Some views are so stunning you would expect to pay hundreds of pounds to take them in while sipping on a beer outside your bedroom.
However, our hostel on the Isla Del Sol cost us a fiver a night.
And what a view it was.
To our right, the village of Yumani perched on the hillside; to the left, a headland revealed classic Inca agricultural terracing.
On the horizon, the snow-capped peaks of the Bolivian Andes provided the backdrop to the 8,000 sq km Lake Titicaca.
Meanwhile, along a path below us, island folk dressed in traditional Aymara clothing led provision-laden donkeys back and forth.
Titicaca is one of those places you hear about as a boy and forever snigger at its name. But I certainly never expected to visit.
At 3,800m above sea level, it´s the highest navigable lake in the world and looks for all the world like the sea as the sun glistens on its surface.
Taking a dip was irresistible and together with a cool Swedish bloke called Ale (pronounced Ally) we charged down the hillside, towels in one hand, bag of beer in the other.
In a matter of seconds, we realised the lake would have been better named Frozentittiecaca, as the icy water left us gasping for breath.
The One With The Common Sense decided enough was enough and concentrated on making like a local by hand washing some laundry in the shallows.
Ale and I persisted a while but after about five minutes were glad to retreat to the "beach" and toast our endeavours with a beer.
We spent a magical two days on the island, which had little electricity or running water (I counted only one street light).
While there were plenty of tourists, most came solely for the day and - when not enjoying the excellent Titicaca trout - we were able to feel as though we were watching our private sunsets/sunrises.
It wasn´t all lazing around, mind. We walked the length of the island and back to see some Inca ruins during a day of which the highlight was enjoying a cup of tea at the island´s highest point.
How civilised.
It was a world away from our experience on the Peruvian side of the lake.
We knew when we booked the two-day tour that it was going to involve things put on specially for tourists.
But when the people of the Uros floating islands began singing "Row, row, row your boat", it was all I could do to stop my fixed grin turning to a cringe.
When the boat motored between the reeds to the communities, we were greeted by women in bright orange and pink skirts waving from the banks.
But in spite of the "show" it was still fascinating to see how the islands were constructed.
More than 800 years ago, the Uros people - fleeing rivals - ended up at Titicaca where they constructed islands by tying reedbeds together. On top of this metre-deep root system, they piled another 2m of cut reeds, and the whole structures float on the lake´s surface.
They also used the same material to build their small homes and boats, used for fishing and shooting the local coots for food.
Nowadays they have solar panels to power their TVs and radios and supplement their income by encouraging tourists to buy handicrafts and take rides on the reed boats.
The last time I sat at the edge of a hall, hoping no-one would notice me, I was at a primary school disco.
And the "fiesta" on the island of Amantani wasn´t too far removed from that experience.
I wasn´t alone in my awkwardness. As the traditional band started playing, the tourists taking part in homestays on the island were all hovering around the edges, staring at their feet.
The women had been given traditional skirts and blouses and really looked the part.
The blokes, on the other hand, had been handed grey ponchos and - to a man - looked utterly ridiculous.
It´s fair to say the One With The Common Sense was not exactly in a party mood and had eschewed the women´s costume in favour of a poncho, meaning we looked like some sort of scruffy same-sex couple. (Of which variety, only the photos will tell).
To be fair, the band were pretty good and it was nice to hear live traditional music.
But the dancing plumbed depths not visited since Guns ´n´ Roses came on at that primary school disco (the only music the lads would dance to back then).
Each host grabbed the hands of their guests and led them, grins fixed, onto the dance floor where a large ring was formed and the crowd pranced about in a ring while holding hands.
It was a bit like New York, New York coming on at a wedding, only this lasted about an hour.
I did eventually enjoy it and busted some serious moves with Basilia, our host, later on but it was completely knackering and I was glad when it was all over.
The homestay had been an attempt to see something more of the "real" life on the lake.
Our previous homestays had been pretty successful. They are always a little bit awkward but are a nice way to experience local life while helping their economy.
However, this time around it proved a little more difficult.
Sitting on a wooden stool in the host´s dark and tiny kitchen, its surfaces lined with sacks, was brilliant.
We ate soup, followed by fried cheese and potatoes, cooked on top of a clay oven.
But I´m not sure that Basilia really had her heart in the experience.
It seemed like she´d had a rough life, her husband having abandoned her with two young children.
And I suspect she opened her home - as most of the islanders do - out of sheer necessity.
It felt as though she resented us tourists which, while totally understandable, was unlike most of the other hosts.
Mind you, it probably didn´t help when I got her name wrong and called her Agustina in front of the whole group.
We finished our trip at another island, Taquille, for more lecturing on "how the locals live".
Again it was interesting. The blokes all knit and can´t marry anyone until their prospective father-in-law is happy with their handiwork. (I´m glad I didn´t have to pass that test).
Meanwhile, the women weave lambs´ wool around thick bands of their own hair to make belts to support their husbands´ backs when carrying heavy loads.
Maybe I should mention that to the One With The Common Sense...
Friday 29 April 2011
Saturday 23 April 2011
... in the footsteps of the Incas
For such an intelligent early civilisation, you´d think the Incas would have used a spirit-level when laying a 60km path.
But every other stone on the Choro Trail, which descends from the Andes outside La Paz into the rich agricultural land of the Yungas, seemed to be a menacing, toe-stumping, ankle-twister.
And my arthritic left big toe seemed to find more than its fair share of them.
We decided to take on the three-day hike in preparation for our stab at Peru´s Inca trail to Macchu Picchu at the end of the month.
We both needed to sharpen our fitness and get used to walking at altitude.
I´m surprised we ever made it to the start, mind you, given the state of the taxi we took there.
As it rattled over the speed bumps on the road high above La Paz, its boot would flip open and them immediately and violently slam shut again.
The rest of the car didn´t seem much more stable but then it was better than the one we´d taken with sticky tape holding together the inside, or the one where the driver kept having to get out to straighten the front-left wheel.
The cab didn´t quite make it to the 4,800-metre El Cumbre, the start of the walk, so we had to finish the journey with a lung-busting 10-minute climb.
My experiment with the coca tea seems to have paid off.
While managing anything more than a couple of shallow puffs of breath was a struggle at first, the sensation soon wore off as we plunged down the mountainside´s slate path.
The path zig-zagged downwards as the mist closed in, making it look as though you could simply step off the edge of the Earth.
However, it gradually cleared to reveal a carpet of green at the base of the valley.
As we followed a meandering stream of perfectly clear water, the countryside became more and more lush. However, I was able to enjoy it less and less as my toes began to chafe.
Every step felt like it was shaving off another layer of skin as I tried to stay upright with the centuries-old path of uneven rocks sloping ever-more steeply down.
All the while, I was becoming increasingly resentful of our guide, Senero, and his seemingly endless stamina.
At only 51, his toothless grin made him look as though he might have been complaining about the roadworks when the Incas built the route.
Despite being dwarfed by his backpack like an ant under a morsel of food - and wearing only a flimsy pair of plimsolls - his short steps carried him into the distance with a relentless march.
It took a spot of emergency clipping of my long-neglected toenails and the application of a plaster at a beautyspot to relieve me of the pain.
As we set up camp for the night beside some tumbling rapids, I bathed my aching feet in the most natural of foot spas. A bit colder than the sort you´d get in Boots but sweet relief nonetheless.
There is an irritating trend among travellers to label as "trekking" what used to be called "going for a walk in the countryside".
But given I was wearing a reasonably heavy pack and would be camping for a couple of nights to complete the hike, I was willing to call this one a proper "trek".
Still, we did feel something like champagne hillwalkers given old Sendero was carrying the tent and food for us.
We had no option but to book the trip - and therefore a guide - through a tour agency because we aren´t kitted out for camping.
However, it´s impressive how many people do lug around a tent and gear as they travel the world for months on end. Their reward is added independence.
It all sounds a bit much like hard work to me, though.
I felt pretty guilty when Senero cooked us dinner and waited on us, while a lovely French couple we met had to make their own. Doubly so, when a misunderstanding meant the couple waited for ages for us to eat, not realising we´d already finished.
We turned in for the night with out tent pitched under a wooden shelter, which is probably a good job because I don´t reckon its weatherbeaten canvas would have kept out the night´s rain.
The deeper we plunged into the valley, the more verdant the landscape became.
Soon after starting out on the second day, we became surrounded by moss-covered trees and stones, while vines drooped from trees and black, scarlet and orange butterflies circled our legs.
Unseen birds piped from the trees but Senero wasn´t having any truck with my twitching and just kept marching us on.
If anything, after dropping nearly 2,000-metres on the first day, the walk got steeper on the second.
