An Unexpected Trek, El Choro

Bolivians love a strike so it was almost inevitable that during our three weeks in the country, we'd experience at least one. Unfortunately for us, the one we encountered prevented any vehicles from entering or leaving Uyuni which was the next town on our planned itinerary. 

We had two options; either we give up on the idea and go through Sucre instead or we hang around in La Paz in the hope that the road would re-open in the next three days. By choosing the latter, we'd still be able to fit in a one day tour of the legendary salt flats (as opposed to the original three) if the strike did in fact seize. 

However, having already spent three solid days walking in circles around the markets and buying everything in sight, we had to find something else to occupy our time. Therefore, we opted for a trek which would enable us to further explore the beautiful Bolivian countryside that we touched upon during our trek to Huayna Potosi.

We met our guide, Alejandro, the day before departure; an elderly man in his early sixties who instantly charmed us with his welcoming smile which we soon found to be permanent feature on his weathered face. He was like the Bolivian grandad we never had and though it was his job to guide us, I felt equally obliged to look out for him too. 

On the morning of the trek we were also joined by his son, Yuni, one of six of Alejandro's children. He has clearly inherited his father's charm and we knew we'd enjoy his company on the long walks ahead. However, before any walking was to be done, we had to drive to La Cumbre. We were supposed to be dropped at the summit but due to the heavy snow storms of the past few days, the vehicle couldn't make it to the top. 

We almost couldn't either! The moment we unlocked the car doors they flung open and we were thrown out onto the roadside. Even with our big backpacks weighing us down, the wind was literally sweeping us off our feet and we had to fight against it to stay grounded in the right direction. In a rush to find warmth, we battled our way to the summit and took cover the other side. With the absence of the freezing cold winds, we could fully appreciate the beauty of our whereabouts. It was a completely clear day and from this high up viewpoint we could see virtually all the mountains which surround La Paz, including Huayna Potosi where we'd been just a few days before.

The El Choro hike follows an old Inca trail which if you were to continue along it for many months, would bring you out at Cusco! It's a relatively easy walk this way around as it's mostly downhill but in the other direction, it would be quite the trek. Along our route we saw the remains of a number of Inca settlements where they would presumably have paused for long rests. 

We'd been walking for three hours when we passed our first modern town. Completely isolated from the rest of the world, this tiny community consists of a few shanti houses, a school and a shabby old building which is presumably their town hall. Two children saw us approaching and came speeding out of their front door with their hands held out in hope. Alejandro gave each of them a caramel sweet and told them to run along. They were covered in dirt and though thankful for the candies, we could tell they wanted more. They needed more. The only other sign of life in this run down ghost town was an old man with one solitary tooth who was sat on the steps of the town hall collecting donations. We were all thinking it; who on earth could live here? But thank goodness none of us actually said it as a few metres on Alejandro pointed to a wooden shack with a widened smile: 'Mia casa!'

Our alpine surroundings in the initial leg reminded us very much of New Zealand which is quite remarkable considering how far away we are from it. However, the beauty of the El Choro trek is that the scenery changes dramatically in just a matter of hours and we soon found ourselves in a jungly terrain which was more like that of Fiji. Gradually the clear skies were overcome with a mist so that we walked the remainder of the trail trapped within a bright white cloud.

After six hours of walking we eventually came to a quaint little camping ground deep in the valley. To enter we had to pass the first of many bridges which we were advised to cross just one person at a time. Slightly concerned, we treaded carefully hoping we wouldn't be the straw to break the llamas back.

The camp site is very basic but has the most beautiful view. We sat down to tea and biscuits where we were joined by two lovely French girls and a boy, all from Paris. We entertained ourselves by exchanging our travel stories until night fall. At dusk, a Bolivian cholita appeared and started lurking around the table. It was a little while before we realised she was chasing a live chicken. 'Cena,' she smiled, dinner.

It was a relatively warm night and even more so because Hana, Erica and I were all crammed cosily into a two-man tent. We topped and tailed with Erica in the middle, and Hana and I half up the sides but I surprisingly slept rather well, soothed to sleep by the sound of the running river. It was only when we were packing away the next morning that we discovered Alejandro had put a one-man up for us too which had remained empty all night.

