Udaipur to Agra

Spent the past couple of days up in Udaipur, a city known for the lake palaces in the north western state of Rajasthan. Stayed in a sweet hotel with sweeping lake views for 500 rupees. Took a cooking class today and learned to prepare a wide range of curries. Most importantly, was instructed how to prepare a garam masala by roasting the spices before grinding them together. Garam masala consists of black cardamom, cloves, black pepper, cinnamon, coriander seeds, cumin seeds and bay leaves. Tastes fantastic and is used in all the dishes, including the chai.
Dishes prepared:
* Butter Paneer Masala
* Yellow Dal
* Aloo Gobi
* Chapati

Pretty standard, but it was the instruction to the process that was key. Keen to get a kitchen again so I can setup shop and start experimenting.
*******
Had a quality conversation on the way home. A rickshaw driver approached Scrappy and I asking if we wanted a rickshaw. We declined as we had just gotten out of one. The conversation went as follows:
- Rickshaw?
- Nah. Thanks
- Special? Smoke? Hash?
- Nope.
- Girls?
- Hmm. Where are the girls? (we were intrigued, but mostly as there appear to be so few in public)
- In the Farmhouse.
- Ok. Where is the Farmhouse?
- In the Mountains.
- Right. Where are the mountains?
- One hundred and fifty-one kilometers away.

- Cool. Maybe next time.

******
About to jump a night train from Udaipur to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. Will spend the day there before catching another night train to Varanasi.

Godspeed.

Bombay

On the road I am met by curious glances that are often held to stares. Faces stern and searching and at times intimidating. However, I am humoured how quickly they explode into accepting smiles, contagious to one offered first.  India is filled with prying eyes. Pivoting heads, following your path, which morph into tilting bobble heads if you shake first.

Mumbai is madness.

*******

I am currently in Mumbai, India. I arrived two days ago and have been exploring the city since. Staying in Colaba in a dodgy guest house for 600 rupees a night. Making my way up to Udaipur tomorrow with a buddy of Matt's nicknamed Scrappy. Should be entertaining.

Kiting

I originally intended to spend one week in South Africa, mainly in Cape Town. Within two days I had decided I would need more time. In total, I spent just over two weeks in Cape Town and happily could have stayed. In fact, I tried. I bought a tie, crashed a hedge fund conference, networked and setup meetings exploring opportunities.

I originally came to visit an old McGill buddy, Trip, who is living in CPT, working as a consult and kite boarding actively. His flat is in an area called Table View, which has unobstructed views of Table Mountain, but more importantly is a stones throw from Kite Beach, one of the top ranked spots for kiting. I was keen reacquaint myself with the sport.

My last time kiting was back in March in Thailand with Matty and Tom, at which point I was just starting to get the hang of it. Ultimately, kiting is a very dynamic sport. There are a huge number of variables to monitor – wind, tide, kite, board, other kiters – and still you must respect the fact that those variables are steadily changing. Its tough to ever feel totally and completely in control and once you do, you start to go bigger and faster.

I had a couple of sessions at Table View, but the best two sessions were out in Langebaan, which is about 100km up the west coast from CPT. I drove out with Peitro on a Saturday afternoon and returned Sunday evening. Two days of kiting on the protected and calm bays of Langebaan is pretty special, especially when the wind is pumping as it was on Sunday.

Sunday, we awoke and did our best to ignore the copious amounts of Jager from Saturday night. I’m not sure why, but South Africans love their shots, Jager and Peron in particular. It takes a toll, but nothing fried eggs, bacon, toast, coffee and howling wind can’t cure.

Fueled, we drove to Shark Bay, which I’m told is named for the harmless sand sharks. Better to not challenge the explanation. I caught my first glimpse of this kiting oasis as the truck crested the hill and presented a sweeping horseshoe view of white sand engulfed by a spectrum of blue and turquoise. The bay is protected. The water ranges from deep to extremely shallow – especially at low tide – and remains calm for the majority. As said, it is an oasis.

We ripped the bay for over three hours. I was kiting up and down wind. Transitioning. Holding ground. I was launching some air and riding away. Mind you, I also ate it a few times attempting.

At one point, I looked over my shoulder and saw Pietro leaning way back, hauling a line parallel to mine at full tilt. He was quickly making up ground. He recognized that I was holding my own and ready for a challenge. I dipped the kite into the power zone, pulled in the line to gain speed and leaned back to edge. We were tearing the open waters, tossing up a salty spray and leaving a frothy wake. We were balancing the variables and edging the line between being in and out of control, all the while respecting the elements of the ocean and the wind.

Absolutely brilliant. Completely humbling. Massively addictive.

Turn Right at the Robot

I have been confused a number of times while traveling, its only natural. Often my confusion revolves around the way things are done, scheduling or processes. It is easy to spot the differences between a supposed normal you know and the ones prescribed in the country where traveling. “What do you mean the bus schedule in Uganda is based on the ‘it leaves when it’s full’ premise? Or ‘why is it my responsibility to have adequate change while in an Argentine taxi?’

However, as far as directions go, I’m good and capable and can find my way. Yes, there are a number that may disagree, especially anyone that has taken a road trip with me in Japan before – and to a certain degree after – I got a navigation system. However, I’d argue Japanese car navis are great in graphics and shite in offering directions. For example, the country is spectacular in offering unnecessary signage for miles before an exit, yet utterly terrible at placing a sign anywhere near the relevant exit or destination. Massively confusing. If you have driven in Japan you will be empathetic.

 Nonetheless, I have a decent sense of direction and usually find my way. After all, I’ve gotten this far.

Anyway, two weeks ago in Cape Town I found myself standing at a cross walk scratching my head. I wouldn’t claim to being lost, but definitely confused. I was heading to a meeting and looking for the building. I was in the neighbourhood and knew it was extremely close, but couldn’t quite locate it, so I asked for directions.
‘Excuse me, do you know where the Newlands building is?’
‘Eay?’
‘The Newlands building. I am looking for it. Do you know where it is?’
‘Iz it eh. Yeeh mate, its close. Right over there. Walk straight up this here road two blocks and take a right at the Robot.”
‘Sorry the Robot?’
‘Yeeh. Two blocks and take a right.’
‘Cool. Two blocks, turn right. Thanks.’
I walked up two blocks and stopped to look for the Robot. Couldn’t find one, but took a right anyway and directly in front of me was the Newlands building. Success.

