Up on the roof

I ruin my last full day in Havana with a monumental hangover, though the previous evening (I believe) was well worth the price, even though my recollections of it are now as hazy as the face of the girl who appeared from the shadows in the dimly-lit doorway of a former hotel. She was very direct, and in my inebriated state I wonder just how (or why) I resisted her unsubtle charms — and you may well ask just what I was doing there in the first place. 

However, redemption is at hand, a peace offering in the form of a solo violin — not an unheard instrument in this city but not a common one either. 

I get up, rather unsteadily, pull back the curtains and look out over the now familiar landscape of buildings and flat rooftops stretching out before me. 

Gradually I am able to stabilise the horizontals, make sense of the shapes and colours, control the feeling of nausea, and focus my vision. 

There is a man in a bright-blue boiler suit tending one of the many clusters of racing pigeon cages set out on the roofs of central Havana. There is also a woman in a red top and purple shorts, on the same roof, hanging out washing. 

I keep looking but I can’t see anyone playing a violin, maybe whoever-it-is, is inside, or I’m having an audio hallucination to augment the other effects of my over indulgence.

A pigeon lands and retreats inside one of the open cages. The man in the bright-blue boiler suit, who has been hiding behind a wall, sneaks up, reaches inside the cage, grabs the pigeon and throws it back into the air, where of course, because it is a bird, and has wings has wings, is able to fly, unlike me.

I see another boiler suit, a dark blue one this time, but there’s no one inside —it hangs from a washing line, swaying slightly in the breeze. 

And there, close by, I see a young girl playing her violin in the shade. She can be no more than 10-12, and wears a neat yellow and black checked shorts and top combination. 

Another girl about the same age (sisters perhaps) stands nearby in the sunlight. There is a basket of washing that (presumably) she is meant to be hanging on the line to dry, but she is more interested in her mp3 player, which I suspect is an entirely different style of music to the classical repertoire her sister is practising on her violin.

Hotel Inglaterra

The street-level terrace of the Hotel Inglaterra has a row of plants set out between the columns that border the colonnade, deterring the riff-raff from straying into the gringo zone, and the punters from leaving without paying their tab. People come and go via the two columns opposite the main entrance, where a doorman keeps a watchful eye on things.

I am greeted with a friendly smile, "Buenas tardes señor," and then take a seat at one of the heavy metal tables topped with hand-painted ceramic tiles.

On Paseo de Marti, buses crammed with people returning from work pass by in the cool dusk of a stormy day, reminding me of my privileged status, that I am just another tourist passing through, drinking beer and smoking a cigar.

The pavement traffic is also heavy, hands holding hoisted umbrellas, and feet trying to avoid the puddles from the recent showers. A few people stop and listen to the salsa band, peering over the wall of plants. A girl delivers me air-blown kisses, eyes sparkling. An out-stretched hand reaches through the plants, "Just one peso señor…" before the doorman moves him on. A man stands with a small pad of paper drawing quick sketches of the punters, hoping to receive a peso or two for his efforts. He passes the finished sketch across the plants and waits patiently. It is not very good, but at least he is trying.

Che Guevara makes an appearance, this being one of his regular haunts on his daily rounds. He also stops and peers over the foliage, eyes beaming, unlit cigar stub in his mouth, ever confident that that the tourists will want their picture taken with him despite his scruffy appearance — the beret with the star, the beard and the cigar will pass for the real thing, at least when showing the holiday snaps back home, or when posted on Facebook.

Two foreign girls are ushered in by the smiling doorman, and saunter to the table near the band. Soon they are sipping their mojitos and tapping their high heels to the salsa rhythm. 
The band is a regular fixture here, and even though it's a hotel terrace gig and not the Tropicana, there is no reason to play with any less enthusiasm, despite the same daily repertoire, and the transitory audience. The trumpet player, a cool looking guy in a grey suit and a black pork-pie hat, shuffles his feet from side to side and twists his torso between blows, dancing with his trumpet. He steps forward and beckons one of the girls to get up and dance, but she resists, arms folded tightly and shaking her head. He tries again, but she's rooted to the chair, her inhibitions in full control.

