Toodle Pip

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN the time is upon us. This is our final blog entry on South America, a sad, yet necessary event. Without meaning to be cliched or cheesy, it has quite literally been the most fantastic four months in our past 19 years. Octavia, I will be writing a small ode to you at the end of this blog, however I must continue with the stories to tell on our past week in the small coastal town of Mancora. We headed on up to the very north of Peru, right on the Ecuadorian border, munching on dog food and feeling ever so melancholy yet extremely excited at the idea of being so near the equator and yes, sunshine. The sweat was on as we arrived in 40 degrees heat and desperate for some ocean lovin. We stayed in the prestigious and notorious Loki hostel. We started on bad terms. Lets just say Octavia seriously pissed off the local workmen. They were perfectly smoothing their freshly laid cement on what was to be Loki's new driveway, Octavia, without  noticing, sticks her massive foot in the gooey pile and yes, there is a mark of her slab of ham permanently imprinted on Peruvian soil. It is true that you leave a part of you wherever you go, in Octavia's case, it was not so pleasantly received.
Dragging my tarmaced toenails sadly through the street, we hit the beaches, to be met with gorgeous sand, rolling sea and a cloudless sky. Blissful. These wonders would have been enjoyed more fruitfully throughout our days in Mancora had we not thought it wise to play excessive amounts of beer pong, obtain shin splints from inconveniently placed barriers and catch lifts on the back of a police motorbike when we somehow ended up on the opposite banks of the river. Anyhow. We had a lovely time.

Looking back over the past four months, I think it is justified to say that we've been through a hell of a lot, and yes, believe it or not, we survived. We have quad biked, dune buggied, mountain biked, sand boarded, surfed, trekked, ziplined, tuk-tukked, hitch-hiked (sorry granny), motorbiked and rafted through deathly rapids, andean mountain faces, amazonian rivers, Patagonian glaciers, desert and rainforest to survival. We have scrambled our way up 3000 steps to Macchu Picchu, descended into the deepest Silver mine, tooth picked our way up an active Chilean volcano and cycled down the World's Most Dangerous Roads...to name but a few. Rosie's finer achievements have included getting jammed on a 800m high zipline, imprinting "I love Mum" written in biro on her bum cheek (sowee) on both bedding and loo seats of a hostel and returning with a plentiful swear-word-filled vocabulary list in Hebrew. I, on the other hand, have lost 4 pairs of shoes, thrown a flip flop at a taxi driver's head and gone 8 consecutive days without pooing. No easy feat. We have survived being bitten by savage hounds, falling off the back of vehicles (and a few too many bars) and enduring each other's company for 4 months, that's 17 weeks, 121 days and 2928 hours. Cor.

Yes it has been quite literally the time of our short lives. We have met some incredible people from all over the world- and some not so incredible people. I might just say the latter were 99% Brits. GO ENGLAND. In all seriousness though, I don't think either of us will forget any of the past four months, and yes we are sitting at home right now with our cups of Earl Grey about to say goodbye to one another. Sob. Or not. Octavia it has been a pleasure, I will certainly miss all the ridiculous songs we have created ("Cretins" is my fav), our inane food scoffing sessions and generally your fantastic company. IT HAS BEEN SO MUCH FUN!! I have never laughed so much ever and all I can say is til next time Captain Cobb, WATCH OUT COLUMBIA. I don't really know how we've survived- next stop kidnapping. Kidding.

R Whitcombe, it is tricky to know where to begin. I thank you for enduring my veruca-encrusted feet, my savagely embarrassing dance moves in the public eye and general inability to cross a road safely. I will overlook your more irritating habits, such as making paper cranes the WHOLE time (and I mean the WHOLE time), updating me on excretion habits after every venture to the bathroom  and recounting the tale of me being chatted up by a girl in Argentina to EVERYONE we met. It is no wonder I am still single. I equally apologise for waking you up every morning in an excruciating Scottish accent, insisting we have a "sweet treat" after every meal, and secretly wishing the Israeli kid you snogged was mine. I return knowing that I have laughed more than I have done in my whole life, with a bucket load of sensational memories, and with an extra roll of fat on my knee caps. Team, we thank you so so much for not only reading our blog throughout, but also so many of you for all your support and well wishes (cringe). Parents, I'm sorry for drastically shortening your life span, but you've been brill also.

Ta-ra, signing out for a wee while,

Ocs and Rosie.

Travelling with the gals, Mills and Paris at oir side, we ventured into the city of Areqiupa supposedly Peru{s second largest city.  The only reason we came here was for Colca Canyon, apparently a great wonder of South America, which it was. Apart from the fact that we set off on our day trip at three in the morning, unamused, having had little kip caused by the endless drones coming from Wild Rovers bar, cheers Sean Paul, Occy will ever be a fan. A fun fact- Arequipa, by the way is known to be sunny 360 days of the year. When Occy and Rosie decide to set foot in the city, the clouds decide to form and rain appears to fall. Yes we are the lucky ones. This rainfall continued for the duration of our day trip to Colca Canyon, misery prevailed. Over to you Octavia.
We were less impressed by the selection of tourists gathered around us, one of whom openly criticised my choice of footgear (flip flops) and claimed that I tried to push him off a rock and into the abyss below. Talk about dramatic. We were mildly enthused by the apparition of Colcas famous birdlife, the majestical Condor, although once you{ve seen one, lets face it, you see them all. Thus you can understand our lack of jolity when were told that we had to remain purched on the cliff face for a further hour and a half. It was 5 in the morning. More joy ensued, upon arriving at our lunch destination and being informed we had to fork out an extortionate amount of cash for a chicken wantan and buffet. We sat miserably nibbling on a Ritz cracker whilst everyone around us happily tucked into the surplus supply of food. A true sense of humour failure arrived at the point where we had to wait a further 3 hours in the bus while the richer tourists among us took a dip in a supposed sacred pool in the valley below. After all this malarchy, we eventually arrived at the Canyon, which was very impressive alrhough we ended up spending the least amount of time there which was slightly irritating, we headed on home, a rather sleepy bus journey I must say.
A short stay in Arequipa lead us onto the dunes and Huacachina oasis, a massive highlight so far. A beautiful oasis in the middle of nowhere surrounded miles worth of sand and known for its crazy sandboarding down the dunes. The best thing was sraying in the Cornish owned La Casa de Bamboo, a family run restaurant that had a dorm spare for us four girlies. It was a real taste of home and we felt mummied for the first time in four months. Yes, we were up to our eyeballs in banoffee pie and amazing curry, all homemade, and yes this made us slide down the dunes with ease. We spent our first day chilling by the oasis and soaking up the much needed Peruvian sun. Milly then thought it was a good idea to climb up the biggest dune with a full stomach, Ocs actually made it to the top and Paris shoes were destined to be buried in the sand for life. Unlucky.
Despite the mild cardiac arrest we experienced, we descended and braced ourselves for a day in the formidable desert the next day. I think its fair to say we weren{t quite prepared for the dune buggy ride that awaited us. Thorpe Park, eat your heart out. Our driver had obviously just syringed some drug like substance through his eyeballs and we were forced to cling onto the sides for dear life. It was then time to tackle the dunes. I solemnly swear, sandboarding looks a hell of a lot easier than it actually is, for upon mounting the boards and proclaiming ourselves to be dudes of the desert, both Rosie and I promptly wiped out, tits over arse. After a few practice runs we hit the big dunes, and we decided to defy the socially acceptable and go down face first. An error. Eyes, mouth and nose filled with sand, sun glasses flown off into the distance and all dignity abandoned. Furthermore Mr Acid-fuelled Guide had an impressive view of all our rear ends on the way down.
An amazing few days, not to be forgotten quickly. Lima was to be our final destination together and we arrived in a state of melancholy, having to leave Paris as she jetted off back to the land of home and Mills embarked on her volunteering. Sadly, we departed on less than jolly terms, as Rosie inconveniently decided to throw up all down herslef on the bus and groaned bleakly for the following day. Milly and I expressed our sympathy by building a den in our dorm and proudly naming it Denver Castle. The invalid, and the hostel cleaning staff, were less than amused.
 I cannot describe how irritating it was. Being in a state of food poisoning and listening to a pair of jibbering retrobates speaking in scottish and planning their future careers as tour guides, this was not my ideal situation. However I soon mended and we headed on out to the cinema for an evening viewing of The Great Gatsby, yes in English! It was fab, Leo was on top form and we left feeling contented. After a wonderful week with the gals, it was the terrible two, back together, Octavia and myself hit the road again up to the very north, Mancora and sunshine!

