First morning, I set off for a 9:30am city tour from the Miraflores district. The meeting point was only 2.5 kilometres away along the coast — an easy stroll, or so I thought. 

At one point my phone said I was just 290 metres away. Perfect.  A few minutes later I checked again. 

Seven hundred metres away. Behind me. 

With the clock reading 9:14am, I performed the fastest about-turn in history and marched back at a pace best described as “Benny Hill soundtrack energy”. That’s when I discovered the real problem. 

My ticket wasn’t for that morning. 

It was for two days later. 

After a frantic rebooking attempt and a hopeful plea at the tourist information booth, I somehow ended up on the 9:30 bus with two minutes to spare. A travel miracle. 

The clifftop parks of Miraflores stretch for kilometres, forming a green ribbon between the desert city and the crashing waves below. Surfers ride the heavy Pacific swells far beneath the cliffs, while locals and visitors wander the gardens and viewpoints above. 

It’s undeniably beautiful. 

At first glance though, the centre of Miraflores itself felt a little underwhelming. Pleasant, busy, modern — but not quite the place I’d expected after hearing so much about Lima. 

Then we reached the historic centre and everything changed. 

Around the grand squares and cobbled streets of downtown Lima, the city suddenly reveals its past. Elegant colonial buildings, sandstone façades and ornate balconies line the streets, reminders of the period when Lima was the capital of Spain’s vast South American empire. 

Long before the Spanish arrived, the region was home to sophisticated coastal cultures including the Lima and Ichma civilisations, who built temples, irrigation systems and thriving settlements along the fertile river valleys. When the Spanish founded the city in 1535, it quickly became the political and religious heart of their empire in the Americas. Churches and monasteries rose across the landscape, including the magnificent Basilica and Convent of Santo Domingo. 

That layering of pre-Columbian history and Spanish colonial power still shapes the city today and it’s fascinating to see. 

Of course, the day wasn’t without incident. 

When the bus stopped for the walking tour, my seatbelt refused to release. Completely jammed. No amount of button pressing, pulling or polite persuasion made the slightest difference. 

I was officially being held hostage by public transport. 

Eventually, after a series of increasingly undignified manoeuvres, I performed what can only be described as a sideways wriggle escape — one leg out, stand up under the low roof, then lift the other leg high like a dog about to pee. 

Graceful it was not. 

But freedom was achieved and no seatbelts were harmed in the process. 

The walk back through Miraflores took about half an hour, wandering through parks and neighbourhood streets I’d barely noticed earlier. And somewhere along the way I realised something. 

I actually quite liked it. 

Even Miraflores grows on you. The clifftop parks, the ocean views, the steady rhythm of the city and the sense that there’s much more to discover around every corner. 

People watching remains one of the great travel pleasures anywhere in the world. 

Lima certainly delivers on that front. 

Fashion here has its own confident style, and one observation did stand out rather strongly: the enthusiastic local adoption of skin-coloured bike shorts. Now, I’m not one to judge. I owned my fair share of Lycra in the 1990s. In fact, a full cycling suit travelled around the world with me for almost thirty years before finally being retired.  But skin-coloured Lycra, worn without much additional coverage, creates a rather… striking visual effect. 

Let’s just say the city offers an impressive number of camel-toe sightings for the dedicated people watcher. And yes, I know — look at the faces, Lee. Look at the faces. But observation is half the fun of travel. 

The plan for the next day in Lima was simple: wander. 

From the bus the previous day I’d spotted several artisan markets dotted around the Miraflores and Barranco districts, so I dropped a few pins into Google Maps and mapped out a casual walking loop. Markets, the famous Bridge of Sighs, and whatever else appeared along the way. 

All within about five kilometres. 

A perfectly reasonable distance for the trusty Pony de Shanks. 

Of course, plans and jet lag are not natural allies. Ninety minutes into the day I was already feeling the effects of very little sleep and wondering if perhaps the Pony deserved early retirement. 

Still, wandering through Miraflores is an easy way to spend a morning. The district stretches along Lima’s dramatic coastal cliffs where the Pacific Ocean churns into thick white foam below. The parks along the cliff edge form a continuous green ribbon through the city — a surprisingly lush landscape considering Lima sits in a coastal desert. 

It’s lively, relaxed and full of small discoveries: street murals, cafés tucked into quiet corners, and clusters of artisan markets selling everything from woven textiles to ceramics and jewellery. 

Markets are dangerous places for me. 

Over the years my apartment has quietly become a collection of travel memories disguised as furniture and decorations. Friends have rested their feet on Moroccan leather stools without realising it, leaned back against cushions bought in Namibia, and admired ornaments gathered from everywhere from India to the Balkans. 

In earlier travel days I was capable of bringing home ten kilograms of textiles from India or stuffing rugs and blankets into a giant leather satchel from Morocco. These days I’m slightly more restrained. 

Cushion covers. Paintings. Small wall hangings.  And absolutely no more shot glasses. Especially the ones with the boobies. 

The only complication is timing. I’m barely two days into a seven-week journey, which means anything I buy now will be travelling with me across a continent. 

So shopping becomes a careful balancing act: the right object, the right size, and very definitely the right price. 

I once waited outside a shop in Greece at 7:30 in the morning because I’d spotted a beautiful white sculpture of two figures embracing. I thought it was €15. 

It was €150. 

“Non, ees marble,” the shopkeeper explained proudly. 

