopefully never will follow Ko Phi Phi down the path towards being the 24 hour party island.

All the same, Illa Grande does not shut down at night. There are parties to be found, but they do not dominate the island and its primary draw remains its unspoilt beaches, notably the truly beautiful Lopes Mendes. A two and a half hour hike from the main town through dense forest is the only route by land as there are no motorised vehicles on the island. The beach itself is part of a marine reserve, so if you wish to get there by boat, you must dock at the nearest beach, a 20 minute walk to Lopes Mendes. It is worth the hike though, two and a half sweaty hours later, the weary legs are greeted by white sand; clean and almost powder like; roaring green surf and for us anyway, an almost deserted beach. Summer brings the crowds and of course the surfers, but late afternoon on a winter’s day, meant the entire beach was our own private playground.

Did I mention parties? Our second day in Illa Grande was spent aboard a gorgeous little schooner, although I suspect it is a long time since she travelled anywhere under sail. The Caiprinha boat as she was more frequently referred to, took us on a day long cruise around the island, stopping at various beaches and snorkelling spots, for some fun, food and of course … Caiprinhas! After almost 25 days of hectic travel, it was just what the doctor ordered. Some one had also conveniently remembered to order the sun and the afternoon was spent basking in glorious sunshine as we ate more than our body weights in barbequed meat, fresh crispy salads and fabulous garlic bread, all washed down with … its getting old now, isn’t it? Caiprinhas!

Arriving back into the port in the late afternoon, we said goodbye to the caiprinha boat and headed back to the hotel to rest up for the following day’s boat and bus trip to Rio de Janeiro. That might be a little white lie, the party may have continued into the wee small hours, and 9 very weary souls may have boarded the scene of the crime the following morning bound for the mainland and Rio. One thing is for sure, nothing was going to prevent us from enjoying our time in Rio. A few hours rest and we would all be ready to go again!

Iguassu Falls

There is no denying it, I was expecting a lot from Iguassu Falls.  Nobody seems to visit it and leave disappointed.  Everyone talks about how incredible it is, how powerful, how beautiful.  I wondered if there was any chance that I would actually leave feeling the same.  As is so often the case when you visit a place whose reputation precedes it, I was afraid that Iguassu would disappoint.  Well, maybe not disappoint, but I thought there was a distinct possibility I would be a little … underwhelmed by the whole thing.

I was so far wrong I was in another continent. 

Iguassu Falls is probably the single most impressive natural site we have visited over the entire trip, in fact, probably the single most impressive site full stop; and this trip has brought us to many incredible places: The Himalayas, Angkor Wat, Polonnaruwa, Fox Glacier to name but a few that have really stuck in my mind.

Our first glimpse of the falls was from the Brazilian side renowned for its panoramic views (they straddle the Brazilian-Argentinean border).  It did not disappoint.  However impressed I was though, I was assured, the best was yet to come.  The following day, the jet boat ride up river towards the pounding columns of water blew me away and still I was told it would get better.  As we walked up the stone steps in the cliff side, soaked to the skin after the boat ride, the views became more impressive still.  With over 270 separate waterfalls making up the truly awesome Iguassu family, every few minutes walk was rewarded with mind blowingly beautiful views.  The climax though, the true winner of the day was the roaring “Devil’s Throat” – Garganta del Diablo – with water cascading, roaring down over 82 metres around 240 degrees, meeting in a violent, misty, swirling cauldron below.  The noise is deafening, the power unmissable, it is impossible to stand there, on the walkways adjacent to the falls and not be transfixed by the thousands of cubic metres of water sprinting over the edge and crashing into the basin below.  How could there possibly be this much water in the world? And how is this only the tiniest fraction of it?  Maybe places like this are meant to remind us that we are not as big a part of it as we would like to think.  I don’t think I have ever felt more insignificant in my life.  Bizarrely though, it was a comforting thought.

