Bolivia: Potosi

I've just witnessed the hardest job in the world.

No, not the chef catering for the Royal Wedding - a bunch of miners in Potosi, southern Bolivia.

I'll get on to the mining later, but first I will recount the journey from Cochabamba down to Potosi. I luckily got the last seat on the only cama bus that goes between the two cities - cama being a reclining seat that is supposed to give you a fighting chance of getting some sleep.

Fat chance on this cama bus though. I should have sensed something when I saw all the locals (ie, everyone except me) wrapped up in blankets and hats before we'd even pulled out of the terminal.

Within an hour of setting off I was frozen to the core. I pulled on my alpaca wool socks and had four layers on top, plus hat, but was still freezing. My final rescue act was to feebly try and cover myself with my small, thin travel towel. No good.

So that was a shit journey if ever there was one.

Luckily the city I arrived in was a lot more pleasant. Ignoring the 'fake' policeman at Potosi's new starship-like terminal who wanted to give me a lift into town (hmm, nice try) I got into a proper cab and got dropped off at a hostal.

No room at the inn unfortunately, so I set about wandering off through town like the archetypal backpacker: guidebook in hand, lost expression on face, tired eyes.

I eventually found a place with a room for about a tenner. The room smelled of damp, the towel was stained, there was no soap, etc. Just what you want to find after a terrible night's sleep on The World's Coldest Bus.

Being the stickler that I am, I went back to reception and got another room. No damp, clean towel, still no soap - but I could just about manage that. The one added extra it did have was some sort of gargoyle living in the ceiling.

At what sounded like an inch above my ceiling was the strangest rustling sound. Like an animal was trying to make a bed in a sheet of tarpaulin, but was a fidgety bastard.

I asked reception what was living up there, as I found it slightly unnerving, but they feigned ignorance. I can't be the only person to have stayed in Room 7 and noticed a loud animal sound. You could hardly miss it.

Whatever it was will remain a mystery, and besides - I had better things to do than listen to him all night. I went and had a wander.

Potosi is a pretty little city - at similar altitude to La Paz but much more manageable on foot. It's a UNESCO World Heritage site, and there are lots of striking buildings. Like the cathedral on the Plaza 10 De Noviembre:

And you can't miss the mountain that looms over the city, and which provides jobs for many of its inhabitants (again, more later):

What it also has is a bar that's more suited to me than any other in South America. It's called The Offside Bar and is run by a doddery little old man who is obsessed with football.

I walked in to find all the walls plastered with kits and photos from various teams across the globe - from Real Madrid to Chelsea, Boca Juniors to Real Potosi. And there was football on TV, of course.

Apart from me and doddery old man, there were 10 or so blokes in their forties and fifties sitting at the tables, all chewing coca leaves and drinking something that looked like gin and bitter lemon.

After a drink there, I had a pizza and then wandered back to the hostel. On the way I passed through the Plaza and saw hundreds of soldiers lined up on all four sides of the square in perfect lines, guns in precise position:

The amount of army parading I am seeing in Bolivia is almost comical now. Rarely does a day go by without seeing the green uniforms lining up to do some sort of parade or other.

I think they've been defeated in so many wars, and feel so persecuted by their Chilean neighbours - in particular - that these parades act as some sort of defiant release valve. I feel sorry for them, in a way.

With that bizarre sight occupying my thoughts, I went to bed - so tired that I slept through Animal upstairs doing his thing.

This morning my alarm rang at 5.45am. It was Royal Wedding day, and despite not being a Royalist - I couldn't resist checking in on my old friend London. And very good it looked too. All Union Jacks and familiar streets.

My viewing experience was with CNN, now co-anchored by Piers Morgan - who seemed to be having several orgasms in the commentary box as the morning progressed.

First, Kate Middleton LEAVES THE HOTEL. Piers can hardly contain himself, declaring her dress to be 'a classic' even though we can just see her from the shoulders up.

Then Piers tries to get all chummy with the groom as Jerusalem pipes up, declaring that he 'knows William is a big rugby fan, and this is a song all rugby fans know and love.' Thanks for speaking for all of them Piers. Football fans like it too, btw.

And you could almost see his perspiring baby face popping through the TV screen as the happy couple rode past the CNN studio outside Buck Palace. Piers: 'I have to stop you there Vera (Wang - interminably dull American fashion guru). I am actually very emotional. THE MONARCHY IS REBORN!'

Jeez, if I wanted to retch I would have had another of the hostel's foul coffees at breakfast.

But Piers and Vera aside, it was great to watch this event from the relative comfort of my bed. One thing slightly bugged me though.