The second day consisted of another seven hours of walking, the majority of which we simply followed the river. The sun was back out and we took regular breaks to cool down by paddling our feet and splashing our faces. I suspected these rest stops were as much for Alejandro's benefit as they were ours but we were rather grateful as our heavy backpacks were beginning to take a toll on our weary shoulders.

Another night, another camp ground; this time a tiny little ledge on the side of a mountain. It was a pretty surreal place to spend the evening but we huddled around the table for dinner with our new French friends, two Canadians and a Chilean girl. We could barely see what we were eating, having only one candle, two head torches and a few stray fireflies between the nine of us. We were all tired from two long days trekking but played a few rounds of cards before retiring to our tents. The three of us had been looking forward to a more spacious night's sleep but found that Alejandro had only put up the one tent tonight, thinking that we all wanted to stay together. We didn't have the heart (or the Spanish) to tell him otherwise. 

The final day began at six in the morning as we needed to get the majority of the walking out of the way before it became too hot. We only had five hours to complete but it felt like longer as our feet, shoulders and knees began to ache terribly. Once again we were rather thankful for the slow and steady pace of our elderly guide in comparison to the others who looked as though they were racing down the mountain side. We had only just come back from Huayna Potosi, after all!

By the time we arrived in Chairo, we'd completed over twenty hours trekking, covered fifty-three kilometres and met at least eight amazing new people along our way. It was a beautiful trip and though it hadn't made it onto our initial schedule, it was a worthy addition and did a great job of keeping us away from those markets! 

The High Highs & Low Lows of Huayna Potosi

'I climbed Rinjani, I climbed Rinjani, I climbed Rinjani', I repeat to myself over and over as we drive higher up the slopes and out of La Paz. For the last ten months I've been using this as motivation for believing I can do just about anything but as the icy, white world appears behind the city's hills, I can't help thinking that Rinjani may finally have met its match. 

Whilst with the Indonesian giant we started the trek at zero, our battle with Huayna Potosi begins at a base camp, 4,000 metres high. Though this is a welcome headstart which means we'll be covering less ground, it's already 500m taller than the summit of Rinjani. The altitude even on the drive up there is denying us breath and it will only get worse as we attempt to reach the 6,088 metre peak. 

I distract myself with the beautiful scenery surrounding us and notice that we're immersed in a world where everything is either one of two colours; bright blue or pure white. The few wispy clouds in the otherwise clear sky appear like a reverse reflection of the glistening lakes amongst the crisp mountain snow. A little way on we pass a small burial ground with old tombs covered in frost. I find myself wondering who these people were; what was their connection to the mountain? I quickly push aside the thought that it may be those who died climbing.

We stop briefly to pick up equipment. At least we won't be climbing this mountain in disco pants and plimsoles! Our guide hands around plastic boots, ski jackets, trousers, crampons, and an ice axe so that we're better set up for the arctic conditions. In all this gear we look the part but inside I still feel wildly unprepared. There's a statistic whirring round and around in my head that only 60% of people make it to the top. With three of us attempting it, that's not great odds.

That's the other difference between this and Rinjani; with the latter we went in blind, having no idea how hideously hard it would be whereas with Huyana Potosi, we know full well. I can't decide which is worse...

We arrive at the base camp and sit down to a carb loaded lunch with two Israeli boys who are about to leave for high camp as they're climbing the summit tomorrow. To take our minds off the approaching task we exchange stories of our South American travels. It turns out they're going home soon too. 'We're gutted,' we tell them. 'Yes us too, but why are you?' It seems like a stupid question until they explain that they're being called back because they're needed in the ongoing war against the Palestinians. Perspective is a wonderful thing.

With fresh images of our warm, lovely homes waiting for us in two week's time, we head off to the practice area where we'll be taught the various techniques for walking on snow and climbing ice. I'd imagined some sort of Hunger Games style training arena but in fact we're led on a half hour walk to the old glacier (through the snow and ice which technically, we don't know how to walk on yet.) Though there's no fancy Capitol training equipment, the area still looks as though it belongs to a movie set as the icy surfaces of the mountains opposite sparkle silver in the sunshine; it's just too beautiful to be true. It's also the first time I've ever been in snow and not either been sledging, in a snowball fight or built a snowman. It's incredibly hard to fight the temptation but I figure I'd better save my energy for the more sophisticated affair.

