After a long journey down from Cafayate with a short overnight stop in the city of Tucumán, we finally arrived in Córdoba to find ourselves stuck in a traffic jam. We were thrilled! An actual traffic jam! With new looking cars! The novelty kept us entertained for the half hour ride to our hostel on the north of town.

Córdoba is and has always been a university town. The Jesuits set up the first University in the country here in 1622, and the town is still rammed with students doing studenty things: Drinking, putting posters up for gigs, demonstrating against things, drinking coffee and modelling strange fashions and mullet haircuts.

Clearly pleased with their university, the Jesuits spent the rest of the 17th century throwing up all manner of other buildings in the area – churches, cathedrals and crypts – which were funded by a series of grand estancias (posh farms) in the surrounding countryside. Unfortunately for them, their success in Córdoba and elsewhere in the country made the Vatican and the royals back in Europe suspicious, and they decided to kick them out of all Portuguese and Spanish territories in 1759 and '67 and suppressed them completely in 1773.

We had lots of time to see this Jesuit legacy the day after we turned up. It turned out it was National Census Day, and absolutely everything was shut as everyone had to stay in their homes to be counted by people with clipboards. Córdoba was a complete ghost-town and we wandered through empty streets all morning, around the Jesuit quarter, Plaza San Martin, then up to the park. It's a great looking city. I think it looks something like a mini Spanish version of New York – brick high-rises, parks, museums, bars and a big avenue block system.

After 4 hours of walking we were getting a little hungry and realised that we had no food, and nowhere was going to be open till 8 that night. Luckily, on the way back to our hostel we found one tiny little corner shop that had seemed to have struck a deal with a policeman standing outside, and was open and selling food to a small crowd of hungry-looking locals. Relieved, we bought their last two empañadas.

That same day, we learned that the ex-president Néstor Kirchner had died of a heart-attack. The husband of the current president, Kirchner was a hugely popular figure in Argentina, and did a lot to bring to justice many of the people responsible for the atrocities committed by the military government of the 70s. Sarah nearly caused a scene in the hostel that morning when she misunderstood the news on TV. Having watched a montage of footage of Kirchner celebrating, with the day's date in large letters underneath, Sarah turned to our hostel owner and said in Spanish, 'Ah! Happy Birthday President Kirchner!'. To which the man replied, deadpan, 'No, it's not his birthday, he's dead.'

Having scoped out where we wanted to visit the previous day during our walk around town, and now a day behind our intended itinerary, we set off on Friday for a big day of sight-seeing. Córdoba has lots of museums, and we visited as many as we could. The best was the Palacio Ferrerya, a grand old building with a massive collection of first rate modern art. If I could rob one museum of all its works, this would be it.

After the museum, and exhausted from the hectic pace we had set, I suggested we stop for aperitifs at a cool-looking bar I had spotted. Back home in London, the guys were out celebrating the birthdays of Mr Burke and Mr Lawes, and I was keen to join in the fun as best I could. I did this by ordering an Argentine favourite – Fernet & Coke. Fernet is an Italian herbal liqueur not dissimilar to Jägermeister. It tastes horrible, but then I figured this was fitting tribute given Steve and Glennie would probably be drinking much worse.

The bus pulled up into Cafayate on a sleepy Saturday afternoon. The dusty square was flooded with sunlight, the grassy area in the centre filled with locals and tourists alike, whiling away the day sunbathing. We decided that perhaps it was finally time to give ourselves a few days' rest and that perhaps Cafayate was the place in which to do it.

We were staying in a hostel called Rusty K, which had a gorgeous suntrap of a garden, and after a quick trip to the corner shop for crisps and beer, we sat in the sun and planned the next few weeks of the tour, stopping occasionally to pet the two adorable dogs belonging to the owners. This was starting to feel like a regular holiday!

Our gastronomic explorations continued here in Cafayate. Northern Argentina has some traditional dishes, and so we tried tamales, balls made of corn filled with minced beef and vegetables (writing this down makes it sound disgusting but they were actually very good!) and humitas, a mushy paste made up of sweetcorn, onions, and bits of melted cheese, which I was considerably less keen on – it's what I imagine eating baby food would be like. But the best thing was dulche de leche, an Argentinian-wide obsession, which is essentially a sweet caramel spread, eaten at every possible opportunity, but especially at breakfast time. It was too sweet for James, but I loved it – took me back to my youthful obsession with Nutella. Yum!

Cafayate is best-known for producing the best torrontés wine in Argentina, and so we were obviously keen to sample a glass or two. We had high hopes after having such a good time in the Marlborough region in NZ, but we were to discover that the Argentinian approach to wine tasting was generally a little more...low key. There were a few small bodegas in the centre of town, which we decided to have a little wander around first. Our first and favourite stop was Bodega Nonni, which we arrived at straight after lunch, ready for the 3pm tasting. We were early. As we sat in the little sun-filled courtyard, awaiting our tour, we realised this wasn't the first time we'd waited for a winery to open....we probably shouldn't make a habit of it. The tour was conducted entirely in Spanish, and although we did our best to follow what was going on, we spent most of the time nodding, smiling and saying “si” whenever occasion seemed to demand it. We got to sample a few wines, including the lovely torrontés, which is a lot like sauvignon blanc, only fruitier. They also gave us a rosé which smelt like strawberries and cream, but tasted more like syrup – apparently rosé wine is not yet very popular here in Argentina. I am starting to see why.

The next day it was the turn of the bigger vineyards: both Diageo and Pernod-Ricard have bought wineries in the area. Our first port of call was Diageo's Bodega El Esteco, a sunny 2km walk down the road. Diageo has clearly invested a lot of money in the area, as all of Cafayate's street signs are branded with the bodega's logo. The vineyard was suitably impressive: the vines sprawl over 400 hectares, and the wine-making equipment is housed in a huge white building, built in 1892. The tour was again in Spanish, but we'd picked up a bit of technical vocab by now, plus what we saw was interesting enough not to require much explanation. I couldn't believe how close we were allowed to come to actual production. We wandered amongst workers washing out barrels, operating the bottling line and packing the finished product ready for shipment. Very cool. The tasting was a little less impressive – despite paying for a tour, we were only allowed to sample one white and one red, both from the most basic range. We weren't impressed, especially when we glanced outside and saw another group enjoying a private tasting. Damn them.

But all was redeemed by Pernod-Ricard's Bodega Eckhart. This was a little way out of town, and so we hired bikes from our hostel and cycled along quiet roads flanked by bright green vines and the peaks of the Andes beyond. A pretty spectacular place to grow wine. The bodega itself was pretty industrial, with huge metal vats filled with litres and litres of torrontés and cabernet sauvignon, but the tasting room, in the oldest part of the building, was beautiful – all old oak panelling and wooden casks. They also still have about 40 bottles of the first wine they ever produced, in 1938. Can't imagine it tastes any good now.....

