Well amazingly, my friend Graham and I did manage to squeeze in three days trekking at the end of a week of demonstration-watching. It was stunning beautiful but also incredibly cold. I am going to need to expand my thermal collection to include thermal nose-wear and thermal knee-warmers. Click on the photos to open up bigger versions within the online photo gallery.

Just returned from an amazing week travelling with two friends, Caia and Ruth, through the Andean heights with views of dizzying mountain peaks and expansive ocean-like lakes. Click on the photos to open up the gallery.

"I went to this remote village in the jungle, right, where they had never seen white people before and I had to live off fried grasshoppers for four days." "Wow, well that reminds me of when I climbed this 6000 metre peak that takes four weeks to get to by donkey and I climbed it without any ropes, wearing flip-flops and near the top slipped and just avoided falling down a vast crevasse."

Tour agencies play along with this game advertising "the tallest peak", "the most remote jungle trek," the "scariest rafting trip." In La Paz, the big tourist attraction is death. On every corner, you can see a sign advertising a cycle ride "down the most dangerous road in the world."

They aren't exaggerating. The cycle ride takes you down a treacherous road from La Paz to Coroico with a steep descent of 3000 metres in 35 kilometres on which an average 100 people die every year. The Inter American Development Bank officially named it the "most dangerous road in the world" and are currently funding the building of an alternative route.

Well, I somehow managed to avoid peer pressure when it came to smoking as a teenager, but after hearing the twentieth story of someone's "wicked awesome trip" down the road, I sadly succumbed. So at 8am on Wednesday, I was winding my way up out of La Paz in brilliant sunlight, in a van full of Israeli tourists, to a wintry summit 4700 metres above sea level.

Then after 30 kilometres, we turned a corner to find a track that looked like a donkey trail clinging to the side of a cliff. Dense cloud hid a staggering drop of almost 1000 metres to the left. It was hard to take in that this muddy track is a key thoroughfare carrying traffic both ways between the altiplano and the tropical lowlands.

I strangely didn't feel afraid, as I whizzed down the track, my wheels bouncing off rocks, my hands shuddering as I clinged tightly to the handlebars and brakes, wheels skidding as we hit steep curves with towering rocks on one-side and sheer drop on the other.

Instead, I felt a surge of adrenalin, that somehow even overcame seeing a crumpled lorry way down below the road as we started to descend below the clouds.  And I even had time to take in the awe-inspiring views across precipitous mountains cloaked with dense green tropical vegetation and to revel in cycling through waterfalls that splashed down from big heights onto the road.

Juddering and racing on down, we were stripping off layers as the altiplano winds were replaced by steamy tropical heat and the damp rocky road turned to a thin dust that penetrated everything.

All too soon, we had reached a scrubby town at the bottom of the valley full of lorries belching fumes and street stalls with the omnipresent coke signs.

My dust-covered body was humming with pleasure that lasted a much-needed shower and food. It was undoubtedly an "awesome, wicked" experience. But after coming down, I must admit the thrills are tinged with uncertainty like a strange aftertaste in the mouth. There is something strange about a desire to indulge in an experience largely based on the morbid fact that others (often people making an essential unavoidable journey) have lost their lives doing the same.

This contradictory mixture of emotions was captured for me half way down the mountain road. We had stopped at the side of the road, waiting for others to catch up.  Looking up I could see sunlight catching on a waterfall as it splashed down on the road. I was with three Israelis, laughing and buzzing from the adrenaline. They seemed strangely blind to a small rock on the side of the road that was engraved with writing in their native language hebrew. It was a gravestone, put up by parents of a young 23 year-old Israeli girl who had skidded with her bike over the cliff edge three years earlier.

The altiplano lives up to it name - a flat bouldered plain that stretches to distant mountain peaks underneath an enormous skyscape. I spent several hours squinting through stark sunlight watching distant clouds doing shadowy dances across the flinty earth.

Amazingly the inhospitable landscape is home to many indigenous people, who we passed either in villages of adobe-brick houses or in fields somehow managing to draw out life from the barren soil. Their intensely vibrant and colourful clothes seemed to be deliberately defying the cold monochrome environment in which they lived.

