Northern Peru - Zorritos to Lima

It wasn't the greatest of starts to the day that we would leave Ecuador and reach Peru.
Though we were both very excited about the next country we were all too aware of the journey ahead of us, the uncertainty of a border crossing we would have to negotiate ourselves, not to mention that we weren't entirely certain where we were headed.

Before heading to the bus station at Cuenca we needed to eat and as we simply couldn't face the offering at the hotel we were staying in we walked up the street to a place we'd eaten at the night before.
That it was closed was a precursor to our eating the most expensive banana ever.

We tried a cafe in the main street but decided against their one option menu of chicken and rice. Like scrambled egg, a man can only eat so much rice so we left, with the serving wench no doubt considering us a trifle odd.

We figured we'd find something at the bus station so once we'd reached there and found a through bus to a place called Tumbes in Peru leaving in just 30 minutes we had a look around.

Fried chicken and chips?
Ummm, no thanks.

Empanadas de queso (deep fried cheese pasty)?
Not unless it was the last option on this earth.

Interesting looking parcel, wrapped in a leaf and tied up with a shoelace?
Why yes, two please, and I'll have a coffee, two bananas and two apples while you're at it.

After handing over $4 we found a bench and sat down to enjoy our feast.
I excitedly untied the shoelace and unfolded my leaf to discover a cream coloured mush within that in my petulant and sulky state I loudly proclaimed that I wasn't eating.
My apple was more bruised than I cared for but what really put me off was its size.
It was huge and simply looked unnatural.
One sip of my sugar-laden and luke warm coffee saw that consigned to the bin (I take it boiling hot without sugar) leaving just the banana, effectively $2 worth of colon bunging fruit to make up for the fact that we wouldn't be egg bound today.

Our mood brightened somewhat on departure as we were two of only eight passengers on the bus. This lack of patrons enabled us to spread out and even to leap to the other side of the bus should something interesting become apparent.
And it did. The scenery became transfixing, an arid moonscape with mountains which the road clung to and our driver seemed intent on trying to fling us off.

By lunchtime we'd arrived at Huaquillas, a typical border town with few redeeming features, where we were gestured at to disembark.
We did as bid but couldn't fathom what was going on until an official told us to wait here for thirty minutes for another bus.

We wandered across the road and surveyed the lunchtime options,
my spirits plummeting on realising that it would be a choice of chicken, rice, or chicken and rice.
The only choice about it really being which outlet ran the least risk of giving us botulism (with emphasis on 'bot').

Twenty minutes later and back at the bus station we were now told that our onward bus would be in an hour's time. What had happened to our original connection was unclear but the situation was wearing thin so we elected to take a taxi to the border and see if we could pick up onward transport from there.

We took another taxi from the border and as we arrived in Tumbes we asked our driver to take us to the cashpoint and then a hotel near the beach.

"The beach? The beach is thirty kilometres away señor. There is no beach in Tumbes"

This was rather devastating news to us for we knew that the only hope of getting this show back on the road was to feel the sun burning down on us, the sand between our toes and to swallow mouthfuls of the Pacific as it battered us into submission.

We asked our driver for some advice, pleading with him like two wide-eyed heroin addicts desperate for a fix to come up with an alternative.
He suggested Playa Zorritos citing white sand, warm water and it being very quiet as reasons to head there.

Thirty minutes later we were standing by the side of the Pan-American highway in a dusty and uninspiring town looking at each other and wondering if the driver had taken us for a ride, literally and figuratively.

However, we were right outside a hospedaje so went in to be shown two rooms by the bear-like Oscar. The first was ok but the second, for just an extra fiver, was a gem.
A wooden shack on stilts, large room, comfy bed, French windows out onto a balcony which overlooked a beautiful beach and the sound of the waves crashing in a few yards away.

Perfect!

We went out to find food after a quick wash and brush up and, desperate to avoid the chicken and rice brigade, ended up in a particularly swanky hotel whose restaurant had tablecloths, napkins, vegetables; the works.
It was pricy but it would be worth it.

After being quite clear what we wanted to eat Kerry was so devastated at being served stone cold veg that it was all she could do not to break down and weep.
Neither of us are particularly adept at dealing with frustration and this was almost the final straw.
That actually came when I felt a familiar itch on my right ankle bone and looked down to see a mosquito gnawing away next to four other angry looking welts.
These began to itch like the devil and I hopped about such that the waiter must have assumed I had taken leave of my senses.
I was in hell until we reached the room and I could administer my magical potion I bought in Mexico which douses the fire of these irritations.

We slept like logs that night and awoke next morning to the surf pounding the beach and the sun blazing through our curtains.
Breakfast was included in the room rate so we toddled off to the outdoor dining area and sucked up the beautiful fresh air along with our coffees and fruit juices and looked forward to getting on that beach.

Just as we were about to do so another gringo took his seat and we struck up a conversation.
Not only was Peter a genuine and likeable individual, a veteran of many travels and prospective Alaskan salmon fisherman but he was also a trans-continental cyclist.
The bike I'd been eyeing up beneath that cabin to my right was his and he was three quarters of the way through his Colombia to Lima ride; a part retrace of a previous Colombia to Tierra del Fuego trip on the same bike.

Well, that was us sorted for a while.
It was fascinating to hear his stories of life on the road, to have a good gander at his bike and to tell him about some of my endeavours.
Interested as he was in our story too, Kerry explained that we immediately felt at home here in Zorritos because we're from the sea.
I felt it only right to point out we live near it rather than hail directly from it but I think he'd gathered that anyway.

Meeting Peter provided me with such a boost and complemented the positive vibe I was getting from Zorritos.
If you're reading this Peter (and if you're not, why not? I'm reading your blog!) then cheers! And bien viaje.

We spent that morning on sunbeds on the beach, reading, listening to music and periodically taking a dip in the sea.
It was fabulous and we couldn't have been happier if a naked Kylie Minogue and Brad Pitt were mopping our respective brows with a cool, damp cloth.

Things got even better at lunchtime as the diner we chose served chicken salad and even though I had to order the chicken and the salad separately and the staff thought I was quite mad it mattered not; a meal without either rice or egg felt like a lottery win.
In addition to the good food, the waitress prevented me from losing pair of sunglasses number seven by running out after us once we'd left.
Impressive and heart-lifting stuff.

Yes, we were well on the way to a state of high contentment and near euphoria after just half a day here so it was an easy decision to reach to stay a few days more.

A huge dog befriended us on the beach the next morning and decided to lie near us and bark aggressively should anyone come within 100 yards.
We don't know why, we didn't encourage it and neither of us like dogs (except chihuahuas) so it was a bit of a mystery.

Other fauna based activity saw the deserted beach come alive with literally thousands of red crabs which would emerge from holes in the sand, pat sand down and then scuttle about for a while before disappearing underground again.
They were incredibly sensitive and would bolt away from us if we so much as looked in their direction.

Such was life at Zorritos: quiet, relaxing, reinvigorating, necessary.

Much as we loved it we were aware of our flight from Lima to Easter Island on 4 November and of our desire to see a couple of places en route so we left after four blissful days.

Oscar took it upon himself to organise our passage to Trujillo with the first leg being a doorstep pick up in a collectivo to Piura, changing there for a bus onwards to our goal.

There was one proper seat left as we boarded, leaving me to endure the four hour journey on a fold-down seat wedged between two other people. It was very uncomfortable and with the lady on my left falling asleep on my shoulder too I was mightily relieved when we reached Piura.

The next leg, six hours on a well-appointed coach, was a breeze in comparison even though it was very hot on-board. On arrival at Trujillo we jumped in a taxi to the nearby surf town of Huanchaco, after all, we didn't want to undo all that hard work we'd done at Zorritos by staying inland when the sea was so close.

As we arrived quite late and in the dark we chose a room in haste with the expected unsatisfactory result.
First thing next morning, after prising ourselves off the crusty sheets, we wandered around a fog bound Huanchaco looking for somewhere a little more 'us' and did so, right at the far end of town.
The hotel Las Palmeras was partly chosen to give us amusing photo opportunities to send to Connor and Jordan (Palmer) but also because of its pool, quiet spot and sea view. That we would be the only guests for two of the four days we spent here would be an unexpected bonus.

The fog didn't really lift on Sunday and it was still overcast on Monday when we woke up.
Luckily, on Huanchaco's doorstep is both the colonial city of Trujillo and the ancient ruin of Chan Chan, city of the Chimu people, so we set out to explore both.

The site of Chan Chan is vast and the Pan-American highway actually cuts right through it.
The Chimu predated the Incas by 100 years or so and built out of sun baked or adobe bricks. What remains of their city is limited to the crumbling outer walls but it's the scale of it all that is impressive.
We had a good mosey around off the beaten track, only reading when back at the room later that armed gangs patrol these areas, mugging idiotic gringo tourists that don't stick to the path.

Once we'd had our fill of the architecture of the pre-Colombians we headed into Trujillo to see some more colonial buildings.
Trujillo was founded by Francisco Pizarro, who, whilst in Panama, heard tales of a fantastic and gold-laden culture to the south and made it his business to find it, conquer it and help himself to its spoils.

Depending on your point of view Pizarro is either the heroic discoverer of new lands and incredible riches in the name of God and the king of Spain or the barbarous pillager of a continent.
Whatever you think, there is no denying his place in history and Avenida Francisco Pizarro is as common here as 'High Street' is in Blighty.

