The Cherry on Top: Colombia

We certainly kept our wits about us when crossing ‘one of the most dangerous check-points in South America’. Thankfully, we made it in daylight, so the whole experience was far easier than we had anticipated. After getting our exit stamps from a bizarre guy in a Hawaiian shirt, doodling cubes, we gave practiced answers to questions about our trip motives- not just to party, not just to party- and changed the rest of our dollars into Colombian Pesos, so felt like millionaires again. Until we ate frankfurters for dinner. Despite a comeback of the reclining seat and working toilet, our bus journey from Ipiales to Cali wins the award for the most uncomfortable to date.  Soph, a rookie to the South American delicacies of mercado pork & guyanabana juice, couldn’t quite stomach the sharp turns coupled with the obnoxiously loud, violent films that are classic of the buses here. A few plastic bags full, the team were running on no sleep upon arrival in Cali. The next couple of days rolled into a dizz of hot pillows, Adrian Mole and plain pasta. Unfortunately the market food had its affect on Eva too, so Anna took herself on a very obscure city tour and bought in the groceries for the two others, tossing and turning in the room. Even after the respite period, things weren’t looking up for Soph. We took it upon ourselves to locate and visit the closest doctors in town to make sure the malaria tablets were doing their job and that Soph’s ambivalence towards the usual travel clinic appointment hadn’t punished her. Following directions from the receptionist at our hostel, we turned up to some private health offices and started telling the man behind the desk in a nice suit about our friend’s stomach trouble.  He called in his son, who came straight from a work-out session to inform us that we were definitely in the wrong place and that we needed to call our own insurance company. Lack of help from the offices across the pond, a taxi driver took us straight to the hospital, and somehow, we found ourselves in A and E. From trying and tragic, our ten hour day in the hospital became a ridiculously laughable experience. Poor Soph was subjected to awkward analysis, a blood test and two drips. Eva and Anna lounged by her side in drip-waiting rooms with a friendly Colombian bunch who made us see light in the situation. Soph hydrated to bursting point, we were all ready to move on. Just a couple of hours up the road, we paid Buga a visit because of a tip-off about a hostel/bakery/brewery. It was a perfect solution to re-cooperation; we drank and ate through the money we’d saved from our three days of being hermits without even having to leave the hostel.

 Next, to Salento.  Right in the heart of Colombia’s Zona Cafeteria, Salento was a haven. We resided in a renovated coffee plantation set aside bright green mountains as far as the eye reached, and most importantly- unlimited free coffee. We felt as if we’d stepped back in time: playing bar games with the gauchos, sipping rum in saloons full of framed horse photos. Inspired by the sombreros and ponchos, we took out our own horses for the day to explore the steep trails through the surrounding mountains.

So steep in fact, that one of the horses took a tumble in the mud. Not a bead of sweat broken by our gaucho guide, we safely trotted back to town in time to wash the mud splats from our calves and head out for a delicious dinner of baked trucha (trout) at one of the local eateries. Bellies full, we went to bed excited for the plantation tour we had booked for the next morning.

The tour was led by an old East End chappie who’d retired to Colombian hills who, true to stereotype, could talk for Britain. We learnt about not only his process of cultivating and growing but also about coffee all around the world, his business ambitions and the many different roof structures he went through before finding the perfect one ‘here today’. We watched the coffee transform from bean to cup and enjoyed a brew of tinto whilst the afternoon sun split its rays between the banana trees. The guide invited us back to his house for sunset, so we bought ingredients for a hostel group meal and cooked steaks on an open fire after watching the sky turn pink over the plantation.

It was for this reason that we over-stayed in Salento and therefore left ourselves a total of three hours in our next destination, the city of Medellin. Home to Pablo Escobar in his hay day, the little we saw of the city (a journey from the bus station to the airport) seemed now, clean and friendly. We wished we had a little more time when we whizzed past the groups of locals eating dinner up by the mirador with an entire view of the sprawling city. Alas, it was time to catch a flight up to the Caribbean coast.

 Another long journey behind us, we arrived to Cartagena and immediately smiled. Five steps from our hostel, the plaza was bustling with people, lights and music. We sampled some of the town’s best street food- and, after frequent visits, came to make very good friends with the girl manning this particular stand- and chucked to the side our jeans and llama jumpers. Cartagena was hot. So hot that the obviously thing to do manana was to roam around the old town in the heat of the day. We couldn’t have looked less glamorous with sweat pouring down our backs in fashion boutiques, taking a five minute time-out in any air conditioned establishment we came across. Nonetheless, the city is absolutely beautiful. (We put dibs on our favourite ivy-strewn mansions for future purchase.) A return to bizarre hostel headquarters for a much needed rinse and then back to burrito girl for Round Two. We liked this city.

