viernes, 25 de marzo de 2011

"I am a passenger," says Iggy Pop...but he had heroine to help with the journey. I don't.


I am lacking in time, my anecdotes are scribbled on the pages of my “Hello Kitty” diary (yes, it’s pink, and yes, it has a heart lock, a tangible one at least). I have become a traveller, nay; a “back packer” (…is the fact that I’ve already over used the quotation mark sufficient evidence of aforementioned diary?). Anyway, it appears that I’m only just coming to terms with this realisation…

I was strolling along the streets of Comodoro Rivadavia (from now on please assume that all names of towns or cities are said in an annoying faux-Spanish accent that says: “Yar, like I don’t even think about it anymore, ever since conversing, from an STA travel distance, with villagers when I was building mud huts in Bolivia and thus simultaneously placing local workers out of a job…lovely race, a tad small though”) …sweating like any normal person with a b*** p*** on who doesn’t wish to use the words “black man”, “pedophile” or “vicar” in his simile, when I suddenly saw my reflection in the shop window. I stopped, obviously.

“Oh dear god Frederick, you have what appears to be a b*** p*** on you. Further more, you have a hand woven bracelet on your wrist and long flowing locks…I am akin to a Von Trapp child, Justin, of course.” My mind piped up.

I can whole heartedly say that people who wear a bracelet, hand woven by some small Peruvian child, makes me sick, buy it from a supermarket and support a corporation. However, mine is different. ‘Twas made by a crazy Frenchman, Alan, who always wore a hat, a hat that always sported a feather, a feather that probably sported diseases. I didn’t touch him, or his hat. Anyway, the bracelet is a mixture of ivy green, daffodil yellow and love, lots of it. I like it, it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside...and what!?

Recently, I have been given a lot of unnecessary chagrin from dogs. The first incident goes as follows:

The resident dog in the hostel I was residing in, in Ushuaia (southern most city in the world, why did I go there? To say I’d been there. It wasn't for the penguins. Fuck the penguins, or don’t, save that for a nighttime stroll to a zoo, which has penguins, or you’ll be settling for a marsupial and they’ll probably see you cuming…being animals off the night ‘n’ all), named “Gordita”, which does translate as: “little fat female being”. Anyway, I believe this animal to be having a thyroid issue (all diagnoses are sponsored by New Labour), but unfortunately this disability/disease hasn’t saved it from owner induced aggravation.

So, I was minding my own business, preaching the good word (democracy and Libyian food) when I passed said dog…

“Oh, hello Gordita…how are you today, little doggy woggy. Would you care to smell my foot, you seem awfully interested: a fetish no doubt.” I offer, in a generously patronizing tone, as all children and animals ought to be addressed in.

(I proceed to move my shoed, right foot towards its bed: testing the water as you will.
The dog woggy then launches, as best it can, at me like a beige balloon with buttons of death stuck on it as eyes. Jaws, lock around my foot. I let out an oestrogen filled, girly scream, followed by a guttural, manly laughter…sprinkled delicately with a garnish of fear, courtesy of Nigella. Silly doggy.)

“Damn you cushion doggy, with unfortunate thyroid problem.” I say, coolly, whilst I swing my right foot around, now adorned with an Argentine mongrel (‘twasn’t even pure bred: scum).

Those around me are either laughing or trying to help.

“Remain calm Pablobians, all is well and rosy here. I saw some action like this in India…eventually the boy relaxed his jaw.” I broadcasted to the room.

I was right, the doggy did let go, and then receive a sharp kick in its face...that was a joke, I don’t hurt animals with four legs. If a suspiciously large or any amount of Green and Black’s finds itself in its food bowl, I know no evil, merely speak a little.

Second dog incident shall be relayed a little quicker to you, as I seem to have rambled.

Well, when crossing into Chile, believe it or not, one is required to cross a border. This border has rules. Two of the main rules are: “NO FRUIT OR SMALL CHILDREN”. I carry a lot of one of those commodities, not the children, although the Peruvian border awaits me with baited breath.

(The following is said around a camp fire as flutes rasp out the “Titanic” soundtrack.)

“Rules are vague, I’m a passenger and now a b*** p*****, therefore materialistic trappings of a society corrupted by vanity and self preservation mean nothing to me, neither do intangible boundaries, dragging one down like governmental gravity. This Granny Smith is coming with me.”

So, you are required, having shown some official your darkest hour, the passport photo, to stand in a line. I thought that that was it, we was all to be shot because of some childish border banter…couldn’t I at least have a shower like Scorcese says. “What?”...nothing.
A dog came out, on a lead. Everyone sighs and there is a group “awhhhh” sound.
“Oh you foolish Pabloblians. Not cute little doggy…devil doggy that’s going to send anyone with a banana or rock of crack up their arse straight to a Chilean cell to be sandwiched between a 6ft 5” misunderstood black man and a skinny, victim of society with father issues (previous stereotypes are based solely on fact and films). The dog starts to sniff peoples’ bags. It stops at mine, places it left paw on my bag and gazes up at its owner. Everyone giggles and another collective “awwwhhh” sound is heard. Who is responsible for the "awwwhh" spark? Pablo?

Thus, thanks to a small golden retriever with a nose for fruit and crack (another chap had a casual prostrate exam; forever a changed man), I was forced to spill the contents of my b*** p*** on the floor. “No, I have no idea how that laced silk dressing gown that hugs one’s thighs like a warm summer wind got in my bag, and no, I can not explain those stains…oh, all right, I can.”

I never had to pay a fine, financial that is…I was however forced to watch their rendition of “Cats”, twice.

Moral of this story…wedge higher if you want to fend off Lloyd Weber.

(May I apologise for lack of appropriate punctuation…the keyboard has decided to mix up the necessary buttons. “Made in Chile.” This won’t happen again.)

The next post is due to address the difficulties of sharing a room with seven other living human beings...go on, use your imagination.

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