Dropped off at the main plaza, things started well, what with the wide open space, imposing cathedral and brightly painted buildings but beyond that we soon considered this to be just another town.
We walked around for an hour or so but actually got more out of car spotting: VW beetles are gloriously in abundance here and there is also a healthy smattering of '70s American muscle to get us a-whooping and almost involuntarily exclaiming "Whoa! Look at that" every once in a while.

After a delicious lunch of duck (and rice) the sun came out so we quickly commandeered a collectivo and made for Huanchaco once more.
It was a bit breezy on the beach but our hotel pool was enclosed so we lazed there instead.

The next day was a scorcher and we didn't even bother to leave the hotel until it was time to eat our evening meal.
There's a definite feel that we're slowing down somewhat and an absolute and unequivocal realisation that the coast makes us feel good and alive and being inland eventually makes us feel grouchy and disaffected.
And to think I spent the first thirty years of my life as far away from the sea as possible in the UK!

Kerry wanted to wear her cardigan at breakfast next day but its whereabouts was firstly an inconvenient mystery and, one minute later, an expletive laden and meltdown inducing unknown.
The poor lamb was beside herself because only two days ago she realised she'd left her perfume in Zorritos; this was the final straw for when you have next to nothing then each item you do possess takes on great significance.
I did what men have been doing for centuries in these situations, nothing, watching as the whole contents of her case were first flung skyward, then hurled with venom at the floor.
Tears of frustration flowed and I sat there like a plank.

We eventually walked down to brekkie, took our seats at the same table as yesterday, ate and drank our fill, got up to leave the table and.....................
Kerry saw her cardigan on the other chair at our table.
She'd left it there yesterday morning and no one had noticed.

On Wednesday we figured that if it was hot we'd stay and if it was cloudy we'd head to Lima.
The sun shone and the pool was as far as we got again though we did finally have to share it, a fifty-something Norwegian and Dane couple travelling for ten weeks through Bolivia and Peru.

Come lunchtime, horror of horrors! Cloud.
This saw us exercise back up plan B and take a surf lesson - we were, after all, in prime Peruvian surf territory.

For £5 we had fifteen minutes in the classroom and over an hour out in the sea with our two guides and one other student, a large Swiss by the name of Gaudi.
Whilst Kerry and I have enjoyed a modicum of success in the past on the beaches of north Devon and Cornwall and were using this opportunity to learn technique, this was Gaudi's first stab at surfing.
Built more for Rugby's front row or wrestling it didn't look hopeful for him from the off.
It took four of us to prise him into his wetsuit and the only way we could get it zipped up was for our instructor to stand on Gaudi's arse whilst pulling the wetty together while I manipulated the zipper.

In the water Kerry and I were soon catching at least every other wave and feeling the tremendous rush of doing so. A few people were standing on the pier watching us and were whooping their appreciation every time we did so to further massage our egos.

As expected Gaudi was struggling to get up. As I was paddling back out to sea after a success I looked up and saw him, lying down on his board, arcing towards me on the crest of a wave. I took the most effective evasive action I could think of and would like to think that my high-pitched scream and closing of my eyes at just the right moment prevented my certain decapitation.

Though I sliced my toe open on exiting the water nothing could detract from the exhilaration we felt as we walked home. Not even the fact there were two new guests checking in to our hotel meaning the sun beds would be in even greater demand.

But we had to hit the road anyway on Thursday and took a bus at midday from Trujillo to Lima, a rather exhausting nine hours away.
The bus was fabulously comfortable with thick leather seats, free food and drink and wi-fi but nine hours is nine hours.
What was so surprising was that the six hours of daylight were spent travelling through desert and quite probably the other three were too.
This is one parched coastline and I salute anyone who has cycled it.
Speaking of which, I saw a guy heading north towing a trailer at one point but he was gone too quickly to register much else.
It's got me thinking though.........

As we were arriving into Lima so late we'd booked ahead but on arrival our room didn't seem to be ready.
We were asked to sit in the lounge and wait for ten minutes but after twenty Kerry's patience had evaporated and she sought the owner to find out what was going on.

A few years ago, in Croatia, we stayed the night in some old geezers house and we named him 'Slobodan Bates' for the slightly crazed look in his eye and for the fact that we wouldn't have been completely surprised if he'd have tried to murder us.

Our creepy host in Lima was quickly christened 'Inca Bates' and it was inexplicable that the room wasn't ready at nearly 2200 hours as well as that even when he finally granted us access he continued to clean the bath.

Breakfast was included but it was bread so we enquired if we may substitute this for fried eggs. This resulted in our having a conversation with a 'female' through the door of the kitchen but we never saw her, only Bates.
More shades of Anthony Perkins.

There was another chap working at the hospedaje whose inability to understand our Spanish left us wondering if he or we were mad and the other guests at breakfast were not being ignorant, they were deaf mutes.
You couldn't make it up.

So what of Lima? Well, it's no Quito but it's very cosmopolitan and has quite a nice feel about it.
We walked for miles around Miraflores or 'Gringo Central' and visited an ancient adobe pyramid that's being restored having previously been used as a Moto X track.
On day two we braved the local transport system to visit El Centro and visit a few churches, plazas, the cathedral and a museum.

A well-dressed German approached us at the Monasterio de San Francisco and explained that he'd been robbed of everything by unscrupulous sorts at 0400 and could we possibly see our way to helping him out.
It was a no-win situation for us - tell him to sling his Gerry hook and we would feel dreadful but hand over cash and he could be on the fiddle with us being the latest in a long line of mugs.

Well, I told him that if I'd been robbed blind then I would hope that someone would help me out, giving him 10 soles and telling him he could at least eat and drink now.
There is no telling if he diddled us but if he did then he is, quite simply, a git.

There's no bed for us tonight for that wondrous time is upon us where we make for Easter Island.
I've wanted to come here for so long and it's the sort of place you wonder if you'll ever make it to - I do hope it lives up to expectation.

Andean Kerry do Ecuador

It's been a funny old week in the lives of your temporary rat-race escapees with, for the first time in six months on the hoof, many more lows than highs.
Whilst Ecuador is undoubtedly a fine country, fascinating, intoxicating even, a combination of our drawing our financial horns in, Blighty-esque weather and forced reliance on sustenance which could best be described as uninteresting and barely edible pap, our mood has generally hovered between dismay and disaffection.

"Disaffected about being on holiday for nigh on a year Andy? You're having a laugh", I hear you scoff.
Well, yes actually, though we have acted decisively to arrest this slump and get proceedings back on the straight and narrow by booking two trips of the "Oh my god, I could pop with excitement" variety.

We pick up from last time with us having had a ball in Quito and about to make for the coast and some long overdue sun, sea and sand at a place called Puerto Lopez.
We decided we should take an overnight bus from Quito as the journey was 12 hours in length and so I began to search the net for some info.

Having established that "Reina Del Camino" were the company we needed I googled them to find not details of departure times and prices but reports of a crash on an overnight service to the coast where the coach left the road and fell 100ft down a cliff, killing 30 + passengers.
Deciding that lightning was unlikely to strike twice in the same place we decided to go for it.
As a recent facebook post would testify, you are more likely to die from texting than (for example) a shark attack so a night bus on precipitous and twisting Andean roads should be a cake-walk.
(winky winky bro')

Despite falling asleep at about 2130 it was anything but a pleasant journey. We stopped innumerate times to let people off, each such stop proceeded by the lights coming on and the town in question being bellowed out several times by the conductor. The road was quite rough so I found my neck lolling like those stupid dog things you see on car dashboards and on a scale of 1-10 for the overall experience I'd give it a resounding zero.

To make matters worse we somehow shaved over 2 hours off the journey time to see us arrive in Puerto Lopez not at 0745 but at 0530.
Now it is fair to say that neither Kerry nor I are at our best at that hour. In fact we resemble the lobotomised, or people sedated with horse tranquillisers.
Roused from our slumber by a moustachioed arse barking Espanol at us and then being oiked out into the drizzling pre-dawn was horrific and we sat on our packs at the roadside for a full half hour before one of us suggested we perhaps ought to think about moving.

Puerto Lopez looked like a hovel of brobdingnagian proportions as dawn broke and the inhabitants' day began.
Breeze blocks and corrugated iron were the building materials of necessity if not choice, roads were unpaved and, as I sought somewhere to take a leak, Kerry watched a stray dog run out of an eatery with a joint of meat, drop it in the road and the proprietor retrieve it.
We were far from enamoured.

I left Kerry on the seafront to go and find us a room and, if I say so myself, did a fine job.
I looked at 3 or 4 different rooms ranging from $8 bamboo shacks to $30 hotels with all mod cons. Not only that, I took photos of each room so that Kerry could see the fruits of my labours.
I looked forward to her affirmation as I returned to her but instead was met with frosty indignation that I'd left her long enough for her to get cold.

Is it just me or are all women always cold?
Here we were about 100 miles south of the equator and I was hearing that familiar complaint. Tempting as it was to offer my usual "well put a jumper on then" I realised that she doesn't have one and such a suggestion may have been the precursor to a previously unthought of shopping excursion.
No, best to keep schtum.

We were fortunate that the room we chose was available there and then so after a quick brekkie we adjourned to our quarters and slept solidly until almost midday.
We looked forward to getting out into the sunshine, sitting on the beach and taking a dip so you can imagine our disappointment to find the town bathed in a soupy fog with as much prospect of our hitting the beach as of Luis Suarez staying on his feet in the box when within 6 yards of an opponent.

