Sympathy for the Devil

The Cathedral in Sucre. Closed, obviously.

Now then, now then. After the excitement of the leather faced Kiwi´s departure, you could quite fairly suggest that whatever followed would be something of an anti-climax. And while you would, in some respects, have a point, that fact should in no way detract from the blinding, stultifying, almost-so-bland-it´s-impressive pointlessness of Peru´s capital, Sucre.

Famous primarily for its use in pub quizzes (no, La Paz is not the capital - this place really is), Sucre is as a quaint a city as you could hope to encounter, but utterly devoid of character. We arrived on a Sunday, but all the churches were closed. This was a little bizarre, but when they remained closed on Monday, we started to wonder why. The doors remained bolted on Tuesday, and we were seriously asking ourselves what the hell we were doing here. The honest truth was "not very much at all". We ate good food in the touristy, but lovely, Bar Florin, feasted on  wonderful chocolate from the fabulous Para Ti, and grabbed some great pizza. Our hostel, the Cruz de Popayan, was unremarkable and more than a little dirty. Our trip can best be summed up by my personal highlight - visiting a local tailor to get my backpack fixed. We swapped stories, mainly using Lou´s ever-improving Spanish, laughed, suggested bands he might like, and marvelled as he chopped my rucksack to bits with his bare hands before reassembling it as a surgeon would a leaky aorta. All of which was pretty cool, but not really city highlight stuff. Which was Sucre all over.

Next up was Potosi, the highest city of its size in the world, and largely unremarkable save for the numerous mines housed in the Cerro Rico. Brought to the world's attention (or at least the attention of fans of German documentary the world over) by the wonderful The Devil's Mine, the silver mining industry that once made Potosi one of the richest cities in the world is now a slightly tragic affair. The relatively high pay that miners can earn, along with international demand for silver, ensures that the mines keep operating, but the conditions are truly abominable. Deaths and serious accident are a regular occurrence, while those that don't die in the mines are also certain to never see fifty, their bodies hollowed out by acute lung diseases and their blood riddled with chemicals and toxins.

What makes this ongoing horror show all the more poignant is the presence of a few hundred children, some as young as nine or ten, working in these mines. Forced by grinding poverty to help boost the family income, perhaps the cruellest irony is that many of these youngsters are only there as their fathers have died a miner's death. All of which made the hour we spent walking, climbing and crawling through a working mine all the more special. Having stopped to buy dynamite, drinks an gloves to give as gifts - and yes, you can buy sticks of the stuff in a grocery store here - we entered a world unlike any other. Dodging the hand-pushed carts that rattle, Indiana Jones style, along poorly lit tunnels, the air became gradually more oppressive, the light somehow cloudy and more dangerous.

By the time we stopped at a small shrine to pay our respects to the Tio (Devil) that guards each mine, we were in quite a state. Splattered with the blood of slaughtered animals and littered with offerings of cigarettes, coca leaves and beer, the idol was all the more petrifying because of the obvious fear and respect is commanded in the miners. Though good Catholic folk above ground, they believe that Christ's dominion stops at the door, and here so close to hell they must turn to Tio to keep them safe. And, whether thanks to Tio, good fortune of the Lord himself, we escaped the mine unscathed and better people for having visited.

The miners themselves, working up to twelve hours a day in conditions that boggle the mind, treated the few strange Gringos who paid good money to gasp through their workplace with a bemused courtesy, unfailingly polite even as they risked life and limb to feed their families. We particularly enjoyed handing over the dynamite, fuse and all, and getting thanked warmly in response. Not something you get to do every day.

Many of the miners turn to drink to help them cope with the lives they lead, though they do so mainly at home or in some of the small bars away from the centre, and away from the small number of tourists that pass through Potosi. And so it was that we found ourselves celebrating the 'One Night Only' return of the lovely Choppy in a frankly bizarre Karaoke bar cum pub cum weird sex place just off the main drag. Drinking rum by the bottle and confusing the locals with both our song choices and interpretations thereof, Scott and I rocked out (what would later prove to be the first of many renditions of) the Phil Collins classic Easy Lover. All of which, and getting to bed just before 3am, meant that the seven hour bus trip to Uyuni the next day was pretty horrific. As was Uyuni itself, an unforgiving dust-bowl of a town dropped, as if by the hand of a particularly cruel town planner, slap bang in the middle of a sodding desert. More disturbing than the town itself was the surrounding forest of plastic bags caught on bush scrub that surround the place, a scar of epic proportions stretching as far as the eye can see. Somewhat bizarrely, we also had one of the best pizzas we've eaten outside Italy in the European-run Minute Man pizza, opposite the train station. Choc full of delightful imported goodies, it was a real joy. If you're passing, try and bag a table.

But truth be told, we were not in Uyuni to see the sights; it was, in practice, simply a start point for our three days traversing the Salar de Uyuni, the salt flats that neighbour the town. So, pausing only to eat said pizza and buy an absurd amount of toys (all will be revealed), we took off in a 4X4 into the dusty mid-day sun.

TTFN,

Luke and Louise

(Posted by Luke)

Ding dong, the Witch is dead

Travelling in any sort of group while hoofing across the world is always a tricky affair. We had a ball in Europe doing things on our own, but always planned for some of our time in South America to share the love and do at least some of it with other people. And it´s fair to say that, for the most part, we had a blast.

At various times in Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia our trip was made more fun, and more drunken, by an evolving bunch of pretty fab people. Zara, Dave, Jen, Scott, Karen, Jo, Choppy, Frances, Vicky, Richard, Sophia (often when you´d least expect it) - step forward, take a bow. You guys were great (pauses to cry gently).

There is, however, a flip side to this fun loving, laugh-a-minute, raucous whirlwind of travelling wonderment. In our case, the exception looked like this:

It would take too long, and in all honesty be too painful for reader and writer alike, to detail the catalogue of horrors that the woman in question unleashed on fellow travellers, waiters, shopkeepers and random locals during her reign of terror. (And no, I´m not putting a name to this face. I think the face does a good enough job on its own.) But, in the interests of scene setting and background, I´ll run you through some of her greatest hits. Along side the general, hateful rudness, she would regularly rant drunkenly - this being the way she did most things - about immigrants, scroungers and benefits cheats. During a night out in Peru, she inhaled so many cocktails that a nineteen year old travelling companion had to take her back to the hostel after she became violent and tried to punch anyone who came within range of a flailing bingo wing. She then proceeded to push our local guide, refuse to go to bed, and instead sprawl next to a pool while a hapless bar man stood watch over her all night lest she choke on her own vomit. Personally, I would have left her there. On her back.

