(Tamara)

It was time to face 'the city'...
'Nuestra Señora de La Paz', although ironically translating to English as 'Our Lady of the Peace' had caused sleepless nights that instilled fear within us of express kidnappings, desperate calls to parents for money in exchange for our freedom. The Lonely Planet mentioning such events was one thing, but tales from travellers along the way reinforced our precaution and apprehension as we made our approach. Entering El Alto (the neighbouring 'ghetto' towering above La Paz and the fastest growing city in the world) it was easy to imagine the locality of such offences, and we let out a sigh of relief as we sped through and safely arrived the other side. We knew to expect a mix match of everything we had experienced so far in our beloved Bolivia, only like a film clip - sped up >> 32 and with the volume turned to maximum, and as we departed our bus, that was exactly the city that we were introduced to.

La Paz can only be described as though George and I had ingested our trip so far, caught a parasite from the renown dodgy street food and hurled the whole thing up on top of the famous San Fransisco square. Like a giant's foot had landed overhead and disrupted a collection of ant mounds, people darted in all directions, headless chickens yet somehow each route yielded a promising purpose. Dirty, unorganised, raucous, beautiful, enchanting: a city defined by juxtapositions. We have never and most likely will never experience anything quite like it, but boy did we love it.

We arrived at our beautiful wooden Christmas grotto and were met by Santa's helper 'Jorge', an employee of the hotel and the most sincere and informative gentleman who, throughout our 10 day stay, made everything run as smooth as caramel. Although sleep deprived, the magnetism to explore was far too powerful to resist and we headed straight to the Witches' market. Testing all human endurance and respiratory systems, the steep incline hike to the market combatting the smog and altitude was deadly enough to plummet anyone into a desperate need to purchase the many natural ailments the witches had on offer. Incredibly the modern world invest millions whilst utilising world leading scientists in hope of developing and testing cures for illnesses. The indigenous world instead believe a 200ml bottle of suspicious liquid can combat a whole spectrum of physical and mental problems - cancer, depression, gastroenteritis, erectile dysfunction, heart disease, arthritis to name a few. As we simultaneously stepped though the entrance of one shop, entering the spiritual realm of ancient beliefs and superstitions, we ducked as llama foetuses hung from ceilings, today still used and buried beneath a new built home as a mark of good luck.

Whilst near 'The Yungas', (the main location for the legal and traditional Coca cultivation in Bolivia) it felt only natural to visit the Coca Wasi - Coca Museum. With it's informative and honest display of the historic timeline of the plant's existence, it serves to provide insight into what has become a catalyst to the controversial war on drugs in today's western world. As you digest the thick pamphlet of information paired to the display boards you soon begin to understand the integral part the plant plays in both the Andean's ancient and modern spiritual culture. Described as the 'binding of people', the 'connection within marriage', 'the healer, protector, teacher' it is evident to understand the people's frustration at the way the western world have tarnished their sacred plant by their negative recreational usage of cocaine. With America recently attempting to criminalise the plant to reduce cocaine consumption in the states, the Bolivian president rejected their efforts and refused to accept any blame for consequences away from his control. It is reported that on average 90% of Bolivian country inhabitants chew coca daily and with only positive effects scientifically reported (increased strength, energy and heart functioning) it is clear that our culture are the ones doing something wrong. But whatever your view on the subject, with our altitude heads starting to feel as light as a feather, we were more than happy for the coca to see us through.

