Not your average airport

Looks like beach, doesn't it? It's Santa Marta airport. We're saying goodbye to Carl's younger brother, Nick, who has been travelling with us for a week or so. With a view like this, it's a wonder anyone ever gets on the plane!

Just one of those days when nothing goes right

The local port at Cartagena resembles a garbage tip and the boats don't look much better

1. Arrive at the local port in Cartagena. It's looks like a garbage tip, but its bustling with activity. People cart goods from the nearby market and pile them into long wooden boats, none of them seaworthy vessels. The taxi driver reluctantly lets us out of the car and warns us to be careful. We're looking for a boat to take us to Playa Blanca, a beach about 40 minutes along the coast, but we haven't done our research. All the passenger boats to Playa Blanca left at 8am. We're two hours late, but undeterred.
2. We negotiate a ride on a cargo boat, which is meant to be leaving in 20 minutes. We watch as the boat is loaded with food, cleaning suppliers and two massive beer fridges. An hour later, the boat is full and we're wondering where they're going to try to squeeze us in. An hour and a half later, they decide there is no room for us. They tell us to come back tomorrow. We're still undeterred.
   
3. We head to the tourist port and try to bargain a fare on one of the tourist boats, but the captains there know we have no other option. They all insist we must pay double to go today, so we finally give up on Playa Blanca. As we walk back to the hostel, we realise that today is a public holiday. Everything is shut, which means there is no point staying in Cartagena. We decide to head north along the coast to Santa Marta.
4. We ask at the hostel where we can buy tickets for the bus to Santa Marta. Here, we're told by the lady at the front desk. She rattles off some bus times and we agree a price. It's more than we should pay but they're going to take us to the bus station. Too damn hot to be walking around with your pack on.
5. A car arrives. The boot is full with another passenger's bags (we'll call him Mr Baggage). The driver doesn't falter. He gestures to us to get in the back. We ask where we should put our packs. He points to our laps. It dawns on us. The hostel didn't buy us bus tickets. This car is our transport to Santa Marta and they expect us to sit for four hours with our packs on our laps. We're not happy, but we squash in and hope that we're wrong. Twenty minutes into the journey, we're really not happy and we're making our feelings known ... very clearly and with expletives. The driver pulls into a service station and calls for a new car. We're relieved.
6. A new bigger car arrives, complete with grumpy driver. The boot is still too small to hold our backpacks and the seven suitcases the other guy is travelling with. Emma's backpack ends up on the seat next to her, but we're comfortable and finally on our way to Santa Marta.
7. Half an hour up the road we pick up a new passenger - a big big man who snores. The air conditioning is so cold that Emma has to pull her sleeping bag out of her pack. The driver continues to scan the road for more passengers. He wants a full car. We just want to get to Santa Marta. We cruise past large horse and cattle stations, haciendas and restaurants with giant barbecues out front. After a couple of hours we drop the big big man at the turn off to Santa Marta ... and we head in the opposite direction.
8. The driver stops in front of a house in Barranquilla. He tells us that this is as far as he goes. We remind him that we've paid for a fare to Santa Marta and this town is only halfway. He doesn't care. He goes no further and that's that. Mr Baggage discusses our options. They agree to get another car and driver to take us to Santa Marta. But we have to wait half an hour.
9. Half an hour later we have a new driver and a new car. It's a ute, so we throw our luggage in the back in and get going. Abraham, our new driver, is crazy. He drives at speed and speaks with both hands. He's also scoffing back some cheese and chicken snack, which he shares with us. We think we might die, but we kinda like this guy.
10. Ten minutes later we stop out the front of a large apartment building. Two beds are loaded into the back on top of our bags. Everything is tied loosely with some frayed rope. It's a quick stop and soon we're back on the road ...
11. Or are we? We stop again five minutes later to pick up an envelope. Another quick stop, but we're starting to wonder if we're ever going to make it to Santa Marta. We've been travelling for four hours - that's how long it's meant to take on the bus and we're only halfway.
    
