La Boca - district of colourful buildings

Last year we visited Argentina. Italian immigrants from Genoa built working class 'La Boca' alongside the old port in BA. The colourful 'Caminito' is a series of funky streets lined with brilliantly painted corrugated metal buildings.

Local artists display artwork and cafes spill out onto the pavements. Adding to the vibrant atmosphere, musicians and tango dancers entertain the crowds.

Walking down broad Avenue 9 de Julio I felt something drop from the overhead trees onto my head - bird shit! Suddenly, a woman sprang into action, whisking out tissues, wiping my jacket and pulling me in the direction of the curb where a friend appeared. The accomplice began throwing water about and attempted to wrestle my backpack from me. Meanwhile, the woman turned her attention to Brian who had mysteriously acquired suspicious brown stains on his jacket.

Whoa - warning bells began to ring - too much attention here for these Gringo's. Brian grabbed the woman by the hand as she attempted to remove his wallet which fell to the ground! Suddenly, our new best friends disappeared and were last seen jumping into a waiting car before speeding off. We were relieved to have escaped without harm and left embarrassed by the state of our smelly, stained clothing - Such are the hassles of a big city.

BURNOUT

Saturday morning - I had planned an early walk up over the hills of Taradale. My daily walk is an excellent time for me to think - throw around in my head ideas for my next writing assignment. However, not to be at the present time – it’s raining heavily outside with a southerly chill……….brrrr.

My last assignment involved the use of dialogue. We are given a brief one line story to continue with and there were to be three characters. It’s a very general outline but here is my story. I called it Burnout. Enjoy, have a read and post feedback.



Tyler will never forget the day his Mother stormed into the lounge. Her face said ‘keep away from me’.

Ann glanced at her watch.

Thank God, it’s 5 o’clock.

She walked to the bar and poured herself a glass of wine. The house smelt of furniture polish and vanilla potpourri.

“Hard day was it Mother?’ The brutal sarcasm in Tyler’s voice sprayed across the room.

Ann swallowed – anger filling her pores. Two tight lines appeared at the corner of her mouth. “Who gave you permission to drive my car?”

Tyler shrugged and stared at the carpet - looking everywhere – nowhere. His fingers picked at a scab on his left elbow.

“I’m waiting for an answer.”

“Me and the boys cruised down to the beach. It was pissing down earlier. What’s your problem anyway?”

Tyler folded his arms and stared out the window. A slight breeze crept around the side of the house. The grass moved – rippling like the muscles of an animal. He tugged at his hoodie - his lips disappearing in a line of petulance.

Impatiently, Ann moved her weight from one foot to the other. She inhaled. The wine began to take effect - the poison working it’s magic.

Fridays were Ann’s “escape the World day” – lunch with friends, a manicure - a drink at a bar to take the edge off a shitty week.

She reached for the bottle of Chardonnay. Lipstick bled into the tiny lines above her mouth.

“Tyler… take your feet off my coffee table”.

Ann sighed, her angry voice - grey and curling.

“Turn around when I’m speaking to you. My problem is the dent in the car.”

Her face knotted in fury. Resentment hung in the room like a dirty dishcloth. Tyler gnawed at his fingernails.

If he doesn’t turn around and face me, I’m going to slap him.

“I’ve often wondered what goes on inside that brain of yours and now I know – absolutely nothing.” Ann threw her hands in the air.

“Fucking hell, it’s just a car. Anyway, I never hit anything. You guys always blame me. Living here sucks.”

Ann twisted the stem of her wine glass in her fingers. Wearily, she walked towards her son. His long limbs splayed across the carpet. He reminded her of a stick insect.

Tyler - whatever happened to my sweet boy? The kid who picked pansies for his Mother as he walked home from school. Ann smiled, remembering the “I love you, Mum” notes she kept in her sock drawer. What happened? Why are you such an angry young man?

“The car has a dent on the right front panel. Your Father will be home shortly – he’ll be furious when he sees the damage. I don’t have the energy for your lies. Tell me what happened”.

Tyler uncurled his six-foot frame from the chair. Faded jeans hung low across his hips revealing underpants and flesh.

Ann leant forward. She smelt beer and stale cigarettes on his breath.

“My God, You’ve been drinking”. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Man, that’s funny coming from you. We scored a couple of homebrews from some mates that’s all. Aren’t you the one always pissed and falling asleep in front of the television?

I told you, I never hit anything. There were like - Me, Ritchie and three chicks in the car, if you don’t believe me – ask them”.

The old lady’s lost it – going senile. I never pranged her car.

