Ritchie's Road Rant - No. 2 (9-10 August 2012)

Travelling through South-America means riding on buses... lots of goddamn buses. Unless of course you choose to fly, but travelling like that cuts out all of the journey to leave you with only the destinations, which turns out to be less fulfilling. This statement however, could be challenged in the context of travelling within Bolivia, where the destination is definitely more desirable than the inhospitable journey. Every time I stepped on public transport in Bolivia, I wished so very deeply for a jet pack or some kind or a maintenance receipt for the breaks or just the driver’s blood-alcohol test results, but like everything else with me, it's my problem not the universes. The full visceral experience of travelling in Bolivia at one stage was made more acute by a painful Facebook status posted by a dear friend Karim, a rogue Frenchman tearing across Peru. He stated: “the buses in Peru are like first class, u know and they even have wifi”... Ohh the distain that surged through my veins in response to this comment, especially poignant when we were about to get on one of these goddamn buses for 20 hourson the edge of a cliff, probably filled with llamas, chickens and thieves, all vying for space and respect only for everything to die in a twisted fireball from the drivers two bottles of rum miscalculation. In retrospect this did not happen, but nevertheless we can not discredit the potency of the fear that I felt – which was why I was so happy to go to Peru...

Our first bus ride in Peru from Tacna to Arequipa was exactly what Karim had promised and Arequipa also delivered. I will not attempt to describe how stunning this place was neither will I attempt to explain how happy I was to see a supermarket and a McDonalds... The place ticked the two boxes so we decided to settle down for a bit, but in the meantime it was time to do the Machu Picchu job...

We arrived at the bus station around 9pm to catch the overnight bus to Cusco, the base camp for all Machu Picchu trails. I was ablaze with excitement because it was finally here – first class travel with Peru's best bus company: Cruz del Sur. I could sleep in their 160 degree-reclined seats, I could eat their vegetarian food, I cold connect to their internet and I could use their goddamn toilette in any way I saw fit. We checked our luggage in at the service desk and then were asked to proceed to 'the waiting lounge', which was... a comfortable waiting lounge. Once the bus was ready, everyone meandered outside and formed a queue in front of the steward, who was sitting behind a desk checking off people's names while a security guard took our photo and then wanded each passenger with a metal detector – a wonderful feeling of security, but this just seemed to level the playing field with battling the people on the bus but not the people on the outside. Before I entered, I took my time to admire the aesthetic of the bus: sleek black, with 'T.V', 'toilette' and 'wifi' stickers near the entrance, reflecting the soft-orange glow of the street light – like gold baby. I also noticed the deep trench grooves on the pristine Bridge Stone tyres and I remember thinking: ohh yeah, that’s the grip I've missed...

After the Bolivian job my nerve-endings were frayed, blown out, disconnected, warn-down or over used, like some poor bastard suffering from shell-shock, but on this trip those little buggers could turn off and relax because I had nothing but safety and comfort. When seated, on the second level, the steward's voice came over the intercom and he femininely announced that we will be under-way after a short safety video from the bus company. The video canvassed many aspects about the features of bus and the journey, the most impressive being the two non-drunk drivers and the GPS tracking of the bus by the company in their central command – so they could monitor if the 90km/h speed limit is exceeded or if the bus had been hijacked... Well, serotonin saturated my nervous system as if a dam broke in my brain – jolting my body with several low force tremors making my back molars chatter together like some kind of peaking junkie. The bus pulled away as I reclined my seat, all-the-way-full-to-160-degrees and I slowly peaked again. Oh mannn, I murmured!

The drive out of town was unrestricted, zero traffic, which was for the best because the driver was unable to swing the big sleek beast around the right-angle bends without ploughing over the side walk. It didn't take long until the lights of the city were drowned out in the abyss that is the Peruvian dessert. The awful movie had finished and the lights were dimmed, a peaceful setting fostering the notion of sleep. Total comfort, calm, quiet, serenity, Xanadu or what ever the fuck, I had it and I was in peace, slowly drifting off and then, without sedative...asleep.

BANG!!! WOH! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!... I woke suddenly with the sound of a loud bang - my head lanced up above the level of the reclined seats like a periscope and swivelled around to see the toilette door swinging freely, slamming against the wall – strangely no one else was disturbed or awake. Did I dream the noise when I saw the door? Did I hear the noise and dream the door? Did I hear something else and just see the door? Did I dream the door and saw the noise… What? I didn't know... I drew back the curtain to see what was happening outside, which was nothing except a never-ending darkness and my distorted-dim reflection on the frost covered window. Jesus Christ man! You're running on empty, the risk of developing some kind of brain abnormality or causing further damage, is very high! You must rest goddamn it! This bus is going nowhere other than Cusco, so relax and again enter that tranquil nirvana you reached earlier and drift away with the gentle rocking motion of the bus – and whatever you do don't think about valium because you don't need it. That's right, you're Sir Edmund Hillary, Dr. Livingston, Captain Cook, Yuri Gagarin goddamn fucking Indiana Jones... the true adventurer, nothing fazes you - except commitment...

Drift....ing...away... serenity...calm...BANG! The giant two level bus leaped off the road and landed with a tremendous thud – stowed overhead luggage fell, a thrashing sound of metal came from where the steward sat and the toilette door looked like it was possessed. Holy shit, we ran over something! People must have felt that, it moved me out of my goddamn seat and I hit my knee on the window. I again upped periscope and looked at everyone still asleep... or ignoring the obvious. I looked at Charly next to me, curled up in a ball covered in her blanket, motionless and quiet... I judged I shouldn’t wake her up because, well, she deals with a incoherent-reclusive-amped up maniac during the day, she doesn’t need to deal with a incoherent-hallucinating-amped up maniac during the night – even the strong need their sleep, I considered. How the hell can anybody sleep through such a disturbance? I wondered what would happen if I got out of my 160-degree-reclined seat and began howling 'I am the walrus...coo coo coochu' at the top of my lungs. Probably nothing, I suspected because it seemed that I was on a bus filled with sedated geriatrics unable to respond to the strongest type of stimulus. Strange... Had my central nervous system been conditioned to sense mayhem and chaos even when there wasn't any – rapid firing my synapses, triggering random seizures forming experiences that weren't real? Oh this is not good, I reflected as my sweaty hand shook the contents of the bottle of valium – realising that I didn't have much left. Is this a true crisis, I wagered? Unplanned hallucinations are always an unhealthy development in the grand scheme of things, so I briefly considered that I should swallow whatever I had left and deal with what was occurring in the morning because any unwarranted ranting about toilette doors being possessed in this catholic nation will probably have me bound and gagged by some outback quasi cop/priest without any chance of representation or consulate assistance. When it’s a matter of religion: frenzies erupt, rational people go sideways and normally good people will ignore standard humanitarian guidelines. No more thinking about that fucking door!

