Denouement

So we're done.

Back to an England that is familiar yet seems alien to us; where there are no palm trees, no spectacular mountain range, no llamas or other exotic animals, yet there are innumerate clipped hedgerows, quaint villages, an obsession with tea and (for us at least) nipples that protrude like chapel hat pegs on account of the cold.

We've yearned for home for some weeks if we are honest, yet simultaneously dreaded the time when the trip would be over.
That time is now and it feels contradictory - warm and gooey, dull and empty.

Though we have much to sort out in order to rejoin the rat race, I feel that this blog should end definitively and draw a line under this most memorable period of our lives, hence this final posting.

The blog has been a wonderful tool with which to enable you to keep tabs on us and for me to create a literary accompaniment to the 12,000 photographs that Kerry has taken, which, by the way, you are welcome to come round and we'll take you through each one - it should only take four or five days.

As the trip and the blog developed, it became more of a challenge to describe what we were doing in an interesting and non-repetitive way.
The common threads, punctuating most, if not all posts were: bus travel, heat and/or sweatiness, my luggage, the food and our difficulties with language. That is because we endured these things on a daily basis and they were always at the forefront of our minds.
The historical snippets were intended to help paint a more revealing picture of a given place and everything else described did actually happen, however hyperbolic and facetious I may have been in conveying the information to you.

I really hope you have enjoyed reading about our experiences.

In order to round things off nicely I want to list our top 5s.
This was an exercise we conducted to alleviate the boredom on an overnight journey through Argentina and publication here may reduce the number of times we're asked "So where did you like best?" over the coming weeks.

In no particular order:

CITY
New York, Sydney, Mexico City, Buenos Aires, Quito

BEACH
Isla Mujeres (off Cancun), Bondi (Sydney), Roatan (Caribbean island off Honduras), Big Corn Island (off Nicaragua), Miami South Beach

ARCHAEOLOGICAL SITE
Machu Picchu, Tikal (Guatemala), Palenque (Mexico), Teotihuacan (Mexico), Nazca Lines (Peru)

JOURNEY
Route 66 in a convertible Chevvy Camaro
The open road, a 6.2 litre engined supercar, mom and pop diners and following an icon

El Rama to Bluefields (Nicaragua) en route from Managua to Big Corn Island Packed chicken buses, speedboats up river, dense jungle, tropical downpours, dreadful accommodation

Velero Amande, Panama to Colombia by boat
Fantastic shipmates, great snorkelling, brilliant crew, party central, dolphins at dawn, San Blas islands

The Inca Trail
Dreaded but ultimately rewarding yomp through Andean vistas to make you weep with joy. Machu Picchu was the icing on the cake but the sugar, butter and jam of the other inca ruins we saw en route were almost as gratifying

Guatemala City to Chichicastenango
Chicken bus hell at breakneck speed. Unforgettable climbs, precipitous twists and smoking brakes being doused with water by the conductor. A veritable white-knuckle ride with genuine doubt whether we would make it there alive.

Other contenders: Andean Explorer train from Cusco to Puno, Copper Canyon Express in Northern Mexico, jeep tour around south west Bolivia

COUNTRY
Mexico
USA
Peru
Costa Rica
Guatemala

EXPERIENCE
Paragliding over Lima
Zip-lining over a Nicaraguan volcano crater
White water rafting in Honduras
Mountain biking Death Road in Bolivia
Spending time with my daughters

OVERALL
Easter Island
New York
Sydney
Isla Mujeres (off Cancun)
Iguazu Falls (Argentina)

WOODEN SPOON (Wouldn't go there again if you paid me)
Puerto Escondido - Mexico
Surf dude town, miles to the beach, impossible to swim in the sea, super-humid, mosquito hell

Colon - Panama
Most dilapidated and stinking place I have ever seen. Needed police escort to walk to a cafe for breakfast. Lawless, redeeming feature-less, hopeless. If it were a bodily condition it would be a pus filled, festering boil on the arse of Lucifer himself

Rio Dulce - Guatemala
Manic hovel where life is played out at a frenetic pace. Filth, poverty and a general malaise reigns. Also home to the single most disgusting accommodation of the trip. I know not how we slept in something resembling a squat, only filthier.

Livingston - Guatemala
Super disappointing destination after mammoth journey by chicken bus and river boat. Litter-strewn and decaying town seemingly populated by the most lackadaisical inhabitants. Has the potential to be beautiful; is a sweaty and overpriced shambles with absolutely nothing to do there except regard the sea of discarded plastic bottles bobbing at the shoreline.

Ciudad del Este - Paraguay
Dreadful border town where Brazilians and Argentinians come to buy cheap tat. Extremely humid, noisy, gridlocked traffic and frenetic air to daily proceedings combine with packed streets and markets to render this the definitive hell-hole to the severely jaded and middle-aged backpacker.

Though we have experienced so much, the most remarkable, not to mention delightful, realisation of the past ten months is just what a fantastic match Kerry and I are.
To think that we have spent so much time in each others company with barely a crossed word is little short of miraculous and a pleasant surprise to both of us.
We obviously weren't sure how things would work out so we both had a contingency should we have found we seriously got on each others thruppeny's at any stage but, thankfully, that didn't come to pass.

So finally, a massive thank you to my wonderful boss for supporting me in this venture and allowing me to take such an extended period of leave; to you for reading this, thus ensuring that the 100+ hours spent on its composition wasn't a tragic waste of my time; to the fascinating and truly inspirational people we met along the way but especially to Kerry, for sharing the memories that will hopefully sustain us through the years.

Now, where's my globe?
I can feel my feet getting itchy.

Goodbye Girls

The moment I'd been dreading since even before we reached Australia was upon us.

For the third time in two years it was time to say a deeply emotional farewell to my beloved daughters and embark on a prolonged period without seeing them or being involved in their lives.

The pain of separating from them is intense but I take heart from the lengthy conversations we've had over these past two to three weeks and I'll never lose hope that we can be closer at some point in the future.

Goodbye for now girls, behave yourselves, study hard, create options and never forget how much we love and miss you.

And to the people at the airport looking, slightly alarmed, in my direction - haven't you ever seen a rather unkempt, grey-haired fellow wailing uncontrollably before?

Return to Melbourne

Another 0600 flight was the last thing we needed last Wednesday morning but we had no option but to set the clock for 0335 and suck it up.
The shuttle back to the airport picked us up at 0420 and we took our seats on the fluorescently lit bus among equally zombified Victorians, returning to Melbourne after their own dalliance with Cyclone Oswald.

