Att: Customer Service
Ford Motors Australia
To whom it may concern,
I recently had the immense fortune of hiring a Ford Mondeo for a road trip I took through the USA's South West. It was Springtime and the wildflowers were in full bloom, but the weather was colder than expected and so I found myself looking at my little tent with trepidation. As the night air grew frosty on my first night in the stunning Yosemite Valley, I decided my Australian constitution wouldn't cope with the open air and I promptly set about creating a little bed in the passenger seat of my Ford.
I admit I was skeptical about the night ahead. I am not a fan of overnight travel, due to the typically uncomfortable seating of most transportation. An intermittent insomniac, I envisaged a sleepless night followed by a quick tent pitch or a flutter of the eye lashes at one of my travel companions in the hope that they might want to share body heat.
I awoke the next day, shocked and amazed. I had slept like a proverbial log. I felt more rested than I had in months and I bounded joyously from the car, refreshed and alive. I spent the next two weeks sleeping in the Ford Mondeo passenger seat and I had the best two weeks of my life. It was so comfortable that my insomnia was cured.
The night after I had returned the vehicle, I lay restless and devastated in my bed. I awoke the next morning with a familiar ache; the back pain that had disappeared for two blissful weeks had returned tenfold now that I was back in a regular bed.
I have spent years buying fancy mattresses, paying physios, doing back exercises and tossing and turning in vain. But two weeks in the passenger seat of a Ford Mondeo and all the pain was gone.
I truly believe that if I were to spend every night sleeping in such a seat my life would be greatly improved.
As such, I ask you whether it would be possible to purchase a passenger seat from a Ford Mondeo, or better yet whether any factory spares would be available in Australia - for donation, so that I may install the seat in my bedroom and sleep my way to a healthier, happier me.
I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.
Warm Regards,
Maeve
Thursday, 8 July 2010
Saturday, 5 June 2010
Lost.
Fuck. Gone in a moment. I scream, terrifying these white bread swear-jar owning hikers who clearly think I am mad. They don't want to know the answer when they ask if I am ok.
I have said numerous times, in those repeated traveller engagements, that I'd rather lose my passport than my photos, my identification rather than my memories. Travelling alone, my camera is my companion, my little keeping box. In moments of solitude I take it out, to record a moment, to share a joke with myself, to make solid the beauty I've found in a little corner of the world just discovered, to fill my hands when they feel restless. It measures my learning, as I develop skills in the manipulation of the little dials, tactile as they click into place adjusting aperture, shutter speed, and other new words in my vocabulary. My camera is heavy around my neck, marks me tourist, makes me feel safe as an outside observer, excuses my gawking and wonderment.
Sitting on a little perch halfway into the Grand Canyon I clicked a button by accident and, in an instant, lost New York and Yosemite. Hiking out, sobbing, rapidly dehydrating, depleted and angry, where moments earlier I had been on top of the world. I was crying for the lost little rectangles, but also for the days to come when I knew I'd be characteristically self-critical, going over and over my mistaken fingers. And already, as I trudged uphill (faster than perhaps ever before), I was cataloguing the losses, imprinting them in my head, a different kind of memory card.
Memory is my obsession and losing it one of my great fears. In my mind, I quantify these little pieces of experience I am amassing; they are building something - someone - and the camera holds it all together.
I have given myself those well-practiced middle class children-dying-in-Africa, it-could-be-worse speeches. And of course I know it could bloody well be worse, I'm not an idiot. But sometimes always remembering "the less fortunate" can take away from one's right to just feel sad for a moment, or a day or two.
The camera allows me to share it all, my little forays out into the world, the ups, downs and footsteps. I don't go easy alone. I like telling stories. My photos type captions as I take them. They aren't just pretty scenery, but also punchlines, thoughts, quirks and tales. Some moments I feel alone don't feel real til they are shared. And while I know there is a lesson here in owning my alone adventures, I still feel sad - weeks later - about these lost stories, lost chances to make someone I love laugh or think or shake their head and roll their eyes at me.
So, if you're still with me, here are a few of my 700 lost moments:
In NYC...
Squirrels. So Many Squirrels.
Subway underpass slanting in Queens, sharp light hitting street art beneath the bridge and a man leaning out to look for the train.