 Soph’s last day really creeped up on us. What with the whole hospital diabolical and mountain frolicking, we had only twenty-four hours to get her toes dipped in the Caribbean Sea. Playa Blanca, the usual day-trip for tourists was out of our price range, so we scoured the guide books for alternative options and made our way to a ‘quintessential fishing village’ fifteen minutes out of the city. Deemed far too dangerous by our taxi driver, who we believed after our car was chased by guys trying to sell us drugs, we ended up spending the day on the stretch of beach in front of all the high rise hotels. It was… alright! We ate a shot glass worth of ceviche each and bought fresh lemonade in exchange for a day’s sunbed. Until, of course, the clouds began to loom. Our last night as a trio was spent indulging in quirky cuisine and making friends on the curb who convinced us to stay up and share trip anecdotes. A casual airport goodbye the next morning was demonstrative of Soph’s whole time with us: a short-lived pleasure.

A duo for all of four hours, Anna and Eva checked into a different hostel in order to cram in sunbathing hours by the pool before another reunion with friends from home. Inevitably, the night had a detrimental effect on plans for movement the next day, but it did mean that we could justify visiting the burrito stand once again and adopted new companions to accompany us to Costeno Beach Surf Lodge.  The secluded lodge standing to the east of Tayrona National Park was one of the best finds of our trip. The swell quite strong, we found it preferable to just wet our feet and watch the amazing sunsets from the sand banks. And so began our stretch of sleeping in hammocks.

Massages, rum and cards behind us, from Costeno we were able to explore what the protected area of the coast had to offer. Tayrona National Park was stunning in its synthesis: from the dense rainforest to the giant boulders set amongst the clearest, turquoise water. For once the hike part was actually a pleasure. But, with somewhere beautiful, what is there always have next door? Over-priced restaurants. Despite two members of the group- not mentioning any names- having been warned about inflated prices in the park, we didn’t think to bring any supplies with us. So obviously, beer took precedence over water and instead of admitting defeat, we all ate full meals at the restaurant that took Visa and inevitably had to cut our trip short by a night, pockets empty. Another night at Costeno and it was time to settle our bill there- a huge problem that could only be resolved by cutting into a cute, little teddy bear. Long story.

Next, onto Taganga, just in time to catch the Colombia vs Peru football match. Kitted out with shirts, we drank and cheered with the locals who blew their horns every time Colombia got the ball. Their national pride glowed through that afternoon as everyone, from young kids to old women, celebrated the win. The impression we got is that it’s much more than just a ball in a net. Let’s just say, we know who we’re supporting in the World Cup... 

And from here on out is a tale of goofy dancing and more goodbye meals as Anna’s trip time also came to a close. Seeing as we hadn’t been apart for more than a day over six months, it felt almost surreal as she pulled away in a mini-van, bags bursting to the seams with all Eva’s gifts to take home. Goodbyes had to be kept brief because as you all probably know, there has been far too much to try and round up. Just a really tight squeeze and a, ‘Take care of yourself’ said everything she needed it to.

And that’s the end of one saga. 

Ecuador Inc. Special Feature: The Jungle Blog

 Ecuador really did have a hard act to follow. After our stint in Mancora we were  all so chilled we could barely lift our bags. Or do up the top button of our shorts that had been slung to the side of the room for a few days. The border crossing was little hairy. Due to aforementioned over-indulgence (we think it was food poisoning from a chocolate brownie cheesecake), Eva had been out of action all day and despite perking up in the evening enough to stomach some plain rice, there was a bit of a passing-out situation at the border. She exited Peru but failed to enter Ecuador before slumping against a wall in the border office, and therefore, blacked out in what can only be described as No Man's Land. Nothing a KFC at Guayaquil bus station can't fix though! Determined to squeeze in as many destinations as we could before Meg's departure, we headed straight back to the Pacific coast to surf town, Montanita. With one night only in town we really did not cause a raucous. We did, however, sample the region's best sushi and took a wander through the cocktail stands that our travel-tired selves couldn't quite stomach. After a morning of hitting the waves, or shall we say, the waves hitting us, we regretfully packed our bags and headed to Quito in order to figure out Meg's onward movement. It was at Quito bus station at five in the morning that we realised that her journey was never destined to be land-bound. The bus service to Colombia wasn't a safe endeavor to be done solo, so we all rejoiced when Meg booked a flight for two day's time. It also meant that she would be present for the formal friend-swap: Meg for Sophie.

