Oh yeah! I forgot! The Melbourne Cup!

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.

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?

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...

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...

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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!!

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...

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.

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!

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!

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)

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!

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!

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/

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

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...

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...

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

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...

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.

I can't resist a good ethics bashing...

Who does this apply to? AFL or ARL

36 have been accused of spousal abuse
7 have been arrested for fraud
19 have been accused of writing bad checks
117 have directly or indirectly bankrupted at least 2 businesses
3 have done time for assault
71, repeat71 cannot get a credit card due to bad credit
14 have been arrested on drug-related charges
8 have been arrested for shoplifting
21 currently are defendants in lawsuits,
and 84 have been arrested for drunk driving in the last year! Can you guess which organization this is? Give up yet? . . .




















Neither ... it's the 535 members of the AUSTRALIAN PARLIAMENT IN CANBERRA

What's that sound...? Oh, it's quiet.

What does it mean when the teachers, the post office, and all public transport goes on strike at the same time? That someone's stuffing up royally. And who else could it be? It's not my fault, or is it?

It also means that my first English class of the day has cancelled because she can't get to my house - no buses.

And lucky I work for a private institute where they'll stay as open as a 7/11 (that's an insult by the way) regardless of a teacher's strike, and I get paid... maybe. Am I a scab? Well, not technically. Should I go out in sympathy for the Bolivians? Will it make a difference? Should I just use my English class to propogate my propoganda, as I always do? Will that salve my guilt? Better go find that street protest and take some pictures...

In other news, the streets will be even quieter this coming Sunday, when the Cochabambino masses actually enforce the "Car Free Day" call. Any unauthorised vehicles face the threat of being the target of missiles in the form rocks or tomatoes or eggs. So there'll be few cars on the road and much tranquilo-ing and street walking. Nullabor Simon would be in his element! And can you imagine a Dresses of Mass Seduction gig in Plaza 14 de Septiembre!!

Viva el mundo libre!

Your FNBC.

This one's for Jackie... (check the lyrics)

... while - can you believe it - "Lay you down on a bed of roses" plays away at this internet cafe... in fact *he just realises* it's the whole damn album ("Blaze of Glory" now!).

Sometimes I feel I'm not even watching Bolivia from the tv (as suggested I was doing here now, by an esteemed fellow, because I don't have Spanish - true).

football, festivals and farewells.

Well now, where to start. Just me, me, me isn't it!

Back pedal to the footy game, between Aurora (my local team) and the other local team (can't remember the name but they're very good so it's the popular team - the underdog doesn't usually get a look in here...) in the National comp. The view of the field shows the Cbba mountains in the background, the scoreboard which ended as 1-1, the riot police - a regular feature to ensure the referees get off the field alive, and the players, of course. I was there with the other two Aussies, Luke who I move in with in a few weeks (there's the official broadcast), and Marty, who has flown the coop, leaving me almost karaoke partner-less...

The festive atmosphere you find me in is the Monday of that Urkupiña cafuffle that took place last week, where little sleep was had as opposed to much festivities, which is what a festival is all about. Thousands of participants in the parade, while Marty and I traipsed around like idiots through the parade, often being confused as part of the cross-cultural contingent according to the reaction from the gawking crowd. I swear some of the crowds on the bleachers looked just like an Australian Great Southern Stand moment, but smaller.

Don't worry about the girl in the parade with me there. She had nowhere to put anything she might have pickpocketed from me, so I think I was safe, in that regard...

And that's not a beer in my hand, it's a... um... you know, ... a light?

Phew.

Mirror, mirror on the wall...

Capricorn

A funny thing happens when the chaos of your life fades away: You suddenly notice things you never noticed before. Things are definitely throttling down today, so you might have a difficult time staying focused -- your eye will be distracted by items or people that everyone else has already become used to. It's important to take this day at face value -- don't go digging too deep for greater significance. Sometimes things just are what they seem to be.

What, like this star reading?

One fish, two fish, red fish... (is that blood?), blue fish (is that ink?)

Yummy trucha for me! It didn't come from the skanky river that flowed all peaceful like past our table out the road a bit (at the bourgeois touristy strip, just to call a spade a spade) but it did melt in one's mouth. That's mine, front, third from the right (cos this information is really important!)

And a one, and a two... *smokey flashback shimmering...*

Just a little flashback to the tiny town of Toro Toro and the Tinku Festival for Tata Santiago (whoever he/she was...) back in late July.

This woman was full of chicha and not letting me get away without some samba in my bones.

(note the suspicious bucket of chicha in the bottom right corner, waiting to pounce on me... I mean, look at it - all innocent and consciousless looking.)

Curiosity # 15 How many driver lessons does it take to drive this poorly...

Driving down Av. America (or being escorted again to be precise) I saw an unexpected sight. Not unexpected in a vacuum of information but if you read my blog in the past categorising the top ten driving shit-me's in Cochabamba, then, well... yep.