Tyler eyeballed his Mother. Accusation conspired with rage – until it ignited white-hot. He left the room without a word.

Ann refilled her glass.

Robert could walk in the door at any minute. I need time to think. Tyler is so ungrateful for all we’ve done for him and Robert - what a boring man he’s become. Work’s his only interest nowadays. He gives me absolutely no support.

Sometimes, I listen to my own thoughts and wonder – who is that speaking? Sadness sat at her feet.

In his bedroom, Tyler ranked the stereo to high. Walls and furniture vibrated - assaulted by sound. He lay on his bed flicking through the latest “Wheels” magazine.

God, I can hear it now – the old Man’s going to go on and on - blaming me as usual. You’d think I was the only kid who borrowed the car and did burnouts. I bloody know I never hit anything.

Smoking was against the house rules. “Fuck it” thought Tyler. He lit a cigarette and opened the window. The smell of rain drifted from the garden - summer was melting away.

Just like my life – going nowhere – shit fast!

The sky shone black and spiky with stars. The headlights of a car turned into the driveway.

Here it comes, another lecture from” Mr Lawyer Man”.

Robert drove into the carport. He reached for his briefcase. His head dropped and he closed his eyes. He let out a deep breath and stared down at his belly.

A “Petrol head” – that was Tyler with his dyed black hair, tattoo and tongue studs. A 17-year-old testosterone time bomb. He got his kicks out of mag wheels, spoilers and lowered suspension. His son was fast becoming an embarrassment.

I know what he gets up to on Saturday nights - cruising the streets, picking up girls, doughnuts in car parks, smoking rubber at traffic lights. Tyler’s an accident waiting to happen. He needs to learn the rules - life’s about getting a job, paying your way - not pissing off the Police force.

Robert glanced at his watch. Ann must have been home for a couple of hours.

Probably pissed.

A slight frown creased on his forehead.

I hope she’s not bolshie like last night.

A boring “Wordsmith” that’s what she called him when she staggered home from the Club. Thought it a clever – prissy phrase.

Yes, everything’s funny when she’s on her second bottle of wine. –until the tears start. The dreariness of middle age clung to Robert like a suit.

Well, my success and law practice pays the bills for those designer clothes and expensive lunches with her snobby friends.

He sighed, shoulders hunched. Robert opened the door and walked towards the house.

Friday night, thank goodness for the end of another week.

“Ann, I’m home. You in the lounge?”

“How was your day?”

Ann looked up. Her eyes red rimmed and watery.

She’s plastered. Probably been on the booze all day.

Pale and shaky, Ann stumbled. She corrected herself, pursed her lips and planted a slobbery kiss on Robert’s cheek.

When did her mouth shrink - become thin and mean?

They’d met at University where he was studying law. Robert followed the scene in his mind - Ann at the cafeteria with friends. Looking up from her lunch – blue eyes the colour of faded hydrangea flowers. Her hair wild and blonde. A slight smile, perfect teeth. Robert imagined himself swimming through a bowl of warm custard. He fell instantly in love. He wanted to kiss those lips.

Marriage - Happiness for life – what a joke. That got mislaid along the way and I can’t remember where to look for it. Robert shrugged. An overhead light flickered across his face.

God, I feel tired.

He poured himself a beer and turned to his wife. “Ann, I asked how was your day.”

“Great, until I got home. Tyler borrowed my car and pranged it. Lucky he didn’t kill himself or his friends. We need to do something about….” Tears began to tumble amongst words. Ann reached for the wine bottle.

A door opened. Rap music pulsated down the hall towards the lounge. Tyler appeared - his face a map of lined hostility. Clutching a can of Red Bull he slumped into his Father’s chair and glared.

“I told the old Lady, I never hit nothing in her car. How come you never believe me?” His eyes sought Ann’s unfocused gaze.

Ann shook her head. “Maybe we would if you weren’t such a liar.”

“That’s classic coming from you. Ask Ritchie if you don’t believe me. For fuck’s sake - get off my back will you.” He pushed his hands deep into his pockets.

Robert lent over to touch his son. “Let’s chill out here guys. We can sort this out.” Ann’s eyes rolled back in her head.

Here we go, Mr Boring again. Her thoughts interrupted by the shrill ring of a telephone.

“Hullo” Robert Brooks speaking.

“…………I see, yes.” His voice flickered – barely audible. “I’ll take care of it. Thank you for ringing.” Robert slowly placed the telephone down. Eyes – uncertain, injured.

Curiosity and indifference forced Tyler to ask. “ Dad……What?”