SCREECH BANG!!! The bus again launched off the ground and then impacted while I was looking out the window, slamming my forehead against my own reflection - this time Charly, who was still half asleep, murmured “what was that?' I didn't know, but I was relieved that someone else noticed and I wasn't losing my mind. “I don't know”, I said. Charly replied while rubbing my back, “Go back to sleep.” Duress of this kind is a rarity in the free world, I thought, only probably felt by those poor bastards in Guantanamo Bay - under random threat of waterboarding. Falling asleep for me under standard conditions is hard enough let alone with the threat of an imminent danger, so being awake took on a new meaning. Whatever we were hitting had no chance against the momentum of the bus, but none of this made sense – we were in the middle of what looked like a desert, travelling on a straight-flat road. The last few times it felt like the driver saw what was coming, making an effort at the last second to at least slow down, yet we were still hitting whatever it was at roughly 90km/h. A gruesome image formed in my mind of the possible carnage that we were leaving behind – I figured llamas were most probable victims because of their poor night vision, but in the dead of night the sound of the bus hurtling along an empty road would be enough to alert a stone... I stayed awake, in anticipation for the next impact – griping the valium bottle with extreme intention...

Roughly two hours later, I had entered a trans-like state, staring at my dim reflection on the frost covered window and I remember thinking: Jesus, look at yourself. Did your personality give you this face or did your face give you your personality? It’s hard to know – it probably occurred symbiotically, one not more dominant than the other, but right now it feels as if the wrinkles are forming faster than usual. You need to relax more man, this is what it’s all about. You are not slaving your time in some fucking job to a fickle overlord who has unbelievable expectations. No, you are having the time of your life, time to expand your near horizons, time to encounter and time to confront. My deep-stupor of contemplation was luckily broken when the bus drew to a slow stop - so slow, that you really didn't notice the bump at the end in the transition from motion to stasis. I pulled back the curtain to see an empty car parked parallel to our bus on the other side of the road, facing the same direction. I used my hands to melt some of the ice which helped my perspective a little - the darkness was impressive, absorbing all the light from our headlights, virtually nothing could be seen on the edges of the road. We stayed there for nearly 30 minutes before the bus edged forward slowly to then stop again, which was repeated several times over 10 minutes. Strange tactile driving on an empty highway, I thought - as if the driver was trying to manoeuvre the behemoth across a bridge made of string. What the hell was happening? Only questions and not enough goddamn answers on this cold-dark night in the dessert. Charly must have felt the heat from my ramped-up metabolism and rose from her coma. “What's wrong?” she said annoyed. I began to explain to her what had been happening, but I realised that I ran the risk of losing any respect I had by talking emotionally not factually. Better keep quite, I thought. “Nothing”, I replied.

I was still staring outside, fogging the window with hyperventilation, when a single man dressed like a cop walked out of the darkness on the other side of the road pointing at the driver who surged the bus forward, seemingly startled by the instant presence of the cop. The cop reacted to the movement and ran towards the bus with one hand on his hip and the other waving frantically. The bus stopped with a sudden jolt causing a small reverberation throughout the cabin, waking all the geriatrics from their comas, all sluggish with their senses. AHH HA mother fuckers! Now you are in this with me! The passenger door opened and then slammed shut at the same time as the buses engines moaned with exertion, hurling us forward 12 meters to come to a screeching halt – leaving the bus strewed diagonally across the two lanes of the highway. The dozy geriatrics were now fully awake with concern – their heads bobbing around above the headrests like owls trying to audio-locate their prey. Images of the safety video, shown at the beginning of our journey, flashed into my memory stirring great feelings of hatred and contempt - where is the goddamn SAS, James Bond, mum or dad parachuting to our global position system to make this fucking bus continue to Cusco? Something was said by the mysterious cop and the bus driver threw the bus into reverse and sent the heavy machine back 40m at full-speed to then slam on the breaks again. More bags fell from overhead and some of the geriatrics squealed with the excitement. The cop caught up to the bus and said something which made the driver open and shut the door again. Holly shit, I blurted, we're about to become a page in the Lonely Planet guide ' Guerilla warfare - Special Edition’. I heard some loud voices shouting downstairs and then someone banging on one of the windows when out the corner of my eye I saw another man, dressed normally, run by my window carrying what looked like ladders – which seemed to scare the shit out of the driver who then roared the bus forward at full speed! Jesús was screamed by some of the geriatrics as we ran over a large object, but something told me we were not stopping any time soon judging by our hasty acceleration through the 90km/h speed limit.

What had happened? I still didn't know, even after thoroughly applying every possible scenario to the given information. I could maybe have narrowed it down to a dozen or so situations but all normality was blown off when the guy with the ladders arrived. Answers were not offered by anyone, including the steward who was completely quiet during the commotion. What did he think of this, I wondered. Shortly after reaching what may have been a safe cruising speed of 140km/h he did receive a phone-call from the “Captain”. The steward only replied, “Si señor”, making no effort of questioning as to what the fuck were we doing! Were we testing the suspension system, the breaks, the door? Was there a catastrophic need for ladder at 2:30am so severe that we had to pull over and do a jig to get one? AHHHGGGHHH THE QUESTIONS I HAVE!

Charly, as she often dose after facing her own mortality, switched off a switch somewhere in her anterior insula and fell back asleep... Fascinating. She doesn’t need pointless answers like I do, nor closure. A horrible thing could happen to her during the day and she would fall asleep like a baby that night – able to rationally segregate the experience in the back of her mind. Me, I sweat the experience and taste its salts for days until my mind is happy that I have thought about every possible outcome to deny the reality.
The rest of the bus, after discussing what had happened, relaxed and I guessed tried to fall asleep as well. Not me however, I was fighting the urge to eat all the valium including the plastic with its embedded remnants, but considered that the effects would wash me into a sloth-like hangover, completely ruining the day of exploring. Staring down looking at my fingers, I noticed that one of them was bleeding from to much gnawing and with disgust I again looked out the window to find little solace in the cold-darkness, thinking too much – probability, eventuality and finality, considering the point of it all, only to be murdered in a Peruvian desert. I missed my family and my five friends but I still had my strong wings: Charly, who was now fast asleep after flicking the switch. Existentialism seems to be the token fall back position after any harrowing event, maybe it’s the brain’s way of rewiring a kink into already hard-wired components. But it’s laced with problems if you listen to it too closely and start thinking passively and before you know it you've been lead down the back alleys of hopelessness pondering if a person you haven't seen for ten years was truly offended when you mentioned that thing about the place and that Rabbi. Just when I was about to fully submerge into the existential moor, my eyes refocused to my reflection on the window to see another wrinkle slowly etching its way across my brow. Ah to hell with it... we made it: just the babble of an exhausted mind.   

