Journey's End

Day 81-82: Lima, Peru. “We've made it!”, Karen shrieked excitedly with perhaps just a touch of relief in her voice. Using my bandanna to remove the layer of grime from the inside of the vehicle's window I starred out at the most welcome of signs: Bienvenidos a Lima - Welcome to Lima. It was fitting that our last major road journey should be so eventful: 9 up in an aged Toyota Corolla with a budding Peruvian Nigel Mansell at the wheel; half an inch of tyre rubber burned at through every corner – and perish the thought that anything dare step into the road; his first reaction was always to hit the horn rather than the brakes!

But Karen was right. We had made it. Not just from Lunahuaná in a battered combi, but from one side of South American to the other. An unbelievable, unforgettable and unrepeatable journey!

I'm not sure how Phileas Fogg managed to make it around the world in 80 days. In the same time, Karen and I had only managed a single continent; but what a journey we'd made of it. 7,000 miles of gruelling overland travel across 6 countries plus a further 4,000 miles of internal flights to get us to the places where the roads didn't go. From paddling in the South Atlantic and South Pacific oceans we had scaled the majestic Andes to heights of over 18,000 feet. We had trekked through rainforests, cloud forests and temperate forests, through barren tundra and across vast uninhabited deserts staying in 48 different locations. We had discovered modern cities, ancient cities and lost cities. In the north we made it to within 10 degrees of the Equator and in the south to within 10 degrees of the Antarctic Circle. We had burned to a crisp in the tropics, chilled to the bone in the High Andes and literally been blown off our feet in Southern Patagonia. But we had made it.

But despite the infinite list of incredible sights (I've taken well over 3,000 photographs so far. Friends and family - start working on your excuses now in preparation for when I ask that dreaded question, “Do you want to pop round and take a look at our holiday snaps!”) it's the people that really made the journey: The Brazilian tourists that seem to spread themselves across this entire continent, the Argentinian gaucho's, the bowler-hatted Bolivian ladies gathered in the local market square and of course the Peruvian kids, selling just about anything they can get their hands on!

But for now, Karen and I were not about reminiscing. We had one more city to explore before we set off on our long journey back to Steeple Morden: Lima, capital of the fastest growing economy in South America and summarised by Lonely Planet as “No place of beauty. A sprawling desert city clinging precariously to dusty cliffs, it spends much of the year marinated in a perpetual fog that turns the sky the colour of Styrofoam. It is loud, chaotic, and gritty; much of its architecture is bulky and grey”. Now maybe I'm getting a bit soft in my travelling old age but I can't help feeling these words are a little bit harsh! OK, so you probably wouldn't put Lima on your top 10 list of places to see before you die, but as a place to spend a couple of quality days relaxing with easy access to some of Peru's finest restaurants and bars, I can think of far worse places to be.

And with the melancholy of journey's end mixed with a couple of bottles of pretty enjoyable Peruvian red, the conversation inevitably shifted to 'The Next Trip'. India maybe? Nepal possibly? Tibet per chance? For now though, our immediate destination is our favourite place on earth: Back home to the beautiful village of Steeple Morden. Back home with Huffkin, Chuddleigh, our friends and our family.

See you all soon!

D&K

R&R

Day 77-80: Southern Coast, Peru. As the sun started to set below the far western horizon, the desert sands turned a fiery red. Jumping on to our boards, Karen and I hurled ourselves from the summit of the steep dune for one last run before dark. As fast as a polaris missile but with very little in the way of control, both of us miraculously made it to the bottom with no broken limbs. After the exertion of the last 3 months, this was just we needed: Sand boarding and a little bit of relaxation and recuperation.

And when it comes to chilling out, there is probably no better place to do it that Peru's laid back southern coast: From the tiny desert oasis of Huacachina surrounded by towering sand dunes, nestling next to a picturesque (if slightly smelly!) lagoon with graceful palm trees, exotic flowers and attractive antique buildings to the charming hamlet of Lunahuaná; gateway to one of Peru's best wine producing regions, this coast really does have it all. Hoping on and off buses, collectivos and moto-taxis as if we lived here, Karen and I made our way slowly northwards along the Carr Panamericana (Pan-American Highway) where the spectacular barren deserts and sand dunes gave way to fertile valleys, lush with tropical fruit and vineyards industrious with the autumn harvest.

The low cost of living meant that we could ditch the usual backpacker's haunts and stay in some real hotels: You know the sort of thing – hotels that offer complimentary soap, monogrammed towels and maybe even a swimming pool. Luxury! Our best find by far was the remote Refugio de Santiago; a renovated colonial home a few kilometres west of Lunahuaná which represented the ultimate in relaxing hideaways. The rooms, rustic but elegant; the grounds a fragrant botanical garden providing an infinite source of inspiration for the excellent (if slightly eccentric!) Peruvian chef. Utterly passionate about his creations, he refused to let us leave his tranquil abode until we had sampled the very best of his countries gastronomy. Like fresh tuna juice (from the cactus, not the fish!), milkshake of lucumba, crayfish from the River Cañete and yes, you've guessed it, locally reared guinea pig. Prepared the traditional Peruvian way, this cuy didn't resemble the loser in a battle with a 7 ton Pickford's truck in the way that so many guinea pigs are presented in the tourist haunts. Cooked to perfection with smoked garlic and perfumed tiger milk, it had a delicious, delicate texture with a mild, gamy flavour reminiscent of the finest grouse or partridge.

So if your kids ever get bored of the family pet and you're wondering what to do, just tip me the wink and I'll rustle us up a great little dish. More red wine anyone?

And Breathe...

Day 75-76: Nazca, Peru. The plane dived hard to the starboard side, the note of the engine increasing in pitch as the revs increased on the little six seater Cessna. I did my best to hold on to my camera and to my breakfast as we switched direction yet again to get the best view of the amazing geoglyphs that stretched infinitely across the desert floor. “Beats dizzyness!”, Karen joked above the noise of the aircraft. She was right: Trading altitude sickness for motion sickness within a 24 hours period was not one of my better ideas!

After almost 5 weeks at high altitude, we finally decided to give our lungs a break and descend to the Peruvian desert floor where oxygen was considered to be a commodity rather than a luxury. Heading south-westerly from Cusco, we caught the overnight bus service to take us across the High Andes and down to the tropical coastal plateau. Whilst covering a distance of only 350 miles, this was unquestionably one of the most difficult bus journey's we had ever undertaken; 15 solid hours of mountain passes, ascents, descents and death defying hairpin bends before we left the gargantuan mountain range that has played such a huge part in our South American adventure.

