Correspondiente Boliviano

"We are also Australian"

2007-10-16T20:14:00.000-04:00

An Open Letter by Shukria, Zahraa, Atong, Toruna, Yasmin, Mou Giir on behalf of the Western Young People's Independent Network Youth Committee.

We are the people you do not hear about in the news; telling people what we do will not sell the newspaper or help politicians win an election.

We are a group of young people who volunteer in the community. We come from Ethiopia, Burma, Sudan, Eritrea, Vietnam, Italy, Iraq and Mauritius.

We are also Australian.

Even though we are from different backgrounds, we have found that we have many things in common. As volunteers, we work together to promote understanding of different cultural groups and to support young people. We love getting together because we learn from and about each other. Some of us came to Australia because we chose to live or study here. Some of us are refugees who came to Australia because war forced us to leave our countries. If we told you what we have been through you would cry.

It is true that some of us from African countries had very little formal education before coming here, and spent many years in camps. It is also true that we work extremely hard to learn English and to study so that we are able to find work here. The African young people in our group are studying biomedical science, community development, nutrition, management, nursing and VCE.

When we gather together, we do so because we are used to living in a community and being social. Sometimes we arrive here without family. We have responsibility to support the people we love who are still stuck in danger overseas and often we have many family responsibilities here. It is not easy.

Those of us who are refugees know how lucky we are to be here, and how hard it is to get here. We sold everything we owned, even food rations that we received in the camp, so that we could afford the medical test that we needed to pass to be accepted into Australia. We went through the immigration process and were accepted as refugees. For some people it takes many years and for others much less time. We find this confusing.

We worry about our loved ones who are stuck in danger overseas. We are trying to bring family here, so that they can be safe. We are sad that some of us may not be able to have parents or extended family brought to Australia to be with us, if we happen to be from Africa. We are sad that the government thinks that saying this will get them support to win the election.

We ask this question to the Immigration Minister “How would you feel if you were in our place, experiencing all the things that we go through?"

We only ask to be treated like you would like to be treated. It should be up to the United Nations alone to say who needs Australia's help the most.

We refuse to be separated by the government's words. We work together to help each other and ourselves for the good of Australia.

Every day.

For more information you can contact WYPIN Youth Committee's Secretary Toruna Luxmi Ujoodah by contacting:

WYPIN on 9680 8265 or wypin@mcm.org,au.

...a tap on the shoulder.

2007-08-28T20:52:00.000-04:00

It's strange to look back and see that I was so lucky. That I got through so much mucking around and then got diagnosed before my aorta ruptured. It didn't and I live with an awareness now, terrible but life-giving. Remember, if you see someone who looks too much like me, just tap them on the shoulder and ask. They may not know, just like Liam, below:

Tragic family's vital message

FUN-LOVING: Sunderland supporter Liam Gash.

By Katy Wheeler

Liam Gash was enjoying the trip of a lifetime to Australia when he died at 22 of a rare condition...

The day Liam Gash was born, his dad Alan was the proudest man in Sunderland. Liam was a perfect baby – and a big boy too.

"Look at his huge hands," Alan said to the doctor. "Are they supposed to be like that?"

The doctor smiled. "He's just a big lad," he said.

Delighted, Alan rang the relations. "Our son's got goalkeeper's hands," he told them.

Over the years doctors often commented on Liam's extremely flexible joints and his height. When he was five-years-old he reached 4ft 5ins; at eight, just over 5ft.

By the age of 21 he had reached 6ft 10 and was nicknamed "Crouchy" after tall footballer Peter Crouch, but no one knew that his excessive height was a symptom of a condition that would prove fatal.

At that stage of his life he had everything to live for – great mates, good job, close family.

An avid Black Cats fan, the civil servant played in a Sunday league team and never missed a Sunderland match.

He had a great zest for life and is described by Alan, a watch manager at Fulwell Fire Station, as: "A great kid, a wonderful man."

Like scores of other young Wearsiders the former Monkwearmouth School pupil wanted to explore the world and in November 2005 he waved goodbye to Alan, mum Jane and sister Lucy, now 20, to embark upon a dream backpacking trip.

But he would never return to the family home in Ullswater Grove, Fulwell.

On August 9 last year the family received a phone call that would change their lives forever.

It was from a doctor at the Royal Perth Hospital. Liam was seriously ill.

He was working on a building site when chest pains hit him. Surgeons diagnosed an aortic dissection – a tear in the biggest artery of the body.

He needed an urgent operation to replace part of the aorta and the mitral valve in his heart.

Medics suspected they knew what was wrong: a condition called Marfan Syndrome – symptoms of which include excessive height.

Stunned, Alan, 50, and Jane, 49, travelled through a UK airport terrorist alert to Liam's bedside.

As he recovered from surgery, doctors explained his old, carefree ways –playing football, messing with his mates – had gone for good and his lifestyle would have to change.

Alan explained: "Those doctors had saved his life. If he had been taken ill in the Outback he would have died."

"We knew he had a different life ahead. But he could have coped. He was fit, he was going to be all right."

At 8.30pm on the Saturday they said goodnight to Liam. He was tired, hot and needed rest.

At 4am they were woken by banging on their hostel door. Liam had had a seizure and was on life support.

Briefly they stood by his bed as doctors fought to save him. Nine hours later, on August 13, their fun-loving son was dead.

The family were devastated. In 1985, when Liam was two, he had helped his parents to deal with the cot death of his little brother Joe who died at just six months old.

Now they had to deal with the tragic death of their other son.

It was almost impossible to take in, Liam had always been fit and strong.

True, he had had all the normal childhood health problems, plus a few extra. And, of course, there was his height. None of it seemed to bother him, although as a teenager he was self-conscious about his pigeon chest and odd-looking feet.

"There's this picture of him on a lilo. He's about 17, he's looking great, like Jack the Lad. But he's got this drink, and he's holding it on the middle of his chest. It was just like him to hide his chest and feet in photos. But if you look at the fingers we now know they are classically Marfan," recalls Alan.

But doctors in England had said everything was fine and, until his trip to Australia, Liam had not been diagnosed with Marfan Syndrome.

Back home, Alan combed through Liam's medical records. A Marfan feature was present on almost every page.

At just two his prominent chestbone was first spotted. There was a string of visits to GPs and specialists, a battery of tests and X-rays.

At 17, a consultant noted his clawed toes and referred him to yet another specialist. Liam never showed up. "Perhaps he never got the letter. Perhaps he was sick of doctors," says Alan.

Alan contacted the medics who treated Liam. He asked: "Didn't you see what was going on?"

One paediatrician who saw Liam as an eight-year-old was amazed to hear how tall he had grown.

He told Alan: "You just can't get to be that tall in this country without considering Marfan."

Another doctor apologised to the family on behalf of the medical profession.

"I don't know if 'sorry' is what I want," said Alan.

"It's not a legal issue, it never was. These doctors were good people, with good intentions. We expected them to know.

"It's massively frustrating. As my son walked around the streets, I'm absolutely confident that somebody, somewhere, must have thought: That kid's got Marfan.

"They could have tapped him on the shoulder..."

Liam's ashes now lay scattered at his beloved Stadium of Light, but the legacy of Marfans still lives with the family.

All of them have been tested. Lucy, a student nurse, is clear, as is Alan. and Jane, but they are still determined to do all they can to boost awareness of Marfan Syndrome in memory of Liam.

Alan said: "He's not going to come back. But somebody may look at this article and see one of the symptoms of Marfan in a growing kid.

"They can mention it to doctors and get treatment so that someone else won't have to go through this."

Time is a strange thing... El tiempo es una cosa extran~a.

2007-08-24T07:21:00.000-04:00

A backwards/forewards affair in photographic chronology, cuatro amigos buenos para desayuno en calle High (Alta) en Northcote. Incluye es Fiona, me novia, y amigos Simon, Athena (izquiera) y Lucy (derecho). Circa dos y media semanas en Australia.
Fiona y yo en Plaza de Mayo en Buenos Aires, solamente momentos despues de un acontecimiento significativo y solamente algunas horas antes de que nos separamos para nuestros vuelos respectivos ... pueden adivinar la acontecimiento?
Un dia antes de dejar Buenos Aires, en La Boca, y Michael que parece muy genial... yep.
Ella me asio y acaba de baila! Prometo! La Boca, Buenos Aires.

Y para todas esas personas de habla englesa hacia fuera alli me comentario de Melbourne:

O.k. so the arse has fallen out of the renters market in Melbourne at least. I wonder if it's the same anywhere else in Australia...

Australia today:

- a Flemington single fronted townhouse going for $230 a week. Toilet out back, waaaaay out back, bathroom too, kitchen too small to notice at first glance (seriously! fridge in "3rd" bedroom), and the chirpy cutesy squeals of "my first day as a real estate agent's grEAt" from the tiny girly handing out application forms to people hungry for them but who don't really want to live there, choice not being present...

- Melbourne reflects on seeing Backwards and Friedbrains ride again last night, delighting as they were in one of the only places in the country that allows them to smoke inside.

- A seemingly primordial fear of getting hit by traffic going the wrong way (because I was looking the right way, just everyone else is going the wrong way...)

Geez, "crappy gifts" looks bad, don't it?

2007-08-13T04:25:00.000-04:00

Just to clarify a point in my previous post about that "crappy gifts" comment - it means that they are primary gifts because these friends are primary people where but the fact is that I had a minimum of dinero, entonces gifts that do not correlate to their standing as friends and for that I apologise to them and to all my friends, whom I call primary now, as apposed to the "A, B, C and D" list some may remember I used to carry around in my pocket and which many of you rightfully adjusted to reflect the true nature of your friendships with me (usually "upward"...)

Australia today:

-the pongy under-arm bar-scene (due to the lack of cigarette smoke to cloak it)
-the overly bright supermarket labels down supermarket isles
-the stares from people in public when you say things about them that you automatically think will not be understood
-the meeting of more people who I can't keep away from but for the life of me can't give my all to
-another meat pie
-51% approval rating for John Howard over Ruddsy

Local fares, vocal scares, and parochial lairs.

2007-08-06T19:08:00.000-04:00

Out on the patio we sit
And the humidity we breathe
We watch the lightning crack over canefields
Laugh and think "This is Australia"

Two lines out of 4 ain't bad for my reintroduction to Australia.

One of the many Aussie songs from ACDC to Paul Kelly to Kirsty Stegwazi that my longing for home forced-fed my MP3 that used to make me laugh with recognition but really my pre-Bolivian life only saw the stereotypes from afar at best. As if I'd ever find common the cracking of lightning over canefields for god's sake.

On the other hand, sitting at Sydney airport Thursday morning waiting for my connection to BrisVegas, sipping a Cascade Light (it being quite late in the evening by my internal clock) and being suprisingly unsatisfied at the reminiscence forthcoming, I was greeting with three very ocker gents looking uncomfortable in their upperlevel-casual flying wardrobe discussing... well, some activity that I was informed that seeing or doing would have "done [myself] a favour" and then everything else was quite in indecipherable as I couldn't sift through the "f**k'n" this's and "f**k'n" thats.

Certainly not so much Aussie as affluent-world but putting on my seatbelt is still an oft forgotten chore, and I still haven't stopped looking for a bin to put my poo-ey paper into...

More importantly - I come home to find John Howard's popularity plummetting just as fast as Ivo Morales. Fair enough given they've both been in power for relatively the same amount of time (Ivo for about a year and a half but Bolivian presidents rarely last longer than that!) Their societal relativity is just as common, Evo representing a population that is over 50% indigenous, our fearless one representing a population where 50% is of his social class. Of course many are not but aspire to it. This was in fact coincidentally similar to Bolivia. Many many of the more affluent actually voted for Morales, but sometimes it seems they did that just to watch him fail, and therefore be able to lament "We'd LIKE to have an indigenous president but clearly they just can't lead". Maybe they have some genuine gripes on his apparent attempts to divide the country and ignore the genuine requests of the mestizos (Spanish descent ruling class) rather than unite everybody and respond to all. A tidy little mess you can get yourself into running a depressed and unconfident nation.

Not like ours. All proud and prosperous - regardless the home loans, the terrified undertones (we're still all being Lerts I notice...) and the need for bigger 4WD than ever before (no Hummers sighted yet. The odd one went past me in Cochabamba to my own great terror.)

Must be off to distribute the crappy gifts to my Brisbane friends...

Chau,

Michael.

True! Every mundane detail.

2007-08-02T22:06:00.000-04:00

Now I'm back in Australia I can blog the gory border-fleeing ordeal without the consequence of the Bolivian army chasing after me. It wasn't THAT dangerous, in fact it wasn't really dangerous at all, but I still fretted like a scared cat at the time.

After finally demanding my passport back from Immigration in Cochabamba on the premise of being very ill "with treatment only available out of your country and I'll just paying the bloody fine" Fiona and I hit the road for the Argentine/Bolivian border. I decided to put only $120US in my wallet, (not the $500 I would be fined for not having a visa in the end). And $50US in my shoe, as the "last resort" facade. Fiona had the rest in case of absolute emergency because frankly the plan was to attempt the first official bribe (oxymoron!) of my life, the Bolivian border infamous for it's flaccid morals in the face of, well... cash! We arrived in Yacuiba, the border town with Argentina, at 5am-ish and thought, now's a good a time as any to attempt to cross. Our friend crossed at night and the Bolivian office was shut so he just walked on by!

Of course, they were open wider than Luna Park and there were three officers along the desk checking passports (not the cosy little one-man band who hasn't anybody looking over his shoulder as the inevitable gets discussed).

They looked at Fiona's passport - she was one day overdue, a 10B fine. Then they saw mine and said "Where is your visa stamp?" Um... long story short I pretended not to know too much Spanish (that is, less than I actually do!) and tried to tell them the gory 13 month Bolivian Immigration saga. Eventually they said "wait here..." and out came a very important looking and impeccibly uniformed fellow from a back room who asked us to follow him. He looked like the type of guy who preferred to keep his greens well pressed and blood-free, but he also looked like the kind of guy who if pushed couldn't give a rats arse about a bit of Australian blood on his lapels...

Walking down the little hall into the back room, I was struck by such a state of conflicting emotion - the utter fear of painful death being "taken into a back room" on the Bolivian border and all was mixed with the heady certainty of the plan going to plan. "Back rooms are where these deals take place!" I thought. "This back room thing is according to plan!" I reasoned. "No problem, act cool, no need to panic" I panicked.

Aaaanyway, politeness being the order of the day, Green Beret immediately appeared greatly concerned about the $4000B fine for no visa over 13 months. He could bearly take the pain of writing such an official receipt, so bad he felt for me. I agreed and confided that I really didn't have that much money anyway, and then he asked the magical question - "how much do you have then?". After he had my one-twenty under a pile of papers on his desk others were brought in to consult, which I didn't like at all. "Others" is certainly not a good word to use when also using the word "bribe" (which I didn't literally do of course!!). The others seemed in the end just as saddened by my plight as the ironed chief but luckily that $50 stayed in my boot.

The next 10 minutes were spent by mutual assurances that I would be in enormous trouble if I ever tried to come back to Bolivia, while I was assuring them that I was never going to come back to Bolivia (all the while resisting winking at them in a "I'LL be in trouble you say!?" kind of way. Being discovered having stamped a passport with an exit stamp without proof of a visa for 13 months MUST be problematic for those poor fellows. Well, in the end, we understood each other, my passport was stamped and we walked across the border. No stern words, no slamming of fists on desks, no guns threateningly unclipped from holsters, money talks, and bullshit... well, that kinda talks pretty fluently as well.

Good enough story to tell I reckon. Of course a stern back room beating would have made a better story but given the choice of no broken ribs and a story? ... hmm... it would have made a VERY good story... aaaand still might... Hey! Did I tell you how I got out of Argentina!??!

Home again, home again lickety split!

2007-08-02T07:15:00.000-04:00

Right. Guess where I am!!!

Hint: no more pooey toilet paper in the non-existent bin next to the toilet.

And "...when all of the ships come back to the shore" has some real meaning now.

God, I must admit - that harbour looks like a vision from an airplane.

A sharp taste, a distinctive flavour, a notable odour...

2007-07-29T22:33:00.000-04:00

TANGY! Or is it Tango-ey? Whatever it is, it's Buenos Aires. Capital Federal, La Reina del Plata, the town of unknown population. It's great. Cars stop at the line at red lights! Water can be drunk from the tap without dying! There are pedestrian buttons, and drivers respect the little green man! There's a little green man!!!

Of course, the taxis have a meter, which gets my goat. They point at the meter as if I'm stupid when I lean in and say "[insert direction here] - ¿cuanto cuesta?"

It's European, cosmopolitan, full of the Argentinian street-jewellery sellers that you see all over Bolivia, and they have every reason to crow about their Tango. I'M sweating when a couple in the street, at a show, in the bar finish their dance!

AND it's just that much closer to home. I'm doing all I can to enjoy these last smatterings of holiday fun with Fiona before the crash of responsibility comes... um, crashing down and I'm home again with my family and friends. I really have learned what it means to be Australian, to belong to a place, have my heart where I was born no matter where I am. I also have the tingling feeling of future hugs, "salud"s and chuckles of long-time knowings with those I love.

Oh, and Iguazu Falls. Look it up, find footage, ask your well-travelled friends, but you'll never ever understand the falls without having been there. The enormity of the spectacle - not just the sheer volume, which is mesmerisingly seductive and heady, but the beauty of its hundreds of both tiny and massive squirts just blew my synapses. Really, it's something! AND something else! It's great, but the fellow at the counter says "Get your ass outa here" in his indecipherable Argentinian Spanish. So chau.

Love, Michael.

2007-07-16T14:31:00.000-04:00

Thought I'd better include one of Fiona for all youse Fiona fans out there. This is second day Amboro too. Pretty as a picture, or photograph as the case may be.

And this is last day Amboro, near the end of the trek and our guide waiting patiently (and amusedly we hope) again for us as we get the perfect photo.

What a nong, I lost my thong, better than Disney, these kids love frisbee, far from the city I found this kitty.

2007-07-16T13:58:00.000-04:00

Well, finally here are some shots that we took on our holiday, starting near and in Amboro National Park (the photos, not the trip itself - that started with a bus trip to Santa Cruz).

Buena Vista is one of my favourite places. It was really friendly, not very gringo, and evn though it's the gateway to Amboro there's not alot of tourist industry. People get on with the daily job of living with milk vats coming in from close to town at 5am, and minibuses (trufis) honking around the pretty plaza all day to pick up locals and us to Santa Cruz and towns inbetween. Of course all that isn't going to be documented in these photos, but the big scary jaguar (with his own mobile phone!) that nearly devoured me whole, will be.

On our way through to Amboro on the first day our guide stopped us at the school of the villiage where he grew up. We had lunch there and when the kids came out of school they were shyly keen to chat, and when we showed them the never-before-seen frisbee they took to it like leaf-cutter ants to... well, leaves.

The famous incident (it's known from Guarayamarin to Potosi) of the lost left sandal during our second day in the Park is depicted here with me at the beginning stages of the search. The deceptively peaceful riverbed takes a nasty slope near that rock on the right (of course Fiona followed the guide much to the left where I thought "Gee, that looks much shallower there..." I couldn't keep my foot in my sandal when I started to go down because I was carrying over my backpack, with camera and hearing aid and so forth and so on, so... I ended up shivering for about half an hour sifting the sand near and far. As I've written before, I found a right-footed size six thong, which lasted the rest of the trip. Fiona was impressed at my stoicism. Geez I'm good.

Pass the port, I've lost my sport, at least I'm not going to court, but I've been maligned more than I ought.

2007-07-11T11:05:00.000-04:00

O.k. My luck was changing but now it's ... still changing.

How much energy can somebody put into positive thinking before it leads you to psychotic tendencies?

I was delighted to see my passport again, like a lost friend... in Guantanamo Bay, at the Migration Center here in ... Cochabamba! Why do I highlight that my passport is in Cbba? Well, I was just making absolutely, without a doubt, no question about it sure that La Paz immigration hadn't sent my passport here on some whim of efficiency or some unsurprising stuffup before I head there to plead and yell and state my case as angrily as possible - the only way to succeed as highly prescribed by Migration Cbba.

Well, was it efficiency or a stuffup when it was in fact here when I went with my long suffering friend and ex-student Celia, who has done much visa-related calling and visiting on my behalf?

It was a bit of both. Immigration's legal team in La Paz hold on like death to their decision that my visa application was submitted with expired documents regardless of the unprovable fact that Cbba Immigration had forgotten that they had my completed application for 4 months before they realised and thought "how are we going to get out of this one?". Luckily for them those helping me way back then (last year) didn' t bother to ask for proof that they were handing over my passport and all my documents for submission. So now when I sigh "but you HAD all this beFORE my documents expired!!" they smug away with "prove it." So they sent it back for me to "fix" before they hand over a visa.

So, this brilliant rotund fellow at Immigration the other day (when I sighted my passport going mouldy in the ever dilapidating compulsory migration folder (which of course costs money)) has been zipping me around to Interpol, the police station and the hospital the last couple mornings after I approached him in between admiring but panicked visa-appliers (this lawyer's happy clients) and said "Yo necesito su ayuda. Ellos tienen me pasaporte para un año ahora y yo quiero salir esta pais finalamente!!" Not quite proper Español but he got it, and I don't.

I'm pretty sure that the costs of the new docs and whatever this fellow is going to charge (he keeps telling me how much the docs will cost when I ask him what his fee will be...) will be substancially less than a bribe at the border, and safer because I like how he kisses the female Interpol officer and slips her my $100B all at once withOUT getting arrested.

Anyway, I was hoping beyond hope that I'd not have to actually go to La Paz and scream my proverbials orf and that has at this point come to pass. The lawyer man told me I'd have my visa by this afternoon (Friday) and will be able to leave the country at will (the plan was Sunday after my desperdido (farewell party) on Saturday. Well, to thrill youse even more with the incredibly interesting details, one of the medical certificates won't be ready till Monday morning because it takes 24 hours and the offices are shut on the weekend - which surprises me!! *and he hates to make the "not" joke but has to because the context of Bolivia isn't immediately apparent to everyone in the world* NOT!!!

So. Lawyer man could be the recipient of a nice bottle of Fernet if he plays his efficiency cards right. I'm confident (a dangerous state) because of the happiness of his fretful clients during the time I've been with him.

Well, Fiona won't be happy when I tell her that it's at least Monday now before I see some sort of visa - which (and this is where my positive energy falls short and the psychotic episodes begin) could turn into Tuesday, or Wednesday, or August for all I bloody know!

On a happy note, I can't wait for my party at Tirana on Saturday (where Mauro works). Not sure what the ratio of Bolivianos to Gringos will be and it will be a telling viewpoint of my experience to see. I better get presents.

