The greatest adventure yet… returning home.

How easy it is to return – just step on that plane, plug in the earphones, chew the plastic tasting food shapes provided for your mid air nourishment and pass the hours over the Pacific Ocean… then the plane lands, you smile at the immigration official, collect your bags and walk through the gates – your family stands there, bleary eyed at 4am but with their arms open and takeaway coffees at hand. You step into the car and the machine moves over the smooth roads leading to a house that contains all those familiar smells and tastes and sounds… this is the place you call home. The air is clean and you can breathe it deep into your lungs, the water is clear from the taps and you can drink it without regard for cost or plastic waste. It takes awhile to be absorbed and then you realise that the past two and a half years of foreign environments are over. It’s strangely liberating.

I’m overwhelmed at the amount of “things” around me, overwhelmed at the thought of all these belongings of mine inside boxes stacked in the garage. After the enforced utilitarianism of backpacking having more than two choices of clothing in the morning leaves me manic and uncertain. Suddenly the value of the multi-purpose is no longer greater than the value of the aesthetic or the comfortable.

Talking contains similarities. After extended periods spent without real conversation on the abandoned roads through southern Chile, to suddenly speak is intoxicating. I watch this huge outpouring of words, each falling on the top of the other, and wonder if I actually convey what I am intending to. Seeing people I used to know invokes an unexplained fear and listening to old music brings a rushing of buried emotions and memories: I am indeed this same person who left here those years ago and I am also not. I think that returning somewhere is a process as complex as leaving and I will walk this new road slowly and see what brings fluidity.

What I have learnt beyond any doubt is that this country is where I belong. I return with the clear knowledge that I will not make a great fortune in my life here; I will not have access to European intellectualism or cheap electronic equipment. I may not even have the opportunity of international travel again. And I choose that. I choose it because this country offers a quality of life that is incomparable with the rest of the world. These mountains, this blue sea, these towering kauri trees and wild black sand beaches are an intrinsic part of my being. I could never leave them. And these people who we call New Zealanders, with their loud over-familiarity and strong accents, the beautiful ethnic mixtures that form our communities: Maori, Chinese, Polynesian, Indian, “Pakeha”, Malaysian… these are my people. Together we share a nation that could lead the world. I am proud to be a New Zealander… and I am home.

September the 11th...

Here in Latin America this heavy date, etched permanently in the mind of the world, is mourned for a tragedy other than the attacks on the world trade centre. This date signifies the day that Chile's socialist democracy was brought crashing down under the weight of a military coup funded by the CIA in the height of the Cold War, 1973. For me, this day in Santiago feels loaded with a sadness that I cannot quite identify - the loss of a great politician, the loss of a country's democratic rights for western commercial interests, the loss of thousands of socialists, students, journalists and intellectuals who were subsequently arrested, tortured or executed under the 20 year military regime that followed the coup and the realisation of a truth that makes me shudder: that the right to life holds less value than the access to cheap minerals mined in nations whose military institutions are easily bought with blood money from the pockets of the wealthy.

Marking the history of this day I walked through the named avenues of Santiago's Cementerio General, a cemetery that is more like a city of the dead with immense streets of old and crumbling concrete tombs of wealthy Chilean families and politicians - a haunted sort of place that makes me wish never to be laid in a grave with a concrete stone to be left to crack and grow moss with the passing of the years. In the midst of this still and silent place lies Salvador Allende - moved from his previously unmarked grave after the fall of the military regime in 1990 to a place of memorial and honour, red roses strewn over the white marble monument and the word's of his final speech carved onto a granite slab sitting above the tomb where he and his family lie. At the front of the cemetery is another memorial - this one to the thousands of "desaparecidos", the disappeared, people who were arrested in secret by the military regime, whose bodies have never been discovered and whose families have never been able to fully mourn their losses. It is something that winds you to see it - thousands of names, and dates of births, in long lists across a granite slab that reaches for metres - each one representing somebody's son or daughter, mother or father, somebody's lover or best friend, somebody's brother, somebody's sister. Each one a person who had dreams, who had fears, who believed in a better world and used their life to speak out for it - and with their life, paid for it . Some families had placed photographs of their lost ones underneath the stone - young bright faces looking out, their last days filled with such fear and uncertainty. What an immense injustice.

Isabel Allende, the famous Chilean writer and Salvador Allende's cousin, has recorded her memories of this period and I think that she so eloquently captures the emotion of it that I shouldn't even attempt to define it for myself and rather will copy her words here in memorial to all that was lost that fateful September morning. May we never forget.

"On September 11, 1973, at dawn, the navy rebelled, followed almost immediately by the army, the air corps, and finally the corps of carabineros, the Chilean police. Salvador Allende was instantly notified; he hurriedly dressed, said goodbye to his wife, and went to his office, prepared to live out his oath: "They will not take me alive from La Moneda". His daughters Isabel and a pregnant Tati rushed along with their father. The bad news spread like lightning, and ministers, secretaries, staff, trusted doctors, some newspapermen, and friends all came to the Palacio de la Moneda, a small multitude wandering through the rooms without knowing what to do, shaping battle plans and barricading doors with furniture according to confusing instructions from the president's bodyguards. Urgent voices suggested that the hour had come to call out the people in a huge manifestation in support of the government, but Allende realised that such a summons would result in thousands of deaths. In the meantime, he tried to dissuade the rebels through messengers and telephone calls, because none of their generals dared confront him in person. Then Allende's bodyguards received orders from their superiors to withdraw, because the police had joined in the coup; the president let them go but demanded they surrender their weapons. Now the Palacio was unguarded and the great wood doors with wrought iron studs were closed from the inside. Shortly after 9am, Allende became aware that all his political skill would not be sufficient to change the tragic course of the day; the fact was that the band of loyalists locked inside the venerable colonial building were alone: no one would come to their rescue, the people were unarmed and without leaders. Allende ordered the women to leave, and his guards distributed weapons among the men, but very few knew how to use them. The news had reached Tio Ramon in the embassy in Buenos Aires and he managed to speak by telephone with the president. Allende bid his old friend farewell: "I shall not resign, I shall leave La Moneda only when my term is ended, as president, or when the people demand it - or dead". As they spoke, military units throughout the nation were falling one by one into the hands of the instigators of the coup, and in those same barracks the purge was begun against any who remained faithful to the constitution: the first people shot that day were wearing uniforms. El Palacio was surrounded by soldiers and tanks; isolated shots were heard, and then a heavy shelling that penetrated the thick, centuries old walls and set fire to furniture and drapes on the first floor. A helmeted Allende went out onto the balcony with a gun and fired off a couple of shots, but someone convinced him that exposing himself in that way was madness and forced him to come back inside. A brief truce was arranged to remove the women, and at that time the president asked everyone to leave him and surrender, but few did so; the majority dug in on the second floor, as he embraced the six women still by his side and told them goodbye. His daughters did not want to leave him, but by then the outcome was clear and by their father's orders were forcibly taken from the building. In all the confusion, they walked down the street without being stopped until an automobile picked them up and drove them to a safe haven. Tati never recovered from the pain of that separation and the death of her father, the man she loved most in life, and three years later, in exile in Cuba, she left her children in a friend's care and, without telling anyone goodbye, shot herself. The generals, who had not foreseen any resistance, did not know what to do; they did not want to make Allende a hero, so they offered him a plane and safe transport for him and his family. "You have misjudged me, traitors", was his reply. They then announced an aerial bombardment. Time was short. For the last time, the president spoke to the people by the means of the one radio station not in the hands of the mutinous military. His voice was deliberate and firm, his words so determined that his farewell did not resemble the last breath of a man about to die, but the dignified salute of a man taking his permanent place in history:

"...Our opponents have the power, they can crush us, but social progress will not be stopped with crime or with force. History is ours, it is made by the people... Workers of my nation, I have faith in Chile and in its destiny. Other men will surmount this grey and bitter moment in which treachery attempts to rule. You must never forget that - much sooner than later - the great avenues will open for a liberated people to pass through as they move toward constructing a better society. Viva Chile! Long live the people! Long live the workers!"

