Written by (作者): Peter L. Abram
Photos by (图片来源): Steamboattoday.com
I’m standing at the exact spot where I died, twenty years ago. Those paramedics who revived me would be middle-aged men now, as I am. When I roamed these streets, it was a decadent quarter of Melbourne’s Inner-West,?and I can see it hasn’t changed much. They say you should never go back, but what my newspaper wants they get.
Overdoses were commonplace at the end of the last century. The authorities did regain control of these streets, if only for a time. Now, a sudden surge in drug-related violence is all over the news and I’m looking for a place called The Exchange. I lock my car and begin to walk, passing the marketplace where I used to shop. It reeks of rotten vegetables and sweaty hagglers. The town square teems with quirky characters, who could be bit part players in a Cohen Brothers production. The fat shouting man. The weedy beggar. A tramp lumbers over and asks me for a?cigarette. Even he has a cinematic charisma of sorts. Occasionally, film productions do come to this part of Melbourne, but they’re few and far between. Gentrification that transformed other Australian suburbs, never really took hold either. I see no wealthy bohemians discussing antiques and sipping on soy free caffe lattes.
The buildings are run-down. Melbourne’s real-estate market became reasonably buoyant for a time, and this area attracted some white-collar investment. However, if the middle-classes have arrived here, I can’t see them. Their absence is something I feel intensely, when I decide to grab a drink. Cocktail bars and up-market venues are?not visible, even though they’re currently in vogue everywhere else. I have to choose between a Karaoke bar and a dusty pub, but that’s not for me. Perhaps I’ll get something to eat. Now things begin to look up. Across the way, I see a swathe of Asian eateries and I choose an outside table. The Korean dish is adequate and I begin to scribble on a pad. A busker sets up in front of me. His guitar is out of tune and I pick up my notes, pay the bill and leave. It occurs to me how nice it would be to see a proper band, but music and the arts suffer from the same local malaise as the culinary industry. There is very little here for a sophisticated audience to enjoy.
Occasionally, surges of creativity have enriched the Inner-West and some trends were of cultural significance. At one time, a massive underground music scene flourished and the gigs laid much of the groundwork for the current crop of National stadium music events. The success stories never got the recognition they deserved, but perhaps the locals like it this way. As I wander amidst the bargain hunters, I notice the absence of that great contemporary human trait. Self-importance. Being the underdog is central to the resident DNA. From the Mediterranean to the Sudan, wave after wave of immigrants have begun their new world journey within the bounds of postcode three thousand and eleven. It has all fostered a mind-set of tolerance, arguably un-matched by any other community in the state. The Mall reminds me of Tolstoy’s Town Square. Any writer could spend their days drawing inspiration from these well-worn faces.
I pass through a laneway thronging with Africans, who all carry themselves with a kind of resilient dignity. They’ve made this thoroughfare their own, but I’m invited to try a slice of cuisine that doesn’t look like it would be offered in the trendier parts of town. The African star is on the rise but this is still a predominantly Asian suburb. Everywhere you look, busy Vietnamese families scurry about their self-owned businesses, carving out a stake in the Australian dream. The Inner-West may be a suburb awash with graffiti and the stench of un-emptied litterbins, but the aura?of New Australian determination in the face of adversity, is constant and tangible.
Now I’m facing The Exchange, and my focus is back on the story my editor wants. Underworld business is diversifying and people are dying. In the nineties, the heroin epidemic reached epidemic proportions. Scores of?under-aged dealers openly traded caps of high-grade narcotics, whilst ambulances screamed from one overdose to the next. Hundreds of lives were lost before a battalion of police, on foot and horseback, moved in to reclaim the streets. The heroin drought that followed shook up the entire scene, as the dark captains of industry filled the void with a new crop of deadly, locally manufactured pharmaceuticals. Methamphetamine has replaced the threat of a hasty heroin death with a fast track to insanity. The medical establishment is trying a new approach. The Exchange gave up on Natural Healing and now trades in hypodermic syringes. I open the front door and brace myself. The place is full. It’s like I’m in a halfway house for the unsound of mind. ‘John’ is a forty-two year-old veteran of this world. Looking closer to sixty, with his greasy grey hair and shabby clothes, he agrees to an interview. John continues to haunt the streets of the Inner-West as he has done for over twenty years. I ask him to characterize the scene before the advent of the methamphetamine epidemic and he sums it up with one word. Camaraderie.
