Ah, New York...

How I have missed thee. Let me count the ways along your frenetic Manhattan streets, in your shaded Central Park, over your bridges and down into leafy Brooklyn, bathed in Bohemia, in your gluttony of eateries that pop up out of nowhere in the most obvious yet least likely locations.

It is hard to reconcile with only spending a few days in New York; a city in which you could spend a lifetime and never completely fulfill your mind or your stomach. And we were a day down after our (un)fortunate stop in the Bahamas. Our suburb of choice for accommodation was Brooklyn, where we stayed in a converted warehouse at the Williamsburg end of town, between the breweries, coffee shops and food trucks that have trajectoried this suburb's popularity into a whole new level of space and time. We could have very easily spent our whole time in this proverbial neck of the NYC 'hood', but we had a whole city to consume, absorb and digest in only 4 days.

In some ways I don't think there is anything I can write here that can do this city justice. Most of us are familiar with its ways and vistas, its people and its wares, and images alone will conjure up the feelings and emotions that only this great city can give. You don't need me to labour on about how wonderful New York is, so I will settle for a brief description on the things we saw, the food we ate, and let your minds do the rest.

As with any city tour the best way to take in the sites is to pound the pavements, and in New York's case, look up. We alighted in downtown Manhattan and headed north. With the Flatiron building behind us, and the Empire State in front, we weaved our way between Broadway, 5th and 6th, stopping off for the occasional iced coffee and popping our heads into various stores along the way. By mid-afternoon we had stumbled through to Times Square and wandered east to the Rockefeller and MOMA, where entry is free on Friday afternoons and the queue snakes all the way back to 54th street. 

We tried to recreate a photo I have of me taken in this spot exactly eight years ago. I think it's pretty spot on. Shame I'm not the same age..!

After craning our necks and fighting with the crowds to view Picassos, Rousseaus, Warhols and Lichensteins it was time for a drink, so we caught the metro down to the East Village and spent the evening with the locals.

One of my favourite artworks at MOMA

On day two we joined the joggers (not literally, that would be stupid) and crossed Brooklyn Bridge before nosying around Greenwich Village, dreaming about which house we would live in, while also being on constant celebrity watch. We then walked north to the Chelsea Markets where we severely damaged our wallets and waistlines before hitting the High Line, a disused rail track transformed into a beautiful walkway that winds between the high rises and skyscrapers. We ended the day back in Greenwich for lobster rolls and wine (see below).

View from the High Line

Day three and we decide to spend the morning east side and check out our local hood. After a deliciously boozy brunch we sauntered down to the Brooklyn flea markets that overlook Manhattan on the water's edge. 

After a morning of eating and shopping, a bit of relaxation was in order so it was back over to Manhattan for an afternoon in Central Park watching the world go by (and bumping in to an old friend. Hi Tom Ryan...), while devouring a picnic and beers. By nightfall it was time for a cocktail and we scaled the heights of a rooftop bar with twilight views of the Manhattan skyline. We finished off the night with several gin and tonics in one of Williamsburg's neighborhood bars.

Our last day was (typically, it seems for us) hugely hungover and reliant on the ability of strong coffee and cream cheese bagels to get us through the morning. With delicate stomachs duly filled we took the metro down to the financial district and checked out the 9/11 memorial. We then hung with the suits on Wall Street before ducking into anthropologie - just to look, of course - and making our way out to Newark airport.

Of course no trip to New York would be complete without gorging oneself on its numerous and wondrous culinary options. From food trucks to diners to fine dining to markets we endeavored to put as much food in our stomachs as possible. On our first day we ate... 

1 waffle with syrup

1 banana

4 x coffees

1 iced coffee

Mac and 4 cheese x 2 from Smack - surely the best name for a restaurant, statistic.

1 chili dog

1 Reuben with pickles

1 portion Katz fries with pickles 

Homemade tofu salad

Spicy corn

Ais chows down on a Reuben from Katz's diner

Starting as we meant to continue, other culinary highlights included the Chelsea Markets where there are multiple eateries including a lobster bar where you can stand, order oysters by the dozen and lobster by the kilo while quaffing champagne in between buying your weekly groceries and shopping for beautiful clothes (which I duly did). We opted for some specialty banh mi - pulled pork for Ais with a taco on the side (for comparison's sake of course) and peppercorn catfish for me. Meaty, and with just the right amount of spice...

In the evening we ventured into Greenwich Village and stopped off at a small bar known for its seafood. We dined on the finest lobster rolls we have ever tasted (Golden Fields... Soo yesterday!) washed down with a fresh Viognier while the fairy lights of Greenwich twinkled outside. How very SATC.

