Buenos Aires, spending far too much money. A book on "Backpacking and trekking in Peru and Bolivia" gaped up at me for about an hour and I was sold. Tierra del Fuego would have to wait - that very evening I boarded a northbound bus. This was definitely an "I dunno mate, you’re on your own here!" square on the great boardgame of life.

Needless to say, it did not take a speedy-silver-spanish tongue to leave me spluttering in the dust:

Buenos tardes gringo, como estas? Shrug, vacant grin.

Yo tengo una bonita mujer para usted, mi hermana buscar de una esposo. Ella tiene cinquenta años y esta poco gordo tambien, pero muy simpatico. Tu gusta? Pause, swallow, wide-eyed nod.

Esperar aqui, yo regresar pronto! Gulp.

Hell this was going to be fun!

My bursars had given me a few months of freedom before my recruitment, "A period in which to expend as much wild energy as was remotely possible before succumbing to the weighty shackles of the corporate regime."

My rapid dash for the closest border post, in an attempt to strip myself free of the gravitational field of this very beautiful yet money-hungry (familiar concept?!) country, took four days! I spent a day exploring some Jesuit ruins near San Juan and was lured into spending two days savoring the splendor of the Iguazu falls.

From Iguazu, I nipped across to Asuncion (Paraguay) with hopes of moving directly up into Bolivia. "Sorry, the road is a knee-deep mudpit, please take the alternative route through one of our neighbouring countries." This would mean exposing myself to the thievery of the Argentinian economy again. Fortunately, I bumped into two other people staying at my campsite (two German chaps) who were planning to do most of the same journey….. and they had a car! I obnoxiously jumped aboard and we spent the following four days rambling across the Chaca (stillness) desert in Northern Argentina. The roads were atrocious; on one particular seven hour driving day, we only covered 180km! Contradictory to the thriving metropolis of BA, this forgotten limb of rural Argentina was a desolate but mesmerizing place. Languid pueblos scattered between dead straight dirt tracks shimmering off into each horizon, yahoo cowboy-types aimlessly traversing the bleak desert on horseback, and mosquitoes the size of pterodactyls.

I parted with my German friends, crossed into Bolivia, was ingested by a bus and shaken shitless. I now suffer a deep and mutual sympathy with the contents of a washing machine set to "Vigorous." To make matters worse, one is guaranteed to be vomited from such a bus filthy and feeling far from refreshed. The busses in Bolivia have the nasty habit of departing at about 18:00, and arriving at their destination in the wee hours of the morning. As sure as there is a driver aboard, there is also the obligatory screaming baby. All part of the fun. Before plunging into South Western Bolivia I took a days break in the town of Tarija, I hadn’t had a shower for about six days and my hair was only manageable with a butter knife!

Next stop, the charming little town of Tupiza (3600m), a desert paradise. I spent two days wandering through eerie canyons, cactus fields, endless barren plains and spires of crumbly rock that pay gravity no respect. Seeing that coca leaves are legal in Bolivia, I stocked up for many of my desert walks. On one occasion, I walked 32km in a single afternoon! The narcotic effect of the coca leaves has no noticeable mental impairments or enhancements, one’s body is merely extremely obedient, adroit and numb to fatigue and hunger. Completely independent of the coca leaves was the euphoria impressed upon me by the surreal landscapes I witnessed.

From Tupiza up to Uyuni (4000m), a normally cold, windy and otherworldly desert community furnished with a surprisingly friendly and festive ambiance considering it’s bleak setting. The South Western altiplano, one of Bolivia’s most hauntingly marvelous regions, is a harsh, sparsely populated wilderness of scrubby windswept basins, lonely volcanic peaks and glaring salt deserts - a land of forlorn mirages and indeterminable distances. Sounds bloody brilliant doesn’t it, and at only R30 for a bottle of Cuervo Gold Tequila, life was doing it’s thing in style! I joined three Israeli's, a Swiss and a Dutchman for a four day tour of this bizarre countryside (mostly above 4200 and between drinks) which included salt pans, richly pigmented lagoons, malodorous geysers, mud pots and sulphurous hot springs.