Under normal circumstances I can handle the odd early start but my reserves are so depleted at the moment that doing so leaves me feeling more than a little dicky.
Coffee at the airport helped but my disorientated state was exacerbated by a showing of a Premier League fixture:
Steven Fletcher playing for Wolves? Scott Sinclair for Swansea?
Wolves in the Premiership?
Terry Connor in the dugout?
My brain struggled to compute so many inaccuracies until it finally determined that this was a rerun of a match from last season.

The two hour flight was spent listening to Jasmine's take on life, the universe and everything in between and we were soon touching down in Melbourne with an almighty thump and seeking a ride into the city.
The options are limited: taxi at $65 or $17 per head on a shuttle bus which the mathematicians among you will soon realise equates to 68 dabs.

Standing around looking vacant, we were approached by a dapper looking gent who asked if we were looking for a ride downtown and if so he could take us by limousine as his client had failed to show.
We readily accepted and were soon speeding down the freeway in a shiny black Holden, chatting amiably with Peter and learning that Melbourne traffic wishing to turn right waits in left hand lanes and other such riveting nuggets of information.

We were staying bang in the city centre but no sooner had we checked in than we were bidding a temporary farewell to Jasmine who was returning to Chinatown to work.
That left India as our sole charge and she lapped up all the attention, squeezing and loving that we could muster.
Parents that ran away for nearly a year and indulged a lifetime of wishes we may be, but parents we primarily are.
Connor and Jord had better prepare for our return to England - we're going to squidge you until you beg us for mercy.

Being in a western city centre with two Premiership standard shopaholics left me vulnerable and no sooner had Jasmine gone was I standing in yet another shoe shop. I performed reasonably valiantly for around two hours, only emitting audible winces on crossing boutique thresholds, but finally suggested we go back to the room for a kip to help get over our painfully early start to the day.
After this refreshing nap, India had still to buy school shoes so my torture wasn't quite yet over.

In a case of "if you can't beat them, join them", I bought something myself next day as we punctuated window shopping with a tour of the city.
There's a great free tram service around the city centre so we made use of that and then, with India heading back to home territory to work, Kerry and I had a few hours alone before going to meet the girls off their train at 2230.
When they returned to us India presented us with some gifts, having taken pity on us for our post travelling state. I received a couple of outfits including shirts, strides and shoes and Kerry a rather fetching leather bag.
We were really touched.

On Friday we did the tourist thing, visiting the ANZAC war memorial, the cottage where captain Cook's parents lived (it was shipped here from Blighty in 1934 and rebuilt), a couple of parks and a rather pitiful model village.
Then both girls went home again, India for work and Jasmine for that most important of beautifications to the fairer sex, to get her barnet dyed.

Saturday was a big day for Jasmine for she was to introduce me to her slice of four months, Andrew.
That wasn't until 1800 though so before that we made for a classic car museum, only to find it closed, amusing ourselves with the nearby road sign for "McCrae Street" instead.

On recovering from that hilarity we went ice-skating where we all learned that we have at least one weak ankle joint but, in Kerry's case, sufficient strategic padding to protect her in the case of over-exuberance.

Kerry and India were sufficiently tired and/or bruised to decide not to accompany Jasmine and me to the Museum of the Moving Image, opting to pass out on the grass of St Paul's Cathedral among the ne'erdowels and the discarded apple cores instead.
It was lovely to spend an hour with Jas on her own; it's definitely what she responds best to and appears to have been missing for far too long.

That evening we put our gladrags on and prepared to meet young Andrew in Nandos. It must have been a nervy encounter for him but he conducted himself impeccably and with his primary interest being football, meeting his girlfriend's hairy and scary looking old man would turn into a breeze.
A committed follower of the Premiership, a Scottish father, a grandfather who actually played for Rangers and a mutual first-hand experience of the 2010 World Cup saw us monopolise the conversation, regaling each other with our thoughts on Soccer City and demonstrating our geeky knowledge of facts and figures which saw the ladies reduced to spectators, revenge of sorts perhaps for the past two weeks of "lobotomy by shopping".

I hope to meet Andrew again one day.

For our last few days together we took a tram out to St Kilda, a relatively bohemian and arty beach area in the south east of the city.
We had booked an apartment, almost in disbelief that this would be our last accommodation, and took the tram with seemingly enough luggage to be
moving house straight after breakfast on Sunday.

India was in charge of navigation and duly instructed us to hop off at the necessary stop when the time came. We found the the EasyStay Apartments easily enough, though there was no sign of reception.
I called them up and was informed that reception was at another site just five minutes away and a complicated set of instructions to reach them followed which included a U-turn, a puzzling requirement of a party approaching by foot.

Slightly testily, we set off on what would be the ultimate journey for my case and I, another sweaty and unfortunately hilly trek which, fifteen minutes in, was looking less and less like a five minute journey with every step.
Only then did it dawn on me that matey on reception had assumed we were driving.

We finally reached our goal but were told that not only could we not gain entry to our apartment until 1400 hours, in two and a half hours time, but that it could be found on the site we had just walked from.
In addition to that, it would not be possible to make that journey by road due to the annual Melbourne 'Pride' march, the celebration of all things non-hetero-sexual which would see all nearby roads closed.

Though the type of situation that gives the returning traveller a story or two to tell, at the time this felt like being slapped around the chops repeatedly with a halibut, then being kicked up the jacksy for good measure.
We were very tired and we just wanted to get into our room and then get to the beach.
The last thing we wanted was to wait for aeons and then have to negotiate hordes of trannies, ladyboys and dungaree-wearing women as we retraced our sweaty steps from earlier.

We felt a bit more relaxed about the situation once we'd eaten lunch and decided to watch the Pride march before taking a cab across town once the streets had reopened.
We grabbed a drink and sat on one of the temporarily decommissioned tram platforms to wait for things to begin.
It was boiling hot and we had no shade so in an effort to cool down somewhat I unzipped the legs of my trousers to get the air flowing about me.
Seeing an opportunity to administer a tiny amount of padding to her position, Kerry purloined my trouser halves and sat on them while we finished our coffees and continued one of our many chats about how the girls see their futures panning out.

A few minutes later we realised that the parade would come down the other carriageway, behind us, so we shifted position and were soon treated to a tremendous display of anything and everything that Victoria could offer.
Proceedings began with "Dykes on Bikes" and progressed through "Out Footballers", "Aussie Bears", men in spangly thongs, transvestites, political parties in favour of same sex marriage, Thai ladyboys, a bearded lady (think Julia McKenzie and Brian Blessed merged) and, probably the highlight, four chaps in their 50s dressed as nuns on their top halves and in stockings and suspenders, buttock-revealing thongs and high heels down below.
There were thousands of people marching and the overwhelming feeling was one of happiness and unbridled joy so it was a great spectacle.