Anyway, in a stark change of topic I highly recommend you all look at the "Oz in 30 seconds" competition (http://www.ozin30seconds.org/vote/videos) and vote for Rupert or the one you like the most.

See you in 2009 when my visa is... yep. You get the exxageration jibe.

2007-07-09T20:27:00.000-04:00

Fiona and I are back in Cochabamba.

Our trip around Bolivia was wonderful. And the anticipation of being back home in Australia on Friday is fantastic. But that's the thing with anticipation - it's usually unrealistic. So, as there are no actual plans to be back in Australia by Friday, we'll be looking sometime around September.

Yah, photos. I gotta DO that!

I feel Bolivian but then again, nup.

2007-06-30T12:34:00.000-04:00

Some thoughts I got excited about yesterday:

a) Although here in Sucre there was a very large protest going on in the plaza: firecrackers (LOTS of them), very VERY loud and clear speakers and music, and marching all over the shop, when Fiona and I ran into Sarah, a friend of mine from Cochas on a balcony of a bar overlooking said plaza we didn't even mention the mayhem in the street. That's an exciting concept - being such a part of a country that you don't acknowledge things that wouldn't happen in your own countries. (Of course, how much a part of which part of the country is up for question as I sit somewhat languidly sipping beer in a fancy bar on the balcony *starts talking in a toffee English colonialist accent* overlooking the masses)

b) Having been invited to have drinks later that evening with said friend it didn't occur to us to specify a time. This is very Bolivian, given that Bolivian timekeeping is famous for it's non-existence. I feel at home with this concept now. Nice one.

c) I forget the third one. But an exciting thing today is that our tea and coffee con leche, along with two cheese pastels cost only B6.50. And the smile on the girl serving us was worth at least two more B. The Sucre marketplace is actually quite clean, as noted in The Book, adding it to the suggestion that Sucre is a very clean city. "The Book" seems to have played a joke on everyone reading its Sucre pages with mistakes that outnumber all the others in the entire edition (tall order) but it rings true here.

Potosi tomorrow to witness the horrid conditions of thousands in the mines (a national tourist attraction!! Whee!) kept in motion by the powers that need the poor to feed the rich.

And photos soon, I promise!

2007-06-29T12:48:00.000-04:00

Oh man. Four responses to my blog and NObody thought to point out that the Jewel of Bolivia has more than four popularly used names, even though one of it's names is "The City of Four Names"? Sheesh.

White, after wet after wild after white.

2007-06-28T11:38:00.000-04:00

Sucre, the Athens of America, the City of Four Names, the Cradle of Liberty, the White City of the Americas, Sucre. Boy howdy, it sure is white! And the prettiness that everyone rattles on about is due, surely to this whitewashed city. The streets are fairly spotless, the gardens are exquisite and there's a lot of interesting achichechure to google at (see, I can use that word without any reference to the one with a capital "G" even though I just referenced it...)

I wonder however how much of this "whitewash", a typical phrase for nastiness swept under the carpet, is facading the reality. Afterall, T.I.B. (This Is Bolivia) and it's poverty can't just be non-existent just because the buildings are coloured white. In fact, poverty there is: our new amigos, Julio and Rodriegez - two cute little chewing gum sellers - wolfed down their meals we bought them yesterday, chicken bones sucked as white as Sucre, almost licking their plates while they chatted gaily and interestedly about Australia, their homes in the university grounds, our favourite Bolivian soccer teams, Pirates of the Carribean 3. And racism and classism runs clear and true here as in anywhere in Bolivia and indeed anywhere in the world - poor little 8 year old Rodregez couldn't eat his meal today because he was too scared of the very well-dressed arsehole who roared at them to get out of the dining room (an open market-style food court) when they were clearly sitting with us, and having a fine old conversation. We told him the boys were our friends and were here to dine with us, but I wish I had the Spanish to have been able to challenge HIS right to be there more than our friends. Makes me want to swear... *takes deep breath and it passes* Rod wolfed down when we got it out of him from Julio (12) why he was trying to surrepticiously hide under the table, and assured him that we could "take that jerk" and not to worry. Talking about the dinosaurs cheered them up somewhat.

And so Sucre - we've been here since Tuesday morning and its tranquilo pace (strange, since we're back in the Occident, where although we feel more at home is supposed to be much more stressfully busy and unfriendly) is giving us reason to stay a few more days, then visit Potosi's stark contrast, and then hotfoot it to Cbba for Luke's wedding.

Before landing in Whiteland, Fiona and I spent a specki 5 days cruising up the river, the Mamore River to be exact, from Trinidad to Guayaramarin. A variety of animals and the tranquility of the neverending scenery was only slightly interrupted by the nagging knowledge that we were towing tonnes of petrolium on our little tugboat. Oh well, nobody's perfect. Trinidad upwards we found an incredible habit of the younger portions of the population to ride interminably around and around the plaza on their motos (motorcycles). Fiona thought it was more amusing than I did, me being a killjoy and vilifying their disgusting waste of fossil fuels. They'd be much more comphy on a bicycle...

Guayaramerin (in the north of Bolivia just below the Pando region (I must take a horse to the Pando just for the sake of being in "The Pando!")) was hot, of course, being close to the Equator, low in the altitude and the jungle just across the river, as is Brazil. We could see Brazil from the water's edge and most of the day yesterday as we meandered down the border river watching Pink River Dolphins (by the hundreds!), monkeys, a plethora of beautiful birds and just the serenity and diversity of both countries' jungle edge.

Bloody glad on the other hand to be able to walk 10 steps in a straight line and have a beer and some ice cream and some fruit and some water and some chocolate and some more beer. Dry land with shops have a lot going for it.

Yesterday we went to the site of the largest collection of fossilised dinosour footprints in the world. Over 5000 tracks set in the wall (as it is now - techtonic plate movement giving the lake bed a nudge upward) of a concrete company's mining site. The tour operator told us that it was lucky they found magnesium in the rocks otherwise they'd have just blown up that wall as well. Anyhow, the place was incredibly high quality tourist development by Bolivian standards, and again, photos will ensue when we get back to Cochas and my camera photo transfer cable.

Oh, and the jesuit missionary circuit was a boon and a bore at various times. More about that another day.

A quiet ride back to town from the schoolhouse...

2007-06-04T21:16:00.000-04:00

Is it fate? Is it stupidity? No se. Pero Fiona and I found ourselves (after 2 hours in a taxi along the most wonderfully scenic countryside and remote mountains) outside the schoolhouse in the middle of nowhere, where Che Guevara and two comrades were summarily executed. As many of you may already know, I was not going to view, or even venture near the places that were most morbid and too sad for me, including the laundry of the local hospital here in Vallegrande, where his body was brought and put on show like a big fish, the trail of his final push including the river crossing where many of his right hand men and woman (Tania Bunke) met their end and he was captured, and the schoolhouse where he was jailed and shot. I looked at the schoolhouse as I stood outside it, now a information centre of the whole affair, and knew it was where it all happened (even though we had thought it was some miles from the town we'd just arrived in, La Higuera). In fact I read it on the wall -something like "This is the schoolhouse where Che Guevara was held and later executed". Not sure how I missed my resolve to not experience this period of his life, and not sure why I crossed the threshold. Inside was the picture of Che that perhaps I feel worse about than his many depressing photographs as a dead man being propped up by Bolivian military for show and tell - it is a photo of his bent and apparently defeated self, head bowed, being led in shackles before being shot. I had been under the impression that he and his comrades had been killed outside the schoolhouse but when I walked inside I had the destinct impression that it smelled like death. I think I was still under the nearing delusional impression that I wasn't at his site of death. When Fiona read on the wall that he was in fact killed IN the room in which we were standing and clarified that with the curator of the building, I finally came to and said "NO! No puedo quedar aqui (No, I can't stay here)" and made a beeline for the door bursting into the sunlight, with the very emotional knowledge that Che couldn't do that. And perhaps - and I hope this is true for many revolutionary comrades - my being able to leave that place was a sign that it is we who can continue his dream of a free world, a fair world, a fight for justice and peace.

"Patria o muerta!" (Which to me translates to "A fair and equal planet or death!")

Then had dinner in a restaurant tonight that, while not unlike all the other outlets in this town in displaying Che and exploiting his image, including one's of him dead, had giant artistic paintings depicting his dead body on the walls, copies of the classic photos you might find in books and things... I found this particularly disturbing and distasteful and tried to express my views to the owner, who was receptive but appeared surprised. I don't think she gets too many complaints...

Just working out where to go next. We both agree that it should be far, far from this little depressing neck of the woods.

And due to popular demand no puedo... I can't download photos, I just realised now, because my cable is in Cochabamba. Perhaps this nice woman who runs this internet place (not the fodden extorcionista in Samaipata!!! Be warned!) will have one.

Weather reflecting my mood so close to Che's demise.

2007-06-03T21:41:00.000-04:00

Yeah. So we're freezing our proverbials orf in Vallegrande. Know where that is? It's the main town in the region of Señor Ernesto Che Guevara's last stand. I didn't want to come here initially due to the whole finality of his living years being so starkly commemorated around these parts, and certainly can't see myself going to the school he was shot outside of, the hospital where he was taken after they cut off his hands to avoid identification, or the airstrip under which he was buried but there is a very large (taller than the whole of me!) bust of Che, a monument in the little town where the hospital and school are so I want to see that at least.

We're staying, luckily, at a hotel for 15B each with a big private balcony looking over the pretty pretty plaza. Yay.

As noted, Fiona and I ventured into the Amboro National Park for some wildlife viewing and it was bloody cold there too. Janice and all will be happy to know I'm keeping up the tradition of doing stupid things around water... we had to wade waist deep (just passing the low of my jocks for me) through a river to continue our hike on day two of the three day trek - not a blue spot in the sky to be seen - and I predictably found a spot in the riverbed that sloped down, down, down... and I lost my fodden left sandal. This was one half of a pair I'd bought just days before leaving Cochabamba, a rubber tyre-made pair popular among the poorer Bolivians and specially made for me (size 46). I had to take off the top half of my clothing as well to wade deep, deep, deep in the less than warm (read: c-c-c-cold) waters sifting through the sand to rescue it. I didn't, but I found a complete set of kitchen knifes down there - not really but I couldn't believe I found another thong, a girly right-footed one about half my size that I finished the slippery rockhopping hike with. Bloody. Then on our way back, at the river after the water had settled and we could see the bottom again, did I see my sandal at the bottom? No, I saw the other half of the girly pair. Bugger! So at least I had the left size 6 girly sandal to wear on my left foot. Photos to follow.

It was sunny today but yesterday's weather was shithouse. However the drives to the prettiest towns ever are very pleasant and viewsome and everyone is very friendly around these parts.

After this we might find ourselves on a riverboat tour to Trinidad. Vamos a ver.

Chau, busting to go to the baño!!

Love yas, Michael.

Spider moneys get angry at you if you look at 'em! Image issues...

2007-05-30T21:32:00.000-04:00

Goodness me! I just got back from our jaguar hunt in Amboro National Park and I'm not sure who is thinking "bugger Noel Kempff for a joke!" more - Fiona or yo...

We trekked for less than three days, and lets face it, we aren't getting any younger, and we haven't quite been doing triathlons to prepare for the event and so, while Fiona is in bed (at 9.26pm) and I'm trying not to pass out at the computer nextdoor, sitting waiting for my leg bones to go solid again, Noel Kempff Mercado National Park is getting a little bit more distant everyday (not that 700ks from ANYwhere is spitting distance away). Anyway, we saw the most brilliant kingfishers flying down the gorges, saw spider monkeys, and two other kinds of monkeys that I don't have my little reference notebook here to elaborate on, a dead honeybear..., the tracks of an endangered deer, tapir tracks (these are incredibly dificult to catch up with in person) and lo and behold - a jaguar footprint! This was a boon really. Our guide (you must have one to get into the park) has only seen one before in his life in the park - he came around a bend in the track to be faced with it 50 metres away and was scared poo-less he admitted. It roared at him and he stood frozen solid, then backed away. I think the print was fun enough to take photos of. Oh, and the butterflies did indeed blow our socks orf!

We're back in Buenavista now, tossing up our thoughts on a six day river boat cruise to Trinidad with our salads (they only have monkey food on the barges up the river).

Bueno, nos vemos, or as they say in this part of the country - no vemo.

Michael.

Nothing doing...

2007-05-25T21:44:00.000-04:00

Well, you wouldn't believe it! Fiona and I arrived in bloody Santa Cruz and lo and behold, every godarned information and tourist agency in the land told us that if we tried to get to Noel Kempff Mercado National Park, on our own or even on a tour, we'd be wasting our time while our notion of "adventure" would become a notion of hell on earth. We'd certainly have something to write home about but it would probably be just one of us writing, including the inside story of how we killed the other in a non-jaguar devouring massacre after a waterless, foodless, energyless arguement. The rain has made the reconstruction of every road and path into the park impassable. Well travelled Kempffers looked at us without trying to laugh telling us it's stupid to try it. So, there goes plan number 42 of trying to be utterly romantic in Fiona's life. Foder.

Yep. We're out of Santa bloody Cruz and in Buena Vista now, with more wildlife rich incredibility at it's doorstep and an Irish Pub in the middle of the square. It's nothing like an Irish pub except for the name (and I surmised, it's ownership in Santa Cruz). Amboro National Park is just across the river from here, where tapirs, jaguars, howler monkeys and butterflies that'll blow your socks off (always wanted to say that about butterflies) are available for viewing if you're lucky.
I called Amboro AmborING after not being able to go to the Kempff, the motherlode of all national parks. But perhaps we'll be able to access the park in a couple of weeks when we get back from the Jesuit missionary circuit - a lovely historical experience of local meets the conquistadors. It's supposed to be fun, beautiful and informative.
Right, godlovingly slow and expensive here. Chau,
Michael.

Goin' on a jaguar hunt, but I'M not afraid!

2007-05-22T13:34:00.000-04:00

O.k. this is the last email from my days living in Cochabamba.

It's a little bit of an anticlimax, the whole feeling, because of the fact that Fiona and I were supposed to be leaving last Wednesday, then Saturday, then Monday night, then this morning, and now it definitely looks like tonight for an overnight bus to Santa Cruz.

The few delays we've had have also given me the chance to have a catch-up with friends I possibly wouldn't have organised before leaving, and has shown me how close we are and how much I'm going to miss everyone and I suppose vice versa.

Cochabamba will of course, always hold that special place in my heart and I wish I could detail a few items of greatest influence while I still hold it in my hands, but I'll do that, hopefully, on our return here for Luke an Anny's wedding. We'll be here for around a week before heading on the home stretch jaunt.

I told Fiona, after she joined me spontaneously this morning in the excitement of a possible jaguar sighting (we're going to Parque Nacional Noel Kempf Mercado - look it up), that they're probably really dangerous, when she replied that they're more scared of us than we are them. I explained that no, that's spiders and snakes and that jaguars are usually more hungry for us than we are them and referred her to National Geographic docos where the whispering lion hunters are suddenly faced with their photographic prey and we see that ever terrifying camera shot of them running like, well, running slabs of lamb chops back to the safety of the truck. I've got her worried. I giggle, but then, I have no fodden idea what I'm talking about.

I was waiting for it... He's started reading at last.

2007-05-09T12:58:00.000-04:00

Sheesh! 'Bout time I got some 'spect from important people on this blog site (see comments under "But Then" Wed. May 2, 2007.)

Bit callous, but you know... wake up!

2007-05-05T18:45:00.000-04:00

One day you’re gonna wake up, America.By David Michael Green

05/04/07 "ICH" -- - And, like every other one since last you can remember, it’s gonna be an ugly morning.

One day you’re gonna wake up and go to your lousy job with its lousy salary and non-existent benefits. You might even remember the good job you once had. Or that the government you once supported gave tax breaks to companies like the one that exported that good job of yours to the ThirdWorld (which is what they’re now starting to call your country). Or that that same government undermined the labor unions which fought to get you your good wages and benefits.

One day you’re gonna wake up and be furious at the monstrous tax burden you are carrying, a tab which accounts for fifty of the seventy hours you must work each week just to eke by. You might even figure out why your tax bill is so high. You might remember that the government you once supported shifted the tax burden from the rich onto people like you, and from the taxpayers of the time onto those of today. And that they borrowed money in astonishing quantities to fund their sleight-of-hand, so that you work thirty hours a week just to pay the interest on a mountain of money borrowed decades ago.

One day you’re gonna wake up in anger at the absurdly poor education your children are receiving. You’re gonna remember that it wasn’t always that way, that even after the military’s voracious appetite was temporarily sated, your country still managed to find a few bucks to at least educate a workforce. No more. And you’re gonna remember how you applauded when your educational system was twisted in to a test taking industry that is careful, above all, not to teach children how to think.

One day you’re gonna wake up literally sick and tired. You’re gonna want treatment for your maladies but you won’t be able to touch the cost. You’re gonna wonder what you were thinking when believed your country had the best healthcare system in the world, even though it was the only advanced democracy in the world that didn’t provide universal care, even though it devoted fifty percent more of its economy than those other countries to pay for a system that left fifty million people uninsured, and even though there were massive layers of unnecessary and harmful private sector bureaucracy skimming hundreds of billions of dollars of profits out of the system in the name of free enterprise.

One day you’re gonna wake up too tired to go to work anymore. You’re gonna want to retire in dignity but will be left instead to laugh bitterly at the cruelty of that joke. And you’re gonna wonder what in the world you had been thinking voting for a president who’s primary goal was to allow Wall Street to raid Social Security, destroying what had once been considered the most successful domestic program in human history.

One day you’re gonna wake up and wish that it wasn’t so bloody hot, and that there weren’t so many diseases and species eradications and violent storms lashing the planet. And maybe you’ll even remember that you once supported a government that lied about the very existence of global warming – back when it might have been curtailed – a government that scuttled the barest remedy for the problem in order to protect oil company profits.

One day you’re gonna wake up and wish you had a government that could simply and competently do the basic things it was designed for. A government that could protect you from foreign attack, that could come to your rescue after a devastating hurricane, that could properly manage a new program or other people’s security. An administration that didn’t pervert the purpose of every agency within the government to its opposite, using civil rights lawyers to fight civil rights, for example, or the EPA to protect polluters.

One day you’re gonna wake up and cry out for simple justice, blindly applied without bias. And perhaps you’ll remember when that principle died. When your country stood by and watched the politicization of its judicial system for purposes of partisanship, and said nothing. When it stood by and watched its highest law enforcement officials in the land lie about their failing memory of events and pretended to believe that was acceptable.

One day you’re gonna wake up and wish that you weren’t being drafted to go fight wars you don’t believe in. You’ll remember how soldiers were sent to their deaths for lies. You’ll remember how badly they were treated when they came home maimed and twisted. You’ll remember how real, patriotic, former soldiers were mocked and humiliated by dress-up, unpatriotic, former non-soldiers. And suddenly you’ll understand why no one would volunteer for the military anymore, and why people like you had to be drafted.

One day you’re gonna wake up and want very badly to run outside and scream in anger about a government that long ago stopped serving your interests in favor of the narrow interests of a tiny oligarchy. But instead you’ll stay inside and keep your scream tucked safely in your belly. Because you’ll know that in your country dissent has long since been outlawed, on pain of torture and death. You’ll remember concepts like due process, limitations on government search, seizure and wiretapping, habeas corpus, trial by peers, legal representation and prohibitions against cruel and unusual punishment as historical artifacts no longer even taught in schools.

One day you’re gonna wake up and want so badly to change governments. You’re gonna treasure the concept of democracy like no Soviet dissident ever did. You’re gonna crave the opportunity to own your own government, to make your own societal choices, to make a change of direction never before so desperately necessary. And you’re gonna wonder why you didn’t speak up as you watched first-hand the dismantling of the democracy you had been handed by previous generations of patriots. You’re gonna wish you had been patriotic enough yourself to demand, above all else, free and fair elections, and you’re gonna shake your head in puzzlement at how you stood by watching in silence those that patently were not.

One day you’re gonna wake up and want to get the hell out of your rotting, repressive country. You’re gonna remember a time when that wasn’t true. But, oddly enough, you’ll find that other countries remember too. They’ll remember your country’s arrogance, its unilateralism, its walls, its racism, and its politicized abuse of immigrants. And they’ll remember how your government undermined and violently replaced theirs whenever corporations from your country had their profits threatened. You’re gonna want to leave, but there will be nowhere you’ll be welcome. You’re gonna find out that walls can face both directions.

One day you’re gonna wake up in a hostile world where your country no longer has any friends. There will be governments of other countries – former long-standing allies – that cannot afford to have anything to do with you, lest their publics angrily remove them from office for collaborating with a country as hated as yours. Nor will those governments trust yours anyway. They will perhaps possess intelligence that could save your life, but they will not share it. They will possess forces that could help you survive real security threats, but they will not provide them. Your country will have become an international pariah, the South Africa of the twenty-first century.

And because no one will assist you, one day you’re gonna wake up fearing for your life as your country is brutally attacked by angry militants deploying weapons of mass destruction against your cities. Long dormant connections in your brain will resurface, and you will dimly understand why. On this day – perhaps March 20,2023 – you might be assisted in your comprehension by the message of one of the attackers, someone whose family your country callously destroyed in its mission accomplished in Iraq, and who spent the next twenty years plotting this day’s revenge. And you will wonder again why you stood by as your country attacked Iraq on a completely bogus pretext. You’ll remember applauding when this mailed fist was long ago sent. And, just as it comes hurling back in your direction at a lethal velocity, stamped “Return to Sender”, you’ll wonder what you were thinking. And you’ll realize just how much you weren’t.

One day you’re gonna wake up, America, and you’re gonna find out what was happening while you were sprawled on the couch watching endless mind-numbing loops of CSI, Desperate Housewives or Dancing with the Stars.

One day you’re gonna wake up and realize that catching all the action during week seven of the 2011 NFL season really wasn’t so critical in the greater scheme of things after all.

One day you’re gonna wake up and wished you’d invested a little more energy into monitoring and choosing the people who made monumental decisions on your behalf.

One day, with a flash of remorse greater than you thought it possible that one human vessel could contain, you’ll remember the ignored warning shots across your bow. Moments later, you’ll discover the human capacity for searing remorse is actually even greater still, as you contemplate your inattention even to the shots that were fired right through the bow. With a fury you would yesterday have thought yourself incapable of, you’ll hurriedly attempt to affix Band-Aids to the tattered splinters remaining from your country’s once sturdy hull. But you’ll learn quickly the toll of those years spent wasted in a civic coma. You’ll find that no amount of patchwork can any longer save this sinking ship from its appointment with the dustbin of history.

In shame, you’ll regret the callous arrogance with which you laughingly dismissed those who sounded the early clarion call. “We are destroying ourselves”, they tried to tell you. But even on the rare occasion when you roused yourself from your stupor long enough to learn the slightest bit about the very threats that jeopardized your life and that of your species, still you found it more reassuring to follow the blustering worst amongst us, with their patently absurd pretended confidence, and their ever constant resort to the cheapest of false solutions, and the rudest of demeanors.

