The street where I live - La Paz

Minibuses scream past one after the other. Stuck to the windscreen are the places that they'll take you to, the vague route that they go. Hanging out of the sliding side doors are mainly women and children yelling the direction of the minibus and the price of it, scouting around for passing trade. They look like 6 seater vans, but most have at least 10 inside, hurtling through the chaos, faces pressed against the glass. No one inside looks the least bit perplexed though and when the doors open to let more people on, they are welcomed with a polite "buenos dias" and everyone squeezes closer together.


I watch the general flow of the vans for a while, a bit overwhelmed by the noise and bustle, trying to find some order in such unfamiliar chaos. It's a system that clearly works as the vans are full and you can get where you need to go but I struggle to understand how it works or why they don't just have set bus stops.

I carry on up the road, past street vendors selling everything from sweet and drinks to headphones, plugs and watches. Most of the women on the stalls have young children with them with huge beautiful dark eyes that peer out from round faces framed by straight dark hair. Of all the times I walked down this stretch of road, I never saw one of them crying. I never saw them smiling either, just staring out wide eyed at the Bolivian capital.

When the traffic lights turn red, I weave quickly through the crowds crossing the main street and come face to face with a man dressed as a zebra waving a banner saying "Pare" (stop). Slightly perplexed, I wait on the other side of the road to see what he's doing. The "zebras" are La Paz's traffic control system, a light hearted but ever present lesson in road safety. They were implemented not long ago in a bid to educate drivers and pedestrians about the importance of obeying traffic light signals. It's definitely working, there are zebras everywhere; some hold childrens hands across the road, others languish on the bonnets of the mini vans to stop them moving off too soon.

I walk past a man trying to flag down a van in the middle of a block but so far, he's being ignored. I later discover that the vans should only stop on the corners, so the man was technically in the wrong, not that that stopped this exuberant reaction. "I'm paying you for this" he yelled after one van, cursing and waving his arms, "how dare you not stop for me!" In his mind, he is a paying customer so his needs should be fully accommodated. I chuckle imagining him trying the same stunt in London.

I start to walk up one of the side streets, stopping every few seconds to catch my breath. La Paz sits at over 3500m and as the centre lies at the bottom of the valley, all the side streets are uphill which is tough going when you're not used to the altitude. Old Bolivian ladies with long dark plaits and packages bundled in brightly coloured cloth strapped to their backs pass me all the way up the street. One lady who looks about my Grandma's age, smiles at me as she hurries past. The smile is half pity, half satisfaction at being far fitter than someone 50 years younger.

I pretend to studiously gaze into the window of cake shop I'm passing. The cakes are in a glass cabinet and are exquisitely glazed and decorated. They are covered in intricate flowers, swirls of shocking pink icing, and Winnie the Pooh. I eventually get my breath back, resist the cake and carry on. I soon pass another cake shop, and then another, and then another, all within the same block on the same side of the road. Why have one amazing cake shop on a tiny stretch of street when you could have four or five?

After much panting and wheezing, I arrive into Plaza Murillo, the presidential square where Evo Morales spends his days, well at least some of them, I presume. The sun is shining, dappling the light under the trees across the square. I find a bench in a sunny corner and am immediately accosted by one of the many shoe shine boys who, for 3 bolivianos, will make your shoes gleam. Sadly, he's picked on the wrong gringo today. I look down sceptically at my battered grey converse pumps, and he does the same. From behind the customary balaclava that they all wear, I see his face fall as he halfheartedly offers to shine the white bits around the side before slouching off in search of a smarter class of gringo.

World Cup Fever in the Chilean Desert

"Vamoooos Chile, Chi Chi Chi, Le Le Le".

I open my eyes and have no idea where I am. There's a hole for a window in one of the whitewashed walls, and roaring and chanting coming from just outside the peeling painted door. It's 7.15am, Chile's World Cup debut is about to start and in this tiny oasis in the Atacama desert, locals and gringos alike are getting excited.


Richard is already up and dressed, ready to head next door and get involved. I groan and roll over. I thought coming to a tiny town surrounded by volcanos and desert would be the perfect escape from the 3 matches a day madness of the World Cup. Turns out San Pedro de Atacama is a holding pen of passionate fans from all over the world. It sits in Chile's north east corner so is a popular crossing point for lots of travellers between Chile and Bolivia, Peru or Argentina.

The friendly locals and stunning tours to geysers, volcanos and sandboarding hills means people stick around for at least a few days. The town's attitude to the World Cup is making everyone stay longer.

After a pointless five minutes of trying to block out the Chilean and Honduras national anthems, I give up, get up, throw some jeans on over my pyjamas and head to the bar next door. There's a tiny handwritten sign ripped off a pad of lined paper. "Abrimos a las 7.15 miercoles 16. Vamos Chile!" Underneath, on a full bit of lined paper, is a child's drawing of the Chilean flag, a footballer and a football. Vamoooooos Chile!!!!!!! is written underneath. Inside the bar, everyone's getting stuck in already.

