Surrounded by the old-world charm of the historic hotel I’m staying, I look out from my room over foaming breakers rushing in from the ocean and dashing themselves against a sea wall. A national symbol gyrates in a steady breeze on the face of a flag the size of a pair of drapes from a towering post over the entranceway. A humid haze hangs grey-brown over the city-centre, blurring the transition from sea to sky far on the horizon. But between me and the rest of the world is a sign, stuck to the glass, that reads, “Security prohibits photographing the precincts of the hotel from windows”.
This is still a city at war.