On July 1st, we set off in a group of 16 to trek The Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. The worst weather in recent history meant that our story would be very different.

There will be a film. This is the trailer: Watch the Trailer.

Brought to you by Black Shark Media films.

Since we last got all bloggy, we’ve travelled over 72 hours on busses, spent a day at the highest airport in the world, narrowly avoided violent protests and border blockades, spent a week on the beach, and eaten Elton John’s bodyweight in ceviche. All of which brings us to Cusco, Peru – the final chapter of our South American adventure.

Tomorrow we set off into the wilderness one final time for the rite of Peruvian passage that is The Inca Trail. If you were to aggregate all the online material on this subject, one word would come to the fore – PREPARATION. The Inca Trail is 4 days of mountain passes, unpredictable weather, near-vertical ascents and descents, the highest of which is at a lung-ridiculing 4200m. We took this all very seriously, panicked, and immediately booked a week on the beach – hardly textbook training.

So, last week we returned to the highlands near Arequipa and spent 3 days trekking in the Colca Canyon. Now, we’ve been lucky enough to see some amazing scenery in the last 9 months – Torres del Paine, Mendoza, the Bolivian Altiplano – but the Colca Canyon could go toe-to-footpath with any of them. Over twice as deep as the Grand Canyon and only beaten by a few metres to the accolade of World’s Deepest Canyon by its neighbour Cotahuasi. It’s stunning. Which is a lot easier to appreciate when you’re on your way down than when you’re making the 3 hour vertical hike back up to 3,200m in near darkness – a 1,000m ascent over 5km. One guy in our group demonstrated the size of the challenge by repeatedly collapsing, vomiting, and hallucinating that he was in Barcelona. But, we all eventually made it to the top and felt like we’d put at least something in the bank for the pilgrimage to Machu Picchu.

On the journey back to Arequipa, we stopped (along with a large army of SLR-wielding Americans) at Cruz del Condor – a collection of thermals on top of the canyon that apparently attract the legendary Andean condor. We walked to the edge and peered down into the abyss. Nada. We started to joke about their absence and we’re rapidly “shusshhed” by a woman who evidently believed that condors are allergic to any kind of human merriment. Just when I was contemplating how the Peruvian justice system would look upon shoving a total stranger into a deep canyon, the murmurs began, necks were craned, and shutters were released. They had arrived.

75 years old. 3 metres wide. 12 kilograms. The awesome potential of the Andean condor. We’d seen them in Patagonia but generally only from a distance. This time, we were treated to the full regal fly-by. It’s only when you see them at close quarters that you can really appreciate their scale. I’m almost certain I’ve flown in smaller planes. The indigenous people believe that condors are the eyes of the gods, sent to spy on them, to check that they are working hard and report back. With this is mind, I took about 200 photos. It’s ok, I already know you’re washing your hair the day of the slideshow.

So, last Sunday in Tupiza at 8.30am, with the strains of the previous night´s Bolivian karaoke ringing in our ears (the bar looked like the set of a ´Crystal Maze´pilot episode – tin foil everywhere) we  folded ourselves into a six-man Jeep with two Aussies and our Bolivian driver, Vicente. And a cook, Modesta. Ok, so it wasn´t exactly ´Touching the Void´ but legroom was tight. And there were no headrests. Across the next four days, we bounced along 1,000km of rocky desert to a soundtrack of Bolivian cumbia – a song about chicas and sugar on repeat – courtesy of Vicente,´I Come From a Land Down Under´from the Australian iPod (with apparently no irony) and some serious indy guitar stuff from DJ Kibbey.

The Pommy-Oz alliance travelled in convoy with a United Nations Jeep of Nowegians, British and Australians behind. We ate together, slept together, weed behind rocks together, attempted to play cards together (the rules of Shithead differ according to where you come from, it turns out) and fed a chinchilla together. We became very close.

Of course, this was all very nice, but the real reason we had come on this strange multinational outward bound version of Big Brother was not to bond with our fellow Jeepees. We wanted to feel the presence of Pachamama, which is the Bolivian name for Mother Earth. It´s not hard to see why the belief in the spirit of the earth is so strong here. There´s so much activity on the surface that there has to be something down there pulling the strings. In no particular order, attractions in this geological theme park include lagoons (green, red, white, blue…you get the idea), hot springs (great when you haven´t showered for two days), rock formations from a Dali painting, deserts (dry), a smoking volcano, miles and miles of retina-witheringly bright salt flats punctuated by cactus-covered islands, sunrise over the salt lakes, big farting geysers. And not a safety rope or warning sign in sight.

It´s hard to pull out enough superlatives to really do the whole thing justice, but it says alot that the crushing headaches and marrow-freezing temperatures were a tiny price to pay for the experience. $180 seemed pretty fair too. That´d get you one night at a posh B&B in Ambleside. Take that, Wordsworth.

To view some photos from this trip, click here.

The time has come to leave Buenos Aires. For almost 8 months we have been lucky enough to call this city our home. We will miss the people, the beef, the futbol, the passion, the ice cream, wine and weather. We will not miss the dog shit.

The media department at Senor Suitcase have hastily compiled an emotional highlights package.

Gracias Buenos Aires: Watch the Video

Senor Suitcase
May 2011

Before Monday night my record of attending football matches in Argentina was as follows: P=4 W=0 D=1 L=2 A.A.S.M.F.E.R.*=1.
(* Abandoned After Six Minutes For Extreme Rioting)

The fact that these had all been Velez matches and that they were still top of the league is pretty amazing and shows just how well they have been playing without yours truly in attendance. However, nevertheless, this record had lead to my being branded MalaSuerteJaime (Bad Luck James). On Monday night, however, my Argentinian friend and Velez maniac Fer said that we should give it one final chance to kill this unfortunate alter-ego of mine before we head off next week to Bolivia and beyond.

So, I put on an odd pair of socks and headed down to the Fortinero armed with the more-than-nagging suspicion that I actually might be a Velez voodoo. This was not helped by a goalless first half. Yes, Velez were dominating, their midfielder Ricky Alvarez was having the game of his life, and Banfield were nervously negative, but this was not a curse that would be broken easily.

Half-time was a quiet affair. Shoul I swap the odd socks around? Take them off all together? For good luck Fer has often recommended that I hold my left egg but I think that would be taking it too far. Besides, I´m not entirely sure what he´s talking about.

