Peluqueria - Super Globo - De Don Francisco

“There are loads of barbers down on San Martin," amigo Pierre tells me. “There’s a place just down on the right with loads of mirrors that looks interesting.”

Sure enough, within 100 yards of Plaza Colon there is an establishment which fits that description — Peluqueria -Super Globo- de Don Francisco — is painted on the window, and also on a sign above the shop front. There are about eight barber chairs, all state of the art — state of the art in 1920s Chicago that is, and the walls are almost entirely lined with mirrors. As it’s still quite early there’s only one guy on duty, and he’s already busy attending to an older gentleman with a head of hair that can still be cut with scissors into something called 'a style.'

I bide my time looking around the interior; the antique barber chairs in slightly differing styles and colours; the reflections in the mirrors; the green marble effect formica counter tops that are cracked and chipped and have the odd tell-tale yellow-brown stain from cigarettes that have been left to burn right down; the ‘kit’ set out on said counter tops in front of each empty chair in preparation; the inevitable girly pinups fixed up with faded brown selotape; a poster of Machu Picchu; and a few framed pencil drawings of hairstyles that were obviously once very fashionable (and most likely still are here in time warp Cochabamba).

An amount of time passes, neither long nor short, but the time that is necessary to pass. There’s only me waiting, and I’m in no hurry.

Then the old(er) guy is putting his jacket on and it’s my turn to step into the chair. As I stand up and hang my jacket on the coat stand I notice that the barber chairs all have their manufacturer’s names in raised letters in the time- and shoe-worn cast aluminium footrests. Mine reads THEO A KOCHS, CHICAGO.

I say “Buenos dias,” and hold out my hand, for I always like to shake hands with a man who is just about to bring sharp things into close proximity with my head, especially razorblades. As he ties on an apron I say, “numero dos por favor,” which is about all I need to get by in any barbers these days.

In the mirror I am confronted by a large round head, which being isolated from its body by the apron doesn’t do it any favours. Its eyes stare straight at mine. Meanwhile the barber unscrews the cap from a small chromium-plated and flask-shaped primus burner on the counter top and fills it with some kind of spirit. Having replaced the cap he gives the handle a few pumps then clicks a lighter in front of the nozzle. A small blue flame erupts into life. In front of this he passes various bits of equipment — the cutting heads, scissors, comb, the cut-throat razorblade holder etc, but I’m sure this is purely for my entertainment, and perhaps an inducement to be generous when tipping.

Cutting heads reunited with the power plant he begins to sweep the machine over my cranium. When he’s done my head looks astonishingly naked, and the eyes in the mirror do not look very impressed with what they see. 

He then wets the skin around my ears and neck and uses the razor to trim up. He trims my eyebrows with scissors, a few hairs spouting from my ears, and then takes me by surprise by sticking them in the end of my nose and trimming those guys too. 

I wonder why it is — and try to express this to my barber — that the older you become your hair doesn’t necessarily grow where you want it to, but from all the places you’d rather it didn’t. 

When he’s all done cutting, trimming and shaving he picks up the spirit lamp (un-lit) and sprays all around where he has shaved, and then for good measure, my entire head. I’ve never had this done before and for a moment I feel very light-headed — and highly inflammable. Suddenly I'm thankful there is no one in close proximity who is just about to light a cigarette. 

We go through the mirror routine, and I nod approvingly, even though I don’t like what I see, but the man has only done what I’ve asked him (except for the nose bit) so I’ve no reason to other than pleased with the job. 

Apron off and standing up (still feeling a bit light-headed from the atomized droplets of spirit), I pay and we shake hands again. I tell him my name for future reference, and he tells me his. It’s very easy to remember — it’s the same as mine but with an “o” on the end. 

I retrieve my jacket and bag, put my hat back on my freshly-trimmed and spirit-cooled head, slide on my shades, and venture forth once more into the streets of Cochabamba.

