We took a nighttime stroll through the Tenderloin district, where the number of crack-heads and pimps, beggars and weirdos is simply frightening: talking to themselves, singing, or haranguing the cold night air. We also visited the Golden Gate Bridge which, as is typical for the time of year, was shrouded by mist (there is a strange micro-climate here whereby the bay area will be foggy and cold while the town centre still enjoys bright sunshine). It is an impressive structure that somehow – perhaps due to the striking red paint-job – manages to be more impressive than the seemingly longer Bay Bridge.

We only had a couple of nights in San Fran before flying to New York, our final destination…

The first thing we noticed about New York, as our train from JFK rolled past red-and-brown-brick residential blocks, derelict warehouses and shabby subway stations, and as we had to shove our way – backpacks and all – on to a packed rush-hour carriage at Penn station, was that it was remarkably like London. That noisy, crowded, cramped feeling that blights – or graces, depending on your preference – our capital city that was missing from LA or San Fran. That was until the archetypal American architecture of Manhattan came into view – all squares and spires, evenly spaced rectangular windows, and zig-zagging fire escapes hanging from the side of brownstone apartment buildings.

We stayed in Harlem, a 6-bed dorm in a converted brownstone. On our first night we were privy to an annual block-party where African-American families cooked barbecues while their children played volleyball, basketball, skipped or ran under the stream of an erupting fire hydrant, and a DJ boomed out soul music. It felt very authentic.

The next few days were spent exploring the marvellous city in the glorious sunshine. We went to the East Village, a funky area of Manhattan a bit like an understated Camden, had a drink in the bar with the well-known Joe Strummer mural painted on the outer wall, and had a tattoo done by a burly New Yorker; we visited Ground Zero, now just a building site but with a collage of sobering images and a timeline of the fateful tragedy on display; we gazed over the East River from Lower Manhattan at the Statue of Liberty, only just re-opened after security fears in the wake of 9/11. We hit the boutique shops of Soho, strolled between the imposing megaliths of midtown, beneath the looming incandescence of Times Square at night. We walked across the Brooklyn Bridge towards Lower Manhattan and the most famous skyline on the planet; had a meal in Little Italy, an area bedecked in red, green and white, where you hear the coolest accent on the planet, and the surly waiters really don’t deserve the 20% tip they automatically add to your bill.

All in all, it was a superb four days, and New York has become our favourite city. A perfect way to end our trip…but end it must.

We’ve been back in England for a week now and are enjoying the drab, grey, overcast British summer. It’s difficult, watching the spitting rain dampen the green, green grass, not to let our minds wander to those sunny days in Thailand or Laos, when our trip was young and our spirits high, we had all the time in the world; or to find ourselves in a campervan, hurtling down the Australian highway, without a care in the world apart from what to have for lunch. Suddenly we’re in Peru, staring in utter amazement at the sun setting over Macchu Picchu , or basking in the Californian sun as a seal frolics in the blue Pacific Ocean before us. It’s a sad but inevitable conclusion to any trip of this nature…

What really drummed it in was sitting at Stratford station waiting for a delayed train to Essex, when bilious clouds gathered over the doleful environs of East London and began firing watery pellets at us, as if to say ‘Welcome home’!

Windows down, stereo up, it felt so, well, cool to be cruising down the sun-drenched avenues and boulevards of movie and music – Sunset Boulevard, Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, Bel Air, Compton, Hollywood – and the radio stations all play the perfect accompanying soundtrack – from Curtis Mayfield and Al Green to West Coast Hip-Hop and the Chilli Peppers. Until that is, you hit traffic, when it becomes unbearable. In fact that pretty much sums up LA – great when you’re not stuck in traffic, your own personal hell when you are! In the two days we spent their we were in the car for perhaps 12 hours.

We did the tourist thing; walked over the stars lining Hollywood Boulevard and the imprinted hands and scribbles outside the Chinese Theatre; tried to find the Hollywood sign but ended up getting hopelessly lost and, ineluctubaly, stuck in traffic. We camped at Malibu beach and, it being a weekend and the eve of the 4th of July, it cost us $4 more to pitch our two-man tent than our executive suite at the Holiday Inn! To quote a banal Americanism – Go figure! To be fair, it did come with a mountainside view of the Pacific Ocean…

Next day we drove 300 miles to Las Vegas along the straight, shimmering freeway, through the lifeless Mojave desert, where we half expected balls of tumbleweed to roll past. We knew we were in Nevada when gaudy pockets of casinos and brothels started to appear like mirages. Tyres, exploded due to the tremendous heat, littered the roadside and we even had to swerve violently to avoid the car in front when one of their’s burst! After a few hours of seemingly endless freeway, suddenly, rising out of the sand like a glittering oasis, there it was – Sin City.

