3 Night Encore

Dazed and confused

I go past  huge long line of taxis that run an endless stream towards the bus terminal.  I don't know what's going on, but it reminds me of the protest last time.  I didn't mention that in my last blog, but there was total chaos in the city last time with people blocking the streets and cars honking…some protest., anyway, tired as I am, I don't catch a taxi, I just can't afford it, instead I walk up to the crossing police (like crossing guards/security officers/military police) up to the bus stop.  Next to some blue construction barriers the buses depart for the old city.  The commuters have formed a queue and stand silently in the noise and on the poorly lit concrete waiting with a combination of frustration and defeated resignation.  I know I don't have enough for fare.  As I try to find more coins a bus comes, I watch it…maybe I should get on?… I let it go.  I'm still trying to re-gather.  I've forgotten my jacket.  I walk back to the terminal. Back past the taxis….hundreds of them…the black and yellow smog belching serpent devouring passengers bags and all who too are lined up to meet the chain in a claddle (collective noun for travelers with wheeled luggage) of squawking and make-up domino precession who's tail works it's way back into the terminhell.  I get my jacket, ….thank god. And back past the spot-trotting mass of  teased hair and jackets on jackets.  Perhaps there are humans here, but they're hard to see under all of that. 

I go back to where I was standing at the bus stop.  As a bus comes I filter to the back of the queue as everyone pushes past.  I have a large denomination note and my coin.  I decide I will take the bus and be damed if I can't pay for the backpackers I don't even know is there.  As I go to get in I show my note to the driver with a face of,"…er…this is all I got…sorry" and he gesticulates me to come aboard. Here's a break, turns out it's after peak hours, so it's half price, and my 10c coin will do.  It's true I can't remember the real value of anything anymore, I just kinda remember how much I felt I was handing over.  Whether it's a conversion to NZD or USD or Uruguayan Pesos or some equivalent 'this would purchase an equal amount of split peas and barley soup mix' type conversion I have no idea, but I had money for the bus, isn't that enough for you??

I get off the bus in the huge independence square.  The big horse I perhaps over-estimated in size last time I described it seems entirely unaware there's only me here to look at his proud pose and continues on in pathetic triumph.  Hungry, and enormously fatigued, -still party shocked, I walk around a little, somewhat disorientated before I spot the backpackers.  It's a 'fuck-shack' style trendy designer backpackers for rich kids who are on their "OE", hear the quote, 'Yeah man, I'm a different person now that I've seen the inside of all these backpackers and arranged tour buses, and met other travelers in all parts of the world!"…… … ….   waahooo.       But I just need a place to sleep.  Also, I need to go on couchsurfing so I can arrange accommodation, 'cause when I get there, ….uuughhhh…….I'll be skint.  They have no rooms.  Great.    It's still right after canival, and well after dark…places are full up.  I try to get directions to go somewhere else but I can't remember what they say.

Now I have to head into the old city.  With my backpack, guitar…laptop….night…….This is where and when all four of the people I know who've been mugged were when they were robbed.  And I have far more to steal.   Actually Nicole and Katie were mugged during the day…. Hmmmm.    So I take a moment to put down my pack and gear and prepare a little.  I undo the velcro retaining strap on my Machete, check the angle and position it more precisely.  I take my small knife to my pocket - this is not the backup, the machete is a useful distraction but this little guy is the surprise. I Take a couple of practice reaches for the machete too and clasp the small knife lightly in my pocket.  To anyone looking I'm just a backpacker on his way to a hostel, but…I'm perhaps a little more defended than one would expect.  Oh yes, it's stupid…but everyone I know who's been mugged, was in similar or better situations, and an opportunist, without a gun, has attacked them.  I may be loaded to the hilt with heavy baggage, but if they don't have a gun, ¿will they risk being mortally wounded? ¿Or will they just go for an easier target?  So I'm ready.

I walk through the beautiful little square where the market usually is, and, with ears cocked, all battlestations manned, stride into the backstreets.   My gear doesn't rattle at all, no jingles of brushing…I guess that's no accident.  Years of living out of my backpack has ironed out little things like this, and right now, it's handy to be able to hear everything possible.  I actually don't know exactly where I'm going, but I have some idea, and …there it is.  Ciudad Veija Backpackers - haha, turns out Ger' was right, that IS the name of it.  Pincho Gringo.  The small doorway above a couple of tiles stairs is topped by a small square sign of black and orange that glows while the window in the door casts a small blush of light onto the rough street surface and pavement.  I ring the bell and the door clicks after some noise out an intercom.  I push it open in front of me and struggle clumsily, squeezing my way in turning and slipping.  I walk up a few more stairs to the counter and again, ask if they have rooms, but they're also all full.  This is looking dyer.  At the last place the guy called some places and they were all full, now this place is too, and the only other one in the area is closed from Bed-Bugs.  crap.  But I just ask the guy  to see if he can find a place for me. 

