Caroline and I waved a final goodbye to La Paz the day after we braved Death Road and survived relatively unharmed. Heaving on my backpack and walking through the city to the terminal is slightly more difficult with my various injuries, but I manage it. We’ve opted for one of the cheapest buses in the terminal and aren’t too surprised therefore at the dilapidated state of the vehicle that pulls in. Entrenched in the ways of our overly-organised nations, we stand a little baffled before boarding, waiting for someone – anyone – to confirm it’s the right bus, look at our tickets, put our rucksacks in the hold or pay any attention to us whatsoever. As the departure time approaches and nothing changes we eventually decide to climb on board, big bags and all, and the bus leaves a few minutes later. We’re the only gringos on board and it’s a hectic, cold and rather disconcerting journey, with frequent stops and interruptions of many kinds. I sleep little, my bag clutched to myself. We’re heading …