Travel blog: Bolivian border, headaches and Lake Titicaca

Bolivian/Peruvian border. Photo Natasha Young

Peru stuck its fingers up at me as I left. Twice. On my last night, the girl at Interbank gave me fake money and I was in too much of a rush to realise. The taxi driver and I had been getting along famously until I tried to pay him with the Peruvian equivalent of a Monopoly note. Then, just as I was about to board my bus for Bolivia, I was told I needed to exchange my ticket shaped piece of paper for a completely different ticket shaped piece of paper. Well obviously. What I didn’t know until I reached Puno was that in fact I should have been given two tickets, one for each leg of the journey. Nobody told me that part. And so it was I reached Puno on lovely Lake Titicaca at 5 o’clock in the morning with a purse full of joke money and no ticket to Bolivia. The unhelpful girl at the Tour Peru office (may she burn in hell) refused to help or call the office in Cusco. Peru 2: England 0. Take that you Chile-loving Brit.

Lake Titicaca, Copacabana. Photo Natasha Young

I was rescued by a lovely man at  a different company (I wish I could recall which one) who saved me a seat on his bus in case I needed it (I did), clucked in disapproval at his rivals and generally made me feel all special and warm. A few hours after arriving, I was finally on a bus leaving Puno. The road out of town hugged the lake like best friends after 4 bottles of wine. It was a slow, dusty and pot-holed ride and although I was desperate for sleep I didn’t want to miss the view. This was the real Peru, where women wore traditional dress for themselves rather than the tourists. Kids chased scampering sheep, men tinkered with fishing boats and women nattered to their mates as they went to market. Just as I was nodding off to sleep, I was delighted to spot 3 flamingos.

Copacabana. Photo Natasha Young

At the Bolivian border we all shot through customs with barely a cursory glance at our passports and an inky stamp. Except the Americans. They were in there for nearly an hour and had to take out wads of cash to pay the fees. “Everyone hates us” whispered one of them to her friend when they eventually boarded. The bus driver definitely did. Half an hour earlier he’d asked his assistant what the hold up was. “Americans” was the snarled reply. The driver raised his eyebrows, sighed and harrumphed off the bus for a cigarette.

It was around that time that the headache started. I’d not had altitude sickness when I was at 4600m in the Atacama Desert and Cusco’s 3000m hadn’t bothered me a jot. Clearly Bolivia was in a league of its own. The headache began at the border and didn’t disappear until my plane landed back in Chile a few days later.

I’d been looking forward to seeing Copacabana on the Bolivian shore of Lake Titicaca. Instead I arrived shattered, sweaty, hungry and with a cracking headache. We were dropped off in a busy square where taxis, vans and buses belched their exhaust fumes as they vied with each other for business. I jumped and staggered into my giant backpack and tried to figure out where the hell I was. I had planned on slumming it in a cheap dorm bed, it but I felt horrible and decided that only the best – at $10 a night – would do.

 

View from la Cúpula. Photo Natasha Young

La Cúpula (when I eventually found it) was just what I needed. With views of the lake, this was a hostel pretending to be a boutique hotel. The simple clean rooms were surrounded by gardens where guests loafed about in hammocks reading books and snoozing. As I checked in, a woman popped out from behind the clothes line and herded her sheep past reception and down the lane.

I was feeling decidedly ropey. Rather than go shopping for food, I went to La Cúpula’s restaurant and gorged on salad, local trout, potatoes and corn, all washed down with homemade lemonade. I felt like I hadn’t eaten properly for days. Dessert was a big mug of coca tea.

In a bid to find an ATM (there isn’t one) and get a feel for the town, I went out. It’s distinctly different to Peru. Here there was rubbish strewn everywhere and weeds growing through the broken paving slabs. True, there were touristy souvenir-selling streets and hotels that served pancakes for breakfast but unlike Peru, it didn’t feel like Bolivia had sold its soul to tourism. Many of those splashing about in the lake or renting pedal boats on the beach were city-dwelling Bolivians. In the square outside the cathedral, cars covered in gladioli and ribbons were being lined up for the daily vehicle blessing ceremony and old men dressed in black huddled together in the square to smoke cigarettes. In the market, burly women in thick skirts and bowler hats swatted the flies off the meat.

Bolivian rubbish. There's a lot of it. Photo Natasha Young

After an hour or so I headed back to the hostel. I wanted to find out about trips to Isla del Sol and buses to La Paz but my head was throbbing and I was starting to feel sick. I’d been travelling on a punishing schedule, determined to make the most of my 3 weeks holiday from work in Santiago and I was nearly at the end of my trip. The altitude was killing me. I just needed a little lie down for half an hour and I’d feel right as rain. Fourteen hours later I woke up. For a brief moment, I thought it had done the trick. Then I sat up and my head thumped.

So what can I tell you? Copacabana. It’s in Bolivia. It’s quite dirty. It’s next to a really, really big lake. You can eat trout. I came. I saw. I slept.

