El Ultimo Transmisión

......the return was easy, a short flight from Bariloche back to the vast blanket of light that is Buenos Aires. A city with an infectious spirit and charm all of its own. I landed with some nervousness knowing my iminent return to Dublin obscured my thinking. For four days I absorbed memories of the city, the Porteno lifestyle and juicy steaks. My mind twanged with insecurities and yearning and then the time came after an emotional farewell to board my flight back home, sitting among the French for 12 hours on the long way home. i'm back now and what better way to end this journey with some choice highlights from my trip, and an emotional farewell........
The Keitho's
best city ; Buenos Aires, amazing place with great people.
Thing of Beauty ; Semuc Champey, natural limestone bridge with two rivers running on top of each other. A little Eden.
Awestruck moment ; Tikal, jungle waking up, temples appearing and disappearing in the morning mist.
Best Steak ; Viejo Jacks, most of a cow on a plate, the best thing about Salta
Most fucked up thing ; Salar de Uyuni, landscape of the bizarre and surreal kind. Moonscape, marsscape, Dali scape.
Embarassing moment ; Of many, getting myself locked in a toilet in Huaraz, Peru. Not strange but I was in my boxers and the woman of the house had to break me out and then for the next hour explain what I did. Without letting me put my clothes on.
Sad time ; Poverty, everywhere. From the heat of Nicaragua to the plains of Argentina. Some bad vibes here. It wears you out and depresses you.
Gimp of the Trip ; American who asked if I understood satire and irony. An American? I ask you.
Drink ; Downing snake wine in Vilcabamba in great company. Drunk from the legs up anyone?
Big irritation ; Insect bites, from weeping sores to the traditional mozzy bite. I occasionally resembled a ebola victim.
Worst country ; Costa Mucha, gorgeous place but damned expensive.
People moment ; Being helped by a Costa Rican family to get to Monteverde. They offered me their floor to sleep on.
High point ; Everything was excellent. I don't want a repeat of the national debate when I returned from Oz and Asia and a certain national DJ said I hated it all. Spanner.
Low point; Getting onto that plane. But even that was mixed with excitement about going back to the flats and seeing the people I love.
Worst blog; This one.
Its been an emotional journey for me. From the great city of Mexico travelling south through Latin America seeing an unbelievable range of things, experiences I will never replicate. Along the way meeting amazing people who kept me company and travelled chicken buses, boats, rafts, planes, trains and mules. I will remember you all. And keep in contact with you. I'll need some cheap holidays. So this is farewell.
Goodbye to machistos, almuerzos and good steak. To strange club habits of the Americas, to raggaton and remakes of bad 80's music. To gauchos, muchachos and proud mis direction. To meeting people from all over the world. To seeing gratuitous nudity everywhere while women walk by breast feeding babies. to rabid dogs and fat cats and crazy financial schemes that ruin countries. A quirk, a nod to constant political upheaval. To no personal space on any bus and getting my face smacked by a portly womans sweating belly. goodbye, ciao, slan and after. I am at home now but will return.
But I must remember things now I am home. To look right and not left when crossing the road. To put the toilet paper in the bowl and not in a bin beside me. Not to gawk at women as if they are meat, (ah Latinos) to go to the bar and not wait for service, to say thank you and not gracias, to be cold and not hot.
So this is the final incoherant blog. It's been emotional.
I will be in HOGANS on Friday night. Come along and have a drink. It will be great to see you all. Heres my mobile number, 085 1490772, it is the same as before I went away.
For all that I met, you are welcome to come to Dublin and I'll show you my city.

Birds in Bariloche are STOOPID

....a lot can happen in 17 hours, a damn lot. I could fly back to Ireland, have a really long sleep and get up eat breakfast and lunch, do 5 marathons or get a semi cama bus from Mendoza to Bariloche and in the process change season from Spring to a cold winter. The latter is what I chose to do with the promise of a few days rest at Jani´s sisters place. In a Golf and Country club. 30 km from the nearest town. On the shore of the alpine Lago Guttierrez. This is how the other half live. No more guarding my belongings madly in a hostel, no more wearing flip flops to the shower, because you can´t be sure enough if the cleaner got rid of all the sexual fluid from the night before. It was worth the journey to see the view, this place is a winter wonderland .............
......birds and animals in general I have always found to be a notch below us in the intellectual scheme of things. Take for instance the birds around Bariloche. Beautiful though they are they are not too clever. A complete flock managed to crash into the large window that overlooked the violent lake, stunning five of our feathered friends in the process so they just lay lopsided on the ground. Now compare this to me, while trying to scare a couple of dogs away from the jacuzzi (yeah you know it) I cracked my finger off a counter. I suspect its broke and bears a stupid person bruise on it. The dogs didn`t budge......
.....4 days of staring out at the lake, flanked on either side by steep mountains covered in snow, watching rabbits bounce ably away from pedigree dogs on holiday from the city. A certain calmness grows inside you. One which provides complete relaxation and an isolation which is beautiful and primitive. Rain and snow fell for two days solid and the land and lake took on a different complexion, one still of serenity and having the same calming effect. I did not want to be anywhere else........
when will I stop?

MENDOZA!!!!!!!!!!!!

......God damn little thieving gypsy. And I was so close to returning home without losing nothing but my dignity on a few beaches in central America. But no, it had to happen. My bag was stolen, and so close to home. Nothing valuable was taken, of monetary value anyway. My Moleskine journal was nicked with all my musings and thoughts while travelling. And as some of you know, I like to write and loosing this was a bit of a blow. It´s not as bad as losing a passport or your camara but it sucked. There was only ne thing to do after that............
.......Some things in life don´t go together. Chalk and cheese, Pineapple on pizza, oil and water. I would of thought that Bikes and Wine didn´t either especially when you add a road full of workers digging holes. Yet surprisingly it does. I got on my metal horse accompanied by Ruth and headed off to the first winery. A guide with seductively broken English bored us until she served us two tasters. Mediocre. Up on the bikes again joined by more backpackers on wheels, dodging angry, psychotic dogs we headed to a Chocolate factory. Willy wasn´t home but the nice man served us up alcoholic liquers and chocolate. I believe it was nice, it left a goo in my throat. We waved goodbye to the man and headed for lunch. It was in a drug barons compound and served by a guy with a limp. All to suave background music. The bike brought us to another one, two maybe three wineries. And still I was not drunk. It was impossible, any alcohol that went in was sweated out by cycling. All in all a bit frustrating. Until I got back to the hostal, and drank beer. That worked...........
........snow. I saw it back up in the Andes beside a big mountain called Aconatagua or something. Apparently its the tallest in the Western hemisphere. I suppose it depends on where you are looking from. Being low season for skiing, there was no piste action. But there were ski lifts. Charging 20 pesos to go up just to walk back down. Thats 5yoyos. A bit steep(get it). It was eerie being in a ski resort in low season, all creaking signs and lonely staff. A bit like Shining in reverse.........
.....a natural bridge straddled the river. A stong orange hue dripped over its icy edge forming into stalactites(mites) as the river ran yellow. Minerals swallowed the rivers drinking potential and provide a cure for ailments of the skin. Hot springs gouged a hole through the earth which the Incans held sacred. The British turned it into a hot sring bath for the rich, erecting a 5 star hotel with a private chapel and underground tunnel to the baths. But Pachamama took her revenge, sending a landslide down one of her mountains, avoiding the church and destroying the hotel. It was never rebuilt.........

Leaving BsAs To Get Wet

........it was a quiet morning in Buenos Aires. I had drank too much red wine the night before and my stomach was doing mini flips. It was time to leave, to begin travelling again. Afterall it is the reason I came away in the first place. But this city, it´s under my skin nagging at me to return soon. To its cafes and bars and relaxed culture. And I will for one last weekend before I leave, to eat dinner at midnight and head to a bar to drink and dance till the next morning. BsAs is in my heart........
........Puerto Iguazu´s dusty skin welcomed me. The town sleepy in appearance and at low season completely empty and devoid of people. To say it lacks soul is to overestimate its attraction. But you don´t come here for the town. You come here for the most amazing waterfall(s). Iguazu Falls stream down over cliffs in white hair crashing at the bottom spraying vapour high into the sky. It has at least 30 waterfalls and a tacky little train that brings you to different interesting spots. But its hard being somewhere this beautiful because of people. They push and barge to get the best photos squeeze and complain about all the people. But this is what you get at a stunning natural occurance. People want to see and touch as much as possible. Its in our nature to push to what we want. I just wish we wouldn´t complain about it.........

...."hey man you like Argentinian girls?"
"I guess so."
....."with their fine bodies and oh yeah pushed up breasts, it makes me horny just thinking about them"
"Ok."
...."you take drugs and get with one of those women man and they are yours,....all night"
And it went on like this. Booze, women, drugs. This was my first conversation with Percy a Peruvian guide.

......woohoo on a boat, going into the falls. This is bleedin rapid. Get in there you mad bastard. Right in under the waterfall. Nice spray this, not too wet. AHHHH holy crap. Get me out I´m swallowing water. I know what goes into this water in some countries. Crap, rubbish, dead bodies. Ok out of it now. Calm, relax, tranquilo. Here we go again into the, Devils Throat. Good God its huge, my boxers are wet. Just spray, more spray, not so bad, Ahh, I´ve just had 5 buckets of water thrown at me. Get me out.........
My minds thought while getting drenched in Iguazu Falls.

...I went to Brazil my 11th country. I was there for 3 hours. I don´t know what its like but I have the stamp. Enough said.........

As I sit in this internet cafe I have realised my bag is missing. This means either of two things.
I left it in the hostel or it has been stolen. The latter will piss me off the most, as it had all of my musings and notes in it. This will relly piss me off, as I have nothing except those words I have wrote down to remind me of my travels, I have no camera. I would rather they stole my wallet. But this is all speculation at the moment. I sit uncomfortably waiting to find out. This will change my view of Mendoza. This is were I am now. Tomorrow I cycle and drink wine. It might be an angry drunk if my journal is gone or a relieved drunk because I left it in the hostel. Now I am angry.

