Vignettes of a Lazy Traveller

Winter, get thee out of my underpants

melissamain — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 10:37:00 GMT

Winter, get thee out of my underpants

For my bottom is so weary

Of being cold

Numbed by fickle wind

That creeps under my doors

Between my sheets

To steal my hard-won warmth

I suck from a hot water bottle

Wrapped in a pink pillowcase.

Remember what is was like

To wear a Tshirt?

No??

Remember, even, what it was like

To wear nothing at all

So hot

The air

The sun?

No.

Remember

Your feet?

Your toes?

That haven’t seen the daylight

In many many months?

They wiggle I am certain

In their woollen cocoon

But I cannot be sure

For they too are as numb

As my arse.

Winter, get thee out of my underpants

You have no business here

MAKE SOME ROOM FOR SUMMER ALREADY WILL YOU?

Midnight Ratty wars.

melissamain — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 20:28:00 GMT

She chased ratty off

with a blackened poker

she'd placed by her bed

for precisely that purpose

It had been crunching in the night

trying to get at goodies behind

loud plastic and rustling paper

The. Little. Bastard.

She had accepted the fact

that she would share her abode

with these little furry darlings

HOWEVER

They required some manners. They did.

She had been asleep

dreaming of all things pleasant

but had been woken for the 15th time

by chewing

crunching

squeaking

and LOUD LOUD LOUD rustling

The. Little. Asshole.

She switched on the light

The middle of the night

(or two thirds through)

is not the time to

wage a war

She was too tired

and Ratty probably knew

she was a pacifist at heart.

She would not let that stop her

Come here you. Little. Pest.

I'll get you I will

As she held the poker in her hands

and jabbed it at the ground

jab jab jab jab

She chased it round the room

23 times, stabbing and jabbing her poker rapier

impotently into corners, up bookshelves, under tables and into rubbish bins

in the general direction of far more athletic Ratty Rat Rat

Finally, he disappeared under a crack in the wall

She went back to bed

That showed Ratty.

She thought in self satisfaction

As she unknowingly

wiped soot all over her face in relief

Ratty didn't even wait til the light was off

To start all over again.

The. Little. Cheeky. Bugger.

Grrr.

Little Owies

melissamain — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 22:54:00 GMT

i keep bumping things

like couches with my little toes

desk corners with my thighs

and fingers with my car door
little owies

ow
ow

owies that make not a sound
or a whimper
until
i am alone in bed
and then they scream for a
kiss from a
beloved one
owie
i have an owie
a kiss will make it better
or perhaps butter
as my niece explained when i asked why my father her grandpa was rubbing butter into her head owie after a fall on the slippery ground
cos butter makes it better she said in wide eyed seriousness
my father
nodding his head in sage agreeance
with a twinkle in his eye
well it wont make it worse

and kisses never make it worse
though perhaps it is possible to drown in kisses too many and too wet
though i have never heard it done
perhaps you could contract a disease from which you die
a bad pashing flu?
Lips too tight and too taut, hardened by the wind and too much self sorrow
could cut
i suppose
and if you miss
your kiss
and miss your chance
of romance
of moments of true belov-ed happiness

now that would hurt

and i am glad
i haven't missed out on you

though i will need to wait my turn

to see you on the day after tomorrow
when my owies have healed themselves
and you can use your kisses for other things.

Three Minutes

melissamain — Tue, 9 Mar 2010 17:49:00 GMT

I lost something of mine today

Something I value. Something I know is now lost forever and I will never get back. If you paid me for it it would only be worth $2.40 on the open market. But it is worth so much more to me.

I didn't lose it because I was forgetful or because I was careless, or clumsy or not paying enough attention.

I lost 3 minutes of my life because I started a new job today.

I walked in, thinking I was well on time for the first day tick tock tick tick well done you new employee you

looked at the clock in the tea room

and noticed

It was 3 minutes ahead of my own watch.

I was paralysed by conundrum. Those three minutes are mine, I own them: Do I just succumb to giving them over because my life now has to coexist in this new work paradigm?

I felt the pain and grief over giving up my time.

All those things you can do with three minutes:

You can pat your dog really well behind the ears

You can call up your mother and tell her that you love her

You can make (and eat really fast) a packet of 2 minute noodles

You can write a list of all the things you have to do today

You can listen to someone's woes

You can have a really great lover-to-lover kiss

You can write a story about how you lost three minutes of your life.

Three minutes can be short. Like when you are saying goodbye to someone you would really rather just stayed.

It can be long. Like when there's three minutes till the bell of a really dull class at school. And you are the teacher.

Some people are magic makers with three minutes. I know a man that can make time for a three minute cup of tea at any time of day, even if he is running late, even if he needs to be somewhere yesterday

he says "There is always time for a cup of tea with you." And that three minutes feels unrushed and expansive (though truth be told I think it often stretches into 4 and once, and I don't know how, 28 whole minutes).

How I love that man.

For many three minutes at a time.

Who says I must give up my time? Can't the new work-world adjust to me? I sulk. For a whole 30 seconds. It doesn't make any difference.

In a rush of self-righteousness I reach up to the clock on the wall, to grab it and change the time to the correct time: MY time.

But the bugger is stuck with a lock.

Grrr.

I adjust my watch. I guess I can always take it back again when I quit.

Or I can just be 3 minutes late today while I have a whinge.