One day, you’ll desperately search for hope of any sort, but none will remain. Nothing will be left to save you.

One day you’ll realize that once there were solutions, but that that day is now long past. You’ll see that human technological capacity ran its evolutionary race with wisdom, and the latter came in second. You’ll sadly realize that you stood by while your country led the once great tool-making species to its own destruction.

One day you’re gonna wake up, America, and realize how far it’s all gone. But if that day isn’t very soon, it won’t matter.

Because one day you’re gonna wake up, and it will be far, far too late.

David Michael Green is a professor of political science at Hofstra University in New York. He is delighted to receive readers' reactions to his articles (dmg@regressiveantidote.net ), but regrets that time constraints do not always allow him to respond. More of his work can be found at his website, www.regressiveantidote.net.

A scary article. As usual, Bush and the military are involved...

2007-05-04T12:26:00.000-04:00

The Crusaders

“The Christian Taliban is Running the Department of Defense”By Robert Koehler

05/03/07 "ICH" -- -- Sixteen words may be all that stand right now between the apparatus of government and the Founding Fathers’ worst nightmare. And those words are starting to give.
“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof . . .”

When George Bush, in the wake of 9/11, puffed himself into Richard the Lionheart and declared he would lead the country in a “crusade” against terrorism - you know, crusade, as in slaughter of Muslim infidels - turns out . . . oh, how awkward (if you’re on White House spin duty) . . . he may have been speaking literally.

What’s certain, in any case, is that a lot of people in high and low places within the Bush administration - and in particular, the military - heard him literally, and regard the war on terror as a religious war:

“The enemy has got a face. He’s called Satan. He lives in Fallujah. And we’re going to destroy him,” a lieutenant colonel, according to a BBC reporter, said to his troops on the eve of the destruction of that undefended city in post-election 2004.

“I knew my God was bigger than his. I knew that my God was a real God and his was an idol,” Deputy Undersecretary of Defense Jerry Boykin notoriously boasted a few years back, speaking of a Muslim warlord in Somalia. And by the way, George Bush is “in the White House because God put him there.”

And, of course, just the other day, Lt. Col. Ralph Kauzlarich, who conducted the first official investigation into Pat Tillman’s death, opined that Tillman’s family is only pestering the Army for the, ahem, truth about how he died because their loved one, a non-believer with no heavenly reward to reap, is now “worm dirt.”

Until I read the newly published “With God on Their Side” (St. Martin’s Press), Michael Weinstein’s disturbing account of anti-Semitism at the U.S. Air Force Academy, I shrugged off each of these remarks, and so much more, as isolated, almost comically intolerant noises out of True Believer Land. Forgive them, Lord, for they know not what they do . . .

Now my blood runs cold. Weinstein, a 1977 graduate of the Academy and former assistant general counsel in the Reagan administration, and a lifelong Republican, has devoted the last several years of his life to battling what he has come to regard as a fundamentalist takeover of the Academy, turning it, in effect, into a taxpayer-supported Evangelical institution. He charges that the separation of church and state is rapidly vanishing at the school, which routinely promotes sectarian religious events, tolerates the proselytizing of uniquely vulnerable new recruits and, basically, conflates evangelical interests and the national interest.

If you think this is just a fight over some abstract principle, with ramifications only for atheist, Jewish, Buddhist and other cadets who may be “offended” by fundamentalist God talk, I urge you to check out Weinstein’s book or website. He documents a chilling phenomenon: The whole U.S. military, up and down the chain of command, is coming to be dominated by members of a small, characteristically intolerant sliver of Christianity who truly regard themselves as Christian soldiers, on a God-appointed mission to harvest souls and battle evil.

Weinstein, whose family tradition of national service is pretty impressive, does not do battle lightly with those who now run his alma mater. One of his sons is a recent graduate of the Air Force Academy and the other is still a cadet there. The fact that both of them endured anti-Semitic harassment initially spurred him to take action. But this goes deeper than disrespect for other faiths. The attitude he has encountered in his attempt to hold the institution, and the rest of the military, accountable smacks of a coup: “The Christian Taliban is running the Department of Defense,” he told me. “It inundates everything.”

Can you imagine a contingent of religious zealots, with their contempt for secular values (and such manifestations of secular order as the U.S. Constitution) - and with their zest for holy war - in control of the most potent fighting force and weaponry in human history? Is this possible?
Well, said Weinstein, consider the 523rd Fighter Squadron, based at Cannon Air Force Base, N.M., which calls itself The Crusaders, and whose emblem consists of a sword, four crosses and a medieval knight’s helmet. Check ‘em out at globalsecurity.org, which reports that the payload on the F-16s they fly consists of “a wide variety of conventional, precision guided and nuclear weapons.”

And listen once again to Commander-in-Chief Bush, speaking in 2003 to Palestinian Prime Minister Mahmoud Abbas, according to the Israeli newspaper Haaretz: “God told me to strike at al-Qaida and I struck them, and then he instructed me to strike at Saddam, which I did, and now I am determined to solve the problem in the Middle East.”

If this is a religious war - a “clash of civilizations,” waged by competing agents of God’s will - victory may be indistinguishable from Armageddon. God help the human race.

Robert Koehler, an award-winning, Chicago-based journalist, is an editor at Tribune Media Services and nationally syndicated writer. You can respond to this column at bkoehler@tribune.com.

But then...

2007-05-02T11:22:00.000-04:00

Of course much of the placating nature of Fiona's description of Cuba came directly from the added compensation of gifts! (Note the revolutionary's hat, that with the long hair bears me a strikingly uncanny resemblance to Che - surely you can note! and of course that's a Havana cigar. Note - don't inhale!)

She's baa-aaack!

2007-05-02T11:03:00.000-04:00

Well, Fiona has certainly changed much of my life since her arrival (again) in Cochabamba last week, but in contrasting ways. She has softened my passion to experience Cuba firsthand, given that her description and analysis has been pretty satisfying to date and I give her judgement on these matters quite some weight. On the other hand she's inspired me to keep Cuba in my sights, even if a visit from me does have to occur after the fact (that fact being Fidel's demise). Cuba will continue to change politically as it has since 1959 (and obviously before), and perhaps more sharply come the new leader of the Republic, and maybe it will be one of those historic epochs one could regret missing, like pre-industrial society but then, any new era will give us the opporunity to continue the fight for a better world. It's all the same.

Given all that, I still hope to feel some of the emotion and conflicting interests that govern the Cuban culture that Fiona felt. These photos give some idea of that:

Fiona in the very impressive Che tribute square- a large square with an imposing figure of Che atop this block of his (I'm sure very inspiring) text.

This fellow (below) shows off one of the abundance of well-kept cars of the 50s - a necessity given the complete shut-down of trade from countries that could have helped Cuba's industrial growth (trade barriers an indicator of fear, and Cuba the most feared example of fair and equal development in the world).

Che (above), again and again and again, being flaunted there in Cuba as the martyr of the revolution much to Fidel's joy and luck (or WAS it?). And the music of Cuba being flaunted joyously and deservedly in a member of the famous Buena Vista Social Club, who Fiona met in a bar and who signed the CD she bought. The Buena Vista Social Club was a Havana club where musicians met and played in the 40s and were subsequently made an international success with recordings on an album of the same name from this fellow and others in the 90s. Fiona being back in Cochabamba contrasts my emotions more personally as well (as opposed to my personal/political). We commented yesterday, as we spent the Feria holiday afternoon walking around the botanical gardens, having ice-cream, talking of our future and our kids in the hideously American CineCenter, playing air-hockey and basketball in the pin-ball parlour, and booking tickets for tomorrow's premier of the only movie I'd ever consider buying advance tickets for (gee, can you guess what it is?!), ... um, yes, we commented that we felt very much at home, or that we didn't miss home at all as heinously when we had each other here (or anywhere), and even seriously put forward the incredibly corny notion that we indeed were home to one another. How sweet (and corny). Contrasting however, because the more we talk about not missing home (my family, friends, streets, cafes, pubs, parks, family, friends), well, der brain, I get homesick!

2007-04-30T12:24:00.000-04:00

In a culture like ours, one sometimes forgets the power of a poet's words...

Here is an open letter from the poet Sharon Olds to Laura Bush declining the invitation to read and speak at the National Book Critics Circle Award in Washington, DC. Feel free to forward it along if you feel more people may want to read it. Sharon Olds is one of most widely read and critically acclaimed poets living in America today. Read to the end of eloquence.

> Laura Bush
>First Lady, The White House
>
> Dear Mrs. Bush,
>
> I am writing to let you know why I am not able to
> accept your kind invitation to give a presentation
> at the National Book Festival on September 24, or
> to attend your dinner at the Library of Congress or
> the breakfast at the White House.
>
> In one way, it's a very appealing invitation. The
> idea of speaking at a festival attended by 85,000
> people is inspiring! The possibility of finding new
> readers is exciting for a poet in personal terms,
> and in terms of the desire that poetry serve its
> constituents--all of us who need the pleasure, and
> the inner and outer news, it delivers.
>
> And the concept of a community of readers and
> writers has long been dear to my heart. As a
> professor of creative writing in the graduate school
> of a major university, I have had the chance to be a
> part of some magnificent outreach writing workshops
> in which our students have become teachers. Over the
> years, they have taught in a variety of settings: a
> women's prison, several New York City public high
> schools, an oncology ward for children.
>
> Our initial program, at a 900-bed state hospital for
> the severely physically challenged, has been running
> now for twenty years, creating along the way lasting
> friendships between young MFA candidates and their
> students--long-term residents at the hospital who,
> in their humor, courage and wisdom, become our
> teachers.
>
> When you have witnessed someone nonspeaking and
> almost nonmoving spell out, with a toe, on a big
> plastic alphabet chart, letter by letter, his new
> poem, you have experienced, close up, the passion
> and essentialness of writing.
>
> When you have held up a small cardboard alphabet
> card for a writer who is completely nonspeaking and
> nonmoving (except for the eyes), and pointed first
> to the A, then the B, then C, then D, until you get
> to the first letter of the first word of the first
> line of the poem she has been composing in her head
> all week, and she lifts her eyes when that letter is
> touched to say yes, you feel with a fresh immediacy
> the human drive for creation, self-expression,
> accuracy, honesty and wit--and the importance of
> writing, which celebrates the value of each person's
> unique story and song.
>
> So the prospect of a festival of books seemed
> wonderful to me. I thought of the opportunity to
> talk about how to start up an outreach program. I
> thought of the chance to sell some books, sign some
> books and meet some of the citizens of Washington,
> DC. I thought that I could try to find a way, even
> as your guest, with respect, to speak about my deep
> feeling that we should not have invaded Iraq, and to
> declare my belief that the wish to invade another
> culture and another country--with the resultant loss
> of life and limb for our brave soldiers, and for the
> noncombatants in their home terrain--did not come
> out of our democracy but was instead a decision made
> "at the top" and forced on the people by distorted
> language, and by untruths. I hoped to express the
> fear that we have begun to live in the shadows of
> tyranny and religious chauvinism--the opposites of
> the liberty, tolerance and diversity our nation
> aspires to.
>
> I tried to see my way clear to attend the festival
> in order to bear witness--as an American who loves
> her country and its principles and its
> writing--against this undeclared and devastating
> war.
>
> But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with
> you. I knew that if I sat down to eat with you, it
> would feel to me as if I were condoning what I see
> to be the wild, highhanded actions of the Bush
> Administration.
>
> What kept coming to the fore of my mind was that I
> would be taking food from the hand of the First Lady
> who represents the Administration that unleashed
> this war and that wills its continuation, even to
> the extent of permitting "extraordinary rendition":
> flying people to other countries where they will be
> tortured for us.
>
> So many Americans who had felt pride in our country
> now feel anguish and shame, for the current regime
> of blood, wounds and fire. I thought of the clean
> linens at your table, the shining knives and the
> flames of the candles, and I could not stomach it.
>
> Sincerely,
>
> SHARON OLDS

The goods.

2007-04-26T12:55:00.000-04:00

"Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it's time to pause and reflect."
Mark Twain

2007-04-24T11:08:00.000-04:00

Couldn't resist.

> While on his morning walk, Prime Minister John Howard falls over, has
> a heart attack and dies because the accident and emergency ward at his
> nearest hospital is too understaffed to treat him in time. So his soul
> arrives in Heaven and he is met by Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.
>
> "Welcome to Heaven," says Saint Peter, "Before you settle in, it seems
> there is a problem. We seldom see a Liberal around these parts, so
> we're not sure what to do with you."
>
> "No problem, just let me in; I'm a good Christian; I'm a believer,
> "says the PM.
>
> "I'd like to just let you in, but I have orders from God Himself. He
> says that since the implementation of his new HeavenChoices policy,
> you have to spend one day in Hell and one day in Heaven. Then you must
> choose where you'll live for eternity."
>
> "But I've already made up my mind. I want to be in Heaven," replies
> Howard.
> "I'm sorry... but we have our rules," Peter interjects. And, with
> that, St Peter escorts him to an elevator and he goes down, down,
> down... all the way to Hell.
>
> The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a lush golf
> course. The sun is shining in a cloudless sky. The temperature is a
> perfect 22C degrees. In the distance is a beautiful
> club-house.Standing in front of it is Bob Menzies and thousands of
> other Liberals luminaries who had helped him out over the years -
> Harold Holt, John Gorton, Bill McMahon, etc. The whole of the Liberal
> Party leaders were there .. everyone laughing, happy, and casually but
> expensively dressed. They run to greet him, to hug him and to
> reminisce about the good times they had getting rich at the expense of
> 'suckers and peasants.' They play a friendly game of golf and then
> dine on lobster and caviar.
>
> The Devil himself comes up to Howard with a frosty drink, "Have a
> tequila and relax, John!"
>
> "Uh, I can't drink anymore, I took a pledge," says Howard, dejectedly.
>
> "This is Hell, son. You can drink and eat all you want and not worry
> and it just gets better from there!"
>
> Howard takes the drink and finds himself liking the Devil, who he
> thinks is a really very friendly bloke who tells funny jokes like
> himself and pulls hilarious nasty pranks, kind of like the ones the
> Liberals pulled with the GST and the Free Trade Agreement promises.
> They are having such a great time that, before he realises it, it's
> time to go. Everyone gives him a big hug and waves as Howard steps on
> the elevator and
> heads upward.
>
> When the elevator door reopens, he is in Heaven again and Saint Peter
> is waiting for him. "Now it's time to visit Heaven," the old man says,
> opening the gate.
>
> So for 24 hours Howard is made to hang out with a bunch of honest,
> good-natured people who enjoy each other's company, talk about things
> other than money and treat each other decently. Not a nasty prank or
> short-arse joke among them. No fancy country clubs here and, while the
> food tastes great, it's not caviar or lobster. And these people are
> all poor. He doesn't see anybody he knows and he isn't even treated
> like someone special!
>
> "Whoa," he says uncomfortably to himself. "Bob Menzies never prepared
> me for this!"
>
> The day done, Saint Peter returns and says, "Well, you've spent a day
> in Hell and a day in Heaven. Now choose where you want to live for
> eternity." With the 'Deal or No Deal' theme playing softly in the
> background, Howard reflects for a minute ... then answers: "Well, I
> would never have thought I'd say this -- I mean, Heaven has been
> delightful and all -- but I really think I belong in Hell with my
> friends."
>
> So Saint Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down,
> down, all the way to Hell. The doors of the elevator open and he is in
> the middle of a barren scorched earth covered with garbage and toxic
> industrial wasteland, kind of like the eroded, rabbit and fox affected
> Australian outback. He is horrified to see all of his friends, dressed
> in rags and chained together, picking up the roadside rubbish and
> putting it into black plastic bags. They are groaning and moaning in
> pain, faces and hands black with grime.
>
> The Devil comes over to Howard and puts an arm around his shoulder. "I
> don't understand," stammers a shocked John, "Yesterday I was here and
> there was a golf course and a club-house and we ate lobster and caviar
> and drank tequila. We lazed around and had a great time. Now there's
> just a wasteland full of garbage and everybody looks miserable!"
>
> The Devil looks at him, smiles slyly and purrs, "Yesterday we were
> campaigning; today you voted for us!"

Out? In? Make up your bloody mind will ya?!

2007-04-19T17:32:00.000-04:00

Well, I've decided, seeing as Fiona is still away (till tomorrow) that I'll be staying in Cochabamba for longer than I had lately thought (under all the giddy excitement of seeing more of this continent). I want to stay and finalise my classes, contacts and friendships.

But I don't have to cancel my classes at the institute because why? I was fired. I'm pissed off about it quite frankly although I feel like a oughtn't be given I didn't express it as harshly at the time as I feel now. I wasn't really fired but my class got cancelled (lack of attendance, different levels, etc.) - effective immediately last night when I got to work to give them their exam. The director told me he was going to give the exam instead of me (to save money on paying me), so I could go home. I said well I'm here to work and now I'm going home? Thanks. No chance to say a proper goodbye to my students, prepare presents, nuthing. So I said a makeshift goodbye out the front on their way in, displayed my anger at the institute for them, my sorrow to leave them. They were all sad, and all got my number and a couple said they were leaving too then. So that's good. A little validation.

Last night though, at the Trova (I went alone to practice a shakily confirmed stage debut) I met four lawyers, shitfaced, who have been searching for English classes, and want to start Monday from 7-9pm, maybe 6 of them. That's 300B a lesson! How long will we be here for? Who knows... That's another reason I want to stay. Make some serious doshies. Woooh! 300B. That's A$50!! ... yep.

Fiona called today, half cut in a bar in Santiago. Sometime tomorrow night all going well. There are such things as "love hotels" here in Bolivia (heart-shaped beds, mirrors on the ceiling... etc.) of which Cochabamba shares an apparently unfair monopoly... so let's see if we can't find a non-seedy one...

Your Friendly Neighbourhood dying-of-desire Bolivian Correspondent.

Niños, Mariachi and where the hell is Fiona??!

2007-04-13T13:03:00.000-04:00

Well, it's Friday again. I can't really concentrate on constructing full sentences in correct English, nor Spanish for that matter.

I have a feeling that Fiona will come back early to surprise me.

On Tuesday night, at about 12.36am I was sound asleep subconsciously waiting for my alarm clock to blakker at me 6 hours later, when all of a sudden that house dream I was having (the one where all of the share houses I've had in my life merge and all of my compañeros de casa come burling up and down the stairs choosing rooms and not getting on very well (you had to be there - terrifying!) was rudely interrupted by very large music. So loud in fact that I was convinced that I was still dreaming and that it was in fact my phone. I reached for it, woke a little more, realised that my phone doesn't have that volume nor the capacity to play music like that, I stood up, walked to my second floor window, looked down at the garden to behold a fully decked out Mexican Mariachi band, with their big fat guitars, big fat hats and big fat voices.

One electrifying thought as I stood at the window was that Fiona had discovered what was (WAS - didn't happen) in order for her when she arrived in La Paz many months ago and she'd organised the same for me.

As it turns out, the girl downstairs was being seranata-ed for her birthday by her novio. How sweet. And what a surprise. You should have seen her prancing around dancing the Cueca in her jim-jams. We went down, enjoyed the band and a glass of champagne.

In other, more important news, it was Dia de Niños yesterday. Kid's Day. How many times were we told by our parents, even before we finished asking "You've got Mother's Day, Father's Day, when's Kid's Day?" that "Every day is kid's day". Well, not here. Seems like it's just yesterday.

While there was much fun and nonsense organised to be had, a lot of effort was put into the more serious aspect of the rights of the child. I see many many loving parents here, just as everywhere, but it's a sad fact that Bolivia has a high level of child abuse - emotional, physical and sexual abuse, child labour and prostitution, malnutrition and drug abuse. More than other countries? I don't know. But the discussion I had last night with a friend brought to light the level of unreported crime in Bolivia and abuse of kid's rights is included in that terrible omission.

So, Fiona leaves Cuba on the 17th. That's 4 days away.

Gullumph.

A little Marfling plug.

2007-04-10T18:34:00.000-04:00

"MO," written and directed by first time director Brian Lederman and starring Erik Per Sullivan (Malcolm In the Middle) is an amusing, yet poignant true story about a boy living with Marfan syndrome.

Here's some links about the movie and where it's screening:

"Mo" <http://www.ticketweb.com/t3/sale/SaleEventDetail?dispatch=loadSelection Data&eventId=129321> is premiering at the Malibu International Film Festival
<http://www.malibufilmfestival.com/>; on Saturday night, April 14th. You can get your tickets online <http://www.ticketweb.com/t3/sale/SaleEventDetail?dispatch=loadSelection Data&eventId=129321> for only $10 each! A great release <http://home.businesswire.com/portal/site/google/index.jsp?ndmViewId=new s_view&newsId=20070404005217&newsLang=en> went out on the Business Wire online last week.

Have a look to find out what it's all about!

If you are anywhere near Santa Monica (the location for the venue of this particular screening), go out and support this film. We have a lot of people in the Southern California, so it would be great to see a big turnout to support the film and the National Marfan Foundation. The more attention the film gets, the more it will translate into public awareness about Marfan syndrome and the NMF as it gets in front of more and more people!In case the above links don't work in your email reader, you can cut and paste them from below.

Tickets:http://www.ticketweb.com/t3/sale/SaleEventDetail?dispatch=loadSelectionD ata&eventId=129321

Malibu International Film Festival: http://www.malibufilmfestival.com/

More on "Mo":http://www.mofilm.net http://www.mofilm.net/;

Business Wire release:http://home.businesswire.com/portal/site/google/index.jsp?ndmViewId=news _view&newsId=20070404005217&newsLang=en

Bodgy birthdays and preemptive posting.

2007-04-10T11:52:00.000-04:00

Well, Fiona may soon be back in Bolivia from her jaunt smelling the bitter-sweet odour of lefty poolitical action. Soon may mean May 2. Soon may mean two weeks earlier than that, at around April 16, which is only six days away from now and "back in Bolivia" means La Paz where I'll meet her.

When this happens, then what happens? I hear you ask. Well, the reason that I don't just follow up with a straight answer is because there is none.

Fiona is incommunicado (I've never heard a Latin Americano say that word, but my old host head of the family, Gonzalo just coincidentally walked in here and asked how Fiona was, and I showed him "Fiona is incommunicado" and he seemed to understand, so it's probably a Spanish word... yep.). So, Fiona is incommunicado and when she finally calls me or writes to me she'll hopefully make clearer the question on everyone's lips - when am I leaving? (Well, the question on everyone's lips except mine is "When are YOU leaving?")