Cats, Dogs and the Dead

......walking around Recoleta and Palermo is a relaxing thing. Beautiful people line the streets adorned with the most cutting edge hairstyles and ridiculously expensive clothes. But what is very apparent in these neighbourhood is how much they love dogs. Many camp dog walkers straddle the streets with up to 20 dogs each, being led in ridiculous directions. But there is something sinister about these animals. They have lost all prime instinct. None of them bark, there is not one nose stuck up an arse, there are no attempts at copulation. Instead these dogs obey without doubt, attired in their soft wollen jackets and designer leashes. Poor inbred purebreds........and compare them to cats here. People as far as I can tell hate cats. On an amble through the Botanical Gardens, the Zoo or the famed Recoleta Cemetary there are thousands of them, abandoned by their owners. The cats are large and well feed by somebody, or something and are a major problem. And they look evil, staring out at you with vacant eyes full of mischief. Little b$%"·&"ds.........
.......Recoleta Cemetary is a morbid place to spend an afternoon bathed in sunshine. But it is also a testament to the stupidity of the rich. Full of unnecessary foibles. Families paid a princely sum to entere their bodies here and wanted people to know. Temples were built as monuments and the bodies are places with coffins on full show through elaborate stain glass windows and cross cut holes. All under the watchful gaze of fat cats. Now what do they feed on again? What people needed these temples for is a mystery. But then again so is religion to me. Intersstingly enough two graves which are most prominent are for Guillermo Browne and Father Fahy the Confessor. You can´t bring the Irish anywhere without them dying..........
THE JERK.
He sat across from our table in Desnivel a brilliant steak house. His eyes glazed with wine and boisterous talk. He stood awkwardly and came toward our table and grabbed a packet of cigarettes and threw them at the waiter. The cigarettes where retrieved and placed in the centre of the table. On returning the jerk picked the packet again and threw them straight at my nose scraping it in the process. The guy was a jerk.
Ciao

This Accents Got Me Licked

.....I stared blankly at the girl behind the counter.Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she delicately asked, Como? I, in turn scrunched up my eyebrows, muttered something along the lines of ´de nada´ and ´gracias´and left the shop slightly humiliated. I was hungover after a quiet night out with Ciaran and Vicki which involved staring at teenagers perfecting their hairstyles so they would look their best on the dancefloor. Quiet here is returning home at 6am. And my body is constantly reminding me of the fast approach of my 30th birthday by walloping me with burning indigestion and severe hangovers. I slept early that night. It was all I could do......
.....going to a literary debate in Buenos Aires was maybe not the smartest thing to do with my level of Spanish. I gave it a go none the less and left more confused than when I went in. The stage was set with 3 stereotypical professor types, complete with intellectual beards and twead suit jackets. I leaned forward as the discussion began, concentrating on their voices. I picked out words and logically added what I thought would go with them. But the talk got rampant and slurred through high brow jokes and huffing of words. Added to this was the constant noise of someone behind me involved in a text message marathon.It was here I admitted defeat which was also when Jani did. We left and later........................I found myself in.................Buenos Aires equivolent .....to The Big Tree. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. were I hooked up with the mosquito bitten Ciaran and Vicki. The place teemed with students from the Argentine country. I´m sure most of the girls were waiting on the ravages of puberty to provide some curves as the manicured faces of the boys figured out how to savage their young skin. Smoke mushroomed from tables, an 18th birthday party swung into overload next to us. We whimpered and left the kids to themselves. We need to find an older crowd soon. I´m getting embarassed and slightly intimidated by the kids..........
........I once again found myself staring blankly at a Porteño. She had asked me a question. I could not decipher her rapid speech and replied with the trusted, ´no se´which translated means I don´t know. But her voice went into over-ride and I could feel peoples eyes turn towards me on the cramped Subway train. I had to bite the bullet. Her accent had overwhelmed me. I sighed, ´no hablo español, lo siento.`But damn I do understand it, just not in this town..........
Time to watch another glorious defeat by a hyped up Irish team. Ciao.

The Finer Details Of Buenos Aires Life

.......Time is irrelevant in this town. A mobile phone is a definite necessity if you are to have a fully functioning social life. The reasons for this are simple. People here never are where they are supposed to be at a given time. I have been left standing at street corners for over an hour, waiting. People notice you and feel a sense of pity for you. ´Ahh look at the gringo, either lost or stood up.´ But the strange thing is, I{ve not had to meet many Argentines on the streets. Most have been lacsidasical backpáckers who have been infused with the culture here so much they have begun to take on its traits. And I like it. If I were to stay longer a mobile phone would be necessary.......
.......we go from hot to hot and wet to mild and muggy to cold to cold and wet to humid....its been a weird two weeks weather wise. And the heavy rains came when Ciaran and Vicki arrived from home bringing the Irish Summer disease with them. Or it is still winter here......................
......Plaza de Mayo is a great expanse in the Microcentre in Buenos Aires. Great ornate buildings are mixed up with run down edifices and waste ground surrounding a giant statue in the centre with compulsory horses. But this square houses something more. Las Madres de la Plaza de Mayo. Mothers of the Plaza who back in the 70{s came out in protest against the military Junta goverment at the disappearance of their sons and daughters. Being mothers they have massive input into society here and were allowed there protests. They continue today, to get information about their stolen generation. Also in this plaza lie the homeless. A strong reminder that although BsAs is a cultured seemingly affluent place poverty is everywhere. Over 50% of people live below the poverty line here. On the plaza they sleep on giant bags of rubbish scavenged from the streets. This is done everywhere, I know, but the organisation I{ve seen here overwhelmed me. As I walked down Defensa in the San Telmo barrio hundreds scavenged through the plastic bags. Nothing going to waste. Its not the worst I{ve seen, but it provides a stark contrast to the barrio my apartment is in, full of the middle classes and dog walkers......POVERTY IS EVERYWHERE, CAPITALISM DOES NOT WORK.
and so ends my rant

All Porteños Are Vampires

..........ths city is an insomniac. Constantly going, rarely relenting in its pace whether it be in afternoon heat or the pits of the night. Its inhabitants glide through life, past work and into parilladas and bars for after hours drinks which moreover than not stretch long into the night, and then they rest sparingly, until they rise early and do it all again. This lifestyle could kill me in this month if I had to work, but thankfully I can go to bed while others are going to work and rise when they return, this is when my day begins now. Around four in the afternoon. Which brings me to the conclusion all porteños are vampires...
Bad idea #12098476 , Archery in a bar. I´ve seen it next to pool tables were incidently I whooped the arse off a southsider. (Doesen´t sound right does it?)
.........I hate shopping at home. I despise it here. You wander innocently into a shop and some stylishly dressed sort with complicated hair saunters over and tries to sell you all sorts of crap. When you refuse an atitude kicks in. It is because of this I smell of mothballs and look like a faded photo from the 70s without seeming cool.
........a stoopid Quebecquer turned off my water. Damn him. I went the whole day without showering and it got hot. 28degrees, muggy 80% and I stank. He is gone home now. So all is good........
.........Sahara is the type of club I would normally run a marathon to avoid, but while being a lone traveller you tend to go with the crowd, no matter how bad a place may seem. In fairness to Sahara it did look more welcoming than the previous bar we had been in in San Telmo. It smelled of the finest beef infused urine and it was karaoke night. Sahara was the opposite, clean and full of blonde local women. (They do like to dye it blond here, even though it leaves hideous roots(I know, fruity) for these brunettes). There was a performance of a kind going on and all seemed well. We sat digesting our steaks and wine innocently when a man with a microphone approached and asked were we hailed from. Ireland, Oz, Columbia and Quebec came the reply. The next thing I remember I´m on the dancefloor with eyes staring at us. This is were I blank out.............We left soon after,...........,.,.,.,.it was 5am.........-ñ,-.,,m----------......vampires time to head home.
Adios, ciao y slan.
I´m off to eat more cow and drink some of that fine wine. And sleep a touch.

mmmmmmmm Beef

....after an epic journey through Gaucho country by train, car and expensive bus I arrived in the not too unpleasant town of Salta. And as a benefit country No. 10 Argentina. This place is the most European of the lot and a welcome respite from dodgy buses and rotten roads. And then there is the steak.........
Old Jack ; Es por dos personas
Rich , Don´t mess with me old Jack. I want the whole cow.
This is how my first night in Argentina went, in bullet point form :

• Went to Viejo Jacks to get some famous Argentine Steak
• On reading the menu realised the wine was ridiculously cheap
• Steak was also cheap, and weighed roughly half of me
• Wine was so good, drank roughly 15 bottles between 8
• Left old Jack to the carcass of roughly two cows.
• Went in search of Saltas nightlife.
• Found bar, drank cocktails
• Found taxi, who found nightclub
• Club was empty at 3am
• At 4am club filled up. More cocktails.
• Walking in the darkness I tripped down a step ruining my cool strut and sprained my ankle.
• Escorted to hostel to get strap on leg.
• At 6am the rest return and regale me with a tale of drunken brawling, initiated by the two young lads from Brisbane. No surprise there. (Seriously, anyone familiar with Fortitude Valley in Brisbane on a Saturday night can testify to this.

..........5 am sucks. It just does. Getting up at this time is hard and stupid. But I had an important flight to catch to Buenos Aires. 5 hours later I sat across from my landlady. A beautifully classy mature lady, who has an Irish mother. "Verde Erin." She explained to me in Castellano the different facilities and went on her way. (Castellano, Argentine Spanish is the hardest to understand I have encountered. Slangtastic.)

.......I took a stroll up to old Palermo. The barrios atmosphere dripped from the buildings. People lazing away in cafes and sipping mate. The early spring sunshine resting lazily on skin and parkland. The old buildings cracked from weather, appearing from some historical romance. The striking stride of the locals as they literally strut about their days. This place is relaxation for me. Away from the hustle of the centre. In Recoleta, where you don´t have to do anything, anytime soon........

.......Then I met Ultan. Please Ultan leave a comment on where I went that night. I woke up tasting of beer and hearing ringing in my ears. Lo siento Jani. Mi amigo es stupido.

Today I eat more steak.