Arriving on the western side of the Andes at the dead and alive hole of Nazca, you’d be forgiven for thinking that this desolate pampa would hold little of interest for anybody. And indeed this sun-bleached expanse of desert was largely ignored by the outside world until 1939, when North American scientist Paul Kosok flew across the desert and noticed a series of extensive lines and figures etched below, which he initially took to be an elaborate pre-Inca irrigation system. In fact, what he had stumbled across was one of ancient Peru’s most impressive and enigmatic achievements: The world-famous Nazca Lines, which as a teenager, I had been fascinated with ever since reading a copy of Arthur C. Clarke's Mysterious World.

Spread across an incredible 200 square miles of arid, rock-strewn plain, the Nazca Lines remain to this day one of the world’s great archaeological mysteries. Consisting of more than 800 straight lines, 300 geometric figures and some 70 spectacular animal and plant drawings including such entities as the hummingbird, the spider, the condor and the astronaut(!), the lines are almost imperceptible at ground level. It’s only when viewed from above that they form their striking network of enormous stylized figures and channels up to 300 feet across and so Karen and I just had to get up there to take a better look.

With little else to do in Nazca, finding a willing pilot with a light aircraft to charter is,well, as a easy as jumping out of a plane. Finding one that didn't want to empty the contents of our stomachs through their demonstration of aerobatic prowess in an attempt to get you the best possible view of the lines, much less so!!

Emerging from the plane, both looking a little green, Karen and I had gained a much better appreciation of the intriguing geometric shapes drawn by the Nazca people some 2,000 years ago (it definitely is an astronaut, you know!). But right now, we had a desire to be back in the High Andes where, despite the lack of oxygen, our internal organs tended to remain in exactly the same place that we had left them!

Lost & Found

Day 70-74: The Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, Peru. 6.30am and the first vestiges of daylight were starting to create a dull glow in the eastern sky. Clouds covered the snow covered high Andean peaks that towered above us, mist swirled around the enveloping cloud forest. We were cold and tired. Despite the hour we had already been trekking the narrow, rocky path for well over an hour. But still we forged ahead: The stone staircase to Intipunku so steep it resembled a rock scramble rather than a hike. And then, through the twilight, we saw it: 1,000 feet below us in all its magnificent splendour. “We've found it!”, Karen exclaimed excitedly, seemingly forgetting the pain and exertion of the last 4 days. Machu Picchu, the lost city of the Inca's was ours...

From Cusco, there are two practical ways to reach South America's best know archaeological site: You can take an air-conditioned tourist train with full buffet service and reclining leather seats or you can undertake a gruelling four day hike across three notorious Andean mountain passes following exactly the same route that the Inca kings would have over done seven centuries previously. Have a guess which one Karen and I decided to do?

The Inca Trail, is South America's and one of the world's, most famous hikes. The ancient path laid by the Incas from the Sacred Valley to Machu Picchu winds its way up and down and around the mountains, reaching altitudes of over 14,000 feet. Not for the faint hearted, this truly is a challenging hike exacerbated by the oxygen starved high altitude, burning tropical sun and freezing Andean nights. For four whole days we would set off before sunrise and trek until sundown tackling the likes of Dead Women's Pass a 6,000 foot vertical ascent achieved from just a few miles of hiking and the Gringo Killer; 3,000, foot high stone steps that jarred the spine and pulverised the knees. As night fell we'd pitch up tent at altitudes approaching those close to the summit of Mont Blanc and sleep under canvas beneath the clear, cold Peruvian skies.

But despite the incredible physical exertion, this was a truly mystical, magical and unforgeable experience: Walking from one cliff-hugging pre-Columbian ruin to the next; the views of snowy mountain peaks, distant rivers and ranges, and cloud forests flush with tropical wildlife and colourful orchids.

And then there was our incredible trekking team. In order to preserve this centuries old trail to the Inca's foremost spiritual sanctuary discovered by Hiram Bingham back in 1911, only a small number of guided hikers are permitted to use these sacred paths every day. Accompanying Karen and me were Edgar, our trusty and knowledgeable Quenchua guide and two porters for every hiker on the trail to carry tents and provisions. And it was these guys that really did make the trail extra special. Whilst we struggled with the thin air and steep inclines, these stocky local farmers would run up and down the mountain passes with 25 kilo packs on their backs setting up our next camp site and cooking delicious meals for us with the most basic of ingredients. One night, as Karen and I were about to go to bed, completely exhausted from the days trekking, I saw all of them leaving the camp-site and heading off down the mountain. “There's a big game tonight: Peru are playing Chile”, Edgar explained. “They're just popping down to the village to watch it on TV”, he continued. Now normally this wouldn't seem that unusual to me. But on this particular night the village was 4,000 feet below us and it had taken Karen and me all afternoon to get from there to our camp-site. These guys were were doing the round trip as part of a average night out!! It's a shame Peru lost 3-1!

And whilst the Inca Trail is absolutely about the journey the ultimate destination, Machu Picchu, is sublime in itself: One of the New Seven Wonders of the World and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Built in 1450 and abandoned within a century this site was never known to the Spanish during their conquests and consequently, it is one of the only relatively intact Inca sites that remain anywhere in South America. With over 140 structures including temples, sanctuaries, parks, terraces and residences, Karen and I wandered the ruins in utter amazement for as long as our tired legs could carry us. A perfect and fitting end to the most magical trek we have ever embarked on.

The most strenuous thing that we have ever done? Most probably. The most rewarding? Most definitely!

So, if anyone back home is still interested in that little trip to Kilimanjaro; Karen and I are definitely in!

Precision Engineering

Day 67-69: Cusco & The Sacred Valley, Peru. “I can't even place a credit card between them”, I said to Karen in amazement, as we wandered around the peaceful ruins at Sacsaywamán just a couple of miles north of Cusco's main plaza. Two year previously, Karen and I had been fortunate enough to visit the Giza plateau where we had marvelled at the astonishing engineering skills of the ancient Egyptians in the construction of the Great Pyramids. Now, in the heart of South America, we were witnessing similar unbelievable craftsmanship; the legacy of the continents greatest pre-Columbian civilization. Huge 70 ton boulders, cut with laser precision and skilfully assembled without the need for mortar, to form great walls, temples and cities; dominating the land as far as the eye can see. For 700 years ago, the place where we were now standing was at the heart of the Inca Empire.