We have finally left Cusco after three amazing weeks of slight madness, and some near death experiences- I'm kidding, no need for concern. We are a bit weepy after leaving the lovely boys though and our fellow volunteers, guys we miss you a lot! Many happy memories, here are just a few...
We can safely say that our stamina has improved immensely over the past few weeks, altitude has got the better of us and yes there have been a few abrasions to the flesh. A night on the toon became a regular occurrence in Cusco. Lads. For example, one recent occasion included hitching a 2 minute bus ride to our 'dancing destination' and Octavia taking the liberty to stand on the back of the so called hippy van. This trembling exhaust was not willing to withstand humankind and so one minute she was there, the next, road kill. DO NOT PANIC AL, ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. Octavia fell on her thigh and was luckily not swept under the vehicle, instead she made her way, with a limp to the nearest pasteleria open at 5am and healed her moment of fear. India and I on the other hand were freaking out and made five journeys back and forth to find the trembling creature who was very contentedly sat in a cafe.
So while I luckily avoided being spatulared off the Peruvian tarmac, Rosie had a close encounter with shin splints on another occasion, thinking it wise to fall backwards off a bar and hence smashing the discoteca's entire supply of alcohol. Her popularity was raging, and, more importantly, her leg was almost halved at the knee. Nice one Rosie. We can say, as a general rule, the Cusquenan mojitos usually resulted in, one, being sick during having our face painted, two, finding the excuse to consume an obscene amount of fast food in the early hours, and three, having to awkwardly explain to the fellow volunteers why the entire contents of the fridge had miraculously disappeared the following morning. Gabby, we will replace your milk, rice and vegetables at a later date/in the next life.
Our day time activities were no less devoid of accident. One sunny day saw Rosie strolling innocently up the hill, to be confronted by Devil Dog inhabiting next door. Attacking from behind, said mongrel went for calves 1 and 2 and consequently Rosie is now frothing at the mouth. Rather inconvenient really. Do not despair, Soph, she isn't barking yet. Its true, I'm not rabid, just scarred for life and poised for attack at any dog that approaches, armed with meat chops in times of desperation. As a treat Octavia, organised a lovely day of relaxation to soothe my wounds, this included a session of yoga, where I'm pretty sure we ruined every ligament in our bodies. Ocs was rather unfortunate in that she had a rastafarian's ass in her face for the entire hour of stretching. Following this was a Peruvian style, full body massage, very relaxing I must say, until it came to the feet whereby Octavia's masseuse fled the building.
Feeling cultural, we hopped on the local bus one day to explore the city's historical heritages. Unfortunately, we missed the stop and carried off into the suburbs and over the horizon, lost and presumed dead by all. Sadly India, who had "fallen incorrectly" during her bungee jump (moron) was forced to limp round the deserted streets in the rain. We shouldnt have laughed. But we did. A miserable lunch of Polleria's fried chicken and a viewing of Jaws 4 in Spanish prevailed. Maybe not as cultural as we had hoped. Still, the intention was there. But disaster was still around corner. Rosie impulsively decided to reinvent her image and bravely frequented the local hairdresser. It was apparent instantly that relevant qualifications were thin on the ground, for Rosie emerged with bowl cut and bruised ego. She looks swell. Attempting to straighten the unequal incline of practically shaved scalp, Mrs Woman next door removed a further 6 inches off Rosie's previously lucious locks, plunging the poor child into a heightened stage of baldness. Tee hee.
But along with the bruises and additonal bite marks, are some great moments shared with the boys. I wish we could bang on about all of them in turn, but we insist upon meeting them yourselves. As a sample, you would be fortunate to witness Edgar's surprising flexibility when it came to the Limbo, Efrain's astonishing dance moves for an 11 year old, Stephen's ruthless charm and killer smile, and Jonathan's mad skills with a football. We are failed in our attempts to kidnap Moses, the baby of the bunch, but whose ego would be enough to make Clooney weak at the knees. We can safely say that we have never made so many hot dogs in all our days, or been defeated quite so often at bench ball. One sunday trip we took the boys  to the forest where we attempted to play our best football, to no avail and ended up being flawed several times down rabbit holes. At one stage, there were 12 volunteers and 4 boys. We lost. A pancake session was in order, which the boys thoroughly enjoyed, demonstrating our flipping skills, Alex was in his element and the boys were in awe of his talents, nice one Al. Octavia and I also invested in a farewell cake which tasted a bit like ash, a nice gesture on the whole.
Cusco, we miss you. Original Volunteers Adios. It has honestly been one of our favourite moments in the past three and a half months and we shall return in true style to visit the boys and raid the restaurants. We hit the road again and journey on to Arequipa with Paris and Milly in tow, until next time.

Having swallowed half the Amazon, and discovering that we need to revert back to armbands, we emerged. And slept well. The following day we set out on our 8 hour trek up the mountains, encountering a shed load of coffee beans, an array of flora y fauna and a monkey making love to a teddy bear. An odd spectacle. We were also invited to zip line 5 km across the Sacred Valley. We´d stared Death in the face and high fived him on many an occasion, so galllantly, we accepted. An all too short safety briefing informed us that we were responsible for our own method of breaking, if not we risked colliding face first with the line stopper before heading over the cliff. Terrific. Rosie, equipt with rusty harness and egg cup helmet, went first, and in superman style traversed the skies with ease. I was about to take the plunge, shaking like a leaf, Mr Man spitting a count down in my ear. "THREE, TWO....oh wait. Your friend is stuck." A chanced a look across the gorge. There bounced Baps, a mere dot on the horizon, dangling over a 200m plummet, in the middle of the line. Stopped. "It is rare that the peoples break too soons," remarked Mr Man with no note of concern. Needless to say, we could hear the curses from 300 yards, and it was only half an hour after Baps was dragged to safety that I finally stopped laughing.
The 4am alarm sounded. It was time. Macchu Picchu was waiting. Pockets loaded with Haribo wiggly worms and the sacred Chips Ahoy, we began our ascent up the 2700 Incan steps leading to the Lost Valley. I´m not going to lie, this was tough. And when you´ve run out of sweets on step 3 and spend the rest of the journey staring at a Russian´s expansive derriere, it is easy to have a sense of humour failure. Nevertheless, we made it, and what a sight greeted us at the top. Calling on Planet Earth, if ever a moment, go. It is truly breathtaking. Rosie and I nailed the cheesy photos, sleepily barged our way through a selection of fat tourists, confronted a lama face to face and left having truly found ourselves on the Incan peaks. What a day.

We are currently residing in the beautiful Cusco, working in a boys orphange for three weeks and having a blast, with many a tale to tell at a later date.We miss you all and crave a hearty baked bean or two. By the by, we found Marmite the other day, for all those concerned with our health and sanity. We´re off to buy peas, rope and straws for the rather dysfunctional Olympics we´ve organised for tonight. Don´t ask. Until nexr time readership. We love you all.

The day dawned bright and sweet, with Rosie and I looking like we´d been put in a blender. Why oh why had we thought Mojitos were a good idea. I shall never know. The windiest of bus journeys followed, admittedly through the stunning landscapes of the sacred valley. Our first activity consisted of a momentous 3000m downhill bike ride in the rain, rather refreshing considering we were both on the verge of bundering everywhere. We got to know our team pretty well, 6 of the funniest Israeli´s we´ve ever met, a top dollar American and hands down the most vulgar Russian we´ve ever met. For our multiple readers in Russia, don´t take offense, I´m sure the rest of you are great. This kid tended to complain a lot about the lack of tea and 5 star service, shrieking when Rosie repeatedly kicked her shin "accidentally" under the table in risking having a fork plunged into her skull. Anyhow, when the afternoon´s activity was upon us, Rosie and I were concerned to note that we were the only ones partaking. "I´d rather live" remarked one of the more obnoxious members of the group, while others patted us on the back with phrases such as "see you in the next life." That´s right, we were going white water rafting down the turbulent rapids of the Sacred Valley. Just so we´re all clear, Rosie hates water and was convinced she was drowned as a witch in a past life. Talk about dramatic. So inevitably, there was a lack of enthusiasm on the river bed, when we were presented with a small dingy with holes in, and limited safety equipment. Noting her palid complexion and trembling hands, the guide suggested Rosie sit beside him, for comforts sake. Yes, everyone, I was freaking out. Talk about the river frothing at the rocks and death staring me in the face. Octavia literally had to carry me into the boat. The guide told us we had to sit on the edges for a more éxciting´experience. Furthermore some Frenchy ´rafting expert´tells me very seriously that three people died last week on the waters of doom. I lost total faith  that day and nearly concussed Octavia with my paddle for making me do it. I will admit though it was a great laugh. More than that, I almost peed, especially after the first grade 4 rapid during which I turned to see Rosie half out the boat, legs in the air, held to the guide by a mere whisp of hair. Trying to save your own life whilst in hysterics is no easy feat. The time came when we were at a more calm station of water, we got out of the boat to have    drift down the rapids and were told to swim to shore, I made it successfully. Occy on the other hand, lifejacket over face, continued to drift down the rapids, unable to make it to post 1. The guide unleashes the rescue rope and expresses some form of alarm. He appears even more concerned when instead of pulling Occy to rescue, he gets dragged in himself. All was well, five Frenchmen later and half-drowned Octavia, we were good to continue down the rapids.

