Where to walk?

Westview Park in its hey day - circa 2007

I tried to go for a walk this evening.  Summer is here: the days sizzle under the blaze of the ascendant sun, the sea glints an inviting green and all thoughts turn to how quickly you can leave work and get to the beach to throw yourself into the surf and cool off.  You look forward to the evenings, when sated by work and swimming and perhaps a meal and a glass of wine, you can walk in the cool of sundown, watch the stars rise over the bay and contemplate life.  


So where to?  Living on the edge of a small mountain surrounded by sea, a walk by the water's edge is probably the best bet, since the Alameda Gardens - glorious all year round - close at dusk, and the Nature Reserve too far, too dark and too uphill for me.  Sounds great? Almost.


I could take a wander along Herbert Miles Road, take in Catalan Bay, watch the waves lap along the edge of the Mamela, then go along as far as the road leads to where it is cut off from the entrance of the Dudley Ward Tunnel.  Problem is, that some of the road has no pavement and is prone to being attacked by boy racers in various types of motor vehicles all designed to crush walkers under their wheels.  Dangerous, then.


And to add to the problem, there is the risk of rock falls in the area.  The vegetation on the slopes above Both Worlds is lush as a result of the winter rains, but, as they dry out, their roots shrink, and the rocks they have undermined loosen.  No go there, then.


I could try Eastern Beach way, but then, negotiating the roadworks, even on foot, is hazardous at best and hardly makes for a picturesque walk.  The other way then, west side.


There is a wander over Ocean Village and the Marina, I suppose.  Great if I want to be surrounded by people, lights, revellers, gamblers and music.  Not so good if trying to work out a tricky bit of plotting for my next novel.  Ditto Queensway.  Rosia Road and Jumpers Bastion still struggle with traffic even at night, not to mention the ghastly smells and noise from the power station and dockyard, and the tunnel towards Rosia Bay and Europa Point at night downright scares me - still fast cars with more boy racers and the gathering of youngsters doing not very nice things, some with syringes, by the lighthouse - is frankly, off-putting.


The only option: Westview Park.  Okay, it used to close at dusk but even walking past it was pleasant, with the sound of the sea lapping on the rocks, the scent of the flowers drifting on the sea breeze, a polite greeting from the occasional dog-walker, and my thoughts to myself.  


No more.  All that is left is the rumble of the tugs, the destroyed wall, and the smell of the oily machinery that is dumping rocks into the bay, and the dust - layer after layer of white dust that you carry indoors on your feet or settles on the cars - on your shoulders if you should stand still to watch the tugs go by (you can barely see the sea).


There is work going on there.  I just hope the park will be finished soon and that the rock wall will accommodate a railing and a walkway right there, by the sea, that is ours, our patrimony.  The rest of Gibraltar's coastline has all but disappeared under construction equipment.  


How sad, that the best place for locals to go for a walk by the sea on a pleasant evening is just across a border to another land.

The works on their way - winter 2009 / 2010

Living Rough

This week, though it shocks me to say so, I find myself congratulating the Gibraltar Government. At last it has - albeit reluctantly - allowed itself to be dragged through the mire of equal opportunities and, tail dangling, into the twenty-first century, into an era, I still hope, of enlightenment as far as treating everyone with equal respect and acceptance. Finally, even if only after a struggle, it has stated that it will alter housing allocation policy to ensure that same sex couples have rights to joint tenancies. They have done this with a lot of middle-aged, middle-classed, middle-Christian bluster about intending to continue to support the traditional family of heterosexual couples with children and ensuring that same sex couples do not receive preferential treatment. I don't imagine for one moment same sex couples so much want preferential treatment as they want to be treated with the same rights to which they are entitled as other couples. So, the dear old Gibraltar Government - I can't help thinking of it as an ancient crone, hopefully on its last legs, reeling with decrepitude and reeking of decades of inactivity and incompetence - has managed to continue to offend while admitting it has been forced to amend its ways.