Another half an hour of football. Still nothing. Banfield almost score on the counter-attack. My stomach went from being in my mouth to somewhere in between my brain and my hat. Meanwhile Fer was doing his best impression of someone who´s just had an angry squirrel released into their undergarments. Was the power of MalaSuerteJaime going to induce a heart attack?

But the Velez faithful did not waver, tut, or sigh, like the English equivalent might have done. They sung louder, bounced higher, and roared their team fowards to the opposition goal which was, to my tiring eyes, approximately 14 miles away. The prospect of an actual goal was perhaps even further.

But, with less than 10 minutes left to go, the Velez captain Cubero took matters into his own hands, bombed forward, and was on hand to poke in a rebound from a corner. PAN-DE-MON-I-UM. The next 5 minutes was the craziest I´ve ever spent inside a football stadium. The spectre of MalaSuerteJaime was dead and a second Velez goal 3 minutes later hammered the nail into MSJ´s coffin.

The atmosphere went crazy – grown man-strangers throwing themselves at me, a bouncing stadium, and a mildly lethal firework display that left Guido Fawkes looking like a kid waving a diffused sparkler.

For 45 seconds of this stadium craziness check out: ??????http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_QWFFtJ1PE

Such a display of impromptu pyrotenics in fact that Velez have today been banned from using their stadium for their next match. The second time that this has happened when I´ve been watching. MalaSuerteJaime may be dead, but he leaves a legacy.

The good news is we’ve managed to recover almost all of it and also taken the opportunity to get rid of some of the dead wood and add a couple of new features including an all new Cinema page where you can watch the videos on a big screen. Popcorn optional.

Meanwhile, in real life, we are coming to the end of our time in Buenos Aires and will be packing our rucksacks and beginning our long journey home via Salta, Bolivia, Peru and Miami. We will be blogging and tweeting wherever possible.

More imminently there will be a brand new video this week that encapsulates our 6 months in BA.

Señor Suitcase x

P.S. Up the Saints!!!

Posted: 20 Apr 2011 08:42 PM PDT

- The ancient drink of health and friendship.
- The weird silver thing Argentinians carry around.
- The reason porteños don’t need to sleep.

The answer is Maté.

It has more caffeine than tea and coffee put together. Probably. You suck it through a metal straw and then pass it on to your friend. But what does it really taste like? And how does it make you feel?

In the name of science, we invited our friend Fer round to the offices of Señor Suitcase to show us how it’s really done.

Watch how it’s done here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uKWxMTgcLag

Posted: 10 Mar 2011 07:28 PM PST

What is tango to you?

a)   neon crazy juice for the under eights, advertised by a man in orange body paint

b)   the name of your local tanning salon

c)   a large helping of leg spaghetti

If it’s ‘a’ or ‘b’, you haven’t left the UK. If it’s ‘c’, you’re an Ingles in Argentina, with the body of John Cleese and the head of Rab C Nesbitt, who wandered onto a dancefloor with nothing but a few episodes of Strictly Come Dancing for training.

Or, you’re us. We’ve been in Buenos Aires for six months now. In this time, we’ve taken in a good cross-section of the milongas (organised tango evenings where the locals gather to dance) this city has to offer, from La Viruta and La Catedral – still our favourite – at the younger, trendier end of the spectrum, to the more traditional La Confiteria Ideal and neighbourhoody Salon Canning.  So in theory, tango should be more than a vague twitch in the third toe on my left foot. However, there are a few obstacles standing between us and tango greatness.

1. Co-ordination. The first hurdle. Eye, meet arms. Arms, meet legs. James, thanks to his dedication on the football pitch, has a little more to offer in this department, but three seasons of goal-hanging for the OC 3^rd XI does not make Carlos Tevez into Carlos Gardel.
2. Walking backwards. There’s a huge amount of it for the lady. Without wing mirrors, this can be quite anxiety inducing and limiting to mobility. Imagine a slightly exasperated man in a supermarket pushing around a trolley with a broken wheel. That’s us.
3. Footwear. Not flip-flops or Converse apparently, but steel toecaps or Heelys might help.
4. Protocol. Forget ‘ here’s 10p to phone your mum…’, here, an invitation to dance is delivered in a series of winks and raised eyebrows that may well just be an unfortunate facial spasm. Or perhaps were directed at the lady next to you. You might both get up. Or ignore him and cause offence. The potential for embarrassment is endless.
5. Strangers. Suddenly you’re playing body-odour Russian Roulette with lone men. Of course, most of the tangueros you’ll encounter are scrubbed and Brylcreemed until they’re actually emitting a faintly phosphorescent glow, but you don’t often know which is which until you’re past the point of no return. Which brings me to…
6. Proximity issues. For us, this is the biggy. You see, tango is close. Cheek-to-cheek close. So, even if you’ve fitted your wing mirrors, reverse sensors and BO detectors, you’ve still got to spend five skin-on-skin minutes pressing cheeks with Señor or Señora Random.

By way of a disclaimer, and for all the millions of tango fans who might be reading, I’d also like to point out that tango, danced well – or even just passionately – is a beautiful thing. We hope to enjoy much more of it before leaving. But for now, we’ll stick to non-contact sports. Anyone for line-dancing?

Posted: 25 Feb 2011 04:02 PM PST

Finally got the chance to upload some photos from our incredible trip to the Galapagos Islands.

The place is amazing, the photos speak for themselves but the overriding memory was how fearless the wildlife was. Not so good when it’s a shark but you could go right up to a Booby and it wouldn’t even flinch.

A Booby is a bird by the way.

The photos are all here: http://jameskibbey.smugmug.com/Other/GALAPAGOS/15978121_kuoko#1198527865_6Ph3J

Enjoy!

P.S. Whilst you may have done, I have not forgotten about the final part of the Fin Del Mundo film. Coming to a YouTube browser window near you soon…

Posted: 15 Feb 2011 10:22 AM PST

3 flights in a single night is enough to leave even the most Bransonian of travellers a touch jaded. But what really gets under my skin is not the 2 hour airplane transfer at 5am or being packed in so tight you keep knocking your headphones off with your knees, for neither of these irritations can match the ultimate humiliation of….The Curtain Of Shame.

You all know it. The plane makes its initial climb and the captain sounds one of his mysterious ‘bongs’ releasing the pack of high-heeled teeth from their jumpseats. One of them starts to abseil towards you, smiling like an expectant shark in a seal sanctuary. She stops a few rows in front of your face, leans over the seat-tops and starts to adjust something. What is this curious bit of material she is unfurling across the cabin? Is a puppet show imminent? Is Paul Daniels on board? But before you can say “complimentary peanuts” you have been segregated. The haves and the have-nots, the celebrities and the civilians, the nose-cone know-it-alls and the tail-end Charlies.

