Bolivia 2025

Getting It Wrong In Bolivia: Copacabana, The Sun & The Moon

The cross-border bus is only a few minutes late leaving Puno, skirting Titicaca’s shores and trundling towards a checkpoint which turns out to be one of our easier border crossings, just two quick passport stamps and we’re through into Bolivia. Our next destination appears below us down the steep hillside, nestled attractively around a lakeside bay, greeting us with the most biting icy wind we have so far felt on this trip. This is going to need a ramp-up in sensible clothing.

The town’s name is Copacabana, our home here is called Sultan Suites, which leaves Barry Manilow and Dire Straits competing for occupation of my ear worm. Our accommodation is exceptionally lovely with fabulous views of the town and the bay from our vantage point on the hill, but wow is it cold. Our hosts provide an advice sheet which starts with the words, “In the cold of the Antiplano….”, and also provide wall radiators with pre-set overnight heating, hot water bottles for the bed and, best of all, a magnificently efficient log burner and a constantly replenished stock of bone dry firewood. There’s a strong message here: Copacabana in June is C-O-L-D. 

For just about every visitor to Copacabana the main draw is the offshore islands which are home to fascinating archeological sites and magnificent legends, primarily Isla del Sol and Isla de la Luna. In the spiritual beliefs of the Incas, the sun and the moon were created on these islands before being set free into the skies, having been formulated in deep crevices between the islands’ rocks.

Everything we had read before coming here suggested that it was a piece of cake to find a boat tour which takes in the three most popular destinations: Luna, plus both the north and south ends of Sol, there being significant sites at all three. For “piece of cake”, read “no such thing”, unless you’re prepared to shell out a week’s dinner money for a private boat. We’re not. Or you can hike the three hours from north to south and reunite with your boat but then this option misses out Luna. So we have a choice: it’s either Luna plus Sol Norte or Luna plus Sol Sur. We opt, for no reason other than the travellers’ equivalent of coin tossing, for Luna plus Sol Sur.

Down at the embarkation point next morning, the wind has ramped up and somehow obtained icy needles which are capable of piercing both clothing and rib cage. Good job then that we have some entertainment to keep us occupied: several boats are arriving from the islands or other towns, delivering a whole host of market traders and their goods. It’s a fascinating hive of activity as the goods wrapped in colourful slings are brought ashore, one which gives Michaela ample opportunity for some great people photos.

It soon becomes obvious that this boat trip is more of a shuttle service than a guided tour, in that, the ferry man on board doesn’t offer any information apart from the occasional quickfire Spanish sentence and El Capitan says nothing at all. Titicaca is in a bad mood today, too, its surface as turbulent as a choppy sea and our small boat is tossed and bounced in what we hope is the direction of Isla de la Luna. When we finally get there, El Capitan has real difficulty bringing the boat alongside the jetty in the bouncing waves, aborting at least five attempts before a bevy of islanders grab the various ropes to try to hoist us home.

They’re still struggling to bring the craft under control when El Capitan decides they need another hand and leaps across the troubled waters to the jetty, meaning we now have no one on board capable of driving the boat. If they drop the ropes now, we’re in shit street! Thankfully no such disaster occurs, but the fun isn’t quite over, as we all now have to jump the distance between rocking boat and writhing wooden jetty and hope that Titicaca shows mercy.

Apart from having to do the reverse leap of faith an hour later, the visit to Isla de la Luna turns out to be the highlight of the day. The ancient temple is a haunting place, lofted above the blue of the lake and concealing intriguing mysteries from across the centuries. Originally a temple built on the site where Inca deity Viracocha first commanded the moon to rise, the 20th century saw the remains remodelled as a prison, first for POWs and later for political dissidents. During this period it became known as the “Alcatraz of the Andes” given that the freezing waters made escape by swimming impossible.

Clambering around its chambers and between its walls, Luna is far more reminiscent of Inca sites than it is of any prison, let alone Alcatraz. There is a mystique here similar to those sites in the Sacred Valley.

As it happens, the day goes downhill from here. Unfortunately the equation between the boat’s windows and its seats means that unless you’re about six foot six you can see only sky when seated, except for fleeting glimpses of islands in those moments when the boat is thrown sideways by the waves. Another hour bouncing on the choppy waters brings us to the south side of Isla del Sol, and we can only conclude that we should have chosen the north end. Underwhelming is an understatement. There’s a few archways remaining from an Inca site but they are nowadays dominated by the hotel which is next to it and is about ten times its size.

But there’s more – apparently up the steep flight of wonky stone steps there’s a fountain or spring of sacred water. We clamber up, only to find the least sacred looking thing you can imagine. You’re telling me that we’ve climbed 300 steps in high altitude to look at a shoot of water coming from two pipes? Seriously?! Obviously we should have taken the hike option after all, but three hours hiking in this icy wind….hmmm.

Disappointed that we seemingly chose the wrong option on the famed and revered Isla del Sol, we console ourselves that at least we’re heading back to Copacabana now. Except we’re not. Unexpectedly, to us anyway, we call in at a beach. A beach. It’s about 6 degrees centigrade, there’s a wind with icy needles in it, everyone’s in big coats and alpaca hats and they’ve brought us to a bloody beach. WTF??! Not one of the operators we spoke to yesterday mentioned such a stop, yet about half of our fellow passengers seem to be expecting it, because they order a hefty meal from the beach restaurant and tuck in. 

Beach bar lady seems surprised that we and a few others decline to partake, and our next challenge is to kick our heels while the diners gorge themselves on food cooked in an environment which reeks horribly of weeks-old cooking oil. Smells like a KFC on a bad day. The journey home is tortuously slow – we suspect El Capitan used excess fuel fighting the morning swell and is now trying to redress the balance, and for the last half hour the welcoming shoreline of Copacabana seems to tease but not get any closer. It’s just as well that the windows are closed because my Will To Live makes several attempts to leap out and disappear under Titicaca’s freezing waters.

