Mmmmm, Fosters

I don't remember when I last drank Fosters. I do remember it not tasting very good, and I don't think I finished it. This Fosters was less flavousome, but more refreshing.

Happy Birthday America

We were still in Philly for America's birthday party, which is special, because that's where America was born. We put on the colours, ate lots of food that matched our clothes, sang the theme song and watched some in-your-face fireworks. It was quite a bash.

Angie's contribution to the big celebration - marshmallow and strawberry kebabs. Red, white and blue ones, of course.

A couple of days later, the party was still going. We went to watch some more fireworks, but got stuck in traffic. It worked well though, because then it started bucketing down, and we were stuck right in front of the show.

Trippinvignettes - Number 3

In which ‘Shazza’ reveals the complex dichotomy of her feelings towards coati, the cute and cuddly ground-koalas of South America. Upon meeting us, she told us how she hadn’t had a drink for well over a week. Later that evening at dinner, in a blizzard of strine-flavoured profanity, she drunkenly displayed the reason for her period of self-denial. Hair styling by Miss Breoni Taylor.

'...a***holes... except this one... Smell ya fingas: BURNT TOAST!! Not just 'like'- EXACTLY!! Burnt f***** toast!!!'

Arabian Restaurant, La Paz, Bolivia.

Puerto Escondido Photos

This seems to be one of the few places in Latin America that doesn't have a central square for everyone to hang out in. Instead, families go down to the beach an fly kites.

Sunset on Zicatela

A strange ornament

This is the rug in one of our rooms

Room controls

Mexican Beer

Most beer in Central America tastes like off dirtwater, so it's nice to be in Mexico where the local beer is awesome. One of the best things about Corona over here (apart from the price- this litre bottle costs $2) is the way they classify bottle sizes- the bottle shown is the 'family pack'.

Accidentally , Utterly Trashed in La Paz

Upstairs in the hostel bar, we bumped into Sam and E-J, two friends we’d met while experiencing the out-of-place luxury of the Inca Trail. The four of us went out for dinner, and by 9 or so we’d finished eating and were grimly staring down the prospect of going home too early and too sober. Seeing as Sam and E-J had the Death Road bike ride beginning the next morning, we decided that just a quiet drink was in order, and on a quiet city street, beckoned by upstairs strobes, we soon found what we thought was the perfect place.

The ancient stairs bowed and squeaked under our weight as we ascended to what was now turning out to be some very loud, very Bolivian music. Had there been a real band playing when we entered, I’m sure they would have stopped and joined the other three hundred Bolivians staring coldly at us as we crabbed through the doorway. The place had the all the charm and thoughtful aesthetics of a fifties discount hardware store, complemented only by a few coloured lights, dangerous levels of decibels, a stage and a mob of hostile short people.

A little unnerved, we stole to the bar to order our couple of quiet drinks while the room returned to bouncing along to some panpipe rock. With no table available, we elected to stand in the darkest available corner of this unreceptive upstairs den. After a little while, curiosity got the better of some of the other patrons, and we were called over so they could get a closer look (mainly at Angie and E-J). The first friend I made introduced himself as Fidel Castro- when I laughed he produced an ID card and the name was there- Fidel Castro Rodriguez. He didn’t have the cigar or the beard or the new shell suit, but he spoke Spanish and seemed friendly, so I introduced him to Sam, who was in conversation with someone known only as ‘El Presidente’. We all shared a drink- a shot of orange juice and sangani (the Bolivian national spirit- a clear fluid that tastes as though it may be useful for cleaning purposes).

The band restarted and the room gradually released some of it’s tension, and Sam and I were soon sat down at a table while the girls were passed around the room to new dance partners, much to the disgust of many girlfriends but no doubt fuelling many incredible day-after stories of how “I danced with TWO gringas last night!!!” The drink of the night seemed to be a cola type beverage poured from a jug and consumed from shot glasses. There was supposed to be rum in it, but neither Sam nor I could taste it. Among the noise and multitudes of tiny drinks we shared many private jokes about this being ‘The purest coke I’ve ever had!’ while the locals looked on admiringly.