Shivering in A Dali Wonderland

....Uyuni, a stinking desert town full of dust and a cutting wind that makes your timbers shiver. There is no reason imaginable to visit this place unless you have relatives there. It is the surrounding area that people come for. Salar De Uyuni or the Salt Flats. A truly remarkable natural occurence at 3800metres. As the jeep pulled out from the dusty centre of Uyuni we headed firstly towards a Train graveyard. A showdown was had on top of rusting wrecks and dilapidated carrages, hopefully photos will follow. Then came the Salt Flats themselves. They are pretty strange. Hexagonal shapes etch out in the salt to the horizon. It is cold enough to feel like snow and look too. A caravan of jeeps paraded through the flasts to IncaHuasi.(Isla Del Pescaderos) This is an amazing sight. An island in the salt with huge cacti striking up menacingly. I climbed to the peak to be met with a stunning view. Salt everywhere but for this island..f+cking nuts..........
Driver .- Un momento.
ME- I dont think they have sorted out accomodation.
Driver- Vamos.
A dark forbodding came over me. A door to a shed swung open as an icy gale blew through a plastic sheet roof and holes in the windows. Seven concrete beds lay before us with u shaped mattresses.
Driver- Sin electricidad y duche.
Me- So we will be cold , dirty and smelly. But on the plus side we won{t be able to see each other.
..........What the fuck? They are mad looking. All thats missing is a dripping clock man. This place is fucked up. Its like Mars over there and the moon over there. Look at the mountain top. Its got 6 colours. Fucking nuts....my reaction to the Dali rocks.
........A little tip to all. When visiting geysers in a lunar landscape never no matter how cold you get, go into the steam of the geysers without an oxygen mask. The sulphur and methane is overwhelming and a great way to get sick. This place was the coldest I have ever been.......
...Lagoona Verde marked the goodbyes between Rich, lisa, Sabine and me. But what a crazy place. The jeep struggled up a hill around what looked like a white lake. I thought it was impressive full of icy goodness and nothing much else. Upon reaching the crest of the hill a sight caught my eye . A green lake. Not slightly green, green. Nestled beneath a perfect cone mountain with ice cap. I thought this was nuts. After the guys went to Chile I headed back with the driver for what I thought was a tortuous trip back to Uyuni. Then we stopped at Lagoona Colorado. This lake was completely pink. Not kind of pink, pink. It was like watched a big pool of strawberry milkshake. Nuts. Flamingoes and all.....
There was more to this three day trip. But the best way to see how nuts it is, is to go there. Bizarre.
...A question, Why are flamingoes associated with hot climates? The ones I saw live at -25 degrees in the winter.

Dinosaurs, Divils and a Friendly Clown

.......Sucre is surrounded by brown Andean peaks forced over the millenia to contort by massive faultlines in the earths crust. And this is how over 5000 dinosuar tracks have been discovered there. They seem to walk up a cliff face to nowhere in particular. Some are as big as cars. My guide explained everything. Then we turned our attention to huge real size models of the dinosaurs. Everything from the specific era. Then he noted some flaws. One, we do not know what colour the dinosaurs were really. Two, Not sure what they ate and three, the huge models of the TREX are only there because he is the most famous dino of the lot. A bit pointless really.......
...Sucre has burst into civil disobedience since I left. The day I arrived in Potosi students had strapped themselves to public buildings and it deteriorated into rioting. This has spread to the congress in La Paz where open fist fights are taking place. It sure is interesting being in an unstable region.......
.....Moro, the Argentine clown approached me as I sat on a bench in Sucre. He seemed very Friendly and gave me some sweets.........
.....This morning I met with the devil. An interesting fellow who occupies a dark mine in the Cerro Rico mountain which towers over Potosi. I found him to be quite an interesting fellow. His believers who you must bribe with cigarettes, coco leaves, dynamite and 96% alcohol(all for the low price of 2 yo´s´[thats for a stick of dynamite people]) grunted at me as I passed in my blue jump suit and wellies. These miners believe in him because they think God cannot penetrate the mountain so they feel the need to appease the devil or TIO as they call him. It means uncle. So they offer him coco, smokes, alcohol and sit with him. I found it pleasant enough, the sulphur and altitude did not affect my breathing, the small crawl spaces not too demanding. Although his giant manhood hanging out of his frock did cause me some concern..............
Alright.

Further Tales of the Jungle

....when the chiefs daughter came home one day with the worlds worries on her shoulders the chief began to stress. He questioned his daughter on why she was so miserable. The response was not one he was happy with. His young daughter was pregnant. The chief understandably was a bit annoyed at this and demanded the fathers head. But his daughter insisted it was a debonnair dolphin that did it. She was sitting beside the river and a pink dolphin approached talking in Barry White tones and transforming from his pink shade into a dazzling white suit. He then seduced the poor wench and impregnated her....And so began the Pampas legend of the fertile dolphin upon whom all unwanted pregnancies are blamed............
........the bouncy twin engined pride of Amaszonias Air carried me towards La Paz. Away from the luscious green jungle and heat back to the pollution of the big city. I was joined on board by a particularly irritating American Family who moaned about every aspect of the trip. I tried blocking them out with different techniques but none worked. Then the miracle of turbulence happened. Flying over the Andes is like riding a rollercoaster. My stomach leapt high and sunk low. A slight quesiness swept over me. But an interesting sound came from behind me. I turned. Every one in the American family was throwing up into there sickbags. A bit of justice in a world gone mad........
......been in La Paz for 3 days. Nothing to do here except leave, tonight.
......To all caught in the Peru earthquake, hope you are all fine.

Idda Jungle, idda idda jungle

.......a small twin engine plane carried me through not over the Andes to Rurrenabeque. It was a bumpy ride in a small aircraft designed for not more than 20 people. The landing consisted of skirting the jungle canopy to land on a dirt runway. I was away from the oxygen deprived La Paz and into the lucious green heat of the jungle, fully equiped with proper air, stuff I could breathe without panting. And then the adventure began.......
,.........A short discussion with a random Australian informed me of an unexpected presence on the trip. A young lady in my tour group was in fact a celebrity from the land down under. A childrens writer and the host of Big Brother. Luckily I used my experience of celebrity handling and put into practice what I normally do. I completely ignored the fact. She turned out to be very pleasant. And after making all the groups acquaintance I clamboured aboard a canoe and set about mosquito infested waters. In short my experience of the Pampas was amazing. Wildlife everywhere. Capybarras, giant rodents, dolphins, alligators, monkeys which are surprisingly lighter than pigeons and the scary anaconda. I held one in disdain in the swamp and poked him with a stick. He wasnt so tough. The hostel resembled Marlon Brandos hideout in Apocalypse Now. A bar in the jungle hours from civilisation. Surrounded by alligators and monkeys. 40 people stayed there, sweating and dusty, yet there was only one shower. With LOW PRESSURE. Shocking but expected............Then the sun went down........and a snorer kept me awake.......for 2 nights...........in the jungle................until I got back to Rurre and did.........................this...
...Cocktails lots of them. They were pleasant and then I met interesting person#256 of the trip, Arthur. A lunatic from Belfast hell bent on chewing coco leaves from dusk till dawn. And he did. And he shared. And they were good for about 3 minutes then I was just drunk again. But able to drink all night, until the sun came up.
A Profile of Arthur .
Read the SAS survival guidebook.
Constantly chewed coco leaves and took valium because he couldn't sleep at night.
Tried acclimatising by wearing a fleece, thermal socks and heavy trousers in 30 degree heat. I noticed the locals did not need to.
Sweated profusely while drinking and rambled endlessly.
A nice guy.

BACK In LAPAZ.
Congrats Dan and Sonia.

The La Paz Belly

......most streets here are at a 45 degree angle or more, so either going up or down you face a bit of a struggle. It is not helped by markets decorating absolutely every footpath in the city. And the things they sell are unusual. Dried out llama foetus in the Witches market or toilet pots and fake designer label jeans(which I am now a proud owner of, because there was a big hole in my crotch). La Paz is cool for picking up all the tacky stuff you can imagine whilst dodging the local buses with drivers who don`t really care if you are blocking the way or not. But for all its madness La paz is poor. Real Poor. People scavenge through rubbish as if it were a feast, and seeing children huddled in doorways is always a killer....................................
......The La Paz Belly is something of an inconvenient truth that many people who come here must endure. It is not just the domain of people who eat in street kitchens and of travellers. Everyone here gets it. It obviously involves diarrhoea, but also vomitting and in my case a fainting episode in a local restaurant. This bug works its merry way through your system for on average 48 hours before dispersing into an interesting nothingness. This is why I failed to do the Worlds Most Dangerous Road cycle. And the fact that I could not stomach not getting a refund for this trip........
.....San Pedro Prison is too hard to get into and write about. I would need to bribe a prison officer, pretend to be visiting a dangerous prisoner and dress like the prisoners so as not to attract attention. Sorry John.
.....CocaCola buys all the Coca.

At The Copacabana, on the road to La Paz

Bolivia, Country No. 9
.....La Fiesta deVirgen de Copacabana fell on the weekend I arrived there. It proved to be a somewhat costly for accomodation but still silly cheap. The streets thronged with markets and people selling dried out llama foetus and gigantic bags of popcorn. I took a deep breath and began to climb Cerro Calvaria. The traditional climb over this festival, marked by giant concrete crosses. The stations. Stalls lined the lung busting climb selling fake money (for offerings) and toy cars (to be blessed). I reached the first cross panting. Locals dressed respectfully threw small pebbles on the cross as an offering, then quietly prayed for a moment before moving on to the next one. Along the way blind men and cripples begged for money to ease their pain. At the top fireworks went off as priests of joint Christian and Inca beliefs performed blessings. The ceremony involved a stuffed armadillo, incense, a toy of the object and a couple of bottles of beer to spray and drink in celebration. It was at this point my two cohorts, Lisa and Rich decided they needed a better vantage point for a photo so we climbed around the edge of the mountain. A smell struck deep in my sinus. It was excrement. Human. This side of the mountain was strictly baño for pilgrims. And I stood right in it.........
......Isla del Sol is a serene island and the birthplace of the first Incans. It is also home to a set of stairs that should not be attempted at this altitude with a backpack on. Lake Titicaca lies at 3800m above sea level. The steps on this island took me a further 100 m up. But it was worth the struggle of near collapse. The stars shone majestically during the night clearly marking the Milky-way. The quietness immense. Then the sun rose above snow capped peaks on the Andes,.Fire ringed clouds occasionally became fully consumed as the sun forces upwards. The light reflected off the lake as donkeys and birds woke up. As the disc climbed over the highest peak it became impossible to watch, the sun burning my eyes........
...After 2 boats, one bus and an immigration check I found myself on a vast Antiplano. It seemed we were going nowhere until the most amazing view came into sight. This flat expanse is at over 4000m. La Paz is in a valley that resembles a gigantic hole. A thriving city that you almost fall into. Stunning. And chaotic.
Off on the Death Road tomorrow. After

