I have sent variations of this letter for a few fines and tolls. So far the response has been similar: there is none. Once they receive this letter, they send no more correspondence, even when originally they stated that if the fine isn’t paid within 30 days, they will issue further fines. I can’t tell you exactly the reason behind it, only my suspicions: that the fines are voluntary – invoices issued by a corporation to generate revenue, with the expectation that you will comply without question. Normally, when you pay the fine, you have agreed to the contract through your compliance. If you don’t pay, then you have no accepted the contract, and you have no obligation. They never reply because any response they could be an admission that what they are doing is fraudulent or unethical. They don’t issue any further fines because you have called their bluff. They have charged you without trial, which is a perversion of justice – they have presumed you were guilty.

You are free to use this letter as a template for your own fines. A priviso: as I can’t possibly understand your exact situation, none of what I am typing qualifies as legal advice.

The letter follows:

Civic Compliance Victoria
GPO Box 1916
Melbourne Vic 3001

The date.

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to discuss your request for a contract titled: “Infringement Notice”, obligation number xxxxxxxxxx.

You cite the Infringements Act 2006 and the Road Safety Road Rules 2009. Before I agree to this contract or pay your organisation any monies, I will require the following proofs relating to these acts and rules.

A. Proof that those acts and rules were applicable to me at the time of the alleged infringement.

B. Proof that those acts and rules obligate me to pay the requested amount; and

C. Proof that you have the authority to enforce these acts and rules; or

D. Proof of a contract signed or agreed to by me that clearly states I am bound to pay these amounts; and

E. Proof that this contract was applicable to me at the time of the alleged infringement; and in addition

F. These documents signed by a man or woman of appropriate authority, with full liability and under penalty of perjury, and witnessed by a notary public or Justice of the Peace.

Please provide either all of proofs A, B, C and F, or all of the proofs D, E and F.

If you issue me any more requests for payment without first producing these proofs, I will impose the following fee schedule:

$170 (one hundred and seventy dollars) per hour, or any part of an hour, for the legal research necessary to determine if your claims are valid.

Please respond to this notice promptly, within fourteen days of receipt. If you do not respond within fourteen days, it is assumed that you no longer wish to negotiate this contract, and I will consider it void.

Your pal,

Kurt David Robinson

Leave any comments below, critical and supportive alike.

 Cover photo by brizzle born and bred, under Creative Commons.

I don’t think I’ve ever been frisked so many times in my life. I came through the metal detector at José Maria Córdova, and the girl on the other side was kind and respectful. She smiled and said “Muchisimas gracias” when she was done. The next guy also spoke native Spanish to me, but from his tone, he may as well have been speaking in grunts.

“So. ¿You’ve been studying here ey? ¿What HAVE YOU BEEN STUDYING?”

“Spanish for foreigners,” I smiled.

“¿How long did you study here?”

“Two weeks.”

“¿TWO WEEKS?”

“Yes, two weeks.”

“¿TWO WEEKS?” I suppose he thinks considering I only spent two weeks studying, it gave me time enough for a six week cocaine-fueled bender.

“Yes, it was definitely two weeks. The rest of the time I’ve been on holidays.”

“Hmrmrehgh.”

I’m not really sure what was supposed to be gained from this conversation. I pictured myself saying: “Yeah, I was in school for a while. The rest of the time I was banging rocks, banging prepagos, and sticking them all up my ass to get them past you.” Wonder how much the prepago would charge?

“Oh… in that case, we may have to detain you,” he might say. Though he might phrase it in a different way, using his baton to tap out some morse code on my skull.

He used a metal detector on me, frisked me, and let me go.

I was frisked again, not sure if that was by airport staff or just a dirty old man. When I reached the gate, they opened my bag and poked around in a way that didn’t reveal anything but my underwear. Then I was frisked once more.

Before she started touching me, I considered saying “¿Find anything you like?” but thought better of it – I’m sure her job was hard enough feeling people up all day without an asshole like me making a sexually harassing crack.

I anticipated a nine-hour flight. It was an eleven-hour flight. The change in time-zones had given me false hope. For two hours I sat on the edge of my seat expecting an announcement at any second.

I got into Los Angeles, and the aeroplane was taxiing. A black fellow behind me got up to check his baggage in the overhead. A friendly steward put his hand on the guy’s shoulder and said “Sir, I’ll just need you to sit down for a few more minutes.”

“Hey, don’t touch me man!”