The 12 hour overnight bus from Arequipa had brought us northwards to the ancient city of Cuzco, our base for the next few days as we explored this fascinating city and the myriad of ancient archaeological sites that litter the 100 miles of the Sacred Inca Valley.

Cuzco itself effortlessly enchants, bombarding the senses with a swirl of art, religion, music, architecture, food, and fiestas – every possible manifestation of the syncretic Inca-Spanish culture that makes the Andes so fascinating: Ladies with llamas walk cobbled streets. Coca-chewing local honchos parade to church in ceremonial regalia for Mass in Quechua. Cuzco’s proud pagan past collides with solemn Catholic rituals in parades that stop traffic at the drop of a hat.

Despite it's obvious charm though, Cusco is one of the most relentless tourism-dominated towns on the face of the earth, sitting as it does just a stones throw from the Sacred Valley and a (relatively) short train journey to one of South America's main events: Machu Picchu. Walking through the Plaza de Armas we felt a little bit like walking ATM's! There's people here hawking massages, finger puppets, paintings, CDs and tattoos – if you want it (or even if you don't!) you can get it here!

Fortunately though, it was easy enough for us to escape the commercial madness, and become totally absorbed by the history and ambience of the lost Incan cities that lay just a short hike or bus ride from the centre of town. Magical, spiritual and mystical; even their very names like Pukapukara and Ollantaytambo, seem to have sprung from the gods imagination.

All that remains now is for me find enough room in my rucksack for the couple of mystical and magical acquisitions that I made whilst in Cusco like my alpaca wool tea-cosy and my Incan warrior snow storm. Classy eh?

Surprise, Surprise!

Day 64-66: Arequipa, Peru. For me, one of the best aspects of travelling is finding those little gems; away from the main tourist trail, that exude charm and charisma and provide a real insight into the country's history, culture and psyche. And Arequipa provided us with a perfect example. Prior to leaving the UK back in January, I hadn't even heard of Peru's second city. Lonely Planet, puts it on the 'B' list of things to do in Peru and we only made it this far in the search of a restaurant for Karen's birthday. But I'm so pleased we did. For Arequipa is Peru's forgotten jewel.

Rocked by volcanic eruptions and earthquakes nearly every century since the Spanish arrived in 1532, Arequipa doesn’t lack for drama. Locals sometimes say “When the moon separated from the earth, it forgot to take Arequipa”, waxing lyrical about the city’s grand colonial buildings, built from an off-white volcanic rock called sillar that dazzles in the sun. As a result, Arequipa has been baptised the Ciudad Blanca (white city). Its distinctive stonework graces the stately Plaza de Armas, along with countless beautiful colonial churches, monasteries and mansions scattered throughout the city. What makes this city so irresistible is the obvious relish with which its citizens enjoy all of the good things that life has to offer, especially the region’s spicy food, stylish shopping and night-life. The pulse of city life is upbeat. The streets are full of jostling vendors, bankers, artists, students and nuns – in short, a microcosm of modern Peru.

Arriving here with one objective, Karen and I stayed around for a few days to make the most of the city's superb restaurants (which has meant we still haven't had to stoop to eating guinea pig!), low cost of living and relative lack of tourists. In addition, the beauty of the surrounding countryside was to die for. Nestling in a fertile valley under the perfect cone-shaped volcano of El Misti, which rises majestically 19,000 feet behind the cathedral, flanked to the left by the higher and more ragged Chachani and to the right by the peak of Pichu Pichu.

And then there's the canyons. In my ignorance, I always thought Arizona's mile deep Grand Canyon was the deepest in the world. But within a 100 miles north-westerly of Arequipa lie two canyons that put America's tourist icon to shame. Cañón del Colca plunges 10,500 feet through the earth's crust and the more remote Cañón del Cotahuasi tops this by another 500 feet, making it the deepest canyon in the world: Two miles deep; twice the depth of the Grand Canyon! Standing on the rim of this mighty canyon, watching the soaring condors floating by at close range below us – a truly unforgettable experience.

And in my capacity as Investigative Tourism Journalist, I even thought I'd try the local hospital to give every one back home the real low down of Arequipa! Suffering from severe chest pains for the last week, I thought I'd better get a check-up just in case my heart was on it's way out. But after a few minutes on a shiny new ECG machine and some considerate prodding by the local doctors they soon diagnosed that my heart was good for a few miles yet. It turns out that after weeks living at what the World Health Organisation classify as 'High Altitude' or 'Extreme Altitude' my lungs had been working so hard to extract what little oxygen exists in this thin mountain air that I had actually strained the muscles in my chest – hence the pain and breathing difficulties.

So, if you're in Peru and you're feeling a little under the weather, I recommend you make your way to Clínica Arequipa: A brand new facility with excellent English speaking medical professionals. In and out within the hour and a total cost for the consultation and ongoing medication of less than £25. I don't know, the lengths I'm prepared to go to to provide the latest in tourist information!

Birthday Wishes

Day 62-63: South Eastern Peru, Peru. “We made it!”, Karen shrieked with more than just a touch of relief in her voice. I felt like kissing the ground, but deciding on the slightly more cooler approach, simply nodded in agreement. We had crossed Peru's most dangerous mountain pass and lived to tell the tale. For more people are killed on this route and more buses go careering off the edge of the road into the plunging abyss below than on any other road anywhere in the country. And in a mountainous country with a network of poorly maintained roads, the Puno to Arequipa highway has an awful lot of competition vying for its infamous accolade!

We had followed the lake road north-westerly from Copacabana until we reached the little border town of Yuguyo. Here, passports duly stamped for exit from Bolivia and entry to Peru we had continued into the sixth and final country of our South American adventure. Small changes at first: The women still wearing their plaited hair under bowler hats, multiple layer skirts and their worldly possessions bundled on their backs. But in Peru, the colours a little more brighter and the ladies a little more smiley (the latter point may be something to do with the local trend to trim your front teeth with solid gold so that every time they laughed, I felt I was at the mercy of a cloned set of James Bond villains)!

Subtle changes in the Peruvian diet compared to Bolivia too: Llama gives way to alpaca, and Peru's meat staple the guinea pig makes an appearance; traditionally served as if it were the victim of some unfortunate road kill incident: Flat as a pancake, complete with head and all four paws splayed to the cardinal points. (A dish that so far we have managed to avoid, but as our journey takes us to more remote Peruvian outposts our pizza alternatives may be no more!)