Along with half of Victoria, we retired to the grass near the beach and found a palm tree to sit under for shade.
It was here that I asked Kerry for the bottoms of my trousers, a request that elicited a gasp by retort and pleading apologies for her having left them at the tram stop.
I walked back to look for them but someone had inexplicably made off with them, items more useless, unless you have the other half of the trousers, than shoes are for a mermaid.

Our apartment was no comparison to that enjoyed on the Gold Coast but it was perfectly adequate for us.
Just to be able to make a cuppa in the morning is a joy after ten months of travelling and the gratis breakfast hamper was much appreciated too.

The drill for St Kilda was pretty simple: enjoy the anticipated good weather for a couple of days, laze on the beach, periodically adjourn for food, drink and ice-cream and make the most of our last hours together.
All of the above was achieved in spades and the only disappointments were that the beach could have been a lot cleaner and that Luna Park, a dilapidated fun fair, closed for winter the day before we arrived.

We spent two full days on the beach, a much appreciated rest for both these weary forty-somethings and my wallet.
Having time to just sit and chat with the girls was so lovely, even if I didn't always necessarily like what I heard.

All too soon our fleeting time together was almost up but my girls are growing up fast and hooray to that.
I look forward to the day they're making their own decisions and that isn't very far away at all.

Surfers Paradise

We turned in early on Tuesday night last for we had a flight to catch at 0600 next morning to Surfers Paradise, a holiday town on the famed Aussie Gold Coast, where we looked forward to seven days fun in the sun, playing in the sea and lazing on the beach.

We'd booked a package but we weren't prepared for the grandeur of our apartment when we were allowed in at around 1030 that morning.
After months of hotel rooms of varying sizes, quality and comfort, to be presented with a two-bed, two bathroomed, huge-lounged and modern fitted-kitchened place with large balcony and sea view was tremendous.
It was like a home from home, better than home actually, and as it turned out it was a good job it was.
There was one major drawback to our sumptuous gaff though - wifi was only available on payment of a fee: $12 for an hour, $16 for two hours or $24 for a period of 24 hours. Amounts that we would rather attend an ex-pats housewives meeting than pay.
Great country this may be but the Internet, or unavailability thereof unless one wishes to part with ludicrous amounts of cash, is a definite black mark against it.

As soon as we'd checked in we hit the beach and played in the waves, threw frisbee (exceedingly badly; well, three quarters of our party were girls) and played football.
The weather was fabulous, the sea warm and seaweed-free and life felt pretty good.

Afterwards we went to the hotel pool where a sudden manoeuvre on my part over a sun lounger resulted in my cheapo swimming shorts, bought in Panama, turning into a skirt by virtue of a clean tear right down the gusset.
It was unfortunate that some other guests emerged from the hotel at the very moment that the air was pierced with the noise of ripping fabric, but their blushes were spared by those white netting pants that had been chafing my clackers for the past four months.

Totally shattered from only getting about fours sleep, we all went to bed early that evening and were a bit disappointed to wake next day to heavy cloud.
It was still warm though so we went in the sea again, this time with body boards, though the girls and me felt a few stings from jellyfish so we called it a day soon after lunchtime and went in the hotel pool and sauna.

On Friday the weather was even worse. We had all woken early so by 1000 hours we were in town where the shopaholics among us could get a fix and those not interested in trying on innumerate pairs of shoes could work on strengthening their thigh muscles by standing inanimately for varying amounts of time feigning interest. Walking back for lunch, the heavens opened and we got completely soaked to the skin.
Later on we took a bus a couple of miles up the coast to Broadbeach and went to the cinema for Tarantino's latest offering, "Django Unchained", a brilliant film that we all loved.

That evening we caught the weather report and were horrified to learn that a cyclone was heading our way.
We hoped it might be incorrect but on waking up first on Saturday morning I soon saw that it wasn't.
There was little to do but watch telly though we did manage a fifteen minute walk on the beach where we saw thousands of blue jellyfish on the sand. Known as 'Bluebottles', these were presumably responsible for the stings we received the other day.

Back in the room we had a good old-fashioned heart to heart with the girls, something so simple and taken for granted by parents and children alike the world over but so appreciated by us in light of how things are at the moment.
Spleens vented, we made full use of the Sky dish and watched trashy tv and waited for the lashing rain and howling winds to pass.

It was the same story on Sunday, weather wise, so we went back to Broadbeach to go to the cinema again, this time to watch 'Life of Pi'.
Due to a planning error we arrived fifteen minutes too late for the film so having spent money to get here and not wishing to return immediately to our now cabin-fever-inducing digs, we looked around the shops in the mall.

When I say 'we' I mean Kerry and India. Kerry has been denied the joys of this incomprehensible pursuit for many months and acted like a released coiled spring; India, it turns out, needs no second invitation to try shoes on, manhandle handbags and coo at dresses so these two had a ball.
Jasmine and I mainly stood outside the shops, chatting and developing leg ache.

According to Sunday evening's weather report, Monday was to be the peak of the storm. Despite Friday providing some of the most tempestuous weather I'd ever seen and it having got progressively worse since, we apparently had a fouler day ahead of us.
I woke up on Monday to our balcony windows rattling, rain bucketing down and trees bending over alarmingly due to the gale force winds.
Some holiday this was turning out to be!

Once we'd found a cab company prepared to come out to us we went back to the cinema and consummated our desire to watch 'Life of Pi', an every day tale of a young chap shipwrecked in the Pacific with a only a Bengal tiger for company.
Emerging from that assault on the senses we could hardly believe our eyes to see bright sunshine and we actually punched the air and whooped with delight at the apparent passing of the storm.

We were a bit premature because we went for a walk on the beach back at our place and got soaked by a sudden squall but on Tuesday we were finally in the clear: bright sun, 32 degree temperatures, no wind and not a cloud in the sky.

The girls were desperate to go to a theme park called 'Movieworld' so off we went and spent a wonderful day, queuing for around five hours, interspersed with five minutes of mainly terror whilst strapped into gyrating and corkscrewing roller coasters.

I jest. I love the rides but it is unquestionably a serious ball ache to stand for so long for comparative nanoseconds of unbridled delirium.