12. We stop at some lights in a rundown outer suburb of Barranquilla. Abraham locks the doors and gestures down an alley. It's full of crack heads. We look around us and realise that we are in crack city. There are crack heads everywhere. One stumbles across the road in front of the car. Abraham swerves, unfazed, and continues his conversation with Mr Baggage. On the other side of the road is a large building. It looks like a dodgy Taj Mahal. We ask what it is. A motel, says Mr Baggage. Abraham makes an obscene sign with his hands and we understand. It's THAT kind of motel.
13. Half an hour later, we're stopped by police. A small bribe and a couple of gringo jokes and we're on our way. We cross a river and Abraham explains that the river runs the length of Columbia, from north to south. Abraham and Mr Baggage start arguing about Australia. Is it an island? What country does it border? Is it near France? They're clueless, but suitably impressed when we tell them that it is an island more than double the size of Columbia and there are only 20 million people living there. There are more than 50 million people in Columbia.
14. We're on the road into Rodedero, not far from Santa Marta, when Abraham slams on the brakes and jumps out of the car. We've lost one of the mattresses from the back and didn't realise. Abraham is not happy but he knows there's no point going back for it.
15. It's dark. This journey should have taken four hours and we've been going for almost seven hours. We have one more stop though. Abraham stops in front of a house and heads inside to explain why we've arrived with two bed frames and one mattress. We get out and start unloading them from the back. They agree that Abraham will buy them a new mattress. Carl and Nick take the bed inside and we're back on the road. Nick is wondering why the hell he thought it was a good idea to visit us in Columbia. We try to convince him that this is all part of the fun. We try to convince ourselves that what we are telling him is true.
    
16. We tell Abraham where we need to be dropped off. There's a cheap hostel just back of the main street of Santa Marta, but he doesn't think its safe enough for us. Are we sure? he asks us. Yes, we tell him. We're sure we want to get out of this car and frankly we don't really care about the quality of the hostel. Reluctantly, he pulls up in front of the hostel. He leaves Mr Baggage with the car and escorts us inside. Sure, it's not the prettiest hostel but it's functional. He doesn't buy it and offers to take us to the most expensive hotel in Santa Marta. He thinks we'll be more comfortable there and that's where Mr Baggage is staying. We decline and try to reassure him that we've survived worse places. Finally he relents, gives us his business card and tells us to call him at any time. Be careful, he warns.
    
17. Now we're sitting in a greasy little restaurant on the waterfront, eating dodgy burgers and fries. We can't believe we finally made it and that we haven't been mugged. Then again, the day is not quite over yet ...
    

The city that moves to the beat of a different drum

A fruit seller takes a break from the heat

You want hot? You got it, and then some. This is South America with a Caribbean twist. It's palm trees, steamy humidity and sea breezes. It's tropical fruit, pulsating African beats, cobbled streets, and rainbow-coloured colonial houses. It's Cartagena de Indias in northern Columbia - two hours by plane from Lima, but a world away from South America as we know it.

One of two forts built to protect Cartagena from pirates

Cartagena was once a major northern gateway to South America. The first slave ship arrived here in 1564, with thousands of slaves destined for all parts of the continent, and the city never looked back. It flourished a key trading port for the Spanish - everything from gold to slaves came through here at some point - and a major storehouse for treasures plundered from the Indians and bound for European shores. This, of course, made it quite an attractive target for pirates and buccaneers.

Forty feet high and fifty foot thick walls were built to keep the pirates out, but the lure of such a booty was hard to resist. During the 16th century, the city was attacked at least five times by seafaring pirates. In desperation, a couple of forts were added to the entrance to the bay, linked by a large chain which was pulled high to stop unfriendly boats that sailed into port in search of gold, and this seemed to do the trick. With 2500 poorly trained men, Don Blas managed to fend off 25,000 English soldiers and their 186 ships, and Sir Francis Drake was finally sent packing.

Cafe del Mar - the perfect place to relax on a warm night in Cartagena

These days the city is still under siege, but by tourists not pirates. The city walls still enclose the old town and, inside, chilled bars and cafes hide along the cobble streets. The boat ride to the forts takes you past small islands with rundown beach towns, where people dive into the water fully clothed to cool off and five-year-old kids swim effortlessly in the sea, like they've been doing it since the day that they were born. Our guide, Fernando, unsubtly leaves us stranded on the beach in the small beach town of Bocachica, where we're instantly surrounded by necklace-sellers flogging their wares. There's no work on the island, and no fresh water or agriculture, so Carl's brother Nick (who has come to visit us for a few days) takes his first hit for the team and makes a couple of purchases. We translate, sit back with a cold drink and wonder how life got to be this tough.

