It turns out I am the only person staying at the casa, which did make me think of Patty, the receptionist, coming after me with a knife, Psycho-style.

Luckily, the worst that happened to me was a cold shower this morning. Patty was not very convincing yesterday when I had asked her about the agua caliente, so I was not too surprised. As it happened, it was quite refreshing because today turned out to be a scorchingly hot day.

I felt better disposed towards San Pedro this morning. The square, with incongrous huge Christmas tree, looked very inviting and the church is suitably picturesque. San Pedro is a weird mix of those seeking spritual enlightenment (and mate de coca) and those seeking adrenalin shots.

All the waiters are invariably young hip guys with long dark hair in ponytails who look like they'd much prefer being on a sandboard, but somehow got stuck in this town serving sandwiches. The waiter I have now sports a t-shirt which says 'Cub Scout Day Camp '94' and he does not look a day over 18. Which says it all really.

I spoke to a German guy who was spending six months in South America and was in his third month, like me. There was a Chilean from Antofagasta trying to sell jewelry, and when that didn't work, he did a card trick, afterwards asking for small change for it. Yes, we saw that one coming...

I booked my trip to Bolivia, asking loads of questions as the LP suggests and following my instinct, as not all agencies are as good. But then no agency is going to tell me outright: yes, we are crap, do not book with us. Hopefully my instinct does not only work below 2000 metres above sea level.

I read my book in the square, had a huge and final 'palta y ave' sandwich and went into the museum, which was very interesting, explaining the history of the Atacameñas. I talked to Jaime, an aspiring writer who had already managed to sell all of his books and so did I want to give some change for some of his
poetry. He had mastered the Flemish 'alstublieft, danku, veel geluk' just in case I wasn't swayed. But I was, if only because he actually had translated his own poetry into English for the tourists.