With our crampons strapped on, walking through the snow is easy but the ice is a lot more difficult to tackle. Even with an axe in both hands, climbing the vertical wall is virtually impossible. Hana attempts first but finds herself in a crevice and is soon crying tears of both frustration and pain as her hands seize up and she winds up stuck. Erica is next. She climbs to a similar height but loses her footing completely and ends up hanging upside down from the harness squealing. It's comical until we realise she can't breathe! By the time my turn comes around the sunshine has disappeared behind a thick white mist; a bad omen according to our guide who asks me if I still want to try. My honest answer is no, but if I have any hope of reaching the top of Huayna Potosi I need to practice at least once. As I climb straight into the same problem, I'm suddenly concerned that we may not be physically able to reach the top. Though we've always relied on our mental strength/stubbornness, it seems this time it might not be enough. 

Over dinner we share our concerns with our guide who promises that the practice wall is far harder than any of those on the actual trail. This calms us a little and though it's only eight o'clock, we pile on every layer of clothing we own and head to bed. I worry that nerves will prevent me from sleeping but the combination of the altitude and the day's activity has taken it out of me and I'm gone in seconds.

The next morning I wake early to a haze of smoke; it's my own breath. My lips have cracked from the cold and there's ice in the tips of my hair where the water has frozen overnight. Miguel, our guide, should be almost at the summit by now with the two Israelis. We spend the morning patiently waiting for their return but becoming more and more anxious as each hour passes.

Finally, at one o'clock, Miguel comes bounding through the door with our new friends trailing exhaustedly behind. 'Hardest thing I've ever done,' they just about manage, though they can barely muster the strength to speak. It's not particularly encouraging; these are two grown men who spent eight years fighting in the Israeli army. Who on earth do we think we are? There's little time to dwell on it though as Miguel is straight out the door again to lead us to high camp. 'Miguel, you are loco. Girls, good luck!'

The Huayna Potosi guides can climb this mountain up to three times a week but for them it is literally a stroll in the snowy park. It makes me wonder how much easier we'd find it if we were fully accustomed to the insane altitude. We've done our best to acclimatise by spending a few days in La Paz, one night at base camp and munching on Coca leaf products wherever possible. I know very little about what's really contained in these leaves aside from the fact that they help prevent sickness and you can't take them through customs! 

We set off on what I assume will be a relatively easy walk to high camp but I've forgotten our number one rule for travelling; never assume! The snow is falling heavily and it's difficult to see more than a few metres in front of us. Miguel chats to us a little but then storms ahead so that we lose him entirely, his footprints taking over his job as guide. 

It's a bizarre sensation to be so cold and yet working up a sweat as we trudge uphill for hours on end. The air is becoming noticeably thinner and each time we slip it takes all of our energy to haul ourselves back up. I'm thirsty but my water is buried deep within my rucksack beneath crampons, a sleeping bag and all sorts else. Instead of stopping, we throw snowballs to one another and make feeble attempts to catch them on our tongues.

We hear Miguel before we see him, whistling merrily to himself as he runs back down the mountain towards us. Seeing that Erica is struggling with her breathing, he whips her rucksack off her back and hurries on up again with two in tow. It's the first time I truly acknowledge that this man is a hero. 

A little while later, it stops snowing and we continue the trek at a slighter faster pace. 'Solo cuarenta minutas mas!' Miguel tells us with his gold starry toothed smile. However, whether it's intentional or a result of our limited Spanish, he fails to let on just how difficult this last forty minutes will be. The rocky surface disappears and we're suddenly sinking into fresh snow. It feels as though each time we're climbing one step up, we're sliding at least three steps back. We're getting nowhere. 

Miguel looks back in pity and tells us to tie on our crampons. This gives us a little hope but I'm not convinced it's any better. We're still slipping almost knee deep in snow and now struggling to pull ourselves out as well, as the additional equipment weighs down our feet. I'm just starting to think we'll never get there when we spot a coloured flag waving in the wind. 'Over hill. Camp!' 

It's turned rocky again so we take off our crampons and crawl up the final hill. My lower body has turned to jelly and I feel as though I'm being led more by the weight of my backpack than my legs. Each time I'm thrown the slightest bit off balance I'm sure I'll go tumbling back down the mountain. Aside from being a little frightening, I can't face the thought of having to climb back up again.

