The Last Post

This is it - buckle up for the last ever post from me. Sad? I am. So let's start with a winge for old time's sake. Although I'm immensely depressed about having to come home (although it'll be lovely to see you all, obviously) I won't miss one phenomenon specific to travelling and that's the Packing Show. This is where you're treated to a special presentation of selfish thoughtless bastards stuffing various items into their plastic bags (for optimum noise pollution and maximum waking up potential) and zipping up bags over a massively drawn out period of time. Let's say at least one hour, cos that's what it was this morning. I hate them. I hate them so much for their lack of foresight - I mean, who wants to get up before they have to? All they need to do is engage their (admittedly microscopic) brains into realising if they do this the day before they can lie in longer. It's not bloody rocket science. It's packing. This will be the sound that reminds me of travelling the most - the noise of the traveller - the sound of the zip in the morning. Bags, jeans, hoodies, all being zipped up, all for the pleasure and priviledge of those other poor bastards in your dorm. So many awful things have I muttered about these peanut-brained imbeciles, so many horrible platitudes of unforgiveable venom, and now it's nearly over I stand by every one of them. And don't even get me started on the use of the snooze button in a dorm room. Immeasureable selfishness beyond any scale created.

That felt good. Always nice to have a blog rant - I'll miss these a huge amount now as this is the last post. Ever. What will take its place, I wonder? I shudder to think, but I imagine my vision will become impaired, at the very least.

Now on to more inspiring topics and the final step in Argentina - the legendary Iguazu Falls. There will be a picture posted on here, but I have to wait for it to be sent to me by my lovely assistant, Tessa. If you're reading this, Tess, let's not let the public down, eh? There's a certain poetic symmetry which comes tied into this touristy hotspot. Those who will cast their minds back so many months may remember it was in my first week in Canada that I visited the Niagara Falls and it seems fitting that Iguazu should be one of my final tours - now boths falls act as thunderous bookends to this little adventure of mine. There's a picture of Iguazu on the back of my Rough Guide and I always knew it would be one of the last things I would do while in South America, so when I arrived there was a finality about the trip - that's not to say something negative, but rather something significantly important beyond the attraction itself. This one signalled the end, but I was to go out with a bang.

My God. I was impressed with Niagara when I got there, but Iguazu makes it look like a runny nose. These falls lying on the Argentina/Brazil border are simply magnificent - there's no more apt word for it. As you approach you already feel overwhelmed, but as the day stretches out so do the falls, spread as they are over a gigantic distance with incredible views around every corner. You can stand above them watching them pound into the ground below, underneath them, feeling said ground tremble with the sheer volume of water, or even get in a boat and ride into them for that authentic all-natural shower you more than need after trekking around them all day. In short, set in the jungle landscape with Brazil in sight across the water, these falls are quite stunning and richly deserve their place in the seven natural wonders of the world. Is it in that? I think so. I'm so glad my trip was this way round as these waterfalls were well worth the wait and come in high in my top five experiences in South America. Water way to have a good time. Reference, anyone? Canada, you can have the white water rafting, but the falls belong to South America. One-all.

So that's it. After a week of excess in Sao Paulo that included dancing on stage with a transvestite at the gayest of clubs, much to the audible derision of the crowd, clubbing with dwarf messengers and an eye-watering proliferation of pornography at every turn, my time here is at an end. Seven and a half months. Not quite the year originally planned, but still a healthy stint in anyone's book. Once again, I suppose this is a good time to reflect on my adventure. Sort of a game of two halves really - Canada in the first and South America making up the last. The two places could not be more different - but that much is surely blindingly obvious. I remember saying when I summed up Canada that it wasn't an archetypal travelling experience, but South America definitely gets that mantle. Much more the Lonely Planet style of destination, with unpredictable bowel fluctuations to match (last poo reference ever. Sad) South America has been infinately more challenging as a continent to travel around, but these challenges have come with great rewards. I've seen and done things I never expected to for the last two and a half months and these experiences will stay with me for the rest of my life. I've met some extraordinary people, indigenous and otherwise, from every walk of life and, of course, some total wankers. Let us not forget the wankers. Of course, no-one will ever top the unbelieveable tosser I lived with in Canada. Affas set the bar high there and has made an indelible impression upon me - the stories of this knucklehead will resonate throughout my life. I think it is my duty now to teach others of the egotistical horror that lies within reach of all of us. How to be a bad human. Shudder.

Anyway, moving on from darker times, this has been a journey for me in more than just a physical sense. Have lessons been learned and personal demons assuaged? Not quite, but I think we'll get there someday. Travelling on your own affords great time for personal reflection and I've done a lot of that. I know more about myself now and my abilities and limitations, but the question is, will this make me a better person? Who can tell? But I'm sure it'll make me a better singer, at the very least.

Final thanks to Sebastian, although I can't see that page yet. I'm sure England will be friendlier to the Guardian website and I'll check it out there. And Callum and Nina, although you managed to both put a comment on different posts to the last one I know you meant well. God bless us, everyone. Merry Christmas and until next time. Love Andrew X

BA Fracas

The pure excess of it all. Buenos Aires was recommended for its nightlife and in this respect it has not been a disappointment. I got into the city after another eventful bus journey, this time - having decided after a couple of wines, a beer or two and some English-speaking films that this was the best bus I'd ever been on - a little shit threw a rock through the window and, while once we enjoyed space and comfort by the cama-load, we all got squeezed into the front of the bus and I got stuck next to a paranoid junkie hag who kept thumping her fist on the seat while describing her much-hated flatmate. And frothing at the mouth a little too. Mad old bint.

Anyway, this has easily been my least cultural city. I'm feeling guilty about this as well because there are plenty of things to do, but I've managed to circumnavigate them all by hopping on board the beer train - all aboard, next stop drunkenness! (reference to The Office, in case anyone thought I was that much of a twat. I expect a witty retort to that last declaration in the comments please) These are the things I missed out on:

- Seeing beautiful coloured houses made out of zinc-corrugated metal sheets in the Boca area.

- Missing a football match in Argentina. Two have been played since I arrived.

- Going to a tango bar and watching the forbidden dance in its home.

Unforgiveable, obviously, but let's not dwell on the negative and have a look at those memories I will be taking with me. They are as follows:

- Going to Maradonna's nightclub and... well, just look at that picture.

- Getting thrown out of a karaoke bar (oh yes, the obsession continues) for creating a limbo stick with my leg on a table and smashing lots of glasses. Did I mention I was mad? Sometimes I have been sick. I am so lonely.

- Getting thrown out of lesbian club for having a penis. Allegedly.

- Singing with a live band at the hostel in front of a packed house. Don't Look Back In Anger and Twist and Shout, if you're interested.

- Eating more juicy and huge steaks than you could shake a colon at. It has become more coal than brown trout now.

So you see, although some time does seem to have been squandered, Buenos Aires has been a landmark city for me, affording many stories and classic nights I'll never forget. I may be carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders now that the post-binge demons circle close by, but that'll pass and I'll be left with the memory of Jono from Oz stumbling from the room at 7:30am for a nightcap in nothing but a poncho, a Las Vegas Gun Club cap and one sock. Wrong, of course, but in equal measure, surprisingly right.

I did actually do a couple of culturey things, but these tales seem a little more blog-friendly. I know what you people want, don't I? If I'm wrong then I should give you what you really want and detail these other more culturey things discussed earlier. After the rock/window/thrown incident on the bus I arrived at the Milhouse Hostel and with a few hours to kill before my room was ready I decided to take the walking tour to familiarise myself with my new city. To be honest, and if I'm nothing else I'm honest, it was a little dull and took in around five seperate churches where everyone was praying like the plane was going down and I felt a bit uncomfortable. At one point I wandered into a non-gringo area and got fairly forceably removed by an elderly lady with more strength than you would have initially credited her with. I think Jesus was helping her.

I also went to the famous cemetry, which we were told we 'must' go to by the hostel staff. This was quite interesting, but I'm pretty sure I saw a similar thing in France with my family a few years go. It consisted of hundreds - maybe even thousands of small to huge very religious structures all with varying degrees of big marble angels or sometimes even Big JC himself - milking it, as usual. Too much? Bit of a religious one, this. Didn't see that one coming. Anyway, Iguazu Falls next, then onto Brazil for my final border crossing of the trip. El buggero.

One comment (one?) again this week, this time from long-time contributor and stalwart of the blog, Al. Thanks for the important advice, Al - I think we've all learnt something there. Now, I don't want to push you, but this is the penultimate posting ever, and if you have something to say to me, now would be a good time to stick it in the comments. Time is running out to slag me off in print, don't miss this golden opportunity.

Where's Willy?

Plagued as I have been by this phenomenon throughout my adult life it shouldn't have come as a shock, but recently an old personal demon came back around and I thought you'd might like to know about it. It happened, as it usually does, around a packed table and was the direct consequence of a girl passing round some jewellery - a braclet, to be exact. 'Haven't you got tiny hands?!', she declared with delight. Then silence. A succession of beats go by as we stare at each other and the table becomes sucked into our conversational oblivion. As her eyes flick from mine to my hands I know what she's thinking, I know what the table's thinking, everyone knows what I'm thinking and I'm pretty sure I know what you're surmising and I have to say, this puts me in an impossible situation. What can I possibly do? Nothing is said about it, but then it doesn't need to be - the damage is done. I attempt humour to diffuse the situation, but short of bringing out photographic proof with a postage stamp next to it for scale I still haven't come up with a solution for the social pariahs that hang from my wrists. People will always assume the worst, or smallest, when they see my girl hands, but only a select few know the real truth. I, of course, am going to leave this enigma right there, but I feel it necessary to add that I have size 10 feet, which has to count for something, doesn't it?

Anyway, this is a travel-based blog, is it not? I shall, therefore, endeavour to leave further proportion-based blether aside from now on and just give you the facts, which are as follows: Whereas once life on this trip ambled on for me with a nonchalent swagger, things are starting to take on a much more feverish momentum these days and I find myself in the grip of a compulsive desire to go and see as much as is humanly possible within these dying days of the trip. To this end things have become a lot more hurried and the fact that since my last posting I have been to two more countries bears testament to this. The date of re-entry looms ever closer, but despite the multitude of bus travelling this will incur, I have decided to pull my finger out and resigned myself to a juddering and sleep-deprived last three weeks in South America. Dammit, when will I be here again?!

