Previously on Cum Tacent Clament…
“Stop changing the subject and tell me what’s wrong,” I yelled.
“We can’t,” explained OG in a voice that implied I was missing something flagrantly obvious, “We’re not all here yet.”
“Oh good grief,” I groaned. “Who else could we possibly be waiting for?”
“For me, of course,” said a voice behind me. And since I was standing with my back to the cliff edge, that was a little disconcerting. I turned around slowly and realised that it couldn’t possibly have been anyone else.
“Nice of you to join us,” I said to … Samantha Triton.
And now… Write-Me-Back Falls continues.
Ba daah, de dat daah da de dah de dat dat daah – Dat daah de daah de dada daah Daaaaaah.
“Theme music? Really?’ asked Samantha “On a text only blog?”
“Shut up,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“And as if Write-Me-Back Falls would have the theme from A Country Practice as its opening titles anyway.”
“…I was going for the theme from Jurassic Park, actually.”
“You really need to learn to sing better.”
“I really do. How come you can fly?”
“Rocket Boots,” explained Samantha as if it was obvious. She touched down with a hint of overdrive and toggled the rotary speaker effect off.
“Of course,” I sighed. “I suppose there’s no point asking why you’re teaming up with OG and BL over there? I thought you were on my side.”
“Of course I am,” she said, with reverb.
“Then this doesn’t make sense,” I said, by way of plot exposition. “Oxfam Girl is almost completely imaginary, and Biscuit Lady is one hundred per cent metaphorical. You’re real. Or at least, you are when you’re being a piano. Not so much when you’re a flying woman. Also: Why are you dressed like that?”
“I’m a time-travelling space pirate.”
“YOU’RE A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT!”
“I hate to interrupt,” interrupted Oxfam girl. I suspect she quite enjoyed it actually. “But could we get on to what’s really going on here?”
“I’d love nothing more,” I said
“Hmph,” hmphed Biscuit Lady.
“We’re all here because we’re about to be blasted out of existence,” said Samantha, a little too matter-of-factly.
“Don’t be stupid,” I replied, “It’s clear that none of you exist except in my mixed up mind anyway. What have you got to be worried about?”
“That,” said all three of them in unison, pointing out to the electrical storm gathering over the ocean. I laughed at them.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little rain cloud?” I chided. “What kind of tropical girls are you?”
“I’m from a musical outlet in Brisbane,” said Samantha.
“I’m from an Oxfam Shop in Sydney. Sort of,” said Oxfam Girl.
“I’m a sociological metaphor, and I don’t like thunder,” said Biscuit Lady.
“Besides,” said Samantha, rolling her eyes, “That’s no ordinary thunder storm. If you look closely you’ll see the lightning is flashing steel blue, with a band of green around the middle.”
“That is unusual,” I admitted. “What do you suppose is causing it?”
“We don’t know,” admitted Biscuit Lady. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I asked the Bureau of Meteorology about it and they said they don’t really have a classification for it yet either.”
“I have a bureau of meteorology in my subconscious?” I asked.
“Stay focussed,” said Oxfam Girl. “No-one knows what that thing is, but we all know it’s dangerous. We can feel it.”
“We’re calling it Resolution Seven,” said Samantha.
“That’s… an awesome name for a thunder storm,” I said as a brilliant flash of blue lightning, the colour of the ocean at sunset, was followed by a particularly resonant thunderclap. And it was certainly getting closer. I watched, fascinated, as the clouds blew in and hovered over the cliff top. The imaginatrixes shivered beside me, and Biscuit Lady was looking decidedly pixelated.
“Get behind me girls,” I said as I smiled insolently at the storm, “This will only take a second.”
It sure did. Almost without warning, a steel blue thunderbolt flashed straight through my chest. The ground shook around me, but I stood my ground, just barely. As a good Christian Boy, I’d never felt more Weird. And as the fireball dissipated and the rain began to fall in warm, huge splotches (none of this rubbish southern rain, thank you very much. It’s my brain after all), I looked around to make sure the girls were okay.
They were gone.
In their place stood a piano, a 'make poverty history' wrist band and a plate of damp biscuits with a 'highly commended' certificate. I smiled, nodded once to say goodbye, and left them behind. As the storm of Resolution Seven closed in, without looking back I stepped to the edge of the cliff and jumped.
This is the part of the dream where I’m supposed to wake up and get on with writing. Apparently I still haven’t. It’s possible this blog is about to get really strange. Either that or I’ll be back in 2013 with more of the usual nonsense. Who knows?
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
Showing posts with label Oxfam Girl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Oxfam Girl. Show all posts
31 December 2012
16 November 2012
The Write-Me-Back Falls: Episode 2
Previously on Cum Tacent Clament…
“We’ll always have Paris!” yelled Oxfam Girl as she vanished into the blackness. I don’t think I ever wrote about her in Paris, but that’s women for you.
“That wasn’t very sporting,” I said indignantly.
“Who said I was going to play fair?” asked the woman in black, as with a nonchalant flick of her head she slipped back her hood revealing…
And now, the next thrilling instalment of Write-Me-Back Falls:
“Oxfam Girl?’ I spluttered in surprise.
“Of course it’s me,” said the woman in black, who did indeed appear to somehow be Oxfam Girl. “Don’t you ever read your own blog? You must have figured out by now that any time a mysterious unknown woman shows up, it always ends up being me.”
“Yes,” I admitted, “But I just… Did you just push yourself off a cliff?”
“I did,” she said cheekily, “but you must have known I’d be back. You can’t push someone off the Write-Me-Back falls in the middle of a thunderstorm and expect that she’s not coming back.”
“I suppose that’s true,” I conceded, “it’s just that normally people wait until after they’ve disappeared before they reappear. And they don’t make a habit of paradoxically making themselves disappear in the first place.”
“Quite right,” said an indignant voice behind me, with the sort of tone that would make people who like the sound of finger nails on black boards wince. Just my luck. What was she doing here?
“Biscuit Lady. How lovely to see you again,” I said, in my most gentlemanly voice.
“That’s Ms Lady to you, young man,” sniffed BL, “and how dare you let me catch you out here with a poor defenceless young lady in the middle of a thunder storm. For shame!”
“What do you mean defenceless?” I asked. “Last time I saw her, she was having a light sabre duel with you on my front lawn. And she was winning.”
“Silence!” demanded Biscuit Lady.
“I don’t think that encounter was actually real,” added Oxfam Girl unhelpfully.
“Shut up both of you,” I snapped. “This is my blog! I’ll be the one who decides what’s real and what isn’t, thank you very much.”
“My dear boy,” said Algernon Moncrieff, who had materialised beside me, “You’re currently standing on top of Write-Me-Back Falls in the middle of a storm, having an argument with an imaginary girlfriend and an anthropomorphic projection of out-dated societal expectations. And, might I add, you’re losing. Are you sure you’re in the best position to be making reality judgements?” I turned around to punch him as hard as I could, but he had already disappeared. Besides, he did have a point.
“Okay, fine,” I said, since doing anything other than agreeing with them probably wasn’t going to get me anywhere. “If you’re both here and ganging up on me, it’s obvious that something fairly heavy duty is going on my subconscious. What’s on your minds?”
“It’s your mind, not ours,” sniffed Biscuit Lady. Trust her to expect me to take responsibility for everything.
“And how do you know you’re not just wasting time while you’re supposed to be writing NaNoWriMo?” asked Oxfam Girl, who was developing a nasty habit of missing the point completely.
“Stop changing the subject and tell me what’s wrong,” I yelled.
“We can’t,” explained OG in a voice that implied I was missing something flagrantly obvious, “We’re not all here yet.”
“Oh good grief,” I groaned. “Who else could we possibly be waiting for?”