Finding and leaving home in Arequipa (6-9 August 2012)

After a great (if a little toilet-heavy) weekend with Diego and his parents it was time to leave Chile behind, and apparently the most common way to cross the boarder was by taxi. Diego’s dad drove us to the spot where these taxis where waiting and he had soon found a guy who would drive us to Tacna in Peru. “Taxi” seemed to be a very loose term in this case, since his rusty car didn’t even have one of the cheap, little “TAXI” stickers that you can buy at every corner shop. But Diego’s dad assured us that this is OK, so we put or backpacks and the guitar into the boot of this car/taxi. Next, the driver wanted our passports. Another alarm bell went off in my head, but again Diego’s dad assured us that this is OK. So we handed our passports over to the driver and he disappeared into a small hut. Five minutes later he returned and we said our goodbyes to Diego’s dad. Once we were seated on the fluffy back seats, two guys climbed in beside us. So we were actually sharing this cab with other people? Oh well, another alarm bell to ignore and off we went. It turned out the two young guys were on their bi-monthly trip to Peru to get their braces tightened and after a 20-minute drive through the desert, we arrived at the Chilean side of the boarder where we received our passports back. Hurrah. Once our bags were scanned at the Peruvian side of the boarder, we continued our drive through the desert and 45 minutes later we arrived in the rather desolate looking town of Tacna. Ritchie’s bowels were holding up, so we decided to catch the next bus to Arequipa.

The buses in Bolivia had been, let’s say, basic. Therefore we didn’t expect much from the buses in Peru, and we were truly surprised when we found out that our bus would not only have a TV and meals but also WIFI! The 6-hours flew by but Rich was still a little weak from his stomach issues, and we were very happy when we finally arrived at our hostel in Arequipa.

The next morning we went for a walk through the centre and we right away loved Peru’s white city. 

At the big market you can enjoy a dirt-cheap papa rellena (filled potato) with hot sauce and a fresh fruit juice while watching the flies that occupy the cow tongues and chicken feet on the opposite market stall. Somehow I didn’t manage to drag Rich to this part of the market too many times… 

But we both loved the architecture of Arequipa. The plaza was the prettiest that we had seen so far, surrounded by big colonial buildings and a massive cathedral, with the Misti and Chanchani volcanoes in the background.

At the crater of another volcano close to Arequipa, some researchers found the body of an Inca girl in 1995. The girl was about 11-15 years old when she was killed as an offering to the Inca gods sometime between 1450 and 1480, and due to the ice, her body was in a very good condition. We were able to see “Juanita” at the Museo Santuarios Andinos and the museum gave us a first insight into the dark sides of the Inca culture…

Another historical sight of Arequipa is the Convento de Santa Catalina, a huge monastery which was built and extended throughout the 16th and 17th centuries.

Our hostel was great too and we felt like we had kind of “arrived” somewhere special. This was perfect since we were planning to stay in Arequipa for a few weeks. The British girls from our Amazon tour in Bolivia had told us about an orphanage in Arequipa where had volunteered. Before we had left for the Year of Winter, I had hoped that we would come across a nice project where we could help for a little while and this seemed to be the perfect opportunity. We went to the office of the organisation “Traveller not Tourist” and it turned out that they were in need of more volunteers for exactly the time that we were planning to be there. But before we could start, we were meant to meet Aiden, one of Ritchie’s best friends, in Cusco.

So after three relaxed days in Arequipa, we left our new found home and half of our luggage behind to catch the overnight bus to Cusco…


PS: Traveller not Tourist is currently short of volunteers! If you aren’t able to travel to Arequipa, please spread the word!

Different ways of digesting food and drinks in Arica (3-6 August 2012)

After a week in the Amazon it was time to return to more winterly temperatures, so we flew back to La Paz where we slept off our overdose of Valium (Rich) / Travelcalm (me).

 
The next day we said goodbye to Bolivia, a country that truely surprised us with its beautiful landscapes and people, and caught a bus to Arica (in Chile´s very north) to catch up with Diego and to meet his parents.

We had a great time with the Salgado Zolezzi's, eating tons of seafood and meat, the best olives I've ever tasted and drinking  lots of Pisco Sours. 

Hmmm, somehow all these things just apply to me, since Rich was spending vast periods of time on the toilet with his farewell present from Bolivia.... He still had fun though and this were his highlights of our time in Arica:

We had been in Bolivia for six weeks and in that six weeks I had carefully, fastidiously, methodically, compulsively avoided any food that might have made me sick, whereas Charly stuffed her cute little face with anything that moved... and there was a lot of stuff that moved! In some instances I went hungry. For me that was ok, a small price to pay. Because to me, there is nothing more painful, unnecessary, humiliating or abstract than vomiting. A bizarre reminder that we are not too far removed from everything else on the planet, which still lives in trees: even if we do have iPhones and YouTube.

At the end of six weeks, we had made it. Bolivia was by far the most likely place where we were going to get sick. A place of bare necessity, a place where they irrigate their fruit and vegetables with raw sewerage water. But I made it. A mild case of scurvy, but I made it.... Only to get knocked over by a goddamn virus from goddamn gringos in the goddamn jungle of Rurrenabaque. A virus.... my arch nemesis. I had considered viruses but the solution was less than practical: locking myself in a hyperbaric chamber - eating nothing but low-fibre foods and drinking only milk, to then urinate in the empty bottles for collection. Howard Hughes figured it out, but Charly vetoed the idea.

The problems began in the jungle: the morning of the wretched jungle walk. My symptoms had progressed from simple diarrhoea to tortuous stomach cramps - which I had never previously felt the likes of. The kind of cramps that feel like your crapping a disgruntled backwards-facing porcupine which keeps trying to dig its way back into you. Three days later, no change and we were on a bus bound for Chilé. The bus ride was to be expected: long, uneventful and playing a hyper-violent movie. Every four or five minutes, my intestines would try and evict the porcupine - doubling me over. Nobody gets out of Bolivia unscathed.

