Rafting and Rambling

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It is a truth universally acknowledged that the journey to a destination is often an adventure in itself. It is probably for that reason that it's called travelling, as opposed to holidaying or vacationing. Sometimes its tough, sometimes you're not evening enjoying it, but you just dig deep, grin and bare made easier by keeping a sense of humour. The odd bit of our subsequent trip deep into the Amazon and then on through Peru and into Ecuador was like that, but I was pleased we came out seeing the bright side of it all.



So after a last minute scramble, Becky and I bundled ourselves into the minibus that had come to collect us on behalf of Deep Rainforest Adventures, the only company that floats foolhardy travellers 250 kilometres for 6 days into the biggest jungle on the planet. Sharing such a small space of wood and inner tubes with complete strangers has its risks if they turn out to be total dickheads, but we were sure we could get along with most people and felt the adventure itself only appealed to similarly minded individuals. The night before (which we were still struggling to recover from) Becks had embraced the rare opportunity to get all dolled up for her Birthday celebrations out on the town. Whilst straightening her eyelashes (or whatever girls do with them) in the designated make-up room, she got talking to a couple of flashpackers powdering their noses.



"Oh Darling, I am going to the jungle tomorrow, some place called Rurrerenbaki" announced girl one.

"How fabulous darling, but I think you mean Ruinbaki, I was there last week the dolphins are so pretty and pink" exclaimed girl two.

At this point Becky pricked her ears up, probably with the mention of pretty pink things, but maybe also to get some tips on Rurrenbaque.

"Umm, excuse me, are you talking about Rurrenbaque?" enquired Becky

"Oh yes darling, that's the place, yes it's really rather pretty. Look at my fabulous tan I got there." Replied girl two.

"Darling, how fabulous. I am getting the bus there tomorrow, it will be such a bore" complained girl one.

"Oh fly darling, definitely. Don't even consider the bus. It is truly awful and takes almost a day"

Becks then piped up, "My boyfriend and I are getting there on a raft which is going to take six days and will be really fun!"

Stunned silence followed, before girl one managed to utter "But...why would you do that?!"



The reasons we opted for the rafting were luckily not lost on our fellow river rafters. They were a smaller bunch than we hoped for, but luckily didn't include any girls Becks met in Wild Rover's makeup room. All in all, they seemed a good bunch. Ryan was a 29 year old yank, with ponytailed hair and a lengthy travel itinerary. It was unsurprising he worked as a tour guide in the states. John was in his mid-20s, travelling with Ryan, who had numerous nationalities including Turkey, Italy and Chile as his father was a diplomat. Marinus was German, spoke limited English or Spanish, looked 15 and clearly had an overbearing military father explaining the polished boots and crew cut. James completed the set, hungover and quiet with a decent beard and locks a far cry from his accountancy job he was due to start in Melbourne after his post-uni gap year. We were dropped off at the bus station where we eventually boarded a bus to Guanay, a few hours drive north, where we would meet our guide and start on the river the next day. That was the plan anyway.



It was a stunning bus ride. After climbing to over 4000 metres it dropped down over three kilometres through the yungas to the Amazon basin. It brought memories flooding back of when I cycled "the death road" which snaked parallel to us down the valley. The most dangerous road in the world had become one of the biggest must-do trips on the gringo trail. La Paz was brimming with companies offering downhill mountain bikes and guides to take you along the precipitous dirt track as it zig zagged down the valley-side with huge vertical drops thrown in for good measure. We opted out of doing it this time. Mainly because Becks felt she wouldn't be able to handle my "it was more hardcore in my day" comments referring to when it had no barriers, it was still open to traffic and someone was cycling off the edge a few times each year. I'm just saying... We were lucky with some blue skies giving us the chance to truly appreciate the towering peaks and the depth of the valley as we meandered our way down on the new road. It was not long before night fell and we were still a decent distance from Guanay which we were meant to be reaching by seven. The road continued on and we were thrown around as the bus rattled, bumped and grinded to a halt. Oh dear. The driver tried to reverse but to no avail. Everyone got out. It was late and with our head torches we could pick out the silhouettes of the huge trees around us. The air was thick and fresh with the smell of recent rains and it was exciting to finally be in the rainforest, virgin territory on this trip. My torch revealed the folds of mud the bus had been cutting through and everyone started shouting suggestions of how to get us out. After a few failed attempts we realised the wheels were spinning not due to loss of traction but because the rear axle had rammed into a rock which had effectively jacked the rear wheels up. After a bit of a hoo haa, stones wedged under the tyres and an almighty push from behind we cleared it and were on our way again.