Love, I don’t care if it’s carved from unicorn horn — that’s still too much. 

Eventually the wandering route led south toward Barranco, Lima’s bohemian district known for its art, music and colourful buildings. At its heart sits one of the city’s most photographed landmarks — the Bridge of Sighs. 

Originally built in the nineteenth century, the wooden bridge spans a small ravine that once separated parts of the old district. Local legend says that if you cross the bridge while holding your breath and making a wish, it will come true. 

Sadly, on this particular day the bridge itself was closed for renovations. 

So the sighing was mostly done by me and the rest of the tourists. 

Still, the surrounding streets more than make up for it. Barranco is full of bright murals, historic houses and small cafés spilling onto the pavements. Musicians drift through the streets, artists sell their work, and the whole neighbourhood has a slightly slower, more creative rhythm than the rest of the city. 

Even without the bridge, it’s a lovely place to wander. 

From there the walk back followed the cliffs again, where the Pacific throws up rolling waves and thick foam along the shoreline below. Surfers dotted the water while paragliders floated above the cliffs — a reminder that Lima’s coastline has become something of a playground for both locals and visitors. 

By the time I returned to the hotel I’d walked several kilometres, browsed countless market stalls, resisted multiple purchasing temptations and confirmed something about Lima. 

It’s a city that reveals itself slowly. 

At first glance it might feel understated. But give it a little time — wander the markets, walk the cliffs, explore the historic streets and it quietly wins you over. 

Lima: Churches, Catacombs and People Watching 

By day three Lima was starting to reveal its rhythm. 

Sunday morning in the historic centre is a very different experience from the quieter weekday wanderings. The great churches and cathedrals of the city were absolutely packed. In fact, more densely populated than a Scottish pub on Hogmanay. 

Religion runs deep here, and Catholicism remains a powerful part of daily life in Peru. Many of Lima’s most significant buildings were constructed during the Spanish colonial period, when the city served as the religious and political capital of Spain’s South American empire. Churches were built not just as places of worship but as statements of power, wealth and influence. 

Stepping inside during mass felt like entering another world. The sounds of the city fade, replaced by the quiet rhythm of prayer, candlelight and the soft echo of voices under enormous vaulted ceilings. Out of respect, cameras stayed firmly in pockets. It felt more like being invited quietly into someone’s home than visiting a tourist attraction. 

One of the most fascinating places in Lima’s historic centre is the Basilica and Convent of Santo Domingo. Founded in the sixteenth century, it is one of the oldest religious sites in South America and played a central role in the early development of the city. The monastery’s distinctive pink tower rises above the surrounding streets, making it one of the most recognisable landmarks in Lima. 

Like many religious complexes built during the colonial era, the convent contains cloisters, courtyards, libraries and chapels that reveal how these institutions once functioned as self-contained communities. The architecture blends Spanish Baroque design with local materials and craftsmanship, creating a unique style that defines much of Lima’s historic centre. 

Beneath some of these churches lies one of the city’s more unusual attractions — the catacombs. 

Long before modern cemeteries existed, burial beneath churches was common practice throughout the Spanish empire. Over centuries this created vast underground chambers lined with carefully arranged human remains. Today the catacombs beneath Lima’s churches offer a slightly eerie but fascinating glimpse into the city’s past. 

Bones are stacked in circular pits and long corridors, forming geometric patterns that are strangely orderly for something so macabre. It’s equal parts historical archive and underground labyrinth, and a reminder of how different life — and death — looked several hundred years ago. 

Back above ground, the historic centre itself is a pleasure to explore. Streets are lined with elegant colonial buildings, many featuring the famous enclosed wooden balconies that once allowed residents to observe the street below without being seen themselves. These carved balconies, some dating back centuries, have become one of Lima’s most distinctive architectural features. 

Plaza San Martín and the surrounding avenues form the heart of the old city, where grand buildings reflect Lima’s former role as the centre of Spanish administration in South America. Wandering through the area feels like stepping through layers of history — pre-Columbian cultures, Spanish conquest, colonial wealth and modern Peru all overlapping in the same streets. 

Cusco is one of those cities that rewards wandering without a plan — although preferably with functioning lungs. My morning began with the ambitious idea of a “gentle stroll” towards San Blas after breakfast. Important clarification: I was not lost. I was exploring. Confidently. Artistically. Slightly uphill. Well… aggressively uphill. At sea level this would’ve been a casual wander. At 3,400 metres it became a full cardiovascular negotiation. I found myself pausing every few minutes under the entirely legitimate excuse of “taking notes” while my breathing sounded like a steam train attempting self-destruction.

San Blas, though, is absolutely worth the oxygen deprivation. It’s the old artisan quarter of Cusco — all narrow cobbled laneways, whitewashed walls, flower-filled balconies and tiny workshops where actual artists still make and sell their work rather than mass-produced tourist tat. The steep stone stairways twist up the hillside like something out of Dubrovnik, and every second corner seems to reveal another postcard view across terracotta rooftops towards the surrounding mountains. It has that perfect combination of beauty and mild physical punishment that somehow makes a place more memorable.

From there the city unfolds like layers of history stacked on top of each other. I wandered past the famous Twelve-Angled Stone — essentially the Incas showing off that they could cut and fit giant rocks together more precisely than modern builders with laser levels and power tools. Nearby are the remains of Qorikancha, once the most important temple in the Inca Empire before the Spanish built a convent directly on top of it because apparently “leave it alone” was never really their style. Above the city sits the vast fortress of Sacsayhuamán, with gigantic stone walls so enormous and perfectly fitted together that nobody quite understands how they managed it. Standing there, looking down across Cusco, you get a real sense that this wasn’t just another city — this was the centre of an empire.

