writing booklet 2012
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C O N T E N T S
A FATAL TWIST.................................................Frank Foley
A WORLD THAT INSPIRES..................................Beth Coote
ATTEMPT AT ESCAPE.......................................Pam Stewart
EARLY MORNING......................................A Mystery Writer
SO YOU WANT THIS JOB?..................................Owen Clark
THE RED SCARF............................................Shirley Heading
BORDERLINE...................................................Trevor Rogers
These articles are chosen by members of a Balwyn Central Probus group called
Writing For Pleasure. No reason is given for the personal choice, and they
might not be our best writing, but we would like to share something of what
we do each fortnight with you. We hope you enjoy reading them.
Cover Page from Google Images.
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A Fatal Twist
The muscular man lounged against the far wall of the room in his black and white tee shirt
with horizontal stripes and neckerchief. A gold earring in his right ear and a black eye-patch
adorned his completely bald head. She stood next to him, raven hair, red lips and dark eyes,
and wearing a blue Shantung dress. She was a vamp with a capital V, and every mothers
nightmare. To her left was a man in a trench coat. With his collar turned up and his hat
pulled down over his right eye, little of his face was discernible, except for his prominent,
square jaw. Next to him was a short, scruffy man in a leather jacket. Balding, with sinister,
beady eyes, he, like his friend in the tee shirt, was not a person you would like to meet in a
dark alley. Completing the group was a tall, silver-haired man in a tuxedo. Distinguished
looking, his expensive rings and gold watch screamed wealth. They were all staring
expectantly at the man sitting at the desk with the typewriter.
Well, what now? said the man with the eye-patch.
The woman said, Please dont expect me to stand here all night looking sexy, Dave, while
you struggle with another storyline.
Give me a break, Dave said, Its not that easy. But, ok, you want a storyline. Here goes.
Dave turned to his typewriter It was a dark and stormy night, he began.
************************************
The rain hammered against my window pane and the flickering neon sign outside mywindow produced an eerie light in the dim, dingy office which was my home away from
home. It had been a hard day , and I was working on a bourbon and dry with my feet up on
the desk, and contemplating a stop at McGintys Bar and Grill for a nightcap on my way
home.
Then she walked into my office. I thought for a second she must have been lost; but then a
trip up three flights of rickety and badly lit stairs is not something you would do if you dont
know where youre going. She was slim and gorgeous, with more curves than a mountain
highway. As she got closer and the flickering light fell upon her face, I could see her eyes
were red, as if she had been crying.
Areyou Mike Chisel, the private detective? she asked.
Just like the name on the door says, doll, what can I do for you? I answered.
Please, you must help me. My name is Laura Steele, and Im afraid my husband is trying to
kill me.
Now why would hewant to do that? I asked. Insurance, another woman, perhaps (Id
love to meet her I thought to myself).
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I dont know, but he has been acting so strangely. There have been mysterious phone calls
and he treats me so coldly these days she said. Now things have happened that I cant
ignore. The other day the brakes on my car failed. Fortunately, I was on the flat at the time
and able to pull over onto the gravel. The mechanic on the scene told me it looked as if the
brake line was cut. We live up a mountain road; and if it happened on that stretch, Im sureId be dead now. Then yesterday, he insisted we go for a walk to the cliff near our home.
We seemed to be getting closer and closer to the edge; as I turned back from the view to
look at him, he was coming toward me with arms outstretched and a menacing look in his
eyes. But a hello from one of our neighbours, who was out walking his dogs, brought him
up quickly, and his demeanour changed instantly. Im so afraid that, next time, there will be
no stopping him.
I can see why youre afraid; but why did you choose to come to me? I asked.
My husband is Roger Steele, the wealthy entrepreneur. He knows everyone and everyone
knows him. I had to find someone well off his radar, which meant coming across to this side
of town. I cant even trust the police.
Ok Ill take your case; itll cost you a hundred bucks a day plus expenses.
There is something else, Laura said. I believe Im being followed by two men, one short
and scruffy and the other a rough, weightlifter type. Ive seen them several times in the
past few days.
Do you think they followed you here? I asked.
