Not a Team Player

This is difficult to try to express, and it will shock some especially in Australia, where we're known for our sporting prowess, right down from the recently deleted PM. It seems, after all this time and all these years, that I'm not a team player. I wasn't on team Australia, and I'm not going to be on any other team, either. If I go out of my way for someone, or something, it's because it's deserving; not because it tries to condemn me to death by Powerpoint.

I have played on a couple of teams in the past: I was on netball teams between the ages of 14 and 16. One was the Magpies. I was never a star player--arse too close to the ground--but it was a bit of fun on Saturdays. I never took it seriously. I knew who to throw the ball to, of course.

My team wore the black box pleats with the white short-sleeved blouses underneath, and they were my friends. We didn't win too many games, or at least I don't remember them, or the losses either. I'm assuming that's because we didn't set the world on fire. I remember the girls, though. I liked them and we shared some adolescent moments. I haven't seen most of them for forty years, but I remember them, and some of their secrets, and the fun we had together.

But I'm too old for teams now. I'm a team of one, just trying to get through this life as comfortably as possible. I'm not going to try to score goals so someone else gets the glory cup. I don't care about the cup. I never did.

I'll run (and I mean that metaphorically these days) for the ball, and throw it in the right direction--if I can remember which one that is--if the light is right, and it's interesting and fun. But don't expect me to get excited about the competition. I'll play the game, put in the game hours, but I'm not fronting up to the awards ceremony. What do those awards mean to me?

Today, an HR wonk showed me an extract from the series, "The Office" (Season 2 Ep. 2). It proved the adage that satire is always short of the mark because the target never gets the joke. It was this one.  (Just fast forward through the conversation between Dawn and the girl who's interested in Tim.) HR  used "The Office" to ask, with a straight face:"What could David have done better?" "How could Keith have prepared for the interview?". The point is, the premise is laughable, or would be if it wasn't taken so seriously. Keith puts in the hours. The Man is not paying for treasure. The man pays frugally for time, and makes a profit out of it, else Keith would be out of a job. Why make Keith jump through hoops. They employed him to do the accounts so he does the accounts.

Why should anyone else demand to know what Keith sees as his good or bad qualities. What's that got to do with the employment contract? Will the Man give Keith a raise if Keith convinces him he has very good qualities indeed? Keith wasn't employed because of his self knowledge but for his accountancy skills. Suddenly, though, it's it's an expectation that he should be able to talk about himself to be acceptable in the position. Isn't that like changing the rules after the whistle blows?

Around the World and Back Again: A Hobbler's Tale

Back in Sydney yesterday at 11.30 a.m., only 5 hours delayed. By the time I deplaned, I could barely walk.

It happened like this: the United flight Cancun-LAX was delayed about an hour. If it had been on time, I would have had a two-hour window to catch the connecting flight, LAX-Sydney. The delayed arrival, though, was not the only problem. All passengers, even transit passengers at US airports, have to collect their luggage, go through customs, and drop off their luggage again for the next flight. For me, this involved hauling the 23 kg dead weight off the corral and lining up to go through customs (removing boots, loading everything on the belt to be scanned). Then I had to go to terminal 7. (Terminal 7 now is to me like Winston Smith's room 101: my greatest fear.)

Terminal 7 was at least one kilometre from the terminal I where I deplaned. Add to this the fear that I knew I was very late. (I didn't know that my connecting flight was delayed because, of course, even though the terminal in Cancun and LA promised wifi connection, there was none. United informed me that the connecting flight was delayed via email, which I was finally able to access when I arrived in Sydney.)

Despite the delay in the connecting flight, I was still very late. Though very old, I almost ran, dragging the dead weight behind me, trying to negotiate dawdling family groups on the footpath in front of me. A much younger Australian woman, much longer of leg, left me in her dust as she whooshed past toward terminal 7.

I finally reached the baggage drop-off desk. A woman said: "Oh, you're too late." I said: "No I'm not. United was late." She looked at my boarding pass and said to another woman: "Her baggage is already checked in." Then she said that she would take it to the baggage loaders to get it on the plane. By that stage, I just wanted to get rid of it, and if she'd said, you can't take it with you, I wouldn't have been very upset. From there, it was a dash to the boarding gate, where boarding had only just begun.

I had wanted to stop, get something to eat and use the "restroom" but I wasn't going to risk missing UA389. (My previous experience of United, on the shorter haul flights, was that they don't provide free food. And what they sell, at inflated prices, is faux food: crackers, chips, nuts, prepackaged noodles, etc. I looked forward to a 15-hour fast; as it turned out, UA provides free airline "food" and soft drinks on the longer hauls.)

