Intrepid Journeys

Day Two: La Paz
The people have very striking faces -- strong noses, flat dark eyes, high cheek bones and slightly prominent teeth. They are all softly spoken and calm, as if in a dream. Their skin is brown and smooth with hardly any body hair, in flagrant contrast to their crowning glory which is thick and shining and reaches the women's waists in plaits. The women all wear exactly the same outfit with colour variations -- huge skirt, shawl, cardie, bowler hat and little ballerina shoes. Our local guide, Willy, is a wonderful man, rather formal and polite but not lacking in humour and charm. He speaks very good English, is university educated and had a mother not unlike mine by the sound of it -- small but fierce. Exploring up and down the cobbled streets with him is fun. He knows short cuts, the best places to buy street food and the secret habitation of a very rare bird in Bolivia -- rich people. I would feel so guilty being rich in a country where 70% of the population lived below the poverty line. Glad I am wearing my mud-friendly powder blue Docs as the Yamamoto boxing pumps don't really cut the mustard.

Day Three: Sucre
Sucre is my kind of town -- beautiful, civilized and full of interesting looking people. It is almost entirely white with colonial Spanish architecture and if it weren't for the fact a girl can't get a good meal, you could easily think you were in Cordoba in Southern Spain. Why can't they cook in Bolivia? There's no lack of varied, fresh produce. Restaurant food is execrable. Sucre is a university town, liberal and middle class in feel -- not so poor and downtrodden, although lots of women wandering around with babies and loads on their backs... the babies who never cry. The Hostal Independencia is desperately wonderful and fills the criteria of a home away from home -- ballroom, Moorish gardens and lacy Spanish balconies. Lulled into a false sense of security: if this is adventure travel, why do they make out it's so tough and challenging?

Day Four: Sucre
As it is much colder than I thought, I slowly (can't walk fast because of altitude sickness and bronchitis) strolled to the clothing market which was pumping. Desperate to find something Bolivian, but all the clothing is cheap copies of European style stuff. Bought some very nasty, ugly leggings and a lovely knitted alpaca hat and gloves, after trying on 36 different variations... "Do I look fat in this? Is my hair going to fit into this? How does this suit my skin type? Do you have any pink ones?" No, alpacas don't grow pink wool Peta. Best part of clothing market was upstairs, full of open restaurants with families happily stuffing themselves with thick soups, grilled alpaca and chicken, and ignoble bits of offal floating in broth, which Bolivians adore. Oesophagus done three ways anyone? People star at my hair, not in admiration but amazement. They are shy and don't speak unless spoken to. They would never say something like, "Why do you have yellow and orange hair and can we help you remedy this situation?"

Day Six: Potosi
Potosi is REALLY the wild west; it makes La Paz look like Paris. It's a hard, bleak, unattractive town in spite of the remnants of ornate churches and colonial architecture. Its ignoble history, its gigantic silver mines etched in misery, blood and unimaginable cruelty, seem to have polluted its soul. Didn't see any silver jewellery anywhere either. Any footage of me sleeping is fake. I have slept three hours in six days! Bad enough that they talked me into no makeup but no one mentioned illness, chronic altitude sickness, no sign whatsoever of the national product to keep me attentive, and nothing good to eat but 250 kinds of potato. Actually ate a rather good meal of quinoa soup, llama steaks and chips. Llama is actually very good if cooked properly -- a bit like veal. I find a really wonderful market and buy lots of different kinds of spuds, including dried ones which looked like large chick-peas. Dying to try them. This market was full of veggies and fruit and unimaginably graphic carcasses of meat with the fur still on, hanging on hooks. Women carried carcasses wrapped in colourful blankets through the market on their backs. They are shy and often cover their faces when they see us filming.

Day Seven: Potosi
People in Potosi are stoned on local hootch and coca leaves. It's the only way they stay sane and tolerate their hard lives. The men have barrel chests and hacking coughs. People are passive in relation to foreigners -- they are not interested and not disinterested. They are deeply religious with a mixture of Catholicism and Inca paganism, the purpose of their lives is to work and produce, there is no hope of much more in a mining town. The mines themselves are low, claustrophobic, dark and mysterious with their savage, blood stained openings and I feel sad and shocked for the miners. I exchange bodily secretions with a group who pass their herb filled cigarette around and drink the hootch, more to make myself feel better than them. Strangely enough I don't find chewing coca leaves and the alkaline stuff too disagreeable. I'll do anything to ease the altitude sickness which is worse now we are in the highest goddamned city in the world. Then we have a monumental fight and three attempted ripoffs to get a decent four wheel drive to get ourselves to Uyuni. Hard, really long drive, arrive at midnight.

