Me and Marina....

YING AND YANG

How can I feel equal measures of despair and hope at once. Joy at work breakthroughs (discovered a wonderful EP) and wretchedness at the head-against-brick-wall aspect.

I remember I promised some herba buena for the girl's night tonight (trans: good herb, but not in a smoking sense) ... to put in the mojitos, it's kind of like mint. But where would I find it, that is the question.

With the usual great trepidation, I called Ara's house. Her dad always answers the phone, and we have the problem that he doesn't feel the need to open his mouth when he speaks. Often you see his wife and daughters looking at each other mouthing 'what did he just say?"

The conversation usually goes like this:
"Hi, it's Michelle.. how are you?"
"Blawshwishubulabahibuniasd" which I take to mean "Good thanks"
"Oh good"
"Quisesmweithensdawekrj?" which I take to mean "And you?"
"Good thanks."

Then, the dreaded moment when he tries to make conversation.
" Wweinbihtrw gvmiwerghab erfds fd?"
".... um, pardon?"
"werwgjdfkgerisdnkwdhgiewry?"

Uh oh. When will Senor Casas learn that this is a pointless exercise? I just want to talk to Ara. Please?

Eventually I ascertain that he's secured me a guitar - part of my elaborate plan to enter Cuba - and is asking when I'll drop around and collect it. 'Dropping around' is a three-hour round trip plus a couple of hours for kissing everyone hello and goodbye.

I thank him profusely and he takes mercy on me and goes to find Ara. Thank. The. Lord.

Senor Casas doesn't seem to like anything much, but I'm pretty sure he likes me despite (or perhaps because of) my apparent stupidity. He doesn't open his mouth, but he does sometimes smile at me through his moustache-on-steroids. I suspect he's actually laughing at me, but either way, let's say I make him smile.

Moving on. Ara says I can find herbs at the market - which I already knew so I'm not sure why I called. I set off.

In this particular moment, I have just finished a particularly unpleasant work-related exchange with one of the sources of despair. I feel wretched, so through shit-coloured glasses, when a man actually says to my face 'Wow, hooooooola. Lady." I have a vision of myself grabbing his shirtcollar, putting my face an inch from his and saying,

"Get a f@#&ing eyefull.. did you? Human being, mate. That's right. I am a human being for whom Wow is not a sign of respect motherf@#*er."

I settle for remaining expressionless and after he's passed, scowling.

Then I see two little boys playfighting and they're delightful. Even despite the fact that I know they're honing their macho skills and in 20 years they will be the 'Wow' guy... showing women no respect, I find myself smiling.. then smiling at their proud mum... and then the world in general.

Despair. Hope. Wretched. Joy.

I secure a massive bunch of herba buena at my favourite market stall, belonging to the people from downstairs in the apartment block. Juanita whispered conspiratorially that she's got something of mine.

What's that? I bellow.

She recoils. Puts her hand near her mouth and then mentions the word for sustainer. Oh, right, she's got my bra. I can tell she knows it's mine because I"m the only person in the whole block with boobs that small but whatever.

Our whole roof is dedicated to washing. There are cages for each apartment, so that you can shut your washing in to dry. On this basis, I have no idea who my underpants always end up in someone else's possession. There'll be a knock at the door, and there's the little girl from downstairs holding a pair saying 'they fell down'.

So, to take stock. I have a bunch of the good herb, a prodigal bra, and a guitar coming my way.

Hope wins.


Señor Casas gets up close and personal with Marina...

MICS, TRAINS AND AUTOMOBILES

I admit, it was a mistake to put my mini-mic half-in the pocket of my jeans on the day of the Virgin of Guadalupe celebrations. By the time I realised that it was all-out of the pocket, a casualty of gravity, it had probably been trampled under the feet/knees of many of the six million pilgrams with whom I was sharing the day.

Either that, or a puzzled fruit stall owner was turning it over in his palm, trying to work out what it was.

This leaves me in a difficult situation - how can someone entering Cuba on a tourist visa explain an industrial-sized microphone as part of their trip? There's the obvious explanation that they're trying to flout Cuban media bans, or the less obvious explanation that it's a guitar-learning tool (please refer to guitar strapped to tourist's back)..

If the customs officials are anything like the heavily-moustached security guard at the Cuban embassy, where I am picking up my tourist visa, I should have no troubles with the latter explanation. They'll be too busy trying to guess my nationality and telling me I'm too pretty to be Australian, I should be Canadian or American.

I resist the urge to tell him that on that premise, he should be Khasakstani (sp?) while his eyes slide from my face, down to my legs and back.

"But you've got a Cuban body," he says approvingly.

(Trans: my hips have not yet realised I go to the gym every day)

Note to self: wear tight jeans when attempting to enter Cuba.

I leave the security guard and his moustache mulling over my nationality/arse, and grab a cab to the Sony shop, where I am hoping to find a slightly less-conspicuous microphone. Taxis in Mexico are bright green and white VW beetles, and you can hail one in an average of 27 seconds, they're everywhere.

