Here's looking at you kid...

I'm sitting in Casablanca, looking out at the gathering gloom of a rainy dusk, when an ancient woman appears at the doorway. 

She's from out of town (and out of mind) and the lines on her face are like the dried-up river beds of a distant planet photographed through the Hubble space telescope. 
She has the regulation bundle tied to her back with a blanket, and a felt flower-pot hat which has moulded its shape to the misfortunes of its owner.

Casablanca is a place where, just as in the film, an odd assortment of misfits hang out, drinking coffee, beer, juice, wine, eat, play cards, chess, and read the papers. They may not be waiting for papers of transit, but they seem to be waiting for something to happen.

The woman is clutching two small netted bags of lemons, the ones that are about the size of hen's eggs, and she is hoping to make a sale. I am sitting at the table by the door, so I am the first to shake my head, followed by others further inside.

A few moments later the security guard — green military-style uniform, baton, cuffs, mace spray (but no handgun), follows her in and asks her to leave. He's just doing his job, of course, just like Captain Louis Renault at Rik's.

As she walks back past I call her over, despite the security guard waving his finger at me, in a gesture I can only interpret as, "You'll only encourage them."

The bags of lemons are $B2 each, about 20p). I buy two bags. Lemons always come in handy.

Soon after, two girls, sorry, young women... (okay then, hippy chicks) walk in trying to sell incense sticks. I hold up my hand to say "no thanks" and they, like the old woman, try their luck with the other punters further inside.

For some reason (because they are European perhaps?) the security guard does not reappear to evict them from the premises.

Pavement artist

The first time I passed this young Quechua girl, sitting on the pavement outside Cafe Paris on the corner of the Plaza Principal, I expected - as is so often case - that a hand would automatically reach out, especially seeing a big white softie gringo walking towards her.

But her hands, far from being empty, were busily employed weaving a bangle from an array of coloured threads, and her eyes, not particularly aware of my existence, were concentrating on the complex but seemingly effortless task in hand(s). 

A small selection of her work was set out in front of her, each a variation on a theme, the familiar colourful patterns of the Andes.


However, she is not alone: there are similar products on sale all over town, from established shops and street stalls, to the wandering hippy trader/crafts-person - so the competition is tough.


She obviously has the entrepreneurial spirit though, unlike her little brother who was less creatively occupied (perhaps just learning the ropes) begging from people in cars stopped at the traffic lights opposite.

Let us entertain you?

...or at least detain you long enough for you to reach your hand into your pocket, entertainment not really being a word that comes to mind in these circumstances. He strums an out-of-tune Charango, and she dances with jerky movements, perhaps she thinks this is expected of her. Others, for whom this is everyday Cochabamba, walk on by. My contribution is for the photo more than their performance.

Stick with Evo?

More road blocks today, but these were official, and only to be expected when El Presidente comes to town. 

With the higher than usual number of military police on the streets - and a parade of neatly turned out schoolgirls in white dresses - I thought there must be something going on. 

The Plaza Principal had been blocked off to traffic and a stage erected in one corner. But this was not another demo, and as I sat having a coffee in the Cafe Paris on another corner of the square, I could hear an amplified voice talking to the crowd, eliciting enthusiastic responses, but strangely no fire crackers exploding every few moments, which is usually the case when large crowds congregate here. 

He was probably preaching to the converted, and as I went to have a look at what was going on I could see that he was surrounded protectively by loyal banner-carrying supporters, and there were no hecklers. 

As is usually the case in politics it had more than a whiff of orchestration about the whole thing. 

Needless to say I couldn´t understand what he was saying, besides a rallying sentence ending with the word ¨Campesinos¨ which received a loud cheer. 

Given the relatively quiet turnout, I expect this was not a publicised event, as there are plenty of people who are not satisfied with the Evo regime, and would probably have been only too willing to show up and let off a few fire crackers, should they have been allowed to get anywhere near.

Left hand drive? No problem

I get into the back of a cab, and the driver is sitting in front on the left hand side of the car, steering wheel in hands. 

So far, so normal. But this is Bolivia — surely there is more to this story? 

And so proves to be the case. This is a conversion — a second hand Japanese import converted to a left hand drive — but the instrument panel, speedo, indicator lights etc, are all still on the right hand side of the car, as they were when it originally left the factory.

The speedo dosen´t appear to be working (not something anyone is going to worry about in this country) but the fuel and temperature gauges register their respective readings, and as the driver turns left and then right I see the indicator lights dutifully recording these actions, despite the fact that he cannot see them. 

We stop at traffic lights, and during the inertia it´s all irrelevant — for a few seconds it´s just another hunk of metal stopped at a red light.

I look out of the side window. On the other side of the road there is a little kid with tattered and dirty clothes. 

He sees a gringo in the back of a taxi, and walks straight toward him, hand outstretched, laughing.

The house where Barbie lived

Not to be confused with the popular girlie doll, Klaus Altmann — AKA Klaus Barbie, or more affectionately — The Butcher of Lyon, lived in this house on España in Cochabamba. Ironically (and I do like a bit of irony) the electrified barbed wire is to deter unorthodox entry rather than to prevent escape.

Confort, Elegancia and Securitad

Three large windows down the side of the bus. At the top of each are usually three words proclaiming Confort - Elegancia - Securitad, or variations on a theme: sometimes it is Elegancia - Tourismo - Adventura. 

