Chapter 10 - Welcome Home

Greetings and thanks for following! Well, what a curious twenty-four hours that was.  I am now safely home and curled on my sofa in Plumstead, penning you a final instalment of this adventure. 

I found the most spectacular play area in the airport lounge at Bogota, which included a magical trail which led past a sparkly volcano, a mystical wooden bench to sit on and all sorts of other things.  Awkwardly, it was only for children - very unfair.

I had hoped to visit a nearby monastery atop a hill via a quirky funicular railway which isn't too far from the airport.  However, this wasn't to be, due to the complexities of leaving the airport, having already checked-in through to London, then coming back to the airport.  I thought about challenging this, but then had all sorts of negative thoughts - what if I get stuck in traffic and miss my flight home - that will be seriously inconvenient, plus I may never see my giant orange tortoise again and she deserves better than that; what if I can't find transport to the monastery or what if I can but then can't get back.  Had I had more than a few hours to spare, I would have made it happen, but my risk assessing brain multiplied likelihood by impact and the outcome was not worth the risk.  Instead, I spent the intervening hours reading, writing, drinking spectacular Colombian coffee, which tastes even better when it's complimentary - sorry, I mean, included in what you've paid.  It was about as free as the free minutes you get with your phone contract.  They are not free at all.  

The flight home was uneventful.  I am always amazed at the feat of engineering that is air transport - the thought that a giant silver metal bird weighing the weight of 350 people plus all their giant orange tortoise equivalents, plus the weight of the giant silver metal bird can leave one country, soar through the clouds (waving at the carebears who sit on the clouds, obviously) and arrive in another country - is hard to comprehend.  As someone profound once said, if God had wanted us to fly, He'd have built the airports closer to where people live.  

The most alarming part of the journey occurred at, of all places, the UK border at Heathrow.  I arrogantly sauntered towards the electronic gate, ready to press my e-chipped passport against the reader and glide through.  'Entry refused', said the machine.  Ah, I must have put it in wrongly - I turned my passport the other way round; 'entry refused', it said again; oh dear, this is awkward; I tried again - 'entry refused'.

In the last eleven days, I have effortlessly immigrated into the US, Peru, Colombia; I have travelled to 70 different countries in my life, often entering via land, sea, or rail.  I have never held any other citizenship; now I can't get into the UK.  

'You have to go to desk 35', said the hi-viz clad official behind me.

'Ok, thank you', I hesitantly retorted and walked anxiously to desk 35.  A Border Force official in her late 50s looked straight at me.  The conversation went something like this: 

'Hell0 - the electronic gate doesn't seem to want to let me through!'

'Does it usually?'

'Well, yes' - she gestured that I should give her my passport.  She pored over it.  

'Where have you come from?'

'Bogota, Colombia'

'Why were you in Colombia?'

'Well, I wasn't really, just for snacks and a snooze'

'Well, you were'

'Yes, but only for a few hours - I was in Peru mainly'

'Why were you in Peru?'

What was I meant to say at this point? To find Paddington?!

'Well, I went to the US really, to visit my sister and her family, then I went to have a little adventure in Peru'

She raised her eyebrows.  This is sounding dodgier by the minute, I thought.  I don't think I'd have let me in.  

'So, you couldn't get a direct flight from Peru?'

'No, not on the right day'

'So,' she perused my passport again, 'you were born in Sidcup'

'Yes indeed, Queen Mary's Hospital.  It's not there now, well, the hospital is, but not the maternity bit.  I like to think they closed it straight after my birth!'

I laughed.  She didn't laugh.   She wasn't convinced.  

'So, do you live here?'

'Well no'.

'You don't live here?'

'Well, not at the airport, no, that would be strange.  That would be like that man in that film, you know, Tom Thing'

'So where do you live?'

'Plumstead, South East London'

'Right'.  She paused, then said, 'I used to be a police officer in Belvedere'

Oh great, I thought - is this going to affect my entry into the country where I have lived since arriving at the now defunct Queen Mary's Hospital nearly I-can't-quite-believe how many years ago?

I nodded, 'ok, so you know the area'.  This has got to facilitate my entry, surely.  

She flicked through my eclectic collection of passport stamps.  I still can't believe that I did not receive a passport stamp in Peru or Colombia, honestly, where did it all go wrong? Passport stamps are part of the travelling thing - most of my travels are documented in various passports, although one passport remains in an unknown location following an unfortunate mugging in Ghana in 2002, from which I learnt to never, ever, keep one's passport in a handbag but instead to stash it on your person.

She looked at me, passed me my passport to me, smiled and said, 

'Welcome home'. 

Chapter 9 - a flock of flying dogs

Greetings from Colombia! Having booked the cheapest flights possible, via Google flights (thanks to Jack's Flight Club), I am routing home via... Bogota! I will be planting a forest of trees to start to attempt to balance the carbon footprint this trip has created.  It's less of a footprint, more of a chasm.  

If you've been following this adventure, and I am staggered at the number of views the blog has had - thank you for sharing the adventure.  