What is the point of this Berlin Wall of canvas? What purpose does this overt display of segregation serve? I would genuinely like to know. But in the meantime, and in the absence of any rational explanation, I offer the following 3 theories:

Theory 1: Protecting The World’s Economy

Business class people are incredibly important. They are both “businessy” and extremely “classy”. What if one of them was to casually glance over their shoulder and accidentally caught sight of a regular civilian behind? They might recoil in shock, swallow a Blackberry, and in the ensuing confusion absent-mindedly short all the stock of a major financial institution. The Curtain saves the world from economic meltdown. Respect The Curtain.

Theory 2: The Green-Eyed Monster

The Curtain is for our protection. Just imagine if we were to glimpse, just for a second, the better class of life taking place behind the canvas gates – the silver cutlery, the $6 bottle of wine, the one stewardess who actually cares. It would surely be too much to bear and we would be forced to wrench open the emergency exit and end it all. The Curtain protects our Economy-class eyes from this. God Bless The Curtain.

Theory 3: Mile High jinx.

If your name’s not down, you’re not coming in. There is an enormous party taking place behind The Curtain and, quite simply, you’re not invited. The cabin staff are all naked, the flip-down screens are beaming a live feed from the Sunset Strip, and the captain has got his guitar and harmonica out. There may not be a bouncer on guard but there doesn’t need to be. Just try to part the curtain and you’ll get a fully laden food trolley in the unmentionables.

That’s all I’ve got for now. Any alternative theories or actual aeronautical intelligence would be very welcome. Also – apologies for lack of regular updates recently, we’re currently restructuring Senor Suitcase’s media department.

Doors to manual and cross-check. I’ve always wanted to say that.

Posted: 27 Jan 2011 11:21 AM PST

With the notable exception of tinned tuna sushi and a slew of forgettable pizzas, we’ve enjoyed all of the food here. However, there are a few stand-out items on the menu del pais that demand to be eaten. None of them are green. All of them go with Malbec. And if you know anywhere else where we can find sparkling examples of these Edible Wonders, please shout in the comments section.

So, if you only put eight things in your face during your visit, make sure it’s…

Choripan

The recipe’s in the name. ‘Chori’ refers to the chorizo, the sausage as thick as a baby’s arm that nestles inside the ‘pan’, approximately a yard of white baguette. That’s the basic formula, to which you add chimichurri (herb-based condiment) and a garnish of chopped onion/tomato/leaf if you’re on a diet. Conversation is generally suspended for at least 15 minutes while you eat it, and for a further four hours while you sleep it off.

Where…Street parrillas on the Costanera Sur (the places with taxis parked nearby are the best, so they say), Choripan Man in San Telmo market

Provoleta

Unlike the more needy fondue, breaded mozzarella or baked camembert, provoleta asks for no accompaniment. And it gets none. It’s just melted cheese that, thanks to some dark art of the cheese gods, inexplicably retains its disc shape. Ask for it ‘bien cocido’ so it’s crispy on the outside and gooey inside. Hear that faint whimpering in your chest? That’s your heart.

Where… Don Julio, Lo de Mi Hermano, La Choza, Miranda

Entraña

It might be difficult to get past big-hitting, pumped up headliners like Bife de Chorizo and Bife de Lomo on the parrilla menu, but those who want to eat like locals delve down into its further reaches. What the humble entraña (skirt steak) lacks in the looks department it makes us for with an intense cow-y hit that appeals to full-time carnivores. Just add wine.

Where…La Choza, La Cabrera, Lalo (Helpful post on where to eat various cow cuts from http://www.saltshaker.net/restaurant-reviews/the-ultimate-parrillada)

Empanadas

Like the sexy Latin cousin of the geeky Cornish pasty, empanadas stick rigidly to the tried-and-tested “pastry + fat = genius” formula . ‘Spicy’ meat is a banker (expect a spice level akin to a sausage roll) but go for a friskier leek & Roquefort if it’s a special occasion.

Where…La Cupertina, Cumen Cumen, Lo de Mi Hermano, Bar Federal

Mojellas

As you might be aware from earlier dispatches, we’ve had a good old rummage through the cow parts. Sweetbreads – or mollejas – might seem a little ‘earthy’ at home, but lined up next to the intestines, kidneys and blood sausage, this is Offal Lite. No tubes or toughness, no tang of iron. We don’t even know what they do. Large squeeze of lemon later, and we don’t much care.

Where… La Cabrera, Lalo

Jamon y queso tostadas

If the no-frills Argentinian approach to cuisine could be summed up in one sandwich, this would be it. No rosemary foccacia. No black rye, seeded batch, bloomer, sourdough or anything else. Just thin stripes of white bread, pink ham and yellow cheese. Briefly toasted, then run over by a passing colectivo.

Where…Everywhere! We like Bar Federal for portion size, Volta for crispness.

Ice Cream

Every country thinks its ice cream is the best. But how can they compete? Argentina has more cows than people and more ice than cows. Put them together and you make frozen cows. Or, more often than not, The Best Ice Cream In The World ™. Add Dulce de Leche into the mix and you’ve got a one-way ticket to helado heaven.

Where…Jauja (for Dulce de Leche), locals love Freddo but swear by Volta. Tufic is our favourite local (try the mascarpone con frutos rojos).

Panqueque con Dulce de Leche

‘Pan-keh-keh’ is almost as fun to say as it is to eat. It’s essentially a folded pancake cushion stuffed with enough caramel to drown a squirrel. We usually order a taxi at the same time.

Where…Miranda

It’s back. The film they tried to ban.

In the second (and penultimate) part of Fin Del Mundo,  Señor Suitcase travel down the legendary Ruta 40 and walk on top of the massive Perito Moreno Glacier. Along the way they encounter a breakdown, more dangerously epic scenery, and scale the full height of an unpronounceable mountain. Kindly guesting on this week’s episode is 90s rapping sensation Vanilla Ice.

It’s just 4 minutes long because I know you’re busy. Pour yourself a small glass of tap water and enjoy…

Watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rlEfgBI_x6Q

PS. If you haven’t watched Part 1 yet you’re probably better off doing that first: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uMvo75nQasI

Posted: 16 Jan 2011 05:31 PM PST

We’ve been in Argentina for nearly four months. This is probably a reasonable point at which to take stock and say something profound about all the cultural differences we’ve uncovered. But I can’t think of anything right now. So instead here’s a list of unprofound things about the stuff we encounter in everyday life, the things that are as they are and no-one really knows why, least of all us permanently bemused aliens.

