The elaborately costumed dancers may be in full swing in Oruro, but here in Cochabamba the preparations are still underway and the city is curiously quite - except for the guys patrolling the streets throwing water bombs from their cars, and the kids (mainly boys) with their turbo super-soaker water guns, who patrol the pavements, mischievous grins on faces all.
Meanwhile, Simón José Antonio de la Santísima Trinidad Bolívar y Palacios Ponte y Blanco, or just plain old Símon Bolívar to you and me, stands, arms folded, on top of his plinth amongst the empty stands which line the Prado. He looks on dispassionately, despite being confronted by a large red banner, a potent symbol of the Imperial west, stretched between the palm trees in front of him.
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