I was as startled as I was glad at reading the article in the Chronicle, simply to discover that the government had a housing policy. Only last week I called the housing department - Ministry of Housing, it's called, not unlike a well-known music venue and night club but unlike the club, well out of touch with reality - and asked for a copy of the housing strategy for the forthcoming years and copies of the allocations and homeless persons policies. I can't help it. I'm a housing officer of old and dreadfully nosy to boot. The most I managed to get were a few puzzled non-comments and a copy of a poorly-photocpied sheet to explain how to fill in the housing application form, which, on a quick read, gave me the feeling that helpful housing officers would do their utmost to find a way not to include me on the housing waiting list. I'm rather relieved, that, though in need of housing, that I am neither part of a same sex couple, nor Moroccan (working, born in Gibraltar or otherwise), because if that were the case, I get the feeling my chances of ever having a government roof over my head would be seriously scuppered.

And I guess I can afford to jest. I'm not homeless - yet. The tragedy is, that with no vision for housing, no proper financing, budgeting, planning, no respect for its tenants - the ordinary people of Gibraltar, most of whom are needy and most of whom are unlikely ever to be able to afford the only housing that is meaningfully being developed in Gib - no notion of how to administer an ageing housing stock, no real sense of how to manage its housing fairly, nor effectively, nor efficiently (those old buzz words from Thatcherite times that have yet to catch on here), the government is doing a desperate disservice to its own people.

For housing, like food, is a basic need. It is essential for the future of a community, to make sure that its stability is guaranteed by access to housing for all. That doesn't mean that housing cannot be carefully rationed in some way, or that the Government has an empty purse, but that it does as much as it can to help its electorate have decent opportunities, whatever their ethnic background, social class, physical or mental abilities, or sexual orientation. We need clear policies, long term commitment and a strategy to support families and households, whatever their composition, to contribute positively to society. And the only way they can do that is with a decent home that they can afford.

So, living rough in Gibraltar? In a town where some people proudly pronounce that no-one is poor? Maybe not in the Ethiopian famine sense. But there are street homeless huddled in corners. There are people forced to live in hostels that you would not be allowed to cage animals in. There are young families trying to bring up babies in flats wringing with damp, where the electricity can't always be used because water pours through along the cables, where the neighbours can be heard coughing and where they have to pay a large chunk of their hard-earned wages to a remote, uncaring landlord. And sadly, some of the last sentence includes government owned housing.

In a city where multi-millionnaires live a stone's throw from people who live in overcrowded, squalid conditions, that anyone should be living rough in Gibraltar, is a foul indictment of a succession terms in power of a government that has done little more than appeal to the very rich from wherever in the world, and neglect its own people.

A photograph of Turnbull's Lane, part of Gib's old town,

with some of the older properties seen in the background.

The guy in the photo was not a tramp living rough...

but he might have been.

Self congratulatory, or self delusion?

I've just read a comment on the BBC website on the self-congratulatory nature of the French love of their own culture. I want to make sure it's understood that I am a Francophile, and deeply regret the fact that this year, I am unlikely to visit France, currently my favourite place on the planet. But I have a cynical streak, and struggle to accept over-sentimentality and unnecessary hyperbole. Hence my inability to relate to many things thrown across the Atlantic from the US. But I couldn't help compare, as I browsed through the article, the similar attitude that exists in Gibraltar - also one of my favourite places on the planet.

In any healthy society, there is, or should be, as much analysis and criticism of government, society, institutions, corporations and so on, as there should be recognition and praise, where praise is due. While there are some, not very well-circulated and poorly printed publications which make a heroic attempt at putting events and actions into context and giving critical political analysis, the majority of the magazines based in Gibraltar - I name them not, but they are glossy and generally picked up at various locations for free - revel in a great deal of mutual back-slapping. Reading these, you tend to get the impression that government ministers (in those profile interviews designed to make them sound as beautiful as their airbrushed images) are hard-working committed individuals determined to serve the public that voted for them; that business men/women are all hugely competent, highly-regarded interntionally, well-heeled, altruistic individuals whose very existence enhances Gibraltar's life and status. Indeed, keep reading these, and nothing in Gibraltar is short of bloody marvellous.

Perhaps I'm a jaded old cynic. Life here is good for many. For most, it is better than in many places in the world. But all this nauseating obsequiousness that is such a feature of Gibraltarian public life can obscure the fact that there is a huge amount of progress and work to be done in order to really improve life in Gibraltar, for, no less than, the most important of people, the native Gibraltarians.

