Just saw this tragic article from the Times Online British cyclist Tom Austin killed on Bolivian ‘Highway of Death’  9 people were killed when a 4 wheel drive vehicle collided with 3 cyclists on the notorious Coroico Valley Rd (otherwise known as "The Death Road") in Bolivia. The Toyota rolled over an incline, killing 8 of it’s occupants.

I did this bike ride in 2003, with the same tour company, "Downhill Madness", which is involved in this latest tragedy. A La Paz police official in the article was suggesting that the 3 cyclists encroached on the lane of the 4WD. Well, if the collision happened on the unsealed section of the road there aren’t any lanes. The road is barely 3 metres across in parts. There are many blind corners, all with severe drops. Not to mention the unceasing flow of buses and trucks, packed to the hilt with locals and produce that you need to contend with.

Fortunately for me, my experience had a happier outcome, but the ride was certainly precarious, and on occasion frightening. Events like this probably reveal how much more dangerous the ride was, than I realised at the time.

My experience of the Bolivia’s Highway of Death is here: The Death Road

Sucre – Santa Cruz, Bolivia – Altitude: 2,790 metres to 437 metres

"We’d have more luck playing pick-up sticks with our butt-cheeks

than we will getting a flight out of here before daybreak."

PLANES, TRAINS, AND AUTOMOBILES – Del Griffith (John Candy)

Margaret and I had a restless night. At around 3am, the rest of the group had returned to the hotel amidst shouts and laughter. All I remember, between rolling over and groaning was Jane yelling “IAN!”, “IAN!” and raucous laughter from Anne. We awoke again at around 8am to more voices outside of our room. It was Maurie and Helen thanking Dany for the use of his room. Margaret and I were in stitches. Oh the scandal! The Grand Hotel had turned into Melrose Place. Fortunately our broken sleep was not much of a problem given we had the luxury of a sleep-in that morning. We weren’t due to leave Sucre until late in the afternoon.

So we had another half day to spend in Sucre. Margaret and I decided not to opt for the Grand Hotel breakfast. Well, in truth we had slept way past the breakfast time, and not being partial to having things spilt on me, we elected to have a late brunch on the corner of the plaza. The plaza was teaming with activity. A school/religious procession of sorts was taking place. We were sitting at the café window taking it all in, when Tom and Laura strode by. Tom didn’t look happy, and quite rightly. He had just been the victim of a pick-pocket. We learned that Sucre was quite bad for it, particularly when there were huge crowds like there were today. Somebody had spat on Tom, distracting him, while somebody else swiped his wallet from his back pocket. After having discovered that his wallet had been lifted, he was returning to the hotel to perform the unenviable task of ringing around various financial institutions to cancel his cards. But to his surprise, all of a sudden, his wallet dropped from the heavens, landing on the pavement in front of him. To his further bewilderment and partial relief, only the cash was missing, and all of his cards remained. The thieves were extremely adept, but to Tom’s partial relief they had proved quite petty. Tom’s bad luck was compounded further with the earning of a nickname – “Show Me My Money”.

Following breakfast I had some spare time and took the opportunity to off load some of my digital photos to CD, in order that I could free up some of my memory sticks. The Kodak Express on the corner of the plaza was quite a good little shop, and surprisingly quite modern. Afterwards we had enough time to purchase some Bolivian chocolate. As with every country in the world, there is usually a town which lays claim to being the chocolate capital. Sucre is one such town. Being the chocolate connoisseurs we were, we gave the chocolate the thumbs up. It was pretty good, although Margaret steadfastly maintained that Irish chocolate could not be beaten.

We finally left Sucre, at about three in the afternoon, in order to catch our 4:30pm flight to the much publicised “COCHABAMBA!” This was only to be a short stop though. Our actual destination was Santa Cruz. From Cochabamba we were to catch another flight to Santa Cruz, which would be our last port of call in Bolivia, before crossing the border into Brazil in a few days time. So we said our farewells to the Grand Hotel. The manager hand kindly decided to grace himself in reception in order that we could get hold of our valuables from the safe. Not wanting to tempt fate, I had extracted our belongings from the safe the previous night, and chained the pack to the bed. The journey to the airport was fine, lasting only thirty minutes. Sucre has a small airport, despite the locals touting Sucre as the nation’s official capital. Still, it was grand enough, particularly because of the chocolate shop there. We soon discovered we had not purchased enough of the stuff in downtown Sucre, so we bought a wee bit more for the couple of flights ahead.

Our flight to Cochabamba was on time. The Bolivian’s were certainly punctual when it came to their flights. We flew LAB (Lloyd Aero Boliviano), presumably the national Bolivian airway. As Margaret and I walked out onto the tarmac to board the plane, we both greeted it with trepidation, as we weren’t quite sure what their safety record was like. They were fine though. No noticeable difference to any other airline. So, after about a one hour flight, we touched down safely in Cochabamba. We disembarked, and found ourselves strolling across a tarmac again. Making our way to the much larger air terminal I took particular note of the guard of honour that directed us towards the entrance. Literally, the tarmac was lined with military police, bedecked in shiny uniforms. They didn’t seem too friendly either, so we were sure not to stray from the path they had clearly marked into the terminal.

Cochabamba airport was fairly modern, and while we waited for our 7pm connection to Santa Cruz, we whiled away the time in the café. Our connection was about twenty minutes late in departing, but again the flight proved not to be a fuss. The plane this time was much larger than the one we had flown from Sucre, which kind of suggested to me that Cochabamba was more of a hub than Sucre. So we arrived in Santa Cruz, with a small sigh of relief, given that was to be our last (or at least as per brochure) internal flight. I had seen a number of movies during my life regarding plane crashes in Latin America. The most notorious movie of course is “Alive!” where a plane crashes in the Andes, and the survivors are forced to feed off one another.

But, we had arrived, and our baggage too. I noted something a little curious on one of the TV screens in the baggage hall. A marketing tag line for the local Santa Cruz television station, which read “Always Straighter!”. Ian and I mused on what that could possibly mean. Was it suggesting that its competitors are not as reliably straight, and in fact gay? Bizarre! Alas, I have no explanation for this, perhaps something was lost in the translation. It was funny though, and kept us occupied while we waited for our bags. Eventually, we all had our bags and we were being hoarded into taxis, to take the three-quarter hour journey from Santa Cruz airport to our hotel. Driving through downtown Santa Cruz was an immediate eye-opener. This town was incredibly westernised and remarkably affluent compared to the rest of the country. The roads were wide, akin to any other motorway you’d expect to see in fully developed countries. The hotels we passed looked very posh, and much to the delight of Ian, there was a Burger King. Ian had regaled us with stories on the sinister side to fast food production, care of his reading the book “Fast Food Nation”. However, this didn’t seem to impede his desire to look for a Burger King. The King of Sobriquets, Glenn, had therefore given Ian the nickname “BK”. But, for me “Baby Alpaca” has a better ring to it, so I will stick with this one.

The reason for Santa Cruz’s relative affluence was due to the local oil industry. We were grateful for this, and finally arrived at perhaps the best decked-out hotel on tour, the Hotel Arenal. The rooms were large, air conditioned, and best of all there was an open air swimming pool on the roof with bar service. Within an hour of checking in, we were all on the pool deck, having a swim and ordering food from a modern menu. Club sandwiches all round por favor. Dany took some time out to talk about the following day. Basically, Santa Cruz was to be a rest stop for us, before heading on to Brazil. To get to the Brazilian border though, we would be taking an overnight train (Ferro Bus) from Santa Cruz to Corumba. It was a twelve hour trip, leaving at 7pm tomorrow and then arriving at around 7 the following morning. We lapped up the relative luxury while we could, as we would be soon moving again.

The following day was miserable. The humid weather we had been greeted with on arrival in Santa Cruz had quickly turned into rain. This put a dent in some plans to spend the day beside the pool. In any event this did not ruin the entire day for the girls, as all of them, Margaret included (oh and um Dany as well) elected to go for a bit of pampering. It seemed a massage, and nails were at the top of the agenda. While they were away I took advantage of the free internet in the hotel and began updating our online photos site. The internet connection wasn’t too bad, much faster than previously experienced in Potosi, but it still took ages to upload photos. The morning was soon gone, and Margaret eventually arrived in the early afternoon. We braved the rain and met the rest of the group for lunch in the local Irish bar on the main square. The pub looked authentic enough, although the food wasn’t that great. My lunch special was a meal of mud soup, chicken and stale rice. Eeek! I should have stayed in the hotel and ordered another club sandwich.

The remainder of the afternoon saw Margaret and I cash up on Brazilian currency – the Real. We were quite lucky actually, as the local cambio (foreign exchange) gave us the last of their Reais, much to the chagrin of the rest of the group. Luckless Tom (“Show Me My Money”), informed us that the local ATM had swallowed his card. One of life’s little ironies! Here he was only a day ago thinking he was going to have to cancel his cards, due to a theft, and now he would have to do the same. He was truly living up to his nickname. During lunch, Alpaca Alan had informed us that a sloth had made its home in one of the trees in the plaza. Margaret and I attempted to find it, and after much wandering around looking upwards we saw a large ball of fur clinging to a tree. It could have been a sloth I suppose, but to be honest the rain had brought quite a change in temperature, so whatever it was didn’t want to know about the cold. A final errand to the post office to mail some long overdue post cards saw us leave the square and return to the hotel to get ourselves ready for the long train journey ahead.

At around 6pm we all were in reception. Dany gave us the low-down of the train boarding process. It seems the Santa Cruz to Corumba run is a favourite of the cocaine smugglers. The twelve hour overnight passage was a favourite of coca-growers, and so Dany warned us not to be surprised, if our bags were given the complete search. Absorbing this new information, we were soon bundled into taxis to take the twenty minute ride to the Santa Cruz train station. Santa Cruz train station proved busier than the bus stations we had experienced. Hoards of people there were. We were very conscious of our belongings as we trudged through the terminal to the platform entrance. We were soon queuing for the train, and were curious as to why we were the only people in the queue. As far as we were aware this was not booked exclusively for us. After a long half hour, and no sign of the train approaching the platform, rumours began to abound that perhaps the train had been cancelled due to the bad weather. This was confirmed, when a train official approached Dany to explain the situation. Dany stormed off with the official, looking particularly nonplussed. Dany returned shortly after to explain that the bad weather which was being experienced throughout Brazil and Bolivia had induced a land slide over the tracks, and in short there was no train leaving this evening. We would have to wait another day. There was one other option though. The train officials having their fingers in Santa Cruz’s transport pie offered a twenty-four hour bus service to Corumba. Dany was previously unaware that any bus service existed, and so could not vouch for the roads. There was also a chance that the train may leave at the same time tomorrow, so we wouldn’t really gain anything by spending twenty-four hours on a bus. So, after a few minutes of deliberation, the lure of a nice hotel seemed a better option than twenty-four hours on a dodgy bus over dodgy terrain with a dodgy driver. Dany in the mean time was to contact the Tucan Group who were travelling in the opposite direction to us, and who were due to pass us in Corumba. There was a possibility of an eleventh hour flight being organised for the two groups, but Dany needed to speak to the tour leader to arrange this. Now in transport limbo, and stuck in Santa Cruz, we returned to the hotel with our tail between our legs.

The evening concluded with a reasonable meal in the restaurant, and me attacking the internet to finalise our web site. This was only after being accosted by an intensely annoying Dutch Indian chap, who seemed to think I was sitting at the PC purely to engage in inane discussions about Santa Cruz real estate. Please leave por favor! Thankfully he did. I went to bed in the early hours, and pondered how long we would remain in Santa Cruz and Bolivia for.