High camp is even more basic than base camp but we barely notice, instead distracted by the heap of biscuits set out on the table. Completely guilt-free we lather each one in butter and jam, finishing the packet just in time for dinner to be served. Even having completed today's trek, there's absolutely no way we can still be hungry but nevertheless, we stuff it down. This inevitably leads to a food-induced coma which happens to be rather helpful as we're then sent to bed immediately after. Even with a bedtime of six o'clock, we'll still at most only have six hours sleep. The final day is due to start at the stroke of midnight. 

Midnight arrives but it's neither Miguel nor my alarm which has woken me up; it's the sound of the roaring storm outside. At half past, Miguel appears and though he serves up breakfast he explains we're unlikely to leave for another hour at least. It turns out that walking on a mountain in the middle of a storm with metal strapped to your feet isn't advisable, even in Bolivia. 

The snow doesn't stop coming and each time we open the door to attempt to leave, we're thrown back indoors; a warning from the wind. It's almost three o'clock when we finally succeed and by then I'm ready to just crawl back into bed! Even my freezing cold sleeping bag seems more appealing than what's waiting for us outside.

Nevertheless, we crack on knowing that it will all be worth it when we reach the top. As it's still pitch black, Miguel attaches us all to a rope but whilst it keeps us altogether, I find it continually tangled in my feet. Up front his head torch shines just a couple of inches ahead but aside from this, we see absolutely nothing. Occasionally the light plays tricks on us, casting shadows which look like the top of a hill. They rarely are; until we reach the very top, we just need to keep going up, up and up.

Through the wind we hear Miguel call back to us: 'No camina!' The storm has covered what was once the trail and now we're following whatever path Miguel clears with his ice axe. However, even with the rope we're still a way behind him and the snowfall is so heavy that by the time we catch up, the path's buried again. We're attempting to walk diagonally up the side of a mountain on a near vertical slant and it's bloody scary. 

'Piqueta in left!' On Miguel's instruction we secure each step with our ice axes, digging them deep into the ground beside us. Sometimes this helps as they hit hard ice but we can't afford to rely them completely as too often they simply sink into the snow, causing us then to collapse sideways.

I try to lose myself to my thoughts to pass the time but two particular thoughts overpower all else; I'm so cold, and, I'm so tired. Instead I focus on the pattern of my steps: ice axe, left foot, ice axe, right foot, ice axe... I'm falling into a trance. 

No, I'm falling down the mountain!

Snapped out of my dream like state I scream as I tumble further and further down the slope, chased by an avalanche of thick, heavy snow. It feels endless and I close my eyes tightly, helplessly begging for it to stop.

A quick jolt and everything goes quiet. Disorientated, I'm unsure which way is up until I see Hana a few feet above me; of course, we're attached! My ice axe had disturbed a whole load of fresh snow, triggering a landslide which took me down with it, along with Hana a little way behind. Thank goodness for Miguel who had dug his heels in and stopped us from falling the entire way down. Hero acknowledgement, number two. 

Slowly I pull myself back up and with the help of Miguel, I begin to clamber up the mountain. I'm shaking but I'm unsure whether it's from shock or the cold. As I fell the snow found its way into the insides of my clothing and I now can't imagine ever being warm. Only as I feel tears freeze on my face do I realise that I've even been crying.

Miguel is babbling something in Spanish which I can't even attempt to decipher so I go with a trusty 'si' and continue on. Ice axe, left foot, ice axe, right foot. In the distance we see a flashlight which isn't Miguel's. 'Otre grupo!' If it's still dark, they surely can't have made it to the top yet? As they approach, their faces confirm our suspicions; they've had to give up. 'Mucha nieve. Imposible.' Their guide tries to tell us to turn back but Miguel has other ideas. He's convinced that they just left too early and got too cold. If it clears soon, we'll be absolutely fine! 

We trudge on. Ice axe, left foot, ice axe, right foot.

'Look, las instrellas!' Miguel's right. We'd barely noticed but the stars are out, meaning that the clouds have cleared and the snow has finally stopped! Even through the dark we can tell that he's positively beaming. 'Chicas guapas, vamos a la cumbre!' There's no stopping us, we're going to the top.

We've been climbing for two hours when we take our first break. Distracted by cookies and coca leaf sweets, we don't at first acknowledge the lights of La Paz behind us. From this high, we can see almost the entire city; thousands of tiny golden lights glistening behind us. It's crazy to think we'll be back there today. 