“For me, of course,” said a voice behind me. And since I was standing with my back to the cliff edge, that was a little disconcerting. I turned around slowly and realised that it couldn’t possibly have been anyone else.
“Nice of you to join us,” I said to…
TO BE CONTINUED...
“We’ll always have Paris!” yelled Oxfam Girl as she vanished into the blackness. I don’t think I ever wrote about her in Paris, but that’s women for you.
“That wasn’t very sporting,” I said indignantly.
“Who said I was going to play fair?” asked the woman in black, as with a nonchalant flick of her head she slipped back her hood revealing…
And now, the next thrilling instalment of Write-Me-Back Falls:
“Oxfam Girl?’ I spluttered in surprise.
“Of course it’s me,” said the woman in black, who did indeed appear to somehow be Oxfam Girl. “Don’t you ever read your own blog? You must have figured out by now that any time a mysterious unknown woman shows up, it always ends up being me.”
“Yes,” I admitted, “But I just… Did you just push yourself off a cliff?”
“I did,” she said cheekily, “but you must have known I’d be back. You can’t push someone off the Write-Me-Back falls in the middle of a thunderstorm and expect that she’s not coming back.”
“I suppose that’s true,” I conceded, “it’s just that normally people wait until after they’ve disappeared before they reappear. And they don’t make a habit of paradoxically making themselves disappear in the first place.”
“Quite right,” said an indignant voice behind me, with the sort of tone that would make people who like the sound of finger nails on black boards wince. Just my luck. What was she doing here?
“Biscuit Lady. How lovely to see you again,” I said, in my most gentlemanly voice.
“That’s Ms Lady to you, young man,” sniffed BL, “and how dare you let me catch you out here with a poor defenceless young lady in the middle of a thunder storm. For shame!”
“What do you mean defenceless?” I asked. “Last time I saw her, she was having a light sabre duel with you on my front lawn. And she was winning.”
“Silence!” demanded Biscuit Lady.
“I don’t think that encounter was actually real,” added Oxfam Girl unhelpfully.
“Shut up both of you,” I snapped. “This is my blog! I’ll be the one who decides what’s real and what isn’t, thank you very much.”
“My dear boy,” said Algernon Moncrieff, who had materialised beside me, “You’re currently standing on top of Write-Me-Back Falls in the middle of a storm, having an argument with an imaginary girlfriend and an anthropomorphic projection of out-dated societal expectations. And, might I add, you’re losing. Are you sure you’re in the best position to be making reality judgements?” I turned around to punch him as hard as I could, but he had already disappeared. Besides, he did have a point.
“Okay, fine,” I said, since doing anything other than agreeing with them probably wasn’t going to get me anywhere. “If you’re both here and ganging up on me, it’s obvious that something fairly heavy duty is going on my subconscious. What’s on your minds?”
“It’s your mind, not ours,” sniffed Biscuit Lady. Trust her to expect me to take responsibility for everything.
“And how do you know you’re not just wasting time while you’re supposed to be writing NaNoWriMo?” asked Oxfam Girl, who was developing a nasty habit of missing the point completely.
“Stop changing the subject and tell me what’s wrong,” I yelled.
“We can’t,” explained OG in a voice that implied I was missing something flagrantly obvious, “We’re not all here yet.”
“Oh good grief,” I groaned. “Who else could we possibly be waiting for?”
“For me, of course,” said a voice behind me. And since I was standing with my back to the cliff edge, that was a little disconcerting. I turned around slowly and realised that it couldn’t possibly have been anyone else.
“Nice of you to join us,” I said to…
TO BE CONTINUED...
07 November 2012
The Write-Me-Back Falls: Episode 1
So Nanowrimo is going well. You can see the progress metre
on the right side bar showing you my journey to 50,000. I’m about a day behind
schedule, but there’s plenty of time to make that up.
Strange things start to happen to your brain when you start investing this much mental energy into one pursuit. The other night, somewhere between choreographing a space-age bar fight and staging a daring escape from a locked cargo hold, I had a visit from an old friend. Someone I hadn’t seen for many years, and to be honest, hadn’t expected to see again. I certainly never expected to hear her knocking on my door at two in the morning.
Strange things start to happen to your brain when you start investing this much mental energy into one pursuit. The other night, somewhere between choreographing a space-age bar fight and staging a daring escape from a locked cargo hold, I had a visit from an old friend. Someone I hadn’t seen for many years, and to be honest, hadn’t expected to see again. I certainly never expected to hear her knocking on my door at two in the morning.
What followed was complete and unadulterated nonsense, but
by now you’re almost certainly not reading this blog because you’re expecting
it to make sense.
Gw2Rs: Oxfam Girl? What the hell are you doing here? I’m
supposed to be writing a science fiction novel in a month, to say nothing of
the other side projects I have on the go. I haven’t got time to waste writing
made-up adventures for some imaginary girlfriend I haven’t seen since I was in
Europe.
Oxfam Girl: Shhh. I need your help, Sugar.
Gw2Rs: I am not your sugar. What’s wrong?
Oxfam Girl: I think someone’s trying to kill me.
Gw2Rs: What makes you say that?
Oxfam Girl: The last three nights I’ve been visited by a
mysterious stranger who does nothing except say “your time has come” and then
disappear.
Gw2Rs: Wow. That is mysterious. What does this stranger look
like?
Oxfam Girl: Sometimes she’s wearing a jet black robe with a
dark hood.
Gw2Rs: Sounds about right.
Oxfam Girl: Other times she’s wearing red bathers.
Gw2Rs: Eh?
Oxfam Girl: I don’t know. You have a weird imagination.
Gw2Rs: Me? I’m not the one who… yeah okay, whatever. Why is
she trying to kill you?
Oxfam Girl: That’s what we’re going to find out. Follow me.
Gw2Rs: Where are we going?
Oxfam Girl: Wherever we have to. Just hold this quokka and
think of home.
Gw2Rs: … ? … No.
We teleported anyway. Next thing I knew we were standing on
an ominously jagged cliff top in the middle of a thunderstorm. Very dramatic. A
bolt of lightning out over the ocean revealed the woman in black standing a few
feet from us. Before I even had a chance to start writing a witty and
internally asynchronous introductory monologue for her, she calmly walked over
and pushed Oxfam Girl off the edge.
“We’ll always have Paris!” yelled Oxfam Girl as she vanished
into the blackness. I don’t think I ever wrote about her in Paris, but that’s
women for you.
“That wasn’t very sporting,” I said indignantly.
“Who said I was going to play fair?” asked the woman in
black, as with a nonchalant flick of her head she slipped back her hood
revealing…
TO BE CONTINUED
Because I’m really supposed to be working on my Nanowrimo
story right now.
17 October 2011
Things You Don't Expect To Be Woken Up By
So waking up the morning after the first night of a show is always interesting. In my case, I’ve almost always stayed up into the early hours of the morning after the show, waiting for the opening night euphoria to settle down enough for me to be able to sleep. Consequently, the next day I usually wake up some time mid morning with an applause hangover and some vague confusion over the idea of turning around and doing it all again tonight.
Usually, I get woken up by my phone vibrating on my bedside table to alert me that I have sixteen text messages and five missed calls from eligible young ladies’ mothers who have been to the show and wanted to say how much they enjoyed it and that they would definitely be bringing the rest of their families along for the show the following night because they’d all, on hearing their respective matriarchs’ glowing revues of the show, been dying to come, live the experience for themselves, meet the cast and get lost for an hour and half or so in a little bit of theatrical magic of their own.
I say “usually,” but the fact is it hasn’t happened like that the last three times. Or ever, actually. But it strikes me as the sort of thing that should be happening more often.