The border came slowy and was a sharp contrast to the barren-hostile frontier we had crossed to get in.  I wondered if there was a burnt out school bus nearby bellowing steam? We all had to dismount to drag our heavy bags inside to get them x-rayed. Inside the terminal was below freezing, so once the all-clear was given, I grabbed my bag and went back through the same door we had walked through, to get back on the warm bus. I was met by the bus driver, fumbling around with documents as he gruffly explained that we had to go back in and exit through the roped-off area, one meter to our right. We were confused, no one was allowed back on the bus. But why? Everyone had now x-rayed their bags and was now waiting outside in a lose pack in the frigid air: a meter from the warm bus. As I leant on the bus, while watching everyone jitter with cold and feeling my porcupine do the moonwalk, I considered how pointless my earlier effort was, of bashing people out of the way to get through the process quicker to get back on the warm bus. Efficiency is condemned here, I reflected.

The bus driver appeared from one of the back rooms and shuffled his stumpy frame back on the bus. He closed th door then start the engine, turned the lights on, drove the 1.5 meters across the border, turned the lights off along with the engine, exited and signalled that it was ok to come back on. I didn't want to point out the perplexing fact that the front door was in Chilé but the luggage bay was still in Bolivia. What did this mean for our luggage? I thought. To the Bolivian driver this was mearly a bizarre border ritual which he took part in twice daily - not really quite sure what the purpose was. To the Chilean border officers watching, this was the evidence that a border with Bolivia was neccissary.

The bus arrived in our destination: the Chilean coastal town of Arica. We were met by Charly's Chilean brother's parents. A very nice gesture of hospitality to meet us at the bus stop in the middle of the night, especially after such a long journey. It was particularlly comforting to be welcomed by Diego's father, who bears a striking resemblance to the Australian theatrical genius Rolf Harris. 

Driving through the city, I was overwhelmed with the familiar sites of civilization: McDonalds, Subway, paved roads, traffic lights etc... We went back to Diego's parent’s house and the porcupine was obviously knackered as well, allowing me to sleep. 

The next morning, Diego had arrived. I really do like this man. Brutally honest and not affraid to tell you that you are dumb, so I was particulary happy to find him staring at me from the bottom of the bed when I was waking up.

All five of us went to the local markets, where it was pleasant to see that the abattoirs were not woven in with the fruit markets as it was in Bolivia - much easier to enjoy a fruit cocktail without the sight of a half de-gloved, decapitated cow’s head gauntly staring at you. Without warning, the bastard inhabitant of my upper intestine woke up - bending me over and making me drool a little. It was day number five of this crap and now time to try and fix it. I semi-knew what I needed and wanted to go to a General Practitioner to get the shot but the only place open was the local emergency room. Initially, I said no to the idea of going to hospital because; even though I complain about heaps of stuff, I still would never normally go to hospital for stomach cramps. Never.... But three people were insisting and one was telling me how much of a princess I was (Charly). A majority of compassion was obtained (3:1), so we went. Because my Spanish was still pretty poor, I treated the doctor to an in-depth, theatrical demonstration - charged with wavy hand gestures and crass noises with my mouth and armpit to describe my condition. It was easier than I thought to describe the porcupine.

I was given my medicine and off we went. 

That night Charly, Diego, Rolf Harris, Diego's friend and I went out for some typical Chilean seafood. Chileans know their seafood and can give you a detailed taste-analysis of each type of fish with a thorough strategy for an accompanying wine... or hard liquor. The dinner went as planned; food was served, chopped, chewed and digested. It came time for us to leave and all of a sudden, as if a bomb was about to explode, Rolf Harris stood up rigidly and slapped the shit out of the table with his left hand - launching a spoon across the other side of the room. Blurting something about it's too late! We were stunned. We didn't know what this meant. How many glasses of wine did this Geezer have? No way to quantitatively know. 

We all stood up, exited and made our way to the car. While leaving, Rolf Harris was waving his out-stretched index finger around and pushing his jaw out forward like a menacing Robert De Niro, gesturing he had some kind of criticism to throw at somebody. The waiter was standing at the door to see us out and Just as I thought  Rolf Harris was going to unleash something - approaching the waiter within kissing distance,  index finger still outstretched, defiant and effect. Rolf Harris let out a bellowing exhale, giggled and gave the man a big hug.

Outside, the fresh air slapped the balance out of Rolf Harris’ knees. Diego was holding him upright, which was amazing because Diego himself was swaying in the wind as well and together they wobbled their way to the car. Rolf Harris insisted he was 'good to go' or good to drive. Everyone else immediately challenged his statement - particularly Diego who snatched the keys off Rolf, giggling his arse off, to then say, "No! I'll drive!" I knew I was the only one in our group who could still properly pronounce consonants, but I didn't want to drive: being on the other side of the road, different road rules and a car full of pirates. I was now holding Diego and Rolf Harris up. I momentarily let go of Diego, causing him to wobble. He ultimately came to his senses and flanged the keys at me and said with resolve, "we all die if I drive." Well, with that kind of prophecy, I had to drive.

Diego's friend sat in the front with me, which was good because Diego and Rolf Harris were in no mood for giving out directions. 30 minutes later we arrived at a beach illuminated by the bright moon where suddenly, Rolf Harris began to give off tremendous heat, as if his metabolism had shifted gears - tearing his shirt open, both hands scratching his chest and belly feverishly and growling at the ocean. It took all of our strength to stop the 1.6m monster from torpedoing himself into the Pacific. We convinced him that he was in fact 64 years old and it was 1am and freezing. He gnarled at the comments and slowly backed down with his body heat dissipating and breathing returning to normal.  We then left quickly and quietly.

We drove around the city for another 20 minutes and at one stage, while we were driving on an empty highway, without warning, Rolf Harris jolted in his seat seemingly overcome with the acute need to flee - opening the door and hanging his legs outside the car, making a galloping motion to match the speed of the car: 80km/hour. He then, howled at the moon and tried to eject himself out of the car, only being held back by the seatbelt.  I brought the large 4x4 to a skidding halt on the shoulder of the highway. Everyone thought he needed to purge his guts but all he wanted was his freedom: to run like a strange, stout werewolf under the fantastically bright Chilean full moon. We eventually made it to the top of a mountain over-looking the coastal city below. Rolf Harris finally succumbed to both the booze and his age, falling asleep in the back of the car - violently twitching every so often, in deep sleep, dreaming of chasing down some scantily-clad blonde American girls, to finally fulfil his insatiable lust for virgin blood. We enjoyed the view over the arid coast line and then went home.