Meanwhile a young woman stands at the entrance, on her own. She wears a smart white jacket and clutches a replica Louis Vuitton handbag. But unlike the two foreign girls, she has to wait for approval from the doorman before she can enter. She sits at a table on her own sipping her Daiquiri through a straw and exchanging glances with two American men at a nearby table.

I finish my beer, stub out my cigar, and get up to leave. But as I step out of the gringo zone onto the rain-soaked pavement, Che Guevara grabs my arm and holds onto me firmly, hoping that at any second my face will melt in recognition and I will be only too happy to have my photo taken with him, for a couple of Pesos of course.

I manage to shake him off, even though he had latched on with determination, and I take off down San Martin into the gathering Havana night.

A final glance down the terrace reveals that the girl in the white jacket had joined the two American men at their table, and has a fresh Daiquiri in front of her.

A — Z of Havana

A is for ancient American automobiles, atrophied architecture, and absent anchovies.

B is for broken and battered, but beautiful.

C is for cracked, crumbling, cockerels crowing in the city, chess in the shade of the colonnade, Chan Chan, and “Cigar-cigar — Cohiba, very good price no problem.”

D is for Daiquiri, dirt, dust and debris, but immaculately dressed school children.

E is for erosion, effulgence, erstwhile elegance, exhaust efflux, Eddie, Egrem, and (Saint) Ernesto (Che Guevara).

F is for fading façades, fabulous, fun, fast girls and friendly (sometimes a bit too friendly).

G is for gringo-savvy, gyrating gesticulations, and gold teeth.

H is for (Cuban) high heels, Hemingway haunts, “Hello my friend…” and hot hot hot.

I is for incredible, impossible, irresistible and indescribable.

J is for joyful, juicy, jalopy and jaded jalousies.

K is for kool, krazy and kooky.

L is for laughter, love, and life!

M is for make-do-and-mend, music, the Malecon, music on the Malecon, Mojitos, maracas, and MAD AS HELL.

N is for no holes bared.

O is for oblique, open doorways and Oye Como Va.

P is for peeling paintwork, palm trees, potholes in the pavements, and promenading on the Prado.
 

Q is for quixotic, quirky and (Cuban style) queuing (an amusing take on an informal gathering).

R is for Rumba, rum, rice and beans, roadside repairs, and Rumberos De Cuba.

S is for seductive, sexy, Salsa, and sunset on the seafront.

T is for tantalising, taped-up trombones and “Taxi amigo?”

U is for unusual, unique and unabashed.

V is for vultures circling over the city hospital, and hasta la Victoria.

W is for waves washing over the Malecon wall, white marble staircases (behind open doorways), and “Where are you from?”

X is for x-traordinary, and MaXimo.

Y is for Yosvani (there is only one).

Z is for zanily zany, zeal, and zealously zealous.

 

The Three Amigos

I’m sitting on the Malecón in Havana looking out at the Gulf of Mexico, legs swinging over the sea wall. I’ve left my back unguarded and it’s not long before this strategic error is exploited. 

Suddenly I’m attacked from behind. It’s not painful, in fact I welcome it, and I only have myself to blame for letting my guard down. For a few moments I remain staring at out to sea, trying to pretend that this is not happening to me and hoping they’ll just GO AWAY. 

But I know resistance is useless, so I turn my back on the sea and face my attackers. 
As hit squads go they are rather charming, but then, most Cubans are. 

A young guy with interesting spiky hair and imitation Ray Ban Wayfarers strums his guitar and sings, and his slightly less-hip accomplice plays a pair of bongos attached by a waist harness. 

I don’t immediately recognise the song, but it is not altogether unfamiliar either. I’ve recovered by now, and accepted that I’ve been well and truly ambushed. 

They are playing as if their lives depended on it, and I am an audience of one.

