Well, this is it. After 12 months, 18 countries, two rucksacks and three pairs of flip flops, it’s time to go home and face real life.

Thanks for reading. (Dad).

Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie. I was fully expecting not to like this but really loved it, in fact it was one of the top three books of the year for me. Rushdie has a gift for story-telling and a light touch with humour. A clear cut above your run-of-the-mill India novels.

White Gold, Giles Milton. If you’re a fan of Nathaniel’s Nutmeg and his others then this is for you. The subject matter – white slavery in North Africa – was fascinating but I couldn’t help thinking the same could’ve been said in an essay rather than a book.

My Brilliant Career, Miles Franklin. Interesting as much for being a novel of its time (1901) as for being written by a 16-year old girl, plus the setting of outback Australia makes for a good yarn. Ali found it a bit girly, I liked it!

Pickwick Papers, Charles Dickens. His first and arguably most lightweight novel, complete with comedy, romance and farce aplenty.

A Wasted Vigil, Nadeem Aslam. The plot was a little contrived at first but more absorbing as it went along. Interesting perspectives on the old roots and current situation of the conflict in Afghanistan.

The Space Between Us, Thrity Umrigar. Absorbing and moving. Was she really that liberated at the end? And by the way could somebody please write an upbeat book about India?!

A Fine Balance, Rohinton Mistry. We both loved this one. Absolutely gruelling (if you thought some scenes of Slumdog were bad, you ain’t seen nothing) yet at the same time so compelling, it’s all about the fine balance between hope and despair.

The Siege of Krishnapur, J.G. Farrell. Another oldie, this one was the 1973 Booker Prize winner. It takes a delicate touch to write with comic flair about a life-and-death situation, and Farrell pulls it off brilliantly, with an entertaining account of the 1857 Indian rebellion in the fictional town of Krishnapur. The absurdities of the British class system are exposed as the garrison struggles to cope with life in the besieged Residency.

War & Peace, Leo Tolstoy. An epic in scale and scope, and surprisingly readable if difficult to hold with one hand. Details and character development are as well studied in the battlefield scenes as those in the ballrooms, and the near-equal measures of military plot, historical critique and romantic intrigue make for a captivating read from beginning to end (though it could’ve done without the two epilogues).

Kim, Rudyard Kipling. Young orphan Kim becomes a Tibetan lama’s chela or guide. Perhaps it was too subtle for me, or dated (first published 1901), but I would’ve liked to have more explicit Great Game excitement along with the low-key descriptions of espionage. Some good characters and descriptions of Amritsar, Lucknow, Simla…

The Mountain is Young, Han Suyin, set in Kathmandu, which makes for fun reading in Nepal. Not at all sure I (Ali) am a fan of the main character, who looks closely based on the author. Her husband is noxious too(!) But some of the side characters and quirky situations are delightful and hilarious.

The Far Pavilions, M. M. Kaye, how can a lady of seventy write such a compelling imagined account of the siege of the Kabul Residency, a thrilling blow by blow account of another battle in the Second Afghan War…and then such dripping Cartland drivel in the rest of it! She’s from a raj and military family herself, so apart from the Mills & Boon, it’s a very interesting read.

White Tiger, Aravind Adiga, last year’s Booker winner and a rapid and amusing read. While it has characters, this one feels like journalism again. Not a complaint really, just surprising that it won prizes as a novel. Does a valuable job of  balancing all that India-and-China-taking-over-the-world commentary.

The Age of Kali, William Dalrymple, fascinating journalism from a man who’s spent enough time in India to really get under its skin. Not cheering, much of it, but a healthy balance to effusive travel guides and helps a lot with what we see in the papers.

A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth. A tour de force this one, we both thought it the best book we’d read in years. Exciting, absorbing, at times exquisitely funny at others weepingly poignant. The only thing I can think of that was wrong with it was that at about 1,000 pages – and being so captivating – it was very hard on the biceps.

A Division of the Spoils, Paul Scott (Raj Quartet) – Book IV. A very absorbing denouement and he resisted the temptation to tie up all the loose ends. Dashed to the end a bit? As did the Raj I suppose…

The Towers of Silence, Paul Scott (Raj Quartet) – Book III. We agree between us they seem to get better as they go along.