Only this time the Incas had contrived to make the path as slippery as possible with the help of the many mountain streams.
Senero didn´t seem to know much about the path´s construction but he did show us the rickety entrance to a gold mine and a woman who was building a traditional clay oven for the expected onrush of pilgrims walking the trail for Easter.
We finished walking for the day in mid-afternoon at a point with an amazing view of the valley and as night fell we watched fireflies drift towards our camp.
We both love camping but even we were forced to admit the toilets - holes in the earth with a wooden rim - weren´t the sort of place you´d want to spend 15 minutes with a cup of tea and the local paper.
Our final day saw us descend further, passing several waterfalls, until we were hacking through the sort of vegetation that would make David Bellamy feel at home.
One of our last obstacles was the "Devil´s Climb", a 20-minute walk up steep steps and then a further hour´s cilmb up a lesser gradient.
If that´s the worst old Satan can come up with, then perhaps going down that fiery staircase won´t be too bad after all. I much preferred it to the downhill parts.
With two hours left we called in on a Japanese man who, aged over 100, has apparently been living on the side of a Bolivian mountain since fleeing wartime persecution.
According to Senero, his garden keeps him self-sufficient - although he keeps several dogs which mysteriously reduce in number from time to time.
Bent as a Samurai sword, the centerian now seems to subsidise his living by renting camping spaces in his ramshackle garden to backpackers. Good news for his pets.
Under the blazing midday sun, we reached the end of the trail after a series of infuriating zig-zags down the mountainside.
Why couldn´t those Incas have just built things in straight lines?
Our final destination of Coroico styles itself as "paradise", situated as it is on the mountainside overlooking the stunningly beautiful valley that we had struggled through for three days.
There, we plunged into the hostel pool - though not before hand-washing our stinking clothes - and I finally set myself up to do a spot of bird-watching.
To my delight, I saw my first hummingbird and was able to watch it hovering beside a fruit tree for several minutes. Magical.
After a restful 24 hours, it was back to the chaos of La Paz - but not without witnessing one more natural phenomenon.
At a junction where the bus stopped to pick up a couple of extra fares, a familiar scent drifted through the window.
It turns out that so many passengers hop off at a particular corner to answer the call of nature that they have managed to make a section of beautiful open countryside smell like a gents.
Like the Incas, modern man can do some impressive things when he puts his mind to it.
But every other stone on the Choro Trail, which descends from the Andes outside La Paz into the rich agricultural land of the Yungas, seemed to be a menacing, toe-stumping, ankle-twister.
And my arthritic left big toe seemed to find more than its fair share of them.
We decided to take on the three-day hike in preparation for our stab at Peru´s Inca trail to Macchu Picchu at the end of the month.
We both needed to sharpen our fitness and get used to walking at altitude.
I´m surprised we ever made it to the start, mind you, given the state of the taxi we took there.
As it rattled over the speed bumps on the road high above La Paz, its boot would flip open and them immediately and violently slam shut again.
The rest of the car didn´t seem much more stable but then it was better than the one we´d taken with sticky tape holding together the inside, or the one where the driver kept having to get out to straighten the front-left wheel.
The cab didn´t quite make it to the 4,800-metre El Cumbre, the start of the walk, so we had to finish the journey with a lung-busting 10-minute climb.
My experiment with the coca tea seems to have paid off.
While managing anything more than a couple of shallow puffs of breath was a struggle at first, the sensation soon wore off as we plunged down the mountainside´s slate path.
The path zig-zagged downwards as the mist closed in, making it look as though you could simply step off the edge of the Earth.
However, it gradually cleared to reveal a carpet of green at the base of the valley.
As we followed a meandering stream of perfectly clear water, the countryside became more and more lush. However, I was able to enjoy it less and less as my toes began to chafe.
Every step felt like it was shaving off another layer of skin as I tried to stay upright with the centuries-old path of uneven rocks sloping ever-more steeply down.
All the while, I was becoming increasingly resentful of our guide, Senero, and his seemingly endless stamina.
At only 51, his toothless grin made him look as though he might have been complaining about the roadworks when the Incas built the route.
Despite being dwarfed by his backpack like an ant under a morsel of food - and wearing only a flimsy pair of plimsolls - his short steps carried him into the distance with a relentless march.
It took a spot of emergency clipping of my long-neglected toenails and the application of a plaster at a beautyspot to relieve me of the pain.
As we set up camp for the night beside some tumbling rapids, I bathed my aching feet in the most natural of foot spas. A bit colder than the sort you´d get in Boots but sweet relief nonetheless.
There is an irritating trend among travellers to label as "trekking" what used to be called "going for a walk in the countryside".
But given I was wearing a reasonably heavy pack and would be camping for a couple of nights to complete the hike, I was willing to call this one a proper "trek".
Still, we did feel something like champagne hillwalkers given old Sendero was carrying the tent and food for us.
We had no option but to book the trip - and therefore a guide - through a tour agency because we aren´t kitted out for camping.
However, it´s impressive how many people do lug around a tent and gear as they travel the world for months on end. Their reward is added independence.
It all sounds a bit much like hard work to me, though.
I felt pretty guilty when Senero cooked us dinner and waited on us, while a lovely French couple we met had to make their own. Doubly so, when a misunderstanding meant the couple waited for ages for us to eat, not realising we´d already finished.
We turned in for the night with out tent pitched under a wooden shelter, which is probably a good job because I don´t reckon its weatherbeaten canvas would have kept out the night´s rain.
The deeper we plunged into the valley, the more verdant the landscape became.
Soon after starting out on the second day, we became surrounded by moss-covered trees and stones, while vines drooped from trees and black, scarlet and orange butterflies circled our legs.
Unseen birds piped from the trees but Senero wasn´t having any truck with my twitching and just kept marching us on.
If anything, after dropping nearly 2,000-metres on the first day, the walk got steeper on the second.
Only this time the Incas had contrived to make the path as slippery as possible with the help of the many mountain streams.
Senero didn´t seem to know much about the path´s construction but he did show us the rickety entrance to a gold mine and a woman who was building a traditional clay oven for the expected onrush of pilgrims walking the trail for Easter.
We finished walking for the day in mid-afternoon at a point with an amazing view of the valley and as night fell we watched fireflies drift towards our camp.
We both love camping but even we were forced to admit the toilets - holes in the earth with a wooden rim - weren´t the sort of place you´d want to spend 15 minutes with a cup of tea and the local paper.
Our final day saw us descend further, passing several waterfalls, until we were hacking through the sort of vegetation that would make David Bellamy feel at home.
One of our last obstacles was the "Devil´s Climb", a 20-minute walk up steep steps and then a further hour´s cilmb up a lesser gradient.
If that´s the worst old Satan can come up with, then perhaps going down that fiery staircase won´t be too bad after all. I much preferred it to the downhill parts.
With two hours left we called in on a Japanese man who, aged over 100, has apparently been living on the side of a Bolivian mountain since fleeing wartime persecution.
According to Senero, his garden keeps him self-sufficient - although he keeps several dogs which mysteriously reduce in number from time to time.
Bent as a Samurai sword, the centerian now seems to subsidise his living by renting camping spaces in his ramshackle garden to backpackers. Good news for his pets.
Under the blazing midday sun, we reached the end of the trail after a series of infuriating zig-zags down the mountainside.
Why couldn´t those Incas have just built things in straight lines?
Our final destination of Coroico styles itself as "paradise", situated as it is on the mountainside overlooking the stunningly beautiful valley that we had struggled through for three days.
There, we plunged into the hostel pool - though not before hand-washing our stinking clothes - and I finally set myself up to do a spot of bird-watching.
To my delight, I saw my first hummingbird and was able to watch it hovering beside a fruit tree for several minutes. Magical.
After a restful 24 hours, it was back to the chaos of La Paz - but not without witnessing one more natural phenomenon.
At a junction where the bus stopped to pick up a couple of extra fares, a familiar scent drifted through the window.
It turns out that so many passengers hop off at a particular corner to answer the call of nature that they have managed to make a section of beautiful open countryside smell like a gents.
Like the Incas, modern man can do some impressive things when he puts his mind to it.
Thursday 21 April 2011
...on the world´s most dangerous road
It had been a while since we´d had a proper night out, so sampling La Paz´s nightlife was top of our agenda when we arrived in the city.
However, we weren´t quite expecting the 12-hour session that unfolded - nor the subsequent hangover from Hell.
We had been wandering the streets fairly aimlessly when we bumped into none other than the Ruislip Four - those legends from our trip on the salt plains.
We agreed to catch up over "a pint".
