(Tamara)

No. More. Night. Buses...
Normally when I purchase a bus ticket, I select or am given a seat and I proceed to remain in that seat for the journey's duration. Not in Bolivia. After our four night's of static shocks with near self-combustion, a 12 hour journey to catch up on sleep was imperative before we adopted the roles of volunteers. Out of those 12 hopeful hours we managed to grasp a pathetic one. It seemed that we had purchased tickets for a midnight party of musical chairs and even worse, musical buses. Within two stops of our journey we were joined by a herd of inpatient and clumsy indigenous Bolivians who marched onto the bus leaving all courtesy in the mountains where they had appeared from. As expected, they hauled on their sacks and ludicrously convinced themselves their luggage and their waistlines would daintily slide through the aisle. This was rapidly proven otherwise by their poor perceptual awareness as George's dazed head was almost dragged along with them on several occasions. An hour later our bus attendee finally realised there was no room in the inn for our guests. At 3:00am he abruptly stopped the bus and grumbled "no vamos a Cochabamba", motioning for us all to board another. After failing to correctly apply his mathematical calculations to the situation, our one and a quarter bus' worth of passengers boarded an even more occupied bus. What a logistical nightmare! So with even less spare seats than before we were off on our way again to Cochabamba; as we sat amongst angry Bolivians our hopeful sleep was a distant dream away.

As we arrived in Cochabamba at 6am the energy from the early hustle and bustle was contagious, and as sleep deprived as we were we couldn't help feeling alive in the city's motion. We hopped off our bus and were instantly familiar with the Mediterranean vitality the city is so famous for, partly due to its glorious Spring like climate for the majority of the year. The name Cochabamba comes from the Quechua khocha pampa, meaning ‘swampy plain’. The city is guarded by 'Cerro Tunari' (5035m), the highest peak in central Bolivia and is watched over by 'Cristo de la Concordia', the second largest Christ statue in the world and unbeknownst to most is 44cm higher than the famous 'Cristo Redentor' in Rio de Janeiro, which stands 33m high (1m for each year of Christ’s life.)

We had no expectations of the orphanage 'Hogar Salomon Klein' that we would spend our next two months in. This proved to be a glorious thing as we pulled into an uptown, green suburban neighbourhood and only a five minute walk from a huge hipermaxi supermarket complex. Apprehensively we approached the gate and with no obvious distinction between our building and any other in the street we were convinced that we were lost. All of a sudden a group of rogue infants charged at the gate screaming and thrusting their hands to meet ours with roses. Their faces lit up and their yearning for affection and attention was evident for all to see. As we followed a tía (carer) into the dining hall we saw posters on the wall with welcome messages to 'Tamara y Jorge'. We were startled by an intimidating welcome from 120 ecstatic children who all synchronously broke into a rehearsed song. I couldn't believe how my heart had been touched so intensely within ten minutes of arriving, and from that minute on until we bid farewell I offered a piece of it to every last hopeful niño that I embraced in my arms. The orphanage itself was fantastic, two large buildings with a beautiful outdoor area equipped with a small swimming pool, sandpit and outdoor games. The buildings hosted bedrooms, small playrooms, classrooms and a large dining hall of which our bedroom, lounge and kitchen facilities were located above.

Our first week was by far our most challenging. The welcome posters were swiftly replaced with professional announcements and this mirrored our reality of being treated like regular staff employees. Working almost 9 hours a day with 18 babies and struggling to acclimatise our stomachs and heads to both the altitude and the high bacterial environment weakened our spirits day by day. It was extremely disheartening feeling morose and lifeless when our roles were to provide happiness and positivity to the children. Thankfully with the help of Maté de Coca and a lot of plain carbohydrates our defences gradually strengthened and each week we were back to our normal selves. Most importantly we were back to concentrating on our sole purpose for volunteering: providing our love to the children.