For breakfasts we sought out eggs and French toast, Brooklyn-style, and indulged in the great New York tradition of the alcoholic brunch, where the first, and often only meal of the day on Sunday is a humongous plate of food accompanied by either bottomless bloody Mary's or prosecco. Can you imagine! How no one in Melbourne has cottoned on to this glorious revelation is way way beyond me. I mean, we love our brunch, we love our booze. Why the hell has no one thought to put the two together and turn us into alcoholics at breakfast?

For market fare we visited the weekly Brooklyn flea markets where there were just as many food stalls as bohemian fare. Sushi, ice creams, lobsters, sliders, fish, tacos and doughnuts were just some of the offerings displayed courtesy of brightly coloured trucks, stalls and BBQ stands. Fresh lemonade and artisan beers flowed from kegs, while hungry hipsters struggled to find the best way to hold their single origin lattes, bloody Mary's, banh mi and recently purchased 70s apparel all with two hands. Ais settled for a salted caramel and chocolate doughnut, while I plumped for a tataki tuna crisp taco with radish and black sesame, all consumed about 30 minutes after brunch.

On our final day we opted for a boozy picnic in Central Park with goods purchased from Whole Foods Market, the most ridiculously elaborate and gluttonous organic supermarket I have ever laid eyes on. You want sushi made in front of you to take away? Sure. How about a choice of over 100 salads topped up every hour in the salad bar to go on the side? Would you like a freshly bbq'd chicken to go with that? Or maybe you'd like to choose one of the 50 curries from around the world that our team of chefs are putting together? And don't forget to check out the cheese counter where I'm sure we stock every European cheese for you to choose from. And don't even get me started on the sweet treats. Hasten to say, a feast was had and we whiled away the afternoon stuffing our faces while listening to a nearby roller disco filled with the coolest people I HAVE EVER SEEN.

So, that pretty much sums up our New York adventure. When Frank Sinatra sang, 'I want to be a part of it', he really wasn't lying, and on more than one occasion Ais caught me saying I wouldn't mind 'being American' and living in New York. This, coming from someone who in the past has been rather disparaging of Americans. Not in a mean way, just in a 'you can always tell who American tourists are' kind of way, but in America, I found myself revelling in all things, well, American - the excess and the access, the big and the even bigger and the understanding that everything and anything is achievable.

Farewell New York. I miss you before I even know you...

A word on photos...

After 3 months of travelling I finally got to see our blog on a computer and was absolutely mortified to realise all our pictures are pixelated and grainy. Shame on me for not better understanding the Internet and its machinations. I have since read up on the matter and will wear a horse shirt as punishment for the remainder of our trip.

Shame on me...

An unexpected journey, or layover...

If you are ever going to miss a connecting flight en route to New York and have to wait 24 hours for your next plane, it might as well be somewhere nice like, the Bahamas for instance. Such a shame that we landed in Nassau five minutes before our next flight was due to depart, and with US customer service being what it is (even though the Bahamas isn't technically America), we were put up in a hotel for the night right on the beach with free transfers to and from the airport. This was the view from my (my! We didn't even have to share a room; the first time in the whole trip. Such opulence!) hotel room. There was also a pool with a swim-up bar and a casino (yee-hah!).

Um, waiter....

Now, if only we can find someone to pay for our drinks and food while we're here. Ah, two private plane pilots over for the night from Miami ought to do it. Nice!

San Pedro to Santiago, a brief ola to Chile

We have finally reached the final leg of our South American tour. So much these eyes have seen, yet so many wonders we have missed, so many places still to be discovered and so many cuisines that have sadly skipped our lips. The list for the next trip grows and grows. Our tour through Chile was no exception, a whirlwind visit that lasted only 6 days, took in only two destinations, yet covered nearly half the length of the longest country in the world.

We descended from the top of the Bolivian Andes, at the end of our journey through Salar de Uyuni (guest blog report due any day now!). We exited Bolivia through a small hut perched on a deserted lunar landscape at 4,500 metres. Other than a few straggling tourists passing through, it was just us, the Andes, two disgruntled immigration officers and a few circling vultures for company.

