CHILE: Guest of honour

I'M AT: Casa Roja, Barrio Brazil, Santiago de Chile. A converted mansion full of nice folk, and beer, and a big kitchen, and lots of energy. Paying twelve thousand of ANY form of currency for a bed is a bit unnerving, though.

The only thing that Peter H's perfect wedding lacked was a fistfight.

I have to let you know how I came to be here. Peter H is so called because that's his username on a Crystal Palace chatroom. Ten months ago, he let us know he was to be married to his Chilean girlfriend, whom he met travelling, on October 28th, and invited anyone who was in Chile to attend. Did he expect anyone to take him up on this? I'd have to say maybe, because he was amazingly calm upon meeting me, basically a total stranger, on his doorstep, just an hour or so before the ceremony began, and only a couple of minutes before his mum and brothers arrived.

He lent me his suit. He gave me a drink. This man, with his huge heart, invited me into his flat, to witness, with thirty or so others, close family and old friends, his wedding. I can't explain how the union of two strangers was as moving as it was. It was obvious they were very much in love.

After the wedding, we walked around a maze of streets to find the restaurant, which had tables and flowers and candles and cocktails waiting for us, and we ate a huge mountain of meat between us, and drank champagne, and danced, and listened to Peter H read a dedication to his missus, first in Spanish, then in English, and it was just great. I made some good new friends as well - Dave, Geoff, Samantha, Martin, and an Argentinian bloke who insisted on making me speak Castillano with him, and who told me that a woman's true worth was the size and colour of her heart.

Peter H, I salute you and your wife, and wish you every happiness, for you are truly a generous and admirable man.

ARGENTINA: Buenos Fucking Aires

I'M AT: A number of places all over town, cos Buenos Aires is a pretty busy place. All pretty swanky. Millhouse takes the prize cos of the fantastic private room there.

They sell t-shirts here with Buenos Fucking Aires printed on them, and, well, it's the type of place to inspire you to wheeze gently at the enormity, class and energy of the place and mutter under your breath Buenos.....Fucking.......Aires.

Firstly, it's big. Bits are shiny and modern, the new port area is much like Docklands; and other bits, like San Telmo and La Boca, are full of old buildings, and very charming.

Secondly, the people are, there's no denying it, fit. The women are thin and glamorous and share the same bouncy, feathered hairstyle. They walk around like contented devils in tight jeans and sparkly tops. And the men are pumped, and hairy, and very Latino.

And there's an awful lot to do. The place really does compare with a big European city. It's like Paris or London really, and many of the portenos would gladly call themselves European. They love a bit of style.

It was around this coooooool city that I walked in ripped jean-shorts and green flip-flops, biting into steaks, ogling tango, touching antiques, feeding animals at the zoo and generally beaming like a lovesick fool.

I'm smitten.

BRAZIL: Ronaldinho's flip-flops

I wrote a bit about the Brazilian side of the Iguazu Falls in another post, but quite frankly I'm allowing myself to post a separate entry, because I was in Brazil for a short time, even if I don't have a passport stamp, and it's worth celebrating.

I don't know if it's all the yellow football tops, big smiles, or skimpy clothing, or if indeed it was all in my head, but Brazil did feel different, sexier, hotter, steamier, than anywhere else I'd been in South America. One thing's certainly different: the idioma. Portugese is spoken here, so all the signs and posters have subtle but confusing differences, like using 'e' instead of 'y' (both meaning 'and'). I'd planned to spend a bit longer in Brazil, going to Rio and the beaches, but eventually I couldn't get the flight sorted, so it'll have to wait. I've since heard pretty negative things about the place, the cities at least, but you can never tell until you get there.

Anyway. We were there for the Falls, and went to the visitor centre, a splendid edifice, very posh, a bit pricey, and very cool. They're employed a seriously talented graphic artist to spruce the place up, and now the open-top buses are resplendant with stylised beasts - butterflies, coatis, toucans, monkeys - animals that you can find all around you as you walk through the lush jungle. The coatis are brilliant things, a cross between a cat and a raccoon, they sniff at your lunch and threaten cutely.

It's also very commercial, of course. You can ride jetboats, you can get an amphibious vehicle intop the water, you can hike and trek. We did none of these. Instead, we just gaped in awe at the falls. And gaped some more. And then wandered into the visitor centre and I thought, fuck it, even if I'm not here for long I'm sending some postcards from Brazil. And I'm going to buy myself something.

If anyone can tell me of a better souvenir from Brazil than a pair of gaudy green-and-yellow flip-flops with Ronaldinho's number 10 shirt printed on them, I'll eat a coati.

PARAGUAY: Apocalyptic City

I was in the Cuidad del Este for only about six hours, but it felt a whole lot longer.

