Baňos

One of Ecuador’s biggest claims to fame is its location on the equator and thus we stop off at Mitad del Mundo (Middle of the World) to straddle the physical line that divides the northern and southern hemispheres. We listen hard to the guy from National Geographic who explains why this particular spot is considered to be the very Middle of the World, but both Will and I are baffled by his explanation. As far as we’re concerned, it’s on the equator that runs around the middle of the world and that’s good enough for us. I think it’s something to do with the height we’re at and how this makes us at the closest point to the stars than at any other point on the equator, or something like that.

Past Volcan Cotopaxi (5897m) but it’s too cloudy to see the peak, something which we will come to realise is a bit of a recurring problem where volcanoes are concerned. Will’s Spanish has now picked up to such an extent that he’s sitting in the front chatting away to the taxi driver and I’m only catching every other word. How did this happen?

By late afternoon, we’re approaching Banos, which means Baths in Spanish, and peering out for sight of the active Volcan Tungurahua which last erupted in 2006. Long before the volcano springs into view, we can see thick grey smoke high in the sky and realise that this is the smoke from the volcano which is hidden behind the clouds. A little further along the road and we see volcanic ash pilled high to one side whilst on the other deep cracks in the earth and wide runs of lava flow which have destroyed everything in their path, including the road we’re driving on which has had to be rebuilt. Weird to think this was only 2 years ago.

As a result of the active volcano, there are lots of hot springs in the area and thus the place was named Bathroom. We’re booked into the grand sounding Palace hotel located beside some hot springs and gushing waterfall. Sadly, the location is much better than the inside of the hotel which looks as though it hasn’t been updated since its 1950s heyday.

Will takes the kids to check out our very own onsite hot springs but, judging by the state of the hotel, I’m not holding out very much hope of them being very nice, but I go anyway to appease him. I walk in and then walk straight out again. He’s not such a fusspot as me and they all go to wallow in someone else’s dead skin whilst I try to get some fresh air into our mildew smelling bathroom.

A taxi takes us to the top of a mountain opposite the volcano (since you can’t drive up the actual volcano itself as it’s not known when the next eruption with be) for a better look at the peak, but despite hiking up a very steep incline at the top, the sight eludes as once more due to the cloud cover.

I’ve read that the hot springs next to our hotel only change their water every three days and I really don’t fancy other people’s 3 day old dead skin sneaking inside my bikini so we head instead to the Piscina El Salado just out of town and located alongside a river and next to a waterfall. The setting is perfect but the place itself is a bit ancient and rundown, which also describes the old lady heading towards us with her 2 feet long empty breasts hanging out of her swimming costume. And my stomach does a triple summersault when we take a pre-plunge shower and discover a man sitting on the floors of the showers scrubby particularly manky-looking scabby feet with gusto. Just as well they do a daily water change here although it’s a shame I didn’t manage to make it in ahead of this guy.

The town of Banos itself is a small place and we find a place for dinner at Le Jardin that also happens to have free WiFi so it’s here that I find myself one evening looking for accommodation at our next location. After an hour or so of fruitless searching, I ask the lady who owns the place if she knows of anywhere to stay in Puyo. Yes, she says, my sister owns a hotel there. And it happens to be the very first hotel on my list of half a dozen that I’ve been unsuccessfully trying to get hold of. Yes, she says, they have a room for 4 people for tomorrow night. Fantastic, now I can have two more of those happy hour Cuba Libra’s whilst Will gets the kids in bed.

Ecuador - Quito

At 2850m, Quito is the world’s second highest capital city after La Paz, but we don’t seem to be as breathless here as we were in Cusco. Maybe we’re finally acclimatised.

Home for the next couple of days is a 2-bed, 2-story apartment at Apart Hotel Antinea (www.hotelantinea.com) which seems very reasonable at $63 per night. It’s not quite so cheap when we’re told that there’s 12% tax plus 15% service to be added to this basic price. Unfortunately, it’s not only the hotel that adds this but also the restaurants so that the price on the menu bears no resemblance to the actual price on the bill at the end of the meal.

Fortunately there’s a nearby square that reminds me of St Christopher’s Place surrounded by bars and restaurants and here we stumble across a tapas bar that has all you can eat and drink for $15. The tapas is good and keeps coming and the wine is the same.

Since September 2000, the currency of Ecuador is the US Dollar. This followed some serious devaluation of the sucre, Ecuadors former currency, in 1999/2000 when the effects of El Niňo and the sagging oil market sent the economy into a tailspin causing the currency to devalue from 7000 per US Dollar to about 25,000. Hence there’s an awful lot of people here who have never recovered from this body blow and are still struggling.

The old town here is another UNESCO World Heritage Site, but we can’t see why. Maybe we’re just getting blasé or maybe we’ve been spoilt, but there’s really nothing particularly charming about this place. Yes, it has a lovely central Plaza with the ubiquitous pretty church and some nice old colonial buildings, but it’s really nothing to write home about.

We take a taxi ride up Cerro Panecillo, the highest hill in the area with a huge statue of La Virgin de Quito atop. She’s chained for some reason but it’s not clear if these are the chains to the virginal chastity belt or not. A good view across town and, if the crowds gathered to one corner are anything to go by, also a good place to fly a kite. There’s a number of power lines nearby full of kites wrapped around them and, just as I’m wondering why anyone would fly a kite here when it’s so obviously going to get wrapped around the wires, the first one plops itself down and wraps itself over and over as a startled child looks on in bewilderment as if to say “how they hell did that happen?” As I’m giggling to myself at the stupidity, the second kite does the same thing and within a few seconds a third one follows suit. I wetting myself as I watch each kite flyer in turn look at their kite and then try frantically to release it, only making things worse. Maybe they should have engaged their brains before flying kites next to telegraph wires full of dead kites.

Ruby’s delighted to have found a book in our hotels’ book exchange that lists lots of games which came be played in the car. Closer inspection reveals the book to be 35 years old with a cover price of 20p. Where has it been lurking all these years?

We round off our time in Quito with £2.50 martinis in the Square. I’m liking this place

Otavalo

Our pre-booked taxi doesn’t arrive and Will’s forced to find one on the street that will take us on our 2-hour trip to Otavalo. Of course, it’s now $15 more expensive than the pre-booked one and it’s smaller meaning that some of our bags are squashed inside the car with us.

Our apartment at Hacienda Palmeiras is located a little way from town but this means that we have some beautiful grounds around us and, for the first time this trip, feel confident enough to let the kids wander off without us watching them. They can’t go far and are having a great time playing with the resident dogs and alpacas. I hope Harley manages to get off bite-free this time.

Saturday is market day in Otavalo and this one is huge. We buy some presents for our families knowing that we don’t have to carry them around for very much longer. Most of our families have done something for us be it storing our car or furniture, taking our mail or delivery of our packages or something else so it’s only right that we take them something back, even if it is a dead guinea pig…

And speaking of dead animals, the local speciality here looks to be whole pig, head still attached complete with startled expression (well what expression would you have if someone stuck a poker up your bottom and shoved you on a spit) from which large chunks are ripped off and served up with some crispy roast potatoes, corn, salsa and gravy. A plateful for £2.50. Will’s enjoying it so much he scoffs down three platefuls and washes it down with a couple of beers and I’m almost gagging on the smell of hot pork fat combined with piggy giving me the eye.

We’re off to Cusin to go horse riding and we all get our own horse apart from Harley who’s sitting on Dobbin with the guide. A 1 hour ride gives us a pleasant view of some surrounding countryside but I’m finding the slow-pace a bit of a bore. I’d love to give my steed a whip and have him take me for a canter, but I’m not allowed to since the others will follow suit, probably dumping Will (who’s on a horse for the first time in 35 years) and Ruby (who’s on a horse for the second time in her life) in the process.

Miraflores

Back to Lima for a couple of days (www.miraflorescolonhotel.com) where Will has to wait for a phone call from work and he also wants to go to see some catcombs at the Monasterio de San Francisco. The catacombs are said to be filled with the bones of 70,000 and archaeologists have opened many of the burial sites up and laid the bones back in a very orderly fashion.

We also check out Barranco and have possibly the worst lunch of the trip where Ruby is so beside herself with hunger (made worse when her food doesn’t arrive for over an hour and then, when it does, it’s inedible) that she’s almost in tears. I end up taking her outside and feeding her a chocolate doughnut!

