Amidst much angry shouting from the other passengers we managed to swap our tickets for two to Huacachina.

Huacachina is an odd little town built around a lagoon in the middle of a desert, enclosed on all sides by enormous sand dunes. There are only two reasons why people go there – to party, and to sandboard.

Sandboarding is, as the name suggests, when you stand or lay face down on a wooden board and whizz down the aforementioned enormous sand dunes. We were taken by dune buggy into the surrounding velveteen desert, which at first felt like a scene from Lawrence of Arabia until you noticed colonies of dune buggies, motorbikes, quad bikes and jeeps, when it felt more like a scene from Mad Max! The sandboarding itself was a bit tepid really, although you can build up some dangerous speed. What really made the day was ride in the dune buggy. Our driver, a chain-smoking maniac, derived particular pleasure from terrifying poor Amy as he zoomed up and down the dunes, sometimes getting all four wheels off of the ground in the process. He seemed to get even worse after the sun went down, when the only concession he made to the encroaching darkness was to cross himself before each looney stunt! He left his headlights off until we were back in the town, presumably to maximise Amy’s horror.

Due to its renown as a party town, Huacachina is of course where you find the Brits. So we had a couple of heavy nights with our boozy compatriots before heading to Lima.

On the way to Lima we took a quick detour for 2-hour boat trip to the Islas Ballestas, described in the Lonely Planet as a poor man´s Galapagos islands. We weren´t expecting much but it turned out to be quite interesting. There is such a proliferation of birds there that the islands are farmed every 7th year for their droppings, which by that time have accumulated into a crust of half a metre or more. We have never seen so many birds: squawking, flapping and wheeling, darkening the sky or carpeting the islands, or divebombing into the sea for unsuspecting fish; we saw huge pelicans and waddling penguins, populous cormorans, circling vultures and countless others that we didn´t even recognise, and sea-lions flouncing clumsily over the craggy rocks or frolicking gracefully in the sea. A worthwhile detour before arriving at Lima.

Lima is a big, expensive, unappealing city where there is a dearth of anything much to do. Tomorrow morning we fly to the U S of A.

Our time in South America has been superb and is probably our favourite continent. It’s so unlike anywhere else we’ve been; dangerous and challenging, with no shortage of outdoor pursuits, and the landscape is so unbelievable – bleak yet beautiful, barren and boulder-strewn, from vast salt flats to fecund jungle to Sarahan sand dunes, and with the austere white Andean peaks a permanent fixture in the background – that even on the endless bus journeys you don’t tire of it. We’ve only been here a little over a month but have managed to fit so much in, with the trip to Macchu Picchu being the highlight of our world tour. Definitely a place we´ll be coming back to…

First off, Cuzco is our favourite city in South America. Not only is it prepossessingly pretty – the main square, the Plaza de Armas has two ornate time-weathered cathedrals and is bounded by gorgeous colonial arcades with colourful balconies; streets with original Incan walls topped by rendered colombian-era facades fan outwards from it and everywhere the rainbow-coloured Cusquenan flag – which looks alarmingly like the gay pride banner but predates it by around 500 years – is flown proudly. But there is also a boundless supply of activities available in the surrounding mountains: motorbiking, bungee jumping, white-water rafting, treks, mountain biking, horse riding, rock climbing, and of course the Inca trail.

We opted for a 4-day trek and mountain bike ride culminating in a visit to Machu Picchu, the main reason we decided to come to South America in the first place.

On our first day we were driven to the summit of a mountain where two sparkling powdery-white Andean peaks were within touching distance before being given mountain bikes and told to descend the other side. We whizzed for three hours down a spiralling road of perfect tarmac through magnificent mountainous landscape. The mountain we were on formed part of a staggered valley, the Sacred Valley infact, with the Rio Urubamba winding a frothy path along its base. After one hour off-road biking we reached our destination, the remains of an old Incan customs house. We had gone from freezing mountain peak to temperate tropical rainforest in a matter of hours.