Yet, I was still curious where and what the Robot was. Following the meeting I met a buddy for a beer and asked him if he knew of any Robots downtown. He too looked confused, which initially made me feel better, but then his brow raised with condescending charity. He was looking at me like I was from the remedial class. Being Canadian, I am used to such looks and usually respond by jerseying such people and delivering a few dummy punches – mentally at least.

His brow still raised, he took a sip from his pint, lowered the glass and laughed. Now I really wanted to jersey him.
‘Sorry, did I miss something? What’s so funny,’ I respond with a light chuckle.
‘Mate, Robots are all over the city.’ He then started pointing around us. ‘There’s a robot and another one over there. Everywhere.’

It was now my turn to laugh. The guy was pointing to the traffic lights at the intersections.
‘HA! You’re joking, right? The stop lights! You call stop lights, Robots?!! That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. That’s worse than the British calling training wheels ‘stabilizers.’’

Now, after my recent visit to South Africa, I can attest the country has a tremendous amount going for it and is well developed, but never will it reach any heights of technological innovation so long as they call the simple switch of a traffic signal a ‘Robot.’ Just imagine the names they would give to a vacuum cleaner or Honda’s ASIMO.

Uganda is Green.

Uganda is green.

I arrived late at night, around midnight. The sun had well set and I couldn’t much see anything, but could tell immediately that the land was lush and green. Exiting the airport, the most striking difference between Kenya and Uganda to hit my senses was the air: full, moist and clean. We drove from Entebbe to Kampala with the windows down. Fresh air streaming into the car and clearing the lungs. I was sporting a full bladder and requested a pit stop. The driver chuckled and quickly pulled over onto the dirt shoulder of the streaming two-lane commuter.

Exiting the cab and out into the pitch midnight air. I could barely make out any shapes and was reluctant to venture too far from the car. I didn’t want some funky, non-existent Ugandan land croc to lunge on me unsuspectingly. I slashed into the roadside’s long grass. The shores of Lake Victoria shimmered twenty meters from the road. The trees were alive with a percussion sound resembling the knocking chime of a bell made from hollow wood. I still haven’t figured out if it was a bird, frog or bug, but the forest had a beat.

The next morning I walked outside and saw the green I smelt the night prior. Yet, more striking, even in the city of Kampala, was the clay red dirt. My shoes and clothes would adopt an orange tinge over the following few days; mostly from biking through the country dirt roads.

Megumi and I made our way to the Bus Park in the central core of Kampala to catch a bus to the western countryside of Uganda. There we met her friend Charlie. The bus park is accurately named – unlike parkways and driveways – for the buses spend a huge amount of time, well, parked. We located our bus. It was stationed tightly in a row of other idling diesel buses, all of which had been plucked out of 1990 Japan. Ours had a ‘Nissan Diesel: Saitama, Japan’ badge beside the entrance. The bus was half full at this point. The seats were all covered in plastic and in rows of two and three. I walked to the back and grabbed an empty three seater, slid open the window and leaned out to take in the ensuing chaos.

Thousands of people milled around. Some hawking typical wear – sunglasses, portable radios, bread, coke – some looking for their bus, some trying to grab luggage in escort, some banging on the sides of buses aiding the drivers to park, others simply loitered. One bus read ‘BORNTOSING HALLALUYA.’ A sign in the front window of another said ‘The Struggle!!! Kampala-Soroti-via-Mbale-Kumi.’

A group of guys gawked at a passing woman of full figure and tight jeans. She fired back a glance that only flared their catcalls.

The bus was heating up far quicker than it was filling up. We were still waiting. The bus was scheduled to leave at 2pm. It was 2:30. I was told it wouldn’t go anywhere until it was completely full. I was sweating from the brow and wrists. My legs stuck to the plastic seat cover. A man entered trying to sell queen size cotton-satin sheets with a floral print. He had about ten sets draped over his arm. He unfolded one entirely. The passengers held an edge and inspected the thread count. A captive infomercial audience.

My attention quickly turned to the commotion outside. A broad woman in jeans and a khaki top started throwing haymakers at a tall lanky man. Her left hand held his red button-up shirt in firm grasp. He ducked and she delivered. She was the only woman in sight. A crowd of twenty guys stood around laughing at the poor sap being slapped.

Through the crowd came a teenager carrying rip-off Timberland luggage and a jar of pencils above his head. He was wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey jersey circa 1995. ‘GILMOUR 93’ stitched on the back. I called and got his attention, but he was suspect to allow me to snap a photo of him.

The bus was just about full. The driver was preparing to leave. One last hawker entered. He was peddling vitamin B complex pills. A worthy cause, but I respectfully declined.

The ride was bumpy. Slow in time, but fast in speed. These buses fly down the narrow two lane sparsely paved roads. Giant speed bumps the only deterrent. Being at the back of the bus, I would eject from my seat each time we passed over one. Sticky plastic seat covers my only restraint.

We stopped for fuel. The bus was surrounded by hoards selling sticks of grilled meat, corn and juice. I bought warm chapatti bread from my window seat. Staring back out the window I spotted a sign for Midas Cooking Oil, which appeared to read, ‘Give your Cocking that Midas Touch,’ which seemed to be more appropriate.

We ripped past the lush rolling green of tea plantations. A light cloud of misting rain hung over the western horizon and refracted the setting sun.

We arrived at our eco-lodge an hour after nightfall. The facility was perched on a hill overlooking the valley and hosted 4 cabins, an open air eating area and small private crater lake. The proprietor, a portly man with a graying beard, also runs an orphanage and offsets those costs by revenues generated by the lodge. We were fed an incredibly satisfying spread of beans, fried plantain and rice.

I retired to bed shortly after eating. Pull back the mosquito net, tuck in the corners and fall asleep.

Strolled down to the crater lake for a wake up swim the following morning. I joke overtly about fresh water crocs to conceal my legitimate fear – even though there isn’t even a fraction of a chance they live here. My swim is quick, but massively refreshing.

We rent mountain bikes and head off to explore. It’s hot, but the moisture from the valley is refreshingly cool. Our treads kick up red dust from the dirt road. Green as far as the eye can see. Lighter shades from young sprouting crops, fresh hues of tea, dark temperate rain forest tones in the horizon. Crater lake vistas, steep banks of tall non-indigenous eucalyptus trees.

We pass through a small village. Children come running, others stand timid behind their mothers. One child asks, “How are you?” I respond and the group follows with a chorus of “how are you.” Throughout the course of the afternoon I hear four lines: “How are you,” “I am fine,” “Give me money,” which later turned into, “Give me MY money.”  Efficient communication.

