MADEIRA RIVER: NOVEMBER 12/14
Breakfast (toasted sandwich) in company with an eighty-year-old German resident in Brazil since 1949. The German was in the SS during World War 2. He wasn't aware of atrocities. Germans didn't know.
Of course not.
Particularly those serving in the SS.
The German army was the only army to be free of barrack room gossip.
The German was captured by Americans in the Spring Offensive of 1945. He did not cut off his SS insignia from his uniform. An American officer cut off the insignia as memorablia.
The German came to Brazil immediately on being released from de-Nazification camp.
In Brazil he had an operation on his nose. The anaesthatist asked how many Jews the German gassed. The German laughs at the memory of such a stupid question. Germans knew nothing of gassing Jews.
The German has been recounting this version of events for so many years that he may believe it.
However he senses that Victoria and I believe him to be a liar.
Not only a liar, we believe him to be a piece of moral shit.
He moves away and keeps his distance for the remainder of the voyage.
Later we are joined by a tall thin Brazilian with a grey beard. He is a Fransican friar and is waiting a visa for Angola. A rain storm thrashes the river in the afternoon. The Friar takes a perfect photograph of lightning forking through black cloud. The friar is delighted with his photograph. He smiles as he tells us that knowing when to press the shutter button is a matter of faith.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
BRAZIL POP IS VILE
diego with cameravictoria with cold beer
MADEIRA RIVER: NOVEMBER 12/14
Brazilian pop may be an aquired taste - though you would have to live for many years. Songs have an afinity with the jungle in that each song is indistinguishable from the previous song and will be indistinguishable from the next. Songsters are backed by blond or dyed-blond women uncloathed in mini shorts and bras. The women prance rather than dance. Their actions are ugly and have little to do with the beat. Every few minutes they bend over and waggle their arses at the cameras.
Diego believes that Brazil exports all its good music.
Or is good music illegal on river boats?
I am typing this in a Manaus internet café.
The music is charming.
AMAZON JUNGLE
east bank, west bank
MADEIRA RIVER: NOVEMBER 12/14
The Madeira River is a small stream when compared to the Amazon. The water is yellow. We are seldom further than 60 metres from one bank or the other. I wake at dawn and watch, through the part open cabin door, jungle slip by on the West bank. Jungle is green and mostly trees. I get out of bed and circle the wheelhouse to see the East bank. The East bank is jungle. East bank jungle is indistignguishable from west bank jungle. I go back to bed. I wake again at 8 a.m. and look at jungle.. The jungle is similar to the jungle I watched at dawn. I brush my teeth, wash and go find my Spanish friends, Diego and Victoria. They are watching jungle. They have slept badly. We watch jungle together for an hour. I ask Victoria whether 9.30 a.m. is too early for a cold beer. Victoria says that a cold beer is desirable when watching jungle. We drink a cold beer every two hours. At night I swallow a Parasitimol every two hours.
This is sensible jungle discipline.
Meals?
Yes, food is provided. Medium loathsome is an apt description. We make do with equally loathsome toasted ham and cheese sandwiches from the bar. Sometimes we photograph jungle. The difficulty is in knowing which bit of jungle to photograph.
And we try to ignore the Brazilian pop blaring through a massive bank of speakers..
The Madeira River is a small stream when compared to the Amazon. The water is yellow. We are seldom further than 60 metres from one bank or the other. I wake at dawn and watch, through the part open cabin door, jungle slip by on the West bank. Jungle is green and mostly trees. I get out of bed and circle the wheelhouse to see the East bank. The East bank is jungle. East bank jungle is indistignguishable from west bank jungle. I go back to bed. I wake again at 8 a.m. and look at jungle.. The jungle is similar to the jungle I watched at dawn. I brush my teeth, wash and go find my Spanish friends, Diego and Victoria. They are watching jungle. They have slept badly. We watch jungle together for an hour. I ask Victoria whether 9.30 a.m. is too early for a cold beer. Victoria says that a cold beer is desirable when watching jungle. We drink a cold beer every two hours. At night I swallow a Parasitimol every two hours.
This is sensible jungle discipline.
Meals?
Yes, food is provided. Medium loathsome is an apt description. We make do with equally loathsome toasted ham and cheese sandwiches from the bar. Sometimes we photograph jungle. The difficulty is in knowing which bit of jungle to photograph.
