In 2005, an explosion in a group of abandoned buildings near the rubbish dump in Guatemala City unearthed a cavern of decaying files, the existence of which had until that point been denied, and each one a record of police activity and brutality during the 36 year civil war.
The Guatemalan National Police Archive is the largest single cache of documents that has been made available to human rights investigators in history, holding answers relating to deaths of the 200,000 people who were killed in the conflict, and offering hope of closure to families of over 400,000 people who were ''disappeared''.
Located in Zona 6 of the Capital, the entrance to the achives are unprepossessing to say the least. Abandoned cars and overgrown scrub land border a weather beaten cement courtyard, around which a collection of squat low ceiling-ed rooms harbour one of the most important discoveries to be made in Guatemala's recent past.
These records potentially incriminate a large number of powerful people, which makes being an employee here a pretty sketchy business. Indeed, just in case the whole thing wasn't quite Mission Impossible enough already, the consensus seems to be that, after the election next year, the new government will destroy these records.
The staff are careful to keep their faces covered as they work busily within this warren of cool tunnels and muffled sound. Each of them wear a synthetic mask which serves to protect them from inhaling the contaminated dust produced by stages of advanced decay and, perhaps more importantly, allowing them to maintain a level of anonymity. Many of them said that they didn't't even tell people outside of their close family that they were working on this project.
After 45 minutes or so of wandering through the halls, I became increasingly claustrophobic. Box upon box upon file upon file upon photos upon more boxes; scanners, photocopiers, a somewhat random and of a topless lady stapled to the wall; room after room of more people methodically dusting down sheets of long forgotten paperwork, each one with the potential to disclose yet another atrocity, yet another person who one day just stopped existing.
Many of the cardboard crates had doodles on the front, or even on the identification papers themselves within them: the date '1976', for example, surrounded by a crudely drawn pencil sketch of cartoon house, or a bird in flight, presumably penned by the same hand who had so carefully written down, on that same piece of paper, the nature by which they had disposed of a human life.
So what happens now? Could the discovery of the archives herald the beginning of a healing process, of cathartic communal grieving, of closure...? I don't know. I sincerely hope so. I am not wholey optimistic, however. The journalist who introduced us to the work happening at the project also seemed reserved on this topic. The political sitation here is far from stable, and it seems like only a matter of time before the lid is once against closed on this chamber of forgotten secrets and it becomes a tomb once again.
Standing outside, watching the wind silently flaking paint from the frame of an abandoned bicycle lying in the cracked dirt, surrounded by blank and faceless windows, it was almost as if I could hear the ghosts of the past whispering in the late afternoon breeze.
Wednesday 1 December 2010
Monday 22 November 2010
Clifford the Dog
''Ok, so I want you to shut your eyes and imagine something. I want you to imagine your future, I want you to dream of where you would like to be one day, and what you would like to be doing. When you are ready, open your eyes and draw. Draw that place, that time, that dream....''
So, when I am subsequently faced with fifteen pictures of Clifford the Dog, I am semi-disappointed. Fifteen pictures of Clifford the sodding dog. I asked for hopes, dreams and aspirations but what I actually got was a giant red canine. Multiple copies thereof. Oh, and sketches of cartoon students wearing graduation outfits.
Funnily enough, illustrations of both Clifford the Dog, and the wide-eyed animated alumnus can be found on the walls of Salon 3 . It seems that, if there is something within a 10 foot radius which can be replicated by my students in favour of using their respective noggins, they will almost invariably opt to copy. And by 'almost' invariably, I mean, invariably.
A similar thing happened last week, when a perfectly intelligent and talented friend of mine was absolutely taken aback when his planned lesson - a university style seminar type shebang, where we would all talk openly about our feelings in relation to music, probably, according to his rather unrealistic imagination, sipping tea with our shoes and socks off - bombed:
''What do people think of XXX song? [silence] Has anyone ever written a song? [silence] What is your favourite musician? [silence]". This cycle of questioning and aggressive non-answering went on for a period of time before the whole thing was finally aborted in favour of fashioning maracas out of plastic cups.
From these examples, can we then safely that the kids at the project are devoid of taste and opinion? That they don't have ideas? That they lack creativity? Hm...It seems more likely that they don't the confidence to voice their thoughts in an open forum, or to say 'this is what I think, this is what I like'. I have found that you almost have to trick them into it expressing themselves, disguising choices and thinking activities as instructions and formal lessons, it is then you uncover a wealth of imagination and talent. It's all there.
And that's when that old chestnut, cultural context, becomes absolutely relevant.
Just one contributing factor must be that the traditional educational framework here in Guate is based on a system of rote learning and regurgitating information. It is categorically not based on giving the students the tools with which to think for themselves (unless you consider printing 27 pages on the origin of football according to Wikipedia to be a useful activity for the children of the Basurero community).
This country is also only recently emerging from a period of extremely violent and oppressive conflict, where to know anything, to have information about something or someone was extremely dangerous. Although most of the kids in Guatemala are too young to have been directly personally affected by the war, this sense of fear and mistrust is deeply ingrained in the community psyche, fed by ongoing violence and gang activity. And the problem is especially noticeable with the girls who are struggling to breath in a overtly machismo society.
On that note, I'm off to buy some veggies...
So, when I am subsequently faced with fifteen pictures of Clifford the Dog, I am semi-disappointed. Fifteen pictures of Clifford the sodding dog. I asked for hopes, dreams and aspirations but what I actually got was a giant red canine. Multiple copies thereof. Oh, and sketches of cartoon students wearing graduation outfits.
Funnily enough, illustrations of both Clifford the Dog, and the wide-eyed animated alumnus can be found on the walls of Salon 3 . It seems that, if there is something within a 10 foot radius which can be replicated by my students in favour of using their respective noggins, they will almost invariably opt to copy. And by 'almost' invariably, I mean, invariably.
A similar thing happened last week, when a perfectly intelligent and talented friend of mine was absolutely taken aback when his planned lesson - a university style seminar type shebang, where we would all talk openly about our feelings in relation to music, probably, according to his rather unrealistic imagination, sipping tea with our shoes and socks off - bombed:
''What do people think of XXX song? [silence] Has anyone ever written a song? [silence] What is your favourite musician? [silence]". This cycle of questioning and aggressive non-answering went on for a period of time before the whole thing was finally aborted in favour of fashioning maracas out of plastic cups.
From these examples, can we then safely that the kids at the project are devoid of taste and opinion? That they don't have ideas? That they lack creativity? Hm...It seems more likely that they don't the confidence to voice their thoughts in an open forum, or to say 'this is what I think, this is what I like'. I have found that you almost have to trick them into it expressing themselves, disguising choices and thinking activities as instructions and formal lessons, it is then you uncover a wealth of imagination and talent. It's all there.
And that's when that old chestnut, cultural context, becomes absolutely relevant.
