Kika Duvet

Independent woman?

2007-08-19T10:46:00.000-07:00

Back in Sucre my visa was about to run out, at least that is what I thought. When I turned up I found out that it actually had run out and said the packed in, rather fierce police woman ‘I had to leave the country that same day.’ As luck would have it I somehow managed to get a sixty day extension without even having to pay. An error on their part, but one that saved me from getting the next flight over the border.

So here I am still, in Bolivia where I plan to be for a while longer. I really want to crack this freelancing thing because as difficult as it is… the dodgy phone lines, establishing yourself with people you have never met before in the UK or US… on this side it is easy and fascinating and tremendously rewarding. I have endless ideas and I am loving the experience. New places and people, things that make you feel like crying things that make you cringe.

I am getting drunk much less and am not really missing it. I am just not bored or around people I particularly want to get wasted with so I am not doing it. Clean living Kika. I have friends here but they are mainly the few journalists I like and respect and people that work for one organisation or another. There was one lovely French man I hung out with when it was kicking off in Sucre. He makes documentaries and shakes his head when he speaks English having spent too much time in India. Generally though I am on my own quite a lot, setting stories up, writing up notes, interviewing people, chasing up pitches and so on, taking it all in.

There is one friend mind you that I have been relying on and in some ways spending a fair amount of time with. He is someone that got in touch with me through facebook, and who I knew, not enough, about ten years ago. But he did the same thing as I am doing a while back, going away to Peru and setting himself up as a stringer, and despite the fact that we are very different, he just kind of gets me and he is a lovely lovely new friend.

It’s a very strange thing becoming friends with someone, essentially over email. But it has happened a fair bit since being away. It is as if the friends that know you well just kind of know you will be fine, and almost know what you are going through – give or take the details – because they know you. But there are others, people I knew but were not totally open with, who reading the blog and communicating over email start to reveal themselves more. And I am sure I do the same.

I spent a long while travelling with friends and I am now, about to be on my own again. And it’s funny but if you want to, cocooned in your little world of watching and writing I can actually be very quiet. I can actually go through the day without really having a conversation with anyone. Sometimes I like that. And sometimes it makes me feel incredibly lonely. And then something amazing happens or you meet someone wonderful and it’s all just fine.

I miss my friends. I miss easy conversation, where there is no need to win anyone over. I miss wine on a Tuesday with Sarah and Sarah or a hug off Therese at number 105. I miss creating scandal with the ladies when I go to London and Sunday afternoons under the duvet with the East London lovelies and Lee’s monkey suit humour. I miss my work friends too - having the piss ripped out of me. I miss my mums company in the kitchen, one of my most favourite places in the world, excepting my Abuelita’s cold stone balcony where I used to sit and draw. I miss my dad going on about politics, his face when he sees me for the first time in ages, like you would look at a smiling baby.

And then I miss basic silly stuff; like the radio and decent newspapers and breakfast news, as tripe as it can be, it reassures me that everything is ticking along in mundane normality. I miss British accents and British humour and I miss tuna steaks and a cup of tea.

What I don’t miss is, having to get up at the same time every day. I don’t miss twenty minute lunch breaks or soggy sandwiches from Tescos or Pret. I don’t miss grey skies or realising that three weeks have gone by and I can’t remember what I’ve done because I was doing the same thing every single day.

For all the highs and lows I have no regrets about this journey… still. I am constantly going to new places, not least in my head, and testing myself. My favourite fantasy is still coming through the Arrivals gate at Heathrow and seeing my mum and maybe (hint hint) a couple of girlfriends. But really, that just reminds me how lucky I am to have such brilliant people in my life.

The other sides to Bolivia

2007-08-19T10:45:00.001-07:00

Santa Cruz

I was headed to Santa Cruz, a region that is the size of Germany and the richest part of Bolivia. I had been here before but the visit was so brief that I didn’t really get to know the place or appreciate why everyone said it was so different to the rest of the country.

The peg for my visit was a military and campesino parade the next day. Because Santa Cruz is the right’s stronghold, and because of bad feeling between el Oxidente and el Oriente and because of something that happened fifty years ago where Indigenous mercenaries came and raped and killed and so on… there were predictions of violence.

Maybe I wasn’t prepared for the Cruzeños. On my first night two lads responded with shock when I told them that I had been in La Paz and Sucre and no one had hurt me. ‘In some parts of the Oxidente they would look at you and because you are white they would kill you!’ They told me I should be careful at the march because people from the Oriente were savages… and then proceeded to divulge how certain radical groups were arming themselves and preparing to defend Santa Cruz when the time comes.

Another comment I remember is a taxi driver turning to me shiftily after a rant about the terrible dictatorial politics of the MAS and how Santa Cruz should be autonomous if not independent and said ‘the thing is, the President is an Indian.’ That is for a lot of people, the real issue.

As it happened the march went off without any trouble at all. It was quite a moving display of Bolivia’s diversity, with polished, uniformed men kicking their legs high as they filed forwards, and humble campesinos in traditional dress plodding forward in front of thousands. Ant these Cruzeños were the ones you don’t see so much. They came from the rural areas and the poorer urban areas and had darker skin.

Morales and his government called it a victory and said it put the right in Santa Cruz to shame. Meanwhile the Cruzeños, most of whom had not attended the march and carried on with their normal working day, said it was evidence of how hospitable the region was and that they had won because they had not responded to the provocation.

I was struck then by how desperate the media is here, especially television. There is one channel that broadcasts as though the country was in revolutionary Utopia and there really is nothing to worry about at all. On the other five channels they talk about crisis and are we headed for civil war and show pictures of previous violent troubles in 2003 in particular. I was interviewed as an international journalist too, by a television reporter whose questions were do pointed I felt more like a diplomat than a journalist, ‘how do you view the crisis Morales faces? What have his major errors been? You have just been in Sucre, were you shocked by the violence?’ and so on. I found this frustrating. How was I, or anyone else meant to get an idea of what was going on without real news, I mean, with only propaganda to rely on?

A very nice, though undoubtedly right leaning economist was my guide in Santa Cruz. I interviewed a lot of the key people here, because they don’t like to talk on the phone as there conversations may be recorded by the Government. They have some genuine concerns about the way the country is being run, and doubtless Morales has been shortsighted in addressing his base support and neglecting to the point of excluding people that do not fit in to this group and in particular the middle class. But what I noticed is that they repeated the same arguments I had heard from the youths and the taxi driver and on the television, just in slightly more sophisticated terms. And I felt as though there was a degree of protectionism and selfishness about their arguments too, and a definite disdain for those of a darker skin tone who live in the highlands or rural low lands.

There is racism on both sides. I have heard people in the Oxidente talk about white ruling class and how they want to take all the wealth for themselves and so forth. These people really do not understand each other, and that is a problem in a country as diverse as Bolivia. There are 36 different Indigenous nationalities here, that have different customs and traditions. Then there are Mestizos and people of European ancestry, then there are the poor, the rich, the rural farmers, the tropical farmers, the highlanders, the Pacenos (people from la Paz) the Chucisaqeños (from Sucre) the Cambas (from Santa Cruz), the people who want more autonomy, the people who want revolution… I could go on. This country is divided and those divisions are not showing any signs of disappearing.

I feel frustrated sometimes about how people do not work together for the good of their country or their political movement. So for example there are members of the MAS in the Constituent Assembly supporting the Sucre campaign, even though their leader wants it left to one side to be worked out later. This is a developing country, and I guess politics and structures are still part of what is lacking and what will come in time.

The whole capital issue is just bizarre to me. When you ask people why they want the capital here they say, ‘because it should be ours and we will get more money and more work in the region’, and when I say ‘yes but wouldn’t you still have to pay for all the problems caused by moving from La Paz and wouldn’t that cost La Paz too’ they say ‘La Paz has had its turn. I can understand people wanting to decentralise, La Paz has perhaps had all of the power for too long. But moving the capital is like bulldozing a part of the same country and economy… I am not sure if I am explaining myself well, but what I means to say is that Bolivia is divided and everyone seems to be fighting for their piece of the cake without thinking of the bigger picture. How can a country as weak as Bolivia even begin to get stronger when its people are so busy fighting amongst themselves?

Last week Morales tried to force the Constituent Assembly to leave this issue to one side. In a vote the majority of MAS members decided the Capitalia was not an issue they were going to deal with. People are furious about the way the decision was taken and there have been mass demonstrations in Sucre, hunger strikes, tyres and dolls representing Morales burnt in the street. And when you hear the campaign protagonists they recite the same arguments as I heard in Santa Cruz, about how we must defend democracy and how Evo Morales is a dictator and so on. And there are the banners saying ‘Santa Cruz is with you Sucre’ or ‘Beni gives you its support.’

It is clear to me that this issue has been more or less planted by the right and is part of a strategy to block the Assembly and ultimately bring Morales and his government down. Maybe that is just the way politics works, but I am still struggling to understand why ordinary people support the campaign, and do not see that they are being manipulated. And I don’t mean to get annoyed, because I realise that as a journalist I must be independent, despite the directions people here try and pull me in. But it just seems to me there are much bigger problems in Bolivia and much more interesting things to criticise Morales about.

The weekend with Che

There was some relief though. Having had some interest from a Newspaper about a story relating to Che Guevara, I had contacted the Che Foundation and headed to Vallegrande where Che died, for the weekend. With me, was Chato Peredo, a former guerrilla fighter and the brother of Inti and Coco who fought directly with Che. I knew I would like him when, ten minutes into our three hour journey he put Harry Belafonte on. Chato made us stop for sweet biscuits, wore an old army jacket and asked me which George Orwell books I had read. I liked him a lot, a felt at home.

The weekend was inspiring. Chato had great stories to tell about being arrested and hunted down by the dictatorship, about his brothers and the few times he saw Che. And all over town locals had something to say, pictures in their homes, little alters. They sit mass for Che her, he is like a Saint and people believe he performs miracles. And I am not exaggerating when I say that you can definitely see Che’s face and distinctive hat in the hills near La Higuera, where he was assassinated.

In the hospital where his body was taken and washed there are now Cuban doctors working, as part of Cuban-Bolivian cooperation. The laundry room is full of graffiti that has been left there as an expression of the people. It is true too that in the photo taken in there, Che looks alive, or as locals say ‘like Christ.’ Whatever he was certainly a man with great ideas, courage and am I allowed to say this… good looks. I did have to check myself with all these pictures of him in the villages. ‘Think about the state of the world and Che’s legacy woman not what lovely eyes he had you superficial eeejut.’

Maybe that is where I have been going wrong in my love life… looking for Che who is a) dead and b) probably horrendously high maintenance. Stop now Kika, you are Chepheming.

The next chapter...

2007-08-19T10:42:00.000-07:00

Happy on my birthday

I spent the morning reading birthday messages (thank you) and talking to my mum on the phone, which nearly made me cry again until Matthews turned up with lovely presents and cake. We played a game that consisted of asking strangers what we should do next. The first directed us to a very lovely restaurant where I was treated to lunch. The second told us where to go for shopping, with great ice cream en route. The third told us where to go for a good coffee. We went out that night for food drink and then dare I say it ended up at Vivienne's. It was Dave’s last night and it was open late OK? And from now on, no more.

I was sorry to see Maz Matthews go but the lovely Diego complete with sweet tooth and DVD collection was a much needed landing pad, staying for three weeks in my little flat in La Paz.

When Matthews left it was the end of an era really, the back packing travelling era. Ever since then I have been a foreign journalist experiencing very different but equally brilliant adventures.

July in the capitals

I spent July getting ready to work and sorting myself out, pulling the stories I had already been working on together, researching new stories and giving Diego pep talks over red wine and chocolate.

There were a few big events mind you. A bit of drama over the lap top, which was eventually fixed and returned, after a bit of Kika kicking.

Then there was the march for the capital in La Paz. This is becoming one of the biggest issues for Morales and his government, threatening to scupper the work of the Constituent Assembly, which was formed to come up with a new constitution. Bolivia has two capitals at the moment.

The legislative seat and therefore official capital is Sucre. But the Government sits in La Paz. Sucre used to be the capital, and historically it has always had a claim, if such a thing exists, to the capital. But La Paz is where everything is based, the ministries, the NGOs, the Embassies, and all of the businesses and individuals who life off that.

I hope I am not over stepping the mark by saying it would simply not be possible to move everything to Sucre, not least because of the enormous cost. It would be like moving London to Edinburgh. And really, a lot of the people, involved in this campaign know that. The issue was planted as one for the Constituent Assembly to deal with, despite the fact that it is a hugely sensitive issue that once caused civil war in Bolivia. Remember too that the Constituent Assembly is not like Parliament, it is made up of almost ordinary people, chosen by their various political groups or social movements as representatives.

People in La Paz were (and are) seriously worried and so two million of them took to the streets. There were marches that felt different to the norm. You loose track of who is marching and for what, and actually people power can be a bit of a pain in the arse. The stoppages can paralyse the city or at least slow things down, and companies have moved to other cities because it is such a barrier to their everyday business. But on this occasion, the city was unified.

We walked a long way through La Paz to El Alto and wherever we went it felt the same, there was an atmosphere of togetherness. As we neared El Alto we hopped onto a truck, and stood like cattle in the back trying not to fall over. There must have been a hundred people up there, with Diego and me the only foreigners.

In El Alto the make up of the march was humbler than in the centre, with people spilling down from the hills and carrying banners. I talked to people about why they were demonstrating and the answer always related to their children and their work. In Sucre it’s a different story.

To Sucre

Sucre is where I am now, it having taken me two months to write this bloody update. I am staying at the house of a Dutch friend, Gert, who I got to know because of the laptop issue. I feel very lucky because the house is beautiful. It is colonial style with white walls and wooden staircase, that looks out onto an open court yard full of flowers, where I am now sitting at a wooden table, the sun on my back, eating sweet cucumber (a fruit they have here) and sipping yerba mate with a few coca leaves thrown in for good measure. Honestly I look like I should be writing a book on yoga or wholemeal sex or something.

I was really glad to get back to Sucre. It is a very manageable sized place and I quickly found out about a meeting of ten thousand indigenous campesinos a day after my arrival. It was then that I realised that this issue of the capitalia is serious.

All these people, chewing coca, dressed in what to me looked like traditional dress but to them is everyday garb, in a massive sports stadium, all there to defend the Assembly and the Constitution. ‘They want to destroy our President, our Assembly, our Constitution.’ People shouted from the stage. ‘After 500 years of marginalisation, abuse, of not being included they want to deny us again but we will not let them’.

It was good to meet them and hear them because after that the stage was dominated by Morales’ critics in Sucre. He arrived to mark Independence Day, looking much less relaxed than the last time I saw him. Here those fighting for the Capitalia wear leather jackets and sunglasses. They are more middle class and very oh but very well organised.

On Independence Day Morales asked that a banner be removed, a stupid mistake that resulted in a heavy hand police man hitting the person in question, who then made a run for it. The angry shouts got louder ‘we want the capital’ and ‘Evo is a dictator.’ They stood behind the barriers, some distance from where Morales was addressing the nation.

In the street a little television for the benefit of journalists, who were not allowed into the hall where Morales was speaking, crackled with the sound of him pleading for unity. I left early to catch a flight to Santa Cruz and on the radio, you could hear the people’s cries even as Morales spoke.

Ayahuasca and other adventures with Maz Matthews

2007-08-19T10:39:00.000-07:00

Green gold

By this time Maz and I were in need of some r and r so we headed to the Yungas. Most gringos only visit the Yungas and Corocio by accident. They either pass through there on the long bus ride to the Rurrenabaque and the Amazon or they take the death road bike trip, which leads to Coroico and then go directly back to La Paz.

You may have seen pictures of the Death Road or, as others call it, the world’s most Dangerous Road, trucks falling off the side, cars in near misses and such like. Actually it is officially the most dangerous road in the world, and hundreds of people have died travelling along it. Until recently Paceños wouldn’t go to Coroico because the journey was so perilous… It is literally like a knife edge. Apparently you descend some, not sure how many but a few thousand metres, at a speed that you can hardly control, and there is nothing, no barrier, no sloping hill, nada to stop you from plunging into the pit of the valley alone.

Last November they opened a new road, so the most dangerous road isn’t as dangerous as it was. But you still won’t catch me on it in a hurry... I guess I am just not an adrenalin junkie. I like sitting on the bus, watching the view unravel outside. Maybe listening to music; maybe just listening to the sounds of other people’s chatter.

But actually this journey wasn’t quite so romantic. Matthews and I managed to get onto a little white heaving micro bus and aside from it breaking down and me getting bitten by more sand flies, we were sharing a three man seat, made for midgets (and Matthew is over six foot tall) with a man, his weepy eye, his little girl and a chicken.

It was worth it though. The Yungas is a very well kept secret and one of the most beautiful and fascinating places I have visited. We were lazy this time around, but later I came back again for a music festival and to write a travel piece. Something had caught my imagination the first time around; the gaping valley, so lush and green, with beautiful, undeveloped walks, and wild flowers and birds.

When you examine the hills you see coca fields spread out like a patchwork. The locals are quick to tell you that this coca is not used to make cocaine. The Yungas is a traditional coca growing region, since the time of the Incas. So this is not like the Chapare region in Bolivia where there was a mass eradication programme some years ago, which by the way did not achieve any reduction in the amount of cocaine produced but did see many people impoverished and displaced.

Now some of the (US) NGOs working in the area say that over production of coca is damaging the environment. I guess that over production of anything would have that affect, but in general terms, when it comes to coca, I think the world has got it badly wrong.

That’s a pretty big statement. And maybe I am in no position to speak about this, I know I will sound like a hypocrite, but the whole coca issue has really caught me.

I knew very little about the coca leaf before I came to Bolivia. I guess I knew it alleviated altitude sickness if taken in tea or chewed. But the coca leaf is so much more.

This powerful leaf is a friend to Indigenous people in the Andes. It has medicinal, nutritional and spiritual significance.

It relieves hunger and exhaustion and helps the brain absorb oxygen so helping you think more clearly. It has been used to help ease rheumatism, muscular pains, nervousness, asthma, blood pressure, prostate troubles, warts, dandruff… the list goes on. It is currency in business, as means to welcoming people and showing friendship. More than this it is sacred, used in rituals, celebrations and ceremonies. It represents reciprocity and a connection with the pachamama, one woman told me, when you chew coca you are never alone, you are always connected with the mother earth.

There is a legend in Amayra tradition that says the coca leaf was discovered when Khun, g-d of lightening, thunder and snow, angry at people because of their lack of respect, for their home near Lake Titicaca, banished them to a nomadic life, hiding their return route. To survive they ate forest plants and that is how they discovered the coca bush. Chewing on the coca leaf, their hunger and tiredness disappeared and they managed to find their way home.

Coca is definitely not cocaine. No one has ever died from chewing the coca leaf. In its natural form coca makes you strong and for Bolivia’s poor it is a means of survival.

But what do the clever civilised democratic Westerners do? We take it, in huge quantities, extract the alkaloids that make cocaine cocaine, mix it with 41 other chemicals which include things like petrol, and sell it by the gram so it can be snorted off toilet seats or smoked through cans. At best it leaves you smiling inanely, talking shit and staying in bed on Sunday. At worst it robs every bit of nutrition and motivation from your being, leaves you paranoid and lonely.

We turned something that is sacred and gives life into meaningless poison. And I don’t mean to sound like a sanctimonious dick head, this is just what my thinking has come to, I am not judging anyone or anything.

Obviously, most of the coca grown in Bolivia is not for traditional uses. It is mainly for the drugs trade. Bolivia wants coca taken off the UNs list of controlled substances so that they can sell the teas and coca products to other parts of the world. At the moment though that looks unlikely, and Bolivia is likely to be punished for Europe and America’s habit.

Sorry, I got a little caught up in that there. But anyhow, they do grow a lot of coca in the Yungas as well as mandarins, bananas and avocados.

The first time round we were pretty lazy, just doing a couple of treks and sitting and readying by the pool, which looked out onto this amazing view. Second time around I was alone so ended up doing much more. I visited a animal refuge where a very alpha cappuccino monkey had gotten free and was terrorising the other animals. There was also a poor macaw there, with no mate and few feathers owing to anxiety. Bless. I ate in kitchens and large dining halls with the rabble, plates of tender chicken and rice with banana in place of bread and a passion fruit juice to wash it down. Those set lunches tend to cost less than fifty pence, and so far I have had no complaints whatsoever in terms of things repeating… and all that after being warned not to eat salad here because it is cultivated in human…. Err need I say more? I doubt that’s true. Everyone I have spoken to says they were warned about Bolivian food and haven’t had a bad meal yet.

Tewanaku

When we got back to La Paz from Coroico I went to meet lovely Dave Ford who happened to be in town. You have to give this bundle of love credit. He is all American and completely breaking the mould, a much bigger feat for an American than a European, only 16 per cent of US citizens have passports I think.

We had an intense couple of beers in which he almost convinced me to take part in, as oppose to just writing about the ayahuasca ceremony he was going to in a couple of days.

Still undecided I went back to meet Matthews and head to Tewanku for the Aymara New Year. We wrapped up warm (woolly tights and three jumpers warm), brought whiskey and got on the bus.

When we arrived the village streets were full of people and fires burning. We danced and drunk under the stars and I kissed an Italian who looked a bit like Che Guevara. Or at least he had the same hat. Then we watched people lift their hands to the sun as it rose and dance to welcome the New Year in. We ate spicy sausages from the street and came home smelling of smoke and booze.

Ayahyasca

We had it must be said, drank a lot. And for a moment that was a good enough reason for us to decide not to take part in the Ayahuasca ceremony, but that didn’t last long.

Having been a cynical old cow, something was pulling me into this Ayahuasca ceremony. Partly it was Dave Ford telling me all about it, someone I really like and respect you know. Partly it was because I wanted to write about it and partly it was my own curiosity and an inexplicable urge to get closer to Ayahuasca.

I will never forget the journey to the Alkamari retreat. We really didn’t know where we were going; just that it was somewhere near the mountains just out of La Paz. And then fairly suddenly I just absolutely knew I was taking part. I turned to Matthews and said; ‘I am going to do it. I’m going to do the ceremony’. He looked at me, fear pulling the colour from his face and said, ‘OK’. It was a slow OK, the kind that means ‘I guess I am too, and I am petrified but I’m with you.’

The taxi got lost on the way to Alkamari, and I was impatient. I just wanted to get there. And then we were there, looking out on these arched buildings, almost in the middle of nowhere, with the backdrop of Illimaini, the mountain that I later found out symbolises strength.

Inside there were sweet wooden bunk beds and coloured blankets over neatly made beds. Big tall welcoming Dave Ford greeted us and introduced us to other people. All the same I spotted Matthews and his angst; All coiled up, standing outside and smoking, like a tormented film star. I think I have said it before, but he has a habit of looking like he has been plucked out of a magazine, even when he is shitting himself.

Tim, the Shaman or rather healer as he prefers to be described (you only get to be a shaman when you are super wise and experienced and about a hundred and ten) was preoccupied organising things, and he looked delighted and unsurprised at my decision.

I thought I would have more time to suss the whole thing out but before I could really get my bearings we were being told to dress warm and bring blankets and pillows. Some were typical backpacker types from Australia, others were Bolivians. There was a lot of deep breathing. Everyone was a little tense.

We trudged out of the main retreat over the grass, wrapped in our blankets and carrying our torches towards the hut like building where the ceremony was taking place.

The hut was dark and felt kind of remote and mystical, a bit like a cave. Inside the bench curved around the walls of the room and a fire burnt, making it smoky. I sat down and looked around, cynical preconceptions darting through my mind. It looked like a cult with these strange ornaments and objects and instruments in the middle of the room. And the candles. All these candles. Take it all in, I thought to myself. You don’t know what you are going to write but I am sure it is all good material.

And then I turned to the man sitting next to me, a tall well built alpha type. He had just had a massage. When I asked why, he said he had been at work all day and needed to relax. Where had he been working? Oh the embassy. ‘The em-ba-ssy is here’ I repeated in an I would raise my eyebrow if I could kind of way. To which he responded, I am here as a person. And that was my turning point; I was there as a person really too.

There were things I deeply wanted to understand, things I wanted to get through. If Dave Ford rated this guy, and so did all of these other nice looking people, maybe I should too. So I put my faith in Tim and in Ayahuasca and prayed that I ayahuasca would be good to me.

Below our feet there were plastic bowls or half bottles, intended for us to be sick in. Tim explained that some people would have an elated ecstatic experience, others might have quite a hard time both physically and mentally, they might reach a sort of hell and either come through to a better experience or not. And some would feel nothing. He said the medicine, ayahuasca, would decide.

We were told it was an idea to have a question in mind for ayahuasca, and I had a couple. Whatever happened, he said, there was no leaving. You just had to sit through it. If you needed the toilet you should go quickly and come back and try not to disturb people. He said it was important that we tried not to make too much noise as others would be very conscious of it but that at certain points people might want to laugh or cry or sing, and we should just get that over with naturally. He said we were here to work. Ayahuasca he told us is a powerful medicine, made from a vine and plants. But no one had ever died from taking it and he would guide us with music and tobacco and perfume.

His voice was so strange and yet so soft. He rolled his rs and sounded like a pigeon cooing. There was the tiniest hint of fear too, as if he was somehow humble in front of this powerful medicine. There was only a faint sound of the wind and outside and our quiet apprehension.

As I went up to drink a first cup my mind was still in overdrive; there was still a little voice saying ‘mate this is weird! Mate, basically you are going to sit here with a bunch of strangers, throwing up and tripping your nuts off.

Ayahuasca tasted acidic, like wine that had been fermented with herbal tea and gravel. Tim had said that some people would be affected within fifteen minutes, and that for others it would take longer. I think I started to feel the effects within the first few minutes. It almost makes me tingle just thinking about it.

As it began to affect me I could feel the fear in me swelling. This, I now understand is normal. My head felt heavy and I closed my eyes. All I saw was swirling colours in black and pushes of red and a rush of happiness.

Part of me was terrified, that feeling of becoming out of control and wanting it to stop. Normally it makes me take some clothes off and crash in a corner somewhere. Here too I was physically uncomfortable, hot and then shivering, sighing and then breathless. I couldn’t get comfortable because I was fighting it.

I saw swirling colours and heard music in the background, strange enchanting alien music. To put it bluntly I was completely out of it, and I was well aware of it. But I was still battling to keep control; and part of that related to my bladder. I needed the toilet badly. The room was dark with music and the sound of some people retching others moaning. Could I make it outside? Maybe the fresh air would do me goof. But the whole experience was far more difficult than I had expected.

Outside everything was alive; the grass, the wind, don’t even talk to me about the stars. I started to move towards the toilets and every step was a thousand layers of echo. I couldn’t make out where the toilet was and outside I felt, like the enormity of everything, like never before. There was to be no peeing for Kika. It just was not something I was able to accommodate.

