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.