Have Itch, Will Travel

A rickety van dropped us at a block where locals and tourists were milling between rows of tables. Unlike local markets we had visited so far, selling scarves, bags, and bead jewellery, this market offered breakfast and tools for the local miners. Fuses, detonators, TNT, and nitrate were laid out, the sight of them strange, yet familiar from hours of watching television. Our palms itched for some explosives, and we asked our guide if we would have an opportunity to blow something up on the tour. He answered with a nervous laugh and incomprehensible mutter. Our persistence paid off and he begrudgingly allowed us to open our purses. In addition to the precious dynamite, we bought some coca leaves and alcohol as a gift for any miners we might meet, and were fitted with our outfits, headlamps and all. The mine tour had us first, clumsily descending a wooden ladder into a shaft splattered with ritual llama blood. Step after cautious step was made in too-big gum boots that flapped about

The culmination of days' of discomfort was cracking Julie's sanity like the hairpins and switchbacks on the bus' gears; they seemed to groan and sigh as we steadily climbed to Potosí , the highest city in the world. The extreme cold, broken promises of agua caliente , lack of sleep, sunburned shoulders, restless legs... these seemed trite compared to the prospect of overnight travel in a broken seat, surrounded by annoying people. The man behind Julie kept standing up and resting his elbow on her head rest, and sometimes her head. That was solved with a quick backwards head butt to his elbow... who said you need to know Spanish to communicate? There was again a child behind me, his minty chewing gum breath sickening my stomach, while his wet smacking noises and chewing sounds worsened it on a different level. Fortunately, by the time the bus left Uyuni, he had decided to sit down instead of hanging off the back of my seat. Julie was tortured with discomfort; tossing and

The wind had died and the dust settled, exposing a clear day. The flat desert opened to an oasis of colourful  lagoons  surrounded by yellow grasses and faded mountain ranges in the distance. Flocks of  flamingoes , usually associated with pineapples and the tropics, at once looked out of place and natural. Their figures broke the monotony of the frozen surface, quietly pacing, their heads bent low, and their subtle pink blush complementing the muted desert landscape. Accommodation was the most basic yet, with lumpy mattresses, sometimes-flushing toilets and definitely no agua caliente . There was little to do after dinner except freeze or choke on the smoke from the leaky Franklin stove, so we crawled into our sleeping bags and prepared for a cold cold night , having been told that the previous night reached an incredible -35C. Just before dawn the following morning, we visited a field full of sulphur-smelling pits and mist, the steaming geysers  surreal in the low light. By sunr

The sand was alive! Each particle was a cell in the greater organism, and the wind animated the relentless, undulating mass. Fingers of sand crept up the tyres of our Landcruiser, and the windscreen was vigorously peppered until the sand slid in fractured sheets. The convoy had stalled, the faded path towards a seemingly arbitrary destination swept away by salted dust and sand. Ahead was a blur of pulsating beige. Behind, more blur. More beige. There was no horizon, no volcanoes, no lagoons. The only thing apparent was that our reluctant 6am rise from warm bedclothes to see the salar 's landscape was for naught. Instead, we passed two hours in the parked Landcruiser, playing the Julie-Invented games of "Guess Which Latin American Country I Am Reading About In The Lonely Planet", "Who Can Put Four Super Sour Lemon And Lime Flavoured Pringles In Their Mouth Without Making A Face" and I-Spy. Our guide Edgar offered us lollipops, but these were only good to silenc

Image courtesy  Alamy  to illustrate cholita fashion Uyuni  is a desert town barely more than a mile wide, but serves as an important transit point and gateway for tourism to the world's largest salt flat,  Salar De Uyuni .  Cholitas  huddled in the markets, their knitted woollen shawls worn close to the chin. Their long skirts were pleated over layers on layers of petticoats, distorting their silhouette to liken that of an Elizabethan noblewoman in a farthingale. Bowler hats seemed to balance precariously over the ladies' hair, which was pulled tight in neat buns. Varied wares were displayed on plastic sheeting in the markets, and European tourists in Columbia jackets and Salomon hiking boots rubbed colourful scarves between their fingers, asking if it was indeed made of llama wool. (The queries were warranted; close examination of certain articles would reveal a discrete label "100% Acrylic Made in PRC".) An icy, cutting wind blew dust up from the streets, an

The bus trip to the border town of La Quiaca from Salta was 8 hours of fitful sleep. I awoke to a landscape quite different to the barren nothingness of Patagonia to which I had become accustomed. Red rocks and soil, cliffs, mountains and cacti still presented a barren scene, but an undeniable excitement grew inside me. If this was indication of a Bolivian panorama, I was sure to be blown away.