 

Immigration, Bolivia style

After boarding a rather forlorn-looking bus, we began our descent down the mountain to our destination San Pedro, and immediately noticed the sudden change and increase in economic wealth that is so often only observed at border crossings. Within 5 minutes of leaving Bolivia, the roads became paved, speed limits were introduced, passing trucks had all their parts intact and road signs listed distances and destinations. Our journey down to San Pedro consisted of one straight road that descended 2000 metres in 30 minutes; a drop so steep that our driver was limited to a speed of 40 km-an-hour so as not make us all sick from the increase in air pressure. With the Andes to our right and the Atacama desert to our left we entered the small desert town of San Pedro complete with security scanners (no coca leaves welcome here...), cash machines, pubs and a very alive and kicking tourist scene, which wouldn't look out of place in Australia. We had re-entered the first world in less than an hour, making the juxtaposition between the poverty of Bolivia and the richness of Chile seem even more distinct. Of course I understand the economics of differentiated wealth between nations, but when you observe such a gaping economical and cultural divide over such a short distance, its difficult to understand how money, wealth, food and education could not be better shared between countries and people.

Over-bearing tourism and overt wealth aside, San Pedro is a beautiful small town in the north of Chile at the southern end of the Atacama desert. Complete with adobe brick mud houses, a beautiful sunny Plaza de Armas and heaving nightlife, its easy to see why hoards of tourists, both Chilean and travellers alike (we have never seen so many never-go-homes in one concentrated area*) swarm to San Pedro to feel its desert-like temperatures.

'I just want four walls and an adobe house for my girl...'

San Pedro's attractions are varied and numerous, adding to its charm and popularity. It has its own salt flats, a lunar valley complete with Dali-esque rock formations, large dunes for sand-boarding, lakes of varying colours and the clearest night sky for miles around. Well, this was the desert after all. My interests were firmly rooted on the last of these options, having already experienced all of the former in some capacity or another, and being the space geek that I am. San Pedro is home to some of the largest telescopes in the world and will soon be the proud owner of the planet's largest radio telescope. This made me feel like a kid in a candy store and I eagerly signed up for the best space tour the town had to offer. Ais even signed up too, such was my enthusiasm to put a crick in my neck in the hope of seeing a few distant galaxies and star systems.

That evening we were trundled off to a small observatory just outside San Pedro to meet a Canadian astronomer who was the proud owner of eight telescopes and an enthusiasm for his subject matter that is usually reserved for brain surgeons and avian vets. After pointing out some commonly known nearby constellations with a bright green laser that seemed to stretch far beyond the star matter he was trying to show and on into the depths of space (I want one. I mean really, really want one), he moved on to demonstrate how to spot the difference between stars and planets. He also provided a rough history of humans' understanding of the night sky and how astronomy became so ingrained in civilizations the world over, from the Mayans to the Khmers to Aborigines (it is no coincidence that recurrent astronomical themes, ideas and stories appear in cultures that were completely isolated from each other). Finally we were shown where each of the zodiac constellations are positioned in the night sky. As we stood in the darkness, gazing up and open-mouthed, we witnessed more shooting stars than I have ever seen in any meteor shower - over 30 in two hours. We were watching our own personal light show. In addition, each telescope pointed to a different point and time in space, ranging from nearby and distant galaxies, to a star recently gone supernova, two nebulas, or star nurseries, and our personal highlight - a close-up view of Saturn with its glorious halo of rings reflecting brilliantly off the light of the sun. We finished the evening with a Q and A in our host's house, complete with the biggest personal skylight in the southern hemisphere. I, being completely awestruck, blurbled a totally dumb question that I can't even remember, but which I know made me feel particularly stupid about a subject I like to think I know a tiny bit about. Maybe I should stick to horoscopes...

On return to our hostel our delightful evening was somewhat marred by the arrival of four Chileans in our dorm who were on a short vacation from wherever they belonged (you can always pick out the people who aren't travelling; the size of their luggage is a dead giveaway - ie, they usually carry more than people who are on the road for six months, and they have no understanding of dorm etiquette). At 2 am our room-mates came crashing in, turned the lights on, proceeded to play drinking games and sing songs for the next hour. Neither of us was impressed, so unfortunately for them, after they'd gone on an excursion the next day, we relieved them of several personal items that would be really frustrating to lose. You know, nothing serious, just inconvenient: one flip-flop for example, disappeared into the ether, a hand towel became an excellent mop for the floor and a few pieces of clothing made their way under mattresses and underneath each bed. Basically, don't mess with a tired Lucy and Ais.

The next morning we hastily departed our hostel and headed to the bus station for a 24-hour journey that would take us to Chile's capital, Santiago. We have grown accustomed to rather luxurious buses in South America, it being the main mode of transport for most people, but this bus took the whole experience to another level. Leather seats that reclined to horizontal that could have fitted two of us in, constant movies, although sadly in Spanish plus dinner and breakfast. I now feel like I finally know what flying business class must be like, yet without leaving the ground and without the free booze...

