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!”.

That Condor Moment

Day 30-33: Parque Nacional Torres Del Paine, Chile. Nothing really prepares you for this. OK, so they tell you that this is the best National Park in South America. Some even say it's the best National Park in the world. But still, nothing really prepares you for this place

As the park's closest town, Puerto Natales exists to service Chiles' most famous natural attraction, 70 miles to the North West. A pleasant enough place with its colourful corrugated tin roofed buildings and granny-style lodgings, this former fishing port is now a Gore-Tex mecca: Whatever you've forgotten to bring for the park you can but it here; from a Swiss army knife to the latest in Antarctic survival tents - they've got the lot. Come to think of it, an Antarctic survival tent is not a bad thing to have in Puerto Natales either – with its bone chilling winds, never again will I complain about the bleakness of British sea-side resorts in winter. Believe me, a summer day in Puerto Natales makes Scarborough in January seem almost tropical by comparison!. Like most of the people in Natales, we were there to stock up on provisions before catching the early morning service bus to transport us the couple of hours across the Andean desert to reach the 1,000 square mile wilderness.

Words can not accurately describe the full rugged beauty of this place which gives you the feeling that that you've just ended up in a scene from Jurassic Park (without the T-Rex of course!). Almost without warning, the Patagonian Steppe gives way to the Andes which soar almost vertically 6,000 feet above you with the granite pillars of Torres Del Paine dominating the landscape. Llama, rhea, flamingo and the magnificent Andean condor with it's 10 foot wingspan patrol the wilderness. Azure lakes, trails that meander through emerald forests, roaring rivers that can be crossed on rickety bridges and radiant blue glaciars complete the picture.

Taking the 9 hour hike to 3,000 ft base of the towers it made me think that God Himself had personally designed this place so that generations of Adam's children could wonder at the diversity of His creation: “I know”, says God, “I'll build three enormous pillars, I'll make them all different sizes to keep things interesting. I'll put a jade green lake in front of them so that people can rest here whilst eating sandwiches and into the lake I'll cascade a multitude of glacial waterfalls because that'll look great on the photos. I'll make a beautiful trek up through the forest from the desert below – that way everybody will stay fit and healthy and I'll put a few animals here and there. Llamas. Everybody loves llamas!”.

But the Lake District this is not. This is a wild, harsh and remote environment, something that became very apparent to Karen and I after we had decided to spend our time in the park camping. Night-time temperatures dip to well below freezing, snow falls in the middle of summer and 80 mph winds howl across the desert plateau. (On one particular hike coming back from Laguna Amarga, there were times that despite all our efforts, we were physically unable to make any headway against the phenomenal strength of the wind whilst, to make matters worse, from time-to-time roaming whirlwinds would pelt us with dust and grit from the desert floor stinging our eyes and cutting our frozen faces). With our little two man tent tied to the nearest tree to prevent it flying off to Argentina, at night we huddled together in our sleeping bags. By wearing our thermal underwear, thick socks, trousers, top, fleece and woolly hat to bed and by drinking half a bottle of £2 Chilean brandy, we were just about able to nullify the effects of the night-time cold. Now I know why they call this land Chile(y)!

And even as the sun rose we still needed to keep our wits about us. For apart from the cute critters that live in the park, this is also the home to the deadly black widow spider and so a morning ritual of shaking our clothes and checking the inside of our boots became part of our daily routine.

Despite the environment though, the park infrastructure is second to none with eco-friendly refugios catering for the hard core that make it this far. Powered by solar and wind (the very elements that make this park so hostile) and with glacial melt-water pouring from the taps these low level log buildings made a great place to escape the harshness of the conditions. And I'm still not sure whether they cooked the best food that we had ever tasted or whether after our daily exertion we would have eaten our own hiking socks with a bit of bread and butter but either way, we never left a morsel.

After four days fully clothed in the tent though, and after 40 miles of some of the most strenuous hiking we had ever undertaken, by the end of our stay neither Karen nor I nor our little two man tent was smelling that good. It a good job we're good friends!

Long Way Round

Day 28-29: Puerto Natales, Chile. “Have we got any of that fire-water left that we bought back in Brazil”, I asked Karen as I rummaged around in her rucksack for the small bottle of throat burning sugar cane spirit that we purchased in Paraty. Unpleasant as it may have been, after the journey we had just been through I just needed a drink. Any drink!

