March 25, 2008 by Naomi.

Our journey over the border did not get off to a good start as the absent-minded girl who filled out our bus tickets put the departure time as 8:30am. The bus left at 8, so we missed it. And had a good five hours to kill in El Chaltén before the next one set off. We finally crossed the Chilean border at around 7pm; of course, we had to stop for bureaucratic rigmarole not once but twice (once to leave Argentina, and then to enter Chile) and had our bags searched for fruit and veg.

Puerto Natales is not a picturesque town. After getting used to sturdy Argentinian wooden, alpine-like structures, Chilean houses look as if a few planks of wood have been haphazardly thrown together. Our hostel was no exception. Cleanliness standards weren’t too high either, confirmed by the smell of pee in the bathroom (all too common!) and the numerous infuriatingly-itchy spider bites we found ourselves covered with on leaving the establishment. However, the place was warm, so was the toast and the owner was very friendly which made things somewhat more pleasant.

The reason we’d come to this less than inspiring place was to see the Torres del Paine National Park, one of Patagonian Chile’s major tourist destinations. However, the park is not very accessible, being 120km away from town, mostly on ‘ripio’ (dirt road). Staying in the park is hideously expensive ($50 for a dorm bed!), the only alternative being camping (which also meant carrying your equipment with you). So we rented a car for a day. It wasn’t particularly cheap, but it worked out only slightly more expensive than doing a day tour in a bus with a load of other people (and a lot cheaper than staying in park), and gave us the opportunity to do our own exploring. We set off happily, in our dust-covered car, on the paved section of the road. Then we hit the ‘ripio’, and the inevitable washboard (how does this ghastly profile form on the road?) and our brains rattled around inside our skulls for the rest of the day. Of course, it wasn’t a 4×4 so tricky sections slowed us down considerably but it was a small price to pay for the couple of lovely hikes we did (one of them a particularly windy affair), and of course we got some excellent shots of the torres (towers, not towels as one tourist leaflet described them!!) and the cuernos (horns) in all their glory on this partly cloudy day. On our way back to Puerto Natales, covered head to toe in road dust, we went to the Cueva del Milodon (sloth’s cave) where we got to see a lifesize model of a sloth (an extinct vegetarian mammal that lived around these parts), and get an idea of how some of our predecessors lived.

After our easy, car-based tour of Torres del Paine, the next day, under a grey sky, we returned for some more active sightseeing and a walk up to the base of the eponymous towers. Having tied ourselves to the bus schedules which gave us a scant eight hours from drop off to pick up, and our map telling us the walk was four hours each way, speed was of the essence. After almost running through the first steep section of the hike (and panting and sweating heavily as a result), we realised we were already an hour ahead of schedule and wouldn’t need to rush quite as much as expected to get back in time. After a wind blown sandwich at the glacial lake below the Torres with far too many other people (and smokers polluting the air!) we were back down with hours to spare and while away in the Hosteria de las Torres bar with beer and tea as the rain fell ever more heavily outside (and feeling very content that we were not among the happy campers up in the mountains). As you will see from photos, snapshots are actually better of these imposing mountains from our roadtrip around the edge of the park than they are from right in the middle. The day finished with an excellent and well-deserved meal in Afrigonia, our favourite restaurant in all of Patagonia, so far.

Recommended after this visit:
Afrigonia - food so good we went there twice!
El Living - tourist/backpacker-oriented chilled coffee shop, but don’t expect any smiles from British owners

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March 16, 2008 by Naomi.

When we arrived down south, we were expecting some kind of Patagonian paradise; what we got was El Calafate. Little more than a street eight years ago, the devaluation of the Argentine peso in 2001 led to an influx of tourists coming to gawp at the nearby Glaciar Perito Moreno (you’ve probably seen a photo of it somewhere). Now El Calafate is a sizeable town jam-packed with tourists and the inevitable over-priced everything. Things are made somewhat more difficult by the fact that no one takes credit cards and Argentine banks will not let Visa users take more than 50GPB out at a time (making withdrawing money very expensive), but seeing the creaking, groaning, moaning glacier and a bikeride around Lago Argentino made it all worth it in the end.