This seems such a natural question, but you may be surprised how often you forget to ask things like this.  Travelling is weird, you have to know when you to sort out the problem yourself, and when to get help.   Though it seems obvious, you don't always think to ask the right people.  As a traveller, you are constantly an investigator, weighing up the validity of recommendations, and discovering how to get around problems locals say are insurmountable, find the best places, get the best deals.  It's all about your information skills, keeping your ears open and chasing down little tidbits of overheard conversations.  Locations mentioned in casual conversation. If you want it to be that way that is.  Otherwise you could just look up the main attractions, take a bus there and back and snap a few pics, repeatedly, until you've "seen the world".

Anyway, turns out, this place has another branch, about 1 km (…maybe less) away, and they have rooms.  Sweet.  He gives me a small card with a map on it (must be a common thing…well…I guess it would be) and I head back out. 

Still at the ready, until I am safely back on the main street and out of the old city, I walk confidently but alertly back through the beautiful dappled candescence thrown from lights behind large old broad-leafed conifers of the square.  My footsteps are relatively loud on the white gravel of the symmetrical paths which lie in diagonals across the court, past the large white cherub-mounted fountain faced by park benches, one of which retains a couple I saw moments before, still entirely wrapped up in each others business, now one of whom, the man I suppose, gives the traditional, "I-just-saw-you-a-moment-ago-walking-in-the-other-direction-past-me", glance. Whatever dude, I'm looking for bandits.

¿Who else here thinks looks - as in facial communications should be written in speech marks? I mean, when someone gives you a look, ¿isn't it really the same as saying something?  Certain gesticulations deserve it too I guess….the, "oh-shit-I-forgot", head smack.  Hmmm….I guess it isn't the look or the smack that's in quotations, but you get the idea.  AAAAnyway

The day I tried to live

As I walk along the street, armed and still mulling on, chewing bitter spite at the Uruguayan girl and Passport bitch, I pass a beggar, and he asks for food, "I shake my head and say no…"

and there it is folks. 

Queue Soundgardens aforementioned song at full volume just as I realise hypocrite inhabiting me.  I have food.  I have a bag of potatoes.  I pause over whether to walk back and give them to him….¿But how can he cook them? ¿How can he eat? ¿Does he even want to eat?  ….but what do I know.  Maybe he's sizing me up, seeing whether a robbery is in order….maybe he has a few guys 'round the corner waiting.   yeah, …all this is possible and logical.  But really, what am I going to do? Be the guy who's to scared to help?  Turn a cold head, just in case I get taken advantage of, and leave my brother to go hungry?  and I do.  I leave him there.  As I rage over the girl who did a much smaller cruelty, I let a beggar go hungry…maybe.  But certainly because of fear.  Justified? sure whatever, we justify our actions, we have no courage.  I am a hypocrite and I go blank a while trying to weasel my way out of it.   Just in my mind.  My non-acceptance of self.    

Maybe I pissed her off.  Maybe she was stressed.  It's the same, it's fear based.  I think of society and our fear, her secrets….our secrets.

Villa de Veija

Anyway I get to the backpackers and it's huge and beautiful.  The long hall has 2 sets of double glass doors and I am buzzed through looking obviously tired and worn out.  A natural and friendly guy tells me they have rooms, thank fucking christ.

The building, as is common here, looks small from the street, but goes a long way back.  It has a huge lobby and dining area.  The lobby is high ceilinged and white, with a large mural of local attractions and place names circling the walls.  In the dining area, which has a hall down one side with doors opening into rooms, has a lower wooden ceiling, a TV and 2 large long wooden dining tables on each side, with a small fridge filled with beer and drinks next to a set of shelves which sits conspicuously in the small, arched doorway that flows into a large courtyard.  The courtyard is open air with black and white tiles.  A few backpackers sit in corners and glance up from laptops and books as I follow the receptionist to the kitchen - a small building just on the far side of the courtyard and beside of a series of steep red metal staircases leading up to higher rooms.  He shows me the kitchen, but can see I'm not particularly interested and I follow him on up the sharp incline of the thin staircase closest to the kitchen steeply upward, clucking my backpack up the sides to a room, above a room, above the kitchen. 

I like being up high, and I am pleased this will be my room.  He mentions that I will have the room to myself, and I ask, with confirmation, whether they have wifi.  Sweet.

I go on into my new habitation, it's got 6 beds and a window, everything's white and I have a little card to slip inside a visible metal frame that's attached to the side of whichever bed I choose.  This is to indicate 'Bed-in-use".  I think, as one always must, taking into account that this room will not be free (most likely) for 3 days, a lower bunk is better.  Actually a lower bunk is always better, because you have more space for your gear (under and around the bed) and you can hang a towel from the under-side of the above bed making it semi-private and less prone to light interference. 

People are very inconsiderate in Backpacker rooms, and will happily turn on lights and set music blaring even if everyone else is trying to sleep. This is common.  Very, very common and big reason why I don't like staying in backpackers.  I don't often get a good nights sleep.  It's also good to be away from the door, which is noisy and can be left open etc, and also good to be away from windows for the same reason.  Plug positions are crucial….but here…what th..? I can't find any!      that sux.       I can't find a single plug except one, as seems now so customary, 8' up a wall, in a corner, with wires bare and poorly taped…sticking out, hmmmm.  Well I still ry it and it works for about 30s before stopping, never to resume.  Ahh buggar it, I need to sleep anyway.