Beach at Copacabana, Bolivia. Photo Natasha Young

Travel Blog: Machu Picchu without the walking boots

Machu Picchu. Photo Natasha Young

I’ve never been a walker. It’s my parents’ fault. They met over a soggy map at the Ramblers’ club, admired each others jazzy hiking socks and that was that. Later they chose to torture their children by taking them on walking holidays, dragging us up wintry peaks in the driving rain as fast as our little legs would carry us. There was a holiday in France too. I saw a lake, a beach and happy children eating ice-cream, but no, we had to have a walk first. Of course we got lost and we trekked for miles through dense woodland and brambles. By the time we got back it was dark and the ice-cream shop had shut. In my small world it was nothing short of child abuse.

I did think about walking the Inca Trail I really did. Then I realised I could just get a comfy train and a bus up the mountain and I thought no more. My friends had already been to Machu Picchu before I got to Cuzco. They’d all loved the Lost City but had gone by car (the newest and cheapest option of getting there) and  their stories of disaster, woe, vomit and dodgy fly-by-night tour operators had put me off. With time short and the Christmas holidays making organisation difficult, I opted to sod the expense and pay for a tour that included the train. I’m so glad I did.

Peru Rail to Machu Picchu. Photo Natasha Young

A bus took us in the pouring rain to the station at Poroy, passing though the real Cuzco as we left town, a place where people got up early to trade goods at the local market and ramshackle houses perched on the hillsides. The train, a classic well appointed model with comfy seats chuffed out of the station right on time. This was Perú for tourists with expensive sandwiches and excellent coffee served up for breakfast.

We were an international carriage. My companions were Columbian, Uruguayan and American and when we weren’t gazing out the window at spotted piglets, cows on chains and ruddy faced children who stared back, we chatted about our lives and adventures. It was a beautiful journey. After the never ending desert between Chile and Arequipa, the green mountains between Cuzco and Agua Calientes were a joy. As the train snaked up into the hills and low cloud, we passed families washing their clothes in the stream, working the fields and chopping firewood. There were oddly shaped cacti, grazing donkies and then, suddenly, a row of nodding, cheerful sunflowers.

Machu Picchu. Photo by Natasha Young

When we pulled into Aguas Calientes, there was a scrum of guides waiting to meet the train. We dutifully trooped after Victor and his brown flag. Before my inner traveller could get depressed and start screaming ‘tourist! tourist! tourist!’, I noticed where we were.

Although I’d been prepared to be wowed by the ruins of Machu Picchu, I hadn’t anticipated quite how spectacular the surronding area would be. We crossed a footbridge over a raging brown river, guarded on both sides by masses of dripping green foliage and majestic mountains, and hopped onto a waiting bus.

After a never-ending series of hairpin bends, we pulled up at the entrance to Machu Picchu. For those walking the Inca Trail, to arrive at this point takes 4 days. It had taken me a few hours and although I didn’t have the smug satisfaction of having done something stupendous, I was warm and dry and had even managed a short nap on the train. Weather-wise, it was bucketing it down. This was rain poncho weather and despite the presence of a few unsuitable dressed American exchange students, the look of the day can best be described as ‘wet condom’.

Poncho action. Photo Natasha Young

Machu Picchu is every bit as beautiful as you expect it to be, although having seen so many photos of it over the years, I felt as if I’d somehow seen it before. I could hear complaints about the weather, but to honest the low clouds just added to the mystique of the place and as a Brit, you learn not to let the rain spoil your day.

In the Inca language of Quechua, Machu Picchu means ‘old peak’ but the site itself is surprisingly young. Built in 1430 AD it was abandoned by the Inca rulers a hundred years later. To be fair, it can’t have been easy nipping out for a loaf and a paper living all the way up there and they must have got well fed up with the commute.

In my travels, I’ve often found that the big draws – the World Heritage Sites and must-sees – turn out to be a bit disappointing, and the places that you least expect, knock your socks off. Machu Picchu did not disappoint. It’s stunning. A grey stone city, hidden on the top of a mountain in the middle of dense vegetation, that not even a thousand ponchoed tourists wandering into your photos can spoil.

Machu Picchu. Photo by Natasha Young

On the way down the mountain I got chatting to Gerrard, a commerical artist from New Zealand who was on his way home from a salsa competition in the States. We had lunch in Agua Calientes in a hotel that had a fine view of the ferocious rapids. Gerrard’s tour had included lunch there but mine hadn’t.It was a typically Peruvian place where no price is ever really fixed.

“How much for me?”

“55 soles” the reception replied solemnly.

“Sorry but that’s way too expensive for me, I’ll go and buy a sandwich and catch up with my friend later.”

“Ok, 50?, 45? 40, 35?…….. 35 is my final offer”.

“Ok, 35 it is”.

