Fixie's Shelf

A Terrible Tourist

Life on the road seems to be the perfect antidote to the crazy busy life I was leading before we left.  My mind and body are both slowing down, big time, and it’s such a relief.  Mind you my body is probably slowing down a bit too much.  I seem to have dropped the rather strict programme I’ve been on since last August, which has involved considerable amounts of training and exercise, and a considerable drop in the amount of sugar and fat I was consuming.  As a result my body has been inching its way back to a shape, flexibility and strength that is reminiscent of before I had a baby.  Since we left Melbourne though, I seem to want to eat all the time, and my requirements for sugar, butter and cream seem to have skyrocketed.  Bummer.  Add to this that it’s been so cold I’ve hardly left the van, so the exercise component of this trip has been practically non-existent.  I tell myself nicely that it’s fine to have a holiday.  But am I going to undo all my hard work with a holiday that stretches for five or six weeks?  I guess that remains to be seen.

The days just whip by.  One minute it’s morning, then we have an hour or so in the “middle” and suddenly it’s time for dinner and bed.  I can’t believe it’s been well over two weeks since we left home.  What I love about this trip is the lifestyle.  Most mornings and evenings I spend time with Jesse on some homeschoolish activity, like doing his maths workbook with him, or taking dictation for his journal, or making up new activities which I put into his project book.  He loves the attention and the stimulation, and I find it so satisfying working with him.  He seems to be truly ambidextrous, holding the pen alternately with one hand and then the other, without better control on either side.  If he’s colouring something in two colours he holds a different coloured marker in each hand and uses his hands according to colour. 

Then there are the times when we’re driving, and I switch between just watching the desert go past, chatting with Paula, reading a book or working on writing my own book.  My book – Pregnancy, Birth And Babies, What Your Doctor Won’t Tell You – is coming along nicely.  I’m averaging 2,000 words a day, though for every word I write I spend heaps of time with my nose in a book doing research, or copying out references and cross-references.  All up I’ve written over 80,000 words and I’ve covered the first draft of some six and a half chapters plus the introduction, leaving me with about three and a half to go. At this rate I should be able to finish the first draft of everything that I don’t need extra resources for before we get home.  An exciting prospect.  I read a book about self-publishing a little while ago and got utterly daunted – there’s so much involved.  But I feel so passionate about what I’m writing and about sharing my knowledge with people who might actually benefit from it, than just about any amount of effort feels worthwhile.

Much as I love the travelling lifestyle, I admit to being an atrocious tourist.  I actually think the desert is quite ugly.  I was prepared for it this time.  Last time I was expected rolling sand dunes like I’ve seen in Arab movies.  Not so – it’s red dirt covered with little scrub and funny burnt looking trees, though the exact vegetation does vary according to which part of the desert we’re in. 

Coober Pedy was the most astonishing little town.  What amazed me was how utterly ugly it was, like this giant bachelor pad.  Picture a landfill site before it’s been filled with landfill.  We’re talking sandy-coloured dirt and gravel in mounds and valleys, stretching just about to the horizon in every direction.  Now it’s not as if there’s no plants and scrub around Coober Pedy – they obviously grow in that gravel-like dirt.  But in town, no-one has made much of an effort.  80 percent of the houses are underground, and it looks like they dug out their homes and stopped there.  Everywhere else in Australia, people have made some effort to make their places look pretty, with whatever materials they have around.  They pave paths with stone, create scrub gardens or cactus gardens if there’s a water shortage, pop up picket or even sweet little stick fences, place pots and statues and other “features” in their front lawn, and so on.  It’s not just pretty, but practical as well – I, like thousands of people before me, eventually decided to pave the front path so we didn’t walk mud and dust into the house with every trip in from the street.  This is not done in Coober Pedy.  I mean, there is the odd statue and cactus garden, but the majority of the place looks like it was set up by a bulldozer and left that way.  Even the skate park – they must have gotten a decent bit of funding for that expanse of concrete that the kids love.  In Darebin (my council) if they had that kind of money, well they’d put 60 percent towards the concrete itself, and spend the rest on safety signage, a fence, planting out grass, trees and plants around it, a seat for parents to sit and watch, and so on.  Not in Coober Pedy.  The good old bulldozer got to work, they poured the concrete, whacked one tiny little safety sign into place, and there you have it, the skate park.  I’m sure the kids are very happy to get their full money’s worth of concrete, and it’s probably a far more functional way to spend their funding, but wow, is it ever at odds with human nature.  So you see, I really don’t “get” Coober Pedy, or the people who live there.

I also don’t “get” Uluru.  I’m convinced it’s one of the world’s greatest marketing gimmicks.  Can you believe the money people spend, to fly themselves in from all over the world, to look at a giant rock?  But it’s amazing, Paula tells me.  Well, yes.  I mean, if I was just driving past and spotted that I’d be sure to point it out to Paula, as a rock that size is fairly unusual.  And if we pulled up for a picnic, well I’d probably take a photo which captures it too.  But that’s all.  I do find it incredible that you pay almost thirty bucks a person to get close enough to look, and you are directed to a specific viewing car park, where you can line up along the wire fence, jostling elbows with a thousand other tourists, and snap your own pic of the rock.  I’m convinced that someone set out to “market” that rock, to bring in fantastic tourism and make big money.  And why do I assume that people wouldn’t naturally flock to such a wondrous place, of amazing beauty and spiritual significance?  Because just around the corner, there’s another one.  Hands up who’s heard of Mt Conner.  No-one flies here specially to see that.  But guess what, it’s three times the size of Uluru, and not only that, but the top levels out into this incredible table, and the ground seems to rise up all around, just to support the vast amount of rock that is Mt Conner.  Surely another of the great wonders of the world. 

