Lake Titicaca. It turns out, not only good because it's got 'tit' in the name.

In order to visit the floating islands of Lake Titicaca it's necessary to have the Peruvian town of Puno as one's base. Puno is ostensibly a shit hole and would more accurately be named simply poo. Or Pooyes. Only a short boat ride from the port of this inauspicious place, and via the hectic, technicolour rickshaw-whirlwind and potholed streets, can be found the reed island communities of Titicaca. A man we encountered in Cuzco from Orlando, Florida, dismissed this experience as 'a pile of crap, to be honest'. Never trust a man whose home town is famous for Disney Land and raisinny OAPs. I think he didn't like it because none of the islanders had Mickey Mouse ears on. The day was overcast and quite grey but Lake Titicaca took on an almost gunmetal hue and was all the more dramatic for the ominous tempest clouds brewing overhead. The islands themselves are truly remarkable. Built from partially edible reeds and heavily layered with many a bamboo-like strand, the ground has a spongey, springy texture. You can feel and see yourself bobbing atop the lake, like being on a man made raft from a shipwreck story. Populated by extremely rotund (and no doubt buoyant) men and women in the vivid traditional Peruvian attire, the islands are like something you might see in a National Geographic magazine. You don't really believe that people can look and live like this in the 21st century but apparently it's real. The residents make their money from flogging intricately woven folklore vignettes in dazzling colours. Everything else is made from reeds. The ground, the huts, the wicker-effect oriental looking boats with serpent heads. Very beautiful it all is too.

The women of the islands are particularly striking with their brown, round faces, giant toothy smiles, electric coloured skirts, cardigans and dark bowler hats. They all have their hair fashioned in two extremely long plaits, of the old school peasant style. In brief, the whole thing is a visual spectacular, a treat for the senses. The boat ride back to Puno was as dark as the very night and a bit of a debacle. About twenty minutes in we heard a woman from a nearby little fishing boat shrieking at otherworldly pitches 'Mi bebe!' Mi bebe!' It went on for a lot longer than that but frankly there isn't enough room on this post for the whole harrowing, repetitive dialogue. The woman and her small child had somehow fallen overboard into the lake. From our unlit vessel we saw the baby being dragged out of the water. The rescue had escaped the mother who was completely beside herself and hysterical, screaming the same mantra over and over, fainting intermittently and then resuming her gut-wrenching cacophany. Our boat stopped to help as someone from the little fishing boat called for alcohol to calm the wretched woman down. The man on our boat dashed and pulled a bottle of whiskey out of nowhere, craftily secreted in the vessel's depths. Despite the booze, it took a while for the frantic lady to be treated back to a relatively lucid state, by which time, what with all the kerfuffle, our own boat had become completely entrenched in the reeds at the bank of the lake. In order to exit the pickle all the passengers had to go and stand at the back of the boat, so that we could be pushed out of the wilderness. What a drama it all was, but I still preferred the floating islands to Disneyville. I know, crazy, right?

Nun too happy: A contemplation of the holy path

After our drunken night on the tiles with Zoe, Matty and I were in need of some contrition, so we visited Arrequipa's Monasterio de Santa Catalina. Dating from 1579 and formed from the white volcanic rock, sillar, the convent is an expansive warren of narrow streets, passageways, leafy courtyards and claustrophobic nun's chambers (not to mention chamber pots. Snigger). Despite significant earthquake damage over the years, Thirty holy women still live at the convent, and what is a beautifully maintained if somewhat eerie, but mainly fascinating museum of the anachronism that is all that nunning business. One of the highlights of the Monasterio for me was the clay jar laundry, probably because the act of washing my clothes has become a thing of rare luxury, no longer a chore. The laundry has a lengthy trough in the middle and giant clay jars on either side. The jars have a drain that is plugged with a potato (we haven't seen any other evidence of plugs in South America) and a tap that can be used to fill up the basin by cupping one's hands to redirect the water from the trough. Bloody remarkable. Another diverting pastime was standing and laughing at the numerous examples of bedpans and shitters that had been placed on display, and then marvelling at how utterly miserable all the nuns in the pictures looked. Maybe they were so sour-faced because of the uncomfortable chamber pots. Or maybe this outsize, suggestively cultivated cactus can be seen as a symbol of the nun's disgruntlement. Some kind of cry for help? I'm only speculating. Sparking up a fag and heading to the nearest bar, I left the cloister, confirmed in my existing belief that me and holy orders would never work.