Day of the Scorpion, Paul Scott (Raj Quartet) – Book II, and a huge improvement. Written several years later, so a more practised author by then? Or more edited? Either way, much better pace and subtlety.

The Jewel in the Crown, Paul Scott (The Raj Quartet) – first in the saga. A rape and civil unrest in the dying days of the Raj. Some distinctly waffly discursive passages in reported speech, needed to be 100 pages shorter. Interesting and readable otherwise and much better for reading it actually in India.

A House for Mr Biswas, V. S. Naipaul – life story of the frustratingly, amusingly useless Mr Biswas and his Indian family in 1930s Trinidad

The Iliad, Homer – sitting on Olympos beach reading about the brave deeds of Sarpedon and his Lycians before hiking on the Lycian Way from Kabak. The bus ride flew by today to the tragedy of Patroklos´death. Tonight, read on the shores of Pergamum, Achilles will have his revenge. The day after tomorrow we´ll be in Troy itself.  Sing, Oh Muse…

The Alexandria Quartet, Lawrence Durrell. Set in WWII Alexandria, Egypt. Four accounts of the same events, from different characters’ perspectives. A bit of a slog but some good twists in the plot

A Thousand and One Nights (trans. Richard Burton) – Sinbad the Sailor, Ali Baba, sultans, genies, crooks and saints – nearly 1,000 pages itself and all against a backdrop of so many of the places we´ve been. Wonderful. And the pleasure almost doubled by the outrageously politically incorrect and occasionally pornographic footnotes of Burton, an extraordinary Victorian polymath – linguist, spy, adventurer and seemingly a very poor diplomat.

Seven Pillars of Wisdom, by T.E. Lawrence – must-read account of Lawrence’s exploits in the 1918-19 Arab Revolt.

A Thousand Splendid Suns, by Khaled Hosseini – moving and memorable story of life in Afghanistan under the Taliban.

Arabian Nights & Days, by Naguib Mahfouz – magical tales inspired by the Arabian Nights fables, by a Nobel prize-winning Egyptian author.

The English Patient, by Michael Ondaatje – fantastic descriptions of the Egyptian desert including Siwa, and a wonderful love story too.

The Penelopiad, by Margaret Atwood – modern take on The Odyssey.

Scribbling the Cat, by Alexandra Fuller – a follow-up to her fantastic first book Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight, and equally enjoyable. Paints a vibrant picture of Zimbabwe and Zambia in recent decades.

Old School, by Tobias Wolff – interesting memoir/novel with strong literary and educational themes.

David Copperfield, the Dickens classic – caricatures par excellence.

To be continued…

…you get panic attacks if separated from a Lonely Planet for more than two hours

…you haven’t worn high heels in so long they make you walk like a man in drag

…haggling over 2p can take hours

…your beard is so long people ask if you’re Iranian (yes, this did happen)

…you have to give each other’s clothes a cleanliness check before allowing them out in public (thanks R&D for that one)

…items you’ve lost/left behind/ruined/worn out outnumber those you’ve purchased

…bin men and cleaners all dress smarter than you

…you forget how to add up, spell or perform simple everyday tasks

…toilet habits are a key conversation topic

…you can guess the nationality of any backpacker at 20 paces

…the only foreign vocabulary you can remember is the 3Bs (beer, bed, bus)

…you have at least 1kg of worthless coins from various countries and are keeping them just in case (in case what? you meet a Croatian in need of small change?)

…sharing clothes and toiletries is the norm rather than exception (will I ever get those socks back? do I want to??)

…you’ve collected the email addresses of countless people you’ll never contact

…your backpack contains random items such as Marmite, Worcestershire sauce, a stolen fork and handful of sheep’s fleece (again, seriously, and all at once)

…you think nothing of washing your feet in a public drinking fountain (oh yes)

…you never want to hear another Bob Marley song. Ever. Again

…washing with 2 wet wipes is quite a decent bath

…you adopt local gestures and words without any sense of irony – the Indian head wiggle and NZ “eh” can appear in the same sentence

…you have to think really hard to find an excuse not to drink at lunchtime

…7-8 hours sleep isn’t enough any more

They say camels are animals designed by a committee. But imagine something with beaver fur, on a rather piggy shaped, fat-bottomed body. The legs are thin and sheepy but the feet are broad and webbed. The head is like a brick, with tiny wiggly round ears at the back, sleepy eyes half way along the brick and a teddy bear nose at the front. Whiskers, a hint of shaggy mane and when he eats, his cheeks fill right out like a hamster’s. Superb. Ladies and gentleman, the capybara, the world’s largest rodent. And if it wasn’t for the piranhas, I’d be hopping right out of the boat this instant to give one a hug.