(George)

Following our nightmare debacle with the 'Sala Recién Nacidos' - 'Newborn Room' we justified our desire to commence work with 'Sala Uno' - 'Room 1'. As much as we had grown fond of the Recién Nacidos, we felt it was necessary to leave our little bundles of s*** behind. To our weary minds Sala 1 promised brighter days. It promised a fresh start and the chance to get stuck into some real volunteering, the sort of volunteering we had dreamt about from the green, green pastures of England. Monday rolled around and we hastened downstairs to our new cohort of Cochabambinos. Entering the room, Tamara was warmly greeted with a football to the face. It seemed these new creatures had grasped the sadistic concept of fun through violence. Hair lay scattered across the floor, roots still in tact, as niños shrieked and howled in jealousy as the most coveted toys repeatedly crossed palms. However despite the terror and the petrifying concept of taming these beasts we grew somewhat attached to the little horrors of Sala 1. Our company was as follows:

Vania (Bahn-yah): 2 years old going on 14. Attitude and sarcasm were already prominent but loving and caring traits underlay these surface characteristics. Vania could be found most afternoons strutting through the Sala, showing the younger niños what they could be.

Escarleth (Es-car-lé): bore a striking resemblance, physically and psychologically, to a dear friend of ours. Somewhat ditsy and often found alone completing strange tasks.

Emmanuel: evident history of trauma due to his startled reaction when introduced to a male presence. With time we gradually saw him venture beyond his shell, showing us a fun personality and an uncanny resemblance to Ian Bidwell (my cousin).

Juan: an unbelievable football prodigy at the age of 2 with volleys and overhead kicks already part of his impressive repertoire. To match his skills his looks always had the girls on his tail. Definitely one to look out for.

Maria: Juan's WAG. Lacking in personality due to her tranquil nature but more than made up for these shortcomings with the prettiest face in the room.

Dylan (Dee-lahn): being favourited by one of the Tia's (carers) was evidently causing severe psychological distress as the inconsistent attention between shifts was causing early stage attachment issues. However away from staff members he showed to be a cheeky, lively and fun character to be with.

Grover (Groh-bear): pest of the group, recently moved up from Recién Nacidos and easily assumed his position as the groups irritant. Constantly attempting to take whichever toy wasn't currently in his possession whilst resorting to incessant crying should he not be able to achieve this goal.

Jose: Tamara had found her son. Jose displayed a vacant stare with glazed eyes that saw a 1000 yards. Within Jose's huge head it seemed that the cogs had most certainly stopped but this lead to an endearing, simple character that begged to be cuddled.

Carlitos: our analogy for Bolivia. A beautiful boy with dark skin that would never do anything when you wanted him to. Carlos could always be found doing the only naughty thing possible in the room.

Our daily routine involved being awoken by our chanting, Bolivian alarm clocks at 7:00am. We would normally complete our Spanish homework first thing in the morning, carrying us to 11:00am when we would depart for 2 hours of Spanish lessons. We commenced volunteering at 2:30pm each day, spending two hours playing with the children before having to try and throw food down their gullets at 4:30pm. The next 30 minutes, following their tea, will forever scar my memory; during this tense time period the children were primed for defecation. Having been forced to eat far more than they could fit in their podgy bellies it was only a matter of time before an intestinal movement was due. Tamara and I were forever attempting to get our excuses in first in an attempt to avoid those perilous 30 minutes before the Tia's rounded the little stinkers up and changed their nappies. After having changed into their pyjamas we continued to play with the children, mostly kicking fly-away footballs at their heads, for another hour until 6:00pm rolled around. It was at this timely hour that we were set free to our creaky cabin above the orphanage.

We enjoyed some quality time with the children as we got to know their personalities over the course of 7 weeks. It must be said that the children were one of the only things keeping our moral up. Throughout our time at the home we encountered hostility from some of the employees at the Hogar, especially when returning later than 7:30pm which seemed unreasonable to expect us to remain trapped in our room after we had worked all afternoon with the children. We were extremely grateful for the accommodation we were provided with but in hindsight we may have had a better experience had we sought out our own.

