Feeling the difference in Bonito, Brazil: 5th - 8th April

So off I trotted with my backpacks on front and back onto the rather luxurious night bus (only 3 seats per row!) which would take me to the Brazilian border. I knew that I had some vague calling points that I wanted to reach, but apart from that I was pretty much heading off for ten weeks on my own with no plan and no one to sort things out if things go tits up. Such freedom is exciting and daunting in equal measures, especially when your first stop is the 5th largest country in the world, where you don't speak a word of their language, and they most likely don't speak a word of yours.

The whole experience was improved by meeting an Irish woman called Laura, introduced to me in the immigration queue by a couple of tour touts as being from my country as well (close but no cigar mate). She too was leaving someone behind and striking out on her own, so we struck up a friendship. That friendship turned out to be instantly useful as she, being a more experienced traveller, expertly played two desperate agencies off against each other to sort us out highly reduced transportation to our shared destination of the aptly-named Bonito in the southern pantanal. I was definitely taking mental notes.

Even in the few hours we spent in that downbeat border town was enough to notice a few details that mark out Brazil as a bit different to the countries I'd previously been to, and perhaps part of the reason why many Brazilians don't consider themselves latinos, and instead some kind of race of their own:

The obvious one - the language. I'd always known that people speak Portuguese in Brazil but didn't truly accept it as a fact until I arrived there and realised that they actually speak Portuguese. But they do, so I had to get used to it. At first listen it comes across a bit abrasive, but with a bit of understanding it's actually a lovely melodic language, muito bonito as they would say. My Spanish was good enough at that stage for them to understand me if I spoke slowly enough, and the similarities are close enough that I could understand them to an extent when they replied. If they spoke slowly enough.

The food. Sitting down for a buffet lunch it was clear the difference in freshness, colour and quality between Brazil and other Latin countries I'd visited. Interesting salads, rich bean stews and creamy fish curries were highlights in a buffet in which every single thing available was tasty and fresh. Brazil is famous for its per-kilo lunches, and with good reason.

Manners. This is obviously a subject close to my heart, being a Brit. I remember the first time I crossed the street and the car approaching actually slowed down instead of speeding up to see if it could force me to run like a girl. This is symptomatic of a more relaxed attitude which isn't in constant competition with all those around it for bus seats or oxygen.

Other things I noted upon arriving: the money in Brazil has to be amongst the most beautiful and colourful in the world, decorated with the faces of native animals. Oh and it's pretty hot and the women are improbably dimensioned, but you already knew that.

First stop in Brazil, then, was Bonito in Mato Grosso do Sul, in the south of the flood plains of the pantanal region. Being in Brazil and being an ecotourism hotspot without comparison for hundreds of miles, it is not only bonito but also Expensive with a capital E. I stayed at the very nice HI hostel, where I discovered a great Brazilian tradition on our first morning there - cake for breakfast! Those big gleaming chocolatey creations were something that I would come to miss greatly when I finally left.

The first day took Laura and I to gruta azul, a steeply-sloping cave where the water appears to be a pure blue due to a cunning trick of the way the light comes in. It set us each back around 25 quid for an hour's tour, plus another 25 between two for taxi there and back, and that was the cheapest option in all Bonito...

Nevertheless, the cave was very sweet, and started me on my love affair with the Portuguese language. It turns out that stalagmite in Portuguese is pronounced like 'stalag-mee-chee' and stalactite like 'stalag-tee-chee' - adorable. It sounded hilarious coming from the mouth of a butch Brazilian bloke.

In the afternoon we cycled many a mile on hot dusty roads to reach a local relaxation water park thing, with a zip line especially designed for you to drop from a height into the natural pool, then played table tennis whilst being watched by a moody macaw, and finally cycled back to yet another incredible sunset in this continent. I swear I've seen so many that you could almost become blasé about it. I wasn't and am not and I'm amazed by it every time.