Bobblehead Backpackers in Machupichu

..Peru Rails prime rail line is serviced by a train that woiuld not look out of place on Thomas the Tank-engine. Decorated in an ancient blue the cars are extraordinarily dated. There is a certain charm to them and thankfully the seats are modern, it is a 4 hour ride from Cusco to the Pichu, involving 4 switchbacks( a rail term, for steep inclines ) a pissed of steward with fantastic moustache (enough said) and cruched leg room. The ride itself was slightly sadistic, whenever the the jolted, we did, whenever it wobbled so did we. Every little bump was felt through the arse of the seat. Bobblehead Backpackers all. But when you see the scenery of the Sacred Valley snail by you forget what little comfort there is. A valley of ruins and rivers. At the end of which stands Aguas Calientes(AKA MachuPicchu Pueblo ) a tourist mecca which thankfully cannot get any uglier because Pachumama (Mother Earth) won´t allow it. It´s sandwiched in by cliffs and rivers...........
4am is not my favourite time, unless I am still out which is acceptable. To rise to go and see a bunch of crumbling stones doesn´t make sense. To do it by choice well that is perhaps stupidity.
....I stumbled through the entrance. Huge terraces stepped up to my left in what is thought was an experimental farm. I wandered straight, unsure of what was what. My guide led me to an empty terrace. Even though it was already bright the sun had not hit the ruins. As it peaked over a mountain tangent rays hit them in different spots. People snapped. My guide dragged me through time, ruins and sleep for two hours. Winding streets, observatories and temples where explained. We wrestled past other bigger tour groups complete with US tang, struggling to get a decent spot anywhere. Thousands were there. After my guide left I hiked off to the Inkas Bridge. I walked for an hour in seclusion. Only the river accompanying me and the shadow of MachuPicchu (Old Mountain). The air cooled my nostrils and the trek is exposed to sudden drops to the valley 1000ft below. It was solitary and stunning. Afterwards I walked up to an old Inka Gate were the famous Inka trail ends. Skilfully passing tourits with walking sticks with the agility of an obese mountain goat. The view as I turned to see Machu Picchu is stunning. A mountain top city surrounded by high mountains covered in dense foliage. No wonder this place was lost, nature can so quickly overtake here.......
Hiram Bingham ¨discovered" Machu Picchu in 1910ish. (This is not about the dates) Upon his discovery he found a Peruvian persons name wrote inside one of the dwellings dated 10 years earlier. Like a decent man he erased his name and returned the following year with an expedition party. This man thought of the locals. He paid them one Sole for every body they dug up., In turn the locals destroyed much of the ruin. He maintained he never found gold or silver while excavating tombs etc. Yet some turned up in his native USA and are housed in Yale. (The Peruvian Govt have requested them back, they have yet to get a reply) This man should tell you one thing. NEVER TRUST AN ACADEMIC.

Notes From The Navel Of the World

....Cuzco´s early morning air banjaxed my breathing as a lack of oxygen drove me demented for a time. I resolved the best thing to do was take a walk and forget about my freaky breathing. And as I passed down the cobbled slender Calle Recoleta I heard distant gunfire. I followed the gunfire as any curious backpacker would and came to the grand Plaza De Armas.(Yes there is one in every town here) The plaza was full to the brim with marhing army bands and strangely enough marching teachers(not protesting, celebrating). The cause of the celebration is Peru´s national day. I gazed as the various groups (including Quechuas being flailed by mock Spanish conquistadores) and cantankerous horses marched in the most bizarre fashion. Almost as if John Cleese´s Ministry For Funny Walks was involved. Then I noticed much to my delight that the participants had been clothed by the same supply chain used by The Village People. It is quite a wonderful site........
....Pan pipes apparently can be cool. I was entertained by Cuzcos answer to the Pogues, with less drink of course. The kids loved it........
..Ollantaytambo is a mammoth tomb in the Sacred Valley which skirts around Cuzco. As I approached terraces rose up in front of me and the bus struggled up a steep incline. The bus wound its way through the ancient Quechua settlement resting directly in front of the Great tomb. I gazed upwards and struggled in the altitude to reach the top. Great grey stone adorned the top in a tribute to the stars, the sun and the moon. A craggy face watched from the opposing mountain. A revered God in these parts. More settlements were cut into the side of this mountain and seemed impossible to reach. Ollantaytambo was constructed in the shape of a llama. It is still obvious today. Cuzco was designed in the shape of a Puma and on Monday I will see the wonder that is Macchu Picchu, designed in the shape of a condor. If it is as impressive as Ollantaytambo I will be lucky........
Cuzco´s nuts at night, and cold, and mostly nuts.

A Treatment of a Typical Night Out in Arequipa

...it starts out with a cheap cervesa in one of the countless restaurants and bars here. A beer costing no more than $2 and surprisingly malty in taste. Accompanied by a set menu meal consisting of crema(soup) and a main course for the princely sum of $3. And then its time to move, negotiating the street vendors selling anything from cigarettes to sunglasses and always disgruntled when you turn them down. A brisk walk will always bring you past a number of bars all with happy hours. Las Bruhas or Swedish Avenue have 3 of any cocktails for $3 resulting in a rosey glow. A bit of small talk degenerating into the foulest depths of the human psyche and back again. Until someone, and this is a certainty clambers on top of the nearest bar, aided with encouragement from the staff and does an uncertain jig until (a) he/she falls on their face or (b) he/she suffers a moment of clarity and realises the precariousness of their present position. Some slurred words will then agree the best course of action is a few more drinks in local club, Daddy O´s(con Karaoke, Dj´s and live music), the Forum(fully equiped with beds and water feature) or De Ja Vu(Lonely Planet hangout, ie too expensive). And this is where the night gets complicated.
Locals are invariably attracted to travellers. I don´t know why, we look like crap, smell of moth balls, (if we are lucky), and are generally too drunk to stand unaided. Men will be attacked by ferocious women who pound their ample arses into their crotches and swing the drunk lout across the room. Women will be accosted by men who speak two lines of English poetry and think it is enough to get them into bed. (Sadly it is sometimes.) It is necessary to stay in a group at this stage but it never works as we are all too drunk, being seperated by the locals into manageable groups or moreover than not alone. It is at this stage you make the choice. Dance badly to raggaton or try to slowly slip away from the clutches of a vulture.
If escape is possible you are generally the target for the night vendors who sell chocolate, fags, water, and other munchies. But nothing savoury. As you cross the Plaza De Armas it is necessary to avoid the chocolate selling Santa, who will chase you back to your hostel. Where finally you can watch the sun rise from your rooftop terrace, or just fall asleep.
...Time to burn your LONELY PLANETS, they are misinformed, with questionable itinereries and they strangely enough push the prices up. Any publication that gives its reporters three weeks to research a country has to be bad. Come on you know I´m right, how many times have you stood outside an abandoned building expecting to see a hostel? To prove this I intend to travel Ireland next year with the Lonely Planet to see how accurate it really is. Challenge, duel.
All are welcome.
Heading to Cuzco on Monday, protests permitting.

Civil Disobedience in Arequipa (And A Pigeon Tale)

.........for seven days now they have come and voiced their distrust of the Peruvian government. Clogging the arteries surrounding the Plaza De Armas, chanting solidarity songs, linking arms in the face of heavily armed riot police who stand with disinterest in the shelter of volcanic archways. Teachers, communists, children, city workers and civil servants. Passion bursts from their lungs as effigies burn and blacken the white buildings of this beautiful city. There have been reports of riots in the outer barrios as teenagers full of testosterone go too far and use the police for target practice. In the centre it is calm at night and safe. A bubble of touristy goodness. I am stuck here. Buses are not running and hotels are full with people yearning to leave. But this is being repeated all over Peru. It is possible a revolution is starting.,,,,,......
......sitting watching the protestors chant in a merry mood I was accosted by a family who sat beside me on a park bench. A picture of wholesome fun they began to feed the pigeons with a huge bag of grain bought from a jolly woman for 25 cent. Pigeons are not a shy creature and coupled with this they are extraordinarily stupid. The pigeons clambered on the family greedily pecking at the grain and emptying their excrement on them. I shifted uneasily on the bench and put my book into my bag when suddenly a ratty feathered fecker landed on my cabezza(head). I shudderred with disgust and the fiend fluttered of, as did I with one thing going through my brains, Pigeons are surprisingly heavy little things.......
Too much rum, too much rum, rum too much, only 2yos 30 for a bottle. DANGEROUS

A Legend,EarthQuakes! and Randy Nuns in the White City

........a rich nun came to Arequipa from Spain along with a carefully selected group of lower ranking nuns from wealthy families. They proceeded to build up the beautiful convent of Santa Catalina. A town within the city. White brick painted over with ocre, red, yellow and sky blue. As I walked through this convent I could almost taste the colours. Then the hedonistic lifestyle of the nuns was explained to me by a bearded old man. The nuns each had many servants and were not afraid to throw a party or two each week. In such decadent parties homosexuality was reported aswell as the taking of copius amounts of opiates. This continued unabashed for 400 years until a strict Dominican nun arrived and washed their collective mouth out with holy water. She then proceeded to close the order to the outside world for the next 100 years.....dirty nuns...etc
.........I sat alone in the TV room recovering from a particularly intense couple of days involving 3 nightclubs, one bottle of rum, a changing of a hostel, a lot of free Pisco (local shot with after effect of Tequila, ie. it gets you drunk) 3 games of giant jenga, a conversation with a legend(see below) and explosive indigestion. I was straining to keep my peepers open as the credits rolled on a non descript film. I reached forward to suck down some water from my glass when the chair jumped beneath me. I woke instantly and glared as all the glasses shimmied on the mantel piece and realised with some distress the earth was shaking. Cool I thought as I wobbled to bed and gazed out momentarily at the 3 volcanoes creeping up behind the city........
.........she sat at a table, eyes locked in an eternal struggle with sleep. I jumped into the hammock beside her. "Still drinking are ya?" She slurred something beautiful from her mouth, not a word but a sound. Her lips moved, I stared and caught "40 hours" from in between hic-cups, belches and burps. I knew this already. I had been out the night before with this slim waif like woman. Her frame could fit behind a lamppost comfortably. She smilled while drunkenly sticking her fingers up at me. She stood and walked around a swimming pool to prove her sobriety. She seemed ok while walking, it was when she talked that trouble started. I walked away and came back 4 hours later. She was still there. All swagger and wobble. The girl is a legend, the girl is a stereotype, the girl is Irish, the girl will remain un-named....
Adios mi amigos. Estoy en Arequipa ahora y estudio Español por dos semanas aci. Depues Voy a salir a Cuzco.