When she gets back to La Paz I meet her, then we go to Macchu Pichu (which is only just nowdays not being a surpise to me - I had dismissed the place as purely a tourist trap, but I've come to realise, having made close connections with indigenous culture that it is a place I'd actually like to visit!) That is, we go to Macchu Pichu if I have my ... passport and visa, which I've not seen for over 9 months now (actually I did see a glimpse of my passport in a folder in La Paz immigration but only for a beautiful, sacred second...)

Then we come back to (oops, nearly wrote "Australia"... that would have been a balls up, wouldn't it! You can tell where my mind is...) back to Cochabamba for some time (undefined, due to a general confusion of where I want to be) and then travel around Bolivia, Argentina, Chile.

There's a point to get across here and it's this: don't write to my Uyuni address anymore. Nor to my Potosi address. In fact, as of today, I count myself also as snail mail incommunicado. I could catch some mail on my way back through after Macchu Pichu, I could have it forwarded to Correos in other cities... but the quality of the mail I've got so far renders me to dismiss these ideas as too risky.

Thank you all so much who gave me some of my greatest pleasures in real time mail from home and abroad.

And now, a picture or two for those who don't read the entries...

"Happy Birthday to yoooooooouuuu!!!" Mauro's birthday on Saturday included a surprise party that turned out strangely: I organised for he and I to arrive at my place after some drinks at the restaurant down the road while everyone else got to the house. As it turned out only four other people were present, one was my housemate (below far right), the other was Cinthya (below left), and Gustavo and Sandy (below right and centre respectively) were with us for the drinks! Felt a bit stupid when we all walked up the stairs together, got into the house and then said "surprise"...

I posted a picture a while ago in January where I'd fallen victim to the "take a bite out of your birthday cake" tradition, only to be pushed in head first. They told me it was only for stupid gringos to fall for, but even though Mauro saw it coming he was compliant anyway. And I can't let it not be said that Mauro ended the night in the back of his work (the Tirana Hotel) in an arm chair throwing up into a cardboard box. I had to almost carry him home, then the next day I made up some things that he did that didn't actually happen. Whee.

shrugs I suppose it's better than this system...

2007-04-05T12:11:00.000-04:00

Right. This is important. Seeing as the Australian Government are being irresponsible and underhanded (need I say it - again!) I need to make sure my vote is counted when they call the election. I want to be told exactly when the election is called as they don't list the Australian polling booths around these parts until an election is called and I'm going to need as much time as I can to get to one of these suckers. So, can you tell me? Email. Blog it. Call me. I want to know.

How are the government specifically being underhanded (again)?

Well, we used to have seven days after the election date was announced to actually enrol, but this time the polls will close to new voters at 8pm - the very night the election is officially called. If you're too busy or don't hear about the election in time and aren't already correctly enrolled, you won't be able to vote on Election Day.

Not sure if you're enrolled correctly? Just click on the link below. You can join the call to revoke this legislation and tell politicians to make it easier, not harder, for all of us to have a say at election time. You can also make sure you're correctly enrolled before the polls close in record time.

www.getup.org.au/campaign/DontLetThemStopYouFromVoting.

It's up to us to make sure we get a voice on Election Day.

Thanks! PS: On April 16, new ID requirements and extra red tape come into effect, so if you're in a rural area or overseas especially, make sure you get on the roll now (that means ME! But I checked - I'm still on the roll).

Your (totally unBolivian-related) FNBC.

Backwards & Friedbrains

2007-04-02T12:29:00.000-04:00

Clifton Hill. 1999. A haunted house (a long long story). Melbourne venues began to have its own hauntings of a pool-playing duo of Overseers, facing such supervillians as The Rock, The Buckaneer, and the Stingray... Terrible times of high crimes... Strawberry milk and bakery-hot bread helped us on our nutritious way. Flying chalkboards and our very own Hell-Catwoman.

There are days when I can't believe how time flies and they're usually the ones that make you want to relive days like this.

Thanks Rupert, see you soon-ish.

Capricorn scorn.

2007-04-02T11:48:00.000-04:00

Capricorn

It will do you a world of good to retreat from the pressures of the outside world and just curl up by yourself for a while. If you can lower the volume of your life for a few days, some helpful introspection is bound to come. What other people have to say about your life is just noise right now, since no one can truly understand what you're feeling (despite what they say). Rely on yourself for the answers -- if you believe that you have them, they will come.

Always the way, just when I'm busy...

Although I've found relying on myself for my own answers is very good for getting things right, it's sooooo much easier to do what other people tell you to.

One year out of the country and counting...

2007-04-01T14:48:00.000-04:00

*cheers of adulation, admiration, salutation and enviation*

*he bows*

Thank you... thankyou.

2007-03-29T18:40:00.000-04:00

I love Calvin & Hobbes.

Thorny thoughts.

2007-03-29T12:12:00.000-04:00

I get home from work at 9pm. I scuttle home because the way gets progressively darker and less visible the closer I get to my house.

As I get to my house, I look up at the coil of barbed wire hanging down at me contradictorily menacingly, as old as the haggard almost-impenetrably thorny hedge that covers most of it, that wasn't needed to finish off our fence. Contradictory this barbed wire is in all its insentience, for it scares me, and yet does its best to keep out the "pests" as one security company asserts that the desperate, hungry, roofless poor are (the security company calls itself "Bolivian Pest Control" with a red barred circle crossing out a fellow who doesn't look a little unlike myself).

I open the padlock of our gate, the spikes at the top and the broken glass cemented on either side catching my attention again tonight, as it did last night, and another contradiction screams at me silently (be as quiet as you can), in that my security is so similar to everybody elses on this side of the river - and the more secure we are, the less we are, pure and simple. It's been both theorised and proven in the community development field more times than I can count.

We had a burglar over for backyard shennanigans two nights ago. The downstairs neighbours banging on our door and ding-donging our bell made us aware of it all at 5am when it was already in full swing. That desperate, hungry blah blah might also have been cold because he started by gathering some clothes off the line. Our security guard saw Cold Hungry Man (CHuM) clamber over the deterrants (desperate he must be to go near our thorny hedge!), woke downstairs, CHuM jumped unwittingly into the neighbouring property, to the very alert and very big and very baseball-bat-weilding fellow who resides there. He dropped the clothes, jumped back over to our side, and that's why they woke us. They couldn't find CHuM and thought he might be hiding on the garage roof, visible from Luke's (my housemate) bedroom window...

Short story long, never found him (I think I'm happy to say - the baseball bat would have found plenty of lean bones to pulverise, for it's a police-less state with no laws here after dark, therefore law in own hands justice), found the clothes, and hopefully made him aware that our house, at least, isn't the one to rob (without having to break any bones or worse).

Tonight I have made it through the fence, and locked the gate. As usual. I'm more alert (perish the connotation!) and alarmed, but as I open my door, am greeted by Arthur with an open beer bottle and alight to the balcony, and as I look up to the open, starry sky I almost unconsciously (nowdays) find the Southern Cross among the throng. It occurs to me that we're still all on the same planet. That we are all living the same life, part of the same organism. I sadden, tears drop on my expensive shoes, and the anonymous safety and the separation of the balcony from the poor begs me to continue my mantra - "The World is an Amazing Place". And although I recognise a hint of jingoism in my connection to the Southern Cross (and, dare I connect the J-word to it, SBS), I hope that our CHuM is also looking up (perhaps still on our garage roof), and thinking some of the same thoughts.

Roasting Howard, and steaming my puny body.

2007-03-22T09:43:00.000-04:00

First and foremost... This looks like fun, unfortunately I'm not in a position to hold the perfect Australian weekend. Perhaps somebody else could... this is part of an email I got from the Rights at Work Campaign - a hell of a group:

Give Howard a Roasting with a Rights at Work BBQ!

Get your pack now for $40 (suggested donation).

Dear Michael,

We all love a BBQ with friends and family during our hard-earned time off. Kicking back with a beer or two, some snags - the perfect Australian weekend.

The only thing that would make it better is if we could give Howard and his IR laws a roasting at the same time. Pricking the Howard Devilled Sausages with a BBQ fork, dousing some Non-Core Promises Spicy Beef Patties with some Truth Overboard Sauce... you get the picture.

Well, if this is your idea of a perfect weekend, here's how you can relax and help the Rights at Work campaign at the same time!

Hold a Rights at Work BBQ! Order your Rights at Work BBQ pack online now www.rightsatwork.com.au/campaigns/bbq

Yep. The other thing I want to mention is my hell of a time in the hills on Tuesday and Wednesday.

I took off my clothes in the "chosen field" just outside the "sacred circle". They doused me in insense to purify my body. I offered Coca leaves to the earthfire, kissed the ground outside the Temezcal (Potlatch, or Baño de Vapor or Sweatlodge in that primitive English tongue) and then crawled inside. With over 20 bodies in a small space, soon to be filled with heat beyond anything I've ever felt before, I was, to say the least, feeling quite some trepidation.

This temezcal was one of many rituals held over three days in the hills of Cochabamba as a continuing collaboration of traditional cultures between the Mexican and Bolivian indigenous cultures. It was all so incredible and exactly what I needed I reckon.

The Temezcal focused mainly on honouring the four directions, the four elements and to create a power within to bring into existence our hopes and desires.

I didn't have any transcendental experiences (you are supposed to start getting into that state in the third quartet...) but I plan to follow this group up as they have a permanent temezcal set up for the ritual every two weeks in Cochabamba someplace.

On Tuesday night I was witness to fire-walking (over hot coals). I chose against it. I meditated after the temezcal and realised I wasn't prepared for it initially. (I really didn't know what was to follow when I was invited up into the bush. Some music, some dancing, some chicha perhaps). And when I was offered the hot coal walking, part of me said "you have to do it, so you can say you did it" but when that is my reason for doing something, I try my best to choose NOT to do it. I realised that I really had no reason at the time to do the hot coals thing (you offer the coals coca leaves too, asking for permission to cross unharmed), and I really didn't feel a connection with it regardless of knowing its significance in accepting that fire is merely vibrating energy that can co-exist with our bodies, which are simply essential vessals of a higher awareness... (thanks Kate).

I talked at length with one of the conveners (he spoke English!) and what a rich cultural tradition it all is! So much about respect for the earth, the sun and beyond, to the sun's sun and so on. Universal awareness, depth in simplicity, truth, happiness and so on. And so on...

We danced into the night...

In the morning, by 6.30 we were dancing in the sacred circle, around the fire (in the inner circle) like "Indians" and I was SOOOOOO tempted to start yelling "woo woo woo woo" and patting my lips with my open palm... But I didn't need to. The other facilitators were doing it to communicate with us. Pretty cool stuff.

But, yes, 6.30, freezing cold, stony ground, dancing barefoot for two hours greeting the sun and all the gods we could muster up. I couldn't feel my feet when I was putting my socks back on. But when, at the end, the final offering to the earth with more leaves, we were to give our prayer to the energies we'd created, as far as I could interpret... So I did. Then we all got a feather of *he's making this bit up* of awareness?

When the very Mexican guru Shaman looking convener was solemnly giving me my feather I was smiling a little and he seemed to have to smile back. I wonder if we had a moment of "geez this is all pretty silly in the end isn't it?" I was tempted to wave my hands at him and say "and a booga wooga to you too!!"

Goodness I'm sore. And a little sick now (backdoor trots, driest of dry throats...)

My feet still hurt, and the hill climb (there and back) still causes terribly satisfying pain to my unfit calf muscles. I say now that I want to do it all again. At the time though I remember saying to myself once or twice "get me the ... *ahem* goodness gracious sakes out of here!!!"

Now, English class. Pay the electricity and water bill. Spanish class. Post some birthday cards. More classes. All a bit banal after "wwooowoowowoo"ing all over the place.

Michael.

Kooky-Cola, Uncool Aid, Cuba-bound beauty.

2007-03-18T16:16:00.000-04:00

Well! Coca growers associations here in Bolivia are demanding that Coca-Cola and other companies using the word "coca" in their name, cease using it!

Of course Coca-Cola have issue a statement suggesting how impossible that is, given that their brand is "the most valuable and recognised brand in the world" which doesn't mean that it's impossible, but that they just don't want to do it.

Being a sacred leaf for the Andean people we wonder why the name is so defended by major corporations, but those same corporations' governments are demanding total eradication of the leaf itself.

In other news, I've seen more proof that statements by Georgie boy and his lads about doubling aid to Latin America since his presidency began is total bullshit. Aid was the same in 2000 (or more, given what the dollar could buy in 2000) and at one point before Bush, the aid was cut severly just for that year, and then continued under the normal program just as Bush came tumbling in. Oh, and the CIP Columbia program has asked us not to "... get the impression that the aid increase since 2001 is all roads, schools, and healthcare programs. There are a lot of helicopters and guns in there too."

In the meantime, Fiona is back from her jungle safari after seeing giant anteaters and other such incredible creatures. She's off to Cuba tomorrow, and I now have little if no wonder for detail, and even less jealousy. I just yearn at this point.

Still, it doesn't stop the continued struggle for a better planet.

Talking of which, I've been talking a lot recently about my poolitical aspirations when I return to Australia. Think there's any hope?

Full on in between the boredom.

2007-03-17T18:03:00.001-04:00

It's raining again in "dry" Cochabamba, but I feel good, and ready for another big night out with my friends. I like it here.

On the other hand I just avoided the knifepoint robbery last night when me and my friend wouldn't give a fellow 20Bolivianos to continue his drinking binge. I spotted him just reaching into the back of his shirt for his knife when I decided to push my friend back toward the crowded street (we had turned into our own, very quiet and dangerous street when it happened). So, the excitement of violence holds my boredom at bay...

Hope Fiona is o.k. on her jungle safari in Venezuela, come to think of it...

Oh, and shopping for four hours at La Cancha, while the giggling masses (at our height) and the offers of marriage from the potato sellers is fun, cannot last and I'm knackered.

Going for a nap.

Fifth edition.

2007-03-11T17:35:00.000-04:00

Foder. I miss Fiona. And due to said yearnings, I'm becoming even more blind to cultural (and god forbid, spiritual) growth than I was before.

Stupid trip.

Michael.

Our Man of Steel.

2007-03-10T15:16:00.000-04:00

Can't help myself...

Let us salute Howard, our brave, heroic PM
OPINION
Phillip Adams
March 10, 2007

I UNDERSTAND that some of you are considering voting for Kevin Rudd, simply because he's fresh, young, intelligent and full of energy and ideas. Sorry, but I sternly disapprove. As our PM points out, voters are faced with one of those stark choices that define electoral life. The choice of a hero (him) or a coward (Kevin).

Howard is no cowardy cowardy custard like cut ’n’ run Kev. Howard is, as he shyly confesses, up there with Samson, Simpson (and his donkey), Menzies, St George, Tarzan, Bradman, Batman and other heroic heroes worthy of hero-worship. In fact, heroic doesn’t begin to describe how brave, plucky, valiant, valorous, intrepid, lion- (and stout-) hearted, bold, unflinching, unshrinking, unafraid, dauntless, spirited, game, gutsy and spunky he is. Let us remember just a few examples of the courageous courage of the King of Kirribilli.

1. He bravely believed all that shonky “intelligence” and boldly got us into one of the nastiest, most irrational wars in history.

2. Dauntlessly ignoring the consequent human, political, strategic and regional wreckage, he pluckily continues to congratulate himself on being a military visionary.

3. He valiantly defends the presidency of George W. Bush, something that few among the Republican leadership have done since the midterms.

4. He valorously attacks the Democratic Party’s frontrunner in the presidential campaign and vilifies the entire Democratic Party (now controlling both Congress and Senate) as being God’s gifts to bin Laden. By displaying his intrepitude, if that’s a word, he heroically undermines the future of Australian-US relations. And that’s just the beginning of our leader’s lion-heartedness. Be proud of him, fellow Australians! Howard’s madder than Max.

5. Having boldly believed in fictitious facts to justify the invasion of Iraq, he bravely disbelieves the decades of scientific evidence about global warming and unflinchingly follows George W’s example in refusing to sign Kyoto.

6. Having pluckily done bugger-all about perhaps the biggest problem in human history, he dauntlessly and instantly backs nuclear power. Is there no end to his fearlessness? Was there no beginning?

7. Eclipsing Sir Francis Drake’s cool courage in the face of the Spanish Armada, our PM wages war on the Tampa and a few leaking boats full of those terroristic asylum-seekers.

8. and 9. Boldly accusing them of drowning their babies, he is stout-heartedly indifferent to the drownings of hundreds of refugees in SIEV X.

10. Howard heroically redraws the map of Australia and daringly opens a chain of Pacific prisons, while (11) adding extra razor wire to the mainland concentration camps.

12. And with heroic chutzpah he talks, indeed trumpets, about Australian values of tolerance, mateship and the fair go.

13. Valiantly extending the Pacific Solution to Guantanamo in Cuba, he pluckily permits David Hicks to spend five years in solitary, boldly ignoring the growing protests until they become deafening. Then (14), he courageously pretends to intervene on his behalf. The more you think of Howard’s heroics, the more examples come to mind. There was (15) his heroic role in the secret training of mercenaries in Dubai intended to attack those wicked wharfies, and (16, 17, 18 and 19) intrepid assaults on the republic, on the Bringing Them Home report on the stolen generation by the Humans Rights Commission, on “black armband” history and all that silly nonsense about reconciliation.

Many of us were equally thrilled when (20, 21 and 22), despite being busy with his wars on terror and Iraq, he found time to wage others. For example, wars on the ABC, the union movement, voluntary euthanasia and (23) Peter Costello. For whom, when it comes to euthanasia, the PM would make an exception.

And let us salute Howard for his courage in refusing to debate the cowardly, gutless Rudd on the Iraq war – either on TV (24) or in the House. That’s (25).

Australians have had many great generals – Monash comes to mind – but none have fought so many wars on so many fronts at once. Our PM has enough backbone for a museum full of fossilised dinosaurs – and more spirit, spunk, spine and mettle than our entire Olympic squad and Test team. That’s why I wholeheartedly support our lion-hearted leader – rather than Rudd, another Obama-style upstart, another cut ’n’ runner.

And let me say what the PM is too polite to say, despite his courageously courageous courage, lest he be accused of interfering in Australia’s internal affairs. Bin Laden and the rest of the world’s terrorists will be putting marks in their calendars and praying, praying, PRAYING for a Rudd victory on election day.

World Naked Bike Ride

2007-03-08T11:18:00.000-04:00

Well, just a quick "here's the most important thing happening in Melbourne" blog entry.

Last year, Melbourne's part in the World Naked Bike Ride - "the world's largest naked protest against oil dependency and car culture in the history of humanity" - was a lovely sight to behold (sadly my living life only once didn't make it last year...)

It's on again. Here's details from my friend Rupert (check out the photos in the link for last years ride):

Hello sports,

this Saturday, at 7pm, I am going to ride naked as part of the "World Naked Bike Ride", this is the Melbourne show, it is "the worlds largest naked protest against oil dependency and car culture in the history of humanity". I was actually supposed to be the one a few years back organising the Melbourne part of this global event. There are 24 countries involved- Melbourne, Brisbane, Tweed Heads and Newcastle are the only Australian "cities" participating as yet in the ride. Anyone who wants to ride and doesn't want to hook up at the meeting spot alone can call me on

0432 983 494

or meet at the destination below ...

Date: Saturday 10 March 2007

Time: 7:00 pm

Location: Carlton Inn/University Sqr. - cnr of Pelham & Leicester Sts, Carlton

The Melbourne website for more details is ... MNBR

The Official Australian Website is ... WNBR (Australia)

You don't have to ride totally naked, body painting or partially clothed is acceptable but you only live once and the cause helps the planet live beyond that.

Rups

Too much love

2007-03-04T11:08:00.000-04:00

Capricorn

Save your high-minded idealism for another day -- today is all about elemental efforts and humble results. Tasks such as washing the windows, cleaning out the garage and working in the garden will be very rewarding, and they will make you feel not only more connected with the world but also more content. Don't aim for major life changes right now. Revel in today's fleeting pleasures, and don't ask for more than you need.

Humph, well this is exactly what my head was telling me this morning, as I walked away from the bus station (walking through the adjacent La Cancha (the country's biggest marketplace - it seemed more placid than usual, in my projection to have the world in sorrow) shoe shiners didn't even ask, such was my disposition, hands shoved firmed and intentionally in my deep pockets more to help shield my mental environment from the outside than to keep the pickpockets at bay trudging grimly through the sparkly dirt of the familiar market streets, all huffy and James Dean, until I trip over my shoelace and land on my arse. People laugh very haughtily and I have to join in. I'm a dickhead sometimes...), found the first bus bound for home (I sat in the back seat, towering over a sea of white Cholita hats, my arms folded in similar protective vein), walked along my street, Uyuni. Aptly named for this is the destination of Fiona this morning, the bus pulling out of the station at 9.09am, pulling out my tears along with it, and minutes before she too late questions herself to me again as we hold each other tight among the constant screaming stream of offers to Santa Cruz and La Paz, why she's leaving me here.

Foder.

But the horrorscope is right. As I arrived home and looked in my bedroom, I saw that things should be done, if only to keep myself busy. A fleeting pleasure at a test marked, clothes folded, a blog to blurt my feelings.

So, Fiona's off to the Salar de Uyuni today... well, Uyuni at least, the Salar tomorrow she hopes. She'll see the incredible sights of the largest salt lake in the world that I saw as I came the opposite direction toward Cbba.

Then she's going to Santiago so she can take one of her free flights to Caracas, Venezuela to personally hand deliver my good wishes and suggestions to Mr. Chavez. Then off to Cuba. Fiona has worked so hard for her reward in this trip but I can't help but feel jealous. My goal remains as such. A goal, until I do the hard yards to ensure I can ... well, pay for the privilege.

So today I look for little pleasures - a dog to pat, an old man to help, a pretty girl to kiss.

Yep.

Some parade action.

2007-02-19T17:47:00.000-04:00

Yep. Ariane. don't look at the last picture... those women freaked me out totally and there were LOTS of them! Reminded me of those creeps with the mask who taunt the Chinese Dragon in those other parades. They made me poo my pants. The dragons were o.k.

Anyway, some of the colourful crew that made up the 30-odd thousand.

There was SOME decorum on the day, regards foam and water balloons. When the dancers and so forth came past, people actually stopped throwing things about. Even the drunk ones. I, for one was surprised. The costumes can cost 100s of dollars to make so there was some respect there. Unusual for a Bolivian party atmosphere.

Water breaking everywhere and not a pregnant woman in sight.

2007-02-19T16:51:00.000-04:00

Bloody hell! Carnival continues here in Bolivia, the long weekend after the celebrations in Oruro, the sleepiest (read for most people: boringest) little city in the country. Oruro is famous for its few days of mayhem at the request of the diablo (of whom the participants and observers idolise to no end!). Of course the Virgin Mary, in all her incarnations is heavily present but never without the love, adoration and terror toward the little devils who inhabit the filthy, deadly mines closeby.