Let me cite a few examples: employment legislation is bordering on archaic and makes a mockery of government stated intentions to support the family; equal rights legislation is appallingly poor; the health service needs a desperate shake up to get it operating effectively; customer service in most organisations is bordering on deplorable; the streets are in poor state and filthy; our heritage sites and public places, viewed daily by tourists are neglected; there are not sufficient open air, free play areas for children; the waters and the air are none too clean; there are issues to look at such as child abuse, neglect of mentally ill people, elderly care, which needs upgrading, and let's not start on a discussion of the desperate need for a coherent housing strategy - the current one is lurking somewhere in the nineteenth century.

None of this means that Gibraltar is a dreadful place, not that we don't have some great things going for us. But we need good, old-fashioned cynicism and criticism, and for this to take place in the public arena. We also need public figures who don't hide inadequacies but who work towards improving things for all of us, and not just for the high net worth individuals the glossies love to gloat about. And all the time there isn't a really effective forum for public debate, I shall keep bleating here.

Breathing it all in

I set out this morning on possibly the coldest day so far of the winter. I was in a hurry, rushing the kids to school, my daughter swinging a cloth bag around which contained her costume for the dress rehearsal of her school Christmas play. After months of sweltering summer, which appears to have finished only a short time ago, I was almost eager to feel the tang of cold air on my face, perhaps tinged with salt from the sea in the harbour, flecked with white from choppy waves as it was.

Instead, I was greeted by the stench of diesel fumes and the sight of a plume of poisonous smoke snaking its way towards me from the chimney of the Cepsa oil refinery. Ironically, though you can't tall from the photo I took just outside the estate where I live, the strong northerly wind was also turning the blades of wind turbines that dot the crest of the hills behind the refinery. No better visual proof that nations at the Copenhagan Climate Conference can rightly accuse developed countries of causing most air pollution and global warming.

I could go into a tirade against Spain and how there must be a lot of vested interests in Madrid that their government does not respond quite as forcibly as it should to stop the filth that is known to break EU regulations from polluting our air and coating our lungs and making our friends and neighbours sick with horrific new versions of cancers. But, as I rounded the corner towards the school, I spotted a similar plume of smoke, thankfully heading eastwards away from me but towards the new housing estate at Waterport Terraces, this time, from the power station. This filth, added to the unnecessary volume of traffic means I can't avoid breathing in poison. Perhaps many Gibraltarians don't notice because they are either accustomed to it, or their lungs are full of cigarette smoke.

The Government of Gibraltar has shown, with its rather watery traffic plan, and the incredible length of time it is taking to provide a new power station and shut down this old filthy one, that it does not have the cojones to be a world leader in cleaning up its local environment. Given the activities of local groups like the ESG, Gibraltarian people, or some of them, do feel strongly about the issue and want to protect the environment. But it is clear the Gibraltar government needs some heavy persuasion. After all, they are not protecting their electorate from heavy pollution.

Journeys into writing

I had the good fortune to buy this book on Saturday afternoon, and to meet its author, Vinod Mahbubani. He had a stall at the Ocean Village mini Christmas Fair this weekend and was selling signed copies of the book. I was still finding it difficult to get into the spirit of Christmas, used, as I am, to cold, miserable weather appropriate to the lyrics of many of the trite songs blasted over sound systems in the shops. But my shopping this year is happening in light tops and sandals, with perhaps a cardy to ward off the edge off the breeze lifting in from the sea. Ocean Village on Saturday was pleasantly quiet, sunny, the blue sea sparkling only a little less intensly than in high summer and the afternoon warm enough to sit outdoors and enjoy a relaxed coffee while the kids played.

But back to the book. I browsed the stalls, hands away from my purse, like the archetypal Scrooge, and encountered Vinod's (can I call him Vinny?) stall. We got chatting about the book, and about the whole process of writing. I told him about my attempts at writing and he was full of hugely useful information about self-publishing. "The hard work starts when you decide to publish!" he grinned. And not when you start writing. Vinny works hard at marketing his book and was pleased to share some of his savvy with me. It'll be a long time before I'm anyway near the stage of thinking about publishing - I still have so much research and writing to do for my book: Hell was just Next Door (like the title?!) But the information was really useful, and Vinny gave me his contact details for when I am ready to publish.

