Oh Mexico! by Lucy Neville

After graduating from university, Lucy Neville decides to take off and live abroad. Oh Mexico!, a funny and adventurous tale of Neville's two years in Mexico City, doesn’t fail to entertain readers while exposing them to the culture, poverty and corruption of Central America.

As Neville writes, ‘…when Mexicans go to live in other countries, it’s because of the necessity of finding a job. In my case it was the necessity of avoiding getting a job.’

The truth of this statement is possibly what makes her first novel such a page-turner. Many of us love the idea of downing sticks and throwing off responsibility to go live in some exotic location - Neville allows us to do this from the safety of our armchairs.

Finding work as an English teacher, Neville becomes surrounded by the local characters who attend her classes even though they all speak perfect English. One of the most entertaining weekly classes is a group of women whose favourite pastime is to complain about their ex-husbands and how they can make their lives difficult.

Through Neville’s words we learn what it would be like to work in a city that is largely corrupt. Her employer is consistently at least two months behind in paying her wages, there are ‘good police’ and ‘bad police’, and drug trafficking and pirated videos make up a large percentage of Mexico’s employment.

Oh Mexico! gives us an insight into the rich history, warm nature and cultural celebrations and beliefs of the Mexican people without becoming overwhelming. Neville has a knack for providing just the right amount of information so that readers have an understanding of the lives of the many characters surrounding her.

Neville’s sense of honesty is refreshing for her age, she doesn’t appear smitten with the idea of moving to another country in search of who she is, her goal is simply to avoid becoming the job-chained adult we’re expected to become once the degree is in our hands. And, as Neville points out, living in a foreign country looks good on your resume, even if you’re not doing anything to further your career.

Like many before her, Neville finds herself in the emotional cycle that comes to foreigners living in a country very different from their own, but she doesn’t dwell on this for pages. Instead, Neville brings humour to the book with anecdotes such as telling the taco men that she ‘…loved Mexican bottoms, and that I was a lesbian (I didn’t like ‘sausage and eggs’). But I would come back tomorrow and try out heterosexual sex.’

No travel memoir would be complete without a love interest, and in this case, Neville finds herself with two, torn between her flamboyant and attractive housemate, and a warm and loving work college. She needs to make a decision soon since her family are about to drop in for a visit and land in the middle of all the chaos.

Oh Mexico! is filled with with, colour and warmth and is a hugely enjoyable read, written with a vibrant and refreshing style. Neville proves the point that avoiding getting a real job can lead to achieving what we might never have otherwise imagined.

Published on Media-Culture Reviews.

Marching Powder by Rusty Young

Travel books are my equivalent of Mills and Boon or 'Chick Lit'. Light hearted, easy to read novels that excite the travel bug in me and allow me to become a traveller from the safety of my couch when I'm in between those fortunate times my backpack gets dusted off for a new adventure.

I read a lot of travel literature, and there are some good ones out there like Emergency Sex and Other Desperate Measures, Absurdistan and Geoff Dyer's Yoga for People Who Can't Be Bothered to Do It.

There are also some not so good ones, like To A Mountain in Tibet (I recently reviewed - see previous entries) and the one that made me want to stab the author in the eye and lament the fact that tree had to die for the 238 pages of drivel he slapped together: Do Travel Writers Go to Hell?

But I don't believe that any travel book has kept me so captivated as Marching Powder by Rusty Young. This one has been on my 'to read' list for many years, but sometimes when you're reviewing books you get bogged down in literature you don't always want to read. So when I finished off the last two books I had to review for the year (taking a break), I couldn't wait to crack the cover of this one.

It's the story of Thomas McFadden, a British cocaine trafficker who is caught and charged with trafficking 800g (was actually 5kg) of cocaine out of Bolivia. This story is of his time in the infamous San Pedro prison and shocking and also funny stories from within it's walls.

I picked this book up on Friday and finished it Saturday. There are very few books that keep me entertained for two straight days where Internet and TV sometimes find a way to interrupt, but Marching Powder did it. I even spent all of Saturday at Richard's house on the couch turning page after page, sometimes sharing a particular story, while he cleaned his house. I was a nice enough girlfriend to go with him to the laundromat, but even then we sat side-by-side waiting in silence while we read our respective novels.

Marching Powder was one of those novels that I was sad to close the cover on and found myself at a loss with it no longer in my life. I have since started reading another book, but it fails to hold sense of charm that being in San Pedro prison did - although it is John Birmingham's follow up to Felafel, so judging from his experience in share houses they don't seem too dissimilar to prison conditions.

If was going to recommend any book to read this year, Marching Powder would be the one.

To a Mountain in Tibet by Colin Thubron

The latest novel, by prolific travel writer and novelist Colin Thubron, To a Mountain in Tibet takes us on a very personal journey to Mount Kailas—one of the most sacred and rarely traveled to mountains in the world.