The next day saw us climb back up the next mountain along, with the sound of the Urubamba – no longer just a white line in the distance – raging all around us. It was an 8-hour slog up rainforested hills with regular stops in some of the tiny hamlets dotted around the mountain. At one point we found ourselves on part of the original Inca trail, a narrow path carved into the side of the mountain – which Incan envoys (called Chaksis) used to trot along powered by nothing but coca-leaves – with indescribable ambient beauty. At the end of the day we were rewarded with a dip in some hot geothermal springs to ameliorate our aching legs and later a trip to a discoteque in a flyblown little town called Santa Teresa.

Our guide, Abel, was excellent. He had such a patent love for his country and Quechuan heritage and such enthusiasm for his job that it was infectious. Every so often he would stop and say, “Here, try this”. We had wildly growing oranges, tomatoes, avocadoes, papaya, lemon, some sort of lemon/orange hybrid, we saw coffee growing naturally and how the locals dry it in the sun before grinding into a powder, saw coca growing in plantations at precipitous angles in the hills, tasted natural chocolate, and painted our faces with a plant that is used cosmetics.

The third day was a 4-hour march along a railway line to Aguas Calientes, the base town for Machu Picchu and a town which seems to exist solely to fleece as much money as possible out of the abundant American tourists. After lunch Abel offered us a ´challenge´, a climb up a nearby mountain, Putucusi. To aid climbing, Putucusi has wooden ladders attached to its sheer faces. After climbing these for about half-an-hour solidly we had a further hour-and-a-half of rocky steps, in total an ascent of 800 metres, before we flopped onto the summit. But it was worth every drop of sweat. There, atop a neighbouring mountain, about 400m away, glorious in the rays of the setting sun, was Machu Picchu, the ancient Incan city. It was such a powerful and moving sight, these perfect grey ruins so high in the jungle-covered mountains, that we stayed for about an hour staring at it.

And the final day was to be our trip to Machu Picchu. We awoke at 4am to ensure we were one of the lucky 400 tourists who daily get to climb Waynu Picchu, the taller mountain that looms behind Machu Picchu in the archetypal photograph. Before we did this we had a guided tour round the Incan city itself. The place did not disappoint, it was absolutely mindblowing to be wandering around this perfectly preserved 5-centuries-old Incan settlement, clambering through royal chambers, temples of worship and guardhouses, or watching llamas prance over the terraced agricultural steppes. Surrounding us on all sides were granite and green peaks that reminded us just how high up we were. The structures themselves are phenomenal, huge granite blocks are cut to such size and shape that they tessolate perfectly and sit without mortar. They are tapered at the edges to give the impression that they’re bulging out of the walls, which are built at an angle designed by Incan artisans to be seismic proof. Testament to this is the fact that they’re still standing after at least 2 earthquakes which have devastated Spanish built settlements.

We saw the sunrise at Machu Picchu and, it being days from the winter equinox – all Incan towns were built according to the two equinoxes – it rose perfectly behind the highest peak in view so that a shaft of light was beamed out from each side like the wings of an angel. Later we hauled ourselves up to Waynu Picchu for yet another astounding view of the city, this time from above, before pounding our tired feet all the way back to Aguas Calientes and finally to Cuzco for a well-earned rest.

Cuzco, renowned for its festivals, is at the moment is building up to the biggest fiesta of the year, which makes it a very interesting time to be here. Every day we’ve seen colourfully loud street parades replete with sonorous trombones and booming bass drums, traditional dances, intricate floats and hordes and hordes of people. One day we were sitting in the Plaza de Armas, minding our own business, when thousands of chanting protesters marched in and surrounded us (there is a lot of civil unrest going on here at the moment)! Unfortunately we won´t be here for the actual festival because we´re getting the bus to Arequipa tonight, although we have to take an extended, circuitous route because – you guessed it – there’s another road block! (This is the third one that has hampered our travels now, even by South American standards that´s pretty unlucky!)

Oh, and to top off a good week, I did a bungee jump! At 122 metres the highest in all the Americas (including the super-sized States). It was terrific, and I screamed like a girl!

Our -excrutiatingly slow- boat left Puno harbour and crept its way inexorably towards the Islas Flotantes of the Uros people. These floating islands are tethered amongst 150km of reed-land off the Peruvian shore, number about 50, comprise some 3000 inhabitants, 3 schools and even a hospital. Each island is home to up to 10 families and is made entirely of tutora reeds. These reeds are muy importante to the Uros people; not only do they make up the ground on which they live, the roots are eaten, the flowers brewed into tea, they are traded – along with fish, another abundant Uros commodity – for potatoes and alpaka wool in nearby markets, used to build huts and boats, have medicinal purposes, are twisted into handicrafts to flog to tourists, the list goes on!