Using this outburst as a springboard to a more refined brand of vileness, she then proceeded to bring her nasty, petty meaness into every dorm, shared room and bus she stepped foot into. Reducing people to tears with her inane but hatefull rants, screaming at people in shops while accusing her victims of ´lacking manners´ - she was the real deal. After falling  arse over tit down some stairs and dislocating her shoulder, a fellow traveller with a medical background took her to hospital, administered drugs and care as the hospital could not, and even left her own passport as bond on the medical bill. She was rewarded with shit for thanks and a few weeks worth of snide comments. She even had to go and get her own passport back. 

But, like the lunatic she clearly was, all the hate started to go to her head. Which is why, by the time we hit La Paz, she had turned into quite the weird confection. Talking to people now only to insult them - any semblance of normality long since abandoned - she took to wearing shades at all times, and covering her diseased mouth and chin with an elaborate, middle-eastern style scarf. Which at least had the handy virtue of hiding her face.

And it was while wearing this bizarre outfit that she finally met her match. In the shape of the inimitable Karen from Croydon. You do the math... Looking back, the night had not started well. We´d gone out for dinner to say our farewells, as we were going our seperate ways that night. By the end of the meal the mouth scarf had been lowered enough for her to neck a few beers and two wines. Two bottles, that is. In the restaurant she was doing weird dances, groping passing men and demanding they teach her to salsa. Which was positively genteel compared with her dancefloor antics in the bar an hour later, where she was doing a bizarre sex grind with a slightly scared local, while drawling that she would be ``the dirtiest fuck of your life´´.

And then things went very wrong... or, I guess, very right. In something approaching slow motion, she pulled her hand up to her crumbling mouth - she was going to spew, and she knew it. But instead of dashing for a door or corner, she lurched purposefully over to the table where we were sitting, people, bags and fleeces all around. And then she hurled like a goodun, showering people and property alike. Most people fled, but not Karen from Croydon. Good natured person that she was, she sat down, wiped vomit  from the flaky mouth, and gently suggested that it was time to go home. At which point, She Who Must Not Be Named flipped, grabbing Karen´s throat, screaming obscenities and generally going utterly sodding crazy. But Karen, who as we already know is from Croydon, was utterly unfazed. This sort of shit, it must be remembered, happens in her hood most days. Karen fought back, holding her own, before bouncers and stunned clubbers - about five of them - piled in and, quite literally, threw her out.

And that was about that. Much later that night, letters were written to keep her out of the country for good and vouching for Karen´s noble behaviour. Stories were swapped, and battle scars compared; fleeces were washed of vomit, bits of glass removed from shoes. But most of all, people breathed a massive sigh of relief. And as we sauntered to bed that night, a song drifted down the corridors and on to the streets of La Paz. ´´Ding, dong, the Witch is dead´´....

Way Beyond Blue

After spending a day sleeping, recovering (both from the Inca Trail and a drunken journey home) and drinking Pisco Sours in Cuzco, we journeyed to our final destination in Peru. It's seemed appropriate to finish Peru with another superlative, this time the highest lake in the world, or the largest high altitude lake; Lake Titicaca.

The two days we spent travelling on Lake Titicaca in between our time in Puno, were probably two of our best in Peru. The lake doesn't disappoint. The sun and clear sky are reflected in the glorious, glisteningly blue water, which seems to stretch on forever with just a glimpse of Bolivian mountains in the distance.

Island Taquile was our first stop on the lake, where a traditional Quechua speaking community have lived for thousands of years. They still live a traditional life, relatively untouched by mainland Peru, and are famous for weaving. Men, women and children on the island wear a variety of woollen hats and woven clothes, which denote marital and social status. They also cook fantastic, fresh trout.

The day we arrived was an exciting one; the annual election for community leaders, who run life on the island. It's fair to say that Luke and I probably found this more interesting than our travelling companions. These local elections are not ruled by Peruvian law, so it's not compulsory to vote (as it is in Peruvian regional and national elections) and they don't have to field female candidates - in fact women aren't allowed to stand (in contrast Peruvian law requires political parties to field at least 30% women). Only married men and women are allowed to vote in these election, which takes place in the main square where votes are cast by a show of hands. The married men elected to be leaders for the following year, receive their brightly coloured woolly hats at the end of the electoral process, determining their new status.

The real highlight of the two days was the night we spent with a local family who live on a Peninsula on the Lake. The traditional community are mainly agricultural, and tourism hasn't yet spoilt this tranquil and beautiful place.

Daniel and his wife Juanla came to greet us as we got off the boat, and as they spoke Amara, Quechua and Spanish we managed to get by with our broken Spanish. They had nine children, three of whom still lived at home -Ferdinando, Julio Cesar and Wilfredo and all five of them made us feel unbelievably welcome.

The food was fantastic and cooked, for seven people, in one pot over a fire in the small kitchen, and the manzanillia tea was freshly picked.

While there we played volleyball at the local school - locals versus tourists (its fair to say they kicked our arses) and had a fire with music and cerveza on the beach.

We loved it so much and were actually offended that previous guests in the village had complained so bitterly about the basic accommodation being... well basic. The room we had was clean, warm and comfortable, and using an outdoor toilet for one night is hardly a trauma. Especially when you consider you're staying with people who live like this everyday.

Daniel told us how his wife, who can now only see a few metres, recently had to have an operation on her eyes. As there is no free healthcare in Peru the operation had cost $700 (American). This price seems outrageous to someone who has lived with the benefits of a NHS even before you realise that 70% of those living in rural Peru live below the poverty line. For many this would be more than three months salary.


It makes you realise how lucky we are to have the magnificent free health service we have in the UK, and long may it remain.

Following the fab and very real experience of the peninsula, the experience of going to the reed islands was a more touristy one. That said the floating islands of the Uros people are well worth seeing. The islands are made entirely from reeds and the Uros people have lived on reed islands for around 600 years. They were pleasantly springy to walk on, and I got to eat some reed. What more could you want?

Puno, is described as the perfect base for exploring the lake, and you would be correct in reading that as “there's very little to do there”, what sites it does have (an old British ship) we didn't manage to visit in our two nights there.

That said it was not an unpleasant town, made almost entirely from concrete, it had a wide selection of restaurants and bars aimed at the many tourists on Lima street in the centre. We managed to celebrate our last night in Peru with a good night out in Puno, with several of our fellow travellers. This started in a lovely little pizza restaurant - Pizza & Pasta - a bit off the main drag, was followed by a selection of cocktails (which Luke, Dave and the utterly fabulous Edwin are modelling here) accompanied by a relatively impressive local dance display, including women wearing very little, women dressed as mountains and men dressed as condors.