Eventually everything pulls you back towards the Plaza de Armas, the beating heart of Cusco. It’s framed by grand colonial churches, arcades, restaurants and balconies, all sitting atop ancient Inca foundations. The atmosphere is brilliant — equal parts history, chaos, backpackers, alpaca sellers, local families and exhausted tourists pretending they’re “just taking in the view” while secretly recovering from climbing one flight of stairs. And somehow, despite the altitude trying to physically reject me, I’ve completely fallen for the place. 

Properly, hopelessly in love with it.

Today was the day… well, the next big day after the Nazca Lines and Islas Ballestas. What have the Romans ever done for us? 🤣

Ahhh, Machu Picchu… honestly, where do you even begin? Perched dramatically at around 2,430 metres above sea level like it owns the Andes — which, frankly, it does — this place is so much more than a postcard. It’s breathtakingly beautiful and now personally responsible for consuming an alarming amount of storage on my phone. Built in the 15th century, then casually hidden from the outside world for centuries, it’s part ancient city, part archaeological mystery, and part “how in the name of all things holy did they build this without a Bunnings?”

The terraces, the stonework, the sheer audacity of constructing an entire functioning city on top of a mountain… it’s extraordinary. And just when you think you’ve taken it all in, the clouds sweep through the peaks and remind you very quickly who’s actually in charge up here. At its height, around 600 people lived on this mountain with no cars, no phones, no power tools — but apparently a sophisticated understanding of medicine and possibly penicillin long before the rest of the world officially caught on. Honestly, the Incas were just showing off at this point.

In short: worth every early alarm, every aching step, every dramatic lung complaint and every “f*ck me” that escaped my mouth at roughly 50-step intervals.

Now… let’s discuss the process. Because dignified it is not. Not even slightly.

There are three visitor circuits through Machu Picchu, and your route depends on the ticket you buy and how you arrive. We came by bus rather than via the famous Sun Gate, which is one of the entrances accessible only after completing the four-day Inca Trail hike through the mountains. Me? I opted for the glamorous 6am bus queue for a 7am gate slot — and it was absolute organised chaos. Think music festival mosh pit, but with hiking poles and significantly more North Face jackets. People attempting to queue politely on the pavement while others embraced a more “every traveller for themselves” philosophy.

Completely unnecessary too, because there are buses everywhere and the trip itself is surprisingly quick. The road up the mountain is spectacular — steep, winding and full of impossibly tight switchbacks that somehow cling to the mountainside. The cobbled bends look hand-laid and beautifully engineered. Serious craftsmanship. Probably by women, obviously, since knitting is men’s work.

The houses here sit up on the hills — no roads, just tracks and the occasional stone steps. That initial walk up? Brutal. About a kilometre uphill. Panting mandatory. Breathing optional. By the time I got to the top yesterday my heart was pounding — hard. But reassuringly, it confirmed I do have one… despite what certain ex-husbands may have suggested 💔 

Part of the homestay experience on Lake Titicaca is spending time with a local family and doing around an hour of chores to support daily life — all part of projects backed by the Intrepid Foundation that help bring income directly into rural communities.

And I’ll be honest, these setups are very well tuned for “Western guest” survival. We arrived to homemade soup on arrival (which I’m still slightly suspicious will stage a full-scale digestive rebellion later), followed by the highly technical instruction to either go for a walk or have a siesta. Both excellent, and both immediately accepted.

Accommodation is simple but clever; the rooms are built around the family home courtyard, with shared dining space, a decent kitchen and basic but clean bathrooms. Rustic, functional, and surprisingly comfortable given how remote it feels.

Then came our “hour” of helping out.

We were split into three groups. Two groups, as it turned out, were gently placed in the sun to shell peas and chat. Mine was not one of them.

We were marched out to a fava bean field and told to weed it. Then, once finished, marched to another field. Which also needed weeding. It felt less like cultural exchange and more like seasonal labour with better views. Forty-five minutes later I was fully folded in half, sun blazing, questioning life choices and briefly considering whether I had been recruited rather than hosted. I swear with my arse in the air for that time, I smelt crackling!

Meanwhile, Megan sustained what can only be described as an “agricultural injury” after spending too long in a bent-over position and had to retire from the field with great dramatic effect.

To be fair, the day ended brilliantly. We set up a volleyball net and what followed felt mildly competitive — possibly involving livestock stakes, judging by the intensity. Then we all helped prepare dinner, peeling and chopping vegetables after a surprisingly serious knife demonstration from our “mama” (I did not expect a masterclass in vegetable-based weaponry, but here we are).

Dinner itself was simple but genuinely excellent — soup, then pasta with vegetables, exactly what your body wants at altitude when it’s working overtime just to exist.

Life up here is simple. Food is grown and traded. Cash is limited. Solar provides power. But the community is tight and the views over Lake Titicaca are spectacular. 

La Paz is alive. Loud, colourful, slightly chaotic and completely addictive. It quickly became my latest South American obsession because this place isn’t just a city — it’s a full-blown flex. Honestly, one of the hidden gems of the continent.