No. what happened this time around was I woke up to discover a sagely looking mandrill had snuck into my room overnight and was nibbling on the edges of my Back to the Future poster. I threw my pillow at him to make him stop, but he simply dodged to the left, turned and blew me a raspberry, before boldly exclaiming “you follow old Rafiki! He knows the way!” I had to admit, the crazy old primate had a point, so I followed him out the window onto the front lawn where I found Oxfam Girl and Biscuit Lady having a light sabre duel, accompanied by the theme from The West Wing. It was at that moment that I realised I was a seahorse.
Okay, that one didn’t really happen either.
I was woken up by my phone ringing. It actually was a young lady on the other end, but the young lady in question happened to be my sister, which took some of the excitement out of it. That is, until she said this:
“I’m just ringing to tell you… I’ve been cast in the lead role in an Italian version of the Sound of Music, and I’m moving to Florence to follow my…”
Stop it!
…
That is, until she said this:
“I’m just ringing to tell you… I’m engaged”
My typically eloquent response was the product of severe shock, recent awakening and applause hangover and basically came something like:
“WHAT?”
After some incoherent babbling I think I managed a ‘congratulations’ in there somewhere. But honestly, if you’d put all the previous scenarios in front of me two weeks ago and asked me to bet on the outcome, I would probably have picked the monkey one. It’s strange, and possibly a little disrespectful to my sister, not to mention her fiancé, but that’s where I would have put my money.
I’m not really a gambling man. Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
Usually, I get woken up by my phone vibrating on my bedside table to alert me that I have sixteen text messages and five missed calls from eligible young ladies’ mothers who have been to the show and wanted to say how much they enjoyed it and that they would definitely be bringing the rest of their families along for the show the following night because they’d all, on hearing their respective matriarchs’ glowing revues of the show, been dying to come, live the experience for themselves, meet the cast and get lost for an hour and half or so in a little bit of theatrical magic of their own.
I say “usually,” but the fact is it hasn’t happened like that the last three times. Or ever, actually. But it strikes me as the sort of thing that should be happening more often.
No. what happened this time around was I woke up to discover a sagely looking mandrill had snuck into my room overnight and was nibbling on the edges of my Back to the Future poster. I threw my pillow at him to make him stop, but he simply dodged to the left, turned and blew me a raspberry, before boldly exclaiming “you follow old Rafiki! He knows the way!” I had to admit, the crazy old primate had a point, so I followed him out the window onto the front lawn where I found Oxfam Girl and Biscuit Lady having a light sabre duel, accompanied by the theme from The West Wing. It was at that moment that I realised I was a seahorse.
Okay, that one didn’t really happen either.
I was woken up by my phone ringing. It actually was a young lady on the other end, but the young lady in question happened to be my sister, which took some of the excitement out of it. That is, until she said this:
“I’m just ringing to tell you… I’ve been cast in the lead role in an Italian version of the Sound of Music, and I’m moving to Florence to follow my…”
Stop it!
…
That is, until she said this:
“I’m just ringing to tell you… I’m engaged”
My typically eloquent response was the product of severe shock, recent awakening and applause hangover and basically came something like:
“WHAT?”
After some incoherent babbling I think I managed a ‘congratulations’ in there somewhere. But honestly, if you’d put all the previous scenarios in front of me two weeks ago and asked me to bet on the outcome, I would probably have picked the monkey one. It’s strange, and possibly a little disrespectful to my sister, not to mention her fiancé, but that’s where I would have put my money.
I’m not really a gambling man. Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
06 April 2010
The Ghosts of Made-Up Girlfriends Past
The most peculiar thing happened to me today as I was walking through Casuarina. I was strolling, coke bottle in hand (He is risen, baby!), through the older section near K-Mart when I was approached and stopped by a misty-eyed exotic stranger. I knew straight away what was happening, having had some experience with shopping mall charity spruikers in the past, but nonetheless having a pretty girl stop me to chat occurs infrequently enough that I just decided to go with it.
Alice (name changed to protect the ignorant; it was actually a really hot sounding Russian name that I couldn’t spell if I tried): How’re you going today?
Garry with 2 Rs: I’m going pretty well. How’re you?
Alice: Pretty good thanks. Would you like to take a couple of minutes to see what we’re doing here today?
Gw2Rs: I suppose I have a few minutes to spare (translates as “I’ll look at anything you want me to, just keep that James Bond villainess accent coming”).
Alice: My name’s Alice, by the way. What’s yours?
Gw2Rs: I’m Garry. Alice… that’s an unusual name.
Alice: It’s Russian. And congratulations: you’re the first person today to pronounce it correctly. Most people can’t do that.
Gw2Rs: I’m a linguist (said with smug confidence that didn’t really match the content, but what are you going to do?).
Alice: Oh wow! I did some Slavic philology at college back home.
Gw2Rs: Fantastic. That sounds fascinating. (Yeah! Suck on that, veterinary science students I went to uni with! Who’s talking to all the pretty girls now?)
Alice: Well… anyway, I am here today representing Oxfam International.
And just like that, the spell was broken. I mean, I kept up the façade of being interested in what she was collecting for (something to do with sexually abused women building wells in Africa), but I knew what her real agenda was. It all starts off with a bit of innocent (well…) chit-chat. Next thing you know you’re buying a block of fair trade chocolate a week and pining over a forbidden love who starts making uninvited and frankly preposterous appearances in slightly embellished accounts of your European working holiday.
Not today, Alice!
Actually, it turns out Oxfam don’t even have a shop in Darwin. This sucks a bit because I left my make poverty history wristband on a table in Brisbane on my way through in November. These guys were based on the Gold Coast and were in town on the Darwin leg of a national tour. Somewhere, charity spokesperson got cross-wired with rockstar and I, for one, welcome the change.
And remember, it costs as little as a dollar a day to send as many cute Europeans to talk to Garry in shopping malls as it takes to buy just one cup of coffee a week. Give or take.
Over to you, ROOOOOOZ!
Garry with 2 Rs
What? Scraping the barrel a bit? Why yes. Yes I am.
Alice (name changed to protect the ignorant; it was actually a really hot sounding Russian name that I couldn’t spell if I tried): How’re you going today?
Garry with 2 Rs: I’m going pretty well. How’re you?
Alice: Pretty good thanks. Would you like to take a couple of minutes to see what we’re doing here today?
Gw2Rs: I suppose I have a few minutes to spare (translates as “I’ll look at anything you want me to, just keep that James Bond villainess accent coming”).
Alice: My name’s Alice, by the way. What’s yours?
Gw2Rs: I’m Garry. Alice… that’s an unusual name.
Alice: It’s Russian. And congratulations: you’re the first person today to pronounce it correctly. Most people can’t do that.
Gw2Rs: I’m a linguist (said with smug confidence that didn’t really match the content, but what are you going to do?).
Alice: Oh wow! I did some Slavic philology at college back home.
Gw2Rs: Fantastic. That sounds fascinating. (Yeah! Suck on that, veterinary science students I went to uni with! Who’s talking to all the pretty girls now?)
Alice: Well… anyway, I am here today representing Oxfam International.
And just like that, the spell was broken. I mean, I kept up the façade of being interested in what she was collecting for (something to do with sexually abused women building wells in Africa), but I knew what her real agenda was. It all starts off with a bit of innocent (well…) chit-chat. Next thing you know you’re buying a block of fair trade chocolate a week and pining over a forbidden love who starts making uninvited and frankly preposterous appearances in slightly embellished accounts of your European working holiday.
Not today, Alice!
Actually, it turns out Oxfam don’t even have a shop in Darwin. This sucks a bit because I left my make poverty history wristband on a table in Brisbane on my way through in November. These guys were based on the Gold Coast and were in town on the Darwin leg of a national tour. Somewhere, charity spokesperson got cross-wired with rockstar and I, for one, welcome the change.
And remember, it costs as little as a dollar a day to send as many cute Europeans to talk to Garry in shopping malls as it takes to buy just one cup of coffee a week. Give or take.
Over to you, ROOOOOOZ!