Just one contributing factor must be that the traditional educational framework here in Guate is based on a system of rote learning and regurgitating information. It is categorically not based on giving the students the tools with which to think for themselves (unless you consider printing 27 pages on the origin of football according to Wikipedia to be a useful activity for the children of the Basurero community).
This country is also only recently emerging from a period of extremely violent and oppressive conflict, where to know anything, to have information about something or someone was extremely dangerous. Although most of the kids in Guatemala are too young to have been directly personally affected by the war, this sense of fear and mistrust is deeply ingrained in the community psyche, fed by ongoing violence and gang activity. And the problem is especially noticeable with the girls who are struggling to breath in a overtly machismo society.
On that note, I'm off to buy some veggies...
Thursday 4 November 2010
What are you doing to me Guate?
If you’d have asked me when I first got to Antigua how I felt about Guatemala, I would have told you that I’d found heaven on earth. For the first two months, the sun shone, I learnt the present tense in Spanish and drank Moza on the roof of Cafe Sky. I climbed some volcanoes, swam in some lakes and generally ‘did some good’, volunteering with a local NGO.
But this is exactly it. I anxiously admit to having perhaps romanticized a world about which I have really had very little understanding. After crashing out of the whole new country honeymoon phase thing, the past four or five months have been a process of trying to get my head around the reality of poverty, desperation, and actual stomach-wrenching fear; of quietly reassessing my well-rehearsed arguments relating to ‘the developing world’ and grappling with a creeping resentment and suspicion towards a country which before had been a benign Eden of natural beauty, Mayan textiles and precious cultural difference.
Since I got back from mincing around Mexico and other such exotic locations over the summer, I have once again failed in quite spectacular, although now trademark fashion, to blog. I am perhaps rather predictably going to blame the fact that I have been busy, but it's definitely more to do with not knowing where to start.
I am currently working in a organization based in Zona 3 of Guatemala City, and it's tough... I’m not gonna lie to you, it's tough. And it smells of Methane. All the time. ALL the time.
That's because Camino Seguro, or 'Safe Passage', serves the Basurero community; the people who live and work on the rubbish landfill - the largest in Central America where, for over half a century, over 500 tons of waste has been dumped daily.
Every day, about 650 kids and women attend the project, an educational reinforcement center set up in 1999 in a bid to create opportunity and hope within a desperate area, providing a secure environment for the most at-risk youth and addressing issues such as malnutrition, illiteracy and mental health problems.
There aren’t many days that go past without a shooting/rape/robbery/horrendously terrifying incident in the neighborhood, yet, within the inoffensively pastel tinted walls of the organization, it is possible to forget exactly where the children who attend Camino Seguro are coming from and how old they really are. As inner city kids living in a slum, growing up in a culture of gang violence, they are tough guys and cool dudes, all ‘Que onda voz’ this and ‘hey sexy’ that, giving you enough crap to make you doubt your ability to execute some of the most basic of human functions, let alone someone capable of imparting any sort of usable information to anybody else.
It's only when you see them ambling their way homeward through a post-apocalyptic landscape of grey concrete and carefully sifted garbage, or sitting on the side of the road next a father who has just drowned his second bottle of Quetzaltecca, or a recurring black eye that just refuses to be masked under a layer of crudely applied makeup, that you remember their vulnerability, that you remember the desperate sadness of a youth rudely stolen.
Before I left home, an incredibly wise lady said to me: ''Guatemala: It's wonderful, it's terrible, it will capture you and it will break your heart.''
I had no idea how absolutely and completely this statement would resonate with me. From the climate, to the security issues, to the scenery, to emotions, everything seems to operate more intensely and with greater significance here. I change how I feel about Guatemala on an almost hourly basis. I love this place whilst simultaneously hating it, I want to stick my neck out and scream and stamp my feet, but I also want to shove my head in the sand and admit defeat. I have experienced moments of such intense joy and beauty, brought into relief by a sense of incredible sadness.
Ah Guate, Guate, Guate...Tomorrow is another day.
But this is exactly it. I anxiously admit to having perhaps romanticized a world about which I have really had very little understanding. After crashing out of the whole new country honeymoon phase thing, the past four or five months have been a process of trying to get my head around the reality of poverty, desperation, and actual stomach-wrenching fear; of quietly reassessing my well-rehearsed arguments relating to ‘the developing world’ and grappling with a creeping resentment and suspicion towards a country which before had been a benign Eden of natural beauty, Mayan textiles and precious cultural difference.
Since I got back from mincing around Mexico and other such exotic locations over the summer, I have once again failed in quite spectacular, although now trademark fashion, to blog. I am perhaps rather predictably going to blame the fact that I have been busy, but it's definitely more to do with not knowing where to start.
I am currently working in a organization based in Zona 3 of Guatemala City, and it's tough... I’m not gonna lie to you, it's tough. And it smells of Methane. All the time. ALL the time.
That's because Camino Seguro, or 'Safe Passage', serves the Basurero community; the people who live and work on the rubbish landfill - the largest in Central America where, for over half a century, over 500 tons of waste has been dumped daily.
Every day, about 650 kids and women attend the project, an educational reinforcement center set up in 1999 in a bid to create opportunity and hope within a desperate area, providing a secure environment for the most at-risk youth and addressing issues such as malnutrition, illiteracy and mental health problems.
There aren’t many days that go past without a shooting/rape/robbery/horrendously terrifying incident in the neighborhood, yet, within the inoffensively pastel tinted walls of the organization, it is possible to forget exactly where the children who attend Camino Seguro are coming from and how old they really are. As inner city kids living in a slum, growing up in a culture of gang violence, they are tough guys and cool dudes, all ‘Que onda voz’ this and ‘hey sexy’ that, giving you enough crap to make you doubt your ability to execute some of the most basic of human functions, let alone someone capable of imparting any sort of usable information to anybody else.
It's only when you see them ambling their way homeward through a post-apocalyptic landscape of grey concrete and carefully sifted garbage, or sitting on the side of the road next a father who has just drowned his second bottle of Quetzaltecca, or a recurring black eye that just refuses to be masked under a layer of crudely applied makeup, that you remember their vulnerability, that you remember the desperate sadness of a youth rudely stolen.
Before I left home, an incredibly wise lady said to me: ''Guatemala: It's wonderful, it's terrible, it will capture you and it will break your heart.''
I had no idea how absolutely and completely this statement would resonate with me. From the climate, to the security issues, to the scenery, to emotions, everything seems to operate more intensely and with greater significance here. I change how I feel about Guatemala on an almost hourly basis. I love this place whilst simultaneously hating it, I want to stick my neck out and scream and stamp my feet, but I also want to shove my head in the sand and admit defeat. I have experienced moments of such intense joy and beauty, brought into relief by a sense of incredible sadness.
Ah Guate, Guate, Guate...Tomorrow is another day.
Monday 26 July 2010
Rio Dulce and the Finca (awesome name for a childrens book!)
