Category: Countries

What do you do when you get to a new location? There is so much to relearn about where you have just landed, so much to know about the systems and shops in the area. When I had just arrived at my new hostel in Recoleta I needed to orient myself and find out just what was around me. In the process I discovered a takeaway shop unlike any other I had ever seen. What a delight this place was.

The Discovery
As I was out wandering the streets to discover my new neighbourhood I decided that since it was lunch time I needed to eat. It just so happened that I was walking past a local eatery at that very moment, so I stopped in.

The Place
It was a rather ordinary looking shop and did not have anything fancy such as I was accustomed to from Australia, but I had come to expect this after my short time here. I wandered in and found a place on one of the stools at the main bench. There were no tables or chairs here, only stools and benches. The main bench separated customers from the business area of the shop, the other nestled tightly against the large plate glass windows.

There was nothing wrong with this place, it was after all quite a normal looking joint for a meal around here, but it still managed to capture that feel of being only half completed which so many of these places did. Perhaps it was the many broken things around the place that did this, the broken stool that stood in the corner, the severe wobble in the bench against the window, or the cracked glass in one of the display cabinets.

Even the business side of the shop had that feel of being not quite right. Somewhat like the feeling should mum be trying to cook around the broken bits of motorbike that dad had strewn across the benches. It was not that the place was dirty, nor did it have any motorbike parts strewn across its benches, it was actually quite clean in the areas that mattered. Nor was it that the place was really messy, although all the tools of the trade were out and waiting for use on the cooking benches. It was hard to place a finger on the reason for this feeling, but whatever it was I could still feel it.

My Order
After sizing the place up the next step was working out what I wanted. There was a board of Spanish writing of which I could understand none of it. So I kept looking. I was in luck as there were some old and tattered computer printed paper signs plastered over the glass of the display cabinet, which by the looks of its contents was being used as a filing cabinet these days. These signs I had clasped my eyes on sported wonderful pictures of what it was they were selling. I could now ask for something and know what it was going to be. There were not many of them, four in fact, although they repeated so my choice was limited to two.

The price had long since faded from these signs so I took a guess as to how much it would be. I was amazed at how tough it was to decide between my two choices. Fried breaded steak and hot chips or a hamburger. It should not have been a tough choice. Eventually I ordered the hamburger, but by the time it was on the grill I really started wanting the the steak. Perhaps I had ordered the opposite to what I felt like. Perhaps I considered that the hamburger would be cheaper. It was not much cheaper if it was. In any case I was now about to have a hamburger.

Preparing The Food
Most shops these days seem to have everything prepared before they need it. Probably the only process of creating something fresh while they are cooking is when they crack an egg over the hotplate. The shop I was in did it differently. It did not work this way.

The meat patty for my burger was formed from fresh mince, a batch of which looked to have been just completed. An old hand-wound mince grinder on the bench, similar to the style I remember playing with in my grandmothers house, gave testimony to where it would have been ground.

Lettuce leaves were stripped off the plant, rather than taken from a box pre-shredded. Tomatoes were cut to provide the slices for the burger, and so on it was with all of the ingredients that are used to create a complete hamburger. I was surprised that she did not bake the bread too, but this seemed to be the only thing that was not fresh to the moment.

This process of freshness extended even to the hot chips. Potatoes, peeled on the spot, were then forced through a hand operated chip cutter. This machine, resembling a press from a mechanics workshop, produced lush, thick potato chips, ready to fry.

Enjoying The Place
It was quite amazing to watch the preparations taking place before me. Perhaps I simply have not seen things things taking place before. Perhaps there are many places like this but they simply do it out in the back room rather than directly in front of me. I liked it being in front of me. I could see the quality of food that was being prepared. It also gave me something interesting to watch while I waited for my food.

After completing my meal, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that it was much cheaper than I had first expected. As a result, I returned here a few times to sample the large variety of foods available here. Well perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I returned a few times and simply swapped between the two choices that I had from my faded pieces of paper. They were good choices though, and I liked both the hamburger and the crumbed steak.

