The Door To Tomorrow

What is that old saying?  I can just hear Julia Andrews in The Sound of Music - when God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.  So often I find myself stumped, considering the future, laying out all of the possibilities before me.  It is always so hard to decide when there is so much unknown, so much at risk.  So often I find myself pleading internally for the door to just open that I don't think, or can't bring myself, to knock.  Knock and maybe someone will tell you the answer, solve all your problems.

I guess that would be the ideal situation... but in my experience they tend to just open more windows, adding to the array of possibilities already spread out before me, none of them markedly any better from those already there.  And at this point in time, having just finished my studies (for a while), I already have so many options before me... along with an apparent lack of decisiveness...  All I need is one door to open.  Maybe I should just relax, take a break from life, right?

Taking these photos, of course, I was not thinking so philosophically.  In the street in Trinidad, Cuba, I was more worried about standing on the road, in full blast of the sun's rays, and looking like a fool while I waited.  This fear of standing out, of drawing attention to myself, is deeply tied to my desperate want to avoid attracting the jineteros for which Cuba is also sadly famous.  I had already attracted them in Trinidad, being pounced on as soon as I arrived and followed around town for a while.  I waited slightly ill at ease, and after a moment the door to open for the lady, allowing her to enter with her groceries.  A door opened for her, why wouldn't one open for me too?

The Clouds of Change

Clouds always make me think about time and change.  They're so fleeting.  By the time you've pointed it out to your friend you can't even be sure that what you saw in it is still there, and by the time you explain it to them it probably won't be.  Isn't it strange how quickly things pass before you when you're not paying attention, but as soon as you have a goal, something to look forward to, time seems to slow.  Instead of seeing sand pour through your fingers, you can see it pass through grain by grain.  Maybe time isn't as objective as they say.  Maybe time is spiteful.  Maybe time slows down because it thinks at those times we are most interesting.  I don't know... maybe I just feel the need to blame someone.

In other news: what strange weather we've being having in Melbourne!

An End Of The Silence

I know that I've left this page abandoned for sometime now.  I took this picture at my university at the start of the year, having in mind at the time that I would be spending a lot of time amongst the shelves in the coming months; nervous, excited, not quite sure if that was a good thing or not.  In a few weeks the academic year will be over for me, thesis polished and submitted.  With the end in sight I can say that the year wasn't nearly as hard or tortuous as I had been led to expect; in fact, it was almost the opposite, although there were definitely moments throughout.  It leaves me with a swelling up of emotion, of excitement for the possibilities of the future, and of dread of facing the job hunt which seems to beat so many graduates.  But either way, or any way in between: there will be change and opportunities.  It also means I should be around here a bit more.

Wish me luck!

Boundaries

It seems that while Mexico comes to life at night, in Australia everything only becomes more intimidating, dark and lonesome; which is ironic considering how much safer Australia apparently is.  Boundaries seem more definite, more intimidating.  Seeing such (generally pointless) rigidity  makes me feel the need to rebel... But being caught out somewhere where you weren't meant to be at night would get you into a lot more trouble than during the day.  While all the signs are there during the day,  at night disobeying them may leave people jumping to conclusions about your intentions: stalker? murder? rapist? pervert?  It is like the personal and private aspect becomes so much more prominent at night than during daylight hours.  And while I am a private person myself, maybe I wouldn't have been if I was raised somewhere else.  

Apart from a certain coldness, there is an unsettling element to such strict privacy though: what are they trying to hide?  Maybe it is my misinterpretation given Australia's reputation for being a really laid back country... but the suburbs at night are definitely unwelcoming, creating a heightened sense of your own isolation, almost an absence.

TURN BACK NOW!

I nearly laughed when I saw this sign.  It seems a decent overreaction, to have a sign for some slightly uneven paving.  I mean, if you go around marking all the bumps, who's going to pay attention when the sign says: CAUTION: CHASM ?  Could you imagine walking down your street seeing signs saying: CAUTION: STEP at the gutter, or CAUTION: SLOPE at driveways?  A bit of an exaggeration, I know, but even more ridiculous.  What if I want to choose not to exercise my caution, as an act of rebellion?

I guess it is pretty easy (and maybe slightly corny) to extrapolate this, but I feel like this is really relevant for me at this time.  Life is a constant stream of bumps, and if you spend so much time looking down and focussing on them, you're probably going to miss something big up ahead.  Where is the fun in life you are constantly worried about finding yourself off-balance?  That's when the most interesting things happen.  This is, in part an explanation for my absence here; being over-run by uni with the semester ending.  Not a very interesting excuse, but I guess I've just been putting too much energy into the bumps along the way.