And we try to ignore the Brazilian pop blaring through a massive bank of speakers..
MADEIRA RIVER BOAT
DOS HERMANOS: NOVEMBER 12/14
I have been on a river boat for the past three days. I have a cabin. The cabin has two berths and no sheets. I was promised sheets. I was also promised a fan. I have a fan. The fan doesn't work. I meet a charming Spanish couple who have hammocks slung on the upper deck amongst one hundred or so other hammocks. The Spaniards' hammocks have mosquito nets. They have a solar cigarette lighter, a variety of mini lanterns, knives, forks, spoons, plates. They lend me a sheet. I store their cameras under my bunk at night. I have matresses on both berths. I put both matresses on the lower berth. I tie one end of a shoelace to the door handle and the other end to my knife. I jam the knife in the bulkhead. The shoelace holds the door open a foot or so. The door funnels cool air off the river into the cabin. I sleep an hour, then thread my way between hammocks from my cabin behind the wheelhouse to the lavatories in the stern. A woman cleans and unblocks the lavatories each morning. Get up early and you may even enjoy a clean seat.
I have been on a river boat for the past three days. I have a cabin. The cabin has two berths and no sheets. I was promised sheets. I was also promised a fan. I have a fan. The fan doesn't work. I meet a charming Spanish couple who have hammocks slung on the upper deck amongst one hundred or so other hammocks. The Spaniards' hammocks have mosquito nets. They have a solar cigarette lighter, a variety of mini lanterns, knives, forks, spoons, plates. They lend me a sheet. I store their cameras under my bunk at night. I have matresses on both berths. I put both matresses on the lower berth. I tie one end of a shoelace to the door handle and the other end to my knife. I jam the knife in the bulkhead. The shoelace holds the door open a foot or so. The door funnels cool air off the river into the cabin. I sleep an hour, then thread my way between hammocks from my cabin behind the wheelhouse to the lavatories in the stern. A woman cleans and unblocks the lavatories each morning. Get up early and you may even enjoy a clean seat.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
DEFROCKED BAPTIST IS A SAINT
passenger ship to ManausPORTO VELHO: MONDAY, NOVEMBER 6
I was fortunate in being treated by a one legged orthopaedic surgeon in Rio Grande. Now I am in the hands of a one-eyed, defrocked, Baptist Minister. Again I am very fortunate. John drives me down to the river. A boat will sail on Saturday. I reserve a cabin. Meanwhile John invites me to teach school. He teaches English at a private language academy. As a US Baptist missionary, he earned 9,000 reales a month. Defrocked, he has joined the Brazilian economy and earns 1200 reales a month. 380 reales is the minimum wage.
Can a family live on 380 reales a month?
They can exist, just...
CASH AND DEFROCKED BAPTISTS
defrocked and never frockedPORTO VELHO: MONDAY, November 6
Rains are late. The Madeira River is some thirty feet below its high water mark. I am offered passage on a steel cargo barge pushed by a wooden tug. The tug is painted white and has two decks and a tiny wheelhouse up top. It resembles an accessory to a doll's house. I need to buy a hammock to sling on the barge. The agent says the voyage to Manaus will take four days.
Are there any river boats with cabins?
No, there are no boats.
I open my travel guide. No boats?
One boat. But it only sails every two weeks. The boat left yesterday. I will have to wait two weeks - or travel on the barge.
I am suspicious of this information. The bank below is lined with river boats. Surely one of them sails to Manaus?
The last cash machine that accepted my VISA card was in a shopping mall in Brasilia. I am down to fifty reales in cash - at 3.65 to the pound.
The concierge at the hotel directs me to a bank with an ATM machine. The machine scorns my card. I am on foot. I walk from bank to bank. I even take a 15 reales cab ride out to a supermarket with ATM machines. None accept my card. I am desperate. My ankle has ballooned and hurts like hell. I try a Western Union office. In walks a burly citizen of the US, early forties, one glass eye. He is a defrocked Baptist minister. His dad is a Baptist missionary in town. His brother is a Baptist missionary in town. His sin is to have divorced a blond from the Bible Belt and married a dark-skinned Brazilian. His dad and his mum and his brother and his blond, enormously fat sister-in-law no longer speak to him.
