My Impressions of places I have visited, or worked in
A Land of Contrasts, Oct/Nov 2005
In Argentina’s Prairie-land where fat cattle freely roam,
This vast land – bleak, flat and empty,
Broken only by small clusters of trees,
And solitary birds of prey rule the sky
The remains of the winter floods leaving
Trickled into rivers or forming flat land lakes,
Which attract herons, egrets and other such birds.
Burnt out shrubbery scars the land, but it will grow again.
More cows on prairy grass, so vast, so flat, so open.
All along the motorway, on telegraph poles rest
The engineering miracle of the ovenbirds nest
Freshly built, year after year,
So neat and tidy, and out of the way,
Protecting them from danger.
Along an unprotected track trundles a frieght train,
Long and rickety, crossing our path.
We stop and wait and watch the world go by
On the prairy lands so vast.
Mile after mile of openness and towns so far apart
Modern thriving cities with shanty towns glued on
Fast cars taking over horse-drawn carts, vying for rights.
Part II North West Provinces
High in the mountains hot and barren,
Where condors sore high above
And water seems scarce,
Land of the South American Aborigine,
Home for the humble.
Long dusty road twisting and winding
Bend after bend heading into the clouds
Path marked only by white-painted boulders
Hostile , unforgiving, yet fascinatingly sculptured
By bitter ice winds and scorching sun
The mountain people work the plateau land
A bountiful crop through faith in God’s hand
They tend their goats, and llamas,
From nomads to settlements
These mountains are their home.
RAWSON: Capital of CHUBUT Province, S. Argentina.
Sylvia wrote this poem when we visited Rawson city, and after touring the streets looking for a point of interest on finding the tourist office closed and padlocked. There were just two buildings of any significance, Government house, and the Governor’s home across the street, both of which showed a sharp contrast with the rest of the city.
The Governor of Rawson’s home comes from the taxes you pay
His mansion of luxury in private grounds it lay
No doubt he travels in a chaufeur driven car,
For on the potholed pavements, he wouldn’t walk far
He has private security to protect his soul
From our pockets, our taxes burns a hole
A gardener he pays his grounds to upkeep
How can he at night in peace find sleep?
With selected guests a banquet he hosts
While his townfolk have little of anything at most
With raggety street kids and hungry hounds
Scratching for food in waste-land grounds
He lives in a palace of high gloss painted walls
While his citezens have shattered windows and broken down doors
Sylvia Roberts, December 2005
TROWBRIDGE
There’s a dirty murky river running through an uninteresting park.
Everywhere the evidence of vandals who have left their mark.
Where once there were ducks, beautiful swans and pikes,
Now lies discarded shopping trolleys and stolen bikes.
Not a beauty spot where one can stroll along,
On a midsummer eve humming a song!
The shopping town itself, once small and quaint
Is in desperate need of a coat of fresh paint.
Its now grey and eerie with a hostile chill
Strong evidence of its trade with the textils mill.
Those square stone buildings standing so tall,
All the windows smashed , graffiti on the wall.
There are the playgrounds for the pushers,
The leasers, the queers and child abusers.
The notice board tells of the death of some kids
The victims of wiffers of glue-pot lids.
There’s a hard rock café in town for the sale of night life
But I wouldn’t go there for fear of being knifed
. Down by the water meadows could be a beautiful place.
But dog walkers and litter make it a disgrace.
It’s a local haunt for guys with no jobs,
Layabouts, dropouts and other such yobs.
A hellhole for scramble bikers with screaming sound,
A place for burnt out cars, a dumping ground.
But I discovered a spot still full of peace
Just out of town, down the canal a piece.
Hand-painted narrow boats, flower beds and arts
And a well kept towpath with flowers, trees and crafts.
But alas that too is under the developers siege,
For luxurious apartments instead of the trees.
There will be shopping centres, restaurants as well as more bars
For those who drive big, expensive flash cars
There won’t be any affordable accommodation
For those in some kind of financial deprivation.
I can feel it in my bones, on the horizon it looms
As for this beautiful place, the peace and tranquility are doomed
23-02-05
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