Anna, old friend, living it large in NYC, in photos she deemed ugly and I deemed delightful (losses she may be pleased about actually...): in front of a shop named Anna; together, reflected in multitudes of tiny octagonal mirrors (or were they hexagons?) pulling practiced same-crazy faces; aiming her own camera on the Brooklyn Bridge; trudging through Central Park; pulling faces on the subway; pretty in candlelight at vegetarian Korean; looking up at theatre posters she may someday be written on; mouths agape over ice tea bottles - a little crazed after hours in the Met; faces squished together in Times Square.
The Brooklyn Bridge is crumbling sepia, rusted flakes on the suspension arching towards the pillars, Manhattan in the distance.
A series of ridiculous jackets in Williamsburg thrift stores, humoured by a new friend taking happy snaps of me in green corduroy.
A woman in a park with a hot pink bouncing ball that matched her shirt.
A field of bluebells in the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens; I stood for sometime finding the right setting to recreate the exact shades of blue and green.
Chronicles of my romp through the West Village with a round and lovely man named James: Stonewall and statues for my people; borscht and blintz in a Jewish dairy; the Friends building, taken for my sister; Christopher St Pier in slanting afternoon sun; and my first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty.
Bani, my funny little host in Jackson Heights, napping on the subway home, zebra print tights against bright orange plastic, cap falling into eyes.
James Spader, looking sharp, moments before I squeaked my ridiculous confession.
Catherine Zeta Jones, caught smiling despite the influx of fans, one sobbing woman crying "I LOVE YOU CATHERINE" - glad she isn't me.
The Bill of Rights, posted on the back of a toilet door in the Brooklyn Academy of Music.
The Guggenheim shot at angles that make its white circular look like a take away cup against the bright blue sky.
Knish. Vegan pizza. Bagels.
Four boys, slouch-shorted surfer types, standing in a line, stock still, contemplating art: specifically, a large canvas (seemingly built for this moment) painted one shade of grey green.
The highline, industrial parklife with a view, and an old French companion; smiling bilingual fun over coffee and crazy flavoured felafel.
Polite American signage: with <3s for some letters; much please and thank you; a 'Voluntary Quiet Zone' on the Staten Island ferry.
So many artworks and objects shot for friends who love them: Georgia O'Keefe and Monet for my mothers; Mondrian for Emily; a statue of Sappho (large feet, sensible shoes) for, well, so many; more Rodin for Viv and other little pieces of famous I won't see again.
Paparazzi waiting for Sarah Jessica Parker, shot so I could mock Louise about her love of Sex and the City. A bakery that apparently features in same: see above for reasoning.
A bridal shop in Flushing, Queens.
Rollercoaster at Coney Island which I rode, fighting that day's melancholy with breathtaking falls.
Old men and young professionals playing boules together in the sun in Bryant Park.
The Dinner Party by Judy Chicago at the Brooklyn Museum: close up on figures that resonated and on two names on the historical panels that accompany it: Maeve and Grainne. Writ large in this epic feminist memory keeper.
And in Yosemite...
Squirrels. So many squirrels. A squirrel posing pretty next to a blue jay. A squirrel reaching for Hermann's hand, hoping for food we didn't have (clif bars already eaten).
Our First Meal, bean and tofu stew that looked like dog food but was delicious post-hike.
Me, thumbs up and smiling above an American flagged 'Marsden for congress, Marsden for you' sign (possibly the loss I feel the hardest)
Tumbling waterfalls, cascading wonder, sharp granite beauty and a little sign that warned against swimming or creeping too close with the simple "If you fall, you will die."
A series of me and Morgana, running leaping and escaping into empty fields and sunsets.
A pile of junkfood purchased just after we had been discussing what a healthy road trip we'd had thus far: guacamole flavoured chips, twix ice cream, butterfingers and Morgana's hideous 'artificially flavoured strawberry shortcake ice cream.'
The Mariposa Grove of towering sequoias (pronounced not as I thought), mammoth ancient trees in deep red and cute moments standing under them. Snow falling gently, captured only as little blurs on the lens.
Terrifying winding drive into night time, dirt road, wondering if we'll find a camp, blank fields and mining towns. Deliverance country, we say.
