Meeting other travellers brings the inevitable to and fro of tails, tips and advice on the places been and things done there. This information is invaluable (and sometimes of course completely rubbish) as most of it isn't found in a guide book. One thing I really wanted to do whilst in La Paz as a result of such stories and that's defiantly not printed in the Lonely Planet was visit the infamous San Pedro prison, located near the centre of the city.

San Pedro is what could be described as a strange mix of prison and social experiment. Guards surround the perimeter and are posted on the high, barbed walls but never set foot in the prison itself (barring extreme circumstances). Instead the inmates are left to run the workings of the prison, making their own laws, unaffected by the ones that govern the world outside. The families of the prisoners are also able to live inside and come and go for work and school. It's like a fully working micro-community. I'm unsure how it came about but either the prison or the government saw the potential of tapping the tourist pocket in the from of guided tours. These tours don't legally exist and the money you pay as an entrance goes directly to the government as a way of a bribe. Once inside tourists are encouraged to spend money on handcrafts made by some of the inmates or in the prison's numerous shops. Finally there is a whip round at the end to tip the guide and your personal guards (who are all prisoners as no actual guards enter). It's this influx of money that keeps the tourists relatively safe as if something were to happen, the tours would be forced to stop.

13/03/09

I waited with a certain level of anxiety in the square at the front of San Pedro (as instructed by former visitors working at the rumour mills). Desperately not wanting to enter alone, I introduced myself to a herd of equally sheepish looking travellers from Australia. We were then approached by Liz, a South African ex-inmate of the female prison who's job it is to shepard the groups in and collect their money. She looked on edge, speaking to the floor or the sky but never a face (like the 'handover' scene in a spy film). After we gave our details and handed over possessions, we were confronted with the central prison yard. A sense of claustrophobia closed in as space became a sparse commodity, bodies were draped on railings, sat on walls and bunched on steps. With eyes burning into us from every angle, as the large gate swung shut with a clang behind us.

We were then confronted by our assigned guide, Louis Fillipe, a Portuguese prisoner who'd been in for around a year. He could have been straight out of an Al Pacino flick with his slicked-back black hair, dark glasses and leather jacket. He spoke of 'respect' whist touching on a number of other cliches but it was impossible not to warm to his obvious charisma as he played up to the character of lovable rouge. His henchmen were four shifty inmates who communicated in nods and hand movements, these were our bodyguards.

We set off on the tour that only misses out one of the many sections due to the fact that it's home to the most homicidal prisoners! Whilst walking round, we were constantly swamped by children as young as 5 with out-stretched, open palms that tugged at the heart strings. Although these children can come and go from the prison walls, they often only have their incarcerated farther for family and will spend most of their time inside. I couldn't help thinking they'd be spending most of their lives here with a tendency to be institutionalised at an early age and being tainted by the colourful company they keep. This lack of hope it me hard and flushed me with a wave of guilt. I told myself they'd be here regardless of the tours and any money coming in would have to enhance their existence somehow.

Luis Fillipe then led us down a dark, narrow corridor (not wide enough for two people to pass without turning to the side). He then declared that this spot is used to settle differences and by the look on his face I don't think he meant in a diplomatic fashion. He attempted to raise the mood by following with a well-rehearsed wise crack which barley raised a nervous stammer throughout the group.

The next stop did elevate some tension however as we went into the cells of some of the skilled artisans amongst the confined community. Some people clearly have used the extra hours on their hands to great effect, crafting some beautiful things from whatever they can find. One guy made things from coloured wire including a two foot tall dragon, the detail was incredible.

The cells varied from four blank walls barely big enough to swing a kitten in, to miniature scale three story homes will cable tv. Prisoners are expected to buy or rent their cells with different sections offering different levels of comfort and of course cost. One man who'd finished his 35 year sentence, stayed on inside for not wanting to face the outside world and because he's no longer entitled to a cell, he sleeps in a cupboard under stone stairs. His single mattress fills the entire space and his life's belongings sit on a small shelf above his head.

After seeing each section, the gym and the church, whilst listening to Luis Fillipe's many musings, we were led into a small, windowless room. With the guards poisoned on both sides of the closed door, I knew from the stories what was coming next. As I mentioned, the prisoners operate under their own laws, detached from those on the outside. One thing that happens and has a massive influence on the levels of power and money is the production of cocaine. Each tour ends with the group being offered to buy San Pedro's biggest product, with the choice of sampling it then and there or taking it out with them (safe from any security searches due to the bribery chain). As it doesn't interest me in the slightest, I politely refused and left the gap year students to deify their over-baring parents at a safe distance.

Just as we were about to be freed, word had filtered through the bars that members of the press were outside with tv cameras because a corrupt politician ('politician' for short) was due to start his sentence within the next few hours. We had to leave in twos and if asked were instructed to say we had been visiting a friend on the inside.

Even though I'd only been in there for just under two hours, I was relived to leave and a weight seemed to lift. The sense of despair, particularly for the children, lingered a little longer however. I sat in reflection over soup, in a nearby restaurant. The tv across the room was playing the news and the familiar sight of the prison gates flashed up on the screen as San Pedro prepared to welcome it's newest member.