Arrequipa Animal Antics

It's funny who you happen to bump into in Deepest, Darkest Peru. Zoe, Matty and I formed yet another mini-Brad reunion at an Arrequipa bar called, appropriately, Deja Vu. Indeed, we certainly had the sensation of having been intoxicated with Miss Jeanes at some point in the past. With us were Zoe's travelling buddies Scott and David. Also present, cigar in hand, was Bert Wicker. I'm still not sure if this is his real name. Sounds like a porn alias to me. Anyway, the group of us subjected the surrounding bar clientele to two photography-based games called 'Animal Impression' and 'Shaky Face'. I won't describe the rules as I think you get the picture. The resulting images, I'm sure you'll concur, make us all look like drunken retards, but this was clearly the aim of the game. Everyone's favourite animal impression was 'The Condor'. To think, such a noble creature being reduced to the pissed gurnings of a group of uncouth, Earth-bound reprobates, quite literally in one fell swoop. It's sad really.

And spin your partner, do ci do

Next stop, the Chilean coastal town of Arica. Matty and I were totally knackered after an overnight bus journey that took no prisoners but, pottering around the town, our spirits were enlivened by this flamboyant dance troupe, enthusiastically executing a type of line dance in one of the main squares. The man with the whistle at the fore of the group was ostensibly the 'conductor', to whose every toot the jolly revellers responded with a new step. Obviously the choreography would have fallen into a state of total disarray without him and he bore the mark of almost unbearable responsibility as an intensely concentrated facial expression throughout the performance. This jamboree wasn't the only instance of high-jinx we experienced during our stay in Arica. Settling down for a much needed alfresco pizza on the main shopping street, two rival gangs of football hooligans began lobbing beer bottles and anything to reach at one another. This clearly wasn't an uncommon occurrence as our waitress, calmly shrugging, collected our table setting and took us inside, away from the domestic missiles flying overhead. It goes without saying that South Americans are very passionate about football and just as well that no beer is served at the football stadiums. Godness knows what carnage would ensue if alcohol was added to the mix of testosterone, machismo and team pride.

More horsing around in the Atacama Desert

San Pedro de Atacama, a frontier town of the Atacama Desert, was supposed to be a base from which to visit the Bolivian Salt Flats in Uyuni. The day before we were due to depart on our Uyuni adventure, we ran into a bedraggled Dutch girl who related her tales of woe on the very trip we were about to undertake. She and a number of other tourists had been taken hostage for nine hours by a rabble of drunken miners in San Cristobel who were striking in demand for electricity, running water and other such luxuries. How unreasonable, we thought. Apparently the disgruntled miners threw rocks and (presumably empty) booze bottles at the tourist vehicles, the passengers of which only managed to escape when the rioters finally fell asleep in a boozy stupor. Well, we didn't fancy that so much. Postponing our Salt Flats trip, we were forced to find other, hopefully safer, activities to fill our time in San Pedro. We took an excursion to the Valle de Luna, a spectacular moonscape that resembled the location of a Star Wars film. Next we took to the saddle again, this time to the neighbouring Death Valley. I mean, I like horses as much as the next woman, but riding along narrow, crumbling ridges didn't do my vertigo any favours. Not least when my rogue steed resolved to gallop off up a rock in the opposite direction to where Matty and our flowing-locked guide were heading. Once the praying and cursing had subsided, the trek was quite spectacular actually. The arid, mountainous desert vistas were truly something to behold and proved a worthy distraction from clinging on to my saddle and wailing like a tantrum-stricken toddler.

Some people we've met along the way...

Matthew and I ended up staying in La Serena for quite a while longer than we first anticipated. This wasn't through any instantaneous and deep rooted love of the place per se. The city was ostensibly shut for 80% of our stay but there were no buses outta town. The only thing to do was make the best of it. This plan of action ultimately involved deviating from our usual unfriendly behaviour and (sharp inhalation of breath) talking to other people. No sooner had we stepped off the bus and met Bill and Janice, a fantastic couple from Australia who had apparently been everywhere on the globe it's possible to visit. They entertained us over a much needed coffee with all their travelling exploits no end. On our day trip to Isla Damas (the one with all the pengies, dolphins and sea lions) we met the lovely Felicitas. Enclosed is a picture of her and I at Church Appreciation Club (total members = 2) after a couple of pisco sours. Felicitas was a right old hoot and we're hoping to catch up with her when I eventually get round to visiting my long neglected relatives in the Vaterland. We also met Pete and his missus, Bruce, two bikers from Manchester who were making their way around the World Easy Rider fashion. They too were stuck in La Serena for all eternity, waiting for a bike part to arrive via South America's non-existent postal service. We filled the hours in time honoured tradition, found the only open bar and drank a lot of booze. Attached is a picture of Pete on stage at the jazz bar on the end of our road, dazzling everyone with his phenomenal harmonica prowess. Finally, we met Elanor and June from Ireland, who were brilliant fun and great drinking buddies. There are no pictures of them here but they really do exist. If you don't believe me look at my Facebook friends list. The upshot of this rambling post being, thanks to all the terrific people we met in La Serena, the city that always sleeps, for preventing us from perishing of boredom.