After stocking up on pancakes in La Paz to make up for our traumatic experience, we jollied along to Lake Titicaca, the highest fresh water lake on da planet. We made use of our time appropriately by topless sunbathing on the shore and destroying our chests. An error. We´re still peeling. Copocabana was very beautiful and notorious for its adjoining island Ísla Del Sol. On our last day Ocs and I decided to take the three hour boat ride across to the Inkan Island for an explore of its famous ruins. For a start the boat was the slowest form of transport we´d ever come across, we could probably swim faster than it. Prior to this Octavia and I had taken the liberty of wearing shorts thinking the sun would hold out for the day. No. It did not. We were sat at the top of the chug chug for three hours solid with icicles hanging out our noses and Octavia declaring hypothermia. Once we finally arrived, we were not particularly amused by the endless payments we had to make for just walking on the pier. Nevertheless we carried on, with waning optimism, excited about walking around the Inkan Island, only to find out that, oh, we had to pay an extra 25 Bolivianos to walk- talk about human rights. Seeing as though we had 10 Bolivianos on us to last our final day in Bolivia, we had to scrape by on this and skip our meals, not something we like to do. The ruins were not the most impressive thing we´ve seen, we couldn´t afford a guide so decided to take matters into our own hands and guess where the ´Sacred Table´was. As Octavia prominenetly said, "there´s only a certain amount of Inkan wall I can look at." So, several bricks later, and a "sacred table" which looked like it had been comissioned by Ikea that very morning, Rosie and I decided we had had enough, and contemplated throwing ourselves into the icy water to end our misery, and avoid paying an additional 300 Bolivianos for the privilege to be able to breathe. We hopped on a night bus for our last border crossing, and onto Puno to the Peruvian shores of the Lake. We arrived in the dead of night, no hostels booked, no map to hand and with only a few measly crackers lining our daysacks. Life was bleak. Lets just say, Puno was a dump. It had nothing going for it other than a shed load of cat litter and multiple Pollerias. The worst was yet to come. We were shoved into a marital suite in the nearest hostel we could find, "Hostal Palace" which consisted of a solitary hole in the ground in which to pee and someones name traced in poo on the walls. To quote R Whitcombe, our marital sheets smelt of "disinfectant, stale yoghurt and bum." Judging by the lilac wall it looked like some cretin had been through severe ´cold Turkey´ and furthermore, on reading the register book, no one had stayed in sweet Hostal Palace since 1988. We fled on the earliest bus to Cusco the next morn.

Our bus journey to Cusco was long and for the last hour we had some bloke selling laxatives in a packet, whilst repeatedly showing us images of mangled body parts and obese gringos. Occy considered investing in a sachet in which I politely declined for her, reminding her that, yes, this was Peru. With our bowels still in tact we arrived in Cusco, and reunited with the gals from La Paz. After seeing Cusco in the flesh, we were amazed, such a beautiful city with many a great cafe. We unwisely hit the toon, frequenting Peru´s most tragic club and sadly squeezing in a mere 2 hours sleep before hitting the jungle, and the far off fields of Macchu Picchu...

We arose, nervous, sweating, and with a fresh pair of underwear in our day sacks, about to take part in what can only be described as a suicidal mission towards the grave... Death Road. Known for it's sheer cliff faces,  erratic weather conditions and quite literally the worst terrain in South America, Rosie, Kirsty, Grace and I sat silently during the bus journey, wondering what on earth we'd signed up for and praying that our bladders kept it together. Our fears were swiftly set aside when we were presented with our riding gear, I'm not going to lie, we looked awesome. A pleasant down hill ride of an hour or so set our adrenaline racing and all looked well and bright, until we landed at our fateful destination. The first few minutes didn't bode too well as Rosie swiftly crashed into a small ditch and upon remounting my bike I immediately fell to the floor. Despite the probability of us returning to our parents in bin bags, we set off, in the mist, wind and fire (ok we lie, there were no flames), taking care not to look at the 4000m plummet to our left. Once we'd settled into our seats, we picked up the pace of the downhill ride, Octavia taking the lead, looking like a true boy racer in her tight lycra and motorbike helmet, oh so flattering. There were a few wheel skids to say the least, and yes I did get grit in my eye at one point and nearly went over the cliff. Grace, worried for my life was kind enough to stop and wait, although I did have the emergency backup van up my ass. His name was Solomon and he had an eye syringe at the ready. Not needed. I powered on like a don. After an eventful days ride and a narrow escape from the Grim Reaper himself, we got our T-shirts, which looked like the garments worn by the staff at The London Dungeons. Enough said.
Our last nights of Loki hostel in La Paz were no less eventful, including forming a beer pong team named "Baps and Ass" in reference to our admirable assets and having no competition ( a sad and lonely affair), partying in the streets in our pijamas after a failed "early night" and consequently devouring half a packet of cornflakes whilst walking round in circles for two hours to sober up. Tequila, we hate you. Loki kitchens, we apologise. We were ready to get back in touch with nature. Rurrenebaque, in the heart of the Amazon jungle, we were destined.

A bag of popcorn for breakie set us on our way to the rainforests of Rurrenebaque. The plane was miniscule. We were squashed to the windows like flies to a swatter. It was a ten seater plane and Octavia and I happened to be sat behind a man with the worst case of halitosis. The 35 minute flight was swift and we landed in fields of green, quite literally no runway, possibly a solitary orange flag. We were hailed at the 'airport' by motorbike men, offering taxi rides to the small town. We couldn't resist. Occy, was the picture of beauty and grace, tottering along on her motorbike, sack on her back, nearly toppling off at every corner. We were met the following morning by a 4WD and the rest of our fellow intrepid expeditioners, Nick and Joe from London, Tilda and Katie from Bristol and Maya and Lotte from Denmark. What a team. We arrived on the shores of the Amazon and presented with our bateau, in which we cruised lazily through the water, spying natural wonders such as camens, sloths, tiger herons, storks, and the biggest rodent on earth whose name we fail to remember but who strikingly ressembles Rosie on a Monday morning.
 Cheers for the lovely compliment Choccy Cobb, I do remember the camens who incidentally will eat anything, being utterly repulsed when your feet were let loose in the Amazonian river. Touche. Back to the blog.....the next few days were spent, anaconda spotting, piranha fishing and yes, swimming with wild pink dolphins. A true experience of a lifetime, Ocs was particularly popular with the dolphins, being dragged along  for a good five minutes by the fin, meanwhile I had one pissing next to me, my horizons were truly broadened I must say. It was amazing though, despite being eaten alive by mosquitoes, a magical few days.
However all this was without its fair share of Occy and Rosie drama, this time in the form of yet another blockade, although on this occasion slightly different... a wall of seething locals armed with stones, spears, and yes...machetties. Our car threw us out and sped quickly off into the dust, a sign we took with confusion. Tentatively approaching the mob, we asked in our most polite english whether it was possible to pass and catch our flight which was scheduled in less than an hour. A rock to the eye informed us that no, it was not possible. Dodging the pile of stones and debris over head, we reconvened with the other 40 terrified tourists and devised an action plan, involving bribing a local family to take us an alternative route around the blockade. Little did we know that this involved wading through previously untrodden jungle territory. The local family themselves were terrified and would only accept 1000 Bolivianos to help us avoid the angry mob. We found ourselves wading through knee deep swamp land and barbed wire, having to keep extremely quiet in the process, in fear of the violent locals finding out our escape route. It was scary. The lowest point arrived with the fear of us being pursued by the more agressive members of the pack, which prompted Rosie to elbow her way to the front of the queue, flooring a shoeless Canadian in the process and disregarding the fact that she was tit deep in swamp. They weren't. But the danger wasn't over, with sunset swiftly approaching and our plane already passing cheerfully over head. Three hours later, we emerged onto the beaten track, sweating, dehydrated and smelling of dung. We felt very victorious however and our agency gave us free Cola on the other side- cheers for nothing. Our flight back to La Paz was rescheduled the next day, we were lucky escapees.