Utterly revolting. Upon this personal revelaton of travelling enlightenment some porky kid went and ruined it all by spewing up all over the floor right next to me on the latest bus. Mum tried to clean it up with some newspaper, but the smell was grotesque and made me feel like hurling myself. Maybe I've been a bit hasty... Actually, maybe if Mum didn't cram the fat shit's face with every E number under the sun during a particularly windy journey through the Argentine mountains this might not have happened. Just a thought. The boy had more Es than Saturday night at the Ministry Of Sound and he was totally wired - I think he shat himself as well. Good God, only another 3,000km to cover. Like the colour on the boy's face, my new-found spirit of adventure is quickly draining.

But where were we? I don't think I said anything about Chile, which I really should. I was only there for what amounted to around 60 hours, easily the most whistley of stops so far, but lying right on the weekend it definitely had its moments. There was a huge warehouse rave on the Saturday night in Santiago which, although wasn't really what I'd had in mind when I made the 24hr journey down from northern San Pedro on the Bolivian/Chilean border, still was a good old shin-dig and interesting to see how they do things down here. Good, but no Great Yarmouth in the 90s. Then Sunday brought with it touristico-a-plenty and along with the city's zoo, I ended up on a cable car with a flame-haired beauty called Jordan overlooking the entire city. Unfortunately, far from being the buxom slutty type, Jordan was a 25-year-old Leicester fella with a penchant for baboon vaginas. Still, it was a special time for me and I had to fight the temptation for the old yawning wandering arm trick as Santiago spread out beneath us. Just joking mate, and if you're reading this, how about them pics? From here we rounded a troop and after a splendid steak dinner we ended up seeing the evening out in spectacular salsa style at a local club in the Latin Quarter. Lots of hip-shaking and slightly awkward-looking fun. After this the hand of God has pointed me in the direction of Argentina, which is where I am now.

The jump from Bolivia to Chile and now Argentina has been both sudden and alarming in its differences. It seems odd that the richest and poorest countries lie so close to one another, but I suppose it's this duality which makes up the majority of cities around the world - the rich living so close and so oblivious to the poor - that it shouldn't come as such a surprise. Bolivia was made up of makeshift homes and shops, with dusty streets, dirty faces and signs thrown together by twine and poster paints that really hoped they'd be enough to entice money from pockets. The main difference I've noticed in Chile and Argentina is that they don't suffer from that desperation and come across with a much more arrogantly European self-sufficiency where you can buy if you want to. They don't care. This is not to say that they're not nice and in some places architectually stunning, just like Europe, but it's sad now I've seen the back of their poorer neighbours and I almost miss being accosted on every corner by someone selling something. Almost. I guess it signals the beginning of the end and that's the really sad thing. Are you feeling sad? Course not - some of you buggers will be seeing me again soon - lucky swines! I digress... I see Peru and Bolivia as the Oliver Twists of South America - always craving more, but being irresistably constrained and repressed by forces beyond their control. It all ends well for Twist and I wish the same fate for South America's grubby-faced urchins. All this literary and political metaphor seems a long way from last week's 'P-Day' declaration, but it's been a total culture shock going from one extreme to the other in the last week and I felt compelled to share it with you - whether you like it or not. You got knob gags and bodily fluids as well, what more do you want? Shesh.

Just the one comment to thank and that's to another Anonymous. Thank you, whoever you are. I was starting to get worried there weren't gonna be any! Come on, why not join the party - you'll be glad you came. Until next time.

Snow Informer

God I feel guilty. I just went into a restaurant, up to some local people happily eating lunch and demanded to see the menu in pigeon Spanish. Let me elaborate. There were three people sitting at a table, no-one else about and one of them was the spit of every waitress I've ever had since getting into Peru and Bolivia. Oh God, this is where it all starts - it's a mere hop, skip and a jump from here to shaving my head and stating that Bernard Manning was a misunderstood genius. Christ. She really wasn't happy either, so I decided to do the right thing and sit outside. So embarrassed. I said 'lo siento', which I think means 'I'm sorry', but judging by the reaction it may as well have been, 'Nice moustache, fatty', which would have been entirely accurate, but possibly inappropriate given the circumstances.

Uyuni is the starting point from which you take the now legendary salty flat tour, that takes in the various natural wonders surrounding the southern areas of Bolivia. Literally everyone loves this tour and since I arrived every single person has shown me photographs or gushed enthusiastically about the bizarre and unique landscapes that make up the tour. (Another) one not to miss then. I wasn't sure how a huge mass of salt - deposited after sesmic activities filtered out a massive lake - was gonna make it into my top five things to gush enthusiastically and show photos of, but I was keen to find out. It's a three-day tour and after an evening in Uyuni where some Nottingham lads got banned from the hostel for putting Bruce Forsyth, 63 years old down as their contact details - seemed funny at the time - I got a good night's sleep, met my tour group and day one began with the spectacular salt flats themselves.

So two hours in and there we were. The climax of the trip started, curiously, at the very beginning, but when we got there.... I don't know what it is, maybe it had been built up too much, but I found the whole thing a little underwhelming. Was I missing the point? Frankly, I can't see it. But to me, after the magic of Machu Pitchu or the terror of Yungas Road, it all seemed to pale (it was all white) into insignificance. Maybe that's a bit strong, the lack of scale provided by an all-white horizon allows for 'crazy' pictures like above, but really I couldn't help thinking the whole thing would have been much more exciting for people who'd never seen snow before. It is indeed a unique landscape and I'll probably never see anything like it again, but sadly it didn't envoke the passion or pant-quaking wonderment those before me clearly felt.

The rest of the tour went by the book. We saw more amazing sights than you can shake a llama at and a couple of charming Irishes meant there was some good craic as well. Green lakes, red lakes, flamingoes in a stinking sulphur lake actually called Stinking Lake, but I have to say, the most extraordinary sight for me was a distant late-night lightning storm which fired up the star-encrusted sky and mountains far away. No pictures of that, obviously. Truly beautiful. There were also hot springs to get into, but these were detrimental to me in two ways:

1) Everyone else seemed to be the same shade and carved from mahogany, whereas I seemed to be the same shade and carved from raspberry jelly.

2) I said 'doesn't he ever shut up?' about a loudmouth private in the British Army to his commanding officer accidently. Got changed pretty sharpish after that.

Finally, today is a day to celebrate. For the past three weeks I have been suffering from an acute case of traveller's bottom and as such have enjoyed nothing other than fizzy gravy or man-pats in the seemingly endless feud between my digestive system and the toilet. Today though, dear and dare I say it, concerned readers, my arse has been spared this acutely perpetual onslaught and I passed a good old-fashioned English brown trout. I was so relieved I almost cried. Whereas once I considered I had bitten off more than I can poo in South America, I can now rest easy in the knowledge that I am finally victorious in World War Poo. Just thought you might like to know - today shall ever more been known as P-Day.

A late thanks to Matt from the post before last for assuring everyone that the fanny on my face was not the only fanny in the vicinity. Thanks for that. And also to Steve for getting involved on the anecdote front and blasting my so-called difficult journey out of the water with one of his own. Good work, son. Rob has also finally verbalised his feelings, which I'm sure has been enormously cathartic for you, mate. Know that I feel the same. Don't judge us. I might quickly add that I'm now in Chile after a last-minute change of plans. It's nice here, but a bit pricey. More to follow.

Death Proof

Now you can call me Old Mr Picky if you like, but when a transport company, say for instance a bus company, tenders a specific duration of journey time, say for instance three hours, I would like to think that said journey would be completed in and around that given period. Well, based on these apparently insane assumptions it was disappointment all round for my recent bus journey from Puno to La Paz - the first of my destinations in Bolivia. So after telling me it would take no longer than three hours I arrived in the middle of the night after an eight hour journey, complete with two changes of bus and a little boat trip thrown in for good measure. I'm really not sure why this compulsive lying occurs - I'm going to these destinations anyway and would buy the ticket regardless of the time it takes. No sense means nonsense and here is a prime example of why.

La Paz is said, by some people, to be the capital of Bolivia. Unfortunately to some others this is not the case and I'm yet to discover the truth. Either way, it's a very important city for the Bolivians, bringing in the majority of the country's wealth through it's financial and touristic facilities. Again it's a city set down in the valley of some mountains and old volcanoes and really looks the part as you come in from the top and look down into the bustling metropolis below. There are many things to see and do in the city itself, but mostly people come to La Paz to party and it really doesn't disappoint in those stakes. It's right up there with the drunken hedonism of Salvador and maybe even better cos there was also karaoke thrown in. That was a strange affair and I'm pretty confident it wasn't only for singing, but also doubled up as a brothel. Loads of fat Bolivian women in slutty clothes mewling all over some fat Bolivian men and even a German friend of mine got a dance. No extras though. I must say, I was quite the cult hit in the karaoke bar - at least I think that's what they were chanting. Either way, lots of fun to be had in La Paz at the Loki hostel that never sleeps (closes at 1am) and the surrounding discos - just for you gringos out there.

One of the most popular attractions in the surrounding areas of La Paz is mountain biking down the Yungas Road. In itself that doesn't sound that impressive, which is why no-one locally calls it by that name - opting instead for the far more chest-beating and ball-clacking colloquialism of the Death Road. Exciting, eh? Since I began travelling around South America, this has to be the most frequently raised must-do trip - a few people even mentioned it to me in Canada before they knew I was heading down, so this made it an essential during my time in Bolivia. It's known as the Death Road because it currently holds the record for most amount of deaths on a single stretch of road. I think a road in Baghdad took over for a short period of time recently, but, thankfully, more people died on Yungas and the record was returned to its rightful owner.

The 64km road is split into two sections - the first of which is a pretty well-maintained asphalt surface that acts to lull you into a false sense of security, but although 35mph on a pushbike overlooking Bolivia's mountainous countryside is no picnic, it's a full-on Sunday afternoon punting down the River Camb with jam sandwiches in comparrison to the second half - known as the Death Road Proper. Once you finish the concrete section - which includes 5km of uphill, the less said about the better - you turn off the main road onto the pain road. On first glance it looks like the mouth of a gravel quarry and being cloaked in thick fog only served to heighten the menace. 'Keep on the cliffside edge in case of oncoming traffic.' I'm sorry, what? OK, and if any arrive out of the fog I'll be sure to jump to the safety of the 600 metre drop. They're not making this any easier.

