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And so the longest bus ride of the trip so far begins… 18 hours Iguazu to Buenos Aires, 16 hours BA to Mendoza, 9 hours Mendoza to Santiago. Painful yet necessary after the expensive return bus to Iguazu, the next two buses total £60, so it’s a cheap way to cover some serious milage. Plus for every overnight bus you save on an overnight stay. Bargain travel strikes again. There is a six hour wait in Buenos Aires so we store our bags for around £3.50 each and head to the nearest Macdonals to freshen up. Macdonalds, love it or hate it is the perfect lay over lounge for the budget traveller. Wifi, chargers, toilets and the staff couldn’t care less if you purchased some McNuggets or not.

On the next bus and the next hero is born. A large Argentinean fella wheezes onto the bus. He sits directly in front of us and his personal hygiene status isn’t exactly what you would want for the confinement of a 16 hour bus. However when the mid journey film starts (Bad Boys entirely in Spanish) and he sings along “Chicos malos, chicos malos” and with an infections thigh slapping giggle, he has the whole bus in sitches. Somewhere along the line I fall asleep and wake up in Mendoza with the big giggle monster replaced by a young Argentinean woman. We groggily stumble from the bus.

While waiting for our final leg, we get chatting to two young British girls. They have been travelling for three months and their trip is coming to an end. Their previous stomping ground had been South East Asia and Australia, and so they note how difficult travel had been for them though Latin American, as neither spoke a word of Spanish. This was to become a recurring theme of our trip, we would meet many people cramming expensive two week Spanish courses to aquire the basics. Suddenly the painful choice by a 16-year old me to study A-level Spanish over the more socially rewarding drama was paying dividends.

The girls head off and a tattooed man in a snap-back sits next to me. Naturally there is a mix up with the buses (just because you ticket says one bus name doesn’t mean that’s your bus – always check at the agency) and it appears he is on the same bus as us. I feebly start to converse with him in Spanish to inform him of the change, before quickly establishing that he is American. A chef from Miami, he moved to Santiago eight years ago to open the Hard-Rock Cafe, met his now Argentinan wife and now lives in Argentina with has a daughter. He was heading to Santiago to settle up his apartment and see his English-bulldog. He is hilarious, a natural conversationalist, and he stays with us for the final stretch.

The bus leaves and its up onto the mountain road through the Andes. Our American friend describes how the border crossing can take up to 9-hours depending on traffic volume and so we thank the travel gods when we sail through in only an hour. Another quick note, Chile have a strict policy when it comes to bringing any organic produce across the border and your bags will be searched. A little Russian girl took across a small machete, however her nuts and raisins were confiscated. You will also receive a 90 day visa on a little receipt as well as your normal passport stamp. Keep this safe as apparently losing this can make for a long and expensive exit from the country.

The scenery is as to be expected, breath-takingly beautiful. We arrive in Santiago, grab some cash from the bus station – the bus station is in a poorer part of the city and so it is wise to grab some cash here as it is packed with armed security guards. Following the American we head down to the metro and buy our Bip! card (Chile’s answer to SUBE). He sets us on route to get to Bella Artes, the stop nearest our Couch-surfing hosts place, and we are off on our way.

We arrive at Leonardo’s apartment. The area has a Shoreditch hipster vibe and we greet the receptionist of his building, our home for the next 5 nights. We head up to his floor and meet the wonderful Leonardo and his crazy little white and ginger cat.

That evening Leonardo takes us to his favourite local restaurant and treats us to some Pisco sours (pisco, lemon juice and egg white) and traditional Chilean food. Pisco, made from grapes, is the national spirit of Chile, and so it would seem Peru. There is a long standing rivalry between the two counties about the originator, and Leonardo wastes no time in informing us that of course Chilean pisco is superior.

