9000 years ago people in a remote canyon in Western Argentina had a cool idea. The blank cave walls that had been carved out by the river bellow years earlier had finally gotten to be a little to boring for them, and the first artists were born. By mixing earth and plant extracts in their mouths the people were able to produce dyes. Once a mouth was adequatley filled with the ill-tasting dye they would paint figures or blow the dye over their hands to create a negative image. As the milleniums rolled over the descendants of these same pioneers continued [View Full Entry]

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We were at the end of our wits. The past three days had all blended into one huge blur of reclining and uprighting my bus seat . We had to escape the ´Saloon Cama´ and find sanity in a stationary bed. A great man once said that "walking south was always the easiest. It seems like you are going downhill". (J.R.R. Tolkein, Lord of the Rings). I can´t agree that his logic was polished, but as Tracey and I began to count more trees amongst the sand dunes, and as the sand eventually gave way to grass outside the bus window, [View Full Entry]

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Traintrip thoughts through A Sacred Valley. Translucently veiled, resembling the crayon coloured unimaginable landscapes strewn in scribbles across the recycled pages of a preschool colouring pad. The track seems to bend between wonders of green, beneath flowing a river, bedded with rocks dropped from above, unrounded as of yet, In torrents undiscovered in the lands we have left. To find such life at the mountains feet, to understand where stoney beaches are born, to hear the sky and earth converse, and to walk on the crest of the East and the West. This valley is the path to the heart of [View Full Entry]

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We left yet another picturesque Huanchaco evening, with the orange sun melting into the white mist lined horizon, to hop on a bus (boasting quality films such as those that the Wayan Brothers produce), destined for the bright lights, pizza huts, KFC´s (Dam Them), and unsouthamerican taxi fares of Lima. Luckily the hostal in Miraflores that we had stayed in a week prior was still there, and the familiar smile of the odd woman who works there greeted us with the same barrage of incoherent cackeling that we had so graciously endured the week before. Needless to say the first thing [View Full Entry]

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The panamericana seems to stretch out forever along the peruvian coast, linking the dry sand lands of the south with the surf towns in the north. In the middle of this coastal band lies Lima, like the buckle of a belt, holding this diverse nation together. Although I seem to prefer small towns to the big smokes, Lima held some appeal with its coastal location, and the lovely suburb of Miraflores. In particular Miraflores has a mall (not what one goes abroad to see) that is built into a conglomerate cliff, that overlooks the Pacific ocean, and the many surfers scattered [View Full Entry]

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Huacachina is an oasis town in the middle of the peruvian coastal dessert. Massive rolling sand dunes give way to a town centred around a lagoon and palm trees. In between the sounds of reving engines the calls of the local bird life can be heard throughout the day. Rainbow coloured parrots, brown skinned sunbathers, and sand covered boarders provide the town with a truely unique feel, and a great appeal to the outside world. We arrived in Huacachina at 6am in the morning, after a rather long bus ride from Arequipa. Our keen to get there taxi driver drove us [View Full Entry]

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A quiet rumble at first to capture the attention of a prowling fox, then a thunderous crack, and an endless shadow that sent the soaring birds into retreat, and finally the red glow of the rivers of fire running down the white mountains would tell the villagers that once again the god was angry. Having taken heed of the mountains cries the Incas would set out on a journey. A journey that began hundreds of kilometers away in the capital city of Cusco, and would bring the party to the crater summit of the majestic cone shaped volcano that they believed [View Full Entry]

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Last week Tracey and I exited the crammed bus that we had boarded in Uyuni to step into the crazy city life of La Paz. La Paz was simply crazy. Busy like Buenos Aires, but far less controlled and organised. Men shouted and yelled from taxi vans, shoe shiners in balaclavas offered there services, and woman squated to relieve themselves in the middle of the street. The cities suburbs clung to the steep hillsides of this huge crater, and we could see even more construction beginning in even more dubious positions as we gazed out of the bus window in which [View Full Entry]

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From the brightly coloured parades of Villazon our train wound on through the night, passing through canyons, over rivers and across vast deserts. We rolled through the night passing the dim lights of towns in which ´Butch Cassidy´ and ´The Sundance Kid´ once sought refuge. The moon light lit mountains and molehills alike, creating a more wondrous and mysterious landscape then the sun would ever see. Beside the tracks lonesome figures stood silhoutted, watching another train pass them by, and wandering dogs howled and chased the fleet of uncatchable carriages, until the glow from our carriage windows faded into the darkness, [View Full Entry]

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To spread ones wings from within the darkness, and leap into the light with no knowledge of flight, but for instinct... A butterfly must understand freedom better then those that have never experienced confinement. The road that we took across the desert in the Andes, (in a car designed for the sole purpose of transporting an 82 year old woman to the neighbouring supermarket for 150mls of milk and the TV guide), on an unsealed dirt road, riddled with speed bump sized ridges, in 30 dry degrees, with all windows closed to prevent the suffocating dust capturing all five of us, [View Full Entry]

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