Penguins, Fatso´s and The Nazca Lines

...Pisco, the Spanish for dump. A sordid little town ran by the many feral dogs that inhabit it´s corners. They run in packs, go wild when in heat and threaten anyone who walks near. Their shagginess is only matched by the towns dirt. It smells and should never be visited except for......PERU´S FATTEST MAN and the ever straight laced HUMBOLDT PENGUINS. ,..... on with the tale........ the guide herded us into two tired columns. Hundreds of gringos stood hunched over with cold. After 30 minutes we were allowed on the good boat `Rocket Ship` and sped off to the Ballestos Islands. These islnds are covered in Guana. Thats a nice term for bird shit. And man do the smell. There is so much shit the entire surface of the island is white. The boat float up to the side of the islands. And make no mistake even if they smell like shit they are beautiful. Giant pink, purple rocks jutting out of the sea with natural arches and caves. The noble waddling Humboldt penguins live here are provided a show. Well they just stood there. Then there was the Peruvian Boobie and star fish, sea urchins and sea lions. All very fishy so far. Until we hit the main land again and a shadow cast down on the beach. From the shadow a loud bellow of directions came. Peru´s fattest man sat straining the towns flood defences. He was huge...... ....the sand shone in reds, purples and pinks. Giant sand dunes about 40 metres in height swept all around. Waves crashed against brittle cliffs, creating the Cathedral. Giant stacks out in the sea that once were linked to shore. Further up the coast sand turned red. And a crimson beach stretched for 5 km in an arch........ ....half the fun of doing the Nazca lines is the flight. A tiny 4 man plane that a draft could make wobble going up into the sky and doing loop the loops around gigantic lines in the sand. The plane I was on was equipped with sick bags that held half a litre of liquid. I settled in my seat and we took off. I couldn´t help noticing a strong draught coming in the door. But ignored it. Then the awe struck. These truly are amazing images. I won´t even try to explain them. Just come here and do it yourselves.... CHECK OUT THE BALLYMUN APPRECIATION SOCIETY ON FACEBOOK

Huaraz Has Altitude

And now for some inner dialogue....right, how high are we? 3300 metres. Ok lets go for a walk. Screw this acclimatising crack. Did your nose bleed today? Mine had hard blood in it. Anyway lets do this thing. How are we getting there. Taxi fine.......here we are now, at the start. Up the hill? Fine. Man I´ve only walked for a minute and I´m bolloxed. What the hell is that bull doing? He´s doing it to another bull! It´s ok the local woman is hitting him now. ¿Tiene caramillo? Man these kids know how to milk a backpacker. I thought they were speaking Quechua. (Local language of indigienous people). Which path Hugo? Oh the one that goes up, what a surprise. Snow capped rugged peaks look damn fine. This ridge is cool, little ant people down below and jagged rocks all around. That old woman is gaining on me. She´s like a mountain goat, and she´s passing me, not sucking in air or sweating, I must look like a monster to her. And she´s carrying a stack of firewood. Getting headaches now and my hands have turned purple and swollen. Weird shit. Oh we´ve reached the carpark. How far? 2km up? No thanks I´m done. I´m going to roll downhill instead........
......leaving Huaraz was easy. The climate is excellent during the day and freezing at night. I needed stability. After saying adios to Hugo, Gen, Stacey and David, I set out to Lima on a stunning bus ride. The bus zig zagged down from 3300metres to sea level in a little under 8 hours. From frosted mountains through wide open pasture valleys a light shade of green. The descent went through basalt rock formations and ramshackle settlements hugging the road. Mountains changed from green to brown as the desert took hold of the landscape. The only bit of green was stuck to a river meandering below. A long oasis snake which accompanied the bus to the sea. Then it became apparent how lonely this green snake was. It is completely surrounded by the desert. The only colours apart from green and brown were the drying vegetables in the sun bringing out vivid reds, yellows and greens. Day trips are sometimes better.........
Lima welcomed me with neon signs and concrete.
Adios

The Warrior Duck and Other Tales

......the battle of the sand was a legendary battle which took place in the town of Mancora, Peru. Mancora is set on the Pacific surrounded by a vast desert with sandy mountains hemming it in along the coast. It was in this sleepy seaside hamlet the great war of the sand was enacted between a small but powerful Irish army and an equally small but weak Dutch one. The Irish in victorious celebration had to be reminded after a night on the rum and coke what had happened on the beachy battleground. Mancora, not much to do but its hot, sandy and full of cheap rum......
Night buses are a pain in the arse, literally. They are made even worse when people open the windoiws in the middle of the night to cool down. These people should just take of a jacket instead of freezing my balls off. It was after one such trip I found myself in Trujillo. A functional town with a serene central park. The skies where grey so we (2 Dutch, 2 Quebecuers) fled to Huanchaco. The sky was grey there too. But we stayed, wraqpped up in our winter clothes. This is the site of two ancient sites. Chan Chan and Huaca del Sol y de la Luna. Both spectacular and in the desert. Bald dogs roam the sites and angry unofficial guides try to scam money off you but it is worth it just to see the fantastic murals at Huaca de la Luna. In a word it is stunning. I know where South Park got its inspiration from.......
And in this temple they found the warrior Duck. If my Spanish is worth a damn I believe the duck was the spiritual animal of a great warrior of the Moche people. And since they recorded everything through pottery and murals, they have found warrior duck vases in the temples. Looks like Duck Dodgers, seriously.
¿How many people can you fit in a taxi in Peru?
8
¿How many people can you fit into a small Hiace van in Peru?
23
This is how comfortable it is travelling here people.
Good bye
Up the Dubs.

The Valley of Longevity is a Sordid Place

....whoa Vilcabamba, set at 1500 metres, lush green in a deathly quiet valley, wall like mountains keeping the wind at bay, people sleepily going about their lives in a tranquil bliss. Or so it would seem. The beauty of this place is only matched by the strangeness and in some cases down right evilness of its inhabitants. There is a price for serenity.......
..."ok so lets go get these things." Yes it was an innocent response to the question of whether or not I would like a snake juice from the bar. I consider myself a veteran of reptilian shorts since my days in 'Nam drinking snake whiskey. Eight shots where ordered for the group. Too many names to put down here. The local cowboy brought them out, a horriffic smell tickled at my stomach, inviting my hamburgeusa back up. I held it at bay. The glasses were big for a shot. About one and a half the norm. For show we sat on the novelty saddle seats. "Uno, dos, tres." The violent taste rushed up my nose and down to my stomach. It stayed there. And five minutes later I am reliably informed I was pissed. So to was Hugo, a Canadian cohort but not his wife Gen, who prodded us into stupidity for the night. I don´t remember much after that, except waking up, still pissed and finding Hugo asleep in a hammock, with contented gaze.......
MEET THE RESIDENTS OF VILCABAMBA
Gavin, rough as sand paper Kiwi owner of a local horse riding operation. Annoyed about recent killing of a neighbour who was 5 months pregnant by a policemans son. The police will not prosecute, and son has disappeared into the jungle. Writing a book on the town.
Pieter, dreadlocked German owner of hostel in the woods. Mostly stoned. Has to help the police to hunt down robbers in the mountains because the police don´t want to. Fountain of knowledge regarding the area and its people.
***(For legal reasons) owner of Las Ruinas Quineras, recently released from jail after one year. Different sources say he either assulted, raped, beat up or murdered someone. Nothing sure. Hostel is very odd, atmosphere really bad.
Drunken Irishman, me.
Goodnight and Good luck

Set them all on Fire

.....giant bamboo floats wobbled on top of men in the main plaza in Cuenca. Each had numerous novelty windmills attached and they seemed to be a fire hazard waiting to happen, adorned with papier mache and highly flammable bunting. I thought nothing of them, and turned down past the new cathedral where a huge sweet market had assembeled in less than an hour. Women roared out the different flavours and tried jabbing the sweets into my mouth. Then I noticed something, wasps, thousands of them, covering the sweets. I hate wasps but this market went the length of the street. And being there with a fellow traveller, Nadine I didn´t want to appear to be the whimpy man, so casually I ran down the street only stopping to suck in air to scream out. I hid amongst about 20 fusball tables that also had mysteriously appeared.
On regaining my composure we wandered back to the main square were fireworks had begun exploding and the remnants of the fireworks rained down on peoples heads. But they were mere light wood, unlikely to hurt. And then the reason for the bamboo floats became apparent. They were huge firework staging points. People gathered around the floats, eager to be entertained. The fireworks started and smiles washed there little faces. The tower leaned and screamers began pointing into the crowd, smiles sullied with terror now as rockets crashed into the crowd and they panicked for a split second. Then the danced as large blobs of fire rained down on them. A true testament to Latin American health and safety....
....stuck in _Cuenca for 6 days due to road closures can make you go crazy, and it did.Sitting in the Panama Hat shop, while rain pummelled down for the fourth successive day a super hero was born. Casual Man. I saw him there I swear.
.....Got out of there in a rush to Vilcabamba. Valley of Longevity. Interestiung place with a seedy underbelly. You got to wait for that though.
Adios

Damn the Divils Nose

.......active man keith, for four days in Baños I hiked, biked and talked. Then a darkness came. A movement inside that was unmistakable. A bubble and push through my intestines which could only mean one thing. A night on the pot, begging for mercy, or even a respite from an an evil adversary. I won, beating it in one day. Then it was time to say goodbye to the mountains, volcanoes and waterfalls that make Baños beautiful.......
......Riobamba is ugly. The only reason to visit this town is a train ride known as La nariz De Diablo. So arriving a day early made sence, to ensure a place on the train shaped Satins snot. Riobambas grey streets greeted me. Full of teenagers drinking beer outside off-licenses because there are no bars in the town. I hid in my hotel room with my cable TV and waited until the morning to buy my ticket. a grey sun rose(seriously) and bustling in the street woke me early. it was market day. Something to keep me occupied. I went to the train station and asked what time the office opened at. A orange blazered guy told me 3. So I returned there at 3 after a morning trapsing around fish markets. I found a queue. I got in line. It took ten minutes to get to the front. I asked for a ticket. The response knocked me out. Full. No more. it was 3.05pm. The orange clad man came over. Bus to Aloisi? I asked him what time the office opened. He said two. I roared at him, my anger uncontrollable. Riobamba really has nothing there. I told him to place his bus up his arse(my Spanish is improving) and took it out on the grey tarmac of Riobamba.........Then I headed to Cuenca.