In keeping with our mood, another Santa Cruz morning awoke with another grey drizzle. We were due to meet Dany in the hotel reception at 11am, with hopefully our travel game plan, so we made the most of the lie in. Eleven came soon enough, and all of us stood in the hotel foyer eagerly awaiting Dany. He arrived on time which is more than could be said for Bolivian transport. Without his usual chirpy demeanour, we knew things weren’t running like clockwork as was normally the case. And so, we had a number of options put to us, in order that we could finally escape the mire of Santa Cruz.

Option 1: The Plane

Dany had spoken to some local people about chartering a plane. As it turned out they could have us on a flight later that evening from Santa Cruz to Corumba. In order to make it worthwhile for the charter though, the condition was made, that the Tucan group currently stuck in Corumba would be willing to make the journey to Santa Cruz. In effect we would do a swap. This seemed quite a promising option, and despite the additional cost of around $100 US each we would incur, it seemed like a better alternative than losing valuable tour days further into the trip. Dany had yet to receive word from the other Tucan tour leader, so, at this stage all he could do was entertain us with other options.

Option 2: The Automobile

Yes, the bus option. Dany had done some more investigating into the overland option, which up until this juncture he had not even known existed as an option. He had spoken to the same individuals as last night, and they had confirmed that they can could pick us up at 4pm, for the twenty-four hour journey to Corumba. Ouch! Option 2 wasn’t at all savoury. It would effectively mean we would lose another full day.

Option 3: The Train

The original game-plan. Dany had received multiple assurances from some dubious Bolivians that the land-slide had been cleared, and so the overnight train was able to run. Dany reiterated that although the Bolivian Ferrobus officials were insistent that the train would be running, he wasn’t raising his hopes, so we should really consider Option 1 and 2. Granted also was the fact that it seemed the same Ferrobus officials were the very ones pushing the Bus option. Funny really if the train was supposed to be running on time.

Unfortunately, for those of us who had warmed to the idea of a short flight out of there that afternoon, it seemed the other stranded Tucan group were quite happy to sit it out another day and wait for that evening’s train. Without them coming to the party, the plane was soon ruled out as an option. Annoyed by this, and the thought of a twenty-four hour ride in a cramped bus, moved us fairly quickly to Option 3. We would chance our arm, and hope that the landslide and the apparent bridge that it had knocked out, would all be repaired, and so our train would be on time.

Optimistically, we spent the afternoon relieving ourselves of our remaining Bolivianos and cashing up on even more Reais. Margaret and I peeved members of our group once more by again buying up all the Brazilian currency in the local foreign exchange. We were a bit cheeky actually. Having run out of Reais the previous day, we made a hasty exit from the group at lunch,to stock up on some more. Well, if you snooze you lose, or in this case, if you eat the stodgy Bolivian lunch of the day, then in Santa Cruz you should stay.

It was with much apprehension then, that we left the hotel at the same time as the previous day, our taxi cavalcade winding its way through the bustling streets of Santa Cruz, to the train station.

Our spirits lifted on entering the terminal. There was now a queue of people there, and they were locals. They wouldn’t be hanging around if there was no train surely? Sure enough, our Ferrobus pulled up along side the platform within minutes. As we began to board we soon recalled what Dany’s warning had been from the previous day. A few train officials in green smocks, emblazoned with “Aduanas” (which is Spanish for Customs) were certainly inspecting some bags. For some unknown reason, being in a group of gringos with a Peruvian tour leader exempted us from the inspection. Despite this welcome piece of Bolivian respite, there was still a minor fiasco assembling all our luggage, prior to stowing it in the trains hold. Fortunately, it all seemed to happen. Well, to be perfectly honest, we didn’t actually see what happened to our bags, we just hoped that some more Bolivian good fortune would stay with us for at least another twelve hours, and by some sheer luck our packs would appear at the Bolivian border.

The train departed at 7pm, with resounding cheers from our group and a few bemused looks from some of the locals sharing our overnight carriage. It was a great feeling to be on the road once again. Our spirits buoyed, a few of us partook in a game of Celebrity Head*, followed by another stodgy Bolivian meal (It seems we were having the lunch special for dinner). Then came the video entertainment, some obscure movie it was, and dubbed in Spanish. So it was a little difficult. The good thing was that the lights soon dimmed, and we slept. Well at least I did, and for most of the journey I only stirred twice. This was much to the annoyance of Margaret, whose neck had failed miserably in negotiating the ergonomics of Bolivian upholstery.

*Celebrity Head: For those that aren’t acquainted with this game. This is simple. Somebody gives you a piece of paper with a name of a famous person or celebrity on it. You then stick the piece of paper to your head, with the name facing out so that all can see. You should not have seen the contents of the paper. Once everyone has a celebrity struck to their forehead, then the game goes around in circles as players try and work our the name on their piece of paper. Players can only ask questions, which demand either a Yes or No response. A Yes, allows you to ask another question. A No, and the game carries on to the next person. I felt like a bit of a clown playing the game, in front of a few dumbfounded looking Bolivians (according to Dany though, this didn’t mean anything), added to this was the pain of finding out I was Eminem.

Potosi to Sucre, Bolivia – Altitude: 4,070 metres to 2,790 metres

"Eventually, you do plan to have dinosaurs on your dinosaur tour, right?"

JURASSIC PARK – Dr Ian Hammond (Jeff Goldblum)

A welcome sleep in, as today’s itinerary was a relatively short three hour bus ride from Potosi to Sucre, the official capital of Bolivia. This journey would see us officially leave the Altiplano, and descend from the lofty 4,100 metres altitude to a much more human 2,790 metres. A collective sigh of relief from all of us, after leaning this. Given Sucre was below 3,000 metres then this meant that breathing difficulties would no longer be an issue.

Further good news for the group was that Alpaca Alan appeared to be on the mend. A course of antibiotics from the local doctor seemed to be doing the trick. It gave pay to the adage, local doctors for local bugs. Further to Alan’s luck was that he had also just been initiated in the Glenn Thompson "Hall of Names". His newly acquired nickname was Wurzel, from the bizarre scarecrow like character, Wurzel Gomage, in the British TV Show of the same name. Why? Well, Alan’s fetish for the drinking straw seems to have been the main reason. It could have been a lot worse for Alan, if the scarecrow analogy had stretched to perhaps say "The Wizard of Oz", where the hapless straw-duff was apparently brainless. I have to say though, being Australian, I have never had the pleasure of seeing Wurzel Gomage in action, so I reckon for the sake of clarity I’ll just stick to Alpaca Alan. Other overnight additions to the Hall of Names included, Helen Shelton who was now crowned with the saucy sobriquet "Hot Lips!" This was apparently due to a night of passion in one of the local Potosi Bars.

Group scandal aside, our bus arrived around midday to take us to Sucre. Yes, another Partridge Family local bus, complete with uncomfortable seats and oblivious aisle dwelling locals. We picked up the locals on the way out of Potosi at the bus station. There was some confusion in leaving the bus station. Apparently, it is not Bolivian practice to leave on time, and requires a lot of aimless running around outside before the bus can finally depart. We did to our relief. The locals were a tad more annoying than the ones we had had on the journey into Potosi. One man in particular was carrying a plastic folder, and seemed oblivious when he turned and quite happily shoved the corner in my face. A look of surprise when I complained and asked him to remove it from my cheek.

The scenery was quite impressive as we descended from the Altiplano into the valleys leading to Sucre. What was especially nice was that the road was sealed. If the bus had compromised suspension then we didn’t really know about it. In some ways the winding, descending pass to Sucre, reminded me of the Death Road. Not so much in the steep drops, but certainly in the change of terrain. The Altiplano is dry and sparsely vegetated, whereas the descent revealed lush green hills and valleys.

We arrived in Sucre as planned, on time and without incident. Sucre is completely different to other Bolivian cities and the impact is immediate. The city is a collection of white colonial buildings and dwellings. It’s for this reason they call it the white city. It is also the official capital of Bolivia. It seems this is a major bone of contention amongst the locals, as La Paz has become the defacto capital due to the establishment of government offices there. Sucre is an extremely picturesque city, quite clean and situated in a relatively low valley. As we journeyed through the narrow cobbled streets, we passed one of the oldest universities in South America. The University of Sucre is housed in a near immaculate white colonial building. Feeling a sense of civilisation, which was not something we had had in a while, our bus pulled up just around the corner from the hotel – well far enough away for it to involve an inconvenient haul of back-packs across the surprisingly clean Sucre pavements.

The hotel of choice in Sucre was The Grand Hotel. Unfortunately, all is not in a mere name, for within the first hour or so, we learnt that it was not so grand. To begin with it took over forty five minutes for Dany to check us in, and subsequently extract room keys for us. When Dany, eventually came out of the reception he was sporting that "Bolivian’s really don’t agree with me!" look. It was the same look he wore on his face in the pizza episode in Uyuni. Still, when Margaret and I were shown our room, all appeared fine – well at least initially. The room was massive, with an equally huge ensuite bathroom. The room opened up onto a leafy courtyard. It was quaint, with a definite air of Colonial Spain. There was only one small problem with this room. It wasn’t ours. Apparently, there had been a stuff up, and it meant Jane and Anne were looking for a big enough room with two single beds. Ours was the one, so Margaret and I were soon shown to another room with our tails between our legs. The other room was dingy, with barely enough room for two people let alone our two rucksacks. Added to this was the broken glass in the skylight overhead revealing a mildew stained loft. Top banana, we thought! The safe at the hotel was a bit odd too. There was only one time in the day you had access to it, and that was when the manager decided to show up. After bidding Adieu to our valuables, we also gave them our laundry for cleaning. It remained questionable what we would see of these again.

Having a late afternoon to spend in Sucre, Margaret and I opted to have a snack and then catch up on the Internet. The Internet access was much better here, and I availed of the NetPhone to wish my sister Theresa a happy birthday. She had already received birthday wishes that day from a cousin in Kuwait, but apparently I topped that by calling from Bolivia.

Dinner that evening was at a Chinese Restaurant. Here the Bolivian culinary comedy of errors continued. Dany, knowing full well about the less than optimal service in the place, decided to go ahead anyway as there was an overwhelming demand in the group for more familiar food. Despite multiple incorrect dishes being served, and the food being pretty average, it was still fine – Bolivia certainly puts your palate in perspective. I was delighted when our table’s meals came out first. If I had to wait more than half an hour, I was quite prepared to walk. With dinner finished, we ended our night in the rather trendy bar/café – Joyride Café, which was situated just across from the main square. Margaret and I indulged in a couple of drinks. I had a caipirinha, a particular potent one, but it still tasted good. Margaret, on the other hand, had a Mohitos, which is a Cuban drink packed with mint. Feeling content, Margaret and I called it early, and returned to the hotel, while the others partied on into the wee small hours.

After having a Grand Hotel waitress spill a glass of orange juice over me in the restaurant, breakfast and I were finished. Most of us were to take part in the Sucre City tour on offer that morning. It was a reasonably early start, in order that we meet our first guide for the tour of the Dinosaur’s Footprints. The latter were apparently fossilised footprints that were to be found in a cement-works of all places, on the city limits of Sucre. Our tour bus was on time, and as we headed towards the cement factory we all speculated on what we could expect to see, given the unusual place the prehistoric prints had been found. We were a little dubious, having images of a brontosaurus standing on one leg, in a freshly laid pavement. "I declare the Sucre, Cement Works Open!" In fact we also speculated that it may be a scene out of the Flintstones. Who knows, perhaps we would see Fred sliding down the tail of a Brontosaurus, in the middle of a quarry screeching “Yabba Dabba Doo!”