We visited an island of nine families and were greeted with a handshake and an Aymaran (pre-Incan language, which the Uros still speak) pleasantry from each of the inhabitants before being given a demonstration on how the islands are constructed – they have a base of buoyant mud and an upper layer of reeds some 3-metres deep and are tied to wooden poles plunged into the lake bed to prevent them drifting off – and some of the complexities of floating-island life – waste management for instance, and how they avoid burning down their whole world when cooking. Then we were encouraged to buy some of the – admittedly very good – handicrafts before being taken for a spin in a reed-boat, that was redolent of a Viking longboat, whilst a small girl serenaded us with Aymaran ditties. Finally we were invited to look round the dwellings. It was fascinating. One industrious chap had even hooked up a TV to a solar panel and was busily engrossed in a football match!

Afterwards we went to Isla Taquile, an island of the more typical sort (i.e. not floating) where everybody wears the same clothes and social standing is depicted by the colour of the hat one wears. We climbed to the tip of the island to find a busy town square, then had lunch at a table with such a view that it was awarded the not-to-be-sniffed-at accolade of Best Place We’ve Ever Had Lunch!

After the boat trip back to Puno – which could have been shorter if we´d swam doggy-paddle! – we tried to book our ticket to Cuzco, and Macchu Picchu. We weren´t even shocked when they told us there was a road block (they really do erect blockades at the drop of a hat out here, and protesting is a national sport. Greenpeace could learn a lot from these people) on the Puno-Cuzco road. There was a way to get there, a circuitous route that took more than twice as long – 13 hours instead of 5 – and of course cost twice as much.

The bus rattled and bounced its way along a see-sawing mountain track that was probably more intended for goats than a double decker bus. At one point we had to get out and push when the bus got stuck in a divot and at another, amidst much excitement and shouting, we were forced to pay 1 sole each and were frogmarched in pitch black darkness down a hill to a rickety bridge and a scene of mayhem. Queues of buses, cars and lorries were roaring and honking away at either side of the bridge which, unused to the additional traffic foisted upon it by the inconsiderate protesters, had splintered in the middle. Locals were doing their best to get everyone across by feeding planks of wood under the wheels of the vehicles! We had to stop for about an hour but eventually our bus got through and we carried on to Cuzco.

We paid around 2 pounds for a 2-hour boat trip to the Isla del Sol, according to Incan mythology the birthplace of the sun itself and the provenance of the Incan race. On the way we got chatting to some Bolivian women from Santa Cruz who, on hearing that we’d bought no food, gave us half of theirs! What generosity!

It’s easy to see why the Incas attach such significance to this place, it is so serenely beautiful; peacefully picturesque. The best way to describe it is a series of rocky hills rising out of the tranquil navy blue waters of the lake – some with ragged pre-Incan terracing carved into them that afford plateaus for growing crops or grazing donkeys and pigs – encompassing azure bays with the rugged ice-rendered Andes looming above the lake along the horizon. Ramshackle mud-brick villages lined the trail we huffed and puffed along, partitioned by precarious rock walls, the locals herding llamas or pigs or selling handicrafts.

We trekked to the ruins of an Incan village. The roofs had long gone but the narrow corridors and dark ante-chambers remained, marvellous in that they’re still standing simply by virtue of being stacked propitiously (no mortar). We had lunch (courtesy of the Bolivian women on the boat!) in the ruins with our legs dangling over a deserted turquoise bay before the boat took us to the Southern part of the island. Here we heard, booming away in the mountains, the deep bass line of loud music – which seemed a bit incongruous on this peaceful little island. We panted our way up some 500 steps to find that there was a Bolivian wedding in progress; a typically colourful affair with everyone merrily dancing away, some sort of karaoke, and people falling over drunk, peeing indiscriminately!

We headed back to Copacabana to spend our last Bolivianos before crossing the border into Peru (our last land border crossing…)