TravelStream™ news feed for member helene on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/helene en-us Copyright ©2010 TravelPod.com Tue, 21 Mar 2006 10:36:49 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1142954340/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1142954340/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1142954340/tpod.html Tue, 21 Mar 2006 10:36:49 -0500 Learning Spanish and avoiding dogs

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Quito, Ecuador

After almost 11 months of travelling in perfect health, my luck finally ran out in Iquique where I arrived with a few unwanted bugs from Bolivia. A week later, after a visit to the doctor and a strange diet of boiled rice and apples, I was able to leave the hostel for the first time and even felt well enough to have a pisco sour, which I always thought was a type of urinary infection but is actually a famous Peruvian drink. The hostel dog tolerated me to the extent that he would wait until I was eating breakfast in the garden before crouching down next to me to take his morning dump, so close in fact that I discovered that dogs actually have three eyelids.

So here I am, back in Quito where I started, with less than a week left. I thought it might be useful if I provided a few tips for those inspired to follow suit and be lazy for a year, and some reminders of my trip ....

Travelling by bus ....

Forget Mastercard, never leave home without loo roll, neck-pillow, i-pod, biscuits and water, unless you're on a bus in Bolivia with no loo and very few loo-stops, when you can forget the water. I'd rather be dangerously dehydrated than face the torment of a tortured bladder for 14 hours. Never put your bag in the shelf above you - it will be nicked. Never put your bag at your feet whilst waiting to get your rucksack out from under the bus - it will be nicked. Never leave your bag on the seat during a loo-stop - it will be nicked. Check that the bus loo has running water before liberally applying soap to your hands. And write your next hostel address on a bit of paper so you don't have to get the guide book out at the bus station and so look like a right spotter.

Meeting new people ....

Smile and the world smiles with you. Er, not quite true. Smile at people in a hostel and perhaps half of them will smile back. The other half will think you want to sell them drugs or steal their stuff/boyfriend/girlfriend. And never rely on first impressions (this does not apply to Americans or Belgians). That scruffy, dreadlocked bloke with the strange facial ticks will probably end up being your new best friend and travelling companion for the next two months. Help people out who are at the end of their trip by relieving them of any unwanted objects - guide books, gadgets, novels, biscuits, loo roll.

Dorm rooms are great for meeting people, but there are drawbacks to being in such close proximity to people you've only just met, such as loud snoring, smelly feet and strange habits. A Swedish bloke in one dorm I was in scratched himself in bed, all night. At least I hope that's what he was doing. An Italian bloke in Brazil wore very loose shorts to bed and inadvertently showed us his particulars every morning. And I've been told off for talking in my sleep, once about wearing crampons to work.

Checking in to a hostel ....

Good hostels will have internet, book exchange, a kitchen and bar, and hot water. Bad hostels will have none of these things, be populated only by Americans and Belgians, have recent evidence of mosquito corpses on the walls, and nasty nylon sheets on the beds. Look closely at your fellow guests. Are they happy? Miserable? Hung-over? Still have nylon sheets stuck to their legs from the static?

When on the road, never be without ....

(a) a twin sister. Daily emails from Julia is something I could not have done without.
(b) visits from friends and relations who will bring Heat magazines and chocolate (thanks Ouise and Julia and Pauline!).
(c) obviously, loo roll.
(d) head torch, for reading in bed or those 'hunt and destroy the cockroach' moments during a power cut.
(e) masking tape, excellent for repairing jeans torn on a fence trying to get away from a dog.
(f) shit pills - an essential.
(g) clean knickers ( in case you've forgotten c. and f.).
(h) most importantly, a book.

And I've read some shockers on my travels. The most awful was probably in Sao Luis, Brazil, a terrible bodice-ripper set in 18th century London in the seedy world of gambling where the hero was called Derek. I still remember the classic line "She felt his passion jut into her stomach ..". A close second, though, is a book I found in Iquique, the autobiography of a female parole officer in America in the post-war years, when adultery was still punishable with a prison sentence. The unwed mother, the author opines, is ".. usually a solitary being who has been wandering about seeking approval or affection. Many times she is extremely plain-looking and her normal life has been marred by some skin disease, partial blindness, or some other disfiguring physical handicap. It is a rare young woman, indeed, who can care for herself and a child at the same time.". Crikey. Now I know where the Back to Basics campaign came from.

Be afraid, be very afraid of ....

- Nasty, scary stray dogs, unless you're travelling with a Norwegian called Monica who will scare them off with one look and a nifty technique in water-bottle-waving.

- Packs of British gap-year students. You will be frightened of belting one of them after 10 minutes in their company and then being sued by their rich parents.

- Couples of any nationality on their first holiday together. They will interrupt your viewing/eating/drinking pleasure by pretending to be Siamese twins which in effect they are, as they patently have half a brain each. Take bets on how long it will last and talk loudly about the high percentage of men who are unfaithful.

- Couples of any nationality on what is clearly their last holiday together. Their bickering and moodiness will remind you of you at age 14. One couple I met in Brazil were incredibly horrible to each other - " ..hurry up you lazy cow, you're always late, tick tock, tick tock, god I hate you ...". Take bets on who will belt whom first.

- Travellers who try to make you feel guilty because you're happy to sit in the hostel all day reading - "What, you mean you haven't done this trek, climbed that mountain, seen those ruins ..?", like there's a secret must-do-whilst-travelling list you forgot to pick up at Heathrow. In Bolivia, a German couple looked at me like I'd slapped a nun because I didn't want to visit the silver mines in Potosi to peer at men who work in horrific conditions until they die in agony at the age of 35.

Choosing the right clothes ....

Allegedly, clothes maketh the man. Or in my case, maketh you look like a colour-blind christian. And unless you're going to wash all your clothes by hand whilst travelling, bring everything a size bigger. Laundrettes the world round shrink clothes. I'm hoping that on my return I will see a new fashion trend for 38 year olds to dress like their 15 year old nieces in skin-tight trousers and baby-doll tee-shirts.

A few mistakes ....

- recounting my tale of the narcotics police on the bus I took from Salta, and specifically the bit about me dressed like a christian, to a girl I met in Buenos Aires who turned out to be a christian.

- having hysterics at 2am in the middle of nowhere when I thought the night-bus had gone without me after a loo-stop, only to find it was round the corner being cleaned.

- using the men's showers in a hostel in Brazil for three days until someone pointed out that I'd been getting the generic sign for men and women confused.

- asking a blind person for directions in Buenos Aires.

- getting caught in a downpour in Belem wearing trousers that I now know are see-through when wet, rushing to get back to my hostel and falling over in the middle of the street almost causing a pile-up, then tripping and skinning my knees on the kerb to get away from a yappy dog. Not one of my finest moments.

