25.10.08 Change is forced through

It’s been a momentous week in La Paz. 100,000 campesinos, miners and unionists marched here (paid by the government) and massed at the Plaza Murillo, home to the Senate. This show of force was to pressurise the opposition into passing the draft constitution so it would come to a referendum.
Previous debates over the constitution have been marked by opposition MPs being denied entrance to the Senate by demonstrators. The partner organisation of a friend was responsible for the blocking and jostling. As she said at the time, “We may need to go over our democracy capacity-building training.”
This time, the debate was held in the plaza—an unreasonably intimidating atmosphere for the opposition. The campesinos were angry, drinking and chewing coca. If the draft constitution’s passage was stopped there would be trouble—there were rumours that San Pedro prison would be stormed to the demise of Fernandez.
Even the date, 20 October, was loaded with historical significance. This day in 1548, the city was founded by Spanish conquistadors; 460 years later, the Bolivians were claiming it back.
After considerable backroom compromises and unbecoming horse-trading, the draft constitution was passed to a referendum. The immediate implications were there would be peace in the city. In the long term, it means Bolivia will be refounded to the benefit of its majority indigenous population rather than their marginalisation and subjugation. Surely a good thing, but fundamental change is painful with winners and losers, and there’s plenty of trouble still to come.

16.10.08 San Pedro prison and the Village People

Spanish classes are interesting at the moment as my teacher lives close to San Pedro. This area is home to the infamous prison, which incarcerates Governor Leopoldo Fernandez. He has been held here since September when he was arrested over the killing of 30 people in his state, Pando. The prison operates semi-autonomously of the guards and day releases can be bought (like everything else in there).

A round-the-clock vigil by Poncho Rojos is taking place to stop him leaving. The Poncho Rojos (red ponchos) are the militarised defenders and guardians of the Aymaran people or self-important drunks, according to who you speak to. Either way, Fernandez is still there and they are making a lot noise. Their custom is to set off dynamite fuses to scare evil spirits, in this case Fernandez, which interrupts my classes.

It would very healthy for Bolivia if Fernandez receives a fair trail, however, the signs are not good. He has been charged with genocide—while the Pando deaths may well be a massacre; genocide, they are not. What words would the prosecutors use to describe Rwanda? I fear the independence of the judiciary will not stand up to a great deal of scrutiny.

In other news, I’ve had to start using another pool. It’s just too much effort to swim around the snoggers and show-offs at the really local and cheap one. Also the sauna is no more relaxing. The last time I was there, the man next to me alternated between twisting the sweat from his sodden headband and running a comb through his thinning hair before returning it to the back of his Speedos. They do have music in there too—surely, a sauna is not the best environment for Village People’s complete works.

So, I’ve left this behind for the swank of the spa at the Hotel Europa. It’s social here too but at least the pool is left for swimming. In the sauna, it’s very chatty with handshakes for new arrivals and man hugs for friends. I’d never seen man hugs exchanged in such sweaty surrounds before and have decided not to make any friends.

28.9.8 Eating flamingo and "drinking alcohol"

Early in the morning, we sailed/rowed to Patiti, an island that was once home to an Inca civilization. All that was left of them was some old pieces of ceramic, which are now housed in a very impressive museum. Whether the local inhabitants would have preferred a reliable water supply or a museum is debatable, but what’s without doubt is that the sponsoring Finns’ cash went to the pots.

The journey back with the wind was swift and peaceful among the birds. Being surrounded by all these animals must be tempting for people looking to supplement their diet. I asked our guide if they hunted the birds. He replied that they didn’t because the birds were protected before adding that flamingo is delicious.

Driving back to La Paz through the dusty Altiplano, we went past a whirlwind. Red sand spiralled up into the clouds, sending up whatever it sucked up into the heavens. As we ploughed along, Susi’s eagle eyes saved us losing our luggage when she spotted a sleeping bag flying off the roof of the car and bouncing down the road.

A little further on we stopped at a check point and got out to buy drinks from a roadside stall. As well as the usual "refrescos", there was beer and every drivers’ favourite, Ceibo. Enticingly described as “drinking alcohol”, it’s 96% booze and comes in a utilitarian plastic container. Very good for the health, the charming cholita told me with a smile.

27.9.8 Sailing, singing and dancing

A weekend jolly away. We bounced along tiny dirt roads on the Altiplano in our 4x4. Eventually, we arrived at a small town (a sign read the water supply was funded by the UK), to find the town’s entire occupants were half-cut and standing around in the road. It was a blockade! Bolivia is beset by blockades—people stop work in order to stop other people from working. A lose-lose situation that is amazingly popular here. Anyway, this was my first.

The country has been covered by politically motivated blockades in recent weeks (sometimes opposing sides blockading the same roads) but this one had a simpler motive. We were on a smugglers’ route to Peru and the locals tax the contrabanders to drive their tankers through the town. Not having any gas or petrol, they hit us for some soft drinks. Clearly, standing around in the sun getting sloshed all day is thirsty work. Mikael mollified them with a few words of Ayamara and we were cheerily sent on our way with waves and £3 lighter. Mugging with a smile. We later learnt that 12 trucks loaded with diesel had passed through the day before.

We were here for a bucolic weekend and were staying in the most thatched place I have ever seen. The roof, floors and walls of our adobe cottage were all covered with dried reed. Outside, donkeys brayed in the sparse farmland under the biting sun and wind. Susi loves donkeys and rode one down to the lake. This was all going very well.

As we were punted out to a small island, endless birds flew overhead and sang. It was an even lovelier scene returning to the land under our bright sails as flamingos flew in front of the Andes.

The evening was equally unforgettable. After an impressively bland meal, we were given an introduction into local music. In came a man, one trouser legged rolled up, a llama-patterned hat on his head with a large Bolivian flag stuck in it, wearing a dead bird around his neck. This was a talented ladies man, who simultaneously sang, played the drum, pan pipes and maracas, and danced.

I left the room and returned to hear the recorder being played staggeringly badly. It was hard to believe a musical instrument could make such a terrible noise. My friends' shoulders were shaking with subdued laughter, Karin was compulsively eating to distract her giggling and everyone studiously avoided each others’ eyes to try to hold it together. Eventually, it finished and we were given an in depth analysis of the tablecloth.

Sadly, I had stomach cramps so left the others learning a new song with its own dance. The lyrics seemed apt: “Why? Oh-why? Oh-why-er?” Indeed. The dance began by snaking around the room in a line and developed into Hokey Cokey-style bumps.

7.9.8 The highest Englishman on earth

This brought new meaning to the phrase ‘early start’. Woken at 1am, we faffed around for an age with porridge, crampons, head torches and Toblerone, until it was time to set out into the darkness. The start was a steady, steep walk in the trail of points of light from earlier groups as they ascended into the stars. To our left was the pretty patchwork of El Alto—during the day, one of the world’s ugliest cities.

As I searched for my water, I quickly developed ethno-tat envy for Nicky’s tourist issue woven bottle holder. Viviana’s knees decided climbing was not for them and she went back down, leaving Nicky, Ola and I with the remaining guide.

The first test was The Wall: a thin ice bridge, over a crevice, leading to a wall of ice. Quite nerve wracking in the dark, but at least we had had some practice of ice climbing unlike other groups that just head straight out there. And so we plodded on until watching the sunrise—a glorious and exhilarating experience.

After further hours of trudging, reaching the peak was a great relief. At that moment I was probably the highest Englishman on earth. I would have loved to lie back, muse on this and have a sleep, but we had to walk back down again. For me, the joyful rush of being at a summit more than 6,000 metres up was rather tempered.

As Nicky pointed out being in Bolivia has ruined our standards of beauty. The gently rolling rolls of the Cotswolds can never compare to the mountains, lakes and planes of the Alti Plano.

Some 12 hours after we had set out we returned to the base camp. My legs were shaking, I was more automated walking machine than man. It was going to be great to return to decent food, beds and loos.

6.9.8 Top buzz

After a couple of hours sleep on a mattress on the floor, (at least it was my own mattress, even if I shared the room) and a carbohydrate-heavy breakfast, we moved on to the high camp. A further 730 metres up, we were now at 5,130 and the view was charming. Unlike the loo. Made up of a three stonewalls and a hole, it looked on to—not the endless, empty mountains but the door of our chalet. It had not been frequented by people with good aim.

I reminded myself that if all I wanted was quality loos I would still be loitering around The Savoy. It was better think about the excited ahead—behind the chalet, Huayna Potosi loomed. We would be there soon.

The news from the real world intruded even here—airports had been seized by the opposition and anti-government protests were speading.

5.9.8 Huayna base camp

This promised to be an interesting weekend, I was going to climb Huayna Potosi with friends. A mountain of more than 6,000m, this was beyond anything I had done before. We excitedly packed into a mini van, hacked through El Alto and into the desolate Alti Plano.

As we climbed along the dirt road, we passed a man in the middle of nowhere bent double carrying an enormous speaker. Where he was between it was impossible to say but somewhere was going to have a good Friday night.

We had left behind news of rising tensions in the east of the country. In Santa Cruz, both pro- and anti-Morales activists were blockading the same roads. They are living out a Bolivian version of mutually assured destruction.

There were frequent stops for passing llamas or group photographs, in which we all took the same photograph as a group. Eventually, we arrived at the base camp—4,400 metres up—the remaining 1,600 metres would be on foot.

Today, we were due to practice ice climbing. Strapped into all our gear and crampons, and carrying our ice picks, we got stuck into the nearest glacier. I loved it—as the guide was busy helping Viviana, I set off up a vertical ice wall. It felt good, solid, comfortable. Here was the sport for me. Then I heard a slightly nervous Bolivian voice: “Be careful, that is dangerous,” said our previously sanguine guide. All of a sudden it felt neither good, solid or comfortable. I slid, the ice pick held and I tried to look relaxed.

30.8.8 Risin' high

As demanding as climbing 5,000m+ peaks could be, Chacaltire must rank among the most embarrassingly simple. It’s a couple of hours’ drive from La Paz and then a steepish walk up the last few hundred yards. The problem is not the ascent so much as the challenge of getting enough oxygen in the bloodstream to power the limbs and brain. Fortunately, as we had all been living at more than 3,600 metres for some months now, we were relatively acclimatised and suffered no more than our retirement-age guide.