A no-handed song in her heart

melissamain — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 12:42:00 GMT

It is not a day for bicycles

As she pedals downhill into a blustery headwind

A coldness just off pinpricking snow

Head down and hands burning

But, on recollection

T'was warm this morning

Spring-like, even

And with the wind behind her

She rode most of the way

With no hands

Arms out like a bird

Wind assisted

She avoided a late note

And a firm look

She is a teacher she should be on time

She is not meant to have fun

On the way to work

Deliciously so

Sunlit so

Whoops it was an accident

And she probably should use hands

She was wearing a helmet though

Model citizen she is

yes

But now she struggles

To get home to her dog

Who will be curled in the smallest of balls

In the back corner of the shed

Blown this way then that

She almost has to zigzag

Like a sailor cutting in too close to the wind

Hang on

Concentrate

Pedal

Don’t run into a parked car.

She spys a smug skateboarder

Jacket spread out like a sail

Gliding in the opposite direction

Oh but only if she lived to the south

She would not have to ride home into a

Northwesterly

But t’would be so much more harder

To get to work at all

Let alone on time

With a no-handed song in her heart.

SciFi Speedo Torpedoes

melissamain — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 11:55:00 GMT

I stand in my room and

pull on some slightly short white fishnet stockings over

some other slightly shorter white opaque stockings.

The cotton gussets overlap with a half inch gap and they still sit a good two inches below my crotch. mmm. attractive.

I start at the toes and pull them up inch by inch over my legs until they stretch. When the gussets sit where they are meant to my legs take on a shiny, crocheted appearance. I feel protected by their opacity.

I cast my eyes around the room in the hope of finding the right garment to go on top.

I spy my grandmother's torpedo boobed speedo swimsuit from the 60's. Big black and white geometric shapes, the bra cups separate the breasts up and out.

Oh yeah.

I am going to a Retro Sci Fi party.

On go the boots, a silver skivvy and a pair of fish eye glasses. My flatmate gives me a "gadget"...one of those backlit 20 question games that I attach to myself with a string.

And as the final touch (since I have a fair amount of room in there)

I hide a flashing blue light inside my left torpedo cup.

Off we go.

We arrive to a shiny place filled with lights and tin foil and retro and not so retro beats. We make our way through aliens, tinfoiled folk, people wearing stack hats, plastic bag tutus and various shades of glowstick. and spandex, did I mention the spandex?

We dance and talk and drink and dance and shake our torpedoed boobs in concentric circles. We try not to try not to catch our nylon on fire. We try not to poke our short friends eyes out with our torpedos.

Every now and then I get tired and go and sit by the fire and play 20 questions with tripping stripy coneheads

And watch furry men talk to shiny women dance with robotic cyborgs sing with wierd aliens pat the back of a vomiting man who came in a dress just cos he heard there was a dress up party and thought a man dressed as a woman is welcome anywhere.

I speak to a space man with a big curly wig who keeps disappearing up a tree. He watches me watching everyone else.

Oh, he says, you're the girl with the flashing breast.

That would be me.

His best friend is David Bowie. Bowie also likes the tree and climbs along the branch to urinate in a long arc into the neighbours yard. If it glowed in the dark it would be more sci fi.

There is a cat who sits by the fire, in the middle of this sci-fi craziness and just purrs.

I wonder what planet she is from.

At messy-time (much later than the usual 2am) I decide it is time to leave. I pull the flashing light out of my boob and use it to light my way home.

It is a true human relief to peel each layer of nylon off my body

And finally go to the loo on planet Earth.

Coming home.

melissamain — Wed, 1 Jul 2009 11:19:00 GMT

When is the right time to come home?

For some people it is a year

For others a month

For my sister who went to Hawaii it was 2 days

(I got a postcard that said "Hawaii is alright, but I miss my dogs. Oh yeah, and my boyfriend. I want to go home now. I want a vegemite sandwich. Can't believe I have 10 days to go. I'm going to die.")

When we travel we want a break

from our lives, our families, our friends, our problems, our work, the hole in the roof, the door that doesn't shut properly, the cat who doesn't love us and poos daily on the bathroom floor

maybe we want a solution

We at least want a punctuation mark. That's the end of that section. next section please. One with a nicer cat.

There's people

who never want to go home

They travel for as long as they can afford it, beg or borrow as much as they dare, eventually come home kicking and screaming

and by the time they arrive on their front step

already have one foot out the door

and eyes set to another faraway place

feet itching in their dusty shoes.

Are they running away from something? they ask themselves. They run faster to avoid answering.

When I travel I'm not looking for that perfect picture

or that perfect travel tale

Or the bungee jump rush

I seek a feeling

that is hard to define.

And my dad says he has never needed to travel. cos he travels in his head. and he can see the funny side of life. The cat knows what the bathroom is for.

I travelled until all I could think about

was my life, my home, my family, my friends, my life's work, my dreams,

and how I really didn't mind if the cat pooed in the bathroom.

At least it's not on the carpet.

and I travelled a really long way to realise

what I really wanted was to be home.

And I now I am really glad I am there.

I think I shall stay this time.

Over the dust

melissamain — Thu, 14 May 2009 19:41:00 GMT

I have dust in my hair and dust up my nose. I hold a hankerchief there in case it will help. It doesn´t really. I look around the bus and no one else is bothered. Oh yes, there is a dainty looking Irish girl doing the same thing. I could be worried about other things...the relative speed of this rickety old Bolivian bus, the fact that the driver has come to a screeching halt several times and reversed back through a tunnel cut into the mountainside, the fact that the side of the bus I am on seems to be held on with little more than a few screws, it wobbles so much.

But no, I worry the dust.

I feel so dry. I feel like I haven´t had water for months, barely seen a cloud and certainly haven´t had a bath or a swim. How I ache for a good bit of rain.

I realise how much I need my little friend H₂O.