Once we had been joined by two more of Santas helpers all the way from Rockhampton, despite being the other side of the world we ensured we spent Christmas doing what we did best: eating. Although deprived of Aunt Bessie's yorkie puds and a splash (or in George's case a boat) of bisto gravy we spent the next week indulging in a fantastic selection of cuisines from around the globe. We started by sailing along the Viet Thong tasting heaven within a spring roll, to fonduing meat and cheese in the Swedish land, tasting Caiman and beetroot bread in a gourmet Dutch establishment, enjoying meatballs and beer in a German ale house and an imported strongbow cider in the English Pub, finally finishing off with an exotic trio of Indian-Chinese-Thai and a spicy twist of Mexican. With our stomachs bulging and tastebuds tantalised we welcomed in Christmas Day. George and I were both extremely fortunate to be able to open cards and gifts from loved ones which was an extremely moving and touching moment and a fantastic surprise. Christmas will never be the same away from home but we did our best to make it special and we set off on a trip up the cable cars to see the view of La Paz from the top. With La Paz built within a valley in the midst of the spectacular snow capped Mount Illimani, it appears to the naked eye as if the sprawling fields of houses and buildings had been formed through means of a volcanic eruption. We appreciated the view for a little longer before heading back for some good old traditional Percy pigs, University Challenge and a singalong to fairytale of New York. You can take the Wozzles away from Christmas but you will never take Christmas away from the Wozzles.

(George)

Tales of La Paz, on the backpacker circuit, are often found intertwined with personal experiences of 'El Camino de la Muerte' - 'The Death Road'. These conversations are usually sparked up after seeing a fellow traveller's statement t-shirt, 'I survived The Death Road' in which you are regaled with stories of bravery and peril. With Top Gear bringing The Death Road into the public interest during their Bolivia Special, we were eager to see what all the fuss was about. Having previously been warned of bogus companies offering faulty bikes with malfunctioning brakes, we ensured we found ourselves in the capable hands of Baracuda Biking Company (BBC), who had craftily written a review under the alias of 'BBC' on their flyers to give the impression of appraisal from a trustworthy name. Nevertheless, we were extremely impressed with the attention to detail the company offered and we all agreed that we felt safe in the hands of our guides, Jubert and Juan.

The day started with a bus journey to the snow covered Sierra just outside of the city limits. We were given 30 minutes on flat gravel to test out our newly acquired bikes, ensuring that we had the front and back brakes on the correct side of the handlebars - a common cause of accidents on the road. With checks made, we sent our offerings to Pachamama (Mother Earth), who it seems is very fond of potent alcohol. We each took it turns to splash a few drops of the 96% proof beverage onto our tyres, ground and eventually a few in the gullet for good luck. With ethanol assaulting our nasal passages, we each moved to line up for the big send off. Bikes - check, brakes - check, drunk? - maybe. We were ready to set off just as my chain decided to snap clean off the bike, was this an omen for the rest of the day? I prayed to Pachamama to keep us safe but she must have been off her head with all that alcohol.

The ride began with 24km of Tarmac roads, allowing us to ease into journey and become comfortable on our bikes. Having spent most of the sunny days (ha!) of my childhood riding bikes with my next door neighbours, I felt naturally comfortable on the roads and lead the pack for the majority of the day. With the two guides having to cover the front and back of the group, it allowed those who came for speed to apply techniques such as body positioning on the bikes in order to achieve the maximum speed whilst those less comfortable could leisurely roll down the hill. With the guides calling us in for regular stops throughout the day in order to better explain the terrain we may be up against, it meant that those at the front often had a 2 or 3 minute wait before the group was back together again. These moments left me waiting anxiously to see if everyone would make it to the checkpoint especially as Tamara had vocalised to us earlier that she was feeling quite nervous about the trip. As the minutes passed I was relieved each time to see the silhouette of Tamara trundling down the gravelly pass, looking more as if she had gone out to fetch her vegetables on a basket bike than downhill biking on The Death Road.

By the time we got to NYE, we had already begun to get into the polyrhythmic beat of La Paz. We kicked off the day with an open top bus tour of the city and a trip to The Luna Valley. The tour offered an interesting insight into the history of the city, despite the audio cues being delayed by a good ten seconds in some areas. Following the extensive tour of La Paz centre, we arrived at The Luna Valley where we were impressed by the seemingly alien rock formations that jutted skyward as if competing with one another for attention. We were told that thousands of years of wind and rain erosion had carved the sandstone rocks to their present shapes and with the children inside us still going strong, we couldn't help but climb on a few.

