Back in Bolivia

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Back in Bolivia. I was last here on the cusp of 20, almost 7 years ago. It marked the start of my twenties and a decade defined by travel. Peru and Bolivia in the summer of 2007 was my first big trip away from home. It was chiefly meant to be volunteering in orphanages and adolescent prisons in Peru with a few others from university, but I was forever restless. I became disenchanted about the good we were actually doing and spent every free minute pouring over maps and guidebooks working out where we could explore in our time off. With two friends, I visited Lake Titikaka, the death road, the salt flats, the pampas and had some fun times in La Paz. It was however, during the final week of my trip travelling back to Lima from La Paz on my own for the first time that the travel bug bit, and it bit bad. Then I knew I would do everything I could to take a break from university and travel the world alone.



This time around a lot is different. Firstly and most significantly, I am not alone. Traditionally I am not a fan of "going back" it is never as good the second time. However, as Becks has not seen Bolivia and I am curious to compare then and now, I have made an exception, besides there are the places in between to explore and fill in the gaps. I am intrigued to see how Bolivia has changed, and also how I have changed compared to that bright eyed adolescent, possibly more mature, self-sufficient and appreciative or possibly more cynical, intolerant and dare I say boring.



Bolivia started in the South. We met a couple of others on the bus from Huamahuaca and had an incredibly straight forward border crossing with no pick pocketing, counterfeit notes or unscrupulous taxi drivers which often plagues these parts. Even still, we were now in much poorer South America and were cautious not to get into the collectivo (minibus) until it was leaving in case our backpacks were swiped off the roof. A couple of hours later and we arrived into Tupiza, a unremarkable town asides from the horse riding and Uyuni salt flat tours which used it as a base. Along with Chris, a peculiar Swiss gentleman, we got a deal on combining a couple of hours of horse riding with a four day 4x4 trip around the wild Bolivian southwest circuit and finishing off with the Uyuni salt flats. So the next day we were up early and waiting for breakfast to be served, a disappointing step down from the crepes and eggs-to-order we became accustomed to in Argentinean hostels. The guide finally came and took us a short drive to the paddock. It was there that the second thoughts started to kick in as the equine beasts were nothing short of wild. Despite three experienced handlers it took 40 minutes to stop them galavanting around the paddock and take a saddle and rein. My enthusiasm to get a horse chomping at the bit for a good canter rapidly diminished as they flinched with every yappy dog we passed. Things improved when we got off the road and before we knew it we were weaving amongst the likes of La Puerta del Diablo and El Mano, incredible rock formations of spires and pinnacles. We hadn't seen anything near as impressive on the trip so far. The horses had a break as we hiked up a canyon, clambering over the ochre red and sunset orange boulders and gazing in awe at the beautiful shapes that had been left behind by the river in wetter seasons. Back on the horses and we were abruptly halted by a 4WD screeching along next to us and braking in a cloud of dust. We managed to control the skittish horses when the lady from our tour company jumped out and said we were meant to have left half an hour ago for the salt flats.



We were raced back along the dusty road to meet our already loaded Toyota Landcruiser, our driver and guide Ramil, and Diana and Tomar an Argie/Israeli couple who had met travelling in Brazil. Along with peculiar Chris and Josephina the cook, our motley crew was complete. This time I was doing the salt flats tour from the South, and it was 4 days rather than 3 to include the remote valleys and villages we would pass out of Tupiza. The trip was even better than the fading memories I had of it 7 years ago, although it was interesting how little had actually changed. Under their new popular indigenous President, the mines were nationalised, boosting the local economy. I remembered Bolivia being 'dirt cheap' when actually our $50/day budget each was easily spent, getting 11 Bols to a £ rather than the 15 Bols in the glory days of 2007. It's obviously not good to dwell on this as, although less good for the budget traveller, it is great for the country and at pulling more people out of abject poverty. It also meant that tourist infrastructure was improving very slightly. I remember a lot of the stop offs being tainted by the huge amounts of poos and toilet roll behind every rock which was thankfully reduced this time with the installation of a loo. Otherwise though very little had changed which is always good to see in the natural world.