- inadvertently asking a waiter in Ecuador for a well-known sexual position when I meant to ask for seafood pasta.

- knocking a small boy over with my rucksack then knocking his mother over as I turned round to help the child up.

- legging it from a very young Irish bloke in La Paz who mistook my genuine interest in his job back home for a declaration of undying love. Even I had more facial hair than him.

- mocking girls who bring hair-straighteners with them on holiday to a girl in my dorm in Salta who then told me she'd brought hair straighteners with her.

And finally ....

So, time's almost up and after 7 countries, 55 long-distance buses, 3 boats and 9 flights, it's back to London to find a job and take advantage of all the lovely expense accounts you private-sector people have. I'm coming back with lots of new friends and the increased capacity to bore everyone rigid as I burble on about this volcano and that glacier. I cannot wait to see my family and friends again, and a huge thanks to everyone who sent me hundreds of emails to keep me going even if the buses wouldn't.

So what have I learnt, if anything, from being away? I've learnt that I like caiparinhas a lot; I've learnt that the Spanish language has lots of brilliant swear words; that too many Pringles make my lips tingle; that opening a beer at altitude can be explosive; that I love wearing helmets; that glaciers can be blue; that Bolivia makes great wine; and that travelling solo is far easier than having to get up and go to work every day. And I've done lots of first-time things too - fed marmosets in Brazil, rafted in Ecuador, climbed an active volcano in Chile, zip-lined in Patagonia, watched footy in Rio and Buenos Aires, saw dinosaur footprints in Bolivia, swung on my hammock down the Amazon .. the list goes on.

My priority now is to decide what to eat first when I get home. I can't decide between a bacon sandwich on proper white bread, or fish-fingers and peas. It's a difficult one ....
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1141782180/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1141782180/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1141782180/tpod.html Tue, 07 Mar 2006 20:48:52 -0500 Learning Spanish and avoiding dogs

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Iquique, Chile

It's an interesting phenomenon that the country which was responsible for the death of Che Guevara is now probably the biggest merchandiser of Che paraphernalia ever. I myself was forced to buy a bright disco-pink tee-shirt with Che's face on the front, which I will gladly model for a small fee on my return. That's if it doesn't get nicked before I get back. Since leaving the UK, I have been utterly paranoid about having my stuff stolen. As we arrived in Oruro at 4 o'clock in the morning, having said a very sad goodbye to lovely Sucre, my anxiety reared its jerky little head when the taxi driver didn't bother to shut the boot of the car where all our rucksacks were. While I was screeching in Spanish at the driver to shut the boot and so deter would-be thieves at traffic lights, an Argentinian bloke who was sharing the cab told me to calm down and not get so stressed, ridiculing my fears to such an extent that I had to rely on his lack of English as I told him to sod off. And so it was with a tiny smirk of satisfaction and the sense that one shouldn't mock the afflicted that I heard the next day that he had been robbed three times during carnival.

Oruro is a large and ugly city which smells of fried chicken and urine, and is famous for its annual La Diablada carnival. The carnival was fantastic, thousands of dancers wearing bright, shiny costumes and masks, marching bands competing with firecrackers, and the screaming crowds wrapped in plastic ponchos, like fat people trying to lose weight, attempting to avoid the millions of water balloons and canisters of a nasty cream-like substance wielded by everyone from toddlers to grannies. Foreigners were a favourite target and, as well as getting thoroughly soaked, I picked up a few cracking bruises from some well-aimed frozen water balloons. By the evening of the first day of carnival, the streets were packed with stumbling, swaying drunks who had lost the art of subtle peeing and were aiming unknowingly in the gutters, up cars and over small children.

We stayed in a freezing-cold house, with 8 people to a room and one bathroom between 15, with water only available for a few hours each day as the city authorities shut it off in an attempt to stop the children from draining the city's supplies for their water balloons. Two days of walking bent-double to avoid yet another unnecessary face-wash was enough for me, and let's face it, once you've seen one grown man dressed in a giant furry armadillo suit, you've seen them all.

So after four days without washing, Robyn-the-Canadian and I dragged ourselves to La Paz for a hot shower, finally managing to lose the I've-been-running-away-from-myself-all-my-life American psycho with whom we had shared the house in Sucre. La Paz is chaotic, dirty and noisy, built in the bottom of a canyon with houses clinging right up the sides to the top - it's an impressive sight. We arrived at the arse-end of carnival, the day when the city's students enjoy a 'water war'. Even President Evo dressed up as a clown and got drenched. Ducking the water bombs, we managed to find a pub which proudly calls itself the second-highest English pub in the world, where we had a fry-up and a real cup of Tetley tea.

It gets so cold at night in La Paz that the hostels provide blankets so heavy that going to bed is like being sucked into one of those vacuum compression bags. This is a bit tricky when you develop cramp in your leg in the middle of the night, and pushing yourself out of the bed to jump up and down is not a little unlike squeezing a pencil sideways out of a bag of cement. I still have the bruises.

We were a little wary walking around the city, as we had heard so many stories of fake policemen conning tourists out of their credit cards and passports by claiming they needed to be checked for 'authenticity'. Robyn and I spent a good few pints coming up with a number of diversionary tactics, should we be faced with a similar situation - (a) pretending to be deaf, so the fakers would get exasperated trying to communicate what they wanted and therefore leave in disgust; (b) falling to our knees, weeping and wailing whilst grabbing the legs of the coppers. Again they should leave in disgust; (c) primal screaming. Scares the bejesus out of me, should do the same to them; and (d) shouting that we'd already had had our stuff nicked yesterday and why weren't they out there looking for the thieves instead of harassing innocent tourists.

Fed up with the cold, we headed to Sorata in the Yungas region, five hours by bus through the stunning Cordillera Real, the 200 km-long Andes range. The only gringos on the bus, it was packed with locals returning home from carnival bringing with them goods bought in La Paz. I had a bag of squawking chickens at my feet plus a smaller bag containing a lone and very scared kitten. I also had an incredibly warty child sleeping against me for the entire journey, waking only when the chickens tried to make a run for it.

Sorata is famous for trekking and hiking, of which we did none because (a) it's the rainy season and (b) we couldn't be arsed. We stayed in an old colonial mansion, built in the 1800's by a family who had made their wealth in the quinine trade. The village contains a huge number of stray dogs, which naturally restricted my movements somewhat. We sat for days on our veranda, watching the clouds rolling over the mountains and the humming birds flit around the garden, and listening to a tale of woe from our new American friend Shelly.

