While I was on this recent trip in Bolivia, I was reading the book, Between Two Kingdoms: A Memoir of a Life Interrupted by Suleika Jaouad. The book details her rediscovery of herself after battling leukemia for four years; a very fitting book to be mulling over whilst ascending and descending the peaks and valleys of Bolivia (is this all just a metaphor for life, the hiker thinks to herself).
It is here that I quote her friend Rich, who has a theory that he relayed to her, which I read on this trip, and now, in reflection, relay to you:
"When we travel, we actually take three trips. There's the first trip of preparation and anticipation, packing, and daydreaming. There's the trip you're actually on. And then, there's the trip you remember. The key is to try to keep all three as separate as possible. The key is to be present wherever you are right now."
So here, I give to you, the trip that I remember. My most honest version, but please remember that I am with you now, and memory, as the lawyers say, is a fickle thing.
I made a spreadsheet that I fear gives a deeper look into my entire psyche than I should be willing to share, but please, do reach out if you would like a peak. I also warn you, if you are solely looking for travel tips, of which I have endless, you may want to do a bit of a Command/Ctrl + F at this stage, as there is a bit more of Bogota en route to Bolivia than either of us bargained for.
La Paz is not what I would put on the "easy to access" locations list. Impossible to get there from NYC without a connection, and even then, it's a once-a-day type of option. A one-hour layover in Bogota was my option. Julia (my sister) was coming from San Salvador, Sarah and Liz (Julia's friends) from DC. Meeting in Bogota! What fun, this hiker thought to herself (alright, I agree, that's enough of that).
As I sat in the JFK terminal, not yet worried about the fact that we were not boarding, I started to see passengers approach the gate to ask if they should be worried about their connection for a flight to La Paz. I rolled my eyes. We were barely five minutes past when boarding was supposed to begin. Relax, people. The wheelchaired folks are lined up to embark, we'll ascend the jet bridge momentarily. The poor folks in wheelchairs. I always envied their pre-boarding status. But waiting in the middle of bustling JFK can't be all that enjoyable after an hour, some would say.
We took off an hour late. On principle, I do not access Wi-Fi on flights, preferring to regard it as a bit of a hiatus from information. As I did my calculations to see if we would make up time in the air, I couldn't remember what the time difference is for Bogota. With a shrug, I left it to the airplane gods.
They were not smiling down on me with favor. We landed with 35 minutes until my next flight was set to take off. If we were deplaning directly onto the jet bridge and into the airport? Solid chance. Deplaning onto a bus that waits for the entire airplane before it takes off on its circuitous route around the airport? Odds descend like the Titanic.
Meanwhile Julia was doing her best to stall the gate agents (who were having none of her shenanigans).
From bus to gate (including security) took me less than ten minutes. Hell yeah. Got there just in time to see the plane pull away from the gate.
OK, I thought as I turned back towards the gate agents, I'm ready to turn on my charm and find my way to La Paz.*
*All conversations that took place in Bogota were an insane mix of English, Spanish, and hand motions that I will not attempt to replicate for you below. Dialogue has been edited for clarity.
Me: "When is the next flight to La Paz?"
Them: "Don't know."
Me: "Can you help me figure out when it is?"
Them: "No."
Me: "What would you recommend that I do since I just missed this connection."
Them: "Try Gate B1."
This initial interaction led to a slew of running all over the airport in search of gates that I was directed to. As I found out after 30 minutes of this: the gates were markers, not destinations. I was meant to be looking more closely at the surrounding area, where I eventually found the "Oh, so you missed your flight" purgatory.
The first three times I passed these "lines," I was under the impression that people were waiting for the elevator. As I waited in line, I searched for hostels, but decided that after everything that I had endured, I was owed a free hotel curtesy of Avianca. After 45 minutes, I pushed my way to the front (if you were polite, you would be there all night). Through my, I'm sure delightful, language medley, I managed to confirm that I would be able to fly out the following evening (when I looked online, it showed no flights for two days). I then somehow got a free hotel voucher and three food vouchers. Hell. Yeah.
If I get into the minutiae of just this night, this will end up being a story only of Bogota. So, here are the highlights: I was told to wait near gate B1 and "someone will find you." The "someone" found the guy next to me and 20 of us then ran after her. She kept asking questions in Spanish, and understanding about 20% of what she was saying, I nodded along vehemently.