As we descended (4,700m-1,300m) the fog started to clear and once again I found myself surrounded by breathtaking scenery. This time it was in the shape of the Bolivian jungle complete and for a more pictoral description please refer to the picture provided at the top of this posting. Something that raised the blood pressure along the way, even further, was the proliferation of crosses peppered along the route, announcing the final resting points of some less fortunate fellow travellers. Statistics are varied about Yungas and the inaccuracies are staggering, ranging as they do from 4-5 people a year to 200-300. I'll go for the latter as it makes me look harder. Not an altogther effortless exercise, I'm sure you'll agree. Anyway, seeing the crosses really brings home the very real danger of the road and as you tear down the dusty track you tend to squeeze both your brakes and sphincter in equal measure.

The five-hour ride is not easy and certainly not for the faint-hearted (I refer you to my earlier comments about how right hard I am) but it is definitely worth the buzz that surrounds it. Truly one of those 'once in a lifetime' experiences that makes you feel glad to be alive. There were a couple of hairy moments and now I think I have acquired permenant partial clawing to my hands because of the constant grip of terror on the handlebars, but I wouldn't have missed this one for the world.

Thanks this week to another Anonymous - I'm losing track of you now. Who's who? I just don't know. Blue Hawaii, I find your suggestions absurd and ridiculous. Next thing you'll be telling me is that my ball in the mouth during dinner was inappropriate. Preposturous. Finally Al, you and possibly many others will be relieved to hear the face fanny is now no more. My sister said she wouldn't pick me up from the airport if I didn't get rid, so rid it is. Hasta luego.

2,000 KM, But No Paddington

As I think we discussed in an earlier posting, I don't think I could ever be a 'lad'. It's true, I have the required equipment, I love beer, women's bits and I even went to the World Cup last year, but I've never really been one to celebrate the numbskullery of this subculture and my first night in Arequipa was a prime example of that. Arequipa is Peru's second largest city and it was in arriving that I met big burly Dutchman, Tom. Now Tom's a nice guy, but even for a Dutchman his obsession seems a little excessive. It occurred slowly over a 'getting to know you' couple of beers at the local bar, but it soon became apparent that Tom only had one thing on his mind. The conversations started becoming more and more graphic until this Englishman began squirming uncomfortably on his chair. Everything that I would say would soon become turned to smut. For example, I had cooked that day and:

'...I just rubbed my eye and it's stinging from the chilli.'

'For sure, after I'm cutting chilli I (motions with his fingers at knee-height) with a girl! It was so funny, I think so!'

And also:

'I left a pair of pants at the rafting. So annoyed.'

'Ya, all girls here have pink panties. They're not having G-strings either, here, I think so.'

The worst and most frustrating part of this is when you're having a conversation and in the middle of it he just stares away at some girls while I'm in the process of granting him my gold - and you know I have the gold. He has the attention span of a Mayfly with a sexual urgency to match. I don't suppose his life expectancy will be all that far off either when his girlfriend returns on Monday to catch him in the act. I think so.

So that was my first night in Arequipa, but let's not have that taint yours and my opinion. How about some descriptive detail about this newest city of mine, hmm? All Peruvian cities I've been to so far have consisted of narrow roads populated with noisy, polluting cars zipping around with a purpose and focus to rival a crack whore on coupon day and Arequipa is no exception. Mario Kart has nothing on these crazy bastards. If you get a chance to look up from the terrifying speed and noise - it's like an early nineties rave with all those horns and whistles - you'll see some fairly spectacular architecture that let's you know, without doubt, that you're in a South American city. Not least of this is the obligatory town square, which is always an ornate affair with huge imposing constructions built around palm trees and other spiky fauna unique to the continent. Quite a good nightlife here too, I've heard, but before any of that frival, predominately people come to Arequipa as a base from which to take the Colca Canyon trek and other outdoor pursuits which lie a stone's throw from Peru's second city. Not wanting to buck the trend, this was also why I had arrived here and as soon as the laddy fug from the previous night cleared, I made my way to book myself one of these tours and after an early night I set off first thing for the Colca Canyon and the famous condors which lie in wait therein.

I was feeling a little guilty and it had taken me a long time to make the decision, but instead of actually trekking there, I was taking the easy route and a nice comfy bus would be ferrying me to all the destinations of note. Memories of sleepless nights and Falkland survivor feet informed my choice, for the most part, but also time is beginning to become a factor now and the bus route is a good two days shorter than the trek. Plus I broke a nail last time. Taking the bus, however, came with its own pitfalls - obviously. We stopped everywhere. Now, I'm not at the point where the stunning Peruvian landscape is something to be taken for granted, but this guide's insistant stops for every llama turd we passed by, or every old person were pushing me dangerously close to saturation point. To start with everyone was being polite and dutifully snapping away at every stop, even though half the time we didn't even know what we were snapping at. I even think I got mild RSI from all the clicking. RSI from politeness - how English can you get? Eventually, though, as the bus began to slow we would join forces in a weary shaking of the head and, although appearing sometimes upset at the rejection, the guide would signal the driver to carry on and not stop for a clump of alpaca wool caught in a hedge.

After the needlessly long bus journey, we arrived at Chivay, an old city that sits comfortably in the Peruvian mountains close to the condor-infested Colca Canyon. There was a planned trip to some hot springs included in the afternoon, but after hearing about the skin flake McFlurry springs at Agues Calientes outside Machu Picchu, I decided to give those a miss. One story came back about a woman actually letting her baby take a shit in one of those springs - that's a bit much, isn't it? So spending the afternoon reading instead, our small group of four were eventually summoned at 6:30pm for our evening's entertainment. There were several other groups staying in the same hotel as us, so common sense would dictate that we would all be going to see the same show. But this is Peru and common sense left town a long time ago. We got in our bus and went (literally) about 15 metres down the road to a restaurant where we were the only diners there. Music and dancing is generally one of those things you can let blend into the background in a restaurant setting, but when you're the only wallets in sight, there's no escaping it. There were some interesting techniques, including a young girl getting savagely beaten by a knotted rope - actually really hard - but for the most part the entertainment, in front of four guys who met 12 hours ago, served to merely exercise buttock clenching muscles. And I can tell you, you could bounce coins off my bum-bum now. Ah well, tomorrow was the day we were here for anyway and I drifted off, tight-buttocked and dreaming of the majestic condor.

So another early morning (5am) was necessary to catch the awesome birds in full flight through the incredible canyon and after a quick breakfast we set off for the main purpose of the trip. When we got there the scenery was amazing. The sun was shining and around 100 people were sitting - their feet dangling of a cliff's edge and their fingers poised, just waiting for a glimpse of the birds. I found myself a spot and started to do the same. Wait. And wait. And wait. Guess who's too good for the canyon today? Yep, after two day's journey, an unprecedated amount of outstretched palms and bugger all sleep the condors didn't come out to play. What made this even more frustrating was a grinning Swedish twat who laughed about how he's been there eight times and this was the only time there had been a no-show. That's helpful, isn't it? You may have been wondering about the picture for this posting and I can tell you I've vetoed any pics from this tour cos it was such a letdown and have instead put up a photo I took of a dog with an erection. Quite apt, I thought, as both the dog and the tour have potential, but ultimately they were pointless.

Never mind. Forgetting the condor calamity (I'll never forget it) going back to Arequipa was cultural, entertaining and a fitting end to my time in Peru. I went to see Juanita, the frozen child sacrifice of the Incas found in a local volcano, at the local museum and then spent the Friday evening jigging till the early hours with thoughts of condors nothing but a distant memory - I'll never forget it. So after sod all sleep and a six hour bus journey, I'm about to cross the border into Bolivia and now, I feel, would be an appropriate time for some thoughts on my second South American country. Unlike Brazil, every kilometre in Peru creaks with age and tradition unique to the continent. At every stage you are under no illusion as to where you are - from the bright and ancient clothing to the perpetual music piped into every place, tradition is not something easily forgotten here. Just like Juanita, time has been frozen for many Peruvians and if it wasn't for the cacophony of engine noises from the busy streets, you could easily believe you were in a different era altogether. Certainly smells like a different era sometimes. Myterious, beautiful, charming and challenging all at once - but enough about me! Meep-meep! Last one of those, I promise. But the above really does describe Peru. That and a distinct lack of bastard condors. I'll never forget it. And now to Bolivia...

No true comments from the last post. I can only assume this is because I put this one up so quickly afterwards. Yes, that's what I'll assume. Just simply a quick hello to Matt and Lee - hope being back isn't too depressing. See you in Bolivia.

So Machu

At last, the bus of travelling cliches has come to town and I had a ticket. I've finally been on a bus with chickens on it - long since an ambition of mine after hearing about them from just about every other traveller. That's not all though - I also had two young boys staring at me and practically (and unnecessarily - there was room elsewhere) sitting on top of me for most of the journey, some luggage fell from the roof on to the road nearly causing a pretty serious accident and, to cap it all off nicely, and old lady had to get off for a pee and everyone made a big point of staring unabashedly right at her throughout. Yes! I've been on that bus everyone else has been on! Tick.

The reason for this bus journey was as the first part of my trip to the mystical and spectacular Machu Picchu - the main reason people come to Cuzco. Normally you would see the ancient ruins as part of a four-day trek, but as space on these treks is limited and my plans were fairly last-minute, I wasn't able to book the trek and had to, instead, settle for transport to a city, Aguas Calientes, just outside the ruins. You stay in this city for one night before getting up early the next day to see Machu Picchu in all its glory. Good that the ancient city has glory, cos the city outside is a prefabricated nightmare. That Cuzco is clean was a welcome surprise after staying in other less hygienic places, but the sterile atmosphere that accompanied Aguas Calientes is not something you needed to be around for long. Doing the trek would have meant missing this plastic tourist trap and that would have been an enormous plus, let me tell you. I'm not one to avoid touristy places, they're normally touristy because they're of interest, but this place looks like Peru by Disney. My advice - avoid like the plague.