Topography-wise (aka why my calves hurt and I can’t breathe): this city is basically a giant bowl carved into the Andes. It looks like someone dropped a city into a crater and then let it spill dramatically up the mountainsides. The wealthier areas sit lower down where there’s more oxygen and slightly less chaos, while the higher suburbs become progressively more rugged and, in places, noticeably poorer. Looming over everything is Mount Illimani — snow-capped, theatrical and absolutely majestic. It’s the kind of backdrop that makes most other city skylines feel like they’re not trying.

Bolivia gained independence from Spain in 1825 after a long revolutionary struggle tied to the broader South American independence movement. The country was named after Simón Bolívar, who helped lead the liberation campaigns, alongside Antonio José de Sucre — whose name now belongs to Bolivia’s official capital.

And then there’s the cable car system… which is where La Paz goes from fascinating to downright pure, dead, brilliant. The Mi Teleférico network is what happens when someone looks at impossible geography and says, “Fine. We’ll just fly over it.” It’s the largest urban cable car system in the world, connecting La Paz with neighbouring El Alto while gliding above the city’s gloriously optimistic traffic situation.

The views from the cabins are extraordinary; endless layers of houses clinging to steep hillsides, markets spilling through the streets below, snow-covered mountains in the distance and this constant sense of movement everywhere you look. For the price of a few dollars, it became part public transport, part sightseeing tour and part altitude endurance event. I know Sydney ferries are wonderful… but this is another level entirely.

Net-net: La Paz is vertical, chaotic, slightly unhinged and completely captivating. You don’t casually stroll through this city — you climb it, descend it, and occasionally stop halfway up a hill wondering when breathing became such a high-maintenance activity.

If cities had personalities, La Paz would be the eccentric genius who refuses to live anywhere sensible. Which, now I think about it, sounds vaguely familiar. 🤣

Sucre completely caught me off guard. After the noise, altitude and glorious chaos of La Paz, arriving here felt like the city itself had gently taken my shoulders, handed me a glass of wine and suggested I calm the hell down.

Its really pretty. Whitewashed buildings, red-tiled roofs, churches appearing every second corner, leafy plazas and elegant old streets that somehow manage to feel both historic and genuinely lived-in at the same time. Unlike some heritage cities that feel like open-air museums with no pulse, Sucre absolutely hums. Cafés spill into courtyards, families fill the plazas late into the evening, music drifts through the streets and there’s this constant feeling that life is being properly enjoyed here. Then of course there is the most amazing roof top bar! 

The lower altitude helped too — my lungs were suddenly less dramatic and I no longer sounded like an asthmatic donkey climbing a staircase. Dangerous conditions really, because once breathing becomes easier you start having irrational thoughts like, “I could absolutely live here.” And honestly? Sucre has exactly that energy. The sort of place travellers arrive in for three nights and quietly start checking long-stay apartment rentals by day four.

What I loved most though was that beneath all the polished colonial beauty, the city still feels deeply Bolivian and layered with Indigenous culture and traditions. You see it in the markets, the clothing, the ceremonies and the rhythms of daily life. Easter here wasn’t one neat organised event — it felt like the entire city slowly spilling into celebration. Music, gatherings, rituals, flowers, colour, noise and quiet reflection all happening simultaneously around the plazas and churches.

At the centre of it was the Ceremony of the Cross, though like much in Bolivia it carried far more than one meaning. Decorated crosses sat among offerings and flowers, blending Catholic tradition with something much older and more connected to the land itself. It didn’t feel heavy or overly religious — more like a city collectively leaning into history, community and renewal all at once.

Once again… there’s a whole lot of love here. ❤️

Potosi? It's an absolute building site. And where it’s not under construction, it’s rubble. Driving in, I confidently declared I’d be getting takeaway and not leaving the hotel all night. 

But… we got to the hotel (lovely), did a short orientation walk, and — to be fair — the colonial Spanish plaza and surrounding buildings are pretty. 

The rest? About as endearing as a dose of haemorrhoids. But since it’s all about history here… here’s the edjimication. 

Potosí is the place that basically bankrolled an empire  and chewed through human lives to do it. Dramatic, bleak, and weirdly beautiful. 

The backstory (aka Spain’s cash machine): 

Everything kicked off in the 1500s when silver was discovered in Cerro Rico  or “Rich Mountain” (subtle). At its peak, this was one of the largest and richest cities in the world. Not Bolivia. The world. 

The Spanish ran it on forced Indigenous labour (the mita system), later adding enslaved Africans. The silver flowing out of here funded the Spanish Empire and ended up across Europe and Asia. There’s even a line that Spain could’ve built a bridge of silver from here back home… honestly, not far off. 

But the cost? Brutal. Millions are believed to have died in the mines over the centuries. Even today, locals call Cerro Rico “the mountain that eats men.” Not exactly subtle branding. 

Today, Potosí sits at around 200,000 people, perched at over 4,000m — so yes, I currently feel like I’m breathing through a straw while walking uphill. 

Christ, we give pilots oxygen at 10,000 ft… I’m wandering around at 12,000 ft like a stunned penguin. 

It’s one of the highest cities on Earth and still feels like a faded colonial relic:  Narrow streets, grand-but-crumbling Spanish buildings, and a slightly frozen-in-time vibe. You get the sense it peaked 400 years ago and never quite moved on. 

Mining is still the backbone: 

Silver is largely depleted compared to the glory days. Now it’s tin, zinc and other minerals. Much of it run by mining cooperatives rather than big corporates.