Our visit to Glaciar Perito Moreno was marked by crappy weather. We flocked onto a boat with lots of other tourists and were quite surprised it didn’t capsize as all the people crowded to the same side to take a ridiculous quantity of photos of the ice. At the various viewpoints back on land, we saw the glacier from directly opposite where there had been a bridge of ice. The glacier is most famous for the bridge it often forms, from its outmost point on Lago Argentino, to the land opposite. The bridge follows a cycle along with the ever-moving glacier. As with all glaciers, the ice and silt build up, and it gradually moves across the lake, and unlike others, it meets the land on the other side, a bridge is formed with the water rushing underneath, and then as the glacier makes its gradual progress forward, the weight of the ice and rock and silt becomes too much for the bridge to bear, the bridge explodes and all the ice falls into water in a dramatic scene. To see this great spectacle, one has to time their visit with great expertise, or visit the local museum in El Calafate and watch it on DVD (as we did the following day). Because it was pissing with rain, most tourists took refuge in the over-crowded visitors’ centre while the few who braved the weather got to watch and listen to the glacier moaning, creaking and cracking with the pressure of its own weight, and even witnessed some minor examples of calving.

The contrasting scenery we saw from the bus made us regret not being on our bikes (we jealously eyed a rather weathered pair of road warriors on their bikes down at the glacier). However, it would have taken at least a day to cycle from Calafate to the glacier, and let’s face it, with all that wind and rain, buses are a pretty cosy option, despite the pet peeves that one develops when having to share limited space with others.

The weather was more favourable the following day, when we managed to rent a couple of bikes to soak up the Patagonian vibe of wind, sky, sun and prairie and cycled a good 30km around the Lago Argentino with only a mild wind hindering/pushing us along the way.

Two days was plenty of time for El Calafate, after which we moved onto the far superior El Chaltén. The town has only existed since 1985 and the best part of the journey to this town is on unpaved roads. The area was the subject of a border dispute between Argentina and Chile, but the former cunningly went in and founded the town, which itself is not a particularly attractive place, being made up of metal-roofed houses and various boxy little places to serve all the tourists that come to town. So, what is the attraction of this pokey little place?

As we approached the town, we were extremely lucky to have clear weather and were able to see the mighty peaks of Cerro Torre and Cerro Fitzroy and their neighbouring companions piercing the sky above the valley in which the village lay. All visitors have to stop at the park visitors’ centre, where they are told not to litter the park with toilet paper, sanitary towels (occasionally ignored), plastic bags and especially not to start any fires with their cigarette butts. Indeed it is illegal for supermarkets in El Chaltén and El Calafate to give out plastic bags, a very wise decision indeed, although it does rather make it difficult to take your litter out of the park with you.

As to be expected in areas like this, the weather changed dramatically and by nightful the driving rain and wind was blasting against our window. We woke up with the idea that we wouldn’t be going anywhere, but as things calmed down a bit we decided to head off and see how far we could get without getting too battered by the elements. The weather was changeable, which meant we got to see a few rainbows through the drizzle and sun. We climbed up to the first Mirador de los Torres, the view of Cerro Torre was marred by cloud, although the glacier wasn’t. Further up the trail at the highest point, we were disappointed to see the clouds still hiding Cerro Torre even though we were right up next to it! Several times, we bumped into and chatted to Tosh from Barra (Outer Hebrides) who walked with super-human speed; we were shocked to see him literally running down the mountain on the way back (at which point the weather was well and truly miserable), just because he’d got bored of walking. Despite the disappointing weather, we still managed to hike a good seven hours through the wilderness, which was a delight in itself (despite crippled feet), and find ourselves a drinking partner for the night. It turned out that it was Tosh’s birthday, and being 29th February meant that it was actually only his 9th birthday despite being born in 1972; a very merry night in the local microbrewery was in order to help him celebrate this most important day, along with Tory, Suzi and Elaine.

As a result, we were not going to get very far the next day. A humble walk against the mighty Patagonian wind took us up to a Chorrio de Salto waterfall 3kms up the road, which just about cured us of our hangovers. All a big pity as the weather was clearing and you could see the mountain peaks from the town. Red sky at night shepherd’s delight: the red sky in the evening was indeed a very good omen for the following day. We booked a stupidly over-priced lift in a minibus up the road to Hosteria Pilar to do the Fitzroy trail from the other end of the valley (instead of just going up and back again). Thus we were treated to some excellent views of the mighty Fitzroy peak from various different points, not to mention some of its hanging glaciers. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and after a good four hours, the last of which required quite a scramble up a steep zig-zagging rocky path, brought us to the lake at the foot of this triangular peak, where we thoroughly enjoyed our well-deserved lunch. While scrambling our way down we were treated to some excellent views of most of the valley, especially of Laguna Madre and Laguna Hija (Mother and Daughter Lakes). We could have walked straight back to town in a couple of hours, but foolishly decided that the four-hour detour via aforesaid picturesque lakes, and Laguna Nieta (Grandaughter Lake), to two miradores of the Cerro Torre (the peak hidden behind clouds two days earlier) would be worth the extra effort. However, after another hour of walking poor feet had to be plunged into refreshing Laguna Hija to help calm the pain. And we finally got to lay our eyes on Cerro Torre and its surrounding peaks in a perfectly clear afternoon sky which we’d missed on our earlier walk.