The most notable coaster was one which shot you out of the blocks at a speed of 100 km/h, reached in two seconds flat. Pre-ride spiel informed you that you would be subjected to four positive Gs and one negative and that anyone in anything less than the rudest of health should seriously consider whether they should subject themselves to this torment.
In case you're wondering, I have no idea what positive and negative Gs are, only that the inertia made my lips flap like a French Mastiff and my eyeballs disappear somewhere deep inside my head.

With half an hour to kill before our ride home we were treated / subjected to a parade by the characters of Movieworld.
There were Disney characters, super heroes such as Batman, a Marilyn Monroe and a very convincing and funny Austin Powers. (Behave!)
The highlights though were undoubtedly the Wonder Woman (surely there is no greater costume on this earth?) and the quite incredibly muscular bum cheeks of the Captain America, accentuated by his sheer blue tights.

By way of recovery from all that excitement (and expenditure) we had a final hour on the beach at Surfer's and that, pretty much, was that.
Two sunny days, one OK and four so dreadful that you would almost think that you were witnessing the apocalypse but in spite of that we had a fabulous time.
With beautiful, hilarious and loving daughters to reacquaint with, plus the most wonderful partner in the world, how could it have been anything but?

Reunited

Though to some extent our departure from Sydney signalled the end of our trip, our arrival in Melbourne provided me with the most emotive and eagerly anticipated aspect since leaving old Blighty back in April.

With my daughters currently residing in Australia, once we began to put meat on the bones of this venture it was always a case of at what juncture would we visit the lamb chops, not whether.

Still suffering from jet lag, we made our way to Sydney airport by shuttle bus last Monday and boarded the midday flight to Melbourne, a short hop of just 90 minutes.
The countryside below looked parched, flat and uninteresting but my thoughts were really on the impending reunion - despite being very close to my girls and maintaining as great a contact as possible via Facebook and Skype, such lengthy spells apart result in apprehension:
What if they've forgotten me?
What if they've changed, for the worse?
What if they're miffed about our self-indulgent gap year?

Of course, time, distance and/or machinations have never weakened our bond thus far and this was as evident as ever as we emerged down an escalator and we all caught the first glimpse of each other.
The girls were holding a home-made sign with our names on it but that, our bags and our dignity were all forgotten as we rushed forward and hugged each other tightly, tears rolling down our faces and involuntary sobs of joy emanating from all parties.
I struggle to convey just how wonderful a moment this was but several interested onlookers at Tullamarine airport would testify in my favour should you doubt me when I say it was magical.

After a few photos, a couple taken by a kindly chap who was positively beaming at the sight of our reunion, we collected our luggage from the carousel and made for downtown Melbourne by taxi.
En route we gabbled excitedly and took stock of each other:
Jasmine - taller, lighter-haired, eloquent as ever;
India - blonder than last year, ever tactile, hyper-excited to see us;
Dad - (according to both girls) haggard and looking like the bloated offspring of Rasputin and Courtney Love.

We stayed in a 4-bed hostel dormitory which, although perhaps not the most salubrious accommodation, did afford us the opportunity to sleep in bunks in the same room, thereby maximising our time together.
After exchanging christmas gifts in our room we went out, walking into the Melbourne central business district (city centre to you and me) and it was immediately apparent that this is another lovely place: clean streets, lovely parks and satisfied looking people conducting their business under clear skies and blazing sunshine.
Melbourne regularly tops polls searching for the world's most liveable city, though I think most people would agree that they'd rather live in Kabul surrounded by loved ones than be lonely in Nirvana so it's all relative.

The girls showed us one or two of the sights but what impressed me most was the constant flow of cyclists on super-slick road bikes down by the Yarra river and the dotting of public 'barbies' every few hundred yards.
What a glorious nation!
A couple of hours on the beast in beautiful sunshine followed by a sausage sarnie - Ripper!

We walked past the Rod Laver Arena where the Aussie Open was taking place, the footy stadium where the girls had recently seen Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj concerts and finally through the botanic gardens, another foliaceous beaut and a really lovely and well-kept space.

Eating out was a sobering experience for the amount of folding money I needed to part with in order to facilitate it.
After nine months of looking after number one (and Mrs One) and often dining for a 'Lady Godiva' or less, a bill of 80 dabs for dinner was much harder to digest than the delicious coconut curry I'd ordered.

On Tuesday we went out to the suburb in which the girls live to see their true home turf.
We took a modern and clean train out to Glen Waverly and saw where the girls work, met their colleagues, saw their school, the house they're living in and around 16 million Chinamen.
It was incredible how many Asians and Asian shops there were, Glen Waverly patently a real Oriental enclave meaning Jasmine and India stick out like a knife and fork in a drawer full of chopsticks.

Nevertheless, I felt a whole lot better for having seen where they're living and like the king of the world simply for being in their company again.

Sydney

Ever since I've known her, Kerry would get all wistful and stare into space with a peculiar look in her eye should Australia, especially Sydney, ever be mentioned.

As a young slip of a lass she had decided to leave old Blighty, donned rucksack and made for the far east before tiring of living in paradise on 50p per day and moving on to Australia.

Arriving in Sydney, she says, was like coming home and she spent the next eight months here, forging a new life before being denied citizenship by the merest of margins.
This necessitated a return to the UK which in turn led to motherhood, reducing her beloved country and city to a comforting and sustaining memory, a place to be visited again when time, money and circumstances permitted.

Therefore, when we booked our mid-life crisis addressing jaunt it was a given that we should take in Sydney, though with its reputation we probably would have anyway, even if it wasn't such an important staging post in Kerry's psyche and a convenient stepping stone between South America and Melbourne ensconced lamb chops.

Last Thursday, having lost a day of my life by virtue of crossing the international date line and having sat bolt upright on a plane for fourteen hours, I wasn't in the best of states as we emerged into the balmy New South Walian evening and took a cab to our hotel.
Nevertheless, on the odd occasion that my brain would engage it told me that I was in Australia, news that excited me greatly, not least because at last we could speak in our native tongue.
Speaking pidgin Spanish and struggling to understand and be understood had really begun to get on our thruppeny's of late and on more than one occasion since Paraguay one of us had venomously spewed "I can't WAIT to get to Oz and just speak bloody English", or words to that effect.

It was perhaps ironic then that our cabbie was an immigrant (I know everyone who isn't aboriginal is technically an immigrant but you get my drift), a middle-aged Frenchman with a heavy accent who was exceedingly difficult to understand.

It didn't really matter, I wasn't up for a conversation anyway. I only just had enough energy to simultaneously keep my head up and to breathe so to engage in pointless prattle may have been life threatening at that stage.