Nearing 1am we finally were dumped in Guanay with "Rueben", the man who was meant to meet us and be our guide for the week, being nowhere in sight. We found a big hessian sack in with the luggage with his name on it and argued with the bus driver about taking it. Fortunately he let us which was good news as it turned out to be our camping stuff. Finally we got a local to call him and he sheepishly appeared a few minutes later. With high waisted jeans sporting some trendy badges, a huge belt buckle and the strut of a sheriff in an old Western film, Reuben was clearly the big dog in town. None of us took an immediate liking to him considering the circumstances, and we were even more apprehensive when it looked like we were going to bed hungry, with no sign of the promised all inclusive meals. However, over the course of the expedition (or jolly on a raft) we really warmed to him. It appeared his strut and talk of 'a woman in every city' was more of an act from a man who spends so much time immersed in nature. With his wide almost African smile and glint in his eye he had a real passion for life and what he was doing. He loved meeting new "amigos" on the raft each week and was even planning a seven month rafting trip along the whole length of the Amazon with some previous customers. He was incredibly resourceful, efficient and practical, I guess as you would expect, but he managed to do it all enthusiastically with a smile on his face.



We were put up in a dingy hotel as you would expect from such a remote outpost. The town's small pavillion was pumping out music with horrendous whining and screeching dubbed over it. We were later informed it was an annual karaoke competition which the whole town took part in. Reuben had slinked off pretty quickly after getting us hamburguesas from a street stall for dinner- he was probably backing himself for the gold bullion first prize. When Becks and I settled down to sleep in one of the sagging twin beds we managed to switch off from the warblers. Just when we were nodding off a shadow of a man appeared against our glass-paned door. He got bigger and bigger until he was clearly just outside. It was there that he stopped. I spoke loudly and firmly that he should go away, but he didn't. The silhouette just stood there, inches away on the other side of the door. Becky shouted at his shadow, but still he did not budge and it looked like he was fiddling with our door handle. Heart pumping hard and adrenaline surging through my veins, I marched up to the door in my boxers, slammed the light-switch on and banged on the glass pane. I was milliseconds away from wrenching open the door when he vanished. It was a long corridor, with a single bare lightbulb hanging at the end. He surely had not had time to cover that distance to disappear. I thought logically about it and reassured Becky that he probably was just a bit drunk and was in the room right next to ours, maybe fumbling with his keys or getting the wrong door explaining the loitering outside. She was not convinced, and to be honest, I hadn't even managed to convince myself. To be on the safe side we slid the second bed in hard against the door and slept with the penknife on the chair next to us, blade out and ready. Luckily no one needed to get stabbed that night, and our overtired brains had just worked us up a bit.



We got down to the river the next morning to find it flowing a lot faster than expected, this was going to be fun! The raft was half built and comprised of long straight tree saplings and branches, roped together in a grid, over the top of six chunky inner tubes that must have come from a gold-mining digger we had seen working the night before on the riverbank. It had three large heavy wooden paddles and that was it. I loved the simplicity of it all. We ate a disappointing breakfast with a poor excuse for a hot chocolate and then started packing our gear into waterproof tarpaulin. These formed sacks by tying them off at the bottom with strips of rubber and carefully sealing them the same way at the top. At first I found it an absolute faff and a stress that if you don't do it right, everything would be drenched but Becky and I soon got a routine for it and started to prefer them to the nightmare waterproof barrels we used whilst canoeing the Wanganui. Before leaving town I went on a quick beer run which, being a Sunday and after the previous nights fiesta, turned out to be more difficult than expected. The locals seemed to have drunk the town dry and I eventually sourced 9 cans from a friendly family who were very interested in what we were doing. They told me it was going to be bonito and tranquilo and we would have a wonderful time- I couldn't wait!