It’s still cold but the wind has gone now. Next morning Copacabana looks serene, basking in that uniquely crisp sunlight which zero degrees brings, Titicaca now flat calm having had a day pretending she was an ocean. The blues of the sky and water are quite beautiful, the town proud of its enviable location. Even by mid morning there is a delicious warmth in the sun which competes manfully with the perpetually cold air. 

Down in the sunshine at the waterfront, strange things are stirring: boats are being cleaned, an inflatable dragon and inflatable octopus are being tied to speedboats, a parking attendant has appeared where previously there wasn’t one. From all this activity it’s obvious that Copacabana is a Sunday getaway for city dwellers, and as the day unfolds the streets fill with parked buses and collectivos and happy day trippers filling the town with jollity. Maybe it’s just Sundays, or maybe it happens on Saturdays too – we wouldn’t know because we were standing around on a windswept beach in a biting wind.

Copacabana is a cool little place, though we’re still wondering when and how so many tidy well presented eateries get enough business to survive. At what time of year would there be enough custom to go round? – it’s certainly not the chilly evenings of June, as most are nigh on empty with front of house men clamouring for what limited business is available.

A beautiful but oversized church towers over the lively plaza up the hill from the lake, market stalls do brisk business, and around the town there are several examples of quality accommodation for visitors, including ours. Our terrific apartment with its wonderful views has a glass cupola through which, at about 4am, the moon illuminates our bed and half of the room. Despite the early hour it’s a cracking thing to wake up to, infinitely more romantic than an alarm clock.

Copacabana is pleasing and attractive, but unfortunately we will be leaving with a heavy feeling that we missed something. Everyone talks about Isla del Sol, everyone asks if you’re going there, it’s synonymous with the town and is a significant destination, but somehow we didn’t get to see why. We don’t normally get it wrong and miss out, but we definitely did in Copacabana. 

Oh well, let’s head to La Paz. At least I can get that bloody Barry Manilow song out of my head now.

From The Sublime To The Surreal: The Enigma Which Is La Paz 

We enter the city of La Paz and find ourselves in a place where lurking just beneath the veneer of an ordinary large city there are strange stories, mysterious behaviours and rituals from a different era. This is a city where dozens of witches still practice, where shrivelled animal embryos are on sale, where families buy human skulls and keep them in their home for good luck, where a museum celebrates and documents the history of cocaine, where public transport is a network of cable car lines. After all these years of knowing smugly that La Paz is the highest capital city in the world, it turns out that it’s not even the capital…..it’s difficult to know where to start…so let’s try starting at the beginning…

Approaching La Paz is so spectacular. The huge city sits at the bottom of the deep valley formed by the Prado River within the Altiplano, whilst 550 metres above it at 4,150m is the neighbouring city of the appropriately named El Alto – the bus route comes through the latter, meaning that we gorge on incredible views across the whole of La Paz to the snow capped mountains beyond even before we arrive.  Below us the network of cable car lines – there are ten in all – crisscross the city with remarkable angles of climb and descent, servicing most of the districts and providing cheap transport (33p per ride) for those who need it. As we are to discover, it’s certainly quicker than the congested streets.

In fact simply riding the network for the sake of it is one of the must-do’s of La Paz, such is the almost unique experience of being able to study such a spectacular city from above. It’s a bit like having a London Underground in the sky, with mountains to climb instead of tunnels to burrow through. As well as using the system out of necessity, we spend a happy couple of hours just switching lines on a circular route simply to enjoy as many different views of this magnificent landscape as possible.

Even the bus journey to get here had its quirks. Our previous base of Copacabana is in an odd situation geographically. Sited on a peninsula stretching out into Lake Titicaca, its only land borders are with Peru – the rest of its own country, Bolivia, is across the water. So, about an hour into the bus journey from there to La Paz, passengers cross the narrow strait on a pod type ferry while the bus and driver make their way over on a flat barge, reuniting in the village opposite.

Once inside the city of La Paz, the seat of Government but, it turns out, not the capital, it isn’t long before its unique characteristics begin to unfold. Initially the impact is one of manic activity: traffic clogs the streets and crowds jam the sidewalks, collectivos seem to form at least half of what’s on the road and lengthy queues of people waiting for goodness knows what snake around corners. Steep hills appear unexpectedly, dropping or climbing at acute angles. La Paz feels alive from the first minute. And then pretty soon we start to peel back the surface….

We had heard plenty about the Mercado de Brujas (witches’ market) in La Paz, but apart from a few dried out baby llama bodies it turns out to be not much more than a tourist souvenir street – but when we later visit the second Mercado de Brujas, in El Alto, things take a much more mystical, perhaps sinister, turn. There really are dozens of practicing witches here, and it definitely isn’t a tourist gimmick, indeed tourists are actively discouraged from visiting this part of El Alto unguided.

Behind the gigantic El Alto street market – at 5km long the biggest in South America – there are rows of tiny sheds, each one concealing a witch going about her business. And that business consists of not only looking into their clients’ futures, but also of casting spells on their clients’ enemies, and of course healing all manner of ills through the use of potions and familiars. Some of these, even the dried out embryos of a variety of birds and animals, are on open sale in the market, available for purchase by said witches for their ritualistic purposes. Our guide here, Mattheus, insists that not only is he a regular client of these witches, but so is absolutely everyone he knows, from all walks of life. Michaela and I intended to have our fortunes told here, but today is Corpus Christi, and regrettably it turns out that witches observe public holidays just like the rest of us, so we move on, uninformed on our futures.

Mattheus walks us through the unbelievable market and explains how El Alto came to exist, it being a young city less than fifty years old. As people gravitated towards La Paz from rural areas in search of work, they set up home on the mountainside, unable to afford homes down in the main city. These rural folk, usually agricultural workers, had no previous concept of how taxation works, and refused to contribute if they had no control over how their taxes were spent. Consequently, El Alto was granted a Council with financial autonomy to enable the new community to make its own decisions, a system which is still largely in place today. Unsurprisingly, an independent city grew around this principle to its current population of over half a million. That’s half a million on top of the 2 million down the hill in La Paz.