Nonetheless, the children are inquisitive and keen to engage in further conversation. A group of school kids approach on their way home. All in blue uniforms. We talk math and soccer. They see my camera and ask for a picture. They stare deep into the lens as if looking for something beyond the shutter.

We stop for a late lunch overlooking another crater lake and girls’ school. Their uniforms consist of white dress shirts and long pink skirts, which makes quite the contrast to the green hills when viewed from a distance.

Lunch is a local dish called a ‘Rolex’, which is essentially a shredded cabbage omelet, rolled in chapatti. Rolex. I order it out of entertainment of saying ‘Rolex.’

A game of soccer is being played on a red dirt pitch in Kampala. Locals sit, stand and watch on the grass hillside – a natural bleacher. Red versus Blue. Referee in yellow. It is still day, but light is fading and a shadow engulfs the field.

We head back to the car after dinner. An armed guard dressed in a bright red pleather windbreaker approaches us. He is tiny, but armed with rifle nonetheless. He stares blankly. I nod and grin. He flashes a huge teethy smile in return. I ask about his gun. He holds it out with two hands as if to offer it to me. I decline, but ask for a picture. He accepts. Bull Market moment.

Cape Town

I woke up in Cape Town this morning. Staying with a good friend, Trip, from university. His apartment is just up the north shore from downtown CPT. He has wide open western views of the ocean from his living room. Big sliding glass doors open up to the crashing tide. Robben Island is directly across. Glance left and you will see the buildings of central standing in front of the classic Cape backdrop of Table Mountain, Devil's Peak & Lion's Head. 

The picture above was taken one beer after arriving at his flat. Fan powered parasailer with lofty views of Table Mountain. 

Now sipping a coffee with morning sun lighting up the white froth of the breaking waves. The sound of the ocean drowns out the costal traffic or construction. We're figuring out our day ahead. Will drive south to Cape of Good Hope, over to Constantia wine route. Should time allow we may be ambitious and try to hike the Table for sunset. 

A friend, who used to live here, recently wrote me a note and said 'once the sunsets on you in South Africa it can be hard to leave.' I won't get carried away jut yet, but can understand where he is coming from. The views are stunning and they seem to just get better. 

Masai Mara, Kenya.

I have just spent the past three days on safari in Masai Mara, Kenya. Legendary rumours preceded my visit, but in all honesty, I really didn’t know what to expect. I now feel firsthand experience is necessary in order to grasp the vastness of the park. A roaming splendor. Nature at large. Raw.

The land is scorched. An open grassland of dry burnt yellow. Yet as we reach the top of a ridge the view changes dramatically. A recent fire has ripped through the open grass plain, charring dead grass down to the bare soil. The driving line where the fire consumed and where it ceased is the worn tracks made from the safari vans. Interestingly the fire’s damage is limited, in fact, its impact is quite rejuvenating. The fire, in combination with afternoon showers and the glaring African sun have fertilized the land. Mother Nature has wielded her wand with brush strokes of lush green. As a result, it seems the entire herbivore kingdom is grazing on the fresh green shoots.

Buffalo stand idle under the lonely shade of a single tree in an otherwise open land.

Our van holds its course on the washboard dirt track. My body shakes to the rhythmic beat; they call it the ‘African Massage.’ I am standing up. The van’s roof popped open like a canopy. I spot a hyena before it spots us. It is sleeping in a modest puddle at the road’s edge. Apparently, they lay in the water to aid digestion. Our van roars by and spooks the hyena awake. He jumps to all fours in a quick, but pissed-off lethargy. Agitated, he slinks away, peering back at his puddle and our fading silhouette.

A male zebra earns his stripes. He is mounted motionless on one of the herd’s females.

Bones scattered like littered limbs strewn after a gusty storm. Sun bleached and powder dry lay pieces of vertebrae. The legs free from their hips pivot. It reeks of rot and decomposing carcass. Despite it being the supposed rainy season, the cattle likely passed hungry and parched due to the current drought in western Kenya. Discarded and left to decay. Some old and weathered, their skin pulled taut like leather over bone. Others are fresh, but skinned of their hides. The Maasai have spotted value in utility. Meat left to dry in the daytime sun.

A herd of elephants are in the distance. Twenty lumbering beasts, like grazing shadows, on the horizon. We approach, but it takes time to get near while following the tracked path. The elephants are feeding. Trunks tearing grass and stuffing their mouths. It’s methodical. The young stay close to their mothers. The males proud and sporting ivory trophies. Once a bounty to colonial hunts and poachers, but now just the symbol of a stud. They pass by incredibly close as if to size us up and I am reminded of an emotive picture of an elephant’s eye, one which harbored depth and appeared to be crying. There are no tears today, yet I am still struck by their peering eyes and feel an inherent intelligence and wisdom. Or, perhaps it’s just a mirage cast by the surrounding wrinkles. Calm and deliberate, the herd moves on.

With the elephants just yards behind us, the van gets serenaded by monkeys. They run along side of us and congregate as we roll to a stop. I cannot help but feel the captive beast. One primate watching another. Babies grasp the front side of their mothers like a knapsack worn in reverse. At first glance only the tiny purple clasp of an infant’s hand is visible. Gripping thumbs locked on each side of the mother’s hair. A male sits atop a hill – a dirt mound. He rests. His bare ass his seat. His cock standing proud. Excited. He hangs with his wang out on display. An invite to his ladies. His turf. His crew. “Carry on now,” I can imagine him thinking, “nothing to see here.”

Giraffes stand idle like statues. Lanky. Knobby knees. Odd horns. Both dark and lighter species intermingle. A bird of striking indigo is perched on the back of one giraffe. The monkeys shuffle on all fours in the foreground, while buffalos roam the backdrop. One giraffe careens his neck, spots us and dashes off in an awkward, yet surprisingly quick, trot. 

Two cheetahs stroll the open grassland. Their cheeks patched with fresh blood. Whiskers glisten a sticky red. Recent predators. Prey captured and eaten. Now they search for shade. Shoulder blades rise and fall with each stride. Once in the shade they settle side by each. Bloody cheek to bloody cheek. Tails both stretched behind them, curling to the right and just touching the shadows cool edge. They are mates – or so it seems. They take turns licking and cooing one another’s face. They are cleaning, while very clearly showing affection. Carnivores.

