Londonivia

What an odd thing auto-translation is. And so much of my Bolivia material which I thought was in English, has been translated using the automatic, computer translator. This thing basically takes a sentence in a foreign language and translates it, word for word, generally to nonsensical effect. So, a sentence will often read: 'This so generous landscape butterflies and trees bloom support.' It's quite amusing to read, but completely useless as a source of information. Some of it could mean anything.

On a different subject, London has managed to completely evade the floods of rain that were supposed to sweep the city in the last couple of days. Instead, it's a pleasant blue sky, with edible, mashed-potato clouds. But mustn't say it twice. A storm might brew yet, dark and menacing like a big pint of Guinness.

I sit, trying to work, and failing to smoke in the last couple of days. It's great. I don't want to smoke, though I have a packet of fags waiting in my bag. It's good to behave sensibly despite oneself.

Tried the Quality Chop House last night, on Farringdon Rd. Great chops and they have this thing called Chopas - English tapas. So, you can order tapas of fish and chips, mushy peas and other specialities, each at £3ish, and have yourself a night of tapear, but with English tastes. And you've never seen a more jovial waiting crew in your life. They were roaring with laughter all night. Perhaps it was the wine. Our steaks were so bloody it looked like the poor animal had been slaughtered right on the plate. But hey, that didn't bother us. The steak then, as revenge for my carnivore tendencies, gave me nightmares all night. I won't go into details but it was bad.

So tonight, I may go and check out Vito playing a bouncer to his friend Katia's Egyptian-TV-star comedy act at the V&A Arabise Me night. I am keen to see Vito acting, even if it is Matrix style, dark glasses, no speaking. We'll see what kind of nightmares that produces (only joking Vitoni).

New Beginnings

As you may notice, I've changed the look of the blog, and the title too. It had to happen. The Bolivia title was just so outdated, I felt it was wrong to have the same thing sitting there forever.
I've decided to keep the blog going by popular demand. Because of popular demand. This is a lie, of course. No one demanded that I continue writing the blog. It's all me, me, me.
Anyway, I shall continue the blog in the following weeks, as soon as anything vaguely interesting happens to me. For now, I am totally boring, sitting behind my computer, staring at the screen. I will go out searching for adventure once all this is over. I will explore Essex, Sussex and Middlesex, and have some sex too. But I shan't write about that. Unless there is popular demand.

A Picture Blog

Here are some long-awaited photos. All, of course, taken by Rafa, apart from the really amazing ones, which were taken by me. Ha, ha. Hope you can actually see them and that they're not too small. It takes forever to upload them, but I'll put more up. Kisiz

Back in Blighty

We're back in Blighty. In the Big Smoke. Not in the Big Apple, however. Though we were in the Big Puff, as I've chosen to dub Sao Paulo, Brazil's dirty dirty bad boy megalopolis. Me love Brazil now and want to go back and pretend to be Brazilian. I didn't get any Havaianas, before you ask.

I know the blog's supposed to be only about Bolivia (or so the title suggests), but circumstances have made it so that I can now expand to a few other countries too. In fact, I am thinking of keeping the blog going, and noting down things that happen to me in London or wherever else I might go (Essex, for example) that are blogworthy. You can of course choose to ignore me if you don't care to know how I spend my time.

So, our last couple of days in Santa Cruz were spent mostly trying to get Rafa to recover from his ear-throat-sinus infection, and with a bit of Bosnian medicine and some strong antibiotics, he's now as good as new, though he's partially deaf in his right ear, but that's just his age. We spent entire days, in fact, on the patio of the hotel (Hotel Globetrotter!) where the atmosphere was something out of a Tarantino film, minus the blood and gore (does that leave anything?). The following took place:

a) a drunken Kenyan-Indian-British girl sat with us and proceeded to reveal all about her family, which happened to be caught in the midst of a domestic violence wave at the time of our sitting on the patio. The girl was tearful and giggly in turns, eating a tub of Snickers ice cream and being rather annoying. Rafa and I listened and offered sensible advice. Rafa lay on his side the entire time, feeling dizzy from the ear infection. I smoked an occasional cigarette, feeling guilty each time.

b) the hotel owner, a short man with a long history in travel (hence 'Globetrotter') spoke to us extensively of towns where Nazi groups gather in Bolivia annually. You'd be surprised to hear how many there are and how active the descendants of the escaped Nazis are in South America. At least I was surprised.

c) the hotel owner also revealed how, when he lived in Denmark, he used to go to the then-Communist Eastern Europe with his Danish friends, and they used to sleep with women for as little as $1. Or they'd bring a ham, like parma ham, and sleep with women for ham.

d) he then went to the door and started arguing for a long time with a young woman with a baby, saying he refused to give her any money and that she should go. This went on for some time. Rafa and I were captivated by the bizarreness of the dialogue, since the hotel owner was a man with a gentle voice and manner, and being terse with anyone seemed beyond him. Suddenly, after refusing for half an hour, through a little hole in the door, to give her any money, he went to his room and came back holding a note of 50 Bolivianos (roughly 5 pounds) and gave it to her. They carried on speaking as if nothing had happened and were long, loved friends.