The Owner She Was
It was after one of these later visits that I realised that the place was run only by one lady. At times she was assisted by her teenage son, although he seemed mainly to be there in the afternoons. She did not seem to be the domesticated sort of woman that one would imagine would do so much cooking. There was a definite edge of firmness about this lady. Some may have said it was a harshness, but they would not have seen her smile that showed off her softer side.

A Genuine Place
When I left that place after my meal, I felt like I was leaving something genuine, a place that had not followed after the look and feel of the MacDonalds in this world. It was fresh and it was also traditional at the same time. Sure it was old, and things were a little tatty, but that just added to its character. It was a place that I felt at home in, and for me, in a new location yet again, this was important.

A little oasis of food – freshly made.

Everyone has experience rain. There is nothing new about this experience. Each person living in their own cities has seen the umbrellas come out and people trying to avoid the water that falls from the sky. Yet no matter how many times you see it, when you are in a different place it seems different. The habits of the people in new places are different. And so it was when I first experienced rain in the city of Buenos Aires. Very familiar, and yet different.

Waking Up
It was just another morning as I struggled to open my eyes after yet another late night. There was a strangely familiar noise outside which sounded like wind, but when I had opened the windows and shutters I realised that it was actually rain. It was pouring down too, not like a gentle falling but as though buckets full of water were being poured out all over the city.

An Empty Street
Hurrying to dress, I raced outside to see how the inhabitants of my new home dealt with this new environment. Perhaps not seeing rain for over two months also added to my eagerness. When I reached the street level, what I saw surprised me. Down a street where I cannot enter without choosing a space between all of the people, there was only a handful of people to be found. All of these were hurrying down the street along the edges, with only a couple of brave souls wandering down the middle, something I had only ever known to be full.

Of course many of the people making their way down the street had an umbrella, but I was surprised at just how many people were without them. Both the umbrella people and those without them were competing for the very narrow and highly inconsistent areas of shelter underneath the shop fronts as they made their way hard up against the sides of this pedestrianised street.

The Hazards
As I wandered along the streets, it became obvious that the shelters under the shop fronts were almost useless. Many leaked as much as it rained, and there were often large gaps without any shelter. Not only that, but since everyone had the same idea, there was also the hazard of being spiked by an umbrella or pushed into a puddle by someone scurrying off to their destination.

Puddles were the real hazard here in the rain though. With so much of the sidewalks in disrepair, the missing tiles and holes in the sidewalks became perfect places for the rain to gather, and instead of merely depressions in the walkway there were now great puddles. Added to all of the other puddles, walking became a real hazard. Not only were puddles found along the sidewalks, but also many sections of the roads and gutters had such great sags that the puddles in them were as large as ponds.

In addition to the puddles were the hidden traps, tiles that had long since come unstuck but were still in their place. Stepping on one of these would release the water lying underneath in a strong squirt that reached up inside clothes and along legs. The resultant liquid, mixed as it was with ground tile dust, created a sloppy mud effect wherever it happened to land. Trying to keeping reasonably dry and clean in this new environment was a full time effort.

New Enterprises
The rain had presented a new opportunity for enterprise too, and instantly there were umbrellas for sale in every second shop along the way. Each shop ensured that their umbrellas were prominently displayed to the passing pedestrians, some of which were drenched in water. Enterprising men holding a handful of umbrellas in their arms were also competing for sales, wandering the streets and approaching every person without one. Some had set themselves a display at their feet, sheltered by whatever protection they could find.

People Appearing
As the rain began to ease, people started flooding back onto the streets again. As they appeared I was able to clearly see the effects of the rain. Many people soaked right through included business men as well as those more casually dressed. The sound of squelching feet created after plunging the foot deep into a puddle blended into the other sounds of the street. And people who were soaked through, not from the rain, but from drivers that took glee in spraying people from the deep puddles of water beside the roads.