It was actually a little bit nippy, so much so that although we swung in hammocks near the pool that afternoon we did so wearing jumpers and socks. I'm no Bill Giles and I find meteorology about as interesting as knitting or party political broadcasts but I would like to know how you can be so close to the equator and at sea level and be cold.


Next day we awoke, excitedly drew back the curtains and found that the soupy fog had lifted somewhat, about a foot in all, so sun, sand and frolics were unlikely to be ours today either.

To wile away the morning we pored over reams of information regarding the Inca trail in Peru.
In our naïveté we assumed one would turn up in Cuzco, find the trail and set off on your own. There would be accommodations en route, eating opportunities, and a jolly time would be had by all.
A few days ago I'd decided to have a quick scoot through the Peru section of the LP and was amazed to discover that not only do you have to go on an organised tour but you have to reserve your places a minimum of 6 weeks in advance, subject to availability.
There are only 200 spaces per day available and with innumerate tour companies offering places and armies of gringos wanting to undertake this rite of passage it is by no means a given that you can go when you want to.

It was something of a minefield: do you want to hire a porter, walking poles, a sleeping bag? Do you want to return by train to Cuzco or Ollantaytambo? The Hiram Bingham express or the Vistadome? Spend the night in Aguas Calientes or return to Cuzco straight after visiting Machu Picchu?
It probably took us a couple of hours but we finally nailed it and we're on.
The Inca trail, it's lung-busting altitude and knee-joint-threatening day of over 2000 irregular steps is booked for the end of November. Can't wait!

We went for a little walk around town on Tuesday afternoon and began to really like the place. The people were friendly and despite its down-at-heel appearance there's enough building work going on to suggest that in a few years it will be a totally different proposition.
There's a row of bars on the beach and a couple of enterprising owners had rigged a tv up and were showing the Venezuela v Ecuador world cup qualifier. What better way to spend a couple of hours? Supping grog, on the beach, watching footy.
As that match finished then Chile v Argentina started: scheduling of the highest order.


The weather on our third and final day in Puerto Lopez was still pretty dire with heavy cloud hanging overhead.
In light of our booking our Machu Picchu trek we decided to go on a yomp to see how we fared and elected to walk along the coast to the next town.
I downloaded a pedometer and off we set, completing 4.5 rather boring miles before we reached a long and completely deserted beach.
After 4 or 5 weeks inland the pull of the sea was too strong and we felt compelled to whip all our kit off in a trice and take a dip. Fortunately (for them) noone was on hand to witness our impromptu strip and subsequent flubby and middle-aged waddle down the sand.

By the time we arrived back at our hotel we'd completed 9 miles and though it was at sea level and we had no packs on our backs we felt confident about the trek. The longest day we'll face is 12 miles so if we can do 9 straight off with no ill effects then we should be fine.

We took a bus to Guayaquil on Thursday, Ecuador's largest city and convenient stop over for us on the way to Riobamba.
Formerly of bad reputation, the city is cleaning up its act and is much less dangerous than it might have been 10 or 15 years ago. The riverside malecon is being redeveloped and there are some lovely old buildings to gawk at, particularly the cathedral in Parque Bolivar.


As we wandered around we saw an office for LAN, the airline that serves Easter Island. By coincidence I'd been trying, unsuccessfully, to find some information about this online so we went inside and were thankful that our agent spoke some English.

I began by asking about flights from Santiago in January.
"To Where?"
"Easter Island"
"Where?"
"Easter Island. Rapa Nui? (shows map)
"Ahhhh, Isla de Pascua"

I've never heard it called that before but went with it.

"Ok, there's a flight from Santiago, change in Lima"
"Change in Lima? Can we board in Lima instead then and not travel from Santiago?"
"No"
"I don't understand why not. Ok, what if I was Peruvian and I lived in Lima and I wanted to go to Easter Island. What would I have to do? Are you saying I would fly to Santiago, fly from there back to Lima and then from Lima to Easter Island?"
"Yes"
"Well I'm sorry but that is ridiculous"

......... A 5 second stalemate...........

"One moment, there is a flight from Lima, direct to Easter Island"
"Go on................."

We eventually got there and even better, if we could fly on 3 November and stay on the island for a week we would qualify for a 75% discount on the regular price.
We snapped her hand off, booked them before she could change the price or offer apologies that they'd all sold out or something and skipped out of there like our numbers had come up on the lotto.
What a bobby-dazzler! Easter Island, at last.
My old mate Nick Tandy knows what it means to me to be going there.
Belter!

The next leg of our journey would take us to Riobamba, an unremarkable place in its own right but the starting point for a twice weekly train to, a couple of hours south thereof.
Whenever there is an opportunity we like to travel by train. They're so few and far between on this continent that it's something of a novelty to do so and this particular one is notable for the scenery it passes and the changes in elevation it deals with.

By the time we'd travelled from sea level at Guayaquil, in our flip flops, to 8000 ft at Riobamba we were both perished and headachey.
We went some way to repairing ourselves by feasting on pizza and pasta and turned in early so as to be up early on Saturday morning and be first in the queue for tickets for Sunday's train.

Breakfast has become something of a problem meal for us of late and today was no exception.
In Blighty we normally eat an omelette but they don't seem to exist in South America.
As people who either can't or would rather not eat bread it is very difficult to find anything to eat other than scrambled egg; fine for a few days on the spin but now we're on day 45 of it it's becoming increasingly difficult to get down.
Today's scrambled egg was tasteless and meagre, the coffee in Ecuador is (surprisingly) instant and the juice arrives suspiciously separated in the glass and tastes of bile.
It's depressing.

After my 3 mouthfuls of cardboard egg we went over to the station to book our tickets to discover that the train no longer runs from Riobamba. It now starts in Alausi, travels 12km through beautiful scenery to a mountain called the Devil's Nose and then returns. It is purely and simply a tourist train, not a convenient and exciting way of getting from A-B.
In addition to that you are no longer allowed to ride on the roof following 'incidents' in recent years.

Bugger!

That there are pictures all over town of the train travelling through spectacular scenery with hordes of backpackers sitting on their packs on the top of each carriage was not helping quell our disappointment.

After a quick conflab we decided to get to Alausi by bus and ride the train tomorrow on its short little hop - better than nothing we reasoned.
The bus journey was only 2 hours but if this mode of transport were ever a novelty then it's fair to say that it has well and truly worn off.

Alausi was hot, dusty and distinctly lacking in any comforts that may have made these two ageing backpackers feel better.
There were lots of indigenous Indians here, all dressed to the nines in thick woollen layers and trilby hats, children in blankets on the women's backs and there we were in our zip-off trousers and flip flops. We felt a little out of place.

We ate lunch in a Chinese where the menu had been translated into English.
We could choose from:
Lion with potatoes
Chicken to the broth
Chop Suzy solo (shop alone suey)
Chicken to the iron

We would have hooted, had the blood-spattered, vest wearing owner not have been peering through the curtain from the kitchen at us whilst brandishing a meat cleaver.

There was little to do in Alausi except wait for the train and we did that separately; Kerry continuing to plod through the apparently mind-numbingly boring "Anna Karinena" in our room and me sitting at the feet of a humungous statue of Jesus on top of a hill overlooking the town listening to podcasts and larking about with 3 local kids.


Dinner that night was (hopefully) our culinary nadir. Only one 'restaurant' was open, a grotty dive offering one dish of chicken stew. Whilst this sounds ok, if scrambled egg is wearing thin then so is rice, especially when accompanied by knobbly sparrows knee-cap.


We're normally pretty resolute when it comes to food but just lately we've been talking at length about having a roast dinner, a good Ruby Murray, sun-dried tomatoes, sausages from the butchers next door to Kerry's work. What was on our plates just got us down and we turned in that night, unsatisfied and hoping the train would raise our spirits.

Sunday was a beautifully sunny day and, even at 0730, the town was a throng of activity. A local market attracted people from far and wide and the trilby hats outnumbered the zip-off trousers of the gringos assembling to ride the Devil's Nose by a good 100:1.


It was actually a wonderful way to spend a couple of hours, despite our not being allowed on the roof. We dropped 2000ft in those 12km and traversed a couple of switchbacks to reach a place called Sibambe.
There was a restaurant here, locals posing with llamas for a dollar per photo and a troupe of dancers, waving at the train as we arrived and beginning their performance as we disembarked.
It was all as natural as your average Hollywood bra content though I must admit, the baby llama was a bit of a cutie.

At the small museum there we learned that roof riding was banned in 2009, the train ran through from Riobamba until 2010 and the whole line from Quito to Guayaquil will reopen in 2013.
Sadly, a case of exceptionally unfortunate timing on our part.

We also learnt that the line was built around the turn of the century and with the original indigenous work force prone to running off into the cordillera the Americans employed Jamaicans and Barbadians instead. A total of 4000 were employed, a remarkable 2500 of whom succumbed to tropical diseases or were killed in other ways during the line's construction.

On the walk to the bus to our next port of call, Cuenca, I stopped by a workshop and paid 10 cents for the chappie to make some repairs to my case handle. He only wanted 5 cents but I thought I'd tip him heavily for the sterling job he did. My case is undoubtedly on its last legs but, come hell or high water, it will see this trip out.

