Up a volcano, on the beach with old friends and into the desert

Esther here again. Further to Coups' previous entry just a quick thought for the day: Keep the Clean. (Copied from the ladies' bathroom in our Calafate hostel. Joined by: Do Not put paper in odorless. The Spanish for toilet is inodoro or some such.)

Puke-on (Apologies to Nelis and Johanna)
We hit Pucon, the playground of the Chilean rich in the Lake District as the sun sets in most spectacular, red-enhancing fashion.

We spend the first, cloudy morning in bed reading, chilling after some heavy traveling across mountains and lakes. I also still have not shaken my chest infection completely and need to rest. Amanda ventures out and gets her first glimps of Pucon, this quaint (albeit artificially so) village of low-level log buildings and no neon signs: lago Villarica, massive mountains in the background and, lording it over all, Villarica volcano. Its mouth is mostly covered in clouds, but when the curtain is lifted, it flaunts its splendour with the tell-tale sign of a live volcano: a gently rising whisp of smoke.

The next morning we're on the beach of black volcanic ash, and later meet up with Janet the Aussie and Kieran. The four us spend a decadent afternoon in the 6 mountain pools of a thermal spring, preparing for our ascent of the volcano the next day.

First thing the next morning we get kitted out in volcano suits that make us look like extermination men, as well as ice picks, crampons, helmets, cloves etc. And then it begins.

The first 400m are fairly easy - we're on a chair lift, but then our motley group of one Brit, one SAer, one Irishman, 2 Dutchies and one Chilean start to follow our guide, slow snow step after slow snow step.

The thinner the air - we're zig-zagging to 3200m at the crater mouth - the slower our progress and the more frequent our requests for rests. I turn out to be the group chicken: my congested chest starts to wheeze like a forgotten granddad in House Last Sigh and it feels like my lungs have lost the capacity to send oxygen around my body. The guide's sense of competition (get the feeling it's guide's honour to make sure everybody makes it to the top) coaxes me to the top with promises of just-around-the next-brow. And, shame upon shame, I lose my hard-woman image (?) as he takes my back-pack and drags me up on the other end of his walking stick.

But worth it: the 3200m-high view of 4 or 5 other volcanos, Pucon and an ocean-full of lakes takes the breath away (although my breathing recovers miraculously) but the coolest is no doubt the swirling mass of red-hot lava down in the crater revealed every few minutes when the wind parts the cough-inducing sulpher cloud.

We rest, Amanda makes us tomato and salami sandwiches and I thank the guide profusely for getting me there. And then the fun, and the reason for our nuclear suits, starts. Whereas it took us four hours to reach the summit, we get down in 40 minutes. On our arses. Sliding down in the snow, laughing wildly and willing ourselves to go faster, faster, faster.

We spend another day in Puke-on, internetting, looking to replace Amanda's too-small boots, a quick visit to the doctor for more antibiotica (I'm about to remove my lungs manually), and some fantastic freshly liquidised peach juice before we catch the 7.45pm bus for Valparaiso on the coast near Santiago.

22 years since we last had tea together
Arrive in Valparaiso at 8.30 and immediately jump on the next bus to Algarobbo, an hour and a half away, to meet an old friend I haven't seen for a while. (A misunderstanding means he jumps in his truck at about the same time to collect us in Valpara. Sorry, Nelis.)

Our timing could not have been worse. Nelis (school mate from Cape Town, last spotted in 1984 and rediscovered thanks to Google) is in the stressful throes of a massive project converting an old house into a restaurant with the best location in Algarobbo, but he takes us home to meet Johanna, his wife, and Alexander and Daniel, his two sons who have only lived in Switzerland but speak perfect Afrikaans. With much concentration I manage to connect the images of Nelis-1984 and Nelis-2006 and listen with wonder to this driven, determined man and his bubbly, bright Chilean wife, who, along with her family, fled the Pinochet regime in 1973.

We're going back before we leave South America, and I'm glad, because there is so much more talk to talk and so much more x-raying to be done.

The driest place on earth
And here we are now, in San Pedro in the Atacama desert (supposedly the driest in the world with a rainfall of between 10 and 50mm a year). And also the very first time that our blog is up to date.

San Pedro is a mud town in the shadows of the Andes (blimey, they're enormous) that's been perfectly preserved in the dry air of the Atacama, surrounded by the most fascinating rock formations, the result of volcanic activity in the Andes millions of years ago and other such geological happenings.

We do a two-hour walk in a dry canyon filled with salt deposits, gypsum, silicone and even condor vomit. Then the Valle de la Luna where Coups and I are the only ones in our group to race up a dune to get the best view of the setting sun while the mad lunar landscape is on fire behind us. Too many other people, but damn, damn spectacular.

We've had a change of plan after meeting many travellers who said the 3-day 4x4 trip from San Pedro to the salt flats of Uyuni was THE South American highlight.

So, tomorrow morning we're crossing the border into Bolivia for our little adventure. Then on to La Paz, hopefully mountain biking down the "most dangerous road in the world" (guide book) and then into Peru via Lake Titicaca. (This means we won't go to Arequipa and Colca Canyon. They'll have to wait until next time).