And it was food that had brought us on our seven hour journey from Lake Titicaca in the east to Arequipa in the Peruvian central highlands. With Karen's birthday celebration we felt it was high time that we splashed out a bit and treated ourselves by way of a slap up meal at Zig Zag, said to be one of the countries finest restaurants. A romantic Alpine-Andean fusion haunt that delivers the gourmand goods in a sillar walled candlelit setting. Crayfish cocktail, volcanic stone cooked trilogy of meat (beef, lamb and the tenderest alpaca loin) and passion fruit meringue all washed down with a perfect Peruvian cabernet sauvignon and the biggest pisco sour you could ever imagine!!

...And after three months of living off budget food and just a couple of beers a night, this was positively heaven, even if we did have to crack open the indigestion tablets the next day!

Happy Birthday, Karen!

Hippy Hippy Shake

Day 58-61: Lake Titicaca, Bolivia. On our travels we have often stayed at the birthplaces of famous people: Elvis, Lenin, Lincoln... The list goes on. But, if you believe the ancient Inca legends, Lake Titicaca was the birthplace of something far more exciting. For, from the twin islands of Isla del Sol and Isla de la Luna in the middle of this vast inland ocean, the Sun and the Moon themselves were born and rose to the skies to take their place in the heavens for the rest of eternity.

Lake Titicaca is deservedly awash with gushing clichés. This incongruous splash of sapphire amid the stark plains of the Altiplano is one of the most beautiful sights in the region. The lake itself straddles both Bolivia and Peru and covers an area of more than 3,000 square miles, sitting at an altitude of 12,500 feet, Titicaca is the world’s largest high-altitude lake.

Copacabana, on the lake's south-western shore, attracts a diverse set of travellers and provided fabulous people watching opportunities for Karen and me during our time visiting the lake: The Aymará and Quechu people from all over Peru and Bolivia make their pilgrimages here. According to their own creation stories not only were the Sun and the Moon born from these islands, but the bearded, white god-king Viracocha and the first Incas, Manco Capac and his sister-wife Mama Ocllo, mystically appeared at the Isla del Sol under direct orders from the Sun. Then there's the Hippies: Whilst they may not have the same religious connections as the Aymará and Quechu people, the fact that this place is shrouded in mysticism provides a magnet for the Simon & Garfunkel guitar playing crowd who have made these lake-shores their spiritual home. The New Age Travellers: Attracted by Copacabana's chilled out life style, minuscule cost of living and the opportunity to flog the odd bracelet here and there to the steady trickle of international tourists. And finally there's the independent travellers like Karen and me who just want to immerse ourselves in the incredible beauty, spirituality and slow pace of life of this land where time has apparently stood still for the last couple of millennia.

Hiking the entire length of Isla del Sol was a rewarding but exhausting experience; trekking through traditional Aymará villages along the lake-shore, with the snow-topped peaks of the Cordillera Real in the background, providing a magical landscape. Whilst the island is only about 6 miles across, the combination of the 14,000 foot altitude, the intense burning tropical sun and the bone chilling Andean winds made for one of the most memorable days of our travelling experience. And in the solitude of these high peaks, desolate now but with the smattering of ancient ruins to remind us of the great Inca cities that once stood on this island, a time for reflection; nine weeks on the road and whilst our experiences have been amazing, we are really missing our home back in Steeple Morden: Friends and family, Huffkin & Chudleigh, home cooked meals, nights in by the fire, jogging to Abingdon Piggots, burning up the back lanes of South Cambridgeshire on the motorbikes, Friday night tennis with Pete & Fliss, Sunday night at the Waggon with Dave & crew...

But reaching the Mil Gradas (thousand steps) of Yumani and all mind wandering has to stop. One thing I just don't understand about the Inca's – if they really were as clever as everybody says they were – why couldn't they build their cities on the flat bits? Why did they always have to build them at the top of a knackering stone stair-case?

Life on Earth

Day 54-57: Amazon Rain Forest, Bolivia. Ahhh! What better way to spend a pleasant and relaxing afternoon than a spot of lake fishing? The sun going down behind the trees; a kingfisher flies from the bushes and bubbles gently break the surface of the calm waters as the angler's prey are nonchalantly lured towards the waiting bait. But as you've probably guessed, in Bolivia's seemingly altered reality, things were a little different on our fishing trip. For the sun had an equatorial fierceness, the trees formed the canopy of the largest and most beautiful forest on the planet, the kingfisher was of the giant Amazon variety and the the lake; crocodile infested. No maggots here; our bait were chunks of best quality beef steak that turned the water into a frenzied, bubbling cauldron. For today we we fishing for piranha!

Ever since I was a teenager I have always wanted to visit the Amazon Rainforest to experience the most diverse, varied and fragile ecosystem on earth. Since arriving in South America, Karen and I had realised that it was relatively easy to reach the rain-forest from any of the countries that formed the Amazon Basin provided you had enough time, desire and money. But finding a way to the forest that doesn't pose any more threat to this already endangered environment; travelling responsibly, ecologically and sustainably: That was a lot more difficult.

And so, after much research, we opted to visit the Amazon through Chalalán: Bolivia’s leading community-based ecotourism project. Set up in the early 1990s by the inhabitants of remote San José de Uchupiamonas, it has become a lifeline for these villagers, and has so far generated money for a school and a small clinic. Built entirely from natural rainforest materials by the enthusiastic San José youth, the lodge’s simple and elegant huts surround the idyllic Laguna Chalalán in the heart of the 7,000 square mile Parque Nacional Madidi.

The park itself takes in a range of wildlife habitats, from the steaming lowland rainforests to 18,000 feet Andean peaks. This little-trodden utopia is home to an astonishing variety of Amazonian wildlife: 44% of all New World mammal species live here, 38% of tropical amphibian species, almost 1,000 kinds of bird and more protected species than any other park in the world. Because of its remoteness, getting to the park created its own challenges: The seasons rains had virtually destroyed any north-bound road from La Paz, so luckily we had managed to secure a flight to the river trading outpost of Rurrenabaque on a little 18 seater turbo-prop plane that landed bumpily on the village's grass airstrip. Rurrenabaque literally is the end of the road and as the only way to travel north from here is by boat, we took the 6 hour trip up the misty Rio Beni and Rio Tuichi; 'tiny' half mile wide tributaries of the mighty Amazon itself, before hiking the last couple of miles to the reserve.