I dont know, but Im very afraid, and I need you to see me to a hotel.(There goes McGintys, I thought.)
We walked out of the building and across the street to the bus stop. As we stood under the
street light, Laura suddenly looked frightened. There they are, she said, and she turned
and bolted into a nearby alley. I called after her to wait, but she kept going, and so I took
off after her.
I had nearly caught up with her when, passing a darkened door way, I suddenly felt a hand
grab my shoulder followed by a sharp pain in my head. The next thing I remember is waking
up in that alley in the rain. There was a note pinned to my lapel. Unravelling it I read thewords, If you want to see the dame alive, go to the old Sloanes Paper warehouse near the
docks and make it quick.
Even though I was pretty fuzzy in the head, I had a strong feeling that things werent all that
they seemed. Questions began whirring around in my brain. What could the husbands
motive be? Why did Laura choose to run down this dark alley, and why was there someone
waiting to bash me on the head? Most puzzling of all, if murder was the objective, why give
me a chance to save her at a warehouse five miles away? Then it hit me. I was being duped.
I picked myself up and sprinted back to the street to hail a cab. It was only a five minute trip
to the Corona Apartments, but still I was afraid I might be too late.
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I burst through the front door of the apartment building, brushing some executive types
aside as I pushed into the lift and hit the button for the fifth floor. I stopped outside
apartment 5D and heard several voices inside.
Now wait, cant we talk this over? It was Dave speaking.
Its too late for that, said a man with a gruff voice. This time its you, not us, who is goingto be erased.
Hold on; Im sure we can work something out to everyones satisfaction, Dave tried again.
Just do it, shoot him! It was Lauras voice. I like my character and I dont want to give it
up, she said.
That goes for me too, said another harsh male voice. Like he said, its you or us Dave,
and this time its going to be you!
I took out my pistol and pushed the door open, saying, Ill bet you wish you had locked thatnow
Bang! Bang! Bang! The muscular man and his short accomplice crumpled to the floor. Roger
Steele reached inside his tuxedo and produced a small revolver; but he was too slow. Bang!
Another shot and Roger slumped to the carpet.
Laura looked at me angrily, then, realising her situation, she softened. Im not armed, she
said.
Maybe not, but you are as dangerous as the rest, doll, I growled.
You cant shoot me, please; all I wanted was to keep on being me. You cant blame a girl
for trying, can you? she pleaded.
Dave smiled. Put the gun away Mike. I think we can accommodate Laura. Im sensing that
Laura is very sorry for being such a bad girl; so sorry, in fact, that it has brought on a
religious experience. Yes, thats it, she has seen the light, and has determined to see out the
rest of her days... in a convent.
Laura fainted, as Dave and I exchanged smiles.
So, I think you can call ita night Mike, and thanks for the rescue, said Dave.
Dont mention it Dave. Weve been a team for a long time now - wouldnt want to break up
the partnership.
Well, Dave said, Id better get on with making a few alterations to my story, eh Mike?
Why dont you stop by McGintys on the way home? I have a feeling the place is going to be
open very late tonight. McGintys birthday Im thinking, and the drinks will be on the
house for all of his regulars.
Enjoy, Mike, Dave called out, as I closed the door behind me and headed out into that
dark and stormy night.
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Poetry was never my strong point at school,
I would avoid it if I could,
Yet when I read Wordworths poems
And understood them; like good omens,
It gave new dimensions of understanding,
Why poetry is so outstanding.
I think of the imagery poetry has brought,
And with this thought,
I look forward to sharing with all
Words written, as on a large wall;
About life in all its glory
That tells a wonderful story.
The story when looking at nature
One sees flora, fauna and nurture,
Bright and stunningly beautiful,
Standards set for words that are dutiful.
Our culture contrives and inspires
To give us a world that one admires.
Flora, fauna captured on stamps
Vivid in colour, like lights on lamps,
Blown by the wind and burnt by the sun.
Washed by waves on the run,
Nourishment that is given to make us strong,
Cultivation and nurture where we belong.
Onward and outward time marches on,Giving life an abundance therein
To achieve what is meaningful in life,
By going to lengths to protect wildlife.