The land is calm. Eerily calm. The sun still scorches, but the zebras and antelopes are still. A large female antelope stands erect, gaze focused on a small shaded rock crop one hundred yards away. She stares, as her calf becomes prey to a lion. It is feeding time for the lions. The land remains calm as if participating in collective mourning. The only sounds to interrupt are the cracking bones of the antelope under siege by the lion’s jaw. It is fierce. Raw. Nature. His paws, giant mitts, hold down his prey. His shoulders and entire back flex as he tears a limb. The antelope is well dead, open and wounded. The lion pauses. Sniffs. Licks the corpse. His face is marooned with blood. A younger lion waits his turn in the shade. A herd of three elephants pass in the background. The lion is unyielding. Giant canines crush through the shoulder: skin, muscle, ligaments and bone. Unfettered.

Midday is approaching. The sun is high, full and bright. The day is hot. African hot. The hippos are lounging in a shallow river. Deep enough to cover their hulking masses. Herbivores. Territorial. Aggressive. No natural predators. The hippos share this river with crocodiles. Crocs that are only respectful to the hippos. An armed guard is our guide as we walk the riverbank, which only a month prior was the locale of the infamous wildebeest migration. My imagination is running wild. Initially, the only movements in the river come from the awkward flapping of the hippos’ disproportionately tiny ears. The silence is broken by an enormous roaring eruption of inter-herd fighting. Water appears to boil. Giant gaping mouths lunge. The crocs never flinch. Still. Laying half submerged at the shore’s edge. Scales mock the bark of a fallen tree. A predator patient with hunger.

It is now late afternoon. Sunday. We are leaving the park for the day. Signs of human civilization litter the dusty roadside. Plastic bags. Refuse of all sorts strewn in the ditches. Not much, but stark and evident against the wide open space. Once again the stench of rotting carcass fills the van. Three dogs sleep within a twenty-foot radius of four dried and flattened cows. A truck is parked by the river’s edge. A large black container of industrial plastic sits on the flatbed. A hose runs into the pooled water – a brownish puddle with little current – and sucks from the shallow depths. One man stands in the stream, holding the hose below the surface. His pants rolled up to the knee.

Approaching the Maasai village we pass a cluster of buildings, both of corrugated steel and mud caked walls. We are greeted, warm and welcome. Men of long slender bodies are draped in robes of rich red. Colourful beads draped around their wrists and neck. Ear lobes hang in stretched loops. We are asked to pay 1000 shillings ($10) to enter the village. It is authentic, but looking to capitalize. I comply and enter.

I witness a welcome song, tribal dance and gaming jumps. Two old men with weathered faces, lingering gray whiskers and cloudy eyes of early cataracts file the hardened olive tree wood. They are crafting ‘Skull Crushers,’ a native weapon of 2’ shaft with a heavy and rock hard bulb ending. They use it to finish their lion kills. At age fifteen, the Maasai are required to kill a lion and bring back it’s four canine incisors as trophied proof. A right of passage.  The men each wear one around their necks in boastful affirmation.

Kids run. All smiles. Some snotty nosed. One pushes an old plastic water jug across the dirt and manure covered ground. He has attached a makeshift sail from discarded plastic. He makes the sound of a motorboat racing across the open ocean. He has never left his village. Never seen an ocean, or lake. Never seen a boat. Yet still, he races across the pitch. A captain in charge.

I witness the Maasai start a fire by spinning soft cedar on hard olive wood until the cedar smokes in charred embers, which are then smothered in dry grass. They blow the smoke billows thick until flames engulf the grass. Boy scout myths proven effective.

I am blinded when I enter the mud and manure hut. It is bright outside, but pitch black within. There is only one small window above the stove – a pile of smoking sticks. Its takes a few full minutes before I can make out the interior. Fifteen by twenty feet and home to three generations. The grandmother, mother, father, four children, one cow and one goat. Cramped quarters.

The Maasai diet involves milk, blood, grains and animal meats. Each morning they tap the neck of a cow and draw blood to drink. Just enough to consume and have the cow live for another day. Once it falls for good they will slaughter it for meat, skin the hide, desiccate the tendons. The bones will be scattered and left to dry in the African sun.

africa

I'm currently in Joburg, SA. Moments away from boarding my flight to Nairobi, Kenya.

I will be meeting up with an old friend from Tokyo, Megumi, in Nairobi. She claims a guy named Fred will be waiting at the airport to pick me up and take me to the Meridian Court hotel in downtown. We'll go exploring after check-in. Nairobi after dark.

Planning on cruising the city for most of tomorrow and heading out to Masai Mara on Saturday for a 4 day safari.

Following the safari, I'll follow Megumi back to Kampala, Uganda where she has been based while working for the Clinton Foundation over the past couple of years.

By Nov 13th I will fly to Cape Town and am planning on spending a couple weeks in the surrounding areas of CPT.

Sure to be an interesting next couple of weeks.

Pictures from Salta & Cafayate, Argentina.

I uploaded some pictures from my trip to Salta and Cafayate, Argentina. A wide scope of terrain made for some interesting shots: parched desert scapes, sprawling green vineyards and forgotten Ford Falcons of yesteryear.

Have a gander at them all.

scraps of paper from dinner.

Cafayate. Eating a large steak. A big tenderloin. Tomato salad for balance. A bottle of vino tinto. Local fare.

8 tables stradle the sidewalk. Pedestrians, of which there are few, walk between us. A table of two men, side by each, sip their remaining beers. One smokes. He is large. Round belly. Red faced. A cropped mullet of slicked white hair. A handle bar stache, trimmed, with the edges touching his chin. He wheezes before his lighter can strike a spark.

An Argentine resembling a short Tom Selleck asks for change. His shirt, tucked in, but buttoned only at the lower half. Cowboy boots covered by tappered jeans. Salt and pepper hair combed back and covering the ears. A tightly groomed moustache accompanies his upper lip. He feels good about himself. He runs the hotel I stay at. I've only used the bathroom in the hotel three times and each time he was occupying the one man room. A one man show of him. Combing his hair with the door open. Shirt off. What the fuck!? Either get out or shut the door and lock it. Stop playing dress up in your own mind. They are no longer casting for Three Men and a Baby. You fail.

Boots clap the tiled sidewalk. A bombshell passes. All Argentine. Long, slender. All I see are legs. Her eyes are curious, but non-wandering. I stare. She wins.

Three modern cowboys sit to my left. Their motorbikes parked an arm's length away. A Honda CBR and two Yamaha R1s. Can only imagine their ride. Wide open well paved two lane desert roads. Scenery like the Mojave. Layered rocks of red. Rusting iron ore. Some copper green oxidizing in the mix. They sip water. I sip wine.

I cut off a thick slice of steak. Juicy. Salty. I refill my glass. I still have half a bottle left.

A puppy perched with patience in the passageway. Hoping his youthful eyes of desperation will draw the scraps of sympathy.