35 soles was still outrageously expensive for me on my budget but it was a small price to pay for a decent lunch, good company and fine views. Aguas Calientes isn’t exactly bargain central. On the way back to the train, I could only laugh at the prices being charged at the tourist market. If Cuzco was twice the price of Arequipa, this place was  shamelessly charging triple.

Machu Picchu. Photo by Natasha Young

The train ride back to Cuzco was just as splendid  as the trip out. I was sitting next to a lovely Columbian couple (is anyone unfriendly in Columbia? I bet even Pablo Escobar asked about your family, gave you a broad smile and bought you dinner before he put a gun to your head) who were enjoying their summer holidays. They insisted I share their wine with them and told me proudly that their country was every bit as beautiful as Chile. I told them how much I wanted to see Columbia and they immediately pressed business cards into my hands, making me promise I’d come and visit.

Photo by Natasha Young

From the window, I spotted a snow- covered mountain I’d missed on the way out. In the valley, a group of kids were playing football under the setting sun. Intent on their game, they didn’t turn to look at the passing train or the tourists who had their cameras pressed to the windows. I felt a brief pang of envy for this poor but simple way of life, played out against those dramatic and sacred mountains.

Blog: Billionaire takes Chile – now the party really is over

Sebastian Piñera has just won the general election in Chile. As one friend on Facebook put it, the Mercs and the 4×4s will be out on the streets of Santiago tonight.

The polls and pundits have been predicting his win for months but I still can’t believe it. The man with the smarmy smile and the billboard that said ‘Delinquents – The Party’s Over’ has gone and won. Was that a Pinochet slogan? It sounds like it could have been.

After only a year in Santiago and now back in the UK, I can’t claim to know a lot about Chilean politics. But I can imagine that a billionaire who apparently owns a TV station and has a controlling interest in LAN, the national airline, is probably quite keen on making money. Namby pamby topics like social justice, free health care or environmental concerns like not ruining the countryside by building an effing great big dam in Patagonia are unlikely to be top priorities.

Bachelet has been generally well-regarded. Had she legally been able to stay in power, she may well have done so. Eduardo Frei, Piñera’s opponent, didn’t seem to be nearly as popular. ‘I just don’t trust him to do what he says he’s going to do’ said one friend. Meanwhile, Piñera’s posters were everywhere. From deserted deserts to the wind battered beaches of Chiloe, his smug beaming face was there, promising tough reform on crime and a ‘breath of fresh air’. In the end, he won, with 52% of the vote to Frei’s 48% in tonight’s second round.

As a non-Chilean, I can’t possibly begin to understand what it’s like to grow up in Chile’s rigid class system. I haven’t seen a military coup or lived under Pinochet’s regime/government (choice of word depending on what side of the fence you sit).

What I do know is how hard it is to talk about politics in Chile. As a teacher in Santiago, students clammed up whenever politics was mentioned. I was told specifically by my boss not to discuss it in class. Occasionally, I’d see unguarded glimpses of Pinochet support – ‘It was just a change of government’, ‘He was nice to me when I was little’, ‘My friend says his only mistake was he didn’t kill all the communists’ – and it shocked me to the core. Essentially there are those in Chile who really believe that a man, under whose rule thousands of people allegedly disappeared, was the best thing to ever have happened to their country. And yet nobody seems to want to openly challenge this belief. It’s as if politics is a nasty, embarrassing business and that the past should be lain to rest. Will Chile ever be able to move on if it can’t talk about what happened in 1973 and the years that followed?

And so it hit me today, as the election results were coming in, that my friends in Chile were talking about politics in their status updates on Facebook. For many there was disgust – ‘Nothing to celebrate’, ‘disaster’, ‘I’m leaving Chile!’, ‘Chileans have sold their souls to the devil’ – while for others there was a feeling that not much would change. ‘It’s just the centre right versus the right. Half of this country has already been sold off, I just hope there’s something left after the next 4 years’ said one. Some had practical concerns ‘When are the shops opening again? ‘(it’s illegal to buy or sell alcohol during an election) while others didn’t even seem to know there was an election happening, ‘Can anyone lend me a tent for the weekend of the 25th?’ asked one, ‘Where can I buy a cheap fridge?’ said another. Only one lone voice sounded gleeful ‘A great conversion! Chile is a great nation. I’m proud of my country’. Nobody liked his status. Meanwhile others, in the grand tradition of keeping their opinions to themselves, chose to seethe quietly with a ‘……………………’ and a ‘no comment’.

Here’s to more commenting. May there be much more of it. The last time I checked it was still free and OK to do so.

Travel Blog: Christmas in Cusco

Cusco in the rain on Christmas Day 2009. Photo Natasha Young

Arequipa to Cusco

And so it was on to Cusco. I had been hoping to get a bus that arrived at a sensible check-in-friendly time, but as it was Christmas, I was lucky to get on a bus at all. I was moaning inwardly at the fact that it arrived in Cusco at the anti-social time of 5am, until I found out later that the Inca Gods really had been smiling on me. Another bus that left Arequipa at around the same time that night had plunged over a cliff, killing 40 people.

