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.