After I wedged myself into the window seat, I realised there was a new pain in my right knee (my good one). Raising the right leg, lowering it, leaving it bent with foot resting on the floor, and walking on it, all gave me pain. A large silent man, who communicated with me by pointing, sat next to me. (I thought that maybe he could not speak when I saw him signing to a little girl on the opposite side of the plane.)

The large man usurped the armrest and as the flight progressed, items of his clothing moved further into my space and wedged me nearer to the window. He snored a bit, farted a bit. Such are the joys of air travel. I didn't know if I'd ever be able to get out to visit the "rest room", so I determined to try to hold it until I saw the woman on the aisle get up, and then I'd broach the subject with the man. If the woman did move, I missed it. Must have nodded off a couple of times, since it was way past my usual 10 p.m. lights out by the time I boarded the plane. Finally, when my self-control was about to give out, I asked the man if I could get out.

When we landed in Sydney, the large silent man began chatting with the woman on the aisle. Not sure why I wasn't blessed with his vocalisation during the flight, but this is just another of life's little mysteries.

I got out of the terminal and my very good, very patient friend, I learned later, was waiting to pick me up, as she had promised she would be. Only, I tried to ring her, but the useless Austpost travelsim was not working. I asked the Pacific islander sat outside the terminal on the same bench as me, if I could use his phone to make a call, as mine wasn't working. I offered him $2. But I'm not sure he understood English or what I was suggesting for the $2. Then I thought: Shall I cry now or put it off until I get home?

I tried the phone again and I managed to get through to my friend's number, but only to voicemail. I wasn't sure if my friend was at the airport, or where she might be. I knew if I were in the wrong spot, I wouldn't be able to walk to the right spot. (When I got home, I got her email telling me where she'd be.) Please forgive me!

So, I'm very sorry to have burdened you with this detailed exploration of the last flight of the journey; I'm sure you also have your tales of torture by long-distance carriers. However, I want to log this experience, so that it becomes something I can refer to in future. We forget these things; we spend minutes and hours, and days of our lives going through these unpleasant (or pleasant) experiences, and I want to remember them.

Not to savour them, so much, as to be able to account for the time spent and the way it was spent.

Fear and Loathing in Cancun

I'm not very afraid but I'm not very comfortable in this playground of sun and sea and sand. The post title is meant to conjure for you, dear reader, the paranoia-inducing atmosphere of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" by Hunter S. Thompson. Not that this writer has swallowed anything for which she could be arrested, but she feels confused and a little off-balance.

This place is like no other I've ever visited, nor would I have chosen to be here unless the Clingon's plans had brought me.

Downtown, where I decided to stay, it is a cacophony of noise and traffic, and while it is possible to cross the wide wide streets, it's not easy, nor is it safe. It reminds me of what I hated about Marrakesh, only there the streets were narrow. Here the main drag is six lanes. There are great roundabouts and broad unfinished "nature" strips down the middle. (The nature strips are dusty crushed limestone, I think.) There are a few pedestrian crossings but the motorists don't stop at them unless there is a cop standing there blowing a whistle.

So tonight I thought I would look at the other part of town (where I decided not to stay) because I felt like a quiet drink, and didn't fancy trying to traverse the noisy stinking miasma which covers the downtown area.

Mr Google told me the bus numbers I needed to get to the hotel zone, just not where to get off when I reached it. The bus driver seemed eager for me to debus; he asked me if I wanted The Peninsula, and I thought that maybe I did.

So I got off, crossed an even wider road than those I had experienced downtown, and walked back along the footpath in the direction the bus had come. Couldn't see the words "The Peninsula" in lights, but instead two or three of the humongous lit-up structures in a row had the neon name "Riu" identifying them. That was all I needed. If it looks like a duck, and quacks, it probably has a bar (you know what I mean!)

(OMG what a noise coming from the inside bar area. All lined with ceramic tiles and shiny surfaces. Impossible to relax with all that din. Just as noisy as the traffic-clogged streets that I'd escaped downtown.)

So I front up to the bar and order a gin and tonic. When I try to pay, the barman tells me it's all included. I tell him I'm not staying at this hotel, but I'm not sure whether he understands me, or if it's too difficult to take money with the present "all inclusive" arrangement.

So that's where you find me tonight, sitting on the verandah with the smokers because it was too noisy inside, enjoying my second G&T.

Now comes the big decision. Am I going to walk out, get the bus downtown without paying for the drinks? It's getting noisy out here now too: a Scandinavian motormouth has been telling a very long and loud story at the next table for the last 15 minutes; or am I going to make a second attempt to pay? (Having a flashback to when I was caught shoplifting make-up, in DJ's when I was 13 and how mortifying it was when I was detained by the store security guy.)

