Summer, sunshine, happiness

Beautiful European buildings, luscious Latinos (the Argentineans really are a gorgeous bunch), gob-smackingly delicious food (an ice-cream a day became mandatory), colourful neighbourhoods, fabulous shopping, tango and a nightlife that only starts when the rest of the world is preparing for sleep – Buenos Aires is love.

Left to fend for myself, after becoming completely dependent on Nikki’s fluent Spanish and company, I was dropped of at La Paz airport at the crack of dawn to catch my 7.30am flight to Buenos Aires.

Feeling exhausted after not being able to sleep the night before and from the general confusion I found myself in at the airport, the last thing I was prepared for was a mad woman who had occupied my seat and was refusing to budge. After a heated conversation with the air hostess (I gather it was heated from all the grunting that was going on), I was moved to the seat behind the one I was supposed to be sitting in, minutes before taking off.

With my ears popping, feeling exhausted and the mad woman, who was firmly entrenched in my seat, turning around every five minutes to pull faces at me, we headed for Santa Cruz in Bolivia to catch a connecting flight to Buenos Aires (up until this point, I was under the impression that the flight was heading straight to Buenos Aires, Santa Cruz came as a bit of a surprise).

Ushered from one end of the airport to the other and after a thorough investigation from the narcotics bureau of Santa Cruz, I was allowed into international departures to catch my flight to Buenos Aires.

A poorly signposted airport, I had no idea which gate I would be departing from and after being directed to about five different areas from various airport officials, I was eventually taken under the wing of a well-intentioned Argentinean who instructed me to sit with him as he was on his way to Buenos Aires and would let me know when I needed to board. All was good and well, until it was discovered that he was on a different flight and that I had spent an hour in the wrong departure terminal.

On the verge of tears, I rushed off to find my friend in the narcotics bureau (the only English speaking person in the airport) and with minutes to spare, all flustered and hot, I boarded the correct plane to Buenos Aires.

The mad woman, thankfully, had been left behind in Santa Cruz, however, I found myself behind a screaming toddler and a very proud father who was trying to take pictures of his son with his mobile phone – um, last time I checked, wasn’t it illegal to have your phone on when flying?

Arrived in Buenos Aires, far too frazzled to figure out their public transport system and caught a very expensive taxi (about R110) to my hostel in San Telmo. An area which is home to artists, musicians and a Bohemian crowd, with its cobbled streets, fresh fruit markets and newly renovated buildings, San Telmo was the perfect little spot for me to spend my week in Buenos Aires.

After a quick shower, I slipped into the one and only summer frock that I had brought with me (and also the only clean piece of clothing in my back pack) and went off to discover the city of Buenos Aires. A city that feels as if it is riding on the wave of an exhalation after a deep breath, Buenos Aires, is stylish yet quirky, fun, frivolous and flirtatious.

In full summer swing after cold and rainy Bolivia, I headed into a salon for a little spoil – after all, feet can make or break that pair of summer sandals. Using equipment that belonged in a museum, and a magnifying glass with a bright bulb attached, the group of women operating the salon and my feet, could tell you a thing or two about the 1920’s – the era I’m guessing when most of them were born. Fearing for the safety of my feet at times, I managed to come out unscathed and found myself back in the same spot a week later – R30 for a manicure and pedicure, it was worth the risk.

After sussing out the area and feasting on a big bag of delicious and juicy cherries, I headed back to my boutique hostel, with clean, fluffy, white towels, to meet up with Matheus my dorm mate, who had offered to show me around town. The best thing about Buenos Aires is that you can walk practically anywhere, from San Telmo, to Puerto Madero, to La Boca, to Recoleta, it is safe and easy to get around.

With a vague grasp of the city and slightly better bearings than a few hours earlier, we went to a Thai restaurant for dinner – fresh vegetables, no parasites – YAY! Talking about parasites, I gathered Matheus was aiming for a goodnight smooch and cuddle, so I made sure to tell him all about my worms and may have added a few more nasty ailments. Nice guy, great personality (i.e. major nerd)… now, if he had been a luscious Latino!

Thankfully Matheus headed home the next day and was replaced by Palestinian girl from Jerusalem who works for the British government. Lubner was far more interesting and we had much more in common. When we weren’t spending time at the hostel speaking to the three Juan-Manuel's, who became known as Juan 1, Juan 2 and Juan 3, we were out shopping and exploring the city.

With regards to the three Juan’s; Juan 3 was the owner, Juan 2 worked at the hostel and Juan 1 was a friend of Juan 2, who was staying at the hostel, while his flat was being painted. They were the nicest group of Juan’s that I have ever met, all super friendly, helpful and interesting (fabulously good looking too).

Buenos Aires is shopping heaven – women, gay men and metro-sexuals unite! Affordable and unpretentious, yet stylish with a unique twist, it will not disappoint. Palermo, the centre of shopping in this thriving city, is home to trendy restaurants, funky bars and stylish boutiques. A glorious little find, I eventually had to put a ban on entering the area, as I could have and would have brought everything.