Was I the only one that got slightly annoyed when Captain Birdseye The Archbishop of Canterbury didn't actually say those famous seven words: 'I now declare you man and wife'? Spoilsport.

Oh, and any idea what legendary Aussie swimmer, Ian 'Torpedo' Thorpe, was doing there? If he can get an invite, where was mine?

The wedding - from 6 to 7am my time - was perfectly positioned to enable me to do Potosi's most famous tourist attraction for the rest of the morning. I was going mining.

I paid a bit more than other tours were charging, as Koala Tours had a good reputation for safety and knowledgable guides. I didn't fancy being trapped down a mine shaft with a useless guide, wishing I'd just shelled out an extra three quid.

We were driven a short distance to the changing building, where we were given our smart outfits of trousers, wellies, jacket, hat and belt:

Super Harryo Brothers.

First up was a visit to the 'Miner Market' where we had a brief intro to the day and were given the opportunity to buy presents for the miners. As our tour guide said, the miners probably wouldn't appreciate a load of relatively wealthy gringos turning up in their mine, taking lots of pictures and buggering off.

There was only one present I particularly had my eye on - a stick of dynamite, complete with detonator and nitroglycerine. Possibly one of the strangest presents I've ever bought anyone, but it made for a good photo op:

Before going to the mine, we were taken on a tour of the refinery. It was our introduction to what would be an extremely eye-opening day, both in terms of what we were told and what we saw.

There were lots of young guys hard at work, chewing the ubiquitous coca leaves and working with machinery that had seen better days. We learnt that the miners don't eat all day, just chew the leaves to help settle stomachs.

Here's a bit of fool's gold that I picked up, excitedly thinking it was silver until the guide dashed my hopes in an instant:

After that we got back in the van and drove to the entrance of the mine. But before I go on, some context:

Approximately 20-30 people die each year in this mine, many more outside it due to the effects of the dust and toxic gases. Lung cancer is common in ex-miners, unsurprisingly.

The mine has no government health & safety or internal regulation. There are collectives of miners who administer the rules and regulations within the mine and, with each collective out for themselves in a cut-throat business, corners are cut.

I've heard a few tales of tunnels collapsing as tour groups are taken round the mine, and the disclaimer I had to sign in the Koala office expressly stated that the mine is 'dangerous' and 'accidents can, and do happen.'

My book also warned against visiting it if you weren't fit and healthy or if you suffer from breathing problems - such as asthma. My tickly cough - probably caught as a result of The World's Coldest Bus - was in the back of my mind, and the front of my throat, as we proceeded towards the entrance.

With our fate in the hands of the mountain, and its myriad tunnels and mines, we decided it would be apt to have one final group photo. Just in case.

That's me at the front, smiling through the fear.

We then ventured in, walking in single file along a narrow rail track. Outside the mine the guide had warned us that we might pass wagons carrying ore as we were walking on the track.

His instruction was to listen out for his signal, and if there was a wagon coming he would let us know and we would have to quickly bunch up on the side of the track by the tunnel wall.

Lo and behold, within two minutes of entering the mine, we saw the guide racing back towards us. He was hollering at us to get off the track, so we did - and 10 seconds later a wagon came racing past. They have no brakes:

After that little frightener we carried on, and the air was getting thicker with dust on every step. About 10 minutes in, I began to have doubts about what I was doing. We were stumbling along blackened tunnels, lungs filling with dust, air getting thinner, tunnels getting smaller.

At points we had to crouch down very low to avoid overhanging bits of debris and poorly-constructed tunnel supports. It was pretty hairy.

After 30 minutes or so we reached a small cavern, where we stopped. We were all gasping for air, sweat streaming down our faces and coughs echoing into the blackness.

The guide explained how the miners worship the devil (Tio), as he is present in the darkness, and when outside they worship the god of light (whose name escapes me). In the mine are lots of shrines to Tio, where the miners offer sacrificies. Our guide offered some alcohol and a cigarette to Tio.

Tio could probably do with a stint in AA.

Following that miner diversion (arf), we had to tackle the hardest part of the day: descending two levels of tunnels via small bore holes and a rope. The fresh air of Potosi felt very, very far away.

The holes were ok to get through, and I kept myself sane by imagining I was tackling a slightly harder (and hotter) version of the Krypton Factor assault course.

Then we came to the rope, which fell down the side of a sheer rockface. Eventually, after much straining we all made it down to the bottom, level 3.

There we found a couple of miners busily boring holes into the rock, for an explosion that they would detonate later that day, and hauling sacks of ore up to the level above. The heat down there, with dust creeping into every pore of your body, was horrible.