Robert turned to his wife.

“Ann, that was the Club President on the telephone. Apparently, you hit another member’s car last night. I said we would pay for any damage”.

Tyler focused on a cobweb above the fireplace. A ravenous silence squeezed itself into the room.

“That floral wallpaper makes me feel queasy”. Ann swallowed. Her mouth a cocktail of bitterness and bile. Tears broke into tributaries and rolled down her face.

Excuses, excuses.......

Writing is a little bit like going on a diet –you make a commitment to lose 10kg or whatever. Sadly, you can get into really bad trouble if you tell all and sundry (like posting on a blog, Facebook or Twitter) and then you get sprung feeding your face in public – or maybe not finishing the blog you promised to write faithfully every week. Once you open your mouth and tell the world you are in for it – Well, when you don’t perform someone is going to send you an email saying “So, what’s happening?

On the other hand, you could tell no one about your obsession – get thin, write the story and then burst into the world brandishing your sure to be world famous manuscript. (Sounds a little like JK Rowling). Whatever plan you decide on, it is going to take time and commitment. Perhaps you will have to give up something like drinking, sleeping or watching television. I’ve noticed Husband and friends quickly become bored reading your drafts and listening to your plots. Writing is a solitary occupation.

Recently, I began a creative writing course which involves writing one or two assignments every couple of weeks and a huge amount of reading. That folks is my excuse for the lack of recent blogs on this blog. I spent 4 hours today dealing with the intricacies of dialogue. My main character is a young petrol head. Sounded an easy enough plot when I first put my mind to it –however, the dialogue has proved tricky to sound convincible. Mum’s a boozer and Dad a lawyer (well, they said write about what you know) – with a twist at the end.

As they say, a quick blog is a good blog. The photograph below has absolutely nothing to do with my writing. It is a snap taken last year by my husband Brian. I am riding north on the Pan American highway out of Lima, in Peru. The weather was hot and humid – we rode into a sandstorm that encroached to such an extent to almost obliterate the tarmac. The scenery was surreal and we felt as if we were cycling in the desert. The reason I am including it in my blog is because it won 3rd place in a photography competition – The title being “Highway to Hell”. Follow the following link if you are interested in the other submissions.

http://www.dpreview.com/challenges/Entry.aspx?ID=455023

A @#@#>>> Dog and the Lasseter Highway

A scream, yelling and profanity slice the air. A dog snarls, growls and teeth snap. I look up as Brian staggers towards me. Blood is pouring from his hands and right calf. A squat brown dog of dubious pedigree slinks away – ears back and tail between its legs. One or possibly two of its ribs have felt the impact of a cycling shoe aimed at the solar plexus.

This is bad – blood poisoning and an aortic heart valve transplant are not a good combination. We are in Mt Ebenezer, one of the few Aboriginal-owned roadhouses in the Northern Territory. Civilisation is 200 kilometres up the Lasseter Highway.

Our cycling adventure started with an innocent proposal.

“Lets go camping in the Australian desert,”

What a romantic idea - the two of us under the stars, sharing a bottle of wine at sun set.

Reality, of course is huddling together in our tent – breathe condensating, down sleeping bags, thermal underwear, ink black nothingness and below freezing temperatures. The sunset is a huge orange cut out sliding into a rust red landscape. And yes, the stars are like diamonds painted on the sky.

At night Dingoes howl and in the morning my hips ache. Outside ice covers the bike seats and our water bottles freeze.

A new day - the earth seeps pink and ochre hues. Discarded toilet paper litters the dunes and attaches itself to green Spinifex and Mulga bushes like balls of cotton!

The proprietor of the Roadhouse suggests she take Brian for treatment to the medical centre at the Aboriginal settlement of “Imanpa” some 17 kilometres away. Off the main tourist route, this remote community is conveniently hidden from the prying eyes of tourists and media.

The local nurse pours Iodine directly onto the wound!

“I normally suggest a Tetanus shot, however, medicines are no longer kept at the clinic because of theft”.

We are given dressings, antibiotics and a warning that the wound should be kept covered from the flies.

“I bet you’ve never seen anything like this place before?” the Nurse says.

Outside garbage is piled window height – stinking, a mass of flies. Old washing machines and wrecked cars litter lawns. A small group of teenagers sit in the gutter alongside sleeping dogs and empty wine bladders. The windows in the Women’s Centre have been smashed and solar panels ripped out. Although the community is supposedly “alcohol free”, it resembles a war zone.