I put my gear on my claimed bed, and head downstairs.  I know I can't even afford to stay here for 3 nights, but I do have my credit card still sitting backup.  It's always an option.  Fuck it, I need a beer, so I ask if they sell them here - they do, for like $9, which is double the normal price.  I turn it down…but then…ahh fuk it, I'm tired, and I buy one.  I don't wana be kicked out of this place just 'cause I tried to smuggle a beer.  I know it's not bloody likely, but I am totally NOT in the mood for any surprises of that nature.  Turns out the shelving in the doorway of the dining area is the bar, and the tenderess pulls herself from a conversation in the courtyard that's still wet from recent rain and comes to serve when I ask at the desk about buying beer.  I sit alone on one of the huge wooden tables in the dining area a while quietly drinking.  Ger' once told me that fine Ale was compost for the soul, I can't remember if I told you that already, but his words are ringing in my ear as I sup and the larger, yes I know, the COLD larger, nurses my mental wounds.

I decide to cook and head to my pack to get some ingredients before acquainting myself with the neglected kitchen.   I'm still decidedly drunk with fatigue and I cut up a few potatoes clumsily throwing myself around the room.  In goes some garlic mmmm with them in a frying pan.  There's some spices in the shared food basket that sits on a small table by the window and I throw some into the mix.  Chopping is  awkward on said small table (obviously cooking isn't  a priority for the cliental here).  As usual, people come in and say it smells really good.  It's just garlic and potatoes with curry and cheap crap spices…but I know, I've been in backpackers enough.  The kids come with noodles, noodles and…noodles.  It's seems the 'developed' world over, no-one remembers how to cook, and if they do, their kids don't.

It's kinda important to know how to feed yourself no?

But me too man, when I was 21 I would have my daily dinner time conversation with my african neighbor outside on the drive as we watched the smoke as it cleared from my flat.  He would laugh and grin as only an african can at night, and I would wait while the ash-cloud billowed from my front door and kitchen window after whatever it was caught fire.  It took me quite a while to get the hang of it, then, 4 years later, I would become vegetarian and have to learn all over again! This time much to the constant delight of Scott, who saw me burn my weekly budget of food on pot after pot of disastrous soup and curry.  Still, ask for a meal now and I'll make you one with whatever you've got.  I am confident I can do a pretty fuckin good job.

It'll be a struggle when I go fresh…not looking forward to that learning curve.  Socrates called it a knack…well kind of.  Like a knack of imitating medicine.  Cookery, like a trick, fakes medicine.  It's true in my book. Sometimes I like the addiction though.

So I have my huge 1lt beer and potatoes and retire to my quarters.  I'm not in the mood to talk to anyone, I just wanna rest, send out a couchsurfing request..I get back to my room and do just that.  I send out a few requests, which munching on potatoes with curry hands.   One profile catches my eye, 'Ana Mayer'.  She speaks german, and I don't know why, but I get a good feeling when I see her profile.  I tend to trust (tend? nah, actually, more like completely trust) those feelings.  She looks German too, and I think that she must be a German who now lives in Brazil.  Cool, I hope she accepts.  I send out other requests too.  It's nice to have intuition, but the brain has it's place, and even though it creates fear, it can also help a great deal when you want to avoid those situations it deems as shit.  Remember, it's gonna be there if you are, so you may as well work with it on this stuff.

Though I have carefully chosen my bed, after a nice shower in the en-suite bathroom, I take the one above.  Because I like being up high.

All Apologies

The next day I post on Facebook that I am heading for Florianópolis.  I am exited, but still annoyed I will most likely miss the rainbow.  I never had any plan to go to Brazil, especially as I want to learn Spanish - not Portuguese….but anyway, I can see that I really had the decision taken from me, and when life grabs you, and pushes you to go in a certain direction, I have come to learn, it's always…well…seems to be, for the better.  Well, least of all it seems to turn out to be what you need.  So I expectantly wait for what lies ahead.  I guess it's all a frame of mind.

While online the Uruguayan Girl messages me.  She asks about where I'm going, tells me it's great…I try to be civil.  There's just no point trying to create love by sharing hate….and I remember the beggar….my hypocrisy.

She says look you know, I needed my space, blah blah blah y'know.   I remember the words, "just make sure you go somewhere, because you can't stay here".  Hmmmmmm

I still remember sitting there and thinking, what now? ….She was just like, "oh, I'd like to help you but I can't, go stay in a backpackers.  I don't know what to do, and.. thinking "my 'friend' is just completely fucking me over"  It was hard because  I've feel like I've had people fuck me over my entire life.  I guess a lot of people feel this way - especially the ones that don't admit it.  ahh….there's so many lies in the world.  How often do we give the advice we feel a person 'should' hear, rather then just telling them the truth about how we feel, and that we actually don't have a clue what the answer is. 

Anyway I told her it is ok.  I found a place in me that could relate on one level.  I know what it's like when you need your space.  Sometimes I think people need to know when they're being a bitch, but I always think, Are they going to listen to me? Or are they just going to defend their ego?  People have to tell themselves, you can't do it for them.