We had put our waterproof sacks into big blue flour sacks for added protection and they were our seats and backrests for the trip. With Reuben at the front, we formed two rows behind him on the raft and took off from the shore. The gentle swirling eddies were quickly left behind as the current grabbed us and swept us into the galloping white horses. Water splashed over the frame and through the lumens of the tubes, soaking us from the word go. Plans of reading a book and lazily basking in the sun looked unlikely as the recent rains had made this section of river more like a whitewater rafting trip. The whole day we "whooped" and "yeahed" as we were swept down the river before stopping at a town to camp for the night. Reuben got permission for us to camp under a rundown shelter on stilts as he was expecting rain. It had a nice view of the river, but it was pretty dilapidated and at one stage I leant against the wrong thing and brought half the shelter down with me. It was interesting seeing everyone loading into a longboat in the morning and watching a bit of Amazonian life, but it was pretty clear to us that it was not a jungle paradise. Whilst eating our chicken soup we heard a bit of a commotion; Reuben and his female cooking companion went over to take a look. A woman was shouting at a man who was clearly very drunk. She was hysterical so the Spanish was hard to translate and before long the anger could be heard in his responses. I felt physically sick when I realised the dull thumping sound we started to hear was him kicking and punching her. I got up to try and do something and my head-torch caught her curled up on the floor in front of a staggering, shirtless Bolivian. I was immediately told to sit back down by Reuben and the woman for fear that the man might get angry and throw stones at us if we interfered. We all sat, struggling to eat anymore whilst the thumping continued and the woman on the floor shouted "digame" "give it to me".



Reuben later explained that the couple were married, and the man had been drinking at the bar/ brothel in town. He had clearly been blind drunk and his wife was accusing him of cheating on her, to which he responded by beating her. They were an indigenous family living on the playa, the shore. The rest of the town had experienced a boom in recent years due to the wealth of mining gold from the banks of the river and the thriving coca industry predominately from the narco trade. Like so many indigenous communities the vice of alcohol was clearly tearing this family apart. With the drugs and gold the hedonism of cities soon pours in and begins ripping apart people that, until recent decades, used to live sustainably and happily off the jungle. I have been reading a book about a Brit who walked the whole length of the Amazon, taking 860 days. He saw the once proud men turning to alcoholism and beating their wives and children as a running theme of the modern world destroying indigenous communities. It is not limited to the Amazonian rainforest either, it was even palpable in some of the Maori populations in New Zealand, or in the Aboriginals of Australia. It makes me sad.



The following days on the raft have all gently drifted into one thoroughly enjoyable adventure with a lot of highlights. When the river widened it would be a change of pace, managing to salvage a camera from the dry bag for a few snaps or a book for a relaxing read with feet dragging in the water. We caught fish like we had never seen before, blind grey-blue cat fish with long whiskers and a slime of almost extraterrestrial quality. We stopped occasionally to gather delicious green oranges and huge ripe grapefruit from trees left to grow wild by the pockets of human habitation. One night we slept at an indigenous camp, but the locals were off downstream hunting in their canoes and there were only a few skinny dogs to greet us. One in particular was a very sorry state, walking on three legs with a badly gored face; likely from a run in with a wild boar. When we left in the morning he swam after us down the river for awhile, before realising it was futile and dragging himself back to the bank. As we continued down towards Rurrenbaque we would occasionally have to grab an oar and paddle hard to avoid sharp sticks and logs poking up from beneath the surface. One morning, Reuben made a rare error in his excellent river navigation and we failed to drift clear of a wooden stake. Inches from my feet it rammed itself through the middle left inner tube making a gaping hole through both sides and instantly bursting. The raft sank low in the water, but the buoyancy was enough to keep us afloat and drift to the bank. With great skill Reuben sliced off the damaged section, tied and glued it to form a sausage, which re-inflated well and kept us floating downstream.