Carl and Nick enjoy a cold drink on the beach after a tour of the forts

More photos

Big cities are bad

We've come to an important realisation: big cities are bad for our health and bad for our budget. Four days in Lima have been a disastrous concoction of booze, bad food and very little sleep. Today we've consumed a record amount of crap hangover food: Burger King, Pizza Hut and Dunkin' Donuts (seriously how disgusting is that?). In our defence though, we:

1. were celebrating Waz's 31st birthday. We even visited Hooters - "I've never been to one before," Waz begged. Yeah right.
2. have not seen an American fast food joint since Buenos Aires. Absence apparently does make the heart grow fonder. Unfortunately, it doesn't make the food they churn out taste any better.
   
3. cooked a meal for ourselves last night and the night before. It may have been too little too late, but we've got to hope that reversed at least some of the damage we've been doing to ourselves over the past four days.
   
4. managed to squeeze in a touristy site: a visit to Pachacamac, the ruins of the ancient Wari civilisation covered in sand until the 1940s.
5. HAD LOADS OF FUN!
   

Next stop: Columbia!

Conquering Huaytapallana: back at altitude for a glacial hike and Waz's 31st birthday

Waz looks tough on the outside, but Waz hurting on the inside

We nearly killed Waz on his 31st birthday. Well, not us per say, but the altitude and the hike we went on nearly killed him. It was only a five hour hike to the giant glacier of Huaytapallana in the central highlands of Peru, but I think it felt worse because we hadn't been at altitude for a couple of weeks. And because our guide Willy made it look easy. He strode on ahead, while we inched forward, dizzy and gasping for breath.

We're not even sure how we ended up in the central highlands. We'd vowed to avoid altitude after Cusco - it's too damn cold and too hard to breath with your head in the clouds - and yet here we are, going on glacial hikes that take us to 5000m and nearly killing Wazza.

The Huaytapallana glacier

Lucky the view made up for the pain. The glacier is a third of the size it once was, but it's still enormous. And spectacular. And ours to enjoy. There was not another soul in sight and when we reached it, it snowed.

Along the way, Willy stopped to tell us about the plants - "this one is called the 'Mother-in-Law' because when you sit on it, it hurts" - and the terrorists that once haunted the valley and the villages in it.

Willy tells us that the people here suffered a lot at the hands of the notorious Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path) and the El Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru (MRTA) guerrillas.

"There used to be a dairy farm up here called Hacienda Acopalca owned by a Swiss man, which employed a lot of the local villagers" he tells us. "It was destroyed by the guerrillas, leaving the people with no way to make money. Finally, now that it is safe, a French woman has come to teach the children and adults new skills."

Willy remembers the nights when the Shining Path would knock out all of the electricity in the villages and light up the countryside with fire, their logo burning bright for miles. "We used to go out and watch," he said. "You could see the fire clearly from my house near Huancayo. It was a warning."

The Shining Path leader, Guzman, was caught in this valley in 1992. He was caught by the Police, walking into the village of Villacoto dressed as a woman. His capture spelt the end for the Shining Path.

If you ask Willy, getting rid of the terrorists is the one good thing Peru's ex-President Fujimori did for the country. In 2000, Fujimori fled Peru amid accusations of human rights abuses and corruption. In 2007, he was sentenced to six years imprisonment for various offences and is serving his time in a Peruvian prison.

Willy calls Peru "one of the seven wonders of the world" - not because of its spectacular natural scenery or Inca history, but for its politics. "Did you know that our current President, Alan Garcia, once robbed Peru of millions?" he laughs. "But we have a law for politicians which says that if you stay out of the country for 10 years, the slate is wiped clean. You can come back and you're free to stand for President again."

Despite all this, Willy is passionate about Peru and Huancayo, his home town here in the highlands, in particular. The area has a rich farming history. Willy tells us that the area is known as the "refridgerator for Lima". It supplies Lima with the majority of its fresh produce, - everything from bananas and corn to artichokes and more than 90 types of potatoes.

It's also the place to party. "We have more parties than days of the year," Willy says proudly. Each farmer holds a party each year to mark their stock. In most parts of Peru, these parties last a couple of weeks. In the central Highlands, the parties go on for three months. "We love to drink too - we have 12 types of beer and we also have liquor," Willy says before listing them.


Waz gets a twinkle in his eyes, but it's not meant to be. Drinking with locals at this altitude would surely spell the end for us all. So, after enjoying a late lunch of fresh trout, served by a tiny Quechuan woman, we say goodbye to Willy and board our overnight bus. Our birthday fiesta for Warwick will have to wait until tomorrow when we reach Peru's capital, Lima.