Wildflowers and windfarms.
The sunset through the windscreen, behind our driving faces, across the steering wheel and through the windows: big beautiful sky, shared with new friends.
And finally...
My feet hanging over the edge on a little perch halfway into the Grand Canyon where I pressed the wrong button on my camera.
I have said numerous times, in those repeated traveller engagements, that I'd rather lose my passport than my photos, my identification rather than my memories. Travelling alone, my camera is my companion, my little keeping box. In moments of solitude I take it out, to record a moment, to share a joke with myself, to make solid the beauty I've found in a little corner of the world just discovered, to fill my hands when they feel restless. It measures my learning, as I develop skills in the manipulation of the little dials, tactile as they click into place adjusting aperture, shutter speed, and other new words in my vocabulary. My camera is heavy around my neck, marks me tourist, makes me feel safe as an outside observer, excuses my gawking and wonderment.
Sitting on a little perch halfway into the Grand Canyon I clicked a button by accident and, in an instant, lost New York and Yosemite. Hiking out, sobbing, rapidly dehydrating, depleted and angry, where moments earlier I had been on top of the world. I was crying for the lost little rectangles, but also for the days to come when I knew I'd be characteristically self-critical, going over and over my mistaken fingers. And already, as I trudged uphill (faster than perhaps ever before), I was cataloguing the losses, imprinting them in my head, a different kind of memory card.
Memory is my obsession and losing it one of my great fears. In my mind, I quantify these little pieces of experience I am amassing; they are building something - someone - and the camera holds it all together.
I have given myself those well-practiced middle class children-dying-in-Africa, it-could-be-worse speeches. And of course I know it could bloody well be worse, I'm not an idiot. But sometimes always remembering "the less fortunate" can take away from one's right to just feel sad for a moment, or a day or two.
The camera allows me to share it all, my little forays out into the world, the ups, downs and footsteps. I don't go easy alone. I like telling stories. My photos type captions as I take them. They aren't just pretty scenery, but also punchlines, thoughts, quirks and tales. Some moments I feel alone don't feel real til they are shared. And while I know there is a lesson here in owning my alone adventures, I still feel sad - weeks later - about these lost stories, lost chances to make someone I love laugh or think or shake their head and roll their eyes at me.
So, if you're still with me, here are a few of my 700 lost moments:
In NYC...
Squirrels. So Many Squirrels.
Subway underpass slanting in Queens, sharp light hitting street art beneath the bridge and a man leaning out to look for the train.
Anna, old friend, living it large in NYC, in photos she deemed ugly and I deemed delightful (losses she may be pleased about actually...): in front of a shop named Anna; together, reflected in multitudes of tiny octagonal mirrors (or were they hexagons?) pulling practiced same-crazy faces; aiming her own camera on the Brooklyn Bridge; trudging through Central Park; pulling faces on the subway; pretty in candlelight at vegetarian Korean; looking up at theatre posters she may someday be written on; mouths agape over ice tea bottles - a little crazed after hours in the Met; faces squished together in Times Square.
The Brooklyn Bridge is crumbling sepia, rusted flakes on the suspension arching towards the pillars, Manhattan in the distance.
A series of ridiculous jackets in Williamsburg thrift stores, humoured by a new friend taking happy snaps of me in green corduroy.
A woman in a park with a hot pink bouncing ball that matched her shirt.
A field of bluebells in the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens; I stood for sometime finding the right setting to recreate the exact shades of blue and green.
Chronicles of my romp through the West Village with a round and lovely man named James: Stonewall and statues for my people; borscht and blintz in a Jewish dairy; the Friends building, taken for my sister; Christopher St Pier in slanting afternoon sun; and my first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty.
Bani, my funny little host in Jackson Heights, napping on the subway home, zebra print tights against bright orange plastic, cap falling into eyes.
James Spader, looking sharp, moments before I squeaked my ridiculous confession.
Catherine Zeta Jones, caught smiling despite the influx of fans, one sobbing woman crying "I LOVE YOU CATHERINE" - glad she isn't me.
The Bill of Rights, posted on the back of a toilet door in the Brooklyn Academy of Music.
The Guggenheim shot at angles that make its white circular look like a take away cup against the bright blue sky.
