Lima - the last stop

I felt a sense of sadness upon arriving in Lima, the capital of Peru. This would be the final Latin American stop of our trip. Eight months of travelling had almost come to an end. The flights home had been booked months ago, but only now was the realisation starting to sink in.

However, it was as if Lima had realised my sadness and decided to cheer me up a little. Our hotel, based on the outskirts of Miraflores, didn't have a great deal going for it but it was opposite one of the stations of a new bus route straight into the centre of Lima, called the Metropolitana. And in no hurry to recoup any costs, they hadn't even started charging people to use it yet. So we hopped on. How very kind of them.

While Miraflores is the up-market, clean and trendy part of Lima, where you will find all the western goodies, the best hotels and theatres, you shouldn't pass up on an opportunity to see the historic centre. It has the upper hand on architecture with the main Plaza del Armas particularly vast and stunning. We walked through it and took a moment to consult our map. Within seconds, two members of Lima's Tourist Police came over to see if we needed any help. They spoke English, provided us with some sightseeing tips and warned us to watch out for any would-be criminals lurking about. It is one of the most striking things about my experiences travelling in this part of the world. They value their tourists very highly. Perhaps our trip has coincided with an increase in prosperity or a new effort to stamp out crime in city centers. Whichever, it certainly makes you feel a little more comfortable to roam the streets.

We had earmarked Lima as the place to do some last-minute market shopping to pick up some gifts. It was by no means an easy task. The bulk of the shopping had been done in Arequipa, where I had had the same feeling when looking around stalls and shops; would anyone actually appreciate this stuff? There are a certain type of folk who love nick-naks and ornaments and, well, anything as long as it has come from a far and distant land. I do not know many of these people. My family, much like I, do not have a fondness for Inca figurines or miniature llamas to collect dust on the mantelpiece. So, it had to be items of clothing instead. And warm items at that. Everything is made from thick and soft materials like Alpaca. So. they would have to serve as presents for the upcoming British winter in, erm, six months time!

We did take a break from the trauma of market shopping to visit the San Francisco Convent and its catacombs. Here a guide took us around the church, showed us the paintings and then guided us through the underground vaults that contain skulls and bones from as many as 70,000 people. Creepy, but amazing. The second part of the tour enabled us to see the famous library. Standing at one end of the room you can see hundreds of books dating back hundreds of years. A bit odd, but they had roof-lights letting in loads of air and natural light. Apparently stable environmental conditions are not needed to keep the books from crumbling away.

Back in Miraflores for the evening, we indulged in some heavy eating at a North American-style bar and grill which left us barely capable of walking. The area down by the sea-front is a large complex built into the side of the cliffs, and is a perfect place to watch the sunset over a cocktail - or a huge steak in our case! It is a slice of modern living that I suspect only the top end of society in Peru could afford, and it seems a million miles away from the mountain villages we visited just weeks before. But nonetheless it made for a fantastic final evening on the South American continent.

Owing to what I can only assume is past experience, the general consensus is that tourists should take a cab to the airport. Not only that, but a recognised and registered one. And if you do just pick one from the street, memorise its number in case you get into bother. The trouble is that a cab to the airport costs about $25 to $30 USD, and it's really not all that far. Our hotel wanted about $40USD to shuttle us there. No, we'd rather run the gauntlet instead. What's wrong with little drama to end the travels anyway?

You can get to the airport for far less by taking a collectivo (minivan/bus thing) that follows a certain route and gets you to within a few blocks. So this is what we did. Bright and early on a Sunday morning we waited on a street corner with our back-packs until the right numbered van came along. It would cost all of about a dollar between us doing it this way. I had a rough idea of which direction the airport was in, but not long after making a left turn here and right turn there, I had no idea where we were. The van continued to drop off people and pick-up new ones as we headed out of one district and into another. It wasn't long before I started to play out nasty scenarios in my head. For each person we picked up I made a two second character evaluation in my head. Was this going to be the guy who would hold up the van and make off with everything we own? What would I do in such a scenario? I couldn't get mugged on the very last morning now could I? My only comforting thought was that it was Sunday morning and I'm quite sure that criminals like a lie-in!

An hour passed and we were still none the wiser about when we would reach our destination. Things would be a bit touch and go if we didn't get there soon. Suddenly the van stopped at a junction and we were told this was our stop. We got out and learned that the airport was left and about four blocks on. Seeing that we were about to undertake this journey on foot, a local man stepped in and offered that we share a taxi with him, as he was going that way. I made a snap judgement that this guy was in fact friendly and genuinely concerned for our well-being. Eight months travelling sharpens the senses but I made sure I had the penknife to hand. Not a clever strategy to fall back on, I know!

We took a cab with him and found that the four blocks were very long and very, well, dodgy. The local man had feared for our safety and rightly so. The taxi driver charged us a little too much for this five minute journey, but we had made it to the airport in one piece and with all our belongings, toy llamas and all!

