On a high wind-swept saddle in the foothills of the Bolivian Andes, as I slept in what looked like a deserted farmhouse courtyard, I was suddenly woken in the pre-dawn chill by a large, dark, muzzle sniffing at my face. Bolting upright in pure terror my eyes slowly focused on the three Quechua Indians standing in their doorway and wondering why five “gringo” travellers should want to sleep in an out-house beside their pig. The brochure had suggested adventure on this three-month overland trip across the Andes, from Rio de Janeiro in the south-east to Quito in the north-west, and two weeks into the journey a broken crankshaft guaranteed it.

My own personal fun had begun slightly earlier however, before the vehicle broke down. As we entered Bolivia from Paraguay my mouth had begun to throb and swell ominously with the onset of an abscess. The race was on to find a dentist in Bolivia, the cocaine capital of the world. Immediately upon entering the town centre two very drunk and menacing looking soldiers with guns dangling from their open holsters leapt into the cab and demanded an on-the-spot fine of $US200. A seemingly volatile situation arose as the soldiers threatened to throw us in jail if we didn’t pay. Calling their bluff our driver demanded to see their commanding officer. Four hours later, as I sat throbbing in pain and under guard in the cab, the driver and translator finally talked their way to freedom — for free. To be stranded in Bolivia without a vehicle, until a new part could be air-freighted over, seemed a scary proposition at first.

In fact it was to be the beginning of an incredible adventure which drastically changed the course of my life. I had joined this three month camping expedition, along with 23 other thrill seekers, as a casino croupier and left as a would-be journalist and photographer. In the cold light of dawn it was decided we should hitchhike to the nearest town of Cochabamba and re-group there. In most Andean countries hitchhikers are a regular source of additional income for those crazy long distance lorry drivers. For a few drivers that day it seemed as if Christmas had come early with 24 “gringo” customers, who of course wouldn’t mind paying just a little over the usual price for this journey. The driver of our open backed truck earned himself a $10 bonus by refusing to pick up a goat herder and his flock of 20 smelly animals.

After a day’s rest and sightseeing in Cochabamba we embarked on our first local bus journey in Bolivia to the city of Sucre. The trip passed virtually without incident —except for one camera being permanently borrowed by a budding Bolivian David Bailey. It was however, in Sucre, that the fun continued — for me at least. In Sucre we organised a trip into the Bolivian Amazon as an alternative to city sightseeing and to give the truck a chance to catch up. In a lodge by the Chapare River, overlooking a wonderful river valley that snaked into the distance and the snow-capped Andean foothills, most of us ate some bad fish and succumbed to a bout of food poisoning. For two days in Sucre I crawled from bed to toilet and back again. From an earlier visit to South America I knew this was one of the many delights the continent kept in store for its foreign visitors.

Completely dehydrated and sapped of strength, I had to prepare for what was to be the “journey to hell” from Sucre to La Paz. Long distance bus journeys in South America are really only for locals or those travellers who are fit, healthy and in possession of a good sense of humour. Unfortunately, at the time, I didn’t fit into any of these categories and suffered for it. The distance to La Paz was only 250 miles but the scheduled journey time of 24-hours spoke volumes for the conditions on this particular route. Only a few miles on either side of the cities are tarmac, the remaining 240 miles are rough, dirt tracks winding their way skywards through the mountains and valleys of the Eastern Cordillera and finally into the Andes themselves. On a tight bend with a sheer drop, one wrong turn by the driver would necessitate the locals erecting yet another cross by the roadside in memory of more victims to a very common form of death in Bolivia.

The sunrise found us roaring towards the distant Mt. Illimani which we overlooked our destination — La Paz — the highest city in the world. As I unpacked in our hotel on one of the higher rims of this soup bowl setting of a city I realised my growing weakness, dizziness and nausea was due to the high altitude and lack of oxygen in the air. My food poisoning was being replaced with an attack of altitude sickness.

We were to wait in La Paz for a week for the repaired truck to catch up with us. With the realisation that Bolivia and my health weren’t totally compatible, I took a flight west to Chile and the northerly town of Arica to rest and eat again.

I returned to La Paz, ready to tackle any new challenge Bolivia had for me and was greeted by the disastrous news that upon nearing the city our newly repaired truck was involved in an accident, virtually writing it off. The overland company came to the rescue with a chance of joining another truck doing the same trip or continuing by public transport. I chose the truck.

As a final farewell to Bolivia the military twice tried to arrest me. Once for photographing some building in La Paz’s central plaza and the final time for not carrying my yellow fever inoculation certificate, which every good traveller normally carries by his finger tips. After crossing Lake Titicaca into Peru and heading for our base of Cuzco — the old heart and capital of the Inca empire — we spent four days hiking the Inca Trail to see the fabled ruined city of Machu Picchu. When we returned to Cuzco we were surprised to see our original truck, slightly battered but otherwise in good shape.

The town of Arequipa loomed as our final city before the long trek down to the coast. It was here that many members of the group fell victim to South America’s legendary pickpockets. Crowded market places are favourites for the thieves. They crowd around you, slit your pack with a sharp knife and as all your belongings fall to the ground they help themselves as you flounder impotently. Having learnt well from my previous visit to Colombia years before I proved unlucky hunting for the thieves.

Amazingly, without any other adverse incident, we headed down from the Altiplano and reached the Pacific coast where the warm sun and beach awaited us. Having lived at high altitude in our thermal gear for weeks we happily stripped off and plunged into the inviting surf as soon as the opportunity arose.

We had finally made it across the Andes, from the Atlantic to the Pacific oceans, in a crazy series of mishaps and adventures, some people lighter by a few sickness induced pounds, others lighter by the pickpocket induced variety. We had travelled through some of the most bleak and barren, yet achingly beautiful mountain scenery imaginable. We had witnessed people living a life unchanged for millennia, tending small plots of land with llama and alpaca flocks and cultivating terraced hillsides. South America is surely one of the last places left where real adventure travel, with all its unpredictability, can be found. Even with hindsight I am returning for my third visit next year.