Ice axe, left foot, ice axe, right foot. More and more flashlights appear of groups that are turning back. Each time we pass them, the guide stops and speaks to Miguel in Spanish. Though I understand very little, the word 'imposible' keeps coming up and is 'impossible' to ignore. Again, Miguel insists that they just left too early. We're overcome with adoration for our guide who is yet to give up on us. 'Chicas fuertes, vamos a la cumbre!'

However, each time Miguel calls out 'strong girls' I'm feeling weaker. Is it the altitude or fatigue which is making me feel sick? We're now at 5,600 metres which is by far the highest I've ever been on foot and I don't know what my limit will be. My scarf has frozen solid against my face and I can't remember ever being this cold.

More groups. Unwillingly I'm starting to doubt our guide. 'Are you sure we're okay to make it to the top?' He writes his reply in the snow. 'Chicas fuertes. Climb with me.' I can't help but notice that he doesn't explicitly say 'yes', instead just implying that we'll give it a bloody good shot. 'Chicas fuertes, chicas fuertes'. By this point I'm unsure whether he's trying to convince himself, or us.

We pass what we believe to be the final group returning to high camp. Nobody today has made it to the summit.  The faith inside all of us is flickering but we won't give up hope whilst Miguel is still soldiering on. 

In the distance we can just make out the dreaded ice wall. It certainly doesn't look any easier than the practice one! I wiggle my fingers and toes in an attempt to prepare them but even underneath all of these layers, every extremity is completely numb. 'Wait', Miguel orders. He'll free climb first and then we'll follow up the rope. 

We wait and wait, and wait...and wait. 

Every minute which passes without us not moving is making us a million times colder. I'm dying to get up that wall! Finally: 'No. Peligroso!' Too dangerous? What? Did he really just call down to us or was it the howling wind? Even as Miguel comes clambering down, we don't quite believe that we've been defeated. We're chicas fuertes, surely we'll find a way? We still have more in us!

But the decision is made. At the top of the wall the snow is over a metre deep and Miguel would rather we're chicas alive. It's too much even for him and before we know it we're heading back down the way we came, having not attempted the final 300 metres.

Anti-climactic is the only way to describe this moment. We're absolutely gutted to have come so close and yet remain so far. We'll never know that feeling of relief when we reach the top and know that each step was worth every bit of pain. But as the sun begins to rise, I soon realise it was worth it regardless of whether we made summit or not. The mountains are absolutely incredible and I can't think of a single moment more beautiful than this in our entire trip. Can it really have been any more amazing just another 300 metres higher?

I don't know, but what I do know is that my mood quickly changes and I'm both happy and proud for what we've achieved. We climbed to 5,700 metres on a day when most people would hide away inside, and as a reward we witnessed the beautiful white world that very few really get to see. 

Despite the aches and pains, the return journey is actually pretty fun. The sun has started to melt the snow but even so, there's still enough to slide most of the way down. It's like skiing but without the rather essential equipment of skis so we end up on our bums for a lot of it, half snowboarding, half tobogganing, and just generally having a really good time. 

It may not have been the result we'd hoped for but the experience as a whole was nevertheless better than I ever dreamed it would be. And this isn't over! If we ever find ourselves in La Paz again, I wouldn't hesitate to give Huayna Potosi another good go. 

Loco La Paz

I instantly fell in love with La Paz. The hills surrounding the city are completely covered with red brick buildings which from the ground level look like hundreds of tiny blocks of lego stacked on top of one another to create a colourful little toy town. By night these hills transform, with each small block being replaced by a bright light glowing through the darkness like an abstract reflection of the stars above. 

Behind these hills stand the grander mountains, so high that their peaks are smothered in snow. We planned to climb one, Huyana Potosi, but first had to spend three days in La Paz to acclimatise to the crazy altitude. This wasn't a problem though as there's plenty to do in the city and we began by joining a free walking tour with two local Bolivians to suss out where would be best to spend our time. 

The tour was brilliant and we learnt so much about La Paz' loco history. It started out at San Pedro prison which is a low security establishment bang in the centre of town. They use the term 'low security' loosely here, for in fact the gates are guarded by just a couple of officers and on the inside the prison is run by the inmates themselves. However, there's little concern for prisoners escaping for most are better off in San Pedro where they live in fancy apartments and have an abundance of customers to support their cocaine business. 

