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.

Buenos Aires and the final slog

One last, great city stood between us and Santiago, our departure point from this continent to the English antipodes of Oz.

Buenos Aires: capital of Argentina, scene of a turbulent socio-political 20th century, birthplace of Diego Maradona awaited us as we sped across the River Plate on our ferry from Colonia Del Sacramento in Uruguay.
For once our journey ended too soon. The on-board entertainment was Robbie Williams' 2003 Knebworth concert and I don't think I've seen Kerry so rapt since our early 'tete a tetes' over lunchtime hot chocolates in Sidwell Street.

Incidentally, the River Plate is an anglicisation of its true moniker which is Rio De La Plata, correctly translated as the River of Silver.
I'm not a fan of translations of place names; a name is a name is it not?
You don't get it with football clubs, Manchester United are known as such the world over, so I don't know why it occurs with cities etc.
And how dull River Plate sounds against Rio De La Plata - I know which one I would rather chase a limping pocket battleship up, forcing its disgraced commander to scuttle it and then commit hari-kiri.

Arriving at the port in La Boca was very exciting. BA's buildings loomed large and there was an undeniable buzz about us simply for being here.
Every now and then Kerry or I will say to the other: "Oh my god, we're in {insert evocative sounding place} and this was one of these occasions.
Having dreamt of this trip for so long, mere words can never do justice to what we have felt on these occasions.

We travelled the couple of miles to the city centre and began the tedium of sourcing a room. Our first choice was either $80 for a private room or $40 for two bunks in a six man dorm.
Despite previously reporting that an economy drive is now in place we couldn't face the malodorous snore-fest of the shared option and felt 80 dabs was a tad too high for a hostel.
We adjourned to McDonald's for an ensalada and to make use of their wi-fi, delighting in finding a 4* hotel just around the corner for $57 on booking.com.

Well, there's 4* and there's 4* and this one was at the lower end of that particular spectrum. The lobby was beautiful, so nice in fact that I felt quite out of place with my bedraggled and unkemp self peering back at me from the mirror behind the receptionist.
The room, however, was a serious letdown. I can't imagine when this hotel was rated, nor by what halfwit, but it couldn't have been any time recently.

We took a walk and were immediately struck by how western it felt here and, once we'd negotiated our way out of the pedestrianised street we were on, what a grand and magnificent city it is.
If you like architecture then BA will be right up your alley and it reminded me a lot of Paris.

We found our way to the Plaza de Mayo, a lovely square surrounded by beautiful buildings, not least the Casa Rosada, the pink presidential mansion from where Juan and Eva Peron would address the baying hordes in the '40s.
The Plaza is also home to a demonstration about the Falklands and there are memorials to the fallen, around which, when asked by a chap from whence we came, we were German.

On Friday Kerry got to indulge her passion for a city bus tour, admittedly the best way to see the main sights without getting utterly cream-crackered by yomping for miles.
Without wishing to repeat myself I must stress how wonderful a city this is, easily appreciated from the top deck of an open-top bus.
Wide boulevards, fancy-schmantzy architecture, clear skies and beautiful people all combined to make this a very pleasant tour.

The highlight for me was Stop 8 and the Museo del Boquense.
This is a museum dedicated to Boca Juniors football club but even better, the admission included entry to the stadium, the famous 'Bombonera'.
I would have loved to have seen a game here but unfortunately it's the close season. Nevertheless, it gave me goose bumps just to think about the legends that have played in this wonderfully compact little stadium:
Canniggia, Riquelme, Rattin, Tevez and of course, Diego himself.

Other notable sights on our tour were: the congress building, the Teatro Colon, a huge metal flower which closes at night, the district of Palermo, the obelisk, an image of Evita on the side of a skyscraper and the cemetery at Recoleta. It was, in short, a great few hours.

We spent Saturday morning planning our next move which meant a trip to the bus station.
We opted to buy tickets to Mendoza on what would be our final long-haul of the trip; 15 hours overnight on Sunday.
Mendoza is wine country and we liked the sound of the "Bikes and Wine Tour" on offer there, despite them sounding as compatible as George Best and Mother Theresa.