And while we’re on the topic, have you noticed that every time our train system changes hands, us ticket payers fork out great wads of money to have all the signage changed instantly.  Every train is redone with the new colours and motif, every platform sports new signs to boast its name and service provider.  Waste of money eh?  Wouldn’t it be nice if they spent the money on an extra train during peak hour in the morning?  Well out here, even though the name has officially changed to “Uluru”, no-one can be bothered changing the signage.  There’s “Ayer’s Rock Resort”, and various “Ayer’s Rock Tours”.  There’s a massive set of plaques outside the library which shows the history of “Ayer’s Rock”, beginning with when it was “unveiled to the world” by white people.  No mention of the people who had been enjoying the place for thousands of years beforehands.  More proof of my let’s-market-this-rock theory?

I do feel a bit sorry for Paula, who is trying to enjoy all these amazing tourist opportunities in the face of my utterly cynical and apathetic attitude.  I try to hide in the van, write my book, and not give her too much trouble.  I know it would be nice for her, though, if I had a little more enthusiasm about seeing the “sights” of Australia.  Luckily though, she is training up Jesse to be a true appreciator of tourist activities, and he is proving very enthusiastic.  He’s always ready to say “wow!” about some wondrous thing that we see, and to check out the walks and rocks with Paula.  Maybe one day he’ll be big enough that Paula can be entirely satisfied with his company, and stop being disappointed about what a crappy tourist buddy I am.

Home Sweet Home

It's so damned good to be home. The first day we were home I worked all day, unpacking, reorganising our kitchen, cleaning the loft and moving things around slightly to suit us better, selecting with pleasure which linen to put on our beds - I think I'm obsessed with bed linen. I was so delighted by how it all looked when I was done that I had to take some photos. From the stairs you can see the bath at the other end of the loft. It's the nicest thing to lie in a hot bath with a good book while Paula and Jesse are snugged in bed beside me, already sleeping, and then to hop out and slip between the sheets and snuggle up with them. You can also see my favourite doll, Sophie, and a drawing of me by my friend Di. The pics on the right are of my whole wardrobe - I have a few dresses hanging up and a coat, but otherwise, that's it. I like the motivation to keep it simple.

Today has been the most delicious day. My morning routine is starting to feel like a bit of an actual routine and it makes me feel like I'm getting a grip on my life. After that today I went into a frenzy of cleaning - all the food jars from Bertha, organising and transferring our box of cleaning equipment from the kitchen to the laundry, and many other strange little jobs like scrubbing the wax and grime off the top of our bedside table. The cleaning equipment was particularly satisfying - from a big box to a small cupboard. I chucked out products I haven't used in years. And the best bit is that now there's this huge empty space in our kitchen that is otherwise crammed with cooking stuff. Paula took Jesse to the market so I could meditate, and I also took the opportunity to sit down with my favourite pink polkadot teapot, drink licorice and mint tea and read my book.

When she came home we decided to make a lasagne. I pulled out the pasta maker and started kneading flour and eggs, Paula cooked sauce, and Jesse alternated between helping me wind the pasta through the machine and playing on his trapeze. The heater was going, the stove was going, we were warm as toast, filling the whole house in a way we'd never have dared to in a space that belonged to someone else. It felt so delightfully domestic, such a beautiful way to spend a windy, grey morning. When we ate it, later, for dinner, it was the most exquisite lasange we'd ever eaten. That pumpkin from Di and Sal's farm with all my homemade pasta was so creamy, sweet, smooth and delicious. I'd put a recipe in here but I didn't measure anything, am not sure I could repeat it.

On The Road In Bertha!

Our first day on the road is going great. I feel relaxed, content and happy. Bertha's bed proved quite comfortable last night, if a little short for me - it's fine for Paula and fine for most positions I lie in but I do like to stretch out on my tummy for a while through the night and this seems to be a bit of a problem. Hopefully I'll get used to it soon. We stopped at a great op shop in a small town and scored! I got this pink floral sheet and a couple of vintage patterns I'll use to make clothes for Jesse. We got Jesse a vest and some little metal cars, one of which is an original matchbox VW kombi from 1970! The best thing about the op shop is that they obviously haven't updated their prices since the 70s either - my purchases were under a dollar and Jesse's totalled 50 cents. The purses weren't from the op shop (I wish) but I just couldn't resist them as yet more gorgeous organisers of my sewing and art stuff. My sewing things went so very nicely into those three boxes I bought in my splurge, and now I figure these purses can be used for fabric scraps and current projects. The pink sheet I plan to sew into a fitted sheet for our bed at home, to be used with the doona cover I got in my splurge.

