Next door

Next door to my hotel, however, was an excellent cafe, Cafe Humano, with delicious coffee, served as it should be with a glass of chilled soda water, so every morning I went there for breakfast part 2. It was tiny with only a handful of wobbly tables but oddly classy. Odd because Jujuy wasn't in the least bit chic. There was a magazine rack, books and cds lined up along the walls and pleasant lighting. It was like being in Brighton 20 years ago. The cafe con leche came in pretty earthenware mugs and there was Wifi and rock on the radio (nothing makes a better accompaniment to writing than Bryan Adam warbling "Every thing I do I do it for you" or that Welsh woman with lots of hair or U2 - if the book's terrible I've got my reasons) so there I spent most of my days.

I learned a lot about the life of the cafe if not Jujuy. Sorry Freddie ("But Polly what do you know about Jesus Maria?" As it turns out much more than I ever discovered about Jujuy). There were few customers - me mainly, various groups of friends dropping by and the odd posh pair of groomed women, professional men or students - and I couldn't understand how the business made any money. It was run by three entirely different men. One was a middle-aged dark skinned man with floppy black hair who spent most mornings delivering coffees and sandwiches on a tray. He was very calm and smiley. The second was a handsome youth with a rock 'n' roll look and a scooter who made the coffees but mostly sat in front of a computer. The third had a worried expression and worked in the evenings with the breakfast delivery man while the youth left at lunchtime and just popped in at night. What was going on?

One day I found out - someone came in and asked me if this was the place where they lent money? Umm? I replied. But it was. The money lending had something to do with the boy and his computer - details were punched in and cash handed out - but I never really knew how the system worked or why or how. Where did the cash come from? How did people know where to come? The business was obviously under the table but also out in the open. Hmm.

Anyway the cafe also allegedly sold the CDs and books lined up all its walls but I never saw a sale. On my last night in the city, by which time I and the men were firm friends, I drank a load of wine - bought in just for me - and the third man, the worried one, wished me well, kissed me goodbye and as I was heading for the door thrust something into my hand - a little embroidered purse made by his aunt (the cafe's latest legit money-making venture). A present for a very good customer though he didn't say it - he just looked anxious and sad that I was leaving though we had not exchanged one word of conversation. I felt the same way.