The tasting was fantastic: our group of ten (all Argentinian except for us) gathered around an old cask, cut in half and varnished to become a table. We shared glasses between two, which is apparently the norm here, and were given in turn a delicious torrontés, a malbec, a fruity cabernet sauvignon and a late harvest torrontés. Fans of the late harvest already following our stint in NZ, this was our favourite. In each case, James and I passed the glass between us until it was finished. It was only at the end of the tasting, as we looked around the table, that we realised we were the only ones to have done so: all the other glasses were at least half-full. Clearly 'tasting' really does mean just that in this part of the world! With a cheeky smile, and a joke about “los borrachos Ingleses” we made some instant friends. One of the guys started trying out his English language skills on us. He'd mastered about 5 words, after which he resorted to the names of his favourite English musicians (the Beatles featured prominently) and all the Argentinian footballers currently playing in the Premier League.

It was in Cafayate that we also met one of the weirdest people we've encountered on the trip so far, a man from one of the Hebrides (I forget exactly which) who was celebrating his retirement with a 6 week trip around Argentina, Bolivia and Peru. We happened to be having lunch at the table next to his one day, and using the merits of the Rough Guide (his choice) vs. the Lonely Planet (ours) as an opening gambit, invited himself to come and join us and quiz us on our recent travels in Bolivia. He only wanted to visit “non-touristy, authentic places” and on these grounds, was thinking he probably wouldn't go to Machu Picchu at all! He also boasted about having stayed in the most dangerous part of Buenos Aires at the start of his trip, recommending we do the same. Since he was wearing what I can only describe as a bright green smock during this conversation, I find this hard to believe, but will take him at his word. So it seems we have discovered a new breed of traveller: the Gap Yah Retiree.

An odd thing started to happen as we drove south from Tilcara to Salta. The dusty roads gave way to tarmac, which later gave way to multi-lane motorways. The landscape, brown for so long, became greener, and suddenly, we spotted trees. As we got closer to the city, petrol stations and advertising billboards appeared. It seemed we were re-entering civilisation!

This was confirmed later that day, as we found ourselves sitting in a cafe overlooking Salta's Plaza de Mayo, sipping ice-cold Quilmes and enjoying the last of the day's sunshine. Bolivia felt a very long way away already....

Salta is the 4th largest city in Argentina, and the biggest city in the Andean northwest. It was originally founded by the Spaniards in 1582 to grow crops which simply refused to prosper in the harsher Bolivian climes – essentially, it was the bread basket for the rich silver mine owners. More recently, it's become a magnet for poor Bolivian and rural Argentinian families, seeking their fortune in the big city. As a result, it's a bit of a melting pot, which we caught a glimpse of from the variety of faces we saw whilst people-watching in the square: Argentinians have a more diverse heritage than most of their South American neighbours, as a result of immigration from across Europe in the last few centuries.

One of the things we were most excited about on arriving in Argentina proper was the food, especially after 2 weeks of Bolivian 'cuisine,' and it didn't disappoint. Salta is famous for its empañadas, which are scoffed in large quantities for lunch, for dinner, and at any time inbetween. We ate as many as we could get our hands on – I fear I may have a new addiction. We had both been dreaming about a proper steak for weeks and although the beef is allegedly best further south, we couldn't stop ourselves indulging in some red meat at the appropriately named Bifé del Rey, or King of Beef. Or at least, we tried to. The menu was divided according to cuts of meat, which was a little beyond our Spanish skills. Instead we opted for the 'point and guess' approach. This worked well for me, but James was less successful – he ended up with a chicken leg. I gave him half of mine out of pity.

Salta is described by the Lonely Planet as “smoothing ruffled psyches” and this was definitely true for us – we focused on eating, drinking, sleeping and enjoying the relative normalcy of our surroundings. But we did make time for a bit of sightseeing. Starved of modern art in recent weeks, we made a beeline for the small but delightful Modern Art Museum, currently showcasing giant inflatable bats, flowers and plasticine monsters. It was pretty surreal.

I also visited the High Altitude Archeology Museum, better known as the house of frozen mummies, like the one we saw in Arequipa. James decided one mummy museum was enough for him, and opted out. Salta's 3 mummies, a teenage girl and two six year olds (one male, one female) were found at the peak of Mount Llullaillaco, some 480km from Salta, during a 1999 expedition of the 6739m mountain. Of all the mummies discovered from the Incan era to date, they are by far the best preserved, kept in near-perfect condition as a result of the freezing temperatures, low pressure and lack of oxygen. The museum was a lot slicker than the one in Arequipa – though I almost missed the creepy guide leading us around. The mummies are displayed on rotation, again effectively in a large freezer. On the day I visited it was The Girl Struck by Lightning, kept in a quiet room under the watchful gaze of a guard. She still looked so perfect, I got freaked out she was going to open her eyes if I got too close. Eerie stuff.

We said goodbye to Swills in Sucre, and from there it was on to Argentina. After the awful journey from La Paz to Uyuni we contemplated sparing ourselves the anguish and getting a flight, but the prospect of 4 connecting flights and spending $500 USD didn't really appeal. So there was nothing for it but to travel the old fashioned way:

Stage 1: 11 hour overnight bus ride from Sucre to Tupiza

We left Sucre at about 5.30pm. About 20 mins later, the in-journey 'entertainment' started. Usually this consists of a film, or music videos, or sometimes documentaries about the area you're heading to. But in this instance, it was the Bolivian favourite: pan pipe music. And the speaker was directly above my head. Now I don't know whether James and I have a particularly low tolerance for pan pipes, but after half an hour we were both considering either ripping the speaker out or ripping our ears off. Nothing drowned it out. In the end I settled for the noise reduction offered by my ear plugs and tried to sleep, only to be jolted awake every time the singers shouted “Boli-via” at the top of their voices. It happened a lot.

The bus was mostly filled with locals, who I'd noticed had all got on clutching their alpaca blankets (de riguer in these parts), in anticipation of the cold Andean night ahead. We had one North Face jacket between us, James having packed his in his rucksack in the mistaken assumption that 'it can't get that cold.' Oh how wrong we were. The combination of the overnight temperature drop and the fact that the windows rattled open every 20 minutes or so meant it was bloody freezing. At about midnight his shivering got too much for both of us and we compromised with one layer of the jacket each and huddled together for warmth.

And it got worse. Bolivian roads have left a fair amount to be desired thus far: this trip was no exception. We thought we'd got away with it, but about 12.30am we left the paved road behind and endured another 3 hours of bone-shaking as the bus was driven over loose rocks at high speed. Not fun. Finally we arrived at Tupiza....at 3.30 in the morning, far earlier than we'd expected, and were cursorily dumped in the middle of town. We shared a taxi with another English girl to our hostel, and then stood outside for 20 mins whilst we rang the doorbell and tried to wake the night porter. With the help of some friendly Italians who happened to be smoking out of their window, we eventually roused him. Stupidly we'd only booked a hostel for the following evening, and unfortunately that night it was full. But the kindly night porter took pity on us and let us sleep on the sofa in the living room. He even gave us an alpaca blanket.