Getting out of Bolivia was a tough one. Our Sunday flight was cancelled, so we had to get a Thursday flight instead, with LAB, the Bolivian airline which is going bankrupt. The company is in such a state that they have cardboard piggybanks all around travel agents' offices in town, pleading for 1 Boliviano (10p) to save the company and staff. And our beloved Dial-A-Flight had booked us onto a flight with this sorry company. I called D-A-F (with whom you should NEVER book tickets), asking if they'd known that LAB was going bankrupt when they debited my account, and they pleaded ignorance. I foamed, shouted, banged the phonebox and almost swore at the D-A-F representative. The Bolivians looked at me with a sort of bemusement, a gringa loca, shouting at someone far away.

So, the flight out of Bolivia was on Thursday, and it was Wednesday, so we decided we'd have to say goodbye to the 6 friends we'd made in Santa Cruz. One of them was a woman, part of a couple, who arrived with a cleavage wider than the Grand Canyon, in a long-tried attempt to get Rafa to gaze at the two cannons in her Canyon. She was a friendly girl at first, speaking to me slowly in Spanish, pretending to be interested in whatever I was talking about, but soonafter she turned her interests to R, much to the dismay of her husband, who grew more and more quiet as time went by. Her husband, a photographer, used his camera as a self-defense method, carrying it everywhere and taking more pictures the more nervous he got. In the end he was just snapping the walls. The wife, no longer a friendly female companion for me, started laughing at any mistake I made in Spanish, failing to realise that mistakes are what my Spanish is made of and that is something I am most proud of it. We also met our friend Christopher Walken, who, as some of you might recall, we'd met on most of our journey and befriended.

A friend of the Bolivian couple sat down with us and asked where we were from. We, obedient as schoolkids, went on to announce our origins. When it came to me I said 'Yugoslavia' (Bosnia's pretty much anonymous in those parts). I said 'Yugoslavia' and he heard: 'Yo no se', which means 'I don't know' in Spanish. He looked at me and said: 'You don't know where you are from?' Roars of laughter from everyone (especially the Bolivian girl who, in my now paranoid ears, was doing a Dr Evil roar). 'No, I said, I am from Yu-go-sla-via.' 'Aaaah, Yugohlavia,' said the guy. 'Yeh, Yugohlavia, thah raht.' I thought.

So, with this cocktail of odd friends we spent the last evening in the country, eating llama steaks as should befit a last supper in Bolivia.

Returning to our hotel, the owner informed us that the flight in the morning, the only flight out of Bolivia, was cancelled. LAB had phoned and said that out of their two airplanes, one was in Mexico and the other being repaired. We held our heads and shook them, until a light bulb fizzed inside my head and I decided we should go to the airport and refuse to leave until they put us on a plane to Brazil. Which is what we did. We queued, bright and early, eating a rubbery 'Subway' sandwich (their motto is 'Eat Fresh' - eat fresh, my arse) and sipping tea and coffee into our cardboard throats. The LAB ladies behind the LAB desk looked LABsick. Puppy-dog eyes, a lot of blinking, asking for disculpas. It turned out to be much easier than we'd thought and sooner than you could say feijoada, we were in Brazil. And, thanks to our lovely friend Marcelo, we were staying with a lovely girl by the name of Ana Paula, who let us use her flat and watch Seinfeld as much as we wanted (watching Seinfeld being the ultimate relaxation for me).

Aaah, Brazil! What a change! Young people, most of whom are stunningly, drop-yer-pants beautiful (I must confirm the stereotype) were hanging out in front of walls with trendy graffiti, eating delicious food, drinking cool beer. And not a backpacker in sight. It might have been heaven. So, we ate at street markets, danced a bit of salsa and samba, saw an alternachivoo (alternative) band called something like 'The Sonnet of an Enchanted Fire' (in Portuguese) rocking the birds out of their little nests in the city park, bought some mad sunglasses, looked dodgy in expensive shops that we didn't have the money for, walked around the poverty stricken downtown Sao Paulo where men and dogs lived the same lifestyles, and befriended some damn nice Brazilian people. Rafa was even given a football shirt by a friend of a friend, and we had a Polaroid picture taken with our instant-Brazilian friends. The old guy who sold Polaroids for 10 Reais (1 pound) took the picture, and since there were around 8 of us, he started counting heads on the picture, to make sure we were all there.