The first day took us snaking up mountainsides with views of jagged spires stretching far into the distance. We stopped for lunch at a tiny village supported by sporadic mining incentives exported through Chile. A grubby little girl sat against the wall of her mud-brick home, wrapped up in layers and watching the world go by. Very little seemed to go by, and we were probably one of a couple of vehicles passing through that day. At first I felt sorry for her, that she must be lonely being the only child in the hamlet as the fun and carefree play of local children is what you come to expect in the dusty lanes outside poor rural homes. Despite the poverty, flies, runny noses and swollen tummies you will always see a smile on their faces bringing a smile to yours. But this little girl just sat in the dirt watching us intently wrapped up in shawls and skirts like a Bolivian Cholita, as if with no friends to play with she wanted to be just like mum and Granny. Just as we drove away though she did make me smile, standing up facing the wall she seemed to do a little happy dance and I realised her imaginary world was probably all she needed for fun.



We settled down to sleep at an altitude of 4300 metres after driving a few extra hours in the dark to make up for our late getaway. One of our big plans for Bolivia was to attempt to summit a mountain over 6000 metres in altitude. With this in mind I was a bit apprehensive about how my body would cope at altitude. When I was horse riding earlier in the day, a bit short of 3000 metres, I developed a severe sharp, boring headache above my left eye. I started to squint with the pain and it continued despite paracetamol. Becks has quoted me saying "it is the worst headache of my life". I thought I was getting full blown altitude sickness or maybe even developing altitude sickness. Very embarrassingly (which is why I initially missed this out of this blog) Becks suggested I loosened my riding helmet which provided a miracle cure. Not altitude sickness Jack, you just put the helmet on too tight over your massive thick head. However that night at over 4000 metres, I was definitely feeling the effects. I was drowsy, had a poor appetite and a tension-like headache (with no helmet on this time). Chances of acclimatising over the next week to make it to 6000m were looking pretty slim. However, the next morning I was feeling a bit better and reasoned with myself that coming from Argentina over a couple of days was a hell of an ascent compared to last time when I had spent time in Cusco, Puno and La Paz so hardly noticed the altitude on the salt flats tour.



The following morning took us across the vast steppe to a variety of lakes with a mid morning soak (with the other pilgrims) in a natural hot spring. The 4WD would bump its way across rocks and slide across gravel, at times on clear tracks, sometimes on vague trails and occasionally along no route at all. It reminded me of Therubadubtubclub across Western Mongolia. The lakes reflected beautiful barren mountains at times, but others were such a rich red or glossy green that they were a spectacle in themselves. Some were mined for sulphur, others for bulux (?spelling pronounced bollocks) and some were highly toxic. Flamingoes frequented the odd lago, not quite in East African numbers, but still striking enough for us to spend ages trying to capture the 'perfect flamingo' shot. Along with the photogenic llamas with their brightly coloured owner-denoting ear baubles we have enough pictures to plaster a few thousand metres of hallway. The highlight of the day was a climb to over 5000 metres, (climbed by car, we were out of breath getting out the vehicle) where a geothermal wonderland lay. It was rather inconvenient and inconceivable that one of the thinnest parts of the earth's crust was located 5km above sea level, but breathlessly we wondered around in awe. I'm not sure if it's an increasingly curious or fascinated mind or just a longer time since I was last in Iceland but I was in awe of these sights. The hiss of a thousand iron kettles screamed out of a vent in the earth as steam angrily tore its way a dozen metres into the sky. Around this geyser were pools and lagoons, beautifully shaped and inviting if they were not full of bubbling mud spitting browns, greys, oranges and yellows up their sides. We had complete freedom to walk around them, just being warned "not to fall in because you will die", something which was said so matter-of-factly it suggested an implication based on truth. We were careful, but I was almost caught out as a rather inactive looking fumarole suddenly came to life and erupted a dangerous molten goo just in front of me. We moved out of the danger zone and found sound little, tamer pools "glub, glub glubbing" all around us. The car appeared out of nowhere to pick us up, everyone had been back inside it for ages, and as became standard procedure, our fun and curiosity was last to wane.