I headed back to the hut, stumbling and accidentally flashing the light at people as I went. I honestly do not think I would have found my seat had it not been for the Embassy man next to me, let’s call him H, who was for some reason up and was able to gently guide me back to my seat like a friendly bear. At that point, I had no doubt who was in charge. It was not me, it was clearly ayahuasca.

Ever the geek, I sat back, my head flopping to one side and said in a little voice in my head, ‘Ok Ayahuasca, I get it. You call the shots here. But I really can not manage to go to the toilet and I do not want to piss myself. So please can we make a deal, I will go all out tomorrow, and as much as I can tonight, but please let me keep control of my bladder.’ You will be pleased to hear that Ayahuasca seemed to honour our agreement.

What happened next was simply exquisite. First, I was a little sick, which came as a massive relief. After that I was in some sort of a coma, just letting whatever thoughts and images come into my mind come and go. I saw a lot of patterns and shapes. And I saw faces. In particular I saw the face of a person I had wanted to get over for a long time. And I kept hearing, it doesn’t matter and the voice of my Abuelita, so clear it was as if she was there soothing me.

What I experienced is really hard to explain. All I know is that it felt like I went deep into the core of my being, right to the truth and to the part of me that knows but is so often quiet in the face of uncertainty and insecurity. And I made sense of a whole lot of things. As the experience came to an end what I remember most is this beautiful sense of being well and happy in myself.

I treasured the music; it was so helpful to me. Tim played all sorts of instruments, some sort of a harp, a flute, drums I think. And he sang, each note feeling like a precious gift. He moved around us, singing and blowing tobacco and perfume at us through his mouth and hands I think, so that it felt like rain. With ayahuasca you become ultra sensitive and so the scent of lavender or the warmth of tobacco (also a very mystical plant) can be very powerful. I sighed a lot. I know that much because H told me later that, at one point he had to check himself and then decided the sound effects were quite pleasant really!

The other thing I remember is feeling very grateful towards Tim. He felt like a shepherd, making us safe, guiding us, and working like a bastard. It is hard work all that blowing and singing, it made him a bit sick at times… imagine perfume in your mouth and tobacco… There were twenty of us too, all very different ranging from the embassy man to someone that worked for Microsoft, to a healer and a student and three guys who had just left the navy. I felt huge admiration, respect and affection for Tim.

You know as the experience is coming to an end. You know because you start to wake up from your coma, as if from a magical dream in which you were really alive. It felt warm and as though we had all come through. I am aware that all this sounds hippie dippie but you know me… first one to be cynical about something like this, but it really was something else.

There were some hugs and some exchanges about what people had been through and we headed back to the lodge. A couple of people had felt absolutely nothing despite taking three cups. Others had had really intense experiences, having as Tim said, done the mental work of years in just a few hours.

I felt truly happy and relaxed and most of all I felt the relief of something, or someone having left me. Quite amazing but the whole truth is that that person, whose heart I broke, who hurt me back, who made me sad and angry and obsessive, with whom I made a mess, was gone. The hurt that was so painful and addictive and hard to let go of had disappeared, like a switch being turned off. And it has not been turned on again since.

Still hallucinating, I could not sleep. In the morning another new experience, the sweat lodge at dawn.
In bikinis and towels we headed towards where the hut was and stripped by a fire. I had no idea what would happen next. We entered a sort of tent with hot rocks in the middle, like a sort of outdoor sauna. All twenty of us were squashed in there, sweaty leg against sweaty arm. Oils, at least I think they were oils, were used, and I smelt banana and coconut and aruda. The rocks kept coming and the steam grew thicker. Tim recited thanks to the pachamama and we all gave thanks… I know it sounds cultish now but really it wasn’t and what I liked was that whatever Tim said seemed to go along with the basic philosophy of being a good human being. So it didn’t matter that there was someone there who was Christian and me Jewish and someone else who was atheist and a Bolivian healer and so on… it was all just very human.

When we came out we lay on the grass, the sun now having come up, and I felt cleansed. Cold water was tipped on us and there was hot cinnamon tea and then breakfast.

I had not slept and had eaten and drunk very little, but I wasn’t finished. Having been unsure of whether I would even stay for one ceremony I was now getting ready to go on a six hour hike and had agreed with Matthews that we would stay for the whole four day retreat, and do a second ceremony.

Some people left after breakfast and before the hike. The remainders were the people I would get to know well and who, without exception, I have a lot of love for. There was of course Dave Ford, Maz, H and me, who you already know, plus Diego, the lovely American dred lock jungle guide and fairly devout Christian (I say that only because I love all those contradictions and they are what make Diego Diego… as well as the way he says exact -tly), and then Mel the lovely smily American flower child, and Julian the Brit from Torquee, who had helped and sung beautifully in the ceremony and is on the way to being a Shaman or healer as well.

I know ayahuasca is not a drug because somehow I had the energy and the clarity to do that hike, and believe me it was tough going. We were climbing all the time at high altitude, and I felt unsteady with Julian helping me along. We were going to a very spiritual part of the mountain, from where you could see all of La Paz, to make an offering. When we got there I sat at the top for a while. I do not know what made me stay there, as the rest went a little way down and sat on a flat rock. But I stayed there for a few minutes and just let the tears roll down my cheeks; once more, just so glad to be alive.

At the start of the second ceremony, I still felt scared, though less uncomfortable. H was extremely sick and at one point I had to break the rules and just pat him on the back. I don’t know why but it just felt like he needed it.

I remember the so many colours at first and then frustration. Come on I kept saying to myself, I want to have another intenmazing experience. It was only when I stopped fighting and trying to control it that things really started to happen.

This time it was less hard work. Pure loveliness. I saw Che Guevara’s face and a lion. I felt my tummy and how warm it was and had a sense of how I need to take better care of myself. Best of all I saw my friends. What I wanted to know this time related to all the ‘am I doing the right thing? Will I be ok? Can I make it? Questions. What I saw was the belief in my friend’s eyes, Rachel and Sian and Amy and Claire and Sarah and all sorts of people smiling with me or laughing and saying of course you will be OK. And I saw my dad showing off about me in the pub with his friends, and admitting he worried, but being happy and proud that his daughter was and is living life. And I saw my mum with her lovely warm wise eyes saying ‘you know I think you’re the bolocks Lo’. Lots of things… things I will not bore you with and that I can not do justice to. All I know is that Ayahuasca brings you to your subconscious truth and makes you feel that truth in all of its profundity, at that moment and beyond.

People’s experiences were very different. On the first night one girl had spent the whole time riding on the dog from the never ending story and playing in a Nintendo game. Someone else had seen a winged angel towering over him, someone else had seen G-d.

I still feel so grateful to Tim for the two ceremonies and for what he taught me and showed me, maybe without realising it. He is by the way coming to England, looking for people who are interested in the work he does and for places to stay while he is visiting. So if you want to meet this wonderful man… you now have the chance.

All this happened just days before my birthday, so it was doubly fantastic; I felt very happy and sorted and also had met a whole bunch of people I was really happy to be around on the big day.

Good friends and bitchin' flies

2007-08-19T10:36:00.000-07:00

To the jungle

With our fortunes told and our lungs in need of some fresh air we headed to Rurrenabaque, aboard a little plane that looked like it had been put together with sticky tape. I felt nervous taking off from such a height but I soon got lost in the view. We passed the dusty brown planes of the pampas, came frighteningly close to snow capped mountains and saw lush green jungle in the distance. But when we stepped off the plane, it was proper warm air that greeted us.

Once a sleepy little village, Rurranabaque has been waking up to tourism and is now a jumping point for tours and trips, with companies promising monkeys and anacondas to try and win the tourists over.

First we were heading to Chalalan Eco lodge in the jungle. A friend of mine had recommended this place and it is international renowned for being beautiful and ethical; run and owned by the local Quechua Tacana community. Second, we were going to look up a Shaman that Dave Ford does earth (the American I met when my computer was assaulted in Sucre) had put me in touch with. We had heard from Dave, Susana and Ken about Ayahuasca, a jungle medicine used in shamanistic ceremonies to help people deal with their demons and let’s face it… we all have our demons right? Having read up about ayahuasca, we knew that the experience would be intense. Most people vomit and hallucinate and come to face to face with their insecurities. It has been used in treating people with addiction and mental health problems… though I am still waiting to hear what my dad has to say about it (he being a shrink as oppose to someone with mental health problems).

Like the rest I was prepared to put my life, or at least my mental health, in the hands of this Shaman for a few hours in an effort to be better. What I hadn’t realised was that I still had my cynical, defensive armour on, so when we arrived at the office, to see a short queue of tourists and be told that there had been an… err double booking with some evangelical Christians; I got a face on.

When you decide to experiment with something that is as far from your day to day reality as shamanistic rituals and ayahuasca, I guess being a bit distrustful is natural right? Or maybe I was just a judgemental bitch, but when I saw the tourists and listened to the two staff members, who were younger than me (how very dare they) and heard that they had double booked my mental well being (I am such a dick)… well I went into moody, cynical overdrive.

Maz and I headed back to the others and pronounced the whole thing a waste of time, clearly a tourist trap, bunch of jokers, disgrace to the pachamama. It was made worse when we saw the girl who had broken the double booking news to us and the shaman at the airport. He, Belgian, 25, with sun glasses too big for his face and a sort of floppy rock star hair cut, had been meant to perform our ceremony? Hah! A lucky escape I considered arrogantly.

I feel embarrassed owning up to all this now because that man, Tim, is one of the most astonishingly talented, gentle, brilliant people I have ever met. It is thanks only to journalistic curiosity - I still wanted to write about this ayahuasca thing - that I exchanged numbers with him and ended up on a retreat with him later.

Chalalan Eco Lodge

In a little wooden boat we headed up stream with our guide, Sergio, a well mannered local who spoke today’s version of ‘learnt it from a book’ English, in other words he had learnt it from a CD.

Along the banks we searched for signs of life. There are jaguar, puma, monkeys, tapier, wild pigs, macaws here but they’re all very good at not being seen. The water was a thick blue, rippling as our boat ploughed through the occasional rapids. All the way, Sergio feeding me inspiration, for a story on trouble in the jungle.

Madidi National Park is truly beautiful and at Chalalan they’ve got a very good thing going. The lodge was set up by the community of San Jose de Uchupiamonas, who have exchanged hunting and logging for sustainable tourism with the help of Conservation International. The village has benefited; some more than others maybe, and the lodge, which charges almost European prices, is turning over a very healthy profit.

National parks have always been controversial in Bolivia with many poorer farmers and people from the highlands questioning how much they benefit ordinary Bolivians. What they see is land that could be used for agriculture, and natural resources that haven’t yet been exploited.

As travellers, Chalalan probably wasn’t suited to us. We were greeted after nature trails with fresh papaya juice on a silver tray and ate three course meals at long tables in somewhat uncomfortable calm. But we did witness a tarantula on a night walk, swinging squirrel monkeys, the golden palace titi monkey, (named after a Canadian casino, whose owner bought the naming rights at a charity auction huh), macaws, butterflies and a baby Cayman in the reeds in the lake.

We visited Sergio’s village too, where people played music, cooked and danced for our enjoyment. At first I think we all felt a bit uncomfortable, but we saw it came from their interest in us and a desire to win our support in their fight to keep the park safe.

Sometimes as a tourist you want an organic experience but actually what you do is put expectations on realities without appreciating them for what they are…. Just like the shaman, who I had expected to be dark skinned with a long beard, people in this village wore jeans and were unsure why their day to day life was of interest to us. But it was a really interesting experience, people were very kind and it felt like a long way from anywhere I knew before.

I felt really relaxed at Chalalan. What I loved most was the noses of jungle frogs, so tiny but so loud and the roaring bark of the red howler monkeys as well as the flapping sounds of birds in the trees.

The Pampas

Luxury as we were to find out is a sweet complaint compared to the squalor of our pampas tour. We left direct for the pampas in a van that broke down three times along the dusty road. A journey that should have taken three hours took seven. Still this meant we travelled to the lodge in a little dugout canoe as the sun set; dream like.

At the so called lodge, mosquito nets were tatty and tinged with graffiti and dead bugs and a mouse ran across one of the nets, when we came back after supper. But then, maybe that’s how it should be in the jungle right?

We headed out the next morning with our guide, a man somehow gangster like, who showed little regard for the environment and a total lack of enthusiasm when we asked about what we were seeing. He was quite the opposite of diligent little Sergio, but his job was much easier; you couldn’t miss the wildlife here.

We swam with pink dolphins in Parana infested waters which we later tried to catch on spikes (I failed predictably; too impatient), came within inches of a cayman , fed squirrel monkeys banana, spotted turtles and perching toucans and even stopped for beer.

Dirty, smelly and half drunk, we headed back to Rurrenabaque. I haven’t mentioned them yet, but by this point the sand fly bites I’d acquired whilst crossing a river a few days before, at Madidi, were becoming intolerably itchy. I literally pulled up my trousers to cross the river and swarms of these tiny harmless looking bastard things attacked my legs and arms. I didn’t notice at first. Initially they come up as tiny blood red pricks. But later they began to swell and ooze nastiness. They looked like big red sores; I tried to count them and stopped after sixty. The worst thing about them is that they just don’t stop itching.

Disbanded

We returned to La Paz perhaps with heavy hearts. We probably had started to annoy each other by this stage, but still we had all become very close and were about to part company. Precious pretty P was going home to London after almost three months travelling with me. Roller disco had a fierce schedule to keep up with if she was going to make it to Costa Rica in time, and the Spaniard was headed for Colombia. Maz Matthews had decided to stay another week for my birthday (bless him).

It felt quite strange when we woke up, obviously after a heavy night again, and found they were gone.

This is La Paz

2007-08-19T10:31:00.000-07:00

Life at the time of writing

The sun has been shining in La Paz today but it’s freezing cold. July is the coldest month in La Paz but a taxi driver told me it gets warmer from here on in and today I believe him.

There is a Peruvian festival in the main square near to where I live in Soppocachi. Three over excited men, the same ones as in the salsa club last night, were jostling on stage and singing when I was down there. I was meant to be settling down to write my blog in an internet café, but the sun shined beckoned so I sat eating sea food listening to wrinkly Bolivian ladies slag off the Argentines and thinking how I’d be on the grass drinking beer if one of my girlfriends was here.

I rejected an offer to have my shoes shined by a street kid in a balaclava; I was after all wearing walking hiking boots (as usual yes I am a geek, but seriously I fly in those boots). Up the hill towards home, feeling like the air was getting thinner and the oxygen being pulled out of my being, like I was climbing a staircase. I passed the woman selling mandarins and avocados on the street, navigated five locks and finally I was home. (It feels strange saying home… this is a temporary home. But anywhere I lay my head for more than a few days is home.)

Is that what daily life is like for me at the moment? Kind of. It changes from day today. July has been a month of slumber and sorting, but don’t worry I am not going to recite my list of things to do. There is plenty to tell.

I am renting a little apartment for two hundred and twenty dollars a month. That’s pricey for La Paz but I’m paying for the neighbourhood. Soppocachi is central without having that dirty Soho feel that other parts of central La Paz have. It isn’t the posh part of the town, but it is kind of bohemian European… I mean you can buy dried mango here you know?

Rich people live in la Zona Sur; the southernmost and lowest part of La Paz where the climate is warmer and the altitude doesn’t kick your ass as much. Poor people live in El Alto, once a shantytown looking down on the great canyon that is La Paz’s, it is now Bolivia’s fastest growing city. It’s so high that when we first visited Pretty P could actually feel her self getting increasingly sick as we climbed to the top.

Peace in La Paz

I haven’t suffered too badly with altitude sickness. At first I sucked on coca sweets and drank a lot of coca tea. This is recommended by everyone and anyone, including the US embassy (despite their government’s anti coca policies). And it really helps, just a few leaves in your mouth with a little dried banana or bicarbonate of soda or some other stuff that tastes like sweet chalk.

Altitude sickness, if you get it bad, gives you nose bleeds, sickness, feverishness and commonly you feel like your head is about to explode. You feel emotional, disorientated, can’t think straight whilst at the same time having very little energy.

I didn’t suffer too badly with the altitude but I still felt rather alarmed by La Paz, at first. It is a surreal barmy relentless place, like nowhere on earth. For ages, my mum’s been asking me ‘is it foreign?’ For the first time I can respond with a resounding yes in La Paz, it feels like you’ve landed on the moon; The grey, blue haze, the smell of incense and smoke and the people who like they are from another time on another planet.

At night the lights of all the little houses and buildings look like jewels studded into the side of the mountain. It feels like the wild overgrown garden of a totally mad, fascinating, clever woman; full of trash and treasure. It is captivating, eerie and exhausting.

From dawn you see traders in the street, women sitting in aprons, their long plats draping in front of them, or younger girls in puffer jackets behind their stalls. They sell fruit, nuts and beans, potatoes, raw meat, plastic dinosaurs, stockings, party decorations, little pastry parcel snacks, lipsticks, hair clips, batteries… anything and everything, sold anywhere. And then there are the big markets, where you find streets of kitchen wear, or electrical goods, or coats or trainers.

The La Paz life happens on the street. People are closed here, more quiet, something to do with Aymara culture maybe or a distrust of strangers. But they still change nappies, sleep, piss, eat (with tin plates and knives and forks), kiss and make up and even shower in the street (OK I have only seen that once, but it made an impression since he was starkers).

I guess a lot of this is because people don’t have much money here, so you change your baby in the street or piss there because you have no other choice than to be at work, and there is no childminder or kindergarten.

Having to climb so much in La Paz, did I mention it is the highest capital in the world? You notice the smells; raw meat, mandarins, incense, corn and sometimes but only sometimes delicious fresh bread and cakes. Buses chuck out thick plumes of grey smog from their flagging exhaust pipes. Pass one of these as you’re trudging up hill and it’s choking.

You get used to seeing the traditionally dressed Cholitas, bowler hats, layered skirts, long hair, and nutty wrinkled skin. Some have poor teeth, the richer women gold teeth. Some are poor and others carry briefcases, in Evo Morales’ Bolivia you’d expect that right? I love watching them run with all their layers of skirt and sturdy bodies, perhaps chasing after a bus or crossing the road ahead of an oncoming taxi. They’ll wave a hand and appear to be bobbing and waddling, like spinning tops coming to a halt. Someone should devote a cartoon to them… Super Chola, I can see it now.

And then there are the shoe shiners, like the one I mentioned above. When I asked my paceño (La Paz) friend, Rafael, why they hid their faces, he said mostly it is because they are ashamed. Sometimes it is because of the scars on their faces. Another friend told me that some say it is their rejection of a world that rejects them; exclusion is met with exclusion. Mostly they are kids of between ten and fifteen. They hang out in groups, hunched but ready to run at any moment.

I was surprised at how little begging there is in La Paz. I have been to richer countries where you are constantly hustled and hassled. Not here. Maybe the Bolivians are too proud, or poverty is found more in rural no-mans lands. Those who beg are often old men and women, who, with outstretched hand make a wailing moaning plea for ‘un peso’. Then there are the mothers who sit with their ragged, sometimes barefoot children, with snotty noses and dirty faces, asking for change by the cash points.

Then there is the witches market, where you can buy love potions, cacti, and burnt offerings for the Pachamama (mother earth). There are little jars with symbolic charms and shells inside, llama foetus, skulls, clay animals and ornaments all of which are supposed to bring luck or fortune or cure illness and broken hearts. P bought me a couple of charms for luck on my travels and in particular to try and bring about better laptop days, though the woman, with her apron and missing teeth, looked puzzled when I asked for a charm that would make my computer better.

Gran Poder

Despite having very little, people here spend a lot on their festival regalia. We were in La Paz for the city’s biggest festival, Gran Poder. It began at eight AM and ended at about eleven, with the audience drunk and those in the parade now wearing trainers and chewing coca to stay awake.

When I first woke I looked out of the women and saw a stream of women in layered pink frilly skirts and bowler hats twirling down the road. They looked like escaped cake decorations.

We found our seats and watched as long legged women in short skirts, drag queen boots and head dresses clicked their hips left right, smiling at their audience like real life manikins. There were men in masks, and feathered head dresses, roomy silk trousers and embroidered waistcoats. The older women flashed their layered skits and smiled as the crowds clapped and threw confetti. All the costumes are hand made and symbolic. Some in the parade were meant to represent the Spanish, and how ugly they became, suffering altitude. They didn’t chew so much coca those Spaniards, they thought it was a beastly habit. Other costumes symbolised great Aymara heroes or the enslaved.

Bolivians are very proud of their traditions and heritage. I have had a few conversations with people trying to figure out why this is. Maybe when you are from a nation that has been so badly treated by other nations; the Spanish, the Chileans, the Peruvians, the US… and Bolivia’s own historical line of corrupt leaders, you hold onto what you can trust. What is yours and can neither be understood nor stolen.

Ken, Susana and the walrus

By the end, and don’t get me wrong it was awesome, I was ready for a change of scenery. We had gotten talking to people sat near to us, who included a Spanish woman called Susana and her Bristol boyfriend, Ken (a most unlikely Ken ever). They joined our merry band as did a less welcome drunk welsh man complete with a chip factory on his shoulder. We ended up calling him the walrus because of his peculiar circus conductor moustache.

P, Maz, Roller Disco, David and our new friends are all very good open types, but this guy just seemed intent on trying to offend, which in my case meant coming onto me in a very aggressive and persistent way. When we got back from our night out, and I feigned tiredness and went off to bed with (gay) Maz, I had an unwelcome surprise.

Three knocks at the door, in the darkness I inched forward to identify the visitor and met the gaze of the walrus. ‘If there’s no chance of sex with you, how about a threesome?’ he said to my utter disbelief. ‘Are you mad? I’m going to sleep’ was all I could muster.

We did have a fun night though, going from an overpriced deserted guide book bar to the seediest pit I have ever had the misfortune to enter. Apparently we hit Vivienne’s too early. The tourists and twisters get there after four when, by law the rest of La Paz’s clubs clear out. How it manages to stay open… the stuff that goes on there… I do not know. The cover is that it is a strip joint, though I would pay for the people in there to keep their clothes on not take them off.

Vivianne herself looks like a horror story. Whatever she’s on it seems to have eaten away at every bit of nutrition and goodness to leave a rotting sagging, starved skeleton. The plastic surgery and thick, cracked, seeping mask of makeup doesn’t help either. Her cronies are thin smoky eyed young women, older hobbling addicts and watchful men who smoke in sordid corners. We hurried out there, but I am afraid to say I would be back there in the future again.

El Alto

We were about to leave for the jungle, but before that we headed to El Alto. People go to El Alto for the dirt cheap markets and the fortune tellers. It’s chaotic with cholitas clambering onto white micro buses, boys hanging from the doors shouting out destinations, people carrying heavy boxes and the sticky smell of fried chicken.

The fortune teller’s street was a long strip of blue wooden cabins with numbers painted clumsily on the doors. Outside were ash piles and the still burning remains of offerings. In the Smokey haze there were watchful eyes of men in thick jumpers, woolly hats and badly fitting suit jackets; women with tired eyes sat on stools chewing over what they saw.

I had to translate for everyone as the clairvoyants, one with a shelf of human skeletons in his hut, told our fortunes. A lot of it was intuitive guess work. But where Matthews went the man seemed intent on telling him he was going to have ill health and needed to pay fifty dollars for a pachamama offering. Matthews didn’t want to and the man refused to shake his hand when he left.

Elsewhere people didn’t seem to want to deal with us. We couldn’t understand why but I guess they are used to the consuming tourists who show little appreciation for their culture and want to pay the minimum for five minutes insight. Perhaps we were cheapening the whole experience or maybe it’s a harmless fun. Later a Bolivian girl called Mabel told me there are good and money grabbing clairvoyants. Just like anywhere else. Not that I ever got ripped off at Goose fair mind… Rosa Lee who thought my sister was a boy. Brilliant.

But El Alto is much more than fortune tellers, markets and mayhem. This is where Aymara militants led by Tupac Katari and Bartolina set up their head quarters in 1781, it was the stage for the national revolution being won in the 1950s and black October in 2003, when 67 people were killed and three hundred injured in Bolivia’s first gas war.

El Alto is where the forbidden takes place and people don’t ask questions. I got that sense even before we met some local gay guys who told us that El Alto is where undercover gay clubs, dark rooms, and secret sex clubs are located. Being gay in Bolivia is still broadly speaking, unacceptable and an excuse for discrimination and exclusion.

Accidental Evo and evil accidents in Bolivia

2007-06-05T22:13:00.000-07:00

Here comes Bolivia...

Paula, Maz Matthews and Super Maño had decided to continue through Brazil for another week and then meet us in Bolivia. So Rollerdisco and I headed for the airport where we flew to Santa Cruz. Sao Paulo Airport is a bloody nightmare.The queues to get through to departures are ridiculous I suppose because of immigration and security checks. We were lucky, we arrived in good time. The following week our three drunk friends wouldn't be so lucky. But that's another story.

I was so excited about going to Bolivia. I had heard and read a lot and there was a huge amount of pressure riding on this trip. This was after all where I was planning to stay for a significant period of time and really get under the skin of a country. I eagerly looked the other passengers up and down, but most of them got off before we reached Santa Cruz. We arrived on Saturday night and the taxi pulled by quiet crowds sat outside pool rooms and street bars watching the world go by. Already it felt a whole lot more basic, poorer and yet more mysterious than anywhere else I had been. I went to sleep wondering what I'd wake up to.

So where do I begin with Bolivia? It is so different to anywhere I am used to, a completely different world that you quickly take for granted. Women in coloured shawls and long layered skits with gold teeth and long black hair, sometimes in plates stretching down their backs under old fashioned bowler hats. 62 per cent of the people in Bolovia are from Indigenous backgrounds, and the Aymara and Quechua cultures and traditions still dominate. The men have warn skin and the women carry heavy bundles on the backs.

We walked through a park where a fair was visiting and watched as the rides were manually operated by fairground workers. Had we gone back in time? In the market women sat crossed legged selling oranges, enpanadas and bread and we ploughed past stalls for everything from boots, to spanners to tights and vegetables. Women approached us offering bizarre looking deserts, jellies in plastic cups with cream on top or sweets shaped like ice cream cones. And I saw my first signs of the political revolution that is taking place in Bolivia as I write. Graffiti reading 'Morales is a dictator' and 'death to Morales.'