More photos

Time to shake off the sand and hit the road

We don't want to leave, but we've nothing left to conquer here. No more adventures to be had in the dunes. Yesterday afternoon we climbed to the top of one of them with a couple of beers to watch the sunset. Damn dunes are higher than you think. It took 20-minutes of calf-crunching climbing to get to the top to watch the sunset. And less than a minute for the boys to race down in it in a final test of their testosterone levels. Now its time to leave this desert oasis. Next stop: we haven't decided yet!

More photos

Yeeeeeeeehhaaaaaaaa!

Our beast of a dune buggy - the only way to travel in Huacachina

Forget camels. The only way to take on a sand dune is in a big green beast of a dune buggy. These big boys don't just drive, they roar, powered not by fuel but by testosterone. It's like a rollercoaster, but better. Your stomach lurches as you drop over a ridge and fall down a giant sand dune. Your head spins when the buggy defies gravity on the side of a dune. Want more? Grab a sandboard and hurtle down the nearest dune on your stomach. Eat sand. Strap it to your feet and tumble down in a heap. Eat more sand. It's one of the best adrenaline rushes we've had in a while.

Click play to watch Carl eat sand

We're in Huacachina, a tiny little oasis town not far from the Peruvian coast. There's not much here: four streets surrounding a slightly smelly lagoon, palm trees, hotels and a hell of a lot of sand. We're surrounded by hulking sand dunes on every side. They loom over our hotel, like they're just itching to swallow us up.

Testing your testosterone levels on the sand dunes is the main activity here. After that, the only thing left to do is sit by the pool with a cold beer ... and plan your next crazy adventure in the sand.

More photos

Uncovering the secrets of the Nasca

The hummingbird, the largest Nazca figure

"Now amigos, look to the left, look to the left, look to the left. You see? You see? You see?" said our pilot, Angel (no joke, that is his name).

It was hard not to see. Our plane was almost vertical, circling over the famous Nazca pampas. We had nowhere else to look but down from this angle. Angel was pointing down to the hummingbird figurine below and looking at us expectantly.

A viewing platform far below

"Si, si, si, we see it Angel," we said. Now turn around, put both hands back on the steering wheel, and watch where we're flying. And while you're at it, make us a little less vertical.

We'd been in the air for about 30 minutes. The hummingbird was the 8th Nazca figure we'd seen carefully drawn in the ground below, and like most people we're baffled about their origins.

Some people believe the lines are ancient running tracks or UFO runways. But a more believable theory is that the area was once a river, which supplied the ancient Nazca civilisation with the water they needed to survive. When a 40-year drought left the area dry and starved, the Nazca people, it's believed, turned to shamanism to communicate with the gods of the mountains and the rain. After all, some of the figures are important shamanic symbols, intrinsically woven into Peruvian history.

True or not? I guess we'll never know.

More photos

The hidden nuns of Monasterio de Santa Catalina

The Monasterio de Santa Catalina was founded in 1579. In those days, if you were the second daughter in your family, you were expected to dedicate your life to god. If you got lucky and your family had some cash, this is the monastery you'd pick.

Here, you could enjoy all the trappings of a normal life - parties, visitors, arts, nice furnishings. But then one day a miserable man (I think he was a bishop?) rode into town and spoiled everyone's fun. Eventually, the nuns were forced to retreat into the monastery, into a life of silence. They traded through wooden grates, hidden from the outside world. They constructed private cells where they could lead isolated lives, protected by high walls.

Then, in 1970, things changed again. Recognising the monastery´s value, the Government demanded that some sections open to tourism. Now, you can wander the small alleys, marvel at the mix of colonial and native architecture, and indulge in a glutenous dessert in the monastery´s cafe. And, if you're lucky like we were, you might just catch a glimpse of one of the 30 nuns who remain hidden in a small section of the monastery, while the modern world buzzes around them.

One of the nuns does some washing on the roof

More photos

Such laziness ...

Canon del Colca

We talked about hiking to the bottom of Canon del Colca, one of the largest canyons in the world (100m long and up to 3000m deep), but in our heart of hearts we all knew it wasn't going to happen. Still, we jumped on a bus and rode the six hours to Cabanaconde, a small town at the furthest end of the canyon. It was late when we arrived, so we ate some alpaca, helped a local boy with his English, and went to bed telling ourselves that we'd see how we felt in the morning.

Morning came. We got back on the bus, stopped briefly at a lookout to watch condors fly over the canyon, got back on a bus and headed back to Arequipa.

Twelve hours on a bus to watch condors for 10 minutes. Go figure.

A condor soars above us in Canon del Coca