Since we returned from our trip overseas, I've tried to take a few small steps to live a little lighter on the planet. First is to try and break my habit of using the hot tap when I won't be running it long enough to actually get hot water. I usually do this most times I use the tap as I prefer to turn it on with my left hand rather than my right, and it fires up the gas on our instant hot water heater completely unnecessarily. I'm happy to say that I've only done this a few times since we came home. Next habit is to work on brushing my teeth using a cup of water instead of a running tap. I've never been once of those people who leaves the tap running while brushing, but even so, my on-off method uses heaps more than a cup of water. I've now done this almost every night too and am getting used to it. I usually only put a little bit of water in the bath at night when Paula, Jesse and I all have a wash. These days though, instead of half-filling it I often use only a third of a tub or less. It goes up quite high when there's three of us in it. Only a few times we've had a big, luxurious high bath. I've hardly showered at all - trying to stick to these economical baths which I share with others for the most part. I'm also washing my clothes far less often. I used to chuck everything in the wash if it had a tiny blob of food on it or had been worn more than once or twice. Now I try to wipe of food blobs as they happen, and wear everything to the max. I've probably overstepped the mark a couple of times with my B.O. tops but mostly I think it's worked well. I only did two loads of my clothes in seven weeks, the first of which was a massive wash of all my filthy post-guatemala-morocco clothes, and the second of which needed to be topped up with Jesse's clothes. The great bonus here is that as well as saving water and electricity, it also entails a lot less work. Yay! The sheets have gone the way of the clothes too - again, less washing and less work.

The next aim was to try and use the car less. I haven't succeeded with this one at all. I've constantly watched for opportunities to break out of my car habit, but it just wasn't working. After making a list of places I go to regularly it became clear that the reason for my lack of success is that I haven't sussed out bus timetables on a couple of routes that just might do the trick. I'll put it into my diary for things to do when we go back to Melbourne. In the meantime though, once we park Bertha in Brisbane we'll definitely be avoiding using it to get around, partly because she's kind of awkward to drive around in the city, guzzles far too much fuel, and there'll be the hassle of completely packing up each time we want to go somewhere. I'm hoping to get public transport sorted for all our major destinations.

Hit the road!

It's taken a week, but now we're ready to hit the road for Brisbane! I'm having a little last hurrah on my Broadband before we go. Just waiting for Jesse to come home, then we'll have dinner, a bath, and snug into Bertha in our jarmies, and drive out of Melbourne. I snapped a pic of the quilt on our bed - I finally finished it this weekend and can't wait to see what it's like to sleep under it.

I also made up Jesse's bed in the van and took a pic of that too because it's finished now too, and properly furnished with a doona inside. They make Bertha feel very homely and bright and very ours. Paula even put a bit of white paint around our bed so the white would show off our quilt even more. While we're away we'll paint the rest of the van.

I can't wait to sit up in my big comfortable seat, snugged up next to Jesse, and be on the open road. I usually have plenty of road activities planned, but not this time. I do, however, have many fabrics, sewing tools, art supplies and much more, packed into my big drawer next to the bed, and am looking forward to seeing where my inspiration takes me. Right now I'm dreaming up a doll I will make for Talin for his birthday. The only requirement is that it's "not white" cos it would show too much dirt. I'm enjoying the challenge, and have been looking through my fabrics choosing the ones I think will suit him.

Today on the internet I ordered this lovely pattern from Raggedy Old Annies, and some hemostats and a stuffing fork to make it easier to stuff dolls. I have in mind quite a few I'd like to make. I hope it doesn't take too long to find its way to me here in Australia, and then get redirected up to Brisbane. Better dash, do a couple of last minute jobs before Jesse gets here, then - to Queensland!

Singapore

We’re on the plane to Singapore.  My spirits have really lifted. After the past week, especially the past 2 days, the plane is so comfortable.  Warm, an armchair, clean blankets and pillows provided.  I don’t even mind sleeping sitting up – usually one of my pet hates.  Food and drink are brought to us, we are welcome simply to be here and won’t be told to move along, and best of all, when we arrive we’ll go to a hotel!  Beds! Food!  Shower!  One night there, then it’s standby for the flight to Melbourne.  We’ve lucked out on standby three times in a row, so feeling optimistic.  Could still get stuck 24 hours in the airport, waiting, but at least Singapore Airport has a good reputation as a place to sleep.  Weather should be warm so I’ll change out of this outfit that I’ve been wearing for 12 days now.  Our pack isn’t even full.  We used up many of the consumables, chucked out some of the stuff like towels, and now have barely enough soft stuff to protect my dead computer and the six Moroccan plates we’re bringing home.

Jesse is such a good boy.  On the plane he stays in our row of seats, fiddles with all the apparatus, plays with us, and gets by with remarkably little of our attention.  He’s sweeter this morning because he scored some sleep on the plane.  Airport queues are hard work when he’s very sleep deprived – it’s one tantrum after another.  His mouth keeps bleeding and he’s had little sores around his mouth for a long time now, but in recent days they’ve clearly worsened.  I think he’s run down from inadequate nutrition, lack of sleep, the constant cold and the general stress of travelling.  I’m glad we’re taking him home to where we can feed him properly and look after him well.  I’m going to make spinach pies, vegetable tajines, fresh juice and yoghurt, add nuts and seeds to our food, serve plenty of fruit wit breakfast and so on.  Enough the white bread!