It’s a shame that we didn’t stumble across the bajada earlier (a very pretty Bougainvillea-filled steep path leading down to the beach and filled on both sides by lovely looking restaurants), a particularly pleasant part of town where we wander under the Puente de los Suspiros (Bridge of Sighs) to the coast and spot an amazing old church built of mud and wood that had definitely seen better days but was still standing.

Back to Lima

Retracing our steps yet further, we’re back on the bus to Puno where we have a couple of hours to kill before heading to the airport at Juliaca for our flight back to Lima. Nothing remarkable about this you might say, except that you didn’t see the road. We drive along for a few miles and suddenly the road has been dug up in every direction and there’s no obvious way to get through to the airport. Cars are driving over piles of shingle and stones and across railways tracks trying to make a path for themselves and cars coming towards us have to stop to let us pass. A huge bus hurtles along and everyone is trying to follow in its path figuring it will create a road of sorts. It’s total chaos. Added to that the fact that there doesn’t seem to be any actual work going on. It’s as if it’s been dug up and then abandoned. And this is the major road between the airport and the port. Bizarre.

Copacabana, Bolivia

Having eventually managed to book a taxi to get us the hell out of dodge, we’ve decided to head back to Copacabana rather than onwards to La Paz figuring that, in absence of a decently priced flight back to Peru, we can at least retrace our footsteps back across the border on the bus and work our way back to Lima from there.

We’re not 20 minutes down the road and our taxi is pulled over by a group of uniformed men carrying guns. I’m certain we’re about to be shaken down for some cash but we all sit tight and the driver hops out and opens the hatchback. One of the men has a very quick look over our luggage and then waves us on. Apparently, they were the army looking for drugs being smuggled out of Bolivia (which processes an awful lot of cocaine) and into Peru. Lucky for us we’d taped it all to the bottom of the car and they didn’t have any sniffer dogs…(I’m joking mum!!).

So back across the river we go, us on a little motor boat and our taxi plus all our worldy goods on a wooden barge. We’re hoping that our taxi will set off before us and arrive after us lest the driver decides to make off with our bags which would be worth considerably more than the $50 fare we’re paying him.

Ever since Chile pinched 350km of Bolivia’s coastline during the War of the Pacific, Bolivia has been landlocked and yet they still have a navy. Clearly, these guys have very little to do so they congregate around the Titicaca Naval Base at Tiquina…and direct the traffic!

Back in Copacabana, we’re booked into La Cupula (www.hotelcupula.com) and have a great room for $28. Once again, I’m gutted that we spent so much time, effort and money get to Huatajata. La Cupula is perched on a hill, overlooking the lake (which looks more like a sea from up here), with 2 separate gardens containing hammocks and deckchairs and gorgeous views. Not only that, but the sun is beating down. The kids make the most of the space and run amok in the gardens whilst I make the most of the weather and sunbathe. At a height of 3,800m above sea level, it’s probably not a good idea to sunbathe when you’re this close to the sun, something I only realise the next morning when I wake up burnt to a crisp. Even throughout all of Australia I didn’t get burnt like this.

Copacabana has a small ‘beach’ at the side of the lake and it reminds us of some English seaside town in the 50’s. The edge of the lake is full of duck shaped pedalos; there’s old bikes and trikes to rent; there’s even table football games set up along the promenade and ice cream parlours at the back.

Parked nearby is a lorry covered in flowers which has just been blessed at the cathedral. Vehicles are blessed to give them long life and also to ensure the safe passage of those who travel in them. If you saw Bolivian drivers, you’d understand why they need this.

Bolivia

Just across the other side of the lake lies Bolivia and it’s possible to get a bus across, so we think why the hell not. Country number 13: let’s hope it’s not unlucky.

A 7am departure and it’s just 2 hours to the border where we’re all off the bus and walking through a stone archway into Bolivia. A painless entry procedure where I don’t even have to hide anything in bins, back onto the bus and it’s just a short distance to Copacabana where we have just one hour before the bus leaves for the next part of our journey. We knew Bolivia was going to be cheap but we’re amazed to find that it cost less than £2 for a lunch of steak, rice, chips and vegetables.

Our destination is not La Paz, capital of Bolivia but Huatajata, on the same road but some 2 hours before. We’ve read about the grandly named Inca Utama Hotel and Spa – Andean Roots Eco Village (www.titicaca.com) and have decided to spend a couple of nights there. When we booked our tickets we were told that the bus to La Paz stops here but the driver is refusing to stop. My stomach is doing flips and I’m desperate for the toilet, but unfortunately there isn’t one on this bus. The roads are climbing higher and higher and I’m finding it hard to breath at this altitude. And to top it all of, I’m feeling sick too. This brings on a panic attack and before I know it, I’m gasping and wheezing at the back of the bus as Harley continually asks me what’s wrong. We should have taken all of this as an omen and gone straight back to Copocabana right then.

Fortunately, it’s not long until the roads start winding back down again and then it’s all out of the bus as we stop at the side of the lake. I can’t run fast enough to find a toilet and it doesn’t even bother me that these are one of the most revolting examples I’ve encountered on this trip, and believe me, there’s been a few bad ones.

As I emerge, quite literally relieved, I notice that our bus is being punted across the lake on a wooden platform and everyone is getting into small boats to be ferried across. Whilst we’re waiting on the other side for the bus to join us, Will finds the driver and greases his palm with 20 bolivanos (which is less than £2 but our entire 7 ½ hour journey costs only £4) and again asks him to stop in Huatajata. It works and the bus drops us right outside the hotel.

I’m slightly confused because we seem to be in the middle of nowhere, although we are right on the shore of the lake with stunning views. This wasn’t to be the only time I was confused in the next 3 days.

The marketing material promised us several museums, an Eco village, an observatory,
Aymara tribes people showing how to make reed boats, a spa using natural medicines of the Andes, a children’s park where local children come to play with your own, 2 restaurants, folk music performances every evening, cable tv, internet, bar, travel services….the list was almost endless. Almost all of the above were either complete fabrication or a total exaggeration. For starters, there are no local children; the Aymara tribes people have mostly moved on leaving just two old men and their wives here; there was no tv (not a problem) or internet (a problem since I need to book our next hotel and we’re in the middle of nowhere); no phones in the room (a problem for the same reason); the travel services were limited to offering hydrofoil tours to Copacabana for $180 each (vs the $4 it cost us to get here by bus); only 1 restaurant is open (and we’re the only ones in it) and there’s no folk music performances. There is a bar (which you have to go to reception and ask them to open) but the kids aren’t allowed in. The spa offers 2 types of massage: one with coca butter and one with mud - hardly natural medicines of the Andes. And I’ve never stayed in a 5 star hotel that doesn’t even have a fridge in the room. Breakfast is bowl of cereal, fruit juice, one roll with jam and a banana plus a coffee. No buses stop here and a taxi is our only way back to Copacabana and it’s going to cost us $50. Trying to book flight on the phone (from reception) is going to cost 25% more than booking over the internet. Even in the middle of nowhere in NZ it wasn’t this bad. I can’t believe we’re paying $110 a night, in cheap as chips Bolivia, to stay in this piece of shit.

We did have company in the hotel on the second night, a girl who was on her own, thinking she was joining a group tour for the next week and discovered that it was to be just her and a male guide. Poor thing.

There was one amazing thing to come out of all this. NASA donated a telescope to this place some years ago (presumably before it went to the dogs) and it is now housed in a grass hut in the grounds. We have to ask if it still exists and we’re led off with a member of staff (who, let’s face it, has absolutely nothing else to do) to watch a short video about the stars and then the roof rolls back and we’re invited to look at Jupiter. Not the most amazing site in the world (it looks like a small moon) but pretty amazing to be able to see it all the same. I wonder if NASA knows that one of their telescopes resides in a grass hut?

Billed as The Most Astonishing Five Stars on Lake Titicaca, I think it must be the only 5 stars on Lake Titicaca. Actually, it is the most astonishing five star hotel I’ve ever known, maybe that’s what they mean.

Islas Flotantes – The Uros floating islands.

The floating islands are really quite remarkable and unlike anything I have ever seen anywhere else. Made from woven tortura reeds, these islands are home to several hundred people who still live here, in the middle of the lake in isolation.