Despite all of the problems we had encountered there was one moment that deeply touched our hearts. During our last week, on a Tuesday afternoon, we entered our Sala to find all the children circling something out of sight. My first thought was that someone had had an accident and was now the centre of attention, however as we walked closer we saw something that pulled a string deep within our hearts. On the floor was a boy that seemed the shell of a child, his skin was stretched tightly across his bony face as his body quivered with the fragility of a twig. Fear had consumed his eyes as his dilated pupils provided a window to a lifetime of suffering. In desperation he reached out his skeletal hand, pleading with his bloodshot eyes in a language that needed no translation. Within a heartbeat we scooped young Johan into our arms and prayed that he could feel the love he rightly deserved. It was in this melancholy moment that we learnt the true meaning of what we had been doing for the past seven weeks.

(Tamara)

Whilst at the orphanage, in desperation to communicate with our new outside world we had set off to seek out a Spanish school. We entered 'Conexiones entre mundos' and were welcomed by Mauge; our guardian angel and adopted mother for the remainder of our time in Cochabamba. We were ecstatic to begin improving our Spanish and little did we know the school and it's members would soon become our home and our family. George was renamed 'Jorge' and being in a Christian environment, we were forever interrogated as to when we were going to wed. With the school having 8 teachers whose English speaking abilities ranged across the spectrum allowed for an opportunity to practice our speaking skills with several different people. Mauge, the owner of Conexiones had very close interactions with English culture, which meant her lessons where highly anticipated accompanied with a tetleys teabag. From my perspective learning triple the amount of Spanish in five weeks than I managed in my entire two years GCSE was definitely an achievement, however expanding my vocabulary without fully understanding the constraints in which it can be used proved to be very dangerous. Although at times comical, for example asking for one banana and being bagged up a whole wheelbarrows worth to asking someone's wellbeing and being given a roast chicken, there were times I really should have kept my mouth shut. But to those who know me, talking is my hobby and for every word I learnt I ensured I used it irrelevant of the context. Luckily I hadn't made quite as bad a mistake as a lovely lady from Canada had whilst living with her host family. One day as they were sat aside from the grave of the family's deceased young son, the woman looked in concern and said "and when was it that you murdered your son?" Now she really should have kept her mouth shut.

Becoming members of the school meant we were entitled to a free cultural emersion morning where we compared our western 'task-orientated' to the Bolivian 'family-orientated' way of life. The Bolivian relaxed approach seemed admirable compared to our stressful pace, that was until we learnt that it was normal protocol to 'plan, prepare and execute' everything in daily life simultaneously. For example, in Bolivia if invited for dinner at 18:30pm, do not arrive before 19:30pm and certainly expect to bring the ingredients with you in preparation to cook the dinner with your host once you have arrived. Weddings are notorious for guests turning up for the service at noon and not eating a single thing until close to midnight. Following the discussion it was plain to see why nothing ever seems to get done in this country.

After two weeks at the orphanage I met Mauge at a perfect time. With my intestinal rivers finally run dry I covered my salads in disinfectant and smiled smugly as I care freely enjoyed my first bite. However within seconds the side of my face began to ache and each mouthful became more unbearable. I shot George a nervous glance and prayed the time hadn't arrived for the dreaded wisdom tooth to begin declaring his spot in my mouth. Back home X-rays had predicted the tooth would eventually grow in sideways, however that's a problem I never expected to face whilst on the other side of the world. My gut feeling told me to ignore the pain, it would pass, it HAD to pass. But with my cheek gradually swelling by the day there was no other option but to address the situation. Now Bolivia is certainly not a country I wanted my first ever dental treatment to occur in, the lack of hygiene regulations and mostly poor dentures were not a promising factor. However Mauge saved the day and recommended a lovely English speaking dentista who removed the b***** and finally gave me some peace. Bill how I was wish you had been here!