I've gone rather off-piste and, having survived a night in the delightful Hotel Lee, a night spent firmly clutching a can of pepper spray to my sweaty bossom, I have made it to Finca Tartin at the mouth of the River Dulce, Guatemala. You can only reach this place by boat, which, having arrived I find out actually comes pretty much direct from Puerto Barrios. Nice Hannah, nice. I could have skipped out this morning's 3 hour journey, which feeds into my increasing suspicion that I am actually one of the most chaotic people at getting from point A to B, and absolutely consolidates the notion that having a copy of the Lonely Planet, or at least consulting a map once in a while, would be advisable. Having said that, despite additional stress, it means I have been managing to completely avoid tourists when and have found myself quite a few times over the past few days with a huge grin on my face, feeling completely free (semi-scared/petrified at times, sure) but completely free.
There is no electricity in the place, apart from between the hours of 7 - 10pm, and there are bugs here that I'm fairly sure have yet to be documented by science. I've hooked up with a bunch of nine other people and we'll head to Livingstone tomorrow. Then, after much procrastination, many wrong turns and unnecessary meandering, I'll journey forth into Belize and the Cayes.
Oh boy, it's been a hard day canoing down the river, swimming and attempting to open coconuts and I'm knackered. Inappropriate to got to bed at 9.30? I think not. Beunos noches.
Finally managed to leave Utila, only 5 days later than scheduled
One ferry, one bus (collectivo-style), one shuttle, two caminonettas, one border crossing and several painful miles carrying an over sized backpack with a sense of impending dread as night draws in... Who said 'being on the road' wasn't a barrel of laughs?
To be fair, today's epically gaylord adventure (which involved a ridiculous amount of time going precisely nowhere) was preceded by a pretty handy week learning to dive on the island of Utila, just off the coast of Honduras. Somehow, though, it is always easier to talk about things that went wrong as opposed to things that didn't...or maybe that's me being the cynical wench that i am.
Yep, having pontificated on diving as being a thoroughly unnecessary and somewhat terrifying way to spend ones leisure time, ever since doing a 'fun taster session' on holiday a few years back, I just completed my PADI Open Water certificate. Despite the initial pangs of intense fear, compounded by an overwhelming urge to spontaneously throw up into my regulator, punch my instructor and bolt for the surface, I am now looking forward to getting tanked up and back into the sea. The water around Utila is crystal clear and we saw sting rays, approximately 30 bazillion fish, dolphins AND , a whale shark touched my leg (not in a sexy way, as in, it's tail hit me as it swam past).
The Utilan accent is excellent. Every time you think you get what's going on with it, it transforms. The combination of Afro-Caribbean, American and Spanish influences combine to create a malleable and incredibly unique language. When we went to watch Utila play San Pedro Sula, at football, the mixture of dialects was incredible, and massively confusing. One minute, you could have been watching a Celtics game, the next, well...you could have been pretty much in any country in the world - Dick Van Dyke - formerly holding the title for most bizarre accent of all time, 'fankoo Mary 'oppins' - ain't a patch on these people. As an aside, the woman selling the tickets had the must humungous shelf-like breasts I have ever seen. She literally kept all the tickets and change just balancing there, under her chin. Practical I suppose, work with what you have and all that.
I am spending the night at some shifty hotel in Peurto Barrios on the East Coast of Guatemala. First thing tomorrow I'll catch a lancha to Belize for some more sun and sea action. And, fingers crossed, tomorrow's journey will be rather less sketchified than today...however, after an awesomely cheap 15Q supper of frijoles and heuvos over which I chatted to a Honduran family on their way to Mexico - who will be sleeping on the street tonight whilst i complain about my perfectly adequate and secure place to crash, I shouldn't really complain.
Thursday 15 July 2010
On an island in Honduras
Ok, so ain't in Guate no more...and yes, the more astute amongst you - and I use this term figuratively dear reader (probably, if we're honest, my mother) - may have noticed that my last post which was just posted said that I'd be heading east in a couple of weeks. Well, I wrote it and didn't publish it because, as continues to be reinforced, I am actually pretty diabolical when it comes to keeping a blog, i.e. weeks have past, I did go east and now i'm here.
Happy old times! I have a new computer. It's pink and awesome. I fully intend to make full use of it before it inevitably gets stolen again, therefore, expect much in the way of hilarious anecdotes and generally excellent witty banter until then.
Arrived yesterday after a fairly mammoth bus journey from Antigua, including one night in La Ceiba which is, just in case you had it on your list of places to visit, is absolutely not somewhere you want to spend any length of time. Unless you like seeing a lot of people sleeping on cardboard in the street and arguing with taxi men.
Utilla looks pretty handy...staying at a place owned by a gentleman who goes by the name of Rubi. He is probably now one of my most favouritest people ever and has the best/ weirdest accent known to humankind. Tomorrow I'm starting a PADI course, something which is potentially a pretty dreadful idea since the last and only time I have dived I didn't like it. Nevertheless, the water is delish and I can't be on this island and not don a pair of flippers and join the rest of the backpackers on their quest for a whale shark.
Having not been 'on the road' for a while, it's strange to be back amongst the travelling masses. Fun for the most part but, yeah, strange. More on that some other time...oooh, man I'm mysterious, edge of your seat stuff, huh?. This must be like reading an Enid Blyton book, but with less homo-eroticism, and minus Aunt Fanny's home-made lemonade.
Short but sweet, will keep you posted.Or endeavour to, at least...
Happy old times! I have a new computer. It's pink and awesome. I fully intend to make full use of it before it inevitably gets stolen again, therefore, expect much in the way of hilarious anecdotes and generally excellent witty banter until then.
Arrived yesterday after a fairly mammoth bus journey from Antigua, including one night in La Ceiba which is, just in case you had it on your list of places to visit, is absolutely not somewhere you want to spend any length of time. Unless you like seeing a lot of people sleeping on cardboard in the street and arguing with taxi men.
Utilla looks pretty handy...staying at a place owned by a gentleman who goes by the name of Rubi. He is probably now one of my most favouritest people ever and has the best/ weirdest accent known to humankind. Tomorrow I'm starting a PADI course, something which is potentially a pretty dreadful idea since the last and only time I have dived I didn't like it. Nevertheless, the water is delish and I can't be on this island and not don a pair of flippers and join the rest of the backpackers on their quest for a whale shark.
Having not been 'on the road' for a while, it's strange to be back amongst the travelling masses. Fun for the most part but, yeah, strange. More on that some other time...oooh, man I'm mysterious, edge of your seat stuff, huh?. This must be like reading an Enid Blyton book, but with less homo-eroticism, and minus Aunt Fanny's home-made lemonade.
Short but sweet, will keep you posted.Or endeavour to, at least...
Tuesday 6 July 2010
What a month
So, this is one of those times when i'm not going to apologise for not blogging more. I´m just not going to. And, if we´re honest, it´s most likely that nobody noticed I haven´t written anything anyway... (sigh with distant self depricating look).
