En La Montanyas del Andes (In the Mountains of the Andes)

 

‘Hola! said Antonio as the woman came up the aisle of the bus.

            She looked at him warily, but relaxed once she saw his kind and smiling face. Very pretty, with dark features and a strong nose, she was clearly a local in these Peruvian parts. The only remaining seat was beside Antonio, so she sat down next to him, placing her rucksack on her knees. The bus pulled away.

            At length he spoke again seeing this as the perfect opportunity to practice his Spanish.

‘Como estas?’

The woman smiled wearily. ‘Mas o menos. Trabajo,’ she explained.

 A moment later she looked at him again curiously. Finally she spoke, as if testing her hypothesis. ‘Tan..tu no Bolivian, si?’

From her intonation and those last three words, Antonio could at least figure what she was getting at. He shook his head. ‘No, mi no Bolivian.’

‘Americano?’

‘No way! I’m, er…yo soy Australiano.’

Her face brightened. ‘Australiano? Donde ellas dicen ‘Heh-dai may-eet?’

Antonio laughed at her thickly heavily nto the mountains of the Andes. The road—more or less a goat track—hugged the rugged rock-faces that rose upwards. As they climber higher, they could see below the sprawling city of Machu Pichu.

            ‘Como te llamas?’ asked the woman.

            Antonio remembered his Spanish lessons back home. ‘Um…me llama Antonio. Cual es…tu  nombre?’

            ‘Mi nombre es Carolina. Habla mucho Espanol?’

            ‘Only un poco,’ said Anonio. ‘Still muy elementario! "Gato"..."beinvinido"..."cumpleanos"..."basura."  Y simple frases like "Como estas?" "Cual es cuanta?" Stuff like that. Tu habla Inglis?’

            Carolina shook her head. ‘No, pero yo eschuchar inglis mucho.Sin embargo mi papa es un professor en Brisbane, tan el hablo inglis con frequencia. Yo entiendiendo mucho.’

            ‘So…tu naciste en Bolivia?’ asked Antonio.

            ‘Si, en Cocachamba!’

            ‘No way!’ exclaimed Antonio, slipping back into English. ‘Que interesante! I have…err……mi querido amiga also de Cocachamba!’

            ‘Realmente?’ asked Carolina. ‘Es pequeno mundo!’

            Suddenly the bus ground to a halt. There was some motion up the front before the driver informed his passangers there’d be a half-hour wait at customs. Apparently some new fitting had to be checked before heading further up the mountains. Antonio and Carolina looked at each other then shrugged. They weren’t going anywhere and their were clearly more annoying travel companions to be stuck with.

            At length Carolina spoke again.

            ‘Tan tu: donde naciste en Austrliana?’

            ‘Si,’ Antonio replied. ‘Yo vivo en un pueblo llamada Muswellbrook.’

            Carolina practiced a few times trying to say it before laughing. ‘Es un gracia nombre! Pero trabajas—a que te dedicas? ’

            Antonio was ready for this one. It had become one of his favourite phrases since learning Spanish.

            ‘Fregar los platos!’

            ‘Cual es nombre del retaurante?’

            ‘Oh, es llamada “Miner’s Arms”. Pub-gub,’ he added with a cheeky grin. ‘Comeda mucho delicioso!

            Carolina simply smiled, as much of what he said was gibberish to her—as was her speech to him. But they could make out little bits here and there, and Antonio was surprised at how they could already communicate on some level.

And he smiled too, knowing he might have met un amiga for his trip through Latinoamerica…

And Yet I Still Have This...

 

The sun shines lazily as it sinks lower and lower.

Another Valentine’s Day has come and gone. With a beer in one hand and a fold-out chair in the other, I wander up behind the house and seat myself under the drooping gums. This is a favoured spot where I have often come to watch the sun setting throughthe trees lining the water. Looking down the hill from where I have plonked the chair, I see through the recently cleared block next door, across our street and over the water. Beyond I see the sun’s golden orb sinking behind the hills of North Arm Cove.

A welcome sight, always. Sitting comfortably, my mind returns to the events of the previous February…

 

                It was late afternoon and I was up in Queensland. I was heading back to an AirBnB near where I visiting my sister. She had her daughter and partner along for the ride too and, I had learnt one evening while there, was with her second child. A few hours before, I had caught a ferry up and back the length of Noosa River. The captain had been a lively fellow, happily pointing our sites of interest along the way over the intercom and peppering his tales with humorous anecdotes.