Today is the third day of a transport strike sparked of by a raise in fares, so these colourful and eccentric (if a little smokey) busses, so much a part of daily life in Cochabamba, are absent from the streets. 

In thier place are thousands of protesters, some marching in opposition to the fare increases, others, presumably the transport workers, marching to support them. 

The multiple burst fire crackers (effectively a hand-held mortar) resound and echo through the curiously quiet (and slightly less polluted) streets of Cochabamba, as the blockades cut off key access points to the city — bridges etc — and turn it into a de facto island. 

This was supposed to have been a one day strike on Wednesday, but due to confrontations, and damage to the transport workers´buildings, the situation has escalated. 

But soon though, perhaps even as early as tomorrow, we can all travel once more in comfort, elegance, and with security.

Valley of the Blind

A woman sits on a step under the arches of the western colonnade of the main square, squeezing the bellows of an ancient piano accordion. Her sunken eye sockets are tranquil, and her right hand slips over the keys, searching for the notes to make the tune. 

She sings softly, almost to herself, in a rather high faltering voice, and I know that she has learnt to play this tune, as others she must know, as a sightless little girl, more than forty years ago. 

It is a sad song, anyone would recognise this, even if they couldn´t see who was playing it. 

Someone stops and drops a coin into the plastic beaker which is attached to the front of the instrument. A hollow sound resounds from the cup, the coin having met no others at the bottom. 

When she finishes the tune I add another coin to the cup, then walk away.

It´s late in the afternoon of national Coca leaf chewing day (or something), a day to celebrate the Coca leaf in defiance of those who consider the habit a deviant practise. People are gradually dispersing, and strewn around the streets and pavements are little piles of spat-out coca leaves, like miniature piles of dung (and not dissimilar in the olfactory department). 

Walking north under the eastern colonnade of Plaza principal are two old women who barely reach up to my chest. The first woman sweeps her white cane from side to side as she walks steadily along, a large bundle fastened to her back with a blanket in the traditional manner. The second woman, equally burdened, has no stick but rests her hand on her sister´s (?) shoulder, and walks behind — the blind leading the blind.

With the dire state of many of the pavements here, this is a town where you have to keep your wits about you as you walk around, least you break your ankle stepping in a hole, or tripping over an upturned concrete slab, whilst also watching out for the ubiquitous street-stall canopy frames, which are always just the right height to poke your eye out.

Of course, unlike Wells´s story, not everyone here in the valley is blind (besides the story's luckless sighted visitor). It´s just that here in Cochabamba, they have more than their fair share of those who are.

Look, no hands!

Walking down to Plaza 14th Septiembre in Cochabamba I notice a man sitting on one of the wooden benches, balancing a small mirror on the stump where his right hand used to be. I assume he is preparing to shave. 

I go for a coffee at one of my regular haunts, using my fingers and hands to lift my coffee cup and eat my croissant. I don´t make too bad a job of it. 

Then, walking back through the square, with its neatly-tended flower beds, a man squats down to one side of the path who is also missing a hand, this time it´s the left one. He uses his right hand to hold out his empty hat. 

I go to the Internet cafe and write a couple of emails, using a few digits from each hand to work the keyboard, which are, after all, designed for people with fingers.

Walking back up Baptista I notice that the man walking towards me has no right hand. That´s two rights and a left so far this morning. 

Later I return to 14th Septiembre, and walking along one of the diagonal paths which is thronged with people most of the day, a young man sits playing the harmonica, hoping that there might still be a few people around who have not yet gone down with compassion fatigue. He holds the instrument between the two stumps which are usually known as wrists, and where presumably his hands were once attached, though I fear that should he attempt to wear a wristwatch now he would soon loose it.

Later still and I am walking through one of the many labyrinthine passageways in the large indoor food market. A man sits begging, the stump where his right hand used to be wrapped in a white bandage. Perhaps this injury has been recently acquired, if such a thing can ever really be acquired. He also has a bandage on his face covering his right eye. As my friend Ed says, ¨You don´t have to walk far in this town to count your blessings.¨

Bizarrely, a few days later, having just sketched out these last two blog entries longhand over a cup of coffee at ECB (Espresso Coffee Bar), and having just left that establishment, who should I see walking towards me but the very same man from the market, who applies to both Valley of the Blind, and this entry.  

It seemed to me that his good eye looked at me rather accusingly, and as I made room for him to pass on the narrow pavement, he said ¨Señor!¨ in a very strong, clear voice. 

I will never know if this was just an acknowledgement of my existence, an accusation, or a plea for help.

Tuxedo Junction — Reflexions on a Theme #4

Can't imagine I'm going to be needing a tuxedo any time soon. But you never know, so if I ever do, I'm sure this store on the corner of Plaza Colon, will be able to fulfil my every requirement.

This is what I find strangely fascinating about this town. Just round the corner there are dirty children begging for food, happy to eat the leftovers from my plate, and here is a shop selling garments for banquets and grand occasions. Of course, the divide between the haves, and the have-nots, is nothing new, it's just here it is rather 'in your face,' to use the popular slang.  

Fancy Footwork

Carnaval practice in full swing on the streets of Cochabamba.

OPTICA VISION

Reflexions on a Theme #3