He obliged and ten minutes later we were boarding the bus for Copacabana, not the beach in Rio where bronzed torsos and taut buttocks reign, but a gringo hideout on the Bolivian shore of Lake Titicaca.
Here we would change buses and head to La Paz, whereas many of our fellow passengers would stay put, lose their shoes, omit to shave or wash, bang some bongos and get routinely pie-faced.
The Europeans that is. The rest of our bus was made up of young Peruvians (or they might have been Bolivians, they all look the same to me) and, because we were crossing a border there were formalities to adhere to.
These are no great shakes. Complete the paperwork you're given by the bus conductor with name, address, passport number and where you're headed to.
There are no trick questions and neither are you requested to explain the theory of relativity, to translate a 1000 word passage of Mandarin into Gujarati nor explain the offside rule to a woman.
Why then, it took the woman opposite us one full hour to complete her paperwork I know not.
What I do know is that her borrowing my pen for that length of time made me strangely uncomfortable and ridiculously possessive of the inanimate object that I had managed to charm out of a Colombian shop assistant for nothing anyway.
Maybe I've been away too long.
I knew it was irrational but I couldn't help wanting my pen back and tucking it safely in my bag, away from frivolous misuse.
Despite this, and the constant chatter of these young South Americans around us, the bus to Copacabana was much more comfortable than our connection.
On this second leg we were allocated seats at the very rear of the bus, seats which seemed more cramped than any others and which we're broken in the 'recline' position.
Not a normal recline position though, they were somehow curved so that your shoulders and hips were about a foot further back than than your midriff.
It would have been fine were we contortionists, yoga practitioners or on a different bus altogether.
I chatted to a Californian guy as we skirted Lake Titicaca, the usual stuff: how long are you travelling, where'd you start, where are you going to finish etc.
Like many twenty-something guys (and girls) on the road, his trip seemed to be based purely on alcohol.
Whilst I'm all for drinking to excess every now and again I don't know how these people do it (or afford it) night after night.
I must acknowledge though that I am undeniably 'middle-aged', a dreadful realisation but it explains why Kerry and I haven't truly bonded with anyone we've met.
Travellers seem to be either 20-30 ish and grooving on down at Part-ay Central night after night or sextuagenarians on three week long, all inclusive tours.
We are neither fish nor fowl.
We arrived in La Paz, elevation 12000ft, at tea time and found a good room, slap bang in the city centre with views of the nearby church and plaza of San Francisco.
The clocks had changed by an hour giving us an extra hour's daylight so we made use of this and had a bit of a wander.
For dinner we espied a self-proclaimed 'British curry house' and couldn't resist a rogan josh and a madras, the perfect antidote to the bland fare we've endured for so long.
They need to work on their naan bread and their take on pilau rice was truly bizarre but the sweat-inducing "Ruby Murrays" certainly hit the spot.
On Tuesday we set out to explore the city and, if truth be known, if you're not a museum buff it needn't take you long.
We walked about five miles in a loop around town and, because of the altitude and high pollution, it rendered us pooped quite quickly.
The city houses a million people and it appeared that they were all attempting to walk around the city centre at once.
It was chock-a-block and a real assault on the senses with bowler-hatted women shuffling about, menacingly masked shoe-shine boys and more beggars than we've seen since the USA.
It's quite a cosmopolitan place, not as upmarket as Panama City for instance, but it definitely leaves the likes of Tegucigalpa, Guat City and Managua wanting.
Our last major archaeological site of this trip could be found on the outskirts of La Paz so, despite the rain, we set out on Wednesday for Tiahuanaco.
Tiahuanaco culture predated the Inca but not a lot is known about them.
There is a lot of conjecture about when they were at their zenith, ranging from 10,000BC to 1000AD, a fantastic date range proving that next to nothing is truly understood or accepted.
It was a trial to get there as first we had to take a local collectivo to the city cemetery and then change there for another collectivo to Tiahuanaco.
