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 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...

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!

Downhill on the Death Road - Bolivia

"Cycle the Death Road." The very name may make some question the sanity in going on such a tour. For others it will draw them like a moth to a flame. We weren’t quite in the moth category but that was mainly down to the price of the tour. For a day tour, not to mention for Bolivia, a tour on the death road is a little pricey. But then, how can you go to La Paz and not give it a go?

OK, if you’re really not too stable on two wheels then perhaps you should stay in the city and visit some museums. But otherwise you have to do it.

Firstly, some statistics on the road itself. In recent times the road has become almost solely for the use of silly foreigners like us to bomb down, plus the odd coca farmer. But before this it used to be a frequently used road. Here are the statistics (and how it got its name).

- Built in the 1930s by Paraguayan prisoners

- 43 mile road - rocky and mostly downhill

- The road got christened because 200-300 people died a year

- 1983 saw Bolivia's worst road accident when a bus went off the cliff killing 100 people.

Pretty terrible hey? But although these statistics are in the past, the road still lives up to its name and claimed the odd Israeli who took a corner too fast or the Canadian who hit a large rock at speed.

At the start point, some 4,700m above sea level I was terrified. Not for my own safety but for that of the Japanese guy in front of me. The tour starts off with some downhill on good smooth tarmac to get everyone used to their bikes. But within thirty seconds the Japanese guy was wobbling about all over the place and almost came off altogether. He did the same again just a couple of minutes later. We hadn’t even arrived at the rocky Death Road part of the trip. With discipline I stayed behind him keeping the order of our group of four. By overtaking I was concerned he may try to go faster.

With our guide on a bike out in front and a support vehicle behind, we started the death road. Japanese guy seemed to have got used to his bike and maintained a speed he was comfortable with and I became less worried that the road would be claiming another victim.

If the terrifyingly narrow sections of  rocky track and the sheer cliff hanging drop do not take your breath away, the stunning scenery will. We would stop every fifteen minutes or so, either for a snack, a long look at a view or for the support vehicle driver to set up a video of us further ahead. Our guide, who was fun and entertaining, would explain the upcoming section and where to show a bit more caution, although he never seemed to alter his speed throughout the entire journey!

 If the road is not dangerous enough already, there are parts of it where the side on which you pass oncoming traffic reverses! I thought our guide was joking, but no, because the cliff edge is not on the driver's side, on the narrow sections, vehicles pass on the other side so that the driver can look down to make sure the wheels are kept on the ground. Whatever works best, I guess!

I’m happy to report that all four of us, Japanese guy included, made it down to the bottom unscathed. Our reward was a buffet lunch, a shower and use of a swimming pool. As we had descended to around 1000m, the climate had become sub-tropical. It was warm and there was many a biting insect to greet us. Repellent should have been on the equipment list.

As with most dangerous activities, if you survive them, you finish up with an incredible uplifting feeling that makes you feel all the more alive.

La Paz - Bolivia

It was an extremely long and eventful journey from Copacabana. The driver informed us that a diversion would be necessary as a little town on the way was blockaded for a demonstration against the local mayor’s landfill policy. There’s no doubt about it, they take their politics seriously out here!

The diversion took us through many desolate areas and on some roads you could hardly call roads. After several U-turns and directions obtained from local farmers we hit a bit of a deadlock. One muddy section of track was now host to the inward and outward flow of traffic from Bolivia's capital, it seemed. I couldn’t get over the lack of communication. It was every man for himself and not even the two truck drivers who appeared to be happy risking a head on crash, if it so happened, seemed capable of a quick gesture indicating who should go first through a puddle!

Further along the journey we thought we had run into another blockade. Unfortunately, it was instead a nasty accident between a truck and a minivan. Instantly you realise you’re in a poor country. There was no ambulance on the scene, nor fire engine. It was obvious that neither were expected for a while as the locals had removed the bodies from the van and laid them on the side of the road, blankets and coats barely covering them. It was a sobering sight. There did not seem to be any survivors. I was surprised we hadn’t seen more horrific accidents on our travels.

La Paz is one busy place. It is a crowded and congested city with a million or so people hemmed in by steep hills - plus there must be as many mini-vans as there are people! It is full to the brim, so much so that its lack of further capacity has led to the expansion of El Alto, a city in itself four hundred meters above, overlooking La Paz.