Dos cervezas and some toast is the order of choice. At the front, right underneath the screen, a group of Chileans are wrapped up in big coats and bobble hats, yelling almost as passionately and continuously as the exuberant commentator.

When Chile scores, the commentator starts "Gooooooooooooooo...." he pauses and takes a huge breath "ooooooooooooooooooool!" For the rest of the second half, his commentary is punctuated continually with "jugando bien, Chile, muy bien, jugando bien"

We pour onto the street after the game, along with everyone from all the other bars. San Pedro normally doesn't wake up until at least ten when it blinks bleary eyed under the bright blue sky. Today, the whole town erupts. Drinks deals are scrawled onto noticeboards in brightly coloured chalk,

Chile 1-0 Honduras. Happy Hour todo el dia!

By the afternoon, childrens drawings cover the towns noticeboards.

The atmosphere for the Chile game was the best and the only game where everyone got involved, but the other games are by no means ignored. One bar offers a free drink to anyone who's nationality are playing that day. He seemed relieved it wasn't England's day when a group of 7 of us showed up. The international community here means that at the Brazil game the day before, the bar we were in was a sea of green and yellow where a huge group had faces painted, horns blowing and beers flowing. In the hostel this afternoon, 7 or 8 French fans cluttered round the tiny TV watching their team get trampled by Mexico on a grainy screen. They're sitting opposite me now, nursing their wounded pride with litre bottles of Escudo.

For a town where establishments selling only alcohol are outlawed, they don't let it deter them, and have found many ways round this little problem. We asked for 2 beers during the Brazil game and got two beers, a small basket of bread and two sets of cutlery. When I said we weren't eating, the waitress explained that she had to make it look like we were for when the police come around. Sure enough, the afternoon after the Chile game, the police were patrolling the streets with video cameras checking up on everyone.

Two days later, after an embarrassing 0-0 draw against Slovenia, I was with some England fans on the street, where we were approached by the exuberant salesman from a local restaurant who offered his verdict on the various performances.

"England are just too tired. They play too much football, and they have the beautiful wives. They not play well because too much fucking" he explains, accompanying it with some explicit thrusting.

"And America, they no play much football, they just do the fucking, all the time, just the fucking", he concludes, before grinning, chuckling and thrusting his way off down the street.

Sex and the City 2/Keeping the Glamour Alive!

On a cold Sunday night in Santiago, we set off to watch Sex and the City 2. The cold air makes my nose red and shiny, I'm not wearing any make up, my hair is frizzy and matted under a big red beanie hat. It badly needs a cut, the ends are like dreadlocks and the colour needs redoing but I'm home in 6 weeks so I'll deal with it then. For the last two days, I've been wearing my glasses which I hate but the smog makes my eyes sting too much for contacts.


My outfit of choice is scruffy jeans, two black vest tops, an out of shape cardigan, a very snuggly but dull round neck jumper and a grey hoodie. To complete the "look" my hands are kept warm by a pair of brown gloves I bought in a market in Buenos Aires. One glove, as always, is hanging off my fingertips, the other squeezing my wrist, the result of not checking that the pair of gloves was actually a pair before buying them. I'm darting round the dog poos in some plain grey converse-style pumps. Underneath them are a pair of once-white socks that I was also wearing for part of yesterday.

In short, standards are slipping. Backpacking is many many things; it's exciting, eye opening, fun, scary, intimidating, sociable and lonely. It is not, however, very glamourous.

In the dark of the cinema, I strip off some layers, shake my hair out and settle back ready for two hours of indulging in a make believe world of glamorous fun. I don't think any girl could deny they would secretly love to gather together their four best friends and be whisked off super first class for a week, to have cocktails in a bar on the plane instead of a tiny can of Diet Coke in a plastic glass whilst a little kid cries non stop and kicks the back of your seat.

The thought of wearing heels to the airport, and of bringing a change of clothes for getting off the plane and another for the post camel ride lunch is so far removed from this trip. Dior and the desert just don't go hand in hand for the hardened backpacker. Give them a sturdy pair of trekking shoes and some trousers that zip off at the knee anyday, so much more practical

But after six and a half months of the same five tops, one pair of jeans, one skirt, no heels and a grubby grey hoodie, I done with practical. I would LOVE to buy an overly large sun hat and not care how it will be after a day in my rucksack, to wear linen without thinking about the creases, to adorn myself with fabulous jewels without panicking they'll be pinched on a subway somewhere.

The backpacking uniform of jeans, tshirt, hoodie, trainers, beanie hat makes girls and guys look pretty much the same. Look more closely however, and you'll spot a fabulous pair of handmade earrings or a beautiful scarf from Southeast Asia, or a tiny bottle of expensive perfume, decanted from the original.