Stage 2: 3 hour bus ride from Tupiza to Villazon

We spent a day in Tupiza resting and recovering. The countryside around Tupiza is allegedly where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid came to a sticky end, and so there were all manner of tours offering horseback riding and adventure trekking. But we just didn't have the energy (plus, as I'd learnt in KL, horses move rather a lot when you're riding them). Instead we enjoyed hot showers, naps and lots of pizza, accompanied by more pan pipe music.

The next morning we wandered down to the bus station to pick up one of the many buses our hostel owners had assured us would be passing through from 9am, en route to Villazón, the Bolivian border town. They were wrong. Instead we had to wait almost 2 hours for the only bus heading in that direction to show up. The bus was rusty and falling apart: every time James moved, his chair did, and so did mine, and bits of the bus above our heads appeared to be held together with sellotape. As a result, we were pretty dubious about whether it would make it to its destination at all. Astoundingly, we got there with no breakdowns or flat tyres, just a few more bruises from the rocky road.

Stage 3: 4 ½ hour bus ride from La Quiaca to Tilcara

At first glance, northern Argentina was identical to southern Bolivia. The sleepy border town of La Quiaca used to be a railroad hub but now exists largely to serve the needs of passing tourists. We were just pleased because it gave us opportunity to withdraw some Argentinian pesos and enjoy the biggest meal ever (I ate the equivalent of at least 2 large chickens in escalope form), wincing all the while at the difference in currency. Bolivia really was cheap!

And then it was time to catch our bus. We'd been reassured by travellers coming the other way that Argentinian buses were fantastic, but there was not much evidence of that at La Quiaca. Another rickety old bus conveyed us the 4 ½ hours from there to Tilcara, but not before stopping in every tinpot village and at every random roadside bus stop in between. We were also stopped about half an hour across the border by the Argentinian police, who got everyone and everything off the bus, made us stand in lines and searched every bag, one by one. Except ours – clearly whatever they were looking for (Cocaine? Counterfeit pesos? Illegal pan pipe music?), foreigners are not under suspicion. A cursory glance at our passports and we were waved through.

At 8.30pm we arrived in Tilcara, in the heart of the Quebrada de Humahuaca, an enormous canyon which we drove through as the sun was setting – it was pretty spectacular, especially driving through as the sun was setting. We were astounded to find the town overrun with wealthy tourists, boutique hotels, and 4x4s. We had picked it because it was halfway between the border and Salta, but clearly someone, somewhere is touting it as a must-see tourist destination. I'm still not sure why.

The numbers of people (and our lack of a reservation) meant that we had to trudge between hostels looking for somewhere to lay our weary heads for the night. We tried everywhere from standard hostels to boutique hotels to cabañas, without success, but it was 5th time lucky. I am not sure whether it was tiredness, desperation, or both, but we found ourselves checking into what was effectively a hippie commune run by two brothers offering daily yoga, meditation and music therapy. They were nice enough, but the bongo music which continued into the early hours wasn't. Once again, it was time for the earplugs.

Stage 4: 5 hour bus ride from Tilcara to Salta (and civilisation!)

The next morning we made a sharp exit and headed straight for the bus station, in the hope there'd be an early morning bus for us to make our escape. Oh no. Not only was there no bus until midday, but the computer system was down, meaning there could be no bookings. We'd simply have to hang around and hope there was space on the bus in a few hours time.

I made an attempt to head to the local pre-Inca ruins, but the combination of hot weather and lack of inclination meant I soon turned back. James, much more sensibly, sat in the sunshine and read. We grabbed an early lunch of empañadas (mini Cornish pasties filled with mince and spices or chicken) and then headed to the bus station for the imminent arrival of our transportation. Fortunately the computer system was up and running again so we at least knew we'd be getting on it.

And we waited. And we waited. Finally about an hour late the bus showed up. But it was new. It had reclining seats. And air conditioning. And an in-journey film. And free super-sweet coffee. We were in heaven, especially when we stopped halfway and a guy got on selling fresh sandwiches. In fact, we were both almost a little disappointed when the bus arrived in Salta, a mere 5 hours later.

Arriving in Sucre was like a breath of fresh air – it's by far the most beautiful city in Bolivia, all whitewashed buildings and terracotta rooftops. Unesco seems to agree, as it's been designated a World Heritage Site, in recognition of its rich colonial history. Sucre was where Bolivia was born – the Declaration of Independence was signed at the Casa de la Liberdad in 1825, and its presidents resided here for nearly a century. These days the political capital has been moved to La Paz, but Sucre remains the judicial capital, and Santa Cruz is the economic capital – you would have thought this would cause all manner of rivalries and problems, but the people of Sucre at least seem happy with their lot.

We headed first for the Cafe Gourmet Mirador, which has the best views over the city. Relaxing in deck chairs and sipping gin and bitter lemon as we watched the sun go down, this was starting to feel like a proper holiday. Lovely. Again it was nice to end in a place with a slightly more laid-back feel after the pace we'd made Swills keep since his arrival – 4 towns in 7 days! Sadly his departure was even faster than expected, as the following morning we discovered his flight was actually later that day and not the next day as we'd all thought. Fortunately he realised this in time!

As a result we designated Sunday morning 'Sucre Sightseeing Half-Day,' beginning with the Casa de la Liberdad. Nadia, our guide, painted a fantastic picture of the history of the place, which was originally a Jesuit college and then an exam hall before it became the important site it is today. We saw a copy of the Declaration – the real one is only brought out once a year for the people to see. It was also fascinating to learn a little more about Bolivia's turbulent history – it has had some 80 presidents in less than 200 years, a significant proportion of whom were assassinated or deposed by military coup. Alpaca-jumper-wearing Evo is highly regarded amongst the people here, not least for being the 'first' indigenous leader. This is not actually true – he's the 3rd, but he looks far more indigenous than either of the others so it's a lasting fallacy.

From there we headed to the Parque Simón Bolivar, named for the first 'honorary' president of Bolivia – honorary because he was holding out for the title of 'President of Casa d'America', a proposed USA-style union of South American states that never came to pass. The park is a lovely outdoor space, clearly popular with the locals, especially as we arrived: the local police force were holding a 'Fun Day' offering kids the chance to take a ride around the park on their motorbikes or in a police car. The park is home to a mini Eiffel Tower which we decided to climb. There are a lot fewer steps here than in Paris, but the structure is also a lot more rickety – after a couple of minutes swaying gently in the breeze at the top, we quickly climbed down again!

We squeezed in a 'Quality Lunch' before Swills' departure in honour of his birthday the following weekend. Sunday lunches in Bolivia consist of a salad course, a soup course, as much meat as you can stomach accompanied by at least 4 different varieties of carbs, and a dessert, all for the equivalent of £5.50. To this we added a couple of bottles of Bolivia's own Concepcíon Sauvignon Blanc (learning: the white is much better than the red) which meant that by the time Swills departed for the airport, we were all happily merry. James and I spent the rest of the day in our lovely hotel room (must stop this flashpacking!), sleeping and watching awful movies on TV.