“I’m sorry sir. It’s just that you’re actually breaking the law by standing. If you can wait in your seat, we’ll be in dock very soon.”

“Whatever man, say what you need to say – just don’t touch me!”

“But – you’re breaking the law!”

The steward was flustered. He ducked off, and the passenger remained standing.

“Hey!” said another passenger a few rows back. “You’re gonna get busted you know.”

“Mind yo’ business man.”

“You’ll get into trouble.”

“I don’t give a fuck. Mind yo’ business.”

“Hey, I’ve got kids on this plane and it is my business when you say things like that!”

I thought of what Tommy Angelo said about the “Chain of Complain”, and smiled to myself.

As we were exiting, “Why are you standing here when you could be standing there?” said the old wog to the old hippie. “We have to get off too you know!”

I waited calmly as the line slowly moved ahead. A lady in front of me struggled with her luggage. So I said: “Do you need a hand?”

“This place belongs to my friend Hubert. Hubert’s Place.” Solomon showed me the photos of the Playa Blanca just outside Cartagena. “We will go there, and stay for 10.000 pesos a night, sleeping in a hammock.”

“What are you, crazy?” said Don Cesario. “You sleep in a place for 10.000 a night, the next morning, you don’t wake up!”

“No, no, it is very safe.”

A few days after that, Solomon went home. He sent me a message on Facebook saying I am welcome to come up any time, that he is on an island called Baru, and he will be easy to find – I just have to ask for the English teacher.

Now, I’m here in Bogotá airport, en route to Cartagena. Due to some problems with my laundry, the only clothes I have is two gym shirts, a gringo alert “Colombia Arte y Cultura” t-shirt, and one and a half pairs of socks. I do have clean underwear though.

I get into Cartagena airport. The coastal humidity hits me like a slap in the face. I realise the Isla de Baru is not so easy to find.

“You can take a taxi there… it will cost about 180.000 pesos, about $100 american dollars. Or you take the taxi to Pasacaballos, take a ferry to the Isla, and then take a moto.”

I take the taxi and we drive through every flooded street, and past every dirty industrial centre. The smell of waste fills up the cab, though the windows are closed. We get to Pasacaballos and the taxista drops me off at a kiosk. Sitting on the porch are four black men, one of which forces a bottle of water into my hand, for which he will charge me four times the regular price later.

Lots of paisas in Medellín have told me not to worry if I don’t understand the costeños in Cartagena, because they speak so fast. “Don’t worry, we don’t understand them either.” And now, listening to these costeños it sounds like they’re speaking an African language more than they’re speaking Spanish. Nevertheless we understand each other, and the kid tells me it will cost 10.000 for the boat and 20.000 for the moto.

We arrive on the other side and I hand the captain a note. The kid impatiently asks for the 20.000 and almost snatches it out of my hand. When I get on the back of the bike and we’re half-way across the island, it occurs to me that the kid probably pocketed the money and the motorcyclist is going to ask me for the money when I arrive. But he doesn’t.

“This is it.”

“¿This?”

“Yes. Just over there is the Playa Blanca.”

“¿But is this the Isla de Baru?”

“The whole island is the Isla de Baru.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

I stumble off, past the disused buses, and wander onto the beach.

“Hey baby… ¿you want a massage?” Three woman say as they walk past me. One of them puts her hand on my shoulder and starts rubbing it.

“Very cheap price, good for you.”

Another practises her English: “Happy enaming.”

“No, no, thank you.” I remove her hand from my shoulder before she starts charging me by the minute. “Wait… ¿do you know Solomon the English teacher?”

“Solomon… no.”

“Alright, gracias.” I walk off and I remember what Solomon said to me once when we were looking for a restaurant: “Ask and ask, and you will find Rome.” So I keep asking.

“No, I don’t know him. But there are a lot of gringos up that way.”

“My friend is black, and a costeño.”

“Oh. No, I haven’t met him.”

As I walk up the beach, I start asking for Hubert’s Place. Hubert is Solomon’s friend, and he must know where he is, if he is on this island.

“Hello my friend. I am Hubert and this is my place. You can have a hammock or sleep in a dorm. Have a look.”

“Hugo, ¿do you know my friend Solomon, the English teacher?”

He gave me a blank look. “No.”

“¿Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

At this point I realise I am rather lost. I hire a hammock and take a seat. I show some photos to people, but none recognise Solomon.