Our walking tour with Mattheus also takes in the colossal and bizarre “official” cemetery of La Paz (yes, there are unofficial ones where the poorer families sneak in and bury the dead when no one’s looking), with its multi storey burial chambers in multiple rows. Each “plot” commands a monthly rent, and if the family fall behind with payment, the corpse is evicted and disposed of – and, in many cases, the skull is sold to a new owner (see below). The maximum “lease” of a site in the cemetery is five years, after which the family have to find a new home for the remains of their loved one.

Why would a skull be a sellable item? Because, as Mattheus explains, every home in La Paz has a skull, sometimes the skull of a relative, sometimes a skull bought on the open market. At times when a family member needs advice, or faces a dilemma, they will sit and talk it through with the household skull, and receive subliminal messages to guide them to the correct decision. But here’s the seriously crazy bit – it’s necessary during this “consultation” for both the living person and the skull to smoke a cigarette. Yep, a smoking cigarette is placed in the jaws of the skull, smoke being, it seems, a conduit for messages from beyond the grave.

As if our walking tour with Mattheus didn’t lead us into enough bizarre territory, our other days, unguided, lead us to some equally surreal places. The coca museum, tiny but hugely informative and interesting, is tucked away in a courtyard in central La Paz. Starting with the use of coca leaves by indigenous people through the centuries, we move on to the creation of cocaine through the addition of chemicals to the coca leaf base.

As an analogy, the text uses grapes. As in, it’s possible to get drunk on wine, which is made from grapes, but eating a bunch of grapes doesn’t get you drunk. Similarly, coca leaves have huge health benefits, especially at high altitude, and cocaine is made from coca, but consuming the leaves doesn’t take you on a cocaine trip. The museum, as it moves through the evolution of cocaine, then becomes even more fascinating. Cocaine was the father of anaesthetic, the first ever knock out drug for the performance of surgical operations, used enthusiastically by renowned surgeons in many countries. Before cocaine, the concept of anaesthetics simply didn’t exist.

Coca cafe, La Paz

Sigmund Freud was cited as the world’s very first cocaine addict and, as the dangers of addiction became more evident, cocaine shifted from its status as a medical miracle to a new position as an illegal substance, leading to the multi billion dollar industry which exists today. With a mixture of shock tactics and what feels like misplaced admiration, there is even a section detailing just how much money can be, and has been, made from cocaine production, including the fact that one drugs baron once offered to pay off Bolivia’s entire national debt in return for immunity from prosecution.

Inspired by the medicinal qualities of coca, an American entrepreneur by the name of John Pemberton marketed an exotic wine named Vin Mariani (named after its creator) which incorporated coca leaves into the distillation process and which sold extremely well in his home country. When America became gripped by Prohibition, Pemberton had to rethink his product as a non-alcoholic beverage with the same level of appeal….and Coca-Cola was born. The recipe hasn’t changed since, coca leaves are still an essential ingredient of the fizzy drink we know today, hence, of course, the name. (Note: Wikipedia doesn’t quite agree with this story but this is how it is told in the museum). 

So, we’ve seen the witches, ridden the cable cars, learned everything there is to know about cocaine, imagined having a smoke with a skull and felt hot sun and cold air simultaneously. Surely that’s it as far as the offbeat and bizarre is concerned? Oh no…

Enter the fighting cholitas. Cholita has long been a derogatory term for indigenous women, particularly those who have led downtrodden lives dominated by the males of society. Now, with the term retaken into ownership by those women, there is a new found pride in being a “cholita”, sporting the instantly identifiable combination of bowler-type hats, colourful shawls and wide beamed skirts – and in being assertive as never before.

But…wrestling? Yep, “cholita wrestling” has become a source of La Paz/El Alto entertainment. It’s a brash, overtly touristy (though the locals love it too) ostentatious event, where ladies incongruously sporting traditional dress battle out WWF style wrestling before a baying crowd. It’s ridiculous, colourful, energetic and as outrageous as you can imagine, but these women and girls are unbelievably acrobatic. Flying kicks, somersaults, being thrown upside down, crashing to the floor…it’s all here. Even leaping into the ring from a balcony.

The show is a crazy mix of gymnastics, choreography and athleticism, not to mention pantomime style dramatics as each bout has a goodie and a baddie, the latter often abetted by a biased – male – referee. Of course, the goodie wins every time, roared on by the voracious crowd while the baddie malevolently milks the boos. With a nod in the direction of ridding a history of male oppression, the referee usually ends up being as battered by the goodie as the defeated cholita. It’s two hours of ridiculous fun during which you cannot help but be in awe of the athleticism. These ladies are FIT (and they’re not tiny either!).

Amid all the surreality of the enigma which is La Paz, we make one excursion out of the city to the pre-Columbian archeological site at Tiwanaku which is impressive both in its size and for the amount of historical insight it has provided through the many artefacts recovered over the years. Unfortunately, at a site which lends itself to free exploration (designated pathways, informative signs in English, much of interest) our guide for the day insists on keeping the group together, talking for far too long about each item and, inexplicably, spending more than half the allocated time in the museum before we even venture out onto the site. Consequently we don’t even get to see half of what is there.

La Paz boasts so many unusual facets, so many experiences which are genuinely different, yet its surface gives none of this away; it’s a bustling, busy city with differing districts – an older quarter, open plazas, modern business districts and distinct suburbs. Everything in fact that you would expect to find in a capital city…oh, except it turns out it’s not the capital.

It’s hot at the same time as being cold – at times when the temperature is in single figures, the direct sunlight is fierce and capable of reddening the skin in minutes. Two early mornings even brought a shower of rain, the very first drop we’ve seen in our seven weeks in South America. 

To say La Paz is a city of character is an understatement. Yet, you could easily come here and miss every one of these hidden mysteries, because on the surface it’s just another of the world’s bustling cities going about its own business like any other place. 