Evo Morales is someone you will be hearing a lot about in the coming weeks. Here's a brief potted history if you haven't heard much about him already. Basically he came to power about a year and a half ago in a massive show of support from his people, winning 54 per cent of the vote if I am not mistaken. Brought up in poverty he spent his youth herding llamas and playing the trumpet before moving into the coca growing industry and eventually becoming leader of the union that represents coca growers in Bolivia. He is the first Indigenous President in Bolivia ever, in a country where people from Indigenous backgrounds have repeatedly been excluded, marginalised and racially discriminated against. In Santa Cruz they hate him because he's renationalised hydrocarbons industry and is they believe, a threat to their stability and prosperity. He's a man who fills people with hope and fear. I'm undecided about what I think about him. I don't know enough about Bolivia... yet. But I do know he's phenomenally interesting and one of the reasons why I came to Bolivia. Ask anyone on the street what they think of Morales and they'll have an opinion. So from the moment I got to Santa Cruz and smelt the coca tea and cooking oil and saw the faces of people and the graffiti I knew this was going to be an interesting ride.

Just a nasty bus

And talking of rides did I once say that I loved bus journeys? Did I once describe how I loved sitting back in my seat, watching the landscape change and chatting to other passengers. Well that was in Argentina. Buses in Bolivia are a very different story. Unprepared Rollerdisco and I headed to the station to catch a bus to Sucre, Bolivia's official capital. We were totally unprepared, carrying little to eat, a sleeping bag to share and some tomazapan (we had heard enough about Bolivian buses to know we needed them.) The bus was coche cama. In Argentina that means you get a wonderfully comfortable seat that folds back into a bed, a meal, a film and a driver that isn't drunk. In Bolivia none of the above are guaranteed.

I could almost hear the soundtrack from a horror movie as we stepped on board, faces aghast and classically asking the driver 'is this bus coche cama... ?' I bet he'd heard that a hundred times before from bolibus virgins like us. It was crammed full of families taking up two seats and people sitting holding cloth wrapped parcels on their knees. No air conditioning, no heating, and when the bus started moving it sounded like it was about to fall apart. Rollerdisco and I just looked at each other as we tried to crunch our seats back into the reclining position. When the film started the sound quality was so screechingly poor that the passengers shouted for it to be turned off.

But that was only the beginning. We stopped at cafe where the toilet consisted of a whole in the ground and the wash basin was a hose out the back. The next toilet stop turned out to be err the road ahead. When the lights were out there were all kinds of smells and sounds, phlegm rolling in the back of someones throat, a groan in the night, a baby crying. But the worst was the speed at which the driver turned corners. The bus swung from side to side in precarious abandon and I wondered if I would make it to Sucre at all.

That said.... it was an experience. And in some ways I really like the fact that tourists travel along with the locals in the same shit transport. In Argentina tourists and rich people are cushioned and cradled from the reality that faces poor people, of which there are many. And Bolivia is a developing country, the poorest in South America. Of course you're going to piss in a hole and travel along dodgy roads sometimes. Get with the programme.

Sweet Sucre

Sucre though was as sweet as its name suggests. We clambered off the bus to see hoards of people in traditional dress: wide rimmed hats and dirty leather jackets, lines drawn into their faces, tired knowing eyes. The women with those bowler hats, the skirts the indigenous colours.... these are the people you see on post cards, the people that look like they are from another time. They are the indigenous many of Bolivia and my inadequate descriptions of their clothes fall short of describing the beautiful fabrics and patterns and colours that both depict their culture and where they are from. I have gotten used to seeing them. You see them all the time. Some with scruffy clothes others carrying folders or even briefcases. And in Sucre the colours of their clothes stand out even more.

This is a city famed for its many white houses and buildings. The streets rise and fall leading to a main square beautifully looked after by the park keepers, who despite being uniform still wear the trade mark big skirts and have long black hair. Young boys polish the boots of men on stools and people sit eating potted deserts watching people go by.

We took photos, though less confidently than in Brazil. In Bolivia people are suspicious of photographers and tourists. I was asked several times what I would use the pic tire for and would I sell it in the UK. Sometimes people want money for a photo but mostly they just want an explanation and when you say that all this is very different to what you are used to at home and you want to show the pictures to your mum they don't mind so much.

I have painted a romantic picture of Sucre, because it is a very handsome city. At the same time there are women and children whose clothes are faded like brown paper and stained with dirt. They wear battered hats and have bad teeth. Their hands feet and nails are sometimes so badly neglected they look as if they are corroding. An outstretched hand, older people sometimes dribbling, too weak to control themselves, they eat scraps from little tinned bowls and search the bins at night. On the backdrop of these grand white buildings everything looks quaint and pretty. It's easy to forget that many people in Sucre and the surrounding villages live on less than two dollars a day.

There was a demonstration taking place in Sucre when we arrived. Dozens of Aymara people in traditional dress carrying banners and shouting. They were the relatives of those murdered in Bolivia's first gas war in 2003. Hundreds were injured and permanently disfigured. It happened in a city called El Alto on the outskirts of La Paz and the date is known as Black October. It began with an order to kill demonstrators and ended with the resignation of the then President of Bolivia. But no one has ever been brought to justice for the atrocities and there have never been any real answers. The President, who some claim gave the order, now lives in the safety of the US border and others who may be implicated retain their positions of authority. The Vice President of the group that represents these families sat in the square with supporters, her face full of grief and despondence, she told me a little about their story.

In the past I would have just listened, taken it in, thought about it myself and then perhaps written about it in the blog. But this time I took numbers and names and promised to come and see her when I got to La Paz to try and write something for wider consumption. 'People don't know about our fight she said. Because we are just from El Alto.'

I bought the papers to read up on what was going on in Bolivia and saw a mention of the demonstration and articles about Evo Morales' attack on the judiciary, partially linked. He had attacked them for being corrupt and they had responded calling him irresponsible and slanderous. Days before there had been an attack on the Church, and certain civil society groups were voicing concerns about a drift towards totalitarianism.

This was all delicious food for thought. Maybe I am always looking for stories, all I know is that I love talking to different people and asking questions, trying to make sense, but with the decision to stay in South America and write I now felt I had a reason for doing that. The plan was to get to know the country before I started to pitch ideas to the UK press. But it didn't quite work out like that.

Later that afternoon I saw a TV van parked outside the Municipal building. I approached and the presenter told me that Evo Morales and all of his Ministers were arriving the following day in Sucre. I hovered for a moment then crossed the road to see who was being interviewed. We were supposed to be leaving the next day and I knew that the more I lingered the more something was likely to come up... and I was likely to stay around.

The interviewees turned out to be a Politician from Evo Morales' party, MAS and his delegate in Sucre. I smiled, introduced myself confidently (for the first time in Latin America) as a journalist. How long was the President here for? What would he be talking about? Could I come along for the visit?

There was a little voice in my head saying... You have just arrived. You are asking to go on a Presidential visit. Are you mad? Yo mental blagger! You've got a nerve. But a much bigger voice said.. get moving girl. This is gold dust.

So I went back to the hotel and told Rollerdisco that I really could't leave as there was a chance of hitting on a really interesting story... and would she mind if I stayed and maybe she could come along too...

Then I went along to the offices past security guards and officials and said that the Delegate and the Politician had suggested I get accredited. And whilst I waited for them to print my press pass I bought a mobile phone and dug out my notebook and my digital recorder and drank coca tea to stop altitude getting in the way of this story.

I had managed to get Rollerdisco in on the act too so at six thirty the next morning we got up and made our way to the Square where a bus was picking up journalists. Thing is when we got there it had left and overnight the plan had changed. Ah I said to Petrina, so it's the same as back home then, and I waved down a taxi, rang the Press Officer and headed towards the Presidents plane which would be landing any minute.

The first big story

Sucre Airport was filled with officials and journalists, hacks and presenters from the local and national press. Like the hacks at home some had greesy hair, bad skin and smoked too much. Others were high on Adrenalin talking into mobile phones, keenly watching for the plane to land. Then there were the younger journos with wide eyes and friendly smirks. I sat down and assessed the crowd. Rollerdisco saw someone being interviewed and suggested I talk to them but I know that at this stage the officials weren't much use to me, it was the journalists I needed to get to know. So off I went. One of the only women there, notebook at the ready to take down numbers and emails and find out as much as possible about what the issues were and how this thing was going to work. And they were so friendly and so interested in this foreign journalist, all wanting to tell me what they thought about la republica.

Outside some journalists, from the state owned TV and radio companies had been given preference for filming the president when he arrived. So when the plane touched down there was a rush to get out onto the runway. Security officials ushered us to stay back but I was amazed at how close we could get to the line of army officials and politicians awaiting the President. And then he arrived. Casually dressed, smiling warmly. He approached the officials as camera men jostled to get the best shot and then surrounded him to ask him about the most pressing issue. I stood by watching and listening, wondering what my scoop would be, intoxicated by that familar buzz that is one of the reasons why I love my job.

The President headed off and we scrambled onto the bus to take us to the next destination. We had to drive for an hour through the Chuquisaca region, and as usual it was a bumpy journey. Looking out the window I saw the landscape with no signs of civilisation reveal itself ahead, mountains and steep cliffs, dry and dusty. But I was still busy chatting to the other journalists and getting to know and like them more and more.

The bus pulled into a village, that looked more like a collection of flaky brick houses. We couldn't see what was happening beyond so got off the bus only to realise the action was further along. Hitching back on the journalists shouted at the driver to hurry and as he turned the corner we saw masses of people running in the distance with flags and banners. We got out into this vast dusty space and ran after them trying to find our way to the President who had just arrived by helicopter. I followed the locals who seemed to be taking a short cut and climbed through the brambles to get to the crowds gathered in front of the stage where Morales sat. Clutching my pass i pushed through to the other side, where only the press and officials were allowed. I caught my breath and saw that I was a meter away from the President who was now draped in gifts, a garland of flowers, a hat, streamers and confetti.

Different speakers got up to address the villagers of Chuqui Chuqui underneath a huge poster with Evo`s face on it. It read, 'Bolivia Digna, Evo Cumple' his trade mark campaign slogan. It translates as 'Bolivia deserves, Evo delivers' but literally translates as 'Bolivia dignified, Evo fulfills.' And looking around i realised that it was dignity that was at stake. Behind me were hundreds of villagers who had little to eat, no clean water and no light. For years they have been dealt a shit deal, a result of unchallenged racism at the highest levels in Bolivia's ruling class. Yet here they were waiting patiently for their leader, one of their own to speak.

When Evo got up on stage he commanded attention. He spoke with humanity and passion. Unlike so many leaders, to me he came across as someone who genuinely believed in his fight and was motivated by a quest for justice rather than power. 'I am like you' he said ' I never expected to be President'. I have since been told by my rather clever father that those words often slip from the mouths of soon to be dictators. And maybe he is right. Evo Morales is close to Chavez. He worries the middle class who feel excluded and sees fit to attack the institutions that, whatever their background, are independent. But what I saw when I looked at the supporters was a gathering of people who believe in him and believe that things will change. And maybe they are changing.

Some people still stand crossed armed and are dubious but for most this is the first person

who has sought to represent them and who knows their struggle. They want him to be their saviour... failure will cost them their dignity. Like Bachelet being the first woman President in Chile and Evo the first Indigenous President of Bolivia failure will not be forgotten in a hurry. Evo openly admits that if he fails people will be less likely to trust another Indigenous President in the future. Like I say I am not judging, not yet and maybe not ever. But seeing all those people and hearing their cries for the President was very powerful indeed.

After the speeches the President was served a traditional lunch. Once again I found myself just a few feet away from him, with the crowds being held back by the guards. In fact I seemed to be in a better position than some of the other journalists a lot of the time. I put it down to naive confidence. For a moment the President looked very alone as he sat at that table. And I wondered how it must be to be treated like a celebrity or a god when really you still feel you are the same as your adorers. When I talked to the hacks about this they sort of agreed. They hadn't thought about it before but yes he was single and did sometimes look alone and uncomfortable with the hype. 'Everyone loves Evo but no one loves Evo?' I questioned... Could be they said with a wink.

The next day Rollerdisco left to carry on with the holiday and I got up early to head out to another village. Again the helicopter touched down to villagers carrying banners. This time the MC had to work to get the crowd to Cheer. They too seemed bemused by the fuss and furry of government officials and journalists bustling in the sparseness of their remote little village. There is clearly a big push to communicate by the Morales government to communicate with the masses, these are after all the people who brought him to power. This visit was intended to publicise progress and convince people that change was happening in their country. And whilst I continued to find him inspiring I also noticed a muscling in machinery that surrounded him and gave off a slightly authoritarian stench as the wheels turned to move the President onto each engagement.

Later that day I watched Morales and an official from the Venezuelan Embassy address hundreds if not thousands of agricultural workers in a football stadium. Chewing coca leaves, looking out at the President, they listened to the President talk of revolution in the countryside and how land would be returned to them not sold off and Bolivia would not pander to American demands or be part of a so called free market that did nothing for small producers. And when Morales presented the workers with thirty tractors, donated by Venezuela, the shouts became louder. He left the stadium on board one of them with streams of followers running at the wheels.

The next day saw festivities for the anniversary of the first cry for freedom, which came from Sucre in 1809. This is where the first uprising against Spanish colonial rule took place and it's marked every year with parades and processions. Today Morales was dressed smart. He attended mass and then left the Cathedral with a mob of stern suits at his side to lead the procession. Once again I was in with the journalists, running ahead to try and get a decent shot at the same time as trying to take in the atmosphere, the flags, the people waving from balconies, the chants 'Evo Evo Evo' and what was the President doing? He looked uneasy, on edge as if this strict ceremony and star treatment was too much. And maybe it was. As he spotted friendly faces in the crowd, some he knew, others felt they knew him he waved and smiled. At one point he turned round with the City's Prefect said something and grinned at me. I have it on camera and I swear he was saying, look it's that funny English girl who keeps following me around.

He did know who I was. Standing from his balcony as the rest of the procession went by, the Politician I had first approached nudged the President and pointed to me. I had asked, cheekily if I might get a private audience with Evo for an interview and the Politician, as well as numerous other men in suits who'd suffered a Kika offensive, had said he would see what he could do. Looking down at me from above the President nodded at the Politician signaled that he would do an interview. But this is Latin America. God love them for their enthusiasm but never count your chickens till you've seen some huevos (and yes the double meaning is intended.)

That day I talked to everyone, Ministers, reporters, people who loved Evo and had travelled for miles to see him, people who stayed away and frowned at a mention of the Presidents name. I nearly got an interview. To my shame the Politician beckoned me over to Evo's table at lunch and whispered in his ear about the interview. But the President had to catch a flight and told the Politician he would like to do the interview but not today. So Evo left. And I smiled at just how close I had been to the colour and excitement of the last few days.

This was the story. Not the detail about the Supreme Court or Morales' response to the Venezuelan President's attack on the media... not yet at least. What had grabbed my attention was the flags, the faces in the crowd, the songs sung for Morales, and the people who stayed away with clenched fists and furrowed brows. It was Morales booming revolution from the bottom of his stomach, calling out to his people to work with him and it was him eating alone, being ushered along and looking out of place in officialdom.

But at the time i didn't realise that. Sat in my hotel room head fusing with ideas my ability to work out what to write slipped away and I desperately tried to work out the news story, the peg, the top line. Thing is I am not part of the news machine. Not unless I get caught up in some really big story. What I have to offer is the colour and flavour of the stories and people I meet on this journey... or at least the ones that appeal to a UK audience.

I hadn't really realised that until I talked by phone and by email with a very very lovely man who shall be called my partner in comment. Because although we lost touch for a while I think we have always been since the early days of student journalism partners in comment. And a few years ago he did his version of commenting or commentating on the world and went to Israel / Palestine to live and travel and write. So he knows how it feels to be caught in the hysteria and call an office in London where they say 'Evo who?' And he knows how it feels to wonder how on earth you can condense something so complex into a few very basic paragraphs. And he knows about feeling lonely and scared. Even if he wouldn't admit that bit. So it was thanks to him in part that I re-thought my words and proceeded with a little more calma.

On the end of a terrible phone line to London an editor said she was interested and asked me to send 800 words by Monday. Paula, Maño, and Maz had by this point arrived and they brought with them their own tales of adventure having missed their flight, not slept for two days and convinced an American Pilot to drink vodka at eight o'clock in the morning. Rolladisco had visited the mines at Potosi and owing to the sulphur and the altitude gone down with sickness and shivers. I wanted to go with them to the next stop, the salt flats of Uyuni but deep down I knew I had to stay and write my piece. Paula, a journalist too was brilliant. In fact she was really the one who told me to be realistic when I tried to sort through a way of getting my work done and coming. She's a gift she is; Wise and supportive and so much mischief. In my head she's like a cartoon character with long flowing hair and a cape, who looks after animals and friends in their hour of need. In this case she gave me a look, toasted the bit of luck so far and told me it was all OK to stay in Sucre and meet them later.

Disaster strikes

I wrote the piece. Paula read it. Comment read it. I read it. I was happy with it, so proud of my photos and excited to send the whole package off. Sitting in a bar, the only place with wifi in Sucre, I tapped away opposite a tall American. It was Sunday night and the place was busy. In the low light people sat smoking, drinking, eating, chatting. Western music played, friends greeted with hugs and kisses. And then out of nowhere CRASH. A red cheeked Irish man clutching a drink, fell over the step and onto our table knocking over a pint of beer and a glass of wine and collapsing at our feet. My first reaction was to check my lap top but then in a flash of guilt I turned to see if yer man was was alright. He was and I should have trusted my first instincts.

Carrying my laptop to the bar I saw that the keyboard was covered in wine. IT dumb asses take note. Do not do what I did next. I panicked. I tried to wipe the wine away but didn't switch the machine off. I walked it to the toilet and tried to dry it under the drier and then sought to switch it on to see if it would work. It clearly wasn't working properly. I decided to deal with the immediate problem. I would leave the computer switched off and find an internet cafe where I could use the copy and the photos I had sent to Comment to the editor in London. Job done I went to bed frantic with worry that this huge piece of equipment, this machinery that held all the programmes I needed for work and that made me feel professional...not to mention the cost, was no more.

The next day the London editor told me she liked my piece and would be publishing it the next morning. This was a huge achievement. My first piece published, a good start, an in and on a big fat juicy story. For two minutes I danced around the room and then came deflation as I tired to switch my computer on to be met by a meagre sentence reading 'No operations could be found.'

I blame the altitude for the emotional unrest that followed. That and being a long way from home and a long way from all things familiar. I got the hotels technician to look at it... 'el detalle es...' ('the thing is..) he said and then shook his head. I wasn't confident that he knew what he was doing, perhaps unfairly, and headed to another IT shop where they seemed to have more certificates on the wall. The staff shuffled about nervously in the back room as I shared a tearful cigarette with a girl called Evelyn on the shop step. Again came the 'El detalle es...' I decided not to go ahead with a major and by no means guaranteed repair operation and headed back to the hotel buying red wine and chocolate on the way. Best to check my insurance and phone mum and my nice technical friend at the BBC before I took any further action. Maybe it would be better to find a Sony centre in La Paz...

WELL HELLO GENIUS! How about you don't let any tom dick and harry or in this case Rodolfo Guido and Wilber fiddle with your lap top before you check your insurance. How about you take note of the fact that the err 'tools' hanging on the wall are mainly screw drivers, and even me, a technophobe knows them don't look too professional. How about you exercise a bit of calma and stop crying like a baby over a piece of machinery so as you can deal with it like an adult.

Like I say.I blame the altitude.

By this stage the staff in the hotel, from the Evangelical night receptionist, to the unemployed lawyer to the cleaner to the cook called Daisy, to the woman with the red puffer knew my troubles. They had been with me through the highs and the lows and day by day my towels got softer and my breakfast more plentiful. Lovely lovely sweet people but the best reassurance came from my friend at BBC Brum and my mum. BBC Brum held back a swear word or two and said 'well don't panic. Best thing is to leave it somewhere warm and take it to Sony in La Paz...' Translated that should read 'Blimey you really did panic like a peasant child fool who's never seen a light bulb let alone a computer.' Then my mum who after hearing what the good news and the really bad news was said 'But darling that's fine i thought you'd been robbed or attacked or something' and then advised me to check my insurance. It was true. I got a bit of perspective when I realised that actually I was well, life was OK and most things are fixable... at a price.

I had spent a fair bit of time with the tall American who had been a great support since... the incident. And the owner of the bar, a curly dutch guy called Gert had also been ever so nice too despite his peculiar views on Israelis. But I still missed Paula. And as practical as I was trying to be I knew I'd burst in to tears when I saw her.

I packed up and headed to the bus station for another sensational journey into Bolivian darkness. An Aussie gay asking whether there would be a meal on the coach (in English) made me laugh. He looked to me for answers and all I could say was 'this is Bolivia not Argentina. Coche cama has a very different meaning here.' He sat down next to a woman in layers of skirt carrying a heavily wrapped baby and quickly shifted in his seat as buskers got on and off and a local struggled to close the sky light. I looked out at the blackness. Shapes and shadows moving in the mountain that I couldn't make out. A full moon up above.

At seven O'clcok I arrived in La Paz, a city I had heard so many horror stories about, in the freezing cold. As the bus pulled in I popped one of the coca caramels I had brought from a natural health store in my mouth. I'll get onto coca later but suffice as to say that i have been sucking on these little sweets daily and am so far the only one not to have experienced altitude sickness. I got into a taxi and watched heavily clad locals pulling out bags of garments and setting up stalls on the street. All around brick houses clutching on to the towering mountains. 3600 metres high; It's a city on the mountain and doesn't try to be anything else. It was daunting for me as I watched early morning La Paz pass by from my window. Could I really be thinking of living here for a while?

I arrived at the hotel, checked emails, unpacked waited for my friends to arrive. And when they did there was red wine and tears and a city to explore. La Paz I would find out is like nowhere else on earth... It's bonkers.

I later spoke to my insurers and took the lap top to Sony where I was told that whoever took a look at my lap top in Sucre had reassembled it badly and caused even more damage. A factor which may render my insurance invalid. Not the best of news. In fact it pretty much sucks. But if I tell you that Paula and I then went to the witches market in La Paz to buy lucky charms in the hope that they might help to remedy the lap top you will understand why I am not despairing. We talked to women with go llama foetus' bunched on their stalls and incense burning and were handed little stone tokens with different meanings...

Every adventure leads to a new adventure. The fact that I am travelling, and stepping so far out of my comfort zone means that from time to time things will go wrong. And other times I'll chat to a witch or as the traffic toots and hoots or watch the President address his masses in the dusty planes of southern Bolivia. Some people get into real trouble when they are away. I won't scare you with the stories. So far so good please god touch wood I have not been robbed or attacked or kidnapped. I have met the most wonderful, generous people and learnt a lot from them. I am well, in fact I am better than well and if a laptop and an undernourished bank account is all I have to complain about, well i am doing OK.

Even still... all prayers, offerings and crossed fingers most appreciated for the lap top... which I am still waiting to hear about...

The drama continues.

Laughing gas Lee and a Porn star named Carol

2007-06-05T22:07:00.000-07:00

Hello Bahia

Brazil... Brazil. What a country. I saw very little of it and loved every moment. We arrived in Salvador de Bahia and were hit with the warm night air. Don't you love that feeling? Thacks, who won't mind me saying this but after a week in not so boiling BA it was all about the tan for her. So she was pleased.

As we drove to the hostel we realised just how big Salvador de Bahia is... in fact the third largest city in Brazil. We were staying in a part of town famous for fun and sleaze so headed out directly. It was the night before Labour Day and the local bars were throbbing. Immediately we noticed the difference. Brazil is so sexy! We watched curvy women ooze sexuality as they swung and swayed to samba and sipped too many passion fruit caipihrinias before watching the moon set like an egg yolk on the horizon on the way back to the hostel.

The next day we nursed our sore heads with coconut juice brought along the beachfront. The weather was hot but the beach was a long way from paradise. It was heaving with Brazilians bronzing themselves in the sunshine on the national day off. I loved watching the wrinkly tanned skin in tiny bikinis, the fat arses, the perfect torsoes. Brazil is a very physical country, lots of sport lots of dance. It almost felt like the men were more preoccupied with the way their bits hung and their bodies sung than the women. Fat, thin, surgically engineered they let it all hang out in Brazil. They carry themselves with pride and a whole lot of sauce.

Salvador is the blackest most African part of Brazil. There's a strong African influence in the food, the music and the people. Women in head dresses and long white skirts selling sausage, girls nudging forward with perfect posture and men tall and firm. So the thing I didn't get in Brazil, and this isn't so much the case in Bahia, is why it's unfashionable to be black.

I was told that there's still a huge amount of racism in Brazil. Stories about men and women bleaching their skin, trying to look whiter, maintaining tan marks to prove their whiteness. Despite Brazilian society appearing multi cultural you hardly see any black models on billboards or as TV presenters. Maybe this is an international reality that I'm just waking up to? It is certainly true that across Latin America, the paler your skin the more affluent, successful and privileged you are likely to be. And that seems like a big bloody problem.

Anyway, it's less like that in Bahia. We were told that the region has a new governor who is fighting for justice for all. The stage was set for Labour Day festivities and there were posters of Che Guevara and banners preaching equality. We watched as more people gathered. Young and old. Children in ruffle skits and women in net dresses. And everyone moving.

The music went from samba to reggae to timbalada (tribal Bahian music). The atmosphere out in the open air as the sun set and children came in from the water was like nothing else. Full of warmth and passion and just very slightly edgy. I loved this generosity of spirit and how Brazilians love to show off. Someone dances well, someone else shows they dance better. You want to take a picture... wait they want to do a better pose... get the picture?

Communication was a mixture of Spanish, English, Portuguese and hand gestures. I found it really frustrating not being able to speak to people properly. But I loved the sound of the language on the tongue and I will learn it before I come home.

Itacare and beautiful bores

We left Salvador in search of better beaches and headed for Itacare, a small fishing village surrounded by lush green rain forest. You follow a dirt road and arrive at gorgeous beaches where flat golden sand sparkles as the huge waves crash forwards. Lots of surf, lots of samba, open air beach parties, Capoeira (Brazilian martial arts) and little stalls selling hippie flowing beach wear.. stay there too long and you'll be wearing tie die.

I have to admit that at first we were slightly aghast at the torsoes walking around (OK me and Paula were, Sarah was too busy going on and on about a certain Irish man whose name won't be mentioned...) People really don't have much else to do here except surf, sit in the sun and chat up women. It's super flattering at first and then it just gets empty and annoying.

I am fast learning that beauty doesn't guarantee passion, affection or even decent chat. I say this with the admission that we had sort of err chosen where to stay based on the extremely fit man who let us in to his hotel. Looks wise he was a God. I mean really, we all agreed that there was no one better looking than him in Itacare... and maybe Brazil. But after one night spent looking out at the stars and a beautiful moon, listening to the sound of the waves and being kissed by someone who made me feel like a dog was licking my face... I decided looks weren't everything... Good for the ego but shit for the soul.