And then we flew and flew and flew, screaming children surrounding our seats, one of whom used my leg liberally as his toy-car's motorway. Touching down in London was so lovely and so strange that we had to sit and have a coffee to observe the chaos of the airport. People everywhere carrying everything in transparent plastic bags, thanks to the new post-panic regulations at Heathrow. Laptops in bags, bags in bags, eyeglasses in bags, books in bags, eyes in bags. You could suddenly tell a lot about a person from their hand luggage. How much tissue did they take? Did they use wet-wipes? Was there a toothbrush or chewing gum? A 'Hello' magazine or a Dan Brown book? Ear plugs or iPod? Hotpants?

We arrived at the flat and I couldn't unlock the door. I forgot which way to turn the key. It was like a 20 second paralysis of the brain. What was this door? I had to check the number several times, to make sure I wasn't in fact sticking my keys into my neighbour's door downstairs. And then, voila, the flat. The door was heavy with 5 weeks of post heaped behind it. The dust welcomed us in, making grey flower shapes to show its delight. My fern plant wasn't entirely dead. The potatoes were alive. Happiness. It's nice to be home.

P.S. Will try to attach some pictures now.

Nearly There

Just three days left to go and apparently our flight from Santa Cruz to Sao Paolo has been cancelled. This was to be expected, since the Bolivian airline we flew with is crap. Tomorrow we have to fight the travel agents and all the other people to get what we need.

Since my last blogovich, I´ve been in the Amazonian rainforest, 6 hours upstream by boat, and felt like a real exploreress. It was truly one of the most amazing experiences ever. We came back more stinky than I ever thought possible (we were there for 3 days with 1 shower) and R was bitten by the jungle´s entire mosquito population.

I have also started smoking again, something that was a big ministake, and I now feel sick from the 3 fags I smoked today. Shocker, inni, after 3 and a half years of abstinence.

We´re back in Santa Cruz and Rafa´s ill, an ear infection, so I´ve spent 2 days sitting on the porch of our hotel, in between dribbling ear drops into R´s ear, talking to the hotel´s owner about the many experiences of his life, and watching the comings and goings in the hotel. I shall expand on all the details in my next blog, for now I feel sick and need to get some food to stop feeling sick.

Hope you´re all well. Josh, thanks for posting luv, hope that Aderu and bebe are all right in the Dutch jungle and not smoking too much ganja. Bad for the bebe. I saw your blog too, and it´s very very loverly. Everyone, take a look at Josh´s blog (on the post replies of the previous blog) and tune into his lovely music programme on Resonance fm.

Cheerio.

Bites from the jungle

A few words on the peculiarities of travelling:

Book exchanges. I always get enthused by the idea of a book exchange, of sweaty, smelly pages that someone´s held onto for dear spiritual life in the midst of some shithole, a book that provided him with escape like no drug can do, a book that might do the same for me, if only I could find it. But all I gaze upon are titles like ´We Fished All Night´ in two volumes, the title of which triggers off many associations, none of which are to do with fishing. Namely, (and least rudely) the annoying song ´I drove all night´starts playing in my poor, empty head, and I can´t stop driving all night. Or, there is ´The Young Hunter´, a 567 BC edition, about a boy who discovers wildlife with his loyal dog friend. Other titles are in German. A slightly attractive Graham Greene ´Jagd im Nebel´is in German. A Spanish language ´Los Evangelicos´. I offer it to Rafa. He throws me a sharp blade of a look. But there is nothing, I repeat, nothing, worth exchanging in the bloody book exchanges, ever ever ever. I guess all the good titles get exchanged for the bad titles, or stolen, or never get given in the first place.

The hostility of travellers. There´s this very strange thing of travellers who always throw big, friendly smiles to the locals, ´Buen dia´, ´Hola´, whatever, but as soon as another foreigner goes past, dreadlocked or not, wearing dodgy tie-die shirts or not, playing a flute or juggling bananas or not, the expression of the friendly traveller changes and a frown turns on, and not a ´Hello´passes the lips. Occasionally there´ll be the good soul who´ll return a feeble smile, careful so that others won´t see him/her, but otherwise it´s ignoring all the way.

The one upmanship of travellers. ´I went to Y today´one will say, proud of his adventurous spirit. ´Oh yeah? And have you been to X?´the other will ask, a cunning look on his face. ´No, where´s that?´(a fearful look forms on the face of traveller 1). ´It´s 30 metres further away from Y. It´s an amazing place. Off the beaten track. Completely. Not many people have been there.´ The first traveller is outdone by the second traveller. This is the way most travellers beat their path to self-satisfaction and better esteem.

The insect/animal attack stories. We were walking past a group of Brits yesterday, all North Faced on their rucksacks, socks and hiking boots, and one guy, around whom the entire group gravitated was relating a story: ´... and I was taking out my hand out of my backpack, and suddenly I saw a cockroach on my hand!´Gasp! The group´s hair is standing on many ends. This is a common story, with variations of snakes and other animals. Most dull.