                At some point my tummy rumbled, and I looked at my watch. Nearly half-past five I saw, and I still hadn’t checked out any of the great restaurants here on my own. So I disembarked at the the fifth return stop.  It would still be a forty-minute walk back home from about here- surely I’d find something along the way.

                I was near a marina and made my way along the foreshore. Gum-trees swayed in the wind and parrots screeched and wheeled to places of safety overhead. Numerous restaurants came and went as I walked, but none seemed right. Maybe…?

                As I passed an intersection, a sign caught my eye. 27 Grammi Food & Wine Bar, it read. Quality Italian cuisine.

                My eyes widened. ‘That looks alright,’ I said to myself. ‘Might check it out…’

                At the counter was a young, twenty-something fellow with a contemporary haircut. He looked at me expectantly as I arrived, despite me being alone. A number of wait-staff hovered in and out of the kitchens behind him. One of these caught my eye instantly with her dark hair and olive skin. We caught eyes and smiled.

                ‘Can I help you, sir?’ the waiter asked.

                I was brought back to the moment. ‘Uh, yeah. A table for one.’

                He looked around the main dining area which was packed with jovial groups and adoring couples. Over to his left sat maybe half-a-dozen empty tables along a veranda facing a car-park.

                He gestured in that direction. ‘Just out here we can fit you, if you don’t mind?’

                ‘Sure,’ I said, and made my way. In truth I was relieved. Though facing the parking lot, I would still be facing the setting sun and could almost forget the other customers. We picked our way over to one the tables next to the kitchen doorway.

                 ‘Anything to drink, sir?’ he asked as I sat, passing me a menu.

                ‘Give me one of your cheapest wines.’

                He looked up from the notepad he held sharply.

                ‘I am on a budget man. No need to bust the bank!’

                The waiter laughed. ‘Thought as such! Backpacker?’

                I nod. ‘Up here visiting my sister and niece.’

                ‘Cool. So…which wine do you want?

              I looked at the two-sided menu in my hands and was immediately lost amidst this sea of  fancy, Italian-sounding names. None of them I had ever seen before and let’s be honest: I’m an easily pleased drinker. A good, dark ale, a hearty beer or some spiced rum will always do me just fine, thank-you very much!

                ‘Err…not sure. You got any suggestions?’

                He nodded in thought before smiling helpfully. ‘Well, Roma-Wineria is pretty good, and not too pricey. I’ll get you a glass of that and let you figure out what you want for mains. We’ll be back in five,’

                I sat and perused the menu, finding something within my price-range; before leaning back to relax in my chair. The late-afternoon sun’s glorious golden rays reflected off the clouds before me.

                A few minutes later I looked left to see the gorgeous waitress I’d noticed a moment before approaching my table. She was holding a wine glass and a bottle of wine and I noticed a cute tattoo on her ankle. Her hair was bound in that way I’ve always found appealing: a lock hanging down one side. Visions of Mediterranean beauties flashed through my mind.

She smiled as she neared. ‘Here’s your wine,’ she said, in an accent that was subtly yet unmistakably Italian. ‘Straight out from a vineyard on the slopes of Tuscany!’

                I took a sip from the glass she offered. ‘Mmm…nice! You say Tuscany?’

                ‘Yes, my Uncle has an estate over there.’ She lingered for a moment longer. ‘So have you thought about your order?

                I nodded, commenting how most of the meals were either too fancy or too pricey. But one stood out: a cheap(-ish) pasta, the name of which I couldn’t pronounce. ‘Here,’ I announced pointing to the menu. ‘This one at the bottom!’

                ‘Aha!’ she laughed. ‘Poor man’s pasta. Tagliatelle, with an E!’

                ‘Sounds great!’ I sat back comfortably in my chair, reaching out again for my wine glass.

She looked at me curiously. ‘You left handed?’

                I looked down at my outstretched arm. ‘Yep. Have been for most of my life.’

                She laughed and raised any eyebrow. ‘Most?’

                ‘Well, there was this one occasion…but that’s another story. Perhaps some other time?’

                It was a clear invitation and it seemed to please her. ‘Sure,’ she said softly. ‘You up here for very long?’

                ‘Afraid not,’ I said. ‘I fly home on the weekend. But who knows? I’ve got family up here, so I’ll definitely be coming back some time.’

                ‘Definitely,’ she said coyly. ‘I’d like that.’

