Solid again

Sometimes it stings. Sometimes you smile. More often than not however, it´s unadulterated pleasure.

Like a prolonged bout of diarrhea, my pleasure and pain experience of Bolivia is finally over.

After two months of sweat and tears, I´ve finally kicked down the bathroom door and now find myself in the more homely surroundings of Arequipa, Peru.

Here, they have several brands of cola, buses with functioning air conditioning and crash barriers on their roads. It also smells less this side of the baño door and the people seem to be more busy.

Eleven days ago however, this clean and pleasant end was but a distant dream. Bogged down in dirty La Paz once more, I spent until last Monday passing wind, and time. With lady wrestling on the previous Sunday my sole aim, it was merely a case of sitting around and waiting for the much anticipated climax.



Sandwiched in between this, I ate an outstanding piece of trout (my first piece of fish in nearly 4 months) and tried to get in to a prison. The first was clearly a success but the latter a complete failure. For those in the dark, El Penal de San Pedro gained notoriety in 2003 with the publishing of a book by Rusty Young called Marching Powder. It documented the tales of Thomas McFadden, a convicted drug smuggler who found a niche market in tours for backpackers. Odd as it was, his project was carried out in a prison where no guards are present, cocaine is manufactured, cells are bought and sold, and prisoners run their own businesses. Up until last year, these tours were still ongoing but after an undercover filmcrew got in, the Bolivian authorities had a clampdown, meaning people like me would have to make do with a self-guided tour of the perimeter.



Me and a lady friend that day, Emma, did make a fist of it though. First we tried phoning ´Kenny´, an alleged inmate who could get us in and who´s number we´d been given by a gringos gringo friend. Several times there was no answer and then only a woman who knew no Kenny. We waited around, asked a few people about getting in and then just tried to walk through the front door. Ten hostile guards at the door suggested this wasn´t going to happen. We walked away.

Suddenly, six days have passed and it´s Sunday and the cholita wrestling.







Staged in a sportshall high up above La Paz in El Alto, this alternate form of wrestling has evolved rapidly into a huge tourist attraction for us backpackers. With front row VIP seats, some fifty or sixty so of us like-minded adventurers enjoyed first hand, the abilities of local indigenous women fighting it out amongst themselves and against the men. In full traditional atire, it was a real treat seeing skirts fly and some serious girl-on-girl action. Three hours, two cups of Fanta and three bags of popcorn later, my ass was numb and thankfully it was home time.









On Monday it was time to say cheerio to the Bolivian capital and head north to the banks of Lago Titicaca and the town of Copacabana. Some say it´s the world´s highest navigable lake, others don´t. Whatever, it´s huge. En route, a bag flew off the roof which caused a bit of alarm and then we had the pleasure of crossing some water, separated momentarily from our transport and belongings.





I arrived there with drei Germans and we agreed to put history behind us and share a hostel together. We dumped our stuff at the German-run hostel then went for a climb up a nearby hill to get a panoramic view of the lake. That evening we ate some burgers, shared some laughs and then reitired to our quarters.





Woken ten minutes before my alarm by the ever-eager team leader, Raul, I was soon up and ready to join a couple of them for an overnight excursion to Isla del Sol. If you are to believe those Inca folk, it´s the place where the sun was born. If they were around today, I´d have a few questions.

We stepped aboard the boat amongst a huge mob of tourists and two and a half windy hours later, we were on the banks of the island. After a quick snack and the realisation that our funds were low, we set off up the hillside.







Other than the startling beauty of the place, the other thing which grabbed my attention was Raul´s single-mindedness in finding a campsite. Three hours later, we´d found it and soon, comrade Yanice (may be Janice but that would imply he´s a woman) was preparing the stove, ready to cook his San Pedro cactus (a hallucinogenic drug). Although open to the idea of seeing dragons in the woods and pink clouds at night, I was slightly aware that I had only the two days on the island and that I did actually plan on seeing some of it. After gathering wood for the fire, I decided to put my wasted day to an end and go see the islands finest ruins. I spent nearly three hours pursuing this goal and on my return, both Raul and Yanice were all ready for some international relations and a long night of psychedlic adventure, followed by sickness. I had other plans. Politely, I told them I´d be dining elsewhere that evening, specifically in a two pound a night hostel by the port, where ultimately, I would nibble on peanuts and bread while dipping my feet in the water as the night drew near. What I didn´t plan for was a hot shower, private room and three pillows for my bed.

In the morning, I met up with the jaded pair back at base camp, where they´d prepared me a guacamole and lime sandwich. I had my own agenda that day and happily the other two agreed to be a part of it. Our day-long treck was a huge success as we took in great views and enjoyed some quality time down on a beach.

Though the island is famed for it´s indegenous people, reed boats and historic ruins, my memory of the place will be the huge volume of backpackers it attracts, its almost Mediterranean appearance and the intensity of the damn sun. My red forehead makes me think those Incans weren´t so stupid.



At 4PM, we caught our boat back to the mainland where in the evening we had some trout from the lake which was good but not at the standard I´d had in the hostel in La Paz, nor was it filling. I made amends by necking a litre of peach yoghurt, followed by two choclate bars.