Shelly's boyfriend had rather cruelly dumped her by email on Valentine's Day. They had met a year previously through an internet dating agency called CatholicMatch.com. Now this guy wasn't exactly imbibed with the christian spirit when, a week after ditching her, he emailed to tell her that he'd given all her gifts to a thrift shop and advised her to get in touch in a year's time when he might reconsider her as a potential partner if she (a) had lost some weight (b) recognised that her university studies had inconvenienced him (c) agreed that his career would always take precedence (d) admitted that he was the better salsa dancer (e) recognised that it was in fact due to her sins that he had to go to confession twice-weekly, and (f) if she immediately sent back his Russian dance CDs.

Is he on crack? we asked.

No, she replied, he's a website designer.

We suggested that she send back the Russian dance CD covers containing CD-Roms instructing him in the art of how not to be such an arse, and also surf the web to see if there was a self-help website called CatholicsOnCrack.com. We left Shelly back in La Paz pondering her next move and seriously considering if her ex had been a major drug user.

And so, after far too much cold weather, I've travelled to Iquique in northern Chile to soak up a few rays and prepare for the journey to Quito where I catch my flight home. I've left Robyn-the-Canadian in Copacabana, but fully expect to see her on the beach next week.

Not long now - get those expense accounts ready.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1140379860/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1140379860/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1140379860/tpod.html Sun, 19 Feb 2006 15:37:13 -0500 Learning Spanish and avoiding dogs

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Sucre, Bolivia

The dark arts of the political make-over haven't quite reached Bolivia yet. The new and very popular President, Evo Morales, looks like he cuts his hair with a knife and fork and wears jumpers for interviews that his mum must have bought him for Christmas.

Bolivians are getting used to a period of political tranquility they haven't enjoyed in years. The road blockades, strikes and stone-throwing I had heard so much about are on the back-burner whilst Evo slashes MP's pay and increases teachers' salaries. He has a huge job on his hands in a country where the average annual wage is just over a grand. This is a terribly poor country, where the numbers of elderly indigenous people begging in the streets is quite overwhelming.

To get here, I had set off with five others in a jeep from Chile, travelling through the amazing Reserva Nacional de Fauna Andina Eduardo Avaroa, a huge national park, to get to the Solar de Uyuni, the famed salt flats. The three-day journey was courtesy of our driver Leo, a Bolivian whose flies were always undone and who had the most amazing sticky-up hair - not even a blast from the biggest hair-straighteners in the world could have flattened this man's coiffure. I had chosen Leo's tour agency from the hundreds on offer because of their proud pledge that "none of our drivers drink on the job".

I really can't describe adequately just how beautiful the national park was - white and green and red lakes populated by thousands of pink flamingos and surrounded by snow-capped volcanoes and mountains; bubbling geyser basins and boiling hot springs; flocks of llamas and alpacas; and strange hillsides in the desert covered in enormous stones, the kind of place where rocks go to die.

We spent the first night at an altitude of 4600m in a freezing cold refuge with no running water and an outside loo guarded by a skinny but fierce dog. I thanked God for my ability to refrain from going to the toilet during the night. The altitude didn't bother me at all, but my toothpaste exploded quite shockingly all over my rucksack. The second night was spent in a hotel made entirely from salt, even the beds (I licked them to make sure). We ended the trip in Uyuni, a small and dour town at the edge of the salt flats. The most interesting thing about Uyuni was our hostel owner's very bald and ugly baby parrot which made disgusting noises whilst picking bits of squashed banana off the bed.

I got a bus as soon as I could to Sucre, the colonial capital of Bolivia. The bus journey was fairly uninteresting, although not to the baggage boy who, at every loo-stop, tried desperately to spy on us girls.

The first thing I did here was to have my eyebrows done - being a lazy sort of girl, it had got to the stage where my eyesight was actually being impeded. And once I could see, I sorted out more Spanish lessons and an apartment which I am now renting with a Canadian girl (Robyn, great fun) and an American bloke who is perhaps the most self-absorbed person I have ever met, possibly because he looks like a cross between a fat Axel Rose and Catweasel with a ridiculous goatee like a dead hamster. He could even give Leonard Cohen lessons in how to be miserable.

Poverty aside, Bolivia is very different from other South America countries. The Bolivian psyche is made up of an overpowering machismo, rigid Catholicism and a healthy respect for witchcraft. I watched a bunch of young boys racing down the street after having a scrap, screeching insults at one another but automatically making the sign of the cross as they sped past a church. At the witches market here you can buy all sorts of potions to improve the quality of your life, including one to miraculously fix a broken-down car. I may buy a few to take home with me ....

Each day after my Spanish lessons I work in an orphanage for girls, helping with their homework and generally entertaining them until dinner time. Going through a picture book with me, 5 year old Vanessa correctly identified a pair of tweezers and, when I asked her to describe what they are used for, she replied "For pulling all the white hairs out of your head". Oh, how I laughed. The older girls get me to translate English song lyrics into Spanish, so I've taken the opportunity to defile the odd Britney Spears song with a few lyrics of my own.

Next week I hope to go to Oruro for a few days to see the famous carnival celebrations. Carnival here in Sucre has started early, with no-one safe from the schoolboy tradition of throwing water bombs. I got hit by a group of youngsters but got my own back by taking their picture and thereby capturing their souls in my camera for eternity. My kind of witchcraft.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1138295100/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1138295100/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1138295100/tpod.html Tue, 31 Jan 2006 13:14:40 -0500 Learning Spanish and avoiding dogs

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San Pedro de Atacama, Chile

Chile is a bit like Switzerland - pretty wooden chalets, dense forests, lakes and mountains. Oh, and expensive. But I bet the Swiss officials don't ask personal questions on arrival at the border, like their Chilean colleagues do. Filling out the usual immigration form, I was asked to declare not only if I was carrying money or electrical equipment worth over $6000, but also if I was in possession of bees or semen. How rude, I thought.

I went first to Pucon, in the south of the country, because I had heard of an active volcano you can climb there. Volcano Villarica is almost 3000 meters high and towers over the tiny village, puffing smoke from its crater like a toy steam train.

I decided to do the 4am climb to avoid the lazy masses who ascend four hours later. Equipped with crampons, wet weather gear, balaclavas, mittens and ice picks, we climbed for a shattering five hours to get to the crater, over boulders and rocks, then glaciers and snow. I was a bit scared and gibbered away at the guide, a French-Canadian Jesus-look-a-like, to reassure myself that we would indeed have good warning if the volcano decided to erupt. Oh yes, he said, the smell of burning flesh is very distinctive.