I enter my cab-with-a-difference and instantly notice the unusual-yet-pleasant aroma of coconut oil. It seems to be emanating from the hair of my cabbie, whose registration certificate proudly proclaims to be JOSE - complete with picture of Jose with perfectly-oiled hair.

Jose's taken some care with his cab. For a start, he's ripped out the original short-wave radio and replaced with with a shiny new MP3 player, which is currently piping out cheeful salsa music. I feel my foot beginning to tap.

All VW cabs have had their front passenger seat ripped out as well, to give passengers more leg-space, so I've got a full view of the car. The rear vision mirror is framed with synthetic fluff, which obscures most of the mirror itself from vision. The glass peaking out from behind the fluff is covered with black writing that says "Nathalia", let's assume that's Jose's girlfriend.

The windscreen in front of Jose's face is also covered in black writing, which I can't quite decipher. At best, visibility is limited.

So it is with great relief that I notice two pictures on the dash: one of Mary, one of Jesus. Another magnet-style picture of Mary is stuck to the glove box. Rosary beads extend from the fluff of the rear-vision mirror. Thank god, I was starting to this we had some safety issues, what with not being able to see the road in front or behind, but we'll be fine.

It's good to see that was well as being devout, Jose is pragmatic. In the passenger area I notice a first aid kit, and a fire extinguisher. Between the seats there is a roll of toilet paper (I am not going to say that's for the passengers who are shitting themselves) and a coin box.

After enjoying a pleasant conversation-free ride, we arrive at the Sony store.

The man behind the counter informs me there are no Sony mini-mics in all of Mexico. But in case I want to check for myself, he draws me a map of the electronics zone in the middle of town.

My next cab (yes, I am too lazy to find the metro stop) is accessory-free and we have a full view of the road. My cabbie takes the mud-map, peers at it with his eyes squinted, turns it upside down a couple of times, and then tells me he's going to hang onto it for a while.

Hmm, considering that the directions are for a main street in the centre of town, I'm a little concerned, but we make it there just fine. He revently hands back the map and I jump into tech-heads heaven.

Cables, grids, phones, cameras, plugs, wires, recorders, adaptors, things-I-can't-identify.. they're all here. Everything EXCEPT Sony mini-mics, as I discover over the course of the next 80 minutes/33 shops.

Finally I admit defeat and succumb to the hunger pains I've been ignoring for quite a while. I head for the most popular taco stall that's surrounded by dozens of men, eating off plastic plates and gulping down softdrinks. Each one looks at me as if I am an alien. Gringa. Alone. In the electronics zone. Eating tacos. On the street.

Weird.

The thing I like about Mexicans is that if they have something to say to someone a distance away, they yell. Drivers of cars idling on the curb bellow questions to stall-owners several metres back from the street, people on mobile behave in a similar manner, as though distance was in real terms.

I yell my order over the swarm of eaters to the green-eyed taco man, and two tacos miraculously appear virtually before I've finished speaking. They're sensational, although I still miss the presence of salad.

The juice man aka the seafood man at the next stall has 'invited' me for some prawns. (trans: free food). As I sit eating an exquisite combination of prawn, avocado, tomato salsa and lime from a plastic cup, he explains to me that if I help him sell property I'll get a good commission.

O-kay.

After a pleasant conversation about handicapped kids (his nephew who works there knows some) I head for the subway clutching the pen and lollies he's given me. The pen says 'Meave Seafood wishes you a Happy New Year'.

So, despite lacking a (crucial) mini-mic, I have a full belly, a fall-back career and a new pen.

I guess tomorrow I'll be guitar shopping.

IT'S APPLES AND ORANGES..

There's been a breakthrough with work. I found it on the email this morning.

More excitingly, there's been a breakthrough at the juice shop. Somehow, I found myself there this afternoon, despite the unofficial embargo I had placed on it after the last incident. I only realised when I was standing at the counter.

In exceptionally good humour, I approached the situation by asking what juices were available. Orange and mandarin, came the reply.

"What about apple?" I say, looking wistfully at the apples.

"No." Sometimes if you leave enough silence after an answer you don't like, the person will explain the reason for the answer, or in rare cases, change it altogether.

Not the juice lady. We stand staring at each other for so long that an innocent bystander says, "Come on, give her some apple," to which she replies that the apple juicer is broken. Why didn't she just say so?

Hmmm. The options.

"Ok, can I please have an orange juice?"

"What about mandarin, do you want some mandarin??"

What the heck, let's do it. Let's do the mix.

Then, the breakthrough. While she is happily splattering me with juice, she asks if I live nearby. It's disappointing in the face of such a step forward, to have to explain that I can't understand what she's saying when there's noise (the juicer) (it's a quirk of second languages, background noise is the enemy)

She finishes juicing and asks again, in my haste to reply, I say,

"Yes, I live a block away, that's why I like the juices here." Proximity, as opposed to quality. Woops. Well, it certainly isn't for the ambience.

I decide to take things another step and ask if the 27 pesos I"m carrying is enough to get a papaya as well?

"Chica!" she replies, which I construe as a rebuff at having the audacity to suggest such a thing. Turns out she's saying I can have a small one, same word, different meaning.