Once you’ve broken through the facade and learned just a little of its culture, you look down from your cable car and wonder what’s going on beneath every rooftop. Someone down there is enjoying a cigarette with a human skull, someone else has just cast a spell on an enemy. And somewhere down there there’s a lady in traditional dress heading for the wrestling ring. Next door, no doubt, to the office worker who just finished his nine to five.

La Paz. An enigma of a city. And it’s not even the capital. 

The Salar de Uyuni: Part 1

We are lucky enough to have seen many wonderful places around the world on our travels, yet this journey through Peru and Bolivia had already become one of our best ever trips even before we headed towards Uyuni. From Uyuni we set out on a 3-day journey which took us to some of the most incredible places and unbelievable natural sights we have ever seen, so much so that Michaela commented that it felt like we were moving from one National Geographic cover to another. A truly amazing journey with so many pinch-yourself moments….

When we first heard about the remote town of Uyuni and its incredible salt flats, we knew it had to be on the agenda for this trip despite its harsh cold climate. We also thought we might arrive here on the time honoured train which still makes its slow passage through the Altiplano landscapes, but it turns out that unfortunately there’s only one train per week, and it travels overnight on the wrong day for us, so it’s not a goer.

Instead we bowl into town on a short early morning domestic flight from La Paz and get our first glimpses of the amazing and gigantic salt flats from the window of the aeroplane. This is such remote country that there isn’t even a tarmac road to the airport, just a dusty dirt road leading from the airport gates to the town itself.

Uyuni has all the feel of a desert town, except here along its wide streets the sand and dust glitter in the morning sunshine, crystals of salt mixing with the sand and catching the sun like miniature diamonds scattered in the street. Every junction is a right-angled crossroads, such is the precision of the US style grid of streets – Sahara meets smalltown America. But this is no ordinary desert, this is desert 3,700 metres above sea level, where the air is not only thin and dry but stubbornly cold. It’s sub zero as we drift along the dusty streets, yet there’s warmth too in the morning sun. 

Lethargic street dogs mooch around town, cafe owners sweep sand from doorways, one or two are ready to serve. We’re far too early to check in, so it’s cappuccinos in the sun, despite the cold. This simultaneously-hot-and-cold thing is still a novelty to us, probably will remain so, but here in Uyuni it’s magnified yet more – have we experienced a sand strewn desert town in temperatures as low as this before? No, we haven’t.

The Salar de Uyuni is the world’s largest salt flat, covering an astonishing 4,086 square miles, at an altitude of 3,656 metres. Those facts alone make this place utterly unique in the entire world. Acclimatising not just to the altitude but to the cold as well, we spend a couple of days in the offbeat town, befriending street dogs and indulging in siestas, endeavouring to bring our pounding hearts somewhere close to normal.

Two of our friends

Uyuni still celebrates its railway heritage with memorabilia dotted around town and a station which is still pristine despite its very limited usage. Acquainted now with this unusual dustbowl town, we prepare ourselves for our next departure from reality, a 3-day 2-night experience in the harsh cold of the Altiplano, across the amazing salt flats and a little bit into the unknown. Chilly nights are ahead….

Sunday evening, coldest yet, the tiny salt diamonds now glinting in car headlights rather than sunshine. Time to pack our small bags and leave the main backpacks behind in town as we venture out into the wilderness of the salt flats, travelling light out of necessity. Last time we did this it was in the sweltering humidity of the Amazon rainforest, now it’s the harsh cold of the Altiplano.

Monday morning, Day 1, and for once not a pre-dawn start. Our guide Carlos introduces us to Edwin our driver, and then to our fellow adventurers, Johannes and Valdemar, two highly articulate 19-year-olds from Odense in Denmark and Max, a practicing psychiatrist from near Munich. It’s the seven of us for the next three days. Carlos soon shows himself to be an animated, demonstrative individual – he can’t, for instance, say the word “flamingo” without standing on one leg. 

“I hope you have brought everything on the list”, he says during his briefing, “because you gonna be COLD and the accommodation gonna be RUSTIC”. He speaks those words in capital letters. Three times.

The adventure begins with a first stop not far out of Uyuni, the rather unusual train cemetery where rusting locomotives and wagons sit slowly dying on lengths of British built track. These trains were part of the thriving mining industry from the late 19th century through until the 1940s when the industry collapsed. Then surplus to requirements, the trains were left to rot on site, nowadays forming a quirky but popular tourist attraction.

On we go, passing through villages where the houses are built exclusively from salt bricks, until eventually the desert tracks bring us to the edge of the Salar, the most expansive salt flat in the entire world. Numbers and statistics are one thing: seeing it for real is something else entirely. It’s just so vast, stretching pure white flatness into the far distance – indeed, all the way to the horizon, the bright sunlight magnified by the blinding reflections off the dazzling white surface of the salt.

Pinch yourself a minute, Michaela. We’re about 3,700 metres above sea level yet standing on salt which is the remnant of an ocean floor. In parts of this incredible Salar, the salt crust has been found to be an amazing 180 metres deep. Islands still exist here, protruding above the blanket of startling white in isolated mounds, sacred places where Pachamama grants permission for plant life to survive.

We stop at one such island, Incahuasi, where that plant life is dominated by cacti. No ordinary cacti, either – these are giant, erect beasts which soar skywards in this remote, unusual setting. 

Deep winter is just around the corner, the surface water is disappearing from the Salar, soon the famous reflections will be gone until the seasons once again change. But for now, at our next call, there remains a covering a couple of inches deep; we step into our wellington boots supplied by Carlos and stand in this unbelievable place waiting for the sunset. The young Danes chuckle at the fact that everyone appears to be walking on water.

Sunset creeps closer. As the orange ball drops to the horizon, Carlos tells us to turn around, and we are greeted by, truly, one of the most magical sights we have ever set eyes on – a sunset in the Eastern sky. As the sun drops in the West, the opposite sky reflects the colours of the sunset, which is then reflected itself in the salty water. We gasp. A double sunset reflection. Never have we seen such vivid colours in the “wrong” sky. Magical.