Bomber planes flew like fanatic birds over the Palacio de la Moneda, dropping their bombs with such precision that they exploded through windows and in less than ten minutes set ablaze an entire wing of the building, while tanks lobbed tear gas canisters from the street. At the same time, other airplanes and tanks were attacking the official presidential home in an exclusive residential neighbourhood. Smoke and fire engulfed the first floor of the palace and began to invade the salons of the second floor where Salvador Allende and a few of his followers were still entrenched. There were bodies everywhere, many rapidly bleeding to death. The survivors, choked by smoke and tear gas, could not make themselves heard above the noise of the shelling, planes and bombs. The army's assault troops stormed La Moneda through gaps burned by fire and shell, occupied the still blazing first floor, and with loudspeakers ordered the people to exit the building by an external stone stairway. Allende realised that further resistance would end in a bloodbath and ordered his men to surrender, because they could better serve the people alive than dead. He said his final goodbyes with a firm handclasp, looking each man squarely in the eye. Then they emerged Indian file, with their arms above their heads. As they came out, the soldiers kicked them and beat them with the butts of their weapons, and once they were on the ground, continued to beat them until they were senseless, then dragged them into the street where they lay on the pavement while the voice of a crazed officer threatened to roll over them with the tanks. The president was left standing beside the torn and bloody Chilean flag in the ruined Red Salon, rifle in hand. Soldiers burst in with drawn weapons. The official version is that Allende placed the barrel of the rifle beneath his chin, pulled the trigger, and blew off his head." (Isabel Allende, "Paula", 1994)

Viva Allende. And let all of us, who take our freedoms so much for granted, never forget how precious they are, or those who have lost them.

A musing on the loss of the market...

At the heart of every self-respecting town or city in Latin America there lies a market of fresh produce, a place for transactions, somewhere to meet and to gossip, the centre for the dissemination of news and a place where revolutions are born... I have eagerly visited many in this southward journey of the Andes, but one of the most impressive has been that of the Mapuche trading town, Temuco, in the Lake District of Chile.

On a cold, misty, grey winter's day walking into the market was sensory bliss; what an extraordinary collection of colour, shape, smell and sound! Rows and rows of fruit and vegetables in their splendor... from huge round blue shelled pumpkins to small green avocados, the peculiar shaped artichoke and the inviting shine of aubergine... perfectly round oranges and leafy green silverbeet, stacks of marrows and sacks of lentils; mounds of spices with the most wonderful colour and smell; bunches of aromatic herbs from mint to chamomile and cilantro; huge, round cheeses reminiscent of Holland and small golden jars of wild honey; fish, fresh and smoked, hanging from wooden stands with their pungent seaside smell; small piles of oval eggs in the most beautiful grey and blue shaded shells... and everywhere the classic market vendor, in cap and scarf against the cold, calling his wares loudly as you pass by, inviting you to sample...

I watched two elderly men in their thick woolen coats and hats carefully selecting carrots from a large orange pile and wondered why we, in the "west", have so avidly chosen the sterility of supermarkets with their artificial lighting and excessively controlled temperatures over this... this most wonderful of social institutions and haven of sensory delights, the traditional market...

...Valpairaso...

I think that graffiti says a lot about a place... when all you see around you is "tag" (that awful hieroglyphic scrawl marking public walls in a macho branding reminiscent of dogs marking their territory) it is intimidating, ugly and defacing of the public spaces we share. But, when graffiti is combined with creativity, with wit, it becomes street art in the most inspiring, politically charged, humorous and anarchistic fashion. And here, in Valpairaso, a port city just north of Santiago in Chile, this sort of graffiti is abound... every wall is marked with the most talented murals, stencils, poetry, political slogans - they are a joy to see and I have spent many hours walking the streets in the search for the most creative, interesting and challenging of them.

Valpairso is a charming place - it consists of many hills which wind upwards from the central port, evoking memories of Wellington with its winding narrow streets and colourful tumbledown houses which cover the hills in a wild confusion of old and new, small and large, thin and wide. Artists, students, bohemians, poets and musicians flock here and the local craft shops are as numerous as the cosy welcoming cafes with stained glass windows and wooden chairs... it is a city that invites you to stay awhile and teases your conceptions of order, of art, of fashion, of politics. Viva Valpairaso!

Oh wild Pacific, how you smell like home...

I no longer care for cameloids; enough alpacas, llamas and vicunas! No more condors, foxes or barren landscapes of the altiplano; give me the sea!!! I want wild salty waves that crash against black rocks, whipping winds and white sea spray, I want sea animals with their round soft bodies and leathery skin, give me pelicans and albatrosses, crying sea gulls and hardened sands that crunch under foot. Give me trees, wild and green, their trunks warped by wild ocean winds, give me green mountains and skies peppered with clouds... arouse in me emotions of home as I walk this final road...

And on a dark winter's day in the Punta de Choros this is just what I found...

In a persistent but gentle rain our small dinghy pounded through Pacific surf, heading into the ocean toward Islas Damas and Choros - the waves crashing over the bow of the boat, dousing me with cold salty water. I huddled under a sheet of plastic tarpaulin to keep dry, the barrage of water from above, and from below, seeping in at every opportunity and running down the sleeves of my jacket as I held the tarpaulin above my head... as the boat heaved and crashed into the sea and my jeans clung against the skin of my legs in a cold wet embrace I felt my spirits drop... what am I doing out here in the ocean, in a tiny boat, in the middle of winter?! After a rough 40 minute journey our boat pulled into a calm bay in the Isla de Choros and, as if by some arrangement with God, the rain ceased and three seals surfaced by our boat, swimming out to sea, their bodies cresting and descending into the waves, and to the left, three swimming penguins, so small, only their heads visible above the water, but what a magical sight!

As we pulled into the cove, we looked up and laying all over the rocks were sea lions, their bodies huge with leathery wet skin, the adult males bearing huge whiskers and emitting loud calls that seemed to come from the very depths of the earth and reverberate through the cold air. Pups and mothers lounged together on the rocks, not interested at the boat of visitors, their strong and swift bodies more than capable of defence or escape. Seals joined them, smaller and lighter, with sweet, gentle faces. To see these beautiful creatures, at home in this wild clime, made all the discomfort of the journey worthwhile and how my spirits soared! Our boat continued around the bays, greeted by families of Humboldt penguins, small and rotund, nesting in the rocks to protect their eggs and chicks, small and grey and fluffy. Their little bodies waddle as they walk around, heads bobbing as if in continual greetings, but in the water what grace they possess, what speed! Rubbing on rocks in the middle of the ocean we found sea otters, cats of the sea, with beautiful long whiskers, and bodies sleek and quick. They have faces with such expressions and groom themselves, rubbing against the rough rock, like cats on carpet in the sunshine - darting into the water and catching small fish with such agility! They are nervous of humans and allow us only a few minutes to observe them before retreating to the sea where they camouflage in the brown floating sea weeds.

Pelicans grace the skies - what amazing creatures! Their beaks huge and long, capable of carrying big fish from the sea. Albatrosses with their immense white bodies and smaller sea birds with red marking who nest in the cliffs, their droppings creating coloured patterns on the dark rocks. The smell of the salt air, the animals and the wind refreshed me, blowing all the sandy dust of the desert clean away and, after a hot shower, wearing pyjamas and big wooley socks, I felt renewed and prepared for the southwards journey down Chile's narrow coast... the final piece of this journey and the first piece of my journey home...

To the extremes of the earth...

Leaving the warmth and greenery of eastern Bolivia, my trail to Chile led back to the extremes of Bolivian altitude and the mining city of Potosi, breathlessly sitting at 4,060 metres, surrounded by a dry, barren landscape dotted with bare mountains rich in minerals... the city of Potosi was historically the main centre for silver mining in Bolivia, its earth producing tonnes of the precious metal for European markets under the Spanish colonisation and consuming many millions of human lives with its arduous extraction.

The mines of Potosi are still producing hundreds of years later, albeit at a much slower rate, with 15,000 Bolivian workers entering deep underground six days a week in the search for tin, iron, silver and zinc in conditions not much improved since the 1500s. The city of Potosi exists solely for the mining industry, but its historic importance was beautifully apparent with narrow cobbled streets, Spanish tiled architecture and imposing stone churches, unfortunately much of which is now solely a facade, the city seems to be crumbling from within. The first morning I awoke in my freezing cold concrete hostel room and peeped out of the window to see sheets of snow falling from the sky and gently blanketing the courtyard... the sight was beautiful, but in a city with no heating or insulation and precarious amounts of hot water it made for painfully numb feet and I rushed out to buy a big alpaca scarf for extra warmth! Heading underground to experience the town's major mine, Cerro Rico, seemed a better idea than staying in the cold city, but as we equipped ourselves in protective clothing, boots, helmets and lamps with scarves wrapped over our mouth and nose, I began to feel pangs of fear at the conditions we were to be entering.