Apologies again everyone for Octavia´s atrocious spelling and grammar below....mine will probably not be much better. After leaving the abyss, we headed on to Sucre, the judicial capital of Bolivia. Very beautiful in its architecture and surroundings. Unfortunately Occy was unable to witness said beauty, being bedridden from so called ´poisoning´ of the gut. This left me the lone ranger, to wander at will around the parks and read Steinbeck....tragic. Once she was back on two trunks, Octavia and I walked to the top of Sucre, listened to some traditional music from a local band and went in search for a bar, which took us all night. We arrived, had a Cola, and left. Best night eva. We managed to squeeze in a local dance display with native costumes and masks before heading to La Paz, for what promised to be a whale of a time.

La Paz. A city on a cliff face. Quite literally huge. Ocs and I arrived, early morning with icicles hanging out our nose having had a blasty night of freezing to death, no sleep and a packet of cookies at three in the morning for body warmth. We made our way to Loki hostel accompanied by our new friendd from Denmark named Andes and Andes, both blonde, both tall and incredibly loud. We love you kids. We spent our first day getting to know this massive city, hitting the cool markets, going extreme on the alpaca jumpers and came back to a loud hostel, feeling slightly out of our comfort zone being the youngest and hence ended up in ´Dumbo´ for supper, yes it had balloons and  kids party area. Once we´d decided we were utterly sad individuals, we plucked up some courage and actually made some friends. Admittedly the first two were Israeli clingers, not much escape for Cloc and Rose.

But as the nights of fun, frollocking and fleeing wore on, we became incredibly close knit with our dormitory members, who, combined, made up the biggest bunch of misfits on planet earth, all of whom we cherish and are worthy of a mention. First up, we have Devin, correct, spelt with an "i", who swiftly became our guide/ mentor/body guard. At 6 foot five, armed with spectacles and the most horidious display of shiny shirts (dont take it the wrong way Dev, we adore you), Dev was pretty much our life saver in terms of nights out in La Paz. Moving on, we had several Frenchies, Max the mighty, Lew and Anne the party animals and some more Israeli´s on the side who I may have accidentally insulted without realising they were in the room.

With our valid, mighty dormies, we had many a crazy time, thursday night the eve of my 19th.... Ocs and Rose were joined that eve by none other than the almighty Kirsty Landale and Grace Harbage, wanderers from the North and suitably mud coloured from their adventures in central america. An absolute joy to see them! We had a celebratory bangers and mash and then got rather innapropriate on tequila, resulting in another visit to the world renowned "Hard Rock Cafe" and bundling Rosie up in a taxi immobile, being taken into the suburbs by a total creep of a driver "YOU WANT DRINK?" No thanks, we choose life in this instance. Lo and behold we switch taxis to find ourselves with an even bigger moron, who swiftly conned us out of most of our cash (made worse by the fact that Rosie had just thrown up on my leg) and left us abandoned in a deserted street. I hit him in the face, never knew I had such a punch in me and am now considering WWF. So we arrived back at the hostel, having lost my new jumper, my new cap, (stolen by ratman) and the majority of our dignity. Dev was in his element, sat poised at the end of the bed and threatening to tear cap thief to pieces, "does he know I could kill him. I´m a marine for gaaaad sakes." Let´s consider that this guy also has an I love Mom and Dad tattoo posted on his left arm.
Lets just say it was an eventful 19th for me. I awoke, still drunk and deluded with a blurry candle and plate of muesli at the end of my bed which the one and only Oc had so sweetly done for a birthday treat. Anything can be cured by fodder. We had a chilled evening and mentally prepared ourselves for Death Road the next day.......

Hi there and hello! We apologise yet again for the short spells of silence over recent weeks. We vow to get our acts together and thank you for your continued support! We also seem to have forgotten how to spell, so again excuse the slightly insulting regard for the Queen´s English.

We are enjoying a totally crazy time in Bolivia and are fairly convinced that the cheap way of living, bowler hats and lama curry are for us. So we made our humble way from Uyuni to Potosi, the world´s highest city, to check out the notorious silver mine industry that the region boasts. We received quite a shock as, with oxygen in limited supply, we found ourselves having to make time for countless "little sits" to avoid cardiac arrest when walking to our hostel. We also experienced our first taste of real Bolivian travel, with 80 of us being abandoned by our mug of a bus driver and told to walk through 4km of lorry blockade which the locals had so conveniently arranged for us that day. Heat. Sweat. 20 kg of luggage. We almost had to be spatulared off the cliff face. An adventure none the less. The next day we plunged ourselves into the mines, at 4800 ft for a truly unforgettable experience. For one, our ex miner tour guide was hot, a rarety as a severe case of underbite is prevelant here. It was also truly eye opening for us, as we had no idea as to the extent of activity which still goes on in the mines, the effort involved to extract even a morsel of precious silver. To throw some fun facts of the day out there, the average life expectancy of a Bolivian miner is only 55 years old, the youngest worker in the mines is currently 14, on average only 4kg of silver is discovered in one tonne of rock, it takes 3 hours to drill a 15 inch hole into the rock, and the most frequent cause of death in the mines are caves in, caused by dinamite, as health and safety appeears not to be a top priorty of the Bolivian governement. So Rosie and I enjoyed signing our lives away to a death contract before getting kitted up in bolilersuits, helmets and some very becoming booties. We then were taken to the market to purchase some treats for the miners, as payment for not hacking our limbs off with a pick axe for when we invaded their territory. We were then led into some rather tight wee holes in the dark and damp, whereupon Rosie´s head torch bit the dust and she was left to scramble Golemn like alone. We found her. Phrases such as "avoid the 16 meter cravass to your left please" and "get off the rails, a 6 tonne waggon is approaching at break neck speed" from our guide were common. However, we couldn´t get over how chirpy the miners were and how bleedin hard they have to work. I myself tried to shovel some blasted rock into a bucket with a spade and ripped my trousers open in the process. An embarrassing moment. We were rather pleased to reach the light of day but emerged super chuffed with ourselves. It´s not every day that your hair smells of noxious gas.

Arriving back at Sol Atacama at four in the morning, opening the door and finding our hostel owner, Andres himself scantily clad in swimshorts and sandals, half strewn across the ping pong table. We didn´t know where to put ourselves and tried to quietly sneak to bed when the beast awakes. He angrily approaches us saying ¨where have you been?!¨ Octavia was quivering at this point and all we wanted was a mug of matte and a pillow. We meekly replied, that we had been to a lame party with Victor. Shit hits the fan, beer is spilt, ping pong bat hurled into our clean washing, we scurry into a corner and poise for defense as Andres expresses ¨but why? Victor! he hurt you? This is my problem. You come to my hostel, we have fun, play ping pong, have a laugh, then you leave me at night.¨ Ocs had a dumbfounded expression on her face and I couldn´t hold the laughter off. Creeping towards my mug of tea, I turn round to see Andres face-planting himself on Octavia, which she nimbly dodged to avoid floppy fringe in eye and a severe case of Chilean cretinism. Eventually we escaped to our room, only to hear Andres prowling outside and I kid you not ringing up his relations to form an army against Victor and hostel, and yes his distant cousin, Juan, arrived on the doorstep the next morning. The most terrifying human being we have ever seen, missing tooth, you name it.
It was time to flee yet again, before we too risked a machettieing from Andre and clan. We took a quick trip to "Valle de la Luna" which was incredible, and also saw the incredible sights of "Valle de la Muerte", or, Valley of Death which we would have quite happily pushed Andre into at that moment in time. We arose the following morning at 4am to embark on our much anticipated salt flats journey to Bolivia, praying for some slightly more decent company. Who do we end up seated beside in our 4WD, but "Urma," the most terrifying Norweigian lesbian alive, three times our age, and claiming to be the "grandpa" of the group, shaved head, with a serious case of "I know everything." We were, however, blessed with a gorgeous guide by the name of Mauritio who led us over the border and past the most spectacular white, green and even RED lagoons, from where Flamingo´s get their pigmentation. We stopped for a delicious lunch by some Volcanic "geysers", narrowly avoiding being spat in the eye by molten sulphurm and had a dip in some hot springs with a fantastic view. The two nights we spent on the tour were equally amazing, especially as at 4800 meters above sea level, Rosie and I wore our entire rucksack and sleeping bag to defend ourselves against frostbite.We finally hit the salt flats on our final day, with an early rise to watch the sun come up. It was the most amazing day, and we have some very cliched photos coming up, beware. Once arriving in Uyuni, we were shown this incredible train wreckage, which had been there for years, such a fantastic tour considering we had paid cheaply and were expecting our guide to be drink driving acroos the salt flats in our jeep- a tale we had heard many times before. We got off lightly.