I retreat from the juice shop with my half-litre of orange and mandarin, 2 bananas and a papaya wondering if maybe, just maybe, I'm one of those twisted individuals who thrives on rudeness. I keep going back don't I?

TO DIVE OR NOT TO DIVE.. THAT IS THE QUESTION

Today in Chile a man who'd lost his job and his house set himself on fire to protest housing prices.

I'm sorry.... what? Exactly who was he teaching a lesson to? And, if you've lost your job and your house, surely you'd be trying to hang on to what you've got left. Like, skin.

If he thought housing prices were too high, and had lost his job.. it'd make more sense to take out a good insurance police and then set the house on fire.

And also, what about future employment prospects now that he's got burn scarring? From now on, in job interviews he's going to have to explain how once he got really pissed off, doused himself in petrol, and lit a match.

And then jumped into a water fountain to put out the flames, so does that mean he was only half-pissed-off about the housing prices?

I was having a mild panic attack for most of the day, in the wake of a gruelling week. Optimism can be so tiring, sometimes you just want to throw a metal bin at the mirror and watch it shatter.

Having decided that the dictionary definition of 'freelancing' should actually be:
"the process of maintaining an exterior appearance of cheerfulness in the face of relentless knock-backs, while gradually eroding interior well-being to zero", I gave myself over to a little bout of despondency and went to buy a freshly-squeezed juice from the awful fruit shop woman.

As usual, she grimaced at the sight of me. I ditched my usual cheerful 'Hola, buenas tardes' in favour of a return grimace as she reluctantly moved towards the juicer.

"Can I please have a half-litre of orange and carrot?" (I have finally mastered the Spanish word for carrot - zanahoria is not easy, let me tell you that)

"We don't have carrot."

I look up at the shelves and shelves of carrots, "What about them?"

"We don't have clean carrots."

"Well what about cleaning some then?"

"We don't have water." She hates me. I mean, she really hates me. I have only ever been exceptionally polite to her, and it's not that she's not one of these twisted individuals who warms more to rude people, because my blunt carrot-cleaning suggestion hasn't softened her up one iota.

"Ok, well can I please have a half-litre of apple and pineapple?"

"We don't have pineapple."

I lift my eyes to the dozens of pineapples and then give up. "Ok, I'll have an apple and orange then." If she thinks I'm going to utter another 'please', she's got another think coming.

She smugly juices the fruit, bumps up the price 3 pesos for the pleasure of having apple, and puts the cup in a bag with a straw. Maybe she is one of these twisted individuals, she's never given me a straw before.

I sit on the roof in an upright foetal position, marvelling at how delicious the froth of apple and orange is. I am familiar with panic state, and I know it's a case of riding it out.

But I've got troubles dammit. I leave for Cuba in a week and after that, the room ceases to be mine. Denise will be back in it for an unspecified, but probably short time. So do I go through that whole process of finding another place in the meantime?

Re work: I've got doco ideas, but how am I going to make anyone at Radio National in Australia answer the phone? How am I going to fake a British accent to fit in with Radio National's apparent racial preferences?

I find myself imploring the heavens for something, just something to happen to make it all seem ok. I briefly consider emailing Gregory David Roberts, author of Shantaram, my favourite book in the whole wide world. He's in Mumbai and he once offered I could ride around on the back of his Enfield with him. I ponder my fixation with India for a while and retreat to my computer..

Sarang is online, he's in Mumbai too. He opens the conversation with "Hey, what are you doing in February? Do you want to spend a month diving for free, all your accommodation and food paid? I'm doing a project with the government to identify, dive and report on sites to develop a diving industry in India."

Exploring virgin dive sites. Um, yes?

Thing is, this option raises two lines of thought.

The first is "Things happen for a reason, you have to notice signs and coincidences and follow them.. paths will open up before you and the Universe will work in your favour."

Personally, I thought the Celestine Prophecy was the worst book ever written. Absolute bollocks. Then there's Paulo Coelo - I like his philosophy that things will work in your favour if you follow the signs, but do I believe it?

The second line of thought is that life wasn't meant to be easy and sometimes you've just got to grit your teeth and power on through.

I'm casting around for authors, but all I'm getting is Kermit the Frog. Was he 'life wasn't meant to be easy' or just 'It's not easy being green?'

I went to a cantina to mull it over with Luis. Cantinas are public bars that look a little bit like public toilets, all the walls are tiled and everything's quite minimalistic. Sound bounces around. Football matches play on tvs on the ceiling. We nursed a few Coronas and bellowed at each other over the din of mariachi singers and their guitars, who seemed to be occupying every corner of the place.

Luis says religion has instilled in us the idea (particularly in Mexico) that you have to suffer for everything: success, love, happiness. But why? Why are we convinced that the easy way can't possibly be the right way?

Then he turned around and said that once in your life you've got to put 'all your meat in the oven' for one thing you really want. Risk everything for your chosen goal.

Well, my meat's already in the oven. Or, to use a Chile reference: I'm already on fire. I resigned, moved out, jumped on a plane.. and here I am.

The question is, how much do I want this thing? Do I dive in the water fountain and put out the flames? Or do I cook for a while?

Hmmm, the flesh-burning analogy is questionable isn't it?