When they finish they ask the inevitable question: “Where are you from?” 

Cubans don’t have passports, can’t just go to airport and jump on a plane, and every visitor is from someplace else, someplace they can’t go. So it’s a fair enough question, and in any case, the world comes to Cuba.

They launch into another song and this time I do recognise it. I’m a tourist so I obviously want to hear something from the Buena Vista Social Club sound track. I tell them to stop (that I’ve already overdosed on Chan Chan) and to play something less well known. They are slightly thrown by this — a tourist who doesn’t want to hear Chan Chan? 

They metaphorically pull their chins for a moment, confer briefly, decide on a tune, and then start up again. It’s a pretty little number, in which the word corazón appears several times, so I guess it’s a love song. Again the guitarist gives it all he’s got and the bongo player hits the skins with fluid precision.

Knowing full well that I’m going to have to shell out at least a couple of Pesos for this entertainment I ask if I can have a go on the bongos (I did used to be a drummer after all). 

They indulge me, help strap them around my waist, and then I accompany the guitar player. Despite my amateurism and lack of technique, I like to think I don’t make too bad a job of it. 

Afterwards they clap and cheer, tell me I was good (but they were hardly going to tell me I was rubbish were they?). 

By this time the third amigo has sidled up (reinforcements). He’d been hanging back a few yards further down the sea wall observing developments. 

He pulls out a handful of CDs from his bag, popular Cuban music recorded by Cuban musicians, “Only ten pesos each.” I assume they’re all chums, and in the same business, which is trying to extract some CUCs (peso convertibles) from tourists' wallets, which are worth twenty-four times their own national peso, the CUP, so who can blame them?

Bongos reunited with someone who knows how to play them and the third amigo on clave, they launch straight in to El Cuarto de Tula, which is also from the famous Buena Vista Social Club CD. 

This time I don’t protest, just sit back and enjoy, after all, it’s not everyday you find yourself in Havana.

Two wheels good

Netherlands, July 2011

Koningssluis bridge, Amsterdam

The Dutch are a remarkably confident and relaxed nation given that about a third of their country lies below sea level, especially with the new (improved) fear of Global Warming, to replace the now slightly less imminent threat of nuclear annihilation. 

A country that is actually growing size — God may have created the world, but the Dutch created Holland (as the saying goes). 

A civilised country too, with great cheese, great beer, a billiard table landscape to cycle between the beer and cheese outlets, and a cycle lane network that should be the envy of the world. 

But, it seems that in most other places the bicycle is considered to be an inferior means of transport, and less important than the automobile, which must be pandered to, washed on Sundays, accidents cleared away quickly in case anyone gets upset by the sight of the mangled remains (not to mention the blood), and have TV programmes like Top Gear to throw more gasoline on the already inextinguishable fire of auto-love.

Not in Holland though: as my cycle lane joins a roundabout, a car driver miraculously gives way to me. This is not an isolated incident either; it’s just how it is. The cycle lanes are as well constructed as the highway, and are virtually free of pot-holes, drain covers and other booby traps for cyclists. There are bicycle path direction finders, frequent network maps, bicycle traffic lights (some giving a countdown to green), and plenty of provision for bikes on trains.

And one assumes, especially because it’s such a flat country, this is how it must have always been, cars and bicycles living together in harmony. 

The fact is that 30-40 years ago Holland was in a similar position as Britain is today, with ever increasing dominance of the automobile, and ever more demand for new roads — the humble bicycle was way down on the list. 

It was only by a huge and well organised public campaign, demonstrations and petitions to the Dutch prime minister that change was gradually brought about. 

Dutch towns and cities weren’t built with the bicycle in mind any more than British town and cities, but they now serve as an example of what can be achieved. 

Cycle street where cars are 'guests.' Photo Rob Lee

Spinoza

I don’t usually get too excited about public statuary, but the monument to the philosopher Spinoza in Amsterdam is more imaginative that most.

