What would we do?
Head north into an Amazonian National Park? Very interesting but the wrong direction in the grand scheme of things.
Go to Potosi and visit the silver mines where the Spaniards enslaved so many? Ummmm, a tad morbid and not really our cup of tea at this juncture.
Meander west and make for Paraguay? Nope. Too slow and time's running out.
With one more 'must do' on our radar, the spectacular falls at Iguazu on the Brazil/Argentine/Paraguay border, we worked out that the quickest way to accomplish this was to drop down into Argentina, travel across the north of the country and then enter Paraguay.
So, after our three days in the jeep, in the same clothes and without showering, we made for the railway station at Uyuni and bought first class tickets to Villazon for that night's 2240 departure.
It was a foul evening in Uyuni and we had around five hours to kill before departure.
We chose one of the many pizza restaurants in which to dine, one with a menu that incorporated a wider range of fare, ordering vegetable soup for starters.
"No sopa" barked the portly and indigenous waitress.
Fair dos; we'll continue our vitamin free diet and simply have meat and rice again. Oh, and while you're about it, bung some chips on the side, I still have another couple of holes in my belt that I can make use of when the need arises. (which will be soon).
Fifty minutes later we were still without food and though we had time to dispense with, we were not of the mind to do it whilst suffering from hunger pangs. Hunger makes one tetchy and you can't afford to get the hump when you have but one friend in the world.
Finally our food arrived, though mine was so laced with chili that I couldn't finish it.
I'd ordered a beer half an hour ago, then again ten minutes ago and when it finally arrived it was nectar to douse the inferno within.
Whilst I sat trying to discreetly emit the gas generated by my fizzy lager, a club-footed chap with one leg about six inches shorter than the other and with one arm in a sling lurched out of the kitchen.
He turned out to be the chef, possibly explaining the severe delay and associated agitation expressed by all patrons as they waited an age for their nosh.
It was freezing cold at the station, pouring with rain outside and the bench on which we were sat was not kind to our sorry rumps. Our mood lightened somewhat on meeting Ecuadorian Andrea again, also off to Villazon, into Argentina and ultimately Iguazu.
However, what we really wanted was our train to be on time, to get on-board, settle down and try to sleep.
The train was about twenty minutes late and some rather noisy Canadians were in our carriage but they finally shut up around midnight, affording us the perfect conditions for sleep.
It was dark, quiet, the seats reclined and we had a blanket and pillow. Kerry was out for the count before we left Uyuni and we both slept pretty solidly until around 0630 - a great result when all things are considered.
We were chugging along at about 25mph but that didn't matter, we were due into Villazon at 0710 so we'd soon be off, having breakfast and crossing the border into Argentina where we planned to find a nice hotel and relax for the rest of that day.
At about 0700 rumours began to circulate among the English speaking contingent that we were running rather late.
How late?
Well, a look at our iPhone GPS map thingies suggested we had travelled about a quarter of the journey so far - Villazon was still an awfully long way away.
We collared the guard and asked what was going on.
"Ah, mucho rain in the night señor. Mucho late. Arrive Villazon 1300. Ish."
1300? That's in six hours time, plus, that's a Bolivian estimate, we can probably add an hour to that.
Bolivian railways, admirable as it is that they're there at all, are unlikely to be described as "High Speed" or "Inter-City" anytime soon. As I sat with nose pressed against my window for the next few hours I reckoned we were going at around the same pace that I could expect to cycle on the flat, probably 20-25 mph at a guess.
We had little choice but to suck it up and I was particularly miffed that I had no battery left on my phone. No battery means no reading, no photography, no blogging and no playing the games that have been such a godsend during some of our more tedious journeys and long evenings in our room.
(For the record, Kerry accepts she'll never top my Scrabble score, I've given up trying to beat her at Sudoku and honours are pretty even on Jewel Quest).
The train did at least have a dining car so we took breakfast and, as we were still trundling along at 1230, lunch too.
It was 1330 when we arrived in Villazon and it was a glorious feeling to be released from our incarceration and to feel the sun on us once again.
We took a cab to the border a mile or so away, changed our Bolivianos into Pesos (except that large stash in 'Rot' - whoops!) and joined a long and unmoving queue at immigration.
We had an awful feeling we were standing in the wrong queue for some reason and when we saw 'Che Guevara', a rakish Argentinian traveller from the train that had chatted up a blushing Kerry every time I went to the lav, we realised we were.
We had joined a party of Bolivians from a bus trip, explaining the quizzical looks they were giving us.
Borders are so confusing. There is no standard, people are milling about all over the oche and there are no comprehensible instructions. This one was also Argentine and, rightly or wrongly, this made us a little more apprehensive and self-conscious than usual.