Ok, I heard "flight", "hotel", "shuttle", those are things I need. Turns out that she had distinctly asked if we were all coming from domestic flights. I was not. Through a series of events, I was sent off with a Colombian guy who had also fully misunderstood (making me way too confident in my Spanish skills again). We went through security together, and he went the wrong way immediately. I left him. I made it through a back way that my "someone" had taught us earlier. Found customs and shuttle and hotel and food right before the kitchen closed.
Looks gross but was oh so good.
Escaped the rain and finished up work at Mama Lupe the next day (would recommend if La Puerta Falsa has a long wait).
Explored La Candelaria; took the funicular up to Monserrate. It had been raining all day, so while most people were crammed into restaurants around the city, we, the brave few, traversed skyward and were met by an ethereal glow over the city as we took in the view (accompanied by random sounds from the cathedral and a cacophony of merchants promising the best view). I loved it all.
Free shuttle back to the airport, followed by a walk down memory lane as I revisited all my sources of trauma from the night before.
As I presented my passport to board the flight to La Paz, the gate agent told me that I could not board because I did not have a visa.
I laughed out loud. For two reasons.
1. I knew this wasn't true because Julia, Liz, and Sarah had done “visa upon arrival” the night before.
2. Would also not be surprised if I somehow got stranded in Bogota for the length of my vacation. Ha. Ha.
When he asked his colleagues, they just shrugged (comforting that they treat each other with such disdain, and not just me); he looked it up on his computer, and after several minutes—and my fellow passengers shooting daggers at me—he handed my passport back without meeting my gaze, and called for the next passenger to board behind me.
Watch out for immigration in La Paz. I will do my best to prepare you here.
We had read that they turn away people that are coming from Colombia without their Yellow Fever vaccine. In preparation, I paid an exorbitant amount of money for said vaccine. They asked for everything except proof of the Yellow Fever vaccine. Be sure to have:
- Hotel booking and return flight (standard)
- Bank statement (thankfully, Julia prepped me for this, and I photoshopped my account number etc. out)
- Full itinerary for the length of stay (excel spreadsheet FTW)
- A copy of your passport (I told them to just take a photo of mine and that worked)
- A PEN
In order to receive a visa upon arrival, you are shoved off to the side without explanation and given a piece of paper from the 1980s (I don't even think that's an exaggeration) to fill out. Thankfully, the kind woman in front of me lent me her pen. It ran out of ink immediately. I asked at least ten people (including many immigration officers) for a pen. They all just shrugged their shoulders. The woman who had given me the shit pen chimed in to help (her Spanish was a bit more coherent than mine). No luck. The eleventh person that I asked finally gave me a pen that he randomly had in his pocket. Is this probably similar to their experience flying into JFK? No doubt.
Easy taxi to Wild Rover, and I was in bed by 4am. Workday with Julia in La Paz to kick off my Bolivia tour (this place had cold eggs so not recommending):
Lunch at Oliva:
At 4pm on the dot, our Land Rover showed up to shuttle (and ferry) us to our starting point for Lake Titacaca—Copacabana. After loading our luggage up, there was space for three in the backseat and one in the front ... and, as it turns out, one man in a makeshift seat amongst our luggage, sans explanation.
Part of the journey to Copacabana includes a “ferry” across what I presume to be the smallest part of the lake. These ferries are the only way to cross and consist of what I have many times imagined I would make if I were ever stranded on an island that I needed to escape. To be fair, these rows of logs were much larger than anything I have ever perceived that I could make, and they carry—somewhat expertly—the tourist buses, and of course, the Land Rovers.
We crossed at primetime sunset, and after the highest high of the day, we unknowingly approached our lowest low.
“Are there bathrooms in this town?”
Our driver parked and pointed with swirling motions to a general area down a road. We found a “toilet,” somehow did not vomit during our tour de toilet, and almost managed to escape without paying (we were distraught; we were not purposefully avoiding payment). If I were to do it all again, I would have peed on the side of the road. I think all would agree.
We stayed a night at Hotel La Cupula—would recommend for the atmosphere and the on-site restaurant which has a lovely view and tasty, although tricky, trout—a must have on Lake Titicaca.
Julia and I walked down to the harbor at dawn to sort out where we could buy boat tickets to Isla del Sol—as I could find nothing about this either online or from asking around town the previous day (partly my fault since it was clear the locals did not understand me). No one was awake.