                I don’t actually remember seeing her again the rest of the evening but I do recall the tasty, hearty pasta that I was soon presented with. Definitely one to try out sometime! And I like to imagine that as I approached the counter to pay for the meal as I left she passed by, exiting the kitchen carrying a steaming plate of some Italian pasta for another customer with her lovely ankles showing. Her pretty face turned in my direction and our eyes met. For a moment we knowingly exchanged a sad, wistful smile knowing that whatever was meant to be, if it was indeed meant to be, was not to be just yet.

                               

                Back in the present moment, I look around as the sun sets lower. The fold-out chair creaks below me as I shift my position.  My now nearly-empty beer bottle sits comfortably in my hands and I absent-mindedly watch the neighbours come and go. Across the road, that new young couple dart out into the husband’s 4-by-4 and race away. Just further down I see Ray, a likeable chap from Eastern Europe whistling as he closes his front gates. Kookaburras chortle in the trees above.

                Okay, I think to myself now, so this may not have been the life I imagined when I left school.  But one thing is absolutely certain: it’s the life I have been alloted, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

A Zen Story

The man entered the temple’s main hall.
   Along one side which was slightly raised there were dozens of monks seated on cushions. All sat with their eyes closed, silently practising zazen. Behind them, large empty windows opened on to the zen garden beyond.
   The man looked about in uncertainty until he spotted a monk seated apart on a chair in the centre of the hall, also with his eyes also closed. Grizzled yet undeniably sage-looking in a Buddhist robe, he seemed definitely to be the leader of the bunch. 
   ‘Master, master, you must help me!’ cried the man, rushing to his feet.

   The monk opened an eye and ran his gaze over the impetuous figure before him. With a wry smile, he remained silent as he stared without blinking for what seemed minutes. Then he closed that eye again.
   No one moved to challenge what even the man knew had been a gross breach of protocol. Eyes still closed, the monk motioned towards an empty cushion three places down. Having mediated often before, the man took the place offered and raised one leg above the other in the lotus position as he had seen demonstrated on Youtube. He closed his eyes and began to breathe deeply.
   Perhaps half an hour passed. The man grew restless. He quietly returned to the monk and spoke. ‘Master? Can you help?.
   Again the monk opened one eye; again he closed it. That wry smile again. Again he gestured to the mat. And again the man sat back down.
   An hour later the same thing happened a third time. By now the man had cottoned on: this time he sat like so for hours. His tummy rumbled.

The afternoon passed and the shadows lengthened. One by one the seated monks finished their practices and left to complete evening chores before dinner. When all the others had left, that grizzled monk came and sat next to the man. At length he spoke. ‘You do realise I’m just the gardener? But you wished for my help?’
   ‘Oh. Yes, I’ve been searching for years now. How can I know the time?’
   Chuckling, the monk looked overtly at the watch on the man’s wrist. The man followed his gaze and sheepishly sighed as the realisation hit him. He remembered a saying by Lao-Tzu he'd once been told: ‘At the centre of your being you have the answer; you know who you are and what you want.’ He too began to chuckle.
   The monk rose to his feet. ‘Think you might have forgotten something?’

Images Reversed

Some time back at North Arm Cove we were given a short story and asked to write from the other character's perspective. Here is my take:

So yes, Brad did seem like a bit of an arse back there. For all intents and purposes, he more-or-less just poo-pooed things and poured scorn over Lyn’s dreams. But don’t forget though- there’s always two sides to any story, and sympathies can be coaxed with a bit of tweakage. Try this:

The minute Lyn came home and proudly displayed her latest purchase, Brad inwardly sighed with resignation. Not again, he thought to himself in frustration.

'…and it’s got a 4 inch lense with a 15 megapixel resolution!' she finished excitedly, passing over the camera.

Brad took it in his hands and turned it over a few times.

'Hmm,' he said thoughtfully. 'Nice bit of gear- reminds me of the years I spent reporting on the IRA in Ireland. Don’t know though- aren’t printed photos a bit old school? Phones and all that- don’t they all have cameras nowadays?'

Lyn’s eyes flashed. 'I figured you’d go this way!' she snapped. 'Why can’t you support me in the things I love?'

Brad said nothing in response, knowing from experience that he would always be on the losing side. Never mind the hours he had spent traveling up and down the F3 to visit her dying mother on the North Shore. Nor the time he had raced all the way to Melbourne to collect her distressed daughter after her rental unit had gone up in flames thanks to dodgy insulation. And let’s ignore for a moment the countless afternoons he had slaved away in the kitchen preparing her one of her favourite meals ready for her to eat after a busy day at work.