These miners are something else. They work eight to ten hours a day in treacherous conditions, hoping to scrape together another zinc and silver to support themselves and their families. Many fall short.

Bolivia has a wealth of natural resources like this, but corrupt administration and a government that too easily farms out the sites to wealthier nations, leaves it as the poor boy of South America. It's a sad state of affairs.

Chastised by what we were seeing down there, we all helped out in pullying the sacks of ore to the level above:

We then managed to clamber our way up and back to level 2, where we gasped some more, and then back to level 1. At that point it was hard to think of anything else apart from a cold drink, some fresh air and a shower.

We crouched and waddled our way back slowly to the entrance of the tunnel, at one point having to stop and help lift a wagon back onto the tracks after it had de-railed. If we hadn't turned up, god knows how long it would've taken the two knackered miners to get that thing going again.

Eventually, some two hours after entering the pit of doom, we burst out squinting into the sunshine.

I don't think I've ever felt claustrophobed like I did in that hell of level 3, and I really have to take my (hard) hat off to those miners. Incredible.

Our group of eight got a lift back into town, where we de-robed and went for a thirst-quenching Paceña out in the sun of the Plaza. I moved hostels - not fancying another night under the Animal - and had one of the best showers in weeks.

Tonight it looks like there's some sort of concert happening in the Plaza, as we spotted a stage being erected earlier. Probably something to do with the military, at a wild guess.

And that's been Potosi so far. A really attractive little place, with a really ugly big mine sitting next to it. I'm glad I did it, but never again.

Here's a couple more pics:

Coca leaves for the miners (with a couple for me)

Manic miners

Potosi

Bolivia: La Paz & Cochabamba

I'm tired. If this post feels laboured and lacking in vim, you can blame the karaoke bar that sucked me into its dubious charms last night. It was a late one.

So, where was I - and where am I?

I was in La Paz up until Monday, and I'm now in Bolivia's fourth largest city - Cochabamba.

La Paz, like the karaoke bar, was beginning to suck me in. I could have stayed there for months, hanging out at Oliver's Travels, eating good steak, watching football, wheezing in the altitude.

But it was time to move on. I'd spent two weeks there, apart from the few days in the pampas, and there's still half a continent for me to visit - and less than two months to go. Eek!

My last Saturday in the city was both Easter Saturday and St George's Day. A double whammy. Semanta Santa (Holy Week) sees everyone pile out of the cities to the countryside, so La Paz was nice and quiet.

Nicola came out of hospital in the morning and we had a leisurely first lunch of her freedom and then pottered about for the rest of the day. I popped into Oli's, where Kass was already hard at work building the atmosphere for the evening's St George's celebrations.

He made me down a shot of vodka at an ungodly hour (11.45am) and forced me to wear a green dragon hat as I did so. Bleurgh.

In the evening Nic was up for a few drinks, having come off the antibiotics that morning and having spent the previous 10 days in what she called her 'jail cell'.

We strolled back to Oli's - where else? - to find various drunk people toasting the patron Saint of England. Any excuse I suppose. We stayed there until the bar had been drunk dry (literally) and then headed to Takitos - a club down the road.

The drink of choice in that particular establishment is a big bowl of fruity punch. Gin, vodka, passion fruit juice and some other stuff, all served up in a big brown bowl:

It doesn't sound the most pleasant thing to pass your lips, but it tasted pretty good.

While Nic befriended our Death Road tour guide, Leith, I hit the dancefloor and had a good time pogo-ing around to various ska tracks with guys wearing bandanas and balaclavas. Probably not a fashion choice that will catch on, but you never know.

I'd been to the same club the previous Saturday and the clientele was similar - lots of locals and not many gringos. I like.

One of the locals, Alejandra, proved to be a good dance partner - and the perfect person to do a bit of shadow-boxing with:

No idea why we were shadow-boxing. That's what happens when you drink bowls of booze.

The following day Nic and I met up with Suffolk Ben. We had no plans, until Nic suggested we go bowling. What a brilliant idea.

We searched in vain for a bowling alley we'd heard about that has old skool pins (where a little man apparently sits at the end of the lane and stacks them up after each bowl). Instead we hopped in a cab and took a scenic 15 minute ride down to the Zona Sur.

We'd been told there was a Mega Centre there, which meant little to us until we arrived to find a ginormous mega-mall with bowling alley, millions of shops, an indoor football pitch and multi-screen cinema. ie, the perfect place to spend a hungover Sunday.

First up: bowling. We changed into our clown shoes, complete with socks that looked like we were suffering with verucas, and took to the lane.

