Tramadol, Voltarol, Panadol and Ibuprofen, achey knee and alcohol.

The rest of the time spent in La Paz consists of drinking and eating with the Aussie nurses around the city. Lucy limps a little, but bravely (and under a close and watchful set of medically trained eyes) hobbles, not letting a twisted knee stop her walk the steep steps past the witch doctor markets.

We find a British pub called Oliver’s that harshly teases Lucy’s tastebuds with actual cider on the menu. Alas, the pub cannot and will not deliver the apple ale due to being under cider stocked and over cider ordered. The decor in Oliver’s is reminiscent of a slightly spit and sawdust, inner city pub back home, perhaps mostly resembling the Old Angel, or the Lord Nelson in Nottingham. Banter is lively as we toast to the survival of the death road.

The pub gets overly busy and overrun by party people ordering food. The bar staff, waitresses and kitchen can’t handle the demand and we are left hungry and frustrated. An hour and a half later, waitress lady asks us for the third time what we ordered, whilst trying to present the people that actually got food with filthy knives and forks. I go into a mini-Fukushima-meltdown. I unleash the mighty fury of BRITISH COMPLAINT MAN, cancelling my order, getting free food and drinks for our group and then feel guilty for bringing our waitress to near tears for pointing out the ineptitude of tonight’s service.

We make the most of the night by signing up for a Bolivian pub crawl, hitting five bars around the capital. The Aussies call it a night, deciding to rest up after the thrills of the day. With our walking tour host Mauricio taking a camp shine to Lucy, we are driven to each location by minibus and plied with drinking games on the way. Losing a round results in a blast of brain cell decimating vodka and we accelerate into drunkenoscity.

The second bar/nightclub is slightly sobering as we receive an unexpected performance from a blind national artist, who plays a special Bolivian, acoustic ten stringed guitar to the small crowd. His guitar playing and the tone of the performance is incredibly endearing as his blind girlfriend/wife taps the table discreetly alongside the guitarist. She smiles and her eyes wander, seemingly visualising her man’s music with her other senses. In the context of our night out, the guitarist plays for a bit too long and it is uncomfortably customary (and sort of not optional) in South America for customers buying drinks to be charged extra to pay a contribution to the music as part of the drinks bill. It takes a while for us to work this one out.

The night elongates and stretches into a series of hostel and city bars peppered by forgotten drinking games and the bitter breathtaking bite of Vodka. Long lines of flammable drinks are poured stacked, ignited and quaffed by the Loki hostel’s residents whilst deep knee trembling bass keeps some unlucky insomniac awake.

Our bar crawl party gets chattier with each drink, but fails to click with real cohesion, so after a while we call it a night and manage to get a free ride back to the Cruz de los Andes in the minibus.

The morning after, the replacement credit cards finally arrive having been sent very efficiently by the Spalls back home. On the way back from picking up our credit cards from the Adventurebrew hostel, I pop in to a Bolivian pharmacist and buy the strongest ibuprofen I can find, to aid Lucy’s recovery. Turns out you can get individual 600mg ibuprofen tablets in Bolivia. Anadins for a horse. When i return to the hostel, I proudly show the tablets to the nurses who look horrified at the purchase. “I don’t recommend you take these” said Rachel. “That amount may cause stomach ulcers”. Armed with a cavalcade of Voltarol, Panadol and Tramadol, the nurses take Lucy under their collective wings and consult, medicate, and advise. The pain doesn’t get bad enough to nessecitate the Tramadol, but we keep it just in case.

Later that night, we venture out to find a British Indian curry house called The Star of India, which serves a fantastic array of familiarly exotic, Indian flavours. We completely over order but get to try llama meat balls (no, not testicles… balls of meat) which again have a slightly beefiness to their flavour. Tikka masalas, butter chicken and too many dishes to fit on the table, delight our flavour holes whilst testing the strength of our waistbands.

Walking round La Paz in our pommie/antipodean pack feels strangely safe considering the stories and situations we hear about during our stay there. Perhaps the extra sets of eyes or simply a strengthening of the pack numbers gives us that impression.

After our boozy La Paz hang time, we bid a fond farewell to our Aussie nurses and promise to hook up with them again in Cusco on my Birthday.

Exit la Paz, enter Copacabana and Lake titicaca, the highest navigable body of water in the world. En route we have to get off the bus and get a ferry over lake Titicaca. Our bus follows us over the water on a makeshift ferry platform (here everything feels like it is in a permanent makeshift state).

We arrive at our destination and with Lucy’s leg still stiff, we trundle along the cobbled streets of Copacabana, still having to take breathing breaks for the high altitude. To add insult to (actual not metaphorical) injury the collection of hostels is at the top of a tall long hill. Lucy does well to transport her backpack around cueing a wave of chivalrous machismo surges through my veins. Grabbing both packs I drag them to the hostel reception like a very manly man indeed.

We stay at hostel Cupula, a charming residence owned by a middle aged, German artist fellow named Martin. Initially Martin exudes a perverted creepiness that is reminiscent of Herr Lip from the League of Gentlemen. He wears a safari hat, Scarf, and a thick layer of suncream making the bottom half of his face a little pinky purple. Being slightly confused about who he is, I immediately go to red alert. Upon entering the hostel he comes and helps us with our bags. As he speaks to us more, it becomes clear he is the owner and he is just incredibly helpful. I feel slightly ashamed of myself to be that much on guard, but strongly suspect there to be one or two inflatable gimp suits hanging about the Cupula complex.

The rooms in the Cupula are exceptionally sweet, being far closer to an upmarket hotel than the hostels that we have been staying in. There are a collection of suites that are being built in the shapes of conch shells and it is clear the hostel is a successful labour of love for the owner. Whilst in Copacabana we take a boat trip to the isla del sol, (it’s really sunny!) traipse about a bit, stroke some donkeys and return to the Cupula hostel in which, due to slight overbooking, we manage to get ourselves into a stunning round suite that overlooks lake Titicaca.

The suite feels like an incredible luxury with a high standard private bathroom, a fully stocked and ready made fire and a huge double bed awaiting the weight of our buttocks.

Our buttocks rest well and the rest of our bodies also refresh despite a bout of evening thunder and lightning over lake Titicaca. The next morning we book our bus and travel to the “magical” sounding floating islands of Uros near the city of Puno. It’s not what we expected…