This was followed by more beer, wine, cocktails and five hours of less traditional dancing in the funky Rock and Reggae Bar on Lima street.

The border crossing over to Bolvia was surprisingly painless, if not slightly bizarre and Bolivia had the friendliest border guard I've personally ever met. The five hour bus journey from Puno to our first Bolivian stop allowed for some spectacular views of Lake Titicaca, including a magnificent sunset.

It's fair to say that this arrival was perhaps the most spectacular thing about the night we spent in the Lake side Bolivian town of Copacobana. Whilst the cold beers and freshly cooked trout I had in a quiet local eatery were excellent and amazingly cheap, I don't think it's an unfair summary to say music and fashion were certainly not the passion. In this Copacobana stray dogs, bad stenches and buildings made of cement seemed to be all the rage.

Following, only one night in this haven, we moved on to capital of Bolivia, La Paz.

I'll finish by saying if you've been disappointed by the length, dryness and down right do gooder nature of some of this blog -please log back in for our next post, which will only include, drunken debauchery, cocktails, silly dancing and the slating on the internet of a truly terrible woman.

Stay warm,

Luke and Louise

Posted by Louise

Once in a lifetime (Part Two)

The night before the final push to Machu Pichu, and the excitement was building at camp. I was so exhausted and anxious, I paid four quid for a Coke and a Snickers.

We also figured that our loyal reader(s) might get a bit sick of our bits to camera. As a result, we extended the same courtesy - and lavish production values - to a few of our travelling companions. As such we give you, without further ado, Dave ´I´m a bloody natural at this´ Davies. Apologies to those hardy souls who didn't make the cut - it was purely a matter of bandwidth. We´ll get them up at some point, if only because Lou´s such a pro with the questions...

Next up is our favourite clip - Louise speaking to amazing porter and all-round top bloke, Rufino. Not only does he do a job that would make most men cry tears of blood and fury, but he´s also a natural on camera. Here you go:

After a short and fitfull sleep, we rose at 3am to get to the front of the queue for the final burst to Machu Pichu. Here I am, getting all Blair Witch for your benefit:

After finally getting to the sacred city, we were both so delighted, knackered and in need of sugar that we totally forgot to do a video. We were also keen to take a shed load of photos before the train loads of fat Americans, with stupid hats and even stupider questions, arrived to spoil it all. So here´s Louise a few hours after we arrived:

And that was that - there was nothing more to say. Of course, that didn´t stop us trying. So here´s Louise and I in our first, and quite possibly only, ever joint piece to camera. I´m doing the slightly less patronising Richard, Lou´s rocking a more sober Judy. Suffice to say, it´s an utter sodding shambles. Thanks to Jen for capturing it all for posterity.

And there goes our first foray into the world of video blogging. Hope you enjoyed it - it took long enough to upload...

See you in Bolivia,

Luke and Louise

xxx



Once in a lifetime (Part One)

After spending a day playing volleyball and eating traditional cuisine with a community in the Sacred Valley, and an evening getting nervous and eating great veggie burgers at the simply wonderful Hearts Cafe in Ollyantambo, we were ready for the highlight of our South American trip - the famous Inca Trail to Machu Pichu. In a world first (well, sort of), we've documented the whole shebang on video for you. Techincal limitations mean you might want to whack the volume up, or put your headphones in...

Here I am, right at the start of the 42 km trek:

Six hours later, after some relatively easy-going but tiring trekking, we arrived at our first base camp. The amazing porters - who carry all food, equipment, tents and heaven knows what else - had ran past us some time ago, and set up camp for us. Here´s Louise:

Day Two of the trail is the day that, by general agreement, sorts out the wheat from the chaff. Whatever anyone may tell you (and that means you, Kate and Andy Edmunds), it´s tough. Especially in serious wind, rain and hail. Utterly knackered and in our tent at the end of a long day, here are my - not particularly well formed - thoughts:

Day three is, in every imaginable way, utterly astounding. Every corner throws up another Kodak Moment, every twist another view to die for. Here´s a suitably tongue-tied me after a few hours hike, and a night of sleep interrupted by my latest dream about Mark Radcliffe and Stuart Maconie:

Arriving at our final camp of the trek, within spitting distance of Machu Pichu, was quite a moment. Here, Louise explains why:

Next day was Machu Pichu. We could hardly wait...

TTFN

Luke and Louise

xx

On the road again

After the relative peace and tranquillity of Mancora and Huanchaco, arriving in Lima was more than a little overwhelming. An insane melting pot of historical beauty and garish neon, cloistered monks strolling the monasteries and lycra-clad crypto-whores prowling the bars, it was noisy, dirty, edgy, and pretty damned threatening. And, quite bizarrely, I loved it.

We spent the morning of our first and only full day in Lima’s Museum of the Nation, a sprawling, six storey affair housed in an impressively brutal, angular building. For the most part, it was a pretty uninspiring affair, crammed full with the usual traditional ceramics, average local art and badly translated historical info boards. But a lift up to the sixth floor takes you to the photographic exhibit ´Yuyanapaq. Para Recorda.´

Curated and funded by Peru’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, this sprawling, beautifully hung collection of images tells the sorry tale of twenty years of savagery that blighted Peru from the late seventies through to the close of the twentieth century. As a band of fanatical, murderous Communists in the Shining Path waged war against a corrupt Government with a brutal streak, Peru’s populace was caught in the crossfire. Stadiums became Government torture chambers, while no street, school or church was safe from the disgusting brutality of the terrorists. Emerging from a few hours inside the exhibit, the laughing school kids outside seemed somehow all the more special, the sun all the  brighter; though poverty is endemic and wounds clearly remain, it is nothing short of a miracle that the country has managed to move on from these horrors with such apparent speed.

Lima’s centre, with its wealth of colonial buildings and slew of increasingly impressive plazas, is truly something, as are the catacombs that run under the Church of San Francisco a short walk always from the main square. Walking amongst the bones in what was the cities first Catholic cemetery was an eerily pleasant experience, made all the more memorable as the incense and music from the mass taking place above us drifted down. A brief stop-off for a fabulous Pisco Sour at the Morris Bar – where the drink was created – took us through to meal time, which took us through to bed.

