Bloggin'!

Hey peeps. I know it has been a long time since I bothered to take up the e-quill of blogging and sufficiently encase myself in a narcissistic cloud of self-analysis. To tell you the truth, I didn't miss it at first, but now, especially at work, I find myself jotting down things not really appropriate to bring up in conversation but fine to ramble on about in print for long periods of time.

I have to blame the wizardly Facebook for it's deathgrip on internet socializing here in Canada. It offers the lowest kind of commitment for the maximum social output. I have always thought utilities like Facebook allow people to experience what it must have been like to have been bored and wealthy in the Victorian age..sending your servants with little dinner notes back and forth all evening. I can't comment on the intellectual disparities in the two similar types of discourse, but I doubt that Sir Grovensby would have used emoticons to summon his good friend Lady Traffinham-Stoke to a late supper via slowly-delivered letter.

I have always thought it would be great to have a series of really involved correspondences with various people, but every time I have been presented with an opportunity to start one I've let it go in favour of the 'hey man how u doin hope it's good peas out' micro-Mail or Facebook message. Does anyone still write each other like Virginia Woolf used to write all her pals? I guess it's a bit conceited of me to wish I had this huge catalogue of intelligent insights and hilarious jokes shared with my friends, if only to make it easy for future biographers to successfully show how witty I surely am. Autobiography is for baseball players and autocrats! (I actually quite like autobiographies).

In other news, I'm going to be going to Brock for teacher's college in the fall, which is to say, a month. The summer used to loom large as a buffer zone between the vestigal whimsy of the travellin' man and the cold hard seriousness of 'taking care of business' as BTO would put it. I'm sad to say I haven't really been in a classroom in a while...I helped with my mom's Grade 1's but cleaning up paint is to full time teaching what two chimps playing tiddlywinks is to Jesus playing Gary Kasparov in a game of chess at the top of an erupting volcano. I sincerely hope I am up to this challenge.

In closing, please look me up on Facebook if you haven't already. My zombie needs more brains to eat.

Weep Ye, For All Genius Is Gone

It is with a heavy heart that I post of the posthumous nature of one Kurt Vonnegut Jr, a favourite author of myself and many other people who enjoy hilarity, surrealism and the fictional works of one Kilgore Trout. I'm actually way behind the times when it comes to posting a lament; I am sure yesterday dozens if not thousands of heartbroken literary bloggers rushed to their computrons to compete for most eloquent eulogy ever. Nonetheless, as one of my favourite authors has just passed on I feel it necessary to at least mention that I thought he was cool and all that. If his books and extranovelistic works are anything to go by, I think Mr. Vonnegut was intensely annoyed with being old. I think it's ironical that others in his position might have clung tenaciouly to life, but as he got older Mr. Vonnegut only seemed to complain more about how the frailty of his position robbed him of joy, and how everyone he knew and loved is now dead. Or something like that, I'm just paraphrasing from half-remembered afternoons spent reading the foreword to Dead Eye Dick.

I remember the first time I read Slaughterhouse Five. My friend, Ms Jenny Sampirisi (hello Jenny if you are reading this), whose literary taste I trust implicitly, recommended Mr. Vonnegut to me as a worthwhile pasttime. Indeed! I recall being completely baffled by how he could be so hilarious and heartbreaking at the same time. So many of his books are supposed 'comedies'...but I think like all good artists he managed to transcend that kind of categorization and instead gave the reader a kind of grand pastiche of life itself, with all its myraid dips and three point turns. I really hope I just used pastiche in the right context. Anyway, he also drew a picture of breasts in that book, which I believe is a first for great works of western literature (I wonder if the proofs to Great Expectations have doodles of Ms Haversham en flagrante?)

Slaughterhouse Five also drew my attention to the firebombing of Dresden, which is an oft-forgotten horror of the Second World War. It's weird...to think of all the time and resources that the U.S. spent on the Manhattan Project, only to have plain, ol fashion firebombing wipe out more than the A bomb ever did. And, with no nuclear fallout, you don't risk creating Godzilla. All beware monsters! How's that for poignant historical criticism? Hilarious, I tells ya!

Not much else is new with me. Besides lamenting the fallen Leafs and chatting with Korrena overseas, I've been lazily re-assembling my life here in Canada. That involves, among other things, getting a job and getting my driver's liscence, AGAIN. I think I got my G1 around the time I first read Slaughterhouse Five. Crazy!

It's Dutch's Birthday.

Forgot Christmas (which ostensibly celebrates the birth of Our Lord) or Easter (which, as I understand it, refers to the birth of the Easter Bunny). Today is a most important day of birth. The Freeman household dog, a muttish Golden Lab named Dutch, celebrates his nativity today. I have trouble remembering why exactly anybody bothers to remember a dog's birthday. I am sure most dogs are baffled as to why their owners are showering them with gifts when they've just buried their 3rd dead raccoon amidst the priceless family heirlooms. It sets a bad example, I say! In any case it is nice to have a dog again, as I have rarely if ever had that pleasure in the last 2 years or so. I've quite forgotten what it's like tobe inevitably covered head to toe with another being's hair!