When we finally arrived at the site, the cement works did resemble a quarry of sorts. A huge levelled area sat between a sheer cliff face and the actual factory. The only telltale sign of dinosaurs was the enormous brontosaurus statue in one corner of the grounds. So here we had something that resembled a quarry, a large brontosaurus, but where was our host Fred? Well, Fred didn’t show up but we had a guide that was equally enthusiastic. Enter Daniel. Daniel, a local Sucre man in his late thirties and extremely passionate about all things reptilian and prehistoric. His first job was to direct us to a small hut at the entrance, where we were issued with bright orange helmets. (Thankfully, no red helmet this time to single me out). After we were all kitted up, he then showed us around the opposite side of the hut to where he had a most impressive visual display prepared. It was beyond hilarious.

A circle had been drawn in the dirt, surrounding a circle of most impressive plastic dinosaurs. There was Tyrannosaurus Rex, Brontosaurus, Brachiosaurus, Stegosaurus, Triceratops … they were all here. What appeared initially as perhaps a kick-ass playpen for a doctor’s surgery proved a useful educational tool for Daniel. Here, he explained to us the difference between the foot print of a carnivore versus that of an herbivore. In between stifling laughter, I managed to gather that an Herbivore’s footprints were more rounded, whereas a Carnivore’s talons made a sharper impression. Pretty obvious stuff to a layperson perhaps! But, this was serious stuff we were talking about. It was very important to know this, as it would help us pick out the types of dinosaurs when eventually we moved on to looking at the footprints. After this demonstration and explanation, (which in truth reminded me of a scene from the movie Mrs Doubtfire, where Robin Williams does an impromptu act with toy dinosaurs), Daniel then went on to explain about how the fossils have been revealed after millions of years. Now, all keenly interested in seeing the renowned footprints we headed towards the high bluff.

Sure enough within a few minutes, Daniel was pointing out some sets of prints that were intermittently scattered along the sheer vertical wall of the bluff. This also proved entertaining. "For you! For you!" and "Forrrrr example!" were Daniel’s trademark opening remarks. He would run over to the wall and point the prints out, and then exclaim "Herbivore or Carnivore?" A correct answer was met with a High Five. "High Five!" followed by laughter from everyone. At one point, he asked whether we knew what dinosaur a certain set of tracks belonged to. He gave the hint. "Jurassic Park!" I piped up with "Velociraptor". "HIGH FIVE! "HIGH FIVE!" The animated antics aside, Daniel certainly appeared to know his stuff, rattling off all the various periods, eras and epochs that the prehistoric reptiles lived in. While informative, the presentation was definitely geared towards children, particularly when he suggested a set of crossing herbivore and carnivore tracks was the result of a Tyrannosaurus taking out some lowly herbivore. Apparently dinosaurs were great at leaving forensic evidence at the scene of the crime. It seemed a little contrived and coincidental, but nonetheless extremely amusing.

While, I was sure the footprints were real, you couldn’t help but wonder whether an employee of the cement works had had a penchant for abseiling. Our animated dinosaur excursion ended with a few more High Fives, and all of us having a disagreement with the tour leader over payment. It was all a bit confusing, but eventually the more patient people in our group sorted it out, thus allowing us to leave for the remainder of our tour.

The remainder of the day tour took in some of the older areas of the city, including the Recoleta. We visited the main square in the district, which was set on a high brow, overlooking the city below. There were some excellent views of the city here, and made you appreciate just how white the city actually is. We also visited the Iglesia de Recoleta, but our look inside was short lived due to the mass that was being celebrated. The intrusion of tourists was frowned upon. After a short stroll around some of the Recoleta’s cobbled streets it was back to the bus for our trip to La Glorieta castle. This castle, on the outskirts of the city was worth visiting if you’re into old Spanish and Moorish architecture. I have to confess I’m not much into either. All the same, it was interesting enough, particularly the dizzying climb to the top of its main tower. Our day tour finished with a trip back to the Recoleta district and the President’s Cemetery. This cemetery was very similar to ones we had previously seen in Punta Arenas and Buenos Aires. All of these cemeteries are characterised by avenues of mausoleums in the rich section. In this particular case, the richer section housed some of the more famous families in Bolivia, including ex-presidents and some of the previous royalty from the glory days of the La Glorieta castle. The poorer sections contain blocks of glass-faced alcoves, where the coffins are housed. There must have been around six or seven rows in each block, giving it the appearance of a macabre block of flats. Unlike the previous cemeteries in Chile and Argentina though, Sucre had an even poorer section. The lowest class in Sucre buried their dead in the ground in much the same way we do back home. A simple wooden cross or stone epitaph marks the spot. In keeping with the Sucre white décor, the crosses and stones are all whitewashed, and then decorated in blue trimming. Despite it being the poorer section, it definitely had more character to it.

Sucre: The White City

We returned back to the city centre, via the National Congress and one of the cities main parks, crawling with families and their children. Lunch was at allegedly one of the nicest restaurants in the town, just on the main plaza. The food was pretty average though. I was grateful when the ordeal was over. Only one good thing came out of the meal, and that was an agreement to all meet later to go to a game of football. A local league match was being played at Sucre’s Patria Stadium.

Margaret elected not to go to the match, but to catch up on a bit of sleep. She didn’t miss out on much. The match was not what we expected. For one, we though it would be mainstream Bolivian teams playing. But it turned out to be a low division, comprising some rather ordinary local teams. The match was the blue clad Stormers Vs the white coloured Bizarrely Named. Unfortunately, I didn’t catch the name. In our rush to purchase tickets I only noted an obscure name starting with G. (After subsequent research I expect it might have been a second team of the Bolivian First Division high-flyers – Guabira). Despite their name affliction, the Bizarrely Named team went into the half time break leading one goal to nil. The first half proved pretty average in fact, but the second half would prove to be more exciting. For one there were a few goals scored, but more so was the increased ferocity from some of the players. Unfortunately for the Bizarrely Named team the goal scorers were playing for the opposition. This certainly riled the white team, and resulted in a number of yellow and red cards. At one point the Manager for the white team hurled abuse at the opposition on the field, resulting in him having a swearing/slanging match with an animated spectator. To the delight of the spectator the opposing manager, amidst shouts of "ASSHOLE!" was eventually forced from the field by the police. The come back of the Stormers was certainly exciting, eventually winning the match 3 goals to 1. As the full time hooter sounded the white team decided to have the last Hoorah, when one of their players lunged at a Stormer delivering a sickening head butt. The Stormers’ player dropped to the ground unconscious and the offending thug ran off the field as the police converged on the field to control the upset players and officials. It was quite shocking, but somehow entertaining all the same. A freaky looking Stormers supporter in dyed red hair relished in the victory of his team. Our Bolivian football experience was certainly an interesting one. It seemed the police were there more for player control than for the fans.

We returned back to the hotel to learn that the laundry staff had once again enforced the rigorous Bolivian standard. No fleas this time, but your laundry delivered with everyone else’s. I spent ten minutes, sorting out what I could, and then I called in the big guns, Margaret, to see if I had missed anything. It was ludicrous but very funny on reflection. Here’s Margaret and I, in the middle of reception, sifting through underwear and other garments most of, which weren’t our own. We were suitably unimpressed with this hotel, and indeed so too were the rest of the Rio Ring. As it was a couple of hours before dinner, Margaret and I elected to have a nap, only to be awoken by a Bolivian band playing at full volume in the courtyard. The music was actually okay. It’s just that I wanted to sleep. Ah the serenity!!!

Dinner that evening was a much more palatable and organised affair. An Italian restaurant with excellent Pizza. Afterwards it was back to the gringo Mecca in Sucre. The Joyride Café. The night started simply enough, a bit of harmless chatter. Due to the relatively small café, some of us remained downstairs, while the majority had managed to nab the tables overlooking the bar. Margaret endeared herself to the Dutch bar-manager, by purchasing a massive dessert. It turned out to be his speciality and an explosion of cream at that. Being in with the manager now meant Margaret had a say in the music. We both noticed a couple of Beatles CDs, and a particular track. "Ticket to Ride!" On it went, and within seconds, the upstairs contingent of the Rio Ring erupted in cheers as Alpaca Alan, feeling a whole lot better, resumed his stool and straw stance. Shades of that infamous night in Uyuni now pervaded the more modern digs of the Joyride Café. "MY BABY DON’T CARE!" roared across the room. If the song had not been officially declared as Alan’s anthem in Uyuni then it most definitely had now. After the song eventually trailed away the atmosphere boomed. This song and Alan were all that was needed to fire up the crowd. Margaret and I ventured upstairs to join in the craic with the rest of them.

While the evening was enjoyable, it became increasingly clear that certain amorous moves were afoot in the group. At one point, I returned from the bar to take a seat between Maurie and Helen Wright ("Cilla"), much to the chagrin of Dany who had just moved from that seat. I was curious why he broke into laughter when I sat down, but it didn’t take me long to work it out. There was something definitely going on here between Maurie and Helen. It would appear that Cilla the Matchmaker had become the Matchee! Margaret and I left, before the group commenced dancing on the tables and so we did not learn the full outcome of this Tucan Tango until the following morning. In actual fact we wouldn’t learn the full story of this night until later in Iguassu Falls.

Uyuni to Potosi, Bolivia – Altitude: 4,000 metres to 4,070 metres

"Through hands of steel – and heart of stone

Our labour day – has come and gone…"

RED HILL MINING TOWN – U2, The Joshua Tree

It was just before 9am and braving the crisp morning Uyuni air without my fleece, I strolled the bustling streets in search of Andean Salt Expeditions. The shop was a couple of blocks from the hotel, and I was visiting it in the hope that by some remote chance, my fleece had found its way there. Odd looks from the locals as I knocked on a heavily bolted door, and shouted ‘HOLA!’ through the broken window above it. No response! Apparently, there were no Salar de Uyuni tours running today. Cold and annoyed I wandered back to the Hotel Toñito, dodging men with fruit laden carts and a herd of school children, looking the part in their white smocks.

I made it back to the hotel in time to meet our small, Partridge Family style bus. Inside it was clean, seemingly comfortable despite the limited room. Although the bus had quite conveniently collected us from the Hotel Toñito, this was a local bus, and so we soon picked up a few more tourists and locals after a short ride from the hotel. Some of the girls in our group were helping Glenn in finding a woman and gave some of the boarding Scandinavian tourists a rating. There were three of them actually, and all slim and blonde. So poor Glenn didn’t know who to pick after a flurry of nods and winks from the Tucan matchmakers, the most conspicuous of which was Helen Wright. This earned her the nickname Cilla Black from Glenn, given Cilla’s notoriety for hosting the British version of the show Perfect Match, aka Blind Date. After Cilla and her cohorts gave an older, aesthetically challenged Bolivian woman the thumbs up for Glenn, our group were in fits of laughter. All were laughing with the exception of Alpaca Alan. Apparently a good nights rest had not seen an improvement in the belly department. We soon set off, anticipating the 6-7 hour journey to the mining town of Potosi.

Dany had given us the low-down on the Uyuni to Potosi route the previous night, and so it was no surprise to us when the road became unsealed soon after leaving Uyuni. The road out of Uyuni proper was fine, but as we began the climb into the foothills outside the town, it became unsealed and extremely bumpy. It was hard to determine whether the shaking bus, was due to an appalling road, or whether it was because the suspension on the bus were no more than a couple of rubber-bands in tension. On reflection, I would say both. As we said farewell to the low lying town of Uyuni and the magnificent glimmering salt-pan beyond it, the road became a winding, corrugated pass. The valleys of the green foothills were scattered here and there with cacti, and although not as steep as some previous Bolivian roads that we had been on, still provided a few heart flutters.

