Potosi was pretty unremarkable in that it is just a milder, quainter version of La Paz. We arrived at 6am after a freezing cold night journey and checked into the only hostel we could find with hot showers and central heating, the Koala Den. Over breakfast someone remarked that we should do a tour of the nearby Potosi mines. The road block to Uyuni was still in place, we had little else to do, and besides it only cost a tenner; so we booked ourselves on for that afternoon.

It turned out to be one of the most terrifying and rewarding things we’ve done on this trip. The day started out placidly – we were taken to a warehouse where we were kitted out in miner’s gear (overalls, boots and a helmet with head-torch), then to a miner’s market where we were encouraged (forced) to buy ‘gifts’ for the miners of coca leaves, dynamite and bottles of a 96% alcohol drink that they’re particularly fond of. Next we were taken to a plant which extracts ore from the raw material. Bolivia does not have the facilities to further refine the silver, lead and zinc that is mined so it is – predictably – exported to richer countries…

And then we arrived at the mines; a warren of tunnels carved into a pyramidal 5000m-high mountain which has been mined for over 400 years, contributed heavily to the coffers of the infamous Spanish conquistadores, and has claimed the lives of over 8 million people – mainly African and Indian slaves.

We entered the pitch black, dusty tunnels and within minutes – I, at least, having forgotten that I’m a bit claustrophobic – were breathing nervous staccato breaths (although the altitude may have contributed to this!). The tunnel we were walking along eventually narrowed so we could only crawl through it and our guide stopped us next to a statue of Tio – the Quechuan god/devil of the mines – and said “OK, now we descend.” He prodded his finger downwards, “like miners.” We then proceeded to dive down into the depths of the mountain, wriggling through gaps that were not even wide enough to crawl through. Every so often the rock would open up into a mine shaft where we could catch our breath before descending further.

Eventually, in 45 degree heat, we made it to the fourth – and deepest – subterranean level where we were introduced to Don Roberto and Don Martin, who had worked in the Potosi mines since childhood. They described to us (through our Quechuan guide) the appalling conditions in which they have to work, not that we needed much convincing. They work from between 12 and 24 hours a day, 6 days a week with nothing to eat except the coca leaves that they perennially chew, and they are pretty much guaranteed to contract a nasty lung disease and die before the age of 50. In the lights from our miner’s hats we could make out their big black pupils set in cadaverous faces, their cheeks bulging with coca leaves, and their soot black, torn clothes. It was a humbling experience.

We proffered our gifts, which they gratefully accepted. Don Martin scrabbled around in the rubble and brandished an empty coca-cola bottle in which he concocted a mixture of the 96% alcohol and a kind of Bolivian Irn-Bru. So there we were, drinking booze with Bolivian miners, some 50 metres underground in a cave we could barely sit up in whilst – and I kid you not – dynamite was exploding around us in the mines so that dislodged pebbles trickled down the back of our necks. Terrifying! Worst of all, we had to clamber back up the almost vertical holes we’d just come down. The relief we felt when we saw the glimmer of daylight at the end of the tunnel was almost palpable!

The next day the road block to Uyuni was lifted and we made our merry way there.

Landing at La Paz, the world´s highest capital city jet-lagged, hungover, and short of breath was not much fun. As soon as we stepped off of the plane we both felt instantly faint and dizzy, a feeling which took a good few days to shake.

Even through the altitude-giddiness we could not fail to be impressed by our first view of La Paz. It was the most singularly beautiful city we´d ever seen. There were no high rise towers or famous bridges, but rather thousands upon thousands of tiny cuboid buildings sprayed throughout a valley and up the side of a canyon, as if carved out of the brown mountain itself. The sky was bright blue and the background played host to the magnificent white peaks of the Andes. We both mouthed ‘wow’ to eachother, which was about as much as we could manage at the time!

As we delved deeper into the valley though, we found that it wasn´t quite so quaint as it first looked. Still completely unlike any other place we´d seen, but rubble-strewn walkways, grubby walls and politico-graffitti somewhat tarnished the narrow streets that slope down towards the hubbub of the city centre where hundreds of colourful market stalls hug the steep pavement – which in places is barely wide enough for one person and takes the form of steps – selling every conceivable item, from empanadas (little pasties) to sink-plugs, notepads to wolly hats. If you look up in one direction you can see the tiny cuboid houses arrayed haphazardly up the canyon-side and in the other direction the rugged white Mt Illamani, which stands sentinel-like in the distance.

La Paz is a thronging city. Thronging with people, with old ladies in traditional garb of billowing dresses, technicolour ponchos and curious bowler hats; thronging with taxis and the – truly ubiquitous – minibuses which constitute the public transport system, out of which people hang, chanting the bus’ destination like an incantation; thronging with armed police*, thieves and pick-pockets, with balaclava’d shoe shiners, with political protesters that let off gun-shots to punctuate their demands; it’s boiling hot and freezing cold at the same time, there’s always an air of danger and a continuous cacophonous babble; you can buy a 2-course meal for under a pound, or go mountain biking down the most dangerous road in the world. A truly insane place, with insane night life to match!

(*Amy got pretty much chased away by a rifle-toting policeman when she decided to take a photo of San Pedro prison, the most corrupt prison in the world – where inmates literally have to buy there own cell and cocaine is produced deep within!)

At first, on the recommendation of an Irish guy we met in Sydney, we stayed in hostel called Loki. We didn’t know it, but Loki seems to be the party capital of La Paz. One night – our sleep pattern still utterly out of kilter – we went down to the bar for dinner and a couple of drinks to help send us to sleep. We got chatting to a few people, one thing led to another, and the next thing we knew we were in an underground nightclub where they deliberately block out all daylight…8am we got in.

Probably just as well, but Loki turfed us out the next day because someone had booked our room. We checked into another – quieter – hostel and have spent the last two days recovering.

We had planned to take a 3-day trip to the Uyuni Salt Flats, which are about 18-hours south and the main reason we decided to come to Bolivia. Unfortunately, in true South American fashion, the Bolivian miners have erected a mass road and rail block in protest against something-or-other (nobody really seems to know what!) and we´ve been stuck in La Paz ever since. Whilst there are worst places in the world to be stuck, there’s not that much to do without drinking, so we’ve booked an overnight bus to Potosi which is at least somewhere different and is nearer to the salt flats should the road block be lifted.