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.