Garry with 2 Rs
What? Scraping the barrel a bit? Why yes. Yes I am.
12 August 2009
The Way of St. James
A few posts ago I mentioned (amidst a bunch of otherwise irrelevant observations) an interest in Santiago, which is a city in North West Spain, and also the Spanish name for the apostle we call St. James in English. The city is named after him because the cathedral of Santiago is believed by some to contain the apostle´s remains. The story of how they got to be there is a pretty good one, but that doesn´t seem to diminish the appeal of the city. As a result, the city is visited by thousands of pilgrims every year, and the route through North Spain you walk on to get there is known as the Camino de Santiago, or Way of St. James.
Some people do the walk for genuine reasons of faith. Others, like me, just think going hiking for a week through Spain sounds like great fun. Unfortunately, when I picked my rucksack up when I left Madrid all those weeks ago, it became obvious fairly quickly that I wasn´t going to be carrying it 400km across the north coast, so I abandoned that idea. But I´ve also never let the fact that I haven´t actually done something stop me writing about it like I know what I´m talking about. So I hereby present my impressions of the Camino de Santiago.
What would have happened
As I lay in my hacienda in Barcelona, looking up at the stars and wondering what had happened to the roof, I had a sacred vision. I saw St. James walking over a field of sunflowers. I could tell it was St. James because of his pilgrim´s staff and his sea-shell emblem. He was also wearing a pirate hat and a kilt, but I suspect that had more to do with the extra chorizo I had with dinner than with liturgical iconicry. In any event, they were almost certainly non-canonical.
St James was beckoning me westward and offered me a stone tablet, upon which was inscribed "You won´t walk 750km to Santiago and visit my crypt".
"I will" I replied. And with that, I set off, armed with only the clothes on my back, a big stick with a sea-shell on it, my bible and my iPod. With only the stars to guide me, I set my face to the west. When I reached the coast of the Mediterranean Sea, I decided to buy a compass. Navigating by the Southern Cross gets a bit tricky in the Northern Hemisphere.
The first couple of hundred kilometres were lonely and perilous. I was plagued by visions of inner demons and of sirens, telling me they´d saved me a spot on the beach and asking me where the bloody hell I was. Fortunately as I made my bed for the night in an out of the way albergue in Frómista I happened upon a small group (although I believe the fashionable term these days is 'connect group') of pilgrims also bound for Santiago.
There was Nikolai and his charming wife Svetlana who had both walked all the way from St. Petersburg and were quite obviously completely nuts. There was a Kiwi girl named Ella and a big Frenchman named Claude who had come on the pilgrimage hoping to be blessed with the recipe for the perfect dim sim. I think he may have been slightly misinformed.
But the pilgrim who immediately caught my attention was a young woman, sitting slightly apart from the group, her face covered by a long forest green hood. She said nothing, but her very countenance exuded a feeling of peace, well being and fair trade. I now had two reasons to make the journey to Santiago; one, to find the identity of this mystery woman, and two, ... hmmm, nope, I guess I just had the one reason then.
Over the next few days, as we drew closer and closer to the city, the pilgrimage began to take its toll on the group. The summer heat was becomming a problem for the Russians, who as it turned out were made of parmesan cheese. As we approached Ponferrada they began to melt and had to turn back to Russia. Ella was picked up in Cebreira for over staying her visa and deported back to Wellington. Somewhere between Sarría and Lavacolla Claude was accosted by a band of gypsies who demanded that he surrender immediately. Being French, he agreed and ran screaming into the hills.
That just left me and the mysterious stranger. Given that she didn´t talk, that didn´t leave us with many options in terms of stimulating conversation. Eventually I decided to make her a deal.
"I´ll make you a deal," I said, redundantly. "If we make it as far as the cathedral, will you at least tell me who you are?" The woman still said nothing, but nodded her assent.
As more days passed and we got closer and closer to Santiago, I grew more and more curious, but less and less enchanted, as her thick velvet hood was covered in mud and sweat and was starting to stink a bit. Finally, when it seemed I could no longer stand the suspense and she could no longer stand the smell, we arrived at the gates of la Catedral de Santiago de Compostela.
"Now, sir, I believe I have a promise to keep," said an enthralling, but oddly familiar voice from beneath the veil. "It´s time you learned my true identity". With an anti-climactic flick she flipped her hood back to reveal...
"Oxfam Girl? Oh you´ve got to be kidding me.
"What? I thought you´d be pleased to see me."
"Yeah, I am. It´s just... don´t you think this gag is getting a bit old?"
"Oh gee. You really know how to make a girl feel special, don´t you?"
"Oh shut up and help me find this damn shrine so we can get the hell out of here."
We climbed inside the main sanctuary and I was immediately struck by what a firm grasp of the basic tennets of Christianity the folk who commissioned the cathedral must have had. Everything was so huge and overstated and covered in gold. It would have been enough to make St. James roll over in his grave, if it wasn´t for the fact that, actually, it was his grave.
We passed through the sanctuary and now I have a certificate I can show St. Peter, redeemable for a 50% reduction of my time in Purgatory, assuming I get as far as St. Pete in the first place, that is. Quite how I´m going to transport the certificate into the hereafter with me is anyone´s guess, but I´ve decided to take the Pope at his word. Oxfam Girl was unfortunately deemed unworthy and was instantly transformed into a sea-shell.
She got better
Far from h... Oh no, wait...
What actually happened
I caught the train in from Porto and found myself a bed for the night, then set out to view the cathedral. I walked under the sanctuary to see the big silver coffin that supposedly contains the apostle´s remains. Not being Catholic or remotely superstitious, it would probably have been an utterly underwhelming end if I had walked all the way from Bilbao to get there. The pipes for the organ looked like they could blow the roof off the place (maybe even wake up St. James) if you pulled all the stops, but I couldn´t see the keyboards anywhere. They must have been tucked away in a loft up the top.
While all this was taking place, the flu (non-porcine, thankfully) that I had been attempting to out-run finally caught up with me, which was ironic since I was supposed to be a in a city of purity and healing. I decided to stay an extra night and rest up, leaving me with just a little too much spare time on my hands, since apart from the cathedral, there´s not much to see in Santiago as it turns out. This may or may not have resulted in the quantity of inane drivel you had to get through to make it this far.
Enough already!
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
Some people do the walk for genuine reasons of faith. Others, like me, just think going hiking for a week through Spain sounds like great fun. Unfortunately, when I picked my rucksack up when I left Madrid all those weeks ago, it became obvious fairly quickly that I wasn´t going to be carrying it 400km across the north coast, so I abandoned that idea. But I´ve also never let the fact that I haven´t actually done something stop me writing about it like I know what I´m talking about. So I hereby present my impressions of the Camino de Santiago.
What would have happened
As I lay in my hacienda in Barcelona, looking up at the stars and wondering what had happened to the roof, I had a sacred vision. I saw St. James walking over a field of sunflowers. I could tell it was St. James because of his pilgrim´s staff and his sea-shell emblem. He was also wearing a pirate hat and a kilt, but I suspect that had more to do with the extra chorizo I had with dinner than with liturgical iconicry. In any event, they were almost certainly non-canonical.
St James was beckoning me westward and offered me a stone tablet, upon which was inscribed "You won´t walk 750km to Santiago and visit my crypt".
"I will" I replied. And with that, I set off, armed with only the clothes on my back, a big stick with a sea-shell on it, my bible and my iPod. With only the stars to guide me, I set my face to the west. When I reached the coast of the Mediterranean Sea, I decided to buy a compass. Navigating by the Southern Cross gets a bit tricky in the Northern Hemisphere.
The first couple of hundred kilometres were lonely and perilous. I was plagued by visions of inner demons and of sirens, telling me they´d saved me a spot on the beach and asking me where the bloody hell I was. Fortunately as I made my bed for the night in an out of the way albergue in Frómista I happened upon a small group (although I believe the fashionable term these days is 'connect group') of pilgrims also bound for Santiago.