We checked in to the hotel, took the lift to the sixth floor, negotiated the rabbit warren and found our room. The doors were opened by those credit card things that you put in the slot, a mechanism perhaps best described as 'potentially iffy', especially when the magnetic card is in possession of a lady who has turned street lights on or off simply by walking past them and has made more electrical items malfunction simply by holding them than anyone I know (apart from her daughter).

We inserted the card and.....nothing. We tried again, and again and, after uttering profanities and looking at each other as if to both say "please do something" we tried again and....success!
A massive sense of relief engulfed us, we high fived each other, slumber awaited.
There was something wrong with the room as we conducted our customary initial scan though, but I didn't know what it was.

Kerry had booked it online and had been advised that she had qualified for a $1500 per night discount, a total saving of $6000 for our four night stay.
This amused us considering that the total price for our stay would be about $440 and on looking around that room we wondered how on earth they could ever apply the full price.
I suppose it's a marketing ploy to make you think you're getting a fabulous deal, a bit like those ridiculous furniture sales where they advertise a dining table for £2000 for a week and then put it down to £250 in "the sale" by way of reeling in us gullible punters.

Anyway, it had a bed and it was our bedtime so we put our packs down and began to prepare for a blissful sojourn to the land of nod.
Our over garments were strewn around the floor and we were resplendent in our undercrackers as Kerry made for the bathroom to clean her teeth.

Her sleep deprived brain took a couple of seconds to determine that there didn't appear to be a bathroom and another two to announce this to me.
Confused, I inexplicably drew the curtains and looked out of the window, possibly for inspiration but also to look for the missing loo.
Kerry opened the wardrobe, just in case these crafty cobbers had cunningly concealed our facilities in there.
No dice.
We had been given a room without a bathroom, when our email confirmation expressly stated that our room would be en-suite.

We got dressed and lugged our cases back downstairs. A conversation ensued where the receptionist informed us that the mistake was the booking agent's and there was nothing he could do until I pointed out that perhaps, given that we were half crazed with tiredness and not in complete control of our functions, he may think it prudent to speak to someone of a higher authority and resolve this situation in the interests of both customer primacy and of him not being head butted.

Common sense eventually prevailed and we were allocated a room, replete with kazi, on the eighth floor.
We took the lift, negotiated a new rabbit warren and inserted the credit card in the door.
Nothing.
Again. Nothing.
Again, again, again, again.

Whilst I rocked back and forth on my heels, weeping uncontrollably and holding my hair in my hands, Kerry went back down and got a new key.
Thankfully this one worked and we were in, in bed and passed out in a matter of minutes.

I woke up at 0250, lunchtime yesterday according to my body clock.
I'd given up trying to nod off again by 0400 and was reading a book when Kerry stirred at 0415.

After breakfast we planned to take in some of the most iconic sights on the planet, never mind this city; the Opera House, Harbour Bridge and Royal Botanical Gardens to name just a few.
A kindly hotel employee tipped us the wink about the weather though, today would be a blood boiling 38 degrees, with cloud and only 25 degrees forecast for the next two days.
That changed our plan - we would go to the beach today instead.

You are spoilt for choice for world class beaches in Sydney and Kerry was keen for me to see three different ones. First up was the mother of all beaches, possibly the most famous in the world and home to more honed torsos than you can shake a stick at - Bondi Beach.

We took a train to Bondi Junction, a bus/train transport hub and then joined a plethora of young Sydneysiders, equally intent on some quality time spent lounging on golden sand beside a tepid turquoise ocean.
And what a fine bunch they looked with their sun bronzed skin, perfect complexions and friendly demeanour; their only apparent flaw being stereotypical use of Antipodean Questioning Intonation:

"We're going to the beach today?"
"It's the best weather for ages?"
"I'm not sure about the surf today though?"

If you have teenage children you probably recognise it.
My children don't do it though?
I managed to beat it out of them before they moved to Australia?
They've probably picked it up now though after two years living there?

We jumped off that bus and skipped across the road to get the best view of the beach, excited as two eight year olds on Christmas morning.
What a vista!
If I could bottle the feeling that engulfed me at that moment and engendered involuntary whooping and clapping in my exhausted carcass then I would be a very rich man indeed.

We hurried down to the sand, burnt our feet on it as we sought a good spot and then whipped our kit off to reveal two of the least appealing midriffs for several hundred yards.
Never mind, lying down saw the excess skin and flubber roll under our backs and all that mattered anyway was that we were on Bondi Beach, cooking in the sun.
We soon had to take a dip to cool off and what a beautiful temperature that water was.
In Uruguay and Chile it had been too cold to stay in for long but here it was perfect.
A soft, sandy, gentle shelf and a total lack of seaweed completed the idyll.

It was so hot on the beach that after two hours my ever growing forehead was signalling that it needed a break, despite my having slavered it with sun cream.
We went for a spot of lunch and had a look around the town, a beautiful little place with a great vibe.
I was so enchanted I was persuaded to part with a large amount of money to replace the flip flops that had almost fallen off my feet due to the corrosive effects of the Bolivian salt pans.
Yes, Bondi thoroughly deserves it's reputation as one of the best beaches and resorts in the world.

After lunch we went to Coogee, a few miles down the coast and somewhere Kerry lived for a while. We found the building where her flat was and I watched as months worth of memories flooded back into my beloved's head.
It was lovely to see her so excited by it all and for the past she so often refers to to come to life.

The sea front here had changed quite a bit in the last 24 years and Kerry was particularly upset that the shack selling prawns and chips was no more.
We lay on the beach for a bit and had a quick swim but, for me, it wasn't a patch on Bondi.

By about 1700 we had the appearance of zombies and we were desperate to get to bed. We knew we had to stay up as late as possible in order to begin combatting the jet lag so we had a coffee and then a shower before going out for some nosebag in a lovely Greek restaurant.

What a joy to be in a western city where we could choose any meal that our hearts desired!
Our extreme fatigue saw us in and out of there in about 40 minutes, an unseemly display of haste ill-befitting such a beautiful stifado, but we simply couldn't cope any longer without getting into bed.
By 2045 I was snorting and drooling for England and Kerry wasn't far behind me.

Despite being so tired the jet lag saw me bright eyed and bushy tailed at 0310 - a 20 minute improvement on yesterday but still a ludicrous time to be awake. Kerry Van Winkle managed a healthy 0545 stirring, testimony to her genetic gift of sleeping ability.