That night I left the electric La Paz on a night bus bound for the Southern town of Uyuni. Bolivian roads are the worst I've encountered so far, with the majority of them being bumpier than a crocodiles back it makes sleep, even for an exhausted narcoleptic, an unachievable dream.

14/02/09

I'd gone down to Uyuni to travel through the biggest salt desert in the world as they offer three day jeep explorations from there, that end up on the Chilean boarder.

I staggered off the buss, so tired that I left my tough wearing, outdoorsy shoes to walk off into the sunset as the bus pulled away. I was then accosted by a flock of tour operators offering the usual 'special deals'. I summoned the energy to refuse, drag my bags to the wall and crash in a heap. After the rabble died down, noticing I was on my own, one operator approached who had one place to fill in a six person jeep that left in an hour. Due to his need to get rid of the last ticket, he offered a really good price. Only really wanting a dark hotel room, I offered a even better price with the condition of a shower and breakfast before leaving. He met my demands (calling my bluff) and before I knew where I was, I was meeting the other five people I'd be spending the next three days, crammed in jeep with.

There were three English people; A couple, Hana and Nick and their friend Suzanne and two Canadian friends Alyece and Erin. We seemed to hit it off instantly and as they'd all been travelling together, they made me feel part of the group. Slotting into the group was a lot easier than squeezing into the back of the jeep however, where I became acquainted with everyone's knees, elbows, feet . . . .

The first stop was a train graveyard on the outskirts of town where rusted-up train carcases made for eerie climbing frames. Most of which poignantly pointed to where we were heading, a huge, dead sea of salt the 'Salar de Uyuni'. The salt desert is a colossal 10,582 km2, consisting of 10 billion tons of salt and is the result of the dried up, prehistoric 'Lake Minchin'.

Driving across the salt flats, we were soon engulfed by this glaring, white giant. Distant mountains appeared to float on air due to the strange optical effects of the heat reflecting surface. Objects would shimmer in and out of view and any pools of water mirrored the blue sky so clearly that it felt like we might fall in one.

We stopped for lunch on a raised Island of giant cacti. These prickly pylons were the size of street lamps. I truly felt as if I'd landed on another planet and half expected to find a group of hammy, lycra-clad actors to be shooting a scene for some cable Sci Fi drama.

We spent the first night in a family-run, 'Salt hostel' on the edge of the flats, where all the walls, floors and even the beds were made from blocks of salt. Outside, the glaring white of the day had turned to black and the stars were as clear as grains of salt on a black table cloth. As we were making obscure constellations of our own, we noticed two different electrical storms, flashing over the distant desert.

15/02/09

After an early breakfast from our host family, we hit the roadless desert once more.As the salt slowly turned to sand, we found ourselves in more conventional desert surroundings. To the fitting sounds of a Doors compilation on Hana's ipod, we delved deeper into the dunes. With hours of no signs of life, the thought that anything could live in such a place seemed impossible. Then out of nowhere a lake lay in front of us which was speckled pink due to hundreds of flamingos. The scenery became more surreal as we entered an area of contorted rock formations that jutted and twisted into the air. We took this opportunity to regress into a monkeys and clambered around to our hearts content.

As the day wore on, we all agreed we'd never been closer to middle of nowhere than this, with desert lining every horizon and the ones beyoned them. This made the fact that our guides had to stop every half an hour to pure more water into the continually leaking radiator, slightly unnerving to say the least. However through our guide's instinctive sense of direction, we made it to two more flamingo filled lakes (one of which was red, due to coloured bactiria beneith the water) and then on to the communal, make-shift lodge where we were to spend the night. Thoughout the day, we had been stedily climbing in altitude and the temperature had dropped significantly. So much so that a snow storm closed in, leaving us huddled round an open stove inside.

16/02/09

The day started at the ungodly hour of 4am! With blue lips and red eyes, we shivered in the back of the jeep trying to warm up (as of course being Bolivia, the heating was broken). We climbered further to reach some high-altituted gizers, which sat at around 5000 meters above sea level. To give you an idea, this is only a couple of hundred meters below both Everest base camps. We warmed ourselfes round the gizers as the hot steam blasted out into the atmospher.

As we moved on, we entered into cloud mist which cloaked everything bar our guides incrediable knowlage of the area and somehow he navigated us to our final stop, hot springs. The mist from these rocky pools seamlessly met the surrounding cloud. I found I was the only one willing to take the plundge as the others observed from the relitive warmth of the jeep. I of course then had to lie through my chattering teeth that it was well worth while and had adiquatly warmed my bones to justify my choice.

Suzanne, Nick, Hana and I then parted ways with our guides, Alyece and Erin as they dropped us at the Chilean boarder and headed back towards Uyuni. It was the most deserlate boarder crossing yet, a small wood lodge, surrounded by miles of nothing but a burnt out school bus that doubled as a toilet. A short time later, after the morning snow had started to melt, our bus arrived that would take us to civilisation in Chile. Bolivia had come and gone and I watched it grow small in the back window, as we were whisked away on a modern bus on an actual road with tarmack!