I'm writing this on a 24 hour bus from Santiago to the north of Chile wearing some trackies, an old stripy top and some red and white striped football socks I bought in a market when I feared my feet were actually frozen. Underneath the socks and general appearance of 'glamour-less' (couldn't resist a terrible Sex and the City-esque word!) girl travelling, however, my toenails are painted dark red, I've just applied some lip gloss, and my hair smells of my one travel luxury, leave in conditioner.

Regardless of how bad the film was, Richard says I owe him two hours of his life back, it was a wonderful reminder of one extreme of glamourous travelling especially when I'm living at the other extreme. However, along with all the other girls, there's always a little bit of glamour lurking, even if only you yourself knows that it's there.

Sunday morning in Santiago.

The smog hangs thick and dense over the city as we stroll towards the bottom of Cerro San Cristobal. It looks misty, like early morning in a romantic scene of an old black and white film. It feels like a cloudy morning until you look directly up and see nothing but clear blue sky. Walking is more difficult than usual, I'm tired and lathargic, my eyes are stinging and I have to consciously breathe. I think my childhood asthma I had is creeping back; as the smog fills my lungs, my pipes constrict, it's like breathing through a straw.

Geographically, Santiago is one of the most beautifully placed cities on earth, snuggled down in a basin of surrounding mountains. Flanking one side of the city, the higher mountains are now completely covered in snow with the ski season due to start any day now.

We stroll down Merced, the street running parallel to Cerro San Cristobal, before cutting down a side street to get to the base of the funicular train. We had planned on walking up the 6km track, joining the scores of runners, walkers and cyclers that stream past us as we wait for the little train. The "Santiago runners" cruise past in a sea of flourescent yellow. All ran in Santiago's marathon, I learn from their t-shirts. Twenty six miles of running through this air would be no mean feat. Rather them that me.

The funicular railway is a terrifyingly steep, rickety litte thing which hauls you up the mountain so jerkily that it feels like there's a man at the top personally pulling your lazy ass up. However, it's a beautiful journey in its own way, and it soon becomes startlingly clear why the old asthma is creeping back. A fine blanket of smog covers the entire city in winter to such an extent that the buildings on the outskirts under the shadow of the mountains are just silhouettes. One third of Chile's population live in Santiago and it's suburbs, protected by the soaring mountains under the light blanket of smog. Having spent a little time in other parts of Chile, it seems a shame that so many would choose to live here, although as with all capital cities, choice probably has very little to do with it. The jobs are here so the people are.

At the top, the atmosphere is the same as at the end of a marathon or triathlon. Bikes, lycra and trainers occupy all the benches, more stalls are selling fruit juice than empanadas. It was rather embarrasing to see one cyclist arrive at the top; he set off when we got onto the funicular. I'm not surprised to see so many people up here though, even this early on a Sunday. From the top of the hill, the air is clear and fresh, there is nothing between us and the sky. After a whole week of working in downtown Santiago, I too would exhaust myself in an effort to get up above it and into the fresh air, if only for a while.

A huge statue of the Virgen Mary is the real pulling power of this hill. She stands proudly atop it, dominating the Santiago skyline. On the steps below the statue, the only sounds are hushed whispers, shuffling feet and muttered prayers. It's a place for quiet contemplation, a place to sort through the previous week before descending to start the next.

Unfortunately, when we were there, the peace was shattered by a man dressed entirely in lycra who ran all the way up the steps to the statue instead of stopping 200yards earlier with everyone else. He was breathing heavily, panting, wheezing and sweating as he paced the length of each and every step. At first, the assembled worshippers stared at him darkly, tutting and shaking their heads. But before long, the corners of mouths began twitching, quickly broadening into smiles and conspiratorial giggles. He was hilarously out of place, panting and wheezing over the social conventions.

The sun is beaming down on the city as we stroll down the forest path to the road, not once envying all those going in the opposite direction. I remove two of the five layers that I put on rather over zealously this morning and turn my face to the warm wintery sun. We walk along the river before cutting down to the main square, Plaza de Armas. It's a really sociable place, filled with almost enough benches for everyone, although we have to squeeze on today. Families stroll through the square pushing prams, the homeless wash in the fountains and beg for change, groups of teenagers slouch against the railings and elderly couples sit glassy eyed listening to the live brass band.

One street stall offers children a chance to have a photo sat on a pretend donkey wearing a traditional hat and poncho. At first, the elderly man running it isn't drumming up much business, and the hat looks awkward hanging off the donkey's ear. That is until a little five year old appears in a bright yellow jumper, throwing one leg over the donkey before his parents can object. He wriggles into the poncho, shoves the big hat down over his eyes and grins and grins. After the photo shoot, he spends a lot of time talking to the 'donkey' and jumping up and down impatiently. As soon as he has the photo gripped tightly in his little palm, he breaks free from his parents again, running back to show the donkey the photo, before rejoining his parents giggling as they stroll towards the bandstand.