(foderation! My ears ring and my heart pounds just now as more of the foolishly available fire crackers explode just outside this door. Man, they give me the shits!)

Anyway, the initial "bloody hell" was to represent that madness that ensued for Fiona and I when we saw it all in broad daylight in Oruro last Saturday. 30,000 parade performers, 10,000 musicians, 100s of thousands of partygoers, and at at guess 3 or 4 billion water balloons. As you can see by the ponchoed photos it was terribly bad weather... (pause) not! Photo opportunities were at minimum as the chance of balloons crossing our paths and drenching our arses were at maximum. Our expensive seats in a fairly prime position for viewing most of the parade, was also fairly safe from watery projectiles but Fiona and I tried to emulate a wonderous experience Marty and I had last year in Urkupiña by walking against the parade between them and the crowd. I thought it wouldn't be possible due to the more highly organised ... organisers, but the idea was rendered impossible by the hopelessness that was water-balloon-and-foam-spraycan-sitting-duck-"Look!-Gringos!!"-prime-positionness. We couldn't walk even two minutes before the visionless dodging and at times painfully large bustery balloons and in-yer-face foam (often used as a distraction from your pockets...) forced us to turn and retreat to our seats. We knew that the walking wouldn't get any easier ahead and yet sadly had to admit the certaintly of reexperiencing the previous two minutes crowd... When we got back to our seats people wanted photographs of US, the dripping christmas tree duo...

It was at a moment between the pain and the embarrassment that I turned... My stance on water balloons went from "If you live by the balloon, you die by the balloon" to "The balloon is mightier than than the boring killjoy" and bags of ready-made water bombs were aquired solely for revenge, which was got.

A pleasant time was had, yet we were only there for the day. Overnight accommodation was practically non-existant and if it did exist hotel prices for Carnival can rise 5-fold, especially for us yankee lookin' types.

Never mind. On the Monday (yesterday) Fiona and I wandered down The Prado to have a quiet coffee (pause) NOT! My new stance decried the old "give 'em a filthy look, get them upset with you, get you in a bad mood with everyone" belief system and heralded in the new "right! That's it! Where's them balloons?!" kind of ... what's that word again... oh yes, FUN!

Janice would be proud of me - my projectiles were often nicely executed. I'm sure if Carnival was all about spitting contests I'd be still sitting at home watching it on telly.

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

2007-02-14T11:29:00.000-04:00

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.

Marfan Syndrome Awareness Month or The fish done it! (and me, an English teacher...)

2007-02-11T17:18:00.000-04:00

I'm sure that many other people with many other causes and connections, relate February to many other "Awareness Month" issues.

But this month is also the Marfan Syndrome Awareness Month. I have the Syndrome (if regular readers haven't picked up on that yet) and everyone should check out the following website because I said so:

http://www.marfan.org/nmf/index.jsp

All quiet on the occidental front, except for the spew calls from Fiona's bedroom all yesterday after a delightfully romantic evening at Puerto Madero, a buffet all-you-can-eat joint with lots of seafood, Chinese, Bolivian, and crepe desserts. I think it was the fish...

Bongos!

Michael.

Another photo opportunity? Yep.

2007-02-07T11:37:00.000-04:00

Fiona and I love this little town, Torata, which I mentioned in an earlier blog when we visited there a couple weeks back. Its traditional back streets;its decidedly rustic and inviting entrances;its strong friendly women and men - here Filamena does what she's um... doing with that bright cotton (and with great charm and skill!) , while tending her quiet stall of flowers;the tranquilo community;and the typical plaza of central activity, brilliantly lit up at night;

Revolt among my birthday celebrations... or is that a birthday among the revolt...

2007-02-07T11:13:00.000-04:00

Well, it's high time to get that comment of mine about the deaths in Cochabamba out of the way, should you not have heard the general truth about the whole situation. My Blog entry titled "Death Road, Death of the Incas and Death in Cochabamba" didn't really mention any of them. I followed with photos and detail about Death Road (or "Formally known as Death Road") but Death in Cochabamba came even more recently, in fact around January 10 as we tried to get our butts back to Cbba from La Paz. We couldn't get a bus as there were road blocks into Cbba at every point. If we'd taken a bus, been stopped and hauled out, Fiona and my American, pro-whitey appearance (being tall and white) could have landed us in trouble of the getting-beaten-up-or-killed kind.

So we flew... eventually. We waited over 16 hours at the TAM military airport after a harrowingly scary taxi ride into the depths of the altiplano (yep, that's a contradiction folks!) where the driver took an unexpected turn off the road in the midnight nothingness (after us reading in the hostel about La Pazzian nighttime airport taxis and all sorts of murderous robberies!!) to an unused railyard, drove along the railway line, and then, after Fiona and I resuscitated each other, he revealed the shortcut we were taking kept him from paying a multa toll on the road.

We waited at the military airport (TAM runs civilian flights around the country to bump up its military budget no doubt - glad to be of service!) which has the worst crash record (or is that the best) in the country, and watched the news live from Cochabamba on the airport "lounge" tv, the riotous thousands, the blockades EVERYwhere, and were told that the flight delays were due to Cochabamba's bad weather... Cochabamba NEVER has bad weather (except of course the terrifying thunderstorm we had last night... ahem, yep) so I was convinced they were talking about the political climate and was decidedly worried about our flight when it did happen...

It did happen, with delays aplenty, and Fiona commenting that TAM couldn't organise a proverbial in a brothel...

The protests in Cochabamba resulted in a Thursday of blood, injuries and death on both sides. The side that wants Morales out, and the side that wants Manfred, the Cochabamba District Prefectura (the State Premier) out. By the way, the "Premier" was instrumental in making the Water contracts a walk in on the golf course for the US Betchel corporation (look it up).

One young man from the "rich" side was slashed with a machete and hanged. One father from the poor side was shot and killed by an "unknown" assailant. I doubt whether, as usual, there'll be any justice for either family...

It all settled down for now and what does that mean? Morales is adamant that it's Manfred's fault and he should deal with it while Manfred, of course, is saying it's a matter of State and Evo should take responsibility. Looks like another palm off, until the inevitable worst comes to worst (and my in depth analysis dies in the bum - I gotta go to work) and I had my birthday party (two weekends later) and all. Spiderman Lemon Cake bought by Fiona who had the words "Felicidades Maicl" written on the top ("Congratulations Michael" that is), and she made the Australian rumball pile to the right. What a gal! My head was shoved into said cake in what I was told was a Bolivian tradition (perhaps for gullible Melbourne folk only...) and a pleasant evening regardless of the settling brew in the city square...

Yet the Prefectura offices are still a burned and broken mess by the looks of it (pictured). I suppose Manfred is trying to gain as much political leverage as possible from the attacks on his offices - "ooh! Look at me! Look at what they did to my place! See how barbarous they are! This is what I have to deal with!!" Course, he could just resign or at least give the people what they want which is a completely transparent government, given the evidence against his corruption and back-door deals is mounting ever so creepily.

Hmm... sure. That's all well and good to say...

2007-02-05T17:17:00.000-04:00

Brahmanism: This is the sum of duty: Do naught unto others which would cause you pain if done to you.: Mahabharata 5:1517

Christianity: All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.: Matthew 7:12

Islam: No one of you is a believer until he desires for his brother what which he desires for himself. Sunnah

Buddhism: Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful.: Udana Varga 5:18

Judaism: What is hateful to you, do not to your fellowmen. That is the entire Law; all the rest is commentary.: Talmud, Shabbat 31:a

Confucianism: Surely it is the maxim of loving-kindness: Do not unto others that you would not have them do unto you.: Analects 15:23

Taoism: Regard your neighbor's gain as your own gain, and your neighbor's loss as your own loss.: T'ai Shag Kan Ying P'ien

Zoroastrianism: That nature alone is good which refrains from doing unto another whatsoever is not good: for itself. : Dadistan-i-dinik 94:5

Thanks Paul.

Would You “Support the Troops” in Bolivia?

2007-02-02T12:15:00.000-04:00

Would You “Support the Troops” in Bolivia?

By Jacob G. Hornberger

12/28/06

Soldiers who join the military voluntarily sign a very unusual contract with the federal government. It is a contract that effectively obligates the soldier to go anywhere in the world on orders of the president and kill people as part of an invasion force against other countries. It doesn’t matter whether the intended victims deserve to die or not. That issue is irrelevant as far as the soldier is concerned. His job is not to question why people he is ordered to kill should be killed; his job is simply to invade and carry out the killing, no questions asked.

For example, let’s say that President Bush orders U.S. troops to invade and occupy Bolivia. The order would reach the Pentagon, which then would pass the order downward to generals, colonels, majors, captains, sergeants, and privates in America’s standing army. With perhaps one or two exceptions, no soldier would challenge the president’s decision to invade Bolivia, because that’s not part of the employment contract he has signed with the military. The soldier’s duty would simply be to carry out the president’s order to invade Bolivia.

Suppose a soldier says, “Mr. President, I can’t carry out this order because it would involve killing innocent people wrongfully, including the people who are going to defend their nation from this attack. You have no moral right to order an invasion of Bolivia because neither the Bolivian people nor their government has attacked the United States. Moreover, the invasion would be illegal under our form of government because you haven’t secured the constitutionally required congressional declaration of war. My conscience will not permit me to kill any Bolivians as part of this operation, including Bolivian soldiers defending their nation from this attack. Therefore, I simply cannot participate in this invasion. ”

That soldier would be taken aside by a few superior officers for a very candid and direct conversation. His superiors would explain to him that it is not within his job description to second-guess the president’s decision to attack Bolivia. The soldier’s job, he would have carefully explained to him, is to trust that his commander in chief is making the right decision and to carry out his order. The soldier’s superiors would also explain to him that if he persists in his refusal to participate in the operation, he will be court-martialed and severely punished.
What about conscientious-objector status? Wouldn’t that relieve the soldier from participating in the attack on Bolivia?

No, because under military rules conscientious-objector status applies only if a soldier objects on moral or religious grounds to all war. A soldier is not permitted to gain conscientious-objector status if he happens to object to a particular war as being illegal, unjust, or immoral.

Back to our Bolivia example. To make it easy on U.S. soldiers who might feel a bit squeamish about killing Bolivians, the president could announce that they were invading Bolivia in order to oust the recently elected socialist president, a man who has close ties to Venezuela’s president, Hugo Chavez, who is another socialist and who has close ties to Fidel Castro, who is both a socialist and a communist and who had close ties to the communist Soviet Union, which had once promised to bury America.

Thus, by invading Bolivia, the president would argue, the troops would be helping bring freedom and stability to Latin America and also be protecting the United States from the threat of communism. Moreover, U.S. troops occupying Bolivia would be serving as a magnet for attracting Latin American communists and terrorists that U.S. troops could then exterminate. Finally, the president could provide another rationale for the invasion: that by invading Bolivia, U.S. troops would actually be defending the United States from an invasion by undocumented Bolivian immigrants.

It would be all the troops would need to go forward with a clear conscience. Undoubtedly, 99 percent of U.S. troops would obey the orders of the president to invade Bolivia, even if they felt a bit uneasy about killing people in the process. They would faithfully fulfill the terms of their employment contract.

How do we know that this is true — that U.S. troops would faithfully do their duty by carrying out the orders of their commander in chief to invade Bolivia? Easy — because we know that they followed the president’s order to invade Iraq, a country that never attacked the United States or even threatened to do so. And on invasion day, they would dutifully drop 500-pound bombs on Bolivia, fire missiles into cars and buildings, and shoot Bolivian soldiers who resisted the invasion. Women and children who would be killed as part of the operation would be considered the unfortunate collateral damage of war. And the more the Bolivian military resisted the invasion, the more it would be held morally responsible for Bolivian casualties.

Throughout the operation, the troops would be reporting back on how they’re killing the “bad guys.” American reporters, donning military helmets and embedding themselves with the troops, would dutifully attend Pentagon briefings, after which the U.S. press would breathlessly exalt the heroic exploits of the troops. Bronze and silver stars would be awarded soldiers who fought courageously against Bolivian soldiers and insurgents.

No one would keep count of how many Bolivians were killed in the operation because no one would want to know and no one would care. Only the deaths of American soldiers would count and be counted.

The American people would be infected with war fever. Dissidents would be challenged with “Now is not the time to debate whether we should have gone to war against Bolivia. The fact is that we are at war and so we’ve got to support the troops.” The FBI would monitor anti-war protests for threats to national security from socialists, communists, and terrorists. The country would be rife with anti-immigrant hysteria, and there would be raids, round-ups, and deportations of Hispanic immigrants.

Protestant ministers and Catholic priests would exhort their parishioners to support the troops in harm’s way. Those ministers and priests serving in military reserve units as chaplains would accompany the troops to Bolivia and explain to them that war is in the Old Testament, that as soldiers they could trust the judgment of the president, and that they could kill Bolivians with clear consciences. Church newspapers and bulletins would wax eloquent on how this was a “just” war, especially given that it would be protecting the national security of the United States from communism and also liberating the Bolivian people from the horrors of socialism and the threat of communism. The American flag would be displayed proudly in church altars, especially during Sunday service or mass (except, of course, in churches in Bolivia, where Protestant ministers and Catholic priests would be proudly displaying the Bolivian flag.)

People who came to the assistance of the Bolivians from Colombia, Ecuador, and other Latin American countries would be considered “terrorists” or “bad guys.” Those who came from Cuba would be called “communist terrorists.” And U.S. troops would kill them all, especially if they were trying to kill U.S. troops.

But what about the morality of the entire operation? Where is the morality of killing people who have never attacked the United States and who have done nothing worse than try to defend their country from a wrongful invader? Where is the morality in killing in “self-defense” when you don’t have a right to be there killing people in the first place? Does a burglar who has entered someone’s home in the middle of the night have the moral (or legal) right to claim self-defense if he kills the homeowner who shot at him while he was burglarizing the homeowner’s home in the middle of the night?

Indeed, where is the morality in signing a contract that obligates a person to go kill people who haven’t attacked his country?

“But we signed the employment contract thinking that we were defending America,” soldiers say. “We’re just trying to be patriots.”

But everyone knows that presidents don’t use their standing army to defend America. They use it to attack countries that haven’t attacked the United States. After all, how many times has America been invaded by a foreign army in the last 50 years? (Answer: None!) What country in the world today has the military capability of invading the United States? (Answer: None!)
By signing a contract that obligates the soldier to kill people in the process of obeying the president’s order to invade other nations, the soldier effectively agrees to surrender his conscience to the will of the president. After killing people pursuant to that contract, he effectively says to himself and to God, “I’m not responsible for killing that person I just shot or bombed because I signed a contract with my employer that obligates me to kill people on his command and that relieves me of having to decide whether my employer’s order was right or wrong.”

But the troops aren’t the only ones who surrender their consciences. As soon as the troops are committed to battle, many citizens also surrender their consciences, rallying to support the troops and cheering them to victory, praying that God bring an end to the violence and the “terrorism” in the country that the troops have invaded, without heed to whether the troops have the moral right to be in the invaded nation killing people.

How wise is the surrender of conscience, both among the troops and the citizenry, in both the short term and long term, especially in a country that prides itself on Judeo-Christian principles?

In my opinion, not wise at all.

Jacob Hornberger is founder and president of The Future of Freedom Foundation. He is one of 23 speakers at The Future of Freedom Foundation's upcoming June 1-4 conference “Restoring the Republic: Foreign Policy and Civil Liberties” in Reston, Virginia. Send him email.

Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink...

2007-02-01T11:59:00.000-04:00

In response to a question from my sister regarding my comments on the Carnival lead up water balloon wars, yes, there IS a water shortage here, but SOME people (read: the overly affluent who couldn't give a shit about the poor, whom the water shortage really effects) not only continue to water their concrete, and the pristine lawns but they choose to do it by and large, in the middle of the afternoon, at the hottest time when water has least chance to absorb into the ground, so is wasted. STUPID people everywhere (well, the "some people" force their Cholitas to do the watering). Oh, and the Carnival "spirit" of water balloons (or globos de agua) is fostered (by and large) by the wealthy also, wouldn't you guess. I walked down Calle de Pando (Pando St., which houses a number of "look at me prancing and preening - I'm so beautiful" nightclubs, and the only 5star hotel in the city) only to have to dodge the most congested number of water ballooners in town, all well to do young teenagers who, again, couldn't give a shit about the water shortage. After all, it's only the Cholitas and their families whose wells will run dry before Summer's out.

Anyone care for a literary enlightenment quiz? Where is this subject line's quote from? (can you really do it without googling?)

I'll give you a hint - it belongs in a "rime".

I knew it!

2007-01-28T16:26:00.000-04:00

Fiona and I have just spent the darnedestly relaxing 24 hours in Torata, a small town 30-odd minutes drive from Cbba, which is perpetually tranquilo, and has few, if any western tourists at any one time. It's famous for being the birthplace of one of (!) Bolivia's mad presidents from the late 1800s (his palace is on display just out of town, but we didn't have the time nor inclination to see the grandiose pomposity of its architecture before leaving). We went to the artisania complex on the other side of town where the pottery is gorgeous (and the creating of which is like a sensuous dance... and sorry, yes I did think of Ghost) and at times humourously irreverent (e.g. one teapot's spout in the form of a penis and the accompanying milk jug in the shape of a breast. Brilliant!). Photos of pretty streets and seemingly happy people (we asked them!) to follow.

Talking of happy, it seems that the truth is out there... and published! To further add to my (very) informal research on happiness in a poor country, my friend Marty sent me this article about Sydney:

Intellectually bereft, obsessed with money and status ... they must be from Sydney
Brigid Delaney, LondonJanuary 27, 2007

COULD Sydney be the saddest of cities — intellectually bereft, spiritually empty? Are its residents T.S. Eliot's proverbial Hollow Men — heads together but whispering nothing except deadening conversations about the latest movement of the property market or fad diet?
Sydney's culture of the relentless pursuit of property, perfect bodies and status has British psychologist and author Oliver James worried. As part of research for his recently released book, Affluenza, he travelled to seven countries to research the effect of consumerism on happiness.
He found the obsessive pursuit of money and possessions was not buying happiness. The affluenza virus was worst in Sydney, where he found interviewing locals a depressing experience. It was, he said, "the most vacuous of cities. The Dolly Parton of cities in Australia."
Adelaide and Melbourne had a "different vibe" and did not strike James as being as materialistic as Sydney. He had not been to Sydney before and expected a "philistine nation" of "jolly, uncomplicated fun-seekers". Instead, he found a city in thrall to American values and a puritan work ethic that robbed life of joy and meaning. Middle-class Sydney, he writes, is "packed with career-obsessed workaholics". When they are not working the longest hours in the developed world, they pursue perfect bodies through joyless fitness regimes, or obsess about property prices. Always, they are looking around anxiously, in the hope that others aren't doing better than them.
"(It was) full of people who place a high value on money, professional status and appearance," he said. The result? Sydneysiders have a "greater risk of suffering from mental illness — depression and anxiety".
"They (Sydneysiders) were like the tin man from the Wizard of Oz. They had no idea of the point of their lives, other than to get rich." James noted Bureau of Statistics figures highlighting a rise in depression that coincided with a bullish property market, which caused stress and anxiety — particularly among young Australians.
While Britain has "its Posh and Becks", — obvious examples of conspicuous consumption — cultural differences, including a more entrenched class system, has put the brakes on the spread of consumerism in Britain.
"The British, compared to the US or Aussies, are less easily convinced that money will get you further. The British elite have been around for an awfully long time and there is not the crassness of the Australian rich."
While he despaired about Sydney, he found "affluenza" was not as prevalent outside the Western world. "Shanghai has the virus pretty badly but the vaccine is Confucius. Your best is good enough." But in Sydney, a strong materialistic culture means that no one ever quite feels like they can "measure up". His advice to Sydneysiders? "Start reading." Starting with his book, perhaps?

And it appears the Big Day Out has raised its overpriced, overinflated head again already. My other friend, Paul Hogan,who sends me regular critiques and updates about John Howard and the legacy he has happily inherited, sent me these: funny if not so depressingly accurate:

All well otherwise. Going to spend the rest of the Sunday arvo with a Taquiña on the balcony to offset all the culture we just absorbed...

Love to all, Michael (and the ever-about-to-present-you-with-her-first-guest-blog Fiona).

I think the expletive is "hippie"... go hippie yourself...

2007-01-25T10:13:00.000-04:00

Tut tut, looks like rain...

2007-01-23T09:07:00.000-04:00

*backtracks shamelessly*

So, we rode from La Cumbre to Coroico on December 23. It looked like rain as we started out. And it was. It pissed down, quite frankly. The gods were against us, from every religion (they went from jealousy to pure smite). Some of them, however, reconsidered their cruelty and decided to blow off the cloud in our face at times to afford us some spekky views.
Fiona agreeing with gusto with another rider that brakes are a good thing. Scarily enough, this opinion wasn't held too sternly by the operators of the ride, whose bike's brakes weren't very comfortable. In fact one rider's brakes failed completely as he rode slowly around a corner, the drop below looking convincingly like many hundred metres. He survived but said more than once "If you pay less, you get less". Our brakes didn't fail, but our chains did. Both of our chains fell off. Granted, in the heavy rain, but nevertheless...

The most dangerous part of the ride wasn't from the buses and trucks that used to scrape each other's side panels trying to pass one another (now relegated to the much less excitingly named "new road") but from the perillous rain and cloud. At times we couldn't see the chilling 1000 metre drops from the edges of the road. This is what Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking said about the wet season:

VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: Unfortunately, due to the arrival of the rains, our last ride of the 2006 season was Saturday December 9th. While it certainly is possible to ride to Coroico down the “World’s Most Dangerous Road” in late-December, January, and early February, we think that the heavy rain, mud, rock-slides, poor visibility and reduced braking performance make it far too dangerous and too uncomfortable. With more than eight years of experience and many thousands of descents down this road during the dry season, it is our professional opinion that it would be irresponsibly dangerous to take clients down this road during the rainy season. REMEMBER that people have died biking the “World's Most Dangerous Road ” (NONE WITH GRAVITY) and that there are NO MIMIMUM SAFETY STANDARDS here in Bolivia for biking tours. As such, while Gravity will not ride during these two months and uses that time to completely overhaul the bikes, travel around and re-charge our batteries for the next season, other less responsible companies may offer the tour preferring a quick buck to your safety.

So, there you go. We're goddamn crazy-arsed legends.

As an aside-ish, buses in Bolivia often display the darnedest things. A common theme is Jesus and his ilk with some seemingly random biblical quote, but sometimes you get a hell of a surprise like this one half way down the *doom doom doooooom* "Death ROOOOoooad":

Note that the American Eagle is tearing its talons through the flag that represents such opposing views of both the depicted rebels - Che Guevara and Osama Bin Laden. The side of the bus was full on too, with some quote about freedom or some such thing...