Becks and I had taken along a six pack of beers, we were horrified to find there had been a minor beer explosion in my bag (which still smells faintly of Pacena) so we sensibly decided to drink the rest. I think we scientifically proved that altitude is the most potent mixer to have with your drink as 2 cans feels like at least 4 at sea level. If it could be bottled and put in an Alcopop it would be your next snakebite of triple treble! Luckily no hangovers greeted us the following day as we enjoyed clambered around the rock towers next to the Arbol Piedra, the tree rock that was on most tourist posters in Bolivia. Becks was as bad as me at skuttling up another rockface for a classic picture and was a far cry from her 'scared of scree' days back in Chile. We took more flamingo photos and along with a half dozen or so other cars made our way to the edge of the salt flats, for what would be the grand finale the following day. We spent the night in a "salt hotel" which had become a bit of a fad from when I was last here when there was only one. Initially I was sceptical how salty it actually was, looking like breeze blocks with a dusting of salt glued on top. However after licking and chewing various parts of the hotel I can confirm the vast majority of the structure was indeed, made from salt. We crunched through the salt crystal floor from our solid salt bed and sat at salt stools by salt tables for another delicious meal cooked by Josephina. Tomar broke the Israeli tradition of aloof haughtiness and told us about his role as tank commander in his 3 year stint of national service. Diana looked ever stylish but sulky and Chris resorted to his default setting of ingratiatingly over-politeness, refusing to have seconds despite eyeing up the meat like a stray dog. We shared some sweet Bolivian wine presented to us for our final night, and then settled to bed early for some shut eye before our 5am start.



We cruised across the salt flats in the eery light of the setting of the moon. Ramil turned the headlights off and all we could see was a faint silver glow stretching out in all directions as we sped across towards the East. The monochromatic horizon gradually brightened and we jumped out of the car to get pictures of the rising sun. It was -16C and we jumped up and down on the spot to try and slow the numbing of our toes. When the first rays of light made it onto the Salar de Uyuni the hexagonal salt crusts glowed a gentle orange and transformed the flats into a matrix of lines and shapes like a giant jigsaw puzzle. An island in the middle of the flats was our next destination. Along with everyone else in the area on their identical trips, we breathlessly picked our way up the rocky path to the peak where the morning sun silhouetted the hundreds of cacti in a surreal yellow haze and was high enough to warm our cold noses. We made our way back down through a huge natural coral arch, formed at a time when all of the island was underwater. Breakfast was served, an affair of dulce de leche, jam, butter, a yoghurt drink and a big heart shaped cake- the same as all the parked jeeps from different companies. We then headed out to our own spot on the flats to play around with perspective and take endless photos to try and get the perfect one. A wine bottle proved a useful prop, but after we exhausted the big Jack and little Becky and vice versa and did a few team shots, Becks and I threw caution to the wind and with the camera on self timer got a funny series of us streaking across the salt flats. Had to be done.



Just outside Uyuni we had a brief stop off at the train cemetery, one of my highlights from last time, where old, knackered train engines sit to rust away the rest of time in the barren desert. They make for interesting photography and just as last time, I couldn't resist climbing around all over them and recreating a photo I posed for when I was 20. The few changes were that they had become a major graffiti artists canvas (which I felt detracted from the beauty of the rusting metal) and that they had installed some swings out of recycled parts (which was awesome). After Chatwin's Patagonia mentioned rumours Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid came to Bolivia I did a bit of reading. It turned out that the train they robbed now rested in this graveyard and the bullet holes were still peppered across its side. Allegedly the outlaws went on to celebrate a bit too raucously in the nearest town, the police were alerted and an ensuing gun battle ended up with both of them dead. Chatwin disputes this despite hollywood immortalising the turn of events, however there is still an unclaimed reward to this day for the outlaws' guns with the identifying serial numbers.