We had one more day in Sucre whilst we awaited our next bus connection to Tupiza, a mere 11 hours away. As a result, we opted for a fairly lazy last few hours, going back to the park and enjoying the sunshine. We did also manage a trip to the Parque Cretácico, the local Jurassic Park themed tourist attraction, with the largest collection of dinosaur footprints anywhere in the world. We were expecting to be able to wander amongst them, comparing our little feet with those of a T-Rex or a Brontosaurus, but sadly we were disappointed – the footprints are about 1km away in a quarry, discovered by the local cement company in 1995. The company, Fonseca cement (“Building for your future”) had been excavating the site for some 40 years before the footprints were found, so goodness knows how many were destroyed before anyone even realised they were there. However, those that remain are pretty impressive (so distinct they look fake, even though their authenticity has been verified by world-renowned palaeontologists). I also enjoyed posing for photos with plastic models of my favourite species – it really started to feel like we were in Jurassic Park, though fortunately without the live action models!

To the standard 7 year old's excuse of 'But the other boys told me to do it', my primary school teacher used to respond, 'And if they told you to go jump off a cliff, would you?'. Mrs Fawcett would have been very disappointed with me, as I stood there with a stick of dynamite in my mouth and a lit match next to the fuse...

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Walking through the town centre today it's pretty hard to imagine that Potosí was once the largest city in the world – bigger than London, New York or Paris. It still retains a little of this grand past, but not much beyond a few nice stone buildings and a pretty main square. The source of the town's wealth is the same reason that tourists visit it today – the silver mines of Cerro Rico.

Potosí used to be the most important mining town in the world. Having heard rumours of silver found in the area in the mid-1500s, invading Spanish immediately moved in and set their slaves to work digging. They hit the jackpot. Cerro Rico – Rich Mountain – soon became the jewel in the crown of the Spanish Empire, supplying the silver that fueled their imperial aspirations. Their Spanish Silver Dollars (more commonly known as Pieces of Eight as they were worth 8 of the old Spanish Reales) became so ubiquitous that they were used as a de facto international currency.

Millions of African slaves and indigenous tribespeople died working in the mines, which are now nearly depleted of silver. But even though all the easily excavated seams exhausted, over two thousand miners still venture down the tunnels every day, digging ever deeper to find silver and tin.

Cerro Rico is now mined as a co-operative, and we were told by the miners we met that this is a good thing as it means they only work for themselves. By all accounts, it's well paid work. A 12-hour shift down the mines, even as an unskilled labourer, can earn you as much as a week of standard above-ground work. All you need is a pair of boots, some gloves and a helmet and off you go. Still, I'm not sure all miners are so upbeat about their prospects - between accidents, silicosis and asbestos poisoning, the average life expectancy of a miner is under 50.

Not put off by a little asbestos, soon after arriving in the town Swills and I suited up in overalls, wellies and hard hats and set off to the miner's market.

Before we went down into the depths we stopped at a market to pick up supplies. We would be visiting a working mine, so the deal is you bring the miners supplies and they let you tramp down their tunnels and get in the way and take your photos. We bought booze, coca and dynamite. The favourite drink down the mines is Ceibo - a 96% abv spirit that is drunk mixed with juice or water. Coca leaves are chewed constantly to combat the low oxygen and long hours. We bought a bag for the miners and a bag for ourselves.

We went to a special store to buy the dynamite. Our guide demonstrated how stable the substance is by throwing it at us to catch. The look on the girl's face when she dropped the stick thrown at her was priceless... or I imagine it would have been had I not had my eyes closed, waiting for the explosion. We thus learned that dynamite only explodes if it has a detonator pressed into it. So we bought some of these too. At this point our guide suggested that it would make a good photo if we each put the dynamite, with fuse attached, in our mouths. I'll never understand why I did it. Mrs Fawcett's words echoed in my head as I flicked the lighter on and Swills took a photo. Madness. I regained my senses by the time we had bought the sticks and had to carry them into the mine – I put them in Swills' bag.

Up close, the mines look like any building site. Mud and puddles, diggers and rubble. Our bus dropped us next to a group of wooden buildings leaning against the hill around an ominous dark hole with twisted metal tracks leading out of it. It looked like the mine hadn't been used in a while. Then suddenly a dirty looking figure emerged from the darkness in front of a trolley loaded full of rubble. Whilst old, the mine was definitely still in operation.

Having flicked on our head torches and shoved fat wadges of coca leaves into our mouths, we formed into a line and entered the mine. We walked down the tracks, through puddles of water, under twisted pipes of compressed air and electrical wires. We were soon in complete darkness, using our lamps to watch out for the low wooden beams that held up the more shaky sections of the tunnel. Every now and then our guide would shout Aguarde! - Look out! - and we would have to press ourselves to the sides of the tunnel as a loaded trolley rattled past, pushed by another three miners – one at front to steer, and two at the back to push, all with tennis ball-sized lumps of coca tucked in their cheeks. We stopped one crew (Cost: one beer, one bag of coca) and asked what time they had started their shift. The wired-looking guy at the front blinked, then answered 'Medianoche' – midnight, 13 hours ago.

Having walked for about 20 minutes into the depths of the hill (and Swills having hit his head on beams about a dozen times), we veered off down a side tunnel and found a crew working at the rock face. They carried on working as we sat on the floor and our guide introduced each of them (including one 40 year-old miner nicknamed Rambo due to his big ropey muscles) and then set to work mixing the drinks. We started with a few beers, and then moved on to Ceibo & juice. Each round one person was in charge of pouring the drinks and we each drank from the same small cup in turn. Before we took a sip though, we had to pour some of our drink on the ground. Once for Pachamama – Mother Earth – and once for the safety and success of our fellow miners. The Ceibo was pretty rough stuff, so when the tourists were drinking Pachamama got a pretty sizeable offering – when the miners drank she only got a little taste. Even so, after a couple of rounds in the heat of the mines we were all feeling a little light-headed. This was when Swills and I both had a go shovelling some ore to fill a trolley. Not as easy as it looked, but then we probably hadn't had enough coca.

Feeling a little bit pissed and by now totally jacked-up on coca leaves, we said goodbye to the miners and wandered back down the tunnel. Halfway back to the surface we stopped and climbed up to another level through a crack in the roof and into a large chamber where we found a dusty old man sitting against the wall smoking a cigarette. This was Juan, the dynamite expert. With his 'supervision' (he sat, smoked and drank the whole time) our guide ordered Swills and myself to press a detonator into the end of two sticks of dynamite and attach a fuse. Again, why I obliged I can't really say. Sheer idiocy. Our guide then cut four minutes of fuse, lit the end, and passed the lit dynamite back to us. What happened then was like the opposite of pass-the-parcel, played at high-speed. The fizzing sticks of dynamite were handed very rapidly around our group for a tense couple of minutes, before our guide took them from us and clambered to the far end of the chamber where he hid them round a corner... DOOM! DOOM! The dull thud of the explosions came quickly, like someone clapping their hands around your ears, then there was a tense half-second while we waited, expecting the roof to come down on us.

