Kid, the next time I say "Let's go someplace like Bolivia"...

...let's GO someplace like Bolivia.

Potosi, Bolivia - warzone. As we walked down the narrow cobbled streets of the highest city in the world, we had a constant eye on the balconies and rooftops for snipers. We approached every corner slowly and cautiously, trying to identify potential attackers while always keeping a watch over our shoulders for backdoor bandits. Our aim - to reach the arms dealers slap bang in the most volatile parts of town. Supersoakers and waterballoons. That's what's up. The warm up to the weekend's Carnaval was well and truly under way, taking the form of a massive sprawling waterfight over the town. Everyone plays, whether they know it or not, and 'gringos' are a prized target.

We learned our lesson quickly, after being pelted from windows with waterballoons within about an hour - attack is the best form of defence. Groups of high school children smirk at you coyly as they stroll past with their water pistols and 'globos de agua'. Just as we think we're safe, the attack comes from behind. Or we're the victims of a drive-by, the giggles fading into the distance. Or simply caught in the crossfire. Paranoia takes over until we find the friendly neighbourhood Lord of War - one of the nice Quechuan ladies selling ready made, ready-to-lob water balloons. From that point onwards, ammo in hand the tables are turned. The hunted becomes the hunter and suchlike - a gringo with a waterballoon!

'Gringo' has probably been one of the strangest South American terms that we've encountered. We're assured that it's a term of endearment, just means 'foreign'. Not like us - blue eyes, white skin, tall. I find it difficult to accept the word, though. Groups of children giggle "Gringo!" which you can deal with, but it's when adult sized men walk past, they don't say "Buenas dias" or "Hola" - just "Gringo". Depending on the source it can be a bit intimidating, and usually when we hear that word we don't need reminding that we're foreign or 'not like us'. Is this the closest my tiny white face has come to some kind of, dare I say it.......racism? Oh, shut up Whiteford.

Potosi was a great time. The city was once the richest in the world due to the abundance of silver and minerals in them thar' hills, namely the Cerro Rico. Slaves and indigenous miners died in their millions extracting the silver in horrific conditions from inside 'The Mountain That Eats Men'. So, on with the helmet and headtorch we headed into the belly of the beast. An eye opening experience - within five minutes the silica dust was making it difficult to breathe in my little asthmatic lungs and the further we delved the worse it was, especially as we crawled on hands and knees in the dust avoiding the two ton trolleys being pulled by hand by the miners. They are exceptional human beings. Working for 12, 14, 16 hours a day - the only breaks they take are when they wait for the dust to settle after a dynamite blast; they use this time to fill their mouths with coca leaves - among the effects of chewing coca are reduction of appetite and increased awareness. Perfect for working in these conditions. Our knowledgeable guide Ronald (a former miner who 'loves his little Gringitos from GringoLand') told us that these conditions have barely changed in the four hundred years that the mine has been open. Being around asbestos and silica dust, most miners will die of silicosis pneumonia. Life expectancy about 50 years. Considering the wages they receive, the juice doesn't seem to be worth the squeeze, but they have few other choices. The hardest workers (14-16 hours a day, sometimes more) will earn about $200 a month. To put that in perspective, the average Premiership footballer earns in a week what it would take two miners an entire lifetime to earn. Sickening really. Ashley Cole? Exactly. By the time we emerged into the sunshine it was humbling to think that these men (no women allowed in the mine - bad luck) will sometimes spend days on end underground, and we were struggling to deal with it for only one hour. But then we got to blow up dynamite on the hillside, so I soon forgot about all that...

Prior to all this shafting about we spent time hiking on Isla Del Sol in Lake Titicaca - many an Incan ruin to be seen, as well as some crazy little kids fascinated by Woody's camera "señorita, señorita!". She crouched to help them take photos and they jumped on her back and held my hands - just happy for the attention I think. Captain of our boat almost couped it on the way back as the wind whipped the waves into a bit of a frenzy - some tears and many a Bolivian crossing themselves (spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch) made for an exciting last hour or so. Back on dry land we headed for La Paz and the Witches' Market. What do you buy for the girl who has everything? Dried llama fetus maybe? For luck apparently, although not so much for the fetus. Lots of good witchery abound - talismans (talismen?), vials of home protection, love potions... but no 'Instant Death Powder', no voodoo dolls. I was imagining a potion that for every positive effect it had on me, it had the equal and opposite effect on my mortal enemies. I get happy, they get sad. I get lucky, they get most unlucky. I get a delicious meal, they loudly crap themselves in public. Genius, available only at the Witches' Market, La Paz...

After a cultural Sunday morning of coffee, an impromptu orchestra recital in a colonial garden and a visit to the Coca Museum, we trucked on to Sucre - The White City. One of the prettier cities on our travels and a relaxing place to explore for a couple of days. The Dino Truck took us up to Cal Orcko, a cement quarry where they stumbled upon real dinosaur footprints. "Guys, we asked Swiss geologists to come and verify if they were real. The result was positive. They were real." Our trusty guide Juan Carlos, somewhere between Loyd Grossman and Penfold from Danger Mouse. His accent and mannerisms were so completely hilarious that an infectious bout of The Giggles spread through the group like wildfire, the supressed laughter reminiscent of an over-excited classroom when the teacher's back is turned. Ironically enough I'm sure it was Woody who was the first to crack. Anyway, saw some real dinosaur footprints...which was nice. On the way back the bus was bombarded by water missiles, which brings us nicely back to....

A gringo with a waterballoon! The smirks fade, fear appears where once there was confidence. Oh yes, Latin America knows just how merciless and brutal The West was once before. By this point we've joined force with a fun Belgian couple, thus doubling our firepower. Let's have you! A staring contest ensues until both parties are either out of sight or out of range...

Currently we're in Tupiza, a small town which sits with a dramatic Wild West backdrop and stunning cowboy country scenery all around. It's also not far from where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid met their demise at the hands of the Bolivian army. Legend has it that they robbed a payroll between here and San Vicente some 60 miles away. Depending on which story you want to believe, it was in San Vicente that the two bandits sheltered before being identified and trapped by Bolivian soldiers. One of the bandits shot his mortally wounded partner before turning the gun on himself. I'll stick with thinking that it was there that they faded into their sepia freeze frame before going on to make their organic salad dressings and International Film Festivals respectively.

...and so as we walked up the street, our two last pieces of ammunition ready to be launched, we see a group of bandits armed to the teeth. They've got guns this time. Outnumbered and outpositioned, we are. So me and The Kid crouch behind a market stall, steeling ourselves for the final attack. "You didn't see Lefors out there, did you?"

"Lefors? No."

"Oh good. For a moment there I thought we were in trouble..."