Another day spent on the bus, but this, this was slightly different.

But first, I had breakfast. I was the only one in Restaurant 16 de Julio, but soon the other gringos started piling in. I had a lovely banana milkshake.

At the bus station, the lady told me, amiga, that the bus wasn't going, but another one was. She accompanied me to another street corner, obviously not trusting me to find my own way. She plonked me down on a chair, where a woman in chola dress and braids, and a young guy in leather jacket, futbol shirt and walkman were waiting. The two seemed to be a bit of an odd mix.

The lady of the office was typing away furiously on an ancient typewriter, accepting the occasional package from people dropping by. When the bus arrived, it was a scramble to get all the bags on top, lots of those universal, chequered rectangular shopping bags every granny in the world seems to have. Luckily machismo kicked in when I was trying to get mine on top, as it seems to get heavier every day for no discernible reason.

I got in a bus that has been going since god knows when, with worn chairs and plenty of legroom - for pygmees. There was a spot for a television, but this was boarded up, with cardboard from a box in which a television had once been - which I thought was a nice touch.

The bus was full, and got even fuller with people getting on trying to sell icecream cones, newspapers and the like. We set off on time, ten past ten, only to stop for no discernible reason two streets further. Yep, this is a whole other story from the luxury bus from Santiago to Pucon... Next: chicken buses!

We'd been going at a snail's pace over the dirt road (good thing, because as soon as we went faster than 40 km an hour, your teeth rattled in your head) winding through the mountains of the Altiplano. The landscape had been the same for two hours (and would remain so for the remaining six): grey-brown mountains, the odd shrub, an even odder tree, some llamas and a few donkeys and that was about it.

I was just hoping for a toilet stop when the bus pulled over in the middle of all this brownness and the co-pilot hopped out with a wrench, which did not bode well. Everybody piled out and went to pee, in plain view (the men) or behind a shrub (the women). I found a shrub of my own and afterwards went to join the men, who were all watching the two drivers change one of the front tyres, which was entirely slick and flat, with another tyre that was equally slick and slightly less flat.

The drivers, incidentally, did not seem a day over 20, but there was no fear of speeding on this trip. Amazingly, we were on our way in about 15 minutes, and we went through another three hours of brown. Luckily there was music to keep us entertained...

I know I should be greatful it weren't panpipes, which are a pet hate of mine, but hours of tchk-a-tchk rhythms (ie cumbia) is not much better. To give you some clue of how bad it was, I was absolutely thrilled when Foreigner started crooning 'I wanna know what love is'. I even hummed along to Whitney promising she would always love me. She got a few extra tremelos in her voice as we were going through a rough bit and the bus was shaking so hard the tape was getting a bit warbled up.

We stopped for a quick almuerzo at the only bit of green in all the drabness. Unfortunately for the people living here, this was another 'baño grande' and the smell of wee was unmistakable. I had no choice but to join them though, as four hours of being shaken about is all my bladder can take (there's some more info you didn't want to know about!)

And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Potosi showed its face. Most cities have their bus terminal in the least salubrious part of town and Potosi was no exception. It was very busy and hectic, with loads of people carrying ridiculously large packs (me being one of them). The driver unloaded all the stuff, dropping my pack from a great height in a puddle, as I couldn't reach.

I started stalking two gringos, hoping they knew where they were going, unfortunately they were going to Uyuni. The guy told me where the centre was, but forgot to mention 'and it's bloody far away'. I was huffing and puffing under my bag, from altitude, uphill climb and sheer weight, and I decided to hail a cab. The driver had a good old laugh when I told him I was about to walk it.

We had a bit of a chat while he manoeuvred through the busy streets. I like the look of Potosi, the main square is lovely and there seems to be a nice feeling of hustle and bustle about it. I checked in at a hotel, which is very quiet and very central, and set off to find some dinner. I had veggie lasagna (since Argentina I feel like I overdosed on meat) in Cafe La Plata, which is nice but terribly slow, which about sums up Bolivia right there.

Bolivia is such an odd mix of western goods (Coca Cola everywhere), traditional costume, run-down buses and hip youngsters, as well as painful signs of poverty and hardship. In the cafe there was a nice Christmas tree, which seems so incongruous in this place.

I also admit I had some preconceived ideas about the cholas, I thought they'd speak only Quechua or Aymara, be weary of strangers and let the men conduct business, but here in the cities they are just as much a daily part of life, running travel agencies and doing tours. But Uyuni and Potosi have set me right.