Just Because There's a Room

CARS, TRAINS, PLANES, FERRIES AND BUSES

2007-09-25T04:09:00.001-09:30

Yes, Jords and I have sampled the transport smorgasboard. It was a great trip: one of those ones where the journey is the destination or whatever the saying is, as the last week saw quite the carbon footprint.

The reason the journey was the destination, or rather, the destination was the journey, was that neither Jords nor I had time or inclination to research said destination, so the plane tickets I bought landed us quite a distance from it.

We were headed for Baja California, and I bought a couple of plane tickets to Culiacan, which as it turns out is several hundred kilometres not to mention a gulf of water away from our destination: San Jose del Cabo.

Getting on the plane was enough of an epic. At 4.30am, we left my birthday:

aka the wig party. That's actually me on the left, Jords on the right.

I brought a little gift (plastic cup half-full of tequila) for our cabbie, Vicente. Too late, Jordan queried the prudence of such a decision. Forgetting he was taking us to the airport, I said, 'don't worry, by the time it hits we'll be long gone.'

But no, Vicente performed the task of delivering us to the airport outstandingly. We arrived two hours before takeoff. Unfortunately, I hadn't performed the task of naming destination quite so outstandingly, and we were at the wrong airport. By the time we worked this out (I'd forgotten to bring any flight details so we were going up to random airlines asking if they had our names) that time margin had shrunk by half an hour.

Unfortunately the other airport was an hour away.

Shit.

I called the airline from the next cab, and they told me we HAD to check in an hour before takeoff. Projected arrival was 40 minutes before takeoff. Our new cabbie went in to bat for us, driving along cajoling the airline man.

Then he announced 'trust in God', which could have applied to doubts about road safety, or doubts about air travel.

We made it. Next we knew, we were on the plane, asleep.

We got off the plane, caught a taxi to the bus station, then a bus to the next town, a taxi to the ferry stop, a ferry overnight to La Paz, and then another bus, and then a taxi, and then we were at our destination. The whole thing took a mere 30 hours.

From here we hired a car. It is almost a year since I've driven and oh my lord I'd forgotten how much I love it. I think in a past life, I must have been a truck driver. Or a people smuggler. Or something requiring lots of driving.

It was just like old times.

So, not surprising that we couldn't find out way out of San Jose del Cabo.. or that I got clocked for illegal right-hand overtake within ten minutes of getting behind the wheel.

The cop was very pleasant. I explained that I hadn't driven in a while, that we'd just arrived and that we were lost. None of this went far to dislodging his belief that - despite being stuck behind a massive slow-moving truck on a wide dirt road with no markings, I mean, let's face it .. who WOULDN"T overtake??? - some sort of penance should be paid.

How much? I ask.

500 pesos. He says.

That's $50. No way. I suggest that I'd been thinking more along the lines of 100 and he immediately capitulates and tells me not to pay him now. Well, I don't have time to drive around looking for subtle spots to pay a bribe, so I tell him forget subtle, it's now or never.

He then offers to rectify the third problem: we're lost and can't find out way out of town.

For the next 10 minutes, we enjoy a police escort out of San Jose del Cabo. Lights and everything, he's cutting through traffic, speeding.. really making sure no time is lost.

Then he pulls over, points us to the exit for open road, and tells us we're very beautiful.

And that, I am pleased to say, is a typical Latino cop.

Baja California is beautiful, rolling hills covered in shrubbery and cacti. We drove until we saw a little dirt road going off the highway, and ended up in a field of horses and goats, which spilled (via a ridge) onto the longest, most deserted beach you've ever seen.

We wondered why it was so deserted, until I tried to enter the water and discovered it'd be a good place to commit suicide, if your prefered manner of dying is by drowning.

Then we hit the road again, had an amazing lunch in Todos Santos, and drove to La Paz.

The diving was shit. Really really shit.

Nightlife too. Met some sleazy George Bush supporters who stalked us that night, travelling from their town to our town to eat at the only good restaurant, leaving us no option but to sweat it out in taco shop with no aircon.

It was wonderful, because we met a little kid called Diego (son of the owners) and Jordan practiced her Spanish on him. Really gorgeous kid, pics coming.

I had to bring forward my departure by a week, because of the looming doco that I should be doing right now (as I write). So that gave me two days to do the 16 hour train ride up the Copper Canyon. Amazing, beautiful.. one of the guards kept taking us to the off-limits back carriage to see waterfalls. He was obsessed by them.

Then, at 3pm, Jordan said 'hey Michelle, does Friday start with 'v' in Spanish?'

"Yes, yes it does. Why do you ask?"

"Because I just saw a newspaper and I think today is Friday, not Thursday."

Shit. That means my flight is tomorrow morning at 7am and I'm only halfway up the copper canyon. Can't change the flight because there are no flights on Sunday, and returning Monday would be professional suicide.

I stayed on the train. All the way to the end. Slept soundly in v shitty Chihuahua (just put in as many 'h's and 'u's with that word, and you should be right.

And here I am. Home.

FINALLY THANK THE LORD THAT'S OVER... ONLY ONE 50MIN DOCO TO GO AND THEN I'M HOMEBOUND!!!!!

2007-09-24T19:11:00.000-09:30

http://www.abc.net.au/rn/sportsfactor/stories/2007/2029931.htm

RADIO NZ NIGHTS - CORRES REPORT

2007-09-04T10:32:00.000-09:30

http://www.radionz.co.nz/nr/programmes/nights/20070904

NIÑO LIBRE

2007-08-25T06:59:00.000-09:30

Last night I went to polish off the last of my Sports Factor story on Lucha Libre.

It's on the general ridiculousness, sorry, 'cultural machoism' of the Free Fight and last night's foray was great fun.

First I interviewed a lot of people between the age of 1 and 6 about what they like about Lucha Libre. While none of the one-year-olds actually said, "It's amazing because it instills aggression and machoism in us from a very young age", that's ok, because it's all in Spanish and I can just dub it in the voiceover.

(For any americans reading this, that was a joke)

I'd already contacted the media person, Sandra, who wrote me a one line response that all I needed was media ID and a zoom, neglecting to mention that I had to be registered beforehand and be on the door. A bespectacled man tells me I have to come back during the week and register at the office, before coming back AGAIN to do my work.

No thanks.

I'm going to employ a little Fernando-ism. I tell him I don't need to take my camera in (omitting a mention of my mini-disc recorder and mic) and somehow convince him to let me enter for 'a very short time'. I leave my $1500 camera with a lady in a raincoat called 'Tere', who smuggles it inside her jacket, tucking it under her armpit. I wonder if I'll see it again.

The spectacle, to be honest, is amazing. The sound of bicycle pumps powering car horns, heard from a distance without a hangover, is compelling. The ridiculous men in the ring are quite amazing, and I have a great time.

I emerge half an hour later with all the sound I need, and Tere dislodges my camera from her armpit. She is a lovely lady, Mexicans are very warm (not just their under-arms).

I'm going to try 'assertive' (pushy) more often.

ROLL ON DEANO

2007-08-21T11:03:00.000-09:30

No sooner had I arrived back in Mexico, with ideas of a good sleep and 12 hours a day editing my mountain of work... than Hurricane Dean hit the radar.

What I want to know is, who calls a Hurricane 'Dean' ??? It's like naming a racehorse Fluffy. Inappropriate. But then, the last Category Five one to come through was called Wilma so what can I say? Who knew meterologists had such keen senses of humour.

For the first time, my stories led the main news bulletins.. even in Sydney. Which is kind of ironic seeing that I wasn't within a sniff of any unusual weather activity, being safely holed up in Mexico City a good couple of thousand kms away from the action.

It made me hanker to be a correspondent, following the storm, bunkering down.. instead of hovering on the fringes. But Australia's lack of interest in LatAm leaves not only no corres here (hence my ability to string) but also no travel budget (hence my inability to string with authority).

Never mind.

I had my own challenges: trying to record clean sound with a protestor on a megaphone just outside the window. Trying to record clean sound with a jackhammer just outside the winder. Trying to record clean sound with a bird just ... you get the picture. Oh, it was adrenaline-inducing stuff let me tell you.

HOME JAMES

2007-08-19T13:36:00.000-09:30

or is that just a quote my mum uses and nobody else?

Whatever the case, 1.30am Sat night finds me sitting, exhausted in the Rio de Janeiro airport, waiting to be processed out of the country.

There's all manner of people-watching pleasure to be enjoyed. A woman with the most striking resemblance to Miss Piggy I've ever seen. You'd think if you looked that much like her, you wouldn't curl your hair in EXACTLY the same style. Her mother looks like she might have once shared the trait, before massive amounts of surgery that have left her looking more like Michael Jackson With A Miss Piggy Hairstyle.

I don't know if it's the late hour, but I always find myself thinking these mean thoughts in airports. It was the same leaving Mexico, a stream of consciousness like:
"Denim with denim, when will Mexico learn it's just wrong. Why do people wear it like a suit here? Why is that woman wearing gold heels at 3am in the airport? God, that is one hairy guy. Whoever gave that poor lady those foils deserves to be shot."

Unnecessary, all of it.

Back to the here and now in Rio and I'm fascinated by a couple. I can't work out where they're from but they're young, maybe 25. They first catch my eye because of his Inspector Poirot moustache. Not many 25 year olds outside of the south coast of India have moustaches these days. He looks exactly like one of those classic skinny detective characters, or maybe someone from Fawtly Towers, I can't put my finger on it but it's rivetting. Actually, yes, Manuel from Fawtly Towers, that's it.

She looks like Marisa Tomei and holds the honest belief that his role on this earth is to make sure she's happy. She passes the time with activities like being photographed (by him), directing him on how to stack their bags correctly, complaining, rousing, changing out of patent leather heels into flip flops (at least she's sensible) and complaining.

It's like watching a road crash, for some reason I'm rivetted.

Finally I get them out of my system and head for the boarding area. Five minutes later they arrive and plonk their massive amounts of hand luggage down right next to my head, which is encased in hoodie for the purposes of sleeping. You'd think that'd be the implication, but no, the loud complaining and equally loud placating continues until we finally board. Finally, sleep is near.

I make myself comfortable in the window seat, and am just closing my eyes in the upright position (no reclining permitted before takeoff) when I hear a familiar sound.

It's her.

Are they stalking me? The thought momentarily crosses my mind that they are spies (ok, so I'm tired and irrational) but I dismiss it as spies are supposed to blend in with the furniture and she acts more like the world is a table and she's dancing on it.

He takes charge of stowing the hand luggage, and in the process of demonstrating his manliness crushes the carry-on luggage of several other people, which makes me wonder if perhaps they may be Israeli.

(borderline humour)

Then does undoes all his good work by taking off his suit jacket (on which he was carrying her backpack and I found myself a little distressed about the shoulder pads getting crushed. Why is he wearing a suit on the plane anyway?) to reveal a waitcoat. This guy has read way too much Agatha Christie.

She then reclines her seat into my face. Definitely Isreali. (SORRY! not funny I know...)

I consider several courses of action, including popping my head over the seat and yelling at her, popping my head over the seat and hitting her, but opt for the more subtle, kneading my knees into the back of her seat.

The results are less than stunning.

Anyway, make it home ok and find myself stuck in an immigration line two hours long with 'mauricio'. He's Brazilian and ready to handle topics like "are latinos less trustworthy than Australian men?", "could you have bought a house if you hadn't done all that travel?" and "quirks of language" (where I unwittingly disclose that I hate Portuguese. Honestly I have to stop doing that.

We really pass the time nicely, but not nicely enough for me to stand by him when he comes out of customs to discover his baggage has been lost. I know, I'm a terrible person, but staying just would have led him to believe that I'd make a dependable wife.

No hard feelings though, because (yes I am writing this post facto) he wrote the sweetest email a couple of days later to say that he'd gone to California and:

I liked a lot to talk to you and your way of thinking etc...I haven't seen you before but It seemed that I knew you before from the way we talked (you know what I mean)? ...but my trip just
changed the direction and I am here right now in california ok!

OK!! Sweet...

The first thing I notice is that the air still smells like sewerage, but in a nice familiar sort of way.

FRIDAY .. I'M IN LOVE

2007-08-17T11:21:00.000-09:30

Actually, I~m not.

Woke up in pitch blackness with a very itchy head. Great, nits are just what I need right now. Turns out it's 10am but the curtains are just very good.

The shower is brutal, as there's no hot water in our new down-market hovel... err hotel.

Fern doesn~t want to offend his ex-boyfriend~s cousin~s boyfriend by moving back out the day after we arrived, after he'd fixed us up in a room with four beds (read: dorm). I mean, as I said to Fern, it's only possible to sleep in one bed at one time so we don't need the other two beds. Whatever the case, we~re staying.

We finally step out for our long-awaited beach day - to soak up some of Ipanema Beach's best rays - to discover it~s actually overcast and blowing a gale.

We opt for Plan B which is, you guessed it, eating.

We enter a cafe just as some pigeons are flying out, and have the usual bad coffee and delicious pastries. Where is all the good coffee in this country, that~s what I want to know. I mean, fine, take my cigarettes, take my alcohol... but don~t take my caffeine, please.

We pass a pleasant breakfast reminiscing about the northern territory and ... gosh, I can't think what we natter on about.

We then walk the length of Copacabana - I take pics and record sound.

Then Fern gets a call from one of his friends/love interests, and we jump on a bus to orka (pretty sure that's not how you spell it) - which it turns out is where Rio's second biggest tourist attraction - SugarLoaf - is located. I have yet to get to the statue of christ, one of the world's seven wonders.. but I have seen a LOT of rent boys (one of the world's lesser-known wonders)

I strongly recommend a walk around the base of Sugarloaf to anyone, it made me wonder why I live in Mexico. Francine and I drive to a running track plonked in the middle of the city, a couple of thousand metres above oxygenated air, but not out of reach of the ubiquitous fumes... and run around in circles. Yes, there are nice gum trees there, but that~s about the extent of the eye candy.

Here, the air is thick with oxygen instead of fumes, the view is amazing both out to sea AND on the track... and it feels like home, on my skin, in my lungs and under my feet.

The vista of rocks jutting out of the sea, rainforest dropping into water, little old fishing boats bobbing about in the bay ... and monkeys, yes, MONKEYS in the trees of the rainforest... is amazing.

I left the boys to themselves and came back to Copa where I discovered the perils of walking unaccompanied by a male. My head is still itchy.

On the bright side, my idea to slightly amend my print feature from Straight Male Rent Boys Who Sell Sex to Male Tourists, to Rafael: The boy from Ipanema / Ipanema's Icecream Boys went down a TREAT. That is because Rafael is actually a god, and the pics are amazing. I will post them when I get back to Mex.

So not all is lost.

SHOOTING STAR

2007-08-16T11:39:00.000-09:30

We wake at 7am. Rafa is coming to pick us up at 8, to get the best sunlight. I read that somewhere, about early morning sunlight being the best for photography. So being such a professional, I insist on an early start. I suspect 'early' actually refers more to 5am sunlight, but surely we're in the general zone.

First, we head to our new hotel in Ipanema, which Fern has secured through his ex-boyfriend's-cousin's-boyfriend, and discover it to be a towel-less, shared-bathroom, blanketless, mirrorless, breakfastless step down... for the same price we were paying before. The only added bonus is dogpoo, which adorns the hallways care of a mangy-looking dog that wanders around as if it's at home (which, i dread, it is)

Rafa comes with his array of different coloured Speedos, and we all head to Ipenema beach. Walking along the beach, Fernando breaks the news about us not having an article about rent boys to include him in, as the exception. Hard to talk about the exception when there's no proven rule. We are just doing the pics for his benefit, so that he's got something to show around.

The photo session is amazing. Honestly, I can't believe we have found such a god.

After hours of poor old Rafa standing, oiled, in various poses in the stinging sunlight.. we all head for lunch. For photographic excellence, I had to act a bit flirty, to get the best from the subject, and Fern is now insisting I can't NOT sleep with Rafa after all that flirtation. It~s starting to get annoying.

Not having heard back from Andrea (Mr OECD of Senior Economist fame) about the interview request, Fern decides to pay him a personal visit. A handwritten note at reception of his hotel will really turn things around, he insists. In his words 'noone turns down Fernando DF, I mean, does he know who I am. Um, hello Andrea, Fern DF Freelancer with ABC Radio here.' All the keywords.

He sets off on thonged foot to Ipanema's poshest hotel. I head to the net cafe and pitch a slightly amended story angle 'hey Luke, what about we ditch the straight rent boys in amazing clubs selling sex to gay tourists in favour of Rafael, the boy from Ipanema who sells acai on the beach, but not sex?'

Fern gets back from posh hotel with news that Andrea has checked out, suggesting maybe we should email him. He already has the subject line worked out: 'THANKS'.

Fern and I then upload 38 of our most compelling Rafa pics to the net (for pitching purposes) over the space of six hours, due to a couple of slight hitches on the internet. Quite a few slight hitches actually. We are both wired, totally exhausted.

By the end of the night, we have been in here so long that I know what song is coming next on the loop tape. Unfortunately, it~s Lilly Allen, Smile, which really grates in all its off-key glory. God I hate that song.

OOPS (F*ck) I DID IT AGAIN

2007-08-15T17:00:00.000-09:30

For some reason the inverted comma button here is right under the 'esc' button. I could kick something.

MIXED RESULTS (read: FAILURE)

2007-08-15T14:21:00.000-09:30

(if reading this post is as laborious as executing the day was, best skip to the next one)

Wednesday: I've taken to doing up schedules in order to fit all our hectic movements. Time in Rio moves at a different pace, maybe because we walk everywhere. YOu wake up and next thing you know it's 1am and you're going to bed.

Schedule looks like this:
8am: run
9am: brekky
10am: research + call: gay org, neri, andrea goldstein (OECD), Le Boy
3pm: sauna
8pm: Fernie DATE / Michelle INTERNET

Day looks like this:
8am: Fernie ridicules Michelle for not going for a run
9am: walk to bakery, devour several pastries
10am: it all comes a bit unstuck.

Fernando tells me I've really blown it by letting Andrea 'get away' (so true) and he takes over the role of re-finding him while I go about finding out what Andrea can talk about. Fernando has all the traits I lack: tenacity, assertiveness, insistence, shamelessness, and bluff. I can't bluff. I have all the traits that you'll find if you go to thesaurus.com, 'antonyms' for tenacity etc.

My research includes googling "What is the OECD?" (oh, come on, who actually really knows?), "Andrea Goldstein", "Andrea Goldstein, Slim", "Andrea Goldstein, emerging markets" and other inspired combinations.

Over the course of the day, Fernando's quest to pin Andrea (yes, we have taken to pronouncing it like a woman) has him calling: France cellphone (voicemail), conference organiser to find out where Andrea is staying in Rio, organiser's contact, organiser's contact again, organiser's contact calls back with hotel name, information for hotel number, hotel (from ambient setting of public phone right beside watering hole, very professional) hotel again to leave a message when phone rings out.

Fernando hangs up the phone looking pleased, announcing triumphantly, "We've got 'im."

Actually, we've got his hotel. If it happens to be one of those rare 5-star establishments with no security and only one guest staying, he's quite possibly right. We have got him.

The afternoon is peppered with references to 'what Andrea calls back' as we go to check on Fernando's annointed sauna.

It's another juxtaposition. Suddenly I am walking through the doors of a mysterious converted house, where a dykish-looking woman tells us the owner doesn't come in, they have to wait for her to call. Fernando does his insistent thing, and succeeds only in pissing her off. We leave our number and exit.

From here, we set up camp over the road to watch the rent boys arriving. This way, Fern says, we can choose the ones we want to interview tomorrow. When we are granted access. With our camera. And mini-disc recorder. And female genetalia. Did I mention one of his traits is optimism?

Something strange happens. It's compelling. Every few minutes a beautiful, pumped up macho boy walks up the street, looks over his shoulder ... and then slips through the door. They all make sure they are not being watched.

So, when one guy gives the street a really proper once-over, to discover me and Fern unabashedly staring back, enraptured, he keeps walking past the door.

MC: Not a rentboy then?
FD: Definitely a rent boy.
MC: Well, where's he gone then?
FD: He's hiding.
MC: Oh come on you can't be serious. Look, he's just buying a phonecard.
FD: Stalling. Trust me, it's a diversion.

The young stallion turns his aviators towards us and stares back. Then he walks to the phone booth, near where we are standing, and picks up the receiver, never taking his eyes off us.

MC: Come on, let's go. Honestly, we don't want to blow our chances by stalking the staff Fern. Let's come back tomorrow.
FD: No, we should talk to him.
MC: And say what?
FD: He probably thinks we're a couple looking for action. They find that exciting, because they have to do men all the time so when a woman comes up, that's good.

Too-ing and fro-ing continues. The phone rings, it's Marcelo Neri (poverty expert)'s assistant.

We turn, take the call, and turn back to find the Aviator Dude with his phone pointed squarely at us, taking photos. He looks quite sinister.

The hunter has become the hunted. Is this how he felt?

We retreat, for a cup of tea around the corner, and say 'hello' as we pass him. He looks a little startled.