In lifes glory freedom is a must
For when we die it is dust to dust.
Beth Coote
August 2012
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AN ATTEMPT AT ESCAPE
Helens shack lay off the main Marysville to Narbethong Road in the heavily timbered ranges
to the east of Melbourne. It was hidden from the view of passing motorists and wagon
drivers, carting their logs to the nearby processing area.
A sturdy, formerly totally self-reliant woman, shed chosen this isolated spot after the
Second World War in which her husband, Des, had fought. He hadnt returned . The letter
informed: Missing, presumed dead On one of the islands in the Pacific War Zone. Theyd
had little time together, so there was no family.
Her niece Peg would come to check on her with the children, Billy and Andrea. They were
teenagers now. They had their interests in the city. Just like their dad, the mad keen
Richmond supporter in winter, the fisherman down the Bellarine past Geelong, most
summer week-ends. A break from the factory machines and Peg would explain all this toHelen, each time she drove up alone to visit her.
Helen had had a dog for company over the years. Several lay buried in the patch of garden
at the back. Each had accompanied her during their lifetimes as she walked the bush tracks
through the neighbouring forest reserve. They would walk for hours, enjoying the smell of
the bush: the gums, the wattles, the sighting of kangaroos, wallabies and a great variety of
birds. Helen noted the birdsong, the kookaburras laugh, the red and blue flash of the
rosellas wings, the green and yellow of the Eastern lorikeet that fed on the gum blossom.
But now her body had slowed. There was no dog for company. She was always glad to learn
that Peg was coming up for a day or two.
Helens shack was built of weatherboards, scrambled together over the years. It was In need
of paint with Its corrugated roof rusting in places.
Peg had arrived after lunch on Thursday and by evening had cut back all the bushes growing
around the place. The threat of fire was very great every summer. There was, therefore, no
tree growing around the shack.
The following day Pegs husband, Ernie, rang her mobile from Portarlington where he was
fishing with his mates. He advised them to leave Friday night. Take Helen with her. Helen
reckoned she was no quitter. Tell him that. Besides, she had two tanks of water and a
sprinkler system, to boot. Any stray embers in the guttering, she reckoned on climbing up to
remove them. Pigheaded. Ernie replied when Peg relayed this news.
Lunchtime Saturday and Ernie rang again. The winds up, the fires travelling at the speed of
an express train! Please, Peg, tell her youve got to leave before its too late. I dont want
you to die. He was weeping. Get out. Go to the Community Hall to shelter. Okay. Will do,
she agreed.
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Helen, cranky at this news, went outside. Attempted to! The force of the wind blew the
kitchen door shut in her face. The heat was intense. Ginger, Pegs kelpie, cringed,
whimpering in a corner. He resisted being moved, but Peg dragged him across the gravel
towards her Plymouth Wagon parked in the driveway.
She and Helen climbed aboard. The dog sat between them, still whimpering, barking
occasionally. Peg started up the car. Tried three or four times; Feared flooding the engine;
Checked the petrol gauge; Should be right, she believed.
Terrified, Helen sat in the car and left without a backward glance.
Now, out to the bitumen; heading towards Narbethong. Ash particles clustered in the air,
swirling in front of them, their vision poor. The air; hot as an oven. The flame a giant wall to
their left, thrusting towards them and Helens little community of isolated souls.
Im so scared. Peg was screaming at Helen. I reckon were too late. And look at poor
Ginger. He seems to know well be lucky, so lucky to make it out. And Id say hes right. If we
stalled we might go up with it. But wed have no hope trying to outpace this. Jees we
couldnt fight this bloody inferno by running.
She stepped on the gas. Helen remained silent.
Oh my god, yelled Peg. No. Theyd rounded a bend and there, right across the road lay a
giant tree, a mountain ash, in all likelihood, blocking the road ahead of them.
Peg reached for the mobile. No response.
**********
Ernie checked with the Police. They rang back to report that neither the women, nor their
dog, had reached the safety of the Hall at the expected time. Dont worry, mate. Well go
out to meet them.