Luckily Soph came baring a trip classic: the zip up hoody, so the transition wasn't as painful as it could have been. What was painful was Ecuador's idea of a tourist attraction. Mitad del Mundo, or The Equator, was slightly disappointing to say the least! Aside from the fact it is not technically the equator- they got the measurements wrong when they set up the museum- the randomness of the over-priced restaurants and insect museum was just a bit laughable. Ha ha ha- let's get the forty minute bus back, shall we?! First, a snap.

A very meaty goodbye dinner and poetry recital, Meg's last night encompassed the trip as a whole. We ate, drank, laughed, played cards and talked until we couldn't keep our eyes open any more. Unfortunately, Eva couldn't even open her's again to wave goodbye to Meg the next morning and awaited Anna's return from the airport to hear all about the early morning send-off. Safe in the knowledge that there was less of a chance that Meg was being involved in a border drug cartel, the new trio took the bus four hours south, to Banos.

Nestled between mountains, Banos is some of the best Ecuador has to offer. Essentially, the Bath of the Americas, it excels on adventure where it perhaps lacks in finesse. The baths, with a dramatic mountain-view, were pleasant until masses of kids started clambering through our legs and an old man passed out at the edge from the heat. We followed the trail through the area saddling again, matching bikes which, with an incline that toughened our thighs, led us through waterfalls and to look-out points over the valley. See left, the calm beer following a kilometre zip line which Anna's ear drum still hasn't recovered from. Yep, Eva's definitely still afraid of heights.

Horse-riding plans cancelled partly due to headaches from lively gringo bar but mostly due to foul weather conditions, we made our way back to Quito in order to start our next adventure. Killing time between picking up all our tickets from entrepreneurial, gillet-sporting Dante, and the night bus to Lago Ario, we saw a more colourful side to the capital. We splashed out on dinner in infamous street La Ronda among people far richer than us, and were serenaded throughout.
We arrived to Jamu Lodge after a ten hour night bus, a three hour wait over breakfast, a three hour mini bus transfer and a three hour boat ride. When the torrential rain relented towards the end of the boat ride, hundreds of butterflies began to spread their wings and monkeys jumped out from their hiding places. This time, travelling so far really had brought us into another world. The first canoe trip, with our guide already bird-calling from the tip of the boat, was just a taster of what we were to expect from the three days to follow.

Aside from tonnes of wild-life spotting- the majority of our time was spent aboard the canoe, meandering through the Amazon- we spent an afternoon with one of the many village communities along the river. We made yuca bread from from plant to dough with the abuela of the community, and ate it with our somewhat grated fingers alongside homemade fish broth and pineapple jam. We also paid a visit to the local medicine man: Tomas the Shamen. He described his lengthy trips on ayahuasca and then asked for some volunteers for a demonstration on pain-relief.

Clearly, there was nothing better for Eva's lower back pain than a vigorous whipping with huge forest stinging nettles! A boat ride back full of concern over the lumpy effects of the treatment, we made it in time to catch the river dolphins on their trip upstream and spent our last night swimming whilst the sun subtly set over the lagoon.

We were very sad to pack up all of our damp belongings from the lodge because however much we had seen, we wanted to stay so much longer. And, we were nervous about the damp smell spreading through our bags on the long return journey. Just a pit-stop in Quito for a bag of breakfast goodies, we hopped on the next bus to Otavalo and all agreed the past day of travelling that we'd been dreading could have turned out a lot worse. An evening diet solely of cocktails and guacamole, we hung out our gladrags on the terrace of our hostel that already felt more like a home.

Otavalo is famous for one thing: the Saturday market which, with bags of souvenirs left to buy, we were not about to bypass. Unfortunately, we couldn't pocket the cages of puppies and kittens also for sale despite the fact our hearts were melting more than our sun lotion in that early morning heat. A sufficient amount of dollars spent, we were satisfied to continue up to Colombia with quite a bit more extra weight over our shoulders and something amazing ticked off the bucket list: the Amazon.