Other areas in Buenos Aires are equally as enchanting; Recoleta, a plush neighbourhood, where generations of Argentina’s elite rest in ornate splendour, in the Cementoria de la Recoleta, is home to a beautiful crafts market, with exquisite jewellery and leather goods.

La Boca, situated along the old port and at the mouth of the Rio Riachuelo, famous for its colourful, corrugated metal buildings called Caminitos, is home to local artists who display their brightly coloured paintings, while tango dancers perform on pavements and musicians play their instruments. This is where I spent my last day in Buenos Aires, soaking in the culture, eating delicious food and reflecting on the most perfect week.

The world's most dangerous road

Perched on the shoulder of Cerro Uchumachi, Coroico, with a population of 3 500 and at an elevation of 1 500 metres, is a little Bolivian Eden. Flanked by epic scenery and punctuated with waterfalls, the 80km La Paz-Coroico road plunges over 3000 metres. Because it sees the most fatalities annually, the road, which is extremely narrow, muddy and slippery, is called the ‘the world’s most dangerous road’.

Lonely Planet – South America on a shoestring

Sheez! I get sweaty all over thinking about this one. To brief you in from the last update, where Nikki and I were about to head off to the Salt Flats; our excursion became a logistical nightmare, with overbooked trains and dodgy public transport and half an hour before setting off to Uyuni, we found ourselves travelling along the world’s most dangerous road instead.

Both of us had been diagnosed with a case of worms, so in the end, a few days of rest and recovery from the nasty parasites having a big bash in our stomachs, was better for us anyway. Full of reckless abandon and desperate to get out of La Paz, Nikki and I chose Coroico. Three hours out of Bolivia’s capital, it is a magnificent little spot, nestled in amongst the mountains with beautiful scenery, gorgeous weather and zero pollution.

Boarding a mini-bus taxi, for a two hour journey that cost the equivalent of R15, we set off on the steep and windy road to Coroico. Our driver, who had one leg shorter than the other and a wicked sense of humour, was, despite his scant regard for taking over on white lines and in dark tunnels, actually a good driver. Minus a few near misses with other mini-vans and trucks, the trip to Coroico wasn’t too hair raising.

After three days of absolute calm and tranquillity, with hours spent lazing in hammocks, reading and resting at a hostel called Sol y Luna, for $10 per person per night, I felt fabulous and ready to take on 2007.

Meet driver number two - the treadless tyres should have been an indication of the trip to come, however, after being assured that all was in order and that the mini-van was in fact roadworthy, we boarded the beat-up vehicle to head back to La Paz.

A mere thirty minutes into the trip, the van started to overheat and eventually, spluttered to a stop. To spice things up, we realised, after close inspection of our surroundings, that our driver had taken an entirely different, more windy and treacherous route, from the one we had taken three days previously.

With the passengers collectively praying and the driver’s assistant feeding water into the van’s engine, which cut out every 20 minutes, we slowly made our way up the world’s most dangerous road.

Our driver, who at no point during our rollercoaster ride (minus the safety net and straps), offered an explanation or apology, dumped us in La Paz (five hours later) and we were sent off on our separate ways as if our lives had not been dangling 3000 metres from almost certain death.

Nerves frayed and feeling a lot less relaxed than a few hours previously, we booked ourselves into our hostel with hot showers and cable TV and watched reruns of ER and CSI until I had to leave early the next morning for Buenos Aires - the land of summer, sunshine and shopping.

Happy New Year

La Paz - Bolivia's armpit

Plagued by poverty and crime, La Paz, the highest capital in the world at 3 600m, is a daunting city. With a vast majority of the population living in squalor and unemployed, it is unlikely that the city will claim a place on the Top 10 list of where to spend New Year's Eve (as Nikki and I discovered).

Political upheaval and global restrictions on the production of cocaine, have left the country in a major economic recession. The majority of the population, 40%, is under 14, the average women has five or more children, retirement age is 65 and only 4% of the population, due to the harsh lifestyle, live past 60.

A few incidents, involving dubious unregistered taxi drivers, missing tourists and fraudulent credit card transactions, has resulted in security, especially in the tourist areas, being exceptionally high.

Signage in the hotels and hostels, warns against phony security guards and common pick pocketing tactics, which includes spitting on victims.

Splurging on $16 a night for accommodation, our hostel included glorious hot showers and cable TV. Using the high crime levels as an excuse to stay indoors, TV became a new found friend; CSI, Desperate House Wives, Will & Grace, all at a click of a button.

Mesmerised by the allure of cable TV and the distinct lack of advertising for New Year's bashes, by 8pm on the eve in question, we had failed to make any plans. A mild panic had begun to set in and eventually, on the advice of our hostel, we made our way through to an area called Zona So Pocachi, where the activity was said to be taking place.

We were dropped off at a placed called Mongo’s, where “the party stops when the last head hits the table,” or so it boasts, which looked decidedly dead an hour before the clock struck 12. Left standing in the freezing cold by our taxi driver, who zipped off as soon as we had paid him, we decided to review our options and see if anything, anything at all, looked livelier.