To be honest, I’m amazed we got there. As the grumpy driver crunched through the gears on hairpin Andean bends in the driving rain, the bus sounded like a jumbo jet struggling to take off on only 1 of its engines. In fifth gear, it sounded like a wheezy tractor. Some of the windows didn’t quite shut and the speakers for the DVD (I didn’t miss much it was ‘The Little Princess’) only worked on one side.

Cusco. Photo Natasha Young

My companion was an elderly Peruvian lady who was going home for a family Christmas with her grandchildren. When I confessed that I hardly ever managed to sleep on overnight buses, I was delighted when she told me that she never slept a wink either. Finally someone I could chat to!  Eleven hours later when she woke up from a sound sleep, she rather shame-facedly admitted that she’d had a very busy day.

Cusco

I’d heard good things about Cusco. True enough it’s a pretty town but for me it sums up everything that’s bad about mass tourism. My by now quite perky bus companion had told me not to pay more than 3 soles to get to my hostel. At the bus station I was the only tourist face among many Peruvians and every taxi driver for miles around was keen to take me. They were all trying to charge 8 soles or more. When I told them to dream on, they simply shrugged and wandered off. The hostel was terrible (more on that later) and when I went into town I saw a man almost lose his watch to a young female pick-pocket within the first 5 minutes.

What Cusco looks like. Photo Natasha Young

There were tourists everywhere. From rich Americans and Japanese families to doddery guided groups and penny-pinching backpackers. To help part them from their cash, Cusco was full to bursting with tour agencies, camping equipment stores, souvenir shops, luxury gift emporiums, money exchanges, English pubs, international restaurants and mediocre hostels and hotels. Sellers wouldn’t settle for you simply walking by, they’d grab your arm, crying ‘amiga, amiga, mira!!!’ trying to steer you forcibly into their shop. Or they’d see you looking at their selection of hats and immediately point, nodding sagely as they said the word ‘hats’ in a variety of languages. Morose looking girls in traditional dress pulled along even more depressed looking llamas, hustling camera-toting tourists for money to take a picture. If there’s any kind of authentic experience to be had in Cusco, I’m not sure I found it. The nearest I got were some temporary food stalls away from the main square where locals were eating guinea pig, chicken, black corn and other regional dishes. For 4.5 soles (most tourist menus start at 8 or more), a woman scooped chicken and rice out of a bucket and cleared me a space on a shared table. It was delicious and all my fellow Peruvian diners seemed pleased as punch that I thought so. Other than that, I got the impression that real life happens somewhere well outside the city, where prices are cheaper and the people are poor. I wished desperately to be back in Arequipa.

Happy Christmas from Peru. Photo Natasha Young

Salvation was to come the next day in the form of friends. Five of us had agreed to meet for Christmas in Cusco and we spend a very happy December 25^th comparing stories, indulging in English food cravings and catching up. I’d never normally venture into an English pub outside of England but if you can’t beat them, you may as well join them. As much as I hate overly touristy places, I can’t pretend I wasn’t excited about going to a cafe that sold English breakfast with real baked beans or a pub with Christmas lunch and all the trimmings.

We were all staying at the Flying Dog hostel, a place with decent reviews on Hostelworld. It wasn’t the worst place I’ve ever stayed but it wasn’t far off. Everything seemed to have been designed for the fun of the rather sleazy male staff. There was always at least one of them sleeping on the sofas in the small common room, using the internet or playing computer games on the TV, while guests wandered around, hoping one day soon to check their email or watch TV. The shower leaked, so did the ceiling, walls were paper-thin and in the end, it felt like we were paying through the nose to stay at someone’s house rather than in a hostel.

Cusco and a sorry-looking llama. Photo Natasha Young

It was the hostel staff that had recommended the launderette two doors up the hill. I dropped my washing off on Christmas Eve morning for a 2 hour service. The 2 hour service turned out to take 36, but as they were opening on Christmas Day, I didn’t like to complain. When I went to fetch it, I opened the bag and pulled out a rather large pair of boxer shorts.

“Urm, these aren’t mine. In fact none of these clothes are mine”. 

“Oh. Are you sure?”

 “Yes” (holding up a t-shirt that said ‘the man, the legend’ and a large arrow pointing south). 

“Oh.” She grabbed another bag. This one contained what looked to be like most of my clothes, all damp, a yellow thong (not mine) and some mens’ socks.

“Urm, this is all still wet”. And so it went on. Many hours of toing and froing later, I was eventually reunited with my washing, although I’m quite convinced that somewhere in the world, there’s a man I’ve never met who is struggling to recall how he came into possession of a pair of size 12 M&S knickers. Scary to think that these people also arrange tours.

Inca Wall, Cusco. Photo Natasha Young

All in all, it was an unusual Christmas, especially as Boxing Day was  to be spent at Machu Picchu. More on that to come.