Vegas doesn’t disappoint. It’s everything you expect it to be – a gleaming decadent edifice, with each building dedicated to some sort of vice; mainly, of course, gambling. The big casinos tower imperiously along the main strip – the opulent Bellagio, impressive New York New York (complete with rollercoaster), renaissance-inspired Venetian (where you can take a gondola trip down engineered canals) or the pyramid-shaped Luxor being just a few. Also, the old strip, Tropicana Avenue, the downtown area, just about everywhere has smaller, seedier casinos. And they’re so unapologetic: huge signs unashamedly urge people to ‘double your paycheque’ as if it’s a dead cert. Even though we knew it was legal here we were still shocked to see prostitutes advertised on giant bill-boards and call-cards litter the street like confetti. Drink and food offers abound, anything to get you in the casino and to a gambling table.

We stayed for three nights in a Tropicana Av casino that cost just $8 a night and even had a pool, which came in handy in the 110 degree heat(!) before heading to the Grand Canyon.

The Grand Canyon is about a 4-hour drive from Vegas, over the Hoover Dam and into Arizona. We stayed just outside the Grand Canyon National Park in a peaceful campsite carpeted with pine needles, in the Kaibab Forest, . Each day we took the shuttle bus that the US National Parks Service thoughtfully lays on to get tourists in and around the park.

The GC is truly a wonder of nature; a huge chasm rent out of the American continent with brilliant-red ridges and numerous pyramidal rock formations, all perfectly layered, with each geological stripe embossed by shadow so that the overall effect is as if someone has dragged a paintbrush across the scene. The top and bottom is speckled with green shrubs and the brown Colorado river cuts its way along the base. At sunset, when each ridge is silhoutted against the one behind, the sky seems to absorb the red of the canyon, which itself melts into lighter reds, browns and greys, while the sun’s dying rays play ancient shadow games deep within the gorge.

Next day saw us undertake the 700-odd mile drive to central California and the Sequoia National Park. After 12 hours – and a little ‘directional deviation’ – we happened across a great little campsite on the shore of a mountain lake encased by grassy peaks, Lake Kaweah. It reminded us of Lake Titicaca but with more RVs, jet-skis, speed boats, water skiiers and fishing boats – that’s America for you! The sunset, when the smouldering red sky reflected in the lake, was simply sublime.

The following day we entered the park itself, drove along pristine roads through granite montains adorned with pine forests. The park is home to many giant sequoia trees. We parked up and walked through the Giant’s Forest to the biggest tree in the world, General Sherman. Once we lost the crowds (by simply setting out on any trek over half a mile in length!) the forest became a magical and tranquil place, it was like walking through a fairy tale. The huge trees looked like the gnarled limbs of frozen giants; the shades of green, the fern and brush of the sun-dappled forest floor and the needles and lichen of the trees, contrasted brilliantly with the cloudless blue sky; oversize pine-combs were strewn around and streams of water trickled down the mountainside.

Similar to Sequoia was Yosemite National Park, which we left for after 2 nights. It is an enormous area of such compelling beauty – fast flowing rivers gurgling over rounded rocks, glaciers, pine forests, roaming deer and illusive bears can all be found within the park confines. We trekked along a river under the stern gaze of El Capitan – one of the biggest mountains in the world and a Disney Land for rock climbers – and his little brother Half Dome. The limestone bluffs were bejewelled with diaphanous waterfalls, like the aptly named Bridalveil Falls. Once again the crowds were out in force; people in cars, RVs, on foot, bicycles, boats and dinghys left it feeling a little like a giant Centre Parks. The park gets a well deserved 4 million visitors a year, and I think most of them were there on the same day as us!

We met an American family in our campsite just outside the park who lent us their park pass (free entry for us!) and introduced us to Smores, a camping tradition out here – so called because you always want s’more! Amy has sworn me to secrecy as to exactly what they are – all will be revealed when we get home…!