We then had an early breakfast and packed up and went down again. Got tickets. Got on a boat. There were no set times. Boats were leaving as they filled. Just go to the harbor by 8am, and I think you will get to the island—there are lots of men with boats.As long as it's not too windy or cold, sit up top. Was a lovely ride over.
I make a lot of bad decisions all of the time while traveling. Especially when it comes to ordering. Endless panic ordering followed by sad eyes peering at other people's delicious meals. Some of that happened on this trip. BUT. The itinerary and timeline for this island were damn near perfect. There are a lot of ways to do this island, but we obviously chose the best way, so that is what I will relay.
If you are staying overnight: book an ecolodge in Yumani (south side). It is the most developed part of the island (but not crowded, and we were there in peak season). Hiking on Isla del Sol is the thing to do, if you are able.
.png)
Hiking north to south eradicates the dreadful climb up from the Yumani harbor which, after much research, I did not read a single positive report on ascending the Inca stairs.
The coastal trail was empty. We wandered through farms and villages and traipsed along azure beaches—all to ourselves. No one tended to the animals or farmland (thank god, as we wandered off-piste and through private—and turns out locked—property more than once). Most of the off-roading was due to searching for a café for lunch that, once found, appeared to have been closed for quite some time.
Our original plan was to do a bit of backtracking to experience more of the ridge trail, but upon experiencing the endless beauty the island had to offer, we figured we couldn’t go wrong and chose a more gradual collision with the island’s ridge further on.
As we merged, we were met by a few more hikers, but not many. We passed through the apex of Yumani, grateful to be looking down at the stairs rising from the harbor. I did a wee check-in to see if anyone wanted directions to the ecolodge we were staying in that night, and with everyone feeling strong, we continued on to Cerro Quenuani—which opens up to a 360 view of the southern side of the island.
We decided that this was the best course of action instead of walking back into town. They said it would be an hour and a half. We gathered what energy we had left and walked back into town.
Unsurprisingly, we were able to watch the sunset. And it was at that moment, with a full belly of bread + chicken + ketchup, I was able to say that I wouldn’t change a thing.
We headed back to our bungalow for a singular reading hour before it was time for our pasta that we had previously ordered but pushed a couple of hours to be our dinner …
And the hike down the Inca stairs that confirmed that we made the correct decision by never climbing up them …
To another boat, to a successful lunch search, to a successful bus-find. Upon this lake crossing, we were not allowed to accompany our vehicle and instead found ourselves being ferried across in the people-boat and watching our bus find its own way across the lake …
Within about ten minutes, we were at a gas station and told (this is my interpretation) to get off the bus—if we wanted to—while the bus got gas. None of us budged. We were then told that we MUST get off the bus while the bus got gas.
An hour later … it became apparent why. What bus driver would want a full-on mutiny on its hands when it is still in line for gas with no end in sight?!
We had found a spot to sit on an abandoned basketball court. Liz was beginning to feel sick; Sarah was starting to sense that they would miss their night bus to Uyuni, and Julia and I felt bad for them because, while we were clearly going to be late for our briefing for our trek the next day, we weren’t about to miss the final bus of the day driving the ten hours to Uyuni.
After well over an hour, we were loaded back on to the bus and slowly trudged on toward La Paz. Upon arrival at the bus station, Sarah and Liz hopped in a cab and zipped off to the hostel to store their bags. Sarah was on time for her hostel pick up ... which brought her back to said bus station after an hour of driving around completing additional pickups. Liz, unfortunately, was much more than “bus-sick” and settled into the hostel for her own journey.
Meanwhile, Julia and I met Osvaldo, the point of contact, and Cesar, our trusty guide at our hotel, Patio de Piedra Hotel Boutique (highly recommend). Our briefing immediately made me feel unprepared ... "it's getting HOW cold?" whilst Julia knowingly nodded along. I immediately started googling where I could find warm clothes to buy before our early pickup the next morning. After letting me sweat a bit, Julia informed me that I could borrow an extra layer from her (upon watching her prepare for the trek the next day, it became clear that I needn't have packed at all). We snagged some soup and wine from a random spot that was close before snuggling up in our beds one last time.
Condoriri Trek day 1: 6 miles (my mileage is an estimate at best. Cesar often changed his calculations of what we trekked each day, and I did my best to relay an average of what was told to me).
Sublime breakfast at Patio de Piedra.
