Eleven bleary-eyed Furballs rolled out of bed for breakfast and daily inspection and chugged off into the freezing morning air, seriously, I can't begin to explain how cold it was. There was a dark tone in the air as we waved goodbye to our nice hotel, we suspected this would be the last hot water we would see for a while. As the sun crept over the mountains we ploughed on down the lake shore towards Juli where we decided to buy a few parts for our mototaxis to make them squeaky clean before the border crossing and also weld back on two of the exhausts. I mean, really, these bloody things have done little more than 1000km. How can they be falling apart already? We got into town and commandeered a rather amused/bemused looking mototaxi driver to led us to a suitable garage. The mechanics approached us with mirthful caution and, as they began to look over our bikes, it bacame obvious that even reaching this point had been nothing short of a miracle. Quite how these wheels stay together with 5 snapped spokes is beyond us. Over two hours and a complete service later and we hit the road for the Copacabana border. This is where the nightmare began. Things looked good at first. The smiling policemen waved us to the front of the queue, and we were stamped out of the country by Immigration and the Police in short order. We were now residents of no-man's land, out of Peru but not yet in Bolivia. Just the taxi to get stamped, shouldn't be a problem. Terry and Anne strolled confidently up to the vehicle desk to be promptly and firmly told no before they had said more than a few words. Eventually they persuaded the 'official' to read the letter of empowerment which entitled us to export our rides.... or not, as it turns out. With a hearty yet dismissive laugh he sent them out with the same answer - no. Fortunately a Spanish and two Portuguese Junketeers turned up and so we sent them in to plead in the native tongue. Some considerable time later they emerged with the same answer but at least we now had an explanation. Much to our surprise, the chap behind the desk wasn't actually being obstinate. Our letters of empowerment were a work of fiction and so we would have to export our machines through an agency... which was at the Desaguadera border, 68km away. Oh Joy. Back on the bikes and into the fading light. We had a couple of minor mishaps en-route including Anne and Terry losing their back brakes, a clever wire-based solution solved this, and Paddy wrapping his Poncho around the drive sprocket which caused the chain to part company with it's natural home and the Poncho to get significantly smaller. Once again, Dreagle was upturned, the Poncho unpicked and the chain remounted. The force of the impact had bent a rather essential part and so this was replaced in the near darkness, surrounded by intrigued villagers who, we suspect, had never seen a cow crawling underneath a mototaxi bedecked in flags and fur. With repairs completed and Dreagle back on three points of contact the Junketeers followed Ellis and Lara's lead to the nearest place to lay our weary head. Our suspicions of no more hotels and hot water were confirmed as we appeared to have stumbled upon some sort of refuge/halfway house. The original price was quoted by the man of the house as 15 Flic-Flacs for the whole group (about £4) and then in came his wife and mum, slapped him around a little and upped the price to US$100. We dodged the Peruvian Hobos, begging for booze and money (four of them cornered Lara when they saw her with a beer!), fed ourselves with a surprisingly tasty meal, entertained the kids with our standard childish behaviour tand then, much to our surprise, in walked Alfonso. He'd spotted our taxis parked outside and popped in to collect our vehicle docs to smooth the process in the morning. We handed over our papers then retired upstairs. The first challenge was to hold your breath in the non-flushing bathroom for long enough to pee and clean your teeth. Most failed and so there was much dry retching. It was then decided that no-one, especially the girls should sleep in a single room. We all piled into group dorms, locked our petrol in one of the singles and barricaded ourselves in. this turned out to be a wise choice as one of the aforementioned Peruvian pikeys tried his luck with every room at about 2am!