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.)