Poor hostel man. He seemed a bit put out by this girl, who he'd worked so hard to woo, and who now preferred to err... re paint her toe nails than spend another night experiencing his version of romance. (Sorry bless.... am I being obnoxious?)

Anyway I am trying to make a point here... A lot of these super gorgeous boys just couldn't seem to understand why their perfect bodies weren't doing the trick with these three English ladies. Instead we spent our time making each other laugh and putting the world to rights. And the men who won our attention were actually a very unlikely mob...

The first approached me from a distance, tall with very tight curls and a tasteful sweat band he said 'What's yer name? I'm Dean from Derby' ( in very thick Derby accent.) I called Thacks over, being another Midlander. 'Look it's Dean from Derby' I said. 'Actually it's Burton not Derby but most people don't know Bolton that well.'

Dean had eyes for Paula and followed her to the sea in the hope of some skinny dipping. 'I know my hair's a bit shit' he said 'but I'm getting cornrows on Friday'. This had us all in stitches though I'm not sure he got the joke. Under a moon lit sky he and Paula waded into the sea but she didn't take her clothes off. 'You're the worst skinny dipper I've ever seen. Get your kit off' was the cry from Derby.

Next was a band of merry men who looked like the cast of the Office on holiday... and behaved like it too. One was a very sweet computer geek from Swindon. His friend, also from Swindon painted formula One cars. 'How interesting' we exclaimed. 'Actually it's a bit repetitive. They just keep coming round and round' he said.

Then there was the alcoholic clown from Mane (his real job) who got kicked out of the bar and our favourite... laughing gas Lee. We called him that because when asked what he did for a living he replied in a proper Bristol accent 'well... I used to be like a business analyst but when I go home I'm going to sell laughing gas at the festivals... it's a right little money spinner.' He seemed very pleased with himself and we were once again in fits of tears.

Lord knows what they thought of us. Jaded media types kissing thirty? Sex tourists? No how could they think that after a very drunk Paula came to the rescue of a giant frog being taunted by locals. 'Leave it alone' she said ushering them to release it onto her hand. It was a picture. This documentary producing tall blond showing true affection to a err tropical frog.

Don't get me wrong. I loved laughing gas Lee with his former raver hunched posture and saggy tanned belly. He was nothing but lovely. Absolutely. And whilst my mum is probably reading this thinking, this mob sounds like the quue in Tescos, I have to say there is something wonderfully reassuring about meeting really British people when you are away. Especially when you are in the presence of these perfectly sculpted Brazilian bodies. Itacare wouldn't have been the same without Laughing gas lee, the geeks from Swindon and Dean from Derby. God bless them.

Why Rio rules

If it is possible to fall in love with a city the moment you land then I guess we did when we hit Rio. From the moment we arrived we all cooed with appreciation. There's no rushing in Rio and we looked out of the cab window as images we've seen time and time again unfolded before our eyes. The favelas poking out from below, a mass of tin and bricks and cardboard, and glassless windows. Christ on the top of his mound, with outstretched arms watching over the city, the deep blue lagoon near Ipanema beach where skaters in bikinis and men in speedos crossed the road to spend the day by their favourite beach post. This is a free spirited city where sport and music play a big part in people's everyday lives, and for a moment I felt less guilty about the holiday I was taking from my travels.

We were staying in a great little place called the Mango Tree. Aimed at travellers like us, who did their twisting elsewhere and made intelligent(ish) conversation at breakfast, it was run by a maverick Australian and his Brazilian British wife. A wonderfully kind and endearingly monotone Aussie girl sat on reception and in the kitchen a stout woman, talking to herself in Portuguese and wearing a T-Shirt advertising Jesus' love made carved up fruit for juicing.

It was a good job our hostel was so nice. City hostels are often pretty awful, not least in Rio. Pretty P and I had picked up some sort of bug and weren't feeling so pretty. We took turns sweating and shivering in our bunks, throwing up (in my case blood), sleeping and groaning.

But we didn't let a bit of sickness stop us. Oh no. The first night we danced salsa at a bar round the corner. Coming in at about five in the morning, with stories of snogging and general bad behaviour, we bumped into Maz Matthews, a casting director from London and after three minutes our new best friend. He was and is a very gorgeous gay who somehow always looks as though he's been plucked from a magazine. Actually I think he thinks his life is a film and every pose is a great shot in an epic scene.

But the gays are very well connected don't you know. Internet dating... they have it down to an art form. (Am I being terribly politically incorrect... sorry) But seriously straight singles turn up in cities, see the sites, maybe they meet a stranger maybe they don't. Maz Matthews had three liaisons booked before he arrived, one with a sultry tango dancer who showed us the best restaurants in Rio, one with a dodgy masseur, and another with his Ex, my favourite the adorable Philipe. Brazilian born and bred with the most giving of smiles and bright eyes, you couldn't not like Philipe. And I think I made Maz and the rest cringe when after a glass of wine or two I repeatedly told them that 'everything tastes better when Philipe's around.' It was true though.

Philipe showed us the cinema quarter, the underused art gallery and the port, which looks out onto Sugar Loaf mountain and is shaded by perfectly positioned palm trees. Then we took a rambling tram full of nuns up and over the Lapa district as people, mainly kids, swung onto the side of the tram and hung off the bars gliding higher and higher. We descended and entered a great little restaurant that sung Bossa Nova and tasted like feijuada, a typical dish from the favelas of beans, meat and rice.

We spent our days in Rio playing tourists; sitting on the beach, eating from the many kilo restaurants, where you chose from the buffet and pay by the kilo, and visiting sites like Christ the Redeemer, a huge beast of a statue towering over swarms of tourists imitating his position and getting their photos taken. You get a fantastic view of Rio from up there and it really is a beautiful city. It's strange saying that because it didn't feel as well constructed as other cities. There didn't seem to be a main square and there weren't that many grand colonial buildings. Instead there are sky scrapers to house the millions that live and work in Rio. But they didn't feel ugly, perhaps because Rio is a city where you get a huge lagoon slap bang in the middle, where cars drive by sandy beaches and tropical plants and trees lean out from the sidewalk. It feels like there is space in Rio. Roads are wide and you can see the mountains and the sea from most places.

One of the most memorable nights was our first out with Philipe. We headed to Lapa, the main stage for night life in Rio. Crowds fill the streets clutching cocktails or beers and jugging to the music pouring our of crumbling dance halls and battered bars. Women, who are sometimes actually men, inch up against police cars in short skirts and too much makeup. It's raw and pounding and very alive.

After convincing Philipe that we really wouldn't be shocked by wherever he had in mind to take us (he was a very nice young man by the way) he led us to a heaving bar where the man on the door gave change from a suitcase and there was only one kind of beer on sale. With a high ceiling and climbing stairs women and men hung over the balcony, navigating the new arrivals with their slow smokey eyes. We stuck out as some of the only Europeans in the place but no one seemed to care. Men and women juttered and juddered to the music and we squeaked smiles at Philipe, who grinned knowing he'd delivered. 'This is the real Rio' he said. 'Not the Rio for tourists or the rich European Rio. This is real. This is Lapa.'

There were lots of wanting eyes and wanting offers for all of us but I certainly seemed to attract the most eclectic admirers. One was a very good looking boy who spat in the street. It was like a slow dribble coming from his mouth and I felt obliged to tell him that he really wasn't doing himself any favours phleming like that. Well he wasn't! Did he take this as a come on? I thought I sounded like his mother. Whatever it resulted in me coming out with a lot of 'no no no, yes yes yes' for which Maz Matthews and Pretty P have since taken the piss. Then there was a rather glamorous girl with a boob job. Matthew and I got chatting to her at the bar and I should have known he would get me into trouble. She was, she said, a TV reporter with a crush on me... in fact this translated as a twisted porn star who has her own sex show on Brazilian TV. Finally Angel, a gorgeous tall black Brazilian with clear blue eyes, who advised me not to hang my jacket up or it would get nicked, and then stepped in to break up a fight. Maz called him Angel because he was our guardian angel for the night... or so he thought.

The long and short of it is that by seven o'clock in the morning and on Sarah's last day we weren't ready to go home. So Philipe, Thacks, Paula and Maz piled into a cab and I got in the next car with the porn star named Carol, Angel and the rather stoned club promoter. The boy was probably dribbling on a corner elsewhere by then. It all seemed like fun and games until Paula's cab turned right and ours carried on.

Children beware. This was not a particularly wise thing to do in Rio, supposedly one of the most dangerous cities in the world. I pride myself on being a good judge of character but I do seem to have a rather unique ability to get myself into situations with manipulative undesirables... caused in part by my relentless belief that most people are basically good.

I sat back and thought, OK so this is how it's going to be is it. The car drove on and there was some wrangling about where we were going. Then the discussion turned to me. Who was going to end up in bed with me. I was hearing this in Portuguese and not fully understanding. But at the same time I totally understood thanks in part to the looks I was getting from the driver... looks of pity, of 'how did nice girl like her end up with these three and what is she getting herself into?'

We drove and we drove; stopping so that one of the guys could collect a bag of beer from a parked van, then so that the police could search the two guys, pinning them up against the bonnet, gun tucked neatly into his belt. The porn star and Angel clearly weren't getting on but I wasn't going to get out with him when the taxi dropped him at his favela. Not that I have anything against favelas. But a) I ain't stupid... OK I ain't that stupid. And b) I'd had enough and wanted my breakfast. The club promoter got out too so that it was just me and Carol, the worst of the lot. I turned to the taxi driver and in Spanish pretending to be Portuguese asked him to please drop this young woman home and then take me to my hostel. We had been driving for nearly two hours and I ended up picking up the tab. Not an adventure I would repeat but it made the others laugh at breakfast.

With Thacks' departure two new friends arrived. Rollerdisco an Aussie Canadian who brought roller disco to the UK and organisation to our rabble. And Super Maño, deliciously eccentric, unforgivingly sarcastic and totally Spanish... from Zaragoza no less (near where my family are from). As coincidence would have it I had bumped into him on my way out of Chile as he set of to trek through Torres del Paine. He'd laughed at my now rather weird Spanish English Latin American accent and I had felt chuffed to have met a local so far from home. But Super Maño also knew Maz Matthews who he'd repeatedly bumped into across Argentina. Maz had been telling us about how once again he had seen Super Maño on the beach when the great man sauntered up in person and we realised the double coincidence. After a lot of exclamation in Spanish he came over to the dark side and has been with us ever since.

Rio was all about the good times. It ended with Paula's birthday on the 18 of May. With the help of some of you we paid for a champagne and chocolate cake breakfast, balloons and the whole hostel singing (OK that was free) we introduced the lady to 29 in style. She was blind folded and taken for a massage and a picnic and then we tried to go for a ridein a chopper... only it was too cloudy to see Christ. We ate Lebanese food, saw ten piece samba band and tried dancing before bumping into Angel (who this time at least got a kiss) and a gorgeous man with a tight fitting T Shirt saying VOLUNTEER, who Paula stole away with to watch the sun rise.

I think I have sufficiently described three weeks of pure good times. Old friends, new friends, beaches, boys. We had a lot of fun. But by now I was feeling like I really wanted to get back on my travels and moreover get to Bolivia where I was planning to base myself and write for a few months. My flight home leaves from Sao Paulo so I have to come back to Brazil at some point. But by then I want to have earned it. I need to have learnt a lot more, seen a lot more, worked hard and maybe even suffered a bit to have earned dance lessons and sunshine again. Maybe I spoke to soon though. Bolivia, as I was about to find out, would be a whole different story.

So you know...

2007-06-05T22:05:00.000-07:00

The blog is so behind it is shameful.

I mean really. There is a lot to tell and I will try and do it justice if I can. I will divide the story so far into two parts.

The first I must warn you will be frivolous. The second will verge on intellectual even if I do say so myself.

So if you don't like Brazil and a Porn star called Carol I suggest you head directly to Boliva and a President called Evo.

Get it? Got it? Good. You're doing better than I am.

An ass is an ass

2007-05-17T08:13:00.000-07:00

Then came the ladies

The thing about travelling is that sometimes it makes you feel more alive, more human, more like you just get it… whatever it may be. But sometimes it makes you feel like you are a nobody without purpose or direction.

I didn’t realise how much my life and my place in society was defined by my job and my routine at home and how much I have clung to that in the past. Letting go you find yourself falling into an abyss of uncertainty as well as possibility. Of course I know what I have achieved before, but in moments of doubt I find myself questioning who I am and what if anything I am good for now. I am realising that as self assured and independent as may be, I also need reassurance and am sometimes (or maybe often) oversensitive. Now that I have taken the decision to stay away and am attempting to do something challenging it is up to me to buck myself up. If I don’t believe I can do this and make it work no one will tell me otherwise.

OK so that’s a bit of an exaggeration; I mean even from afar friends and family still push you on. But what I miss sometimes is the confidence they inspire just by being close by. When you share a joke or a trouble, seek advice or confess a sordid exploit it reconfirms who you are and that you exist. As if someone else, someone you love and respect understands you and thinks you are alight. A touch on your shoulder, a familiar smile, a healthy bit of piss taking; all that disappears when you are thousands of miles away travelling alone.

So when my friends Pretty P Paula and Shameless and later Sarah Thacks arrived everything just felt a whole lot easier… and a lot cockier too.

Salsa Rusa

It didn’t take long for the misbehaving to begin. Before Shameless arrived, as Paula and I were unpacking I found a wad of cash amounting to about two hundred pounds. We toyed with the idea of keeping it but decided that wouldn’t be good for our travelling calma and eventually tracked down the owner. He was a tall good looking Russian, who practised yoga, took himself too seriously and was a bit dense. A perfect match for Shameless; not least after he bought us champagne and chocolates to say thanks for the cash.

I am still not sure what the Russian was doing in Buenos Aires. He drove a shiny black city jeep but was staying in a hostel dorm He said he worked in the oil business but the photos he showed us of him ‘vurking’ on a pipe line looked more like pull outs from a homo erotic magazine. He didn’t eat meat but was happy to watch the three ladies dribbling steak juice down our chins and carving up the internal organs of a cow in front of him. It’s true, we had no shame but perhaps we didn’t feel the need to impress him after a surreal ride across town in which we were introduced us to the delights of Russian dance music. He would turn up the volume then pause the track and after something between a hmm and a grunt explained what the song was about: ‘hmmmgh this van is about a wohmen who is getting old has no love but she says she vill meet her handsome prince van day soon Hmmmgh;’ Or ‘this van is about a man and he is in love wiz a girl who is only 16 but he is also a boy.’ Was this Buenos Aires or Vladivostok? We laughed so hard it hurt and because of his ego he didn’t realise what we were laughing at and took it as a sign of approval.

Likewise when at dinner he started telling jokes it wasn’t the jokes that made us laugh but the way he told them; Sitting to attention, eyes wide open, clears throat with the hmm like grunt ‘ Giryls… do you know ze joke about hmmmgh how are zey called people who can not talk or hear?’ And delighted as he remembers ‘Ah yes deaf and dumb! Three deaf and dumb, wan English, van America, van Russian…’ And so it went on. Suitably impressed Shameless did her usual pout and pounce and ended up spending the early hours of the morning in a love hotel.

Love hotels are not unusual in Argentina and more of them have sprung up since the economic crisis of 2001 as people still live with their parents and so have to find some where to hmmmgh get intimate. People in Argentina are surprised when I tell them I have my own house. Here banks won’t lend money and there’s no such thing as a mortgage so getting on the property ladder is tough. Though, that doesn’t really explain the Russian’s expert use of these dens of sin…

And then the main course...

We spent the rest of our time talking, shopping and eating at some really fantastic restaurants… Buenos Aires has a lot to offer when it comes to food and it’s not just the parillas either. You can find food from northern Argentina, hybrid Japanese Peruvian restaurants, super pretentious cocktail bars… all very reasonably priced, for British tourists at least. And oh my lord the ice cream is to die for. Fifteen dulce de leche variations, sorbets, chocolate creams and copious scoops that seem to reach for the sky.

We also hired an alternative guide for the afternoon; a left wing history teacher who quickly got the measure of us. We stopped at the Plaza de Mayo, where the pink house, probably best known for that scene from Evita. Madonna’s casting caused huge offence in Argentina because people thought the role should have been played by a native, but when it came to filming they queued for hours to get in on the act as extras or at least catch a glimpse of the leading lady. The Plaza de Mayo has an incredible energy about it. This is of course where Peronist politics took form but also where mass demonstrations and rioting broke out after the 2001 economic crisis.

It’s also where the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo still hold a vigil every Thursday for their disappeared children. Thirty thousand people disappeared under the military dictatorship of the late seventies and early eighties. It’s been termed the dirty war but human rights activists prefer to refer to it as state terrorism. And the ripples of that state terrorism are still being felt today. The children of the disappeared are now the same age as me. Some were adopted by military figures responsible for their parents’ torture and murder. Today there are efforts to reunite them with their grandparents, but for some that’s too much to ask. They’ve been brought up to think of their biological parents, as oppose to their adoptive parents are enemies of the state.

Later when Thacks arrived we went back to the Plaza de Mayo to see the vigil. As it happened we were there as the mothers marked the thirtieth anniversary of their formation so they were the focus of an array of photographers and cameramen as well as tourists and supporters. I really don’t know enough about their struggle. I can not imagine what it would be like to have a child disappear in that way; to grow old without answers or justice. There is something enormously humbling about the image of these old women and their signature head scarves walking arm in arm through the square. They could be anyone’s grandmother or mother, but these women had their children stolen. Today their group is one of the most influential human rights organisations in Argentina if not Latin America.

I sat down with one and unusually felt lost for words. Why was I talking to her and what did I have to say? Was it as a journalist or the granddaughter of holocaust survivors? I was both in solidarity with her and also wanting to know more so really we just spoke as human beings. And our exchange was very simple. I told her that I was from England and thought she was very brave and that I was interested in her fight and supported it. And she said I probably knew more about it and what was going on than she did because someone had stolen her radio so she didn’t know too much about what was happening in the world.

As is the case in other parts of the world where the perpetrators of atrocities and their children breathe the same air as their victims and their children, Argentina is struggling to come to terms with its past. There has been debate and argument over the creation of a museum about the dictatorship and the disappeared, which opens this autumn. President Kitchner has been both praised and criticised for his efforts to bring the military leaders of the dictatorship to justice, and in fact a witness in the trial of one of them was recently shot dead. Even the Park dedicated to the memory of the disappeared stands on the outskirts of town. It is not yet finished but so far consists of numerous sculptures and many hundreds of photographs of the faces of the disappeared. It looks out onto the river where bodies were dropped during the military dictatorship. But it also seems convenient that it is so far from the buzz and the babble of tourists who may find steak and tango easier to swallow than Argentina’s recent history.

Our guide also drove us past Calles de la Miseria or the streets of misery where the poorest people in Buenos Aires live. They are a mass of crumbling shacks, tin roofs and piled garbage akin to shanty towns or favelas. This is where the paco generation come from. I think I mentioned paco in the last blog. I said it was a derivative of cocaine, bought for a peso and smoked through a plastic bottle. What I didn’t say was that apparently it leaves these children so numb and in a vegetable state. The inexhaustible appetite for this drug leads them into crime. They stop eating, stop sleeping, stop living; often dying within six months of first coming into contact with the drug. These are children as young as seven or eight years old. That is according to our guide and a taxi driver anyway. The fact this drug, which seems to have little effect either as a downer or an upper is a release for children from la miseria says a lot about the conditions they have to live in.

A few miles further and our guide presented us with another view of Buenos Aires. Puerto Madero or Argentina’s answer to the South Bank. Most of Buenos Aires looks more like Paris or Madrid, taking their inspiration from the French or as remnants of the colonial past. But Puerto Madero is more modern with slick modern bridges crossing the river, a wide bank and overpriced ultra hip restaurants and bars along the parade. This is where the tourists eat and Argentina’s rich live. It was probably my least favourite part of Buenos Aires, though interestingly enough it’s the place that many portenos direct you to when you tell them you’re visiting their city.

Our final stop off was the so called English Tower. The once elegant clock tower was given to Argentina by the British as a gift after the Argentines gained independence. Now it’s defaced with graffiti relating to the Falkland Islands or Malvinas ‘We’ll be back for you Malvinas’ it reads or ‘Patriotism not Colonialism’. It seemed strange to me that more attention was given to the Malvinas anniversary than the anniversary of the Plaza de Mayo Mothers group being formed. But then I have never really understood why people get so hung up on land. What does it mean and what does it matter? I’m still trying to figure that one out… answers on a post card please…

Malvinas was one of the subjects I discussed with numerous taxi drivers. We also talked about tango and politics and food, often with Paula and Shameless and then Thacks sat in the back. When you can speak the language it always feels like you are in the front of the cab chatting with the driver, with the people who can’t speak the language taping on the dividing glass trying to hear or be heard. (Actually there is no dividing glass in Latin American cabs but I am not speaking literally). Shameless spoke a bit of Spanish and Paula was eager to learn some too so they had more luck with their tap tapping. Thacks just sat back and looked out the window (metaphorically I mean) without trying to converse because she wasn’t here for long. But I was always in the front of the car and I loved being there. And the cabbies had so much to say. I would later find being relegated to the back of the taxi in Brazil, where I do not speak the language, as frustrating as being trapped in the boot.

Not wanting to leave any part of the Buenos Aires experience out Shameless and I bought tickets through a tourist agency to see a major football game. Paula has been cursed with a bad back, caused by a slipped disc earlier in the year. She has not let it limit her too much but on this occasion decided to stay away from the pushing crowds and unpredictable seats and instead wander through Buenos Aires’ crafts markets. I wish we had done the same. Boca Juniors were paying Riva in what we had been informed was the biggest game of the year. They love their football here. I mean they really love it… like a family member; never questioning it or explaining their passion but taking it as read. So in cafeterias and train stations and airports and shopping malls you will never see 24 hour news coverage as you might at home, but football. And if you like football you can always find a game to watch or commentary to tune in to. Boca Juniors was Maradonna’s team. It’s world famous. And Boca is an area I have mentioned before; poor, colourful and edgy. The kind of place where tourists come and photograph the painted houses and then get their camera nicked when they stray along the wrong street. Remember? Not a place you would want to be dawdling about on the day of a home match, which is why we went with the agency.

Packed into a mini bus we trundled across town making inane conversation with some of the other tourists, rich kids killing time on their parents cash… you find lots of these in Latin American cities, learning Spanish (badly) and making me wish you could turn down the volume on people.

When we arrived we all stuck out. Everyone else was local and dressed in football shirts and mullets. They had football faces and football postures, hunched over cars or on the pavement clasping cans of drink, frowning, growling, waiting. It was people watching at its best and although I wished I was with the real supporters rather than a group of gringos I was glad Shameless and I hadn’t braved it alone. We went through one turnstile and then another into a car park. But we still didn’t have our tickets. Nacho we were told had a master ticket for the group and we just had to wait until it was time to go in. That was fine to start with. We took the piss out of last nights casualties, two lads in their early twenties now frothing at the mouth after coming directly from a night club. And we hankered after the spicy choripan sausages we had been promised on arrival.

After an hour and a half there was still no sign of our tickets and the crowds inside the stadium were getting louder. There were fewer people to watch too as the number of people waiting to get in was dwindling. We could see Nacho pacing up and down on a mobile phone. Never a good sign wherever you are in the world. After some pushing and shoving at one entrance we were told to make our way to another entrance. This time it was on the other side of the stadium leading out to Boca’s residential area where riot police lined up in front of ragged locals. Another push forward, but the supporters were behind us now, thrusting and shoving through. It didn’t feel like we were getting into the game and it didn’t feel safe.

A roar from inside the stadium and we realised that not only had the match started but within the first minute a goal had been scored. We were out on the street now with just the police and the railings between us and Boca. We should have left then and there but I hesitated, worrying about stepping out into unknown territory. It was only when a beefy policeman suggested that we might have been ripped of and might be better leaving before the predictable violence at the end of the match that we left. I gave a now weeping Nacho a piece of my mind as we scampered off in search of empanadas and a paper bag to hide my camera. It was tense and deserted in Boca. The woman in the pastry shop told us to be careful and that she would be shutting up and hiding away after half time. Lots of shops and restaurants were closed with just a few stray ill-informed tourists looking up bemused at the police on horse back and wondering where the tango dancers had gone. We had tried and failed to see the Boca match. Admitting our defeat we went shopping.

It’s funny how the people you travel with really influence the way you travel. With Shameless it was all about pleasing the senses with delicious things to eat and drink, finding fabulous leather and clothes to stroke and try on and lots of laughing. We were a little gang made sad only when the time came to part company.

To Salta and beyond

Pretty P and I were now headed for Salta in northern Argentina. As we waited for our flight I spotted two tall dark and rather hairy Argentine men. We would get to know Martin and Andy or Sideburns and Randy as they became known, later.

We had been in BA for a week and could feel the smog in our throats. Buenos Aires or good air it certainly is not. Salta would offer fresh mountain air and a lot more. This is the poorest part of Argentina. It feels closer to neighbouring Bolivia with its humble dark skinned inhabitants chewing on cocoa leaves and taking life a little slower. We were staying in a large colonial house with a court yard full of plants, run by three sisters in their seventies it was a welcome relief from the sweaty ten man dorm we’d made do with in BA. We ate humitas, soft mashed sweetcorn wrapped in corn leaf, temales, which look like fat wrapped sweets and are filled with spiced mincemeat and the most delicious empenads I have tasted yet, perfect pastry with goats cheese or chicken or corn inside, it’s like comfort food that melts in the mouth. You don’t eat them with a fork unless you want to be laughed at as a gringo but with your fingers and a little paper napkin.

On our first night we dumped our stuff and got a message from Sideburns and Randy to meet them for drinks. They had introduced themselves on the flight and at this point they seemed respectable, not that that’s ever mattered before. Both Randy (a TV producer) and Sideburns (an out of work actor with a wonderfully deep voice) had come in search of trekking in the hills and they were nice Jewish boys too… told you they were respectable. But inevitably boys talk to girl because errr they want some. Sideburns got his wicked way with Paula, who would have been fit, had it not been for the fat hairy slugs crawling across his face. I tried to wave Randy off with a fictional boyfriend and watched as a random punter got on top of the bar to dance raunchily for the crowds below. Was she paid? Was this one of those bars? No she came here every Monday and just did it for a pint of larger. And with Randy and Sideburns now trying to persuade us to come and take acid in the mountains with them you’d be forgiven for thinking this was Stoke not Salta. Randy and Sideburns were undoubtedly twisters of the lowest order… but we hadn’t seen anything yet.

