felt the ‘freedom’ of the road. I’m
like your nan who sees your smart
TV as a lot of bother and nonsense
and not an exciting new way to
discover more choice in movies.
I have given this freedom ride thing
a go, though. Once, I was a hitchhiker.
When I was 16, I hitched from
Canberra to Melbourne. It didn’t feel
free. The truck driver who picked
me up in Yass and drove me all the
way to the northernmost tram stop
didn’t seem free, either. He was
a nice bloke, but an overworked
one. In Albury, he said, “Tell me
a story.” “What sort?” I said.
“Any fucking story. A fairytale.
A space disaster. I don’t care. I’ve
got to stay awake, and unload this
stuff in Geelong by nightfall. Just
make some noise, I don’t care.”
With the exception of one chap
who drove me no more than three
kilometres before demanding “just
a little kiss” as compensation (he
didn’t get one), all the drivers
were good people. Particularly
the truckies. But not one of them,
despite their free and generous
act of picking up a young, idiotic
hitchhiker, seemed free. It was
never Kerouac or Toad of Toad Hall
liberation. More like Easy Rider or
Thelma and Louise, where they knew,
at some level, that this driving
story could have a very bad end.
I want to feel that freedom that
some people say they know. I want
to drive in a convertible across
the USA without persistent terror
or the sensation that no one has
control. I want to sing along with
classic hits radio, as they do in
uplifting US films. But, I’m here.
Waiting for the robots. Wondering
about what terrible new ‘freedom’
the latest tech will bring.
By
Pui Pui
Tam
This story doesn’t start off very
rock ’n’ roll.
I was in Mexico, and my leg hurt.
I’d stepped off a 30-something-hour
plane trip the day before and the
anti-inflammatory pills my GP had
given me were about to run out. So
I asked my local, Spanish-speaking
mate to take me to the doctor.Turns out, this is even easier than in
Australia. In Oaxaca – the town where
I stayed – walk-in GPs are attached to
chemists, and the doctors get paid a
percentage on the prescriptions they
write. With the help of my personal
translator (and some awkward mime)
I explained my problem and handed
over my Australian pill packet. Could
I have some more of these, please?The guy googled the drug name and
scoffed dramatically. Sure, he could
give me the Mexican equivalent,
but there was an even BETTER
alternative that would have me salsa
dancing that very evening. (Insert
quick bout of vigorous chair-dancing
and some suggestive eyebrows.)
Did I want that one instead? OK,
sure, yes. Gimme the good stuff.As it happens, the ‘good stuff’ was an
over-the-counter drug, so the doctor
wrote out the name for me and sent
us next door for the re-up. He also
gave us a quick promo on the health
benefits of mezcal, the local version
of tequila. (Every Oaxacan doctor I
visited did this.) After picking up
the tiny pill packet and knocking
back a tablet, I went back to my
normal routine of being jetlagged and
eating tlayudas: enormous, delicious
stuffed tortillas. All was well.I was in Oaxaca for about a month.
I ate a lot of chocolate and tacos
and fried grasshoppers. I bathed
in crisply cool mountaintop pools.
I hung out with local potters and
laughed nervously while they tried
to teach me to make clay. I watched
cumbiabands and Mexican wrestling
and loudly rooted for a guy dressed
as a goth beating up a dude in yellow
spandex. I visited churches and
markets and farms. I drank a lot of
mezcal. And when my leg hurt (which
was most days), I took ‘the good stuff’.When I got back home, I thought I
would do the responsible, proactive,
health-positive thing and visit
my regular GP to fill him in onmy Mexican illnesses. (I’d also got
something close to pneumonia over
there – which turned, inevitably,
into another medical lecture on
mezcal.) Being so organised and
adult-like, I even had a pill packet to
show what drugs I’d been prescribed.
So, I handed it over to my doctor. Just
like the Oaxacan GP, he googled the
name. And then he started to laugh.“Do you know what you’ve got here?”
he asked, crying actual hilarity
tears. “It’s oxycodone. People call
it ‘hillbilly heroin’... You’ve been
dosing yourself with morphine the
entire time you’ve been away.”“What?! Fuck! Am I OK?”“Have you stopped taking it?
Do you feel all right?”“Uh, yeah.”“You should be right, then.
Hey – do you mind if I tell
this story to the other surgery
staff? It’s pretty funny.”[pause]“Sure.”“You know what makes this
even better? You’ve carried
these pills through customs in
the USA and Australia. You’re
an actual drug runner!”[cue more knee-slapping,
eye-rolling, etc.]I should mention that I have a
friendly and open relationship
with my GP, who provides me with
excellent care when he’s not laughing
in my face. I should also mention
that drinking mezcal with opioids
is not generally recommended. And
if any members of the Australian
Border Force are reading this: I’m
extremely sorry and no longer in
possession of any of the ‘good stuff’.
I do, however, have three bottles
of mezcal in my kitchen, and have
already booked flights for another
Oaxaca trip next year. Because,
despite nearly getting pneumonia and
accidentally becoming a criminal,
I still had a bloody good time. If
that isn’t the mark of an excellent
holiday, I don’t know what is.writers’ piece