It’s tough, dangerous work and economically the city is relatively poor despite its insane historical wealth. A bit of a cruel irony. 

Tourism helps, but it’s not polished. It’s raw, real, and occasionally confronting. Potosí isn’t trying to charm you. It just quietly says: this is what built the modern world and it wasn’t pretty. 

During the visit, we were presented with an opportunity to visit one of these mines. 

We did. 

Afterwards, during the discussion, most of my group said they had thoroughly enjoyed it. They had really enjoyed it. 

Farkin really? 

Now I have a tendency to be a little outspoken on things I’m passionate about. It’s a fault, I know. But when I’m right, I want to advocate fully — then I can sleep at night knowing I’ve done my utmost. It can be confronting, and only a few people truly get it. Well done Alan and Geoff! 

Today was a day. 

When they said they enjoyed it… are you kidding me? Is this a joke? What we saw today was nothing short of disgraceful. I know it’s their way of life, but I just can’t… 

There were nine of us, including a few ring-ins. We started at the miners’ market;  this was  not to buy souvenirs, but to buy things for the miners.  For the miners. You know, non-essentials like gloves and safety goggles.  We bought them as gifts. Then we were taken to a depot, dressed in coveralls, hats and boots, and given a face mask. 

First stop: a processing plant. Walking along lines of pretty dangerous machinery… on dodgy bits of cardboard and ply board. No handrails. No supervision. No hearing protection — for us or the workers. 

Then onto the mine itself, we were walking through what looked like a 1930s Western film set to the entrance. I was half expecting Clint Eastwood or Indiana Jones. I’m not kidding.  It was surreal. Just missing tumbleweeds. 

We passed three men sitting in the sun, wearing sandals, and at 9:30am on an operational mine site… cracking into cervezas.  Okay, no booze shaming from me as I'm Scottish so can booze-up anytime.  But, well,  safety.....

Into the main shaft we went — unsupported, low ceilings (my helmet can confirm), twisting deeper and deeper. 

I mean, we were safe… we had headlights! 

Until someone yelled “WHEELBARROW!!” and we had to throw ourselves against the wall while a bloke ran — actually ran — through the tunnel with a barrow piled high with rocks. 

At various points we passed miners working alone. No safety gear. None. Just spades and picks hacking at mineral seams. The wheelbarrow guy running back and forth, loading and unloading. Rinse and repeat. 

No WHS. No breathing gear. No emergency response. Nothing. Just a couple of blokes in Nike t-shirts with lamps strapped to baseball caps. 

Their main “safety” focus? 

On Fridays, they make offerings to the god Tui. A figure built into the mine, covered in streamers, 100% proof local hooch, a couple of fags in his mouth, and coca leaves. 

Why? 

Oh, let me tell you. 

They don’t wear watches. They chew the mildly hallucinogenic cocoa  leaves so when the flavour fades after four hours, it’s break time. They work 12-hour shifts. Often double.  

But it’s okay. They’re safe. They sacrifice llamas to Tui.  

And some of our group really enjoyed it. No discussion about what we’d just seen. No concern for safety. No thought for health. Just… “yeah, great experience.” 

I wanted to drop them off a cliff — head first. 

Ffs. 

After our first night in the tiny settlement of San Juan, we headed deeper into the Bolivian Altiplano — and this is where the country really starts showing off for we tourists.

The route took us past the vast Salar de Chiguana, beneath the smoking cone of Ollagüe Volcano, and through landscapes so dramatic they almost stop feeling real. Somewhere along the way there was also a roadside llama sausage stop, because apparently that's a perfectly normal thing to do at 4,000 metres above sea level.

Then came the lakes.

First was Laguna Cañapa, where hundreds of flamingos stood in impossibly pink flocks against a backdrop of mountains and sky. Then Laguna Hedionda, where lunch was served alongside yet more flamingos, because Bolivia clearly subscribes to the theory that if something is worth doing, it's worth doing repeatedly. Laguna Honda followed, with visible lithium and borax deposits reminding us that beneath all this beauty lies some of the world's most valuable mineral wealth.

As the day unfolded, the scenery became increasingly surreal. The Siloli Desert showed us landscapes that looked more like Mars than Earth, including the famous Árbol de Piedra — a bizarre rock formation sculpted by wind into the shape of a stone tree. Beyond that lay the Eduardo Avaroa Reserve and the extraordinary Laguna Colorada, a vast red-hued lake populated by flamingos and surrounded by some of the most otherworldly scenery I've encountered anywhere in the world. Llamas, vicuñas and foxes appeared throughout the journey as though this extreme environment was the most natural place imaginable.

The evening brought an unexpected twist. A change of plans meant visiting the geothermal fields after dark rather than at sunrise. Instead of admiring the geysers, we experienced them. The smell of sulphur hung in the air, the ground bubbled ominously beneath our feet, and visibility was approximately zero. It was less sightseeing and more sensory adventure. Disappointing yet not. But I do wish we had seen them.

Our accommodation that night was... memorable. "Basic" is doing some heavy lifting here and being very, very generous. No showers, no hot water, a handful of toilets (3) serving dozens of guests, and facilities that would have looked entirely at home in some of my more adventurous deployments. Let's just say personal space and modern plumbing were both treated as optional extras. In fact, I haven't brushed my teeth next to a bloke pissing and clenching his arse cheeks since Baghdad in 2003!  I did feel at that moment that I was too old for that specific shit! 