Flight of the Condors - Canyon del Colca

Not only is Arequipa the most tranquil and pretty places in Peru, it is also close to a canyon more than twice as deep as the famous Grand Canyon in the United States, called Colca Canyon. That statistic alone makes you want to take a look. Coupled with this chance to see some natural wonder is the chance to do a bit of bird watching while you're there. There is an area called Cruz del Condor high up overlooking the canyon, a spot where condors like to hang out and where you can hang out to watch them.

Wanting to save some cash we decided against one of the many tours from Arequipa. Instead, we took a bus to Cabanaconde, a small town within the Colca national park. The idea was to head to this town, stay over and then get up early to go see the condors, a short journey away. Seems reasonable enough, but we hadn't really considered how much time we would spend on an uncomfortable bus. The bus to Cabanaconde from Arequipa took a long long time. A good seven hours I believe, which was more than the five the tourist office reckoned and more like the eight our guide book approximated.

The bus makes a stop at a town called Chivay and this is where you are asked to pay thirty-five Soles to enter the national park. I felt a bit wary of this. Not only because it is very expensive (a double room for the night would cost twenty), but another traveller had told us that park rangers try to get you to pay this when you're attempting to get a snap of a condor and that you don't really have to pay it. I also found the manner in which this tax was being enforced a little distasteful. There was no official ticket office. A woman simply stepped on the bus and looked to single out the white faces. Once she saw us, she came straight up the aisle and asked us to pay. Had she passed by any other folk on the bus up for a bit of tourism? Who knows. They all looked suitably Peruvian, but how can one operate a policy based on crude appearances? I immediately wished I'd dressed as an old indigenous woman. It would have been easy, just some face paint and copious layers of patterned material would have done the trick!

Maybe I overreacted when I challenged this setup. I don't mind paying my way, and hopefully, if it goes to the right people, it is a good thing for a relatively poor community. I just didn't like the way it was done, nor the disproportionate cost. We did eventually hand over the cash as the bus wasn't going anywhere until we'd paid.

By the time we entered the canyon area it was dark and we couldn't see anything out of the windows. Once we eventually pulled in to Cabanaconde all there was to do was to get a room for the night and eat something hot, as again we found ourselves in a cold place.

The next morning it was one big fight to get on the 6.30 am bus that would drop us at Cruz del Condor in time to see the birds in flight. Not only were there many a tourist doing the same thing, there was also a dozen local women wanting to get there too, so that they could set up their souvenir stalls. There was a fair amount of pushing and shoving but by ten past seven the very full bus started the fifty-minute journey to Cruz del Condor.

Once at the look-out, we were soon accosted by rangers, but were able to produce our tickets bought the day before. We found a good spot and waited. It was cold, and only a few intermittent breaks in the cloud allowed us the comfort of some early morning sun. After three quarters of an hour or so we spotted the first condor. It circled the vast area between the canyon walls and gave everyone a good view of its impressive wing span. Soon, three or four more appeared and made everyone feel the early start had been worth it. I took advantage of the continuous shoot mode on my camera as well as the telescopic lens and captured a good few hundred photos. That would be great fun to edit later!

We got what we came for, so technically it was a successful trip. However, I was still left wondering if it had been worth it. Perhaps if I was more into bird watching there would be no question. But take a look at the photo below - not exactly the most attractive creatures you're ever likely to see. I felt glad that we had gone to see the canyon, but most of that was done through a dirty bus window. We had to make the long ride back to Arequipa in time for our Lima-bound bus that evening, so there was no time to hang around.

Arequipa and kebabs!

Back in Peru after a speedy and efficient journey north through Chile, we headed to our last 'new' destination of the journey. Our sojourn in Chile felt like sheer comfort and the small taster of the country left me wanting to return - albeit with a slightly healthier bank balance! Even the overnight bus from San Pedro de Atacama to Arica was enjoyable. It was clean, comfortable and they had someone behaving like an air steward, getting everyone blankets and pillows on request. All very civilised.

So, onto this last 'new' destination, Arequipa. Well, this place certainly had much to live up to. We had missed out on a trip there the first time round, instead opting to stop by on our way back to Lima. In that time we had met many people who sang the praises of the city and everyone said what a lovely time they had had there.

I'm glad to say that they were all right. Arequipa is probably my favourite city in Peru. You could argue that Cusco has the better architecture or the two, but Arequipa isn't plagued by quite so many tourists. It feels like a city in its own right and not quite so obsessed by the gringo dollar. (Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of these people who hates tourists and yet is one, it's just that Cusco can be a bit much with all the hassle you inevitably attract).

There were two things in Arequipa that almost became an addiction - kebabs and cakes. One Turkish restaurant we tried served the best kebabs I've ever had. They could be classed as very fancy sandwiches rather than kebabs and perhaps you'd find something a bit different in Istanbul, but I couldn't eat enough of them. Any weight I'd lost over the previous seven months I think I put back on in two days!

Then there was the cakes. I fear that my healthy appetite for carrot cake, plus my being over thirty and not under, could spell danger up ahead. My metabolism could stall at any moment! One thing is for sure. If you like cake, you're in good company in Peru, and most of South America for that matter. As we sat in a particular cafe enjoying a slice there was a constant stream of people coming in to pick up huge, specially ordered cakes in boxes. And there must have been a dozen cake shops on the same street all doing a good trade.