Baños Means Bath not Toilet

A lesson in when not to cheer..........Sitting in the main plaza of Gringolandia in Quito seemed a fine idea to watch the Ireland Ecuador game. I was sat next to Vinny from real Glasnevin and as happens when two Irish guys meet the beer was flowing. The plaza thronged with locals, free from work due to a long weekend. El Presidente himself lurched around, enveloped by at least 100 security personnel. The game flew by. Ecuador scored first and the locals clapped politely, almost as if they expected it. I did not mind, too used to a bad Irish team. Suddenly, Doyler headed in a beauty. Infused with alcohol and aided by a vocal Vinny we jumped and celebrated the goal. The square turned deathly silent. Something fell at my feet, something hit my shoulder, a wetness seeped ontp my skin. We were being hammered by chips and other unwanted foodstuff. It didn´t matter, we couldn't stop. But did when a half pound of meat was thrown in our direction........
.........Baños or toilet in Spanish (it also means bath) is trapped in a small valley somewhere in Ecuador. (This is no tourist site). Huge mountains lurch around this quaint little town in a sinister fashion. Waterfalls cascade down cliffs into a river, skirting the town. But something dark lies in the hills,(2600 metres ain´t no hill). This is an account of a hike in the hills......
The footpath climbs steeply from the edge of town. It 's not long until I´m panting like a dog in heat. I struggle (I can´t emphasise this enough) to the first look out. Baños looks small. Three German hikers laugh at me and skip off. A local man jogs past me with the agility of a mountain goat. I continue. The path steepens. A cheerful girl bounces down, smiles and speaks sweetly in Spanish. I can´t hear her. My ears are full of sweat and they need to be popped. I reach a second lookout. More Germans. These are different. Angrier. They puff and wander off. Baños looks tiny. I crawl up the trail which has now become a natural ladder. A young boy carrying bricks passes me and smiles.(I want to rip his face off) Again I stop. I can see the cross which is my destination. It seems close. It is not. More Germans. They speak amongst themselves and leave me. I push on. I can smell food being cooked and music playing. I think I´m delirious. I reach the top. Baños is tinier. There is a hostel and cafe on top. I swear as I see people being dropped off by taxi. I swear again. The original Germans offer me water and pity. I refuse, they leave. I leave. Not down but up, because I am stupid. I cry up a thin trail. A river runs through it. It cools me down. I sit in it. A German passes me. I struggle up to the top. The volcano I want to see has cloud cover. I turn and see Baños is a speck. I swear and cry a little. It´s all downhill from here. I meet more Germans on the way down. I think I can beat them. Irish men are good at going down. A cow gets in my way, I push it towards a cliff, an old Indian man strolls past me going up, I am sweating more than him and he carries a huge bag. _I move on. Alright horse, he ignores me. I slip, slide and roll to the bottom. I look around no Germans. I jump and cheer, and schoolkids throw food at me....
...the people you meet while travelling #68
Carlos, a yoga instructor from Florida. His hair is long tied in a pony tail. His clothes fit loosely so as not to impede his spirit. He performs yoga, which he insists is an excellent hangover cure. He has a calm voice which he uses to talk(chat-up) young female travellers. He is 50 and travelling with his son. Think Tim Robbins character in High Fidelity.
Thats it I´m done.

Dodgy clubs and the Ecuadorian SSIA

9 am SATURDAY........rose in a cold sweat. The match was about to start and I had to meet up with a group of people to watch it. Dragging my body, which has become a cheap place for fleas to eat out of bed I wobbled out of the basement I´m staying in. In the hallway of the hostel a number of red eyed zombies waited for me. We wobbled out the door in search of a bar to watch a match. It was going to be difficult. It became obvious that this town sleeps in on Saturdays and only an internet cafe was open. So after a light jog through empty streets searching for a big screen we resolved the internet cafe was best. So did every other football supporter. The waiter did not. He was alone and wore a stunned expression as more and more crammed into his little cafe. He sweated profusely and resorted to ignoring peoples requests for beer and more beer. He was as indifferent as the game itself..........
9pm Saturday.........After the fleas had finished their 3 course meal on my belly I gathered up a group of people to go out with. An eclectic bunch, we wandered to the nearest bar for some beer. It`s name, Strawberry Fields and it`s decor was one of romantic Liverpool. All the cocktails were Beatles songs. But not one song was theirs. I sucked on an Eleanor Rigby and listened to the Doors again and again, joining the locals in a sparkling rendition of Light My Fire. After downing a Yellow Submarine we fled to a club which reminded me of a school disco. Young bodies lay be-straggled across tables and a heavy scent of vomit pressed out from the toilets. The place had an air of decadence. Random greasy haired lads were dragged from the dance-floor by irate barmen and thrown(literally) onto the street. Salsa mixed with raggaton raped my ears. When the beer ran out it was time to leave, to search, to find.
And we did. A club with no name, just a symbol. A club formerly known as.... It was airy, had no prostrate teenagers and no lingering sick smell. It played reggae and we wobbled and wooed to the music. Only going home when a bouncer produced his gun and told us to leave.........
........A short lesson in Ecuadorian Finance. An accountant by the name of Jose Cabrera came up with an in-genius savings scheme. The jist of which was invest a sum of money and earn 10% interest a month on your investment. Thats a month people. So the locals not being ones to miss out invested in vast sums and where happy to see their high interests returned. So much so they re-invested. These people included the army, the police, the government and the general people. The only problem was he was running a money laundering scam for a drug lord. The problem was, he died. When a 71-year-old man has a heart attack after allegedly smoking cocaine-laced cigarettes, drinking whisky and popping Viagra in the company of his 18-year-old girlfriend, it's pretty suspect. Jessica Valles, Cabrera's girlfriend of two years, which made her 16 when their relationship started, told police he collapsed in their luxury hotel room after ingesting cocaine, whisky and Viagra. Angry investors dug up his body after hearing of the Pyramid schemes collapse and made sure he was dead, then tore it apart. Check out this link for the full crazy article. http://www.theage.com.au/news/world/a-scandalous-death-rattles-ecuador/2005/12/30/1135732703361.html
.......beating Americans is fun, beating cocky Yanks is even better, which made me winning a pub quiz with a small team over a bunch of loud arrogant yanks beautiful.
Pat Rafter
Unlucky the Pool

I'm no Gringo

..........The use of the word gringo here is derogatory. It is an insult which I have become accustumed to and enjoy. Although there is a problem. The origin of the word gringo is quite simple. It stems from when the power hungry States invaded Mexico for not oil but water. The colour of their uniforms were green and Mexicans coined the phrase Green Go which developed into Gringo. Which unfortunately means I have to correct anyone who calls me a Gringo. Who says this blog is´nt educational?......
.........Police populate every corner of this city, especially around the two main tourist districts, Old Town and Mariscal. Clad in knee high Nazi boots and various coloured uniforms they seek out and punish offenders on the spot. And it is implemented instantly. A young kid was pinned against the wall of a KFC. Four police officers in SWAT gear took great joy in ramming his head intermittenly against the wall. They did not question him and grew irritable at any noise he made. I don't know what he did but there was a small stall holder pointing his finger accusingly at him. The punishment handed out by them certainly seemed harsh if, as I suspect he only nicked a packet of smokes. And as I sit here I am watching a stocky police man in black clothes randomly kick a homeless man with 4 army officers looking on vacantly. Latin American justice......
....The church of San Francisco in Quito has a dark secret. The divil himself helped build the thing. A local man, whose name I can´t remember, but will call him Juan needed help completing the church for a big festival. Work was going slowly until the divil showed up and offered to have it completed by the appropriate day. Juan accepted and the church was completed but slowly his soul seeped away until he assumed a crazed look about the eyes. Even today people don´t frequent the church because of the curse of Juan. .......
Thats it kids, more in a few days, when I will still be here because of another Spanish course.
Adios

Quito in Keitho

......I stared at my boarding pass. It read Elite Access. Some crappy name the airline has come up with for coach. But no, I boarded and I was seated in first class next to a couple of Asian business men. I tell you rich folk know how to travel in comfort. I was only on the plane for 90 minutes and got a meal and a fancy beer. Pure luxury.........
........leaving Panama, or US foetus Panama was easy. It´s modern and American. Flying to Quito filled me with a new sense of adventure. Going into the unknown once again, having to meet new people and all that nonsense. This city is immense. It spreads out into green valleys surrounding the old and new town. Huge peaks rise all around it with eyecatching landmarks everywhere. Some of which are eyesores. The city is guarded by a statue of Mary which towers above the old town. This part is colonial and colourful. The new town is akin to Temple Bar and Soho. Built for tourists. Thankfully it has cool bars with good music. No more raggaton........
........La Mitad Del Mundo, the middle of the earth, not to be mistaken with Middle Earth is a delightful tourist trap. After an inexpensive trip on surprisingly clean plastic buses we arrived 1 km past our intended target. The Equator. A sweating beast of a driver grunted in the direction we should go. Accompanied by Julian in tattered shorts I made my way back, coming across the real equator, as located by GPS. Which is 240metres away from the monument. A guide brought us around an interesting exhibit. I saw water go straight down a swally hole, I shot poison darts, I was tempted to eat the Equadorian delicacy of Guinea pig. It was entertaining. But I still had a mission to go into the fake Equator site as dictated by a Frenchman. (Incidently from his calculations the metric system came into being.) Along a dusty building site (th entire town is one big dusty site with breeze blocks guiding the way) we came across a science museum. The friendly scientist gave us a talk and informed us the native Mayans had exactly marked the point of the Equator 1000years previously. They built a fort on top of a mountain to prove it. Yet this is not the discovery that is celebrated. They had built their monument and they needed the revenue so a tacky museum accompanies you as you descend stairs and come out dodging cameras as people get photos taken with legs in both hemispheres. It was tacky, but it needed to be done.
Not really entertaining I know, but it´s info none the less, fecking ingrates.
Check out Fr Trendy.
What do you think of the delicious pun in the title?

PANAMA´s locked

.....Bocas del Toro´s fire station rang to the sound of one banana, two banana three banana, 4 as locals sucked on beers at a Blue Moon party. Men wobbled up to the keyboard king swaying into stumbles, arms held aloft gently, wobbling on one leg before turning thumbs up towards their friends. I had arrived at the beginning of low season and the locals were getting absolutely destroyed. Further down the street a big truck played RAGGATON (jasper and ciaran, if you two guys know this music and like it, do not inflict it on anyone else, it´s pure evil) where the children of pissed men were not so innocently rampantly attacking anyone of the opposite sex. I wandered around through the carnage with Trevor and eyed the crowd with amusement and nerves. This was my introduction to Panama, which after 5 other countries looks the same as the rest has the most American influence. Pure sh..........
........Panama City is in stark contrast to the rest of the country. Its skyline stretches upwards in a most American way. It is the most modern of all the cities I´ve been to on this trip. Banks infest the city and the expat community gives it a cosmopolitan feel. It is in short a place awash with money, new buildings are growing at an incredible rate and local yacht clubs are full to the brim of rich folk. Only twenty minutes from here there is poverty but this bubble concels it...
.......the canal, a feat of human engineering is pretty much just a big canal. Its function is simple but it is hardly a tourist attraction unless you are an engineer. I am not. I appreciate its functionality but thats about it. Even so I went along to see this modern wonder and was immensely underwhelmed. There is a small visitors centre with the history of the canal. It was interesting but dull. Other people thought not and took photos of the explanations beneath pictures (now why the f...). But there is one thing about it thats cool. Its got some great locks, not unlike myself.........
LOST IN TRANSLATION
Juan : You know the camp guy at reception.
ME : I don´t think I´´ve met him.
Girl : Well, gay men have more female hormones than male so they could be considered women.
ME : Emmm, no I have not MET him.