Not just on a biological level but in a comforting, spiritual, fertile way. No water = no life. My lips are kept supple only by the constant application of a dwindling tube of pawpaw ointment. I have cracks in my nose and in the corner of my eyes. No amount of bottled water seems to slake my thirst. O dream at night of rainfall and gently flowing rivers and freshwater lakes.

I think how in the first desert place I visited, I asked if people have gardens. the answer was no cos of the water requirements. But they watered the roads in front of their houses... I realised after a while that if they didn´t do this, more road would be up their noses and in the air than on the road. Dust. All turning to dust.

How I went over the Andes, hoping for green, and saw snow as dry as dust and air with no humidity it ached cold in my lungs.

To the coast, dreaming of jungles and dampness. Forgetting that a desert meeting a salty salty sea would have little hope of real wet damp humidity. Only salt. Dusty salt and salty dust.

I´ve loved the desert...its colours, its silence, the miraculous life that manages to survive there. But I feel so dry. So dusty and dry.

We reach our destination and I am handed my backpack that was blue and now is the same colour as the road, the air, the walls, the sides on the bus, people´s feet, people´s faces, all the stray dogs and inside my face: dust.

I hit the pack a few times, and clouds of polverised dry earth rise up to meet my aching eyes and nostrils.

It´s time to go somewhere wetter, I think.

I am over the dust.

I got the hips of a cowgirl

melissamain — Sun, 10 May 2009 09:16:00 GMT

I'm on a horse, clip clopping through a dusty border town.

The horse's name is something in spanish I can no longer remember. Names don't matter, not between a cowgirl and her steed. We communicate through the reins, my hands and my thighs. I sit straight and feel the warmth of his belly on my calves and the roughness of the reins in my palms. I feel somewhat at home, strangely, since I am no expert in the realm of horse. But I've never fallen off. That's pretty good, I tell myself in quietly prideful undertones.

They give me a faux-leather cowgirl hat, which I gratefully take in place of a floppy fall-off-able felt number I adopted a few weeks ago. This one has a string and smells of sweat. yeah. horse-riding sweat. I have the string done up under my chin in case it falls off in the dusty wind or when I wildy head off into the sunset. Just in case.

My hips get used to the sway of the horse as my guide, also with a name unrecalled, tells me his story. He has been riding since he could walk. And taking tourists horseriding since he was twelve. He loves his town, loves his horse, earns about 2 dollars a day and just dumped his girlfriend on the weekend. It is better this way, he explains, more freedom. He looks meaningfully at me cos he knows I will know what he means. He is 18 years old, bless him. He asks if I have a boyfriend. I tell him about my fictitous Australian lover who works too hard and can't get away to travel with me. And how its better this way. He knows what I mean.

We continue riding and turn out of the town towards some rocky mountains to the south. I am just thinking how tranquilo this all is, clip clop, and how nice it is to be out of the city, clip clop, and how perhaps I am really a cowgirl at heart clip clop and how I really should have booked the overnight horseriding adventure under the stars, clip clop; when my guide looks at me and says "You want to gallop?"

So yeah, I've been on a horse before. I even took lessons, way back in school. And somewhere, in that deep dark half-functional memory of mine, I recall this word. I think it means fast. And I think I remember liking it. But I can't be sure. And for some reason, there are a few glaring CAUTION signs flashing up in my brain.

Which I dutifully ignore.

I am here, in the spirit of adventure, with a highly qualified guide, a fantastic horse, a saddle that looks mostly secure, shoes that don't quite fit into the stirrips and a faux-leather cowgirl safety hat. Gallop? Hell yeah!

"ummm. OK..."

He tells me that if I am scared to hold onto the front of the saddle. I don't think he knows how important that tiny little bit of information will be to me. I am sure, now, that I would have fallen off my horse and died from a crack to the head (despite my cowgirl hat) if I hadn't known I was allowed to hang on to that saddle for dear life.

His horse starts to run, and mine, the elder by 4 years, is not keen to let the little upstart win. He bolts as fast as he can, nose forward as I cling to the saddle with my left hand, the reins with my right and the saddle with my thighs. After the initial bump to one side, bump to the other side, slam back down onto the saddle and then back up into the air (repeat a few times) my body remembers the feeling of the gallop. so fast, so smooth, so good! I only amost fall off about 5 times. But I love it!

Oh, but my body, though enamoured of the rush, is not quite physically prepared. Of course, normally, lying around, eating some food, lying around some more, getting on a few cramped overnight buses followed by jumping on a horse for 3 hours would be just considered normal training.

Not sure what went wrong. But now I can't move. And I have a blister on my left hand.
And maybe one on my ass.

Lost in La Paz

melissamain — Fri, 8 May 2009 03:22:00 GMT

The beds are hard and lumpy, the only shower that works is lukewarm, breakfast is not included, all rooms open out onto the central, very loud courtyard where groups of Israeli backpackers sit and smoke endless cigarettes. But it does smell better than the hostel next door. But it still smells like the Witches market outside. (that would be the special smell of freeze-dried llama foetuses, coca leaves, sugar, alcohol and special coloured teas)

"We´ll take it!" I say with enthusiasm. Amiga una does not look pleased, but after accidentally staying in a hotel with hot water, an elevator, breakfast and cable TV last night, it is time to see the real Bolivia, no?

si. she agrees with reluctance.

We choose to spend as little time as possible there. not that this means we go very far. For La Paz is a hilly place, I am still affected by the altitude, and La Paz is cheap.

And we are staying in tourist shopping mecca.