The town of Pisco, home of the national, titular drink, was devastated by an earthquake a few years back. If you believe the guidebooks, or judge a town by the number of gringo bars and pizzerias it has, then you'll give the town a wide berth. Personally speaking, I found the place a joy. For the first time since landing in South America, we were in the sort of dusty, ramshackle, insanely alive town I'd imagined before we set off. Worth the journey in itself? Possibly not, but an experience nonetheless. It also  a perfect spot to lay your head before visiting the Ballestas Islaands. The 'poor man's Gallapegos' were an absolute joy; a veritable cornucopia of stunning, craggy islands, multi-coloured birds of every description and an embarrassment of seals, the highlight was my first ever glimpse of a penguin in its natural habitat.

Our next stop, Nazca, had the same dusty, exotic charm of Pisco but with the added bonus  of a charming central square and a number of decent eateries. The delights here were two-fold; the first being my cut-throat shave in a backstreet barbers with no running water, the second being Lou's trip in a four seater plane to see the mystical Nazca Lines. Louise described the experience as 'amazing, though vomit inducing'. I was torn between admiration for my wife's bravery, and utter bafflement as to why anyone would take part in an activity that regularly carries delays as a result of planes failing basic safety checks.

En route to this desert town, we took a stop at the Huacachina oasis. Though now circled with juice bars and a few restaurants, it was quite something to see our first actual desert oasis. Though not enough to make us join the locals and take a dip; while charming on camera, and from a distance, close up, the pool stank like tramp during a heatwave.

Our time in Arequipa was split either side of a night in the Colca Canyon, spotting condors and cooking, eating and playing chess with a local family in a mud-floored kitchen. Arequipa itself was a treat, with a magnificent, palm strewn central square, best viewed from the top of the splendid cathedral. Any visitor frustrated by the erratic opening hours of the cathedral proper should pay the ten Soles fee to enter the fantastic, but poorly advertised, museum. Not only do you get the wonderful views from the roof, but get to see some obscenely lavish religious artefacts; my personal favourite was an unspeakably lavish, and vulgar, crown of thorns in pure gold. You've really got to love the Roman Catholic sense of priorities, especially in a country with such grinding poverty.

Most Peruvians are able to rattle off an array of stats about the awe inspiring Colca Canyon, most of which serve primarily to underscore how much bigger it is than its Grand American rival (it's more than twice as deep). It takes something to steal the glory from the amazing scenery, but that's just what the pair of condors taking their morning flight did. Majestic, graceful and far closer than we thought they'd be, they pirouetted like first-flush lovers against centuries old crags and a powder blue sky. Sheer magic.

A visit to Cusco is pretty much guaranteed to take your breath away; if the cobbled streets, colonial grandeur and sense of infectious fun don't do it, the altitude will. It felt as if we had been on a tour of increasingly fabulous colonial cities and towns, each besting the last for sheer grandeur, finally reaching a crescendo in Cusco. From the pigs heads hanging lose in the local market to the seemingly never ending stream of street celebrations and protests, Cusco is a city that charms you with its beauty, seduces you with its history and utterly knackers you out with its sense of fun. Even the weird smell of shit and eggs in our hostel bathroom and the slightly annoying offers of weed and coke from obvious Police stooges. Obviously, Lou and I ignored all these things, as after two nights in the city, we were boarding a bus for Ollyantaytambo, and with it the Inka Trail. Which is where we'll see you next.

Toodle pip,

Luke and Louise

(Posted by Luke)

This Desert Life

After some imensely amusing arguements about seats on the bus, in which a Ecuadorian man threaten to call the police over a dispute about seat reservations we departed the Ecuador -Peru border and travelled for two hours through some impressively, expansive and vacuous desert land, strangley enough arriving at customs. Why customs is located two hours from the border baffled me - if anyone can throw some light on this, I would be most grateful.

Our first stopover in Peru, was two nights in the beautiful beach town of Mancora. Mancora is apparantly Peru's principle beach resort, which makes it all the more surprising that it was such a laid back little village. Being still relatively near the Equator the weather was perfect beach weather. The hotel/hostel we stayed in was a series of lovely wooden huts, and has Luke spent the majority of our time in Mancora in bed with a bug, I spent most of my time (when I wasn't mopping his brow) either relaxing in our hammock or swimming in the pool. Due to Luke's illness and my laziness, we missed the first drunken madness amongst our fellow travellers on our intrepid trip. I won't mention names, but the gossip I heard involved some nudity, some fist waving and teeth nashing, and security guard watching over a sleeping drunk by a pool til 4am.

Before and after his 24 hour bug Luke did manage to join me for Mancora's highlights. The first being a fantastic fish restaurant where we had huge steaks of fortuna a local fish, during a blackout. The second highlight was, for me, a highlight of our time in South America so far. Setting off at 7am Luke and I, along with three others and the lovely Intrepid guide Daniela, took a small boat with a captain and a whale expert out on to the pacific ocean, in search of whales.

And we weren't disappointed, we saw dolphins, turtles, sea lions, blue footed birds and pelicans, but the real highlight was the humback whale and it's baby. I'd like to say that it was my quick and brilliant photography which captured the beautiful animal's tail, but I will credit Jen, the lovely Kiwi travelling with us, the credit she deseres for her good photography. The trip was made all the better by the enthusiastic and knowledgable Chichi.

After a wonderful trip out on the boat, and a return trip in the odd but charming moto-taxi, we set off on a relatively painful 10 hour bus journey to Huanchanco. I had the only seat on the bus where you couldn't see the telly, but was sat under a very loud speaker. I was assured by others that Spanish dubbing didn't make Poltergiest 3 any better. The only stop the bus driver allowed was at a grubby bus station in the outskirts of a small town. There were two small shops, one of which you could only order through a barred windowed. That shoud have been enough of a clue as to the kind of area we were in, but if that wasn't enough, the hooded man with a knife who was shopping at the same time as us was.

Huanchaco, a traditional fishing village, come tourist destination, was our next destination on the Northern coast of Peru. With a lovely sandy beach and a sea dotted with traditional fishing boats, it is a picturesque town. Made famous, for it's Chan Chan ruins. A pre-Inka civilsation the Chan Chans built a whole city out of adobe (fancy mud) in basically desert, and were into fishing. Whilst some of the ruins have been "restored" (what we would call rebuilt), they were still impressive, if only impart for their vastness and remoteness.

After visiting the ruins we had a great night out in Huanchaco. Barbequed fresh fish washed down with a couple of litres of cheap wine on the beach, where there was a local festival involving dancing, fishing boats and fireworks. After the local festivities were over, we had a campfire and music played by local musicians, organised by the wonderful Daniela.