We came ashore mid-morning one day where there was evidence of footprints which led to a path. After noisily ambling along for a few minutes Reuben stopped in his tracks and raised his hand, silencing us. We tiptoed along (not being particularly lightfooted I still managed to make considerable noise) until Reuben froze again. A wild boar came trundling through the undergrowth onto the track, saw us, shat itself, and then bolted across into the forest. We continued down to where the towering trees gave way to a small banana plantation. Reuben "called" to the boars by opening his mouth and slapping his cheek. Bizarrely this brought them running out from amongst the banana trees where they were busily munching away, but then vanished again in a flash. We continued through the Amazonian garden of Eden with ripe papaya, courgettes and oranges growing everywhere before reaching a few handsome traditional huts. A man of at least 70 was the only inhabitant due to a bloody land dispute with the neighbouring tribes. He was busy gutting a deer he had shot the night before and John translated his right-leaning political views. A surprising conversation to have with a self-sufficient man living in the jungle. He leant us a gun, as we fancied pork for dinner, and we stalked through the trees with Reuben before it became clear the piggies had scarpered. Reuben handed me the shotgun with a homemade body; the target had now changed to a bird which we could use as fish bait. They were stunning creatures with black bodies and long yellow tail feathers, and I admit not trying too hard to aim for them. I still opted to fire a shot, which let out an almighty boom, thankfully not backfiring, and I was later charged 10 Bols for the bullet. We bought a big slab of fresh meat from the man, wrapped it in a banana leaf and later had delicious venison stew for lunch.



The best camping was the times we pulled into a flat, sandy beach at sunset and set up tents right there. Reuben told us that the Rio Beni had flooded significantly in the wet season earlier in the year, which occurs every ten years or so. It left vast swathes of beach on the inside of its sweeping meanders and had cleared the forest floor adjoining the river. The clouds would often clear in the early evening revealing an ebony black sky bursting with stars. We would talk about American gun laws, travel tales and the US national parks whilst swigging a beer by the fire. One night when the fire was mere embers Marinus uttered some incomprehensible German and we looked to where he was pointing. If it wasn't a comet, it was the most spectacular shooting star any of us had ever seen. It arced across the sky throwing off hues of tangerine orange and Coleman's yellow, and was with us for at least 15 seconds before vanishing over the horizon. Nature just kept on delivering. We saw monkeys high in the canopy, dropping half eaten fruit by our feet. Capybaras would startle as we passed and sprint along the riverbank to their burrows, one of them shitting itself to the extent it almost backflipped into the river. And honey badgers would slink along the shoreline, disappearing as soon as we got close.



The last day greeted me with some horrendous stomach cramps. I managed to keep it together as we zip-lined through the canopy for the grand finale, a cheeky freebie thrown in with the trip. It consisted of 8 stations high up in the swaying trees, and was controlled by a leather glove we used for braking. Becks got a bit carried away and opted not to use the brake on one line, where she hurtled through the branches and swung into the trunk of a tree, whooping with joy. We then hiked back out of the jungle and finally made it to Rurrenbaque to be greeted by a squeaky clean looking Reuben back in his trendy town attire. We headed out for a celebratory meal, spotted Reuben's bill along with a generous tip, and all failed to stay up past ten as the pull of a comfy bed took over. Our plans to bus it straight back to La Paz the following day were scarpered by my profuse diarrhoea. To give me a fighting chance not to shit myself on the bus Becks and I opted to take it easy round Rurre for another day. We found a swimming pool surrounded by tropical gardens and enjoyed the change of pace and proximity of functioning toilets. There were a couple of semi-tame toucans and a parrot which were a delight to photograph, but then became particularly pesky. One toucan in particular kept trying to get into our fresh bread from the local French Bakery, and kept giving us a rather sinister look. The town was celebrating some sort of river related festival and we enjoyed watching the local dancing and I ate a rather ill-advised chicken curry from a local street stall.