The story of the formation of the Iguassu Falls is an interesting one, not the geological version however, but rather the ancient legend of the native Guarani people.  They believe that at one time, the Iguassu river was a still, wide, flat river.  Each year the local Guarani tribe would sacrifice their most beautiful virgin to the serpent god of the river M’Boi.  Naipi was due to marry Taruba who was a warrior from another local tribe, but when the serpent god saw her, he fell in love with her and demanded she be the virgin sacrifice.  Afraid to anger the powerful serpent, the tribe conceded and made ready to sacrifice Naipi.  Naipi and Taruba being very much in love, made a plan to escape down the Iguassu river in a canoe.  Sadly for them, M’Boi uncovered their plan and in anger chased the lovers down the river, writhing and splashing and in doing so cracked the river bed forming a huge gorge which would become the falls.  In revenge for their disloyalty, M’Boi transformed Taruba into a palm tree overlooking the falls and the beautiful Naipi into a rock at the base of the falls.  The lovers would spend eternity always close enough to see one another, but suffer the torture of never being together.

Far fetched perhaps, but there is something magical about Iguassu Falls, something other worldly about the sheer power, the volume, the crashing, angry water, which makes you wonder … maybe, just maybe!  

The very dry (usually swampy) Pantanal!

After a few days of relaxation in Sucre, we said goodbye to some of our travelling companions and flew to Santa Cruz to meet up with the new contingent who would travel to Rio together.

This part of the tour had a shaky start – mainly due to the bus which would take us into the famous grassland swamp of the Pantanal. Sitting in Santa Cruz bus station we saw fancy air conditioned coach after fancy air conditioned coach enter the grounds and drive past our gate. Eventually, we saw a little humdinger enter, red and blue, it had certainly seen better days and we wondered what poor unfortunates would spent the next few uncomfortable hours on it. We did not have to wonder very long as it pulled in directly in front of us. After almost 8 months of travelling, we have spent time on some uncomfortable buses, with questionably qualified drivers (like the young driver in our leaky Cambodian bus who hadn’t obviously yet learned how to change gear, with no air conditioning, overcrowded with people, market goods and even animals. This one though, took the biscuit.

Initially, it was just not a pretty, modern bus. Then we noticed the small holes in the body work, the baggage doors which required a wrench to open and close them, the refrigerator being stored in the under carriage, while the spare diesel tank and tyre were removed. She had seen better days, this bus! There was however, worse to come. Our journey was to take us 17 hours from Santa Cruz, to the Bolivian border town of Puerto Suarez, 17 hours on bumpy dirt tracks. Even though she was old, you would think that being the only bus (apparently) running this route, she would be prepared for such a trip – the tyres told another story! With some tyres virtually bald and others, like this one having no treads at all, we were all anxious boarding.

As it turned out, we needn’t have been. Although not a beauty queen, she provided us with comfortable seats, a/c courtesy of the multiple open windows and reclining seats. We arrived safely to Puerto Suarez.

Our journey into the Pantanal was punctuated by a lunch stop and a quick swim in the shallow river, barely 10 feet from caiman basking in the sunshine. When we did eventually arrive at our accommodation, all thoughts of our dodgy bus journey evaporated. A small fazenda in the middle of the Pantanal, with stables adjacent, Fazenda São João provided us with a long dorm room with hammocks swaying in the warm evening breeze. It was nothing short of perfect.

The following morning after a filling breakfast, we headed up to the stables to meet our companions for the day. My trusty steed was Sagano. Having not ridden a horse for at least 10 years, I was anxious, but he took good care of me. Walking and trotting obediently initially as we meandered through the forests and tall grass paddocks, we both got a little braver towards the end of the trek and we even had a canter and a little gallop across the final few fields, ending with a jump over some bushes, which shattered any illusion I had that I was in fact in control. Nonetheless, it was a fantastic morning and I was sorry to say goodbye to Sagano.

There was little time for me to lament his departure however. After some lunch, we headed out on a safari drive. With the Pantanal experiencing a drought at the moment, the normally swampy grasslands are dry, dusty and bereft of the normally teeming wildlife. Even so, Our guide Alex showed us Caiman, Jabarou storks (symbol of the Pantanal), Capybaras (the world’s largest rodent), wild pigs and dozens of beautifully coloured birds. The true highlight of the afternoon though, was the hour we spent, fishing for Piranha at sunset. I am ashamed to say that I am one of two in our group of 9 who caught no fish, however, I think Schmo more than made up for my failings with a haul of 7 of the toothy critters! What else could we have for dinner then, but piranha! Despite the number that were caught between the group, we brought back only 9, one for each of us! The rest went back into the lake to continue their snappy little fishy lives!

