The two most important qualities of an MAS person:

1. A greater — actually, a total — propensity toward complimenting others rather than putting people down; and

2. The ability to distinguish childlike and childish behaviour, and act with the former.

Wasted places

He only left the hostel to purchase Oreos and Doritos from the corner store when he was met with the munchies.

Shifting in the hard, narrow bed he had paid US$4 to spend the night, he thought his thoughts were wasted. A ceiling fan clunked overhead, its breeze unable to kiss his sweaty face. Four single girls in four single beds slept to his right, each girl lay curled in the fetal position, each sleeping in black underwear and singlet tops, their sheets mulled around their middles.

Every morning, the sunlight struggled through the humidity and guilt waded in. Dressed in the clothes from the night before and the day and the night before that, he staggered toward the door, cross-eyed and weak-legged. By the swimming pool he packed a makeshift bong made from a used mineral water bottle, and hit it. Staring blankly into the water, he contemplated a swim and imagined how the coolness would feel against his skin.

The city was already awake. Many of the 24,000 motortaxis screeched and honked and people already packed public buses. The market smelt of rotting meat and rotting fruit. But he would never smell it.

He could be anywhere in the world. But no matter where he wandered, he felt trapped and useless. Isolated. Inebriated. With scattered plans.

He was unsure why he chose to visit Iquitos — possibly because it is the largest city in the world not accessible by road, probably because it takes three days by boat to get there. Three days of lying in a hammock, floating down a river. Three days of watching pink river dolphins frolic. Three days of not feeling guilty for not having the motivation to do things, to see things.

There were so many things to see in Peru, he read in his travel guide, but just thinking about Inca ruins, jungle trips and treks through the Andes was tiresome. Much easier to never leave the hostel. Much easier to purchase a big bag of weed and will the time away. On holidays where Mary Jane is cheap, he smoked ten joints a day. He had no interest in cocaine.

#2

Title: It’s about time

Alternative title: Fleeing north to escape thieves, bandits and financial institutions to a parallel universe of perfectly aligned stars, beautiful people and dancing to reggae with frozen feet

I have been incredibly neglectful. I have let this blog sit, untouched, waiting for words and pictures and prose. And while it waited, I travelled to Canada and back, lost myself in Australian suburbia and found myself in Chile. There is no excuse — I am not without inspiration.

Canada is a ridiculously good looking country. For want of a better cliche, the landscape is stunning, breathtaking. And on this blog, photos of Toronto — the most boring place I visited in Canada — are the only ones to appear. But now is not the time and, more importantly, not the place to write about Canada. Right now, I am chillin’ in Chile.

My life in dot points:

I arrived in Santiago three weeks ago. Slept. Went out. Drank beer. Had bag stolen. Spent a few days running errands, reporting the incident, calling financial institutions, replacing cards, calling financial institutions, hanging out with new friends, calling financial institutions, dancing, drinking mate, being put on hold by financial institutions, watching a Chilean film about sex where I understood a total of about 10 words but was able to follow plot because of the characters’ body language and their obvious physical entanglements, arguing with financial institutions, visiting Pablo Neruda’s house, shopping for a camera, catching the metro the wrong way and catching the metro the right way.

I stayed with a girl, Javiera, through couchsufing. I adored her immediately. An instant friend. Happy, generous and exciteable, that be her. She has a cat. And the cat has needs, needing regular attention and affection.

Caught a bus to Valparaiso. Climbed twisted streets past coloured houses, street art and bohemians. Stayed with a German exchange student, Hannes, aka our social director. Ate, drank and was merry. Galavanted through bars, sampled ridiculously sweet fruit wine, danced to reggae, attended acoustic guitar gig, saw performance art and whilst not being able to understand it entirely was convinced it was misogynist, visited Neruda’s house in Valpo, visited Neruda’s house in Isla Negra, listened to tales of adventure from a Dutch sailor, Maarten, about mountain climbing and hitchhiking through Patagonia in the dead cold of winter. Went to a dinner party where kind people talked about the linguistic similarities and differences of Spanish and French — languages I can use to order a cup of tea, ask the time, say my name and very little else (although my Spanish is improving).

Returned to Santiago. Fled north to discover new places and to forget about banks. Stayed with an architect caught in the middle of a murderous deadline. Searched for the beach in La Serena. Got lost.

Caught a bus to the Elqui Valley. Was enamoured by its physical beauty.

The Valley actually deserves its own post — about shooting stars, UFO sightings, live reggae music, beautiful hippies, camping and fuego — which is forthcoming.

My talented beloved, Rosie.

Santiago

Triping over my tongue to order una cerveza. Tripping over my toes to dance the salsa. A middle-aged man breaths pisco, while I stare at my feet. I quickly escape presumption.

Cold air, cold beer and drunken laughs. Thieves linger at the edge of darkness along the streets of Bellavista. Unseen. Collecting cameras and credit cards, and stealing into the night. Police swagger to the scene, puff their chest, exhale smoke and look down upon the naive, incomprehensible tourist. A jolly busker plays the pan flute. He is wrongly accused, unknowingly. He scampers toward paying ears.

Two bottles of vino to forget materialism and attachment. A trip to the police station, first thing in the morning. A tussle with financial institutions, later on.

Hungover, the streets are grey and straight, snow-capped mountains hover above the copper-coloured smog.

Overheard in Musée des beaux-arts de Montréal

# 7

A: So what is his name again?

B: John. John Lennon.

A: Is he dead?

B: Yes. He was shot.

because he played in Quebec for the first time in 16 years on the night I arrived in the city

Overheard on the Duck Pond Lawn

#547

“Do you think it’s weird that a black butterfly landed on my knee the other day and wouldn’t move?”