She says she was such a bitch, and I was so sweet.  She says all the right things.  She asks me to come back.  I decline, I don't feel the invitation is genuine, or that it's a good idea for her to be in control of my living situation again.  She has shown me what she will do, should the mood take her, and I want to avoid that.  She says like, oh, you know, come to our party on saturday and I'll make it up to you. 

Well…I can't really afford to stay at the backpackers 3 days.  It's just 1 night.  Maybe I'll drink all night…maybe I'll jam.  Of course I'll go…I love parties  I really wanna have a jam too.

The next day at the backpackers I charge my laptop while trying to download a film or software or something, and go out for a walk.  I have nothing much to do so I try to contact Federico.  He says that there is a band playing the the next evening and I should go with him.  It's just 'round the corner - why not?

As I walk I search for a book for which I've been looking for ages.  It's a children's book for a little frog in NZ, about a little frog in South America.  A few days before I went to the university with the Uruguayan girl, who invited me to her lecture.  When I got there with her she told me I probably wouldn't have anywhere to sit and that I probably shouldn't go in.  mmmmm

So after stewing for a while, I went for a walk looking in all the bookstores near the uni.  Bookstores are a big deal here, and books aren't cheap.  I don't know exactly why, but they have hundreds and hundreds of bookstores.  I ambled around for quite a while before going into a 1st and 2nd hand store, and I saw on the bargain shelf an old second hand copy of a Dr Seuss combined book.  I had about 6 stories, in near perfect condition, large pages and about $5.  What a bargain!  As I opened it I realised it was in English - guess it was too good to be true.  How could you translate Seuss anyway?  I think for the best expert it would be nearly impossible.  Well, I think it would be impossible, but to capture the spirit by re-writing the poems? I don't know if there's a person alive capable.  Anyway, despite it's weight and bulk, I had to buy it.  I didn't need it, but it had 'Horton Hears A Who' and that story is like a mantra to me.

Back to the story, I didn't find the frog book much to my disappointment and that evening 4 Brazilians arrive suddenly in my nice quiet room as I sit in silent lamentation…or maybe I was just facebooking, I can't remember.  The Brazilians consist of a great big dude, and 3 girls,  two of whom look like twins.  The Dude is Eduardo, and I forget the names of the others.  He is instantly sociable and friendly, and he gets out some duty-free straight away.  We start drinking and talking.  He tries to teach me some Portuguese for when I go to 'Floripa' and we have many laughs of which I remember now none.  It's a good night and we eventually turn in quite late.

The next day I pick up the washing I had laundered the night before from reception - though they forget it ever arrived and I have to go there and back a wee bit in confusion.   Word to the wise - get it done yourself, they will drop it at the backpackers without commission - about 1/2 price.  When I checked my Facebook Ana accepted, Yuuussss! I have a place to stay, I went for a walk and returned to find a new friend, some French guy.  Can't remember his name now, but we got along well.  The Brazilians returned and we had some drinks together. 

The French guy didn't say much.  He was an architect on holiday, liked to smoke and sit around looking cool.  Meh, whatever.  That evening, they're having some kind of special dinner where they put on a BBQ and everyone at the backpackers and it's cheap.  Francois decides to get in on it, but I'm vegetarian.  They also have a band playing and I agree to play with them.  They guy doing the BBQ is a new employee and I've started to make friends with him.  He really like my shirt, so after I have it washed I give it to him.  It's a VBC shirt I stole from Vic uni when I did some readings for Tim's radio show there last year. 

Unfortunately I'm so tired I go straight to sleep and don't manage to make it for the band.  Though beforehand I did meet a really nice american name Brian.  He's a very intelligent guy, who's come to Uruguay as part of a voyage including Paraguay where he plans to become a citizen.  This he can achieve by simply having 15,000USD or something.  This is an activity on which he's most keen as he thoroughly believes  the U.S. is a collapsing empire and he wishes to 'internationally diversify'.  He can't find a room at first and when he does, it's in another backpackers and he decides to stay and chat because he like the atmosphere.  He gets into a debate with a Scottish guy (who has NO accent, and instead decidedly sounds english) about the monetary system. 

I try to join in, but they're off discussing particulars way outside of my range.  I don't care about who did what when, I can just tell it's fucked and the philosophy behind why.  Sometimes in study, a lot of the time actually, people get obsessed with the categories, names and places and forget, none of it matters actually.  It's just matters what the solutions are, and the reasons, processes, structures WHY things happen.  Anyway the Scot is full of twit of pseudo-intellectualism and fancy words.  He wishes to not so much have an ego battle, as to have a little rough and tumble for amusement.  Brian is actually surprising well read and completely throws out the horse-shit, exposing, as I see it, the stupidity of poor old Scotty's society enforcing idiocies.  I'm quite impressed by his depth of understanding. 

