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.
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