After our last lunch we jumped on a bus to Potosi, with the entertaining cries of 'vamos' echoing round the passengers when the driver was slow to leave the city. We excitedly planned what else we wanted to do in Bolivia and looked into what mountain we were going to attempt to climb. Potosi was a city I was disappointed to have missed last time as it had become infamous for its extraordinary mining tours deep into Cerro Rico. This mountain was the jewel in the New World for the Spanish. It was brimming with silver and made Spain very rich with our route through Northwest Argentina existing originally for transporting Potosi's silver to the ports. Unfortunately our plans for seeing the mines the following day were scuppered as it was Sunday- the miners' day off. Luckily Potosi turned out to be a pretty, interesting city where we enjoyed staying an extra day. In the hustle and bustle of the old town's narrow streets we found some tasty Saltenas (a Bolivian specialty, similar to empanadas) and Becks got her hiking boots shined to an immaculate standard. We jumped on a Collectivo out of town and got dropped off by some hot pools popular since Incan times. It was a 20 minute hike to them and we certainly felt the altitude, I was getting a bit concerned about the mountain climb we were planning. When we got over the rise there were a few shacks next to a large pond with a very ugly duck swimming in it. We asked a man in the shack where the hot pools were and he pointed behind us at the murky waters of the duck pond now with a mangy dog swimming in it. Oh right, not the Incan healing water paradise I was expecting. Nevertheless we got changed and cautiously slid down the muddy banks to the 35 degree water. Once in, it was pleasant and relaxing with beautiful panoramic views of barren mountains like the surface of Mars all around us. We read for awhile and then I circumnavigated the pool, where locals were washing their clothes or chilling out on the edges playing their favourite tunes from their clapped out cars. I asked Becks if she was impressed by my swim (it must have been the altitude and warmth but I found it very hard work) considering we are planning to train for a triathlon back in the UK. I guess it's understandable that she was not.



After our dip we headed out to the road to get the collectivo back. A car stopped and Becks nonchalantly put her rucksack in the boot and jumped in. I found out later that her ballsiness was because she thought it was a taxi, and did not realise that we were effectively hitchhiking in Bolivia. I saw the high-seat in the back and the man's phone having a very coochy-coo photo of him and his wife/ girlfriend so figured he didn't seem like the backpacker-murdering type and relaxed. He dropped us off at the local stadium where we bought a ticket to watch a national football match between Potosi Nacional and Santa Cruz. We smuggled a few beers in past the guards and had an enjoyable time watching the kids and youth team play in the warm afternoon sun before the main event. When the match kicked off it was good to see that "Bolivian time" extends into all areas of life, as half the spectators didn't arrive until well into the first half. At half time we witnessed the football passion we were hoping for and could see why alcohol was banned within the grounds as spectators booed and shouted a lot of "puta" whilst throwing cups at the referees. Riot police in the full garb used their shields to extend the tunnel and protect them from missiles when walking off the pitch. Potosi ended up losing 3-2 but were clawing it back at the end, as the Santa Cruz players looked knackered from playing at over 4000 metres above sea level as opposed to the Amazon basin.



Bright and early the next morning we were off on our mine tour. It has become a bit of a contentious ethical issue, whether tourists being brought into these working mines to gawp at the horrendous working conditions and voyeuristically spectate others suffering to scrape a living should even be allowed. However, Becks and I went with a new company setup by ex-miners called Big Deal tours and it promptly became apparent that the miners enjoyed the visiting tourists, were proud of their jobs and the patronising "tut tut" at their working conditions by the likes of Lonely Planet was the most damaging factor in their eyes. Our guide loaded us into a minibus which scraped through the steep narrow streets of the old town until we got to the miners market. It was mentioned that we could buy small gifts for the miners, suggesting bags of coca leaves or fizzy pop... we opted for a stick of dynamite and detonator, just because we could. The glory days of being able to blow up your own nitroglycerine have gone since I was last in Bolivia, but people still didn't bat an eyelid as we ambled around with explosives in a polybag before giving them to some hard working mining cooperative.