Lessons Learned
By the time I returned home, rain still falling intermittently, I had learned that the hazards of this place simply increased with rain. Now, not only could I be run over, pushed over, sprain an ankle, or be robbed (some being more likely than others), I could also be skidded into, slip over, submerge my feet, be splashed, sprayed or squirted, and have my eye poked out with an umbrella.

So after this I decided that I like sunny days better. After all, it only happens when it rains.

In Argentina there are several very popular teams. Probably the two most popular of all teams are Boca Juniors and River Plate, both with their stadiums in Buenos Aires. The weekend just past was the clash of these titans, and it turned out to be quite a spectacular event.

I didn’t get to go to the football match as it was too popular and could not get tickets. It turned out to be one of the most sensational games of the season, or perhaps even more sensational than that. Let us look at the background for these two games first because it is this setting that made it so sensational.

The Competition
The current competition had the two teams, Boca and River running neck and neck, with Boca in the lead by two points. All River needed to do was win this game to get three points, putting them in the lead. The chances of this was very slim, even though River was playing really well, because Boca had won 30 games straight in their home stadium and did not look like letting this record slip. It was these things that totally packed out the stadium.

Watching the Game
At 3pm on Sunday afternoon, when the game started, I walked the streets with a friend of mine to find a place that we could watch it on television. Unfortunately, only certain places who were willing to pay the extra fee for the encrypted channel could show the game, and there was not a single place that was not full. In fact, every single place had people filling the inside so full that they were overflowing onto the footpaths and even the road at times. It was a very popular game.

We finally found ourselves inside a very expensive restaurant after a twenty minute wait. It was from here, craning my neck to see the distant television screen over the top of a high wall that we were able to see the rest of the game transpire. So when River won, it was a huge sensation over here. Not only was River now ahead in the competition, but they won in Boca’s stadium and also broke Boca’s 30 straight wins in their home stadium too.

Protecting Supporters
Soccer games can be really dangerous here and often people die or are killed after the game. To get the River supporters out safely, the River team hired over 1000 police to form a line between the River and the Boca supporters. It was incredible to see riot police, mounted police, and powerful weapons on display everywhere, and as the supporters flowed out of the stadium, the streets were filled to capacity with people.

To reduce the chances of incidents, the Boca supporters were kept inside the stadium for a further 40 minutes after the game. Even with this delay the two opposing supporters can still end up mixing as it takes so long to disperse from the area. This was one of the reasons why the the police are normally called to help keep the two sides separated, at the cost of the teams. It was all pretty amazing stuff.

Loving to the Limits
The passion for each team runs high and affects people of every age. After the game while I was walking home with two friends we experienced the fury of a Boca Juniors supporter when they saw the River Plate hat that one of us was wearing. An old lady in her 70’s or 80’s suddenly burst out in a brief statement of abuse over our support of the “opposing” team.

The ironic thing about this “attack” was that only one of us was a River Plate supporter. My other friend was a Boca Juniors supporter and I am still undecided at this point as to whether I will take sides. This event took place in a very respectable suburb too. In poorer suburbs such as La Boca where the Boca Juniors stadium resides, true fights and often deaths result between opposing supporters for soccer teams.

Football has reached a form of worship over here, and seems to affect the young and the old alike. How scary that people would take sport to such a level.

It was quite late in the night anyway when the three of us left. We were in a very low-class area of the city and were heading to the night markets in another similar area. I was with two girls, Vicky and Clara from LIFE Argentina, and we had just finished one of the birthday parties that we routinely hold for the kids in these areas.

Getting There
It was not safe enough to walk from the party to the bus stop, so we took a taxi. Taxis in this place are normal cars. Well, not exactly normal, since it was falling apart. Rust and dents enveloped the whole thing and it sounded like it would stop at the next corner. Our conversations were only in Spanish from this point on, because there was a danger of being robbed should we be heard to speak English.