In front of me was a car with a driving instructor's sign on top, the inside looking to me like a driving lesson being taken place *raises eyebrows and shrugs shoulders, again*.

The fellow is as relevent as ever!

"Do not fear the enemy, for your enemy can only take your life. It is far better that you fear the media, for they will steal your Honor. That awful power, the public opinion of a nation, is created in America by a horde of ignorant, self-complacent simpletons who failed at ditching and shoemaking and fetched up in journalism on their way to the poorhouse"

-Mark Twain.

Totally unrelated to Bolivia, and yet...

Now here I go getting myself into trouble again...

I got sent a political mp3 file certainly worth listening to. It covers alot of ground already heard, and perhaps discarded, but it's in the context of current events. Conspiracy theories are great, and remember, it's o.k. to be paranoid if it's really happening to you!! It runs for about 10 minutes.

http://www.conspiracypenpal.com/rants/new911-16-16.mp3

Banality #14 Lebanon, more virgins, and my spraycan.

To view the scenes in the Information Clearing House videos (http://www.informationclearinghouse.info/article14616.htm) is depressing. For me, today at least, it only serves as a reminder that I don't understand anything, about Lebanon, the fighting, what I'm going to do about it all. Like the old man at the end of the video, this country is also asking for God to punish all oppressors. But I wonder how many people prayed to the Virgin de Urkupiña on Wednesday for that very thing. A lot of tiny trucks were sold as symbols of what people were praying for. I didn't see any tiny bombs, or little effigies of George Bush, or miniature guns. On the same token, I didn't see any miniscule peace signs either. What does this say? That people are more interested in their own personal material desires rather than more socially productive pursuits? Or does it mean that they've prayed to the good old Mother of God long enough for that social justice stuff and realise she's just not going to cough up. I'm still this very morning hearing stories of how the Virgin has assisted in times of need, but one woman told me of how she was told by her husband to walk to the shrine and ask for rain for the crops to grow, or dry for the trees to be cut: she couldn't remember. When she got there she tossed the metaphoric coin in the air and prayed for rain. It rained. Her husband was very angry at her for screwing up the request to the Big Virgin. I reckon if the Virgin's so good then she should've known what the lady's husband wanted. You can't go smiting people for having a poor memory.

Going to enjoy the Sunday sun (the real one, not the Murdoch one). There's still snow on Mt. Tunari. And my flattened spraycan is still as comfortingly there in the dirt at the end of the street as it was on the first day I got here. How about you? How's your aerosol?

Your FNBC.

Monkey, legless, and cultural immersion.

In the world before Monkey, primal chaos reigned. Heaven sought order, but the phoenix can fly only when it's feathers are grown. The four worlds formed again and yet again, as endless aeons wheeled and passed. Time and the pure essences of Heaven all worked upon a certain rock, old as creation. It became magically fertile. The first egg was named "Thought". Tathagata Buddha, the Father Buddha said "With our thoughts, we make the world". Elemental forces caused the egg to hatch. From it came a stone monkey. The nature of monkey was irrepressible!!


Well, as a sleep deprived adventurer in the South once said: "Who needs sleep! We're on an adventure!!"

Yep, well, he was sleep deprived - you can't expect him to have epiphanous moments all the time.

I was fully primed - like a Saturday Night Fever fan on a Sunday morning - to sleep in. Of course bloody culture got in the way and I had to have some o' the action.

Now, I can't say I scaled a 5000 metre summit, nor can I say I was witness to any great spiritual experiences, but I DID wake up at 1.50am this morning to start walking the 20ks from my house in Recoleta to the shrine of the Virgin de Urkupiña, along with at LEAST 250,000 others (they didn't all start from my house by the way). We thought this turn-out - after informal reports of gringoisation, and a disappointing no-show from a Boliviano who was going to join us – was going to resemble our whitey crew (Marty, Gesine, Luke and Anny (who IS Bolivian) and my good self).

We mused dejectedly as we scuttled along toward the main drag that there were not really any groups around walking (at least in the right direction). Hmm… not looking good – perhaps they all slept later (a desirable notion). Then, as we hit the intersection of Blanco Galindo, the main drag out of town and to Quillacollo, the entire concept of our walk evolved. We were engulfed immediately by hundreds, some walking serious and steadfast in search of that good ol’ final goal, others cajoling with their friends, the same (sort of) aim in mind. Poco a poco you couldn’t disguise our disbelief as the hundreds turned to thousands, nay, hundreds of thousands! Pilgrims from La Paz, Tarija, Santa Cruz, Potosi, Argentina, Peru, and closer to hand, and further afield.

By the eighth k. our escort became thick as we realised that our legs were now fully rebelling the lack of rest and their collective realisation that 4.30am was no time to be walking.

*Interlude*

A quote from a fellow … a fellow… yep.

>>“Oh, I also have a really good political joke involving the Virgen de Urkupiña (who's known for her faithfulness). It's from the 1989 election. The three major candidates all went to Quillacollo to ask the virgin to intercede on their behalf. Goni asked to win the election; Paz Zamora asked to become presidet; Banzer asked to rule Bolivia. All three had their wish granted.”