The Begging Bowl

I’m sitting outside one of the restaurants on the Prado — set meal for 20bs (about £2). I’m not expecting much, and I’m not disappointed.

My bread arrives just ahead of the soup, and sits patiently in its basket, not caring whether I eat it or not.

A woman with a huge bundle on her back (no room for chips on either shoulder), and a young raggedy child in tow, walks between the tables making the time-honoured gesture of the hungry, and then holding out her hand, in the more familiar gesture of those in need of a hand-out.

I give her a chunk of bread, which she accepts, but is obviously not all that impressed as she repeats the earlier gesture combination.
I stand firm, compassion fatigue kicking in.

As she walks away it goes through my mind that she’s probably dumb; it stands to reason, given all the other deformities so common in this town.

I begin tentatively to spoon the soup into my mouth, trying to decode its essentially non-complex taste, and unfamiliar glutinous texture. I try some of the bread with it; I believe this is what you’re supposed to do. Neither the soup nor the bread succeeds in stimulating my appetite.

A boy of indeterminate age (older than five, younger than ten perhaps) approaches my table and holds his hand out.
There is something almost mechanical in his movements, as if he has to make the round of restaurants in a given time, and he can only give each person five seconds to react.
I can hardly pour soup into his hand so I give him a chunk of bread. He doesn’t seem very impressed either, but then, neither am I.

The waiter brings the main course and I eat the rice and vegetables, and the more edible looking parts of the meat.

As I’m poking around at the remains of this with my knife and fork, trying to determine from which part of which animal it used to belong, a little girl appears holding out her plastic begging bowl, which bears the scars of previous hand-outs in the same way an unwashed cat bowl gains a crust.

I can’t tell how old she is either; maybe it’s the world-wary eyes in such a young head, which are barely level with the tabletop.

A bit of eye movement occurs: she looks at the food left on my plate, then at me; I look at her, then at the food left on my plate. It’s the amount of time my brain needs to realise that she wants my leftovers.

The ‘deal’ having been arranged entirely by eye movement, I pick up my plate and use my knife to scrape what’s left of my meal into her bowl, acutely aware that this is something you would usually do for your dog.

She walks away though, seemingly content, and I stare at my empty plate, thinking that this isn’t something that would happen at Jamie’s Italian.

When the dessert arrives, in the shape of a piece of cake, I don’t even bother to try it. I wrap it up in a napkin and wait for the next contender.

It turns out to be the same little girl, bowl empty once more.

I pick up the paper-wrapped cake and put it in her bowl.
She pulls at the paper napkin to see what’s inside (for all she knows it could be a lump of half-chewed gristle).

When she sees it’s an unmolested piece of cake her eyes widen, and I take this to mean that she’s pleasantly surprised.

When she’s gone, I see again her wide-eyed expression, like an after image, and I start to wonder if she’s been studying Charlie Chaplin movies in between her begging forays.

If you want to get ahead get a hat (or a parrot)

So many hats, only one head

Such great style...

Hat stall in the Cancha market Cochabamba...

Out and about in Cochabamba...

...and of course this in Bolivia, so you can wear whatever you like on your head, even a parrot!

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.…"

Cristo de la Concordia

As we stand in the slowly diminishing queue for the cable car, I can't help but notice a huge wooden reel of steel cable in the maintenance yard; it's the same cable the gondolas are suspended from. I can't make up my mind if it has been left over from the initial installation — it being cheaper and easier just to leave it here — or they are holding onto it just in case it's needed for repairs.

At 40.4m (including its pedestal) Cristo de la Concordia is the third tallest statue in the southern hemisphere, and deliberately constructed a few centimetres taller than Cristo Redentor in Rio de Janeiro (upon which the Cochabamba version is modelled), but it doesn't have anything like the same wow factor of Corcovado. And there are no sugarloaf mountains here, only San Pedro Hill, where the colossus Christ stands, open armed and watchful of his Cochabamban flock. 