So we stood there, right at the crater's edge, listening for the tell-tale jet-engine sound you get seconds before the red hot malma shoots skywards. And the smell .... lordy, it's like satan's own arse has guffed right in your mouth. The sulphur burns your nose, makes your eyes sting and tastes like crap. The best bit, though, was coming back down. We put on extra waterproofs, helmets, and a plastic nappy-like thing round our arses, and then luged down the whole 3 kilometers. It was fantastic! It took us an hour to come down what we had climbed in five. Plus we passed all the losers who started their climb at 8am, so I screeched really loudly and shouted "Not long now!" which was a big fat lie.

After a day spent teaching myself to walk again (and fancying myself as a potential member of the Winter Olympic bobsleigh team now I've had experience), I was off to the capital Santiago, city of Pablo Neruda, of wine and poetry ... I turned up at a wonderful hostel in the artsy area of Bellavista and spent the next four days in the kind of apathetic fog one might associate with a long-term traveller weary of the endless round of museums, churches and plazas. Not me. I just felt like being a really big lazy sow.

The idea of visiting a museum and dutifully studying a major work of art for the statutory tourist-time of one hour reminded me too much of those endless parties I attended in my twenties, when I would sit on the stairs of someone's house, nodding every time someone pushed past me to the loo, and wondering all the time just how long I was going to have to sit there, sipping warm white wine from a plastic cup, before I could get up and go home.

Stirring myself to do anything other than book my bus ticket to San Pedro de Atacama would have required the kind of energy necessary for trudging through a corridor filled with wet jam. So apart from a beautifully sunny day when I was driven to a swimming pool and back again by a friendly Chilean dentist called Ivan, my lovely new friend Anika (a co-survivor of the Ruta 40 bus) and I sat outside cafes, drank wine and fought over the remote control as we slumped in front of the telly in the hostel.

We were also entertained by an unwitting young American traveller as he held forth on US foreign policy, declaring that "It`s tough running the world" and who, when we expressed horror on learning that there`s a Starbucks in the middle of the Forbidden City, muttered to himself "About time, man". He also clearly irritated the non-English-speaking bloke in reception by proclaiming loudly and slowly "It is hot. My room needs a fan, a F-A-N" when what he actually needed was a slap, a S-L-A-P. But he started to bore me after dribbling on about wanting to go to the Ice Pole but not having the right clothes.

And so 25 hours after getting on a bus in Santiago, I arrived this morning in the northern village of San Pedro de Atacama, a little weary and with knees that are no longer speaking to me. San Pedro must be what Las Vegas was like 100 years ago, but with internet cafes - a small and dusty oasis in the middle of the desert. On the way here we travelled through the kind of terrain where small paranoid countries do secret nuclear testing, pink and grey bleary landscapes dotted with oddly-constructed triangular compounds and populated by packs of limping dogs and once, a twitching man on a bike, pedalling with a strange looping style.

In a few days I hope to make my way to Bolivia from here, courtesy of a three day journey in a dodgy 4x4 through the Atacama desert, stopping to see the famous salt flats, geysers and lakes, and enjoying temperatures of -20. Too cold for dogs, I hope.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1136924820/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1136924820/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1136924820/tpod.html Thu, 26 Jan 2006 12:31:31 -0500 Learning Spanish and avoiding dogs

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El Calafate, Argentina

Beware old women shuffling slowly down badly-lit streets late at night in Buenos Aires. For there will be an even slower but surprisingly vicious small dog mincing behind, just waiting to put the fear of god into an unsuspecting and dog-fearing traveller. Just one of the many memories I will take with me from my time here.

My two months of voluntary work have been fun and has taught me a few invaluable lessons. Small children, for example, do not mix well with copious amounts of birthday cake followed by an hour of skipping. Neither do children have the patience to finish their home-made christmas cards - all sixty of them - and if I ever see another pritt-stick again in my life it will be too soon. And spending a roasting-hot day supervising forty hyperactive children at a fun-run without applying sun cream to the face first will result in the kind of chemical peel most women in Hollywood would kill for.

Having cable television in my flat was a real treat, especially being able to watch premiership matches live whilst lying in bed. And I became addicted to re-runs of the legendary 'America's Next Top Model', my favourite episode being when the models flew to South Africa for a photo shoot and one of them ate something.

But it's not all been fun. One of the little girls I had been visiting in hospital died unexpectedly the week before Christmas, and her mother asked me to go the funeral. It was a grim experience and one I won't forget. Not what I expected to be doing on my travels.

And so it was really special to be able to share the festive season with my sisters, and we spent Christmas Day horse-riding over the pampas. The estancia we stayed at wasn't exactly a rough-and-ready working ranch, what with the infinity pool and all, so we celebrated in style. But even though the chef was notified beforehand that my sisters are veggies, he didn't quite understand that white meat is not in fact a vegetable. I, on the other hand, made full use of the huge slabs of meat served at every meal.

Julia and Louise had arrived in BA loaded down with christmas presents, and I was thoroughly spoiled by family and friends. I now have more pairs of knickers than there are vegetables in Buenos Aires. Back to BA, and needing some relief from the heat, we were forced to take refuge in the swimming pool at the Hilton - who says travelling is all about slumming it? New Year's Eve was spent marvelling at the fire-works which exploded from every direction around the city, but keeping out of the line of fire as my sister yelled "Incoming!!" every time a firework whizzed past the window.

Buenos Aires is a wonderful city to unload the rucksack and have a bit of a break from travelling. But it's important to blend in as soon as possible, and this means sticking to the following rules:

- Many Porteños like to try out their English on visitors, making it difficult to practise what you've learnt at school. Avoid this by pretending to be from Khazakstan. Beware crafty Porteños who have seen 'The Great Escape' and will try to trick you a la David McCallum.

- Get out of the habit of being ultra-polite. You may as well be wearing a pair of union jack knickers on your head. Porteños expect to be bossed about a bit - saying "please may I have a coffee when you have a moment, thanks awfully" in Spanish instead of "get me a coffee please" will not only be sniggered at, but will more than likely double your bill as the waitress plays the 'let's stiff the foreigner' game.

- Take full advantage of a practice that is so abhorrent in the UK that it'll probably soon be outlawed. No, not smoking in public, but queue-jumping. It's a real art here and considered rude if you don't join in.

- Leave the trekking shoes, fleece and guide book back at the hostel. And try to look as if you've washed recently.

I was really sad to leave Buenos Aires, it's a fantastic city and I hope one day to return. I flew from there to Patagonia, starting off in El Calafate. Patagonia is like the north of Scotland but with icebergs. Beautiful, desolate and wind-swept scenery stretches out as far as the eye can see. And it's cold.