The entrance to the mine is a squared tunnel in the side of a mountain, stretching as far as you can see into blackness with puddles of muddy water on the ground, evoking a very medieval feeling as we hunched over and headed into the enveloping blackness... the mines are now operated by "co-operatives" which sound very equitable, but in reality the co-operative members are very few and most of the miners work as "assistants" with no legal protection, or social security, in conditions that are truly horrific. The mines are full of extremely dangerous substances, the roof of the hollowed out tunnels coated with white crystallised arsenic and cyanide and the miners wear no protective clothing or masks - the average life span of a miner is a horrifyingly short 40 years: the main cause of death? Respiratory disease caused from the toxic substances they are breathing into the delicate tissue of their lungs for eight hours every day.

Children are also working in these mines, some as young as 10 years old, they are paid 25 Bolivianos for an eight hour day (about $4) working six day weeks with no access to fresh air or sunlight. The psychological impact of this underground life must be immense; as we descended further into the mine through tiny tunnels the psychological effects greeted me; the lack of oxygen, the dust, the darkness and the tiny spaces bring an immense claustrophobia and I began to panic, feeling that I couldn't get enough oxygen into my lungs. "Calm down, breathe slowly and deeply" I told myself, trying not to let the panic overcome my logic, the fumes from the mining chemicals rising upwards toward us and the process of breathing through the cloth over my nose and mouth became even more difficult. How can these people work in these conditions, all day, every day of their artificially short lives?

The adult miners are paid 350 Bolivianos per week, apparently a very good salary for Bolivia, and above the national average. Combined with a lack of alternatives, the miners are forced to accept horrific conditions and an early death for immediate financial assistance for their families. The mine has no expert geologists or technicians, the tunnels are created by using dynamite and the same method is used in the search for mineral veins in the rock - no maps for the mine exist, and the miners use their experience to judge where is safe to create a new tunnel. Obviously this is extraordinarily dangerous and cave-ins are not uncommon; we had to sign a disclaimer before entering acknowledging our knowledge of this, and acknowledging that in the case of a cave-in we would be in as much danger as the miners... (this knowledge was not comforting as we crawled through tiny dark tunnels struggling with the heat, dust and fumes). Nearly 30 metres inside the mine my claustrophobic limit was at capacity and the panic rose in my chest as I thought of how far from the surface I was and how my lungs were struggling for oxygen. In a tunnel about 30cm high I turned to our assistant and said "por favor, quiero salir!!" - I was guided out, stumbling urgently toward the entrance in the immediacy of my brain's struggle for open spaces and air. I was not alone, nearly half our group met their mental capacity and had to be brought out and as we sat back in our bus, shaking with cold and watching the snow, I felt dumbstruck at the conditions of this place, akin to hell for me, and the knowledge that thousands of people, and children, every day enter these conditions to work for what would barely buy two cups of coffee at a tourist restaurant.

The minerals collected from the mines are transported to "refining" stations on the outskirts of the city where, through a process using numerous heavy chemicals, the minerals are separated from rock in ancient machines, rivers of waste chemicals running below in a strange orange tinted fluid, which are then dumped into the local river dubbed "Rio Negro" (black river) which then flows into larger rivers in Bolivia, and onto Brazil and Argentina. Environmental protection laws, and the enforcement of these laws, simply lack in Bolivia to prevent this abhorrent practice which will cause massive environmental contamination for hundreds of years to come. The perpetrators of these heinous environmental crimes? International companies like Rio Tinto who practice much higher standards of protection in other countries whose legislation controls their behaviour. Contemplating this makes me realise with even more clarity the necessity for international environmental legislation relating to the extraction of natural resources and the associated chemical use as this clearly shows how the impacts of contamination are an international issue and the companies involved in resource extraction simply will not regulate themselves if it will increase their profit line.

I was glad to leave the cold of Potosi, and the disturbing experience of the mines and left in high spirits bouncing over a rough dirt road for the seven hour journey to Uyuni, a tiny railway town that sits on the edge of the Salar de Uyuni, the great salt flats of Bolivia. The salt flats stretch a blindingly white 12,000 sq km distance, the salt lying seven metres deep in this millenia old lake high in the mountains linking Bolivia, Argentina and Chile. Uyuni is a dry, cold and barren town, the temperatures plummeting below 0 every night, leaving us with water pipes frozen shut in the morning and hovering over the gas stove in the hostel kitchen as our only source of warmth making bowls of porridge and cups of hot coca tea. We left Uyuni with a guide and 4WD to take us over the salt flats and through the desert to Chile, a three day journey through extreme climes and extreme landscapes - beautiful, but inhospitable, and very tough on the body as the mercury soared to 30 degrees in the day time and plunged to -20 at night with howling winds that have shape the desert rock into strange formations. We passed lagoons of beautiful colours and flocks of pink flamingos, framed with huge Dali-esqe mountains whose shadows make dark and warped patterns across the yellow sand. After three days in this environment reaching Chile felt wonderful and shortly past the border the broken, bumpy dirt path turned into a beautiful smooth tarseiled road winding its way 2,500 metres down into the Northern-Chilean desert and to hot showers, real coffee, muesli and yoghurt! I am now headed south towards Chile's famous lakes, forests, wild Pacific seas and the home of those most wonderful Chilean thinkers, Pablo Neruda and Salvador Allende...

Goodbye Bolivia, I won't forget your shocking contrasts, your wild diversity or your heartbreaking disparities.

A note on coca

"La sagrada hoja", the sacred leaf, this small green plant, the source of such controversy. The official nemeses of the United States and now even under attack from the United Nations... what enemies to have... but, the defence of this supplement is strong here in Bolivia, and increasingly in Peru, where it has been used as a health product and medicine for time immemorial. The leaf is used here mainly as a "mate" (like a herbal tea) or it is directly chewed in the mouth, comical to see men working with huge bulges of coca leaf in their cheeks, and is a wonderful medicine for the prevention of altitude sickness, for hunger and fatigue and as a nutritional supplement - coca, in its natural leaf form, has two to three times more calcium than milk, has more protein than walnuts, has large amounts of vitamin A and E, is rich in iron and potassium, helps to regulate glucose levels in the blood and can be made into a poultice for the alleviation of rheumatism and bone dislocation! A perfect product for the health supplement markets in the west, and wonderful for vegetarians, vegans, travellers and mountaineers. If only it could be viewed with a dose of perspective, and its attack from the United States could be reassessed.

The difference between coca, and cocaine, is as huge as the difference between sugar cane and vodka. The coca leaf is pressed to make a paste which is then processed using an enormous number of chemicals (including white gasoline) to produce the drug cocaine - the largest consumers of which reside in the United Kingdom and the United States and coincidentally, not in Latin America. Coca was mainly cultivated for its domestic use in the Andes for decades, the centre for cocaine production being in the equatorial climes of Colombia, until, ironically, in the 1980s young Gonzalo Sanchez de Lozada began the application of US economist, Jeffrey Sachs' neoliberal shock treatments to the struggling Bolivian economy which included the privatisation of the nation's mines and the dismissal of some 45,000 mine workers and 35,000 factory workers who were forced to work through the "informal economy" to survive, mainly on coca farms, to supply the rising demand in Colombia for coca paste (which responded to the rising demand in the US for cocaine) - coca paste became the country's most profitable export in the 1980s (exceeding the total legal exports) and actually cushioned the falling economy which crashed following the application of the neoliberal economic policies.

The United States of America first declared its "war on drugs" under George H Bush, now being continued by George W Bush, with a horrifyingly myopic vision - the destruction of all coca in Latin America. This war has been fought with a very similar mentality to America's other international war, that on "terror" - with disproportionate use of violence and military might and very little analysis of the long term effects. Coca farms were systematically destroyed by US funded military attacks, including the murder of farmers defending their livelihoods, and the "alternative development" they have been offered is enough to make one laugh. The farmers are instructed to plant fruit in place of their coca crop, usually bananas, which then have no market, as the US refuses to buy them, and when the protesting farmers dump their rotting produce onto the roads to highlight the ineffectiveness of this "alternative" the military attacks them - leaving one Bolivian farmer legless after being shot for his protest.