Having said that the panoramic view is impressive - the city laid out beneath, looking quite prosperous from this vantage point, and encircled by the hills and mountains, which are the foothills of the Andes.

Unlike Cristo Redentor, the Cochabamba Cristo is of a hollow construction, allowing visitors (for a small charge), to climb up inside (though only on Sundays). 

A series of rickety spiral metal staircases link the concrete floors, from where it is possible to gaze out from open porthole-esque apertures, though not with much success. 

Unfortunately, the graffiti and the smell of urine may be off putting to some, and a disappointment to the Godly, perhaps seeking some white-light communion by being inside the Christ statue. 

The stairs only go so high, where I was disappointed to find that it is not possible (because of the crisscross of metal beams forming the armature), to walk along the arms and look out from the large holes in the sleeves below the hands. 

And so, even though Cristo may not in my heart, I can now say that I have been to the heart of Cristo, (even if it was a bit smelly).

Watchful Cristo may well be, and a potent symbol of hope to many, but when I see so many people who could do with a little help here, his open armed gesture might as well read, "Okay guys, so just what do you expect me to do about it?"

Bury my heart in Cochabamba

Cochabamba, what a great town: I've only been here for a couple of months and they've already named a street in honour of my birthday.

Martes de Challa

Following on, hot on the burning llama foetus heels of the first Friday of the month, is Martes de Challa (offerings Tuesday — ties in with Shrove Tuesday and Mardi Gras), which is basically a big blow-out for Pachamama (Mother Earth), and not an inconsiderable boost for the retailers who supply all the kit.

Already in full essential Carnaval supply mode, they provide the happy revellers with novelty items such as spray-string and snow to squirt each other with, streamers, balloons (just add water and throw at someone), fireworks, and not forgetting the turbo-charged super-soaker water pistols (believe me size matters), and the plastic coveralls for self protection.

This decorated llama foetus was added to the Challa — composed of the usual mix of incense, sugar tablets with symbols of the things you want favouring with in return for your offerings — and was a special treat for Pachamama. 

As the little corpse turned to carbon, I couldn´t help noticing that a plume of smoke was billowing from its backside, so what ever the sacrificer wishes in turn for their offerings — good luck, money, love etc — the sacrificee may have a slightly different perspective on the whole matter.

Beam me up Scotty... Reflexions on a Theme #1

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.

The Prado Coca Cola

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.

Dried llama feotus anyone?

First Friday of the month (again-already), so it´s time to get down to the Cancha to get your essential supplies for the ritual monthly burnt offering(s).

You could make your own of course (in fact they look a bit like something Blue Peter could have come up with), but this is convenience shopping for city-dwelling Bolivians, who nevertheless still want to pay their respects to Pachamama. 

The rectangular tablets are made of sugar and have symbols in relief. Love, money, cars, houses etc. The basic ¨Here´s one I made earlier¨ kit will suffice, but, a bit like a pizza you can add your favourite toppings... ¨Err, I´ll have a condor, por favour (strength, power, endurance),... some ants (warriors - keepers of the earth)... a turtle (good luck)... a snake (male virility) err... you haven´t got a larger one of those by any chance?... some hearts (love of course)... and better have some $$$$ too.¨
¨Pepper señor?¨ 
¨No better not, might make Pachamama sneeze, then we´d all be in trouble.¨

If you really want to give Pachamama a special treat you might want to add a llama foetus to the challa. Considered sacred by many Bolivians, the llama foetus is the premier good luck charm - buried in the foundations of most houses, given as a gift for a house warming and other special occasions, and also cremated so the smoke will inhabit the house and garden, shop premises, cafe, bar, petrol station, and keep away evil spirits.

Question: ¨What do you do for a living?¨
Answer: ¨Actually, I deal in dried Llama foetuses,¨ - has got to be one of the more unusual dinner party conversation openers, and one I am temped to use when next asked this banal question.

Hey Gringo!