At the bottom of the walk is a wooden house perched on and over the mountain edge, it’s across the car park from the Alpine-inspired lodge. This used to be the base of the world’s highest ski run and the chalet’s bar walls are covered with natty old pics of Bolivians in 1980s ski wear.

The old drag lift is still there but global warming has put pay to the snow. The sad remnants of the glacier remain but it is going the way of all the glaciers around La Paz. Within 20 years, it is predicted they will all be gone. As the main supplier of water to the city, the effect of losing them will be catastrophic.

This was a dry run for next week’s expedition up Huayna Potosi. A proper Toblerone bar of a mountain; it’s only a further 600 meters up but without even dodgy road access, it will be real exercise to get there.

16.8.8 Fiesta!

I was spending the weekend with friends on the outskirts of Coroico, a sleepy tourist town down in the Yungas jungle. In the morning, Viviana and I were looking for a coffee and found the plaza was packed with people who had come in from outside town for a chat on market day. We were approached by a tout trying to flog us his trip to the annual fiesta of a community of the descendants of African slaves.

They are a famous community because there are very few black people in Bolivia. The Spaniards had brought slaves from Africa to work in the mines but they could not adapt to the conditions so they were moved to work in the Yungas plantations. The community remains here retaining some of its culture and independence. There are so few back people that until very recently it was considered good luck to see one in La Paz.

After a very bouncy trip across to the next hill, we arrived at Tocana to find dozens of people (tourists mostly) outside the church. There were also black cholitas with tiny braids. When the congregation came out, prayers were said for the party and its organisers: immaculately made up black women in dangerous heels, pointy shoes and low cut tops, and a white guy in a suit. It was an incongruous scene on the dusty road outside the tiny church.

Eventually the procession set out from the church. An icon of Mary was carried at the front, followed by black priests in white vestments. Behind them a band in white sequined jump suits pounded on drums accompanied by a man with a scratch board. Next came a group of women dancers in beautiful white dresses, who led us all away. In all, we were approximately 50 black Bolivians and the same number of visitors—largely Argentine hippies.

Our Pied Pipers took us past a mountain of beer and down to the USAID-funded basketball court/football pitch cut into the jungle-covered hill. At either side of the court, piles of speakers pounded out “Hotel California” and then the stalkers’ anthem “Every Step You Take”. Somewhere here was the descendant of an African king but I didn’t get to meet him.

10.8.8 Election day

Election day is perfect for a drive because all cars are banned from the streets. It’s less than perfect if you’re heading to a meet friends in a bar because groups are not allowed to congregate and alcohol sales are prohibited. Patricio and I were out with an official licence to monitor the recall referendum of President Evo Morales and the nine prefects (county heads).

We drove up to the hill from La Paz to the Alti Plano as the sun was burning off the cloud in the city valley. Unlike my experiences in the UK, the benches outside our first polling station were not for informal polling by reps of the local parties chummily sharing bum space, but for snack sellers. There would be no opposition representatives here, not without there being problems at least. MAS (the government party) were going to win anyway.

On the door to the schoolyard, which was playing polling station for the day, were MAS posters of the voting card with big ticks representing where to place your support. The cards are in Spanish, which was difficult for those older indigenous people who don’t speak the language or can’t read anyway. Patricio saw one old lady confirming with the voting administrator where she should place her ticks. Yes, Evo. No, Prefect.

Voting is required by law here, but the threat of sanctions did not seem necessary. The low sun cast long shadows in the dusty schoolyard as the people queued patiently waiting for voting to start. Bolivia has only been a democracy for 20 years and people take their enfranchisement seriously. Here they are MAS supporters and wanted to back their man.

On the desk at the front was a pot of indelible ink so the illiterate could use thumbprints to vote and everyone stained a fingertip to prevent them from voting again elsewhere. The actual placing of ticks is a serious act and the classrooms where it took place were guarded by stony-faced cholitas to ensure absolute secrecy.

Outside the social side opened up with food market stalls offering a range of delights knocked up on the spot, not all of it deep fried. Between polling stations, the roads were full of people making their way to vote. With no cars allowed it was a choice between walking and cycling. We went past one old chap hobbling painfully to fulfil his democratic duty and support Evo.

2.08.08 The party's over

In the morning, the laden pole top in the bullring was empty. The bull tethered to its base to prevent theft looked redundant and terribly bored.

Today was the closing finale procession, so all the groups paraded around the pretty square and into the church. Everyone seemed a little jaded and I wondered if the religious aspect was coming to the fore now that the bacchanalian adventures had run their course. After all, this was not merely a week-long piss up, instead, it was a religious event in honour of the founder of the Jesuits, the Catholic order who originally set up the town. What they would have made of the custom of putting Jesus in a frilly peach skirt is difficult to say.

In the afternoon, the family I was staying with all went for a swim in the lake as the sun set. A fantastic setting but it was best not to think about the alligators that share it. The heavens filled with colour, which was reflect in the lake, and then darkness fell. Lying on the decking we watched the busy evening above, as the stars and moon were jostled by the satellites, planes and shooting stars.

1.8.8 Climbing the greasy pole

To add a little extra spice to the drunken shenanigans, a huge pole was being erected in the bullring. While one man smoothed it down with a machete, another greased it up. The plan was for the guys to try and climb the pole to win prizes (top prize was a bike) at the same time as everyone else tried to knock them off by throwing plastic bottles. I was surprised to see that they weren’t using vouchers but the actual prizes were being attached. This raised the possibility of being knocked from the top by a bottle to the bonce, falling 20 metres to the ground, being gored by the bull and then a saucepan landing on your head just as you were coming round.

Much less hungover today, I went back to the indigenous people’s hall. They’re very kind but I turned down their offer of wheat-based booze. Patricio described it as instant diarrhea, perhaps unfairly. The room filled with dancers in their huge feather headdresses and a band. It was already bright, the far wall covered ribbons, icons and three statues of Jesus dressed in peach chollita skirts—as is the local custom.

Outside, I met one of the drunkest men I have ever had the pleasure of encountering. Swaying back and forth in his firework hat, wooden mask and piss-stained trousers, he giggled and rambled happily. By now, the days of drinking were taking their toll and party detritus was everywhere. Men were passed it out on the floor, in the middle of the road, in the stands of the bull ring…

Near the town is a large lake in the jungle. As the sun set, we sat on the short wooden pier drinking cold beer and jet skiing. This was exactly as much fun as it sounds.

It was not the best night’s sleep: church bells and drums of a night parade woke me up and then the screams of a cat being killed by dogs outside my window stopped me going back to sleep.

31.07.08 Cock and bull story

The next morning I felt a little jaded after a long night drinking whisky. There was nearly a nasty incident when I visited the indigenous dancers in the cultural centre. It was sticky - the hottest part of the day - drums were pounding and I nearly passed out on the bone-strewn floor among the other casualties from last night and the cows. Instead, I stumbled back and had a siesta.

Feeling only relatively refreshed, we went out to the bull fighting. A richety wooden stadium had been constructed. It was packed and to find a seat we wobbled up a makeshift ladder to the seventh tier. Given the likelihood of slipping and falling or the entire construction collapsing, it seemed much safer to be in with the bull than sat in the stands.

Behind me (the seats were just planks), bands thumped and five groups of costumed dancers assembled. A black head loomed between my thighs and a woman appeared. Looking for balance she reached and grabbed the least stable handful she could find. Once she had let go and found her footing in her four-inch heels, she complained my shoes had made her white leisure suit dirty.

There was none of the operatic grandeur that I had seen at bullfights before. This was rather more bucolic: dozens of impressively drunk cowboys with their shirts off tried to annoy the bull into running at them. The spectacle was enlivened when the machismo overflowed into fights or when one of the cowboys rode the bull.

Of everyone there, only the bull was in absolutely no danger. However, despite the casual attitude of many of the drunks taking part (one took a nap on the stadium floor), there was real potential for catastrophe. One man was flung in the air by the bull, he landed badly and died two days later of a brain injury leaving a 15-year-old wife.

Once we had had our fill of the bulls, Patricio and I went to the cockfighting. It was held under a thatched roof, where tiers of men drinking whisky stared intensely into a pit. Their shouts of encouragement and bargaining over bets accompanied the band as the two cocks with sharpened spurs fought in the intense humidity. As they pecked, kicked and jabbed trying to kill each other, men outside lovingly stroked their birds in anticipation of their turn to fight.

30.7.8 San Ignacio de Moxos

I was off to a fiesta in the jungle. Although I would have felt safer in a large jet, at least in a 23-seater plane there are no arguments about who gets an aisle seat. The captain gave a turbulence warning and we felt every bump as we climbed over the mountains and beyond the clouds. Then we dropped out on to endless scrubland, this was Trinidad.

It had recently rained hard and was extremely humid, so I congratulated myself for taking off my long johns in La Paz. In truth, my jumper was also unnecessary. Past the chickens outside the airport, I took a motorbike taxi to where my bus left for San Ignacio de Moxos (my destination). Incongruously, the driver was sporting a dress shirt that may have seen better days but at least showed he was making an effort.

Killing time, I sat outside a bar with a cold beer and watched the swarms of motorbikes. Men, women, babies and televisions went past, and that was on one bike. Girls comfortably sat on the back often ridding side-saddle, some wearing pro-autonomy T’shirts.

Trinidad is not a wealthy town, the buildings are squat and their paint is peeling in the heat. As I waited for my bus, I saw a filthy toddler drinking from a puddle and wondered what the passing squad of riot police were policing.

The bus turned out to be an open-top truck with padded planks for seats. It was a dramatic if uncomfortably journey. As the sun set, white birds became pink as they flew overhead and the weather deteriorated. An otherwise dark night was illuminated by electrical storms, fireflies and countless stars.

Some hours later and having crossed three rivers by tiny boat, we arrived at San Ignacio. I was greeted at the town square by a menacing parade of blokes in wooden old man masks and wide heavy hats approaching a crowd with huge feather headdresses carrying wooden machetes. One of the masked men danced around me pointing at my cricket hat in a dismissive manner. So this was it.

Things were really picked up after I met my friends. One of them, Gourdy, had a firework competition with another man in the plaza. This was great, except they kept falling over and flying into the crowd. Then the bands kicked off, led by heavy drums they pounded ceaselessly. While the marchers in headdresses and machetes danced, fireworks were thrown around by the crowd—sparks hit me in the head and hand—and the masked men wheeled through the crowd, their hats spraying out pyrotechnics and clouds of toxic smoke.

