Yesterday evening, when I left the internet cafe, the streets were nearly empty apart from some lone mothers with their children.

These turned out to be futbol widows, because Bolivar was playing Boca Jrs. and every Bolivian male was watching the game in one of the cafes, which were packed solid, or listening to it on the radio.

In the morning, I got up reasonably early and said goodbye to the dueña and her daughter. I got a taxi to the bus terminal, inexplicably being able to jump on a bus which would leave (on time) ten minutes later! Not only that, the man asked for my 'mochilita' (or 'little bag', the Bolivians make diminutives of everything even though my bag could floor a heavyweight wrestling champion) and he lowered it down from the first floor office straight onto the bus, which was waiting below. If that isn't efficiency, I don't know what is!

I got into a half empty bus, but we stopped just outside of town and of course a whole bunch of people clambered on. A slightly smelly chola sat next to me and started chewing (also slightly smelly) coca leaves. The views were absolutely brilliant, with green valleys and red rocks, unfortunately at km 85 I had to pee when we were only about one hour into the three hour, non-stop trip, so every luscious green landscape started taking on the appearance of a giant baño...

At km 35 (we were counting down to Sucre) I couldn't take any more and asked the lady next to me to let me pass, only to find out she didn't speak Spanish. She murmled something in Quechua but didn't budge, so I had to hold out until the bitter end. Luckily the road from Potosi to Sucre is nicely paved, and the bus driver was hurtling down the mountains at high speed, honking his horn to cut off corners, because at this point I was all in favour of speeding!

At the Sucre bus terminal I nearly hugged the toilet lady from relief, but she eyed me up suspiciously so I thought better of it. I grabbed another taxi and went to the Plaza 25 de Mayo, a lovely square with the white church at one end. Here I found that the LP map of Sucre had all the references wrong, so I had to locate the Residencial by my own sense of orientation...

The residencial is lovely, quite big but quiet, with great patios and the rooms arranged around it. I went to have a wander around and whereas Potosi has colourful architecture, Sucre is predominantly white, but equally beautiful. It's also a lot warmer, at 'only' 2800 metres above sea level and probably this is one of the reason why there are many more beggars and shoeshine boys. One girl nearly put her hand up my nose begging for money.

I had lunch at the Bibliocafe and spent most of the day just hanging around, reading my book and having a look at the city. It's a place where it's easy to get stuck, it has a nice vibe to it, in spite of the poverty in evidence. I sat down in the plaza and got to talking to shoeshine boys Samuel, Joaquin, Carlos and a bunch of others who were to shy to tell me their names.

Samuel was about eight, with a nice mop of hair and the gift of the gab. He had learnt some English and he was very curious. He asked asked about my postcard from Torres Del Payne, which has a vicuña and flamingo on it. I use it as a marker. Well, I have to say 'used' because one of the nameless guys spirited it away and I couldn't be bothered to take him up on it.

The guys talked me into buying them a snack, and the lady at the snack shop obviously had seen more saps like me buy food for kids, because she didn't bat an eyelid when I showed up with about six scruffy kids in my wake (Samuels friends seemed to augment significantly in about two seconds, a fact he didn't really like).

After, I walked on and Samuel followed me. He had first asked me if he could have my Lonely Planet, but I explained I needed it. He then asked if I would buy him some felt tip pens (mercadores) for school, which showed he was keen to learn, and I am a sucker for that, so I bought him some, saying it was my present for him for Christmas. In return, he let me take his photo, though not after trying to get some more stuff out of me...

I then went to find some dinner for myself and, aaahh, I found Joyride, a cafe run buy Dutch people. They have such amazing things on the menu as 'bitterballen' and 'kroket', which are both vaguely meat-based and are as close as I will get to Belgian food on this trip, so I indulged. They also had Leffe and Hoegaerden!!! There is a Christmas tree hanging upside down from the ceiling and they mix a mean Cuba Libre (shaken, not stirred).

I got to talking to Canadian Joel. He is doing the opposite trip from me so I tried to get some tips out of him, but he wasn't very informative. I enjoyed being in a non-Britney, non-cumbia environment for a while, feeling close to home as if I was in a bar in Amsterdam or Antwerp, which was the kind of familiarity I craved...