Pavements

You know that crazy paving stuff that everyone went wild for in the 80s? Imagine a 3D version of that. You’re not walking on the pavement, you’re walking in it. And if you’re Argentinian and female, you’re doing it in a pair of wooden platform sandals.

Consonants

Where are they? Is there a warehouse full of them somewhere, rows of skips piled high with stolen ‘S’s, guarded by gringo-hating Carol Vorderman-a-like language terrorists? Because there sure as hell aren’t any on the streets of Buenos Aires. We’ll offer a handsome reward for their return.

Happy Hour

Two for one. One as in one person. No sharing, says the guy who until 30 seconds ago was your friendly bartender. In fact, don’t even look at his drink. Just shut up and drink both of yours, before 8pm.

Toilet Paper Baskets

You know you’re not supposed to put the paper in the toilet. Printed notices in four different languages tell you to throw it into the little plastic basket at your feet. That’s why you throw it – ARGH, again, right down the loo. Silent apology to the toilet gods, quick flush, vow to remember next time.

Cake

Fill it with dulce de leche, case it in pastry, top it with coconut and serve it…for breakfast. Wake up three days later with your face in a cold cup of coffee.

Tiny bikinis

Just like any other bikini, after a January diet. Recent research (bravely conducted by the male half of Señor Suitcase) has shown that Argentinian briefs reveal at least 40% more buttock than the average bikini. And instantly my British bikini feels like a 1950s bathing suit.

Monedas

If daily life in Buenos Aires is defined by one thing, it’s the relentless and universal quest for small change. Without it, you can’t get onto the bus or wash your bed sheets. It’s a battle that requires strategy, skill and an unfaltering ‘no tengo cambio’ poker face. That guy in the kiosco? He can hear loose pesos jangling from two blocks away.

Locked doors

Porteños are security conscious. Well, some more than others. Which means it’s a lottery as to whether the door of the restaurant/shop/office will be locked or unlocked. We’ve become used to rattling doorhandles and pushing against locked doors with affected nonchalance/embarrassed urgency. But being locked in buildings is surely taking it too far…

Jamon y queso

Dough, ham and cheese are the holy trinity in Argentina. You’ll find them wrapped, sandwiched, toasted, grilled, baked, put around a steak and disguised as Arctic Roll. In fact, if you don’t like ham and cheese, there are plenty of other countries in the world which will gladly accommodate you.

Hola! Que tal?

Help. Am I supposed to answer? Or answer and ask him how he is? Or, perhaps he’d just like me to mumble something incomprehensible into my own shoes as I continue walking? Because that’s what usually happens.

And finally – Milk in a Bag

The prequel to ‘Milk All Over the Inside of Your Fridge’.

In the style of all great money-grabbing movie franchises, Señor Suitcase’s long-awaited Patagonia film “Fin Del Mundo” will be presented to the viewing public (both of you) as a trilogy.

“Part 1: The Search For Whales” is out now. Includes close encounters with huge whales, a spectacularly ugly elephant seal, and a fight to the death between 2 gay penguins. It will surely represent the 4 best clothed minutes of your life.

Here’s the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uMvo75nQasI&fmt=22

If your bandwidth allows, please be kind to your eyes and watch it in high resolution. A New Year’s resolution if you like.

Parts 2 and 3 to be released throughout January.

Posted: 24 Dec 2010 10:25 AM PST

Santa Claus is so hot right now. With the temperature knocking 35C before breakfast, you’ve got to feel sorry for the guy in the red polyester suit and cotton wool beard, even if he does have his own grotto. Sensibly, the majority of the Santas we’ve come across – mainly on shopfronts and posters rather than in the flesh – dress in head-to-toe white, like a 90s boyband shooting their latest album cover.

So all these Westlife sunshine Santas have left us a bit confused. The calendar says it’s December, the emails from my sister asking if she should get grannie hand cream or a scarf say it’s December, but everything in the immediate environment says it’s August. How are we supposed to sing ‘In the bleak mid-winter’ here with a straight face?

So in a bid to get a little bit festive, we did what people in every other Christian country across the world do at this time of year: reached for the credit cards. Naturally, our first stop was the fancy dress shop. Bound to be brimming with festive paraphernalia, we thought. But it clearly hadn’t been a bumper Halloween at this one. Festive orc mask, anyone? Still, we managed to pick up half a dozen suitably lightweight Santa hats (one size fits all, apart from the generously proportioned Longmore noggin, obviously), a clutch of novelty straws and some Hawaiian-inspired festive garlands. It’s beginning to feel a lot like…Honolulu?

Next up: wine, an extremely important part of Christmas here. Despite the fierce heat, Argentines wash down their Christmas bife with the heaviest Malbec they can find. We’re new to this game, so we’re opting for agua sin gas, watermelon mojitos and rosé, although we might bravely force down a Malbec with our steak if baby Jesus asks us nicely.

The final piece in our festive jigsaw is the beef: five hunks of fillet steak the size of Papua New Guinea, courtesy of our local carniceria, which will be committed to the parrilla at around 8pm on Christmas Day. This is much to the surprise of the locals, who tend to wrap proceedings up at around lunchtime (Christmas Eve is the main event here). We had originally booked the parrilla in our apartment block for midday, until we realised that the beef wouldn’t be the only thing sizzling at that time of day. Naturally, we’ve got an emergency kilo of dulce de leche ice cream on standby at all times.

So, Feliz Navidad everyone! And just because we’re the other side of the world doesn’t mean we don’t have a Christmas list. Westlife Santa, if you’re listening…

Christmas Wishlist:

- The past tense in Spanish
- The immediate deportation of the man who plays drums in the flat above
- A fresh jar of Marmite
- Couscous (weirdly, £4 a bag here)
- Six month’s supply of fresh red chillies
- A provoleta vending machine
- A defibrlllator (see above)
- A grab bag of salt and vinegar Discos
- Tickets to the Superclassico
- A new pair of Speedos for Spiderpig

Posted: 18 Dec 2010 03:55 PM PST

The Epic Motion Picture Event Of The Year Is Here:

2 Adventurers. 5 weeks. 4000 kms. No journey to the End of the World is ever easy.

You’ve read the words, you’ve seen the photos, now live the movie.

