Tourist Attaction

Arriving to Phenom Penh was now becoming akin to all the other arrivals - arrive get rudely awakened, tossed unceremoniously off the bus with daylight breaking into view as the rapidly descending mob of tuktuk drivers, eager motos and taxis tightly close in with a cacophony of 'Miss, you want cyclo/moto/tuktuk/taxi?' 'no thank you.' 'me/i good driver/ have good bike etc.' 'no thank you.' 'Miss, where you go now, miss... MISS?' 'NO, thank you.' Turn around organise walk/shared tuktuk etc. and choose one of the sea of drivers, all presumably vying for your custom as the rules of the Bus Game afford high stakes and big returns for those able to ferry several passengers to their hostel of choice buried deep within whichever city's you have emerged in backpacker haven.

In Phenom Penh this is by the Boeng Ek lake, or more aptly floating rubbish tip which cordons off the travelling community from the rest of civilised society. After a couple 0f hrs sleep in our floating accomodation we headed, via the 'Happy Farm' to Choung Ek. I'm glad this was the order as handling an AK47 or Colt .22 after seeing the horrors of the Killing Fields is a mildly repulsive proposition, I cannot imagine how blowing up a cow with a RPG could vaguely appeal to anyone having seen the destruction that plagues Cambodias recent history. The gravity of the Khmer Rouge acts and close phyiscal, human and time proximity to these attrocities serves to inculcate a very uncomfortable chill. At Choung Ek, to walk in rainy season between the mass graves is especially chilling since rags and bone fragments surface in the paths. I think the clothes were if anything the worst as they make it much more relatable - bones are animal and brutalised whereas clothing that we think of as transient and fragile outlives its owners to become a very human reminder of the individuals who once inhabited them.

The horrors of the past are commemorated in as tasteful a manner as you could hope for (possibly with the exception of the graphics and music on the film) but I'm not sure there's any way in which to make the visit seem less sordidly voyeuristic, the (highly recommended, sadly left languishing in a Vietnamese bus) excellent Footprint guide hardly helped the sentiment by commenting cynically on the nature of the buying of genocide, religious and war sites for tourist exploitation by various wealthy individuals.

Back in Phenom Penh I enjoyed meeting Joe of the infamous Happy Herb Pizza Joint and his collection of lost boys who were all staying free of charge upstairs in a distinctly fagin-esque setup on the condition they spent $3/day at the bar. Seeing as Joe's convivial style, wife's cooking and bewildered visiting mother-in-law lured you into at least several rounds and supper this was an incredible deal and so night no. 2 was on Joe's roof, hammock slung between buildings watching the stars over the lake - incredible despite the mosquitoes being quite so salacious!

Various places populated by monks, monkeys or more likely both

So I awoke following not a great number of hours sleep, probably partly due to the knowledge of my bedfellows relatives scratching around nearby to an unwelcome footwarmer. The screams were bloodcurdling and I fled my $1/night semi-al fresco bed for the relative comfort of the $3 barnhouse cubicle and then ran in the morning before they could work out quite who'd been in the bed (a little like goldilocks I like to imagine), but not before cooking my lunch in the kitchens (the staff were very surprised - i doubt they'd ever experienced such an intrusion before) and took a keen interest in the art of cooking risotto. 11am and the previous night's tuktuk driver had failed to show so I stumbled across Guan who was to be one of the main attractions of Siem Riep!

Guan was to firstly ferry me across to Ivy 2 where the food was AMAZING (actually i should qualify the Cambodian food was good but I think it is difficult with asian food to get beyond good to truly exceptional - recommend the amok though) and I indulged in plate after plate of mezze for $1.50 on a far too regular basis. An hour later after a shower I was off to Ankor which is exactly what I had expected and yet indescribably beautiful. The serenity of Ankor and Bayon surprised me given the weight of tourist traffic but then I realised I was viewing the circuit at reverse timings. Highlight of the day aside from watching the monkeys crawling around the smiling faces of bayon whilst I read a book in a cool corner before being whisked around a local school run by the monks where Guans' son was meant to be learning but appeared to be teaching english! After that, I resolved to pick up a load of textbooks and pens to hand out instead of buying the tat universally peddled by the kids (although a gappie i met informed me that most his class did both attend school and tout flutes/postcards/scarves etc.) which met with approving looks from the mothers who were then inclined to show me where I could eat something and make sure I got a free drink/desert or similar - Cambodians were a welcome change from the Thais who were rather less than pleased in general by young westerners.

Day 2 got off to a very early start and another rat (this one wasn't actually in the bed and so I hopped out the door and later had a word with the security guard to switch to an upstairs room). by 5am I was installed infront of the main complex with a couple of americans intringued by my ridiculous plastic faux lomo waiting (having managed to stumble over the ruins in pitch darkness) for the sun to rise which it did with majestic greatness over the ruins - picture soon I promise. From there a full 13hours of temple hopping interspersed with chats to Guan and his friends continued to the point where I think I got temple fatigue. So we decided to head off to the Roulous group where the sunset over the ruins there with evening prayer from the adjacent monastry in the company of some novices made for a unforgetable night and meant that I had a rather subdued evening since the lures of Siem Rieps 'Pub Alley' appeared less substancial given the preceedings.

Also in the 2 hours waiting sunset Guan and I had come up with a plan to get his tuktuk earning more. So the next day we headed post final ruins to the Silk Farm and I tried faltering french with the owner (who blatantly spoke english) until he understood that we were attempting to pimp out the tuktuk by upholstering it in silks and repainting the sign to proclaim him TukTuk De Luxe. In return guan now peddles their silks from his pukka backseat and offers free transport to the farm if wanted......... you can't miss him if youre in the vicinity! Dinner was served chez Guan by his lovely wife surrounded by children. Not exactly all that traditional fare considering roast chicken and caramelised apples appeared on the table but delicious and an awesome experience all the same!

Final port of call was quadbiking across the paddy fields of the nearby villages at dawn before catching my lunch at the floating villages and finally eating a selection of snake, ostrich, crocodile, frog and catfish at a khmer BBQ before cathcting the midnight bus (just; as experience dictates journeys never go smoothly...) onto Phnom Penh.

A Very Asian Travel Experience

From the beachbars of Haad Rin (although I think the boss was slightly surprised when he appeared to pay me at my palatial surroundings of Neptune Villas where we'd been staying since the incident with the giant Geckos and Lizzies phantom fever) I said my goodbyes and set off for Bangkok which I finally managed to reach after being left to loiter around various restaurants for random intervals of time (whether the motivation was nepotistic or solely commision was unclear). The frequent breaks did have one positive aspect; i realised that the normal privacy rules for anglophones are suspended in transit and so they provided the perfect opportunity to chat people up enough to have a few friendly faces to share a drink with, or in cases of exceptional luck, a room.

Dave looked like he had been bifuricated across asian markets and indeed had a veritable array of travellers diseases, largely picked up from swimming in the world's filthiest river (putting VangVien to shame); the Ganges (or as dave would have it 'the worlds holiest river'), which despite having gifted him nothing but a few chronic chest problems, eye infections and skin trouble he gleefully recounted - floating remains of cobra victims and all. However, once we'd woken up (we arrived early; 5am) we managed to bump into someone he'd met on a previous bangkok sortie and so we ended up in a taxi shouting furiously to 'follow that taxi.' The Overstay was simple but otherwise perfectly formed. It was really a sort of hippy community that had somehow found itself swallowed by Bangkok and couldn't get up the effort to leave but it was perfectly charming, despite the missing window panes, general disrepair and ratsize hole in our wall. Higher up where the digs of the long term residents who were only too happy to help us out and dispense a little expat knowledge or start throwing paint across the room at broken mannequins (not as mad as it seems; there was an entire floor dedicated to this kind of creative outlet) and seeing as communal meals where the order of the day it was rather difficult to actually build up the effort to leave and venture out into Bangkok.

Aside from nightly Ko San road trips (which only made me more glad that I'd not stayed there), I made it out to the smaller temples and then to the Grand Palace and Wat Pho (even if the main attraction here was it's role as the home of Thai massage - I promise I did attend my massage sesion via the reclining Buddha!). The great tuktuk scam still exists but, given you dont have a tight time schedule, can be worked to your advantage - a typical outing for me entailed jumping in and saying 'how many shops before 'insert destination' for free?' eventually after impressive feats of acting prowess you would emerge without an overpriced pillow case and the tuktuk driver would be grinning widely as he was in receipt of a gasoline token or two depending on the quality of feined interest, at this point if you were lucky you'd be taken to your desired destination.

Alternative transport became a pet love of ours and instead we often found ourselves in the back of BB gun vans, more comfortably a mattress home delivery service and occasionally when we were feeling energetic we would walk down the main street tripping over our phonetically learnt Thai to get to the local ferry and over to the old town.

Leaving Bangkok was all a bit of a rush and due to a rather late night and the storm the last morning, intended for a fake handbag shop, got off to a belated start before being prematurely terminated by the announcement that the last train to Arranyapraphet had been cancelled so I would have to forgo the Jimmy Choo and jump on the train waving hasty goodbyes to Danny and Dave. (Danny had also been on the bus and had proved himself a little more capable of being ontime, possibly due to a combination of his owning both a watch and a phone and his occupation as a marine).

For a princely sum of 48baht (about a dollar) I was bumping along to the border - sadly not with the expected local livestock but instead an assortment of school children who typically traveled about 2-4hours on the train, presumably daily. The local train did have a few advantages - largely because the usual abrupt service of the coach companies wasn't hassling, shouting and stealing away your (very, overused, thin, scratchy, in all likelihood diseased) blanket the second you got comfy. Once there I was treated to a very salubrious border crossing.

