by Juliet Bell

The longer you stay in Xela, the more time you have to pound and contemplate the sidewalks. They range from two tiered giants in zone 3, doubling as car parks, to those that are little more than a curbstone. So, a few hints for survival:

Keep your eyes down and watch out for dog shit and human vomit, especially round the zone one bars at weekends. The dogs usually fall into two categories; those usually painfully skinny, who are more scared of you and leap suicidally into the road to avoid you and those usually bigger and fluffier, who claim superior sidewalk residency rights. Like sleeping drunks, let them lie.

The lampposts are slapped right in the middle of the sidewalk, giving a sly optical illusion of space, guaranteed to lure you into a false sense of slenderness. You’ll soon learn which ones you’ve been scoffing too many tortillas to squeeze through.

Where the sidewalks reach epic heights, helpful souls have often added stepping-stones. Unless clearly cemented down and as solid as Tikal slabs, do not use them: they are wobbling booby traps.

Where the sidewalk has become a bus stop, forfeit all rights. It now belongs to passengers, fruit and candy sellers. Cross over! If you lurk in the road, the microbuses will run you down or an eight-year-old conductor will sweep you off to visit a church and weaving factory in an unpronounceable village.

In such restricted spaces, expect standoffs with other pedestrians. So who gives way first? Coming from the pavements of the UK, despite a constant mantra of ‘go right’ ‘go right’, I still head left. This results in a shuffling side-to-side salsa, which luckily my new dance partners usually find entertaining!

Larger women in traditional skirts may appear unstoppable but are mostly very gracious and surprisingly nimble. A positive relic of a machista culture is that many older men still insist on walking on the outside for ladies.

My personal nemesis is teenage schoolgirls, still in uniform, in twos or threes, usually with their arms locked. They simply do not budge. Admit defeat unless you happen to be a young, clean-cut Brad Pitt look-alike! However, swap their uniforms for sharp suits, hand them a styrofoam coffee and film them striding purposefully down the steps of Teatro Municipal and you have the credits for CSI: Xela.