The next hour was similar to my piranha-fishing experience of the previous week: I was crap and the others were good.

Ben won both games, Nic came second, and I finished rock bottom. My inability to roll a ball straight down a lane was driving me spare.

Spare. Geddit?

Boom boom.

With the humiliation complete, we headed downstairs to watch a film. In among the animated dross (well, dross to me), was a new Nicolas Cage film: Drive Angry.

Drive Angry is possibly the worst title for a film since Quantum Of Solace, but I could watch Nic Cage all day and so we decided to go see it.

The film was a bizarre mix of Satanism, car chases, baby sacrifice and Nic Cage having sex wearing wraparound sunglasses. I think the writer/director must have been high as a kite.

Despite the tenuous plot it was a fun way to spend a couple of hours, and topped off a successful day inside La Paz's mammoth Mega Centre.

After a final drink back in town we said our goodbyes to each other. Nic and Ben were two of the friendliest people I've met so far on my travels. It won't be the last time we meet, I'm sure.

The following morning I went to the terminal terrestre to get a coach to Cochabamba. For the bargain price of 25 bolivianos (less than two pounds fifty) I got a ticket for the 8 hour journey south.

It was decent drive - luckily on a paved road all the way (only 30% of Bolivia's roads are paved) - and the route took us through some attractive mountain ranges:

For the last couple of hours my shoulder provided the perfect pillow for an old gent in an army cap:

He was nattily dressed in a grey suit, and had a 1970s Olympus camera strapped around his neck - like a press photographer from the black-and-white days.

Cochabamba is slightly off the gringo trail, and that was one of the reasons I chose to come here. It is a big place (population: 600,000) but has a small-town, homely feel.

I checked into the Las Vegas hotel, after failing to find a backpackers hostel I'd seen online, and took a wander through town before hitting the hay. During the wander I had visited an extreme sports company, luckily still open at 7pm, and booked a paragliding trip for the morning.

I think I've mentioned before about my woeful memory, and somewhere in the recesses of my mind I can remember doing a paragliding flight - but I can't remember when or where. Maybe it never happened.

Either way, I was up for doing something a bit different and, with no bungee jumping or skydiving on offer, running off a mountain with a parachute strapped to my back sounded like a fun way to spend a morning.

We drove a short distance to a mountain overlooking the city and got prepared. While an Israeli couple were driven up to the top for their flight, I stayed down at the landing strip and chilled out in the sun.

A family lived next to the strip, and I had a visit from the son of the family - a boy named Brandon:

Trying to hold a conversation with a four-year-old in Spanish, when your Spanish is dire, isn't the easiest thing to do - but we had fun playing catch, eating M&Ms and watching the paragliders float down from the sky.

And then it was my turn.

We took a slow climb up to the summit in the van before disembarking, where I was strapped into my harness and given the briefest of safety briefings. 'Run straight ahead. Don't stop running.'

I got a couple of final pictures ahead of my leap of faith:

'It's one small step for man.... (crackles) .... one giant leap... for mankind.'

With instructor Marcelo strapped to my back, I ran as hard and fast as I could towards the edge of the cliff. It felt wrong to run off the edge of the mountain, but that's what we did.

A yank to my stomach, as the harness dug in during lift-off, was the only part I didn't particularly enjoy. The rest was brilliant.

We spent about 15 minutes in the air, swirling through the mountain ridges and enjoying a stunning view of Cochabamba below:

I've uploaded a short video too, which can be viewed here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/26607248@N08/5664945608

The ride was smooth, and the landing was soft. Just how I'd hoped, and the whole experience was well worth the thirty quid it cost me.

In the afternoon I watched Manchester United dominate Schalke in the Champions League and went for another wander through this picturesque city:

On the drive back from paragliding I had spotted the football ground, so took a walk there and was hoping there might be a game happening the following day. The security guard told me the next match was on Sunday (boo) but he let me in to take a picture (yay):

In other exciting news (are you still awake btw?) I bought a T-shirt from one of the many shops that sell military clothing. I presume there's an army base nearby.

I've been wearing the T-shirt today and have been getting a few strange looks, possibly because I'm a gringo wearing a T-shirt of the Bolivian parachute regiment.

I hope there's no law against a foreigner wearing it, and I was strapped to a parachute in Bolivia - so maybe that gives me special rights.

In the evening I fancied a good night out, as it would be my last in Cochabamba. I walked past a bar where tens of locals were sitting on round tables drinking multi-coloured shots. Metallica was booming out of the speakers. I went in and had a beer.

Next up, I went to the Brazilian Coffee Bar - recommended by a couple of people I'd met.