Anyway, leaving McPeru behind, you set off very early (5:30am) to try and avoid the thousands and hopefully catch an incredible sunrise through the legendary Sun Gate. Unfortunately this wasn't to be as the cloud lay heavy all around, but this still managed to lend the ruins a spectral quality which added to the overall haunting beauty. Even though I'd seen the pictures, nothing can quite prepare you for the majesty of this place. It's not only the ruins, but the landscape that it sits in - absolutely spellbinding. A city in the clouds and mountains amongst the lush pastures of Peruvian jungle, it really needs to be seen to be believed. Look at that magnificent natural beauty in the photo - and the ruins aren't bad neither! Meep-meep! I scaled the mountain next to the city, called Huayna Picchu, for the ultimate bird's eye view and that's the picture I've attached above for your pleasure. Pretty tiring to get up there, you can see by what a sweaty bastard I am, but well worth it. As an addendum, if the justification of my backwards cap is being brought into question, I should probably point out that I am (obviously) a black person. Now let's have no more of these trivial inquiries - time is pressing and I must away, post-haste, in order that I may cap some bitch. Word etc.

After a good six hours looking and climbing around the ruins it was time to go. I took the train all the way back to Cuzco this time, instead of getting the Chicken Express, but this did not pass without incident. As soon as I got onto my carriage there immediately began some good-hearted banter with some wobbly 50-something Mexican ladies. There was a Spanish lady opposite who would translate, and she started by telling me they wanted to flirt with me all the way back to Cuzco. Fine with me as it was all pretty funny and I suppose it made a nice change for them too to be flirting with me rather than a coronary. Apparently they were also offering themselves two at a time for me, which I can only imagine would be like being hit by a bouncy castle driven by Mr Stay Puft marshmallow man. I also think Greenpeace would have been involved at some point and maybe even a Japanese schooner or two. Do you see? I'm comparing them to whales.

Getting back into Cuzco (actually unplanned, but very welcome) I had one more night of Diablo-based samba with a couple of Aussies I met on the mountain. This really did signal the end of my time in Cuzco, though, with my next stop being Arequipa the following afternoon. Needless to say, I'll let you know how that goes - all in good time, my pretties. All in good time.

Thanks to a really old friend, Rhian, for such a kind comment. Facebook is a wonderful thing, eh? And Glenda, such blatant disrespect for the blog could lead to you being banned. Choose your words carefully next time, or pay the price. Now to Anonymous - I don't get it! A bigger baby than me? Does that mean you're younger than me? There's loads of people younger than me - millions, in fact. This could take some time. And finally, Rob. He who revels in my personal anguish and pain - help me discover the mystery identity of Anonymous and I'll keep my eyes open for a banana skin precariously placed next to a busy road just for you. Bweye!

Cuzco-zy

Before I begin this latest diatribe, I wanted to point out that sat behind me in this internet cafe are a couple of teenage boys who have been silently watching, again and again over the past 30 minutes, the same YouTube video of a young girl taking a dump on a beach. Each to their own, I suppose.

Ah, that's better. I decided to take a well-deserved break from the hectic and mostly sleepless travel regime I've been adhering to since being in SA and have spent the last few days in lovely, lovely Cuzco. It feels a little like cheating as it's about as close to a UK city here (reminds me a lot of Kingston, actually) as any city I've visited up to now. It's clean, well-kept and there are more gringos here than you can shake a bottle of after-sun at. This does, however, mean that you're constantly plagued by street vendours - the highest number of these, by far, are the continual offers for massages. 'Relaxing massage?', 'Massage, amigo?' There must be at least 10 of these shouts on every street, but what I can't understand is, when you've refused the first nine (they're all about two feet from one another) the 10th still has a go. 'Actually.... Did you say massage? Yeah. I don't know what those other guys wanted, but if it's a massage you're offering (and possible 'extras') then you can count me right on in there.'

Cuzco is a party town and music and dancing is an every day occurance. You can go into any bar at around 6-7ish and they'll play a film (sweet) while you take advantage of their very reasonable happy hour prices. Then, once the social lubrication has oiled in all the right places, go have a chat with some randoms (lucky, lucky randoms) and before you know it, cinema has turned to nightclub and I'm teaching said randoms a little dance I like to call, El Samba Del Diablo. Fused with a bit of MC Hammer shit, obviously.

After a night off the Diablo I spent the day white water rafting - look, there I am. Long time readers will know I did this for the first time in Canada and I have to say, it didn't really match up to the great River Ottawa. It's always nice to see girls fall in the drink and emerge like frightened porpoise and this trip had that by the boat-load, but maybe when you've tried something and loved it, like I did with the rafting in Canada, you should leave well enough alone. Don't get me wrong, it was good fun, with great scenery, good company and all at a price you can afford, but it just wasn't the same. Plus I think I may have caught river blindness from a mouthful of the scum-drenched cocktail of disease we were rafting on. Should rivers be grey? I don't think so.

I'd heard about a Diwali (Indian new year) celebration going on in town that evening and as it's been a month since my last curry fix (just plain wrong) I thought this might be a good way to spend my final evening in Cuzco. A couple from the rafting also wanted to join in the festivities and come along - being of Indian descent they probably had more right to be there than me, but I reckon I've eaten enough curry to qualify, surely? Cut me, don't I bleed mango cutney? Anyway, I was under the impression this would be a traditional affair with bangra music, dancing and enough curry to cause an intestinal ceasure, but how wrong I was to be proved. When we arrived it soon became clear that my friends were, with the exception of the owner, the only Indian people there. Facing a round of Brahma-sponsered tables was a stage with a Peruvian rock band on, who spent the evening belting out such Hindi classics as The Sultans Of Swing by Dire Straits and La Bamba by Lou Diamond-Phillips in the film La Bamba. This, although very funny, wasn't at all what we were expecting, but the non-sequitur was not to end there. When some Indian music did finally make it out of the speakers, we were treated to a puzzling display of flapping by a Peruvian girl dressed in Baco-foil wings and not much else. Even odder, the grand finale seemed to be some kind of beauty contest, populated by 12 of about the most ordinary and bored looking girls I've ever seen.

As I said, although the evening didn't run exactly according to plan, a mighty giggle was had by all and with that curry in my belly I fell to sleep on my final Cuzco night with a smile in my heart, a burp on my lips and a ceasure in my intestines.

Thanks to Rosie for getting involved on the comments - in't she lovely? And anonymous - it seems the mystery continues. If I agree I'm just a big baby, like you say, how about a clue to your identity? Also, the more observent of you will have noticed on the more recent posted pictures, that I have a beard. This is because I'm an enormous travelling cliché and a twat. Any questions? Mills out.

Busman's Horror-Day

Travelling by bus in SA is very different from the UK. It's the main form of transport for most people travelling long distances and because of this they make a bit more effort. These are luxury vehicles which bear not the slightest resemblance to the good old National Express back home. The seats recline practically all the way back, there's food and drink served for free and you'll more than likely get a couple of movies thrown in as well. There are, however, other aspects of bus journies over here which are slightly more unnerving. When you embark on the huge monster of a bus you have to give your fingerprint and smile for the video camera which comes round. This, I learnt to my great distress, was in case there's an accident and you're burnt or horrifically injured beyond recognition - a little chilling coming, as it does, at the very start of the journey.

There are two floors on the bus and two prices to pay for each one. Upstairs is a little cheaper and known as semi-cama, but if you've got the money (and trust me, you have) you should go for the mighty cama, located on the ground floor. With bigger seats and an almost complete reclining arc, cama really is the way rock stars would travel - entirely appropriate for me, I thought, when booking a cama seat on one of my recent journies. Unfortunately, after about half an hour, I realised my rock star lifestyle was to be short-lived. The function on my chair was faulty, which meant that every time I reclined the seat it, so slowly as to be almost imperceptible, began rising back into the fully erect position. As this was a night bus I needed to try and get some sleep, but even though I could nod off happily, I would inevitably wake some minutes later sitting bolt upright with my neck dangling at an ungodly angle. I can only imagine what this must have looked like to any passengers not sleeping - me slowly rising, as if from the grave. Very sinister, I'm sure. The result of this was two-fold:

1) I had an angry but ultimately fruitless exchange with the conductor, involving me putting the seat up and down and him shrugging his shoulders.

2) My neck became very sore.

What's the one thing everyone dreads seeing when they're on long distance transport? I'll give you a clue, when a man and a woman are very much in love they have powerful natural urges which usually result in a very loud miracle. Yes, that's it, babies. Why do we put up with it? They're noisy, obnoxious, uneducated at best and ultimately they're slobs. Not really, I love the little nappy-filling swines, I just had an earful of it on this bus. It seems there's just no reasoning with some infants. The parents were whispering soothing incantations and I myself promised not to kill him if he stopped crying, but all in vain. The screaming dribble factory kept us up all night. As if this all wasn't enough, I think the baby had some kind of tag team arrangement with the fat drunk Russian sitting next to me whereby if he stopped screaming old fatski would start snoring, just so there was never any break in the continuous noise. The Russian also took up half of my seat and kept touching me (don't touch me) throughout the whole trip. Still, he seemed to get a good night's kip, so every cloud... I think I'll take the plane to my next stop.

Thanks to Al again - you love it, don't you? Rob and the mysterious anonymous (now known to be Jimbo from work - good lad thee) You all seem to take great pleasure in my discomfort, so hopefully you'll enjoy this posting too. Remember, if I suffer, I do this only for you. Buenos noches.

Far Trek

54km, to be exact and don't my plates know it. I can't remember ever having done a trek before - maybe a short one in Yosemite Valley years ago, but certainly nothing on this scale. This is how it went:

Day One

This first day has been a pretty sobering experience. Waking up and getting ready, I went downstairs in the hostel to discover the taxi that had been 'booked' the previous night had, in fact, been 'not booked', so I started the day at 6am, cursing and sprinting with my backpack to the tour office. Bastard. When I got there it soon became obvious that in the category of best prepared, I was to come a dismal last. Everyone else seemed to be kitted out for an expedition of Antarctic proportions, whereas I looked like I could just about make it at a picnic in Battersea Park. I didn't even have a jacket - 'You don't even have a jacket?', was one of the many, 'You don't even have a...?' questions which were to be fired at me throughout the day - the answer to which was almost always, 'No'. As you can imagine, this question became progressively irksome, especially as it was usually accompanied by people demonstrating their possession of these items with a little incredulous snigger.