Heathrow Airport

We’re in Heathrow airport, been here 20 hours and not scored much sleep.  We made a camp on the tiled floor of the heated babycare room, but were kicked out within an hour, just as we were getting dozy.  Jesse couldn’t sleep after that and screamed intermittently for the next few hours.  With all our concentrated efforts he finally got some sleep from 2.30am to 6am.  Poor boy – like us he is obsessed with going home – to his triccycle, digger, sandpit, skateboard: Bower Street Home as he calls it.  We left Asilah on 21 February after a miserable week – it rained every day, no money to buy coats, cold all the time.  I was allergic to the bed and had to sleep under filthy greasy blankets on a bench in the “party” room.  I’m still wearing the same clothes as when we left Guatemala, which is just about everything I brought.  I feel disgustingly feral but have completely given up in terms of maintaining my personal decorum.  After being starved (admittedly only for 26 hours) I seemed to lose my spirit.  I just couldn’t muster any creative energy in Morocco, nor for the three bland days of travel we’ve had since.  I sit and stare into space, manage Jesse as required but without much imagination, and dream of being home.  It felt exciting when I had to do the washing – usually once a day, sometimes twice if an emergency arose.  It felt good to do something useful, and yet I couldn’t muster the spirit to do more than that. I have to say I didn’t enjoy being in Morocco – last time it was the leering men that got to me and this time I found I had no tolerance for them.  The men, plus the cold, the rainy weather and our cold, dirty and smelly apartment did not give me any joy.  However, the food was good and I am taking home inspiration from that.  Paula cooked fantastic meals – all infused with Moroccan flavour because the oil there actually tastes like olives.  I found the best pastry I’ve ever eaten in my life – reminiscent of a gingerbread biscuit base topped with custard-cream and fruit.  We ate two exquisite tajines, a jelly-like sweet yoghurt from a laiterie, lovely fresh salads, and the white bread was always fresh and delicious.  On the street we found hot flaky semolina pancakes and we couldn’t eat them fast enough.  The mint tea was good – overly sweet for us but such an integrated flavour that we’ve never been able to replicate at home.

The highlight of Morocco, for me, was meeting Sangit’s family – a Spanish man and woman who live in their van (roughly the same size as Bertha, our new campervan) year round with their two boys.

Sangit (right) was Jesse’s age and the other was nine months and bright-eyed and sweet.  I loved their van – so not made pretty and yet so homely – crammed with clothes, bedding, books, a washing line strung from the roof.  I was so envious of their great pile of pillows, blankets, sheepskin and quilts, especially knowing I would go back to our apartment to sleep under a single stinking greasy blanket that night. We longed just for a rag to wipe the dirt off the bathroom floor, a small blanket to wrap around me when walking in the wind or sitting at the kitchen table, and a pile of clean linen to sleep under. I promised myself I’d go home and sew lovely quilts for Bertha.  After three of us living out of a single backpack plus day bags for two months, I have no qualms about living in Bertha for several months.  Especially after seeing Sangit’s family make it permanent.  I long for home but feel sure I’ll be just as happy in Bertha in Queensland, as the things I’ve missed will mostly still be available to me there. When visiting Sangit we sat outside on a blanket and sheepskin.  His mother washes clothes by hand every day, “Takes me half an hour as I’ve got a board and a brush.”  I realised I don’t even know the traditional methods for washing.  We have a sheepskin and should use it more because it’s so comfortable to sit on, but I always worry about it getting dirty.  We should use it hard and wash it often – that’s the best way to appreciate it.

While we were staying in the apartment, I made a list, as if we were to stay, what I’d buy in what order if I had to save for each:

©      A cheap coat

©      2 clean blankets

©      A shawl

©      A pile of tea towels – so we can clean the floor as well as dry the dishes

©      New sheets

©      Pyjamas – so I don’t have to sleep in my clothes

©      A new mattress – so I can sleep in the bedroom and be with Paula and Jesse

©      A good coat.

We had been provided with just one plate, two bowls, two forks, one spoon a kettle, a frypan and a few glasses in the kitchen, but new or better kitchenware simply didn’t rate compared to the other items.  I was tempted to buy the above items simply for our week there, but we couldn’t afford to.  It was all put sharply into perspective though, when Karim said he earns 1050DH a month working full time at the hotel.  His would have to be among the better jobs.  We were feeling squeezed on 120DH a day after accomodation.  For this money we could eat one meal out plus have a drink or snack in a café, buy water and basic groceries.  Karim has about 255DH a week.  He lives with his parents – no wonder.  We paid 200DH a night for our accomodation, but I assume you could get it for around 200DH a week if you lived there full time.  That would mean 4 adults working full time to chip in 50 each for accomodation, plus whatever kids, homemakers etc, and only 200DH a week left for all other expenses.  I can see it’s possible but it would put most of the things on my wishlist out of reach for a very long time.  A good coat costs 350DH.

Lost ATM Card

Life on the road is never boring for us, it seems. We left Guatemala and had an overnight stopover in Miami on the way to Morocco. The latest drama is that in Miami we took money out of an ATM (only forty bucks, just enough to get us out of America – we planned to withdraw local currency in Morocco), and Paula put the card in her pocket afterwards. This is most unlike her – she’s usually very particular about putting valuable things away immediately – it’s much more like what I would do. Anyway, we catch the bus to the airport, take out the card to pay for the baggage storage, and it aint there. We assume it fell out on the bus. We’d planned to bring two cards for exactly this situation, but the first hitch occurred before we even left Australian soil – I forgot to pack my card. Anyway, we caught our plane to Madrid then got on the phone to the bank – they cancelled the missing card, but were a bit stumped as to how to get cash to us. We have a visa card but you can’t get cash out with that and while we thought we could pay for things like the hotel with visa, we knew it’d be no good for buying food and small goods. Eventually they said to call back in an hour to see if they’d managed to come up with something. An hour later we call, but no answer yet – please call when we get to Morocco. We were getting a bit doubtful by now, so luckily we made a call to Jan to see if she’d be prepared to wire us money through Western Union if the bank didn’t come through. Paula had been panicking since the moment of discovery of missing card, and talking with Jan really bolstered her spirits.