Watch the HD trailer at the link below. For best results set playback on the bottom of your YouTube window to 720 HD:

Fin Del Mundo – Official Trailer

Posted: 09 Dec 2010 06:09 PM PST

So – we’re back in BA and, having honed our wilderness survival skills in Patagonia (first things first), we’re now trying to improve our Spanish. After all, there are only so many times you can say “Muy bien. Y vos?” to the doorman before he is forced to duck under the desk every time you emerge from the lift.

Back in the UK we had somewhere in the region of a lesson a week for a year. All of this tuition has furnished us with the combined ability to say “thank you”, “medium rare”, and “is there a library near here?”. No offence to our teachers, who were all excellent, but as the old adage goes, if you don’t use it you lose it, and we weren’t speaking much Spanish in SW15 (unless you count asking for chorizo at the Waitrose deli counter).

So, on Tuesday we ventured down to Beerlingual at Sugar Bar. It’s essentially a bi-lingual pub quiz and it’s a lot of fun. Aside from the glory of winning the prize of a scary red-eyed frog (?) for Best Team Name (“Quizteam-a Fernandez” – a nod to the president), we were still left with far more preguntas than respuestas.

Next week we are stepping up the campaign further with a full week of lessons. Hopefully this will finally equip us with the ability to speak in the past tense. At the moment we speak only about the present and the future. Although you could argue this is a very healthy way to live your life in general, it means that we essentially don’t exist in Spanish. We weren’t born, we never left England, we never ate breakfast. We’re Hispamnesiacs.

Another reason for the lessons is that Google Translate, as brilliant as it is, seems to have abandoned us of late. It can handle menu translations and the odd transactional e-mail, but when it comes to local banter, it comes up a little short. I leave you with a series of Google Translated exchanges taken from the lively banter between the porteños with whom I play football:

“AJAJJA bleed from the wound … brings you a basket full of the goals! ajajaja”

“Already sunk! And beware that if you hit a rock you can drown you! The pipe, to count as such, must serve!”

“Come prepared to see how your network is moving all the time! I do not mourn you after I warned you!”

“Today you get the signature of the spoils of all the bites on my ankles and knees !!!!!!!!”

“Those who go to get away with it very red tail is you! Llloooooooserssssssss”

“It plays down the field! Do not bet what’s nickname Fer again because I want to make a little more enjoyable! Last-born of ice cream you little chest!”

It is worrying to think that this is probably how our best Spanish sounds to local ears. The next blog entry will be written in Spanish. It will either be very brief, or posted in 2014.

Posted: 01 Dec 2010 08:27 AM PST

It all ends today. This is the last day of our journey through Patagonia. We´ve covered somewhere in the region of 5000km and now find ourselves in the southernmost city on Earth: Ushuaia. We have spent 5 weeks winding south through this massive country, clocking up 100 hours of road time (with only one breakdown). And this evening we will be catapulted back to Buenos Aires in a little over 3 hours. There´s nothing like five weeks of coach travel to make flying feel like luxury.

Ushuaia itself is nothing to tweet home about. It´s predominantly an industrial hub, container ships loading up ready to pick another fight with the most fearful stretch of water on the planet. While the city will not be troubling the judges at the Argentinian City of Beauty Awards, and the local radio stations play the same 5 songs on a loop from Now That´s What I Call Death By 80s, the place does evoke a real sense of being at the world´s end. As if the jostling ranks of Fin del Mundo souvenir shops would ever let you forget…

Having trekked, sailed and glaciered ourselves silly since leaving Buenos Aires, we decided to take in a bit of culture. The walls of the city´s museums talk of native tribes (makers of the fires that gave the ´Land of Fire´ its name) and centuries of shipwrecks. Before Panama had a canal, rounding Cape Horn was the only passage between the Pacific and the Atlantic and not a prospect relished by captains. Ushuaia has long been a pit-stop for adventurers, traders and cruise ships, which now release the colourful, GoreTex-clad hoardes into this snowy town before heading off across the Southern Ocean to Antarctica.

The last five weeks in Patagonia have been an incredible adventure. Leaping whales, crumbling glaciers, face-altering winds, expansive road trips and ice-creams as big as your head. The scale of everything is awesome. We have been fortunate to have the time to be able to appreciate the space here. In Patagonia, there are under two people per km². So, that´s just the pair of us with a km² to ourselves. Tonight we will sleep in Buenos Aires, where we will share our km² with another 13,678 people. Cosy.

Posted: 11 Nov 2010 02:11 PM PST

My dentist is going to be a very rich man.

The past week of our Patagonian adventure has seen us visit Bariloche (the capital of chocolate) and El Bolson (the basecamp of
beer). When you add the wealth of excellent ice-cream available and the discovery of dulce de leche and the genius that is the provoleta, it all adds up a conundrum for Father Christmas. Can a defibrillator fit down a chimney?

But it’s all ok really. We’re in training. For when we’re not trying to push an entire wheel of cheese into the hole in our faces, we’re walking up a mountain, or stumbling down one, or cycling round one…you get the idea.

We’re in The Andrews. Or – to those of you who know them well – The Andes. It’s an outdoorsy person’s heaven. You can run, hike, climb, pedal and paddle until your legs submit a written transfer request, but for 2 food-loving Londoners, the real joy has been in returning to earth and hastily replacing those hard burned calories.

I’ll start (out of habit) with The Provoleta. Melt some cheese in a bowl. Serve on a bed of melted cheese with a generous topping of cheese (melted). Optional garnish of un poco de queso. Serves 2. (though often eaten by just 1).

To follow, anything that lists dulce de leche among its key ingredients. Which, in Argentina, could be almost anything. They eat it on their toast for breakfast, on their pancakes for dessert, and in their ice-cream anytime of the day between the hours of 11am and 3am.

Which brings me to los helados. Ice cream in Patagonia is 3 things: cheap, amazing and invariably massive. Indeed, the government here passed a law in 1994 that any vendor selling a portion less in size than 2 scoops of a yeti’s paw be sentenced to death before the next full moon. Whilst this is probably just an urban myth invented by travel bloggers in hotel rooms with too much time on their hands, it is not unusual to see normal sized human beings leaving ice-cream venues with a 1 kilo sized tub of the good stuff. Our preferred suppliers have been Jauja (the dulce de leche flavour will probably change your life) and Humus (a great little place in El Bolson).