Our time in the incredible Pantanal was almost over, but before we left, we had time for a short walk into the wilderness. With the land so dry, we were unfortunate in that the normally teeming swamps, were in fact completely absent. However, we still manage to catch glimpses of otters, caiman, capybara, storks, herons, cranes, South American screamers (like bush turkeys), cardinals, blue macaws, parakeets. No puma or jaguar unfortunately, but maybe that is a good thing, I reckon they could outrun me!

Potosi

Potosi is one of those places that anyone who has visited Bolivia tells you you have to visit.  One friend warned me, its not an easy visit, but something that should be done.

Potosi is the former star of the Spanish colonialism.  in its heyday in the 17 and 18oo’s, it boasted a population of about 160,000, larger than Madrid at the time, the capital of a huge empire.  Today though, it is a sad little town.  Some stunning building remain to remind Potosi of her glorious past, but the reality is that Potosi, although ruggedly beautiful, is a sad relic of the past.  Impoverished and almost entirely reliant on a rapidly weakening mining industry, it is a city which may be destined to fall further still.

The mines themselves are owned by cooperatives,with and estimated 15,000 miners, mainly locals, working daily.  Rules dictate that miners (all male) must be a minimum of 12 years of age, but we have heard that many are younger.  They work 12-24 hours in a row and are paid only for what minerals they can sell.  For 10 tonnes of minerals, a miner might make about 1,000 Bolivianos, but the cost of transporting these is the miners responsibility and could cost him 500Bs, leaving him a similar profit, about 50 Euros – and he mines entirely by hand and dynamite.

The other huge cost to the miners is their health.  The average life expectancy is about 45 years of age, with the majority dying of silicosis, caused by years of breathing in the fine silica dust found in the mines.  We met one exceptional man, a miner for 37 years, he was very old in mining terms at 53 years of age.  He has a son of 33.  Both are dying of silicosis, his son will most likely be dead before him, and yet both continue to work.  It is the only means they have of supporting their family, ensuring their survival after their deaths.  If a miner has a son, he will usually take his father’s place in the cooperative after his death.  If there is no son, the cooperative will try to find work for the wife or daughters outside of the mine.  Women are not permitted to work in the mine.

Scattered throughout the mine, are dozens of effigies of the devil – our guide estimated about 1,500 of them.  Complete with fangs, horns and a very large manhood, the devil was originally introduced to the mines by the Spanish as a means of inciting fear in the newly Christian miners and ensure they worked longer and harder for less.  Somewhere along the lines however, the devil became the protector.  Miners now make offerings of cocoa leaves, cigarettes and alcohol, to ask for the protection of the devil and patchumama.  Patchumama (mother earth) is for the miners, the mountain itself.  The devil is virile and hungry and in consummating his relationship with Patchumama, they produce the rich veins of minerals in the mountain.  Women are not permitted to work in the mine as the miners fear that if the devil sees them, he will fall in love with them,dismissing Patchumama and thus no more mineral veins will be produced, destroying their livelihood.

The reality of course is that with our without women in the mine, the minerals are disappearing, as is the mountain.  in less than 200 years, the mountain has decreased over 500m in height due to the mining,  Ultimately, Potosi, the former star, will need to find another means of survival or risk total collapse.

The day was not all doom and gloom however, we did have the opportunity to indulge in some explosion of our own and blow up a stick of dynamite once we were outside the mines!  In the end though, the visit to Potosi was just as I had been told to expect, fascinating, fun but a real eye opener and a reminder of how lucky I am.

Uyuni and the Salt Flats

After a few relaxing and very enjoyable days in La Paz, the evening came for us to meet with our group, the people with whom we would spend the next 25 days travelling across Bolivia and Brazil to Rio de Janiero.

Group travel is always a bit of a gamble, its a bit like Forest Gump and his box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get. Fortunately, we got a cracking group of people from all corners of the English speaking world – Aussies, NY Aussies, Kiwis, Welsh, English and of course us Irish!