“We used to call each other brother. I liked it here. As long as you got your dollars together, you could always score and you felt safe. We would talk to each other. Now, these young meth heads spend most of their time talking?to themselves.”
I can see evidence of this analysis as I examine the patients, with their trembling limbs and pain expressions. It’s as if lunacy has ingrained itself into the systems and processes of this new generation of drug addicts. A couple of?John’s friends join us. They’re happy to talk. Their lives are a rollercoaster of staying awake for days on meth, followed by the frustrating search for sleep in the form of a cap of heroin. They know the journey will end up one of?two ways. It’s a toss-up between wasting away on the ice tornado or managing the self-perpetuating slavery of smack.
“All the old-school junkies just disappeared,” says John. His head sinks. “My mates. Sooner or later they all went.’ Grief has chiseled away at his facial features. Every line on his head is reflective of a man too schooled in?the ways of loss. Finally, he looks up. “When you stopped seeing somebody, you knew they’d probably been arrested, overdosed, or maybe they’d hit the road to escape debt collectors. These days, young people don’t?really disappear, but their souls do. They’re too crazy to worry about debts. Most of them just walk in circles holding heated arguments with these like imaginary type friends.”
我站在二十年前我曾死过一次的确切位置。那些救活我的医护人员现在已经是中年人了，我也一样。这是墨尔本中西部衰败的地区，漫步街头，我并没有发现太多变化。他们说我不应该回来，但我的报纸想要的素材我非得搞到不可。
在上世纪末，吸毒过量致死是司空见惯的事。当局曾一度重新管制这些街道。如今，与毒品有关的暴力事情突然激增，在新闻报道中随处可见。我在寻找一个名叫“交换”的地方。我锁上车，走上街，经过我以前经常买东西的集市，闻到蔬菜腐烂的恶臭和讨价还价的人身上散发的汗味。一群古怪的人聚集在城镇广场上，他们可以扮演科恩兄弟电影中的小角色，比如大喊大叫的胖男人，瘦弱的乞丐，即便是那个步履蹒跚地走过来问我要香烟的流浪汉，也颇有点电影角色的魅力。偶尔，电影制作公司会来这里，但是并不常见。澳大利亚其他郊区的美化工作也从来没有真正实现过。没有哪个富有的波西米亚人会喝着不含大豆的拿铁咖啡讨论古玩。
