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.