Cuenca is another colonial gem and it was a pleasant enough stop without blowing us away.
The thing is, we've seen so many places that have done so that we're getting a little blase. 'Jaded' I think is the correct word to use.
We bumped into a Welsh couple we saw on the train yesterday but that pleasant little exchange aside Cuenca was largely forgettable for us as our sense of wonder had all but deserted us.


What we need is a change of scenery, a beach perhaps, something to eat other than scrambled egg and rice, to cross another border.

And so to Peru.

Quito

The weather may have been atrocious as we travelled by taxi from another inconveniently located bus terminal to the centre of town but, despite the misted up windows, we could still see that Quito was likely to tickle our fancy.
We saw some of the old town more than once as, yet again, we'd landed a taxi driver who didn't know where we were heading.
This is a problem of seemingly epidemic proportions in the Americas and is at best wearisome to the traveller, at worst the precursor to expletive laden incredulity.

We finally pitched up at an hotel recommended by our guidebook, the Viena (sic) Internacional, described as "great value if you can look beyond the 70s decor".
Being male, I would have been oblivious to the chintzy wallpaper, parque flooring and OTT bathroom suite had it not been pointed out to me and with Kerry twirling around with her arms out by way of accentuating all the space the room afforded then it was alright by us.
Value and space over swank, every time.

The sun was out next day and so it was an opportunity to dig the flip flops out and get some air around our tootsies again. Ever since Bogota we'd been ensconced in trainers: whilst on the one hand safe and comforting, on the other a recipe for hot feet by day and an offensive cheesy pungency permeating the room by night.

Quito truly is a beautiful city. The second largest in Ecuador after Guayaquil and high in the Andes at around 9700 ft, it is chock full of churches, plazas and lovely, restored colonial buildings.
I'll say one thing for the spaniards of the  16th century: gold-crazed and fervently religious ethnic cleansers they may have been but they knew how to build a beautiful city.
Plaza Grande and Plaza Santo Domingo elicited soon 'oooh's and 'aaah's from us and a couple of the churches we went inside were so ornately beautiful that they stopped us in our tracks.

Inside one, "La Compania de Jesus", we stood and watched as people queued up to touch, pray to and rub a 2ft high effigy of Christ. One lady disappeared under the robes for a good minute or so and then spent far too long for decency's sake with her head near the effigy's groin. A young chap in his twenties kept rubbing the cloak and then his head and another lady nearly set herself alight as the effigy's presence made her oblivious to the myriad nearby candles.
It all made for fascinating viewing.

As lunchtime approached we made for perhaps the most iconic structure of the entire city, the Basilica del Voto Nacional. This is a wonderfully gothic, behemothic edifice which would perhaps be best viewed in a violent electrical storm, with bats flying around it or to the accompaniment of dramatic organ music.
For just $2 we climbed several flights of stairs before reaching the belfry. Standing on a creaking platform behind the tower clock faces was enough to put the willies up us but we then crossed a rickety 100m walkway above the nave, climbed a ladder and then another ladder outside the cathedral to reach another tower.
We were a good 100m up and the wind was blowing severely, from every possible angle!

After a hearty lunch of "mountain of rice with prawns, chicken and beef" we wandered north to one of the city's parks and sat awhile watching Quitenos about their business. Once we got too hot and the planks of the bench on which we were sat became too uncomfortable we walked back to our neck of the woods. On the way we saw a chap with a couple of geese and half a dozen chicks walking down the street, then crossing the road. We wondered if perhaps he was exercising one of those ancient rights that you hear of: 'People called Ted can drive a pregnant ox through the gentleman's smoking lounge of 34 Acacia Avenue on the 32nd of Octember each year', that sort of thing.

As we sat in the inner courtyard of our hotel that evening a quite glorious realisation engulfed me: Ecuador were playing Chile in a world cup qualifier in Quito tomorrow.
I'd long held this round of South American international football fixtures as 'possibilities' but with our itinerary being so loose I never really knew whether it would be viable or not.
As I sat there trying to work out how, where and if I could get tickets a group of chaps approached me and asked for the internet password.
I'd seen them earlier when they arrived, with Chilean addresses on their luggage and they were here for the match.

Ten minutes later we were the best of buddies: I'd shown them photos of me at the world cup in South Africa and told them how I'd admired the way that Ivan Zamorano belted out their national anthem at France 98. Hugo had explained how I could get my hands on tickets for tomorrow, had invited me to stay at his house and also insisted that I was now an honorary Chilean.

I woke early next day, excited about the probables but nervous about the possibles. What if we couldn't get tickets? To be so close and not get in would be agony.
Kerry and I agreed a price we'd be prepared to pay and then we travelled by taxi to the Estadio Olimpico Atahualpa to see about securing the holy grail.

En route we bantered with our driver:
"Do you like football señor?"
"Si, CLARO" (roughly translated as "abso-bleedin-lutely")
"I was at England v Ecuador at the world cup in Germany in 2006"
"Si? Oh wow, Beckham, free-kick, England very lucky".

It was actually a doddle to secure tickets. In full view of the police, touts were waving handfuls of them at every passing car so it was simply a choice of whose palm to grease. We turned down the pushy arse who wanted $40, the wizened crone whose price was $30 and eventually settled on the jovial lady who spoke at a pace that we could understand.
Holding those tickets was a fabulous feeling, although you never know for sure until you're in the ground.
In Germany in 2006 I bought a ticket from someone outside the ground whose name was printed on the front: Beatte Drumm.
I was certain I'd been diddled though I got in without any bother.

There were six hours until kick-off and what better way to spend it than on one of those open top tour buses that my beloved is so fond of? By a wonderful coincidence the starting point was outside the Atahualpa so, having bought tickets from the 1970s VW camper van which served as the ticket booth for Quito Bus, we were off.

We hopped off after a few minutes to have a look at El Mariscal, the travellers haunt of the city and home to swathes of bars, restaurants and hostels.
We immediately disliked it. It was litter strewn, characterless and felt like Faliraki or Lloret de Mar or some other "ere we go" type Euro-Hades.
We had a quick coffee and forced vast amounts of cake down our necks before making for the next tour bus to complete the route.

By the time we reached the stop I was in dire need of a "gypsy's kiss" but we were in a heavily built up area. We walked up and down a couple of streets to no avail but there was no way I could sit for 2 1/2 hours on a bus like this so I had to do something.
I went down a side road and found a patch of earth near a car park, praying that no one would come along for the thirty seconds or so I needed.
Around ten seconds in I heard footsteps, voices after fifteen and with a good ten seconds still to go I saw the surprised faces of two men and a woman.
It was a tricky situation but stopping wasn't really an option. I elected to simply turn my back and when finished I offered them an "I'm guilty" show of my palm and a sheepish look, only then discerning that one of the guys was wearing some sort of uniform.
I was glad to get on that tour bus and mingle with the other gringos, just in case my witness had a thing about indecent exposure.

On the bus I took the last empty seat and got talking to my neighbour. Not only was he Chilean and here for the footy but he was the 32 year old official attorney to the Chilean national football team. He told me he'd secured his dream job, travelling with the team to all matches, watching from executive boxes and dealing with any legal issues the players or staff ever had.
I had to admit it sounded perfect, if you could lose that 'dealing with any legal issues' bit.

And so to the match. Though only yesterday I was declared an honorary Chilean I decided to keep this under wraps given that we were firmly in the home end.
We were directed to our area of concrete seating by a rifle toting soldier and enjoyed the pre-match banter with our neighbours, one of whom was wearing a Chelsea hat. We couldn't quite fathom why there only seemed to be space for one of us but I checked the painted on seat numbers a couple of times, yep, 35 & 36, someone has just hoochie-coochied along a bit too far, it's nothing to worry about.

The teams took to the field, lined up and the ref put the whistle to his lips.
At that precise moment a young couple came and stood in our space and the upshot of our positional altercation and mutual ticket waving was that not only were we in the wrong seats but we were two rows out too.
It wasn't an easy passage, thirty odd seats to the left and two rows up and I'm sure everyone I stood on was as vexed as I would have been in their position.
We never did find our true seats, we saw a bit of a gap and I nudged the old timer to his right to make room for us. As the game had started he didn't seem to mind.

The game was a belter. Chile started well but then Ecuador came into it, hitting the bar and going close a couple of times to get the crowd going.
A rare Chilean attack down the right was spectacularly and quite hilariously thumped into his own net with aplomb by Juan Carlos Paredes to stun the home crowd but Ecuador weren't behind for long. Ex Manchester City flop Felipe Caicedo scored a pearler before half time and then added another after his much delayed penalty had been saved in the 54th minute.
Chile were down to ten men as a result of the penalty and were never really in it from then on. Alexis Sanchez showed flashes of brilliance but a third Ecuadorian goal seemed inevitable, particularly after Chile lost another man.
3-1 then, a fantastic game, a happy crowd and the two gringos courteously spoken to at length by the young lads in front, in English, in between their boinging up and down and gesticulating.
Marvellous stuff.

One of the things we want to do on this trip is to walk the Inca trail from Cuzco to Machu Picchu in Peru. We've begun looking into this and one aspect we have to deal with is the fact we'll be yomping for four days at altitudes of up to 12000ft. As climbing two steps in Bogota (8500ft) and Quito (9700ft) has rendered us doubled up and wheezing like a 60 a day Capstan man we are a tad nervous about this undertaking but realised that Quito was a perfect place to do a recce.