There was Nikolai and his charming wife Svetlana who had both walked all the way from St. Petersburg and were quite obviously completely nuts. There was a Kiwi girl named Ella and a big Frenchman named Claude who had come on the pilgrimage hoping to be blessed with the recipe for the perfect dim sim. I think he may have been slightly misinformed.
But the pilgrim who immediately caught my attention was a young woman, sitting slightly apart from the group, her face covered by a long forest green hood. She said nothing, but her very countenance exuded a feeling of peace, well being and fair trade. I now had two reasons to make the journey to Santiago; one, to find the identity of this mystery woman, and two, ... hmmm, nope, I guess I just had the one reason then.
Over the next few days, as we drew closer and closer to the city, the pilgrimage began to take its toll on the group. The summer heat was becomming a problem for the Russians, who as it turned out were made of parmesan cheese. As we approached Ponferrada they began to melt and had to turn back to Russia. Ella was picked up in Cebreira for over staying her visa and deported back to Wellington. Somewhere between Sarría and Lavacolla Claude was accosted by a band of gypsies who demanded that he surrender immediately. Being French, he agreed and ran screaming into the hills.
That just left me and the mysterious stranger. Given that she didn´t talk, that didn´t leave us with many options in terms of stimulating conversation. Eventually I decided to make her a deal.
"I´ll make you a deal," I said, redundantly. "If we make it as far as the cathedral, will you at least tell me who you are?" The woman still said nothing, but nodded her assent.
As more days passed and we got closer and closer to Santiago, I grew more and more curious, but less and less enchanted, as her thick velvet hood was covered in mud and sweat and was starting to stink a bit. Finally, when it seemed I could no longer stand the suspense and she could no longer stand the smell, we arrived at the gates of la Catedral de Santiago de Compostela.
"Now, sir, I believe I have a promise to keep," said an enthralling, but oddly familiar voice from beneath the veil. "It´s time you learned my true identity". With an anti-climactic flick she flipped her hood back to reveal...
"Oxfam Girl? Oh you´ve got to be kidding me.
"What? I thought you´d be pleased to see me."
"Yeah, I am. It´s just... don´t you think this gag is getting a bit old?"
"Oh gee. You really know how to make a girl feel special, don´t you?"
"Oh shut up and help me find this damn shrine so we can get the hell out of here."
We climbed inside the main sanctuary and I was immediately struck by what a firm grasp of the basic tennets of Christianity the folk who commissioned the cathedral must have had. Everything was so huge and overstated and covered in gold. It would have been enough to make St. James roll over in his grave, if it wasn´t for the fact that, actually, it was his grave.
We passed through the sanctuary and now I have a certificate I can show St. Peter, redeemable for a 50% reduction of my time in Purgatory, assuming I get as far as St. Pete in the first place, that is. Quite how I´m going to transport the certificate into the hereafter with me is anyone´s guess, but I´ve decided to take the Pope at his word. Oxfam Girl was unfortunately deemed unworthy and was instantly transformed into a sea-shell.
She got better
Far from h... Oh no, wait...
What actually happened
I caught the train in from Porto and found myself a bed for the night, then set out to view the cathedral. I walked under the sanctuary to see the big silver coffin that supposedly contains the apostle´s remains. Not being Catholic or remotely superstitious, it would probably have been an utterly underwhelming end if I had walked all the way from Bilbao to get there. The pipes for the organ looked like they could blow the roof off the place (maybe even wake up St. James) if you pulled all the stops, but I couldn´t see the keyboards anywhere. They must have been tucked away in a loft up the top.
While all this was taking place, the flu (non-porcine, thankfully) that I had been attempting to out-run finally caught up with me, which was ironic since I was supposed to be a in a city of purity and healing. I decided to stay an extra night and rest up, leaving me with just a little too much spare time on my hands, since apart from the cathedral, there´s not much to see in Santiago as it turns out. This may or may not have resulted in the quantity of inane drivel you had to get through to make it this far.
Enough already!
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
17 April 2009
A Splash of Mediterranean Romance
Lately, it seems every conversation I have with someone back home contains some enquiry as to whether I’ve managed to locate a nice Spanish girl during my travels here.
Those of you who know me well are probably bracing yourselves for the inevitable tirade along the lines of a) girls are dumb b) romance is stupid and c) the last thing I need is to get stuck in a city I have no intention of staying in long term.
Furthermore, clearly my chief tools in any such hypothetical campaign are going to be my wit, charm and uncanny way with words, all of which are stunted in the European context by my lack of dialectal fluency, which leaves me with the coherence and vocabulary of the average footballer. I’m forced (hypothetically) to rely purely on my rugged good looks and sheer animal magnetism. And that’s going to be a low percentage shot, whichever way you measure it.
So to hell with it. Unfortunately I can’t provide any truthful or even believable tales of exotic European romance, so I hereby submit the following as a place holder until such time as I can get my actual act together (you may be waiting a while – get over it).
I had considered putting the transcript down in the original native Spanish, but in light of the difficulties this would likely create for you, the reader and also the fact that I’m not actually capable of such a cross-linguistic feat just yet, you’ll just have to use your imagination and picture the following conversation taking place in fluent Spanish.
Susana: Hey there cutie. It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?
Garry: Good morning. Are you having a nice time?
Susana: I’m having a great time. What do you think of the decorations? I think they’re a bit over the top.
Garry: Yes.
Susana: …
Garry: …
Susana: …
Garry: This wine is very nice. Would you like some?
Susana: Yes. Thankyou.
Garry: …
Susana: …
Garry: …
Susanna: So what part of England are you from?
Garry: No. I’m from Streyer.
Susana: From where?
Garry: ah ooh strah lee ah
Susana: Oh! Australia.
Garry: Yeah.
Susana: I really want to go there. What part of Australia?
Garry: I’m from Darwin.
Susana: Is that near Sydney?
Garry: Not really, no.
Susana: …
Garry: …
Marlena: Hi Susie. What’s happening?
Susana: Mazza! It’s been far too long. I hope your sister has recovered from the mild case of Typhoid fever she contracted a few months ago during her prolonged sojourn on the sub-continent.
Garry: Hello.
Susana: Oh, yeah, Marlena, this is … what’s your name again?
Garry: I am called Garry.
Susana: He’s from Australia. Near Sydney.
Marlena: I’ll bet he is. Actually I came over to find out why you’re talking to him, you bitch.
Susana: Eh?
Garry: What?
Marlena: You know very well that I saw him first, and that I called dibbs on him from the other side of the room.
Garry: What?
Susana: You called dibbs? What are we, like 14 years old?
Marlena: Ah well, I’m going to have to open up a can of whoop-ass on you now.
Susana: Bring it on, bitch!
Oxfam Girl: Alright you two, break it up. He’s here with me.
Garry: ¡Chica Oxfam! ¿Que demonios haces aqui?
Oxfam Girl: I’m here to rescue you from getting your arse kicked by two angry Spanish girls.
Garry: But…
Oxfam Girl: Come on. I’ve a got an escape blimp parked out the back.
Garry: Freaking typical. Even when I write the romance myself I don’t get anywhere.
Oxfam Girl: Shut up and get in the blimp.
Garry: You know… something about this whole scenario just doesn’t make sense.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
Those of you who know me well are probably bracing yourselves for the inevitable tirade along the lines of a) girls are dumb b) romance is stupid and c) the last thing I need is to get stuck in a city I have no intention of staying in long term.
Furthermore, clearly my chief tools in any such hypothetical campaign are going to be my wit, charm and uncanny way with words, all of which are stunted in the European context by my lack of dialectal fluency, which leaves me with the coherence and vocabulary of the average footballer. I’m forced (hypothetically) to rely purely on my rugged good looks and sheer animal magnetism. And that’s going to be a low percentage shot, whichever way you measure it.