People sat at café tables in the sun, the warm rays precious in Salta 's high altitude winter. The main plaza was enclosed by charming cobblestone streets and colonial buildings. A strawberry seller offered his wares, each unblemished berry a deep red that promised only sweetness. Julie and I extricated ourselves from a tiny cab; after four days and three nights of overland travel, we hardly belonged in such immaculate surroundings, and retreated to a budget hostel. Hostal  El Andaluz  was run-down, patched up here and there with an attitude of "That'll do" or "Ah, it still kind of works". The water was unreliable, there were no ensuite bathrooms, the dorms were dim and cold, and the common area walls were graffitied with messages by former patrons. But it was my favourite hostel in the trip so far. The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly. The girl at the desk sang and danced to the radio, and when our door was open, fellow travellers stopped by to cha

Feeling decidedly hair greasy, smelly, prone to DVTs, and altogether sick of being on a bus for days, Julie and I boarded the worst yet to Salta . Here is my journal entry for the final leg of our 61 hour trip from El Calafate: We are traveling with Chevallier via semi cama and so far, it is the most disappointing carrier. I will admit that we are but two hours into our twenty-odd hour journey, but there is a distinct lack of meal trays and worse still, blankets, on board that were gladly present on other buses. Our dinner was dealt as we each boarded; two anaemic sandwiches and four cookies. Julie is convinced that this is all the food they will provide for the entire journey and is planning to ration her portion to at least supply her with breakfast in the morning. Presently her hunger is as keen as her good intentions however, and at six o'clock, two hours into the journey, we both succumb and have our meagre supper. Hardly satisfied, Julie continues to grumble and pout

Our four English gappy roommates in Buenos Aires entertained us with card games, cheap beer, and a night of dancing in a club that seemed only to stock nineties pop tunes. Although a fun and memorable time, we knew there would be many temporary friendships in our travels. We learned however, that the Gringo Trail is a well-trodden path where we would meet potential travel buddies with similar itineraries, or people with amazing stories and recommendations, having already been where we were headed. It was initially a surprise to catch a glimpse of the Britons at the Rio Gallegos stop over. We had already bid our farewells in Buenos Aires, and wondered if they were headed to El Calafate as well. The next morning, the question was put to rest when they entered the dining hall for breakfast at our hostel. What fate! They had also booked a tour for the glacier that same morning, though with another agency. A little bar called Libro Bar  sat in the town centre and was named so because it

Little white things fluttered onto the tour bus windscreen as it trundled towards Los Glaciares National Park . Snow! At last! But a sense of foreboding took hold as Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" played on the bus radio; we would soon be on a boat to see a glacier surrounded by icebergs. The boat, it turned out, was a catamaran christened a name that could only increase anxieties of boat patrons in iceberg-filled waters:  Impacto . Large chunks of floating ship-sinkers obstructed the catamaran's path as it pulled away from the dock, and the deck crew dutifully took up long, purpose-built poles with which to nudge the little bergs. Once free, Impacto  set a course for the face of Perito Moreno , where the air was appreciably colder than in town. A fine water spray that would have been a comfort during a summer vacation froze into snowflakes shaped like ninja stars, and lashed cruelly at our faces. The pain was temporary, the memory permanent. The glacier w

The town of  El Calafate  lies at the edge of the Southern Patagonian Ice Field , acting as a gateway to the immense Perito Moreno Glacier . Our imaginations promised us a land of ice and snow; the name "Patagonia" always seemed to inspire a wondrous winter scene. There was a disappointing  lack of snow on the ground or falling from the sky in El Calafate, however, though it certainly felt cold enough for all forms of frozen water to be present. A stroll about town to reconnoiter its offerings revealed a small tourist centre of boutiques, cafés, and chocolate shops, while the surrounding streets were populated with fearless dogs that boldly challenged traffic. One of the street dogs dubbed "Mangey Six" decided that we needed an escort to the lake, and coaxed Julie onto its frozen surface where we saw others in the distance skittering across the ice. Crack . A boot pushed through the ice, and into the semi-frozen slurry beneath. Julie's self-diagnosed &qu

Winter in Argentina's south rendered passage to the southernmost city in the world, Ushuaia , impossible. The Perito Moreno Glacier near the Chilean border would be a worthy alternative, but required a halfway stop at the coastal town of Puerto Madryn . The bus trip with  AndesMar to Puerto Madryn clocked some 20 hours on icy roads, but the luxury  coche cama  boasted fully reclinable seats and substantial meals, making the long journey surprisingly comfortable. We disembarked at our destination, stepping off the cosy comforts and into the cold . The extreme cold. A wind  tore through our jackets and to our bones. A French-Canadian couple we met on the  coche cama  helped us find refuge in a hostel called  El Gualicho . We were grateful to find it clean and warm, with a communal kitchen and daily dinners for 20 pesos a head. Puerto Madryn is a whale-watching town, and we heard of recent sightings from the beach. Water was breaking in the distance, and we braved the skin of ou

Where Small Change Costs You Big Jetlag and the beginnings of a cold set the pace for the first few days in Buenos Aires. Long walks were in order, and soon, the surrounding blocks became well trod and familiar. Cute squares bordered by eateries were stages for tango dancers, and a predictable chill blew through the store fronts of   Avenida Florida , pulling scarves across the pink cheeks of faceless woollen coats. We landed on a local bus to the barrio  of Boca  in a moment of impulsive whimsey. Our befuddlement at their local public transport custom was cured by the gesticulation and simplified Spanish of the bus' patrons. We learned that buses carried coin-operated ticket machines, and nothing jingled in our pockets. Some lovely local women took pity on the silly tourists and offered change for our two peso notes. We took our seats, peering through the windows as we waited for the colourful buildings of Boca  to come into view. Boca was not immediately recognisable because