The forward thinking authorities have invested millions of dollars in a cable car from the city up to a height of about 12500ft and from there, if one is so inclined, you may trek for six hours up to the top of a peak at a height of around 15000ft.
We decided to go up in the cable car and just have a little walk around but once we were there we couldn't resist a stab at the full trek. Unfortunately, we weren't really equipped for it and had to concede, at 14500ft, that the additional hour required to make the top wasn't going to be possible without a coat, hat and more than one meat pattie and a melted chocolate bar.
Whilst it was pretty hard work it has given us the confidence to tackle the Inca trail so watch this space for news on that.

On the long walk back to the cable car we stopped at a thatched shack where ruddy faced mountain people were cooking up all sorts on rustic barbeques and selling drinks.
We invested a dollar in an alleged elixir to combat altitude sickness, not something we were particularly suffering from although we both did have a mild headache.
The drink was boiling hot, alcoholic and pee coloured; not entirely unpleasant to taste and certainly nice to hold in your hands in the cold mountain air.
Kerry had just a couple of sips and I necked the rest, only stopping when the dregs became a little off putting.

There were two queues to take the cable car back down: express and regular. As the proud holders of express tickets we expected to be whisked down in a trice but for various reasons our queue was slower than the regular and there was no control exerted by the disinterested operative.
My head had begun to pound as a result of the elixir and I was in no mood to hang about. When we were finally shown to our cable car the young lady supposedly managing the queues was left in no doubt what I thought about things and the rest of that evening was spent feeling like I'd had a ten pinter the day before.
We also both got perished to the bone and luxuriated long in the boiling shower in our room.
We learnt some valuable lessons though (mainly about not drinking urine-like, headache inducing drinks served from a vat) so it was a very worthwhile exercise.

Our final day in Quito was spent at Mitad del Mundo or Middle of the World.
22km north of Quito lies the equator and at the very spot where clever clogs scientist Charles-Marie De La Condamine determined this in 1736 now sits a rather tacky visitor centre.
Tacky or not, the equator is the equator so we took the obligatory photographs of us in front of the 0* latitude signs and ticked it off as another thing done.
Whilst here we watched a guitar/panpipe band play and sing and a dance troupe perform and they were great.

We had a bit of a disaster on the bus home as it inexplicably turned back north about two miles out of town, forcing us to disembark on a dual carriageway and walk the rest of the way. It would take more than that to taint our memories of Quito though.

As we collected our bags from the Viena Internacional and prepared for the overnight bus to Puerto Lopez on the Pacific coast we bumped into Hugo in reception, himself checking out and preparing to fly back to Santiago for Tuesday's match against the Argies.
He reiterated his desire for us to stay with him when we get to Chile, though whether we can spare the fortnight he is anticipating our being there remains to be seen.

We've had a pretty hectic time of it lately. Long bus journeys, city walks, altitude and full-on days.
What we would do now if we were still in the Caribbean would be to make for a nearby paradise, blow up the airbeds and top the old tan up.
Well, we're near the equator, we're pretty near to the sea, Puerto Lopez is going to be boiling - right?

San Agustin and the journey to Ecuador

An ancient tribe, or tribes, who lived in what is now Colombia from around 3300BC were a cut above your average, grunting hunter gatherer.
Not content with clubbing their womenfolk, cavorting around the forest with their clackers swinging freely and gorging on bloody, raw animal carcasses, they sauntered up Civilisation Avenue by burying their dead and marking their graves with carved stone statuary.

Very little is known of what is now called "San Agustin culture" but hundreds of statues were found buried in this area in the early 20th century and now provide a powerful tourist draw for gringos and Colombianos alike.
The area is also conveniently situated en route from Bogota to Ecuador so it was an obvious port of call for us.

We were met off the bus by a gaggle of hoteliers, a supreme irritation when you've just travelled for eleven hours through the night.
We went to a nearby eatery for yet more scrambled egg and to consider our options. Meanwhile, the hoteliers and a tourism rep lurked outside.

Eventually, Kerry volunteered to perform the tedious task of sourcing a satisfactory room, leaving me to the tranquility of a second cup of coffee, my peace only broken by the noise created by two New Zealanders dragging a kayak up the street behind them.

Kerry walked around the whole town accompanied by the tourism rep, a lady called Anna, returning nearly an hour later with the news that every room had a serious flaw, be it no wi-fi, too costly, bed like stone or too far out of town.
We opted for "too far away" run by the kindly looking Humberto and what an inspired choice it turned out to be.

Humberto's place was as clean and welcoming as you could possibly wish for and all for just £13 per night.
Once we'd ditched our bags he took me upstairs to his rooftop patio and explained the tours he offered and also that he used to be in the employ of Pablo Escobar. He did such a good job of explaining everything that I signed up there and then for a horseback tour of four archaeological sites and a jeep tour the day after to more sites and also to the second highest waterfall in South America.
I went down to break the news to a semi-comatose Kerry who expressed approval via an enigmatic smile and a raised eyebrow.

The rest of Friday was spent doing precisely nothing. We couldn't shower as hot water was only available between 0600-0900 so we swung in hammocks on the roof and read, and stank.
Dinner was a humorous affair where we were at pains to request fresh veg at the expense of patacones (cardboard flavoured circular abominations), sugary fried banana and salad.
We sat in hope rather than expectation but what arrived was enough to feed six people. We each had three full plates: chicken breasts, veg, rice, chips and a mushroom and onion sauce. Pretty good for £10.

It absolutely lashed it down with rain overnight, so much so that the town was abuzz with news of nine houses that had been washed away by floods.

Our horses were outside as agreed at 0900 and there we met Christian (number 1) who was to be our guide for the day. I struck up an immediate rapport with him by means of the international language of football. You see, it pays to have a geeky knowledge of Colombian footballers currently plying their trade in European leagues and my knowledge of the Colombian world cup campaign of 1994 went down a storm too.

We mounted up and our little party of Kerry and I and a Colombian couple who were also staying at Humberto's, Alexandre and Magdalena, set off.
After about 4km we reached our first set of standing stones and Christian did his tour guide bit and told us all about them.
We then visited another and then a lookout point over the Rio Magdalena where the lush countryside and incredibly steep canyon was a joy to behold.

Back on the gee-gees we upped the ante to a bone jarring trot, eventually breaking into a canter which was great fun. We stopped at an old crones house for some liquid refreshment, Alexandre necking a couple of beers whilst we stuck to lukewarm and nausea inducing natural juices.

After dismounting into a bog and yomping up a steep muddy slope to regard some more stones we were back on the horses for the final part of the trail to the main archaeological park and Christian "yee-hahed" our charges into a frenzy.
I found myself clinging on to the nobbly bit of the saddle for dear life and every step caned my hernia, so long in remission. I was delighted therefore to get off but Kerry was devastated and wanted to ride more.

It was quite a hike around the main park and what with our equine endeavours we were completely cream crackered by the time we arrived back at the hostel.
I lounged in the hammocks for long enough to get perished to the bone and only then remembered that we had no hot water until morning.

On Sunday we were out again for 0900 and the jeep tour of the San Agustin valley.
Our guide was another Christian and a lively debate soon followed our meeting over who was best, Ronaldo or Messi.

Our first stop today was somewhere called "Estrecha de Magdalena", a point of the river where it is only two metres wide but still has an incredible volume of water pulsing through caves beneath the rock on which we were standing. It's a lethally dangerous place which the epitaphs to people lost here bear testimony to.
Two other jeep tours were shadowing us and a French woman from one of these went arse over tit on the slippery rock and came perilously close to becoming a statistic.

In the third jeep was a party of Colombians and as we all milled about a rather ravishing young lady asked me if she could have a photo of me and her together.
I obliged but, naturally, I was as outraged as Kerry was at this beguiling señoritas brass.

Back at the jeep a brou-ha-ha erupted as one of our party had had a bag stolen whilst we were at the river. She shrugged it off with admirable resignation, just bemoaning the fact she'd lost her tazer.

After a couple of underwhelming visits to ancient sites we stopped for lunch at a place in the middle of nowhere. We opted for vegetables and rice with everyone else going for steak. As they brought out these huge sides of meat for the others we seriously regretted our decision but consoled ourselves that we may have staved off coronary attacks for around three minutes by abstaining from that delicious looking and no doubt mouth wateringly tasty beef.

The waterfall we visited was a spectacular 400m high, the second highest on the continent after Angel Falls in Venezuela. We could stand on a rickety looking platform of indeterminate vintage to get a better view but we both made sure we were on it for the shortest time possible. Rusty iron and holed floor doing nothing to instil confidence in us that it wouldn't give way at any moment.

You could also walk round to the actual fall and try to peer over the edge. We could hardly look as a young lady from our jeep posed for a photograph right on a slippery ledge. If this were in England it would be roped off from about 20 yards and all visitors would be made to wear hard hats and safety harnesses. Here, we had paid some geezer 20p to walk across his cabbages and it was a free for all. Different world.

With our desire for pre-Colombian Colombian culture well and truly sated we planned our departure for Monday morning.
We had hoped to reach Quito in Ecuador in one day but hadn't reckoned on having to travel north for 130km first due to the road south being "too dangerous".
We made for the town centre on Monday morning and were truly touched to see both Christians, Humberto and Anna the tourist rep there to wave us off. A cynic would say that they were there to exploit the next pair of dumb gringos off the night bus from Bogota but we know different.
Horsey Christian wrote his address on a postcard and asked that we write to him, he took a photo of us on his phone too, jeep Christian said we would always have friends in San Agustin and Humberto and Anna hugged us and posed for photos.
Maybe they do this for everyone, I don't know, but we felt warm and gooey as a result and it was a priceless encounter.