20.7.8 Amboro and back again

In the morning, the mist had settled in the areas where the vast expanse forest had been cleared, beyond that mountains fringed the earth below the pink sky.

After a taxi and then a bouncy jeep trip through forest and river, we reached our jungle eco resort in Amboro National Park. I didn’t know what “eco” actually means, my fear was it meant little more than there would be no hot water. In fact, its owner appears to be responsible for clearing rain forest as well as collecting puma cubs. And there was no hot water. Aside from the eco-credentials, it was a great place to stay.

While our time in the primary rain forest was beset by sand flies, we also saw tarantulas, snakes and frogs. Not a great tally admittedly but a large hairy spider also attached itself to the underside of the brim of my hat. Branches were moved by monkeys, bubbles perhaps from alligators appeared in a lagoon and a crashing on a night walk eminated from we-don’t-know-what.

Each trek featured a magnificent waterfall or lake to swim in, which was truly delicious in the heat. After a few days, we returned to Santa Cruz. On our way into town, we passed some policemen who had pulled over two boy racer cars and were questioning the drivers. We were impressed to see the disrespected Bolivian bobbies doing their jobs. As we passed it was clear that they were merely closing off the road so it could used as a drag strip.

Continuing the Santa Cruz theme of employing girls, young ladies, some of them old enough to vote, handed out pro-autonomy leaflets in the plaza.

Even the worse taxis here are a little smarter than back in La Paz, of course, there’s still no seat belts. Returning to Santa Cruz there was little room for our luggage in the boot given the huge bass bin. In the front, the CD player pumping out reggaeton had a screen showing videos. I can only assume that reggaeton (South American R&B) is an acquired taste.

16.7.8 Buena Vista, and indeed it has

Susi picked up somewhere to stay as a stop-gap before we hit the jungle. On the basis of this I can highly recommend coffee plantations as a place to lay your head. All sat at the top of the slightly rickety wooden viewing platform, there were endless views over the jungle—perfect for watching the sunset with a Cuba Libre.

A clean, friendly, well-organised place in a beautiful location—we were all amazed. On the down side, the promised monkeys failed to materialise. This was the first in a series of simian no shows. And strangely, they weren’t great at making coffee.

16.7.8 The charms of Santa Cruz

We’ve made it down to Santa Cruz, the home of the drive for autonomy. The city has a very different feel to La Paz, its western rival. The drive into town from the airport follows a long, flat strip of stores and restaurants. Curiously without potholes, it’s about as different in terms of topography and culture from El Alto as is possible to imagine.

Our grotty hotel was just off a glorious plaza, with an impressive cathedral, where the citizens were strolling between the palm trees in short sleeves enjoying the warm evening. As residents of La Paz, we are pre-programmed to dislike Santa Cruz, so this was all a little disarming.

In the morning, we returned to the plaza, which is emblazoned with the green-and-white flags of Santa Cruz. One of a group of friendly girls in the city’s colours gave me a pro-autonomy leaflet belonging to a right-wing political party that called itself “socialist”. Not great connotations in an area with a flourishing fascist youth movement. There’s no doubt the genetic makeup is different here—there are very few chollitas, and the people are noticeable whiter and taller.

We belted out of the city in a taxi, heading to Buena Vista in the countryside at breakneck speed. At a garage, our old cab was filled with petrol by a pretty girl in tight trousers and a low-cut top. Looking round it was clear to see this was the employment policy. I reminded myself that I disapproved—there’s a level of machismo here that I am not used to.

14.7.8 So good they named it comically twice

I can now categorically state that Lake Titicaca does exist (this is probably only news to me), not only that, but it’s vast, cold and beautifully blue. We’re back from a weekend there. Our first night was at Copacabana, which was curiously short on showgirls called Lola or anything else. A tourist Mecca, every conceivable form of Andean ethno tat is on offer as you step out of the bus into the bustling town square.

In the morning we took the ferry out to Isla del Sol. The walk from north to south started with some ropey old Inca ruins and follows the ridge along the island’s backbone. Even from the highest point, the lake disappears, shimmering into the horizon. It is huge.

The route is littered by locals charging to walk on their section of path and their children flogging rocks and sweets or posing for photos with llamas. At our destination I went to bed for a while and watched the sun set out of the window on to the lake and mountains. Stunning.

9.7.8 Death roaders, let’s go!

This was not something anyone had ever said to me before and, frankly, it’s a bit silly. Anyway, off Robin and I went, down “the most dangerous road in the world” (™UN 2004). It’s a 40km ride down 3,100m from rock and ice to sultry jungle. In fact, now there’s no traffic on it, it’s considerably safer than Hyde Park Corner—as long as you avoid the precipice perpetually to your left. The days of 100s of deaths each year are over. However, we were overtaken by another group, at the back was a man old enough to be indifferent to another birthday. Trying to keep up, he screamed past us; dangerously out of control, he dragged his right climbing boot as he tried to pull himself around the bend and away from the sheer drop—nothing but air for hundreds of feet.

Exercise here is a confusing business—there’s very little of it, apart from the ubiquitous football. The swimming pool is a place for standing around, flirting and showing off. My attempts to swim lengths involve slaloming around teenagers chatting, catching their breaths after two or three furious strokes of front crawl or recovering from landing on their backs after an ill-conceived dive.

There’s very little running, with the exception of the busy main road from La Paz to El Alto. Even in the dark, the slender hard shoulder of this steep climb, which rises 550m, is lined by people in tracksuits pounding the long dangerous route. The air is thin of oxygen but thick of carbon monoxide, so these guys’ lungs would be a wonder to scientists.

Bar the very odd, very solitary, lycra-wearing nutcase, only the police cycle in La Paz. On cheap bikes donated by the Chinese, they puff along (often on the pavements). Bicycle policemen are an utter farce here, a brisk walk up any hill would be enough to let any robber escape with his swag.

1.7.8 All the essentials

We are lucky enough to have guests to visit, which requires the provision of luxuries like somewhere to sleep. In La Paz’s number one department store, there may be a dearth of tasteful John Lewis-style goodies but they do offer a fine line in luxury, quilted washing machine covers. I bought two.

In the black market, we bought alpacha wool blankets and the only bed cover we could find — soft-focus tigers on one side and cuddly pandas on the other. Book your flights now.

Having visitors means we have to take them out. After a rather unfortunate day, we took Emma to the Radisson. This is as swanky as La Paz gets, and from the 14th floor bar the night-time cityscape beneath the stars was spectacular. My eye was caught by a new light as the moon rose from behind the mountains. Fabulous.

30.06.08 Caught by the fuzz

On Saturday night, we went to a Sex in the City party. It was an interesting evening for three reason, firstly, we were spared the film, which I can only imagine is eye-gougingly awful; secondly and refreshingly, there were openly gay people there—the first we’ve seen since leaving London; and thirdly, we were stopped by the police on the drive home. Back in Blighty, this would have been serious: the car was overloaded, had only one headlight and was being driven by someone who, while not drunk, would not pass a breath test. Here, there were anxious moments, some uncomfortable grovelling, the passing of a 20 boliviano note and we were on our way. The most depressing part of this was how pathetically cheap it is to corrupt the police: 20 bolies is about £1.50.

15.6.8 Brazil, it ain't.

I doubt the chant: “It’s like watching Brazil” has ever been applied to the Bolivian national team. But a game against arch rivals Chile in a last ditch attempt to stay in the qualification race for the World Cup should at least have had some spice to it. We arrived at the concrete monolith in time to hear both team’s fans politely respecting each other's anthem—it turned out the Bolivian’s were saving their whistling for the Chilean keeper.

Fans unfurled flags the size of Liechenstein, bounced up and down, set off bangers and fireworks, and the Chileans chanted along to a huge drum. Promising stuff! I wanted flares and the equivalent of burning Lambrettas (llamas?) being thrown off the upper tiers. Sadly, once the game kicked off, the home fans were disappointingly quiet—and I’ve watched Arsenal vs Watford at the Emirates.

Still, the first goal was a beauty, the ball hammered off the cross bar, was headered back into the box and bicycled kicked from the penalty spot into the goal. Blimey! The Chileans celebrated as if they had won the World Cup.

The Bolivians may not chant but they must have an impressive reputation for throwing: riot police protected Chilean corner takers with their shields, and escorted the ref and linesmen off the field in a Roman testudo-like formation.

9.5.8 There's a riot going on - during the footie!

Innocently watching Euro2008 in an open fronted café, I was distracted by a noisy demonstration. Hundreds of cholitas in bowler hats and men in baseball caps streamed past carrying banners, chanting and firing dynamite fuses into the air. The official advice is stay away these “manifestacions” but that doesn’t take into account viewing live sport. Instead, I watched as they concertinaed to a stop outside, a man stared at me and began a chant of “Death to the Yankees!”

I smiled sweetly, packed my laptop in my bag and observed the café’s security guard take out his truncheon. They moved on again and it all calmed down. 0-0 at half time. Twenty minutes into the second half (still 0-0), a crowd of cholitas ran past, the noise picked up and suddenly the road was packed. A roar went up, missiles were thrown, shops boarded up as glass smashed, something hit me on the leg–not a dynamite fuse, thank God.

The excitement passed, and I returned to the game (no excitement here: 0-0). Another distraction when tear gas was let off, as someone in the first flush of a highly productive cold, this could have been spectacularly unpleasant. Fortunately, I suffered no exacerbation to my existing symptoms.

At the final whistle it had been a soul-sappingly tedious 90 minutes of football for everyone who wasn’t Romanian or sitting next to a minor riot.

The demonstration was instigated by a story that the US was giving amnesty to former Defense Minister Carlos Sanchez Berzain. An iron-fisted fellow, he’s held responsible for the killing of 60 residents of El Alto when the country went into meltdown in 2003. The marchers had descended from the Altipano and were en route for the fortress-like US embassy, where fireworks and tear gas were exchanged.

26.05.08 Precious little peace in the cemetery district

The trip to Qutapampa had taken five hours, while the return trip lasted seven (with a 30-second piss stop after a child was sick). It was 2am when we arrived at the La Paz cemetery district late but alive. I was keen to stretch my legs, when a couple of ladies urged me not to go. Curiously, neither she nor anyone else was making any effort to leave the stinking vehicle.