The next morning, we woke early with the noise of commotion in the kitchen. We went downstairs to be greeted by Diego's mother and Rolf Harris, sipping some coffee. Holy shit, I thought! He made it through the night. I went over to him and grabbed his shoulder and said, "Buenos Dias, you animal!" He chose not to respond, looking a little worried. Diego's mother looked confused. I knew enough not push the issue.

Diego's parents had planned to take us around the city for a tour, while Diego slept off his hangover. The first stop was the mountain lookout where we had been the night before.  

Leaning out over the edge with the Pacific Ocean breeze on our faces - looking out over the ocean, Diego's mother was surprised when I mentioned we had already visited the lookout. Rolf Harris, who was heavily leaning on the ledge, still in the depth of a very nasty hangover, sharply lifted his head with this revelation looking stunned but passively staredout to sea. Had he completely forgotten? I wonderd. Would he be in trouble if Diego's mum found out what a mess her husband was last night? Most probably, I thought. Diego's mum looked at her husband - who was trying his hardest to not look stunned. She then swivelled her head in my direction and gave me a look, as if asking with her eyes, "what else do you know?" Luckily, a pelican flew by and Charly pointed out how gracious it flew. Rolf Harris picked up the tactic and made a move to the museum behind us. Every single tourist attraction we visited that day, we had visited the night before. Charly and I felt it was best not to mention it. For us, a pleasant reinforcement from the night before. For Rolf Harris, a bizarre, déjà vu after-taste, things just not adding up. Cold sweaty palms, fragmented flashbacks and probably wondering why his chest was so goddamn itchy.

Two day had passed, Diego had already left for Santiago and it was now time for us to leave Chilé to do the Peru job. Because Arica is so close to the border, Rolph Harris was kind enough to come home from his work as a Geography Professor to give us a lift to the frontier. We thanked him thoroughly, hugged and said goodbye. As we hugged, I could feel coarse-bristly hairs protruding through his this cotton shirt on the small of his back. I could tell it was still a full moon.

(Disclaimer: Any similarity to person or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.)
 

A few more photos: https://picasaweb.google.com/109362659982164453049/Arica?authuser=0&feat=directlink

Jungle vs. Rich (1 Aug 2012)

The day started unknowingly at 5am sharp, with three bright flashes followed by three loud bangs, then a section of trumpets and a drum thumping, followed by diarrhoea.

The drum was one of those big bastards they use in the military to arouse patriotic fervour. Witnessing this would have been welcomed around lunchtime or even dusk but not before the rooster wakes up.

Because we had to wake up early anyway, we set our alarms to go off at 7am. Having not been use to this for a while, we found a degree of novelty in selecting the sound or tone of the alarm that would gently bring us into the day. I chose a sci-fi number which resembled an x-wing/tie fighter battle and Charly chose church bells which sounded like church bells

The night was stifling hot as you would have expected being in the Amazon jungle. Charly bedded as usual hours before me which left my imagination in charge. I remember finally closing my eyes around 2.30ish, rationalising that I still had nearly 5 hours sleep. 2.30hrs later; flash flash flash; boom boom boom; pamp pamp honk! Bong bong bong, squirt....... began. Unbridled confusion set in! Charly's initial reaction was disorientation: thinking we were back in Australia and angry at me for playing music too loud or leaving a movie on. I initially though something had grossly gone wrong in choosing the alarm. Military band? Was that an option? By now, Charly had gained proper consciousness to recognise that it was not my fault, although I didn't really care, mainly because I had bigger fish to fry. Normal life in South America would be interrupted if there wasn't a fiesta at 5am but a fiesta in the middle of the jungle was only bewildering. Awake, my imagination once again took over and any attempt at sleep now was futile.

I could hear the explosions, drums and horns off into the distance and then return. It was obvious they had a well-established circuit: optimised to reach every person in town evenly. I thought, if I could learn their route I could anticipate their next pass and launch bins full of used toilet paper at them.

Although problems with this plan were discovered 1) the wind was not in my favor and I would most likely suffer friendly fire 2) I didn't know who I was dealing with. 7am came along with a biting humidity. We both peeled our corpses out of the bed and were not too impressed with the fact that our sleep was interrupted on the day we had planned a grueling hike in the Amazon jungle. I personally didn't want to go on this trip, mainly because we have jungle in Australia and we have seen it. Given that it's the Amazon we would most likely be unable to make the differentiation between the two in one day. But what the boss wants the subservient must supply.

The walk involved walking to a view point and learning about natural medicines used by the Indigenous folk along the way, in Spanish. (The little Spanish we did know was geared to find McDonalds in a metropolis not to take a lecture in botanical pharmacy.) Walking in a jungle, your time is divided between either watching where you are going or investigating what just tickled you - every now and then lifting your head to survey your surroundings. I’m just not into it, man!

As fate would have it, joining us on our day trip was a delightful young lad who was Canadian/Italian whose primary role in his life, or at least that day, was to remind me how unattractive and unpleasant I am. He began by saying how he wanted to spend a month "lost" in the jungle, just himself and his wits. Bullshit I thought! I pride myself on calling other people bluffs - but, now I'm in the business of giving people a chance, having metamorphosised into an beautiful accepting butterfly. I did however, notice an odd physical formation on this young stallion. In some circles it would be considered a grotesque feature and in others, a point of intrigue. As a muscly chap, he was wearing a singlet which, by design drew attention to his finely toned arms, but not me. Whenever he turned around I couldn't help but be drawn to an archipelago of shoulder blade hair just on the left side. Curious, I thought. Was it there by design or a lazy concurrence? I didn't know. What I did know is that it looked like it was blow-dried, which shifted the weight of my opinion to it being designed. It was clear to me that Fabio was well ahead of his time.

We left the tour agency and walked down to the river to catch a water taxi across. I didn't previously cast any thought as to why there wasn't a bridge connecting the two villages. The river was infested with alligators - a natural barrier. For what, I wondered. Dinosaurs? On the other side were motorcycle taxis waiting for some business. Our guide talked to the drivers and off we went. These guys ride motorcycles for a living. Keep calm. Don't distract this highly trained transport technician, otherwise we both might be doomed. Just relax and keep your goddamn right leg off the exhaust!!