So just made a second attempt to make the waiter understand that I want to pay for 2 G&Ts; no! I don't want 2 more G&Ts, I want to pay for those I've had. I could walk out, I guess, but I really would not like to spend the night in a Mexican gaol if security picked up an unfamiliar face on the CCTV. A face making an exit to another venue after enjoying "all inclusive" at this one. Would put a whole different light on my holiday.

Made another attempt to pay for the two G&Ts, which resulted in the waiter bringing 2 more G&Ts, but I can't get completely tanked tonight. I've got a tour starting at 7 a.m. tomorrow.

Cough! Smoke is burning my eyes. I'm out of here.

Waiting for the downtown bus now.



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Sent from my iPhone


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Location:Avenida Carlos J. Nader,Cancún,Mexico

Fiesta in Mexico; a Pall falls over the Writer

I said nothing about NYC. I was so busy trying to see everything but managed to see very little. No time to catch up with you while I was there. But, it's a wonderful town, as Frank said.

Had been frightened of visiting for many years, but I felt safe, if a little crowded out by bloody tourists. I have to go back, stay downtown to minimise the travelling, and stay for at least a week, maybe two. Oh, and I'll go in the spring or autumn next time. Bloody cold!! (Below is the view from the Empire State Building. Waste of time going up really, but we'd left it until the last day, and it started snowing, then raining.)



So, from NYC, a flight to Cancun. We knew we'd have to catch the bus to Merida. We just didn't know it would be so difficult. A delay of about 45 minutes trying to take off from Newark. And in Cancun, the pilot wasn't able to score a gate for nearly an hour. We waited stewing in the tropical sunshine on the tarmac in our NYC outfits.

That meant that the 4.00 p.m. bus to Merida, which we'd intended to catch had already left. The next one was full. The ticket seller suggested we go to Cancun town bus station and buy a ticket from there. More seats available than at the airport. So, we bought the tickets. Bus delays; we wondered if we'd make the bus we'd just bought tickets for. However, we did make the 6.15 bus, meaning we'd arrive in Merida after 10 p.m.

The Clingon had not made contact with the people at VHQ--who were to meet him and take him to his digs--when we got on the bus. Access to the Internet was eluding him when I dropped off to sleep. When I woke just after 10 p.m., he told me that he'd managed to make contact.

Abram was there holding a sign with the Clingon's name on it, when we got off the bus in Merida, and that's the last I saw of the Clingon. As perhaps you can imagine, when the Clingon drops off the rock after 19 years, it's a shock. And there's a bare place: no tenant, now. Does the rock have any purpose when the offspring has sprung off? This rock is bereft.

The bus station is in the hotel area of Merida; I hadn't made a hotel reservation and was trusting to luck. I chose the familiar name: Holiday Inn. Big, but not as huge as a couple of the others in the street. Bid the Clingon goodbye with the fuzzy head that comes from having woken from an uncomfortable nap. Hadn't worked out the money thing, I realised before I went to bed. The Clingon was going to his fate with no pesos, and no way to get any. (Not true, thanks to the powers that be. Although he'd told me earlier that he'd left his bank card at home, apparently he hadn't, and has managed to withdraw money to buy water, and take the bus.)

I didn't say goodbye properly. I didn't kiss him.



So, while Merida sings and dances in a cacophany of competing sound systems; while the crowd parades by the longest cake in the universe; while families and couples and groups wander around, happy, soaking in the atmosphere of the "Three Kings" celebrations (a celebration of the day when the kings visited Jesus Christ in the manger), I am alone, with my glass of white wine, in a crowd of cake-eating humanity which belongs.

I have managed to contact the Clingon by telephone, but it hasn't been easy. (If you're ever thinking of getting the Austpost travelsim, just ask me about it before you pay the $50. There has to be a better way; it must be less trouble and distress to get a local sim that actually works and allows you to text and call whenever you want to.)

However, I was able to get in touch with the Clingon finally, and we will meet tomorrow night to say our goodbyes, and tie up loose ends.

While I've been writing this, the tables laid out on the street in front of the hotel have been cleared. Not sure how it happened, or when it started, but the pieces of the longest cake in the universe have been sold, or cleared away, and now the longest set of tables in the universe is bare. The vendors are walking down the street with bags and tablecloths. Now the tables are folded and the crowd is dispersing. It's all over bar the shouting from the young persons on the P.A.