It's also well positioned by the pedestrian and cycle bridge across the Zwanenburgwal canal, just before it joins with the Amstel river, a stone’s throw from the popular Waterlooplein market, and just around the corner from the National Opera and Ballet hall.

Of Spinoza himself there is not really much to see, as his entire body is draped in a cloak decorated with birds and roses.

Poking out above and framed by a splendid wig, is his face. Whether it's a good likeness of the great man, or not, his thoughtful facial features are well modelled and radiate a certain presence.

The birds are rose-ringed parakeets, an exotic species which have become familiar all over Amsterdam, having first settled in Vondelpark a few decades back. They symbolise the immigrant nature of the city in the 17th Century, and that it still is today.

But my favourite part of the monument is the black marble icosahedron which symbolises the the universe as a model, created by the human mind.

The whole arrangement is mounded on an elliptical plinth, conveniently low enough to sit on.
You can even lean back against the icosahedron, and perhaps contemplate the quote etched into the plinth edge beneath you: ‘The purpose of the state is freedom.'

A good place to pause for a while, and perhaps the presence of the great philosopher and the icosahedron will help sharpen your own mind, and your philosophical thoughts.

Monumzent to Spinoza, Zwanenburgwal, Amsterdam. Sculptor: Nicolas Dings 2008.

Frans Hals

Wonderful portrait of Pieter Jacobsz Olycan by Frans Hals — at the Frans Hals Museum in Haarlem. Criticized during his lifetime — his brushwork was considered to be lazy and unfinished — it took almost two hundred years for his work to become fully appreciated.

The Impressionists were particularly impressed by the freshness of his technique. Vincent even wrote to his brother Theo 'What a joy it is to see a Frans Hals, how different it is from the paintings – so many of them – where everything is carefully smoothed out in the same manner.' 

Painted in 1629, it’s hard to believe it’s nearly 400 years old, but I suppose the ruff is a bit of a give-a-way.

 

Guerrillero Heroico

Vondelpark, Amsterdam, June 2011 

Having recently been in Samaipata Bolivia (now part of the Che Guevara Trail — see link below), and that I was re-reading his autobiographical Motorcycle Diaries, I suppose it was hardly surprising that I began to notice people wearing t-shirts bearing his image.

Jimi Hendrix was also well represented, as was James Dean, The Beatles, Marilyn Monroe, Jim Morrison, and any number of other heroes (not to mention all the slogans and brands) but Che’s face kept staring out at me, or rather, staring past me into the distance. 

The image, based on Alberto Korda’s iconic 1960 photograph Guerrillerio Heroico, has become (arguably) the world’s most famous picture, and its reproduction a global phenomenon. Victor was my first ‘ask,’ though shortly afterwards I realised that Rory (with Budge the crow — see A Murder of Guevaras post) had also been wearing a Che t-shirt, so the theme had already been established.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guerrillero_Heroico

http://www.southamericanpictures.com/collections/che-guevara-trail/che-trail.htm

In transit

On Paddington station there is a display stand of the latest Dyson must-haves, and two or three Dyson ambassadors dressed in regulation black. This is new to me, and for a moment I wonder whether they haven’t enough room for him at Olympia or Earls Court. 

People momentarily pause on their way from, or to wherever they’re going, and are temporarily seduced by a fan without blades, a slim vacuum cleaner for people who live in small spaces, and other such modern marvels.

Having just heard the helpful and informative message over the station tannoy that thieves are operating in the area, I stop for a moment to fasten the zips of my gaping shoulder bag. 

I look up as woman walks past. She is tall, attractive, has blonde curly hair and is elegantly dressed, but she has no arms. Her hands sprout from her shoulders, the right one holding onto the straps of her shoulder bag – perhaps she also heard the message about the 'thieves.' 

I am reminded of all the people in Cochabamba missing one or both hands, and still don’t know the reason why: primitive farm machinery, birth defects caused by pollution? 

But there is no doubt what caused this woman to be born without arms.

