Re-entering Bolivia

That morning we once again set off for the small border. We had been woken early at 7am by a police officer asking for our permit. We had no idea what he meant, and told him we were about to cross into Bolivia. That seemed to satisfy him, and he left us to pack up the van.

As before, we stopped at the fuel station just before the border town of Khasani and filled up. We reckoned we could carry enough diesel for our heating to get through the next stretch, only needing petrol later for driving — something not easy to find around La Paz. Despite Bolivia’s much cheaper local fuel price, we opted for the hassle-free option and paid over double, knowing it would get us comfortably to our friends.

With the tank full and our spare diesel hidden in the cat litter tray, we headed for the border. It was only a short drive, but long enough for us to hit a dip in the road and hear the distinct sound of breaking metal — a loud bang from the front suspension. The car dropped slightly, but nothing appeared to be falling off, so we kept going. We’d deal with it later.

At the border, we parked up alongside a coachload of tourists, adding to the chaos. Worse still, the immigration office had moved and there was a new paper form required to exit Peru — something we hadn’t seen before. We joined the queue and were eventually stamped out, while vehicle customs was as relaxed as ever: the officer simply shouted to a guard outside to confirm their was some kind of vehicle there and waved us through.

We crossed no man’s land and parked up at Bolivia’s gate. This was the moment of truth. We knew we had just 17 days left on our Bolivian visa, but hoped they might grant us more. We even had a letter from a vet in Sucre explaining that our cat needed surgery.

There was no queue, so we walked straight to the desk. The officer took my passport, found the previous stamps, and told us bluntly that only 17 days remained. I tried to explain, to show the letter, to ask for more time — but it went nowhere. He stamped it mid-sentence and pushed it back. Lee’s officer was slightly more sympathetic, suggesting we try La Paz, but extensions only become possible with seven days left, and we’d be nowhere near the city at that point in our visa. We weren’t surprised, but it changed everything. Instead of returning to the lakeside camp, we pushed straight on towards La Paz.

From there it was a four-hour drive to El Alto, climbing above Lake Titicaca with sweeping views of snow-capped peaks. The weather was more subdued this time, with cloud hanging low over the mountains, and as we crossed the river by ferry, rain began to fall. Bolivia was clearly pushing us forward.

We arrived in La Paz to find the garage closed and empty, so we left the gifts and continued across the city. We also needed to deliver CV boots we'd picked up in Peru to another overlander, but with him away hiking and our timing now tight, we left them with the owner of a campsite called Las Lomas in the south of the city. It's a well-known overland stop, though we had heard mixed things about access. The owner confirmed we had the last space and sent directions. The drive through La Paz was slow and chaotic: tight market streets, low awnings, then a steep descent into the valley followed by an even steeper climb out. We briefly ended up on a dead-end dirt track before correcting ourselves and finally arriving, the engine running hot from the last climb.

Inside were several familiar faces: a Swiss couple recovering from illness, a South African pair we had only known online, and a truck camper couple we hadn’t met before. We parked up and quickly settled in, swapping CV boots for the cost of the pitch.

We spent the evening chatting with the South Africans, Loui and Kareen, and lost track of time entirely. Dinner never really happened — beer and conversation took over instead. They were also heading towards the Salar de Uyuni and the famous laguna route, and we talked about trying to coordinate so we could drive the vast empty desert that would lead us into Chile, together. The only sticking point was our detour to Sucre for Aimee’s surgery. The moment we entered Bolivia, I had already booked Aimee in with a vet in Sucre. It was perfect timing—an appointment squeezed in just before the vet left for two weeks. The plan was tight: two days to get there from La Paz. Doable, but with no room for error.

The next morning we exchanged numbers with our new friends and left Las Lomas to begin the drive south. First stop: fuel. We found a station that would sell “sin factura”—without a receipt. The attendant asked how much we wanted; I hesitated on the conversion, guessed 150 bolivianos, and she began filling.

As the total climbed I asked to fill our jerry can too, but was initially refused. Then at around 120 bolivianos she suddenly waved it at me: “¡Bidón!” I grabbed it from the roof and filled it quickly before being charged the equivalent of about £2.

With a full tank and half a jerry can, we set off towards Sucre.