The Iguazu Falls lie on a triple border between Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay. Paraguay is easily the poorest nation, and the border town, in English City of the East, sells outrageously cheap electronic goods to its richer neighbours. This makes it a popular day trip from Brazil or Argentina, and Corinne needed a camera, so we jumped the border and took our chances.

The electronics shops can be found in one small area around the main dual carriageway. Once amongst the many stalls and malls, we were surrounded by folk wanting to sell us stuff - clippers, socks, flannels, chocolate. And they were tremendously persistent, to the point where we had to be bloody rude to get them to leave us alone.

But they were nothing next to the camera-floggers. Men and boys stood around, waiting for gringos, and when spotted, we were asked what we wanted, cameradvdvideomusiccameracamera? Camera, we said. And from there they'd take us into one of the many shops, and condescend with the shop staff, and fawn and bleat, until we decided to move on, and they followed us to the next place. One kid, in particular, was unbelievable, and his dad wasn't so much better.

Anyway, perhaps surprised by Corinne's Spanish, they talked and talked and bigged themselves up, to the point where she had a pad full of numbers and a spinning head. We both had spinning heads. The shop staff looked at me a little curiously, for here I was with a woman who was doing all the talking, and, to them, obviously wore the trousers. They smiled at me, perhaps in sympathy.

So, eventually, she'd picked a model, and, aware that much of the gear in the Cuidad is fake, or reconditioned - in some cases the boxes are clearly battered and have flourescent repair stickers on them, despite being offered as new, at new prices - went to the only bloke who'd told us about the fake, reconditioned stuff, and bought her camera, and took as many pictures as she could - mainly of herself looking gorgeous - before the undercharged battery ran out.

She was well happy with her camera, though, even though the bloke's credit card machine didn't work and he took us on a walk through a crowded market, stinking with the risk of robbery, to take us to his 'brother's' store, and even there it took ages to get the deal done, all exchange rates and phone calls and much suspicion on our part. And then we hopped the bus, in the sun, many dodgy Asian characters walking around, and made it back to Argentina for a cocktail.

ARGENTINA: Iguazu Falls - the face of God

I'M AT: Hostel Sweet Hostel, Puerto Iguazu. A nice chilled place, very small, bathroom just big enough, kitchen for making nice pasta in.

The Iguazu Falls are enough to convince an athiest of the guiding hand of God. Enough to inspire a man to die for beauty. Enough to send you smack down onto the floor, moaning and bubbling and thanking fuck that you're alive, and nowhere else but here. It's the highlight of my trip so far. They're. Just. Staggering.

The falls are accessed from both sides of the Brazil-Argentina border. The Argentinian side needs a day, cos there are loads of different walkways and viewpoints. They're right up close to the bottom of the individual falls. You can go for a walk on an island beneath the falls, and there's a train to the main highlight, the Garganta del Diablo, Devil's Throat, above which you stagger at the crash and majesty, on wet planks.

The Brazilian side needs only half a day but features, in my opinion, the best view. You walk, again on wet boards, to the foot of the Devil's Throat, and just gawp open-mouthed at the immense mounds of crashing white, pouring onto the battered black rocks below. And you see a wide panorama, and rainbows, and swifts darting forth, and it makes you believe any of the lies you've ever been told about heaven.

Good god. Forget Macchu Picchu, this is the most incredible place in South America.

ARGENTINA: Gimnasia 0 Arsenal 0

I´M AT: Terra Oculta, an absolutely terrific hostel in Salta. I started at the annex over the road, then after a couple of nights moved to the main building. This is quite honestly the perfect place to stay.

BOLIVIA: Hasta luego

I'M AT: The Adventure Brew Hostel, La Paz, where we were promised one free beer, and helped ourselves to three. The scandal of it all deserves recording for posterity.

The people I've met are absolutely making this trip come alive. The hardest thing I have to do is say goodbye to them.

I met Mark in Ecuador and, for the most part, spent the next three months travelling with him through Peru and Bolivia. I got the bus all the way back to La Paz from Uyuni, from where his flight was leaving, because I wanted to see him off properly (as it turned out, the last night was a bit of a damp squib - it was a Monday - so we didn't reggaeton our way into the hearts of the locals as we'd hoped. We did both end up wearing Seventies gear though, so it wasn't all bad. Whilst I'm at it, going back to La Paz in general was also a mixed blessing - after arriving on the outskirts of La Paz to find the streets blockaded, we ended up getting picked up by a fake taxi driver, who admitted a fake copper, who proceeded to search for fake money, which he could apparently, miraculously, smell. As it turned out, Mark was relieved of his CD player and a load of pictures, but even so, we'd heard tales of kidnap, so it could have been far worse.)

