I never expected animal crossings in downtown La Paz. But a walk past San Francisco church between 8 and 10 am would make anyone take a second look. In the heart of the city, young adults dressed as zebras direct traffic. They prance around in the middle of the street as motorists whiz by them. I was half-expecting Robin Williams to swing in on a tree vine with the rest of the animal kingdom in pursuit like something straight out of Jumanji.

No, this is not Bolivia's version of an African safari, but it is still probably best to keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. Traffic in Bolivia is chaotic to say the least, so the municipal government decided to do something about it. The idea of having young adults (typically aged 16–22) dress up in zebra costumes and direct traffic was conceived in 2001. The goal was to educate drivers and pedestrians alike about the importance of the use of the crosswalk in a playful and artistic manner. In 2005, the Department of Civil Culture was created and extended the mission of the zebras to include urban hygiene, risk prevention, protection of green areas, prevention of violence, and alcohol abuse, as well educating citizens about traffic laws. In 2007, the Department of Civil Culture gained more power, making it possible to increase the number of zebras in the streets. The zebras have been around for more than 10 years now, and are still very active. Their current campaign is called, ""Zebra for a day"" in which individuals can dress up like zebras and direct traffic for a day.

I decided that I wanted to get in on the zebra action, so I contacted the Office of Civil Culture across from the San Francisco church and asked to be a zebra for a day. They were happy to oblige my request. At 8am on a Wednesday morning, I met a group of grassland animals at their usual watering hole. I was given one of their prized zebra costumes, the tallest one they had. Have you ever seen a six-foot zebra?

After I was kitted out with my black and white stripes, I joined the group of experienced zebras and we began to stretch. Stretch? Yes, stretching is an important part of being a zebra because no one wants to see a zebra grabbing a hamstring after dancing in the street.

As I was doing my calisthenics, I was briefed on the ""dos"" and ""don'ts"" of ""zebra-ing"" by the director of the program, Kathia Salazar. I learned that a zebra can ask a citizen to stop when the light is red, but they cannot physically hold anyone back. They can only ask people to follow the rules; they cannot force them to obey. I was also repeatedly reminded to say everything in a friendly manner, because the zebra's conduct is paramount to the success of the program. When asked what it means to be a zebra for a day, Kathia Salazar explained that being a ""zebra for a day"" means ""to live the experience of helping people to improve their civic behaviours."" Finally, she added that, ""Each zebra walks differently. You need to find your individual step.""

Now I was ready to step out into the dangerous streets of La Paz, and find my zebra walk. The light changed to red and the herd pranced out onto the crosswalk to entertain the stopped motorists and assist pedestrians across the street safely. Over the next two hours, I helped several people across the street safely and was even able to walk a little girl to her mother on the next block over. I covered my ears in dismay as drivers honked unnecessarily, and I danced in the middle of the street. But most importantly, I found my zebra step.

When you think of tango, Bolivia is not the first country that immediately comes to mind. Instead, you think of Argentina, where the dance has evolved over the years into a source of national identity and pride. Yet, Bolivia being relatively close to its birthplace, it wouldn't be too presumptuous to think that throughout the years the dance might have diffused its way over here, much in the way that salsa arguably has. However, this is not the case. Tango in Bolivia can be seen as a niche activity, in which a select few participate, and even fewer master.

As a generalisation, in British clubs young people bob self-consciously around the dance floor, gyrating in circles whilst performing ironically cheesy dance moves. But in South America, this is not the case. In Bolivian clubs and at social gatherings, it is common to see couples vigorously dancing salsa; few of these dancers have had lessons, yet almost everybody, young or old, has a few moves to brandish, having learnt through imitation. And they do. Interestingly, very few people sit back and watch at social events where dancing takes place—if you are not participating on the dance floor, people will ask why not. Having been told by many Bolivians that ""dancing is in our blood"", and given what I have witnessed, I am inclined to believe this is true.