---

Later, I'm ensconced in my seat on the Eurostar, gliding smoothly through the French countryside towards Brussels, re-reading The Motorcycle Diaries by Che Guevara, and listening to music through my Bose headphones. London to Brussels in two hours, plus noise-cancelling headphones: it seems that the future has arrived and I'm part of it.

Che writes: "I now know, by a fantastic coincidence with fact, that I am destined to travel. All the same, there are moments when I think with profound longing of those wonderful areas in the South of Argentina. Maybe one day when I'm tired of wandering, I'll come back to Argentina and settle in the Andean lakes, if not indefinitely at least in transit to another conception of the world."

At some point we must have crossed over into Belgium, because the landscape has subtly changed, to a smaller scale it seems. With the words "if not indefinitely at least in transit to another conception of the world," I glance out of the window to see a field full of scarecrows. 

Unless they are mechanically operated – a new gadget by James Dyson perhaps – I assume they are animated by the wind, which of course, being inside the Eurostar, I have no sensation of. 
I am listening to the slow movement of Philip Glass’s violin concerto and it seems to me that they are dancing to the music on my eyepod.

A Murder of Guevaras

Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire June 2011

This is Rory, and his crow Bugde, who “fell out of his nest” a couple of weeks back.

“He’s just a baby,” Rory explains, in a deep voice which contrasts with his youthful looks.

Why Budge?  “Cos he keeps budgin’ about on my shoulder. Do you want to hold him?”

Budge hops onto the back of my hand and seems to be quite happy to be there, craning his head around to look at me and with his jet black eyes. I stroke his head feathers, feeling his small fragile skull beneath.

“Do you want to feed him?” Rory asks, reaching into the pocket of his combat trousers.

I imagine he’s got some worms or maggots in there, but he pulls out a small plastic bag of what I assume is dried cat food. I take one and offer it to Budge, who gently clasps it in his beak, tips his head back and swallows it. I give him a few more and then hand him back to Rory.

“I’ve always wanted to own a bird,” I say, but somehow the words ‘bird’ and ‘own’ don’t fit together in the same sentence. 

A Murder of Guevaras? Rory also turns out to be the first of my Che Guevara t-shirt project, which currently stands at 31, hence the collective term.
www.wearingche.blogspot.com

Save the Last Dance For Me

Often seen soaring high in the blue gliding effortlessly on the thermals, or close-up prancing in gangs on the beach, squabbling over whatever may have washed up that day.

Admittedly not the most endearing of birds, and just about everyone feels a deep down sense of revulsion towards them, whereas in fact they are nature's recyclers:

Sand

 














Unlike the Inuit, who are reputed to have many different words for snow, the Brazilians have only the one word for sand. 

This is strange for there are many different types: there’s wet sand; dry sand; coarse and fine sand; soft wet sinking sand; compact sand I can ride my bicycle on; soft sand you can leave your footprints in; sand with ripples on from an outgoing tide; sand blown into dunes which encroach on human habitation (reminiscent of JG Ballard stories); crumbly sand; the cool sand underfoot in the morning, and the burning midday sand; moonlit sand; sand with thousands of tiny craters from the rain; sand with a crusty layer; compacted sand with a fine layer of wind-blown sand on top which squeaks when you skim your feet over the surface (one of my favourites); sand patterned by seagulls’ webbed footprints; sand full of sand crabs’ burrows, their spoil-piles and their skittering claw tracks; and the sand which is full of bottle tops, plastic cups, straws, cigarette butts, bits of lime, chips, tomato sauce and mayonnaise sachets, fish bones and cocktail sticks, which is a very common variety around the beach bars here, especially during the Temporada.

The Fishing dogs of Ponta das Canas

Tired of burgers and chips? Leftovers and scraps? Waiting for handouts or raiding dustbins? These guys are, and presumably that's why they took up fishing. Working as a team and highly focused on the task in paw, they patrol the shallows at Ponta das Canas beach until they find a likely contender, who has strayed in-to their depths, and then pounce.