The two Christians turned out to be half brothers and their dad took us 5km out of town to meet the bus for Popayan.
This was a real locals bus, a 20 seater packed to the rafters and with less legroom than John Cleese would find in a dolls house. We hoped for a nice paved and straight road but these were dashed after 20 seconds when we turned onto a stony track. It remained unpaved for all but the final 30 minutes of the five hour journey.

We stopped overnight in Popayan, having a quick look at the beautiful, whitewashed city centre with stunning cathedral and plaza and then fine dining on more meat than I would usually consume in a week.

From Popayan to the border, a town called Ipiales, it was a drag. We didn't do any homework and bought tickets for the first bus company we saw. Having acted in haste we repented for the next eight hours of bum aching torture on twisting rounds through truly awesome scenery.
Having thought the journey to Bogota the other day was a bit hairy this was much worse. Stand out moments include approaching a tunnel on a blind bend and being overtaken by another bus so that he was on the wrong side of the road as he entered it. On another bend we overtook a car which was overtaking a truck. The sight of a bus identical to ours, lying on its side with the front all stoved in, was perhaps a reminder to our driver that hope isn't the only requirement for ensuring your passengers arrive at their destination safely.

We arrived late in Ipiales, fully 9500ft up, though we did score with the hotel being just £9.90 for the night. We ran out of Colombian pesos so had to fall back on our Yankee dollars for our final couple of transactions and, having now crossed into Ecuador, are back in dollar territory anyway.

So here we are in country number 11, fresh from an interrogation at the border and, so far, three separate searches of the luggage on our bus by "Anti-narcoticas".
But there's a spring in our step. A new country is exciting and the crisp mountain air and bright sun is such a welcome change after nearly rotting in the humidity of Central America.
We're also due to cross the equator within the next hour.
What's not to be excited about?

UPDATE
The bus broke down just about on the equator and though the driver got it going again after half an hour it broke down every half a mile from then until Quito.

It lashed it down with rain in Quito and the city's roads became rivers. Sitting in our taxi a truck went past covering our car in water, some of which forced through the seals and all over Kerry.

Quito looks lovely though, and we're still smiling.

Bogota

After a nauseating breakfast of a battered hammy thing which was lukewarm and wont to repeat on us for around eight hours it was bus time again.
The Lonely Planet advises to haggle over the price for bus tickets in Colombia as they are apparently not fixed so I gave this a whirl at the bus station in Medellin.

"How much for two tickets to Bogota?"
"50,000 pesos each"
"HOW much? (shakes head). I'll give you 35,000"
"No, the price is 50,000 each"

100,000 pesos and twenty minutes later we were off and looking forward to the nine hour journey because now we're back out of chicken bus territory a long ride affords us an opportunity to relax.

After the lunch stop we began to climb, the road clinging to our first sight of the Andes. Right hand bends were fine but lefts saw the front of the bus hang over 3000 ft precipices and if we met anything coming in the opposite direction we moved further out towards thin air.
It was genuine heart in mouth stuff at times and though we obviously made it (because you're reading this) that did seem genuinely in doubt at times.
I think I'm going to try to sleep on future bus journies; I'll trade seeing the countryside for keeping heart palpitations and clammy palms to a minimum.

The nine hour journey turned out to be ten and a half with the last 45 minutes stuck in the notorious traffic of Bogota as darkness fell.
There were scores of cyclists on our three lane highway, most dressed in black, all without lights and helmets and most weaving in and out of traffic with gay abandon.
As a cyclist who has spent hundreds of pounds on his lights in an effort to see and be seen in the UK this made me wince. I dread to think what the mortality rate is.

As we knew we'd be arriving at dusk we had booked ahead. We opted for a hostel in the old town which was, rather inconveniently, 10km from the bus station.
This necessitated the purloining of my least favourite mode of transport, a taxi, from the bus station.

Firstly we queued up to tell an official in a perspex box where we were travelling to: El Centro, at which point he issued us with a small paper ticket bearing the legend 'El Centro', as far as I can tell a completely pointless transaction.
We then walked outside to the rank, watched the nice family saloon sized car pull away with one passenger and no luggage and the minuscule Hyundai Atoz roll up for us and our packs.

I showed our driver the address of the hostel and asked him if he knew it.
He didn't really answer, just sort of mumbled and drove away.
When we stopped at some lights I asked again if he knew our hostel or even the address.
This time he answered in the negative but the language barrier prevented us from asking what he was going to do about that. That we sped in a seemingly definitive direction filled us with hope that he had something up his sleeve and he would see us to our digs one way or another.

Sadly that proved not to be the case. We reached 'El Centro' and just drove round and round, our driver muttering to himself and shaking his head and us getting more vexed with every passing minute.
It became obvious that he might never find the place and that he was unlikely to ask anyone for assistance either so we ended up hollering out of our windows to ask for help.
We sat captive in that cab for a full thirty minutes. During this time we inexplicably pulled to a halt in a street full of tramps and had several of them slowly approaching our stationary vehicle like the ghouls in the Thriller video, we came to a steep cobbled hill which the car couldn't climb and we reversed the wrong way up more one-way streets than I can recall.

Finally I spotted the Tip Top sign and yelled at him to stop.
Only then did he flick the meter off and once we were on the pavement asked for 18,000 pesos.
I gave him 10,000 and told him to consider himself fortunate: a potentially risky denouement to a wholly unsavoury episode.

The Tip Top was owned and managed by Maria and Felipe, a friendly and ultra helpful couple who had spent five years driving lorries in the USA and as such had a smattering of English.
Maria tried to explain to us there and then all of the delights of Bogota, descriptions of museums and good places to eat but we had to cut her short as we were frazzled.
Early starts, long bus journeys and half-witted taxi drivers are not our favoured precursor to pleasant discourse.

We just wanted to eat and so Maria insisted on escorting us to a nearby restaurant but, disaster! It was closed. (Perhaps just as well, a three course meal was apparently around £2.50)
Instead we were shown to an Argentinian steak house where we ate chicken cooked in ale with peaches and fresh veg for just £6 and the friendly hostess practised her English on us.

A notable aspect of Bogota is that it sits at around 8500ft above sea level making exertion difficult for old farts. Also, once the sun begins to drop at about 1700 so does the temperature and we actually sat and shivered as we devoured our dinner wearing our flip flops.
By a stroke of luck I had failed to post a parcel of clothes home from Cartagena and I needed them now we were at this elevation, including the trusty old PJs.
Unfortunately, my nighttime attire could not mask the fact that the bed was more park bench than Park Lane. I think I'd liken it to sleeping on a big sandbag, only firmer.

The first thing we spied next morning, once we'd run around our room trying to get warm after our cold showers, was a 2000ft high mountain overlooking the city with a cable car ascending it.
Kerry is a sucker for any sort of extreme ride so we lethargically and breathlessly made for this, passing the university and Simon Bolivar's former residence en route.

We went inside the latter but the only aspect of it that tickled our fancy was the hilarious, thick Irish accent of the English language recorded guide we hired.

The cable car was spectacular; an almost vertical ascent and we stood right at the back too so we had the best view. The city sprawled for miles beneath us and we took some nice photos with the help of a couple of girls from Miami we met up there.

After a short walk round a section of the old town, where we stumbled across an extraordinarily beautiful red and white striped church, we were absolutely pooped and retired back to our quarters to try and get some rest before tackling a juicy steak in the steak house.
It might be us exercising excessive caution but we tend not to wander about cities in the shadows. In any case the food and service at the steak house were first class and dirt cheap so there was no point seeking an alternative.

During Tuesday night the shower in our room inexplicably turned itself on. As I'm akin to a corpse at 0400 Kerry had to get up to investigate but there was absolutely no rhyme nor reason to it. My watch alarm had gone off earlier too (I don't recall setting it, especially not for 0200), then again twice the next night so our stay had a slightly paranormal feel to it.

On Wednesday we took a day trip out of the city to the town of Zipaqueria. There is an old salt mine here, part of which was turned into an underground cathedral for the miners to conduct services.
It was a bit of a ball-ache to get to, what with us needing to take a bendy bus to a transport hub and then a local bus out to Zipa but to be fair it all ran as smoothly as Maria said it would during her thirty minute, broken English briefing that morning.

I have to say that that underground cathedral was one of the most amazing things I've ever clapped eyes on. There were umpteen naves, all lit with coloured lights with alters and crucifixes hewn out of the bedrock, which were awesome enough in their own right.
The party piece though was a huge chasm with massive cross, nativity, herald angels, pews and salt crystal waterfall.

The town of Zipaquiria was lovely too with its colonial cathedral and plazas. We stopped for a coffee and sat outside, getting chatting to two schoolboys whose English was limited to "Wayne Rooney" and "my teacher is gay".

By the time we arrived back in Bogota it was rush hour and workers were heading back out to the suburbs. As our bus pulled in, the doors opened to a seething mass of humanity desperate to get on-board and totally oblivious to the two poor gringos in their line of fire.
People poured on, a lady hit the deck and avoided being trampled by a minor miracle and we somehow managed to squeeze through the throng by employing tactics learned during rugby lessons at school.