The Mysteries of the Korean Church

Wandering through the suburban streets, you only have to navigate a couple of corners to come across this church from my house.  It's not a very pretty church, simple red brick, although it does have some stained glass windows, it doesn't appear very remarkable at all.  The denomination in Uniting, a common Christian denomination in Australia.  What intrigues me about it though, if you look at the sign, is that it's Korean.  I also really like their minibuses with the Uniting Church insignia and Korean writing on the sides.  I have seen a couple of churches in Australia that are something like - Chinese Baptist Church - or something of the sort, and they always stick out at me, but they are still so rare. To me it seems quite bizarre, it poses many questions, but mostly: are their services normal, but just in Korean?  Is that the only difference?  I really want to attend one of their services to find out, but my conspicuousness concerns me: I don't exactly look Korean.  And really, if I went, I don't speak Korean, and even if I did, I don't know what a normal Uniting Church service is like to compare it to.  But despite all that, it is very intriguing.  Every time I walk past I find myself staring at it and wondering.  So many mysteries around this small Korean church...

Cambios...

I have talked about Cuba before, in other entries.  But today I want to talk about feelings (oooooooh).  Cuba is, above all else, confusing.  In a lot of ways you feel like you've gone back in time: 1950s cars, horse and carts being legitimately used as taxis and in towing, the casual attitude, kids playing with tops in the street...  But then sometimes you come across something and it is completely disorientating.  For instance, you can find Internet access in Cuba (although it can be difficult/impossible at times), once I saw a new-looking Audi (excuse my lack of knowledge about car models... but it was shiny if that helps) or the fact that they are meant to have an amazing medical system.  Added to these temporal confusions are social ones, and in particular, economic ones.

In some ways, the confusion I'm feeling now is the same that I experienced in Cuba.  In some ways I feel like I've gone back in time - I'm back in the same city, attending the same university and I have the same friends (who have not at all changed from when I last saw them).  But then I get disorientated: I'm doing Honours now, my schedule is different, I live in a different neighbourhood.  There are also added social and economic confusions.  But really, in the end, it all boils down to the fact that I am different.  I wasn't sure that I was completely compatible before, but now I know I am not.  I have come to the conclusion that I really need new friends, to make my current ones become old friends.  I am not compatible with them, and I feel that being around them makes me into a worse person.  I need my freedom back.

México en una cajita...

I went to a function today, a homecoming celebration/debrief here in Melbourne, Australia, for students who had recently returned from exchange.  It was about reverse culture shock, using the exchange experience to sell yourself to employers and future directions, basically.

When I think of how Mexico seems to Australians, this picture is what I think of, as well as Taco Bill's, drug cartels, tequila and sombreros - as in ridiculously large, straw hats.  Although that had never been my summary of Mexican culture, there is no way I want to revert to someone who even makes those distorted associations, let alone believes them.  I was shuddering internally when the speaker even mentioned 're-assimilation' and 're-integration', but maybe that is in part due to my studies in Anthropology.  Ideas of a culture should never be condensed into a mass-produced package and shipped off for consumption.  Ironically, I took this picture for my boyfriend, who had set me the task of taking photos of normal, everyday things in Australia that would not seem normal to him.

Part of my aversion to ideas such as 're-assimilation' clearly stem from not wanting to give up ways that I have changed, to revert back to the 'original me'.  But, on the other hand, seeing again how Mexico is portrayed in here, makes me cringe at the ways that similarly I, as part of my own culture, am represented in some packaged-format as well.  I mean, this was obvious to me when I was in Mexico, and basically whenever I would mention Australia to a Mexican I would get a comment about kangaroos.  Maybe in this way I feel double packaged: originally in Australia, then shipped off, adjusted, and shipped back in a shiny, new Mexican wrapper.  I just wish wrappers weren't necessary.

Transitions

I actually took this picture a bit over a year ago, just before I left for Mexico.  I'd just gotten a new camera, by far the fanciest camera I'd ever had, and took this one while fiddling with the functions.  At the time I was staying at my aunty's for a couple of weeks after my lease ended and I'd moved out of a share house with friends, all the while waiting (and organising myself) to leave for Mexico.  The year in Mexico came and went, an amazing year in so many ways.  But now I'm back I find myself in the same boat, but reversed.  Now I'm waiting for friends to move in with.

The messiness of the transitions really seems to emphasise the end of an era; to rub it in, and not just skin deep.  But maybe, just maybe, as I was looking down the lens from the balcony, I wasn't seeing the end; but what came next, what was lying in wait for me in Mexico.  And maybe I just need to look a little further to see what is waiting for me here.





But seriously, don't go into share housing if you're planning on moving a lot.  If you have a choice, that is.

Bathroom Prisoner

I was often in trouble as a kid.  I just never understood why things had to be how they were. Why was it that old people were always listened to more than kids?  We had opinions too.  But it was also largely due to the fact that I had a really bad temper.  Once we had some family friends visiting, I think I must have been about seven at the time.  Mum and Dad had gone down the farm to do some work, I think Mark, the dad of the other family, must have gone with them, because we kids were playing Duplo with only the supervision of their mum, Sonya.