To all and sundry. Occy currently has food poisoning after I tried to kill her with a leg of chicken which she then ate raw and vommed. Fear not Al Cobb, she is bedridden but its a mild case of self pity and general woe at not being able to scoff. To get back in the game, Ocs and I would like to apologise on behalf of the poor wifi recently as we have been jumbled around in the Atacama desert for the past week. We would both like to commence with a huge shout out to the one and only gingernut Squeezle Bullard and congratulate her on 19th birthday, we were thinking of you on April 16th my friend. 
So this time last week or so Captain and I headed northbound to Salta in Argentina, excited and intrepid. Total ghost town. So Rosie and I fled to hills, thinking it wise to test out our limited quadbiking skills. Again, utter disaster. I have never seen so much poo than on the bottom of Rosie Whitcombe´s flip flop (a poor choice of footwear I might add) and I almost drowned us in a nearby river after taking a corner a little too over enthusiastically. Yes it is true Octavia´s driving skills were quite something. Several wheel spins later and we managed to head through the mountain ranges of Salta, following our lovely motorbike guide who wasn´t particularly impressed with our lack of social skills. We stopped for a nice view on a hilltop. It was a very tranquil scene, birds singing, sun shining, utter silence when suddenly Octavia decides to release a build up of wind at the most peaceful moment of the day. The poor guide turns a horrified expression on us and swiftly starts up the quads to relieve Occy of the shame. I must say, I was not the only red faced wonder in the area, shortly after Rosie took the most inconvenient wrong turn on the way bound, resulting in me expelling her from the bike and zooming off until she was a dot on the horizon. Luckily, she was saved by Mr Man on motorbike. Young love. Shortly after, we headed to San Pedro, home to one of the most inhospitable deserts on planet earth. Especially as it is also the residence of one, Victor, who hands down in the most vile hostel owner on earth. As an indication, he dumped his girlfriend on the grounds that she didn´t cook for him after a hard days work, picking his bum and eyeing up all the tourists. Being on a tight budget, we opted for the cheapest hostel in San Pedro, that goes by the name of Sol Atacama, a name that haunts Occys dreams. Little did we know that, the owner happened to be Victors arch enemy, the one and only Andres. More on that story later...
Opting for a chill day, Rosie and I were decidely unimpressed with the days activity. Hence, we decided to chop off my hair. That´s right, everyone, I look like my brother, or, as is more affectionate, Gerard Depardieu. A new me. The following day was epic, allbeit bald. Rosie and I found ourselves experiencing a rare feeling of weightlessness in one of the desert´s saltiest lagoons, plunged ourself into the "ojos cejar", two freezing fresh water pools, and watched the sun come down over a further lagoon, where we appeared to be walking on water. We might just be Jesus.
We spent a lot of our time being tied down with Andres, having to play endless ping pong and laugh at his dreadful jokes as well as listen to him bitching about Victor, we sensed a severe hostel rivalry within San Pedro. Wanting to relieve ourselves, we hit the town for a mojito or two. Who did we run into, the ultimate chauvinist himself- Victor, beanie complete. We had no escape, he dragged us off to an éxclusive´party which consisted of no more than four people, therefore we had to endure a solid 2 hours talking about himself. We did another runner, only to be met by a worse feat back at our hostel....adieu for now the best is yet to come....

Just experienced a rather tense moment, engaging in a virtual battle on the computer with some twerp trying to book the last remaining seat on the bus, Baps successfully seated, heading to Salta, while I was facing yet another night curled up in the kiosc. I won. No one defeats the Oc.
We departed from the black sand lake shores of volcanic Pucon to Valparaiso, up the coast of Chile. Nothing much to report other than the place is infested with cats and graffiti, and we discovered several pubes on our pillows on arrival. Aside the grunge, Valparaiso itself is very bohemian and brightly coloured, and our hostel very quirky, with an ace panoramic view of the port. We managed to dodge the locals, who regularly came out with rasping phrases such as "So farrr, so good," and "trust no one," and spent a very worth while couple of days soaking up some rays on the beach, and listening to some absolute music gods blasting from the local restuarant. Life was good. Although half my lower lip has been singed off and Rosie was serenaded, or accosted, by a moustache with legs and a guitar on the bus home.
We escaped back across the border to Mendoza, Argentina´s alcoholic alcove, from which 70 percent of the entire country´s wine comes from. Mindblowing. And potentially lethal. We hopped straight onto some bicycles to do Mr Hugo´s Wine Tour, visiting some of the finest wineries the region has to offer. With the blood-pumping cycle and an empty stomach (a rarety for me and RW), we soon found ourselves rather merry on a selection of red, white, sweet and sparkling wines (new found love for fizzy red wine- bizarre!) For the QM girlies, it will be unsurprising to learn that my taste buds are still to develop from wine tasting in upper 6th, and if put to the test once more, it is more than probable that I would score 0 out of 20 yet again, although this time, I probably wouldn´t win a sympathy biro for my efforts.
Joining us on the wine tour were some lovely girls we had befriended in the hostel called Ali and Natty. After leaving our first vineyard Florio we wobbled our way to our next stop. The roads were perfectly straight and we were feeling good about life when suddenly Mr Policeman on a scooter decides to rock up and tag alongside us for the ENTIRE duration of our wine tour. Slightly creepy. When we were tasting the wine, he parked himself outside the gates, when we were on the road he quite happily made himself available. By our 4th vineyard we were getting irritated with the man. Ali, slightly jolly, turns around and demands an explanation. Mr Policeman exclaims that it is ´his job´ to accompany us, I quote ¨to protect yourself from harm and traffic.¨ There were no cars on the road. Our tour continued with four 18 year old girls in absolute hysterics. A minor bike crash eventually resulted in Mr Policeman getting on his radar for immediate backup. Not necessary. We were pulled over off the road for a severe lecture and from then on were escorted by, I kid you not, two policeman on scooters and one police truck, siren included. Octav accidentally bears left instead of right, Mr Policeman takes this as a sign of confirmation that she is incapable of ´road safety´ and therefore insists she gets into the police vehicle at once. Meanwhile I fall off my bike from laughing too much and declare that I will buy baldy policeman a wig if he releases Octavia from potential incarceration. It is sad the fact that we were not that drunk, although Ocs was offering Mr Policeman a sip from the bottle of wine in her basket that we had just purchased and demanding he wore her bright orange sunglasses to ´improve his image.´ No wonder we nearly ended up in jail.

The following day was spent mostly in bed feeling rather sorry for ourselves, the night spent consuming yet another bottle of wine and busting a move or two on the Mendozan town. We decided that a wee trott in the Argentine countryside was the best hangover cure and set out once again on horse back at sunset. The selection process was rather more nail biting, as, being a group of 8, we had to be matched to our steeds. I almost passed out as i realised that the only horses left available to me were either a squat, hacked off - scuse the pun- looking donkey, or the most terrifying beast I have ever laid eyes on; a black stallion by the name of Samuel, a.k.a... Black Death. Luckily, I got stumpy, while Rosie was sat upon the snacker of the pack, Miguel. The ride was stunning, we didn´t fall off, and, though I may say so, we looked rather good. We also fell slightly enamoured with the head Gaucho, nimbly mastering Samuel at break neck speed and making Zorro look rather inadequate. Coolest man alive. We had a riot with the pack over a traditional "asado," or bbq and took on a ridiculously good looking Dutch man at a ping pong match. Signing out til Salta- hopefully we´ll make the bus.