Our feet wouldn’t let us get up to much the following day but no matter, seeing these fantastic peaks was the best highlight of our trip so far.

Recommended after this trip:
El Calafate:
Visit to Perito Moreno Glacier, obviously
Pura Vida Restaurant - when you get fed up with the usual meat and potatos/pizza/pasta options, this place offers a refreshing bowl of lentils and other more veggie options to make a change
Hotel Los Lagos (no toast,only bread for brekkie, though)
DO NOT DRINK El Calafate tap water, even after sterilising it

El Chaltén:
Lago Torre Trail and Fitzroy Trail
Microbewery - only has two ‘artesanal’ beers on offer but usual bottled stuff is cheaper and anything is nice to drink in cheery, cosy atmosphere, not to mention being the only aesthetically pleasing building in town.
Posada Inlandsis - first hot toast since home!, and comfortable ‘low-cost’ rooms with bunkie type beds
Del Bosque cafe - fab empanadas (pasties) and salads
Empanadas also delicious (but smaller) in the last Panaderia/bakery in town before heading off on Fitzroy trail

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March 5, 2008 by Naomi.

After sadly leaving our beloved Palermo, an hour’s train journey took us north to Tigre from where we caught a lancha (boat) into the Paraná Delta, arguably Argentina’s answer to the Heart of Darkness. It is home to a number of islands separated by various branches and tributaries of the Río de la Palma. As you leave Tigre, you feel like you’re entering a wilderness of muddy water and wild jungle. However, the further you go, the more civilised things get and you realise the tributaries function like suburban streets; the river banks are lined with perfectly kempt gardens and lawns, and quaint little houses, each with its own ‘muelle’ (jetty). We visited this area during the week, as over the weekend the wealthier Porteños (those from Buenos Aires) flock to their weekend getaways and things get quite crowded.

We spent a very relaxing night at the Bosque de Bohémia, a sweet little hotel with a pool, and various walks into the wilderness. Paul, who usually doesn’t attract mosquitos, developed quite a fanclub on our little walk and got a few (surprisingly unitchy bites), unlike a rather smug Naomi, who was covered head to toe in hardcore DEET insect repellent and managed only one mosquito bite the whole trip. One night was quite enough in this ‘wilderness’, and the next day a rather longer boat trip, round the back streets of the delta, dropped us off at Tigre where we bought tickets for a trip to Isla Martin García the following day. After wandering along the waterfront and checking out the excellent art museum at the old Hotel/Casino Tigre (see photos), we both simultaneously realised that something we had eaten, somewhere along the line, was going to restrict our travels. Our bellies clearly did not want us to go anywhere far from a toilet, so the next morning we missed our trip to the island and laid low in our B&B, whose hosts were very friendly, hospitable and sympathetic. Although it was also here that we were introduced to the puzzling Argentine fondness for cold, hard toast.

We were not too sad to leave Tigre, having not accomplised much in the place. Once we got back to BA, we made our way to the port to catch our boat to Colonia de Sacramento in Uruguay, a UNESCO world heritage site just opposite Buenos Aires on the Río de la Plata. There we spent two days sight-seeing around the picturesque town, admiring the little museums and the lighthouse, watching lots of Uruguayans drink mate (ubiquitous tea in Argentina and Uruguay), and chatting to Elaine and Eric, a lovely fellow Scottish couple we met in our B&B (where we discovered that the rock hard cold toast was not necessarily an Argentinian predilection).

Another bewilderment was the shelf mounted a few inches above the bed, where our heads were supposed to be. The room had originally been designed for twin beds and the shelf served as a bedside table. With a double bed it served as little more than an obstacle threatening to bash your head in or knock an eye out sometime in the middle of the night. After a little bit of interior rearranging though we managed to sort out the health and safety issues and rested in peace.

After our relaxing weekend with the Uruguayans, and still not having tried maté, it was time to head back to Buenos Aires for a brief 12 hour overnight stay before heading South to the wilds of Patagonia.

Recommended after this visit:
Bosque de Bohemia - Paraná Delta
Casa Rosada B&B - (although not the cleanest of establishments)
El Drugstore (restaurant) - Colonia de Sacramento
La Pulpería - Colonia de Sacramento

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February 24, 2008 by Naomi.

The sweltering humid heat that welcomed us off the plane was big shock after the bitter cold of NY. A taxi whipped us off to Palermo - a better neighbourhood could not be adopted for a week in BA. It’s tree-lined streets feature an eclectic mix of fancy boutiques and shops, bars and restaurants, on every corner and street, and our flat was situated right in the middle of it all.