Being a guy, I think these Bolivian motorcycle drivers assume that I can handle taking a corner or a jump at full speed because whenever Charly and I took this form of transportation I would arrive 2 minutes earlier. I digress. We amassed on the intersection of a typical jungle road. Throughout my life, stomach complications inevitably strike at the most inconvenient times. First dates, queuing 45 mins at a bank, performing surgery, fixing the space station, flying a plane or on a dirt road in the middle of the goddamn jungle. I instantaneously knew what this meant and I loathed my gastrointestinal tract for having perfect, serene constipation for the past week where we were in close proximity to toilets only to let the flood gates open in an alligator infested swamp; where we were just about to begin a hike.

Well, business is business and it never waits for comfortable western conditions. With a hand full of toilette paper I ventured off down to a little stream, dropped pants and began. By no means was it the most gracious experience of my life but a smidgen gratifying, as I had been wondering where all the food I ate went. I regrouped after the third round and off we went.

The trek began as a timid walk, humid as hell but nothing out of the ordinary, walking in Brisbane on a humid summer’s day. The conversation was primarily limited to getting to know you stuff. My belly was still in knots and I was in no mood for this, I kept quiet - reserved and mysterious.

The deeper we went the bigger the mosquitoes got. So big, I could hear their hearts beating, or was it some other large predator? We came across our first tree and ironically it supposedly helps an upset stomach. Ha ha ha, the guide chuckled as he pointed at me sarcastically. (Luckily I didn't buy any stocks in his babble. Later, he admitted that the tree he had thought was for an upset stomach was in fact meant to help lactation for breast feeding. Christ, I thought! I don't need leaking nipples as well!) Other trees, he vaguely explained, did all sorts of things. Any ailment one could think of, a tree existed to cure it. Which is possible but I was catching a wift of repetitiveness as the third tree also helped impotence. "This tree is good for: skin fungus, bad dreams and impotence." This tree is good for: blurry vision, poor sales in your uncle’s sock shop and impotence."

The beautiful Canadian/Italian (now referred to as Fabio) started to show over-enthusiastic interest in what Mr Vague was saying, perpetuating more discussion. You bastard, I thought! The slower we move the more the advantage falls in the hands of the gigantic fucking mosquitoes with very large hands!

Waking for another 45mins, we came across a clearing made for camping. Anything with skin would struggle to survive out here, I thought - everything moist, damp and itchy. Fabio was convulsing and foaming at the mouth with enthusiasm - I momentarily considered he had overdosed on lactation medicine. Trees and vegetation had been cleared but, inevitably, was demanding the space back. A few benches were scattered around the edges of the clearing. On one of the benches there was an exotic fungus of some kind, slowly taking over the damp bench. When I looked at this fungus it made me think of the primordial soup that created life on earth and I pondered: If man managed not destroy this jungle and the jungle managed not to destroy this fungus - what kind of life would eventuate in 25 million years. At this point I asked Mr Vague if he knew what kind of fungus it was and he replied sharply with a tinge of distain. This was some gringo's left-over pasta! Holy shit, I thought! If in 25 million years life evolved from a fungus whose primary source of cheesy-starchy-carbohydrates was pasta: would Silvio Berlusconi evolve out of the Amazon? Mr Vague told us to rest and drink water as the next hour and a half was going to be almost straight up.

Walking into the Amazon you knowingly de-evolve out of familiar, ordered human society and enter the food chain. Out there, teeth and venom are a sought after commodity - not an average I.Q. This point is more relevant when the direction that you take has to be hacked by a machete. Your natural, peripheral senses which have been subdued by internet porn and takeaway food are thankfully amplified in the jungle. Every little snap, leaf ruffling, tickle or itch felt like the jungle was probing, determining where on the food chain to place you..

After an hour and a half of intense walking in 35degree heat I felt like Charlie Sheen’s character in Platoon: on patrol in Vietnam not being able to hack the conditions, temporarily loses control and vomits. The scenario was made worse by Fabio, who, even in stylish Italian slippers was able to leap and bound up this fucking mountain with little or no effort. Bastard, I thought.... but hold it together man. These people don't know you are hurting. Relax, goddam it! I became somewhat philosophical in my discomfort; people will only let you see what they want you to see. Are we all acting? Is Fabio actually terrified and had just vacuumed a kilo of cocaine to deal with the stress? Do we really know anyone? I didn't really know where this was all coming from but I suspected dehydration and some sort of venom played its part.

Reaching the top of the incline with a heart rate of 140, we came to a spot where if you pulled back some of the foliage you could see the town below. The guide stopped at a tree and with his machete peeled off some of the bark. He continued to divulge that this tree was capable of making women fertile and men into stallions. With of course, the typical cure for impotence. Don't take too much he warned! Oh I won't, my mind retorted! He went on to say that if you take too much, men can ejaculate blood and women can go insane. Our Spanish was getting better! Or maybe not... Keep moving, goddam it! The mosquitoes are homing in! I was no longer listening but rather engaged in a strange rhythm of clapping my hands and shuffling my feet, similar to a flamingo dancer. In five mins my hands resembled the hands of gardener - manually turning compost. I had managed to kill 30 or so mosquitoes. The jungle knew we were here! We had to move!

A debate unfolded of what our next move was going to be. Fabio wanted to push on to a lagoon, which was an additional three hour walk. Meaning, we would not return until 9pm. My opinion of this young man was leaning towards heat induced psychosis. So I interjected, which came as a shock to the others because up until this point I had been silent, strangely dancing around, rapidly clapping my hands. I mentioned: I thought it was madness to continue walking for another 3hrs and then hiking back for 6 - highlighting the fact that none of us had a torch. The guide replied, I have my phone - turning it on for reassurance. Would it work when I shove it up your arse, I scrawled....in my mind!! The other option was to descend down the backside of the mountain and follow a river to civilization and be home by sunset. I looked at Charly and begged her with my eyes to agree to this option and with mercy she did. With little peer pressure, Fabio agreed as well. I bloody knew it! You were bluffing you handsome bastard!