After popping a couple of imodium and stocking up on loo roll I jumped on the bus with Becky to start our long, convoluted journey to Ecuador. In the basic planning of the trip back in NZ we thought we would fly from La Paz to Quito, but after finding out it would be 600 odd dollar we opted for the ten fold cheaper option of a chain of overland buses. We had set aside a week for this jaunt out of Bolivia and through the whole of Peru to Ecuador and as we had both spent time in Peru we were initially happy to skip it out. As is often the case, when actually on the ground we heard great things about places not on our very vague itinerary. In this case it was the hikes around the mountains of Huaraz that tempted us and we figured we could spare three days there to break up the endless buses and get balls deep in nature again.



The bus from Rurrenbaque was infamous for being a hell of a journey. A lot of people would end up splashing out on planes (like the make-up room girls) for the return journey, or some had such horrific experiences on the way out they would not be able to enjoy their jungle experience with the knowledge of the journey which awaited them back to La Paz. The 18 hour journey had recently been taking 24 or 30 hours due to the state of the roads which constantly sucked the wheels into the mud and required a lot of moonlight pushing. Becky and I were sure we would take this all in our stride, but with my dodgy stomach the lack of a toilet onboard was a grave concern. We ended up being quite lucky, as it hadn't rained for a while there was just enough traction for the bus to slip and slide its way out of Amazon into the Yungas and the round the mountains high into the Andes again, avoiding the knuckle biting precipices on the way. It was a bumpy and rattly journey and I spent the majority of the time trying not to shit myself and praying for the bus to stop soon. I felt foul, hated the predicament I was in, was grumpy and Becks and I were not bus friends. We were woken up with a sharp prod in the ribs by the conductor. Everyone else was long gone and we were completely out of it, having assumed the bus would get in late rather than the scheduled 5am. We groggily got our stuff together and made our way to a hostel by the main terminal for an easy commute to our bus to Peru the following day. After a few hours kip we opted to try out a free city tour of La Paz. Neither of us were too sure of doing this sort of tour, as we tend to like exploring cities by ourselves, but it proved to be excellent. We saw the prison, learnt about the witches market, and ended in a skyscraping hotel with stunning views of the valley. The tour guide was a British ex-pat in her 50's who gave us a lot of insight into the country and its politics. The president is a popular indigenous man who has changed the constitution to allow himself to run for a third term. He is a bit of a comedy character and is known for his blunders, like Boris Johnson or George W. Recently, when questioned why Bolivia had a relatively small population and whether they could do anything to boost it he suggested condoms were to blame and they should be banned and went on to say childless women should be taxed extortionately to encourage them to sire more offspring. The public uproar was marked and he apologised- something he does very well as he has had a lot of practice!



Early doors the next morning we went and caught our bus to Peru. The Bolivian border was hectic with a vague queue, but it was all pretty straightforward and we had an exit stamp from Bolivia and an entrance stamp to Peru without too much issue. Our bus ticket was to Lima, but changed at Puno and was a bit of a tedious wait. It was a lesson quickly learnt that bus tickets crossing international borders had a big mark up and we opted to get individual buses from then on. The hours flew by with the help of Spooks on the ipad, Richard Branson's autobiography and tales of walking the length of the Amazon, which Becks was reading. We had the day in Lima before our connecting bus to Huaraz. We spent sometime checking out the grand colonial buildings and the central plaza, but it was mainly taken up by admin. I had a mountain of forms to fill out, scan and send back (unsuccessfully) to Gloucestershire NHS for my job in August, which proved to be a bit of a stress. We had also decided to post home a box of stuff we were lugging round and no longer needed. This included our tent, jetboils, extra-warm clothes and a rather handsome weekend bag I bought Becks from the witches market in La Paz. Somewhat surprisingly we have just heard it's all arrived safe and sound as I was not convinced we had filled out all the forms, let alone correctly. It didn't help that in the middle of this process at the post office the ground shook and everyone ran outside- minor earthquake (something I feel well versed in after a year and a half in New Zealand).