Potosi may not be the richest city in the Americas anymore, but there is still enough silver, zinc and tin extracted to support 8000 miners which rose with the price of the precious metals. A small factory we visited illustrated how basic the industry was with a few grimy tanks and channels used to separate out the heavier metals from the silt until it was shipped off to China to be processed into something recognisable. We then picked our way further up the Cerro Rico with beautiful views over the city until we got to the entrance to the mine. In hardhats, overalls and wellies we shuffled in single file into the black mouth of the mountain. I admired the vaulted stone roof which dated back hundreds of years to Colonial times when I imagined it glowing bright from the constant stream of shimmering silver brought up from the belly of the Cerro. Before long we were creeping along, crouching in six inches of water, panting with the altitude and excitement and wishing the modern-day miners had been a bit more generous with the tunnel height. Then a shout to move to the side and two short, strong Bolivians, drenched in sweat come thundering down the tunnel pushing a big sack of rocks along the rusty tracks which we are walking up. They seem to stand taller (not easy in the confines of the tunnel) and puff out their chests as if to show they are proud of their jobs and want to impress the tourists (particularly the blonde females) with their physical prowess. We then continue deeper and deeper into the mountain, turning off down narrower passages and winding our way down into the abyss until we reach a rickety old wooden ladder. In turn we carefully climb up, with dust and stones falling down on us, until we reach another, and then another. We emerge 20 metres up fighting for breath in the stale, dusty air and are led into a chamber which is where we meet Tio Bonito, the miners' God. Pachamama, Mother Earth, would make sweet love to this horn-wielding statue and produce the minerals. The deity would be made offers of coca leaves, cigarettes and alcohol and in return would protect them and guide them to the minerals. His massive phallus also represented the mining machismo which "skinny rambo" (our guide) told us about with banter better than a University rugby team. When we finally emerged out the other side of the mountain, squinting up at the blue skies we concluded it had been an awesome, eye-opening tour, particularly meeting the brave, happy miners. We just wish they had a decent, free respiratory clinic set up for them.



On our night bus to La Paz we talked excitedly about our plans for the jungle and for climbing 6km into the sky. We got in early and headed straight to the witches market where I remembered all the travel agents were based. Tourism was clearly booming in Bolivia and every other shop was offering cycling the death road (which I did in the dangerous days), pampas trips and hiking. What I had never heard of before and certainly had been missed out of the guidebooks was a six day rafting trip down the river to Rurrenbaque, from where we were planning on doing a jungle trip. I could see Becky's eyes instantly light up at the thought of the adventure and our plans were thrown out the window. We figured 6 days on a tributary of the Amazon with fishing, hiking, camping and ziplining through the canyons on the last day would beat almost anything and with hardly a second thought, we signed up. This worked perfectly with our mountain plans as we found a company that would take us to Huayna Potosi, a 6088 metre peak a couple of hours from La Paz that was leaving the next day. It was all go.



The traffic in La Paz was horrendous, and as we picked our way up to El Alto, a poorer, indigenous city that now sprawls from the ridge to join with La Paz we saw some brand-spanking new cable-cars. These are apparently part of the President's congestion relieving plans at getting people up and down the valley and are just starting to open, possibly to join the must-do in La Paz list for beautiful views over the city. We got a few extra snacks for our hike and then continued along to the mountain we planned to master. The skies were blue and the views stunning as we meandered up across the steppe and into a valley. Rounding a bend we saw the beautiful Huayna Potosi, a perfect white, like a polaroid negative against the expansive dark blue sky. It looked big though. Tall. Not exactly Scafell Pike. It was truly a big, beautiful beast. To give us a bit more time to acclimatise, and to give Becks a chance to learn the knack of crampons and ice climbing, we spent a few hours on a nearby glacier. Our guide didn't speak a word of English (a pretty standard situation if a company promises the opposite) but we managed to understand his technical and safety briefing nonetheless. A highlight in our practice of being roped together was deliberately, throwing yourself into a small crevasse so the rest of the team would have to drop down and dig their ice axes in to stop you plummeting off the mountain. Quite fun in practice but vitally important and scary if applied in reality.