Turns out he's ex military - ex Iraq,  and has become a great critic of U.S. economic policy.  He has interesting experiences and views.  He wishes the monetary system to be dismantled and the nation to legalize Gold for example, as legal tender (currency).  This is currently (and has been for a while) illegal in the U.S.  I know why from a wide point of view, but he knows who did it, how it's enforced and all the details.  It's quite interesting how all economic and political education was not only removed from the US education system, but also that of NZ.  I know they touch on it, but really, ¿when did they teach up where the dollar comes from? This thing we will spend our lives in service of, ¿when did they teach us the Law, how the legal system works, how the media is operated and how control of the country is achieved? When man, because I'm pretty sure it's like, "We use Dollars, years ago people used Gold", and, "Here's a photo of the beehive, this is where the Government works"..blah blah.

His idea is that with a currency unable to be printed, devalued and fabricated, power will return to the producers.  Of course I believe the idea of ownership is the real problem, but it's interesting to hear how he thinks.  He wishes, to top it off, to retire and live on investments.  iiinteresting…..someone who wants a real value currency…and someone who likes to live on interest…hmmmmmm  I'm sure he could explain the specifics of how this is supposed to work.

Anyway, back in the room, I decide to cook, which I do, and though I share it round, no one much wants to eat it.  François has some.  We have drinks again and the Brazilians decided to go out for dinner and invited me and François.  I want to shower, but the girls go in.  While in they're there Eduardo does the, lets-talk-about-the-girls thing and he describes one as being ugly -"she's like a man", and the other two are hot.  The 'Ugly" one is his best friend, and she does act like a guy.  Well, she acts like a person really, like a natural person  - since when is that like a guy? Oh yeah, since the roles got defined in society and we all got told to fit the mould.   Actually she's really nice, maybe a tad fat, but she smiles, she's friendly and most of all, she isn't boring, covered in 30,000 layers of makeup and constantly worried about how well she's fitting in.  The other two, well…I couldn't say the same about them.  They don't really talk, except to each other, they are friendly but….I think this worlds really fucked in the way a girl who has a bunch of paint on her face and expensive uncomfortable stupid looking clothes is supposed to be hot.  It's pretty fucking weird.  Why do humans hate themselves so much, they try to be anything but?

Anyways ….sometime later they emerge and my nice, clean, en suite is now completely written off.  The girls had DESTROYED the bathroom.  These perfectly clean and pristine looking magazine girls have left their toilet wipings complete with mud trails, (remember how you don't put paper down the loo here?), all over the soaked floor, rubbish everywhere, hair from all regions of their bodies and smeared pastes and products on surfaces, walls, handles… all of which are utterly soaked as well.  Toilet un-flushed.  Nice.  

Actually this isn't the first time I've seen people here doing this sort of thing.  In these countries, there are poor people.  I mean people who are dying from poverty, starvation…  These people will work for you, if you pay them, they will do every little task you want, and you don't even have to give them much.  Because there's always plenty more where they came from.  Guess it's in the interest of the wealthy to have a air bit of poverty eh?  And they do.  Here, it is VERY normal to have maids, cleaners, minders, cooks, you name it. Thus, it is also normal for people to be completely accustomed to leaving a huge mess for someone else to clean up.  Just look at what they do with rubbish.  Well, maybe you can't see from where you are, but if you live in a clean country like NZ, you'd best see this.  It'll make you realise the value of being a tidy kiwi.

We head out for food, joking and laughing and find our way to near the old city and where the band I wana see with Frederíco is playing.  We go to a restaurant and I have enough money for…well nothing.  So the girls buy me dinner.  Now that is pretty cool.  Of course, I would, you would - there probably isn't a lot of people who wouldn't, but at backpackers, I've seen this go down where a group eats and one doesn't.  I feel bad taking it, but then, why? Why question what the universe gives us when we are hungry?  Why ask 'why' when you get something good, but instead say, 'typical', when something bad happens? That's not very logical.  So we eat and drink and chat. 

We all have a good time and I invite them to see the band but they're not keen.  I decide to stay with them, but eventually Frederico calls me and says the band hasn't started yet.  About a half hour later I decide to go as we leave and the others decide to go dancing.  I willingly say farewell for the evening.  Dancing in clubs uuugghhhhhhh, hate that.  It means, tons of people crammed into a room playing crap pop remixes all with the same crap beat while a DJ supposes themselves a hero and drunk people get sufficiently incapacitated so as to be able to rub up against each other.  Not my kinda scene.

I drunkenly trundle out of the old city towards basically where I think the bar should be.  And, it is! Bonus!  I hear the band just making the "we're-gonna-start-now" sound and I go into the small bar, obviously made as a cheap live music venue, walk in front of the band who are playing at floor level and Frederico picks me out.  He's great.  A lovely guy, full of smiles and straight away hands me his beer.  He doesn't mind I'm out of cash, we share beer all night and laugh about the backpackers.  I wish I could remember the name of the band…Something like 'The funk Brothers…er…brother" or "Los Hermanos de Funk" or something, and they were fucking awesome.  Really, solid, interesting funk, slapping and popping about, the guitarist/singer a demon on the instrument and all of them obviously up to play.  I recorded a lot of it, but due to excessive volumes, as usual, it didn't come out too well.

After I meet some of Frederico's mates: Nacho…er..and some others.  We chat about Soundgarden and they wanna jam, but I am off to the party tomorrow night, then Brazil and likely never to return.  Who knows though right? We do the standard email/Facebook details exchange.  Such a standard, but such a great way to stay in touch.