To make the islands, reeds are anchored to roots at the bottom of the lake some 20m below and then more tortura reeds are layered on top to a thickness of about 1 metre. On top of these, small houses made of reeds are built and whole families live together in these one room houses with the most basic of facilities. The mattress is another layer of reeds, on top of which is laid a blanket, although the chief of one of the islands did have a small solar panel which powered a small tv and a single lightbulb.

As the reeds underneath rot, the top layers are constantly replaced giving the whole island a spongy texture which moves slightly as you step onto it. The tortura reed is used for everything here, including making boats which range from small, basic canoe-style vessels to large elaborate Viking warrior style warships complete with dragons head which are large enough to carry our party of 20 or so.

The Uros tribe began their floating existence centuries ago in an effort to isolate themselves from the aggressive Collas and Incas. Today, they still fish, hunt birds and live off the lake plants in a very primitive manner. The only slightly annoying thing is that they constantly try to sell you their handicrafts which are also made of tortura reeds when we’re most interested in learning about their cultures. Will relents and buys a couple of small boats from the chief when he discovers that he has a girl of 8 and a boy of 4, same as us.

It’s dark by the time we leave and getting absolutely freezing out here in the middle of the lake. I have no idea how these people all keep warm during the night under their one thin blanket atop their bed of reeds, but we’re all back on the boat and breathing into our hands to warm up. Maybe that’s why all the members of the family share a bed.

Puno

We’re staying over-budget at the very nice Sonesta Pousada del Inca (www.sonestaperu.com), as Puno doesn’t seem to offer anything in between backpackers hostels and $120 a night hotels. But we’re right on the edge of the lake with a fantastic view and there are llamas, alpacas and guinea pigs running around in the grounds which the kids enjoy feeding

Moored at the end of a small jetty is the Yavari, a ship that was built in England in 1862 then shipped around the Cape Horn in kit form, taken by train for part of the journey and finally hauled by mule over the Andes to Lake Titicaca, a journey which took six years.

There’s nothing much worth seeing in Puno itself. It’s a dusty little port town and try as we might, we can’t find anything to get enthused about here. But it does make the perfect starting point for a trip onto the lake to see the amazing floating islands.

More of Cusco

Will’s hungover and miserable and I’m wondering why I was so nice to let him out to do whatever it is men do when they go out on their own and come home at 3am. But he redeems himself over lunch back in Jack’s by insisting that I go for a massage with ‘his’ Marisol as she was so good. At which point one of his new found friends (Yaddick) from last night wanders in and sits down with us, telling me what a gentleman Will was last night by leaving the table when two woman sat down to join them. What a sweetie, I think. And then the guy ruins all Will’s brownie points by saying that he’d left the table to play pool and I instantly know that it was just a coincidence that he got up to play pool just as the women were arriving.

I did indeed have a massage with Marisol and she was indeed very good. The buttock massage was particularly invigorating. Now I know what he meant.

Sunday mornings all over the world and there’s normally a market somewhere. This one is in Pisac where, not only are there hundreds of stalls all selling the same things but there’s also a church service at 11am, heralded by the local boys blowing on large shells and, coupled with the elaborate dress and headgear of the older men, makes for a rather memorable praise and worship.

The produce section of the market was much more interesting than the touristy bit and we see live guinea pigs being bought and sold, the biggest selection of different types and colours of potatoes and a myriad different types of sweetcorn. I even buy myself a trilby since all the women here look so cool in theirs.

Puno bound

We’re keen to see Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world and so once again call upon the Orient Express/Peru Rail 10 hour train to Puno. Personally, I’d rather have taken the (much cheaper) 6 hour bus journey, but being the subservient little woman that I am…I’m on the train.

It’s much more Orient Express-like than I’d imagined with free-standing armchairs and lamps on the table and the only downside is that we’re in a carriage with about 20 Australian sixty-something year olds, one of whom can’t stop telling anyone who will listen that her and her husband can only spend 10% of their wealth, which may be why they’re paying about £7,500 each for a 21-day tour.

Actually, the train journey was great fun. Not only were we served pisco sours at 10.30am (which we managed to snag 2 of by hiding our first ones under the table!) but I got talking to a girl from Chester called Laura and we had a real giggle together, especially once the fashion show was on. There’s nothing quite like seeing your waiter stripping off and changing into an alpaca jumper before prancing down the carriage to give me a fit of the giggles. The rear carriage was the bar where local bands played their wind pipes, drum and guitars whilst serenading us with traditional Andean folk music. The very back part of the carriage was open so that you felt as though you were standing on the back of the train.

Great scenery of mud houses, traditionally dressed women tending their flocks of alpacas or sheep and winding rivers gave way to some brown, barren scenes punctuated only by the train track running straight through the middle of it. But at least we had a three-course lunch and afternoon tea to distract us. And I had Laura to chat to whilst Will was on kiddie watch.

Almost at Puno, we pass through the town of Juliaca where a market spreads itself out across the train tracks. Books, fruit and car parts are literally set out across the tracks and, as the train comes through, it simply passes straight over the top of them. Seconds later, people step back onto the track and continue with their day. Luckily for them that this train only passes through once a day I guess.

Will’s birthday

A lie in (means he misses breakfast, but I don’t think he cares somehow) plus I do homework with Ruby, for a change.

Lunch at Jacks Café for some long awaited Western food and then I pack Will off for a birthday massage. Apparently, the lady in question gave a very good massage, although I still haven’t got to the bottom of what was so good about it…

I take the kids off to collect the tickets for our next train trip to Puno and this time it takes almost 2 hours just to queue and pick them up. Orient Express really need to sort this out before their name is besmirched forever.

We meet with Will for an hour or so back at Norton Rats, but I can tell he’s got sport and beer on his mind and, since we can’t get a babysitter (huge gap in the market in these parts), I’m taking the kids back to the hotel so he can hit the town. I was expecting him in around 1am or so, bearing in mind that he’s been out since 1pm so I’m rather worried when he’s still not in by 2.30am. At least he’s there, still alive when I wake up at 3am.

Meanwhile, back in Cusco

Cusco (also known as the Naval of the World) is a great place, apart from having entirely too many loud Americans using up the air. It’s clean, has great open squares, historical buildings, cobbled streets plus great bars and restaurants. Overlooking the Plaza des Almas is the Norton Rats bar where we can take a seat on the balcony and literally watch the world go by. And only a few step away do I grit my teeth once more as Will takes us for a tour of the Inka Museum. Lovely.

As darkness falls we’re watching on in amazement as a festival is unfolding before our eyes where the boys are wearing woolly gimp masks and whipping each other across the back of the legs with some kind of woollen whip. What do they do in private?

The Dawkins family join us for dinner and Scott seems as keen as Will to order the local delicacies and before I can say Chef’s Salad, there’s some rare alpaca and a brace of cuy (guinea pig) sitting in front of me. Ruby and Harley are attacking a leg each of the cuy with gusto and Toby is bemoaning the fact that he’s been given pasta when the cuy is clearly such a hit.

We’re en masse again in the morning when Scott and Will are keen to visit Saqsaywaman (one of the local Inca sites, famed because it is pronounced “Sexy Woman”. Ok, not famed because of the way it’s pronounced, but that does help). There’s not a whole lot left of this site because the Spanish tore down the walls and used the blocks to build their houses in Cusco, but we do find some great stone slides which we manage to climb and then fly down at an extraordinary rate (I think Will was fine catching the kids as they came flying off the end, it was as I came down, cackling like an old witch, that he floundered) and then Will leads all the kids into some deep, dark caves which I refuse to be a part of (not sure which put me off most, the thought of going through deep dark caves, or the thought of doing it with 4 kids).

Dinner again and I can’t believe the boys order up more alpaca. This is getting silly. So much for the advice about how to combat soroche which is ‘camina lentito, come poquito…y duerme solito’ (‘walk slowly, eat only a little…and sleep by your poor little self’).

The Dawkins 4 are off to Easter Island and we’re off to the Del Prado Inn (www.delpradoinn.com) as it’s right off the Plaza des Almas and will save us having to wait for the complimentary taxi service to take us 5 minutes away to Torre Dorada, which will be good for Will’s birthday as he’ll be able to wander to and fro as and when he feels like it.