Nearing the end of the ride, soaked to the bone, muddy faced and still alive, you can see us posing on either side of Coroico, a little town nestled in the hills at 1,600 metres but we rode to Yolosa at 1,100 metres (from 4,700 metres. Goodness!).

Coroico is where we stayed for Christmas, the most incredibly romantic open air hut with views... More piccis to come.

Love,

Michael and (in a totally not here, but quickly being overwhelmed in her new Spanish classes kind of way) Fiona.

Quality on Idol? That's stretching it a bit... (get it?)

2007-01-18T18:39:00.000-04:00

http://www.realitytvmagazine.com/blog/2007/01/anna_kearns_the.html

Just a link to let people know that I'm not totally out of the American Idol loop now I'm in Bolivia (cos I was sooooo into it when I was in Australia).

This woman is all over the Marfan email list. We all reckon she's got it. What a great awareness raiser! (Hang on! Is that me being all pro-American Idol?... bugger).

Michael.

Death road, death of the Incas, and death in Cochabamba

2007-01-14T13:55:00.000-04:00

Well!!!

What a ride!

Funny, I just checked my horrorscope and it says this:

Capricorn

You are very insightful right now, and your front door is a likely stop along the way for people who are looking for answers. You'll be quite in demand today, by folks who simply want to compare notes and by folks who need major life help. Yet the tone of your day will not be filled with hopelessness, crisis or sadness. It will be all about connecting with other people. There will be a lot of laughter and bonding.
Realize that life is a crazy ride.

Yep. See the link with the "ride" thing... yep.

Hmm... My last blog entry was some time ago and that coincides pretty well with the long-awaited arrival in Bolivia of one hell of a critical part of my life - Fiona.

She is well, in short and shall be guest blogging soon. She likes my new house in Cochabamba, and is looking forward to long days of Spanish lessons, Cuban sunsets, and the sweet smell eucalypt to come.

Let's see. Now, as I write, there are three photos downloading from Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world at around 4000 metres, and nowhere near when Fiona arrived and over a week before today so those reading will have to do a bit of work chronologically (which is a bloody funny word in the end...)

This is what happened:

I couldn't sleep on December 19... which is pretty unprecedented as far as the "exciting or stressful things keeping Michael awake" category goes. Of course Fiona was arriving the following morning and that event was firmly in the subcategory of "exciting" with a toe or two crossing the line into "stressful" but only those one or two toes...

The idea of having the live music at the airport for Fiona fell directly and without ceremony on it's big fat stupid shaky-concept-in-the-first-place arse. But on the other hand, I loved just being able to just stand there and stare at her all smiles both of us, until she made it into my arms and our lips met with great ceremony, so there you are. It probably turned out for the best in the end.

I was feeling pretty cool being able to show Fiona how to fob off (in Spanish, and in the nicest possible way) taxi drivers wanting to charge us 45 Bolivianos to take us back into town from the very high altitude airport. And the tinge of cucumber was colouring my skin as I confidently arranged our minibus ride for 4B each.

La Paz remained as full of buzzing bits and pieces until our free breakfast at Adventurama from whom we booked our trip to Caroico. After breakfast we hopped their bus to La Cumbre (The Summit - 4700 metres) where the cloud cover and cold were ominous messages from the gods about what was to come as we... RODE BICYCLES DOWN THE MOST DANGEROUS ROAD ON THE ENTIRE PLANET!!!

Actually I have to openly admit to the world that the road should now be called "Formally known as the most dangerous road in the world" as the new, safer road opened up just weeks before our trip, so the 20 odd buses that fall down it's harrowingly gorgeous and gorge-ous drops were not really seen. What an anticlimax...

Hmm... come to think of it, probably should put the ride photos here instead of Titicaca if I'm going to go on about the ride...

So I'll talk about Titicaca first.

As many of you know I have already been to Copacabana, Titicaca and the Isla de Sol with my friends Krista and Sam (who I just realise are back home!! Wow!!! - *Jealousy sets in...*). I was excited to show Fiona the same brilliant scenery and culture that exists on the island and around the lake. The object for me was the Isla del Sol (Island of the Sun from where the Incas believe the sun rose out of the lake. The moon rose out of Isla de la Luna) because that's where the most stunning views are and where the culture is decidedly more interesting perhaps because of it's separation from the mainland.

Anyway, we walked across the top of the island, a ridge for the most part with those views on either side.

Here I am busily discovering the delights of the Inca trail that leads us to the North side of the island - what IS that ... thing... there...??

An absolute treat of a walk (near the north Ruins now) seeing as we walked South side to North, more down than up, and without packs as full as a goog, unlike last time I was here.

Doing my best impression of James Bond, doing the emerging-from-the-water scene with that cucumber hue again... Maybe James Bond with worms... Either way, here I am emerging from the bloody Lake!!! Can you believe!!? And why? Why am I swimming in freezing waters early morning at 4000 odd metres? Because it was my birthday, that's why. So now when I get asked "What did you do on your 34th birthday Michael?" I can say "Oh, nothing much, just WENT FOR A SWIM IN LAKE TITICACA!!!... ahem... and you?" Yep. Should hardly be an aside but given the ego trip of the whole notion, I think I even had a deep spiritual experience in that water... course, could have been the numbness setting in...

Right. More soon. Time to buy sugar and order water. Big chores for a Sunday.

Oh, and for those who've been following the murders, riots, road blocks and general social unrest in Cochabamba that looks very pre-civil war, we're safe and it's settling but vamos a ver. Keep an eye on the news for tall gringos being lynched. A MUCH more comprehensive editorial about this whole shamozzle soon.

Chau.

p.s. the "death" themed title was to be far more detailed and relative to the entry... and it will be. Stay tuned.

La Paz and it's bits...

2006-12-18T09:02:00.000-04:00

La Paz I am in.

I arrived this morning, walked to my shithole backpackers that I stayed at last time, remembered the name of the manager, and perhaps therefore, was treated very very well, as he remembered me too! AND he put me in a room that didn't smell of spew this time... Showered after a bus cama from Cochabamba (bed bus where the seats incline aLOT and there's more leg space). Last time I came here by bus I was convinced by a bugger of a bus touter at the Cbba station that a regular bus would be fine for me and my size, and given there were no more bus camas I accepted his opinion, which turned out to be painfully inaccurate. The bus cama on the other hand was very pleasant, not only due to the extra leg room (it was still better for me to stick my legs in the isle) but due to the fact it costs more, there are less screaming babies and, well, to be honest, people were in a better, more comfortable mood. And if I go on I'll realise how elitist my trip was so I'm stopping now.

It's 9.29am This means that in exactly two days and 21 minutes my South American/Bolivian/Cochabamban journey will change tremendously as I'm joined by the one and only Ms. Fiolarola McInnes.

Whee.

La Paz has a not altogether unpleasant smell to it. I mean, aside from the incredible traffic pollution that dirties everything and stinks like a ... well, a deisel tank, it's also got a sweet, incency smell that I remember from last time I was here, but only notice as particular to La Paz this time around. It's a smell that reminds me of an innocent child. Which is strange for all this city's reputation. But perhaps it is just an innocent child, being naughty because everyone expects it to be. Maybe it's the smell of peace, it's namesake.

I also realise that I'm running on high adrenalin because although I should be freezing in the morning La Pazian chill, I only have a t-shirt and jeans on. My fingers are going numb at the keyboard, but my excitement and sense of lots to do in the coming two days is really heating me up.

We'll be here for a few days, before cycling down that most wonderful of roads, you know, the one that kills everybody, to Coroico for navidad - xmas. Then new years at my friend Mauro's place in Caranavi. Both latter places are very jungly low in the Yungas area, but very close to La Paz which is 4500 metres in the sky. Weird.

Gotta go get things ready for the girl.

Chau,

Michael.

2006-12-14T17:22:00.000-04:00

I'm still overly loving this photo of me. If people don't comment on this photo of ALL photos then either nobody's reading or I hate you all.

I mean, LOOK at that photo!

6 days.

Michael.

Bolivia? Nearly. Brazil? Kinda. Chile? Back up!!

2006-12-13T13:15:00.000-04:00

Hmm... This photo is me with no Spanish, no experience in Bolivia, no awareness of the shot being taken and no thermal underwear, pero mira me español ahora!, almost nine months in, now fully aware of the shot (I like shots taken unawares...) and still no thermal underwear, but I haven't been so cold as I was that morning around 5ish at the Geysers del Tatio. Bolivia's just on the other side of those mountains (apparently)! Kinda looks like I'm about to walk there by myself. How roschmlantic.

My friend, Constance from France(who I met on the various tours we both found ourselves on) just sent it to me, and she also sent me some juicy news about a new Brazilian villa she's bought! And you, yes, YOU can rent it at will! Here's the message she sent me...

Hello,

As some of you may already know, my friends - Xavier, Aurelien, Lorine, and I, have fallen in love with Brazil.

We now have a house in Taiba, a small village in the North of Fortaleza. It is a beautifully equiped house with 6 rooms - all with en-suite bathrooms, a swimming pool, a large tropical garden and a veranda with a barbecue...just 3min walk to the beach.

Taiba is sunny and hot all year round because it is so close to the Equator and it is only 7 hours away from Europe (Rio is 11H30 flight..)

There are many things to do in Taiba from Kite surfing to surfing, fishing, sandboarding, lots of lovely beaches, excursions to Jericocoara (one of the most preserved and beautiful place in Brazil) etc...

If you are interested in renting our house for your holidays please send us a email at villataiba@hotmail.com and we can send you more information on tariffs and availability.

Yours,Constance Rouget-Luchaire

That's all for today. Fiona will be sending her first guest blog entry in ... 7 DAYS!! *teeth grit and mouth widens sideways to stop himself from fainting in the utter, bewilderingly blind excitement!!!*

And GOD I look good in that photo...

Michael.

Anybody heard of the Hershey squirts?

2006-12-12T13:46:00.000-04:00

Rupert sent me this article (with his son featured). Be careful ye Melbournians if heading to the smelly-poo beaches this summer.

http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,20904153-2862,00.html

In Bolivian news, presidents attending the Community of Nations Summit have been sending their best regards to Michael McMahon after a harrowing few days of dissentry. Although on the mend McMahon reports varying levels of discomfort, and some scary moments on the street, as he timidly shuffles to his classes, hoping that things don't go horribly wrong while explaining the subjunctive - a word that always gives him the shits.

Completely unrelated, this idea of Bolivians being generally unreliable is gaining credibility levels over and above any thouhts of my being racist. But it turns out that I'm also quite used to it, and further, can understand it and enjoy it to some extent. As apposed to being "unreliable" as such it stems from a culture of pleasantry and good will. More on that later.

Bedtime for Bonzo.

Michael.

Drowing in political action, if not the floods...

2006-12-10T15:05:00.000-04:00

Well, it happened again.

Just as the city's hundreds of cleaners swept and hosed, pumped and scooped (the majority of the workforce chola-based - or as it appeared to me) the mess left by last Saturday's incredible deluge of rain and wind, and the city was brought back to a reasonably clean state, good old Pachamama decided to let us know that our silly efforts aren't necessarily enough. More rain Thursday, the underpasses were totally full this time (as apposed to 3/4 full last time - not that that made any difference for the cars) the hail, banked up on each of our window sills and doorways like snow, gave the impression that the water flowing through the streets was frozen. As it apparently turned out Pachamama may not have shown her fury so heavily had some sleepy dope sitting at some watery lever opened that lever to let the flooding waters flow into the river instead of the streets... an error by a civil servant... who would have guessed!

Talking of flooding the streets, streets have been flooded with Military Police, security, riot police (well, riot police or not, they always look like they're ready for it) and the army, all making sure I can't get a word in edgeways or even have a quiet drink at Cerebritos with Hugo and Evo, just to toss around a few ideas... They're both here in Cochas, along with maybe a dozen other heads of state for The Community of Nations South American Summit, which is still happening having started, I think, on Friday. I hear that Hugo brought his own chefs because he has fears of poisoning... silly, paranoid fellow you may scoff, and in a sympathetic country no less, but on the other hand Che trusted the Bolivians and look what happened to him! And as I reflect now, I wonder if the cleanups would have been so promptly actioned had the Summit been elsewhere... The streets have been particularly clean lately...

I met a friend from Red Tinku at my regular lunch spot during the week, wearing a pass around her neck, a pass to the Social Summit happening at the same time, in which Tinku are heavily involved. I hear that thousands will attend that little shindig as well. My understanding is that both Summits have at their root, to varying degrees to concepts of international integration, sovereignty and the solidarity of the people, and the Social Summit will be addressed by some of the visiting leaders from the Summit with all the fatigues. A positive process I am sure has rarely been repeated in any other area of the world. What will eventuate? Vamos a ver, as usual.

"Dos/Tres! Dos/Tres! Dos/Tres! Dos/Tres! Dos/Tres!", they shouted on Saturday afternoon as hundreds of "2/3" printed white shirts marched down Avenida America while Arthur and I were doing our market shopping (why were we not there in the morning as usual? I woke too late, and Arthur was holding his stomach, hoping not to have to make an urgent run to the loo - poor bugger is constantly sick in Bolivia and is feeling like he shouldn't even be here with his tender constitution...). Anyway, we couldn't work out the "Dos/Tres!" idea and I chucklingly agreed with Arthur's certainty that protesters in Bolivia, having run out of words to chant, had settled for numbers now... bloody funny and a crudely tuned comment on the amount of Bolivia's protests.

As it turns out the protest was being led by the conservative parties apposed to the Morales government's move to have all bills passed only by majority vote (50%) and not a two thirds vote (Dos/Tres!), as stated in the constitution... (is it in the constitution? Sometimes I'll write things here that are either unconfirmed, or just complete shit, in the hope that someone will prove to me they're reading my blog!). Although the two thirds sounds like a good idea, it will surely stop up the process government bills, decisions of which I'd like to see pass quickly and smoothly, but on the other hand the opposition seats in parliament were voted in by the people... (I think?!) and concensus decision making is on my agenda, and should be part of the process. I'd make the bet though that if Podemos were in power they'd be happy for their constitution to state a 50% bill passage...

Well, a watery and political week in Cochabamba. Watery politics isn't that common in this continent. More happening than in recent weeks - something to keep my mind off the next ten days' agony. 10 DAYS! Foder! EVERYone's very excited about meeting Fiona.

Good opinion polls to you,

Michael.

p.s. Oh! And Augusto Pinochet couldn't make the Summit, even if he was invited... he's dead. And good riddance to bad guacamole I say.

Sloth, and other sins...

2006-12-05T13:57:00.000-04:00

http://www.theage.com.au/news/health/the-sublime-state-of-sloth/2006/11/23/1164777697800.html?page=fullpage#contentSwap1

A worthy pursuit.

As TISM noted sagaciously - I'm interested in apathy.

And can anybody guess (without flogging it around on the blog site!!) who this horoscope entry refers to (aside from me)?

CapricornYour patience with a flighty friend could be running thin. It may seem as though this pal is more interested in looking good to newcomers than in honoring old promises. Give your friend a wake-up call today, and remind her or him of your history -- and about some important obligations. This conversation will alert you to one or two new facts that could explain recent behavior -- but do these facts excuse that behavior? Don't fall for tall tales.

Suffice to say, I'm meeting with him/her today... I love my horoscope. It's all true!!

Goodbye Emily...

2006-12-02T16:02:00.000-04:00

Another fleeting moment in my life passes before my eyes in the form of one of those hastily developed but seemingly concrete friendships as a result of international alien solidarity. Our housemate, Emily, is a treasure and I'll miss her as she goes off travelling before being home for xmas... I get so jealous of my fellow visitors being home for xmas.

Anyhow, we had a party last night to purge the house of the pain of her non-presence. And for cultural accordance, we had a toga theme... cos, you know, that's what indigenous people wear around here...

Of course we took the notion seriously and wore nothing underneath our sexy bedsheets... bother - I must get non-seethrough (and rose-less!) bedsheets!

While a downpour of liquid (of an alcoholic kind) was thrashing those inside, out in the street, a downpour was causing havoc of another kind... Some schmuck probably didn't have the chance to make the stupid decision to drive through 6 feet of water, given the speeding and drunken driving that you'll invariably find on Cochabamban roads... You can just make out the car (which was completely submerged before I ran to get my camera) being winched out of one of the underpasses near our house. We thought it was strange that a bit of a storm would keep traffic off the road... The river running right alongside wasn't flooded of course... Not sure what the problem was that caused the deluge (lack of precautionary measures no doubt, again) but it's still being pumped as I speak, 14 hours later. Reminds me of my fears when I passed through the Burnleigh Tunnel in Melbourne...

Acción de Gracias.

2006-12-02T15:38:00.000-04:00

Acción de Gracias. A formidable event in any well-educated mind. But with a US citizen in the house, one who can give a keen critique of the entire history of US aggression, both outside and in, I decided to humour her and help prepare Thanksgiving dinner... and indeed from the outset found it a completely pleasant experience! Especially my sucess with the Pumpkin Pie and my close relationship to the dead bird (pictured). Present are two Bolivians and three gringos. I think we were supposed to slaughter all the native Americans after dinner, for historical accuracy, but they're all so damned cute!

Sorry about the grainy pics... And yes, those are marshmellows on mashed sweet potato of course.

2006-11-21T15:27:00.000-04:00

Yes, so, here are some photos from Luke's camera. I downloaded them before he left, in case he never came back, having VB to drink and meat pies to hoe down...

First one is of something you've seen before. The Halloween night, but at the venue itself, and me about to slash my IMF aniquilador all over the shop! I finally won a prize for that on a following night - given that I went home before the prizes were called - a free beer.

Second is the incredible sight of the Virgen de Urkupiña Festival back in mid-August (and me after walk 20km long with a 3am start), from the top of the hill near the temple and site of the "vision" the little girl had all those years ago (and consequently the whole town as it happens...) of the Virgin Mary herself no less. Strangely they didn't have any visions before the Spaniards turned up...

It's true!!!

2006-11-21T15:01:00.000-04:00

The day they brought old Adam down

November 21, 2006

Workers and the oppressed were on the streets across the world yesterday in celebration as capitalism was brought to its knees by the heroic actions of protesters in Melbourne over the weekend. In two short days, poor old Adam Smith's entire capitalist system was consigned to the wheelie bin of history as the Melbourne activist movement put forth a mighty effort against the hated ruling class.

"I really think this vindicates the protest movement here" said Carnival Against Capitalism organiser Jacinta Tarquin. "We cop a lot of flak from the media, of course - but also a lot of internal criticism, asking how effective are rallies like these. Well, here's your answer."

The delegates to the G20 conference hosted in Melbourne last weekend called a hasty media conference to explain to Rupert Murdoch and James Packer why they were out of a job. "Clearly the message from the anti-capitalists was too loud and strong to ignore," explained Peter Costello, ex-treasurer. "The chants, the speeches, the placards, the leaflets, all combined into a force that was just too strong for market forces to resist. We must shamefully but honestly concede defeat." Mr Costello has accepted a post of economic adviser to the Spartacist League.

The ex-governor of the Reserve Bank of Australia, Glenn Stevens, commented further: "I had no idea that we capitalists were doing such nasty things to people until I read one of these leaflets. I mean, I almost burst into tears and I've had a hard time reassuring my children and pets. All I can say is thank God for free speech."

Ex-prime minister John Howard hurried home from his junket in Vietnam to reassure Liberal voters that their standard of living will not change. "I don't think there will be major repercussions against the rich and powerful," he told media. "I have been given assurances by the leading left-wing parties such as the DSP and Socialist Alternative that the redistribution of wealth will be relatively painless."

Despite being on the losing side, former police chief commissioner Christine Nixon praised the bravery, strength and tactics of the protest shock troops the Anarcho Bloody Barmy Army (ABBA). "I have to admit the enemy had the tactics, the skills, and definitely the support of the majority to defeat the police," she told Indymedia. "I am greatly impressed with ABBA and am confident they will be able to take on any major challenges in the future, as the glorious workers/poor/queer/women's/indigenous/significant-others republic grows."

Praise for the decisive battle that changed history came also from the ordinary masses, now committed to environmentalism and gender equality thanks to ABBA's altercation with the police. "God, I wished I was out there with them," sighed Mavis Horne, 78, of Gentle Meadows Hostel, Glenroy. Her daughter Angela, 54, visiting Mavis with her own granddaughter Celeste, 4, nodded in agreement. "I would have loved to have taken little Celeste to the front of that protest," she said. "I think the bravery and clear-sightedness of those class warriors set a wonderful example for children." When asked for comment, little Celeste giggled and buried her head in her grandmother's arms, clearly just as happy as the oldies about the victory for the working class.

As a new dawn of hope and peace sends its first rays across a world free from the scourge of misery, slavery and reality TV, we can only pause to thank the Melbourne activist and protest communities for their incredible efforts. They said they couldn't make it, but they finally came through - and this one's for you.

Andrew McIntosh, Glenroy

There's no Critical Mass in Cochabamba...

2006-11-20T12:57:00.000-04:00

Critical Mass is one of my passions, all too irregularly attended when I was still in Melbourne and now regretting it in a Critical Mass-free zone.

Unfortunatley Critical Mass's annoyingly "dis-organised" site doesn't give much news about Melbourne's 11th birthday this coming Friday but don't let the site give you the impression that the ride is anything but a fun, communal gathering. Everyone on the ride is helpful, there's usually tight organisation of the route, the bicycle cops are in attendance as escorts, and many of the drivers are very very supportive.

http://www.criticalmass.org.au/ is the site, but otherwise:

Join the birthday ride this Friday the 24th
5.30pm outside the State Library in Swanston Street, Melbourne CBD.

Go ahead, bring a friend. It's a cack!

Sick to the stomach... and it's not the lettuce.

2006-11-18T19:56:00.001-04:00

My disgust for the U.S. government and those who support them grows by the day. Not just because of how it treats the very poor countries of Latin America and the world, but also those in their own country. The Patriot Act... read up on it. See how civil and sound it all appears, then see how it's being implemented in actual fact. Goon squads?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AyvrqcxNIFs

This video's police repeat an order to "stand up or we'll tase you again...". It reminds me of impatient parents who tell their "misbehaving" kids who are crying for a reason usually ignored "If you keep crying I'll give you something to cry about!" Anyone ever been tased? If you have please reply and tell me if you could stand up afterward. Or if you wouldn't stand up with the threat of being tased again.

Here's what can happen in other countries through direct support from the U.S. government:

"In 2001, the US approved three sales of electro-shock weapons to Turkey, despite continued widespread use of such technology to torture. In a 2002 case, a 17-year-old schoolgirl who had been detained for distributing leaflets calling for Kurdish education was stripped, threatened with rape and tortured with electric shocks to her feet, legs and stomach."