Argentina and Chile share (often reluctantly) the island of Tierra del Fuego and so our journey north westerly from Ushuaia in Argentina to Puerto Natales in Chile looked fairly straightforward. The inch or so on the map represented a mere two hundred and fifty miles which felt like a relatively short 'hop'. But that was before we added the 'Fuegan Factor'

Such is the remoteness of this entrancing island that doing anything comes with it challenges. With huge mountains, vast lakes and very little in the way of transport infrastructure, our short little 'hop' turned into an epic 15 hour bus and boat ride through some of the most stunning scenery imaginable: Peat bogs and moss-draped lenga forests rising into ragged snowy mountains, eventually giving way to the barren northern plains where gale force winds howled across the desolate Patagonian Steppes home only to a handful of extremely hardy llama, the odd sheep with the occasional rhea or flamingo for company.

And the border crossing to Chile must go down as one of the most memorable we have ever encountered. Dropped off in the most desolate of locations 30 miles west of San Sebastián, the combined Argentinian and Chilean authorities took a good four hours to process our paperwork and finally let us continue our journey. During most of this time we stood shivering in the freezing southern winds, half blinded by the dust storms blowing off the arid southern deserts in an environment that reminded me so much of our travelling through central Mongolia three years previously.

But as we've come to learn from our previous travelling experiences, life always finds a fair balance. There is always the Yin and the Yang. For each Chilean border guard that I wanted to do horrible things to, there would always be a magical place to us to visit; for every pain in my back from that awful road to Puerto Arenas, there would always be an unforgettable memory for us to share; for every chill in my body from that incessant southern wind there would always be a new life experience.

And so it was today. For RN3 which winds it's way northwards from Ushuaia is also the road that led us to the historical Estancia Harberton from where we were able to secure a a boat to the tiny Isla Matillo, home to a rookery of over 15,000 Magellan and Gentoo penguins. This private island controlled by a local body of conservationists strictly limits the number of human visitors to just a handful every day and so for Karen and I to have the opportunity to have the island practically to ourselves and to walk amongst these beautiful birds in their own natural habitat was one of the absolute highlights of our trip so far.

You know - all of a sudden I feel warm and content, my back no longer hurts and I want to throw a great big party for all those border control guards out there. Yin and Yang in perfect harmony!

The End of the World...

Day 24-27: Ushuaia, Argentina. Karen shouted something to me, but against the howling wind, I couldn't really make out her words. Our faces were stinging from the driving sleet and snow, our bodies numb from the cold and our muscles tired from the 3,000ft climb – but it didn't matter in the slightest. We were standing on the top of the highest mountain range in Tierra del Fuego on the edge of the Martial Glacier looking down on the quaint little port of Ushuaia, the Beagle Channel, the tiny Isla Navarino and the dark, foreboding Southern Ocean. We were at the very edge of the South American continent at the most southerly town on the planet - a mere 600 miles from the Antarctica. There was nowhere else to go. We were literally at el Fin del Mundo – The End of the World.

We had made good progress during the first three weeks of our adventure, having travelled almost two and a half thousand miles across Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay. That said, we were still less than halfway to the southernmost point on our trip and with the onset of the southern hemisphere winter just around the corner, we knew we had to get a move on if we we were to reach The Island of Fire before she was yet again encased in her frozen mantle of ice and snow.

As the eighth largest country in the world Argentina truly is a giant - stretching almost from the Tropic of Capricorn in the north to within 10 degrees of the Antarctic Circle in the south; a fact that suddenly became very apparent to us as we disembarked our flight at Malvinas Argentinas International Airport.

Making the hour long ferry trip across the River Plate to Argentina's capital, we boarded a southbound plane in Buenos Aires in 30 degrees of sunshine. By the time we had completed the three and a half hour flight we were plunged into the middle of a Fuegan summer where the hottest days struggle to make 10 degrees and midsummer snow storms driven straight from the Antarctic continent are the rule rather than the exception.

Despite the cold and the remoteness though, Ushuaia is a busy little port. Originally developed as a penal colony in the late 19^th Century, the town has gone from strength to strength during the last 120 years; fuelled by a massive explosion in tourism. For this part of Patagonia attracts just about every kind of tourist you can possibly imagine: The wealthy on their cruise ships, ecologists and environmentalists bound for the Antarctic continent, the Gortex brigade looking to experience some of the best hiking in the world, real ale buffs wanting to drink the local tipple in the world's most southerly pub, petrol heads ending (or beginning) their mammoth 12,000 mile journey from Alaska on the Pan-American highway, independent travellers, wildlife enthusiasts, the ski set, mountaineers, extreme sport thrill seekers... the list goes on and on.