Perhaps a better "war on drugs" is fought by firstly examining the ever escalating demand for cocaine in our societies? The $30 billion spent so far in this "war on peasant farmers" could have funded some genuine analytical research into the rising demand for hard drugs, and into drug prevention and rehabilitation programmes, in the USA and UK. For, as anyone with a basic understanding of the law of markets is aware, whenever a demand exists, a supply will always follow, especially when that demand is for a very high value product. What are we lacking in our societies that drives us to need to consume drugs in such a relentless manner? Perhaps a little meaning anyone?

Coca, the sacred leaf, is not the enemy. Coca could be a wonderful export commodity for its health properties, it could act as a high value export product for Bolivia, the poorest nation in Latin America, and at the same time benefit western consumers. If only our governments and international institutions could take a good dose of perspective. Meanwhile, I will continue to enjoy my daily cup of coca tea until I reach the border!

The sound of a purring puma...

The dry heights of the Bolivian altiplano slowly morph into an increasingly dense shade of green, the bus winds its way down a mountainside and the first sight of trees bring an indescribable joy to my heart as we enter rolling cloud forest and after a few hours more, descend into the lowlands - the mercury rising, humidity hitting your face like a warm soup, and palm trees beginning to dot the landscape... the Eastern-Bolivian jungle region... reminiscent of equatorial Africa, and home to a mind-boggling diversity of animal species, from jaguars to anacondas to sloths - an incredible wealth of biodiversity increasingly threatened by the encroachment of humanity from soy and sugar cane plantations, farm settlements, and hunting.

I find it very hard to fathom the arrogance of a person who desires a jaguar for a household pet, but they exist, and in huge numbers in Latin America. Pumas, ocelots and jaguars are hunted for the black market sale as fur, as pets, or to circuses and zoos, as are various species of monkeys and small animals who are also sold to medical laboratories for use as test animals - these small beings are sacrificed in the cruelest ways, not for the development of ground-breaking cancer or HIV treatments, but rather to test the potency of our household cleaners, cosmetics and toiletries.

I had arrived in the small village of Villa Tunari to visit the animal refuge of Inti Wara Yassi, sitting at the border of the jungle zones, and home to 1,200 animals brought here by owners who could no longer manage their jungle pet, rescued from cruel zoos, circuses or laboratories, or found abandoned. The refuge acts to rehabilitate as many animals as possible and release them back into the wild - usually a long and detailed process requiring a lot of time and resources - and acts completely without governmental support, run entirely from international donations and international volunteers, with a skeleton staff of four paid Bolivian vets and one manager. The conditions are basic and the work is carried out with a lot of creativity and compromise on a relatively small piece of land, largely owned by the local council. The local council's permission of land use comes with heavy strings attached - the refuge must be partially open to tourism, with the entrance fee charged being payable back to the local council. Very little support for the concept of wilderness exists here, and no enforced legislation for the protection of animals who are seen as another commodity with a surprisingly low monetary value (less than $20 for an ocelot?).

A care programme is designed for each animal that arrives at the refuge - some are very psychologically damaged from years of abuse and cruelty, others are malnutritioned from poor diets, or physically damaged from beatings given by human owners. On arrival, each animal is held under the supervision of the vets for 10 days to observe the behaviour, identify any psychological or physical problems and develop a plan for care, rehabilitation or enrichment. The monkeys are held in a quarantine area for a 60 day period to ensure that they carry no parasites that would infect the other animals and the refuge has very strict regulations for the prevention of spreading disease. As I walked around with onsite vet, Luis, taxi to a small spider monkey who had clambered onto my shoulders for a ride, he explained to me the slow and careful process of animal rehabilitation - beginning from rescue or delivery and, hopefully, ending with the careful release into wilderness (one of the country's national parks, or jungle area controlled by the organisation).

Three species of monkey live at the refuge - the small, shy and colourful Squirrel Monkey; the large, curious, and very "human" Spider Monkey and the rambunctious little Capuchin. Most of the monkeys were taken young from their mother and kept solitary for their confined lives (very unnatural for these social group-orientated beings), fed "human" food and, often, subject to horrible abuses. The rehabilitation process is begun from their period in quarantine where they are introduced to natural foods, to the jungle on daily walks and to contact with other monkeys. For some, this is a very frightening process and they cling to their human carers in terror - they are kept on leashes and the contact with the monkey groups is slowly increased until the monkey is accepted into, and accepts, the monkey group. The monkeys live together and are monitored until a natural group forms, with an alpha male and female, and the group is then weaned from human contact through a series of increasingly remote jungle areas, the last being restricted of all human sound and very minimal human exposure, until the correct governmental permissions are obtained for their release into the wild. Some monkeys have such severe psychological damage from human abuses that their behaviour is a danger to the other monkeys and these are kept in the quarantine area under a programme of enrichment where they are fed, walked and cared for by the volunteers and they can never be released, or even live free in the refuge's forests. This realisation, the severity of human induced harm to these small beings whose mannerisms and expressions are so wonderfully similar to our own was particularly painful for me - it is akin to abusing a child.

Sadly, the refuge's jaguars, ocelots and pumas are permanent residents - the method used for hunting them is to kill the parent and take the cubs - they therefore learn no hunting skills and would die in the wild. The cats are on a programme of "enrichment" where their lives are made as comfortable and "wild" as possible - they are walked for eight hours a day by two volunteers through the jungle on paths that are diversified as much as the small land space allows, they are kept solitary and on solitary paths and are fed fresh and raw meat, similar to their natural diet. The volunteers who work with the cats are generally long term volunteers, the human contact with the cats is kept to a minimum, and their night time cages are filled with bamboo, tree branches and items from the jungle for the cats to live in an environment as suitable to their nature as possible. With the assistance of a large donation from the English organisation, Quest, a second plot of land has been purchased in a more remote area of jungle near to Santa Cruz and Inti Wara Yassi plans to move all 27 cats to this new home in the next few years.

Birds and small animals have a much better chance of rehabilitation and release; unlike cats and monkeys they do not build as dependant relationships on humans and the rehabilitation time is only limited to their physicality, most of whom arrive at the refuge very malnutritioned. Bolivian jungles are home to the world's most beautiful species of birds - huge red, green and blue parrots and paraquets, toucans and macaws, and many others - they are usually hunted for sale as house pets, their wings are clipped, sometimes the bone is also cut, and they require nourishment and time to regrow, sometimes also requiring to be taught how to fly again. Birds caught from jungles are treated like cargo, transported in boxes without air, water or food - usually 80-100 birds per box, and 80 - 90% die during transport. This represents 20 birds killed for every bird bought on the market. Some birds have psychological problems meaning that they can't form groups and are cared for at the refuge, others cannot regrow their broken bones and are also cared for permanently here, under the enrichment programme. I was introduced to a pair of two beautiful red parrots, a couple, who remain at the refuge permanently because while the male partner can fly and, technically, is able to be released, his female partner is unable to fly and therefore he stays at the refuge with her - calling her loudly every time they are separated, even as they are just being brought out of their aviary for their daily walk along the tree branches. Perhaps the most beautiful love story?

The refuge was a heartwarming example of dedication to wilderness and to the rights of animals. It was also an example of the limitations of a country like Bolivia which lacks the resources, will, and interest in preserving wilderness. The rehabilitation process could be much improved if only the refuge had increased resources and its own plot of land where it could carry out its programmes without the impositions of the local council's desire for tourist dollars. Perhaps we need to reevaluate our own economic value system? It is only when we recognise the inherent value of wilderness, for wildernesses sake, and the value of biodiversity, that the monetary worth of an animal is higher in its natural jungle home than as decoration for the homes of the wealthy, or as entertainment in our zoos and circuses. The largest goal of Inti Wara Yassi is to no longer need to exist - through the education of Bolivians about the necessity of preserving wilderness and the place of animals in that. A goal that the world should also aspire to.

Brightly Bolivia and the Quaker Link

The brightly coloured "wiphala" flag of indigenous unity flutters high over the crowds of protesters as they march down the El Alto street, chanting slogans supporting Evo Morales: "Yes! The revolution continues!!"... my bus inches its way down the twisting roads towards La Paz, a city nestled in a canyon, surrounded by snow-capped mountains and the barren wind-swept altiplano.