It was then like a little piece of paradise when, accompanied by hangovers, we bordered the luxury bus for the eight hour journey to Lima. It was truly magnificent. The seats were similar to club class on a plane - like sitting in a comfy armchair and fully reclining. We got pillows, blankets, films and food. To be honest I didn't want to get off!

On our first night in Lima we went to the centre of Miraflores, the Gringoland of Lima, it has a whole street of pizza restuarants where we enjoyed pizza and pasta. Considering the wine consumption from the night before we could've done without accidently ordering two jugs of beer instead of two glasses, but we soldiered on with a little help from our travelling companions. It's a tough life!

Finally I should say that after three weeks it was our last day with Daniela, so thanks Daniela for being so great!

Lots of Love,

Louise & Luke

(Posted by Louise)

Jungle Boogie

There are some things in life that you just don't say in public, for fear of outing yourself as an utter tit. "Two And A Half Men just cracks me up", for example, or "The best way for the Labour Party to reconnect with voters across the country is to tack to the left." You know the sort of stuff.

Until our recent visit there, I'd have certainly had "Our visit to the Amazon rainforest was such a crushing disappointment" on that list. But, if asked for two words to sum our time in said forest, I'd plump for "disappointing" and "crushingly", though possibly not in that order. That there was pumping dance music blaring from a nearby swimming pool when we arrived at our 'secluded jungle lodge' didn't bode particularly well, though when next door finally turned the speakers off our cabin was serene and restful, all fireflies and oil lamps with a hammock slung across the patio.

But our 'Amazon trek' the next day was, by any marker, a real downer. Though our local guide was knowledgeable, and the animals and plants undeniably fantastic (the baby tarantula was my personal highlight), we weren't trekking the Amazon at all. We were just walking in someone's - pretty impressive - back garden wearing matching wellies and pretending that this was what we'd shelled out a couple of grand for. There are even fences in a few of our photos. Cap it all off with an utterly abysmal 'traditional' dance and shaman show back at the lodge that evening (highlight was the shaman cleansing me by... er... blowing fag smoke in my hair), and our visit to the Amazon was a crushing disappointment. There - said it again.

But a seven hour ride on ramshackle local bus later and we arrived in Banos, a little gem of a town apparently dropped by the Gods slap bang in the middle of the Central Highland's mountainous ranges. Arriving a little jaded by the jungle and still a little wires by Quito, Banos seemed purpose-built to ease our bodies, rest our minds and generally make me fall in love with South America all over again. Though it's fit to burst with hostels and eateries amid squarely at the backpacker crowd, Banos remains a functioning community in its own right,. Indeed, the ruinous effect that intensive tourism can have in many places is notable by its absence here; if anything, the fifteen thousand or so people who live in Banos seem to enjoy a quality of life that the millions living in Quito's suburbs would give their eye teeth for.

We spent our three days in Banos walking in the hills and trying to look at volcanoes (damn you, clouds), eating surprisingly good Italian and Mexican, wandering around the endearingly bonkers Cathedral enjoying the best breakfast of the trip so far on the sun-kissed roof terrace of the ininfinitely recommendable Plantas Y Blancos hostel. We also spent more time than was strictly necessary luxuriating in the natural thermal springs on the edge of town. We visited a few times with Zara, Dave and Leigh, but went the extra mile and got up to watch the sun rise with the locals on our last morning in Banos. Sitting in a giant steam bath, listening to Louise practise her Spanish while the sun flooded corn-gold beams across the valley was just as blissful as it sounds. Just as much as our jungle trip had failed so badly, our time in Banos was all the sweeter because I'd not really given it two seconds thought before we arrived.

En route to Cuenca, we took a small detour to spend some time with a local family who maintain a relatively traditional lifestyle while running a hostel in a converted railway masters house. Truth be told, I was more interested in the railway line - sadly no longer in use - than the sweet but somewhat affected show they put on for us. Lou and I also had our first taste of Guinea Pig, a staple for families in Ecuador and parts of Peru. Eating it was painless enough. Splitting the bill with a minibus full of people you don't know that well was another matter entirely.

Cuenca, our last stop in the country before heading over the border to Peru, was a charming place to while away a few days. Though undeniably smaller than the capital, the fact that almost all city life takes place in a UNESCO listed colonial old town makes for a more relaxing visit. The main plaza is Spanish to the core, while the Cathedral - topped outside with a blue-dome triptych and dominated inside with an altar that was a little to gold for my protestant tastes - certainly catches the eye. We spent an immensely enjoyable morning at the Museo del Bacno Central, where decent enough collections of religious art and historical coins and notes serve as a decent entrée for the fantastic ethnographic exhibits and the ghoulishly engrossing collection of shrunken heads. Even more impressive is the excavated pre-Inca town centre of Pumapungo at the rear of the museum, with a lovingly recreated garden and collection of endangered birds. The ice-cream parlour on the corner of the main plaza is also worth a visit of six - the servings are enormous, the ice-cream fresh, and the hoops you have to jump through to buy the damned thing delightfully South American.

And, with the taste of my double-cherry ice tub still tingling on my tongue, we were back on the bus and headed for Peru. The change in terrain as we headed from Ecuador to her bigger, poorer neighbour was striking. After driving through banana plantations for what seemed like hours, we hit  desert. Border control was a wonderfully messy affair, which seemed to annoy some of fellow travellers more than us. That was, perhaps, because while the queuing system was certainly not British in style, neither Lou or I felt in imminent danger of losing our lives or our wallets. Which is more than can be said of some of the bus border crossing we did in Europe. And that was that. So long Ecuador, Hola! Peru. More of which shortly...

Hasta la vista,

Luke and Louise

(Posted by Luke)

Spanish Is The Loving Tongue

We had a five hour stop over at Bogota airport on our way to Quito, but weren't able to go through security, so unfortunately we didn't get to see any of beautiful Bogata (sorry Bryony). I can only report that Bogota has a relatively nice if simple airport. Following a local beer, I started to feel dizzy and light headed and aware that I couldn't breath. It turns out Bogata is the third highest city in the world, and some people can feel unwell due to the altitude -only Quito and La Paz are higher.

Needless to say we spent the first few days in Quito, not drinking, sleeping a lot, and getting out of breath when we walked up the stairs!

We had just under a week in Quito, and spent that time in the lovely and homely Tutamandu hostel. The hostel is part of Cristobol Colon Spanish School, where you can do one to one lessons in Spanish. Both Luke and I took lessons, and both our teachers, Solange and Roxanna, were fantastic. Though we were only able to do five days, but both our Spanish has improved and I was able to read a whole Dora the exploradora book.