Only one person was in the second van when we arrived to take our seats, not a good sign given that these usually only depart when full.
After quickly realising that we could sit there for aeons we paid for all the seats in the van so that he would leave immediately. While this sounds extravagant, each fare was only about a pound so it was still a bargain for the near two-hour journey.
We chatted to our fellow passenger, Andrea, discovering that she was that most unusual of travellers, a young, lone, female, South American backpacker.
She began telling us some of her tales and we were all astounded to realise that a companion of hers on a trek in the Peruvian cordillera four weeks hence was the same Derek we'd trekked to Machu Picchu with.
It was freezing cold, raining and blowing a gale as we got out of that van high on the Bolivian altiplano.
Those waterproofs and my super-insulated trekking jacket that I've carried in my pack for eight months through steaming jungles and to beaches hitting 32 degrees?
They'd be in the room back in La Paz!
We traipsed through this inclement weather, mud affixing itself to the soles of our trainers as we walked and to cap it all the site was a severe letdown.
The Sun Gate, something I'd wanted to ogle for many a long year, was much smaller than I thought it would be and the rest of the complex was in such ruinous condition that you'd have to be a serious archaeological nut to get too much out of it, particularly with it being so cold that our nipples were taking on the appearance of chapel hat pegs.
One short hour later we joined an equally underwhelmed Andrea in a collectivo back to La Paz, reaching there in good time to find a bar in which to watch Chelsea v Nordsjaellands in the Champions League.
Not any old bar either; Oliver's is run by a Villa fan from Birmingham who came backpacking to South America five years ago, met a local girl and decided to stay.
It was lovely to talk footy with someone who knew their onions, despite his questionable allegiance.
I had two pints of the local beer as I delighted in watching Chelsea's demise and never have I felt so sloshed on such a paltry amount.
Not good considering what I was to undertake the next day whilst my travelling companion had a well-deserved day of pampering and self-indulgence.
On Thursday I was up early leaving a slumbering Kerry to her own devices, which turned out to be hair dyeing and emailing just about everyone she knows.
I was making for the Cafe Alexander, rendezvous for those about to embark on a traversal of 'The Worlds Most Dangerous Road', a 65km downhill mountain bike extravaganza.
You may recall this road from a Top Gear Special a couple of years back.
It links La Paz with Coroico in the Yungas region of Bolivia and is notorious for the number of deaths that have occurred on it.
Since it opened in the 1940s an average of 26 people have met their maker at its hands each year.
Since mountain biking down it began in 1998 around 20 cyclists have succumbed to stupidity, carelessness or misfortune and not made it back to claim their "I Rode The Worlds Most Dangerous Road - and survived" tee shirts.
We travelled by minibus up to a pass at 15300ft and were issued with our bikes, full suspension MTBs, and our professional looking gear.
The first 20 odd kilometres were on the tarmac and the wonderful rush of careering downhill on a push bike soon engulfed me.
A couple of young Aussies in our group seemingly had a death wish, overtaking a lorry which was overtaking a bus on a blind bend but I guess that was up to them.
We soon arrived at the main event and had a stern briefing from our American guide about road etiquette and not to take stupid risks.
In our favour the road was effectively decommissioned in 2007 with the opening of the new road. On the other hand, knowing you were unlikely to encounter much, if any, traffic could lead to foolhardy derring do, falls, injuries or worse.
The surface was atrocious. Perfect for mountain biking but it was little wonder
that so many accidents had occurred over the years. It was essentially scree with hairpin bends, waterfalls which fell directly onto the road, a couple of landslides, two streams and precipitous drops which, when flashing past on a bicycle, did not require dwelling on.
Well, obviously I came to no harm.
And don't worry Ma, I slowed down from 50mph to 45mph for the corners.
It was an absolutely brilliant experience, cycling at its most extreme and a fabulous thrill.
Of course it was reckless and at my age I should perhaps know better but I know I would have cursed had I not given it a bash.
Plus, I now have a new tee shirt.
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