But that's enough of my ramblings on food. A good way to burn off some calories is a walk around the Santa Catalina convent, not far from the main plaza. Covering an area of 29,426 square meters, it is a city within a city and a thoroughly fascinating place to be. It is the second time I have been in a large convent - the last being in Cuenca, Ecuador - and I find it striking how cut off you can feel from a city that is only the other side of a wall. From within Santa Catalina you wouldn't know that there was a bustling metropolis on the outside at all. I guess that was the idea when they built it back in the sixteenth century. Now that the nuns have dwindled in numbers and only live in a small part of the grounds, it allows tourists to experience the tranquility of the place.

Being a nun is obviously a tremendous commitment, and visiting a convent brings home just how big that commitment is. The entrance fee permits you to walk into most of the buildings within the grounds and see where the nuns cooked, ate, worked and slept. I won't delve into the merits and faults of religion, but I could not help feeling how much of life was missed by the women who lived there and, no matter how tranquil the surroundings, it seemed very sad.

One thing that I know I will miss about Latin America is the plazas. The spaniards, who were obviously big fans of a large central square, really went to town in Arequipa - although giving it the unoriginal title of Plaza de Armas. One side of the plaza is occupied by the beautiful Basilica Cathedral and the other three are made up by two levels of elegant arched walkways, all made of sillar stone. As standard there is a fountain in the middle, surrounded by gardens... and one too many pigeons! The main square is what gives Arequipa the edge over other cities in Peru. Oh, and the kebabs!

San Pedro de Atacama - a brief visit to Chile

Our salt flat tour concluded with a comfortable mini-van ride across the border in to Chile. From the seat behind, a booming voice with a Canadian accent excitedly announced the arrival of asphalt. His proclamation was met with a muted response from the passengers, which was understandable. Through one tour group or other we had all spent two and a half days crammed in the back of Land Cruisers traveling over rough terrain, but we knew what he meant. By the looks of things, Chile was going to be somewhat different than Bolivia.

The Bolivian border control had been a hut in the middle of nowhere. The Chilean one was on the edge of a town called San Pedro de Atacama, was equipped with three times the staff and a huge bag scanner - handy for catching out people carrying Earl Grey tea bags or olive oil, for example. Yes, Chile are very particular about what is brought in, unlike their South American neighbours. 

San Pedro de Atacama didn't look all that impressive at first sight. It was lovely and warm in the bright sunshine, but everything looked rather brown. The streets are unpaved and dusty, and all the buildings look the same. But you can forgive these things given that the town has been built in the middle of a desert. On closer inspection it became clear that the place is actually pretty sophisticated. The streets are lined with tour operators and restaurants and places that provide Internet. It is a tourist town but it had something we hadn't encountered for a long time... cuisine. There was no place on set menu's for fried chicken, fried banana and a ton of rice. No, here the restaurants served up lamb cutlets, grilled salmon or seafood risotto for example, all elegantly presented. 

All this sophistication comes at a cost however. There is a significant financial shock in arriving in Chile from Bolivia, but at least you are left with a feeling that you're getting something for your money. 

We may have just come from the amazingly diverse treasures of the nearby Bolivian salt flats, but Chile has some wonders of its own to offer. Near San Pedro de Atacama, the Valle de la Luna is where you can visit mountainous sand dunes and rock formations that are said to resemble the surface of the moon. Perhaps it wasn't quite the right shade for the moon, but it was a wonderfully unique landscape to see and, with with the sun setting, it looked more like Mars.

The Bolivian Salt Flats - Part 2

Day two started with a half past six breakfast, which oddly consisted of tea and stodgy cake, then back on the road by seven, leaving the salt flat and salt hotel behind us. We headed for the Bolivian desert and there were plenty of miles to cover so we stopped at the next village along for some supplies - in the form of more beer. Drinking a few cans while travelling in the 4x4 was an inspired idea. I was glad to see our driver didn't partake despite Brice offering!

Ah, yes. It's about time I introduced our splendid group. Let's see, we had Brice, who I just mentioned. He was always on-hand with the bottle of red wine whenever we ate (good man), lives in Brittany and smokes far too much for someone of just twenty-three years. Then, his friend Pierre, the same age and also from Brittany. He has spent time in Ecuador practicing Osteopathy. He speaks great Spanish and was very much the joker of the group. Next we had Florianne, 25, from Marseilles who is an animator by profession and was on hand with the candles when the electricity ran out. And last but not least her friend Cecilia, 21, also an animator back in France and who was cheerful and generally a pleasure to be around. There.

It was our turn to be in the back of the jeep. It was indeed lacking in legroom, however, despite the many miles we travelled on day two, we frequently stopped to admire views and take photos and stretch our legs. This day would mainly be about visiting a series of lakes. And on some of the lakes we got the rare chance of seeing flamingos! At one such lake we stopped and while Elias, our driver prepared lunch, we photographed the pink-coloured birds and the magnificent reflection of the mountains in the background. 