And so the first day is almost done. As the colours of the sunset dim and darkness falls, there is a sadness that such a wonderful day is over, joy and excitement at what may follow on the next two. A camaraderie is developing amongst the Gang Of Seven. The Danish boys are on their first ever independent travels: we are at opposite ends of the travel spectrum and nearly 50 years older, yet the travellers’ connection is already palpable.

Fifty minutes later we pull in to the ramshackle village of Candelaria, where all the buildings including our hotel are built entirely from salt bricks. Our “hotel” – it’s just a few rooms on the back of a private dwelling – is as RUSTIC as Carlos had warned it would be. It’s also without a shadow of a doubt the coldest room we have ever slept in – it’s minus 6 outside, there’s broken windows with cardboard repairs, bare salt brick walls, spartan furniture and, of course, no heating.

It. Is. Bitter. In. Here.

We pull up the heavy blankets and slide into our “nod pods” (if you haven’t got a nod pod, then buy one!), wondering if sleep will be possible. I’m 68 and this is the first time I’ve ever slept with a woolly hat on my head.

The icy wind howls outside. We’re not sure we can do this.

Next thing we know the alarm is going off. It’s 6:30am and we’ve slept like logs.

To be continued…..

The Salar de Uyuni: Part 2

We’ve survived the bitter cold night. The Danish boys Johannes and Valdemar have also slept well, Max is feeling a little unwell. Carlos bursts through the door in his usual animated style, enthusiastically running through today’s programme. Edwin is out in the cold, filling the fuel tank from the spare can and letting air from the Landcruiser’s tyres. 

Over the course of the three days Edwin will drive over 1,100 kilometres, precious little of it on anything resembling a road. There’s dirt roads in the sand, there’s rough rocky tracks, there’s sections where two tyre tracks are the only clue as to the way – and there’s times where he leaves the tracks completely and just drives across the rough terrain. I just can’t fathom how he can navigate with such skill in the absence of any form of guidance. “Easy”, explains Carlos, “he navigates by the shape of the mountains”.

Talking of which, did you know that even a compass is no good out here? The iron and other minerals in the salt are so strong that they confuse compasses and render them useless.

Carlos is impatient and wants us to finish breakfast quickly, there’s something interesting outside. He’s right. Overnight the lake outside our window has frozen over, huge sheets of ice stretching where last night there was rippling water. The Altiplano winter is tightening its grip at speed. Edwin is ready, we pile into the Landcruiser, and we’re off. Six of us are animated, Max is quiet. He doesn’t look well.

We call in at a shallow valley where the water is in rivulets between grassy mounds, the whole place alive with wandering llamas and noisy Andean geese. Many of the rivulets are frozen now, unwieldy ice sculptures kissing the edges of pools and streams. The llamas – Carlos, like many others, always calls them “sexy llamas” – are inquisitive but keep their distance as we soak in our picturesque surroundings.

From here it’s on to an area where wind erosion has created the most improbable shapes in the rocks – dinosaurs, pillars, top heavy T-shapes – all rising from the desert as if created by hand. It’s more than fascinating to see what these piercing winds can do to the landscape. This endless series of other worldly sculptures is so extreme that the area has gained the nickname of the “Salvador Dali Desert”, and it’s easy to see why.

Incredible scenery unfolds before our eyes, never before have we seen so many different landscapes, all of which are new to us. Our Day 2 journey is one of continuous wonder, Edwin’s perfect playlists adding to the whole aura – this is one very special day. Even our lunch stop brings a delight as two unusual mammals, unused to humans and therefore not overly wary, join us to ask for scraps. These are the vizcacha, a rabbit with a fox’s tail. “The Andean kangaroo”, jokes Carlos.

And so to the flamingo lagoons. In the breeding season over 30,000 of them make this lake, or lagoon as they call them here, their home. Numbers are dwindling now as winter kicks in. Like this morning’s lagoon, ice is creeping across the surface and depriving these elegant birds of access to food – within a few days they will be gone, but for now there are enough to provide yet another thrilling experience as we watch them feed and occasionally take flight. Flamingoes on ice.

“Next”, shouts Carlos with even more energy than normal, “the Red Lagoon”. It is red indeed, so much so that when we are to pass close to the same area on Day 3, the colour reflects in the sky and turns grey clouds to pink. The red of the waters is caused by a scarlet algae which thrives only in this one lagoon of all the lakes in this vast region.

Standing here by the Red Lagoon we are surrounded by dormant volcanoes, as we have been in several places. Behind the nearest volcano is the Chile border, beneath our feet are the telltale black rocks, separated by mounds of black dust shaped into cobbles by the ever present howling wind. Volcanic activity is all too evident at our next call, where geysers blast hot water into the wind, steam clouds drift across the barren rocks and the smell of sulphur fills the air.

Boy it’s getting cold again now that darkness is falling. This area, in winter, can see some of the largest temperature sweeps in the world, as temperatures sometimes drop more than 35 degrees centigrade from daytime highest to overnight lows. It feels like it’s doing it now, the steam of the geysers isn’t hiding either the biting wind or the icy air.

“OK”, says Carlos, “now we go to the RUSTIC accommodation, and we have special dinner. After dinner when it’s really COLD, we’re going into the water”. What did he just say?

Sure enough, around 10pm, we strip down to our swimsuits and walk out into the night air. It’s about minus 6 but the wind chill is seriously nasty. Of course, it’s a pool of the water from the hot springs we’re stepping into, and we’re about to add yet another magical experience to this incredible journey. Wallowing in the hot water – though with freezing cold heads – we gaze at the night sky. With utterly zero light pollution out here, stars fill the darkness, constellations and the Milky Way clearly visible. Even more spectacular, incredibly vivid shooting stars jet across the sky in a celestial firework display. It’s so magical that we stay there wallowing for close to an hour. 