END OF THE ROAD
PORTO VELHO: SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 5
I ride into Porto Velho through a rain storm and book into the Hotel Centro, big room with twin beds and a/c. Porto Velho is the end of the road. It is built on the eastern bank of the River Madeira. The Madeira runs north into the Amazon at Manaus. South it forms the border between Brazil and Bolivia.
I ride into Porto Velho through a rain storm and book into the Hotel Centro, big room with twin beds and a/c. Porto Velho is the end of the road. It is built on the eastern bank of the River Madeira. The Madeira runs north into the Amazon at Manaus. South it forms the border between Brazil and Bolivia.
GOOD FARMING IS BEAUTIFUL
RIDING WEST: SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 5
Good farming is beautiful. I think of those small fields in Europe, slopes smoothed by centuries of toil and passion. And I think of those vast fields in the US, not a single tree planted, no attempt to please the eye The soil is beggared; natural nutrients are replaced by greater and greater quantities of chemical fertilizer; top soil beomes increasingly friable; a gust of wind blows it away.
Most farms in Brazil looked cared for. Arrable fields are countour ploughed to protect the soil. On ranches, tress shade the cattle. Sadly there is a long stretch at the approach to Porto Vehlo that resmbles a war zone. Every tree has been felled, jagged stumps form the kernel for termite mounds.
Good farming is beautiful. I think of those small fields in Europe, slopes smoothed by centuries of toil and passion. And I think of those vast fields in the US, not a single tree planted, no attempt to please the eye The soil is beggared; natural nutrients are replaced by greater and greater quantities of chemical fertilizer; top soil beomes increasingly friable; a gust of wind blows it away.
Most farms in Brazil looked cared for. Arrable fields are countour ploughed to protect the soil. On ranches, tress shade the cattle. Sadly there is a long stretch at the approach to Porto Vehlo that resmbles a war zone. Every tree has been felled, jagged stumps form the kernel for termite mounds.
Friday, November 09, 2007
STUDENTS OF PORTO VELHO
private education - CNA computer roomPORTO VELHO: FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 9
Larissa of Porto Velho has left a comment at the BLOG, GATEWAY TO THE AMAZON. Comments are valuable to me, both as a writer, and because I treasure the effort and courage demanded to publicly comment in a foreign language. I have been priviledged in Porto Velho to converse with some 100 students. The students have opened to me a very small window into the Brazil that lies below the facade we tourists experience. I entered Brazil in a state of total ignorance. Without the students I would have remained ignorant. They have been patient and very kind and have permitted me to pose questions that many may have found impertinent or painful.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
BUTTERFLY AND ALL THAT
ROAD WEST: SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 5
Early mornings are misty and cool and beautiful. Trees appear out of the mist, miracles of survival in an agricultural landscape of cattle ranch and freshly sewn serials. A small fluttering of yellow butterfly is remarkable only because these are the first I have noticed in two weeks of travel through Brazil. Once noticed, the scarcity of butterfly nags. And bird life is minimal - none of the doves and pods of small black birds on the road side, partridge, quail, to all of which I became accustomed in Uruguay. The road enters a stretch of forest. A small animal with a ringed tail darts across the road. Later, in a second stretch of forest, I spot a plump red animal with fine legs, size of a medium dog, possibly a deer. Orange, single-seater spray aircraft are common. Do orange planes spray Agent Orange?
Early mornings are misty and cool and beautiful. Trees appear out of the mist, miracles of survival in an agricultural landscape of cattle ranch and freshly sewn serials. A small fluttering of yellow butterfly is remarkable only because these are the first I have noticed in two weeks of travel through Brazil. Once noticed, the scarcity of butterfly nags. And bird life is minimal - none of the doves and pods of small black birds on the road side, partridge, quail, to all of which I became accustomed in Uruguay. The road enters a stretch of forest. A small animal with a ringed tail darts across the road. Later, in a second stretch of forest, I spot a plump red animal with fine legs, size of a medium dog, possibly a deer. Orange, single-seater spray aircraft are common. Do orange planes spray Agent Orange?
