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.
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