After the death of his mother, Thubron decides to trek through the central Himalayas with only a Nepalese guide and cook. A trek that turns out to be a relatively isolated reflection of his life, with focused memories of family members who are no longer with him.

As much as I wanted to enjoy this book it was a little like a lukewarm bath; I couldn’t wait to get out. This is a deeply personal and sad book, which is written well and exhibits a great reflective style, but also one filled with tremendous detail on the history of the Tibetan people and their customs.

While ordinarily I find this form of travelogue interesting, there was little in this book that engaged me as a reader. Much like Thubron’s arduous journey through the cold and desolate landscape, I found myself trapped inside his meandering thoughts for an arduous 218 pages, gasping at altitude. His memories and personal beliefs seemed detached from the story itself, which had the potential to provide some colour to the landscape, but instead the reader remained but a slightly distanced observer.

This novel requires a great deal of concentration and reflection and I wonder if memories are sometimes like diary entries—perhaps only interesting to those who experienced them.

I have read similarly themed novels on treks through forbidden cities of Tibet, but feel, unfortunately, that others have done it better.

Having said this, there appears to be unanimous admiration and appreciation of this book out in the world, gracing bookstore ‘staff recommended’ lists and with glowing reviews. Perhaps I lack the concentration required to fully appreciate the story at hand.

My appreciations lies more towards the author himself, tackling such a journey in his seventies—and appearing to be less affected by the journey than some of the locals who are traveling with him!

Thubron lacks no skill to turn a phrase and produces beautifully crafted sentences throughout the entire novel, with lines like, ‘Easy to imagine this an apocalyptic fracture in the order of things, a portent of sacred chaos, or at least a fanfare for the dawning holy month. I stand outside my tent, distracted by some dream I have forgotten,’ scattered across the novel like nuggets of written gold.

To a Mountain in Tibet does indeed read like some dream that is forgotten, but is being remembered again in the way that can only be remembered when we have the silence to do so.

Published on Media-Culture Reviews.

The Honey Spinner by Grace Pundyk

I came across this author a few years ago when I saw her at a travel writing seminar at the Brisbane Writers Festival. She just described her travels in search of honey, how it was made around the world and the political and environmental effects the honey industry had on it's countries with such passion that it made me want to read her book.

At the time I was about to take off to South America so I compiled my list of books I wanted to buy from the festival and decided to wait until I got back before breaking the bank on yet more books. Not sure why it took me three years to finally purchase the book, but here I am, finally done with it.

I've never been a fan of honey, it's too sickly sweet for my taste buds, but as I sit here typing this I'm sucking on a teaspoon of liquid gold with flecks of honeycomb, so I'm wondering if Grace has converted me.

Throughout the entire book I kept wanting to re-taste honey to see

if I had mistaken the taste that this woman wrote so passionately about. Grace writes about thick, dark yellow honey from the middle-east and her favourite honey, from Italy, that it made me reluctant to just go to the supermarket and buy some plain Australian generically manufactured honey like Capilano in a squeezy bottle.

However, this morning I had to trundle over to the Bi-lo since Rich was out of milk and I was in desperate need of coffee, I spotted a jar of Beechworth with a full honeycomb inside. I'd never seen honey like this on supermarket shelves (possibly because I'm never in the market for honey) so decided to buy a bottle. My first spoonful was exactly as all my previous experiences with honey went - cringe and then say, 'Meh, it's honey'. My second spoonful, however, I started to reconsider - I could see how this could be appealing.

I doubt I'm suddenly going to be converted into a honey lover, I'm thankful honey has no expiry date so I can keep it in the cupboard for however long it takes me to use - probably in some baked good or something. But this was an interesting book, if not exactly what I was expecting.

The book traces Grace's travels through a few select countries in her search for beekeepers, discusses their methods of beekeeping, the issues they have with a declining honey market, blended honey, bee diseases and logging. Like all non-fiction books, this one had it's moments of struggles when my brain wanted to run free amongst some fiction rather than focus itself on the subject at hand, but I'm glad I read it. I'm fascinated by how bees work, how the hives work, what the beekeepers job is and this book answered all those questions.

With my burning need to read The Honey Spinner out of my system I need to move onto my ever growing pile of books to review.

A cubicle with new view

I'm having one of those mornings where I got up at the usual time, made coffee, put the bins out, did some banking (because all of this occurs on a Wednesday) and now I'm sitting here procrastinating looking through my Flickr photos.

It's one of those days where going to work seems like the worst possible option and I'm dreaming of dusting off my backpack and taking out my camera for a new adventure.

I'm not usually the type of person who has too many personal items in the office. A habit from being a serial contractor, I suppose. You don't want to get too settled because you'll just have to move it all again. But after two years in the same place (albeit, I have moved around different roles since being there) I'm noticing some decoration of the cubicle occurring. Mostly by way of photos.