After a disappointing attempt to discover some Brazilian-style party, we coughed up the 50 notes the next day to do a snorkelling tour of Rio da Prata (silver river). This was great - not only did we have a Steve Carell lookalike for a guide (see below), but we spent a good couple of hours floating down a nice warm river which was the closest thing I'd experienced to swimming through an actual fish tank. Incredibly clear water and incredibly close to all sorts of tropical fish. The best bit was my first sighting of a monkey in the wild, swinging around and showing off as we floated by. A true Brazilian classic.

The final full day of my Bonito experience finished with Laura and I entertaining some of the hostel guests with a few ramshackle versions of the likes of Hallelujah and Sunday Bloody Sunday. My final full day in this leg of Brazil was not so happy, as I was lied to and thus overcharged by a taxi driver in the border town of Ponta Pora about buses to Paraguay, misled about available hotels when I was forced to stay the night in that horrible place, and almost led into the clutches of some delinquents who I swore were going to pull a knife on me. Perhaps Brazil does have some latino qualities after all...

'Muchas llamas!', the salt flats and the last bits of Bolivia: 28th March - 4th April

The next stop after La Paz was the vast salt flats in the southwest of Bolivia named Salar de Uyuni. For the uninitiated, this used to be a huge saltwater lake until it dried up millions of years ago, leaving what is essentially a big white desert, over ten thousand kilometres in area.

First of all, and arguably more excitingly, the rare treat to a train ride to the town of Uyuni from Oruro, 4 hours south of La Paz. We took our waiting ticket from a machine which must have been made around the start of the 20th century (in Liverpool!), booked our executive first class seats and settled in for 7 hours of luxury.

This, though, is Bolivia, and such terms as 'executive' should be taken with a pinch of salt (see what I did there?). What we were presented with was a grand old diesel car with fairly cramped seats, 80s Italian music videos on a loop, and a strict rule against taking your shoes off. In defence of that rule, I'd been tramping around in my walking boots and the same socks for the past few days so my feet did proper stink.

The journey itself featured an incredible long passage through the middle of a large expanse of water with birds fleeing from the reeds, followed by an executive standard sunset over the water. We arrived in the chilly outpost of Uyuni at around 11, batted away some persistent tour touts and resolved to get out on the salt the next day.

Most tour companies offer 1, 3 or 4 day tours onto the salt, but we wanted 2 days. Therefore we had to go with a more profit-orientated organisation, bought enough supplies to keep us going in case of abandonment in the salty wasteland and set off with northern-to-the-core and their 'southern fairy' in the back of a Nissan 4x4 with our charming guide Roberto.

Roberto speaks zero English despite having been leading unsuspecting foreigners out into the white for a good twenty years. So he would explain each location in painfully slow Spanish, occasionally giving me time to relay what I could to the others. These would be given in the car on the way to each site, where we were allowed out for five minutes to take photos before Roberto got moody and insisted we set off again.

This meant that sites such as the graveyard of trains (an eery deserted old and rusty train depot) and a hotel made entirely of salt were kind of skipped through, presumably to give us more time at the souvenir stands shopping for little salt ashtrays and, of course, packets of salt.

We stopped for a surprisingly tasty beef lunch on a little salt table and chairs near the main attraction of the day - Incahuasi island. This is an 'island' in the salt covered with giant cacti. I kid you not (see pictures below if you don't believe me). I have truly no idea how that kind of thing is possible, but peering through the cacti at the top to a sea of pure white below is a view that will stick with me for a long time.

With a bit of time left before Roberto would round us up, we tried, fairly unsuccessfully, to get some hilarious perspective-assisted photos done on the endless mass of salt. A couple of our attempts are at the bottom, the true potential was realised by these guys: http://mashable.com/2013/10/22/salar-de-uyuni-instagram/

Before long Roberto was on our case again and we were off to where we would spend the night, in a salt hotel on a small island formed by a volcano. It was here that the catchphrase of the tour was coined. Roberto was an odd character, and my attempts to get conversation going in Spanish normally failed at the first hurdle as he didn't understand even the most basic thing I said. Hence when I asked how many people lived in the little salt community he replied 'muchas llamas!'