I want to say its a Mariachi band, but think that may be wrong. Is that only in Mexico? Still, it sounds similar. Guitar strums. Ranchero singer follows. Voice of deep Spanish pride. Telling stories from his Grandfather's eyes.

Salt & tomatoes a natural compliment. Tomatoes on grilled beef even better.

The puppy, ignored, moves on.

Chivalry courts the air.

A ponytailed girl, pink pants, rides her bike with one hand. The other sports a melting icecream cone. She follows blind her father's leading shadow.

A boy, no more than three, sits in the rear child's seat of his mother's bike. Arms stretched in celebration. He wears the jersey of a Boca Jr player. His Mom walks the bike home.

The band picks up tempo. Mr. Handbars pours more beer. His right hand stomps the tune in an off-beat fashion. Cuttlery bounces with a metalic clank. The man at the table behind him has his arms crossed. His upper hand taps the same beat.

I feed the puppy. He is veiled under my table's cloth. Starving, he accepts a dropped scrap. Gentle, but hungry for more. He waits. He looks up and licks his chops. His face is all eyes. I hold a 2nd piece in my fingers. He approaches and takes. Two bites to straighten his hold on the meat, then he swallows whole. No time to taste. I'm sure he'd like to, but he is most concerned with consumption rather than enjoyment. Eat to live. His hair is wirey. He can't weigh more than 10lbs. A puppy fending for himself. I feed him all my gristle, scrap by discarded scrap. He accepts it all. All consumed in two bites. I grin. He's likely to get sick from so much so soon. He'll figure that out himself. Part of fending for oneself.

The vocals pause. The band stops. The vocals speak. A joke is told. The wit caught and the crowd laughs. It spills onto the street.

Two young couples dance. They move so well. A courtship of twirls. They strike envy in the aged patrons. They must be hired help. He spins quickly to show her his moves. She is provacative and turns each time the man holds too tight a glance. He is the lead, but she is the tease.

A father passes, shouldering his daughter. Son walks by the side of his mother, holding her hand. A family, together. Heading home, together.

I order a cortado. Small espresso with milk. I'll put a cork in the wine - now only a quarter left - and move on.

*******
dinner does not always have to be a group affair. sitting solo in a foreign town is often entertainment enough. company is welcome, but in its absence a pen and paper will suffice.

Salta, Argentina: a break from the city

I needed a break from Buenos Aires. I may sound like a jerk, but it's true. Too much of any city without honest priorities requires a change of pace.

Buenos Aires is a tremendous amount of fun. Its a great blend of cosmopolitan charm and urban grime. The daytime pace is tranquilo and matte fueled, yet the nights are their own beast. Dinner only becomes a thought by 10pm. By 2am the bars and clubs are filling up and at 4am the crowd is starting to debate the next venue. If you're out, its normal. By six in the morning the sun grows and couples desperately grope each other and the fleeting night. Yet its a draining and empty feeling to cab home and know the starting day will be largely lost to sleep. The past weekend of Thursday to Sunday was extremely entertaining, but come Monday I needed a retreat to the countryside. Initially, I was leaning towards Mendoza, but took the suggestion of a friend to explore Salta. My options were a 2hr plane ride or an overnight bus. An easy choice, especially seeing I only have a week left in Argentina before taking off for Africa.

There was little planning to the trip. I had read only a few articles on the city of Salta and a couple more on surrounding area. I simply wanted to explore. I stepped off the plane and was struck by the wide open sky, bright sun and still heat. Its only mid-October, but its scorching in Salta; surprisingly warmer than urban BA. By midday I was checked into a hostel and ready for some lunch. Accompanied by only my camera and my novel at the time, ''The Road'' I found a terrace for coffee and empanadas.

A commonality of South American cities/towns is they they all host at least one central open plaza. An urban span of trees and grass designed for idle time. They offer a short cut across the block or a place to sit in the shade. Usually, some statue stands in the center.

Following lunch I attempted, once again to check out a polo match. Once again, my plan was thwarted as there was no match scheduled for the day. However, I did get to see a few players and horses practice on the pitch which was still impressive.

I backtracked to centro and rode a gondola up to the city's lookout. A very worthy 15 minute cable ride up. The peak boasted an elaborate waterfall of multi-stages, a cultivated garden and a large cross, which is seemingly pre-requisite of any urban hill in South America. I stayed for a couple hours and watched the sun set behind a range of mountains along Salta's western sprawl. One by one the streets lights began to shine.

Dinner was a group asado back at the hostel. I grilled a beefy tenderloin and ate an excessive amount of blue cheese while reading further into ''The Road.'' It was tough to socialize. I wasn't feeling up to the hostel small talk. Perhaps I would have chimmed in if someone from the mini-UM started the conversation with something interesting like, ''I knew a ninja once...'' Nobody did. All the better, my bus to Cafayate was at 7am.

*******

The bus was jam packed. A few had to stand and they swayed listless. The ride was a dozy 4hrs. I completed ''The Road'' in between slumbers. An eerie novel set in post-apocolyptic America. A striking tale of Father and Son, their loyal bond and the emotional hardships of persevering for an uncertain tomorrow. Cormac McCarthy describes scorched landscapes covered in ash. A vast sprawl of desert. It was stirring to read the final pages while watching the parched terrain roll by from my window seat.


*******

I now find myself in Cafayate, Argentina. A small town in the northwestern province of Salta, edging the borders of both Chile and Boliva. Its dry, desert hot and sits at an altitude of 1,500m - ideal growing conditions for grapes, especially the Malbec variety which thrive in the cold nights of higher altitudes.

I arrived at noon as the town lay active only in siesta. After walking a few central squares, I spotted an empanada shop. I ordered a variety of 6 and a liter of cola. Following, I rented a bike from across the street and spent the balance of the day navigating the back country roads and tasting wines from 5 different vineyards.

Cafayate offers a wide selection of local wines. Better yet, most of the vineyards are easily accessible by bike. Really a perfect town for wine tasting.

Tomorrow, I'll explore more of the surrounding area. There are sand dunes, mountains of layered colours and ancient cave etchings.

*******
I'm sitting in an internet cafe in Cafayate, Argentina. I've just cracked a Quilmes and have a cheek full of coco leaves. I'll soon go eat dinner and continue reading Cormac McCarthy's ''Blood Meridian.'' I'm one chapter in and already it starts will a tone of graphic aggression. Still, I can tell it will entice. He writes with such a unique prose.

