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I jumped on a bus out of the dusty, sad, poverty-stricken little town of Uyuni and spent six hours crossing yet more desert to the mining town of Potosí. The landscape is dramatic and barren, but after a week in the desert, it all starts to look a bit the same. Also, the sheer drops by the side of the road are much less exciting after you´ve seen an overturned lorry at the bottom of one. The Bolivian at my side who seemed to be carrying only blankets had the stench of the perpetually unwashed, and I began to think twice about my decision to spend a few days in Potosí, the highest city in the world. It too was run-down, sad and dusty, and i was really looking for a bit of warmth and alegria after the lifelessness of the desert, and I was wishing I had caught the bus to Sucre, about three hours past Potosí.

But fate had its way, as it always has done since I´ve been in South America, the world conspired, and as soon as I stepped off the bus I was approached by a young Bolivian who said simply: “Sucre?”

He could take me in his car for the same price as the bus, and would take less time. I took it as I sign, checked there were other passengers, and jumped into the car.

We drove along the first paved road I had seen after four days in Bolivia, and I chatted with a fellow passenger about the political situation in the country (Bolivia has a recently elected, poncho-wearing president who causes mixed reactions) and where I should travel to. Then the most adorable middle-aged Bolivian couple got in, who held hands constantly, and the woman, Marta, kept staring at me and grinning. I had the chance to practise my only Quechua word on them, which they found hilarious, presumably having come into contact with very few gringos, and even les swho could greet them in their native language. The car was soon fille dwith the pungent aroma of coca, which the couple shared between them as if it were popcorn, shoving the leaves into their mouths until they both had fat wads in their cheeks to suck on for the three hour journey.

The landscape changed from brown rocks to green shrus, with llamas and vicuñas, and eventually we saw trees, and I was happy again. As we neared Sucre, there was a police roadblock, and Bolivian polica are distinctly intimidating characters. Our driver had all his papers, so they got annoyed and tried to have a go at him for something else. The only thing they could find to yell at him about was that he was wearing sandals. The poor driver eventually got back into the car, shaken and humilliated.

As we pulled into Sucre I realised I had been right to trust my instincts. It looks just like Spain, more specifically Andalucia, with a central plaza which looks just like that of Seville, complete with palm trees. Sucre is Bolivia´s “Ciudad Blanca” – White City – as all buildings are whitewashed each year. It was such a relief after the dust and grime of the last week. How funny, I thought, to come all this way because I didn´t want to be in Spain, and here I am, happy, because I´ve found a place which looks just like Spain.