Amigo Mike recons they've been at it at least a year, and they are looking pretty good on it. I suppose that if they get a little bored with their diet, they could always find a few chips scattered in the sand near the restaurant tables, squeeze a dribble of mayonnaise from an abandoned sachet, maybe even a little tartar sauce…

Fish Supper Anyone?

Every so often all the effort pays off. Tainha (red mullet), a few expectant locals, and some happy fishermen.

This is a low tech fishing method. A canoe casts off from the shore, makes an arc whilst paying out a net, returns to shore, and everyone helps pulls in the net, the fishermen, and anyone who happens to be nearby on the beach.

Sometimes there is nothing, sometimes they are lucky.

Tainha boat ready to launch . . .

Swimming with the dolphins

Daniela — a beach on the north west side of the island facing the continent. The sort of day you would need your head examined if you had anything to complain about.

The fishermen load their net into a small boat called Mane da Ilha, then row out in an arc, paying out the net into the water as they go. Returning to shore, and the horseshoe trap set, the two ends of the net are gradually pulled in, hand over hand. Simple, but effective, and no doubt this method has been practiced for many years.

As the guys are sorting their catch — a few tainha, some sardines, crabs, jellyfish and seaweed, someone spots a dolphin out in the bay, and for a short while we’re all on board the Pequod, scrutinizing the water, shielding our eyes from the glare of the sun, and pointing.

There are several dolphins, arcing lazily through the water — and dolphins mean fish! The fishermen hurriedly reload their net into Mane da Ilha and set off again in anticipation of a larger, dolphin-aided catch.

Meanwhile I slip into the water, the dolphins are a couple of hundred yards away, but at least I can now say that — once I went swimming with the dolphins.

The Melon Man

The Alfred Wallis of Floripa, perhaps . . .

From Pachamama to Iemanja

It’s the eve of the tainha season and the long and narrow tainha boats — like oversized dug-out canoes — are lined up at intervals along the beaches of the island, nets loaded in readiness should a shoal be spotted.

The fishermen are busy erecting temporary shelters; some are elaborate constructions with stoves and cooking facilities, others little more than shacks cobbled together from found materials. Nevertheless — they provide a base in which to sit, play cards, and no doubt drink some Cachaça as they while away the hours of waiting.

Further along the beach there’s a pack of vultures pecking away at something on the sand. When I get closer I see several chicken heads, pieces of water melon and other fruits, bread and confectionary strewn around — an offering to Iemanja, goddess of the sea and mother of the waters.

The vultures flap their wings and hop lazily away as I approach; some take off and circle round until I pass. Returning a short while later, what little flesh that was on the chicken heads has been stripped away and only the skulls remain, eye sockets void, the fruit, bread and confectionary have been tossed about in the scramble of legs claws and wings.

Llama foetuses at The Canch Market, Cochabamba, Bolivia.

Meanwhile, the llama foetus I brought back from Cochabamba — I thought it would make an unusual gift — has started to deteriorate. At 2600 metres above sea level in the dry mountain air the llama foetuses are plentiful, hundreds of them hanging from hooks above the market stalls, all shapes and sizes, and all dried in individual sculptural forms. But in the damp island air it has started to smell bad, causing its recipient (amigo Jim) to throw it away before he could burn it as an offering to Pachamama, or bury it under the new extension for good luck.
   

Returning to sea level from the high altitude of Cochabamba has also had an effect upon me. I haven’t started to deteriorate, or smell bad, in fact quite the reverse. My appetite, which strangely abandoned me in Bolivia, returns to normal, and I am quite literally full of beans.

I plunge into the sea at the first opportunity, reluctantly returning to land some time later, where I soon find myself running along the beach filling my lungs with air, and unusually for me, I am able to keep going beyond my usual cut off point (a hundred metres or so) and practically run the length of the entire beach.

If the Hat Fits...

In Bolivia, at least at altitude, you really need to wear a hat if you don't want your head to get fried, especially if you're going a bit thin on top (like me).  
I really liked this hat but it was too small and no amount of stretching would improve the situation, the hard felt as stiff as cardboard.