I think we've blown our last chance. I head off to see a man about a poverty problem, and Fern goes on his date.

HARD DAY'S NIGHT

2007-08-15T13:21:00.000-09:30

I just wrote a whole really long post, pressed one button and it all deleted and can't be retrieved.

That sums up the last two days.

GODDAM SUBTEXT

2007-08-14T15:45:00.000-09:30

Hmmm... turns out the Straight Rentboys Who Sell Sex to Male Tourists story is harder to get than I thought.

As are the Random Add-0n Interviews with LatAm Economist for economic disparty doco.

Fernie and I both have the same reaction to stress (now that I am a non-smoker): When in doubt, eat.

It's paralysing, largely because the food in Brazil is delicious, we're both broke, we both fear flab, and eating takes time we don't have.

The day started, as usual, at the portuguese bakery. Fern had his usual explicitly dictated tea (it's a novel concept here, 'you want to do it how???') with an egg roll, custard croissant, and bread. I had two coffees and a massive strawberry pastry.

We headed back to meet with Rafa and his straight rentboy mates. The only problem: they were very proudly NOT rentboys. One of them was, but unfortunately didn't work visually. So we sat around at the beach drinking coconuts, while 19-year-old Rafa kept grabbing my hand and plunging it into his crotch to show me that he was a 'grower'. It was quite confronting (and large).

Feeling bad, we gave them $30 each for their story and bade them farewell.

We then went for lunch with Mac, the lovely Newsweek corres who shared his radio technology woes and contacts with us over a gllllooooorious octopus casserole, rice and beer. It just so happened that a conference on Mulitnationals from Emerging Economies was happening around the corner from our hotel at 5pm and dropping Mac's name skirted around all sorts of ID requirements.

While listening to the Senior Economist from the OECD was amazing, it wasn't as amazing as it could have been if I'd been conversant in more than one word of Portuguese (obrigada: thankyou) Not very handy.

I just sat there thanking my lucky stars that I had so many years of training in listening to indecipherable and at times senseless monologues while remaining motionless and conscious - having grown up in the church.

I filled the time reflecting on how incongruous it was that just hours earlier I'd been sitting at the beach with my hand forcibly thrust onto the excited member of a stripper/dancer/model, and now I was sitting in something I suspect would have been mind-numbing even in a language I could understand, trying to work out whether the guy in the seat beside me was gay (it's hard not to, when I seem to be stuck in a vortex of gayness) (conclusion: effeminate, but straight)(this was reached without any help of his member)

But, it was all worth it for the prize at the end. An economist from the OECD Headquarters to interview on wealth disparity.

There is a crucial moment - and I mean moment - at the end of a conference. It's a bit like fishing: you've got one chance to hook the big one. Fortunately I had Mac by my side for the introduction,

Mac: (casually) Oh funny that you should mention America Movil, Michelle here is doing a doco on Carlos Slim.
(gestures to carefully-positioned me)
OECD: Oh, makes me wish I knew him. Or his daughter.
MC: Or his son.
OECD: Or his daughter.
(No, I meant me, not you....)
MC: So I would love to grab you for a minute.. for a quick chat.
OECD: Oh I~ve got a driver waiting downstairs, I don't want to leave him too long.
MC: Oh, well how long are you around?
OECD: Until Friday. Give me your card.
MC: I'm based in Mexico so none of my numbers are valid here. Can you maybe give me yours?
(Implication: no card, no roaming on phone... no access. This is NOT the sort of person the OECD gives their number to).
OECD: No, my number is not reachable here (questionable claim). Why don't you give me yours?
MC: I'll give you my friend's.
(Oh shit, I don't have Fern's number)
MC: Mac, what's Fern's number?
(All credibility now dessimated)
OECD: So you'd know my good friend EM.
(New York Times finance corres. He's giving me one last chance. Is now the time to mention that I'm more familiar with her husband, who thinks I'm 'attractive and bright'?? AAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHH. I can feel this slipping away).
MC: Oh, I talked to EG about the Slim stuff just a couple of weeks ago.

He gives me his card, with the number that is invalid. I give him Fern's number, written on the back of Mac's Newsweek card (in a shakey hand). We shake hands. I walk out with Mac.
F*CK. In all the time I've waited for him, all the other experts/economists have left. I didn't even know their areas anyway, what with not understanding a word they said.
I stop at the lift and utter a defeated 'I might just check all the other experts have left', leaving Mac to catch the lift to freedom alone. I may be a loser, but I'll go down with this ship.

I walk home infuriated with myself. I know, even now, that he won't call - and that I blew a REALLY good get. Not get.

I walk home wishing I could smoke myself to the grave - the cravings are killing me -and trying to tell myself that I should be thankful I'm not that guy who's asleep in the middle of the pavement.

Fern returns from his 'research' trip to a gay sauna on a high. Turns out he's found the seedy world's jackpot, Club 112, with 'every variety of drop dead'. Rent boys. Tall, short, slim, chubby, black, white, mixed, reggae... I get waaaay too much detail. And I mean waaaay too much.

For anyone not quite so stuck in teh gay vortex, a sauna is a place where gay men go for sex. In Brazil, they usually pay. This particular sauna had 60 rent boys 'amazing gorgeous beautiful, incredible Michelle, you just should have seen them (censor censor) I can't believe they don't let girls in' - and 10 old gringos who get to pick off the most desirable and pay $25 to have sex with them.

We have resorted to saunas, after mixed results finding aforesaid go-go dancers in gay clubs.

So, just to take stock: I've blown my economist chance, the story I've promised on amazing gay clubs and their dancers is not looking more like an ad for the sex trade, and Fernie and I fall asleep fighting about my refusal to sleep with Rafa the Teenage Grower. Apparently everyone has sexual needs, the motivation for his ruthless persual - come on, the guy is a god and he wants me?? yeah, right - is irrelevant because it's just a shag and I'm leaving on the weekend. And I am the ONLY person who's visited Brazil twice without sampling the local produce. Whatever.

GIRL FROM IPANEMA

2007-08-13T08:18:00.000-09:30

Well, almost. We~re moving from one dodgy hotel in Gloria to another dodgy hotel in Ipanema tomorrow.

Brazil: I saw in my birthday surrounded by gay men watching Witney Houston drag - for researching purposes. We were in Le Boy, which has become more Le Dirty Old Man in the intervening three years since I was last here. Back then, it was gorgeous guys as far as the eye could see, and amazing go-go dancers as high as the eye could see. Hence our return, as I~ve promised DNA magazine and 3000 word feature on straight male go-go dancers who sell sex to men.

Like much of life, the years have robbed it of its beauty and youth.

Still, I managed to find two pleasant little cuties who I like to think of as "Where's Wally: the couple"

I saw the birthday out doing some good solid navel-gazing, and resolution-making. My 20s were hard, but for a reason. I~m happy to be here, at this age, and full of hope.

Today is a little stressful because I~m not sure where we~re going to find aforesaid go-go dancers, if we~re so out of the gay loop in Rio. Also, Fern~s involved in some international sting operation involving a kidnapped French child, a remote town in Brazil (his current home) and Interpol. And he~s also illegal at the moment because he~s overstayed his visa. That combined with his on-again-off-again relational difficulties have left things a little strained.

Also, I can~t smoke as I am 30. I~m looking at the future and it~s so smoke-free I~ve gotta wear shades, that just isn~t quite so joyful in this precise moment.

BRAZIL V MEXICO

2007-08-12T10:30:00.000-09:30

Sure we think of Latin America as one big, happy family, but after living in Mexico the subtle differences start to become apparent. ie:

- in Brazil you can walk down the street in shorts without men having heart attacks

- even if they do look at you in Brazil, they hiss as a sign of appreciation far less often.

- often you're being ogled by someone you want to ogle back (in stark contrast to Mexico, where it's more likely you'll want to vomit back)

- in Brazil, it's two or three kisses on the cheek to say 'hi' and 'bye', in Mexico one suffices.

- in Mexico, if you sneeze in public eg on the bus, everyone in hearing range will say 'salud' (bless you). In Brazil, noone says anything.

- in Mexico, if you're in an eating establishment and someone leaves or enters, they will say 'provecho' (bon apetit) to everyone who's eating. In Brazil, noone says anything.

- in Brazil, there are people inside the ATMs. In Mexico, the ATMs are empty of people

- in Brazil, if someone asks you for spare change and you have it, you give it to them. In Mexico, you ignore them.

So, in a nutshell I think it would be fair to conclude that:

- Mexico is friendlier, except when it comes to the people who drew the short straw in life.

- Brazil is much better place to be a woman, on every level. Unless you happen to be the woman who was employed to sit in the ATM.

I'm serious. There was a whole wall of them, with one or two actually functioning. And as I went to take my receipt, I saw fingers pushing it out. Now that's what I call over-employment. You can't call it an automatic teller machine if it's actually a human teller machine.

RADIO NZ CORRESPONDENT'S REPORT

2007-08-08T17:27:00.001-09:30

This message will self-destruct in one week:

http://www.radionz.co.nz/national/programmes/nights/20070807

click on Americas Report.

I leave for Brazil in six hours and haven't yet packed or (more pressingly) written my ten-minute Sports Factor story ... on Lucha Libre. Better get cracking.

NEVERLAND... ANYONE??

2007-08-07T19:03:00.000-09:30

Jemima says the expat community here is full of people with Peter Pan complex. Maybe I exaggerate and she was just referring a few individuals... but whatever the case, Monday morning 4am when I found myself in a children's playground doing mazes, slippery slides and 'who can swing the highest' competitions with two highly-respected foreign correspondents and a Mexican artist, I was inclined to agree (just for record, I'm pointing finger at me. And maybe SMJ).

Well, more the next day when I woke up to find the back of my legs bright purple, bruising sustained during aforesaid competitive swinging... but unnoticed due to the anaesthetic properties of tequila.

(I won, just for the record)

But then, when I realised why my ear was really quite sore, I revised my concurrence. It brought recollections of the cement animal sculptures (is the best word I can find, but kids' style) with holes in the middle, and my claim that I could be the one to fit through the middle, despite glaring disparity between the size of my body and the size of the hole.

I got my head through no worries. The shoulders, not so much so. And then discovered that it's a lot easier to get head through, than back out again. As I half stood there, bent over with my head on one side of the sculpture and body on the other, hearing voices somewhere above me talking about calling the fire brigade in the morning (how do you break a solid cement animal without breaking the not-so-solid flesh-and-blood animal stuck in it?????) I decided there was only one thing to do. I crushed my ear into a shape it was never meant to be, and pulled.

Forget Peter Pan. The entire incident puts me more in the idiot category.

But, God it was fun.

CENTRAL AMERICA QUIRKS

2007-08-05T08:30:00.001-09:30

MEXICO:
Cabbies:

People will picnic anywhere, even in the middle of the Zocalo / main square:

Shopfronts leave no room for ambiguity re their line of work:

GUATEMALA:
False (and freakish) advertising is not shunned. This sign says, 'we can pierce your baby's ears and more.. .without pain':

Fully-grown people can tend to be exceptionally small:

Shopping trolleys are avoided unless absolutely necessary:

In fact, there's no limit to what can be carried on one's head:

CUBA:
Many Cubans have never used a camera:

PERFECT DAY

2007-08-02T09:04:00.000-09:30

Today's the most beautiful day I've ever seen in Mexico. The air is dry and warm, and for some reason is giving my flashbacks to Grade 7: Friday afternoon in knickerbockers playing softball on a sports oval of freshly cut grass. It's a nice feeling.

Another separate email from the deputy editor at Gay Times assured me the article was interesting and well-written, but not general enough - and sorry Andrew but Dep Ed trumps Travel Ed so I'm going to pick up my shattered ego and keep on running.

OUT ON ACAPULCO BAY.. AGAIN

2007-07-16T05:21:00.000-09:30

When Denise the Brazilian showed up on Thursday, lobbying hard for me to come to Acapulco, it was one of those decisions that just made itself. Without too much thought, I found myself sitting in the back of Carinthia's car trying to work out what 'la peda' was.

As it turns out, it's the noun for drunkenness (is drunkeness already a noun?).. and over the course of three days I discovered that for these 11 Mexicans, it's less of an occupation.... more of a religion. The god:

Tequila on ice, ice on tequila.

This group knows how to put on a good party: they hired a 15-bedder house complete with cook, cleaners and a waiter, and bought enough alcohol to put the Cunard to shame (don't ask me, I just googled 'most famous cruise ship in the world' for the reference). The house was amazing, from its perch on the Las Brisas hill, it looked out right across Acapulco Bay, which is an amazing view even for an Australian.

Last time I went to Acapulco, it was with the business crowd and I had a new boyfriend to use as a crutch. This time, it was just me, the publicity crowd, a blowup whale that featured highly in the the activities of 'la peda'... and sink or swim.

To an extent, I sank, even with a flotation device at my disposal. But that's ok, I guess. It was an interesting experience, succumbing to the waves of indecipherable chilango Spanish, with more double meanings and word-plays than a good Enid Blyton novel.

Yes, I can speak Spanish. No, I can't speak Chilango. It's like learning a whole new language... like watching Amores Perros without the subtitles. Just keeping up with the general theme of conversation was enough for me, getting the incessant jokes was beyond me.

So, basically I was the social equivalent of an anthropologist, who hovers on the edge of a tribe watching its behaviour through binoculars from a safe vantage-point in the long grass.

It's amazing the things you notice when the limits of your own communication, and ability to grasp what's going on, relegate you to the ranks of fringe dweller. You notice things like: the Argentinian doesn't chew when he eats, the alpha male (with the unlikely name of 'Gatsby') has a deformed left nipple, the alpha female (who goes out with the alpha male) is perfectly comfortable dancing in front of an audience of 12 in her gold shoes, the two 'gorditos' (fatties) who got together whilst plastered were actually quite embarrassed about being teased the next day.

I also made the interesting discovery that fringe dwellers make their own allegences. I've never had too much to do with the introverts before.... I begrudgingly allow them their place in the crowd, while quietly resenting them for not contributing more. I think of them more as eating a good meal that someone else has cooked without even bringing wine.

But sitting on the couch with Ray and Arturo watching everyone dance and perform for each other, I discovered a sort of comfort in this role.

Ray had his own role: DJ. He took all his frustration at being shy, and channelled it into the most amazing soundtrack for a weekend I've ever heard. He never ventured more than 10 metres from his mixer, which had two ipods perched in it, and attempts at conversation sometimes felt as if they were an annoying disruption to the central task of making sure one song segued perfectly into another. I soldiered on though, assuming that this was just shyness. If it wasn't, he thinks I"m the most annoying person in the world.

Arturo, possessor of the most beautiful set of lips in the world, channelled his shyness into a different seamless progression: cigarettes. I have never seen anyone smoke so much, and found myself wondering how he found any breath to talk at all. One of my weekend highlights was the (inevitable) trip to the service station for more cigarettes when we talked about a lot of not very much, and I felt myself again.

Needless to say, with all that concentrating, I had to sleep a lot. It was amazing actually, after all those weeks of strange sleep patterns, to suddenly possess the ability to nod off at the drop of a hat. Not sure whether it was the oxygen-rich, moisture-laden air, the unfiltered sunshine, or the need to escape that sinking feeling of being the only person who's not laughing... but sleeping was a task I performed outstandingly.

Unfortunately, it was not one of the more cherished skill sets in this group. Even public farting gained more kudos than the ability to sleep. eg. my 3am efforts were glossed over and met with sympathetic looks, like 'don't worry, maybe you'll do better tomorrow night'. I didn't.

But today (apart from having done something to my ciatic nerve, I suspect by jumping onto the inflatable whale) I feel great.

The last moment my back felt like itself:

Actually, from the pics Sarali just sent through, I now understand why my back is so sore, as it seems I ditched my anthropologist role for La Peda and spent a good few hours either upside down on the whale, or dancing.

And thus floated.

ONWARDS AND UPWARDS

2007-07-06T13:13:00.000-09:30

Well, if you can't do it metaphorically, you may as well do it literally.

It's time to return to the land of the living. Enrique the doorman thinks I am a freak who only leaves the house at 10 or 11pm and comes back around 5am. He has probably assumed I'm a prostitute.

So, today it was sun sun sun. Tomorrow, it's climbing a volcano. Yes, there's been yoga this week.

This arv, I went rockclimbing at the gym. That's the thing about paying more for a gym membership than you spend on the rest of your life put together: there are ridiculous options like rock walls equipped with instructors and shoes. And harnesses, which are always handy.

When I'm not holed up at home, in what we will refer to as the Special Period, I climb about twice a week.

We have a problem: kissing.

Now, when my climber-spotter relationship with Daniel began, I was very new to Mex and didn't realise you had to kiss everyone you ever ran into in a day.

Now that I do, I can't just start kissing him all of a sudden... so what do I do? I'll tell you what I do: every time, I barrel up to the rock wall, halt suddenly (at least two metres from target) and wave awkwardly.

Waving doesn't cut it in Mexico. Waving is to Mexicans what bum puffing is to smokers. What grape juice is to alcoholics. What masturbating is to sex addicts.

Come to think of it, I"m not sure I know exactly what masturbating is to sex addicts, so let's just move on, shall we?

Anyway, Danie's not sure I can do a story on the Homo-erotic Undertones in Lucha Libre Within A Repressed and Macho Culture, because he's not sure there are Homo-erotic Undertones. Which would probably be quite crucial to the story...

BORN TO RUN

2007-06-12T06:39:00.000-09:30

For a group of girls most characterised by their ability to fill entire evenings with relentless consumption of alcohol and cigarettes, our latest goal could possibly be construed as a fanciful one.

A half marathon.

Bring it on, I say. There's nothing like the prospect of serious physical pain to force regime-change.

Francine was the only person who said, '21kms, you've got to be KIDDING' - ironically she's the only one of us who can currently run more than 10.

Anyway, September 9: Tara, Julia and I have a date with Medellin, Colombia. I have been banking on our altitude-inspired advantage. We're training at 2300 metres and the race is at 1500 so I thought that'd count for at least a few kms of fitness.

Unfortunately, then I did some research. In the eyes of many, altitude training is a myth.

Never mind, onwards and upwards. Or downwards as the case may be.

Francine likes to run to stay trim: after a small Mexican doctor told her he was 'overweight', she came to Parque Chapultepec and lost 12 kgs in the space of a few months. Now she is an utter babe.

She has no concern about the fitness at all, which is lucky because my legs are long enough that I can stagger along gasping for breath while she trots along beside me saying 'no Michelle, you don't call him and say you miss him. You are increasing your value. Let him come to you. Value maximisation, that's what we're doing here.'

Usually at that point, all I want to maximise is oxygen to lungs so I just make understanding noises and hope she keeps talking.

We are on the way out of Parque Chapultepec, after an easy 8km jog which canvassed topics like: Is Mr UN a cabron dirty-dog player who triple times women and then dumps them? Should breast implants be resisted purely on the basis that your boyfriend is pushing for them (YES!) and why do Mexicans wear tracksuits to run in the middle of summer? (Francine: "little fatties think they're going to sweat out 20kgs of fat in one afternoon. Huh.")

We are driving the wrong way down a one-way street out of Parque Chapultepec, and Francine is explaining value maximisation,

"You should make sure you are unavailable at least once - twice is better - when he wants to see you. Also, I'm going to make sure I tell Cachai that Mr UN is all over you like a rash so that then he'll tell Iñaki ... as soon as someone else starts sniffing around, that's what drives them crazy."

"But Francine, isn't that game-playing?"

"Game playing? God no! It's the truth. Oh shit, is that a police car? Is he coming after us? Oh fuck, no way. Hang on, I've just got to pull over. Oh great, he's going to want a bribe. I've only got a 500 and there's no WAY I'm giving him that."

She gets out of the car, the policeman explains that she was driving on the cyclists track, not to mention the wrong way down a one-way street. I watch them in the rear vision mirror, Francine is using WAY too much good Spanish to now be able to pull off the flakey foreigner 'I'm new here' tack.

She comes to the window, "I bet the little runt wants me to pay him. Can you see my registration papers? They're in the glove compartment, have you got 20 pesos, maybe 50. No, I don't want him to see you reaching for your wallet because I don't even want him to think about money."

Traffic police are among the least-respected occupations in Mexico. I'd say they rank even lower than the guys who fence off bits of the curb, wave their arms while you're parking, and then require you to pay them.

These guys just go around busting people, and getting paid bribes. That's it. There is no such thing as a ticket... the money goes straight into their pockets.

She takes the papers and returns moments later. "He's saying 'hay que pagar' - I have to pay. I played it dumb and said 'are we going to the delegation'. But he's saying that he'll lead us out to Constituentes because we're lost."

We're driving along behind the police car, all its lights flashing and Francine is saying, "I do NOT want to pay this guy."
We reach the roundabout and the police car passes the exit for Constituentes, and plants itself in the exit to a dark street that appears to lead nowehere. He's waving us past.

If there's one thing I would say I do well, it's staying calm in pressurised situations. While Francine is blistering about what the f*ck are they doing... I say,
"Are we going to do a runner?"