You either get it or you don’t. I’m not interpreting today.

The throng (for that’s what it had become by kilometre 12) was a sight as the realisation kept hitting us that all these people just walked for their faith, in the middle of the night to pray to their lady. As you know (and sorry mum) I'm just not into the praying business, but I did have a deep respect for the incredible faith, and hope - an important aspect of life!

We could only estimate numbers at the best of times but as we finally made our way past the countless stalls, selling any miniature version of your desire (including mini $1000 bills, mini passports, mini campervans, mini suitcases, mini houses, mini blocks of land, mini semi-trailers…) - down the main drag of Quillacollo and beyond up the hill (mountain, in my head) and to the spectacle of the crowds that presented itself there, we decided – at least 500,000 souls for the taking. The pope never had it so good. I looked around to be struck solidly by the beauty of Mt. Tunari (the highest peak in the mountainous border of Cochabamba), flaked heavily by it's first snow of the year. The early morning mist skirted the hills, the plains were dewy and sweet, and the thousands seemed to stare with me, drinking in the wonder.

One of the many traditions we came to see was the notion of sledging some rock from the virgin’s stronghold, taking it home for good luck, and returning it the following year. Seemed like fun, but I found myself thinking of my Australian friend and Zen guide, Adrian, who journeyed 800ks into the desert on his bike, absentmindedly picked up some beautiful rocks and rode back. He was told by an indigenous fellow that it wasn’t right to remove what belongs to the land (including Aboriginal people by the way!). That clicked and he got on his bike and put them back where they belonged. I prefer to leave the earth as undisturbed as I can. Sounds hoity-toity but there it is. No piccis of me with a sledge hammer. Oh, and the whole notion of sacred rocks reminded me of Monkey Magic (irrespective of the many chained monkeys up on the hill being tortured for money (that is, force the petrified monkey to do tricks, take people's willingly offered money - sickening).

All up, one of the most amazing days I've spent on this continent. Thank you Bolivia.

I gotta get a drink … I mean, some sleep.

Photos and more later,

Chou.

Your Friendly Neighbourhood Bolivian Correspondent.

Are you a virgin? (Monty Python (to dispell any offense, or to exacerbate it...))

When you get up at 2am to carry a stone you cut out of a mountain 12ks for a virgin and her blessings for money, a new car, a healthy family, a visa, happiness, a job, money, then you surely are getting into the spirit of things. Even though one Bolivian fella called this Fiesta del Vergen de Urkupiña this Monday to Wednesday another excuse for a three day piss-up. Course, that brings up the question of what spirits you're getting into... hell, something's gotta keep you going at 2am, but I think a stiff rum will just send me off to lala land.

I'll take the visa *still running on his illegal alien status*

Bad vocals through Bolivia Day!

Can't go letting that last little bitch be the first thing people see when they log on for their slice of Bolivian life, so...

One word: Karaoke. More words: As many of you already know, I like it.

Bolivians like their Karaoke (there's a broad statement that I'm sure is harmless enough), and consequently there are a number of said bars stooping in their daggyness enduring countless hours of pain and suffering to the emotions and eardrums, at least on the northside.

I have had a drought of Karaokelessness since I left Australia, yet last Wednesday began a spate of disgusting regularity at four different bars in six nights, Monday's bar wasn't rid of our strains until 4.30am... naughty. Of course, there are many, MANY more Spanish language songs over the spattering of songs in English, but although Jackie would have been proud of my "Living on a Prayer", I'm building up to singing my aria of Spanish canciones, even if it does just end up being
La Bamba...

In other news, it was The National Day of Bolivia on the 6th (...and perhaps I should just forget the National Day of Bolivia 'cos I've written about it twice now, to be blessed with the opportunity of some Zen practice when the computer rebooted each time before I could post! A sign, or just a shit computer).

Either way, in the etherless posts I wax on generally about the contrast between the pride of this country, or at least this city, and the shit conditions it is in, and of course I then continue to relate that to generations of colonial and religious trauma (which didn't tangentiate into a discussion of the Morales government's attempts to separate religion from schools (overall a positive move in my 'umble opinion)). The exacerbation of my consternation was met yesterday with a long explanation to me (really really long!) about it all, to which most of my responses consisted only of that essential smile and nod routine (with the occasional positive affirmational grunt) - she was Brazilian, with much Spanish, but no English and I might have picked up the spirit of her words... it certainly looked like she had it all worked out...

Thousands of people lined the streets as even more thousands paraded between us to celebrate their flag-choked enthusiastic patriotism. The military might was scary, the marching girls tranquilo-ed that scaryness (as you can see I'm not only Spanglishing my language, but I'm doing it with poor grammar...)

So, save and go, save and go. A wise mantra.

Love to all.

