Other Writings

Whilst living in Paraguay and on his return to the UK Joe also wrote some short stories with a twist of magical realism.

Pecker  (Asuncion, Paraguay 2004)

There is a place near us that, when I walk through it, plays havoc with my emotions. Or is it my soul? I don´t know. It makes me ask myself impossible philosphical and spiritual questions. None of which I can answer.

It´s an intersection, a crossroads where Avenida Espana crashes and bullies its way through Avenida San Martin. Both roads are very busy, narrow, dual carriageways. The central reservation on both roads, just a raised pavement maybe a couple of feet wide. The brightly coloured buses hurl themselves at great speed through this place. Bouncing wildly, with no suspension, the buses and passengers maybe only survive Asuncion journeys because each bus is plastered with ‘Jesus is my Saviour’ and ‘God is Love’ posters.

I travelled to town a couple of days ago in a bus that was decorated inside in pink fur and tinsel. I liked sitting in this bus, it brought out my inner Barbara Cartland. The toothless driver told me that he thought he had the best bus in South America and I agreed with him. I told him, “I´ve seen nothing like your bus, ever.” He smiled modestly……

……. a boy, no more than five years old, emerges from between the wheels of a red and chrome bus, clambers on to the central path and hurries towards the traffic lights. I watch him, in profile, as he runs. He is beautiful, this child of the poor. He has tufty blonde hair with a sticky-up bit at the back of his head, like Woody Woodpecker. A grubby Wee Willy Winkie shirt covers his little brown body down to his his bare feet. He’s clutching a window cleaning squeezy. It’s a chrome T bar with some tired, dead, brown sponge hanging on to it……….just!

Young Senor Pecker has spotted his victim. A large shiny 4 by 4 has pulled up at the lights. The boy is on the job in a flash. He tries desperately to clamber up the round sloping bonnet to get at the windscreen. He can´t get a grip. Every time he’s half way up, he slips down again. He shouts to his big sister, “Oye Maria give me a bunk up.” With Maria’s help and by digging the end of the T bar into the shiny surface of the car’s bonnet the boy finally reaches the windscreen. He carefully folds the wipers back from the glass he needs to clean. Ignoring the drivers wild, gesticulating protests he applies his sponge to her window and screeches it across the hot glass. “Hijo de puta.” The sponge is dry as a goddamn bone, he hollers, “Maria agua rapido, rapido.” Maria runs over and obliges by chucking the mud-coloured contents of a beaten up bucket over the windscreen and young Pecker. He smiles, refreshed, dripping brown water and goes to work; concentrating, his chin jutting forward, small, pink tongue out.

The woman driver is apoplectic, but she knows that she cannot leave the safety of her car. Too many injuns about. Pecker scrubs furiously, carefully rearranging the smears. “Callase la boca, woman.” You will have your screen washed whether you like it or not and that’s all there is to it. “It’s my job for Gods sake.” The lights change and really he’s finished the job but he doesn´t get off the bonnet. He´s gambling with her now. Pay me or I, a five year old Paraguayan lad will stay on your bonnet risking my death if you dare to move off without giving me ‘la plata’. With the frantic beeping and honking behind she knows when she is beaten. She reaches out through the window and gives him a 1000 Guarani note. The happy boy grabs the 10 pence note and dives for the safety of his concrete strip…….

……. The whole intersection is suddenly thronged with arm locked Asuncionites swaying and singing in sweet chorus in the two o´clock heat and dust. Three hundred voices in heavenly harmony. Young Senor Pecker, still clutching his T bar is clearly humbled by this homage. He looks up, through the jammed cars and trucks, and smiles shyly at his tearful, proud mother.

Nazis and Knots

“I knew nothing of the city, but I believed I would find in Asunción some mingling of the exotic, the dangerous and the Victorian which would appeal……. How right I would prove to be.” Graham Greene, ‘Ways of Escape.’

September comes to the city of Asuncion. Its early spring and the temperature begins to hit 35 degrees again. The streets here are used to the heat but the citizens retreat into the shade of the trees and the doorways. Dozing and sipping terrere.

I got off the bus near the Plaza De Los Heroes and started to walk along Palma to the Hotel Chaco. I was going to have lunch at The Strangers Club. On the corner of the square I spied four Maca Indian girls sitting on the pavement with their bags, blankets and beads set out before them, on display and for sale. As I approached them they all leaned out and looked in my direction. Curious and grinning, they stared at me, examining me, head to toe and muttering to each other in Guarani. As I came close I smiled and said, “Hola,” they all giggled shyly and continued to look at me.

Its official, I thought, I am exotic, but they are so exotic, I pondered. I am so exotic, we are all so exotic, I mused. With something like an impossible RD Laing poem blathering on in my head, I made my way to the Strangers Club.

I feel that you are exotic

You think that I am exotic

We are exotic

We are normal….we are exotic…….

Joe was also very concerned at the number of workers in positions of responsibility or the caring professions with undiagnosed and untreated addictions and the potential damage this can cause…..

The Bishop and Fat People

I met the Bishop in Madrid on a hot summer afternoon. The cafe in San Marcos Square was full and the Bishop was obliged to ask if he could sit with me at a small table out of the sun. I recognised the guy straight away. My hotel was next to a brothel and I’d seen this tall, stout guy staggering out of the premises two days previously.

He gulped down two large glasses of red wine before he decided to introduce himself. Having seen the fellow leaving a bordello I was taken aback to hear that he was a Bishop. Here was an opportunity to ask some questions about the Church in relation to a changing world. Obviously, the guy was a radical type and loved his wine and women so his replies may be revealing. “If someone in your congregation approached you and expressed a desire to join the church but was seriously over-weight how would you handle it?” I asked.

“What do you mean exactly, I don’t follow your…….”

“Morbidly obese, obviously addicted to food; what would you say to him?”

“Ahh, I see, now then…….,” the Bishop ordered another drink. “I can see your point. The chap will be unable to be available to others whilst he’s overeating?”

“And to God and himself,” I said.

“Well, the first thing I’d do is send him to one of our doctors and see what he had to say,” the Bishop’s attention wandered as a pretty girl walked by.

“Apart from being addicted isn’t the chap also breaking one of the seven deadly sins?”

“Quite, quite, as you say……”

I left as the Bishop ordered another drink.