I mean, let's face it, the police car would have to do another whole lap of the roundabout to catch us and then get past all the traffic.

Francine floors it and we take the Constituentes exit. To show that we're not actually doing a runner, we smile, wave and call 'Gracias', to the cops who are now doing emphatic hand movements to tell us to follow them.

Francine is now driving like a madwoman, and I'm starting to think the traffic police will have to catch up with us in five minutes anyway to clean up the five-car pileup we're about to cause... she's slipping through green lights and swerving around gridlocked traffic.

As she drives, she does a running commentary, "Huh. Couldn't take the bribe in the open so they wanted to get us away from public places did they? Wants a blowjob down a dark street does he? Well, I'm not giving a blow job to that little fat fuck. Got to be kidding."

Over the course of the 20 minute journey home, it seems every second car on the road is a police car with its lights on. So the trip is punctuated with "Is that our guy Michelle?"

"No Francine, there is no way they could have caught up to us, not with the way you were driving."

Most of them are just harrassing microbuses, tailgaiting the poor things yelling 'avancele' over the dictophone. What social purpose they're serving, I'm not sure.

So there we have it, Francine and I have successfully done a runner from the police.
I feel we should be playing the soundtrack from Thelma and Louise, but unfortunately all she's got is Luis Miguel, whose teeth are WAY too white.

I go home to savour Monday night with an apartment, TV ... and a beer.

SHAKIRA SHAKIRA!!!!

2007-05-27T14:02:00.000-09:30

If I could swap identifities with any woman in the world, I'm sorry Hilary Clinton, but it would be Shakira.

Which is lucky, really, because I'm sure she would feel the same way... about me.

Having temporarily forgotten that her concert was on last night, I had to make a last-minute dash into el Centro when Tara and Gabe discovered everything was ready to rock'n'roll. The Zocalo in Mexico City is huge, and was completely crammed with people from six hours before the show. To give an indication of the level of pants-wetting going on in Mexico, they closed all other tourist attractions (museums etc) for the entire day.

With lyrics like these, you can understand why:

For you, I'd give up all i own
And move to a communist country
If you came with me, of course
And I'd file my nails so they don't hurt you

Mmmm... the layers of meaning.

The goal of finding G&T in the middle of a crowd of 200 thousand people was an epic journey that served as a personal metaphor for life. I spilled out of the metro and followed the hoards of post-adoscent boys, trying to look less excited than they actually were, but unwittingly giving themselves away by sporting even more hair gel than usual.

Extraordinarily, Mexico was exhibiting very strange behavioural symptoms. Anyone who's seen people drive in this part of the world will be shocked to discover that 10 blocks from the entrance, people started forming a line. For a free concert. I mean, there weren't even any gates to get through.

No thanks. I joined the flow of people walking alongside the self-imposed line-followers... and eventually - like a leaf floating on the river - found myself up against a dam wall. Bodies jam-packed beside each other as far as the eye could see.

HTF was I going to get to the other side of the square, and then into the middle?

Firstly I pretended I was 'someone' and entered the restricted section. Not so hard when you're wearing the outfit I had on.

Just kidding. We bought the Shakira! shirts and headbands after the show. I crossed half the width of the square in this manner.

Next, I joined a snake of adolescent crowd-pushers and let them carry me halfway to the stage, looking blank... as though it wasn't my fault I was being pushed in front of all the people who'd been waiting in the sun for hours on end. The only trade-off was that the guy behind me erection-assaulted me, so I turned around, scowled, and pointed my finger at him in a menacing way. Cheeky bugger.

Then I had to go several hundreds of people deep - left. This was the hardest part, I was on the phone trying to ubicarme... shouting 'Shatara Shatara, your hips don't lie underneath your clothes'. I could see people around me souring at the thought I didn't even know Shakira's name (not realising that I was doing a clever sample of song lyrics and then morphing with the name of my friend).

To anyone who tried to block my way, I looked helpless and said 'I'm alone... and lost', which was actually true.

Finally Tara's face, partly obscured by a black Shakira! headband, appeared through the crowd. It was quite a moment.

(Just to spell out the life metaphor: to reach the final goal, sometimes there'll be obstacles, sometimes you'll have to bend the truth a little, need the help of other people... and sometimes men will try to rub their penises on you even when you don't want them to. But if you stick to the goal, you'll make it. Phew)

When I say we 'saw' Shakira, it's actually a bit of a stretch. The Zocalo is flat, and Mexico has discovered periscopes - long cardboard boxes wtih mirrors in the top to see over the crowd. Now, if one or two people have a periscope, they are a great concept (for the people in possession). If everyone has one, well we're back to square one aren't we?

Everyone had one.

Tara, Gabe and I spent the entire duration playing pass-the-periscope, so for approximately one third of the show, I could look through a 4 square centimetre mirror, through a very thick forest of cardboard, to slivers of Shakira displayed on a screen. Seeing the actual flesh and blood on stage was completely out of the question, although I think I may have seen one of her sleeves once.

The rest of the night was spent looking up at the aforementioned forest of cardboard.

My usual thought in visually-challenged situations like this is, 'oh well, I'm here for the music... at least I get to hear this at live. Wow!'

Well, I don't like Shakira's music. I like Shakira. Also, Mexicans love a good sing along, and they know all the words to every song. Unfortunately the guy behind me had a great set of lungs, and was tone deaf.

So there we go, the life metaphor extends: sometimes you discover the thing you battled for and strained towards is an elusive illusion obscured by cardboard and drowned out by a cacophony.

LUCHA LIBRE

2007-05-26T05:54:00.000-09:30

Last night we went to one of Mexico's greatest attractions: the Lucha Libre. It translates directly to 'free fighting'... but is more like a choreographed dance of guys jumping all over each other.

Some people love it, I fail to see why.

Basically it seems to be any man who wanted to be gay, but didn't have the guts to come out of the closet contents himself donning a mask with spending half the night with his head between another man's legs (a popular wrestling move??) in what looks like an interpretive dance of oral sex.

There are two teams, the 'tecnicos' (the good guys) and the 'rudos' (you guessed it...)

Now, one glance around Mexico City will automatically beg the question of how they found men big enough to pass as wrestlers. Judging by the size of these guys' packages, it's a pretty fair guess to say 'steroids'.

For example, in the first round all the bad guys seemed to have been chosen for the size of their bellies - all the better to jump on you with - and all the good guys, for the minimisation of damage to genital area. I mean, the smaller the target...

I don't want to harp on, but they're all dressed in lycra so I will. The guy in the white pants could have moonlighted as a drag queen and he wouldn't have had to go to the bother of tucking his package up between his legs, because he didn't have one. It was distressing. Yet, he didn't seem the slightest bit self-conscious about it. You'd think if you were lacking in that area, the last thing you'd do is don tights and go on national TV, thrusting your groin around.

The most impressive bit is the way they fly through the air. One will dive off the stage/wrestling ring - often headfirst - and the guy on the ground will catch him. That's pretty amazing, when you're talking about guys who are 150 kilos.

Going back to the tights, some guys just wear big oversized undies, that look like nappies... except they're three sizes too small so they have a muffin-top issue happening. Looks really uncomfortable.

The finale came when one guy in plaster came out on crutches and all the bad guys started beating Mr Mistical with them (although, miraculously there were about 5 crutches). Then they demasked him. I think this is what you'd call 'foreplay'... who knows what happened out back in the locker room with after all that teasing. A bit of sexual healing, I'd be guessing.

These pics are not my handy camerawork, because cameras are prohibited. Kids on the other hand, can be taken in no problems.

Also legimate to carry in under your arm: noise machines. I've never heard anything like them but they make sirens seem like lullabies. The Mexican penchant for making more noise than any human could reasonably be expected to withstand, is manifested in all its eardrum-disregarding glory, as 10 men sit five metres behind me grinning as they 'play' what look like bomb detonators. You know the box with the handle that you push down? What comes out sounds like a party streamer on steroids, about five times the volume of a car horn. And their arms did not get tired.

CAN'T DO BETTE MIDLER REFERENCE

2007-05-24T07:54:00.000-09:30

There's a weight that settles for the duration of a work trip. It's largely related to the unpleasant clash that happens when material wealth meets developing countries. ie. taking your laptop to Guatemala. Sometimes it feels like electrical equipment is met with a collective intake of breath, and than a race to nick it.

This being the case, it was with a sense of great relief that I found myself landing back in Mexico City. As we dropped through the ubiquitous smog, I saw a little green and white VW beatle cab - it was so familiar - and suddenly I felt safe again.

The plane was about ten metres from the tarmac, I had my usual realisation of the miracle of flight - by which planes land without crashing - and suddenly there was a scream of the engine, the nose pointed up again, and the airport was disappearing behind us.

Hmmmmmm.

A couple of options: either someone had f*cked up the landing, and needed a Take Two.... or the plane was being high-jacked by the lesser-known Central American Al-Qaida operative. Those dark horses.

You'd think if you were taking a plane-load of slightly unsettled passengers for Take Two, you'd mention it over the intercom. "Hey guys, sorry, was too busy savouring the chocolate chips in my cookie and forgot about aligning correctly. Let's try that again.'

But as the silence lengthened, and people found themselves looking around the carriage to guage their reactions, by other people's behaviour... I started wondering whether maybe I'm underestimating the power of conviction amongst Central America's terrorist population.

So, I just contented myself with a bit of reckless navel-gazing instead... in the face of my current relational difficulties (to quit, or not to quit, that is the question)

Relationships are kind of like flying, you're sky-high when everything's running to schedule. And strangely, when they end, it's never a smooth landing... there's always some sort of crash and burn.

So maybe, sometimes, as you're just about to hit the tarmac for another crash landing... you decide instead to point the nose skywards one more time. Just hoping that maybe this is the plane with wings that can keep flying, and with a fuel tank that - like a neverending packet of timtams - won't run out of aircraft fuel.

That's hope.

And what of the crash and burn, as you drag yourself burned and bleeding from the wreckage? Months and years in intensive care, that's what. Last week T looked at her watch and said 'oh my GOD. Oh GOD! I can't believe it. F's birthday was yesterday and I didn't remember. Oh WOW!' and I thought, God it's a long road to remembering to forget. Years of clawing your way back to 'before'.

As I write, I listen to J and M downstairs talking and laughing... their burns are healing nicely.

I watch my hands as they type, and they look old.

MEATLOAF

2007-05-20T14:03:00.000-09:30

Another music-related title stretch.

The optimists of the world say that you can take something from every failure.. even relational ones. Well, I do.. but not in the hippy everything-has-a-reason sense. More the enraged everything-is-f*cked sense.

Not so with Luis (Dec-Jan). While his ideal girlfriend would probably have been a cadavar, judging by the amount of effort he wanted to put in, we had one good conversation. I took it with me.

It's like food. If your life is filled with amazing meals, you don't notice the exquisite mocha baked cheesecake you scoff unthinkingly whilst chatting about the new rockclimbing instructor the gym.

But if you've been living on rice and beans for three weeks, you do.

Same with conversation. And given that Luis and my time together was characterised by long silences, which seemed impossible to fill, that one great conversation we had stuck out like a mocha baked cheesecake among rice and beans.

It was the meat in the oven convo. The general gist is this: once in your life, you have to take all your meat, and put it in the oven. Kind of the non-vegetarian version of eggs-in-one-basket.

It means you're risking everything, and you have to stick by that decision to make it worth that decision.

On the strength of that conversation, I didn't just take off to India to explore new, undiscovered diving sites. I stayed here to run against the strong wind of resistance that is freelance journalism.

I'm glad I did, so then why turn around and take a job in PR, no matter how well paid? I know where my passion is: it's the off-the-meter stress, it's the robberies, the assaults, the police incidents and chats with transexuals, priests, dissidents, femimists, poets, taxi drivers... and then pasting them together into something that's mine.

Anyway, so I left my meat in the oven.

THE RELIGION REPORT

2007-05-16T04:01:00.000-09:30

http://www.abc.net.au/rn/religionreport/stories/2007/1924264.htm

TAKE A LOAD OFF, FANNIE

2007-05-07T15:15:00.000-09:30

F*cker, more like it.

This time yesterday, things were more normal. I had rung to check on a bus back to Xela from Antigua, and all was fine. Fun as the chicken bus was, I didn't want to do it again. I wanted to sit on a shuttle bus and not watch my things like a hawk.

So I booked a shuttle for Sunday afternoon, back to Xela, and relaxed. Thing is, they overbooked and kicked me off the bus. So I booked another one for this morning, and gave myself over to a night of good food with Sylve.

We ran into the boys from last night: a Dane called Emille (great name... for a girl) and a pom called Ben (great name, for a boy).

They were more fun the night before after a few tequilas, but we had a nice night and then headed home because Sylvie had a 4am bus. There are no cabs in Antigua at midnight so we walked. We came across a quintessial Aussie with blonde dreadlocks who was wandering the streets with his hostel key extended, just in case he found the door to his hostel. He was totally lost, and swearing the requisite amount. "I mean, it was fucking here a fucking second ago, ahhh shit."

A guy passes and asks for a cigarette and the aussie says, "No...smoko" realising too late he doesn't know the word in Spanish for smoke.

We leave him pointing his key at random doors and getting shooed away by random doormen, and hit the dark part of the walk.

I notice a guy following us, it's the cigarette guy. So I tell Sylvie to wait for him to pass. He doesn't.

He starts crossing the road towards us, and I back towards the light. Sylvie runs. He's asking for money. I tell him we don't have any.

He reaches inside his jacket, and I don't want to know if he's just bluffing - I really don't. In truth, I'm scared.

"Vamas a gritar," I say in my most tall voice. "We will scream." He keeps coming.

"De verdad, vamos a gritar," and just as I am opening my mouth for one of those dream screams, where you open your mouth but only a whimper comes out, he turns and leaves us.

We wake four hours later for our early buses. Mine is late, and it ends up being a guy in a car. He loads me up, and drives me and a snoring old blonde American to Guatemala city, the opposite direction from Xela.

She gets out at the airport, and he dumps me at a generic bus stop.

"But I could have done this myself from Xela," I say, "I bought a shuttle ticket."

There's no arguing over this, it appears, so I flounce my things onto the bus and as I'm putting them on the floor, the bus guy tells me that I have to put them in the console. It's prohibited to have them on the floor.

There are five 17 year-olds watching rape porn on a mobile phone in front of my. It's not what I need at 6am. One of them is looking at me in an unnerving manner.

I am busting and I have a four-hour trip in front of me.

Three hours later, I really think I'm about to burst and I'm REALLY thirsty, but I can't drink because I"ll exacerbate the problem. I'm also really hungry, but after watching the roadside urinary antics of all the men on this trip, I realise the same happens with the food men because there are no toilets around, so I resist food.

The entire trip is threaded with cheerful cumbia music that bounces around in my head, with its off-beat accordians which are really really jarring when you need to go to the toilet.

At one point, on the strength of 'we are ten minutes away' from the girl with silver-rimmed teeth and a moustache, who is sitting beside me, I buy and drink a half-litre of orange juice.

I sleep. The ride goes forever. Then the bus stops and dumps us in the middle of nowhere. That's when I discover some MoF*cker has relieved me of my SLR camera, extra lens and worst of all, my microphone. My only microphone.

The result of this is that I can't file the stories I've promised, so my livelihood is gone... at least until I get back to Mexico.

I hurded onto a yellow school bus, which turns out to be a personalised service that drops everyone in the province at their front door. The roads are really bumping and I'm actually visualising my cargos soaked in urine. I wonder what would be worse out of that, and dying of a burst bladder with urine in my bloodstream.

That's when a religious nutter gets on the bus and starts telling us in a seering, relentless voice to repent. He keeps doing so for 20 minutes and I am so close to walking up and slapping him that I am sure my facial expression is pure hate. Then he goes through the bus asking for money - I mean, if he'd asked at the beginning for money to refrain from speaking, I would have been throwing it at him. But ... whaaaaaaaat?

That bus stops and everyone is hurded off it, and I find myself in a taxi. The driver just keeps saying 'What a shame, oh well, that's life' in a tone that suggests he thinks gringos have too many possessions in the first place. Fair enough.

Nine hours after setting off for the three-hour journey I arrive, with more urine and less net worth that I ever intended for this journey.

In a nutshell, I am really pissed off. The Pollyanna in me says at least I'm not pissed on.

CHICKEN RUN

2007-05-07T10:37:00.000-09:30

When she heard that I was going to Guatemala for two weeks, Sylvie decided to pop down for a visit. We decided on Antigua.

So, on Friday afternoon, I packed my bags and bade my light-fingered (is that the adjective for THIEF?) host mum goodbye, and jumped on a chicken bus.

The brightly painted, smoke belching vehicles are so named for the fact that people bring chickens on them. Who would have guessed?

It was the most amazing ride of my life. It's the general size of a school bus, but Guatemalans sit three-to-a-seat for the journey - in this case five hours. I put my most essential items at my feet and plonked myself down next to two sturdy gentlemen. The downside of this was that there was only enough room on the edge of the seat for one of my two bum cheeks. So, for the next three hours, I applied myself to a major balancing feat. Every now and then I'd try to claw myself a couple of extra centimetres, but neither of them were budging.

It's hard to balance, because you have to hold onto something, but the aisles are packed with people standing, so it's a matter of finding a bit of space on a seat-top and then riding the twists and turns. Kind of like surfing, but not as fun.
Then a young man in an orange T-shirt got on and pressed himself up against me. Having experienced 'erection assault' on a bus in Ecuador once before, I was having none of this and spent quite a while glaring at him and twisting away from his pressing frame. Finally I discovered that neither he nor his penis had any interest in me, so just let it ride. Eventually I had one arm around my two neighbours, holding the seat behind, and one stretched across the non-erection-assualter pressed up against the guy on the other side of the aisle, holding his seat as well.

Once you've given up on the idea of personal space, it's quite liberating. I had hours and hours to watch the people around me. There was noone non-indigenous in sight. The mother behind me was letting her gorgeous, spitty little 2-year-old mini-man blow rasperries on the window. This is where LatAmericans get their immune systems from I guess.

Then a really fat old lady who was about 2 foot tall, got on the bus. She had one of the worst mouths of teeth I've seen - well, most of them were gone, and the remaining ones were dark brown. On her head she was carrying a bundle the size of her body, and as we careered around mountainsides I watched her balance it with three fingers of one hand, while the removed her fare from the folds of her clothing with the other hand.

Eventually, I felt so cramped and guilty that I offered her my seat and discovered that it's actually more comfortable standing up. So I spend the rest of the trip being gawked at by everyone wondering how a giant can have such long arms.

There was a mother wearing full indigenous dress, and very impractical green heels. She had two boys who could have been twins except that one was obviously two years older than the other one, so that would have been a weird pregnancy and we probably would have heard about it in the Guiness Book of Records.

Her boys were so cute, one was feeling a bit sick so she put some water in the top of a bottle lid, and poured it on his head. And then his brother rubbed it into his scalp. They both had big round heads and skinny little bodies with thin brown arms. They were the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Eventually she and one son got seats a few rows apart, so she pulled the second one up onto her lap and then patted her leg. The first son gave up his relatively comfortable space to clamber up onto her second leg and he and his brother fell asleep with all their little brown limbs entangled.

The bus stopped three times for roadwork, about 20mins each time. With all the windows shut, things get a bit warm and close, but people just chat happily between themselves and eventually the bus takes off again.

By the end, when people start ejecting themselves from the crush they have to negotiate themselves down the middle aisle, which parts like the Red Sea. Well, most of the aisle, apart from the backpack containing my laptop which didn't budge. You'd see people step down, feel something under their body weight and then step over it. My laptop may never be the same again.

The exhaust is carefully positioned in the exact place that when you finally spill out the front door, you get bathed in a farewell sea of black smoke. Every singe person, but you're so happy to be uncrumpling yourself that you don't really notice.

Then I jumped on another chicken bus and finally reached Antigua, where a friendly little chap told me about military service in Haiti while we walked to the centre. The hotel took a bit of finding, but eventually Sylv and I found ourselves sitting in a totally gringo cafe eating hamburgers and talking to a Norweigan firetwirler called Martin (gorgeous) and an evangelical Christian whose wife had spent a year in Guatemala to adopt their daughter, and somehow managed not to learn any Spanish in that time. But it was, apparently, God's will for them to have that baby.

Then we headed back to a comfortable room, where the beds had mattresses instead of foam, and the doors locked, and slept soundly.

Next day we visited what is quite possibly the most boring tourist attraction in the world. A convent, that belonged to an order of nuns with a name strikingly similar to 'capacino'. It was full of workmen, who just ogled us and made rude comments. And a guard who came into the room we were looking at, talked about the weather, and then tried to kiss us, and these slightly lack-lustre scupltures:

GUATE'S GOIN' ON....

2007-05-01T16:09:00.000-09:30

I try to make all the title entries a song title, but yes, this is a bit of a stretch.

Anyway, am on Day Three in Xela, Guatemala.

I'm having a seriously good time. The great thing about 'echando la hueva' (being really lazy) is that then being really producive feels great.

The most distressing chapter of my life is now over: I have moved out of the 'mad'house. You cannot imagine my glee.

