(Tamara)

We had endured a frustrating night, sporadically drifting between consciousness as the stench of thick sweat from congealed bodies and the unsynchronised snores of the women directly behind us had disturbed us throughout the night. The bus came to a halt and with our clocks reverted backwards by an hour at 6.00am we had finally made it to the Bolivian border. Having been warned of the below minus temperatures that would greet us, I was ready to face the chill with my thermals tucked underneath my trousers and my four jumpers overlapping one another. As the door opened, I was hit with an unfamiliar shock of frostbite wind that managed to creep its way right through to my bones. I praised my commitment of trudging warm clothes around with me for the past month and smiled as I remembered mum's words of wisdom "you'll need them one day". Feeling grateful we were prepared for our new destination I savoured the fact that on this occasion we weren't standing out as the naive gringos anymore. This feeling lingered for a mere moment as I watched George approaching with our bags. Dressed in his typical combination of a white t-shirt, black shorts and black pumps he carelessly flung his jumper over his right shoulder. At -1 degrees the cold had engulfed him and his sudden likeness to Casper the ghost was frighteningly apparent. George had become the main tourist attraction as every passer by acknowledged his absurdity by shouting at him "tu loco tu loco". Nonplussed he looked at me and shrugged his shoulders, "You think this is cold? I'm from Manchester remember."

As we queued in an orderly line awaiting the border to open, I looked around and marvelled at the Bolivian women's attire. Gok Wan eat your heart out - make these women look fabulous. The dress sense of the Bolivian women is certainly eye opening; our English fashion police would hold the country under imminent arrest, but with the rapid decline in temperature they dressed for success. Each woman closely resembled an old fashioned toilet roll holder, casting our imaginations back to our grandparent's childhood houses. Layer upon layer of woollen garments increasingly expanded their waistline whilst gloves, leg warmers and a hat of completely contrasting patterns completed their look. In tow they mauled their outrageously large luggage sacks with them; customs would have a field day operating a search if it wasn't for these women's intimidating presence. Needless to say if they ever boarded a Ryanair flight they would be required to purchase the entire plane in need of their excess storage space. The border was declared open at exactly 07.01am and as a scene typically depicting a refugee walk, as one we marched on forward in hope of seeking asylum. Previous travellers had shared dramatic accounts of their border crossing experiences, however for George and I ours was disappointingly straightforward. Two windows: one Argentinian, one Bolivian, stamp stamp, "next in line". The irony of the situation was that within two steps of the second window the Bolivian land Villazon was indistinguishable to the Argentinian, La Quiaca soil. Only our minds, the exchange currency and a rectangular sign confirmed that we had successfully crossed the frontier.

Welcomed by a cackling crowd of tour operators, like chicks in a nest we awaited our food as the operators swarmed the intimidated gringos. We were selected, a chirping saleswoman screamed, 'Tupiza' and hurried us away from her competitors to satisfy her satiable appetite by ingesting our money. We requested her price, requesting it thrice more when our answer of 20 bolivianos converted as £1.89. A four hour journey for such a measly price was incomprehensible to anyone having arrived from Argentina. However without offering any chance to change her mind we paid immediately and hurried into the small minivan otherwise known in Bolivia as a taxi trufi. With nine seats, two gringos, twelve locals, and two chickens we hit the road to reach our first Bolivian destination. The scenery began to gradually disperse from its neighbouring Argentina, we relaxed and allowed our visual receptors to indulge as we delved into a feast of exquisite Andean mountains. Unfortunately we battled to stop our bladders becoming relaxed and after being deprived of a toilet for over 16 hours, in relief we kissed the floor as we departed our trufi at Tupiza station.

Home to the town where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid met their end, we had arrived in a spectacular Wild West movie set. Positioned within the impressive Rio Tupiza Valley, the back drop of the canyons glowed with a rich ember as if a match had been struck upon them from the heavens. Navigating our way to our hostel we were accompanied by dancing dust devils as the theme tune of the good the bad and the evil looped around my head. I had never shared my families appreciation for cowboy films in the past, but meandering through my very own was exhilarating. After commenting on the Bolivian woman we encountered at the border, I didn't think it was possible for things to become any stranger. It appears I was wrong. The women of Tupiza are a different kind of species all together. In the western world idols such as Beyoncé and Rihanna represent feminist strengths of independence and power. However huge ghetto booties and multi million pound contracts aren't necessary. Four feet old women with plaits cascading to their behinds are the finest specimens of independent women the world will ever lay eyes upon. Children were positioned in blankets on their backs, they mauled huge crates of vegetables and fruit, cheeks full to the brim of cocoa leaves and shrieking at their cowering husbands. In England society discourages the elderly to lift a finger, in Tupiza you would undoubtably lose yours if you tried to help these women.