Predictably, it turned into a lengthy spell in a "British pub" (which to my disappointment didn´t serve ale), accompanied by a curry and followed by a few in the "world´s highest Irish bar" (which to my disappointment didn´t sell Guinness.)
We then fell into a peña, a bar featuring traditional music with the band and singers swinging their pants/skirts on top of the bar.
It felt a bit odd to order a beer while an enormous woman´s skirt swished about my face.
To round off the night we headed to Route 36 which, word has it, is one of Latin America´s "coolest" bars.
It´s cool alright, if by that you mean allowing rich Westerners to snort cocaine openly at their table instead of having to skulk off into the toilets.
Apparently it has to relaunch itself in a new location every few weeks to avoid the authorities, although seemingly any taxi driver can take you there so it can´t be that top secret.
Anyway, it can´t have been that cool because I didn´t end up singing at any stage - always my marker of a top night.
I stuck to the regulation cola with my rum but I can´t say it helped me stay any better focused and, having crawled into bed around 6am, I was almost completely unable to function the next day.
I´m too old for all this.
Actually, I have developed something of a coke habit lately.
One thing that´s supposed to help with altitude sickness is coca tea.
And the effect of being over 4,000m above sea level is amazing - and difficult to comprehend until you feel it.
Even a walk up a flight of stairs can leave you panting for breath, while headaches and stomach problems exacerbate a general tiredness.
So I turned to coca tea.
I don´t think there´s much chance of me getting hooked, however, given it tastes as bad as it smells. Give me a pot of Yorkshire Gold any day.
It´s hard to imagine that such an innocuous-looking leaf, sold in markets everywhere here and seen balled-up in the corner of many a local´s mouth can cause so many of the world´s evils.
We learned a bit about the plant in La Paz´s coca museum which, pointedly or otherwise, was playing an Amy Winehouse album when we arrived.
Chewed for thousands of years, it has been proven to quell the appetite and increase the capacity for prolonged hard work.
Its addictive qualities caused the Catholic Church to condemn it as an evil centuries ago.
However, once the Spanish conquistadors explained how it helped get more work out of the Inca and African slaves, the church reversed its ruling and even began cultivating it.
Today, about 90% of Bolivia´s indigenous population chew the leaf regularly and it is fairly harmless to them.
It´s only when sold by Yardies in Nottingham crack houses that the problems begin.
The museum pointed out that while Western governments concentrate on cracking down on eradicating coca crops in South America, they actually permit its cultivation on their own territory for pharmaceutical purposes.
Oh, and to make Coca-Cola.
The road into La Paz was stunning, once I had become immune to the smell of feet from the guy sitting behind me.
Looking out of the window during the overnight journey, I had been treated to a view of a sky peppered with stars which seemed to move closer as the bus wound its way along perilously high Andean roads.
Buses arrive at sunrise at the neighbouring town of El Alto - a bit like Gateshead is to Newcastle, only the locals are easier to understand - before descending into the bowl within mountains that is La Paz.
The tiny houses in the upper barrios were bathed in sunshine, while low cloud smothered the city centre below.
I like La Paz. It feels like the sort of big, dirty city you expect to find in Latin America but with a wonderful mix of Altiplano culture.
Indigenous folk in typical dress sell all manner of wares on the streets, whether cutting keys, selling sink plugs, fresh bread or bananas.
All those selling the same goods or services seem to work side-by-side.
And it so happens we chose a hostel in the barbers´quarter. There must be fifty of them within the block and all of them seemed determined to point out that my seven-month neglected barnet needed a trim and offer to do something about my ridiculous beard.
When I declined their services, they looked incredulous.
(And well they might. I had been hoping to cultivate a look of 1970s Everton goalscoring legend Bob Latchford. Instead, I look more like one half of Cockney singing duo Chas ´n´ Dave - the fat-faced half.)
I´m still not sure we did La Paz justice, failing to get about the place on foot too often.
However, we did enjoy eating with the locals in the market near our hostel.
Little diners were arranged on sloping walkways leading up to each floor and some had queues stretching out of the door.
We waited our turn at one of the busier kitchens and, finding no room at the slim table, took stools near the sink.
A wholesome soup, followed by a spicy mince, rice and vegetable dish, cost a total of 90p each.
However, The One With The Common Sense did have to pay the price of perching underneath the armpit of the overworked washing-up lady.
One of La Paz´s biggest tourist draws is cycling along "the world´s most dangerous road".
So named by the Inter-developmental American Bank because of the high number of fatalities it has claimed, it descends 3,500m over 64km according to my guidebook.
These days the narrow cliff-edge track is hardly used by traffic thanks to a new by-pass, so it´s mainly used by thrill-seeking mountain-bikers. It´s legacy however, can be seen in the numerous memorials set into rocks along the route.
Swaddled in regulation overalls, gloves and helmets, our group set off from the highest point of the mountain road outside La Paz.
This section is before the start of the old track - affectionately nicknamed the "death road" - and so involves freewheeling downhill over smooth asphalt.
It is quite a sensation to brake as little as you dare, while trying to keep an eye out for passing buses and trucks.
It´s a tough choice between letting fly and admiring the stunning valley scenery but for most of us the adrenaline junkie within us won the day.
After spending perhaps 10 minutes zooming down a hill that takes a car 40 minutes to climb, it was onto the old gravel road where I was glad I forked out extra for the full-suspension bike.
I was a little less gung-ho than some of the others and with good reason. One Chilean guy lost control and smacked his head on the rock face, breaking his collarbone when he fell into a ditch. At least he didn´t go over the other edge.
The rest of us managed to stay on two wheels as the mist closed in to shroud the valley, offering only the occasional glimpse of the drop below or of one of the support vans winding its way round a corner ahead.
It soon cleared, however, and we were able to enjoy the descent through the lush valley while riding under waterfalls and posing for the obligatory group photos.
I did suffer a puncture at one stage but was soon given a replacement bike.
It was great fun, especially during the last stretch when the road widened and we could shoot down a bumpy section with numerous tight turns.
We were well ready for a shower and all-you-can eat buffet by the end.
Right, all this blogging has made me a bit light-headed. I{m off for another cup of that coca tea...
However, we weren´t quite expecting the 12-hour session that unfolded - nor the subsequent hangover from Hell.
We had been wandering the streets fairly aimlessly when we bumped into none other than the Ruislip Four - those legends from our trip on the salt plains.
We agreed to catch up over "a pint".
Predictably, it turned into a lengthy spell in a "British pub" (which to my disappointment didn´t serve ale), accompanied by a curry and followed by a few in the "world´s highest Irish bar" (which to my disappointment didn´t sell Guinness.)
We then fell into a peña, a bar featuring traditional music with the band and singers swinging their pants/skirts on top of the bar.
It felt a bit odd to order a beer while an enormous woman´s skirt swished about my face.
To round off the night we headed to Route 36 which, word has it, is one of Latin America´s "coolest" bars.
It´s cool alright, if by that you mean allowing rich Westerners to snort cocaine openly at their table instead of having to skulk off into the toilets.
Apparently it has to relaunch itself in a new location every few weeks to avoid the authorities, although seemingly any taxi driver can take you there so it can´t be that top secret.
Anyway, it can´t have been that cool because I didn´t end up singing at any stage - always my marker of a top night.
I stuck to the regulation cola with my rum but I can´t say it helped me stay any better focused and, having crawled into bed around 6am, I was almost completely unable to function the next day.
I´m too old for all this.
Actually, I have developed something of a coke habit lately.
One thing that´s supposed to help with altitude sickness is coca tea.
And the effect of being over 4,000m above sea level is amazing - and difficult to comprehend until you feel it.
Even a walk up a flight of stairs can leave you panting for breath, while headaches and stomach problems exacerbate a general tiredness.
So I turned to coca tea.
I don´t think there´s much chance of me getting hooked, however, given it tastes as bad as it smells. Give me a pot of Yorkshire Gold any day.
It´s hard to imagine that such an innocuous-looking leaf, sold in markets everywhere here and seen balled-up in the corner of many a local´s mouth can cause so many of the world´s evils.
We learned a bit about the plant in La Paz´s coca museum which, pointedly or otherwise, was playing an Amy Winehouse album when we arrived.
Chewed for thousands of years, it has been proven to quell the appetite and increase the capacity for prolonged hard work.
Its addictive qualities caused the Catholic Church to condemn it as an evil centuries ago.
However, once the Spanish conquistadors explained how it helped get more work out of the Inca and African slaves, the church reversed its ruling and even began cultivating it.
Today, about 90% of Bolivia´s indigenous population chew the leaf regularly and it is fairly harmless to them.
It´s only when sold by Yardies in Nottingham crack houses that the problems begin.