The next few days were difficult enough. There were a myriad of chores to be done around the house, but now it seemed as though roles had been reversed, so engrossed was she in her new toy. Normally they were a good team- 'I’m the boss, as long as she lets me', so the saying goes.

But lately after breakfast she would grab he camera and zip out the door with barely a grunted goodbye. On one particular morning, she provided terse instruction as they ate. 

'Make sure you get those loads of washing done today. And remember about your column!' she called as she left

Brad looked over to the pile of washing sitting in the corner.  'Has she forgotten about my RDA?' he grumbled to himself. For a moment he wished he was back at work in the city- at least there’d be no chores there. Just then his mobile phone beeped, and he glanced at it, expecting the day's briefing. Drafts for Eco-Watch's international press release to be in by mid-day, it announced. Any staff not complying will be given the sack. AC.

Brad’s spirits sank. Not Alan again, he thought as he recognised the sender. This particular manager, whose office was in headquarters way over in Adelaide, was a difficult boss with a habit of barking out orders and who had absolutely no endearing qualities. Doesn’t he know it’s my day off, thought Brad in despair?

Still, it was beautiful weather- 'a good day to dry hard,' as his father used to say- and Brad got those loads done.  After lunch he sat down at his desk and got to work on that international press release. It was all about the degradation of the Barrier Reef and the potentially disastrous social climate in Newcastle. Strange combination, Brad thought as he scanned a number of reports from several major news vendors, but who was he to dictate proceedings from the hand that paid him?

After many discarded drafts, he finally reached 800 words. 'That should do it,' Brad finally thought, sending the document to the work email account just after mid-afternoon.  Not the most brilliant of pieces, he had to admit, but at least done his dash. Surely there’d be no sackage for him now?

With the sun just above the gum-tree line, he was busily cleaning up the cat’s vomit in the lounge room when his phone beeped again. Another message.

Be informed that your draft has fallen far below the firm’s standards. Please report to the main office tomorrow to commence dismissal proceedings.  Alan Cummings, CEO.

Brad’s stomach sank. What, he thought? How could they, he being a loyal employee and all? And what would he say to Lyn about all this?

Lyn came home from her photography ventures and went straight to her computer with barely a sideways glance. Typical, thought Brad bitterly. Evidently her outing had been a success, as she busily uploaded photo after photo. Feeling sad and forgotten, he opened the kitchen pantry door. 'What do you want for dinner tonight, love?' he called hopefully.

Lyn mumbled something about Moroccan Chicken in response. Immediately Brad’s spirits jumped. A great suggestion, he thought; the soft, pillow-like nature of the couscous and the aromatic scent of the cumin spices had always been a winner. Rustling about in the kitchen, his woes were momentarily forgotten.

As he was humming away a funky rendition of 'White Cliffs Over Dover', Brad heard an excited squeal from the study. His heart leapt- finally, a bit of spirit from Lyn! A moment later she came out and plonked herself and laptop on the kitchen bench.

'Oh Brad,' said Lyn breathlessly. 'I won the ‘Winter Warmers’ photography comp! Pan Macmillian want to publish a limited edition 500 picture collection of my photos! And NBN wants to do a story!'

Brad swallowed, filled with conflicting emotions. Disappointment would still follow once he told her his news, of that he was sure. But she had got so far, he thought- why rain on her parade just now? 'That's great!' he said, doing his best to share her enthusiasm. Giving his sweet Lyn a small smile he turned back to the stove, all the while the old adage about 'one door closing and another opening' ringing through his head...

 

 

The (Not-So) Invisible Man

Each month at North Arm Cove Writers’ we’re given a homework exercise for the next meeting. Here we were given a handful of opening sentences and asked to use each of them as a starting point. 

I am an invisible man. Ralph Ellison, ‘The Invisible Man’

            ‘I am [indeed] an invisible man!’ I thought, and thought to demonstrate this irrefutably. Daily, for example, Nurses will hand-over in the staff-room while I sit dumbly munching on a flavoured pie. Or one of the junior AINs might bring in her infant and a handful of colleagues will gather round, clucking and giggling as they bounce the child around on their hips, some looking positively radiant. To this I have nothing to add, so I simply quietly exit the scene.

            Yet the truth is anything but. I often remember the chat I had one day with that lovely American lass as we travelled to Sydney. Or the sweet gal from the UK I met at the backpackers’ who still occasionally writes. Then there’ll be the prompt responses from old friends and the warm welcome I regularly receive here, there and about.

            So am I invisible? Not really— just when it pays to be.