Cochabamba 444

With a lot of help from the patient, helpful and extraordinarily caring local people, I am managing to make do without taxis. Any hour of the day or night, (including between 2.00 and 5.00 am, although this is not something I would recommend to the fainthearted, as I have been harrassed by the occasional, seedy kerb crawler), I get around on collectivos (buses) and on foot, and in the daytime, the occasional subte (underground). The bus guides are useful, but only up to a point. The trouble is that each bus, whilst having a fixed starting point and destination, often has several different routes in between. This makes it difficult to figure out where to look for bus stops. Because the city is built on a grid system, most roads take only one-way traffic. This makes it impossible to predict which of the two parallel roads flanking the outbound route, the bus will take on the return journey. I get by, asking my way around and risk walking up to a dozen blocks, rather than take a taxi. I am taking a calculated risk, living this way. My Buddhist chanting gives me the courage: worry is slander (a slander of faith.)

Cochabamba 444 last night was pure blissikins. I got to hear of it from a man I met in Plaza Dorrego, last Sunday. The milonga isn't even listed, although the class is. I gave the class a swerve and went down there at 11.00 p.m. to meet up with friends. It is a small venue, where the punters are mainly Argentinians and not many tourists lurk, which is unusual for San Telmo. The décor is local kitsch; the lighting, bright; the vibe, friendly and the drinks, cheap. There was a small band consisting of a cellist, pianist, and guitarist and singer/percussionist, playing the most exquisitely poetic, vibrant interpretations of familiar tangos. Their music was a gift, given freely for love. They played a la gorra. Dancing, live music, good company, sipping mate, drinking wine... Oh how I love being here!