Almost as an afterthought we then went to Big Sur, 90 miles of rugged Pacific coastline bohemianized by writers such as Jack Kerouac and Henry Miller, where the blue ocean is pounded white against dramatic headlands and sandy bays. Our campsite was so secluded that we had to lug our gear a quarter of a mile from the car. It was crawling with rampant wildlife – mostly subterranean. Shy moles would nervously peep about, wary of condors circling high above, and hundreds of furtive ground squirrels dove in and out of their underground warrens like seals coming up for air, or would stand watchfully on their hind legs like so many meerkats, waiting for that split second when your attention is diverted and they can make off with your food!

There was an English-style pub – which, oddly and pleasantly enough was owned by a West Ham fan and was decked out in club paraphernalia! – 3 miles away. On our last night, fed up with eating beans and pasta, we hitch-hiked there for fish ‘n’ chips and a pint of ale.

And there ended our little camping trip. We dropped the car off in San Francisco the next day…

Amidst much angry shouting from the other passengers we managed to swap our tickets for two to Huacachina.

Huacachina is an odd little town built around a lagoon in the middle of a desert, enclosed on all sides by enormous sand dunes. There are only two reasons why people go there – to party, and to sandboard.

Sandboarding is, as the name suggests, when you stand or lay face down on a wooden board and whizz down the aforementioned enormous sand dunes. We were taken by dune buggy into the surrounding velveteen desert, which at first felt like a scene from Lawrence of Arabia until you noticed colonies of dune buggies, motorbikes, quad bikes and jeeps, when it felt more like a scene from Mad Max! The sandboarding itself was a bit tepid really, although you can build up some dangerous speed. What really made the day was ride in the dune buggy. Our driver, a chain-smoking maniac, derived particular pleasure from terrifying poor Amy as he zoomed up and down the dunes, sometimes getting all four wheels off of the ground in the process. He seemed to get even worse after the sun went down, when the only concession he made to the encroaching darkness was to cross himself before each looney stunt! He left his headlights off until we were back in the town, presumably to maximise Amy’s horror.

Due to its renown as a party town, Huacachina is of course where you find the Brits. So we had a couple of heavy nights with our boozy compatriots before heading to Lima.

On the way to Lima we took a quick detour for 2-hour boat trip to the Islas Ballestas, described in the Lonely Planet as a poor man´s Galapagos islands. We weren´t expecting much but it turned out to be quite interesting. There is such a proliferation of birds there that the islands are farmed every 7th year for their droppings, which by that time have accumulated into a crust of half a metre or more. We have never seen so many birds: squawking, flapping and wheeling, darkening the sky or carpeting the islands, or divebombing into the sea for unsuspecting fish; we saw huge pelicans and waddling penguins, populous cormorans, circling vultures and countless others that we didn´t even recognise, and sea-lions flouncing clumsily over the craggy rocks or frolicking gracefully in the sea. A worthwhile detour before arriving at Lima.

Lima is a big, expensive, unappealing city where there is a dearth of anything much to do. Tomorrow morning we fly to the U S of A.

Our time in South America has been superb and is probably our favourite continent. It’s so unlike anywhere else we’ve been; dangerous and challenging, with no shortage of outdoor pursuits, and the landscape is so unbelievable – bleak yet beautiful, barren and boulder-strewn, from vast salt flats to fecund jungle to Sarahan sand dunes, and with the austere white Andean peaks a permanent fixture in the background – that even on the endless bus journeys you don’t tire of it. We’ve only been here a little over a month but have managed to fit so much in, with the trip to Macchu Picchu being the highlight of our world tour. Definitely a place we´ll be coming back to…

First off, Cuzco is our favourite city in South America. Not only is it prepossessingly pretty – the main square, the Plaza de Armas has two ornate time-weathered cathedrals and is bounded by gorgeous colonial arcades with colourful balconies; streets with original Incan walls topped by rendered colombian-era facades fan outwards from it and everywhere the rainbow-coloured Cusquenan flag – which looks alarmingly like the gay pride banner but predates it by around 500 years – is flown proudly. But there is also a boundless supply of activities available in the surrounding mountains: motorbiking, bungee jumping, white-water rafting, treks, mountain biking, horse riding, rock climbing, and of course the Inca trail.