The museum pointed out that while Western governments concentrate on cracking down on eradicating coca crops in South America, they actually permit its cultivation on their own territory for pharmaceutical purposes.
Oh, and to make Coca-Cola.
The road into La Paz was stunning, once I had become immune to the smell of feet from the guy sitting behind me.
Looking out of the window during the overnight journey, I had been treated to a view of a sky peppered with stars which seemed to move closer as the bus wound its way along perilously high Andean roads.
Buses arrive at sunrise at the neighbouring town of El Alto - a bit like Gateshead is to Newcastle, only the locals are easier to understand - before descending into the bowl within mountains that is La Paz.
The tiny houses in the upper barrios were bathed in sunshine, while low cloud smothered the city centre below.
I like La Paz. It feels like the sort of big, dirty city you expect to find in Latin America but with a wonderful mix of Altiplano culture.
Indigenous folk in typical dress sell all manner of wares on the streets, whether cutting keys, selling sink plugs, fresh bread or bananas.
All those selling the same goods or services seem to work side-by-side.
And it so happens we chose a hostel in the barbers´quarter. There must be fifty of them within the block and all of them seemed determined to point out that my seven-month neglected barnet needed a trim and offer to do something about my ridiculous beard.
When I declined their services, they looked incredulous.
(And well they might. I had been hoping to cultivate a look of 1970s Everton goalscoring legend Bob Latchford. Instead, I look more like one half of Cockney singing duo Chas ´n´ Dave - the fat-faced half.)
I´m still not sure we did La Paz justice, failing to get about the place on foot too often.
However, we did enjoy eating with the locals in the market near our hostel.
Little diners were arranged on sloping walkways leading up to each floor and some had queues stretching out of the door.
We waited our turn at one of the busier kitchens and, finding no room at the slim table, took stools near the sink.
A wholesome soup, followed by a spicy mince, rice and vegetable dish, cost a total of 90p each.
However, The One With The Common Sense did have to pay the price of perching underneath the armpit of the overworked washing-up lady.
One of La Paz´s biggest tourist draws is cycling along "the world´s most dangerous road".
So named by the Inter-developmental American Bank because of the high number of fatalities it has claimed, it descends 3,500m over 64km according to my guidebook.
These days the narrow cliff-edge track is hardly used by traffic thanks to a new by-pass, so it´s mainly used by thrill-seeking mountain-bikers. It´s legacy however, can be seen in the numerous memorials set into rocks along the route.
Swaddled in regulation overalls, gloves and helmets, our group set off from the highest point of the mountain road outside La Paz.
This section is before the start of the old track - affectionately nicknamed the "death road" - and so involves freewheeling downhill over smooth asphalt.
It is quite a sensation to brake as little as you dare, while trying to keep an eye out for passing buses and trucks.
It´s a tough choice between letting fly and admiring the stunning valley scenery but for most of us the adrenaline junkie within us won the day.
After spending perhaps 10 minutes zooming down a hill that takes a car 40 minutes to climb, it was onto the old gravel road where I was glad I forked out extra for the full-suspension bike.
I was a little less gung-ho than some of the others and with good reason. One Chilean guy lost control and smacked his head on the rock face, breaking his collarbone when he fell into a ditch. At least he didn´t go over the other edge.
The rest of us managed to stay on two wheels as the mist closed in to shroud the valley, offering only the occasional glimpse of the drop below or of one of the support vans winding its way round a corner ahead.
It soon cleared, however, and we were able to enjoy the descent through the lush valley while riding under waterfalls and posing for the obligatory group photos.
I did suffer a puncture at one stage but was soon given a replacement bike.
It was great fun, especially during the last stretch when the road widened and we could shoot down a bumpy section with numerous tight turns.
We were well ready for a shower and all-you-can eat buffet by the end.
Right, all this blogging has made me a bit light-headed. I{m off for another cup of that coca tea...
Friday 15 April 2011
... at the top of the world
I had been craving the chance to see a different culture since leaving Asia.
Fantastic though Chile and Argentina were, they did very much feel like they could be in Southern Europe.
But the minute you set foot in Bolivia, it really is a different world.
Like Asia, vendors line the streets selling everything from soups and hot snacks to toilet rolls and bras.
Go to the right places and you can see street butchers hacking chops from a joint, or even whole sheep - minus the head but with fleece intact - being sold from metal framed tarpaulin stalls.
And you can´t walk more than a few paces without hearing the repetitive "chi-chi bom" of rumba or reggaeton rhythms from a home, cafe or one of the many DVD stalls.
It´s also a culture full of colour as indigenous women sport thick woollen stockings, wide-arched skirts and woollen cardigans. Almost invariably, their hair is in two long plaits and topped with a straw hat or a large bowler that I can only describe as being like something a Mister Man would wear.
Around their necks, shawls of bright pink, orange, blue or red hold either the goods they are carrying to or from market or, more often than not, a tiny child.
It´s a wonder any of the people selling freshly fried crisps, popcorn, salteña pasties or fresh beans make any money, given they seem to spend all day eating their own stocks.
Sadly, poverty is clearly evident in Bolivia.
You see it in the form of little boys shining shoes for your change and elderly people begging, or enduring back-breaking jobs like road sweeing.
So it´s hard to imagine that Potosi was once just about the richest city in the world, as well as its highest at nearly 4,500 above sea-level.
If you´ve never heard of it, that´s because the once abundant stock of silver in the Cerro Rico (Rich Mountain) that dominates the town has severely depleted since its heyday in the 16th and 17th centuries.
The mine, which is said to have claimed the lives of some eight million men and boys who toiled underground in search of its rich minerals, it still in operation.
And it has become one of Bolivia´s odder tourist attractions in recent years, with dozens of people flocking each day to gawk at the grim conditions in which the miners work.
Some fellow travellers looked at us as though we had two heads when we said we weren´t going to join the tours.
But the One With The Common Sense pointed out that she has no desire to rush down a mine in Barnsley (if there are any still operating there), so why should she do so in any other country.
I´m sure it´s an interesting experience but frankly there are other things I´d rather spend my hard-earned on, particularly as there are suggestions that it´s operating more as a working museum.
If that´s true, it´s one with poor conditions for the miners, many of whom are children, according to a documentary we saw in the hostel.
Instead, we visisted a less clausterophobia-inducing museum in the building where the mine´s silver was once minted into coins for the Spanish - and eventually independent Bolivian - state.
Street food is back on the menu, in a country where people pass their time supping leisurely on fruit juice or munching on bowls of soup from metal dishes.
In Uyuni we had revelled in this fare, starting with something totally new. Think of Scotch egg but with the hard-boiler smothered in mashed potato rather than sausagemeat and then deep-fried and served with salad and spicy picante relish.
Delicious.
We enthusiasticaly went in search of more and were delighted with how both how cheap and tasty was the fare.
Only afterwards did we realise that our day´s diet had consisted of the potato egg for breakfast, a lunch of fried chicken and chips and a tea of kebab skewers, burger and chips and hotdogs - sold by teenagers raising cash for a school trip who treated us as celebrities.
Our photo has probably made the school magazine by now.
I can also report that Bolivia serves the best chips in the world and I challenge any Belgians to prove otherwise.
Thick cut, they taste like the ones my mum in the chip pan before she started doing the healthier oven-cooked alternatives.
We´ve taken it pretty easy over the last week or so and the white-washed streets and elegant squares and parks of Sucre were the perfect places to relax.
It´s Bolivia´s consitutional capital, a fact which scuppers La Paz´s claim to being the highest capital in the world - it´s only the seat of government, apparently - and Sucre retains the confident air of a first city.
Staying there for a few days allowed us to do something we´d neglected for a while... having a good drink.
Affected by the altitude, I´d been a bit worried about my dwindling capacity to put away beer but I´m happy to report I´ve regained my touch.
The minute I shunned a second civilised cup of tea in one of Sucre´s nicer bars, there was only one way the evening was going.
It ended with the One With The Common Sense and I watching a Bolivian heavy rock band at a table about a yard from the stage.
I thought they were pretty good but I´m not sure their parents shared my opinion.
Sitting at the next table, they politely applauded each song while their faces were etched with horror that their offspring could produce the sort of noise associated with The Offspring.
Staying put also gave me the chance to do some one-to-one Spanish classes.
I had been a bit worried about the four-hour marathons but I really enjoyed them.
My tutor, Fernando, listened patiently as I rattled on in stuttering Spanish about everything from the British transport system and the sad fate of the original Cavern club to political corruption and Cornish pasties.
As we chatted about the weird things I´d been eating on my travels, he told me about some local delicacies including roasted sheep´s face (which might explain the headless lambs on sale) and a soup made with a certain part of a bull.