Knish. Vegan pizza. Bagels.
Four boys, slouch-shorted surfer types, standing in a line, stock still, contemplating art: specifically, a large canvas (seemingly built for this moment) painted one shade of grey green.
The highline, industrial parklife with a view, and an old French companion; smiling bilingual fun over coffee and crazy flavoured felafel.
Polite American signage: with <3s for some letters; much please and thank you; a 'Voluntary Quiet Zone' on the Staten Island ferry.
So many artworks and objects shot for friends who love them: Georgia O'Keefe and Monet for my mothers; Mondrian for Emily; a statue of Sappho (large feet, sensible shoes) for, well, so many; more Rodin for Viv and other little pieces of famous I won't see again.
Paparazzi waiting for Sarah Jessica Parker, shot so I could mock Louise about her love of Sex and the City. A bakery that apparently features in same: see above for reasoning.
A bridal shop in Flushing, Queens.
Rollercoaster at Coney Island which I rode, fighting that day's melancholy with breathtaking falls.
Old men and young professionals playing boules together in the sun in Bryant Park.
The Dinner Party by Judy Chicago at the Brooklyn Museum: close up on figures that resonated and on two names on the historical panels that accompany it: Maeve and Grainne. Writ large in this epic feminist memory keeper.
And in Yosemite...
Squirrels. So many squirrels. A squirrel posing pretty next to a blue jay. A squirrel reaching for Hermann's hand, hoping for food we didn't have (clif bars already eaten).
Our First Meal, bean and tofu stew that looked like dog food but was delicious post-hike.
Me, thumbs up and smiling above an American flagged 'Marsden for congress, Marsden for you' sign (possibly the loss I feel the hardest)
Tumbling waterfalls, cascading wonder, sharp granite beauty and a little sign that warned against swimming or creeping too close with the simple "If you fall, you will die."
A series of me and Morgana, running leaping and escaping into empty fields and sunsets.
A pile of junkfood purchased just after we had been discussing what a healthy road trip we'd had thus far: guacamole flavoured chips, twix ice cream, butterfingers and Morgana's hideous 'artificially flavoured strawberry shortcake ice cream.'
The Mariposa Grove of towering sequoias (pronounced not as I thought), mammoth ancient trees in deep red and cute moments standing under them. Snow falling gently, captured only as little blurs on the lens.
Terrifying winding drive into night time, dirt road, wondering if we'll find a camp, blank fields and mining towns. Deliverance country, we say.
Wildflowers and windfarms.
The sunset through the windscreen, behind our driving faces, across the steering wheel and through the windows: big beautiful sky, shared with new friends.
And finally...
My feet hanging over the edge on a little perch halfway into the Grand Canyon where I pressed the wrong button on my camera.
Weird stuff I do when I'm alone.
I spent Wednesday night camping at a clothing optional Californian new age spa.
You see, when I am alone I like to do random shit I wouldn't normally do. It started in Norway when I stowed away on a cruise ship and sailed off into the midnight sun, sitting pretty in the jacuzzi. Note that 'stowed away' is code for paid a reduced fee and slept on the cafeteria floor. Anyway, this little solitary adventure went very well and began a series of little moments, some I share, some I don't, where I do things just for me. While I am away, I hike, I wear a bikini (sometimes), I stop drinking coffee, and - as of yesterday - I stay at clothing optional Californian new age spas.
Long story short, I picked up a flyer for Harbin Hot Springs at the Calistoga Visitors Centre, helped by two friendly plastic surgeryed women. I felt like a little rest and relaxation after my road trip and something needed to be done about my feet. Desert + walking = dry and icky.
Result: unexpected. The saronged lady with cracked lips at the gatehouse took my membership fee and camping costs. "We ask a fee because we are a clothing optional facility." Riiiight. I smiled sweetly and set off with my map.
Old and young, fat and thin, gay, straight, trans, families, hippies, hipsters and me. All naked or in varying degrees of undress. Plunging in and out of hot and cold spas, these tattoed, tan line free new age sorts debated psychology, their fellow spa goers tattoos and how the place had changed over the years. I roamed at first, not quite feeling like I belonged but not feeling like an outsider either.