Curiosity # 13

Why is it that Bolivians need to be so late for every damn thing. Or not turn up at all? Now, this isn't the case for EVERYone. Most of my English students turn up. But this is third who hasn't turned up in two days (letting me email in this spare hour). Maybe it's me *checks his armpits*.

Anyone got any genuine (or not) historical or cultural explanations for "Bolivian time"?

Your FNBC.

Banality # 12

How long does it take before I get used to the water taps saying "C" for "Crikey! That's not cold! That's hot!" and "F" for "Faaaaar out! That's Freezing!"

Un poco insight(o) en(to) cadadia Miguel

Capricorn
While this day is going to ultimately be a successful one, there are some business-related problems brewing that will affect your lifestyle. These problems could be coming out of your workplace, but they could also be at a store or restaurant you visit frequently. Delays and disruptions might slow you down and make you think twice. Where you spend your money and your time in the future will be affected. Nothing will invade your peaceful attitude, though.

I know, I know. But I can't resist. My three new English classes today will hopefully be successful: so far so good, except for one absent student which affected my lifestyle heaps! (I didn't get to spend as much time on the net!!). And I always get comments on my peaceful attitude, especially in the face of my robberies - of course I have every reason to be calm in comparison: I'd be far less peaceful if I was living on the streets of Cochabamba, or having to eke out a living selling fake rolex's...

On a Let's-make-Michael-feel-at-home note - I went to the cinema on Sunday night to see the "Pirates of the Carribean - Dead Man's Chest". While Johnny Depp just isn't the same when his lips don't make the shape of the words that he's not saying (I was helped along by the ample action scenes and by my companion who had very good Spanish), it was the first time I'd been to the cinema since leaving Australia and it took me a little by surprise when the lights came back up and I was surrounded by Bolivians "again". Left homesick... but don't send La Paz-Melbourne tickets yet! Like being turned into a newt - I got better (Python fans?).

Oh, and went out to the country with Luke, Marty and Annie to Annie's family's cute little cottage on Sunday too. Very pleasant - fed the geese, searched for fruit trees, drank some Taquiña and ate pollo sangas. Very colonial... yep.

Am holding my breath for the Virgin de Urkupiña festival coming up in two weeks, the biggest in the entire... region. The dancers are all practicing, the fever is reaching... fever pitch...

Chow time. So, chau,

Your FNBC.

Pic one: A bit of the vibrant colour that I keep talking about. This guy was selling wool... of course.

Pic two: Look mum! I'm a dinosaur. I can't believe I resisted the temptation to run up to the butcher's yelling "Grr! I'm a dinosaur!!" (Dinosaur tracks heading uphill, due to the movements in the earth pushing the rock upwards. These tracks were make by one of those huge 20metre herbivores, with the long neck and tail. There were other tracks made by the ones about 2metres tall that ran on two legs and ate all of Sam Neill's friends.

Pic three: Me not resisting the gloriously communal tradition of Chicha drinking (I resisted most of the time, at times - in desperation - even letting the Bacchanalian revellers know about my medication issues.

A Festival with Class.

I'd like to point out that in the land of colour and short skirts (of which I expostulate often) I am not too critical of Bolivia. I always either a) put my sarcasm and negative experiences into a humourous jack-in-the-box (like inventing a stupid joke) or b) put them in the context of Bolivia’s political history that screwed it up so much. If Bolivians were allowed to live their culture, breath their own air and reap their own labour's rewards, one - that is, the USA - would have a hell of a time getting the best of such a strong, beautiful, resourceful place. Saying that, I just came back from the Torotoro Tinku Festival, a 5hr bus trip (which I think was VERY comfortable: the gruelling 7hr trip there would have been improved by not having to stand up the whole way, in a crowded isle - the direct impact of a greedy few getting more than they deserve (see? political!)). I went specifically to see the Tinku fighting that still exists to fulfill the tradition of spilling blood for Pachamama. I got some fantastic photos of the colour and genuineness, the resistance and the strength of the local people and places, but I have to claim cultural ignorance on the fighting. And in that pretext I think it's a stupid tradition (I know, I KNOW!!!). People get their noses broken, concussion, lose their teeth and often pass out on the street to recover if at all possible. Why can't they symbolically give themselves a blood nose, or get a paper cut or do some sewing when they're really drunk on the plentiful (and FREE!) Chicha? In my ‘umble western opinion, fighting doesn’t become such an otherwise friendly town. It’s just like boxing to me and that’s stupid too. And don’t anybody tell me that boxing is good for getting kids off the streets. What would be next? War isn’t hell? (see http://sirnosir.com/punkass.html) Excuse the harsh language and content of the site, but there’s a clear message there. Oops. Soapboxy.