Machu Picchu

We don’t actually have our tickets for the train as we booked on the internet and Peggy’s insistent that Will leave at 4.45am to collect the tickets ahead of the 5am ticket office opening time. So it’s a 4.30am alarm call and he’s off whilst I try to raise the kids from their beds and get them dressed before meeting him at 5.30am. Why are we doing this??

All trains to Machu Picchu are now run by a company joint-owned by Orient Express and Peru Rail and, whilst the Orient Express luxury is there, the Peru disorganisation is what you have to deal with whilst trying to collect your tickets, which means that, as we arrive at the station at 5.30am, Will has only just managed to collect our tickets which were pre-booked and paid for.

We have opted for the mid-class train, the Vistadome, which costs £220 (for the 4 of us) for a 4 hour return journey to Aguas Caliente but hey, at least it includes breakfast (some coca tea plus a cheese and ham roll). Once we disembark at Aquas Caliente, we have to pay another $7 for a 30 minute bus ride up the mountain and then £25 each to get into Machu Picchu. To top it all, we then pay £25 for a guide to help us decipher the stones. An expensive day.

Machu Picchu was discovered by American historian Hiram Bingham in 1911, which is almost the same year that I started to harbour a desire to visit and it doesn’t disappoint. After our guide has left, we spent a long time just sitting in the grass and looking out over the mountains in front of us and imagining what went on here in its heyday. It’s not at all hard to imagine.

The problem with sitting in the grass and daydreaming is that sand flys take you unawares and bite you all over (or is it more like a sting?), leaving nasty welts that take 3 days to stop itching. It seems we’re not alone. Almost everyone we meet over the next few days who has been up here is sporting similar war wounds to those that we leave with.

On our train ride back to Cusco, the only other Brits in the entire train are sat across the aisle from us. Of course, as the highly reserved English rose that I am, I don’t speak to them for at lease, oooo, um, 10 minutes, and then I crack. They have a 6 and 2 year old (Toby and Clara) who soon hit it off with our 8 and 4 year old and pretty soon we’re all swapping seats so the kids can play whatever it is they’re playing together and we (plus Scott and Karen) can share a bottle of wine. 3 hours into the journey, we discover that, not only are we staying in the same hotel, but they have the room next door to us. Small world, once you get into the small rooms.

1 hour from Cusco and the train breaks down. We’re finally offered the chance of a minibus (which will take ½ hour to get back but will cost an extra £1 each) or we can stay on the train and take an extra hour. We opt for the minibus and finally arrive back to the hotel at 9pm. A long day.

Onto Cusco

Faced with a 26 hour bus journey or a 1 hour flight, we once again bite the bullet and pay up for the flight to Cusco in order that we can visit Machu Picchu. We’re in one of the highest cities in the world (3,310m above sea level) and are warned that we may be affected by soroche (altitude sickness) here, the symptoms of which are shortness of breath, light-headedness, sickness and more.

Our pre-booked accommodation at Torre Dorada (www.torredorada.com) are the only 3 star hotel I’ve ever known (not that I’ve known too many, if I’m honest) that provide a 5 star service, sending free taxis to collect from the airport and having the owner of the hotel (a lady of 50-something named Peggy) lug our bags upstairs for us, insisting that we can’t do it ourselves because of the soroche. There’s even coca leaf tea on tap for us which is meant to help, but help or not, I like the taste and as an added bonus, I’m assured it works as an appetite suppressant, which always works for me.

We arrive late afternoon and have to be up before 5am to get the train to Machu Picchu, so it’s a take-away pizza and an early night all round.

PERU

As we step outside Lima airport, a big mumma declares herself to be our taxi driver and steers the trolley, with Harley sitting on it, away from Will, who walks nonchalantly alongside as I struggle behind with my trolley and Ruby atop. The airport has a real buzz about it and I immediately tell Will “I think I’m going to like it here”. Of course, what I should have been telling Will was “can you please push this trolley and stop prancing about at the side of mumma over there”.

We had a bit of a surprise on our drive from the airport as the streets were full of casinos and fast food joints and even though it was midnight, there were people everywhere. Cars tooting, buses full, streets busy. Not what we were expecting at all. And neither were we expecting to arrive at our hotel and discover that we don’t have a room. It’s after midnight, the kids are exhausted and we have nowhere to sleep. A lot of phone calls and key jangling later and we’re finally moved to the apartment block just a few meters down the road. It’s a decent sized one-bed apartment but there’s a lot of faffing around to get extra beds moved in and even then, it’s only one single bed so the kids have to top and tail again. Good job they’re both dog tired.

We’re here for 3 days and there’s not very much of interest in Lima so we head for Huaca Pucllana which is a pretty amazing pre-Inca pyramid built in the 5th century from mud bricks. Yes, that IS correct. Mud bricks still surviving from the 5th Century (I know, you were raising your eyebrows at the bit about my calling it a pretty amazing pyramid, but puulease, don’t expect me to play along!). The taxi driver initially tries to dupe us into thinking that it’s closed so he can make double the fare by taking us back again, but Will’s onto him and directs him around to the in-house restaurant which is apparently one of the best in town. Not only is the food passable (for the first time since New Zealand), but we are treated to our first pisco sours (the national drink) and Will decides to go for a pisco tasting in much the same way as he was for a cachaca tasting in Brazil. Shame he ended up liking the one that was $20 a shot.

Not 10 minutes walk from our hotel, we arrive at the coast where, despite the fog, we can see Peruvian surfers trying their luck. If we hadn’t been in Australia, maybe this wouldn’t seem so strange, but here, where the waves are hardly a ripple, where the weather is pretty lousy and where the water is so polluted it’s advisable not to swim in it, it seems a bit optimistic to call yourself a surfer.

And just across the road is the Peruvian equivalent of Harrods where we can stock up on food and wine for the next couple of days since the kids are always so exhausted by the time we come to go out for dinner. So Harrodian is it in fact that we’re chastised for taking a photo of Harley in the fruit department next to the world’s largest basket of apples.

Skiing.

We book a car to take us up the mountain and, just a few miles up the road, we run out of petrol. I can never understand people who run out of petrol. Did you not notice the little needle going into the red? Did you not see the petrol light come on?

A windy mountain road and 2 hours later, we’re up at El Colorado for 3 days/2 nights of skiing. With 18 runs comprising a total of 568 acres, this place has the biggest ski area in Chile. It’s all ridiculously expensive up here compared to the rest of Chile and Will somehow manages to strike a deal whereby we don’t get our skis and boots until after lunch and we therefore pay only 2 days rental instead of 3. Still very expensive.

Our cabin is cute but a bit of a pain in the butt that it’s 200m from the hotel as it means we have to wrap up in the evenings just to go to the hotel for dinner, but since we all only have one set of clothes warm enough for this weather, that doesn’t take too long.

The advertised 18 runs is a bit of a cheat since it’s about 5 runs, split up with poles and netting which turns it into more. You wouldn’t get away with this kind of advertising in Europe. Still, we’re skiing with the kids and can hardly go mad. Will has Harley (who’s on skis for the first time) between his legs and I’m reacquainting Ruby with the delights of snowploughs as this is only her second time on skis, the last one 2 ½ years ago. It’s a pretty tiring way of skiing but very gratifying to see them making progress, even if I did have to get Ruby to side-slip down the top of the red slope for 15 minutes after she lost her nerve.

We’re both exhausted the next day and the muscles in our legs are shot to pieces, so we’re delighted to discover that we can put them both in ski school for 2 hours, even though it costs £40. We’re like crazy things as we drop them both off and then race to the chair lift which will whisk us right up to the top of the only black run. We manage to ski top to bottom of the mountain six times in the next 2 hours before we arrive, panting, at ski school, just in time to witness Harley doing snow ploughs on his own (good) and Ruby doing turns through bollards (bad, she’s way beyond this). But whether their skiing ability has improved or not, it was great for us to have 2 hours to ourselves.

The evening sunset is one of the most amazing I have ever witnessed. Santiago is just below us in the valley and during the day can be seen in the morning before the smog sets in. During the evening, if the smog isn’t too bad you can see the lights but tonight, the sunset is incredible. The brightest oranges and reds, stretching right across the sky.