The square where my youth hostel was, was called Kennedy Park, and it is over-run with stray cats, many of whom have been adopted by locals.  Legend has it that the square was initially over-run with mice and possibly other rodents, hence the introduction of cats to see off the rodents.  But, a boy cat met a girl cat, one thing led to another and they had baby cats; this continued and now the square is over-run with cats.  In fact, on my first night one tried to share my dinner with me.  The conversation didn't exactly flow.  

It's not easy to get rid of mice.  I had a house-mouse once, maybe more - some might say that one mouse twice is in fact, mice.  I will never forget the night that I nearly called the police to report what sounded like someone trying to break through the back door, when it turned out to be the house-mouse trying to get his teeth around a KitKat chunky.

I decided to spend my final day in Peru in the next town along from Miraflores, Barranca.  Those kindly people at the Tourist Office usually have a walking tour there, but it's not occurring at the moment, but they gave me a map and said I should follow it to see all sorts of amazing graffiti art and a famous wooden footbridge.  Now as you may know, circles of 'me' and 'following maps' do not readily intersect in Venn diagrams, so I thanked them for the map, folded it up and tucked it into my jacket pocket, knowing that I will most probably use the reverse side for writing a to-do list at one point, and headed off in the direction of Barranca.  

I came across the Museum of Modern Art at Barranca.  It was closed. However, it seemed possible to wander between bits of curious modern art in the grounds and I had a happy few hours wandering, then sitting beside a huge pool of water, sipping coffee, people-watching and reading my books.

My friends from the roof terrace had invited me to meet them for dinner, so I made a plan to go to the original roof terrace from the post-walking tour dinner, then messaged them the directions.  I was quite proud of myself for firstly, being able to find the place, and secondly, to direct two other people to the place.  The staff were delighted that I had returned and brought more customers and even extended the 10% discount from the walking tour card, to all of us.  A pleasant evening of travel chat ensued and I enjoyed sumptuous fish straight out of Pacifico along with a divine passion fruit pisco sour which I would very highly recommend to you at any time.  Just one though - they are overproof (not ovenproof, that's different).

I've been staying at a youth hostel called the Flying Dog - the obvious name for a youth hostel in Peru - they are a small chain present in various areas of Peru and come recommended, by me.  Great value, friendly and comfortable; all types of room are available, from dorm rooms to en-suites.  They sorted out breakfast each day via a nearby restaurant, plus can direct you to day-trips, laundry, airport transfers and have cerveza in the fridge at reception.  Behold, a flock of flying dogs.  

I awoke at 6.15am to load my giant orange tortoise who I think is now on her very final journey, after twenty-six loyal years of service on numerous expeditions worldwide; she is now showing signs of abject exhaustion.  She's been lashed to the top of African bush taxis, flung into the depths of the mysterious below deck of various boats in all kinds of oceans and lakes, chucked onto countless conveyor belts into the holds of jumbo jets and questionably tiny weeny airplanes.  She's been with me through joy and laughter, trauma and tears.  

I said farewell to my room and left my key on reception as instructed, then waited outside, reading my book.  I felt a pang of anxiety - what if the driver has gone to another Flying Dog? What if he isn't coming at all? What if I miss my flight?! Honestly, I should know by now just to relax and have faith that it will be ok.  After about ten minutes, a man appeared from nowhere - 

    Hola, buenos dias.  Helen Beecher? Aeroporto?

All was well.   I followed him around the corner into the square, watched by a number of stray cats who seemed to have gathered as a farewell committee, where his car awaited.  Myself and my giant orange tortoise bundled in and we were airport-bound.

My lack of entry stamp did not faze immigration - in fact, it appears that stamping passports is becoming a thing of the past - sad, sad times.  I flew to Bogota, Colombia, from where I write to you now from a rather swish airport lounge.  I went to freshen up and - forgive the detail - awkwardly my deodorant exploded causing a minor flood of white liquid all over me, and all over the bathroom.  This was awkward.    

My adventure is coming to an end, and I will soon board my final flight to Londres where I will swiftly gather up the threads of real-life and get back to doing everything I'm probably meant to have already done.

There will be a final chapter tomorrow - see you then.

Chapter 8 - there's no such thing as the wrong roof terrace

Only I can get lost walking in a straight line.  Honestly, if I had a sense of direction, I'd be dangerous.  Yesterday I decided to venture down to Pacifico to soak up the beauty of the sea and sit reading my second book, having finished my first book.  The first book was a self-development book which you're meant to read once, then go back and do the activities subsequently.  Knowing me, subsequently will occur in about fifteen years, but at least I've read it once.    

I walked the route which has become loosely familiar, down towards the coast, stopping for coffee and a crepe from a pavement cafe which I've now been to twice,  so I'm practically a regular there.  