With the indigenous, Amazonian, Giovanni as our guide (apparently he didn't much care for his name but was given it by the local missionaries!), we trekked the rain forest morning, noon and night to try to understand it's secrets. Giovanni would show us how his people interact with the forest, and how it's animal, plant and bird-life provided them the food, shelter and medicine that their community used in their everyday lives. But it was Giovanni's knowledge of the fragility and symbiotic relationships of this unique environment that really made me listen. He, along with his community from San José, were at one with the forest: This was their past, their present and their future. For their community to survive they had to hand the rain-forest to their children exactly as they had inherited it from their parents. Oh, how much our own greedy, wasteful society could learn from these simple, happy people who live in the middle of paradise.

The rainforest never stops: 24 x 7. 365 days a year. The forest floor is dark and damp, covered in fallen leaves and decaying wood giving a distinctly autumnal feel (if you ignore the heat and humidity that is!). But it is precisely this constant decay that provides the fuel for the forest's perpetual Spring; every day new leaves and flowers burst from the canopy in a race to get closest to the streaming sunlight. And in every strata, from floor to canopy, nature thrives in super-size: Inch long farmer ants incessantly tidy anything that dares to fall from above; six inch cicada join a host of insects that buzz through the undergrowth; huge, multicoloured parrots, macaws and toucans fill the upper regions whilst countless species of monkey swing noisily through the highest canopy attracted by Giovanni's Dr Doolittle like abilities. And whilst the flora and fauna are beautiful, its the noises that will stay with me forever: The incredible dawn bird chorus, the evening frog symphony, the collective whine of a zillion insects, the roar of bucketing tropical rainstorms and, in the early morning, the thunder-like chorus of every howler monkey within a 100 mile radius!

Of course, this stunning beauty also hides it share of danger as well. Along with the crocodiles, piranhas, anacondas and boa constrictors these forest are the home to predatory cats, crazed pigs and walking trees! The tiny fire-ants which hunt in swarms; their collective bite strong enough to kill a man. I was lucky: In my encounter with these little termites, I only sustained a couple of bites – but believe me the pain was excruciating. I can not begin to image how death by 1,000 of these bites must feel. But as confirmed arachnophobes, when Giovanni told us we were going on a spider hunt, both Karen and I came out in a cold sweat: Jumping spiders, wandering spiders, 30 foot webs stretching between the trees providing a home for a million communal arachnids. And then, hiding between the roots of a fig tree, Giovanni found a 10 inch tarantula rearing its legs in aggression. “It won't bite you if you don't bother it”, he said, poking the spider with a small stick – but by this stage, Karen and I were already making our tracks back to the safety of the lodge.

The most stunningly beautiful ecosystem and environment anywhere on planet earth. An ecosystem that may just provide the salvation to the almost irreparable damage that we have all inflicted on our planet so far. This is not just Giovanni's or even Sting's environment to protect. It is the responsibility of each and every one of us.

Oh, and by the way, Giovanni's grilled piranha fish tasted just divine!

Lady of Peace

Day 50-53: La Paz, Bolivia. “Breathtaking! It literally has been built on the side of the mountain”, Karen exclaimed as we descended from the flat sparse plains of the sprawling city of El Alto and got our first glimpse of Bolivia's capital city clinging to the sides of the canyon and spilling spectacularly into the valley below. It had been a long night and we were both exhausted, but the sight before us rekindled our spirits and despite our tiredness, gave us the taste for exploration yet again.

The overnight journey from Uyuni had not been with out incident. The road just south of Potosi had collapsed due to the torrential rain falls. A main thoroughfare between the nations capital and the south-west of the county, we had to wait our turn as the procession of northbound and southbound buses gingerly squeezed past each other with just inches to spare on what remained of the broken road, adding another couple of hours to our scheduled 11 hour bus journey.

La Paz, or to give it its original name, La Ciudad de Nuestra Señora de La Paz (the City of Our Lady of Peace) is dizzying in every respect. Not only for its well publicised altitude (12,000 feet above sea level; making it the highest capital city in the world), but also for it's quirky beauty: Women sporting long black plaits, bowler hats and vivid mantas attend to steaming pots or sell everything from fruit and vegetables to designer shoes from their make-shift street stalls whilst the menfolk, negotiating the heavy traffic and its fumes, push overladen trolleys through the steep streets and alleys that wind their way ever skywards.

“Camina lentito, come poquito…y duerme solito”, the locals tell you (walk slowly, eat only a little bit…and sleep by your poor little self). Check into any five star hotel in La Paz and amongst the usual paraphernalia, like bathrobes and fluffy slippers, you'll also be offered free oxygen for the duration of your stay! Such luxuries though were unavailable at our £8 a night hostel and so Karen and I had to make do with the traditional coca leaves remedy to ward off the effects of this crazy altitude. In Bolivia's biggest city though, we no longer had to make do with merely chewing the coca, for here you can get coca tea, coca sweets, coca liqueur and even coca ice-cream!

The city's diverse restaurant scene coupled with its low cost of living meant that after many days, Karen and I could actually find something else to eat other than llama, pizza or llama pizza. And La Paz seems to have the lot: Japanese, Thai, Moroccan, French... We even found a great little 'English Curry House' (now I always thought curry originated from the Indian subcontinent, but if the Bolivians are happy to credit England with the invention of one of the world's favourite dishes then that's fine by me)!

In an attempt to escape the city's choking pollution for a few hours we took a ride to the 'ghost' ski resort of Chacaltaya, just a couple of hours drive to the north of the bustling city centre. A strange and eerie place, this used to be the location of the world's highest pistes at nearly 18,000 feet; a popular destination for La Paz's elite during the 1980's when a huge leisure infrastructure was constructed in the high Andes to support the growing needs of Bolivia's ski-set. Since then though, in an all too familiar tale of global warming, the glaciers that provided the snow have all retreated from this high mountain until, in 2009, they disappeared completely. Now, as Karen and I trekked these cold and windy mountains, all that remains of this once thriving winter sports centre are a couple of rusting ski lifts and few derelict buildings, presumably the location of Chacaltaya's bygone apres-ski scene.

