(George)

Having hiked to 5030m the previous day we were feeling somewhat fatigued, not only were our muscles aching but we had acquired several degrees of ferocious sunburn thanks to the life threatening combination of doxycycline (anti-malarials) and the strength of the sun at high altitude. Dozing off as we left Cochabamba, I was somewhat content that our bus fell far short of it's full capacity and with a few wriggles and turns I managed to find a suitable sleeping position, accommodating my frazzled skin and weary head for the night ahead. The bus rumbled on through the night and our dreams were filled of lands free of missionaries and the ever impending wrath of God, our destination was Sucre and unaware of the irony, we prayed to the Lord our wish would come true. I awoke at the crack of dawn to an odd sensation, a sensation that I would presume is akin to the feeling of one's skin melting. My eyes darted from side to side looking for some sort of explanation for this new-found agony. As I turned to look down the aisle, I could only assume we had stopped off to aid a local refugee camp. The bus was loaded with the infamous indigenous women, each laden with sacks of fodder and tat. I looked to my right to find what may have been a witch with an irritating inability to remain still thus causing her coarse load of goods to rub up and down my sunburnt arm. Shifting my weight away from the crowded aisle I ran into my next problem, the sun had decided to break through the curtains to my left causing excruciating agony every time a ray managed to find an area of my exposed skin. With Sucre hiding 2 hours down the road I buckled myself in for the rest of the journey, oh Bolivia...

Arriving at Sucre in typical Bolivian fashion (2 hours late) we departed from the refugees and hurried to the first available taxi. Celtic Cross had been recommended to us by Pauline, a girl mentioned in the previous blog, whom we met on one of our weekends in Cochabamba. She had captured our interest with a vivid description of its chilled out atmosphere and laid back setting - it seemed like the place for us. Arriving at 07:30am we were apprehensive about whether we would even be let in the place. Fortunately, the huge doors were swung open by Rakesh (Dr Singh). We were given a whistle stop tour of the facilities and immediately shown our beds, the hostel seemed relatively quiet but we were apprehensive about the amount of empty beer and vodka bottles found in the communal area, we weren't into party hostels and we definitely didn't want to stay at one. Dropping our bags off in our room we decided to give the hungover corpses some respite and headed down to the main square. With the hostel not serving breakfast we ventured into the cafe scene of Sucre, we would soon become regulars of the cosmopolitan eateries; often found chowing down on a continental or full English breakfast in an attempt to nurse the debilitating altitude hangover.

With time on our hands we explored the main square and streets within it's vicinity. Having never been let down by the grandeur of each city's Catholic cathedrals we decided to compare Sucre's to our ever growing list. Reading the sign outside we attained the information that the place of worship was only open for Sunday mass between the hours of 9-10am. We began to walk away disappointed until our bearings realigned and we realised that we were bang on time. After finally believing we had escaped the relentless lectures of the Catholic sect we were inevitably pulled back in to the house of God, it seemed the old boy wasn't finished with us yet.

We spent the rest of the day appreciating 'La Ciudad Blanca - The White City' slowly perusing its postcard worthy streets, meandering to our hearts content. Some of the noteworthy sites included an extremely miniature Eiffel Tower, the high courts of Bolivia, and the National Theatre. After having seen these impressive buildings close up we decided to head for a birds eyes view at the mirador. What may only be described as the best looking city we had witnessed in South America sprawled out before us with the sophistication of a European location. This was our type of town. After checking out a few of the local bars for a few swift mojitos, we stumbled back to the hostel with high hopes of clean, fresh beds to lay our weary heads.

