As we descended the terracota cliffs from the Pan-American highway into the beach resort of Iquique at sunset, the skyline carved a silhouette into the glistening Pacific Ocean and we knew we were going to like it here. After chaotic Bolivia, we were open-mouthed at signs of civilisation...cars that actually STOP at crossings?!  Come to think of it...crossings per se!  Now all we had to do was work out what the hell the Chileans were saying to us, as we shot our taxi driver a puzzled expression as he slurred something incomprehensible at us, which was 99% likely to be ´where are you going to?´  but left us dumbfounded nonetheless.

Iquique for us was all about seafood, empanadas, colourful Georgian wood architecture, great sunsets, sea lions on the port jetty (who definitely need to attend some elocution lessons - way too much spit and noise) and, of course, running off a cliff.   But yes, I am still writing, which means that I definitely had a fabric wing attached somewhere to soften the blow!  It was our first time paragliding and was just like skydiving without the freefall, much more enjoyable in a way, particularly as the scenery consisted of rolling sand dunes, high-rise buildings overlooking the ocean and wide, long expanses of beach.  Gooid practice for our next flight in Rio, over the infamous Copacabana bay.

Northern Chile is arid and unsurprisingly different to the South, for a country of some 4000 miles in length, so we ventured into the desert town of San Pedro to explore the lunar-like formations and sand dunes of the driest desert in the world, Atacama, which had en eerie silence in parts that was almost disconcerting. Nothing grew there, there were no birds tweeting, no chickens pecking at the dust (unlike the desperate ones in Bolivia!), and you could forgive the eco-system for packing its bags and disappearing at night when the temperature plummetted into sub-zero territory. However, its charm was irrefutable in the centre, where low-rise abode buildings and restaurants with huge open log-fires abounded.

As parts of Chile are so sparse and disconnected, we started what is destined to be a border-hopping couple of months by crossing over into Argentina to visit Salta, Cordoba and Mendoza and eagerly entered one of the most iconic countries on our trip.  Travellers who start in Argentina tend to bid a hasty retreat as it seems too European, but for us it felt good to be around classy clothes shops, wine regions, steakhouses and the familiar chant of boozed-up footie fans in the Calle.  Ah how we missed that sound;  perhaps we´ll buy a CD of it for nostalgic purposes.  Of course, one of the biggest draw cards after months of dried-up unrecognisable chicken parts and stodgy rice was the steak.  And boy was it worth the starvation as we tucked into what can only be described as a brick of meat, rare in the middle and ridiculously soft.   Here in Salta and Cordoba we also seemed to be blissfully amnesiac about our traveller budget and turned to compulsive clothes shopping for a few days, buying shirts, t-shirts, after shaves, whatever we could get our grubby fashion-deprived hands on.   At least now we look vaguely less like backing singers for the Gypsy Kings (with less hair).

Salta and Mendoza were both great places to visit the wineries, and in the latter we hired some bikes from the local celebrity Mr Hugo, who provided us with a map, a slap on the back and unlimited wine at the end of the day.  We probably didn´t need it, as we had already visited four wineries, pretending to be connaisseurs of the red and white stuff, detecting hints of vanilla and chocolate and discussing with gusto the ´thick legs´ of the vintage Malpec as we proceeded, stopping at the odd olive farm or chocolate factory en route.  At 7pm, after relaxing for too long on the sun-soaked terrace of the Tempus Alba bodega, the wheels were definitely careering off-road slightly, so we headed back to base, where Mr Hugo made sure we left staggering at 9pm.

My last achievement for the time being in my quest to conquer my all known fears in one year was to saddle up and get on horseback for the first time ever.   Having seen my sister have a pretty nasty horse accident aged 9, I was reluctant, but once I was on I don´t know why it took me so long!  Despite the fact that my horse was called ´Dickhead´ for taking the longest to train, and the fact that he tende to wander off and ignore my commands, eating dry grass at any given opportunity, the day was brilliant.  At one point we were all rounding up wild white horses into a pen, true gaucho style, with the Andean foothills behind us.   I felt quite fond of poor Dickhead by the end of the day, despite his obvious retardedness.

After a couple of days wait in Mendoza while the snow blocked the border crossing, we then boarded a bus to Santiago, country-hopping again for the second time towards Chile´s capital... and herein lies a cold front like no other in 8 months, as we don our gloves, hats and scarves and brace ourselves for Patagonia.