We paid a very cheap fare to the driver as we piled out near the bus stop. From here we crossed over a railway line, only metres from the train waiting at the station, and after asking directions, found our way to the bus stop.

The bus was extremely old and rattled and shook as we journeyed over poorly maintained roads toward our destination. There was no choice but to stand in this vehicle that was heavily packed with passengers. As we near our destination, the huge iron roofed buildings housing the markets came into view, and then we stopped. In the middle of nowhere.

Outside the bus, in the darkness of night, we found ourselves in line and moving at the directions of a forceful man. Before us were dozens of old and beaten up cars, some already pulling out of their parking spots, filled with people. It was a scene like the start of a great race where the drivers first run to their cars.

There was an urgency to all we did in this place, and the three of us quickly filled the back seat of one of the mobile wrecks. If I had thought the first car we rode in was old and rough, then it had been a luxury model compared to this one. Rust was so prolific in this car that certain areas were totally missing. The boot did not close and neither did my door, so I ended up holding it in place.

Our journey, with two people sharing the one front seat, was only a short distance compared to how far we had come. We passed through some tough looking neighbourhoods and over some very rough roads before we reached our destination. Throughout the journey my entertainment was the poor people stuffed tightly into the van before us. I could see their faces pushed against the back windows as they bounced and rattled over the roads.

River Crossing
The car park we stopped at was just across a river from the markets. The lights of a police car nearby were like a beacon in the darkness surrounding us. We passed them as we joined the growing line of people waiting to cross the river over a narrow footbridge, long since past its use-by-date. The steel structures of the bridge showed advanced signs of fatigue and heavy rusting, and the flooring rose up to meet our feet in places. With no space between us all, it seemed there were too many people for it to support.

In the darkness, illuminated only by the lights of the markets, we often held each other, struggling to remain together. I was thankful for the few breaks and openings in the wire mesh surrounding our caged walkway, and noted the nearest points for escape should the bridge collapse into the water below.

Beside us was a train track, which people were also walking across since the line for our walkway was so long and slow. This would have been fine if a train was not approaching. A loud horn like that of a ship sounded long blasts, indicating the impending doom of those who remained on the tracks.

Those on the tracks started scattering, some running back the way they had come. Others tried to forge ahead to the other side, but their time was too short. A large opening in our caged walkway allowed those remaining to jump through in front of us. Each one showing obvious signs of relief on their face as they escaped the imminent danger.

The Markets
The moment we got off the footbridge, we entered the markets. Stalls everywhere, packed so tight that only narrow corridors of dust remained for hundreds of people to squeeze through. This was not the main markets however, and after passing through the bus area, also littered with stalls, we finally reached the main markets.

It was hard to move through all of the people in this place, and pushing and shoving was the norm. I thought it was filled to capacity, but after shopping for several hours I realised how wrong I was. People pushed with no concern for consequences, and at times we would be pushed off balance by someone trying to barge through the crowds.

Each stall in the main markets were formed from little square booths of iron and wire, and sold every type of clothing imaginable. Shoes, shirts, pants, jackets, sweaters, and underwear. Toys, baby clothes and even food was for sale here. I even saw parrots, snakes and other animals on offer. And everything was cheap.

Shopping
People had come from all over the country to buy from these markets. Many people however, had come here to buy for their shop. They would pull or push huge trolleys filled with bags of clothing. It was almost miraculous that they could move through such an inundation of people. These purchased goods were to be resold for much higher prices back at their shops.

Each of us had our own agenda for what we wanted to purchase. Vicky, who had been here before, was our guide through the chaos. She returned a few items she had bought last time and bought some clothes for herself and others as gifts.

Both girls were looking for some new jeans, wanting to try them on before buying them. There were no dressing rooms here, so in preparation they had worn running pants underneath their clothes. I liked their idea, so I too tried on my pants before buying them, arguing that my long underwear was somewhat similar to the girls’ running pants. The embarrassment of the girl in the stall and the number of looks I received during this process told me that apparently this was not a very common process. The pants fit however, so I bought them.