What's the one food you'd think land-locked Bolivia would struggle to do well?

Sushi.

But after Marcelo recommended it to me, I decided to give it a go. And it was perfectly made and really tasty:

In the same place I ordered a Cuba Libre, which strangely arrived in four separate parts: the glass with rum, the ice, the Coke in a decanter and a plate of limes. Self-service, but I kinda liked it.

As I was heading home, feeling like another drink but not spotting anywhere decent - I walked past a small doorway to a dark bar, the Banana Lounge.

Inside were two barmen and three women - friends of the barmen. When you travel alone you sometimes have to force yourself into slightly uncomfortable situations in order to find a good time.

The first 15 minutes in that bar was exactly that. Me with my minimal Spanish, them with their non-existent English, all sharing some awkwardly stunted conversations.

But I persevered, and within an hour we were having fun, sampling the extensive cocktail menu and watching Rodrigo - the head barman - doing his magic tricks.

No-one can resist a bit of close-up magic, and Rodrigo had some great tricks up his sleeve. First of all he made a ball of tissue levitate off his palm. My jaw dropped to the floor.

Then he cut up a long piece of rope into several bits before somehow making it a single rope again. And again, jaw hit floor.

After that he did some card tricks which blew my mind, including burning my card (without him seeing what it was)...

...and rubbing the burnt card on his forearm to reveal my 7 of diamonds etched into his skin in charcol. Great stuff.

The piece de resistance was still to come, though: making a solid coin spin horizontally through the air between his hands. It was incredible, and I still have no idea how he did it. If you look closely you can see the coin in the air:

There were no magnets, no string, nothing. It was one of the most amazing things I have ever seen.

I thought that would be the extent of the evening's entertainment, but then four Danish girls came into the bar and we were soon ordering more drinks and playing an impromptu game of Uno. As you do.

They knew of a karaoke bar about 10 minutes walk away, which sounded like a plan. So off we went, voices ready to be put to the test.

The karaoke bar was fairly dead - a few locals mooching around and slouching on the black leather sofas, but the bar staff were friendly and we propped ourselves up on stools.

It didn't take us long to try out the Saturday Night Fever multi-coloured dancefloor, and we put our names down for a few songs from the 99%-Spanish karaoke list. Thank god for Michael Jackson and Frank Sinatra.

All in all, it was one of my better days: paragliding, a new football ground, sushi, magic, karaoke, making new friends. I'm glad I came to Cochabamba.  

In the morning I crawled out of bed, squashed a cockroach, and made my way to a sight that was bizarrely ignored in my guidebook: the statue of Christ overlooking the city.

It was another journey on one of my favourite modes of transport - the cable car. I had a car to myself for the short journey to the top. Here's me and Mr Cristo:

And the view across the city was the sort of view you could stare at for ages:

My last few hours in the city have been spent watching a pathetic game of handbags football between Barcelona and Real Madrid, and eating more sushi. I just can't get enough of the stuff.

I came to Cochabamba on a whim - still not sure why or when I decided to come here - but it's been a fun diversion from the tried-and-trusted route down from La Paz to Sucre/Potosi that most backpackers do.

Finally, before I log off, I'm fully aware that this post is over-indexed with drunken nights out, but I'm not doing anything that you lot back at home aren't - what with your bank holiday rollover bonanza and a three-day week.

Have a Royal drink for me. Pimm's?

Here are some more pics, and there are even more on Flickr:

One of the Israelis coming in to land

Bolivian Parachute Regiment: English Division

Graffiti outside the Banana Lounge

Rodrigo's balancing act

Last ones standing: Louisa, me, Astrid

I was wondering where that missing 'A' had got to...

Viva Cochabamba!

Bolivia: Rurrenabaque

'Welcome to the Jungle!' blared the speakers in the Moskkito Bar, shortly after I arrived in the sleepy, remote town of Rurrenabaque.

I'd wandered into a La Paz tour agency a couple of days before and booked return flights with TAM, Bolivia's military airline. It saved me a few quid on the alternative airline, Amazonas, but with added risk.

The risk was that TAM only fly three times a week, while Amazonas fly three or four times a day. The La Paz-Rurre route is prone to bad weather - and therefore flight cancellations - so I had my fingers crossed for Monday morning.

I got a taxi up to El Alto, a city above La Paz where the airports are, and we were waved in by the army men on the front gate.

This was about as far removed from Heathrow as you could get. One little shop inside the terminal selling biscuits and coffee, about 20 passengers for the only flight of the day, and a deathly quiet outside the front of the terminal.