After four weeks of feeling claustrophobic within the walls of the orphanage we packed our bags and moved into the school, which apart from the 'tour de ants' racing around the perimeter of George's initial room, it allowed us more freedom to explore Cochabamba and most importantly gorge ourselves in the nearby restaurants. We were actively involved in many of the events organised by the school: cinema trips, a thanksgiving dinner, evenings at the teacher's homes, treks and inside Volleyball. Our most valuable opportunity gained from the school was assisting the missionaries in visiting the youth offenders prison for two afternoons, sharing stories and baking with the 8 girls that ranged in ages from 13-17. It was extremely eye opening to witness completely opposite protocols to those I am familiar with in my working environment back home. The lack of security or regulations matched the lax attitude the Bolivian justice system is so renowned for. With only the opportunity to have two sessions with the girls, we were thankful to have had the experience and to touch the girl's hearts with our brief encounters.

(George)

Weekend 1:

During our time at the orphanage we sought an escape each and every weekend. However I cannot honestly say that any of these weekends were a 'success'. Our first weekend saw us seeking the pleasures of our new surroundings in Cochabamba. Guidebooks and travel blogs had promised that 'Cocha' was a bustling city with a myriad of spectacles on offer to satiate a young traveller's appetite. Our first Friday rolled around and we quickly scarpered into the night, sprinting towards the bright, dirty lights of CBBA. Upon a whim we had decided to try our luck on one of the top rated hostels, Running Chaski. With no reservation made we held our breath as we asked for 2 beds and 2 nights, luckily we found room at the inn. We quickly checked in and dumped the bags, our telepathic link was tingling and it could only mean one thing - tea time! We quickly scoured the streets outside for the nearest restaurant, I spotted a suave, sophisticated Italian on the corner that looked promising. Upon our approach I noticed the equally suave and sophisticated attire of the clientele and after a quick once over of our own apparel I made the assumption that we weren't going to blend in. A stone-faced receptionist grunted as we entered and confronted us with 2 leather bound menus. After a quick glance around we soon noticed that the waiters had taken to laughing at our dishevelled appearance but this wasn't Milan, this was CBBA and we couldn't have cared less.

With limited time to enjoy our weekend off we trekked to visit the infamous La Cancha Market. Having been warned yet again of the dangers we would face in such a crowded area, containing some of the poorest people in South America, we headed off to witness the madness of Saturday peak time. I can honestly say this was the most chaotic location I had ever witnessed; forget the majesty of the Grand Bazaar, Istanbul, this was a free for all. Bags were flung from stall to stall containing anything from cats to clothes. Vile smells pervaded through the air causing each breath to fill our lungs with the scent of rancid sewage. Calls and shrieks masked the crying of caged pets as cockerels and hens roamed the streets in search of an owner. The market is lazily organised into inexplicable categories, walking for 100m will take you from livestock to pigs carcasses to mobile phones all the way through to stolen car parts and passports available for the unfortunate victim to buy back. With nothing in our pockets we felt confident strolling through the apocalyptical scene. We meandered through the crowded streets, occasionally accompanied by a hungry street mutt, until we decided enough was enough, there's only so much a gringo can take.

The rest of our weekend consisted of befriending a group of jet lagged Swede's, a stereotypical Frenchman and laid back Brazilian girl - all of whom spoke the glorious language of English! Holding the linguistic position of power we proceeded to babble and chat amongst ourselves until we deemed it time to get a taste of the South American nightlife. After visiting a few of the more reserved bars within our vicinity we found a club offering a Halloween party. Fortunately for me, Tamara had not had time to prepare any form of fancy dress for the occasion and in a first case scenario, Tamara was forced to enter a fancy dress party without the attire she so craved. Despite the Halloween decorations it's safe to say that the club was a nightmare. Reggaeton and throw away pop songs seemed to be the music of choice as teenage Bolivians lost their proverbial **** to the bouncing beats. However, the ordeal was made easier after a few glasses of luminous blue juice and a subtle game of 'people watching'.