A young army reservist, Jon, accompanied the police driver. They drove along the
Narbethong- Marysville Road and came upon the women and their dog. All appeared to be
suffering smoke inhalation. They were dragged from their wagon to the police vehicle
waiting behind the fallen tree. An ambulance was called but a long delay was expected.
Peg looked up at the young army man; saw her rescuer as a hero. She didnt want him to
leave her side.
Pamela Stewart 2012
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EARLY MORNING
Early morning, the sun was already high in the sky. Perfect for a stroll along the beach; A
warm breeze floating through the air.
Walking through the soft sand down to the waters edge, where the outgoing tide had left
firm sand. Small shells scattered, some perfect in their design, others having had a rough
time being broken and scarred. Little waves erasing footprints of people having been earlier
along the beach, the water was clear and most inviting. The sky was a deep blue, with just a
wisp of a cloud also enjoying the day. Colours of the sky reflected itself onto the ocean; with
the sun on the sea, sparkled at every movement.
A pretty sundress, bare so the sun could kiss the shoulders; walking through the small waves
barefoot, giving a sensation of being caressed.
Along the beach the landscape was filled with palm trees, some of their fruit lay in the sand.
The only birds that were visible were two sea eagles soaring with the breeze. A few keenrunners pass by with legs held high. Did they see the wonder of this wonderful beach? A
yoga class was being held, about ten beautiful bodies in their bikinis, exercising on their
colourful beach towels, a young woman taking them through their paces at ten dollars each.
Her job paid well, and she enjoyed it.
We were still walking through the gentle waves. We saw a young woman with a little girl,
who was paddling in her little pink frilly bathers; laughing and having a wonderful time.
A bucket and spade were at the ready to build the very best castle ever, with a moat.
Walking toward the headland, still a few miles to go, but it could take all day, as there was
not anywhere that could be as beautiful as this day. Several small canoes where pulled uponthe beach close to the trees, their coloured sails moving to the slight breeze. It looked as
though they were waiting for the many young people who would have fun riding on them,
later in the day.
A couple walked closer, and on reflection it was obvious that they were from one of the
many resorts behind the greenery. She was elderly, but stunning in a large hat, a sarong of
bright colours, and sequins that sparkled in the sunshine. Her partner had long white shorts
with a bright orange polo shirt open at his neck. No rushing: just silence; and enjoying the
tranquil morning.
Further on to the headland where the trees and bushes entwined at the waters edge,
gentle waves splashed the rocks with the rhythm of nature.
A turn around and the walk would prove to be different again, but still as beautiful as hand
in hand we looked into each others eyes, smiled, knowing that we were as one, enjoying
one of our most favourite places on earth. There was no need for words, as it seemed that
words would spoil the whole nature of this wonderful time and place.
BY A MYSTERY WRITER
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SO YOU WANT THIS JOB? OWEN CLARK
What sort of machine is this? It vibrates viciously. Normally it runs hot; and still hotter if it is
not being worked hard enough. Its awkward. It will swing around and hit the operator if
they are not standing in the correct position. Its hard enough for a proficient operator. For
the learner it is volunteering for torture. And you expect me to work with this machine in
my hand eight hours a day to earn a living? You have to be joking. There are lots more,
easier jobs, more pleasant than this. No wonder the industry is suffering. And this is only
half the story.
The second part of the story is an animal. It will wriggle and kick and struggle, if it is not held
and treated correctly. If the body of the animal is not stretched, and the skin remains
wrinkled, it will be cut and the animal will suffer. A deep cut of a blood vessel, or the skin
requires the process to stop. The wound is then sewn with a flesh needle and thread. Some
Woolo, referred to as tar is placed on the wound to help with infection and prevent a
blow fly strike.
Special care is needed around the pizzle of a weather or ram and near the teats of a ewe. It
is so easy to cut off a ewes teat, which heals and seals, so it is then useless for providing a
lamb with milk; a tragedy for a good breeding ewe. Even more serious is to approach the
main tendon of a sheeps back leg from the wrong angle and cut it through. The sheep can
no longer walk and the best result is for it to be killed and eaten. A cut hamstring equals a
death sentence. Less serious is a cut ear. It will heal.