Descending, we came across another tree which was used to poison things and cure impotence. My attention was diverted from the poison/erection tree to a strange noise filling the gaps between the usual nonspecific noise of the jungle. The sound was like something eating with a horrible cold. I looked at Mr Vague and he looked at me - midway through his sentence, he could hear it now. I said, do you know what that is. He pondered for a while, as he computed the possibilities. He said that it may be a chancho (pig). But this was no ordinary chancho. This was a tropical chancho. My Spanish may be bad but I am able to judge when something should be avoided. Whilst gripping his machete as if he were about to behead something, Mr Vague explained that tropical chanchos are known to travel in packs of up to two hundred! Not so vague now, I thought. My nature is inquisitive/suspicious which makes it quite hard for me to believe anything you say. The type of scepticism that is only inherited - not practiced, which is far more confrontational. I desperately wanted not to believe him but what could I have based my argument on? I could not recall any relevant National Geographic documentary to prove otherwise, my conclusion would therefore be a gamble. Here was a guy who had lived in the jungle his entire life, knew how to get in and how to chop his way out, for sure he would know stuff like this, so I decided to side with him. Fuck me, I thought. Two-hundred wild boars - hungry and roaming the jungle for fallen berries, nuts or people! Would it be possible to defend against one boar let alone 200?!! I considered taking out my Swiss army knife, so if things went sour I could at least take a few of these bastard chanchos back to hell with me, but I didn't want to trigger an arms race in our tightly knitted group. No...Our group needed to focus less on mortal combat and more on walking.

Hacking, sliding, falling and methodically cursing the person who dragged me into this, we arrived at the river. The river looked unremarkable, a slow trickle of water meandering its way over an eon-old river bed filled with polished stones: exactly like the ones I know in Australia. Champagne did not flow under rainbows guarded by leprechauns or past sleeping unicorns. There wasn't scantily clad women, a tofu stir-fry or the cure for baldness, all of which I would get out of bed at 5.00am for. But never the less, crossing the river provided an avenue to recoil back from the brink of insanity, from perilously hacking through dense Amazon - Charly did not let me forget that!

A quick succession of crossings and Fabio was finding it hard to gain traction with his Italian loafers on the frictionless stones. Obviously struggling, he still displayed a character of optimism with spirituality, not overtly being troubled by the obvious trouble he was enduring. Watching him struggle, turned the volume down on my problems of being hot, tired and sick. But watching him deal with it so well turned the volume up on me being me. Splash!!!! Followed by.... "Puta!!!!" Fabio had gone ankle deep in the river with his Italian loafers. I buried my giggle deep in my diaphragm, because I know for a fact that if it had been me, I would have countered laughter with hostility. Two minutes later.... Splash!!! Followed by "ah well!" From this point in he ploughed through river showing complete disregard of his loafers. Ha ha, I thought. Things aren't so perfect out here, are they!

For the next hour, Charly and I pranced and tiptoed our way over the rivers until, inevitably we were in goddamn knee-deep water, where I remembered what the shoe salesman said back in Australia, "These things could take you to the moon man." Well, if the moon is covered in bloody water we're going nowhere! What little remaining jovial atmosphere had evaporated condensed and drenched my underpants.

Walking in silence all in deep thought or discomfort we trudged on and on and on and on x 10^9. Fabio hadn't said much - looking a little deflated and bewildered. I wondered if his immediate dream of living in the jungle had taken a hit. The type of hit so profound it can change your sexuality or just make you lose your mind. Time will tell...

A few hours later the jungle turned into farmland. We were walking on a muddy track that was lined by barb-wire on either side. On our right, in a paddock, we watched two cowboys trying to lasso a teenage cow - with great difficulty I might add. The cow knew the game very well - jolting at the last second, avoiding the circular noose by cm. We drew parallel to the action and the cowboys, along with the cow, were in full flight on the opposite side of the field. The cow knew it was running out of room and without notice or de-acceleration, made a 90degree turn at speed, throwing the two cowboys and their cumbersome animals off track. The cow aimed itself, directly at us and the barb-wire fence, accelerated and speared its way through the sharp wire on one side of the road - grunted - and again speared its way through the other fence into the very dense jungle, crushing and displacing palm trees like some kind of prehistoric beast in a Stephen Spielberg movie. We stood still, being eaten alive by mosquitos, but speechless. I'm not sure if the cowboys had ever seen anything like that. I'm sure as hell I hadn't and I'm quite certain Steve McQueen hadn't either - if he had, he would have escaped! The cow made it. One for the good guys! Who knows where she is now? With any luck she made her way across the Andes, to the west coast and managed to stow away on a grain ship, headed to India. 

30 minutes down the road, with most of the farming area behind us, we came to an open clearing: a dusty road snaking it's way through tall grass, completely surrounded by dense jungle. A perfect place for an ambush, I considered. By the owner of the gigantic paw-print we had seen earlier... 

We pushed on and were met by 70, or so, startled cows. Had they all managed to escape? Did they form some kind of guerrilla faction on the outside? We stopped to consider our options. A part of me wanted to vent my entire days frustration on them by suddenly screaming like a lunatic and running at them, like a starving bear. What would their reaction be, I wondered. What if it back fired and they called my bluff? What if they did the same thing? I doubt very much I could make a dent on a 500kg dairy cow. So I kept my cool...but ready. We walked slowly to show that we were on their side but they had obviously been double crossed by slow walking humans before - cautiously staring. 

Keeping a safe distance they amassed behind us, shoulder to shoulder. Charly and Fabio thought it was an interesting sight and decided to take a photo. The cows took the photo taking as a sign of aggression and in unison began stomping their feet.  A dairy cow by itself is a placid beast but a 70 cow phalanx is a terrifying war machine. The cow phalanx was surging forward and their huffs and puffs were filling the atmosphere. Realising what was happening, Charly and Fabio began to panic and started to jog away from the pack. The cow phalanx knew it had the upper hand and matched Charly and Fabio's speed closing the gap. What the crap! I thought. We survived everything so far, only now be murdered by fucking dairy cows? I briefly considered my earlier plan of spearing myself right at them, screaming  my lungs out and tearing my clothes off to let them know I meant business, when Mr Vague (while giggling at the situation) made a soft kissing/clicking noise with his mouth, instantaneously dispersing the cow phalanx - losing it's organisation and its power. They were again just normal dairy cows. Were the cows under some kind of spell? Forgetting their rumen and fixated on the taste of mans blood? Curious. The soft sound you would normally use to attract a cat ended up being horror to the beasts ears. Me and my bones were truly grateful to Mr Vague.

We left the farming region on a come down. We all knew we were not going to see something that awesome again that day. Shuffling back into the edges of civilization, we passed through a few villages that had not yet been ravaged by modernisation. We stopped off at Mr Vague's village, where he cut down some coconuts and made us a drink. 