With beaches done yesterday, today was city sightseeing day and we began at the ANZAC memorial in Hyde Park which was very close to our hotel.
Continuing through the park we came to the quite beautiful Archibald Fountain and then walked past nationalistic pride inducing statues of Victoria and Albert and some buildings of real imperial majesty.
It was about here that I proclaimed that I had fallen in love with this city.

We walked on, into the lovely Royal Botanic Gardens and around to Mrs McQuarie's Chair from where you have the classic view across the water to the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House.
The bridge was completed in 1932 and provides a perfect backdrop to the quite stunning Opera House, one of the most iconic buildings there is.
As far as budgetary failures go, this must be one of the worst. When commissioned in 1958 the estimated total cost was $7m but by the time it opened in 1973 the venture had actually cost $102m.
There had also been sufficient argy bargy between architect Jorn Utzon, a Dane, and the Australian government meaning that Utzon was not present when Queen Elizabeth officially opened it.

Having drunk our fill of these wonders we wandered round to Circular Quay and were drawn in to not only watching street performer 'Psycho Sam' but I was picked from the audience to help him with his big finale - blindfolded juggling of lit torches and knives whilst sat atop a homemade robot that a burly fellow called Doug and I were supporting.

Once I'd finished milking the applause from my street theatre debut and signed a few autographs we walked round to Darling Harbour for lunch, then hopped on the soon-to-be-decommissioned monorail and completed a full circuit.
I don't know why they're doing away with it but it seems a great shame. It's somehow fitting that such a fantastic place has the archetypal futuristic mode of transport running through it so to my mind it will be a tremendously sad loss.

With that box ticked we made for the awesome Queen Victoria Building, essentially a rather upmarket shopping mall but that does it no justice whatsoever.
The exterior of the building is ornately carved and in perfect condition. Inside there are five levels of arcades set beneath a glass roof, stained glass domes and two unbelievably beautiful clocks. Tiled floors, tastefully painted walls, breathtaking stairwells and a pianist tickling the ivories on a grand piano complete this sensory overload.

On a metaphoric high from this experience, we then went for an altogether more physical one, taking the lift up 300 metres to the top of the Sydney Tower Eye for great views of perhaps 40 or 50 miles in all directions.

Unsurprisingly after such a full-on day, we were about done in by now and crawled home for another early night.
Out cold by 2100, I was awake at 0350, listening again in the dark to Kerry securing an extra couple of hours.

Sunday was our last day here resulting in mixed feelings; we felt we could have stayed here for a while yet but of course, we were desperate to crack on and meet my daughters.
In another assault we went to Kings Cross to see another of Kerry's old stamping grounds, took the ferry past the Opera House to the wonderful suburb of Manly Beach and then, once back in town, by foot over the Harbour Bridge for a quick visit to the North Shore.
Manly was particularly enjoyable: a thriving beach resort with sun creamed kids competing in various sea based races, palm trees, cleanliness, clear water, souped up classic cars trundling past, a sausage roll to die for, street performers and a great atmosphere.
It was faultless really and another wonderful facet to this truly great place.

Though it had half killed us, we had crammed an inordinate amount into our short stay in Sydney and I'd seen everything that Kerry felt was really necessary?
Job done then, and a new place to try and fit into my top 5 places of the whole trip?
Another conundrum to resolve was when exactly will we return, for we surely will?

Santiago - Adios Americas

When we booked our round the world flights nearly a year ago, we found that Santiago would be our departure point from the Americas.
This was decreed by Qantas, God of affordable 'Round the World' airfares and not by us.
If we'd had free reign we would have chosen to depart from Punta Arenas down near Tierra del Fuego, or perhaps Buenos Aires.
It was all a bit of an unknown, the end of the overland odyssey, we didn't really know where we would go and therefore end up so in some ways it made life easier to be told that we had to fly from the capital of Chile.

And here we were, after a mere hop, skip and a jump from Vina Del Mar we were standing at the bus station on Avenida O'Higgins, digesting the fact that we had reached perhaps the most significant goal of the trip.
(the rather magnificently named Bernardo O'Higgins, illegitimate son of an Irishman, was leader of the Chilean Republic in the 1800s).

Santiago. So long just the name of a city that we would reach, one way or another, at some distant point in the future was now all about us:
its humidity was moistening our shirts, its smog was polluting our lungs and its inhabitants were curiously regarding us for taking souvenir photographs of our triumphant arrival at an otherwise unremarkable bus station.

With finances seriously dwindling, we had accepted that we simply must stay in a hostel here; no wimping out and heading for a 3* hotel and no histrionic protestations that "I'm 42 and I'm not staying in that bloody shit hole".
To combat this possibility we reserved ahead and this also meant we had a fixed goal and would be spared the agony of looking for a room.

A pain we were not spared though was of dealing with a lying taxi driver.

"Hola señor, Hostelling International on Cienfuegos Street please. Do you know it?"

"Si, si"

Thirty seconds after bundling into the cab we had pulled alongside another taxi and our driver was asking the other where Cienfuegos Street was!

I suppose it was fitting that our last such journey would approach farce.
So many cab drivers have not known our requested destinations, an indictment of their professionalism and of our grasp of Spanish.

We had booked two bunks in a four bed dormitory and were pleased to note that the other two beds were vacant, if not quite so enamoured with the stained mattresses and human detritus on my pillow.
Having made our beds and scraped things as clean as they would go we went out for dinner and a short walk around our immediate surroundings.

Being Sunday, it was rather quiet but it was clean, felt safe and, judging by the few cars and people we did see, quite affluent.
We were soon back in our bunks, ever waiting for the door to open to reveal two bunk mates but it never did; not that first day nor the following two.
By a stroke of luck we'd secured a private room whilst paying dorm rates.

Breakfast was included so next morning we took our seats at the large benches and ate our fill of bread rolls and marmalade. Along with all other guests, we were checking email, facebook and the January transfer window page of the BBC football website.
Because everyone has their own devices in order to keep in contact with people back home, interaction with fellow guests is more limited than it always used to be in such places.
It's much easier to strike up a conversation with someone who is staring into space, fishing doughy bread out of their gums with their tongue than someone who is engrossed in the revelatory news that John Doe 'is going to the gym'.
There were two separate guys who were quite alone and sans iPad but with one of them looking every inch as though he was probably deranged and the other being a hirsute Brazilian in yellow flip flops, a yellow, nipple revealing, vest and the skimpiest yellow shorts imaginable, I quickly decided that neither warranted any sort of investment.

Though we were essentially just marking time until our flight on Wednesday, it obviously would have been quite remiss to spurn the opportunity to see Santiago so we set out for a wander around the city.