Nicknamed Bolivian viagra, it apparently works wonders for your virility.
Though I´ve not had the chance to try that - which is probably for the best when I could be sharing a dorm with eight strangers - I did taste another local speciality.
Queso de Chancho, or pig cheese, is not made by milking the nearest sow but by boiling up a hog´s head and compressing it into a hard round, like a good cheddar.
Laced with mustard and shredded pickled onion, it made for a pretty tasty sandwich, although the texture was enough to turn the One With The Common Sense a funny colour.
More conventional fare could be found in the town´s central market, where we ate breakfast each day, along with some wholesome lunchtime soups and a rich and spicy pork stew called mondongo.
Sucre is also the location of the world´s largest collection of dinosaur footprints.
Discovered about 20 years ago by cement works employees, you can see about tracks of dozens of beasts traced across the 80 metre-high quarry wall.
Apparently the 5,000 footprints would all have been left on the same day before rain covered them in sediment.
Tectonic movements which created the Andes pushed the flat landscape upwards, meaning it looks like the huge beasts were wandering uphill.
Unfortunately, there is nothing they can do to stop the limescale eroding away but each landslip unveils a fresh set of prints underneath.
You could see casts of the footprints in the information office and the guide explained how they corresponded to different species.
The experience was topped off by cheesy lifesize models of the beasts being situated around the viewing point as dinosaur roars were piped over the PA system. Brilliant.
Fantastic though Chile and Argentina were, they did very much feel like they could be in Southern Europe.
But the minute you set foot in Bolivia, it really is a different world.
Like Asia, vendors line the streets selling everything from soups and hot snacks to toilet rolls and bras.
Go to the right places and you can see street butchers hacking chops from a joint, or even whole sheep - minus the head but with fleece intact - being sold from metal framed tarpaulin stalls.
And you can´t walk more than a few paces without hearing the repetitive "chi-chi bom" of rumba or reggaeton rhythms from a home, cafe or one of the many DVD stalls.
It´s also a culture full of colour as indigenous women sport thick woollen stockings, wide-arched skirts and woollen cardigans. Almost invariably, their hair is in two long plaits and topped with a straw hat or a large bowler that I can only describe as being like something a Mister Man would wear.
Around their necks, shawls of bright pink, orange, blue or red hold either the goods they are carrying to or from market or, more often than not, a tiny child.
It´s a wonder any of the people selling freshly fried crisps, popcorn, salteña pasties or fresh beans make any money, given they seem to spend all day eating their own stocks.
Sadly, poverty is clearly evident in Bolivia.
You see it in the form of little boys shining shoes for your change and elderly people begging, or enduring back-breaking jobs like road sweeing.
So it´s hard to imagine that Potosi was once just about the richest city in the world, as well as its highest at nearly 4,500 above sea-level.
If you´ve never heard of it, that´s because the once abundant stock of silver in the Cerro Rico (Rich Mountain) that dominates the town has severely depleted since its heyday in the 16th and 17th centuries.
The mine, which is said to have claimed the lives of some eight million men and boys who toiled underground in search of its rich minerals, it still in operation.
And it has become one of Bolivia´s odder tourist attractions in recent years, with dozens of people flocking each day to gawk at the grim conditions in which the miners work.
Some fellow travellers looked at us as though we had two heads when we said we weren´t going to join the tours.
But the One With The Common Sense pointed out that she has no desire to rush down a mine in Barnsley (if there are any still operating there), so why should she do so in any other country.
I´m sure it´s an interesting experience but frankly there are other things I´d rather spend my hard-earned on, particularly as there are suggestions that it´s operating more as a working museum.
If that´s true, it´s one with poor conditions for the miners, many of whom are children, according to a documentary we saw in the hostel.
Instead, we visisted a less clausterophobia-inducing museum in the building where the mine´s silver was once minted into coins for the Spanish - and eventually independent Bolivian - state.
Street food is back on the menu, in a country where people pass their time supping leisurely on fruit juice or munching on bowls of soup from metal dishes.
In Uyuni we had revelled in this fare, starting with something totally new. Think of Scotch egg but with the hard-boiler smothered in mashed potato rather than sausagemeat and then deep-fried and served with salad and spicy picante relish.
Delicious.
We enthusiasticaly went in search of more and were delighted with how both how cheap and tasty was the fare.
Only afterwards did we realise that our day´s diet had consisted of the potato egg for breakfast, a lunch of fried chicken and chips and a tea of kebab skewers, burger and chips and hotdogs - sold by teenagers raising cash for a school trip who treated us as celebrities.
Our photo has probably made the school magazine by now.
I can also report that Bolivia serves the best chips in the world and I challenge any Belgians to prove otherwise.
Thick cut, they taste like the ones my mum in the chip pan before she started doing the healthier oven-cooked alternatives.
We´ve taken it pretty easy over the last week or so and the white-washed streets and elegant squares and parks of Sucre were the perfect places to relax.
It´s Bolivia´s consitutional capital, a fact which scuppers La Paz´s claim to being the highest capital in the world - it´s only the seat of government, apparently - and Sucre retains the confident air of a first city.
Staying there for a few days allowed us to do something we´d neglected for a while... having a good drink.
Affected by the altitude, I´d been a bit worried about my dwindling capacity to put away beer but I´m happy to report I´ve regained my touch.
The minute I shunned a second civilised cup of tea in one of Sucre´s nicer bars, there was only one way the evening was going.
It ended with the One With The Common Sense and I watching a Bolivian heavy rock band at a table about a yard from the stage.
I thought they were pretty good but I´m not sure their parents shared my opinion.
Sitting at the next table, they politely applauded each song while their faces were etched with horror that their offspring could produce the sort of noise associated with The Offspring.
Staying put also gave me the chance to do some one-to-one Spanish classes.
I had been a bit worried about the four-hour marathons but I really enjoyed them.
My tutor, Fernando, listened patiently as I rattled on in stuttering Spanish about everything from the British transport system and the sad fate of the original Cavern club to political corruption and Cornish pasties.
As we chatted about the weird things I´d been eating on my travels, he told me about some local delicacies including roasted sheep´s face (which might explain the headless lambs on sale) and a soup made with a certain part of a bull.
Nicknamed Bolivian viagra, it apparently works wonders for your virility.
Though I´ve not had the chance to try that - which is probably for the best when I could be sharing a dorm with eight strangers - I did taste another local speciality.
Queso de Chancho, or pig cheese, is not made by milking the nearest sow but by boiling up a hog´s head and compressing it into a hard round, like a good cheddar.
Laced with mustard and shredded pickled onion, it made for a pretty tasty sandwich, although the texture was enough to turn the One With The Common Sense a funny colour.
More conventional fare could be found in the town´s central market, where we ate breakfast each day, along with some wholesome lunchtime soups and a rich and spicy pork stew called mondongo.
Sucre is also the location of the world´s largest collection of dinosaur footprints.
Discovered about 20 years ago by cement works employees, you can see about tracks of dozens of beasts traced across the 80 metre-high quarry wall.
Apparently the 5,000 footprints would all have been left on the same day before rain covered them in sediment.
Tectonic movements which created the Andes pushed the flat landscape upwards, meaning it looks like the huge beasts were wandering uphill.
Unfortunately, there is nothing they can do to stop the limescale eroding away but each landslip unveils a fresh set of prints underneath.
You could see casts of the footprints in the information office and the guide explained how they corresponded to different species.
The experience was topped off by cheesy lifesize models of the beasts being situated around the viewing point as dinosaur roars were piped over the PA system. Brilliant.
Sunday 10 April 2011
... in a world made of salt
Lying face down on a sopping bathroom floor wasn´t in the itinerary of our three-day trip around the world´s largest salt lake but that´s where I ended up.
The minute I had woken at 4am, I knew I was in trouble.
Quickly becoming aware of diarrhoea, I threw on some clothes and rushed for the dorm door.
However, a day in the back of a 4x4 under a baking sun, coupled with the effects of altitude and the pre-bedtime beers, meant my head was spinning.
I felt for the walls as I headed down the pitch black corridor but stumbled around a corner and straight into a large gas cylinder, ripping its pipe from the wall.
I´m not sure whether it was the wall, the floor or the tumbling gas bottle that connected with my head but whatever it was hurt.
After a minute or two lying dazed, I remembered my desperation and stood up, only to smack my head on the door frame. (The average Bolivian ísn´t too tall and ducking is essential).
This time I ended up in a pool of dirty water outside the cubicles, before finally clambering up to find relief without having an altogether different sort of accident.
Having heard the commotion, the One With The Common Sense instinctively knew I´d come a-cropper and proved to be something of a Florence Nightingale for the rest of the night.