Our excellent choice of location meant there were an excess of temptations right on our doorstep. Indeed on Valentine’s Day, a bottle of Argentinian cava in our flat was followed by a delicious, succulent beefy meal and another bottle of fabulous Argentinian wine (Malbec Altas las Hormigas) at Bar Uriarte across the road, after which we thought a brandy on the opposite corner would be an excellent way to finish off the night. However, the generous Argentine measures finished us off a bit more than we anticipated and killed any plans for the following day. Other delights experienced in our newly-beloved Palermo were a GBP3/US$6 legwax (less than 10% of what it costs back in UK), albeit being one of the most painful ever encountered. Less fortunate was the GBP10/US$20 haircut (a complete rip off by local standards), the results of which were quite distressing on peering in the mirror first thing in the morning (a messy mop of long and short hair in a kind of triangular shape). A few random hacks with a pair of nail scissors made the hairstyle somewhat more manageable although aesthetically not much more pleasing.

We were very pleased not to be staying in the centre of BA, which was heavily polluted, noisy and extremely chaotic, and therefore extremely hot. This part of town we saved for the weekend, and especially enjoyed exploring San Telmo, the most historic part, full of quirky antique shops, an even more bohemian market on Sunday, and French and Italian architecture (apparently due to post-colonial resentment of the Spanish). In this barrio we managed to rent a couple of bikes to get a proper tour of the city and its parks. From our bikes, we got our first glimpse of the Rio de la Plata - its very muddy brown hue renders its name ‘Silver River’ a whopping misnomer, and there was no temptation for a paddle, despite the repressing heat of the sun. Various monuments to those who gave their lives to Las Malvinas/the Falklands Islands were encountered. Especially grand was the cenotaph in Plaza San Martin, with two traditionally-attired and disciplined guards watching over it (who must have been suffering unbearably in the blazing sun). From various snippets of radio and newspaper, we get the impression that Margaret Thatcher is not the most popular character around these parts. Needless to say, look at any map of Argentina and you’ll see that Las Malvinas are present, and marked as part of Argentina.

Having spotted a poster advertising a free concert in Parque Lezana headlined by a band called Las Bicicletas, we decided that would be Saturday night’s entertainment. After a couple of refreshing beers, we turned up with the local kids to catch some of the local indie vibe. We weren’t overly impressed with the first support band, ‘No lo soporto’, an all female spikey art-rock combo, and skipped the second one to get more liquid refreshments, but Las Bicicletas were more than worth the admission price with their catchy tunes and dancy beats.

Possibly one of the more harrowing aspects of the city was travelling on the subte (metro/underground/subway). The hot, sweaty, claustrophobic journeys are almost continuously punctuated by pedlars and beggars. If you weren’t having trinkets dropped in your lap, you were listening to various monologues imploring people for money. Sadly these included a heavily scarred woman trying to collect enough money for operations to rectify her badly burnt face and body, and others who were severely handicapped.

When strolling around this great city, it’s imperative to be on the look out as Buenos Aires is matched only by Seville in the quantity of dog poo to be found lining the streets. Indeed, it was disappointing to find that public toilets are sometimes treated with a similar level of respect, two unfortunate habits the Argentines have not yet managed to wipe out in their efforts to distance themselves from their colonial ancestors.

Despite the drawbacks, however, we enjoyed a very thrilling week in this most vibrant of cities, and are thoroughly looking forward to coming back in May.

Recommended after this visit:
Bici Naranja for rental bikes (San Telmo)
Bouchon - good value French restaurant for lunch (Microcentro)
Bar Uriarte (Argentinian - Palermo)
Bar Vain - funky bar (Palermo)
Antares - Brewery (Palermo)
Berberer - Moroccan restaurant (Palermo)
La Cabrera (never actually got there but meat and accompanying sauces look good and is apparently most popular restaurant in BA at the moment) and our first stop when we go back
Most Cinemas, which show all but kids’ films in versión original with subtitles

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February 21, 2008 by Naomi.

Travelling to an airport without bicycles is highly recommended. With great ease we checked ourselves and very simple rucksacks in and flew back over the Atlantic for a long weekend in the Big Apple before heading south to continue with our travels. Once again, we were smote with the charm of those US immigration officers who, this time, sent us off to the ’secondary examination area’, where Naomi (but not Paul) timidly and tiredly answered the various questions barked at her. Clearly we were entering the States far too frequently for their liking (despite having a 10-year US visa firmly glued into our passports). It seems a month is insufficient time for the last of our paperwork (on departure from Phoenix) to be cleared and entered onto the computer system.