This argument, I am fairly confident was my fault.  David, their boy my age, took out one of the people of the Duplo box and said he was going to be it.  I went to take it from him, claiming that it was my favourite and that therefore I would play with it.  And so the argument ensued.  Sonya swept in, to the aid of David, declaring that he would play with it.  And suddenly I was taken by fury.  It was not her argument, why did she have to step in?  Surely she was only supporting David because he was her son, so she liked him more than me.  But, in my pent up rage, I was unable to express myself and settled for yelling incoherently and hitting blindly.  Sonya was a big woman, there was no chance that I would hurt her, or that I would be able to win against her.  She carried me to the bathroom and shut the door.  None of our doors inside the house had locks, especially not from the outside.  She stood by the door and held it shut while I threw myself against it repeatedly, shouting strange noises and pulling at the unmoving handle.  

Finally I stepped back from the door to think.  I was clearly not going to be able to escape by that means.  I was still puffing heavily, tears falling from my anger at the injustice as well as from all the screaming, and pushing and pulling on the door.  I glanced around: I was trapped.  What was I going to do?  Then I sighted upon the window.  It was a sliding window that had no fly-screen – I could escape after all!  I removed all of the bottles of shampoo, conditioner, including the novelty Barbie ones my sister and I had, and all other lotions and potions from the window sill and left them on the far side of the sink.  Sliding the window open, I climbed up onto the sink and out the window.  I found myself in the carport between the old, metallic blue Statesman and a pile of boxes that were against the window.  But most importantly: I was free.  The feeling of success was quickly quenched by a new fear: I couldn’t get caught.  So, after quickly assessing all my options for concealment, I ran, trying to keep low to avoid being seen while I crossed the fifteen metres of bare backyard to the sheds.  But instead of entering them, something that I deemed too obvious, I went behind them.   The sheds backed up onto our back fence, but there was a gap of about forty centimetres between the back of the corrugated iron shed and the barb-wire fence.  I gave myself a few minutes of waiting to see if they had seen me before I would allow myself to enjoy my success.  I began to fret, I shouldn’t have left the bottles like that; I should have tried to conceal my escape.  But the minutes passed, no one came.  I was safe.  They would never find me here.  The more comfortable I became with my escape, the more I allowed myself to look at my surroundings.  Although it may have been the most obscure hiding place I could find, it certainly wasn’t the most welcoming.  There was corrugated iron lying in a pile, old tyres, and things of the sort.  Nothing that would allow me a seat, and I was a bit nervous of the sheets of iron as I knew snakes would like such a home.  But there I stayed.  I had won, and I had to make sure that they knew that.

But eventually, I never was sure how long I was behind that shed exactly; I grew tired of my victory, especially since I couldn’t be sure that they knew I had won, which was the important thing.  I hadn’t heard them calling for me or anything.  Did they even know that I was gone?  That would be the most insulting of all, to have made this grand escape only to find out later that no one had known that I was gone.  They never did find my secret hiding place.  I abandoned it to see if I could find out what was going on.  For the second time I ran across the backyard, doubled over like I had seen on TV.  I had decided that I would go along the side of the house, along the carport, where I was the least likely to be seen.  Despite my anxieties that someone would shout out, “There she is!” as I crossed the open space, my concerns proved to be completely unmerited.  Once again I had gone unseen.  Now I was safely squatting back beside the Statesman.  Carefully I listened for any inside noises, any commotion that indicated disequilibrium, worry about where I was.  I found myself sneaking along, bent over beside the cars parked in the carport.  I had gone the length of the Statesman and was beside the Commodore when I heard the click of the clip on the farm gate.  Mum and Dad were coming.  I could see them now.  I was safe.  It didn’t matter if I was seen now.  I ran over to them, across the road, to tell them of all the atrocities that had passed me.  I knew that I would have to tell them before Sonya poisoned their brains with the fight being my fault, which was completely beside the point.  When we made it to the house Sonya claimed that she had been worried about me, thinking that I may have fallen from the window and broken an arm.  I could never truly believe that my captor was concerned for my safety.

Guadalajara, Guadalajara...

I took this photo in maybe my first complete day in Guadalajara, over a year ago now.  I hadn't yet come to know the city's quirks or understand its charm.  I was unaware of the unreliable and unpredictable public transport system, of the street food and tapatío specialties such as tejuino and jericalla, and the almost unchanging weather.  Still unaccustomed to the lack of punctuality and the lack of haste of the people, I settled into this foreign city and made it my home.  The architecture, the traffic, the food, the people, the Mexican slang, the no pasa nada attitude... while there were still surprises along the way, over time everything became more or less natural, expected.

For just over a year I called Guadalajara 'home', and let its charms entice me.  Having just made it back to Australia (like an adopted child, I have started to think of Australia as my 'birth home' rather than my actual home)... things don't feel the same as when I left them.  Everything seems to come with a certain superficiality, maybe even sterility... but maybe that comes from the whole first world thing.  Slowly the differences are becoming less jarring, but I don't think the 'Lucky Country' will ever be the same for me again...  Maybe I left my heart in Mexico.