Our guide dismissed with the formalities and we all headed out to the witches market for some traditional Bolivian fare. I opted for a Llama kebab, which was surprisingly tasty and it doesn’t taste like chicken! With a long trip ahead of us the next day, we all retired to bed early, eagerly anticipating the next few weeks.

Our journey to Uyuni, our first destination began with a short bus trip to the small mining town of Oruro, south of La Paz, which is reputed to have been the last hideout of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid, a bit of information which came courtesy of one of our group members! From there a long dusty 8 hour train journey would take us through the desert to Uyuni, a salt mining town in the north of the Atacama desert and home of one of Bolivia’s greatest tourist attractions – the world’s largest salt flats.

The first stop on the salt flats was a small mining area, where the local miners essentially mark out grids from which they harvest the salt, stashing it into conical heaps, prepared for transport back to Uyuni for refining and purifying. You see little sugar loaf shaped mounds dotting the horizon for almost as far as the eye can see. Every mound must be transported before the rains come in November and wash it all away, flattening the landscape, until the floodwaters recede and the whole cycle can begin again.

By the time we had finished, bellies were rumbling, so we ventured on towards Isla de Pescado, Fish Island, a little oasis in the centre of the salt flats, a rocky outcrop more accurately. It seems to be the only area of height in an otherwise barren white landscape. Arriving there, we took a family hike to the top of the hill past the huge cacti for a stunning view of the salt flats and the outline of the distant mountains. There we made an offering to Patchumama (mother earth) and returned back to ground level for a delicious home cooked meal of fresh veg and salad and …. llama steak!

Naturally, no trip to the salt flats could possibly be complete without the cheesy altered perspective photos – hours of entertainment was had as we posed and directed each other in a host of ridiculous looking pictures. Finally as the sun set, we made our way to our hostel for the evening, fashioned almost entirely of salt. I can’t help wondering does it melt away in the rainy season too!

Over the next few days, we explored the desert around the Uyuni, visiting the Red and Green Lagoons, some stunning and unusual rock formations and from a safe distance, we even saw an active volcano. Our final stop was at the train graveyard just outside Uyuni, where the rusty remains of what must have been hard working mine trains are destined to spend the rest of their days, lying in the hot sand with only the odd visit from a curious tourist or a canvas hungry grafitti artist!

After the 3 days and 2 nights of wandering in the dusty desert and no showers, we returned to Uyuni, tired, smelly and happy, to enjoy some long hot showers and an incredible pizza and finally hit our beds to ready ourselves for yet another long journey to Potosi.

La Paz and the World’s Most Dangerous Road

Arriving into La Paz after our two lengthy bus trips. we were fit for little else but some tasty food and a serious amount of sleep.  After what we felt was a well deserved lie in the following morning, we set about exploring the city, Bolivia’s largest.

Shamefully, the first port of call was far removed from the plethora of cultural experiences on offer.  Instead, we set about finding a good coffee shop for a tasty cuppa and cake!  That thirst satisfied, we did eventually manage to see more!

Strolling around the streets, I was reminded of the hectic pace of life in Asia, optional road rules, dawn till dusk street trading and once more an incredible array of colours.  We made our way to the famous Plaza San Francisco, home of the Iglesia de San Francisco, and the main focal point for tourists.  This however, is not for the church itself, but rather that it serves as the entrance point to the historically indigenous neighbourhoods in the city.  The biggest attraction in the area is the well known witches market. 

Indigenous women, clad in voluminous skirts, alpaca wool blankets and bowlers, smiling their gold capped toothy grins, sell not only the usual array of colourful handcrafted goods, and trinkets aimed unashamedly at the tourist market, they also sell some more unusual and typically Bolivian items, such as dried llama foetuses.  These are apparently used as offerings to Pacha Mama, mother earth and would be given traditionally as a gift to a young married couple.  The foetus would be buried under the foundations of their new marital home, no co-habitation here, as an offering, asking Pacha Mama to protect them.  Another, if less common use, is for the foetus to be blended into a liquid and consumed as a fertility aid!  I think I’ll leave them to it!