I wandered around some of the places I had visited on the guided walk.  It was Palm Sunday and there were various people emerging from churches and the nearby cathedral wielding palms.  I walked and walked, photographed the stunning Pacifico, people-watched, attempted to improve my Spanish through eavesdropping.  I ended up enjoying a frozen chocolate brownie drink thing - I generally have a moral objection to eating brownies as it just sounds cannibalistic, but I made an exception as it was sweltering.  I read my book, sipped my brownie drink and watched the world go by, possibly jotting down ideas for our forthcoming Brownie Holiday as they pinged into my head.

Sorry, that just reminded me - I just had to book a Tesco delivery slot for Brownie Holiday - which I have now done, all good, now, where was I?

Ah yes, I decided to go and have an early dinner at the roof terrace where the walking tour had ended.  As I walked along the front through what they call Love Park, just along from where I met Paddington the other day, I bumped into the guide from my walking tour and chatted to him - he was with a smaller group this time, just four people, and they were headed to the chocolate tasting spot next.

I continued walking along the front, stopping to soak up the spectacular views of Pacifico.  I walked and walked, continuously looking for the right turn towards my roof terrace, where I could taste the awaiting fish.  But things started to look curious, curiously different.  I seemed to be walking past huge blocks of flats I didn't recognise, through parks with play and gym equipment that I hadn't seen before.  

The route was packed with families enjoying the Palm Sunday sunshine, Peruvians walking their dogs, children playing, people cycling, roller-blading, scooting; there was no shortage of activity.  But awkwardly I had missed the turning and was miles from where I thought I was.

The route was also punctuated by yellow-clad Peruvians wielding awkwardly-shaped bicycles which have a huge freezer box attached - I think they are selling ice-cream and things like that.  

'Por favore', I approached one of these yellow-clad people with her awkwardly-shaped bicycle - 'donde es Larco?' Larco being the main road where the roof terrace is.  Well, I should have been prepared for her very detailed, very Spanish answer; I didn't understand the words, but the tone and body language told me that it was absolutely miles away from where I was.  Tone and body language often tell you more than words, although words are also extremely useful at times.

'Gracias, gracias', I nodded, pretending that I had understood what she had said.  I tried to ask if it was a long walk, by pointing at my wrist-watch and raising my eye-brows inquisitively; she proceeded to tell me the time, I think.

It transpired that I had walked about two miles past where I had meant to turn off.  I continued to ask the thoughtfully punctuated yellow-clad ice-cream sellers with their awkwardly-shaped bicycles, until I eventually found the main road.

A little irritated with myself, I wandered along and bumped into the Colombian couple from my recent day-trip - we exchanged pleasantries, I think.

Finally, I reached the roof terrace and had to show my covid vaccination card to gain entry.  I was ushered upstairs, then upstairs again, then settled myself at a table and got my notebook out to log the thoughts that had floated round my head on my unintentionally epic Helen walk.  Something didn't feel quite right.  The staff were all dressed in a uniform with hats; the menu looked different; so did the tables and the seats.  Oh no.  This wasn't the same roof terrace!!

I deliver trainings in problem solving.  I know how to get a farmer, a fox hungry for chicken, a chicken hungry for grain, and a sack of grain, across a river.  But problem solve this one - how could I explain to the lovely kind staff that I didn't mean to be at this roof terrace at all, but that I wasn't sure where the right one was, in a language which I don't speak.  

The kindly waiter presented me with a menu - I had planned to show them the photo I took of my amazing dinner the other day and order the same - but being in a different establishment, this wasn't to be.  I ordered ceviche which is a Latin American speciality - fresh raw fish cured in lime juice - this was done mainly through the medium of mime, so I wasn't entirely sure what would turn up, but ceviche it was, and it was delicious, as was the accompanying pisco sour.  

Whilst I was using the medium of mime to understand the menu, I noticed two American travellers arrive at the adjacent table.  Within minutes they had invited me to join them and we spent the next three hours sorting out the world philosophically, sharing travel stories and learning about various aspects of our lives.  It was a very pleasant evening.  

There's no such thing as the wrong roof terrace.

Chapter 7 - Sea-lions, chickens & eggs

My alarm went off at 4.15am and as per usual, I hit the snooze button and enjoyed a further ten minutes of slumber.  My phone then started pinging with WhatsApp messages about my pick-up time, a photo of the vehicle, instructions as to where I should walk to and when.  At the appointed time of 5am, I bundled into a tiny minibus, which transported me to a bigger tourist bus, which gradually filled with people at various places until we were twenty-five in total.  Everyone was from Central or South America, apart from me.  Everyone spoke Spanish fluently, apart from me.  I really should have done a crash-course before coming here, but yet another thing I didn't get round to.  Everyone was kind and friendly and helped me throughout the day.

There wasn't a lot of space in the bus and it's good that I'm tiny otherwise it might have been quite uncomfortable, but it really didn't matter as what was to follow was one of the most exhilarating days ever. 

After four hours in the bus, punctuated by a stop for banos, we arrived at Paracas on the coast, to a buzzing coastal centre of shops, restaurants, all sorts of tour groups lurking confusedly around, locals plying their trades, and stray dogs lying in the morning sun.  

