Colombia

First stop Popayan, after some of the most awesome scenery we've seen. We're too busy hanging on to the bus to enjoy it massively. Popayan is really pleasant and the people are friendly. We are on a mission to get to the Caribbean and the grumpy border guard gave us a meagre 30 day visa, so we don't stop for long.


- Popayan. Whitewashed for your viewing pleasure and the only place you can get a decent coffee in South America


- Equality and realism in Colombia

We arrive in Cartagena de las Indias strung out after a freakily long and windy bus journey. Our hostel is just outside the walls of the gorgeous old city in a seedy area. It comes to life on a rum-soaked Friday night. A salsa bar dashes out loud tunes which we all listen to on the street clutching our half-bottles of Ron Medellín (aged 3 years). It's wicked fun and perfectly safe. Everybody's too drunk, and it's far too hot, to run about attacking folks.

The old city is especially famous for earning Francis Drake a tap on the shoulders from Queen Elizabeth: he held the city to ransom! Nowadays it's restored to a better-than-the-original state and plays host to any number of flash, expensive boutiques and restaurants. Our credit cards have been stopped ("it's because you're in Colombia, Mr. Wood"), so luckily temptation is removed.

Rather amazingly, it is here that we rejoin forces with Leila and Tobias, our heroic mountaineering Swiss friends. We introduce them to Señor R. Medellín, aged 3, and they are pleased to meet him and his friend Coca Cola.


- Does my bum look big in this?


- The cathedral Sir Francis Drake partially destroyed when holding Cartagena hostage for millions of pounds. Love that story


- In Cartagena night-time is the best time


- And a night on the rum and coke inevitably leads here


- I demand all the rum in this city or I shall destroy it!


- Another lovely street full of boutiques in Cartagena


- I have some way to go on the beard, but my hair is way out in front


From Cartagena, the four us make tracks to the tiny "fishing village" of Taganga, nestled in a quiet cove just outside the dusty city of Santa Marta. True enough, there are lots of fishermen here, and there is a strangely Greek feel about the scrubby hills and azure water. Things have obviously changed a little since our guide book was written, though, for this "quiet" town is overrun with South American travellers of our ilk, at least half of whom seem to be Israeli. Why this should be I have no idea, but if I tell you there is a restaurant on the malecon whose only name is written in Hebrew, you'll get the picture.

The water is supremely calm and clear, or at least it would be if it wasn't for the layer of floating debris that the beach-goers seem happy to dump in it. At first we blame our fellow travellers, but it soon becomes clear that the worst offenders are Colombians, either locals or weekenders, with very slippery fingers. After a typical Sunday the piles of unmanaged crap on the gritty little beach are enormous. Such a shame.


- The view over Taganga from the terrace of our hostel. We mainly bbq and drink rum up here


- You have to get to the beach early to get your space in high season


- Floating on the lilo gets you clear of Taganga's crisp-packet line


- And it was this big. Hah! It really was! Only I didn't catch it


- Now what could she have possibly done to deserve that?


- Soon to be filled with a thousand screaming kids and a million plastic cups


- The fishing boats early doors


- We're gonna barbecue you!!!


- Told you!


- Tobias, Lucy and Leila make a bold statement

Seeking to escape the confines of the little town, and in the tradition of the I-will-if-you-will nature of our friendship with the adventurous Swiss pair, we sign up to scuba lessons. Much regulator-removing torture, ear-popping discomfort and wayward buoyancy hilarity ensues as we do our damndest to live the dream of having fun underwater. We all pass the "exam" with ease and speaking for Lucy and I, are totally hooked.


- Suited and booted and ready for the off


- Leila, Tobias, Lucy, I and others get ready for the perils of the deep


- Thinks: did we leave the iron on? Concentration ... Breathe through this...


- What's that in my ear? Sod it, let's go down!


- Buoyancy control! Oliver, Ana, Tobias, Leila. But you knew that!


- It is not possible to control one's hair in these situations; frightfully inconvenient


- All OK, hair back down. Phew!


The other getaway from little Taganga is the nearby Tayrona national park. It's a tropical paradise of mountains and beach. We even get to break out the tent, which has otherwise been a brick in my backpack the past four months. It's a splendid spot, with any number of picturesque beaches, crystalline (rubbish-free) water, and even a little lost city up in the hills. Lucy and I quickly discover that the quietest, and therefore best beach, is the nudist beach. We disappear up to the far end and are mostly undisturbed for a glorious few days.

Tayrona is really gorgeous and having bid farewell to Leila and Tobias with a big fish barbecue and many conversations with Ron, Lucy and I go back for a second go.