Bolivia, Bolivia, brimming with political passions as the country gears up toward the presidential recall referendum due to be held in early August - every day I have seen protest marches, street blockages and the most creative political graffiti marks every wall - for me, it's wonderful to see a country so actively involved in their political system, so interested in their governance and their future. If only the public of New Zealand shared some of the same political interest... (perhaps we need decades of exclusion and oppression to realise how lucky we are to have such a democratic system?) The protesters are largely the indigenous impoverished majority, the women dressed in huge hoop skirts and ponchos, their children tied onto their backs with brightly coloured cloth, the trademark bowler hat perched on top of their heads, their hair tied in two long dark plaits down their back, evoking a strange combination of "sweet girl" and "resilient woman". The poverty in Bolivia is immediately apparent, and much starker than in neighbouring countries - the climate here is harsh, a mountainous country with a dry season of nearly eight months, decades of cruel neoliberal rule leaving the country drained of resources and impoverished; there are many beggars, wild street children with bottles of glue, many young children's teeth have brown stains of rot. But, at the same time, there is a huge sense of positivity here - perhaps a result of the 2005 "revolution", completely led by grass roots peasant organisations, who now realise their unified power, and their rights.

With its hardships and poverty Bolivia is ripe ground for "development" and, reminiscent of Africa, there are plenty of well meaning big name western NGOs here, their logos branding many water tanks, schools and health clinics as you drive the rugged dusty roads around the altiplano, their big white SUVs sit proudly in the cities, "we're here saving you!"... the same mistakes being made the world over. Travelling these same broken roads in a local transport van, crammed in between two elderly Bolivian women and an agricultural engineer working for QBL, I felt that there was really something different about the way that Quaker Bolivia Link operates here. QBL was set up by a group of Quakers who visited Bolivia on a study tour, as a response to the abject poverty that they witnessed in Bolivia's rural areas. The organisation employs mainly local Bolivian technicians to work with rural community groups for solutions to the root causes of their poverty - lack of accessible clean water, lack of fertile land for growing nutritious food, lack of education, lack of inclusion. The technicians visit the completed projects every few months to ensure their efficiency and I accompanied three technicians over an exhausting three days to visit some of the projects and to experience the reality of Bolivian life.

What struck me immediately while waiting for the local bus to leave for the remote altiplano community of Iruma Pomani was the beautiful positive energy of the local people - I was embraced repeatedly by community members, their rough frost burnt hands holding mine so tenderly, arms around me in a loose hug, "Buen Dia Senorita Ingeniera!" - the welcome was warm and genuine and beautiful - squashed in the bus like sardines we bounced over dirt roads to their community, centered in the middle of a wind-swept, barren, dry, yellow landscape that stretches as far as the eye can see - gusts of wind rousing up dust storms that burn the eyes, little houses made from mud brick with straw roofs dotting the earth about 500 metres apart. This land is scorched with freezing temperatures every night and the heat of the sun every day - the people's cheeks are red and cracked from the climate, giving everyone a rosy appearance, but masking a life that is harsh and unforgiving.

Historically, this community of 72 families had accessed its fresh water from small dirty rivers, giving rise to disease and dehydration (the rivers are dry for a large part of each year) and, of course, lack of nutritious food as the barren, dry land struggles to produce only a meagre crop of potatoes and quinoa. QBL technicians worked with the community to develop a water system which accesses fresh water from ground water sources in the hills and using a system of underground pipelines based on gravity to direct the water current, pipes the water to a tap situated outside each families house. The beautiful part of the project is that it is based on community involvement - the community supplied all the manual labour for the installation of the pipes and QBL provided the technicians and the financing. A community committee is also created, changing on a monthly rotational basis, to administer the project and ensure its effective running, and the current president of the committee showed me around the houses, eagerly turning on every family's tap to show the beautiful stream of clear, clean water. He busily explained to me the system of pipelines under the ground, his pride in being involved in the construction evidently apparent on his kind, weathered face - "I worked with these hands!" he exclaimed, explaining to me that as the system uses gravity for propulsion, there is no running cost for the system, and therefore no cost to the community for their daily water. We walked the dusty ground between each house, each family rushing out to greet us "Gracias, gracias Senorita Ingeniera!" (no matter how many times I explained that I was not an engineer!).

What really impressed me about the project was the lack of its obviousness - the taps beared no logos, no branding, there was no sense of dependency from the community members, only a huge sense of pride and local ownership of the project. When we arrived at the last home in the community, exhausted from the whipping winds and hot sun, an elderly man rushed out "Bienvenido Senorita Ingeniera!", his lined face was so bright, his eyes sparkled, and a huge (toothless) smile erupted as he ushered me to a chair in his one room adobe hut, explaining how grateful the community was for the water supply, and quickly brought out a meal of hot red potatoes and fresh salty cheese for us - it was the most touching example of generosity I have ever experienced. Here, in the harshest of landscapes, these people, who have nothing, will give so unhesitatingly, so warmly. He brought us bottles of local coca cola (quina cola) to drink and was so pleased to watch us enjoy this humble, delicious meal. I was truly touched by this gesture of such genuine kindness.

In addition to the water systems, QBL has helped communities construct greenhouses (carpas solares) to allow them to grow nutritious vegetables during the long dry months when food production is so hard. The hot midday sun is perfect for the greenhouses, which then retain their heat and humidity, allowing for the growth of many species of vegetables all year round. The greenhouses (constructed from adobe) have adjoining chicken and guinea pig huts with a vent to allow the warmth to heat the enclosure - most chickens and guinea pigs (the main source of protein) die during the freezing winter nights at this altitude. The greenhouse projects are mainly administered by the women of the community, who are generally in charge of the nutrition of the children, and stepping inside these small rooms was like stepping into another world - the heat and humidity hit you in the face like warm soup in contrast to the climate outside, and the greenhouses were a riot of colour as lettuces, cauliflowers, broccoli, spinach, celery and radishes bloomed on the fertile soil floor and magnificent tomato plants stretched high to the roof, their fruit heavy and round on their branches, in some of the greenhouses the women had planted flowers - such a beautiful salve to the vision when outside the land is colourless and devoid of obvious beauty.

Visiting these communities with the QBL technicians was a hugely empowering and positive experience for me; finally, development without dependency, assistance without ideology, finance without strings, without branding, without publicity. The projects were humble, were community driven, were "owned" by the families involved, and were needed. To think that a small sum of money, like $500, can install a greenhouse to provide an entire family of eight or nine nutritious food, and a small surplus that can be sold or traded at the local market. Simple solutions that really make a difference to the lives of these warm and gracious people.

Political Peru & the Incan Journey...

So here I am in the Highlands of Peru, in Cusco, a world away from the experiences of Ecuador! I took the bus from Loja to Piura on the 02nd of July and as the bus wound its way through the southern mountains of Ecuador to reach Peru my world began to change dramatically. The landscape became increasingly drier, hotter, as it turned into the deserts of Northern Peru and with the change of geography also came a change of economy - the poverty of Peruvians became increasingly apparent as I watched slum towns of makeshift housing appear dotted through the desert, mounds of plastic rubbish littering the sands, and the apathetic faces of tired peasants as they sat in any shade available and watched the buses of the comparatively wealthy speed past their worlds of struggle. It was a strange journey, and a discomforting one for me.

The north of Peru has been described as the Egypt of South America, and that is certainly what it felt like. Huge pyramids and ancient cities of mud and sand hidden in the desert - most of the discoveries have been made around the area of Trujillo; the largest mud citadel in the world, Chan Chan, built by the Chimu people around the year 850, before they were colonised by the Incan Empire. The entire area is full of archaeological ruins and slowly discoveries are being made as pyramids are uncovered in the deserts and these ancient civilisations are studied. It was strangely disjointing to visit these ruins though, driving past communities of impoverished mestizos, the literacy rate in these areas a mere 13%. The cities felt somehow strained - and everywhere is political graffiti supporting the current president, saying "Thank you for our town". With the feelings of disjointedness in the North of Peru, I left quickly for the Incan Heartland, Cusco, an epic 30 hour bus journey into the mountains, from sea level to 3,300 metres.