With our second boarder crossing under our wing, we headed on into Chile to the small town of Pucon. As is customary on arriving at a new destination, Ocs and I decided to dump our stuff in ´Nature Hostel´ and brave the streets once more for an explore. We ended up lounging on a pier in the midday sun and fell asleep. Ocs decides she wants to take a walk and visit the monastery, I decide to be lazy and read my book.  Half an hour goes by and I´m enjoying the peace and general tranquility of the lake when suddenly out of nowhere a hand touches my shoulder and a distinct ¨where are you from?¨ is breathed into my ear. My heart sank. Some pretty rapid thoughts of how I was going to escape entered my mind. At one point, leaping off the pier was a necessity. I was thinking, where is Occy. Having to talk to the supposed ´mountain guide´cretin for about an hour was interesting considering he was on his 10th beer and kept on asking if I ¨would like a kiss¨ no thanks beer breath. I´ll take a pass. He apparently comes to the pier everyday to ´be at one with his soul.´ Total bollocks, he´d blatantly been in his van waiting to pounce.  Octavia finally rocks up, having been ´spiritually enlightened´ by the monastery and assumes I have found my one true Chilean love on the pier when I´m actually making desperate hand signals for a swift rescue. She just wasn´t getting it.
We eventually managed to make an escape, leap frogging off the pier and making our way for some relief icecream. Dulce de leche yum yum.
Day 2 in Pucon, the Tat and I decide its time to break the mould and ride some poniieeess. We were driven from our hostel to an amazing little farm just outside of the town. We were a little nervous, Ocs was absolutely bricking it and kept on having to dab her forehead with a wet flannel to stop the sweats. After mounting our noble steeds we were led on up into the mountains, taking it easy at first. Octavia was trailing at the back, saying she wanted to ´connect´with her horse so as abstain a bucking. Mr Guide was having none of it, wanting to pick up the pace of the trek he got a branch and sent Octavia and her horse flying off for a good old gallop, with Ocs almost having a nervous breakdown in the process. A good day, with delicious homemade empanadas at the end in true Chilean style.
An early rise in Hostel Nature, it was the day of the big climb. Yes to all you people out there, Octavia and I were to launch ourselves up an active Volcanoe, all 2850 metres of it. Last erupted in 1984. We literally looked like the biggest professionals, with our gaiters, walking boots and yes pickeaxes for the big ascent. I think its safe to say it was the most physically challenging thing we have ever done, only stopping twice on the way up. It took us five hours to reach the top, climbing against the wind with constant dust in our faces, we turned 3 shades darker than before. We felt soooo good when we made it up and had the most insane views of Pucon and the lakes.
Our last day in Pucon we could barely move, Ocs was bed-ridden and I couldn´t remove the dust from my eyebrows. We decided to hit the hot springs for some healing. The locals told us we shouldn´t wash afterwards so that we could be spiritually cleansed properly. Not sure if that was such a good idea in our cases. We rocked up to the pools and couldn´t quite figure out how they were naturally preserved so beautifully and how the water was SO warm. Ocs being ever the curious one decided to hunt around for hidden jacuzzi pipes or ´man-made´ holes to prove her point , disturbing the locals in the spiritual moment with her splashes and exclamations of ¨This is definitely a con.¨ Oh Octavia. To be continued....

Greetings from Mendoza! We've had three hours sleep so apologies if this post comes across as a little eggy. I write to you after being hit in the face with Rosie's travel pillow for singing in public and almost being denied entry into Argentina at 4 in the morning, as I had misplaced a piece of crucial documentation. As a result, Sergeant Snotty in the migration booth gave me a right rollocking. I may have ressembled a turd in a grey zip up hoodie at that particular time, but I definitely do not look like an accomplished drug smuggler. Moving swiftly on.

You will be surprised to know that me and Rosie actaully survived the night in Bariloche, managing to squeeze into the last two beds in the entire resort. Unfortunately this meant being in seperate rooms, with me sharing a bunk bed with an Israeli taking god-only-knows-what through his eyeballs in the early hours, and Rosie beside someone who seemed to enjoy a greater social life with cats than the general public. However, the place had pancakes for breakfast, so all was well. But the best was yet to come. This Easter, Bariloche was homing the largest hand-made chocolate easter egg on the planet. On the. Entire. Planet. This was to be distributed on Easter morning, free of charge, to a gleeful public.

Rosie and Oc vs The Locals.

But not even sharp elbows and butch war cries could get us to the front of the queue. This required some imagination. Awkwardly leapfrogging the metal barrier under the eyes of the bodyguards and the majority of the Argentine population, we whipped out our cameras and hazzarded a claim that we were from the media, and that it was in the journalistic interest of Great Britain that we be among the first to sample the masterpiece. They bought it. Sweet success. We stuffed our face, despite the queue of starving children stretching 5 miles behind us. We are awful human beings.

Hi diddly ho! So, as mentioned, BA was left in high spirits, our last night involving us being caught up in a brawl and having someone's nose bleed down my arm as I affectionately shoved ice in his face. I was also chatted up by a girl named "Joy" and described by an Austrailian Hammer-Head Shark look-alike as "a good sort." Charmed, I´m sure. Rosie successfully locked up all her possessions in her locker, including her key, so a good half an hour was spent watching her prodding twigs through the bars in a vain attempt to salvage said belongings. I shouldn't have laughed. But I did. As punishment, Rosie locked me myself in one of the cages with the rescued key, and conveniently "forgot" the key again. A bus journey of tense silences led us to Bariloche, in the heart of the Argentine Lake District. And it was lush, so very pretty. We set up base in our own wee wooden cabin, and the next two days were spent lazily by the gorgeous lakes and watching the kite surfers do their thang in the glorious sunshine. A momentous event also occured for Rosie and I, (note to mum, wobbly alert)... we hitchhiked for the very first time. Our second successful attempt entailed being told that the murder rate of tourists in Bariloche is off the scale. Ah. Yet we were not to be disheartened. Lining our pockets with jagged stones, and - in Rosie´s case - a small boulder, in the event of attack; we point blank refused to walk the remaining 6 km and found ourselves bumbling along in the back of a van to our fire-lit cabin. Maybe not a good idea.
We were eagerly anticipating the following stage, where we had organised to do a ranch for four days, picturing ourselves galloping gallantly in the wind on two noble steeds, fighting off forest bears from our tent under a star-streaked sky, and feasting on barbeques morning til night in cowboy hats and the skins of the slayed animals of the day on our backs. We were to be the next Gauchos in town.Well, now. We made our way boldly 40 minutes up the mountain, following signs to our meeting spot "el catedral," as instructed by the chief, erm, rider. Standing proudly in the pouring rain at the entrance, 10 minutes passed. Half an hour passed. The hour was almost up. It was time to take action.
 "Excuuuuuse me," I pleaded with a suspicious looking local selling soggy biscuits, "Is there another place called Le Catedral in the area?"
"Yes," he replied toothily, "Le Catedral de San Juan, the mother of all churches. In the centre, 45 minutes."
... Bollocks. So, checked out of the hostel, with no buses running til Easter Monday, Rosie and I had no choice but to eye up the surrounding bus shelters for the coming night's accomodation. Destitute, miserable, and not a saddle in sight. It could only happen to us.