And for Karen and me, this was bliss. For the last three weeks, we had lugged thermal underwear, fleeces, boots and waterproof clothing across the tropics but now, dressed in our winter wardrobe to protect ourselves from the biting southern winds, we spent our time trekking the beautiful Parque Nacional Tierra del Feugo with its pristine lakes, forests and snow-capped mountains.

Our trip to the Argentina's southern most extremity, also gave us the opportunity to realise that that thing over the Falkland Islands back in '82 hasn't been a case of 'forgive and forget'. Back in the north, we had an inkling of this, when at the end of January the UK decided to send Prince William to the serve in the South Atlantic. Hardly reported by the UK media, this story has been front page news in Argentina for over a week now with TV news constantly showing archive images of the 'British aggressor' firing in anger against the Argentinian navy and downing their Super Etendard jet fighters. But in Ushuaia, it got a little bit more personal: Argentina's half of Tierra el Fuego is officially part of Las Islas Malvinas, the islands that Argentina claim the Falklands belong to. And if you look at any government maps down here you will see that the Falklands and South Georgia are both designated as Argentinian territory. In the main port a huge official sign in two foot high letters showed a picture of a crossed out Union Flag declaring “No Berthing Here for British Pirate Ships”. Another massive sign on a plate glass window of a municipal building in the centre of town showed the islands cut out against the background of the Argentinian flag with the words “Go Home – They're Argentina's”.

“Perhaps you should cover your rucksack”, Karen suggested. I looked at the huge union jack emblazoned all across the back of my pack and nodded quickly in agreement.

A Bit of Bully

Day 20-23: Western Uruguay, Uruguay. “It's the spinal column”, I said confidently as I pushed the gristly piece of meat around my plate with a fork. “Perhaps it's the umbilical cord”, Karen suggested in response”. “Or maybe the small intestine?”. We continued the debate well into the long summer evening. Dinner and a bovine biology quiz – now that's what I call a good night out!

Our travels through the Corrientes Province of North East Argentina had taken us close to the Uruguayan border. The overnight bus down to Concordia and then the little hop across to Salto meant that we could spend a few of days exploring one of South America's smallest countries before continuing our southbound quest through Argentina.

Heading down from Salto to the River Plate, the environment seemed a little greener, a touch cooler and a little less harsh than our experiences of Uruguay’s gigantic neighbour. But never-the-less, just as in Argentina, the land here is used predominately for the rearing of cattle. And just in case for some bizarre reason you were still left wondering what drives the local economy, the fact that our travels took us through the town called Fray Bentos would tell you without doubt that we were in the heart of prime beef country.

Meandering along the Rio de la Plata, taking in the laid back capital of Montevideo and the delightfully enchanting fishing port of Colonia Del Sacramento with their colonial buildings and European architecture, I had to keep reminding myself that we were in South America and not in Seville – the only give-away; the fact that it wasn't La Liga but the Uruguayan Primera División that blared from every TV of every shop, bar or café that we went into. And it was this knowledge of the Uruguayan's obsessive passion for football that allowed us to win over their hearts. Throw away your copy of Carnegie's How to Win Friends and Influence People, if you want to be top-dog in Montevideo just utter those three little words: Liverpool, Diego & Forlán and you will be best buddies with complete strangers in a matter of minutes.

And it was just one of those “friendships” that had brought us here, to the El Pelegrino Restaurant in the fabulous Mercado del Puerto close to the docks in Montevideo city. With Uruguay’s thriving beef industry you'd expect them to produce some great steaks but the locals told us the best way to appreciate the true quality of their nations beef was to try a Parrilla. If you'd like to try one at home, the recipe's quite straightforward:

1. Take one cow and cut into small pieces.
2. Cook the bits over a slow burning wood stove for a couple of hours.
3. Season and garnish with half a chicken.
4. Serve in an enormous bucket.

And that's it. You get the cow, the whole cow and nothing but the cow (except the chicken garnish of course!). Along with the most divine steak and ribs, the bucket contains blood sausage, kidneys, heart, ear, throat, stomach, intestines and countless other things that we just couldn't even recognise.

And did we enjoy our Parrilla I hear you say? Well, let's just say it was a excellent meal experience and leave it at that shall we!