Why, then, is tango the exception to the rule? In other South American countries, and even Europe, tango thrives; ""It depends on the city, but you can find milongas in other places almost every day of the week,"" Nina Kuehnel de Villalba, a German tango dancer, informs me. But not in Bolivia: in La Paz there are only three monthly milongas in existence. Why so? It cannot be argued that it is a case of origin, that tango emerged in Argentina and hence is not as popular. This is disproved by the fact that salsa, coming from Cuba and Puerto Rico, results in an instantly crowded dance floor. Instead, could it be a lack of interest on the part of young people? Are they more concerned with fun, less regimented dance? But neither does this seem to be the case: Although in the milongas of La Paz more mature dancers do hold the majority, there is still a strong crowd of young people that frequent the same gatherings.

There does, however, seem to be a class divide. Tango is a hard dance to master. Teachers will inform you that women can become competent within a few months of biweekly classes, but men, on the other hand, are likely to spend most of their lives trying to master the complicated dance, due to the fact that they have to lead their female partners. This means that in order to become confident enough in the dance to stride your partner around a milonga, you will in all probability have to pay for a lot of classes. ""On top of this there are shoes, and milonga tickets . . . It can be expensive"", says Alfredo Villalba, a tango enthusiast who took four years of classes to reach his current level. This, it seems, is the issue: why would someone, unless they felt passionate about learning, pay all that money to learn tango, when tango music is very rarely played at social events? People tend to find salsa much easier, and therefore cheaper, to learn.

This may be the case, but, luckily, a tango community does exist in Bolivia. In fact, a very enthusiastic and welcoming one at that. When asked if tango was elitist, the overwhelming response from everyone, despite evidence to the contrary, was no. ""It's not elitist . . . Everyone comes together. It joins classes and ages. The only thing that matters is that you can dance!"", Patricia del Carpo says enthusiastically. And in that lies the hope—the community are willing to accept new faces, regardless of their level of skill. Yes, it may be a little more expensive to pick up as a hobby, but when the dance is so beautiful, passionate, and in all honesty an impressive skill to cultivate, the logistics behind it seem to hardly matter.

Milongas of La Pas:

Academia de Tango Torino
Calle Socabaya 457
Central La Paz
Two milongas a month
Dress code: semi-formal attire

Caza Duende
Calle Belisario Salinas 380
Sopocachi
Every third Friday of the month

Altitude is a killer:

I took my first steps through El Alto airport feeling like a brick was weighing down on my chest...

I was told that the chasqui, relay runners used by the Inca as messengers, threw themselves across mountain slopes at death-defying altitudes. After having shortly just arrived in La Paz, I listened to this story in disbelief, wondering how it was possible, whilst feeling like my lungs had collapsed after walking the short distance from my apartment to the shops. However, further research confirms this tale; so why is it so hard for me, an active runner at sea level, to do anything here without feeling like I'm suffocating? Is altitude a real issue that needs to be overcome in order to be successful in sport (or just walking to the corner), or is it merely an excuse that I'm using to make myself feel better about being unfit?

Even after having ploughed my way through numerous guide books prior to my arrival in La Paz, each one telling me that I was likely to suffer with the altitude, I stubbornly refused to believe what I was being told. Fair enough, maybe the middle-aged men writing these books did suffer, but I, on the other hand, am 21 years young, with a high level of fitness; my lungs are strong enough to cope with a little less oxygen. In fact, I was looking forward to the altitude, embracing it, reasoning that when I went back to sea level my body would be so strong that running would cease to be hard work and I would impress my fellow joggers with my superior stamina and speed. No, unfortunately this was not the case. I took my first steps through El Alto airport feeling like a brick was weighing down on my chest, watching as a tourists turned dizzy and a little girl ran to the toilets to vomit. Welcome to La Paz, the highest (de facto) capital city in the world—we hope you enjoy your stay! Three days later and I was still feeling out of breath. Running to answer the door became a cardiovascular workout equal to doing an hour of aerobics. Why was I feeling like this? I am a runner! The possibility of jogging, however, even after 34 days of living in this fascinating yet oxygen-deprived city, still seems like a very remote possibility.