Tending to my wounds - a gashed forehead, scraped nose and black eye - she also fed me rehydration fluids as I spent the next hour rushing to and from the thunderbox, banging my head several times more.
Eventually, I threw up the rehydration fluids before she put me - shivering with cold and shock and terrified of dying of hypothermia - to bed under a double cover of blankets.
Apparently, the One With The Common Sense said 10 Hail Marys and an Our Father for me and they must have done the trick because I´m still here.
Organised tours can be hit and miss but they are often the only easy way to see places.
And this was one of those occasions when everything fell into place, as we toured the area around the remarkable salt plains of the Salar de Uyuni.
Our fellow travellers were four great lads from West London (camp as a row of tents - and one was a ginger - but sound lads nonetheless), while our guide, Placido, was both fun and careful to make the experience special.
There was some controversy when the lads realised they´d paid extra for an English-speaking guide which never materialised.
The management cheekily realised they could rely on the One With The Common Sense to translate thanks to her excellent Spanish. But, if anything, it only added to the fun.
The Salar is like nothing else in the world. An expanse of white stretching for 12,000 sq km, in places it makes you feel like you´re on the North Pole.
Elsewhere, a thin layer of water covers the salt to give a perfect reflection of the distant snow-capped mountains.
Only a small area of the Salar is harvested, with workers manually shovelling salt into mounds, where it dries before being collected by trucks.
The scenery is truly spectacular but it is amazing what else tour companies can turn into attractions.
Our first stop had been the "Cemetery of Trains" - a set of sidings where old goods locos sit rusting.
You could probably find something similar outside Crewe or Doncaster but I doubt health and safety officials would allow you to clamber over the iron hulks.
Big vehicles and mild danger made for a perfect playground for us grown-up little boys and the schoolboy theme continued throughout the trip.
The Ruislip Four shared my childish sense of humour and we happily passed three days making lewd jokes, breaking wind and giggling at bed time with taxing games like "name the famous ginger".
It was hard to match the beauty of the Salar during the rest of the trip but the sheer variety of landscape in Bolivia´s high plains is remarkable.
At times reminiscent of Patagonia´s wide-open spaces, elsewhere the mountains hide huge lagoons which are dyed red, green and black whenever the wind whips up the minerals in the water.
The red-tinged volcanic landscape around some stinking, spluttering sulphuric geysers in the Reserva Eduardo Averoa makes you feel like you´re on Mars.
Up the road you can relax in a beautiful 35C thermal pool with a picture-postcard backdrop, while in other places the weather has forged volcanic lava into weird rock sculptures set amid desert.
I wasn´t the only one suffering the headaches and shortness of breath associated with being over 4,000m above sea level.
The One With The Common Sense was sick one night, while several of the lads had upset stomachs.
Despite overdosing on bung-up pills, I was still caught short on the second day and was forced to pay an open-air visit in almost certainly the most scenic spot I will ever make like a bear in the woods.
It was on the highest point of a mountains pass, overlooking a beautiful lagoon and the absudity of it all sent both the One With The Common Sense and I into hysterics when she came to check on my wellbeing.
At least I was able to hide behind a rock, however. One of the Ruislip Four - a Freddie Flintoff lookalike called Adam - was forced to blunder into a flat field to adopt a less-than-dignified crouch while at least six 4x4s rattled past.
Aside from all that, we managed to spot a bit of wildlife, completing the set of the area´s three different kinds of flamingo, while seeing a type of Andean rabbit, plenty of llama and several of their cousins the vicuña.
We also had our first taste of llama - a tender chop with the texture of beef but a stronger taste, more like lamb.
It´s amazing how the people around you can transform your experience.
So it was great for me that the Ruislip Four didn´t mind too much about having a bloke 10 years older than them in the van rather than the buxom blondes they´d no doubt been hoping for.
We all relaxed easily into football team banter and even their music taste matched ours. The One With The Common Sense has hardly stopped going on about "that lovely bunch of lads" since they presented her with a bottle of wine for being their unofficial translator.
That said, their iPods did throw up the occasional aural crime. I could handle the ironic (at least I hope it was) Boyz II Men hit.
But when the Lighthouse Family came on and they responded to my tirade about "the most offensively bland music ever made" by serenading me with Ocean Drive, I just wanted my life to end.
Even my threats to unveil my Boney M collection fell on deaf ears.
But never mind, along with Placebo - as the lads insisted on calling him - we were able to enjoy a drink afterwards and look back on great three days.
It was in stark contrast to the journey The One With The Common Sense and I had endured to get to Uyuni from the Argentinian border.
After numerous long bus rides, we relished the prospect of taking a leisurely train.
Having settled into the carriage´s comfortable seats, we sat back to enjoy the views as the train wound its way north.
However, it soon turned into an eight-hour ordeal, thanks to a group of Aussie girls.
All in their mid-twenties, they acted more like a bunch of 13-year-olds as they talked - or should that be yelled - the most vacuous tripe at each other.
If that wasn´t bad enough, they insisted on singing along to the train´s entertainment system which was blaring out "classics" such as Lady in Red, Don´t Wanna Miss a Thing and I´m Never Gonna Dance Again.
Eyes throughout the carriage were raised to the heavens as their incessant chatter increased in volume the first time they had a sniff of beer.
To make matters worse the rail company used 30 seconds of What a Wonderful World or Love Is In The Air on their adverts every five minutes.
I´ve never been a victim of torture but I imagine the experience was something akin to waterboarding.
Even my iPod could not drown it all out and our only escape was to the sanctuary of the dining car for an hour.
I was just glad they didn´t end up on our Salar tour, or I may have deliberately brained myself on that gas bottle.
The minute I had woken at 4am, I knew I was in trouble.
Quickly becoming aware of diarrhoea, I threw on some clothes and rushed for the dorm door.
However, a day in the back of a 4x4 under a baking sun, coupled with the effects of altitude and the pre-bedtime beers, meant my head was spinning.
I felt for the walls as I headed down the pitch black corridor but stumbled around a corner and straight into a large gas cylinder, ripping its pipe from the wall.
I´m not sure whether it was the wall, the floor or the tumbling gas bottle that connected with my head but whatever it was hurt.
After a minute or two lying dazed, I remembered my desperation and stood up, only to smack my head on the door frame. (The average Bolivian ísn´t too tall and ducking is essential).
This time I ended up in a pool of dirty water outside the cubicles, before finally clambering up to find relief without having an altogether different sort of accident.
Having heard the commotion, the One With The Common Sense instinctively knew I´d come a-cropper and proved to be something of a Florence Nightingale for the rest of the night.
Tending to my wounds - a gashed forehead, scraped nose and black eye - she also fed me rehydration fluids as I spent the next hour rushing to and from the thunderbox, banging my head several times more.
Eventually, I threw up the rehydration fluids before she put me - shivering with cold and shock and terrified of dying of hypothermia - to bed under a double cover of blankets.
Apparently, the One With The Common Sense said 10 Hail Marys and an Our Father for me and they must have done the trick because I´m still here.
Organised tours can be hit and miss but they are often the only easy way to see places.
And this was one of those occasions when everything fell into place, as we toured the area around the remarkable salt plains of the Salar de Uyuni.
Our fellow travellers were four great lads from West London (camp as a row of tents - and one was a ginger - but sound lads nonetheless), while our guide, Placido, was both fun and careful to make the experience special.
There was some controversy when the lads realised they´d paid extra for an English-speaking guide which never materialised.
The management cheekily realised they could rely on the One With The Common Sense to translate thanks to her excellent Spanish. But, if anything, it only added to the fun.
The Salar is like nothing else in the world. An expanse of white stretching for 12,000 sq km, in places it makes you feel like you´re on the North Pole.
Elsewhere, a thin layer of water covers the salt to give a perfect reflection of the distant snow-capped mountains.
Only a small area of the Salar is harvested, with workers manually shovelling salt into mounds, where it dries before being collected by trucks.
The scenery is truly spectacular but it is amazing what else tour companies can turn into attractions.
Our first stop had been the "Cemetery of Trains" - a set of sidings where old goods locos sit rusting.
You could probably find something similar outside Crewe or Doncaster but I doubt health and safety officials would allow you to clamber over the iron hulks.
Big vehicles and mild danger made for a perfect playground for us grown-up little boys and the schoolboy theme continued throughout the trip.
The Ruislip Four shared my childish sense of humour and we happily passed three days making lewd jokes, breaking wind and giggling at bed time with taxing games like "name the famous ginger".
It was hard to match the beauty of the Salar during the rest of the trip but the sheer variety of landscape in Bolivia´s high plains is remarkable.