In what seemed like only a few hours and not the laborious 24 we were dreading, we had arrived in Santiago, navigated the metro system, and found our way to our rather plush hostel in the suburb of Bella Vista, the Fitzroy of Santiago. 

Hipster graffiti in Santiago

Santiago has a distinctly European feel to it. Its architecture is rooted in Spanish colonialism, coffee shops line its leafy boulevards, while a rather large population of better-than-average-looking middle-aged men wander the streets in smart suits with Marlboroughs at their fingertips. There aren't any obvious tourist attractions (other than the aforementioned), so its beauty is found in wandering the streets, soaking up the atmosphere, drinking coffee, watching the beautiful people walk by, eating copious amounts of food and hanging with the students pretending we're younger than we are and reaping the benefits from cheap beer. 

Our first stop was the mercado de pescado, a large indoor fish market where stalls and restaurants jostle for space and your custom. Here, you really can try before you buy. The atmosphere was electric and we savoured chowing down on fried fresh fish and traditional clam chowder, washed down with a Chilean white while congratulating ourselves on dishes that would make Antony Bourdain proud. 

The next day we boarded the local funicular and pullied ourselves up for spectacular views over the immense, if somewhat smoggy skyline and a close-up view of one of the many over-sized Catholic monuments that seem to overlook all South American cities with 'loving grace'. South Americans certainly love their grandiose Christian paraphernalia.

We descended the mountain in time for happy hour micheladas and the last ceviche we were likely eat for some time (turns out the Spanish don't eat the stuff; I discovered this after making a tit of myself in a supermarket in Torrevieja the other day and doing the age-old trick of repeating myself louder and more slowly when they didn't understand me). Our last evening was a lovely end to what has surely been the most exciting, breath-taking, jaw-dropping, tiring and perhaps weight-gaining 3 months of my life. 

I can't lie. I'm incredibly sad to be leaving South America, not only because I know there is so much we haven't seen, but also because I've discovered in myself just how much I love the adventure of the unknown, experiencing cultures so different to my own small existence, and being surprised and amazed at what we've seen day to day. No matter how much I'm looking forward to the rest of our trip, our onward journey is familiar to me, and I know the extent of what it will be through the places and people I have encountered in years gone by. Of course I will love it, it just won't have the unique other-worldly feel of adventure that only comes with newly discovered places. Something that I have come to relish and pursue on this glorious continent.

Adios South America. We will be back.

But, hang on. What am I saying. We're about to get on to plane to NYC, quite possibly the world's greatest city. Hello shopping, hello food, hello dreams... Oh, how fickle I am!

*never-go-home - a traveller who makes it his or her career objective to never return to their place of origin; instead choosing to travel indefinitely selling hippy jewellery on the side of the road, singing in bars, or even worse, juggling on street corners for cash. Such beings can usually be identified by an aromatic clump of dreads that descend down their backs, tie-dye clothing and an animal, usually of the canine variety attached to a piece of string that lags along behind them.

Welcome to the jungle!

Finally, finally, finally we decided to throw caution (mainly of the financial variety) to the wind and head to the Amazon. Another long-held dream of mine would come to fruition. Hurrah!

Bolivia is by far the cheapest place to visit the jungle, so it made sense that we would embark on our Amazon adventure from here. There are two ways to reach it from La Paz: one is to spend 24 hours on a bus of dubious quality and with a not-so-safe safety record, making your way down the side of the Andes along mainly unpaved roads on a journey which has been described to us as literally breath-taking; the other option is to take a 30 minute flight from La Paz airport in a ridiculously small plane. We opted for the latter, deeming this to be the safer, and certainly speedier choice. 

La Paz airport is the highest in the world and it takes planes so long to take off and land due to the high altitude that they need a crazily long runway and special landing gear to get on and off the ground. Thankfully (or not) our plane wasn't large enough to warrant such equipment, and we took off to the regular roar of engines alongside the buffeting winds and turbulence that you only get at 4500 metres. Being so high up, and with our destination so low down we spent the entire trip descending instead of ascending, which is a strange feeling to say the least. Still, it was quick and in a little over 25 minutes we were skimming the jungle canopy in search of a mud landing strip.