Running at altitude is an age-old activity in the Andes, I was told—have you never heard of the chasqui? The chasqui were the men that made up the Inca communication system in the Andes mountain range; effectively, they were a cross between marathon runners and postmen. Like members of a relay race, but at a really high altitude, they took parcels and letters instead of batons. The chasqui could deliver a message from Quito to Cusco, a path of 1,230 miles, in five days. From a palace in Cusco, fortunate royalty could dine off fresh fish from the coast, 200 miles away over the high Andes in a mere two days! Impressive feats. The chasqui must have been mythological creatures with super powers, able to defy the problems of altitude, lucky things. But apparently not—they were young boys who trained for their task, working hard to develop their lungs so they could breathe properly in the thin atmosphere to keep on running. So, altitude can be overcome? Will I ever be able to run the hills of La Paz city centre, or am I fighting a losing battle?

In need of an answer, I went to visit the professionals. Dr Gustavo Zubieta Sr. and Dr Gustavo Zubieta Jr., of the High Altitude Pathology Institute in Miraflores, have spent 45 years investigating the effect of altitude on the body. If anyone can tell me how to conquer this inconvenient affliction, it'll be them. They explained the science behind my new-found inability to run. I'll try to put it simply: La Paz sits between 3,000 and 4,100 metres above sea level. This is very, very high. Coming from sea level, your body has a panic attack, wondering why it can't find oxygen, and then realises it needs to adapt. At low altitudes, the blood is composed of 30 percent red blood cells, which zip oxygen around your body, allowing your muscles to move. When you get off the plane, your body, clever thing that it is, immediately starts creating more red blood cells, realising that this 30 percent is just not enough. Eventually, your blood will be made up of around half red blood cells. So, the guidebooks were wrong! Lung capacity can help, but the key is your blood. ""You can't run like at sea level"", Dr Zubieta Jr. tells me, ""but as time goes by, red blood cells increase, and in 40 days you will have adapted . . . "" Forty days? You must be kidding . . . ""Unless you go to El Alto,"" interjects Dr Zubieta Sr., ""t--hat's higher"". All right, so no more El Alto trips for me then. Turns out there's a formula for this sort of thing, and the higher you go, the longer it'll take you to adapt. I bet the chasqui never had problems with this: They were born at high altitude, they have a genetic advantage—please tell me they had an advantage, I ask, looking for an excuse. No, not really, anyone is capable of adaptation, genetics aren't really involved (although some people do sustain that Andes people have larger lung capacities so can breathe in more oxygen). However, it turns out I do have one advantage: ""women tolerate altitude better. There is a tolerance for hypoxia""—a fancy word for altitude sickness—""that women have. They have to carry a baby and split the oxygen they have with this other body they have growing in their womb. So they have this extra capacity to tolerate hypoxia. This gives them extra strength"", Dr Zubieta Jr. casually mentions. Yes! I am a woman! A medical expert is telling me I am stronger than men! Oh, it smacks of feminism and I love it.

However, I may be a woman, but I'm still not a chasqui. I may cope better then my male counterpart would do, but I still have 40 days to wait until my body is completely adapted. At least now I know I'm not just making excuses for being unfit. In fact, the doctors told me there's no point trying to run until after these magical 40 days, I'll only make it worse. So, the running is on hold for another week. Problem is, after all this waiting, the urge to run and be active is waning. My body is enjoying its time as a couch potato and feels reluctant to get back to exercise of any kind . . . Maybe I'll start slowly and by the end of my time here I'll be running up to El Alto with the runners I see now, smugly jogging past, smirking at the gringo girl who can't drag herself up a slight incline without breaking a sweat. Yes! I will defeat the altitude! Although, no, you will not see me running alongside Paula Radcliffe back in Britain; apparently it only takes 20 days for your body to turn back into its sluggish sea-level self once you descend back under the clouds. Devastated.