El Calafate, on the shore of Lake Argentina, is the town from which to visit the famous 30km-long Perito Moreno Glacier. From a distance, the glacier looks like it's made from the kind of polystyrene you get when unpacking a new freezer. Closer up, it's more of a washing-powder blue colour than white, with dirty tips like burnt meringue. The size of it is impressive, and every now and then huge chunks of ice crash into the lake, sounding like massive thunder claps. I spent an afternoon ice-trekking on it, complete with crampons like old-fashioned metal roller-skates but without the wheels. Our instructor was the most handsome man I've seen so far in Argentina, and it was funny to watch all the women try to look alluring whilst following his instructions to trek down a slope pimp-style, with knees bent and pelvis thrust forward to avoid falling. Not to be rude, I joined in with the other ladies but given all the layers I was wearing, the midget-Michelin-man look really didn't work. We ended the day toasting the glacier with whisky and ice chipped from its side. I would have preferred a champagne cocktail, but one makes do.

The next day I took a boat to see some of the other glaciers, including the longest glacier in South America, the Upsala Glacier. Even though I offered to sit at the end of a row of seats, I got wedged in the corner by three very fat old ladies, and spent most of the day waiting for them to shift themselves every time I wanted to go out on deck. They spent most of the day trying to feed me, zip up my jacket and make sure I wore my hat. Mothering, Argy style.

Onwards to El Chalten to marvel at the Fitz Roy massif, which I always thought was a scary Glaswegian street-gang but is actually a series of mountain peaks in the Parque Nacional Los Galciares.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1137871740/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1137871740/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1137871740/tpod.html Sat, 21 Jan 2006 14:40:18 -0500 Learning Spanish and avoiding dogs

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Bariloche, Argentina

And I thought ice-trekking on the Perito Moreno glacier was tricky.

It was, as they say, a piece of piss - sorry Mum - compared to the Cerro Torre glacier near El Chalten, a small and wind-blown village overshadowed by the Fitz Roy peaks, and full of bearded mountaineers (yes, even the women) with enormous rucksacks and even bigger maps. It's real Lord of the Rings country, where the local dogs look slightly elvish, whippet-thin with pointy ears. The village also boasts an ice-cream shop called 'Helados Tit' where presumably you can get a 99DD with a flake.*

Encouraged by my ice-trek in El Calafate, I decided to try my hand at the full-day outing to the Cerro Torre mountain to trek on its glacier. It turned out to be a 30k hard hike up mountains and over lakes. After trekking to the mountain's base camp, we were each fitted with a harness by the guide who, whilst demonstrating how the harness would be used should anyone fall into a crevasse, accidentally gave me a full-on wedgie. Not a good start. When we eventually got to the lake at the foot of the glacier, we were attached to a zip-line and pulled ourselves over the water. My photos show me looking like a slightly startled hydrophobic gnome.

The rest of the day passed in an knackering blur of mountain climbing, ice-trekking with crampons, and some inadvertent scraping down a hill on my backside. Surrounded by the towering snow-capped peaks, I did feel slightly Hobbitish at times, and an invisibility cloak would have been a bonus for those caught-short moments on the glacier. I attempted to give ice-climbing a go, but I was smarting from the wedgie so gave up.

I was still crippled two days later and so just to make things worse, I got on a bus for the two-day journey up the famous Ruta 40 road to Bariloche. The road, unpaved in parts, passes through some of the most desolate scenery in Patagonia. Smudges of dirty brown mountains are the backdrop for huge expanses of scrub-land dotted with the occasional abandoned estancia, fluttering flags of loo-roll caught on bushes and discarded plastic bags snapping in the wind.

At one point during the first day, the bus driver suddenly slammed on the brakes and legged it out of the bus into the scrub-land. He'd seen a Darwins-rhea, an ostrich-like flightless bird, and was chasing one of it's babies to catch it and show it to us. The rhea won. The bus journey was bone-chippingly bumpy, but a much cheaper way to get rid of cellulite than buying one of those silly vibrating belts.

We stopped for the night in the twilight-zone, tumble-weed town of Perito Moreno where the hotel's waitress, an Argentine version of Mrs Overall, provided hours of breath-holding entertainment as she stuttered from table to table. The hotel was also where I was introduced to bed-bugs for the first time, and where I met a very gay bloke from Manchester who had been away for weeks and was desperate to know if Sharon Stone was better as he'd seen a headline on the hotel's TV saying "Sharon Stroke".

The second day began ominously when the bus broke down. When we finally got going, the driver tried to take our minds off the imminent loss of bone density by playing at the highest volume possible a CD on a loop of The Greatest B-Sides Ever, which included Imelda Marcos singing the classic "I Love To Love (But My Baby Loves To Dance)". Thirteen hours later as we pulled into Bariloche at 3 o'clock in the morning, I was ready to rip the loudspeaker out and shove it up the driver's arse where at least there would be some volume control.

Bariloche is where every Argentine goes on holiday (it's also, disturbingly, home to a baby clothes shop called 'Mr Cock'). Packed full of tourists, Bariloche is the place to go river-kayaking, para-gliding, white-water rafting, cliff-rappelling, mountain-climbing and anything else with a hyphen. Unless of course you're like me, where it's the place to sleep, drink beer, eat chocolate and plan your route into Chile.

After four months in Argentina, I'm oddly apprehensive about going to a different country. Argentina is fantastic, with friendly people, great steaks, cheap wine, and the most stunning scenery. There's still so much of the country I haven't seen - I didn't, for example, make it down to Ushuaia to go beaver watching - so I'll just have to come back. But for now it's onwards to Chile, with a difficult-to-work-out exchange rate and hopefully no more bed-bugs. They really itch.

* credit to sister Louise for that one.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1120069980/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1120069980/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1120069980/tpod.html Fri, 09 Dec 2005 16:47:01 -0500 Learning Spanish and avoiding dogs

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Iquitos, Peru

I can't decide which I hate more, mozzies or cockroaches. The hotel in Chiclayo (of the infamous cable telly) had so many cockroaches, they interrupted my viewing pleasure. But at least they are easier to kill than mozzies. Helen 10, Cockroaches 0.