The night was drawn to a close at around 1 o'clock as we found ourselves unable to stomach anymore sugar filled beverages, my stomach cried out for sanity but it appeared Tamara's had caught the South American spirit. Upon exiting the club I lost sight of Tamara's bouncing bob, only to see it reappear next to a decrepit Bolivian woman serving up slivers of chargrilled meat. If there's anything we had been repeatedly warned about was that we were not to consume street food, no matter the circumstances. I rushed forward in an attempt to prevent this deadly transaction taking place, only to find a plate full of potato and meat hovering beneath my nose. My food was accompanied by Tamara's impish grin and I scolded her for her impulsive thinking. Following this brief lecture I proceeded to tuck into a delicious meal that surprisingly had no consequences. The following day we awoke to what would soon to be known as the South America hangover, with double the pain and triple the dry mouth we could only blame our pitiful predicament on one thing.. the dreaded altitude.

Weekend 2:

The following weekend included a failed trip to the colonial mining city of Potosí, famous for it's historic abundance of silver and precious ores. It has been said that the Spanish mined so much silver from the mountains surrounding Potosí they could have built a silver bridge crossing the Atlantic to the Kings palace. The common Spanish phrase 'It's a Potosí' lends itself to the abundance of wealth once accumulated from the boom town. Arriving at the bus stop we had high hopes of seeing this once great city however when we inquired as to when we would arrive, the answer was a little later than we expected. Tamara was of the belief that the bus journey was to last 4 hours yet upon inquiry we soon found out it was scheduled to take 10. With our bags already packed and a Bs15 taxi ride from the orphanage we began to scan for alternative destinations. With Bolivia lacking direct transport links between cities even those destinations that seemed relatively close on the map would take an overnight bus to reach. We finally settled on a city that required a 4 hour bus journey, Oruro. As described in the Lonely Planey, Oruro is a dirty, crowded and noisy location. The city break was relatively uneventful with the city lacking features of literary worth. The city can be summed up in a succinct allegory as an ancient Quechuan woman proceeded to wash her stained feet with previously purchased water on the bus.

Weekend 3:

Fatigue from our volunteering work set in as the next week drew to a close and with a lack of drive to explore we decided that, following Tamara's dental work, it would be best to spend the weekend resting. As the anaesthetic wore off we raced to the nearest supermarket to secure 2 tubs of the sweetest ice cream Bolivia had to offer. With food and sweets in place we sunk into our sofa to binge on newly found love for Grey's Anatomy.

Weekend 4:

Tired of our mountainous surroundings we opted for a change of scenery. Having experienced a tame version of the jungle in Puerto Iguazu, we decided to venture back into the unknown on a weekend away to Villa Tunari. I must say all of the jungle towns we have visited have left a lasting impression, whether it is the hazy memories of the humid air or the wooden shack houses that scream authenticity, we have certainly enjoyed the freedom that comes with these humble surroundings. Our hotel proved to be spectacular, as satellite lodges were spread throughout a picturesque clearing of the jungle. Hammocks could also be found above the hub to complete the perfect escape from civilisation. However our inner peace and tranquility was quickly disturbed by a school trip consisting of La Paz residents. These party loving 'Jovenes' - 'Youths' made full use of the hotel PA system, ensuring that every inch of the grounds could be fully immersed in the Reggaeton rhythm. With our ears bleeding we resorted to the ancient adage 'If you can't beat'em, join'em.' Already 3 weeks into our Spanish lessons we felt confident entering the brave new world of shrieking Latinas and Latinos. With our premeditated greetings at the forefront of our inebriated minds we strode forward to engage the locals in their mother tongue. As with most encounters in South America, Spanish quickly gave way to the blatant option that most young people have an ample grasp on the English language. Despite cultural disparities we passed the night in accordance with Bolivan tradition including a native dance, occasional broken Spanish and good laughs.