Swanthep travel company, if anyone has the misfortune to be offered their services, was distinctly dodge - in fact I don't believe it was a legitimate travel company at all. However, after racing tuktuks, pointing out that the visa charge was not 1200baht but 700, being ushered off to get out money (whereupon I asked if I could instead post some letters), being thrown inside a casino whilst they sped off elsewhere to get our visas (despite the visa office being closed at 7pm; most likely the extra visa charge was a bribe to the official who was stamping visas out of hours), the strangeness didn't end on the other side of the border where the gaudy surroundings of vice city Poipet only amplified the goings on. We ended up driving over a roundabout to find the 2 other western boys who'd also been through a similar rigmarole but left in the middle of a motorway before reaching Siem Riep. Once in Siem Riep it took a good while for the included driver to actually get me to my destination rather than the one with the best commission (actually i later found out the real reason nicknamed the Bus Game) which was perhaps not the best option as I was to wake up not that many hours later to a new unwanted, very rodential, bedfellow.

from raving to the ratrace

far away from the relative tranquility that can be found on koh phi phi is koh phangan on the eastern coast. Some time in the 80s a party started at full moon (when buddists are feeling at their holiest ironically) and has been gathering increasing numbers of backpackers and lost souls ever since. Having had 2 weeks of holidayesque rampaging around asia I thought I should probably get a job and so after a few hours of pestering, a 'come back at 5 tomorrow," came my way, by way of the Cactus beach bar. This actually turned out to be more troublesome than it might first appear on the surface due to a series of unfortunate events.

Lizzie and I were determined to stick to our original booking which we were assured was 'a little far out' from the party. Being on the otherside of Thongsala it transpired that 30minutes away by car was more accurate, another slight issue was the accomodation itself and with Lizzie having caught and modified my cold to rather more dramatic effect the appearance of a giant gecko in our bamboo hut was the last straw and we decided to bite the bullet and decamp back to Haad Rin and a/c. Last problem Bells had finally given in to the demands that she visit the invalid at perfectly comic timing - and she had no phone. At 4.30 I had no choice but to leave Lizzie and hitch the next lift. Hans thankfully appeared after not too long since Thais dont appear to understand the thumbs up. Hans had fashioned a sidecar from scrap metal and was on his way to Baan Thai (1/2 way) to pick up his dog - perfect; only one issue aside from the safety if the sidecar remained and that was that Hans resembled a Neo-Nazi Hells Angel only wearing a kaftan, but once we collected the dog from the vet (and the morphined up animal was firmly in place to drool away oblivously on my lap) we headed onto Haad rin since he felt sorry for me.

I got the job and was to be paid a princely 300baht a night or 1.50GBP an hour.

in search of the island

We spent the day storming around the temples of Vientianne - especially noteworthy were that luang whre we made a bird offering and wat sisaket, Patucxi (the vicotry monument and sign of laos) was impressive but unfortunately in the middle of a roundabout -before conceding defeat in the face of the pink eye and heading over to the hospital before a long lunch at new Asian favourite Joma Bakery (well on the way to getting a free coffee with the loyalty card). Hospital was not all that primitive (rather like any of the older PCT NHS ones with mixed use, age, sex wards if little hotter) but unfortunately we got separated from our shoes having had to change buildings several times which i think slightly thwarted the whole point of the excercise of hygiene.

After slight difficulties and a large phone bill we reunited with the others by the cultural museum and boarded the minibus to the station for the train to the other station; apparently this was the simplest option. Leg two of Vangvieng to Bangkok was Vientienne to nok khai and then over friendship bridge with a stunning view of the, at this junction, vast mekong to thailand and onto the sleeper to Bangkok. We thought it was wonderful - what plane has a dining cart, full beds and the world cup opening match for 16pounds? We did however, realise why the upper beds were so cheap - they never turn off the lights so sleeping is a little hindered which might turn out for the best since it was rather too easy to fall out.

Bangkok was massive; as evidenced by the hours approach to the central station through the city as the railside gradually transformed from squatter settlements to public services and finally to neatly manicured vegetation, and oppressively hot although not a riot in sight (somewhat disappointing given the worrying that certain mothers were putting in). with leg 3 of our journey booked it was time for market shopping. we rapidly accumulated far more clothing than our backpacks were prepared to accept at a fairly consistant 100baht apiece. unfortunately thai sizes meant that shorts, skirts and trousers were off the menu at chatuchak market (24ha of market space) although puppies and snakes were not if the pet section was anything to go by. a quick hello to bangkok residents and a swift viewing of the chaos of the electricals floor of an upmarket mall and we were back at the train station to board the bus south to Surat Thani, where after an hour of being bitten and complaining of the cramp from curling up on the corner of the sofa in the 'Lounge' section we changed for another to Krabi where we got a minibus to the port to get the first ferry of the day to Koh Phi Phi, which thankfully is pedestrianised.

Life on Phi Phi is, typically I fear, difficult. Wake, eat, doze, frolic, swim, eat, doze, dance, sleep. It is beautiful but haunted by the spectre of the 2005 Tsunami - although physical scars have largely disappeared (save for lesser known beaches covered in broken coral and occasionally walking on a pathway that morphs into the foundations of a destroyed former dwelling) the glistening new hospital, evacuation routes and notices in restaurants informing customers of their connection to the early warning system serve as a constant reminder. What's hideous is that the rebuild is obviously designed with next time in mind.

I have managed some activity. I've been both wreck diving and shark diving although i think the former turned out to be more dangerous and have been to cult status Maya Bay in the national marine park otherwise known as 'The Beach.' It was a little ironic that the film centered on a community attempting to avoid the excesses and multitudes of modern asian travel given the blatent exploitation of the site now. The wreck of King Edward was more interesting 40m down that it ever could have been in life. 15years ago this car ferry sank under slightly suspicious circumstances; rumours of the thai mafia abound - for one thing there are substancial questions as to why a car ferry was ever making daily trips to a pedestrainised island. But it is now home to over 300 species of coral, 4 'nemos', turtles etc. and a giant puffa fish - absolutely deadly and larger than the leopard sharks we saw on the next dive all the while fighting against quite a formidable current. favourite sight had to be the stingray getting its teeth cleaned - wuite happily bearing the gnashers for a grubber fish to have a tasty meal.

the village sons

we left vang vieng (well technically caro, livvy and i left twice) with a reminder of the worlds 5th dirtiest river - pink eye. conjunctivitus rages through the travelling community with the spirit of a far more virulent disease and no sooner had the boys confined themselves to the godfather trilogy and eyedrops (fortunately free market economics has blessed vangvieng with a thriving pharmaceutical trade) than lizzie caught it and three days later, despite the new 24hr sunglasses look, precautionary amoxcilyn ($1/course of 12; i think the NHS should be looking for a new supplier) and eyedrops it managed to hop across the bed and over Bells to me. So it was with a weeping pair of eyes that late in the day having unsuccessfully tried to group moped to the blue lagoon (only Eric, ali and I made it and that was only because we had conceded moped defeat and taken a tuktuk down the dirt track, through a couple of chicken coups, over the rice paddies and through the rivers) that Caro, Livvy and I bid the others farewell and heading for the bus station bound, we hoped, for Vientiane.

Our tuktuk driver assured us that the local bus would come at 8/8.30 but we were a little uneasy, especially since at 6.30 we could already here the omnious rolls of thunder bringing the nightly downpour. No matter, we took refuge in bus shelter and consulted the timetable which informed us that the last bus did indeed leave at 2.30. The tuktuk drivers swooped. Our friends had done the journey to Vangvieng in a tuktuk with 14 passengers, their collective worldly possessions and a monsoon so we knew it was possible. 30,000 kip we bleated weakly; afterall this was the price of the local bus which in the event of a crash was larger and having walls considerably sturdier. Friendly tuktuk driver weakly agreed - he looked ill. However the younger ones laughed theatrically and scared him away. The tuktuk drivers scanned over their quarry, deciding that we looked like we could pay more and so they retreated to the edge of the compound for a group discussion over cheap cigarettes. 20minutes later, armed with the offering of Livs last cigarettes I ventured into the fray; 40,000kip. They laughed again and shouted random numbers, the air grew tenser from a combination of the random numbers issuing out of each of their mouths and the coming storm. Fine, we'll sleep here and get the first bus out - 'where is the nearest room to rent?' They replied with a chorus of 10,000 for the journey back to town. We thought that the shacks and shops opposite looked more promising. We were wrong. By 9.30 we were back in Vangvieng centre with the music of the Qbar ringing in our ears as we fell to sleep. Or rather in my case i fell to the task of mopping up my eyes, rubbing in the teramycin cream, flushing with eyedrops and snatching intermittent bouts of sleep. I was also fuming that the cash machine had stolen my money having processed a withdrawal (fortunately about 12 pounds) but not cashed it; I knew this since it had happened to a boy who had been so persistent in using the faulty machine that he cleared his entire current account without seeing a single 1,00kip note. In the morning Caro had pink eye too. This was not to be a happy 6am start particularly since the particularly vicious monsoon rains (thundering down whilst claps of thunder so loud they resembled tuktuks being hurled around the floor above were illuminated by the lighting striking the town) the previous night were not entirely finished. However, a little luck; our tuktuk stopped half way executed a perfect Uturn and crashed into the back of a bus - this was apparently intentional since the driver got out good naturedly and loaded on our backs - this was the 6am local service to Vientiane.