I went to Torotoro with my Swiss housemate Ivo, my Alemanian housemate (for 4 days) Chantelle, and Ivo’s Swiss mate Simone. I put my foot in dinosaur footprints, impressed with, and finetuned my Chicha drinking finesse, gave the locals a new recipe (ordering an egg and salad sandwich from one woman’s stall and while that’s frying away in the inch deep oil (and here I am forever cursing the egg sticking to my pans!!) quickly running around the corner for some anticucho (cow heart) and mani salsa (peanut sauce) for more filling – yes, a long explanation, but that’s because it’s genius mate! GENIUS!!), resisted the irresistable aguayos on sale (those colourful back wraps that are famous for the bebe carriers), and saw a spitting image of Claudia Carvan (except South American)!! I was going to ask if I could take her photo to show, but decided against it, because unlike Claudia, who smiles all the time, this woman’s look could kill, and certainly did that to my enthusiasm... nevermind.

One thing I noticed at Torotoro, as opposed to Cbba, was the distinct lack of beggers. None! Everyone had something to do it seemed. Even if it was to drink to excess and fall asleep in the gutter, which wasn't prevalent. What was prevalent was the extremely hard work of the women and often children (as usual) who "manned" the food stalls that fed us so well. In fact this morning, as we left the alojamento at 6am to catch the bus, our favourite fried bread woman hadn't quite made it to boiling point so we unintentionally disrupted a woman breastfeeding to order fried bread (what's it called??!) from her. Her 2 year old came out from sleeping under the tarp which was draped over ... um, not sure what, but it quite shocked me. Maybe it's just for the festival... probably not...

We also noticed the overly non-Anglo-touristy nature of the place and that most tourists were from other parts of the country. Many from Cbba, and a group, very keen to play the Get-the-gringo-to-drink-all-the-Chicha thing, who were touring from Sucre - a noble journey.

Dancing till we couldn't and then some. Oh, the times.


English lessons. More on Torotoro (with pics) later.

How many Bolivians does it take to steal a mobile phone and a wallet?

300 - one to sneak up and pickpocket the tall gringo, and 299 to spontaneously jostle for the bus back to Cochabamba.

Sunday lunchtime I found the strength in the throes of Sundayitis to hotfoot it out to the long awaited Cliza festival of the Virgen de Carmen (or more commonly known as the festival of colour and short skirts...). Had a great time, but while waiting for the bus got pickpocketed and lost my mobile and my wallet (all those people who told me so, don't say "I told you so" - I had my hands securely in my pockets at the time and as soon as I felt danger I grabbed my backpack to put my pocketed stuff in and zap, or pop, or pow, or something, they were gone. My wallet only had my show-and-tell $AU30, my drivers licence and the coolest pillbox this side of the Andes, but I WANT THEM BACK!! *he yells as if it will help...*

On the other hand, my private English lessons I've been picking up are great: much more money and ... and... yep. Much more money.

Almuerzo beckons, again.

Michael.

p.s. my profound apologies to Todd, and Michele and Janette, who were glorious enough to allow the taking of the phone and their gift of the wallet (respectively) to South Abloodymerica. I'll make up for the losses. At some stage...

p.p.s. These pictures were only second choice of those chosen by National Geographic for their Cliza spread, but I thought they captured a) the spirit of the day, the goblin type creatures a common occurance throughout, and b) the indigenous flag! That's the flag there, with the girl. Great huh! It is very VERY symbolic, as is Australia's, but with a few more colours...

Fit in? Never heard the term before!

Capricorn

For way too long, the misconception that you have to fit in has been dictating your behavior. Even if you haven't realized it, you've been subtly editing yourself and altering your attitude, thinking that will get you farther. What you may fail to realize is that who you are is defined in part by how you're different from everyone else. Do things your own way today -- you'll meet little, if any, resistance. Strike out and show everyone the real you.

Again, I know these things are for people who a keen to see SOMEthing in ANYthing, but again, it's bloody spot on. I was just thinking this morning how I wished I was like everyone else, even if only to do the rob-the-rich thing that everyone else seems to be doing (except that I'm not rich). I got over that ridiculous concept very quickly with the realisation that even if I was just like the Bolivian next door I'd feel like shit if I bag-snatched an old, rich gringo.

My own way? Which way is that?

Curiosity #12

As I gingerly walked past a punchbuggy this morning, all snuggled up in it's purpleness behind the security of it's owner's high fence, I spied through the bars a sticker on it's rear window which read "Baby on board!"

Now, I know what "baby" is in Spanish but the fact that I don't know what "on board" means, brought to my attention that the sticker's warning was in English. Why, when you live in a nation that can barely say hello in English, would you put such an important message on display in that language? Makes me think that the "cool" that comes with whatever she/he was attempting is more important than her/his baby. Or that he/she thinks that only gringos drive like maniacs in Bolivia.

It's sunny out, and lunch time. Bye.

Highs, lows and a few analogies to help them along the way...

Life is like a cat, it’s either running around after your shoelaces like an idiot or it’s lying in the sun on your bedside table giving you the greasiest look you can imagine.

I have been flowing up and down the scale of happiness lately, as you may have guessed, but it's certainly more to do with the experience of international culture which is sure to be translated into a good story once home again.

