Feet like clown shoes

My sunburn was developing magnificently. By now it felt as if I was wearing scalding-hot socks, and my bright-red feet and ankles had swollen impressively. I wondered when I would see my ankles again, not that I missed them particularly but it was strange not to see them there any longer.

Given that my main reason for coming here was to surf, my preposterous new feet were a disaster. Instead, we took a taxi to the top of the El Morro headland, which overlooks the town, and looked down at the town—surrounded entirely by desert and sea.

It was here, in the 1929 War of the Pacific, that Bolivia lost its link to the ocean, something that it has been going on about endlessly ever since. Chile has won pretty much ever battle and argument between the two countries before and since; its people are better organised and better educated, while its governments have consistently been less governed by self-interest. As a rule, however, the Bolivians tend to prefer to blame the Brits for their crucial lost sea connection.

Any sort of lower body movement severely limited, we went to the Maracuya restaurant, which is hoisted on stilts over the sea, and had a drink. The setting is wonderful but they are determined to cover their lovely fish in showy, gloopy sauces. We discovered you can actually taste the glorious fresh fish if you order from the simpler express menu.

As we sat over the surf, red-headed vultures wheeled around outside threatening to fly in through the glassless windows and join us.