Awakening late that afternoon, already feeling something of a hangover beginning to cloud our minds, we decided to utilise some psychological distraction techniques - today's technique: Socialising. As rare as it is for Tamara and I to speak to anybody outside of Camp Wozzle, we promised one another we would storm the communal area armed with greetings and smiles. We found an international selection of our stereotypical traveller types. Bodie, an Australian from Perth with enough stories to keep us going for days. Téo, a Swedish lad from God knows where in Sweden, the pronunciation and spelling slipped my English tongue and Fearghal, born of Dublin - House Clover. These were the most notable trio of the bunch and we spent a good evening together that night playing pool and getting to know one another. Fearghal, it turned out, was staying in our dormitory and after hearing we had learnt Spanish for 5 weeks took it upon himself to ensure we were tested sufficiently each morning.

With our first half of our stay in Sucre lasting only a few days we decided to check out the first English pub that we had encountered on our travels. The Red Lion, situated in the heart of Sucre, promised us the green green pastures of England and with the admittance of a little home sickness we hurried over to its open doors. The interior of the 'pub' could not entirely be categorised as English, an upmarket bar on the Costa del Sol was as English as this place could be. Despite this, we were presented with 2 menus detailing some of the finest English - sausage & mash (which we were later told was packet 'smash' by the owner), fish & chips were but to name a few. Feeling particularly British I was roused by the mouthwatering description of the Mexican Burger whilst Tamara stuck to her roots and went for the fish & chips. The evening was complimented by an Oasis gig being screened on the television and a lovely couple from Leeds, Katy and Josh.

With our bellies full of 'English' grub we were ready for the next and our trip to Potosí...

(Tamara)

"I am rich Potosí,
The treasure of the world…
And the envy of kings."

Potosí, a city founded in 1545, situated a stones throw from Cerro Rico, a 'Rich Hill' that contained such an abundance of silver the Spanish could have built a solid bridge back to the Kings palace in Madrid. It was this vast storage of precious minerals that made Potosí the largest and wealthiest city in the Americas, bankrolling the Spanish Empire. However with the scarcity of remaining silver, the city we drove into in 2015 was one that appeared heavily submerged in depression and poverty.

Having been encouraged to waste as little time as necessary in Potosí, we were invited to return to Sucre that evening in time to gorge on Dr Singh's famous curry night. As usual we were committed to casting our own judgement and as we entered the most central part of town we were charmed by the colourful colonial buildings and narrow cobbled streets. At 4090 meters we had arrived in the highest city of it's size in the world and the Baltic conditions shook us from our previous months heat acclimatisation. We had a total of 36 hours to explore and so wasted no time in setting off on our first adventure; a private tour within the Catedral de la Cuidad de Potosí. As we explored the depths of the grandiose and neo classically inspired decor of the building's interior, we insisted on paying an extra donation to be summoned to the heights of the bell tower. Thrilled at the chance to replicate a favourite childhood character's duties, I prepared myself to lunge for the bell's rope and swirl into the sky as I had seen Quasimodo do on so many occasions. Our guide sensing my impulsive and careless intention, swiftly intercepted and insisted that instead I enjoy the beautiful bird's eye view of the city whilst tightly holding onto the barriers before me.

Following our expedition we checked into the Hostal La Casona. After our past three months travelling, George and I had been actively inputting our experiences into the world of TripAdvisor to offer our advice to fellow travellers. One of our main enjoyments had been scrolling through the reviews and reading the negative contributions from the professional moaners of the world. The way our system worked - if these whining bellyache members of society warned us to avoid something, we dismissed all advice and went ahead and embraced it. To this day our views contrast almost all of those we read, but then perhaps our open minded, realistic and appreciative approach to whatever we are offered for our measly £6-£10's have made our experiences either special or extremely comical. Our hostel in Potosí was a perfect example of such a situation; as the majority of the world loathed it, the wozzles's loved it. The hostel, an 18th century Spanish colonial building had walls that as reviewed, crumbled before us like the first few biscuits in a packet. Likewise our door's lock dismounted from its hinges as we tried to secure our fortress. Some may find this unacceptable, however these observations only added to the hostel's endearing persona. Furthermore after finding ourselves unnecessarily apologising to the owner for the faulty lock we were soon upgraded to a large private with only a handful of naked wires dangling above our pillows. For that the hostel's review weightings were finally uplifted; if only the other moaners could restrain from being so pessimistic the world of TripAdvisor would be a much more positive place.