Ignoring invitations to see the sights with Randy and Sideburns the next morning, we set out in search of Salta la Linda (Salta the gorgeous as it is known.) Marcos was a local guide we tracked down at his fathers modest little office a few blocks out of town. He was to organise a three day trek with one nights stay at a gaucho farm, miles from the nearest village. Short, stocky and dark with a cheeky smile and a mechanical walk, I would spend the entire time calling him Super Mario. We tested Paula’s back the first day in Saint Lorenzo. Here there was a micro climate, which I learnt meant more rain fell than in other parts of the region. Everything was greener and the air more humid. We passed moody looking cows and gauchos leading trains of horses through the woods. We sat in the meadows and by the stream eating bread stuffed with cured ham and a fat avocado. And Paula’s back held up ok. It sounds like a small thing but it was actually an important junction. For months she’s been restricted in her movement and in constant pain and was terrified at not being able to take advantage of Latin Amreica’s many delights – dancing, hiking, lying in a hammock – because of her injury. But we had made it through day one so went home to pack for the trip.

When we arrived back in Salta that night we heard the beat of a drum and rowdy shouts and saw hundreds of demonstrators piling into and out of an old cinema building. I asked one of their supporters, Daniel, what was happening and he told me they were demonstrating in favour of their candidate ahead of the local elections. ‘We want fair treatment’ he told me, ‘an end to poverty and better treatment for indigenous people. Things are changing in Latin America. In the seventies revolution was in the air but we were pushed down and shut up by the US. Now people want change. It’s happening in Bolivia and in Venezuela and it will happen elsewhere too. There is an alternative to neoliberalism and being ruled by the rich.’ And then he asked about dear old England and what did we think about the Iraq war and had we marched too because he had seen the pictures on the internet.

With so much to talk about we invited him for dinner and met up a couple of hours later. Daniel took us to a restaurant where we ate parilla. The grill plate arrived baring bits of meat that we could not identify… ‘What part of the cow is this’ asked Paula. ‘The good part’ replied our guide. The restaurant was for tourists, being slightly more expensive than elsewhere and putting on a show of traditional dance. But the tourists were mainly from Argentina and I loved watching the long table of boisterous women, perhaps on a hen night, and families from BA taking their holidays in the cheaper low season.

The dancing was brilliant too. It’s a traditional dance from the North of Argentina, which looked to me like a mix of Indigenous and Spanish dance. The girl could have been from Andalusia with her ruffled flowing skirt and generous smile, whilst the boy looked Indian and dressed as a gaucho with boots and baggy cotton trousers. He hooted as they danced ‘epa esa’ and with outstretched arms, clicking fingers and a straight back sashayed around her as she glided in and out of his web of entrapment, him pulling her in, her pushing him away then beckoning near again with a flirtatious twist of her hips or head. They played out a mating dance, each song seemed to tell a story of the man trying to convince the woman of his love for her and ended with her tightly clutched in his arms. Romantic maybe but it seemed to say a lot about the Chamullero culture if not Latin American culture when it comes to love and lust.

Latin lovers have a bad reputation in Europe and when they try their luck with women they are sometimes accused of being sleazy or overbearing and over confident. But the difference is very much cultural and I might even be coming around to the Latino way of doing things. Here each glance, each smile, each whisper or caress is another step in the dance. The men expect the women to push them away and then twirl them back and they will push their luck as far as possible, though often they don’t expect to get more than a phone number or a kiss. When the dancer pulled me up to dance with him on stage (yep in hiking sandals and err red beach trousers I really gave flouncey skirt a run for her money).

I wonder if we have forgotten how to dance in Europe, not just literally but in love too. Ok I know I am sounding like a big soppy girl but just indulge me for a moment will you? Here in Latin America men and women know how to move and how to dance. It could be tango or salsa or samba or whatever but it serves both as a release and expression and as the first move in attraction or seduction. In the UK in particular we often won’t get up to dance unless we’ve had a drink and rarely dance with a partner. And it’s the same in the mating game. Men will often only pluck up the courage to come and talk to you when they are sufficiently drunk or wired to feel confident and when they do they are habitually bumbling and clumsy or failing that sound like they’re reeling off chat up lines. And the women too are often unapproachable or hostile… and I absolutely include myself here… what was it I remember saying to some poor chap trying his luck at my leaving do? ‘Sweetheart your very pretty but you really do need to try a bit harder on the personality front… where’s the mystery?’ In my defence his opener was something like ‘you’ve got great legs do you fancy going back to my place?’ Then there was a beautiful man I kissed at New Year whose sweet caress met with an ‘urgh don’t kiss me like my grandma,’ to which the poor bloke looked slightly put out. I said a similar thing to Ale actually and his response was… your grandma must have been a very passionate lady! And there maybe lies the difference between here and home: Ale’s response was his next step in the dance. I am rambling I know but I guess what I am trying to say is that maybe we need to learn how to dance again; to play and flirt and rely on our imagination when talking to each other rather than booze. Having said that some of the men here are JUST TOO MUCH… But I will get onto that later.

In this case, Daniel was the perfect gentleman. He was a bit older than Paula and I and was I think just genuinely interested in talking to us rather than getting in our knickers. I was interested in the Spanish influence both in dance and music and Daniel said that in the north of Argentina the indigenous people had fought back and as a consequence, unlike in Bolivia, the local culture and traditions had merged with those of the conquistadors as oppose to being annihilated. I don’t know how true that is though…

Gaucho heaven

Next day we set off on our trek. Paula had managed to get hold of a thing called a faja which she strapped to her back to support herself whilst trekking. When she flashed her belly it looked like she was some sort of invalid, but out in the hills of Salta it gave her support and great posture, which did make me laugh as five foot tall Super Mario clambered along beside this tall Uma Thurman look alike. We were blessed with glorious sunshine and at every turn the landscape changed.

There were hundreds of butterflies running away with the streams and a gorgeous smell somewhere between mint and lemon barley. But beauty always has its ugly side too and those same sweet smelling plants also left our clothes covered in spikes and splinters. We saw cacti and fantastic views of coloured rocks and in the distance the ever present Andes. Wild flowers of violet, red and yellow illuminated the dusty path and then huge clearings where cows grazed and grasshoppers lept out from below. So much space. Marcos showed us ancient art work (or perhaps graffiti) from pre Colombian times snuggled under rocks depicting people and animals in faded red, black and copper.

Thirsty and tired we reached where we would be staying after six hours walking. And what a place. This was the home of Emma and her family; gauchos who farm sheep and goats and live simply, with a generator for electricity and open fire too cook food. She must have been in her sixties and her nutty brown skin was lined and wrinkled. She fed a calf in the front yard with a baby’s bottle, its mother having died at birth. It was only the sound of the geese and the hens and the sheep in the distance and a gentle breeze when all was still. A clutter in the kitchen and Emma brought hot matte cocido and home baked bread. Hanging above us were freshly made sausages stuffed with her own hand that same day. She served these later when night fell with rice and chicken soup. The taste of chicken soup, though a different variety to my mum and grandmas Jewish chicken soup, was comforting and warm. And Paula looked like she was about to burst when she tried the sausages.

No television, no phone, nothing for miles. A cousin was staying, who had walked seven hours to get to see her. Others at our table were two men who rode around on horse back and chirped their words slowly. The women ate in the kitchen despite our playful protests and we sat in quiet awe of this other world so far from everything we were used to. It is true, football is the international language. And despite our sketchy knowledge there was plenty to muse over when it came to their fallen hero Maradonna. I stopped fooling them when I asked innocently if Pele was from Brazil… Sorry.

There was little light and we used candles. But the biggest laugh came when I retuned from the room wearing a head torch. Seeing me with a bright light coming out of the front of my head was for Paula the funniest thing she had witnessed though it took me a while to realise what she was laughing at. The head torch is for me a highly useful apparatus that I no longer question and often use. Equally funny she thought was the fact that when I looked at anyone I instantly blinded them with the powerful strobe of white light coming from my forehead. As I write this I have this vision of myself as a super hero. I think I would be super geek and the head torch would be part of my signature outfit. I suppose it isn’t really very sexy but you know what… Blondie wasn’t laughing so hard in the middle of the night when she stumbled over a goose to try and find the toilet. She has since become a convert and is intent on buying a head torch of her own… watch out for it at Glastonbury.

Before we left the next morning there was one final surprise… As Paula and I cooed at the baby lambs and took photos of our surroundings we noticed the men eying up the goats and then moving in for the kill… literally. They grabbed said goat by the horns and pulled it into the front yard where they held it down and then cut its throat, collecting the blood as it poured out for making morcilla later. Then they lifted it onto a wooden table and crowded round to skin it and examine the meat they would be extracting later. Praise be that I wasn’t with a vegetarian. Paula was only a tiny but squeamish and I have to admit I found the whole thing really interesting and (eeesh can I say this) kind of beautiful. There was something very graceful about the way these people lived off the land, something very natural.

We arrived back to Salta that evening feeling refreshed and rejuvenated and not really in the mood for a big night out. But there was a message waiting from Sideburns and for all their forwardness I have to admit we quite liked them. We tossed a coin on whether to meet them or heads we did.

For anyone with a disapproving disposition or a tendency towards feeling shocked please look away… (and dad please pretend I am not your daughter for a few minutes and I am sure you will find this entertaining rather than disturbing.)

Randy and Sideburns arrived, already somewhat wired and toked waving for a waiter and ordering Fernet con coca cola; a traditional Argentine drink that is highly alcoholic and brown coloured. Like coffee it tastes like bitter muck to start with but soon seduces your palate. We started off telling our friends about the gauchos and the goat but to be honest they didn’t seem particularly interested and before long the conversation turned to matters of a sexual nature. I don’t know how. Really. I think one of them made a comment about Fernet loosening up the bottom or something to which my natural response was ‘yeah you lot are obsessed with shitting cause you eat so much steak!’ ‘No no’ responded Sideburns, ‘I am talking about making love through the ass.’ At this point I think Paula and I really started to feel like Shirley Valentine; shocked but kind of curious.

Looking back I realise now that the conversation that followed was all an attempt to convince the two of us of their sexual prowess and adventuring talents under the covers… Had we heard of tantric sex? We must have. Oh for them sex wasn’t about ejaculation the pleasure was in giving pleasure and tantric sex was about training yourself not to blow your beans in one go. (Ok they didn’t say blow your beans but if I put it the way they did this would sound like some sort of badly written soft porn and I’d rather it sounded like something from Viz to be honest.)

And then came the bomb shell, tantric was what happened when they got together for group sex. GROUP SEX? I mean you can pretty much hear it now, Paula and I making faces like spitting image characters; I MEAN GROUP SEX? ‘Yes’ they responded as if this conversation was nothing out of the ordinary. ‘Group sex, it’s just what you do in Buenos Aires,’ Obvio. Had they done it with each other I asked. Oh no, they laughed, Randy had only done it a couple of times. With women or men and women I asked? There were two men and three women he responded. And did you do it with the man too? I asked. He looked round to the side, swinging a long glass in his hand and said ‘I don’t know. I mean. An ass is an ass.’ To which Paula and I collapsed with laughter.

Thing is the Carry On comedy value of what they were saying was sort of lost on them. Actually it wasn’t all talk. They had their motives even if we hadn’t quite cottoned on yet. I should add that neither of the boys spoke particularly good English so there was a lot of translating on my part, conversations that Paula wasn’t part of conversations that I was listening into. I began to realise that actually what these twisters were after was group sex with us! ‘Paula’, I hissed, ‘I reckon they’re after an orgie,’ ‘No’ she responded ‘dirty bastards they wouldn’t dare.’ A few more drinks, a bit more chat, some talk about whether Paula had ever slept with a Jewish guy or two, some talk about would I like a massage and it was clear. ‘Lola,’ said Paula in the darkness of the nightclub ‘I think you’re right. They’re after group sex.’ And then shiftily ‘would you have group sex?’ To which I responded ‘I haven’t shaved my legs!’ (Shirley would be proud).

There was no group sex. There was no sex. Sideburns gave Paula such a sloppy snog she gave up on him all together. And I finally convinced Randy that I really wasn’t interested and I really did have a boyfriend (I’d had to work it so much I think I believed the lie myself). When he finally accepted that he wasn’t going to get nothing nada not ever never he actually started talking to me normally and we had a really interesting conversation. In fact he told me all about his childhood sweetheart who he’d been with for fifteen years and had only been apart from for a year… maybe this explained the subsequent debauchery. I went from feeling like a hunted whore to his mother (and actually preferred the latter.)

Next day we said goodbye to Salta and hired a car. It was, absolutely, the right time to leave. Road trips are brilliant. Especially when you are two young (but not too young) women. I think we felt like Thelma and Louise getting lost trying to make out the one way system as we left the town and then spending far too long choosing dried fruit and cured ham in the super market. But every part of the journey felt like an experience. As we left Lionel Richie’s All Night Long crooned through the radio speakers, so wrong for Latin America and yet so right. In the supermarket, which was full of locals with not a tourist in sight, we spotted a shop selling saddles, leather wear, and gaucho boots… equivalent to a Claire’s Accessories in the Palisades. The journey took us through small towns and villages and when we stopped at a petrol station an old man with a kind face urged us to take a detour before continuing south. We passed racing cars, in the area for some sort of regional event and then came to a bay with boats and a rather scared Israeli girl attempting a bungee jump as the locals looked on in amusement. But the best was yet to come.

We knew the route from Salta to Cafayate was supposed to be beautiful but this was something else. It was like driving through a painting, breath taking, awe inspiring, a view that left us speechless. Unlike a tour, when you are driving along a road there is no drop off point, or gate of entry or sign post that says ‘you are here, this is the bit where you get your camera out’ it just happens. So from driving along very pretty roads with golden meadows and sleepy villages we suddenly came into valleys and mountains of burgundy, purple and rouge that changed coloured as the sun slipped across their shoulders. At every point we found ourselves stopping to try and take it in. We were surrounded by what I can only describe as this graceful enormity… Huge towering coloured mountains, painted a different shade by every shadow, illuminated by every last splash of sunlight. And below silver threads of water and handfuls of perfect green foliage offset against glossy black cows grazing in the calmness that comes before night.

Later we learnt that this was in fact the magic hour to drive through these valleys. We were lucky. By this stage most tourist buses have offloaded their passengers to shower before dinner. Paula and I were still there mesmerised with only a lone crafts seller to keep us company. She stood at the side of the road gathering up the rocks and pottery she had been selling with two llamas sulking behind her. It was for Paula, who I might as well call Doctor Doolittle, a perfect photo opportunity until one of the llamas seemed to snot disapproval in her face causing both of us to splinter the stillness with laughter.

We arrived in Cafayate tranquil. It was Saturday night but the village felt docile. There was wine, and nourishing Saltean food and some tears too.

When morning came we shook ourselves out of sleep and headed towards a local vineyard. Because it was Sunday there was less to see but we still did our best amusing impression of people who know how to taste wine and don’t just gulp it down at the first opportunity. They make the only white and red wine sorbet in the world, or so they claim, in Cafayate and a flavour made from cactus fruit. The creator, a proud yet laid back old man, watched as we sat outside his ice cream shop and debated whether the white wine sorbet was better than the red wine sorbet. I had seen him there the night before at about midnight and got the impression that he sat there outside of the shop watching the world go by most days, content in the belief that he created sensational sorbet.

On our way out of town we saw the aftermath of a road crash. Two young lads had literally just crawled out of the wreckage of their overturned car. They were lucky, escaping with minor cuts and scrapes. We weren’t sure exactly what to do, offering to call for help or fetch help. Paula ended up giving one of them a hug and I ended up giving the other some water and some fruit. But as we drove away we both thanked our lucky stars that we hadn’t arrived a few minutes earlier, or else the situation could have been much worse.

The rest of the journey to Tucaman was picturesque too but nothing compared to that first day. We laughed a lot and saw wild llamas and horses along the way. We stayed overnight in a tiny town nestled in the hills where the people spoke with such a strong accent I could hardly understand them. The boy running our hostel was a big fan of Bob Marley and couldn’t believe he had two women that had been working for the BBC staying with him. He was slightly goofy and very sweet and in Paula’s eyes came second only to a bouncy little puppy that lived in the hostel. Honestly, it’s like some conspiracy to make me like dogs travelling with Paula. Here I am in South America, a very unsympathetic to dogs type, and my partner in crime is someone who coos at a yap yap or a waddle or points out dogs in trainers or dogs with funny hair. She even makes me take photographs of her and the dogs and has insisted that her obsession is infectious. Not in my lifetime Mrs.

Our journey ended in road blocks on the outskirts of Tucuman that forced us to take back routes that were buzzing with life: Four children balancing on a bicycle on their way to school; others running along by the cars; women in tight bright clothes sitting territorially outside their homes; tin roofs and rusty faded cars. As we finally hit Tucuman we saw horse drawn carts mooching up the motorways, as if they’d been tugged out of another time and left to make their own way back to town.

Thacks arrives

At this junction I should say that anyone looking to plan a trip to Latin America should not take any tips from my route. It has no logic, no reason and makes little sense except to me. I have gone back on myself, ahead of myself and done things in completely the wrong order. That’s possibly why Paula and I found ourselves back in Buenos Aires for a third time. Long ago I had told all friends and family to come out and visit but failed to coordinate the wheres and the whens so we headed back to BA to meet Thacks, who was to travel with us for three weeks. But you will never run out of things to do in Buenos Aires and the shear elation at seeing one of my best friends and catching up over cocktails in Palermo was worth any long bus ride.

She brought with her a lap top and digital recording device set up and installed by one of the world’s nicest blokes. PH knows who he is and I am indebted to him and my brilliant mother for setting me up with the tools I need to write over here and hopefully find, write and sell stories to pay may way and make the most of what I am seeing. What I will be attempting to do in the coming months scares me enormously but I feel spurred on by the faith people seem to have in me. People like PH, my mum and Thacks, who doesn’t seem to think anything is beyond my reach. She should realise the same is true for her. But biggest gift Thacks brought with her was her radiant self. She’s in love. For the first time in a long time and with someone who really is worthy of her… a brilliant brilliant person. That shit’s better than chocolate.

On our last night in BA we headed out to try and sea some Tango. You have two choices in Buenos Aires if you want to see Tango. You can either go to a pricey Show or you can go to a Milonga, which is where the locals (and the tourists who can dance) practise. We poked our heads through the curtains at a show, and then after being told to leave headed to a Milonga where we watched admiringly as elegant women curved around their vigorous partners. It’s not like Salsa where if you can’t dance someone is happy to show you the basics. Here you get asked to dance and if you can’t dance tango they look away with disdain and you stay sitting. From there we headed out with Annabelle, who was also in BA with friends and even met the two twisters Randy and Sideboards who rang on landing after a week in Salta. I think they probably wanted to redeem themselves and this time they were sheepish and affectionate. At one point Randy said to Paula, ‘can we just forget about an ass is an ass?’ Bless. Looking back they were just two lads trying to push the boundaries and score some mischief that they could tell their mates about.

We didn’t sleep but as Thacks had gone home early we made a very special effort to make the most of our last day in town. I should say here that Paula and Thacks did not know each other before this adventure. Today was the day they bonded by drowning their handovers with tequila. We were not in a good way but it was the most I had laughed in a long time and our uncouth behaviour was made all the more delicious by the fact that we were sitting outside a very smart Palermo bar showing complete disregard for the portenos around us. We left, drunk and happy watching the bright night lights of Buenos Aires pull in and out of focus on a night bus to Iguassu.

Iguassu was our last stop in Argentina before we crossed into Brazil. I had heard about the waterfalls but hadn’t imagined how staggeringly beautiful they would be. On the first day we were limited for time so visited the falls on the Brazilian side, where the route is shorter and the view spectacular. It was absolutely swarming with tourists but for me that didn’t take away from the impact of the falls. These enormous sheets of water spilling out over and over and into the fierce rushing water, spraying out a film of wet mist that made our hair wet and our faces damp. All over there were beautiful butterflies and creeping tropical plants. We were there in the early evening when the last rays of sunshine kiss everything with gold. Beautiful. As you would expect, before we left I ran out onto the look out point that guaranteed an absolute soaking from the falls and laughed hysterically as I struggled to stay upright with the water drenching me from the side.

I think the tourists got on Paula and Thacks’ nerves more than mine as the next they opted to sit in the sunshine and relax ahead of our flight to Salvador. I went to the Argentine side and played at being a geek overcome by beauty! It’s true. I nearly cried when I saw the crashing falls under a beautiful blue sky and the most perfect rainbow reaching out ahead. I didn’t have enough time. I could have spent hours there going from look out point to look out point, walking under water, watching children collect butterflies on their hands and arms. Typical that on the Argentine side the butterflies are so cocky that they will literally collect on your body if you let them. And I didn’t mind the tourists.

I think I have mentioned it before but it is sometimes just really lovely to watch people having a nice time on their holidays, enjoying the simple pleasures that make us all human. You could be a diplomat or a dustman but when you are out on that ledge, looking out on that incredible view and watching the water and the butterflies dance you are equal. Saying that people do find happiness in different things when they experience a place like Iguassu, I like watching that too. The children balancing as they walk on with their arms covered in butterflies, comparing colours and numbers and sizes, concentrating, studying. The eighty year olds who have already seen so much in life but feel a gladness in still being able to cross the bridge or get onto the little train that takes them back to the entrance. The parents holding on to moments with their children, taking photos or filming on hand held cameras. And then there’s me, the grateful geek feeling glad to be alive. Of course tourists can also be obnoxious, pushy, ignorant and annoying. But not that day.

When the plane took off from Foz de Iguassu I felt my head jerk back (what a great feeling) and then fell asleep. In Brazil planes have stops where you can either change flights or pick up new passengers. So when our plane stopped in Rio for a half an hour I got quite a wake up. We didn’t leave our seats but I watched as an army of efficient masked workers got on to spray and clean and pick up the debris from the last lot of passengers. Bossa Nova played out through the speakers above my head and a new breed of people got on. This time they were rounder, with generous features and curvy bodies; their skin of so many different shades, smooth and glossy. They blinked, pouted, smiled and spoke a language I could not really understand. The plane took off and as we headed to Salvador ripples of excitement made their way through my body. We were in a new place now. Brazil.

All about isimo...

2007-04-10T00:29:00.000-07:00

BA the beast

If you want to get an idea of just how big Argentina is go to the bus terminal in Buenos Aires. Tickets are sold out of booths along an endless corridor with each booth representing a different coach company and different destinations. It probably takes fifteen minutes to get from one end of the corridor to the other. With many journeys taking twenty hours (they go up to about sixty I hear) companies compete for passengers offering movies, dinners and drinks. It's a maze.

That was where I landed in Buenos Aires. A sea of coaches and chaos. Dorothy had well and truly left Kansas (or Patagonia). But she wasn't necessarily after the way home.

So where do you start when you arrive in probably the best city in the Americas if not the world ever ever? A museum? One of the great parks? The market? Don't be silly. I had been clambering up mountains, carving up my dinner with a pen knife and shamelessly taking photographs of lakes for three weeks. I looked like a trekking geek. And that's not a good look in Birmingham let alone Buenos Aires. Sure I'd come here to decide what to do with my life but first I had some serious shopping to do.

Could this desire to spend have been an avoidance tactic? My dad always says you won't find the answer to your anxiety in your wallet but what does he know he's only a bloody shrink! So after arriving at a fairly grotty high ceilinged hostel I stepped out into the smartest part of Buenos Aires, a shoppers delight: Palermo.

Palermo is the smartest dressed district in Buenos Aires. It's full of boutiques and bars, beautifully formed shops and eateries dotted along leafy residential streets, all competing for a peso in a totally pretentious Porteño none plussed way. On Saturdays and Sundays street stalls spread leather wear and jewellery out on the ground, gorgeous gangs of Buenos Aires beauties float between boutiques mainly to admire themselves in the latest designs before putting the items back on the rack. But it isn't all pap and posers. The level of creativity is really impressive. Whether it's smocks on hangers behind glass walls or buckles on belts siting out in the Buenos Aires sunshine, there is no shortage of style, colour and individuality. It's like walking through a gallery of ideas, just most of them relate to the bits of fabric we attach to our bodies. Everything in Palermo, wants desperately to be beautiful. And as ashamed as I am to admit it so did I.

But how far do you take that wish to be beautiful? For me it meant a new pair of shoes and a leg wax. But in Buenos Aires some people take it much further. This is a city with one of the highest (second last time I looked) rates of Anorexia in the world. You quickly get used to seeing women who look ill hanging over bars or rattling along streets. And without sounding like a fat European (shut it) I have to say that the sizes in the shops are totally screwed up.

I know everyone from the States and the US says this but it is true. In fact last year a law was drafted to make fashion designers stock bigger sizes but I was told that only affected the bigger stores outside of central Buenos Aires. So it seems size 0 is about the smallest and a size 10 or 12 about the biggest. I felt really put out to find myself unusually at the larger end of he rail where in England I happily sit in the middle, until I was told by one girl that I was lucky to even be able to shop in these places. 'Some of my friends just can't find any clothes to fit them and they aren't big at all. Shopping is an exclusive activity where anyone that isn't totally tiny becomes a fashion outcast.'

On the plus side the fact that people look after their bodies means people of all ages are pretty fit and you see less obesity than in the UK. The downer is that as far as I could tell Anorexia is pretty much acceptable here. Don't get me wrong I am not necessarily being critical. After all who are we to judge with our highly acceptable binge drinking culture. Argentines would probably be just as shocked to see how much booze the average Brit consumes at the weekend. Maybe not eating here is like drinking too much in the UK; just something people, especially the young, do.

Whatever; Thin, stunning Buenos Aires was the first thing that hit me. Then came the Mosquitoes. There was an infestation of the little bastards in Buenos Aires this year and they don't wait to get you in the night, they start biting at noon.

So I'd replaced mountains with office blocks, lakes with the gutter, chocolate shops with fast food chains and friends with a sea of strangers. Here you don't win any favours by smiling. Everyone's got enough friends, enough problems, enough to be getting on with and really they just want you to shift out the way. At least that's how it felt at first, Like I was very small in this very big city in a very big country in a very big continent. A city where everyone had a purpose except for me. And all this to the constant chunter and screech and roar of car motors, heaving buses and squealing taxis.

And then came the email. Not wanting to put pressure on me at all my lovely boss (and he really is lovely) had also sent me an email asking me to decide by the end of the week whether I wanted to come home to my old job or stay away for longer.

So feelings of inadequacy, insignificance, discomfort and uncertainty met with panic. And an initial... yes please let me come home now thank you please. Tomorrow in fact.

Any sensible person would at this point have taken a long walk had a cup of tea and maybe phoned their mum. What did Kika do? She went out to get twisted.