Fearfully, she said that the area was dangerous and full of thieves, so we should stay on the bus. Absolutely everyone else was doing exactly that—waiting until the sun rose. It did look quite rough outside; there were lots of drunk people shouting, relieving themselves, snogging and fighting.

It reminded me of Watford. However, here it’s not safe for westerners to pick up taxis, there have been too many recent hostage takings. Instead, we sat with the others and waited for our radio taxi to turn up. We pitied the long frightened night these poor country folk had ahead.

25.05.08 The trail ends (in a shambles)

I was up with the sun and admired how the corrals and thatched houses, built from the rock, seemed to complement the mountain they made of. The village was noisy with the sounds of birds waking, llamas sneezing, pigs rooting, kids shouting and gnarled herders rousing their stock and clearing their passages.

Before my breakfast, I watched the admirable llamas chewing: top lip resolutely unmoving, bottom lip dropping and sweeping to the right exposing a line of fine gnashers, before centring and mirroring the process.

As the clouds cleared to reveal distant mountains, the herds were ushered to their grazing across the village football pitch (a community of 10 would have a full-sized pitch in Bolivia). As fuel, llama and alpaca waste is a precious resource, which they thoughtfully deposit in the same spot. Hundreds of them passed, performing their morning abolutions on the centre spot and rolling in the dust where the corner flag would be.

Our gang of five (Susi, guide, small girl herder, donkey and I) followed a river valley towards our final destination. Throughout the morning our surroundings became progressively greener and readily liveable. As the air warmed in the sun, the fertile land was increasingly agricultural, made up of fields and terraces. Chicken, goats and cows replacing the alpachas, who find don't find the warmth and low altitude (3,300 metres) to their liking.

A band was playing in the pretty town square where our bus was to leave from. We left the women dancing, while the men were drinking and had lunch. It sounded like children had been given bells to accompany the band. Drunk children.

After some days without washing, our trip to the hot springs was keenly anticipated. Condors wheeled overhead as we wallowed in the hot green water trying to ignore the drowned flies.

We returned to the square to find a hotbed of comedy drunkeness: they were now speaking the universal pissed language of pirate noises, while guffawing, hugging each other for support and singing tuneless, wordless songs. I should not find this quite so amusing.

24.05.08 Picadilly Circus

Today our donkeywork was done by a donkey, he was accompanied by a friendly old boy with a huge wad of coca in his cheek. With our guide, we walked down the Valley of the Condors to some romantically overgrown 1,000-year-old ruins at the meeting point of three valleys. They’ve been untroubled by archaeologists and anthropologists, and are still used for ceremonies.

In January, the three local communities meet here to celebrate the new year and pray for good luck. A ceremony like the one we had seen the evening before is performed but on a much larger scale in which a llama is sacrificed and buried. This has been taking place in the same spot for generations and bones strewn in the area bear witness to its grisly purpose.

Today’s destination felt much more like a successful, functioning community. At the end of their working day we watched as llamas, alpacas, donkeys, sheep, dogs and herders of both genders and all possible ages filed past and made arrangements for the night. The story of mothers and their separated young being reunited was played out by the different species. Clouds settled over distant mountains at the end of a long valley forming a white plane and the sun set.

23.05.08 More tea please, shaman

After a cold night even under five blankets we gingerly made our way to the rudimentary bathroom (there was no bath for one thing). I had no idea that water could be so cold and yet not in cubes.

There were high hopes of some warming tea, and a thermos arrived accompanied by four tired coca leaves, some elderly camomile, a few sprigs of parsley and some anonymous old weeds. Pretty uninspiring; however, after I had slung some greenery, sugar and a generous jolt of Jamaican rum into my mug, the world began to feel like a much better place.

After our brekkie, we were introduced to a herd of corralled alpacas. We were late and they were waiting to be taken on to the hills to feed. I can now reveal that a hungry alpaca makes a noise not dissimilar to a very small Formula 1 car.

This was our first day trekking, and our crew was made up of a llama to carry our gear, accompanied by his—only the males are used as porters—seven llama chums; our guide; an elderly lady herder, and an 8-year-old trainee girl herder (not a trainee herder of girls, obviously). It was wonderful to watch the llamas—the princes of the Andes—they have a camel-like gait, precise movements, intelligent eyes and a proud demeanor—they hate to be touched.

After a truly glorious walk, Susi and I arrived at our tiny hamlet destination in time for lunch—our residence was a stonewalled cottage with a thatched roof. While we were now thirsty, hungry and exhausted, the old woman and young girl immediately began the entirely uphill journey home. Suitably emasculated, I collapsed into a chair, which in turn collapsed under me.

We were now a couple of hundred metres lower, a few hardy things can grow here, and Susi even claims she saw a tree. But community life seemed rather sad and hard; emigration is only going one way. An astonishingly beautiful view is not enough.

We had arranged for a ceremony in the evening, so the shaman arrived with his helper, laid out his effects and tucked into his coca leaves. Initially, our good luck ceremony involved whirls of alpaca wool under alpaca fat, petals, red wine, 95% proof alcohol, more coca and lots of words I did not understand. Later, we wished good luck to people and an alpaca fetus was wrapped in gold foil and flowers. I had to hold it to my heart, then it was put in an incense-infused fire as a sacrifice to Pachamama (Earth Mother).

Not what I am used to.

22.05.08 What a lot of llamas (and alpacas)

There are more auspicious ways to start a long journey than your bus driver arriving very late and drunk, and then being decanted on to another vehicle with Titannic emblazoned on the side. After seven uncomfortable, stinky hours (luxuriously, some of it on tarmac), Susi and I fell out of the bus at 4,400m in the arid air of a tiny community of alpaca herders.

We were greeted by a friendly indigenous lady, who ushered us past a massive satellite dish and inside. In a basic room sat four redundant computers (there’s no electricity) and through this our dorm room. I was too tired to speak as our guide took us for a walk in the mountains, each step crunching on the desiccated soil. At one point I took an alfresco wee and the earth rejected this unexpected bounty like oil hitting water.

Very little can survive up here, hundreds of metres over the tree line. The survival of the locals is dependant upon their alpacas. All food is traded is for their meat and their dried faeces is the only fuel. It is stockpiled in a special room in advance of the rainy season. The alpacas can only survive by living off the lichen on the rocks.

After we had been fed at 6.30, the sun set and we were alone. The walk to the loo in the cold air under a clear sky was rather too invigorating. However, with the moon not yet risen and the only light from candles, the stars were spectacular.

18.05.08 Party time!

This weekend was La Paz’s biggest street festival—the Gran Poder. 56 troupes of dancers perform, some with 200 members each. It’s a huge event and a car crash of bright colours. There was a great atmosphere in the city among the huge crowds. The route was lined with makeshift grandstand seating and the space between spectators and performers was a pedlar’s paradise of flogging food, cold soft drinks, hooters, rattles, biscuits, tissues (I’ve no idea why) and beer. There were hundreds of girls out selling beer, some of them even old enough to legally drink it. Apparently, this year the authorities tried to end the boozing, with a spectacular lack of success—they may consider taking a brewer as primary sponsor was their first mistake.

This event takes a months of planning and the outfits are truly extraordinary, devils, angels, slaves, slave masters and countless others we could not recognise, everything has a symbolic meaning, which was almost entirely lost on us. However, there were things I recognised: some costumes are heavy (80kgs) and their panting wearers are only sustained by gifts of beer; some of the prettier participants wear bright tutus, very good; they also wear boots Ginger Spice would have killed for in her 1990s heyday, very Barbarella; some of the men wear dresses, shoulder pads and hats that most resemble layered wedding cakes, I would love to know why.

It was undeniably a great spectacle and one I didn’t fully understand. On the way out we met a lady selling pork, in front of her was a tower of crackling, she loved the event and told us this was “paradiso”. Who knows, maybe she was right.

9.05.08 Would you like to dance, grandmother?

On our last day I was keen to get some seaside action beyond swimming, so I took a bus to Holetown, a town that is supposed to have surfing, diving and snorkelling. The bus took us inland on its route north, so I saw a little more of the island. Unlike the hilly, green beauty of Jamaica, Barbados is flat scrubland or built up. The majority of the people live in shacks and bungalows, which would have once been a rainbow of bright colours. Now, however, all but the newest have been bleached in the sun.

For a country with hurricanes, the wooden buildings do not look like they would stand up to anything approaching extreme weather conditions. Wood, however, has the advantage that it bows and bends—some of the homes remain upright at angles that architecture students would not believe.

There was no surfing, instead I went snorkelling with sea turtles off a tourist boat, which was a wonderful experience. Back on land, I was approached by a garrulous fellow in a Ronaldo replica shirt who wanted to sell me coke – in all my 34 years, no one had ever introduced himself to me as Mr Cool before. I admired his chutzpah.

In the evening we went to the Oistin Fish Fry, a massive outdoor party with plenty of music, drinks and fish. Strangely, I met someone else called Mr Cool, a nightclub owner—so perhaps it’s a bit like being called James and Bajan (Barbadan) classrooms are full of kids called Mr and Miss Cool. Barbados is refreshingly safe after Jamaica, so it was a pleasure to be there and see some Caribbean dancing, which is really just simulated sex and must be awkward to do with elderly relatives at weddings.

7.05.08 Trading places

There are stereotypes are the inhabitants of the different Caribbean islands, for instance, Jamaicans are laid back but don’t make jokes, because they are too quick to take offence; everything is a joke to Trinidadians and an excuse for a drink and a lime (an impromptu party); and Barbados is the most “British”, the people are professional but rather cold and unfriendly. My suspicion is that these commonly held generalisations are nonsense, but compared to Jamaica and certainly Bolivia it is a pleasure to be somewhere there is little poverty, the infrastructure works and it feels safe.

6.05.08 Sweet dreams

There are times when flying that I think the human brain is not able to comprehend how staggeringly beautiful the view is. A self-protection mechanism must shut off the receptors like a stopcock to prevent out heads from exploding on to the branded headrest covers. Other times I just pass out. Gosh, I slept well and then I was in Barbados.

4.05.08 Riding with the law

Our last day and we went to Lime Cay, an island (or cay) off Port Royal. Our driver, Taylor, drove us out there and en route let slip that he had another job “working for the government, with the law” as he coyly put it. Clearly, being a policeman is not something you shout about here.