Champions Man Utd, granted but what a lesson Milan gave them.
Adios.

Puerto Viejo has crabs

.......there I was minding my own business when this gringo type fecker comes walking straight towards me. I tried getting his attention by waving me big claw at him and nothing he kept coming. Then I tried running out of the way, but you know these damn legs of ours they´ll only carry us sideways and because I can´t see where I´m going I always fall down a hole. I mean you need eyes on top of your head. Thats why I got them. Then this guy, you know what he does he comes and kicks me in the knackers. And do you know what I did, I pinched him with me big claw.........
And that was the most exciting thing that happened to me in Puerto Viejo. This in no way relates to the people or town of Puerto Viejo being rubbish, it just means Montezuma had his revenge on my stomach.
.......cycling is great, yesterday I cycled for 4 hours covering a huge difference from the above mentioned town to Manzanilla. Ambling through dense jungle and across exotic rivers and past monkeys and blonde haired surfers and dreadlocked stoners and drop out 40 somethings from USA looking for a local girl to shag and past empty restaurants begging for high season to return......
......in Panama now, in BOcas Del Toro. I almost prayed as I crossed the bridge into Panama, mainly because it literally is full of big holes an Irishman could be swallyed by.
Costa Rica in one line. Full of package tourist and as an environmentalist I naturally don´t like packaging.
After Adios

Costa Mucho

....the literal translation for Costa Rica is the Rich Coast. I think this fact has gone to the heads of the tourist industry here. i spent 4 days in Monteverde and went on two trips, each costing around the $40 mark. My budget is $50. I thought it would be tours of the highest quality. But no, a natural history tour of 2 hours duration, where I found little out about natural history and hunted down the elusive quetzal bird for most of it. A shocking waist of money. The second tour was a canopy trek, see below. The price of things here is all due to American package tours. They come here with their dollars and grossly inflate the price of everything. And these are the arrogant Americans, the ones oblivious to what something should cost. They are rude and loud and irk all backpackers. The feckers. I feel Costa Rica will ultimately suffer when Honduras and Nicaragua get their industries in order........
.........a gale blew for most of the night, dissipating cloud from the cloud forest. I lay on my bed, slightly nervous because I booked a canopy trek that day. I thought there was no way it could go ahead with such wind. I was wrong. The van picked me up promptly and drove me the 1 hour drive to the trek. I am not an adrenalin junkie, so this activity is new to me. As the guide strapped me in I felt strangely serene. The first cable was an easy slide 8 metres above ground through densely packed forest. Then I came to the second, some 80 metres above ground and about 45 seconds duration. The camera man went first and got stuck in the middle. He struggle to get himself across. I went next, trying to remember the safety procedures, swimming in my head. ´Just lean back and brake at the end¨was the instruction. As I slid out 80 metres above terra firma the gale picked up and shook me from side to side, causing me to brake unnecessarily. But by sheer positive thinking I made it across, pumped full of adrenalin and screaming madly. ¨that was bleedin rapid.´¨ After 14 more such treks the longest and highest at 1 minute and 150 metres I was only fit for bed. I have the photo to prove it. It cost $6........
.......San Jose, capital, confusing mixmatch of modernity and earthquake ruins, brimming with gringoes in search of the easy life, of 6 foot tall prostitutes with blond hair and an adams apple. There ain´t much here, I leave tomorrow for Puerto Viejo.
Adios

A Friggin American / Lost in Costa Rica

.......San Juan Del Sur, a testament to roughshod planning is infested with Americans. The only place in Nicaragua where prices are in USD and local gringos complain about new developments that they have inadvertently caused. I stirred clear of their shops(second hand book for $17 anyone?) and restaurants and stayed with Martha. She is wonderful. And ate at comedors were the price of a meal costs less than a pint............
A Conversation
......Jo unsteadily asked for her shoe back. An American clad in a pink polo shirt and crowned with a mop of blonde surfer hair insisted on placing them back on her feet. Nick her boyfriend dismissed it as a drunken pass. Jo returned to Nick. The American Caleb came over and started a conversation revolving around Borat. Myself and Julian were present. It went a little like this.
Caleb : I know that Sasha Cohen is a Jewish faggott.
Jo : Is there anything wrong with being Jewish and gay?
Caleb : Look sweetheart, are you saying I`m an anti-semite faggot hater? I hate people who are anti anti semite. They disgust me. Its secular sweetheart. Do you guys understand secularism?
Blank looks.
Caleb : It`s satire darling, you understand satire? Irony? You guys gotta know what irony is? Jonathon Swift? Thats what Borat is.
Me: Nobody said you are an anti semite. Or a gay basher. You are taking it up wrong.
Caleb : Oh sorry I misunderstood. But nobody calls me an anti semite.
Nick : Whats your point?
Caleb : My FUCKING point is
Julian : Calm down man, its only banter.
Caleb : I´m sorry but nobody challenges me like this.......................................
And for the next hour we went around in circles. A testament to America.

COSTA RICA country #5 A journey.
Buses I thought would improve. They did. But the overcrowding did not. I thought because I purchased a ticket for Monteverde, I would be let off there. I was not. So after negotiating a return to the crossroads for Monteverde I found that no buses were going there. In pigeon Spanish I asked if there was a hotel near. There was not. Only in Monteverde. 35kms up a dirt road. I asked the local carpenter for help. A taxi would cost $50. OK I could handle that to get a bed. 40 minutes they said. 40 minutes later no taxi another phone call. 1 hour they said. The sun dipped reddening the ground. I talked football, women, politics. An hour later no taxi and it was dark. I phoned the hostel, $35 and one hour wait. Ok. Better. More half talking. An hour later no taxi, except for the original more expensive one. I let him go. Another phone call. No taxi. Then at 8.30(there for 4 hours so far) the taxi came. It took 2 hours to travel 35kms. Up and down dirt roads. Then the electricity failed and all went black.
In a great place.
After
Take care.

Finca Life

,,,....I sat down on a sunwarped garden chair outside a small comida on a dirt road. The road is threatened daily by shadows from two huge volcanoes, Volcan Madera and the perfect cone Volcan Cocepcion. Green flies formed funnels around my head and my ankles were slowly being colonised by ants of every description. Lazy flea infested dogs lay comatose around the table. I ordered my food, beans, rice, salad and recently killed chicken. (I heard it scream) Then I waited. My cohorts waited. The fleas, dogs and until then unseen pigs waited. For one hour we waited. We were the only ones there, but we waited. I passed the time trying to whipe the green fly from the face of the planet, but those buggers are determined. Then our food arrived, served with accompanying extra black flies. It was damn good. This was one of the better places.,,......
......Finca Zapolita, a eco friendly mecca if ever there was one. They don´t even believe in putting a dirt road up to their shacks. With only the above mentioned restaurant nearby I had to cook for myself for the first time in three whole months. EVERYTHING is grown, milked, blended, composted and recycled there. Which means the selection is limited. Very. I changed my diet from beans and rice to pasta and tomato sauce so fresh it was still warm. The best thing is the fresh bread and yoghurt. Everthing else is bland. Yet sleeping in a hammock did teach me those things aren´t as comfortable as the look. Plus you have the added bonus of being attacked by huge insects who seem to be very found of me,
Good bye
Happy Birthday to the Godson Connall. , and the brudder George.

Grand Granada

......round here the footpaths look like chess boards, checkered either red and black or black and white, round here the heat makes it impossible to do anything strenuous, even breathing creates sweat, round here gringoes have infested all parts, creating another expensive bubble in a third world country, round here the bright coloured colonial buildings radiate at sunset........
Centro Touristico en Granada.
down the promenade towards Lago De Nicaragua, past a yellow cathedral and ,multicoloured buildings I found myself in the Centro Touristico. The pricely sum for entrance was 25 cents. Its hard to be pissed off about 25 cents but this place is rubbish. It consists of a mock castle entrance which resembles something from the middle ages in Europe. The road (the best bit of el centro) is lined with what looks like Butlins idea to a good time town. The buildings are warehouses with hundreds of seats in them and they seem to be unfinished. The most interesting thing was meeting Romano, who described how Filibuster William Walker tried to claim central and South America for the USA. See note below on this true American nut job.
I must go to sweat all my weight away, but hell at least the food is better here.

Nicaragua God Damn

..five minutes after crossing the border a distinctive change in the landscape occurred. Instead of lush green mountains and plains the land burned. Brown grass struggled under stinging sunshine, yearning for a drop of rain. trees are devoid of leaves and dust flows freely in the wind, covering everything in a thick coat. People here mirror the nature of the climate and the landscape. They are hardened from cival wars and foreign led coups. They scrounge around the rich, the rich here are obscenely rich compared to majority. The amount of factory new range rovers trundling past shacks on the road, where people sell a dozen mangoes for 25 cent illuminates the difference............
...TRAVEL IN NICARAGUA......
Tip 1 , Be very careful in bus stations, they are hectic places teeming full of people who like to rob, unfortunately you must suspect everyone. A serene old man dipped his hand in my bag as his granddaughter tried to open my back pack.
Tip 2 , Agree price before getting in a taxi, ensure you know what currency the price has been agreed. A sweating bear of a driver drove us from one bus to another, via his car running out of gas because the fuel gauge was knackered and reverse jump starting his car on the motorway. Upon dropping us at the bus he said the fare was in dollars and not cordobas. This cost more than the bus from Hoduras to Nicaragua.
Tip 3, Disregard any need for personal space on all public buses. Get used to sweating armpits hanging over your heads, large bellys slapping you in the face, stinking toilets, squeezing into a space no bigger than a lampost , and locals who have a fondness for falling asleep on you.
A Short Story Confirming Gods Existence :

The Dead heat of Leon rose to its peak. Ochre coloured churches cracked under the strain as people sat inside to escape the worst of the midday sun. Outside I walked west towards the suburb of Subtiavo. Past beautiful colonial buildings painted in bright happy colours. I was searching for a church, the oldest in Leon. And a procession marking Good Friday. Coloured sawdust is laid on the ground as men carrying statues of Jesus and playing great brass instruments perform the stations of the cross. Upon reaching the church I found out the procession was at 3am. Defeated I entered the church to cool down. Once my forehead dried I went outside onto a dusty green to make my way back.On the street another procession approached. A black clad priest wearing a moustache and sunglasses led the group. Women walked either side singing a lament as men took turns carrying the cross in the heat. Behind them about one hundred people sang.
The priest stopped the procession for the final station of the cross. A woman stepped forward to read a prayer. Behind her a twist of dust formed in front of the church. It rotated loosely, at first. More dust joined and a funnel took shape, about 10 foot in height. The congregation began to sing. The funnel grew, towering over the Church and at its peak was about 100 foot. The priest signalled to continue the procession as the mini tornado dissipated over the church.
It freaked the hell out of me.