All this is to be kept in mind for a learner while holding the vicious, vibrating, hot handpieceof a shearing machine.
There is a certain pattern and stroke a shearer must learn, while holding the sheep correctly
with knees, body, feet and one free hand. Good experienced shearers may vary the
traditional pattern for speed.
The usual pattern and process is like this:- The sheep to be shorn are yarded the day before
shearing so they will be dry, and rested overnight. They wont have a full stomach. They
then weigh lighter, and their body is easier to bend. A sheep is caught from the pen, held by
both front legs, and skidded over the floor on its tail to a spot near the shearing machine.Bending very low from the hips, the shearers arm goes around both front legs and under
the head in order to lift the sheep to make the belly skin tight. Switching on the handpiece,
it is placed flat against a clear spot under the front leg and pushed downwards towards the
back leg, and the wool is broken to separate it from the better quality wool on the sheeps
side. The belly wool is considered inferior and is pressed in a separate bale.
The belly is shorn with mostly horizontal strokes, making sure the pizzle or teats are not cut.
The tops and insides of both back legs are shorn and the area under the tail. The left back
leg is completely shorn extending to the back bone.
Then a major shift of position occurs. One foot goes between the sheeps back legs, the
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other is shifted to steady the sheeps body. The head is held back gently by the free left
hand on the bottom jaw, and the wool is opened up from the brisket through to the head.
From this opening the wool is shorn back down the side, including the front leg.
In the next major position shift, the sheep is laid almost on its back with the shearers right
knee placed in its pelvis, and the left foot in a position to keep the sheeps underneathshoulder off the floor. If that shoulder were to slip and touch the floor, the sheep will
immediately try to get up. The shearers left hand pulls the sheeps head around the
shearers left leg to make the skin tight. This position is called the long blow, when the
shearer is able to shear wool in long strokes from the tail through to the head in one sweep
and eventually one blow over the sheeps backbone.
When this is done the sheep is gradually straightened up and the wool from its face right
down the last side is shorn. This includes the front leg, and continues down until the sheep
is completely shorn. Most of these strokes are horizontal. The sheep then goes into thecounting out pen, and the shearer goes to catch another woolly sheep and the whole
process begins again.
To shear the magic hundred a day, each sheep needs to be shorn in slightly less than five
minutes so an extra one can be done in a two hour shift. An experienced shearer can make
this whole process look easy.
A hopeful shearer was asked, How many sheep can you shear ina day?
He replied, A hundred.
He was then asked, Where have you shorn before?
I havent, was his reply.
How do you know you can shear a hundred? he was then asked.
Ive seen others do it. was his reply.
This young man was in for a big shock. To learn to shear is hard mentally, and physically. To
get everything right needs determination, practice, physical strength and coaching. For the
experienced shearer who keeps moving quickly for five minutes, the process is easier on
muscles and body. However, the time a learner will take is about thirty minutes. This means
that the physical discomfort for the beginner is many times harder and longer than for anexperienced shearer.
Shearing quickly means the cut wool keeps the handpiece reasonably cool. The learner
finds it hard to keep the handpiece at all times in the wool, so the comb and cutter get
hotter and hotter, smoking as the comb and cutter burn because they are so hot. Another
difficulty for the learner!
The wool of sheep contains burrs and prickles, and they wont go diagonally into the
shearers skin, but they do go straight in, making them very difficult to get out when the
shift, or days work is done. If they arent removed they are liable to fester.After the first days shearing, the learner is exhausted. Every muscle is sore, and he now has
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the tell tale shearers back with the obvious kink, as he tries to straighten up and walk.
Longing for rest, in bed there is no way to get comfortable. With one muscle resting,
another is aching. On the second day, every sore muscle screams with pain as they are used
again until all muscles are used, and become warm. This happens every day over a number
of days till the muscles are conditioned, and the body becomes reasonably pain free.
In winter and especially in summer, perspiration pours off the whole body, stinging eyes and
dripping off the nose. Shearers need to drink lots of water. Many drink alcohol; beer, even
rum at the end of the day, and in perspiring the next day, they can smell, even stink.