We were instructed to double-mask, unless you have a fancy KN95 mask, as is law in Peru, then we queued up to bundle into a huge speedboat.  'He very good driver', retorted our trusty guide reasurringly, as we clipped ourselves into attractive orange life-jackets with PARACAS in huge letters on the back.  I had been wondering why the guide had a folded blanket on his head.  This became clear as the hat of the girl at the front flew off as the boat picked up speed, narrowly missing being lost to the Pacific forever thanks to the quick thinking of a fellow passenger who reached up and grabbed it.  Worried the same would happen to me, I swiftly put my travel jacket on under my life-jacket, then put the hood over my trusty fake Oakley bucket hat (which has lasted me since being purchased outside a temple in Thailand in 2014, so I'm not about to lose it) and tightened the tiny clasps.  I'm not sure what I looked like, with this plus being double-masked with sunglasses, but who cares, I was in the middle of the ocean.

It was freezing and I could feel myself quivering.  To the right there was an incredible show of a flock of a million billion birds soaring just about the level of the sea.  I watched, mesmerized by the beauty, the seamless organisation of the operation.  It was like one of those old moving screensavers, birds flying, flying, flying, all perfectly spaced and streaming concurrently, unencumbered; there were birds as far as my eyes could see - an everlasting birdscape, if that's a word, which it is now.  We seemed to boat into the birdscape but the birds just lifted a little, unfettered.  I watched, open-mouthed at the spectacle, albeit masked.  

The boat swung to the left and I bade farewell to the birdscape.  A curious deep barking noise met my ears and in a few seconds, we were metres away from - well, I was going to be clever and use the correct collective noun for a group of sea-lions, but on further inspection, this apparently depends on where the sea-lions are, what the season is, and what they are doing.  In case you're interested, I have just learnt that a group of sea-lions on land are called a colony; as I'm typing that, it perhaps sounds obvious.  Less obvious is the fact that in water, they are called a raft; during the breeding season, they are known as a rookery; and just in case you were wondering, if several female sea-lions are found in a male sea-lion's territory, in any season, they are called a harem.  Yes, really.  I don't know who makes these rules, or who has time to check the gender of the sea-lions (or sea- lionesses, surely), so I'll just describe what I saw as a whole load of sea-lions adorning a long length of land, variously barking, waddling along on their fleshy tummies, or playing with their young.  This was a spectacular sight to behold and not something I have ever experienced.  The depth of the volume was overwhelming and as my fellow passengers tried to capture it all on their cameras and videos, I took a picture or two, then enjoyed the noise and drama of it all.  

Back on dry land, we bundled back into the bus and headed off to a sprawling complex of shops and restaurants for a delicious lunch.  A friendly Colombian bus-friend helped me to understand the menu and I ordered a Peruvian speciality which answered one of life's deep philosophical questions - the chicken and the egg arrived at the same time, on the same plate.  There - question answered.  

I also decided to try Inca Cola which is Peruvian Coke.  The radioactive shade of it suggests that someone isn't drinking enough water, but once you've got past that thought, it is delicious and provides the sugar-hit needed for when the sun comes out.  I am saddened that there don't seem to be any glass bottles of Coke anywhere any more.  Bizarrely, this anti-plastic world has turned its back on glass bottles and reverted to plastics - did you know that it takes 450 years for a plastic bottle to break down! Not to mention that I am an avid collector of the bottle tops of glass Coca Cola bottles as they have the name of the country where they are bottled printed on there.  Some readers may remember happy (or otherwise) times spent chasing around after these in various countries.  One day, I will glue all those I have collected onto my scratch map.  Maybe there will be a u-turn on single-use plastic bottles one day; maybe there won't.  Here's hoping.

After lunch we were transported upstairs for a very pleasant tasting of wine, local pisco and more.  This is not really my thing, but when in Peru, etc.  Much of it was translated for me and I was very grateful.

Then it was time to travel to the incredible Huacachina Oasis, just outside of Ica.  This is a spectacular lagoon in the middle of the desert, surrounded by trees, hotels, tuk-tuks, taxis, buses, restaurants, even a youth hostel boasting a 'Hostelling International' sign.  The lagoon itself is surreally punctuated with pedalos for hire.  I found myself striding through pure, untainted desert sand, then being ushered into a desert buggy with an alarmingly complex seatbelt.  This need for this alarming complexity became clear as the driver put his foot down and we went on a death-defying speed ride around the dunes.  We went down vertical inclines and sheer drops, over tummy-tickling, heart-in-mouth inducing gravity-defying gradients.  All I could think was 'Lord Jesus', in a tone of supplication, not blasphemy, 'please don't let this vehicle overturn and if it does, please let the ensuing damage be covered by my travel insurance policy as I can't remember if I ticked the adventurous activities box when I purchased the policy'.  

We then arrived at what felt like the top of a dune.  The driver, having kindly unleashed my alarmingly complex seatbelt smiled broadly and said 'now, we go sandboarding!'