Shopping with girls is always a slower process than with guys. If I like something I buy it. Simple and quick. The girls, and more power to them, have to decide not only if they like it, but whether they have too many of that particular colour, if it is too similar to their friends’ clothes, what other clothes will go with this new potential item, and many other decisions that all slow the process down to a snails pace.

This time I did not mind that it was so slow, because it was a great opportunity to listen to the Spanish as they spoke. During this time I learned many new words relating specifically to shopping, clothes, and colours. It was quite enlightening, and in the end I walked out with a pair of pants, two shirts and a sweater, all of which I had tried on to be sure they fit me.

Return Home
Shopping completed, Vicky calls her mum to reaffirm that we have not been mugged and we head off toward the bus stop to go home. It is freezing cold outside as we make our way along the narrow edge of the road. There is no sidewalk for us, and the cars moving past only add to our dangers. Although the carparks are safe from cars, muggers from the surrounding slums often lie in wait for the unwary. So we persist along the road.

After a number of conversations we discover the location of our bus stop. It is an un-posted corner. Here we wait, staring at a darkened car park in one direction and a slum only metres away in the other. Between them both sits the road we had walked, choked with cars, buses and trucks as people head home from the markets.

Our journey home takes us through many poorly lit and very tough looking neighbourhoods and over some very rough roads. We are all tired now and after a change of buses we are glad to make it back home. I leave the girls at their place and walk the forty minutes it takes to get back to my hostel.

It was a shopping trip to remember. The night markets.

NOTE: This took place near the beginning of May, 2004, and was a lot of fun as well as being quite dangerous. I did not get to take any photos at all during the time because of the danger it posed both to me and to the girls I was with. There were many amazing sights however, not the least of them being seeing people hanging off the side and out of the doors of a dilapidated old bus as it drove past us. Perhaps there will be an opportunity to return and take photos, but even if not, the memories will remain with me for a long time.

Well, I have moved again. It seems to be that every few weeks I find another place to live.

Now I am living in one of the nicer suburbs of Buenos Aires, in a hostel that also has a Spanish school in it. Once again I have managed to cut my costs of living yet again.

My new place is called Archie’s Hostel, in Azcuénaga Street, Recoleta. A newly opened hostel with many bright colours and friendly staff, it is a breath of fresh air compared with the historic hotel I was living in before.

I do miss being so close to the centre of town though, but there are many wonderful things around here to discover now too.

One Sunday I woke up and thought I would take a stroll. Never did I expect that it would take me nine hours. My initial thought was to wander down to the docks of the main port of Buenos Aires and see what was there. Being a Sunday I found out that there was not many people here at all. I also discovered that it was a long long way between each dock.

Too late too far
By the time I was ready to return home, I was too far from anywhere to do it. Any passing taxi was carrying passengers to or from the nearby airport, and there were no buses to be seen. So I was left with the choice of returning the way in which I had come or continuing on, but I am ahead of myself. Let me regress.

Avenida 9º Julio
On a clear, sunny morning I left my hotel in jeans and t-shirt, unaware it would be such a hot day. My destination was the widest road in the world, Avenida 9º Julio. I had never seen how it started, or ended, so I went for a walk to see.

After walking the other way along this busy road many times, it seemed out of place to see so few cars using it. I supposed that I had risen before many Porteños on this Sunday morning and considered this the reason for the dribble of cars that waited at each set of lights. In any case the street was very empty indeed.

Flanked on both sides by large strips of green, I found fountains and statues all along my walk. I had never noticed them on other sections before. They were both big and small, significant and diminished in size, and each had its own story to tell.

