This was supposed to be a “why you should leave the coast and take a trip inland” kind of piece, but it’s now become a “how to get out of Bolivia during a nationwide protest that’s left the entire country effectively locked down for six weeks.”

It started innocently enough. After a 35-hour bus ride from Chile I arrived in Uyuni, home to the largest salt flat on Earth. Uyuni the town is not a place that gives away its treasures easily. It’s dusty, wind-whipped and faintly post-apocalyptic.

But a short drive later, the world simply disappeared.

The salt flats aren’t white they are the absence of colour. The horizon dissolves. The sky leaks into the ground. Distances become theoretical. You stand there feeling as though someone has accidentally deleted half the planet. The surface crunches underfoot like brittle snow, carrying the mineral tang of salt on the wind. It’s vast in a way photographs can’t explain because photographs insist on having edges.

What impressed me most was that I was impressed at all. Long-term travel has a numbing effect. By month fifteen you’re standing in front of wonders of the world thinking, “Eh, it’s okay.” Spectacle becomes routine. Yet Uyuni somehow cuts through the fatigue. It still manages to make you stop talking.

Bolivia and my upbringing share an almost religious reverence for the Dakar Rally. The fabled Car race is my family’s State of Origin. Toby Price is… well, insert your family’s sporting god here.

I now have about ten thousand photos of Dakar monuments. Mum will be thrilled. I pointed at everything. Which stage was this? Did they drive here? Did Toby stand here?

Now, getting stuck in Bolivia is a long story, so I’ll try to keep it tight.

Three days in, we were told the country was in nationwide protest. Roads blocked. I hadn’t checked the news. They’d already been going three weeks. Bolivia had effectively closed for renovations.

I was told I could get to Sucre via Potosí. I went. Confident. Twenty minutes out: blockade number one. Confidence, I’ve found, is often just ignorance with good posture.

Recovering from a chest infection, carrying 20kg on my back, I trudged through the Bolivian mountains over roads decorated with rocks, glass and general civil unrest.

We detoured. Farmers. Sheep. Roads carved into cliffs dropping into what felt like the Earth’s core. The taxi doubled the journey. Halved my life expectancy.

Sucre itself was lovely. The blockades didn’t touch me there. But after two weeks I wanted out. More so because everyone kept telling me I couldn’t leave. I struggle with being told what to do.

After much deliberation, the plan: flights. Get south. Get out. I checked out at 11am. Went straight to the airport. It was empty. A ghost town. One flight on the board. Mine. 9pm. I sat down. Looked up. Delayed to 1:30am.

I didn’t stress. I caught up on sleep and work. 1:30am came and went. I was asleep at the boarding gate. Which is also security, also arrivals. 3:30am: flight takes off. I might not stress. But I’m not a happy girl when my sleep is disturbed. I cursed that plane like I wasn’t about to board it. Like it could just drop out of the sky. Flight time: 30 minutes. Yep, at the airport 15 hours before for a 30 minute flight.

Arrived, baggage claim, exit just to re-enter the airport, fall asleep across four chairs. Koala eye mask firmly on my face, four hours dead to the world, woke up with all my belongings intact. Amazing.

Check with the airline to see if I can get on the morning flight. At the last minute, and with a 20 dollar tip, I’m on a second plane. Also 30 minutes. Carbon footprint skyrocketing as we speak.

Taxi. Collectivo. Small town connection. Then I’m herded into a crumbling van briefly understanding how livestock feels. It starts absolutely pouring. Bag strapped to the roof. Brilliant. Stop at an abandoned service station. Eat an ice cream. It helps, briefly.

Continue to the bus station. Mennonites everywhere. I briefly wonder where they come from and whether I, too, could pull off the overalls.

The bus to Paraguay doesn’t leave from the station but from a random roundabout in the middle of nowhere. After the last bus leaves, it’s just me and a drunk man. I choose the roundabout. Not sure it’s an upgrade as I still get harassed by a man this one’s tripping balls.

Bus is at 2:30am. I sleep on my bag. Two hours gone. Bus arrives but it’s not my bus. I’m told mine isn’t coming today. It will come tomorrow.

Two women offer to take me to Paraguay. They don’t. We drive ten minutes, turn around. I ask where we’re going. Not Paraguay. We return me to nowhere.

They ask if I want the terminal or a hotel. In any other situation I’d probably choose the terminal, but I’m 50 hours without sleep and there is still a drunk man somewhere in the dark. Hotel please.

Sleep 5 to 11. Back to the station. Book another bus. Confirm aggressively that it leaves tomorrow at 2am. I now trust nothing.

Next day: 1am, I return. 2am: nothing. 2:15am: woman in pajamas appears. Bus is coming. It does.

Border crossing is easy for me. Less so for others. We wait an hour and a half. Then set on.

I made it out of Bolivia. Finally.

Wake-up call is around 8am when we’re filed off the bus into a makeshift alley. Bags lined up, we stand a metre away like we’re being prepared for execution. While still not entirely sure what’s happening, I’m trying to work out if Paraguayans are attractive.

My entire life is emptied onto the ground, then I’m told “Gracias” and left to re-pack it in about two minutes. Koala eye mask on my forehead.

Breakfast and lunch delivered to my seat, a first-class service in a moving metal coffin. Sleep until Asunción at 5pm.

Hour long bus to the hostel. Lots of old people. First encounter: a Holocaust denier. He was American, though I’m sure you could’ve guessed.

Came out my first morning. Got railroaded by the hostel tattoo artist. Got my first hostel tattoo. Needle. Ink. Mid-stab, we realise my friend and the tattoo artist had both dated the same Nicaraguan guy. Classic. Everything comes back to Las Peñitas.

So, maybe this backfired. I’ve basically confirmed you should stay by the coast. No waves. Stuck in Bolivia. And I only saw about ten percent of it. But it was a good ten percent. And if that’s just ten percent, even if the rest is half as good, I reckon it’d still be worth going.