- Amnesty International http://www.amnestyusa.org/countries/usa/document.do?id=F7CE0B13E65E100085256DF00050B882

Lovely. Just bloody great.

Here's an article in the Fort Worth Weekly Newspaper about a Fort Worth fellow killed by a taser gun for not coming out of a closet. Hmmm... http://www.fwweekly.com/content.asp?article=770

Bother.

It's Saturday and I have a Spanish language video night to attend. Wonder if they have subtitles...

Michael.

I can't get no...!

2006-11-17T15:32:00.000-04:00

Hmm... I'm very tired today. I got woken by Fiona (on the phone), which is ALways the best way to wake up, after having a fairly early night at Karaoke - evidenced by the featured photo (can you tell what I'm singing??)

Fiona told me lots about my nephew's 21st birthday party, about how everyone was good to her, how much fun she had. I think I'm glad the party is all over. I don't have a itching to be there now. It's passed. My spirits are lifting.

Picture #2: Ahh, there's nothing like a light beer. And this is nothing like a light beer! (thanks Mary Poppins! I've been quoting from her quite alot lately for some reason!) These are three of my ex-students, out on another field trip with their latest teacher (they could never convince me to take them out!) What are they doing with all the teachers? Eating them?

This place is called Dali, my new favourite bar (ECLA is a restaurant by definition!). Depressingly it is full of gringos, but with a healthy spattering of locals too. Hmm... not much real Bolivian news from me. What does that all mean? Probably means that I'd better get to work.

Michael.

A noice little piece.

2006-11-17T15:21:00.000-04:00

Hi all. I just wanted to show my family and friends (and anyone else looking for a positive lift) a message from a fellow on the Marfan Community email list. I often only let people know of the bad news in the Marfan Community and this is anything but that. Thanks fellow whose name I won't use!!

Good Morning Everyone,

Today is my 50th birthday; a milestone I scarcely ever expected to see.

I celebrated this weekend with 50 of my friends, birth family and chosen family members on a boat cruising on Lake Austin. My best friend from junior high school, one of my close friends from high school, my Mom, my sister and one of my dearest friends and teachers in Austin all spoke about my life and my part in their life. I was deeply moved and the whole group was very joyous.

I'd like to say how much I've appreciated everyone on this list. I'm grateful for the help I've received from all of you, for the help I've seen given to so many others and for the opportunity for me to help others.

I consider myself to be fortunate on so many levels. The whole Marfan gig gave me clarity early in life about the importance of getting on with life and about how precious all our moments are. I figured out early on that I am best served by doing things I desire to do right now rather than hold off. I had the right kind of intellect, heart and drive to be able to do work I love, travel the world, make enough money to live in style, aid others in their lives, learn lots of amazing things, have a life-long partner who continues to teach me about love, have Beloveds who share their lives with me and in the end do what I've always wanted to do in life; see the world be a bit better for my having been here.

So take a moment today to say a gentle Happy Birthday in your Heart for me - I'll be listening.

Abundant Love, (the fine fellow whose name I said I wouldn't use)
Chris.
(and then he told me not to be so silly and use it anyway,).

Parade strips, Field trips, orange drips and curiosity #17 and almost #18...

2006-11-15T14:18:00.000-04:00

Now this is curious. It seems the only Beta Blocker not available on the market in Bolivia is Sotalol. Of course this is the one I need to keep the Atrial Fibrillation and his nasty cousin Ventricular Tachycardia at bay. Other beta blockers just don't have what it takes (the "have what it takes" phrase is directly from last night's long explanation of it to my students *always writes studnets by accident, which is certainly not the case since he changed classes...*).

So, does Peru have the medication? And if so, will the Marfan Syndrome Support Group in Peru a) understand my typed Spanish request? b) willingly fulfull that request? and c) be able to fulfull the request even if willing?

Of course I can ask Fiona to travel the entire planet with some tucked away in her bag. So, options abound.

Well, another curiosity struck me on the way here, and it has something to do with the poverty of the country, but now can't for the life of me...

Photos!

a) I've never been on a fieldtrip with my students before. This is primarily because there's too much to do in class, what with the word power and the listening and the grammar focus, and stuff. But this is one field trip I was able to be present for, even if it wasn't my class. It was "let's have a festival outside the CineCenter because it's there" day. Just down the road at my work, I had three students (normal for a Friday night) all of whom didn't want to be there because of a migraine, mother's birthday party, and just plain knackered. So they went home and I joined Emily's class at the CineCenter. Well, there we all are in a classic abomination of Western cultural colonisation, two teachers and one student in the food court of the CineCenter (let me again take this opportunity to point out that this was my old class where people used to attend all the time...). Emily is also my housemate from Wyoming, U.S.A. The latter fact is unfortunate, but she's a great housemate nonetheless, although I now say "sure" in a very distasteful accent...

b) There you go. The first picture of me completely unaware of the camera. And how naturally I seem to be haggling with the fine fruitjuice fancier! I think I was saying something like "It better be bloody good for $5B!" 'cos I know how to say that in Spanish... It's my new local Saturday market, where a few vendors are getting used to my height and presence, enough for a familiar hello.

c) This festival on Saturday was unusual, not in the way it was presented - a parade of thousands of bears, cueca dancers, devils, caperales dancers, junglefever women, drums, Tinku dancers (one of my favourites) and lots and lots of very long legs, various tapas stalls, lots of alcohol, and these spectator stands that eventually turn into miniature Great Southern Stands with hundreds of drunken young people yelling at you as you walk along, mostly imploring you to come and talk, and stuff, so very much the norm. It was unusual in that this time nobody really knew what the festival was for. There were no saints, or virgins or ... well, it's really usually about a saint or a virgin. It had something to do with the San Simón University. We think...

Well, off to teach English in the sweltering heat of Cochabamba's November afternoon sun. I hate afternoon lessons... I been saying "I hate..." alot lately... hm... best stop that.

Love to you all, and missing you more by the day (when's Fiona getting here??!),

Michael.

p.s. oh, it's 35 days.

Curiosity #14

2006-11-09T11:29:00.000-04:00

I was told last night by a sagacious Bolivian matriarch of a plan hatched by some US Navy general years ago when Bolivia was under Communist rule. With the fear that Bolivia was a threat he very cleverly suggested invading Bolivia by sea... of course, this was all after Bolivia's war with Chile where they lost their coastline.

Just thought that for my readers I should bring to light some more of the logic behind the US war machine...

I laughed and pulled my ever lengthening hair at the same time (it's a liberating experience I can tell you! Try it.)

p.s. she (the matriarch) could be wrong... any takers?

Oh yeah! I forgot! The Melbourne Cup!

2006-11-09T11:12:00.000-04:00

It passed by for me like the perfect antithesis to the U.S. elections.

It was only through an email from the recently departed Marty, back in Melbourne to turn the city into a yearlong Johntson Street fiesta, who informed me that he was being as unpatriotic as I was, and missed the circus* completely. Well, Philip Adams covered the Melbourne Cup quite well, as far as I can tell (or am concerned) but it does have a hint of the U.S. election to it. The comparison could be just that I've been following the election more closely this time round given a) most of what Dubya even sneezes out is even worse for this here landmass than it is for Australia and b) we have an American in the house. A USian that is (I've been chided harshly by Latin Americans on more than one occasion for calling people from the US "Americans"and dismissing the rest of those in The Americas claim to their own land... typical.)

Yes,... well, here's Philip Adams view on the race that stops a nation, or two.

* (circus - see Macchiavelli, whom I despise, and bread, which I had with vegemite this morning for the first time since I left Australia, to further fever my desires for home... but it left me truly, ecstatically satisfied...)

November 07, 2006
AND as they head into the straight, Democrat is one, two, three lengths ahead! Legendary jockey Karl Rove is flailing his whip at Republican's flanks, but the grand old nag is knackered! In the members, John Howard is yelling his head off. This is the one race Australia's biggest punter on the American horse can't afford to lose, but the odds are against him. Having bet the farm on Republican (out of Dubya, from Texas), Howard will be going home flat broke!
Looking increasingly desperate, the punters who went along with Howard, Peter Costello, Alexander Downer and the rest of them are turning on the PM and hitting him with their binoculars. And even before Democrat passes the post they're tearing up their tickets and heading for the exit. The poor buggers have not only done their money, they've blown their reputations for picking winners. Now Republican stumbles, tosses Rove from the saddle and comes crashing down in a heap. The stewards will have to erect the screens and put the poor brute out its misery. And judging by the expression on Howard's face, they'll need to put him out of his.
Yes, folks, though worth trillions just a few months back, Republican is dog meat and our PM is Pal! To the deafening cheers of the crowd, Democrat cruises home in a canter in what's finished up as a one-horse race. Liberal backers are talking of a new thoroughbred to replace Howard and Costello: Malcolm Turnbull, from Big Money, out of Wentworth. Mind you, Howard did well in the past by backing mounts from the White House (not to be confused with the Waterhouse) stables. By going for Dubya, Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld in the trifecta, he won a political fortune and some very big races here in Australia, including two Federal Cups on the trot.
Mind you, with overweight jockeys Kim Beazley and Mark Latham riding Labor into the ground, he didn't have much to beat. Labor performed so badly in their outings on both city and country tracks that the stewards suspected the races had been fixed. But with Bob Hawke and Paul Keating out of the saddle, the old grey mare just ain't what she used to be.
Howard joined his American friends racing into Iraq only to meet stiff Arabian opposition. Though victory seemed certain - Bush claimed it long before the race was over - they've been pipped at every post. Hence present attempts to scratch Cheney and Rumsfeld. Though costing a fortune at the political yearling sales, Neo-con (sired by Paul Wolfowitz) turned out to be such a big dud that he was retired early and sent to stud. But nobody's buying.
Now Howard will have to face a race increasingly dominated by Democrat: the big one, the Melbourne Cup of US and world politics. The only question: who'll be Democrat's jockey? John Kerry fell off a few days back and, despite some support from Rupert Murdoch, a legend at picking winners, few believe Hillary Clinton can last the distance. Scholars of the form guide reckon she's carrying too much weight in her saddlebags and will run out of puff in the last furlongs in Pennsylvania Avenue. Some are barracking for Barack Obama, the dark horse from Illinois, but he's a bit young and needs more track work.
So the smart money's on a jockey many believed was past it. Al Gore. Were he a horse (sired by Bill Clinton, out of Puff) he'd have been regarded as more gelding than stallion. But as a jockey he has done pretty well, beaten only in the most famous photo finish in the history of the Presidential Stakes. Six years ago millions of punters backed Democrat as favourite and felt robbed by the judges when they gave it to Republican. (Certainly Gore's mount seemed a nose ahead in that crucial Florida meeting where the stewards were provided by George Bush's brother.) But now Al has won a key victory in the Climate Change Cup, a race in which Howard and Bush were early scratchings.
The connections of Democrat say Gore has lost weight but gained gravitas, that the punters would cheer his return to the track, remembering how he was dudded in the Presidential Stakes. Even some of Republican's backers must be be feeling guilty.
Most important, the Climate Change Cup is regarded as a desirable trophy. So the odds narrow, with yesterday's long shot looking like tomorrow's dead cert.
A Gore win on Democrat would be even worse for Howard than Republican's failure today. Howard was rude to Gore on his recent visit and dismissive of his horse of the apocalypse, An Inconvenient Truth (out of Time, from CO2). The PM's support for the Bush stable ceases to be a winner, here or in Washington.

Banality #16 amidst Todd's birthday and a rant on Rio.

2006-11-09T10:30:00.000-04:00

It's my nephew's birthday. He is also my godson. He is very very special to me. It's a particularly special birthday for him because he is now 21 and for those out of the cultural loop, it's the traditionally significant day that one is a complete adult and is set loose in (or on) the world. Todd has been on the loose for some time now, but it's still a special occasion and all my family will be coming together to celebrate with him and his friends.

So, crap. I feel very much like I should be there. I've written a speech, a poem that gives him curry, and tells him how much he's like his brilliant uncle. I hope to deliver it over the phone, or via an MP3 or something...

And so a spate of homesickness sets in (is this another spate, or the same one?!). NOT at all assisted (that is, very much assisted) by my overindulgence of downloading not just one, but two versions of "I still call Australia home"... Quick! A toucan! A Boa! A Jaguar! SOMEthing to slam me with how lucky I am to be here!

But I just want to point out, as perhaps a banality (or IS it?) that the original version of said song, by Peter Allen, states, as we all know "I've been to cities that never close down, from New York to Rio and old London town..."

The other version, as beautifully and angelically sung as it is by The Australian Children's Choir, states this: "I've been to cities that never close down, from New York to Rome and old London town..."

Now I'm pretty upset about having my host continent left out of the whole feeling of longing that that song is meant to invoke in Australians abroad, but I reckon the change is due to the decision by some poncy suit that Rio is not a child's city. Well, on the contrary the city is bloody full of them, easily seen, if not heard, because so many of them are living on the street.

Who wants to go to Rome anyway?

Here's a link from the BBC on a photo exhibition project by Rio's street kids (similar to the one created by participants at the North Carlton Railway Station Neighbourhood House not long ago) that proves that Rio is indeed a child's city.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/shared/spl/hi/pop_ups/06/in_pictures_shooting_rio/html/1.stm

Happy 21st Todd. I miss you, particularly today. Have a very special night. I love you.

¿Quéué?

2006-11-08T10:40:00.000-04:00

Capricorn
Be very careful with your spelling and punctuation today. Often, the style of your written communication speaks before you can speak, and you run a small risk of making a bad first impression unless you double- and triple-check your work. Go over your resume one more time, reread that email to a friend, and make spell-check your best friend today! Making mistakes is natural, but making an extra effort to keep them to a minimum will be worthwhile.

Stoopid stersighns,! What are troyin' ta toll me?

Now I'm in for it...

2006-11-03T17:10:00.000-04:00

Now, for all those readers of my blog out there who are believers, you'll just have to bear with me... because as you may already know I have a healthy disbelief in the Catholic and related religions (which include all monotheistic ones for a start). Or I should say I USED to have. I have found a wonderful new religion called Pastafarianism - the belief in the Flying Spaghetti Monster deity.

http://www.venganza.org/

In reality, this god was created (or WAS it?) to oppose the Kansas State Board of Education's decision to teach Intelligent Design (the new, very attractive term for the existence of god) in schools as an alternative to biological evolution... Whew! As others have commented I also LOVE the depiction of His creation of the mountains, and midgets... teehee... very good.

What is the point of the blog entry and the cause of it's content (being so banal (or IS it???!))? A healthy state of panic, that has resulted in a terrible knot in my stomach. I have to make a number of important phone calls - to immigration, those that can help me at immigration, students, others... but I can't bring myself to do it, as self destructive as it bloody is... In fact, yes, I believe I'm being self destructive... what other reason could I have to put off the absolute necessary? I dreamed I went home last night. I arrived, with a terrible panic about not having a complete Halloween IMF costume (getting the eyeshadow was a hell of a chore!!) (see previous blog entry) and I tapped Fiona on the shoulder and when she turned around the blank dismissive look on her face (which was a neutrality caused by interminable glee and a high degree of anger) classified the dream as a nightmare. Is this a prophetic part of my current feelings? Am I about to book a ticket home? Am I about to be thrown out of the country, without my IMF costume (heaven forbid!)?

Oohhhh! *tries to stifle groan in the public internet cafe*

Oh! Now I SEE what comes of those who follow false deities... a knotty stomach that could restrain The Hulk.

Bother...

Drowning in Saints, but no water...

2006-11-01T14:37:00.000-04:00

CapricornYou don't have to be a poet, songwriter or novelist to know how to be creative with your words. Creative writing is a gift everyone has -- and everyone should develop. So today, try to do the unexpected in your written words. Throw a rhyming scheme into your emails, achieve a lot of alliteration in an agenda, and see what happens if you begin a memo with 'Once upon a time.' It might seem silly, but creativity is supposed to be fun!

For god's sake. To whom do they think they propose this advice? ... alright, alright...

Once apon a time there was a fellow in a strange land. He liked it there, he liked it there a lot. There were incredible, funny, insightful people, there were colourful psychadelic buses, there were public holidays every week, but a lot of various (albeit connected) phenomena that began to really give him the shits...

Hmm... nevermind.

I must say, my tolerance for absent things I have come to expect to be there has waaaay shortened. Water for example... now I also know that heaps of people on the south side of town don't get ANY running water. And when I say I didn't have water (this morning when I wanted to have a shower, brush my teeth, and have a cup of tea (poor baby!)) I don't mean that there wasn't water in the underground tank. It just wasn't coming up to the tap and I couldn't bare to reach in there past las cucarachas and webbing (even though I am Spiderman) and get myself a teapot full of interestingly coloured water. Certainly made me wonder what sort of filtering system the house has between the tank and my teapot...

I survived of course, and have had a shower now.

It's a holiday tomorrow. No work, meaning, primarily, no money. Most of you know what I think of public holidays...

The holiday is All Saints Day - an important one for the Bolivians, at least. Today, at 12 noon preferably, they choose a black tablecloth for the table and place on this various types of breads, in various shapes, along with symbols and memories of their dead. More importance of course is place on those recently deceased.

The next day all the bread is taken to the cemetary. The procession, or the "show" as such isn't to be missed, as I'm told by the Bolivians themselves. The bread is given to the boys (and girls? not sure) who will be tending the flowers and cleaning the tombstones for the occasion.

I'm curious about the coincidence of All Saints falling so close to All Hallows (Halloween).

English class. Chau todos.

Love, Your friendly Neighbourhood Bolivian Correspondant.

Oh and check this out - brought to my attention by a wondrous soul indeed:

http://www.globalcommunity.org/flash/wombat.shtml

2006-10-26T14:10:00.000-04:00

5. This is from my balcony during Cochabamba Day a while ago. (This doesn't happen on a daily basis). I was surprised that this posse of miltary posturing passed down my back street. I think some part of each section of the countless participants managed to marched down most of the streets in Cbba. Silly hats.

2006-10-26T14:05:00.000-04:00

4. And I'll never tire of the constant curiosity exhibited by plaza-passers-by at the Red Tinku information/propaganda panels in the Plaza 14 Septiembre. Calls for volunteers, job offers, event listings but most of all the daily news articles that Red Tinku deem worthy of promotion. The panels are usually chock full of information, the picture here doesn't show Ramiro below sorting the new news.

Orange Juice, Naked Truths, and fancy troops.

2006-10-25T11:23:00.000-04:00

3. Orange Juice. This woman's orange juice was fantastic. But then most street vendors' orange juice is fantastic. I particularly like the curls of rind there. That's all about that.

Bowlers and AWOLers.

2006-10-25T10:56:00.000-04:00

A few dailies...

1. Coming home from La Cancha, the biggest and craziest market in the world (well, Bolivia) I never fail to be struck by the grand height of the bowler hats on the most-of-the-time stoic cholas.

2. This is pure, shameless self congratulation - The classroom of my favourite class ever, which I was unceremoniously transferred from a couple of weeks ago. I snuck up during my new class to take this photo. Could it be that the empty chairs are indicative of the apathy now I'm gone? I like to think so...

Instant schlock, just add shock.

2006-10-25T09:51:00.000-04:00

I thought I hadn't a chance in hell (get it?) of getting a prize at the Halloween party at my favourite (but fast losing favour, not through lack of flavour) cafe last Saturday night. Entry was scary enough, not just for the $25B cover charge - ghouls and gremlins throughout the entry maze, and everyone dressed for duress!

My doubts about my fame and fortunes (dinner for twos, bottles of wine - sound familiar anybody?) came when people weren't quite sure what I was. Well, I was the IMF (the International Monetary Fund), the scariest thing I could think of for anybody in South America. I had a big fat IMF label on my pocket, with "Fondo Monetario Internaciónal" written on it, but still a need for explanation at times. So I even wrote on a second bit of paper IMF - International Moth... nevermind (It's true though!). And still the only response of "That's BRILLiant!" or some such came from an Irish chickadee I'd met months ago who just happened to be there and the thought struck me - "doesn't ANYbody in South America know what's happening to them?" Which was a grand overstatement of condescension that I spent time punishing myself over later. Regardless, there was much dancing and prancing and necromancing to the standard strains of techno-dance music. And much stalking, squawking and gawking at the plethora of clever costumes and sexy ensembles...

The photo here was taken at my house at pre-party drinks. From left: Luke as the "thing" that began to freak me out at times - Ariane would have NOT been in her element; Anny, Luke's fiance; Emily, the other, irrepressible Yanky housemate; me - my scythe reading "Anaquilador de Servicios Sociales" (Annihilator (or "slasher" as I would have preferred) of Social Services), and Romana the German second cousin of Luke's visiting for a couple of days.

As it turns out, I did win. Not sure what or whether I forfeited for not being there (even though ECLA screwed up the prize draw the first time, and we left with half of us in a huff about the poor running of the night). So there you go.

And as for other events of the days, nup. Nothin.

Michael.

Rights at Work

2006-10-20T15:32:00.000-04:00

Will the only-dreamed-of happen in Melbourne?

So many times, I'm sure my friends can attest, I've grumbled about the distractions of the masses. Macchiavelli said it first and best with his bread and circuses analogy (even though I fundamentally disagree with his fundamental idea of wickedness in people, only diverted by another compulsion), but I always mourned that the MCG couldn't be filled to the brim for a cause that not only didn't involve watching grown men kicking leather around for "competition" (not that I'm opposed to fun per se), but for a collective reason that could really change the world. I'd even dream up scenarios where these people would fill the MCG every week for their desired collective goals; end to poverty, workers rights, indigenous rights...

Well, http://www.rightsatwork.com.au/campaigns/nov30rally!!!

Scroll down at the site, to Victoria's rally at the MCG and make my dreams come true! At least for one weekend...

Your FNBC.

Passerines101

2006-10-18T12:07:00.000-04:00

Now, I don't know for sure, but I think I've figured out the meaning of the call of the common vendor de naranja. Every day, and for much of the day, one can hear the strains of this ever present fowl, who seems to lay the best oranges in town in his/her large basket that has cleverly been fashioned with big old wheels. The amplification available to this strange bird is enhanced by what looks like a megaphone of sorts... The other day I caught the sound again, very close and before I could whip out my binoculars, there was the vendor with his oranges (looking freshly laid) using the speaker for his until now unrecognisable task. It was only a second later that I heard, in the distance, what sounded like a reply. Sure enough, far down the road, there was another vendor de naranja showing off the wares of the day. Could this be...? Could this undecipherable and oft-called annoying squwark be the mating call of the vendor de naranja?

(Which reminds me of a joke: A baby bird arrived back at it's nest to find a squashed orange nestled at the edge. The bird sqwarked "WOW! Look at the orange mama-laid." Yep...)

Damn the non-existance (in Bolivia at any rate) of a Latin American bird guide.