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Location:Avenida Colón,Mérida,Mexico

Only one full day in Lisbon. Had to see Sintra, so, even though Portugal appears to be in the middle of an ice age, no choice but to visit today. Tomorrow we go to NYC.



Finally found Estacion de Rossio, but it wasn't as easy as it looked when the concierge marked it on my free map. It's an impressive looking building, all right, but why didn't I recognise it as the station I was looking for? I took photos this afternoon to try to solve this mystery.

In fact, the station name was marked on the outside of the building but it wasn't called what I was told it was called, and, anyway, I couldn't read the script. Here is a close up of the name of the station, carved into the arches.



What do you make of the name? After a bit of staring, I managed to make out "estacio" on the left, but nothing I did could make the word on the right say "de Rossio". In fact, Wikipedia cleared up the problem; apparently Rossio is a kind of nickname for the area and the station. I think the word on the right might be "central".

In fact, I stumbled on the station by mistake. I was lined up at Starbucks--decided I needed a coffee before continuing the search for the station--and noticed a sign marking the "Estacion de Rossio Starbucks".

When I arrived inside I found a great crowd of tourists all lined up at machines and ticket windows; I joined the end of one of the lines. It was taking a very long time: no movement at the front for ten minutes. I had a flashback to the incredibly non-intuitive Spanish ticket machines, and the inscrutable train and metro system there.

Come on! Come on, people! I didn't even know whether I was in the right line, and I couldn't ask anyone because most of them appeared to be French, and so quite difficult to approach.

The couple at the vending machine finally stepped away with tickets in their hands. I started to wonder whether I wouldn't be better off staying in Lisbon for the day, and trying to find my way back to
the hotel at the end of it.

Up stepped a family, who called up a member further back in the crowd. After he pushed his way through the heaving throng they began their own struggles with the machine. Finally it was my turn to go through to the front of the queue. But this was not the machine I needed. It was for buying or topping up a multi ticket.



I went to the end of another queue. I bought a ticket from a human being--and I felt like kissing him--and here I am on the train about to arrive in Sintra.

Will have to delay the start of my exploration when I arrive, though, because I have to swallow some Panadol. The joy of being in a place where I could have a drink!

Yesterday, I had the Clingon order a white wine on the one- hour flight from Casablanca. I had his and my own, and another at dinner. . . And I guess I'm not used to drinking so much since Morocco.



It's now the evening after my afternoon in Sintra. I probably should have stayed in Lisbon. Sintra was a total tourist scene: something I've come to dread. Very few Portuguese locals anywhere in the vicinity. The day was a nightmare of trying to coordinate bus and train timetables. (Note to self: if it looks too hard, choose the simple option.)

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Location:A Lesson about Taking the Path of Least Resistance

Marrakech & How to Open a Bottle of Wine without a Corkscrew

We arrived here after a great couple of nights in Essaouira. I think this is my favourite place in Morocco. Very laid-back locals, a medina that's a breeze to walk through, and the coast. Can't say more.

The Clingon, unfortunately, indisposed, spent a day in bed with a cold. A result of wearing shorts in the High Atlas, in below freezing temp, and a high wind? He won't have it. The cold doesn't cause a cold, maman, it's from an infection. I explain about how you can subject the body to too much stress and make it susceptible to infection, but the information is unheeded. Sad for me, as he passed on the cold as a Christmas present to me.



Hope you had a good one. It doesn't look a lot like Christmas in Morocco, but I was determined to get some Christmas cheer into me. The hotel owner here told me where they sell wine; took me half an hour to walk there in the dusty heat and exhaust fumes, but I made it. Unfortunately, Eden Carre doesn't sell corkscrews. Thus set the Clingon on the job of researching ways to open a wine bottle without a corkscrew. There are ten ways, apparently, but none of them any good for me. The hotel we are staying in now doesn't even have a spoon knocking around on any of its three floors, let alone a corkscrew. So, what to do? Go across the road to the shops (sounds simple, but crossing the road out there is very complex and dangerous. . . you have to watch for vans, cars, taxis, scooters, bicycles and horses and carts; there's no pedestrian crossing, and even in the new part of town where they have them, they just don't carry the same restrictions for motor transport as they do in Oz. I'm staying in the room for a couple of hours to recuperate from the trauma of walking around for a couple of hours today.) Can't supply a photo that shows my experience, as I can't take my eyes off the traffic to snap.

So, back to the quest for Christmas cheer: there is a two-dollar shop here (I suppose it's more like a MAD 20 shop). I mimed the use of a corkscrew (though not the drinking of the wine. . . some people seem to be sensitive about that) and the two young assistants found one immediately. (I didn't see it when I was looking because it was above--my--eye level.) Don't think the local white will ever take off anywhere else in the world except Morocco, but it's 7% alcohol, just like many whites that taste good.