Weekend 5:

Finally, deciding to save ourselves some of our well earned coffers we took on our local town of CBBA. Ensuring that we did not leave our accommodation to chance we confirmed that our beds in the Running Chaski hostel were secured. Our second round of acquaintances were somewhat more reserved compared to our previous cohort. A lovely Canadian girl 'Pauline' provided us with interesting conversation throughout the weekend whilst we were accompanied by a quiet, Swiss traveller hailing from Geneva. Our activities were matched to suit our new found companions and we all embarked on a journey to the second largest statue of Christ in the world followed by a lovely meal in a 'Churrasqueria' - 'Steak House'. The weekend again passed without real incident although I could be perceived as a hero in one daringly close encounter. After having met with our Swiss friends for a few drinks on the Friday, we decided a little bit of food was in order. Spotting a nearby street burger we threw caution to wind and began to place our order. In South Ameica, when asked '¿Ustedes quieren alguna lechuga?' the immediate and only response to this deceitful question is ¡NO! This is a trap set up by evil street vendors to entice you into eating some of their rotting, decaying lettuce. Having already given my knee jerk response to the question I was stunned to hear a voice behind me drunkenly slur, 'Sí, para mi por favor. ¡Mucho!' With the Devil's tongs already preparing a large batch of the dreaded lechuga, I marched forward and ordered that for the good of mankind, no lettuce would be placed on these burgers. With Tamara scolded yet again for her risky behaviour we sauntered back to our hostel, ready to embrace the land of nod.

(Tamara)

With our last week upon us in Cochabamba the sands of time were rapidly slipping between our fingers. We instantly retuned ourselves to tourist mode and started working our way through the last of the Cochabamba sights we were keen to see. Saturday morning at 6:00am I was ready and eagerly awaiting a 'girls only' hike up a smaller section of the Cerra Tunari. George was more than happy for this gender segregated activity as it meant he could roll over and typically male, snooze throughout the morning. With the rainy season beginning to tease us with its sporadic downpours accompanied by swarms of mosquitos, we were blessed with glorious sunshine the entire duration. As this was the first real form of endurance I had to exert my energy into, I definitely felt the test of the altitude.

The following day was 06.12.15, famous for 'Pedestrian and Biking Day'. The idea for this day across Bolivia is to attempt to lower CO2 emissions, however with Cochabamba being one of the most polluted cities in South America, in honour they are entitled to three days across their annual diary. Expecting to enjoy a blissful meander through the deserted streets, we instead found ourselves in the middle of a large street parade with dancers, singers and food stalls sprawled out across the whole Prada. After a few hours soaking in the atmosphere the evening began to draw close. We were suddenly overwhelmed with Christmas spirit as the trees and surroundings were engulfed in majestic lights and a familiar Santa Claus and his sleigh shone luminously before us. The sight was spectacular and we were immensely grateful that Christmas in Bolivia could still replicate ours at home.

We had eagerly anticipated a visit to Laguna Angostura, the notorious spot 18km away for Cochabambinos to venture and feast on their fill of fish. After being deprived of Omega-3 goodness throughout South America it was definitely time to book an afternoon date with John West. With our previous efforts to visit being demolished by unpredictable downpours, we grabbed our chance one glorious sunny Monday afternoon. Arriving at the trufi stand, with no destination signs displayed on any taxi, we took our chances with one and hopped into the back seat. After a few kilometres a peculiar incident occurred. With the front seat already occupied by a mother and her distressed baby we were shocked to find the taxi pull over, and for a second female passenger to hop in and somehow share the typically sized front seat. Now if these females were companions or at least had met once before this may not be quite so odd, but to imagine in England this kind of intimacy with strangers in such an enclosed space seemed especially alien to us. Then again so does the whole of Bolivia every minute of every day. The lake was shaped like a Laguna but appeared as though every fish within it had had a sudden spurt of diarrhoea. It certainly wasn't the Laguna Verde we had been treated to before, but there was still something charismatic about its dirty appearance and ironic title 'Lago del Eden'. Like true tourists we participated in all of the three activities available: a banana boat that thankfully didn't plummet you into the depths of potential ecoli, a broken pedal swan and finally a platter of fish (which I hoped wasn't fresh from the murky water that rippled in the corner of my eye).