Bright Lights and Lost Cities: Peru

The 'entertainment' on the bus ride into Peru didn't serve as the best introduction... For those of you who've seen Mel Gibson's Apocolypto you'll understand. We arrived in Arequipa and didn't mind too much getting ripped off by the taxi driver- he gave us quite an informative tour of the colourful city and also, we thought the exchange rate was more favourable for the first couple of days. Therefore, our kind of cool, kind of empty and weird accommodation, and tour to Colca Canyon seemed really cheap! A 2.30am start and the realisation that we'd left two of our park entrance tickets at home were redeemed by dawn. We entered the region via a Vicuna Park (think of a deer crossed with a llama) and by 9 in the morning, we were watching condors soaring above a canyon that was a kilometre deep. We've found that preparing snacks always takes precedence over sleep, so we managed to opt out of the group lunch at a standardly over-priced buffet and lay out on the grass with avocado sandwiches....right outside the restaurant. Classy. Especially cutting into (and finishing) a whole block of cheese with a rusty penknife. Didn't make tonnes of friends on that tour. Apart from the birds, of course.

Not quite a condor but certainly worth the photo fee. In fact, it seemed that splashing out was truly on the agenda that day. After experiencing much envy throughout our trip- we'd heard tales of post-dinner whiskey and on-board bingo games- we decided to treat ourselves to a ride on a 'cama' bus to Cusco.

We didn't get whiskey. We didn't get bingo either. But we were extremely impressed with the on-board  service; little did we know that from then on we would get pretty accustomed to being attended to by our very own bus hostesses! What better place to celebrate a friend's birthday morning than stretched out (only a little more than usual) on Transporte Executivo and sipping cortados in a 5 star hotel on the sqaure, deciding whereabouts we would stay during our time in Cusco. Unfortunately, our luxury ended there.

Witness right: Budgeting. We knew it was right for us from the get-go: no running water, therefore no flushing toilet, and an available room with two single beds. Perfect, we thought, let's just share! A day or so later, we began to realise this was a bad decision. Three days later, we were sleeping in shifts. And the damp had started to really affect us... Meg, suffering especially, was bedridden, so we had to push back our trek date a couple of times. What a shame for Anna & Eva that postponing meant they were obliged to attend large hostel party dressed as a papaya and a pineapple. Meg seemed somewhat glad that she didn't have to join them as 'Kiwi'.

Mostly recovered from damp-sickness and indulgence as exotic fruits- they really know how to have fun- we finally set off on our 'Jungle Trek', of which Machu Picchu would be the end goal. Glad to have our favourite Mancunian companions in wing, we were optimistic. But Day 1 started on slightly rocky ground. Getting the cheapest tour around does, obviously, have its drawbacks. We can handle ambiguous meat and meandering mini-bus journeys, but bikes with no brakes wasn't exactly ideal. Even less ideal was that despite stopping at three bike store rentals along the way (they don't book things in advanced here, which became even more apparent later), there weren't enough bikes to go round. The guide appointed a fellow tour member to lead the way, who fell off his bike half-way through, so we spent the day stopping at every new town, wondering if that was the destination.

After the road accident, we were one friend down. The lack of brakes hit home for her when trying to avoid said fallen 'group leader'. A fit and healthy foursome, we turned down the optional zip wire (skydiving is cooler and we've done that) and braved the seven hour walk. Described by the commission-friendly guide as a 'busy, dirt road', we were pleasantly surprised to be trekking alongside a waterfall, and then following train tracks through the jungle for the majority of the day. 

Restraining on complaints about foot ache that night, we got to bed early, knowing full well that our feet would have to endure a lot more, starting at 4am the next morning. We climbed 1,768 steps. When we got to Machu Picchu, we were just about alive enough to watch the sun peak over the mountains and see all the birds begin to stretch their wings. We then ate our picnic at Machu Picchu and, attempting to re-cooperate before another trek we'd roped ourselves into, had a nap on Machu Picchu. With tickets to climb the actual mountain in hand- very, very ambitious decision in the tour office- we thought we should push ourselves that little further and mustered up the courage to tackle another incline. We reckon we got about a quarter, no let's say a third of the way up, stopped at a view-point for a chocolate bar and stumbled back down to find Meg painting a picture of the mountain instead.

Exhausted, but ecstatic- we'd accomplished one of our main trip goals. We trekked through the jungle and climbed bloody Machu Picchu and the tour agency couldn't even complete their ONE task- booking our return train. 'Girls,' said Jergen, 'there has been a little problem.' He suggested that instead, we stay an extra night and catch the 5am train back to Cusco. Oh, we went all 'Na-ah', bitch-fit on him. In South America, when threre's a will, there's a way. Because we'd kicked up such a fuss, when a First Class train pulled up to our platform, we thought we'd been spoiled for the agency's miss-conduct. Then another train pulled up on our right.