Must remember to write the sad story of Martin, the Rabbit.

Anyway, the tendency towards massive overpreparation to which I am so prone kicked in around 10pm Friday, had to be at the airport midday Saturday and somehow have moved out in the interim. Packing had to begin immediately.

It was unfortunate, because Thursday night ended up being a 6am job due to Iñaki hitting it off with my friends... which I guess is a good thing, as he's been avoiding them so long.

Jemima went out of her way to make sure he felt comfortable, as per their first converstaion:
I: So, what do you like about Latin men? (yeah, great opener)
J: Well, why don't we start with what I don't like about Latin men?
I: Sure, ok.
J: Their height (she says, looking down from her privileged position a full head taller than him)

Somehow he bounced back, and had both J and T lined up with blind dates before the night was out.

I was so hungry when the night began that our:
a) refused entry to Cibeles on grounds of not having booked - please, get your hands off it, did someone forget we're in Mexico
b) appallingly bad 'Vietnamese spring rolls' - that must have refered to what they were eating back in the war...

made me even hungrier, due to delay, and inedibility. Drinking on an empty stomach is never a good idea, but possibly made worse when martini, gin, tequila, wine and beer collide.

Needless to say, this rendered my Spanish language interview with a Mexican anthropologist on:
The slipping grasp of catholocism in Latin America: culture wars and rise of alternative religions"... slightly challenging.

Oh good. There's always the concern that your talent can smell the alcohol that's emenating from every pore of your body, even if they haven't noticed your bloodshot eyes.

In an attempt to counter the effect, I wore my new glasses. I still haven't got over the idea that they make me look intellectual. Actually, I am long-sighted so it really f*cks me up for walking around.. .and I nearly fell over.

My talent was not at all as I expected. If I had alcohol from every pore, he had hair. He was even growing a pretty serious patch out of his nose.

Anyway, from what my fuzzled mind could tell, he was very articulate (apart from my general inability to grasp his general message) and I went off to shoot the breeze wtih Jemima, the funniest person in the world

We talked about religion and after tiring of weighty subjects, talked about height. She once dated a guy who was 6"7 and people in the street used to walk up and basically ask about whether his height was reflected in his genetaelia. Bloody poms, so crass.

Then, unfortunately, we walked past a dwarf.

Apparently he's not sensetive about his height though, because he dresses up as a bear at the Lucha Libre and gets thrown around for the titilation of spectators.

Anyway, we ended up at the pool hall with Tara... and then, intriguingly, at the bowling alley. Jemima says that from her first degree, she mastered pool. From her PhD, she's on top of bowling. Who know what'll happen if she goes back to study again.

Anyway, then, decided to go home and pack. Hmmm... moving out, packing for a trip on which I embark at midday tomorrow... and only three hours' sleep under my belt from the night before.

There's nothing like a challenge.

CORRESPONDENTS REPORT

2007-05-01T05:44:00.000-09:30

http://www.abc.net.au/correspondents/content/2007/s1908742.htm

LIBARIAN CHIC

2007-04-28T10:44:00.000-09:30

Possibly for the first time in my life, I can lay claim to being 'longsighted'. Obviously, when I lost the ability to see the computer screen whilst filing a story on the state of emergency in the Galapagos Islands (my advice, get there sooner rather than later), my first assumption was that I had a degenerative eye disease and would be blind within weeks.
You can't imagine my surprise when I went for an eye test and discovered it was a simple case of my left eye getting a bit ahead of itself.
So, this is my new look. I think it adds several points to my perceived IQ.

I CAN SEE CLEARLY NOW

2007-04-10T11:25:00.000-09:30

I stepped out to get some clothes altered and discovered it is a BEAUTIFUL day outside. I reproached myself for not stepping out more often, made a resolution to do a decent walk or run daily - which I knew I would break - and set off for the park.

I found myself at the same spot where I sat in a blue funk six weeks ago, and absent-mindedly observed that this time I felt an almost unbearable lightness of being: that the thing that had weighed so heavily on my shoulders back then, had lifted completely.

I also absent-mindedly noticed the faint smell of poo, fairly ubiquitous in Mexico City, but probably set to intensify with the temperature.

Then I started noticing all sorts of things that I hadn't seen last time: the monstrosity in the middle of the circle of chairs may possibly be the ugliest public fixture ever created.

It's a rectangular, beige block of cement - about eight metres high - which sits in a pool of water with fountains spurting up in a circle around it. There is pigeon shit all around the top, sort of dribbling down, and the pool is painted the tackiest bright aqua you can imagine.

It is surrounded by a ring of cement paving, which is surrounded by a chain of metal lace benches, on which I and my fellow man are seated. Behind us are fields of deeply shaded dirt, with those squared hedges tracing little labrynths all over them.

It's strange that we're all here, we've all placed the water/clock/fountain thing directly in our line of vision, but the sound of the water is soothing, only marginally dented by the high-pitched squeals of children, and there are sparrows flying around, so in Mexico City terms it is peaceful.

The first thing I notice, immediately after my happiness, the smell of poo and the ugly monument, is my company.

Two kids are riding round and round the water fountain, each lap takes about 20 seconds so I wonder why they don't strike off a little further afield but they seem perfectly happy. The little girl has metalic tassles fluttering from the handlebars and the little boy has a very round - if not fat - face, and not much else of note.

Across the way, there is an old man and woman sporting exactly the same shade of yellow-grey hair. She's got a walking stick and he's got a white cap, cast jauntily over his knee.

On the next bench is the second homeless man from my last visit here. He's wearing the same red parker and green trackie-dacks that he had last time, but his grey hair is so neatly combed that I wonder whether maybe he has a home and is just here to watch the children.

Beside him is a young guy in jeans, ensconsed in the book he is reading. Then there's me. Then there's the oldish lady in a navy suit and very high heels, smoking what appears to be a neverending cigarette.

Then there's the family that's spawned the two bike-riders, and beside them a girl who looks very cool, also reading. Then there's the mother's group - two blonde women and their blond children, one's behind is still exhibiting the effects of pregnancy.

And then there's the balloon man, with his omnipresent cloud of hot pink metallic air-holders above his head.

I find myself thinking that it's amazing how, despite the decor, these people are all happy. But then I realise of course I can't assume that, maybe this fountain is surrounded by sad people.

It's strange to look at the balloon man and wonder whether he's happy or sad. Half of Mexico City lives below the poverty line, and just because I'm sure he's in the poor half does that automatically rob him of his happiness?

Maybe I could say he's got a hard life. Or maybe I could say he gets to spend his days wondering in a deeply-shaded and peaceful park, making people's lives brighter with his wares.

I look at the homeless guy. He's looking at the kids and after I've wondered if he's a paedophile, I have an overwhelming urge to go and say, "Are you happy?"

Maybe he's got no home, but maybe he lives having a park as his home.

Still, hunger never made anyone happy.

Then, out of the blue, the clock in the beige concrete tower chimes. Beautiful chiming, it is. Kind of like an ugly person with a nice personality. Kind of like Mexico.

And that means I've spent 20 minutes here, looking at all this, and the chiming of clocks always makes me remember that time has passed. The water droplet from the fountain that was in the air a moment ago, is now in the pool with all the other droplets of water.

This happiness I hold, only sits in the moment in which I hold it. It's part of time, and gravity. Everything passes. What goes up must come down.

Iñaki was right: you can't hold anything, just because you want it to last.

You can't hold the moment that you feel this way. You can't hold the person who makes you feel it. So, what can you do?

I guess all you can do is make yourself the most likely receptacle for happiness to come to rest.

The scene starts to move, dismantle. Some big yellow and brown dogs start making the mum's group feel edgy, so they set off with their designer collection: strollers and babies.

The old couple totters towards my side of the fountain, really they're not making much ground, and at one moment are almost run over by the two kids on bikes. It's a strange juxtaposition, young barrelling over old... old getting out of the way.

The man is feebly waving a white napkin - maybe his signal to the children - and I am delighted to see the two old devils slip through a hole in the hedge and set off across the dirt. Why stick to the path if there's no grass to ruin? Why stick to the path anyway?

They leave in their wake the homeless man, who's stopped looking at children and is now noticing me noticing him being read to by the guy with the book. The guy with the book slides down the bench to be closer to him, and keeps reading. I find myself wondering what on earth is the nature of their relationship. They quite obviously came separately (if one arrived at all, or rather, woke up) so why is the young guy reading?

Then I notice the suspiciously thin pages of the book and the way the old guy is nodding politely but his eyes are sliding sideways: it's a Bible, I'm sure.

The stoic cigarette woman picks up her wallet and packet, and waddles off in her super-high heels.

A photo shoot arrives and I wonder why on earth they're photographing this girl here? Until I catch her profile and realise anything would look good compared to the background, so maybe they were hoping to distract the viewer.

As for me, I am a curly-haired foreign-looking girl wearing disgraceful sandals outside. Bathroom slippers (or what I prefer to call 'thongs') in the street. I pick up my Telcel bag and pass the photographers, noting that the girl is actually a guy with long hair.

The clock will keep chiming, the water will keep being thrust upwards, only to fall victim to gravity again. And people will move in and out of the scene.. they will make it as they come and go.

Some will be happy, some sad. Some will leave sad and come back happy. And that is what I call The Cirle of Life.

HARROWING

2007-04-05T09:13:00.000-09:30

D-day. The day of my interview.

I am super-stressed as a result of problems with new boyfriend which culminated in an agreement to have dinner to sort things out. For some reason, perhaps the fact that I actually quite like him, the whole thing has being doing laps in my head at an alarming pace.

I have a lot of work ahead of me. Firstly, I don't know anything about the company. Research. I have perused the website before and it's all Spanish to me. For some reason google translate doesn't change that one iota.

More pressingly, my appearance. One of the perks of working from home is that I often spend 15 hours of every day in pajamas. I don't think this will quite cut it in PR.

I track down my pair of black pants and my only jacket and discover they are more than a little creased. I don't have an iron, so I head off to find a place that will iron them. It turns into an epic mission of several 'just two more blocks in that direction' and before I know it I'm halfway to Guatemala.

Now, the question of what to wear under the jacket. I head off to the Zona Rosa and get sidetracked buying a lovely pair of brown shorts and a little pinafore. And a white shirt for under the jacket.

I have also realised that I have been using the same lipstick for three years, and its brown tones don't work with the white base of my outfit. So I buy a pink-based lipstick.

Even I can't believe I have been in possession of one lipstick and two lips glosses (total) in the past three years.

I then discover that pink-based lippies make your teeth look yellow, and my steady diet of coffee and red wine has taken its toll on my pearly-used-to-be-whites. Fortunately, my teeth have always been a source of vanity and I dig up my teeth-bleaching kit.

While transforming my smile, I surf the web googling phrases like, "What is PR?"

I also message Vanessa, who's leaving the job, with some questions:

"Exactly who am I allowed to kiss? Is it wrong to kiss the boss?"

"No! That's fine."

"It's just that once I kissed the guy who sells fruit and veg at the market and Ara told me that was unnecessary here."

"Yes, Mexico is hard-core with the class thing: vendors, cleaners and market people are out. But bosses are fine."

The other problem is that the median height of everyone in the office seems to be five-foot. And with my black shoes, I am around six foot. I will be damned if I buy another pair of shoes though, so I will have to settle for bending down to kiss the boss and everyone else in the office.

I then give myself a manicure and pedicure. Pick up my freshly ironed clothes. There are a couple of things I lack:
- a suit
- a necklace
- any jewellery at all actually
- a leather belt
- perfume

I've never cared about any of these things except the leather belt, but suddenly I feel it. Will the boss notice when I kiss him, that a frangrance doesn't float up his nostrils. Does my neck look excessively bare? My fingers. My wrist?

I'm still not exactly sure what the job is.

I hop in a VW beatle cab and say, "Do you think it'll take us more than an hour to get to Coyuacan?"

"No," the cabbie replies, pulling out in front of a high-velocity truck, "We'll get there with enough time to have a coffee together."

I'll be surprised if we get there are all. I am almost regretting my mention of time constraints, as he has started driving as if I'm in labor. All the cars around us are beeping and I am feeling the road rage.

"So, you're a model then?" he asks.

If I was a model, would I be catching a VW beatle cab where death is more likely than arrival? No.

It's storming. It's the perfect weather where the air is heavy and lightening is striking the road 20 metres in front. He doesn't even jump as the thunder cracks right outside the window.

I look at him. He's got a young face and very heavy religious paraphenalia around his neck. We start chatting about Easter.

He's doing a three-day pilgrammage to some small town a few hours away by car. St Chelmo or something.

"Are you very religious?" I ask.

"Yes, well.. my wife had problems with her pregnancy. She was going to have to have an abortion but I promised God that if my daughter was born ok, I'd do the treck for three years. This is my fourth."

I find myself captivated by his story. He started dating his wife when he was 14. They got married when he was 18, and she was 21. The daughter is three now, she's fine. He's 21, and they have a son as well, called David. He does a pilgrammage on the 28th of every month as a result of a pact with God about David's health.

"So, are you going to have any more kids?" I ask.

"No."

"Yeah, you might run out of days in the year for walking hey?"

He laughs. He actually laughs.

He started driving when he was 14, and was driving buses at 15. He got caught, but paid the bribe. He was studying motor mechanics, but it wasn't worth it for the job opportunities and the time. Besides, he likes driving.

We like each other, this cabbie and I. He probably doesn't get to tell his story that often, and I am completely fascinated by his life. It is a world away from mine. But here we are together, in his little cab, chatting about life.

We arrive way early, so I tell him to do a block and drop me off at a cafe nearby. He gives me some final words of wisdom:
"Don't show you're nervous," he says, "Chilangos can tell, and they see it as weakness."
"I don't look nervous, do I?" I ask.
"Yes, you look a bit pink in the face."

I tip him 25 percent, and jump out into the rain. He was my favourite cab driver ever.

While killing half an hour, I exchange a couple of terse messages with Ignaki about the evening's arrangements.

The interview goes fine. The only moment of super-stress comes when he asks what I want to achieve in the job, over the next year.

It's really hard to spin shit, when you don't know what you're spinning shit about. What I really want to say is, "Well, my first step would be to find out the job description."

But I say, "Well, obviously it's a similar skill set, but still slightly different. So I want to learn all there is, and then do the job really well."

That is SO lame.

Then he asks me some weird questions. Are my friends Mexican or expat? Do I drive here? What do I do with myself, in my spare time? What do my parents do for a living? Have I had problems with security?

"I don't really arreglar (dress up) that much," I say, "So I don't think I'm a prime target for muggers."

"No, you don't really seem to wear jewellery," he says, looking at my hands.

"I have only been mugged in Ecuador, here it's just guys who grab your bottom and run away." And suddenly, I find myself telling him the arse-grabbing stories.

None of his questions make me feel uncomfortable. He has a fatherly, slightly distracted air about him and I like him a lot.

He tells me I have the job if I want it, pending two more interviews. One with the other director (the woman I kissed) and the other with an international relations director.

I walk out feeling elated and drained. There's still one harrowing event before the day is over: the conflict resolution dinner. I am tempted to suggest we just have drinks, in case I have to storm out before the mains arrive. But no, this will be my lesson in How To Express Anger Without Using the Word F*ck.

I decide against a red shirt and heels. That would be just inflammatory and spiteful. Then I set about the mandatory 40 minute waiting-for-Ignaki-to-arrive-late period, whilst dancing in front of the mirror to pass the time.

GOIN' SURFIN'

2007-03-31T09:06:00.000-09:30

As I wrote to Milly: "You know my maxim: if you've got a choice between eating and working, always choose the former. For this reason, I have decided to get a job."

Really, I was just being dramatic and my arse is still a very healthy size, but I have discovered that without the disincentive of a boss looking over my shoulder, the lure of itunes can be a bit much.

(My tip: John Mayer, Dreaming With a Broken Heart. Surely, one of the best songs ever written. "Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hand? Would you get them if I did? No, you won't. Cause you're gone gone gone gone gone.

The only, and I say only problem with this line is that he switches from subjunctive tense 'would', to present tense 'won't' in a most disconcerting manner)

When Alberto, the International Man of Indecipherable Spanish, hit me with the information about a PR job that was up for grabs, I was ambivalent. That was more to do with the fact that I hadn't understood what he'd said, than any views I have on PR as a line of work.

But when I had ascertained the nature of his message, I began to warm to the idea. It's not that I have been looking for something, but sometimes when a wave rises under you, you have to ride it.

As Pam says, my main strengths are in being charming and pumping out well-written emails. These weighty skills are lost in journalism because the only benefactors of the emails are the people I'm sending stories to - and I'm not sure they care how well-crafted my emails are.

What's more, it's a seriously good job. I think. At this point I am still a little vague on what exactly is involved, but I know the girl who's vacating the position, so I decide to go down and find out a bit more.

The harrowing process of presenting oneself at a location of potential employment was exacerbated by the pure Spanish nature of conversation. This is a double-whammy because my level of Spanish drops in pressured situations, and my level of stress rises when I struggle to express myself in situations where it's important to make a good impression.

The climax came when I met her female boss. Not realising who she was, I walked into the office and kissed her. This is a normal Mexican greeting, but it was followed by a moment of extruciation when I discovered who she was. The conversation continues puttering along, while the internal dialogue in my head goes into overdrive,

"Did you just kiss the boss? Is it ok to kiss the boss? What if it's a sign of disrespect? Oh surely not, it's normal. But did you see the expression on her face? Yes, but maybe that's because you had to bend down to do it and you made her feel short. Oh no! Was it a mistake to wear heels?"

And so on and so forth. Meanwhile, the conversation has moved on to Australia's beaches. I tell her of course she should send her son for surfing lessons and she replies that perhaps I haven't realised just how dangerous surfing is. Waves, rocks, water, accidents.

I stop myself before telling her that we're all still alive and she should be more worried about sharks.

The final outcome is that the very charming director, Bruno, asks me back for an interview. A proper one. I still have no idea what the job entails.

It seems this wave has picked me up and I will ride it. Look out for rocks though.

GUNS FOR... CYBER GUNS

2007-03-28T14:48:00.001-09:30

Today I filed on this story:

INTRO:
One of the world's most crime-ridden cities is trying a novel approach to curbing violence, offering computers and Xboxes in exchange for guns.

Michelle Crowther reports from Mexico City.

VOICER:
Police kicked off the gun exchange program in one of Mexico City's most notorious neighbourhoods, Tepito, where last year alone there were 32 murders. High calibre weapons can be exchanged for computers, while owners can swap smaller guns for Xboxes or food and cash packages. The new push in Mexico's capital falls alongside President Felipe Calderon's national crackdown on crime – since taking office last December he has sent 24 thousand police and troops to drug cartel hotspots.
Michelle Crowther, Mexico City

I can just imagine the policy meeting. Everyone is sitting around scratching their heads:

"So, what should we give the potential murderers of the future to curb their violent tendencies?"

"I know, what about some mortal combat warfare games."

Oh good, training devices for the uninitiated. Kind of shooting themselves in the foot, aren't they?

EVE'S BAD APPLE: iTunes

2007-03-27T14:56:00.000-09:30

Responsible for all the evil in the world.

One of the downsides of being stuck on the other side of the world, is that I don't have access to techs. I HATE technical stuff, so much so that I have never downloaded a song from iTunes until today.

Finally I did, in order to mix in a package on Cuban poetry. We buy the copyright, but do you think that makes a difference to whether it's a protected file or not?

No.

So iTunes has locked everything so that you can only play it on Apple devices.

What next?

The advice from my favourite tech on the other side of the world was "that's why using iTunes is a bad idea."

Oh. Good.

Well, Rhapsody (copyright free music) is not available in Mexico. The other copyright-free websites didn't have my particular ditty - Ruben Gonzalez, Campestre.

After going to all the trouble of finding and downloading JHymn (a conversion program) it can't seem to find my library. Changing my input channel to stereo mix (so as to record into Audacity - editing program - from within my computer) resulted in massive feedback and white noise.

So eventually I had to walk down to the camera shop, buy a CD, export to CD, rip it into Window Media Player, and then import it to Audacity.

Most notable quote from the famous poet I was editing was, "Cuba is amazing. What other country in the world has a population where every person can read?"

Apart from being wildly untrue.. ummm, what's the point of being able to read if you can't choose what you pour into those literate eyes of yours?

WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE

2007-03-26T15:07:00.000-09:30

Another week, another great weekend. To my chagrin, Gaby's party was situated in Santa Fe. It's one of DF's most cash-flushed suburbs, meaning that by implication everyone at the party would be bankers.

They were. It was really fun. We drank strange cocktails of cucumber, vodka, lemonade and ginger until I forgot that I was the most under-dressed person in the room (note to self: always ask location of party) and danced to Spanish pop songs.

The next day we drove back to Santa Fe for some pool time with Francine and Cachai.

M: Hey Gaby, check out that unrestrained child between his mum's legs in the front seat. (not noticing that the seat is located in a Porche)
G: Oh yeah, that's the owner of Televisa (main TV network here). Check out the envoy of cars behind them.