La Paz is smoggy, the air is thin (especially if you're not well adjusted to the altitude - 3,600m) and you are never far from the smell of urine. But I feel perhaps I shouldn't point that out. There is something very appealing about a city that has such a buzz. There is an air of enthusiasm about the people and they are not afraid to march for their rights! The city is unthreatening too, and although in any big city you need to keep your wits about you, I never felt threatened once. 

If I had to name just one feature of La Paz it would be the markets. They are everywhere and on nearly every street. You have to dodge buses and mini-vans as there is no room for walking on the pavements. There are no supermarkets to be seen (although I've heard they have malls out of town) and so I guess people really need all these markets. My experience of them hasn't been wholly satisfying. I've bought two items; yet another pair of sunglasses and some woollen gloves. The former have already snapped and the latter have developed too many holes and loose threads to look like they'll last more than a week. Granted both purchases were cheap, but I did expect them to last more than three days! 

Unperturbed by my experience I have tried again. This time I have bought a USB MP3 player for the princely sum of £14. My iPod has finally given up the ghost and I just couldn't face the next bus journey without music or the dulcet tones of Michel Thomas to send me to sleep. 

I don't really thrive on markets. I don't like the smell of urine on the streets and I don't like smog. But for some reason I will miss La Paz.

Copacabana - Bolivia

There is no question about it. Lake Titicaca is much more good-looking on the Bolivian side. We took the three-hour bus ride around the west side of the lake to Copacabana, a town very close to the Peru-Bolivia border. It's a good ride, there are plenty of splendid views, a short stop to get your passports stamped, and you're there. It was such an easy border crossing that for the first time I was tempted to get the camera out and start taking a few snaps. But I thought better of it. It's just not worth drawing attention to yourself. Stay focused on the main goal - get across the line with minimal fuss and without having to part with cash.

In the usual fashion, the bus dropped us off on a main road not far away from Copacabana centre but still far enough out to get you out of breath, what with the heavy backpacks. Its a bit like landing at an airport but the plane won't quite take you to the terminal. I often wonder why they can't drop you off in the centre. Still, Copacabana is pretty small so it's not too much bother.

We walked into the centre and started the search for a place to stay. We took a lead out of the book and went for a place called Hostal Sonia. It was a little bit of a walk from the main street but seemed comfortable enough and when we said we'd have a look at some others first, Sonia lowered her price to seal the deal. You end up doing the best haggling when you're not trying to! The price she lowered to was 40Bs, which is roughly £4, between two. Hello Bolivia! It actually took us a while to realise just how cheap that is, and stop thinking in Peruvian Soles.

No matter how cheap the hostel was, we still needed some money. Copacabana has all the hallmarks of a backpacker town, and yet we learned that there is no cash point. Well, there is a cash point but it is for national transactions only. Luckily, notices were plastered all over it warning against trying to get money out, if you're not a local. So, picture a bustling street lined with touristy bars and restaurants with a few souvenir stalls squeezed in between, and yet no way to access cash for it.

When the bank opened - bizarrely at 2.30 pm - we found that we were not the only ones in this predicament. Here were other tourists who had cancelled day trips or left valuables in hotels and restaurants as a guarantee, all because of a lack of cash. Luckily, it was possible to get cash advances from inside the bank, all being well with your credit card of course, but for a 5% commission. Nice.

Drama over, we booked ourselves on a tour for Isla del Sol for the next day and went and got something to eat.

The trip to Isla del So was an interesting one. All round a very enjoyable experience but at times had me puzzled. Boats take you to the island from the port at Copacabana. These are the slowest boats in the world. Sure, it's nice to take a boat ride and enjoy the sights of the lake, but at 8.30am in the morning when the sun hasn't got high enough to thaw the effects of the cold wind, you just want to get there. It takes about two hours to reach the north side of the island- where you start if you're doing a day tour - when it would take about 30 minutes on something that shifted a little. The boats must hold around fifty people and yet they use one 50hp engine.

On board the boat I struck up a conversation with a Brit, originally from Liverpool. He told me he has been living in India for fifteen years and would not be returning to the UK until "the revolution, brother". What revolution is he hoping for, I wondered. David Cameron's 'Big Society' or Nick Clegg's immigration amnesty, perhaps? Perhaps not. It didn't seem appropriate to ask. Then he muttered something about how terrible Maggie Thatcher is. I felt I should let him know she's no longer running things, but again, it didn't seem appropriate. Instead, I told him we can't afford to wait for the 'revolution' and would be returning in June. He added that he intended to perform ceremonies on Isla del Sol. It seemed a good time to end the conversation. It seems the price of being a "Shaman" means you live in a time warp.