In between lessons, doing homework and and sleeping Luke and I did manage to get out and explore a bit of Quito. The old town is old colonial grandeur at its best, with streets of colourful buildings, laced with extravagant balconies, and an array of European style squares each with a more magnificent church. The grandest of the squares was the Grande Plazza, with impressive buildings all around, including the Palacio del Gobierno (a government building used by the President) and the Cathedral. The Cathedral was vast and empty and very beautiful -a highlight of which was the painting of the last supper, where the meal is guinea pig (a local dish).

Other church highlights in Quito include La Compañia de Jesus, which is literally dripping in gold, and many claim is the most beautiful church in Quito. I have to disagree, and say the most beautiful church is the more mordern Basilica del Voto Nacional. This vast gothic edifice, with enchanting stained glass stands on a hill and the views from the towers are impressive. I'm proud to say I managed to clamber across the rickety wooden plank in the Cathedral roof, and up the first ladder, to the souther tower and was delighted to find myself looking out across the roof, and out at a beautiful view of Quito. I was, however horrified to find that the next step was t climb two ladders which stuck out off the building, where one wrong step, would definitely result in death -I'm sad to say I chickened out of that bit.

Anyone who knows Luke will know that he feared the much talked about crime in Quito. His fears were not alleviated by the warnings plastered all over the hostel to be careful, or the stories of increased knife crime, muggings and bag slashing that were rife amongst travellers there. It also didn't help that the president was kidknapped by the police a few days before we arrived and had to be rescued by the military. Ecuador had declared a state of emergency. The hostel owner emailed to say “don't worry whilst yesterday was bad everything's fine again today.” We were told “these things happen in South America.” More worrying still when we arrived in Quito we were told there was no need to worry, because it wasn't political it was just a pay dispute. A dispute which resulted in lootings and tourists being robbed at banks, mainly because the police were too busy kidnapping a President to arrest anyone.

During our week in Quito we heard a variety of stories as to what really happened. One version is that the police are all right wing crooks, not supported by the nation, in their money grabbing criminal ways and the other end of the scale, is the version in which the president staged the whole thing to increase is popularity. Who knows where the truth lie -but we should thankful for our stable (if comparatively boring) democracy.

One afternoon we were eating chicken and rice in a chicken restaurant by the Grande Plazza, when the restaurant suddenly appeared to be surround by military (some of whom were also eating chicken), all of whom had very large guns. As we were walking out, men speaking into their sleaves appeared. Having worked in politics I knew this could only mean one thing, Hero or fraud I was still very excited when the President walked past.

Whilst on the subject of chicken and rice, it is impossible to be in Quito and not have a meal involving rice and chicken. The best we had was in the small cafe opposite our hostel, where chicken and rice soup followed by fried chicken, rice and lentils, with a fresh fruit juice was $1.65 -about £1.10. The fresh juices in Ecuador are amazing, and I never tire of them, though it's fair to say after a couple of weeks you can tire of rice and chicken.

We spent our last couple of nights in the Mariscal, which is the main tourist area,and known locally as Gringolandia. Gringolandia has an array of nice bars and restaurants, but my advice to anyone planning on visiting Quito would be to stay elsewhere and if you go out in Mariscal pay the two dollars to get a cab home. A lot of people seem to find comfort in its Western feel, but it is more expensive than everywhere else in Quito and is actually very dangerous at night, being a tourist mugging hotspot.

On our last day in Quito we got a cab out to the Equator. There are two places you can visited at the Equator, the official equator where the big statue marking the equator is. This is the spot where, over 200 years ago they “found” the equator. You can have your photo taken on the line, and have a very reasonably priced burger. Then you can go 10 minutes up the road to the real equator, which was found years later-using GPS. We did both, and the real equator was more fun. Dave and Zara, two lovely fellow travellers from Northern Ireland who came with us, would agree. Those people who shell out for the fake one and think they've seen the equator - but actually haven't - probably wouldn't...

Did you know?

1. You can balance an egg on a nail on the equator.
2. It's really hard to walk along the equator with your eyes shut without falling over, because of the gravitational pull
3. You're weaker when you stand on the equator.

And of course we did the exciting water experiment, and the water really does go straight down on the equator, and in opposite ways North and South.

Lots of love,

Louise and Luke

(Posted by Louise)

First we take Manhattan...

...and, truth be told, apart from brief sojourn over the Brooklyn bridge, Manhattan was about all we managed to take during our two days in New York en route to South America.

After a surprisingly pleasant flight over, we arrived at our Park Avenue hotel just before ten, utterly knackered and starving hungry. The ensuing  
trip to an all-night deli convinced me of three things. One, these guys make the best burritos I've ever tasted. Two, I want to live in New York. Three, if I did actually live in New York with easy access to said burritos, I'd catch fat and die within a month. All of these thoughts receded from my mind pretty quickly, though, as we ate our take-out dinner on the bed and chanced upon the headline news showing the Ecuadorian President crawling through the middle of a gun fight as streets burned around him. Never a good thing when Quito is your next stop...

After ascertaining that the kidnapping of a president, closure of an airport and declaration of a state of emergency is nothing to worry about in Quito (in the words of our presumptive Spanish teacher, “there was a little trouble yesterday, but now all is good and happy again”), we dived into New York, New York for the next two days, walking mile after mile and drinking in every sight, sound and smell that this majestic city had to offer.

We crammed a huge amount in, thanks mainly to Lou's unerring ability to read maps, plan routes and indulge my whims. Times Square enthralled by day, but truly dazzled by night as caricaturists and food vendors hustled for sidewalk space with the hustlers, ticket vendors and other 'tradesmen' who seemed to operate with impunity inside a ring of New York City Cops.

A stroll down Fifth Avenue, meanwhile, throws you in a million different directions all at once. Beautiful churches, designer stores, public libraries – it's like a city-in-a-street, with the pretty impressive money shot that is Central Park at the top. It also has the the unspeakably glamorous, beautifully Art Deco narcissistic ego-trip through architecture that is the Rockefeller Centre. The whole complex has to be experienced to be believed, with black marble poured like liquid night over walls and floors, and a mezzanine area so damn glam it makes the Starbucks look good.

Shopping wise, Macy's was everything you'd expect of the world's largest department store and more, while Wall Street merits a mention mainly thanks to the cherry-dip ice-cream cone bought from a vintage van at the top of the world famous paean to all that is greedy, mercenary and downright bad about the world of finance.