Mr I’ve-Run-Out-of-Petrol is back to take us to the airport but he’s trying to fob us off into a smaller car which would mean we all have to sit in the back with bags on the front seat. We’ve already paid over the odds for his car (a 4-wheel drive) so he’s got some front trying to pull a fast one now. Only when Will makes a pretence of calling for another car (which we wouldn’t have had time to wait for since we have a flight to catch) does he miraculously decide to honour our deal and put his new passengers into the smaller car and let us back into his. Talk about being a member of the Better Offer Club. He’s in a bit of a hurry for some reason and we have a very hairy ride back down the mountain overtaking buses and cars on blind bends and getting far too close to sheer drops. He’s either double booked or else he’s trying to get us to the airport before the petrol runs out (if you’re low on fuel, should you drive fast to get as close to your desired location as you can before running out, or drive slowly to make the fuel last longer??).

We’re in plenty of time for our flight but, since I wasn’t able to get an internet connection up on the mountain, we currently have nowhere to stay in Lima. A frantic search of every website and I manage to book somewhere literally in the nick of time, just as we’re called to board our flight. With no time to read the reviews on Tripadvisor.com, I hope I’ve made an ok choice at El Condado www.condado.com.pe.

Back to Mendoza

A 13 hour overnight bus journey back to Mendoza and this time I don’t precede it with a massage! More beautiful scenery and the worlds’ most amazing road that zig zags down the mountain with bends that wouldn’t be out of place on a F1 race track, and through short tunnels over which are built the ski runs of Portillo ski range.

An early morning arrival to our apartment and Will’s not moving from in front of the tv as he’s watching the Wimbledon final. The kids are happy playing so I make to most of the time to go for a mooch around on my own in the hope that I might stumble across some nice shops where I can buy some new clothes as I’m so bored of the few that I have. No such luck.

Back to Chile again.

Another 7 hour bus ride to Santiago and as we cross the border from Argentina, a large roadside sign informs us that the Falklands belong to Argentina. Hmm, try telling that to Maggie.

There’s a very strict policy on not bringing in any animal or plant products so we quickly eat up the cheese and fruit that we have in our bag and I realise I’m still carrying around my beloved pepper grinder which I’m not prepared to throw out so I have a plan which involves putting it into the bin on the bus. We do the usual palaver of getting off the bus with all our bags, having the large ones scanned and the small ones searched by hand and then I get back on the bus, wait for it to pull away…and get the pepper grinder out of the bin! Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

Just one night at the Hotel Espana (www.hotelespania.com) before we leave for skiing and we’re got to get Harley’s stitches taken out. Unsure what to expect from the hospital, we’re amazed by how clean and new everything is, more like a private hospital. We’re ushered in, escorted to a private room and within 10 minutes of arriving, a smiling if battle-scarred Harley walks out of the hospital, stitch-free. Having previously thought we were lucky to be in BA for the stitches, we’re now wishing we’d been here instead.

We’re having loads of problems trying to book our room for skiing tomorrow and we’re reminded once again how grumpy the average Chilean is. Years of living under the rule of General Pinochet, perhaps? The room we thought we’d booked has been given to someone else as we hadn’t faxed a signature over to the hotel (a bit difficult to do from a bus) and we’ve now been relegated to a chalet 200m away from the hotel.

Tigre and the Delta

One hour north of BA is the Rio Parana: innumerable canals that weave through this area where 3,000 people live permanently and many more have their weekend houses here.

The former president owned a house here that has now been encased in glass and turned into a museum and the whole area has a feeling of faded glory to it. Most of the houses are made of wood and the upkeep is very expensive, so consequently a lot of them are in need of a few repairs.


Access between the houses is only possible by boat, the school bus is a boat as it the supermarket and the rubbish ‘truck’. We’re not sure what the residents do to pass the time, although by the inbred looks of some of them, maybe we shouldn’t ask.

Apart from the odd-looking residents, it’s a pretty place with rowing clubs anda colonial building that was formerly a night club for the elite but is now an art museum.

After our boat journey, it’s onto a train which stops at San Isidro and we have time for a quick
walk to the unremarkable market and cathedral before hopping back onto a bus for the ride back home.

An interesting day, if not the most exciting.

A faceful of pavement

There’s a strange way of dog walking here and that’s either to let the dog out on its own to walk itself, or else to employ a dog walker to do it for you. The dog walkers take out about a dozen or so dogs in one go and have very little control over any of them, then end result of which is dog poo all over the pavements. It was during one such ‘game’ of Dodge the Dog Poo on the way to the park that Harley took a fall, face first, not into dog poo but onto a metal grating in the pavement. I knew he was hurt from his scream but didn’t realise how badly until I picked him up and saw a three inch long and ½ inch wide cut above his eye that was almost down to the bone and I immediately knew that he needed stitches. The metal grating was in a diamond pattern and he had the perfect imprint of two such diamonds in his face. With blood pouring down his face and Will sprinting off down the road after a passing ambulance (which refuses to take us to hospital), a passing lady takes pity on us and offers to drive us to the hospital. With Harley whimpering in my arms, it seemed like a long drive through the traffic but miraculously, we’re not more than 5 minutes away and, with a bit of queue barging, he’s soon laid out on the bed. We’re thanking our lucky stars we’re here and not up a mountain or in a very remote part of the country.

Put out of your head any ideas of NHS hospitals and imagine this instead: in the operating theatre are 3 people sitting on a bed to one side, waiting to be seen. Harley’s laid out and when the doctor arrives, he tells us that only one of us can stay. That’s fine, I don’t want to watch this anyway but the other people in the room seem to have no choice. Outside the door, I can hear Harley screaming and shrieking and Will tells me afterwards that to clean the wound, the doctors plunge a fat needle full of antiseptic into the cut which is obviously hugely painful. Then, before the anaesthetic has had a chance to kick in, they put in four stitches. I can hear from outside the scream every time the needle goes in one side and comes out the other and I can peep through the crack in the door to see Will pinning Harley to the table. I just feel sick. By the time it’s all over, poor little Harley is lying on the table sobbing and I can hardly bear it. At that moment, an elderly man walks in with a very bad bump to the back of his (bald) head and takes a seat on the table to the side of the room. I ask Harley “Does your head hurt?” to which he replies “Not as much as that man’s”. Bless.

We have to move apartments and it’s not going too well. Firstly, there’s no one here to let us in and the lady on reception from the attached hotel is one of the most unhelpful people ever. She refuses to let me use to computer or the phone to try to contact the office meaning I have to go out into the street and find an internet café and then a phone box where I’m then abused by the staff in the office who tell me that emails are no way to conduct business, even though that’s the only contact we’ve had up until now. Then we’re finally shown to a tiny apartment with windows that have been covered over so we can’t see out of them. It’s positively claustrophobic. And to top it all, they insisted on taking a £50 deposit which to date has still not been returned.

Uruguay

In true Brit-style, we’re taking a day trip, not to France but across the water to Uruguay, our 11th country in 10 months. And in true day-tripping style, the ferry is delayed by 2 hours due to thick fog.

Colonia del Sacramanto lies in fact not across the sea, but across the river, Rio de la Plata. It’s a UNESCO World Heritage site billed as ‘the only remnant of colonial architecture in this part of the continent, a well-preserved historical gem’, so we have high expectations.

A wander around the deserted streets once again leaves us wondering why these places seem to close up at the weekend, the busiest time of the week. We’re at a bit of a loss what to do and end up in the museums, each tiny one located in one of the 16th century houses and specialising in something specific. Harley’s enjoying the one with all the extinct animal bones and Ruby’s surprisingly enjoying the one with display of various rocks. I’m not enjoying any of it very much and wonder what we’re doing here.

We don’t have very much time due to the 2 hour delay, but we squeeze in a very cute hat purchase for Harley, a quick drink of (corked) bubbly and a mass roly-poly down the hill.

There’s no denying it’s pretty and the buildings are cute, but I’m not sure it’s been worth the time and effort it took us to get here.

Onto Buenos Aires.

It’s a 14 hour bus journey from here to Buenos Aires so we opt for the Cata bus with fully reclining seats and airline style food. It’s first class bus travel and the kids are delighted to discover they can even pull curtains around themselves, put their seat flat into a bed and cocoon themselves with a blanket and pillow. Peace at last. Now I can sit back and watch the film, even if I’m not going to eat this congealed lump of something that’s just been put in front of me.

Amazingly, the kids get a solid 10 hours sleep and even Will and I manage to sleep fairly well after a couple of glasses of bubbles that accompany dinner. The hostess with the mostest (this girl could literally balance about 20 polystyrene cups of coffee on a tray as she walked downstairs in the bus, travelling at about 70mph over bumpy roads) served our breakfast and before we knew it, we’re pulling into the bus station.

