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He was in his mid-twenties like me, spoke no English and was a painter. He pulled out a few of his small magazine size paintings when I was talking to him, before he donned his crash helmet, with his hair all tucked away under a scarf and jacket, and gloves to cover his snaky fingernails. And off he went into the city on his scooter. He said he shared a studio with some friends.
Along the river, which was banked in places with stone more like a canal, was a narrow gravel road, which led to the main camp ground where was everybody else, and the headquarters and showers. The road continued a short ways further to a set of locks where the river was higher on the other side. The locks were all of concrete and long, so that they could fit about six barges strung together all in a row. It was something to see: A three, four or five Shell Oil barges pushed by a tug boat into the locks with the gates open, from what looked to be about a quarter mile back. There was clearance on either side of about six or eight feet, so one could only admire the tug-boat operator, for this insertion maneuver from such a distance.
There were also single wood barges for hauling various commodities with cabins on the back, where whole families lived. That was neat with a TV antenna on the roof, clothes lines hung with pants, shirts, dresses and underwear of both sexes, bicycles and sometimes small scooters, stowed here and there. It was especially fun when the husband and wife were fighting while towing the barge with a rope from one end of the locks to the other, while the water was rising, yelling and cursing at each other.
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