I woke up to turbulence, the chair beneath me juddering violently. I looked up to see the oxygen masks fall from the ceiling, but then realised I wasn't on a plane. I was on a bus. Looking out the window I saw a road to our left, running through the desert. We were no longer on the road. It seems that the quality of Bolivian roads are such that it is actually preferable to drive across the desert tundra than on the cracked and crumbling asphalt. The bus veered wildly round rocks and clumps of grass, so much so that I began to wonder whether the driver had any idea which way he was mean to be going. Just as I started to panic though, the low brown buildings of Uyuni appeared on the horizon.

Having heard many horror stories about the salt flats trips – drunk drivers being a common theme, and groups getting lost in the desert and running out of water – Sarah had done a lot of research into which companies were reputable, and we had booked ourselves onto a private tour whilst we were in La Paz. The company - Tupiza Tours - were excellent. It was just Sarah, Swills and myself in a 4x4 with our driver Marcelo and his sister Pamela as cook.

After a quick breakfast and a stop to pick up Pamela we set off through the streets of Uyuni. It's a real desert town. We were soon at its edge where the road disappeared into sand, and took off into the great nothingness.

When the Bolivian science fiction film industry ramps up, the salt flats and South Western Circuit will be overrun with film students and young actors in papier-mache alien costumes. I don't know what series of unlikely geographical processes led to this region's formation, but it's definitely unlike anywhere else I've seen or even heard about. The word 'otherworldly' doesn't really do it justice. 'Surreal' is probably closer to the mark. In fact at one point we even drove through 'The Dali Desert' (we took a photo for you Axit). During our three day road trip we saw perspective-defying salt flats; red, blue and green lakes (all accessorised with pink flamingos); volcanoes; sulphurous hot springs; rocks shaped like trees; bubbling mud pools and hissing fumeroles. All this in temperatures reaching over 30º c at noon, and -20º c at night. It was a funny couple of days.

We started off in the Salar de Uyuni, better known as the salt flats. You will probably have seen it in photos before – an endless expanse of whiteness, upon which one can strike silly poses that play with perspective. The salt flats are the remains of a prehistoric lake that once covered most of the South West of Bolivia. Just to give a sense of scale, the evaporated puddle of salt it left behind is over 12,000km2 (apparently about the size of the Falkland Islands). We stopped for lunch at a rocky island in the middle of this desert, covered in ancient cacti. From the summit the salt flats looked like a failed geometry lesson: lines, curves and sections marked out in faint grey by the tracks of tourist 4x4s.

That night we stayed at the edge of the flats in a hotel built completely of salt. Salt bricks, salt walls, salt tables, salt chairs, and a rock salt carpet. Luckily the shower was tiled or I could have brought the whole place down. Swills, Sarah and I played shit-head (our new favourite game) as the sun went down, and Pamela cooked us up an incredible supper from somewhere.

Next morning saw us cruise within 10km of the Chilean border on our way south towards Laguna Colorada. We spent most of the journey bouncing around in the back seat as Marcelo chopped and changed between well-worn driving paths over the rocky landscape. He had his iPod connected up to the car stereo so we were treated to an incredibly diverse selection of 80s pop and rock ballads before we asked if he would like to hear some of our music. Swills introduced us to The XX and I inflicted more Ellie Goulding on everybody. 'What do you think Swills?' 'uh….I don't think I'll be buying the album myself James.'

Every hour or so we would stop at another geographical absurdity, get out and take some photos. As we made the transition from desert valley to the mountains, our first stop came in the bizarre lunar landscape beneath Volcano Caquella – a network of wind blown half-pipes carved out in the shadow of the 6000m high smoking peak.

The first lake we came to was a complete surprise. As we rounded a bend between two mountains we looked down to see luminous turquoise water, bounded by a ring of white saltpetre. Stranger still were its occupants: about a hundred bright pink flamingos, delicately pacing the shallow waters, dipping their beaks to feed on the algae growing on the lake bottom. After several more lakes and a lot more flamingos we changed things up with another rock-stop, this time a huddle of towering rocks sitting in the middle of a windswept sandy valley. The highlight / photo-op was the Arbol del Piedra – The Tree of Stone.

The best sight of the day was saved for last. The Laguna Colorada is an enormous expanse of water, filling a bowl between mountain ranges. Saltpetre crystalising around its edges form giant blue-white icebergs, and an unusual algae colours the water a bright brick red. Flamingos and alpacas don't seem to find this at all odd, and happily hang around in the shallows. Standing by the car, sheltering from the howling wind and looking out over the lake I don't think we would have been surprised if a giant kraken had suddenly slithered up onto the shore, or if the mountains behind had began to melt or the sky turned from blue to green. It was that strange.

At 4200m above sea level, that night sleeping by the lake was our highest yet. The altitude, aspect and complete lack of any heating meant that the temperature dropped to a blistering -20º c inside our bunkhouse. We survived the cold till sunrise by all sleeping in the one room, wearing ALL our clothes and pulling our 5 season sleeping bags tight around our faces. The low oxygen did strange things to us though: all of us woke up in the night with racing hearts, ready for fight or flight.

Back in the car at 0630 for our last day, we drove off up into the mountains above the lake to the highest point of the trip. Like Rotorua, this part of the land was clearly angry. Clouds of sulphurous gases seeped from the mountainside and lakes and blew menacingly across the landscape. This environment did have its perks though – some enterprising locals had build a giant concrete bath on top of one of the fissures, creating a lovely outdoor hot-tub. We stopped for a morning soak.

At about 0900 we fell out of the car into the chilly morning air to find ourselves on the edge of a crater-cracked plain of bubbling mud and steam. This was the furthest point of our round trip, and at 5000m asl, the highest too. Sarah stayed in the car having had her fill of sulphur in Rotorua, while Swills and I went off to explore. Aside from the smell, it was quite nice to get closer to the heat so we crept right up to the edge and let the wind blow the steam over us. It was only as when we got back to the car that we noticed the EXTREMELY DANGEROUS DO NOT CROSS THIS POINT sign.

After this near death experience we began to make our way back to Uyuni – a 9 hour drive down from the mountains back to the desert. We took a more verdant route, through grass valleys and bleak looking open farmland. Alpacas abound. Ipod batteries exhausted, we were once again listening to Marcelo's choice of music. The last 4 hours was back-to-back Spanish hip-hop.

Back in Uyuni, we said goodbye to Marcelo and Pamela, checked into our hostel and each had one of the best showers ever, washing 3 days of sandblasted dirt out of our skin and hair. Shiny clean in fresh clothes we headed off in search of a Lonely Planet recommended pizza place and, after a little trouble in Uyuni's unlit streets, found it. A little slice of Brooklyn in Bolivia, we washed several pies down with a hard-earned bottle of Chilean red under the cynical glare of the American proprietor.