That evening we decided to bring in the New Year in true Bolivian fashion and having booked our peña days in advance, we were raring to go! A peña (pen-yah), for those not yet in the know, is a night of traditional Bolivian dancing, costumes and music, all of which is accompanied by the national spirit of Singani. We had been informed by our hotel receptionist that the peña we had booked was extremely underground and only frequented by real locals who were craving to get away from the touristy crowds. With this in mind, you can imagine our shock when we arrived to find 4 tables of 20 seats all lined up ready for the event. We were escorted to our humble table for 4, with restricted views, and watched in horror as Jap after jolly Jap flooded the restaurant. The only Bolivian nationals were the waiters and we suddenly had an interesting game of people watching on our hands. As the show began, dancers took to the stage in extravagant costumes that lit up the room with flurries of colour and light. The music bounced along, carrying the dancers and the crowd through the night - or at least we thought. Half way through the night, our jaws dropped as we noticed countless members of the Japanese crowd had fallen asleep during the show. The rudeness of our fellow revellers was only exceeded by one of the tables, who upped and left only an hour into the 2 hour show. The evening continued with increasing energy as dance after dance went by, all with unique flairs and thrills. The best part of the evening by far was the moments when dancers picked members of the audience to join them in a simple emulation of the current dance. With the Japs proving reluctant to engage in any sort of fun, it was left to me to join the show over and over again - who said white men can't dance?

Leaving the peña in high spirits, we decided to see what the rest of La Paz could throw our way. We sauntered down to the main square only to stopped in our tracks by a very intimidating police demonstration. Row upon row of policemen lined the main square receiving strict instructions from a group of blacked out special units, each equipped with a gun, CS gas and balaclava. To avoid the wrath of the notoriously corrupt, foreign police we quietly passed around the outskirts of the square until we found a small store selling wads of fake money. The Bolivian traditions surrounding New Years are somewhat peculiar to us Western folk. These traditions include, but are not limited to, wearing red underwear to find love in the new year, wearing yellow underwear for prosperity and burning fake money to ensure your bank account is bursting at the seams. The old adage remains true that when in La Paz, do as the Bolivians do and with this mind set we paid £1 for $10000 of fake notes (unfortunately the pound sterling had not seemed to have made its way over to Bolivia yet). We quickly sought out the nearest street fire where people had gathered round in attempt to elevate their bank balance and threw our hard earned cash into the fiery pit. I can assure you all at home that we have nothing to report back yet in terms of income.

On the hunt to keep the party going, we looked for a lively bar to maintain the good cheer and stumbled across a nice Dutch restaurant/bar/club that Tamara and I had stopped for a quick meal earlier that week. Despite having seen a man expose himself to urinate outside the same restaurant a few days prior to our festivities, we remained optimistic that the venue would provide us with what we required. The atmosphere was lacking somewhat but after making ourselves comfy we settled in to enjoy the evening. With some late snacks on order, we engaged in a few games of pool waiting for the magical strike of midnight. At around 11:55 we were summoned upstairs by crowds of waiters, all handing out hats and horns. We stood in the main bar area with the rest of the club as the DJ checked his iPhone for the time. With bated breath, we stood eagerly anticipating the 10 second countdown but it never seemed to come. Outside the bang of fireworks erupted across the city, shaking the windows whilst cheers could be heard from the bar above us. All of a sudden a voice spluttered on the microphone, '4321!' The celebration couldn't have been anymore Bolivian but being used to madness of the country we embraced the ludicrous occurrence and proceeded to welcome in the New Year.