The cay is a gorgeous little spot where Kingstonites come to relax at the weekend. A sandy beach, turquoise sea, trees for shade, bar for beer: perfect.

Jamaica, and Kingston in particular, has a fearsome reputation for violence and it was not until our last day we saw anything problematic; being on a miniscule island while bottles are smashed and rocks are thrown is not very relaxing, especially when your boat driver is in the middle of it. When Taylor informed the saucer-eyed protagonist of his other job, he was steadfastly unimpressed. I wasn’t.

3.05.08 Fool on the hill

Here in Kingston, it’s easy to forget how beautiful the rest of the island is. Today we drove to the centre of the island along impossible windy roads up into the lush mountains. There at the peak of Strawberry Hill, we had a long salubrious lunch at the eponymous hotel. It’s one of those places that feels it has to reiterate how “groovy” it is by mounting pictures of its famous guests. This is always a bit naff and must guarantee the celebs don’t come back. Anyway there’s no need to prove anything, it is lovely; from its spot on the mountain peak, the view is wonderful and the atmosphere is effortlessly cool.

2.05.08 The tree where Nelson relieved himself

Next week, we’re off to Barbados where there’s surfing. In preparation for having to spend time under water, I plough back and forth in the hotel pool, while not breaking any of their rules: I haven’t any serious contagious diseases, indulged in horseplay of any kind or emitted bodily fluids into the water. Not even once. Honestly.

What with the earthquakes and hurricanes, buildings don’t last long in Kingston; Port Royal, however, is an exception. This fort once housed Nelson and has stood the test of time, while the land raised around it and sea retreated in the earthquakes of 1907 and 1692. As the sole white face on the tour of the museum and a Brit too, I felt uncomfortable as the tales of swashbuckling, colonialisation and slavery were dramatically unfurled, however, there was never a suggestion of anything other than shared history (and I met an African nurse from Hackney and felt more at ease).

On the way back my driver, Taylor, needed to find some time so we cut through a ghetto. Houses and shops on each side of the road were boarded up or burnt out, to the left were us were PNP (People’s National Party) supporters and opposite were their JLP (Jamaica Labour Party) neighbours. Relations are not good and shoot outs across the road are commonplace. This should be the road to town from the airport but it is too dangerous and the solution the government came to was to build another road.

1.05.08 Easy skankin’

After a light breakfast of boiled yam, boiled callaloo (spinach), fried bananas, boiled dumplings and fried dumplings, I was set for a walk. After yesterday’s experience, I’ve opted for a purposeful gait, no eye contact, trousers and shoes rather than shorts and flip flops, and more deodorant.

Today’s destination was the Hope Botanical Gardens: I set off through uptown Kingston, this is not a beautiful place, large uninteresting buildings line the wide busy thoroughfares. It did not improve as I walked out of the main business district, the buildings are smaller and scruffier, the people just scruffier, and the traffic flows on unaltered. On route, I stopped at the Bob Marley Museum for a refreshment—once a rather elegant, understated place, Bob’s old house is now a gaudy honey trap for tourists (happily, I only saw one misguided white visitor with braided hair).

The botanical gardens are lovely, a respite from the hassle and demands of the street; quiet, peaceful and surrounded by rolling hills, it was a pleasure to be there as the sun set.

30.04.08 Happy rambling

As Susi went on a field trip, I walked to handsome Devon House, a nearby mansion with gardens, restaurants and shops. The stroll was interesting, on the journey a school girl called to me and swung her hips, a lady asked to taste my ice cream and a woman shouted something unintelligible about her cat at me, except she didn’t say cat; also, I was offered drugs twice, once by a small boy and once by an old man; beggars begged; fruit sellers failed to sell me fruit and loons looned. It would appear that in Jamaica to dawdle about in a fresh off the boat, tourist uniform is to ask for trouble or at least a lot of attention.

29.04.08 No, she went of her own accord

A trip to the Caribbean is not to be passed up, so after a day being bureaucratically processed through winged metal sausages like butchers' scrapings, we emerged in the heavy air of Jamaica. Driving to our hotel with the window open, the humidity was potent and the salty scent of the ocean filled our nostrils. The other immediate difference to La Paz is I am now in a country where I speak the language, at least theoretically. The reality is rather more hit and miss. In Bolivia I can learn Spanish, but here if I attempted a Jamaican patois, I risk more than confused and condescending looks.

25.04.08: 24 bizarre Bolivian hours

It may appear a peculiar notion for some Swedes to remake The Karate Kid, transferring the action to table football and Bolivia, and, indeed, it didn’t make any more sense as one of the actors. However, I found myself as the arch villain Senor Costas (the real name of a Santa Cruz politician), and my accent swinging wildly between received pronunciation, war-time German and dojo-master Japanese. Great fun to do but I fear it would be utterly excruciating to see again.

Leaving the Swedes, I went on to the ambassador’s residence. Rather than a jolly, this was a coming together of all the Brits in the city in advance of next week’s referendum. In preparation for evacuation being required, we had been split into geographical groups, each co-ordinated by a character from Dad’s Army. The pill was sweetened by the usual trays of alcoholic and foodie delights, and the mood was light, but there is real danger here. My Spanish teacher thinks that if the vote goes Evo Morales’ way, he will be assassinated. As a thrusting, ambitious journalist, I will be safely ensconced in Jamaica as the events are played out (this will turn out to be either very wise or very foolish).

And so on again, this time to “the most colonial road in La Paz” for a pena—a night’s traditional entertainment. We started with an Andean band, complete with five-foot long panpipes; next were dancers who performed racy and masked routines from the Gran Poder carnival, and a very odd simulated fight; the last act was a fabulous Bolivian/Las Vegas style act, a virtuoso on the charango (12-string ukulele) who effortlessly sang songs, told jokes and chatted with the audience.

In the morning I received a call from the Daily Telegraph correspondent in Los Angeles. The “Road of Death” had claimed more victims: eight Bolivians had died when their vehicle plunged off the side, after it had ploughed into three British cyclists, killing one. She wanted me to speak to the consul and, crucially, interview the survivors. The story was on the radio as I took a cab to the hospital, the list of the dead slowly read out (one was a six-day-old baby). At the door of the cyclists’ room I met Tom Austin’s (the dead man’s) girlfriend, she was understandably distraught but she and other two agreed to talk. While, the two survivors were remarkably composed, no one was ready to discuss their dead friend. It was difficult not to feel like a crass intruder.

21.04.08 Cholitas with chopsticks

Here, cooking gas comes in large metal canisters, rather than being piped into the homes. Not only have we run out of gas but we have no idea how to get any more; as a result, we are having to eat out. Today we went to Wagamama’s (not the franchise necessarily but noodles none the less). The sight of ladies in traditional costume has long since stopped raising an eyebrow for us, but somehow seeing cholitas eating noodles with chopsticks seemed so completely incongruous that it brought back the old fascination.

20.04.08 Virtual navy

On Sunday morning, I was out getting the breakfast when the sound of a military band drew me to Plaza Azaroa. The navy were putting on an expo; for a country with no seaport, this armed force is a very big deal. There is no sign of the Bolivians ever forgiving or forgetting that the Chileans took their coastline. As negotiations continue to trade access to gas for access to salty water, what is there for new recruits to do? Sail on Lake Titicaca, perhaps. The band claimed me with their version of “In the Navy”, I decided I would sign up for a life dreaming of the ocean wave if they followed it up with “YMCA” but they let me down.

19.04.08 Line dancing with the vice minister for culture

In honesty, all of the above is a lie: he was the acting vice minister, it was synchronised dancing in lines rather than “line dancing” and I, of course, was not doing it with him. I know there is a time and a place for my freeform air maracas, and this was not it. We were at a practice for the Gran Poder, a religious, dancing festival. Our relatively small group of 60 is one of 56 teams taking part. It’s a huge event and our lot are regular award-winners for best dancers and best costumes. They were extremely welcoming and friendly, especially in their ill-advised efforts to get me dancing. I hope to follow them until the big day of the Poder itself—a celebration of Christ’s great power merged with the old pagan faith in Pacha Mama.

17.04.08 Farty towels

Bolivia is a topsy-turvy place: the president (Morales) is leader of a federation of coca farmers, although the UN classifies coca as equivalent to heroin or crack; here, coca is sold in the supermarket as a relaxing tea rather than a refined illegal stimulant; it democratically elected a man as president (Banzer), although he had proved himself to be a murderous dictator in a previous go at the job; it’s filthy rich in raw materials yet the poorest country on the continent; you can’t build a five-star hotel without a llama fetus under the foundations; it has a navy yet has been landlocked for 125 years; it has several peaks more than 6,000 metres high, yet can not claim one single piste; the most downtrodden members of society wear bowler hats; is it any wonder the loos don’t behave as you expect? No matter how decorously you sit down, the inflatable seats give off a long, slow release of air, and our small loo even makes a noise that can only be described as fart-like when it is flushed.

12.04.08 And where is Michael Crawford?

If not quite an oasis, Altai Oasis is certainly a very pleasant place to stay, especially if you like macaws, geese, cats, llamas and dogs without rabies. It’s a focal point for serious hikers, so we took the shortest trek available—5 or so hours to a cave and back. This was what I had left England for: a fabulous walk in the sun, some funny foreign business in the middle and then a huge steak at the end washed down by a pint or two of red wine. The walk was breathtaking along a dusty road through the hills. At the end was the cave, having paid our entrance fee, a 10-year-old boy seemed to apparate before us like an very underage Harry Potter and announced he was our guide. He confidently led us inside, wisely reciting information that turned out to be nonsense, and down to the lake, where for an extra fee our plastic pedalo awaited. The water reputedly continues its subterranean journey to Peru, we, however, turned round at the cave’s end and pedalled back like something out of slightly farcical Phantom of the Opera. Back outside, we opted for a drink and climbed the steep steps to the small bar, where our bar man was waiting: magically, the same small boy.