He was clearly a fan of the llamas, as when we came to eat our chicken dinner he would come into the room as if about to start a conversation, and instead declare 'muchas llamas!' and walk out again. We would have been cheesed off about such a lame guide if it hadn't been for the good old northern pisstaking (and Yorkshire tea talk) of our tour mates, and we enjoyed the wine that Roberto had tried to bribe us into a tip with until deep into a very starry night.

The next day we drove up to a trail where we were shown by a local guide to a cave containing the mummified (due to the salty air) remains of an ancient family finished off by a deadly illness. From there we headed up the side of the volcano to try and get to a viewpoint near the crater. At that altitude it was a struggle, but I hardly have to tell you that the view from the top was stunning.

Luckily we made it back before Roberto drove off and deserted us, and we headed back with a bonus Russian in the back who'd been getting a bit desperate stuck on the island without having seen a car for two days. Roberto took a lot of persuading on that matter, finally changing his tune quite dramatically when money was mentioned.

I guess Roberto is typical of Uyuni - one of those end-of-the-road towns that only exist to support tours, with very few people staying more than one night in itself. Why should people make an effort when there's a new set of people in their rooms every day? Our HI hostel was so miserable that they'd taken all the plug sockets out of our rooms and limited us to an hour of charge in the reception.

Therefore we were relieved to leave on the freeeezing night bus to Sucre (the true capital of Bolivia). We had around 10 hours in that place to enjoy its classic white colonial town, its English breakfasts and a happy atmosphere of a happening place which Loja could be given a few licks of paint and a change in attitude. You should definitely go for at least a night if you're heading to Bolivia.

We couldn't afford such luxuries and instead hopped onto our second night bus in a row that evening, to Mareike's final destination of Santa Cruz. Much hotter and more tropical than the rest of Bolivia, Sucre it ain't but it was a lot more pleasant than Uyuni. We spent our days gorging on a huge barbecue at the hostel, buying cheap sunglasses, visiting tropical butterfly reserves and um... catching up on The Voice UK.

When that was all done the Friday arrived and it was time for Mareike's flight. 52 days had passed in barely believably quick time, and once she'd passed through those doors I knew I was going to have to be very savvy, as well as unnaturally sociable, to survive a further ten weeks on my own.

As in my worry and confusion I stumbled into the ladies toilets at the airport, I was really not sure if I could.

La Paz and the death road: 25th - 28th March

As with Quito previously, the great appeal of La Paz (which is not the actual capital of Bolivia - that title belongs to the delightful colonial town of Sucre) lies in its improbable location clinging to several hills at roughly 4000m above sea level. Therefore wandering through the city in blanket cloud cover and incessant rain robs it off its appeal somewhat.

That said, we had a good day walking around the city in the rain, buying as much useful stuff as we could to take advantage of the rock-bottom Bolivian prices, and strolling through the endless covered street markets, where you can buy literally everything possible. I believe that the lack of supermarkets in La Paz is because most of its residents buy everything they could ever need from those huge street markets.

On that same day we also booked a mountain bike trip on the death road - a road that took an hour to drive in a car and which saw an estimate 9,000 deaths from its opening in the 1930s until it was eventually closed to traffic around ten years ago. That's not a typo either. So it was with a certain trepidation that we signed our lives away (the company was NOT responsible for our deaths in any circumstances) and paid actual money for the pleasure of riding on this kamikaze stretch of road.

In the end our company Vertigo Biking were excellent and provided us with very good brakes that worked (very important!), so we felt fairly safe. The first part saw us ride along a long high altitude asphalt road in familiarly cold wet and cloudy conditions, but once we reached the death road checkpoint and signed our lives away again, things started looking up as we started going down (the whole way was downhill).