Our room was upgraded to a 'super deluxe double ensuite' and for £8.50 each we felt as though we had the won the lottery. We headed out for our first Bolivian meal and having been warned to trust absolutely nothing within the country we cemented caution within our minds. For me, that lasted a second as a plethora of exotic fruits cruelly teased me along the street market.
George sprinted past as if through a SARS epidemic he was convinced even the air was a bacterial hellhole. I sneakily slid a boliviano into the old woman's withered hand. She held up her offering of the watermelon slice and grinned her wicked witch smile as I Snow White bit into the forbidden fruit. I savoured the first refreshing taste of goodness in what seemed an eternity whilst quivering at the thought of the potential after effects. With George none the wiser, I joined him in the sole recommended restaurant in Tupiza, a dreadful reincarnation of a Planet Hollywood. We were presented with the menu and the Bolivian 'authentic specialities'. Only what I can describe as a student's post nightclub takeaway heaven, it dawned on me I would spend the next three months risking my insides for the yearning of vitamins from any available source. 'Pique Machu' George's favourite consisted of a bed of rice, chips, steak, sausage, two eggs and a handful of peppers. Ironically not a single ingredient seemed traditional to Bolivia, but we savoured each bite after our long and tiring journey. With the sudden churn of stomach cramps, I guiltily blamed the pain on the meal. Amusingly George spent the evening preparing himself for his unavoidable fate as the secret business between the witch and I has only now been revealed in this blog entry.

We eagerly headed to our hostel's tour operator to book our four day tour of the famous Bolivian salt flats. We had initially planned to commence the trip from Uyuni as this is the norm amongst those travelling along the gringo trail. However, with the beauty of tip and advice exchanges within hostels, a fellow Kiwi suggested an alternative route: sacrifice a little more money, avoid tourist crowds and experience an additional days worth of unmissable sights. We were sold and had agreed to start our tour in Tupiza and terminate in Uyuni. With the trip advisor ratings for 'La Torre tours' consistently boasting 5 *****, what a treat we were both in for.

Day 1:

We were introduced to the captain of our Toyota Land Cruiser Carlos and his wife Esperanza who cooked us daily feasts fit for Henry VIII medieval banquets. Completing our group were an older, adventure seeking French couple whom we would take in turns to act as one another's selfie stick to capture the romantic photographs. Sadly the language barriers in the car meant we couldn't converse entirely with our travel companions but so it seemed that during the four days language wouldn't be an issue; the experiences we shared together on every occasion branded us completely speechless. We buckled in, George and I, the smallest people in the group somehow managed to draw the long straw by having the middle seats to spread out across whilst the French barely had space to move a limb in the back. We left our Wild West haven Tupiza at 2950 meters and throughout the morning began the gradual incline through the fantastic mountainous pathways euphorically absorbing the incredible scenery as our light heads mirrored our incline to highs of 5000 meters. (I will allow the photos to do the talking for the sights we were fortunate to see. There are some of nature's creations that no word in the English dictionary can sufficiently describe.) We eventually arrived in the small village of 'Polulos' which was made of up twenty brick houses with thatched roofs and a dirt football pitch. We watched as a small group of young children happily played without any parental observations and we appreciated the safe community environment. Esperanza set off to prepare our lunch in the designated kitchen offered to the trip. We would see the fantastic organisation behind our tour, with various stop offs offered to our cooking services in even the most remote of locations. We were introduced to the other group whose driver was Esperanza's brother - a lovely family affair. Our sister group consisted of English speakers: a French-Canadian couple, a somewhat difficult Portugese girl and a German boy whose impeccable English meant he spent the whole time even correcting our grammar. After a delicious spread of real authentic Bolivian food we embarked on our afternoon journey where we were treated to sightings of ostrich in Cerillos and a personal introduction in Rio San Pablo aka the llama valley. I couldn't help noticing the striking resemblance George had to these animals and as they scarpered away from any human being other than him, it seemed he had naturally arrived home to his kind. Our penultimate stop for the day was San Antonio De Lipez, which exhibited the ruins of an old colonial mining town. At 4200 metres we glimpsed a rabbit, only six weeks away from England our unexplained excitement was as it was as if we had spotted the Lock ness monster. George and I, deciding to chase a common English pet at such high altitude would pay for our stupidity for the next hour as we struggled to calm our racing hearts.