We were welcomed by Melinda, a friend of Paul’s from his early days in Seville, and Paulo, in their compact but bijou apartment in Brooklyn. For the next four days, we shopped and walked til our feet bled, and found refuge in cinemas, various bars and restaurants around Manhattan and Brooklyn. One particularly exciting night out saw us start out at a party at Paulo’s architect office, where quite copious amounts of booze were consumed. We drunkenly delighted in the view of the Empire State Building from the roof, but not before setting off the fire alarm by pressing the emergency bar to get out there. Much later on, we ended up in rather seedier company in a bar called Clem’s in Brooklyn. One particularly follically unchallenged bloke fondling his stars and stripes took great exception to our presence and desperately tried to pick a fight with us ‘redcoats’, using the positioning of Paul’s chair as an excuse. Luckily, our new-found enemy sent his mate to question us on the Irish Problem, and found someone better to pick on before Paulo was tempted to take things further.

Temperatures dropped quite dramatically during our visit and culminated in a great blizzard as we wandered the streets of New York with Mark on a bleak Sunday afternoon. From that moment on, at each corner we turned a blisteringly cold wind tore at any exposed skin on our faces and made being outside quite unbearable. Was this a forewarning of our visit Patagonia, where car renters are warned to watch out when opening car doors in case the wind tears doors off their hinges?

On our last night in Brooklyn, we ate dinner with our hosts at the excellent Bamonte’s, where the service is slow, and the waiters all over 70. But it is a regular hang out of wiseguys, the connected of Brooklyn and out-of-state mobsters, or at least the autographed photos on the wall of various Soprano’s actors, Italian celebrities and Tony Danza, would have you believe. At least the traditional Italian food lived up to the myth even if most of the clientele didn’t.

Recommendations after this visit:
Breakfast at Egg in Brooklyn
Prix Fixe lunch at Gotham Bar and Grill in Greenwich Village (30 bucks)
Erotic Photo Hunt at the Racoon Lodge in downtown Manhattan, but not the juke box!
Clem’s in Brooklyn if you’re looking for trouble!

We are proud to say that our written blog is now finally up to date with the photoblog, to clear up any confusion our readers may have had. We hope to keep it this way although some internet cafes are rife with technical problems…

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February 18, 2008 by Naomi.

In Puerto Vallarta, two options presented themselves for the next couple of weeks. Paul had to be back in Seville on 14th January for a courtcase to rescue his kitchen and we set a date for our return to Europe: 9th January. In the meantime, we had the option of either pedalling it to Mexico City (inevitably including the odd bus trauma as once again our set distances were over-ambitious) or we could head to Arizona with the rest of Paul’s family and do a little road trip around some of the canyons and spectacles that the four corner area has to offer. For a number of reasons the latter won hands down; the roads to Mexico City didn’t look at all cycle friendly and the copper canyon had instilled enthusiasm to see other similar delights.

We flew to Phoenix and Mark (Paul’s brother) picked us up in swanky convertible. Bicycles were not allowed on the road out of the airport so they were shoved in the back of the car on the cream leather seats, while N waited in the freezing cold for the second trip. Driving around is inevitably a lot less interesting than travelling on a bicycle, but the distances we were hoping to cover, not to mention some of the freezing temperatures we experienced, meant that using a car was much more practical. The following day we sadly abandoned the bikes at a friend’s house and made our way to Sedona, where we spent several days admiring the surrounding red rock formations, riding (rental) bikes, playing golf and enjoying lots of food that was not Mexican.

From Sedona, we drove to the Grand Canyon, then Monument Valley, then Zion Canyon and after exploring these amazing places for a few days (the photos speak for themselves) and trying to find alcohol (always a challenge on Indian Reservations or in Utah for that matter), Paul insisted on a visit to Vegas. Jammy thing that he is, he came second in a poker tournament and managed to squeeze a good $1,500 out of those infamous one-armed bandit (although tax man ran off with 40%). No such luck for N, who after losing a few dollars no matter what she touched, became a gambling widow for two very long nights, and wondered how a place could be so glitzy, glammed up, greedy, stinky and quite repugnant all at the same time.

We heaved a big sigh of relief on leaving that ghastly city, a visit to the Hoover Dam and a night in Prescott made us feel somewhat more human again. And in Phoenix we had the big dilemma of what to do with our bikes on our flight home. Leaving them unpacked was too dangerous an option as US Air would not take any responsibility if they got damaged. Packing them was a pain as it meant finding bike boxes and transporting them to the airport. We did the latter and the whole process took half a day. The bikes had to be taken part almost completely and put in the only bike boxes the bike shop had to offer, and then we were very lucky indeed to just squeeze them in the car. After some logistical thinking, we made it to the airport without problems, and flew home to London for a good think about what we were going to do next, among various other things.