I was introduced to Cormac McCarthy in a backwards sort of way. I had no idea it was he that wrote ''No Country For Old Men'' until after mentioning his name to a friend. I learned about him through a singer/song writer named Ben Nichols. He recently released an album called ''Last Pale Light in the West'' which he wrote based entirely off ''Blood Meridian.'' Its an acoustic solo album in which Nichols' voice sounds appropriately like whiskey.

BA Street Art

Buenos Aires boasts some impressive graffiti. I've explored a number of neighbourhoods and have taken a few pictures of the street art. I will continue to update my albums with more works from different areas.

In the meantime, take a peak at the first installment. GRAFFITI in BA

Sultans

Ever done something stupid? Stupid only in result, but fantastic in the moment. I have. In fact, the most recent example occurred last Friday night out in Paris, Ontario. Matty invited me to join an annual golf tourney with his boys. I was keen.

We were to golf on Friday, have dinner back at the rented mansion, play the odd hand of poker, engage in a couple of night cap cocktails and retire early like distinguished gentleman.

By 10am on Friday everything was going to plan. Matty and I were pretty pleased with ourselves for waking up and making the 2hr drive out to Paris with plenty of time to spare before the scheduled tee times. We walked in the front door of the large estate situated on the 9th green and found a group of men already worse for wear. Apparently, the little bulls pulled out a few more stops the night prior and were just rousing. I sipped my Tim Hortons coffee and ate Doritos while the group pulled it together and told stories of the previous night. A few were in visible physical pain. One was icing a sprained inner knee. Another claimed to have cracked ribs. Not sure anyone believed him, until he started coughing, wheezing & tearing up in agonizing pain. The boys laughed their way to conviction. Sultans had already claimed two victims and the golf hadn't even started. The tone was being established.

By noon we had made our 11am tee time. Coffees and gatorades offered minimal salvation. I plugged in my ipod to the portable speakers. Biggie's '10 Crack Commandments' while the rules were being explained. Rural Alberta Advantage for the first few holes. At least we had some music to disrupt the awkward silence of focus. This wasn't the day to show weakness. Weakness to the cold, weakness to a hangover or weakness to a ribbing. Today, a steely resolve of 'go fuck yourself' was vital.

By 5pm the last foursome - reduced to a stellar twosome of B.Joel & Curry - putted home. Surprisingly, the round of Golf had only taken a couple of prisoners. One, had an absolutely impressive breakdown, a total failure to remain impervious. The Sultan's third tally.

I'm often impressed how quickly a group of guys can retreat to nap time. Heads down and driven, they'll avoid any eye contact with all friends who may question their direction and start agitating unnecessarily. By 5:30 the house was a ghost town. MLB playoffs were on the big screen and once again, I found myself eating Doritos. Yet this time, M.Brady offered a science lesson by lighting a Cheetos cheese snack on fire. If you've never tried, I suggest you do. An impressive fire starter should one find themselves stranded in the forest.

I was trying to get support for a side trip to Kitchener/Waterloo for their Octoberfest, which is apparently the largest in North America. I did manage to locate a couple of vans and drivers willing to drive the 20 of us, but thank the baby jesus we stayed put in the Mansion.

Dinner was served around 7pm. Juicy steaks, a heap of side salads and a case of fine Argentinian wines. By this point we were all getting back on track, yet once the plates were cleared the wheels came right back off.

The danger started once that first beer was accidentally spilt on the tiled kitchen floor. A slippery liability of fun. How could you not want to slide across in your tennis shoes? Better yet, on your chest like a penguin. Too hard to resist the Slip'n'Slide. For the sake of us all, I wish I did. My out of the blue 4th slide came following a fastball strike by CC Sabathia to close out the 6th inning. How could you not be fired up! Add some more beer to the floor, get a running start from across the dinning room, jump, land and let'er rip! I slid all the way to the far wall and knocked myself right through it. Despite knowing the pain this would cost my bank account, I found it tough not to immediately laugh. My shoulder just body checked a giant hole in a rented mansion. Check that off the list.

The wheels didn't get put back on until I lay down to sleep in the early morning. All good healthy fun. I awoke to Matty's voice walking upstairs and I quickly got out of bed, put my jeans and shirt back on, grabbed a gatorade and waited in the car. The owners were just pulling up on their golf cart to see us off for our 11am check-out and to ensure there had been no damage. It was time to leave. Sultans was over for another year.

Again, thanks for the invite. Thanks for all the heart to hearts. Very much appreciated. Until next time gents. Stay healthy & keep your heads up.

Home

Its good to get home. Good to get grounded.

I flew back home from BA for a quick 8 day trip, which felt like a month. Matty and I were both home for Thanksgiving and our Mom's surprise birthday party. We spent 5 days up north at the cottage in Haliburton re-building docks, winterizing boats, chopping wood, stacking wood and burning wood. We likely confirmed that the Brady boys haven't evolved beyond the caveman realm as our pyro genes live strong. There is something incredibly satisfying about cutting limbs, clearing brush and setting it all on fire. A productive destruction. I'm certain that most city stresses evaporate, like steam from a wet log, once the work clothes are on and the fire is blazing. Fortunately we managed a few solid days of outside cleanup work. Early morning frosts caked the ground, signaling winter is fast approaching. Glad that Matty and were both back to help out.

One of our projects was to rebuild a section of the docks before putting them away for the winter. On our property, its essential to do such chores in the fall when the lake's level is at its lowest and the beach its widest. Makes for a better job site. Plus, building on the beach meant we could also light a massive brush fire and be close to stoke it. Multi-tasking in the countryside.

The Boys banded together, drew up plans, purchased the materials and re-built the dock all within an afternoon. We were impressed, not only by our pace, but by the cooperation between brothers Matt & Scott. High Kicks to celebrate.

Once the docks were re-built Matty and I had to tow them across the lake for winter storage on the leeward side of the island. Pretty straight forward. Matty drove the boat while sipping a well deserved beer. I sat on the docks like deadweight and took in autumn firebush views.

After dropping off and anchoring the docks we decided to go for a last rip around Eagle Lake before taking the boat out for the season. Seemed to make sense. A slow putter, beers in hand. We had gone no more than 3 minutes when Matty looked over at me a grinned. Not an innocent grin, but one with hidden motivation. I knew exactly what he was thinking, so before he could even ask I said, "sounds like a good idea." If it was to be our last boat ride of the season we should at least have a final waterski. Again, seemed to make sense.

He'd agree to drive, as if it was a great sacrifice, so long as I'd agree to ski. "But wait. You already are driving. The water's fucking cold. Like almost freezing cold. How does this make sense?"