No such fiasco with taxis here, but just extremely long queues met by extremely tiny taxis which sees people piling into the cabs and then piling their luggage onto their laps once they realise the boot’s too small to fit anything into. That’s us included, who have to pile our bags onto the front seat, squeeze all four of us in the back and then fill any remaining space between us with our hand luggage.

After a 15 hour journey, we arrive at our pre-booked apartment at 8am to discover that it’s still a building site. The advert on wotif describes this place as being newly built and completed in May 08, but it seems it’s not completed even though it’s now June. The builders are bemused to see us and we’re not impressed to see them. A few phone calls later and the cavalry arrives promising to sort this out. Will and I play a bit of good cop, bad cop until we’re eventually moved to a new 1-bed apartment that is small but nice.

Everyone has told us that they associate Argentina with horses so it seems only appropriate that we go to the horse racing. The horse races I’ve been to in the UK involve leaving the kids behind, dressing up, meeting friends, paying a small fortune to get in, drinking champagne and putting bets on with the bookies at the front. It’s all slightly surreal then as we have the kids with us, walk in for free in our jeans and converse, there are only totes and…gasp, they don’t serve alcohol! But we have a great time watching the fine fillies parading around (unlike the UK, the only fine fillies here are the horses) before thundering down the tracks towards us and we even put a few bets on, although lady luck’s not being very kind today.

The other thing that everyone associates with Argentina is tango and there’s tango shows aplenty here. But a) they don’t start ’til late at night, b) we don’t have a babysitter and c) I’d rather see people tangoing as part of real life rather than part of a show. So I’m pleased to discover that there’s a bandstand in the park where the locals go to practise their tangos every Sunday night. And here’s real life Buenos Aires, right before your very eyes. Men and woman arrive, mostly singularly but some in couples, and stand around the edge of the dance floor. The music is in sets of three songs and then there’s a very obvious break between each set. The norm is to stay with the same partner for all three songs and then break and take another partner. If you’re a very bad dancer, you may well be abandoned mid-set. The shame of it.

San Telmo is host to a huge market on Sunday mornings and there’s plenty of street performers here too, including a couple of impressive tango dancers. Done correctly, this is a very sexy dance.

And there’s one more thing (or rather one more person) that will forever be associated with Argentina, and that’s Eva Peron (the real Evita, not the Madonna fake). As part of our sightseeing tour, we visit the Presidential Palace from where Madonna warbled Don’t Cry For Me Argentina across the balcony and then to the museum underneath where we learn a bit about the real First Lady. Both revered and reviled from different quarters, Eva became known for speaking out for the working classes and for women’s rights campaigns. She died of cancer in her early 30’s, thus ensuring her a future of adoration reserved for those who die young and beautiful. Her body is now encased in the Duarte family tomb at the Cementerio de la Recoleta where generations of Argentina’s elite rest in ornate splendour and thousands come here every year to leave flowers and notes for her. The cemetery also houses some rather fine statues to former presidents and there’s even a life size statue of a former boxer here, which doesn’t sit too well next to the angels and cherubs all around him.

Every Thursday there’s a march in the square in front of the Presidential Palace by the so-called Mothers of the 21 May, a group of 70-plus year old woman whose sons disappeared during the Dirty War and have never been seen since. In short, during the late 1960’s a group of middle-class youths formed a Peronist guerrilla group (the Montoneros) and bombed foreign businesses, kidnapped executives for ransom and robbed banks to finance their struggle. In 1976, a coup by General Videla took control of the Argentine government and this began a period of terror and brutality primarily aimed at the Montoneros. It’s estimated that up to 30,000 people died in this so-called Dirty War. To disappear meant to be detained, tortured and probably killed. Ironically, the Dirty Was ended only when the Argentine military attempted to repossess the Islas Malvinas (Falkland Islands), of which no mention must be made in these parts by us Brits. The Mothers march in an attempt to stop their sons being forgotten, but sad though it is that they’ve lost their sons without ever knowing what happened to them, I can’t see what good it will do.

MENDOZA

In 1861, an earthquake levelled the city of Mendoza, which was a bit of a bummer. In anticipation of the next one, the city was rebuilt with low-level buildings, wide avenues (for the rubble to fall into) and lots of spacious plazas (to use as evacuation points).

It’s smack in the middle of Argentina’s vineyards (70% of the country’s wine is produced here) and backed by mountains, including the western hemisphere’s highest summit, 6960m high Aconcagua. Set against beautiful clear blue skies (even though it’s icy cold) and snowy peaked mountains, the vineyards look beautiful, even though the leaves are brown and there’s no fruit at this time of year.

Will’s booked a driver to take us to a couple of the wineries for a tour and Ruby manages to surpass herself by throwing up all over the lawn of the first one, Cartena Zapata, meaning I get to sit this one out whilst Will swills and slurps at 10am (well done Ruby, just as planned!). Over at Tapiz, they had a novel approach to the tour, taking us first on a tour off the vineyard by horse and cart before taking us on a warmer indoor tour and then finally a tasting. And to round off the day, Carlos Pulenta-Vistalba for a lovely lunch and a bottle of bubbles. Not sure it would have been such a lovely lunch for the man sitting across from us entertaining his young totty had he overheard Will describe them as father and daughter.

The hotel offers a babysitting service at £2.50 p.h.so we leave our babies and head out for a long overdue evening of fun and debauchery. We have fun at a busy bar with a band knocking out some classics but Will doesn’t get very far in his attempt to get debauched as the two women with tiny bottoms and long legs, dressed in black rubber and high heels turn out to be men. It’s ok Will, your secret’s safe with me (Ha! Wait ’til the guys back home hear that he’s being eyeing up transvestites. I trust you’ll spread the word, Ed!).

We have a few hours to kill before our overnight bus journey to BA so take it in turns to go for a massage. Will’s up first and when he returns to tag me, warns me that the guy is a bit snuffly. I arrive to find a 65 year old man watching kids cartoons on tv and he orders me into the cubicle to remove my clothing. I explain that I only want a back massage but he’s insistent (as insistent as you can be with one eye on the tv) so I dutifully remove my clothes and wrap up in a towel. I think this has to be the worst massage of my life in terms of relaxation. The fluorescent tube lighting is shining brightly above my head, the tv is blasting out kids cartoons in Spanish and the guy not only has the snuffles (making it sound like he’s enjoying this massage just a little too much), but he also shuffles around the room in a pair of slippers. Snuffling and shuffling, not a good combo. Considering I asked for a back massage, my thighs and buttocks got a remarkable amount of attention. And then when he’d finished, he sat back down to his tv program. I guess I should be glad that’s all he did.

Back to Rio, onto Chile, across to Argentina

Elias is back to pick us up in his gas powered car and once again, he pulls in just minutes after we’re all on board and puts about £2 worth of gas in the car. Rather nasty Friday night traffic delays us and, with another stop for gas halfway there, we finally get back to Rio just in the nick of time for our flight to Santiago. Another slight hitch as we’d forgotten my very expensive Redken Smooth Down shampoo and conditioner (helping to prevent some of the frizz-bomb effect this climate is having on my hair) was packed in the carry on backpack (in 250ml bottles) and I’m not prepared to surrender it to the Nothing Over 100ml In Your Hand Luggage Nazis, meaning Will had to make a mad dash back to check it in and was then detained when he dashed back through the side gate of passport control (having already received all the necessary exit stamps on the first dash through). Ah, the price of vanity (she says, with 2 inch dark roots).

It takes us 12 hours door-to-door to get back to Santiago and we’re here for less than 24 hours before we leave again for Argentina. We’ve got chores to do (booking hotels and buses, doing washing and shopping for ski clothes) and then we’re off again, this time on a 7 hour bus ride across the border to Mendoza.

A fantastically picturesque drive across the Andes gets us to the border where we have to get off the bus, get our passports stamped then get all our luggage off to be screened. Whilst they’re doing that, we have to line up behind wooden benches and open our hand luggage to show that we’re not trying to smuggle in any strictly banned fruit or vegetables that could introduce some nasty bugs to the country and wipe out their vines. All very Communist-feeling. Will’s sitting with Harley inside the bus, in the warm (it’s freezing outside and we’re surrounded by snow) and somehow manages to blag his way into staying on there with his sleeping child, whilst I’m left clambering on and off with Ruby and lugging all our bags out of the bus then back on again. Typical.