“Domestic violence, substance abuse, illiteracy and hopelessness breeds like wildfires here”

The dwindling community is on the brink of collapse as families drift to Alice Springs in search of work - petrol sniffers and drunks remain. The general store has closed, the nearest police station is 150 kilometres away and few of the children attend school regularly.

Next morning Brian gingerly mounts his bike. The surreal experience of visiting “Imanpa” has left us with a bad taste. Cycling along the flat Lasseter Highway, we laugh as a family of Emus struts awkwardly across flat saltpans and we stop to photograph a huge Wedge Tailed Eagle as it tears at road-kill. We are in luck and cycle most of way to Ayers Rock with the wind at our backs.

Surviving “The World’s Most Dangerous Road”

“Where the hell are we? “ I ask.

Our destination is the Bolivian city of La Paz. It’s mid-day and unbelievably hot.
Ancient buses and trucks spew clouds of diesel - polluting what little air there is left to breathe. Irritatingly, a bus veers in front of our bikes and the passengers alight. We stop and start a dozen times - swearing, dodging potholes, mangy dogs and unsuspecting pedestrians.

Exasperated, I complain - “We’re definitely lost.”

El Alto is a manic lively city - 4150 metres above sea level. It is perched on the rim of a canyon where the city of La Paz nestles. Unfortunately, today is market day and the streets are bustling with merchants selling every imaginable commodity - second hand clothes, chickens, an assortment of fruit, fresh vegetables, plastic buckets and pigs on a spit.

We negotiate several crossroads and traffic laden roundabouts before locating the elusive autopista. Ignoring the “no cycling” sign we proceed to cycle cautiously down the bus lane. Our hands never leave the brakes as we sweep down switch back after switch back for an incredible 11 kilometres into the city of La Paz.

We almost overshoot our recommended accommodation - “The Adventure Brew Hostel” is owned by a fellow Kiwi and his wife. Tonight we will be living in luxury - the hostel is immaculately clean, has cable television, a bar, restaurant, free home brew and English speaking travelers.

“I’m not entirely sure I’m up to this ride” I nervously suggest that night over dinner. “I’m definitely too old”.

The “World’s Most Dangerous Road” has earned its reputation because it plunges 3,000 metres. 100 deaths are supposedly reported annually.

“The cost of a tour is well outside of our budget”

“Nonsense, we’ll organise everything ourselves and save heaps” says my money conscious husband.

“Right. I‘ll consider it overnight.”

At dawn we hail a taxi outside our hostel. The driver is ecstatic to secure an early morning fare. He whistles as he loads both bikes on to the roof of his battered Toyota. We climb slowly uphill over La Paz’s steep cobbled narrow streets until we encounter a police blockade. A sombre looking policeman saunters over, gives us a cursory glance and motions to our driver to follow him, whereupon he suggests we pay a “fine“.

“It’s good to see corruption is still alive in Bolivia” mutters Brian as he opens his wallet.

Eventually, sleepy La Paz is barely visible. As we climb towards the wind-swept summit of La Cumbre our mouths become increasingly dry and the landscape rugged. Our adventure begins at 4700 metres in fog and cloud. The plateau is freezing - La Cumbre is surrounded by unclimbed glaciated peaks and icy lakes.

“Man, this is desolate and windswept” I say pulling on another layer of merino wool and a second pair of gloves.

I am feeling just a tiny bit nervous - Brian complains of an altitude induced headache and my nose begins to bleed.

The driver unloads the bikes, shakes our hands and points to a sealed road. Reassuringly, he crosses himself at the statue of Christ. Several tour groups huddle together as they listen to last minute instructions from their guides. All around us Alpacas graze under dramatic snow covered peaks. Brian checks brakes and tire pressure. We watch the taxi depart, and then…. We’re off!

We endure a rapid descend for 15 kilometres - it’s a vista of twisting asphalt, spectacular drops and imposing cliff faces. We take the time to stop - catch our breath, take photographs and admire the majesty of the Andes. Finally, we race through a tunnel, having dropped nearly 1,600 metres in altitude to emerge at the ramshackle “Undauvi” checkpoint.

Here our downhill run is interrupted by a brief undulating 8 kilometre uphill ride. At over 3,000 metres we both struggle for oxygen. There is another 20 kilometre downhill section until the asphalt ends and our tyres skid on the gravel. Vultures circle overhead and our eyes stream. Bleak Andean landscape mellows to become a wide yawning valley clothed in dense lush forest.

At last, we enter the tranquillity of the jungle itself. This is the start of “the World’s Most Dangerous Road” and will be the most challenging part of our ride.
I stare ahead - a narrow dirt road slices precariously into the side of the mountain.