Day Eight: Uyuni
No, no. Uyuni is REALLY, REALLY the wild west. Makes Potosi look like the Riviera. The posse who killed Butch Cassidy left from here. The hotel is freezing and basic, but they rent out hot water bottles. This is where I realise that: the quaint habit of changing into jamies for bed is over; and having a room to myself is over. I am wearing everything in my suitcase -- two shirts, two jumpers, leggings, pants, oilskin coat, scarf, hat, gloves, two pairs of socks. The only difference between day and night outfits is boots off at night. Have to wear lipstick, otherwise I might be mistaken for a llama on a bad hair day. Quite liked Uyuni for some perverse reason. It had an internet cafe, groovy bar and dear little Sunday market on the main drag. Stock up with water and wine for the "badlands" trip to the salt pan and join up with another group.

Day Nine: Salar de Uyuni
Salt plains go on and on being white and salty. Quite magical because it's freezing but blindingly sunny with aviolently blue sky. A guy in another 4WD jumps up onto the roof for a joy ride. This guy, Carl, is the sort of person this tour is made for. He's a dare devil who loves pushing himself, very adventurous and up for absolutely anything. All I want is a cup of tea and a lie down. Salt Hotel very tasty -- you never know when you might need to lick a wall. The hostel is basic -- no shower, no hot water, no heating, no privacy, sharing with Carl and a girl. Carl races up and down the corridor, hysterical that he will be sleeping with a TV presenter. He-man Ronald from Holland is happy to carry my bag and pretend he's my toyboy. I counsel him about girls and being so conservative. How can you help someone brought up by a police and army family? He's fit and strong but spiritually unsuited to adventure travel. I half sleep, rigid, fully dressed and wondering why I am doing this. What makes other people think hardship is enjoyable, and why is there no God? Carl, who has a shaved head, wakes up in the early dawn with, "Is my hair sticking up?" No such thing as late starts.

Day Ten: Salar de Uyuni
More mountains and endless terrain where my bones and muscle mass are rearranged in the 4WD. Dusty villages are exactly the same colour as the brown-red earth. They look like they just quietly rose up out of it. Carl and a great English couple love it. They're in heaven, scrambling over rocks, going for long walks, enjoying nature, being endlessly joyful. The girls want to know why I wear lipstick. I explain my standards can only be lowered so far, and lipstick is my contribution to group morale. I am determined not to grumble but exhibit impatience occasionally. It wouldn't be so hard if I wasn't sick, was getting proper sleep and was 20 years younger. The Bolivians who live in the mountains are very staunch and strong as they've always lived like this. They are dignified, patient and look exactly like the ancient Incas they come from. They don't understand adventure tourism at all -- they don't understand leisure and travel. For them life is about survival and family and religion. Our lodge at Laguna Colarado is an inutterably vile hoghole of a pigdog slum. Absolutely no amenities whatsoever, putrid toilets, not one two bar heater or wood fire in the entire place, and it's - 25! Just as well we are now accustomed to sleeping in our clothes as I suspect the sheets are dirty. Dinner, in a freezing dining room, is ordinary but not inedible. This is the upside of intrepid touring and bad conditions -- everyone is in the same boat. We get drunk and tell stories and laugh our heads off every night to kill the cold. Carl reveals himself as a one man entertainment unit -- he tells the worst jokes, sings songs, does card tricks that don't work, and makes cups of tea at dawn when everyone else is in deep psychotic trauma. He and the English couple save us with their smart, funny ways -- they'd be just the ticket in the trenches, in fact I now know I could volunteer for the Foreign Legion. Piece of cake.

Day Eleven: Laguna Verde
This morning our driver has icicles in his hair which is, I assume, how he slept. I wake feeling like three kinds of shit, having shared a room with five others. It is now four days since I washed anything -- hair, clothes or body. Surprising how undisgusting that is -- lucky it's cold. At sight of hot pools Carl strips and jumps in. We delicately put our frozen feet in and stifle orgasms. Breathtakingly beautiful scenery -- cool blues and pinks and mad vegetation like cactuses. Back in Uyuni for the first shower in a long time -- felt like Lady Macbeth -- unable to stop washing and scrubbing. I felt bleached and euphoric afterwards but the pain is not over. Bus ride from hell. No heating, freezing, overcrowded, fun fun fun. We certainly lived like the Bolivians -- with adventure travel there's no skidding over the surfaces, no observing through Prada sunglasses, no shirking from the reality of the culture. In that sense the journey is unforgettable because it's so intense and puts you right up against the wall. If you complain they just smile and say, this is how we live all our lives and we're happy and our ancestors are in those mountains and this is our place.

Day Twelve: La Paz
Arrive in La Paz practically hallucinating from tiredness. At this point if I didn't know it was the last day I would have lost it -- I'm only just holding on. The witches market is my kind of scene -- who wouldn't want a llama foetus if they could get one? I absolutely believe in all the little charms because you never know when a bit of magic will come in handy in life and we all need magic. That's how Bolivians rise above their everyday lives -- with potions and advice and looking out for each other. When I get dressed up in a Bolivian outfit, the woman's hands are soft and she speaks like a little bell. Our last dinner is in a groovy restaurant where the food is good for a change. All is forgiven, tearful goodbyes, promises to keep in touch and genuine sadness to be leaving. I feel I've only touched the surface and need to redo the journey in a luxury caravan!