At first we thought that we had boarded the world's slowest bus as it chugged down the main streets, horn tooting whilst Laotian karaoke blared out across the deserted streets but thankfully the bus speed up and music turned off as we left vangvieng for the assortment of roadside villages on route 13 to Vientiane. We largely slept, but i also found time to finish off the brothers Karamazoz (or more aptly their father) - i finally understand most of what Hargreaves was talking about at AS history - however, the only point of note in the journey was not to be a whole cow or chicken farm boarding but the village sons all trooping on, some wide eyed, others a little more bleary from a nondescript stop. They must have been every male between 14 and 19 in the village and the back seats groaned from the weight of the plastic weave sacks they leaned against. I amused myself by speculating as to their fate. I, perhaps a little romantically, decided they were either destined for novice training and that the sacks contained alms for the monks as payment or that they were being sent with everything to make their way in life in the big city. Each dwelling aroused their greatest scrutiny although the elder ones attempted nonchalence in their luminous nike tops and gelled hair, I noticed they were the last to step off the bus and search out their final destination.

sandbuckets acquire a new association

Vang Vieng is the cultural disaster of Laos, worse even I might venture that the legendary Full Moon party of Koh Pangan. Here the hastily constructed town consisting of cheap corrugated eateries, quasi-pancake stalls (if we were to judge these pastries (?) romantically you might be inclined to put them down to a French colonial hangover) and 'Friends' bars, caters to what appears to be the entire regurgitated teenage clientele of Chelsea drinking hole 'The Goat in Boots'. The Friends bars allow the Public School Circuits gap year tragic heroes to recover enough strength to go out 'on the lash' again at firm favourite The Bucket Bar (free buckets of whisky from 8.30-9.30) whilst mindlessly absorbing the antics of 6 fictional americans in back to back episodes/series those wishing to find a little more diversity might push the boat out and find the 'Family Guy' bar. Most sport war wounds - unsurprising given the gallimaufry of accidents in waiting from ex-lovers to rocky rivers, motorbikes and fire limbo which are top of everyones Vang Vieng to do list. That and the bars provide a more sociable setting for redressing wounds without missing out on valuable banter.

The town is firmly in the tight embrace of the Lotus eaters and after managing to get down to the river to go 'tubing' - essentially a novel, if somewhat watery and perilous medium of bar hopping - and contracting unspeakable diseases from the mud volleyball pit I decided I would venture out into unknown territory for this grotesque adventure playground and discover a wholesome element without compromising enjoyment if I could avoid the ubiquitous menu 'happy options.'

First off I ruled out caving despite it fauning writeup as alone it would have been duller than the water and I was still being given stick for the kayaking to the Pak Ou caves. However, I persuaded a disenchanted partygoier to join me at a Laotian cooking class and another to the organic farm that ran the areas volunteering. The cookery class was dirty, accompianed by the sounds of a staff member retching and produced a somewhat questionable meal after our endeavours. However, it was also hysterical. Our teacher Tompetri burst out into spontaneous song and lamented over our attempts at laap (a meat specialty) with equal vigour and whisked us expertly around the market to buy ingredients whilst balancing them perfectly on the front of his moped (we occupied the back). Onto the farm tomorrow.

26 people/km2

Via a couple of weeks dodging falling plaster (both for my personal safety and that of the soup) in the kitchen of Princesse Marie-Blanche Broglie and long afternoons in the heat of Parisian greenery or holed up in the mezzanine level of the Musee Quai Branley (easily my favourite free archives) after London election fever i've come to Laos. The sleepyside of Asia.

Arriving into Bangkok I did have small problems as it appeared that STA had in their usually efficient style managed to strand me in a state of emergency. Added to which at 1am UK time there was no chance of STA picking up the phone. On the up side this allowed me to buy a ticket that didn't require a 12hr bus connection at the other end AND meant that I was soon chowing down on the free popcorn in the bangkok airways lounge. yum.

Finally I got into Luang Prabang only to come face to face with a laser - apparently this is the Laotian version of the infra-red rooms at large international airports.

This sleepy former capital is a tiny city where the temple atop Mount Phousi dominates easily despite not being either that high or that large but only relatively giant. A real highlight was climbing to the top to watch the sunset over the temple. The night market at Sisanvango was amazing too as were the plentiful handicraft and jewelery shops which i'm now severely depressed about not cleaning out! one branch of the night market was the food alley where all you could eat accompaniments to either grilled fish, chicken, duck or 'lucky' mystery animal were enticing and clean as well as being a steal at 10,000kip. The curfew ensured that even the travellers managed a healthy glow although just out of the UNESCO zone (a fact ruthlessly exploited by the tuktuk mafia) was the locals discotheque, having seen how South Americas agrarian society was a living time capsule in bright native patterns it was surprising to find that Laotians spurned traditional shens and instead wore western clothing - no more so that in the hysterical local disco. My personal favourite locals were a middle aged couple seated around an oil drum with a birthday cake perched precariously atop it whilst they stared agog at their surroundings amid the lowtech lasers and sound systems.

Luang prabang boasted some beautiful monastries and many of the young monks are keen to practice their English (and be brought a milk drink) with the tourists who venture inside, we even managed (aided perhaps by the curfew) to wake in time to watch the monks collecting morning alms (sticky rice, fruit and meat) as sun rose one morning. Food is beginning to be recognised as a pleasure rather than solely a means of survival and so some good restaurants and bars have started (often with a westerner at the helm - for example at Utopia built by a Canadian and run by a Scot) to cater towards a tourist budget. The French and Thai influences are particularly strongly felt.

The day after climbing the nearby waterfalls (very steep but 100%worth it once you reach the natural infinity pool at the valley entrance looking over the jungle, although this did require deviating from the path and instead climbing up the stream) Lizzie and I managed in between massages for $1.50 to bargain our way to kayaking to the Pak Ou caves where thousands of Buddhas were hidden at the end of the C19th to save them from destruction and then elephant trekking and bathing before a tour of 'whiskey village.' The elephant trekking was novel but otherwise similar to riding a bristly, badly behaved, somewhat slow and bamboo-partial (if rather larger) pony but washing them was amazing. Especially when we had underwater races with only the end of the trunk occasionally surfacing to indicate the presence of an elephant at all. Mine was especially keen on elephantine bronco, so it was fortunate that falling off only meant a quick submersion. Onto whiskey village we were treated to free LaoLao and firewhisky. LaoLao is digusting, I do not recommend it to anyone who has the option of drinking some other alcholic beverage barring the Potosi miner's ethanol. However, it was worth consuming given that it pickled a variety of commonly hated animals - from snakes to scorpions (rumoured to be a natural aphrodisiac according to our guide). After we managed to muscle in on the afternoon break of the local women and were treated to a variety of local snacks - to my surprise my favourite was the thin strips of fried mushroom. Our aching muscles from the strong current crossing home had us back in the arms of the masseurs by dinner time and happily sampling wonderful Lao soups (pumpkin, tamarind and chilli came out tops although bamboo shoot was a close second) and sharing a plate of 5 bites which ranged from cured buffalo meat to ginger preserved bok choi stems in local favourite Tamarind opposite the small but beautiful Wat Nong.

Now that I’ve unpacked, checked in at home, firmly entrenched myself in the pub by a log fire with a natural yogurt (the 3 things I apparently value highest about home), repacked and finally, upped and left to Paris I’ve found the time to finish the write-up of my sprint around South America.
It felt a different continent altogether in Colombia; neither Latin nor Caribbean and certainly nowhere near Indian, the sea looked different, the air hung more humidly and the suns rays were beating hot without being piercingly white as they had in the Andean highlands. Tanganga was to be my home for the next couple of weeks and it was poised between two worlds both physically and in spirit. Physically it is separated from the slum area of Santa Marta by one (very conquerable) hill and a ten minute busride whilst to its eastern edge it gives way to desert scrub (I think the result of previous farming attempts) and then to dense, tropical green – the jungle here taking the name of Tayrona national park (after the Tayrona Indians who once settled this area whose greatest feat of engineering lay a 6 day trek down into the Jungle of Santa Marta’s Sierra Nevada; La Ciudad Perdida). It also harbours a mix of local fishermen eking out a living from meagre catches and a backpacker community with all the trimmings both obstinately continuing with their respective activities side-by-side and yet existing entirely separately. Indeed it was with great surprise that a fisherman coming in with his morning catch was caught by my suggestion that he might like to bring me his catch of the day each day for a fixed price over the fortnight. I think that he was so stunned by my apparition at his dugout was the key to my success in securing a ridiculously cheap supper for the rest of my stay – especially since the various one roomed tiendas open to the street on one/two sides sold at relatively high prices.
Raul, who worked at the hostel, took me down to the diveshop and seconds later I’d signed on for a weekend of total isolation along with a motley crew of scuba divers. 2hours later we’d managed to arrive in Bahia Gayracia to find our hammocks (a little like a Caribbean version of musical chairs as it turned out there weren’t enough) and I settled down to an afternoon of fitful sleep slung between a tree and the most comic Colombian you can imagine. If Borat were to impersonate a Colombian drug dealer you would have come up with Miguel. I should add that he wasn’t actually a drug dealer before a libel case appears! About 5ft 9in, large dark curls bordering dangerously on afro territory, the full array of facial hair (moustache, goatee, monobrow, nasal hairs flaring...), lanky frame clad in a sack of loosely hanging skin and the obligatory offensively coloured speedos.