After a bit of driving into the mountains, Osvaldo dropped Julia and me off at the start of the trail with our guide Cesar, who hadn't really said much of anything to us at this point. He handed us hiking poles, declaring that while he had told us the evening before that we wouldn't need them, he had slept on it, and changed his mind. Very intuitive. Osvaldo drove off with Alex, our chef, to our campsite. Julia and I followed our trusty guide into the unknown.
Our first mountain lunch (packed by Alex) led to our first daily story about hikers—including guides and porters dying on the very trek that we were on. Was he trying to prove his value? Well, it worked. Hail Cesar.
We turned a corner and stumbled upon a beautiful lake. I immediately asked Cesar to take our photo in front of it. He dutifully obliged.
Then, he let me know that we would have plenty of opportunities for photos. We had arrived at campsite numero uno. Alex greeted us with tea and snacks. Cesar then regaled us with further tales of treks he had led, declaring, "the Chines and Japanese ... they are LAZY!" (His words, not mine).
As we set off the next morning, Cesar praised our hiking abilities (it seems Americans usually stop more). He said that since we were so fast, he would like to reward us with a special surprise. Who would turn down such an offer! Not us.
This is when we got our first peak at our guide's true skill: photography. I mean, who would want to take a photo of the terrain when you have two speedy Americans to capture?
Okay, so maybe he could use a lesson or two on framing and lighting.
As we approached our special surprise, Glacier Ventanani, one thing became very clear. This detour was not for us.
Don't get me wrong, this glacier was sick. But I did get an equal amount of pleasure from watching Cesar stand in awe of the glacier as I did actually standing in awe.
The next bit made it very clear why Osvaldo had clearly had a nightmare about Julia or me falling down a crevasse.
It does not look steep in the photo. You'll just have to take my word for it. We then set out to summit our highest peak of the trek: Pico Austria at 17,500 feat (no small feat).
As we began the descent, I noticed Cesar try the satellite phone a couple of times. I asked him if it was working. He gave a slight shake of his head, and shortly after, began running down the mountain.
This campsite was a littttle bit busier than the one from the previous night. We had dinner around 7pm that night. This turned out to be well past ten people's bedtime. We listened intently to Cesar's stories of deaths that had occurred near our campsite as other hikers rustled around in their sleeping bags. Until, at 7:10pm, we were asked to be quiet so that these hikers could sleep. Julia and I obliged. Cesar kept chatting. Upon the second—maybe third—request for silence, we proceeded to take in the clash of sounds as the hikers attempted to sleep, and we chomped away.
Tent was outside on this eve. After our ritual of reading for about two hours in our tent, we nodded off under the stars and subzero temperatures (correct, there was absolutely no exiting our sleeping bags after entering them).
Condoriri Trek day 3: Between 13 and 14 miles
After the ceremonious teeth brushing in the mountain's shadow ...
We read our books for a bit, watched people pack up our stuff for a bit ... our mornings on this trek were slow. Cesar would insist that we had all day to hike, and then the aforementioned calamity hit, and we thought there might come a sense of urgency with the rise of the sun (none such urgency arose). As we glanced up from our books at the goings on, it became clear that our belongings would be taking a new path on this morn (they had previously been transported by vehicle (we think)).
We watched as donkeys were laden with our tents and sleeping bags and regular bags ... until we were snapped out of our reverie by Cesar who had cobbled up a sense of urgency from the abyss. We chased after Cesar who was chasing the donkeys only to discover that our man was once again following his true passion: photography. And he had just the photo in mind ...
"No, you must stay next to the donkeys." You know what? You would be grinning like this too if you had a man scrambling about in front of you ... following his true calling.
And then we came upon a dazzling lake. Before we became too enchanted, Cesar made sure to recount to us the story of the group of Israeli travelers who had capsized with their guide in the middle of the lake. All paying members of the trek survived. The guide drowned. Apparently, this incident is what sparked the requirement for guides to be able to swim. This had happened not very long ago. This all made me wonder. Was Cesar telling us these stories to prove his worth? For us to be more thankful that he was not dead? How could one not wonder!
Many llamas this day. Many opportunities for our trusty photographer to capture the llamas.
I can't help but be amazed by the constant change in terrain. This was a thought that I had shortly before I had to use the Inca toilet for the first time on this trek. Yes, pee in the wild. As someone who intakes a lot of water, and who pees easily five times a day at the office, I am amazed as you are that I often make it to the next campsite with nary a visit. I'll do it. I just don't like it. I can't seem to take a piss without even a little splash ending up on my boots. While I know it's fine, I don't like it.
