Well, this was it, our last stop: Rio de Janeiro. The 8 hour drive from Sao Paulo to Rio was apparently pretty spectacular, lush and green – but I slept through most of it. Clearly 10 months of travelling has started to take its toll. We agreed as we arrived that we would take it easy during our last few days, focus on soaking up some sunshine and enjoying some capirinhas. An eminently sensible plan.

After 3 months in South America we had become pretty used to speaking Spanish and whilst not perhaps as fluent as we might have wished, we could definitely make ourselves understood. We'd naively thought that with the words for 'hello' and 'thank you,' we'd be able to get buy in Portuguese – because after all, Spanish and Portuguese are quite similar, right? Wrong. Actually, Portuguese sounds like a cross between Russian and Arabic, with lots of phlegmatic sounds and pronunciation bearing little resemblance to the letters on the page. We've had to resort to sheepish smiles, pointing (picture menus are a godsend!) and the kindness of English-speaking strangers.

Rio, like Sao Paulo, has a reputation for being dangerous, although our hostel host soon attempted to put us at our ease: “Don't worry, the area's perfectly safe, the dealers only sell pot around here, there's no coke anymore.” I love that this was a good yardstick of safety in the area. As in Sao Paulo, I prepared myself for the worst. Actually, Santa Teresa, the bohemian area of town in which we were staying, was lively and full of families having dinner in street cafes on the Friday night we arrived. We got stuck in to the capirinhas – well, it would have been rude not to.

We were most excited about a visit to the Christ the Redeemer statue. Our second morning dawned sunny and clear, and so off we headed to the Corcovado, or Hunch Back Mountain. The most famous way to get to the top is the cog train, but, facing an hour-long queue just to buy our tickets, we decided there had to be another way. Enterprising locals have created a mini-van service to the top, which has the advantage of stopping at a viewpoint halfway up to the summit. And air conditioning, which in 36 degree plus temperatures was a definite benefit. We opted to take the van. The viewpoint was spectacular – we could see across to Sugar Loaf Mountain and Guanabara Bay, and also the giant statue of Christ the Redeemer looming in the distance. It is possible to take a helicopter flight around the statue, and although tempted, we couldn't quite bring ourselves to get into another small aircraft at this stage of the trip. Watching the super-rapid descent of some of the helicopters later in the day, I think this was a good decision.

From here we continued up the Corcovado, bought our tickets and then took another mini-bus ride to the very top. We popped out right at the base of the statue, which was ENORMOUS. Opened in 1931, the statue is nearly 40m tall, the largest Art Deco statue in the world. I wasn't quite prepared for how big it was going to be. Neither was I prepared for the crowds. The area at the base of the statue was teeming with people, including a Father Christmas in full costume and six teenagers in Michael Jackson regalia, all trying to squeeze into the best possible spot for a photo with Christ. We didn't stick around long. Instead we headed on to the sandy beaches of Leblon, Ipanema and Copacabana, for which Rio is famous. It was actually too hot for us to sunbathe, so we settled for a walk along the shore to watch the beautiful people and soak up a little sun. We saw a lot of women clad in thong bikinis, but very few were as buff or as beautiful as I was expecting. The men (mostly in very tight shorts) looked a little better, although the majority clearly indulged in heavy doses of steroids. Sexy it wasn't.

The other highlight of our stay here was a visit to the Museu do Republic, a very grand 19th century mansion which was built by a coffee plantation millionnaire, but later became the seat of the Brazilian government, home to several presidents. The rooms were spectacular, “renovated but still maintaining all original features” as most houses in South America seem to be. Most of the explanations were in Portuguese and therefore lost on us, but we were able to appreciate the room of Getúlio Vargas, President from 1930 to 1945 and 1951 until 1954, when he committed suicide in his bedroom at the palace. The room has been kept exactly as it was on that day, which is pretty macabre in itself. Worse still is the glass case in the corner of the room, containing not only the blood-stained pyjamas worn by Vargas when he did the deed, but also the gun and a replica of the bullet.

We spent our last couple of days visiting local attractions in Santa Teresa. This seemed to involve sitting outside lots of cafes and drinking copious beers. It also enabled us to stick close to the internet, watching and waiting to see whether we would be making it back to the UK at all, thanks to the heavy snowfall over Heathrow. I am sure spending Christmas on the beach (under the shade of an umbrella) wouldn't have been so bad, but after 10 months away we were really desperate to get home to our families. Lady Luck was smiling upon us – we flew home as scheduled on 22nd December.

hIt may not have been the Copacabana, but that didn't stop us from singing the song as often as we could during our stay. This, the original Copacabana, is the base for exploring the Bolivian (less touristy) side of Lake Titicaca, but it is also a relaxing holiday destination in its own right. After the pace of the last week and a bit, we were all happy to slow down a gear or two – this was meant to be a holiday for Pete and Claire, after all!

Copacabana used to be a mecca for religious pilgrims, and the cathedral still dominates the town. The Lonely Planet mentioned a daily “Blessing of the Automobiles” held there, but we couldn't find it despite our best efforts. Instead we had a pleasant little wander around the Moorish-influenced building, and Claire and I went to the Candle Chapel, a dark dismal side building when unlit, but which must be spectacular when it's completely filled with candles.

The main purpose of our visit was a day trip to the Isla del Sol, the main island on the Bolivian side of the Lake and the alleged birthplace of the Sun in Inca mythology. So a pretty important place all in all. We were expecting a similar 'tour' to the one we'd already enjoyed (or endured, in James's case) from Puno, but we were to discover that the Bolivian approach to tourism is much more relaxed / half-assed than their Peruvian neighbours. What we'd actually bought was our boat ticket to and from the island: what we did when we got there was up to us. We did nearly get collared by a very enthusiastic local tour guide as we arrived in Cha'llapama, a village to the north of the island. When I tried politely to put him off by saying “Sorry, we don't speak Spanish” his response was admirable “That's ok, I'll go slowly!” He was impressively persistent, but eventually we gave him the slip and headed off on our own.

From Cha'llapama, there was a path running the entire length of the island to the southern port of Yumani. As we had time, and our legs had just about recovered from the Inca Trail, we decided to give it a go. The views were stunning, more reminiscent of holidays to Greek islands than South America, although in the heat of the midday sun, at 3820m above sea level, it was pretty hard going. I also managed to drop my camera into the dirt, ruining the zoom function (albeit only temporarily – amazingly it now works perfectly again. Clearly this is the indestructable camera!)

We arrived in Yumani with just enough time to grab a sandwich from a cafe overlooking the bay before our return boat picked us up. As we ate, we watched a boat being unloaded with goods for the village. Fresh water, gas canisters, and suitcases were all unloaded and then reloaded onto a pack of half a dozen tired-looking mules. Poor things!

We also used Copacabana, as our first stop in Bolivia, to sample the local alcoholic beverages, specifically beer. Unfortunately it seems we have been spoiled by Peruvian Cusqueña. Bolivian beer is on the whole, crap – redeemed only by BOCK, a 7% lager, which tasted a lot like Heineken. The cocktails are rather more palatable – we all tried Chuflay, the local spirit made from grape skins and mixed with Sprite. It's a lot like a slightly sour white wine spritzer. We were introduced to the drink in a delightful bar with a magical 4 hour happy hour. This resulted in Claire inadvertently consuming half a litre of rum in two mojitos, and the boys drinking four Cuba Libres apiece.