Lunch, by the way, was delicious. I wasn't expecting much, it being served out of the back of the jeep in the middle of nowhere. But we had bread-crumbed chicken, potatoes, rice and salad. And, of course, wine!

With another day of sightseeing drawing to a close it was time to head for our second accommodation for the trip. Set around a lake, this hospedaje wasn't made of salt but was on par in terms of facilities. It was basic, as expected. But again, it did have electricity so we weren't in the dark after sundown. But what proved challenging was the temperature. It is difficult to tell exactly how cold it is. Having spent a fair part of our travelling days in hot places, I suspected I had become a little sensitive to a bit of cold. Or soft, you could say! And up at around 4000m the wind can really get to your bones. However, we were informed that it was very close to zero degrees celsius and by nightfall temperatures would reach a chilling minus sixteen! The thing here is that we did not have any form of heating. I'm pretty sure I've never felt as cold as I did that night. After playing poker and struggling to hold the playing cards wearing gloves, we called it a night and went to bury ourselves in sleeping bags and blankets before a five in the morning wake up call. Yeah, that was going to be a joy!

It was indeed a painful experience to get up at such an early hour and in such cold. Our guide popped his head in and informed us he was loading the car. I'm sure he hadn't slept without heating. The evening before I'd seen the next house along with smoke bellowing from its chimney giving me visions of all the guides curled up around a big fire like dogs. 

Day three of our trip would be short but sweet. In the dark we drove along until we reached an area full of geysers. With the sun just coming up we had a good old nose around the dozens of holes with hot gases rushing up from them. It was amazing. Pretty smelly though. You could only endure the stench of rotten eggs for so long! 

From here it was on to the thermal pool, and breakfast. When we pulled up the pool had many a white-skinned human in it already. The air temperature was still very very low, but most had braved it, stripped off and jumped in the warm water. All very well, but getting out again would be a tough task. Pierre and Bryce talked for a while and decided to go for it. Sophie and Floriane stayed in the car with a cup of tea and I copied Cecilia and dipped my feet in the pool, as a half measure. In my defense my towel was packed away amongst the bags on top of the jeep. 

After breakfast we headed for the last stop, Laguna Verde - the lifeless lake laden with arsenic. If you catch it at the right time it is green, as its name suggests. This day it only had a slight tinge of green, but still a magnificent sight. From here it was onwards to the Chilean border where we would go our separate ways, the French heading back to Uyuni and us into Chile. 

The cold temperatures was definitely the main challenge of the trip, not to mention second having to converse in Spanish with our new friends - all good practice. But, as I write from the comfort of my warm hotel room back in civilisation, I am so glad we chose to take the three day trip. The salt flats were out of this world, but the Bolivian desert, with its mountains, geysers and lakes were equally as impressive.

The Bolivian Salt Flats - Part 1

We set off mid-morning, once our Land Cruiser had been loaded up with luggage, fuel, food, plus the four French people that would make up our group. A standard three day tour will take six people and they manage to fill the cars, no doubt by tempting lone travellers with rock bottom prices at the last minute. I'd say there is something to be said for standing on the street at five to eleven looking disinterested. Its bound to get you a great bargain!

Anyway, six people plus driver is just about comfortable in the Toyota 4x4 - though the two in the back have limited leg space. But, as all the tours offer the same transport, it is obvious that these machines are the best for the job. Not long had we been travelling out of town had the bumpy terrain started. But it provided no test for these vehicles. It was almost as smooth as a Rolls Royce on new tarmac.

First stop, a train graveyard - quite a spectacular sight, just on the outskirts of Uyuni. The British built railway had once been used to transport minerals from the nearby mountains and transport them to Chile and the coastal ports. However, since depletion of mineral reserves in the 1940's, the trains were abandoned producing an eery train cemetery - and something for us to climb all over and take pictures. Glad I'd had my tetanus booster! Rumour has it that a proper museum is planned for the site, but for now you're invited to climb aboard and pretend you're a train driver from the late nineteenth century!

Next, the reason we came. The Salar. It is nothing short of incredible. The flat white surface of salt stretches out as far as the eye can see and the contrast between that and the brilliant blue Bolivian sky makes it something really special and unique. I doubt there is anything on earth quite like it. Of course, it presented the opportunity to have some fun creating odd perspectives with the camera.

Soon after having messed around posing with some 'huge' cans of beer, it was lunch. Our guide set out an impressive array of food, and the French cracked open a bottle of red. It was good fare and fantastic surroundings - although four of our group would have been happier to finish the meal with some strong cheeses.

The Salt Flat isn't all, well... flat. There is an island to see, formerly the top of a submerged volcano back when the salt flat was a prehistoric lake. The island, called Isla de Pescado apparently because of its likeness to a fish from a distance, has some large cactuses growing on it. But for me the thing to do was to climb up on top of the island and get some more views of the flats. Like others around me, I couldn't stop taking photos. Thank goodness for digital.

Day one was almost over. Not a particularly strenuous one, I know. But it was a welcome change to be driven around and not be expected to hike for three hours or climb up to a mountain summit. Plus the French (don't worry, I'll get around to introducing them) had a supply of beer and every so often one would be passed around the car as we sped over the crusty white salt surface. Realising we'd missed a trick, we stocked up ourselves whilst stopping at a small village.