This month has been nothing if not dramatic, and not always for all the right reasons. Natural disasters, muggings, kidnappings. Oh Guate, sometimes I dispare.
After Hurricane Agatha, things were hairy for a bit. I´m tempted, in fact, to use the expression DARK. Yes, in fact I will. Things were DARK. The clean-up effort has been impressive but, at points, hugely frustrating. For the first week it felt like the hoardes of people who descended on the village of San Miguel Escobar wielding shovels, tins of beans and lashings of good will barely made a dent. Tonnes of stinking gloop covered everything, burying cars, houses and people alike. And, without the help of machinery, I have come to the educated conclusion that mud is pretty hard to shift.
They still dont have the figures for how many people died or are still missing, even in this one village, let alone in the rest of the country, but the statistics kind of fade in importance anway when you're raking through the remains of people's lives as if participating in some viciously warped version of the generation game....a mud stained text book, an abandoned cuddly toy, a half-made loaf of bread which will never be finished...
Rather lower down on the devastation-scale, I was mugged a few weeks back, which was, actually pretty bloody scary though i´d never admit it coz i'm, like, well 'ard. Yes, walking back from my beloved Rainbow, I was accosted by a delighful gentlement who decided it was imperitive that was mine became his, and lickety splick. So, with the aid of a knife and bit of good ol' fashioned brute force, he made away with my computor, cards, money blah blah blah. Awesome. Happy times. It could, however - as people are swift to remind me - have been worse, hence the reason I am now the proud owner of both a taser and pepper spray (thanks to a friend here who, lets just say, it's best not to delve too deeply into his business dealings).
Swings and roundabouts though, eh? Taking a break from Antigua and Guatemala in a few weeks time, bound for Honduras and some sunny seaside action. If, that is, HSBC pull their finger out and decide to provide me with some means of withdrawing cash before 2012 and the impending apocalypse.
This month has been nothing if not dramatic, and not always for all the right reasons. Natural disasters, muggings, kidnappings. Oh Guate, sometimes I dispare.
After Hurricane Agatha, things were hairy for a bit. I´m tempted, in fact, to use the expression DARK. Yes, in fact I will. Things were DARK. The clean-up effort has been impressive but, at points, hugely frustrating. For the first week it felt like the hoardes of people who descended on the village of San Miguel Escobar wielding shovels, tins of beans and lashings of good will barely made a dent. Tonnes of stinking gloop covered everything, burying cars, houses and people alike. And, without the help of machinery, I have come to the educated conclusion that mud is pretty hard to shift.
They still dont have the figures for how many people died or are still missing, even in this one village, let alone in the rest of the country, but the statistics kind of fade in importance anway when you're raking through the remains of people's lives as if participating in some viciously warped version of the generation game....a mud stained text book, an abandoned cuddly toy, a half-made loaf of bread which will never be finished...
Rather lower down on the devastation-scale, I was mugged a few weeks back, which was, actually pretty bloody scary though i´d never admit it coz i'm, like, well 'ard. Yes, walking back from my beloved Rainbow, I was accosted by a delighful gentlement who decided it was imperitive that was mine became his, and lickety splick. So, with the aid of a knife and bit of good ol' fashioned brute force, he made away with my computor, cards, money blah blah blah. Awesome. Happy times. It could, however - as people are swift to remind me - have been worse, hence the reason I am now the proud owner of both a taser and pepper spray (thanks to a friend here who, lets just say, it's best not to delve too deeply into his business dealings).
Swings and roundabouts though, eh? Taking a break from Antigua and Guatemala in a few weeks time, bound for Honduras and some sunny seaside action. If, that is, HSBC pull their finger out and decide to provide me with some means of withdrawing cash before 2012 and the impending apocalypse.
Tuesday 1 June 2010
SOS
Ok, so let's get serious for a moment.
Guatemala is having some problems, and they aren't small...people here need us richy richersons in England to send some dollar. FACT.
I'm posting some pics to give you an idea of what's gwarning so if you fancy playing Bono, drop me an email at hannahwallace.bowman@yahoo.co.uk and I'll tell you where you can direct your funds (and it isn't my bank account, promise).
In a nutshell, the country has been hit by Agatha, a nasty little storm which has caused a lot of mudslides and general nastiness. This is following the eruption of Pacaya which has closed the airport, just to make things that little bit more interesting.
Chances are you won't have read much about it in the news because apparently Central America doesn't exist to the UK and yahoo would rather report which chocolate bars 'Brits prefer', BUT, a lot of people have been killed, or are missing, or have lost their homes.
We've been shovelling crap out of peoples houses, or what's left of them for the last few days and more rain is forecast. People are dying, this is no joke.
If you can help, you're awesome.
xx
Saturday 29 May 2010
Is this sore? And how about here...?
And as I listen to the doctor question my language teacher as to the normality or otherwise of her vaginal discharge, I realise abruptly that my Spanish is improving.
Yes, Gladis today decided that we would visit the doctor together; she needed to go, we had a class, it made sense apparently... The whole thing was, as they say, an experience, and one which she of course found wholly entertaining. Throughout the half an hour appointment - an appointment which I might add was disconcertingly thorough - she continued to chat and explain as I sat there, just sat there, weirdly, nodding at what seemed to be appropriate moments. An excellent use of time should I contract a urinary infection somewhere in the Spanish speaking world. Less good for contracting post-traumatic stress disorder.
Meanwhile, time is starting to do that thing where it is really there anymore...as in, you know it's there, because you eat and it gets dark and light and stuff, but in terms of days of week and months? Forget it. My brain is also starting to do that thing where you look at a price and if it doesn't equate to minus 14 pence you get angry about it. However, when you earn 10 Quetzales an hour (about a pound), every cent is meaningful. Plus, it's all relative innit, if you can get a beer for just over a dollar, why would you pay three? Although I think we may be getting slightly carried away, that place where the beer is three dollars has taken on a seeming unattainability, a majesty and snobbishness...us of the grubby-toes peer in through the brightly lit windows, watching the clean and pretty people drink their three dollar beers before we scuttle away into the darkness and the refuge of, well, probably The Black Cat, a suitably cheep watering hole favoured by poor back-packers. In London, however, if I went out and someone charged me just over a dollar for a beer I'd marry them immediately.
K, it's late and I need to eat...mannnn, if I wasn't so busy I'd be the size of a house by now. These people eat carbs like you wouldn't believe, and having coming from London's PR scene I can assure that the local cuisine is about as opposite to the cigarette and sushi diet favoured by publicists in the city as can be imagined. I'm fairly sure I'm turning in a tortilla. Fact.
Hm, I wish I had a sign off...dammit, if only I'd createdof Gossip Girl...maybe I'll just steal the XOXO...yep, ok, that's lame.
Adios.