As you may have guessed, I am returned to this country we call Canada. I have, quite on purpose I insist, entirely dodged the winter months! Hurray! Hopefully my hubris will not result in 5 feet of snow being unceremoniously dumped on my doorstep in the next few days. I am enjoying the crisp Ontario spring, where you can smell all the garbage buried beneath the ice defrosting and unleashing its most unique bouquet into the air, along with the musky scent of all those squirrels marking their territory.

Despite having returned home, I am still jobless and largely without responsibility. Still on vacation! Hopefully I will be employed worthily in the future so I may begin the highly unctious process of reintegrating myself into so called 'real life'. Ha!

I must also thank Korrena and her friend Ireland for showing me a great St. Paddy's day. Years ago I would have never thought I would be wandering the streets of Dublin on March 17th with a shamrock on my cheek and a Tuborg in my pocket. My only lament is that the Irish rugby team narrowly lost the six nations trophy to France. France!?!?!? Who thought Gallic fortitude was anything more than an oxymoron!!?!? Ha ha. Just kidding France, you know I love you, are we still on for Vichysoisse for Thursday? Or should I say 'Jeudi?' Bilingual, that's me.

Out with the 'Ola', in with the 'Newtownards'

The title of this post comes from a desperate attempt on my part to emulate the utterly pun-hungry journalists of Ireland. Upon perusing the Daily Mirror this past weekend, I came upon the headline 'Near got Kilt!', describe Ireland's narrow Six Nations rugby victory over Scotland on Saturday. Groan if you wish, but that was not even the worst of it!

To explain, I have (somewhat sadly) left the verdant confines of the South American continent (Brazil, specifically) and ventured to the equally verdant, perhaps somewhat more bucolic island of Ireland once again. This is a great country, although its frustratingly infection way of speaking is making me subconsciously try to sound Irish. The results are not unlike a horrible impression of John Lennon. Oh well. Hopefully I will be able to whack together a Canadian esque accent in time for next week.

Yes, next week! It's hard to believe after 14 months the time to return to my befrosted homeland has come, seemingly so quickly. I thought that I was ok with the whole not travelling thing, but I happened upon a Lonely Planet's guide to Europe Korrena bought me last year upon returning to her house in Monaghan, and now I have a desperate urge to visit Moldova! Truly I am cursed with wanderlust.

Newtownards, in case you were wondering, is the name of a road in Belfast near where I now reside for a few days, before venturing south into the Republic to experience that holy grail of St Patrick's Day bashes, March 17th in Dublin. As the Kiwis say, sweet as! Much to my surprise, the Irish are (seemingly) just as prone to pasting plastic shamrocks on everything as we Canadians are, if not more so. One would hope, anyway. If there was ever a holiday in danger of being misappropriated from its original celebrants, it would be this one.

I would ramble on about Brazil but I feel you're all asleep at your keyboards by now. If I knew the gaelic for 'goodbye' I'd say it, but unfortunately I don't, so I'll just make something up. If12'3;4gf! everybody.

That Water is Falling Off a Cliff!

I regretfully announce that the Iguazu river is broken, my friends. There´s a huge hole in it and water is spilling everywhere. It´s a madhouse here in Brazil, I say, a maaaaadhoooooooooooouse.

In all seriousness I am currently in holed up at the infamous Iguazu Falls. I suppose I should spell it Foz de Iguasu, considering I am on the Portuguese-ish side of the border. Brazil! Hooray. It´s not much of a trip, I´m afraid: I´m only here 6 days or so before heading out on the 6th of March. Then it´s holing out in sunny Ireland until my trip back to Canada. It is quite imminent, I assure you. I have mostly fallen out of full tourist mode, as my days are spent languishing by a nice pool and sampling the infamous fruity bounty of Brazil´s orchards. On my first day here, I thought I might be a bit daring and raid the produce section at a local supermercado. I bought what I thought looked like a giant avocado and a unripe mango-not knowing any Portuguese thinking they were strange exotic fruits from deepest Amazonia. They turned out to be an avocado and a mango-both highly unedible. Drat. Fortunately I learned from my mistake; I can now pick a good mango in two squeezes or less.

I suppose I should mention something about the falls themselves. Theý´re quite spectacular, really, truly an inspiring sight. The massive amounts of mist that they throw up is also quite nice on a hot Brazilian slash Argentine afternoon. Nothing like a good drenching, I always say. The surrounding forest is as close to rainforest as I am going to come on this trip, and it was certainly beautiful in a kind of scaled back, tourists gone trekking kind of way. It´s kind of hard to think you´re going to get mauled by a jaguar when the are signs everywhere advising you not to feed the cuatis (I´m not really sure what these things are....kind of a cross between a lemur, a possum and a raccoon and a hyperactive child without its medication). They make a very funny squeaking sound. I have also never seen so many butterflies! I never thought of myself as a butterfly enthusiast but it´s hard not to be in this part of the world. At one point such a creature probed my arm for 10 minutes vainly searching for nectar. Better luck next time chump!