I adjusted to the nudity. I relaxed into the walk from spa to towel, uncovered and anonymous. And I booked myself into a scrub and wrap - one of the most relaxing 90 minutes of my life. Oh Martine, you lovely German wonder. I sat and read, drank in the sun, made a little salad for one in the communal kitchen and trotted around the gardens.
The temptation was there to judge or laugh at these people - privileged lot - some reliving the 60s and some of that new age genre of pop-psych where being a hippy is about self-love not free...
But I didn't want to. I let myself enjoy this funny little departure from my day to day, my comfort zone. I sat in the spa and watched the stars. I don't do much alone, and travelling alone can be odd for me. But sometimes the alone is awesome.
You see, when I am alone I like to do random shit I wouldn't normally do. It started in Norway when I stowed away on a cruise ship and sailed off into the midnight sun, sitting pretty in the jacuzzi. Note that 'stowed away' is code for paid a reduced fee and slept on the cafeteria floor. Anyway, this little solitary adventure went very well and began a series of little moments, some I share, some I don't, where I do things just for me. While I am away, I hike, I wear a bikini (sometimes), I stop drinking coffee, and - as of yesterday - I stay at clothing optional Californian new age spas.
Long story short, I picked up a flyer for Harbin Hot Springs at the Calistoga Visitors Centre, helped by two friendly plastic surgeryed women. I felt like a little rest and relaxation after my road trip and something needed to be done about my feet. Desert + walking = dry and icky.
Result: unexpected. The saronged lady with cracked lips at the gatehouse took my membership fee and camping costs. "We ask a fee because we are a clothing optional facility." Riiiight. I smiled sweetly and set off with my map.
Old and young, fat and thin, gay, straight, trans, families, hippies, hipsters and me. All naked or in varying degrees of undress. Plunging in and out of hot and cold spas, these tattoed, tan line free new age sorts debated psychology, their fellow spa goers tattoos and how the place had changed over the years. I roamed at first, not quite feeling like I belonged but not feeling like an outsider either.
I adjusted to the nudity. I relaxed into the walk from spa to towel, uncovered and anonymous. And I booked myself into a scrub and wrap - one of the most relaxing 90 minutes of my life. Oh Martine, you lovely German wonder. I sat and read, drank in the sun, made a little salad for one in the communal kitchen and trotted around the gardens.
The temptation was there to judge or laugh at these people - privileged lot - some reliving the 60s and some of that new age genre of pop-psych where being a hippy is about self-love not free...
But I didn't want to. I let myself enjoy this funny little departure from my day to day, my comfort zone. I sat in the spa and watched the stars. I don't do much alone, and travelling alone can be odd for me. But sometimes the alone is awesome.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Ode to New York: A Poem in Three Parts
everything whole wheat toasted with scallion cream cheese, tomatoes and cucmber
jalapeno with spinach artichoke cream cheese, tomatoes and peppers
egg with sundried tomato, tomatoes and peppers
everything pumpernickel toasted with jalapeno cheddar cream cheese and tomatoes
promises, promises
room for cream
a behanding in spokane
fuerza bruta
a little night music
race
vaginal davis speaking from the diaphragm
next to normal
memphis
molly shannon
christopher walken
sam rockwell
catherine zeta jones
angela lansbury
james spader
kerry washington
chloe sevigny
jalapeno with spinach artichoke cream cheese, tomatoes and peppers
egg with sundried tomato, tomatoes and peppers
everything pumpernickel toasted with jalapeno cheddar cream cheese and tomatoes
promises, promises
room for cream
a behanding in spokane
fuerza bruta
a little night music
race
vaginal davis speaking from the diaphragm
next to normal
memphis
molly shannon
christopher walken
sam rockwell
catherine zeta jones
angela lansbury
james spader
kerry washington
chloe sevigny
Maeve's Guide to Southern Cuisine
1. Take an existing food item and play about with the spices a bit.
2. Make it bigger.
3. Add more meat. Or crumb it.
4. Fry it.
5. Include consistent ingredients over time and venue.
6. Rename it.
7. Voila: Regional Specialty.
2. Make it bigger.
3. Add more meat. Or crumb it.
4. Fry it.
5. Include consistent ingredients over time and venue.
6. Rename it.
7. Voila: Regional Specialty.
Mexico
I sit and eat my last meal, vegetarian fajitas and a melon smoothie, while the man at the viva mexico table cloth next to mine cheers loudly at the football on the screen. Twenty days and I have barely scratched the surface of this crazy nation.