With that chore completed we then booked a night out to see a professional Tango show, a visit to BA without which is surely incomplete.
This followed our stumbling across a street show of Tango the night before near our hotel. Whilst it was really good (and free) we were aggravated by the lack of dancing and the emphasis on the "Where are you from? A round of applause for Spain/Germany/Colombia/Brazil etc etc nature to proceedings so we figured a pro show would sate our (Kerry's) unfulfilled desires on that score.

A night out at such a club necessitated a shopping expedition for your heroine. It simply wouldn't do to turn up in grubby attire and flip flops so there followed (what seemed like an interminable) two to three hour search for a suitable dress. Of course, as all women and their weary partners will know, once the dress is sourced then one needs shoes, a belt and possibly a bag.
Sympathetic to my increasingly animated displays of impatience, Kerry located dress and shoes in the same shop, decided against a belt and that a bag she already possessed would do the job.
I'm aware I got off rather lightly and the transformation from hippie-chick traveller to sophisticated lady about town was remarkable and slightly disconcerting after all this time.
To my shame I'd forgotten how beautiful she is and it almost felt intimidating to be taking her out in my trekking trousers and trainers.

We went to a small club on the other side of town and were seated at a table on the mezzanine with a great view of the stage.
The story, told through song, was obviously in Spanish so it largely passed us by but the dancing was great and the live orchestra added greatly to it all.

We were free on Sunday until our bus left at 1700 so we had a walk up to congress before splitting up for a few hours.
Kerry was feeling a little dicky in the stomach again so just wanted to sit quietly and I took the opportunity to visit another football stadium, the Monumental (pronounced Mon-u-men-tarl) of River Plate FC.
It turned into a bit of a balls ache and expensive sweat-fest but, overall, it was worth it.
For someone who works in the field I do I managed to make quite a pigs ear of my journey to the Monumental.
I failed to read the metro map correctly so ended up missing my stop.
This saw me walking 400 yards to a different metro station before taking a train to 'Retiro', the railway station.
Here I purchased a return ticket to Belgrano, nearest station to the Monumental and a bargain at 50p.
Unbeknownst to me there were two Belgranos and, of course, my train took me to the wrong one.
This necessitated my taking a taxi to the stadium and another back to town after my visit because I'd run out of time and couldn't afford to be faffing about looking for buses.

Despite all that grief, the expense and the associated ear-bending at that expense, to see the pitch where Argentina won its first world cup, where Kempes scored those beautiful goals and where the Argentinian team was greeted with the famous ticker tape reception was spine-tinglingly exciting.

And so to the bus station. I won't go into too much detail, you must be as tired of hearing about bus journeys as we are of making them, but the main point is that we decided to continue past Mendoza and head straight to a Chilean beach for our final week on American soil.
This meant arriving at Mendoza after a 15 hour journey and then finding a bus on to the coast, another 8 hours according to the Lonely Planet.

The night bus was a bit of a disaster for me personally. My seat was broken so if I leant back my head appeared in the lap of the person behind me and if I reduced my weight in any way then I would shoot forward and headbutt the seat in front - not conducive to a satisfactory night's sleep.
There was also a chap opposite who saw fit to snort every five seconds by way of clearing thick mucus from his sinuses. I hadn't heard him until Kerry pointed it out and once she had done I simply sat there waiting for each new evacuation.
And there was a young child in front, one behind, there was a film on TV that I didn't want to watch, I went to the loo and there was someone in there with their knickers around their ankles who hadn't locked the door causing acute embarrassment for both of us.
God! How I have come to hate buses.

At Mendoza I found a bus leaving in an hour heading for the Chilean resort of Vina Del Mar.
The ticket agent told us the journey was seven hours in length so, leaving at 0930, we looked forward to arriving by 1630.
What he'd omitted to mention to us was that the Argentine-Chilean border is as officious as they come and it took fully three hours of luggage searching, paperwork processing and groin sniffing by Golden Retrievers before we saw the "Bienvenidos a Chile" sign.