Our second big activity in La Paz, was actually not in La Paz, but on the old road connecting the city with Coroico.   The famous “death road” mountain biking experience.  We had heard from almost everyone we had met who had visited Bolivia that this was a must, so who were we to argue?  

We might have been willing to take the challenge on, but we were not stupid about it.  Having heard some horror stories about the road, we opted for what we had heard was the safest company on the road, and it turns out, the only one which carries rescue equipment.  Of course they didn’t tell us this at the time, but as it happens, this rescue equipment is really more recovery equipment.  If I was in any doubt as to the credibility of the “world’s most dangerous road” title, our guide Phil, left us in no doubt.  He recounted terrifying stories of cyclists making fatal, if usually stupid errors, and sailing off the edge of a 200 foot plus drop.  The road side is literally a sheer cliff for at least 60-70% of the road, and even when the gradient decreases, it is only by a few percent.   

Not to be scaremongering, he did reassure us that Gravity, the company we travelled with, have by far the best safety record and warned us that most fatalities have occured with either experienced riders taking stupid risks, or people making silly mistakes and taking silly chances while under the influence of alcohol or drugs. 

With the frightening brief , safety instruction and strict guidelines on how to ride out of the way, we hit the road for the first 20km of the descent, which is down a public road, asphalt surfaced which would be our training ground for the day, providing an opportunity to become friends with our bikes, to get the feel of the gears, and the super sensitive brakes.  It also gave nervous riders like me, the chance to gain a little confidence, which was essential. Slow riders are just as likely to injure themselves as the speed demons on the WMDR!

Finally reaching the focal point of the day – a 10-15ft wide road, of gravel and loose rock, over 40km in duration, with a 200 foot sheer drop on the left hand side.  I really began to worry that I was certifiable to be even considering undertaking this.  The option of sitting out the ride in our support van was always there, but there was no way I could wuss out at this stage.  Slow (ish) and steady all the way.  Our guide suggested to us that a great way of keeping relaxed on the bike on the gravel was to sing to yourself, kindly suggesting such songs as “Freefalling”.  Ultimately, on this bluebird day, with the sun belting down, the only song that would come into my head was “Singing in the Rain” – but it helped. 

The end of the road brought us to a local animal reserve, for a cold beer, a hot shower, a fantastic feed and all wrapped up with a dip in the pool watching the spider monkeys playing in the shade!  Just the long journey back to La Paz.  We had conquered the world’s most dangerous road.  The only thing that could possibly have been more terrifying than cycling it, was driving it.  Where could the route home possibly take us?  Where else? Right back up the same way we came down.

Actually, it was fantastic to do take this route back.  The journey down required such intense concentration that I had no time to look around and appreciate the stunning views, the rich lush forest carpeting the mountainsides and of course the sheer craziness of what we had just done.  As we motored slowly up, I was about to comment to Schmo how strange it was that on a road which had seen so many fatalities, in such a staunchly catholic country, that there were no memorial crosses.  Just as I opened my mouth however, I saw one, and another, and another, and a cluster of 4, and memorial plaque and yet another cross.  For virtually the entire journey, the roadside was peppered with crosses, plaques and flowers marking all those who had lost their lives on this road.  It was a sobering sight, one I am glad I did not see prior to or during the ride down, because I almost certainly would have stopped.  And it may be a crazy thing to do, it may be the world’s most dangerous road, but it was some fun and a fantastic way of seeing some of the incredibly scenery Bolivia has to offer!

Arriving back in La Paz, after a long day riding down the WMDR and then driving back up it, we had nothing left to do but check in for our 25 day tour, which will take us from La Paz, through the salt flats and mines of Bolivia, into the Brazilian Pantalan, to the infamous Iguassu falls and ultimately to the islands of the Brazilian Atlantic coast and Rio de Janeiro!  Plenty more adventures in store before its time to head home!

Star Gazing in San Pedro de Atacama

After a long overnight journey, which followed a sleepless night in Santiago, you would imagine, given my love of sleep, that i would have been tucked up in my bed nice and early and headed to the land of nod.

Not so.  In fact, our sole purpose for making the long trip north was to head out to the muddle of the night.  Why? Why else, to watch the stars.