Well-rested after another night in Cusco, this time in our own beds, thank god, we headed to Huacachina the next morning. We like simple places, so we knew we'd reached a winner when we saw that the only bar in town was called 'Huaca-fucking-china'. After so much time in the bustling city, and so much time on our poor little feet, we relished in the relaxed atmosphere that Banana Hostel offered us. Before even checking in, we were poolside with a beer. That night, we trundled up to the top of the sand dunes in order to watch the sunset fall over the lagoon. 

People go to Huachachina for two things: to climb the sand-dunes for sunset and to launch themselves down them upon a piece of wood. We went sand-boarding! We were picked up in a futuristic buggy and driven at quite a speed up, down and through the dunes. It felt like we were all racing teammates in a video game. Sand-boarding was equally exhilarating. With little to no instruction, we were pushed between the legs of our guide down half-pipes made of sand. That night, we all were emptying sand out of the strangest of places and comparing the bruises on our thighs.

From the wooden shacks at Banana, to a homely apartment with a sea view. We arrived in Lima very in need of a washing machine and a home-cooked meal. Like spoiled kids arriving home from university, we received such a warm welcome and were immediately treated as part of the family at Dick and Anita's.

Residing in the plush suburbs, we had a very different city-stay to usual. We were recommended to art exhibitions round the corner, ate in fancy Italian restaurants and even took a visit to a top-notch Peruvian school. A very convenient place for Eva to get her mosquito bite drained, obviously. Our hosts directed us to the Circuito Magico del Agua and again, we got more than we bargained for. Who'd have thought we'd be so lucky as to witness the opening ceremony for the International Junior Weight-Lifting Championships?! Corr.


Very reluctant to leave our pad- we'd stayed an extra night even though our hosts left for holiday in order to catch up with a special friend from Argentina- we thought it was probably time for us to start worrying about Meg's flight home. We needed to head north, pretty sharpish. With fully-recovered, trusty Mancunians saving our beds in Mancora, we would undertake the longest bus journey of our trip so far.

The Kokopelli hostel chain earned itself the title of our favourite upon arrival in beach town, Mancora. It was bliss. Despite Eva's second bout of bed bugs, we spent the time completely relaxed, doing what we love best: absolutely nothing. We discovered some incredible desserts and tried our hand at pool volleyball, much to the amusement of the much-more-active-than-us Loki hostellers. Everything was perfectly within reach. We spent our evenings sampling the region's ceviche with the waves lapping at our feet. A perfect close to Peru.

I Don't Boliv'ya!

Curling up through the mountainous roads, we approached the highest city in the world, Potosi, but didn't linger. A little shakey and claustrophobic after just the bus ride, the city's main attraction of exploring the dangerous mines didn't really sound attractive to us- setting off explosives is just pushing our luck when we're tying our bags to our legs on buses now. We've been lucky in Bolivia though, no scams or thefts to report of, just some carelessness. Leaving the laptop charger plugged in at a hostel wasn't exactly conducive to blog-writing. Apologies about that.

First stop: the white-washed, previous capital, Sucre. At an elevation of 3000 metres, we stumbled upon a hostel that should have been much out of our price range- it felt like we were parading around a villa- but managed to get a bed for just four pounds each a night. The issue, however, when everything is so cheap, is that you buy more. Much more. Purchasing new bags was a must in order to carry all of our new things around. Guys, llama memorabilia just doesn't get old. Everything looks better with a llama on it. Surprise, surprise, we also indulged in food. Nursing a hangover after a cheesy gringo bar crawl, we ganged up with a bunch of like-minded foodies and bought the freshest veggies and hunks of meat from the Mercado Central. Hands-down the most epic South American BBQ to date.


Nothing like a good spot of outdoor activity to blast away the cobwebs of two late nights. Thankfully, we were just about stable enough to haul ourselves onto some lovely Bolivian stallions and while away the afternoon trotting through the hillside. Some riders were more lucky with their horses than others... We all gave Anna a wide berth- her horse was a biter for sure; Natasha brought up the rear, riding a mother with new foal following alongside. With little to no English from the guide, we attempted to translate to the group his explanations of the Andean plains, and were entrusted to lead everyone down paths that were definitely too steep to be the right way.