Afterwards I realise that if I’d asked Hubert for his own assistant manager, he probably wouldn’t have recognised the name. He doesn’t remember yesterday, or how many gringas he’s screwed here, or how many years he’d been living in a hut on the sand. He is a beach bum who never had to grow up, and never had to quit weed. Strange smells emanate from his dorm periodically.

I hang out with some UK and Irish folk who are staying in the hammocks.

“I don’t understand how you can do that. Travelling in South America and not speaking a word of Spanish.”

“I do speak a few words… hola, gracias, muy bien. I’m not completely lost. Just have to use a lot of hand signals.”

“My friend Pichi is deaf, and I always wonder how he does it. He goes up to a bar and orders a specific brand of beer.” I considered later that by learning the local language, perhaps I’ve hindered my communication skills, instead of enhancing them.

I go through the language section of my Lonely Planet Colombia with Jim to see if there are any dirty phrases.

“Hey Nancy… Es… toy… embarazada.”

“You’re pregnant?”

Jim giggled like a schoolgirl.

The next day, we took a boat back to the mainland for 13.000 pesos apiece. I got really wet, and lost my hat when the speedboat cut into some waves. I checked into a hostel with my jeans still soaking, and changed into my gym clothes.

That night I went to get dinner with some Argentinos and Uruguayos. The old city of Cartagena is very beautiful, around 500 years old, and it’s surrounded by a wall so if it gets attacked by pirates in the middle of the night you’re protected.

As we passed under a giant arch, I noticed a really sexy looking woman leaning against the wall. A voice was echoing from the opposite side, making it appear as if she was talking with a man’s voice. I chuckled, until I realised that was really her voice. Oh. The marvels of plastic surgery. Wish I’d gotten a photo with her.

We ate at an Austrian restaurant. They brought out large platters of bratwürst, sauerkraut, and shredded beetroot, and a tall three litre tower of Aguila, which we would pour into steins.

I took a taxi back to the hostel. I kissed Silvina and Paolo on the cheek and said good night. Then Federico and Julian both kissed me good night, a level of familiarity for which I was not entirely prepared.

The next day I took the plane back to Medellín. I looked at the clouds out the window and took a few photos. Nothing about them seemed natural or normal, especially with a rainbow extending from one cloud to the next. I daydreamt of a magician putting them here on Earth, crafting them with a cosmic paintbrush.

It’s always important to make sure your room is clean when you get to a new place. It’s been five days and I haven’t smudged my room.

“I need to buy some incense. White sage. Do you know where?”

“Yes. The Plaza de Flores in El Centro. But why do you need it?”

“It’s good for… not sure how to say in Spanish. Spiritual health. Your ancestors probably did it.”

“My mother does it.”

“Then you understand.”

Mafe gave a non-committal “si.”

“Go to the Flower Square. You can take the autobus.”

“Those buses confuse me. I’ll take the Metro.”

When I got off at Parque Berrio, I had one of those moments. In the plaza next to the station there were a lot of people. I thought, there will be some cute girls to talk to here. Instead, there are the usual hustlers selling a minute on a cell phone for 200 pesos, some guys selling shoeshine or snake oil, and a whole bunch of pobres. Hobos. I crossed the square to walk up Calle 49. On the footpath was a hobo leaned against the wall, with some kind of hernia on his belly. I couldn’t bring myself to look more closely, but it looked like his belly button had exploded. I considered turning back and dumping a pocketful of coins, but then I thought, that man doesn’t need change in pesos – he needs thousands of dollars worth of medical treatment. Which is quite an awful rationalisation really.

I saw a graffito, Jesus Christ spray painted by stencil – but instead of the sacred heart, there was a hammer and sickle. The caption said, in Spanish, something like “I see my people, so many homeless, and think what is the answer to my love?” Signed, Comunista.

On my way to the square, there was a man with second-hand books spread out over the pavement. “¿How much does it cost?” I said, pointing.

“8.000.”

It was a book, about 20 or 30 years old, or older, a paperback, written in Spanish, printed in Mexico. “La Magia Negra”. Non-fiction.

I bought the book and continued to the Plaza. When I got there, I expected to see some elegant gardens, and some farmers’ assistants selling their wares in carts… na. Nothing so endearing. It was about 15m x 20m, had a few gardens, and a few kiosks. It looked kind of miserable, and I didn’t see anywhere I could buy some incense. Perhaps this wasn’t it…

I walked back towards the train station, along Calle 48. I saw a petite girl with C cups walking on the other side of the street, and remembered what Aster had told me. “Day game is so easy there. Just talk to them for a few minutes and take them on a mini-date to a café.”

