The 10 things I miss most about England.

This is inexcusably self-indulgent, I know.

1 Pubs (especially having an alfresco wee under the stars on Chorleywood Common during the walk home from The Black Horse).
2 Friends and family.
3 Multiculturalism, especially the glorious and varied food.
4 The river (I know there’s more than one but I mean The River).
5 Parks.
6 Listening to Radio 4 in bed.
7 Girls going to the corner shop in their jimjams.
8 Laws.
9 The sea.
10 Very, very long Sunday lunches.

One more: being somewhere simultaneously utterly modern and ancient.

Here are Susi’s (no mention of girls in their jimjams).
1 Mum and dad.
2 The green countryside.
3 Radio 4.
4 BBC TV.
5 Walking up Shotover Hill.
6 Sandwiches.
7 Not having to disinfect fruit and vegetables.
8 Being able to drink tap water.
9 The Guardian
10 Nice buses. (That’s what she said, honest.)

Lakeside llama and blessed cars

The next morning we took another boat trip, this time to a small island, Isla Pariti. Home to donkeys, birds and few people; plonked in the deep blue lake and in view of the Andes, it seemed idyllic. In reality, the lack of shops, drinking water and electricity would get trying pretty fast.

Our departure from Puerto Pérez was held up by a passing rally. The Gumball 3000 has nothing to worry about: pouting blokes in Daihtsu Charades with stickers on strained along, with their bored girlfriends in the passenger seat.

Once the rally passed, it was an interesting drive. Sunday must be a popular day for blessing cars at the Copacabana. It’s a strange business: shamans and Catholic priests perform a ceremony to ensure the safety of vehicles. The cars are lightly doused with alcohol and decorated before being sent on their way.

It was an interesting drive past the former home of Victor Hugo Cardenas. The Aymara politician had been Vice President (1993-97) and was now a critic of the government. This is a dangerous position to take in the Altiplano—last month, while he was away, his neighbours broke in, beat up his wife and children, and took over his house. It’s still covered in graffiti and the family has moved.

Having randomly picked one of Huatajata seemingly identical lake-side restaurants, we bumped into a mate. She’d had an interesting morning having been chased by a frying-pan wielding mother defending her children from my friend’s morally corrupting influence.

After compulsory—and delicious trout—we went next door to the museum of the Altiplano, where I held a baby llama and a vicuna nibbled my trouser area.

We were sailing, they were sinking

We made a trip to Puerto Perez to stay in the Swiss-chalet style there and spend some time on Lake Titicaca. In the first afternoon, a little wooden sailing boat took the seven of us on an outing. It was beautiful, and really relaxing despite being a little squashed.
As we returned to land, an endless stream of dressed-up Bolivians piled into a sister boat. I asked our captain what was the maximum possible aboard. 15, he said. When I pointed out there seemed to be more than that, he said there are 25, I think.
They set off, the boat perilously low in the water, happily singing along to an on-board guitarist, somewhere lost in the crowd. It was fortunate it did not sink because few Bolivians can swim and the water is unforgivingly cold.
Bruce and I watched the sunset from the end of the pier. As the cold wind blew over the lake, the snow-capped mountains turned a delicious shade of coconut-ice pink. At every side, the view was wonderful.