A SMALL PLEASANT TOWN
ROAD WEST: SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 4
Brazilians improve the further west I ride. So does the food. I pull off the highway into a small town this evening. Nondescript would be a polite description of the architecture. Sidewalks are tatty, so are the road surfaces. The grass in the square hasn't been cut in a year and is strewn with drink cans and plastic bags. Refuse blocks open drains. A couple of bikers and a woman walking a dog take time out to direct me to the only hotel. The hotel is run down or has never come up. However the staff (two women) are kind and helpful and work at communicating. I shower and change into clean clothes. The women point me to a restaurant where I devour great fish soup outdoors at the standard white plastic table. The temperature and humidity are a little high for perfect comfort. Not that I care. I am content. I have stumbled on a place of which I can find nothing good to write except that it has a pleasant and friendly feel. What joy after Brasilia...
Brazilians improve the further west I ride. So does the food. I pull off the highway into a small town this evening. Nondescript would be a polite description of the architecture. Sidewalks are tatty, so are the road surfaces. The grass in the square hasn't been cut in a year and is strewn with drink cans and plastic bags. Refuse blocks open drains. A couple of bikers and a woman walking a dog take time out to direct me to the only hotel. The hotel is run down or has never come up. However the staff (two women) are kind and helpful and work at communicating. I shower and change into clean clothes. The women point me to a restaurant where I devour great fish soup outdoors at the standard white plastic table. The temperature and humidity are a little high for perfect comfort. Not that I care. I am content. I have stumbled on a place of which I can find nothing good to write except that it has a pleasant and friendly feel. What joy after Brasilia...
BRAZIL BEEF REFUSED BY VULTURES
ROAD WEST: SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 4
Today I passed three dead cows on the side of the road - not a vulture in sight. Is Brazilian beef too tough for vultures? Or have Brazilian vultures immigrated to glut themselves on Peruvian garbage?
Today I passed three dead cows on the side of the road - not a vulture in sight. Is Brazilian beef too tough for vultures? Or have Brazilian vultures immigrated to glut themselves on Peruvian garbage?
GREEN FIELD CATHEDRALS
ROAD WEST: SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 5
The agricultural wealth of Brazil is worshipped in green field cathedrals of galvanised tin.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
GATEWAY TO THE AMAZON
GATEWAY TO THE AMAZON: SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 5
I long for the Amazon. Enough of the café-free designer city, I am out of here. I reach Cuiba the first night. Ahead lies the Amazon Highway: 1500 kilometres to Porto Velho. I ride 800 Ks on Saturday, twelve hours in the saddle and a new personal record. Today I leave at 6 a.m. and face a mere 700 Ks. I halt every 150 Ks for a bottle of water and coffee and I break for Sunday lunch at an outdoor restaurant on the outskirts of a small town. The place is packed. Many groups are friends, relatives or neighbors - small farmers, many of them. I face a family at the next table: Mum, Dad, two daughters and a son. The daughters are early teens. The boy is a couple of years younger. He is a good-looking kid with fair, sun-streaked hair. He sits slouched deep in his chair. Parents will recognize the attitude. Why did you bring me here? You must hate me. Why did you bother having me?
The girls finish eating first and find school friends to chat with.
The boy sinks deeper into his chair.
The parents face each other diagonally across the table. They have nothing to say to each other. Dad finally reads Mum something off the label on a big bottle of Coke. What ever he reads fails to elicit a response.
The boy leaves the table.
Dad shifts seats to sit directly opposite Mum.
Shifting seats doesn’t help.
He gets up and pays the bill at the cashier’s counter.
Had Bernadette been there, she would have kicked me under the table and told me not to stare.
I know I stare. Staring is what writers do. People interest us.
I long for the Amazon. Enough of the café-free designer city, I am out of here. I reach Cuiba the first night. Ahead lies the Amazon Highway: 1500 kilometres to Porto Velho. I ride 800 Ks on Saturday, twelve hours in the saddle and a new personal record. Today I leave at 6 a.m. and face a mere 700 Ks. I halt every 150 Ks for a bottle of water and coffee and I break for Sunday lunch at an outdoor restaurant on the outskirts of a small town. The place is packed. Many groups are friends, relatives or neighbors - small farmers, many of them. I face a family at the next table: Mum, Dad, two daughters and a son. The daughters are early teens. The boy is a couple of years younger. He is a good-looking kid with fair, sun-streaked hair. He sits slouched deep in his chair. Parents will recognize the attitude. Why did you bring me here? You must hate me. Why did you bother having me?