From Mexico DF, massive, bubbling, teeming, with the grandeur of a mediterranean capital, the feel of Bangkok and Eastern European behemoth apartment blocks, crumbling like their communist counterparts on the other side of the world. Epic murals in the Palacio de las Bellas Artes passionately advocating a nationalistic, anti-capitalist politic, oozing history down colonial hallways, the details explained to me by a funny guide who was well informed about art, but more than a little bit racist. The highlight of the explanation: 'see there. that is a black man. they are very good at music and sports and the women they think they are good lovers. the white women, they love the black men.' Totally relevant to the works of Diego Rivera and Rufino Tamayo. The houses of Frida Kahlo, worth the pilgrimmage, but sadly lacking in her work. The casa y estudio, most disappointing with Rivera's house kept as was and hers turned into a little gallery showing someone else's work. Damn sexist history.
Arriving amidst Semana Santa, holy week, and experiencing the madness of celebration at the mammoth Basilica de la Guadelupe, where my kind and clever host Beatriz discussed with me the class system of her city and we bought giant cups of cordial and stared at the worshippers as they paraded through the square.
This in contrast with a small church in San Juan Chamula, Chiapas. I stood in that Church for sometime. The marble floor coated with drying pine needles and flowers, small clearings spread by individual worshippers who light the hundreds upon hundreds of small candles that light the space and fill it with a waxy smell that reminds me of my bedroom after I've fallen asleep with the candle lit. In various stages of prayer, children clung to to prevent escape, men and women kneeled on the floor, chanted, rocked back and forth, and presented offerings of home made liquor and coca cola.
No priest stood at the front and I was able to walk slowly through and around the people, following the path of the other pale voyeurs, peering into the cabinets lining the walls, at the many manequins dressed regally and labelled saints. Stoppedin my tracks, seemingly unashamed of my gawking I stared, transfixed as a woman clutched a chicken by its legs to ensure it did not escape and waved it over her young son's body. He seemed disinteressed in the blessing he received and, like a crying baby at a baptism, he protested by hitting the chicken intermittently. Waving ritual complete, she ay the chicken in her lap and calmly, deliberately, killed it, rubbing the pink and phallic neck firmly with the heel of her hand til it broke, then watching as the head flopped about. Still a little bit alive, she placed it in a plastic bag.
A voyeur. Large and intrusive. I found it hard to develop a solid response to this place. In traditional Christian churches I feel free to judge and criticise religion, but when the religion is unfamiliar, a mingling of ancient Indigenous rituals and introduced Christianity, to criticise can be to colonise, or so it felt. Lengthy debates followed with a German named Bee who I met that day.
In Oaxaca, the beautiful Pueblas Mancomunados, a collective of Zapotec villages who run a successful ecotourism network for intrepid travellers. Hiking their homeland cloud forests, village to village, amazed my body could make it post office-job-limb-crunch and thrilled by soaring horizons, local knowledge of medicinal plants and wildlife so stunning and unique, descending from pine forests, through oak to lush river fringing moss and bromelia. From the home cooked meals of the comedores, making blue tortilla, drinking such fine hot chocolate, to a night of luxury with my fellow hikers - Mexican gastronomical haute cuisine at El Teatro Culinario in Oaxaca City.
The vegetarian organic wonderland of San Cristobal, hippy town in the highlands of Chiapas, ringed by Zapatista communities I knew so little about. The thrill of discovering a small cinema screening a docco on my first night so I could be better informed. And that universal artform of revolutions - the murals - adorning walls of checkpoints when I travelled through the Chiapas countryside. The devastating knowledge that so many of these revolutionaries lost loved ones fighting the government for ridiculous wants like land, health, education and basic human rights.
Palenque. Beautiful ancient Palenque. And Agua Azul, a water wonderland of falls and currents no theme park could build. Pumping my arms against the flow to reach the edge of a waterfall and stand beneath it, my sore muscles pummelled, my bad mood that day erased.