We opted for a 4-day trek and mountain bike ride culminating in a visit to Machu Picchu, the main reason we decided to come to South America in the first place.

On our first day we were driven to the summit of a mountain where two sparkling powdery-white Andean peaks were within touching distance before being given mountain bikes and told to descend the other side. We whizzed for three hours down a spiralling road of perfect tarmac through magnificent mountainous landscape. The mountain we were on formed part of a staggered valley, the Sacred Valley infact, with the Rio Urubamba winding a frothy path along its base. After one hour off-road biking we reached our destination, the remains of an old Incan customs house. We had gone from freezing mountain peak to temperate tropical rainforest in a matter of hours.

The next day saw us climb back up the next mountain along, with the sound of the Urubamba – no longer just a white line in the distance – raging all around us. It was an 8-hour slog up rainforested hills with regular stops in some of the tiny hamlets dotted around the mountain. At one point we found ourselves on part of the original Inca trail, a narrow path carved into the side of the mountain – which Incan envoys (called Chaksis) used to trot along powered by nothing but coca-leaves – with indescribable ambient beauty. At the end of the day we were rewarded with a dip in some hot geothermal springs to ameliorate our aching legs and later a trip to a discoteque in a flyblown little town called Santa Teresa.

Our guide, Abel, was excellent. He had such a patent love for his country and Quechuan heritage and such enthusiasm for his job that it was infectious. Every so often he would stop and say, “Here, try this”. We had wildly growing oranges, tomatoes, avocadoes, papaya, lemon, some sort of lemon/orange hybrid, we saw coffee growing naturally and how the locals dry it in the sun before grinding into a powder, saw coca growing in plantations at precipitous angles in the hills, tasted natural chocolate, and painted our faces with a plant that is used cosmetics.

The third day was a 4-hour march along a railway line to Aguas Calientes, the base town for Machu Picchu and a town which seems to exist solely to fleece as much money as possible out of the abundant American tourists. After lunch Abel offered us a ´challenge´, a climb up a nearby mountain, Putucusi. To aid climbing, Putucusi has wooden ladders attached to its sheer faces. After climbing these for about half-an-hour solidly we had a further hour-and-a-half of rocky steps, in total an ascent of 800 metres, before we flopped onto the summit. But it was worth every drop of sweat. There, atop a neighbouring mountain, about 400m away, glorious in the rays of the setting sun, was Machu Picchu, the ancient Incan city. It was such a powerful and moving sight, these perfect grey ruins so high in the jungle-covered mountains, that we stayed for about an hour staring at it.

And the final day was to be our trip to Machu Picchu. We awoke at 4am to ensure we were one of the lucky 400 tourists who daily get to climb Waynu Picchu, the taller mountain that looms behind Machu Picchu in the archetypal photograph. Before we did this we had a guided tour round the Incan city itself. The place did not disappoint, it was absolutely mindblowing to be wandering around this perfectly preserved 5-centuries-old Incan settlement, clambering through royal chambers, temples of worship and guardhouses, or watching llamas prance over the terraced agricultural steppes. Surrounding us on all sides were granite and green peaks that reminded us just how high up we were. The structures themselves are phenomenal, huge granite blocks are cut to such size and shape that they tessolate perfectly and sit without mortar. They are tapered at the edges to give the impression that they’re bulging out of the walls, which are built at an angle designed by Incan artisans to be seismic proof. Testament to this is the fact that they’re still standing after at least 2 earthquakes which have devastated Spanish built settlements.

We saw the sunrise at Machu Picchu and, it being days from the winter equinox – all Incan towns were built according to the two equinoxes – it rose perfectly behind the highest peak in view so that a shaft of light was beamed out from each side like the wings of an angel. Later we hauled ourselves up to Waynu Picchu for yet another astounding view of the city, this time from above, before pounding our tired feet all the way back to Aguas Calientes and finally to Cuzco for a well-earned rest.

Cuzco, renowned for its festivals, is at the moment is building up to the biggest fiesta of the year, which makes it a very interesting time to be here. Every day we’ve seen colourfully loud street parades replete with sonorous trombones and booming bass drums, traditional dances, intricate floats and hordes and hordes of people. One day we were sitting in the Plaza de Armas, minding our own business, when thousands of chanting protesters marched in and surrounded us (there is a lot of civil unrest going on here at the moment)! Unfortunately we won´t be here for the actual festival because we´re getting the bus to Arequipa tonight, although we have to take an extended, circuitous route because – you guessed it – there’s another road block! (This is the third one that has hampered our travels now, even by South American standards that´s pretty unlucky!)