Driving into La Paz in our rickety bus from Copacabana was like seeing a different world. A world where the people, for some unfathomable reason, had decided to build their city in a deep valley, and had continued construction up the sides of the surrounding mountains. Any piece of land, under about a 90 degree angle, was fair game. I have no idea how they have managed to do this, but since 2.3m people now live in the greater city, and it's growing all the time, it must be working for them.

We arrived at our super-premium hotel, an engagement gift from Pete and Claire (thanks again guys), covered in dust after a week on the road. I don't think the hotel staff knew quite what to make of four backpackers, but they were politeness itself and we were treated the same as any rich businessman's wife, who seemed to fill the majority of the other rooms whilst we were there. Our room was amazing – more of a suite really, complete with kitchen, living room (with actual sofas!) and a complimentary rubber duck in the bathroom.

All a bit knackered after a busy few days, and very excited by our new surroundings, we decided to make the most of it and spent our first night in La Paz in the hotel. First we had a little wander around the premium suburb we were staying in, mostly to stock up on goodies for dinner that evening. Back at the hotel, we enjoyed the sauna and steam room, and then settled down to watch Rock'n'rolla accompanied by various cheeses and a bottle of La Concepcíon red, Bolivia's national wine (it's not great).

The next day we ventured into the capital proper, and quickly found ourselves surrounded by the noises, sights and smells of this living, breathing city. La Paz might not be up there on the must-see cities of the world, but we found it fascinating. We wandered through the Witches' Market where weathered old ladies were selling llama foetuses for £5 – apparently putting one in the foundations of your home or office will bring luck to your family or to your work. James was a little disappointed that we didn't buy one. However, I imagine the conversation at customs in Heathrow come December wouldn't go so well....

From there it was on to the so-called Black Market (though it seemed fairly legit to us) with stalls selling everything from locks and keys, to toilets, to the bowler hats all the indigenous ladies wear (well I guess they have to buy them from somewhere). Feeling slightly overstimulated already, we then headed pver to the Coca Museum, which tells the history of coca, its conversion to cocaine, and the lasting effects on the Bolivian economy as a result of western demand for the drug. Pretty interesting stuff. We decided to try coca coffee and biscuits, which left us all talking incredibly quickly and led to some lengthy debates about strip clubs and artificial intelligence.

Sadly it was coming to the end of the first half: time for Pete and Claire to head back to the UK. We had a last celebratory dinner together, kicked off with a free drink in the hotel bar. We toasted a successful trip with delicious gin and tonics (good ones are few and far between here) but my new lightweight status meant that after it, I was already feeling pretty merry. This I compounded by my suggesting to Claire that it might be a good idea for us to move on to mojitos. Our meal was fantastic, and fortuitously just across the road from our hotel, so it was only a short stumble home. It was at this point I realised that I had misplaced our room key at some point during the evening. James and Pete fled upstairs, leaving Claire and I to handle the reception staff alone. Sadly, we couldn't remember the exact number of our room....only when we got up to the 9th floor did it dawn on us that we had got another key for Pete and Claire's room. Still no key for ours. The second trip down was more successful in that we actually got the room number right, but the key didn't seem to want to work in the door. On the third trip, the guy on reception sent his colleague up with us, ostensibly to ensure we got into our room ok. I think it was really to double check we weren't robbers casing the joint with a fake display of drunkenness. Judging by how sore my head was the next morning, I could've assured them there was no performance.

Pete and Claire headed off the next afternoon, but we weren't on our own for long. The following morning the second half of our La Paz stay began: Swills arrived for a week-long tour of Bolivia. We were heading to Uyuni on an overnight bus that evening, but that still gave us a day to show him around the capital. First we headed to the city centre park which offered awesome views of the city and its bizarre location. Sunday is clearly rest day in La Paz, and so as well as the vista we also enjoyed watching local families enjoy the slides and swings in the park, all dressed in their finest clothes – especially these two lovely ladies. Later, we headed to a local restaurant for a slap-up Sunday lunch. This being Bolivia, the feast included masses of meat, 3 types of carbs, including banana potatoes, and more salad, soup and vegetables than any sane individual could possibly be expected to eat. We did our best, but had to draw the line at dessert.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We decided to take a tour bus from Cuzco to Puno, as none of us fancied just sitting in a bus for 9 hours – after 4 days of walking we were worried we might never get up again! The added bonus was we got to see a couple of interesting sites en route, including the resplendent church of the village of Andahuaylillas and the remains of the biggest Inca temple in the whole of the Empire. The remains were pretty sizeable so I imagine in all its glory it would have been incredible. However, the main thing that will stay with me from the trip is the inane conversation which took place between 3 young American girls sitting in front of us on the bus. I knew things were going to be bad when the opening gambit involved a discussion about which colour of bandanna they were each going to wear on their 'super-fun' trip. I gather they hadn't seen each other for a while, as from there we were updated on each of their relationships IN GRAPHIC DETAIL. For those interested, Brian wasn't going to get ANY for at least 3 days (after flying halfway around the world to see his girlfriend). I opted for putting in earplugs when the talk turned to 'scrapbooking.' Apparently when one of them broke up with her last boyfriend she had to ask for the scrapbook she had made him back – because too much time and effort had gone into it to simply lose it. “WHAT a loseeeer.”

The port of Puno is the jumping off point for the Peruvian side of Lake Titicaca (the Lake is jointly owned by Peru and Bolivia). It's also the highest point we've stayed at during our journey so far, at some 3600m. We arrived craving pizza after 4 days of Peruvian cuisine, and luckily we found a restaurant that served fantastic pizza – with the added bonus that it was also built to look like a medieval castle. The pizza was so good we went back on our second evening there. Puno is pretty touristy, set up to cater to the needs of western tourists (hence the pizza). However, despite this, we did see more indigenous people than anywhere else so far – Quechua women in enormous skirts and tiny bowler hats perched precariously on their heads. We have no idea how or why this developed as a fashion, but it seems to have caught on.

The main purpose of our stay here was a trip to the Lake, and so bright and early the next morning we were picked up for a full day tour of the islands. We learned that Titicaca is often incorrectly described by tour guides as 'The World's Highest Navigable Lake', but it is pretty high, at 3820m, and it is enormous (more than 230km long and 97km wide). In fact, I started to forget we were on a lake at all: it could easily have been the sea.

Our trip started with a trip to the island of Uros, part of the Floating Islands, which are made entirely from mud and reeds, anchored to the bottom of the lake with ropes. New reeds have to be added every few months in order to keep them above water. There are about 40 of these islands in total. They were originally created by local Quechua people fleeing Spanish conquistadors and a life of slavery working in the Bolivian silver mines. Some people still live on the islands, although numbers are declining as younger generations are lured by the better quality of life offered in the cities.

The islands were quite fascinating to see, and frightening to walk on – most were less than 10m end to end. To get between the islands we were treated to a ride in a boat made entirely from reeds. It was all incredibly touristy – we were serenaded by the 4 woman who lived on one of the islands we visited, in several different languages. We thought this was charming until we pulled up at the next island, and saw the women there singing the exact same songs in the exact same order to another group of tourists!

