Reggae song
"Muy frio, muy frio," the dreadlocked man from the shadowed stage muttered into the mike. I shivered in agreement as I looked up into the naked black sky. The open air theatre might be the only big venue in La Paz, but at 11pm on a wintry night it is not a very enticing one even in a good set of thermals.
I wondered how the Wailers had ended up in La Paz, imagining it must feel like purgatory for sea-sprayed, sun-bathed Caribbeans.
The first band came on. We shuffled in time to keep warm. I greedily inhaled the warm fug of marijuana smoke as it rose past my nostrils. Cold air seeped slowly into bones. Thoughts of my duvet padded my mind.
But at midnight the Wailers made the stage and within minutes we were singing along to "Exodus", "Stir it up", "Stand up for your rights."
Soon I was jigging along arms wrapped around my enamorada Juliette. "…Three little birds upon my birdstep, singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true, this is my message to you, ooh, hoo." The crowd buzzed with warmth and bathed in sun-filled thoughts. "For every little thing is going to be alright." The cold slinked away. The Carribean had arrived in the Altiplano.