But it's La Paz's chaotic market scenes that will stay with me as my over-riding memory of this fascinating city. A sensory indulgence; the colourful, overflowing stalls, the aroma of incense mingling with the smell of fresh salteñas cooking on an open fire, the cries of the street sellers and the acrid taste of pollution, caused by the incessant traffic, drying the back of your throat. Looking around the Witches Market, it looks like this years 'must have' gift from La Paz are going to be dried llama foetuses. Stall after stall has baskets of these macabre Bolivian icons, the result of miscarriages, still births or even the religious slaughter of pregnant llamas which are offered as gifts of good-luck and friendship within the local community. So if you have one of those friends that just has everything and you can't think what to get them for their next birthday or anniversary drop me a line and I'll see if I can get you a couple before I leave!

Salt of the Earth

Day 46-49: Reserva Nacional de Fauna Andina Eduardo Avaroa, Bolivia. I've never been to Mars. Or Jupiter, or Saturn or even Venus for that matter. But if I did, I bet you that I would have seen some more familiar, earthly like scenes than Karen and I witnessed during the past few days in South West Bolivia.

One of the most remote and hostile environments on earth, this was a job that not even our hero bus driver from Tupiza could help us with. Teaming up with 4 like minded travellers from Norway and Switzerland we managed to secure a 4 wheel drive vehicle, a driver and a Bolivian guide so that we could really get off the beaten track. And whilst our trusty Landcruiser may have had over a quarter of a million miles on the clock it also had a couple of 'extras' that every self-respecting yuppie will be wanting on their Chelsea Tractor - like an altimeter and oxygen mask for instance. But these accessories weren’t just for show, as our 600 mile trip through this harsh, isolated land would take us over Andean passes at altitudes greater than 16,000 feet.

For days we travelled; the landscape constantly changing. Hour by hour becoming more or more incredible, more and more bizarre. In the north, the breathtaking Salar de Uyuni, formed as the Andes rose from the abyss creating a great isolated inland ocean, that dried up over the eons to leave the world's largest salt flat: 5,000 square miles; about the size of Northern Ireland and estimated to contain around 13 billion tons of salt and 70% of the worlds' lithium reserves. In the dry season apparently, the salar is a pure white expanse of the greatest nothing imaginable – just the blue sky, the white ground and you. In the wet season though the flats are filled with a few inches of water perfectly reflecting the clouds and the blue Altiplano sky and forcing the horizon to disappear completely. For Karen and I driving across through this immense shallow lagoon was positively surreal – it felt like our aged Toyota was flying through the clouds.

In the south, red lakes, blue lakes, green lakes. Green deserts with red rocks, orange deserts with green rocks. Yellow mountains, black mountains, white mountains. Snow capped volcanoes, geysers, hot springs and boiling superheated mud. Metallic veins of iron, copper, arsenic, silver and boron. Pink flamingos on frozen lakes and woolly llamas with coloured ostrich feather ear-rings.

Viewing this unearthly scenery, it's hardly surprising that one of these Bolivian deserts is called Rocas de Dali as it feels like the landscape has been meticulously placed here by the surrealist master Salvador himself.

Bathing in the hot springs of Termas de Polques to warm ourselves from the cold winds that ripped across the Andean desert plateau, it made me wonder what awesome natural forces must have been in play 45 million years ago to form this spectacular mountain range. As Pangea began to break apart, the ocean floor was thrust skywards and world's longest continental mountain range was formed; 4,300 miles long, 200 miles wide, with and average height of 13,000 feet, peaking at almost 23,000 feet. When all this was going on it must have made the Hiroshima bomb look like a candle by comparison. And as I felt the hot water bubbling from the active earth below me and as I gazed up at the crater of Volcan Licancabur above me I realised that mother nature hasn't quite finished with her game plan for these mountains as the Pacific Ring of Fire continues to be one of the most active volcanic regions of the world.

Life out here is just as tough as the environment. Basic accommodation, no hot water and only sufficient electricity to power the village for around 2 hours a day, so it's lights out and time for bed by 9pm! Thanks though to our excellent guide and cook we didn't starve. With nowhere to buy provisions in the desert, Juan brought all the food and drink we needed from Uyuni strapped to the top of the Toyota and considering the limited ingredients available to us those impromptu picnics on the tailgate of the Landcruiser were some of the best and most memorable meals we have eaten on our travels so far

That said though, I've eaten so much llama since we arrived in Bolivia that I'm getting quite a taste for it now. When we get back to Steeple Morden, please can somebody keep a count on those alpacas otherwise one or two might just end up on the Brown's summer barbecue!

Return of the Chicken Bus

Day 43-45: Andean South West, Bolivia. “So what must the most dangerous road in the world be like?”, Karen said referring to Bolivia's infamous 'Death Road' near La Paz. “I can't image anything worse than that road from Tupiza”, she continued. Still trying to remove the last remnants of coca leaves from by teeth with a cocktail stick, I shrugged my shoulders in ignorance.

Arriving in the Bolivia, we had planned to take the overnight train northbound to the climatically challenged outpost of Uyuni in the country's remote south western corner. At the border town of Villazon, we were told that the twice weekly train hadn't run for some weeks due to the damage caused by the seasons rains. We were therefore left with no other choice – we had to make the 250 mile journey by bus – a prospect which initially left us a little disappointed but over the next few days, as we trundled our way northwards through all manner of terrain, was to prove to be an unforgettable experience.

For long gone were those comfortable tourist buses of Argentina and Brazil – in Bolivia the journey was to be undertaken by 'chicken bus'. Now chicken buses were not new to us; we had first been introduced to them three years previously during our travels around South East Asia and here in South America things were pretty much the same: Firstly, to be classified as a chicken bus, anyone is allowed to bring anything onto the bus – livestock, bags of rice, billy cans of petrol – nothing is considered taboo. Secondly, you have to get as many people on the bus as is physically possible – 5 to a seat is a good start, people standing or even hanging on to the outside of the bus is even better. Thirdly, forget about time-tables, these buses go when ever there are enough people on board (see rule 2) and they arrive whenever they do. And finally, rule 4, the bus must be totally clapped out. Ideally, you should be looking for a bus that is at least 30 years old, covered in battle scars and with the cord poking through a set of bald tyres. The only difference between the Bolivian chicken bus compared to its Asian namesake is that they drive these things over the second highest mountain range on the planet on whatever road conditions they may find!