After timeless hours spent beaching, diving or sleeping the shock of arriving back to the relatively frenetic pace of taganga village where I was to become show-and-tell, british tour guide and connoisseur of patisseries and fruit shakes. People, including the hippies running the only good coffee shop in colombia by the looks of things (ironically in the prime regions black gold is too much of a cash crop to be lavished upon the locals - 12 hour brewed nescafe in cafetieres is the norm served sickly sweet and lukewarm into plastic cups on street corners), were the nicest I had encountered and I even mangaged to bump into cousins and neighbours in the only beach bar and dancefloor one night after beachbag guarding acquaintances had insisted that I come out with them to escape the colombian men who'd been showing a little TOO much interest in my hostel. After a visit from a year-out uni friend, a free 21st birthday pizza (not that anyone was 21, or even celebrating their birthdays until the next day) and salsa and swimming by sunrise, I was all set for Cartagena.

Cartagena was ridiculously beautiful. A crumbling Carribean Carcasone in looks its dishevelled beauty, fortifications and creeper covered streets had you enchanted in an instant added to which the sandstone both catches the light amazingly and contrasts to the bright blue of the ocean. To provide the toppings, casa sweety (small but perfectly formed hostel where you're every need is catered for) let us stay in the sweet for a quarter of the normal rate. emmy, ione and i then set off for our desert island cabana nursing slightly sore heads from the chiva bus ride the night before which involved rum and some overly excited colombian tourists from barranquilla. There, aside from avoiding aforementioned overly interested Colombians who appeared in the same bar in cartagena as us and then the next day on the same near deserted island, we enjoyed the simple pleasures of life. And kicked ourselves for not venturing 200m further down the beach where a 2storey structure (!) existed so that backpackers could avoid being bedfellows with the plentiful indigenous cockroaches and crabs.

Getting back in time for my flight proved a little tricky and set my previously romantic sounding adventure to a beach-side cabana for my last night to a remarkably different, if somewhat stupid, tune. Fro failed to materialise as my mototaxi to Cartagena so after a quick dash to friendly fisherman i was motoring (motoring might be too strong a verb but there was some semblance of an outboard motor) towards the general cartagena vicinity but there was a problem - with no permit he couldn't enter the bay but could get me near. This was not to prove the greatest obstacle because his cousins family lived nearby and there awaited (as fate would have it) a man with a donkey to get me to the 'main road' which was a dust track, where i was able to flag down a motorcyclist to get me to Cartagena, he vigorously encouraged me that this was the main road to Cartagena and that it would take 40mins at most. It took 1/2hr to get to a large river where i was unceremonisously unseated and told with a vague gesturing in the direction over the river (hence why Cartagena's called an island) that Cartagena was 'over there'. there were no bridges so duggout it was. I expected for the extortionate price I paid to at least get rowed over but my luck failed and the owner sat down, lit up and laughed as i splashed my way through the current to the other bank where I could find no moorings so decided to jump out and pull the boat up. Bad plan. I sank, not into water but mud and wasn't getting on much better with the boat pulling. Fortunately people on this side of the river seemed more disposed to help a hapless tourist and pulled both me and the boat ashore with embarrassing ease. The next obstacle was that I now lacked the necessary monies for the busride - no matter they knew the driver and, if I agreed, I could quite literally have my fare for a song. Done deal. the final walk across the entire old town an hour later felt like a triumphant march, especially when i found enough for an ice cream stowed away in a back pocket. 24hours later I would be home.

is this a hold up?

Moving on from Cartagena the next day in the afternoon having had a quick snoop around the gold museum (i couldnt stay long as i found myself formulating heist plans in the Aymara jewelery exhibition) things appeared to be starting to live up to their perilous reputation...

...Just past Barranquilla on the road to Santa Marta in the pitch black we slowed to a half. The minibus in front of us appeared to be being ambushed, a nervous quiet descened on our bus as tourists and colombians alike thought intently about where best to hide their valuables and whether the boot was locked. The minibus managed to break loose from it's assailents and made an escape down the autopista. The mob closed in; we were next and there was no way through as a seemingly unendless supply of people swarmed onto the road. Traffic began to back up on both side of the blockage. Machetes started banging against the sides, I closed my curtains to baying faces whilst praying to each and every deity that might have been otherwise unengaged. I turned to the young local family next to me to ask if they knew what was happening but they were nothing if unperturbed. In fact they seemed positively amused by my deathly pallor, 'they're just protesting,' the father said barely containing a grin. Sorry my mistake, my concept of protests involved placards and daylight disruption to official buildings not nighttime machete outings ('they can't afford drums.'). The police arrived and did nothing. I heard three more sirens creating a chorus and together they thought they might be capable of moving the now raucous but heavily intoxicated residents (it transpired that our human blockade was an entire community trying to attract police attention in protest at their electricity being cut off) off the road. They achieved this feat after a final episode of Iona frightening when I pulled back the curtain to see men carrying machine guns sporting balaclavas whom i then realised were the police - phew. As we left I heard the sharp crack of gunfire but looking back I could see he was shooting skyward to disperse the crowd. Stories of real holdups seemed even more innocuous as people were sent back on their way possessions and persons intact having been treated to a FARC lecture on Colombian history or, best in my opinion, informed how safe Colombia now was.

otherwise micellaneous garbled accounts

In my hours queueing at bolivian border control I was sold everything. Firstly in a quasi-anglicised language where each word was entirely indistinguishable and then in a rush of relieved spanish when i let on that i might understand better if (invariably) hespoke an actually recognised language. From doornobs to saltedas - poor cousins of the BsAs empanadas... ´Much better than Bolivian ones´i was earnestly assured by which i presume he meant better than those being touted 15ft further along the bridge. I even saw a girl from a bartop in cusco being sold what appeared to be the contents of her own toiletry bag which was pretty thick considering the grime covered face vending Chelsea best.

The most over saturated market however, appeared to be te bicycle transit service. The Peruvian sideof the border heaved wih bikes pushing decorated trailers. The more upmarket ones had a bench seat built in whilst the shabbier ones encorporated llama feed adverts into the design of their decoration. That they were so ornately decorated might have been symptomatic of of their chronic underemployment, a combination of the need for peacock-like ttraction and too much time. On the otherhand it may have been because they enjoyed the sensation of disorientating pedestrians as streams of colour whirled past. The shabbiest of the bike proprietors approached me as i eventually left peruvian emigration, I could just about make out that he could not have been more than about 12 through the thick film of grime encrusting his features. His bike had broken several years before hand and had been disintegrating ever since but this failed to stop him attempting to solicit my custom. he offered a ride to copacabana (an hours drive over the the border) i couldnt contain myself and had to laugh. I spoke too soon, in copacabana on a pit stop i saw him arrive huffing and puffing, pick up a little girl (maybe he had secured the school transport service contract) and set off back toward th border moments later.

Bicycles have achieved two additional major advantages in South America, on top of the usual arguments - cheap, healthy, green - they are infinitely better equipped for emergencies seeing as the option to abandon ship is ever present and the more cautious biker might as well throw themselves in a ditch in preparation for oncoming traffic at the slightest hint of there being any (spotting is a task made easier on the antiplano especially when the exhaust fumes billow out in plumes for miles around). Secondly, a smoother ride as the agile biker is able to swerve potholes, (even when there appears to be rather more hole than road), swim across rivers, or utilise a moss covered footbridge if fortunate enough to find one.

Back to La Paz for take two I managed to act as tour guide of El Prado, San Francisco, avoid the massage palour and become a hostel expert in la paz, having stayed at Las Brisas, Wild Rover, Adventure Brew AND the the Point as well as seeing friends at Loki. I jumped on an unsuspecting Lizzie and Bells (even more unsuspecting friends of theirs) and dragged them off to a world famous (largely due to Rusty Youngs expose in Marching Powder) incarcaration unit where there are unique rules and regulations inside. Unfortunately, after a couple of false starts and a few messages in bedsheets we had a tantalising glimpse of the inside world before a distinctly unimpressed employee returned unamused from her loo break. party over.

Journeying is a sport in itself here - indeed i might suggest it be named the continental favourite past-time. Certainly bus drivers appear to think that screaming destinations aproximate to their own at passersby will entice them on board, as if they'll think, oh sod work, family and home i came out looking for a squash but what i really need is a 19hour bus journey, perhaps they're right I never asked a local if they'd taken a particularly long detour on their way to market on any of my buses. It is also however, a complete matter of chance if you happen to arrive in the right place at the end. Having arrived at El Alto international (state of the art in an ironic contrast to a hastily constructed city and the ariport of official capital sucre - where the main luxury is that the cleaners unblock the loos at semi-regular intervals) ridiculously early due to everything actually going smoothly i was greeted by the aparition of breakfast (i recommend the cinnamon rolls at Alexanders Coffee) in the form of the girls friend Theo who I'd met the previous night in the bar at Loki. We proceeded to be institutionally ripped off by a US$25 departure tax which constituted my single greatest purchase in Bolivia. At least we weren't forced into an inflated extranjeros rate.

Fog prevented our (exceptionally nice; TACA) plane to Lima from taking off and then 2 hours further before we recieved the all clear to discover we'd "lost an engine." careless behaviour really. Anyway, despite a 12minute window in which to disembark and find the flight to Bogota (helped by luggage handlers running alongside me) I made it. Arrival into Colombia was made considerably earier by a Colombian traveller from the plane who brought me supper (amazingly if you pay above average prices in south america you are rewarded with above average food and Colombian airspace it seemed was no exception), gave me his book (brilliant Mark Mann's The Gringo Trail), whisked me off to the DAS counter practically before the rest of the flight had left their seats. All the while telling me that I should look up Walter Seligman who ran an electronics store in Bogota.