So apart from a huge illuminous orange jacket that makes me look like a giant-sized Wotsit I managed to borrow from the trekking office (more incredulous sniggers) it turns out I'm not very well prepared for this particular escapade. But even though that meant I got saturated this afternoon and now my (only) trousers resemble a used tissue left out in the rain - that'll be nice tomorrow morning - I'm determined not to let it get me down. This is me versus the mountain and although I'm cold, soaked and hungry (eggs for dinner - why did it have to be eggs?) this mountain will bow to me before I extend it that same pleasure. Now that's the kind of lack of respect for nature I've heard gets you far in these kinds of situations.

Day Two

(To be said in a very weak voice) Hooray.... Windswept, weather-beaten and blister-bound, I've made it to the end of this second day of trekking in Santa Cruz. Of course, this has not been achieved without some fairly major pitfalls and I can honestly say, I don't think I've ever been this exhausted. Last night's sleep was as close to no sleep as I think I've ever had without help from some bad medicine and as a result I rose (not awoke, as that would allude to sleep being had) at 6:30am far from refreshed. A tent with four people in who snore loudly and wriggle about like a worm with Parkinson's does not lend itself well to a light sleeper like me. Crucifying's to good for 'em. Anyway, after a bowl of sweet mucus (?) and some fairly amusing jam called Fanny, we disassembled camp and began what was to be the most challenging and arduous section of this Peruvian adventure.

It was all uphill from the get-go today and to begin with I coped with it pretty well. I was always in the first three or four people and sat supercilliously waiting as the others caught up on more than a few occasions. Sadly, however, at 4,000ft, this all changed. The altitude sickness I described before was nothing compared with the dizziness, light-headedness and disorientation I felt as we continued our ascent. I started to find it very difficult to breathe and began dropping back in the group until I found myself in the company of the once lampooned slowest climbers, much to their unspoken delight. With every step my pace slowed, until I was gasping and dragging my feet like a man nearing the end. This changed rapidly though when I suddenly felt the twinges immediately recognisable as an urgent evacuation call from my insides. With only a couple of bus tickets snatched greedily from a kindly Spaniard, I scampered over the bushes to a place of relative solitude to make with the bum wee. Something terrible happened next which I'll spare you the details of - only know this, something in me died this day. I think it may have been a rat.

Soon after this defecating debarcle I got my stride back a bit and although the huffing and puffing continued throughout, I managed to make it to the top of the mountain and the highest point we were to trek to on this trip - 4,750m. The views from here were worth every palpatation - truely breathtaking (literally) I felt glad to be alive and drank in the landscape. Take a look for yourselves from the pic at the top - this was an accomplishment I´ll never forget. Bloody high, in't it?!

Day Three

Today has been all about the scenery. After the altitude, snow and poopery, it's been so much more relaxing and this has been welcomed, at least by me, with open arms. Some people in the group are finding it hard not to swing their tiny penises about with a more gentle day and are actually giving it, 'I could do another day like yesterday' and the like. What's up with that? Even though they were as green as us all by the end, they think that by stating they could do it all again they'll be achieving some kind of hero status. Twat status is all they'll be getting from me, and well-deserved too. Anyway, as we trekked through the valley the views around were simply amazing - it looked as though we were about to walk into a giant canvas screen on a film set. Without the physical hardship of yesterday (and the squits, which seemed to have gone - for now) we were able to take things slowly and truly appreciate our surroundings, making it my favourite day so far. One more sleepless night to go.

Day Four

Strange day. Finally got a half-decent night's sleep away from the digusting pig creatures by swiping a two-man tent from one of the couples and kipping in peace with a lovely Italian man. Not at all the selfish lovers I believed them to be. This was so needed, but I awoke to a very solemn group. Don't know if this was because it was the last day, but everyone seemed to have been struck dumb. We descended the mountain in almost complete silence and took the transport back to Huaraz in the same vein. Perhaps it was fatigue - who can say? The bus back was quite the squeeze, with 18 people on board a vehicle fit for 14 at the most. I was fingering the conductor's bottom with my knee for most of the journey (I could actually feel his body temperature, like a thermometer) and I think I may be his girlfriend now, but apart from that happy news, the mood remained grey. Never mind - even their collective negativity can't take away from the success of the tour. I'm not sure I'll do any more camping while I'm here, but I'm so glad I did this trek. It wasn't easy, to say the least, but that's what makes these experiences all the richer upon completion. Vistas like these are unique to the Peruvian countryside and now I've seen them up close and personal I feel priviledged. And bloody knackered. My feet may look like Falklands survivor Simon Weston, but my heart is spotless with eternal sunshine... or something like that.

Thanks to an old friend of the show, Mr Al 'Lesley' Graham, for getting on board the comments. You, sir, are a prince among men. The pun was on Leo Sayer rather than Neil Sayer though - but I agree both work well. Also thanks to anonymous again - you really are an enigma, but keep 'em coming. Salut.

Wacky Racists

OK, so now I am in Peru and it was actually a pretty underwhelming first day - essentially an exercise in waiting in a cold hostel populated with old people. If you don't have a ludicrously obvious bumbag or a self-loathing fear that you've left it too long to have kids, you're nothing here. One woman actually started telling me how she was here to have her eggs frozen - I tried to lighten the mood by asking if it was like frozen yoghurt and if so, did they come in strawberry flavour? The dried up old husk didn't see the funny side. I read the whole of The Alchemist (actually didn't change my life) and took a wander around Miraflores - the area in Lima I'm staying in for 24 hours - but other than that I just waited for my overnight bus to Huaraz, which left at 10pm.

What is it with old women offering pointless and irritatingly obvious information to me? After the first instance of this on day one, I had another experience of it in the Lima hostel. She was an incredibly curt German woman who started by asking how much my flat cost in London - isn't that rude if you don't know the person? I think it's rude. Anyway, she went on to ask where I was getting the bus from and after showing her the address this is how the conversation went:

'Oh. But this is a dangerous area.'

'I didn't know, but I have to get my bus there, so....'

'You must be very careful. People here are robbed every day in taxis.'

'Yeah... I have to go by taxi though, I don't have any choice.'

'Some boy was robbed outside by his taxi yesterday. Lost everything.'

'I think it'll be fine. I really don't have an alternative anyway.'

'It's really not safe.'

You have to ask how useful this information is for me, who literally had to take a taxi to get there. I'll tell you, not useful at all. To cap it all off with she started getting all anti-semetic when New York came up:

'The Jews own everything there. You're not Jewish, are you?'

'Actually, my Dad was Jewish.'

'So you're half-Jewish?'

'Yes.'

'Well, you know then - they are the best at business. They're all rich. There are no working Jews outside of business.'

'That sounds like a bit of a sweeping generalisation, don't you think?'

'Jews don't like Germans.'

No, ordinary people don't like narrow-minded bigots who give their country a bad name. Fucking silly cow. I'm very glad I went to Germany last year and met some really warm and friendly people, so that this prehistoric fossil from another era didn't taint my opinion. I certainly don't have a problem with Germans - except this moron.

Anyway, leaving Nazi Germany to one side for a moment, as of this morning we are in the real thing. I arrived in Huaraz at 5am, so it was pitch black when I got to bed for a few hours sleep, but when I woke up and went outside - well, I'm definitely not in Kansas anymore. The town is surrounded by huge imposing mountains which dominate the landscape and give you that feeling you're being watched. The locals all look exactly the way you'd expect - I thought all that traditional dress was reserved for the tourists, but they're all in it and they all look like they could play the shit out of a panpipe, given half the chance. Is that racist? The problem is, there's no-one else here. I feel like the only gringo in the village and that's an odd sensation, given the huge amount of foreigners I've been used to bumping into until now. Fact is it's out of season at the moment - a detail I chose to ignore when coming over, which may prove to have been a little previous.

I've had conflicting reports about how the all-important weather will be though, but I suppose only time will tell. I have to spend the next two days acclimatising because it's so high round here (3,100ft) and I have to say, altitude sickness is a strange thing. My usual purposeful stride developed in London, has been downgraded to a meandering lollop cos every time I pick up the pace I feel like Rik Waller changing TV channels. This morning when I woke up I could hardly breathe - as you can imagine this made masturbating an almost impossible task. Almost, but with a little time and patience dreams really can come true.

I've been looking round and think I've found a company to do my trek of Santa Cruz with now, so after a couple of days fannying around getting extra waterproofs and sweating over my knuckle children trials I'll be off to the mountains. I'm very excited about this, but hope the weather holds out and that there are a couple of English-speakers on board. I'm running out of scraps of paper!

Thanks to you Rob for getting a comment in there early. I think that's called a back-handed compliment, isn't it? I realise I'm firing off lots of blogs at the moment, but stick with it - there's just so much to say!

Rio Sayer

I know I said, see you in Peru, at the end of last week's posting, but I hadn't done my one-day bonanza tour of Rio at that point and since I did so bloody much I thought you'd might like to know about it. Once again, I'm thinking only of you and what's in your best interests. You're welcome.

Getting into Rio was a bit of a shock. After the skin-searing heat of Salvador we arrived into a rain drenched city in the midst of some of its worst storms of recent history. One major tunnel to the city centre had actually been blocked by a mudslide, that's how blooming much it had been pissing it down. Yeah. Although, by the time we left the airport it was really only spitting - that fine rain that soaks you through. This was a disaster, though, because everything I wanted to do the following and only day I was to be there was dependent upon the weather holding up. Imagine my surprise, then, when on the next morning I awoke to a bright and sunshiney day. All the predictions had been doom and gloom from the locals and the internet weather reports, so this was an unexpected boon that I immediately began capitalising on by feverishly preparing my itinery for the day. The first stop was the Cococabana Beach - I realise last week I denounced these sandy bastards after they turned my face a perpetual shade of embarrassment, but can you really go to Rio and not step foot on one of the most famous beaches in the world? So that's exactly what I did - I stepped onto the white sand, had my picture taken and then legged it before the sun got any funny ideas. Hot flamey tosser. I should point out that I wasn't doing all this on my own. A lovely couple from Blighty who I'd met in Salvador (that's right - if you're reading this Matt and Lee, I'm calling you lovely) were coincidently coming to Rio at the same time and were also partaking in the Rio day of fun and laughter.