It's not a particularly old place, founded in 1541 by Spanish conquistadors but only really becoming significant in the 1880s when mining took off in a big way nearby.
There are some impressive old buildings here, the cathedral and main plaza was particularly appealing, but it's never likely to blow you away after nine months on the road.
In fact, the most notable aspects of the place are that nearly everyone is of European descent, it feels very much like any modern city in the world and, compared to Peru and Bolivia, it's quite expensive.

We walked around until lunchtime and then, after a delicious rice and wok veg lunch, we made for one of the city's many parks, Parque Nacional being situated on a large rocky area 2000 feet high.
There was a funicular railway to climb to the top, great views once you were there and a cable car across to other areas of the park - sounded like a fun afternoon.

The first disappointment was that the funicular was closed for maintenance and the second was that by the time we'd worked out that there was a bus to the top we had missed it.
We waited for the next one and were soon enjoying views of the sprawling city below us through the haze, the incredibly flat lands below us not really explaining why mountain bikes outnumber road bikes by at least 10:1.
It seems that the climb to where we were standing is a local proving ground for cyclists so we spent a while watching the heavily perspiring owners of various Treks and Giants arrive, turn round and speed back downhill which has done nothing if not got me thinking even more about donning the old lycra and getting out on my beast.
(note to self: buy girdle before donning lycra).

After slipping on some shiny steps beneath a large statue of the Virgin Mary, just saving myself from a potentially bone-jarring tumble by grabbing out at a handrail, we returned down to the city and yomped the whole way home through the rush hour.
Dinner was a surprisingly tasty pork steak from a backstreet bar, notable for the paucity of their drinks offer and for an apparent attempt at the world record for the largest meal consisting solely of beetroot, made by the chap at the next table.
I've never come across a bar offering just two non-alcoholic drinks before, Fanta or ginger ale (no coke, no water!) nor anyone, other than my mate Ian's mum, more obsessed with beetroot.
This chap had a bowl before him, big enough to wash both your feet in at once, full of it.
I hope he lives alone, that's all I can say.

Tuesday was our final day in the Americas, exactly nine months to the day since we landed at Newark and began this great trek.
We wanted to mark it with a bang, do something really memorable, exhilarating, sign off with a flourish as it were.

There were a couple of things standing between us and that aspiration:
We had about £20 left of our Chilean money and were determined not to withdraw any more, we were so tired that the prospect of putting in even the slightest physical effort was less appealing than sticking pins in our eyes and there seemed to be bugger all to do anyway.
The night before at dinner, in between urging at the purple spectacle on our left, we had resolved to go to a vineyard and do a wine tasting tour but this morning the prospect just didn't seem appealing enough so we canned the idea.
If the one I went on in South Africa was anything to go by, I thought we could well do without a banging headache before boarding a 14 hour flight and missing a night's sleep.

So, rather than a spectacular and tumultuous denouement it was a little more like a firework that didn't go off properly. We fizzled out, the perfect metaphor perhaps for the way our once lean and athletic frames now resemble beaten and hollow husks.

Never able to pass up an opportunity to walk ourselves to near oblivion though, we strolled up to the Central Station to regard one of the less celebrated of Gustav Eiffel's works and then took a metro all the way across town and back to Parque Nacional.

"Hang on. Weren't you there only yesterday?", I hear you ask.

Indeed! Though today there would be no lazy regarding of sweaty mountain bikers, no near-arse-over-tit moments at the feet of religious idols and no wistful gazing through 50% smog; we would simply go to one of the outdoor swimming pools and wile away our last hours alternating between baking in the sun and dips in icy cold water.

It sounds simple but, like so many aspects of this trip, it was anything but.
To cut a long and hot story short, the pool was about a mile and a half away from where the bus dropped us off, usually reached by cable car, if it, like the funicular, wasn't closed for maintenance.

We set off on foot and found that it was back the way the bus had come up. Had we realised we could have asked to be let off and saved us all this legwork.
We needn't have bothered at all as it turned out. The entrance fee of $6000 pesos each was way beyond our means so we sat outside forlornly for ten minutes while we caught our breath, every audible shriek of laughter from inside serving to slap us about the face for our folly, before we set off back for the city and home.

This is what, in modern parlance, is known as a 'fail'.

We dined at the same place as yesterday for want of anywhere better and this time opted for a saucy looking dish of rice and 'white meat'.
"White meat?", I asked.
"What? Chicken?"
"Er.............. si, si", retorted the barrel-like serving wench.

Well, it was saucy, tasty, a little bit slimy, but fine enough washed down with a can of Fanta.
(Have you poured Fanta into a glass recently and seen the colour of it? Scary!)

As I digested the last mouthful Kerry announced that she thought our meal was tripe.
"Oh, it's not that bad, in fact, I quite liked it".

"No, I mean it's tripe, it's actually tripe, 'white meat' means tripe".

Well, if you're going to feast on the lining of a cows stomach then do so accompanied by a refreshing, wind-inducing beverage of a luminous hue, that's what I say.

So, after nine of the most memorable months of our lives, it was a case of 'adios' to the Americas.
Seventeen countries across two continents that have given us:

Chile, chillies, the willies, we've been silly billies and listened to Milli Vanilli, we've climbed hills, experienced thrills, downed innumerate malarial pills and incurred credit card bills;

we've eaten carrots, seen dead parrots, religious zealots, fallen harlots, Chevvys on car lots, spent time on buses - lots!, got sore bots, spent a week on a yacht, had the trots and been oh so hot;

crossed rivers on boats, hardly worn coats, sent loved ones notes, loved the coast (the Caribbean the most), the odd host, sent stuff home in the post and made good our initial boast;

we've seen Memphis Blues, given away shoes, taken a six day cruise, got wrecked on booze, blown the odd fuse, patronised disgusting loos, stood in long queues and forsaken the news.

We've done everything we set out to do (with the single exception of seeing a condor) and these months have been everything we ever dared dream of after excitedly discussing travelling on our first date back in 2005.

It may have taken seven years to come to fruition but the important thing is that we did it.
Equally important is that I no longer have to dread lying on my death bed saying
"Bugger it! I wish I'd gone travelling when I was younger" and THAT is priceless.

Our flight to Oz was at 1335 on Wednesday, a perfect time which afforded us a leisurely breakfast, a gentle saunter to the airport by local bus and plenty of time to check-in.