I then moved north to a mining town called Potosi, where I went on a tour of one of the silver mines. The conditions these guys work in are appalling and nothing short of medieval, the labourers usually expire within ten years of service.

Eventually La Paz (3600m), spilling off the foothills of the Cordillera Real and screeching to a corrugated halt in an impressive basin. I had done far too many gaper things and spent far too little time in the mountains. With more than six 6000m peaks within a days drive from La Paz and no gear I found myself quite depressed, condemned to the treks in the foothills. It is possible to go on organized expeditions up some of the big peaks, but doing this is both too expensive and just doesn’t feel right. I would rather return with some mates some day and do them in style. Fuelled with the "Donna warry honey, I’ll be bach!" mindset, I convinced myself to stop swimming in self-pity, the treks were bound to spectacular and I would certainly have missed out on them if I had brought gear. Anyway, many of them go over impressive 5000m+ passes….

I took a day trip to the world’s highest ski resort with plans of exploring some spectacular ice caves in the vicinity. Contrary to their promises, the Club Andino produced no crampons of my size when I arrived at the resort, making the ice cave exploit out of the question. I waded up to the highest peak in the vicinity (5400m) and got taken out by an unnecessarily aggressive blizzard. Despite having spent about 10 days between 3000 and 4800m, I still had to contend with the all-too-familiar altitude headache. Next on the itinerary was to meet an Israeli and do two four-day walks with him. The first near a little hamlet called Sorata (four hours out of La Paz) involved visiting Laguna Glacial (5100m), a lake situated at the snout of an precarious glacier nestled in the cleavage of two 6400m giants. The second walk left from just outside La Paz, surmounted a 4800m pass and then plunged down an unforgiving steep gorge into the semi-tropical forests below (1100m). Much of the trail took us along cobbled ancient Inca highways.

The "foothills" of the Cordillera Real strongly resemble those of the Berg and are littered with Inca ruins and obscure burrows where hopeful miners chose to seek their fortune. As for the towering glacier-infested monstrosities capping these foothills, they are certainly more imposing and severe than the mellower relatives growing down South.

On the second walk, I met an English chap, Paul, who was looking for a partner to join him on Mt Illimani, the highest peak in the Cordillera Real at 6439m. Bugger the money, I couldn’t miss out on this, I would make a plan even if it came to less beer intake.

As a part of our scrupulous acclimatization program, we hopped on a bus for an 18 hour convulsive journey to Rurrenabaque (200m), a sweet & sweaty little village in the Bolivian Amazon. Here we did a two day Pampas trip which involved meandering along the channels of the wetlands, a short rainforest excursion, getting all the bites and rashes imaginable, catching alligators, sighting parrots, turtles, toucans, half a dozen species of marsupial and, get this - pink dolphins! I was most distraught at not being lucky enough to encounter any sloths or anacondas. The piranhas were apparently out of season.

Back to the nippy, dry air of La Paz. I hired some plastics, crampons and an axe and set off with Paul. The base camp, Punta Rota (4200m) was a mere four hour walk from where we got dropped off. From there it was an exhausting slog up a perilous and broken ridge to high camp, Niño del Condors (5500m). Curiously, in contrast to my poor form on Tupungato (see "Styling in the South American Andes", WUMC journal 1998) I handled the altitude quite well, being the only one to get any sleep at high camp; there were a handful of Norwegians also camping at Niño del Condors.

Summit bid: We set off at 4:00, f*$%&^*ing cold. I found the ascent far more technical that I had expected, clinging on to 50+ degree ice for a great deal of the time. The crux involved a 3m wall of ice leaning over a chute that looked far too keen to spit any occupants out and onto a glacier a few hundred metres below. Being overly blasé about the momentous feat we were undertaking, we had neglected to take a rope - a necessity for this section. The Norwegian party was conveniently close behind us so we waited and roped up with them for this short tricky bit. At 10:30, they decided to turn back. Alas we had no choice but to follow, without a rope there was no way we could descend past the ice wall. We got to within 45 minutes of the summit. Loohoozer!