Which got me talking about writing groups, and how supportive a good writing group can be. He agreed that there should be one in Gib and apparently another writer has tried to set one up by advertising for interested people. Perhaps if I do the same, the few of us that are interested can set the ball rolling. I feel a New Year project coming on. So if any of you out there are curious or like writing - please get in touch and we could set a group here in Gib.

So back to the book. I started it on Sunday afternoon and became very quickly engaged in the narrative. A good sign for me because I am a pretty lazy reader these days and need to be kept interested. I've only got as far as the Niagara Fall so far, but am eager to read on, so thanks Vinny for a good, entertaining read. I'm not a great traveller, and it's work like your that bring the world to my doorstep.

If you haven't got Vinod Mahbubani's book, The Journey, yet, go out to the local bookshops in Gib and treat yourself. And if you're not in Gib, order one from Amazon. It's worth the read and it's worth supporting a local author.

Write on.

So now I have the writing bug. Except it's surprisingly hard to keep going alone. Don't get me wrong, being on your own with your thoughts and the computer, or paper and pen, is par for the course for a writer, and essential as a stethoscope and warm hands for a doctor. But, having committed words down, structured a story, sketched out characters, visualised powerful images, avoided adverbs, skimped on adjectives and strung out a scene to wring as much emotional value out of it as possible, what a writer needs is someone to read the work. Without having to go the whole hog, complete the manuscript and send it off willy nilly to see if someone out there in the harsh world of publishing will pay for it. As a writer, I want someone to read at least sections of my work as I write it, or give me feedback (kind and constructive, of course) so that I know I'm on the right track. And I want to know that I am not alone in feeling isolated, dubious, or worried about rejection or ridicule.

So the answer is a writers group. I used to belong to a writer's group called the Medway Mermaids, based in Gillingham, Kent. We were a girl-only group, met once a month, reviewed each others work, run workshops, competitions, exhibitions, open mic sessions for the poets among us, supported each other, commiserated with each other's rejections and rejoiced when one of us was published or won a competition. Meeting once a month kept us going during long slogs of writing that next chapter, or scene or verse. Chatting online to each other often lifted flagging spirits or generated new inspiration. I wasn't a member long because I left the UK to come to Gib. But I really miss the interaction with other writers, the learning from them, the companionship of like-minded people.

I don't think there's a writing group in Gibraltar. But there are lots of very good writers here. So if any of them read this post, please contact me. Perhaps we could set up a group here, run meetings, workshops, invite writers to give seminars, publish our own anthologies....In short, a group of writers here in Gib could put Gibraltarian literary talent out there, in the world of international literature.

War of Words

Gibraltar's Autumn Festival is well under way for the year and there has been a bit of everything for locals and visitors alike to enjoy. I treated myself to a browse around the Fine Arts Gallery, and thoroughly enjoyed the art exhibitions, both the International Art Competition entries, and the exhibition of John Lennon prints. Congratulations to Mario Finlayson who won the art competition with his intriguing and quasi-surrealist "Enigma". I found it a mesmerising piece, bold in that special way that is essential to all artists. I'm not an art critic, and I don't pretend to know much about art, but to me, any form of art is in no small part an emotional response to the world, external or internal, of the artist, and, by its nature, evokes an emotional response in others. Which, following my own logic, is why work such as Tracey Emin's can be considered art, because, it is, if nothing else, provocative and emotive. And I guess, for the same reason, those cold, picture postcard type pictures, however well executed or accurate or technically skillful the creator, don't quite reach the definition of good art for me.

I feel similarly about the poetry competition. I have yet to read all the Highly Commended entries, and, since mine is one of those, I am keen to see the standard that was set by my co-competitors. But what must have set the winning adult poem apart must have been the boldness of imagery, the taking of an intense emotion and moudling it into a relentlessly powerful, rhythmic waterfall of words. It is not an easy poem to read, and its meaning remains elusive at first, until read aloud, when its intensity becomes more lucid. Well done, Jackie Canessa.

And on a final note, a brilliant set of poems by Gibraltar's kids. It was enormously heartening to see and read the enthusiasm for poetry by youngsters. Poetry is an intense art form, and a difficult art, and one that is as important for youngsters as for crusty old bards. Perhaps this bodes well for the greater development of literature as part of Gibraltar's rich cultural landscape, and that its popularity will increase to the levels of other forms of art such as painting, theatre, dance and music.