Blog: 10 things I learnt in Chile

Chilean flag. Photo Natasha Young

1. 2 ½ hours journey time is nothing

Having been brought up in miniscule England, I always used to prepare for any journey longer than 30 minutes as if it were an Arctic voyage. I’d consult maps, pack skis and prepare a lunch. Manchester to London takes 2 ½ hours by train. In English terms, this is very far away indeed. In Chile, you’re nearly there. You can start packing away your bits and pieces and put your coat on. Mendoza in Argentina is a mere hop, skip and a jump across the Andes from Santiago and takes 7 hours. Travel may never be the same again.

2. Politics matters. Democracy matters

Right and left are not the same. Democratically elected governments should not be confused with military dictatorships. A military coup is not, as one student tried to argue, simply a change of government. Voting matters. Resistance matters. Some scars never heal.

3.British customer service is really good

British friends may moan about it, but it’s fabulous. In Britain, most shop assistants actually care about trying to help you find what you need. There’s usually a friendly smile, pride in knowing something about what’s being sold and often a welcome amount of honesty (“Haddock? Ooh, I wouldn’t if I were you lovey, have the cod instead”).

4. British public transport is rubbish

The Chileans should come to Britain and show us how it’s done. It may be a long, straggly country at the end of the world, famous for wine and not much else, but by God they know how to run a bus service. Long distance coaches in Chile are cheap, plentiful, comfortable and punctual. You can watch a selection of terrible straight to video films to pass the time and there’s even a man to hand you a wee pillow and a blanket when you’re feeling sleepy and wake you up with a carton of juice in the morning. I hang my head in shame at the thought of any Chilean who has been to Britain and jumped on National Express, Megabus or British Rail, in the mistaken belief that it might be a good idea.

5.You can always make new friends

Moving to the other side of the world (or even a new city) is a scary business. But the truth is, I’ve always met new people I like, wherever I’ve gone in the world. If your old friends are good eggs, they’ll always be there for you, whatever you decide to do with your life and wherever you go. Meanwhile, new friends are just waiting to be met.

6.Rain can be a good thing

Hardly a day seemed to go by in Manchester when in didn’t rain. Rain stops play, spoils barbeques and outdoor music festivals and ruins your hair. But it also makes the countryside beautifully green (the South of Chile doesn’t look that lovely without a little help), clears away the smog and stops mosquitoes. And would all those Manchester bands you like have learnt to play the guitar if it had been sunny outside? I think not.

7. Yes doesn’t always mean yes

It took me a really long time to learn this, but in Chile ‘yes’ often means ‘hell, no’.

For example:

(To a waitress)

“Is this white wine (that I just watched you take out of a cupboard) cold? “  – Yes.

(To Chilean friends)

“So I’ll meet you at 10pm. You’ll be there on time, won’t you?” – Yes.

(To any bureaucrat)

“Is this absolutely necessary?” – Yes.

(To a stranger on the street)

“Excuse me, do you know where Calle Biarritz is?” – Yes.

(To someone hurrying onto a bus)

“Is this the airport bus?” – Yes.

8.You get what you pay for

Pay peanuts and you will get monkeys. Slip a bloke 40 quid in the street to sort out your internet connection and cable for the rest of the year and there’s an odds on chance you might have a few problems with it. Buy super cheap shower gel and it will extract all the oil from your skin until you feel like you are made entirely from wafer biscuits. Take the cheap bus in Bolivia and you will be squeezed into a mini van next to a vomiting toddler and a man who smells of cheese.

9. Red wine isn’t so bad

When you’ve not got time to chill a bottle of white, red wine does the job. I even grew to like it. To be fair, paying buttons for a classy red that would cost a fortune at home is a sure fire way to get a taste for the stuff.

10. Dogs are like valium

I’ve always loved dogs, but working in a Chilean dog shelter confirmed it. Few things make me happier than stroking the ears of a wet nosed mutt with a wagging tail.

Travel Blog: Arequipa, Perú – home of homicidal taxi drivers, nuns and Inca mummies

Arequipa's Xmas tree

I think I’d make a good Peruvian taxi driver. I have zero patience, I’m always in a rush and if I can’t get a cup of coffee, I really do want to kill people. I’ve got the car for it too. My old Skoda is just the ticket, although I might need to break the exhaust off to really fit in.

Unlike Chile, Perú is in one big hurry. I noticed it the moment I crossed the border. Whereas Chileans will wait patiently for 3 hours to buy a sandwich without so much as looking at their watch, Peruvians can’t be doing with dallying. At the border they yelled for the bus driver to drive faster, they shouted at the poor soul loading the bags onto the bus, and they stamped down hard on the first sign of faffing amongst fellow passengers.

The only people not in a rush, begging for change outside the church

I wasn’t sure I was going to like Arequipa when I arrived. It had taken forever to get there on a bus without air-con, I smelt horrific after the journey and the first thing I saw in this busy city was a man throwing a well-aimed rock at a stray dog. I thought it wasn’t going to be my kind of town. I was wrong.