Having had our fill of pyramids and rapidly running out of books, my travelling companions (Nick, British and Monica, Norwegian) and I headed to Trujillo, a nice clean town down the coast filled with beautiful colonial buildings and great doughnut shops. Nick, who is 6ft 8in, was followed around by a mad old bloke who kept trying to measure him, like a Peruvian Norris McWhirter. We visited Chan Chan, the ruined capital of the Chimu empire (AD 1300) where, according to the guide, there was "hoomun" sacrifice of small children as gifts to the gods. What a great threat if your kids are misbehaving - "Do that again and the priest will chop off your head and drink your blood". Could be one for the new Pope. We saw the fabulous Temples of the Sun and Moon (AD 600) where the excavations are ongoing and truly fascinating. Here too you can marvel at the famous Peruvian hairless dogs, said to be used as body warmers for arthritis sufferers. Sort of like Deep Heat, only heavier and probably a bit scratchy.

From Trujillo, we decided to forego the 'it's for wimps' easy night bus to Huaraz and instead took the local two-bus, 12-hour day trip there through the El Callejón de Huaylas road and the Canón del Pato. The first bus took us to the town of Chimbote, and I agree with the guide book when it says the best thing about this town is the road out of there. Think enormous fish market on a sweltering hot day. At the bus station, we were accosted by fortune tellers who presumably wanted to predict if we would survive the second bus journey, which was spectacular but pant-soiling scary. Driving on narrow, unpaved roads for hours, the bus clung to the sides of massive gorges, imposing rock faces above us dotted with the kind of giant cacti you only see in Disney films and tiny cacti that looked like green daleks wearing woolly red hats. When you reach the Canón, you slip through 46 tunnels constructed after the 1970 earthquake to limit any future damage. We got stuck behind another bus with a flat tyre and managed to get past, but clipped the back of it in the process. Cue much shovel-waving, pushing and Queensbury-rules type facing-off between the two bus drivers. We arrived in Huaraz that night with sore arses but some great photos of authentic Peruvian Handbag Waving.

Huaraz is the place to come for mountain climbing and trekking. The town, at just over 3000 metres, is surrounded by the Cordillera Blanca and Huayhash mountain ranges (now famous for 'Touching the Void'), lakes and glaciers. The scenery is just stunning. The town was full of rugged-looking, chunky Europeans carrying crampons, tents and freeze-dried food, so of course we fitted right in. One of the great things about travelling is learning about other cultures, and no doubt to extend her knowledge, an Israeli girl asked Monica "You speak great English, is that the only language spoken in Norway?". This girl had done a thesis on mathematical games (?) and thought she was Russell Crowe in 'A Beautiful Mind'. Should have done geography instead. After a couple of days looking at the lakes and glaciers, eating Thai food and drinking Chilean red wine, we left on the night bus for Lima. On the journey we watched a dodgy Vin Diesel film featuring numerous British actors. Shame on you, Dame Judi.

From Lima, I said a sad goodbye to Nick and Monica and flew to Iquitos in the north of Peru, allegedly the only major town in the world accessible just by air and boat. It's noisy, hot and steamy, 90% humidity and mozzies as big as your fist. From here, I plan to get three boats all the way down the Amazon to the east coast of Brazil. I shall miss my Mum's 70th birthday party next week in the UK (sob), dammit I'm always down the Amazon when these things come up. Happy Birthday Mum!

Yesterday I had a look at the cargo boats that go to Tabatinga on the Brazilian border, but they looked decidedly ropey. Three toilets for 200 people over three days? Worse than the queue for the gents at half-time at Highbury. I have chickened out and am getting the 12-hour speedboat instead. I have started taking malaria tablets in readiness for the journey. Allegedly they are a mild antibiotic, but given that I was convinced Donald Sutherland was riding a horse outside my door at 5am this morning, I'm not so sure ...

A few useful facts for other travellers:

1. When you get money out of an ATM in Peru, some receipts print the card´s entire number rather than just the last four digits. I eat my receipts now, yum yum.
2. In Huaraz, stay at the hostel Albergue Churup, it's just been renovated and is fantastic apart from the owner's doberman puppy which is boisterous and therefore scared me a bit.
3. Bored? Many hours can be whiled away in local supermarkets, sniggering childishly at the names of certain products. My favourites so far are 'Fanny Jam', 'ChocoBum' biscuits (possibly what happens once you've eaten them) and 'English Toffees' which have a picture of a Scots Guard on the front.

I'm sad to leave Peru, I really liked it when I was here in the south last year. Peruvian people are friendly, small, and interested in where you're from and what you're doing (reading that back, it sounds like a description of either me or a Hobbit). The vast majority of Peruvians have an incredibly hard life and - serious bit here - it does make you feel very grateful for what you've got.

Onwards to Brazil .... and seeing my sister Julia in four weeks!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1133992200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1133992200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1133992200/tpod.html Fri, 09 Dec 2005 12:23:53 -0500 Learning Spanish and avoiding dogs

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Buenos Aires, Argentina

It's pretty hard to get excited about Christmas when it's 34 degrees outside and there's more chance of me getting a dog as a pet than there is of snow falling. This will be my first Christmas in a hot country, and my sisters arrive soon to celebrate it with me and I can't wait to see them - although Christmas came early a few weeks ago when I received an emergency parcel from lovely friend Lynne which included midget gems, a Heat magazine and three pairs of M&S knickers.

I've been in Buenos Aires for over two months now, and I've settled in to life here pretty easily - to be honest, you'd have to work really hard to hate it. Every morning I have a Spanish conversation class with an Argentine woman who is as mad as a bag of rusty beavers. Susanah speaks about 10 languages, is studying Latin at university, and has just invited her 45 year-old professional-tennis-player-boyfriend Jorge to live with her. She's 69. She's horrified at my lack of decent clothing and is trying to force me to borrow one of her dresses for Christmas - I can't think why she imagines that I would suit the clothing of an old age pensioner.

Her methods to improve my Spanish include getting me to make the coffee every morning and describe in Spanish what I'm doing while I make it, and inviting herself and Jorge round for dinner and then ordering me to explain in Spanish how I cooked each course. This morning for example she tried to get me to go and buy cheese for her in order to practise my Spanish but I refused on the grounds that I hate cheese. One morning I thought I'd surprise her by bringing a few little cakes ('facturas') from the local pastry shop, but she just laughed and told me I'd committed the biggest gastronomic faux-pas in Argentine history - when buying facturas to take to someone's house, you must always buy an entire trunk of cakes ensuring each person has at least four each and not the measly-but-polite English-sized one per person.