Next we visited the Rodriguez food market which is essentially the locals' open air supermarket. Each stall is run by a cholita, a Bolivian woman in traditional dress. Here, our guide confirmed our suspicions that a Bolivian cholita is not one to be messed with. They're renowned for their strong builds and stronger brains which they use to whip their men and children into shape. 

 Also explained here was the interesting history behind their signature clothing of puffy skirts and top hats which don't actually fit on their heads. The layered skirts make the ladies look larger to imply they have good, child bearing hips and they help keep their legs warm during early mornings on the markets. The hats, on the other hand, serve a much less practical purpose; merely a fashion accessory introduced to the cholitas when the Europeans invaded in the sixteenth century. Though they were initially of course brought over for the men, they were soon sold to the women once the European designers realised they'd underestimated the size of a Bolivian male's head, having wrongly assumed they'd be smaller because they're short. In fact, the average Bolivian has a much larger head and so even on women, these hats were too small. Nevertheless, they made it work by telling the ladies this was how they're worn in Europe and the fashion has stuck ever since. What's even more amazing about these hats is that they now speak a language of their own; a straight up hat signifies a woman is married or taken, whilst one worn on a tilt tells a man that she's single! Cholitas will pay up to thousands of dollars for the best top hats and between them, they're saving the businesses which have long gone bust in Europe where they originated. 

 La Paz is full of amazing markets and the next on our list was the Witch's Market, thus named for all the weird and wonderful concoctions sold at the stalls there. You can find a potion for every purpose, from 'follow me' dust to attract new partners, to 'repel me' powder to rid yourself of unwanted attention (though trying to export this out the country is not advised, for fear that it would be too easily confused with South America's other, more popular powder.) 

Such a phenomenon could reasonably be assumed to be a tourist trap but in fact, the Witch's Market long pre-existed tourism and Bolivians genuinely believe in the magic of these medicines. The llama foetuses available at the market remain one of the best selling items because the locals use them as offerings to their Goddess Pachamama, burying them beneath the foundations of new buildings for good luck. To our horror, our guides explained that for larger constructions, a more significant sacrifice is usually required; humans! The most common victims are the homeless people of La Paz because they're the least likely to be looked for. For this sacrificial ceremony, a construction team would be hired to take the unknowing victim for a few drinks, wait for them to pass out and then bury them deep beneath the concrete before they wake up. Though there's little evidence that such practises still exist, we were still warned against accepting free drinks from any locals. It might take a while for anyone to come looking for us too! 

A little disturbed, we moved onto San Francisco Square where the grand Catholic cathedral stands. Similar to in Peru, the religious faith of most Bolivians is a little complicated. Whilst in many ways they remain true to their ancient beliefs, they've been heavily influenced by the Christianity imposed on them during the Spanish invasion. When the Europeans first arrived they used all sorts of tactics to trick the Bolivians into converting. For example, Bolivians believed that when they were frightened, their souls left them and escaped to heaven and in order to retrieve them, they had to call them back with a traditional arm signal. When the Spaniards saw them waving to the heavens they identified an opportunity and installed mirrors into the alter of the Church; 'You poor, confused people! Your souls are not in heaven; they're here in the Church! Come and look for yourselves!' When the Bolivians set eyes on their reflections in the mirrors they were convinced, but still not converted. 'Can we take them? Can we take back our souls?' they asked. 'No, I'm afraid they are trapped here but what you can do is come and visit them so you can reconnect with your souls whenever you wish.' From then on, the natives were attending a daily mass at the Catholic cathedral. 

The final piece of history we heard that day was the long line of bad presidents the country has suffered. There was a time when coming into political power just meant getting rid of the current president which inevitably ended up with someone being thrown from a balcony or hung in the square. Even the current president who the majority of Bolivians actually approve of has made some monumental errors. For example, he announced on National television that in order to solve their problem of underpopulation, he'd ban the production of condoms and introduce a tax to all women over the age of eighteen who didn't have any children. Fortunately, he quickly felt the wrath of the cholitas rising and apologised a few days later, abolishing the idea completely. However, with such ludicrous laws being passed around it's little wonder that the locals love to riot so much. It's unbelievable, but that's Bolivia! 

We covered a lot of the city during the tour but we didn't have time to stop and shop so we spent the whole of the following day rinsing the markets. It's been so long since we've felt we can spend any money on ourselves and with so many beautiful trinkets to take home as presents, we ended up buying the whole of Bolivia and then returning the next day to do exactly the same.