It’d been months, or maybe years since I’d approached a girl in the street, in the day time. I’m pacing to keep up with her, and consider saving my approach for “another time”. Words echo through my head from years ago: “If not now, then when?” Fuck it.

“Hey gorgeous, hey – pretty girl! ¿Do you know where I can find the Plaza de Flores?”

“Well… it’s back that way actually.”

“Oh right… ¿so what’s your name?”

I said we should go for a café, but she was busy, so I got her number.

I went into two incense stores looking for salvia blanca, but neither of them stocked it.

“¡Eyy! ¿Are you a gringo?”

“Yes, I think so.”

It was a group of ten young girls, with one guy who was a bit older. His name was Carlomagno, and he spoke a little English.

They asked me where I was from, how old I was and why I had come to Medellín.

“This is Katarina. Isn’t she beautifool?” said Carlomagno. Katarina was cute, if a little plain, but she didn’t talk much. “You should take her out.” Katarina smiled.

“¡Get her number! ¡Get it!” the rest of the girls screamed. I handed her my phone, and she turned away timidly. Another girl took my phone and entered Katarina’s number.

There was another girl standing off to the side. She had a scar on her right cheek but she was still rather attractive, though her face was covered in thick make-up. “Ey gringo, muy lindo, let me give you my phone number.”

“…okay!”

“My name is Yessica… Put it in your phone as Yessica Beautiful. And take my friend’s number too.”

“…okay!”

Elizabeth was a little shy, and small, and had a natural, innocent beauty. She entered her number into my phone without saying a word.

Carlomagno said to me “Ey you don’t want to mess around with those girls man.”

A small girl said to me “They are perras.” Which literally means bitches, but figuratively it means whore.

“That’s a horrible thing to say!”

Carlomagno responded: “No, they are cheap. Fácil. Take them out for fast ford.”

“Fast ford?”

“Fast ford… comidas rapidas.”

An offense to your arteries and Nintendo's lawyers

Yessica said to me “Not cheap, you need money. No money, no sexo.”

That was a little unexpected. I turned to the other group and said, “¡You were right – she is a perra!” They laughed again, and Yessica received a phone call, presumably from her pimp. A short time into the conversation, I heard her say: “Don’t worry, I told him: no money, no sexo.” This girl is not just gold-digging, she’s also stupid. I decide not to call her.

“Ey you can buy all of us lunch, Jones,” said Carlomagno. All 18 of them? I laughed and said no. However, when most of the girls had left, I agreed to take Carlomagno and some chick for lunch. We went to eat some arepas with cheese and sweetened condensed milk. It cost about 4.000 COP, about $2. I sat there helping him with his English, and he told me his occupation.

“I work with my ex-wife. On these sites,” and he wrote down a list, starting with IMLive.com. I turned my head at him, puzzledly.

“As a model?”

“I give my ex-wife the sex for money. We have child. Have to take care.” And he showed me a picture of his young boy, about 3 years old. “It’s hard work and sometimes it’s difficult to just keep having the sex with her. Pero tengo que pagar mis cuentas.”

“I see…”

We finished lunch and he showed me a little store that sold white sage.

I just went on a date with this girl from Colombian Cupid.

We were having a pretty good time, we went for lunch, sat in the park for a while, went for a coffee… Then she said something like “Who is that photo on your facebook, the fattie?” I thought for a minute and said “I think you’re talking about Vanessa,” and I said “She’s very beautiful,” and I thought nothing more of it.

She started asking questions about how many girls I’d slept with in Colombia, so I exercised my right to stay silent.

She asked for my phone and I said “Ah you’re up to tricks, okay whatever, have a look.” She looked through my photos and saw a couple of pictures of Mafe hiding from the camera. She said “Why is she hiding? Is it because she’s fat?” Mafe weighs about 50kg or less, and is an athlete.

I grabbed the phone off her and said, in English “You’re a fucking bitch.”

She asked “What? What did I do?” I thought damn, do I really have to explain.

“Are you mad?”

I said “Of course I’m mad,” and stared at her puzzledly for a minute.