As standard, we stayed in Sucre far longer than we had accounted for; it was time for us to do some serious exploring. And serious it was. A fifteen hour bus ride was what it took to take us to a city like Sucre, but worse. Thankfully Santa Cruz (oddly Westernised and flashy), was just our gateway to what had somehow become a sort of trip mecca: Samaipata.

 Described in the Lonely Planet as a 'tropical paradise' where 'travelers lose themselves for days', we'd set aside a decent amount of time to discover the Bolivian wild. Put in a mini van by an old friend- having a chicken broth with a work mate from home was comforting if slightly bizarre- we journeyed for another three hours to reach this 'hippy haven'.
Well, we were certainly off the beaten track: sharing a ride with a strange bunch of locals who nestled kilos of coca leaves in between their feet. The welcome that we received at our hostel in Samaipata was among the most warm. Really, it didn't feel like a hostel at all, just that we'd arrived at Cynthia's (yep, on first name terms right from the get-go) house for a glass of wine and to play with her gigantic dog. "First I smoke," she said "then I clean." So she smoked and we waited.

Moved hostels the next day and were thankful for some running water and at least one indoor area because it was pissing it down. We ticked some ruins off the list and made plans to see the surrounding landscapes the preceeding morning.


Carefully following the footsteps of our
seasoned guide- 60+ German expat, Frank-
we traipsed through mountainsides of
over-grown greenery, stopping at several
points along the way to talk of many things.
Of shoes of ships, of palm tree wax... Frank, to say the least, was a nature
enthusiast. The climb that we were all sporting our walking boots for, which were satisfying to use after carrying around for so long, he just wore flip flops and shorts. We cut our way through the jungle (see Anna above) to some lushous scenes and saw, much to Eva's delight, tonnes of butterflies!

Contrary to opinion of the guide book writers, we didn't linger too much longer in Samaipata, feeling we had got our fix of exploration, and to be honest, the town was somewhat eerie. Back on the gringo trail, we swallowed the awful journey back West and stopped off at another uglier step-sister to Sucre, Cochabamba. More fun to pronounce than to spend time in, really, but we did sample some new market delights and rest our tired calves before all the dancing that would ensue in La Paz.

Party hostel snobs, we went for one of the less popular options in the city, proximity to the bus station being our main criteria, and were thankful to be able to sleep before four am on the first night. Nursing our free beers the next night, we began to question, where the hell is the party at?! So we chose to hit up friends in the more happening establishments and swiftly realised that really, we were no better than those dickheads who crawled back in after sunrise. The next couple of days followed a similar pattern: playing surreal games of pool with Israelies who had also, had no sleep and scouring the stores for some more off-the-wall purchases. We made sure to get a good night's rest before cycling The Death Road, though. Very important for hurtling down cliff-edges at 60km an hour.

On our penultimate night, we actually had an excuse to celebrate. Meggy turned twenty-four! We got dolled up- as far as travelling attire permits- and treated ourselves to the number one, yes, the number ONE restaurant on TripAdvisor.
 As the birthday girl, it was only customary for Meg to be the one to sample the renowned llama steak. Slightly blasphemous when three of us round the table were wearing llama jumpers but hey-ho, Meg described it as tasting like a weird turkey. In-keeping with the refined activities of the night, we visited La Paz's answer to a jazz bar that wasn't exactly jazz but fun all the same, and gave ourselves a pat on the back for being able to remember the taxi-ride home this time.

On-wards and upwards, it was time for us to start crossing into Peru, via Lake Titicaca. We did wonder how exactly our coach would cross the lake: perhaps we transfer into a boat for the rest of the way, or perhaps there's a bridge for the coach to cross? Nope, we witnessed Bolivia at its most ridiculous. See left. A bridge wasn't necessary, apparently, and instead the coach took a short ride on a raft across Lake Titicaca. Sure. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang left well behind, we resided in laid back town Copacobana (confusing, we know) before taking a trip to the Isla del Sol, right in the heart of the 'highest large body of water in the world'.  A group of eight, we basically had the island to ourselves for the night and spent the majority of the time soaking up the view from our hostel's balcony and playing card games until the sun went down. God knows what the tranquil island people must have thought whilst we screamed 'You ARE the mafia!' and drank red wine altogether in one three-bed room. With a morning dip in the lake (not for the faint-hearted...or anyone bar Eva, really) and a pleasant boat ride back, the islands were a great close to the Bolivian story-book.