We attempted to pass some of the time ignoring the groans from underneath the bus, by playing a few games. FYN! didn’t get a run this time, but a quick game of Hearts saw myself regain some pride by defeating Jane; who had previously beaten me on our trip to Machu Picchu. We did have to stop playing though, as with all the shaking, it seemed to stir the volatile Bolivian belly bacteria within. Both Margaret and I began to feel extremely queasy. I tried to overcome this by introducing another game to the Tucan group. SNAP! It was called. Don’t worry! There are too many rules in this game to even consider me putting them down. Basically, it’s like charades only with snaps of the fingers. This entertainment saw us through to our first stop, a small poverty-stricken village.

The buildings were mud-brick dwellings, and the dusty, muddied road was rank with the stench of human and animal waste. The less than appealing surrounds were not enough though to quell the enthusiastic children now milling around the bus. Actually, our exit off the bus proved quite humorous. Given that it was our first stop for the day, then this also meant the first toilet stop. So there were a few patrons more than busting to go, including myself. Unfortunately, there were no loos on this tour. So you had to go and find a remote spot. But, where does one find a bog in the middle of a bog with no bogs? Maurie certainly embraced this dilemma wholeheartedly and left the bus in a mad sprint, running around like a wound-up meerkat in search of his hole. Perhaps a better description of Maurie’s bog-hunting antics came from Glenn, comparing Maurie’s dash for a slash to a scene from a Benny Hill skit. This earned Maurie a nickname, from the moniker wielding Glenn. Maurie Gartland (“Benny Hill”). After I called upon all of my “Forrest Gump” mojo, I ran the length of the street, avoiding dog-muck and pot-holes to eventually find a remote patch of dirt. Bladders relieved, it was then a more sedate journey back to the bus, negotiating inquisitive school children this time, and eventually boarding the bus with a tad more dignity than we did when we left it.

After another couple of hours driving on a god-forsaken road, I soon was blessed with the ability to predict an oncoming jolt. Like the delay between lightning and thunder there was a sudden dip from the bus, followed by a short pause and then a vertebrae popping pulse. I learned to hate the pause, the apparent death knell. The longer the pause, the deeper the pothole or undulation, the more intense the jolt. In the words of Dany – quite simply a horrible, horrible journey! Matters became worse when the groaning bus began to negotiate another steep winding pass. Half way up a meandering road through a boulder cluttered valley, and the bus came to a stand still. We were stuck there for a good half an hour as the driver and his companion began jacking up the fuel tank. The road was so uneven, that at this steep gradient the fuel tank was now dragging along the road. Excellent! What was better was watching the driver pull out a trusty hammer and pound the fuel tank into submission so as to gain those valuable inches above road-level. We were all amazed, and even more anxious when we eventually re-boarded the bus. For the first few miles, we were anticipating a fuel leak and shouts of "Fire in the hold!" or whatever the Bolivian equivalent was. If there was an explosion, then we would have surely been finished off by one of the massive, precariously perched boulders that lined the slopes above us. By sheer luck we negotiated the pass successfully. “WAHOO!”

Only one more inconvenience now – a few locals boarded the bus. What appeared to be a local woman and her daughter made themselves at home in the aisle. This is often the case in Bolivia, and certainly one of the joys of taking local buses. And no, I’m not being sarcastic here. Despite the farina laced body odour and their apparent oblivious attitude to sitting on seated travellers, I thought it was quite interesting. It was quite common for locals just to flag down a bus, hop on and then get off where they pleased. No formal bus stops in Bolivia. I actually, felt quite sorry for the pair that had boarded, particularly for the daughter. She stood for a while, but not for long, as the quaking bus soon sent her pale. Shortly before arriving in Potosi her and her mother left the bus much to her relief and also to the those she was leaning against.

A short stop as the bus driver decided to refill his water bottle at a running stream, before the final approach to the highest city in the world, Potosi. The city is the highest, being at an altitude of 4,100 metres. As we arrived on the city’s outskirts, the poverty of the place was almost overwhelming. The road still a mess, wound its way through makeshift, half-built houses. For a while we travelled passed a dry riverbed full of scattered refuse and foraging pigs. It was horrible. After ten minutes of making our way through the town, we finally came to the Potosi bus-station. A glorified Bolivian car park. To my surprise Braulio was here waiting to transfer us to the hotel. To my even greater surprise was the returning of my lost fleece. I was simply amazed. My faith in Bolivian’s was absolutely soaring at this point. They can’t clean laundry properly, and struggle to get a meal to you on time, yet they manage to return an article of clothing to me, in a town hundreds of kilometres from where I had initially lost it. This was miraculous. Forgotten I had the arduous journey on the junk-worthy bus.

LOST ITEM COUNT: Now down to two

As we entered the city centre, to our pleasant surprise the city had a much cleaner and affluent feel. The main plaza had well manicured gardens and there were some attractive colonial looking buildings. We arrived at the Hotel Liberatador in central Potosi in the late afternoon. Both weary bodies and laundry were all soon checked in, having a rest before we were to head out to dinner.

Dinner was at a restaurant on the main square in Potosi. The food was average but still fine. Dany amused us with his Coca-Cola and beer mix. Apparently it’s quite the rage in Peru. I can’t say I tried it. Having been rested earlier most of us ventured out to a bar/café. (Those that didn’t were the not so macho mature folk. Alan was still feeling dicey, and Horst, Kim and Dan had opted for an early night). It was a bit daunting entering this particular establishment. Walking down some rickety stairs to a bar in a converted basement. There were a few locals in the place, and no gringos apart from ourselves. We were quickly plied with jugs of ale, and Ian "The Drinking Games Master" soon had us playing a game, albeit a much tamer version of our exploits in Uyuni. The drinking game merely required a person to think of a celebrity’s name that started with the letter of the surname from the previous one. If you were smart enough to think of a double letter celebrity (eg Marilyn Monroe) then the game reversed in the opposite direction. The only drinking required was when you were thinking of a name. But, it wasn’t enforced. Deep down, everyone was still coming down from the cachasa frenzy in Uyuni. After a couple of hours playing this game, we headed back to the hotel and discovered that the staff had elected to do some painting. Braving near overpowering fumes of varnish or paint, we made it to our rooms and knew no more. Just as well really. No point in dwelling on the following day’s advertised exercise in claustrophobia. The mines of Potosi.

It wasn’t too early a start for us. 9am and Braulio was waiting for us with the transfer bus for those taking the Potosi mine tour. Most of us had elected to take the tour, but there were a few exceptions. The most notable one was Alan. Ian had requested a doctor for his dad that morning at breakfast. So, all was not well with Alpaca Alan. Those that had opted out were some of the female contingent. Anne (“Bite My Ass”), Jane (“FHM”), Laura (“Laundrette Fret”), and Helen (“Cilla”) had thought better of taking the half day tour. To be fair though, the description of the mine tour wasn’t exactly appealing. We were all kind of wondering ourselves, whether we should be doing it. The mine tour included at least three hours in the Potosi mines, where the temperatures can range from minus 12 degrees Celsius through to upwards of 40 degrees Celsius. Add to that the shafts were cramped, not well maintained, not well ventilated and some places would require you to crawl. The tour came highly recommended for everyone, everyone that is except the asthmatics or claustrophobics. I had experienced both of these maladies in relatively minor forms in my life. So, it was with some trepidation that I did embark on this tour.

The ever reliable Braulio (hey, he returned my fleece he was now short of a Bolivian God) was on time for the tour. The bus that picked us up literally drove us all 30 yards down the road and stopped in front of a house. A few taps on the door, like some sort of secret society, and we were greeted by a dog and a toothless local woman who directed us towards the back where our mining kit awaited. Wellies, yellow coveralls, and helmet were all supplied. It seemed everyone was issued with a normal coloured looking helmet except for myself. I was presented with a red one. I couldn’t help but think of my Papa Smurf nickname at high school. Within minutes we were kitted up, and heading back to the bus. I’d say all the locals must have thought we looked like idiots, in our brightly coloured get-up.

Our first stop on this particular tour was the miners market. It was customary for tourists to purchase some basic necessities and luxuries for the miners, and present them as gifts later. As we approached the market, the towering Cerro Rico revealed itself. After having seen it, it was difficult to understand why we had not previously noticed it. The mountain literally towers over Potosi. Cerro Rico, which means Rich Mountain, is indeed mineral-rich. Its desolate, orange-red exterior is scoured with streaks of grey, silver and countless debris; tell tale signs of the mining that takes place. It is this red-hill where all the mining takes place in Potosi. Despite having been mined for centuries, the mountain is still yielding deposits of tin, lead, zinc, and silver in small amounts. Apparently, it never used to be that way in Potosi. Centuries ago, Potosi used to be the largest city in South America due to the silver rich veins of Cerro Rico. But the reserves have since depleted and so too the prosperity of the town. The mining yields are now far too small to interest large mining corporations. The mining operation has been left to the locals, and so only a few small co-ops now operate there.

To the market we arrived. First stop is to purchase dynamite. I kid you not. Dynamite is readily available for sale in Potosi, and apparently to anyone. (Arrive early though, rumour has it that Al Qaeda members are queue jumpers). For a mere 10 Bolivianos ($1.45 US, $2.50 AUD, £1 GBP), Margaret and I bought a stick of dynamite complete with fuse. No one seemed to worry too much about us handling it. It was all such an unbelievable experience that it was like. "OK. I’m holding a stick of dynamite. Cool!" Images of Wiley Coyote came to mind. Fortunately for everyone a Road Runner didn’t present itself. Who knows what might have happened, particularly with my implacable desire to break into a trot. Braulio informed us that we would explode some of the dynamite later, but some we would reserve as gifts for the miners. Our purchases were completed at the Dynamite Shoppe with a facemask. The fumes were to be quite bad in the mines, so we all made sure we had one.

A short walk around the corner and we’re in the thick of the miner’s market. The market was bustling with life. The local women were manning (well therein lies an oxymoron) the stalls. For it is only the women that are actually allowed to attend to the shops and stalls in the market. All the men either work in the mines, or are left to some other duty requiring intensive labour. If a man were to manage a stall, he would be considered not to be a man; even a homosexual. So, while the women were in their stalls, the local men that we saw in the market, were the miners partaking in a meal before starting their shift. The stalls were extremely interesting. They sold all the vices of the Potosi miner. Vice is a harsh word.

What was a vice to us, was deemed a basic necessity by the locals, as it was these things that enabled them to get through their day in the mines. Okay, so what do we have here? The ubiquitous Andean coca leaf. Bags of the stuff! The Potosi miners, like the Incas of old, chew coca leaves to help deaden their senses. They chew loads of leaves at a time until it had formed a solid mass in their mouth. The resulting cocaine that’s extracted into the system would remove any desire to eat, and increase their energy levels. So we have coca, what else? Next, we have some alcohol. Well, not just some alcohol, but all of it. 100% alcohol to be perfectly correct! The miners would drink the stuff, perhaps to wash down that odd coca leaf that got stuck in the throat, but more seriously to help them take their mind off their daily toil. Then some cigarettes. Which ones though? The cheap ones or the more recognised brands. The cheaper cigarettes looked lethal. No filters and looked as though they threatened to give you a dose of emphysema by just looking at them. Margaret and I finally made some purchases. We bought some coca leaves, some good cigarettes, alcohol and a bottle of good old Coca Cola to wash it down with. There’s nothing worse than a Potosi miner with coca breath. The Coca Cola should sort that out.