People love you to buy things here. And they laugh when you don´t. For Everybody sells the same stuff, and they know it is just a matter of time until your will is bent to the tourist shopping master and you WILL purchase. Maybe from them, or maybe from their neighbour. But the nature of the tourist market seems to be fair...for they all seem to sell something.

When we tire of the bright colours of tourism, we head uphill...and into the real markets of La Paz. Here it is like 20 square blocks of a crazy outdoor supermarket that repeats itself. We start in suit-street, work our way down fruit lane, across cleaning avenue, through bakery way, around and around party goods and stationary and baby clothes and

I am still sure I have my bearings. I have a great internal compass I tell amiga una.

We sit to rest and indulge in my new favorite thing: Api. A hot, thick drink made from purple (morado) or white (blanco) corn. I am not hungry, but I am so excited to find it here in shopping-labrinth, I will have one anyway. We order a mezclado (a mix) of the two flavours and sit down to drink it with the accompanying deep fried almost-empty-except-for-a-small-piece-of-cheese empanada. I am totally in love with this drink, no joke. Can someone please start making this in Melbourne?

Then we go back to our cheap hostel.

Well, we try.

My bearings seem somewhat addled after the Api...but I´m sure I could smell the witches market somewhere closeby. Llama foetus is not a smell easily forgotten.

We walk and walk. it is dark now and people are packing up. we walk and walk. we look at a map...we walk and walk a bit more. It should be as simple as just going downhill... Shouldn´t it? We finally ask directions and a man in a drycleaning shop draws us another map...it is better he says. it bears no resemblance to our map, or the actual streets we go down. So apparently La Paz isn´t built on the idea of the "grid". We are lost. Whoops. Thanks heaps, internal compass. I look up at the sky in the fiant hope I can see the southern cross for navigation. No, this is a stinky city, I remind myself.

In the end, I think we found home by pure luck. And by our noses. Ahh sweet, stinky, lumpy home. I was relieved, as I realised that I have never ever been that lost before. But as long as there is an Api shop in that lost somewhere, I don´t think I mind.

Half of too much

melissamain — Fri, 1 May 2009 19:25:00 GMT

Sound advice from a tired friend:

Its good to cover an eye she says

as she sits and covers an eye, she says

head down on the table

cos she´s no longer able

to make sense of it all

cos she is muy cansada

it´s too hard this, she says

trying to speak, she says

in a language not her own

in a town so far from home

where people don´t wear seatbelts

and feed her endless pizza pie

it´s good to cover an eye

cos half of too-much

might be just enough to cope.

says I, both eyes wide and aching from the glare.

Patience honed

melissamain — Fri, 1 May 2009 13:50:00 GMT

I have patience honed

I sit on a boat, waiting, whilst the captain, a smiling man with leathery skin, a handknitted hat and dry dry feet does something underneath the decking. His first mate hustles up some more business. I am grateful for this, as I am trying to do the right thing and catch the colectivo that is owned by the islanders, not the people from the mainland who run exploitative businesses to Taquille, but, being the real deal, is also quite plainly the oldest boat at the port...and currently, the one with the least number of passengers.

So I sit and wait as one by one, two by twos, people with their bags and baskets and boxes and babies and backpacks slowly fill the inside of the boat. I sit in the sun and wait. Patience honed.

When the boat is full, the captain makes moves to leave, untying ropes and getting a long pole to push us off.

Off we go...putt putt across Lago Titicaca: a fresh water lake at no less than 3600 metres above sea level. I have been out of breath for weeks and now is no different. I stare out the window at reeds and other, faster boats passing us with "Taquille Tourista three stars" written on their sides. We pass the Uros, floating reed islands which have become floating tourist traps, as I discover when I re-meet a travel friend who was trapped overnight on one that was 20x20 metres with "the most horrible people" she had met in Peru. Nice.

We chat and sleep and dream of all the snacks and beverages that everyone else knew ahead of time to purchase. Not me. I get on a boat not knowing really where it is going or how long it is going to get there. With no provisions. "Oh. this is the ridiculously long 3 hour boat ride they talk about in the Lonely planet" says my friend. I have the lonely planet. only I have ripped out pages I thought I wouldn´t need. I wonder if that was one of them.

So all is good, if not a little hungry, for 2 and a half hours. I look at the view of the beautiful blue water, the terraced hills, the snow capped mountains, the lady knitting a little toy sheep to sell for 1 sole on the street...I ignore the constant snacking of my peruvian travel mates to my left. I also ignore the fairly regular bailing out of the bottom of the boat into the wooden toilet to my right. Are we meant to be that close to the surface of the water?

So that would be when the engine stops. Most people don´t even look up, which makes me think this is a normal occurance. The captain moves some bags, boxes, baskets and babies to get at the hole in the floor. Gee. that water is quite close to those electrical wires, I think to myself.

They do some bailing, then do some cranking, first with the ignition, then with a piece of rope they untie from the side of the boat. I should take a picture while I still think this is funny.

People start checking their mobile phones. no reception.

And now I play shipwrecked.

Dammit I am hungry.

The guy starts bailing the water into the toilet faster.

We are all a little nervous now. We can see our destination. I reckon 5 km...maybe I could swim it. at sea level and 24 degrees.

Patience. Melissa. Patience honed.

But no, there is a boat heading slightly in our direction. One man gets out a mirror and starts flashing it. Hell, I have a mirror too, so I join in. Everyone is waving. One girl waves the boat´s red and white flag.

And yet they look like they are going to go straight past us.

We start yelling. And yes, I pull out my incredibly loud wolf whistle usually reserved for loud music festivals.