As our 300km drive over the terrain was nearly at a close, Carlos serenaded us with his favourite Bolivian music as the sun began to slowly drip down the sky. Our sister group and several other Land Cruisers sped by causing the dust to filter through our windows. We were content with Carlos' tranquil speed and were convinced the pressure of his wife's close proximity was the cause for his responsible behaviour. This was all good and well until we arrived at Quetena Chico, our first nights accommodation where we were turned away from two hostels. With the village hosting no more than three hostels, our hearts began to race as the drop in temperature and vast distances to any other civilisation made us question where we would lay our tired heads that night. Having realised accommodation was obtained on a first come first serve basis we cursed Carlos for his laissez faire attitude. However we were in luck and as we entered the most 'basic' of our accommodation we were delighted with a comfortable bed, a second hearty meal and lights out by 9pm. Buenos noches!

(George)

Day 2:

The room was pitch black, there was not a sound to be heard as the wall of silence maintained its watchful guard over our sleep. The time was 05:59 and it was a beautiful minute. 6:00 struck home like a hammer as our sensitised ears were accosted by the rasping of the French Frogs alarm clock. We weren't scheduled to leave our quaint hostel until 7:30 yet the Frenchies seemed to be intent on making sure they were prim and proper far in advance of our RV time. They scampered off into the morning allowing tendrils of fresh air to creep into our coves, an unwanted addition to our toasty pits. Our internal snooze buttons were firmly pressed and sleep resumed with haste. When we finally arose from our, quite rudely interrupted, slumber I noticed a glint in Tamara's eyes. From 50m away she had spotted something, I quickly rushed to her side. Was it a wild animal? Could it be a natural feature of majestic beauty? Upon asking what she had been able to catch a glimpse of I was vastly underwhelmed, eggs were for breakfast. I trudged to our table in tow of Tamara's ecstasy, another false alarm caused by Tamara's insatiable appetite.

With all tanks full, Tamara's and the Land Cruisers, we sped off into the sprawling landscape of towering volcanoes and plunging valleys. Our second day was to be the shorter of our ventures into the rippling mountains however it was not short of breathtaking spectacles. First up was the lofty Volcan Uturunca. Clouds provided a dense smokescreen around it's peak preserving its heavenly perch as the Volcan stood solemnly, perpetually surveying the frontier between Bolivia and neighbouring Chile. With our cameras flattening each volcano due to matters of perspective we decided to drop the technology for a moment or two, instead opting to give ourselves the opportunity to see the world through our eyes rather than a lens. A new mountain rolled by with every breath as they each offered their unique beauty for our retinas to feast upon - natures finest artwork on display for a small price.

Lagunas were to be found dotted through the valleys like mountain oasis', encouraging what little life they could in the desolate terrain. As we approached our first Laguna of the trip, Laguna Hedionda, our eyes peeled back in awe of what had assumed its position in the lake. Fluorescent pink flamingos carefully stalked the water on thin stilts in search of sustenance, each replicating an age old hunting technique - head down, head up, look around, head down. The effect of 100+ flamingos completing this strange ritual in unison provided some comical relief from the introspective beauty of the mountains. Far more impressive than their ancient dance was upon the occasion that they deemed they must fly. To witness a flamingo embark on an aerial venture is most certainly a feat to behold. Due to their cumbersome midriff their primary goal is to achieve sufficient velocity before they are able to harness the power of physics. With legs sporadically pumping through the water they would extend their wings, spanning distances beyond comprehension, taking to the skies - rose trailblazers of the Bolivian mountains.

We were to encounter many Lagunas on our trip however there were a few in particular that stood head and shoulders above the rest. La Laguna Verde (Green Lagoon) had made its home at 4400m, flanked by three watchful volcanoes. As we pulled into the Mirador - 'Viewing Point' our jaws dropped. The combined effect of awe and horror meant we spent the next few moments attempting to regather ourselves. Primarily we had been taken unaware by the hordes of wannabe photographers that had perched themselves atop the mirador, this was our first encounter with the Uyuni tour heathen. Countless Land Cruisers awaited the return of their adventurous passengers who scurried to and from each vantage point, desperate to get the best snap to show their friends. The frantic activity around the mirador meant it was difficult to simply appreciate the laguna itself, we trekked beyond the madness and rewarded ourselves with some well earned respite. Upon initially looking out across the laguna, one may assume that it had earned it's name 'verde' - 'green' due to its murky, turquoise appearance. The sight of the lake was pleasing to say the least and we believed we were witnessing something rather impressive. However, as the wind blustered across the surface something incredible occurred. Due to an abundance of copper particles in the laguna's sediment, the wind was able to stir them enough to produce flashes of radioactive green that danced across the surface. Already facing a strong headwind we prayed that Zeus may huff his cheeks with all his power, with prayers answered we marvelled as the laguna became electrified with green so vivid we couldn't believe our eyes.