We figured that with only 30 bucks to our name (we spent a bit on the baggage storage) we’d better be careful with our remaining funds, as we didn’t know how long it would be till we got more. We did have to change some of it to Euros though to use the internet in Madrid to get bank numbers etc. We were fed on the plane to Madrid, but as we are accustomed to eating every two to three hours, we were hungry even before we’d got half way through our 4.5 hour stopover in Madrid. I had saved three cheese triangles from the plane and I fed two of them to Jesse, who was very happy to see some food, even such a pitiful amount.

Arriving in Tangier was a bit of a shock though. I didn’t think there was an airport in the world without public phones, but it turns out Morocco is one of them. No phone available to us. We talked to some very official looking men in uniforms but no go. The taxi to Asilah was going to cost US$25, and we only had US$16 left (and some Euro coins but money changers don’t take coins). Basically we didn’t have enough money to leave the airport. Things were getting pretty tense by this stage. A man with very limited English seemed to understand our predictament, and suggested that we could catch our taxi and that maybe the hotel could pay for it and add it to our bill, then when our money came through we’d pay the hotel for the lot. I can’t imagine anyone in Australia taking on this deal, but he managed to find us a taxi driver who would accept it, and off we went. It was now several hours since our last meal and we were all really hungry. Poor Jesse kept asking for milka and I gave him some, but didn’t want him to suck it all out of me as I was already in a daze from low blood sugar. We rationed out the last of our water with little sips each in the taxi. The first hotel we tried wasn’t accepting the deal, but the second hotel had a nice man, Karim, who spoke quite decent English, and he was prepared to take a punt on us. He paid the taxi driver and showed us to our room. It was definitely a more expensive hotel than we could afford on our usual budget but we figured we weren’t in much position to choose. It was nice to go into a big cheery room that had a good shower (something sorely missing in Guatemala), a clean toilet and a lounge area as well as sleeping nook.

It had been over 24 hours since we’d all had a decent sleep, and Jesse was manic with tiredness. We wanted to just fall into bed but thought we’d better try and sort out our money situation. First stop was the bank to change our $16 us into dirhams – we got 144DH for our money. Next stop was a café where we ordered salad and chips. A meal for one person but it was just enough to fill the three of us and happily it only cost 15DH. It had been 9 hours since we’d eaten, which is surely a record for me in the day time. Next stop was the post office where we confirmed there was indeed a Western Union and a phone. Now we were in for our next shock. There doesn’t seem to be any such thing as a reverse charge call in Morocco – or perhaps there is but we had no way of conveying such a concept in French. We tried the number we’d gotten in Madrid for an English speaking operator but no go. It took us about an hour of intense frustration to ascertain this. Meanwhile Jesse was absolutely crazed from lack of food and sleep – just running around in circles screaming manically, poor boy. We were so frustrated and tired and still had low blood sugar even though we’d eaten, and weren’t exactly patient and chilled mummies for him. Feeling very depressed, we went back to the hotel where I decided to put Jesse to sleep. It was 5pm and we just couldn’t think what to do. Paula went out again and hunted down some tourists, who said that international calls were cheap – just pay for them. So we did this, but the phone was eating up our money and a good chunk of it was gone when the phone cut off from our brief conversation with Cec – and we still hadn’t gotten through to him that we just needed him to wire us money, urgently. Paula came back to the hotel in frustration, and after mulling over the possibilities we decided she had to go back and ring him again, be as concise as possible. Happily Cec was ready for our call this time, and despite being cut off four times, we were able to get out the guts of the money-wiring needs. I imagine Jan and Cec didn’t get a lot of sleep that night, poor buggers. Paula bought us a bottle of water for 7DH, and came back to the hotel. I’d drifted off and she woke me to give me the current report. We now had 80DH left. I figured this was four meals and three bottles of water, which if strung out could last us two days. We didn’t know how long it would take the money to get to us, how much more red tape we were going to encounter, how urgently Jan and Cec realised we needed the money etc.

We decided I should go to the internet and email to confirm everything. I almost fainted when I saw the price of 7DH for half an hour – in Guatemala it was very cheap. Actually 7DH is very cheap, but on our current budget it was scary. I negotiated 15 minutes for 3DH and got to work. I planned to quickly type in the details so Jan and Cec weren’t so very confused and in the dark, but it turned out the keyboard was arabic!! I didn’t know that there was a country in the world that used a keyboard other than the QWERTY keyboard I’m so quick on. I couldn’t figure out punctuation and time was an issue, so with two fingers I punched out as fast as I could an abridged version of our situation and what we needed. I think it had a very desperate tone due to lack of punctuation and capital letters, but at least they would have got the gist of where we were at.

After this I went back to the hotel and even though it was only 6.30pm, we decided to sleep for the night. We were exhausted and this way we wouldn’t need to spend more on dinner. At eleven, Paula woke me to say Pip had called the hotel and that money was wired. We were elated. Though only cautiously so – who knew how many more obstacles we would encounter in picking it up. Jesse woke up too, and cried for food. Poor boy. I didn’t want to give him milka because I was so hungry and depleted myself, but in the end I did, and eventually, with much petting along from Paula too, he slept again, right through till 7am. I had the best sleep and didn’t wake til 7 myself. Poor old Paula was next to Jesse and got kicked all night, so she was far more ragged than both of us when we woke.
Jesse and I left her in bed and went in search of food. In the previous 26 hours we’d had only one small meal. It turned out that the hotel provided breakfast – hooray. It was standard Moroccan fare – white bread and jam and a croissant – but unlike the food in Guatemala it was fresh and delicious. Jesse was so happy to see food that he laughed. He laughed with joy with every mouthful he took, ate way more than usual, and we even managed to convince the hotel owner to get us a glass of warm milk for him which he lapped up with delight. I never thought I’d see the day that I’d be happy to have him drinking cows milk rather than breast milk. There was a little bread leftover so we snuck it back to our room, not knowing how long it would be before we next shelled out for a meal.