Eagerly anticipating that waft of hot air that so often greets you when you step off a plane in a hot country (the kind that makes you know you're on holiday; or have arrived back in Melbourne in the height of summer), we had de-layered our clothes in preparation to feel the full effects of a humid and sultry Amazon. The doors to the plane opened and we stepped outside to be greeted by thick grey cloud, driving rain and a temperature of 9 degrees. 9 degrees!?! Had we accidentally taken a wrong turn and ended up in Newfoundland? Had we unknowingly bought tickets to Patagonia? Did we unconsciously decide to skip the rest of South America and head straight to the green pastures of England and Ireland on a summer's day? This was not the break from the cold temperatures of the Andes we had been promised. And I'd taken off my tights! Bbbrrrrrr. Hastily re-layering our clothes we grumpily boarded a small bus that picked us up directly from the plane along with our luggage and headed to the small town of Rurrenabaque, situated on a tributary of the Amazon river.

Not a summer loincloth in sight.

We made our way to our hostel which turned out to be strange abode with even stranger owners and inquired about the current Arctic weather conditions the town was experiencing. Looking around at the hostel which was adorned with a large, if rather dirty-looking pool, and with rooms that had no glass in the windows, we could only assume that 'cold' was not the norm. 'Is the weather often like this?' we asked. 'Not at all! Why, just yesterday it was 32 degrees. It's usually hot all year round. This weather is completely uncharacteristic of the area and happens maybe once a year! Would you like a blanket to go with your cold shower? I'm sure the weather will warm up in the next few days....'

Oh well, at least we were in the jungle, and I guess it's not called a rainforest for nothing. Best to dig out our sleeping bags again and get ready for our tour in the Maldidi nature reserve. The next morning we donned our rucksacks and headed down to the river for our two-night excursion to the jungle proper, where we were promised the chance of seeing anacondas, caimans, monkeys, tarantulas (yes, tarantulas), wild pigs, the possible roar of a jaguar and untold species of birds and insects. Cold or not, excited I certainly was, and we opted to sit at the front of a rudimentary long-tail boat in order to get the full (if not freezing) experience. It was going to take three hours to travel upriver to our destination in the nature reserve and along the way we saw communities dotted along the riverbank going about their daily activities. Sitting in a boat with the jungle on either side of me, with modern civilization as far away as it could possibly be, put a whole new spin on the term, going bush.

Our boat arrives at the Maldidi nature reserve.

We arrived at our accommodation and were surprised to find rather fancy digs (for our decreasing standards, anyway) complete with flushing toilets and toilet paper (always a benchmarker), mosquito nets and hammocks dotted around in between trees. We were assigned a guide named Sando and paired up with two friends from England (one of whom spent the whole time in bed) and a woman called Doris from Canada who turned out to be the grumpiest person we have come across the entire trip. I mean, why go on holiday if you have no intention of enjoying yourself. Do us all a favour and stay at home with your cats who are probably your only friends, and talk to the walls like Shirley Valentine. I'm sure you'll have a much better time than inflicting your permanent premenopausal self on the rest of us. Sorry. Anyway, back to the jungle...

Hammockas

With Sando as our guide, several activities had been planned for our trip, which included guaranteed wildlife spotting! Learning how to make sugarcane juice, discovering medicinal plants and spending a night in the depths of the jungle with nothing but a mosquito net and a thin roll mat between us and the elements.

Our first excursion was a jungle trek for Sando to show us the 'ways of jungle life' and to hopefully spot some wildlife. Now, I don't know why, but I wasn't convinced our guide was telling us the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. We seemed to find jaguar paw prints remarkably quickly (that strangely enough looked about the same size as a medium-sized dog's), puma droppings, caiman prints and all manner of other animal evidence that was handily located within 50 metres of our lodgings... Along the way Sando would dramatically stop and impersonate different monkey calls, or pick up random plants and tell us how they could cure all manner of things. I'm not sure why I was being so cynical - maybe Doris was rubbing off on me - but the whole first day just seemed to feel set up; like we'd entered a jungle theme park and at any moment a guy in a jaguar suit was going to come running out to attack us and our guide would spectacularly wrestle him to the ground...

Jungle flora without the fauna

Of course this didn't happen, and over the next few days I came to realise this was just his manner rather than a set-up experience where we would ooh and ahh over our jungle discoveries. We finished our first day squeezing sugarcane juice through a rudimentary mangle, and then drinking it with fresh lime, spotting a few monkies and going on a nighttime wander to try and find tarantulas (thankfully we didn't). In fact, our closest contact with nature was in our hut, which we were unfortunately sharing with the grumpy Doris, who stupidly left out a packet of crackers, which the resident country mouse found all too tempting. Soon after I'd put out the lights I heard a rustling sound coming from the table next to my bed and switched on the lamp to find a mouse who looked like he'd just been caught with his paws in the cookie jar. Obviously the poor thing was petrified at my looming presence and opted for the only safe-looking route of escape, my rucksack. Great. A mouse was now hiding out somewhere in my bag, and although I'm not scared of mice, I didn't particularly want to delve my hand in to hoik out the poor creature. Thankfully, a few minutes later it found an escape route out of my bag and under the hut, where I presumed it stayed for the rest of the night. Doris' crackers however were demoted to the bin outside to dissuade any other hungry nighttime visitors. Stupid woman...