I found it hard to imagine living here. It must be an extremely harsh life. Noticeably some villages were empty with crumbling deserted houses as people had no doubt headed to the city. In the towns that were left there was lots of graffitti for MAS, the opposition party that has vocalised growing resistance by indigenous people to a politics and economics controlled by a small elite in collaboration with foreign companies. The people of the altiplano have a constant reminder of this, in the form of gas pipelines that snake across the countryside taking wealth from their land, riches that they will never see.

Eventually we arrived at El Alto, one of the fastest growing cities on the earth which clings to the edge of the Altiplano. Below El Alto sprawled out across a tightly-packed valley was the city of La Paz with a backdrop of snow-covered peaks. It was quite literally breathtaking as my guidebook points out. We are at 3,600 metres here, and my head feels quite light and dizzy. When I catch my breath, I will let you know more.

But I approached the border with Bolivia with a lot of excitement, wondering what waited across the border.

The border itself was completely unremarkable. A little pole across a road with a bored-looking guard and probably significantly a Coca Cola sign welcoming me to Bolivia.

But what a difference a border makes.

Within minutes, the paved road had turned to a red dusty track, we were picked up in a taxi held together with what looked like plastic wire, and were passing adobe-mud huts to arrive in a small village called San Matias with almost no facilities at all and having missed the only bus out of town for that day.  It was numbingly hot - about 40 degrees - and the town seemed to consist of shirtless men playing cards under the trees.

I had met up with a French girl, Ann Isabelle, on the way to the border, so luckily had someone to explore the tourist sites with - eight market stalls, two eating places, a all-in-one store which fortunately stocked Bolivian wine (which we used to celebrate our arrival), and a large hall with a pool table in it. We shade-hopped for a bit and then took a hot dusty walk to a spring outside town once it had cooled in the late afternoon.

I returned at night to watch pictures of bloqueos on TV - major demonstrations of people blocking streets outside La Paz in protest against the government. I had heard before about Bolivia having a lively political culture, which had attracted me to come here. So this seemed like a good sign for my life here.

So my first impressions are of red enveloping dust, heat that makes your shadow crackle, and poor towns with almost nothing to do. I can´t help comparing it with Brazil which seems like a world away. Whilst I saw poverty in Brazil (often in shocking contrast to great wealth), it was possible as a tourist to ignore it as you glided past in air-conditioned coaches on good roads, ate in good restuarants, headed to films in shopping malls in the evening. But you can´t ignore the poverty here. It´s in front of you in the dusty heat.

Am off to cross the border into Bolivia today and am feeling excited about finally getting to the country I plan to make my home for a while. To celebrate I went out to have my final caipirinhas in the small town of Caceres (Lime and a sugar cane rum cocktail which I have become quite attached to).

Whilst I was munching on some fish, I was beckoned over, this time not by gay men, but some women on the adjoining table. I joined them, and we tried not very successfully to communicate - partly because my portuguese is still pretty hopeless and partly because they were very wasted.

I eventually did understand one sentence from the woman next to me who provided useful accompanying sign language in the form of stroking of my knee: "If we kiss then we can speak the same language." I liked the sentence but decided to decline the offer of my last chance for a Brazilian romance. Oh well....

I know it's a question you have long wanted to know the answer to. I am extremely relieved that I am now able to provide it. It's in Rio Claro pousada in the Pantanal in the far west of Brazil.

I was persuaded to head out by a Brazilian friend in London, Telma, who said that I couldn't leave Brazil without visiting the Pantanal, a vast wetlands region renowned for its water and landscapes and its wildlife.

To get to the Pantanal, I took a car that headed South - first along a smooth tarmac road but soon erratically swerving its way along a muddy red track with green marshy fields dotted with clumps of trees on either side. It looked at times like plains in Africa, and I half-expected to see giraffes and elephants even though they are not known to exist in Latin America as far as I am aware.

In fact, we were almost immediately surrounded by wildlife, although I would never have known it without the help of the taxi-driver. Where I saw a hazy green, he seemed able to conjure up caymans, kingfishers, kites, monkeys and marsh deer which were obvious when he pointed them out but strangely invisible until then.

This proved to be my experience for the next three days. The only wildlife I seemed to spot before my guide were the millions of deranged mosquitos out for gringo blood. My guide seemed completely oblivious to them.