I was at the children´s burns centre the other day with Phoebe the Australian woman, who always seems to have other things to do when she’s helping me with my visa stuff, so I go along with her, to this place and that, where she has been helping people for the last 45 years. The centre was a hell of a traumatic half hour for me, which means that I can’t even imagine how traumatic it is for those kids, confused and in pain, with various injuries. One child of around 8 was having his burns massaged by 5 nurses, burns which covered his chest, neck, parts of his arms and face. He was clearly in pain, tears streaming down his face, but his lips pursed so tight, and his eyes looking so brave, that in seconds I was in tears myself.

Another lad of about 12, walking around with most of his face covered, and his right arm braced at a right angle prostrate from his body. He found the courage to be happy, immediately finding me out as a keen rubber ball bouncer and catcher, using his one arm and limited mobility to enjoy the few moments we had, between improptu hugs.

Of course none of these kids have private health cover, and god knows how they get through but Phoebe told me that one wealthy, anonymous benefactor had given two kids some tens of thousands for their treatment, out of the blue. Came in, asked what kids needed the most help and said “here you go” *slaps down the cash*. Phoebe says that sometimes God’s will is the only thing to believe in. I continue to say, to myself of course, that the will of the people is the key *as he flimsily clings to his anarchistic, godless beliefs*

And of course, after much Immigration hoo-ha-ing they still haven’t giving me my year-long volunteer visa. They tried to send me to La Paz for an interview and to pick the visa up from there, with the temptation of not having to pay the 25 days overdue fine (250Bs) but I got it out of them that they just didn’t have the cellos, the stamps of approval, here in Cbba yet. The buggers.

And of course, Cochabamba continues to notice the winds of Michael-needs-a-pick-me-up, when on Thursday night I found, thanks to my Aussie friends, a really cool pool hall, which gave me my first “what’s down” after a three month “break” (get it?). Then on Friday (as pictured) Marty and Ivo were happily dragged along to the monthly K’owa festival where the K’owa is burned (as pictured and mentioned in previous entries) and lots of dancing ensues, and of course, embibing (as seen by the big old bucket of Chicha in front of us (13Bs for the bucket! That’s only $2 for some heavy, dangerous, sweet sweet stuff!)

Then on Saturday I caught up with my blog friend Patricia, who as it turns out (and not surprisingly) is much like she is on her blog, and more! She’s intelligent, funny, controversial at times and we talked for hours, (but only some 30 mins inSpanish...). It was difficult to leave, but fatigue of not enough sleep was dictating, almost...

I was going home to a much needed sleep, but Ivo, in his greediness forced me at gunpoint to go to the Secret Club with him. That was, again, an eyeful of sexy dancing and more, which made me just miss Fiona quite a bit more than I already do.

THEN on Sunday the Mundial finished (with a yummy Argentinean sausage bbq at Luke and Marty’s), which left us all wondering what we were going to do now!

On my way to work my first private English lesson this morning I had a skip in my step, unsure of whether it was due to the good sleep I had (which included a dream of how to make more money!), the midnight oil smoothing my path, the prospect of higher paid English classes, or just the fact that I was feeling really comfortable and safe in my little city.

"Death of a Jammer"

This from Jammer Paul: I want people to look at Dan's web site and get inspired.



Death of a Jammer.

I am the defacto leader of a group called the Melbourne Culture Jammers, which grew out of the work of Adbusters magazine.One of our hardest working foot soldiers - a stenciler, graphic designer, website maker and seriously hard working jammer, a guy called Dan Mckay, was taken from us on Friday June 23rd. Thanks to a wet road, a car and a tree.

Dan hated cars, rode his bike everywhere, it is a cruel irony that a car should be so brutal to him.Dan (known online simply as "why?") was also the guy who spent a lot of his time taping up sheets with the words "Why? Why? Why?" all over town. It used to give me a big smile seeing them covering ads on Bourke street or wrapped on poles in the CBD.

It took us a few days to find out what had happened. evildoom_bunny received a short email from Dan's account, written by his dad. It said "Dan was in an accident last night, and you won't be hearing from him again." There was the shortest snippet in the paper about a "young man was killed Friday when his car left the road near Wallen" - which was Dan's home town. Not good. Then stillbeing found a funeral notice in the paper. But right up until the moment I was handed a program for the funeral, which had a big smiling picture of Dan on the front, I was trying to convince myself it wasn't him. Of all the people in the world, why this talented, bike riding, staunchly anti-capitialist caring guy? I think I'm still struggling to believe it.evildoom_bunny, stillbeing and I made our way out to a tiny church in Wallan for the funeral on Friday. It looked like a small town from the map, and it really looked like most of the town where there. The chapel itself was full, the similar sized room behind it was also full, and people stood three rows deep at the back of the room and around the door. The saddest part was, as I mentioned, finally having it confirmed that it wasn't just a mistake on our part - we hadn't misheard. Seeing his entire family choking back tears was hard, but the hardest part was his little dog. They brought her along to the ceremony - a little mixed black and white mutt - and she looked the saddest of all, utterly perplexed and struggling to make sense of all the people. I gave her a quick pat on the way out.