The girls finish eating first and find school friends to chat with.
The boy sinks deeper into his chair.
The parents face each other diagonally across the table. They have nothing to say to each other. Dad finally reads Mum something off the label on a big bottle of Coke. What ever he reads fails to elicit a response.
The boy leaves the table.
Dad shifts seats to sit directly opposite Mum.
Shifting seats doesn’t help.
He gets up and pays the bill at the cashier’s counter.
Had Bernadette been there, she would have kicked me under the table and told me not to stare.
I know I stare. Staring is what writers do. People interest us.
SURPRISE, SURPRISE...
BRASILIA: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 31
Brazilians in Brazil either whisper or shout. Their language sounds brutal. At first I presumed that they were quarrelling. However their use of language is mirrored in their behavior. They show little courtesy.
I wondered whether this perception was a misconception arising from my lack of Portuguese. My ankle resembles a football. This evening I take my crutches for a walk to the shopping center. In Buenos Aires, Argentineans would have made way for me, offered to help me at the curb. Here, in a walk of three hundred meters, I am twice jostled off the sidewalk.
Do Argentineans recognize that they are courteous?
Are Brazilians aware of being impolite?
Brazilians in Brazil either whisper or shout. Their language sounds brutal. At first I presumed that they were quarrelling. However their use of language is mirrored in their behavior. They show little courtesy.
I wondered whether this perception was a misconception arising from my lack of Portuguese. My ankle resembles a football. This evening I take my crutches for a walk to the shopping center. In Buenos Aires, Argentineans would have made way for me, offered to help me at the curb. Here, in a walk of three hundred meters, I am twice jostled off the sidewalk.
Do Argentineans recognize that they are courteous?
Are Brazilians aware of being impolite?
TAWDRY CROWN OF THORNS
BRASILIA: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 31
The Metropolitan Cathedral in Brasília stands on an island surrounded by urban thru-ways. The Cathedral is built in the shape of a crown. The design is drawn from the Crown of Thorns. The image is trite. The building is weak. I long for the majestic simplicity of a 16th century Christian/Islamic dome. And I could do without the thru-ways. Thru-ways fail as aids to contemplation.
The Metropolitan Cathedral in Brasília stands on an island surrounded by urban thru-ways. The Cathedral is built in the shape of a crown. The design is drawn from the Crown of Thorns. The image is trite. The building is weak. I long for the majestic simplicity of a 16th century Christian/Islamic dome. And I could do without the thru-ways. Thru-ways fail as aids to contemplation.
DREAM OF GREENERY
BRASILIA: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 31
The dead grass and red earth of parkland Brasilia depresses me. Professor Lucio Costa was the city’s designer. Did he fail to consider the months of drought? Or did he imagine an irrigation system greening his open spaces? People would delight in the swish of irrigation sprayers. The city would be cooler. The water is available. Brasilia overlooks a vast artificial lake. What do I know? I am merely an old Brit passing through…
The dead grass and red earth of parkland Brasilia depresses me. Professor Lucio Costa was the city’s designer. Did he fail to consider the months of drought? Or did he imagine an irrigation system greening his open spaces? People would delight in the swish of irrigation sprayers. The city would be cooler. The water is available. Brasilia overlooks a vast artificial lake. What do I know? I am merely an old Brit passing through…
ONLY GAYS READ BOOKS
BRASILIA: WEDNESDASY, OCTOBER 31
In her nightmares, Mrs. Thatcher must have imagined British Embassies peopled with men such as the Mexican Cultural attaché, men who read books, attend concerts, discuss ideas. The Cultural attaché suggests a historian I should seek out when next in Mexico City. I doubt that the charming young lady with a degree in Business Administration who manages the British Council in Brasilia could name a historian. For Brits, culture is suspect. Read books, you are presumed to be homosexual.
Sulman Rushdie is the most important and least parochial of modern British writers. His work touches on dangerous territory. Islamic fanatics have issued fatwa against him. He spent years unable to walk to the corner shop without police protection.
Our ex Foreign Minister, Jack Straw, recently remarked that he was incapable of reading Sulman Rushdie’s work. In any other European country, such a confession would make of the Minister a laughing stock.