We awoke early the following morning to set off on our somewhat controversial trip to the mines. As the main attraction of Potosí we were aware that a visit wasn't intended for the lighthearted, as claustrophobic, risky environments were awaiting to welcome us. Statistics have found that miners usually last no longer than ten years working within the mines and are forced to stop due to emphysema and bad health from asbestos exposure. With so much concern surrounding the tour, the NHS had even been invited to pass their judgement, concluding the minimal time spent in the mines wasn't sufficient to cause long lasting damage but caution should still be made when making the decision to enter. Of course being impressionable tourists we weren't put off, however we weren't about to settle for any old tour agency. We had been strictly warned to avoid any operator that proceeded to show live dynamite demonstrations as the government deemed this a highly illegal act, with it threatening the stability of the mountain and posing danger for those working within it.

Having faith in the hostel's agency we soon doubted our choice as we were welcomed to our guide, 'Johnny' a reckless ex-miner who was clearly still under the influence of the 96% spirit that is an integral part of the miners daily fluid intake. We were then introduced to our group, a rock and roll enthusiast German, an introverted French couple and an obnoxious American. Kitting up in our mining gear we set off through the streets until we reached the miner's market in which it was courteous to purchase gifts for the miners in exchange for our entry into their place of work.

There were two sets of gift options - a set of dynamite and the other, a bottle of 96% spirit, Sprite and a bag of coca leaves. With several daily trips taking place, the miners must have thought that Christmas had come early, but their livers were sure to suffer as a consequence. As we paid for our purchases Johnny decided to put on a show for us, lighting a stick of dynamite in his mouth and pretending to have a bag of narcotics in his top pocket; I could tell this was going to be a long morning. We started the incline to the Cerro Hill with anticipation in the minibus increasing. Johnny suddenly turned to us with his mischievous grin and asked 'the' question that I was adamant my fellow travellers would respond in agreement with me on "Shall we blow up some dynamite?" The high school geek from my past delved into my present and proudly replied "No". However with the macho gene imbedded in the males' pea brain skulls chorused "YES" and with the final response from the American, "I'm from the USA, I love blowing s**t up" I knew any hope of obedience to the rules was doomed.

We savoured our last glimpse of open air and daylight before we began our descent into the mouth of the mountain. Single file we crouched and clambered through the dampness and darkness, soldiering through the puddles of thick mud and water beneath our feet. Following the miner's tradition we stopped to pay our respect to the shrine of the Tío (uncle) who represents the devil dwelling beneath the Earth. We were told to pour a drop of alcohol and add a handful of coca leaves on his figurine in order to ask for his protection within the mines. Meandering further into the blackness of the abyss we halted abruptly. Despite the nothingness and impossibility of sight a sudden inclination in my stomach made me feel extremely uneasy. Under the impression the illegal dynamite demonstration would be taking place in the safety of the open air, sweat began to appear on my forehead and my throat tightened when instead I saw Johnny commence his preparations inside a small crevice within the mountain. Once the dynamite had been lit there was a heart-stopping two minute countdown before the explosion. The men like a pack of frenzied hyenas practically pounced at the opportunity to pose for a picture with the alight dynamite, and with the American holding it in such close proximity to my face I wish I could have stuck it far up inside the place where the sun didn't shine. "5, 4, 3, 2, 1..." Nothing. "5, 4, 3, 2, 1..." Nothing. After two failed countdowns I started to smile and realised this was all a big windup. From cowering as one in the corner we gradually began to ease up and release our fingers from our ears. Suddenly the loudest deafening boom engulfed me as the most intense vibration I'd ever experienced pounded through my being. Shaking I stood startled but silently admitted to myself that was one of the most thrilling experiences I have ever had.