We waited till 9am for the internet café to open, then rushed back to get the details of the wire. This time I was savvy and negotiated 1DH for five minutes. The details were there and I frantically scribbled them down and typed a quick thanks before dashing out the door within the allotted time frame. It didn’t take too long for us to do the deal at Western Union – only a couple of small hitches which meant walking all the way back to the hotel and back again, but then we had the money in our hot little hands! I don’t think I’ve ever felt more relieved in my life.

First port of call was to make a budget. We’d planned to ask for $1,500 but the communication was too brief and disjointed, so they just made up an amount, and generously sent $1000 - turned out later this was the maximum amount allowed anyway. The fee for this was a whopping $70 – ouch. I didn’t want to have to ask for more money and I didn’t want to depend on visa or anyone else getting money our way. And I didn’t want to go hungry again. I set about apportioning the money – some for the taxi back to the airport, some for our stopover in Singapore, etc. I quickly ascertained that we definitely couldn’t afford to stay in the hotel. We had half an hour before the midday check out time, and I dashed down to the front desk to pay our bill and then go hotel scouting. Karim, the man at the desk, was very kind and offered to walk with me to find something that was 200DH a night or less. We left Paula and Jesse to pack up the room while we searched. The cheap places were either stinky, dismal and dirty, or else tiny (that’s ok, though space is better with Jesse) and with a shared bathroom. The shared bathroom is actually quite a problem because it’s so very hard to shower with Jesse and bring him back to the room with both of us wrapped in towels the size of a teatowel – and also I haven’t got any pyjamas that cover me so a midnight toilet trip entails getting dressed in the dark. If we’d brought more stuff we could have got around this, but as it was we kept it down to one backpack for the three of us, and it turned out paying more for a private bathroom is really essential. Eventually though we found a very Moroccan style apartment, nice and big with a kitchen, a fairly clean looking modern toilet and shower, a bedroom, and a big lounge room. It’s all tiled in decorative Moroccan tiles, it smells fine, and Karim negotiated hard on my behalf. I gathered it was supposed to be 300DH a night but he convinced them that if I paid upfront for five nights, to give it to me for 200DH.

So we’ve settled in here, done a shop at the market to buy food for cooking, and discovered that the apartment is somewhat dirtier and dingier than I’d originally noticed. I think because the tiles shone I thought it was clean. But they’re just very glossy tiles and had had a quick mop over them. The bed threatened to fall apart as we tried to move it over to make a space for Jesse, so we hastily returned it to its original position. The caretaker is this old dero who sleeps in the next room along – he has a camp-like existence that seems very rudimentry, and not especially hygienic. Part of the deal had involved an extra sheet being provided so we could make up a bed for Jesse from one of the couch cushions. The sheet wasn’t delivered so I went to remind him. He tried speaking to me in Arabic but no go. Eventually he got up, went to his bed, pulled off the sheet and handed it to me. I almost fainted with horror. I just couldn’t decide whether to hand it back and sacrifice Jesse to the revolting, dusty, stinky mattress, or whether to take it. I decided to hang onto it and give it a good wash in the morning. In fact, now that we’d observed their methods of hygiene, I decided I’d give all the sheets a wash.
So now it’s morning, and my chest and sinuses are clogged up with dustmites – thankfully the shower is good with continuous hot water and I locked myself into the bathroom, turned it into a steamvault, and managed to cough out much of it. The sad thing is that it’s raining and the apartment is cold and it doesn’t look like anything is going to dry. The sheets shall remain dirty for another day. Paula, however, has put her premenstrual energy to excellent use and scrubbed the bathroom, toilet and sink with a vengeance, so things are definitely looking up. I do think, however, that we misjudged the weather in Morocco – apparently this weather is normal for this time of year, and we are extremely under equipped for it, clothing wise. We’d pop out and buy ourselves a coat each, but alas our budget turns out to be even more stringent than I’d realised.

I made a very strict budget, in the interest of not meeting with a starvation situation again, and have discovered that we will have to make do on a budget of 70DH a day for food, water, internet etc, with an additional 50DH set aside for groceries. To put this in perspective, the first lunch we bought after we got our hands on the money cost 75DH. So this is a pretty tight budget. We’ve also got a few hundred dirham set aside for buying things we might need (such as coats, and I’d hoped to buy a real cheap plastic bike for Jesse to play on), and for buying a few of the things we want to take home (spices, paint powders and a few tagine pots). If last night’s scouting is anything to go by, one coat costs 350DH and we’ll never get three of them and any of the things we want to take home. Bugger. I keep eyeing off the pastries – the food here is actually so yummy – and will get one or two as a treat after we’ve got to the end of a day with something left over from our 70DH. I’m sure the poverty is good for us – I didn’t want to become accustomed to having so much money – but at the same time I would rather like to be warm and lusciously fed.