11.04.08 A weekend away

This weekend we went on a trip to Sorata to stay at somewhere promisingly describing itself as an oasis. Not having a choice we opted for public transport. Rather less promisingly, our bus left from the cemetery district, where we piled on to the rickerty old machine with an old man who had a real live chicken in a bag. You know you´ve left London, when you share public transport with people transporting poultry. Our seats were on the back row, I was between Susi and a very small, jibbering, old lady. Hungry for a snack, she tucked into warm chicken skin out of a plastic bag, and didn´t share! Space was tight, a stranger´s young son sat tight between her legs on the floor, between his legs sat his baby brother. The old lady was so short that even in her bowler hat she barely made it up to my shoulder, and this was sitting down. She may not have been the perfect travel companion but at least she didn´t obscure the window. The view was fantastic: we went through the Alto Plano, past Lake Titicaca (so maybe it does exist) and into the hills, where snow was struggling to settle. Things then became increasingly verdant, as we descended curling through the valleys. Our Bolivian companions crossed themselves anxiously as the tarmac disappeared to reveal the dark clay carved into the mountainside. A little while later, fields of maize lined the road and we were in a hot, fertile, tropical valley. Had we really just seen snow?

10.04.08 Power to the people

I nursed something of a hangover today after an evening at Her Majesty’s pleasure, well at her representative’s anyway. As you would imagine, the ambassador’s residence is a fabulous place filled with fabulous people, who were there for our friends', Jennie and Tom, leaving party. Chaps with impeccable manners and white gloves circulated trays of delicious drinks and canapés – from Scotch eggs to ceviche (raw fish marinated in vinegar and lemon juice, much better than it sounds). Most remarkable were the power sockets, while Bolivia chances its devices and health to unpredictable, two-pronged receivers that sizzle, sparkle and spit flames of blue light, the ambassador uses our traditional, safe, sturdy, triumvirate—a power source that an empire was built on.

9.04.08 Having a mosie about

It’s fun being somewhere so different that other people’s mundane existence can seem so novel and interesting. Walking the streets is a great way of discovering new sights – on the pavements in the middle of town you find banks of fellows sat at tiny desks furiously bashing away on old-fashioned typewriters; everywhere are large ladies in larger skirts squat on the floor selling fruit and vegetables of varying degrees of exoticness; opposite the supermarket are money-changing cholas (city-dwelling indigenous women) cutting sharp deals; sellers of pirated DVDs are so common as to be a hazard to pedestrians (as well as the film industry); yesterday, I passed a man peddling a world of cheese graters and a knife sharpener shooting sparks off his Heath Robinson bicycle-wheel device.

7.04.08 La Paz to reject the peace?

Our time here has been incredibly peaceful, the only problems we’ve had have been with an excitable French hotel owner (at least my profanities are fluent in one language other than English) and an arsey Argentine crusty. With us, all the Bolivians we have come across have been friendly, patient (necessarily so, given my Spanish) and relaxed. However, we may be about to see a different national characteristic.

An autonomy referendum has been called for 5 May in four states in the east of Bolivia; clearly, the government will not readily see the country split and has called in everyone imaginable to mediate. If this fails, as expected, there could well be serious trouble. One of Susi’s colleagues has spoken about her fears of a repetition of previous disturbances and Susi is considering stocking up on essentials like water. We are certainly in for an interesting time.

6.04.08 All your Harold Bishop news

To uncover the latest South American Catholic stories I have set up news alerts for certain key words. In among the sex scandals, I am becoming something of an expert about Charlotte Church, Maxi and Judas Priest (unrelated, as I understand it) and Harold Bishop. So if the conventional media is letting you down on any of these topics, drop me a line… Also, if you’re between jobs or looking for a career change, the Vatican is training up thousands of exorcists to confront the devil “head on”.

2.04.08 Panting!

Played tennis with Tom again, this time at The Strongest, a splendidly named sports club tagged on to one of Bolivia’s biggest football teams. Seven games into the second set and I had to give up. Not because I was losing the set, that was merely a coincidence, but playing at this altitude is truly exhausting. I was panting like a dog and found I had lost any will to win/play in favour of sitting down.

1.04.08 Hey, teacher! Leave 'em kids alone.

I felt a little low in the morning, so after lunch I took my vocab book and sat in the garden. What with this, the sun, music and a beer or two, the day took on a much rosier complexion. I might even have learnt something, beyond the valuable lesson that I like the sun, music and beer.

The day then took a peculiar turn when I was offered a job at my Spanish school—they have three students who want to be taught English and presumably they couldn’t find anyone with the vocation, training or inclination. It’s very badly paid but I would get to do it in the evenings and weekends. Oh, woopee.

31.03.08 Starting ’em too young

Given that our new flat is semi-furnished, we need to fill it with the boring detritus that it’s difficult to live without. So I was in the supermarket today stocking up on necessities like bathroom bins, as well as the ingredients for dinner. At the checkout, a very young girl helped empty my basket. She was so small that even on tip-toe she could not see inside it and had to blindly dip in. To be honest, I could have probably managed on my own. Surely, she have been at school anyway?

30.03.08 Going down yet up in the world

We took a guided walk from the new and impoverished city of El Alto up on the Alti Plano and down through La Paz to the Zona Sud (the posh bit). In the two cities, the extremes of wealth don’t sit teeth by jowl, instead the money seems to have flowed clean off the lip of the Alti Plano, cascaded through La Paz, accumulating and gathering momentum before settling, glittering, in the Zona Sud.

In El Alto, we were warned of the dogs that languidly potter wild—rabies is the same regardless of how cute and innocuous the dog may appear. Up here, communities have to look after themselves and in a return to the Aymaran people’s pre-Conquistador days, stuffed Guy Fawkes figures hang limp from electricity cables to warn thieves of their fate. These same people are incredibly friendly, not to offer a greeting to passers-by is considered the height of rudeness. And the stunning descent admiring the mountains and valleys was punctuated with countless words of “Buen dia”, “Hola” and reciprocated nods.

Down in the handsome equivalent of Parliament Square in La Paz, we were shown bullet holes in the walls following a shoot out between the police and the army in 2003. Given the turbulent news reports, it seems extraordinary that Bolivia could be going through a period of relative calm. However, in the most unstable country in South America, to keep the same government for two years is long time.

Ecology seems to be difficult state, while new parks have been built by the mayor and give welcome respite from the city, through La Paz’s centre flows a scummy river so dead that nothing can survive in it.

29.03.08 Rug addiction

We’ve moved into our new flat, it’s huge and has opened up a new side to Susi. She is a rug addict and seems set on covering every lovely inch of our polished wooden floors with them, ideally bright ones with llama motifs.

We saw our Bolivian friend Gus perform this evening. It was about as far from panpipes, ponchos and The Flight of the Condor as you an imagine, he’s in the Sociedad Coral Boliviana and was accompanying the National Symphony Orchestra putting on Beethoven’s 9th. For a Philistine like me happily waiting for the sections I recognised, their arrival in full magnificent force sent shivers down my spine.

28.03.08 Unrequited love

It is definitely time for us to leave our apartment-hotel, Susi is receiving unwanted night time attention from tiny, bed-bug beasties. Although we do share the bed (top to tail, obviously), we do not share the fleas—they have no interest in me whatsoever.

25.03.08 Dangerous fun poking

My visa is running out, so I went down to the Oficina de Migration. It was a simple process; two minutes later, I was out with a stamp to stay for another 60 days. How different it would be if I was from the USA. Citizens of the Land of the Free have to jump over a lengthy series of bureaucratic hurdles and pay an administration fee; in short, they are put through the same nonsense that visitors to the USA have to go through (even the fee is the same amount).

This completely unreasonably warmed my heart, I suspect most Yanks (I can’t just call them Americans, as that’s everyone on the continent) here are as pro-Bush as Ken Livingston.

Morales needs to be careful not to antagonise the USA too much, as much fun and warranted as it undoubtably is. He has valuable gas reserves and his credentials as a democratically elected leader would not save him. In 2002, they backed a failed coup to overthrow oil-rich Venezuala’s elected leader Chavez.

The history of the continent shows the USA will always back a compliant, murderous dictator (ideally, one they trained themselves) over a troublesome, democratically elected pinko. And when there’s energy involved as well…

23.03.08 Ruined

We had planned to go to Lake Titicaca but, of course, the place we wanted to stay was fully booked. I suspect a global conspiracy; it does not really exists. How can it? Lake Titty Caca, indeed. Instead, we took a tour to ancient Tiahuanaco. On route, we stopped for a photo break at nearly 4,000 metres, where our guide pointed out the lake in the distance. I was not falling for it, that smudge could have been anything.

The site of Tiahuanaco is on the plateau; as it was a clear day, the view was amazing, if the ruins were largely underwhelming. Our guide was a walking fountain, who spouted streams of facts and figures, which we were required to pay attention to. Feeling increasingly sheep-like and slack-jawed, I sloped off to explore on my own.

My strongest memory was sitting on the Akapana pyramid and being awe-struck by the majesty of the sky, streaks of whitest cloud accentuating the deep azure. I drifted into reverie, until a siren went off and a loud hailer bellowed—I was sitting in a protected area and had to move.

22.03.08 Boli Belly

Susi has developed Boli Belly, so I left her at home and took myself out for dinner. The Bolivians will claim any excuse for a march and today was the anniversary of losing their coast to Chile—a peculiar event to turn into a show. I sat myself on the balcony of the Irish bar overlooking the route and prepared for the jollity. Despite the booze ban, the Irish bar was joyously true to stereotype and happily served me beers, although I was in clear view of the cameras giving live TV coverage of the procession.

We started with a very jaunty marching band; there was no singing but I like to think the lyrics were “Bolivians never, ever, ever shall be crapped on by seagulls”. Next were some soldiers mounted on beautiful horses (certainly not seahorses), metrosexually clad in pink, yellow and green.

The baton twirling was superb, behind the twirler and band were representations of each of the armed forces. The air force had inflatable planes attached to the ends of their rifles, the army carried paper lanterns in the national colours and the navy sported little paper boats with candles in. The whole procession was refreshingly light on armaments but as a display of military might or even commemoration, it all seemed rather wussy and lacking in gravitas.

21.03.08 Tip top tennis

Today, Susi and I found out that there was some method to the traffic madness. The out-of-work actors and students in zebra suits mincing about at the traffic lights are there to stop the cars driving on to the zebra crossings. Some logic, at last.

I played my first game of tennis at altitude this afternoon. The process of dragging myself from impending ignominy to a simple defeat was absolutely exhausting. I’d not played in months and never on clay before. And Tom was better than me. Swine. The view from the court at the German club, however, was stunning; if only I could raise my game to meet the sublime setting. The post-match drinks were much more of a success.