After a crazy long bus ride, surving on snacks, two pisco sours are weighing heavy on the eyes and I leave Ste and Leonardo chatting. The next day – of course – we head out to the afternoon walking tour. Meeting at 3pm in the Plaza de Armas we arrive a little early and so wander up a bustling street to hunt down cheep sunglasses (I have somehow broken two pairs already). As we are waking a big splat lands on the top of my head. A little dazed I look at Ste, this doesn’t feel like the standard but also gross air conditioning drips, this feels like bird poop. Suddenly a Chilean woman in a neon pink top is in front of us, her face screwed up yelling ‘Dirty! Dirty! I help!’. She takes out tissues and a water bottle and grabs my arm pulling me to the side. I note this green slime is everywhere; in my hair, on my bag, on my jeans. I’m in a daze as she pours water over my hair and grabs at my bag ‘Dirty!’. Ste is stood beside me in a complete trance. He has a small dot of the stuff on his shoulder and looks at it. Suddenly as the woman is trying to take my the bag off my shoulder, Marten’s (our Argentinean walking tour guide) advise about new pick-pocket techniques pops into my head. ‘They cover you with fake bird poo and help you clean it whilst stealing you bags’. Shit. I demand at Ste to grab my bag and don’t let it go. He snaps out of his trance and grabs the bag inspecting it. It’s mustard. The woman tries again to grab the bag and when it’s clear Ste isn’t having any of it she storms off in a rage. We look and each other, me completely covered in mustard, and Ste stood with my rucksack victorious in his game of tug of war. Another couple near us are cleaning themselves too. How lucky we are to have met Marten!

Back at the plaza we meet Felipe, our tour guide. We tell him the mustard-bomb story and he’s seriously pissed off. He tells us that there are only two types of people in Chile, God’s or Demons. We shake off the last half an hour and start the tour.

Pint-sized Felipe is part-time tour-guide and part-time actor and he has a flamboyant and expressive manner of telling stories. He takes us on another wonderful city tour, ending in Bellavista – the party central. After the tour we are all about to head back to our respective accommodations when Felipe decides we should instead head to his second favourite bar (the first is being refurbished).

We spend 3 hours in the afternoon sun drinking with the entire tour, Felipe and some of his friends. We get chatting to an Australian couple Sophie and Julian, who like me and Ste, quit their jobs, their houses, their cars, their everything and headed to South America for a year. We pin them down as drinking buddies and once back at Leonardo’s I realise Sophie studied in Brisbane with one of my best friends… Something about a small world.

The next few days are filled with free museums, street art, climbing to city view points and delicious Chilean wine and food with Leonardo. Then on Saturday Leonardo has a trip planned for us. We bundle into the car and head to the coast. It’s off to Valparaíso and Viña del Mar.

After 18 hours cosied up on the bus (including a random midnight feast of breaded chicken and rice) we arrive in Puerto Iguazu. The tiny town exists solely to serve the waterfalls and as we step off the bus the humidity is intense. Ste, who has yet to experience even sub-tropical heat, is in shock of the significant lack of air. We walk the two minute stroll to the Nomad Hostel and check in (£15 each for two nights).

Our overnight bus means it is only 11am when we arrive. The guy at reception explains that the Brazilian side only takes a couple of hours so we check in, grab a shower and head to catch the bus to Brazil.

Back at the bus station and for 80 pesos each (£4) we catch the the 45 minute border hopping bus to the Brazilian size of the falls. We arrive and everything is Americanized and streamlined. We buy our ticket – 65 Brazilian Real for to (£17 each) which has a boarding time of 14:30 (boarding of the double decker bus that drives us from the entrance to the start of the falls). It’s currently 14:10 and so we browse the gift shop, picking up the obligatory fridge magnet for the mother and treating myself to a pair of mock haviana flipflops. Anyone that knows me, well you know the shoe situation and I jumped at the opportunity of a gift shop that stocked flipflops of the same design for sizes that fit a 4-year-old, to sizes that fit a burly six foot tall 40-year-old.

Brief shopping spree over (flip-flops £14), we board our bus. There are several stops, each dependant on which excursion you are taking – for an extra charge there is the option to do jungle treks, wrafting or jet boating into the falls. For some reason I decide to follow a dreadlocked couples exit and Ste and I leave the bus – or at least Ste does before the doors shut in my face. Mr Dreadlock and Ste yell to the driver and pry the automatic doors open before I’m whisked off to the next stop. Turns out my impulsive move was wasteful – we have arrived at a drop off point for the tours and seeing as the cheapest is over 70 pounds sterling, we turn back and catch the oncoming bus to the next stop.