And the tourist hub of Yucatan where I got lost in Walmart for an hour and had a panic attack soon after. People don't tell you that the biggest danger to peace of mind when travelling can be just that - your mind - struggling daily to make decisions, take in more knowledge than is available to you in a week at home, communicating with new person after new person and questioning all that you have done thus far. If one more fellow tourist says 'you are only here for __ weeks / days?! But you can't do ANYTHING in that time,' I may hit them. Hard.
But Mexico, that country an American official warned me was crazy, soothed my own madness, delivering up charming and talkative hosts, Manolo and Erick, crystalline beaches, private cave pools, ocean paradise and a reprieve from loud mouthed, sun burnt Westerners (including myself). I will come back one day. But for now, I will just feel full. Of fajitas, art, history, natures, people, religion and - of course - cerveza.
From Mexico DF, massive, bubbling, teeming, with the grandeur of a mediterranean capital, the feel of Bangkok and Eastern European behemoth apartment blocks, crumbling like their communist counterparts on the other side of the world. Epic murals in the Palacio de las Bellas Artes passionately advocating a nationalistic, anti-capitalist politic, oozing history down colonial hallways, the details explained to me by a funny guide who was well informed about art, but more than a little bit racist. The highlight of the explanation: 'see there. that is a black man. they are very good at music and sports and the women they think they are good lovers. the white women, they love the black men.' Totally relevant to the works of Diego Rivera and Rufino Tamayo. The houses of Frida Kahlo, worth the pilgrimmage, but sadly lacking in her work. The casa y estudio, most disappointing with Rivera's house kept as was and hers turned into a little gallery showing someone else's work. Damn sexist history.
Arriving amidst Semana Santa, holy week, and experiencing the madness of celebration at the mammoth Basilica de la Guadelupe, where my kind and clever host Beatriz discussed with me the class system of her city and we bought giant cups of cordial and stared at the worshippers as they paraded through the square.
This in contrast with a small church in San Juan Chamula, Chiapas. I stood in that Church for sometime. The marble floor coated with drying pine needles and flowers, small clearings spread by individual worshippers who light the hundreds upon hundreds of small candles that light the space and fill it with a waxy smell that reminds me of my bedroom after I've fallen asleep with the candle lit. In various stages of prayer, children clung to to prevent escape, men and women kneeled on the floor, chanted, rocked back and forth, and presented offerings of home made liquor and coca cola.
No priest stood at the front and I was able to walk slowly through and around the people, following the path of the other pale voyeurs, peering into the cabinets lining the walls, at the many manequins dressed regally and labelled saints. Stoppedin my tracks, seemingly unashamed of my gawking I stared, transfixed as a woman clutched a chicken by its legs to ensure it did not escape and waved it over her young son's body. He seemed disinteressed in the blessing he received and, like a crying baby at a baptism, he protested by hitting the chicken intermittently. Waving ritual complete, she ay the chicken in her lap and calmly, deliberately, killed it, rubbing the pink and phallic neck firmly with the heel of her hand til it broke, then watching as the head flopped about. Still a little bit alive, she placed it in a plastic bag.
A voyeur. Large and intrusive. I found it hard to develop a solid response to this place. In traditional Christian churches I feel free to judge and criticise religion, but when the religion is unfamiliar, a mingling of ancient Indigenous rituals and introduced Christianity, to criticise can be to colonise, or so it felt. Lengthy debates followed with a German named Bee who I met that day.
In Oaxaca, the beautiful Pueblas Mancomunados, a collective of Zapotec villages who run a successful ecotourism network for intrepid travellers. Hiking their homeland cloud forests, village to village, amazed my body could make it post office-job-limb-crunch and thrilled by soaring horizons, local knowledge of medicinal plants and wildlife so stunning and unique, descending from pine forests, through oak to lush river fringing moss and bromelia. From the home cooked meals of the comedores, making blue tortilla, drinking such fine hot chocolate, to a night of luxury with my fellow hikers - Mexican gastronomical haute cuisine at El Teatro Culinario in Oaxaca City.