Yes, Gladis today decided that we would visit the doctor together; she needed to go, we had a class, it made sense apparently... The whole thing was, as they say, an experience, and one which she of course found wholly entertaining. Throughout the half an hour appointment - an appointment which I might add was disconcertingly thorough - she continued to chat and explain as I sat there, just sat there, weirdly, nodding at what seemed to be appropriate moments. An excellent use of time should I contract a urinary infection somewhere in the Spanish speaking world. Less good for contracting post-traumatic stress disorder.
Meanwhile, time is starting to do that thing where it is really there anymore...as in, you know it's there, because you eat and it gets dark and light and stuff, but in terms of days of week and months? Forget it. My brain is also starting to do that thing where you look at a price and if it doesn't equate to minus 14 pence you get angry about it. However, when you earn 10 Quetzales an hour (about a pound), every cent is meaningful. Plus, it's all relative innit, if you can get a beer for just over a dollar, why would you pay three? Although I think we may be getting slightly carried away, that place where the beer is three dollars has taken on a seeming unattainability, a majesty and snobbishness...us of the grubby-toes peer in through the brightly lit windows, watching the clean and pretty people drink their three dollar beers before we scuttle away into the darkness and the refuge of, well, probably The Black Cat, a suitably cheep watering hole favoured by poor back-packers. In London, however, if I went out and someone charged me just over a dollar for a beer I'd marry them immediately.
K, it's late and I need to eat...mannnn, if I wasn't so busy I'd be the size of a house by now. These people eat carbs like you wouldn't believe, and having coming from London's PR scene I can assure that the local cuisine is about as opposite to the cigarette and sushi diet favoured by publicists in the city as can be imagined. I'm fairly sure I'm turning in a tortilla. Fact.
Hm, I wish I had a sign off...dammit, if only I'd createdof Gossip Girl...maybe I'll just steal the XOXO...yep, ok, that's lame.
Adios.
Friday 23 April 2010
Live from the Rainbow Cafe
Ok, so the idea of a blog is, presumably, that you should update it. This has not been happening. I can only apologise profusely and and attempt to rectify the situation forthwith...
In an ideal world, the time between this and my last post would have seen me carefully jotting down hilarious phrases and witty anecdotes, leaving me now solely with the job of pulling these constituent parts into a satisfactory, neigh glorious, whole.
Unfortunately, such jottings are conspicuously absent, so, absolutely do not expect any concise storytelling as I assure you, dear friend, you will be sorely disappointed. Although, having said that, I could in fact abandon this whole ridiculous blogging business and simply write novel with all the material Gladis, my teacher, has imparted since our fateful meeting. Like, for serious. Everything that could ever have happened to anyone (mainly bad) has happened to her, to one of her friends or to one of her numerous family members. The woman is an accident and tragedy-prone hoot.
Soooo, I've been working with an NGO called Neustros Aejados just outside Antigua for the past few weeks. The organisation incorporates lost of different projects, for example, they run a homeless shelter, a malnutrition clinic for babies, a school, an anti-human trafficking division, a food distribution programme etc etc. There are a few Americans knocking about - god love 'em - but, on the whole, it is run by local Guatemalan people. Actually, quite a few of the staff were people who went to the school as kids and returned, having completed university, to help the system to continue.
I find it a bit difficult to talk about some of this stuff because at times it has affected me in quite a profound way and I'm fearful of sounding like a voyeuristic chump. I have spent quite a lot of time at Casa Jackson - the place for malnourished babies - and out with the social workers who visit the families of the children at the school... I should add that the school is for, quite literally, the poorest people in the community, therefore, in order for things to work, when a child is taken on, the whole family is incorporated, with Neustros Aejados working closely with them to provide support in various forms. I'll go into more detail another time but it's late, I just got back from working in a homeless shelter (Mother Theresa eat your heart out) and I need my bed...In fact, sod it, I'm doing the bullet point thing:
- Electric shocks. Unavoidable. Especially in the shower. Can't remember the last time I had a shower without getting an electric shock. Effing annoying/ potentially life threatening.
- Ladies night in Antigua. To be avoided. At all costs
- Americans abroad to build stoves. See above.
- Hocotees. Would recommend. Little apple pear plum cherry things which taste like, and I suspect actually are, little nuggets of fruit heaven.
- Lago Atitlan. A huge crater lake surrounded by volcanoes. An absolute must-see before you pop your clogs - you cannot beat a Sunday morning swim off a rickety wooden jetty into crystal clear water. Ignore rumours of toxic algae.
- Helmets. Wear one when you ride a dirt-bike into the mountains. Or if you don't, do NOT tell your Mother.
- Earthquakes. A new experience. Not convinced it is an experience one would like to repeat on a grander scale.
- Salsa lessons. First one today. I wish I could say I styled it out, I fear the truth maybe somewhat different.
- Chicken buses. Efficient, cheap and fun but hold onto your bag. A journey aboard one would definitely be aided by having a rudimentary grasp of Spanish i.e. we didn't/ don't so had not a blithering clue what was going on.
- Baby sick. Not cool. 'Nuff said.
This post probably isn't going to be in the running for any sort of literary award, however, given the time of day and my lack of inclination, I would argue it represents a sterling effort.
Adios
In an ideal world, the time between this and my last post would have seen me carefully jotting down hilarious phrases and witty anecdotes, leaving me now solely with the job of pulling these constituent parts into a satisfactory, neigh glorious, whole.
Unfortunately, such jottings are conspicuously absent, so, absolutely do not expect any concise storytelling as I assure you, dear friend, you will be sorely disappointed. Although, having said that, I could in fact abandon this whole ridiculous blogging business and simply write novel with all the material Gladis, my teacher, has imparted since our fateful meeting. Like, for serious. Everything that could ever have happened to anyone (mainly bad) has happened to her, to one of her friends or to one of her numerous family members. The woman is an accident and tragedy-prone hoot.
Soooo, I've been working with an NGO called Neustros Aejados just outside Antigua for the past few weeks. The organisation incorporates lost of different projects, for example, they run a homeless shelter, a malnutrition clinic for babies, a school, an anti-human trafficking division, a food distribution programme etc etc. There are a few Americans knocking about - god love 'em - but, on the whole, it is run by local Guatemalan people. Actually, quite a few of the staff were people who went to the school as kids and returned, having completed university, to help the system to continue.
I find it a bit difficult to talk about some of this stuff because at times it has affected me in quite a profound way and I'm fearful of sounding like a voyeuristic chump. I have spent quite a lot of time at Casa Jackson - the place for malnourished babies - and out with the social workers who visit the families of the children at the school... I should add that the school is for, quite literally, the poorest people in the community, therefore, in order for things to work, when a child is taken on, the whole family is incorporated, with Neustros Aejados working closely with them to provide support in various forms. I'll go into more detail another time but it's late, I just got back from working in a homeless shelter (Mother Theresa eat your heart out) and I need my bed...In fact, sod it, I'm doing the bullet point thing:
- Electric shocks. Unavoidable. Especially in the shower. Can't remember the last time I had a shower without getting an electric shock. Effing annoying/ potentially life threatening.