Our soon-to-be rescuers swing around and head towards us to our applause and cheers. I don´t make a big deal of the fact that it was plainly my whistle that saved the day.

The the boat arrives and then...

they try and bargain with the captain for some extra cash.

Ahh Peru.

But they tow us to Taquille anyway. bless

And technically we are only 2 hours late. That is actually on time in Peru.

La drunken perdida

melissamain — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 06:25:00 GMT

She is passed out on the couch to the side of the bar. Though she rouses herself enough to lean over the arm of the chair and throw up. I can´t see her face, but she is pale and wears the tell all travel shoes.

-Do you speak English? I ask, confident of her reply. She nods her head, her eyes closed. Obviously not capable of said English at the moment however.

-Do you have English speaking friends here? She nods again.

-Travelling with you? nod.

I leave her to scour the bar for people who do-not-belong: pale (or overly tanned) quick dry pants and "genuine peruvian souvenier" earrings, who are struggling with the salsa beat but swaying a little from the 2 pisco sours they just drank. I don´t find any. The little buggers have left.

I return to her vomitous side.

-Do you know where you´re staying? a nod.

-Do you know how to get there? a shake

Can you tell me the name of it? a shake

Can you write it down? a nod.

We get a pen and she struggles to write something illegible down. I translate it as "Femandss". I ask one of the locals if he knows this, he shakes his head. "There is no such place"

Do you know the address? a shake. The local asks a taxi driver, the doorman, looks it up in the phone book all to no avail. there is no place called Femandss. Great, she had alcohol induced dyslexia as well.

-Look I will walk you to where you think it is, and then if we can´t find it you can stay at my hostel. nod

We drag her up and put her against a pole while I say my goodbyes to my new friends. She is someones sister, I guess, and now I have to help. Damn my conscience. She falls to the ground.

We pick her up and off we go.

-Do you have money? she puts her hand to her pocket and mumbles "It´s gone". Great. and now she´s been robbed.

For more than an hour we go up and down the streets as she vaguely sobers up and says "I know it is down THIS street", "this street" "Maybe this one". I practice my patience. I hold her hand and her arm to steady her walk. We ask people as we go: I explain in broken spanish: she is perdido: lost, do you know where a three star hotel that might be called Femandss is?

What else do I have to do, really? She only got here today. got to the hostel, walked to the plaza then went and had dinner and a few drinks. Apparently the altitude can make it hit you harder. I am being kind, understanding, patricupating in someone´s "near miss" travel tale. I have had more than enough travel angels, now it is time to be one.

But then I get tired

-We are going to my hostel. a nod.

We walk

On the corner before my hostel she says

"but when we get to your hostel I´m goign to my hotel cos i know where it is now"

I. slightly. Lose it.

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME? I HAVE JUST SPENT TWO HOURS MAKING SURE YOU DONT GET KILLED OR RAPED...DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR HOTEL IS? a shake

DO YOU HAVE ANY MONEY? a shake

DO YOU HAVE ANY FRIENDS HERE? shake

DO YOU SPEAK ANY SPANISH AT ALL? a shake

sorry, but freaking hell, it is bedtime.

She quietly comes back to my hostel and i tuck her into one of the dorm beds.

My the time I wake up, she is gone.

Thank god.

el Pelea de Toros

melissamain — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 05:38:00 GMT

There is a sea of pale straw larger-than-life cowboy hats that only come out on occasions such as this. We purchase an umbrella from one of the dudes walking around which later inspires the occasional beer bottle caps to be thrown at us throughout the afternoon for we are obviously spoiling the view for some dickhead behind us. But when a charming young boy comes and says "Señoras, por favor...please put your umbrella lower" I rest it on my shoulders in aquiescence.

We sit and everything we could want comes to us. Umbrellas, hats, beer, softdrinks, corn on the cob with cheese (choloco con queso), deep fried pork fat...

We watch as a truck drives around in ever decreasing circles to wet the dusty playing field. We aren´t here to watch football (tho in this part of the world, thats what most other spectators are doing on a sunday). We are here to see el Pelea de toros: the bullfight.

I said no, straight out, when I was asked to come along, but on assurance that there would be no blood, I decided to come.

And so far it isn´t too bad: My umbrella is sheltering me and my Swedish neighbour from the sun, I have a glass of orangeade and some corn, I have been watching men in white with big hats and red scarves walk around in lines, listening to some fine charanga music that is being pumped out of the loudspeakers that competes with a band off in the far left corner and I stare at the snow covered mountain in the near distance. There is a fiesta energy that only many people gathered in an afternoon for food, booze and sport can bring, and I bask in it. (And try not to get burnt)

The first bulls are brought out with great ceremony. They are pulled in via ropes and then their owners stand next to them and use various techniques to makes them fiesty. YOu might think this would be some sort of violent affair but they seem to whisper sweet nothings in their ears and rub their head and flanks. They then take the ropes off and step back...The crowd holds it´s collective breath.

While the two bulls stare determinedly in opposite directions, chew cud and pretend the other one is not there.

This goes on for a while, to the laughter of the crowd. The owners tell the bulls that the other one insulted their mother, left a cowpat on their pillow and said that they were UGLY, and finally pull their heads so that they have to engage...and then the fight is on.

We are going for the smallest one, cos he is called Draco and is a slightly funny grey colour. They have locked horns and both try and push as hard as they can till the other one gives up and runs away in fear or boredom. This type of bullfighting is considered by most Peruvians to be a distinct moral improvement on the other type of bullfighting where one is actually killed by a human in a fancy costume. I can´t disagree.

