Bolivia

Dad arrived in Lima for the stopover wearing an "Everest Base Camp" hat and "Hanoi" T shirt that simultaneously conveyed "don't mess with me, I'm well travelled" and "I'll buy any crap you have to sell" ... it was good to see him after six months, and even better when i found out he had thoughtfully booked a hostel owned by Dutchies to remind me of my roots - there was no double zouts on the pillows but the clogs on the wall did the trick.

The next day it was onto La Paz where, after checking out the local landscape, we decided that a round at the worlds highest golf course was a cultural opportunity not to be missed (well, the groundskeepers are Cholitas).  Naturally I won the first hole comfortably, however, after that displayed an unhealthy attraction to the less manicured Bolivian terrain. I was obviously suffering altitude sickness and effected by the tingling side effects of the tablets designed to combat it leaving a scorecard as attractive as a mustachioed mistress. Dad, having secretly trained at altitude, must not have suffered from these side effects.  The result, an upset thrashing, was reminiscent of Bolivia's altitude assisted 6-1 victory over Argentina in the same city.

Not wanting Dad to extend his 32 year year run of golf victories, or risk losing a game of tennis to a 60 year old we flew to Rurrenabaque.  There are a fistful of agencies operating the same 3 day river trips, however, only one was at the airport and ready to go so selection was easy.  The river is a  magnet for dense and diverse birdlife as well as being stuffed with turtles, alligators and caiman - so it was somewhat surprising when we were encouraged to swim with the pink river dolphins.  My entry to the water was hesitant given the alligator eying us off from the bank.  Dad's echoing of the guides assurances that the fish biting me were sardines and the dolphins would protect me from the caimans, alligators and cancer rang as hollow as St Kilda's minor premiership - coming, as it was, from the safety of the boat.  I was thankful that the brown water would mask any excreted fear.  (Dad's excuse that he didn't have bathers on turned out to be true as he swam in similar conditions the following day while the guide thoughtfully tested the temperament of a lurking caiman with pebbles).  The rest of the trip consisted of impressive sounding activities like anaconda hunting and fishing for piranhas

On return to Rurrenabaque we found our plans to meet Rick in La Paz thwarted by a combination of poor service from the tour agency and a plane malfunction halving the fleet of our carrier.  The 36 hr delay was not a great option, but neither was the alternative 20 hr bus ride - a trip with varying reviews: most travellers ticking the "hell on earth" and "safer to hitch hike in Iraq" boxes (one group of guys got off after only 15 minutes).  Resigned to an extended stay in Rurrenabaque we were sitting in a small internet cafe when the tour agent burst though the door and spat out that we had 5 minutes to get to the airport on the awaiting motorcycle taxis - Dad's pressure obviously had the desired effect.  We jumped on the bikes laughing as the air rushed though our hair, stopping only to throw our gear back in bags that had been unpacked 20 minutes earlier.  The drivers ensured we arrived at the airport on time - which is more than can be said for the pilot of the incoming plane - the delay making departure impossible withough lights on the landing strip.  The trip was once more delayed ... it pays to stay casual travelling Bolivia!

We finally caught up with Rick in La Paz and sat down to plan what we would do in the 6 weeks before we parted in Quito.  The first thing penned in was to mountain bike down the "road of death" - the only thing dad had promised mum he wouldn't do (trust - the glue that binds 35 years of marriage!).  We were assured that the 100 deaths per year were during operating as a major thoroughfare from La Paz.  However, with much of the 65km route winding as railess gravel  across sheer mountainsides as it descends 3600m, wearing a helmet and pads felt like bringing a band aid to a brothel.  In reality the road is now lightly utilised and there is a fair margin for error as a bike track - Rick and I could be confident of getting down safely, however, were concerned about Dad's propensity to focus on scenery over safety and his prior warning "you boys be careful ... don't worry about me, my reproductive days are over".  We were impressed with Dad demonstrating that he could keep up with the boys (ahem ... men) but not surprised when he tasted gravel riding for the camera ... more of a surprise was that he performed an accidental endo meters from a cliff - in what we could only assume was an effort to join Che Guevara, butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid in famous Bolivian exits!  The scenery was superb and the ride will remain a highlight of the trip.

The adrenalin in and out of our systems we headed for a place on mums approval list: Lake Titicaca, famous for being damn high and named by a 14yo boy (well, surely it was).  The third claim to fame is Copacabana beach ... the original, but not the best. As Bolivia's only public beach (thanks Chile, greedy coast hogs) the thing to do is paddle on one of the thousand fiberglass swans or find restaurant where trout is on the menu (which is about as hard as securing yourself a swan given that the menu, decor and construction of each of the 30 restaurants lining the short is exactly the same).  The trout was, incidently fantastic - a 1/30 chance perhaps, and Copacabana shone.  Unless your up for being talked into a second plate of trout by a 80yo mumbling through a wad of coca leaves and 4 teeth its best to grab a boat for the beautiful Isle de Sol ... which we did.   Exploring the Island required legwork as the the donkeys on offer were to scrawny to lift Rick's feet from the ground, regardless, our timeline only allowed for one night.

With no boats operating on our schedule we wangled a ride back with a load of schoolgirls who had earlier lined up to have their photo taken with Rick.  By allowing us in the boat the teacher made 50 new friends, as would have Rick if he knew spanish for "face" and "book".  The other option for transport to the island is to rent a sail dinghy - a Kiwi had told us that some friends had undertaken the voyage at 6am .  We passed them around the halfway point at 3pm sail down and rowing on the still lake - surely suffering from a day on the water under the thin clear sky.  The gaggle of girls was the good option and we found ourselves on a bus bound for Puno, Peru.