With our tour of the market completed our bus began the snaking climb up the serpentine road that lead to the mine shafts of Cerro Rico. Braulio had graciously relieved us of our explosives, and took them for safe keeping. Just in case anyone of us proved to be a little more unpredictable than he? After climbing the base of Cerro Rico, we arrived at the point where the mined material is sifted and grounded. Some local women were here, painstakingly picking through mining refuse, and chipping away at it in the hope of obtaining some silver or saleable metal. It was very humbling, to watch these women do this. A short distance past the women were some out-dated and non-functional grounding equipment and beyond that lay the city of Potosi below. As we headed back towards the bus I noted the pigs rummaging around some piles of mining debris. Images like this really brought reality into perspective – we had literally taken a step back in time.

Climbing Cerro Rico and this time we stopped at a simple church perched on a precipice overlooking an outstanding panorama of Potosi. We took some time to admire the view and had the obligatory group photo. Shortly after a wander around the closed up church, and having said a short prayer, Braulio informed us that he was going to explode some of the dynamite. Just before this though, the fearless Bolivian posed for us with a stick of dynamite in his mouth. This guy was Bolivia’s answer to the Wiley Coyote. He then proceeded to demonstrate to us how to insert a fuse into the stick. Opening up the stick it revealed granules of green. Looked innocuous enough. It was time. Braulio pounded the slopes of Cerro Rico, and then planted two sticks about 100 yards away. Soon after lighting them, he casually ambled back towards us. Five minutes he gave them.

Roars of fright and amazement as the first exploded shortly on three minutes. The noise was incredible. It was as though, the detonation triggered another explosion in your chest. Having recovered from the shock of the first blast, we were almost prepared for the second.

Braulio: Don’t try this at home!

This occurred within about thirty seconds of the first. Even knowing what was to come, shocked profanities and expletives were the order of the day, finally culminating in nervous laughter. Margaret’s rather vocal “Jeezus Christ!” in response to the explosion resonated with Glenn – who later dubbed JC to be Margaret’s new tour name. All in all, I’d say Braulio got a great kick out of it all. With our nerves on edge it was then time to journey further up Cerro Rico’s slopes for the tour of the mineshafts.

We arrived outside our shaft, to the look of several bemused Potosi miners. They did seem to be friendly enough. As Braulio and assistant equipped us with lamps, (some electric and others powered by a naked flame), some of them helped me out with adjusting mine, and others just gave grimy grins. At least that’s what I thought they were. It’s very difficult to gauge a smile from someone when they have a ball of coca threatening to burst from their cheek cavity. Our lamps lit, we entered the shaft. It wasn’t too bad initially. The mine was cool, the air was fine and you could stand up right. All was fine, until the light from the entrance finally disappeared and a terrible sense of foreboding enveloped us, as too did the dark. Shortly into the darkness and Braulio shouts from ahead to inform us that a mining cart is coming. This was to be a common occurrence. We were fortunate at the moment, as there was enough room for all of us to wait in an alcove, while the trolley passed. Apparently later on this may not be the case, and we may have to backtrack quickly in order that we don’t get crushed by miner’s pushing a mineral-laden cart hell-for-leather.

As we stopped in the first alcove, the miners pushing this particular trolley stopped. One of them was chatting to Braulio, and after a short-while it was revealed that he had been in the mine for a number of years. His younger brother had also been in the mines for a shorter length of time, but had died a few months ago from silicosis of the lungs. We were all taken a back by this revelation, which was imparted to Braulio with such matter-of-factness that it was obvious death due to the mines was a common and well accepted fact of life in Potosi.*

* In fact during the short tour of the market, Braulio had already informed us that he originally came from a mining family in Potosi. He and a brother were now two that survived a family of ten. All of who had been lost to the mines in one way or another. He and his brother were lucky and had escaped working in the mines. Braulio had gone to college and studied tourism. Regardless of the pain this guy’s gone through, he still conducts the tour with a cheery demeanour. It was now extremely difficult to begrudge the man for being so emotionless when hitting the dog in Uyuni. The average life-span of a Potosi miner is 40 years of age.

As we journeyed deeper into the mines, it became damper underfoot and substantially cooler. The initial generous ceilings were now encroaching on our heads, requiring us to bend down at regularly intervals for fear of knocking your lamp or worse. Eventually we came to a small alcove, where a bizarre looking statue had been erected. It was El Diablo, or simply the Devil in Spanish. The miners believe that if they respect the devil, then he will bring them good fortune in the mines. Apparently they take more credence from him down here, than they would from a few prayers in the church outside. They certainly had shown respect for Diablo, by giving the red-clay structure an impressive horned head and indeed a rather horny demeanour. The statue was complete with erect phallus. The local miners had adorned it an assortment of coloured confetti, coca leaves and alcohol. In keeping with tradition Braulio splashed the statue in the alcohol we had bought and threw some fresh coca leaves on the ground. It was almost like a bizarre rite of passage, in order that we gringos could journey safely, deeper into the mines. So much for the Catholic upbringing of myself and Margaret! What would our parents think if they could see us now – Devil worshipping in the bowels of the earth?

Further on, and to the worst part of our mine experience. The tunnel had virtually caved in on itself, and the only way forward was by crawling on your tummy through a crevice. This was very testing for my mild claustrophobia. Although, we only had to crawl for a short distance, the rocks seemed to bear down on me. To help me to get through it, I had to ensure that there was no one immediately in front of me. If I couldn’t see where I was going, then was no way I could have done it. But, Margaret and I both managed to do it. A fear conquered – a brief victory perhaps. Thankfully, the distance was short, and we were soon standing again in a wide cavern. Once everyone was through, Braulio gave us a few more facts on the life of the Potosi miner. For one the wages. Like anywhere in the world, your experience determines your salary. For the miner coming in at the grass roots level, he can

Cerro Rico: Red Hill Mining Town

expect to earn 7 Bolivianos per day. That’s $1 USD, $1.50 AUD, or 80 pence. All this, for a staggering ten to twelve hours manually intensive work in these cramped and ill-equipped conditions. Someone with more experience (with explosives for instance) may earn anywhere between 20 Bolivanos or 50 Bolivanos per day. Still a pittance by our standards.

Leaving the cavern we continued to head down a reasonably sized tunnel, stopping only occasionally for miner carts. At one point we came upon a set of miners, who were busily loading some bags attached to an unseen pulley, and some others loading a trolley. It looked extremely hard work, and more so when four slightly built miners struggled to get a trolley back onto the tracks. They seemed unfazed, and their cheeks swelled from the balls of coca in their mouths. Leaving this section we descended deeper and into more stifling conditions. The air suddenly became stale bordering on putrid as the tin oxide dust become increasingly pervasive. It was at this point, I’d had quite enough of the tour, and I was particularly concerned when Braulio suddenly directed all of us to start filing down this apparent hole in the tunnel floor.

Ostensibly what was a hole, was a makeshift set of stairs to a small cavern, where a lone miner now sat tapping away at the sloping rock before him. His name was Griego and he was around 50 years of age. A highly experienced miner and one that had ignored the mortality average. He was busily punching a hole into the rock, in order to place a stick of dynamite into it. Braulio gave us a visual demonstration of where the dynamite might go, by handling the stick and placing it near the surface of the stone where Griego worked. This was fine for the most of us, but Helen Shelton had noticed that the naked flame from Braulio’s lamp was awfully close to the fuse of the dynamite. Despite not having noticed this, the rest of us were all anxiously filing out of the stifling hole after Helen, as soon as Braulio had finished his spiel. We left some of our gifts behind.

That last hole come cavern was the turning point in our tour, and to our immense gratitude we were making our way back to the surface. Although I knew we were heading out, the air had become noticeably fresher and cooler, it seemed an eternity before the light of the entrance revealed itself. I ran the last few metres. It was a great feeling to be out in the open after having our senses deprived for but a mere ninety minutes. We only really caught a glimpse of the hardships faced by the miners of Potosi, but it was enough to understand why a cocktail of cocaine, nicotine, alcohol and caffeine were needed just to keep them going. We are indeed a lucky people.

Our tour was finished by mid-afternoon, and so after returning all our mining equipment we rejoined the rest of the group for lunch. Having an afternoon to ourselves Margaret and I elected to catch up on email in one of the local Internet Cafes. It was excruciatingly slow. So slow, was it accessing the internet that both Margaret and I both gave up in frustration. As we left the café, Margaret told the proprietor that the access was extremely poor and that she never intended on returning. Her disgusted outburst was extremely amusing, considering we were leaving Potosi the following morning. As evening approached, Margaret and I wandered into the local market, just around the corner from the colonial-style Mint. It was a huge indoor flea market, and it was extremely interesting. Aside from the usual stalls selling traditional Bolivian items, there were about ten benches lined in a row, each one being a different café. As we passed, the local owner would wave us over to buy a meal. It was very funny. All we could do was put our hands to our stomach and feign being full. But the most odd thing we saw was in the butcher stalls. Nothing goes to waste in Bolivia, for they had horses heads on sale. Complete with muzzle, and bloodied rearing teeth. They were very macabre, but strangely curious to look at. The God Father could have had a field day here. On enquiring of the stall owner what they actually were, he said "Vaja" which means cow in Spanish. It’s quite possible they were cows-heads, but with the way the lips had been removed revealing the teeth, it reminded me of an unfortunate Mr Ed.

With our appetites renewed, we rejoined the group for a meal that evening in a restored woollen-mill. It was really quite fashionable, and the least we had expected in a third world town like Potosi. Dinner was average, but the setting amidst old looms, and other mill paraphernalia made it a worthwhile experience. The evening concluded, for Margaret and I, when we returned to the hotel, while the majority of the group decided to kick on at one of the local bars. The day had literally been a blast.

• Number of Players: Unlimited
• Number of Cards: Unlimited, but one deck of 52 including jokers will suffice.
• Hierarchy of cards: King, Queen, Jack is the hierarchy; Jokers and Aces are low.
• Objective: To not be left with the lowest card. You should try and have the highest card as possible; anything below a 7 is potentially dicey.

 La Paz, Bolivia – Altitude: 3,600 metres to 5,400 metres

"I was gonna pull right over and stop but I was high"

BECAUSE I GOT HIGH – Afroman

Still tired from the previous day’s adventure into the Coroico Valley I reticently arose with Margaret for a decent breakfast at 8am. We had yet another full day of activity planned, and it wasn’t long before we were off negotiating the rabble of La Paz’ roadside markets and traffic on a small tour bus. The entire Cusco Crew was present for the tour with the addition of a new member, Kim. Our first port of call today was the Moon Valley in Downtown La Paz. A curious point that was brought to our attention on the journey to the Moon Valley was that the richer you were in La Paz the further down in the valley you resided. This apparently was due to the much more temperate climate that was experienced at altitudes just below that of 3,000 metres.

As we approached the Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon), we did indeed drive through a very nice neighbourhood. The suburb of La Paz was more akin to that you would see at home. The houses were large and modern, and the streets were clean. Such was the prosperity of this area of La Paz that private security firms patrolled the streets. Leaving this neighbourhood we arrived at our destination.

The Moon Valley does actually resemble a lunar landscape, although in actual fact it’s the result of limestone erosion. Nonetheless it was a magnificent and desolate setting. We followed a winding path past large pinnacles of limestone, some of which were adorned with a cactus or two. There were a number of excellent vantage points that surrendered spectacular views over the eroded canyon. Halfway into our guided tour we passed shallow gorges, of which some revealed seemingly bottomless sinkholes, clearly indicating, the water’s course. The whole experience was made that much eerier by the sound of a lone pan-flute; or zampona to be precise. On the last leg of the path the zampona musician was revealed standing atop of a high ridge. The music certainly gave the whole excursion a uniquely Bolivian feel. On reaching the top of the ridge we passed the Bolivian muso, avoiding the CD sales spiel and then returned to the bus. The approach back to the bus revealed some fantastic views back to the climbing, sprawling city of La Paz, to the verge of El Alto and then beyond to the snow rounded summits of Huanya Potosi and Chacaltaya. The latter of which was our next destination.

