La Paz, Bolivia

And thus to La Paz - Bolivia’s administrative capital and at over 3600m altitude the highest capital in the world.

Time to say hello and goodbye as I bid one friend a fond farewell and welcomed another to South America.

Firstly goodbye to my Paunch - a constant companion for far too long the little bump that has long defined (or more appropriately - not defined) my lower stomach fell victim to the many nightmarish reports I had heard of Bolivian cuisine which had for the past week reduced by intake of food to barely sustenance levels.

Secondly hello to Joseph T Loader who would be joining me on this little adventure for three weeks. Time to prepare for the rollercoaster ride that spending time with Joey ever is. A man, whose mood, in lighter moments, soars higher than Icarus ever dreamed and, at darker times, plumbs the deepest, darkest recesses of Neptune’s basement.

Where was I? Ah yes, La Paz - literally.

Home for just under a week I chose to stay in La Paz´s premium party hostel. Ever the moth to the flame I seem drawn to staying in such places - the feeling of maybe missing out gets me every time and every time I regret my decision. For ´party´ in hostel parlance invariably, perhaps inevitably, means extremely inebriated English and Irish of various ages (all below 21 though) being rather loud and really rather tiresome. I am getting old and if this is what it is to be young I am quite happy to be doing so. Youth is wasted on the young and the young waste their youth.

Enough of that.

Bolivia seems always to be the South American black sheep, the bad apple and the place in which to be that little bit more wary. Even contemplation of time spent over the Bolivian border sends shivers down the spine of residents of other countries - ¨here is fine, but in Bolivia you need to be careful...¨. Add to that the simmering political unrest, rumours of a potential civil war and Foreign Office advice to avoid large gatherings and it was becoming obvious that time spent in La Paz, the capital and thus the centre of all things (obviously...), was going to be anything but dull...

And thus it proved but in a far more pleasant way than my words may have suggested to be expected...

Joey came determined to confound stereotypes - speaking Spanish and spending with gay abandon he maintained a shop to purchase ratio that only just dipped below 1:1. Life is cash intensive but not in Bolivia it would appear.

Having completed our tour of the tourist shops and the witches market (Llama foetuses - do I get a discount for buying two?) we decided - against the advice of several people including the taxi driver we were paying to take us there - to make the journey to El Alto market. After initially poor impressions the little we saw yielded a veritable cornucopia of bargains. It was to our regret that time and baggage allowances did not permit further forays into the bowels of this 5sq km beast. Next time I travel to South America I will take only the clothes I stand up in and begin my journey here.

Contrary to the impression given thus far La Paz wasn’t all shop, shop, shop and when not redistributing wealth in a manner of which Robin Hood would have been proud we indulged in a spot of eating and also, very occasionally and never to excess, drinking. On the food and drink I must admit to having no complaints and found the fayre to be of a really rather decent order - however the choice of a feisty Llama curry the night before our death defying bike ride was perhaps not the most sensible timing...

Thus to the bike ride - down the World’s Most Dangerous Road (!). Booked against Joey’s wishes and truth be told without him knowing too much about it the road down which we were to ride was given the rather dramatic moniker of World’s Most Dangerous by the International Development Bank based on the cold hard facts of the most fatal accidents per mile.

After 10 years the ride has become quite the box to tick on the Bolivian travellers (as in people travelling in Bolivia as opposed to people from Bolivia who travel - though they may like it too) itinerary. And who am I to be original?

Beginning early one morning we togged up in all manner of protective clothing ready to face the worst the road could throw at us - apart from the cliffs for which it is famous though - stretching to a willy worrying 400m vertical drop should disaster occur helmet and goggles somehow seemed slightly inadequate...

After seemingly having fixed some early teething troubles with Joey’s steed it was off ever downwards (apart from a slight up that is) - round hairpin, across stream but always accompanied by the drop that has claimed too many victims.

And thus things proceeded in due course - a natural order being established as those imbued with too much testosterone, too little regard for life or a point to prove tried vainly to keep up with yours truly (I jest). Indeed all was passing rather smoothly until word reached the leading pack that there had been a crash in the peleton...

- Who was it?
- Not sure.
- Was it serious?
- Don’t know.

And thus, fearing the worst, I began counting the riders. 6 of us here - three more - 7, 8, 9, no Joey - 2 more coming down the hill - 10, 11, still no Joey - one more - 12 from a total of 13 and no Joey. Oh dear.

- Hello Mrs Loader - its Glenn
- Oh hello, how are you? How’s Joey?
- Erm...

I jest once more. Some 5 minutes later and with only the mildest onset of panic Joey rounded the bend bleeding profusely from a rather nasty cut to the arm but otherwise seemingly OK - I feared the presence of head injuries would be difficult to discern. Still in good spirits Joey blamed mechanical failure and I shall not argue with that conclusion here.

And so after 5 hours of downhill descent (is there any other kind?) we reached the bottom. Tired and is some cases bleeding but overall smiling we rewarded ourselves in blo*dy bloke fashion with a couple of cold ones...death defying - or rather riding a bike down a hill without the need to pedal and avoiding falling off the edge - is thirsty business indeed...

Having survived the bike ride the only remaining challenge was getting back to our hostel (oh joy - Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all...YEE HAH). Blocked at every turn by closed streets we found ourselves in the middle of a University procession watched by a large and boisterous crowd (remember the bit about avoiding large gatherings). Our fatigue turned to aggression as the party atmosphere (not a hostel type party) seemed to mock us and people seemed to prefer to dance and laugh rather than ease our journey - inconsiderate indeed. Becoming an inconvenience of quite monumental proportions - I think by this point we had lost some perspective - we eventually rounded the woman relieving herself in the street, hopped over the woman kicking her prone husband and barged through the procession itself no doubt setting the gringo cause in Bolivia back several years...

Leaving La Paz I reflected on time well spent and a more than promising start to Joey and Glenn’s little adventure. I looked forward to the next 2 and a bit weeks - spending time with a mate - at times just the two of us - catching up, chewing the fat, no-one else, keeping it simple - and then at other times being social, meeting new people, not judging, getting merrily inebriated...