The following day delivered yet more hours crossing Bolivia's vast high-altitude wilderness. Every turn seemed to reveal another extraordinary landscape — from endless desert plains to the dramatic cliffs of Condor Canyon. Despite scanning the skies hopefully, the condors themselves were apparently elsewhere attending more important business. The canyon, however, was magnificent enough on its own.

By the time we reached our hotel late that afternoon, we were dusty, tired and very happy to be temporarily separated from the Land Cruiser. Tomorrow would bring another early start and a new country. But for now, Bolivia had already delivered far more adventure, beauty and unexpected moments than I could possibly have imagined. It's easy to continually fall in love when presented with such beauty... apart from that bloke and his arse cheeks!

I’m sitting in the plaza in the middle of Tilcara, staring at six bowls that would cost me all of $8 and wondering how, exactly, I’m going to justify getting them into my carry-on. Could I? There was a solid ten seconds where I thought I could make it work.

 Then reality stepped in—fragility, colour, zero space in the bag, even less space in the Playgirl Penthouse… and the small matter of need versus want. Truth is, I need more bowls like I need a bigger arse. Decision made. No bloody bowls. But they were nice. And $8, for six.....geez.

 Anyway—southbound yesterday and hello Argentina. And yep… love. Proper, immediate, no-questions-asked kind of love. Far more than any man would ever deserve....Tilcara has that easy, slightly scruffy charm—friendly, relaxed, vaguely Mexican in feel, and just safe enough that you drop your guard without being stupid.

 I’ve been wandering along the Río Grande—which at the moment is more Río Petite—punctuated with street-side tortillas that are doing excellent things for morale. A couple of kilometres under the old belt, a head cold still hanging on, but at 2,300 metres (a very welcome drop from Bolivia’s lung-crushing 4,000), I’m at least only mildly mouth-breathing instead of sounding like a broken accordion.

 But here’s the thing—I found myself asking the obvious question: why the hell is this place here? Edjimication time!! I do this research for you....

Turns out, Tilcara didn’t just happen. It was picked. Carefully. It sits in a rare widening of the Quebrada de Humahuaca, right where water shows up and land flattens out just enough to be useful. Add in the Río Grande and its tributaries dumping sediment over thousands of years to create buildable ground, and suddenly you’ve got the basics; water, food, space. Then layer on the fact it’s smack bang on an ancient north–south trade route between Bolivia and Argentina, and now you’re talking strategy. If you were moving anything through the Andes, you came through here. No shortcuts, no alternatives. This was the corridor.

And just to make the point crystal clear, the locals built the Pucará de Tilcara up on the hill. Not for Instagram—this was a full-blown fortified settlement designed to watch who was coming, control who got through, and defend the lot if things got lively. Before the Incas rolled in and folded it into their southern empire, this was Omaguaca country, and they knew exactly what they were doing. So Tilcara isn’t just a pretty stop on the map; it’s an anchor. Strategic geography, deep history, and now this slightly bohemian, music-filled, artisan-heavy town that somehow still feels authentic despite the tourism creeping in. Most places get one or two of those things right. Tilcara quietly ticks all three and gets on with it.

And me? Still thinking about those bowls. And .......I feel some relaxing by the pool this afternoon.  Another little town I fell in love with!

But one thing I missed....de Winton being de Winton—and loving a good train trip—I had to get to the bottom of it. 

 So here’s the skinny. There’s an old railway station on the edge of Tilcara that tells a bigger story about the town—and even Argentina. Built in the early 1900s as part of the Belgrano line, it wasn’t about charm or tourism—it was about moving things that mattered. Minerals, crops, people. It connected this narrow Andean valley to the rest of Argentina and pushed all the way up toward Bolivia, stitching together places that would otherwise have remained isolated. The station itself is modest, with low platforms and functional buildings, but back then it was a lifeline. Now it’s a hotel—but wait… keep reading. 

Tilcara didn’t exist because of the railway, but the railway made it matter. Like much of the country’s network, it all ground to a halt in the early 90s. Services stopped, tracks went quiet, and what had once been essential infrastructure was left to fade into the dust. Gotta love privatisation.

But it never quite disappeared. Today, the station sits somewhere between relic and reinvention. It’s partially restored, quietly repurposed, and now linked to a new solar-powered tourist train edging its way back through the valley. It’s not trying to be what it was—and that’s probably the point.

The trains are different, the purpose has shifted, but the line still cuts through the landscape like it always did—just with a new story to tell.

And my story? I missed getting a ride on this train. I’m going to be sad about this for a while… maybe until BA at 10pm.

Buenos Aires is one of those cities that sneaks up on you.

I arrived curious. Three days later I was leaving slightly obsessed. On paper, it's just another capital city. In reality, it's one of the most captivating places I've visited in South America. Elegant without being stuffy. Cosmopolitan without trying too hard. European on the surface, but with a distinctly Latin American heartbeat underneath.

And my introduction was suitably refined.

It was raining. Proper rain.

My response? "Skin is waterproof."

Off I went.

Five hours later I'd wandered past the Argentine National Congress, the Palacio Barolo, the Palace of Justice, the magnificent Plaza de Mayo, and eventually stumbled into what may be the world's most beautiful bookstore: El Ateneo Grand Splendid. An old theatre transformed into a bookshop so stunning it almost makes reading look cool.

Along the way, one thing kept striking me. More than once I found myself thinking, "This could be London." Or Madrid. Or Paris.

And there's a reason for that.

