ChrisandBekah

Buenos Aires is described as the Paris of South America. As we stepped off the metro and onto the apartment lined streets of San Telmo (the district we’d be staying in), we really could have been walking the streets of the French capital. One constant reminder of our true location still remained; the need to play hopscotch, dodging the pieces of dog poo that seem to plague the entirety of South America. Apparently the issue plays highly in the local mayoral elections and yet those same mayors are yet to come up with a way to clean up the issue. The Parisian theme continued at the hostel. A converted townhouse, a narrow winding tile clad staircase linked the reception to the rooms above. We planned to stay in Buenos Aires for a significant amount of time ... read more

Unusually and inconveniently we arrived in Santiago during the early evening. Our normal routine of travelling overnight by bus has three advantages; your accommodation is essentially free, everything’s open when you arrive and the street signs/landmarks are clearly visible. Luckily, Santiago is as urbanised as you can get in South America. Rather than negotiating with local taxi drivers and dusty unmarked lanes we negotiated the metro and pedestrian crossings. Finding our hostel with relative ease we unloaded our bags and headed out for pizza. The pizza place, literally around the corner, was a hangout for the local skaters. It operated in a Starbucks ‘give us your name’ style. Apparently, in order to order from this place you also had to have the right name. Lake had no chance. ‘Que nombre?’, ‘Rebekah’, said Rebekah, ‘No, que nombre?!’, ... read more

We were 15 minutes into the flight when sweat started pouring down my face. A twisting arc, completed at a 75 degree angle sent my stomach hurtling towards my feet for the 15th time so far. The sweats continued. I gave in; taking my eyes away from the camera screen I'd been so desperately peering through since we took off I fumbled around for a sick bag. The copilot handed me a ball of cotton wool, doused in alcohol and encouraged me to sniff. The smell was strong but soothing and after five minutes my stomach had settled. Our flight over the Nazca lines continued to weave and bank and twist its way over the desert for the next 10 minutes before we landed on a runway set amongst the rocks and sand. We'd begun the ... read more

Copacabana, Bolivia lacks the international renown of its more famous Brazilian namesake and this is entirely justified. We arrived via collectivo (a minibus), ferry and then collectivo once again. The ferry, one for us and a flatbed raft for the minibus was to avoid an outrageously long detour and cut the journey time to four hours from La Paz. We'd arrived in Copacabana at around 1pm and unfortunately by this time the hostel we'd had our eye on was fully booked. Instead we strolled the beach and sought out alternative accommodation. The beach is, incidentally, what the two Copacabanas have in common. We found the hostel nestled next to the jetties which would enable the next part of our journey to Isla del Sol. The hostel, a pale green concrete block offered a bed and shower. ... read more

We crossed the Brazilian/Bolivian border alongside two Israelis and a Norwegian we'd met in the Pantanal. The paperwork was straightforward whilst the horror stories of five hour queues did not materialise. The buildings which greeted us on the Bolivian side of the border seemed improvised. Two locals, perched on well worn stools and with small wooden boxes, (filled with bolivianos it turns out) offered to change our money. At a rate of 3:1 they certainly received a significant margin on each exchange, the 'official' rate being 7:2. However, with no use for our Brazilian Real and a significant urge to leave the ramshackled border town of Quiljero with the aid of some bolivianos, we accepted. We then squeezed into a taxi; five travellers worth of luggage in the boot, four guys in the back seat and ... read more