So to hell with it. Unfortunately I can’t provide any truthful or even believable tales of exotic European romance, so I hereby submit the following as a place holder until such time as I can get my actual act together (you may be waiting a while – get over it).
I had considered putting the transcript down in the original native Spanish, but in light of the difficulties this would likely create for you, the reader and also the fact that I’m not actually capable of such a cross-linguistic feat just yet, you’ll just have to use your imagination and picture the following conversation taking place in fluent Spanish.
Susana: Hey there cutie. It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?
Garry: Good morning. Are you having a nice time?
Susana: I’m having a great time. What do you think of the decorations? I think they’re a bit over the top.
Garry: Yes.
Susana: …
Garry: …
Susana: …
Garry: This wine is very nice. Would you like some?
Susana: Yes. Thankyou.
Garry: …
Susana: …
Garry: …
Susanna: So what part of England are you from?
Garry: No. I’m from Streyer.
Susana: From where?
Garry: ah ooh strah lee ah
Susana: Oh! Australia.
Garry: Yeah.
Susana: I really want to go there. What part of Australia?
Garry: I’m from Darwin.
Susana: Is that near Sydney?
Garry: Not really, no.
Susana: …
Garry: …
Marlena: Hi Susie. What’s happening?
Susana: Mazza! It’s been far too long. I hope your sister has recovered from the mild case of Typhoid fever she contracted a few months ago during her prolonged sojourn on the sub-continent.
Garry: Hello.
Susana: Oh, yeah, Marlena, this is … what’s your name again?
Garry: I am called Garry.
Susana: He’s from Australia. Near Sydney.
Marlena: I’ll bet he is. Actually I came over to find out why you’re talking to him, you bitch.
Susana: Eh?
Garry: What?
Marlena: You know very well that I saw him first, and that I called dibbs on him from the other side of the room.
Garry: What?
Susana: You called dibbs? What are we, like 14 years old?
Marlena: Ah well, I’m going to have to open up a can of whoop-ass on you now.
Susana: Bring it on, bitch!
Oxfam Girl: Alright you two, break it up. He’s here with me.
Garry: ¡Chica Oxfam! ¿Que demonios haces aqui?
Oxfam Girl: I’m here to rescue you from getting your arse kicked by two angry Spanish girls.
Garry: But…
Oxfam Girl: Come on. I’ve a got an escape blimp parked out the back.
Garry: Freaking typical. Even when I write the romance myself I don’t get anywhere.
Oxfam Girl: Shut up and get in the blimp.
Garry: You know… something about this whole scenario just doesn’t make sense.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
03 November 2008
Surprised Spruiker
Chatswood Mall is the spruiker capital of the world.
Alright, that’s probably not true. The international spruiker convention probably has more spruikers per capita than Chatswood Mall, but only just. And I’m not even talking about the guys out the front of soon-to-close-down jewellery shops telling us all about how passionately they believe in the never-to-be-repeated bargains on offer here this morning shoppers. I’m talking about these spruikers:
“Do you have a moment to talk about human rights in China?”
“Have you heard about the humanitarian disaster in Pakistan?”
“Can I chat with you for a minute about heart disease?”
“If you don’t stop and talk with me about the environment, my associates will come and throw acid and stink bombs all over your car.”
“Yep, that’s right dude, keep walking you selfish, consumerist wanker. Children are starving and it’s all your fault!”
They’re all (with the exception of Greenpeace) great causes. I really wish I could support them all. I’m a bit of a sucker for the street charities, and quite often I’ll stop and chat with them if they’re friendly and not too confrontational. Or really good looking. And being a moderately affluent young professional, over the last 18 months or so I’ve ended up supporting a few of them. My favourite moments are when I’m talking with one of these guys and they’re just a little too keen to move in for the kill, so they neglect to ask the really important questions first:
Spruiker: Do you have a few minutes to talk about human rights violations in China?
Garry: (Glances at wrist. He doesn’t wear a watch anymore) Sure, why not?
Spruiker: Basically, China has an authoritarian control on freedom of expression. All the newspapers are governments censored and journalists who criticise the government can be arrested.
Garry: That’s terrible.
Spruiker: Amnesty is currently petitioning the United Nations to publicly condemn the policies as a violation of human rights, and advocating support for persecuted journalists.
Garry: That’s fantastic.
Spruiker: Do you think that’s a cause worth supporting?
Garry: Yep, certainly.
Spruiker: Would you be prepared to give a small amount, just one cup of coffee (why is it always coffee?) a week to support Amnesty International?
Garry: I already do.
Spruiker: So you… what?
Garry: I already support Amnesty International.
Spruiker: Why didn’t you tell me that at the start?
Garry: You didn’t ask. You just asked me if I wanted to chat about human rights in China. And we have. It was most informative, thankyou.
Spruiker: Well… yeah. Good on you.
Garry: You too mate. Have a nice day.
The ones I really don’t like are the ones who are out to guilt you. That ask you how much you spend on food in a day, or what your disposable budget for a week is, and then point out that you could feed half of Africa for a decade with the pocket change of the average Sydneysider if only we took a leaf out of the socially aware spruiker’s book and weren’t all so damned selfish.
I met a really rude one today. We had a great chat about the plight of political refugees in Sudan. We came to the inevitable awkward moment of asking for money. I smiled and told him I couldn’t take on any new charities as I was about to leave my job to travel and would probably have to drop the ones I was already supporting.
Spruiker: Oh you’re travelling, are you? Where are you travelling to?
Garry: Spain.
Spruiker: Spain. Yeah, that’s nice. So I’m guessing that would cost around two or three thousand dollars at least.
Garry: … yeah…
Spruiker: So tell me, compared with that, what is twenty five dollars a month? It’s just a cup of coffee a week.
Garry: I don’t drink coffee.
Spruiker: Okay, what about chocolate? A block of chocolate a week then.
Garry: Guess again mate. I only buy fair trade chocolate (flagrantly not true, but this guy got me really angry). You couldn’t buy one of them a week for twenty five dollars a month, mate. I was just on my way to pick some up. And frankly, if you’re out here pontificating to me about respecting human rights in Africa while you’re eating chocolate produced with the blood, sweat and tears of juvenile slaves, you need to have a good hard look at yourself. Shame on you.
Oxfam Girl: (appearing from her shop to see what all the commotion is about) What? You mean this guy eats free trade chocolate? I don’t believe this!
Spruiker: What? I…
Oxfam Girl: I’m going to have to open up a can of woopass on you now.
And she proceeded to do exactly that. That guy messed with the wrong moderately affluent young professional.
So obviously everything after “I don’t drink coffee” didn’t actually happen, I just extrapolated the conversation and included it for a cheap laugh. Actually, I just stopped listening after he mentioned coffee, thanked him for his time and moved on.
The Sudanese refugees do it really tough, and I wish I could save them all, I really do. But nothing in my religion or any others that I know anything about gives any human the right to use guilt on another human being who has done nothing wrong. Or who, at the very least, has done no more wrong than the one doing the guilting (and stone throwing, if you see where I’m going). Being born in Australia is not a crime; it’s a blessing. Travelling to Europe is not a selfish indulgence, it’s an adventure and a chance to broaden my horizons and make myself a more informed, educated, well rounded person. And if I didn’t give so much to charity each month I would probably have been there about six months ago.
At least I can say I acted out of mercy and compassion by walking away, instead of punching him in the head.
Now that’s charity.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
Alright, that’s probably not true. The international spruiker convention probably has more spruikers per capita than Chatswood Mall, but only just. And I’m not even talking about the guys out the front of soon-to-close-down jewellery shops telling us all about how passionately they believe in the never-to-be-repeated bargains on offer here this morning shoppers. I’m talking about these spruikers:
“Do you have a moment to talk about human rights in China?”