Before you run away with images of a Spanglish Midlander swaggering through the streets of Buenos Aires with a bottle of vodka let me assure you I was not alone. Al (yep him again) had put me in touch with a dear friend he'd met here whilst travelling. Clara and I got on instantly and hooked up with her Danish boyfriend, his friend an Irish fella a staunch manc and some more likable porteños and headed to a St Patrick's day party. I am not sure anyone, except the Irish guy (who was actually called Paddy), had any idea what St Patrick's Day was. It was just another excuse to party. It started well; nice people, nice place, nice music but by ten o'clock in the morning It had that not so nice now feel. Still in my heels and with a drunk Dane at my side it took an age to get back to Clara's flat. And then that awful feeling after a night out... you've been caught in the wrong time zone or something... then I couldn't seem to sleep at Clara's so I left and walked and walked and it's getting hotter and hotter and I know the only place I can sleep is the hostel, which is going to be hectic and what am I going to do with my life and why am I here anyway and.... Yep. I think it's what's commonly known as a come down.

Problem was the down just seemed to keep coming. I couldn't sleep at the hostel because of the Poles playing ping pong and various guests darting around the dorm as if it were a pinball machine. I couldn't think straight because I hadn't slept. I couldn't sleep because of the thoughts whirling around in my head and worst of all I had nowhere to escape to. So at approximately seven o'clock in the evening I did the only thing I could think of. I phoned my best friend all the way in Leytonstone east London and I cried. I cried like a child and Rachel told me it would all be OK and I shouldn't try to think about anything until I'd eaten something and had a good night's sleep. And that all my friends and family loved me very much and would still be there in a month or a ten, whatever I decided. Told you I cried like a little girl. But I felt better for it. And then I did exactly as Rachel ordered. I sat in an old fashioned cafeteria full of Argentine men mesmerised by the football. I ate a bowl of pasta and went to bed.

A new day

Next day I woke up and met Buenos Aires. I met an old lady who taught piano and wanted to speak French when I asked for directions. I met the waiters at a typical pizzeria watching the commotion as politicians chatted to voters and photographers hustled for the best shots. I met a fabulous Mama who waxed my legs with her bare hands and told me not to trust any men in Argentina as they are all lying Chamulleros. And I saw scurrying children on the walls of a Jewish school being met by their elegant Orthodox parents; Anti Bush graffiti in the famous Plaza del Mayo, where the grandmothers of Argentina's disappeared still hold a vigil; I saw street kids sleeping in the station, exhausted from smoking Paco (a derivative of cocaine) which has hit Buenos Aires like a plague. An old man dancing tango with his shadow outside of the city's grandiose cemetery where Eva Peron is buried. And it felt like I was waking up to my adventure... lots of stories lots of faces lots of colour and lots more to come.

So I spent the next few days thinking things through. Did I want to go home in six weeks time? What would I gain if I stayed ? What would I come back to? Could I come back more experienced or would I lose the experience by staying? I emailed lots, called my mum and carried on wandering about Buenos Aires. And in the end I decided that actually I really didn't want to go home after four months because the adventure had only just begun.

I realised I probably couldn't carry on 'just' travelling. It's not the backpacking life that I've fallen in love with its the different stories and people that appear when you walk around with your eyes open instead of fixed in a guide book. So really what I wanted to do was keep travelling, get involved with some different projects as I went - voluntary or otherwise - and maybe write about some of it for the BBC or other newspapers so as to pay my way. I was worried about how this would look to employers in the future but all of the responses I received from the people I emailed for advice were encouraging. And in the end I decided that if I went home it would be about fear and stability and if I stayed it would be about adventure and possibilities.

I will miss my family and friends but I think if I went home in May I'd be missing out. And besides I haven't thrown in the towel completely. I am still on a loose career break which means that the BBC will allow me to apply for internal positions when I get back.

In the midst of all this I went to La Boca, one of the poorest barrios in Buenos Aires and home to the mighty Boca Juniors. I walked around taking pictures of the coloured painted houses and watching the tango dancers and the overly made up waitresses languish over tables on a raised terrace. A boy of about twelve asked me for some change and when I said I didn't have any spare he asked me where I was from and where I had been and what my country was like? Did I havea coin from my country? I gave him five pence and a coin from Chile and one from Canada. He said he was collecting them so one day he could travel like me. OK so maybe he is saving for more paco. But for that moment he made me feel lucky to be doing what I am doing. No looking back. Now I just have to make it work. Gulp.

Back to Bariloche

With more time to play with now (eight and a half months to be precise unless I change my plans again) I realised what I actually needed was some time just hanging, studying Spanish, getting organised before friends arrived in April and OK OK I wanted to see Ale again. So off I went back to Bariloche.

I know it sounds like a strange thing to do after deciding so boldly that the adventure must continue but sometimes you really do need to give yourself a bit of space to breath and digest before you move onto the next big thing.

Ale had moved out of the hostel and into a friends flat, which he had to himself. It was so nice not sharing a bunk bed or a bathroom or kitchen with backpackers. Instead I had my books (Left wing Latin American history and Borges ), a view of the lake, really great company and best of all a pair of straighteners (thank you to Ale's friend).

Ale (pronounced Ali as oppose to the flattish beer) is the kind of person you want to be near to. He smiles with ease, speaks with Passion and is fiercely positive. He has beautiful bluey green eyes that mirror Bariloche's lakes shaded by sleepy lids that give them mystery or maybe make him look like the kind of boy most mothers would rather you didn't know. Oh and he has a bit of a mullet but that's to be expected in Argentina (blame Maradonna.) On the one hand he's totally ALPHA male; building a house for his mum, not showing weakness or giving into a dodgy injured shoulder and on the other hand he's into zen, hangs out with Lesbian hippies and would happily wear a daisy chain (OK I made that bit up but you never know). When he spoke to me in Portuguese (he lived in Sao Paulo until he was ten) I nearly wet my pants. But seriously, the conversation never dried up. Stories, ideas, humour, energy and affection, I didn't tire of him at all. In fact it just felt lovely being around him. (Ahhh.)

We did a lot of eating and drinking while I was in Bariloche; platters piled high with smoked meats and fish and artisan beers or cheap red wine and the daily special at cafeterias crammed with workers and families on their lunch breaks, hunching over checked table cloths, tearing into bread, chatting, nudging, laughing to the clatter of trays and the hum of the radio. And we went to lots of asados at Ale's friends houses. Asados are regular events in Argentina. I'm told they happen at least once a week and sometimes more. Like the parillas they involve lots of meat, but this time the meat is cooked on an open grill in a Quincho, basically a boys den. I say a boys den because in short the men take great pride in dealing with the meat and the women just chat or make the salad. There's lots of showing off and it's very much a hunter gatherer affair. So I felt right at home. The tradition is partly down to gaucho heritage and partly down to pure economics. People don't have that much money to spend so it make sense to take time to cook your own food and buy your own wine or beer.

The one problem with asados and all this sexy meat is that it does leave you somewhat constipated. Six days without a dump at one point in fact. I do not think that mate (the herb that Argentines people sip) is purely intended to give energy and clarity as locals will tell you. It is a laxative. I am convinced they take it to shit because they eat so much meat and very little in the way of greens. OK I know I am being crude but I swear it is, on the quiet, a national obsession. It doesn't take long to spot it. Supermarket isles are filled with foods that have added fibre, soya burgers, milk and even yogurts with weird names like regularis. There's plenty of dried fruit on sale too. But the biggest thing I noticed was that a lot of the toilets have these kind of shelves or levels so when you get up and check behind you normally see what you've err produced. Which wasn't much for a while for me. Embarrassing when you're temporarily living with someone you fancy a lot who greets you with a 'have you managed to shit yet' look in the morning and buys you prunes as a romantic gesture.

Still I can not think of a nicer place to be stuffing dried fruit down your neck in an effort to relieve constipation. Wherever you go in Bariloche there's generally a lake or a mountain and lots of fresh air. It's peaceful place and the walks are easy to get to. Not to say that the peace can't be shattered even at the top of a mountain. On one occasion Annabel and I hiked to Frey admiring the gorgeous scenery and the light as it hit the jagged rocks. Sitting inside the wood cabin at the top we looked out onto the lake, illuminated by the stars and full moon above and then heard the drone of three Virginia Freshmen. Is that what they call these student types who seem to belong in an episode of the OC and certainly not in Patagonia? It was all like totally like really that's awesome like so cool. Yah? Stop it Kika. Nature's for sharing right?

One thing you quickly realise about the Argentines is how bloody enthusiastic they are. You don't need a word to sum up Argentina. It's just 'isimo'. Everything here is buenisimo or lindisimo or barratisimo or (if it's bad) malisimo. And they really sing it. When Annabel and I arrived at the frozen lake at frey we responded with a typical English 'fuck it's gorgeous' and then heard the Americans and their 'this is so cool.' An Argentine would burst with elation: LINDISIMA! BUENISIMA.TOTALMENTE HERMOSA.

You get these constant reminders of how friendly and enthusiastic they are. Like a worker we met cutting brambles who asked if we wanted water and then advised us on the best route and how to avoid the yellow jacket flies and where to go in Northern Argentina. Then there were the drivers we hitched lifts from who want to take you directly to your destination and tell you all about the places they love in Bariloche. Hitching by the by is something you must do if you're in Argentina. You get to meet such a mad range of people, from an architect working on properties for the rich and famous to meat heads organising motorbike tours around Argentina.

But what I liked best this time in Bariloche was going to a Gaucho festival in a tiny village called Comallo. We found out about it thanks to Annabell's landlord Renato who at seventy something is still making boots for the local cowboys. Me and Ale rented a car, just in time and packed sleeping bags and a pile of food before heading out on the dirt road. The landscape changes dramatically from a green and blue patchwork of trees and lakes to masses of barren dry land with little civilisation apart from the odd pick up truck and grazing animals. We weren't sure what we would find as the festival had started a day earlier and would be drawing to a close. But just as the light started to fade we crawled into the village and were told to follow the Alamo trees. Clad in a poncho and jeans I couldn't help my eyes darting around. I was the one that looked out of place but for me this open air hall of leather clad gauchos and horses was captivating. Faces sun burnt, wrinkled and warn down, with tufts of black hair poking out of caps or flat rimmed cowboy hats. Loose gaucho trousers tucked into leather boots and fastened at the waste with a tied belt and a large knife poking out. Checked shirts, neck ties and waistcoats. They were the real deal; macho but also elegant. Even those gauchos who'd passed out on the wooden benches from too much wine had a certain grace about them. As if they'd been plucked from a painting and left in the dust.
We watched the last of the gauchos ride their horses rodeo style, falling to cheers and claps. And then there was more wine and fireworks and the best lambI've ever eaten, salty and cut straight from the bone on a wooden bar. Under a night sky we tried to dance like the gaucho boys and girls who step a pasa doble like they were still trotting along on horse back, bobbing up and down to the old fashioned melodies. As the night drew to a close we drove the car to a quiet spot and slept... until our wake up call that is.

In the depths of sleep I had heard voices but hadn't thought anything of it. But at about nine o'clock I woke up to a tapping and a slightly drunk gaucho with his face pressed against the car window. Trekking Lola would have acted immediately but I'd gotten used to having a bloke around so my instant reaction was to prod Ale in the side, unable to speak. The gaucho seemed to live near by in one of the only two houses, or shacks in view. He was after twenty pesos or failing that one would do and he was most curious about what this strange pair and their tin house. We drove home stopping to pick up some hitchers who'd been fishing and for coffee in an Argentine Saloon like hotel. I loved it. The dress, the colours, the sounds and the silence. It was something else for me all together.

When we got back to Bariloche semana santa was upon us and the tourists had started to arrive in droves. Chocolate shops mounted decorative eggs in their windows, restaurants filled up and trekkers filed in and out of town. In the midst of all this came the anniversary of the Falklands Invasion. There was no national TV channel in the flat so I missed a lot of the coverage. In fact if it hadn't have been for Ale picking up special edition newspaper it would have passed me by (call yourself a journalist hah!) What struck me about all this was the level of knowledge people here have about the Falklands. I don't feel like I know much about it at all or as if people at home really feel particularly affected by it. The wound is much deeper in Argentina even if opinions are divided. One of the most interesting people I spoke to was a young soldier who said military personnel aren't allowed to have opinions for fear of losing their jobs, but they face insults and taunts every day because they are blamed for what happened. It is strange thought; that not a million miles away from where I am sat right now people pay with pounds and post letters into red pillar boxes and celebrate the Queens birthday.

I've painted a very rosy picture of round two in Bariloche. It wasn't all moonlight and ice creams though. At times fitting into someone else's life in their home town left me feeling vulnerable. Argentinian Spanish can be difficult to understand, you don't know the culture and you don't always get the jokes. I could understand how my sister and mum may have felt in Spain in the past. You are an outsider, an alien at the dinner table. You get lots of attention but sometimes you aren't sure if the joke is on you. And besides there I was this English girl who'd come back to Bariloche to see a boy... I was bound to be a bit worried about looking like a mug. I think that's natural. You expose yourself to lots of new and strange experiences when you are travelling but you never lose that desire to belong, in fact you feel it more intensely and that's what makes you vulnerable I guess.

Generally though there was no pressure, no games and just a lot of laughs and smiles. At times I did wonder why this was happening now; such a beautiful beginning to a story that couldn't really go on, not very easily anyway. I am getting used to saying goodbye to people and places I've come to love. And this time I'm lucky because the hardest goodbye is being muffled by the arrival of friends.

As the bus pulled away I felt truly sad and wondered what it was all for. And then a Chilean guy sparked up a conversation about Salta and its enchanting villages and told me about crossing from Brazil to Bolivia through the jungle. And when the bus stopped I drank beer and talked football with three Argentine guys. And when we picked up the journey again I was woken from my sleep by a tap on the shoulder and asked if I wanted to come and sleep at the back of the bus. And far too sweetly (because sleaze is sleaze wherever you are) I declined. But the sadness went I felt very happy to be somewhere where you really never know what's around the corner.

Shameless Shea and pretty P arrive tomorrow and I can not wait. I will actually cry, dance an Irish jig and start talking in tongues as a result of the sheer joy at seeing old friends for the first time in three months. And then a week later my partner in crime and inspiration Thacks arrives and we'll hit Brazil before I start trying to earn a little... I hope. And I hope you won't tire of me blogging. I know the chunks are sometimes too long and I waffle but i am truly enjoying reflecting like this. It makes me appreciate it all the more and gives me a reason to taste even more magic and mischief on the way. So whatever happens next... I hold you entirely responsible... enjoy the ride.

Big climbs big steaks and big decisions...

2007-03-22T09:02:00.000-07:00

Oh Latin America. How I love your internet cafes where I sit next to fellas pretending they're playing solitaire when actually they're looking at porn and where an hours work can be lost with the flicker of a dodgy connection.

So here goes for a second attempt.

Señora Lola

If there's one thing that's really precious when you're travelling its the warmth of someone who's not in transit. A none backpacker whose first question is likely to be 'have you eaten?' as oppose to 'how long are you travelling for... dude?' I really think pensioners in Latin America could cash in on a sort of adopt a back packer scheme. It was in Punta Arenas though that I got adopted by someone else grandma.

Set just before Chile's tip and Tierra Del Fuego; the end of the world, Punta Arenas is a small town with a harsh climate. People here wear thick jumpers and hats and don't go out after seven pm because of the weather. And that's in summer! I was staying with Señora Lola (real name) ahead of going to Torres Del Paine. Señora Lola is Pablo's grandma and one of the humblest, most generous and kindest people you could wish to meet. She spoke in one of those high pitched singing Chilean accents and ushered me into the warmth as soon as I tapped on the door. With a bed piled with blankets I was about to be very well looked after. She showed me photographs of my friend Pablo as a child, talked about her Spanish ancestry and asked me about my journey. Her wide eyed expressions made me realise how much I have already experienced. But just as enriching was eating roast lamb and corn cake, made by Señora Lola's own fair hand.

Looking down from the top of the hill, where Señora Lola lives, I saw a sea of coloured roof tops. Because of the weather people have to take very good care of their roofs. Some years back a trend started up and people began painting their roofs different colours, giving Punta Arenas its patchwork fame. In the distance you can also see Tierra del Fuego and across from there an island used by Pinochet to detain and torture political prisoners. Punta Arenas has a bleak beauty that really does make you feel like you are at the earth's edge. Big wide quiet spaces. And no rush. No rush at all.

A friend of Patty J, Zaida took my out with her for the day. Rosey cheeked from her work as a gardener in Punta Arenas her love for nature was infectious. When she asked where young people went walking in the UK she seemed baffled by the idea that we spend more time trying to walk straight than walking through in the countryside. She took me to the local cemetery, a land mark in Punta Arenas, where you really get an idea of Chile's complex diversity. Spectacular imposing tombs and graves bearing names of Spaniards, Germans, Croatians, French and English men... I wondered about who they were and what had brought them to this place. Working the land maybe? Escaping their own countries maybe?

As we walked I saw a funeral procession. But strangely the funeral goers did not look solemn or sad. No one was crying and the children appeared to be skipping as though this was a regular day out. I asked Zaida about this she said perhaps it was part of the Chilean character, part of their composure. She remembered people crying in the past. Then there was perhaps more hysteria. But now she thought people were more accepting of death as a natural part of life. Either that or they had learnt to keep their feelings inside.

I could have stayed with Señora Lola for weeks. Even when I sat by the stove in her kitchen I felt like I was wrapped up in blankets. But the peeks of Torres del Paine were calling so I bid Señora Lola farewell.

Taking on Torres del Paine

To get to the national park of Torres del Paine you have to travel to Puerto Natales, a small town where trekking is the main business. Bright eyed tourists pound the streets with shopping bags full of nuts and dried fruit for their journeys or at a slower pace looking for a cosy spot to rest their weary legs after the trek. Some people visit Paine for a day but most either chose to do the four day W circuit or the 8 day full circuit. You can stay at overpriced refugios on the W or camp, but the circuit is for fearless trekkers who aren't fazed by the elements.

As much as I hate to admit it I am one of those girls who always had a boyfriend to put up her tent or a friend who liked orienteering at school a bit too much (sorry Abs). I had never put up a tent, never lit a camping stove, and turned my nose up at packet soup. I had certainly never trekked alone before. And somehow in my delusion and because of all of the above I had decided to do the full circuit. Genius.

A Swiss guy who insisted on speaking his best Buenos Aires Spanish to me directed me towards a hostel where they held a daily briefing on trekking in Paine. The hostel was called the Erratic Rock and the speaker was a lanky white yank guy with blond dreadlocks and a 'hardcore' posture. Whether you're hitting the beach, the city or the mountains there's always a 'scene'. And all scenes are equally pretentious.

After thirty minutes listening to the dreddy trekker talk about the pros and cons of goretex, how cotton kills, why you should use gaiters and sticks and his list of top power foods I decided that maybe the full circuit wasn't for me. Not least because it might involve meeting more people like him on the way.

Camping in the wilderness, following the map and carrying my supplies for four days would be enough of a challenge. But I was still nervous. In Colombia we carried our clothes and sleeping bags and we walked in the heat and the shade. Here Paine was famous for exposing trekkers to all four seasons in one day. The nights are famously cold. It can rain for days and you have to carry everything. To seasoned trekkers this is probably very obvious but I was impressed by the notion of carrying my house, bed, fridge, wardrobe and bathroom on my back.

There really was nothing to worry about. Back at my hostel I met a trekking partner. A fireman come hiking guide from San Francisco called Don. Half Mexican half Irish he seemed somehow familiar and I figured there was no chemistry so we should get on fine...

I also met Annabell on route to Torres del Paine. With long strawberry blond hair and a pale complexion she was an elegant figure next to the two mongols and she was great company. Looking out the window as we watched the landscape change on the way to Paine she told me her story of having come to Argentina to set up a travel agency with her boyfriend who promptly decided he'd rather be a travelling free agent than a travel agent and went to Bolivia with the company car. Stuck in Argentina's lake district Annabel befriended a house full of actors working on a low budget gaucho western and managed to get adopted by a seventy year old local boot maker. You can see why we got on.

But Annabel was staying in refugios and starting at the other end of the circuit so it was just me, Don and a whole lot of mountain.

With the sun shining and the peaks kissing a clear blue sky we set off on our first climb. I have to admit that there was a moment when I thought 'did you really think you could keep up with a San Fran fireman you dick head' but panted on. The route is dotted with back packers clambering up and looping down. Wiping the sweat from their brows and unwrapping chunks of cheese and salami to feed on. I would keep seeing the same people for the entire four days and beyond... not always ideal...

Climbing over the last few rocks on this first days hike I saw the most spectacular view. The great horns of the towering mountains stand out like huge pillars of nature. In the distance a snow capped speckled mountain and below a pool of ice cold turquoise water. We sat with our beers cooling in the remains of yesterdays snow and ate avocado. I am getting used to finding myself in amazing and quite romantic places with people I don't fancy. Not that I'm that fickle of course.

Walking back down to the camp site you look out into this amazing vast space. All you see is the mountains and the pampas. No signs of modern bustle.

That day we hiked about 15 kilometers and over the four days it reached about 80 kilometers. But what I was most proud of was that I put up my own one man tent, washed in the river and was self sufficient.

As the days went on the landscape became even more wild, inspired and beautiful. We scrambled across rocky rivers, past booming waterfalls, looking out at huge glaciers and barren valleys. You can literally experience four seasons in a day in Paine so one minute it's sunny and the next it's hail. And the wind blows so hard it turns ripples in the lakes into crashing waves. When it was cloudy and rainy the landscape was bleak and powerful and when the sun shone nature's detail became illuminated... butterflies, wild flowers, insects.

But trekking is an intense experience and unless you really get on with your trekking partner I reckon it's probably best to go it alone.

There was a leak in my tent, my sleeping bag wasn't really warm enough and my back was aching. But what was starting to get to me was Don's offers to share his tent, listen to music in his tent or get my shoulders rubbed... in his tent. Perhaps it was my saying 'it might be nice staying or eating in a refugio because then you'd get to talk to other people' that sent him into the quiet zone. Whatever, I felt a bit trapped and awkward and it was probably starting to show... On the last night he decided to take the boat back and not see glacier grey the next day. I could either leave too or camp and trek alone for . Of course I did the latter and it was undoubtedly my best day in Paine.

I have never seen a glacier up close - there rather few and far between in the West Midlands. I hadn't really thought much about what it would look like when I stepped over the brow of the hill and saw the huge bed of ice. I felt so emotional I nearly cried. I don't understand how these huge cones of ice form in the water. It's like a graceful layer of icing as tall as houses stretching further than the eye can see. Fantastic.

But you don't cry. In fact there's only so long you can sit there staring before one of the Israelis you've seen along the way pops his head over; 'vat are you trawvelling alohn now?' Well I thought I was. Actually as much as reoccuring backpackers can get on your nerves they can also be quite comforting. And I rather liked the obnoxious Israeli boys fresh out of the mili and the two french sailors practically running along the circuit to make it back to their cruise ship home.

I liked the camping camaraderie, even though it made me realise that with my new found passion for trekking there really is no return to cool for Kika Duvet.

I spent a day in Puerto Natales nursing my chaffed thighs (nice), feeling pre menstrual and calculating how long it would be before I could get some proper sunshine again. I drank red wine and ate chocolate cake and looked out at the Turkish delight colours in the sky. In Southern Chile the sky always looked like Turkish delight. Pink and blue especially in the morning. I had got a lot out of Chile. But it was time to cross the border to Argentina.

Love at first sight in Argentina

From the moment I arrived I just knew I would love Argentina. I wanted to head up north as fast as I could so planned to see the infamous Perito Moreno in a day. The bus stopped in Calafate and then carried the remaining passengers around the corner to a service station for lunch. How can you not like a country that serves the best steak sandwich you have ever tasted at a regular service station? Cheese and pickle. Give me a break. Even the moody cashier had so much attitude I wanted to dip her in mustard and take a bite.

And if I was impressed by Glacier Grey the best was yet to come. Nestled in the Austral Andes this is one of the wonders of the world and it is just completely magnificent. People sit on the shore near by, stand on the cliff face balconies or take a boat to get up close to the glacier and watch huge chunks of ice crashing into the water.

All I had in my purse was a soggy ten dollar note which they wouldn't accept so I couldn't take the boat. Instead I asked the guide if I could walk to the balconies. At first she was hesitant saying it was a bit tricky but then pointed me in the right direction. It wasn't tricky at all. In fact it's a very well kept secret I reckon. I didn't see anyone else all the way. So I really felt like I had the view and the glacier to myself. Wonderful.

I didn't hang about in Calafate. Instead I took another bus straight to Chalten. The bus driver was a bad tempered good looking Argentine who snarled at the gringos and smoked when we stopped at a tiny shack absurdly situated in the middle of nowhere. A squeaky little man (similar to Manuel from Fawlty Towers) and a proud hostess served cakes and pastries to hungry travellers in the evening rush. The light was dim and you could practically hear people pissing in the toilets next door but the atmosphere was great. An old man with a rugged face and two younger companions sat at a gingham clothed table sipping coffee and looking in bemusement at the tourists. I got the feeling that this was the one rush of the day. Because there are very few buses that head along route 40. That woman must have been baking for hours.

Chalten

With no reservation when I got to Chalten I lumbered along to the biggest hostel and managed to claim the last bed. It felt more like a throbbing holiday camp than a Patagonian retrieve. There must have been two hundred people there... or at least that's what it felt like. I was tired but I wasn't ready for bed. So I went and sat at the bar and got drunk with some of the local guys. They told me about how Chalten had changed since the economic crash in 2001. Ten years ago there wasn't any light here and there's still no ATMs or mobile phone reception. But when the bottom fell out of Argentina's economy young people flocked here to try and get work in tourism, which was starting to take off. A once struggling rural community has now been rejuvenated with a younger generation claiming it as home.

Like the rest of Argentina the guys in Chalten eat steak, show off (the men that is) and pout (the women.) It's a confidence and warmth that seems typical in Argentina.

I found a better place to stay the next day where I shared my space with a scruffy toddler, chickens and a very nice German girl, Yvonne. We met after another days hiking both singing from the same 'I might be done with hiking' song sheet and went for a parilla.

In case you've never had a parilla before (and let me tell you you have something to look forward to) let me explain what it is. Heaven. Sex on a plate. As good a reason as any for the Argentines reputation for being arrogant. If I came from a country where they had this for dinner I'd be arrogant. Basically it's a mix of generally grilled meat. The finest cut of prime steak and then anything from juicy chorizo to tender morcilla (black pudding) golden chicken and more beef. You get it bit by bit. Piece by piece. Not a vegetable in sight. You have to order those things.

I know now that Argentines don't eat steak or milanesa every day. Obvio. But when they do they eat it at ten or eleven at night. That's dinner time for them and that's just so Argentina. This is a country where they cook up condensed milk and serve it on toast for breakfast; dulce de leche. It's a country where people walk out in front of cars to cross the road. They have so much attitude and so much confidence. If they are a bit in love with themselves they've got got reason.