Arequipa is noisy and impatient but quite lovely. Ok so the car drivers would rather see you bounce off their bonnets than wait a millisecond for you to cross the road but the city centre is full of handsome squares, dazzling buildings of white volcanic rock and great bars.

Get me to a nunnery

I’d arranged to go drinking with Marco, a local Couchsurfer who was happy to show me round town after he finished work.  As I checked in at the Casa de los Pingüinos (a lovely mini hotel with hostel prices), I failed miserably in my attempt at explaining the concept of Couchsurfing to the matronly Dutch owner.

“So you’re meeting a Peruvian guy you’ve never met before that you know very little about”

Yes.

“And you’re going to drink alcohol with this man”. 

Yes.

 “And you don’t know where he’s going to take you”.

 No. But it’s OK, he’s a Couchsurfer. 

“But you’ve never met him!”

 Yes, I know. But he’s a Couchsurfer. It’s OK. He’s got good references. Honest.

 She looked at me hard, squinting her eyes as if trying to memorise my features so she’d recognise me when the police scooped my body out of the nearby canyon. When I further tried to explain that Couchsurfing was a network of over a million people who let complete strangers stay in their houses for free, she turned pale. She clearly didn’t plan on expecting me to return alive and able to pay the bill later.

As it was, and as expected, I had a great night with Marco and his mates. Perú might not be as rich as Chile, but you wouldn’t know it from the bar scene. On a mid-week night just before Christmas, the bars and clubs were busy with a young crowd. Out on the streets, friends congregated and passed round bottles of rum, women sold cigarettes out of suitcases on street corners and buses rumbled along the cobbles, young boys yelling out the destinations as they went.

I ate my first falafel in a year in a great Turkish joint called Istanbul, had happy hour mojitos in Brujas and ended up drinking Cusqueña in a club where there appeared to be as many people on the stage as off it. Thanks to Marco, a musician who clearly knew absolutely everyone, I was introduced to half the city.

Surprised by my safe return, the hostel had had to hurriedly set me a place for breakfast the next morning. With only 24 hours in Arequipa (hardly time to do it justice), I set out early to see the sights.

The convent

First up was the Sanctuaries Andean Museum to see Juanita, the incredibly well preserved mummy of a young girl who was sacrificed by the Incas on the summit of the nearby Ampato Volcano. She was found by a team of anthropologists in 1995 and the museum shows a 20 minute video reconstructing the moment she was ritualistically clubbed over the head before everyone is whisked off on a guided tour. It was all fascinatingly grotesque and it once again made me glad I hadn’t been born an Inca. Too many steps and if the volcano kept erupting, too much chance you might get clobbered to appease the gods.

For a nanosecond I considered becoming a nun in Arequipa. The Santa Catalina Convent was so gorgeous I almost stayed, until I realised I wouldn’t be able to get Pinot Grigio, Radiohead or internet access. I’m not normally the least bit interested in religious buildings but this is a city within a city, as colourful as a Mediterranean village with hidden gardens, flowerpots and quiet courtyards. Closed as a working convent in 1969, it’s now open to the public and has an elegant restaurant tucked away inside that does tasty salads.

More Santa Catalina Convent, Arequipa. All photos Natasha Young

Around the old town, Arequipa is a mite touristy (it’s a common stop off on the way to Cusco) but walk a few blocks in any direction and you find the real Perú. There’s no H&M, Starbucks or KFC round here, just small shopping galleries, tiny shops with old-fashioned counters and busy markets. The people here are proud of their city and consider it and themselves to be different from the rest of the country. It’s Perú’s answer to Barcelona, and just like the Catalan capital, I loved it.

Travel Blog: Arica and trying to cross the Peruvian border

Eiffel-designed customs house, Arica

After a horrific bus journey from San Pedro in which the water in the bus toilet practically boiled for 11 hours, enveloping the bus in a eye-watering stench, I arrived in Arica. Chile’s northern-most city, on the border with Perú, Arica is like a mini-Santiago, albeit with friendlier people, less smog and a world-championship standard surfing beach.

I got to check into the lovely Jardin del Sol at the ungodly hour of 6am and after a few hours sleep, felt almost human again and ready to hit town. Arica was in the grip of Christmas shopping  mayhem. Queues snaked out of the bank and the streets were lined with women wielding scissors and coloured paper, offering to take  the pain out of wrapping presents for a few pesos.

On a budget, I went for Cazuela de Ave at the market for the bargain price of $1,200 CP (£1.50). Perched on a stool with barely room to move my elbows, I got chatting to the guy next to me, who was taking time out with his family from Christmas shopping.  I had THE conversation that I’ve had at least a million times since I arrived here. It goes like this:

Where are you from?

England, but I live in Santiago.

Ahh! How long have you been in Chile?

A year now.

Are you an exchange student?

No, I’m an English teacher.

Ah, I see. Do you like Chile?

Yes, very much, it’s a beautiful country but I’m not a big fan of Santiago.