Guatemala - markets, food and simple living

Today we went shopping in Chichi market, apparently the largest and most famous market in Guatemala.  We’d heard that everything was much cheaper there.  Certainly Antigua seems to be the most expensive place to buy anything, the Guatemalan equivalent of Surfers Paradise, but Panajachel seems to have similar prices to what we found at Chichi, and I actually like some of their stuff more.  Anyway, this is a collection of our purchases.  I love the worry dolls and will sew some bags with the fabric and stitch on the dolls.  In the bottom right corner are four skirts, intended as presents but I’ll probably keep one for myself.  Top left corner has this most incredible rustic stool which I negotiated down to $18 -  I would have liked two but we held back because of the hassle of shipping them home.  I also bought 8 metres of deep red velvet, ready for sewing curtains and cushion covers for Bertha – at $3.50 per metre it has to be heaps cheaper than anything we’ll find at home, even accounting for postage.  I found a shop selling cheap lace, ribbon and ricrac and I bought myself some supplies.  I have been feeling a bit guilty about buying so much but looking at this photo I’m happy with what we got and I know we have so deeply loved what we came home with from Morocco last time that it’s well worth it.

On the way to the market we drove past tiny villages and farming communities and their little mudbrick huts.  We tried to get photos but it was pretty hard with the van moving constantly.  This is actually a shop, but fairly indicative of both the shops and houses in the countryside.  What I like about it is the reminder about a simple life.  Here all the shops have handpainted signs, very primitive and inexpensive display systems, minimal lighting, and in many cases a cosy, comfortable feeling.  I have wondered many times, on hearing that in a particular job in a particular place, a person gets paid about $3 per day, how they actually survive.  You couldn’t live on that in Western culture.  But while I don’t argue that it makes them very poor, I can see now how it’s possible.  The basic goods are that much cheaper because the overheads are so much lower.  In Western society everything is so outrageously beefed up with consumerism, and in striving to be the “best” and most glamourous there is so much waste.  There is far less wastage here.  When you order a “Fresa con leche, to go” instead of giving me a foam cup with a plastic top, they give me a very thin plastic bag with a straw in it – I hold it and suck out the juice.  And if I want to keep it for a while I tie a knot in the top.  Plastic isn’t good rubbish but this way there’s far less of it than at home.  I also like this little wooden hut - I´m not sure that people actually live in it but it´s also very indicative of the houses and lifestyle around here.

The main food here is eggs, tortillas and beans.  There’s also plenty of watermelon, pineapple and platains, which I love.  Paula and I can’t stand tortillas, and are starting to understand that many tourists feel this way.  And we’ve agreed that if we never see a refried bean again in our lives, it will still be too soon.  Lucky we like eggs, and lucky for us tourists that plenty of the shops have cottoned on and will offer bread instead of tortillas.  If you keep a chook, buy corn flour for tortillas and dry beans and cook them yourself, you could eat the staple food and it would be dead cheap.  Another tourist was saying to us today that he was determined, this time, that when he got to Guatemala he’d save money and live on eggs, beans and tortillas (which we can buy a nice big meal of for $3.50), but as soon as he got here he smelled the tortillas and changed his mind.  I don’t blame him – this explains why we’re spending so much on food.  We pay heaps more for tourist food, but happily we’ve found two delightfully healthy vegetarian-oriented cafes here in Pana, and a similar café in Antigua, so we are good for edible food.  I just can’t get enough of the plantains – apparently they are very nutritious, more so than bananas, and are the staple food of several cultures.  I wonder if they would be good for me or if my body has come from a different “strain of evolution”?  I’m not even sure if they are available in Australia– but if they are I’ll start buying them.

Guatemala Police

We´ve had another adventure here.. a rather incredible cultural experience. There are lots of taxis here, they are like a three wheeled motorbike with a little canopy and a seat at the back which Paula, Jesse and I can just squeeze into. Jesse has been very taken with these, especially one which had a pair of bull horns bolted to the front! He talked about that taxi with horns for days. Well what do you know, but walking down the main street of town we came across that very taxi, horns and all, empty. We popped him up on the front for a photo, and to our great delight (not) one of the horns comes off in Jesse´s hand. We had heaps of spectators so didn´t feel we could do a runner, and so stood there for a while trying to bolt the horn back on, with limited success. Of course, doing this meant we were soon surrounded by a herd of spanish speaking locals, but no English speakers to help with communication. A couple of guys with another taxi (theirs also had horns.. didn´t know there was more than one horned taxi around!) pulled up and started trying to help us fix it, and then demanding money from us. While we were happy to give some money to the taxi owner, we didn´t really want to hand over cash to these guys - how were we to know the money would find its way to the right person. This town is tiny, we are very conspicuous, so eventually we decided to leave the scene of crime, and that we´d pay the taxi driver when he hunted us down as he was sure to do.

Off we walked down main street, but the two guys from the other taxi chased us, yelling at us. We tried to explain we´d give money to the other guy but they didn´t speak English, our Spanish doesn´t really go beyond menu items, and it was pretty fruitless. One of the guys got very frustrated, and he punched Paula square on the face. It wasn´t too bad, but her lip has a nasty red spot and is a bit swollen from that. She was holding Jesse at the time, who was obviously pretty upset by this punch. And then suddenly, we were surrounded by the Guatemala police, scary dudes dressed in black with big boots, big guns and black hats. We were trying to explain but still so little English. All the tourists in the nearby restaurat were staring, and eventually Paula yelled at them ¨You getting a good look? I don´t suppose any of you speaks spanish and want to help us?¨ One of the women volunteered, and she kindly interpreted our story to the cops. He gestured that we were to go to the police station.