As the sun started to set and the last dregs of Pacena were being swallowed, we pulled up at a little community of houses on the edge of the plain. Our home for the night was to be made of salt. Yes, that's right, there is so much salt in these parts, they build hotels from the stuff. And its no shoddy job either. These blocks have been professionally cut and look just like they are made from stone. Only on close inspection can you see the shimmering crystals.

We were told that of the two nights on the trip, the stay at the salt hotel would be the more luxury of the two. OK, they had a shower (which was actually out of service on this occasion) but it was hard to see how much more basic a hotel stay could be. I suppose electricity could be classed as a luxury. But after dinner and a few games of cards, one by one the lights went out and the water was turned off. Thankfully our French pals had brought along head lamps and candles. Well done them! We would have really struggled otherwise.

To be continued...

Bolivia's second 'Death Road'?

I couldn't tell you exactly how many miles we have travelled since arriving in Mexico city last October. But I'm fairly sure that I can now tell you where the most difficult of those miles occurred. After spending time in the plush and serene surroundings of Tarija, the bus ride north towards Uyuni served as a reminder that Bolivia is amongst the poorest of the countries we've visited.

To get to Uyuni from Tarija requires taking an overnight bus journey to Tupiza and then a further seven or so hours on a bus from there. I no longer find it hard to psyche myself up for these journeys. You soon know what mindset you need to be in to avoid the frustrations of stops in the middle of the night, winding roads, crying children and drivers who want to emulate Ayrton Senna. What works for me is having plenty of battery on the mp3 player, your own supply of loo roll, a sleeping bag and a bottle of water. Then, sit back and see what happens. Who knows, you might fall asleep!

Well, none of that was going to make a difference this time. After settling in on a battered, grubby bus with broken seats that stayed reclined, we pulled out of Tarija. The lights went out at all of half past eight and the bus turned off the main road and onto a dirt track. The road to Tupiza is all stoney track and no tarmac. 

To say that the track was bumpy is an understatement. Right from the off we were thrown all about the place and frequently my body left the seat several inches and then crashed back down again. Hardly the best environment to catch some sleep. This was to be the state of things until we arrived in Tupiza in the morning. The road is said to be a fairly dodgy one too and perhaps it was better that the dark prevented the sight of any sheer drops.

At half past ten we made a stop in a town I'll call World's End, or Termina El Mundo if you like. It was cold, dark, the wind was blowing a gale (containing lots of dust) and there were just a couple of buildings around, one a restaurant. Some got off for a meal. We only wanted to use the facilities as in Bolivia they don't provide toilets on buses. The trouble is, they're also not concerned with stopping somewhere with a toilet. The restaurant owner claimed not to have any toilets and told us to go outside. Nice. 

After a further six hours of being thrown around inside a bus, we arrived in Tupiza. Second to a lack of hygiene, Bolivia does not synchronize its buses. It was five in the morning and the onward bus to Uyuni was scheduled to leave at ten o'clock. What else to do in the cold and dark than to unroll the sleeping bag and curl up on a bench. See, I told you it was part of the essential kit list! 

After sunrise we discovered that Tupiza didn't offer anything by way of places to grab a bit of breakfast, so we gate-crashed a hostel and got them to feed us some bread and a cup of tea. 

The next leg of the journey was very long and very cramped and involved a stop at Atocha, a mining town surrounded by desert and mountains. This surely is about as rural as it gets in Bolivia. Again there was a harsh wind blowing dust around and anything that wasn't nailed down. It was an interesting place to see but unfortunately none of the restaurants or market stalls had any food to sell. I think it's the first time I've encountered a place that has turned away a bus-load of travellers. Surely a bus stops here every day about the same time. Perhaps the thing to do would be to get some food on the go?

As a rule, an overnight bus will get in early and a day bus will get in late. We reached Uyuni by around six o'clock tired and in need of a shower. Uyuni is a basic town that is full of tour agencies but it has many restaurants plus a few stylish pubs. The trick is staying warm. I'm not sure if a lack of sleep will generally make you feel the cold more, but I wore as many layers as I could and went about getting myself a bowl of soup to huddle over!

The roads to Uyuni are never going to compete with the Death Road near La Paz, but perhaps it is a stretch that could be dubbed "Make-you-feel-like-death road"!

Tarija - ahem, and an important football match

If you're going to be turfed out of a bus somewhere at five o'clock on a cold morning, you could do worse than Tarija. After hanging around the (outdoor) bus station chatting to a fellow Brit, who had a flight to catch from Rio and not much time to get there, we went into town to use up some more hours before we could reasonably turn up at our hotel. Luckily an up-market restaurant opened its doors and let us in for breakfast - it's becoming a familiar story!

However, being in Tarija doesn't feel like being in the rest of Bolivia. It is home to Bolivia's wine region and the wealth created from that shows. But it's not just that. You could quite easily be in Spain. The streets are peaceful and lined with trees, the climate is very Mediterranean and of course there is the architecture. When the Tarija department won independence from Spain in 1817, it declared itself an independent country before later joining Bolivia, and it feels like the latter never happened.