Grasping the strength in our legs to continue on, we made our way to meet the miners during their work break. Sat in silence with hard faces contorting under hats, they methodically ripped at their coca leaves and assembled them into their ever bulging cheeks. Conversation between us and them was extremely scarce and it was evident our voyeurism to their depressive reality was extremely unwelcome. We hastily parted with our giving of gifts and watched as they polluted their bodies with the intoxicating spirits and commenced work for the following gruelling hours. With the temperatures increasing to unbearable and the air becoming even more scarce the consensus in the group finally became one and we all rushed to absorb the beauty of daylight as we emerged from the depths of hell.

As we drove away from Cerro Rico it was clear the city of Potosí is a very different place to what it once was. However, after our visit to the historic mint of the Spanish Empire, it was soon clear that life for the Bolivians wasn't too far from that of today. The wealth of the mines was owned by the Spanish and the city thrived in their arrival, however once they had taken everything the city resumed its position of poverty. The Spanish may have been able to build a bridge of silver to Madrid but you could have built one back made with the bones of the slaves used in the process.

(George)

Arriving in Sucre, we hadn't even bothered to drop our bags before we went to the pub. There was something infectious about the mines and we, like the miners, felt the need to cleanse our bodies with all spirits and liquids. We decided it best that we continue the night without hauling our luggage around every bar and hastily dropped our bags off at the hostel. The night was to bring a myriad of entertainment as we took to a local Bolivian bar with live music. The natural balance of 'liquids in' to 'courage out' certainly held true that night and within minutes Tamara had organised a 'Wonderwall' rendition for the entire bar and I was to play to the role of Liam. Another ancient equation also dictates that 'fluids in' is equal to 'memory lost' and thus upon attempting to recreate the second verse of the internationally famous song, I was stopped dead in my tracks. The song of my childhood, adolescence and adulthood was caged behind a wall of alcohol and with all the charisma of Liam and Noel, I stormed off stage and demanded another drink.

With the next day mainly being used for recovery, we battened down the hatches as electric storms whisked by overhead. We finally came back to life on the Saturday afternoon just in time for another of Dr Singh's specialities. His South American/South African hybrid BBQ was one of the best and most flavoursome concepts we had tasted in our travels. His first course was pork joints, grilled in salt and all manners of world condiments, accompanied by a deliciously rich chilli dish to provide the side. With this course devoured within a manner of minutes, we were presented with the main course of rib-eye steak. With our bellies full and hearts content, we deemed it time for another night out - this time to a real club! We stood in the darkness of one of Sucre's only tourist bar/clubs 'Kultur Berlin' listening to mechanical 4x4 rhythms ticking by, morphing those of flesh and bones into robotic machines with each chest shattering kick of the drum.

With Sunday being rightfully used as the day of rest we ensured we had something to fill our time on the Monday. The choices were that of horse riding or quad biking and having already crossed quad biking off the bucket list in the wilderness of Scotland, I opted for a new adventure along with a new German friend. We were picked up from the hostel by another 'Johnny' and taken to a farm just outside of the city. We arrived to find 3 healthy stallions all of Red Rum pedigree, raring to get chomping at the bit. We saddled up and rode out into the countryside, our horses proving to be steady footed and sure throughout the whole journey. Our walk lasted around 3 hours as we rode through varying terrain, ranging from steep mountainous passes, flat dirt tracks and busy Bolivian roads. Our speed was set by our experienced guide and we were shown the art of walking (boring), trotting (painful) and galloping (mint). Unfortunately for me however, whilst galloping I seemed to always be stuck behind Tamara's old buck who seemed to be content trotting at a leisurely pace as the rest of us began to charge. Despite this, we all dismounted with smiles on our faces as we watched our 3 hour companions be led off into the distance, each tied from head to tail behind the guides valiant steed.

As we sat down on our overnight bus, legs bowed and aching, we set our gaze forward to the one we had been waiting for.. the big one.. La Paz.