Friday, 13th October. Caracas, Venezuela.

This morning I finally discovered the handle in my luxury shower, spa, bath complex and I can now stop taking my life in my hands everytime I get in and out. I am obviously not used to such luxury!

I aim to make today my last major day of Caracas exploration, so I am I up and at it early.

For a country so impoverished there are so many vehicles (can´t call them cars as some are just holding on) ploughing the streets.

As we journey into the city centre I am aware of just how hot and steamy it is, and I don´t simply mean the weather.

The atmospheric heat is added too by the danger, the pollution, the poverty, the unfinished buildings, the vast numbers of people, the filth and the squalor.

It takes almost two hours to make the journey into town today as many streets are closed off for markets and also for a political march. I eventually have to head off on foot and begin by making my way first to the Capitolio Nacional where I am denied entry.

I had come here to see the Salón Elíptico with its domed ceiling painting by the prolific Martin Tovar y Tovar in 1888. The Salón is apparently open to the public and the oval hall is dominated by Tovar´s mural of the Battle of Carabobo.

Despite the published access hours I am discovering more and more that they set their own agenda in South America.

I am not happy today with the vibe in the city. There is a threatening feeling in the air. Indeed, my driver warned me before leaving the car to remove everything, watch and sunglasses included, for my own safety.

This proves to be very good advice and as I walk through the markets I am jostled and hands appear everywhere.

I decide to head off and see the Casa Natal del Libertador and the Museo Bolivariano and then get out of the city centre.

The complex is a lovely old collection of colonial buildings, and the Bolívar home is yet another testament to the power of both the Church and the Spanish and Portuguese on this continent.

The old town plans in the museum show just how dominant the Church was with religious buildings dominating the landscape and the Church controlling much of the fertile land (in harmony with a few privileged families). The aristocracy and the Church worked hand-in-hand to generate wealth in Colonial South America.

The Casa Bolívar is a very well-preserved building, although I would expect nothing less for a man portrayed in Venezuela as a saint. The building is a traditional courtyard set-up with rooms of highly decorated art, exquisite woods and gilt chandeliers.

The murels in the house are typical political statements of the period with the Spanish and the Church bringing civilisation to the bastard natives.

Of course, there is the standard small bed on show (as in every great home of the period), along with the characteristic dark wood furniture, gilt framed portraits of elegent men and unnaturally ugly women and no Hacienda would be complete without its private Chapel.

The murels are representative of all one would expect from the benevolence of the Church to the joys, and the dangers of not, turning to the Church.

This town is nuts. It is now mid-afternoon and cars are blocking every avenue, pumping out pollution. People are shouting at the top of their voices and hawkers are all around. Everyone is rushing and there is not a taxi to be had.

To get a picture think Moroccan Souk and multiply by 10.

I like local colour, but today I am not comfortable.

It gets to the point after walking the streets for an hour to find a taxi that I have no option but to take an unlicensed job. I need out of here and my guidebbok suggests that Sabana Grande is a good place to head.

In driving around the city there can be no doubt that it is dominated by ugly soviet style structures. However, there are a few stunning colonial era and traditional Spanish style buildings with which the city could do more.

Yet another driver who alters his price and when I say that I cannot afford to pay we embark on a magical mystery tour round and round in a loop of the Avenue Abraham Lincoln. He eventually agrees to a price 1/3 more than originally quoted and releases the doors for me to escape.

On leaving Sabana Grande I decide to take a real old wagon with no central locking to stop me being trapped again. However you realise just how vulnerable you are when you are sitting in traffic, everyone blasting their horns and vehicles coming at you from all points of the compass; and some I didn´t even know existed.

What has struck me travelling around the South American cities I have seen thus far is the social division. Yes, it is true London has its plush areas, as does New York, Glasgow, LA etc. However on this continent there is no concept of going up West.

The rich and the poor just do not mix and you really sense the demarcation lines.

PS I have been told so many times that I speak good English for a non-native speaker. It is amazing how many people seem to think initially that I am American, and when I say I am Scottish they think my English is great for someone with German as a first language?
Looks like education about our brothers and sisters globally has a long way to go!