As we spot the first rainbow in the spray off Iguazu Falls, at the dramatically named Devil’s Throat, no less, all four of our very damp socks are knocked right off. It’s simply spectacular. I think the ten minutes before the Last Judgment may sound rather like this when the time comes.

So what better way to appreciate the mighty weight of cascading water than a little speedboat ride to catch the spray on your face on a hot jungle day? I override the concerns of the Domestic Budget Committee and we hop aboard. Fifteen minutes later, Liz is wringing many litres of the Iguazu River out of her trousers and I’m Chateau Bowwow. Oops.

Just as we’re about to set off on our horse trek, the suave and thoroughly multi-lingual Graf von Grossschloss und Bankvolt introduces himself and his charming wife to us and then swings nonchalantly into the saddle, flicking his floppy ginger hair off his forehead. The Count has been over here to play a few polo matches and to buy a third horse. Well, why not?

I’ve been riding about five times now (not counting donkeys on the beach when I was three). I really like it. I find the rocking motion soothing and the view from up there is great. So we’ve headed out to San Lorenzo to get some fabulous valley views from horseback.

But while I like riding, I am also rubbish at it. Haven’t a clue what I’m doing. On a sleepy horse, in cruise control and number three in a queue of five, I’m fine. But our cheery guide is fine for us to trot, canter and gallop whenever the fancy takes. Out in the military zone – which appears to be suspiciously like cattle grazing land to me, unless it’s bristling with exceedingly well camouflaged snipers – there’s tons of room to gallop.

And at that point, I’m clinging on for dear life, face in a rictus with my innards being rapidly liquefied. My saddle slithers all over the place and I’m quite sure that in the next second I’m going to be doing 50kmh across an artillery range under the belly of a horse, with no notion where the brakes are. I also suspect I may be involuntarily shouting “Huh -eh-uh-eh-uh-eh-uh-eeeeeeelp!” Either way, when we finally come to a halt it is clearly the funniest thing Liz has seen in the last ten years, as she’s lying in the long grass whacking the ground in hysterics.

Don’t think I’ll be making the Red Baron’s team this year then.

Argentina, I’m reliably informed, consumes about 80-90kg of meat per capita per annum. They have cattle here the size of minbuses. In Patagonia, Sunday lunch means splaying a whole lamb, sticking it on two pokers and standing it up by a fire for the afternoon. A mixed grill in Argentina can feed a whole rugby team.

When we get to Salta we stay at a place called Bloomers. It has a lovely, well equiped kitchen. We open an expensive souvenir red we’d bought in Mendoza to let it breathe and unwrap two chunky bifes de chorizo. And then the owner points out it’s a vegetarian hostel. Yes, folks, in the land of macho where the only place pink is allowed is in the middle of an 800g steak, we’ve managed to find a ******* vegetarian hostel. Disgusted.

In accounts on video and on placards on the wall, they remember how they arrived at D2. Most of the recollections are from sense of touch and sound. They remember the narrow stairs, the cold concrete bench, hearing each other’s breath, tripping on the three steps between booking and the cells. They’re hooded.

A woman recalls her introduction: dragged up the narrow stairs, unhooded and her head plunged into a bucket of excrement. This is what we have in store for you. Then back down to a small cell, of which she’ll be the sixth occupant.

Another young woman – and the vast majority of these political prisoners are painfully young, parents of tiny children, pregnant even – recalls a horrifying night of beatings and threats to her family. She’s then banged up in a cell 60cm wide, 2m deep, with dripping damp walls and floor and a 20cm grille over the green steel door providing the only light. I’m looking at it right now. Inside the door, just under the grille she recalls reading: “OSCAR CHABROL: they want to kill me”. It is only from this sort of clue that many families knew their loved ones were never coming home.

