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.