Now - I had years of intense orthodontics throughout my teenage years - a wide variety of removable braces with weird keys for tightening, curious head-gear at night, elastic bands, fixed lower braces; you name it.  I owe the fact that I am not mistaken for a giant house rabbit to my orthodontist.  I really did not want all this great work to be wrecked in a very avoidable sandboarding accident caused by collision with an angry cactus, or similar.  

I stood, wavering inside.  The driver handed me a huge flat board which looked like an ironing board.  We seemed to be positioned at the top of a precipice.  My new bus friends all seemed unfazed and one by one, they took their turns to go down the precipice, variously rolling off, or not, and all seeming to come off unscathed.  There were no cacti in evidence, and the driver seem to have chosen a good spot - in fact there were miles of nothingness.  'What's the worst that could happen', I thought to myself, then decided not to entertain all the terrible things which could happen - I train in this stuff and could write a 20-page risk assessment on sand-boarding alone - I thought as I lay down on the board and looked ahead - 

'Could you push it slowly please?'

'To brake you just press your feet in the sand - you are the brake'

'Oh great.  But what if...'

It was too late, I was careering down a vertical incline at what felt like a thousand miles an hour, adrenaline-pumping, heart wedged in my mouth, not quite believing that I had agreed to this - had I?! I arrived at the bottom, heart racing like never before, reassured to realise that all faculties, and all teeth, were still intact.  

'That was simple run.  Now, we do another!'

And we did.  The second run made the first look like a bit of a picnic - the second was faster and the incline sharper.  I shelved my risk assesssment criteria and just went for it.  

The journey back was very long and with sand in places where one wouldn't generally feel sand, a little uncomfortable, but it didn't matter.  After four hours on the road, variously reading, writing, dozing and looking out of the window, I was deposited - awkwardly about 5 blocks away from where I should have been deposited, but it didn't matter - back in Miraflores.  This had been one of the best days I have experienced whilst travelling and I would thoroughly recommend it.    

Well, it's my penultimate day here today, so I'm off to wander and see what's happening in Miraflores today.  Thanks for sharing this journey with me.        

Chapter 6 - alpaca lot in

Fortunately the inclusive breakfast, or desayuno as I prefer to call it these days, was located at a restaurant which is literally at the bottom of the stairs to my quirky youth hostel, so even I with my complete absence of sense of direction could not get lost.

I had a complete wobble earlier and started looking to see if I can change my flight - my thought process went something like this - what am I doing here? Swanning around for no apparent reason, making friends with strangers, sipping cerveza of an evening, reading and writing.  It's the ultimate self-indulgence when there are so many useful things I could be doing at home - planning events, or sorting the details for the four residentials which are locked into the diary and others which are floating around my head but have yet to make it into writing, booking in work and training stuff, even doing actual work and other useful things, but instead I am living it up in Peru.  But after a spot of self-reflection, I decided that a few days on the other side of the world, which hopefully a few others may enjoy via this blog, is verging on just about socially acceptable.  To the practicalities - I booked such cheap flights (go google flights!) that they can't be changed anyway.  So here I am.  

Breakfast was a scrumptious egg and toast, coffee, and a cup of indeterminable juice.  I brought three books with me on this trip and sat reading the first which I have very nearly finished, over breakfast.  There are pros and cons to being a lone adventurer - having time and space to read is a definite pro.  Whilst I routinely saturate myself with The Guardian and wall-to-wall Radio 4, reading an actual book is quite a novelty.

I have booked myself a day-trip with the mysterious and very Peruvian-sounding Patrick, whom I have just given my passport details.  Those of you who know me will appreciate how careful I am with personal details, in that I trust no-one.  So to have WhatsApp-ed my passport details to a complete stranger is well outside of my comfort zone.  However, I've paid reception at the place where I'm staying - you'll note an absence of details regarding the specifics - you never know who might be reading - I watched the whole of Spooks in lockdown; trust no-one.

I decided to go to the beach today, to finish my personal development book and to chill and sip Coca Cola with the waves crashing close by.  This plan wasn't quite to be as the beach is a very long way down from the level I'm at, although the views of Pacifico are truly spectacular.  Pacifico at its finest.

Curiously, an upmarket shopping mall adorns the sea-front and there were hi-viz-clad security guards demanding proof of my covid vaccination prior to my admission to the shopping mall.  I browsed a few minutes then as I felt my caffeine levels drooping, I headed for a quirky coffee shop I'd passed along the way and sat awhile, very nearly finishing my book.  

Whilst day-dreaming and sipping true Peruvian coffee, my eyes fell on the building opposite - yes, that's right, it was, if you hadn't guessed, 'Mundo Alpaca', 'live the alpaca experience - alpaca museum'.  As soon as I'd finished my coffee, I dashed across the road and lost myself in the alpaca museum where I am now an expert in all things alpaca - I can tell you in great details the history of how alpaca came to be used for so many things, and how the advice is to cuddle an alpaca in order to keep warm.  A kindly lady accompanied me around the museum, helping me to press buttons to see pictures of the history of alpaca, watch videos, listen to audio, pose with alpaca (see Twitter) and - best of all - experience virtual reality with alpaca - I have to say, this felt like a better use of VR than dodging angry flying cubes with lightsabers - I was actually in a field of alpaca, helping to herd them, chat to them, it was surreal, but not in a bad way.  