A lone zampona in the Valle de La Luna

It must have taken at least one and a half hours to make our way back through La Paz before heading onwards to Mt Chacaltaya. The journey involved us climbing out of the La Paz valley and through the enormous shantytown of El Alto once more. The drive through El Alto proved quite interesting especially after we left the highway. The narrow streets revealed buzzing markets, some extending the full length of the street. When we finally approached the outskirts of El Alto we had a quick water stop, given that our approach to Mt Chacaltaya would see us reach an elevation of over 5,400 metres (16,200 feet). Having been at a ridiculous altitude for many days now, we needed reminding about the importance of staying hydrated at altitude. The road from El Alto to the base of the foothills of Mt Chacaltaya was a pleasant one. The views of Chacaltaya and the higher peak of Huanya Potosi were infinitely beautiful. Our guide informed us that Chacaltaya was an Aymara word that meant Cold Bridge. This was due to the fact that the original inhabitants of the area used to trudge over Chacaltaya to get to the lower and much warmer valleys beyond. As for Huanya Potosi, well that actually meant Young Noise and apparently because of the winds that go howling through its valleys. My ears stood up after hearing this little titbit of information as we were intending on visiting the Bolivian mining town of Potosi later in the tour.

With the pleasant part of the journey over, the bus soon began negotiating an extremely narrow and precarious pass to the top of Mt Chacaltaya. The winding road was equally as frightening as the Death Road. Looking out the bus window revealed a drop as sheer as it was deep; hundreds of feet in fact. This perturbed Margaret somewhat, and the guide attentively picked up a few expressions of her concern. His response was "Don’t worry! He’s done this before! He’s a good driver!" Neither Margaret nor I for that matter were reassured by that comment. Again by sheer Bolivian luck we approached the summit of Chacaltaya which was characterised by an out-of-season ski resort (the highest in the world) and a couple of shacks owned by the local university. Scattered around the college dwellings were bizarre looking domes, apparently erected to analyse the cosmic rays of the sun. Given that we were at such a high altitude the Sun’s rays were that much stronger and so these cluey Bolivian cosmologists had erected their solar analysing equipment here.

Leaving the bus our breathing rate accelerated to a virtual palpitation. Unlike yesterday’s venture to La Cumbre at a mere 4,670 metres altitude, standing just shy of 5,400 metre was immediately noticeable. Merely walking from the bus to the ski lodge café and to the other side, only 50 odd metres, proved a strenuous activity. Our guide marked out the sloping path of Chacaltaya to one of its two peaks. We set off at a pace slower than a plod. The lack of oxygen wasn’t our only bone of contention, given the snow packed ground was icy in patches resulting in a few of us slipping and sliding. Eventually we found a much sturdier path, and after an asphyxiating eternity, with your head threatening to explode, we arrived at the first peak. The sense of achievement from all of us was immense, for the altitude of the first peak was 5,430 metres. The latter figure was care of Michael’s trusty GPS. The Incredible Horst kindly informed us that he had attempted a climb of Mt Kilimanjaro a few years ago and fell short of the summit by only a few hundred metres. Kilimanjaro’s summit is over 5,800 metres. We were doubly impressed with ourselves, and I quietly added Kilimanjaro to my list of mountains to conquer.

Huanya Potosi 

No rest for the intrepid of the Cusco Crew though. The views from the first peak of Chacaltaya were spectacular revealing the La Paz International Airport in the distance adjacent to El Alto, and also to the formidable presence of Mt Illamani. It also revealed the second peak of the mountain, which was the higher of the two. Having not climbed the summit, a few of us set off to achieve that milestone as well. The climb didn’t appear as bad, although I must admit I took it too fast, and by the time I did reach it, I had to sit for a good while to regain my breath. The views from this peak were for the most part similar to the first, but according to Michael’s GPS the altitude was at 5,470 metres. We had only climbed another 30 metres. Being in the climbing mood, I glanced back to the even higher peak of Huanya Potosi. Our guide had informed us that it was possible also to climb to this staggering summit, but alas we didn’t have time, so the 6,100 metre (18,300 feet) yardstick would have to wait for another day. Horst once again made short work of this latest peak, Chacaltaya, although his German-Australian compatriot Gerhard wasn’t so surefooted. He literally looked like death with a sweat on his arrival at the summit. I thought at one stage his croaking lungs would give up there and then, therefore requiring resuscitation but fortunately like Horst he was in fact a trooper and we all made it back to the rest of the group who were waiting for us in the ski lodge café.

After a deluge of water and a gorging of chocolate our bus made its way back down the winding Chacaltaya pass. The sighs of relief on reaching El Alto were more than audible. So it was back down into the La Paz valley and to our hotel by mid afternoon. With our high flying activities over for the time being we had the rest of the afternoon free. The first task for Michael, Glenn and I was to go back to the Explore Bolivia shop to acquire our Downhill Madness T-shirt, which we hadn’t received the previous day. I wanted that T-shirt damn it!

Margaret and I had a quiet afternoon, taking in a scrumptious meal at one of the two Alexander Coffee cafes in the town. That evening we met the five new members of our Tucan Group who were joining the tour to travel on to Rio with the rest of us. The five new members included; Kim Parrish who we had met a couple of nights before; Maurie Gartland, a 35 year old Melbournian who had just finished a few months charity work in Uruguay; Tom Hill and Laura Hambly a couple of friends from the UK, and finally Anne Brosnan, originally from County Kerry, Ireland but now a New Yorker with a very broad Kerry accent.

After the introductions, Dany gave us a rundown on the remainder of our itinerary to Rio and informed us that there were a couple of changes. For one, there was no overnight stay at the Salt Hotel in Uyuni, much to the chagrin of a few of us, and secondly, Dany suggested we opt out of a Curitiba train ride for another day at Iguassu Falls to experience the Argentinean side. All were in favour of the latter, and everyone soon forgot their disappointment about the Salt Hotel when we set off for dinner. Dinner was at an apparently exclusive restaurant. So exclusive in fact that it was meant to be closed and only opened care of our string-pulling tour leader Dany. Upon entering the restaurant, past a couple of haughty bouncers, it proved to be more of a bar and it was bustling with activity, the majority of which were gringos. Closed indeed! Dinner lasted a couple of hours and our Saturday night out in La Paz ended thereafter. Everyone was just too exhausted to go out. Given the day’s altitude antics Margaret’s head in particular was threatening to take flight. To bed it was and only after saying farewell to the remainder of those leaving the tour at La Paz; Graham & Judy, and Gerhard.

Our final day in La Paz was a free day, and it was one that was welcomed with open arms by Margaret and I. Give this we were up late, and paid another visit to Alexander’s for brunch. Our afternoon saw us head to the infamous Witches market of La Paz. How exactly the Witches Market differed from any other market in La Paz proved a little difficult to define precisely. Perhaps the one characterising feature of the Witches Market though was the dried llama foetuses. Yes, I haven’t gone off on one here. I’m talking genuine llama foetuses. Those Bolivian’s who still adhere to the traditional beliefs use these funky little trinkets in their homes to ward off evil spirits. No, you won’t be greeted by a petrified llama foetus on the living room mantle piece – the locals aren’t that freaky. The Bolivian’s go about their day on the off chance that they will receive a home visit from a gringo and so with every ounce of decorum, place the good-luck token at the bottom of their house – out of sight. Mind you, if a Bolivian does receive a visit from a gringo at his or her home, then this may mean it’s time for them to change the llama charm. At one of the stalls in the Witches market that did have dried llama foetuses, there were also a couple of petrified armadillos and a slither of snake skins. It was all a bit culturally challenging really but at the same time rather cool.

That afternoon, Margaret and I set off on a haggling expedition around the many markets of La Paz and purchased a number of household items. This was punctuated by a visit to the extraordinary Coca Museum. Nestled in a nook off one of the many alleyways, the museum proved extremely interesting, albeit a little tiring on the eyes. Unlike more modern museums this one required you to wander around with a thick wad of number coded fact sheets. Despite the huge amount of reading required to make the most of this museum we did glean a lot from our visit, most notably how to make cocaine. Don’t worry, I don’t intend putting the recipe herein (The Frog Juice recipe was probably sufficient). I will say though that the manufacture of cocaine involved people crushing the coca leaf into a pulp before applying a number of chemicals, one of which being hydrochloric acid, to obtain the white crystalline powder. The museum offered many interesting pieces of coca trivia but perhaps the most curious are outlined below:

Dried Llama’s Foetuses in the Witches Market

COCA TRIVIA

* The Incas were the original users of cocaine, although they didn’t abuse the substance, as is the case in Western culture. Typically the Incas would chew up to 500 coca leaves at any one time, and so nurture a saliva thickened ball of masticated coca for days on ends. The Incas had discovered this actually extracted the cocaine from the plant and so gave them the stimulation they needed to cope with altitude and their days work. The amount of cocaine extracted into their system was significant but nowhere near as potent as the powdered narcotic sold on the streets.

* When Coca-Cola was first introduced over a century ago, the drink actually contained cocaine. Indeed its initial popularity stemmed from the active stimulant being apart of the drink. As the century progressed though, and the addictive nature of cocaine became apparent, Coca-Cola was ordered to remove the narcotic. Nowadays Coca-Cola Bottlers still imports coca from Peru and Bolivia every year and use the leaves only to add to the flavour of the drink. Coca-Cola is now cocaine free, although, funnily enough, I know a number of people who appear addicted to the drink. The cocaine bi-product that is a result of Coca Cola production is apparently sold to pharmaceutical companies who use the drug in many of the anaesthetics that are used today in medicine.

* Sigmund Freud became a cocaine addict after his fascination with the anaesthetic properties of coca went just a tad overboard. Apparently at one stage in his career, Freud was advocating the use of the drug and regularly took it as a pick me up. When he did learn of the addictive potency of cocaine, it was too late – shall we say that was his one true Freudian Slip!

Our cocaine trip concluded with me buying some coca pastilles – a treat I intended reserving for the following day’s journey. Our minds burgeoning with trivia we took part in some more shopping and then as the evening arrived we met the rest of the group for a meal at – you guessed it – Alexander’s Coffee before heading to La Paz’ main cinema. Our movie of choice was "The Matrix – Reloaded". The Bolivian cinema experience was fine and not much different from home. The only annoyance proved to be the Spanish sub-titles and only then when one of the movies characters started speaking in French. Given there would have normally been an English sub-title placed here for us gringo viewers, then we were all at a loss, apart from Dany, who annoyingly along with the rest of the local gathering erupted in laughter. After the movie it was back to the hotel to rest up given our group was due to hit the road the following day. A new group that is! We had lost a number of friends from the Cusco Crew and gained a few more here in La Paz.

It is no longer fitting then for me to continue to refer to our travel group as the Cusco Crew, as it will only lead to confusion. In recognition then of our new La Paz tour mates and the fact that we now would remain as one group until our final destination, Rio de Janeiro – I will hereby refer to our tour group as the Rio Ring. So, the Rio Ringers we were, and a new adventure awaited us all. Indeed the next destination was the ideal starting point; Salar de Uyuni – the world’s largest and highest salt lake.