All this nutritional goodness must, of course, be washed down with a beverage. Whilst El Bolson translates literally (and pleasingly) as “The Handbag”, it might just as well translate as “River of Beer”. Like the ice-cream, the list of beer flavours is something to behold. We have sampled black, blonde, honey, raspberry, strawberry and chilli. We have yet to try the chocolate but, then again, we still have 6 hours until our bus arrives. Check outwww.cervezaselbolson.com and if anyone can find a UK supplier there could be a Senor Suitcase engraved defibrillator in it for them.

Tonight we head south again. Bound for the hiking capital of Argentina, El Chalten, and a chance to put all these calories to good use. It’s 25 hours and 1000 miles due south on the most famous road in the whole of South America: Ruta 40. Better go get some supplies…

Posted: 03 Nov 2010 05:14 PM PDT

Ah, whale-watching. Scrolling through the mental rollerdex turned up the following:

Number one: the Canary Islands, off-duty fishing trawler, eyeball-searing temperatures, stomach-emptying nausea, four dolphins and one unconfirmed report of a dead porpoise.
Number two: Sea World. Shamu.
Number three: the River Thames, 2006. A sad story.

So our trip to Peninsula Valdes, which juts out into the Atlantic roughly halfway down the Argentinian coast, didn´t have much to live up to. With three days on the peninsula – we chose to stay in Puerto Piramides close to the action rather than Puerto Madryn – and a pretty rain-soaked arrival, we weren´t in any hurry to get onto the water. Stopping at a stretch of beach, Playa Doradilla, just off the main road, we squinted into the water of the Golfo Nuevo beyond. Nothing. Except for 2 gigantic bus-sized whales. 10
metres from where we were standing. Breath. Taken. Away.

Yes they´re captivating, mesmerising, totally and utterly amazing. But most of all, they´re MASSIVE. Even the babies could swallow a minibus without so much as a glass of agua sin gas. So watching a pair of them – mother and calf, flapping about this close up: nose, then tail, flipper, then an arch of backbone – and only an hour after getting off the bus, was pretty special, even if it was played out to the collective shreaking of 52 Argentinian school kids. But this was just the trailer for a whale movie with a big finish.

We soon realised that whales are to the Golfo Nuevo what pigeons are to Trafalgar Square. If you stare into the water round here for longer than a minute and fail to spot a single piece of whale, your kagoul is on back to front. There are 450 of them in this relatively small stretch of water at this time of year, when mothers bring their babies for a few months before they head down to Antarctica and separate for good.

On our last full day on the peninsula, the conditions were, as they say in Spanish, perfecto – calm and clear – so we decided to book our places on the final trip of the day. Lifejackets on, Capitan Aves Ojo stepped on it and we headed out towards the horizon. From the point he cut the engine and the first crusted bonnet loomed out of the water, neither of us really noticed the passing of time. Expletives (it quickly dawns that one carefully aimed flick of the tail and you´ll all be swimming) and a torrent of excited Spanglish give way to speechlessness.

The whale gods must have been smiling on us, because the early glimpses turned into a riot of fin-flapping, spraying and tail waving. Hey, they even gifted us a rare baby white whale. And finally, as we turned for home, sun setting behind us, a full breach. When the calves jump, it´s their version of a baby´s tantrum, aimed to get the mother´s attention and a feed. So they tend to do it more than once. We waited. The captain coaxed the boat silently round so the whale’s trajectory was between us and the sun. And there it was, the money shot: baby whale (angry, hungry), launching into the amber glow. It´s the picture on a million postcards, but it felt as if we were seeing it for the first time.

The whales really are the headline act here, but there´s plenty on offer in support: a whole stack of seals of varying styles, ranging from the whiskery poster boys to those big-nosed beasts that only a mother could love (sorry, elephant seals) and a couple of orcas – not, sadly, in seal-stalking mode but impressively menacing all the same. Oh, and one of those spiders that crosses the divide between insect and animal. Not nice. Only the hairy armadillo was a no-show.

‘But what about the photos?’ we hear you cry. Don´t panic. James has been assuaging his itchy trigger finger with a non-stop photographic extravaganza, so we will have a modest slideshow of 4,389 photos to show you all when we get back to BA. And for us, it´s bye-bye Peninsula Valdes, though probably not forever.
We´ll be back in armadillo season.

Posted: 27 Oct 2010 12:03 PM PDT

Just a quick update -

Tomorrow morning, we leave BA bound for the vast expanse of this planet known as Patagonia. Over the next month we will be travelling almost 5000 kms  through Patagonian Argentina to the southernmost inhabited point of Planet Earth.

As a result, the Señor Suitcase media operation is now going mobile throughout the month of November. We will, of course, still be updating the blog, but do not really know where or when this will be happening. To keep up to speed on any new posts, enter your e-mail address in the box down the right-hand side of this page.

We will though be “tweeting” regularly so you can keep up to date with where we are and how many pairs of clean pants we have left by checking the “Breaking News” box on the front page of this blog or by joining the party at www.twitter.com/senorsuitcase

Hasta Luego!

Posted: 26 Oct 2010 04:00 PM PDT

We’ve been in Buenos Aires for exactly a month. Now that it’s time to pack our rucksacks, comb our beards and set the Señor Suitcase compass to Patagonia, we thought we’d indulge in a little reflection.

We’ve done many things during our first month in Buenos Aires. Swum across the Rio Plata, scored a goal at La Bombonera and abseiled down the Obelisco are just a mere sample of the things we haven’t. But here’s our top five of things we have. To further heighten the already electric atmosphere of this post, we present them to you in reverse order:-

5. Choripan at Costanera Sur

It was a Tuesday unlike any other Tuesday. Probably because it was a Sunday. The sun was shining and we were un pocito hungover. In our hunt for street food, we had heard about the pavement parrillas (grills) along the promenade that borders the Costanera Sur nature reserve and the blog with two stomachs could wait no longer. After a short walk down the promenade, we sussed out the form and chose our stall (the best ones are those with the most taxis parked up). Six minutes and 20 pesos later, we held in our hands “El Choripan” . Half sausage (chori), half baguette (pan); all delicious, fatty goodness. It’s like the kebab that you can take home to your mum, especially when it’s all dressed up with salad and chimichurri. It does, however, pack a calorific punch, so we followed it with a walk round the Costanera Sur circuit. A perfect sausage-fuelled stroll on a sunny Sunday.

