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.