Having forgotten the comfort of a Tarmac road, we trundled through the bouncing passes until we thankfully arrived at our lunch stop. This had been a much eagerly anticipated destination in our trip and before you jump to conclusions, it wasn't for the food - we had arrived at the thermal springs. Again it seemed as if we were following the lead of the undesirable Uyuni peasants and vagabonds, these irritating whippersnappers had already descended upon the thermal pool in their dozens and transformed the location into a Groupon spa day. Having purchased our 'Billetes' - 'Tickets' to make use of the rickety changing facilities, we strode purposefully to earn our spot in the water. I froze in my tracks, mortified, when I realised we had been conned into believing that the 'hot springs' were vast bodies of water. The reality hit us like a pan in the face when we saw that our 'hot spring' was little more than a child's paddling pool, the Bolivian companies had made full use of modern photographies ability to skew perceptions. Upon immersing ourselves into the mineralised water, despite meandering body hair tickling our sides, we released a deep sigh of relaxation. My inner peace arrived in full swing but like a flash in a pan it rapidly dissipated into the ether. My companion, Tamara seemed to be making full use of the mountains meditation facilities and with eyes comfortably closed she allowed the ancient waves to soak deep into her soul. Seeing an opportunity I seized the day, my mischievous school boy antics were brought to the surface in seconds. Wading stealthily through the gravel-based pool I snatched Tamara, dragging her into the abyss. Resurfacing with a look of thunderous rage etched across her face, Tamara was distracted by a distant cry from our cook, Esperanza. Lunch was ready and I was off the hook.

Finishing lunch and with Tamara's anger passing, we headed off to our next attraction - Geisers. The word conjures up images of Icelandic plumes of superheated water bursting into the sky as if whales had been trapped beneath the ice. Bolivian geisers (5000m). Plumes of superheated flatulents bursting into our open mouths. We looked in disgust as the primordial ooze bubbled and hissed, detesting its own existence. One particular geiser churned out enough sulphur and methane gas to slay a large cow, most travellers had the sense to avoid this eternal stink bomb but in a rush to reach higher ground we took our chances and ran head on into the mountains rectum. Needless to say Carlos and the Frogs shot us a few sideways glances as we proceeded to gas our Land Cruiser.

The final stop of our second day came after we safely deposited our bags at our humble accommodation. Following a military operation to ensure Esperanza had all her kitchen gear, we left her behind as we jetted towards the Laguna Colorada. Initially appearing as nothing more than a mirage on the horizon, we held our breath as we sped towards the shimmering red haze. Having already witnessed a green unique only to the Laguna Verde that day, we felt ready for anything. Upon reaching the mirador we were unsure of which way to look, the Laguna entrapped us like a medieval moat. It spanned an impressive 270° around our position, cautiously ringed by sleeping volcanoes. The tranquility of the laguna was welcomed with open arms. As the wind dropped and we rooted our feet in the encrusted salt, not a sound was to be heard. Flamingoes continued with daily life, each monitoring their chosen station in the brick red lake whilst expressing passivity to our alien presence. Catching a glimpse of Tamara a few steps behind, a look of serenity passed over her face - "Can we stay here forever?"