Three cars full of bodyguards. I mean, what would the bodyguards in the third car even DO if there was a problem? They'd still be arriving by the time Televisa's owner was dead, or the unrestrained kid had been plucked from the car by kidnappers.

Kind of ironic, that the kid's got six big burly men watching him but is probably more likely to die from flying through the windscreen on Mexico's crazy roads.

From then on we did a bodyguard-spotting exercise. Gaby - who went to school with lots of girls whose bodyguards had to accompany them to the movies - would point out a bodyguard-type car, and sure enough ... a big man would step out and help the little darling alight from the vehicle in front.

Lunch was fun, apart from a freak accident involving red wine and the sofa - AGAIN. I haven't even been eating that much beef lately, so I'm not sure where the karma is coming from this time.

Francine had just finished complimenting me on my jeans and shirt, I'd just finished admiring Cachai's couch, and Francine's red wine choice (Argentina) and then, bang, all the worlds collided. There was the tiniest patch of water on the kitchen floor as I was carrying two full glasses into the living room.. and well, you can guess the rest. Jeans. Shirt. Sofa.

Hooray for soda water. Consider that my handy household cleaning tip.

Ignaki drove me back to ... yes, Santa Fe for dinner. Absolutely stunning, and yes, he cooked.

And then the next day, back to Santa Fe to watch movies. Kind of starting to wish I either had a car, or fewer friends living in Santa Fe.

YOU SHOULD BE DAN-CING-YEAH

2007-03-24T15:04:00.000-09:30

Wow, first time I've been salsa dancing in Mexico. The bar is called MamaRhumba and I went with Julia and two of her american friends. Who knew 23 year olds could be so fun?

For the second time here, I had a night-time arse-grabbing incident. It is so weird.

The first time it happened was a ride-by assault a couple of months ago. He rode up, grabbed my arse and kept riding. Of course, I yelled 'F@#$ off', which was fairly ineffective because he kept stalking me for blocks until he could do it again. I yelled 'F@#$ off' again and that was that.

This time, I was walking along my street to Julia's when I heard rapid footsteps behind me. Your first thought at that point, is that you're about to get mugged. I was relieved to see that it was just a guy in a white business shirt passing me. He kept walking, then stopped ten metres in front of me, turned around and started running at me. On the way past he just swung out and slammed me in the derrier.

I stood there, stunned, my phone started ringing so I answered it. I was standing, talking, just watching him run away thinking, "You freak", when he turned around to look at me.

I hope he saw the disdain in my eyes, although from 50 metres it would have required him to be very long-sighted to do so.

I can't quite get my head around what a man gets out of grabbing a woman's bottom and then running away.

Honestly, if you were going to grab anything... wouldn't it be more lucrative to go for the handbag?

From there, I had a couple of medicinal tequilas and we headed to the salsa bar. I quickly discovered that both Julia's friends are terrible dancers, so I asked her how we were going to find people to dance with.

"You just stand near the dancefloor for about a minute,' she said, 'That's it.'

Julia's never had problems with confidence.

So, it's kind of like fishing. But, how do you know if you're going to catch a big fish, or a dud? Just luck?

"Generally only guys who dance well ask foreign girls to dance," she announces with authority.

We do the stand for a minute thing, and nothing happens. Uh oh. Is it me?

"This has never happened to me before," Julia says, "It must be you."

Julia's never had problems with confidence.

At that precise moment someone in black sails by and grabs my ... hand! So, we start dancing and as it happens, Miguel is like a latino John Travolta so I stick with him for the night. We do that group thing with his cousin + partner, where you weave around each other and it is fun-on-legs.

Must have got carried away in the moment, because I got a text on my phone today that said:
"Hey Australian girl, ready for the weekend?"

It seems that in my salsa-fuelled delight, I overlooked the fact that I:
a) had a date on Sat night
b) had two deadlines on Sunday and
c) don't like wakeboarding
when I agreed to go away with my new pals to a lake somewhere for the weekend.
Woops.

Well, Gabriela is taking me to a party tonight. That's literally all I know about it: it's a party and she's taking me. Not sure how I'll go after last night's 4am effort, but let's give it a red-hot shot.

Back on the horse. Which, I have to admit, I really like riding.

..OUT ON ACAPULCO BAY

2007-03-20T18:17:00.000-09:30

Ignaki, who is actually Mexican, drove me to Acapulco where a gang of his friends had decided to hole up for the long weekend.

He has an ipod with 4000 songs on it (including the Animal Song by Savage Garden ... whaaat?).So, he was in charge of driving 200kms an hour (how fast you drive depends on the bribe you're willing to pay for gettin gcaught) and I was in charge of the music.

I figured that going to Acapulco, we should probably consider playing Come Fly With Me, because of that great line about 'if you could use some exotic booze out on Acapulco Bay'.

Of course, it was on his ipod. Well, you can imagine the rude shock when I discovered that all these years, the exotic booze has actually been in a bar in far Bombay. How did that happen??

Well, I've always thought my Spanish was fine, until three days of five DF locals speakng chilango in all its rapid-fire, more-slang-than-real-words, double meaning glory.

I don't even understand the first meaning, let alone that pithy little play on words.

One guy, Alberto, could have been speaking another language for all I knew.

By the end of the weekend, I was mute. All my 'mojo' that Ignaki was so taken with, had drained out with the energy that it took to even know the basics of what we were doing and where we were going.

Highlights:
- finding Enrique Iglesias (sp?) "Escape" on the ipod AND discovering that I am not the only person in the world capable of playing it seven times in a row. Wooooo hooooo! I know know the Spanish lyrics, although the equivalent of 'soon you will find' is open to question.

- Baby O. The fresa club where guys pay $100 to get in. Of course, I didn't realise, so on Saturday when we returned, I said to Ignaki, "Come on, you've been paying for everything. Let me just pay us in."
He indicates the board, showing 800 peso cover charge. I nearly died. And proceeded to amend my offer to just paying myself in.
Of course, inside the place is a shithole, filled with people who have spent far too much time and money on their appearance (to be allowed into heaven, no matter what cover they were willing to pay).
More fake boobs in there than at a Playboy shoot... not to mention the high heels that were floating around. Everyone stands on the dancefloor, but noone dances. They all move imperceptibly and sneak glances around to see who's watching. The girls preen their perfectly curled hair. The boys... watch the girls preening their perfectly curled hair.

I was particularly taken with one guy: he was the only person 'dancing like noone was watching'. He was tall with a big nose, great moves and knew the words to the songs, but didn't look Mexican. Maybe he was from Spain.

Half an hour later I look over, and he's being hauled out by security. You know, I will always wonder what for. Ara reckons that lots of the rich girls take their body guards so if he accidentally knocked one of them with an over-enthusiastic dance move, she could have had him thrown out.

What kind of a place is this??

By the end of the night, the poor old woman whose job is to stand in the toilet mopping the floor and handing out toilet paper was getting hugged by all the little fresa girls. The senora earns less in a year than what one of them would spend on an earring, how dare they? One of them had drunk too much and was crouching in the corner, still managing to balance in her heels.

And it made me glad I'm not 23 any more. Or 24. Actually, any of the ages that I've been up to now because let's face it, even 28 had its moments. (Byron Bay, La La Land - literally - toilets. Yes yes)

WHAT I DO

2007-03-20T10:26:00.001-09:30

http://www.radionz.co.nz/nr/programmes/nights

FEVER

2007-03-14T18:22:00.001-09:30

It could have been the drugs.

I got the flu yesterday and went to the pharmacy to see what I could lay my hands on. Forget your hands, your mouth.. they said. What about your arse? I'd been sick for all of six hours and they were drawing up the penicilan shots. Something about my upbringing tells me I should suffer for a while first, so I said no thanks, I'll go the traditional way.

I could hardly stand. So there I was bent over, waiting for one of the six thousand staff members to finish staring at their calculator/space and come and help me. Finally, an old bloke presented me with a smorgasboard, one for the throat, one for the flu and an anti-biotic.

Anti-biotics? Already? ....Forget the upbringing, I'll take it.

All the drugs here have active ingredients I've never heard of, which is mildly exciting.

The guy starts handwriting a receipt, for me to take five metres down the counter to the 'cashier' who will take my money, so I can take the receipt back to the original guy and get my goods.

Realised I didn't have any cash so headed off to Superama so I could take a whole lot out at once and make the mandatory $7 fee for overseas withdrawals worthwhile. That block seemed like an eternity.

Figured I'd get some bread while I was at it. Went to the bakery area, where you have to get a tray, put the bread on it, take it to a woman who asks if you want it in plastic or paper .. and then you can take it to the cashier.

Go through the cashier, who passes everything to the other guy whose job is to put it in a bag for you (for a tip) and set off back to the pharmacy, where I waited for the cashier, and then waited from someone to finish a very long conversation so they could hand me my plastic bag of assorted pills.

This redundant-job aspect of Mexico, which actually ADDS time to the transaction normally amuses me, but today I was visualising myself yelling,

"Helll-oooo? Is this a pharmacy or a mortuary??? There are SICK people here, I'm SICK. I just need DRUGS."

Blah blah blah. Well, in the end, the four-block trip took an hour. Partly because I had to stop for rests every block.

I bailed on the evening's Girls Reunion Dinner (can you have a reunion if you haven't met half of them yet?) and lay in a delirium thinking I should make it over to the computer to send of a couple of apologetic emails.

Just couldn't do it.

But then the international desk emailed to say they wanted a story on Bush in Mexico (which I had pitched 8 hours earlier when I was in relatively good health) so from the comfort of my bed I wrote the story.

Unfortunately the only place to record your voice (noise reduction) is my cupboard. Crawling into the cupboard in good health is one thing. When you're running a high fever, it's completely another.

Back to bed where I cut, converted and sent the story... and then off into a restless sleep.

The strange thing, that I cannot explain, is that at 3am I woke (I had taken Ignacio's advice to 'drink water until you are peeing out of your ears') and went to the toilet.

Yes yes, another toilet, another epiphany.

I was sitting there, suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of wellbeing. Of goodness. Like the self in me was welling up and getting bigger.

Either they put MDMA in the flu tablets over here, or I am in a good place.

LEAVING ON A JETPLANE

2007-02-27T14:54:00.000-09:30

7am, Havana airport.

It's unfortunate when notable thoughts coincide with sitting on the toilet, because it's never particularly distinguished to say "I was sitting on the toilet and suddenly I thought...". Having said that, the toilet does seem to be over-represented as a location for realisations and epiphanies.

I am sitting on the toilet when I realise a weight is slipping off me, like heavy chain-mail coming off after battle.

The almost impossible task of conducting journalism in a totalitarian country is OVER.

It is relief, to drop these defenses. I can stop worrying about losing my discs, or having them taken from me. That nagging concern that I may not be able to deliver what I have promised is gone.

It was surprisingly easy - straight through immigration, where a thin black woman failed to say hello or goodbye, or anything in between. Straight through the metal detectors, where I thanked the Lord and J that I had decided against putting my memory stick in a tampon and inserting it. My bag went through without so much as a glance.

It makes having stayed up the whole night to delete photos and hide mini-disc tracks seem a little over-zealous. I've also thrown out half the contacts I made, rather than have them discovered in the exit process.

On the toilet, I also realise that this diet of bread and honey, special as it's been, is starting to affect my bowels. I have been hungry for two weeks, sometimes managing to stifle the pangs with bread. More on that in other entries.

On the way out, I look at the clocks of the world, seeing everyone's respective times always makes you feel so profoundly far from them doesn't it?

Especially when they get your city wrong.

Two young Norweigan girls are sharing their chips and regaling me with escapades in Trinidad when a man wearing a khaki uniform and a mono-brow comes up and asks for my ID.

"Maybe this is his job, checking on people in the waiting area", I think, "much like much of the other completely redundant 'employment' like the women who press the buttons in lifts for you, or the men in Mexico who wave their arms while you're parking the car and then ask for a tip."

I figure I may as well run on this premise, so I ask him what gate we're boarding from. We have a brief discussion about this, before he tells me to come with him.

I pick up my bag, and follow him. Hopes that he's one of the redundant-job people checking on my gate start fading when we turn down into a dark flight of steps into the bowels of the airport. We reach a room filled with florescent light and people in uniform.

There are four men and a woman, sitting beside my slightly limp backpack.

"Is this yours?" he says. Mate, we both know it's mine, why ask.

He opens the bag, and goes straight for my toiletries bag. F@*k. I guess I completely underestimated the Cuban X-ray system when I put a memory stick in my conditioner bottle.

In this moment, I know exactly how Renee Lawrence must have felt. With the minor exception that I don't have nine kilos of heroin strapped to my body, and that pictures of my torso won't be flashed across national tv for the next year.

It's the feeling that someone is looking for something that you have, that you've hidden. That thing is sitting between you, just waiting to be found. I can feel my heart, I didn't know it could beat so fast. I am so hot with this panic that I want to take my jumper off. I resist.

As he goes through my toiletries bag, I thank myself for not having embedded mini-discs in the lining, as I'd considered. Originally I'd planned to put the most sensitive ones under the orthodics in my running shoes, but discovered that they made a completely unavoidable and obvious rattling sound. Then I thought about the lining, but nothing says, "I DIDN'T WANT TO BE FOUND" like something hidden in lining. It's hard to pass something off as innocuous musical recordings when it's embedded in your toiletries bag.

Finally I decided on the pockets of my jeans, which I then rolled up.

He puts down my first toiletries bag, and picks up the second one with the conditioner bottle in it. He puts it aside.

He then shifts his attention to my hand luggage. He opens my wallet, and I realise that in all my deleting and throwing out, I completely forgot about it. It's full of business cards of people I interviewed.

I watch in slow motion as the woman pulls out the business card of a formerly-jailed dissident, who's out on provisional release. If his failing health improves, or he puts a foot out of line... police can show up at his house any day and take him back to prison.

She lines up all the business cards in vertical rows, and I pick up two of them and look confused. One is of the crazy lesbian who I decided against interviewing, and the other is of the dissident. Under the watchful eye of the three men in the corner, who seem to have no role other than monitoring my reactions, I somehow manage to slip it in the pocket of my cargos.

As the woman sets about the tasks of writing down all the names and numbers of everyone in my wallet, the man goes back to my backpack. He picks up my jeans, and is about to put them aside when he feels something hard. The discs. He takes them out and asks where he can watch them. "They're just audio," I tell him, "they go in this." and I pull out my recorder. He'll find it anyway, I may as well appear as if I have nothing to hide.

I start strapping up the earpiece, but he moves on. He reads the gay sexuality mag that Raul gave me, looks at my CDs, which are blank. "Why do you have these?". I tell him I'd planned to burn CDs, and neglect to add that Cuba could do with more than two CD burners in the whole country.

The heat coming from my body is overwhelming, this experience adds a whole new meaning to 'hot under the collar'. I actually have to take my jumper off. I'm wearing a low-cut top which doesn't help, as my breasts have shrunk due to lack of food for the past two weeks.

I've also got a new appreciation for the term 'shitting myself' because I really need to go to the toilet. There's the constipation problem solved, anyway.

If I go to the toilet, they'll think I'm stashing stuff and search me. So I can't do that because they'll find the business card that's in my pocket.

The woman is making progress, every now and then she asks for clarification. "Who's this?" the man asks, holding up the snippet of paper with the Bar de las Estrellas number. On the back is the name Rojelio.

Interesting. It's a drag bar, which is actually illegal. Every now and then it gets closed down for a month or two. If the police find out they've been doing interviews, it could be bad for them.... something I clock up as cosmic justice, as they charged me $150 dollars to take recording gear in, which is probably more than I'll earn for the story.

I hated Rojelio.

He finds the poem written by the boy in the street. I ask if he'd like to translate it for me. It's my only moment of 'fuck you' and he looks at me with disdain.

When he's finished with all my things, he picks up my camera. He doesn't know how to work it, so I show him. He goes through all my photos asking about various people and then gives the camera to one of the men in the corner, for his titilation. He then settles back with my diary.

He starts at the beginning. All my innermost thoughts and fears, leaving Australia, are now in his domain. He reads and reads, and I wonder whether I talked about work back then. Filing, the international desk, all those keywords.

Looks like he's settled in for the long haul, so I ask whether there's a chance I'll miss my plane. He assures me I won't and keeps reading but doesn't laugh at any opportune moments. Tough crowd, the secret police.

Finally he announces to the others that all I write about is food and music, and closes the diary. He starts putting everything back in my bags and we have a little struggle to close the zip. He tells me to settle down or everything will fall out.

Settle down??? It's taking all my willpower not to grab my stuff and run out of here. Finally we're done.

"Wait," he says, "Give me another look at the camera."

For fuck's sake.

I've had airport security incidents before, like the time I was arriving in Vancouver from Rio and accidentally admitted to having tried drugs at some stage of my life. I spent hours watching a cute customs officer in plastic gloves turning my entire luggage inside out. But this is different. This is a feeling of complete powerlessness in the face of some great force that's reached down to pick apart every part of my life and put the pieces back together in a bigger puzzle, a puzzle that affects Cubans I've met as well. I can't lie, because they can check everything. The simple fact is that everything I've done in Cuba is outside what the regime permits, and there is a net... gradually closing around this. They'll call the people on the business cards, visit the houses, follow all the trails. And I'll never get a visa again.

Right now, that doesn't seem like such a crying shame.

Finally I am strapped up, guitar in hand, mini-discs intact and ready to walk out. He holds out my passport, I take it.. and just to remind me of the score, he holds it for a second longer and then lets go.

I ask him whether I have to 'irme corriendo' (go running) for my plane. Really, that's what I want to do anyway. He tells me maybe just irte camindo rapido (go walking quickly), and I laugh, a little too loudly.

"Sorry for the molestation," he says. And I walk out into the darkness.

On the plane, I am freezing. I assume it's the shock but there's nothing I can do to warm up. The flight is a daze of sleep and hunger and shock.

And finally, when my feet are on Mexican soil, I permit myself a sigh of relief. I buy a Starbucks coffee just to say 'fuck you, Cuba', and yes, I light up a cigarette.

The ordeal is over.

SHINING THROUGH DIRT

2007-02-25T06:11:00.000-09:30

This is the view from my new room.

I spend the morning lying on my bed with thoughts churning around in my head. My room feels like a hospital ward, with harsh light and beds covered in white sheets. Everything is white in this room, except the red fabric flowers on the mantle.

Now that the police are monitoring me, I'm not exactly sure what to do next. Also, judging by my foetal position, I think I might be a bit traumatised.

I don't dare to go interviewing people now, and I have no idea how I'm going to leave with my material. I have to make backup copies, but how?

The internet rooms in hotels are monitored and cost up to $15 an hour. I have about nine hours of material. Also, I have to download an editing program and hook up my mini-disc recorder in order to transfer everything in real time, before exporting MP3s to memory stick. And I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure this whole process might not go unnoticed.

I go and email, and wander the streets for a while in search of food. Cuba regularly fumigates all its buildings, it's choking. I'm starting to develop a conspiracy theory about what's in the billowing smoke, but really, conspiracy theories are so 1980s.

When I get home, J has rung. So I call her back and explain the situation with I a slight wobble in my voice when I get to the bit about "..and I'm not really coping".

"Use my laptop," she says. Oh my God, I'd forgotten she has one here.. this is great news. I go over and we sit talking about where to put the memory stick. I suggest my tampon idea, but she points out that I won't get through the metal detector. Thank Christ I ran it by her, that could have been really embarrassing.

The conditioner bottle seems the best idea, because everything is X-rayed on mass in the cargo luggage, so it's less likely to be detected.

I spend six hours transferring material, J goes to a BBQ. At 11pm, I call it a night and pack my things. I don't have the patience to try to flag a taxi tonight, but I have to walk some dark streets to get home, so I put the memory stick in my bra and set off.

I am walking down the median strip where the street lights are the strongest, when
I remember something Michel said, "Blah blah blah.. and you've got a good walk". Since when was your walk another factor in the equation as to whether you're sexy?

More to the point, I'm less likely to get mugged if I look like a Cuban, and you can always pick a tourist because they walk without the grace of locals. We walk as if it's a means to an end, they walk as if it's the end in itself.

So in the choking night air, I work on my walk. I notice that my head is down and I'm striding quickly so I slow my feet and sway my hips. Ironically, a more sexy walk should help abate the relentless whistles and hisses of appreciation that seem to be part of parcel of being a gringa. Then I see the street sweeper.

Last week I interviewed a street cleaner, and when he mentioned his job I assumed he went around with a broom made out of sticks like the street sweepers in Mexico. But this is a big, industrial truck with spinning bristles and water. And I need to get the sound for my story on the street sweeper.

An internal battle ensues.
"I have to get this sound."
"But I'd have to hook up my mini-disc and record in public. Not tonight, I'll do it some other time"
"But this is your only chance."
"No it's not, I'll go in the morning and find one."
" Find one? How? You know you're not going in search of a street sweeper in the morning. Besides, it's just THERE."
"But I'm soooooo tired. I actually just can't be bothered. I'll get the sound in Mexico."
"No. You won't."

Fuck it.