She kept asking what she did wrong. I thought even though almost without a doubt she knows what she did, I’d better explain, just on the off-chance she was not aware enough to realise, which would make my behaviour appear passive-aggressive. I don’t like being passive-aggressive… I think if you’re going to treat someone like shit you at least owe them an explanation.

So I explained to her. She didn’t apologise directly, but splutter “Oh… no, no. It was just a joke!” or some shit.

I paid for the coffee and walked home.

Do you think I was too harsh?

I woke up at around 11:30 pm – 3:30 pm Melbourne time. Even with the neck cushion on the plane, I was a little stiff. I stumbled out of my room and said hello to the Colombian sitting in the patio. He was from Cartagena, his name, Solomon Gomez Angel. He spoke English very well, though he had never been out of Colombia, and had come to Medellín to find a job as an English teacher.

I sat and talk with him for half an hour.

“Oh – we’re out of cigarettes.”

“Hm,” I said. “Let’s go buy some more.”

“Alright… but just cigarettes. No talking to girls.”

“Sure…”

We walked to Parque Lleras and I made eye contact with some girls sitting at a table in Donde Aquellos.

“Those girls…” said Solomon.

“You want to talk to them?”

“Well…”

“Fuck it.”

My first time trying to pick up girls in Spanish. They gave me a few shots of aguardiente, the national drink.

“In Australia, we call it ‘Agwa’.”

“¿Agua?” Water? “You can´t get drunk off agua.”

“Yeah… we call our agua ‘water’ and our aguardiente, ‘Agwa’.”

They invited us to see them at their work, Crepes and Waffles, and invited us to a party, and when they heard me and Solomon talking English, they asked him to teach them English as well.

As we walked back to the guest house, Solomon said to me “That is what happens when we go out for a cigarette. Imagine if we said a few beers – we’d probably be fucking girls by now!”

“I hope so my friend.”

“Hola,” I said to the fellow at immigración. He nodded and looked at my papers. He typed me into the computer.

“Sesente dias.” He handed me my passport.

“…¿Que? ¿Centarias?”

“Sixty days,” he pointed to the number 60 on my passport.

I expected a little culture shock when I touched down, but Jose Maria Cordova looks like any other American airport, except with more spelling mistakes: “We are  tranforming the airport for you”.

Bienvenidos a mi ciudad, tu ciudad

I took the bus into the city. Looking out of the window, I saw the Colombian countryside, beautiful valleys, workers in straw hats eating a snack, sitting on a construction site with the ground full of clay. I could smell smoke, from a bushfire or perhaps from a chimney.

I got off at the first stop and jumped into a taxi. He made conversation with me and was very excited to hear I was from Melbourne, as his daughter is studying in Melbourne. I asked him which university, to make conversation. He phoned his other daughter and handed the phone to me to ask her. I chuckled a little inside.We arrived at the guest house, and the taxi driver waited for me to ensure it was the right place, and helped me with my luggage. I shook his hand and said gracias.

The proprietor of the guest house is a very friendly man in his 60s,Senor Cesario. He speaks very loudly. He shows me to the room and says in English that he will show me everything. He says if I want to bring girls back to the room, that’s fine, as long as I don’t make too much noise… I don’t think I’ve ever had a nicer welcome. He takes me in his car to show me Parque Lleras and the supermarket nearby.

“You will see so many things, so many bars and restaurant. So many pretty womens.” He stops around the corner from the guest house and leans out the window. “And this is a really nice cheap restaurant, 4 dollars 8000 pesos, they give you good food.” It’s a nice suburban house with a few young people setting up tables in the garage. “Y este es una nina muy bonita!” He says loudly enough for the girl to hear. She giggles. I holler “Hola bonita!”

We get back to the guest house and I meet Cesario’s son Eugenio. He shakes my hand and says if I need anything just ask, and if I want to go out clubbing with him and his friends I am very welcome.

For a moment after I met these people, I thought maybe they are trying to take advantage of me in some way – but no. The kind of heart that I often aspire to, a commitment to oneself to say: This man is a stranger in my country, in my home, and I must help him. From everything I have seen here, that is a heartwarming commitment imbedded in the culture of the Colombian people.

“You have to do it.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“Dude… seriously,” said my friend Stone.

“I am serious. Cocaina is pretty serious stuff.”

“In Australia, $200 a gram. In Colombia, $2 per gram. Think about it.”

“I will think about it.”

Stone wasn’t the only one busting my chops about it.

