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.
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