We have been warned about the "false guides" and tricksters here, but I walked about the medina this morning by myself and was not hassled at all.

The Clingon has learned something about haggling, and feels very proud of himself.

I'll close now with the correct responses to the Saids' desert riddles. No doubt you worked out the answers, unlike this thick writer.

1. How do you get a camel into the fridge in three movements?
One: open the fridge
Two: put the camel in
Three: close the fridge

2. Why don't Japanese people eat with this finger? (Said held up his index finger.)

Because the finger belongs to Said.

3. Three people are crossing the river. The first one sees the water and touches the water. The second one sees the water, but doesn't touch the water. The third one doesn't see the water or touch the water. Who are the people?

The first is a woman.
The second is the child she's holding.
The third is the child in her womb.

4. The lion is holding a party. He invites all the animals and they all turn up, except for one animal. Which one doesn't attend the party and why?

The camel because it was in the fridge.

Ha!




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Location:Rue Oqba Ben Nafaa,Marrakech Médina,Morocco

Of Camels, and Fridges, and a Night in the Sahara

Stayed in Mazourga, in an auberge called the Touareg. Room quite smelly, wifi on and off, but what a location! On the edge of the Sahara Desert.

Thought a camel trek and a night in the desert sounded like something I had to do.

It's good I got the camel-back transport out of my system. (A year or so ago, I was considering doing a camel safari for a week or so in outback Australia.) An hour and a half on the camel yesterday and again today tells me that perhaps I'm not cut out for it. It's not a smooth ride, and the way the beast kept making a loud farting noise with its throat and lips while it turned its big head to see what was sitting on its back, was a little frightening. I wondered if it could reach back far enough to take a camel bite-sized chunk out of my calf.

The Clingon pronounced the camel trek boring.

However, we did make it to the camp in the desert without mishap. When we arrived the camel driver, Said, told us to go up to the top of "that big dune", so that we could watch the sunset. I was surprised. He expected us to go off and play in the desert without someone to show us how to get there and get back.



So, that's what we did. I had visions of getting lost and wandering about seeing mirages and dying of thirst. I've told you about my sense of direction before, but having the Clingon with me, and keeping the camp in sight from the top of whatever dune we were on, allowed me to get up there, take some sunset photos, and get back before it got dark.

We had some mint tea with Said and then he got on with cooking our dinner. It was a great meal, rice with a Berber kind of dressing (a chunky sauce of tomato, onions and herbs) and a very tasty chicken tajine. Fruit followed. Then Said returned. He moved back the carpets from the middle of the courtyard between the tents, and built a fire in the sand. Another young man joined us. He was also Said. (Said 2 said that he slept in the camp every night, looking after it.) They warmed the skins of some drums in front of the fire, and then began to play for us.

The two Saids played the drums. And then they sang and accompanied themselves on the drums. They passed drums to the Clingon and I. The Clingon had already been put on the spot earlier that day when some Mali musicians insisted he play with them. (He turned bright red, but to his credit, he did actually make a white boy kind of effort with the rhythm thing.)


After a lot of faffing about, the Clingon sang a Spanish song. I could not think of a single song. I was convinced I had never sung a song in my life, or if I had, I had completely forgotten every single one. Those of you who know me well, know that I saved the Saids from a very unpleasant experience by not singing anything.

After the Clingon had exhausted his repertory, Said suggested we tell jokes. I wondered if they would be very funny in the present company, where they would have to be in English so that I could join in. (Said 1 speaks Spanish better than English, and Said 2 speaks no Spanish but quite good English.) Then Said2 said that what Said1 meant, was not a joke, but a kind of question.
Oh, a riddle? Then I could not remember a single riddle I'd ever heard or told. I was madly trying to remember Bilbo's favourites, but I could not remember a single one.

Hereunder I will make a record of the riddles riddled by the Saids. Please make an effort to work out the answers before my next blog. I will provide the answers in the next entry. (And no fair going to Mr Google. That service would have saved me from looking so dense last night, but there was no wifi in the dunes.)

1. How do you get a camel into the fridge in three movements?
2. Why don't Japanese people eat with this finger? (Said held up his index finger.)
3. Three people are crossing the river. The first one sees the water and touches the water. The second one sees the water, but doesn't touch the water. The third one doesn't see the water or touch the water. Who are the people?
4. The lion is holding a party. He invites all the animals and they all turn up, except for one animal. Which one doesn't attend the party and why?

Ok. That's it for today. We are in











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Location:R703,Ouarzazate,Morocco