The poncho buying and wearing and looking utterly ridiculous. No need to expand on that one.

OK. Enough of the traveller world, of which I am relatively sick of, by the way. Must tell you of the time, a couple of days ago, when I was cursing the Lonely Planet and my job and myself for existing. I was, existing that is, among open sewage canals in the jungle town of Trinidad, an unattractive shithole (literally, with the sewage) where they didn´t even have bells on the church. The church bells were played off a cassette on the hour, wailing across the town like cockerel on fire. An ancient Spanish chanson singer called Manolo Otero, whose career is so definitely over, is doing a tour around Bolivia and we´ve seen his posters and heard his concerts advertised across various towns such as this one. We were checking Trinidad´s top hotel, a place that´s been shut for 10 years, and were shown the ´Presidential Suite´, an orange room with a plastic bed and fake plants, where Señor Otero had stayed the night before. His excellency had asked the hotel staff to remove the TV from his room (one of the only rooms WITH a TV) in a fit of capriciousness that befits a star. The hotel staff had obliged and the guy showing us the room was kind of proud of the whole thing. It was kind of sad, really and we walked out feeling like Manolo Otero and the sad, dilapidating hotel together.

After the joys of Trinidad we crossed three rivers on a wooden raft, on a bus that was very old and very bouncy, and arrived in a village called San Ignacio de Moxos, where I think we saw one of the best parties ever. The village is mainly indigenous, of the Moxos tribe, and was once a Jesuit missionary outpost, which it´s becoming again. So the festival is a mixture of the indigenous and the Christian, with a massive procession of people with feather headgear, dancing in a trance, Amazonian tribes with flip-flops and mobiles and jewellery, and then in the evening, this mad guys called chasqueros, who have fireworks on their hats and run around in the crowd trying to set everyone on fire. I stood around with the Moxosians and screamed my head off with everyone else when the fire guys would approach, and I laughed so much I thought they might think me insane. But no one cared. Men got pissed on chicha (local booze) and fought like crazy, fireworks hung in the sky, Rafa was taking close-up pictures of the chasqueros and the whole night was mad and excellent.

The second day of the fiesta they had a bull-chasing event, where the very drunk locals waved t-shirts at confused bulls and fell over a lot. No one died. A couple got ruffled, but that was it. I expected gore, but nothing.

Possibly the worst journey of my life followed, with my stomach aching, R and I sharing 3 seats with a German couple, with the girl of the couple having spent a year in a tiny village near Trinidad, with no one to talk to. She didn´t stop talking for the 12 hours of the journey, though luckily most of that time she spoke to her boyfriend, fooled by our pretence of sleep. She sat on my leg, the bus jumped on the road, dust flooded in, kids screamed. We arrived in Rurrenabaque at midnight and slept in a disgusting hotel where some guy was snoring so loud he started choking.

But things looked up again once the sun rose and we found a different place to stay. Rurrenabaque is a lovely little town in the jungle, with mossy hills all around and lively night life in the jungle: crickets go bonkers at dusk, the frogs do a choir practise, birds, dogs, whoknowswhat, everything sings and parties all night long in the woods around the town. And the travellers, tired after ignoring each other all day long, get together and drink until they pop. For tomorrow, they will be at it again.

Crumpled in the jungle

Hola my blogué crew. Hope you didn´t miss me too much, but I been busy bee with all da travelling around godforsaken parts of the world.

This will be a quick one, since (again) we are in an internet place where the clock is ticking fast till closing time and an impatient internet king is tapping his little fingernails on his desk. Impatience is not a virtue.

After our highlander expeditions, we flew in a tiny 20 seater plane to Trinidad, in the Amazon Basin. The plane was like the Tube, but worse, in terms of space, and it shook and had fits and seizures in the clouds over the Amazon. And every time it would cough and shiver, I would pray to all the saints and gods, the Bolivian Aymará Sun and Moon, and most of all to the pilot, that we should land safely. It didn´t help that I was reading a piece called ´The End of Travel´which made my paranoia worse. I´ve realised that I have thought of dying many times on this trip, and that I have a tendency to exaggerate and think of the worst possible outcome. This is a shock to me. I used to think I was an optimist. But the Bolivia trip has made me think otherwise and realise I am not as acquainted with myself as I had thought. Perhaps some of you, who know me better than I think I know myself, will laugh at this observation in smugness, but there you go.

So tomorrow I´ll write more... Please stay on the edges of your seats and don´t go changin´(as they say on CNN).
By the way, Vittoni Vitteloni, no leaves is how many I am allowed out. Not one, apparently. Might clone it. Though we are bringing something else... won´t tell you what though. But it´s not illegal, so don´t get too excited.
Lorra love.