Whilst still in Argentina a film was shown on the bus. Of all the films in the world to show to a bus load of Argentinians I'm not sure a biopic of Margaret Thatcher is the best choice.
We slunk into our seats and kept our voices down, especially during scenes depicting the Falklands War where Maggie described Argentinians as scum.
In case anyone missed out on being offended first time round they then showed it again.
I couldn't help wondering how a bus load of Brits would react if the tables were turned.

That long delay at the border saw us pull into Vina Del Mar at nearly 2000 hours, 27 hours after boarding in BA.
Whilst that is an horrific statistic I am almost deliriously happy to tell you that that is almost it with regards to bus travel.
We will hole up here for a while and chill out before making for Santiago at the weekend, a mere bagatelle at only two hours away.
Then we fly to Oz for an emotional reunion with the estranged lamb chops.

First though, there's a Pacific Ocean to laze beside on white golden sand.

Uruguay 2

The day after the day after the night on the lash, we felt well enough to venture out of Piriapolis and have a look-see at Punte Del Este, Uruguay's jewel in its crown.

Punte Del Este, according to the marketing spiel, is a "world class beach resort" and was actually somewhere we were heading for before deciding upon Piriapolis, until we realised that to stay there over Christmas and New Year would necessitate our committing a crime akin to the great train robbery first in order to pay for it.

It's a 'Bojangles' sort of place, Uruguay's Miami, more suited to your two week splurge in the sun rather than the near final knockings for grimy and almost skint middle-aged backpackers.

So a day trip was the best way for us to have a gander, particularly as it was only 40 minutes down the coast road by bus from where we were holed up.

We took an immediate shine to the place on emerging from the bus station, seeing a gleaming blue 1970s Ford Mustang parked up for us to leer at, more so to feel the 30ish degree temperature and the warm wind blowing off the sea.

Looking towards the beach we saw an icon of Punte, five huge, sculpted fingers emerging from the sand.
These attract a lot of attention and their mesmeric qualities caused one woman to lose concentration for long enough to trip, stagger, involuntarily run downhill and then take a dive headfirst for a mouthful of beach.
In such moments, with recording equipment to hand, are cheques for £250 earned.

Punte is one of those places where the beautiful congregate and as we took a walk around the promontory on which it is built, ogling the bespoke, (presumably) seven-figure-worth properties, the bronzed and toned inhabitants and holidaymakers were jogging and cycling past us in their droves.
There were so many athletically inclined people that it made you feel out of place if you weren't sporting a pair of Lycra clad buns between which you could crack walnuts.

As our taut and honed bods have all but deserted us following months of 'high living', we slunk away and sat under a palm to watch the other half playing on the water on their jetskis and in their boats, only feeling inclined to move once I'd identified that Kerry was sitting squarely on an ants nest.

Continuing the fitness theme of the city, a few yards down the road were some exercise apparatus, free for anyone to use. I had a quick go on the bench press and as Kerry stood admiringly a couple appeared, intent on conducting a joint workout.
Impressive bodies they surely had but micro bikini and speedos was somehow humorous attire to walk down the street in and begin to pump iron.
Anyone remember the character 'Sylvester' in the film "It's a mad mad mad mad world"?
Well, it looked like that, only more ridiculous.

Returning to Piriapolis felt like some sort of homecoming and though we had to move rooms, from the upgrade to an inexplicably fly-infested standard room on the first floor, it felt nice to be back.

We swatted fifteen flies before going to sleep that night and, presumably tired from the exertion, spent all of the next day lounging around and following the footy online before hitting the beach.
It was a scorcher today and we simply had to take a dip roughly every twenty minutes in order to prevent cooking in our own juices.