The taxi-driver dropped me off at a very unconvincing side-road at the point where the track turned into a vast lake. I was starting to wonder whether I could remember how to construct a shelter from my cub-scout days, when a tractor turned up and delivered me to a surprisingly luxurious farmhouse with hammocks, a swimming pool and nonchalant tourists who acted as if they had lived there all their lives.

Over the next three days, I used almost every form of Pantanal transport to explore the surrounding wetlands, rivers and forests. It was the wet season which meant that every journey involved water whether it was cycling, walking or horse-riding.

The scenery was beautiful and tranquil -  winding rivers that reflected the entire skyline, marshy fields with a rich scattering of flowers, forests filtering sunlight through spiraling creepers and dense green foliage. And for each time of day, the vistas had their own musical accompaniment - the wailing growls of howler monkeys at dawn, the piercing one-note shrill of the cicadas in the midday heat, and the cacophany of birds as dusk settled. 

We had a very rigorous schedule - up at 5.30am for sun-rise walks, horse-riding in the morning, boat trip in the afternoon, night-walks after supper. To cope with these exertions, the guides gave us 6 hour breaks in the middle of the day to swing nonchalantly in hammocks pretending that we had lived in the farmhouse all our lives.

At meal-times, I would retreat behind netted verandahs to look at the different species of tourists. I spent my first meal talking to five young Germans, who had come as missionaries to the Brazilians, although they were a rather depressing bunch I thought to bring much 'good news.' I liked one of them, Simon, who spoke the most English, and very methodically worked his way through each chapter of a standard language book. My family, my work, my hobbies...

So I decided to join the English/French table at the next meal. "Hey, mate. Cool. Howz it going?. Pukka" said Will, a blond-haired, sunburnt English guy in a silly hat as soon as I sat down. It was Jamie Oliver in disguise. Soon I was being introduced to Em, a geordie lass and Lozza from Swindon and being regaled with stories of "wicked" carnival antics and his plans to "burn it down to Argentina" to "do" the country.

I was soon trying to score my own travellah points by saying I was coming to work here (that gets you a higher score here). "That's sweet, brother" said Will. Funkadelicious smoked camels in the corner and drew very cool-looking drawings of the scene in his notebook.

It was one of the guide's birthdays, so at about 10pm, the guitar came out. Luckily, there is an international songbook which exists in every tourist's head so we were soon singing "No woman, no cry", "Stairway to heaven", "Let it be", "With or without you". I think you can guess all the others.

I say sing, although of course none of us knew any more than the chorus and the first verse. The Brazilians, by contrast, all seemed to know all 16 verses of their own songs and never had to fill in with vague hummings.

On my last day to escape the tourists, I decided to go for a walk with the teenage guy in the pousada who looked after the horses. It turned out that he had only one topic of conversation: sex. Unfortunately there is not much of it to be found on a pousada, especially as he was a bit shy of tourist women. And he only has four days off out of every thirty.

He had a girlfriend in Pocone, 30 miles north of the pousada. When I asked if she was beautiful, he said not particularly. But I think you can guess what he said when I asked him what he did when he went back for his four days in Pocone.

1. I walked into an English Language School in Brasilia, and asked the receptionist at the desk if she spoke English. She didn't.

2. A fellow traveller told me that in Salvador, a group of thieves were using the following technique to rob tourists. A huge tall guy would come up from behind, grab the tourist in a massive bear hug and lift them up, while two others emptied the person´s pockets. Mugging by hugging. But I suppose at least you get a hug.

3. I saw a bus yesterday signposted to "Paranoia" (but then again, maybe I am just being...)

It was a modernist dream, led by work of urban planner Lucio Costa and architect Oscar Niemeyer.

On paper it embodied all the latest thinking on what makes a city work well. Brasilia is divided very neatly firstly into into zones for living, working, leisure and travel, and then each zone is sub-divided into grids with roads joining them all.

In residential areas, everyone had their local amenities within their block of the grid, lived in buildings no more than 6 stories high, and had an average of about 25 square meters of green space per resident, a measure considered ideal by UNESCO standards.

Sounds perfect? Well, no.