Of course it could be the orange sellers that make their living roaming the streets calling out their message that there are oranges available (which I have on good local, indigenous authority cannot be understood by ANYbody - which always prompts me to long for the muffled and hilarious strains of Melbourne train drivers who say something about changing at Dandenong if you want to get to Bacchus Marsh, or something).

Rock on!!

2006-10-15T18:05:00.000-04:00

Sunday. It's Sunday afternoon. Michael is experiencing a late Sunday afternoon and he's all reflective, so reflective that his third person diatribe, always suggestive of a reflective mood, implodes into regular, non-head-up-his-arse first person mode, and with a little less vitriol.

Last night I experienced less reflective-related times at Kefren, the coolest (that non-cool coolest - in fact I'm changing that to "grooviest"... no, hang on... that's kind of dumb too. Hmm... well whatever, it's a great place) rock venue in Cochabamba. Some people may snigger or possibly even laugh without restraint when I say that something is the apex of Cochabamba, because they may know that Cbba isn't really up there with Santiago, or Buenas Aires, or even La Paz in terms of attractive attractions but some places here are really fun and unpretentious, possibly - and I can't comment with full authority here - but possibly difficult to find in other cities. Anyway we (three Bolivians, two Australians, two Septic Tanks, and a Pom (just to express cultural diversity) enjoyed the two fastest guitar players in Latin America. The first fellow, Marcos de Ros is a heavy set Brazilian who mixed his own music with various classical composers transforming Villa Lobos, Paganini and Bach's masterpieces into rock gems. And the next fellow, whose name I can't remember (because he didn't have an enormous 8 foot picture of his face on a poster with his name down the side next to the stage like de Ros...) was a long haired throwback to the seventies. Faster than de Ros, and who, after a dizzying array of loco antics, in one of his encores, doused his guitar with fuel and set it alight!

So, last night was a feast for the eyes and the ear (only one because the loud rock music prematurely killed the battery in my hearing aid...) Then our Bolivian fellow got the DJ to play Beds Are Burning, which when in a club and with an audience, after a 1 litre glass of beer is even more intoxicating than jumping around my bedroom with my MP3...

My blog was commented on recently from a fellow round these parts who suggested that I needn't worry about supporting the growth away from traditional culture here in Cbba, given that the city has been fully, irrepairably westernised. It might be true but I had fun last night, and the crowd certainly weren't advocates of mainstream North America. I dunno.

I had finishing up drinks at ECLA (to further bolster to that fellow's comments) on Friday after class with some of my students (pictured). The fellow in the rear is the wild-card Andrew, the Englishman taking over my class. I was surprised that so many came in... it IS just next door to the Institute, but still...

I particularly like the woman's excitement on the right, at the other table. She's cool!

Things change, things stay the same...

2006-10-10T13:42:00.001-04:00

Six and a bit months in, and what else is there to complain about?

I have to inform everyone of the very important news that the blackened, flattened, commercially unidentifiable spray can that I thought was cleaned up off the street, or used as some sort of missile, has been found, near the same spot I usually found my solace. For how long this tentative symbol of my content will last there I can't guess.

What is probably bigger news for me is that I finally have to say goodbye to my 7 to 9pm class at the Pan American English Centre. I am being transferred across the hall to another 7-9. I have long thought, and crowed at times, that the only reason I was still at the institute (and not taking more of the lucrative private classes) was for that class. I had so much fun and experienced so much growth (through them and me) in that class. It was the fun mostly - we never missed a good chuckle or two during the evening.

The reasoning is rational. Too long with one teacher isn't good for students independence or variety of English language accents. I'm still sad though even though they'll just be across the hall. I'm sure my new students will ... be just as fun.

I find myself struggling to exercise as much now that I have the fear of the road I never had back home, and therefore resist the idea of riding a bike anywhere. I'm going to start scaling the Cristo (de la Concordia) of which I've spoken at times (the largest statue of Christ in the world.. yep). It's a hell of a cardiovascular trip, unless you take the cable car. The photo shows one sunset from the top of the hill, the highest peak there is my beloved Mt. Tunari - of which I'm yet to climb. In time... in time...

Wonder what's for almuerzo today at La Villa, the friendlist little tucked-away courtyard restaurant this side of the Andes...

No photos from the K'oa festival last Friday (my favourite monthly outing), because I didn't go. Nobody wanted to come with. I refute the idea that it's too dangerous, while at the same time refuse to go by myself for my own safety.

LUNCHTIME!

Your FNBC.

Six months in.

2006-10-04T11:31:00.000-04:00

The spray can is gone. The flattened blackened can that was one piece of garbage that hadn't moved from its ever-increasingly familiar spot at the end of his street since the day he arrived. The can that he looked for and found each of the days since (as if a salve for his emotional wounds, even though he couldn't for the retched life of him think of why that can, of all things, represented his daily salvation) was now no longer part of his life. It panicked him at first, one rare constant in his life unexpectedly scooped up and vanished. Then it saddened him. But he got over it.

The spray can, having long lost it's shiny visage (it was black with rusty, muddy, aged shit) was simply rubbish, a daily struggle for people here, or maybe just for him. He walked past a well dressed gentleman in a Hummer sucking out the hardboiled lolly from it's wrapper and he noted that the man didn't seem to be struggling for the window as he also didn't struggle to let the wrapper go and ignore it falling to the street. The number 35 bus passes and two people from either end of its cabin, one skinny young school boy, one old Chola woman, respectively toss out a Chicolac chocolate milk package and a number of very large, perhaps chicken-soaked napkins. He swears quite audibly in English, feeling the swirl of ethical issues violently masticate and swallow his staunch judgement toward ignorant litterbugs, again. And then realises that this judgement is familiar to many of his friends he left back in the land where lightning cracks over canefields and figures, in total self-absorbment, if his damnation is good enough for Australians then it's good enough for Bolivians.

Sitting in the Plaza Catorce de Septiembre, the spirit of revolt filtering through his bent nostrils (feeling more bent in this altitude after returning from the lowland jungles of the Chapare), he gleefully waits for something. He's not sure what. The last time he sat on one of the wooden benches getting his kicks from the Michael Jackson impersonator, he was accosted by a god-fearin' converter. Of course he couldn't be converted, but they enjoyed themselves, he practicing his religious Spanish (it dawns on him that "they" all have exactly the same vocabulary size, with exactly the same words), the converter walking away feeling that perhaps he'd planted a seed. He had, but on fallow ground. That's not true: his mind, body and soul had been fertile since he began his involvement with Red Tinku, an international voice of the Bolivian indigenous. Among other things he teaches Revolutionary English to the willing, of which there are many, keen to broaden their circles of rebellion. He first came across the group when he saw the inspirational information placades six months ago in the plaza where he now sits. The placades are usually crowded by readers of the days events; newspapers, public notices, promotion for Red Tinku Tours (the alternative city tour). He looks at the placades now and is proud to see his name there, but feels the pressure of having to teach both English and Quechuan (see first pic)!

So then, he's been here for 6 months now. A worthy effort, and realises it's a little more than six months since he left the bloodwoods and the desert oak (o.k. he's never seen either) and it's a month where the first Friday of the month lands late. Normally he celebrates his achievement at the K'oa ritual, silently acknowledging his own special presence along with the hundreds of revellers dancing the traditional dance, playing the traditional instruments, sucking on the traditional coca leaves and drinking the traditional Chicha (his favourite tradition, as it turns out). His reverie is disrupted when he pops down a narrow side street from Calle Ayacucho and is caught face-to-face with another show of military might as rifle-clad performers stomp more or less in unison toward his ever thinning, weakening body. He survives, laughing nervously, reminded that there is a protest to happen at lunchtime today - it started by just involving teachers and engineers perhaps, he can't remember who, city people. So there shouldn't be much disruption. Perhaps half an hour. But then he hears that farmers are coming in from the country. Not so easy for the car-less. And from much further afield than the local school. It might be pretty big afterall. He doesn't know why they're protesting and he should hang around to find out, but he's got English classes and those $10B almuerzo meals won't pay for themselves. He reflects on the fact that at least with military street performances you always get either marching girls or Caporales (see second pic).

Six months has flown by for him and he finds himself having changed. He now:

a) can communicate his desires to the masses
b) falls into regular patterns where somedays he'll even glance past the glorious surrounding hills, the towering Cristo or the determined and inspiriational woman in black on the bridge, all now devoid of the spray-can shiny visage of touristy exoticicm, and looking for other, more mundane but specific landmarks
c) can eat, walk through, touch and hardly smell the things that used to want to make him puke
d) feels like he'll be crying like a baby when he leaves, the way he was six months earlier in Melbourne

Please god, let this be true!

2006-09-25T13:23:00.000-04:00

As golf is the single largest waste of space (according to the space used, and by whom, and their numbers), maybe aside from Ikea stores, I applaud the following:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/5297246.stm

Venezuela to seize golf courses

The mayor of Venezuela's capital Caracas says he plans to expropriate two exclusive golf courses and use the land for homes for the city's poor.

Mayor Juan Barreto has said playing golf on lavish courses within sight of the city's slums is "shameful".

Mr Barreto, an ally of President Hugo Chavez, has been trying to address a dramatic housing shortage in Caracas.

But critics say property rights are being eroded in Venezuela, where farms and ranches have also been seized.

Three years ago Mr Chavez's left-wing government started redistributing agricultural land that it said was underused to help landless peasants.

But this is the first time officials have announced plans to expropriate privately-owned urban land to make way for public housing, says the BBC's Greg Morsbach in Caracas.

Affluent suburbsMr Barreto had ordered the "forced acquisition" of the golf courses, city attorney Juan Manuel Vadell told the Associated Press.

He said compensation would be paid, at a level decided by an appraisal commission.

The golf courses - the Country Club and Valle Arriba club - are in the city's most affluent suburbs, home to millionaires, foreign diplomats and celebrities, and are seen by some as a haven for the rich.

They are also in districts run by the opposition.

Mr Chavez has not yet said whether he supports the move.

But opposition city council member Carlos Ciordia called the plans "electoral demagoguery" by Mr Chavez, who is hoping for re-election in December.

Fernando Zozaya, president of the Caracas Country Club, said "this has created great concern" among his club's members.

But Mr Barreto said: "It's shameful to see people playing golf and just right there in front of them is a shantytown."

"We are following the policies laid out by President Chavez... to give a new social direction to the city, so the city can be enjoyed by everyone," he said in a television interview.

Mr Barreto has said 5,000 people could be housed in the space taken up by a single golf course.

Happy Cochabamba Day!

2006-09-14T13:55:00.000-04:00

It's Cochabamba Day, for want of a better term. It's a little awkward and some Cbbambinos have chuckled with a shrugful concurrance at my naming it thus, but it's Cochabamba Day for me because it seems that people are unsure what to call it.

The day marks the moment somebody signed something some years ago to recognise Cbba as a city. The Founding day perhaps. It is a day left unnoticed by the rest of the country but it's very quiet here - not a big band drum to be heard, unlike yesterday's performance from 7am to at least 9.30pm when that drum's sound resonated off every city wall, tree and body.

And of course, in true Bolivian style there were many MANY bodies marching around in school uniforms and marching girl/boy outfits and officialdom spouting their much sought after words from various podiums around the city, all displaying that pride that I think I've already mentioned.

"That pride" I use with confused feelings, as Bolivia both valiantly struggles to pull itself out of it's enforced slump while giving in time and again in little ways - negativity and defeatedness a regular bandana flown. I don't know - leave me here for the remainder of the decade for time to get to know the real Bolivia.

Either way, I celebrated the eve of Cochabamba Day with gusto last night playing pool, rocking on at a civil hard-rock venue (they exist!) and of course, Karaoke-ing. Is there no end to my Western values (although all those events took place surrounded by the Bolivian masses)?

I think I'm bored. Better teach some of the Imperial Language.

Your FNBC.

The Crocodiles are crying (as they always were)

2006-09-09T18:21:00.000-04:00

Steve Irwin is dead. He's well missed. But some other points are also being well missed.

Here's a poem from popular poet Rupert McCall about the crocodile hunter.

Then I wrote a little something as an addendum.

THE CROCODILES ARE CRYING

Endless visions fill my head – this man – as large as life
And instantly my heart mourns for his angels and his wife
Because the way I see Steve Irwin – just put everything aside
It comes back to his family – it comes back to his pride

His animals inclusive – Crikey – light the place with love!
Shine his star with everything he fought to rise above
The crazy-man of Khaki from the day he left the pouch
Living out his dream and in that classic ‘Stevo’ crouch

Exploding forth with character and redefining cheek
It’s one thing to be honoured as a champion unique
It’s one thing to have microphones and spotlight cameras shoved
It’s another to be taken in and genuinely loved

But that was where he had it right – I guess he always knew
From his fathers’ modest reptile park and then Australia Zoo
We cringed at times and shook our heads – but true to natures call
There was something very Irwin in the make up of us all

Yes the more I care to think of it – the more he had it right
If you’re going to make a difference – make it big and make it bright!
Yes - he was a lunatic! Yes - he went head first!
But he made the world feel happy with his energetic burst

A world so large and loyal that it’s hard to comprehend
I doubt we truly count the warmth until life meets an end
To count it now I say a prayer with words of inspiration
May the spotlight shine forever on his dream for conservation

…My daughter broke the news to me – my six year old in tears
It was like she’d just turned old enough to show her honest fears
I tried to make some sense of it but whilst her Dad was trying
His little girl explained it best…she said “The crocodiles are crying”

Their best mate’s up in heaven now – the crocs up there are smiling!
And as sure as flowers, poems and cards and memories are piling
As sure as we’ll continue with the trademarks of his spiel
Of all the tributes worthy – he was rough…but he was real

As sure as ‘Crikey!’ fills the sky
I think we’ll miss ya Steve…goodbye

RUPERT McCALL 2006

THE CROCODILES ARE (still) SHITTING THEMSELVES

There’s a slate of sorrow here that sees him running after crocs,
There’s also one of admiration: I can’t run two blocks.
There’s thoughts toward his family. It always hurts to lose
A father or a friend, no matter what their views.

The way I see Steve Irwin, I can’t put everything aside,
Do we hide the wrongs of World War II just cos Germany had pride?
The treatment of his employees up at Australia Zoo,
Ask how hard he worked to put their pride in crocodile poo.

“May the spotlight shine forever on his dream for conservation”
I hope that spotlight fades away like forests ‘round the nation
If Irwin thinks that Little John is our history’s greatest leader
The crocs will die - wildlife needs every drop, each plain, each cedar.

Uranium, dams, reactors, and all things quite reviling
Are created around the country, no croc – anywhere – is smiling
Have you heard about big industry, the scourge of Yorta Yorta
You won’t see John at Barmah-Millewa. Heard of it? You oughta.

Natural resources for crocs, and fish and forests take the brunt
And are fast commodified by Free Trade – another of Johnny’s courageous stunts
Yes, if one regards our Johnny as the greatest, let me mention
That any call for “conservation” is probably just for attention.

Michael McMahon 2006

Boy if this isn't relevent everywhere... not looking at anybody... JOHN!

2006-09-08T15:54:00.001-04:00

I just can't help myself when this sort of stuff comes through. Paul, you keep me alive (among other people and doctors and medicine and things):

We will bankrupt ourselves in the vain search for absolute security: Dwight David Eisenhower : 34th president of the United States, 1890-1969

I have named the destroyers of nations: comfort, plenty, and security - out of which grow a bored and slothful cynicism, in which rebellion against the world as it is, and myself as I am, are submerged in listless self-satisfaction : John Steinbeck: American novelist, Nobel Prize for Literature for 1962, 1902-1968

The only security for the American people today, or for any people, is to be found through the control of force rather than the use of force : Norman Cousins: American essayist and editor, long associated with the Saturday Review, 1912-1990

Power always has to be kept in check; power exercised in secret, especially under the cloak of national security, is doubly dangerous : William Proxmire

Military justice is to justice what military music is to music.: Groucho Marx: American comedian, actor and singer, 1890-1977

In war, there are no unwounded soldiers: Jose Narosky

If my soldiers were to begin to think, not one would remain in the ranks: Frederick The Great

Read this newsletter online http://www.informationclearinghouse.info/

Boy if this isn't relevent everywhere... not looking at anybody... JOHN!

2006-09-08T15:54:00.000-04:00

Caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar-free!!!!!!! and Curiosity #16

2006-09-05T17:43:00.000-04:00

I reckon this photo's worth a look. Every main intersection in the entire city looked like this on Sunday, I swear! I discovered that it's an edict from the Environment Authority here in Cochabamba. I find this hard to believe given that they can't get the lake to stay clean from dangerous (but pretty, green) algae.

Either way, I was loving it. And the punch buggy on the left? Well, it's one of I reckon 15% of the vehicles in town.

I'm counting on it...

2006-09-05T17:36:00.000-04:00

Capricorn
A person from your past may make a surprise appearance today, and you have no reason not to welcome them with open arms. No matter how things were left between the two of you, right now they're better (although this person may not realize it). Their ideas could push your ambitious plans forward toward action, so listen to what they want to do and try to help make it happen. This might be harder than it sounds, so take your time and move cautiously.

Alright, which of you buggers are going to rock up?

Your FNBC.

Jesus Christ Almighty, hedonistic Qu'oa, and more prophesies...

2006-09-04T12:11:00.000-04:00

Well, climbing the 1,250 odd steps to the Cristo on a lazy Sunday afternoon in a city free of cars (yes, another one, where it's actually heavily enforced by police at junctions, and bikes bloody everywhere!!! *he drools*) was a great idea, but maybe not the perfect idea after needing a few more hours sleep. I can say "I did it" like everyone else now... whoopie.

Part of what made me so tired was the Qu'oa night on Friday. On the first Friday of every month almost every shop in town burns a ritualistic alter of incense, coca leaves, magical things, and hopes for the best of luck from Pachamama forthe coming month. So I went to the official fiesta with a Dutch girl and a Brazilian girl which made me look very cool. I really wanted another bloke to be there with us because it can get dangerous out where it was. There's lots of dancing and chicha ritual, as well as the several Qu'oa ritual moments throughout the night. The dancing caused an embarrassing moment at one point - part of the traditional idea is to hold hands with people, eventually forming a long line which zips surprisingly quickly around the venue... Well, I'm not sure how it happened but when I was zipping, and part of the same line was zapping under the arms of me and the girl whose hand I was holding, it came our turn to zap through, and after some sort of twist I was thrown off my balance, literally went arse up, and while all other pointy bits of my body found some concrete, my head decided to crash into the big band leaders drum. People weren't sure whether to laugh or offer help, and some did both. I was o.k. but my elbows are still a little tender...

I hear Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter died.

Crikey!

Capricorn Get ready to become a bigger part of your community -- either at work, in school or in your neighborhood. You're about to assume a larger role, and this is something you've been waiting for (whether you realized it or not). Step up and volunteer -- your ideas or your time. Making an impact is very much required for you to get the respect and opportunities you deserve. Keep in mind that the bigger your efforts, the bigger your impact. Now is not the time to look for excuses.

And about time! What happens - do I get a Spanish Language chip put in my head?

A breath of fresh air

2006-09-03T14:05:00.000-04:00

The stirling couple I met on the way to Cochabamba, Nick and Auntie Jane, are now living somewhere between their respective homelands of New Zealand and Adelaide - Melbourne. They finally blog posted some of the startlingly good photos from their time (with me) from San Pedro de Atacama to Uyuni, post-Salar.

Check them out!

http://lostinthepats.blogspot.com/

This, from the most helpful support group this side of the Andes...

2006-08-30T10:01:00.000-04:00

Looks like you have to keep the time slot of 8 pm to 8.30 pm , either the 4th or the 11th of September, free of clutter.

Australian Story focussing on a family living with Marfan Syndrome (of a girl I know!) will most likely be broadcast on the 11th, but, it might just be earlier.

Correspondiente Boliviano

"We are also Australian"

...a tap on the shoulder.

Tragic family's vital message

Time is a strange thing... El tiempo es una cosa extran~a.

Geez, "crappy gifts" looks bad, don't it?

Local fares, vocal scares, and parochial lairs.

True! Every mundane detail.

Home again, home again lickety split!

A sharp taste, a distinctive flavour, a notable odour...

What a nong, I lost my thong, better than Disney, these kids love frisbee, far from the city I found this kitty.

Pass the port, I've lost my sport, at least I'm not going to court, but I've been maligned more than I ought.

I feel Bolivian but then again, nup.

White, after wet after wild after white.

A quiet ride back to town from the schoolhouse...

Weather reflecting my mood so close to Che's demise.

Spider moneys get angry at you if you look at 'em! Image issues...

Nothing doing...

Goin' on a jaguar hunt, but I'M not afraid!

I was waiting for it... He's started reading at last.

Bit callous, but you know... wake up!

A scary article. As usual, Bush and the military are involved...

But then...

She's baa-aaack!

The goods.

Out? In? Make up your bloody mind will ya?!

Niños, Mariachi and where the hell is Fiona??!

A little Marfling plug.

Bodgy birthdays and preemptive posting.

*shrugs* I suppose it's better than this system...

Backwards & Friedbrains

Capricorn scorn.

One year out of the country and counting...

Thorny thoughts.

Roasting Howard, and steaming my puny body.

Kooky-Cola, Uncool Aid, Cuba-bound beauty.

Full on in between the boredom.

Fifth edition.

Our Man of Steel.

World Naked Bike Ride

Too much love

Some parade action.

Water breaking everywhere and not a pregnant woman in sight.

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

Marfan Syndrome Awareness Month or The fish done it! (and me, an English teacher...)

Another photo opportunity? Yep.

Revolt among my birthday celebrations... or is that a birthday among the revolt...

Hmm... sure. That's all well and good to say...

Would You “Support the Troops” in Bolivia?

Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink...

I knew it!

I think the expletive is "hippie"... go hippie yourself...

Tut tut, looks like rain...

Quality on Idol? That's stretching it a bit... (get it?)

Death road, death of the Incas, and death in Cochabamba

La Paz and it's bits...

Bolivia? Nearly. Brazil? Kinda. Chile? Back up!!

Anybody heard of the Hershey squirts?

Drowing in political action, if not the floods...

Sloth, and other sins...

Goodbye Emily...

Acción de Gracias.

It's true!!!

There's no Critical Mass in Cochabamba...

Sick to the stomach... and it's not the lettuce.

I can't get no...!

A noice little piece.

Parade strips, Field trips, orange drips and curiosity #17 and almost #18...

Curiosity #14

Oh yeah! I forgot! The Melbourne Cup!

Banality #16 amidst Todd's birthday and a rant on Rio.

¿Quéué?

Now I'm in for it...

Drowning in Saints, but no water...

Orange Juice, Naked Truths, and fancy troops.

Bowlers and AWOLers.

Instant schlock, just add shock.

Rights at Work

Passerines101

Rock on!!

shrugs I suppose it's better than this system...