Once again, we apologise for the delay in updating our blog, you can see more regarding our whereabouts from the photoblog, which is currently more up to date!

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January 16, 2008 by Naomi.

By the time we arrived back Los Mochis we had 5 days to travel the 900km to Puerto Vallarta so once again we were back in the hands of the Mexican bus system – things were turning from a bike tour to backpacking with extremely awkward luggage. We had a plethora of bus companies to choose from, and settled on one of the ‘first class’ operators. They had no qualms about taking our bikes, and did not insist that we dismantle them, but being less than a week before Christmas, there was heavy traffic, all the buses were delayed and many of them were full. This meant that the ticket office could not sell us tickets until a bus arrived and the driver could confirm that he had space for us and our bicycles. The arrival of each bus therefore entitled a frantic scramble from driver to baggage-handler to ticket office to see if we could board. We eventually managed to board a bus after much smile and apology-assisted queue-barging. We were very grateful to be able to speak the language, even if there were the usual (and sometimes guffawing) misunderstandings between Castellano and Mexicano.

Our first leg was to Mazatlan (with another bombardment of violent films) which, despite the presence of the towering mega resorts to the North of the town centre, was a surprisingly attractive town, with an old quarter very reminiscent of that in Seville. Narrow, tree-lined streets, pleasant squares and busy bars and cafes make the downtown area the best part of town to stay in. Most importantly, we encountered our first decent Mexican bar: busy, friendly and vibrant and without an American or a margarita to be seen. We spent our one full day exploring the town on our bikes, the only set-back being the disappearance from our hotel (the Hotel Siesta, if you’re ever in town) of a little purse containing $100 absent-mindedly left in the room. The cleaning lady insisted she hadn’t seen it and it didn’t seem worth reporting to the police, who would probably have had little more to offer in response than a yawn.

Luckily our bus to Tepic wasn’t quite so hectic to get on, and we were now becoming quite the pros at getting our panniers into big bags and our bicycles ready for loading. It was just our luck, however, that one of the seats we had chosen (they let us choose our own seats) had recently been urinated on (our trousers were rescued by N’s very good sense of smell), so we couldn’t sit together. Beware: posh buses do not guarantee cleanliness! A rather intimidating moment arrived too when the bus stopped and a soldier boarded the bus telling everyone to get off while they inspected the luggage in the hold for drugs and guns. Half of us disembarked before they decided that that was enough, while several bags were unloaded for the sniffer dog to inspect. Apart from trying to chew on someone’s bag, nothing was found and we all reboarded and set off without incident.

Tepic was a town somewhat off the tourist trail but kept us entertained for the night with their pre-Christmas festivities. One of the main squares had a lovely Christmas tree put up in the middle of a rather sorry looking ice-rink, but full marks for effort, if not ability, as the locals whipped on their skates and had a rather (unseasonal for Mexico) wintry experience on the rather soggy, puddly ice.

The next morning, we were thrilled to be back on our bikes, although unsure as to whether the road we were taking was as downhill and free from traffic as reported – our experience had taught us that most non-cyclists have great problems judging these factors. However, the fact that Tepic is 900 metres above sea level, our destination, Las Varas, was at sea level and there was an alternative, shorter road meant the rumours were indeed true. After 15km gently climbing the shoulder of the volcano that towers over Tepic, we reached the summit and coasted for what seemed like hours of descent through the jungle towards the Pacific. Towns with buckets and buckets of fruit on sale, not to mention the pervasive banana bread (this is major banana-growing country), meant we did not go hungry. After climbing a mighty hill out of the jungle in the heat of the afternoon, we were pleasantly surprised to find that the road flattened towards Las Varas and we happily cruised in to town after a very satisfactory day on the bike. Unfortunately, however this was not our favourite Mexican town. Our hotel, which managed to provide luxuries such as hot water, TV and aircon, for some reason didn’t see fit to put toilets seats on the loos, and unfortunately was not as clean as other establishments we’d frequented (the lack of toilet seats and cleanliness didn’t make a very comfortable mix), but it was the swankiest place in town, and it had beds, so of course it would have to do. And after deciding that ‘tacos de cabeza’ (head tacos) didn’t really appeal, our eating options dropped off considerably and led to one more night eating pizza with the local 16-year-olds – it seemed marginally preferable to the nylon sheets of the hotel room.

