Uyuni - Oruro - Cochabamba

Last night we found ourselves sitting in the breezy rail station in Uyuni waiting for the overnight train to Oruro. The station gradually filled up as we waited with locals and other foreign travellers. Friendly dogs milled in and out as anyone opened the door. Uyuni town and the hotel at which we had been staying had been experiencing power outages, so it was without surprise that we noted the sign on the wall informing us that our train would be "sin calefacción, sin luz" (without heating and light).

Eventually the train chuntered into the platform, having come from Villazón on the Argentine border, and we boarded in the dark. Having splashed out on 'ejecutivo' class we were given a small snack and a blanket; however, without power, the widescreen television remained mercifully quiet. The train departed and rocked us gently to sleep.

We arrived just after 7am in Oruro. The distance is not far, but the train travels at only 30kmh overnight. Alighting at a fairly bleak looking town, we took a taxi to the bus station. Here, people touted tickets for one of the many companies plying the popular routes to La Paz, 'Cocha', and back to Uyuni. We plumped for Trans Azul, which had a bus leaving for Cochabamba in an hour's time.

The bus was comfortable for the four-hour journey to Cochabamba, and only stopped when hailed by people on the street - it seems that this is common and that bus stops do not exist per se. Most new passengers turned out to be someone selling food from a basket (even ice creams from an insulated container) or making impassioned speeches to the captive audience on the bus about their product, such as the man who extolled the virtues of quinoa at great length.

The journey from Oruro's vertiginous 3,735m down to Cochabamba's 2,558m afforded us magnificent views as we descended from the mountains.

Finally we arrived in Cochabamba bus station and made our way out of the terminal, which smelled strongly of wee. Our flat for the next couple of weeks is, for better or worse, not far from the station. We buzzed in and met our host, Walter. He spoke entirely in Spanish, giving our neglected skills a run for their money, but revealed a good level of English when probed.

Room with a view... of Cochabamba

We headed straight back out to the central market (Mercado Calatayud), which, after the relative order of Chile, reminded us strongly of the hustle and bustle of SE Asian markets that we enjoyed so much. Long before we reached the market, we saw the corners and streets covered in similarly dressed vendors - selling puffed corn and quinoa, fresh juices, bananas and papayas, and all sorts else. By far the majority of sellers were rotund ladies sporting identical pleated skirts, wide-brimmed hats and long dark hair plaited into two braids with some kind of pom-pom on the end of each. In some cases, the last part of the each braid had been wound together to form a third strand, thus allowing for an additional pom-pom.

Among other things, we needed fresh produce from the market. At first glance, we found mostly potatoes. Bolivia (or Peru or Chile, depending on who you believe) is the birthplace of the potato. One stall seemed to comprise baskets filled only with potatoes of all kinds, shapes and colours. We selected a long, gnarly, waxy type, and went elsewhere for greater variety. All transactions were carried out successfully, if haltingly, in Spanish. We congratulated ourselves on not being a) laughed at, and b) pickpocketed.

Having had nothing except the small cake given to us on last night's train, we broke out some olives and cheese on returning home, while I set to preparing the dinner.

Yes, but it's hardly a meal, though, is it?

Spicy quinoa and the 'heritage' potatoes went alongside an odd green flower thing that we picked up experimentally, which I sliced and fried. This turned out to be called kaywa or achuqcha and can be cooked or eaten raw in salads, but lacked much in the way of flavour.