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.