Space Observations is a small company established by a French Astronomer and his wife, a tourism operator.  They spotted a niche in the market and ever since have been taking tourists out into the Atacama Desert to observe the stunning southern night sky.  The region’s impossibly clear skies coupled with the almost total lack of light pollution provide for a truly incredible experience.

Even with the naked eye, we could see the cloudy band which ran from the horizon in the north arching overhead and descending towards the southern horizon, our home – the milky way.

Alejandra and Alain explained to us how we might orient ourselves using the southern or indeed northern skies; why the viewing experience here in the Atacama desert is so different; why and which portions of the sky are shared between northern and southern hemispheres and which stars we can never hope to see back home at our lofty 53 degrees north.

They pointed out Alpha-centauri,  one of the brightest stars in the sky and our nearest neighbour, a mere 4.4 light years away.  Explaining the concept of this distance, Alain informed us, that if we had astronauts at alpha centauri and we wanted to communicate with them, we could send them a message, which travelling at the speed of light would take 4.4 years to reach him.  His response would take the same time to return, so we would know, 8.8 years after sending our initial message, that the astronaut was fine, alive and well 4.4 years ago!  He pointed out some equally bright stars and explained that the brightness does not necessarily relate to distance, with two equally bright stars being 26 light years and 3000 light years away!

We tried to familiarise ourselves with some well known constellations: the southern cross, the scorpion, the pointers and a few less obvious ones such as Aquarius and Pegasus, which required a greater degree of imagination tor some mind altering substance to observe.  We finished off the evening with a stunning climax – viewing this incredible tapestry of light through some powerful telescopes.  We could see clusters of stars which to the naked eye appeared to be a cloud.  Two stars, one red and one blue, which appear to be one without the telescope.  We saw the milky way, far off galaxies and supernova remnants.  The star of the show, ironically, not even a star, was one of our closest planetary neighbours, Jupiter with its moons and coloured bands.

A well earned night’s sleep followed and Saturday left us a free day before we boarded our bus to Arica – our final Chilean destination before we left for Bolivia. 

San Pedro de Atacama is a town thriving on tourism.  Every second shop is a tour operator and every other a gift or souvenir shop.  As you walk down the dusty streets, waiters try to lure you into their restaurants with their Latin charm.  I should have hated it. 

I loved it.

Its gorgeous, its welcoming, its colourful, its friendly.  About 3 blocks by four or five, it is a tiny place and yet we wandered contentedly for six or seven hours, browsing shops, taking photos, sipping cool drinks shaded from the desert heat.  I was sorry to be leaving so soon.  With a host of tours and activities on offer, it is not difficult to see why one might stay in this little oasis longer than originally planned.  As they say though, time waits for no one and unfortunately, we were no exception.  So as I write, I am sitting on the bus once again, for another overnight journey, heading for La Paz and the next leg of the journey.

Santiago to San Pedro de Atacama

South America is a big continent. I’m not stupid. I know this. And yet, the journey from Santiago to San Pedro de Atacama, a small, but booming town in the Atacama desert close to the northern border with Bolivia, surprised me – 23 and a half hours the scheduled duration. In actual fact, it was over 25 hours.

The thought of a Bus Eireann journey of this duration frightens the life out of me, not least for the fact that my final destination would probably be somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. Mainly however, its the uncomfortable seats, the lack of air conditioning in the summer and heat in winter, the total lack of any leg room, the poor suspension and the fact that very often, the buses are just plain smelly!

Chile may not be among the booming economies of the world, but boy do the Chileans know how to do long haul bus travel. We travelled with a company called Tur Bus, probably well known to anyone who has back packed in Chile. They offer 3 levels of comfort (Semi Cama, Cama and Premium). For premium, think BA first class air travel and you’re close enough. We, however, being on a budget opted for the Semi Cama version. We were provided with reclining seats, foot rests, fleece blankets (which provide a stunning light show after dark thanks to the static!), a pillow, 2 snacks throughout the journey and a constant stream of TV entertainment. I’ve now seen 27 Dresses, Hellboy and Tombraider 2, ok, so they were in Spanish, which I don’t speak, at all, but still, its the thought that counts! I can tell you this for sure though, 24 hours on a bus passes much faster with a few creature comforts.