The pay is not great for the shearer, and especially as the price of wool is low.Ideas have been tried to reduce the physical load of shearing. One was a drench that caused
the sheep to shed its wool, but it came to nothing. Another was an iron frame to hold the
sheep while it was shorn. This has had limited use. A yoke attached to the roof, and placed
over the shoulders to give support to the back has been used often. An idea that came from
New Zealand of having wider combs and cutters to take wool off a greater area when
shearing, has helped.
Shearers are often not at home with their families during the week and they have to travel
to different places for their work. With sheep being bred larger and heavier why would
anyone want to learn to shear?
Yet the Australian sheep all get shorn once a year, and one can only admire the men, and
some women tough enough to do this work.
Would you like this job?
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THE RED SCARF
Jenny was very excited today, as she had planned a visit to the art gallery. Jenny is five foot
nothing, her eyes are a deep blue with a little twinkle. Her hair is her crowning glory, long,
shiny and dark brown .Today she will be wearing her new jeans, a white t shirt with a peace
sign, and a fine red scarf, making her feel very arty.
As she arrived at the wonderful entrance to the gallery, she loved the water wall, ever
present, guiding her to the great wealth of talent inside. Today her main objective is to see
her favourite canvas.
As she walked through the gallery, the calm and tranquillity made her feel contented with
her surroundings. She was nearly there; excitement began to fill her body and mind. Good
morning, she said to the attendant. Being early the gallery was deserted. She knew that she
could stare in peace at this master painting, splendid in a gold frame.
Drawn down to the beach almost into the sea is an old fashioned bathing hut with large
wheels. A woman is emerging from the hut into the water, her bathers being a knee length
dress, with long black stockings and a mop cap to keep her hair dry. In the water are
gentlemen in their long costumes playing with little children also fully dressed. The sky is a
bright blue with a wisp of a cloud.
On the left side of the painting are rocks that jut onto the sand and out to the sea. The day
looks so inviting,
Suddenly she was there, on the beach walking in the sand, she took off her sandals and let
the sand trickle through her toes. She seemed to be unnoticed to the family on the beach. It
was such a wonderful day she decided that she would love a swim and walked to the rocks
where she could dress down to her underwear and sink into the warmth of the gentle
waves. After sometime she dressed, and in the moment, she was standing looking at the
picture in the gallery with a group of tourist and a guide explaining the era of the canvas.
Was she dreaming: did she really enter into that world?
The guide was explaining the picture to a group, he looked surprised as he looked closer at a
red scarf placed on the rocks; he went closer and touched the canvas thinking that
someone had tampered with it. To his surprise he found the canvas dry and cracking. He
was bewildered and explained that he would have to look into the history of the painting.
Jenny realized that it was her scarf that she had left behind, did it really happen?
SHIRLEY HEADING AUGUST 2012
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BORDERLINE Trevor Rogers Copyright @ 10/12
For several of us this was our first experience of the United States Border with
Mexico. We were excited about the new sights and sounds and nervous about what tasks
lay ahead of us in the next two days. We were crossing into Mexicali for the weekend to
work at a voluntary clinic for physically disadvantaged children.
Organised by a University Medical School, a large number of medical staff and students
had been driven South in University transport, arriving late on a Friday evening.
Accommodated at motels on the U. S. side of the border, it was an easy walking distance to
the buildings where we would be working the next two days. Then we were due back to the
University late Sunday night for classes on Monday morning.
Early Saturday morning we set off to go through the border. The border post had an
imposing appearance with an overhead bridge, below which there were two motorway
entries with manual barriers to halt cars in each direction. On the outer sides were cagedpedestrian, single file walkways. Each of these access ways were separated by guardhouses
with windows like a ticket office. The barriers were wide open with a few guards lounging
around. None of the guards seemed to take much notice of us. They neither asked any
questions nor bothered to check our passports. All the same, we were wary of them and
steered clear, giving the guards a wide berth.
Observing their untidy appearance, we commented to each other on their baggy, ill-
fitting uniforms. With their long drooping moustaches, they looked more like bandits than
protectors of law and order. The less we had to do with such bad looking fellows the better.