After the beach and scouting around for a romantic hotel that Matt and Lee were to spend their last days in SA in (ah. See - lovely) we made our way to rendez-vous with a tour guide who was taking us to meet our hang-gliding instucter. Yup, we were off to strap ourselves to a stranger and a canopy and hurl ourselves off a mountain. But then the picture probably gave that away. This was good - in fact, it was more than good, it was a real treat to see Rio in all its glory from up high, the problem was I got lumbered with the world's most miserable git as my instructer. Whereas Matt and Lee got a cheery description of the city as it spread out beneath them, my gliding buddy remained mostly mute, speaking only to tell me not to touch the steering bar (I never did, but he repeated it about 10 times) or to tell me he was taking a picture. You can see him smiling in the photo, but I assure you, this only ever happened as the camera clicked and strangest of all he would make a painfully strained whooping sound periodically when it was perfectly clear he did this 15 times a day and probably got more thrills taking out the bins. Plus he played numerous remixes of the Crazy Frog track in his jeep without so much as a curling sneer. A shame, but ultimately good to have ticked off the list. Tick.

The next stop on the whistle-stop tour was to the favelas (shanty towns) in the city, made famous from the Brazilian film, City of God. This felt a little exploitative as really it's just me going and saying, 'look at the poor people!' but the money goes back into projects there and the people taking the tours all live within the slums themselves and have a real pride in their home. Plus I love looking at poor people, so I'd be a fool to pass up an opportunity like this. It's one of those moments that brings everything back into sharp focus. It's easy to say, 'they really touched me and made me realise how I take everything for granted', (one did touch me, but was subsequently made an example of upon my request) and I'm not gonna harp on about the haves and have-nits, just to say that there's a happy contentedness in that place I've never experienced anywhere else. They justifiably get upset about the outside world's perception of their lives through films like City of God and you can understand why when you go there. I certainly took that view of the place before I arrived, but afterwards I realised it was about much more than that there - it's a community which pulses with Brazil's natural vibrancy and although it's definitely more raw there, because of that it seems more pure. Deep, eh?

OK, so leaving the deep and meaningfuls aside for now, I left the favelas behind and made my way back to the hostel to prepare for my final night in Brazil. A big night it was too. Friday night is a biggy no matter where you are, but when you're in Rio they take their partying very seriously. There's an area called Lapa, which is well-known for its hedonism and incredible nightlife, so what better place to spend my last night? After a couple of drinks and some average food (but enormous portions) the promised rain began to fall, but who cared at this point? Not I. I had finally got one over on the weather and happily sat under cover drinking ridiculously large Jack Daniels and watching as the rain drenched the street outside. In a lull between the torrents we sped off in a taxi, arriving in Lapa 20 minutes later where all around people were dancing, singing and drinking. Lots. Finally settling on a cheapish club we got our groove thang on and last thing I can remember is getting up on a stage-like platform and acting like I was Ricky bloody Martin. A suitably hectic day in a frenetic country like no other. Right, now for Peru...

Thanks to LSD (or something like that) for a comment on the last posting. It was a little poem, weren't it? Soothing and comforting it was too. Also, a little message for Matt and Lee - great to meet you guys and all the best for your return to the motherland. By the way, after you left they got me for the tour and photos - bastards.

Sun Of A Beach

Is really incredibly hot. Since I've been over here in Salvador the temperature has Salva-soared (do you see?) and I've spent most of my time boozing it on the sand and occasionally dipping into the sea for a quick slash. Where's the hardship and difficulty? I actually trained hard before coming out here (you may not believe it, but that's a fact) however I've spent the last week spread eagle on the beach attempting not to blind the locals with my gringo palour. I'm not a beach person, as you may have already guessed, and sitting on the coastline has been more of an exercise in escape from the sun than to it. In fact, whilst floating in the water today and taking a little pee, I glanced down at my legs as the sun bounced off them just below the surface and they instantly brought to mind the bit in a horror film where some dead human part suddenly appears from nowhere. For the geeks out there, I'm thinking Ben Harper in Jaws. If you thought his dead mutated face was scary, you should see my feet. And I always thought I was only dead on the inside.

So most of my days so far have consisted of gleaming tusk-like beneath the extortionately priced umbrella of a beach vendor, but the nights have taken the daytime drinking to a whole new level. At the risk of sounding Brent-like and harping on about boozing, these last few days have been some of the most saturated experiences of my - slightly impaired - memory. The main reason for this is a local tipple called caipiarha. This is about the strongest drink I've ever come across and is best described as an undiluted, incredibly alcoholic lemon squash with sugar lumps at the bottom of it. Trying this for the first time caused severe puckering of both the anus and mouth, but with a little patience and time it began to contribute integrally to the excess of charm and charisma that goes hand-in-hand with extreme levels of inhibriation. Such a moment was providentially experienced by my two female dorm-mates recently when - after a long caipiarha-based evening session - I awoke in the morning to find myself completely naked on the floor with an unmistakable stench of wee-wee all around and an undeniable memory of taking said wee-wee on the dorm floor. Even if your memory is corrupted by the drink, you immediately know if something really bad has happened cos of that sensation as soon you wake up that you've been bad. You can't quite put your finger on it, but you always know. This was one of those times and I'm pretty sure I used one of the girls' towels to mop it up as well. You may think that's unspeakably crass, but I actually find it difficult to look beyond the fact that, as drunk as I was, I still managed to be considerate enough to clean it all up. I blame the capihara. The girls, however, blame my dinkle.

Wow, did I get burnt yesterday. My skin now resembles a medium rare steak (on the inside, of course) or McDonalds strawberry milkshake and I hurt everywhere. I have now resigned myself to a life devoid of any kind of beach activity in the future. Important lessons have been learnt now and possibly even new cancers grown, but most irritating of all is the fact that, even though you're (literally) painfully aware, others always seem to feel the need to tell you that you're burnt. Believe it or not, as I stand there literally quaking from the sunstroke, this is a fact I know and require no assistance in recognising.

So Salvador is now at an end and after a couple of days in Rio, so will be my time in the first country of my South American travels. Speaking to others I've met, Brazil is apparently one of the more difficult countries to make your way around over here, but although it certainly has a bad reputation which should not be taken lightly and is more expensive than the next stops on my trip, I've definitely had fun here. The locals love their country - from the food to the music and the skimpy outfits (which I'm also partial to) they really seem to enjoy life here and the cities are charged with that over-awing positivity. Yellow and green flags can be seen flying everywhere, but instead of carrying the banjo-plucking conotations of the Stars and Stripes or the ball-scratching thuggery of the Union Jack, it seems to signify a unified vibrancy which permeates throughout the country. You see, line dancing is shit - no-one will tell you any different if you ask them, but at an African drumming practice for the Carnival I went to on Saturday night, it not only looked great, it was also enticing enough for me to get on in there (as much as I loved it, there's video evidence which must be destroyed) But that's Brazil all over. Everything here is infectionally sexy and cool. Except me - I'm burnt and flakey. See you in Peru.

Thanks to anonymous for his/her comment last week - why not leave your name next time, then you can have it immoralised. That'd be nice, wouldn't it? And of course dear Glenda - keep it up, mate, I think you hold the record so far.

El Blogo

Bloody Nora, I'm in South America! More precisely, I'm in Brazil and I can't understand a bleedin' word anyone is saying. I can't believe what a cliche I'm conforming to as well - I've been conversing through a tried and tested British system of pointing, talking loudly and slowly in English and using the only word I know in Portuguese - obrigado. It's hard work and I feel guilty and unutterably British as I do it, but what else can I do? Actually there is something I do to try and bridge the significant language barrier which involves scraps of paper and me looking like a right pillock. I get the lovely and helpful hostel people to write details like names, places and directions on bits of paper and then take them out with me in order to try and make my way round town. I can't even say anything when I present the scraps to the bemused looking locals - I just kind of squeak and look desperately at them as I slowly draw my finger back and forth beneath the relevant written passage. This has led to some inevitable miscommunications - my favourite of which, so far, has been that I play in the English Premiership. Nonsense, of course, what with my bad knee. I must find a translator soon - this is becoming intolerable.

So winner of El Stupido 2007 must surely go to me for realising when I first got here that I left my proof of yellow fever innoculation back in Canada. That's $140 I'll never see again. Just so you understand the importance - one of the main reasons I came to South America was to do a jungle trek and you can´t even get into the Amazon without one of these cards. To compound matters, at the point of realisation on the airport shuttle bus an old battleaxe riding with me kept repeating over and over that I shouldn't have left it behind while shaking her head and reminding me I can't get into countries here without it. This is all information I was well aware of and to be perpetually reminded of my, granted, stupidity did not help. She was one of those people who, even if you insist upon knowing something, can't help hammering it home. Example:

'Have you bought a ticket back to England?'

'Yes, I've got one.'

´Cos if you haven't, it´s peak season at Christmas and you won't get one.'

'I know - that's why I bought one ages ago. Thanks though.'

'You need to make sure you have one otherwise you won't get one now.'

'I. Fucking. Know.'

Obviously I didn't say the last bit, relying instead on pulling my testes hard and bringing Stabby out of retirement. I think she thought I was a complete idiot after the innoculation card incident (difficult to believe, I know) cos she continued to point out the bleedin' obvious for the rest of the journey. Some of these revelations included:

'Don't get on the subway at rush hour. It's very busy.'
'You should get money out of a bank here.'
'Hide your money when you get it out so people can't see it.'

Some very important tips there, I think you'll agree. I then went on to ask her about the mysterious blue fire that makes rooms go bright, why I didn't fall off the edge of the world when I went to Canada and what they feed the steel beast we were travelling in.