You end up going through a lot with people, and spending lots of time with them. Mark is a thoughtful, intelligent geezer, a hit with the women despite his apparent lack of romantic interest in most of them, and he's a very good laugh. A good guy to travel with, easy going, and friendly. He does enjoy his job - some scale-manufacturing company or something - a bit too much for comfort, and preens himself to extraordinary lengths, paying a fortune for some sort of enriching body lotion in La Paz when you only had to step outside the hostel to get covered in toxic waste; and he 'monitors' the length of his eyebrows.

But despite these faults - some would say irrevocable flaws in his character - I have to say it, I was in tears when I said goodbye to him, and, well, lost for the rest of the day. The only thing to do was move on, so I did, that afternoon, on a bus to Oruro, whilst protestors dynamited the central streets of La Paz.

Salud, my friend, and sometime brother. I will see you next year.

BOLIVIA: Imagine my HORROR

...when I found out I'd taken a bottle of rum-flavoured cake essence, instead of the real stuff, on a four-day tour to the middle of nowhere, with only the promise of a glass of wine on the last day.

ANYWAY - I'M AT: A tour organised by Junin Tours taking us to the salt flats, up a volcano, to red and green lakes, thermal springs, an island of cactuses, and various trinkety stops on the way. Accommodation was cold, food rubbish, but it was unbelievable good.

Laying claim to the biggest salt flat in the world is testament to Bolivia's mineral riches. Sending rich tourists out to the visit them is testament to the incompetence with which the country handles its best assets.

Many, many tourists want to visit the Salar de Uyuni, and rightly so, because it and the landscapes that surround it are absolutely spectacular. So what do the authorities do? They allow a completely free market, so tourists get ripped off, and lied to, and their experiences spoiled, because no-one in power seems to give a flying fuck about the goldmine on which they're sitting.

Which doesn't mean that the necessity of getting a 4x4 to visit the place was a bad one, because it means the landscape remains 'unspoiled', and that there aren't TOO many other groups around. Few over the age of 50 would want to spend 4 days in the back of a rattly jeep. But you weep for the potential of the place. The Salt Hotel sounds great, and I guess comparable to how the Ice Hotel must be, but in reality it's a poorly-constructed adobe mess with salt on the walls and a wilting, stuffed flamingo stapled to the ceiling. At the Museum of Salt, sited near the main refinery, they've crucified an unfortunate barn owl on the wall, so it now fixes you with a broken stare as you walked in, having paid your pesos. At the refinery, they're more interested in gossipping and staring sideways at the tourists than they are about genuinely informing you about the work, the organisation, the process. It's not much of a living, admittedly, bagging salt for days on end. But still.

Anyway. The landsapes, which we´d come on this tour to see, were astonishing, and it was completely worthwhile doing this tour. So rather than speak my thousand words - http://www.flickr.com/photos/kong_

BOLIVIA: We Have Explosive

I´M AT: The Koala Den, owned and run by Koala Tours, who'd booked everyone staying there onto the same tour, leaving at the same time on the same day, and were still unprepared for everyone descending on the breakfast at once. Suitably Bolivian.

Cerro Rico is a huge mountain that used to be full of silver, and which provided the Spaniards with a great bulk of the wealth with which they built their country's infrastructure.

It's only full of zinc and tin ad other powdery spectres now, so the miners aren't living in the style to which they were formerly accustomed. In truth, it's absolutely horrifying that men can still work in hot, dusty, poisonous conditions without masks or proper equipment, risking death by explosion each day and certain death from silicosis after twenty or so years.

One guy worked in the dark because he had to save the money he would otherwise use to buy batteries for his head torch. He was 35, had the body of a 15 year old, but the face of Methuselah. He worked with hammer and chisel to make the holes in which he poked dynamite. Each hole would take hours and hours to chip away at, and he'd have absolutely no idea whether he'd blow out anything apart from rock. He worked on his own, whilst his son, 15 years old, worked in a co-operative in another part of the mine, for which he received more security but less financial reward, as all risks and profits were shared. If our man in the dark found a seam of silver, he and his future generations would be made for life.

So we choked and heaved and hauled our soft arses through the hill, learning as we went from Pedro Negro, a fantastic guy who also used to work in the mines but now earnt less doing these tours. Some of the miners earn as much as lawyers or doctors. There were thousands of lawyers in the town itself, for some reason, perhaps to settle ownership disputes, as the mine is completely unregulated. You or I could walk in there tomorrow and start blowing bits out of it, and this would be easy, as dynamite is available over the counter.

After emerging from the tour, and as a relief from all the tension and exhaustion that we suffered down the mines - oh, how we suffered - we assembled and detonated a big stick of pale green dynamite wrapped in ammonium sulphide.

And may I say, it damn near knocked the Pimms out of my pinkies.