I discovered another reason that Tarija is different, and not just from the rest of Bolivia, but perhaps, the rest of Latin America. Our second day there was a Saturday. But not just any Saturday. It was FA Cup Final Saturday and I had a keen interest in the outcome. Up until now, if you wanted to watch football you couldn't help but fall into a place that would be showing the game you wanted. The time difference didn't help, but I was pretty confident that I could pick a bar in town and settle in for ninety minutes - I don't ask for much in life!

But it was not to be as easy as that. The two trendy bars on the main square were, well, a little too trendy. They didn't even have television screens. We went in search of somewhere and followed advice from locals, only to be pointed back to the square where we'd started. Oh well, my luck of catching games had to end sometime. We took one last walk up a side street and happened upon a cafe with a television. I approached the owner and asked if he had cable TV, expecting the answer to be no. But instead, it was a yes! He generously surrendered the remote and I found the channel with just a few minutes to spare. We sat down and enjoyed empanadas for breakfast - oh yeah, and a historic win!

So, the people of Tarija are extremely kind and friendly, although perhaps not that fussed about football. Afterwards the cafe owner suggested a few sights we should see. But first it was off to the zoo to see what they kept there. Impressively they had a good range of animals, including some very sad-looking lions and leopards. But then, do lions ever look that happy behind bars?

Sucre - Bolivia

Sucre is the most modern place I’ve seen so far in Bolivia. It is Bolivia’s other capital and is home to a considerably slower pace of life than La Paz. This can be just what you need. After all, as much as I enjoyed La Paz and all of its energy, I wouldn’t have wanted to stay there longer than the week that we did. Sucre would be a good place to study, should you want to learn a bit of Spanish for example. We studied in Cuenca, Ecuador and there are many similarities between the two cities. It is also lower than Potosi, which meant it was much warmer, thankfully.

Sucre has a rich history dating back to the Spanish colonies and the architecture from this time remains. It is what makes the city a pleasure in which to stay. Rarely in Latin America does anything as aesthetically pleasing replace lost architecture. The same could be said of many places around the world but it has to be more evident in poorer countries. Luckily here there is still plenty to admire.

I have no adrenaline packed adventures to report this time, however we did take a trip to see some dinosaur footprints. Taking the “Sauro Tours” truck from the city centre (why take a taxi when you can be transported in open vehicle with a dinosaur head stuck to the front – it provides the locals with something to laugh at!) we went to a cretaceous exhibition, on the same site as a concrete plant. You actually have to walk into the concrete plant to gain access to the exhibition, but as we learned, the concrete plant is responsible for the discovery of the footprints themselves.

I expected some big paw prints to be fenced off for us to look at, and maybe even step in. This is Bolivia, after all. In fact, the footprints can be seen from a viewing balcony on a vertical wall opposite. My first thought was how the prints came to be on such vertical face. This was soon explained by our guide, but in Spanish at a ridiculously fast pace. No good. Much too fast for me. I went off to the office and came back with an English-speaking guide. I didn’t want to miss any important dino details!

With anything dinosaur-related, it is mind boggling when considering the time scale involved – millions of years. We’ve been around for the blink of an eye in comparison, yet we think we know the world’s problem. I’m one of those who believes that as soon as we get the “climate change” problem sorted, the next ice age will swiftly be along to finish us off!

So, here’s the theory. 68 millions (or so) years ago, when the Andes didn’t exist and South America was nice and flat, the oceans washed in and created lakes, or more like puddles to dinosaurs. They walked across these and left their footprints behind in the limestone mud. Some went in straight lines. Some in circles (not very clever), and some got halfway across, changed their mind and wandered back the way they’d come. Since then, tectonic plates have moved about and mountains have formed, pushing the once flat land with footprints up through ninety degrees to a vertical plane. As a result they have been covered and preserved by layers of sediment and earth…until recent times.

Somehow, when the cement company were taking layers off of the hill with large JCBs, they found the footprints without spoiling them. The scientists were called in and a limit was put on how much further the hill can be excavated for cement purposes. Unfortunately there are not the resources to protect the prints and it has been deemed too late to prevent them washing away within the next eight years or so. But casts have been taken and you can take a good look at them in the museum.

Taking the dino truck meant we were only granted an hour at the exhibition. I would have liked a little longer and had we known, a taxi may have been the better option. When you stop and think about the existence of dinosaurs on earth, even for five minutes, it gets the brain bubbling away. That makes a trip to see some evidence well worth it in my book!

