I chugged over the border into Bolivia, a state of dysfunction, in a dysfunctional state.
Back at the border I had found myself at a grimy speck of a town. Killing time in a border town never fails to escalate the feeling that you have to escape as rapidly as possible. There was nothing else to do, so over a lonely beer I looked back over my journal. It's been a crazy few months...and it will be months still until I see anyone I know again. An intimidating thought - but sitting there, contemplating, Kerouac's' words came back to me '...but why think about all of that when all the golden land's ahead of you and all kinds of unforseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad to be alive to see.'
He was right, of course. And Bolivia was truly something to see and experience.
Surrounded by Brazil, Paraguay, Argentina, Chile and Peru, Bolivia really does lie at the heart of South America. From the icebound peaks and bleak high-altitude deserts of the Andes to the rain forests and vast savannas of the Amazon basin - its an extraordinary place. But the geology, is only one small part of it...while Spanish is the language of business and government, the country is dominated by indigenous cultural traditions, with more than 30 different languages spoken. It is also, by far, the poorest South American country. Historically its such a poor nation because every time things were looking up, and it found a viable industry, one of the surrounding richer more powerful nations simply sliced whatever area had proved to be valuable, with little resistance from the ragtag Bolivian army. Whenever it has suited anyone they have screwed Bolivia. So it is left landlocked in the centre of a resource rich continent, its people trapped and utterly pissed off.
It really is a confounded nation, where no-one is organised, and no-one wants to be. Where whingeing is a national right and protest is the only way of interacting with the state. Where nothing works, you're not sure what food you're eating, buses never leave on time, roads are unpaved and, frankly, no-one expects anything to right. Its the disarray and chaos that makes this such a frustrating and wonderful nation.
As we rattled along, my first taste of Bolivia, was their political and commercial hub - Few cities have a setting as spectacular as La Paz. Home to over a million, and sited at 3500m above sea level, the sprawling city lies in a narrow, bowl like canyon - its centre a cluster of church spires and office blocks - themselves dwarfed by the enormous Mount Illimani. On either side, the steep slopes of the valley are covered by favella type houses, which cling on precariously - so, it feels a little like a pocket of Rio.
I stayed at 'Loki Hostel' - legendary amongst travellers as being one of the party places in South America. It didn't disappoint - Loki rocked 24 / 7 - and I stayed for over a week.
During that time I wandered around a thousand 'witches markets', (which offered a window into into the usually secretive world of Aymara mysticism and herbal medicine), and beautiful plaza's, including the one housing one of Bolivia's most notorious attractions - San Pedro Prison. Currently barred to tourists, San Pedro is essentially a prison without guards, and controlled by the prisoners, who work to pay for their cells: those with money can live well in luxurious accommodation complete with mobile phones and satellite television, while those without any income sleep in the corridors and struggle to survive. The prison is therefore a microcosm of Bolivian society. This extraordinary place was made famous by a former English prisoner who wrote a book on his time there, and the tours he introduced to travellers - you could eat, drink and sleep there for a few quid. We tried to get in, but had no luck...
Whilst in La Paz I cycled the worlds most dangerous road, the infamous 'Death Road' - the old road linking La Paz and Coroico. It's a rough, narrow track chiseled out of near vertical mountain sides that descends more than 3500m over a distance of 64km. Until fairly recently dozens of vehicles tumbled off its edges every year, with fatalities often reaching the 100's - this has changed slightly, but is still a remarkable place. It was an amazing day - fully kitted up, we cycled for 6 hours, and during that time saw just the most incredible views - words don't do it justice, there is just nothing quite like cycling down a 6 ft track with a 1000ft drop to the side of your left foot. Having made it to the bottom we got in a truck and where taken to a hotel, set in a stunning location high in the hills - we ate, drank, sunbathed and swam in the pool - like I say, it was one of those days.
On the Monday, my last day in La Paz, every gringo in the city bought a dodgy, 200% nylon Bolivia shirt, painted themselves up in green red and yellow and went to the national stadium to watch the mighty B Boys beat Brazil. Two things - Brazil were like a Sunday league team, and the Bolivians barely bothered to turn up the game - those that did sat in silence. It was utterly surreal.
On and that note, I booked myself onto another overnight bus and braved it down to Potosi.
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