After ten hours on the road, I yesterday arrived here in Arequipa. Initially blown away by the place, I have since come to terms with it and accept it´s not a European city and that I can make my money last here. Amongst all the delightful colonial buildings, I booked myself in at a pretty flambouyant joint where I had another huge room to myself and a wonderful street view. As it was my first night in Peru, I thought what better way to celebrate than with a meal at a Mexican. With guilt burning away at me, I later had the nations favourite drink, a pisco sour (pisco, lemon, egg white, angustura...I think) and a can of Cusqueña back at my place.

This morning, with money on my mind, I moved to a cheaper hostel but not before I got my free breakfast. Then on arriving at my new place, I bagged another. A lovely stunt.

I had a wander today around the city, visiting a couple of holy spots and then I landed here. By the time I get back to my hostel, my laundry should be done and my bus ticket to the Colca Canyon should be booked. If you haven´t heard of it, it´s twice the depth of the Grand Canyon.

No shit.


(More. Pictures. Will. Follow. In a few days...)

Capturing carnaval

Check out these colourful compositions from the Sunday and beyond.


Who´s first?


This wasn´t shot in the centre of Manchester. I promise.


Humility isn´t welcome at the carnival.


Happy with your costume lads?


Nothing quite as painful as a splinter in your lip.


Not getting sick of this. At all.


Even cyclists would struggle with this route.


The lady at the rear suggests someone just let one go. Still, good a place as any to get away with it.


Could somebody please just blow?? Anyone??


Lecherous, shameless and drunk. Probably English.


They look evil but a magnet would change things.


Don´t even think about it kidder. That juice is mine.

Under siege

Not since Iguazu Falls have I been so wet while fully clothed and not since walking the backstreets of La Boca have I felt so on edge.

With water bombs, Super Soakers and foam spray never far away, the Carnaval de Oruro was as much an education in stealth as it was cultural celebration. In relationship to the former, I was hardly an A grade student but I did do enough to make it out alive and enjoy the craziness that unfolded.

Before I could experience the extremeties of the carnival, I first had to make my way through the town of Cochabamba, a city sat around halfway between Santa Cruz from where I departed last Wednesday, and Oruro.

There were no real dramas on the bus journey although it was nonetheless a little hellish. Luckily, the cracked window immediately in front of me held out for the entire ten hour journey, however this wasn´t really aided by the local sat next to me who kept finding a great fascination in poking the centre of it which was roughly the size of a tennis ball.



For the next few hours, I endured further evidence that suggests the Bolivians are completely immune to fluctuating temperatures. Some of you more creative ones may say they´re 'o-Bolivia-s`.

While I sat sweating like something that sweats a lot, my shirt and shorts as damp as damp clothes, the rest of the passengers seemed content and able to doze off peacefully while wrapped in jumpers and alpaca wool blankets. Feeling I was the only one who was going through this depleting ordeal, I soon began to go a little crazy in the stormy Bolivian night, believing it was some form of conspiracy against me, reminiscent of The Truman Show. After five hours of shirt-sticking insanity, I finally managed to get some sleep and by eight in the morning, I´d managed to dry out, ready to tackle Cochabamba in a slightly more dignified state.

I managed this but then started veering again as a dodgy burger for lunch started playing tricks with my insides, which perhaps wasn´t all that surprising as I found out the restaurant was run by former prostitutes. I´m not at all suggesting they´re bad cooks, but they hardly specialise in health and hygiene.

Before I was struck down by my red-light rump, I did manage to take a trip up the city´s cable car to see the Cristo de la Concordia statue and expansive views of the City of Eternal Spring. On the way down, I befriended a family who were bewildered by travel plans but seemed to love saying my name.









In the evening I reserved a bus ticket for the next days trip to Oruro, then fought fire with fire and had more meat which seemed to do the trick.

On Friday morning, I was confronted with the horror of a packed bus station, as seemingly the entire population of Cochabamba were heading the same way as I. Although my seat wasn´t paid for, it was reserved and so after a slightly heated Anglo-Spanish debate with a security guard, I forced my way to the front of the queue, only to find my name had now disappeared from the 10AM Danubio II to Oruro list. With a little steam fuming from my ears, I joined the back of another queue and after accidentally calling myself James Bond on the revised list, I managed to escape the bedlam just an hour later than planned.

Refreshingly, I was seated by a window which I had full control over. Although he initially pointed it in the wrong direction, an elderly man managed to get a snap of me in what was such a delightful scenario when set against the journey previous.

The four hour trip was a joy as I caught the wind in my hair and enjoyed a Steven Segal double bill of Under Siege I and II.

Arrival in Oruro went as planned and after dropping my backpack at Residencial San Salvador (thanks Stef), I went in search of cyberspace and food. I found both and also got caked in water and foam by numerous little scoundrels but soon had some defence in the guise of a poncho and my own spray. When I returned to my new home, I bumped into Rosheen, an Irish girl I met briefly in Samipata when my illness had it´s most ferocious hold. Things transpired in such a way that she and four of her friends would be sharing the same six bed dorm as myself. With such a catalyst for friendship, we and an Aussie who called himself Paul set out into the firing line and beyond where we found pizza, beers and later rum and coke in the town plaza. As low as this may sound, we were more than outdone by the locals who lay plastered on benches, pavements and in the arms of their faithful drinking companions. There was also a strong scent of piss.



