Caseros

https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSg-HxuacIYxOiayuwWy8Jp52rZ7oNIJhxEMICnlGIjY4MYUJVQZIsQlYCcgkaMqe_hWLjHnlb0T-IP0s54cjtwijiWkiTOdRyo2mQ7kz8NT7OiJLBljpCESOcM0PlyZLuEO8EajeF2U/s1600-h/Carcel+de+Caseros+3.jpg



Mooching through archives I came across a striking historical documentary: Julio Raffo’s ‘Caseros: en el cárcel’(2007). Twenty years or more after initial incarceration, a number of ex-prisoners return to the deserted Unidad Penitenciara n°1, popularly referred to as Caseros Prison, which is on the point of demolition. Unearthly testimonies of prison life relive sombre memories of downtown Buenos Aires.

Initially conceived by the military dictatorships of the 1960s to house political prisoners awaiting trail, it was not until 1979, presided over by then military dictator Jorge Rafael Videla, that Caseros was officially opened. The initial aim remained the same, though the short-term stay for most prisoners stretched indefinitely as trials were either postponed or passed over. Peronists, Montoneros, Worker’s Party, Union leaders, ERP and pretty much anyone who stepped vaguely out of line.

The image of a tall ‘luxurious’ structure with some of the best views in the city is misleading. The small cells had the windows screened out so that ‘el día no tenía sol y la noche no tenía estrellas’ (by day there was no sun and by night there were no stars). Here you were ‘punished for climbing up the bars to try and see the sun rise’. A panopticon structure, a legal concentration camp with 1996 cells, 140 isolation units.

Minister of Justice Alberto Rodríguez Varela arrogantly compared the prison to a 5* hotel aimed at preserving the human dignity of each person to pass through its doors. One witness reports that this 5*hotel set out primarily to destroy, leaving men’s skin pale green and sunken from the lack of sunlight and tempting the onset of madness through utter isolation despite the close proximity of so many.

The welcome committee, referred to as the lion’s den, resembled or perhaps was nothing more than an interrogative torture chamber.

And yet each testimony focuses on the incredible solidarity and loyalty existing between the prison population as well as the loyalty existing between family members and friends on the outside, despite the regime of abuse that was the resulting consequence for many of these friends and family members. Christmas bringing a time of hope, the dream of freedom and family. Doves and caramels for regular communication.

As so often seems to be the case, dubious connections between church and state greatly implicated the church, whose role in interrogative procedures revealed it to be seemingly nothing more than a cog in the wheel of repression. Yet there were also priests behind bars, the fruits of integrity and compassion. A bizarre contrast grew up between the official prison mass - with sermon’s emphasising the consequences of stepping out of line, like Jonah, tortured and thrown overboard- and the unofficial secret mass offered by the prisoner priests, a symbol of fidelity.

Bizarrely enough reading was allowed and literature was barely censored...perhaps contributing to the incredible flow of artistic creativity still so very evident across Argentina... All science materials were banned...as well as the sports pages.

The tragic case of Jorge Toledo has stayed with each prisoner who finally made it out. Toledo: driven to suicide following extreme breakdown and deterioratory self-isolation. Prison authorities: serve all prisoners a luxurious celebratory meal and then proceed to play the funeral march over the loud speakers all night long.

The celebration of the prison’s demolition, marked by the documentary cannot escape the lingering sadness provoked by the demolition of so many lives.

A fishy little incident

Worshiped as deities by the ancient Egyptians, the Mau cat continues to inspire awe and respect. Clocked at over 30mph and with the fastest reflexes of any domestic cat, this graceful breed, while unusually loyal to its owner and determined to demonstrate great affection, is a formidable hunter.
Four years ago the addition of a Mau to the family home proved the above in no uncertain terms. On the affection front, only the most cunning attempts to hide under covers in feigned sleep could avert a full chin licking lovin’ session. On the hunting front the local wildlife soon knew what to expect. A dead mouse or two wasn’t really going to break any of our hearts, but all the same even unharmed rodent prey brought proudly home through the cat-flap was rescued and returned to the great outdoors to live, at least we sometimes naively hoped, to face another day. Cat-owner guilt struck home more starkly on other occasions and the rescue of a semi-damaged baby blackbird led to the conservatory being turned into a springtime aviary, and constant worm diggings duties. Mauli ruled the roost. The king of the castle way up there in the local nature reserve ranking.