At the top of the those chilling narrow stairs, where the poor student encountered the bucket, there is an interrogation room. Now it is nearly bare, save for a wooden chair, a sculpture of a gruesome sort, covered in gnarly, pointy wooden pegs. In the middle of the wall behind hangs an electric cable, loose, and bare at the end.

Downstairs, a room is now totally papered with the photos of missing victims. Every so often, even now, remains are identified and returned to a family – after a terror that ended in 1983. This room contains heartbreaking albums made by families of the missing, graduation photos, messages from children who can’t understand, poems by grieving mothers. In the room next door, families have donated possessions of still unrecovered victims. Vignettes of these lives are in little labels on the keepsakes. One such is written in a mock price tag on a forlorn little dress.

In the courtyard outside this, a gentle faced curator talks some visitors through the plight of the prisoners. Ten minutes later, when we’re watching the video of prisoners’ recollections, there he is. Outside the door, the man himself is telling of his sitting on the cold concrete bench, his hood, his falling on the steps.

The infamous D2 police intelligence detention centre in Cordoba is now a museum, commemorating the victims, officially decrying the injustice and abuse for public record. Whilst it’s an emotionally draining place, it is good to see this reconciliation and recognition. It took ten years after the end of the Dirty War to repeal the amnesty and immunity laws that had continued to protect the old thugs responsible. They wriggled even then, three being caught trying to bribe nurses and doctors to declare them medically unfit for trial.

Outside the musem, bunting made up of victims’ photos stretches diagonally up and down the alley connecting the museum to the cathedral precinct. Despite the noise of the renovation work on the church nearby, you can still hear the photos flutter in the breeze.

Cordoba is famous for the Manzana Jesuitica. In fact it’s been made a UNESCO world heritage site. Manzana means apple. What I’m still not completely clear on is why the Jesuits felt Cordoba needed an apple this large.  The architecture is all very handsome, though, so let’s not quibble.

What I propose now is a little intelligence test for you. Maybe the IT whizzes among you could write an algorithm to solve it.

 Background: The Collegio Monserrat is possibly open between 4:00-6:23am, Tues to Sun, and in the evenings between 19:12 and 19:23. Except when there’s a T in the month. Your guide book may suggest it’s open from ten till one daily except Monday. Your book may be wrong. The University and Jesuit Church are open between 3-5am and after the siesta at 8pm every day. Except Monday. And Wednesday. And Sunday. And you can’t go in the Church when mass is on. Masses are held at 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 2pm, 3pm, 4pm and 5pm and last about an hour. Again, not all information in the posters may be accurate. In high season when the town is teeming with tourists, opening hours can be considerably shortened, the magnificent Palacio Feyrera being a case in point. You may assume for the purposes of this test that the staff at the tourist information office will be a waste of perfectly useful air. The Capilla Domestica is behind two huge, solidly locked eighteenth century doors. You will need the magic word to make the guard behind open them. There is no information as to whether the door genie has any set operating hours. Or indeed as to whether the Capilla is behind these doors at all.

Supplementary information: the guided tours of the university in English leave at 10am and 11am from the main gate and are conducted in Spanish.

The challenge: with only three days in February, high season, to work with, design an itinerary for two English speaking tourists that they will a) understand, and b) take in more than two famous sites in the city.

“Let’s play bingo!” says the chipper bus conductor, handing out numbered tickets for the game. We’re three hours into a 19-hour jurney from Bariloche to Mendoza (the city of chocolate to the city of wine – happy days) so bingo doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. But it’s not meant to be: the bus promptly breaks down and we spend an hour and a quarter sitting by the roadside while the drivers and conductor climb into the back with various crowbars, scratch their chins and smoke several packs of cigarettes.

Finally back on the road, the lucky lady in seat No.6 wins a bottle of vino after a tense game and we settle down to watch a romcom with Kate Hudson speaking badly dubbed Spanish. It takes forever for dinner to come, but at least we get a glass or two of complimentary plonk, which helps to knock us out for the rest of the night.

The conclusion? While the journeys are long and always always arrive late, these Argentines certainly know how to travel. 

***

Does anyone know how I can save my spare January 29th? I picked up an extra one on the way from Auckland to Buenos Aires and want to keep it for later. Heard they’re going to try to take March 10th away from me when we fly back…