Oh God it’s cold when we get out and trudge the 200 yards or so back to our room. It’s called a “refuge” and it’s undeniably RUSTIC. The 2-hour window for electricity has passed, there’s no light, no heating, no hot water. The wind howls outside like a soundtrack from an Arctic expedition. This time we don’t sleep quite so well, it’s so COLD and RUSTIC. Boy is it worth it.

Day 3, Wednesday, things have changed. The blue skies have gone, heavy cloud hangs over the Altiplano, the wind has become nuclear with a chill factor of minus several billion. We can see snow falling on higher ground. Wow it looks bleak. Our last call as the Gang Of Seven is at the aptly named Green Lagoon, where we have a team photo which probably ranks as our coldest ever shot. In this wind, we don’t hang around: Carlos tells us that with wind chill it’s minus 15 right here right now.

We head instead to the Chile border, and bid farewell to Johannes and Valdemar as they make their way towards Santiago, while we turn back towards Uyuni via a few more amazing sights. The Valle de las Rocas, Valley Of Rocks, is another mind boggling collection of towers eroded into crazy shapes by the buffeting winds over millennia, where once again we are amazed by Mother Nature’s creations. Max, fading quickly with a travel tummy on a food poisoning scale, can’t face any more cold and stays in the Landcruiser. We need to get him somewhere warm.

But there’s one last call before that, the little market town of San Cristobal. In this incredible cold and this barraging, freezing wind, street traders sit on the ground hawking vegetables or whatever, seemingly impervious to the weather. This is a seriously harsh climate in which to live, but we guess they’ve been here since birth, so it’s their normal. “The wind is here now until November”, says Carlos, “and it will get much worse than this”. Ugh. As if to echo our “ugh”, our first snow flurry kisses our faces with flakes. Let’s move on, back to town.

Uyuni has been spared the cloud but not the wind. As we trundle through the streets, the town is in the grip of a sand storm, visibility down to poor and the word “dustbowl” screaming from every corner. Our hotel and our main backpacks are just down the road. So is a hot shower.

Max looks so rough, feels so weak. Go and get warm, Max, hole up for a couple of days. “I can’t”, he says, “I’m on the night bus tonight”. Oh Max we feel for you.

Embraces with Edwin and Carlos follow, these are seriously good, hard working guys. They thoroughly deserve the decent tip we hand over.

It’s so good to be warm again. But this has been three days which will live in our memories for ever, three days filled with the most incredible moments, the most wonderful sights, more once in a lifetime experiences than you could ever imagine fitting into 60-odd hours. 

It has been the very essence of travel. What an amazing, wonderful world we live in. 

Potosi: Down Into The Mine Then Down From The Mountains

Only about half the seats are taken as the bus ambles out of Uyuni despite company reps repeatedly bellowing the name of the destination so we think at first that we’re in for a comfortable ride. What we don’t know is that the bus will, in the first few miles, make multiple stops and take on passengers until not only every seat is full but so is the aisle. Not so comfortable after all and not in the same class as Cruz del Sur in Peru, but we’re on our way to Potosi, one of the highest cities in the world.

Four hours later a battered old taxi takes us from Potosi bus station to somewhere reasonably close to our digs in a pedestrianised street, digs which turn out to be in a beautifully renovated town house with an internal courtyard. Around us the narrow streets lead to two stylish squares where uniformed guards marshal the Gobierno building and young girls in mighty fine dresses compete in what appears to be a juvenile beauty contest.

This is a town with a rather enthralling past. No doubt, like us before we did our research, many will never have heard of Potosi, yet in its heyday it was one of the richest cities in the world and more populous than either London or Paris. The reason? Silver. 

When the Spanish arrived in Bolivia in 1532, they were soon to discover the Cerro Rico – the “Rich Mountain” – which dominates the city and is packed with valuable minerals, in fact local legend describes the mountain as “made of silver”. Potosi quickly became enormously wealthy, supporting a population of over 200,000 and becoming the centre of the Spanish colonial silver mint. In fact, the Cerro Rico is one of the world’s largest silver deposits, still being mined today almost 500 years after its discovery. It still hasn’t run out despite half a millennium of plunder.

Evidence of the city’s colonial glory is all around, grand buildings with stylish balconies help to give Potosi a classic Spanish feel, well preserved enough for the older part of the city to be classified as a UNESCO World Heritage site. The city lays claim to be the world’s highest at just over 4,060 metres – but Wikipedia places it 2nd after El Alto, meaning that we’ve spent time in each of the two highest cities in the world in the last couple of weeks.

The Cerro Rico is riddled with mineshafts, so much so that some fear a catastrophic collapse at some point in the future, yet the mining community at its foot is a bustling, noisy industrial site. With all this history and activity, the chance to go deep into the mine is too good an opportunity to turn down, so we meet with our guide Sol, herself a mine worker veteran, don our protective gear and head through the small entrance into the darkness of the tunnel.

The whole thing looks archaic, trucks on rails being pushed by hand looking like photos from mines a century ago, rudimentary roof supports inside the tunnel, rocks and minerals being sorted by the hands of crouching ladies. Sol advises that apart from an electric winch or two, little has changed in the mining techniques in hundreds of years. It looks that way, too.

It’s a bit scary at times. The tunnel is narrow and pitch dark, we’re walking on uneven, wet ground between the two rails of the track with no space on either side. Now and again there’s a rumble as a truck approaches along the track; the rumble becomes a roar as the wagon, loaded with mined material, is hurtling ever closer. “Quick quick” shouts Sol as she leads us to an alcove where we can – just – step aside as the truck races by. Remember, this a truck carrying two tons of material being pushed downhill by two men, with absolutely no braking mechanism. Fail to make the alcove in time and we’re off to meet our maker.

Our two hours in the dark claustrophobic tunnels also involve climbing rickety wooden ladders up and down through tight shafts, ducking beneath unforgiving rock ceilings and breathing in clouds of choking dust. This is a very real experience all round.