Charly and I sat on a bench, drinking out our coconut (which cured my thirst and impotence but not my diarrhoea) while a couple of chickens and their chicks pecked at corn around our feet. Fabio was close by falling asleep - every now and then his leg would spasm, jolting the leg out slightly. One unfortunate chicken wondered over to Fabio to graze on some corn around his feet, not seeing the camouflaged Fabio, then... BOOT! SQWALK! Fabio woke up in a hurry (probably wondering what was attacking him) with children hysterically laughing and coconut juice running out of Charly’s nose. I was too tired to respond. A fitting end to Fabio's dream and the poetic end to my day. 

All the photos from our time in the Amazon here: 
https://picasaweb.google.com/109362659982164453049/RurrenabaqueAndAmazon?authuser=0&feat=directlink

Enjoying some winter sun in the Amazon (24 Jul - 2 Aug 2012)

After enjoying winter in Patagonia and the altiplano, it was time to find out what winter is like in the Amazon. The two options of getting to Rurrenabaque were:

a) a 45-minute flight, or
b) a 18-30 hour (depending on the weather) bus ride

With the flight being about twice as expensive as the bus... Since we are on a budget and since Rich doesn't really enjoy flying or crazy bus rides, I asked Google which option we should choose. After reading in multiple forums that "everyone who catches the bus down, takes the plane up", our decision was made.

Rich was happy to avoid a night and day on one of Bolivia's deadliest roads, but the plane that would take us into the jungle wasn't really to his liking either. Only the prospect of some steaming hot days and his bottle of Valium were able to calm him down and rocked him into a deep sleep before we even got onto the plane.

I already have some experience in getting him out of his Valium-coma and he has experience in sleepwalking onto planes, so we boarded the 18-seater without any hassles.

Rich got to enjoy another sleep during the short flight, while I was trying to enjoy the view and keep my breakfast down - who would have thought that a 45-minute flight could upset your stomach so much...

We were both more than happy when the plane touched down on the landing strip at Rurrenabaque's bustling airport.

As usual, taxi drivers tried to get our fare as soon as we had our luggage and we gladly accepted a ride - not knowing that taxis in Rurrenabaque are of a different kind. An interesting experience with your entire luggage and a still drugged-up Rich...

We had come to the Amazon not only to enjoy the heat, but also to meet some of the local wildlife and apparently this is best done in the "pampas". We went to different tour agencies to find the best deal and apart from the usual spiel we also heard everywhere "We don't know when the next tour can go out to the pampas since there is a road block and the villagers are throwing dynamite at everyone who tries to pass." What seems unusual to us, is usual practice in Bolivia, and even if we were stuck in Rurrenabaque for a little while, there are worst places to be stuck in...

Rurrenabaque is a small town squeezed in between the Andes and the Amazon. The landscape is stunning and the climate hot and humid. And they even have a H & M...

... and a naval base. Which is rather interesting, since Bolivia is a landlocked country. They lost their sea access in the War of the Pacific in 1884 but the missing sea access is still a sore subject and the main reason why Bolivians don't speak too highly of Peruvians...

After a few days at the El Mirador pool and daily checks of the dynamite-status, we were finally told that they were 95% sure that we could head out into the pampas the following day. The next morning we got up bright and early, still thinking that 95% sure probably meant the opposite in Bolivia, but to our surprise the villagers had calmed down and we were off into the pampas. During a dusty 3-hour 4x4 drive we got to know the international crew that we would be spending the next 3 days with.

From the 4x4 we changed into our main form of transport.

Our camp was a couple of hours downstream and on the way we already got to see some of the wildlife that makes the pampas so popular with travellers. Caimans, alligators, turtles, monkeys, capybaras and heaps of different birds.

 

 

At one point we spotted some pink dolphins and our guide Jimmy stopped the boat and told us, that we could go and swim with them. After seeing who was waiting for us at the river bank, we kindly declined the offer.

After dinner and a bath in our 80% DEET mozzie repellent, we left the safe(ish) enclosure of our camp to see who would eat us first - the mozzies or caimans. The mozzies clearly won and instead of the caimans catching us, Jimmy caught the one caiman that had dared to get too close to our boat.

All nine of us spent the night in a little makeshift hut, which had some fly screens (with big holes but better than nothing) and mosquito nets over each bed. For further mosquito protection, a few beds also had big spider webs around the edges... But still, I was more than happy to have some kind of barrier between me and the bustling nightlife out there. We did manage to catch a few hours of sleep and at dawn, we were gently woken by the impressive growls of howler monkeys.

After an unsuccessful attempt of watching the sunrise (the howler monkeys didn't wake us in time), we went to a swamp in order to look for anacondas. I do love snakes, but I must admit I found this a little nerve-racking to begin with. Walking through a swamp, not knowing where you were stepping while trying to find a possibly 8-meter long snake? I was just hoping, I wasn't going to find it...

The walk was beautiful though and the involuntary mud-bath of two of the English girls made it also rather entertaining.

We had already given up on finding an anaconda and Jimmy had wondered off to get the boat closer to where we were, when he suddenly called us over to show us his find.

A small little baby anaconda. It was a beautiful snake, a little small but still beautiful. I am a bit sceptic though, if Jimmy really just stumbled over it on his way to the boat.... But then, he was like Crocodile Dundee and somehow knew exactly where to find which animal. He finally won over all the ladies' hearts during a couple of rainy hours, when he made us rings out of a nut.

Afterwards, he caught us some pirañas for dinner. Rich had managed to catch a little stick. Ring and food from Jimmy. Stick and stick from Rich. Maybe life in the pampas wouldn't be too bad after all?

 

The next day, the howler monkeys woke us in time and we managed to safely walk past some sleepy alligators - or at least past what they had just dropped in front of our feet - to see the pampas come to light.

Before heading back to Rurrenabaque, we tried to catch some pirañas for lunch (again, only Jimmy was successful) and had a staring contest with our camp monkeys.

During the 4x4 drive back to town, Jimmy proved his supernatural skills one more time. Every day we had been looking for one of the laziest animals of the world and when we were in full flight on the dirt track back to Rurrenabaque, Jimmy somehow spotted it in a 20 meter high tree. A sloth! So we jumped out of the car and climbed over a few fences to get a closer look, from where we could admire the sloth climb up to the top of the tree.

The perfect end to a perfect pampas trip - thanks to Jimmy and our fellow travellers!

The next day we went into the jungle but what happened there, I'll leave up to Rich...
(In a separate entry, since this is already way too long...)

Even more photos here:
https://picasaweb.google.com/109362659982164453049/RurrenabaqueAndAmazon?authuser=0&feat=directlink