They say all good things come to an end, what goes up must normally come down. Lured rather forcibly one fine day into his enemy the cage, Mauli leaves his hunting paradise behind and lands hundreds of miles away in a darker wilderness with a rather mean old king already well established. Mauli’s confident prowess, his lean mean killing machine physique is cowed, his face gaunt, his body bleeding from surprise woozle attacks. No more hunting. No more great outdoors. A period of restless indoor nervousness becomes gradually a resigned slightly bored contentment. Indoor life isn’t so bad after all. More biscuits, more sleep, more taunting the dog, more family lovin’ and who cares about a rapidly developing podge. More weight to fling at passing dogs’ noses.

We all encourage a reintegration of the hunting urge telling Mauli happy hunting stories, urging him out the house, urging him to pounce and catch, even causing a brief sore head by locking the cat-flap which Mauli unwisely charges.

Out of the blue. One dark night. Last night in fact. Flop, flop, bump, flop, bump, kerump through the cat-flat, thump, flop, bump, slick bump under the table. Mauli eyes glittering in triumph holding down a wildly flittering foot long fish.

Shrieks bring me running to find fish already installed in the kitchen washing up bowl, floating a little unevenly, breathing rapidly, a few gold-flecked scaled floating gently to the surface. The clock ticks past midnight. The cat looks a little more than mildly peeved. Minutes later the foot-long carp is idly swimming around our freshly-filled bathtub.

Options:
1- Scour the neighbourhood for owner of missing fish – internet ratings seem to place the value at anything between £30 and £300 depends on exact condition and variety. There could be somehow out there even more peeved than the cat. But where the hell did the cat hunt this fish down? All the neighbourhood ponds must surely be as properly frozen over as our own is right now with their occupants happily living in idle hibernation somewhere far below the icy surface.
2- Fob the fish off on the local pet shop...maybe even make a few quid. Or then again, maybe not. There is still a prominent tooth mark showing. Incriminating evidence.
3- Leave the fish in the bath until either the cat discovers that he is being hidden there and finishes him off, or until the plug inevitably comes unstuck ...leaving us as heartbroken as Gussie Fink-Nottle upon the loss of his breeding newts but without the presence of a Sir Watkyn Bassett to blame for the mishap...unless of course the stress pushes one of us over the edge and into midnight Bassett mode.
4- Wait for an obliging person to smash through the several inches of ice on our own pond and acclimatize carpfish to his new home. Always running the risk of recapture...

The Dog seems to have taken his instructions to guard the fish a little too seriously, neurotically refusing his food and howling upon hearing a potential crime perpetrator inside the bathroom while being locked outside the bathroom.

The Cat seems to have lost a phantom 2 pounds with his late night adventure and called it a day...or perchance a week, a month or a year. Sunk in peaceful slumber.

The Fish ...is still in the bathtub, busy generating a growing aquarium odour.

hotel sunset

As the sun sets on another decade and I find myself making another online hotel booking I try and jot up how many beds I’ve slept in over the last ten years which opens up a whole new project to temporarily satisfy my secret sadistic love of Microsoft Excel. My beautifully calculated figures seem to indicate a regular sporadic change in semi/permanent abodes and a sudden dramatic rise in temporary resting places. I should probably keep a log of what shall be called - in brief deference to political correctness – the more affordable hotels and guest houses spread across the UK, and beyond. I look forward in this new year to making some more curious discoveries which will hopefully rival my favourite of 2009. London. Zone Two. Imagine my involuntary surprise at expecting pretty much the worse and yet, at the end of my A-Z trail, finding myself standing at the entrance to a rather spectacular Victorian mansion, glittering white in the late evening lamp light. Check. Check. And Double Check. Yep. This would appear to be it. But stepping through that entrance was bewilderingly like Alice’s fall down the rabbit hole. A small poky, musty little reception desk apparently empty. I ring the rusty hand bell presumably placed there for such an inevitability. The previously invisible figure behind the desk stands up, his little brown nose just level with the surface. Peering over and down I’m met his a wide grin. A wide toothless grin. No. Not toothless. A wide grin baring one yellowing tooth, protruding up from the bottom gum. In accented English I’m far from understanding well, he proceeds to welcome me with open arms and a strong preference for cash only payment, even though that results in a reduction of £1.50 in the room price. He beckons and I follow. Left6, right, right and left again and through a precariously small door down a precariously narrow flight of stairs. Flights of stairs. Down down down. In the dimming light I notice a dungeon key on a half-foot long wooden fob. The secret of entrance into my dungeon room. ‘Lights no work’ apparently, in this under-passage. Suddenly left alone I fumble for the lamp which, with a buzzing flicker reveals a small cot bed spread with a solitary 1930s cover. Two steps across paisley carpet the opposite wall sports two dank curtains on a rusty rail. Whisking them open with a clatter I unmask a secret window... drawn on the greying wall in a thick black pen. The plug sparks as I shove and what might just be a tv set flickers and buzzes in discordant harmony with the lamp. Fizz. Slupperr. Bizzerr. Bozz. Hotel star ratings seem to me to be fairly arbitrary...at least between 1 and 3.