At least I thought they were looking on admiringly while we downed copious amounts of this brew, and I didn’t notice myself getting rowdier by the shot and toasting Bolivia and Australia, Australia and Bolivia! Bolivia Bolivia Bolivia!!! Fidel and me were starting a whole new brand of diplomatic relations based on soft drink and saying our respective countries’ names. What’s that they say about alcohol increasing one’s confidence? Who cares? I was totally killing it, impressing with each skolled shot. All of a sudden, hometime came, which meant standing up. Curiously, things were very wobbly and a little out of focus. ‘Maybe there was some rum in that coke after all!’ I blurted hysterically at anything that moved.

Cut to half an hour later and I’m in my undies, head planted on the blown plastic toilet seat I’m trying desperately not to look down into the bowl, which is rapidly filling with the night’s excesses. Flopped there on the tiles, between convulsions, I cursed Fidel, cursed Bolivia and cursed my tastebuds for not informing me that those jugs of rum and coke actually contained rum. I also cursed whoever it was that mixed that magic tasteless rum and coke, cursed the bouncer who let us in and finally cursed myself and climbed into bed. The one upside (for me at least) was that I wasn’t Sam, who had been drinking just as much as me, but he had to get up in three hours to ride a mountain bike down the World’s Most Dangerous Road.

Coroico

After the Death Road, we stumbled into the biggest, drunkest street party of the year in Coroico. Never have I seen so many elderly people completely wasted.

Sunset in the Bolivian Hills

Snow in Mendoza

Apparently snow doesn´t fall often in Mendoza, but his morning we woke up and everything was covered in white. On the same day it snowed in Buenos Aires for the first time in 90 years.

Mendoza- a Terrifying Hoax

Another restless night on a bus, and we arrived in Mendoza, a major blip on the backpacker circuit. Something about wine tours seem to attract people here...

The Great Bikes and Wines Tour Hoax

What could be more pleasant than spending a lazy Sunday afternoon pedaling our way along winding roads through lush green vineyards, stopping periodically to sample the delights of the local bodegas? That was the scenario we'd conjured up when deciding that pushbike would be the best way to do a tour of Mendozas famous wineries. The reality involved stark, bare, brown vineyards, wine samples well below par, and terrifyingly narrow concrete roads- unbending and roaring with the hellish sound of Argentinean motorists out for a Sunday afternoon drive to the tune of 120 kph.

More dangerous than it looks

These bikes and wine tours surely only stay afloat thanks to the delusions of thousands of idealistic and ignorant tourists- I haven't heard anyone come away with positive reports of the experience. I did come away with a new understanding of the wine making process- and two bottles of wine- but I'm still not sure that the mortal peril I put myself in was worth it.

The Andes are a pleasant backdrop to a unnerving afternoon.

Valdivia

Uncooperative Sealion

Angie had a close encounter of the sea-lion kind, in Valdivia, Chile's 'Most Beautiful City'. I coaxed her closer and closer to the beast to take this photo, and just as I pressed the shutter release and moved the camera away from my face, a terrible barking roar blasted its way from the lungs of the lion and straight into Angie's red locks. Much to the amusement of the crowd, she covered at least ten metres in the second before the sound died down, skimming across the wet concrete of the markets to safety. That was the photo that got away.

Microseconds from hilarity.

Big Beer in Little Germany

After all the excitement of getting too close to nature, Angie and I, along with our new friends, Heather and Andrew, ate chip sandwiches in McDonalds and caught a collectivo (small rattling bus) to the Kunstmann brewery, just outside of town. There we saw the beer museum, which featured a fascinating display of empty beer bottles from around the world. Australia was well represented, with our national brews of Fosters, Millers and Budweiser making up the collection. The real highlight of this Little German Brewery in Southern Chile was the 2.5 litre column of beer that we drank after- Muy Grande!

Twelve dollars of beer never looked so big.