I was checked in by an senior army officer in full uniform and, despite the sign saying that no flammable liquids, aerosols or blades were allowed, I walked straight onto the plane with my nail scissors and deodorant in my bag.

There was no security check whatsoever. Perhaps Al Qaeda have better things to do than blow up a tourist plane carrying 20 people to the jungle in Bolivia.

The plane had been given a lick of paint on the outside, to make you feel you were on a 'normal' airline - but inside it was clearly an aircraft previously used by the military.

There were hooks and other clasps on the ceiling where you can imagine parachutes or other war equipment had been hung, the seats were battered and old, and the inner lining of my window had peeled back from its proper place. Not something you really want to see before taking to the air.

But the flight turned out to be fine. Even fun. It was bloody cold (the plane was probably built before A/C existed) but the views were great as we pulled away from the sandy expanse of La Paz and zoomed across the Andes towards the Amazon basin:

We touched down in Rurre about an hour later. It was a landing strip with a tiny shack/terminal and we were bundled into transit vans for the short ride into town.

It was incredibly hot (as mentioned in a previous post), and even walking down the street brought me out in the sweats. Nice.

It was also a picturesque little place - just a few roads criss-crossing each other with the usual gringo-friendly combination of snack bars, internet cafes and shops selling massive bottles of Head & Shoulders.

After checking into the recommended Hotel Orientel (tellingly with mosquito wire all over every window in my room), I went and booked myself on a tour for the following day, and then met up with Ben - who I'd first met in La Paz - and a guy called Aidan from Ireland.

We had a drink in the aforementioned Moskkito Bar - Guns n Roses and AC/DC on tap - before having a burger, and then bed.

In the morning I went to my tour agency to meet my fellow tourists and our guide. When you travel alone and go on tours it's always a heart-in-mouth time when you come face-to-face with the people you will be spending your next few days with.

You could be stuck with four Russians having a mid-life crisis, or a group of 10 Australian gap yearers who drink beer for breakfast.

So far I've been pretty lucky, and this time too. It turned out to be just me and four friends from the north of England - Jess, Alice (aka Hef), another Alice (aka Hodge) and Sophie.

Our guide, complete with knife holstered to his belt, was Alex. Otherwise known as Mosquito. The six of us, plus driver, got into the Toyota people carrier and headed off towards the Bolivian pampas.

The first 3 hours were spent bumping around on a gravel track, dust blowing in through the windows, heat blasting down from the sun. Not the most pleasant start to a tour I've had.

But we got through it and arrived at the boat mooring station, where Alex went and got our vessel:

Seeing other groups of 8-10 people all cramped up on their boats, it made me glad to have just the five of us.

Speeding through the pampas wetlands towards our lodge we saw some beautiful scenery, every now and then stopping to snap monkeys and birds in the trees:

Hodge and the the others do their best Japanese tourist impressions

After an hour or two we came to a wide-open bit of water where we stopped the boat, stripped off and dived in:

You know that first shower you take after attending a sweaty music festival, or the first dip in the swimming pool after a delayed flight to your holiday destination? This was just like that. A-mazing.

You couldn't see more than 2-3 inches into the murky brown water, and there must be all manner of creatures under the surface, but at that point in time - after the sweatiest morning in weeks - it was perfect.

Getting back onto the boat I saw that my white boxers - which I'd jumped into the river in - were still caked in orange dust from the car journey and my finger and toenails had turned the same colour. Probably not the most riveting detail you've ever been told, but a detail nonetheless.

A short hop in the boat brought us to our lodge. It was perched up on stilts above the walkway and was the midpoint between another camp (where Ben was staying) and the sunset bar (the social hub of all the lodges in the area).

We've just come to the end of the rainy season, and the river was high - only a few inches from the boardwalk of our camp at certain parts.

After a good dinner prepared by our friendly cook, Carmen, we went and saw the sunset from the top of the sunset bar. With a much-needed Paceña in hand, we watched the day end in what would be the first of several incredible colourful scenes out in the pampas:

Just after 7pm, sweating like pigs, we were paid a visit by millions of little bastards. Otherwise known as mosquitos.

I had been warned that the heat, humidity and mozzies were pretty full-on, but I hadn't realised just how ferocious a combination of the three could be.

Even smothering yourself in DEET repellent didn't deter them. They came at us en masse, interuppting a pleasant drink and turning us into a bunch of happy slappers as we attempted - in vain - to swat them away.

Here's a picture of them buzzing around the light in the sunset bar:

Makes me itch just to look at it.

So we didn't hang around, obviously. We went back to camp and sat on the table there, and got bitten some more. Later on Alex took us out on the boat to try and spot some alligators and caymans.