Travel photos mostly... and some of Richard. Because once work was an important part of my life (getting to the writing positions I wanted), now seems just like any other job. I used to have no trouble working buckets of over time, but now I can't get to the weekends fast enough. It's just not that important to me anymore. Spending time with my friends and Richard and going on holidays - that's mostly what I care about. Hrm, when I think about it... travel has always been my goal of working... so yeah, I guess not too much has changed in that regard.

But here I am procrastinating further by writing in this blog. Putting off the need to go iron some pants and make the bed and put on some makeup - turn into work Denver. Blergh. Least work Denver now has some pretty inspirational photos to look at in her cubicle with no view.

So... I'm just going to have wee rant about work for a bit, because the last few weeks have been difficult to tolerate. Not exactly easy when your partner is feeling equally unsettled in his job and dreaming of greener pastures, but I'm trying to keep on until the project completion.

Initially, I thought I would like to stay on for a long while, but circumstances, which I won't go into here, have changed my mind and I think I'll be happy to leave once the disability project has finished. Not that websites ever really finish, they continue to grow and expand, an every changing life form of their own.

But for all my complaining and restlessness I'm having an inspiring month - I've been given the Arts and Culture section to write on our website, much to my delight, since this is an area close to my heart.

Last week I had the pleasure of speaking with a member of National Disability Services (NDS), who we liaise closely with for this project. She's a former professional dancer who developed MS ten years ago, naturally bringing her extensive and international dance career to a halt. Michelle is an amazing presence, however, very enthusiastic about our project, filled with ideas and she brings a great deal of energy to the table, while lately I feel my energy levels are running on empty. Speaking with her gave me a bit of a boost and I plan to ask if we can do a feature story on her for the website.

Today, I spoke with the Executive Director of Access Arts Queensland, an organisation dedicated to accessible arts in all it's forms, specifically focusing on communities and people with disability. In my job I'm fortunate to see up close the small differences that communities and people driven organisations can do for their community and those at a disadvantage. As I sat in Emma's office, blind with her yellow guide dog at my feet, it was great to speak with her about all the work Access Arts do around the state and how much knowledge can be gained from speaking to these types of people.

Next week I'm less out and about and am in conversations with Arts Queensland, and while another government department, seem very enthusiastic about having a say and feel they will have rich resources to draw from. I only hope so, because while exhausting and having to deal with challenging members of my team, in the end this is the type of job I always felt fit my personality. A writing position that, albeit somewhat removed, makes a small difference in the world. In this case, the world of Queenslanders with disability.

Putting it down in writing helps remind me of that.

4 years without a car

When I first moved to Brisbane I decided against getting a car, still fresh with living in London thoughts of not needing a mode of transport. I lived in Spring Hill and had public transport, why would I need a car? I managed in London without one for two years... of course, London transport is significantly better than what Translink offers. I did okay living so close to the city and working in the city or city fringe areas, I even walked to and from Milton when I worked down that way - it was great exercise and I didn't have to worry about paying for insurance or registration or the increasing price of fuel.

However, after four years I had decided what I would gain back with a car was time—where it would normally take me 10-15 minutes to get somewhere via car, it would take me at least 40-60 minutes via walking and public transport. And since none of my friends have the ability to appear anywhere on time, it also meant I had a lot of waiting around time for people too rude to show up when arranged.

I'm also someone who likes to go out and explore other suburbs and while I managed some of this via public transport, there was none of the 'jump in the car and go far south, or north or east' as I used to do back in my Perth days.

So I started looking for an affordable secondhand car, but I couldn't find one that was what I wanted or didn't require some work. I wasn't interested in a project. I didn't want to buy a fifteen year old car and spend months getting it up to scratch. I just wanted something I could drive straight away without any fuss. Eventually, it dawned on me I should just buy a new car—I'd never owned a new car and well, why not? I'm earning more money now than I've ever earned in my life, I'm doing a job I like and want to keep going with long term, it's a little inconvenient to park on the street in Spring Hill, but my rent hasn't increased by some miracle in two years and I'm happy to stay here, the boy has extra parking at his place—it all seemed to be working out fine.

So I got my ex-Mazda dealer dad to suss out some deals for me, because of course, I'm a Mazda car person and always will be. They're just a fantastic car (I would go into a rant about why, but that's a whole other entry). He managed to get me a great deal in Mackay—and even with flights up, fuel and driving back I was still better off than buying direct here in Brisbane.

After much running around with the bank (getting contracts signed, finding JPs, transferring monies etc), who said I passed a loan application with flying colours, I secured my new car and made plans to get up to Mackay with the boy to drive the new green machine back home. :)

Twelve hours of driving and it's sitting outside my little art deco unit waiting for my council parking permit so it can stay there every day without fear of a fine. ^_^ So exciting! Back in the wheels again.