Cochabamba audio portrait

As she cycles around the neighbourhood with a pile of newspapers balanced precariously on the handlebars of her bicycle, she calls out — "Los Tiempos" (The Times) - in a long drawn-out call and repeated like a mantra, practised and perfected over many years with only subtle variations in emphasis and duration. The 'Los' is all but lost, as is the final 's' as she hits the note on 'po' and holds it for a few seconds until it fades away. So all I hear is "T-iem-po…….." 

Meanwhile a loose formation of bright green parrots are doing an early morning recce over the city, squawking to each other as only parrots know how — probably one of the squadrons that colonise the tall palm trees on Plaza Colon.

This is followed by the sound of a dull metal clanging: this means there is gas, bottled gas, which like most things here is subject to interruptions in supply and availability. But in an almost comic farce, many who are in need of this essential substance to cook their food, run out from their homes or business premises to find that they are too late — the truck has already driven past, the driver too impatient to wait around for more than a few seconds.

An eruption of fireworks indicates yet another demonstration taking place — these occur very frequently. The protesters use hand-held mortar tubes to launch their pyrotechnics, which shoot up in the air about fifty feet before exploding, usually in a cluster of three and sound like short bursts of gunfire. Sometimes this is accompanied by protest chants, which must have some sort of bonding function for those taking part, for no one else takes the least notice.

Hearing the rapid blast of a bicycle hooter about one o’clock, I know that the little white bread and cake van has arrived and is parked in its usual spot to the side of the Comteco building. At other times of day the bicycle hooter usually means the approach of an ice cream vendor.

"Papaya-papaya-papaya-papaya..." heralds a young woman pushing her wheel barrow loaded with the fruit along the treacherous pavements, the sunlight filtering through the open weave of her broad-rimmed hat scattering speckles of light across her face. Also listen out for, naranja, mango, aguacate (avocado), piña (pineapple) and much more besides.

AT certain times of the day and night you will no doubt encounter the Cochabamba car alarm, a cacophony erupting at random from hundreds of parked cars throughout the city. This is activated by a mosquito landing on the roof of an adjacent building, the wing beats of a passing butterfly, or — the sensitivity setting most popular here — when someone sneezes in Buenos Aires. Needless to say that no one takes the slightest notice, and it only takes about thirty seconds to go through the entire routine of idiotic noises before there is a respite.

(As hard as might be to imagine, like hand grenades and land-mines, someone must actually be responsible for designing these things.)

A woman stands in the same spot every day on the narrow pavement by the convent on Baptista, retching once every second. It sounds like someone trying to grate a rock. Gradually a small amount of frothy white stuff accumulates in a puddle on the paving slab below her, and after a while she reaches down and combs it, one way and the other, as if trying to divine her future. I haven’t seen her for a while, so perhaps whatever it was she saw has come to pass.

An old man lies on the ground under the western colonnade of the Plaza Principal, striking the pavement with his stick in bursts of three, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap. The end of the sick is frayed from this repeated action. His legs and feet are bare, his T-shirt and shorts little more than rags. The white stubble of his beard contrasts with his brown, weather-beaten face. Nevertheless he manages a toothless smile as he holds out his grubby plastic cup in the event that someone might not yet have succumbed to compassion fatigue so early in the day.

The blind piano accordion woman, whose pitch is also along here, is not playing today. Her contribution to this sound portrait must be included by imagination. (She also sings, softly, almost to herself, as her fingers glide over the keys.) 

The blind pianist is here though, playing his tinny-sounding keyboard, propped on his knees, sitting on the pavement outside the Café Paris, his plastic cup equally bereft of coins.

In the Plaza Principal the members of a silver band are lined up, practising for the imminent Carnaval. They are not playing with any particular enthusiasm, so no one listens with much enthusiasm either.

Car horns inevitably interweave the day: a taxi driver is alerting you to his approach, should you require transport services – just jump in, the other passengers will make some space for you; another car approaches a green traffic light and sounds his horn just in case the driver coming the other way is not so attentive to the colour red; a millisecond after the lights have changed to green, every one behind the car at the head of the line cannot resist a blast or three — the mañana principle is somehow lost once behind the wheel of a vehicle.

As dusk falls, the blast of a whistle means the security guard is taking his job reasonably seriously. Another blast at 1am means he is still awake. The almost continuous car alarm from across the street means that someone is going down with a heavy cold in Buenos Aires.

On the Prado each restaurant has its own soundtrack. Outside Restaurant Colon, in the pavement seating area, there is a huge box on wheels, like a gaming machine. It has a TV screen showing someone crooning a song on a stage, somewhere in the land of sequins and mirror balls, the music blasting out at maximum volume, distorting the sound. 

At Tunari a small band has pitched up and are playing some traditional tunes to the assembled diners. Wandering minstrels, with guitars and charangos on their backs, walk on past looking for somewhere else where they can ply their trade.

About 2 am I hear Jimi Hendrix play All Along the Watchtower, and Little Wing played with the volume they deserve: this is Ed, I know just how he feels — and it’s his gift to the night.

Later in the night (or perhaps very early in the morning) I hear a clarinet and a side drum, a laconic trombone and a charango; it’s a mixture of Klezmer and Andean folk music. They are marching up the middle of the street because the bus and taxi drivers are on strike, and in any case, the streets have been blocked off for the parade. Those who are not watching soap operas or the football highlights weep for no apparent reason, but that’s what a clarinet and a charango can do to you if placed in the right hands. The neon lights of the cemetery mausoleum flicker as there is a momentary interruption of current. 

I wake to the beat of a drum, and some brass instruments (a trumpet and a euphonium?) — they are playing Happy Birthday (to someone). 

It’s not long before I hear the first few tentative chirps of the birds heralding the new dawn, and, as the sky lightens, some other familiar sounds: the clang of an empty metal gas canister; the gun-fire crackle of fireworks; the early morning flypast of the parrots squawking to each other with characteristic enthusiasm; and then, that faint, but unmistakable call — "(Los)Ti-em-po.…"