All groups doing the 3-day pampas tour have similar itineraries, but the tour guide decides when and where you do each activity. Unfortunately that night the crocs (as I kept calling them, incorrectly) were obviously in hiding as our torches didn't manage to reflect off their eyes.

But actually we didn't need to get on a boat to see alligators and caymans. There were some living in the water below our lodges. Each day you saw them swimming around just feet from your feet, sometimes surfacing their 6-7ft long bodies:

On the final morning, coming back from a boat trip to watch the sunrise, Sophie and Jess - who were walking a few feet ahead of me - turned round the corner between our room and the kitchen and had a big alligator's head craning out of the water next to the boardwalk, teeth glistening.

You probably heard the screams back in England.

He then slinked back into the water and came to rest under the door to our room:

Alex assured us that no tourists had ever been attacked by these animals while doing the pampas tour. Not sure if I believe him.

Day two was a busy day. After breakfast we got back in the boat and took another fun drive through the rivers and reeds to a spot on the edge of thick jungle. We were going anaconda hunting.

If you've ever seen the film Anaconda you'll have some pre-conceived ideas about these snakes, the heaviest in the world.

They can grow up to 20ft long (and there are unsubstantiated reports of even longer ones) and thicker than my waist. Not something you probably want to find curled up in your bed.

We were joined by a few other tour groups on this little expedition and set off into the dank swamp of the jungle. We'd been given wellies to wear and you immediately saw why. We were soon up to our knees in mosquito-riddled muddy water, fighting our way over tangled branches and through itchy cobwebs.

As my American friend Ann said during a trek in Colombia, I was sweating like a whore in church.

It's rare to find an anaconda on these pampas tours. Almost something of an urban jungle myth apparently. We'd spoken to a few people, both back in Rurre and on the tour, who said it was a decent little outing but don't expect to actually find anything.

And then, about 30 minutes into the treacherous slog, we heard a yell from up ahead. One of the guides behind me bolted past, and we followed. A minute later and we arrived to see the guide triumphantly holding an anaconda in his arms:

Paranoid to the last, my initial thought was 'Ok, where are his brothers and sisters?' Standing there in muddy water up to my knees and a 6ft snake next to me, I was only thinking of my ankles - and them being clasped by an anaconda No.2.

But once that thought subsided, we went about getting up close and personal to this beast of the jungle. I've never before seen a snake in the wild, let alone touch one. So god knows what came over me when I agreed to this:

It felt like lots of slimey soft hands were creepily stroking my neck and ears.

*Shivers at the thought*

The guide held his head, but with mouth open so you could 'enjoy' the experience of being inches away from a snake's face, while his thick body attempted to asphyxiate you.

And I actually paid to go on this tour.

But, seriously, it was an experience I won't forget in a hurry. Probably made even more memorable because none of us actually expected to see one of these fabled anacondas, let alone have one wrapped around your neck.

After a few seconds of it on me, he (or she? I didn't feel like checking) started to tighten his grip and it actually got a bit worrying for a couple of seconds as I felt my windpipe being crushed.

Luckily the guide - who found our terrified reactions absolutely hilarious - finally saw sense and peeled him off me.

Earlier on in the expedition I had lost my group of Alex and the girls as I blindly followed the bloke in front of me - more concerned with staying on my feet than following a particular path.

When I got back to the boat, it turned out that I'd had a stroke of luck. Alex and the girls had a) not seen an anaconda b) dropped one camera into the water (Hodge) and c) fallen into the water (Sophie). I felt for them - and was glad I had wandered off with Ben et al.

I was on a high after my snake encounter, which helped during the afternoon's outing: piranha fishing.

Why helped? Because I was royally shit at piranha fishing. We took another tour on the boat to a secluded spot far from camp and Alex gave us the fishing 'rods' that he'd made that morning:

We then spent the next hour casting our lines and trying to perfect the technique of feeling a bite, and then quickly pulling the hook back above the water - hopefully with a piranha on the end of it.

Straight away Alex proved his experience by hauling in the first fish of the day. Then Hef caught one:

Then Soph caught one, then Jess. Then they caught more, and more. All the while, Hodge and I caught bugger all. Possibly one of the most frustrating hours I've spent since watching Everton in the late '90s.

So, after enduring muchas ribbing from Alex for being the man who cannot fish (while most of the girls could), we set off back to base - piranhas ready to be cooked:

That night, after our piranhas/chicken/rice/salad combo, and another drink at the sunset bar, we were invited on an unscheduled outing on the boat by Alex and another tour guide, Cappuchino.