Despite myself, I find my hands hooking up the mic and holding it out of the bag. By now the street sweeper is far behind me, all that time I was having an internal chat, it was driving in the opposite direction.

So, I run. My legs don't want to move and my thongs flap about. I can feel the sweat on my face, mixing with the grime of a day in this pollution. My mascara has ventured from my eyelashes to the skin under my eyes. I am wearing the green dress that someone mistook for a uniform last week, when they asked me a question in the internet room.

I'm following the truck with my mic when it stops. Shit, he's seen me. I keep walking and he gets out and removes a plank of wood from the path of the truck. This gives me enough time to get ahead and record the sound perfectly.

I retrace my steps, back along the median strip.

I hear a hiss. Ignore. Hiss. Ignore. Hisssssss. I look sideways with fury, and see a young man walking across the road, carrying a notebook and pen. Great, just what I need.

Then I notice he's in civilian clothing, with one of those bags you buy in Guatemala or Ecuador. He gets to the median strip and says something, "What?"

"I need to show you what I'm writing," he says.

Oh no, maybe he's an informant. Hence, the secrecy. Am I getting paranoid.

In short, yes.

I watch as he writes, his pen moving unhurriedly across the paper. Finally he rips it off, and hands it to me. It's a poem.

Due to extenuating circumstances:

a) it's dark
b) his handwriting is illegible
c) the words are unfamiliar

I can't read it, but I suspect going through it word by word may shatter the moment. So, I assume it's a nice poem, and act accordingly. "Oh, thankyou," I say, shakily. He explains that he has had to follow me back and forth with all my changes in direction, but he seems to be coming my way so as he walks me home I get him to tell me about his life.

He's a Jewish computer programmer who's qualified in sports science but there's no work in that so he works at the Jewish centre. He's one of the few Cubans who can leave, because there's some setup with Israel that all the Jews can go back. He has a high-pitched nervous laugh that doesn't match his beautiful face, and he seems very shy.

We reach my place and I brace myself for the usual, "When will I see you again, what's your phone number, I invite you for a softdrink", but it doesn't come. He kisses my cheek and I worry that he can smell the day of trauma in the sweat and grime on me. I wonder if seeing me up close has shattered whatever the hell inspired his poetry.

My house mother translates the poem into Spanish I can understand:

You pass,
You walk the world
leaving a sensation of sweetness

Without memory
And leave in your wake
Rays of the dawn

What, I wonder, about me running down the street could inspire this? In sweat and grime, fatigue and fear. Matted hair (no water this morning) and smudged mascara.

Maybe because at the moment, when you're in flight running towards your goal with gritted teeth against all your urges to stop... maybe that's when you shine.

But who knows, maybe he writes that poem five times a day.

EL DIA MAS LARGO

2007-02-23T06:48:00.000-09:30

I wake early, today will be busy. Yesterday I went to the festivities in Callejo de Hamel, the street dedicated to the Santeria faith. Santeria is the product of traditional african faiths morphing with Catholocism when slaves were brought to Cuba. On a Sunday, there is dancing in the street with musicians pumping out the rhumba music.

The artist who painted the whole street in amazing, complex colours is called Salvador. I met him in the Bar de Las Estrellas while I was interviewing Barbara, the only trannie there with real fake boobs. We arranged an interview for yesterday, which he unceremoniously bumped to today .. but only after I'd made the trek over to see him.

I arrive right on time, and then wait an hour for him to appear. Eventually he comes and does a fairly self-congratulatory interview, in which I have trouble pinning him on anything concrete about his faith.

I then interview Tonito, who has to wear all white clothing for a year as part of his faith. He then insists that we have to meet again, he didn't come all this way for an interview if he wasn't going to get another date. Anyone who gives an interview thinks I owe them something, usually in the vein of sex/marriage/love or money.

Speaking of which, Salvador summons me back to 'show me something'. We weave through his house and come to a room full of his pictures. I gush at a suitable level about his work, and he agrees that it's all wonderful.

"I want to exhibit this in Australia," he says, pointing at a painting somewhere up near the ceiling. "I need you to take a photo and send it to the relevant people there."

"But I'm not in the art world," I want to say, "I'm a journalist. In radio." Journalists are forgiven for knowing a small amount about everything, because that's their job, but I can't use the word journalist here, so everyone thinks I'm a specialist in their area.

He promises to get a better light, and call me when the picture is ready. "I'll pass by your house and get you," he says, "Here, write your address."

I hate the idea of anyone having all my details, but what can I do? I feel trapped. Trapped by the guy in white who's like a terrier with a very firm hold on my ankle, and trapped by the man here, who's holding out pen a paper and nodding.

I set off to my next interview. Two journalists, one of whom was jailed in the 2003 blitz. I arrive an hour early, and not having eaten yet today, decide to get food.

The only place around is a state-run pizza joint. Pizza is the staple here and comes with one topping and lashings of oil.

I join the line, and a half-hour wait ensues, during which time I eavesdrop on the woman behind me, who is trying to push in.

"Capitalists may make more money," she says, "But they have to work like dogs. What kind of a life is that?"

It's a life where they don't have to spend most of the day waiting in line for absolutely everything, only to find out that it's not in stock, that's what.

Finally we enter the pizzeria. There is a long, tiled bar with chairs lined up along it. Kind of like a military kitchen. Every place has a plastic placemat with pictures of pizzas bearing toppings that we all know will not be on our own. There is army cutlery and a glass at each place. No music, no decorations.

A waitress with a short blue skirt and fat legs goes along the line pouring water into the glasses. Two people take softdrink. We pass two foodcoated plastic menus along the line, each person decides and then hands it on.

The choices are:
- spaghetti: tuna, chorizo, ham
- pizza: tuna chorizo, ham or salami
- juice: mango, orange, pear or pineapple
- softdrink: cola, orange, lemon

I order pineapple juice. "We don't have any," the waitress says. "Ok, orange thanks."

"We don't have any."

"Ok, whatever you've got," I says. "Right, it's pear."

"And a salami pizza."

"We don't have any salami."

"Ok, chorizo." She moves on.

My popper of pear juice comes out and we spend another half hour waiting for the food. Plates of spaghetti are going past, it's over-cooked, florescent white with a blob of tomato paste on the side and three strips of ham next to a lump of grated cheese.

I'm trying to get a glimpse past the mission brown doors right in front of me, from which emerge wait-staff every now and then. Every time the door swing open, I see antiquated cooking equipment, like scales with weights and measures. There are a lot of people in the kitchen standing and doing absolutely nothing, which would tend to explain why we're all sitting out here doing absolutely nothing eg. eating.

Finally the waitress comes and says there's a problem with the pizzas. The anti-capitalist woman is actually very nice, and explains the problem to me in equally indecipherable terms. I am now 15 minutes lates so I pay for my juice and leave, very very hungry.

I walk into a loungeroom to find two middle-aged people sitting in rocking chairs, rocking. The room seems to be brimming over with books, they's piled to the ceiling all along the wall. They both look perfectly harmless, it's hard to imagine this guy spending two years in prison. He explains that he's out on provisional leave and any day the police could come and take him away. Prison sounds like it was pretty nasty, he was in with all the hardened criminals.

Now, their phones are tapped, email is read and someone is always watching the house.

"So, the government knows you are here." they add, casually.

Oh, great. Does the government know how hungry I am too?

"We just try to live as though everything we say is not being watched and listened to. We try to live a normal life, otherwise we'd just be taking pills all day for the stress."

"Why are you still talking to journalists if it's so dangerous?" I ask.

"Because I owe it to the men who are still in prison, and to my country."

I am about to be running late for my next interview when they start showing me pictures of X's arrest, lots and lots of pictures. Eventually, when I have lost all chance of reaching my the poet on time, I mention my next destination. They freeze. "Pablo Armando Fernandez?" they say, "he's incredibly important. You can't keep him waiting."

Out on the street, waiting for a cab that doesn't seem to exist, I curse the Cuban licencing system. Why are there so few taxis in this country?

Eventually I spot one across the 5-way intersection and go running in front of lanes of cars to tell the cabbie I'm desparate. Bad move. He doubles the price, takes the existing passenger to her place, and then proceeds to get lost...all the while telling me how important Pablo Armando Fernandez is.

I sprint from the car to the gate, ring the bell. Nothing. Ring again. Nothing. Oh no, he's got so pissed off he's not going to answer the door.

I ask a little delivery fellow in brown clothing and a che guevara hat what I'm doing wrong and he emphatically rings the bell, and the front door opens.

An old man walks unhurriedly towards the gate, and I start apologising profusely.

"A thousand sorries," I say, "I am so sorry to keep you waiting."

"I'll just go and get Pablo," he says.

Woops.

I enter a cool oasis of opulence, with lots of art on the wall. Pablo is quite charming, and mildly evasive on the question of his relationship with his country. I want him to talk in concrete terms, but he keeps mentioning history and ... well, history.

I leave and walk 40 minutes before finding a cab to take me home. Home, thank Christ. Home where I feel safe and happy and love the people with whom I share my house.

I realise there is something wrong the moment I enter the house. Mainly because Georgina grabs my arm and says 'sit down', before I've had a chance to even go to the toilet.

"You have to tell me the truth," she says in an urgent tone. "What are you doing with that microphone? Are you doing anything political?"

I look shocked, largely because I am.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"The police came here this afternoon. They know your name and where you were staying. We hadn't registered you, so how did they get your name? Honestly, have you been talking to political people?"

I've always told them I'm recording music and art, because that's true. Lying by ommission was fine, but lying to their faces is something I cannot do.

"A little tiny bit...?" I venture. My stomach has dropped out. It was fine when I was only affecting myself, but these are good people and I am now affecting them. The thing is, they are not registered to have two guests and I am their second guest so they are now facing a huge fine, apart from anything else.

"You have to leave running." Georgina says, "I'm sorry, but we have to get you in a legal room. We've found a place, but don't tell them anything. Don't mention your recorder, or any interviews you do. Don't tell them anything. And wipe any interviews you have."

Are they putting me in a house of the state? Is that why I have to be so secretive?

Raul and I make the trek to the other side of the apartment block. My new room looks like a hospital ward, it's all white with harsh florescent lighting, and beds with white sheets and no covers. The house is full of smoke and my new house mum has a massive stomach that looks like there might be a baby inside, but I'm pretty sure there's not. There's an old man with a flap of material over his throat and no voice.

He tells me to sit down starts filling out my registration. In the background, staterun TV is puming out a very long and unchallenging interview with Eva Morales. Half an hour later, he is still filling out the two very small forms and I'm trying to work out what is taking so long. He takes my visa and tells me he has to keep it for the night. No way.

"Noone else had to take my visa," I say.

The only thing more difficult than understanding your second language with background noise, is understanding your second language with background noise and no voicebox. Whatever his reply is, I am still completely in the dark.

He hands me the first form to sign and I notice the 't' and 'h' are around the wrong way, so I correct it. He looks startled, then upset, and then runs a red pen through the whole thing and writes 'anulado'. Anulled. We're starting again.

Eventually we reach the second form, and he notices the mistake has been repeated. Just as he is cheerfully running a red line through it, I realise I can't take another minute of this, and tell him abruptly that I have to go and eat. It's been 24 hours since my last meal.

I don't dare leave my discs in this new place, so I take them all with me. On the way out, the old woman on the door whose job is to watch everyone who comes and goes, tells me to be careful. Going out at night is dangerous, your bag will get stolen, she says.

The electricity is out, so I walk the dark streets to Hotel Presidente, and order a club sandwich.

"There's no chicken," the charming waiter says, "How about tuna?"

Sure, anything but ham.

"What's wrong?" he asks, "You look worried."

"Just a long day," I say, and melt for a moment in his beautiful brown eyes and sincere concern. "Just a very long day."

RANDOM SHOTS TO BREAK UP THE PRINT...

2007-02-20T18:39:00.000-09:30

Salsa on a Sunday afternoon...

IT'S A MAN'S WORLD

2007-02-20T17:34:00.000-09:30

Squirmer's found someone who'll pay more for the room. So, without ceremony, she gets me out of bed and packing my bags before I can recover for the previous night's glory.

The maid's daughter was in the house last night. She has exactly the same hair as mine, and her mother proudly explained that it had been down below her waist before she cut it off.

"The heat?" I ask.

"No, she was using too much shampoo and conditioner. Too expensive."

So, as I'm packing I set aside my big bottle of shampoo for curly hair, and go to the next room to give it to her. I can hear her in the bathroom so I accidentally burst in her on the toilet, peeing. She's surprisingly casual about this, and delighted at the shampoo.

"Pantene," she says, "that's wonderful. I'll have to show it to Irma, or she'll accuse me of stealing it. My husband is a doctor, he works in the hospital across the road. And I've got a lovely son, he's very serious... you'll have to come to our house. It's ugly, but you're most welcome."

Doctors in Cuba earn a fraction of what taxi drivers do, it's all upside down and back to front here. Margorie has to wipe the floors and take the shit from awful, ignorant Irma.

She's still casually mentioning her son when I leave. Marrying your way out of Cuba is a hell of a lot safer than braving the Florida Straights.

I trudge a few blocks to a large apartment building, with peeling green paint and louvers on all the windows. There's a black woman waiting outside, with pitch-black hair and grey roots even though she can't be more than about 35. She takes me up to my room and tells me not to mention to the other man staying here that I'm only paying 25CUC because he's paying 40CUC. And if I get mugged, I can't go to the police. She's only registered for one room, so there'll be a massive fine if the government finds out.

I am immediately comfortable. The room has glorious old wooden furniture, the sort of rocking chair that would cost hundreds in a Surrey Hills antique store. There is a steady and very intrusive hum of airconditioners from the next building, and I can't work out why I keep sneezing.

"Oh, that's the fumigation," she says, "The government does it every Saturday for an hour."

Fumigating for what?

"Oh, insects or something."

Insects or free thought. Stop it.

I tell Georgina I'm going to a drag show tonight and she says I have to talk to her cousin. Uh oh. Awful Irma was always insisting I take her relatives out at night as 'friends for hire', and I don't need a friend for hire tonight thankyou very much.

The cousin, Raul appears from nowhere and starts chatting. I try to politely extricate myself but find myself drawn to him. We go and sit in the sunroom, with louvers that look out over all of Havana to the ocean. I'm wondering why he's got such an interest in my drag story, until he announces that he's gay. Brilliant. A man I can hang around with, without him trying to marry or shag me. This is a match made in heaven.

Raul insists on coming to the drag show, and bringing three friends. We now officially have a possie.

I've arranged my interviews for 9pm, so I decide to take a taxi rather than wait for the three friends to pick us up.

"No, no," Raul assures me, "They are five minutes away."

Half an hour later, things on the street corner are feeling a little desparate. Finally the car appears an we are propelled into a world of hair product. Now I understand what they've been doing for the last half hour, putting on perfume.

The old man driving the car must be about 65. His boyfriend is 18, and absolutely gorgeous. The other guy has yellow hair, and he's used the left-over peroxide on his eyebrows.

There's a battle of wills happening in the front over air temperature and music choice. As we set off for Lawton, it becomes gradually obvious that noone has any idea where we're going. The guy with orange eyebrows seems to have the best idea, but half an hour later, we're still not even in the suburb.

There is much discussion about the police. How to avoid the police, where the police are most likely to be. Later, I ask Raul why we were avoiding them, and he says that four gay guys going to an illegal drag club probably wouldn't have gone down well.

Still, Lawton is somewhere far off in the distance when the direction-asking stage of the journey begins. I watch the little clock on the dash leave 9pm further and further back in the past.

Generally it goes like this:
animated discussion-> mention of cops -> someone spots an innocent bystander -> car pulls over -> innocent bystander helpfully explains directions for at least five minutes with hand signals and waving of arms (waving of arms is to signify how far away Lawton is) -> we set off.

This process begins again every two blocks, and I'm not exaggerating. I am completely powerless.

I am gradually becoming extremely irritable.

Finally we arrive. The bar is actually a house, wrapped so tightly in fairy lights that it's like a beacon.

I am over an hour late, but I figure that's ok because I still have an hour to interview.

Rojelio (pron: Ro-hell-ee-o) treats me the appropriate level or sickly sweetness that you'd expect from someone who's just made 100CUC out of you.

I head into the makeup room - it's just like a hairdressing salon. Long benches with mirrors and some chairs, with lots of very manly looking men standing in front of them.

Drag IS amazing. That a man can wipe almost all traces of his sexuality is truly incredible.

I am interviewing a man with massive lips lined by almost black lipliner, and hair around his nipples. His voice is a normal man's voice, and he's pleasant.

"Now tell me if this question is too private," I say, "But exactly how do you get rid of the lump?"

These guys all get around in bikinis and the like, with no sign of their penises. And I know for a fact that they haven't had sex-change operations.

"Oh, not too private at all," he says. He's standing in stockings with a thick set of flesh coloured bike pantish-but-stronger thing over the top. He pulls open the bike pants, so we can see down his front, and half-crouches.

"So, you push it down," he says, pushing it down, "And then, stand up. And it stays between your legs. See? Completely flat??"

Oh. Glad I asked. I don't have a penis, but did somebody say ouch?

Jesus Christ, it'd be less painful to just chop it off. Sex change operations are illegal in Cuba, so this is the only option.

I then move onto an interview with Barbara. She is more than happy to chat, she makes up at home so is ready to rock'n'roll.

"Your breasts are amazing," I tell her, "Congratulations."

She's standing in the doorway to the house, where all the guests are entering. "I know," she says, "Look at this..."

And she lifts her silver sequined top to show a lacy bra encasing two perfect and enviable breasts.

Barbara and I chat for ages. She had her operation at dawn in a hospital, and now has a boyfriend, although he still has a wife and child somewhere else. Unlike the rest of the cast here, she spends the night and day as a woman, in woman's clothing with woman's hair. Just not a woman's voice.

I am just setting off downstairs to see the transformation process, when Rojelio appears. Or Moodswing Rojelio, as he will hence be known. Sure, my mic's phallic, but at the sight of it he starts flapping his arms around and shooshing me up the stairs. As in, UP the stairs.

I'd love to describe the miracle of trans-formation, but all I can give you is the before and after. Mofo. 100CUC, that's $150 AUD, and I get two lousy interviews, virtually no pics.

Rojelio can take his gold pincers and go to 'jel(io).

I head back upstairs and take in the show. Who knew drag could be so fun when you've got people to enjoy it with.

At one stage, my first interviewee starts ripping off his eyelashes, then his fake nails and then his wig, then his dress. Oh my god, it's a strip show with a twist.

This is considered incredibly artistic and met with violent applause. I admit, it was really quite exhiliarating.

A fat guy sends a drink over and we're all perving on the incredibly gorgeous gay guy on the other side of the room.

On my way to the toilet, the fat dude greets me and pulls me down for a kiss - which I assume to be the usual Cuban cheek-kiss greeting, until he plants his big, wet lips all over my mouth. I extricate myself feeling violated, and then have to explain myself to the lesbians at the next table, who are berating me for letting him do it.

Oh this is all too much. In the toilet line, I find myself standing next to Mr Gorgeous Gay Man and the transexual from the table behind me instructs me to tell him that she's in love. With him. God, who's not.

I do so.

He turns out to be incredibly charming and proceeds to chat me up. Cripes, even gay guys can't resist women here.

Finally, it's my turn for the toilet. I walk in, and find myself looking at a bowel that is COVERED in blood. That's right, blood. Who died in here?

I walk back out, to find the Mr Gorgeous Guy of Questionable Sexuality explaining himself to his boyfriend.

This is all getting too much. We all end up on the dancefloor, with one of the lesbians fondling my waist during the human trains (you know where everyone runs around cheerfully clutching the person in front of them?) and before I know it I'm being dragged out to the car.

It's a man's world, for this noone's girl.

WHAT A DRAG

2007-02-19T08:12:00.000-09:30

Friday, I make my way to a phone booth and call the Bar de las Estrellas.

A charming young fellow answers the phone and tells me it's fine to show up around 8pm to chat with the muchachas.

This time I find a cab that will do it for 5CUC, and Francisco turns out to be a lovely non-intrusive fellow who takes his cues from my limited conversation-making.

I go upstairs and meet the lovely George, who's got a mousey face and yellow streaks in his hair.

He introduces me to the DJ, Jose, who also has yellow streaks in his. The barman's hair is ALL yellow. Haven't they heard of toner here?

We all chat for a hour or so, as I wait for some magical sign to go downstairs and meet the muchachas.

Finally, George summons me to come and meet Rojelio (pronounced Ro-hell-ee-o). The name is said with some reverence.

I walk into a hairdressing salon, on the bottom level. There is a hairy-backed man just starting the makeup process. Looks like he might be a while.

Sitting in a makeup chair, but more giving the impression of a king (or queen) in a throne, is a very small, very angry-looking man with .. yellow hair.

He looks like a very camp Cuba Gooding Junior, with gold coating on each of his pincer teeth.

Rojelio. Now I get the yellow hair epidemic.

"You are under no circumstances, to bring ANY recording gear into the bar," he says, his gold pinchers flashing under the flouros.

"No microphones, no interviews. Nothing."