As we pull into the bus station and clamber off the bus, people offering us taxis and places to stay surround us. To one particularly insistent guy, I explain that we already have a hotel booked and don’t need his services, thanks. Which hotel? The Reina Victoria. Oh, he says, Mr. Reina Victoria is inside the café there, waiting for you. I’ll get him. Over comes Mr. RV and tells us he’ll take us in his car to the hotel. Something doesn’t seem right but I’m not sure what it is so I ask to see his business card. Suddenly he can’t speak English and says he’ll call the hotel. Whilst Will’s delighted to have been met at the station by this kind guy, I’m watching him having an over-exaggerated ‘phone-call’ a few feet away. And then I realise what it is that’s wrong. The hotel didn’t know that we were arriving by bus so there’s no way they could be sitting here waiting for us. The guy returns from the phone and I tell him there’s no way he’s from the hotel and he tells me that we’d better take a taxi from outside. Will’s still wondering what’s going on as we head towards to a cashpoint and, as he’s inside the cubicle getting cash out, I notice two women sidling up behind me and standing just a little too close for comfort. I turn around to see one of them eyeing up my backpack and then both take a slow amble off as I back into the wall. Welcome to Argentina!

Paraty

Our flight back to Rio is delayed and doesn’t land until 10pm, which means that we don’t arrive in Paraty until 2am. This wouldn’t be so bad except that we can’t drive up to our hotel as it’s located in the historical centre, full of cobbled streets and closed to cars. So at 2am, the manager of the hotel is roused from his bed and meets us in the street with a wheelbarrow to collect our bags, which won’t wheel over the cobblestones.

Our home for the next few days is the delightful ArteColonial Pousada www.paratyparavoce.com, a 17th Century building oozing with charm and there’s even a lovely German lady (three words not normally used together in the same sentence!) running the show who insists we make ourselves at home and use her kitchen. Will likes her even more when we ask her for a recommendation for a place for dinner and she suggests the local cachaca bar. Now as far as I knew, there was one type of cachaca (spirit made from cane sugar and the main ingredient in Caipirinha’s, Brazil’s national drink) and that’s the foul type, which is why I prefer to drink Caiporoska’s (the same drink but made with vodka). But we’re chastised, no, damn well refused a Caiporoska in this place and they insist we try their cachaca, certain that they’ll find one we like. Little did we know that there’s as many different types of cachaca as there are whisky: oaked, blue, flavoured and young. I’m still not entirely convinced but at least I find one or two that are palatable.

The picturesque old churches and brightly hued stone buildings that line these cobbled streets form the perfect setting for a film crew who have created a set nearby and are making a film called Dream Maker about Napolean. It’s all a bit surreal as we wander past the extras, clad in ripped clothes and with “blood” pouring down their faces. I try my best to make a sneaky appearance, but there doesn’t seem to be a call for one of Napolean’s wenches in this particular scene.

We’re right on the coast here and there’s dozens of boats that leave every day from the marina for a cruise around the many islands here. Ours is a particularly lovely wooden affair and we’re both surprised and delighted when we notice that the staff are those that were enticing us with Caipirinha’s just last night and so naturally they offer us another the minute we board. It’s only 10am and I have some self-restraint, which is more than can be said for some people (cough, cough). A lovely day in which we see fish literally jumping out of the water, stop at a real Robinson Crusoe island with crystal white sand and lots of shells, snorkel amongst hundreds of fish and relax with a lovely lunch.

There's another beautiful beach nearby that we're keen to explore so hop onto the local bus, a decision we started to regret as the driver took the twists and turns in the road at 100kph. We're all hanging on for dear life and even the loacals are emitting little screams as we hurtle around corners with shears drops on one side. Thankfully, the ride back was a little more sedate.

Back at the pousada, the kids are enjoying having a garden to play in and loving having the two resident dogs to play with even more; a little sausage dog and a big, bouncy Labrador puppy. True to form, it’s not long before we hear a cry from the garden and rush out to find Harley backed into a corner having been bitten on the arm by the sausage dog! Turns out Harley had fed him a banana skin and then tried to stroke him as he was eating it. Poor Harley, doesn’t have much luck with dogs.

Guarojube

Half an hour down the road, we stop and our coach load of people are all herded into a restaurant for lunch, which immediately reminds us why we hate package tours. I refuse to be one of the crowd (as has always been my problem, or at least one of them) and we head down to beach in search of something a little more authentic. 10 minutes later, we’re sitting in front of enough freshly grilled fish, salad and rice for four people (with a side dish of manioc flour, this being Brazil) for £11 and caiporoskas at £2 each to boot. As the tour group fight it out over who’s having the vegetable soup, we’ve got sand between our toes and a beautiful view of the sea with the mountains behind. It’s hard not to feel smug. The kids strip off and enjoy a post lunch dip and, just as I do the same, the storm clouds roll in and we’re left huddled under the umbrella, trying to avoid the rain. It’s still better than sitting in that restaurant.

It’s been a long day and we finally arrive back in Salvador to find some kind of carnival kicking off (there’s always some kind of carnival going on here. Any excuse for a party. Remind you of someone?!). Just as we’re all walking home, it seems everyone else is walking in the opposite direction TO the carnival. The kids are tucked up in bed, fast asleep by 9pm and there’s music coming from every direction outside. Ever feel like you’re missing out on something?

Praiha do Forte

Located 80km north of Salvador, this former fishing village is now a resort town with roads of sand. It’s been bought up by a German who decided it would be a good idea to turn the fisherman’s houses into shops full of resort wear. I wish we’d realised that before we set out early this morning.

We’re here for the Tamar Project (oddly sponsored by Petrobras, one of the largest South American oil companies. Guilty conscience??) which overseas the protection of turtles in this area. Five of the remaining seven sea turtle species are found here in Bahia and workers or volunteers at the Tamar patrol the beaches at night to keep it that way. Unfortunately, ever since mankind started to encroach on the habitat of the local wildlife by building hotels closer to the sea, the turtles have been mightily confused and, since they head for the nearest light, have more often than not hatched and headed for the lights of the local hotel, thus ending us in the swimming pool or worse, rather than heading out to sea. The workers at the Tamar try to locate the nests and, if necessary, move the eggs to a safe place at the Tamar hatchery where they will blossom into beautiful little turtles before being released back into the sea. The remaining local fishermen, who previously used to hunt the turtles for their meat and shells, are now paid the same amount, if not more, to protect the turtles and their hatchlings.

The kids are loving seeing the turtles in these shallow tanks, as well as stoking the rays and sea snakes and Harley’s not really paying attention to where he’s walking, so it’s not too much of a surprise to us when he takes a tumble and lands face first onto the concrete and ends up with a Tom and Jerry style tennis ball bump on his head. Boys, eh?

Morro de Sao Paulo

We’re taking a day trip to a nearby island, 1hr 50 mins away by hovercraft. At least, that was the plan. Particularly choppy sea meant that the journey took over 2 ½ hours, we’re all feeling a bit queasy by the time we eventually arrive and no one feels like going back in 3 hours time for a repeat performance. But we’re all cheered by the sight of 3 or 4 dolphins gracefully gliding in and out of the water nearby as the boat docks and decide to try to stay overnight. Our first task is to change the return tickets over for tomorrow’s boat and the second is to find a place to stay for the night. We manage to find a cheap pousada with a room for the night, even though it only has 3 single beds. Ruby’s not impressed, but since we are also having to pay for our place back in Salvador, she’s going to have to put up with Harley’s feet in her face for the night.

Morro de Sao Paulo is a gorgeous little island with no roads (and therefore no cars) and streets that are just made from sand. Transport here is either by horse or wheelbarrow, or there is one tractor that can drive along the beaches, if you’re really desperate.

From where the hovercraft docks, you walk down onto 1st beach, along to 2nd beach, keep walking along the water’s edge to 3rd beach until finally you come to 4th beach. Each beach is different, facing a different direction or with a different type of wave and three out of four are almost deserted. It reminds me of Koh Samui in 1990, before they built an airport there. Mostly unspoilt, laidback and very relaxing. All except for Ruby whose major worry is that we’re unexpectedly staying overnight and she doesn’t have Scruffy, her lifelong favourite teddy with her.