Cesar's demeanor is tough to explain. He was happy to be the tour guide that let the sisters do their thing, and he did his own. But once we made it clear that we would be the fearsome threesome, together, he made Julia and I look like we weren't much of talkers. It was on this day, as I, with an empty bladder, grinned around at the terrain, that he commanded Julia and me to sit so that he could tell us about Jeanette.
The short version of the story is that he was guiding a man that did not follow directions; they became separated; Cesar eventually found him which led to a fun eve of beers. Cesar began telling Julia and me this story as the storm clouds rolled in. We grew cold. Neither of us moved to add a jacket to our current layers of choice—whether it be out of obligation to Cesar or being truly transfixed, I cannot tell you.
Cesar had demanded that we sit while we "listen to his memories." I think we just truly did not want to be disrespectful, but man, the story was very exciting for five minutes ... but 40 minutes later, we both sat there shivering, confused, and realizing once again that we were surely late for our port of call.
Look, he did a good job telling the story. I can still picture the man going to the wrong white house and waiting for Cesar in the valley while Cesar traipsed around to every other option except the correct one. Do I wish that Julia and I had thought that it would have been appropriate for us to add an extra sweater and/or sweatpants to our current outfit while we listened to this tale? A little bit, sometimes. Every now and then, I do think that.
Ah, the haste. We were back in it. It's as if, during the story, he truly had no sense of the weather around him. We began running again. I was too busy trying to add layers while we ran that I had no time to fear another headache spell. Once again, even as I added layers, I questioned if it was even worth me adding layers since Cesar had insisted that we were so close to the campsite.
We were not near the campsite. I cannot tell you the distance. But it was not close. Do I think that Alex was reachable by satellite phone this eve? No. Do I think that maybe this was her first time working with Cesar and that she now understood him? Yes.
We arrived to a campsite that we had to ourselves—manned by someone who I presumed to be about 30 and Julia insisted was 13 at best (with a child strapped to her waist at all times). I'm sure she worked hard; in fact, I saw her work hard (after Cesar yelled at her about the toilet). But, um, the outhouse here was a bit gross. When we arrived, there was no water to flush—if you're lucky to have an outhouse while hiking, you will need to flush by gathering water from a barrel and dumping it down the toilet. This barrel was not full. And, as we would run into the next morning, it would freeze over even if it was.
After more or less using the frozen toilet in the morning, we had the slowest start of all, as we came across llamas within about 100 meters.
No, we don't know why Cesar sometimes wore his hat sideways. Super cool look though. After a couple of miles, and a couple of stories of some more deaths, Cesar paused in his tracks. He had a vision for the perfect photo ...
I know; a true visionary indeed. Pretty quickly, we reached our pickup point where Osvaldo and Alex were waiting for us in the vehicle. I asked if there would be a toilet for us to stop at on our way home. I was told no. I used the Inca toilet for the second time. After I scrambled back up the rocks, Cesar informed me that he forgot that there was indeed a toilet 10 minutes away. Sick!
Our trusty team brought us back to our lovely hotel that we couldn't yet check into. Off we went to our well-deserved post-trek beer:
Dinner at La Rufina (highly recommend) that night. Their food is inspired by Bolivian street food and 100% sourced from Bolivia. We did the tasting menu with wine pairing. Bougie, yes, but technically budget?
Uyuni
There are two ways to get to Uyuni: bus and plane (since there is a bus, I guess you could technically also drive, but this was not an option that I deemed worthy of consideration). The buses leave each night from La Paz (and from Uyuni)—with some people just going for the day with the bus bookending as their accommodation.
The thought of going from a four-day hiking and camping trip to a night bus didn't seem to necessarily be the ideal scenario to me. We flew bright and early and booked a hotel for our *one night only* in Uyuni. The town itself does not offer much; after breakfast, we were off on our full-day tour of the salt flats.
Stop 1: did not offer much more than the town itself; an old train depot that is now a gimmicky Instagram spot that Julia and I did our best to feign interest in, but we were back at the Land Rover waiting a bit early.
Stop 2: Colchani. A bit more exciting than stop one. Home of salt factories! We learned some interesting things here. Ask Julia; I wasn't really paying attention. Bought some salt. For a lot of people. I never buy souvenirs for anyone and for some reason was convinced that everyone I knew needed a taste of the salt flats (after licking a random salt rock that had been handed to me on the tour).