Although the distance from Las Varas to Puerto Vallarta was a reasonable 98km, it was three days before Christmas, the traffic was very heavy, the road was a major highway and the shoulder was non-existent. Once more, we managed to squeeze our copious amounts of luggage and our bikes onto a bus, and a quick two-hour bus ride saw us arrive at the Puerto Vallarta bus station - a good 10km outside of town. It was possibly the most bicycle-unfriendly of towns with bone-jarring cobbled streets (the bane of any cyclist without a mountain bike and full suspension) and far too much traffic. N’s attempts to avoid said roads by cycling along the Malecon (the spacious pedestrian promenade) unfortunately ended with a run-in with an over-zealous security guard who insisted she risk her life back on the main road, and responded to her protests by threatening to arrest her for disrespect.

Luckily, we arrived at our hotel without much further ado, and met up with Paul’s younger brother, Jake, and his wife Rachel. After 5 weeks in Mexico we were delighted to arrive at our Christmas destination, see some familiar faces, and indulge in lots of beers and delicious food (most of which didn’t contain tortilla chips and refried beans, or sandwiches made of Bimbo bread that sticks to the roof of one’s mouth).

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January 14, 2008 by Naomi.

Once again, we are sorry for taking so long in updating the blog. We have had to return to Europe for a while as Paul has some legal wrangles to deal with in Spain and Naomi needed a bit of a rest. We have more blogs to post, but our American computer seems to be struggling with UK wifi facilities so please bear with us while we resolve these issues.

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December 25, 2007 by Naomi.

After convalescing for a couple of days, we looked forward to getting back on the bikes and a hilly ride took us to the ferry 20km up the road. We waited a good 3 hours to get on the ferry (bikes on last unlike any of the other 14 ferries we’ve taken) and watched crazy drivers speed around in circles and reverse all the lorry cargo onto the ferry. The ferry itself was rather swanky and very modern, in fact, the most modern of the fifteen ferries so far. The assurances on behalf of Stenaline that the loos were checked for cleanliness on a regular basis gave us a rough idea of the origin of the boat.

The ferry ride would have been a lot more enjoyable had they not featured a violent film in every single room of the ferry (restaurant, bar and salon room). The only escape was outside on the deck which was dark and cold and extremely windy. So for the best part of six hours, we settled down in the ’salon’ where we just about managed to ignore the first two (one about the US and bombs – yawn - and the other about wild African voodoo animal attacks) by firmly plugging earphones into our ears. N thought she’d give the third film a go - they couldn’t possibly choose three violent films in a row, after all it was two weeks before Christmas. She really ought to have judged the film by its title: Wrong Turn 2: Dead End, but stupidly didn’t and found herself watching some blonde girl driving around the middle of nowhere, getting lost, running over some hill-billy cum zombie, getting her face half eaten by him and then her whole body hacked cleanly in half by another one waiting behind her. So back in the earphones went and out came her book again, trying to obliterate the ghastly scene just witnessed. Meanwhile, children and families watched all of these films in peaceful bliss and N wondered why nobody else found watching such futile and gratuitous violence even vaguely distressing. Some lucky souls, however, slept right through the blood-curdling screams and thumping bombs and murders. We did not.

Another little walk around the ferry and a visit to the bar revealed lots of men with tables full of empty beercans in front of them. Considering the number of lorries that had been loaded up onto this enormous ferry, it was only fair to assume that many of these men would be driving their big lorries once the journey was over, and therefore sharing the road with us humble and possibly invisible cyclists. After some confusion of how to get back to the cardeck, and kitting ourselves and bicycles with every bright bib and bikelight we could find, with some fear for our lives we cycled off the ferry and into the dark. Luckily, we only had to share the road with the inebriated lorry drivers heading inland to Los Mochis for a few hundred metres before turning off to our hotel in the port town of Topolobampo.

The following day we cycled the short distance northeast towards Los Mochis, happily sharing the road with very few lorries and enjoying a lovely wide shoulder on a dual carriageway, almost all to ourselves (although two cars thought it appropriate to drive on the shoulder too). The only setback was a quite a headwind, taking a couple of kms/hr off our average speed.

As we entered the bustling town of Los Mochis, we saw a number of sickly dogs by the dusty roadside. Seeing dogs in Mexico instils an immediate fear in the cyclist, the adrenaline starts running and the heart pounding as the usual barking and chasing ensues at the sight of shiny wheels, and fleshy legs going round and round. In this town, however, all of the dogs seemed too sick to chase us, or take any interest in us at all for that matter, which suited us just fine.

Los Mochis is a lively commercial town with pavements thronged with Christmas shoppers, some interesting restaurants and hardly a gringo to be seen. After the tourist-oriented towns of the Baja, it felt good to be in an ordinary Mexican town. Some enquiring around town led us to Hotel Beltran, where we found accommodation at a much more reasonable price than Baja: for $30 we got a clean room, with phone, cable TV, Mexican (tepid) hot water, an added plus after the cold showers we hadn’t enjoyed the night before, and no cockroaches!

