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.