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.