From there it was on to Taquile, the second biggest island on Titicaca. Whilst it is the island of choice for day-trippers, it's incredibly poor. Farming is the main industry, but I don't think they do too well out of it. Tourism brings much-needed additional revenue, but otherwise the locals have little contact with the outside world. The walk up to the main square at the top of the island was a bit of a struggle as our legs were still sore after the Inca Trail, but we were rewarded with delicious trout for lunch...and then a walk down to the other side to pick up our boat. En route we passed many children selling woven friendship bracelets and llama finger puppets. We had half thought about doing a 'homestay' on one of these islands, but in the end we were very glad to be heading back to our comfortable hotel, and another pizza.

This was it. The big one. A trip a year in the planning (and a blog entry over a month in the writing). The first thing we booked after we bought our round the world tickets. The infamous Inca Trail.

It was with no small amount of trepidation that we shoved our packs onto the bus at 5am and clambered in after them. The Inca Trail is a 4-day trek into the heart of the Andes. We would be hiking up and down mountains, mostly at altitudes of over 3000m above sea level.

Luckily we had a great group to make the journey with. The night before we set off, we all met up for the first time at the company's offices in Cuzco for our briefing. (The company was called SAS. Meeting up for a 'briefing' at 'SAS HQ' did nothing to assuage our fears about the intensity of the forthcoming trip!) We were a group of 8. Pete, Claire, Sarah and myself along with 4 other Brits – a honeymooning couple from Leeds, Sammy & Martin; and two fellow Londoners, Iona and Jennifer. The British humour at the end of a hard day's hiking definitely helped keep our spirits up, although I think it may have baffled our guide Justino, who along with our 11 porters and cook were responsible for keeping us alive over the four days.

Day 1: This may be harder than we thought...

After a 5am start and an inauspicious flat tyre on the outskirts of Cuzco (mended with a bicycle puncture repair kit and some superglue) we arrived at the start of the trail, feeling ready for anything with our newly-purchased hats and walking sticks. 20 minutes after setting off this confidence was evaporating as fast as our Camelbaks. We had been walking up what we would describe as a steep hill since we had entered the park and were beginning to feel the strain. It didn't help that every minute or so we had to stand aside to watch packs of porters trot past, carrying bags bigger than themselves, wearing knackered plastic sandals on their feet.

At least we had some lovely scenery to distract us. We were walking up a steep-sided valley, with the roaring Urubamba river below us and a train line the other side – the same train that would carry us back from Machu Picchu in four days time. Flowering cactus and trees draped with cobweb-like epiphytes lined the dusty path.

All along the trail that first day we passed farms and small houses, each with a stall out front selling the hiking essentials – Coca Cola, cigarettes, chocolate and crisps. Sitting to catch our breath in one of the villages we watched a woman grinding corn with a large millstone whilst dogs played around her in the dirt. A cockerel started giving Sarah the evil eye. The only evidence of modern life was the empty chocolate wrappers and coke bottles on the ground.

After stopping at the village, the path took a turn for the worse. The last hour was much steeper and took us up onto a plateau of dense forest that wouldn't have been far out of place in Borneo, except for the llamas that occasionally stumbled past in front of leathery looking ladies in colourful skirts.

When we eventually arrived the campsite was basic, but made liveable by the hard work of the porters who had clearly got there there several hours before us. All our tents had been put up including the dining tent for 'Happy Hour' – biscuits, popcorn and hot chocolate have never tasted so good (even after the disappointment of learning that Happy Hour did not entail booze).

Day 2: Introduced to us as the 'Challenging Day', it definitely lived up to its reputation.

SAS like to make day 2 longer than the other trekking companies, opting to set up camp for the night about 10km further along the trail than all the other groups. This resulted in a head start on day 3 that got us to the final campsite by lunchtime – perfect for first dibs on the only hot showers on the trail and a rest before day 4. Had Justino & Co known how day 2 would pan out I'm sure we would have foregone the showers to avoid the afternoon's trekking...

We were woken at 5am with cups of mate tea and bowls of hot water outside our tents to wash ourselves. I could definitely get used to being waited on like this! Breakfast was a feast. Mario the cook served up pancakes as well as porridge, toast, biscuits and hot tea and coffee - fattening us up for the kill.

The first two hours of day 2 were probably the hardest of the whole trip. We had camped about half way up a mountain, at a plateau from which the track gently but inexorably curved upwards to a saddle known as 'Dead Woman's Pass'.

At 0630 we set off, climbing through a parrot-infested rainforest, past waterfalls and fast running streams. With my headphones in and my favourite embarrassing girlie-pop on loud, I paced off ahead of the group to try and get myself an early lead (not that it was a competition, but...). After 20 minutes of Ellie Goulding, pleased at finding myself alone ahead of the rest of the hikers, I stopped for a break. Then to my horror just behind me appeared a family of three Peruvians – a man, a child of no more than 10, and a weathered little woman who was breast feeding a baby whilst simultaneously prancing up the trail past me quick as a flash. Shamed, I promised myself that I would redouble my efforts, and resorted to drugs to help me do so. Shoving a fist-sized wadge of coca leaves into my mouth, I set off once again.

As the family receded into the distance ahead, the rainforest thinned out and gave way to 'puna' grassland and then a moor-like landscape of rock and heather. Suddenly you could see the craggy mountain tops above, and clouds shrouding their summits. The air seemed colder and thinner. I chewed more coca and carried on upwards.

We made it to Dead Woman's Pass at 10am. At 4200m ASL it was the highest point on the trip, just below the snowline. I don't think any of us have ever done that much exercise before 10. Even the porters sat down to have a rest and take in the view of the ascent we had just made. The campsite we had left that morning was barely visible through the cloud and forest, and the path we had climbed looked like a tiny silvery snail trail on the side of the mountain.

From there it was all downhill to our lunchtime campsite stop. Unfortunately Sarah's knackered knees mean that we were slower going downhill than up, so we arrived at the site about an hour after the rest of the group. 5 minutes after finishing lunch half of the group had fallen asleep on their benches, exhausted after the morning's exertions.

We left most of the other tours behind at this point, heading off and upwards once again to our second summit of the day on a series of stone steps known as 'Gringo Hell'. As we climbed, clouds began to swarm behind us over the valley where we had camped for lunch. These clouds quickly darkened through grey to black, punctuated by streaks of lightning in the distance. The trail ahead of us also started to fade into a chilly mist, and whereas we were hot in our t-shirts 10 minutes ago, we now found ourselves fully zipped-up in our North Face jackets and still feeling the cold. Justino was looking a little nervous.