I almost expected to be simultaneously mugged, shot and descended upon by sniffer dogs and banditos due to Colombia's reputation and parental angst. However, time kept passing and none of the aforementioned occured (*i did see the snifferdogs; they were all quite fat golden labs and were snoring, loudly). I left the airport, got a taxi and arrived in my hostel unscathed, i even dared to take a walk and nighttime swim in Cartagenas ocean a block from the hotel. It was an unexpected calm and therefore felt strange to realise that, despite the murder figures, general hysteria and economic dependence on cocaine (despite being a fast developing state, being richly endowed naturally benefitting from climate variation, the worlds largest coffee producer and also blessed(or cursed) with that other black gold oil, Colombian cocaine exports come to a greater value than all other individual endeavours. It was estimated by US homeland security that 60% of cocaine in the US is of Colombian origin) I had arrived in what I was to discover was one of the safest and certainly friendliest countries I had visited in South America. Perhaps these speculations were aided by another free meal ('my friend at the fruiteria').

ghostowns and breakdowns in bolivia

After more good food (granja heidi, ossobuco with a barley risotto and saffron sauce if you must know.... i was llama-ed out having had it stewed, minced, chopped, whole, sprinkled on yogurt you name it on the trek) i tried and failed to jump on a bus to cusco via the slight obstruction of numerous good friday parades which were jamming the streets to footfall, let alone the traffic. It did eventually leave a few hours after scheduled during which time i made friends with the tax kiosk man who got me a deal with my last pesos at the local wateringhole which made me equally popular in turn with a few of the other travellers. 19hours later having had our passports checked by 4 different authorities and gone through the least heavily guarded border yet on foot (bridge semi-complete with chicken wire) I was in La Paz where having dropped off my things at Las Brisas I headed onto Wild Rover (eventually). Here felix lay in wait with a whole bevy of travellers ranging from Eric the swedish rasta to tom, whom i´m fairly certain was a laid-off stock broker.

We failed to find `friendly, cheap and tasty` Yusefs but sated our falafel craving after a typical bolivian service wait (bare in mind we were the only customers) of an hour or so and wandered around the surrounding streets and through a rather subdued witches market and plaza murillo. It transpired that the combination of elections and easter had subdued south americas wild child into a sleeping puppy. traditionally drinking is banned on easter weekend and so elections (dry since parties used to ship in truckloads of free alcohol to bribe locals) are held to coincide with this atypical behavior. Having hidden the previous night, saturday, under the tables in silence at Rover nursing our drinks in the worlds highest irish run bar (because the lights were off didn´t seem to discount the possibility of the police asking to see the bar and turning the lights on in my opinion) we acquired a taste for illicit drinking and headed, brown bag in tow to a viewpoint in the park, which was also closed. On the upside we did find the worlds most dangerous ferris wheel and amused the locals with a display of dangerous driving by the light of the sparks flying off the top of our dodgems. Later continuing in the illicit vein we headed to one of La Paz´s many underground clubs where a labrinyth lies in wait of gringos behind a shutup shop front that is hauled up at the sound of approaching taxis (their locations are not so secret that every taxi driver doesn´t know their address) after a full 10minutes sleep I headed onto the airport past a disconcertingly mounted write-off, destination: Sucre.

Sucre was everything that La Paz wasn´t - affluent, bright white (hence the nickname) and old, colonial to be exact. We spent more time than necessary at Joyride the local tourist operator who appeared to have a monopoly on the entire town with a bar, restaurant, cinema and tour centre taking up pride of place by the main square opposite the cathedral. It wasnt all free beer though, on the first evening we watched El Mina del Diablo in preparation for Potosoi which was grim to say the least but achingly well done. (We met the protagonists sister who was also featured in the docudrama when we went to the mines, she informed us that Basilio still worked in the mines, along with his uncle and brother and then sold us some of the minerals found in the cerro rico, especially dihearteningly I later heard tales from Rosie*). The film was startling, contrasting not only the surprising simpilcity of the raw humility and pride of being a miner, and of the devout catholicism dabbling in the occult. Outside the mines, Christ reins supreme, each of the entrances to the sprawling warrenlike complex bears a cross surmounted on the entrance. But inside, in the depths of the mountain, they are isolated. Millions: Bolivians, first free then enslaved first by the conquistators and then their devil imageary; Black slaves, who on average survived less than a year, have died in the mines of the 'Mountain that Eats Men', killed by explosions, accidents, or failing that ravaged by silicosis that eats away the lungs and kills men in their thirties.

Next day my strength failed me rather on what was advertised as the dino DOWNhill but turned out to have several km in several places of uphill mountain biking - before hurtling back down on the other side past sights including a vast slab of mountain pockmarked by the footprints of dinosaurs who´d traipsed through a drying lava flow a few million years before there; bizarre, especially since half of this mountain had collapsed despite the footprints gaining some notoriety the month before. To be honest much of the time I was keeping occupied by focussing on the road and so often the sights passed in a green, blue or strawcoloured haze, I did however, notice the eagles circling over a cottage in the valley and the local boys tearing up a football pitch whilst girls in traditional dress attempted to cheerlead.

At the end, well, slightly past, this being Bolivia they neglected to be very forcoming on where to stop, i was revelling in my own bloodfree existence when a llama fell of a cliff behind me after a brief, but fatal, skermish involving a jugoboy, oncoming lorry, out of control taxi and a nearly flattened me. I have no idea how the llama (max capacity 35kg, camel-like tendency to try to grind your bones to dust given have the chance and a distinct pattern for cliffside suicides emerging - perhaps these explains the ubiquity of all that llama meat) has managed to survive thousands of years.

Once we´d managed to coax the taxi back to enough of a semblance of life to arrive in Potosoi we suited up and fell down a few mineshafts before distributing the bags of cocaleafs, cigarettes, 96% alcohol and banana catalyst to the miners, and crackers to the women and children guarding the entrance. The whole package cost 20Bs each - and yet was more than they could hope to buy themselves in weeks. All this after a quick masterclass in the art of explosives, I thought Adem was ripe for a home office enquiry having been photographed shoving sticks of dynamite into bags of ammonium nitrate and then fleeing the unexpectedly deafening explosion that followed and appeared to pass straight through you. There were several dodgy moments (the tunnel that smelt so strongly of gas we had to reroute and then the explosions nearby unaware of the tourists now passing perilously close but mostly Salvador, one of the children of no more than 10 who had been begging outside being discovered helping his uncle mine. I had asked him on the outside if he worked in the mine and he had replied that he helped in the medical centre on site but it was definately him pickaxing 400m down), these I imagine pale somewhat with what the miners face routinely.

Onto Uyuni which was much more civilised than expected and easily sold the best conitos and casa negras for 50centavos. It also hosted some distinctly strange Bolivian cuisine including llama products best not bandied about on the internet. However a gem emerged in the form of a true Italian pizzeria for a taste of home before 4 days away from civilisation, but with a cook! The last of the sleeping bags battened down we piled into the 4WD caravan awaiting us and were swiftly guided through rusting trains, salt processing networks, a last market and then km-upon-km of salt 200-500m deep and stretching as far as the world cares to show you at any one point. Rising eerily from this hexagonal network of blinding white were desert ´islands´ which appear to float above its surface, their cacti oddly silhouted against the salt. All very surreal but there are the obligatory photos to show on my return to prove its existence.

After day one we stayed in a particularly bleak village in a hotel made entirely (floor, walls, beds, decorations, thankfully not pillows) of salt, it was nice actually and stunning when the sun eventually rose the next morning over the salt flats.

Having driven all day through deserts and lakes and scaled a few boulders we arrived in the national park on the southern border very cold, not helped by the large holes in most window panes, annoyingly the 3 sockets for charging in the entire guesthouse had just 3 hours of power a day, i did manage to fight my way through to gain one although it did mean guarding it until the urge to sleep ahead of our 4am wakeup call eventually got the better of me, had some interesting kitchen talk though and can now make pancakes with 2 ingredients. 5am the next morning and we were on the way, tired, cold and hungry to the geyers. However my car never reached the geyers since we broke down at 5.15, some emergency repairs later we limped a further mile and then unpopped my sleeping back and the alpaca presents (just think your presents saved my toes!) and huddled 4 across the seat waiting with baited breath (it only froze the windows otherwise) for rescue. Whilst pretending it wasnt happening I listened to an interesting extract of Nial Fergusons the ascent of money about the spanish obsession with all things shiny with a detailed account of plunder at you guessed it; Potosoi.

2 hours later and the sun was melting the ice encrusted windows nicely - enough to see the rest of our entourage reappear and vaguely to recollect being rebundled and car-ed before a massively needed pick me up at base camp (wed used all the fresh hot water in attempting to restart the engine, this did not work, it froze) breakfasting on those aforementioned pancakes.

*Apparently the filmakers, Europeans who went on to win the sundance festival from Basilio Vargas´ miserable existance renumerated him with a thirty puond cheque, which cannot be cashed since the lower limit is $50. To take matters to an ultimately desparate level, the villagers reguse to believe this and instead have ostracised Basilios family believing them to be secretly hiding the promised monies. It was a litte sickening to hear.

a rendevous with jesus

ok a little behind on the updates so i will try to remember the hilarities without the rambling. After a large stockup at los perros with the additional company of Rosie and Sam, a rendevous with Jesus to sort out the details for the trek and a dash around the aptly named proceduras, procuring trekking poles, boots, socks and the odd fake north face appendage in between palm sunday mass and dances in the plaza d´armas we were ready.

Fortunately the entire room bar 2 were rising early for their various treks too so i ran a breakfast racket for the bargain price of 2 soles each for scrambled eggs, tomato salad and garlic spinach. yum.