It's fair to say that the Argies don't care much for the English and, to a large extent, that sentiment is reciprocated.
Anyone over the age of 40 will recall the Falklands War and the mildly curious will know that those islands have always been a bone of contention between us.
Our sovereignty of them harks back to our imperial days and, since 1833, Argentina has felt (possibly quite rightly) that they're theirs.
It's the equivalent of the Isle of Wight being governed by Argentinians so you can see their point.
Anyway, enough of all this political nonsense. Yes, we have Argy Bargy over the Falklands, yes, as free-thinking citizens of a democracy we abhor the period in the late 70s and early 80s when multitudes of Argentinians 'disappeared' because they were judged to be a threat to the military junta, but what really causes strife between our nations is football.
It all began in 1966 when we were drawn against Argentina in the quarter-finals of the world cup. Their captain, Antonio Rattin, was sent off and refused to leave the field, prompting Alf Ramsey, in his post-match comments, to refer to Argentinians as 'animals'.
Twenty years later and four years after the Falklands Conflict, the nations met again at the quarter final stage with Diego Maradona punching the first goal with his left hand and subsequently describing it as the 'Hand of God'. England fans love an injustice and that was perhaps the greatest of all time (along with Geoff Hurst's second against West Germany in '66).
A classic encounter in 1998 saw David Beckham sent off for a sly kick at Diego Simeone who made a ridiculous meal of it, and England lose on penalties to an Argentinian side that allegedly cheered, banged the windows and generally mocked the English as they drove past them on their bus after the match.
Finally, in 2002, England gained revenge by knocking a highly fancied Argentina out in the group stages, courtesy of a dodgy penalty, then putting the icing on the cake by mocking the vanquished in the way they had been four years earlier.
We represent the two schools of football: Us, the pious upholders of gentlemanly competition* and them, the scurrilous and under-hand 'win-at-any-cost-even-handball-in-the-world-cup-quarter-final' mob.
(*I feel we may be wavering from this reputation now but that's how things were once).
So, we're into Argentina, we've had our bags scanned for drugs, weapons and "Diego is a cheat" tee-shirts and the first thing we see is not "Welcome to Argentina" but a sign stating "The Malvinas are Argentinian".
We walked through the town of La Quiaca and, with the help of a couple of locals, found the rather uninspiring Hotel de Turismo, a concrete edifice of great ugliness.
Our room had a bed though, plus a hot shower - all that we needed after our recent travails.
Dinner was not easy to come by in La Quiaca but we eventually found a dingy cafe and ordered steaks and salad. It was very expensive and we mused whether we had paid extra for the ten or more flies buzzing around us and trying to settle on our grub throughout our patronage.
Argentina is not cheap - certainly not when compared to Bolivia.
Our journey to Paraguay would be an arduous one. Five hours south to San Salvador de Jujuy, fourteen hours east to Resistencia and five more north to Asuncion in Paraguay.
The way we tackled this was to head for San Salvador on Thursday morning, wait four hours there for an overnight bus to Resistencia, hole up there for a day and night to rest and then hop to Asuncion on the third day.
Sounds a doddle; was, in reality, a tedious and bum-aching, expensive drag.
The first leg was ok, though we were stopped twice for exhaustive luggage searches by the sinister sounding "Ministerio Del Interior" (whose interior? Not mine I hope!).
For the long leg we were in for a shock price-wise, the fare being four times what the Lonely Planet suggested it would be. On the plus side we both slept soundly on the bus, even if I did wake up with a strangely sore left armpit.
We went to quite a nice hotel in Resistencia and, as I peeled the shirt I'd had on since I couldn't remember when, I was horrified to see a suppurating sore under my left arm which had an aroma part teenage boys trainer and part boxers jockstrap.
I'm glad to report that a couple of days of hygiene (fresh shirt, washing, that sort of thing) it seems to be on the mend but yesterday I was close to emailing Channel 4s "Embarrassing Bodies".
Resistencia (presumably translated as 'Resistance' - funny name for a town!) was boiling hot, surely over 32 degrees.
We had a delightful day lounging by the pool and braved the sweltering heat later on in the search for food.
The leafy streets, plazas and western shops were a world away from Bolivia and Peru and, if truth be known, it felt nice to be here, surrounded by familiarity.
We must have still stood out from the natives though, judging by the amount of stares we got. I like to think it's my blue eyes they're all so fascinated by but it could be Kerry's overheated pallor.
The final leg, with Asuncion just over the border, should have been a breeze but a late bus, noisy kids behind us, two-hour border formalities and inexplicable 90 minute skirting of Asuncion turned into a very long and tiring day.
We made it though, back to sea level, back to the tropics.
Man it's hot!
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