The Potosi Mines - Bolivia

When I read one description of the Potosi mines I wasn’t all that keen on visiting. It said they have been described as “the mouth of hell” and that visitors should be aware that a trip down into them is both physically and emotionally draining. However, out of sheer curiosity (Sophie’s, not mine!) we made the long journey south from La Paz. An overnight bus to pretty much any destination in Bolivia will get you in at about 6am. I have thought a lot about why they schedule them like this. Is it because some people are doing a long commute and need to get to where they’re going in time for work? Do the bus companies prefer to avoid the morning rush hour? Surely not, given that the bus terminals are usually on the edge of town. The trouble is, they often run ahead of schedule. The 6am arrival time clearly has some margin in it meaning that you’re likely to rock up at anything from five o’clock in the morning. You’d think a bus getting in early is a good thing. Well, with the kind of temperatures you get in the Bolivian mountain range, it’s not. You arrive to freezing pre-dawn temperatures (at least that’s how it feels) and have nowhere to go because there isn’t a café or a restaurant open.

This was the scenario for Potosi. A taxi driver took us into town on the promise that there would be a café open at seven in the morning. It turned out there wasn’t. He would have said anything to get the fare. The only action in town was a few folks at the market setting up their stalls.

Around eight in the morning the owner of a place called The Koala Café opened its doors and let in two shivering souls with heavy backpacks (us). We ordered some tea and attempted to thaw our bones.
Who should walk in half an hour later but Bart, our one-time fellow student at a Quito language school. He, like us, had also been travelling south. I was relieved to find he had shaken off the advances of my Spanish teacher – not before she had stalked him all the way to Lima!

Bart had things sorted. He had a hostel and had booked himself on a tour of the Potosi mines leaving at 9am, along with an Englishman called Mohammed. Feeling not so fresh after our overnight bus journey, we decided to join them. After all, what would have been the point in going for a shower only to enter a mineshaft half an hour later?

To enter the Potosi mines you need more than overalls, boots and a hard hat. You need gifts for the miners. The mines at Potosi, although no longer rich with silver or tin still contain around 10,000 miners and they fuel themselves on coca leaves and 94% alcohol – called Bolivian whiskey. The only other thing they appreciate being given is dynamite. What better present to give a drugged-up drunk person in a confined space?

Buying alcohol and coca and then dynamite a few doors up was a surreal experience. The dynamite, we were assured, would pose no threat without the fuse and detonator attached. Still, with all three thrown into a plastic bag, I treated it with caution. Off we went to the mines.

Our guide, himself a one-time miner before he saw a better life for himself in tourism, took us in and down into the depths of the earth. It is warm down there. He explained what the smears of blood on the walls were. Not that of unsuspecting tourists, but of unsuspecting llamas (or even more disgusting, llama foetuses) that had been sacrificed and offered to the Tio – their devil-like God, if that makes sense. For the mining world apparently belongs to the devil and in return he will give you up some silver or mineral in return. I think at this point I needed some coca or alcohol to appreciate the symbolism in full.

We came across miners from time to time. They were small people who didn’t say a lot. Being small is definitely an advantage in a mine, as you can imagine. It wasn’t so easy for a 6ft 6 Dutchman called Bart! However, we all made it down a couple of levels (there are nine in total) and survived some frighteningly rickety ladders in the process. Eventually we came to a corridor that even the heavily doped miners in front advised was too dangerous. They were propping up the tunnel with planks of wood and said it was too hazardous for us. We turned around and headed back, not before giving up some of the last of our dynamite.

Before entering the mines I had thoughts of what a terrible job being a miner would be and it seemed almost unbelievable that the UK had a large mining workforce as recent as the 1980s. Coming out of the mines I felt lacking in compassion for the miners. Perhaps that was due to an insight into their mindset – apparently it is an ‘every man for himself’ one where even murder has been covered up as an accident. Three years or so ago, it was also good business, when a new but short-lived seam of tin was found. At this time, miners could be seen driving about town in Hummers, which I would have loved to have seen. With a poorer market for tin and minerals and with the mountain not yielding as much at this time, it is not happy days for the miners. They believe that they will find more the deeper they go. UNESCO believes that the whole thing will literally collapse and is campaigning against the constant hunt for the legendary pot of silver, apparently hidden deep within the bowels of the earth.

We didn’t get to explode any dynamite within the mines. That’s probably for the best. However our guide had kept one stick up his sleeve, which once assembled and lit, we got to play with – it had a long fuse, don’t worry, Mum! He walked twenty feet away, planted it and we waited for the explosion. We waited and waited. They say don’t return to a lit firework and that must be especially so for dynamite. BANG! It was a deafening noise and a vibration of the earth accompanied by a puff of smoke. Yes, that was best done out in the open! Occasionally Latin America dishes up something that you just can’t do in Europe and this tour was definitely one of them!

Frostbite up Huayna Potosi - well, not quite...

For those that like their mountains lofty, there is a popular one not far from La Paz that you can have a crack at. The prize, if successful, is standing on the summit at a grand total of 6,088m above sea level – that’s getting on for 20,000 ft! Just imagine the views…

The Huayna Potosi trip not only offers the chance to climb such a big beast, but also promises that you don’t have to be a serious climber to do it. The only recommendation (we heard) was that you should get acclimatised to the altitude as much as possible before you attempt it. We signed up, having spent quite some time close to 4,000m.

The next thing to decide is whether to take a two day trip or a three day. The three day includes a day practicing ice-climbing and we were told that it is mainly to get you used to the altitude. You don’t actually put your new-found skill with an ice-pick into practice on the hike. A two-day trip it was. We’re on a budget you know.