We piled in the bus joined by the unfortunate Ryan, who had presumably not envisaged trekking with 5 teenage girls and set off for the heights of Lares. Once there we had an undeserved bathe in the hot springs and were treated to the first of quite a few meals, not to slack we never once deviated from our 3 courses despite the kitchen consisting of a gas stove and a hole in the ground.

trekking started and i think we all trudged in silence for the first few hours to hide our breathlesness! Filipe our guide however was pleased with our progress and we made it to camp (eventually as it had been set up on the wrong side of a river) early enough for a full high tea before supper an abortive walk in the direction of the waterfalls but leading througha rock field and a bog and an impromptu market from some of the local village girls.

day 2 was a little harder. We had to pass over the huanytucko juan  pass which at nearly 5000m was a struggle. However, we felt very spritely afterwards hurtling down the valley to lunch by a lake when it promptly decided to bucket it down. We were in fact very early to lunch so we huddled from the wind and rain, periodically pulling out the stools from the mud in our very flimsy canvas cover for a few hours during which time I experienced the early onset of hypothermia and only emerged from the perching foetal position (advanced yoga i´m told) to imbibe green bean energy and hot soup. After lunch however I couldn´t really put one foot infront of the other with much confidence and as a result I set off teeth chattering in the direction of the horse caravans ahead. This was not the right way and only about 20mins later when i regained a little feeling in my body and some of my mental processes did i realise my solitary status, ahhh. Having stopped to take stock of the situation I caught a glimpse of a lurid pink wafting up towards the top of the mountainside, brilliant this marshmallowesque figure was Sam in the, by this stage, obligatory rain poncho. Unfortunately, I was at the bottom of the valley so started a vertical ascent upwards, the cliffs weren´t so much the obstacle, my main enemy was the soddon ground which combined with the incline sent me sliding back down the mountain several times. On the last of these muddy occasions I slid straight into salvation, our guide.

By contrast after a much better nights sleep and dry clothing in the morning day three´s downhill route was pips and after a good lunch in Ollantytambo and (another) coffee from incabucks we said goodbye to Felipe and the rest of the guides and caught our train to Agas Calientes eagerly anticipating those hot showers and a guide at the other end. Unfortunately neither appeared. Worse our escort never transpired at the station in a town that was pedestrianised so we had no way of knowing where our hotel was. Armed however, with the knowledge that the town was small and a couple of people pointing us in the direction of the Sol Plaza we set out in the rain on a hostalhunt. We failed. Having walked to the extremity of the town we never found said hostal, on finding some friendly shopkeepers still about they called the main tourist offices and confirmed that there was no such abode. ah, especially since Sab and Rosie had disappeared in search of an internet cafe to look it up. Fortunately (or perhaps testiment to our having scoured the town and asked everyone where the elusive sol plaza was) we managed to bump into our guide who showed us to the hotel on the other side of town and eventually provided a booking for our included supper at a pizzeria, with no cheese. Solace was not to be found in our bathrooms either as hot water failed to arrive despite a dripping wet, semi-naked eleanor making a reappearence at reception until the plumber arrived.

4am, we awoke to the combined roar of the river and the rain. Despite making it to the bus station we soon arrived back outside the hotel as the road wasn´t pasable so the buses were leaving approximately 50m from our door. I managed to chance upon breakfast though which was very satisfactory. Machu Picchu in the rain and fog was not terribly exciting, I felt rather sorry for the poor guide who´d suffered our wrath the night before and now had to drag us through a sea of coloured ponchos. It was depressing enough that when we went in search of coffee pre-Wayna Picchu climb at 10am the route to the canteen was blocked by the number of people attempting an early exodus. Wayna Picchu it transpired was closed since after only 44 people had ascended, one had already fallen and deaths dont tend to look very good on reopening days. Mine at least was almost certainly avoided by its premature closure. The weather however, decided to change and Sam, Sab and I (occasionally accompianed by a rather sunnier Ryan in his new role as photographer) were treated to the full beauty of the inca ruins. Complete with ceremonial llamas, quite literally being pushed off terracettes (sadly llamas were hurt in the process) by the paps surrounding the mayor, susan sarandon (¿quite?, but she did wave up at me and sab after sabrina accidentally punching me in the mouth sent us into hysterics) and traditionally dressed children, we listened in on the BBC world services coverage been recorded below us before setting off to the inca bridge, where Sam attempted a stunt somersault over the edge of the path, fortuantely metres past the cliff and before the forested cliff where she would almost certainly have come to rather more harm. Eventually we returned to a near deserted Machu Picchu and retrieved Rosie and Eleanor from the redecorators at the cafe before making our way back to the train station where a fortunate walk along the platform from ryan resulted in our not missing our (very expensive) trainride back, where we even managed to scab a brownie of the poor american woman that sabrinas coke launched itself at!

a peruvian perambulation

so i left BsAs in a slight rush having arrived 4 hours late and decided on a long picnic in the park, leaving a whopping 35minutes to pack up. I succeeded in getting to the airport over an hour preflight (if not 2.5) but unfortunately had also accidentally stolen the keys to the sanchez elias and had to entrust them to the taxi driver to return which, thankfully, he did. on arrival in Lima i managed to get a taxi colectivo with a family of 7 crammed in the back to my hostel which was palatious if far out for $20 soles. bargain.

Quick run around the nearby ruins, the catacombs, cathedral and into chinatown and i was off again to Huacachina to lose my footing, repeatedly, sandboarding in this oasis town. I would upload some pictures of my bombing down these massive dunes but unfortunately i also managed to lose my camera in the rush to the bus station. easily biggest loss thus far, even if it is a 4x6 vaguely phone shaped piece of black plastic. I miss its presence in my pocket! To really grind the salt into the gaping wound i´d sacrificed 3 hours of prime sunbathing time to upload them to CD pre-dune buggy&boarding. Not to worry unduly i chatted up a friendly enough israeli whose now working at Loki here in cusco so will raid her photos!

In Cusco I was pounced upon by a sickly Eleanor at the absurdly nice Parriwana hostel after a brief spell in the computer room (recognised by the trademark hairflick and shoes i´m told). Whilst a reunion with Sabrina took a little longer as she´d managed to hitchhike her way across to Colca into the arms of Chescie who I sadly missed (riduculously late bus...). Chicken soup, a pisco sour or two and a few of our 9 room-mates and sleep didn´t alude us for long! Next day having herded still sicky eleanor around largely closed churches we fortunately chanced upon Los Perros (which i recommend to anyone) and stayed in its cosy embrace with all the chifa and alpaca meatballs you could possibly desire for far too long, not aided by the book exchange!

Crack of dawn, chomping down my veggie omlette on toast whilst tying up the shoe laces and running down the stairs to the distinctly unimpressed tour guide for our sacred valley tour, we were unprepared for a long days ruin running. Taking in the ruins at Moray, Ollantytambo (waylaid in Inkabucks), Chincherro (beautiful painted church) and Pisaq (late after our sprint to the sun temple) in addition to trigo soup and a milanesa at the truckers stop in Urubamba we really maxed it out getting back to nursing duties around 8pm in the evening.

the wheel of fortune

Unsurprisingly it took the week to recover in BsAs from tango, polo, bomba (again), new arrivals, fake birthdays and far too many palmitos than generally considered socially acceptable to sustain me through my final weeks spanish. But energy restored (perhaps on speed induced impulsiveness) I ran off to Mendoza for the weekend.

Bus arriving 2 hours late of course we had missed the morning activities and to make matters that little bit more interesting my bank card wasn´t having any of it so i had to blindly make my own merry way across mendoza on foot. It soon became apparent why the card wasn´t working - insufficient funds for which i shall squarely blame O2 whom i´m certain drained my account in a full out assault on funds (Diane at Natwest agreed it was criminal).

Anyway, arrived to a distinctly peeved Felix wondering why exactly he´d been waiting at obscenely early hours for my non-arrival but no matter we were off to the wineries without a moments rest (or time for a shower). Somewhat rashly, given my recent biking history, we arrived at Mr Hugos (having failed to flirt our way onto a shuttle service) who initially rented us a tandem bicycle and gave us a map of the local wineries. The tandem was a bad idea and after approximately 180seconds of potentially fatal wobbling across a motorway we pulled off a U-turn without dying and shamefacedly exchanged it for some very uncomfortable, but less lethal, bikes.

15km, 2 wine museums, a couple of chocolate/hazlenut liquers, moonshine, absinthe, a little olive oil, three more wineries and large chunks of parrilla we managed to wind our (very) merry way to a final winery which turned out to have a lovely owner who gave us free brownies to sober up a little and then suggested he call the police to pack our bikes in the boot and drive us back to the refuge of Mr Hugos. Gallantly we declined the escort service as the girls looked like the 12km would be a pedal too far although not exactly sure what did become of them as several hours later the boys in blue still hadnt dropped them off at base camp Hugo where miraculously we had arrived unscathed and were celebrating the sabbath with dudu, josef and noi with the most repulsive free wine imaginable.

Very unwisely we decided that the hotel happy hour pisco sours were needed and promptly nearly nodded off into our steaks. Eventually managing to miss the 20,000 strong electronica festival in the forested ampitheatre apparently taking place. Aching muscles probably appreciated it though and a well deserved sleep later we awoke to mendoza the ghost-town. Literally not a sole to be seen or shop open combined with grey as they come skies made for a forlorn little waltz about the plaza independencia until the bright lights of a travel agency welcomed us in.