A 14 hour flight should be daunting but the quality of on-board entertainment on long haul, not to mention the good food, makes it something of a pleasure.
I guess bouncing around on buses for months on end has stood us in good stead.
The only part of the flight I didn't enjoy was when the steward asked over the tannoy if there was anyone medically trained on-board which conjured up terrifying images in my mind of our pilot having been struck down by appendicitis or something and a subsequent call to ask if anyone knows how to fly a jumbo.

Crossing the international date line saw us effectively lose Thursday 17 January 2013, something we can Ill afford as we approach our dotage.
On the plus side I am in the same country as my lamb chops for the first time in a year and in four short days we will be reunited.

Vina del Mar

Frazzled, we arrived at Vina del Mar on Chile's Pacific coast on Monday evening and made for an hotel which was listed in the Lonely Planet.

Perched high on a hill and therefore with a commanding view over the town, the Residencia Offenbacher-Hof seemed a good choice but they only had one room to offer us and this of the 'last chicken in the shop' variety.
Situated halfway up the polished wood and therefore noisy stairs, small doorway necessitating the six footers among us to duck in order to gain entry, peculiar entry to the kazi meaning simultaneous ducking and shimmying and a rather garish pink wall covering made me want to say "no way Jose" but Kerry's weariness spoke first and we took it.

We took further advice from the LP and ate tasty kebabs a couple of blocks away to replenish our battered and spice-denied bodies and how delicious that hot sauce tasted as it dribbled out of my meal, down my chin and onto my shirt.
You would perhaps have thought, as I did, that spicy food would be the norm across this continent but it is not so.
South of Mexico, where the chillies can result in bowel movements which make you wonder if you're passing lava, our dining experiences have been quite bland in comparison to, for example, Britain's national dish of curry.

Back in our room, which we had now named 'The Hobbit House', I fished around in my wash bag for my toothbrush and found everything covered in hair gel courtesy of a razor inflicted nick in the tube - a highly irritating end to a largely unsatisfactory day.

Next morning, after nine hours of comatose recuperation and with the sun blazing through our curtains the world felt a much happier place.
That was, until Kerry flushed the lav which broke the cistern and we went to unlock the door and found that it was jammed and we were incarcerated.

I don't know how many hotel doors we have had issues with but it is not an insignificant number.
What little tolerance I had at the outset of this trip evaporated completely somewhere in Central America and I was soon informing reception via our open window that we were stuck, and while we're about it the kazi appears to be kaput.

Once freed by our Chilean/German host, a hearty breakfast of muesli, crepes and lemon meringue pie set us up nicely for the morning's task of sourcing a better room which in turn gave us the opportunity to see a little bit of Vina del Mar.

Meaning "Vineyard by the Sea", Vina sprang up at the end of the 19th century when nearby Valparaiso was connected to Santiago by the new railway.
Valparaiso was a hotbed of Chilean moving and shaking at that time, an important port on the trade routes prior to the opening of the Panama Canal and home to many a rich merchant.
Dissatisfied that the railway lessened the exclusivity of the town by providing easy ingress for the oiks of Santiago, the affluent built mansions a few miles along the coast and surrounded their properties with grape vines.
Thus the name of the town and, to this day, Vina is clean, safe and friendly whereas Valparaiso is tired and comparably unappealing, but more on that later.

Our search for a new room bore little fruit. We looked at a good half dozen or so but the more we looked the more we realised that, despite the morning's problems, we rather liked the Hobbit House in comparison.

Creepy hosts, no Internet and dark, airless rooms are as much of a turn-off as comfortable bed, oodles of natural light and puddings for breakfast are positives.
No, we'd have been Tolkien rubbish to even think about going anywhere else.

We made for the beach after lunch and soon discovered that the 200 yard long stretch of sand is painfully inadequate for a town with 1 million inhabitants.
We shoehorned ourselves in between some folks but everyone felt far too close for comfort, particularly that annoying little scrote flicking sand on us.

The sea was quite cold but that was welcome given how hot it was on the beach. Space was at a premium in the water too, though once you'd braved the pounding waves and got a few feet out you were on your own.
There's a very strong current here so it was reassuring that both the tide was coming in and that a lifeguard in a boat was on constant patrol.

On the way to dinner we weighed ourselves, something we've done four or five times throughout the trip to see how our inability to eat what we want and lack of routine exercise is affecting us.
The good news is that our blood pressure and BMI are within the bounds of what these machines deem normal and that I didn't throw my jeans out that were huge on me once I'd trained for the marathon a couple of years ago.
That is all!

We have found, since reaching the Southern part of South America, that the language is more difficult to understand and that many things have different names.
At times in Ecuador and Peru I felt we'd almost cracked the language barrier but recently we've been demoralised and frustrated again in spades.
Our dinner menu almost may as well have been in mandarin and if we are tired of bus journeys then we are equally fatigued with the mealtime charade.
I can't tell you how much we're looking forward to Australia and speaking English again.

We found next morning that we'd been most fortunate with the morning sun yesterday. Sea mist surrounded the town, as it apparently does most days until lunchtime when it clears and everyone hits the beach.

We did likewise and made sure we were there early to pick a good spot, out of the main throng and in a corner to minimise the possibility of having sand flung on us.
It was all we wanted to do, all we have left in us is an ability to lie flat on our backs and periodically dip in the sea.

After a couple of days of this we took the train along the coast to Valparaiso to meet up with Terry and Indygo, the mum and daughter that, if you're paying attention, you will recall we met on the 'Andean Explorer' train in Peru a few weeks ago.

Six months into their trip and fresh from a fortnight on Easter Island we had much to discuss and it was evident from our almost crazed chattering that we were all desperate for someone to talk to who isn't our significant other.
I'm sure they appreciated it as much as we did and I love Indygo because she's so like Jasmine was at that age.
Looking forward to seeing you both in South Africa, or over in England.

Much as we enjoyed lunch we were glad to get back to Vina, or perhaps more to get away from Valparaiso. At this stage of the trip, beach-less port cities that have an overwhelming aroma of urine are not high on the agenda so it was lovely to get back to lazing on the sand.

Our last day in Vina was a bit of a wash-out because the mist didn't clear all day. That rendered our sanctuary of the beach a no-go and all we ended up doing was walking to McDonalds for an ice-cream sundae and spending the rest of our time semi-sparko in our room.
It's not like us to lounge about doing nothing but you have to every now and then.

The next day, Sunday, we ambled up to the bus station for the 1135 to Santiago, technically the last such journey we will make.
I'll just clarify that: we have made our last bus journey on this trip.

Ever since Sunday 15 April we have been heading for Santiago, albeit in an extremely round about way.
New York to Santiago by land (or sea when necessary):

Amazing.

Exhausting.

Unforgettable.