Stop 3: Pick up rain boots in hopes of water on the flats at sunset later (water is a positive in this scenario as it creates a mirror effect). Try on many pairs until some fit well enough.
Stop 4: To the flats! So, this is not something that you can do alone. Do a tour. Whilst this could have been some Cesar-esque "proof of worth," our guides did tell us that when tourists try to do the salt flats alone, they get lost and die. Which, after driving and seeing nothing but salt for miles, and having no cell reception, I do beg the reader to er on the side of belief here.
We grabbed lunch at an old hotel / now restaurant carved and built with salt. Decent lunch and great post-lunch beer with our Land Rover mates (even though there was a ban on alcohol in Bolivia due to the election, and we were trying our damnedest to sort out just how strict. This first attempt pointed at not-so-serious)
One thing I said to Julia as we careened over the flats was that no matter what, we weren’t going to do those horrific photos with dinosaurs, right? “Hell no,” she confirmed. “That’s not what we came here for!”
Stop 5: Photoshoot with dinosaurs. Within minutes of our first undisclosed stop with not a soul in site. We were told to take a couple of photos by ourselves before group photos. We obliged and then warily returned for photos with our friends. They tricked us all. Music was blasting. A toy dinosaur awaited. And we were directed where to stand without time for objections.
Oh, and it did not stop there. I tried to declare that we did not want any more photos but amidst the music and my own laughter, such declarations fell on deaf ears.
So, on it went …
And went.
Because then we danced out of a pringles can … willingly. Below is just a screenshot of a two-minute video. Where we danced the whole time.
Once our guides had milked us for all of the photos that they could, they told us to start walking (see below Julia walking off with a researcher on our tour—who was quite enamored with her—almost as fixated as she was on learning every bit she could about the cracks in the salt from his beautiful brain).
I mean it actually was quite interesting. And our tour guides had not been helpful up to this point. And it seemed that they had just left us.
Stop 6: Next, to Cactus Island (yes, I do believe that is its actual name, and no, I actually don’t think further explanation is necessary here.
Stop 7: Sunset and arm movement video? Once again, our tour guides ordered us around, and we dutifully complied. After we donned our much-needed rain boots, a car very slowly encircled us, and we were instructed to do different movements with our arms for each rotation. They completed four rotations, taking at least two minutes per one. Turns out, unbeknownst to us, they were shooting a time lapse. And it’s a bit weird.
Finally, the alcohol ban was tested once more, and we were given our promised wine at sunset (even though mine was summarily taken from me when I did not finish it quickly enough). Many lessons were learned this day.
Out on the town in Uyuni that night, we had some average food (I think maybe some llama was devoured?) at a place that I wouldn’t really recommend. The man was mean and didn’t want us to be there, but he did also serve me some illegal wine and Julia a terrible drink with Singani. People do not go to Uyuni for the food or drink.
Back to La Paz the next morning. I got to experience the famous gondolas this time around. Opened in 2014, and built by an Austrian company, this is the most fun and efficient form of public transportation that I have ever experienced. At least when we were there, no queues and great views. The destination of this glorious journey was the restaurant Gustu.
The food scene in La Paz is booming, and after our experience at La Rufina, Julia and I needed more. And here is where our luck ran out. Whilst we had signed up for the tasting menu and wine pairing; we were instead given a newly curated pairing of mocktails … which, to be fair, was quite good. If you go to La Paz, go to Gustu, and make me jealous with your photos of the wine.
We hurried back to the hostel for our walking tour of La Paz; it was Julia, me, one other dude, and our tour guide. I usually prefer to partake in walking tours at the forefront of the trip, but timing only allowed for the final day, and we learned so, so much—especially about politics and the looming election.
We signed up for a Singani cocktail class, which reinforced our belief that drinks with Singani left much to be desired. The rules at the hostel were equivalent to that of Uyuni: what election? I believe that every single person that was staying at this hostel, was drinking in the hostel bar this night. We made so many friends. We canceled our fancy dinner at Arami (next time!), and let’s just say that we barely made our 3am flight. And then whilst I (unknowingly) got a bottle of wine through security in La Paz, it was caught immediately during our security check in Bogota. Whoops. I forgot. Until next time Bolivia :)