Dan was in fact a far more interesting guy than even we had heard. It was actually really, really, really interesting to hear about the rest of his life. He was about to embark on becoming a child care worker, ran every day with his dog, madly followed a certain football team. And a had lot of friends in the town, all of whom looked utterly downcast. He was also quite a well known stenciler, not just on the streets of Melbourne or at the recent stencil festival.The procession to the cemetery was at least fifty cars long. Two of the local police came to the funeral - they looked like friends - and blocked the highway which passes through Wallen to let them all through. We took our leave at that point, headed east because we saw some mountains in that direction. We ended up in King Lake, and took some very curvy roads out of the hills back to Melbourne. It was actually nice to see some forest, trees and mountains after the sad ceremony of the early afternoon.Dan's site it still up, I recommend it: Ask Why Why?.We are still getting used to the loss.He was only 21... :-(

What WAS that low flying piece of extrañar-ness??!

Capricorn If you're tossed into some particularly vexing situations today, you can figure out what you need to do with a little concentration. Your mission is to sort the pros from the cons, and the answer will be clear. This sounds a lot easier than it is, however; it may take a few tries before it sticks. Write a list if that helps -- sometimes scripting your options makes things easier. Overall, if you can stick with your favorite people, you'll enjoy a very mellow and relaxing day.



Now I know that horoscopes are designed to appeal to the largest of audiences with their generalisations and meaninglessness, and I KNOW that every day for me throws me into a vexing situation or two... but this was just stupid accurate. I had to run over here to get some comforting words (I hoped, and was satisfied) from my friends and loved ones (here I bloody go!) ... because I was all cry-baby just earlier and I didn't want my family to see my red eyes (cos I'm a man and have to be tough!... yep). This day wasn't particularly ... yes it was. I was going to say that my situations were just the last straw, but it was a little more than that. I didn't get robbed, I'm not injured, I'm not in any imminent danger, but my emotional state got a bashing from bureaucracy this morning and of course the lack of Spanish didn't help, however there were some good souls who, just for the warm fuzzy, decided to direct me and speak very slowly indeed. But one situation blew everything out of the water, which, when they happen, make me feel like coming home for a little while then I get a burst of clarity and strength and push through. AnyHOO! Just thought I'd share some obscurity with youse.

I'll be sure to get you some photos of my extraordinarily left actions with you soon.

Love,

Your overly sensitive FNBC.

Ahh, computer loves me today...

This is the favourite of mine with the kids playing soccer in the dust.
This is my kitchen table, where I'm about to go have almuerzo. Fatima, the matriarch and superbly hospitable jill-o-all-trades, about to carve up the Spinach and mince carne pie (bloody delicious - Fiona, Fatima is writing out the recipe for you... or me!), our 4 week Spanish learner from Switzerland (fine specimen of the Euros, we're fine friends!), Gonzalo, the very helpful, scientific, artistic fellow that Fiona thinks sounds very cute on the phone, and Gonzalito, a cool little fella with a hell of a brain. I usually sit at the end of the table near the fridge. How very convivial we all look don't you think?! We have another Bolivian fellow living with us; Fernando is a lawyer volunteering with the Quechuan communities - a really sincere, softly spoken guy who I like alot.

Now:
It starts...

What?

Michael's rekindled love affair... but where's Fiona!?? Well, she may not mind too much... one can't get this subject of desire drunk, nor take it to bed (actually you can do the latter, but with limited satisfaction). There's not much point giving flowers but I do think we'll be going everywhere together (so flexible and accessible!), such is my head-over-heelsness.

If anyone wants to contact me, my new mobile is as follows:

722 11 090

My estudiante works at Entel (the overpowering telecommunications company here) and got me a good deal with an easy-to-remember number. Ariane, I'll try to work out a word/phrase for you. Hmm... just realised that neither the 0s or the 1s have letters with them... PAC110Z0? 0HOW0K0JET was better.

Nup, the upload didn't work, but you DO get to hear me winge...

This is just an extra blog in the hope that the photos upload this time round.

The first is the beautiful looking roads that I discussed before, the second is the little kids playing "Look at me! I'm a bus driver!" on the safe (for once) roads, and the third is a favourite of mine, taken the same day, with sufferin' soccerations in the dust near the lake. We wondered how difficult it would be to run around on the hot day we had, let alone breath in all that dust as well, and it was generally agreed that it probably wasn't just good clean dirt either...

Well, that's all... NO it's not!

I've had a hell of a time getting this visa stuff in order (and I don't mean "hell of a time" to be "gee, look at how much fun I'm having at Immigration!"). I'm told just now to expect 21 days worth of 10Bolivianos/day fine when I was assured that it wouldn't be enforced, or got around. Far out (he says, wanting to use another delightful little English phrase). That's 210 Bolivianos that I could really use. I feel like I've been robbed again. And I STILL haven't got the bloody visa. I tell ya, it's lucky I'm still being civil, but I assume that screaming at officials or others won't help much. I'd better go meditate before I scratch somebody's eyes out.