Happy Easter all.

Cockroaches, Micro Breweries and a Dangerous City.

....everywhere, on the walls, in my bed, in my toiletry bag, under my pillow, in my shoes, jumping from the ceiling, hiding in the toilet pot and leaping, fangs showing directly into my face. Large reddish brown cockroaches who I shared my room with on Utila, I miss those guys.......
......."SanPedro Sula is a functional city. It has a high crime rate with some of the most dangerous gangs in Central America. In the first two months of this year 400 people have been murdered."Normally I would just ignore this kind of information, because it generally does not affect me. But on this occasion I have to say. Don`t go there. After an eventful busride with a Spanish marine biologist I stepped out into this shithole. The hotel was housed in a grim concrete block surrounded by half finished buildings all becoming ruins quickly. Inside the hotel someone had chosen grey as the primary colour. It is everywhere, on the walls, the floors and the curtains. As I walked into the room I noticed a cell like quality, but no cockroaches. Everything that could be stolen, curtains, pillow cases, wardrobes all had a prison style print on the side of them. SAN JOSE HOTEL. At reception I asked how safe it was. "Don`t go out at all after 10.30." Then I noticed the hole a bullet made in the front door. I returned to my room and read a book.............
..............D and D brewery is a little mecca tucked away in the countryside. It is surrounded by rolling hills and quaint villages. Not many travellers come here. If fact, not many travellers venture into Honduras proper. They stay in Copan or the Bay Islands. This probably explains peoples reactions to two pink skinned individuals climbing on a chicken bus. At first they all stare. Everyone. Then they laugh. Then some child will approach and ask your name and where you are from. This opens the gates to multiple questions from all and an odd curiosity with what is in your bag and pockets. The children are obsessed with getting their photos taken and crowd around as soon as you sit down. Kind of makes me feel special..........
After

Jesus Christo es el Senor

.....after 1 boat, two chicken buses, a shuttle and a taxi the last thing I needed was a preaching session from an evangelist, but thats what I got. He clamboured abourd a bus bound for Tela in Honduras, all orange tank top and bible gripped in the whites of his hands. His stern voice demanded the chase music be knocked off and then he started. His eyes bulged, veins popped and spit sprang from his mouth as he passionately got his point across. I thought he might faint or at least burst into flames, nothing. He quietened, bowing his head and recited a prayer. Long and meaningful. Then the bus gave thanks by giving him money. In Honduras the Evangelists are the bad people, they bribe people into their religion with gifts and promise of food. Is that Gods work? I guess so......
......Tela, ramshackle and alive. The central park bustles with locals living. Selling, buying, laughing and crying. This town has a pulse that has not been diluted. Bad tourism planning and Hurricane Mitch tried it and failed. A lazy dirty Carribean beach hems the town in. Old hotels and restaurants pepper the coast, hinting at a bygone splendour. I was one of only 20 tourists there. I really stood out. Yet all the people were helpful. I visited a Garifuna town, all red dirt and African style dwellings. These descendants from slaves have kept true to their culture in a foreign land through language, dance and song.......
.....Utila, Ibiza in Honduras. Its pretty, but does not have a soul, there are some authentic things, locals who descend from pirates who talk in a crazed English dialect and more Garifunas and blow ins from the mainland. Then there is us, and cheap beer. enough said.

Un poco de Espanol
esponge-Guatemalan nick name for the Irish.
How many Beards since being away
3 and working on a fourth.

Be in Utila till Sunday,
After

The Buddha of Swiss Banking

Rio Dulce : A ramshackle boat swept me across the Rio Dulce and up an inlet of water deep into mosquito infested jungle. There are other bugs here, the size of wasps who find Irish blood to their liking. The jungle squeezed the river and spurted out at Casa Perico. I was tired after a long days travel from Flores and the humid heat took its toll. I was greeted by an ample man called Rudy. He was a Swiss banker of some belly girth. He grabbed my bag and led me to my room for recuperation. Later that evening I met him at the bar, drinking some fine red wine. He spoke and I listened, he did not like interruptions. He told me of his mystical 3 months in the Alps finding himself. I asked if he did. His belly swelled in laughter and he announced, Rudys a big man and he still has lots to discover. He topped up my Cuba Libre and we got drunk to Ave Maria.
Livingston : The thing about journeys here is this, they always stop to refuel ten minutes after departure. So the boat pulled up alongside an Esso garage on the river and I was off to Livingston, a home to the Garifuna culture, only accessable by boat. It is hot as hell here, and this is where I organised a makeshift Paddys Day celebration in Casa de Iguana. All green balloons and green Cuba Libres. With the help of Christy and Alison at the hostel we got food colouring which turned our mouths green and made the sick festive. There is not much to do, except lay on your hole drinking and ranting about everything. I´ve been called a professor by crazed locals because of my beard and an ësponge (the Guatemalan term for Irish people). Use your imagination.
Its so hot the hot springs are a bit pointless, no refreshing swim. I bid adios now and head to Honduras tomorrow with nice guy Dave.
Up Ireland, cricket? The fuck?

Tikal Sunrise

.....a steep temple was climbed in contemplation. An ocean of grey lay below a slender moon and solitary star. Dawn yawned. The night sounds of crickets and insects cajoled the jungle to wake.the first rays of the sun began burning at a thick mist. Shapes began forming, trees mostly but spectre like towers flitted in and out of view.A distant noise howled off branches. A red line outlined nightclouds in preparation for the sun. Shapes began to get colour, different shades of green speckled with blooming flowers and the now fully awakened toucans. The howls came closer and came from all directions. Ghostly temples began to form strongly, as the sun peaked out to disapate the mist. More trees grew from the foggy sea. The howls grew stronger as howler monkeys marked their territory and pumas roared in the rising sun. The light squinted my eyes as the mist left southwards, liberating the jungle briefly. Many huge temples appearred praised by the animals . The sun grew stronger and swallowed the mist in an orange glow burying the temples once again.

It was worth getting up at 3am in the morning for that alone.
check out littlecesarstours@yahoo.com
Great guide. I´m off to Rio Dulce tomorrow.

Once Upon A time

....the square box bus moved past pimple backed hills spreading as far as the eye could see. It wound round bendy corners, climbed up and down paved roads and ones made of dirt. On the way we waved at happy fairy Mary hostels, hunched over locals plying their trade and acres of corn until it came to a yellow bridge. It looked weak. But the brave square box bus carried us on and into a gravelled carpark. then we got out. An arched over man brought up deep into the forest, nothing could be heard except for water. Everywhere. We climbed a great mountain and gazed in awe as we saw what lay down below. Five natural pools. Better than the Olympics, but they hid a secret beneath, a roaring river lay 300 metres below carving out rocks with its teeth. A double decker river, stunning..........
anyway, Coban is a nondescript town close to the above, and its where I´m at. I was greeted by a Klu Klux Klan meeting on arrival. Two gruff youths with pointed scarfs ran over , shaking a money box manically. Their scarfs were different colours and behind them I could see the whole clan. Chanting. Español. Bush. Ahh the protest songs against Bush. They needed their faces hid in this country, 100 people were arrested on suspicion of disliking GWB last week.(He is visiting after all, and you don´t want to protest here) The Banana Repaublic is alive and well.
........stayed with the guatemalan equivolent of the Deliverance locals last night. If it wasn´t for the fact the turkeys and chickens got loose I´m sure I´d be dead.
Good bye

SanPedro De Laguna cursed by Dreads

...the bus swerved down a rollercoaster road into San Pedro de Laguna, dodging chicken buses and stray dogs, stopping outside Shanti Shanti. We had no idea where we were. A narrow street wound its way between ramshackle houses and there were no street signs. Two rough looking locals approached us, offerring to show us where all the good hotels were. In apprehension, myself, Amir and Rob followed nervously. We turned quickly off the only paved street in town, into a labyrinth of pathways that constitute streets here. We fell further behind our guides fearing we were being done, we saw dungeons that serenaded as rooms and passed out hippies at every turn. In one hostel a guy lay naked outside a door, with a dreadlocked girl and guy singing songs, the age of aquarius had returned. We settled on the next sane looking place, with a view of beauty. The lake surrounded by volcanic peaks and washer women. Stunning.
.....want to come to a party?
......sure.
...jumping into the back of a pickup truck when full of beer maybe is not the sainist thing to do. When it begins to drive up a 70 degree incline and back down the other side is madness. But good craic. After this ride I got off at a party hidden deep in the woods on the shore of the lake. Crazed 90´s dance music bellowed out and all I could see were dreads. Thousands of them looking irritatingly at me and the lads. Almost aggresively they offered LSD and seemed pissed that it wasn´t taken. It wasn´t a good atmosphere, there were some arguments and howls at the moon. These so called free love shits are extremely irritating. I dont mind if they don´t wash for religious reasons but most of these kids are middle class Yanks and Eurothrash. To them everything is free because their daddies pay for it. It hurts this town, andhas turned a beautiful place into a dropout zone.
Please see footnote :

For some peoples of African descent, locks are a statement of racial or ethnic pride. Some see them as a repudiation of Eurocentric values represented by straightened hair. For some, the rejection of ideas and values deemed alien to African peoples (which dreadlocks embody) sometimes can assume a spiritual dimension. Similarly, others wear dreads as a manifestation of their black nationalist or pan-Africanist political beliefs and view locks as symbols of black unity and power, and a rejection of oppression, racism and imperialism. While most Rastafari sects welcome all ethnicities and the history of dreadlocks attributes the hairstyle to almost all racial and ethnic groups, some blacks who attach strong racial meaning to dreads disapprove of the wearing of dreads by nonblacks, viewing such practice as a form of cultural appropriation.

Thats my rant, all is good and I´m moving on again tomorrow.
Adios

PS . Picked up a copy of 44 by Peter Sheridan in Antigua, it was a unproof read promotional copy. Very strange.