Contrary to what some women will tell you, far from skin-ripping agony, I've found Brazilians to be perfectly charming. Apart from Einstein on the bus, everyone I've met over here has been happy to talk (or read my scraps of conversation) and Sao Paulo is not nearly the terrifying murderer's den I was led to believe it would be. The people are friendly and the city itself is much more modern and cosmopolitan than the guides do it justice for. The beer and food is cheap and the hostel I'm staying in feels like a home from home. There is, of course, one guy here who, just cos he's been in SA for six weeks, thinks he's Marco sodding Polo. It's the nonchalance with which he conducts himself that boils my blood. American, of course - I asked him where he'd been and he answered too loudly and ostentatiously, 'All over the world, my friend.' 'Really? Whereabouts?' I say. 'Not really, I´ve just been in the north-east of Brazil', he grins, looking desperately around for recognition. Oh, ha! Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! I get it! You said you'd been somewhere else but actually hadn't! That's fucking hilarious! Don't you see?! He mocks my stupid question (stupid, stupid question) with a fake answer, then seamlessly retorts with the actual answer at the end therefore denouncing me as a inquisitive moron and crowning himself the true king of South America! God, I need him inside me now.

Sorry about the rant, you know how I can get. Right, well, I'm off to Salvador this morning for further adventures. Thanks for the comments Feri (see, wasn´t that hard now, was it) and Guess Who (who are you then and what did that all mean?) See you there.

O Canada

Well, this is it. The end of my time in Canada is upon me, but intermingled with my genuine feelings of sadness comes a gut-wrenching sensation of excitement as I stand on the precipice of a new adventure. Like many before me I'm leaving the simplicity of Easy Street with all the friends and comforts that I've made over my travels and striding out into unchartered territory. Direct comparisons with pioneers like Columbus and Cook seem a little egotistical - let's face it, there are maps and even Rough Guides available now which were far harder to come by then - so I'll have to satisfy myself with less impressive associations with the likes of (Uncle) Gobo Fraggle. Remember him? He always sent back postcards to the other Fraggles from his trips away which were conveyed to us via voiceover and a VT. An early Palin, if you like. So Uncle Gobo it is - Red may be more physically appropriate, but I'm gonna go with Gobo based on his inspirational travelogues. If I'm half the Fraggle he was I'll be happy.

Fortunately for me, I don't have to draw on mere memories to take a look back at my experiences over here on the second largest land mass in the world (damn you, Russia!) You may have noticed I've been keeping an online diary of events since I've been in Canada - street name: blog - and like all the cheapest sitcoms I thought it might be quite nice to rely on previous episodes to reminisce over the last few months. Do you remember the way my neighbour would always come over and borrow things from me? Or how about when some Germans came to my hotel and I mentioned the war once, but thought I got away with it? And who can forget when I (finally) got together with Rachel? Happy, happy times. Of course these are not my memories, they exist solely in a fictional realm constructed by fat-walleted writers. I, however, have brought you nothing but the facts - albeit slightly embellished sometimes - and for not a penny of remuneration, you understand. The somewhat sporadic comments are all the capital I need to fund my work, and what a mighty tome it has turned out to be. Printing it out so that I can pick on some highlights produced a 23,000 word 45 page document - I'll say sorry to the Rainforests when I'm there - nearly two and a half times the size of my dissertation, although not half the pulse-racing romp through the literary ages that turned out to be. Yup.

Looking back over this great volume of work has triggered all sorts of memories and predominately - having spent the last four months being able to sleep and, let's face it, masturbate uninterrupted in my own room - what it was like living at the mercy of other people's feet and armpits during those difficult hostel weeks. While it's easy to laugh at some of those reflections now and even remember other trials I didn't commit to the blog - like when I awoke jet-lagged in the middle of the night on my first morning to the sight of my Bangladeshi neighbour staring right at me from across the bunk chasm and giving himself a furious treat - it does fill me with some trepidation about my South American travels to come. I'm not that worried though cos along with these testing times, hostels have afforded me some of the more interesting and hilarious moments in my stay here in Canada. There's a youthful hedonism infused throughout these places and while that inevitably involves youthfuls and their droopy trousers, they're not all that bad. The droopy trousers are that bad, actually, and sometimes even worse.

Here are some top tips for staying in hostels:

1) If the first room they put you in stinks of cheesy helmets, don't settle, see if you can get another room. If they won't, glare at them. That seemed to do wonders for me.

2) Sleep with all your precious things either in your pillow case or down your pants. This does, however, mean it's not only the room that ends up stinking of cheesy helmets.

3) Offer to make food for everyone, then add an extra dollar to their share meaning they pay for yours. Follow this by putting more food on your plate than theirs and chuckle to yourself as they thank you profusely and clear up.

4) Don't get brutally tortured and then murdered by an evil ring of torture fetishists.

5) And this is the most important - go and find a hotel. The more expensive the better.

So what have been the highlights and what have I learned? Well, more highlights than a block of council flats here. Sailing across Lake Huron in the good ship SS Racist in my first month has to be one of them. The old sea-dogs may have been ideologically flawed, but they did let me steer the vessel and even referred to me as 'the captain' during that time and who can deny that would be fun? The festivals were also a scream – some were simply just screaming, like the now infamous Pride Festival, but also the Caribana and even the Greektown parades bring back summer memories I’ll never forget. I even bought a chocolate vagina at the Danforth celebration, which until then I’d always thought was a euphemism. Jet-skiing, white water rafting, hiking, drinking, singing, dancing, the list never ends – but in reality Canada isn’t that different from England. People here speak English, listen to the same music and act pretty much the same as us over there. We, obviously, get to be far more pompous in the Motherland and refer to baseball using its proper name, which as we all know is rounders, but in general if you’re looking for the ultimate travelling experience, Canada probably isn’t the place for you. However, if you’re looking for some of the nicest, most polite, genuinely interested people I’ve ever come across, you’ve come to the right place. It’s the people over here that really make it a great place to visit. Getting on a streetcar for the first time I didn’t know where to look when the driver actually spoke to me and asked me how I was. In London you’re lucky if you don’t get spat on for having the audacity to use public transport by the driver, but over here they’re glad to have you on board. In fact, the only person who’s had any kind of negative effect on me while I’ve been here has been from England (you know him, we need not say his name) and that about sums it up for me.

Thank you, Canada. You have been kind, generous and, surprisingly, bloody hot. I’ll miss you lots – especially in England next year where it’ll piss it down all summer.

Lots of love,

Andrew

(PS Two comments for last week's post. Thanks to Ron Jeremy, long time reader, first-time commenter - all magazines are gratefully received. And also to anonymous - all critisisms will be taken on board, processed and then duly ignored.)

The Brown Planet

Leaving the horrors of Christopher Crinkle-Cock in Danforth Avenue far behind (I never knew hate till I met you) I think it's time I told you about my new hood. I'm forever grateful to Libby who valiantly rescued me from the evil clutches of the vile gangster, Affas The Hutt, and I don't think I've had a more relaxing place to live since I've been in Toronto. The sun has finally come out from behind its fat, sweaty (and ugly - so ugly) cloud for me, but there are some issues about the surrounding area I feel I should address. Libby's home sits comfortably between the haves and the have-nots and as such I am privy to some pretty outstanding examples of both poverty and affluence. Walking home from work now I pass directly through the richer end of Yonge Street, with its giant mall-based shopping and skyscrapers, but continuing the walk I find myself in the middle of the ghetto.

This ghetto is fairly far removed from what I was used to in Gerrard Street. There I could feel a modicum of safety - in the lap of the university buildings I surely had as much chance as the next student to be picked off by the skunk pussies and saw myself as statistically favourable to make it to the next excursion. Walking the length of Queen Street, the road which I live off these days, things take a turn to the darker and the safety in numbers theory dwindles with every footstep. Gone are the buxom prostitutes we discussed a few weeks ago and in their place are some much more desperate looking saucer-eyed nut-bags. One, in particular - there's always one - is catching my attention at the moment. She's a youngish girl, at least I think she's young under all that muck, who sits on the grass of Moss Park with a car sideview mirror in her hand pointed outward towards us pedestrians. Being a literal sort of chap, this got me thinking as to the purpose of this gesture. Could it be that she's saying, 'look not upon me with eyes that judge. Before me, you must judge yourself'? Or maybe, 'within my pulverised body beats the heart of an everyman. I, my brother, am you.'? Fortunately, one day, walking a little too close and staring a little too much, I got my answer. 'Suck my clit!' Of course, that was it after all. Delightful.

Recently I was passing through the Moss Park area and I got the finest example of human wildlife I think I've ever seen. Picture the scene: It's late afternoon in early autumn and although the weather has lost its biting edge, it's still warm enough in the slight breeze. The locals of Moss Park are milling around as normal - some are dozing in the shade beneath a tree while others are crouching down, pulling their filthy pee-pees out of the sides of their shorts and pissing like a racehorse. It's a lazy day and all is well in the soiled trousers of Trampland. Then the tide abruptly changes. It's as though the park has been tilted up at one end and the staggering inhabitants begin to slowly, but then with more focus, make their way across to the far right corner where a big station wagon is pulling up. Those previously dozing are now dragging themselves to their feet and the pace is picking up for the others until a growing throb of unwashed begin to gather around the car. A bright white couple eventually emerge and while they beam happily at the crew huddling around them, they push past and pull out a couple of picnic tables from the boot. The mass is now writhing in feverish anticipation and you can hear the occasional figure cry out as the inevitable casualties of greed start to mount up. Then, finally, to those who've weathered the storm, the spoils. Hotdog buns and weiners along with t-shirts and trousers are piled onto the tables and, amazingly, are left untouched - although the smellies are beginning to slaver and moan achingly at the very sight of them. Gingerly the white couple step back away from the tables, their smiles have faded now - they know the bums are coming, and hell is coming with them. Stay… Stay… Go-get-it! Utter chaos. The tables are bowing under the relentless pressure, but the sturdy bastards are holding fast. What looks like nothing other than a ball of teeth and dirty fingernails are laying siege to the goods - buns are being worn and t-shirts eaten in frantic desperation and around it all, a halo of flying weiners. Eventually the frenetic melee subsides and as quickly as they arrived, the rasin cakes disperse back to whence they came wearing back-to-front Halo 3 t-shirts and belching. They'll sleep now for several weeks.