The vegetarian organic wonderland of San Cristobal, hippy town in the highlands of Chiapas, ringed by Zapatista communities I knew so little about. The thrill of discovering a small cinema screening a docco on my first night so I could be better informed. And that universal artform of revolutions - the murals - adorning walls of checkpoints when I travelled through the Chiapas countryside. The devastating knowledge that so many of these revolutionaries lost loved ones fighting the government for ridiculous wants like land, health, education and basic human rights.
Palenque. Beautiful ancient Palenque. And Agua Azul, a water wonderland of falls and currents no theme park could build. Pumping my arms against the flow to reach the edge of a waterfall and stand beneath it, my sore muscles pummelled, my bad mood that day erased.
And the tourist hub of Yucatan where I got lost in Walmart for an hour and had a panic attack soon after. People don't tell you that the biggest danger to peace of mind when travelling can be just that - your mind - struggling daily to make decisions, take in more knowledge than is available to you in a week at home, communicating with new person after new person and questioning all that you have done thus far. If one more fellow tourist says 'you are only here for __ weeks / days?! But you can't do ANYTHING in that time,' I may hit them. Hard.
But Mexico, that country an American official warned me was crazy, soothed my own madness, delivering up charming and talkative hosts, Manolo and Erick, crystalline beaches, private cave pools, ocean paradise and a reprieve from loud mouthed, sun burnt Westerners (including myself). I will come back one day. But for now, I will just feel full. Of fajitas, art, history, natures, people, religion and - of course - cerveza.
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Heaven
Heaven is stepping off a collectivo on an empty piece of highway and trudging down a path to a deserted stretch of Carribean; creeping down rocky path to swim in my first cenote, a deserted, mangrove circled peace and quiet; alone save for brush breaking wildlife sneaking closer (the dirty perves) and little fish that nibble my ankles in a pleasing food chain reversal.
It is returning to the beach to snack on carrots while I read then wading into the Carribean, sea blinding clear and shallow turquoise. Palm fringed sands like a dream, but barely another in sight. It's knowing that there are no trees like this in Cancun, where the tourists pay big for their piece of behemoth Hilton. Schadenfreude.
It is hopping off the bus at Cenote Dos Ojos and wandering up to the dive centre, splashing out on a snorkel so as to tour the cave depths of this mammoth network of tunnels and towers, shining fish and deep passageways I can't reach; scooting under the surface when an American afraid of bats declares 'you know the best part will be telling people I did this.' Knowing how wrong she is. Holding my breath to forge deep through a tunnel and emerge triumphant, only to realise I narrowly missed smashing my skull on the cave roof. Laughing.
It is fending off Decision Panic when the cabanas I head for are closed, only to land on another stretch of perfect sand. Diving under the blue so I can hear nothing and emerging to watch the thunder clouds roll in, fascinated by this pale turquoise ocean and indigo sky, like a house paint sampler; colours I have never seen side by side.
Heaven is tucking into an overpriced salad and beer at a candle lit, sand floor restaurant, while the black outside takes shape only beneath a lightening strike, and thinking that my most stressful day at work paid for this.
It is returning to the beach to snack on carrots while I read then wading into the Carribean, sea blinding clear and shallow turquoise. Palm fringed sands like a dream, but barely another in sight. It's knowing that there are no trees like this in Cancun, where the tourists pay big for their piece of behemoth Hilton. Schadenfreude.
It is hopping off the bus at Cenote Dos Ojos and wandering up to the dive centre, splashing out on a snorkel so as to tour the cave depths of this mammoth network of tunnels and towers, shining fish and deep passageways I can't reach; scooting under the surface when an American afraid of bats declares 'you know the best part will be telling people I did this.' Knowing how wrong she is. Holding my breath to forge deep through a tunnel and emerge triumphant, only to realise I narrowly missed smashing my skull on the cave roof. Laughing.
It is fending off Decision Panic when the cabanas I head for are closed, only to land on another stretch of perfect sand. Diving under the blue so I can hear nothing and emerging to watch the thunder clouds roll in, fascinated by this pale turquoise ocean and indigo sky, like a house paint sampler; colours I have never seen side by side.
Heaven is tucking into an overpriced salad and beer at a candle lit, sand floor restaurant, while the black outside takes shape only beneath a lightening strike, and thinking that my most stressful day at work paid for this.
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