With the Bolivians celebrating well into the next day, we sought respite to regather ourselves from the previous nights antics. Our time in La Paz was nearly up and as of the 2nd Jan, we were scheduled to visit Lake Titicaca and 'La Isla del Sol' - 'Island of the Sun'. Having already seen humorous graffiti around La Paz, encouraging ladies to 'get their titicacas out', we were excited to continue our adventure to the spiritual border between Bolivia and Peru. Our early morning bus, which i nearly missed due to my Mum's mantra 'always have a wee before you go', weaved through the tight knit streets of La Paz onto our destination of Copacabana. As we arrived in Copacabana, I must say, the place was void of any show girls, music, passion or fashion. The place resembled something more like an apocalyptical Blackpool Pleasure Beach with rubbish sweeping through the air, occasionally scraping against flaking swan pedalos. Don't worry, Barry, we definitely won't fall in love here.

Not wanting to linger too long at 'The Copa', we quickly found our ferry to La Isla del Sol. The water of the lake shined an iridescent blue that captured fleeting rays of sunlight, shimmering for all those present to admire. With a backdrop of snow covered mountains, we sat to enjoy the tranquil boat journey. So tranquil, in fact, that numerous other ferries overtook our lead position on a multitude of occasions. Eventually arriving at the Isla, we jumped off the ferry only to be accosted by a sun beaten, old man. Armed with a book full of tickets, he demanded that we pay him 50p each to enter the island yet having seen other people skip through his myriad of blind spots, we wondered if this was a quick thinking earner the old boy had conjured up - Grandad take note!

Due to the island's isolated position in the world, the only means of transport are leg power and elbow grease. This may sound fine if you were in the plains of Holland at the comfortable altitude of 0m above sea level, yet when attempting to climb 200-300 stairs at 4100m the challenge becomes a bit tougher. With Jackie dropping out of the race early, we needed help. Whilst searching for a free donkey to help carry the load, we came across a far cheaper solution to our problem. Stripping two young boys from their mother, we hired their altitude resistant abilities and began loading them with everything we didn't fancy carrying. With no regard for health and safety, the two boys (around the ages of 8-10) loaded their scrawny shoulders, more than earning their pay of £3 each. The hotel was perfect, offering a panoramic (pano) view of the lake and it's surroundings. We quickly settled in and popped across the cobbled path to a bar. It only took a few minutes before action struck again, a piercing scream from a trapped ass sheared through the silence and Mark, with his love for equine species and their relatives, quickly took it upon himself to free its hoof.

Only having one full day to explore the island we set off on a light trek at around 10am that morning. With our hotel owner encouraging us to first walk through the 'pueblos' - 'towns' before visiting the top of the island, we set off on the meandering path through indigenous farming towns filled with Inca descendants. Due to the traditional dress of the Bolivian women providing the perfect centrepiece for any photos of the island's landscapes, a competition quickly ensued to see who could garner the best photograph. With the sour attitude of the indigenous towards photographs remaining constant on the islands, it seemed the only way to gain their approval was with the passing of a few coins. With pockets emptied by the cackling witches, we set off to the top of the island in order to see the Inca ruins that resided at the island's peak. The view was spectacular, a 360 degree pano of the lake presented itself to those hardy enough to best the crippling altitude. In order to regain our strength that evening, we sat down to eat in the closest restaurant to our hotel, a wooden shack with an odd selection of books available to exchange. Having already eaten at our chosen joint the night before, we were excited to test out the 'family sized pizzas'. With the men ordering a family sized pizza each, the woman made do with roasted chicken fillets. As the restaurant had not restocked since the week before, it was up to us to look further afield for any form of alcohol to accompany the meal. It was just as well that we did search as the pizzas took a grand total of 2 and a half hours to cook. In any restaurant other than this you may demand that no money need be paid for such tardiness, however, looking at the poor woman who slaved away on her own, acting as waitress, cook and pot washer, we felt only sympathy and respect for her hard work.