Large fences around some declared their need for protection, although they were all showing the damage of abuse. Fountains not flowing with water anymore told of a city still in need. Signs and plaques stating their purpose for being were missing, their identity stolen. Others needed such protection as to be electrified. Although interesting, the stories told were not all lovely.

A Distraction Or Two
Nearing the end of the road I discover a building out of place. The French Consulate protruded out onto the road. Well, at least it could not be any closer. It stood alone. It was for this reason that I noticed Plaza Cataluña.

Nestled along one side of the French Consulate, Plaza Cataluña was a very small park. It was not very pretty either. Never-the-less, a few people were there giving their dogs an outing and soaking up the sun on the little amount of grass that could be found. It was not this however that caught my interest in this park.

In the middle of the park was a huge light post. As we all know, light posts do not need to be huge to support the light at the top. That is why I was so interested. A huge light post with a very wide base. It drew me closer, searching for a reason. As I approached I saw taps, and bowls. It was then that I realised that this was a drinking fountain. I had never seen anything like it before. A donation from Barcelona city, Spain.

I turned to see a small, triangular shaped plaza with a lovely fountain and a monument to Carlos Pellegrini, president of Argentina 1846-1906. Around me were a number of consulates, mostly in buildings of lovely architecture, adorned in beautiful brass fittings. It seemed right to pause for a while and simply admire all that I was seeing, but I did have an agenda and before long I found my way back to the now diminishing street of Avenida 9º Julio.

Overly concerned with my distractions, I had not noticed that I was already at the end of the road. It continued on, but as an expressway elevated above the city below. From here I would have to find another road.

Metal Monsters
I headed down into the city streets and discovered another huge road, Avenida Libertador. This road carries vehicles Northward along its 12 lanes starting near Retiro.

As I near Retiro, which is the main station for all trains heading north, I discover a museum of scrap-metal art. Creatures line the side of a long building, scattered along a dirt track. Inside is even more, at a cost, but outside there is more than enough to satisfy me.

As I walk, a crocodile snarls at me with its vicious pointed iron teeth, painted in blood red. Further along a T-Rex towers over me, and even though I can see through all of the rods, plates, pipes, and discs that make up his form, it takes little imagination to see him come alive with fury.

Aeroplanes that will never fly, trucks that would never drive, and a dog without a voice, all created from unwanted scraps. A man with a creative imagination, an endless source of scrap metals, and a lot of time. A fascinating walk through junk.

Sizing Up The Port
From here it was only a short way to the port. Well, the first gate actually, and there were six more to come. Now I had seen this on the map, but for some reason I thought things were closer than I was about to discover.

Gate One
At the first gate I walked right up to the guards and asked them about this place how it was used. It turns out that each person I asked only knew about their particular section. No-one had an overview of the whole port, and on a day that was getting very hot, most were more interested in remaining in the shade than answering my questions.

It turns out that the first gate is specifically for buses and trucks. It was hard to understand all that was said, but it sounded like they were loaded onto and off the ships from this point. I can only assume that it would be to take them over to Uruguay.

Gates Two and Three
Realising that I was not going to get any further conversation out of the guards, I turned and headed for the next two docks. Twenty minutes of walking took me alongside a Naval Barracks, with signs outlawing pedestrians after dark. A further twenty minutes and I was still wandering down the long street beside the port. It was around here that I started to get a feel for the size of this place.

The road I was wandering was shadowed by large trees all along the sidewalk. The shade from these trees missed the sidewalk, falling onto the road instead, so this is where I walked, trying to stay cool. It was lucky for me that each side of the road was as wide as four lanes. I knew the cars would not mind if there was room for both of us.

There was no second gate. I considered that perhaps this had been seconded by the Navy. At the third gate however, I found only two people here. One was in an office and didn’t want to know me, and the other was a guard that was busy pouring himself a mate, a customary drink in Argentina. He looked up from his task and said very little, except that he didn’t know anything about this place in as few words. Unperturbed, I wandered onward.