La Paz to Coroico Valley, Bolivia – Altitude: 4,670 metres to 1,300 metres

"Out along the edges, Always where I burn to be

The further on the edge, The hotter the intensity…"

DANGER ZONE – Kenny Loggins

The brave three souls that were to embark on the bike ride to the Coroico Valley, were Glenn, Michael and yours truly. We had a brief understanding of what we were in for. Essentially, we would be starting at an insane height of 4,600 metres and riding our bikes down an extremely dangerous road, descending to 1,300 metres in the Coroico Valley over a distance of 64km. The road has deservedly attained notoriety for killing the most number of people (both locals and tourists) annually in Bolivia. Apparently the figures are well into the hundreds. More recently – in 2002 – a GAP Adventure tours mini-bus went over the roads-edge plummeting to the bottom of the valley and killing all occupants on board. Yes, we were absolutely nuts doing this ride!

We were collected at 8am from our hotel, and after paying the Tour Company we were soon on a small bus, packed with adrenaline junkies for the two and a half hour journey to the starting point of the ride. The bike ride company we were using was called Explore Bolivia – Downhill Madness. The latter was aptly named. Although the journey from La Paz to La Cumbre, the starting point of the ride, was probably no more than a hundred or so kilometres. Most of the journey was taken up driving through the labyrinthine streets of La Paz and its sprawling suburbs. Shortly after leaving outer La Paz, our bus pulled over and appeared to be queuing due to a police operated road block. After about twenty minutes, we worked out that the driver had pulled over of his own accord, in order that a Norwegian chap who was running late could catch up with the rest of the group.

Aside from this delay we arrived at the starting point without incident. Michael had brought along his GPS handheld and it recorded our altitude at 4,670 metres, which is just over 14,000 feet. Curiously I had done a sky dive three years earlier from an altitude of 12,000 feet. So this puts the altitude in true perspective. On leaving the bus we all braced ourselves for even less oxygen. Surprisingly, it felt no different to La Paz, although we may have felt differently if we had to do anything strenuous. We were soon issued with our biking gear including gloves, a helmet, a bright orange vest, protective pants (trousers if you’re a Brit) and naturally a mountain bike. Sun-screen was applied in copious amounts before we were finally ready to set off, but not before one final task, the ride briefing! We had three guides with us for the day’s adventure. Martin, a young German guy was our tour leader. There was also a local chap helping him out with urgent bike repairs, and finally the bus driver. Martin gave us the low-down on the downhill route.

We were pleased to learn that the road would be asphalt for the first 25km. While extremely steep, and the potential for maximum velocity was more than credible, it would appear that our only annoyances would be trucks, buses, dogs, a long tunnel, and a cocaine check point. The remaining 39km though would be gravel or worse. The worse included sheer drops of thousands of feet should you fail to negotiate the roadway, which at times would narrow, to only a few metres in width. The 39km stretch was undoubtedly the official start of the Road of Death. Yes we were absolute nut-bags doing this ride.

A short ride to the road-way and then through a gap in the top of the ridge, and the winding descending road opened up before us. It was pure exhilaration. The acceleration gain was incredible. Absolutely effortless! My only disappointment in the first five minutes was that I wasn’t familiar with the gears, and so didn’t achieve terminal velocity. However, after a quick stop to do a brake check, Martin pointed me in the right direction, and we were off again. The pace was that great that at one point I was pushing speeds of 60km/hr and there were people in our group going faster than that. After riding for no more than twenty minutes through some incredibly beautiful mountain scenery we arrived at the long tunnel. Apparently, seven riders were only allowed through at any one time. But given that there were about twenty of us, it was decided that we would bypass the tunnel by negotiating the rough track that detoured to the tunnels opposite side. I made it – just! I would have to say that this was one of the roughest sections of the ride, and I almost lost it when my front wheel nose-dived into a water-filled pothole.

Shaken a little and pondering what the actual Road of Death would be like, we set out again in the only direction we had signed up for – downhill. More electrifying effortless pace before we had to alight for the Cocaine Checkpoint. This is not a joke. It was actually a drug checkpoint. The Bolivian police monitor all traffic heading to and from the Coroico Valley. The reason for this is that coca is harvested in the valley. Given that the hard-narcotic cocaine is extracted from the leaves of this plant, the police are ensuring that no trucks are illegally transporting the plant into La Paz, or that no trucks are bringing in the necessary chemicals to make the drug. Our drugs of choice today were speed and adrenaline only, so we were allowed to pass through on foot without being stopped. The Checkpoint was almost like a small market for all the stalls that were set up there. Given the number of vehicles that are stopped here, there is a reasonable demand for food. All sorts of greasy, deep-fried Bolivian delights wafted through the checkpoint.

Back on the asphalt and plummeting again. The first 20km of the ride had literally flown by, but then we hit a section of the road that Martin had not informed us about. Believe it or not, in a ride called Downhill Madness there was a small climb involved. “FHM!” Despite it being our first hill and so our first serious exertion for the day, the altitude of 3,200 metres was still enough to have us panting and sweating profusely. Many of the riders in our group elected to walk the hill, but silly me wanting to complete the entire ride on the bike stuck it out. It was extremely difficult, but I made it. We were rewarded with a rest at the top and time for a snack.

Having admired the deep green valleys, watered, fed and now rested it was time to move on. The road had now levelled out a little so we were no longer being treated to an effortless rush. The road suddenly turned to gravel and then after another short rise we were at the start of the infamous Death Road. From the top of the rise, we could follow the now descending dirt road as it made its winding trail, hugging the valley wall like an interminable white line. In some ways the vista reminded me of Skipper’s Canyon, near Queenstown on the south island of New Zealand. Naturally, we had our photo taken at this point to prove that we had made it at least this far. Martin then gave us another safety briefing. We had only a short distance to go to Chuspipata, which was effectively a truck stop, after which we would face the most hazardous section of the road – the Corners of Death! The corners on the pass were so tight and narrow in parts that Martin volunteered to be our juggernaut for the day. He was required to go on ahead, and then call us through once he had ensured there was no traffic. After we had cleared the Corners of Death, it was relatively plain sailing. Just look out for the trucks, as a misguided turn at velocity may result in you attempting a parasail without a chute.

The precarious road to the Coroico Valley

The short stretch down to Chuspipata was steep and rugged, but manageable. A short stop to gain another perspective of the valley below and then into the Corners of Death. We all made it without incident. It was extremely formidable though. At one point, one of the corners was surely not more than three metres across. How trucks and buses could negotiate this beggared belief. The road after the corners of death, while still offering steep and blind corners was not half as bad, and in some places you were given ample opportunity to work up some speed. It’s funny, although we were riding on a road that was no more than four metres across, and above drops of thousands of feet, the danger didn’t seem to register with me, that is until we met some trucks on the road.

Michael and I had arrived at a blind corner behind two trucks. The trucks were clearly waiting for a vehicle coming the other way, although we couldn’t see it for dust. After waiting several minutes, a couple of other riders decided to carry on, Michael followed shortly after and then stopped just on the bend to wave me on through. He gestured for me to come forward and so off I went. As I was about to turn around the bend, there’s a truck coming straight for me. The only option I had was to quickly manoeuvre my bike and body between the two waiting trucks. I barely had breathing room, but thankfully I still was. I wasn’t going to finish up being mashed between two Bolivian trucks, so as soon as the oncoming truck had passed, I was off and apparently to the disdain of the waiting truck drivers. There was a volley of horn blasts and I’m sure some choice Bolivian words hurled in my direction. I was unfazed though, and was soon going hell for leather along the bumpy dusty surface.

I would like to say that that was the scariest experience I had on the ride, but it wasn’t. It would seem the most innocuous of situations can be perhaps the most precarious. I was cycling through another narrow stretch when an oncoming truck approached. I hopped off my bike and began walking it back up the road to find a spot that I could safely stand in, and so avoid the lorry. I couldn’t find such a spot, so I stood my ground. The truck passed within centimetres of my bike. I flinched a little as it passed and in doing so twisted my body giving me an ample view of the sheer drop below. Another couple of inches to my left and I was a gonna. Life in this case was indeed a veritable game of inches.

After that tickle with death, I carried on, and was a little more cautious around corners. The road became quite steep in parts again and extremely bumpy requiring you to raise your arse off the saddle, or so be jack hammered. This stretch despite being rough was thoroughly exhilarating. After we entered into another set of corners, we were greeted by the magnificent sight of a waterfall spilling over the cliff face to our right and over the road. This was the San Juan waterfall and our lunch stop. The tour bus and the remainder of the riders soon arrived and we then had a well earned rest in the now scorching sun. We had not noticed the sun at the start of the ride, but now that we were approaching 2,000 metres altitude the air had become warmer and the vegetation more akin to rain forest. It was actually very warm all of a sudden, so much so that a few of the riders stripped off and gained some welcome relief under the waterfall.

With lunch finished we were back on the road again. We literally had to ride through the waterfalls, but it was extremely refreshing. The only annoyance was the muddy road, which at times threatened to topple you. Soon after, the kinks in the road become less frequent and I recall long open swathes of road that allowed you to pick up bucket-loads of speed again. I passed Michael who had scored a puncture, so he was having to wait for the support-bus to get it repaired. I carried on as there wasn’t much I could do and I’m a heartless bastard. We could all have been forgiven for expecting the remainder of the ride to be like this, but that was not the case. The next 10km of the ride were extremely uncomfortable and tough. As the road levelled off, the path had become thick with red dust. It was so thick at one point that it was verging on sand and made riding through it difficult. But definitely the worst part of it was when a vehicle passed. A few kilometres into this section and we would loathe when a car, or worse, a truck passed. The passing vehicle left a pall of putrid red dust in its wake, making it impossible to continue, or risk going over the edge of a cliff. There was no respite for your lungs either. You had to cop it. Granted, Michael, Glen and I had booked this tour at the last minute and so were a little unprepared. We should have brought handkerchiefs, but given we did not have such a luxury we had to put up with the thick red dust coating our teeth and throat.

Out along the edge

Riding along the hot and dusty road was like riding the path to the gates of Hades itself. About three quarters of the way through it, my chain came off and I was thinking I would have to walk for a good while before the bus caught up with me. Fortunately for me, Vinnie, an Irish guy on our bike-ride, was a bit more mechanically minded than I. He had the chain back on within a couple of minutes and I was off again. I felt a bit stupid, having not paid attention to my dad as a kid. Thinking it was never going to end, we arrived at the Red Mountain Balcony, marking the end of the dusty stretch, but more importantly it gave a fantastic view of the Coroico Valley, with the town of Coroico in the distance beautifully nestled on the side of a mountain.

We waited here for the rest of the group and the bus. We were that parched that our tongues felt and resembled that of our shoes. After twenty minutes the bus arrived and so I was able to quench what seemed an unquenchable thirst. Martin informed us that it was about another 8km to the end of the road. Having heard this news, we were all eager to set off, and thankfully we did. The road began to wind in a welcome descent leaving the putrid dust flats for a more manageable meandering trail. I negotiated a couple of fords, drenching my boots in the process, before approaching the last hill. Buoyed by the approaching finish line, I put some extra effort into my riding. Going quite quickly down the hill, I passed a chap on the side of the road with a bike at his feet. He was imploring me to stop. Visions of being mugged, or worse, by a Bolivian cyclist feigning to need assistance, I hurtled headlong down the path ignoring the shouts of "AMIGOOOH! STOP!"

Before long, I had arrived in the town of Yolosa. Riding through Yolosa was like walking into a saloon in the American old west. The locals all stared at me, and despite the presence of some gringos this did not reassure me. But perhaps what was more peculiar was the lack of fellow bike-riders. Where could they all have possibly gone? I certainly wasn’t in the lead, and there were other riders who weren’t too far behind me. Some British tourists in the town told me that this was where the ride finished, but I was in disbelief for none of my group were anywhere to be seen. Racing thoughts and retracing my steps. “What if the crooked Bolivian cyclist was actually Martin’s assistant? OOPS!” I turned on my heels and began walking my bike back up the hill.