Day two had us out of bed early and finally feeling the warmth we were hoping for. We headed to a different part of the jungle where we hoped to see more wildlife. Along the way Sando showed us how to make rudimentary water bottle holders out of palm fronds, and how to extract dye out of coca leaves. About an hour into the trek we came across (or rather firstly smelt) a group of wild pigs (I'm not sure of the collective noun for stinky swines). I can not exaggerate how badly aromatic these beasts were, foraging around on the forest floor cracking palm nuts in their teeth. We were told there were about 80 piggies surrounding us at one point, all calling to each other and racing through the undergrowth just a few metres from us. I definitely didn't want to come into close contact with one, and I don't know how the locals happily consume them with such an emanating smell. Stink crackling anyone? Needs must I suppose.

Ais goes native

After lunch we donned our mini backpacks, sleeping bags and roll mats, and set forth on our hike into the depths of the jungle. Due to our campsite's remoteness we hoped to see and hear lots of wildlife. The journey took just over three hours (Doris fell over. I laughed) and we were rewarded with a clearing in the jungle covered with one tarp, a firepit for our chef to cook on and a long table for sitting and eating at. There were also two rather smelly hammocks (I think the pigs had been hanging out in them the night before). We set up our 'beds' for the night, enjoyed some surprisingly delicious food given the circumstances our chef had to cook in (and that's after the poor soul had to carry all the food to the campsite), and finished the night with a jungle trek under the cover of darkness with nothing but a torch and our guide in front of us for safety... Every now and again we were asked to switch off our lights to help encourage the animals to come out. I don't think I've ever experienced so much 'blackness' in all my life. You could not see your fingertips in front of you, never mind the tarantula that might be hastily making its way up your inside trouser leg. Jumpy as I am, there were several instances where I yelped in the darkness at my own non-existent shadow which ensured that any prospective wildlife in our vicinity were now half way across the jungle canopy making their way to the safety of Brazil... Hasten to say we didn't see anything apart from one medium-sized spider (even I wasn't scared of it), and we retreated to our campsite and bed, with the hope of at least hearing some jungle blues.

Our accommodation for the night

I call this 'water bottle holder with hut in background'. It's an abstract piece.

The next morning we all compared oratory stories and deciphered that none of us had heard anything more substantial than perhaps a few large rodents and maybe a couple of lost pigs coming to check out any leftovers from dinner. At least none of us woke up to find a snake in our sleeping bags.

After breakfast we left behind our campsite and walked two hours to a clay lick where hundreds of pairs of macaws were feeding and nesting. Perched on a two-metre wide cliff we tentatively looked over the edge at the scene below. I guess they're not called macaws for nothing and the raucous they made was absolutely deafening. Swooping and chatting and waltzing in the air, they made a glorious spectacle that was definitely the highlight of my jungle tour. Macaws mate for life and each parrot mirrored its partner's moves through the air with such elegance and grace it looked like they were performing in the Amazon edition of 'So, You Think You Can Dance'. Sadly, I didn't get any photos as I was too consumed by watching the macaws while ensuring I didn't fall off the cliff at the same time. 

View from the clay lick

Finally content at our wildlife spotting, we descended down the cliff and made our way to the river where we were met by fast-flowing water and a few logs. It turned out that our final challenge of the tour was to make an indigenous-style raft and float down the river back to our lodge. At this point we were all completely knackered and could do little more other than look on bemused as our guides joined each log together with twine and got us to hold particular bits of wood. With a stick at each end for oars we sailed our way back to our digs and lunch. By now the sun was scorching down and we got to experience the full effects of a humid and sultry Amazon. Our boat trip back to Rurrenabaque was bathed in glorious sunshine and a boat all to ourselves. It was a fine way to finish our jungle adventure.

Build me a raft!

We spent our last two days in Rurrenabaque soaking up the much-appreciated sunshine and warmth, sitting round (definitely not going in) the pool at our hostel and wandering through the town. Rurrey, as it is referred to by locals is an absolute world away from La Paz and the rest of Bolivia. I'm not sure if it's the warmth, but the people seemed more relaxed and happier, and the pace of life and attitude reminded me of a Thai island. Open-air bars played Bob Marley, beer was sold by the litre, cocktails flowed, and the fish came straight from the river to your plate - certainly some of the best I've eaten, and definitely the nicest food I ate in Bolivia. 