20.03.08 The message of Easter

After lunch, I visit a café with WiFi to research stories and keep up my correspondence. However, I am being stalked from place to place by James Blunt. He appears in the most unlikely venues (surely, I would be safe from his MOR intrusions in somewhere called Beiruit?). I’m not sure what makes me more uncomfortable, whether it’s the proclamations of my beauty or the laments over our ill-fated love. Pull yourself together man.

To try and sweeten the pill, I tried to buy a beer. Again I was thwarted, this time by the law. It would appear that, in addition to its religious significance, Easter in Bolivia means a four-day festival of drink driving. Four thousand extra police hit the streets to try to stem the exponential growth in road accidents over recent years and, crucially, the sale of alcohol has been prohibited. But I don’t even have a car! This would never stand in Dalston.

18.03.08 Does he take azucar (sugar)?

Susi meets me in the park and then we go for lunch. The waitresses clearly prefer to deal with Susi’s perfect Spanish than my garbled, mispronounced nonsense. I am doing my best though, damn them, which makes it so depressing when Susi is asked to translate what I have said or questions about my lunch are referred to her.

It can become even worse when I am on my own. This afternoon, I ordered a Huari (a brand of beer). 4.30, I was told in reply (it was my first of the day, honest). Being able to order a beer must be the lowest rung of the language ladder, which means I am reduced to looking thirstily on.

17.03.08 Parklife

After Spanish, I sit in the park under my splendid hat and try to learn the new streams of vocabulary. The weather is ideal, we’re enjoying a golden patch between summer (the rainy season) and winter (the dry season) taking in the best of each.

Plaza Avoroa is beautifully maintained, teams of gardeners sow tiny plants in perfect patterns around the tropical trees. The centrepiece is a huge statue of Eduardo Avoroa caught for perpetuity seemingly fallen over drunk while mid rant. Who knows, perhaps it’s how he wanted to be remembered.

As a gringo novelty, I have more than my fair share of approaches from the militant shoe shiners. A very friendly bunch, the relationship is tainted with a sinister edge because, although they offer something ostensibly positive, they would happily run off with every Boliviano I have. I imagine being surrounded by Scientologists would feel much the same.

16.03.08 The illusive lake

Today was our second attempt to visit Lake Titicaca, after we had to abort last week's due to illness. We left in Fiona’s car and hit the traffic, made it out of the city in fits and starts, and up to El Alto. Here things slowed both further and markedly, the area around the vast black market was chaotic, past there it barely improved. A mash up of old cars, 4x4s, trucks and buses rolled along beeping their horns and changing lanes on the deeply pockmarked four lane dust track; people constantly wandered through the traffic and policemen waved us through red lights,

Eventually, we gave up the road in favour of an as yet undiscovered short cut through the flat endless expanse of low, shabby, brick houses. On a desolate wasteland, we went past a herd of llamas sporting coloured ribbons. Llamas, hooray! We ended up in a short queue for our turn to cross through a fast flowing river in our 4x4 and escape on to what we hoped would be open road. Instead, some policemen waved a 1950s Chevvy bus past the audience and into our path, we gave way, and it promptly got stuck in the middle of the river. So that was the end of our second attempt to visit Lake Titicaca.

And so we went elsewhere: another smaller lake. On the route, we went past a man in a manicured garden rocking out playing air guitar and then headed down into the valley. It was a beautiful place marred by the crassest tourism, still at least we had a go in a pedalo. Lake Titicaca will have a wait another week. We headed back into town as the sun set; at twilight, this really is the most stunning city.

15.03.08 The fifth best bar in La Paz, they claim

After some research, I had found somewhere showing the final games of the six nations rugby. Understandably, Oliver’s Travels is not a typical Bolivian bar but claims Lonely Planet’s view that it’s “the worst cultural point in La Paz” as an honorific. Over a Bolivianised full English breakfast and a beer in the “100% fake English pub”, I watched the games with Gustavo and his English friend Tom. Very good. There was one Bolivian in there and, of course, was behind the bar.

After a kip to sleep off the breakfast into lunchtime and then afternoon beers, we spent the evening at Fiona’s for Peru's national drink—Pisco Sours—made by a proper Peruvian. Delish and the raw white didn't cause any complications. I have the recipe, if anyone is interested.

14.03.08 Everything is going to be alright

My Spanish lesson was disrupted by bangs, it sounded like a busy day in Baghdad. These bangs are common in La Paz, it’s not guns (well nearly always, I’m told) but marchers setting off firecrackers. Today, it was the miners turn to demonstrate and they were going to town with fuses and gunpowder. At one point, the noise was incredible and prolonged, and even Julio thought it was too much—they must be very angry. For former demonstrator Evo Morales it must be echoes of his past coming back to haunt him. How long until he cracks down?

In the computer room after class, I introduced myself to a fellow gringo who was crying. The poor girl was ill after eating street food. It would appear that a lunch of cow’s heart dowsed in kerosene and then lit may have repercussions beyond indigestion. I was sympathetic but hardly surprised. Fool that I am, part of me really admired her balls for even attempting such a thing.

Walking down from our future landlady’s, I went past an angry crowd. In the middle was a tall, light-skinned man bleeding freely from a cut left eye. All I caught in the shouting was the word “ninas” or children. I wondered if the kids I had seen yesterday were responsible in some random meaningless attack.

I submitted my first commissioned piece today to The Tablet. It’s not the world’s longest but I had found, researched and written the story from scratch, and it means that, if anyone bothers to ask, I can say that I am a foreign correspondent. After a beer or two, I went home and attempted to learn some Spanish. Instead, I was distracted by the bright-blue sky, cotton clouds and view of the rocks. As the sun set, the sky turned a darker blue and the rocks’ colours were accentuated, I listened to Lemonjelly and thought everything is going to turn out fine.

13.03.08 Underclass

Social groups are very easy to spot here because they fall along strict, simple racial lines. Today I came across something different: a street gang. Scruffy, filthy, of indeterminate sex and race, they were a breed apart. One gesticulated with a pair of grotesque, twisted, bulbous fingers, then picked up a bin bag and threw it absentmindedly at a passing car. They laughed, pushed each other around and took over the pavement. They clearly could not give a fuck about anything or anyone. As hideous as they were, at least they were not going to play anyone else’s game.

Paying for Spanish lessons is a revelation; today, I was set homework but I didn’t think it was worthwhile, so I said so. And that was that—it was cancelled. If only I could have dared dream, perhaps this would have worked at school.

12.03.08 Wear sunscreen

While it is not hot here, the sun is dangerously powerful. Even the short walk to my Spanish class is long enough to catch the sun; afterwards, I feel tiny pinpricks of sun burn across my cheek bones and nose. And this is wearing protection (yes, suntan lotion). I look forward to wowing the La Paz crowd with my cricket hat, once it is out of the dry cleaners.

After class I go for lunch and read over what I am supposed to have learnt. Every café, bar and restaurant has a security man. They vary enormously from those who look like a shambling, hungover Deputy Dawg, to others who may have arrived via helicopter, parachute and the window. What links them all is that they don’t have a single thing to do. They are little more than frustrated doormen.

11.03.08 My first Bolivian hangover

Over the years I would say I’ve run the gamut of hangovers: the sucker punch that you thought you’d got away with; the guilt-laden, teary, soul-sapper; the nauseating, painful, sickener; the dreamy, floaty giggler; the detached, untouchable, isolator; the ratty, grumpy bastard… but nothing like this. Everything was in super-sharp relief, colours and sounds were acute, extraordinarily acute. And the area in and above my left eye, pain. Oh lord, pain!

10.03.08 A humbling experience

Susi’s birthday and I was a hopeless boyfriend: no card, no presents. Pathetic. She was wonderfully sympathetic, which was a relief. While I knew what I wanted to buy, I’ve been hamstrung by illness, not knowing where to get them, or what they’re called. Infuriating. In the end, I managed to acquire a card (technically, a postcard), some flowers (a huge, beautiful array) and a plastic jug to put them in. Not a complete success, but I did take her out for dinner as well. While this was not all I had planned, it still felt like an achievement and she was a happy lady. I am a very lucky chap.

I went to interview Juan Mauricio Choque Apaza. It was very different experience to last week: he was now in his 14th day of hunger strike and weak, his room was stripped of all its anti-Morales posters and bright flags, and he was completely on his own. A few days earlier, there had been five hunger strikers, when government officials arrived with the police. They knew to expect trouble and ran, leaving their visitors to take everything they could steal. Juan Mauricio Choque Apaza was told they were going to kill him, but he escaped. Despite the intimidation, he has vowed to carry on for another couple of days. Lying there now he looks incredibly vulnerable, he’s utterly defenceless. His bravery is in the name of democracy and it struck me how we in the UK treat our liberties with such disregard.

9.03.08 If it’s good enough for the Queen…

What a strange night: I woke when it was still very dark with my stomach making peculiar noises. It reminded me of being a small boy waking scared in my aunt’s ancient house in Herefordshire. In my Superman jimjams in the darkness (as a boy, not now), I was captivated by the unexplained sounds of creaking, banging, stuttering and gurgling. Now my own body was reproducing the unsettling noises and effect of the timber and pipes at The Old Forge. Something is definitely not right.

The local cure for my ailment is coca, in fact, it seems to be the local cure for everything. It might work, so we have bought coca tea bags from the local supermarket. I could not resist the Windsor brand—I like to think of the royal family tucking in for a revitalising cup illegally imported in the diplomatic bag. Cheers, maam.

Feeling stronger in the morning, Susi and I went out to look for somewhere to live for the rest of our time in Bolivia. On our way home a police bike went past, riding pillion was a man dressed in a police-dog outfit waving to children. What with this and the zebra, it is easy to see why drivers treat the rules of the road with such disrespect.

8.03.08 All hands to the pumps

I’ve been very inactive for the last couple of days, apart from the area between my ribs and hips, which is furiously busy. Whether I have poisoned myself or not (I’m blaming bad, yet delicious, gambas from a restaurant), I do not feel good.

Being ill and not eating leaves me in a very peculiar state, I am simultaneously hungry and repulsed by food. This is particularly acute as I walk back from Spanish. The Bolivians love a road-side treat: the air is thick with rotisserie chicken, fat chorizo and other salchichas (sausages) being griddled, wafer-thin slices of sizzling llama steak, and empanadas (delish Bolivian pasties) winking enticingly. I love and hate these meaty treats equally; when I am well, I am going to EAT!