4. Fuerza Bruta

The best thing I can tell you about this show is absolutely nothing. Look it up. Book a ticket. Put some trousers on. And then go there. Oh, and perhaps wear something waterproof. It’s like the strangest dream you’ve ever had that doesn’t involve root vegetables or Yoko Ono.

3. Futbol with the locals

For a more in depth account on futbol con los porteños check out this earlier post. However, I will briefly say that futbol here is played with a passion that is simultaneously impressive, hilarious and utterly terrifying. Whether your playing style is Messi or messy, lace your zapatillas up and find a game. Oh, and it would help to know a little Spanish female biology before you get there.

2. La Cabrera

If meat is a religion in Argentina, then La Cabrera is the church. We were fortunate to be treated like hungry kings the first time we went and our waiter Alberto was a plate-bearing fountain of knowledge on all things cow. Yes, it’s full of tourists. Yes, the service can be a little cold. But they really know their meat and each cut comes with more side dishesthan words in this sentence. Almost. Check out this earlier post for more information and book a table. And an ambulance.

1. Tango Lesson @ La Catedral

Pardon? Potentially humiliating group dance lesson? Where do I sign?

The outside of La Catedral (Sarmiento 4006) looks like a neglected Youth Centre if you’re being kind and a war-torn crack den if you’re not. You pay your 15 pesos (reluctantly) and haul your three left feet and looming sense of dread upstairs. You make your way around a curtain. And then your jaw drops. The place is absolutely stunning.

If La Cabrera is a feast for the stomach, La Catedral is most certainly a feast for the eyes. It’s like you’ve stumbled onto a Baz Lurhmann film set. Aside from the “dancefloor”, there are a number of shabby tables, a large bar, a smoky back room and some toilets that owe more to Trainspotting than to any recognisable standards of hygiene. But it’s all part of the charm.

The tango lesson itself takes about half an hour, and after that you can just slink back to your table and the comfort of your litre of Quilmes or continue to bust out “The Ocho” until you’re blue in the feet and have said ‘perdon’ more times than you ever thought possible. A word of warning though: at 3am the professionals roll in – probably best to put your feet up then and see how it’s really done.

Posted: 17 Oct 2010 05:45 PM PDT

So the votes are in and I have a little under a year to work my way through an entire cow (apologies to anyone who thought it was going to be a one-sitting affair – I’m greedy, not suicidal). The challenge actually got underway just before voting had ended. You see, there’s a parrilla (grill restaurant) approximately ten nautical steps from the door of our block (well, twelve, if you count the shimmy around the dog poo). And after ten days here, it was becoming impolite to keep walking past. So last Saturday, me and my furry companion (he’s growing the mullet anyway) stepped out for our first steak.

At this point, it would be easy to come over all Michael Winner: the endless expanse of rippling flesh, the crisp layer of golden fat, the flame-licked crust and velvety interior. Ahhhhh. But really, this was just a great piece of meat cooked on a proper fire by a guy who chargrills cow in his sleep. I couldn’t have been happier if it was being served by adwarf on a tricycle.

So we returned to our apartment and ticked off sirloin and rump on our meat map. An easy start. Only a couple of days later, however, on our debut at the famous La Cabreraparrilla, things started to get a bit weird. Luckily, the combination of bad Spanish and even worse biology allowed us to remain blissfully unaware that a molleja de corazon (yes please, sounds delicious) is actually a pancreas. Molleja de cuello? Ooo why not? Thymus, yummy. [NB: Bad Idea #47: Wikipedia-ing offal parts. I’m not a squeamish person – I’ll even eat the odd McDonald’s Chicken Nugget – but the word ‘secrete’ should never be used in the same sentence as a food item.]

So, La Cabrera gave us our first taste of the famous ‘mollejas’, which the Argentineans go totally (lady) Gaga for. With good reason. Palm-sized and lighter in colour than steak, with a rich lamb-y flavour and nicely charred exterior, mollejas bear more resemblance to a really good fillet steak than school dinner liver. Just when we’re starting to feel like this grill can make anything taste good, the kidneys arrive, as tough and organ-like as I remember. NEXT!

And so back to our local, Don Julio, where Don and amigos dished me up some chinchulines (*new favourite word), the cow’s small intestine, which comes off the grill in a crispy little disc shape that doesn’t resemble the long sausage-y thing you see in biology lessons at all. My regular (well, alright, only) dining companion had succumbed to Argentina’s other great passion – futbol – so this was a solo experience, just me (at a table for four), a bottle of agua sin gas (in an ice bucket) and a hearty plate of grilled digestive tract. Bliss.

Nearing the end of our first official week of cow-nsumption, we’ve worked our way through the greatest hits collection (sirloin, rump, tenderloin & ribeye), some surprising B-sides (pancreas, thymus, intestines) and a predictable urine-processing flop (kidneys). Over our next two weeks in Buenos Aires, we’ll be concentrating on the juicy bits, before picking up the offal (en?)trail again when we head to Patagonia and leave the city and its delicate urban sensibilities behind. Next stop: udders.

Posted: 15 Oct 2010 09:09 AM PDT

“In Buenos Aires, nothing is said to be certain except death and taxis.”

The words of Benjamin Franklin – almost.

Take note Alton Towers – you are being severely undercut by your Latin American cousins. For in Buenos Aires you can ride a rollercoaster every day for less than it would cost to buy a keyring in the Oblivion gift shop. But there is a key difference. Rollercoasters have rails. And seatbelts. Taxis here sometimes don’t even have seats.

If I say that taxi drivers here drive at 100 miles an hour, I am of course exaggerating. By about 3 miles an hour. If I say that they drive within 1 centimetre of other cars at all times, I am also exaggerating. By about a millimetre. At one point last night, we drove so close to the taxi in front that I almost felt obliged to pay a portion of their fare.

Anyway, last night’s journey downtown was another one for the folder marked “Bruce Willis”. But with a comic twist. Think Die Hard meets Look Who’s Talking. We were being pinballed back and forth across 14 lanes of traffic by a driver who’d just graduated from the Grand Theft Auto School of Motoring, when it became apparent that he was playing cat and mouse with an equally “loco” motorcyclist. Now, driving within a centimetre of other cars out here comes with some obvious risks but at least it is a level playing field (bar the occasional pothole). Driving within a centimetre of a motorcycle, on the other hand, carries with it all manner of grim possibilities.