Still, the two day-er was to set us back the handsome sum of 1,400 Bolivianos (USD $210). However, once paid, the company was very generous with lending us items of clothing and kit that was not officially included on the tour. Don’t have long-johns? No problem, here’s a pair. Haven’t got a headlamp? Just buy some batteries and we’ll do the rest. It is a good policy. You can’t rely on amateurs not to forget some crucial piece of equipment necessary for an icy cold mountain.

One of the things we were expected to bring was our seventy-odd litre backpacks. The first part of the journey was to walk from Base Camp at 4,700m to Rock Camp at 5,130m carrying all the equipment we’d need; boots, jacket, trousers, harness, crampons, ice-pick etc. My backpack didn’t weigh as much as it usually does, but even so, it was heavy enough given the task ahead.

We made it to Rock Camp in two hours and I felt pretty good. We’d not be carrying backpacks for the next climb, so I felt perhaps the harder part might be done with. Oh, how foolish those thoughts were.

The next stage of proceedings was to eat, then go to bed at sundown, which was about 6.30pm. It isn’t easy to sleep at such an early hour. It isn’t easy to sleep when you know at midnight you’ll be getting up to climb a mountain. (That’s right, midnight!) And it certainly isn’t easy when you’re sharing a room packed with twenty others all sleeping on mattresses, lined up next to each other on the floor. As I tried my hardest to fool myself into actually being tired, the first bout of snoring sounded from across the room. I’m pretty sure it was one of the French guys. I resigned myself to getting none of the precious sleep I might need and spent the next five hours or so staring at the inside of my eyelids.

At midnight we all got up, had some breakfast and squeezed into our boots. I made sure I had another cup of coca tea, as it is supposed to help the difficulties of altitude.

In total there must have been fifty climbers starting out at 1am. Macario, our guide, led Sophie and me to the foot of the glacier, attached our crampons and harnesses and off we went. We were a team of three and the rope between us was a safety measure in case one of us should fall off the mountain.

It was hard work straight from the off. Under the bright stars, of which I’ve never seen so many, we dug our spikes into the snow and snaked up the mountain. Both in front and behind I could see the headlamps of the other groups and the dark outline of the mountain against the sky.

This was to be a marathon not a sprint. Most guides will always say that a slow and steady pace will win in the end, and in my slight coca daze, I was ready for just that. I knew it would be tough, but at the same time knew that I just needed to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Then, in what I believe altered the destiny of our hike, Macario suggested that I should join one of the other groups and leave him and Sophie. He had doubts that Sophie would make the summit. Yes, she had been struggling and her stomach wasn’t keen on the early hour, but whose was? I refused. I’ve watched too many disaster movies to know that you never split up!

We continued on and every so often Macario would make some comment about turning back, or that we had at least another three-quarters of the journey left. This wasn’t the tonic we needed. Everybody must have doubts about reaching the top, but your guide is supposed dispel those doubts and fill you with a ‘can-do’ mentality - aside from safety, that’s what he’s there for. I maintained that we were keeping pace with one of the last groups on the mountain, so we couldn’t be doing too badly.

Then came the sheer ice wall part of the hike. Yep, those ice picks would be needed. We scrambled and hauled ourselves up, digging our spikes in and throwing down the pick to get a good hold of the slope. It was pretty scary stuff. This was, after all, the first time I’d used an ice-pick (apart from cocktail making) and let's not forget this was in the dark.

At 5am, while taking a breather, Macario again raised the question of turning back. By this time our hands and feet were numb with cold and Sophie had not much will left, despite my positive words. We had a choice. Carry on up or turn back and attempt to climb down in the dark. We decided to turn back. 6,088m is a large number, but it's just that, a number.

However, going down the mountain in the dark was no easy task. Much of the walking was manageable, but along came the steep ice wall, and I had to go first. Macario dug a metal spike into the snow and attached our ropes to it. I lowered myself down but all I could see beneath me was a few feet of ice on the slope and then darkness. I had no floor to aim for. I was supposed to be lowering myself onto a small ledge on the side of the mountain, but where was it? It was the most frightening experience of my life. Then I lost purchase on the ice and fell. The rope snapped taut, pulled down Sophie, who was a few feet above, but thankfully it held. I scrambled around for some grip, looked down and saw that I was heading in the direction of a deep crevice. Macario then told me I should be heading left a bit and sure enough, the ledge came into view. I have experienced a kind of paralysis with heights in the past, but such was the intense stress of the situation I kept moving.

That was the only technical part of the climb, but still it would be better to have some technical know-how to deal with it. We continued down and by 7am we were back at Rock Camp, the sun just starting to come up. I don't think I've ever felt as exhausted!

It was gruelling and at times pretty terrifying, but at the same time it was a wonderful experience. Although not the motivator we needed, Macario stopped us from falling off the side of a mountain and I thanked him for it.

For now, I have no desire to see another mountain, let alone climb one, but still I am pleased that we tried it. After all, 5,800m isn’t a bad effort!