Cusco has the same dry feeling as the rest of Peru - the surrounding hills are bare and browned from the days of hot sunshine and the freezing nights. Ancient Incan stones are visible in every street, giving hints of the amazing structures that lie beneath the Spanish built city that is now Cusco, with many huge cathedrals and churches built in European style over top of the Incan temples (typical "conquistador" style and ironically the same technique that the Incas used when colonising other tribes in their Empire). The city attracts tourists like a magnet, the centre is filled with people from all over the world, Internet cafes, restaurants, hotels, gift shops... it feels about as far from authentic Peruvian culture as one can get. At times a glimpse of the real Peru is seen, with the indigenous peasants from the surrounding rural communities coming into the city for trading - giving at least a slight salve to the jadedness that could be felt here!

I came here for the famous Inca Trail, the 48 kilometre trek to Machu Picchu, the Incan city undiscovered by the Spanish conquerors, and what an incredible experience it turned out to be. During my compulsory 48 hour acclimatization in Cusco a huge protest of farmers was held in the city - threatening to strike with the government employees unless more attention was paid to their hardships - what a beautiful and colourful protest, flags and cheering, music, and the beautiful bright clothing of the indigenous and mestizo farmers. As the protest march passed through Cusco's main square lines of police in combat uniforms with batons, guns and shields marched in, blocking all the main churches and buildings. What a contrast to see - the dark, hardened look of the police against the colour and life of the protesters. The trekking company decided we should leave for the trek a day early, to avoid the road blocks being set up for the national strike, so after grouping at the office and meeting the fellow trekkers we set off in a van towards the Sacred Valley and the town of Ollyantaytambo where we would camp for the night at the base of the trek. As the van wound its way down the mountains and through various rural communities we began to encounter the first of the road blocks - big rocks dragged across the road blocking traffic, guarded by peasants and children. The porters for our trek, 18 wonderful indigenous Peruvian men from the surrounding mountain communities, rushed off the bus to clear the roads letting our van pass. The journey was slow with this process, and the local campesinos watched us in interest as we slowly made our way through. With high spirits and much laughter we entered the town of Urubamba, the last large town before Ollyantaytambo, which suddenly dissipated as we met with a huge road block, guarded by hundreds of farmers, who were by now drunk and aggressive, and refused to allow the van to pass. The hours ticked by as we "stood off" with these protesters, the porters and guides negotiating for our pass, to no avail. Darkness set in and the aggression of the protesters increased - rocks were thrown at our van and a boulder pushed from a high mountain which landed a metre in front of the windscreen. The driver, fearing for his van, insisted on returning to Cusco, meaning we would miss our trek - the Inca Trail has been heavily regulated to 400 people per day (including all support staff) and unless the trek is began on the day it has been booked for, it cannot be made. We began to try alternative, more remote, roads to make it past the blocks but by now the night was well upon us and every road had been blocked, with many strikers guarding their constructions, and much alcohol fuelling the sentiments. Our group of 14 in the van became increasingly quiet and dispirited - we would have to return to Cusco. The van turned around and drove back out of the Urubamba Valley, meeting another road block constructed during our wait, the porters rushed to clear the path and a very angry indigenous woman screamed at them, threatening to throw a rock through our windscreen - as soon as we had passed this block, we saw hundreds of people running down the road toward the van, we immediately thought it was a huge group of drunken strikers, coming to enforce the block, and a surge of fear swept through the van. After a few seconds we could see that it was not strikers at all, it was the police and the army, in combat uniforms marching down the valley busting the road blocks and allowing the traffic to pass. Hundreds of these men swarmed past the van as they surged down the road - we turned around and followed them down as they broke each road block until the large fortified construction in Urubamba. We waited at the front of the queue as the police rushed into the area, we sat pensive listening for the confrontation, terrified that it would be violent, and afraid for the protesters, who we felt in solidarity with, even with our desperation to get to the start of the trek. After about five minutes gun shots sounded and tear gas canisters were let off, "quick, shut the windows!" our guide shouted as soldiers in military uniform rushed past our van toward the strikers. We sat in silence for awhile, with the sick feeling that comes with the witness of violence, and hoped that nobody would be killed in the confrontation. Thankfully, nobody was, and after some hours the van could pass through - slowly we approached Ollyantaytambo, arriving in the town at nearly 1am, again on our own, with the police having returned after breaking the Urubamba block. As we arrived at the final road toward the campsite we found another block - this time a fire block - with some local farmers who refused to let us pass. Having come so far, we were now desperate, and picked up our backpacks, holding our torches and walked the rest of the way to the campsite, the night dark and spooky, but feeling very much a team after the events of the night. We finally arrived at our campsite at 3am and fell to a restless few hours sleep before waking early the next morning to begin the trek!

Many groups of trekkers who had booked for the trail never made it, the next day the official strike was held and not even a taxi could be taken. We felt privileged to have made it and began the walk in high spirits, the sun shining down strongly on us, and our walking sticks in a meditative rhythm as we marched the first six hours past the beautiful Urubamba river, glaciers in the mountains behind us, and beautiful green mountains in front. Our group was 14, many Canadians and English, and a Dutch couple, together with 18 porters to carry the camping equipment, a cook, and our two encouraging guides - walking was wonderful for me, a meditation in movement, and our main guide, Freddy, explained to us the ancient religion of the worship of Pachamama (Mother Earth), and how this pilgrimage to the holy city of Machu Picchu was necessary for the mental cleansing of the pilgrims - to have open chakras and clean minds - which made it even more special, and empowering. We reached the first camp around 4pm and all fell asleep early, exhausted from the previous night, rising the next morning at 6am to continue the trek - the hardest day - climbing the Dead Woman's Pass to 4,200 metres - I had feared this for many months, thinking that the challenge was too great for me, physically, and I set out slowly, keeping my steps small and slow, conserving energy for the 1,200 climb. The vegetation on the way was beautiful, akin to the native bush of New Zealand, dense and damp and green, with the beautiful rich earthen smell of soil and gushing white rivers over rocks next to the path. With the increasing altitude we began to chew coca leaves, which help with altitude sickness, fatigue and hunger. These small green leaves have created such controversy with the production of cocaine, but in reality coca is as similar to cocaine as sugar cane is to vodka. The process of cocaine production requires massive amounts of chemicals, including white gasoline, and coca in its integral leaf form is about as stimulating as a cup of coffee. In addition to the benefits for energy and altitude, coca also contains very high levels of iron, calcium, vitamins A, C & E - the perfect supplement for vegetarians! Coca can be chewed in its leaf form (which has a strong taste, a bit like green tea), or soaked in boiling water and drank as tea, or ground into flour and used to make food, sweets, tea bags etc. We drank coca tea each morning and lunch time and chewed it in our mouths during the high mountain passes; it really made such a difference and I didn't struggle with the altitude anywhere near as much as I thought I would have. The UN has now classified coca as a banned substance, and it is only legal in Peru and Bolivia, but imagine how wonderful this product would be if it could be used for its health properties in western countries!

Climbing Dead Woman's Pass was incredible for me - with the slow pace, I made it to 4,000 metres without too much physical pain, and the last 200 metres (the most difficult) were an amazing experience. I climbed in solitude, my mind became completely calm and clear, and the pain in my legs could barely be felt. I took each step slowly, being guided by a small dark blue bird who flitted slowly in front of me, hopping up each step, as if leading me to the pass. I felt a strong sense of the spirits of my grandmothers with me, encouraging me onwards. It was such a meditative, beautiful, tranquil journey up; I felt so empowered. Reaching the top of the pass was incredible - the temperature dropped so quickly and freezing winds whipped around us, the view down the valley incredible, showing how far we had come. We cheered each other as the top, and performed a small ceremony to thank Pachamama. After we made it to our camp that night and sat around the camp table eating dinner, Freddy explained that the pass is named "Dead Woman's Pass" because of the deaths every year of people who climb it - about three or four, usually from altitude, or heart attacks.