Chinatown put its London cousin firmly in the shade; we felt as though we were back in Shanghai, with the enchanting street stalls, constant hum of deals being made and laws being flouted and some of the best Shanghai cuisine we've ever eaten. Little Italy, meanwhile, was certainly little, just not hugely Italian. Almost a polar opposite of Chinatown's gauche authenticity, it seemed full of out of towners paying top whack for average fayre. The red, white and green colour scheme in the kids park was a nice touch, though. 

The East Side and Lower East Side were tantalisingly brilliant – we just didn't have the time to eat, drink and pseud our way through the cafés, bars, galleries and poetry slams as we wanted to. We did, however, find an hour to immerse ourselves in The Strand second hand book store. It's a bit like all of Hay-on-Wye, but in a strip-light lit downtown building in New York. Magic.

The return trip on the Staten Island ferry, with up close and personal views of the Statue of Liberty and NYC skyline shots to die for, was a real highlight, and must surely rank in any Top Ten of amazing free things to do while arseing about the world for a year. The geek in me loved our time in Grand Central Station more than anything else during our New York Stay. Lovingly restored and without a sodding Upper Crust in sight, it's a truly beautiful reminder of days gone by when New York was all old school glamour and when the railways really did rule the world. Though we couldn't quite stretch to the Oyster Bar (next time, next time), the Mexican we had there was pretty fine, as were the two pints of Samuel Adams served - without irony – with lime.

But even the train lover in me couldn't really deny that the real highlight was a late-night trip to the top of the Empire State Building. The Grande Dame of New York skyscrapers proved that the old ones really are the best, from the achingly elegant lines of the building itself to the unsurpassable view from up top. Kissing Louise is always a pleasure, but doing it with Manhattan twinkling in the distance seemed  just that little bit sweeter.

And that was about that. With the lights of New Jersey still sparkling in my eyes, we slept for a few hours then jumped in a cab for JFK for our morning flight to Colombia.

And if you're wondering, yes we did have a McDonald's (or two) during our stay. And yes, they taste a whole lot better.

Luke and Louise

(Posted by Luke)

You've got to go there to come back...

For more six weeks on the road, we managed to combine the damned hard work of arsing our way across Europe with the shared public service of blogging about it. But since leaving Kosovo, a combination of birthdays, internet access, insane travel routes and our first posh hotel of the trip has made us drop the ball a bit. As we are flying to South America by way of New York in about three hours, we thought we should tie up some loose ends. So, by way of rounding things up...

A crazy overnight bus took us from Pristina to the beautiful Bay of Kotor in Montenegro, by way of the singularly uninteresting capital Podgorica (though this dirt cheap hotel should be added to the list of any budget traveller stranded in this bizarrely expensive city). Kotor's Old Town, nestled behind high walls flush against a stretch of crystal water, has to be experienced to be believed. Wonderfully preserved and bursting with cafes, shops and churches, it has yet to be colonised absolutely by tour groups. Having said that, at night the music from the bars is uniformly loud and atrocious, more resembling a high-end 18 to 30 break than a relatively undiscovered Adriatic gem. It was also in Kotor that we stayed in our first - and only - luxury hotel of the trip, with a night in the Five Star Hotel Forze Mar to celebrate Lou's birthday. In the unlikely event that you are passing by and fancy a night in a luxurious, if slightly eccentric, boutique hotel, go for this place. In a country that has started peddling naff "luxury" gaffs to Russian tourists while cutting corners and ruining coastline at every turn, Forze Mar is a real gem. The champagne on arrival, perfectly cooked Fillet Mignon and outdoor plunge pool were a few of the highlights. Those backpackers hitting town, though, could do far worse than stay in the delightful Eurocafe 33, a slightly more modest though equally charming set of digs opposite the Old Town, and run by the assistant coach to the national football team and his welcoming family.

Our time in Croatia was split (no pun intended) either side of four days in Bosnia and Herzegovina. The three days we spent in Dubrovnik were pleasant enough, with a comfy home stay room at Nina's guesthouse (find her on Hostelbookers), and an enthralling few hours spent in the quietly majestic War Photo Limited gallery, which was worth the trip in itself. The city beach was small but fun, and the Old Town itself bursting with tastefully restored architecture and pride after the Serb/Montenegrin shelling during the dark days of the Balkans conflict. Sadly, it's also bursting with overpriced, average restaurants, flag waving tour groups and annoying flashpackers who wouldn't know a hostel if it jumped out of Daddy's wallet and bit them on the arse. Worth a day trip, with an early start if possible to avoid the crowds, but I found it all a bit too much. By way of balance, I should point out that Lou was not quite as underwhelmed as I was.

By stark contrast, the three days we spent in Mostar and Sarajevo were an experience that we'll never forget, and one that Lou will write about more fully soon. From the rebuilt bridge in Mostar to the heart-wrenching museum on Sarajevo's 'sniper alley', the achingly effective tunnel museum near Sarajevo's airport to the glittering array of places to eat, drink and smoke hooka  in the capital, Bosnia and Herzegovina was possibly the highlight of our travels so far. I'll leave it to Lou to tell the story more fully next time we have an internet connection.

After a few days back in Croatia on Hvar island (every bit as beautiful as people say) in a cracking little Sobe, we headed to Italy for a week with friends and family. We ended up taking an eleven hour overnight bus from Split to Trieste after a slight problem with ferries - namely, there weren't any. The journey took in three countries, the most intense electrical storm I've ever seen, the bus nearly aquaplaning off the road while the driver ate and ice cream, and a toilet stop at a bookies full of sleeping tramps at 5am. Happy days. A seven hour collection of train journeys across Italy, then an overnight stay in a Shining-style hotel in Rimini airport due to an exploding car, and we finally made it to the stunning Marche region of Italy, staying in the equally wonderful Cassa Delle Querce (owned, I should say in the interests of honesty, by Lou's Dad). Even after the seven weeks on the road, travelling through some of the most amazing scenery and eating some of the best food of our lives, a week in this undiscovered part of Italy was a real treat. The food, history, scenery and wildlife are just magnificent, trumping neighbouring Tuscany on every level. It also has no annoying Brits and costs about half the price of a stay in its more famous neighbour. The fact that we spent it with our folks and two good mates was the cherry on the cake.

Perhaps the most bizarre part of the trip so far, though, was arriving back into a rainy London for the briefest of pit stops two days ago, in advance of our flight out to South America later today. In town just long enough to get drunk with Lou's sister and boyfriend, get muddy in a park with our niece Besti and my sister Lily, and see David Miliband make way for his brother Ed, it's all been a bit mental. As is the fact that, a few hours from now, we'll be on a Virgin Atlantic flight to New York, before heading to Ecuador for three months of South American madness. Suppose I should go and pack...