Buenos Aires was deliberately built to look European. Massive waves of Spanish and Italian immigration arrived in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, transforming the city into something that feels very different from the Andean communities I'd been travelling through. The architecture, café culture, wide boulevards and grand public buildings all reflect that influence.

Yet beneath the elegant façade lies a city built on contradictions.

Originally founded in 1536 by Pedro de Mendoza, the first settlement failed rather spectacularly thanks to conflict, starvation and various other unpleasant realities. The city was refounded in 1580, but much of what you see today dates from the economic boom of the late 1800s, when Argentina was among the wealthiest nations on Earth and Buenos Aires wanted the world to know it.

This was also a city shaped by revolution. The May Revolution of 1810 marked the beginning of Argentina's journey away from Spanish rule, with independence eventually secured by one of South America's great heroes, José de San Martín. His presence is still felt throughout the city, nowhere more so than at the Metropolitan Cathedral where he rests under permanent guard.

Modern Buenos Aires carries all of that history while somehow remaining gloriously alive in the present. It feels sophisticated and gritty at the same time. Grand one moment, wonderfully chaotic the next.

And then there's the food.

Good Lord, the food.

One rainy afternoon a taxi driver's recommendation led us to Parrilla Peña, a traditional steakhouse packed entirely with locals. White tablecloths. Veteran waiters. An enormous charcoal grill. Walls lined with wine.

We ordered a rib-eye to share.

Then empanadas appeared.

Then Malbec.

Then more Malbec.

Several magnificent hours later we found ourselves attempting a 1.7-kilometre walk back to the hotel. It quickly became less of a stroll and more of a slow-moving recovery operation involving full stomachs, questionable decisions and periodic discussions about whether an Uber might be medically necessary.

It was worth every step.

The following day I climbed aboard one of Buenos Aires' hop-on-hop-off buses after first conducting an unscheduled endurance event through torrential rain. By the time I reached the bus stop I was soaked through three layers of clothing and performing a convincing impression of a drowned rat.

Worth it again.

For nearly four hours I watched the city unfold.

The colourful houses of La Boca. The rejuvenated docklands of Puerto Madero. Endless parks. Grand boulevards. Magnificent shopping arcades. Historic theatres. Football stadiums worshipped with near-religious devotion. Every neighbourhood seemed to have its own personality.

And everywhere there was life.

Street food vendors selling empanadas for pocket change. Busy cafés. Families filling the parks. People talking, laughing and lingering long after we'd all have gone home elsewhere.

One observation that made me smile was the extraordinary police presence. Patrol cars seemed to be everywhere. Lights flashing. Vehicles parked at creative angles. Officers nowhere to be seen.

After careful investigation, I concluded many were strategically positioned outside bakeries and coffee shops at breakfast time.

The evidence was compelling.

What fascinated me most, though, was the contrast.

Buenos Aires looks European. It often feels European. Yet underneath runs all the complexity, volatility and passion of Latin America. It's a city shaped by immigration, revolution, economic booms, financial crises, football, politics, culture and more than a little stubbornness.

It shouldn't work as well as it does.

But it absolutely does.

If the Andes gave me dramatic landscapes and ancient civilisations, Buenos Aires gave me something entirely different: a city with confidence, character and enough charm to make you start browsing property prices after about 48 hours.

Elegant but never boring.

Sophisticated but never pretentious.

And home to some of the best steak and wine I've encountered anywhere in the world.

Yep.

I'm in love again. ❤️ But there is so much more to this whole country....

Beneath all the grand architecture, magnificent steak and endless Malbec, there's another story unfolding in Argentina.

Over dinner one evening, I had the chance to pick the brains of our local guide about life here today, and it quickly became clear that modern Argentina is living through one of the most ambitious economic experiments anywhere in the world.

After years of soaring inflation, government overspending and financial instability, Argentinians elected President Javier Milei in 2023. His solution wasn't subtle. Spending cuts, ministry closures, reduced subsidies and major economic reforms arrived at a pace that would make most governments break out in a nervous sweat.

The results are beginning to show. Inflation has fallen dramatically from its peak and, for the first time in many years, the government has managed to run a budget surplus. That's the good news.

The harder part is that ordinary Argentinians have carried much of the cost. Prices rose sharply, subsidies disappeared and many households felt the squeeze. Even as the economy stabilises, plenty of people are still doing it tough.

And yet, what struck me wasn't pessimism.

It was cautious optimism.

Not the loud, chest-beating sort. More the feeling that after years of economic turbulence, the country might finally be finding firmer ground. You hear it in conversations, see it in businesses and sense it in the way people talk about the future.

Argentina has reinvented itself more than once throughout its history. From Spanish colony to independent republic, from agricultural powerhouse to modern nation, change seems woven into its DNA.

What's happening now feels like another chapter in that story.

And somehow it makes Buenos Aires even more compelling. Behind the elegant boulevards, beautiful buildings and world-class restaurants is a country still figuring out what comes next.

Messy? Absolutely.

Interesting? Completely.

And that's probably why I found it so hard to leave.

I'm a little ashamed to admit something slightly embarrassing: until I started planning this trip, I'd barely heard of them. Which, in hindsight, feels like a serious gap in my education. Because these aren't simply waterfalls.

Iguazú is one of the New Seven Wonders of Nature, sitting alongside places like the Amazon Rainforest and Table Mountain. And it's enormous. Around 275 individual falls spread across almost three kilometres, straddling the border between Argentina and Brazil.