I go to the bus terminal to enquire about buses to Oruro for the famous Carnaval parade the following day, and the answer is ¨Mañana, mañana.¨ It's not possible to purchase a ticket in advance of your proposed journey, only for buses leaving today. 

Outside the terminal, which is not situated in one of the better parts of town, there are plenty of shady-looking characters in the shade (and some are so drunk they are sleeping it off in the shade). 

A guy eyeballs me and in passing says, ¨Hey Gringo!¨ and by the way he says it I do not understand this to be a friendly greeting to a foreigner visiting his country, or a preamble to going for a drink together to discuss commonalities.

So, are we talking stereotypes? It´s certainly true that (at least here in Bolivia), the word mañana does crop up quite a lot, but (I like to think that) most people are far too caught up in the moment to possibly want to do anything other than what they are currently doing (although that may appear to be very little), and tomorrow will obviously be the best time in which to deal with whatever you might want doing now, despite any urgency expressed to the contrary.

As for ¨Hey Gringo!¨ in my six months in South America I have so far experienced very little in the way of aggression (not counting drivers, who seem to have the same problem the world over), overt aggression, or the background variety that has become the norm in the UK. 

I´m not saying it doesn´t exist, and if you were to read the papers, or even the Foreign Office advice to travellers, you would most probably not even be here in the first place. 

In general I have found people to be polite and courteous, and are not usually in so much of a hurry that they can´t stop and chat for a while. Even the security guard outside the bank, in his green military-style uniform, complete with bullet-proof vest, handgun in holster, menacing wrap-around mirror shades, and clutching a pump-action shot gun across his chest, greets me with a friendly ¨Buenos dias señor.¨

Here's looking at you kid...

I'm sitting in Casablanca, looking out at the gathering gloom of a rainy dusk, when an ancient woman appears at the doorway. 

She's from out of town (and out of mind) and the lines on her face are like the dried-up river beds of a distant planet photographed through the Hubble space telescope. 
She has the regulation bundle tied to her back with a blanket, and a felt flower-pot hat which has moulded its shape to the misfortunes of its owner.

Casablanca is a place where, just as in the film, an odd assortment of misfits hang out, drinking coffee, beer, juice, wine, eat, play cards, chess, and read the papers. They may not be waiting for papers of transit, but they seem to be waiting for something to happen.

The woman is clutching two small netted bags of lemons, the ones that are about the size of hen's eggs, and she is hoping to make a sale. I am sitting at the table by the door, so I am the first to shake my head, followed by others further inside.

A few moments later the security guard — green military-style uniform, baton, cuffs, mace spray (but no handgun), follows her in and asks her to leave. He's just doing his job, of course, just like Captain Louis Renault at Rik's.

As she walks back past I call her over, despite the security guard waving his finger at me, in a gesture I can only interpret as, "You'll only encourage them."

The bags of lemons are $B2 each, about 20p). I buy two bags. Lemons always come in handy.

Soon after, two girls, sorry, young women... (okay then, hippy chicks) walk in trying to sell incense sticks. I hold up my hand to say "no thanks" and they, like the old woman, try their luck with the other punters further inside.

For some reason (because they are European perhaps?) the security guard does not reappear to evict them from the premises.

Pavement artist

The first time I passed this young Quechua girl, sitting on the pavement outside Cafe Paris on the corner of the Plaza Principal, I expected - as is so often case - that a hand would automatically reach out, especially seeing a big white softie gringo walking towards her.

But her hands, far from being empty, were busily employed weaving a bangle from an array of coloured threads, and her eyes, not particularly aware of my existence, were concentrating on the complex but seemingly effortless task in hand(s). 

A small selection of her work was set out in front of her, each a variation on a theme, the familiar colourful patterns of the Andes.


However, she is not alone: there are similar products on sale all over town, from established shops and street stalls, to the wandering hippy trader/crafts-person - so the competition is tough.


