I left behind the stunning scenery and lukewarm
showers on Isle del Sol, retraced my steps back to Copacabana
(meeting the Aussies en route) and, after a “Bolivian breakfast”
at a local eatery (which was basically steak and chips), jumped on a
bus to La Paz. Memorably, half way through the journey we arrived at
a river crossing, had to disembark and board a smaller boat to cross
the river whilst the bus went over on a different barge. At first we
wondered why we didn't just stay on the bus, but seeing how the boat
it was on lurched in the waves it became clear why this system was in
place.
Arriving into La Paz was quite an experience. Our coach wound its way through
what seemed to be twisting back alleys sloping demonically downwards
into the melting pot of the valley in which La Paz sits. Much like
the Vegemite that my Aussie friends made me try, La Paz seemed to
polarise opinions. In both instances, I was charmed straight away.
We booked into the Irish themed “Wild Rover”
hostel which was fairly middle of the road but did boast hot showers
and a lot of travellers who seemed to be desperate to do nothing but party and enjoy
gloriously superficial interactions with Bolivian culture. Mini-rant
over.
The
“must-do” things that everyone I'd met coming from Bolivia had
mentioned were the mountain bike ride down “Death Road” -
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yungas_Road
and the starkly bleak landscapes of the Uyuni slat flats. My Aussie
companions were eager to cram in both as quickly as possible and I
jumped aboard.
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