The first thing that hits you isn't what you see.  It's what you feel.

The air becomes saturated with mist and spray. Water hangs everywhere. Waterproof jackets surrender almost immediately. Dry clothing becomes an ambitious concept. By the end of the afternoon, I was carrying enough moisture to qualify as a small weather system.

And that was before reaching the main viewpoints.

As you approach the falls, there's a moment when conversation simply stops. The scale is difficult to comprehend and the power is almost overwhelming. Millions of litres of water crashing through the gorge every second, creating a constant roar that seems to vibrate through your chest.

It's one of those rare places that renders you completely speechless, then lets that follow with a plethora of "oh, my Gods"!

The following day we explored the Argentine side, which offers a completely different experience to Brazil. Brazil embraces the grand reveal. It's polished, efficient and designed to deliver those spectacular panoramic views with maximum impact. Argentina takes a different approach entirely.

Here, kilometers of elevated walkways snake through the jungle and over the river system, bringing you right into the heart of the falls. You don't simply look at Iguazú from a distance, you become part of it. The carefully designed boardwalks keep visitors away from the fragile environment while allowing uninterrupted access to some truly extraordinary viewpoints.

It's conservation and tourism working together brilliantly.

The falls themselves have been inspiring awe for centuries. They were known to the Indigenous Guaraní people long before Spanish explorer Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca became the first European to record them in 1541. Naturally, the Guaraní explanation is much better. Legend tells of a powerful god whose bride-to-be fled with her lover in a canoe. Enraged, he split the river, creating the falls and condemning the pair to an eternal plunge into the chasm below.

Standing there, surrounded by thunder, mist and rainbows, it honestly feels like the sort of place that deserves a mythical origin story.

Two countries. Two perspectives. Hundreds of waterfalls.

One utterly unforgettable experience.

And yes, I still had a wet arse. 💖🌈💦

I arrived in Rio excited and, if I'm honest, slightly apprehensive.

Of everywhere on this itinerary, Rio probably carries the strongest reputation for theft and opportunistic crime. Frankly, nobody needs the international incident that would follow if some unfortunate soul attempted to snatch my bag.

"Middle-aged Scottish-Australian woman detains thief, administers life lessons, later appeals for bail money."

Fortunately, none of that was required.

Because Rio is extraordinary.

Home to more than six million people, the city sprawls between mountains, jungle and ocean in a way that feels almost unfairly beautiful. Founded by the Portuguese in 1565, Rio grew from colonial port to imperial capital and remains Brazil's cultural heart, even if the politicians now reside elsewhere.

The geography alone is enough to stop you in your tracks.

Guanabara Bay is one of the most spectacular natural harbours on earth, ringed by forested peaks, scattered islands and dramatic granite mountains that seem to erupt straight from the sea. Everywhere you look, nature appears to be showing off.

And then there are the icons.

Christ the Redeemer standing high above the city. Sugarloaf Mountain rising from the harbour. Copacabana and Ipanema curving along the coastline. For once, every tourist cliché is completely justified.

The views from both Christ the Redeemer and Sugarloaf are absurdly good. Mountains plunge into the ocean, beaches wrap around bays, dense jungle wedges itself between suburbs, and the entire city seems to tumble across the landscape without ever quite submitting to it.

One of our guides summed it up perfectly:

"Rio isn't the nicest city in the world. It's the nicest place in the world to build a city."

He's absolutely right.

Yet what struck me most wasn't the scenery.  It was the people.

After weeks travelling through Argentina and Uruguay, where much of the architecture, atmosphere and population often felt distinctly European, Rio feels completely different. The African influence is immediate and unmistakable. You see it in the faces of the people, hear it in the music spilling from bars and doorways, taste it in the food, and feel it in the rhythm of daily life.

And that observation sent me down an afternoon rabbit hole.

To understand Rio, you have to understand its history.

Brazil received more enslaved Africans than any other nation in the Americas. Historians estimate that nearly five million people were brought here during the transatlantic slave trade — roughly 40 percent of all Africans forcibly transported to the New World.

Rio was one of the principal slave ports of the Atlantic world.

The wealth of colonial Brazil was built on sugar, gold, diamonds and later coffee. Those industries generated enormous fortunes, but they did so on the backs of enslaved labour. Brazil would become the last country in the Americas to abolish slavery, finally doing so in 1888 — shockingly recent when you stop and think about it.

Yet from that terrible history emerged one of the world's most vibrant cultural legacies.

Modern Brazil has the largest population of African descent outside Africa, and Afro-Brazilian influence shapes everything from samba and carnival to religion, cuisine, language and art. It is woven into the very fabric of the country.

And that's what makes Rio so fascinating.

On the surface it's all beaches, cable cars, mountains and postcard views. But beneath that beauty lies a far deeper story — one of hardship, resilience, reinvention and cultural transformation.

The favelas provide a visible reminder of those contrasts. Built into the hillsides above some of the world's most valuable real estate, they speak to the inequality that still exists alongside Rio's extraordinary beauty. The divide between wealth and poverty isn't hidden here. It's part of the landscape.

Beautiful. Chaotic. Contradictory. Complex.

Exactly my kind of city.

By the time I left, I wasn't just in love with the scenery. I was fascinated by the layers beneath it.

And once again, travel reminded me that the most interesting part of any destination is rarely the landmark itself.

It's the story that explains how it got there. ❤️