She obviously has the entrepreneurial spirit though, unlike her little brother who was less creatively occupied (perhaps just learning the ropes) begging from people in cars stopped at the traffic lights opposite.

Let us entertain you?

...or at least detain you long enough for you to reach your hand into your pocket, entertainment not really being a word that comes to mind in these circumstances. He strums an out-of-tune Charango, and she dances with jerky movements, perhaps she thinks this is expected of her. Others, for whom this is everyday Cochabamba, walk on by. My contribution is for the photo more than their performance.

Stick with Evo?

More road blocks today, but these were official, and only to be expected when El Presidente comes to town. 

With the higher than usual number of military police on the streets - and a parade of neatly turned out schoolgirls in white dresses - I thought there must be something going on. 

The Plaza Principal had been blocked off to traffic and a stage erected in one corner. But this was not another demo, and as I sat having a coffee in the Cafe Paris on another corner of the square, I could hear an amplified voice talking to the crowd, eliciting enthusiastic responses, but strangely no fire crackers exploding every few moments, which is usually the case when large crowds congregate here. 

He was probably preaching to the converted, and as I went to have a look at what was going on I could see that he was surrounded protectively by loyal banner-carrying supporters, and there were no hecklers. 

As is usually the case in politics it had more than a whiff of orchestration about the whole thing. 

Needless to say I couldn´t understand what he was saying, besides a rallying sentence ending with the word ¨Campesinos¨ which received a loud cheer. 

Given the relatively quiet turnout, I expect this was not a publicised event, as there are plenty of people who are not satisfied with the Evo regime, and would probably have been only too willing to show up and let off a few fire crackers, should they have been allowed to get anywhere near.

Left hand drive? No problem

I get into the back of a cab, and the driver is sitting in front on the left hand side of the car, steering wheel in hands. 

So far, so normal. But this is Bolivia — surely there is more to this story? 

And so proves to be the case. This is a conversion — a second hand Japanese import converted to a left hand drive — but the instrument panel, speedo, indicator lights etc, are all still on the right hand side of the car, as they were when it originally left the factory.

The speedo dosen´t appear to be working (not something anyone is going to worry about in this country) but the fuel and temperature gauges register their respective readings, and as the driver turns left and then right I see the indicator lights dutifully recording these actions, despite the fact that he cannot see them. 

We stop at traffic lights, and during the inertia it´s all irrelevant — for a few seconds it´s just another hunk of metal stopped at a red light.

I look out of the side window. On the other side of the road there is a little kid with tattered and dirty clothes. 

He sees a gringo in the back of a taxi, and walks straight toward him, hand outstretched, laughing.

The house where Barbie lived

Not to be confused with the popular girlie doll, Klaus Altmann — AKA Klaus Barbie, or more affectionately — The Butcher of Lyon, lived in this house on España in Cochabamba. Ironically (and I do like a bit of irony) the electrified barbed wire is to deter unorthodox entry rather than to prevent escape.

Confort, Elegancia and Securitad

Three large windows down the side of the bus. At the top of each are usually three words proclaiming Confort - Elegancia - Securitad, or variations on a theme: sometimes it is Elegancia - Tourismo - Adventura. 

Today is the third day of a transport strike sparked of by a raise in fares, so these colourful and eccentric (if a little smokey) busses, so much a part of daily life in Cochabamba, are absent from the streets. 

In thier place are thousands of protesters, some marching in opposition to the fare increases, others, presumably the transport workers, marching to support them. 

The multiple burst fire crackers (effectively a hand-held mortar) resound and echo through the curiously quiet (and slightly less polluted) streets of Cochabamba, as the blockades cut off key access points to the city — bridges etc — and turn it into a de facto island. 

This was supposed to have been a one day strike on Wednesday, but due to confrontations, and damage to the transport workers´buildings, the situation has escalated. 

But soon though, perhaps even as early as tomorrow, we can all travel once more in comfort, elegance, and with security.

Valley of the Blind

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.

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.