- Ladies night in Antigua. To be avoided. At all costs
- Americans abroad to build stoves. See above.
- Hocotees. Would recommend. Little apple pear plum cherry things which taste like, and I suspect actually are, little nuggets of fruit heaven.
- Lago Atitlan. A huge crater lake surrounded by volcanoes. An absolute must-see before you pop your clogs - you cannot beat a Sunday morning swim off a rickety wooden jetty into crystal clear water. Ignore rumours of toxic algae.
- Helmets. Wear one when you ride a dirt-bike into the mountains. Or if you don't, do NOT tell your Mother.
- Earthquakes. A new experience. Not convinced it is an experience one would like to repeat on a grander scale.
- Salsa lessons. First one today. I wish I could say I styled it out, I fear the truth maybe somewhat different.
- Chicken buses. Efficient, cheap and fun but hold onto your bag. A journey aboard one would definitely be aided by having a rudimentary grasp of Spanish i.e. we didn't/ don't so had not a blithering clue what was going on.
- Baby sick. Not cool. 'Nuff said.
This post probably isn't going to be in the running for any sort of literary award, however, given the time of day and my lack of inclination, I would argue it represents a sterling effort.
Adios
Friday 9 April 2010
No hablo espanol
So, nearly two weeks has passed since I arrived. That's mental. Ease myself in gently I thought, but then, you know what they say about the best laid plans.
Last Wednesday, I found myself on the side of a volcano; Pacaya was it's name and pretty stunning it was too, especially as it's extremely active. As I stood a comparatively conservative foot away from the river of molten lava, watching a couple of jaunty Antipodeans laughingly lean over to light cigarettes from the face-melting heat, I am fairly sure anyone within a two mile radius who ever vaguely flirted with the notion of Health and Safety regulations must have spontaneously combusted...
Yet, possibly, one of the best things about the whole gloriously terrifying affair was knowing that you'd never be able to do this in Europe or the US where, instead of being left to clamber over this shoe-dissolving moonscape to your heart's content, you'd be locked in a holding pen 14 kilometres away and given a pair of padded binoculars. After, of course, signing numerous forms of varying legibility, legality and small print which would ensure that no one, under any circumstance, could be held liable for any sort of injury or misfortune that may befall you. Ever. Even if they shot you in the face on purpose.
Somewhat different but in other ways similarly alien, this Easter weekend my adopted family quite unexpectedly whisked me off to the home of their eldest son on the Pacific Coast. He lives with the rest of his huge family, AND his wife's huge family, in a half built house near Puerto San Jose. A nice house actually but the money ran out before they could finish it, I never did get to the bottom of why. Quite possibly because 97 percent of the time I have literally no idea what's going on.*
Cor blimey guvnor it was HOT. I mean 40 degrees at nine in the morning hot. As in, self-confessed hypochondriac that I am, I really thought I was going to die during the night. To fend off what I felt to be an impending and unpleasant demise, at two in the morning I abandoned my bed in favour of the sofa which, although not much cooler, was nearer the fridge so I was able intermittently to return to for bags of ice which I could then press onto my face and stomach. This, however, had the unfortunate side-effect of consolidating any suspicions they all might have had that I'm a bit of a strange one.
Despite the somewhat extreme weather conditions and unbelievable number of sodding mosquitoes, who apparently love a bit of pasty English tottie, I was once again pretty overcome by the level of hospitality and welcome I received. An overwhelming few days at times, yes, but jumping onto the back of an open pick-up with approximately 14 smiling family members, feeling the wind in your hair, banana trees and tiendas blurring together at the roadside (from the speed we were travelling at, not the influence of narcotics, don't worry mum), I would defy anyone not to find themselves with a grin of exhilaration on their face. In terms of an 'authentic experience', a phrase favoured by tourist brochures from here to Blighty, you couldn't ask for much more.
This whole traveller 'embracing the new and exciting maaann' shebang was brought into sharp contrast by a drink I had with a scintillating chap in Riki's bar, however. This character - let's call him Tristan (as that was his name) - declared, moments after we met, that he 'couldn't be bothered with any of this carrying around pretend dead people bollocks' for Antigua's Holy Week. Indeed, according to him and his fascinating perspective on life in general, people here are 'weird' and waste money on a load of crap that doesn't mean anything or serve any sort of purpose. Why then, I asked with interest, was he in Guatemala for one of the most famously religious events in the world? Turns out that this delightful bloke (massive tool) was in Guatemala to act as a guinea pig for a medical test. Whilst he got to stay in 4 star hotel and have his holiday paid for, he was also being used as a subject upon which to experiment a new drug. Hm, what a legend, we'll definitely be keeping in touch.
*case in point: when I thought we were going to buy fish we actually pulled up at a hospital where I was presented with a newborn baby.
Last Wednesday, I found myself on the side of a volcano; Pacaya was it's name and pretty stunning it was too, especially as it's extremely active. As I stood a comparatively conservative foot away from the river of molten lava, watching a couple of jaunty Antipodeans laughingly lean over to light cigarettes from the face-melting heat, I am fairly sure anyone within a two mile radius who ever vaguely flirted with the notion of Health and Safety regulations must have spontaneously combusted...
Yet, possibly, one of the best things about the whole gloriously terrifying affair was knowing that you'd never be able to do this in Europe or the US where, instead of being left to clamber over this shoe-dissolving moonscape to your heart's content, you'd be locked in a holding pen 14 kilometres away and given a pair of padded binoculars. After, of course, signing numerous forms of varying legibility, legality and small print which would ensure that no one, under any circumstance, could be held liable for any sort of injury or misfortune that may befall you. Ever. Even if they shot you in the face on purpose.
Somewhat different but in other ways similarly alien, this Easter weekend my adopted family quite unexpectedly whisked me off to the home of their eldest son on the Pacific Coast. He lives with the rest of his huge family, AND his wife's huge family, in a half built house near Puerto San Jose. A nice house actually but the money ran out before they could finish it, I never did get to the bottom of why. Quite possibly because 97 percent of the time I have literally no idea what's going on.*
Cor blimey guvnor it was HOT. I mean 40 degrees at nine in the morning hot. As in, self-confessed hypochondriac that I am, I really thought I was going to die during the night. To fend off what I felt to be an impending and unpleasant demise, at two in the morning I abandoned my bed in favour of the sofa which, although not much cooler, was nearer the fridge so I was able intermittently to return to for bags of ice which I could then press onto my face and stomach. This, however, had the unfortunate side-effect of consolidating any suspicions they all might have had that I'm a bit of a strange one.
Despite the somewhat extreme weather conditions and unbelievable number of sodding mosquitoes, who apparently love a bit of pasty English tottie, I was once again pretty overcome by the level of hospitality and welcome I received. An overwhelming few days at times, yes, but jumping onto the back of an open pick-up with approximately 14 smiling family members, feeling the wind in your hair, banana trees and tiendas blurring together at the roadside (from the speed we were travelling at, not the influence of narcotics, don't worry mum), I would defy anyone not to find themselves with a grin of exhilaration on their face. In terms of an 'authentic experience', a phrase favoured by tourist brochures from here to Blighty, you couldn't ask for much more.