It was another early arrival, this time into Huaraz and we grew excited looking around us at the stunning mountains just catching the yellow and pink glow of the rising sun. Becks felt the only thing missing from our trip so far was ancient ruins and had been doing some reading about Chavin de Huantar, ruins from one of the oldest civilisations in South America. The Chavins were around from 1200 to 800 BC and some of their engineering feats would have taught the Incas a thing or two thousands of years later. They had an incredible network of tunnels for irrigation, ventilation and religious ceremonies which we were able to explore freely. Ayuhuasca would no doubt have played a large part as the shamans would take the vine to connect with the spirit world through hallucinations. They held firm beliefs in animism and condors, jaguars and snakes were all over their unique carvings, particularly Lanzon de Chavin, the most important illustration of their art. A taxi driver at Huaraz bus station said his tour company could take us there that day, and after waking up and sussing him out he seemed legitimate and at least didn't seem likely to mug us. We went to his office and booked onto a tour which left later that morning. We drove through a mountain pass and saw some stunning vistas before reaching Chavin. Museo Nacional Chavin was our first stop and was where the problems with the guide really took off. He was an old school professor, in his sixties, who didn't speak a word of English (which we were promised he would). He had already irritated us by stopping for half an hour at a cafe where no one bought anything but where he indulged in his free commission meal. Then at the Museo I am religiously reading every plaque of info I can (standard procedure) when he shouts at me to keep up and listen to him. We explain that his Spanish is too fast for us to understand and then we get shouted at again, his voice echoing around the museum. We opt to ignore him and carry on ourselves. When everyone else sat down for lunch (they were all Peruvian) we split off with our homemade pack-lunch and made our own way to Chavin. As the guide said we wouldn't be back in time for our meal at the guesthouse we ended up getting a taxi all the way back to Huaraz. Despite being reasonably priced and more comfortable than the minibus, it was an unnecessary expense. We were not happy and wanted our money back.



The following encounter back in the office brought out a side of Becky I have never seen before. She had rehearsed in her head a list of things we were unhappy with about the tour, and our demand for a refund. In what sounded like fluent Spanish she reeled off our complaints to the three men in the travel agency. As they didn't even seem to acknowledge their misinformation things got fierce. As I busied myself with my bag, being next to useless in the confrontation, Becks fired up on all cylinders. It was as convincing a speech as Churchill's "fight them on the beaches" and the men were visibly shocked by this tirade they were getting from a meek little blonde gringo. Becks was standing up to what she felt was fair and although they didn't reach for their wallets, we walked away having felt they learnt their lesson. Don't lie and rip off travellers or it will come back and bite you, and blonde girls in pink bite hard, (whilst their boyfriend's tend to shy from confrontation and mumble the odd "no bueno").



After the war of furious Spanish words, we grabbed a taxi to the guesthouse we had booked. Our travels from the jungle of Bolivia to Guayaquil in Ecuador was to take 8 days in total. Aside from a night in La Paz the last 3 had been on buses. In total we spent 5 out of the 8 nights in a semi-cama bus seat, no doubt with a Jason Statham or Liam Neelson film blasting at full volume. So we had planned to treat ourselves. Splash out with the money we had saved on accommodation. We booked two nights in an Eco-lodge called The Lazy Dog Inn, which we found on TripAdvisor rather than the cheapest deal on Hostelworld. It was well worth it. We arrived just in time for dinner, cooked by the local Quechuan ladies from the gardens' organic produce. It was a family affair with the half dozen other guests, sitting round the grand table and being overseen by the slightly strange Canadian owner. We would then retire to the log fire in the large open plan living room and exchange tall tales of travel. Our bedroom was definitely the least fancy, but was beautifully dec'd (or decked?!) out with hand carved furniture with rag washed burnt orange paint over the thick adobe walls. The bed felt divine after the nights in a chair and above us between the wooden beams of the roof lay a skylight offering stunning views of the clear night sky. The itch of the mountains around us offered too much to resist and rather than relax and recuperate we were up early (after making the most of the excellent breakfast) and hiking up the valleys. The Inn was half an hour out of town, perched high up the valley amongst quaint little villages. We were high, about 4000 metres, but the sun was strong and both days we walked up neighbouring valleys. Straight out of the Inn we had perfect views of where the snowcapped jagged peaks ripped into the deep blue sky. The valleys were the Quebrada de Cojup and Llaca and the latter offered us stunning views of the glacier at the end which groaned and grumbled in the heat of the sun. After our walk in the Cojup the sauna was ready on our return and we rested our aching muscles and reinvigorated ourselves with an icy cold shower.