As we stood on our second 4000+m summit of the day, the rain started. With 6km of steep downhill track to cover before we reached our campsite, we set off down the other side of the mountain... straight into thick cloud that hid all but the next 5 metres of the trail from us. The rain got heavier, and a wind kicked up. Then the rain gave way to hail. And the hail got stronger. By this point Sarah and I were completely alone on the mountain, carefully edging down the slippery steps. Our gore-Tex had completely given up and we were soaked to the skin. Then the lightning began. I counted the seconds till the thunder: Flash.... RUMBLE: 5 seconds, FLASH CRACK, 1. My attempts to lighten the mood by whistling 'Singing in the Rain' didn't seem to help Sarah much, but then I think she was too busy concentrating on keeping her footing on a trail that had now totally vanished beneath a carpet of hail and rainwater. The 'Inca Trail' was now more like the 'Inca Rapids'.

About halfway to the campsite we found Justino waiting for us, sheltering in a cave and looking a little smug in a head to toe plastic poncho. With his encouragement we pushed on through the hail, walking as fast as we could, the carrot of hot food ahead balanced by the stick of potentially being stuck on the mountain in the dark. Two hours later, we were beneath the clouds again, and could just see our campsite lights flickering over the other side of the valley. After another hour we made it to our tent just as the last light left the mountains. Justino looked visibly relieved. Happy Hour was supplemented with a bottle of rum that we supped in the dining tent, steaming in our wet clothes.

Day 3: Aching legs & stunning views

What a difference a day makes. After our morning mate tea, we climbed out of our tent to find ourselves surrounded by scenery. Snow-capped mountains in the distance, a carpet of forest beneath us, and the Incan fortress Sayacmarca precariously positioned on a mountain ridge opposite.

We skirted along a mountain ridge soaking up these views all morning before dropping down over the other side into Puyupatamarca, a religious site that used to be one of the last stops on the ancient route to Machu Picchu. It was here that the first tourists – pilgrims – used to purify themselves before making the final stage of their journey to the famous city.

Ddead ahead we could see Machu Picchu mountain – the city lay on the other side though, tantalisingly close. Far below the Urubamba river ran past us and around the mountain, and below us to the left were the terraces of Intipata. Intipata was essentially a farm, one of several built into the impossibly steep slopes of surrounding mountainsides to supply the city of Machu Picchu with grain, vegetables and fruit. Thinking about the effort needed to build these terraces, so far from anywhere, in a jungle halfway up a sheer cliff gave us an idea of the power the Empire must have wielded in its day.

The route from Puyupatamarca to Intipata was all downhill through high jungle. As the path was good, I decided to run. It was awesome – a real Indian Jones-esque adventure. I ran down the original Inca steps and pathways, past moss-covered guard-posts on my left and sheer drops into the jungle on my right. Clouds of blue butterflies scattered in the morning sun.

We reached the final campsite by lunchtime, and as promised were first to enjoy the heavenly hot showers (still, not sure it was worth enduring the hail and thunderstorm). The campsite had an actual concrete building for us to eat inside, and even had a small bar selling overpriced beer which we invested in that evening.

Before that though, we took a short stroll round the corner from the campsite into one last Inca site, Chachabamba. This was another farm like Intipata, but with its amphitheatre-shaped terraces and large temple complex was even more impressive. It started to drizzle as we walked around so the rest of the group soon retreated to the bar. I stayed out a little longer to explore the buildings and terraces on my own, and was soon the only person there. Then, as the rain came in, the site's irrigation system suddenly started up – water flowing down stone channels and pipes, just as intended when they were carved over 500 years ago. I followed the pipes around the entire site, tracing them from the terraces they watered back up the hill, through the temple buildings only to have them vanish into the undergrowth alongside some overgrown steps that led up into the forest. Looking up at the steps, I decided I had indulged my Indiana Jones fantasy enough, and walked back to the bar through the rain.

After our final Mario-cooked meal and a number of Cusqueña beers we decided to play a friendly game of shit-head. Due to the addition of a number of interesting Peruvian rules this game soon degenerated into a shouting, card-throwing, beer-drinking huddle that raged on long after the rest of the bar had emptied out.

Day 4: All worth it!

Like hungover kids at Christmas, we woke up early with slightly fuzzy heads - 3.30am. Everyone at the site does the same, and queues up at the entry gates to the last stage of the trail in the hope of being the first to see Machu Picchu at sunrise from the Sun Gate. Unfortunately, as many groups join the trail at the last campsite (having caught the train up from Cuzco and avoided the trekking), this last section of the trail is the most crowded and has the slowest groups on it. These groups also tended to be filled with people who were most inclined to stop and take photos. Progress was slow.

It was all worth it. At 5am we reached the Sun Gate, and looked down on the city of Machu Picchu, sprawling over the mountain beneath the gaze of the Waynu Picchu summit. Wisps of cloud came and went, arcing over the buildings and terraces. The whole trek was worth it for that one view.

Machu Picchu is often described as a ruin, which is a little unfair given that it's almost completely intact. It was built at the height of the Incan Empire around 1400, abandoned a century later to the approaching Spanish, and 'discovered' by the archaeologist Hiram Bingham in 1911. Locals find this 'discovery' a bit much, given that the site was well known to them, and in fact a farming family had been making their living amongst the overgrown buildings for as long as they could remember.

Regardless of who found it when, the city is incredible. If we were impressed by the terraced farms built on the sides of mountains, we were dumbfounded by the scale of Machu Picchu. This feat of engineering was even more amazing given that there were no slaves in the Incan Empire - all of it was built with voluntary labour.

Machu Picchu was the religious centre of the entire Incan Empire. Its auspicious position above the Sacred Valley, with a panoramic view of the surrounding mountains apparently made it an ideal location to commune with the gods. The many temples here all served this purpose, and the city's layout itself was meant to symbolise a condor - the mythical link between heaven and earth. The Temple of the Sun is probably the most famous building in the city. It was built to have a precise relationship with the Sun Gate, so that at dawn on the summer solstice the sun's first rays shine through the gate and strike the temple's altar.

The benefit of having hiked to Machu Picchu is that you get to explore the site before it is opened to the bus-loads of tourists that arrive directly from Cuzco. Along with only a hundred or so other hikers, we had the city to ourselves for the first couple of hours. Justino walked us around the site and explained some of its features, but to be honest the best part of the trip was just being able to wander around the massive buildings and temples. The city would have housed about 500 people in its heyday, mostly important religious families, which was about the number of tourists which had arrived by noon. It must have been a bustling place!

Before we left to catch the train back to Cuzco, Justino offered us the opportunity of one last climb – up to the summit of Waynu Picchu, a group of buildings perched on the very peak of the mountain. The rest of the group weren't too keen, so Pete loaned me his electrolyte-charged Camelbak and I attempted a solo-ascent. The authorities only allow 400 people to climb Waynu Picchu each day, but Justino put one of my 20 peso notes in the right hand and I was snuck in. The climb up was the steepest of the trip – steps hewn out of a sheer rock-face – but thankfully it wasn't too long a hike. As I stood hyperventilating on the summit, the 360° view of Machu Picchu and the mountains of the Sacred Valley was unforgettable.