We’d heard that our train to Copper Canyon might not be running the following day, due to bad weather conditions - apparently lots of rain. However, by the end of the day we were assured that the train would be running and booked our tickets on the first class train to Creel, leaving at 6am, much to Paul’s dismay. Bikes are not allowed on the train, so we left them behind in the obliging Hotel Beltran along with lots of other unnecessary, bulky luggage.

After three hours slowly crossing the coastal flatlands, the scenery started to become very mountainous and canyonesque where the train tracks hugged the sides of the steep canyons, and looped around in all sorts of dramatic switchbacks as the altitud increased. Open windows between the carriages gave us some brilliant photo ops, some frighteningly close encounters with trees and tunnels, and even scarier glimpses of the sheer drops into the river below. At a particularly precipitous part of the journey the train slowed down to a crawl as workers stepped aside to let it go past. It was then that we looked down to see the wreck of a locomotive in the river 300 metres below. Two days earlier, the barman informed us, an unexpected rockslide had swept a freight train locomotive into the river below, along with the two railwaymen in it, destroying and killing all involved. It was this, and not the early morning showers which had halted the train service the previous day. Even more details of the horrific accident were revealed by the rescue team who boarded the train at the following stop and were happy to sate the sick curiosity of the passengers. Fortunately, accidents on this train route are very infrequent, the last one occurring some five years ago.

Our arrival in Creel, located some 2,300 metres above sea level, brought us our coldest temperatures of the trip, even colder than the -4 we experienced in the Canadian Rockies, and within hours our lips were chapped and hands were chafed with the cold. As we buried ourselves in layers of our hardly worn thermals and fleeces, we found a lovely bar where we chatted and drank beer with some fellow travellers in front of a very cosy fireplace that kept us deliciously warm.

Creel is a major base for tourists who come up to the mountains to check out the canyons. A day trip or tour is usually required to see the local delights, of which there are many. We ended up paying rather a hefty price for a private day tour in a 4×4, but it was very much worth it in the end, and our guide Julio was a wealth of, we hope, accurate information. The whole area is called the Sierra de Taramuhara, named for the native Indians who have lived there for centuries. The tribe actually calls itself Raramuri (the men who walk well, or run fast) but the Spanish missionaries saw it fit to give them the different name (they thought Raramuri too ‘fuerte’).

Not surprisingly, these people do not fare so well in modern developing Mexico as their traditional way of life – subsistence living in small insular family groups – is threatened by the benefits and temptations of the 21st century. They now earn money selling wooden trinkets, hand woven baskets and traditional blankets while trying to preserve some vestiges of their culture. Although most Raramuri live in small well-built houses, they also continue to live in caves for at least part of the year and our first visit was to a cave where one family live. It felt awkward and a little painful intruding in their home and their way of life as they sold trinkets to tourists and photos for tips.

Our next stop was also on the Raramuri communal landholding, where there are a number of different groups of curious rock formations. First we were shown the ‘mushrooms’ and the ‘frogs’, and then we were taken to the ‘Valley of the Monks’ (a rather prudish name bestowed by the Jesuit priests), but we felt the original Raramuri name of the ‘Valley of the Erect Penises’ was more apt given the size and shape of these large and very phallic curiosities.

After a quick look at another San Ignacio mission (remember the one in Baja?), we headed off down into the canyon, and while Paul ached to get on his much-missed bike and pump his way up and down the steep canyon roads, Naomi thoroughly enjoyed surveying the surroundings from the comfy seat of the 4×4. Julio really knew his way around and stopped the car at various points from which we hiked short distances for some very impressive views. On our way back, we stopped to see the Cusarare waterfall, not an easy place to reach! For the first time, we witnessed what 4×4s were really for, as we had to drive through a river and over very rocky paths and sheer stone before a further 20 minute walk to the spectacular, and much bigger than expected, falls (see photos).

Although we could have spent many more days exploring the area, lack of time once again meant we had to head back to Los Mochis. Another dramatic train journey, and our first encounter with a drunken Mexican lothario – N had a highly entertaining conversation with the rather inebriated Eliseo who spent the best part of an hour wooing her with beer and highlighting the numerous advantages of marrying a Mexican, before P was persuaded to come to the rescue. And before we knew it the 11-hour train journey was over and we were back in Los Mochis preparing once again to head South…..on the bus.

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December 23, 2007 by Naomi.

We apologise once again for the delay in bringing you the updated blog, but technical problems and lack of wi-fi services are making it very difficult for us here in Puerto Vallarta. Please watch this space for further updates over the next week.
We’d like to take this opportunity to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and thank you all for your support and interest in our trip over the past six months.
Lots of festive cheer to you all,
Paul and Naomi

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