(Tamara)

As the months had passed by George had gradually begun morphing into a mountain goat and it took all the strength I could muster to drag him from his perfect cold climate and serene habitat within the Andes. As he solemnly packed away his woolly hat and replaced it nervously with a bottle of factor 50 sun cream, I reassured him we would be back before long. We boarded our flight to Santa Cruz, the largest city in Bolivia, and were grateful for a hassle free, speedy journey with a chance to appreciate a bird's eye view of the fantastic La Paz. We had hardly left the tarmac before the flight attendee beckoned for landing, confused we buckled in and questioned if even a Concorde could master that route in such a short space of time. Suddenly we gulped as we heard the overhead message informing us we were now in Cochabamba. Shooting each other nervous glances, traumatic flashbacks of vomit and Christian missionaries dragged us from our reality and we hoped this wasn't a cruel trick to throw us back into slave labour. Thankfully the plane restocked it's passengers and eventually we touched down in Santa Cruz. Ecstatic for the doors to open and to finally breathe fresh air free of altitude I was instead met with the familiar suffocating sensation of humidity. An inhaler is definitely a South American backpacker's best friend! As George cowered in the shadows and immediately shut down to robot mode within the heat, with our emotions contrasting completely: my excitement for the beach with George's yearning for the mountains, it was clear that the end of Bolivia was nigh.

As Santa's little helpers departed to resume duties for 2016, the two turtles were back on the road to fend for themselves. Checking into what can only be described as 'lazy bum' central hostel we caught a glimpse of what was to come in our next chapter of our journey. Like a family of sloths in the heat of the jungle, bodies lay in hammocks swinging in the breeze, dreadlocks cascading to the floor whilst feet tapped to the chilled reggae beats flooding the pool area. A smile suddenly appeared on George's face, he may not have enjoyed the sun but chilling was his forte, he certainly knew how to chill. As he began to rock in a hammock and close his eyes, I laughed and knew he was going to be alright after all!

Our three days were spent doing just that and as our nights in the claustrophobic 8 bed dorm involved fighting over a single fan to ease the unbearable heat we decided to visit the Laguna to cool down. We were treated to a bird house which allowed us to get up close and personal to Toucans, Macaws and other exotic birds and appreciate their unflawed beauty. Our afternoon was spent in the Laguna where a free cocktail started the motion for the day ahead as we returned just in time to a free capirinha night at the hostel. With George fancying himself as a bit of Tom Cruise in Cocktail his creations kept our whistles wet until the early hours of the morning when we welcomed an Aussie guy with a beer as he arrived after an overnight bus. Amusingly he presumed we were a party hostel and George and I the ringleaders, but his hopes crashed that Saturday evening when we retired to bed at 8pm with pot noodles to watch The game of thrones.

It was time to catch our bus to the Border town of Puerto Quijarro which would allow us access into Brazil. After 86 days in beautiful, bizarre, backwards Bolivia we were now ready for a country that functioned with a little more ease. As we hopped aboard our typically two hour late bus and with our bags nearly lost to the cabin of a different bus it was time to reflect on our unforgettable experiences. As we had ventured through a country that offers it all: the Wild West of Tupiza, the salt flats, lagoons, jungle, Andean mountains, mines, dinoursaur footprints, lakes and inca ruins we had taken note of a few precious observations which will benefit anyone who wants to explore this country:

1. Nothing in Bolivia will ever arrive on time, and if you should ever arrive on time to an event it would be regarded as disrespectful.

2. Never ever decline the offer of food so always be in close proximity to a baño in preparation for the aftermath, if you gotta go then you gotta go.

3. Indigenous women are like llamas, intriguing mysterious creatures to look at but get too close (usually with a camera lens) then expect the wrath of their spit or even a rock aimed at you.

4. Children in Bolivia are beautiful and if you have any spare time please adopt one as we wished we could have.

As dysfunctional and chaotic as it most certainly is, the magnificence and beauty of the country is impossible to ignore and one things for certain...if we could, then we would go back to the beginning and start the fun all over again!