"Shhhhhushhh. Its good. Here are the skis," he said while pulling out the two 1991 O'Briens from the hull's storage. Fair enough. Matty had won another argument by shhhushh'ing me.

Fully clothed in my Haliburton tuxedo of double plaid flannel work shirts, blue jeans, a hunting hat with fur lining and ear flaps, I stood up and started putting on the skis. There was little point to feel the water as I'd spent most of the afternoon wading ball's deep in a pair of fly fishing hip waders. I knew it was soprano cold.

I put on a timeless orange Bouy'O'Boy lifejacket, a pair of leather work gloves and grabbed the ski rope and an old football to properly execute the Bundy pose. All I asked of Matt is that he get me up without stalling the engine. Thankfully he complied.

I entered the water and immediately took a leak to delay the onset of hypothermia. Within a minute I was back up on two skis for the first time since my childhood. We ripped all around the lake. Hooting and hollaring past our cottage, by the inn and back home.

My hands stayed numb for most of that evening, but hot damn was it worth it. October 13th, latest ski of my career.

Some pictures from Haliburton.

AC093.

AC093.

We passed over Bogota an hour earlier. Mind you I had zero clue. I woke up from 2hrs of sleeping pill activity on the runway of Bogota. Stewardess' voice, "Welcome to Columbia."

-sorry, where are we?

-columbia.

It was 2:30am. 30mins on the ground and they announce the crew will retire and we'll be put up in the Sheraton. By 3:30 I'm checked in. Sleep to 8:30 and fuel on two cups of Columbian brew.

Managed to hire a cab and drove up to the Museo del Oro. The building was a refurbished 4 stories of slick stone inner halls. Seemed like a relevant time to check out an entire building dedicated to the most celebrated creations of Latin-American gold. Pretty spectacular Masterpieces.

Was out in 45mins. Circled a few historic blocks of downtown. Coffee, no camera. Met back up with the taxi and we drove an upper road with a view of the sprawl of Bogota. Red roofs faded into the hue of urban smog. Stone buildings from the 1700's lined the narrow cobblestone roads of Candelaria. Seemed like each block hosted the eyes of an elder. The Plaza de Bolivar is a wide open square of prominence with buildings of discipline and disciple on each 4 sides.

The graffiti is fantastic. Detailed murals. Wicked colours. No camera. Less words. Some of the better stuff I've seen on my trip through Chile and Argentina. Less sporadic 5-year old set free with a spray can littering single word tags. Tight canvass space added to the seemingly wide diversity of artists. Good presence through the city. Not cluttering.

I was working backwards from 2pm all day. Well, since i arrived at the Sheraton and again after waking up. Plane was leaving at two, or so we believed. It didn't. It took off at 6pm. I'm not one to utter passive lines of indifference, but there are moments when all you can do is hand over control and accept that certain things are beyond you. Seat belt on, sitting in the full upright position aboard a commercial airplane is one such moment. Your completely captive. You are there until it decides you can get off. Now I really enjoy flying for obvious reasons of travel and destinations. Yet, along with renouncing control comes complete downtime to do just about any activity which incorporates sitting. I find myself in states of excessive ambition (3 books and 8 magazines) or utter exhaustion. Regardless, I'm often asleep before we're off the runway. Must be something in the air. I woke up from my early nap, but the plane hadn't budged.

Once again passenger well being was at the helm of the plane and the same ill-two from the original flight were back aboard and independently not feeling well. A man sporting an oxygen mask was escorted off the plane. A lady followed 20 minutes later. The rest of the plane sat, slept or stirred for hours as they located and removed the recent absentees' luggage.

It had been a cool day. Sure we were delayed, yet I couldn't help to think how much better a layover in Bogota is than a winter storm delay in Chicago while waiting within the airport. I was also reminded about the Louis CK rant on Conen. Quality.

The stop was unexpected, but ultimately welcome. I had wanted to visit Columbia and simply confirmed I will be back. First though, I had to make it home to Canada for Thanksgiving with the entire family in Haliburton, Ontario.

By midnight we arrived in TO, 32hrs after leaving BA. Mike was clearly there. Clearly patient. I can only give thanks. by 4:30am we pulled in to the cottage driveway. Past the Brady Lake sign. Took a leak over the ledge into the forest. Opened the door and was welcomed with its own cedar smell and chime. Made a salami sandwich and went to bed with an extra blanket and all the windows open. Amazing how still and quiet a crisp October weekend by the lake can be, especially compared to the summer frogs and forest sounds. Good to be back home for sure.

Columbia

So, I'm in Bogota, Columbia at the moment. Bit of an audible on the flight home from BA to TO for Thanksgiving. Someone got sick enroute. We were a few hours from Santiago and the closest international airport we could land at was Bogata. Sweet. I've always wanted to Columbia. Wish I could have stayed longer. 

I was awoke from a deep sleeping pill induced slumber to find out we had landed and would be staying for 7hrs. Enough time for a nap at the hotel and to cruise around the center core of the city fueled on the finest Columbian blend. 

My flight to TO is boarding. 

Peace Columbia.

Cambio

Getting change in Buenos Aires seems to be a constant battle. One feels a massive sense of pride and accomplishment simply by breaking a large bill into smaller bills. Should you manage to acquire change in coins you are a lucky man, a rich man. Honestly, its bizarre, but true. 

The buses (collectivos) are convenient and cheap. They run 24hrs/day and with a bit of grid studying one can navigate the entire city and its surrounding suburbs. Best of all each ride costs a mere 1.20 pesos (about 30 cents). The issue is buying a ticket (bolleto). Upon entrance, you tell the driver your destination, he punches a button which highlights the amount to pay. The ticket machine is behind the driver. Enter your change and take your ticket. Pretty straight forward. Except when you don't have change. In that case you stand around like a fool and dig into the depths of your empty pockets. Man purse? Rifle through the change pocket. Empty? Pull out a 2 peso bill and ask sheepishly for change. "Monedas, por favor?" Silence. Lesson learned: don't enter a bus without change. 

Fine, get coins for the next time. Its a constant the world-round: virtually every convenient store and restaurant are reluctant to give change. As a result, I find myself repeatedly buying packs of gum, M&Ms, empanadas or unneeded jolts of coffee simply to find coins for the bus. Its not much of a complaint as I'm left wide awake, with a full belly and minty fresh breathe.

However, try to pay with anything larger than a 20 peso note and the proprietor will exhale in frustration and ask if you have something more 'chico.' Its really a vicious circle as the banks primarily dispense 100 peso bills. Now chances are if you've just come from the bank you're sporting a pocket full of 100's and feel flush. Ironically, those are the moments when I feel most destitute. 