Our third and final day in the capital was spent in the Museum of Gold and walking around the rest of the old town taking in the architecture and general ambience. There was a massive armed police presence in the city and, inevitably, some really ropey parts to counterbalance the old colonial wonders.
Overall though, Bogota is a fine city and there's plenty to occupy anyone for a few days though the altitude means you need to ease yourself into things.

Having booked our room on Booking.com I was asked to review it so that other travellers can make informed decisions about future bookings. To me it's a valuable resource for when I make my own bookings so I'm always honest in my appraisals.
My review of the Tip Top went something like: "Great host, friendly and informative, good central location, cheap accommodation and good wi-fi connection.
Bed hard as a board and shower best described as adequately pitiful."

As we waited with Maria and Felipe for a taxi to take us to the bus station she explained that she was opening another hostel and that when it came to review our stay she'd be very grateful if I would score her as highly as possible to help get her new business off the ground!
I promised her I would but felt pangs of guilt as we inched through the nighttime traffic back from whence we came.

Continuing south, the next place on our radar is San Agustin, a small town which serves as the base for various activities but primarily for visiting archaeological sites of the ancient San Agustin culture.
Whilst waiting for the bus two New Zealanders turned up with a kayak amongst their luggage.
Kerry and I have cursed our kayaks when unloading them from the van on Teignmouth seafront and putting to sea off the beach twenty yards away so I felt compelled to congratulate these guys on their backpacking around South America with one in tow.

This eleven hour journey was the usual experience of air-con set to "Arctic Winter", Hollywood movie with explosions and dubbed in Spanish and neck-cricking inability to find comfort but such fantastic people and experiences would greet us in San Agustin that any amount of grief getting there would have been worth it.

Into South America - Cartagena and Medellin

Risky, terrifying, lawless, bandit country, drugs haven - all perfectly reasonable ways to describe Colombia from the comfort of the UK following years of negative news reports.
But things change and in the same way that it would be ridiculous for anyone to boycott London for fear of falling victim to the bubonic plague, Jack the Ripper or a real pea-souper (guv'nor) then so Colombia is no longer the no-go zone it was in the 1980s and early 1990s.

Certainly Cartagena, our first port of call on this vast continent, felt as safe as can be, teeming as it was with gringos and Colombian tourists.

After man hugs and embraces all round  Loic saw us off from the dock in a taxi and we made for an area of town called Getsemani, on the edge of the pricier 'old town'.
Getsemani is backpacker central though after a week on a plastic mattress we forwent the numerous hostels in favour of a swanky joint with air-con and a blissfully comfortable bed.
It was pricey but worth every penny as we passed out and slept solidly until 0900 next morning.

On waking I sprang into action to get to the bottom of my fiscal strife. If you recall, prior to setting sail from Panama I'd been unable to withdraw cash from the ATM and then discovered my account was frozen.
I checked my travel account first: frozen.
Then I checked my current account: £x000 light.

Such situations call for calm, there will be a rational explanation and in these days of electronic transactions it would be very unlikely for two such behemoths as Barclays and MasterCard to conspire to lose several thousand pounds.

"@&£#%^+ hell, where the £&@>]{}%# hell is my money? What have those £&@€$¥ €$%#£& done with it?"

Leaving Kerry in bed I went out in search of a telephone so that I could speak to customer services and find out what was occurring.
I walked up our street, declining a couple of offers from prostitutes and found a place offering international telephone calls.
The office was ridiculously small, about eight feet square containing a desk behind which the clerk sat and there were four other people in there babbling into phones.
It wasn't terribly conducive to resolving a sensitive and personal financial predicament.

The upshot of my conversation with the India-based representative was that he could not 'see' my account because it was frozen (you don't say) and that the only way to resolve my situation was to email a PDF of my bank statement showing the payment I was alleging I'd made where it would be forwarded to another department, scrutinised and a decision made as to what the next steps would be.

I felt this was bureaucratic tosh in the extreme and told him so in no uncertain terms. I have no doubt that he quaked in his boots on learning that his superiors would be receiving a letter of complaint in the strongest possible terms and also that my outburst put me in the "Pompous Twats Who Shall Be Dealt With Last" pile.

Fully 48 nail-biting and frustrating hours ensued before I received the wondrous news that my deposit was acknowledged and my account had been reactivated.
Apparently, a simple miscalculation on my part had seen me violate the conditions of the account by going above a certain balance.
Ironic really when you consider that if you have nothing you can continue to spend via an overdraft facility; had I been travelling alone my faux pas would have seen me utterly brassic in a foreign land.
For that reason MasterCard, you are an arse.

Whilst this charade was played out Kerry and I had a city to see. I'd never heard of Cartagena before this trip but it is a fabulous place and should be high up on anyones list of places they want to visit.

Founded in 1533, its natural harbour soon established it of great import to the Spanish and it was the principal port in all of South America during colonial times.
This of course made it an attractive proposition to pirates and Sir Francis Drake took the city in 1586 despite the presence of the (still intact) fort and the impressive city walls, only handing it back when a ransom equivalent to £130m was paid.

Within these city walls remain the UNESCO recognised buildings of yore and it was a true delight to wander around drinking it all in.
Kerry also got to indulge her passion for a city sightseeing bus tour which took us around the newer parts of the city where beautiful art-deco sky scrapers reign and there's a picture postcard beach as well as good shopping too.
Working for the Cartagena Tourist Board must be a doddle, it has everything anyone could ever want.

We bumped into our shipmates a couple of times but with them all heading east and us aiming for Medellin in the south we expect that's the last we'll see of them on this trip.

So, after gorging on the delights of this great city we bade a sorrowful farewell to the Caribbean and made for the main bus terminal, some 10km out of town, for the 2130 night bus.
After turning down an innumerate number of taxis since we set out we were now amazed that we couldn't secure a ride for love nor money.
Most taxis were packed to the gunwales and the two that did stop refused to take us to the bus terminal as traffic would be too heavy and they could make more by picking up a succession of fares around town.
We did eventually source a ride though, with the help of our hotel chappie, weaving through traffic in the less appealing suburbs at Mach 2 before being demanded to pay a tip.
I fumbled in my wallet and handed him a note with a value equivalent to 60 pence, expecting him to baulk whereas instead he beamed as though handed the keys to a harem and a crate of Viagra.

Whilst waiting for our bus a kindly gent introduced himself to us and once he'd established we weren't from London or Manchester United he proudly informed us that he was a composer. He scrawled down some YouTube pages for us to enjoy later which, I must admit I did, though not perhaps in the way señor German Luna might have best appreciated.

Our bus was a modern, air-conditioned vehicle with reclining seats and we slept reasonably well. We were due into Medellin at 0800 so were surprised when 0900, then 1000 came and went. In fact, it would be almost 1300 when we were finally released from our incarceration by which time we were doing our collective nut.

We took the metro downtown to an up and coming suburb so for once weren't in mortal danger each time we stepped out of our hotel.
Frazzled from our 15 hour journey,  Kerry stayed in the room and preened whilst I went out to explore the El Poblado suburb.
It all looked very nice and there was obviously money about round here, though I soon got distracted by Seville v Barcelona which was being shown in a bar.

Medellin used to be a no-go area for tourists as it was home to Pablo Escobar and the drug cartels. Through the 1980s Escobar was incredibly powerful but was eventually jailed in the early 90s. He escaped though and was on the run for a year before being shot and killed in Medellin.
Another Escobar, Andres, was a defender for the Colombian national football team who were expected to do very well at USA '94.
That they bombed and Andres scored an own-goal to seal their elimination resulted in him being shot dead in Medellin soon after.

In equal measures of hilarity and reprehension Alan Hansen said the very next day on World Cup Match of the Day: "the Argentine defender wants shooting after a mistake like that".

But that was then and this is now. Medellin now has ultra-friendly inhabitants, a fabulous metro system including cable cars serving the suburbs on the hillsides where trains can't reach and hoteliers completely fascinated with anyone with blue eyes.

After wandering around the city for a while we decided to take one of the cable cars up to the top of the hill to get a great overview of the whole place.
It was incredible. Line K of the metro took us up over the slums for a fascinating insight into an area we wouldn't have otherwise seen and then connected with Line L which took us further up, over and continuing for miles into the countryside to a country park.
All by cable car.

We were up at about 8000 ft here so the tiddly little 2km walk we took was almost enough to finish us off. Altitude is incredibly debilitating so gawd knows how we'll cope in La Paz in Bolivia which sits at 12000 ft.

In the country park we got talking to a couple who had lived in England for a year while they learned the language. We travelled down with them and then on the train back to our suburb whereupon they invited us for a night out with them.
To our eternal shame and possible regret we felt the need to politely decline on the grounds that we were both absolutely knackered and had to be up early to catch a bus.
It was a real shame it didn't quite work for us.

And so the odyssey continues apace. Next stop Bogota, capital of Colombia and home of possibly the most inept taxi driver in Christendom.

Puerto Lindo to Cartagena on the "Amande"

Our boarding instructions were to meet Frank at Hans' restaurant at about 1800 on Wednesday and whilst we all dined and imbibed he would ferry our luggage across to the boat in the tender.
This rendez-vous was just six hours after my proclaimed boycott of Hans' so  meant swallowing my pride somewhat, though I did ensure I kept out of the way of Hans' wife.

Frank regaled us with tales of a life at sea and within an hour or so Loic, our captain and boat owner, appeared so we spent a few hours all getting to know each other over a few beers.