At times reminiscent of Patagonia´s wide-open spaces, elsewhere the mountains hide huge lagoons which are dyed red, green and black whenever the wind whips up the minerals in the water.
The red-tinged volcanic landscape around some stinking, spluttering sulphuric geysers in the Reserva Eduardo Averoa makes you feel like you´re on Mars.
Up the road you can relax in a beautiful 35C thermal pool with a picture-postcard backdrop, while in other places the weather has forged volcanic lava into weird rock sculptures set amid desert.
I wasn´t the only one suffering the headaches and shortness of breath associated with being over 4,000m above sea level.
The One With The Common Sense was sick one night, while several of the lads had upset stomachs.
Despite overdosing on bung-up pills, I was still caught short on the second day and was forced to pay an open-air visit in almost certainly the most scenic spot I will ever make like a bear in the woods.
It was on the highest point of a mountains pass, overlooking a beautiful lagoon and the absudity of it all sent both the One With The Common Sense and I into hysterics when she came to check on my wellbeing.
At least I was able to hide behind a rock, however. One of the Ruislip Four - a Freddie Flintoff lookalike called Adam - was forced to blunder into a flat field to adopt a less-than-dignified crouch while at least six 4x4s rattled past.
Aside from all that, we managed to spot a bit of wildlife, completing the set of the area´s three different kinds of flamingo, while seeing a type of Andean rabbit, plenty of llama and several of their cousins the vicuña.
We also had our first taste of llama - a tender chop with the texture of beef but a stronger taste, more like lamb.
It´s amazing how the people around you can transform your experience.
So it was great for me that the Ruislip Four didn´t mind too much about having a bloke 10 years older than them in the van rather than the buxom blondes they´d no doubt been hoping for.
We all relaxed easily into football team banter and even their music taste matched ours. The One With The Common Sense has hardly stopped going on about "that lovely bunch of lads" since they presented her with a bottle of wine for being their unofficial translator.
That said, their iPods did throw up the occasional aural crime. I could handle the ironic (at least I hope it was) Boyz II Men hit.
But when the Lighthouse Family came on and they responded to my tirade about "the most offensively bland music ever made" by serenading me with Ocean Drive, I just wanted my life to end.
Even my threats to unveil my Boney M collection fell on deaf ears.
But never mind, along with Placebo - as the lads insisted on calling him - we were able to enjoy a drink afterwards and look back on great three days.
It was in stark contrast to the journey The One With The Common Sense and I had endured to get to Uyuni from the Argentinian border.
After numerous long bus rides, we relished the prospect of taking a leisurely train.
Having settled into the carriage´s comfortable seats, we sat back to enjoy the views as the train wound its way north.
However, it soon turned into an eight-hour ordeal, thanks to a group of Aussie girls.
All in their mid-twenties, they acted more like a bunch of 13-year-olds as they talked - or should that be yelled - the most vacuous tripe at each other.
If that wasn´t bad enough, they insisted on singing along to the train´s entertainment system which was blaring out "classics" such as Lady in Red, Don´t Wanna Miss a Thing and I´m Never Gonna Dance Again.
Eyes throughout the carriage were raised to the heavens as their incessant chatter increased in volume the first time they had a sniff of beer.
To make matters worse the rail company used 30 seconds of What a Wonderful World or Love Is In The Air on their adverts every five minutes.
I´ve never been a victim of torture but I imagine the experience was something akin to waterboarding.
Even my iPod could not drown it all out and our only escape was to the sanctuary of the dining car for an hour.
I was just glad they didn´t end up on our Salar tour, or I may have deliberately brained myself on that gas bottle.
Saturday 2 April 2011
... with a last tango in Argentina
When travelling for a long period, the prospect of spending much time in frantic, sprawling capital cities is not always a welcome one.
So the vibe in Buenos Aires came as a pleasant and unexpected surprise.
The three-hour night flight from Ushuaia had already proven quite spectacular as below us the clouds were lit up by a lightning storm.
And when the capital came into view, streetlights turning its grid system into a giant circuit board, it was staggering to see the area it covered.
Only when we approached for landing did the skyscrapers start to emerge and the city take shape.
And what a city it is.
The French and English-inspired architecture of its main avenues and cobbled streets of historic San Telmo knit with La Boca´s run-down homes to create a city greater than the sum of its parts.
Amid the poverty of La Boca, cowering under a rusting transporter bridge fit to make any travelling Teessider homesick, the pastel blue, yellow, pink and green art stores give a clue to the district´s vitality.
And around the bowl-shaped Bombonera, home to Boca Juniors football club, neighbours have daubed their walls with images of past greats such as Diego Maradona.
Behind the ground, we found a large park full of kids of all ages kicking around footballs - no doubt dreaming of being the next Lionel Messi.
Among them was one silver fox - aged 70 if he was a day - dressed immaculately in full Argentina strip and showing as much enthusiasm as the primary school kids around him.
Roaming the streets was as enjoyable as anything in Buenos Aires, which boasts the world´s widest avenue. With 16 lanes, it certainly took some crossing.
Our stay is Buenos Aires saw us bid a final farewell to The Two Anders and we chose a restaurant close to our hostel for the occasion.
A perfect steak was accompanied by live music and a couple dancing tango brilliantly (at least to my untrained eye) feet away from our table.
Their spellbinding footwork and seductive routine - conducted entirely poker-faced - made for a really atmospheric occasion.
The following night saw our two-and-a-half week adventure with the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie draw to a close and he had certainly earned his hostelling stripes.
At our base in the capital, there wasn´t space for all three of us in a dorm and so I went in a larger room upstairs.
The One With The Common Sense and her dad, however, drew the short straw, landing a dark and poky dorm next to the common area.
They were awoken at 4am one day to the sound of an English girl screaming about a rat in the kitchen. She was apparently yelling at the top of her voice that the management must promise to bring in the exterminators in the morning.
(I don´t know what she was whinging about, I´d have had it skinned and on the grill quicker than you could say "a portion of deep-fried tarantula on the side, please".)
Unfortunately, the One With The Common Sense then had to contend with two serious snorers for the rest of the night - one of them being her father.
During our Patagonian adventure, she had taken on the role of "prodder-in-chief" to stop her dad´s disconcertingly rapid rasping growl from the top bunk.
Us unfortunate room-mates had certainly endured the odd sleepless hour but one swift jab to the mattress generally solved the problem.
However, on this occasion, the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie was across the room, rather than above. She had to resort to throwing a range of missiles including a pac-a-mac, travel towel and pair of shorts, with limited effect.
Meanwhile, upstairs, I wasn´t fairing much better as an American guy below me - who had insisted on hanging around in some eye-wateringly tight underpants all day - was snoring in a kind of prolonged retch.
After about an hour, I had to resort to the old trick of dragging his pillow to one side, causing his head to loll the other way, and it finally stopped.
Unsurprisingly, freyed tempers greeted the morning but by evening we were able to share a nice drink and reflect on the success of our adventure.
We bade the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie a farewell as he overnighted in Montevideo - cue much fretting about his safety on the part of the One With The Common Sense - and we headed for a 21-hour bus ride (our longest yet) north to Salta.
At this point we discovered that the Argentine capital not only has probably the world´s widest avenue but also its biggest bus station (even bigger than Northampton´s).
It must have had about 120 bays for buses to pull into. Nonetheless, I did feel a bit daft taking a photo.
Set beneath the 1,458m Cerro San Bernardo, Salta is a bustling provincial captial with a pleasant central square - where we watched some live blues and jazz - and a pretty park around a lake.
It was the perfect place for us to chill our for a few days.
Although it was a tough climb up hundreds of steps to the hilltop, you could look down at the chairlift carrying people over part of the city and up the steep hill and feel satisfied about your efforts.
At the top a statue of San Bernardo pointed to the clouds, as though commanding them to cover the sun´s rays. Miserable sod.
The town had a laid-back air, with groups of kids hanging around and couples smooching in full public view in a way that only Latinos know how.
Our hostel had a similar atmosphere, although there were a few drawbacks. With no communal area, people would sit outside the rooms and one night I had to listen to one girl bleating on about a miserable relationship with an ex.
Also staying there was a hippyish Australian mum, who had her six-year-old daughter in tow. At one point, the child came to sit on my knee as I used a computer, making me feel intensely uncomfortable.
I waited for the mum to tell her to get off but she didn´t seem bothered as the girl then forced me - frozen in terror as I was - to take part in a computer game which involved designing a fairy outfit.
As if that wasn´t bad enough, when she´d finished her design she insisted I try one.
I set about creating a stylish yellow and blue number, only for the child to disappear and leave me mulling over the appropriate earrings as two serious-looking Scandinavians gave me funny looks while checking in behind me.
