The gaudy, bewigged saints, Jesus and Mary, have been removed from their dusty niches in the cathedral and are out parading the streets, hauled by struggling youths in purple Ku Klux Klan style hooded robes.
I’m awoken by a huge roar. I leap out of bed, wrap a sheet round me (too hot to sleep with anything on) grab my camera and run outside for my own private eruption performance, complete with puffs of pink ash, which lasts over half an hour.
Since I got on the plane from Madrid I’ve been trying to spot the drug cartel mobsters. The glitzy ones up front I assume. I was assured that Colombia is much safer nowadays and is gearing up for tourism.
You get a good view of the city and the even bigger, (longest in Europe) Vasco da Gama Bridge as the plane lands. The tower is suitably photogenic and the monastery is one of the most beautiful ecclesiastical buildings I have ever seen. The tracery is absolutely exquisite. Our bus tour guide tells us that JK Rowling lived in Lisbon for a while and probably based Harry Potter on the city. I bite my tongue.
En route, at Lima airport, someone is bored and devises a game of musical chairs. We are made to change gates twice as all the planes arrive at different locations to those indicated on the board. There are swarms of people crossing paths as they up sticks and trundle their belongings across the terminal in response to whoever is barking orders over the tannoy.