By 11.30pm, with the clock ticking, things were not looking good. After we had been turned away by a few places, who claimed to be full, although I’m convinced it was the cargo pants and hiking boots that put them off, we eventually made our way back to the last out post, Mongo’s.

Sipping on a glass of champagne, we sang in the New Year, with a group of about 20 other foreigners who found themselves in the same predicament. Things eventually did heat and fill up and we razzled until about 3am, before heading home to catch a bit more cable. A not too dismal New Year’s after all.

We depart for the Salt Flats tour today, using partly public transport, which I hear is an event in itself and then catch a train through to Uyeni, where we spend the night.

Looking forward to flying in to Buenos Aires over the weekend, sunshine and retail therapy, are in dire need. My limited wardrobe, especially since it has been so freezing, is starting to look tired. And while I have found a delicate affection for my hiking boots, the thought of getting into summer sandals is delicious.

(Wo)man down

Left Cusco feeling lousy. Not sure if it was something I ate, a reaction to Lesley’s furry cats or a bit of altitude sickness - probably a combination of all three. The early morning departure to Puno, to get my visa for Bolivia, didn’t help.

Our super efficient tour guide and host Dante, who had a fluffy moustache and double thick glasses, accompanied us for our nine hour scenic trip, which stopped at various tourist sites along the way.

Our final stop, before arriving in Puno, was at a miserable looking, one-horse town, called Pahara. Industry is virtually extinct and senile, old women and children lurk in the tourist areas, hoping to earn a few soles from visitors who take pity of them.

One particular child, aged about 12, comes to mind. His hands have been reduced to stumps and are covered in leprosy sores, however, he refuses to use the treatment offered by the clinic, as he gains more pity, which equates into money, from his current state. A disturbing sight and a clear indication of the degree of poverty in Peru and other South American countries.

Fifty percent of Peruvians live below the poverty line and a vast majority of them rely on subsistence farming and tourism as a means of survival, many of them, especially elderly women and children have reverted to begging.

We arrived in Puno, a gloomy and polluted city, in the late afternoon. Our hostel, which we had found and booked, through Lonely Planet, had a distinct Hillbrow Hotel feel about it, minus the needles and other drug paraphernalia - not that I know what a Hillbrow Hotel looks like but judging from what I have seen on Special Assignment.

Proving my theory on the Hillbrow Hotel feel about the hostel, Nikki, who dined out on her own, due to my sorry state of affairs, was approached by a local who thought it appropriate to have a quick fondle, as reached the entrance of the hostal. I’m not sure who was more shocked, Nikki or the fondler, who she gave a good beating and left cowering in the corner.

Battling with waves of nausea and an achy body, we spent the following morning organising my visa. A relatively uncomplicated procedure, which was decidedly un-official looking – a $30 visa fee and a few stamps in my passport, no forms to fill in or sign and instant approval.

Puno is situated about 3 800 metres above sea level and by day two we had both begun to feel a bit worn out from the altitude. We managed a visit to the pier in the afternoon, where we hired a pelican peddle boat and for two soles more a peddler and half-heartedly peddled our way through a very green and smelly lagoon before returning to our hostel. After dining on popcorn and coca-cola (one has to be specific in this nick of the woods), we called it a night at about 4.30pm.

Feeling perkier the next day, we booked an early morning trip to the Floating Islands on Lake Titicaca, an unfortunate name for something so impressive – 8 560 km² and reaching a minimum temperature of 9 degrees, the lake is an incredible sight. The islands, which are made from reeds and found dotted across the lake, are inhabited by isolated communities.

We arrived back to Puno with time to fit in a quick lunch before departing for Copacabana in Bolivia. Found myself missing the sweet and nerdy Dante, when Claudio, who I am convinced, belongs to the Bolivian mafia, announced himself as our escort.

Claudio had a distinct not to be messed with air about him and Nikki and I were careful not to put a foot out of place, unlike an American couple who broke the bus’s skylight when trying to let some air into the bus. Claudio’s fury was a sight to behold and short of ending up in a Bolivian jail and being reported to border authorities, the couple were obliged to pay $100 cash for the damages incurred.

Copacabana is an entirely more pleasant little town than Puno. We found a lovely little spot, with views on to Lake Titicaca and our own bathroom, for a grand total of R35 per person per night.

After a breakfast of stale bread and jam, which was included in the per night fee, we spent the morning exploring the town and pier, which had distinctly festive and holiday feel about it, despite an ever present and chilly breeze in the air.

The trip to La Paz, which left about lunch time, was a unique experience. An hour into the journey, we were instructed to disembark, as we needed to catch a “ferry” across Lake Titicaca. Built from old planks and barely bolted together, a very dubious construction, labelled a ferry, transported our bus from one end of the lake to the other, while we were taken across in rickety speed boats spurting mounds of gas and fuel into the environment.

Undeterred by the looks of horror on our faces, we were instructed back on to the bus and putted off to arrive later that afternoon in the bustling city of La Paz.