Regardless, there you are belly full, breathe minty and pockets jingling. You've figured out which bus to take by deciphering BA's bible, the GUIA T. You deserve a high-five. You've conquered the bus.

What about a taxi? Its more expensive and more convenient. Obviously. However, on a comparative level to any other major city in the world, BsAs taxi's are super cheap. A 15 minute cross town buzz will cost about 15 pesos ($4). Layup. Cheaper than HK! Compared to Tokyo, they are in different stratosphere. A similar distance in TKY would easily run upwards of $30. My lord, with that type of money you can eat like a King in BA (big 'ol juicy Argentine steak and a couple bottles of vino tinto). 

Just remember, don't enter a taxi in BA without small bills. I've done this on a number of occasions and each resulted in the driver getting visibly angry. Granted, I'm sure they are repeatedly getting hit up for change, but if anything that motivation to carry more, not less. Regardless, its 50-50 they will offer you change. If they do, they'll be as slow as possible in the hopes you'll leave from impatience. If they don't, they'll likely ask you to go and get some. 

"Seriously!? But I'm not hungry. I've already had 18 empanadas today and my murse is filled with 6 packs of gum."

I finally stood up to my last driver. I kindly explained I didn't have a smaller bill than 100 pesos as I'd absent mindedly spent my last 10 moments before entering the cab. He was non-too-pleased. He told me to go to the supermarcado, but I refused. I could see he had change in his hands. He had pulled out his wad expecting I'd pay from a 20. "The supermarcado will force me to buy something I don't need and you have adequate change." I could hear the circuits breaking inside his skull. He'd had enough and told me to get out. "Just get out."

I apologized and exited the taxi. However, for the second time in three days, I found myself confused over the most basic exchanges of money and expelled for standing my ground as a paying customer. Why would he forfeit fare to avoid giving change? I'm sure its deep rooted, but for an newcomer its simply strange. The largest bill is 100 pesos. Banks dispense virtually only 100s. Small shops and taxis are reluctant to accept such notes and even more reluctant to give up any of their heavy change. Its bizarre that coins are more coveted than bills. Penny rich and pound foolish. 

Tango

I have just returned from my first experience with Tango. I'm humbled and impressed. I'm not sure what I thought of it prior, but I'm quite sure it was a dismissive scoff. I likely viewed it as effeminate. I have now changed my mind. 

Men lead. Woman add flare. Its fluid. At moments, slow and deliberate, while quick and spontaneous for the balance. 

Most of the woman wore heels, flowing dresses and leggings underneath. One wore a short ruffled skirt, stilettos and black stockings with a dark seam which ran up the back of the leg. Likely one of the most attractive things I've seen. 

One guy with equal confidence and talent sported leather soled white & black pimp loafers. Dancing shoes. All class. 

There will be a second visit.

I got kicked out of Spanish School

I got kicked out of my Spanish school today. Very bizarre. The first time I’ve been expelled from a school and I can safely say I didn’t see it coming. It had nothing to do with indecent exposure or unprovoked cruelty. I was the victim, yet painted with the brush of the villain. I feel like a fool.

I enrolled in Spanish school for the beginner group lessons of 4hr classes each day. I was excited. I figured 20hr/wk at $100 was a great deal, especially because my group, including me, totaled 3. Good student-teacher ratio and all that. I figured I was on the right course to learning.

I was. Then I was blindsided by the illogical truck of South American business mentality. Ok, that’s a sweeping statement and not even remotely fair, but its safe to say that customer service is not a priority down here. Restaurant proprietors feel entitled for you to serve them with your patronage. Taxi drivers wince to offer change. Spanish schools try to gouge their students with registration fees and small print.

Last Thursday, one of the girls in my class announced she wasn’t going to return for a second week. Rather she was going to continue on her travels. As a result, the school manager would have to rearrange our schedule.

 Now, this timetable jockeying manager is a seemingly nice America girl in the most bland way possible. She strikes me as the bandcamp type who never emerged from her shell until she moved beyond her parents grasp. Now that she’s living in BA and fluent in Spanish, she exudes an air of supremacy, but in a confused hermaphrodidic way. Having the genitals of both sexes isn’t something to boast about.

 Regardless, last Friday she mentioned class would change from 4hrs/day to 2hrs/day, but the cost would remain the same. I failed to follow her logic, so decided to ask how that was possible. She replied that 2 students comprised a ‘semi-private’ lesson and that meant only 2hrs/day.

 Ok, but surely there would be certain concessions made. I mean if we divide the lesson hours in half, then the cost should change, right? No.

I was confused how that made any practical sense. More so, I was confused how she didn’t budge an empathetic inch. Rather, she deadpanned me with a look that could only be interpreted as a patronizing ‘I have the genitals of both man and woman.’

 Now, I’m not super familiar with such looks, but I quickly found out I’m not very recpeptive to them either. However, what really bothered me was getting fleeced while being made to feel like the villain. 

I decided it would be best to write an email to the school’s director and ask for some clarity. I think it was clear, stern and honest without being too pointed. The result was incredible. The director interpreted it as a personal blow. She felt I was attacking her school and employees. She claimed to hold the right to admit or expel students. Seeing that she didn’t appreciate my tone she would refund my money for the second week and see to it I didn’t return to the school.

 Well here’s the issue. I wasn’t as concerned about the money as I was about being short changed for something out of my control: the number of students enrolled in my class. I felt cheated. Now I felt cheated and screwed for I would have to search for another school, pay an additional registration fee and most importantly re-establish a relationship with another teacher. 

I decided to go to the school early today to discuss the situation. The response was anything but welcome. Hermaphrodite spotted me on entrance, grunted hello, turned her back and walked into her office. I followed and took a seat at her desk. She quickly pulled out a $100 bill and passed it towards me. I told her I didn’t have the intention of leaving the school; I intended on continuing with my lessons. Afterall, it was Monday morning, twenty minutes before my class was to start and more to the point, all Spanish schools start their new registrations on Monday’s. I was unable to find a new school over the weekend as they were closed. I certainly wouldn’t be able to find one on a Monday willing to let me start that day.

Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine as she tried to maintain a face of authority. She called the Director, spoke in Spanish, exchanged pleasantries, hung up and said there was nothing she could do. The director had spoken. Ha! What a joke.

A paying customer is nothing. She merely wanted to wield her conductor’s wand and call the shots. She was avenging her teenage angst.

I hope she steps in dog poo.