The short walk to Spanish or a café for its internet connection have been my entire time outside. On route, I’ve been surprised by the various types of entertainment at traffic lights: jugglers, singers, guitarists and people doing that spinning a plastic thing on string, they’re all out plying their trade. It’s like a visiting a rubbish circus every time the lights are against you. And once I saw a man in a zebra outfit directing the traffic.

6.03.08 Shoe-shine fear

This was a very quiet day following a night of very little sleep and an unsettled stomach. Thinking about the possible causes produced a prodigious list of potential culprits. Worryingly, Sanna has gastro enteritis; surely, I haven’t poisoned us?
I gingerly walked to my Spanish class through the Plaza Eduardo. It’s a lovely square, which is a hot bed of smoochers, slackers and shoe-shine boys. These lads represent the militant arm of a humble, inoffensive job. The boys cover their faces with balaclavas and adopt the proactive approach of chuggers, only without the false smiles or good intentions.

5.03.08 Love is in the air

Susi lunches with her colleagues and today they ate a locals’ place. It was a small unsophisticated restaurant with a powerful stereo. In an alchemic piece of cross-culturalism, it played very loud pan pipes renditions of classics, such as the timeless Lady in Red, Celine Dion’s unforgettable theme to Titanic and a compulsory Everything I Do (I Do It For You). And where was I, like a fool, during this cultural feast? In the Bolivian answer to Starbucks listening to James Blunt, without a pan pipe in ear shot. Surely, You’re Beautiful is crying out for the Andean treatment?
La Paz is a very romantic city. In every park, street corner and bench, there are teenagers and people old enough to know better canoodling and snogging. While this is going on everywhere, it appears somehow chaste and innocent, and rather charming.

4.03.08 Not what I am used to

I had my first Spanish lesson since leaving London with a kindly teacher at the inaccurately titled Instituto Exclusivo (well, they took me)—and it appears I have not improved. As luck would have it, there is plenty of opportunity for me to practice.
In the afternoon, I returned to the Iglesia de San Francisco to interview Juan Mauricio Choque Apaza, who is on hunger strike. A charming, vibrant man in bright, traditional clothes, he enthusiastically described how Evo Morales’ government was only good for socialists. Interestingly, he also drew comparisons with Nazi Germany and apartheid. In his room lined with posters denouncing the government and explaining his strike, he was solely sustaining himself on coca leaves and cigarettes. I found his demands impossibly and possibly suicidally woolly—for the government to move to social democratic principles—but I was impressed by his bravery. Only last week, supporters of the Morales’ Movement Towards Democracy knocked him unconscious at a demonstration.
As my first piece of work since leaving ILN, the contrast between the conviction of this man to starve himself for his principles and subbing the fluff I was used to in London could not have been greater. In fact, I took myself off for a beer to muse further.

3.03.08 Body clock bullying

In London, my cast-iron body clock had always been a misplaced source of pride; now, is badly letting me down in steadfastly refusing to acknowledge our new circumstances. Instead, at 3.30am ever morning, I am wide awake in the pitch black with an overriding requirement to start my daily routine. This is becoming tiresome.
I had arranged to meet Susi and Fiona at their office for lunch. It’s only a few minutes’ walk down the hill and on the way a fight started. There was no way of avoiding seeing the fisticuffs but as I got nearer one man was knocked to the ground and two others started kicking him. I was in that horrible position of knowing someone had to do something but wishing it wasn’t me. Fortunately, just as I was about to start running and shouting (as if that would be enough), a policeman broke them up. It is concerning to see something like so close to home and Susi's work.
Susi’s German colleague Sanna came over for dinner. A former political scientist, she is intimidatingly well informed about Bolivia and drew parallels between Evo Morales’ regime and Nazi Germany. From anyone else, this would be easy to dismiss as hyperbole. She was recipient of my first attempts at cooking here; it didn't taste bad, but I would happily settle for not poisoning her. Fingers crossed.

2.03.08 Church, fetuses and line dancing

The rock surrounding La Paz is more colourful than I could have imagined. Areas are grey, others green and elsewhere it’s a vibrant red. Even at night, there is still colour. Against the pervading blackness, the communities of houses precariously nestled into the rock wall give off distinct patches of colour made up of bright pinpricks of white, yellow and red lights.
This was Susi’s last day of holiday and we had been neglecting our tourist responsibilities. So we took our guidebook’s suggested tour. We were quickly ushered out of our first stop—the Church of San Francisco—because it was closing. Walking alongside the church, I saw a sign about a hunger strike and made a mental note to investigate further. Our next stop was the witches’ market, which undoubtably offers the finest range of llama fetuses I have ever come across. There were no obvious witches but perhaps they have Sunday off. And so on to the black market: there’s no attempt to hide its illicit purpose under any subterfuge, this shabby area is marked the Mercado Negro on all the maps. Perhaps Brick Lane market should rename itself Thieved Bike Market in a similar vein of up-front dishonesty.
On reflection of the walk, my first sense was of the poverty that surrounded the inhabitants and I felt a strong sense of pity combined with a desire to return to the German Club’s green space. With the exception of the professional travellers and the singing-and-line-dancing-for-Jesus march that passed, it was a sober reminder that 2/3 of Bolivia’s population lives below the poverty line.

1.03.08 Anyone for a quick game of tennis?

Fiona and Gustavo kindly took us out to look for flats before we had an alfresco lunch, where I ate an enormous steak and foolishly got sun burnt to the sound of recorded traditional Andean music. Unlike “bohemian” Sopacachi, where we live, we had gone down to the relatively swanky Sud Zone. Here it is smarter, the ground is flatter and it is even considerably warmer. Unusually, the rest of the city gets to look down upon the posh part of town and the drivers must lack the fabulous clutch control of their northern neighbours.
In the afternoon, we visited the German club for a touch of ex-pat glamour. Here, for those who can afford it, are fabulous facilities set in beautiful gardens. I was a little concerned about the tennis: no ironic sweatbands, it was all quality equipment being used by players who were significantly better than me. I wouldn’t mind but they were all children.
The club is strikingly green, with extraordinary views down into the valley where lightning flashed and thunder crashed. While Gustavo played with his son, Fiona told us La Paz would disappear in 20 years: once the glaciers had melted and poured down the stone walls, the city would be destroyed.

29.02.08 Sweet dreams

Our first full day in La Paz and to celebrate we spent most of it asleep in our apartment hotel. Happily, we were woken for the arrival of breakfast, a simple Continental number of delicious rolls, jam and coffee, as well as the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had. It was a revelation to discover that even the finest chocolat chaud I’d had before was really no better than river silt.
After dinner in a Mexican restaurant, Fiona and Gustav (her colleague and fiancée) ambitiously took us out to a rock concert in a cinema. We were privileged to have the hottest tickets in town—this was the city at its vibrant peak. Unfortunately, I pulled a Smye and passed out as soon as I sat down.

28.02.08 Arrival

La Paz's airport is in El Alto, remarkably this town is even above La Paz and stepping off the plane we walked past half a dozen oxygen tanks with masks attached to treat those who cannot breathe unaided at the altitude.
At the carousel, it became clear that Miami airport must have something going for it because all of our luggage had decided to stay. Unencumbered by our belongings, we were collected by Susi’s colleague Fiona. The drive through El Alto was an obstacle course past beeping cars, roaming dogs and careless pedestrians (real ladies in bowler hats, worn high and at a coquettish angle, gasp!), which are strewn around the potholed (this does not give their size credit), rubbish-covered streets. In short, not pretty.
However, once the nose of Fiona’s 4x4 peaked over the plateau, the view was incredible. The vast, vertical-sided, rock-walled bowl that contains La Paz opened up before us. Occasionally, we would have glimpses of the snow-covered peak of the magnificent Mount Illimani in the distance. Everywhere else was rock with buildings perched unconvincingly on it.
We had made it.

27.02.08 And we're off

The grumpiest Turkish taxi driver this side of Istanbul took us to Heathrow, where we were met by Nicky, Richard and Sally. Charming people all, they gave us a lovely farewell.
Susi and I are at the tail end of man flu. Independently, we cough, sneeze and splutter. It’s not pleasant but put together we generate our own noisy, germ-laden ecosystem. I pitied our fellow passengers.
After some hours, we were in Miami. In retrospect, I was being overly optimistic to expect Will Smith to greet us off the plane in his speedboat and take us on a tour of nightclubs filled with girls in bikinis drinking daiquiris. But surely, we could have hoped for more than this: wearing an overcoat in a succession of queues of people in flip flops and lurid clothing. And at the end of it all, we were lucky to buy a beer in a plastic cup. I felt personally let down.

26.02 My Bleeding Heart

This was my final day in the office, as such there was a compulsory leaving lunch. Clerkenwell’s The Bleeding Heart is widely recommended, so Claire, Kate, Laura, Sinead (alphabetical order) and I skipped down there. It's an institution, there’s been a restaurant here since 1746. The more recent arrival of French owners added, I suspect, considerable subtlety to the cuisine as well as the piquance of effortless Gallic rudeness. Still it was a jolly meal and the food was delicious.
Back at the bureau and counting down the hours, I was the subject of a surprisingly flattering leaving speech. Many thanks, Alison. Over the next few hours I was asked a couple of times whether I was sorry to leave. The correct answer is a delicate balance of enthusiasm and warmth about missing the questioner tempered by excitement about the move. My rushed answer “Sorry to leave! Why would I be sorry to leave?” left a lot to be desired and I can only put it down to the rush of the moment. It’s also not true, I’m going to miss my friends more than I care to think about it.
And so on for drinks at Malmaison on Charterhouse Square. As well as showing off my splendid leaving card and trying to convince people that I really had not packed yet, the evening culminated in being serenaded by a remarkable rendition of The Lion Sleeps Tonight. Thanks everyone for coming.
And so home to pack. A simple process of shoving whatever was left in a suitcase, which I achieved effortlessly, apart from the short, if lively, 10 minutes when I lost my passport. Closing the suitcase was more difficult and required all the weight I could muster: so I sat on it, naked, as this was the last thing I did all day, as well as the least elegant. Oh dear.