Travelling through volcanic mountain passes, rocky escarpments, Andean desert, sand dunes, and barren plateau’s we encountered some of the most stunning (and scary!) scenery imaginable. At Tupiza, we ran out of what little tarmac there was and so the last 150 miles (which took us 8 hours!) was travelled along dirt roads, dried up river beds (some of which weren't so dry!!) and mud flats. The afternoon rains turned our 'road' into a raging torrent of thick red mud, the bus squirming and sliding along the mountain tracks as it's tread-less tyres scrambled for what little grip there was.

At one point, the rains had caused a mountain land slide, taking with it half of the road. With a 500ft drop to the left of us, I closed my eyes and prayed for deliverance to a benevolent God as the driver miraculously manoeuvred this aged vehicle with 70 passengers on board over a track that was now narrower that the bus! I would have openly shaken the hand of anyone who could have successfully navigated that road in the latest 4x4, but for someone to do it in a 7 ton bus in the condition as dictated by rule 4, then I salute them!

And it wasn't just the terrain that was challenging. These Andean mountain passes lie at an altitude of nearly 3 miles above sea level, punishing our bodies in the thin Bolivian air. Every so often, my lungs would perform an involuntary gasp as if my brain was concerned that the world was about to run out of it's supply of oxygen. The local's approach to handling the effects of altitude and cold is through the incessant chewing of coca leaves. Coca is so intertwined into the Bolivian culture that Karen and I also thought we should give it a try. Stuffing our mouths with a golf ball size wad of these locally grown leaves, we macerated for the best part of an hour until our faces went numb from the experience and our mouths turned the colour of the incredible hulk. And did it cure our altitude sickness? To be honest, I'm not sure. I was so preoccupied by the residual foul taste and the removal of all of the chewed up bits of leaves from my teeth that I had completely forgotten about my dizziness, nausea and breathlessness. So in a funny sort of way - maybe it did work after all?!

Carnival

Day 41-42: The Andean North West, Argentina. “Things are definitely different here”, Karen said, as she gazed around at the chaotic street scene in front of us. “You can see it in the people, smell it it the air, feel it in the wind...”. She was absolutely right. Bolivia was going to be so different from anything we had encountered so far in South America. But for now, I just nodded in agreement and tucked into my spicy mutton soup. It was delicious!

Buenos Aires had woken up to her carnival as Karen and I had woken up with another sore head and a dawning realisation that our South American budget was no longer sustainable . For the past 4 weeks as we had hopped in and out of Argentina we had been spending between 20% and 100% more than we had planned, thanks in the main to Argentina's rampant inflation since the publication of our copy of the Lonely Planet back in 2009. That, coupled with our excesses in the country's capital and the additional cost of replacing the items that we had had stolen during our first night in BA, had all taken their toll.

If we were to keep our travels going there was only one thing for it: We had to head north to the relative sanctuary and cheaper cost of living offered by South America's less developed countries. We had to make it to Bolivia.

The problem was right now we were well over 1,000 miles south of the border and so if we were going to make it any time soon we had to get our skates on. Boarding a flight to Salta ate most of the miles and after an overnight stay in this the biggest town in Argentina's Andean North West we managed to find a bus to take us the remaining two hundred miles or so to La Quiaca. The eight hour journey took us through some of the most spectacular scenery imaginable: Snow capped volcanoes, mountain passes, deserts sprouting with huge cactus plants and the most amazing rock colours and formations which reminded me slightly of Arizona's famous Painted Desert

Argentina's northernmost point is a cold windy place; nestled in the heart of the Andes and some 3,500 miles from Ushuaia where we had been just a couple of weeks previously. La Quiaca used to be a bustling rail-road terminus but these days the main sign of life seems to be the hoards of weary Bolivians trudging between the border and the bus terminal toting heavy bags of wool for sale to their 'rich' southern neighbour. At well over 10,000 feet above sea level this was the highest altitude that Karen and I had ever been exposed to and it was beginning to show. We were encountering nausea, dizziness and the breathlessness with the slightest of exertions. And they call this area the lowlands!

The next chapter of our adventure was about the begin. Bring it on!!

Hubble, Bubble...

Day 37-40: Buenos Aires, Argentina. “What's new Buenos Aires? I'm new, I wanna say I'm just a little stuck on you. You'll be on me too” Lyrics by Tim Rice, music by Andrew Lloyd Webber, vocals by Madonna.

I must admit, I'm not really a city person. Give me a choice between a weekend in Manchester and a weekend camping in the Lake District and I'll normally have the fold-away stove and my walking boots in the back of the car before you can say 'Helvellyn'. And so, as we boarded the Airbus 320 to fly us the three hours or so from the beauty of Southern Patagonia, to the smog and pollution of Buenos Aires you'd have thought that I'd have been a little disappointed. In fact you'd be wrong: So much had people raved about the wonders of Argentina's capital that I was actually very intrigued and very excited. For BA is one of South America’s most electrifying cities; graced with European architecture, atmospheric neighbourhoods, and bustling night-life. It has the charm of an unshaved Casanova, the mind of a frenzied lunatic and the attitude of a celebrity super-model. She is a boiling, bubbling cauldron in every sense of the word, but after four full-on days, Karen and I just couldn't help falling in love with her - warts and all.

Into the Cauldron: The Metropolis. Arriving in from the cold and the wind of the South West, BA's 30 degree temperatures, 80% humidity, skin frying sunshine and lung choking pollution came as a bit of a shock, but nothing was going to stop Karen and me doing Buenos Aires from top to bottom. From the fabulous art-deco buildings of the Microcentro, to the tango bars and antique markets of San Telmo, to the trendy wine-bars and restaurants of Palermo Viejo we did the lot: Everywhere we went - the two sides to BA: The cutting-edge designer boutiques, the ritzy neighbourhoods and the grand parks set against the unkempt streets full of spewing buses, the crumbling buildings, the piles of dog mess and the ubiquitous graphitti. But for us, it was precisely these rough edges that gave Buenos Aires its appeal – elegantly seductive but decidedly ragged. Strangely familiar but unlike any other city in the world.

Quirkiness fills BA's restaurants with great food somewhat and amusingly tempered by a decidedly macho theme. If you want a pizza here you'll be offered a choice of grande (large) or chicas (for girls!) and if you happen to order a meat pizza you'll get exactly that: Tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, olives, peppers and onions... all topped out on a 15oz prime beef steak with not a bread base in sight! Mind you, you should try it – it's delicious!