Well we didn´t know how much trouble we were in for breaking the horn, or for trying to leave without paying or whatever, and we didn´t know how much trouble the guy would get in for punching Paula, or whether the cops would even believe us despite being surrounded by witnesses. At the cop shop we waited about an hour before anyone spoke to us, a rather anxious time as we just couldn´t work out what was going on. Eventually we were rounded into a room with a large number of cops, the guy who punched Paula, the boss of the taxi company and someone who seemed to be his smooth talking PR guy, and a man from the tourist association who spoke English and said he was here to help us. One of the cops (we were impressed to see two women police) spoke English and she was kind to us. When Paula explained what had happened, her face was blank until Paula explained about the punch, and then it turned to horror and she looked quite shocked and sympathetic. The tourist advocate interpreted for us, and said that in Guatemala it is forbidden for a man to hit a woman. There was no mention of our misdeed with the broken horn, it transpired that we´d been kept at the police station mainly to give evidence against the guy who punched Paula. The tourist advocate explained that the police would file a document against him, if we sign it then he would go to jail until the next day when we´d all be brought before a judge, who would decide what penalty the man should be given - maybe pay us money as compensation, maybe jail.

He was a pretty young guy and neither Paula nor I wanted him to go to jail.. we both thought he was absolutely shitting himself from the grilling by the cops, not to mention seriously in trouble with the boss of the taxi cmpany - we figured he´d pretty much learnt his lesson, and Paula said that she thought he realised half way through the punch itself that he´d fucked up, and for that reason the punch wasn´t as hard as it could have been. Anyway, Paula was really kind to him. She told the tourist advocate that she didn´t want him to go to jail, she was happy not to press charges, but she wanted him to apologise to her. There was a bit of back and forwardsing about this, and then the man came forward, said very clearly and sincerely ¨I´m sorry.¨ He shook Paula´s hand and the tension in the whole room lifted. More talking, and then the tourist advocate said that the taxi company was offering to buy us dinner or give us money as part of the apology. Paula said, ¨I don´t want money. The worst thing about this whole deal is that Jesse thinks it´s his fault because he broke the horn. And he´s upset because he saw me getting punched in the face. What he would love most of all is a ride in a taxi with horns. How about give him a ride to help him feel better.¨ The tourist advocate interpreted this, and everyone understood immediately. We were taken on a very long taxi drive in the taxi with horns (driven by the man who hadn´t punched!) and we were taken to a nearby town with the most incredible lookout point over the lake. It was very beautiful. The driver stopped and bought Jesse hís favourite crackers and an apple juice prima and Jesse squealed with delight every time the driver deliberately swerved from one side of the road to the other, specially for his entertainment. And to Paula´s and my entertainment, three of the cops and their big boots and big guns escorted us all the way to the lookout and back. We figure it wasn´t a night of high crime here in Guatemala.

It was quite amazing that they took the punch so seriously, and this led to a fairly good resolution all around, one we wouldn´t have had if the police hadn´t been there and we´d just escaped. We would have been nervous about getting beaten up by the men around here, but now it´s clear it´s a very big cultural no no and the cops will stand by that.

Coffee Bags and Egg Carts

This morning’s conversation around the breakfast table went like this:

Jesse:              “Do you like dogs, Asphyxia?”
Asphyxia:         “No, I don’t like dogs a lot Jesse.  Do you like dogs?”
Jesse:              “Yah.  Do you like dogs, Paula?”
Paula:               “Yes Jesse, I like dogs very much.”
Jesse:              “Do you like tattoos, Asphyxia?”
Asphyxia:         “Oh yes I love tattoos.  I have a bat tattoo on my shoulder.  Do you like tattoos?”
Jesse:              “Yah I love em.  Do you like tattoos Paula?”
Paula:               “Yes I like tattoos but I don’t have any.   If I had one it’d be here on my arm.  Would you like a tattoo Jesse?”
Jesse:              “Yah.  I love ‘em.”  Points to his shoulder.  “I like a butterfly.”
Asphyxia          “A butterfly on your shoulder sounds lovely.”
Jesse:              “Do you like dogs, Asphyxia?”

And on we went….

This picture is of little bags of coffee sold here in Guatemala.  I love the way they’re presented with a tiny worry-doll and basket stitched to the front of each bag.  They inspire me.  I’m not sure what I need little bags for (though I can’t get enough of them on this trip as I use tiny plastic bags for my sewing projects and always slip one into our bag when we go out in case I’m bored and want to work on my latest cat) – but if I continue to have a use for them maybe I can make something similar at home.

I love the way they transport eggs in Antigua.  We’d never try this at home – the streets are so cobbled the eggs are surely bouncing around in their cartons.  I am also very taken with the tricycle the eggs are transported on.  I saw an elderly woman riding something very similar around the park in Northcote near where we live, and have thought about it repeatedly since then.  I think the appeal lies in that I’ve given up mastering a bike again – I’ve tried so many times since I was in a bike accident when I was 16, and Paula eventually told me to stop giving myself grief about it and accept that bikes and I just don’t mix.  And yet I feel so guilty because I drive my car everywhere and we’re definitely close enough to many places at home to be able to ride a bike and be that much kinder to the environment.  There’s some part of me that thinks, well maybe this is a way around my bike phobia?  I’ve never seen them in the shops at home though.