Reaching The End
Once my shield of trees were left behind, the heat of the day became ever so obvious to me. Beads of sweat streamed down my face and my clothes grew heavy as they soaked it up. It seemed to take much longer to reach the next gates as I hunted for patches of shade along the way.

Gates Four and Five
When I reached the next gates I discovered both four and five off the same point. The guards here seemed quite bemused that I would wander through such heat to ask them anything at all. Fancy seeing a tourist out here on a Sunday, and at midday too. They happily answered my questions, and I learned that this was the area for shipping containers, although it was obvious by looking.

Gate Six
In wandering to the next gate, I thought I had gotten lost. The road took a turn away from the water before heading back again. When I finally reached the sixth dock, it was a long road in to meet the security guards at their gate. Two very official men in Port Authority suits, after I had asked my questions, they started asking me lots of questions.

A Case for ID
Probably the most significant question was whether I had identification on me. The guard asking this alluded strongly to my passport. I told him that I did not have that with me, and it proved to be a sticking point. Throughout the rest of our conversations he continually returned to this question of ID.

I told him that in Australia I didn’t need to carry identification on me and so I was not carrying my passport with me. I did not tell him about any other forms of ID that I had on me. It seemed a mute point when he was constantly asking to see a passport. He seemed to get over this eventually, and I was able to make my leave.

Ignoring Dangers
After these last gates, I somehow thought there would be another. I walked a long way, along the lonely hot road as it hugged the waterside. Grain houses and storage facilities that were used at one time to load and unload ships lined the other side of the road. All of them now were deserted and abandoned, some with clothes lines strung up along them as signs of new inhabitants.

Rusted conveyor belts, stiffened old cranes and dilapidated refueling pontoons half immersed in the water all pointed to long periods of disuse. Sand banks all along the edge of the dock now supported many of these structures. Signs along the waterside declared all objects unsafe and warned against swimming in this area. Pollution, rubbish, and the muddy waters would chase most people away from here anyway.

It was surprising then when I saw children climbing on one of these half submerged pontoons. Jumping and swimming in the murky muddy waters around it, I first heard their shrill voices crying out with joy. The water looked deep, even such a short distance from the sand bank, and the children did not seem to notice the faint green scum floating on the surface.

Ships backed onto the dock’s edge, their rusting hulks held securely by the sands supporting them. Unable to voyage again, I assumed they were ghosts of what once was, but then I saw the people. Inside the cabins was a home with lights and running water. Decorations declaring life provided a stark contrast against the dead and rotting carcasses of each ship.

A rubbish truck on the side of the road had a crowd of mostly children to the side of it. As I walked I watched, amazed, as almost 20 people climb into the cabin. As I continued past it I saw that the windscreen had been smashed in two places by a brick. It was then that I also discovered the children had climbed into the back section, probably where the rubbish would normally have been stored. Beaten and battered, the truck hardly looked fit to drive.

Further along the sand banks grew wider, reaching further out into the dock. A couple of men were at the edge of this sand, standing in the sun, with their fishing rods firmly grasped. The further I walked the more fishermen I saw. While the men fished, the families played on the brown sands, or toyed with the waters at the edge.

Poisoned waters, rotting ships, decaying buildings. Peoples lives were linked to all of this. By the time I reached the end I was hot and weary from the unrelenting sun, and I just wanted refuge.

A Forced Decision
After walking for over four hours I felt worn out. It was just then that I saw the oasis of refuge that I needed. A service station. Thankful for the cool air conditioning and a bottle of cold water to quench my thirst, I recuperated for a while before I felt ready to continue.

Had I been given the choice, now would have been a great time to return home and rest, but I did not seem to have many choices. I was too far from transport to do anything but walk. All taxis out this way were carrying passengers on their way to or from the local airport, and there were no buses to be seen. With little choice but to retrace my steps home or continue, I decided to continue, heading toward some parks that I was planning on seeing some day anyway.

…to be continued [ED: The next part was never finished.]