But the Argentinean Evel Knievel gave as good as he got. Our driver (Kenny Powers) would cut across his path (with liberal horn use and crazy shouting), the motorcyclist would then return the favour (with much threatening finger-wagging and hints of concealed passenger firearm). I didn’t really like where this was heading (not literally – for the restaurant Dada turned out to be excellent). After several ridiculous manoeuvres from both parties, we reached a set of traffic lights. The motorcyclist pulled right up alongside the driver’s window, which the driver lowered for a showdown. How would I explain to the local dry-cleaner that the splattered stains on my shirt were actually parts of a taxi driver’s brain?

However, the taxistas here know their position in the food chain all too well. The ensuing banter went something like this:-

Motorcycle: What are you doing? You’re f***ing crazy. Stick to your f***ing lane, a**hole.

Kenny Powers: <laughs wildly> I am sticking to my f***ing lane.

Motorcycle: Which f***ing lane is yours?

Kenny Powers: <laughs wildly>They’re all my f***ing lanes!! <laughs even more wildly, jams foot on accelerator.>

*passengers resume urgent fumbling for missing seatbelts*

With a final blast of the horn, deranged cackle, and one more swish of his magnificent mullet, we turned left across three lanes of traffic and hurtled towards the restaurant. GAME OVER.

Posted: 07 Oct 2010 02:52 PM PDT

“Bring your slippers” – the e-mail from my footballing porteño contact Fer told me. Had he seen me play before? Alas, this was not a sleight on my lackadaisical playing style, merely an interesting translation of “astroturf boots”. But, the e-mail confirmed that one of their regulars was absent this week, and I was in the game.

So, I turned up for a 9pm kick-off on a cross between a student’s carpet and a cat’s litter tray. Wedged between two railway lines and beneath the flight path out of Aeroparque Jorge Newbery, this may not have been La Bombonera but there was certainly no lack of atmosphere. And the stakes were high. The cost to play was 15 pesos per head (around £2.50) but it was winner takes all. Or rather – winner pays nothing, loser pays double. In a city where £5 can get you 25 journeys anywhere on the subway, this was a match worth winning.

Unbeknownst to me, the banter had been flying around all day on e-mail. This wasn’t about money though, it was about pride. And also, hilariously, the right to keep one’s name. For both captains were called Fer and they had agreed that the losing captain must change his name. To what? I am yet to find out. In the build up, I had been billed by my Fer captain as “The England Machine!!!” I think he had been watching too many videos of Bryan Robson and Vinnie Jones, but for those who have not seen me on a football field before, I am far from a ‘machine’. Well, perhaps something like a fax machine – out of date, liable to break down, and very difficult to find spare parts for.

The match itself started innocuously enough. We had 2 Brazilians on our team who, true to stereotype, totally ran the show. They were, put simply, ‘Brazilliant”. It was like being an out-of-focus extra in a Nike advert but I was determined to play my part. I tracked back (seriously), threw myself in the way of shots, and took my turn in goal. We raced into a 3 goal lead but, with 5 minutes left to go, somehow managed to gift the opposition a few cheap goals. The atmosphere grew a little edgy – suddenly it was a lot closer than it needed to be. Our captain Fer, who is either mad or both, then took matters into his own hands. One great left-footed strike equalled one crucial Ggggoooooollll!!! and what followed was a selection of impressively loud screams that included a combination of people’s mothers, unmentionable body parts, and a degree of child-bearing out of wedlock.

I then managed, in typical British footballing style, to get the big toe of my left foot on the end of a miss-hit shot to put us 2 goals clear, before one of the Brazilliants put us out of reach with the kind of goal that I can’t even score on a Playstation. The impromptu pitch invasion by the local “mujeres de hockey” signalled the final whistle, hugs all round, and more shouts and screams from our inspirational “Capitán Loco”.

Wallets intact. Pride intact. Legs intact. I had survived my Argentinian futbol debut.

For anyone playing futbol con porteños in the future, a chap called Napolean made a very helpful post of all the phrases you need to know on the BA Expats forum.

POSTED ON 03 OCTOBER 2010

Five days into our Argentinean adventure and here are the stats:-

0 dog poo encounters (an excellent result in this city, where the average resident stands in 2.5 dog poos per day)
1 attempt at short-changing by an elderly shopkeeper (who had already sold us an aggressively priced tea towel)
1.75 days it takes to buy a single pre-pay mobile phone using our best Spanglish
2 mosquito bites sustained in the first 48 hours
3 the number of other people we spoke to in two hours at our first party (this included the doorman)
4 hours behind GMT
5 minutes’ walk to the centre of Palermo, where the dogs are the same size as the take-out coffees
6 pesos to the pound
7d, our apartment number in our block.
8 steps to walk the length of our apartment
9 steps to walk from our apartment block to the nearest steak restaurant
10:pm, the time at which the raging, wild-eyed hunger kicks in and Anna starts foaming at the mouth
11:pm, dinner-time in Buenos Aires
12 hours sleep on first night after arriving
13 pairs of shoes, brought by Anna (none of them able to deal with the hostile local terrain)
14 pesos, the cost of a bottle of Malbec (around £2)
15 units of alcohol in the vodka and tonic James was served last night as a light aperitif
16 hours to get to BsAs from Heathrow (via the Sao Paolo tarmac)
17 the number of times we have said ‘Si, claro’, having understood literally nothing
18 hours, standard length of a coach journey to get anywhere in Argentina
19 degrees Celsius today
20 UK pence it costs for any journey on the subway
30 pounds spent on excess baggage (see 13)
45 minutes Anna spent on an exercise bike this morning without breaking sweat (was I sitting the right way round?)
100-1 : the current odds of James agreeing to tango lessons.

POSTED ON 29 SEPT 2010

Hemos llegado en Buenos Aires con Puerco Araña.

We thought we’d done a bit of a Crowded House as we approached downtown BA. Overcast skies and the brand of pathetic drizzle that has London’s signature all over it. This is not the kind of weather you wish to take with you.

But we’re here and, due to a mixture of public demand and widespread ambivalence, we’ve brought Spiderpig with us. He is pictured here stretching his trotters this evening on our apartment balcony after being face down in the cargo hold for 16 hours.

So this is where the blogging starts in earnest (or more specifically Palermo). Our pledge: to keep it either entertaining or mercifully brief. We will also aim to include as much multimedia as possible for the hard of reading.

You can keep yourself updated by entering your e-mail address on the right-hand side of the blog, following us on Twitter, and Skyping us. You can also make comments on blog posts but please don’t use any words that would offend anyone’s granny.

Luego amigos.