What about the good old days in Australia, where contacts were one keystroke away and anyone with anything resembling recording equipment was treated as an old friend.

Getting to this moment has taken days of dark streets, dodgy areas, detective skills, persistence... and I'm getting the 'under no circumstances' line?

I think we're like guitar strings. Without any tension we're slack and out of tune, we don't really fulfill our purpose. But at this very moment, I feel stretched so tight that I will snap.

Rojelio's nostrils are flaring, so I take a deep breath and tell him that under no circumstances do I want to do anything to upset him and his muchachas.

He keeps talking, mentioning something very subtle and roundabout regarding money. I'm sorry, I can't do subtle and roundabout in Spanish. It's blunt or nothing.

I look to George for clarification. "What, can't she even speak Spanish?" Rojelio explodes.

"Yes, but I don't speak Fuckwit," I want to reply. "Yes, but Cuban Spanish is a little different," I explain.

George explains that the Bar de las Estrellas is not actually legal, and gets shut down systematically so there would need to be a financial incentive for me to endanger their status.

"Well, let's talk terms," I say.

"Not here," Rojelio spits, "In private."

We arrive in a little room on the second level with a lot of red velvet couches, and china ornaments. Dalmations, angels, clocks, they're all china. There is a lot of light, coming from the many lamps that light the room. There's a wine-rack of liquor, which I consider stealing to recoup costs.

He disappears into a small room to yell at three of his staff for 15 minutes, while I wait outside with his mobile, which is ringing incessantly.

After I've explained how much I will earn for the story, and how much I have to pay for the air ticket, accommodation, and costs, not to mention labor, Rojelio goes to consider his price.

An hour later, George returns with the terms. It will be $150 dollars just to get in the door, more than I will earn for the story.

He knows he's got me by the proverbials and he's milking it for all it's worth.

It's too late tonight to interview, so I head upstairs and buy a beer. Just in case they haven't got enough cash out of my already. The yellow-haired gang all keep my company until swelling 50s instrumental music heralds the beginning of the show.

It's actually pretty good, but I am so drained it's all I can do to keep an enraptured expression on my face in case Rojelio looks over. At 1am I can't do it any more, so I ask George to call a cab.

"No, no, there are cabs outside," he reassures me.

All the cabbies refuse to take me except an apparently-mute old man, who's leaning on a little new white car. I start to open the door when he points across the road.

The car he's pointing at looks more like one of those car bodies you see in a wrecker's yard. It's an old Chevy and I am shocked to discover it starts. There is a shuddering sound that suggests that at any moment the whole casing around us will just fall apart, and lots of squeaking.

Now, my sense of direction isn't that good, but I know backstreets when I see them. This is not the way I got here - either time.

Fuck. He's taking me around the corner where one of his mates is waiting to help him mug me. I sit rigid in flight-or-fight readiness, but really I know I'll opt for hand-it-over-and-then-how-am-I-going-to-get-home when it happens.

It's eery, peering through the curtain of cracks in the windscreen at these dark, deserted backstreets.

Five minutes later I still haven't been mugged so start formulating a back-up theory. Maybe he's taking the backstreets because he doesn't have a taxi licence (pay through the nose to carry passengers) and is avoiding the police.

Actually, yeeeeah. As if this car could get anything resembling a road-worthy .. let alone a taxi licence.

I settle back for the ride, and decide to capitalise on the great sound value and take a recording the miracle that is This Car In Motion. I very subtly move the microphone out of my bag, and make sure he can't see it.

When we arrive, he says his first words for the entire journey, "Pay me here, very discreetly, and don't draw any attention to yourself."

Judging by his car, I doubt he's got enough money to pay the fire for getting busted without a taxi licence. I pay, I drag myself up into Squirmer's Den, and I sleep. Soundly.

WILD TRANNIE CHASE

2007-02-18T11:56:00.000-09:30

Before coming here, I read a very interesting article about a drag show in Cuba. The article kept the bar anonymous but mentioned the suburb so I figure I can put it together when I get there. So, I've promised a story on drag queens in Cuba.

For a few days now I have been asking around and the conversation remains consistently the same:

M: Have you heard of a drag club around here?
C: What?
M: You know, women who dress up as men.
C: (recoils) Oh, transvestites.
M: That's right.
C: No, they're banned here.
M: Well, what about a gay bar where I can ask around.
C: No, gay bars are banned too.

I'm not getting far. My new house mother is the awful Irma, whose names suits her perfectly. A cross between irksome and squirmer. She lies without hestitation, even when she doesn't need to and treats the cleaning lady like shit. She's sickly sweet with guests.

I start to mention that I need to go to Lawton but before I even get to the bit about men dressing up as women she screeches:
"Lawton!!!! You can't go to Lawton!!!! You can't go out at night. Not on your own. I mean, go to hotels, tourist hotels. But nowhere else. But LAWTON!!! There is a problem with drunks there. You'll be robbed."

Yes, Lawton is the lowest socio-economic suburb in Havana. I bet Squirma's never even been there.

There's a fine line between investing enough faith in humankind to receive the dividends, and gambling all your money on a bad hand.

I walk that line, from my house... down some dark streets where I can see families through the windows soaking up propoganda that's being churned out of the television. Kids playing on the front steps. Dogs runnign down the road. People buying beer at canteens.

I reach the malecon, an eerie stretch where a big forest of flags flaps in the wind and soldiers line the street.

I turn off to the Hotel Nationale and approach the last driver in a line of old souped up American cars that take tourists around.

He too has never heard of this bar, but proceeds to ask every man in the line until he returns with the information. His name is Miguel and he has a son and a grandson called Michel so we are firm friends by now.

"Street 16, across from the auto station." he announces proudly.

I think I'm in love.

I find a cab, and Orlando quotes me 7CUC to make the trip. He's got a pencil-thin moustache and a Billy Ocean fetish.

"Get Into My Car" is actually playing when I ... get into his car. We share a very special "When the Going Gets Tough", and he even lets me record some natural sound.

When we reach Destination Lawton, Orlando asks me what we're looking for? A house?

"Well, sort of. It's a drag show."
"A what?"
"Transvestites."

He giggles and starts asking passes-by where to find the poofs.

We find a house covered in fairy lights. Given that Cuba has an obsession with saving electricity, I'm not sure how they're working this level of energy consumption, really it's like the beacon of Lawton, but whatever.

I peer through the glare at a delightful woman who tells me the show is on tomorrow night and of course I can come and record some interviews. She gives me a little sliver of paper with the name Rojelio on the back, and I head back to Orlando.

"You have to go back anyway, Orlando. So what price can you do for me for the return trip?"
"Seven CUC."
"But...."
"I could be home with my wife and child. It's 7 or nothing"

On the return, Orlando showcases Kool and the Gang, as well as a glorious "Cherish the love", to which he sings falsetto with reckless abandon.

"This song always makes me feel like crying," he announces.

I happily pay the seven CUC: the cab ride has been my most enjoyable experience as yet in Cuba. I walk back to the house thinking Cuba may be homophobic, but it's far more camp than it realises.

FROZEN IN TIME

2007-02-17T18:19:00.000-09:30

The buildings stay the same, and generations move between their walls. They grow up, they grow old. And the buildings remain.

2007-01-12T10:53:00.000-09:30

Me and Marina....

YING AND YANG

2007-01-11T14:50:00.000-09:30

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

2007-01-10T09:11:00.000-09:30

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..

2007-01-09T11:25:00.000-09:30

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

2007-01-05T05:55:00.000-09:30

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?

PLAYING BY THE RULES

2006-12-27T13:36:00.000-09:30

Luis arrives 15 minutes late to pick me up from the gym (it's a Mexican thing, 15 mins). Waiting outside is freezing and boring so I say 'hello' in a tone, and answer 'yes' to 'have you been waiting long?'. What is happening to my easy-going laid-back Aussie charm??

His bar of choice is a block from his parents house. So, his house. I'm dating someone who lives with his parents (which isn't a source of shame here, it's the norm) so, he decides to park his car there and we walk.

Luis comments that my hair has changed and before I have a chance to tell him I hated it at first but it's really growing on me, he tells me it's "not that bad".

I mention how thankful I am just to have hair, and he replies that he doesn't care that he's going bald.

He's moving to Australia next year, so over our beer he does a bit of research about meal times and what we eat etc. Leisure activites, bars.. and then,

"So in bars do the men usually approach the women, or the other way around?"

Pause.

"We're on a date and you're asking me how to pick up women in Australia?"

In revenge I tell him there's noone between the age of 17 and 45 in Adelaide so it doesn't matter. He mentions he likes older women. So I tell him, that's lucky what with him being bald and everything.

We have just got stuck into the issue of Luis openly rubber-necking hot women when he's with me, when the bill arrives. Well, if he's going to be a macho latino.. he can be one all the way and pay for my beer, thankyou very much. I give him a look that sums up that thought in one raised eyebrow, and he pulls out his wallet and pays.

Turns out there's a bit of Latina in all of us....

FEELING BLUE

2006-12-25T12:03:00.000-09:30

You should see the back of the shirt...

THE NIGHT BEFORE .. THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

2006-12-24T09:16:00.000-09:30

Night of 23rd December: Posada. I wasn't quite sure what to make of the word (sounds like food to me), but it's something about singing and doing things to remember Mary and Joseph's quest for a place to stay.

We head to Ara's family's street for the night. It kicks off (in a turn-up for the books) on the dot of 8pm as scheduled. We emerge from injecting the turkey with white wine in the kitchen - if I'd known working with syringes was so fun I would have become a doctor - to find all the neighbours walking up and down the street. Two of them are carrying a platform with statues of Mary, Joseph and an angel. Everyone is singing.

Is the donkey trying to bite the angel?

For some reason, tonight is the night the electricity system has decided to crash, so it's all pitch black aside from polystyrene cups with candles burning through the sides and one portable florescent light that adds a slightly 21st century feel to proceedings.

This is a serious business. For the next hour we act out the search for a room. The songs have lyrics that are printed out in a Posada song book and the group splits in two. Half go behind the gate/door of a given property and the other half stand outside singing, "In the name of heaven, don't be inhumane, we're exhausted, I'm a carpenter called Jose".

The people behind the gate sing, "Keep going, I don't have to open up, I don't care what your name is".

And so it goes, back and forth, door to door. At one point the outside group hatches a plan to run away while the inside group is still singing and much hilarity ensues.

Finally we settle on a place, which has four piñatas.. and a steady stream of kids don blindfolds and wildly swing something like a baseball bat dangerously close to cars and spectators. When I say kids, I mean anyone up to the age of 35, so yes, I had a go. I was a bit worried about my new jeans falling down in the middle of my efforts but they made it. Must remember to wear a belt in future.

Fruit falls out and everyone scrambles.

Hot ponche circulates, it's a fruit drink that takes a day to prepare. Tostadas. Sandwiches. Other stuff.

Then we go upstairs where everyone chats and dances. The matriache is old and lost her vocal chords somewhere along the path of life. She is an absolute delight and we sit right in front of the speakers, each trying to decipher what the other is saying. She has turned out a family of beauties, and they all dance around her and later she jigs along. Until 2am.

After 5 farewells (it's a tradition to say goodbye and then keep talking) we finally head across the road for some rest. Tomorrow's a big day.

LEARNING THE RULES

2006-12-22T14:07:00.000-09:30

I have studiously ignored Ara's strongly-worded advice not to go out with Luis again, due to his bill-splitting tendencies, and am preparing myself for a night out in a surprise location.

Ara is showing signs of distress, so I get a fifth opinion from her visiting friend Yvonne (I've already sussed it out with a few Mexicanas, they all agree)

They both start shaking their pointer fingers and saying 'no no no no no' in a descending tone.

As I don black tights and top under little black dress with little green flat shoes and scarf of various shades, Ara and Yvonne start dispensing emergency advice. ALL Mexican men have been EDUCATED to pay, it is unthinkable to let the woman pay in the first dates and he is 'aprovechando' the fact that I am a gringa.

(Aprovechar is a great, handy verb that means 'make the most of')

When the bill comes, I MUST go to the toilet or if I have gone to the toilet recently, just keep talking. Only if he asks for money should I pretend I have completely forgotten about the bill and comply with a smile.

This goes against every grain in me... whaaaaat? How do you just sit there and watch someone pay the bill without feeling like a tightarse yourself?

No, they say, this is about respect. And Ara adds that if I offer him money, I have to buy her dinner. It's a bet that she's just unilaterally installed.

When I arrive to the car, Luis informs me I look like a ballerina (was it the tights??)(or did I go anorexic overnight without noticing?) and we set off.

We arrive at a club called La Perla, he pays my entry. So far, so good.

It's fantastic. Lots of red, lots of silver... retro chairs. Kind of like the hamburger joint John Travolta and Uma Thurman went in Pulp Fiction, but without the car booths... Hmmm, what am I trying to say? Lots of stainless steel and vinyl but with a Mexican feel, 60s Mexican music. The DJ is about a hundred, he's long and stringy and wears a tailored suit. A cigarette permanently dangles out of his mouth, dancing around as he sings. The owner zips around, also very old and in a diamond-checked vest.

"If a place can completely sum up someone's personality," Luis says, "This is mine".

Only in the bathroom when I come across someone with a lot of glitter on their fake eyelashes do I realise we're in a drag joint.

Is Luis trying to tell me something?

We dance. I walk past a table with two gay guys and one of them grabs me and starts speaking very quickly. All I can gather is that something about me is 'the best'. I'm pretty sure he's referring to my dancing, so I thank him profusely and move on before I can find out that he's actually referring to the best ballerina outfit or something.

Next thing we know, there are heaps of strangely-dressed people doing movements that vaguely resemble those of the person beside them. The women are wearing practically nothing, the men embroidered satin shirts.

Then the drag queens come out. Shakira is big-boned and very, very ugly. A large black wo-man shakes her arse like there's no tomorrow. There's I Will Survive (of course) and a duet involving a bald man fondling a transexual.

The surgery is amazing. Some of these women have really good breasts. One of them looks a bit like Michael Jackson.

Then they disappear and there's salsa music. Luis propels me around to some private beat of his own, until the gay guy (introduced as Olivier) grabs me and informs me 'my boyfriend' is wasting me. He's actually very good, but when the third song starts and he's still got me in a lynch grip I start worrying about Luis.

His friend goes over to explain the situation, and Oliver finally lets me go, but spends another ten minutes explaining he hasn't intended any distress to 'my boyfriend'.

When they finally leave, Luis explains that it's not normal to ask a girl to dance when she's out with a man.. but why Olivier thought that Luis would be threatened I'm not sure.

When the DJ can't seem to get past his Bee Gees record, Luis orders the bill and without so much as a look, pays it. Pity, I really needed to go to the toilet.

I LIKE MY TWIST WITH A SHOUT

2006-12-14T13:54:00.000-09:30

Going to the movies on your own is one thing.

Going to a rock concert alone is completely another.

Technically, I didn't. The Killers, Mexico City, December 13: Sarali and Pablo have taken me there, both of them equipped with tickets for the main floor section, me equipped with money to buy scalped tickets for the main floor section.

When I discover the Mexican scalpers here are just as bad as Australian ones, and prices for that section have tripled to around $200, I decide to shell out $45 to a guy whose friends have cancelled and hope that the seated C4 section is not somewhere behind the stage. From now he will be refered to as The Tall Guy.

I strike off on my own, buy a beer (it comes in one-litre paper cups here), buy a water (another paper cup) and then make the mistake of buying a donut. Apart from the unmanagable flavour combination, there was the small issue of not having four hands (one more to keep showing the ticket to people in the neverending sequence of doors).

I make it to my section with minimal spillage, find my seat and look around. Hmmmm. Three rows behind me, empty. Three rows in front of me, empty. All the seats stretching off to either side of my, empty. There I am, with my various refreshments, feeling quite in the middle of a wide, open space.

I sit down, give myself a little pep talk about this being just a 'different' experience and really, you don't get to talk to your friends during live music anyway, you're just standing with them, that's all.

Still no people.

I look down at the people in the fun zone. Someone throws a cup of beer 20 metres onto a guy who extends a finger in the general direction of where the cup originated. Everyone is waving to each other, finding their friends, talking. On the big screen, the camera zones in on one person until they realise and wave, before moving onto someone else.

This goes on for 40 minutes. Rivetting viewing. Noone thinks to flash.

The area around me gradually fills. I attempt conversation with the girl who has bought the other ticket the guy was selling, and she's either hostile or shy. Or racist. Actually, that would put her in the hostile category, wouldn't it?

Finally, thank the Lord, there is a loud drum beat that reverberates through my ribcage and fills me with that glorious, swelling live music feeling.

It's one of the sound guys doing a test.

And then, when I have almost run out of pep-talk momentum... the music starts.

I immediately transform from vaguely-self-aware-mute to rabid-screaming-fan (who knows most of the lyrics) The Tall Guy materialises and like me he is bellowing words that sometimes coincide with what's being blasted out of the speakers. Between us we pep our whole section into action. The hostile girl is even raising her arm and omitting intermittent sound.

Brandon sings and sweats his way through Sam's Town, then the prelude, then When You Were Young and then produces "Bienvenidos". The crowd goes wild.

Whatever he produces next though, is open to question. Noone is sure what language he has spoken, or what the general message is... which cures him of talking for the rest of the show.

Palacio Deportes (Palace of Sport) is more affectionately known to Mexicans as Palacio Rebotes (Palace of Bounce) in reference to the sound dynamics and yes, the beginning of Jenny Was A Friend of Mine is unrecognisable. The tambourine in Indie Rock And Roll is absent.

WHO CARES????? This is the best show EVER!!!!

The difficulty is jumping up and down in the seated section without falling down the crack behind the chair in front. The Tall Guy secures a deal with that chair's occupant that I can use it to put one of my feet, despite the fact that my beer doesn't always stay in its cup.

But for serious jumping, I just steady myself using The Tall Guy's shoulder.

I can see the profile of a guy three rows in front, who is also singing to many of the words. I love watching Spanish speakers singing in English, because the words don't always match. And both of us do that thing where, if you don't know the words, you just move your mouth in a generic fashion.

My neighbours are screaming something that sounds like 'a-wim-ba-way' - are they requesting the jungle song?

The Tall Guy explains that they're actually screaming 'Oevo-wey' which he loosely translates to 'Fuck Yeah'.

My job of explaining the title Glamorous Indie Rock'n'Roll is a bit more difficult.

And then, after what seems like five minutes... All These Things That I Have Done is over, and they are leaving the stage.

Inevitably they return, Brandon utters his only other spoken words "This is a Killers goodbye" (for someone who writes such interesting lyrics, he's really not holding up with the light banter), they sing the Exitlude and Dave the Drummer throws no less than 10 drumsticks into the audience. One of them, he throws so far I suspect he might have a career in javalin after music, if he's not too busy fighting a civil action for personal injury arising from a high-velocity drumstick incident, December 13 Mexico City.

Then, the lights are on and I find myself kissing the hostile/shy girl goodbye, hugging The Tall Guy, and being swept by a sea of singing Mexicans out onto the street.

"I've got this energy beneath my feet - like something underground's gonna come up and carry me."

The Killers, Sam's Town

FINDING MY VIRGIN ... (ity)

2006-12-11T18:18:00.000-09:30

I have never reeeally understood the Catholic fascination with Mary. It's kind of like thanking the postie for a gift you got in the mail, rather than the person who sent it.

But nevertheless, this day - the birthday of The Virgin of Guadalupe - is as important to many Catholics here as Navidad. And it is a sight to behold.

The story goes like this: after the conquest, Mexico's indigenous population wasn't taking up Catholocism as quickly as the conquistadores would have hoped (due to that fact that they already had their own religion).

Then, one day in 1531 an indigenous man called Juan Diego was walking along when the virgin appeared to him and told him to take roses to the Bishop. She was 'morena' - brown-skinned - and is thought to be a manifestation of the virgin in the Americas and the indigenous goddess Tonantzin, kind of mixed in together.

Despite roses not being in season he found some (miracle), gathered them in his cloak and took them to the abbey at which point a picture of the Virgin appeared on the cloak. To this day it hangs in the basilica and everyone prays to it.

Thousands of people from all over the country head to the Basilica La Villa for December 12th. I went today because by tomorrow there are too many people to even get near the place. These people have walked the hundreds of kilometres from their towns, or in an interesting twist: ridden their bicycles.

I want to know when the wheel got introduced to religious rituals.. wonderful.

I talked to one man from Guadalajara ... which is 12 hours away by bus. He and 30 of his friends had ridden for four days, resting in the heat of the day and a bit at night. He must have been about 60 and he was a delight, despite the fact that I could only understand about half of what he was saying. He was a 'fast-talker'.

Then, after all that walking or riding, some people do the final hundred metres or so over the stone paving ... on their knees.

There are people in masks dancing, some of them carrying dead weasels (???) and even some people dressed up as clowns. That'd be a tribute to the little-known clown who appeared to Mary while God was talking to Joseph.

