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.