But of course we’re only visitors playing with reality. For the miners all around us, this is tough, poorly paid and dangerous work which quickly takes its toll on health. It works like this. Each gang has to produce a certain number of truck loads on each shift – and, the “shift” is not governed by hours, it’s governed by that truckload target. If on a bad day it takes 24 hours to fill the requisite number of wagons, then these guys do a 24-hour shift – what’s more, the pay is a flat rate. No matter how long the shift turns out to be, each miner gets around 150 bolivianos per shift – that’s about £16.

It’s a more than tough life. In the tunnels, we meet a group of guys taking a break by the electric winch. Sol says they’re 18 hours into their shift already. And then we pass Antonio, a foreman responsible for finding new silver seams and then detonating the dynamite – he has worked down here for 13 years, and he’s only 26. Most retire before they’re in their mid 40s, unable to take any more of the dust and hard labour.

Devils exist within the tunnels, devils made by the miners and presented with gifts daily to ensure protection in this dangerous world. Down here in what these guys see as the underworld, it’s not Gods you need to keep on side, it’s the devil himself. 

To keep spirits up, the miners chew coca leaves and drink alcohol. With what seems to us to be a shocking addition to the danger they are in, they drink not only bottles of beer but swigs of a spirit which smells like industrial cleaner and is…wait for it….NINETY SIX PER CENT PROOF. They drink it in small doses, tip some on the ground to bless Pachamama, then some on to the devil effigy. Sol performs the ritual, then offers the stuff to us. Of course we decline, there’s no way our stomachs would cope with even a tot of 96%.

It’s been a revelation coming down here, like stepping back in time. We expected to learn about silver mining, not sure we expected to witness such brutal, primitive working conditions. Or be jumping out of the way of 2-ton trucks come to that.

And so it’s time to leave Potosi, a smart yet industrial town which is attractive and welcoming but could really do with the ayuntamiento hiring about a dozen operatives to clear up the copious amounts of dog shit from the streets. Avoiding stepping in it is a constant distraction. It’s a perpetually cold city, too – the surrounding giant mountains may protect it from some of the harsher winds, but the altitude means nights are cold all year round.

We’re heading down now, literally. After almost three weeks at high altitude, we are for the first time in that whole period coming below 3,500 metres, in fact from Potosi at 4,060 to Sucre at 2,750. It’s been fabulous; we managed to avoid altitude sickness but that’s not to say it’s not been difficult, coping with these conditions is a constant vigil. Michaela’s persistent blocked nose is causing her an additional breathing difficulty and she appears to be about to hit a wall: it’s probably a good time to return to some normality.

Instead of the bus this time, we indulge in a taxi for the three hour journey to our next destination which, given that the cost is only £33 and we’re ready for a change of scene, seems a no brainer of a decision. As we pull out of Potosi and on to the open road, our driver crosses himself twice, no doubt seeking divine protection for the journey, and then doesn’t bother to fasten his seatbelt. Misguided priorities, methinks.

Three hours along the road, and we find ourselves in a completely different environment. Warm – no, hot! – sunshine, people drinking wine at outdoor tables, we can walk at pace without getting breathless, we can sit and drink beer without wearing a coat. Good grief, there’s even people in shorts! From the freezing mountains to a Mediterranean style temperate climate in three hours. It feels so good, a bit like the first day of a holiday. Our 3-week high altitude experience has been more than magical and has provided many what will be lifelong memories, but coming “back down to Earth” is feeling good right now.

Sucre: In The Footsteps Of Dinosaurs

No doubt about it, the centre of the city of Sucre is beautiful. Picture a city brimming with grandiose white buildings, each looking as if they’ve had a recent paint job from top to bottom, where armies of street cleaners are busy sweeping the sidewalks, where a battalion of gardeners are tending to every ornate corner of each smart plaza. Sucre is a city with all the grandeur of a Spanish gem, all the majesty of Vienna, but on a much smaller scale than either. Add a calm, relaxed atmosphere and one of the lowest crime rates of all South American cities and you have a very pleasing and welcoming destination.

Despite being only Bolivia’s sixth largest city, it is in fact Sucre and not, as I’ve always believed, La Paz, which is the country’s capital. (Although most text books will tell you that La Paz is the “de facto” capital, whatever that means). No way does Sucre feel like a capital city, it’s far too genteel for that. Perhaps that’s why they’re so keen to make the point: signs reading “SUCRE – CAPITAL” are everywhere and even the waiters are eager to make sure that you know.

After three weeks at high altitude it feels pretty good to be breathing normally, good to be able to walk these lovely streets without having to pause every few minutes to calm the heart rate. Sucre is still at 2,750m above sea level, but that constitutes a significant drop from where we’ve been. Apart from strolling its sidewalks and plazas, and admiring Sucre’s many churches and grand buildings, there is just outside of town another remarkable site to add to the many we’ve already seen on this journey.

The Cal Orck’o has an intriguing prehistoric story to tell. So to get out of town to see it for ourselves we board the “dino bus” (I kid you not) in the main plaza and head out to see something quite astonishing. As we approach Cal Orck’o there is nothing to see except extensive quarry works, something that looks like (and is) a cement factory, and a huge sweeping wall of a cliff clearly created by quarrying on a major scale. This apparently nondescript sheer mountain hides an amazing secret.

Sometime around 1994 , quarrymen began to notice strange shapes in the earth as they wore away the surface, shapes which became even more bizarre as wind and rain eroded the topsoil. Alerted to the possibility of a major discovery, palaeontologists led by one Christian Meyer came to Sucre in 1998 to investigate further. What they uncovered is sensational.

Studies revealed that what was now a steep mountain had once been flatlands adjacent to a lake, later to be forced upwards by tectonic movement as the mountains of South America were formed. The strange shapes in the earth which had captured everyone’s attention were, as had been suspected, the footprints of dinosaurs, many forming unbelievably clear tracks through the mud.