Due to the slowness of the boats, you really don't have that much time on Isla del Sol if on a day trip. We followed the path, took in the nice scenery and got charged every so often by a local sitting on the track. There are three main communities on the island and it seems they each want their share when it comes to backpackers walking from one end of the island to another, through their villages. Fair enough. It's not a lot of money, but perhaps better if you paid just once at the beginning. There are some Inca ruins to see, but how to compare after Machu Picchu? Its like playing with stickle bricks after you've been let loose on Technic Lego. For me, it was more about the walk, the views and good honest exercise at 12,000 ft!

The Uros Islands and Puno

I feel like we're really motoring now. Back to similar speeds of travel we achieved through Mexico when we'd be moving every one to two days. We've a little over a month left meaning there is no time to laze around. So, after the delights of Cusco and the striped pants brigade, we took a bus to Puno for a taste of Lake Titicaca on the Peruvian side.

The journey to Puno took longer than the six hours owing to a poorly bus. This was a first. I don't know how many miles we've travelled since the start of last October, but this is the first time we've had any bus trouble. Quite I feat I think, considering we've travelled in some pretty dodgy transport - none more so than the old US state school buses which are everywhere in Central America! But they got the bus working again and we limped on to Puno, albeit some two hours late.

Puno is quite unimpressive. Even with the vast Lake Titicaca in view, the town somehow maintains a drab appearance, mostly owing to the hundreds of terrible half built buildings littering the place. But you can't have everything. At least we were free to walk the streets without be accosted by restauranteurs or massage ladies. It is worth climbing to one of the view points high up. Everything looks much better from up there.

From Puno you can take boat trips to any of the three closest islands on Lake Tititcaca. It's the reason most people would venture to Puno. We had planned on a full day trip that would take us to two of the islands: The Uros floating islands and Taquile. However, owing to a terrible night's sleep - which I blame on the altitude (we're at 3,855m, which is higher than La Paz in Bolivia) - we only went for an afternoon trip to The Uros.

Our guide book didn't sound too thrilled about the Uros islands. The people there have constructed their islands from reeds. They use reeds for everything; their houses, their boats and as carpets. They live off the lake by fishing and hunting birds. But, so the book described, these days they have a secondary source of income: tourism. The book went on to say that the islands that you visit by boat are little more than "floating souvenir stalls". Cue the tourist trap alarm bells ringing in my head! But at the very least I was curious. It should be worth seeing the floating islands as you don't see them everyday.

We joined eight or so others and after about half an hour on the boat from the Puno dock, the islands started to come into view. I was reminded of that dreadful Kevin Costner film Waterworld, you know, the 90's big budget flop? This community had created land for themselves way out in the quite serene settings of the lake. There was a central canal and to either side were groups of islands. We stopped at one, got out and were confronted by, you guessed it, souvenir stalls. Luckily the awkward situation was broken by a guy who gathered us around a big map of the lake and started to explain about the islands and the people on them. He described how the islands are made, using the roots of the reeds and ropes and anchors and lastly, lots of cut reeds on top to make a soft floor. I was very glad of this. Not only was it interesting but it meant that it wasn't just us, the souvenir stalls and a bunch of people staring at us waiting for us to part with our Soles. Spend your money foreigners, they would be thinking, What's the matter? Are you too stingy??

Afterwards we were persuaded to take a reed boat to the next island. The onboard entertainment was three young Urovians(?) who gave us a three song performance, in exchange for a donation. The first song in Spanish, the second in Quechua and the third in English. In English we were treated to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, which when sung, they substituted the word twinkle for the word Gringo. Adorable!

This ten minute reed boat journey set us back five Soles each, which is extortionate given that you could go two hours on a bus for that. The next island was much like the same as the last but it had a restaurant. The Latin American family with us (who were generally lapping up the whole experience) went and had a big meal and as it was about four o'clock and we weren't at all hungry, we just sat and waited until they'd finished. It wasn't as if you could go exploring. The island was small. You'd need to hijack the reed boat.

The Uros experience was everything I had feared it would be. It was really cool to see the islands, plus I do love a boat ride, but the forced tourist trap thing will always make me feel uncomfortable.