Of course I know that I'm lucky to be not thrown out for overstaying (but they'd rather my money), and that I should forget about it and enjoy the movie night at Republik Cafe tomorrow night, and unfortunately my niño students copped the backlash a bit but then again, they shouldn't have been eating in class/kicking each other/cutting up their workbooks... ARRGGH! They have a test tomorrow that almost all of them will fail... crap.

Let's see if this computer does the uploading photos thing... it'd better if it knows what's good for it...

Love (*checks heart* I think there's some in there somewhere),

Michael.

Fresh air, or was it? A car(e)-free day of hot debate.

Yesterday was voting day. There was the selections of the 5 representatives in each department (there are nine)to sit on the Constituent Assembly, there was the selection of the ... hmm.. someone else in each department - can't remember - and there was the big referendum question (all Australians know how important those are, don't you? The questions that can completely change the direction of a country - Aboriginal voting rights, choosing the National Anthem, the Republic issue. They're extremely controversial and changes hardly ever happen - only 8 of 44 since Federation (see what you know when you pay attention in class!)). The question on whether Bolivia should be a united country governed solely from La Paz or whether the different departments should have autonomy has literally divided the country at this stage - the East preferring automony and the West going with Morales' option, critics accusing them of blindly swallowing the propaganda.

What was exciting for me yesterday was a law that seemed to me as foreign as the no grog before an election law (which given where I am, the term "foreign" should not be a surprising concept). On election day it is illegal to drive. Yes, I kid you not - car-free days actually exists here! I say "days" because I have been told that it happens a number of times a year! Now this was music to my ears and nerves (not having to dodge and swerve the dodging and swerving cars here) as we walked to Lake Alalay to take in the sights and smells; the lake is permanently afflicted by an green algae that fills the lake to make it a pretty green colour, but the numerous fisherpeople on the banks must have estómagos of steel to handle any living thing that they catch. Maybe it's just for sport. Either way, it was a pleasant walk, watching the model aeroplanes flying about at the aeromodelo club, the several soccer games being played in the dust by enthusiastic lads and taking in an egg and salad roll for 17c. along the way. Five of us went, three of us towering above 190cms, so therefore entertaining the cyclists and families that were enjoying the car-free atmosphere.

The vote has come in so far as a NO vote, favouring Marales, whose critics suggest will now create a new iron-fist Cuba, but we will have to wait for about a week until all the votes from the country come in before we get a difinitive answer.

For now, I'm going to spend my time dreaming of the next car-free day, giving the revolution an Aussie accent, and buying some patches for the ever holy nature of my pants.

Photo: This road is usually hell to cross, especially in peak hour. Today? Empty except for bikes and the occasionally allowed car (for the elderly, disabled, etc or for the excitingly present European Election Observers vehicles). The freeway in the rear is also emply, the footsteps on the road playing a usually unheard melody.

Love to you all,

Your FNBC.

A nation of Slim Dusty pubs.

I can't bear the thought of writing all this out again ("this" being what's still in my head but not on the blog that I wrote last night and lost due to keyboard dysfunction)...

I DID write that I found myself on this computer instead of at my favourite English class or failing that, at my favourite bar beering on a Friday... Why? It seemed my class decided en mass that they deserved a break after the last unit of work (Intermediate 2/I) before plunging into Intermediate 2/II where the excitement of English doesn't stop (look out for that continuous past tense!!)

And not at the pub? Now this will blow your socks off (I think I said that in the lost blog): the Bolivia, in their infinite past wisdom have a law that stipulates no drinking two days before an election, or at least it's illegal to sell the stuff. This I find, regardless of my alcohol intake limits, absolutely incredible. If this happened in Australia... well... it just wouldn't! Gobsmacked and incredulous. More and more adjectives of similar ilk crash around my head about this subject. I'm bamboozled! I have also come to the realisation that it's no bloody wonder there are so many riots and temper fraying and things around election time... The reason for the ban on drinking is (apparently) that it clouds one's decision making capabilities when voting... now check me if I'm wrong, but in my experience one's political standpoint is ANYthing but clouded when one is drunk. In fact it's probably when one's political position is most clear!

That's all about that.

I also wrote last night that I'd decided to ring Fiona and that I would do it straight away. When I finally got to the phone she had tried to call me at home... AT THE SAME TIME as I said I wanted to call her. That means something. There you are Millennium, more shit for you on my page. And I was being sarcastic with the politics comment. Of course it's all politics! That's what life essentially is, and should be, if we remain intelligent, thinking humans, and not drones to the queen. Humph!

Going to find a place where I can buy their silence in inchange for a drink. That sort of stuff is so easy to do here... I think.

Your FNBC.