So far, over 5,000 footprints have been uncovered, left by nine different dinosaur species and dating from something like 68 million years ago – though some of those 5,000 have since been destroyed when part of the site collapsed during heavy rain. Now, the race is on to preserve and protect: with the prints left in what is virtually a sheer cliff, the wind, the rain and plant growth all threaten their longevity, and with the best will in the world these incredible echoes of history probably won’t be here for ever. For now though the prints are a fantastic sight, as evidenced by Michaela’s photographs.

We’ve seen some wonderful and incredible natural phenomena on this great journey; the world’s biggest and best preserved set of dinosaur tracks is yet another. What an amazing journey this has been. 

It’s a bit of a wrench to leave Sucre, and our accommodation here, both of which are really lovely, as we head now to what is effectively our last destination of this fabulous trip, the village of Samaipata. A short flight to Santa Cruz followed by a much longer drive, brings us to probably the only landscape we haven’t yet seen on this journey through Peru and Bolivia – rolling, lush green countryside.

It’s not unusual for us to finish our trips with chill time on the coast, but of course with Bolivia being a landlocked country it isn’t possible this time, so a small unassuming village with sumptuous views was our hope. First impressions are that Samaipata will deliver exactly that: it looks perfect.

“If you want to get to know everyone, just go for beer or wine at Boheme”, says our host Andres, “Kirsty will introduce you to everybody”.

Well. Our final few days could be just the chill time we’re looking for.

Samaipata: Finding Our Happy Place 

You know how it works. Places are never quite how you picture them to be: some places exceed expectations, some don’t quite get there, some turn out to be completely different from how you imagine, one way or another. It’s quite rare that somewhere is precisely what you were hoping for, and is the perfect setting for the next part of your travel plan. Samaipata is exactly that.

We pictured as our last destination on this fabulous journey a quiet, peaceful village surrounded by beautiful scenery, maybe an apartment with fabulous views, where we could relax and enjoy our last few days, maybe meet a few people, become, albeit briefly, part of village life. Samaipata could not fit those hopes more perfectly, this is exactly where we wanted to be to draw a relaxing line at the end of this amazing and stimulating adventure. 

“If you want to get to know everyone, just go for beer or wine at Boheme”, our host Andres had said on our arrival, “Kirsty will introduce you to everybody”. Kirsty has one of those enviable travel stories, her and her husband part way through travelling the world when they rocked up in Samaipata…and stayed for ever when given the opportunity to take over the local bar. As Kirsty herself puts it, “two drunken Australians taking over a bar, what could possibly go wrong there?”.

Well seemingly not much has gone wrong. Boheme is the centre of Samaipata life, full of chatter by day, full of verve by night.

Being here in this village is everything we hoped it would be. Peaceful, tranquil, clean and clear air, gorgeous little village, amazing apartment set in beautiful gardens, colourful birds visiting the feeders, clear blue skies and unbroken sunshine. The kind of place where you order lunch and, next thing, restaurant staff are speeding to the market on their moped to buy the ingredients for your meal. Don’t you just love that. Samaipata is without doubt our happy place, the perfect final chill place on this journey which has been so full of excitement and adventure. 

Of course, we take the one excursion out of the village which is de rigeur here, up to El Fuerte (the fort) high up on the hills above the village. Despite its name, El Fuerte wasn’t any kind of fortress until the Spanish arrived and enhanced what was already there. In its previous guises it had been an Inca settlement, including temples, and, evidenced by artefacts found within its walls, an important trading post. Archeological examination suggests that El Fuerte was abandoned by the Incas whilst still partly under construction, probably as the Spanish arrived. Our walk along the trail around the site is as notable for the fabulous views as it is for the site itself.

But for once there’s no great adventures or unusual experiences here, just a beautifully peaceful few days to bring the trip to a close. We take a couple of modest uphill hikes to gain views across the village, buy trinkets from the stall holders and some artwork from Leo the local artist, but really Samaipata is the “great unwind” after weeks of adventure, and with its calm and charm, it’s just the perfect place for it. 

In the hills above the town there are some seriously nice properties, large secluded houses with outdoor lounges and pools, most of them looking like empty second homes. As the weekend unfolds, weekenders arrive in the village in their 4x4s, Samapaita is clearly a weekend getaway for those who can afford it.

This incredible journey is coming to a close. Never before have we seen desert dunes, Amazon rainforest, sweltering temperatures and minus 15 all on one journey – let alone a journey which took us to the mysteries of the Nasca lines, under the ground into a mine, three weeks at high altitude, to the summit of Rainbow Mountain, to the joy of Machu Picchu and the Sacred Valley…..well, the list could go on. Even experienced our first earthquake. It’s been an incredible voyage and one which has convinced us that South America is, for us, unfinished business.

From Samaipata we will commence the long journey home; first to Santa Cruz de la Sierra for a night in a hotel close to the airport, then flights home via Madrid. And so will end this most exciting and stimulating of journeys through two truly amazing countries.

I close my eyes, feeling the warm sun on my face and listening to the gentle sounds of Sunday morning in a sleepy village. The scent of lavender drifts up from the gardens beneath us, the chirruping of birds provides a gentle soundtrack to the peaceful morning. It’s the time of day when the crowing of cockerels starts to give way to the barking of dogs. Somewhere in the distance a radio plays, its sounds all but smothered by the sounds of nature. Every few minutes a large black raptor circles above, ominously eyeing up potential victims in the colourful crowd around the garden feeders, its silent flight perfect for this tranquil morning. Our balcony is in full sun until around noon, with the inevitable consequence that each of our Samaipata days has been defined by a slow start. It’s heaven sitting here, feeling the sunshine and hearing these sounds, so utterly relaxing that it’s hard to believe that tomorrow morning we’ll be loading the backpacks and leaving here, let alone that we will be heading home. When I open my eyes again, Michaela is looking at me. We exchange a look, knowing that this has been one of our very best adventures to date. A magical journey with so many wonderful memories…..