(Tamara)

Day 3:

We awoke to a magical sight as white snowflakes were sprinkled from the sky and daintily laid a white coat over the outside world. We packed up the land cruiser and departed our accommodation in the complete opposite weather conditions to which we had been welcomed in. This meant our drive through yesterday's tracks now appeared distorted, as if through a filtered camera lens. As we huddled in the back seat gaining any bodily heat we could muster, we looked in dismay as Carlos pulled over and spoke his trademark command 'now can take photos'. We had arrived at 'Arbol de Piedra' - tree of stone, a site home to a collection of weathered volcanic rocks and a place where man could revert back to it's evolutionary ancestor. The climate was turning a bitter cold and with various challenging formations testing traveller's ability to clamber upon them, after a few snaps people resigned and headed back to their vehicles. George and I had failed to see our fellow men's white flag of surrender and instead decided to climb to the highest point of the largest rock. Within seconds of reaching its peak, the snow began to thrash down upon us with ice so sharp it felt like it was slashing into our skin. As we slid and slipped our way back to our vehicle, sideways glances were given once again as we buckled in, unintentionally allowing the Baltic conditions to accompany us along the way. Our final stop for the day was to Laguna Negra, the most disappointing of them all simply due to our high expectations. We expected the water's appearance to mirror its prestigious title, however this was not the case and we swiftly drove to our lunch stop, a lay-by within the crevice of the mountains.

Unfortunately our scheduled afternoon at the volcano was disrupted due to the clouds still drooping low in the sky and so we headed to our final nights accommodation. Having been sold a nights stay in a salt hotel, my teenage lip began to curl and my pout protruded across my face as I looked in dismay at the extremely ordinary brick building in front of me. I dragged my case solemnly through the doorway and felt an unusual crunch beneath the soles of my shoes. I felt like I had entered Narnia as a white carpet was lay down before me with both the ground and walls glistening alike. With the luxury of our own room, George insisted I proved that our foundations were made out of the very condiment we soak our fish and chips in. I may be the older Wozzle but my weakness to peer pressure kicked in. After licking the wall, I can confirm that the hotel was indeed made out of salty goodness. After our last supper as a group we unanimously agreed to get an early night (20:00). This came after a surprise announcement from all our drivers that we would be evacuating the hotel at the ungodly hour of 04:30.

(George)

Day 4:

04:30am, a time I readily associate with the ludicrous beginnings of a family holiday. In the past our flight to Spain wouldn't have been until around 10am and I would have cursed the stars that my mum had already dragged me from my slumber. However in this case I was told we only had an hour until sunrise. As all reading this will know, mornings are not my profession. I slovenly stick to my sheets like a slug to its cabbage whilst refuting any attempts to be stirred from my crucial resting period. Having secured Tamara and I a private room in the salt hotel I pushed my luck and softly lay my head against the warm, comforting pillow - pillows never argue, pillows are always.. "GET UP NOW, GEORGE WARREN!" The screech replicated a thousand nails on chalkboards as my eardrums set a imminent strike in action, unable to continue work for the day. Tamara had obviously received notes of advice from my mum, the tone of irritation was uncanny and I dreaded the consequences should I not rise.

As we watched our fellow tourists depart into the darkness of the flats, we stood with itchy feet. Our driver and cook had decided to wait until everyone had left before they decided to clear away the kitchen utensils. We nervously kicked the dust around our Land Cruiser as we watched the hands of the clock continue their eternal march, 05:05am and half an hour until sunrise. As we hit the salt flats we expected Carlos to make up for some lost time, we were scheduled to make it to Isla Incahuasi in time for sunrise. Instead Carlos decided to regale us in folklore and horror stories of the flats as we crawled across its crusty surface. Carlos particularly relished in recounting one tale that included a school tour of young children becoming stranded on the flats during the rainy season. 'Todos Muertos' - 'All Dead'. These morbid tales didn't distract us from our true reason however and we urged Carlos to step on the gas.

We arrived at Isla Incahuasi at 5:50, the sun was already beginning to boast its deepest reds and oranges as the sun threatened to poke it's curious head above the mountain peaks at any second. Carlos, realising his responsibility for our delay, ran for what could have been the first time in his life. He huffed his way up to the ticket office and barged through the helpless backpackers, eager to ensure we did not miss this once in a life time opportunity. With our tickets in hand we thought the easy part was done with. We were ready to stroll up to the islands peak and gaze upon the most incredible sunrise of our lives. However as with most things in South America, a little extra work is required before you may reap the rewards. We climbed over 200 jagged steps to the top of the island, a jog in the park at sea level you may think - the reality at 3700m is quite the opposite. The sun had just begun its visible ascent above the mountains as we summited the island, clutching in desperation for what little oxygen we could access. The site was one that forced all present to introspectively retreat within themselves. We stood as statues of our egos, illuminated by the celestial warmth that had kissed our skin for all eternity. Humans and dogs alike cast their gaze to the East for the chance to witness our universal beacon thrust itself into the crystal clear sky.