这里的建筑物都破败不堪。墨尔本的房地产市场曾一度相当活跃，吸引了一些白领的投资，但现在再也感受不到中产阶级的气息。特别是在我想要找个地方喝一杯的时候，他们的缺席让我体会颇深。鸡尾酒酒吧和其他高档场所在任何地方都很时兴，但在这里根本找不到。我得在卡拉OK酒吧和破败酒吧中作个选择，但不是为我自己，我已经决定去找点别的东西吃。这时，事情开始有所好转。马路对面有一排亚洲餐馆，我在一张露天桌前坐了下来。韩国料理的分量很足，吃饱后我开始在垫子上乱写。一个街头艺人在我面前弹奏起来，他的吉他走调了，我拿起账单，付钱离开。我多么想见到一个正儿八经的乐队，但如同烹饪行业一样，音乐和美术在当地同样萎靡不振。没有什么可供有鉴赏力的听众享受的。
偶尔，创造力的激增让中西部焕发生机，一些流行趋势具有文化意义。大型的地下音乐演出曾风靡一时，为现在的国家体育场音乐节奠定了相当牢固的基础。但这些成功故事从未得到应有的认可，或许当地人就喜欢这样吧。当我在一群到处找便宜货买的人中间闲逛时，我发现在他们身上找不到当代人类的伟大特征——自尊，这些居民身上自带失败者基因。从地中海到苏丹，一波接一波的移民在墨尔本郊区的塞登开始了他们的新世界之旅，这培养了当地居民与这个国家格格不入的容忍心态。这个商场让我想起了托尔斯泰笔下的城市广场。任何一个作家都愿意花时间从这些平凡的面孔中汲取灵感。
我穿过一条挤满了非洲人的巷道，他们身上都有一种柔性的尊严。他们已经将这条巷道占为己有，但是我受邀品尝一些在这个镇上的时髦之地找不到的菜肴。非洲人逐渐增多，但这里仍然是亚洲人的主场。你目光所及之处都是忙碌的越南家族在经营着自己的生意，努力实现他们的澳大利亚梦。中西部或许是个充斥着涂鸦和未清空的垃圾箱里散发出来的恶臭的市郊，但是这些新澳大利亚人面对逆境的决心是坚不可摧的。
现在，我就在“交换”门口了，我的注意力又回到了编辑想让我写的故事上。地下交易大肆盛行，不断有人因毒品而丧命。在九十年代，海洛因泛滥成灾。当救护车从一个毒品事故地点呼啸着开往另一个的时候，许多未成年毒贩正公然大肆买卖高档毒品。在一个营的警察或步行或骑马收复这些街区之前，数百人就已经丧生。随着黑市头头用当地产的致命药物填补空缺，随之而来的海洛因荒恶化了整个事件。冰毒导致的精神错乱取代了海洛因的死亡威胁。医疗机构正在尝试新的疗法。“交换”放弃自然疗法，做起了皮下注射器的生意。我硬着头皮推开前门，里面挤满了人，我像是置身于精神失常者的过渡疗养所。“约翰”是这里的老病人，油腻的灰色头发和破旧不堪的衣服让42岁的他看上去足足有60岁。他同意接受采访。他依旧和过去二十多年来一样，经常出没于中西部的大街上。我让他描述下冰毒泛滥之前的情景，他用一个词概括——友爱。
“我们曾经称兄道弟，我很喜欢这里。只要把所有的资金利用起来，你就会得到更多，感到安全。我们互相交谈。现在，这些吸食冰毒的年轻人将大把时间都花费在与自己对话上。”看看这里的病人颤抖的肢体和痛苦的表情，就知道约翰所言不虚，仿佛精神错乱已经深入到新一代瘾君子的骨髓里。约翰的一对朋友也加入到我们当中，他们很乐意与人交谈。他们的生活就像过山车，在吸食冰毒期间几天几夜睡不着，之后又感到深深的挫败，只能通过吸食海洛因来补眠。他们知道这场人生旅程将以两种方式中的一种结束，就像掷硬币，一面是在冰毒的腐蚀中日渐消瘦，一面是在海洛因的慰藉中自我奴役。
“老派的吸毒者都不复存在，”约翰低下了头，“我的同伴迟早都会离开。”他的脸上满是悲痛，每一条皱纹都在告诉我们这个男人已经失去了太多。最后，他抬起眼睛，说：“从前，当你再也看不到某个人的时候，你就知道他们可能因吸毒过量被逮捕了，或为躲避债主而跑路了。现在，年轻人不会再无故消失，但他们的灵魂却已不知所踪。他们神志不清，根本就无心在意负债。他们中的大多数人只是一面兜圈一面与想象中的朋友激烈争论。
Bio
Peter Abram is a British/Australian ex-serviceman, former performing poet and award winning promoter who has organized music shows the world over and has made multiple appearances on Western media. Now a resident?of Ningbo, he is working on his second novel, Night of the Infidel. Peter is Director of English Language Studies at Ningbo City College and holds a Master’s Degree in Educational Management.
Peter Abram是英国/澳大利亚退役军人，也曾是一位诗人。他组织过世界各地的音乐会，多次在西方媒体上露面，并获得奖项。现居宁波，他正在写他的第二部小说《异教徒的夜晚》。Peter 拥有教育管理硕士学位，是宁波城市学院英语语言研究主任。