Chalten is beautiful. I was sorry I only spent a day hiking to see the Fitz Roy peak and sit by the beautiful lake and walk in the rich and vibrant woods. But I wanted to get up north fast and I'd said I'd meet Annabel in Bariloche.

The only way to get to Bariloche... in fact the only way to get anywhere without going back to Calafate and taking a plane is to take the so called Chalten Travel Tourist Bus. And my oh my are they onto something there. The company has a monopoly as for the moment the road is in such poor condition that few bus companies want to use it. So tickets are expensive and unlike most coaches here there's little comfort. Oh and did I mention that it takes two days?

We set off with a full bus and no air conditioning. Sat next to a beefy American from Denver who'd been working in EYE-RAK for a while and talked about going back to the States to see 'MY PEOPLE' I started to wonder whether I might have been better hiking.

I became slightly deluded thinking that I would ask a van driver at the next services to take me wherever he was going. He'd probably look like Antonio Bandarras and speak no English and very little Spanish either... just grunt. But I didn't see any truck drivers at all. In fact over the two day period I think we only saw three cars. And there was a nasty sort of fermenting smell of sleeping breath coated in digested junk food that festered as we went on.

True, at first it is amazing looking out at the pampas and the llamas and the ostriches and the condors. All you see for miles is rugged land and the sky. And the sky is amazing. It feels lower, as though the clouds are just above, sewn into the silk blue sky with silver thread. So I don't want to sound ungrateful. But that is literally all you see for six hundred miles. You'd never get that much uninhabited unused space in Europe. Surely there would be a power station or an Ikea there or something. But once again that's Argentina. So much space they don't know what to with it.

There was some relief. When we stopped for the night at the end of the first twelve hours of the trip at a hostel on Route 40 I bumped into Annabel. We spent the following day eating biscuits at the back of the bus and slagging off the German guy who didn't want the window open.

And then we arrived in Bariloche. By this stage in my travels I'd gotten fairly fed up with the guide book. It's a love hate relationship. So I trawled off and got lucky with a hostel called Nomads. It was late when we arrived but one of the guys from the tourist agency wanted to take me out for dinner. I didn't realise it then but he was probably the second or third Chamullero I had met and he certainly wouldn't be the last.

Oh so easy Bariloche

Chamullero is a word particular to Argentina. I just tried looking it up and found a translation reading 'conman shyster bullshitter'. I'd like to think it's somewhere between that and a schmoozer but basically its a word you could use for a lot of the men here. They're often good looking, very charming and full of shit. Although as one told me... it's not always a lie. They really do think you are gorgeous and the girl of their dreams... while you're standing there. They're chancers, romancers and they don't seem to take it personally when you say no. Too much confidence again maybe?

I fell in love with Bariloche. It is very touristy, crammed with ice cream parlours and the most Divine chocolate shops. Cabañas that look more like Swiss Cottages poke out from the road along the lake shore where there are look outs to take photographs. The view even from the town is very beautiful and the pace of life is slow. You can take a bus or hitch a ride out of town and within half an hour you're at the starting point of beautiful and rewarding day hikes.

I was so tired from all the trekking I'd been doing that I let myself go a little. I relaxed. I slept and pottered. I made friends with the people that ran the hostel and the people staying there. One of my favourite guests was a red haired Israeli guy travelling alone. People are put off by Israelis because often they travel in big groups and their manners leave a little to be desired. In fact I'd go as far as to say some of them are pretty rude. But you'll never meet a stupid Israeli or an apathetic Israeli. This one was called Dimaz and on the first day he told me 'I don't like za sun and za sun doesn't like me.' That can't be easy I said living in Israel? 'No. We decided Van of us had to leave and it was I.' Great response. And then later when I offered him salad another gem; 'No. I need to eat samfing which had parents.' He didn't realise he was being funny either. And I didn't realise he wasn't being funny when he told me he was a magician. Yep he made a spoon bend right in front of my eyes.

It was nice just spending time with people like Annabel and Dimaz. Sometimes you get tired travelling but you feel like you have to go on. You can't stop. Most of all I enjoyed spending time with my favourite hostel guest. Ale was an Argentinean / Brazilian who'd been studying in Australia after travelling for years. Very tall and very interesting and very much on my wave length. Oh and also very nice looking. We got on well.

When you are so far from home and your family and friends you really do miss affection. I think we take for granted how much affection there is in plane interaction and conversation with the people we know and love. So a bit of romance with someone that I enjoyed talking to, who taught me to sip mate and took me out on a boat with his friends, was well deserved. I had a big crush on him but I wanted to leave.

Maybe I left too soon. But I left for a good reason. Since pretty early on I've been wondering about whether four months is long enough here. Wondering whether I wouldn't like to write about some of the places I am seeing and people I am meeting... properly like not in a blog. Wondering whether I want to go back to Birmingham at all in fact. Work was great to let me go off in the first place. I am really grateful. And I don't work for or with wankers. I work with really good friends. So I wanted to tell my boss that I was thinking of staying longer. With interviews coming up he asked me to make up my mind within the week. I needed to do a lot of thinking.I suppose I wanted to go to Buenos Aires to see if I could hack it in a big city. To see how I felt and test myself in the smog.

Three hours into the 20 hour bus journey we stopped and one of the drivers asked me if I would like to take mate with him and the other drivers. Mate is a little pot that you put (legal) herbs and hot water in and sip through a metal straw. It's a bit like coffee in that it wakes you up but it's more calming and good for your digestive system. Not that it seemed to calm the drivers down.

One O'clock in the morning and I am sat with three Argentinian drivers all making rude jokes and pushing their luck with me. It felt quite surreal but I also felt quite privileged. As we laughed I noticed that the man driving had very delicate hands and slim legs. And for some reason the other guys kept calling him Matilda. The driver who'd invited me to join them went to take his nap and that's when Matilda told me his story.

Born into one of the richest families in Cordoba Matilda was a little girl who liked football and in teenage years became attracted to other girls. In essence my driver had been born into the wrong body. So twenty years ago at the age of 18 his family flew him to Cuba where he had a sex change operation. Although it is more common now, Doctors told him he was the first woman to become a man in South America.

Once again there I was with this inspiring crazy world dishing up another great story. Was there more like this in South America? Would I learn more if I stayed? Could I use this adventure to take me onto something else when I got home? Those were the questions going through my mind as I arrived in Buenos Aires. I had a big decision to make in a wonderful and fiercely intimidating city that would test my nerves and the courage of my conviction.

Dental psychology, lambs wool, and an evil Canadian.

2007-03-06T16:47:00.000-08:00

Leaving Colombia

It's been ten days since I last wrote and since I left Colombia... ah where to start and is it too early for a glass of wine? Never.

I left Cartagena and its busty balconies and pretty painted streets feeling quite solid. Colombia did the trick... it freed me of my fears and gave me the confidence to take this adventure by the horns. I wish I there had been more time there; it's such a sexy country full of stray dogs roaming the streets, fires burning at night, people luxuriously swerving and sliding to the devils dance, passion fruit juice by the litre, panting in the jungle, listening to the waves crash in a hammock and escaping the rattle of the beech by diving into the deep blue ocean. As for the people... generous, passionate, warm, hustlers, healers... all very much alive in a country that sticks two fingers up to international etiquette and deals with the consequences in its own Colombian way. As I trudged from domestic arrivals to international departures a long a dirty Bogota highway there was a rainbow arching overhead. I won't forget that. Maybe I romanticise or simplify but give me a break this is a blog and these are only my clumsy fist impressions.

Chile was to be a totally different experience. In fact I'd go as far as to say that the only thing Chile and Colombia really have in common is the letter C... which in Chile could stand for composure and in Colombia... Yeah I leave that to your imagination.

At about six thirty in the morning I stepped off a very Colombian flight - complete with air hostesses who looked like characters from a Latino carry on movie - into immaculate order. Santiago airport is clean, very modern with imposing high walls and well presented people waiting patiently at the arrivals gate. Very different to arriving in Bogota where people heave and push and I was driven to my hostel by a man with a scarred face. This time I was met by a woman called Fresia and her beautiful daughter Carolina and they carried a sign saying my name.

Fresia, Luis and Violeta

Fresia is a friend of Patti J and Raffa, Chile's unofficial Ambassadors to Wolverhampton and parents of someone I love very much, Mr Don Pablo Ernesto Face Ache (that really is his name.)

Fresia and her husband Luis live in the suburbs of Santiago, in a very ordinary neighbourhood called La Florida, where, if it weren't for the Andes, the landscape would be defined by shopping malls and entertainment arcades. But their story is quite extraordinary. Seven years ago their son, aged about 21 and his then girlfriend had a little baby girl who they called Violetta. They were young but there was no reason to suggest things wouldn't work out. But when Violetta was 18 months old her mother committed suicide leaving the family in crisis and Violetta alone.

Fresia and Luis are now the main carers for Violetta. They live with their son and daughter too and as a family have had huge rivers to cross to get to where they are today. Violetta is one of the most enchanting little girls you could wish to meet. I fell in love with her instantly and felt moved by the things her family had had to overcome and I guess the knowledge of what she will have to deal with in the future. Also Fresia and Luis had themselves come from difficult backgrounds and had done everything in their power to ensure their children had it easier. It didn't work out like but I found their strength a real inspiration.

Maybe I identified with Violetta because she's a thumb sucker. And until very recently so was I. That doesn't go unnoticed with her tata (grandad) Luis who is a dentist and psychologist... yeah and both practises are in the same office... how much would that fry your brain? Luis and I had lunch in Santiago's fish market on the first day. It's a brilliant spot full of life and colour with rugged red faced fish mongers de-boning and shelling all kinds of creatures to be bought and sold by locals or served up to tourists in the central area where overpriced specialities pile high. We ate at the back of the market where it's cheaper, breaking up bread to dip in alioli as we waited for huge plates of battered fish and sea food to arrive. That's when Luis started to ask me about my background and upbringing. He'd noticed the signature thumb suckers bite. I won't go into detail but suffice as to say that talking to Luis got me thinking about quite a lot of stuff that I really hadn't thought about before. Strong from Colombia I guess I was ready for the heavy duty thinking that I've been doing in Chile.

Santiago

Santiago is itself a pretty thought provoking city. On my visit it was deserted with most people on the coast or in Argentina for their holidays. It's a city with a lot of class and it felt a lot safer than Bogota that's for sure. People are slim with deep black coffee bean eyes and lashings of dark brown hair. Very elegant and very composed. I started to notice signs on the tube asking passengers to be considerate in their behaviour... there was a whole list of suggestions man! Backpackers complain that Chile is expensive and certainly the prices felt more European. But that too has its advantages. Here I didn't feel like my ruck sack was a sign of wealth. I felt equal to the people I talked to with no one trying to hustle me or sell me anything.

I was told that Santiago would be a lot more chaotic when school children and workers returned from their holidays. For now though I could walk around calmly admiring the wide streets and elegant architecture; stately buildings and old mansions that house museums. Old men sit in the Plaza des Armas playing chess in the afternoon friends and lovers walk hand in hand through the parks in the centre, shaded by tall trees. Lots of snogging seems to go on in Santiago. Maybe it was because the holidays were drawing to a close or perhaps it's like that all the time but I swear I saw an inordinate number of people giving it some in the greenery.

Something else that stood out to me was the neutrality of some of the buildings. El Congresso for example used to be the debating house for Politicians but was then turned into a jail by Pinochet. Today it is well maintained and looks just like a grand building. The gates are closed and there's nothing to say what it was or what it meant or means for Chile. When I asked Luis about this he said that there are lots of buildings and places like that, sort of no comment places. Chile is still working out how to come to terms with its difficult history. There are people who adored Pinochet and wept at his death... others who hated him with good reason and as I was to learn a lot of people who simply choose not to think about it. Trotskyists came here once as did ex Nazis (is there such a thing as an 'ex' Nazi?) to help Pinochet run concentration camps. There's a long tradition of immigrants coming here from Yugoslavia, Germany, Italy, Wales... Chile is made up of a lot of people from very different backgrounds with very different ideas and they all have to live together. Perhaps that's why people seem so composed.

I felt very well looked after by Fresia, Luis and their family but already my head was elsewhere and I wanted to get down to the Lake District to do some walking. Before I left I went to the Bella Vista area of Santiago where there are great cafes and restaurants and an upmarket crafts market, El Patio. I got chatting to an adorable gay Chileno (I'd happily be his fag hag) and his beautiful clairvoyant friend. Both of them worked there. We sipped the only good coffee I've tasted in Chile and then the Clairvoyant, Andrea read my palms.

Maybe I'm glutton for punishment... hey I survived Colombia so why not totally do my own head in with a session with a dentist / psychologist and then a fortune teller. Genius. As if there wasn't enough swimming about in my head Andrea gave me more to think about. I know the cynics amongst you (you know who you are and you're probably male) will be shaking your heads in disdain but this lady was very intuitive and she gave me some good advice... even if I haven't stopped looking at my palms since (mad bint). I showed her a picture of Violetta and she said the name and the colour, symbolise overcoming the past. She said it was a good name for this little girl and a good name maybe for the girl who started me on my journey in Chile.

Puerto Varas

I took a 14 hour bus to Puerto Varas; my first stop in the lake district. First impressions? Panic. Nine o'clock in the morning and some hag makes me pay to piss in her cafe (I hate that) and then I arrive at my hostel to find it is brimming with over enthusiastic Germans. In fact there are signs all over town for Kuchen and it looks more like a setting for the Sound of Music than a Latin American haven for a girl in search of peace of mind. Mr Don Pablo Ernesto face ache got an email that morning saying something like 'Pablo why the hell didn't you tell me your country was full of German hikers!' But hey overcoming your past, overcoming fears... what?

I sat on the beach looking out at the Orsono volcano for a long time. The sun came out and children started splashing in the water and I felt OK. Maybe that day I started to figure out some tricky stuff. That's what travelling does. It allows you to ask hard questions of yourself and think about things that have been lodged in the back of your mind for a long time. Uncomfortable at first but each time it happens you go a little deeper and get through a little more and maybe you are or I am a little stronger for it.

Though it was sunny in Puerto Varas that day the temperature as I travelled south was getting cooler and I was starting to wrap up in fleeces and even a poncho I bought in Santiago (err it's very classy actually). Lots of tourists, not least rich older tourists, come to Puerto Varas to explore the lake district or set off on hikes, horse rides or climb volcanoes. For the moment that was too energetic for me.

Later I had two glasses or red wine on the terrace of a lovely restaurant called El Mediteraneo and just when I needed it most I met my first real friend... not just a travelling friend but someone I'd like to know wherever I was in the world. Mikaela also had those coffee bean eyes, which spotted the lush in the corner because she was working. Before I knew it we were drinking pisco and Chilean beer with a dash of amaretto (it's so good) and putting the world to rights. The bar was full of Chileans mainly who worked the bars and restaurants and there were a few gringo regulars too. I spent the next couple of days walking, taking photographs of rainbows, horse riding and getting drunk with Mikaela and I met a few more lovely people along the way. Things were starting to come together but it was time to move on.

Houses on sticks

Isn't it always the way that just as you begin to relax... 'I've got this travelling thing sussed man' it fucks up. I was headed to Chiloe a magical ragged little island rich in folkloric tradition and lush natural parks. The first night was fine. I spent it with a pair of swedes in a place called Ancud, one an artist and the other a photographer and daughter of a fashion designer (she had aspirations to write a book called 'I never called my mother a cunt' which I never got to the bottom of.) They were doing a mixture of work and play - making documentaries, works of art following Darwin and Bruce Chatwin's footsteps - and they encouraged me to take more pictures, be more creative and ambitious... So I spent the next day with them in Castro taking photographs of the wood shingled houses by the water battered jagged buildings and signs and equally battered jagged people selling fish on the street and limping about the town in a quint, if slightly inbred fashion. Then I went to Chonchi, which I mistakenly thought would be the Jewel in Chiloe's crown.

A sleepy fishing village with home crafted chocolates sweet wine and traditional knitwear, Chonchi sounded like a tranquil place to spend a couple of days. I'd booked into a hostel on the water front. When I got there I was greeted by the owner, a tall if slightly hunched Canadian with sleepy squinting eyes nestled in fatty bags. When he found out I was a journalist he did that annoying thing of sitting me down to tell me about what was wrong with the world in his eyes. He wanted to know what the government had told me to report on as a journalist... nothing I responded and he proceeded to tell me about the lies that were spun by the worlds media, starting with Piochet.

According to the Canadian Pinochet had done a lot of good for Chile and hadn't actually been responsible for the deaths and disappearance of many thousands of people. And if he was responsible, well that was just the way it worked in Latin America. The mistake Pinochet had made was to exile his political opponents. Inside I heaved a big sigh and tried to counter his arguments. I know where I stand on the issue but I also realise that in Chile the conclusions about Pinocet's regime are a long way from being a done deal. The Canadian then went on to tell me that Thatcher had been responsible for more deaths than Pinochet and Bush too... Maybe so I said but you can't measure a leader on that. What about Churchill? Ah he said Churchill, the killer of so many innocent Germans. I suppose you think six million Jews were killed by the Nazis too... but that's also a falsification... and they locked up this poor guy David Irving for simply suggesting that the figure was lower.....

At this point the bubble burst. Something inside me said you don't need to please, appease or win over this nasty idiot. And without knowing where the words came from (Grandma Gerdy perhaps) I said 'I think I had better stop you right there. I realise that the Pinochet issue is complicated in Chile but it's another thing all together to be altering facts. I find what you are saying extremely offensive. You are talking to the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors. My mum didn't have grandparents because two of them were murdered in a concentration camp and the other two jumped off a train headed to Auschwitz. I am not talking as a journalist. I am here on holiday and I am talking as a human being with her own story. I do not wish to stay here any more.'

At this point you can imagine the backtracking. 'Oh if he'd have known... he got carried away... he didn't mean to cause offense'. I was boiling up and really wanted to get out of there but he had my money and guests had begun to arrive in the area where we were sat promoting him to apologise again and fob me off with a 'why don't you take a walk'. I needed to cool off so I took the prompt and tried to work out what to do. It was still light and buses would still be running back to Castro. Then again it wasn't as if I had to like all the land lords of the places where I stayed. They might all be racists for all I knew. But the deal at the hostel was that you got a cooked meal in the evening with the other guests and breakfast too and something inside me just said I don't want to sit at his table or sleep in hostel. So I went back and said I am sorry I want my money back (wish I hadn't said I am sorry). He apologised again and I said that he should be careful about reading rubbish on the Internet and pontificating about history, which may not be real to him but is very real to me.

Looking back I could have said more and I could have said it better. But I did my best. Before I came away one of the stories I worked on related to Britain's involvement in the slave trade and I remember one very inspiring academic saying that the failure to acknowledge the experience of Black Britain was a failure to value Black life. Likewise denying the Holocaust, or Pinochet's crimes against humanity is an insult to people like me and Pablo. That Canadian could have had the balls to say he sympathises with Pinochet or Hitlers motives. But how dare he try and deny my history.

I got on the bus to Castro and managed to get the last bed in Hospedaje Mirador where I slept really well before spending the next morning walking in the woods. As I made my way from Castro to Ancud and then got the boat back to the main land the sun came out for the first time since I arrived in Chiloe. It was as if a light had been turned on and suddenly I understood what was meant by Chiole's mysterious beauty. Green hills and coloured houses that instead of looking characterful and unkempt looked rustic. Children wrapped up in woolens, their grandparents smiling back with faces full of lines and full of stories. I forgave Chiole my weird Chonchi experience and wondered about how people come to terms with their own personal histories, particularly in a country which still hasn't acknowledged that history fully. And maybe we're all a bit like Chile, living with different parts of our backgrounds or lives that when brought together pose tough questions.

Peace in Puyehue

From Chiloe I took a bus to Osorno a plane almost ugly little town, but a gateway into the Puyehue National Park. I stayed up late talking to a parrot expert from Michigan - he looked like River Phoenix but had one of those weird slow slightly nervous yank accents. Liked him though. Tourists are warned off Puyehue because the hostels are supposed to be expensive and getting around is difficult without a car. But I found a wonderful place to stay, run by a single mum called Maria who beamed and smiled on meeting me, Hospedaje Panorama has a view of the lake and serves up fresh baked pies, bread and jam on the porch for breakfast. Best of all you sleep in lambs wool blankets and soft duvets.

On the first day, without planning to, I took an excursion to see Chileans on holiday. It was the last day of the Chilean summer holidays and at Aguas Calientes families were out in their droves to make the most of the end of summer. Well packed in grandmas waddled about organising food and children while the men cooked large pieces of meet on sticks or under stones in the ground. Unlike in Santiago I found people in Chilioe and the lake district to be rounder faced. Too much kuchen and not enough walking in the cold maybe? There are thermal pools along the river which by this stage looked more like mud baths with their grubby bathers sat spreading the water on their skin. I asked one family if I could take a picture of them and the group of four elderly locals turned into about nine. The picture is like something you'd leave in a time capsule and I promised to send the family a copy for their album.

From there I walked to the thermal baths at the spa hotel. You have to pay a tenner to get in but I felt like treating myself. This was quite a different set up. There were indoor pools and Jacuzzis, some warm, some freezing cold, an outdoor swimming pool and then more baths and pools of varying temperatures looking out onto the hills and the woods. Here there was less laughter, no dirty clothes or flabby bellies on show. Instead the place was full of rich Latin Americans and a few gringos either toned or portly with some of older women looking scrawny and fixed, arranging cocktails and dinners with their new found 'hiking partners'.

Later the lakeside shone with that wonderful early evening light that makes everything look golden and then the moon fell like a spell speckling the water and I sat on the porch listening to Maria and her family banter over the highlights of this year's Viña festival on TV. It's ever so nice now and then tapping into a bit of normality.

The next day I walked ten kilometres in beautiful sunshine, admiring the views of the volcanoes, the wild flowers poking out along the trail, waterfalls and butterflies, always with the sound of my magic boots crunching against the gravel road or the path. I hitched a lift back with a wealthy Chilean farmer who told me about how climate change was disturbing his water melons and and said that in Chile the regions are so distinct - desert in the north, lakes in the middle and glaciers in the south - you see first hand what's happening to the planet in agriculture and natural beuty spots like the Lake District. Were people becoming more environmental in their habits then? Only just.

Until now I had never been particularly interested in nature even though I liked being in it... for me it was like a big play ground that I didn't really understand. It was just there. But in Puyehue something strange began to happen and I started to want to know what certain plants were and why the grew the way they did. Why was the earth black in some places and red elsewhere? Not only did I feel in awe of nature but I felt inspired by it. It's a wonderful feeling aged 28 (nearly 30 really) to discover a new interest. I felt at home in Puyehue not only because I began falling in love with nature but also because I felt a peacefulness and warmth, as if people who live in the area really appreciate its beauty, excepting of course the slightly slow overgrown boys who turn their attentions to play stations and you get them everywhere.

An old man out walking with his wife told me it was the first time he'd visited Puyehue after years of living in Santiago, he said it was a crime but he was glad to see it now. Then he pinched my face and kissed me on the cheek and told me I had a gorgeous smile. If I made his day with my smile then he made mine by making me feel like a little girl again. I guess that's why I liked Puyehue. I felt like that little girl who used to paddle in the river and look for tadpoles with my mum and sister in Swale Dale. I could have stayed for longer, but sometimes that's exactly when you should go. Next stop the kingdom of Patagonia.

Curly locks in the jungle and those bloody Italians.

2007-02-15T07:55:00.000-08:00

!!!WARNING: I am becoming less cynical and more of a geek by the day. No one is safe. You have been warned.

A lot has happened in the world of Kika Duvet since I last wrote or should I say blogged. So this may be chunky. But before I start a word about yellow.

On the plane to Bogota my Colombian Academic Guru talked to me about the colour yellow. He said that it's the national colour of Colombia and also the colour of madness - just think of Van Gogh and his marigolds he told me. (Van Gogh I hasten to add was his favourite painter and yellow his favourite colour.) I can safely say that I am never far from the colour yellow. Whether it's the clattering yellow taxis that litter the streets, yellow painted walls, peeled mango that colour is bloody everywhere. You can't escape the madness in Colombia So I decided I might as well embrace it.

Not wanting to give up on Taganga and Santa Marta's Nocturnal side I set out with some of the other guests staying at Techos Azules. Grabbing an Enpanada (like a spicy chicken pasty) on the way we tumbled into a bar called El Garage. Nice enough but it felt like the absolute opposite to La Puerta; a scene from some bad eighties movie with gringos bopping and grooving after clearly not having drunk enough alcohol at all. I sound like a bitch but at this stage I hadn't quite shaken off the sniffing cynic. Still I was starting to open up and chat to more people which kind of needed to happen. When we left the club some street urchin pushed into one of the girls and the Colombian tourist in our group challenged him (to what? Exactly). As the two began lobbing insults at each other and then throwing stones I heaved a sigh and decided not to stick around and watch the drama. It was time to leave Taganga.

The next morning I woke up to find the Enpanada repeating on me. This I am sure was to be the first of many stomach upsets but I wasn't going to let that get in the way of leaving. I was heading to the Tayrona National Park for a couple of days on the beach but first I wanted to drop in on the mother of my Colombian friend Mr H.

I am not sure if I've mentioned Mr H much before - it's all a bit of a blur with computers crashing and the like. I've never actually met Mr H before, but he's a friend of the twisting maid. He's from Santa Marta and was meant to be living in Birmingham for a while. I was going to show him around but he gave up on beautiful Brum before you could say 'Tara in a bit' (Straight from the Caribbean coast to Small Heath what do you expect come on?) but despite this he did lots of reassuring and set me up with the Bogota DJ and now his mother, Beatriz. Thanks you lovely Mr H.

When I got to Beatriz's house no one was there. The street was deserted except for a few people sitting out on their porches and a stern little woman marching in my direction. Did she know Beatriz? Of course. Cecilia turned out to be a friend and neighbour... and certainly someone not to be reckoned with. With my stomach now jumping around inside me she insisted I come into her house. I couldn't possibly wait in the street.

Cecilia lived with her brother and sister (all in their sixties) and two dogs oh and G-d. She was an evangelical Christian with Spanish Jewish routes... so when I told her about my background she called our meeting a miracle. I wasn't feeling the hand of G-d at that moment I have to say especially when Cecilia produced a plate full of enpanadas. Eesh. I shouldn't complain - all be it forceful her hospitality was very much appreciated. But I was deeply relieved when Beatriz walked through the door with her ginger bread skin, a wide smile and a proper mama hug.

