Destination: Somewhere

Crossing the border from Argentina to Bolivia felt like gatecrashing a movie set. The people looked completely different to Argentina, where the masses ooze effortless style. People-spotting in the dusty border town of Villazon spun my South American experience on its axis as most women wore the traditional dress – colourful layered skirts, wildly clashing cardigans and long braids down every back. It was like a kaleidoscope view of Alice in Wonderland meeting Pocahontas before colliding with the Golden Girls. Many of the women were stationed with tables or open blankets, carpeted with mugs, nail clippers, lollies, and any number of other things for sale.

As great an experience as Villazon was, there wasn't much to do there, and so my friend Bryony and I decided to respectfully stalk a lovely German couple who were en route to Tupiza, a few hours bus ride away. Little did we know, we were in for a further shock to the senses. The next three hours were a crazily intense introduction to the Bolivian bus system. In comparison, catching buses through Argentina was a bit like sliding down a rainbow and landing gently on a dewdrop. In Bolivia, it felt more like crashing down some rocks and landing in a pile of sticks, not in a bad way, but the difference was huge. At first glimpse, the bus looked like a big tin can on wheels, and after a hundred people, bags, blankets and babies piled on, we set off on possibly the bumpiest ride ever into the pitch black night. Then, after countless stops at random stretches of road, gradually the bus emptied and we arrived in Tupiza.

Tupiza is a tiny town surrounded by moutains and endless sky. The buildings are low and brightly painted and the I could have sworn the clocks were ticking slower. It was gorgeous, scenic and relaxing, and Bryony and I ended up spending a few days there, walking around and climbing up a small mountain to sunbake under the big blue, a peaceful piece of the world below us.

Slow moving time has a downfall however, and after a rushed goodbye, I found myself legging it down to the terminal for the bus to Sucre. Chugging and shuddering and blowing black smoke everywhere, the bus looked ready to take off. Admittedly, delusionally, considering the through-the-night journey, I had hoped for a big shiny bus with movies and a toilet. Wrong. Settling into another receptacle that might be better used to store a giant's baked beans, I tried to prepare myself for the night ahead and realised that in my rush, I had left every warm thing I owned in my backpack, which was at that moment nestled in a vibrating pool of grease down below. Problem number two awoke my senses shortly after with a desperate, indisputable need to wee, and over the next 10 hours I discovered that my own personal version of hell was a night through the freezing desert on a bumpy roller coaster of a bus, smuggling heat from the empanada farts belching out of the sleeping man next to me, a bump away from wetting myself.

But all bad things come to an end, and after a short eternity I finally arrived in Sucre! Sunshine, warmth, beautiful white washed buildings and a postcard plaza invited instant revival as I lurched into the next chapter of my journey.