Draco is by far the strongest, and he pushes the other one right outside of the arena (I am glad we chose seats halfway up the stands), but on some deliberation, the fight is started again from the middle (since Drac´s opponenet didn´t technically run away), and by this point Draco is tired and he runs away with his tail between his legs.

And then stands still, sticks his head and tail out and

cries for his mother.

The shame. Not his, but my own: that I have watched this kind of thing for sport. The feeling at this point is small however: it takes three more fights and a bloody eye to make me and my neighbour choose to stand up and squeeze our way out of the arena 4 fights before the finale.

Sure this sport is an improvement on the let´s up and kill the bull type of fighting...

But i never was the sporting type.

Though I want one of those hats.

Up we go

melissamain — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 01:08:00 GMT

Up we go.

6075 metres above sea level is our goal.

We cheat by getting a troupie to drive us up to 4030. I get out of the car with a dizzy head. My lungs try to be bigger. My heart pumps faster to try and compensate.

We pack our bags and walk the longest kilometre of my life. I stop every 10 steps to get my breath. My head spins and I fear toppling over and down the side of the volcano, like the occasional rock that passes me on it´s way to the bottom.

When we finally get to base camp, it is a mere 5021 metres above sea level and my head feels like it is going to explode, I can barely move and every 2 minutes or so I fear I shall vomit. This is gunna be fun.

Everybody else seems to be ok. We all get into bed at 3pm cos the sun goes behind the mountain and we can really feel the snow. I am cold and sick yet still of good humour.

The plan is to eat at 7, sleep, wake at 1am and walk to the top and return by midday. If I can stand up, that is.

By the time our guides have made dinner, I have outright decided that there is no fucking way I am going any higher. I cannot breathe, I cannot think and there is no way I can eat. They make me coca tea and something else herbal that smells great, tastes foul and allieviates my nausea for about half an hour.

The next 6 hours are a meditative cycle of nausea, booming headaches, cold feet, shortness of breath and wierd semi-dreams. "Think positive" says Amit, my tentmate, "Tomorrow, you will climb, to be sure". He is 25, Israeli, has no problem with the Altitude and is the one who comvinced me to come on this little silly adventure in the first place. I refrain from punching him. It would take too much effort, plus my mummy sleeping bag keeps my numbed hands close.

When they wake at 1 (Amit wakes everyone, concerned that they are sleeping in) I cannot freaking move. Adrian, our guide, brings me coca tea in bed and agrees with me that the best plan is for me to stay there. I take a special Altitude sickness tablet, put my sleeping bag into Amit´s sleeping bag (the best thing I have done all day) and fall asleep as I listen to my group walk away up a mountain with crampons on their boots.

I wake about an hour later to the sound of someone walking around my tent, footsteps regular and terrifying in the snow. What the fuck. Oh my god, I´m going to die. Up a mountain, cold, nauseous and having paid 200 soles for the privelege.

It takes me a minute to realise the sound is merely by heart pumping blood past my ears at a great rate. The Altitude pills have caffeine in them. Caffeine gives me palpitations and paranoia. I relax at this thought and fall back asleep.

I am too tired to get myseof out of bed for the sunrise. By about 9 I drag myself up to piss behind a rock. Then back to bed. The tent warmer in the sun. I try to breathe deeply but it seems to make no difference.

One girl comes back early, alone. No sleep, the brightness of the snow, the lack of oxygen and water (all the water bottles are frozen solid) mean an exhaustion beyond anything she has felt before and she crawls into the tent beside mine and sleeps. I congratulate myself on my quitting attitude.

The others return after 1pm. Exhausted and light headed. One guy has heat exhaustion and is shivering. I lend him my hat. I almost cry with the effort required to pack my bag for the trip down. 24 hours of this kind of thing is my limit I think. Against my ecological and physiological wishes I agree to follow the guide down the quick way using poles to steady my imbalance. It is like skating down the sandy gravel. It is kinda fun, really, in a bad-for the mountain-erosion kind of way.

2 hours down from base camp, halfway back to town, I smile my first smile and laugh my first laugh as Roxette comes on the radio. I feel normal again.

The mountaineering life is not for me.

I am never ever going to do that again.

Oh it´s the convent life for me sing it

melissamain — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 10:22:00 GMT

But today, I´m playing being a nun.

I pay a large fee at sunset to be allowed into a 15th Century convent. Someone leaves candles in the corners of the rooms so one can see ghosts in the the twisting, rocky, catacomb-like, barricaded city within a city.

"Always stay left", the lady at the front says, "so you don´t get lost". What do you mean? Getting lost is exactly what I want to do.

I am Sister Mary Melissa, sent here against my will ´cos I didn´t want to marry the dickhead down the road. So me, and my huge dowry (thousands of spanish gold coins)were toddled off to the nunnery. I am locked in a small living area that has a hard bed, a place for prayer and an outside cooking space that includes a pizza oven and a set of stairs that go nowhere. I like pizza, so no wuckers there. Not too keen on the lock or the stairs to nowhere though.

Apparently, many women spent most of their lives here, in seclusion, never seeing the horizon or walking in the public streets. Wearing horsehair vests and fasting. I don´t think I`ll fit in that well, though this specific convent had its hand slapped for allowing the nuns to live it up a bit: "the nuns shall from now on only be allowed ONE servant each". Come on, thats a bit rough don´t you think, Priest dude? How will my nails get done?

So I twist my way through, trying to find the secret way out to my lover, which proves impossible, as most stairs or passages end in barbed wire, a dead end, a locked heavy wooden door or back where I started. There are lots of ceramic glossy sculptures of men stuck up on crosses in various states of agony. There are lots of pictures of priests with bad hair or nuns in various states of piousness. There is one lovely picture of a nice looking lass holding a bubba that looks a little on the chubby side.