In her nightmares, Mrs. Thatcher must have imagined British Embassies peopled with men such as the Mexican Cultural attaché, men who read books, attend concerts, discuss ideas. The Cultural attaché suggests a historian I should seek out when next in Mexico City. I doubt that the charming young lady with a degree in Business Administration who manages the British Council in Brasilia could name a historian. For Brits, culture is suspect. Read books, you are presumed to be homosexual.
Sulman Rushdie is the most important and least parochial of modern British writers. His work touches on dangerous territory. Islamic fanatics have issued fatwa against him. He spent years unable to walk to the corner shop without police protection.
Our ex Foreign Minister, Jack Straw, recently remarked that he was incapable of reading Sulman Rushdie’s work. In any other European country, such a confession would make of the Minister a laughing stock.
DEAD BODIES AND MILLIONS OF FLIES
BRASILIA: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 31
The Mexican Cultural attaché wishes me to believe that those about to be sacrificed were joyful at being honored.
The victims clambered up the pyramid. The steps are steep. The angle is designed to ensure that a dead body rolls back down.
At the summit, a priest gouged out the victim’s heart with a stone knife.
The temple must have stunk of blood and faeces – though I must check with a medical expert on this last point – if I can find an expert on hearts being gouged out. Does the victim’s bowels let go? Almost certainly.
Imagine the pyramid covered in blood and shit.
Imagine the stink
Then imagine the millions of flies. The flies must have risen in a black cloud each time a fresh body came tumbling down the steps and would have buzzed around the victims as they climbed. Honor? No, Sir. I am deeply sorry but tell me another story.
Witnesses from the period are unreliable: suggesting that being opened up with a stone knife was anything but a great experience got you opened up with a stone knife.
The Mexican Cultural attaché wishes me to believe that those about to be sacrificed were joyful at being honored.
The victims clambered up the pyramid. The steps are steep. The angle is designed to ensure that a dead body rolls back down.
At the summit, a priest gouged out the victim’s heart with a stone knife.
The temple must have stunk of blood and faeces – though I must check with a medical expert on this last point – if I can find an expert on hearts being gouged out. Does the victim’s bowels let go? Almost certainly.
Imagine the pyramid covered in blood and shit.
Imagine the stink
Then imagine the millions of flies. The flies must have risen in a black cloud each time a fresh body came tumbling down the steps and would have buzzed around the victims as they climbed. Honor? No, Sir. I am deeply sorry but tell me another story.
Witnesses from the period are unreliable: suggesting that being opened up with a stone knife was anything but a great experience got you opened up with a stone knife.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
THATCHER WOULD HATE HIM
BRASILIA: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 31
The Mexican Embassy in Brasilia is a fine example of brutalist architecture. An Olmec head in front of the embassy is equally brutalist and a brilliant juxtaposition. Lawns are watered and green. Barcelona chairs round a square glass-topped table in the atrium make a calm meeting place. My companion is the Mexican cultural attaché. He is immensely cultured. He does not have a degree in business administration. He teases that I have cast myself as an aging Kerouac. We discuss the Conquest and the Christianising of Mexico. He mentions the Madonna of Guadalupe. I am a fan of the Madonna. I wear two images of her round my neck and one lapel badge. The medallions were a gift from a Colombian wholesaler of wind-cured hams. A Mexican dentist's wife gave me the badge. They were gifts to keep me safe on my journey. I was wearing all three when the truck struck me. The Saint Christoper on the bike keys was a gift from my brother. I suffered one hell of a crash and survived.
The Mexican Embassy in Brasilia is a fine example of brutalist architecture. An Olmec head in front of the embassy is equally brutalist and a brilliant juxtaposition. Lawns are watered and green. Barcelona chairs round a square glass-topped table in the atrium make a calm meeting place. My companion is the Mexican cultural attaché. He is immensely cultured. He does not have a degree in business administration. He teases that I have cast myself as an aging Kerouac. We discuss the Conquest and the Christianising of Mexico. He mentions the Madonna of Guadalupe. I am a fan of the Madonna. I wear two images of her round my neck and one lapel badge. The medallions were a gift from a Colombian wholesaler of wind-cured hams. A Mexican dentist's wife gave me the badge. They were gifts to keep me safe on my journey. I was wearing all three when the truck struck me. The Saint Christoper on the bike keys was a gift from my brother. I suffered one hell of a crash and survived.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)