Of course it couldn't be perfect again. Oh no, for we must contend with a large number of holidaying locals who descend for a long weekend. The average Colombian on holiday seems to like two things: drink and noise. We do our best to minimise contact, but a campsite has no walls, and we are subjected to two nights of football terrace bawling under the wee hours before we are forced to move.

Even our idyllic spot on the nudist beach is interrupted. Oh, what nudist facists we become with the first drop of our pants. To start with, the lurid white of my arse is enough to keep most people well away, but with the start of the weekend, along come the curious. We tut and scowl with no compunction at those wanderers who come anywhere near us with their drawers on. At one point about a hundred girl guides, woggles and all, raucously shuffle past. All that giggling is not the best medicine for a man's self-esteem. Giving directions while starkers is easy for me, though; I just point.

And then the serious nudists appear. Men with no clothes but sporting big bags, hats and sandals wobble past. A chap with a suspicious goatee sidles by, trying desperately to make his little man look bigger by wiggling and stretching it. Muscle Marys stand like the Praetorian Guard up the beach, doing exercises and gazing at each other. A strange chap borrows (please, I don't want it back) some suncream and then makes conversation with Lucy, sitting cross-legged on the sand ... but hold on, I know it's hot and all, but isn't that a you-know-what standing up trying to get a better look?! We are not sure of nudist beach etiquette, but we're both fairly sure that this is not part of it. He moves away to do some press ups. Later we see him chatting up an older lady who is more interested in his singular charm. At this point we know we are not committed nudists. It's one thing getting naked on a beach, but this crowd is a bit off. We exchange loyalties with a different patch of sand and keep our Speedos on for the remainder of the week.


- Even the Caribbean can be gloomy, but it's warm and lovely and we don't care


- Rocks at Cabo San Juan


- The nudist beach, minus the strange men who stand at the end waving (I promise you) big sticks and doing press-ups


- Be afraid, very afraid...


- Pure paradise


- Especially for the laydees...


- Turns out that I really do have a lovely bunch of coconuts


- Bo Derek eat your heart out


- All those hours spent watching "Lost" were not in vain


- Glorious sundown over the turtles' favourite, Arrecifes beach


In total we manage to spend a magnificent 30 days relaxing in Colombia, generating enviously burnished tans, playing in the water and drinking in the Caribbean spirit. We could stay a little longer, but that grumpy border guard has forced our hand and sent us to Chavez's playground, the gas-guzzling country of Venezuela.

Ecuador

All the countries in South America could be labelled "Land of Crooks" but we reserve that title for little Ecuador, where we were done over twice. First, as we entered, we were told we had to pay the police for "protection". Yeah, right. Second, on the bus to the border with Colombia our bags were picked over with a fine-toothed comb and our big camera, a mobile phone and Lucy's sunglasses (along with a tin of sweets and our pencil case) were swiped. We were left in a nowhere town dealing with three varieties of Ecuadorian officialdom, ranging from the callowest clerk to the blowsiest of attorney. It took all afternoon and produced a piece of paper that our insurer will be pleased to receive. The result of all this: a sour taste in the mouth.

Enough gringing about thievery and let's grouch about weather. The spine of Ecuador, over which we travel North during a couple of weeks is green, fertile and incessantly cloud-capped. For a country that makes so much of its equatorial location, it's positively chilly in the towns we visit for most of the time.

Once over the border we endure a Stallone-fest of a bus ride to end up in Cuenca, a nice town with some pleasant architecture and a couple of nice bars and restaurants. There are some thermal baths outside town where we have a sauna, and a festival in the centre where we buy some disgusting sweets. We have fun in the market buying exotic fruits and eating roast pig. Seems to be the sort of place Europeans and Americans stick around for a while as it's relatively civilised, but there isn't much to it. And it rains.


- Fruity goings-on


- ¡Jugos there! Exotic fruit ... not me you understand


- And tasty meat too


- Don't show the kids all these sweets


- Mustache envy. They're envious of mine, clearly


Next stop, after an excruciating journey in which Steven Segal is the one and only voice we hear for 6 hours (that's the best part of 5 of his finest oeuvres back-to-bloody-back, with not a costume or hair change between any of them - extraordinary), is Baños. It's a town famed for its thermal baths as it is nestled at the foot of a volcano. We try the baths and find them hot, but very crowded, and therefore a bit grubby. Cooling off under an tumbling, icy mountain stream is pretty fantastic though. There are plenty of little waterfalls in the area too, and a bigger one that the locals like a lot. But they haven't been to Iguazu.