Firstly, to all you folks reading up on us in Austria, we appreciate your support. All 36 of you. So the week started in high spirits. We crossed to the Argentine side of the falls to be greeted by Mr Man at hostel, who tells that his other profession is a masseuse, because he finds it, and we quote, "sensual." The creepiness is heightened as he enjoys cleaning the pool, talking to the debris in phrases such as "come to me baby," and offering to give us a massage after dark. We'll pass. Another time maybe. To reiterate the Falls were INCREDIBLE, totally different experience offered on the Argentine side. We were perched right on the end of the waterfall, above the heaving abyss below. We felt very small in comparison, and even put up with looking like a pair of nitwits in respective blue and orange ponchos. Mind blowing experience, a MUST for anyone planning to go.
Moving on from the falls we embarked on our extremely well bartered bus journey to BA, involving  luxurious cama seats and even champagne. We were in our element. However we were stopped six times throughout the journey for regular passport checks and even had the sniffer dogs on board for a short while. Cloccy was cacking her pants- aware of the large selection of oreos hidden within her backpack. We arrived in BA, so excited and smelling horrendous. Honestly the coolest city alive, so wacky and so much happening all at once. Finding our hostel was another story, walking past it about 4 times before realising it had been there all along. Nice one. Arriving at the front desk we were met by 'Alberto,' a greasy man, with long locks and nipple piercing otherwise friendly enough and were told "welcome to Milhouse, a place to party" cheers mate but all we want to do right now is cleanse. He also told us our room would not be ready for four hours.
Therefore we decided to sunbathe on the rooftops of BA and burn in true English style.
First night was spent DOWN WITH DA LADS, sipping on beer and watching the football, the only girls in the room. Naturally, we attracted the attention of all the miserable squits who happened to be lurking in the shadows. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a chair swings passed our faces and plonks itself in our direct line of sight. If I hear the question, "Wherrrre are you from?" one more time, I swear, I'm going to stick my 20 hour old sock in his cake hole. Yes, you were thinking correctly, it was the group of Israeli blokes eyeing us up like lettuce, or - in our case- prime rare fillet steaks, the moment we walked through the door. There was no introduction, no "can I buy you a drink?" just pure harassment and invasion of space. We felt attacked and naturally became defensive, I brought out the fists whilst occy brought out the feet. Furthermore, Ocs and Rosie's alter egos were born. Tired of explaining our life stories no fewer than 30 times an evening, Fatima and Daniella were born, members of girl band "Sexual Malfunctions," shot to fame through our number one single, "Chillin with ma Day Sack." I also managed to pass Occy off as Alex Salmonds daughter and myself as 'Miss Cambridge 2013.' Weary from our identity fraud, we hit the bunk beds, to arise at 4 in the afternoon the following day. A tough life.
Saturday, ready to parddaaay hard and hit the all famous clubs of BA. Ocs and I put on our gladrags and headed on down to club Terazzas, one of the biggest clubs on the scene. We arrived, both bursting for the loo after one too many 'Eva' cocktails at Milhouse. After seeing the queue for the ladies loos we decided to explore the club and found a private section, the bouncers personal lavatory. Occy managed to relieve her bladder whilst I sat impatiently outside when Mr Big shot bouncer comes along, with a pistol and severe expression on face. To be plain we had to do a runner and move swiftly on to the mens where we also got kicked out. With Terrazas six dance floors, we had no option but to sing for our supper. A flick of the hair and a free bottle of champagne later, we braved the outside dance floor and boogied the night away under the stars until sunrise. A magical evening.

Buenos Aires has proven to be a huge success and we have definitely made the most of it, checking out the local polo match, eating at Siga La Vaca- the best steak eveerrrrr, and being overcome by the moment and adding an additional piercing to our bodies! Before I knew it, I was staring at a spear through my stomach while Rosie had to endure a rod through her nose. What were we thinking? We desperately made our way to Recolecta, Argentina's famous cemetry to pray for our sins. Closed. To add insult to injury, I proceeded to pour half a bottle of iodine over Rosie's face which gave her the appearence of a slightly moustachey Simpson for the afternoon. Our last day in BA though tops off everything. We decided to take a tour of the amazing La Boca, with its quirky neighbourhood and colourful houses and felt very part of the Argentine life, watching Tango over lunch and overseeing a local football match. We didn't want to leave at all. However, I'm sure some were glad to see the back of us, including "Lars" the Norweigian scapegoat who we bad mouthed on several occasions, and the poor dear who Rosie flashed in our dorm after I accidentally used her towel as a bath mat. Not popular. Next stop, Bariloche.

So it[s been a funny sort of week, and Im currently unable to locate an apostrophe or question mark on this keypad. Not too disasterous. I write to you, team, on Argentine soil- Rosie and I made it over the border without being shot\ handed to sniffer dogs as pedigree chum. Note to self, exclaiming `Jeez, I`m so chuffed we havent been imprisoned yet,`at migration control is probably not the best way to keep a low profile. I have to admit, we were rather glad to leave Florianopolis and the non.stop.rain behind us, although not before being conned onto a pirate `party` boat ( 50 Reales to spend the day flaring our arms to `Living da Vida Loca` with a bunch of 60 year olds, and hence throwing ourselves over board), Rosie discovering a new found talent for Hip Hop after several caiparinhas and having to rescue her neck from being inhaled by some slobbering Spaniard and me loosing myself in a moment of irritation and throwing my flip flop at a body guard for refusing me entry into a club oweing to my present choice of foot wear. Cheers, mate. We then embarked on our first long-haul bus ride of the trip, during which I had to endure Rosie`s putrid breath in my right ear for 18 hours and had to put up with Portugese-dubbed Snow White on repeat. The reward was waiting for us at the end of the tunnel, however, as... well Im going to hand you over to Rosie now as Im literally lost for words (further more I have flies buzzing round my head which may be an indication that I need to shower...desperately.) After arriving in Foz do Iguazu at 7 in the morning, we had to wait for another hour for the local city bus that would take us into the centre. Feeling over-tired, grundgy and having nearly lost the will to live, a glimmer of light appears at the bus station. God himself, in human form. I am not kidding when I say this, all you ladies out there will know what I mean, this man (or supernatural being) was UNBELIEVABLY GOOD LOOKING. Sod Florianopolis- its all about Foz bus shelter. When our bus finally arrived, he hopped on with us and yes he helped us with our bags and yes he decided to come to the same hostel as us, which by the way was in the middle of nowhere. IS THAT FATE OR IS THAT FATE. Question mark. Anyway, our next 2 days involved seeing the falls which were an incredible wonder of the world. Ocs and I only had one poncho to share between us so looked like a pair of idiotic siamese twins wandering around taking photos alongside the chinese with their exceptional technical tablets. I`d just like to say Mr Man or `Golden God`as we`ve now christened him came for supper with us, Octavia and I tried not to be oursleves and held back on the seconds...I`d just like to point out he was called Nick and had a great set of teeth. Slightly dodgy-he worked for a software company and wore a top inscribed with the word `dork` on it. But we can bypass that tiny blip. Ocs and I are currently in mourning over his absence and have taken to sniffing the discount ticket he handed us so kindly this morning. What a babe. He is also a good century older than us. As one always says, you can look but can`t touch. Now going back to normality...Foz was pretty cool and we only got lost once, this happened to be on the way to the Farmacia where Octavia had to play a game of charades in order to get some `Verrugas` solution for her gammy toe. This involved her literally planting her infected plate over the counter into the poor pharmacists face so he could get the correct medication. Happy days. Tomorrow we take an excursion to see the other side of the falls and maybe plunge underneath them in a boat. God be with us. Ta ra for now.

After gaining some serious skills in the samba club, Ocs and I emerged sweating and in hysterics. Upon leaving the club, Occy was approached on the stairs by a couple of local lads who held out a mysterious paper thin white element to her, Occy, feeling jolly, piped up "Ooooo, a breath mint, for me? How kind!" Quickly, I strike and remove the, and I kid not, slip of LSD away from Octavia's unknowing grasp. Baps saves the day- and Occy learns a valuable lesson, a very funny moment of the night nonetheless. Unfortunately, our time in Florianopolis has not been sunny, quite the opposite so we had several days of giving up all hope of escaping the hostel as, at one point, Ocs and I found ourselves wading knee deep through water in the streets on our way back from the shops. We just love the rainy season.

We are writing to you now from Florianopolis in the pouring rain, having eaten what we can only assume was placenta for lunch and pot noodle for breakfast, missing the buffet by no more than 4 minutes this morning. Things are getting desperate. Calling the mothers, we miss you. The beginning of our trip was admittedly filled with greater jollity. Our first day we spent on the beach, basking in the sun and laughing at Rosie spluttering in the shallows. It was also the first time Rose and I tried to surf, which was about as successful as cooking this afternoon. Having got ourselves wedged in the bus turn-ball with our boards, almost decapitating an array of innocent bus goers and spraying sand in the bus drivers' eyes, Baps and I scrambled off apologetically and hit the waves. First wave approaches, Occy is poised for the attack. The board slips straight from under my arse and whacks me in the face; the wrist strap and adjoining rope snap. Everyone watching. The shame. We further this embarrassment by later singing loudly to the Chicago soundtrack and attempting to emulate Robbie Williams and Nicole Kidmans "Something Stupid." In hindsight, not the best way to make friends. We treat ourselves to an acai yoghurt, unavailable in Britain and SO GOOD, and supposedly aid weight loss. Evidence is pretty thin on the ground thus far. That night, after insisting that the supermarket Bolognaise sauce contained meat and ending up - well, wrong- and dining on rice, egg and tomato sauce; Rosie and I have our first taster of Samba that evening. And I have never laughed so much in my entire life. Full of slinky Spaniards and prowling Portugese, we discover that even insisting that we are lesbians does little to dissuade the locals: " May I have your girlfriend for this dance." Thanks, but no thanks. Put it this way, you know if your partner has eaten cabbage for supper.

