Weather: I guarantee you it is sunnier and hotter than London. I don´t believe these rumours of a heat wave in England. It is at least 32 here, and there is not a cloud in the sky.
Llama count: Too many, I lost count, at a guess a million.
Standing at the migration office for Bolivia I realise that I recognise the group standing next to me. You could spot these three anywhere they garble french loudly, only taking a breath to have another drag on a cigarette (which at almost 4000 metres above sea level shows a certain gallic level of bravado.) One of the girls turns to me, smiles in recognition that we have met before, and then her jaw drops.
"What happen to your face?" She demands in a strong french accent.
I don´t blame her slightly blunt greeting, last night a group of over friendly bed bugs (I presume) had taken it upon themselves to bite my face 14 times, my neck 12 times, my arms 7 times, and one particularly cheeky one got my shoulder. On the plus side it gave me something to do on the bus ride between Tilcara and La Quiaca, counting spots is a highly underappreciated hobby. On the minus side I appear to be allergic to the little beggars, and my face is not only spotty, but swolen to such odd proportions that I look like a slightly sun burnt elephant woman.
The french group are suitably sympathetic. We wonder together into Bolivia, where the national sterotype of round grannyish women with two plaits and a bowler hat is evident in every other person we pass. (The men are yet to make this fashion statement.) Continuing on the national stereotype theme the french are very keen to have a large lunch. We manage to have a three course meal for one pound fifty (and no one is sick).
The next step is to try to get to Tupiza. This turns out to be ridiculously easy. Instead of getting a bus we get a group taxi, and whizz through the rugged countryside to the tune of Bolivian folk music, which is punctuated at odd moments by Katy Perry and Justin Bieber. Our driver chews coca leaves furiously, and seems to like the adrenalin rush got from driving on the wrong side of the road. (The french suggest he is English).
We arrive in Tupiza in the baking heat, and I decide to join the french contingent in their hostel, which is more like a hotel. (it has a swimming pool.) I decide to go on a bed bug killing spree, and wash and deet everything. (Twice.)
I had better explain the french contingent consists of two girls called Marion and Oliver, who is a doctor. We decide to stick together and go horseriding the next day and on the Salt flat expedition for four days on Wednesday.
The very long day finishes with more rice and meat in a dodgy Bolivian bar. It has wild west swing doors and an enormous collection of 80s music videos.
Despite general disfigurement from Argy bed bugs...I´ve made it to Bolivia!
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