Resident toucan in Rurrey

Rurrey town centre

The Rurrenabaque we left felt very different to the town we arrived in and we were just grateful we got to experience this wonderful paradise oasis at its finest. After what seemed like an all-too-quick long weekend getaway we boarded the plane back to La Paz, ascended back up the Andes and continued our Bolivian journey down to the Salar De Uyuni, or the salt flats, Bolivia's most famous attraction. 

Aunty...

I have a Meredith code for three tickets if anyone wants/needs it. 

That is all. 

Gone fishing...

Trip of the light fantastic is taking a short holiday, I mean vacation, from its, er, long vacation to spend time depleting all funds in NYC. Blog updates will resume shortly, and I've heard on the grapevine there may be a special guest blog post soon. Watch this space!

La Paz

We don't have too much to report from Bolivia's capital, as we only stayed there for a night either side of our trip to the Amazon (yeah baby!).

It is probably more notable to talk about what we missed in La Paz, due to unfortunate bus times and a miscalculation on my part of when our flight actually leaves Santiago (we have two days less than I originally thought. Whoops...). Firstly, we had to turn down the opportunity to cycle the Death Road, an experience that has been recommended to us our entire trip (even before we left), and one that Aisling was particularly excited about. Taking three to four hours from top to bottom, the Death Road (named because it used to be the most dangerous road in the world, until they built a newer, slightly safer version. Google image it...) starts high in the Andes at an elevation of over 4000 metres and ends on the jungle floor. That's a whole lotta downhill, and the scenery is meant to be breathtaking, along with the rush you must get from cycling down a road that's only three metres wide and with 400 metre sheer cliffs to one side. We are very sad to have missed out.'Fools' I hear you cry, apart from the odd person who is probably saying, 'most sensible...'

The other thing we missed (by about 20 minutes) is the famous wrestling Cholitas held every Sunday in a suburb of La Paz. Cholitas are traditional Bolivian women, complete with long plaits, bowler hats and local attire. Who wrestle. Each other. WWF style. As you can imagine it's meant to be quite the spectacle, and we were gutted to not see this 'sport' in action.   

But, back to what we did see. We have discovered we're not really fans of the big cities in South America. Apart from Cartagena they all kind of merge into one sprawling hectic mass that never quite lives up to the expectations described in LP. But, I have to say we really liked La Paz for the short time we were there. Yes, it was big and gritty, and smelly and busy, but it had a certain charm to it that we didn't feel in say, Bogota. There was nothing in particular to see, other than a small cathedral in the town square and the famous Witches'Market where lama fetuses are sold by the dozen, which apparently ward off evil spirits, and maybe this was why we liked it - not the lama fetuses, you understand, that would be weird, but the fact that you could just wander without feeling obligated to do and see anything. 

There was a parade happening when we were there, but we dont know why they were parading about...

On the downside the hostels were terrible, the food was, well, Bolivian, and hot water was not guaranteed, but this made it even more quintessentially Bolivian and added to the overall experience. It also didn't matter too much as the next day we were getting on a ridiculously small plane and flying down to the jungle where it would be hot, and sunny. Hurrah! 

This trip I have been mostly listening to...

Ghostpoet - awesome London hip hop/trip hop artist. Kinda like a modern-day Tricky and Massive Attack, but with heavier instrumentals. Penny, Helen and Nicola - I think it's definitely your sort of music, and I often think of you all when I listen to him.

Laura Marling - her third album is like lyrical poetry, and I often drift off into the land of day-dreaming when I listen to her. She makes Mumford and Sons sound like a jamboree in the local park. Perfect for long bus journeys.

Nick Cave - as always.

I Am Kloot - I am just getting into the back catalogue of these unsung Scottish music heroes. Lauryn, I think you'd love them, if you're not already familiar with their material. Their lyrics are utterly delightful.

Four Tet - his latest album Pink is perfect for falling asleep to.

Lindstrom - anything by this Scandy space dj floats my boat at the moment.

Cat Power - as corny as it is I love listening to Ruin when watching different landscapes unfold before me.

UNKLE, Where The Night Falls - I will never get bored of this album. Perfect holiday tunes.

Podcasts - yes, I realise I'm about 8 years behind everyone else, but it is only since coming away that I've discovered the joy of listening to them. My personal favourites being most things published by the BBC (British to the core, that's me...), especially pouring over the Desert Island Discs archive. Ah, the joy of Radio 4. I am officially old.

Katalyast Presents - awesome soul mixes. Thanks Penny!

James Blake - his new album is superb, but probably has a limited shelf life, if I'm honest.