Arriving at San Pedro de Atacama, the place looks uninspiring, the surrounding country side is bleak and desolate. The same scenery that the Atacama desert had provided since daybreak, some 9-10 hours previously. Scarcely a tree in sight, much less a cloud. With parts of the desert having recorded no rainfall in over 50 years, it is not surprising.

The hostel owner, Roberto, true to his word despite the hour and a half delay in our arrival is there to greet us and quickly shepherds us away from the crowd of hostel hawkers and into his waiting van and onwards to the hostel. Formalities completed, we check into our small but perfectly adequate room and ready ourselves to head into the town for some much needed sustenance.

Some fellow travellers offered useful advice on getting to town and where to go. We commenced the short walk into town and I was amused to see a stunning full sized artificial surface football pitch, this in the town which for the previous few hours has had no power or running water due to a power outage, and which on a good day only has power until midnight. It is somewhat reminiscent of the elaborate gold leafed temples and stupas in India and Thailand, where people have scarcely enough to eat and yet such wealth is so evident around them.

Having said that, San Pedro de Atacama is becoming a wealthy little town, due in no small part to the booming tourist trade there. A quick stroll through the town, (which is a revelation – in stunning spanish colonial style (or so I am told), it really does feel like you’ve stepped back in time, except for the multitudes of tourists wandering round with baseball caps, bum bags and town maps) reveals scores of tourist operators, each aiming to tempt the tourists to join them on a tour of the desert, the Valle de la Luna, the Geysers del Tatio and Salar de Atacama, the incredible salt lake. Today, we opt instead to book onto a tour with a company called Space Observations (www.spaceobs.com) for an opportunity to travel out into the desert, beyond the lights of town, to observe the southern skies. Chile’s and particularly the Atacama desert’s notoriously clear skies provide the perfect location for not just tourists like us, but budding and indeed highly qualified and recognised astronomers to observe what lies beyond our reach.

So tonight, we headed off. Leaving the hostel, wrapped up with many layers and armed with a torch which will hopefully take us to where we need to go and then back again. Who knows what awaits us!

Time Travelling

Phileas Fogg did it without even realising it. However, as I sit here in the hostel in a wet and miserable Santiago at 9.40pm, I am very, very well aware of the fact that I have just crossed the international dateline and in the process confused my poor old body clock beyond its mere mortal capabilities!

To summarise, we checked out of our hostel at 10am on Tuesday, went for a walk and a coffee about 11.30am and left for the airport about 1pm. Arriving at the airport and checking in, we hit the departure area about 2.30pm for a 4pm boarding. We then had a 10 hour flight with movies and I was lucky enough to have, somewhere in the vicinity of my seat, the esteemed presence of Captain Farts-a-lot for the entire journey – my eye mask proved an excellent nose mask! But, I digress, we arrived then, after 10 long, sleepless hours in Santiago shortly before 11am on Tuesday, just over 5 hours earlier than we left Auckland.

I made the fatal error of sleeping a little two long. My intended one hour nap morphed into a blissful 4 hours of comatose sleep and now I am paying the price. Schmo, however, has the gift. He may not sleep on planes, but by god, give him a bed and off he heads to the land of nod! I have that scratchy feeling in my eyes, I know they’re begging for sleep, but my little siesta means they’ll have to wait a little longer!

Eventually, I succumbed and fell fast asleep, waking to the smell of pancakes, the free breakfast provided by the hostel. Unfortunately, by the time I hauled myself into the shower and downstairs, there was no one around to give me mine, so I settled for toast.

A brief stroll around Santiago didn’t reveal a whole lot. To be fair, we didn’t venture all that far. We had a bus to organise for the next day and with jet lagged minds and bodies we had little in the way of enthusiasm to appreciate our first foray into South American culture.

Later that night, much, much later, I was cursing the solid sleep of the previous night. I lay awake till after 4am, silently begging the hostels water pump/heater to just turn off long enough for me to sleep, while my restless neighbour of the previous night snored softly! Not even the smell of the promised pancakes could rouse me the following morning and I eventually surfaced just about in time for the midday check out. As left Santiago, I felt we really hadn’t given it a chance. So, next stop, sleep or no sleep, I’m going to soak it all up!