The first fifteen minutes or so of the death road were fairly scary, as the crumbly road and the sheer drop of up to 600m or so made you only too aware of your proximity to death. But, personally speaking, after those fifteen minutes you just forget all that and enjoy the ride, keeping away from the edge of course. The road descends from 4650m to 1200m in the space of 43 miles, so despite the danger and rockiness you can just let go off the brakes and enjoy yourself as you swing around racing corners and through waterfalls whilst enjoying stunning rainforest scenery. The last person to die was taking a selfie on the road and fell off a cliff so I guess as long as you pay attention more than him you'll be OK.

That evening we took a taxi up to a viewpoint above the city and sat with a bag of chips shivering up there amongst kissing teenagers. The city's architecture is somewhat outdated, but the sight of the lights climbing up those improbably steep hills was something to behold and made us somewhat sad that we hadn't been able to give La Paz more of a chance.

Floating around on the 'titty-poopoo lake': 23rd - 25th March

The next stop on the gringo trail after Cuzco is Lake Titicaca, a huge mass of water at 3400m and the largest high-altitude lake in the world. All well and good, but my German girlfriend and I were more excited by the prospect of visiting somewhere whose name translates as 'lake titty-poopoo' in German. Each to their own.

We had had many problems in Cuzco with finding a bus company willing to take us on the Sunday due to a miner's strike bang on the intersection of three roads between Cuzco and Puno on the banks of the lake. We finally found a company unscrupulous enough to take us an 'alternative route' which required us to get out of the bus at one point and walk a few hundred metres whilst it took an offroad route across a field. Another hour or so along a dirt track and we were back on the road and made it to Puno only three hours late (not bad even in normal circumstances).

The trip the next day was to the Islas Uros, a group of floating islands on the lake constructed entirely of the totora reeds that grow there. On these islands lives a centuries-old indigenous race, that survived the Inca invasion by moving onto the lake, which the Incas could not bring themselves to set foot on due to water being sacred in their beliefs.

It is therefore a shame that all that history and fight to survive should be undermined by the floating islands and their proud residents being whored out to tourists as it is. We took a boat into the community and landed on one of the islands whose day it was to receive visitors. Each small island has no more than 20 people living on it in five small hatched houses, presumably for fear of falling through the reeds. We were meet with an indigenous greeting that we had been taught, sat down for a short demonstration of how the islands are constructed, ate some reeds (tastes a bit like celery) and then the local women came and performed for us.

I say 'performed' because it did feel very forced. They sang three songs - a local song, a Spanish song all about reaching out to people from all around the world, and then bizarrely 'My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean'. We visited their humble living quarters (although it turns out you can still get satellite TV on a floating reed islands) and tried on their clothes, before leaving on a reed boat to another island, seen off with a choreographed 'hasta la vista, baby' routine from the local folk.

Once the tour company was satisfied that we had bought enough drinks and postcards from the next island, we headed back to the mainland for our bus to Bolivia with a slightly nasty aftertaste in our mouths from that fun but exploitative experience.

Border formalities were done with relative ease (it's great to be British and not need to pay for a visa for any of these places - unlike Americans who get hit with the petty 'reciprocation fee' wherever they go), and we arrived in the town of Copacabana to a lakeside double room for $4 each organised by our bus company and a wild party on the shore with old ladies off their faces and drinking from the bottle at 7pm on a Monday evening. Welcome to Bolivia indeed.

One thing we noticed quite early about Bolivia is that people are much more upfront about ripping off gringos than merely switching your bus to a different and far cheaper company at the last minute without refunding the price, as happened in Peru. Firstly the old bloke on the hotel reception tried to add 50% to the price of the room, before accepting the original price with a cheeky wink, and then we had a child asking for money after I took a photo of a llama on the Isla del Sol. A sign of a poor folk doing what they can to earn a little more money I guess.

The isla itself was lovely - a small car-free island on the Lake Titicaca with little traditional farms clinging to the hillside, archaeological sites and great views from the top. By the time we'd slogged it up there (the altitude again played a big role) it was just about time to swig a final glass of Inca Cola (a florescent fizzy drink we'd got addicted to in Peru) to catch the boat back and ultimately the three hour bus to La Paz at 7pm.