I wander back to the backpackers.

Here I drunkenly stumble on an interesting scene.  There a violent argument between a crazed Latin chap and the Scotsman.  I can't see that it's the Scotsman, but the Latin chap is well annoyed and visibly looking for a fight.  As these arguments go, no one is willing to make the first move and the bloke with the english accent is being repeatedly question as to whether he's English.  They seem to be getting close to fighting but I just can't be bothered with it all.  The backpacker staff seem utterly incapable of dealing with the situation (in NZ you could call the police…here…people aren't so quick to do that…the police are less that trustworthy as I have seen).  I decide, I'm better off in bed, and these two kids can play 'till dawn if they like.

Strange though to think…you can't just call the cops….hmmm…it's a different world.

The next day, as I take my standard breakfast from the bar, the Scot explains the man is Argentinian and was playing music very loud, disturbing everyone at 2am.  Really?  Was I that late getting back? weird.  And when the backpackers wouldn't fix the problem, he'd decided to turn off the music (after asking the man to turn it down of course)  when the volume was repeatedly re-raised.  The man flew into a rage, which was heated by the fact that he hates the English.  This is not uncommon amongst the Argentines as it turns out.  There was a scuffle about some islands a few years back and they may not be too happy also about the economic situation their land was put in by powerful economic players in recent years either.  So that's why he was asking whether he was English.  Haha, funny thing is, it was Britain who went to the Falklands.

Anyway we almost get into a debate about whether that war was actually about oil and money (my opinion) or not.  He says, "..but they looked for years and never found oil there!"  MMmmm hmmmm.  I guess that means the war wasn't about oil then eh?  Good lord.  I decide just to chow down on my bread, yogurt and dulce de leche.  It's quite a good breakfast here, in that it's ample, and they even have fruit.  Great thing is, people usually don't eat the fruit so I get multiple helpings.  Strange don't you think? How we eat all this processed, cooked crap, and leave the food nature itself provides for us all.  Weird. Almost like we're all addicts….

Anyway it's checkout day and I decide to stow my bags to be picked up that evening before I head to the Uruguayan Girls house.

I still hold fierce reservations, but that's choosing the miracle right?  I mean, forgiveness. 

I decide to have another day walking around and seeing the sights.  I get the standard Uruguayan Jesus calls.  You know there are plenty of other famous people who walked around with long hair an beards you know.  Like pretty much every man over the age of 20 throughout all time until the last few hundred years - and even then many still did until very recently.  Why not choose someone else?  Why not choose another guy?  But people here are Uruguayans, and I am not.  It's ok, it gets a little tired, but racism is everywhere, in every country, and here it's not too bad.  It's certainly not as bad as many, many places in NZ.  Certainly not as bad as where I grew up.

Still, it's funny how we're not all more friendly even aside from the racial issue.  Society you know, its got this kinda weird sort of etiquette where you know if you can get someone talking, you can be their friend. Most people that is.  In yet we treat people like that's never the case?…even though we all know it is?…it's like….¿what the fuck are we doing?…its a madness…we're seriously fucked up. 

I dunno.  People don't help as much as they could. 

In Uruguay they're  nice people, but it's like they tolerate you, it's not like they like you.  It's not like NZ you know, for the most part, we like foreigners ( though I wonder if new asian migrants feel the same way I do about that topic). Here? no, Uruguavas are like, "this is our country", yeap, there's that ownership thing we talked about. We all do it, "this is OUR country, YOU'RE different, YOU'RE not from here, so YOU have to  take your place". They're like, 'oh look we put up with you and y'know, you're a white fucking gringo who can't speak spanish', not that any of them can speak the native tongue of the indians - but no no, this is their country 'cause they fucking stole it from someone. They don't really want to help you.  They try to help you a little bit, but in the end it's like a favor,….. it's like they've done you a favor.

I' think, wait a second man, we're two humans on a planet trying to communicate, ¿can't you see this is a problem shared by us? not a problem I have. We are two humans having difficulty communicating, you can't speak a language I understand either! So you were born on a piece of dirt, ruled by a system which defined certain lakes, rivers, oceans and mountains as it's boarders and has a flag.  They tell you to sing a song, and that you're part of a nation. BULLSHIT.  You are an animal on a planet, so am I.

Even if they try to help, it may not work though.  Like I tried to walk to the park one day there, and I kept asking people, where is the park? That was after the day playing football in the park.  But their word for park sounds a lot like their word for death, I don't know why, because their word for Death is "muerto" and their word for Park is "Parke" so it's really different, but apparently there's another word that's very similar.  So anyway apparently I was walking around asking people where the "death" was. But I explained myself to them and they understood, still no-one knows you know?  And that's the fucked up thing about Latin countries, is like, you can ask, where's the park? and no one will know? and it will be like, just around the block…and it's like if someone was there that spoke the same language and said the same exact thing they'd tell them, but they think you don't know what you want…so they don't know what you're asking for even though you're saying the exact right thing it's…fucking weird.  Anyway I walked around for ages and ended up not being able to find it.  Everyone seemed to point me in the exact wrong direction, even though it was REALLY close.  I don't know…

It makes me think of the Bus ticket fiasco.  My spanish now is good enough that I can force someone to explain something to me, but when you don't speak a word of a language, you can't make them do that, and I couldn't.