Cappunchino bought a bottle of rum and we set off. I really enjoyed travelling by night - whizzing along through the black water with only the stars and the moon above. We got to a clearing, moored the boat and had a couple of drinks.

We probably would have stayed longer but the mosquito attack was phenomenal. It was a constant bombardment of the little critters on your ankles, temples, knees, back, neck and elsewhere. PAIN.

And the beds at camp weren't much better, lying there in the tropical humidity as mosquitos buzzed around your ears and all over your body. I counted between 50-60 bites on my body, but others had much worse.

So after a second interrupted night's sleep, and a mild hangover, we were all a bit groggy as Alex waked us at 5.30am to go and see the sunrise.

I'm glad we hauled our stung arses out of bed though, as we were treated to another phenomenal colour show just up the river:

Stick that in your National Geographic and smoke it.

As well as being a great tour guide, an expert mechanic (who kept having to fix our dodgy boat motor) and a friendly bloke, Alex was a dab hand at jewellery-making too.

On the second day he surprised us all by sitting down with a bag of small coconuts - each no bigger than a golf ball. After asking us which finger we'd like a ring for, he got out his saw and sandpaper and proceeded to turn these coconuts into rings that wouldn't look out of place in the John Lewis jewellery dept.

This is him at work:

And then my finished product, complete with engraving of a panther and some leaves:

Clever guy, and only 24 years old.

Our final little outing of a cracking three day tour was to try and swim with the elusive pink dolphins. We had already spotted quite a few out and about on our boating trips, and I had spent some of the previous afternoon watching a couple of them frolicking in the water below the sunset bar:

The problem with the dolphin outing was that every other tour group in the vicinity had the same idea. If I had 10 boats, petrol seeping into the water, zooming around me I would probably head somewhere else. And that's what the dolphins did.

No-one got close enough to get bodily contact with the pink 'uns but we saw a few on the edge of the lake where we swam. It was a fun, if ultimately unsuccessful hour.

On the way back we passed another lodge, and it had a rope swing. Is there a better way to end a hot three days than swinging off a tree into the water?

Here's a sequence of me doing just that:

Tarzan, eat your heart out.

After a final lunch we bolted it back to Rurrenabaque via the same boat/car combo. We got sunburnt on the former, but enjoyed some heavenly air-con inside the latter.

We arrived back in Rurre to find that the girls' flight back to La Paz for that night had been cancelled. The other blow was that we'd hit Semana Santa (Holy Week) and most of the bars said they weren't selling alcohol.

Ben and I had a good dinner with an Australian/German couple we'd met on the trip, and then I bumped into the same group of gap yearers who I'd previously met in Huacachina and La Paz. We MUST stop meeting like this.

It turned into a good night. The Moskkito bar had signs everywhere saying no alcohol but that was for the benefit of the police who kept sticking their heads round the corner.

No beer was sold, or Coke as a mixer (as apparently it was too obviously a mixer?) but we had some cocktails and listened to yet more AC/DC:

After much pleading, the bar owners finally turfed us out in the early morning:

As is often the case with small airports and Bolivian organisation, the following morning's departure from Rurre was a haphazard affair.

After checking in in town, we were told to quickly get on a minibus - which we did. We then waited in the steaming heat while the bods in charge did something or other. We eventually headed to the airport, picking up various locals on the way.

At the airport terminal hut we were ordered out of the bus and into the building, where we first paid a tax of 7 bolivianos to a man behind a white box. After that we were told to walk across the floor and pay another tax of 7 bolivianos to a woman behind another white box.

I hope they treated themselves to a nice meal with it.

We were then ordered back on the bus, before we were driven the grand total of FIVE METRES to the side of the terminal. The plane then landed, people got out, confusion reigned, and we got on:

The plane was brilliant.

It was pretty old and had various bits hanging off the upholstery, but it had a James-Bond-villain-style 1970s interior with just one seat on either side of the aisle:

You could see right through to the cockpit, which on landing was particularly fun. And the views back over the Andes were pretty special too:

So how would I summarise three days in the Amazon basin of Bolivia?

The good: swimming in rivers that you can't see into; meeting good people; splashing around on boats; meeting a snake, and lots more.

The bad: mosquitos attacks turning into some sort of sick joke; ditto with the heat.

The ugly: these uncatchable critters:





And here are some more pics from a memorable three days:

Sunset across the wetlands

Bumping into James and Sarah. Again!

Parrot in Rurrenabaque

Grasshopper on a sock, on our boat

Gone fishing

The Famous Five, plus guides

Bolivian pampas: beautiful