Becks and I were joined by Yui, a Japanese girl who spoke great Spanish and some English. She said she found it really tough keeping up with us the first day and I taught her to breathe deeper and slower with the altitude. We spent our first night at base camp with a rowdy group playing cards and drinking rum. It was a good thing our group was tamer so to be fresh for the hike, but I was a little envious of their camaraderie, better food and English-speaking guide. The next morning as soon as I woke up I croakily sang Happy Birthday to the light of my life as she turned an elderly 27 and I was transformed into her toy boy. We set off in good spirits and it only took us a couple of hours of hiking to get to the high camp at 5130 metres. We felt fit and my fears of how we would do at altitude seemed unfounded as we set a good pace. That was, however, until a merry band of teenagers came streaming up from below in jeans, hoodies and some of the girls even in knee high boots and wedges. We could not believe it, although they didn't have big heavy backpacks it was still a hard climb, until we discovered they were from the University of La Paz. Living at 3660 metres a hike to high camp would be a breeze.



High Camp on Huayna Potosi consisted of a big stone hut with an entrance hall and a sleeping quarters rammed with bunk beds. It had a high wooden apexed roof with a nice large window to let the light in. Unfortunately, this was not to be the case. As we picked our way up the mountain it started snowing, and now we were inside a full on blizzard ensued. Snow pelted the apex window behind Becky's and my bunks and as we looked outside it was a full-on white out. We lay around reading and chatting all afternoon and whenever anyone braved it to venture the 30 metres outside and downhill to the loo they would feed back how the weather had made a further turn for the worse. We tried to look on the bright side such as a first for Becky having snow on her Birthday, but inside we were fearing the worst about the odds stacking against us being able to summit. Rumours started circulating around the packed hut that the guides were thinking of calling the ascent off. 25 pent-up mountain climbers makes quite a surreal atmosphere but a scenario that is not uncommon considering how unpredictable and potentially dangerous the weather is in the mountains. Eventually the plan came through that we were going to wake up at 12:30am as planned when the guides would assess the weather conditions to see if they could green light it. So at 7pm it was lights out as everyone went to bed with their fingers and toes crossed. I lay awake for hours, my stomach feeling like I had swallowed a hot air balloon and with a progressively worsening headache. Rather than improving with time at altitude my body seemed to be growing tired of it and developing all the symptoms it could muster. I finally managed an hour or two's kip after succumbing to paracetamol but then, well before the wake up time, everyone began to stir. Our guides confirmed we were going to do the ever safety conscious thing and "give it a go".



Thermal leggings, fleece leggings, thermal baselayer, thin fleece, thick fleece, polar trousers, polar jacket, thin socks, thick socks, boot liners, boots, gaiters, polar buff, ear warmer, beanie, helmet, thin gloves, thick gloves, walking poles. Ready for outside over 5000m at 1am. A few minutes over the snow covered rocks then its time for crampons. Always a bastard to get on. They are stuck. The size is wrong. The buckle's frozen. They aren't latching onto the boot. Done- Finally. Now to get moving so I can feel my fingers and toes again. Walking pole in left hand, ice axe in right hand, small steps with the crampons, do not step on the rope. Just keep trudging on. Left pole, right foot, right axe, left foot. And again. Pole, right foot, axe, left foot. Remember to watch your breathing. Pole, right foot, axe, left foot.. Pole, right foot, axe, left foot. Too much slack, ease off. Pole, right foot, axe left foot... It was very meditative. There was nothing to look at in the pitch black either side of you. Looking ahead or behind you, you could make out a single file line of other climbers by the bobbing yellow glow of their flashlights. I would just stare down at the deep crunching snow ahead of me and concentrate at stepping in Becky's footsteps as she did the same with the ones in front of her. It was a surreal, extraordinary experience. The gentle crunching of the snow and the rhythmic panting of my own breath was interrupted by the retching of a climber fighting altitude sickness turning the snow green with bile. We plodded onwards, our guide Lucio, clearly unconcerned. Lucio starts to pick up the pace, we seem to pass others, collapsed in the snow with exhaustion or fighting for breath in the thin air. Before we know it the nice compacted footsteps we were following have gone and we are breaking out on our own, sinking knee deep in the snow with every step. It is exhausting work and we try and reason with our guide that we should take it slow rather than be the path-makers. Trendsetting at 17,000 feet is hard work.



