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.
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.
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