Towards the sea front in Arica is a beautiful old wooden church painted a pale pink, the edges outlined in white, its bell tower rising into a steeple. The steps are overflowing with people spilling onto the square, waving Chilean flags, holding a loft banners which seem to be a mix of trade unionism and Christian symbolism. In another part of the square a middle classed man, much to the good natured amusement of his friends, struggles to open what appears to be champagne, as it eventually pops, spraying the surrounding crowed, producing a big cheer. Down on the front there is a market, a group of teenagers with a flag start to chant, a few girls in the group seem bashful, eventually bursting out laughing as they catch each others eyes. As the night goes on a procession leaves the front of the church walking through the town, a few people seem to be against the march, shouting as the parade passes, but on the whole the mood is festive, even the large numbers of police seem relaxed, the news having broken of Pinochet death.

From Arica I cross the last few hundred kilometres of the Atacama then start to climb high up in to the Andes towards the Bolivian boarder. There are lush pasture with the classic Bolivian glama lama are grazing everywhere, snow caped mountains reflect in the fresh water lakes. As I reach the pass through into Bolivia, the bike starts to loose power, the air now so thin that it affects the combustion of the petrol, it's something I've been expecting and for the next few weeks while I remains at altitude, the bike, to the untrained eye, will appear to be a clapped out wreck. Bolivia is a very poor country and it's like stepping back in time, as I watch a husband and wife turn drive their cow to turn the soil, pulling a simple wooden plough and cow, all colourfully dressed, never without a hat. Small groups of young children shepherd flocks of sheep, lamas and cattle, often board staring into the distance, their chins resting on their crooks. It's only 100 years ago that scenes like this were still common in England and they always remind me of a set of John Constable table mats we had when I was growing up. There seems to be a gentle strength, in the smiling weather beaten faces of people, often waving as I pass, that keep making me think I back in the Himalayas, the resemblance is uncanny, add into that the landscape and it's spooky.

Electricity and telephone lines start to appear, feeding the simple, self built, red clay coloured box houses, often entirely covered in hand painted advertisements, for which the owners receive a few cents. The muddy streets are full of hustle, as the traffic grinds to a standstill, slowly edging its way towards a military check point and toll booths at the lip of the valley that is La Paz. The favelas shanty towns, for once, look down on the hart of the city below, where narrow, sometimes cobbled street rise up the steep banks, street vendors sharing the cramped pavements with the many homeless street children and families. The women are all dressed in colourful "Polleras" , the colourful Spanish peasant skirts - imposed on the people by the Spanish conquistadors - and hats that have evolved directly from the traditional English bowler hats, balanced precariously on the side of each head. It may look as if their clothing has not changed since colonial times, but fashions change as quickly here as anywhere else, much of the skirt material, ironically, now imported from Korea. In the never ending street market, one stall does a brisk trade in soft drinks, served in clear cellophane bags, tied at the top with a straw sticking out. Large Andean nativity figures are on sale everywhere, it´s almost Christmas, peace on earth, except in the section selling imported chiming Christmas lights, hundreds of sets all playing out their tortured tunes in disharmony.

As in every big town or city in the World there is a corner that will be forever, well Ireland in most cases, but in La Paz there is an English pub. I say pub, it’s a room upstairs, reached through a unassuming doorway in a cobbled Bolivian street. The place is full of characters from all over the world, all with a tale to tell, many expats living and working in La Paz. I end up spending a lot of time with an Irish guy Paul, who´s spent the last month tethered each day to an abused Puma, as part of an environmental project to reintroduce animals back in to their natural habitat. It´s not clear if this particular cat, maltreated in a circus would survive alone, but in other cases, they have great success, the biggest problem they have is finding volunteers to work with the animals. Later I end up talking motorbikes – I can just about blag it – with a rather flamboyant Colombian, well know in the bar, who, it turns out, hasn´t quiet managed to break from age old stereotypings when it comes to funding methods.