Well, everyone is in a hurry in Santiago aren’t they.

Urm, I suppose. (unsaid: No not really. To be honest, tortoises walk faster.)

(Bemused smile)  Have you got a Chilean boyfriend?

(smile) No.

Why not?

Well, I hate to say it, but they are all mummy’s boys.

(At this point, the man’s wife almost slips off her stool she’s laughing and nodding so hard).

No, but Chilenos are so cariñosos (warm/affectionate)!!!!!!!!!!!!! Not like the English. The English are cold.

Maybe, but at least an Englishman doesn’t speak to his mum 154 times a day and have to run home in time for his tea.

Finally a beach day, Arica

And so it went on. He took it well. I liked the people in Arica. Plenty of time for a chat and noble with it.

I spent the rest of the day at the beach with some guys I’d shared the horror of the bus with, and had dinner with Sezgin, a German guy with a dark English sense of humour who was staying at the hostel. Before I went to bed I booked a taxi for 6.45am.

The next thing I remember there was a knock at my door. I sprang out of bed assuming I’d overslept and that an angry taxi driver was waiting impatiently outside. It was the eldery night porter giving me a wake-up call. I hadn’t asked to be woken up. Especially not at 5.30am. Half past five is not at time to be awake, unless you have tequila running through your veins and a hot date. I had a shower. As I turned the water off, there was another, more urgent knocking at the door.

“Your taxi is here! Are you ready?”

Urm.  I didn’t order a taxi for 5.45am, it was for 6.45am.

Silence. And then.. “Bugger. Wrong person.”

Two minutes later I heard him knocking on a different door and the frantic yelps of a backpacker about to miss their bus. He shuffled off, grumbling to himself.

If the backpacker whose wake-up call I got was heading to Perú, there was really no rush. I got to the bus station to find that the 7am bus service I’d booked had been cancelled because the Chilean border police were on strike. It wasn’t until many hot sticky hours and several near punch-ups between passengers later that I made it finally to Arequipa. More on that to come.

Tacna bus station, Peru

Travel Blog: The San Pedro de Atacama Tourist Trail

San Pedro. Photo Natasha Young

I got the hell out of bar-brawling Calama as fast as possible on an airport transfer (9,000 CP). It’s a winding, empty road through desert country to get to San Pedro (think Thelma & Louise as they’re nearing the Grand Canyon) and everyone was gossiping about the fact that we’d all shared a plane with a famous Chilean model, her handsome boyfriend and a TV crew. I still have absolutely no idea who these people were.

The tarmaced road runs out as you hit San Pedro. Suddenly it becomes a dusty dirt track and small adobe houses line the few streets that make up this tiny town. It really did feel like I was in the middle of nowhere about to enter a shoot out with the sheriff. I was John Wayne, only with breasts and a giant backpack.

Reality dawned the next morning. San Pedro de Atacama is tourist central. The one main street running through the town, Caracoles, is lined with tour agencies, restaurants hustling for business in English, souvenir shops and launderettes. Normal life facilities like cheap supermarkets, ironmongers, chemists and banks are few and far between. It was all quite a shock after Chiloe.

What I also hadn’t bargained for is that San Pedro is at altitute (2400m) and many of the tours take you to places at over 4,000m. That and the intense heat meant that I felt a bit weird when I got there, although I was lucky enough to not get sick. You seriously need to take a day or two to adjust before going to the geysers or the lagoons and grab some coca leaves from the market (500 CP) if you start getting headaches.

San Pedro is a pretty enough town but there’s not a great deal to do once you’ve wandered around the shops, museum and church. This place is sadly all about the tours. What everyone has come here to see isn’t that accesible without a 4×4 and a good map, which means the tour agencies make a killing and you have to troop after your guide for the day and do as your told.

I spent three days in San Pedro at the lovely Hostel Sonchek  (C/Gustavo le Paige 170. 10,000 CP per night for a single) and ended up having to book tours with 3 different agencies. Lonely Planet recommend Cactus Tour and Cosmo Andino. Both of these book up really fast and after taking Cactus’s Tour to the Altiplano Lakes, I can see why.

Valle de la Luna

Tourist Hell in Valle de la Luna. Photo Natasha Young

Famous for its beautiful sunsets and moon-like landscapes (hence the name), everyone does this tour. The cheapest (around 7-8000 CP) and closest of all the excursions out of town, it’s hard not to feel like a sheep being herded around by an over-enthusiastic border collie. Our tour guide didn’t actually say ‘ARE YOU ALL HAVING A GOOD TIME?!, I CAN’T HEAR YOU! but I’m sure it was on the tip of his tongue. Saying that, it is a beautiful other-worldy place full of ghostly crackling salt formations and gigantic dunes. We climbed up for a view of the sunset with at least a hundred others and then got whisked off onto the bus just as it was getting good. A bit of a let down to be honest. I went with Turis Tours (Cactus and Cosmo Andino were both full). Word on the street is they have a reputation for rushing. Cactus apparently don’t climb that dune and go to a secret spot where they get the view to themselves.