Not 40minutes later we were in a taxi speeding through the andes towards the next shot of adrenaline. Freezing, we arrived at the most beautiful lake where Argentine Rafting would soon be sending us a couple of km´s at speeds of 60mph with only a handheld piece of leather for a break. Whilst zipping up and down mountains and across lakes the sun did make an appearance and by our return to basecamp the gloriously blue skies were only surpassed by the electric azul of the lake below. Having to make the bus back to BsAs we had to give up the opportunity to sample one of the entire animals on the parilla and the chance for a cool Quilmes, at least a quick sunbathe at the hostel was afforded pre-semi camaing (although due to my fresh empanadas not exactly cheaper) the 15 hours back to BsAs. A last gourmet picnic in the park and a slight debacle over the keys (thank god for mr nice taxidriver) i was off to Lima.

speed

speed (the energy drink) is my saviour, its like red bull and i´m pretty sure it would result in cardiac arrest if taken for an extended period but fortunately i´m headed for the wilds of Peru soon so am presuming that speed wont be powering me up to machu picchu which apparently we will be seeing, even if on a rather different route.

the weekend saw another burst of energy as my first lie-in wiped out much of saturday a viewing of a dance festival in rivadavia and drinks in recoleta where the only activities undertaken but sunday witnessed tennis by nunez (y alguinos routas colectivos rados), a run around san telmo market (brilliant if youre furnishing a house otherwise overpriced, although i did my grocery shop pretty economically in the covered market away from the tourists in plaza dorrego) and fortunately i found out that the ferria de materdores is held on saturdays in feb/march so went round to arthostel with the girls and ended up heading out for a tango class, dinner and tango show. ocho ocho ocho ocho ganas. on it. I even made it to school on time on monday and despite heading out to bomba a nuevo and to bahrein yesterday i haven´t yet pulled a sicky and have managed a polo lesson and to get an argentine boy to cook me a steak - yes mum and dad spanish lessons are paying off brilliantly. Perfect; think I might just have to stay in BsAs!

quiet before the storm

well, having had an energy spurt last weekend i´ve been shattered for most of the week and aside from visits to la Bomba de tiempo, polo on tuesday and wonderland with an oversized alice i´ve been pretty lazy. This said due to the polo i have a ridiculous tan line (clarify I´m tanned enough to look quite ridiculous naked but not nearly tanned enough to warrant admiring remarks). Polo is interesting; essentially they throw you on a horse without breaks or english and start thawking balls at you before they set you loose in your very first chukkas. exhilarating but the rock hard saddles result in distinct problems in sitting down the next day.

I´ve attached a couple of photos; one from the Boca match which was incredible if rather a rip-off and another from the Graffitmundo tour. This weekend´s lining up to be similarly exhausting especially with a whole troop of westminsters passing through meaning that sleep will be severely rationed. hopefully we´ll get out to tigre on saturday, failing that we´ll pay homage to tierra santa in palermo and on sunday i´ve managed to promise to play tennis before san telmo market and the market of the ferria de mataderos on sunday so not much!

Lady Luck

Sweet, although might I add distinctly fickle, lady luck has returned, if fleetingly, to me. The Sanchez Elias are absolutely lovely and their home beautiful. In addition the other students staying are fun too and I can waltz along Marcello T Alvear to school in the blazing sunshine feeling like a French aristocrat. I have disgracefully indulged myself last week by squandering the luxury of time in BsAs. So this weekend I atoned for my sins by packing it in, I even turned down friday night at Crobar.

On friday after a much needed siesta (thursday is a big night out here) i ran off to palermo, in true porteno tradition i stuck to the rule of thumb that 1/2 late is a hora, and took a graffetti tour around the 3 districts of palermo (viejo/soho/proper) by way of the street art that appears there. It was quite incredible and a brilliant way to understand the issues facing argentinians today since the artists are in fact situated all over the demographic - in terms of age, sex and wealth they come from diverse backgrounds but, largely, are able to work alongside eachother happily.

Saturday got off to an affrontively early start in order to catch the 10am to Lobos (thankfully camilla told me reservations necessary and booked for me), which fortunately turned out to leave at 10.30 since i arrived at 10 needing to get out money. Not so fortunately lady luck had not frequented Serena who was coming adrenaline hunting too. 10.30 came and went and serena awoke to the not so blissful ignorance of my trail of messages. ahhh... although she arrived an hour after me nursing a particularly hateful `resaca´ as a souvenir from the previous nights adventures it wasn´t of any consequence as the paracadismo (hanggliding) was a very argentine outift and consequently we slept in the sunshine and ate under the canopy of parachutes and discoballs in the clubhouse until disturbed from our slumbers with a slew of thickly accented spanish from which we understood vamos and little else. I think it must of been the safety talk.

getting in the tiny little hawk and gradually climbing, watching the earth disappear intermittently as a cloud encompassed us was strange. at several points i thought it was time to bail out now; quite high enough. It was quite incredible to see somewhere so completely flat as well. a patchwork of fields broken only by an erratic display of lakes and rivers, the odd clump of forest as far as the eye could see. time to jump and remembering the simple tasks of jump 2nd, legs together, arch your back and hold onto the harness was pretty darn intellectually demanding! tumbling the 1st few seconds was simply surreal and so much so that you´re not afraid, after that it was amazing to voom towards terra firma and have absolutely no responsibility for pulling the zipcord. parachute out we circled about happily trying to catch the attention of Serena and chatting abouts superpowers and landing procedures (FAIL). Slight crash landing (no te preoccupades - todo es un el pericula) and greeted a similarly poor lander in the form of serena who was clasping a sick bag having experienced some midflight nausia! hysterical.

we then managed to miss 2 buses back to BA and instead found a really sweet traditional polo shop in charming, developed but traditional, Lobos where we clad up in bombatches and gaucho hats and bought presents for the boys back home at prices a tenth of london and a third of BA. Most impressively did a huge supermarket sweep for $30 of all the fresh local fruit&veg (amazing supper later with the contents; acelga, cebolla, ajo, zapallo, papas, huevos de pato YUM). the helados were a steal at $1/ball too but not as nice as freddos or chungas.

Despite two hours sleep i managed to arrive on time for the bike tour but since most failed in the task of rising at ungodly hours / had failed yet to make it into bed we didn´t head to Tigre as planned but around La Boca, San Telmo and Puerto Madryn instead working up a hefty appetite for a spoiling lunch at palermo hotspot mott. delicious and beautiful but so glad i dont live there as every shop was a tantalising prospect. i discovered Chungas, much better than Freddos and opted for mousse de maracuya which though pricey for a little thing was sublime, regretfully not quite as good as the pistachio that i probare pre purchase. totally exhausted I managed to stay awake to discuss the socialist agenda of Argentine politics preventing production and export of grain as well as the push for aggarian reform whilst Marina decided that she would be tracing the Duggans to see which are my cousins before inviting them round for a reunion... phew que fin de la semana!

carne

It is true. meat, meat, meat... its all they ever think about. Went to a true local parrilla yesterday, as in I was 4 stone lighter, considerably cleaner and drier, 10 times whiter and stood out for being female too. I have to upload a picture - its open to the street, one room grill and bar area and costs $17.50 for una media pollo con papas fritas. I do miss vegetables. If you ask for them you´ll get bread, or potatoes if you´re lucky, actually I found an amazing salad bar which isn´t expensive but I don´t feel much like a porteno eating there (impressive number of porteno businessmen eating there though considering the healthy fare).

That said I actually have to award the best steak prize to the saanga grill in the bus terminal (admitedly like an airport) at Curitiba, Brazil. So good it passed my ultimate steak test - it still tasted pretty fine the next morning at Igacu.

Continuing the meaty theme i`m leaving Dora and Clive´s ashes (did i mention the dead cat previously?) and meating my new homestay family over supper, at a parrilla of course but I get the feeling this will be rather different in tone to my lunchtime fastfood sweatfest. It appears to be a grand house in Recoleta, yes mummy phone contact impending, and aside from the lady who owns it and her 19yr old daughter (perfect) there are two other students staying (¡Que buenos a full!). Anyway time to face the music at Doras and hopefully head out to palermo later.

A2

Somehow I managed to find myself on the elementary/intermediate borderline despite my complete lack of hispanic influence for the last 5 years after the entry test. Slight sinking feeling initially at the task of writing about my preferred musical genre without any solid knowledge (largely i think in French and add on the perceived ´spanish´ endings) of the language. However, dare I say it, I`m not all that hideously bad (or maybe Juan´s just being extra nice)!

Slight issues with accomodation, after finishing up the Geckos tour (annoyingly situated 2 convient blocks from the language school) and waving goodbye to the boys, who at 2pm were passed out in the hotel lobby since the club had only closed at 7am and they obviously had a rather more generous drinks budget than mine judging by the colour of their faces, i soldiered on to meet my homestay family.

CORRECTION: OAP Dora, her dead cat Clive (currently being cremated after a day in the freezer... yum!) and what purported to be a mutilated chicken somewhere in the midst. Not quite the nice little family I had been imagining......... anyway I had a nice supper and ran off to the internet cafe for refuge before passing out to bridget jones on the TV (needed to drown out the sound of av. Cordoba running below the window).

Fortunately, looks like I`m now being sorted out with a homestay where there`s another student staying too as somewhere in the STA-Real Gap-Expanish chain the communication I`d like to live with other students/people of a similiar age/disposition there was an irreprable fracture. I might miss the free meals a little though - good steak last night!

I`ve toured around Recoleta and walked amongst the dead great and good before waltzing back down Av. Alvear past grandiose appartments and luxury stores. Found an old classmate (we don`t actually remember eachother...) and slept under the shade of the Obelisk in Plaza De La Republica. Hopefully we`ll get up to Tigre & San Isidro on a bike tour tomorrow and we`re booking skydiving for the weekend (the boys postponed from thurs as they cited the lack of 72 hours notice to get intoxicated enough not to comprehend thier impending doom as an issue)!