This whole traveller 'embracing the new and exciting maaann' shebang was brought into sharp contrast by a drink I had with a scintillating chap in Riki's bar, however. This character - let's call him Tristan (as that was his name) - declared, moments after we met, that he 'couldn't be bothered with any of this carrying around pretend dead people bollocks' for Antigua's Holy Week. Indeed, according to him and his fascinating perspective on life in general, people here are 'weird' and waste money on a load of crap that doesn't mean anything or serve any sort of purpose. Why then, I asked with interest, was he in Guatemala for one of the most famously religious events in the world? Turns out that this delightful bloke (massive tool) was in Guatemala to act as a guinea pig for a medical test. Whilst he got to stay in 4 star hotel and have his holiday paid for, he was also being used as a subject upon which to experiment a new drug. Hm, what a legend, we'll definitely be keeping in touch.
*case in point: when I thought we were going to buy fish we actually pulled up at a hospital where I was presented with a newborn baby.
Tuesday 30 March 2010
Life without spell check
My first family - and the one to which I was initially designated - did not open the door. Despite muchos muchos knocking, Casa de Consuelo was well and truly closed to any business of the Wallace Bowman variety. After a twenty odd hour journey and suffering the after-effects of having consumed a rather large quanity of tranquiliser, this turn of events failed to amuse me quite as much as it perhaps should of done. It is also at this point that I was rapidly, and not a little concernedly, arriving at the conclusion that I could not/cannot speak or understand ANY Spanish at all. Hmm....
Following a few hastily made phonecalls in Espanol - not by me, obviously but my trusty driver Byron (?) - an alternative arrangement was reached and off we set to the second option, the house of Senor Elder and his family.
Senor is a LEGEND. Plainly and simply. There will be more about him later I'm sure but, in a nutshell, he is patient with my blank stares and requests for new ligth bulbs, and he doesn't laugh when I say penis instead of chicken (which, by the way, is easily done).
So, I'm here, in Antigua, Guatemala. Surrounded by volcanoes and comprising a criss cross of cobbled streets, brightly coloured colonial style houses and an unfeasible number of cafes, it truly is a beautiful town.
This week is Holy Week or Semana Santa, something I found out after getting trapped between an 10ft Jesus, a BBQ and many many many people wearing purple outside one the main churches. I took approximately 40.5 billion photos of the fiesta, which included the streets embroided with flowers and mosaics of dyed sawdust which were incredible, trust me, and I'll upload them as it was a spectacle which will surely pale in the telling. Please note, this picture uploading business may take some time, however, as my camera charger is currently on a little journey of it's own, all the way from West End Lane to Avenida Sur, coz I forgot it.
Although I am fairly sure my Spanish teacher 'Gladis', to whom I was introduced this morning, thinks i'm a bit of a tit - a suspicion which was rapidly consolidated by the fact that she spent most of our lesson texting - I definitely feel I am going to really like it here...
Following a few hastily made phonecalls in Espanol - not by me, obviously but my trusty driver Byron (?) - an alternative arrangement was reached and off we set to the second option, the house of Senor Elder and his family.
Senor is a LEGEND. Plainly and simply. There will be more about him later I'm sure but, in a nutshell, he is patient with my blank stares and requests for new ligth bulbs, and he doesn't laugh when I say penis instead of chicken (which, by the way, is easily done).
So, I'm here, in Antigua, Guatemala. Surrounded by volcanoes and comprising a criss cross of cobbled streets, brightly coloured colonial style houses and an unfeasible number of cafes, it truly is a beautiful town.
This week is Holy Week or Semana Santa, something I found out after getting trapped between an 10ft Jesus, a BBQ and many many many people wearing purple outside one the main churches. I took approximately 40.5 billion photos of the fiesta, which included the streets embroided with flowers and mosaics of dyed sawdust which were incredible, trust me, and I'll upload them as it was a spectacle which will surely pale in the telling. Please note, this picture uploading business may take some time, however, as my camera charger is currently on a little journey of it's own, all the way from West End Lane to Avenida Sur, coz I forgot it.
Although I am fairly sure my Spanish teacher 'Gladis', to whom I was introduced this morning, thinks i'm a bit of a tit - a suspicion which was rapidly consolidated by the fact that she spent most of our lesson texting - I definitely feel I am going to really like it here...
God, I love flying
Taking my seat aboard flight CO5 to Houston, following the ingestion of 7 mgs (and rising) of Diazapam, and a ruckus with a repulsive little man regarding my lack of an ESTA - something which is, apparently, compulsory for anyone entering the US but knowledge of which has completely bypassed my awareness and, I am fairly sure, was not mentioned at any point during the process of my booking this trip - I am uplifted, albeit momentarily, by the caption on the front of the in-flight magazine which tells me the exciting news that 'Robert Pattinson refused to wax his eyebrows for New Moon'. This could only mean one thing... I would be able to follow the romantic escapades of Bella, Edward and Jacob as I soared above the Atlantic, making the whole experience far more bearable. I could even watch it more than once.
But, would you believe it, the one channel that isn't working on the sodding entertainment system is the one designated to show Twilight? The ONE channel.
Are you frikkin joking me.
Instead, alas, I am forced to alternate between watching re-runs of House and peering intently at the route tracking system, monitoring the ground speed, altitude, outside air temperature and estimated arrival time for any anomolies to which I must immediately alert the crew*.
Goodbyes are never fun and, I am not ashamed to say, they are something I fail to pull off with any level of finesse. Snot ridden and with enough make-up smeared across my face to make even the most weathered of Avon ladies blush, rivulets of congealing mascara quietly dripping onto the sleeve of the ill-fated Mexcan gentlemen sitting next to me, I am a sorry state. Indeed, this combined with an unerring need to urinate at frequent intervals as soon as I go anywhere near an aeroplane, along with my insistance that the window blind be up at all times - despite the fact that this means nobody can see anything at all, let alone a poxy tv screen - and a profuse sweating, wailing and knashing of teeth whenever the fasten seat-belt sign is illumnated to signal turbulent conditions, one can only sympathise for my fellow passenger/s.
As we cross over Goose Bay in Quebec (a very roundabout way of getting to Texas if you ask me, although funnily enough no one did), snow and ice become indistingishible from a freezing sea. It would be well bad to crash now I reckon, we'd probably have to eat each other. Oh god, I hope I don't get Deep Vein Thrombosis, I didn't buy the special socks...i'll do some excercises instead. That's bound to endear me further to the fellow next door. Lucky bugger.
PS: I'm fairly sure the head hostess woman is Sue Sylvester from Glee.
*Question: why is the plane on said route traking system scaled so be so bloody big? According to this map's depiction, all one has to do is get on at the tail of the aircraft at Heathrow, walk down the aisle and disembark casually in America.
