I boldly walk through the grid-pattern of city streets, where the Colonial façades are, in some places, literally crumbling — debris of fallen masonry scattered over the pavement by Teatro Ache (luckily no blood) — so, this is no New Frontier.
Perhaps a more appropriate mode of transport in which to arrive in Cochabamba would be Dr Who´s Tardis, because I often experience a sense of having travelled back in time here (to an alternative nineteen-fifties perhaps). Step off the busy pavements into one of the many terrazzo-floored arcades, and as the noise from the traffic recedes behind you, so does any connection with reality that you might have become accustomed to.
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