I had walked past the tourist information centre in Miraflores and had popped in.  They had a free walking tour of Miraflores that afternoon! I signed up and returned five minutes before the tour started.  This was a great thing to do - three hours of walking around the sites of Miraflores, with a bunch of others, all in Peru for their own reasons.  As one who loves to walk and chat, this was a perfect way to spend three hours in a new place.   

Our trusty tour guide Alvaro from #LimaWalkingTour took us around Miraflores, taking in all the sites and learning about the place in great detail.  We tasted a raft of types of Peruvian chocolate in a chocolate shop; we visited various parks on the seafront and even met Paddington.  The tour culminated with tasting Pisco Sour on a roof terrace - I love roof terraces and have had the privilege of enjoying them in many different places.  A pisco sour consists of egg white, pisco, lemon, sugar syrup and tastes superb.  I sat and chatted with the friends I'd made on the walking tour, including the legendary guides, Alvaro and Susana, to whom I explained that I do something a bit similar for a job at home, conveying information to different groups of people.  I stayed at the roof terrace for a sumptuous fish dinner fresh from the Pacific, with new friends from the walking tour, including Deana from Alaska who is having a major adventure in South and Central America.

Well, I appear to have been added to a WhatsApp group with others who are going on this day-trip tomorrow... I am a professional avoider of WhatsApp groups so am not overly happy about this.  Honestly, when did this world change beyond recognition communication-wise? It's twenty years - I know (!!) - twenty years since I first started adventuring alone - in 2002, on my first foray into solo travels in Ghana, West Africa, I used to walk into town once a week to check my e-mail, wait an hour for a connection, wait a further hour when the electric went down, then maybe reply to two or three e-mails before the connection went again, then give up and walk home.  Fast-forward twenty years and WiFi is practically part of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, overarching most other needs on some diagrams, and I'm sitting in a Peruvian youth hostel, wirelessly sharing my thoughts with you thanks to Yoga, my tiny laptop, whilst my smartphone pings incessantly about the arrangements with strangers for tomorrow.  Although I suppose strangers are just friends you haven't made yet.

I'll leave it there as I have to get up at 4am for the day-trip.  Thanks for reading - hasta mañana.

Chapter 5 - Got no soles

Another airline I've never heard of - LATAM - kindly took me all the way to... Peru! It was a huge aeroplane, much bigger than the Jet Who planes that ushered me to the US of A.  It was a surreal overnight flight where I was sandwiched between a rather-too-right-leaning lady from I'm not quite sure where, and a shy Peruvian woman who smiled at me when she absolutely had to, like when she'd accidentally scooped up my seatbelt instead of hers.  

I hadn't heard back from the place where I am staying about the airport transfer I'd attempted to book; 19-year-old me would have happily spent hours haggling with cab drivers to get to downtown Lima and beyond; in nearly twenty years since my first forays into solo international travel, I have learnt a lot - sorting one's airport transfer is one of the top things to sort and I was reassured when on logging into the WiFi in the immigration queue at Lima Airport, there was an e-mail confirming that my airport transfer was booked.  Honestly, the world has changed beyond recognition in those twenty years - we haven't always had the world in our pocket, as I frequently tell classrooms of teenagers who look at me as though I'm making it all up.  

I fell into conversation with a new friend called Mary - not Mary the ice-cube fairy, a different Mary, an American in Peru for her husband's nephew's wedding.  She asked me if I was worried about the riots and protests in Lima.  The what? Oh gosh, imagine if I read ahead, I'd be dangerous.  This trip, I didn't even manage to download a Lonely Planet chapter about Peru, which is unlike me, so I certainly hadn't got as far as current events.  I only booked the place I'm staying to generate a donation on easyfundraising.  

A kindly lady took my photo at immigration - I got to remove both of my masks (mandatory on LATAM flights unless you have a really fancy one) - including an alpaca mask my mother gave me, which seemed very appropriate for this trip, although the last time I met an alpaca was in Gillingham - and my glasses, so I will be barely recognisable.  I noticed afterwards that she seems to have neglected to stamp my passport, so I am technically not here at all.  Let's hope this isn't awkward when I come to leave.  She definitely took a photo and she definitely worked for Peruvian immigration, as far as I could tell - here's hoping, or I'll be calling my new friend Mary.  Or Aunt Lucy - she lives in darkest Peru.

After neither of my cash cards would yield any local currency (called soles), I decided on balance to go through and locate my taxi driver.  It's always quite something to see my name on a large placard - it's at moments like these that any combination of things which resemble my name are fine - I won't fuss about superfluous hyphens, word order, or spelling - behold, 'Hellen Beecher' has made it to Peru.

