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.