As a nun I have to cook in a massive cauldron with a massive wooden spoon. This is fun. The sweeping and cleaning isn´t fun because lets face it, these rocks collect grime.

I end up in a cell slightly bigger than the others and remember that even though I can´t ever have a lover for the rest of my freaking life, I can still eat pizza AND

I can sing to the lord.

So I belt out the only hymn I know: Amazing Grace.

And then for good measure I also sing Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes by Paul Simon.

I reckon the old nun who lived and died there wouldn´t have minded.

No one came and told me off or locked me back in my cell anyway.

Reality Check 101

melissamain — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 02:29:00 GMT

She swings dramatically between two camps: 1) wanting to go home now and 2) to keep travelling, finding new homes and new friends forever. These two extremes oscillate with the time of day, amount of food in her belly, liquid in her head, how many hours she has been on a bus and how many backpackers she can hear in the immediate vicinity. In the last week, there has been a dramatic shift towards the unpleasant side of travelling, to be sure.

Apart from the usual lonely and tired space that life can exist in, no matter what you do, there is another layer of exhaustion that exists in the life of a traveller, methinks, that differs from that of the stationary life.

Travelling is for the rich. Even if you think you are poor and have a bare 200 soles to rub together, you are still rich, cos you know that you can do it. You have the education that promotes it, and you have had a job at some point that has earnt excess money that you now choose to spend on hedonism. (Even if that hedonism involves long bus rides with stinky seat neighbours)

When you travel in a developing country, it is no longer possible to ignore the effects of capitalism, wealth, poverty, colonisation and the breakdown close family units. These things happen all the time in your own country, but you are an expert at avoiding it. Here, you don´t know how to avoid it: with people passed out on the pavement, hats shoved into your face to beg for money and taxi drivers literally running to get to you first.

And you can´t ignore the effect that you, as an outsider with a backpack, a good education, no mouths to feed and money to burn, have on these people. There can be at worst a hatred and at best an apathy in their dependancy on the tourist. And you would have to be devoid of all of your senses to be unaware of it.

Now this doesn´t happen everywhere...by far the majority of the people she has met are open and honest and giving and content with their lot in life. But these are people with whom the travellers they have met have offered an open, human exchange: with food, language, stories, smiles or friendship. These people are often on the edges of the tourist zones, in places where people take time to interact, have conversations, buy real food or items needed for living, not only wierd little souveniers that forever concrete a culture into a static box.

For one week I have been on a bus at least once every 24 hours. Accidentally on the backpacker trail. And I have been astounded by the difference 50,000 pleasant, young people with good intentions, money to burn, speedy itchy feet but no clue, can make to the feeling of a place. It is completely unreal. It can be dangerous. It makes me feel funny. It makes me want to go home.

Home where I know how to ignore the seedier side of affluence.

But travel is slow here. There´s no scotty to beam me up.

So I leave my backpack behind at kind old lady Thelma´s and walk to the other side of town. Where I am stared at, and every now and then whistled at...

But every time I slip into a corner shop and buy a coke, an empanada, a safey pin or a banana I am greeted with real smiles and laughter at my terrible spanish and miming that is far more valuable to me than a "Genuine Andean" wall hanging. And I give a little back with my antics and my little moneys and stories of my family.

And I don´t feel so bad.

Yeah, I could do this forever.

The full moon harvest

melissamain — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 11:35:00 GMT

By the light of the full moon they dig a hole in an ancient ritual modernised by the regular flash of multiple rich tourist Argentinian cameras.

The hole is for Pachamama: the Earth Goddess.

"You put in what you want the Earth to give you back" says Don Carlos

They light candles and stick them in the bottom, then throw in coca leaves (I do this too, though I would rather throw in a song or a soulmate while we´re at it, but we must make do), cigarettes, a white spirit that makes a blue flame lick the edges of the hole and red red wine. Then they cover it up with dust.

Everyone gets into a truck,4x4, car or motorbike and rides through the dust to the grapes where we must pick pick by hand and by blade as much little blue grape as we can. By only the light of the moon (and some of the stinky truck headlights). My hands are sticky with juice.

3 days later: the product of the harvest now needs to be turned into juice. Best done by teams of women competing against each other for the glory no less. I am put in front of 200 people as the guy from the radio explains that the poor Australian girl is willing to enter but she need a team...as a result (and to prevent a grape squash war) I have to be in two different teams.

So. This is how I find myself at eye level,(Of course I am wearing a skirt) knee deep in a cured cowhide trough, holding onto a pole for dear life while I try my darnedness to squash what will become very expensive wine out of little blueish grapes. The audience laughs at the Aussie girl with no clue. The squeezed juice, theoretically, comes out (no joke) the arsehole of the cowskin into a bucket. But ours, as I learn when I finally finish my first minute, had a blockage, and whilst the other team got two buckets full from their 22 year old amazon competitor, I got about a cup full. damn.

Anyway, to cut to the chase, I was freaking exhausted after 2 go´s.

But Carlos rigged it anyway, so both my teams won our "catergory" (which quite obviously must have been the smallest amount and girls with the least clue).

After we got our prize, then I was made to sing songs in English, into a microphone to 200 people eating empanadas, drinking wine out of refilled coke bottles, standing, surreally, under the shade of about 15 Australian blue gums, about 50 metres away.

I was famous. Small kids had their photograph taken with me. I made the local radio. No one understood a word.

"NOW you can leave. You have left your fingerprint behind in Fiambala." Says Don Carlos.