Off-loaded at the correct stop, we note the warning signs for Coati – a racoon cross aardvark creature, apparently very bold, very rabid and not in the slightest bit concerened with the presence of humans, especially when it comes to food. Taken aback by the views of the falls, we pause slightly too long, only to find a Coati nose deep in my bag.

We walk the 15 minute trail, stopping to admire both the falls, and the panic of some Asian tourists who have lost a mobile phone over the side of the cliff. Finally we reach a gangway out across the river, and ignoring the pac-a-mac salesman, we boldly stride out to stand amongst the full flow of the bottom of the falls. Let’s just say Iguazu is a champion of the wet T-shirt contest.

After brief afternoon in Brazil we head back and catch an early night ready for the full day ahead. The following day we head to the Argentine side, this time it’s 130 pesos for the longer bus (£6.50 each) and 330 (£16.50 each) for entry. On arrival its clear this is more of the national park experience we expected. The park has several walking routes and a little toy train that takes you from the main area out to ‘La Garganta del Diablo – The Devils Throat’. We hop out of the train and walk along the kilometre-long the raised walkway out across the rivers to the final platform over the top of the biggest fall. The thunderous roar hits first, followed by the spray. We approach the edge of the platform and the raw force of the water stops your thoughts. The river below is hidden below a cloudy mist of the falling water. That maniac of inner animalistic curiosity comes out in full force and I fight the urge to throw all my possessions, myself and Ste, over the edge just to see what happens…

After fighting with the selfie stick brigade and attempting to capture just some of the awe within a photograph, it’s back along the walkway, back on the train and we head along both of the two other walking routes. Strolling along in the intense humidity, we scale another 4 kilometres up and down the cliffside jungle paths, crossing the top of the falls and soaking ourselves at the bottom. On comparison the Brazilian side felt like a small animal zoo compared to this giant interactive safari. And to extend out of the metaphor the fleeting glimpses of the wildlife added to the magic. From catching butterflies in our hands to watching close-up the dexterity of capuchin monkeys pulling the apart fruity snacks. After a full day we leave soaked in a mixture of waterfall and perspiration, catching the bus back to the town.

We spend an evening drinking beer, chatting with Germans and counting mosquito bites (new record for me – 33). Then it’s onwards and back southwards as we prepare for our three day bus ride from Puerto Iguazu, northern Argentina to Santiago, Chile…

All aboard the Colonia Express, our boat to Uruguay. Once of course we had found the ferry terminal; third port and a taxi ride later (only £3 between us for the taxi, but a necessity after the slight goose chase I had led us on). It’s an hours sail from Buenos Aires to Colonia, Uruguay, followed by a bus ride to Montevideo. The buses in Uruguay were our first taste of this ideologically eutopic country. Sat in conditioned arm chairs with on board free WiFi, we raced across the countryside. Arriving in Montevideo we headed for the Hostel Tibet, our chosen accommodation for the evening. I had decided to select a slightly more expensive option – around £25 each for two nights – but seeing as this was only our second paid accommodation in three weeks I figured we could stretch a little. We paced for half an hour in the heat, arriving at tall and very closed iron gate. After 15 minutes of head scratching, failed attempts of the doorbell and an aggressively loud call of ‘Hola’ up the stairs we alerted the resident hound of our arrival and we were let inside.

Hostel Tibet was like a family home come hostel. One large living room, one dorm and a large roof terrace up an iron ladder housed the outdoor kitchen. We were shown to our beds in beautifully Nepalese decor, the top bunk of a three tier stack – not the most practical after a beer – and we headed to the terrace. Another guest was busy on his phone, his complection and red hair told us immediately he was a fellow Brit. Mark, a freshly graduated career abandoner, had arrived in Uruguay two days ago. Beers, cards and a dinner of Stephens crushed Jordans cereal followed, before attempting not to fall straight through the human sized open window at the bottom of the iron ladder, and subsequently attempting to not fall out of the 5 metre high bunks.

