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...
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