Of course, even if your hat doesn't fit in the conventional sense, it doesn't mean to say that you can't still wear it with style. Bolivia's indigenous Aymara and Quechua woman, known as 'cholitas' wear their bowler hats perched high up on top of their heads. 

The Bowler hat, known as 'bombín' in Spanish, was first introduced to Bolivia by British railway workers in the 1920s. For many years they were made in a factory in Italy, but now they are made locally, and come in a range of colours and trims than you would have never found in London...

Flight of the condors

 
























Samaipata, Bolivia, where there is no word which expresses a greater sense of urgency than 'mañana.'

The road to Samaipata

Laying a couple of thousand metres lower than Cochabamba the short flight to Santa Cruz is practically a glide. The pilot just needs to clear the ridge of mountains which surround the city, and then it’s all downhill.

After three months in the thin air of Cochabamba, Santa Cruz feels heavy and humid, but there’s hardly time to draw breath before we are heading back up into the hills again.

I sit in the front passenger seat of the Japanese conversion, the gaping hole of the absent steering wheel, and the redundant instrument panel in front of me, while our driver Bernardino, with grim-faced determination, sets about beating his personal best time to cover the 120 kilometres, passing everything we catch up with, despite the fully-loaded taxi, the shot suspension, and the hole in the exhaust pipe.

To begin with the road is smooth tarmac, and the going is only impaired by the occasional strips of hard yellow plastic speed blocks at junctions and crossings, which most Bolivians treat with great respect given their no-nonsense construction, which even at low speed makes the car jolt violently (twice) and could cause untold damage should they be ignored. These gradually become less frequent as we leave behind the urban sprawl, but as the road starts to wind up through the mountains, there are unmade sections to be negotiated with care, places where the road has been practically washed away altogether, and at one place where a huge moraine from a recent landslide had spilled into the road virtually blocking it.

At one particularly hazardous point, a horseshoe section of road following the boulder-strewn river bed at the bottom of vertiginous mountain slopes (where no doubt landslides are a frequent occurrence) a bridge is under construction to straighten out the section and improve the status quo.

Further on a truck is coming towards us, clouds of red dust billowing up from its wheels. A familiar enough sight on these roads, and used to move everything from animals to crates of soft drinks. But this vehicle's 'livestock' is human — workers being transported to where their labour is needed. As it passes I glimpse brown skinned faces above the decoratively painted wooden panels, lit up in the sunlight which penetrates the dust particles and giving the appearance of watching old home-movie footage through a fog of audience cigarette smoke.

We stop at small roadside village and Bernardino gets out for a few moments. I have no idea if he’s paying a road toll, finding out whether there are more passengers waiting, or buying a packet of cigarettes, because as soon as we stop the car is surrounded by women and children trying to sell us food, drinks and sweets. Their hardened expressions say plainly enough that this passing trade is an important form of revenue.

As we climb steadily higher into the mountains, I notice large birds circling above. “Condors aqui?” I ask Bernardino, in my very limited Spanish. “Sí,” he replies, nodding his head affirmatively.

Being the national symbol of Bolivia I am childishly pleased to hear this, the only one I’ve seen to date being the rather crude painted cement statue with wings outstretched on top of the Column of Heroes in the centre of Plaza 14^th Septiembre in Cochabamba.

We arrive in Samaipata after 2.40 hours on the road. There is no exclamation of triumph from Bernardino, so I guess he’s not broken any records today. It’s midday, and with deserted streets and the sun beating down from a clear blue sky, there’s a distinctly siesta time feel in the town.

Having not known what to expect to find here, I had no preconceptions, I have merely arrived.

Samaipata is a Quechua word meaning ‘the height to rest’ and as I gaze into the distance, trying to work out whether the birds circling in the sky above are Condors or vultures, I become aware of the sound of the wind gently blowing through the branches of the pine trees — such a beautiful sound after the virtually non-stop car alarms and firecrackers of Cochabamba. Yes, I think — this is a very good place to rest.