The journey in the cab was long and slow, but I like journeys - 'when you rush so fast to get somewhere, you miss half the fun of getting there' - I didn't write that line, it's from an epic poem called Slow Dance, which someone else wrote.  

Awkwardly, the conversation was limited as my Spanish is a bit limited.  I can do the most important things, such as ordering beer and asking where the toilets are.  I'm not proud of this.  My French is reasonable, but that is no help at all here.

The driver wasn't too happy about being paid in dollars, I understood that much.  Possibly for this reason, he deposited me at the wrong youth hostel.  Fortunately, the right one was just around the corner.  I'm staying in Miraflores, a modern suburb of Lima which as a certain cosmopolitan feel to it - pavement cafes, asphalted playparks, bicycles for hire and all sorts of quirky shops and restaurants.

I checked into my room which overlooks the park which is full of wandering Peruvians, some walking their dogs, others chatting with friends; hapless tourists with their abundant and pointless travel gadgets - I'm a traveller, not a tourist, just saying - and salespeople plying their trades, mainly knitted flowers and stone necklaces.  Gone are the days of a shared dorm and bathroom - these days I book my own room with a lockable door and everything.

Well, una cerveza por favore (I got to use one of my two top phrases) has come to an end, so methinks it's time to go and locate some dinner, then make a gentle plan for tomorrow.  Thanks for sharing this journey with me.  

Chapter 4 - angry flying cubes

Today was my final day en famille  and I write to you now from Los Angeles International Airport where I'm awaiting my flight to a further few days of adventure.

I had a happy half hour this morning where my brother-in-law let me try his virtual reality headset.  I had to ward off angry flying cubes aiming for my head, with giant lightsabers, in time to music.  I found this very difficult and after perishing multiple times over, he kindly put it onto a mode which meant I could not perish.  It's at times like this that I realise that hobbies different to my own are available.  The closest I get to virtual reality is, well, watching Click where Spenley, Lara and the team fill me in on the latest advances in tech, most of which I can appreciate, but happily live without.  It was a bit like that.

My sister lovingly prepared spider-web shaped waffles for breakfast, with delicious strawberries and blackberries, plus I enjoyed a chocolate orange flavoured coffee thanks to my brother-in-law's epic coffee machine which wouldn't look out of place in Costa.  

I loaded up my giant orange tortoise once again and after I had said goodbye to SAGE the very advanced dog, two cornsnakes, two fish and an Argentinian tegu, we bundled into Hermione the Tesla; it's very important to always name things.  

We went to a local shopping mall and I watched my niece do exactly what I do - make friends with complete strangers, which was endearing.  We browsed in several shops and my sister purchased shoes for the children - my niece's shoes smell like strawberries! Honestly, who thinks these things up?!

We had lunch at a quirky pizza place where we were able to build every aspect of our own pizza, which was good fun and a lovely final meal together.  After wandering around a little more, I was introduced to bubble tea, which has been on my list of things to try for ages, but an opportunity had not presented itself, until now.  Well, I still don't quite understand what it is, but it is delicious - it consists of cold tea with tiny yummy beads of tapioca which - googles quickly - are made of tapioca starch which comes from the cassava root.  Who knew? There is a bubble tea place in Plumstead High Street which I walk past multiple times each week - next time I shall pop in and order myself a bubble tea.  You should do the same. 

Well, here endeth the first part of this adventure and it's time for the next part.  I said a tearful farewell to the only two people in the world to whom I am Auntie Helen - 'why are you crying Arnie Helen?' questioned my 4-year-old niece.  Since then I've been catching up with various administrative bits and bobs, hoping that my lift from the next airport has received my flight details - here's hoping.  Tomorrow's blog will reveal all.  

Chapter 3 - pulled pork and cycle paths

The day began in the morning, as they tend to.  I woke up to the sweet sound of two small children watching cartoons.  

We breakfasted then headed into town where I was left in sole charge of two children in a play-park.  I was a little lost without my usual hi-viz, clipboard, two-way radio and sixty-eight other children, in fact, keeping track of two was a lot trickier.  They climbed up a giant castle, slid down various different slides, rotated rapidly on a roundabout-type thing, then chilled out in a huge circular swing, all whilst making friends with other children.  Both my niece and nephew were present and safely intact when Mummy returned.  Phew, that could have been awkward.  

We headed back to the house for lunch and to check on SAGE the Australian Shepherd - he's had a busy couple of years, bless him, with all those meetings.  

In the afternoon, we cycled to the beach along perfectly maintained cycle paths.  I haven't been on a bicycle since the last time I went on a bicycle, which was when I was last here, in summer 2018, when my tiny niece was even tinier and just crawling around the house - she has no recollection of me ever having visited here.  

I was a little unsteady on my bicycle at first, and may have tumbled off a couple of times initially, until I got my balance.  I couldn't get my head around the gears though - the laws of physics have always been a bit of a mystery to me, particularly in relation to transport.  Learning to drive sort of helped me understand the laws of physics, particularly when I crashed the family mondeo into a neighbour's house after four lessons.  I didn't babysit there again.  I then failed my driving test before I'd left the test centre car-park, but that's another story.