Nice view though. Photo Natasha Young

Altiplano Lakes

I did this with Cactus Tour and it was a joy from start to finish. Stopping at Laguna Chaxa in the Salar de Atacama to see the flamingos, Lagunas Miñiques and Miscanti and the towns of Socaire and Toconao, they deliberately set off way before any0ne else to get to the flamingos first. These weirdly proportioned pink-feathered creatures quite rightly don’t like being stared at when they’re eating their breakfast, so when all the other mini-buses start arriving, they all fly away. We crept in at first light and got to observe them in their natural habitat, a lagoon in the middle of a crusty salt flat, surrounded by mountains. An extraordinary experience and well worth getting out of bed early for. Cactus charge considerably more than other agencies for this trip but if you want to see the flamingos, have a knowledgable guide whose English doesn’t make you wince and a decent breakfast, they are a fine choice.

Flamingos. Photo Natasha Young

El Tatio Geyser. Photo Natasha Young

El Tatio Geysers

You don’t to see many geysers in Europe. El Tatio is one of the reasons you come to San Pedro and I can’t deny they are impressive. However getting up in the middle of the night and dressing for minus 10 is not normally my idea of a good time. In fact, I realised as I got up at 3.3oam that I’d never actually been out on the streets at that time sober. I did this tour with Atacama Connection. The guide was the handsome moody type, which I’m normally all up for, but a silent tour guide doesn’t leave you very well informed. As I boarded the bus at 4am, I was told that it would take 2 hours to get there and we could all have a nap. However the road was so eyeball-shakingly rocky and the van’s suspension having seen better days, I didn’t sleep a wink. The geyers are at 4300m above sea level and three of our group were feeling decidely rough. One little boy’s reaction to seeing his first geyser was to vomit sadly as his older brother, who was utterly unaffected by the altitute, gaped in wonder. My favourite part of this trip was spotting the wildlife on the way back. We saw a viscacha (like a big rabbit with a squirrel-like tail), vicuña (the sort of animal you normally see getting ripped apart by lions on wildlife documentaries), llamas and a whole load of birds I don’t know the names of.

Vicuña. Photo Natasha Young

So…

Accomodation: Hostel Sonchek for clean and comfy rooms, friendly staff, a nice patio and a garden with hammocks.

Trips: Cactus Tour get a double thumbs-up.

Food: Two places not in the guide books are El Tribu on the corner of Calama and Gustavo le Paige for great vegetarian food  and Chilean classics (2,800 CP for veggie fajitas with rice and salad) and Terra Oasis for fine food with a gourmet touch at a fraction of the price of the places on Caracoles (3,800 CP for a 3 course set lunch). The food stalls behind the museum knock out a fine Cazuela de Ave for 1,200 CP and the tomato, basil and cheese empanadas sold around town are very special indeed.

I’m currently in Arica and have paddled in the sea. Next stop, Peru.

Travel Blog: Hilarious Announcements on Planes

Photo by Abi Skipp (Flickr.com)

Hell. O. On bee arf of WonWhirl, capTAIN Gonzalez and thee ker. Roo. wanna welCOME yooooooo a. Board. Please fast ten your seat BElt and gurrrreedyfour take OFF.

I hate flying but I love these announcements. Why the poor bugger who knows nothing about the language has to read it out I have no idea.

I imagine BA’s attempts at French or German are equally brilliant.

If LAN or any airline is interested in my services as an English teacher (and they should be), I’d be more than happy to help. 

Travel Blog: Puerto Montt – worse than Mansfield

Puerto Montt. Photo Natasha Young

The Lonely Planet were being kind when they called Puerto Montt a ‘grimy transport hub’.  It’s a hole of a place and even worse than Mansfield

Puerto Montt. Photo Natasha Young

It should be nice. There’s a giant volcano towering over it,  salmon galore and it’s the centre of the lake district but it’s truly horrible. Transient workers look for work in the salmon industry or cement factories and hotels charge by the hour.

Puerto Montt. Photo Natasha Young

Puerto Montt. Photo Natasha Young

If you have the misfortune to find yourself there, stay in the bus station with your rucksack to the wall and pray your bus connection arrives on time.

I left the bus station for a few hours to have a look round.  You quite literally have to step over grubby overalled men sleeping in the street with their flies open to cross the street. As you do,  men yell at you out of car windows and rubbish blows into your face.  It’s got a leery, unpleasant vibe to it as if you’d somehow accidently walked into a mining town roadside bar dressed as a stripper.

Puerto Montt. Photo Natasha Young

Check out the pigeon on the left, walking all over the produce and nibbling as he goes. Photo Natasha Young

Meanwhile, less than 20 minutes down the road is the divine Puerto Varas with friendly folk, lakeside views and good food. You would have to pay me a million pounds to live in Puerto Montt. Per hour.