A lot of things I couldn't and haven't been able to find…getting things done in Latin countries…it's just about impossible.  You cal call places, they don't answer your questions right, so you have to ask like 5 people the same thing…then they could all be talking out of their ass.  People thing government departments don't know their own rules, checkout operators can do their jobs…everyone's late for everything, even the guy I had arrange my exams turns up like half an hour late…. Everyone just sys "no, you can do that" and people here just give up on everything they do soooo fast.  They can wait, woe be unto you if you try to cook dinner for them.  If they get hungry 1min before it's ready they'll chow down on dry bread and be too full to eat it, or buy a pizza that will take more that 40mins to arrive and cost the house, then just eat that.   No no I don't need food - then the go to macdonalds.  It's just easier! is the most common sentiment.  They all collectively seem to have the patience of enraged bulls.  And they are sooooo damn dirty! they drop rubbish EVERYWHERE and cigarettes, streets covered in rubbish bags, streets so dirty you don't even consider for a second wearing shoes except to ask yourself if you should don some industrial gauge, toxic waste handling boots, double thickness instead.

I guess it's a very different life when another nation, another violent force sits on the sam piece of land.  This doesn't happen in NZ, and Australia, if you look at it, isn't REALLY as different a country.  They're not going to invade.  There isn't a history of warfare between the currently controlling groups.  It's a different climate. Add to that the very real fact people go hungry here and no-one helps.  A different basis to culture…though I think of the chicken and it's egg.  How funny I am that I start a discourse on the illogic of racism, and end it with sharp criticism of culture.  This is on what most racism is based.  It's behaviours that people don't like.

The Party

I return to the Backpackers for the last time, and talk to the French guy.  He was going to come, because the party, I was told, had a French theme.  It's a Birthday party for Enzo, the French guy.  But François leaves without warning as I'm taking a sneaky shower, when a group of girls invite him out.  Can't say I blame him.

It's still daylight and I catch a bus.  I remember being stoned, but I couldn't have been.  I know I didn't have any because the Brazilian guy was constantly asking for some, and I didn't have it.  I just must have been stressed about going back to the Uruguayan girls house.  The bus is absolutely packed and I get to talking to a beautiful girl who will help me by pointing out my stop.  The problem is the bus is jam-packed and there's no way I can get to the door in time.  I start to move and push, squeeze, and and bump past people 1 stops early and manage to get out 1 stop late.  Or something.  Sweet as, I wander to the house….remembering why I don't want to see her, but "choosing the miracle" and I ring the doorbell. 

I can't remember the exact details, but I stow my pack in her room and help with the party preparations.  We have a lot of smoke, as the guys have just harvested some plants, and I settle into a good vibe.  The guys go to the street and I go to take a shower.  I grab some hair clippers and shave my beard into some mean chops and handle-bars then go down to join them.

We smoke, drink mate, and play songs with friends out on the street in the evening air for hours.  Cerveza flips his arm out after standing up in an authoritative manner signalling me to follow.  We go to the shop directly across the street on the corner but it's closed.  He goes to the back and says something quickly to the guys there.  We head to the next shop on the next corner and he buys something then we head straight back, to the back of the first shop - a small roller door opening onto the street -very small, and there's 2 guys there.  I get shown through the cramped entrance and into the darkened shop.  Money changes hands and I am handed a plastic crate containing 12x1litre bottles of beer.  It's a 12-pack Uruguay style, Cerveza grabs another and we head across the road and up the stairs to the kitchen where Cerveza loads the fridge.  Fuk yeah.  That's 24lt of beer!  THAT'S a good start.

We go back up top when the sun creeps away, and it starts to look like no-ones coming.  Still, they start to prepare the BBQ - which is awesome.  It's just a large (1mx50cm) grill on an angle with a metal tray underneath and a metal box on the right.  The angle leans down to the left if you look from the perspective of a person cooking on it.  They put wood and burnables on the tray and in the box, and light it.  After a formidable fire lashes upwards grabbing at the night, and I gaze in meditation through the flames and sparks at the city-scape over the rooftops until darkness masks it all. By now the coals glow hot, and I see the box on the right is a chimney, directing the smoke out and up. and the meat is placed on the grill, hottest part is the left side of the grill as the angle puts it nearer the coals.

The party starts to fill, the alcohol is provided ed andI smoke a ton.  Numerous people - especially the Uruguayan girl, get on the drum-kit and make terrible noises.  Even I try a little…oh dear.  We spend ages setting up the sound, but ENZO, the birthday boy, wants to play the drums.  He happens to suck wild goats at said task, but I still prefer it to the radio pumping soul sucking conformity mantras into our drugged ears, play on Franco!.  Eventually some musicians take the fore and we are treated to round after round of local enthusiasts tooting their music-makers.  I get up there eventually and jam a while.  Acoustic guitars are so quiet, and I struggle against a sax and drummer, but I play open tunings and slap moses out of that thing, haha.  Efuka (really, his name sounds like you'd guess) a large, very friendly African man who seems to speak french starts improvising vocals over my improvising gypsy harmonies on guitar and we really get going.  I think I recorded some of it, but yes, I lost my recorder again so….shit balls.