As well as trying out my Spanish on the elderly, I've been torturing the very young too. Every week I visit the dialysis unit in one of the province's children's hospitals, allegedly to cheer up the little kids who are stuck there for three or four hours at a time. Unfortunately I have discovered that making balloon animals is not going to be one of my major life skills, as my attempts tend to resemble grotesque parts of the female body. I just tell the children that the animals I make are new species that have yet to be discovered in Argentina. For a few weeks we weren't able to visit, as the train station we normally get out at had been burned down by passengers irate because their train was delayed. Now that's what I call passenger action. I also go to one of the capital's very poor suburbs where we teach the local children how to share toys and interact with each other. This is great fun, as I get to play at skipping with the children, help them to make cards and draw pictures, and brush Barbie's hair for hours. Nothing too stretching, but the children seem to look forward to laughing at my Spanish. One of the kiddies laughed so much the other week that she actually peed on me.

Last week I met the mother of a fellow volunteer, an Argentinian, who is recovering from an operation on her face. She has stitches above each eye-lid and below her hair line. She explained that she had suffered from a problem that resulted in her eyelids sagging, and so had had a medical procedure. I wanted to tell her that we have that in the UK too and it's called old age. This is a city obsessed with image and style and clothing - Susanah thinks it dreadful that I wear flips-flops in the street and own just one skirt. Most of the time the women here get it right, but I've noticed a frightening trend amongst young girls to wear trousers that are a combination of footless tights and baggy clown pants, attractively elasticated at the ankle and on sale at two of the capital's most popular shops - 'Beige' and 'Clap'. Plus of course there is the national scandal of the visible knicker line, and the horrifying return of the mullet here. And this from a city progressive enough to have just introduced a bill to make organ donation compulsory. It's a mystery.

Everyone eats late here, and I've got used to getting home from dinner at 4am. But there isn't a big drinking culture, and people drink beer or wine very slowly and actually eat a decent meal. The restaurants are fabulous - there's even one round the corner from me where you can choose which colour room to eat in. I've been lucky enough to have some lovely visitors - Shazza from Colchester and Pauline from Bogota - so I've done most of the touristy things. One of my favourite places here is the Botanic Gardens, which is verboten for dogs and so is just crawling with hundreds of semi-wild cats. You can sit and enjoy the sun quietly in the gardens with a book and, if you are very lucky, a little cat will crawl on your lap and purr on you. And given that my friend Alberto thinks I am becoming obsessed with dogs and mention them all the time, this is just for him .... yesterday I saw a man in a park walking seven dogs and one very large iguana who was wearing a big yellow bow around its neck. The bloke was chasing away a flock of cheeky birds who were trying to have a go at the iguana and all the squirrels were shouting "fight! fight! fight!", it was brilliant. You don't see that every day in Twickenham.

On to Christmas. My sisters, Louise and Julia, and I are off to an estancia for the Christmas weekend where we shall be attempting to ride horses and round up cattle. Or ride cattle and round up horses, whichever looks the most fun. I hope everyone has a magical Christmas and a sparkling New Year.

¡Feliz Navidad de Buenos Aires!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1126881300/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1126881300/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1126881300/tpod.html Mon, 05 Dec 2005 13:04:34 -0500 Learning Spanish and avoiding dogs

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Mendoza, Argentina

It's no wonder Maradona was so lardy. In my first week in Argentina, I saw very few vegetables and only the odd banana. It's quite possible that I may be suffering from the first stages of scurvy. I`ve never eaten so much red meat, although I have discovered that it is a practical necessity in order to pad out your backside sufficiently to go horse riding - two pairs of big knickers and a thick woolly saddle just weren't enough to prevent my bottom from getting the kind of pressure sores that medical students do special projects on. I went riding in the mountains outside Salta, a quiet and pretty town in the north of Argentina, my first stop after seeing the stunning Iguasu Falls. I had wanted to take the famous Train to the Clouds (Tren a las Nubes) through the Quebrada del Toro gorge but it wasn't running, so I took a bus along the same route and gawped at mountains the colours of Scottish heather and salt-flats that stretch out like an endless ice-cap. The horse riding was an attempt to conquer one of my fears, and it worked to the extent that I`d go again, but only if I can sit on something more upholstered, like a small fat child perhaps.

Onwards to Mendoza, and a dull 18 hour bus ride was made much more interesting with a three hour bus-and-bag search by narcotics police. This is where I discovered that dressing like a christian and speaking a few words of Spanish has its advantages, as my bags were given a cursory glance and I was asked politely if I liked Argentina. Three dread-locked and scruffy German travellers, however, were strip-searched and had their belongings turned inside out. One was arrested when the police found a pipe in his bag that looked nothing like the kind my Dad used to smoke.

Mendoza, one of Argentina's biggest cities, is surrounded by the snow-covered Andes and is the wine capital of the country. I learnt how to tell my Malbec from my Merlot on a tour of the local bodegas, and took a trip into the Andes, passing the hundreds of trucks waiting patiently to get through the pass into Chile, currently closed because of bad weather. On the way to catch of a glimpse of Mount Aconcagua which, at over 6000 metres, is the highest mountain in the western hemisphere, we drove past the forlorn-looking mountaineer`s graveyard and stopped in Los Penitentes, a beautiful ski resort, where we took a ski-lift up a mountain to play in the snow and throw snowballs. What is it about sunshine and snow that makes you smile? The Andes are stunning, the snow on their peaks like white silk, and condors fly lazily round them to catch the warm air currents. Mendoza was also the place where I discovered that 'ear plugs' in Spanish translates as 'ear tampons'. This was after a girl in my hostel asked me to pick up her tampon from the floor, and she couldn't understand my look of horror.

My next stop is Buenos Aires, where I hope to catch my breath a bit, do more Spanish language classes and find some kind of voluntary work, preferably teaching small fat children to impersonate inanimate objects. I really like Argentina so far, it`s so different from the other countries I`ve visited. Most of the roads are paved, for a start, and the buses are wonderful. You can even play in-bus bingo during long journeys - a classy way to travel.

But travelling for almost five months has sorely tested my efforts to keep fit, and carrying one`s full running gear just isn't practical on a long trip around South America. And so for those of you who have been asking how I am managing to maintain my fabulous figure, here are a few tips on how to keep in trim whilst doing absolutely no exercise on your extended holiday:

- to maintain taut abdominal muscles, take a taxi from any major airport in Brazil. The speed of the cab and the reckless driving will ensure that all major stomach muscles will remain tight for the duration of the journey. This is also beneficial for wrist flexibility as you grip the seat in sheer terror. Neck muscles may also be exercised as you brace for impact when a horse bolts in front of the cab (Salvador only). Additional methods to aid neck flexibility include nodding furiously in agreement during a conversation with a shop assistant as you realise you haven't a clue what they're saying, and swivelling the head from side to side in a slightly maniacal manner as you try to cross the road without being killed.