It got me thinking, we think Christmas is a marathon effort because of epic journeys to the shopping centre to to battle for carparks before taking on the crowds. Here's it's a three-day walk to line up for hours in order to honour Mary. Kind of the same thing except our deity is capitalism, and here... it's... well, it's the reason for the season.

Did I just use not only an americanism, but a christian americanism??

NEXT OF SKIN...

2006-12-07T17:03:00.000-09:30

Today was weird: in a first since high-school, I 'got in trouble'.

More on that in a moment.

Three times a week I accompany Ara to the profilactis class. As far as I know, profilactis means 'prevention' and frankly, it's a bit late for that. So I just call it 'ante-natal' and roll up for the 2.5 hours Wed, Thurs and Sat.

The woman who takes the class hates me. In return, I have a strong aversion to her and her claims that 'there is no pain in labor, it's all here (pointing to head)'.

Um, what about your pelvis splitting in half to let something akin to a rockmelon through??

She's convinced everyone in the class that epidurals are OUT OF BOUNDS, because everything has to be 'natural'... instead, the whole class is having their babies in water. If you have an epidural, you can't have the skin on skin contact with your child after labor (because they take you away somewhere else to recover from the drugs) and that's a fate worse than death.

But then tonight she informed us the boys should have circumcisions because it's more heigenic and 'bonito' (pretty).

HELLO??? Did someone says "21st century"??

What's 'natural' about slicing half the kid's penis off within hours of his entry into the world? (most of a new-born's appendage is the foreskin) 'Skin on skin' is pretty cold comfort when he's just experienced 'scalpal on foreskin'.

I completely respect the right of parents to let religious texts written in a time when plumbing and soap hadn't been invented over-ride their own rational analysis of the fact that there's a reason for everything in our body (except the spleen.... and maybe earlobes .....oh, and nipples on males - but by Jeez we don't start hacking them off as soon as we're finished with the umbilical chord, do we?) - but for non-practicing people... whaaat?

I had rushed from the gym to ante-natal class without time to eat.. the teacher did relaxation exercises, turned off the lights, put on videos of women giving birth with Coldplay soundtrack including such lyrics as 'Nobody said it was easy, it's such a shame for us to part... let's go back to the start'.

What? - put it back up there?? There's one song that'll never sound quite the same again.

So there we are, sprawled all over the floor on our beanbags and cushions, when (without turning on the lights) she wheels in a doctor who was nice, but completely incomprehensible. It seemed as if he'd taken his hand-writing, and verbalised it.

And somehow it was MY fault that I feel asleep? Apparently, I made HER feel 'fea' (ugly) (there were no mirrors nearby, I checked) for inattention to the doctor.

I wasn't even asleep, I was just listening with my eyes closed.

I would have told her to turn the f&#^ing light on if she wants a conscious audience, but Ara says I lose the power of Spanish when I'm angry.

Below is the photo evidence of an exercise we did so that the 'papas' can 'understand how it feels'.

My immaculate gestation was aided by 5 kilos of rice, which was delivered later that night.

She's right, there's no pain at all. Now I understand.

THE TRIPLE-SIDED COIN

2006-12-06T19:31:00.000-09:30

Today was one of those 'what the f@#* have I done?' days.

Fresh in my mind were email reports from the team of Friday afternoon Bollinger and glowing reviews of my old show (you know, Michelle Crowther's conversation hour... .with Richard Fidler) from the nation's movers and shakers... upcoming work trips to Sydney.

At this end I have a limited social life and fast-dwindling resources... and have just discovered the difference between speaking Spanish, and speaking Spanish.

Well, I guess going from communicating for a living, to just living ..for.. to.. comunicate (gracelessly, with little brainpower left for anything else) was always going to be... um, depressing.

Parties, that's the kicker. When everyone standing around you is laughing at a joke you didn't even know had been made... what with the background noise, music.. slang. Do you know that not having access to everything you want to say completely changes your personality? I notice people really en-unc-iat-ing and then looking over my shoulder. Awful.

Went to a party at 2am the other night, wall-to-wall with Mexico's beautiful, TALL men. I have been wondering where they were. Virtually no women. Sounds like a dream, hey?

Gay, all of them. Gay and straight don't seem to mix here, I think it's a macho thing.

Anyone who wanted to write a thesis suggesting gay is actually a higher level of human evolution would be best off coming here (if the premise was that higher evolution is measured by beauty, income, habitation and dress sense).

I was sniffed out by the only straight man in the place, turns out his presence was only due to the perils of party-crashing... he'd bluffed his way though the security doors and was nose-to-shoulder with the Latino love gods before he realised.

So he grabbed one of the only three women there. Needless to say, I'm flattered.

We went dancing at midnight a few days later, but Ara says I can never go out with him again because he didn't pay the whole bill. It seems that that's the upside of living in a macho culture - if a guy wants to do you, he has to buy the food/drinks. I am not sure whether to operate within the laws of the country of habitation... or capitalise on the gains made by feminism and assert my right to go broke even more quickly.

I am starting to wonder about Ara's bill-paying theory though, because I have a hundred percent hit-rate of men-who-split-the-bill. Two out of two is bad, thankyou Meatloaf.

As for where the beautiful men are the rest of the time... they seem to be at the gym (which I have joined)(no causal link). The gym doctor - that's right, you read correctly, we're talking about the sort of gym fees that could fund your child's education - has informed me I have to lose 3.6 kilos in order to be 'perfecto'. I didn't have the heart to tell him it'd all come off my 'boobies' and not my 'cadera'... and therefore 'perfecto' would just be 'pera' (pear-shaped)

So, it looks like at the end of this whole saga I may just end up skinny (gym + no money to buy food - social life, drinking etc) and bi-lingual.

ps. given that Britney Spears is the most searched person on the internet, if I put the words 'Britney Spears' and 'Vagina' in my blog... does that make it more accessible in google? Ssomething about the more hits/keywords... it's a complex algorithm I don't have time to explain - as I would have to google it first, in order to do so.

GOAL!!! ... CHAVEZ

2006-12-04T20:27:00.000-09:30

Last night was the football semi-final.

Mexican war-cries:
Chivas.. Chivas (Team name translation: goats, sorry .. .rams)
It's a sentiment I can't deny
It's a drug I don't want to quit.

Which boy band wrote the lyrics, that's what I want to know.
They don't rhyme because it's a translation... and I suspect I cut and pasted between different songs.

Me, and 120 thousand fans. Given that they've banned the Mexican wave in Australia... any behaviour more enthusiastic than that of cadavas was going to be exciting, but yes! what a great bunch of fanatics.

This game was a big deal, but even for a 120 thousand people who spent days lining up for tickets... noone could muster one lousy goal. That's why we love Aussie Rules, because the score is always in the hundreds. Maybe I exaggerate.

I was wondering why I had the urge to cheer for the other team... I mean, they were all tiny specks on the horizon so what difference did it make. But for some reason every time I saw a yellow jersey, I wanted to scream encouraging words. Only halfway though the game did I realise the subconscious link between YELLOW and MY BRAIN.

MY COUNTRY. Green and GOLD aka YELLOW.

Came home after a few festive cervezas to find an email from the International desk asking me to file on Chavez victory in Venezuela. Good old Hugo, threw in a few Bush 'devil' references for colour in his victory speech.

At least someone scored...

Chavez... Chavez...
It's a sentiment I can't ...

A WHOLE NEW MEANING TO 'SWEARING IN'

2006-12-01T20:56:00.000-09:30

Came home from travelling to find the Mexican Parliament in chaos... lawmakers being taken to hospital after beating the shit out of each other.

Watching Calderon try to take the Presidency was like a sporting match, only with chairs instead of balls.

The midnight ceremony featured such highlights as outgoing President Fox dropping the ceremonial flag and tapping the microphone several times to test it, as though he were in a karaoke bar.

Calderon comes up to Fox's waist, and one of Fox's hands could crush Calderon's head... so all round it was like watching 'Twins'. I'm pretty sure Swarzenegger was actually there for the 9.30am formalities, but none of the visiting dignatories had time to take a seat before the 40 second ceremony was finished.

The swearing in was over before you could say "Who the f@#* threw that chair?"

BRANDON'S TOWN

2006-11-15T15:54:00.000-09:30

This is a city of 20 million very small people.

I am really looking forward to the next time a mega-band tours here and I'll finally know what it's like to be the tall bastard who's got a perfect view of everything.

So, on this basis alone you can imagine my ecstasy on discovering The Killers are touring HERE. Add to that, they're my favourite band and it's almost enough to make up for missing U2
(now known as U-2-faced-arseholes-who-postponed-your-concert-to-a-date-that-I-
wouldn't-be-in-the-country)
Jumped straight on the internet to get a ticket, and what do you know - they'd sold out yesterday. I mean, I know they shot a video clip here.. but Mexico is KEEN.

Since then, I've been doing everything in my power to get an interview with Brandon Flowers.. .(and thus a ticket) hindered only slightly by the fact that he appears to only do interviews with The Guardian, The Times and ... well, that's about it.

In an effort to maintain morale, my 'background research' (for the interview) has turned up the following facts:

- he's not gay

- he's married

- his bride's maiden name was 'Munblowsky'.. (hence the rush to get hitched?)

- he's a Mormon (hence the rush to get hitched?)

- interviewers don't seem to like him (maybe it's not sooo bad to miss out on an interview...?)

- he thinks he can tell 'good girls' from 'bad girls' on sight, thanks to his hoards of older sisters and the fact he's lived in Vegas for years... and upbringing.

Sorry Brandon, trying to put girls in 'good' and 'bad' is like trying to put paint colours in black and white.

A man who doesn't realise that bad girls are just good girls wounded is a clueless man indeed. No wonder he married his highschool sweetheart, a retail manager who's studying to be a primary school teacher. If anything screams cliched 'good', it's that. Despite her maiden name.

Miss Munblowsky becomes Mrs Brightside.

And speaking of which, a man who still ascribes to a faith that disowns him for the odd cigarette and beer is a self-tortured man indeed.

Is Mr Brightside actually Mr Darkside?

MACHO MEETS MAN-LOVE

2006-11-09T13:12:00.000-09:30

Today, Mexico legalised gay unions.

Interestingly, the Spanish word for law is pronounced 'lay'... so everyone's going around talking about the 'gay lay'.

I hightailed it down to the Legislative Assembly for a little journalistic action, and found lots of people wearing all white (the ones who think that have a patent on purity..)

Interestingly one of them was a 65 year old man who 'helped' me with interview talent by continually grabbing my arm and pulling me in so that my body was touching his. Really, I felt like telling him to take his white shirt, pants and shoes... and bugger off. A bit of consensual man-on-man's not ok, but molesting someone young enough to be your daughter is??

In the gay camp there were lots of people wearing all the colours of the rainbow.
To add a latino festive touch, they had a Latin rock band and everyone was dancing.

All the anti-gay 'no we're not against them having rights, we just don't want them to have... rights' people had placards, and their feet firmly on the ground.

This guy was my favourite. I interviewed him for the gay side (before he put the outfit on), and he said 'I look at some of the people protesting against us and I think, 'You look more gay than me.'

Hmmmm.

DAY OF THE DEAD

2006-11-03T15:43:00.000-09:30

Quite fitting really, as I felt like one of them for much of it. I tried all the food at the street stalls and I think it was the deep fried chorizo bread with lettuce and cheese that got me.

Ara and Yvonne kept saying 'mmmm rico'... but I couldn't get past the fact that I was eating a bread roll of solid oil.

The Day of the Dead is amazing. It's like the most enormous carnival you can imagine. Mexicans believe that this is the day that their dead relatives are given permission to come and be with them. They put out offerings for them: their favourite food, drinks (there was a lot of tequila), cigarettes... everything that the spirit's senses couldn't normally appreciate. Music, incense... and tastes.

The cemeteries are a spectacle. Every grave is completely covered in the most equisite flowers and the family just sits there all day communing with the dead person.

Although, I have to say, they got a bit overboard with the incense. It's not sticks, it's big blocks of the stuff and when I say it's like being in the middle of a very aromatic bushfire, I mean it. I am really surprised some people aren't hospitalised with smoke inhalation.

Anyway, by the end of it I had a raging headache what with getting to bed at 6am the night before, eating the dodgy chorizo bread and inhaling all that smoke.

It was a fairly charming gridlock on the way out ... driving past cars full of people wearing full halloween costumes. I'm talking wolf heads and skeletons, entire face masks.

The kids in one town added a whole new meaning to trick or treat when they put a piece of string across a two-lane carriageway and trotted up to all the cars asking for lollies.

My most enduring memory, though, is an old woman sitting in candlelight beside a grave, alone. I guess it was her husband's. I started to wonder what she thinks about all day, does she reminisce about their years, does she talk to him in her head?

It's not a sad time. This is festive, there are people dancing.. eating together, bands playing. Men having competitions of who can electric shock themselves with the highest voltage.. that sort of thing.

That's what sets Mexico apart from us on death. We don't think about death, when people die, most of us don't talk to them, or share food with them. But here, it's like the line between before and after is not nearly so hard.. or so hard to cross. Call is superstition, or call it peace... whatever it is, it's a sight to behold.

HALLO-WEEN

2006-11-02T14:19:00.000-09:30

...was fun.

One thing I don't understand is the police here. We must have passed about 40 cars on the way and they have always got their lights on, without actually doing anything. In Australia police put their lights on to pull people over for such offences as talking on the phone, not having current registration stickers, driving too slowly, driving too quickly, and sometimes just for driving.

Here, I have seen police put their lights on to stop for chats, stop for Macdonalds... and simply to cruise the streets.

On the way though, we did drive past about 50 police officers doing a raid on a very large truck. They all had their lights on too.

We ended up at a bar somewhere in this huge city, which was a hole in the corrugated iron wall... that you (I) had to stoop to walk though. It was full of young, hip things and smoke. In fact, someone let off some contraption containing a foul-smelling choking agent which, from what I can gather, was supposed to be a joke. That was when I realised we were in a fire trap... imagine trying to get out when someone's costume caught on fire.

The greatest thing about this bar:

- you could bring your own (dirt cheap) alcohol in

- you could take your shoes off

- none of the men had a problem with dressing up or dancing

- everyone sang along (heartily) to the music

The strangest sight was this caveman in the full-getup - long wig, longer beard, animal skin, animal skin shoes, lance.. .and a paper-machete animal with its head cut off - standing with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, looking at his watch.

So at the end of the night, everyone piles out of the bar rolling drunk and jumps behind the wheel. The poor little fellow in the afro and aviators (not sure what he was dressed as) could hardly keep his head up.

I was getting a lift with Rambo (who I had actually greeted with, 'Oh, what made you want to come as Che Guevara?' woops.. ) who was cruising past police cars with Michael Jackson - Thriller and Billy Jean - at full blast, pointing out all the other drunk drivers. It was magic.

Off in the distance we could see the little afro fellow in his bright yellow VB beatle, running red lights and swerving around.

Still, made it home ok and woke up with the dirtiest feet. Going to Mixque for Day of the Dead celebrations tonight.

DISCO DIVA, CAVEMAN .. AND RAMBO

2006-11-02T13:19:00.000-09:30

... see what I mean about 'Che?...

A TRIP TO THE PAPELERIA

2006-11-01T15:21:00.000-09:30

Halloween tonight.

I went to go and buy crepe paper for Ara. She's going as an angel, but I suspect that she's going to look more like a meringue with wings, given that she's wrapping her eight months of pregnancy in crepe paper.

They still have proper shops here, not chains. Separate shops for paper, bread, electrical items, meat, fruit.

After buying three rolls from 'Claudia' at the papeleria we got talking and she took me to her brother's garage to show me their Day of the Dead shrine. Probleme is she left me out the front so she could run back to the shop, which she had left unattended. I stumbled in to the office and explained to three stunned men that I was there to see their offerings. They had no problem with that.

There's fruit in baskets and little sugar skulls and the whole wall is covered in pictures of smiling skeletons and Jesus on the Cross with another man photoshopped in beside him, and angels.

I found it kind of comical until I went back to chat to her about it.

The shrine is to their other brother. Three years ago, at 9.30am he was taking cash from the business across the road to buy something, and someone shot him in the chest for it.

They all dream about him on the Day of the Dead.

The thing I like about Mexicans is that they know how to tell their stories, and cry ... and feel. Australians never tell visitors to their shop how their brother died in the street one day.

Then I came home and the neighbours fixed my fuse box, which blew this morning. Looked kind of harrowing to me, none of the cut and dried flicking of switches. There were battery-type things and wires and levers and little things that spin around.

Anyway, I'm going to the fiesta as the witch in Snow White.. whoever the hell she was.

WHEN TIME MARCHES FASTER

2006-10-31T09:44:00.000-09:30

Last time I saw Fidel Castro was a couple of years ago in an Oliver Stone documentary. He was marching around his office to show us how fit and virile he kept himself. He did about a hundred laps a day and I couldn't help but notice he was wearing Nikes, the pinup brand for capitalism via exploitation of the weak. Very strange, considering what he stands for (but not, as the case may be, in)

Well, no matter how good the office-marching regime was, time got Fidel. After being sidelined for months with major health problems, he's released pictures to the world to reassure us all that he's just fine thankyou very much.

Why didn't someone tell Fidel that the film of him walking and talking looks more like Weekend At Bernie's III. Right down to his outfit and movements.

The pictures made me sad. They made me wonder what makes someone so desperate to hold onto his job, his place in the world, his life, that he is in complete denial of the fact that he is not okay.

That's the thing about Cuba: time. You can walk down streets frozen in time, the cars, the buildings, the music. The people move through their life cycles on those streets, between those walls, and the scene stays the same.

But no matter how long Fidel Castro has managed to stop the clock in Cuba, it's a battle that not even he can win. Time will always be the victor.

The cars have stopped starting, the buildings have long since started crumbling.

And Fidel is dying.

WOOPS

2006-10-27T13:21:00.000-09:30

Day 2, The Dip.

Had a bit of a breakdown cooking dinner last night... when I realised this WAS my new home and that my phone wasn´t going to ring and i needed a beer but didn´t have a car to jump into to go and get it and i didn´t know where anything was anyway .. i know one person within thousands of kilometres and that all the knives were blunt and hang on a second, what was wrong with my old life... and now I can´t just walk back into it cause i tied it up in a neat little bow and chucked it out.

then i started crying. messy. plus, the pasta went soft.. what with leaving it on the stove for half an hour.

think i was just exhausted because everything seems fine today after a 12 hour sleep... just realised I need to learn to spend 2 days alone without tiring of my own company.

1ST IMPRESSIONS MEAN... DIFFERING AMOUNTS

2006-10-25T12:55:00.000-09:30

10.30am
I wake after another 12 hours' sleep to the cheesy sounds of Latin pop filtering up from an unidentified location.

The vista from my second~floor window is one of rooftops, not uniform sort you imagine, stretched out as far as the eye can see. It's like a field of metal stakes growing towards the heavens. I've always meant to find out why so many countries are characterised by the metal~sticking~out~of~roof phenomenon. Someone once told me that you don't have to pay the house tax on an unfinished building, but I find it hard to believe that tax law is uniform across Latin America, the Middle East and India.

Having heard MC is the pollution capital of the world, I'd expected dirty air that gives you a choking feeling when you breathe. You know, like in Mumbai where it's packed with moisture and fumes and smells of shit and food and incense... and every breath is like your lungs are eating a meal.

This air is light, bright.. and bears only a faint smell of I'm not sure what.

TOUCHDOWN

2006-10-24T19:30:00.000-09:30

I'M IN MEXICO!!!!

Yes, it's a miracle, as I left the small detail of packing and downloading all my music and photos onto laptop until 10 hours before my 7am departure from home. Hence, no sleep. I've left the place looking like a department store where someone had an epileptic fit.

Having not slept in the 3 days preceding departure, then sleeping for the entire 30 hour journey exluding layovers and meals, I feel a little as though I've been hit by a train... or a bus.. even a taxi. Any vehicle bigger than me really.

I stink. That's a long time without brushing teeth or washing body. Grab my bags and load myself up.. large backpack on back, medium backpack on front, shoulder bag over top, camera bag perched on wheeled suitcase with no centre of gravity, and duty free carry bag in other hand.

Somehow I squeeze all of us into the bathroom to clean my teeth.

I clear customs |again| and burst through the gates as quickly as anyone carring 6 bags can burst, eyes tuned for Ara... eyes gradually becoming accustomed to hundreds of unfamiliar faces none of which belong to her.

Hmmm. I have her phone number. I go to the cash machine, build a pyramid of my various bags, take money out, dismantle pyramid, load myself back up again. Refuse offer from kind man to use his mobile phone, go to convenience store for phonecard, put down bags, take out wallet, pick up bags, go to phone etc etc.

Thing is, the card doesn't work. I seek verification from various innocent bystanders and they all agree.

I accept another man's kind offer to use his phone. Still no action.

Go and buy an iced mocha and end up with a cupful of chilled cream. Go back to phone. Spill chilled cream all over bags in attempt to dial number.

Get someone else to dial for me.

She answers. Turns out I'd forgotten to send her the flight number and she was waiting at the other gate.

We exchange rapidfire conversation all the way to the apartment, and finally I'm 'home'.