That evening, desperate for a meal that didn't consist of steak and either salad or chips, we acted on the advice of the Brits from the other night and went to a locals restaurant called "Picasso".
It took a bit of finding and we wondered whether we were in the right area more than once before a kindly and barrel-chested chap pointed it out to us.
It was basically a private enterprise, operated from someone's house with plastic patio furniture throughout the ground floor and, as it's peak season, out into the drive to cater for waifs such as us who may wander in unannounced.

The food was truly amazing, delicious fish in sauce, but the ambience was atrocious.
Things looked reasonably good until a party joined the next table with two under fives among them.
The youngest dropped a wine glass on the floor before wailing and roaring until the mother whipped her top up and began breast feeding.
A child at another table began screaming hysterically, a car alarm went off and couldn't be silenced which set the neighbours mutt off, barking at a million decibels just the other side of the fence - which frightened the first baby who started crying again.

It was certainly a memorable experience.

Having that opportunity to walk through the suburbs of town we saw just how affluent a nation this is.
I suppose that was obvious from the prices of the hotel room and the meals in restaurants but this confirmed it.
Most houses were unique, often bungalows with large plots and swanky cars in the drive.
This is a world away from Bolivia and Peru.

On Monday we took a day trip to Montevideo for a brief look at the city and while it was all very interesting we really hankered after the beach all the time we were there.
We walked a few miles, around the old town, to the port, through the main shopping area and out to the old railway station; the latter a beautiful old building now a haven for the homeless.

As it was New Year's Eve the inhabitants were in party mode and we were soon introduced to a local New Year custom.
Soakings are the order of the day on New Year's Eve with people squirting water off their balconies at passers-by.
Some people have bottles of water to try to tip on you as you walk past, others have hose pipes.
Another way of dousing you is to pour beer or cider on you as you pass in the street.

Without wanting to poop their party neither Kerry nor I particularly wanted to get soaking wet, even less to be covered in grog considering we had a two hour bus journey to get back to Piriapolis.
This saw us adopt evasive tactics, weaving through the streets to avoid anywhere with tell-tale pools of water and steering clear of the drum beat of the main crowd of revellers.

I'm pleased, not to say amazed, to be able to report that we stayed dry using this method.
There was one close call as a wild-eyed and dreadlocked chap came up to us on one street and said in a rasping voice, whilst priming his litre of cider in our direction:

"Do you know the custom here?"

But our cowering and repeated pleas of "No, no, no" seemed to make our assailant think again before he skidaddled.

For our New Year's Eve we revisited the scene of our night with the Brits; close by to our hotel and food to die for.
It was a muted night by comparison with our last visit but was somehow fitting that after so much time spent without anyone else over these months, the year should end for Kerry and I solely in each others company.

Let 2013 be different though for God's sake!
If I don't soon spend some time with someone with whom I can have a deep and meaningful about whether 'Arry can pull off the great escape for QPR, why Villa are as effective as a blancmange screwdriver and why Man City's attack has been firing more blanks than the Territorial Army then I may not be responsible for my actions.

January 1st was spent the way that millions of people spend it, nursing a throbbing head and quaffing gallons of water to try to rehydrate our withered bodies.
The weather had turned today and the sea was wild while the wind was blowing a hooly.
We braved the elements later on to go for a walk but we managed less than two hours before returning to our sanctuary and collapsing once more into piteous heaps.

On Wednesday, after twelve days of doing not an awful lot, it was finally time to move on.
Colonia Del Sacremento was our next stop, a former Portugese run smugglers port founded in 1680 and one of the quaintest places we've seen.

We knew we needed to cut costs after our Yuletide splurge so opted to stay in a hostel dormitory rather than a private room.
It's ok, up to a point, but there undoubtedly comes a time when you don't really want to share a bedroom with others, their bodily noises, odours and rustling and banging about when you're trying to sleep.
That time is now actually, but needs must.

Colonia was a lovely little place but you can see it in one afternoon.
With that done we were done, with Uruguay.
We booked our ferry tickets to Buenos Aires for the next day and prepared to cross the border into Argentina for the third time in the past month.