“Hmm, this road is barely wide enough for one vehicle to pass let alone two.”
Surrounded by mist and cloud my aching hands lock both brakes. I glance nervously over 1,000 metre sheer drops to my left as I negotiate cascading waterfalls to my right. The bike slips frequently on wet loose stones. I peer around blind corners anticipating the worst. Focusing on the road I pretend to ignore the reminders of death as I pass several crosses, shrines and memorials.

“I am definitely out of my comfort zone here. Thankfully the majority of traffic uses the new road nowadays.”

Our ride becomes increasingly difficult - the rutted road is dusty and hard work. We smile in sympathy - a professional guide has crashed metres ahead of us. He picks himself up from the rock-strewn road. Thankfully, his injuries are minor - we watch as he limps towards his damaged bike; his pride in tatters.

After some 68 kilometres of cycling through thick jungle we’ve shed most of our clothes to arrive in the Beni lowlands - sunburnt and in short sleeves. Tropical fruits, coffee and coca grow here year round.

Tired, hot, dirty, yet exhilarated, we finally arrive at the shantytown of Yolosa. It’s a hectic little town where we are quickly set upon by locals selling much welcomed cold drinks, bread, fried chips, chocolate and fruit. After stowing the bikes in the hold, we board one of the many buses travelling to La Paz. The journey takes around two hours and we arrive at dusk - it has been a very long day.

Exhausted, we push our cycles up the steep cobblestone back streets of this fascinating city.

That evening over a free beer or two we toast ourselves - Grandma and Granddad survived the “World’s Most Dangerous Road” and boy did we have fun!

I want to ride my bicycle.........................

"Bicycling has done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world.
I stand and rejoice every time I see a woman ride on a wheel.
It gives women a feeling of freedom and self-reliance."
Susan B. Anthony, suffragist, 1896


Let’s talk about the bicycle and women.

The bike was introduced at the end of the 19th century and Women discovered a new form of freedom – cycling allowed them to travel independently outside of the home and the freedom to wear clothes suitable to cycle in.

The men of the Victorian era found liberation threatening. Indeed, society sought ways both privately and through the press to stop to women cycling in public. The Victorian dress code did not permit women to show their legs in public even if covered by pants and stockings. Wearing pants was considered “shocking.”

However, by 1900 it had become acceptable for more daring women to ride in bloomers (puffed out pants that were almost twice the diameter of one’s legs at the knees).

Just a few dates to muse over -


· 1888 - The modern "safety" bicycle is invented with a light frame and two equal-sized wheels and a chain drive. Women join (bi)cycling clubs in Chicago and tennis clubs in New York City.

· 1893 - 16-year old Tessie Reynonds of Brighton rides her bicycle to London and back, a distance of 120 miles, in 8.5 hours. She wore the shocking "rationale" dress - a long jacket over knickers, which outraged some observers as much as her feat.

· 1894 - Annie "Londonderry" Kopchovsky, 23, sets out to become the first woman to bicycle around the world, a journey that lasted 15 months and earned her $5,000 along the way.

The photograph above was taken in Germany three years ago and Frȧulein looks determined – perhaps she is in a hurry to concoct hubby’s dinner. She hammered uphill in the most unflattering and old-fashioned dress loaded with bags of groceries and produce. Way to go girl!

Grandma – where does meat come from?

Picture your local supermarket’s butchery department - Plastic wrapped black trays of perfectly uniform, perfectly bone-free pieces of meat. All date stamped, weighed and priced. Sanitized, clean and so easy to forget that the meat tray you have in your hand actually contains meat from an animal that someone has killed.

Everyone knows butchers have large sharp knives and it is their job to present us with perfect meat. Naked chickens take on a surreal aura when they packed side by side in a sparkly white freezer. Not a talon or beady eye in sight.

In Malaysia outdoor butcher shops are the norm. Men hack, saw and cut. The bits are laid out in large chunks – thighs, shoulders, heads and offal. Blood, guts and sawn bones shimmer in troprical humidity. The owner waives a plastic bag at the hovering flies.

Pyramids of chicken feet point irreverently . Lolling grey-green tongues glisten in the sun. Chickens, sans head and feet lie naked as corpses. The butcher uses a blowtorch to singe off tiny down feathers before dismembering a hanging carcass. Legs, hooves, heads – dead eyes and stiff black bristles.

The stench of death makes me gag. I can’t take my eyes from the puddles of thick red blood so bright they almost speak. Not a plastic wrapped black polystyrene tray to be seen.