winter wonderland

Living amongst the chaos of unpacked boxes and no place for anything I wondered whether the trusty selection of Christmas music would find its way out from the shadows into the open this year. And yes... much digging later the familiar battered cd and tape cases appear mysteriously next to our make-shift music system. Evie sings again, proclaiming the same old message of her title track Christmas: A Happy Time. Other less hopeful artists... Monkaton for example, have their own slightly more cynical takes on this happy Christmas concept. And while fixing our eyes on the manger scene can fill us with peace and joy if we let it, there often seem to be far too many difficult distractions that demand the gaze of our eyes long before we make it to Bethlehem. Our consumerist society demands that we demand to find happiness at Christmas, but most of us struggle greatly to do so of our own accord and it’s not long before you here anxious whispered hopes that this yearly burden will all soon be behind us again... Escape back to struggling only with mundane day to day realities. Escape!

This Christmas day all pre-prescribed Christmas stress was strangely bi-passed. At least for a brief and wondrous glimpse, as I jumped through an unclosed loop hole into a peaceful winter wonderland. Gently snow clad forest paths glowing in the slowly setting sun, leading to a still, still lake, semi-frozen and framed with icy mist. Yet family frictions follow closely... A porky chap with reddening nose leans against the entrance gate mumbling angrily, ‘you see my **** family, to tell them to ********* well hurry back’ he demands. But even he fades gently away into the background leaving us to tramp along in slowly expanding mangeresque peace and joy...except for the ducks... the wildly ravenous hoard of hooting ducks that follow us around our picture book circuit remind us gently that the Christmas peace and joy comes also through reaching out and meeting needs and selflessly seeking not for happy consumption but for a peace beyond our everyday understanding, that can lead us through all the storms along the way.

BCN metro musings

I wonder why traveling on Barcelona metro doesnt freak or stress me out nearly as much as the London Underground. Perhaps it is because it isn't so far below the ground and is somehow more airy and less chlostraphobic. I`m imagining that we are not so far down beacuse mobile phones seem to work....so youre now just cut off from civilization`...stuck panic-room stlye in a dark black sewer tube.

But then again...if the whole tube network is that much closer to the surface...doesnt that make it all quite architectually unstable... will the city some day soon collapse into lines 3 5 and 6? Hmmm.

Maybe it's because Barcelona city council provide free music for traverlers waiting on platforms. And how can you be intimidated by a system that plays- unconsciusly one imagines -Christmas music in July and a mixture of the Beatles and Oasis in December.

Maybe the security announments also help... smoking is not allowed but jumping down onto the metro tracks is strictly not and never allowed... one feels they have a sensible health and safety prioritisation going n here. Our best interests at heart. Though fines seem to be in opperation for smoking but not for rail jumping. 30 euros and 5 cents. Why the 5 cents? Why?

O...and there is also music provided both on the metro journey and in the metro entrances. The journey music varies substantially but has one thing always in common – there is a soloist of some sort accompanied kareoke style by an onwheels kareoke machine. Solists include acordianists, guitarists, clarinetists and in more traditional mode ...singers. This is more financially complicated than the town hall station music...which is included in the price of your ticket. The quesiton is ...how much do you pay...its a voluntary contribution sometimes encouraged by soloist's accomplice who does a run of the carriage with a plastic cup. I look eagerily to see whether people set a lead worth following and see that it tends to be people with greying hair and wrinked knowledge reaching deep for purses and small change. How many times a day should you reach deep for if you make numerous metro journeys I wonder...and should payment be based on merit , or pity or both or neither. It's hard to say.

The most difficult soloist to listen to is the wailer... she screachs dramatically and operates without a backing tape of any description...'ooooo wooooooooooooo is me....have mercy....millk for my poooor children......' the strangest part of this performance is the sudden visible cut from on-scene to backstage as she preparess to disembark and begin the play again.

Most solisits in metro entrances do have backing music of some description – not normally any wailers there....though there are the beggars-opera style setups which can be inevitably more disturbing than wailing, as malformations are competitively displayed to best advantage... with the weather turning cold there is something infinitely unsettling in seeing 4 splitting red stumps cruelly exposed to the inclemment wind... and bringing out deeper levels of cynicism I wonder how poor 4-stump got to target place a and who the money in the collction pot would be going to.