But, would you believe it, the one channel that isn't working on the sodding entertainment system is the one designated to show Twilight? The ONE channel.
Are you frikkin joking me.
Instead, alas, I am forced to alternate between watching re-runs of House and peering intently at the route tracking system, monitoring the ground speed, altitude, outside air temperature and estimated arrival time for any anomolies to which I must immediately alert the crew*.
Goodbyes are never fun and, I am not ashamed to say, they are something I fail to pull off with any level of finesse. Snot ridden and with enough make-up smeared across my face to make even the most weathered of Avon ladies blush, rivulets of congealing mascara quietly dripping onto the sleeve of the ill-fated Mexcan gentlemen sitting next to me, I am a sorry state. Indeed, this combined with an unerring need to urinate at frequent intervals as soon as I go anywhere near an aeroplane, along with my insistance that the window blind be up at all times - despite the fact that this means nobody can see anything at all, let alone a poxy tv screen - and a profuse sweating, wailing and knashing of teeth whenever the fasten seat-belt sign is illumnated to signal turbulent conditions, one can only sympathise for my fellow passenger/s.
As we cross over Goose Bay in Quebec (a very roundabout way of getting to Texas if you ask me, although funnily enough no one did), snow and ice become indistingishible from a freezing sea. It would be well bad to crash now I reckon, we'd probably have to eat each other. Oh god, I hope I don't get Deep Vein Thrombosis, I didn't buy the special socks...i'll do some excercises instead. That's bound to endear me further to the fellow next door. Lucky bugger.
PS: I'm fairly sure the head hostess woman is Sue Sylvester from Glee.
*Question: why is the plane on said route traking system scaled so be so bloody big? According to this map's depiction, all one has to do is get on at the tail of the aircraft at Heathrow, walk down the aisle and disembark casually in America.
Friday 19 March 2010
According to my sister
This blog makes me sound like a 'nob'.
Inspirational Ruth, many thanks.
Even in the face of damning criticism, however, the show must and will go on.
Inspirational Ruth, many thanks.
Even in the face of damning criticism, however, the show must and will go on.
Tuesday 16 March 2010
This green and pleasant land
And so I sit and ponder, as the evening sky darkens from brilliant orange to purple over the great city-scape that is London town, why oh why would I leave this glorious land? This land of manners and croquet, of chimney sweeps and William Shakespeare, of ale and winter in the Cotswolds and Judi Dench and lambs and spring flowers...
For the past few days, I have become much more aware of my surroundings. Suddenly, everything seems brighter, more beautiful, desirable. I find myself asking what has driven my desire for elsewhere, already nostalgic for country walks and evenings in the pub. Suddenly, the jostling of my fellow commuters becomes playful, endearing almost, whislt the snapping of the bus driver is quaint and somewhat charming in it’s Englishness. I am surrounded by the most interesting and lovable people, rose-tinted and romanticised by the prospect of my imminent departure.
Get a grip woman. It’s not for long.
For the past few days, I have become much more aware of my surroundings. Suddenly, everything seems brighter, more beautiful, desirable. I find myself asking what has driven my desire for elsewhere, already nostalgic for country walks and evenings in the pub. Suddenly, the jostling of my fellow commuters becomes playful, endearing almost, whislt the snapping of the bus driver is quaint and somewhat charming in it’s Englishness. I am surrounded by the most interesting and lovable people, rose-tinted and romanticised by the prospect of my imminent departure.
Get a grip woman. It’s not for long.
Thursday 11 March 2010
Um, so this is a blog?
Whatever exactly defines the quarter-life crisis, I’m having one. Or at least, this is what I decided a couple of months ago, shortly before booking my ticket to Guatemala.
The bags are now (almost) packed and I’m bracing myself for rites of passage all over the shop. Yup, after much deliberation and procrastination, I’ve decided it’s time to break free of the murky world of media and Public Relations, and breathe in the heady and reviving air of change/ self-righteousness. I believe the correct term is, ‘going to find oneself’?
Quite exactly what this trip will entail, I’m yet to find out. All I know it has to be more fun that Clapham Common tube station on a Tuesday morning, a bit more pleasant being sneered at by those faces behind the like, well safe innit, handle-bar moustaches* which currently make up almost the entirety of the Tower Hamlets borough, and marginally more life-affirming than eating a Tesco sandwich at my keyboard, flicking through a tea stained (urine stained?) copy of Metro. Mind you, the plane might crash on the way, so...
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I bloody love this city, and my friends and family here are ace, and I’m going to miss people A LOT....But, now I’ve resigned and told everyone that i’m going, it would be, um, pretty hard to change my mind. Changing my mind at this stage would, I imagine, be something akin to having a heady row with someone, slamming the door, only to reappear moments later in order to collect your bag. Not that smooth apparently.
Anyway, so I’ve set up this blog. I’m not 100 percent sure why, or even what exactly it’s for...or really what I’m supposed to write...but we’ll see how it goes, eh? I like the idea of a bit of self indulgent rambling.
K, well that’s all for now.
x
*For a particularly impressive demonstration of everything facial hair can be, however, check out the character working the till of American Apparel on Great Eastern Street, E2. In terms of engineering feats, this bloke sports an impressive example of advanced follicular design. i.e. If the Golden Gate Bridge was a moustache, this would be it.
The bags are now (almost) packed and I’m bracing myself for rites of passage all over the shop. Yup, after much deliberation and procrastination, I’ve decided it’s time to break free of the murky world of media and Public Relations, and breathe in the heady and reviving air of change/ self-righteousness. I believe the correct term is, ‘going to find oneself’?
Quite exactly what this trip will entail, I’m yet to find out. All I know it has to be more fun that Clapham Common tube station on a Tuesday morning, a bit more pleasant being sneered at by those faces behind the like, well safe innit, handle-bar moustaches* which currently make up almost the entirety of the Tower Hamlets borough, and marginally more life-affirming than eating a Tesco sandwich at my keyboard, flicking through a tea stained (urine stained?) copy of Metro. Mind you, the plane might crash on the way, so...
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I bloody love this city, and my friends and family here are ace, and I’m going to miss people A LOT....But, now I’ve resigned and told everyone that i’m going, it would be, um, pretty hard to change my mind. Changing my mind at this stage would, I imagine, be something akin to having a heady row with someone, slamming the door, only to reappear moments later in order to collect your bag. Not that smooth apparently.
Anyway, so I’ve set up this blog. I’m not 100 percent sure why, or even what exactly it’s for...or really what I’m supposed to write...but we’ll see how it goes, eh? I like the idea of a bit of self indulgent rambling.
K, well that’s all for now.
x
*For a particularly impressive demonstration of everything facial hair can be, however, check out the character working the till of American Apparel on Great Eastern Street, E2. In terms of engineering feats, this bloke sports an impressive example of advanced follicular design. i.e. If the Golden Gate Bridge was a moustache, this would be it.
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