The third and fourth days of the trek were at lower altitudes, as we crossed down through cloud forest into the jungle and passed ancient Incan ruins, used as bases for farmers and as temples for pilgrims on the trail. The ancient stone structures held such power, the stones formed with perfect engineering ability, requiring no mortar to hold them together, and temple stones smoothed to feel almost like glass. Our last morning we rose very early, at 4am, to make it to the Sun Gate of Machu Picchu as the sun rose... unfortunately the morning was wet, raining, and very misty - we struggled in the darkness with our headlights over the uneven paths, not stopping during the six kilometre stretch, pressing on urgently through dense forest and up flights of Incan stone stairs, to reach the Sun Gate, completely covered in mist, not able to even make out the mountains surrounding us! But, for me, this was not important. The journey to Machu Picchu, was so powerful, so enriching, that it was far more important than the destination could ever be. I felt my chakras cleansed, my mind clear and open, my heart so refreshed. We reached Machu Picchu by 7am and after a few hours the cloud and mist lifted, revealing the Incan city in all its glory - and the surrounding mountains dark and beautiful contrasting the intricate stone structures of the city. Every stone perfectly formed, perfectly placed, the architecture designed to withstand earthquakes, El Nino and La Nina storms, and the mountains terraced to provide space for varied agriculture even at this altitude, each terrace provided a different microclimate and the Incas had developed over 3,000 varieties of potatoes, jungle fruits like avocado and passionfruit and many varieties of maize. The Incas had an amazing sense of organisation and development - creating an incredible empire and controlling an area almost the size of Europe. Every year, in July, unused agricultural land was redistributed to poor people for their use (not just an idea of socialists or communists!) and their lives were ceremonious, with each month bringing a separate ritual - including the sacrifices of animals and people for Pachamama.

Arriving back in Cusco late last night my body was exhausted, and filthy, but my mind felt so refreshed, inspired, and my chakras, my personal spiritual power felt so clean, so sensitised. Being back in Cusco with the tourists and the busyness feels paradoxical, so I will head south shortly, towards Lake Titicaca (the birthplace of the Incas) and across to Bolivia... the land of coca, of revolution, and of hope for the indigenous tribes of South America.

Coming home to Rumi Wilco

From environmental destruction to environmental preservation... what a contrasting experience, and such a salve for my soul after the Northern Oriente. I have spent the past two weeks working at Rumi Wilco, a nature reserve created by two Argentinian biologists to protect the sacred huilco tree in Vilcabamba, the south of Ecuador. Arriving here felt like coming home - the reserve is nestled between a range of mountains, dense and green and full of life, the mountain's energy seems to humm almost audibly and an amazing sense of "God" is felt in everything, such a quiet peace. Working with my hands, with the soil, has been such a powerful experience - there is such integrity in this humble work - we rise early every day, with real coffee, drank while watching the mountains, observing the changes in the weather and the air, walking through the reserve, the rich smell of the earth and the sound of the river, the meditative process of tree planting, the small seedlings pressed tight into the soil, or weeding, planting herbs, picking coffee, the beans bright red and sticky in this season... life at a different pace. I have learnt so much here, the realisation that another possibility for life exists - and another possiblity for environmentalism, that is active rather than intellectual or political. To purchase land, and protect, conserve - directly, humbly. It is a life with such integrity and perhaps this direct action is what is needed most now, on a grand scale, to preserve what is left of wilderness the world over. And this ecological philanthropy is being seen on an increasing scale in South America, the prime example being Doug Tompkin's amazing development of Parque Pumalin in Chile... but that comes later... for now, the southwards journey of the Andes continues and I head onwards to Peru...

Ecuador intensity and the horrifying oil adventure

"One of the problems with modern society is that it places more importance on things that have a price than on things that have a value. Breathing clean air, for instance, or having clean water in the rivers, or having legal rights - these are things that don't have a price but have a huge value. Oil does have a price, but its value is much less. And sometimes we make the mistake". - Pablo Fajardo

I write from Quito; a city that winds itself through several valleys high in the mountains of Ecuador - green peaks rise majestically on all sides; mists frequently seep over, blanketing parts of the city in a fine grey mesh... it is the beginning of the dry season here, but the rainy season clings to us with its long thin fingers, drowning the city about every two days in downpours that rival those of Equatorial Africa. The streets turn to rivers and water gushes through everything, making the world seem very damp - a bit like living inside a wet sock periodically thrown through a tumble dryer with intense days of hot sunshine. Like all South American cities, there is a stark North / South divide: the wealthy and powerful live in the North, wearing European designer clothes and driving expensive vehicles; the impoverished and powerless gravitate to the South, working in menial jobs for subsistence wages, or through the "black economy" which seems a very strong force here.

But my mind is focused on one thing at the moment: Oil. And contamination. I have just returned from a journey to the Northern Oriente, near the border with Colombia, an area previously virgin rainforest in one of the most biodiverse parts of the Amazon, inhabited solely by indigenous tribes who lived sustainably governed by one God: the Jungle. Unfortunately however, this God harboured a dark secret deep within his folds - oil. And a lot of it. Beneath the Amazon lies vast fields of crude - and this piece of previously undisturbed earth was violently disrupted in the mid-1950s, firstly with American Christian missionaries - sent in in helicopters to pacify the indigenous tribes, and shortly thereafter, in 1964, with helicopters bearing huge machinery for the exploration of oil sources in the jungle. Leading this exploration was the Texan oil giant, Texaco (now Chevron), who signed an agreement with Ecuador's then "government" (an incompetent and corrupt military regime) for the exploration and extraction of crude. It didn't take long for Texaco to find the black gold, in 1967 it struck oil near Lago Agrio and soon discovered vast oil fields throughout the far north and north-east of Ecuador. Massive infrastructure was then developed, with roading systems and oil pipelines constructed in record speeds, assisting the colonisation of the area with peasants from the coast of Ecuador who were encouraged to move to this remote area under an incentivised system of land ownership where for every one hectare of rainforest clear-felled, the settler would receive 50 more, largely in an effort to legitimise the Ecuadorean government's mandate over the area during a time of regional instability and land wars... naturally, the impoverished and disenfranchised flocked to the jungle and set up small farms near the roadways that had been built by Texaco - which, of course, were right next to the development of oil wells.

Ecuadorean environmental law in the 1960s was particularly ambiguous; its reference to the exploitation of oil was simply to protect the area's "flora, fauna and other natural resources" and to "prevent pollution of the water, atmosphere and the land". There was no specific instruction as to levels of acceptable contamination, nor references to the methods required for environmental protection - in effect, the laws required self-regulation and a standard of integrity on the part of the contractor. Unfortunately for the area's peasant settlers, the indigenous communities, and the Jungle God itself, Texaco possessed neither of these qualities. Today this region of rare biodiversity is a toxic waste dump.

In this area of the Amazon, the earth is made up of the following components - a layer of topsoil which is formed from clays and organic matter, typically about one metre deep with a layer of sand and gravel at the bottom and below that the "ground water" at approximately four metres: the source of all drinking and washing water, accessed through wells dug by the inhabitants. Oil is found deep below the earth's surface - nearly two kilometres down - and with the oil lies what is termed "formation waters" - water that is laced with heavy metals, excessive levels of salts and carcinogenic petroleum compounds - obviously incredibly toxic to living beings. When oil is extracted, the formation waters are also extracted - usually 60% crude oil and 40% formation water, sometimes 50/50. The liquids are pumped directly from the earth into huge storage tanks where the oil rises to the top (as it is lighter than water) and is "scooped" off before being sent down networks of above-ground feeder lines to the huge 500 kilometre "Trans-Ecuadorean" pipeline (also constructed by Texaco) which leads west to a coastal town, Esmeraldas, before being shipped to the United States for refining and selling.

Formation waters are a waste product which under legislation in the United States require testing and re-injecting deep into the ground so as not to contaminate water or soil sources. In Ecuador however, Texaco simply dumped the formation waters into unlined pits dug directly into the earth about three metres deep, dangerously close to the ground water aquifers.

When drilling for oil, a substance is used for lubrication and sealing, commonly termed "drilling muds", which is formed from a combination of highly toxic chemicals including cadmium and barium. After the drilling is completed, this fluid also becomes a waste product which requires careful disposal - in Ecuador, Texaco slopped the drilling muds into the unlined pits along with the formation waters and the waste crude that is produced when a well is first drilled (also highly toxic).

Texaco drilled approximately 340 wells in its concession area, with between two and five earthen waste pits for every well, amounting to somewhere between 800 and 1,000 abandoned pits of poisonous "soup" and, not surprisingly, this liquid waste has seeped through the clays and down into the ground water, contaminating the freshwater source of the campesino settlers with highly toxic substances. In addition to the toxic waste pits, formation waters and chemicals used for well maintenance (including the highly carcinogenic chromium 6) were pumped into small streams in the forest, where they flowed downstream into the rivers used by the local communities and indigenous tribes for drinking, washing and fishing - before continuing into the Napo River, a direct tributary to the Amazon.