The island is surrounded by coral reef which means that the waves break a long way off the shore and leave a 3 foot deep natural swimming pool, which makes a nice change from the huge waves we encountered in Rio.

With no change of clothes or even any toiletries, we’re really feeling in backpacker mode, but it’s a welcome relief not to be laden down with baggage and even more of a relief not to have to pack up again in the morning. The kids obviously aren’t feeling quite so relaxed as us since they spend the entire morning arguing, pinching and poking each other. After several hours (in fact, several days of this), we’re at our wits end and just can’t decide what to do. We’ve tried everything over the course of the last few weeks to stop the bickering (admittedly, it’s mostly Harley hitting Ruby and being generally annoying) and, on a whim, I tell Ruby to hit Harley back, something we never normally endorse and which she never normally does. For a couple of minutes, all hell’s let loose as we stand by and watch the pair of them scrap like cat and dog. An elderly couple walking past look first at us and then at the kids and can’t believe their eyes. Only when Ruby draws blood by scratching Harley on the chest do we step in and declare her the winner. Ding ding. Ruby’s shocked and embarrassed in equal measures by the fact that she scratched him so badly and he’s screaming, mostly from shock. Will and I are looking at each other in that “did we really just let them do that” way and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Something must have worked, be it guilt on Ruby’s part or fear on Harley’s, because they spend the rest of the afternoon playing happily together in the sea whilst Will makes a deal on 10 caiporoskas and some acai berries (Amazonian wonder-berries, meant to be an aphrodisiac) before we have to take the 3pm boat back to the mainland. The dolphins are there again and give us a lovely send off, whilst I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the horizon for the next 2 hours to avoid a repeat of the queasiness I had on the way over. Not everyone seems to know the eyes-on-the-horizon trick and there’s a few green-faced people who get off the boat the other end.

Harley's birthday

What does Harley want to do for his birthday? Go to the playground, of course. Amelia on the front desk tells us that we can find one at the end of the street so we dutifully trot up there, past houses with Brazilian music pumping out through open, barred windows and up to the square….to be greeted with numerous comatose bodies lying prostate in the grass, next to puddles of their own vomit, sleeping off the effects of last nights frivolities. We step around them and straight into one of the many piles of shit, left not by the revellers (at least, I don’t think all of them are, although some do look remarkably human-like in their form) but by the many wild dogs that constantly roam the streets. And, to add to the delights, the slides and see-saws are made of rusting metal. Time for a re-think. The rest of his wish-list is to buy a new toy car (even though we’ve just given him a remote control Lightening McQueen), a chocolate cake and a toy from Mcdonalds, so a swift change of plan sees us heading for Barra where we know there is a shopping centre. The taxi driver tries the age-old trick of setting the meter on tariff 2 instead of 1, but we’re not up for being taken for a ride, literally. Mind you, since both Ruby and Harley have got shit on their shoes, of one form or another, he probably deserves double the fare.

Barra is as unremarkable as most other shopping centres around the world with one difference. In the middle of this one is an ice-skating rink. Should we? Rude not to really. I’m in a summer dress which is not really suitable ice-skating clothing, but no one else seems to care so I buy some socks and clip up my boots. Luckily, two of the staff have got hold of the kids and are dragging them around the ice so Will and I can concentrate on at least staying upright, if not on our style. It’s been years since I skated and it’s not at all like riding a bike so I’m a bit cautious on my first few laps of the rink, which is considerably more than can be said for Will who flies around like (a very large) Bambi on ice. He’s literally flying round, arms and legs flailing and I can hardly stand for laughing at him (note I say AT him and not WITH him). Thump, he hits the ice and then, shortly after, thump, so do I. With sore knees and elbows, I’m just righting myself when a cute young guy skates effortlessly in my direction to quietly inform me that my left breast has popped out of my dress. Oh well, lucky I’m not the shy type or I may be embarrassed. Our half an hour on the ice is almost at an end without any major injuries when Will decides to really push the boat out and takes the most spectacular backward fall, straight onto his head and almost knocks himself out. I have visions of spending the rest of the day in casualty but he assures me that he’s ok so we head back to our hotel where I try to keep him awake whilst simultaneously trying to stop Harley ramming his remote control car into all the furniture.

Salvador

Elias is back in his gas-powered car to take us to Rio for one night and we’re heading back to the Copocabana Beach hotel where we stayed previously. For some reason, Elias waits until we’re all loaded up before deciding to stop for a couple of pounds worth of gas which is pumped into the engine of the car via a metal tube which looks like a dipstick (an oil dipstick, not a stupid person). Back at the hotel, we’re put into a 4th floor suite, same as before but this one has a view, has been recently renovated and has the added bonus of not smelling of mothballs like the previous one did.

It’s costing £600 for the four of us to take a 2 hour flight to Salvador de Bahia, but the alternative is a 28 hour bus, which I’m not prepared to put myself through, let alone the kids. Salvador is known as the African soul of Brazil as here, the African slave descendants preserved their culture more than anywhere else. The African feel here comes from the mix of Brazilians, Portugese and the Africans, most of whom have intermarried at some stage. Our guide book informs us that if we’re going to be pickpocketed or mugged anywhere in Brazil, Salvador is likely to be the place! So we pack away the crown jewels, lock up the laptop, gird our loins and brave the fray.

We’re staying at Studio do Carmo www.studiodocarmo.com.br run by Italians Francesca and Max and they’ve given us a huge room on the ground floor with lovely wooden floors. It takes the kids a few days but they manage to find a couple of holes in the floor which they can peer through, down into the kitchen below and watch our breakfast being made in the mornings. It’s not cheap at £70 per night, but it’s in a great location and it has the added bonus of serving breakfast in your room. We treated to some weird local fruits and fruit juices, some of which we’re still not sure about.

Our location in Cidade Alta or the Upper City is very close to the Largo do Pelourinho, steep cobbled streets where slaves where auctioned and runaway slaves were publicly beaten on a pelourinho (whipping post). A sobering thought. Declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1985, the whole area has since been renovated and is full of beautiful colonial buildings, built by the Portugese and now painted in pastels colours. To get down to Cidade Baixa or the Lower City, we take the Elevador Lacerda (236 feet in a couple of stomach dropping seconds), built in 1872 and costing about 2p per trip. There’s not much to see down here so we jump in a taxi to the Mercardo Grande, which we figured was the correct way to ask for the huge local market that’s on everyday. Guess our Spanish still isn’t up to much since we’re first driven to a local hypermarket (well that’s one kind of large market, I guess)! Never mind, we’re onwards to the market….only to discover that today, Sunday, is the one day of the week that it’s closed. Round trip, back to the bottom of the Elevador, R$ 30 (£10), a great way to waste money!

It’s very poor here with lots of favellas (slums), beggars, a huge drug problem (crack is apparently the drug of choice here), kids sleeping on the streets in plastic bags and an average wage of R$ 400 pcm (£130) so we’re understandably very cautious when we withdraw R$ 500 from bank to tide us over a few days. Not a large amount of money for us but definitely makes us potential mugging targets. We split the money between us and put bits into different pockets, just in case. There’s tourist police everywhere which, on the one hand, makes you feel safe and, on the other makes you realise how much crime there must be here. There is always the option to be escorted back from the bank by the police and this will cost you R$20, the same amount which you need to pay to the cashier if you’re paying cash into the bank in order to ensure that it reaches the right bank account…it’s quite tiring being on high alert all the time, not only where personal safety is concerned, but also never taking our eyes off the children. Maybe this is why we all loved Laos so much. Average annual salary of USD 200, yet no violence, few beggars and a very relaxed atmosphere. It couldn’t be more different.

On Tuesdays (Blessed Tuesday) in Salvador, everybody goes to church (not quite everybody…we prefer to worship at the temple of food and wine. If it was the temple of bread and fishes, we may have something to be proud about) and that’s followed by a big music night. There’s live music on every street corner and right across road from our hotel, on the steps in front of church Terça da Benção is a live band. Couldn’t be in a better spot for us to watch from the door of the hotel, but it does mean that, as the streets are so packed with revellers, it’s difficult for us to leave and find a restaurant for dinner. Not to worry as there’s a pizza place just a few doors away and they agree to let us have a take-away, which is when Ruby declares that she feels like salad. Wow, there’s a first for everything!