We end up making friends and I promise him I'll return and jam.  Even now (it's july as I write this, though the blog is from early April) I still haven't quite admitted to myself I may not be able to - because I so much want to…..  Anyway we (him, I and his partner) promise to meet in france if not here.  Maybe I will have to do that instead  …damn.

I socialise long into the night and the Uruguayan girl goes to bed.  I eventually go to retire also, and the door is locked??  What does that mean?  I rack my brain…did she tell me she was going to bed so I knew I would be locked out? That doesn't make any sense….why did she lock the door? Maybe it was a mistake?  I knock, but don't get a response.  I look around…there's nothing to do!  I don't have a key…what does she expect?  Will she be annoyed if I knock again?  WHAT THE HELL?

Well, to put it short, I spend the night, in the cold (it's getting quite cold in Uruguay check  my jacket and jeans in the photo) unable to sleep.  I spend the whole night stewing, hating, anger, loathing, this girl, who did what she did, and I forgave, then she locked me out of her room.   I should have learned.

And all my anger, with all it's judgements, all it's hate….all it's fear, is written on my face when she emerges in the morning and see's me.  Her apology is visibly indigestible to me as she swears it to be an accident.  She was drunk, the door locked automatically, and she was unwakeable.  She pleads apologies.  It takes me a while to inhale fresh air and let all I've built up through the night go, and she can see that.  But I do, and I tell her that I understand mistakes.  It can happen to anyone.  What's true is it was me who made the night bad - I don't admit that.  I chose to be angry, and I chose how angry.  I could have chosen to accept - as would be the case if I was sleeping on the streets and I was offered the wicker chair for the night.  I would have accepted with glee and called it a blessing.  But I chose to hate it, because I "deserved" something better.  This is my hypocrisy.  Still….it was pretty shit.

Small reflections

After all, I let it go, so what.  I am leaving today anyway.  Well, I guess, I don't "let it go"..I just realise, trust yourself when you can, and when someone shows you they can't be relied on.  Don't rely on them.  It's over now, I never have to see her again, and I wont.  I don't have to keep her secrets or sleep on her couch…..listen to her criticism….I don't have to keep forgiving her…I can just leave.

I have learned  thing or two about intuition.   And using my brain.  Intuition didn't tell me I was going to have the Uruguayan girl treat me like shit…but why was I there?  Well…..I guess I was going to socialise.  I guess I should have checked myself first.  Intuition did tell me to confirm passport details about the bus, but didn't I do enough? What does my brain say?  Not really.  I know, I have learned now, what I need to to to make sure this doesn't happen again.  Experience showed me to not rely on the girl-did I use it?  So, learned some stuff, pissing off.  Done.

AAAnyway, I do actually leave, all goodbyes in order, and go on back to the bus station. 

I sit and wait, and at the right time, not really knowing what I'm in for, I get on the bus good and early. 

NZ passports apparently give you automatic VISA to Brazil.  Weird thing about this bus company is you hand them your passport and they give it back to you after the trip.  If it hadn't been for Jules telling me this when relating her experiences in Paraguay, I would have really had issues with it.  As it was I didn't like it much, but, I just wanted to relax, and it all seemed good.

Funny thing happened though, after checking my bags as usual and carefully putting the bag-claim tag in my wallet (yep - people steal other passengers bags here, so it you don't have a tag…you may find yourself in a pickle) I find my seat and carefully settle in (It's not as good as the one I had to Pasados, but I carefully made sure it was a window seat when I booked it) then as I mentioned,  a strange thing happened.  I started to sweat and fidget…and I was worried…but what about? and my heart-rate was up?….I was looking all around…almost as if I was anxious? that's weird.  ….oh…oooh maaan…..I get it, I've created an association with Bus travel and stressful experience.  Damn.   Actually, this association is only now, as I write this, some 3 months later, begun to abate - though it's still not gone.  Guess I really freaked out my poor ol' subconscious.   Bugger it. 

To this day I still get a mild sweat on when I first get on a bus - until we actually get going.  Funny ol' me.

The bus begins to fill (I am early) and a guy tries to tell me I have his seat.  I am seriously fatigued as I did not sleep the night before, but I try to tell him he's wrong and show him my ticket.  He points to the seat number signs and….er….squint….he's…right? what? I have the isle seat? what the hell?  I casually apologise and do the standard ticket-to-seat number glance exchange.  WHAT THE FUCK???!!!!!???  I spent ages, actually a prolonged time, making sure I got a window seat…and the fucker at the counter gave me this????  I fume…quietly…fume…..  I curse the land and it's people.   What a fuk have I become?  But I try to tell myself, it really doesn't matter, Just get me to the church on time dude, fuck it all, lets get out of here!  …funny that

And we roll off.  Finally, we roll out.  Fuk you Montevideo (although I really like this place), I don't wanna see you again for a while.


terrain goes by.


the bus rides on.    On to Brazil.