I am coming to the conclusion that mothers and aunties are the same wherever you are in the world. They like to feed you too much, worry about you and know a bit of your story (what you do for a living and why aren't you married in my case.) I took out some photos of my beautiful G-d son, sister, father friends and mother which they all cooed at... well actually they looked a bit puzzled at the photograph of my mother with cropped hair big earrings and dungarees but I decided not to enlighten them about what a wondrous woman she is there and then... not on a Sunday anyway. After attempts to set me up with a neighbour's nephew Carmel I went back to Beatriz's house and slept for about twelve hours.

For breakfast we had scrambled eggs, Arrepas and Jesus. Beatriz you see is also an evangelical Christian but I liked listening to her. Yes she did talk about the evils of music, dance and boozing (carnival being meat for the devil) but she also told me a bit about the troubles she's endured in life and how she'd made sense of them. Church was where she found her peace and I respect that. In some ways I even envy it because isn't that we're all kind of trying to do? Find peace? Some shake their bums to regaton and others sing to the Lord... whatever it takes to live in this crazy country is good with me.

I was hoping to find a bit of peace at Tayrona. The national park is made up of a number of gorgeous beaches set against a backdrop of rich tropical forest. You have to walk about fifty minutes or so to get to the first spot where you can camp. On the way I met some Canadians - complete with head torches, fold away bowls, and compasses - and a sparky Colombian couple - complete with boob job and tinned papaya. Clearly I could relate to both sets of geeks.

I pitched my hammock and after trying to get to grips with a very dull card game fell asleep looking up at the most amazing star lit night I have ever seen and listening to the waves crash against the shore. Tayrona is pretty deserted with just a few simple shacks serving food and a couple of camping sites. Huge rocks emerge from the sea making the shoreline look quite dramatic. The sea is a deep blue and tremendous waves leave sparkles in the sand. You have to walk through the woodland to get to some of the beaches and as you walk you look up at these huge palm trees and watch butterflies, busy ants, lizards and even a snake rustle in the undergrowth. Very nice indeed.

I spent a lot of time walking about and playing in the sea but I still couldn't shake of those ghosts I'd brought with me from England. That bothered me. Naively I thought what had made me sad for so many months would wash away on a tropical beach. But that didn't happen in Tayrona. What did happen was that I got too damn cosy in the sunshine with the cool breeze blowing and sun burnt my bloody cleavage! Thankfully you don't tend to show off your cleavage that much in the jungle and that was where I was headed next.

Alberto picked me and a down sized back pack (no I did not take my hair straighteners) up at half eight. As I waited in Santa Marta for the bus to arrive I watched hopefully to see who my trekking mates would be. And slowly but surely they appeared one by one. No Daniel Day Lewis was not in the crowd and no likely sister women friends either. But I was about to leave that defensiveness that made me so quick to judge behind. And I haven't picked it up since (well not much anyway).

We were an odd bunch: A very feminine Mexican man (cheek bones and pout), a very masculine Polish woman (hairy face), A well built Italian builder and his big bellied (fat) Italian electrician mate, a red haired Californian, two Israeli pups fresh out of the army, an ex marathon running french pensioner (drone) and me. We were to spend a lot of time together over the next six days.

Alberto was the chef and assistant to Walter, our guide. Walter had one of those faces that you just want to frame; the warmest of smiles and kind eyes full of untold stories and a bit of sadness I think. Great rumbling laugh, great sense of humour. He was a very fit fifty one with a lot of knowledge and Passion to fuel us on our trip.

Cuidad Perdida or the Lost City is one of the largest pre Colombian towns to have been discovered in the Americas. Treasure hunters came across it about thirty years ago hidden deep in the Sierra Nevada. It's still very underdeveloped as a tourist site partly because it is controlled by a paramilitary chief, partly because of a lack of money and partly because indigenous communities do not want anthropologists and archaeologists to dig up their ancestral heritage and for hoards of tourists to trample through it. As a result there's only one tour operator that organises treks to the Lost City.

The terrain is uneven, rugged and even dangerous in parts. No safety cords or handle bars here! Over the course of six days you trek over forty kilometres with one day to rest and look around the site. You carry your own back pack and water, sleep in hammocks and battle the mosquitoes. It's dirty, knackering and completely brilliant.

Within the first twenty minutes we were sweating as we made our way up the steep rugged climb into the jungle. The sierra looks luxuriously green in the distance but up close you see campesinos hacking away at trees with machetes. Walter told us they think that by cutting the trees down they will be able to grow crops on the land. But the land isn't good for that. As you leave 'civilisation' you also leave the destruction behind and you become part of the Sierra. I've never seen so much green! Plants growing out of trees, creepers hanging, leaves the size of people sometimes. There's no path so you clamber over hard mud, rocks, stones, pebbles and wade through the river stopping to swim and drink. You're constantly stopping yourself from tripping and falling and your clothes become dirty and wet with sweat very quickly. I was totally in my element with my best magic hiking boots bought for me with much love by the Brookes Kish clan.

I loved the sounds in the jungle, the bird song the sound of frogs. I loved the physical exertion, feeling like your body is really working and your heart's struggling to keep up - kind of like sex you develop a rhythm for breathing and get that wonderful rush and then the calm when you slow down (sorry but it is). When you stop for food you're really hungry and when you shut your eyes you really sleep.

There were a few moments where I was actually scared on the trek. Parts where you were hanging onto nothing and looking down at a big drop - and when you finally reach the hundreds of steps leading to the Lost City they're more like slippery rocks than steps. I had that little prick of panic and at one point turned to the Californian and said 'I don't know if I can do this bit' but before it set he waved it off with a 'sure you can' and I carried on. That was the thing I found tough. Not the pace or the strain but the tricky bits that tested your nerve. I am a bit chicken with stuff like that it's true.

On the second day we were offered the chance to see a so called cocaine factory. There are coca plantations all over the Sierra Nevada and you see coca trees growing out in the open. We were taken to this humble little shack and a young man, who'd been making cocaine since the age of eight showed us the process or crushing and grinding and cleaning... petrol acid... they use all kinds of nasty chemicals to make this paste that is then sold on to the big cartels to make cocaine.

It felt slightly surreal standing there with the Mexican and the French man taking notes, the Israeli asking if he could get some seeds to start his own cartel in the promised land, the Italians wanting to smoke the paste in a cigarette and me thinking how weird that this paste, put together by this little Colombian guy in a hut in the jungle could end up being snorted off a toilet seat in the bulls head in Brum. Fucked up.

Along the way we also met some Indians and saw a bit of how they live. Walter explained that the men spend most of their time chewing coca leaves and the women do all the work. They follow behind the men with their babies strapped to their backs sewing along the way. And it was just like that. The mamos or Indian chiefs chew so much coca their teeth fall out and their mouths are often stained with yellow and green. There isn't much food and people get ill easily not least because much of the traditional medicine is being forgotten. Walter said that if we were asked for aspirin we shouldn't give it to the Indians as it made them lazy and stopped them from maintaining their own treatments and cures. But at the same time he dished out a bit of food to one of the Indians and didn't mind when I gave some children chocolate milk and bread (couldn't help it... those eyes man). It's a tough call for Walter who has known these people for many years and sees their way of life disappearing. Can you stand in the way of so called progress? Can you pick and choose progress? I don't know.

On the forth third day you reach Cuidad Perdida. After what seems like an endless number of steps you get to the top and outstretched in front of you are these sort of ring shaped terraces and the sprawling jungle. The tops of the trees are hidden by the slow moving mist. There were once thousands of Indian people here, it was a ceremonial heart of the jungle. Now it's very quiet and very magical.

It rained in the afternoon so we sat in the very basic hut and in a mixture of Spanish, English, French and Italian played games, talked and read. In particular the Californian, the two Italians and the Mexican had by this stage won me over. We'd taken to calling the bigger Italian guy el Tigre and the other Italian guy el Pato (the duck). El Tigre struggled with the trek because of his size and on they way back he took a mule for part of the journey. But he was very good at laughing at himself and made the rest of us laugh a lot too.

And then came the jungle horn. Sweaty and dirty with hair tied back in a scarf it didn't matter... sexy I may not have been but I definitely had the jungle horn. What do you expect after all that heaving and panting in the heat? It was intense! And I guess I sort of started to consider whether the duck would be an option. He was a really lovely bloke and he looked after me. But really... honestly... no I didn't fancy him. But there was chemistry and even though nothing happened in the jungle that wouldn't be the last of el Pato.

All that trekking did me so much good and I actually felt quite emotional when it came to an end. I felt like I had achieved something big; felt more alive and happier than I have done in a long time. Something inside shifted and something clicked. And it really feels like whatever I wanted to happen in Tayrona happened in the jungle. Without thinking about it something inside sort of melted away and I stopped living in past places and just loving the moment I'm in right now. Somehow my faith in myself, in human kind, in life and the world sort of got replenished. I'm sorry if that sounds naff - just take it from me it did the trick.

When we returned to normal life we learnt that whilst in the jungle two journalists who were on an earlier tour had sold video footage of the cocaine factory to a TV channel... making narco tourism headlines all over Colombia. As if that's new! We thought we might get our cameras confiscated by the police but got back to Santa Marta without any trouble.

With just three days left in Colombia I took a bus to Cartagena where I am now. It's an amazing place and I am sorry not to have more time here. The style is Spanish Colonial but the energy is Colombian through and through. Graceful wooden balconies with bright pink flowers busting out, courtyards busy with old men playing dominoes, squares which come to life at night with street dancers and musicians. It's a very smart very vital place.

But sometimes you want to step out of the travelling bubble and into someone elses bubble. And on day one i needed to because my legs were stubbly and I had no clean clothes. I needed to do some normal stuff. I even made a list...

So off I went to one of the local Malls and found a leg waxer... It felt like I stepped back about thirty years. Thick wax stripped off with fabric that came apart like a bandage oh and the Beatles on pan pan pipes. What would John Lennon think? The woman was a bit moody too because the hair on my leg wasn't really long enough to wax. In the nail parlour they were much friendlier. I got my toes done with a polish called 'liberada' and felt like a lady again... almost. And here's the bad news. You said I should leave them at home... and maybe I should have. My straighteners seem to have reached the end of their life. It may be time to say GHD RIP. They've been wrestling to give me the slick look but they just can't cut it against the humidity. So I am facing a future of curls. I think I am ok about it. Not sure yet. Can I actually take the bold step and throw those straighteners away? I don't know. What do the people think please?

Liberated and clean I met up with El Pato El Tigre and three other Italians who are also in Cartegena for dinner last night. Valantines night with five of the loveliest blokes ever who wouldn't let me pay for a thing and taught me loads of rude words. They're all builders and electricians and painters from the North of Italy and they told me I should never trust anyone from the South.... Oops.

Later that night El Pato kind of well ish sort of ok he basically said the nicest thing. I'd been on about how they wouldn't recognise me when they met me in Cartagena as I'd look like a lady ya. And El Pato said (you know what's coming) that even though I looked beautiful in a dress he thought I looked beautiful every day in the jungle... etc etc. And I felt really really really bad then because I had been making eyes at a very very fit man, who turned out to be a lawyer from Southern Italy, and who I later ended up leaving with. Pato's face. It was like Foisgras. So sorry Pato.

And the lawyer wasn't even very interesting.

Except to look at.

Am I a bad person?

Bastardo.

Well that's it for now and probably for Colombia as I fly to Chile tomorrow and how much can happen in a day...? Please G-d not much.

Keep the geek flags flying high.

All my love and smooching.

x

PS: Don't push me cause I'm close to the edge... I'm trying not to loose my head... It's like a jungle out there it makes me wonder why I keep on going under ah hu hu.

And then it all got a bit weird....

2007-02-07T17:53:00.000-08:00

Footnote or something... Err before I begin my second attempt at recounting some of the madness a word of thanks for emails comments etc. most encouraging indeed and yet more confirmation that I have the best mates in el mundo... no but seriously you ain't met some of the dumb dull air heads that go travelling. I mean seriously did their brains get sucked through their head torches... Actually I shouldn't slag off those head torches since I kind of wish I had one. Then I'd be a super geek. Anyway there's about 58 minutes to go before this shack of an internet cafe closes for the night... so let's get to it.

I was to leave Bogota at 1900 headed for the Caribbean Coast - the price 17 hours on a freezing cold bus. But before then I met up with my DJ guide and we headed to a small village in the countryside called Guatavita. We were dropped off to soon and as we unsuccessfully attempted to hitch the rest of the way the DJ guide told me he'd recently visited a Taiter (not sure if that's how you spell it). The Taiter is a kind of doctor from an Indigenous tribe I think and increasingly Taiters are performing cleansing ceremonies across Colombia and other parts of Latin America. My guide told me that you put your life in the hands of the Taiter and witnessed quite a ceremony in which you were given a liquid to drink which made you vomit and shit relentlessly. You were cleansed of your demons and afterwards felt much better. He told me in some cases small insects or parasites came out with the vomit. (Sorry to anyone eating noodles). He told me the Taiter was headed to the coast like me and I should call him. At first I was shall we say... apprehensive but then I thought of all the weird measures we take to detox and cleanse in Europe and decided to keep an open mind. But Colombia is a weird enough place without ancient ceremonies (which the US I am told would like to patent) as I was about to find out.

Set in the hills Guatavita is a relatively new village with white stone houses that stand out underneath the blue sky lit up but the sun. But the village is famous because of its mystical and legendary lake. The Indian community worshipped at the lake threw emeralds and gold into the lake as offerings. When the Spanish came along they figured there might be a small fortune at the bottom of the lake so they dug and they drained but found very little. After some few hundred years they gave up. Guatavita is where the legend of El Dorado began. I'm sure I haven't done it justice but it gives you an idea.

When we visited Guatavita it was very quiet indeed. So much so that it felt as though the place had been abandoned. With the heat and the quietness it felt slightly surreal. So I should have known better than to smoke a joint with my Colombian guide by the mystical lake. Anyone who knows me knows that whilst I may be hardcore in some recreational areas I am not a smoker a toker a cainer... It didn't take long for every colour to become brighter and every sound more intense. The walk back up to the hill from the lake felt like a test of endurance - I saw my self in a Western walking up this big ol mountain with John Wayne or something looking for water. Jesus I was parched and we'd ran out of pesos to top it off. Finally we reached the top of the hill and settled outside of a small shop to wait for the bus.

It was then that I heard a siren and slowly - very slowly clapped out dusty cars began to roll into town and with them a procession of people in slow motion. As the cars emptied I realised everyone was dressed in black. They stood out against the white buildings and looked at us with blank expressions. It was a funeral - presumably of someone very important. Whilst it was a theatre for us we must have looked pretty strange to them too. That's why the village was so quiet. After a while I ambled off to take a couple of photos leaving my guide in his stoned coma.

But even on the day of a funeral in a quiet place like this there's still some danger. Ever get that feeling that you're being watched. It comes over you like a sharp shock and you realise someone is just about to pounce. I turned round abruptly and fixed a glare on the ragged lad watching me. Sure I was totally paranoid thanks to the joint but I've had that feeling a couple of times before. It's a useful warning so off I scampered.

Once in Bogota we had to rush for the bus. I bid my lovely guide goodbye and with a bottle of water under one arm and a sleeping bag in the other I got on the bus. Bogota is so enormous. You pass shacks and fires burning in the streets before the lights start to flicker out of focus and you leave the monster city. I found myself next to a very sweet student who looked a bit like Mowgli from the jungle book and immediately put me at ease. The road twisted and turned and I wondered how I'd ever get to sleep until I remembered I had a batch of herbal sleeping tablets in my bag... Seven hours later I woke up to mango trees and bananas hanging in the dust. We were getting close to the Caribbean.

The gorgeous twisting maid - you know who you are - had advised me to head to Taganga; a small fishing village near Santa Marta and to stay at Techos Azules where she'd lived for several months. That was indeed a very good suggestion. It's a lovely hostel with blue roofs and hammocks on a terrace looking out over the bay. She'd also suggested I look up a friend of hers called Andres which I promptly did. We met at his place and I was greeted by a little wiry woman from Sicily. There's something about little wiry woman that I just don't trust. They aren't like tall wiry men who tend to be rather awkward but well meaning. Nor are they like thin women (some of my best friends are thin women). They're more akin to the wicked witch of the west - mean.

Andres sorted out rum... and the rest for his guests who I quickly realised (excepting myself of course) were a bunch of drug addicts. It's always nice when the dealer comes round with his daughter to say hello... you know you're in for a good night right? Cocaine costs about a pound a gram here. So you can imagine it's popular with locals and even more popular with the gringos. You see a lot of wiry people here who seem to have got stuck here thanks to the white stuff some time ago. Kind of sad really.

We headed out to a bar called La Puerta, apparently the twisting maid's favourite rhumba spot. And I can see why. Lots of grinding and heaving, cheap beer and open till late. But I've since been told it's developed a more sinister character since she was last here. I'm quickly discovering that in an unknown place and with people I neither know nor trust I'm not really willing or perhaps able to let go and surrender to la locura of the night. As we say in Birmingham 'it ain't my manner' and because of that i observe before I dive in. And in La Puerta I didn't feel that comfortable. I'm always a bit weary in places where the women don't even make eye contact with let alone talk to the other women... where's the sisterhood in that? And it felt very aggressive in there - like everyone was on the hunt for something and smothered in sweat and smoke were a whole load of weird agendas.

Maybe my observing is what gave the sicilian the impression that I was looking down my nose at everyone. Or perhaps she was jealous because her boyfriend and i kept on talking about how wonderful we think the twisting maid is. I really don't know what promoted her outburst - in truth. A young Colombian guy came into La Puerta and Andreas told me he'd been one of the twisting maid's conquests. I laughed because pretty as he was he looked about 19. Twister by name twister by nature. What followed the giggles was a tirade from the Sicilian ' you think you're so much better than everyone. You play everyone even though you say you don't like games; I know what you're about and I don't like it. It's shit. You treat people like shit.' Happy days. In the back of my mind I was saying 'Piss off you mad bitch' but actually what came out of my mouth was more like 'but what did I say? I'm sorry if I offended you. I don't understand'. And I didn't really understand. When I was younger I'd have probably stuck around to try and make it right. But these days I'm glad to say I can't be bothered. Bullshit's bullshit wherever you are in the world. So I went home.

I woke up a little bit sad inside but determined to have a good day. On arriving I'd met a Colombian guy who ran a diving school and he'd invited me out to just watch the divers - me being to scared and too much of a geek to do it myself. So off I went to meet him. The trip was made up of a mother and son and two marine biologists and the sea was wonderfully calm and calming. we stopped by a deserted beach and the divers set off while I snorkeled about like a geek. I was happy enough doing that but my new diving friend had a surprise for me. When they came up again he told me to put my mask on and prepare to go under water. With no wet suit just bikini (a problem for me but not for me amiga) I took the plunge. I was so tense at first. I'd never done this before and every breath felt sharp and uncomfortable. But gradually I relaxed and we glided deeper into the ocean. What I then saw was incredible Bright blue fishes darting, schools of round fishes, things opening up and sparkling, swaying. It was truly wonderful. And all the time this man, Santiago, holding me with such tenderness and affection... such a shame I didn't fancy him. Of course I am painting a very romantic picture here but we are in Colombia so I have to admit there were a couple of times when I wondered whether his hand should be quite there but I chose to ignore that. He invited me back the next day but I chose not to go as I didn't want to spoil what had been a perfect day with a boy girl misunderstanding.

When I got back to the hostel Diana, the woman who runs it, began chatting to me about where I'd been. She knew exactly who I meant when I described the Sicilian and without prompting said 'oh her she's a crazy cow and she's horrible to everyone' and then invited me to carnival with her and her friends. I was beginning to feel much better.

The carnival was actually a pre carnival but there was so much colour and music and such fantastic dancing I felt overwhelmed. I know it's a cliche but those Colombian women - from like five to eighty five - really know how to move and the arses... what a delight. They flattered and humoured me saying I didn't dance like an English woman but I still felt like a gringo geek in her element.

When I got back to the hostel I started to talk to Freddy, Diana's husband. He's a mafioso colombiano who's been kidnapped and curses with such style you feel like he should be in a gangster movie... in his mind he probably is. When I told him about La Puerta he frowned. 'It's changed a lot' he said. 'There's an ugly mafia that operates there. A chief comes in with Colombian girls and after signals from the bar about who the new foreigners are he sets them loose. They latch onto foreign guys and then get them to buy large amounts of cocaine from him. The men in there are just as bad but they operate on their own. Latching onto foreign women for a free ride for as long as they can get it.' I don't know how much truth there is in what Freddy said but it would certainly explain why I felt like I was in a bar full of Vietnam Veterans and why I felt pretty uncomfortable in there. Whatever this is Colombia and I'm fast learning things get pretty weird pretty easily and instinct is a real gift.

The internet cafe is about to close and there's plenty more to write but I'll have to continue in a few days time when I get back from a six day hike to the lost city. Travelling aloe is tough. Or at least I find it tough. Ghosts and fantasies that I should have left behind long ago surface. There are vivid amazing things to see and taste and experience and some weird and also dull shit too. But I'm managing it and I wouldn't be anywhere else right now. One thing I will say though is that travelling alone makes you into even more of a geek than you were before. From trying to put sun cream on your back (I'm really not that bendy) to getting undressed discreetly, to smiling (probably in a weird way) at people you'd quite like to befriend; you look like and are a geek. And on that note I'll say goodnight safe in the knowledge that I've just reassured you about my present state... the gorgeous (come on give me that much) geek continues on her travels.

PS. Sorry for any errors in style or spelling. I haven't had chance to check this through so it's raw and rambling.

Welcome to Bogota

2007-02-01T05:25:00.000-08:00

The day before I flew to Bogota I drove with two precious friends to a funeral. And that's where the journey began. I had gone to support one of the most beautiful and strongest women I know, whose step father died after suffering the cruelest of killers - a brain tumor. I wanted also to pay my respects to a man who I liked very much and found both generous and reassuringly eccentric. But I hadn't banked on there being so many people there who had also learnt the value of life because of death or illness. You see John was a doctor and he cured a lot of children from cancer, sparing families from heartbreak. And so I found myself talking to people who who had endured pain and loss that I can't even imagine. One man with a wonderfully kind and accepting manner told me about how he and his two daughters had nursed his wife who died some eighteen months ago. He told me to go off an have an adventure - live life. Oh and also learn to use your digital camera properly. I'm not sure I've managed the latter but I'm working on the rest.

Then we drove through Wales to get to Heathrow airport. Where I was deposited like a lost geek at about one o'clock in the morning. Hotels were too pricey and I'm famous for sleeping pretty much anywhere so I slept in the arrivals lounge and woke up to find two old biddies figuring out the arrivals board, a man dressed in khaki figuring out my front bottom (from a distance) and the knowledge that in about three hours I'd be on my way to Bogota.

It's true; reality always tastes better than fantasy because it doesn't come from a magazine or an episode of sex in the city. But I forgot that when a gorgeous Alpha male passed by my seat to get to his further up the plane and instead an agitated academic sat down next to me. I didn't know he was an academic but I could have guessed by the way he sniffed and shuffled at babies crying and loud tanoy announcements. Actually he was one of Boigota's first treasures.

After an hour or so with my face lodged against the window, probably dribbling, the food arrived and obviously I woke up. Anyone who knows me will understand my shock at being asked if I was vegetarian. Yes I had chicken on my plate but like the Spanish Colombians don't class that as meat. It was because the book I had taken out to read, which had the word zen in the title, that he asked me if I was vegetarian. It seems if you're into zen or yoga and such like Colombians think you're vegetarian. I'm not into any of the above and although some of my best friends are vegetarians I see it as an illness or condition that can make people rather obnoxious and anal. But I'm rambling.

This tormented Professor from Bogota told me about his country, about his preferred writers and politics. He told me about a Venezuelan girl he visits in prison, who is serving a ten year jail sentence for smuggling cocaine and about the hypocrisy of the least culpable being punished while drugs barons and governments get fat playing war. He urged me to be careful but not to be scared. And that's typical Bogota.

I've only been here a couple of days so I can hardly claim to be an expert on Bogota. But I have been totally seduced by it. Unable to shake off my cynicism I've spent as little time as possible with the backpackers in my hostel... I know, I know I will have to stop being a fascist soon if I'm travelling for four months. Instead my guide's been this adorable DJ with beautiful eyes and a clapped out motor.

Yesterday we walked through Bogota, though it felt more like a trek. Everything seems full of colour and life. The retro buses that rattle through the streets; the shops, the houses, the people. There are permanent reminders of Colombia's troubles. You get checked when you enter certain streets or museums for arms. There are policemen who look more like soldiers and security guards outside important buildings. But I did not feel in any way threatened. When we went into an area that my guide thought less safe he told me to put my camera in my rucksack but that was it. We walked through wide open squares full of pigeons, through markets where trinkets and furniture hung from the ceiling, and through parks where Colombians lazed in the sunshine and gardeners carried machetes. And everywhere there's the smell of fruit or corn arepas or steak.

We drank fruit juices, which contained fruits I'd never heard of and sat at a low bar with lots of chatting workers to eat salty potatoes and carne asado - meat slapped out on a grill and served in large portions. And all the way my guide told me about Colombia and Colombians. The city is surrounded by mountains and the streets are wide and noisy. We went for a drink and to admire the view at night and I couldn't believe how abandoned the streets were. Apparently they get busy later in the week but I wondered if it was safe to wander about them. As tourists we are told not to go out at night in Bogota, to be very careful and not to carry anything valuable. And I think there are some people in the hostel where I am staying who are too scared to go out past nine o'clock. I'm lucky to have someone who knows this city to take me around.

Watching people in a bar last night it occurred to me that the big difference with people here and at home is that here they seem fearless. It's as though they accept violence and drugs as part of the system. And they exist within that system. My guide has seen people shot in front of him. A bomb went off in his apartment block whilst he was away and at ten years old he watched from his window as guerrillas held people hostage in the church below. Most Colombians have experienced or witnessed some sort of violence. But they are fearless and realistic about the fragility of life. There are no ASBOs or CRASBOs or health warnings here. At least not that I've noticed. Instead people seem incredibly free and liberated maybe because they live without fear.

Al made me do this.

2007-02-01T05:12:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure about this. Not sure at all.

A blog? I mean what is that?

Besides the fact that I don't know if I've actually set it up right and may find it resembles a porn site... or more likely a chat room for geeks (well a girl can dream) - I'm not actually sure anyone will want to read it. However, it saves on writing lots of emails saying the same thing; As well as having to make a conscious decision about who wants to read a mass email. And actually I´d quite like to keep a record of the things I am experiencing and my thoughts on this South American adventure. There I said it.

So here goes. Insecure panic attack over. I am becoming a blogger.

Al made me do it. So blame him.