One of the pluses of hostelling in this part of the world is that most places offer a free breakfast.
We had some brilliant spreads in Chile, with tea, omelette, fresh and warm bread, fruit juice and little croissants called medialunas (half-moons).
However, in Argentina the standard fare has been stodgy rolls topped with jam or the sweet caramel spread called dulce de leche (hmmmm), with weak tea or bitter coffee.
I tend to view anything as a bonus but when cornflakes appeared on the menu, it seemed a real boon. However, on our second day in Salta, I opened the cereal jar to find a little cockroach crawling around inside.
I fished him out and launched him across the room but after some consideration decided that bread and jam wasn´t such a bad thing after all.
We had more bad luck in the bank, where I tried to cash our US dollar travellers checks.
We´d read that banks don´t often use them but I didn´t expect it to take one hour and 50 minutes for HSBC to process them, as a crowd of angry locals glowered at us for delaying the queue.
We did have some success, however, at a museum dedicated to the discovery of the bodies of three perfectly preserved Inca children offered as sacrifices to their gods over 500 years ago.
Brought down from their resting place 6,000m up in the Andes, their presence in the museum is controversial.
I can sympathise with the view that these mummified remains should have been left where they were but to study up close the face of a seven-year-old girl who last walked the earth five centuries ago was fascinating.
Apparantly, the Incas selected the children deemed most perfect specimens of their race before giving them a strong alcoholic corn drink to put them to sleep and burying them alive high in the Andes.
They believed the children did not die but rather joined their ancestors in watching over their lands.
So, as we cobbled together our last few pesos before leaving Argentina we decided to eat as the locals do and try a couple of national staples.
The panchos (hotdogs) and empanadas - little meat-filled pasties - aren´t the healthiest of snacks but we may be living off rice and beans for the next month as we head into Bolivia and Peru, so I think we´ll be okay.
So the vibe in Buenos Aires came as a pleasant and unexpected surprise.
The three-hour night flight from Ushuaia had already proven quite spectacular as below us the clouds were lit up by a lightning storm.
And when the capital came into view, streetlights turning its grid system into a giant circuit board, it was staggering to see the area it covered.
Only when we approached for landing did the skyscrapers start to emerge and the city take shape.
And what a city it is.
The French and English-inspired architecture of its main avenues and cobbled streets of historic San Telmo knit with La Boca´s run-down homes to create a city greater than the sum of its parts.
Amid the poverty of La Boca, cowering under a rusting transporter bridge fit to make any travelling Teessider homesick, the pastel blue, yellow, pink and green art stores give a clue to the district´s vitality.
And around the bowl-shaped Bombonera, home to Boca Juniors football club, neighbours have daubed their walls with images of past greats such as Diego Maradona.
Behind the ground, we found a large park full of kids of all ages kicking around footballs - no doubt dreaming of being the next Lionel Messi.
Among them was one silver fox - aged 70 if he was a day - dressed immaculately in full Argentina strip and showing as much enthusiasm as the primary school kids around him.
Roaming the streets was as enjoyable as anything in Buenos Aires, which boasts the world´s widest avenue. With 16 lanes, it certainly took some crossing.
Our stay is Buenos Aires saw us bid a final farewell to The Two Anders and we chose a restaurant close to our hostel for the occasion.
A perfect steak was accompanied by live music and a couple dancing tango brilliantly (at least to my untrained eye) feet away from our table.
Their spellbinding footwork and seductive routine - conducted entirely poker-faced - made for a really atmospheric occasion.
The following night saw our two-and-a-half week adventure with the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie draw to a close and he had certainly earned his hostelling stripes.
At our base in the capital, there wasn´t space for all three of us in a dorm and so I went in a larger room upstairs.
The One With The Common Sense and her dad, however, drew the short straw, landing a dark and poky dorm next to the common area.
They were awoken at 4am one day to the sound of an English girl screaming about a rat in the kitchen. She was apparently yelling at the top of her voice that the management must promise to bring in the exterminators in the morning.
(I don´t know what she was whinging about, I´d have had it skinned and on the grill quicker than you could say "a portion of deep-fried tarantula on the side, please".)
Unfortunately, the One With The Common Sense then had to contend with two serious snorers for the rest of the night - one of them being her father.
During our Patagonian adventure, she had taken on the role of "prodder-in-chief" to stop her dad´s disconcertingly rapid rasping growl from the top bunk.
Us unfortunate room-mates had certainly endured the odd sleepless hour but one swift jab to the mattress generally solved the problem.
However, on this occasion, the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie was across the room, rather than above. She had to resort to throwing a range of missiles including a pac-a-mac, travel towel and pair of shorts, with limited effect.
Meanwhile, upstairs, I wasn´t fairing much better as an American guy below me - who had insisted on hanging around in some eye-wateringly tight underpants all day - was snoring in a kind of prolonged retch.
After about an hour, I had to resort to the old trick of dragging his pillow to one side, causing his head to loll the other way, and it finally stopped.
Unsurprisingly, freyed tempers greeted the morning but by evening we were able to share a nice drink and reflect on the success of our adventure.
We bade the Drinking Man´s Bill Oddie a farewell as he overnighted in Montevideo - cue much fretting about his safety on the part of the One With The Common Sense - and we headed for a 21-hour bus ride (our longest yet) north to Salta.
At this point we discovered that the Argentine capital not only has probably the world´s widest avenue but also its biggest bus station (even bigger than Northampton´s).
It must have had about 120 bays for buses to pull into. Nonetheless, I did feel a bit daft taking a photo.
Set beneath the 1,458m Cerro San Bernardo, Salta is a bustling provincial captial with a pleasant central square - where we watched some live blues and jazz - and a pretty park around a lake.
It was the perfect place for us to chill our for a few days.
Although it was a tough climb up hundreds of steps to the hilltop, you could look down at the chairlift carrying people over part of the city and up the steep hill and feel satisfied about your efforts.
At the top a statue of San Bernardo pointed to the clouds, as though commanding them to cover the sun´s rays. Miserable sod.
The town had a laid-back air, with groups of kids hanging around and couples smooching in full public view in a way that only Latinos know how.
Our hostel had a similar atmosphere, although there were a few drawbacks. With no communal area, people would sit outside the rooms and one night I had to listen to one girl bleating on about a miserable relationship with an ex.
Also staying there was a hippyish Australian mum, who had her six-year-old daughter in tow. At one point, the child came to sit on my knee as I used a computer, making me feel intensely uncomfortable.
I waited for the mum to tell her to get off but she didn´t seem bothered as the girl then forced me - frozen in terror as I was - to take part in a computer game which involved designing a fairy outfit.
As if that wasn´t bad enough, when she´d finished her design she insisted I try one.
I set about creating a stylish yellow and blue number, only for the child to disappear and leave me mulling over the appropriate earrings as two serious-looking Scandinavians gave me funny looks while checking in behind me.
One of the pluses of hostelling in this part of the world is that most places offer a free breakfast.
We had some brilliant spreads in Chile, with tea, omelette, fresh and warm bread, fruit juice and little croissants called medialunas (half-moons).
However, in Argentina the standard fare has been stodgy rolls topped with jam or the sweet caramel spread called dulce de leche (hmmmm), with weak tea or bitter coffee.
I tend to view anything as a bonus but when cornflakes appeared on the menu, it seemed a real boon. However, on our second day in Salta, I opened the cereal jar to find a little cockroach crawling around inside.
I fished him out and launched him across the room but after some consideration decided that bread and jam wasn´t such a bad thing after all.
We had more bad luck in the bank, where I tried to cash our US dollar travellers checks.
We´d read that banks don´t often use them but I didn´t expect it to take one hour and 50 minutes for HSBC to process them, as a crowd of angry locals glowered at us for delaying the queue.
We did have some success, however, at a museum dedicated to the discovery of the bodies of three perfectly preserved Inca children offered as sacrifices to their gods over 500 years ago.
Brought down from their resting place 6,000m up in the Andes, their presence in the museum is controversial.
I can sympathise with the view that these mummified remains should have been left where they were but to study up close the face of a seven-year-old girl who last walked the earth five centuries ago was fascinating.
Apparantly, the Incas selected the children deemed most perfect specimens of their race before giving them a strong alcoholic corn drink to put them to sleep and burying them alive high in the Andes.
They believed the children did not die but rather joined their ancestors in watching over their lands.
So, as we cobbled together our last few pesos before leaving Argentina we decided to eat as the locals do and try a couple of national staples.
The panchos (hotdogs) and empanadas - little meat-filled pasties - aren´t the healthiest of snacks but we may be living off rice and beans for the next month as we head into Bolivia and Peru, so I think we´ll be okay.
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