Nice To Pichu, To Pichu....Nice.

Ever been to one of those places so famous, whose pictures youve seen so often that the reality is a tiny bit of a letdown? Well, Machu Picchu isn't one of them. Finally witnessing this archeologist's wet dream sitting prettily and precipitously among steaming Andean peaks can only be described (to borrow a nice expression from the Spanish) as 'the whore mother'. An experience that even the hordes of camera toting yanks cant spoil (although the Peruvian families have a good go).
After some deliberation (and the recent memory of the feeling that every nocturnal trip to the bathroom should be preceeded by Scott's last words) I elected to give The Stinka Trail a miss and got the bus. Seeing the state of those exiting the trail, it proved to be wise choice, allowing me to spend a full sweet-smelling twelve hours roaming the ruins before being reluctantly ejected at closing time. Despite the precipitous nature of it's situation, the Peruvian state fortunately feels no need to clutter up the view with protective barriers, leaving you free to wander up and down slippery, vertical cliff edges with only the meagerest of handrails to cling to. No nannying here. Interestingly the only recent fatality featured, wait for it.... a German!! struck by lightning after ignoring warnings and scaling the mountain in a thunderstorm. Nuff said.

Swamp Thing.

A dream fulfilled, I began to think (with dread) about the (long and poorly maintained) road home, so from Cusco (one of the prettier, more developed cities in South America while still managing to retain that all important, defining smell of wee) it was back across Bolivia and into Brazil for the joys of returning to the linguistic level of a two year old (" me understand no. English you speaking?") and a spot of wildlife bothering. The Pantanal is the worlds largest inland swamp, half the size of France but with much pleasanter residents. Armadillo (crunchy on the outside), alligators, capibara, the worlds biggest rodents and so obviously designed as prey that they might as well have 'eat me' tatooed on their oversized asses, as well as anacondas and diverse winged showoffs.

The Girl From Ipanema.

'Tall and tanned and young and lovely'

After 31 hours on the bus it definitely isn't me that Frank was refering to but even the palest of big-panted (thong=wrong!) gringas are touched by the glamour of caiparinhias on Copacbana in the world's most beautiful city under the gaze of the Big J.C himself. In Rio you can experience it all, nightlife, white sand, colonial architecture, rainforest, and gunpoint robbery whilst admiring it all. Ironically the least likely place to meet with trouble is (properly escorted) inside the favelas themselves. These days no trip to Rio is complete without proving you kept it real on holiday by getting deep in the rat warrens of Rio's slums and showing how street you are by not soiling your pants the sight of A.K toting pre-teens. It seems a little wierd that splashing through an open sewer for the chance of witnessing abject poverty should now be a box to tick alongside a visit to Sugar Loaf but there you have the state of modern tourism. If nothing else it allows you to go away thankful you are not the aforementioned young dealer and have a little more than an average life expectancy of 23 years in which to earn enough cash to impress your girlfriend.

Next and finally; tango and wine in Buenos Aires. Guess which I'll not be doing.

High Plains Drifter.

When your imagination packed it's bags and left for South America, Bolivia is where it sent you the postcards from. Rasin-faced old peasant women wrapped multi-layered skirts, sporting a natty bowler and bridging the fashion divide between a Russian doll and a transvestite Mr Ben as they trudge the (dust, anyone? dust) streets and fields, bent double under a hundred weight of cargo (or snot-nosed offspring) wrapped in acid-striped blankets. A country where Nature dropped a couple of microdots and came down to find She'd created the Altiplano where flamingoes feed in high-altitude frozen desert oasis, cactus sprout from former coral reefs in a blinding white lake of salt and canyon walls defy gravity in the wild west style badlands that served as a second home to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. A country witness to the rise and fall of fabulous pre-Hispanic, virgin sacrificing, mother Earth worshipping civilisations etc yawn.
And the home of the world's highest capital and biggest misnomer. La Paz is anything but peaceful. Stepping from my hostel I found myself verbally accosted by a woman half falling out of a minibus and babbling in tounges. After this had occured twelve times in as many seconds I realised I was witness not to the local window-lickers outing but the public transport system. Nose to tail micros clog the steep streets, manned by rent-a-crones sporting enough gold dentistry to put Flava Flav to shame and spitting destinations fast enough to make the wickidest gangsta rapper look like a tired old cruise ship crooner. The only thing that stops the traffic is the daily demonstration ("What do we want?", "Better roads/health/pensions/rights for llamas/delete as appropriate", "When do we want it?", "NOW").

Take My Breath Away.

In a country where it's possible to go from snow covered peaks to the steaming jungle of the Amazon Basin in a day (I'm telling you now) trekking at 5000 meters offers a unique opportunity to get in touch with your inner child. Not the one that wonders wide-eyed at the joys of nature but the one that shits itself, projectile vomits and wakes up wanting it's mummy five times a night. Altitude sickness does not, as I had romanticaly imagined, involve lying wanly sipping brandy on a bed of llama skins but rather an unwelcome flash forward to wheezing old age while a techno rave pulses in your head and your stomache helpfully decides you'll travel lighter without this morning's breakfast. When I got my head from between my knees however, the view was incredible.

Next: A long held dream made real. The Lost City Of Thousand Tourists calls.

I made up the bit about shitting myself by the way. Or did I...?