In contrast to this some of the soloists do raise a smile. One panpiper in metro entrance c was playing a tune called flower song.... strange. I played that on the piano many years ago except my brother told me that I was missing the light fluffy character of the whole thing...and that it sounded like the poor flowers were stuck in the mud...or was it that it sounded like people were wading through mud, one or the other at any rate. Panpipe man was doing a much better job than me, though amazingly it must have been the current backing tune on the block because at the following station there was soloist number two also having a good bash at it, but this time playing the recorder and sounding not so much like a mud discourse but more like a stormy sea discourse...this poor soloist hadnt even made it to kareoke machine level and was still stuck with backing music coming from a portable cd player...and it sounded like he could be stuck with it for some long time to come...unless there are mechanisms of purchase in that world that I know nothing about. Hmmm. The flower song, I think I'll get that out and have another go at it when I get home.

Full Moon Forest

image adapted from: http://thecorner.files.wordpress.com/2007/05/full-moon-oak.jpg


Poetry has been described as a means of making simple topics complicated but as the historian Frederick Lewis Allen noted “Everything is more complicated than it looks to most people.” The following is an attempt to describe a late evening wander in the Forest of Dean last week. Stunningly beautiful!


Full Moon Forest

Glistening pathways
Snake inwards,
Lost islands
Clutter together
Whispering stories
Reflected in the full moon shadow;
Our giant blundering boot-steps
Crush them one by one.

A sudden flash. Not the wind
But a grunting deer outline
And another,
Eagerly pursued by
Out of work sheep dog
White tail framing
Beatific chase.

Then with quiet calm
And eerie restraint
Leafless branches hush.
The moon’s muse
Engraved in black ink
Across narrowing trail.
We sense the command and
Poised spellbound
Watch
As we too
Are painted into crescent portrait.

Blood and Rain

These days I am feeling the affects of the mysterious percentage of gypsy blood flowing through my veins, as I rarely spend more than two nights in the same location at a time. Constant movement, minimum possessions (somewhere there are a whole load of boxes containing all my stuff but I haven't needed any of it in the last few months since its storage, and so I guess it's not all that important), and long train travel engender random ponderings: life, origins, identity, identity. I should note that British National Rail services, alongside London Underground Services, very much help to cultivate this line of thought as long delays and cancellations become part of the daily process. Another instigator has been the typical set of circumstances that are created through meeting a whole lot of new people who ask the same old question: 'where are you from?' which is a sort of synonym of 'who are you?' ...or is it...

I don't really know where I'm from but does that lead to me specifically questioning who I am? Perhaps. I guess it led me last week to the Odeon, Covent Garden to the opening of the DLAFF (discovering latin america film festival). The film was Jorge Navas' controversial 'la sangre y la lluvia'. (blood and rain). Set in Bogota, my birthplace, the film relies on stark realism to present the darker side of the city. Years of working for tv advertising set Navas off on a rebellious trail, in a refusal to play the commercial, capitalist fool. As Navas himself asserts, just as we are about to begin viewing, it's not meant to be light entertainment. I rediscover the streets of early childhood, mediated through the harsh night life of the city. It's not just drugs, sex, violence and death however...the filmatography is stunning, at times quite beautiful...leaving a radiant, though brooding, landscape imprinted ...to be taken away and contemplated. The message is also more than 'don't get in a taxi at night in bogota...or indeed...don't ever leave your house if you can help it' There is also love...and the potential for human connection and hope that this connection might one day be more durable.

The shocking discovery came at the end of the showing, in the director's question and answer session. There were numerous angry Colombians there who seemed to question how Navas could dare to show such a portrayal of their beautiful country to the wider world (the film has made quite a hit in numerous important festivals). 'Why didn't you think it would be better to show something more lovely...more... ?' they challenge him. 'We go to the cinema to escape' another protests. Navas is unfazed by these questions, though a little saddened, and he answers calmly. 'You can't escape the reality of your own day-today existence' he states. 'It must be faced...and if it can be changed in some way it must first be challenged in some way'. 'This is a part of our identity'.

Time worth pondering over this is not lost time then... perhaps I should be more grateful for the train delays that enable such a luxury.











ps - I guess I should acknowledge stealing a google picture which I played arounda little bit with to create the above - original accessable at: http://www.worldsbestlanguageschools.com/Bogota_Colombia2.jpg

maybe the language school is actually in one of these buildings...