The following day we set off to visit Museo Conventa Santa Teresa, which had been high on our to see list since we had arrived in Cochabamba. After five weeks of Spanish lessons we smugly followed our guide through the welcome archway, intrigued to learn about the nuns and perplexed to try and understand the reasons behind such an isolated and constricted way of life. I advise you now to open the Lonely Planet handbook and answer these questions yourselves just as we did straight after our tour. The convent seemed to be undergoing complete reconstruction which made it impossible to hear or understand any verbal dialogue. Furthermore with overweight topless builders parading themselves around the courtyard, it made it difficult to imagine the authenticity of how life once was for the 24 women that had lived there. Needless to say the four nuns who currently reside in the convent were nowhere to be seen. Then again perhaps after a dedicated lifetime to their religion I'm sure at least one curious individual had lifted her veil to have a sneaky peak at the view.

Friday had arrived and our ultimate morning ended with two very positive Spanish lessons and an emotional goodbye lunch with the staff and pupils. Unfortunately our afternoon had turned extremely sour. With tourists entitled to a 90 day visa in Bolivia we were previously aware that following your initial 30 days you must go to immigration in order to be permitted more. After our first mistake a month previous, whereby we assumed immigration would be open on a weekend and thus paid a minute two day late fee; we prematurely set off in an attempt to request our ultimate 30 day allowance. Now nearly two months in Bolivia without any scam or trouble is actually quite an achievement, so I suppose we were definitely overdue our first encounter. We were extremely unfortunate that the most insufferable human being was assigned to our case accompanied by the input of her fat jobsworth compañero. Without going into laborious detail, during our last appointment at immigration, an equally disinterested male hadn't told us the complete instructions as to how to pay a late fee. Thus so, we were now officially illegally 26 days overdue a payment. Without a flicker of remorse for her fellow compañero's slack behaviour and certainly lacking English customer service by the offering of tea she bluntly demanded us to pay. With our hearts heavily sunk in our stomachs it seemed the callous woman wanted to play a few more games with the innocent gringos. As she sniggered and whispered to the jobsworth next to her clearly nonplussed at our demonstrative ability to comprehend her language, they decided we should pay for the whole two months in Bolivia. Infuriatingly my Spanish classes had been relatively PG rated as knowing a few curse words would have been extremely welcomed in such a situation. But as reality hit home we were aware of the corrupted law within the continent we chose to travel through and without letting these vile creatures break our pride or morale we settled for half the fine and walked out with our heads held high.

As connected energy charged throughout the universe the heavens suddenly began to mirror my outrage. The most ferocious and enigmatic storm I have ever witnessed erupted across Cochabamba. With no sane option other than to wait out the next 30 minutes, we took our seats and became captivated by the natural concert that played out before our eyes. As the finale completed wth a thunderous roar and a lightening bolt streaking through the sky, dressed in typically summer attire we made a run for it. The streets had turned into filthy rapids of water plummeting down the slopes and as we slipped and slid with beaming smiles on our faces, our previous misfortune became a long forgotten memory.

We ended our two months on a real high, 5035 metres above sea level high. Our trek to the highest point of Cerra Tunari was a perfect portrayal of my experience in Cochambamba. A roller coaster journey accompanied by kind and trustworthy companions, with times so physically and mentally enduring that I was close to giving up altogether. Yet the strength of those around me encouraged me to push forward and reach the peak, at which I sat and in awe took in the most fantastic view of a truly endearing and unforgettable city that will always remain close to my heart. Although experiences can be challenging at times they are fundamental to your growth as a person. As I write this last paragraph with Cochabamba fading from our bus's rear view mirror, I know "I wouldn't have had it any other way."