The following day after a cute communal breakfast with our fellow hostel mates, we headed to the walking tour with Mark. Our ambitious 15 minutes to attempt a 30 minute power walk across town meant a spontaneous colectivo and arriving 15 minutes late. Fortunately walking tours are unanimously characteristic of a large ethnically diverse group with at least half the population carrying arrogantly unnecessary photographic equipment (myself included). We spotted them immediately.

Today’s guide – Marco – led us on a hilariously inspirational tour of the capital city of this small ideological democratic nation. Mate flask under one arm (Mate – Latin American tea, popular with pretty much everyone, five times stronger than coffee, impossible to walk 10 meters without someone holding a thermos) he told us about the amazing culture of acceptance that is Uruguay. As an atheist country, all religions, faiths genders, races, sexualitys are accepted – just someone help you if you are vegetarian. He explained that unlike the rest of the world, Uruguay are trying to increase their small 3 million population and that for six dollars and your birth certificate you could become a Uruguayan citizen. The next 30 minutes was subsequently filled with Stephen discussing with himself how he could get his birth certificates sent and that if he then married me would he get dual nationality. I switched off. Marco ended the tour in a parrilla paradise (parrilla: Spanish for grill). Meat sizzling in all directions you could walk around until you stomach became origami, sampling the free white wine each restaurant offers to entice you in. Half an hour later and slightly lighter in the head, we caught a colectivo back across town.

After a tourist stop at the Montevideo sign, Mark made tracks for the Hostel and Stephen and I headed towards the British Cemetery for a spot of who do you think you are. The whole purpose of our trip to Montevideo was to uncover the Bowen family mystery of what happened to Uncle Albert. Uncle Albert was the Captain of a Merchant Ship that was sailing in the Rio Plata when Albert tragically had appendicitis and died. Stephen had a photograph of the letter sent to his family in 1907 from the Cemetery in Montevideo saying he had died. So over one hundred years later his great great nephew and his girlfriend went from grave stone to grave stone hunting the illusive Albert Bowen in the scorching Uruguayan sun. Ste fathomed that one particular corner was dedicated to international sailors and after a painstaking hunt we eventually give up. As we left I spotted an administration office and headed over. The room again was empty and it took another ‘Hola’ before a woman appeared. Somehow in my very best Spanish I managed to get her to search the system for any mention of Albert Bowen. And there it was the record of Captain Albert Bowen, of The Arctic Stream, died 1902 and buried in sailors corner. No gravestone but a least a concrete record. Our Scooby Doo mystery solved.

Back at the hostel, it’s a game of beer and ‘shithead’ with Mark. After a while though, I’m struggling to focus on what is going on. Probably a combination of too much sun, cereal meals and a litre of beer but I interrupt. ‘Is it just me or can you guys hear drums?’ We sit in silence for a moment listening to the dull rumble growing closer and closer. I can no longer focus and begin twitching like some desperate addict before manically stopping the game and declaring that we should all go drum chasing.

Road beers in hand we head off in the direction of the drums. Drunkly pausing at each intersection and cupping our ears like some interpid game hunter, we weave from street to street as the roar grows louder. Suddenly we turn the corner and are faced with a bellowing sea of flags, Latino ladies in full flow salsa, followed by around thirty men and boys, each with a huge samba drum. The noise was reverberating in my skull. It’s Carnival!

We follow the crowd from street to street, myself dancing in full drunken Gringo style alongside them on the pavement. There is a very muscular man directly in front of the drummers, all dressed in black with a flamboyant amount of shaved tanned chest protruding from his tight shirt. He has long blonde dreadlocks pinned up and is showing all the ladies how a salsa should be done. He is the salsa king and he was my next hero.

Eventually the small parade comes to an end at a large junction. There is a huge parrilla cooking meat for the party, and we sit on the pavement watching the smallest boy playing with the largest flag, before heading back to the hostel.

The next day after another communal breakfast we grab our things and head for the bus terminal. A rain soaked bus ride back across to Colonia and we sail back to Buenos Aires, jump on a train and head out to the suburb of Victoria to meet with our first couch surf host.