Most people were walking through the vehicle roadway, so our specialist technical group of
fifteen keen young men followed along easily with the crowd and went to work. Our sub-
group of volunteers were a group of twelve Americans, one Porto Rican, one Canadian and
one New Zealander. We arrived at our designated building about 8a.m. to find it packed
with people lining the corridors waiting their turn for help. Whole families had come with
each child who needed attention. This, I discovered, was a common phenomena in under
developed countries, which I was later to experience on a number of times. There was
nothing for it but to get stuck in and do as much as we could in the time we had available.
The blessing in the hot climate was the coolness of the building with dark green tiles on
the floors and walls and windows set high in the walls making the rooms rather dark. This
did necessitate turning towards the light occasionally, when working on our technical tasks.
Every now and then, one of our volunteer administrative staff called out, Anyone for
coffee? and all of us shouted back, Yes!!! We sipped at it while we worked, even when it
had gone cold. At some stage during the day; maybe around 2p.m., or so, our admin. staff
member shouted out, Pizza, doughnuts and tacos coming up. We munched them among
the nuts, bolts, screws, splints, braces, leather straps, buckles and wheelchair bits and
pieces we were working with. Eventually, we noticed it had become quieter and those still
waiting were drifting away in order to line up the next day. The Director of our UniversityProgram, who had been assessing the childrens needs, appeared through a door and
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announced that it was after 6oclock; time to knock off. You guys have done enough for
today. Do not forget you have to last all day tomorrow.
It was a weary and hungry lot, who wandered back through the border post to the
motels for a shower and clean up. Once refreshed we were livened up again, but hungry and
thirsty so back over the border to a Mexican restaurant for a slap up dinner. We had a goodnight out, our fatigue had lifted and we were in high spirits as we headed back towards our
motels. As we approached the border post, it was lit up like a Christmas tree.
The vehicle barriers were down and manned by a number of guards. Pedestrians were
being channelled through the caged walkways and stopped to present their documents. My
Canadian friend Gary, suddenly announced he did not have his passport. Where is it? I
asked. In L .A. was the reply. Any other I.D.? was the next question. No, Ive only got
my wallet with money in it. How serious was this going to be? It could be really bad. What
to do was the real question? There was no way around the barrier but we would have to
get Gary through somehow. Our minds scrambled for ideas, mostly hair- brained schemes.Perhaps we could provide cover while Gary crept along below the window? No there
was a door beyond the window and we could not tell how many guards might be in the
guardhouse. Anyway if we were caught with such tricks we would all be in trouble. Gary
decided he could offer some money!! No!!! These fellows are likely to take all he had then
arrest him for bribery. We noticed some people were only showing their passports and not
handing them over to the guards. We had to hatch a plan. It seemed to me our only option
was to be bold and bluff it out with some playacting. Some of our American companions
were very rowdy so we positioned ourselves (three non -Americans) in the middle of the
group as a distraction. We decided that the three of us were to stay as close together as if
we were conjoined triplets.
Gary first; Benny, who was Porto Rican and Spanish speaking, second, then me; (the
New Zealander) next. The idea was to present ourselves together in front of the window
and leer in at the guard as Gary waved his wallet, fumbling with it in pretence of trying to
produce an I.D., while Benny hands over his passport and engages the guard in his most
ebullient Spanish. (Absolutely, no trouble to Benny whatsoever!).
At the same time, I had my head, ear to ear with Bennys, while making a big deal of
handing over my passport and talking over Benny, saying repeatedly, Nuevo Zealandier.
All the while inching along towards the gate, until Gary was past the window, out of sight of
the guard, then we elbowed him along, bundling him towards the gate and escape. One of
the Americans who was aware of what was going on, called out from behind us, Hey, you
guys, stop holding up the works, we want to get home to bed!We were waved on and
passed through the freedom gate. Benny explained to us later that he was profusely
apologizing to the guard that his two New Zealand friends, (he thought involving a Canadian
was too complicated) were a long way from home and couldnt handle the good Mexican
beer!
How disappointing it was, not to have a Mexican border stamp on my passport!!
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