For the last time I wander down the narrow, uneven streets of Cochabamba, Bolivia. A feeling of melancholy lacing each heavy step, each shallow breath and penetrating deep into each thought.ÌýAfter many years the time has come to leave this land and return to my home country. This produces a variety of contrasting emotions that fight to dominate my thoughts. Parrots fly overhead, their squawks rising above the hum of traffic and impatient blaring of car horns that pierce the hot, dusty air.ÌýSmall, wispy clouds pass overhead like an old man's hair blown by the breeze.ÌýAs always the eternal mountains rise mightily over the valley surveying the hustle and bustle below as they have since they were formed by a word.ÌýThose grand monuments to the Earths eternal battle against itself, pushed heavenwards as if reaching for the stars that have been scattered so generously across the nightscape above this Andean plateau.ÌýThey are a constant reminder of the almighty power behind the dramatic beauty of nature in this part of the world. My skin tingles as the intense midday sun gently roasts my skin like the chicken carcasses slowly rotating on the spit in the nearby restaurant.ÌýThankfully I can step into the shade to avoid the same fate and as I do so the temperature around me drops significantly.ÌýThis is the only place I have been to where a distance of a few centimeters can warrant the need to add or remove a layer of clothing. Crossing the road I head for the plaza, a refuge for heavy legged senior citizens who group together, packets of seed in their large leathery palms, the contents of which they scatter onto the concrete floor as if dreaming of past days on the altiplano sowing maize onto the hungry red soil in anticipation of the coming harvest.ÌýPigeons land clumsily, their already full stomachs causing their dirty grey wings to flap extra hard, whipping up loose leaves and dust in mini tornadoes.ÌýTheir beaks tap the unyielding surface as they rush to gobble down the rich feast laid out in front of them.ÌýThe ground appears to be writhing as dozens of birds battle for the grain as if it were their last supper. No longer able to resist, and escaping his mother's clutches, a three year old boy grasps the opportunity afforded him and runs towards the throng, arms stretched out and eyes opened wide, adrenalin coursing through his veins.ÌýThe feathered vermin, startled by this lumbering giant bearing down on them, take to the skies as one in a flurry of down, seed husks and the beating of wings.ÌýThe little boy stops in his tracks, eyes now screwed shut, his arms shielding his face and lets out a scream, whether of delight or fear I cannot tell. The old men look annoyed, brows furrowed under their cloth caps but they say nothing.ÌýMaybe a part of them recalls fondly the days when they too would have done the same thing.ÌýÌýPerhaps in their heart of hearts they would still like too.ÌýI imagine them set free from the constrains of age, of stiff muscles and fragile bones, of societies expectations, running like fresh faced toddlers, arms wide, looks of delight and wonder etched onto their dark, lined faces as pigeons scatter to the four corners of the plaza finding solace only in the green fans of the enormous palm trees that stand dignified and aged watching this strange event. Spotting an empty seat on a nearby bench I sit down facing the fountain.ÌýBeside me a young couple in western dress and sporting rucksacks with names scrawled graffiti style on every available space kiss passionately, unaware or unconcerned about the looks they are attracting from those watching.ÌýThe stares centred on them show disapproval but I wonder how many of these judgmental looks hide envious thoughts or hidden memories long locked away but brought to the surface at this moment with a mixture of pleasure and pain. A Quechua woman in traditional dress takes a break from begging to bathe her face in the cool water which cascades upwards from the beak of a marble stork which stands petrified as if under the glare of a Medusa.ÌýThe crystal shower arcs through the sky before splashing down into the pool below and is scooped into dirt covered palms finally fulfilling its purpose by cleaning, refreshing and cooling her hot, tired skin. The soundtrack to all this activity is a badly strummed charango (a traditional Bolivian banjo style instrument) which is being tortured by a child dressed in a traditional yellow and red striped aguayo waistcoat and trouser combo with matching pointy hat and bare feet that stomp the ground to a rhythm that must be playing in his head but bares no relation to the movement of his small hands on the thick strings.ÌýA filthy, once white, plastic cup stands empty in front of him making clear his intention to seek an offering from the passers by. The sun continues to edge across the darkening sky and begins to drop along its lazy arc which will eventually lead it out of view behind the jagged peak of Mount Tunari.Ìý Snow glistens near the summit in stark contrast to the warmth of the city.ÌýAs the light fades and the artificial orange glow of the streetlights takes over I rise, drop some coins into the expectant plastic cup, and make my way past the stone arches bordering the central square pausing only to admire the full moon rising in the west above the statue of Christ that is illuminated upon the hill.ÌýHis arms are outstretched just like the child chasing the pigeons as if to say "Come to me all you are weary and find rest" but I also hear him whispering “See those pigeons?ÌýWouldn't it be fun to run toward them and watch them fly?" | 
