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.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
...a tap on the shoulder.
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.
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."
"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."
Friday, August 24, 2007
Time is a strange thing... El tiempo es una cosa extran~a.
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...)
Monday, August 13, 2007
Geez, "crappy gifts" looks bad, don't it?
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
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
Monday, August 06, 2007
Local fares, vocal scares, and parochial lairs.
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.
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.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
True! Every mundane detail.
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!??!
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!
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.
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.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
A sharp taste, a distinctive flavour, a notable odour...
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.
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.
Monday, July 16, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Monday, July 09, 2007
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!
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!
Saturday, June 30, 2007
I feel Bolivian but then again, nup.
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!
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!
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
White, after wet after wild after white.
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.
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.
Monday, June 04, 2007
A quiet ride back to town from the schoolhouse...
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.
"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.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Weather reflecting my mood so close to Che's demise.
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Spider moneys get angry at you if you look at 'em! Image issues...
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.
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.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Nothing doing...
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Goin' on a jaguar hunt, but I'M not afraid!
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