Peluqueria - Super Globo - De Don Francisco

“There are loads of barbers down on San Martin," amigo Pierre tells me. “There’s a place just down on the right with loads of mirrors that looks interesting.”

Sure enough, within 100 yards of Plaza Colon there is an establishment which fits that description — Peluqueria -Super Globo- de Don Francisco — is painted on the window, and also on a sign above the shop front. There are about eight barber chairs, all state of the art — state of the art in 1920s Chicago that is, and the walls are almost entirely lined with mirrors. As it’s still quite early there’s only one guy on duty, and he’s already busy attending to an older gentleman with a head of hair that can still be cut with scissors into something called 'a style.'

I bide my time looking around the interior; the antique barber chairs in slightly differing styles and colours; the reflections in the mirrors; the green marble effect formica counter tops that are cracked and chipped and have the odd tell-tale yellow-brown stain from cigarettes that have been left to burn right down; the ‘kit’ set out on said counter tops in front of each empty chair in preparation; the inevitable girly pinups fixed up with faded brown selotape; a poster of Machu Picchu; and a few framed pencil drawings of hairstyles that were obviously once very fashionable (and most likely still are here in time warp Cochabamba).

An amount of time passes, neither long nor short, but the time that is necessary to pass. There’s only me waiting, and I’m in no hurry.

Then the old(er) guy is putting his jacket on and it’s my turn to step into the chair. As I stand up and hang my jacket on the coat stand I notice that the barber chairs all have their manufacturer’s names in raised letters in the time- and shoe-worn cast aluminium footrests. Mine reads THEO A KOCHS, CHICAGO.

I say “Buenos dias,” and hold out my hand, for I always like to shake hands with a man who is just about to bring sharp things into close proximity with my head, especially razorblades. As he ties on an apron I say, “numero dos por favor,” which is about all I need to get by in any barbers these days.

In the mirror I am confronted by a large round head, which being isolated from its body by the apron doesn’t do it any favours. Its eyes stare straight at mine. Meanwhile the barber unscrews the cap from a small chromium-plated and flask-shaped primus burner on the counter top and fills it with some kind of spirit. Having replaced the cap he gives the handle a few pumps then clicks a lighter in front of the nozzle. A small blue flame erupts into life. In front of this he passes various bits of equipment — the cutting heads, scissors, comb, the cut-throat razorblade holder etc, but I’m sure this is purely for my entertainment, and perhaps an inducement to be generous when tipping.

Cutting heads reunited with the power plant he begins to sweep the machine over my cranium. When he’s done my head looks astonishingly naked, and the eyes in the mirror do not look very impressed with what they see. 

He then wets the skin around my ears and neck and uses the razor to trim up. He trims my eyebrows with scissors, a few hairs spouting from my ears, and then takes me by surprise by sticking them in the end of my nose and trimming those guys too. 

I wonder why it is — and try to express this to my barber — that the older you become your hair doesn’t necessarily grow where you want it to, but from all the places you’d rather it didn’t. 

When he’s all done cutting, trimming and shaving he picks up the spirit lamp (un-lit) and sprays all around where he has shaved, and then for good measure, my entire head. I’ve never had this done before and for a moment I feel very light-headed — and highly inflammable. Suddenly I'm thankful there is no one in close proximity who is just about to light a cigarette. 

We go through the mirror routine, and I nod approvingly, even though I don’t like what I see, but the man has only done what I’ve asked him (except for the nose bit) so I’ve no reason to other than pleased with the job. 

Apron off and standing up (still feeling a bit light-headed from the atomized droplets of spirit), I pay and we shake hands again. I tell him my name for future reference, and he tells me his. It’s very easy to remember — it’s the same as mine but with an “o” on the end. 

I retrieve my jacket and bag, put my hat back on my freshly-trimmed and spirit-cooled head, slide on my shades, and venture forth once more into the streets of Cochabamba.