The sun shone and the sea was perfectly clear and great for paddling, which we duly did.  We stopped at an ice-cream parlour for sumptuous banana chocolate chip ice-cream and a cappuccino, then continued on our travels a little further until we found a dinner place where we enjoyed delicious pulled pork sandwiches.  We bundled back onto our bicycles and cycled all the way home.  I've done exercise twice in three days now - steady.

Chapter 2 - a suspicious transaction

This morning's awakening was at the verging on socially acceptable time of 7.30am, due to my niece and nephew switching on the TV and watching cartoons in the room next to mine.  Yesterday's awakening had been due to my nephew deciding that 5.30am was a good time to start playing on his drum-kit, so today was definitely preferable.

After a sumptuous poached egg and beautifully prepared cappuccino from my brother-in-law's spectacular coffee machine, we bundled into the car bound for Discovery Cube, a quirky science museum-esque place filled with all manner of scientific experiments.  We built wooden cars then sent them off on Scaletrix-type tracks; we strolled around a mocked-up supermarket following clues to find foodstuffs, then scanned them into our trolleys; we learnt about solar power and windpower; we sorted rubbish into recycling and non-recycling; we then went outside and made dinosaurs, as one does.  I had a moment of panic when my usually trusty Revolut card decided that me purchasing lunch for us all at Bean Sprouts, the restaurant at Discovery Cube, was defined as a 'suspicious transaction' and decided to lock itself there and then.  Great.

Later, we dropped my nephew at his drumming lesson then scooted round a nearby supermarket, stocking up for the next few days.  My niece made the supermarket trip memorable in ways that only a four-year-old can - clambering into the trolley, over the trolley, clinging onto the side of the trolley, all whilst helpfully grabbing what she thought we probably needed.

My sister prepared delicious fajitas for dinner, followed by my first ever 'root beer float' thanks to my brother-in-law; this consists of ice-cream floating in root beer and is delicious - do try it if you have these things to hand.  It has a curious medicinal twang to it, but not in an unpleasant way.  

I also managed to nail a series of things from my to-do list today.  Bizarrely, it's easier to find time to do some things when one is literally on the other side of the world.  I've written two DofE reports and very nearly ordered the t-shirts for the forthcoming Brownie Holiday.  I've also been reading up the next phase of my journey, so stay tuned.  

  

Chapter 1 - Jet Who?

Have you ever booked flights with airlines you've never heard of? I didn't think so.  This trip, I 'google flighted' my way to booking and ended up with flights at the right times and to the right places, but with airlines unknown.  I was a little concerned that none of the bookings seem to make mention of obvious things, like for example, a seat, so I had visions of having to perch awkwardly on a wing and hope for the best.  Fortunately, all was well on the first and second flights  - they were expecting me, I had a seat and everything.  Both times I was hoping for a window seat, as one does, albeit with the inevitable clambering over strangers when one needs to, but this was not to be, and I sat happily sandwiched between strangers on both flights.

The first flight transported me seamlessly from Gatwick to JFK, New York, which was the busiest airport I have experienced for decades.  It was rammed with people variously milling, chatting, shopping, snacking and charging their abundance of devices.  I cleared customs, apologising to the immigration officer that I had run out of time to get a haircut and that the wild animal look would have to suffice.  

I then re-checked my trusty orange tortoise who has sat gathering dust on top my wardrobe for nearly 3 years so is very glad of the opportunity to be out, albeit spending the bulk of her time so far in eerie plane holds, rammed with chocolate for nephew and unicorns for my niece.   

After a noisy couple of hours at JFK, I climbed aboard my second Jet Blue flight and slept like a baby for five hours, waking only for a quick cup of tea.   Before I knew it, I was scooping my giant orange tortoise off the baggage carousel and into the back of my awaiting sister's car.

We drove about an hour back to their house and in the morning, my niece and nephew bounced in to greet me with their excitable cries of 'Arnie Helen!!'

After I was introduced to the new family pets - Joey and Sharktooth the amenable cornsnakes, we munched delicious french toast - just the humans, the snakes would have struggled - then headed out to Irvine Regional Park, a quirky expanse of land, trees, a zoo, play-parks and plenty of families having fun.  We hired a 4-person pedal car and pedalled our way around the perimeter - the most exercise I've done for three years - then headed to the on-site zoo where we saw scary bears, cute capybara, majestic peacocks, mountain lions prowling malevolently, prickly porcupine, plus a petting zoo full of goats which the children enjoyed stroking and feeding.  

On the way back, we stopped for sumptuous frozen yoghurt at a self-service place where you build then devour your own unique frozen yoghurt sculpture using every conceivable frozen yoghurt flavour then toppings raising from blueberries to chocolate caramels to chunky watermelon sweets.

After dinner and a dog-walk, variously walking - myself, my sister and the dog - cycling - my niece - and roller-blading - my brother-in-law and nephew - it was time for bed.