Oh, and to top off a good week, I did a bungee jump! At 122 metres the highest in all the Americas (including the super-sized States). It was terrific, and I screamed like a girl!

Our -excrutiatingly slow- boat left Puno harbour and crept its way inexorably towards the Islas Flotantes of the Uros people. These floating islands are tethered amongst 150km of reed-land off the Peruvian shore, number about 50, comprise some 3000 inhabitants, 3 schools and even a hospital. Each island is home to up to 10 families and is made entirely of tutora reeds. These reeds are muy importante to the Uros people; not only do they make up the ground on which they live, the roots are eaten, the flowers brewed into tea, they are traded – along with fish, another abundant Uros commodity – for potatoes and alpaka wool in nearby markets, used to build huts and boats, have medicinal purposes, are twisted into handicrafts to flog to tourists, the list goes on!

We visited an island of nine families and were greeted with a handshake and an Aymaran (pre-Incan language, which the Uros still speak) pleasantry from each of the inhabitants before being given a demonstration on how the islands are constructed – they have a base of buoyant mud and an upper layer of reeds some 3-metres deep and are tied to wooden poles plunged into the lake bed to prevent them drifting off – and some of the complexities of floating-island life – waste management for instance, and how they avoid burning down their whole world when cooking. Then we were encouraged to buy some of the – admittedly very good – handicrafts before being taken for a spin in a reed-boat, that was redolent of a Viking longboat, whilst a small girl serenaded us with Aymaran ditties. Finally we were invited to look round the dwellings. It was fascinating. One industrious chap had even hooked up a TV to a solar panel and was busily engrossed in a football match!

Afterwards we went to Isla Taquile, an island of the more typical sort (i.e. not floating) where everybody wears the same clothes and social standing is depicted by the colour of the hat one wears. We climbed to the tip of the island to find a busy town square, then had lunch at a table with such a view that it was awarded the not-to-be-sniffed-at accolade of Best Place We’ve Ever Had Lunch!

After the boat trip back to Puno – which could have been shorter if we´d swam doggy-paddle! – we tried to book our ticket to Cuzco, and Macchu Picchu. We weren´t even shocked when they told us there was a road block (they really do erect blockades at the drop of a hat out here, and protesting is a national sport. Greenpeace could learn a lot from these people) on the Puno-Cuzco road. There was a way to get there, a circuitous route that took more than twice as long – 13 hours instead of 5 – and of course cost twice as much.

The bus rattled and bounced its way along a see-sawing mountain track that was probably more intended for goats than a double decker bus. At one point we had to get out and push when the bus got stuck in a divot and at another, amidst much excitement and shouting, we were forced to pay 1 sole each and were frogmarched in pitch black darkness down a hill to a rickety bridge and a scene of mayhem. Queues of buses, cars and lorries were roaring and honking away at either side of the bridge which, unused to the additional traffic foisted upon it by the inconsiderate protesters, had splintered in the middle. Locals were doing their best to get everyone across by feeding planks of wood under the wheels of the vehicles! We had to stop for about an hour but eventually our bus got through and we carried on to Cuzco.

We paid around 2 pounds for a 2-hour boat trip to the Isla del Sol, according to Incan mythology the birthplace of the sun itself and the provenance of the Incan race. On the way we got chatting to some Bolivian women from Santa Cruz who, on hearing that we’d bought no food, gave us half of theirs! What generosity!

It’s easy to see why the Incas attach such significance to this place, it is so serenely beautiful; peacefully picturesque. The best way to describe it is a series of rocky hills rising out of the tranquil navy blue waters of the lake – some with ragged pre-Incan terracing carved into them that afford plateaus for growing crops or grazing donkeys and pigs – encompassing azure bays with the rugged ice-rendered Andes looming above the lake along the horizon. Ramshackle mud-brick villages lined the trail we huffed and puffed along, partitioned by precarious rock walls, the locals herding llamas or pigs or selling handicrafts.