One sticky, dusty, drunken and guitar sore fingerprint.

The best game ever

melissamain — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 10:48:00 GMT

I'm playing hide and seek. On this computer that is a french expat and hides the keys from me.

Only the most useful ones...ovbiously I use the 'a', 'm' and '.' keys way too much for the french alphabet...

Now I think of it I have been playing lots of games here in Fiambalà (note this is typed without internet access, they had a storm about a month ago that fried the modem in town).

"Let's see how much sleep it is humanly possible to take in a single 24 hour period": thats a fun game. I could blame the tiny 1500 m above sea level for my laziness, but I think the Argentinan "tranquillo" is more the culprit. That and it is hard work translating recipes for 3 hours. Though even 3 year olds seem to be able to stay up past 1am and still get up before 10. Though they also have about a 4 hours siesta.

"Dodgepoo" or "Puppy excrement obstacle course" is also a favorite. Sadly, against my best intentions, after two weeks, I am finding "Nanny" a little male fluffy canine thing completely adorable. Same goes for the 2 year-old human puppy called Sara who named the perrito (which with this local accent is pronounced aptly Pe-shit-o). And I thought I was immune to cute.

"Findaword: hidden fibre". Argentinians eat mostly processed hangover food. There is no fibre. Though in desperation I even tried "helado con fibre": yes that is fibre added to icecream. cos that makes it healthy. I believe in the culinary experience of travelling. I came here prepared tor the empandana that would give me traveller´s diarrhoea. Obesity and constipation will make you seek out those empanadas on purpose. And everyone must be very higienic here cos I´ve had none.

And my favourite:

"Try and find a ride to Chile-treasure hunt" this game has been going for days, the process is this:

1. reject a perfectly good offer a week prior for no good reason except you didn't feel like moving (see game 1).

2. Ask everyone you meet in terrible Spanish and mime if they know of anyone driving to Chile.

3. Figure out that what they are saying is ask Someone else. Someone called Johnson in a tourist shop.

4. Find a tourist shop but forget Johnson's name. Apparently there was a guy who left on Wednesday with an Australian girl. That would be my friend taking the sensible option I rejected.

5. Ask around again, this time get told to go to other tourist place. They have no idea. But I should try the Municipal hotel.

6. Go to municipal hotel. They say everyone left this morning, try again tomorrow, but most people go to the border and then return in the afternoon. Maybe try Maria. Who is Maria I say, Gomeria they say I say please write that down, is that far? Yes, take a taxi.

7. Reject this idea, since I dont know what a gomeria is and suspect it is a tyre shop. Find some hippies in the street who say I should try the army guys who drive up everyday...army guys, wait, is that this? A note in my pocket that says Gendarmaria... si.

8. Walk 4 km in heat to army guys who say no, bugger off freak girl (well since I only understood a fraction of what he actually said, I made up the rest). Try hithching, or ask johnson at tourist police.

9. Locate the real live Johnson who says there is nothing but try the roadworks guys 2 km down that other road

10. Buy rasins for the journey. Eat them.

11. They say they left yesterday, try municipality hotel

12. Find a dentist on a bicycle who gives you a map and calls the border guys to see if you can stay there if no lift, and makes you promise to email him when you get there cos he wont sleep until you do. The plan is to get a lift to the border, and stay there until a lift to Chile comes though.

13. Buy supplies for a possible 2 days in the desert.

14. Get up at 5am and wait at hotel on off-chance someone is leaving.

15. Give up at 10am and go and stand on corner with a little sign saying "Chile" (sorry mum)

16. After 2 hours, and eating half of your chocolate, give up and go and catch a bus in the opposite direction.

17. Eat nothing but salami and boiled eggs for two days on a bus.

18. Don´t ever complain, cos you actually truly enjoyed the whole week-long process. Theres not that much else to do here.

Un cancion Castellano, Una canciona Australiana

melissamain — Sun, 5 Apr 2009 05:18:00 GMT

Un cancion Castellano

Un cancion Australiano

One Spanish song, One Australian song he says with the confidence of a Rajah.

We have found Carlos, a young man in a much much older body, from a family of winemakers. Here at his bodega (vineyard) for the late season harvest. He speaks English, has taken a shine to two Australiana backpackers and has been taking us to little vineyards, to the thermal springs, feeding us Asado, Humitas, Tamales and of course, wine. We are not complaining.

But we have been asked to sing for our supper, as Amiga una had let slip that I like to sing. I try to return the favour, but she will have none of it. The onus is on me. (though to be fair she will sing along)

Tonight we sit round a makeshift table, glorious red wine in plastic cups, remnants of a pig-asado on big plates.

Someone brings out a guitar. Of questionable tuning. But ye old Señor in the corner rips out an old folklorica tune. And then eyes turn to me.

Un cancion Castellano,Un cancion Australiana. Carlos says. Sing something to make me happy.

Of course, I can't remember anyone else's song but my own. Actually, at thsi point I can't remember anything.

Someone pours more wine into my cup. por courage! they say with laughter in their voices.

Un cancion Castellano, Una canciona Australiana.

So I sing a song. Tongue loosened with good wine.

Pig fat, white bread and wine.

And a song to the stars and the acoustically echoing winery shed behind me as I sit on a wine crate (I do fall off at one point I recall) and try to avoid the challenging gaze of un old Señor in the corner, who later, when I have so much courage I can't sing any more, sings what sound like the same song ten times in a row.

I wobble a little as we get a lift home to a room that is so completely dark in my drunkeness I need to put a foot on the floor so I know which way is up.

When I wake in the morning, I vow to learn one song in Castellano.