...And then there's the infuriating money thing! So tightly does the government control it's money supply in a flagging attempt to control Argentina's run away inflation that the city ran out of coins years ago. That's all well and good but the cities buses only accept small change so you have the crazy situation where locals and foreigners alike can't actually use city's (otherwise excellent) public transport system. This in turn has fuelled an industrious black market economy whereby change sells on the street corners and in the local bars for a highly inflated price. Arriving in BA you'll see beggars with cups full of coins, which I naively thought they were collecting for a meal or something. But once you've been around for a while you realise that they are actually selling the contents of their mugs to the highest bidder!!!

Like most South American cities crime is rife here, as we were to discover only too quickly! Within two hours of arriving at the city we had been robbed and to the day that I die I will never understand how these light fingered thieves could have possibly dispossessed us in an empty café with our belongings in full sight of us at all times.

Into the Cauldron: The Dance. “Y uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis”, that's all Miriam our incredibly patient teacher told us we needed to know in our afternoon tango classes. All very well and good for her to say but try as I may I just couldn't remember whether I was supposed to go forwards or backwards on tres and cuatro and whether I should use my left or my right foot on cinco! And even when we did manage to get the sequence right, the finale still let us down. Karen could just about manage to get her leg around my waist but then when we had to pull our 'tango faces' we just ended up in a hopeless heap on the floor in fits of laughter!

Thoroughly exhausted, we made way for the professionals at Complejo Tango, one of BA's leading tango clubs. In this colonial 19^th century building the size of Steeple Morden village hall we were treated to an outstanding exhibition of the cauldron boiling passion and sexy athleticism of these elite dancers in a powerful production worthy of a any west end show as they enacted the history of the dance from its working class origins in the brothels of early 19^th Century Buenos Aires to its current 21^st renaissance.

Into the Cauldron: The Game. As a Watford and England fan for many years, I have managed to visit some pretty impressive grounds to watch some pretty intense games of football (and before anybody says anything, yes as a Watford and England fan I have also been to some pretty diabolical grounds to watch some some appalling games of football)!!

But, without doubt, securing a pair of tickets to see the top of the table clash between River Plate, Buenos Aires' most famous team and their rivals Independiente Rivadavia from Mendoza at the Estadio Monumental Antonio Vespucio Liberti stadium will be one of the highlights of my South American travelling experience. A capacity crowd of 75,000 electrified the World Cup final venue. As I marvelled at Mario Kempes' brace of goals back in July '78, never in my wildest dreams did I expect to sit in the alta tier of the Belgrano stand of the very same stadium watching the very club that he served so well all those years ago in front of the most passionate and fanatical fans in the world.

An intense, intimidating and deafening atmosphere from start to finish, this particular cauldron made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and from now on, it will make an English premiership games feel like a high school netball game by comparison.

In the end though a comfortable 3-0 win to the home side meant that every one went home happy (except the Mendoza fans who thought it would be funny to set fire to the stadium – a plan which to me seemed fundamentally flawed as they set fire to the part of the stand that they were currently occupying!!)

And not only was it a great game of football but as part of the experience, we also managed to expand our Spanish vocabulary at the same time! A innocuous yellow card for the River Plate captain caused all sorts of commotion from the home faithful giving me the opportunity to learn to Spanish phrase for “You're a very bad referee”. And after the Independiente forward ballooned the ball in to the top tier of the stadium from all of 10 yards I am pretty sure I now know the Spanish equivalent of “What on earth was that!”

From start to finish Buenos Aires provided us both with a roller coaster, topsy turvy, helter skelter of a ride and, like everybody said, we fell head over heels in love with her. I'm sure we weren’t the first and I'm absolutely positive we won't be the last.

Iceberg

Day 34-36: El Calafate, Argentina. “That one. Over there”, Karen pointed excitedly. “You see to the left of that crooked bit, just above that huge crack. I bet you 5 pesos that bit falls in the next 30 minutes!”.

As a traveller, you find yourself betting on anything as a way to pass the time: The price of the next beer, the amount of time you'll spend at the next border crossing, the number of simultaneous football matches that will be playing in the next bar you pass; you get the kind of thing. But trying to guess which bit of the Perito Moreno glacier would spectacularly dislodge itself from this immense ice sheet and plunge headlong into the depths of Lago Argentino we were backing a loser. For the extent of this ice sheet was just far too great and the activity far too violent for us to have any chance on this random bet with mother nature. But so memorised were we by this incredible sight, that even knowing the odds were stacked against us, we spent the next 5 hours just watching and waiting...

Torres Del Paine National Park runs north easterly towards the border and practically merges with Parque Nacional Los Glaciares – Argentina's jewel of Southern Patagonia and so, keen to see what all the fuss was about, we traced the route of the parks eastern boundary via RN40 to the charming little town of El Calafate. Set on the shores Argentina's largest lake - the emerald, 600 square mile Lago Argentino (which by the way is such a dazzling colour, that even when you see it it real life you think it's been photo-shopped!), this quaint little town with its wooden style alpine dwellings made a relaxing place to stay for a couple of days. And it seemed the whole town had laid on a special welcoming party especially for us: Flags flying, the band playing, even the President of Argentina herself had turned out in the late summer sunshine! (although to be fair, these celebrations may have been planned before El Calafate knew that Karen and I were coming to stay!). Nice touch though. Thank you, Argentina!

But just as Puerto Natales is there to serve Torres Del Paine, El Calafate provides base-camp for Parque Nacional Los Glaciares and that's why we were here. The centrepiece of the southern section of this vast park is Glacier Moreno, 20 miles long and 3 miles wide, this is one of the world's few remaining advancing glaciers. And in the world of advancing glaciars, this one's the Usain Bolt - creeping forward at the rate of up to 6 feet per day, until it meets the lake where, with deafening cracks like the firing of a canon, building size ice-bergs calve from its 200 feet face into to the Canal de los Témpanos (ice-berg channel) below. And in the afternoon sunshine this wasn't a rare occurrence. Every fifteen minutes or so - another crack, another splosh and another tidal wave radiating across the lake indicated that another piece of this wall of ice had now become a part of Lago Argentino. A thrilling and captivating experience that hypnotises you for hour upon hour.

As the Patagonian sun began to set low behind the Fitzroy mountain rage we trudged our way back towards El Calafate with the occasional glance over our shoulders just to get one more look at this incredible sight. “Let's come back tomorrow”, Karen suggested. “I just know that piece is going to fall tomorrow!”.