“Have you heard about the humanitarian disaster in Pakistan?”
“Can I chat with you for a minute about heart disease?”
“If you don’t stop and talk with me about the environment, my associates will come and throw acid and stink bombs all over your car.”
“Yep, that’s right dude, keep walking you selfish, consumerist wanker. Children are starving and it’s all your fault!”
They’re all (with the exception of Greenpeace) great causes. I really wish I could support them all. I’m a bit of a sucker for the street charities, and quite often I’ll stop and chat with them if they’re friendly and not too confrontational. Or really good looking. And being a moderately affluent young professional, over the last 18 months or so I’ve ended up supporting a few of them. My favourite moments are when I’m talking with one of these guys and they’re just a little too keen to move in for the kill, so they neglect to ask the really important questions first:
Spruiker: Do you have a few minutes to talk about human rights violations in China?
Garry: (Glances at wrist. He doesn’t wear a watch anymore) Sure, why not?
Spruiker: Basically, China has an authoritarian control on freedom of expression. All the newspapers are governments censored and journalists who criticise the government can be arrested.
Garry: That’s terrible.
Spruiker: Amnesty is currently petitioning the United Nations to publicly condemn the policies as a violation of human rights, and advocating support for persecuted journalists.
Garry: That’s fantastic.
Spruiker: Do you think that’s a cause worth supporting?
Garry: Yep, certainly.
Spruiker: Would you be prepared to give a small amount, just one cup of coffee (why is it always coffee?) a week to support Amnesty International?
Garry: I already do.
Spruiker: So you… what?
Garry: I already support Amnesty International.
Spruiker: Why didn’t you tell me that at the start?
Garry: You didn’t ask. You just asked me if I wanted to chat about human rights in China. And we have. It was most informative, thankyou.
Spruiker: Well… yeah. Good on you.
Garry: You too mate. Have a nice day.
The ones I really don’t like are the ones who are out to guilt you. That ask you how much you spend on food in a day, or what your disposable budget for a week is, and then point out that you could feed half of Africa for a decade with the pocket change of the average Sydneysider if only we took a leaf out of the socially aware spruiker’s book and weren’t all so damned selfish.
I met a really rude one today. We had a great chat about the plight of political refugees in Sudan. We came to the inevitable awkward moment of asking for money. I smiled and told him I couldn’t take on any new charities as I was about to leave my job to travel and would probably have to drop the ones I was already supporting.
Spruiker: Oh you’re travelling, are you? Where are you travelling to?
Garry: Spain.
Spruiker: Spain. Yeah, that’s nice. So I’m guessing that would cost around two or three thousand dollars at least.
Garry: … yeah…
Spruiker: So tell me, compared with that, what is twenty five dollars a month? It’s just a cup of coffee a week.
Garry: I don’t drink coffee.
Spruiker: Okay, what about chocolate? A block of chocolate a week then.
Garry: Guess again mate. I only buy fair trade chocolate (flagrantly not true, but this guy got me really angry). You couldn’t buy one of them a week for twenty five dollars a month, mate. I was just on my way to pick some up. And frankly, if you’re out here pontificating to me about respecting human rights in Africa while you’re eating chocolate produced with the blood, sweat and tears of juvenile slaves, you need to have a good hard look at yourself. Shame on you.
Oxfam Girl: (appearing from her shop to see what all the commotion is about) What? You mean this guy eats free trade chocolate? I don’t believe this!
Spruiker: What? I…
Oxfam Girl: I’m going to have to open up a can of woopass on you now.
And she proceeded to do exactly that. That guy messed with the wrong moderately affluent young professional.
So obviously everything after “I don’t drink coffee” didn’t actually happen, I just extrapolated the conversation and included it for a cheap laugh. Actually, I just stopped listening after he mentioned coffee, thanked him for his time and moved on.
The Sudanese refugees do it really tough, and I wish I could save them all, I really do. But nothing in my religion or any others that I know anything about gives any human the right to use guilt on another human being who has done nothing wrong. Or who, at the very least, has done no more wrong than the one doing the guilting (and stone throwing, if you see where I’m going). Being born in Australia is not a crime; it’s a blessing. Travelling to Europe is not a selfish indulgence, it’s an adventure and a chance to broaden my horizons and make myself a more informed, educated, well rounded person. And if I didn’t give so much to charity each month I would probably have been there about six months ago.
At least I can say I acted out of mercy and compassion by walking away, instead of punching him in the head.
Now that’s charity.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
17 October 2008
A One-Man Anti-Poverty Machine
I read on the news this morning that bloggers all over the world were uniting to bring up the issue of ending world poverty. I thought “Blinder! I’m a blogger of sorts, I could totally get into that.” I read on to discover that international bloggers do stuff about poverty day was actually two days ago, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me.
It turns out that today is also International Make Poverty History day (for normal people, that is, not just bloggers), so I decided today was the day to get out and change the world. I have emails in my inbox about organising “stand up” events. I realised that it was probably too late to organise anything for today, by I decided to stage my own localised demonstration. At half past eleven at work this morning I stopped typing and stood up at my desk for three minutes for no apparent reason. Very few people noticed. Those who did were starting to look at me like there was something really wrong with me, so I sat down again. I think I got my message across.
Lunch time came around, and I decided I could do more. I marched straight down to my local Oxfam shop and took my stand against corporate greed by buying myself a bar of fair-trade chocolate. Take that Establishment! And I didn’t stop there, either. I also bought myself a rather fetching white “Make Poverty History” wrist band. Oxfam Girl was totally impressed. I wore it for the rest of the day, and I’m still wearing it as I write. It was covered by my long-sleeved shirt at work, but that doesn’t matter. It’s the thought that counts right?
So now I’m writing a letter to Kevin Rudd, making sure he’s aware of how many people are living in poverty. And let me tell you, it’s pretty strongly worded. I don’t pull my punches when it comes to letting politicians know how morally superior I am, that’s for damn sure. As soon as I can find someone to translate it into Mandarin for me, the feathers are really going to fly.
Oh yeah. That’s a good day’s work, right there. I’m going to go and get some ice-cream.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
It turns out that today is also International Make Poverty History day (for normal people, that is, not just bloggers), so I decided today was the day to get out and change the world. I have emails in my inbox about organising “stand up” events. I realised that it was probably too late to organise anything for today, by I decided to stage my own localised demonstration. At half past eleven at work this morning I stopped typing and stood up at my desk for three minutes for no apparent reason. Very few people noticed. Those who did were starting to look at me like there was something really wrong with me, so I sat down again. I think I got my message across.
Lunch time came around, and I decided I could do more. I marched straight down to my local Oxfam shop and took my stand against corporate greed by buying myself a bar of fair-trade chocolate. Take that Establishment! And I didn’t stop there, either. I also bought myself a rather fetching white “Make Poverty History” wrist band. Oxfam Girl was totally impressed. I wore it for the rest of the day, and I’m still wearing it as I write. It was covered by my long-sleeved shirt at work, but that doesn’t matter. It’s the thought that counts right?
So now I’m writing a letter to Kevin Rudd, making sure he’s aware of how many people are living in poverty. And let me tell you, it’s pretty strongly worded. I don’t pull my punches when it comes to letting politicians know how morally superior I am, that’s for damn sure. As soon as I can find someone to translate it into Mandarin for me, the feathers are really going to fly.