Returning to the bottom of the island we paused for our final breakfast of the tour. Esperanza had been up since 03:00am ensuring that we each had a breakfast to remember. Sat proudly in the middle of our table was a 12" Victoria sponge cake, a full box of cereal, 2 Bolivian cheese baps each and a carton of strawberry yoghurt. This was all washed down by a carton of orange juice and a piping hot maté de coca. We were invited to stroll the circumference of the island, allowing us to appreciate it's carpet of uniquely shaped cacti whilst we warmed up in the newly discovered sunlight. We were picked up halfway through our wander around the island as Carlos whisked us away to our own personal salt spot. We began to take photos only described to us previously as 'Fotos Locos' - 'Crazy Photos' in which we utilised the lack of perspective the salt flats offered. Laws of physics were shattered as Tamara was hatched from an egg, I played a giant kalimba and little matchstick people spawned from a set of panpipes.

The last stop of our tremendous trip was to the Train Graveyard, carcasses of once great steam engines lay dormant as rust tore through their foundation. Old train enthusiast perused the sites with glee in their eyes as the youth saw nothing but an oversized playground. Swings had been set up and an unspoken competition ensued to see who could scale the biggest train. The site conjured up thoughts of a Thomas the Tank Engine - Deleted Scenes edition, enough to make a young Thomas fan cry. We ate our final meal as a group and laughed as we reminisced over the unfathomable spectacles we had witnessed over the past few days. Each of us spoke with tales of passion and wonder, our guides wisely looking on as they knowingly smiled. With bellies full we jumped in our sturdy Land Cruisers one last time and with a brief wave of the hand, sped off into the midday heat.

(Tamara)

Our 'motel' was as abandoned and silent as expected after looking at its exterior, but despite our group's sniggering as they swiftly drove off, I was more than satisfied with the atmosphere. We had planned to use the few days as an opportunity to complete my university applications and to also catch up on some much needed sleep before heading to the orphanage; peace and serenity definitely ticked the boxes. The applications turned out to be a success but unfortunately we were severely sleep deprived by the end. As we rested our heads in desperation for a good nights sleep, without warning George bolted upright with a sudden lunatic look in his eyes as he pounced out of his bed tossing the sheets into the air. Completely bewildered I looked across in the darkness only to see sparks flying off both George and the bedsheets, daring to self combust. Unbeknownst to us, being at such a high altitude with dry air can result in extreme static hidden within bedding. With George's forest legs causing his whole body to become positively charged for the next four days he would have to get into the rhythm of touching wooden objects consistently to avoid jolting unexpectedly around the bedroom. Needless to say I warily enforced a five foot rule for the duration, of which threw me back to my 9th year at school and my teachers strict gender segregation tactics.

Having been joined by a rather disorientated Pikachu at breakfast the following morning, we ordered a very strong maté and decided to venture into Uyuni centre for the morning. Before I continue, I didn't think it was possible for a country to enjoy hot drinks as much as the Brits. To my delight English Breakfast tea has been replaced by the ubiquitous maté, a selection of herbal infusions that are used medicinally for any ailments and are consumed every half an hour throughout the day. What's more I didn't think I would see the day George Warren would happily be making a brew but I was pleased to have him as my cuppa companion. Bill put' keckle on for our return! As we headed through the barren streets of Uyuni we were surrounded by bloodthirsty hounds, ripping to shreds black bags of waste that the Bolivians had foolishly placed within the middle of the roads. Rabies was thick in the air and naturally with the precarious positioning of the scavenger's feasts, a dead dog was inevitable. Unfortunately it was all too easy to become desensitised to this distressing sight but as such was the reality that the majority of dogs in Bolivia are certainly not domesticated home animals. After a brisk walk around the uninspiring town centre we made our way back for a static siesta, only to be stopped in our tracks by the most controversial sight we were yet to have come across. Approximately twenty metres from us on the side of a beaten dust track a Bolivian woman lifted her toilet roll skirt whilst inconspicuously squatting to relieve her bowels. To the side of us another woman lifted her toilet roll skirt and wiped the mouths of her young grandchildren. These multipurpose skirts must be a best seller on the shopping channels in Bolivia, Bet and Michelle get your credit cards ready. After a brief and peculiar stay in Uyuni we definitely understood why backpacker's only frequented this rusty town as a means to access the salt flats, however it was another experience to add to our list. We boarded our overnight bus to Cochabamba and prayed for a decent nights sleep before our two months living above 120 raucous children.