Back to good ‘ol La Paz. Paul and I bade each other farewell and I headed off to Lake Titicaca to defrost on the Island of the Sun (Isla del Sol). Lake Titicaca (3800m) provides an incongruous splash of blue amidst the parched dreariness of the surrounding altiplano. The turquoise-rimmed beaches are akin to something out of the Carribean, but the sight of the snow-laden peaks perched on the horizon and the chill night air serve as a solid reminder that this island is no banal body of land breaking water, but a very sacred locale rich in tell-tale signs of the Inca way of life. Isla del Sol is the legendary site of the Incas’ creation, and has been credited as the birthplace of all sorts of important entities, including the sun itself. To get to the island I did a beautiful walk from the nearest town (Copacabana) on the "mainland" and then hired a local & rowboat and rowed across. I spent three days on the island, camping in solitude on the pristine beaches.

My first stop in Peru was the little town of Puno, situated on the Northern shores of lake Titicaca. Here I took a boat trip to see a clan of people called the Uros who live on floating islands that they construct out of reeds. I then went to "The temple of fertility", a preposterous courtyard elaborately strewn with phallic stone objects. Interesting.

Cusco (3326m), the archaeological capital of South America, pulses with life. By day one marvels at the surrounding Inca relics, and by night one indulges in the thronging nightlife. Festivals and celebrations at any excuse, if ever there was a case of insomnia, Cusco is it! After a few days of perusing the local ruins, I met up with three Israelis, a Dutch, French and Norwegian, boarded the Macchu Pichu train, and set off to do THE Inca trail. Yes it is over commercialized, but the superb Inca masonry and breathtaking settings are awe-inspiring enough to distract one from the crowds entirely. The weather was unforgiving, and carelessly overzealous with it’s cloud spillage. On the final day of the trail we set off in darkness and got to "The gate of the sun" (the first view of Macchu Pichu) before sunrise. Light dissolved the dark, time sauntered on relentlessly. Only at 11:00 did the clouds decide to peel off the ancient Inca settlement - a wait well worth it!

From Cusco, I flew up to Lima and caught a bus to Huaraz (3000m), a climbers ultra-paradise-super-deluxe. This time it was the Cordillera Blanca that played the role of temptress, beckoning with her formidable yet irresistibly beautiful peaks! Of all the places in South America, Huaraz will surely host my next visit. I spent ten glorious days walking in the Cordillera Blanca gazing up in amazement at the spectacular peaks (Alpamayo and co.). This time, I really could not afford to hire gear and so again had to bear with the frustration of only being able to gawk from below.

With only about two weeks left, I turned my back on the northbound trip I had been embarking on for the past two months and bussed back down to Lima and on to Pisco, a peaceful town on the Pacific coast. There I did a tour to some nearby islands that entertain immense and varied bird colonies. The final stop for the trip was Arequipa, a very eccentric city trapped between the coastal desert and some barren volcanic peaks. Adjacent to Arequipa lies a magnificent gash in the landscape - The Canyon de Colca, arguably the deepest canyon in the world! I spent two days soaking up the grandeur of the Colca, the highlight of which was a nights camping at an oasis at the base of the canyon. Included en-route were some uncomfortably close views of a majestic assemblage of condors.

Flying to or from Peru or Bolivia is ludicrously expensive so monetary matters had forced me to invest in a return ticket to BA. This meant a backbreaking haul down the Panamerican highway, an episode that took five days (including a day snowed in on a mountain pass). I only had half a day in BA to ease my body out of the sitting position before it got re-cast on the plane.

A brief breath of fresh air before being wrenched back into the suffocating waters of the kaleidoscopic rigors of suburbia. By God I’ll invent a means to siphon unadulterated clarity into the system; my very own "Sanity snorkel!"