The hours roll on and climbing is slow. Lucio seems to have a plethora of reasons why it's unsafe to make it to the summit and states that by 6am we have to turn around no matter where we are. It's a huge blow to morale. Both Becks and I have been thinking about this big climb for weeks, months even, ever since we had the idea to culminate our trekking in a 6000 metre peak. In multi-day hikes you have the beauty of the valleys, rivers, birds and hills to motivate you and keep you going on the circuit. Fighting up this mountain, in the pitch black, sweating profusely with ice-cold peripheries there was little to drive us on other than the thought of the summit itself. We did not want to be foolish. Lucio said there was a big risk of a lightning storm (not the best thing for a metal wielding climber on a mountain), that the avalanche risk was too high with the fresh snow by sunrise, that the wind would pick up making it impossible to reach the ridge and that the blizzard conditions would return, blinding our eyes for the dangerous descent. We did not want to take risks and resigned ourselves to turning around when he said. In the meantime, however, we would push on. With the adrenaline surging through me I was feeling the best I had at altitude and finally felt I had beaten it. We are given the option at 5600 to turn back. Many do now the summit is a no-go, but we opt to push on a little more, to one of the most technical sections of the ascent. It's where our extra day on the ice pays off as we need to swing the axe in hard and kick our crampons into the steep narrow ledge as we pick our way up the slippery edge. We try to avoid gazing at the near vertical 10 storey drop to our left and hope that if anyone drops, you manage to dig-in hard enough to save them and stop you falling together. Once past this section we reach a welcoming plateau, and the grand height of 5700 metres. Sadly the weather worsens and that is the furthest we are allowed to go.



Picking our way back down the ice ledge is torture. Lucio guides Becky step by step who has rekindled her slippery slope fear and I am roped in tight with Lucio constantly almost cramponing me in the face. The wind blasts in over the ridge on my right, firing snow and ice into my eyes, turning my beard white and stinging my cheeks into a malar red. I cannot feel my hands and have lost all concentration, forgetting the three points of contact rule and occasionally relying solely on my left front crampons. The time didn't come soon enough when we got off the damn shelf. We continued down in the deeper snow, I led the way. Becky was just behind me and started to get worried. I was stumbling down the mountain like I was drunk, incoherently mumbled nonsense when she asked if I was okay, and then spontaneously started laughing for no reason at all. I remember feeling confused and euphoric, and it was only after I staggered down another few hundred metres in altitude that my behaviour normalised again and I could think clearly. By now the sun had risen enough to turn the outlining silhouettes of the surrounding cliffs and peaks to a dramatic snow and ice scene. I gazed in awe at the shape of the mountain around us, but also with concern at how close our ascending path had been to bottomless crevasses, which we had not seen in the pitch black or had been covered by deep snow. By the time we arrived back at high camp for a comforting hot drink, my disappointment at being unable to summit was overwhelmed by feelings of exhaustion, relief and wonder at what we had just done. It may not have been the top, but it was still bloody high and considering Becks had never even used crampons before, it was a great sense of achievement. We will bag a 6000plus metre peak. One day.



There is no rest for the wicked. Rather than rest and recover, we had pre-booked beds in Wild Rover, a wild party hostel in La Paz where we planned to find some fun times to celebrate Becky's birthday. When we got there we were informed our beds had been given away as we hadn't reconfirmed (difficult when you are on-top of a mountain) but they did manage to find one top bunk left. It worked fine for us and clambered up the ladder to share the bed and a few hours much needed kip to recharge for the night. The bar was rammed by 7am and we took full advantage of the white russian 2for1 drinks chatting to people at the bar and Matteus, a Swiss-Polsky we had met on the mountain. The DJ came on and everyone was dancing on the bar before it closed in the early hours. Despite our utter exhaustion we managed to keep going with a young group of English lads, and shared a taxi into town to finish dancing the night away. It was a great belated birthday celebration and a huge contrast from the previous day, one of my favourite things about travelling.



Bleary eyed with cotton wool mouths we awoke the next day and frantically got our stuff together. We had an even bigger adventure ahead of us, one we couldn't wait for. Like Huckleberry Finn or even Che Guevara, we were off to a river, a six day extravaganza on a raft deep into the Amazon. The excitement was enough to keep the hangover at bay.

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