The drill was for Kerry and I, Ed and Arno and Jerem to board the Amande tonight and then first thing in the morning all passengers would convene and we would set sail.
The missing passengers were, according to Loic, "a guy from Isla Grande" and "a guy and a girl whom I met in Panama City".
Whilst this sounded flaky in the extreme  you have to remember that we could have been sailing on any number of boats so it seems that nobody really knows what's occurring in this game until it is being played out.
Rule changes, U turns and volte faces are the name of the Panama to Colombia sailing game, as we would come to realise only too well.

At about 2200 and with Loic having picked up the tab at the bar, we were taken across the inky black bay for our first look at the boat, our home until Sunday morning. We all had our own private rooms, the communal area was large and open to the elements and there was lots of deck space too.
It looked great and I felt we'd made a good choice.

After breakfast next morning there was no sign of our other passengers and rumours began to circulate that they weren't coming after all. It was baking hot so we all went in for a swim around the yachts in the bay while Loic went off to look for the others. A full two hours passed before he returned with three rucksacks.

In the meantime another tender had approached and jettisoned a lean and rangy Brazilian by the name of Leandro. By an incredible twist of fate the guy piloting the tender was the chap that had shot at Arno and Jerem last weekend and they had a brief conversation about that misunderstanding which, incidentally, had seen both of the Frenchies rendered shoeless.

Leandro induced awe in us when he told us his tale. No ten month sabbatical for him or gap year or anything quite so limiting: he began his travels three years ago in his home town of Sao Paolo, riding his 125cc motorbike through Chile, Bolivia, Peru and Venezuela to Colombia.
It was here that he parted with his compadre, Leandro sailing to the Isla Grande to run a bar for a year and his mate continuing on by motorbike bound for Alaska.
His audience were split on whether his revelation that he had fathered a child in Chile during a brief fling was a good thing or not, males nodding sagely and thinking "nice one", female thinking "Ugh! Puerco Brasiliano" (Brazilian peeeg).

Anyway, the fact that he'd worked in a bar for a year stood us all in good stead because regardless of his love 'em and leave 'em past he made a fantastic cocktail.

Loic then came back with three more people, the two from Panama City had hooked up with another girl on the way to become a triumvirate and, fortunately for us, were all English speaking.
We were therefore nine in total, on an eight berth boat.
Leandro would sleep on deck in exchange for a discounted fare.

Our three newcomers comprised of: Kayla, a 28 year old Canadian with a lust for life and a new-found determination to tick things off her bucket list. Recent accomplishments were a parachute jump, completing a triathlon and backpacking around Asia.
She was heading to Argentina before flying home to resume her physiotherapy practice.

Hannah was a 23 year old southern belle from Georgia with the most luxuriant head of red hair cascading down her back and owner of the bikini most likely to desert its owner when in contact with water. A student, Hannah was travelling from Costa Rica to Peru alone.

Finally there was Drew, a 28 year old who spends four months per year working with his dad in his kayak business in Colorado and a large proportion of the remaining eight months per year travelling.
That Drew modelled himself on me was evident. Loud shorts, surf dude hair and thick beard were all nods in my direction but despite his "coke and a smoke" diet he couldn't quite match me in the paunch stakes.

With it being 1500 hours before we were all in situ Loic announced that we couldn't make the San Blas islands today so we would instead sail 30 minutes to Isla Grande. This caused amusement given Leandro had just left there and the Frenchies had had a brush with death on its shores but it was a lovely island and a gentle introduction to life on-board.

Kerry and I were glad of the opportunity to get off the boat and have a bit of space to be honest. After so many months being largely isolated and self-indulgent it had come as something as a shock to be in such close quarters with others.

That evening was party night with Arno's playlist plumbed into the boat's sound system and the beers and the cocktails flowing. To be honest it's all a bit of a haze but odd things I do remember include Frank dancing around the deck in his budgie smugglers and a small, bald man wearing buddhist type clothing (think MC Hammer's trousers) leaping onto our boat from another tender and joining proceedings.

We set off next morning and I remember thinking that we'd already been on the boat for 36 hours and had so far travelled only around five miles.
I immediately began to feel seasick so sat on the bow with Jerem and Leandro to get some air until a violent rainstorm forced us under cover. The back of the boat was open and we all sat there looking at the foul weather and swelling sea wondering what we'd signed up for.

At about 1700 we arrived in the San Blas, an incredible place with around 360 islands of screensaver type beauty. An indigenous tribe called the Kuna Yala live here and eke an existence by selling crafts or fish to boats such as ours.
There's quite a market for them. Despite initially thinking that there is only one boat or so per week it turns out there are loads, it's just that there is not one central point of reference for them. There must have been 20 vessels anchored up with us that night and that was off just one of the 360 islands.

With the boat anchored up Loic and Frank were free to indulge themselves once more and with everyone else loosening up somewhat it was to be a humdinger of a night.
There were celebratory cigars for finally getting underway, gallons of cocktails and more beers than any of us would care to recall.
Seeking a bit of peace towards the end of the evening Kerry and I sat on the bow for a while looking at the incredibly starry sky.
A short time later we heard a cry of "Agua" (water), squealed protestations and then a loud splash; Hannah, fresh from her shower and change of clothes, was in the drink.
Soon after Kayla was in, then Drew and then everyone else.
We had escaped their attentions but had to pass them all to get to bed. We toyed with the idea of bowing to the inevitable, stripping naked and leaping off the roof but boring old farty caution won the day so we instead attempted to slink past them all and go to bed.

I was grabbed by Arno and Frank but managed to wrestle myself free, careering into Hannah and Kayla as I did so and knocking them flying.
Frank insisted we pay a "tax" in lieu of not going in the sea; neat vodka was poured down our throats and I had another tot poured down my shorts.
Such was the lunacy of life on-board.

Next morning we officially exited Panama, our passports being stamped by the most relaxed looking border control I've ever seen. The office was on a tiny island and the officer was playing volleyball on the beach with some tourists when Loic presented our passports. We then hoisted the Colombian flag and made for Capurgana, a laid-back Carribean town just inside Colombia and the point where all on-board with the exception of Kayla, Hannah and Drew planned to disembark.

The thing was we were all having such a whale of a time we didn't want to get off. The boat was heading to Cartagena on the north coast of Colombia, we were all headed there eventually so we did the logical thing and cut a deal with Loic for us to stay on.

Arriving in Capurgana on Sunday Morning Loic decided we'd stay all day and night and set sail again on Monday after breakfast. To give us a change of pace from life on-board he took us on a two hour hike into the jungle to some natural swimming pools and also put us up for the night in the town, albeit in a $5 hostel with mosquitoes, bed bugs and a leaky roof.
Despite all of the above we slept well, though that had as much to do with the fact that we attended an impromptu party and had another night on the grog as anything.

During the evenings exchanges Ed had pressed Loic on storms and whether his mast had ever been struck by lightning. This visibly upset Loic and he had walked off rather than get angry with a fare paying passenger.
Next morning we awoke to tremendous wind and rain and later learned that the swell in the bay had been such overnight that anything not fixed on the boat had been knocked onto the deck and the boat had been tilting at around 80 degrees. Only Loic, Frank and Arno were aboard and at one point a boiling pot of coffee tipped off the hob sending the three men scurrying.
Ed's name was mud after this.

Leandro remained in Capurgana, his next step to collect his motorbike from the aptly named town of Turbo and make his way to Cuba. All he needed was a beret and to start a military uprising in a developing country and his Che-Dom would be complete.
It was sad to break up our little group and we were all quite melancholy as we set sail again, this time on the final leg, a twenty hour open sea crossing to Cartagena.

That night it was stiflingly hot in the cabin so in an effort to get cool we threw all the covers off and I elected to sleep in my birthday suit figuring that any encumberance, however miniscule, would only serve to make me hotter.
I'd asked Frank yesterday what the sunrise was like at sea and, remembering this, he came and woke me at 0545 to watch that mornings sun break through.
I quickly donned my shorts and sat on the bow and watched and it was wonderful. Frank brought me coffee, then pancakes and then two dolphins joined the boat and swam playfully at the bow for ten minutes or so. A morning to treasure despite the ignominy of being woken from my naked slumber by a weathered Frenchman with a penchant for dancing in 'nuthuggers'.

Later that morning we anchored in a bay and were given the unexpected choice of going to the beach, staying on the boat or taking a trip into the mangroves.
As our little cliques had developed over the past few days the Frenchies and Hannah and Kayla went to the beach, Ed, Drew and I went with Loic into the mangroves and Kerry stayed on the boat and read.
It was a great little trip and testimony to Loic's determination to make our experience as memorable as possible and not just take our money and get us to Cartagena as quickly as possible.

And so to the final knockings, a two hour sail into the awe-inspiring natural harbour of Cartagena and, to a man, all feeling very sad that this wonderful experience was drawing to a close.

In six days we'd gone from being total strangers to being firm friends via copious amounts of alcohol, shared meals, jungle hikes, flea pits, Arno's limited music, playing cards and leaping off the boat roof.
For Kerry and I it has probably been the most memorable experience of our five months on the road and we extend an open invitation to any of our ship mates to come and stay with us if you're ever in Blighty, you only have to ask.
Arno, your offer to show us around Paris will be taken up some time next year.

So here we are in South America at last, for so long my personal Mecca.
But first, priorities. Sleep; our creaking bones need rest after a week on the sauce and then I need to get to the bottom of my financial situation.
Just where the hell is my money and why is my account frozen?