Envisioning a long bike ride back to La Paz, it wasn’t too long before the bus greeted me. Who should be accompanying him but the sinister Bolivian cyclist. For the next five minutes, I apologised profusely to the man as he lead me back down through Yolosa and then down a driveway to where the remaining bikes were. As it turned out, I had missed out on the last 100m metres of the ride. The last 100 metres involved hurtling down a goat-track, through a field, and then to a resort at the bottom. I had bypassed this, and literally had done a loop to the other side. So, it wasn’t as bad a gaff as what I thought it might have been. I entered the resort and rejoined Glenn, Michael and the rest of our Coroico Comrades. After recounting my tale, they all had a good chuckle. My face was caked in a layer of dust and dirt, my eyes were irritated to a red, rheumy pulp and my thirst was insatiable. I was so thirsty that I couldn’t bear to even look at the meal of spaghetti bolognaise that was set before me, much to the chagrin of the proprietor.

After admiring a couple of macaws and subsequently cleaning myself up as best I could, we boarded the bus, for perhaps the most frightening part of the day’s adventure. There was only one way in and out of Coroico, and that was back up the Death Road. As dusk approached, this was a little disconcerting. It was one thing to negotiate the road in the light… but in the dark was another proposition altogether. The worst part of it all was that your lives were in the hands of another. If the bus driver decided to go over the edge then as they say back home “you were a gonna”. At least when on your bike, if you went over the edge chances are, to some degree, it was your fault, but at least you were in control. The only saving grace as darkness took hold was that we could not see over the edge of the road. Our driver navigated the Death Road successfully, and the start of the sealed section was met with an enormous cheer. We arrived back in La Paz shortly after.

The three of us were absolutely shattered, but we quickly showered and set off to meet the rest of our Tucan Team to relay our adventure and catch up on the events of their La Paz orientation tour. Dinner was at the Marbella restaurant in downtown La Paz. We arrived to the applause of the group. Jane had requested of us the previous night, "Please don’t die!" Such was the faith of the rest of our group. An excited meal recounting our day and so too we learned about the relaxing orientation tour the rest of the group had done. I made the mistake of asking Margaret what she had done, and then a Helen piped up and said. She had her hair done, didn’t you notice. Doomed from the start! Perhaps I should have gone over a cliff after all. I certainly had gone over head first with that question. Our Friday night in La Paz was an early one and a little sad, for we had to say our goodbyes to Fiona and Paul. Two members of the Cusco Crew were gone. After our farewells we headed to the hotel to allow the old body some time to recover from the day’s physical exertions. Tomorrow would be another action packed day. We had an excursion arranged to La Paz’ Valle de la Luna and also to the peak of Mt Chacaltaya which stands at a gasping altitude of 5,400 metres. (16,200 feet)

Puno, Peru to La Paz, Bolivia - Altitude: 3,800 metres

"I’m gonna go out to the country and get myself some peaches…"

PEACHES – The Presidents of the United States

The striking teachers of Peru did not stop us leaving this time. Our bus to the Bolivian border was waiting for us conveniently just outside the hotel. From Puno, it was to be an approximate three hour journey to the Bolivian border town of Copacabana. From there we would be swapping buses in order to travel the remaining three hours to La Paz. The bus journey went without incident and offered even further spectacular view of Lake Titicaca, particularly as we approached the Bolivian border. Despite the previous night’s antics the Cusco Crew were in great form and there were only but a few tell-tale signs of hangovers.

The Peru/Bolivian border was unlike no other border I’ve seen. It was extremely crammed with locals selling souvenirs. We exchanged some money at the Cambio, relieving ourselves of our remaining Peruvian Soles and exchanging them for the Boliviano (or Boli for short). Bolivia being the poorest of South American nations has a currency weaker than a gringos stomach.

Gringo to Boliviano Conversion

• 1 US Dollar – 7 Bolivianos
• 1 Aussie Dollar – 4 Bolivanos
• 1 British Pound – 10 Bolivianos

We visited the Peruvian Immigration office first and obtained our exit stamps without any problems whatsoever. Walking up the sloping roadway Margaret and I kept our eyes pealed in search of the Bolivian Immigration office. We were keen to beat the queue, as a number of tour buses had also arrived at the border shortly after us, so we quickened our pace. We found the office eventually and it would appear in Bolivia, the early bird does not necessarily always catch the worm. There was certainly no queue, and we were seen to straight away. On inspecting our passports, the Bolivian officer demanded a 10 Boli entry-tax from the both of us. In our heart of hearts we knew something was awry and despite protesting, the officer remained quite steadfast. "Diaz Bolivianos, por favor!" We reluctantly handed over the money despite it being just over 2 Australian dollars each.

As we left the immigration office, a queue had formed and we relayed our story to a number of other tourists. They seemed to be in the know, and informed us that corruption amongst Bolivian immigration officials was quite common and that no taxes were necessary in crossing borders. We determined from a few English tourists, after they had had their passports successfully stamped, that indeed UK passport holders* were not required to pay an entry tax. Well, Margaret and I were peeved. In we went back into the office, jumping the queue that now stretched a good way outside and demanded our money back. After making us wait several minutes, and the officer feigning an important conversation with one of his colleagues, the officer fished our money out of the drawer and returned it to us. His only words to us were "PROXIMO!" which essentially means next time. Next time, we shan’t be as gullible I thought, you cheeky bugger. We left the Bolivian immigration office with a sense of accomplishment after reclaiming our whopping ten Bolivianos. It was soon quelled though, when I gave thought to the currency being counterfeit. A few hours later after doing some further reading about Bolivia in our Footprints South American handbook, I laughed when the text warned to be wary of corrupt Bolivian immigration officials.

* So why was an Australian and his Irish partner travelling on a UK passport? Well, for one thing, both Margaret and I were both born in the UK and while embracing our new nationalities since, we learned that travelling in South America was so much easier on UK passports than our Australian and Irish. UK passport holders required no visas whatsoever for any country. This was particularly beneficial for entering Paraguay. Australia does not have a Paraguayan embassy and given Margaret and I were in Sydney at the time of booking our trip, it would have been an extremely expensive and awkward exercise in obtaining one.

The remainder of our Tucan Group had no problems obtaining their Bolivian entry stamps, and so we were soon back on the bus for a short drive into Copacabana. Copacabana is a Bolivian holiday resort and actually has a beach on the shores of Lake Titicaca. I was sure, it wouldn’t rival Rio’s namesake, but it was surprisingly pleasant all the same, and exhibited an almost Mediterranean and Moorish feel. We had done some reading about Bolivia. Simon Bolivar established the territory and since its inception it had been on the losing side of just about every territorial conflict with its Latin American neighbours. It’s borders actually used to stretch as far as the Pacific Ocean, until the War of the Pacific, which saw Chile push back the Peruvian and Bolivian armies in order to claim the coast and the Atacama desert. Peru also took territory off Bolivia in this conflict. Bolivia were further defeated by the Paraguayans, in the Chaco War, and so too lost territory there. So the now smaller, land and lake locked country has a struggling economy, which among other things relies on mining, oil and the harvesting of the coca leaf.

We had time for lunch, so we had a meal of trout at a local Copacabana hotel. The sun was streaming down, and my Doxy stupefied skin was feeling the sting. The ordering of drinks with lunch proved to be interesting. I noticed that Peach Juice was on the menu, so I ordered one. Dany, looked at me oddly at the time, but I thought nothing of it, as it’s an expression I’m accustomed to receiving. When my beverage arrived, it was actually a dessert. Tinned peaches in juice! What I had meant to ask for was "Jugo de Durazno!", but I actually asked for "Durazno al Jugo". The difference being of course that the former was Peach Juice and the latter was Peaches in Juice. Margaret, Dany and Jo all had a great laugh at my expense. I knocked back the peaches anyway, as we were on a tight schedule. All in all, my midday snack was just … peachy.

Sprawling La Paz and magnificent Mt Illamani

With lunch finished, we hauled our rucksacks from the Puno bus to our new La Paz bound transport. The La Paz bus was much smaller than the one we had had from Puno. Like many buses in Bolivia, it resembled something out of the Partridge family, only with a much more tasteful coat of paint. The bus was quite uncomfortable as well, and miraculously I managed to sleep most of the journey. An hour and a half into the trip and it was time to wakeup and alight once more in order to cross the Straits of Tiquina. The Tiquina Strait is a small channel within Bolivian Lake Titicaca, and the only means of crossing is via ferry. While the bus was carried across on a transport ferry, our tour group all flocked into a small, unstable boat. When crossing the strait we were unsure of whether the boat hauling our bus or the boat carrying us would be the first to sink. By sheer Bolivian luck, both bus and tour group successfully negotiated the strait. We arrived on the other side of the strait before the bus, so it was time to explore the small town square of San Pablo, which is situated sleepily along the Straits of Tiquina. We didn’t have too much time to explore, but the most interesting feature for me, was some sort of Bolivian military monument. It showed a soldier being cleft by an axe. The sculptor even had the artistic flare to include quite a lot of blood and gore in the soldier’s wound. Fantastic!

The bus arrived for us, and so too did the relief in knowing that our luggage was not resting at the bottom of Titicaca. I slept for the majority of the journey to La Paz although I did wake up on a number of occasions to enjoy the views of the ever approaching Bolivian Andes. We passed through some poor farming communities before arriving at the fastest growing city in South America, El Alto! El Alto is a shanty town that is burgeoning with activity and is undergoing a population explosion. The poorer citizens of La Paz and indeed the outer lying farming areas of Bolivia are converging on El Alto to make something of themselves. The streets are narrow, jammed with traffic, and the buildings are ramshackle, roofless, brick dwellings stacked precariously atop of one another. El Alto overlooks La Paz at an altitude of 3,800 metres, and provides for some magnificent views of the sprawling capital city in the valley below. Our panoramic view also extended to the majestic, snow-laden mountains of Illamani, Huanya Potosi and Chacaltaya. We stopped for a photo during the descent from El Alto into La Paz. Despite the poverty within La Paz, it would still have to reside in one of the most picturesque settings. From El Alto, it must have taken at least another hour to negotiate the bustling streets of La Paz given that it is effectively just one huge flea-market and the largest at that in the world. Our hotel, the Hotel Senorial Montero was right in the city centre and was surprisingly modern. Arriving in La Paz marked a milestone in our journey across the South American continent, and so it was time again to farewell a number from the Cusco Crew. Over the next few days we would also be welcoming five new people to the tour.

That night we ventured out as a group to have dinner at the Tambo Colonial hotel restaurant, where we met one of our new tour group members. Enter Kim, a British woman in her mid-late forties and now residing in Adelaide, Australia. Dinner at the Tambo Colonial Hotel was very nice for most of us. Kim didn’t last long though. After literally flying into La Paz that morning, the altitude had taken its toll, so she left shortly into the meal to gain some much needed rest. Paying the bill at the restaurant was akin to a bizarre Bolivian dance. Granted, it’s always difficult accounting for the meals and drinks of a large tour group, but this particular restaurant had overcharged us quite a bit. Given that all of us had put in a healthy 10% tip (which seemed to be almost mandatory in Latin America, whatever the quality of the service), we were still short about 100 Bolis. After much reluctance and frustration from a number of us, including Dany, we paid the outstanding amount. We had been fleeced yet again.

After dinner we returned to our hotel. While the majority of the group had an 11am La Paz orientation tour with Dany, the following day, three intrepid, somewhat insane members of the Cusco Crew had elected for an 8am start in order to participate in a mountain bike ride along the most notorious road in Bolivia: “The Death Road