None the less, there was still a touch of civic pride. A metre-high wall ran the length of the bay, more to stop people falling on to the beach than as a sea defence.It was decorated with blue mosaic tiles, and a gang of about ten women in jeans and yellow T-shirts with "Municipad' stamped on the back were busy scrubbing it with broom heads dipped in large buckets of soapy water. They were also pulling up all the green stuff that was fighting its way between the paving slabs. A couple of them seemed to be on their break, leaning against the wall drinking the milk from a coconut and pink liquid from a plastic bag with a straw.Sticking out to sea for about a K in front of me was the peninsula on which perched the old Spanish colonial town, a mishmash of ancient terra cotta roofs huddled around the pristine white towers of a church. Aaron hung a right that took us away from the bay and into an even more run-down area. The road was bumpier and my headache worsened as the Mazda's suspension creaked and groaned.The buildings were low-level, flat-roofed, decaying tenement blocks.