- Baños looks like it might eventually fall down this cliff


- Near the bowl of the Pailon del Diablo. It is not, as advertised, the World's Eighth Wonder


- Lucy on the ropes at the Pailon del Diablo


- More Amazon-bound water


All around the tourist-dependent little town are signs declaring that Volcan Tungurahua will erupt "tonight at 9pm". We laugh, only to discover that it really does kick off around then. If only it wasn't so damned cloudy we might see the show of sparks and lava that spew forth every day. Instead we just see a dark wall of cloud. So we decide to walk up it, to get close to the action.

Our "guide" for the day turns out to be a little punk who knows little more than the way, a muddy horse path, and how to eat our food and drink. The path takes us to a mountaineering retreat destroyed by flying rocks in an eruption a few years before. Higher we cannot go.

Of course, there are clouds, so our view is restricted. But the sound is incredible: a rolling visceral rumble, like thunder turned up to volume 11. It's a shy volcano, according to local lore, and only on the way down do we get a proper view of what's occuring: a great column of ash is being pumped heavenwards. It's spectacular and chilling.


- Up the garden path. The somewhat spooky route up Volcan Tungurahua


- The best picture we have of Tungurahua spewing smoke. The others were stolen along with our camera


From Baños, we zoom up to Quito. The setting is a little like La Paz as the city ribbons out through a valley. It's a massive city, but we find the most cultured spot on offer centred around a square full of bars and restaurants. It would not disgrace any big European or North American town. The city is, however, just another city as far as we're concerned, and the lure of the surrounding big volcanos is dulled by those cussed clouds that ovscure their summits. We do one touristy thing and straddle the hemispheric boundary at Mitad del Mundo, a dumb Equatorial theme park. I'm almost glad those partivular snaps got stolen...


- The cathedral in Quito from the outside. It has turtles and iguanas sprouting from the walls!


- How did the driver do that? Just another day on the roads in South America, but not our bus thankfully


Colombia next...

Machu Picchu and Surrounds

Cleansed in body and mind after our jungle shenanigans, we decide that we aren't relentless enough for a five day boat ride to the nearest bit of useful road and instead fly to the city of Cusco. In the airport, a stall hands out free bottles of oxygen. Almost immediately, I start developing the crusty nose and intestinal gas that are the scientifically proven indicators of our 3,600m altitude.


- Cusco architecture. Mostly it looks just like this


The accepted route to Machu Picchu is somewhat circuitous, involving buses and a train ride. It takes the rest of the day to arrive in the little pueblo of Aguas Calientes, chock full of American, and other, tourists.


- The market in little Ollantaytambo, halfway to Machu Picchu


- Ollantaytambo street


- Local colour. And a sheep


There are a number of ways to arrive at Machu Picchu itself, including a slightly discredited three-day trek, a two-hour walk up thousands of stairs, or a thirty-minute bus journey. We opt for the last, as our aim is to arrive for the sunrise. We get up very early and make the gates at 6am. A swift climb through the terraces and the other earlybirds wins us a high terrace with a smashing view of the complex.

It's absolutely stunning! Amazingly, and rarely for such an iconic site, it is as beautiful as the postcard pictures. And better! The scenery is mesmeric: the cradle of Machu Picchu is dwarfed by vertiginous green valley walls on all sides. We have to wait for the sun to rise, and when it does, it looks like this:


- It is Machu Picchu and it is stunning. The big lumpy hill just behind is Huayna Picchu


The ruins themselves are really well preserved, with no rubbish or grafitti visible. Some of the buildings have been restored with straw roofs which look great. A bevvy of tame llamas keep the grass nice and short. Enthusiastic wardens blow whistles at errant ramblers, and berate those carrying water bottles by hand (the implication, presumably, is that it will be dropped once empty).


- Some funny bit of ruins


- A view into the sacred valley from M.P.


- I'm not going through there.


- Another spectacular angle on the ruins. Amazingly, there is no sign of that woman in the orange jump-suit we spotted earlier...


One of the reasons we caught the bus was to reserve some energy for the hike up the lumpy rock behind Machu Picchu: Huayna Picchu. Only 400 are permitted up here each day. It's a steep hike up a scary-looking slope. But we've been to 6000m, and we know that slow and steady = not a problem. The view from here is completely different:


- Apparently it looks like a condor (Machu Picchu, not Lucy) from this angle, up Huayna Picchu


Around the back of the mountain, another temple lurks, but it's a stiff up and down hike of two hours to get there. The Temple of the Moon is carved into a rock and is a very calm spot. Finely-built stone niches are occupied with meditating hippies. Pieces of meteorite are stored in yet another little chapelly thing. No one really knows what it was built for.


- Deep forest around the back of Huayna Picchu


- In the Temple of the Moon


- A niche, minus mediatating crusty Europeans

So Machu Picchu lives up to expectations. Next stop Ecuador...