We trekked to the ruins of an Incan village. The roofs had long gone but the narrow corridors and dark ante-chambers remained, marvellous in that they’re still standing simply by virtue of being stacked propitiously (no mortar). We had lunch (courtesy of the Bolivian women on the boat!) in the ruins with our legs dangling over a deserted turquoise bay before the boat took us to the Southern part of the island. Here we heard, booming away in the mountains, the deep bass line of loud music – which seemed a bit incongruous on this peaceful little island. We panted our way up some 500 steps to find that there was a Bolivian wedding in progress; a typically colourful affair with everyone merrily dancing away, some sort of karaoke, and people falling over drunk, peeing indiscriminately!

We headed back to Copacabana to spend our last Bolivianos before crossing the border into Peru (our last land border crossing…)

The Salar de Uyuni (salt plains) are the dried up vestiges of a prehistoric salt lake which was left by the retreating ocean hundreds of thousands of years ago. They are utterly incredible: a vast, flat ethereal expanse which stretches boundlessly into the distance, like an immense ice sheet, playing optical illusions on the faraway mountains. Blindingly white, incomprehensibly large, and unbelievably beautiful.

We started off by visiting an island which was once a coral reef but now plays home to hundreds of phallic cacti sprouting skywards, some of which are 1200 years old. The view of the salt plains from the top of this reef was phenomenal. As is apparently obligatory, we messed around taking comical-perspective photos on the plains for a couple of hours before watching the sun set, the moon rise and the sky turn all sorts of colours over the empty lunar salt plains. Truly spectacular.

That night we stayed in a hotel made completely of salt, from the walls and tables to the chandeliers. We had to wrap up warm in our sleeping bags though to combat the -20 temperature!

Bright and early the next morning we were taken on a 4WD tour of what must be one of the most captivating landscapes on the planet. We bounced over rugged, almost martian, tundra, with mountains in every direction we cared to look, like huge piles of fine coloured sand: red, brown and yellow laced with white. A smouldering volcano belched smoke in the distance. We saw flocks of wild llama, vicunia (an almost extinct cousin of the llama), the odd mountain fox, and even a fleeting glimpse of a puma; we spied flamingoes swooping and landing on a blood-red lake; large semi-frozen lagoons and peculiar rock formations; a hissing geyser spouting sulphurous steam, mud bubbling under the heat of volcanic magma, and sparkling freshwater streams reflecting the bright blue in the cloudless sky. On the final day we bathed in a hot geothermal spring (the first opportunity we’d had to wash in three days!) before heading back to Uyuni. It was an absolutely unforgettable experience, one of the highlights of the trip and one that will be difficult to top.

Due to Uyuni being such an out-and-out dive (it really is!) we got straight on the night bus to La Paz where we will continue on to the Copa, Copacabana…!

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.

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.

Dazed and confused after our 17-hour flight, the first thing we did was to find a bar where we could watch the Champions League final with Ian, a guy we met on the plane. It wasn´t difficult, it was being shown absolutely everywhere, even the street traders had it on small portable TVs! After sinking some pasceñas (Bolivian beers) we headed doggedly back to the hostel for a 15-hour sleep.

The next day we met up again with Ian and went on a walking tour around the city. Santiago is a city of neo-classical and Spanish colonial architecture, wide plazas adorned with intruiging statues, placarded left-wing protesters, bohemian cafes and art galleries, and some of the most ingenious buskers that we´ve come across (like the one-man-band that jumps in front of traffic when the lights change).

We took a funicular railway to the summit of Cerro San Cristobal, where a statue of the ‘virgin’ Mary watches out over the city. The postcard picture of Santiago is the view from up here – the huge city sprawled out beneath with the white-tipped Andes in the distance. Unfortunately the smog completely obscured the mountains (and half of the city) but it was impressive nonetheless. Dwarfing the 14-metre statue are two less attractive telephone masts which, along with the insidious smog, typify Chile’s rapacious attitude to its own development. Apparently there are plans afoot to move an entire glacier just to mine below it!

On the way back to our hostel we found a bar in Barrio Brasil (the bohemian quarter) which sold a litre of beer for about one pound. We were only supposed to stay for one drink due to our 3am airport pickup but, like the idiots we are, we stayed for hours drinking and trying to communicate with the locals in our – very – limited Spanish. I lost around 50-quid, dropped the camera and we rolled home just before midnight. Not our finest hour! Still, we managed to wake up a few hours later for our flight to La Paz, Bolivia.