Hell of Sideburns Yo

Hello folks. I blog this night from that meat-filled country that dared challenge Maggie Thatcher, that silver-gilded land of bluer than blue skies and bad hair, that massive yin to Chile´s anorexic yang. My co travellers and I have successfully traversed the treacherous Andes and ended up across the continent in Argentina! I can hardly describe the affinity I have for this country. While every place we´ve been to has had its quirks and benefits, nothing is quite like this funnel shaped place. Perhaps it´s the exchange rate coupled with the distinctly European feel. After a month of eating either maize, quinoa or both, it´s nice to be in a land where the gourmand and the backpacker are one and the same.

Anyway, one great aspect of Argetina is witnessing the veneration of its noble liberators in scultpure and monetary adoration. Specifically, one can gaz up at a patriarch on horseback or open one´s wallet and pluck out a note at random and be greeted with the sight of a pair of sideburns heretofore unmatched, in my opinion. Even the most burly Scotsman would be jealous of the facial plumage sported by these Argentine patriots. I particularly enjoy the 5 peso note, which shows a cocky young Jose de San Martin, much lauded chief nemesis of the Spaniards, bedecked with noble burns. It was almost as if San Martin and his compatriots decided they were not to be outdone by their North American compatriots either in fervor or facial hair. It is said that Simon Bolivar (of the man that Bolivia is named after fame) and Senor San Martin had a small squabble after conquering a few countries as to who would be the main man when it came to kicking the Spanish out of the rest of this continent. San Martin famously left without a word and headed to France while Bolivar kept doing what he was good at (mainly, getting streets named after hime). Historians still speculate as to what went down during this historic pow wow, I suspect they got out the ruler, measured each other´s burns and decided who was the bigger man. San Martin, boss though he may have been, had to duck in shame to Bolivar´s superior mane. As a fellow cultivator of sideburns I am tempted to weep at the justness of this decision.

In other more serious news, we have crossed the treacherous Chaco plain and are now poised to visit the Iguazu Falls, which apparently make Niagra look like a drippy faucet. Strangely, much like those much visited waters in N. America, Iguazu hugs not two but three borders! Imagine. Hopefully I will manage to see a toucan while triapsing through the rainforest, as I have been promised a sight of these crazy birds for a month now and seen not beak one. I demand a refund, South America!

No Sleep Til Sao Paolo

What is up my trans continental compadres? I have had a wild week or so since last I gabbed about the Inca Trail is Cusco. Since then I have seen an ice mummy, been in a bus crash and been offered drugs several times all in this strange country of Peru.

Ok, the bus crash wasn´t that crash-y. There were thankfully no fatalities, or even serious casualties. I was sitting backwards on the tour coach at the time so I got to experience that spooky out of control feeling, but in reverse. We basically skidded on some ice and hit a concrete post. There was actually a much more serious crash a few hours after our own when a bus lost control and tipped over after slamming into a bunch of llamas. Now that would have been messy! We were also quite lucky vis a vis the location our of little misadventure. If it had happened on a mountain road, we might still be tumbling towards oblivion! I must confess our tour company did an excellent job of keeping us all warm, happy and full of Nesquick cereal balls in the middle of a high altitude thunderstorm. Kudos!

We also visited the pride of Arequipa, the Casa del Cultura slash Andean Sanctuary Museum. Apparently the Incas worshipped mountains and were prone to giving up especially cute children in times of crises. We managed to view a very old ice girl that had been buried (possibly alive) on a mountain peak in the highlands of Peru. Crazy! I should also mention that while we were in Lake Titicaca, we learned that it is customary to let anyone who falls in drown as an offering to good ol´ Mother Nature. Yikes! I´m glad I was never left in a forest to appease the voracious Beaver Gods or anything like that.

As for the drugs, here in Lima coke apparently goes hand in hand with Internet use or exchanging money. Street hawkers will offer to burn you a CD and get you a dime bag of whatever suits your fancy in the same breath. It´s all a bit suspect, especially since many South American countries hire out policemen to guard even the most seemingly auspicious things, like the entrance to a shoe store or a small jewellery kiosk. I think the term used for these sorts of situations is ´heat score´. I think I will just stick to Guarana and pre chewed Corn beer (try and get Chica in Canada. It tastes like cider that´s been left in the sun for too long).

We´ve now got less than 3 weeks left on this slightly leaf shaped continent. We´ll have to burn rubber down the coast of Peru to Chile, where we brave the Andes once again and head to Salta in Argetina. After a few giant steaks, perhaps we´ll head towards the Iguazu Falls and then to Brazil. We manage to miss Carnival entirely in the process, but it´s a bit hectic and dangerous for gringos from what I can gather, so I´m not too worried. We´ll check out Rio another time, perhaps when I´ve carved my body into a more beach worthy state.

Feliz Viajes!