Samir, my acting team leader at work said to me: “It’s just like going to Las Vegas. You can’t go to Vegas without gambling… you can’t go to Colombia without trying cocaine.”

This is the first thing that springs to mind when people think of Colombia. It wasn’t the first thing that came to my mind.

For three years or more I’ve been day-dreaming about going to South America. Ever since the first time I met a Brazilian woman, I was fascinated. Every time I heard magical words like “El Salvador”, “Cartagena” or “Machu Picchu”, a sort of trance came over me, and for a good minute my eyes would be fixed on the horizon, and I would feel  primaeval “call of the wild” or wanderlust, as if your soul is whispering “visit this place, and you will be changed.” Well, soul, old buddy, you haven’t let me down yet, and I’ll put my trust in you again.

“Hey there – my name’s Jones. I just had to come over here and say hi because you are so damned attractive.”

She blushed and turned a little. “Emily.” Emily was English, and so was her little midget friend Darlene.

“Nice to meet you both. Glad you could make it out tonight – you could have been anywhere in the world tonight but you’re right here with me. Hey – I’m going to Colombia soon. Pretty exciting – I’ve never been to a country where they don’t speak English.”

Darlene chimed in, or piped up. “Colombia? Why would you go to Colombia by choice?”

“My friend lived over there for a while, I have the money, so why not?”

“You’re going to be abducted by guerillas.”

“I don’t think that’s really very likely.”

“You’re going to be kidnapped!”

“Your friend is rather drunk,” I said to Emily.

“And forced to eat monkey testicles!”

I sighed. “Ah… I love you guys, but I’m going to go now.”

A lot of people warn me about going to Colombia. The Australian government’s “Smartraveler” website recommends a high degree of caution. It also indirectly advises against visiting any supermarkets in Colombia. No problem.

I asked Aster about this and he said in his usual relaxed demeanour, just about what I expected him to say: “That’s just a bunch of fluff from people who have never really travelled before. Come on over!” If I listened to people’s warnings about how to live my life in the past, I’d probably be living in my parents’ basement right now, probably unemployed, with a tough time raising enough money to get my thumbs surgically removed from my butt.

So… I leave for Medellín on Wednesday.

cover photo used under Creative Commons, courtesy of ho visto nina volare. it’s a picture of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s home.

I walked out of the Loft and along Scott Street. It was about six p.m. Up ahead, just near the corner, a stocky guy in his twenties was lying on the pavement. I thought he must have been homeless and sleeping off a big day. Getting closer, he didn’t look homeless, though his shoes were so worn, the soles were nearly falling off.

“Hey buddy – are you okay?”

“Yaaaaargh!”

“Alright then,” and I was about to keep walking.

“Sssstomach! Stomach pump! Those farking cunts! Motherfucking aaaargh!”

“Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

“Aaaaaaargh yes!” he proclaimed as he rolled around on the footpath.

I called 000 and ordered an ambulance with paramedics on the side.

A lady from the office in front of me had come down to see what the commotion was. “Gosh – is he okay?” and went to have a look at him. As she got close, the fellow stirred, arms flailing, and she galloped off to a safe distance, standing near the stair.

“What street is this?” I asked her.

“Scott.”

“And that one?”

“I think it’s… Marigold.”

“Thanks,” then I turned to the fellow. ” What’s your name buddy?”

“My name is… Those fucking CUNTS!”

“What’s your name? I need it for an ambulance.”

“Alex… Alex… motherfucker.”

“He says his name is Alex.”

“Alright,” said the voice down the line. “I’ll ask you to stay there until the ambulance arrives and wave it down.”

I waved them down. The ambulance officers hopped out and started doing ambo things.

“Alright mate, I’ll need you to say your name.”

“Alex… urrrrgh.”

“Okay Alex, so we can help you, we need you to tell us what happened.”

“Those fucking … cunts! Spiked my! Drink!”

“Okay Alex, we’ll be able to help -”

“Listen to me!”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ve got a medical – goddamnit you’ve got to listen to me!”

“I assure you, we are listening.”

“I’m going to kick your face in if you don’t fucking listen to me!”

“Whoa – now that is a threat.”

Ambo number one pushed his knee onto Alex’s chest to restrain him. I didn’t really expect to see this today.

“Do you guys need me to fill out paperwork or anything?”

“No mate, you’re fine.”

“Thank you.” Then I caught the train back to Maitland.

Cover photo by iwishmynamewasmarsha, licensed under Creative Commons.