The time came too soon when we had to get a taxi back into town to book our next bus northwards. We had a few hours to kill and found a first floor bar on a pretty square which served Sierra Andina, a locally brewed craft beer. With the free wifi I was finally able to send my signed job contract back to the UK, but the food and beer was far from free. After our recent splurge we had to reign it in and compromise on either beer or food. Obviously we chose the delicious artisan beers, probably the best in South America and deviously planned the best way of hunter-gathering some sustenance. Just outside the square was a shop street stall selling Papas De Reya a local delicacy. These were basically a ball of fried mashed potato with onions, egg and mince sold for next to nothing and being quite nutritious. We were starving after our hike and would take it in turns to guard our table and beers as the other person would run down and buy some Papas, leaving a plate behind a plant pot by the doorway for the other person. They were a decent size but I still managed to stuff in half a doz along with the aromatic, hoppy beer. This tomfoolery came to an end as we had to go and catch our night bus to Trujillo.



We awoke in Trujillo feeling disgusting, having not been able to shower since our hike and arriving in the small hours of the morning. We inflated our thermarests (which we luckily had decided not to send home) and stretched out on some seats until the offices started to open. The first one that had a bus going north to Piura was leaving right away so we had to forgo the shower facilities at the terminal and jump in a cab to take us to their bus stop in town. We didn't see much of Trujillo but saw enough to feel like we weren't really missing anything, bar the Chan Chan ruins on the outskirts of town. It was around then that Becks started to feel unwell. She was hot, sweating profusely and had a splitting headache with nausea. We initially put it down to a migraine which seemed to improve when she caught up on some sleep, and we felt less worried that we would have to miss our flight to the Galapagos scheduled in two mornings time. In Piura we had an afternoon before our night bus out of Peru into Guayaquil in Ecuador. We headed to Catacaos, renowned for its market. As is often the case in these markets, almost every stall sold the exact same tat, a lot catering to Peruvian tourists. Among the more risqué souvenirs were Priests with erections and bizarrely, women in childbirth. One stall must have been used for Local Shamans as it had a lot of stuffed animals ranging from eagles to armadillos to tortoises, some half-cured and smelt rotten. I did manage to find my standard purchases of a hat and a bracelet, to continue my bracelet collection from every country on this trip.



The border crossing was at a rather sleep depriving time of 2am, but I was excited to be getting into another country, my first new country since Chile. Becks on the otherhand was in and out of the banos with a dodgy tummy. We had no idea of the source as we had eaten the exact same stuff and it seemed to have started after the Lazy Dog Inn where all the food was prepared very hygienically. My first impressions on arriving in Guayaquil was the heat and humidity and the great array of freshly made fruit juices on offer from street stalls, as if they had been transplanted across from South-east Asia. Becky obviously stayed clear from this and their laxative effects and we went searching for the bank. This really became the order of the day as we had to start hoarding our US dollars to pay for our intended cruise around the Galapagos. We were directed to some very fancy air-conditioned malls and shiftily took out 600 dollar wads at a time before our card was declined or our limit was reached. We tried to walk nonchalantly back to the hostel but all the time were on the look out for any attempted muggers or pickpocketers that would instantly put a stop to our Galapagos dreams. We lay low for the day, mainly as Becks wasn't feeling well and I chilled out, chatting to other travellers and watching the pet terrapin swim in the pokey hostel's tiny pool. It was touch and go that Becky would be well enough, and I had worries over my Grandparents' health, but by the next morning things were looking up on both accounts and we headed to the airport for a trip of a lifetime to the enchanted isles, The Galapagos Islands.

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