I have definitely come down on the side of all the Brazilians who said to me in complete incredulity: "You're going to Brasilia?? Why?" Not that I regret coming. It is an intriguing place and there are definitely things to be admired. Some of the architecture such as the Congress building and the Cathedral with their simple shapes, use of light, and layout are stunning.

But I do share the lack of feeling and warmth for the city. Emotionally Brasilia has left me completely cold - rather like the uncoated concrete which clads most buildings.

I have just spent a few days exploring the city, which has meant getting buses to buildings at addresses like W3 N, Qd 708, Bloco B, learning to sprint across 8 lane-motorways as cars bear down at you great speed (due to the complete absence of pedestrian crossings), and finally ending up every day in vast shopping malls which seem to be the main places to eat, go to films or log-on to the Internet.

Yesterday, I tried to find a good cafe outside to watch the sun go down. The big TV tower which has a cafe half-way up seemed a good bet. It had closed. I then wandered several grids recommended in my guide book to find only cafes next to a road clogged with traffic heading home.

Still my view is not shared by everyone. Daniela, a friend of my former flatmate, who lives here loves it. She fled London (definitely my favourite city) to come here, fed up of "manic streets" and "stressed and miserable people." She loves the wide-open spaces, the rational layout, the ease of life and the climate.

But for me, that is not what a city is about. Cities are about tangled histories, intriguing dark corners, erratically different neighbourhoods, the irrational and the untidy.

Travelling alone is a disconcerting experience at times. How do you behave in a way that invites people to interact with you, yet in my typically English way doesn´t impinge on people´s personal space? My solution is to smile at people.

And my smiles would appear to attract gay men. No, I am not about to 'come out' on the web, but I thought the title might attract your attention. Without meaning to, I seem to have 'picked up' three gay men in the last 24 hours which has led to some interesting and enjoyable chats. But it has also made me wonder. All of them assumed initially that I was gay, and were surprised when I indicated a preference for women. Am I giving out some wierd signals that I don´t give out in England, or is Brazilian gaydar not in tune with English men?

I have decided the reason may lie in my smiling. I guess when I smile at women, it is not seen as very unusual. Given that Brazilian men tend to ogle and often whistle, women probably think that I am terribly shy when I merely smile. Giving a smile at men, however, is clearly a way of picking up men - and I am rather good at it.

I think I should have guessed what was coming in Salvador, when a tall drag queen in tight turquoise hot pants and a pink feather garland tottered out on a high heels to the edge of the crowd and exclaimed: "Daaahlink, can you speak portuguese?" I apologetically replied that I couldn´t. "Oh no, you are so beautiful, I would love to talk to you," he shrilled and trotted off.

Yesterday I met Antonio, a gay black guy whilst I was looking for a beach bar recommended in my guide book. My smile was responded to with a glowing beam, and soon he was taking me to the bar. After looking slightly puzzled when my 'straightness' emerged, he nevertheless was soon passionately telling me about life as a teacher, why fridges were post-modern and about a book he had written about the symbolism of a place in Recife tied to the theories of a philospher called Barth. To be honest I didn´t really follow this very well, but by this time I was on my third caipirinha.

Every now and again, his conversations were strangely punctuated by "yeehahs". I found this a bit puzzling and eventually plucked up courage to ask about it to learn that he had learnt the expression from an American guy and is now famous in school for interrupting lessons with a big "yeehah."

Today I was in a cafe in Recife which was meant to be famous as a hang-out for poets and intellectuals. I thought it was obviously a suitable place for myself. I had imagined it would be something like a Parisian left-bank cafe by the river. Instead it involved going through a leather goods stall, up some grimy steps to a dim room which looked like a run-down canteen.

Still I decided to get a drink and whilst waiting, decided to smile at the two men on the adjoining table. I was duly invited to join them at their table to be told all about the top gay discos and bars in town. Again, I thought I should probably point out that I wasn´t gay. I am not sure this time they believed me, but we ended up having a very interesting chat about Candomble, German towns and bus journeys. Flavio turned out to also have a European boyfriend, although he wasn't sure how he would cope when his boyfriend eventually visited Recife. "The trouble is, daahlink, I am like Jesus. I love everybody," he pouted clinging onto the arms of his Brazilian lover.

Maybe I am confusing some members of the gay community in Brazil, but smiling has led to some interesting encounters in the last few days. Keep smiling :)