TTFN,

Luke and Louise

(Posted by Luke)

Holding out for a Hero

"Yes, that man is a hero. He is a hero to everyone here. You must be very proud."

This sentence alone, spoken by a taxi driver as we crawled through traffic-clogged streets towards the bus station, would probably have been enough to take us to Pristina, newly-crowned capital of the newly-independent Republic of Kosovo. As it was, we arrived there from Skopje with only the sketchiest idea of what awaited us in this small city so scarred after generations of vicious scapegoating, repression and bloody conflict.

Trying to find the only budget accommodation in town, Guesthouse Velania, is an impossibility without jumping in a local minicab, so we did just that. The short journey put some more meat on the bones of the sights and sounds we'd soaked up on the bus journey into the city. Scrap yards and petrol stations are oddly ubiquitous, roads and pavements in sorry repair, and everywhere the sights of local people hustling bravely to earn a living in obviously testing circumstances.

As we wound our way through the city itself, it soon became apparent that we were in a place unlike any we had visited before. We passed the delightfully bizarre "Hotel Victory", complete with a model of the Statue of Liberty sitting incongruously atop, and a few minutes later the President's Official Residence, located in a shady suburban side street, the only clue to its occupant the battery of armed police smoking outside. And we passed people - lots of them.

Young children playing in EU-funded playgrounds, oases of calm in chaotic streets; cabbies with maps of sadness etched on their faces stood next to hundreds of taxis that line the streets of the city waiting for fares that rarely seem to come; military men and women from across the world, on foot and in trucks, doing whatever it is that they do to help keep this newborn state safe and stable; young, trendy students bustling along the road chatting animatedly to each other and into their mobile phones; and women, young and old, some with their heads covered and many not, carrying out the same daily chores that we had seen across Europe, though with a strange, quiet defiance that you could feel even from a distance, through a dirty taxi window.

After meeting the owner of our rooms for the night (who is, despite the arch-romanticisation of the Lonely Planet not an avuncular Professor, but an elderly man with failing faculties but a keen sense of cold, hard cash), we dumped our bags and headed to town for a bite to eat. Our restaurant of choice, Pishat, was indeed full of locals and canny NGO-types, and watching Pristina's political elite striking deals and smoking furiously over veal kebabs and homemade bread was a sight to behold. But each time you lost yourself in the sumptuous food, free fruit-infused Rakija or the drama unfolding around us, the spell was broken by a child appearing at the table begging for coins, or a young amputee hawking fags from a cardboard crate. The tragedy of Kosovo's past and the unimaginable challenges of its future are never far away.

As we only had one full day here, we crammed as much into the next day as we possibly could, covering almost all of the central city on foot. Though Kosovans are more than used to having workers and military from all over the world living and working amongst them, the sight of tourists is still very much a novelty. It was heartening in the extreme to find that this novelty excited interested, if a little bemused, smiles and offers of help everywhere we went.

We started in the Velania suburb, near our guesthouse, with a stroll through the slightly eerie Martyrs Monument. Typically brutal and very Soviet in its design, graffiti now covers almost every part, and broken bottles litter the centre. With a scattering of KLA graves in the near distance and half a dozen crows swooping about, though, the place is satisfyingly unsettling, and passes on to the visitor a sense of foreboding and unease that carries the whiff of war, albeit in a different way than the architects no doubt intended.

Adjacent to this, and in stark contrast to the litter-strewn park, is a beautifully maintained boulevard of flowers and benches leading up to the grave of former President and national hero Ibrahim Rugova. Hundreds of thousands of Kosovans turned out to mourn his death in 2006, and the monument is a fitting final resting place for the writer-turned-President who opposed the horrors of the Milosevic era before becoming leader.

We then walked from South of the town, past the university to the Bus station, passing on the way a slew of billboards, placards and fly-posters of Tony Blair, each one carrying the legend “A leader, a friend, a hero.” I won’t wax lyrical on how genuinely proud they made both Louise and I, but just note that on the day that we were walking through Pristina, Blair had cancelled a book signing after egg and shoe attacks from a handful of Stop The War campaigners. The cancellation, according to a Stop the War spokesperson, was a “victory against a warmonger who should be tried for waging a unilateral war for oil and power.” I'd be interested to see that particular individual stand up in a busy Pristina boozer and start pontificating on the issue.

Strolling back into the city centre, up Bill Clinton Boulevard, past his portrait, statue, and plaque, we hit the Government and ‘international’ area. A feeling of pride in their new-found democratic institutions is as palpable here as the sense of gratitude is to Messrs Clinton and Blair elsewhere. Though chaotic in so many ways, the sense of a society being built from the ground up, whether in the form of democratic institutions or new roads and buildings, can be seen around every corner. But though the kids clambering over the Skenderburg monument were smiling and laughing loudly, and the Kosovans from out of town leaving their signatures on the New Born monument outside the central shopping area bursting with pride, there are also terrible reminders of the horrors of history.

The Wall of the Remembered is made all the more poignant by the newly added flowers, poems and photographs. Farr less visceral though tragic in its own way is a visit to the National Museum. The number of ancient exhibits is far outnumbered by posters and info boards demanding that Serbia returns thousands of artifacts borrowed for display in Belgrade before Kosovo’s declaration of independence. You can’t help but feel that the huge empty space downstairs will be empty for some time yet.

And so it was we found ourselves in a taxi back to the bus station, after collecting our bags and a lost watch from the delightful ladies who staff the Valenia Guesthouse during the day. Any visitor here would feel the pride and sense of shared endeavour that Independence, however disputed, has brought. Similarly, the most basic knowledge of history here makes it tough to dispute Kosovo’s right to break away from a neighbour whose leaders have meted out such misery here. But I also couldn’t help but feel that, without care and concerted efforts, another splintering could occur at some point in the future. And as a friend from the region had remarked to me before, this rarely ends well.

It was during this journey that our taxi driver pointed out the new Presidential residence, and told us about his sister who lives in the UK and “is very happy and proud to do so.” He also wanted to tell us how much people here loved Tony Blair.

And off we went to Montenegro, having been dazzled by Kosovan people, appalled by its recent history, uplifted by its current rebirth, but perhaps most of all, amazed that any cabbie anywhere in the world would say this about our Tony:

"Yes, that man is a hero. He is a hero to everyone here. You must be very proud."