The tents were a very, very good idea. The temperature plummeted below minus 15 last night and we awoke to a very frozen landscape. The Alpaca blankets were also a wise purchase. We didn't need alarm clocks this morning courtesy of the ravenous pack of werewolves baying for blood outside our front doors...well, it turned out it was just a few cows but they sounded pretty angry: angry enough that no-one would even look outside their tents until they had moved to a safe distance. I suspect this had as much to do with maximising our time in warm sleeping bags as it had to do with general cowardice. Movement did happen though and the Great Balls of Fur, with students in tow, set off in to the most bitterly cold morning ever. Just one degree colder and you would have needed polar bear genes to survive. It soon became apparent that Bolivia was going to be a whole new experience compared to the relative civilisation of Peru. The roads took an instant dip in quality but at least we were still on tarmac. Not too far from the start we crossed through a toll/military checkpoint and ran in to the Bolivian equivalent of rush hour heading in the opposite direction. As with many countries never subject to Her Majesty's Rule, queueing, rules of the road and other such pleasantries are frequently dispensed with in Bolivia. As a result we were faced, quite literally, with a solid wall of decrepit Toyota minibuses showing no signs of leaving our side of the road as they jostled for position in the scrum for the one toll gate. Even though the occupants of said buses were friendly enough, discretion was the better part of valour and our 7 little taxis gave way to the seething maelstrom of ageing metal and took the off-road option for a mile or so. Not long after the rolling scrapheap challenge we were stopped at our first set of military guards. Steeled to the warnings of corruption we were fully expecting to have to barter our way out of a hefty 'tax'. Much to our surprise the guards were friendly, helpful, efficient and particularly amused at the furry, frozen fools and their bizarre steeds (they don't have mototaxis in Bolivia). With our dollars in tact we trucked on down the road with the rising sun doing little to melt the ice in our veins. Mercifully, our tanks were running low and so a petrol stop was finally made. We thawed ourselves off the bikes and staggered up to the service station where the woman in the shop ignored us for several minutes from behind the locked door before announcing that she didn't feel like making any food or drinks. The lack of hot tea was a crushing blow but we broke out the breakfast cake and filled the bikes whilst we finally began to warm up. The rising temperature stirred a burbling in Gareth's bowels and he was forced in to practicing his skiing pose to avoid contact with the less than spotless toilet facilities. A particularly delightful feature of South American toilets is their total lack of an effective flush which means that all the paper goes in to a bin. This bin never has a lid and is normally positioned perfectly to sit under one's nose whilst in the obligatory squatting position. The smell is essence. If only UK toilets were like that.Full of cake and fuel the Furballers were ready for the off. One of the most stunning views of the trip opened before us at the top of a hill. A high plain fell away before us and the outskirts of La Paz sat in the distance framed by a backdrop of snow-capped peaks. The photos can do the rest of the description. After some lax convoy drills on the first leg, the students were briefed not to lose sight of the taxi behind them... they did. To allow Ruth (who was still flying solo whilst awaiting Jen's arrival) to warm up, Paddy put her in the back seat of Dreagle with the alpaca blanket and mounted up on a rather unhappy Moira. 20km out of El Alto the bumblebee blew it's chain and so Paddy pulled up on Moira to help out. Stopping was a fatal mistake and Moira's ailing gearbox finally raised the white flag. Unfortunately, the students didn't notice that 14% of the taxis were no longer with them and so Charlie, Gilbey and Paddy were left stranded with a serious lack of tools and working bikes. The bumblebee was beaten back in to life and, with a worrying lack of contact from the rest of the group, a tow rope was rigged (after several attempts at failed techniques and some interesting knots). The bumblebee, despite lacking the raw power of some taxis, put in a sterling effort and carried Moira to the outskirts of El Alto. Contact was finally made with the other furballers. They had managed to cover a full 20km before realising that something was wrong with this picture - jack bastards! Terry and Anne turned around to come to the rescue on Boris followed soon after by Ellis on Falkor (10 points to anyone who remembers where that name comes from). With tools in hand, Moira's internals were exposed to reveal a very poorly gearbox. An hour or so later and she was no better off and the decision was made to tow her in to town and find a mechanic. Charlie mounted the Bumblebee, Gilbey took Moira and Ellis realised that Falkor was considerably slower when he swapped Lara for 13 stone of Paddy. After several stops at confused looking mechanics and a lot of detours following suspicious directions down ever narrowing side streets a motorbike mechanic was finally found, our Spanish was definitely coming along. Two taxis were despatched to the airport to collect Jen whilst the rest settled in to repair mode. The mechanic sorted out some minor glitches but soon lost interest in Moira's more complicated problems and left Charlie and Gilbey to lead the charge on her gearbox. Those boys are really starting to earn their money. Various groups headed off to locate food (chicken and chips again) and cash and discovered, amongst other things, a selection of dried Llama foetus' and unidentifiable shrunken heads. The sun was, once again, heading towards the horizon and the disappointing decision was made that, due to all the lost time caused by borders and breakdowns, the two day detour required for the Road of Death was now out of reach. Maybe next year. Falkor and Boris were despatched down the road to find a hotel in the guide book. Once again we were advised to stay out of La Paz itself due to the ongoing independence celebrations and increasing tension building due to various strikes and blockades around the country. The plan was for the first two teams to press on ahead and find us a nice place to stay a few clicks down the road. Our plans never work.As the repaired Moira, complete with a Jenny, headed out of El Alto with the other 3 taxis the road seemed to get longer, the sky darker and the air colder...and still no sign of the advance party. After finally making contact with them it turned out they had managed to get 65km ahead of us. 65 bloody KM!!!! Some were ready to draw blood but, once again, exasperation was replaced with acceptance and humour. Yet another police checkpoint surprised us with their friendly demeanour and lack of corruption and we finally caught up with Ellis, Lara, Terry and Anne in a small town where every single person was competing to become the drunkest person on earth. Ellis and terry were offered lodging in someone's house until they realised there was 12 of us. As the drunken crowd began to grow and more people began to ask for money we realised that our only option was to head out of town and ride out the independence celebrations in the safety of a remote tent hidden in the darkness. And so it was. As water turned to ice and the stunning sky revealed the Milky Way for another night under canvas we filled our faces with various combinations of pasta and rat packs then hit the sack.