Plus, of course, all my favourite usual suspects - the songs I usually bore you with when I'm drunk!

Bienviendo a Bolivia!

We have departed the loving arms of Peru and have entered the cold embrace of Bolivia; a country where the daytime sun can scorch your skin, even at 10 degrees and the nighttime temperatures can plummet to below minus 20; where women walk around with bowler hats perched precariously on their heads, wearing giant patterned skirts and often carrying what looks like over 200 kilos on their backs; where the jungle truly meets the mountains; and where finding vegetarian food sometimes seems like my only purpose in life. 

We crossed the border shortly after leaving poohole, sorry, Puno. Immigration entailed us walking from one side of the road to the other, passing under a welcome to Bolivia sign and having our passports stamped in a shed. There was no scanning of bags, fingerprints taken or curly questions. Our bus picked us up on the other side and we carried on our merry way to Copacabana, the first stop on our tour through Bolivia.

I'm guessing its a church, or a cathedral, or a nunnery...

Copacabana is a small town on the southern shores of Lake Titicaca. Unlike Puno, we instantly felt welcome. Bolivians greeted us with smiling faces, the streets were filled with restaurants and bars that all seemed to specialise in trucha, or trout - apparently the lake is filled with the stuff. Served in a multitude of ways,it is the most prized fish in Bolivia. Copacabana also serves as the gateway to Isla Del Sol, the largest island on Lake Titicaca and supposed birthplace of the Incas.

As we had arrived fairly late into town there was only time for a quick look around before chowing down on some trout cooked in garlic butter and several Pecenas, the local Bolivian brew. At first light we had to be up and down by the harbour in order to catch a boat to the island of the sun.

On arrival to the jetty we were met by 100 fellow tourists all vying for a seat on a tiny  boat, just a little larger than an inflatable dingy. Interesting. Somehow we all managed to clamber aboard, with several poor souls having to brave the icy temperatures on the 'top deck'. By 8.30 am we were off, cruising, or rather spluttering along the crystal clear waters of the lake while the inside of our boat slowly filled up with diesel fume. Who knew carbon monoxide poisoning would be an added freebie... ? We sailed to the north of the island, as we were staying in the south and wanted to hike from top to bottom in the same day.

Even though Isla Del Sol sits on the freezing waters of Lake Titicaca, and at an elevation of nearly 4000 metres, its days are long and hot due to its high altitude and constant clear blue skies. It's not called island of the sun for nothing! This juxtaposes the absolutely freezing nights where the temperature can drop 40 degrees. Thankfully we were only staying one of them, especially as the island doesn't have access to hot water...

As we began to walk, the topography of the island revealed beautiful landscapes that seemed to take us through several continents in just a few kilometres. Coastal lagoons that wouldn't look out of place on a postcard from the Greek Islands hugged the shoreline, while Incan ruins could easily be mistaken for Greek or Roman structures from bygone eras, adding a distinctly Mediterranean feel to the place. Moving inland, hills and rocky outcrops resembled Scottish highlands, while the flora felt distinctly Australian with varieties of eucalypts towering over the landscape. All of this with a backdrop of snowy Andean mountains that could be seen on the horizon. In addition, there are no cars, which gave Isla Del Sol an even more romantically rustic and historical feel. It was like stepping back in time to a place I'm not sure when or where.

Don't be fooled. The water's freezing!

Island transport 

Ais looks for the local pub

Moonrise over Isla Del Luna

Obligatory water, sun and sky pic...

The hike turned out to be harder than we anticipated, which I don't think Miss Ais was too chuffed about, especially after just completing the Inca trail and believing that most of the strenuous exercise was behind us... It certainly was no Dead Woman's Pass, but it was definitely up there with 'Peruvian flat' and well over 10 kms in length; something neither of was anticipating.

After much huffing and puffing we eventually reached our destination by late afternoon and checked into a rather chilly hostel in the island's only town, Yumani. As the sun went down, so did the temperature and at one point I was wearing every single item of clothing I had brought with me. There was only one thing we could do, buy a litre and a half of Chilean red wine, sold in one handy super-large bottle and for the bargain price of $7.50 and choose one of the numerous pizza restaurants this little town had to offer - Bolivians LOVE their pizza, and I've never seen so many eateries offering exactly the same menu in such a small radius. Still, pizza for dinner means pizza for lunch the next day, so I was doubly happy. 

We retired for the evening with full tummies and red wine coursing through our veins to keep us warm. By 10 am the next day we were back on the boat to Copacabana and heading to our next destination, the Bolivian capital and highest city in the world, the great La Paz.