La Paz

No sooner had we finished the tour to the salt flats than we were on the 10-hour deep-freeze overnight bus up north. It felt like it had been ages since either of us had set foot on a big city, and having endured the Aushwitz conditions of the previous hostel in Uyuni, I was in the mood to lux it up a bit. This being Bolivia, I was also more than happy to pay for my hippie student companion, and gave him specific instructions to book  ´somewhere decent, clean, civil and warm.´

"So Noah, what´s the hotel we´re checking into?" I asked, as the Pan-antarcticana rolled into the collossal amphitheatre of La Paz at 6am. Checking the writing on a piece of toilet paper, he replied, "The...Bash...and...Crash Backpacker´s Party Hostel."

In case there´s any ambiguity in your mind as to what this type of establishment represents, here´s the logo.

"Right, okay...um, I´m just curious, but which part of the name suggests it being decent, civil, clean or warm?"

"Oh it looked pretty decent in the photos and it´s, like, just 65 Bolivianos a night." In other words, HK$65 or five pounds sterling.

Arriving at the building, it´s three flights of steep stairs you have to climb before you reach the entrance. Add to this the altitude of La Paz plus the formidable weight of all my winter clothes, eletronics, moisturisers and hair products, and you´ll understand why it took a good 15 minutes to recuperate before it registered that we had to wear a purple wristband for the whole time we were staying there.

"What. Is. This." I said, approximately in the direction of the recptionist.

"Oh it´s so we know youre staying at this hostel so our bar staff will serve you beer at the bar."

"Where´s the private bathroom?" I enquired as he showed me the twin beds in a room labelled ´The Sopranos´. He then explained the one with the private bathroom was vacant today, but as it was only 7am the current occupiers hadn´t check out yet. Fine, we´ll wait here till they clear off. Huffed my way back to the lounge area.

I´m not joking. As I plonked myself on the settee to surf my iPhone, the wood support panel under the cushion broke such that not only did my bum fall through the middle, but then in slow motion, both the chair and I tipped over backwards, polaxed all the way to the floor. Eyes staring at the ceiling, knees at right angles, feet dangling in the air, still holding the iPhone - I just stayed there until a few faces came into my field of vision.

"I think your chair´s broken. I´m going to take a shower now."

Showers in Bolivian hostels are electricity heated, so you need to keep adjusting the water strength in order to vary the heat level between volcanic and glacial. What I didn´t realise about the Bash and Crash showers was that once the water got going, the electricity would conduct all the way to the shower faucet. The first shock was a mild one, merely stunning the hand a little, but at least now the water was getting hot. It was only when it was scalding hot and I needed to change back that the big one came. Clutching the tap, the electroshock was total and violent. It was like being hit by a taser, passing through every part of the body from eyelashes to toe nails. You can´t scream when this happens because ýour entire central nervous system has been electrocuted. Worse, i was still standing under boiling water with shampoo in my eyes. When i finally located the A4 sized towel that Debs had packed for me, I used it as a glove to switch back and complee the ordeal in absolute zero. The water was so cold, my face was still numb 20 minutes later when Noah asked me how the showers were. Aaaarrr, praaa gaaarrr...

Surprisingly, though, as the next few days wore on, I became quite accustomed to, and even content with, life at the Bash and Crash. The private bathroom defintely helped and the people who worked there were genuinely helpful and nice. It was so cheap there that we felt we needed to find ways of splurging cash just to make up for it. One of these ways was to hire a private cab for an entire afternoon to take us around town and show us the best view points from the bottom to the very top.

Victor the cab. 5 quid for a whole afternoon.

Unlike HK, the richest people live at the bottom, the poorest up top.

4,100M up means less oxygen than below. 

Near El Alto, sister town to La Paz, very high up. Behind us, Mount Illimani.

Since coming here, I know I have a mild case of vertigo.

Main plaza.

Witches Market. They don´t like being photographed so you have to be sly.

Even the posh restaurants don´t cost much.

When you´re travelling you have an instinctive feeling of when it´s time to move on, and so after three days here, I not only knew it was time to go my own way, but also where I was heading - across Lake Titicaca and over the border, into Peru.

It was goodbye Bolivia. Or so I thought.