Texaco left Ecuador in 1992 after dumping more than 45 billion litres of waste into this fragile ecosystem.

For some 30 years the nearly 30,000 local inhabitants have been forced to drink, wash and fish in contaminated waters - they simply have no other choice. In San Carlos, a tiny, hot, impoverished oil town near Sacha the cancer rates are astonishingly high: children in this area are four times more likely to suffer from leukemia than in the rest of the country and are frequently born with genetic mutations and physical deformities. Women have abnormally high rates of cervical, uterine and lymph node cancers and suffer from spontaneous abortions. Cancer rates in men are also abnormally high, and abnormally aggressive, typically of the stomach, rectum, soft tissue and skin. Skin irritations, respiratory and sight problems are also unusually frequent and severe.

Walking the edge of a river near San Carlos on a hot afternoon highlights just how important water here really is - the rivers are a central tenet of life - they are where the women wash clothes, the children play and swim, families bathe and where cooking and drinking water is collected. It also shows the extent and severity of the contamination: rainbow patches drift gently downstream and when the sediment is disturbed, black globs of oil hiccup into the water. I watched, in anguish, a woman who stood waist deep in this river, scrubbing clothes on a rock, toxic water being gently absorbed by her internal soft tissue as she laboured for her family, and downstream, her children played by the river's edge next to an old Texaco oil drum. These people know their waters are contaminated, but there is simply no alternative. During recent testing in the area polynuclear hydrocarbons were found in freshwater rivers with levels up to 10,000 times greater than allowed under guidelines of the US Environmental Protection Agency; chloride levels between 100 and 400 times greater than the limits accepted in California and salinity levels 30 to 100 times greater. These are all toxic components found in crude oil and formation waters.

This environmental disaster is akin to the entire population of Chernobyl living in the town after the nuclear accident. People here literally live on top of toxic waste sites. Near the notoriously lawless oil town of Shushufindi we visited a family whose house had been constructed directly next to an abandoned waste pit where after some 30 years vegetation has grown over the surface and the poisonous sludge has permeated deep into the surrounding earth and ground water. The elderly campesino who lived there greeted us warmly and led me to the rear of his property where he attempts to grow some fruit and coffee trees. He broke pieces of soil with his work-roughened hands: thick black crude literally oozed from the centre and the smell of the oil was overpowering. Crude has literally seeped up from the ground and formed hardened crusts on the surface, the underside remaining a thick gooey mess of toxins. We walked around the old waste pit and poked a stick into the surface - the ground literally rolled with the liquid underneath and the stick was covered in black sticky waste. The trees here don't produce any fruit, and the ground water has been so contaminated that this man is losing his eyesight and his arms are unusually pale, covered with small irritated lumps. His wife lay ill inside the wooden house, dying slowly from cancer while they remain here in enforced passivity - trapped alive in a site with petroleum hydrocarbon contamination thousands of times higher than accepted limits under US legislation.

The smell of the waste crude in the area is overpowering. At the abandoned pits, the fumes were enough to give me a headache in a few minutes. And yet people live directly next to these areas. Nowhere else in the world would it be possible to be so close to toxic waste without even a fence for protection. Testing carried out in the soil surrounding the waste sites has proven dangerously high levels of chromium 6, cadmium and barium - all toxins associated with the drilling and maintenance processes.

And as if the dumping of waste products was not contamination enough, the pipelines constructed by Texaco have proved to be dangerously substandard - running almost entirely above-ground (through towns and villages and next to people's homes) and in the 17 years of Texaco's management of the major Trans-Ecuadorean line, it suffered 27 breaks, spilling over 64 million litres of oil into the environment, most of which was not cleaned up.

It is difficult to convey the enormity of this situation, probably the largest environmental disaster in the world. Texaco knowingly used production methods outlawed by its home-state of Texas in 1939 and knowingly breached its contractual and ethical obligations to protect the natural environment and the local communities which it exploited and profited from. At the same time as conducting this substandard behaviour in Ecuador, it adhered to stricter regulations in other parts of the world which chillingly seems to show that the lives of the impoverished and indigenous are viewed as having less worth than those of the wealthy and the white.

"In this battle I have understood that working for a clean environment today is working towards peace for humanity tomorrow - facing the future. That is what I intend to do." - Pablo Fajardo

In 2003 a class action lawsuit was filed in the region's first oil town, Lago Agrio (ironically meaning Sour Lake), against the multinational corporation Chevron (who acquired Texaco in 2001) on behalf of the 30,000 peasant settlers and indigenous communities for the remediation of the area which covers some 2,700 square kilometres. This is potentially the largest environmental trial in history, and an emotional battle fought by a small team of Ecuadorian lawyers, supported by an American litigator, Steven Donziger. The lead Ecuadorean lawyer is a mestizo peasant named Pablo Fajardo, a man who after being born into extreme poverty, grew up in these violent oil towns where the fish floated dead in the rivers and the rain fell with oil. Pablo Fajardo acquired his law degree at night school and only graduated in 2004: this is his first case, and he is against a powerful team of corporate lawyers from the United States and Ecuador's oligarchy who are well trained in the art of litigious delays - presumably to drain their opponents of resources and will for as long as it takes. Chevron is a dangerous enemy and the case has already been delayed for some 15 years after it was first filed in a New York court in 1993. The Federal Court in New York ruled that the case did not have jurisdiction in the United States as the contamination and original contracts were made in Ecuador - and so in 2003 the proceedings were shifted to Lago Agrio and the litigious dance has begun again.

Chevron does not dispute that the areas have been contaminated; it simply disputes that the contamination is the fault of Texaco. This isn't helped by the fact that since Texaco pulled out of the region, the nation's petroleum company, Petroecuador, has been operating there with some dubious environmental practices of its own. But this does not detract from the fact that most of the waste pits date from the 30 years when Texaco was the sole operator in the region and the extent of the contamination is clearly in the hands of Texaco. In 1994 Texaco signed a remediation agreement with the Ecuadorean government, to clean up 37.5% of the waste (the percentage that Texaco accepted responsibility for) and paid an American engineering firm $40 million to carry out the cleanup. The cleanup was never monitored and no independent testing of the remediated areas was ever carried out by the then Ecuadorean government - the efficiency of the cleanup has been vociferously disputed by the plaintiffs who have tested the areas supposedly remediated which still show levels of toxicity thousands of times above the legal contamination limits. It would seem that the 1994 remediation effort was solely a ploy to have the contamination suit discredited.

At stake is a remediation bill estimated to be some $8 billion, with a potential additional fine of $8 billion for "unjust enrichment" at the judge's discretion. This might sound like big money, but in the first quarter of this year alone Chevron posted profits of nearly $6 billion. This is no small time company. And this is no small lawsuit.

The Court process in Ecuador is slow and mainly evidence-based. The judicial inspections of contaminated sites have now finished and the closing statements of both sides are due. Judgement is expected in perhaps one or two years time. And after that... who knows. From Chevron's behaviour thus far, it doesn't look promising. There are still several levels of appeal courts within Ecuador, and after that, Chevron can argue (and it is likely that it will) that the Ecuadorean court system was unfair and corrupt and the case will return to the United States. It seems a systematic tactic to drag this out for as long as possible and the longer that the contamination is allowed to exist, the more that the people of this region will suffer.

How can one even put a price on freshwater ecosystems, on soil integrity, on a river's right to flow? How can you put a price on human life, on a child who suffers from leukemia or birth defects; how can you compensate a mother whose ability to give life has been taken from her? It is simply not possible to restore this environment to its previous condition and to remediate the contamination will be at least a 20 year process. You can't clean river water, but the polluted sediment can be cleaned and the toxic waste in the pits can be removed, or re-injected deep into the old wells. Clean water can be provided to the inhabitants and the health care costs of those who are suffering can be paid. But the real costs of this contamination can never be compensated. The lands and rivers of the indigenous communities have been destroyed, their fish are gone and their historic culture sits on a dangerous precipice as globalisation creeps ever more slowly into their world and erodes their traditions and erases their ancient wisdom.

At the very least this case provides a strong precedent for the rest of the world's resource-extracting industries that no longer will people stand by and watch as their environment is destroyed for the greed of multinationals. No longer will it be more profitable to ignore the strictest environmental regulations and most efficient technologies. No longer will the "Davids" fear the "Goliaths" in this world - and the people, united, with truth on their side, will rise up and fight again.