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In our seven weeks in Bolivia we went to it’s unofficial capital, La Paz, three times and, on each occasion, the journey down the valley full of mud brick homes was both impressive and terrifying. In fact, the first time we saw this beast of a city – literally crammed into a valley between snow-capped mountains – we didn’t want to get off the bus. I imagined stepping into the concrete maze and immediately being kidnapped and held for ransom. This fear probably had something/everything to do with the warning in the Lonely Planet, but, brilliantly, it turns out that both the book and our first impressions were very wrong.

La Paz is busy, strange, frantic and hard work, but we ended up liking it. We got weirded out by the llama foetuses hanging in the doorways of the witches market, went to a very good modern art gallery, ate many delicious saltenas, stayed in a very cold hostel that was a bit like a prison and Angela used her newly learnt Spanish to get her hair cut.

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