And now a moan. Working here is doing my fucking head in. These people actually think I give a shit about them or their laughable Ministry of Education. That has to be the biggest irony I've experienced since I've been here - Ministry of Education?! These are without doubt the most incompetent group of inept morons I've ever worked with. Literally the slimy dregs from the bottom of the barrel seem to be scraped up and shaped into civil servants out here. I've lost count of the amount of times I've heard this, 'I sent you an e-mail about…' No you didn't. You didn't send me anything. Are these people actually retarded? Can they not remember what they did five minutes ago? Fuck me, they're stupid. I then have to trawl through all my e-mails to get proof that they didn't do what they said they did for them to look defiantly back and say, 'do it anyway - right away' Right away? Just so I'm sure, that was, right away? If there's any phrase in the world to make me drop any kind of urgency with which I was carrying out a task I think it may be this one. Just to prove it, this is actually what I'm doing 'right away'. I'm writing about what a group of bottom-feeding charlatans you idiots are instead. Then I think I might take a two hour shit and a little walk, or I may even start up the old masturbatorium again, instead this time in full view and aiming a viscous arc of righteous man mucus right in their faces - now that would be a mighty orgasm. I'm so turned on right now. All I can say is, God help the youth of Canada - if I was you I'd turn to Moss Park for an education. I hear they do an excellent course on clit sucking. And breathe.

It's happened, the record for comments has been broken. A staggering six of the best fell at the feet of last week's posting and although I'm pretty sure some of them were from the same people (Glen and Nabila, I'm talking to you here) I think, yes, I'm getting the nod from Norris McWhirter, that's a new record! Dedication, that's what you need. Anyway, to those anonymous, Michael, Damon and you Rob (who I'm better at pool than) many thanks for making dreams come true. Come on now the rest of you, I know you're out there, I can hear you breathing.

7

Is it possible? I'm so sure and all the conditions and circumstances would point to it being credible, but surely not? It was downtown, the film festival is still on while I write this, so could it actually be that I saw Steven Spielberg cycle past me on the way into work? I suppose I'll never be sure unless I run it past the great auteur himself, but I'd like to think it is true. Therefore that's what I'll do. No one can ever question the validity of the declaration (were you there? No) and Al saw Daniel Craig outside his office in Covent Garden the other week, so why not? Yep, you'll never guess who I saw biking past me as I walked into work - only Steven bloody Spielberg! And he was wearing a Amistad cycle helmet adorned with boats and slaves from the film of the same name. Or was he? That could be merely embellishment strapped onto the end of an already outlandish statement, but the only person who'll ever know the truth is me - or anyone with half a brain. As if Amistad had helmety merchandise?! It was actually Schindler's List. Or was it? (It wasn't)

Anyway, onto today and to continue the theme of was it/wasn't it, I think I'm sitting next to Colin from Edith and Colin on Radio One at the moment, but I can't be sure so I've decided against asking. Plus, what would I say? 'You're that Colin, aren't you?' And he'd say, 'yes', if he was. But then what? Actually, what am I talking about? We would talk about the Beeb, how we both worked there and before you know it we'd be great, great friends laughing and joking and then he'd get me on the radio and into celebrity parties (finally) where I'd get drunk and end up having a photo taken of my shaved vagina as I got out of a car. Hang on. I hate Colin from Edith and Colin. He's a twat. Maybe that's what we'd chat about - about how he's a talentless self-satisfied twat who acts all dangerous and interesting, but that I've experienced more danger and interest last time I got out of the lift on the wrong floor. (Another one came along shortly afterwards, don't worry) So sorry, Colin, I don't think it's gonna happen - I ain't shaving my vagina for no man.

So how come I'm (possibly) sat next to Colin? Well, I'm sat next to lots of people right now cos I'm on a Greyhound bus headed for Buffalo, New York, where I'm getting a flight to Manhattan to see Rob (who I'm better at pool than) for his surprise 30th birthday party (surprise!) I've often heard about Greyhound buses - when I was in the States a few years ago I used to pick people up from the Greyhound station in Las Vegas for the hostel I worked in, but until now I've never been on one. God, he really does look like Colin. Anyway, they have a bad reputation and being the cheapest form of long distance transportation they attract a more pungent clientele, being the company of choice for convicts, murderers and sexual deviants of all… Wait a second, some Amish people just got on. We've stopped at Niagara Falls and a young Amish couple just got on the bus. Now I'm no expert, but I have seen Witness, which I think, I'm not sure, but I think qualifies me to make some wildly inaccurate and judgemental conjectures on the lifestyles of these natural odour embracing folk. I didn't think they were allowed to use the bus? I thought all the trappings of modern life were to be ignored and even scorned? Don't they have pig-drawn carts for all their transporting needs? Still, I wonder if he'll let me wear his hat. Personally I can't see it.

Now, back to the drivel. This is a real-time description as I'm travelling by Greyhound down to New York, kind of like 24, but over far less time (only seven hours) with a far lower body count and almost no threat of a nuclear attack. At least it gives me an idea for the title of this posting. So I'm heading into the US very shortly where I expect to be judged and eye-balled by rent-a-cop at customs, who'll no doubt make a huge issue of the fact I went on a day-trip into Detroit three months ago and conclude the proceedings by violating my prostate with his huge sausage fingers. Again. I'll let you know. Very shortly, in fact - we've just arrived at customs. Don't go away… (Beep, beep, beep, beep...)

Beep, beep, beep, beep...

A more self-important, brash, low-rent bunch of Neanderthals you could not hope to meet. US customs - probably the most deplorable group of people on the planet. These imbeciles carry guns! They give guns (which fire actual bullets, you understand - at great speed, I'm led to believe) to these knuckle-scraping dullards who would happily pump two into Grandma's face if she couldn't show the right documents at the dullard annual family barbecue. Talk about a power trip. Probably my favourite part of the process is when they summon you over with just a beckoning finger. No words, just a finger - ironically enough that would have been my response of choice if I had the minerals. But I have no minerals, just a vagina, as discussed. So now that all my bags, papers and cavities have been roughly poked about in I finally find myself Stateside in good ol' Buffalo. Apparently this place is a dump and I can quite believe it. Border towns have this bad reputation for a reason and this one looks to have all the charm and allure of a Jim Davidson dinner party. Fortunately I'm only stopping here long enough to get a bus to the airport and as we're pulling up to the bus station now it's time to make with the beep, beep.

Beep, etc...

Oh my God, I'm so bored. At the bus station I still had 2.5 hours to get to the airport and even though this would appear to be plenty of time to you and me, one of the porters looked at his watch and shrugged that it 'might be enough time' to get there. Thinking the airport must be miles away and I'd wildly miscalculated in my carefully planned itinery (it seemed unlikely with the wealth of spreadsheet-based data I'd prepared, but you never know) I legged it Christie-style to the nearest taxi rank and shouted, 'airport and step on it!'. Of course I didn't, but I felt the 24 analogy was becoming obsolete and I like it, so there needs to be some shouting and high speed driving. So with the mushroom cloud that was once downtown Buffalo disappearing into the distance and the dead terrorist slumped in the seat next to me I ripped the computer chip out of my fake finger, reprogrammed the co-ordinates and tore down the freeway towards the airport. Ahem. Of course I got here with plenty of time to spare and now I'm sitting down contemplating another two hours of sitting down. They say only boring people get bored - I'm not sure they have had the pleasure of clock-watching in Buffalo airport with a broken iPod. If it wasn't for the human conveyor belt which makes you feel like you're walking at an incredible speed I think the suicide rates in airports would be through the roof. Gotta love that moving walkway. What would be the most disruptive and chaos-inducing declaration you could make in an airport? Shout, 'bomb!'?, shout, 'I've got a bomb'? Open your bag at check-in and ask, 'does my bomb look big in this?' Terrible. Sorry, so very, very bored. I'm off to try and beat my land-speed record on the walkway. Beep, beep, beep, beep...

Beep, beep, beep, beep...

So it's just dawned on me, I think this is gonna be quite tight. I've got to get to the bar where the surprise party (surprise!) is being held in just under three hours and it all relies on public transport running on time. My history with this kind of thing is not good and I'm starting to get a bit nervous I'm gonna end up getting there late and miss the 'surprise!' element - really the whole point of the covert planning and bare-faced lying we've all been participating in for the last few months. If I get there late can I still shout, 'surprise!'? I'd feel robbed if I couldn't and I think I've earned the right - but there is a danger of me looking like a bit of a cock if I do. Is it me, or is it getting hot in here? I don't mind flying, in fact I quite enjoy it once we're up, up and away, but there's always one point in the journey where I'm utterly convinced this is gonna be the way I die. It only lasts for mere fractions of a second, but it's an inevitable part of the experience for me and would almost be quite liberating if it wasn't accompanied by a raw, blind, more than happy to stamp on women and children's heads to get past panic. Fortunately that's been and gone now that we've just landed, but the captain just announced we're currently at the mercy of an available place to disembark - the wait begins. 10 minutes and still waiting. 25 minutes, leg twitching and still waiting. 40 minutes, eyes watering, leg now in overtime and still waiting. 55 minutes! Now we've been on the tarmac longer than we were in the air! Body at full injustice-induced spasm and still waiting! Beep, beep, beep, beep…

Beep, beep, beep, beep....

Right, so I was at the very front of the plane, the perfect spot for a quick exit, but after asking the stewardess to make a quick announcement asking if anyone wanted to split a cab to downtown New York I waited for the two people who raised their hands at the back. Come on, I know you're back there, come on.... No! As the last people filed out I looked up pleadingly, but it was obvious then - the lying bastards had thought better of it. Godammit! I just waited 10 minutes for the plane to empty for no good reason and now I have to wait for all the shuffling coffin-dodgers left at the back to make it up the stairs plus I can't afford a taxi on my own. Why, Lord, why?! I haven't been this frustrated since I found out Terry Nutkins didn't call his son Squirrel. Beep. Time is of the essence - I'm entering the last 30 minutes of the seven hours on a train heading for Penn Station. There I'll take a taxi to the bar for the all-important, 'surprise!'. Beep. Train's arrived. Making calls to Rob's fiancé and mate - nearly there. Beep. Taxi went wrong way. Spat venom at him and got in another. Beep. There's Pete and Roddy - we're on our way by foot now. Beep. Need deodorant. Beep. Urgently. Beep. Seven hours is up. Is that Rob....?

Beep, beep, beep, beep....