Oh yeah. That’s a good day’s work, right there. I’m going to go and get some ice-cream.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
12 September 2008
Saving the World
A friend of mine in Sydney has got me onto the fair-trade chocolate band wagon. Well... when I say onto, what I really mean is ambling alongside the wagon, trying to figure out where it's going. My point is I've taken to deliberately buying fair-trade chocolate over not fair-trade chocolate. And furthermore, I think that's the first time in quite a while I've managed to say "my point is" in the third sentence of a blog post. Usually it comes in somewhere in the third or fourth paragraph, depending on how many irrelevant tangents I've diverted myself onto. Which reminds me, I need to shift the sandwiches from the dining room table to the cabinet. I'm not into statements like "If you eat non fair-trade chocolate, that means you support child slavery, you filthy nazi child-hating elitist backwards homophobic lazy bigoted communist ignoramus!" I've just decided that when I have the choice (which is most of the time), choosing to pay a bit more for chocolate in order to support farmers in difficult circumstances can only be a positive thing.
If all that was completely meaningless to you, you can check out the following links:
Fair trade chocolate
Bandwagon
Cabinet
As an interesting (well...) consequence of this, I've been developing quite a rapport (which is to say flirting (but not actually flirting (well... (this set of parentheses is completely redundant (as are these))))) with the girl who works in the Oxfam shop that I buy my fair-trade chocolate from.
It all started out innocently (well...) enough. I strolled absent-mindedly through the door, and our eyes met for just a moment. Across a deserted shop. The melodious smulch of a George Michael song began to play in the background, and the young shop assistant stepped outside to ask him to stop, as he did not have a busking licence. Meanwhile, I started browsing the chocolate shelf. The assistant returned from admonishing the itinerant crooner and uttered the words that will forever linger in my lonely soul:
"Can I help you, there?"
And so it began. I had a hard time convincing her that the armfuls of chocolate I was buying were not all for me. I was buying supplies for our bible study group. No, really. I felt a little out of place in the Oxfam shop; it's all so clean and earthy (is that a contradiction?) that it makes me fell like my synthetic clothing is somehow polluting the aura of the place. And I don't even know what an aura is. But I reckon Christine does.
Her name, by the way, isn't Christine. Actually I don't know what her name is. We're still just keeping the relationship at the 'haven't actually formally introduced ourselves' level.
So I did what I always do when I'm feeling out of place and unsure of myself; I defaulted to the classical Garry façade persona; goofy, yet strangely compelling; clueless, yet inexplicably knowledgeable; flagrant, yet captivatingly mysterious; ridiculous, yet irresistibly charming; literate, yet somehow unable to stop using semicolons.
It has been said that this persona is actually just me being myself, but I'm not convinced. I'm just not that charming.
And the problem with that approach is that it relies on everything being fresh and at least a little bit unusual. But I have now been back to the shop on a semi-regular basis and it´s becoming dangerously habitual, which means in order to make the façade work, I need to come up with a new (well...) and creative way to be suitably off the wall every time I go in there. My latest effort looked something like this:
Christine: Hello again.
Garry: Hi.
Christine: Looking for more chocolate?
Garry: (looking to throw her off her game from the outset) Well, now that's just a huge assumption. How can you just assume that I'm here for chocolate?
Christine: Are you?
Garry: ... Yes. (moves to the chocolate shelf, but...) "Hey! You've moved it!"
Christine: Yep, it's over here now.
Garry: Right. (grabs some chocolate) Found it. (moves to cash register)
Christine: Is that all?
Garry: That's all for today
Christine: Would you like an environmentally friendly calico shopping bag?
Garry: Nah, that's ok, thanks.
Christine: That's seven eighty-five, please. (Garry proffers his eftpos card) I'm sorry, there's a ten dollar minimum on eftpos
Garry: Right... What have you got that costs two dollars and fifteen cents?
Christine: Our environmentally friendly calico shopping bags cost two dollars fifty each. And you'll get the added satisfaction of knowing you're saving the world.
Garry: With a shopping bag?
Christine: Yes.
Garry: Does it have magical powers?
Christine: No, but if you shop with it, then we won't need to use plastic bags any more.
Garry: (well...) Right... (types in his PIN) You know, I might have been coming in here to buy some babushka dolls, for all you know.
Christine: You could have been. Maybe next time.
Garry: Yeah... ... Well... Have a nice day.
Christine: Bye.
Yeah, it didn't really play out quite the way I had envisioned. I think next time I'm just going to burst in and ask, before she has a chance to mention chocolate, whether she has in stock any of those wooden hand carvings of a Chinese man with a fishing net.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
If all that was completely meaningless to you, you can check out the following links:
Fair trade chocolate
Bandwagon
Cabinet
As an interesting (well...) consequence of this, I've been developing quite a rapport (which is to say flirting (but not actually flirting (well... (this set of parentheses is completely redundant (as are these))))) with the girl who works in the Oxfam shop that I buy my fair-trade chocolate from.
It all started out innocently (well...) enough. I strolled absent-mindedly through the door, and our eyes met for just a moment. Across a deserted shop. The melodious smulch of a George Michael song began to play in the background, and the young shop assistant stepped outside to ask him to stop, as he did not have a busking licence. Meanwhile, I started browsing the chocolate shelf. The assistant returned from admonishing the itinerant crooner and uttered the words that will forever linger in my lonely soul:
"Can I help you, there?"
And so it began. I had a hard time convincing her that the armfuls of chocolate I was buying were not all for me. I was buying supplies for our bible study group. No, really. I felt a little out of place in the Oxfam shop; it's all so clean and earthy (is that a contradiction?) that it makes me fell like my synthetic clothing is somehow polluting the aura of the place. And I don't even know what an aura is. But I reckon Christine does.
Her name, by the way, isn't Christine. Actually I don't know what her name is. We're still just keeping the relationship at the 'haven't actually formally introduced ourselves' level.
So I did what I always do when I'm feeling out of place and unsure of myself; I defaulted to the classical Garry façade persona; goofy, yet strangely compelling; clueless, yet inexplicably knowledgeable; flagrant, yet captivatingly mysterious; ridiculous, yet irresistibly charming; literate, yet somehow unable to stop using semicolons.
It has been said that this persona is actually just me being myself, but I'm not convinced. I'm just not that charming.
And the problem with that approach is that it relies on everything being fresh and at least a little bit unusual. But I have now been back to the shop on a semi-regular basis and it´s becoming dangerously habitual, which means in order to make the façade work, I need to come up with a new (well...) and creative way to be suitably off the wall every time I go in there. My latest effort looked something like this:
Christine: Hello again.
Garry: Hi.
Christine: Looking for more chocolate?
Garry: (looking to throw her off her game from the outset) Well, now that's just a huge assumption. How can you just assume that I'm here for chocolate?
Christine: Are you?
Garry: ... Yes. (moves to the chocolate shelf, but...) "Hey! You've moved it!"
Christine: Yep, it's over here now.
Garry: Right. (grabs some chocolate) Found it. (moves to cash register)
Christine: Is that all?
Garry: That's all for today
Christine: Would you like an environmentally friendly calico shopping bag?
Garry: Nah, that's ok, thanks.
Christine: That's seven eighty-five, please. (Garry proffers his eftpos card) I'm sorry, there's a ten dollar minimum on eftpos
Garry: Right... What have you got that costs two dollars and fifteen cents?
Christine: Our environmentally friendly calico shopping bags cost two dollars fifty each. And you'll get the added satisfaction of knowing you're saving the world.
Garry: With a shopping bag?
Christine: Yes.
Garry: Does it have magical powers?
Christine: No, but if you shop with it, then we won't need to use plastic bags any more.
Garry: (well...) Right... (types in his PIN) You know, I might have been coming in here to buy some babushka dolls, for all you know.
Christine: You could have been. Maybe next time.
Garry: Yeah... ... Well... Have a nice day.
Christine: Bye.
Yeah, it didn't really play out quite the way I had envisioned. I think next time I'm just going to burst in and ask, before she has a chance to mention chocolate, whether she has in stock any of those wooden hand carvings of a Chinese man with a fishing net.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
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