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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Crusaders

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then...

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

She's baa-aaack!

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

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

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

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


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

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


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


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

The goods.

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

Couldn't resist.


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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Friendly Neighbourhood dying-of-desire Bolivian Correspondent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gullumph.

A little Marfling plug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bodgy birthdays and preemptive posting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How are the government specifically being underhanded (again)?

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

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


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



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

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

Your (totally unBolivian-related) FNBC.

Backwards & Friedbrains

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

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

Thanks Rupert, see you soon-ish.

Capricorn scorn.

Capricorn

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



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

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

One year out of the country and counting...

*cheers of adulation, admiration, salutation and enviation*

*he bows*

Thank you... thankyou.

I love Calvin & Hobbes.