- for calf muscles, a leisurely stroll around Ipanema in Rio will aid flexibility and ensure a finely-turned ankle as you navigate an assault course of strategically-placed dog shit. This also boosts overall coordination, as you simultaneously maintain a close watch on the men on the beach in their teeny-weenies.

- upper arm muscles will benefit enormously from any number of activities, from the regular frenzied assaults on small and crafty insects in hostel dormitories, to holding a heavy rucksack above your head whilst trying to secure it safely on top of a bus, or raising your hands repeatedly to cover your ears to prevent having to listen to Dire Straits in the hostel bar for the fifth time.

- cardiovascular exercise is assured when staying in dodgy hostels. You will jump up and down and wave your arms briskly in an attempt to keep warm under a freezing cold shower. The muscles around the heart will be strengthened as you become more and more agitated because the hostel owner promised you a hot shower and you haven't had one in three weeks.

- long distance buses of an inferior quality are a perfect substitute for bottom-clenching exercises. You will move from cheek to cheek regularly to ensure your bottom stays awake during the journey even if the driver doesn`t.

- keep your brain active with a range of mind-gym exercises, such as trying to remember which currency you should be using and what the exchange rate is when you cross the border at 3am; working out how much your laundry will come to if each pair of knickers costs 50 centavos and a shirt is 2 reais; and deciphering your hotel bill at the end of the week whilst trying to work out how you could possibly have been charged for using the shower cap.

- facial muscles will have a full work-out as you grimace in pain following a particularly strenuous trek. Laughing uncontrollably at the 18 year-old girls from Luton wearing full make-up on the same trek will have similar advantages to facial flexibility.

And, of course, the most regular exercise you get will be from spending most of your time in internet cafes working on your fine motor skills churning this stuff out.

!Hasta luego! x
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1130860680/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1130860680/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/helene/samerica_2005/1130860680/tpod.html Mon, 05 Dec 2005 12:55:59 -0500 Learning Spanish and avoiding dogs

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Buenos Aires, Argentina

When you hear about elections in South American countries, you imagine corrupt presidents, stolen votes and rioting. Not so here, where mid-term elections took place last Sunday. The reaction from the public was the kind of shrugging apathy you see in the UK during the European elections - who cares and is the pub open yet. Which, here, they weren't exactly as no alcohol was sold anywhere on the day in an attempt to encourage people to get out and vote. Given that there was a 70 per cent turn-out, it worked pretty well (and no doubt you'll all be pleased to hear that President Kirchner increased his mandate in the Senate). Not sure it would catch on in the UK, though.

Now that the election is over, there's more interest in the media in this week's 'Summit of the Americas' when George Bush is due to make an appearance, although the outrage in the press may be because all footy games have been cancelled as there aren't enough police in the country to protect George and stop football riots at the same time. Allegedly the British Embassy has issued a warning to British visitors to keep a low profile during the summit. I'm more concerned about the Argentina versus England footy match on November 12th. I'm already practising my Scottish accent, and hoarding wine and olives for that 'people on the streets hunting the English' moment.

It's spring here, and we've recently enjoyed the equivalent of a scorching heatwave in the UK. You can tell all the Europeans on the subway because we're the only passengers passing out whilst the locals are still wearing jumpers and winter coats. The famous Buenos Aires dog walkers have been out in force, and it's amusing to see a young bloke struggling to control 17 dogs whilst dog number 18 is trying to get jiggy with his leg.

But these poor chaps are far too busy to enjoy one of the male porteño's favourite activity - staring lasciviously at members of the opposite sex. Whilst men here leer less obviously than in other South American countries, it's not uncommon to receive filthy comments in the street or for the odd jogger to accidentally skim one's bottom with his hand whilst whizzing past at speed. My response is generally a mixture of outrage and gratitude.

To the World Cup qualifier between Argentina and Peru, where the footballers' dodgy 1970's haircuts and the footy chants were the highlight. The hardcore Argentinian fans jump up and down on the terraces with frightening ferocity, singing "El que no salta, es Ingles" which loosely translated means "If you're not jumping up and down like us, you must be a big girly English person". The stewards at the match spotted me for a hardened footy thug and demanded that I hand over my camera battery. This was in case I managed to throw it 300 feet from my seat in the gods with such military precision that it would hit a player or, if I was really lucky, the referee. They obviously haven't seen me try to throw a ball to my nephew at five paces and still miss.

On a day off from school and having done all my homework, my lovely new friend Sharon and I nipped over on the ferry to Colonia in Uruguay, which would have been a great day out if it hadn't rained all day and we'd remembered to bring our sou'westers and galoshes. The only differences I noticed between the two countries was that Uruguayan men wear knitted tee-shirts and the dogs are unleashed and look like scary wolves. We spent a lot of time drinking coffee and hiding from the dogs, and finally made the last ferry back whilst enjoying a new kind of caffeine high.

I've now finished my month at school, and have learnt how to say "Could you please speak slowly, I do not understand" in at least four different tenses. School was fun, and I even got some teaching experience when I managed to explain to my tutor why 'bugger' isn't really a rude word even though, if taken literally, it's a bit dodgy.

I am really enjoying being settled in a city where the fun starts at midnight and everyone looks knackered on the tube in the morning. It's pretty different from living in London - the huge bat that dive-bombs my bedroom window every morning is a good reminder of just how different. This is a city where the police use quad bikes and have big guns; where men are men, and aren't afraid to kiss each other hello; where calf muscles are huge because of the daily exercise of lifting one's feet to check for dog shit; and where there are more dead animals for sale in clothes shops than you'll see squashed flat on the M6.

I went to a milonga, a dance evening where you can have tango lessons before the real professionals take to the floor and mock all the beginners. It all looked horribly difficult to me and not actually that much fun, as all the beginners were frowning anxiously with the kind of concentration needed to to work out a particularly tricky maths equation. Plus if you want to tango properly, you need to wear spiky high-heels and some sort of sparkly disco frock split to the thigh and, although that has always been my fantasy outfit, I just can't bring myself to buy anything with sequins on it. I've started yoga lessons in an attempt to flex the muscles that rucksacks just don't reach, and it's a good thing my Spanish is a little better now - can you imagine if I was doing a downward-facing dog whilst the rest of the class was on the cat-dog stretch combination? Oh, the embarrassment.

I'm starting voluntary work this week, where I'll be practising my Spanish on small children and will more than likely confuse them by asking them to blow up their pancakes instead of their balloons. A member of my family, who shall remain nameless, remarked that at least my clothes will fit in with underprivileged children even if my Spanish doesn't. My other big task is planning the activities over Christmas when my two vegetarian sisters are here. It's going to be tough finding good veggie restaurants in a city where eating lettuce is seen as a weakness.
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