He's o.k. You're o.k.

Today is another day in Cochabamba. And probably another day in most other spots on this green and blue particle of some intergalactic nasal explosion.

Spending his days here, especially with Fiona regularly at his side, or not far from it, he gets the impression that his life is normal and that he may as well be in Melbourne. His meets with his friends regularly, he gets shat off at his... well, hardly his enemies, just people he gets shat off with. He makes lunch, or has it delivered to his table with the common global servility of restaurants after his money. He chats with the nurse he sees every month, now fairly fluently, about what he's reading. She's great. She called out to him by name this morning when he picked up his INR results. He feels welcomed at the hospital, at the places he frequents.

But some things get you. Some things get him.

Every now and then that little hollow-eternity visa chestnut of his grabs at the edges of his passportless stressy (it's a noun) and heads shake, usually his at the fact that he's now been without a visa and his passport for over 8 months. But he walks into the Immigration Centre ahead of those who've been waiting for hours for a chance at their passport this time round. And he's greeted cordially by name again - the whole extrañero office knows him now. They show pity for his plight, blaming the La Paz office for his visa woes, while La Paz blames Cochabamba. But they know I can just go home if worst comes to worst. And honestly, how could I regret being forced to see my family and friends sooner? These visa woes only grab him every now and then because of his everyday comfort. He works. He shouldn't. But he does. He doesn't have to show his passport or fear a 15 minute-rule firing squad because he's illegal. He laughs with his students. Things are normal. Yet, how in god's name, he incredulously muses, can the entire country be free of 2mg Warfarin tablets?! Cochabamba doesn't have them, La Paz doesn't have them, Santa Cruz and Sucre don't have them. Bolivia only has 5mg tablets. Well, he needs to take 7mg daily. He could... well, try to divvy up a 5mg Warfarin Tablet into... what... two portions of 2 and a 1? He's buggered if he knows. He reflects standing at the pharmacy counter that it's not her fault. He's pleasant, she's sorry. But as he turns away he can't help himself. He huffs in view of the pharmacist throwing up his hands and grumbling "Loco... LOCOness!!" and settles quickly in the comfort of her sympathy, and the humourous knowledge that his Spanglish still rules his inner dialogue.

Walking across the lawless hospital intersection (a fair place to have a dangerous crossroads) he is given a sincere apology from the 4WDriver coming the wrong way down a one way street who swerves to miss him, and he wonders what Peru's traffic is like. There's a Marfan Syndrome support group there and they may have 2mg Warfarin tablets. He could go get them from Peru if they have them, but he doesn't have a passport, or a visa...

Somebody should suggest to him that he might just need to take 5mgs daily with a jugful of spinach. He doesn't like spinach.

And it gets him every time the tattered woman in the street sends her grubby kids to him with their little hands outstretched and the heads tilted in desperate pleas. He doesn't know where they spent the previous rainy night. They look soggy, the familiar dust on their hats, their faces is muddy.

So, it's another day in Cochabamba. Fiona just called. Buy some rolls and cheese on the way home. Time for lunch.