A three quid flight the next day (god bless Judiś TAM discount card) brings us to Florianopolis, home to, and I quote, "the most beautiful people on earth." We disembark practically drooling at the mouth; the thought of a swarm of male Brazilian elite too much to bear. At the airport we decide to take the cheap option and get a bus to our hostel. Clever kids. Whilst waiting in the bus shelter we get approached by a Florianopolin wearing sleezy shades and shitflicker shoes who attempts to bundle us into his sinister vehicle at the price of 40Real. Not cool. Occy and I look at one another and decide to take action. This kids not taking US down a dirt track. Occy started sniffing suspiciously around the 'cab' checking for license plates. We found none. With her bag half hanging out of the blackened boot Occy turns to me and says "Baps. Its your call. Do you want to get into the death wagon with this slimeball?" To which I reply, "this kids a birk and will clearly take us to some cellar." Letś bear in mind that this dudeś English was red hot. Without further ado, Rosie and myself decline forcefully and, feeling both mature and sensible adults, return to our pews at the bus station. Moments later, enter kid number two. The five minute wait has already made us irritable, so in spite of previous success, we allow ourselves to take the plunge, and put our lives into this manś hands, or should I say, leather strewn boot of his car. We make our way bravely to Tucano house for 20Real, desperately trying to memorise every sign post we pass in the event of calling the RAF and saying our Hail Maryś when Akonś "I want to make love right now" is turned up on his radio.

Who do we meet, but the Argentian cretins themselves, adorned with tank tops, tattoos, and suspicious linen trousers. Escorted to a party on the beach, Rose and I sweat like no tomorrow and attempt to mirror some sexy salsa moves. And fail. A desperate escape back to the hostel after STI kid goes in for the kill leads us to cake and Haribo worms for breakfast. Delish. A lazy day on the beach is followed by an evening on fleeing from the merry men of the South, who we run into on no fewer than four occasions. What are the odds? We take a hike up to Lopes Mendes beach which was GORGEOUS, and subsequently burn. To compensate we eat an entire packet of pasta between us and brave the town once more, becoming acquainted with the likes of Andre and Felipe, who, although a tad less IN YOUR FACE, still come on a little too strong for the English bred young ladies. We scarper once more. The clock strikes twelve, and O F Cobb turns 19, sipping on a passion fruit caiparihna and overlooking the Brazillian sea on the peer. Not. too. shabby.
Leaving Ilha Grande was sad but we were ready for the next stage ´Floripa!`We started our journey back to Rio with not too many delays on the way. It was such a relief to be back in Leblon and after a sweaty morning of travelling we were so ready for a shower and some Judi love. However, the porter did not have Judi`s key, by this stage Ocs and I were on our last legs and ready to collapse. An exceptionally nice man from the apartment above Judi offered us to stay in his house for a while as we waited for Judi`s return. Ocs and I leapt to our feet as we were led to this extremely smart apartment overlooking Rio`s most spectacular views, he gave us his fruit bowl in which we completely indulged ourselves. The first major breakthrough of Tats` birthday!  Judi got back and treated us to the most amazing Thai takeaway and we slumped in front of Argo- a great finish to Occys birthday, we´d had enough Caiparihnas to last us a lifetime and now were ready for a Coke and bed at Judis for what was to be our last leg of luxury in South America.

hewoooo everyone! we are sorry to have been lying low for a wee while- but finally, here it is, our first post in South America!! We've been here a week now which is bizarre, and you"ll be happy to know that we're still alive and kicking and, contrary to popular expectations, we still have all our limbs attached and Rosie hasn't been married off to a native quite yet. After nearly not making it through security, running into a fat bloke, nearly leaving my boarding card on our first flight; Ros-bean and I got stuck into our movie marathon on the plane, and eventually touched down after irritating the majority of the passengers by my insistence that Rosie took a whiff of my feet. HELLO RIO!!!! Despite no sleep and smelling faintly of cat nip, Rosie and I were bundled into a car and whisked off into the heart of the Brazilian jungle by a family friend who lives out here and is very kindly having us to stay.
After a two hour drive into the mountains and a leisurely Brazilian pasty stop, we eventually arrived at our final destination. Absolute paradise. Judi's country retreat was a buzzing jungle of purple lent flowers, 'old mans beard' and a gorgeous river. Ocs and I were welcomed by seven dogs yapping at our feet, an extremely strong Caiparihna made by Judi and a much appreciated dip in the pool. We definitely succeeded in filling our stomachs up with excesses of curry and peanut butter sandwhiches throughout our stay in the mountains as well as lazing in the hammocks and idolising the 40 year old lawyer Darcy from New York; Judi's guest and a very cool person to know.
Our first few days of Rio were no less jam-packed. Rosie and I officially took our first steps out into the independant world, sweating, shuffling suspiciously and looking like total morons in bum bags and socially inacceptable sneakers. Spot the Brits. Off we set to the beach in all our finary, Rio's famous and excpetionnally glamourous Ipanema, where men strutt with nature-defyingly enormous abs and girls whose bodies make us want to hurl ourselves off a building. To console ourselves, Rosie and I did what we do best in times of body insecurity: we ate. And I'm telling you, the gateau price out here is dangerously low. Rom nom. We then waddled across the city to visit Pao de Acucar at sunset, which was breathtakingly beutiful, especially as we found ourselves in the middle of a storm- the cable car ride down was a barrel of nervous laughter. We then took touristing to the next extreme level and woke up at 7 in the morning to jolly along thorugh the jungle in a unnervingly ancient tram to the outstretched arms of Christ the Redeemer, which was again stunning once we had poked all the other tourists in the eye and out the way. We then hit the botanical gardens, emerging quite at peace with nautre, to discover that we hadn't been in the botanical gardens at all, but a small private park. Good one. We arose the next day after a sushie feast that night, and had a rather unfortunate run in with the washing machine; an event which proved quite plainly, that we need help. We proceeded to walk around lost, ate some more, sat on the beach sipping on giant coconuts, came back, snacked and then went out for a meat feast. Best. day. of. our. lives.
ILHA GRANDE. Renowned as the mini Ibeza of Brazil. Please. Setting off at the crack of dawn was tough, Occy and I emerged from the apartment still stuffed with beef and still wanting food. First catastrophe of the day- our cards refused to work which meant no cash for Oc-dough and myself. Putting this initial fear aside we managed to make it to Angra Dos Reis and when our cards STILL didn't work, we freaked out, sat down, and ate a packet of crisps. Finally we managed to man up and get some cash that would hopefully last us for the next few days. Whilst waiting for the ferry boat across to Ilha Grande we stumbled across some suspicious looking cretins from Argentina. Assuming they didn't understand English, Occy piped up "that guy in the white vest has got STI written all over his forehead." He heard. We ended up having to spend the next 2 hours on the boat with them, sharing our ipods, talking about Harry Potter and general small talk such as "do you play a musical instrument?" It was starting to get dull. Arriving on the island was exceptionally cool, it appeared to be a very bohemian place, plenty of dudes with dreadlocks- clearly Bob Marley fans. Our hostel Studio Beach had a great atmosphere although very different to staying with Judi. Ocs and I had to quickly fall into the routine of sharing a ten dorm and one measly bathroom the size of a cupboard. Oh so hygienic. Our dorm had lockers for valuables and being the keenos that we are Ocs and I immediately put away our belongings, securing them tightly with our coded padlocks. Ten minutes go by, Occy decides to she wants her camera out of her bag, goes over to the locker, tries to open her padlock. Nothing happens. Occy trys again, with a bit more force, to no avail. We find the padlock is jammed with all of Occy's valuables inside, what a way to finish a fantastic day. The end result was our hostel owner having to saw off Octavia's padlock into pieces and nearly chopping his fingers off in the process. Well done us.
The night is still young. Rosie and I decide to make ourselves look more presentable and slightly less resembling a pair of unkempt meerkats. This seems to have worked, as we are soon acosted by a swarm of Brazillians. More on that story later....

Hello everyone!! We are totally useless bloggers but hopefully this will keep you up to speed with everything!