With any luck my hand will have healed up enough to play some tennis and polo which is cheap through the language school next week and expecting more friends tomorrow. All in all I can confirm that I`m being sucked into the black hole that is Buenos Aires!

Sleep Deprivation

I haven´t been partying wildly - quite the opposite this situation is due to heinously early starts and overnight buses - 3 in week was a bit of a killer.

Since Rio I´ve headed down to BA on a Gecko´s tour. We´ve checked out the rather more cultural side of Rio and snaked our way down via rainforests, waterfalls and island paradises in a bleary-eyed haze.

Rio turned out to have some rather nice areas and a old colonial center that is largely undefiled, although they have imported a spaceship that they installed upsidedown for a cathedral. It is clever inside - a sort of giant concrete ant heap with stained glass forming a cruciform in the skies above you. 2nd clever little feature is the wind tunnelling through to keep it cool without aircon but unfortunately it means the city sirens appear to be sounding alarmingly close; about 2 pews back and a little to the left to be precise!

Having managed to secure a Zbed in the Intercontinental we watched the sunset over Tijuca from the pool with a couple of burgers and hang-gliders circling. It was stunning. From our balcony the favela Rosina was clearly visible and its lights (all illegally powered from the main grid) formed a twinkling blanket against the silouhetted mountains against the burnt skies. Additionally by the pool we found/were found by some charming french boys who turned out to have an equally charming penthouse on Ipanema (where we partied to the Ipanema band in the day) where we spent the next night for their house warming drinking caipirinhas in the jacuzzi until the sun rose and then we ate eggs on the balcony before i hightailed it back to my hotel in time for the tour to leave!

A quick stop in Curitiba and onto Isla do Mel!

From Samba to Sewage

The samba schools were spectacular at the sambadrone even if Bobs inedible (and expensive in comparison to the golden arches) Burgers where the only supper fare on offer. Tijuca was the overal champion complete with batmen bombing down a mobile ski slope. Their song has been incessantly pounded into our heads since as all the bars have it on repeat.

We may have looked faintly ridiculous but we ensured that we were at least in the company of similar such glittering fools by transforming the rest of the Tucan boys who came with us. After several hours of samba or concrete benches we were a little achy, very sweaty and ready for a cooling drink on our return. You qill have to imagine how we looked (we went shopping around the blocas around Cinelandia in the day) as unfortunately those were the photos stolen!

The next day we headed off to Roschina, the largest favela in Rio (300,000), which turned out to be right next to the Intercontinental where I would spend that night for a favela tour. It sounds a little morbid and several of the elder people on the tour made distinctly nauseating comments that did make you feel voyeuristic. That said, the tour was well executed and in fact I felt that the favela was in considerably better shape than home sweet home lapa. It had energy and felt cohesive, additonally we got the best frango kebab con salsa by a mile we´d had for R$1.50 each. It sounds awful to say but I´d wanted to see something more shocking, so there was an open sewer and the electrical cables almost blot out the sun but I thought I´d gain a greater insight than Waughs guide for the A level geographer had already laid out.

Duran Duran

Her name is RIO and she dances in the sand, oh Rio, Rio baby across the Rio Grand!



Well Rio is an enigma (it´s not even really called Rio de Janerio...........). It both matches exactly with all accounts and yet doesnt quite correspond with my expectations built upon those accounts. Ill try to explain that - the bay is stunning, the polarisation marked, we´ve been mugged, taught samba on the street and watched the parade after sunning ourselves on Copacabana beach! However, Carnival isnt charged like i had anticipated - its a sort of glorified excuse for a city to dress up in drag although at the blocas its crazy (distinctly over the edge of riotous) the rest of the town is drawn.



I think the decline of Rios prominence and drain of government recentralisation in Brasilia has had more than a physical/socio-economic effect. It appears more and more that carnival is escapism- it allows music, dance and community participation for nothing and in Rio this enjoyment has been lacking so carnival fills the void! I had expected a highly religious country but aside from the Christian fundamentalists of the Jesu Christos e o seignor de Estados Reinos the people tend not to have religious convictions at all or are perfectly happy to see a voodoo doctor whilst pursuing alysium. I think that carnival no longer has any higher significance is what makes it appear baseless - hedonism with no pretence.


Our mugging wasnt all that spectacular - we were out in Lapa by our hostel and speaking to a couple of english boys. Two men moved in - one attempting to distract, the other to grab Eleanor´s camera although it was fairly blatent what their aim was. I did actually pull the rather simple looking one off who i´d seen breaking bottles in preparation earlier. His one good eye registered terror, which made me drop him faster than the bottle clasped in his hand. Ironically the topic of our conversation just prior to the mugging was about muggings in Rio; especially how annoying it would be to have a camera stolen. We weren´t hurt but suddenly all of the thousands by the arches were transformed into potential threats so the walk back was a little gruelling!

24hours, 4 doctors, 3 countries, 2 xrays, 1 plane, 1 ferry, three taxis and a couple of pizzas later...

So despite passing the ambulences a couple of streets away from the hostel they took 1/2hr to arrive by which stage cooking lentijhes the previous night had paid off - one of the girls i´d feb turned out to be a medic on a year abroad.......... perfect! Having sussed me out the medics were keen to whisk me off to colonia´s hospital but we had other plans (although at this stage eleanor had disappeared off with her disfunctional STA mastercard - might hold off on transferring much through) since we were already late for check-in for the ferry.

Promising to go to hospital in BA we boarded the ferry whilst trying to break the happy news to mum relatively calmly between ice packs pressed to my face and hand. One productive ferry ride later and i´d sorted out a claims no. although further trouble arose when Eleanor realised she´d lost Muriels address and we managed to ring through... and write down the wrong building no. Wishing eachother luck and joking with passers-by about my war wounds we split up - me for the German Hospital and Eleanor for the hostel where her bags were stored.

First task was persuading the registrar that I warranted emergency care since it was out of hours, second was to negotiate a hospital where no-one spoke english whilst trying to keep my trousers up with one hand bound up and the other dealing with papers and luggage.

Thankfully i found another friendly stranger - this time the doctor who saw me who locked my luggage up in his office. Despite joking about the iodine moustache and goatee he was painting on he saw fit to ask me out for a drink when i returned in March. I think he´s more likely to see me in emergency care! after getting rather lost between departments not really knowing where i was meant to be headed in any case i emerged with an even larger bandage and no antibiotics - the farmacias both in and opposite the hospital being closed.

Getting into my taxi I reached the aching awareness that i hadn´t yet taken any pain killers and that they were locked firmly in the trunk whilst my natural pain blockers cooled down from their marathon screaming match of ´it really doesn´t hurt that much!´ On route I fielded a call from Sabrina to say that her aunts address was 1845 rodriguez tena not 45 and that eleanor had arrived in tears (later realising she´d also lost her backpack on route) at least there was steaming pizza on the table (even if Eleanor had to cut it into babysize chunks for me as writing and cutting just doesn´t happen atm).

A trip to FarmaCity and a kip on the sofa preceded our taxi to the airport at 2:30am. Despite not being able to fill out any forms and signing in a baby scribble with my left hand I got to Rio to Lapa. The Place to be at night but apparently not so much in the day!

(Picture accredited to Drage; weapon of mass facial/dexteral destruction)

An unexpected souvenir...

Colonia we quickly discovered had rather more to offer once by the river or within the barrio historico. Despite being armed with a guidebook we wandered around the old cobbled streets and went wherever took our fancy - at 70 pesos to cover all museum entries there was no urgency to go and check out every tile in the museo azulejes.

Highlights definately included the faro (lighthouse) which rises out of the C16th ruins of the covento san francisco and the old port. Where a ruined residence served as our sombra (shade) since, although it was beautiful under the willows on the waters edge, the acidic green algae gave off quite a stench!

After an absolutely delicious lunch at El Drugstore opposite the Iglesia Matriz on Plaza des Armas, pescado del dia and gnocchi where we started off lunch in a converted vintage car on the street (sorry dad i don´t know what it was but there are pictures!) but moved as it was boiling to the equally ecletic interior (think suspended grand pianos and carribean colour) Rio de la Plata beckoned. Armed with a couple of bikes from the hostel we set off for the locals beach although due to a lack of breaks I had to walk my bike for all of the downhill / crossroads. It is MASSIVE as in can´t see the other side (and BA) at all, since we rather needed a workout so jumped straight in, disbelieving that it was fresh despite the mud underfoot further out. the stormdrain was perhaps not it´s most enticing feature, fortunately i wrote my postcards lying on the sand...!

Having chanced upon a circus and funfair and indulged ourselves by climbing the abandoned ferris wheel etc. we then chatted with the workers and helped weld the bucking bronco back to life before setting off at which point DISASTER. Going at a fair speed i couldn~´t be sure of making the corner between Eleanor and an oncoming moped so cut the grass verge to pass eleanor on the inside. This was the intention anyway. Unfortunately the nice grassy verge didn´t have quite the same agenda and turned out to be harbouring some rather large concrete blocks. Omniously i was swearing before i´d even hit them (no brakes...) and exhibited a perfect forward flip over the handlebars and into a full face plant.

Fortunately no loss of consciousness `Eleanor is my nose broken?` were my first words. Immediately people showered down in torrents (not disimilar to the dark pools of blood forming) to help and at this point i realised with a tweak of the nose and a quick teeth scan that the major in fact lay with my knuckle which was exposed to the bone but being tenderly washed by my good samaritans. Off another nameless helper whisked me to the hostel where the medics were called.

The only thing broken coincidentally were the H&M sunglasses that appeared to have shielded the old nose and eyes in their final sacrificial moments.