On Saturday, the party started.











Although the group was split between the lazy ones and the lazier ones, we did all manage to meet for lunch before deciding to go tackle the carnival. Armed with ponchos, spray and an aggresive military attitude we took to the streets. It wasn´t long before we were caught up in some serious crossfire, generally turning en masse against anyone who fired upon any one of us. Sadly things went a bit off the rails when in a fairly intense skirmish with some local militia, both Rosheen and another girl had their bags slashed leaving them both a camera and twenty quid lighter. Fuelled by this we embarked on a mission that turned out to be a catastrophic failure.



After watching the parade for a while beside the street, we were subsequently turfed out as we weren´t willing to pay so off we set down the side of the parade in the wrong direction. With hundreds lining the particular route we were always going to be up against it but in the end it was an outright masacre. Continuously, walls of foam and water were raining down on us from all directions and even though we fought valiantly, by the end of it we were a teary-eyed and liquified unit. At one point, upon seeing a whole army of shooters ready to take aim, I decided to try being plain arrogant and just stand there but after a couple of inches piled up on my face and a kid with a Super Soaker added a gallon or two of water to the mix, I was resigned to staggering for cover like a blinded drunk.





We made it to a suitable exit after clearly overstaying our welcome and there we found refuge in a pizza restaurant where we warmed ourselves with cups of coffee.

As the afternoon drew to its close, we went back to the hostel to get dry and prepare for our evening meal at a flashy restaurant where we relfected on the days events, partly under candlelight.



Eager to stay a little drier and see more of the procession, me, Emily and Emma woke early on Sunday to scope things out and try to find some decent and free seats. We had to wait until midday for things to get underway but when they did, we found an excellent location and paid nothing where others had paid up to thirty quid in advance of the festival. Despite feeling a little more conceiled than yesterday, we were still caught up in plenty of crossfire with the spectators on the opposite side.





Other than the actual parade which was an amazing display of dance, music, outrageous costumes and colours, my highlight was hitting a cheeky little sniper on the other side flush in the face with a water bomb. My low point came soon after.

After plenty of skirmishes with the opposing side, I eventually got complacent while sitting content with my legs wide open.

Out of nowhere, a water bomb travelling at frightening speed suddenly reduced me to a crumpled and squeeling heap while also leaving the people around me gasping at what fate had just befallen me. A good minute or so later, I was able to see again and immediately looked to pick out the perpertrator. It wasn´t difficult. Usually, these cowardly Bolivians will strike you from behind or if from the front, put on a blank expression in order to go undetected. Finding someone who just crippled a man from the groin outwards was obviousloy a different matter. Hiding behind the facing stand I saw him and his accomplice almost crying with laughter. Revenge is usually best served cold but there was no time for that. I bought more rubbery water things and took aim. Emotion must have affected my focus as I inadvertantly hit his friend in the face, an old lady in her stomach and then finally a policeman on the back of his head. At this point, I let it go.

In the evening I made bracelets for three of the girls, of which two had birthdays the next day. Obviously they were delighted. This was followed by beers, peanuts and lots of chatter at the hostel.

Yesterday, we all checked out (by now a group composed of me and seven girls) and by half-past one, were boarded on our bus to La Paz.

I was pretty disheartened to see carnaval was still going on here as this meant yet more foam and water confrontations. This proved so quite quickly as I was attacked as I went for a short stroll, forcing me to change clothes yet again and re-stock on waterbombs.

As I´m back at Adventure Brew Too Hostel, I picked up my free evening beer before walking unscathed to the Wild Rover where all the girls are staying. I had a wonderful salad there before sinking a few jars until the early hours. At this point, the streets were flooded so much so that when I stepped out of the taxi, it was into gushing water nearly two feet deep.

Today things seem a little quieter and shortly I´ll be heading to an English pub to watch AC Milan v United, eat some pancakes and hopefully not get wet. I must go now as I want a decent seat for the game but I will upload more pictures tomorrow from Sunday.

Picture paradise

After over a month, I´ve finally got all my latest pictures uploaded. This section is dedicated to my time in Samaipata and the Che Guevara tour. Sorry I got no pictures from hospital. I forgot my camera.


Rush hour in Samaipata.


Camping Bolivian style.


Where Che´s remains were found but where he no longer remains.


Che was captured here by the Bolivian army. And Ben captured me nicely too.


Quite a threatening look for a Dutchman.


The schoolhouse where Che was executed. At least the kids would have had the day off.


The lady who served Che his last meal. Maybe he died of food poisoning? I didn´t trust her.


The closest we got to a traffic jam was stopping for lunch.


Ignore the basket.


El Fuerte. Impressive but ultimately pointless.


Dirty Bolivians making spring water brown.


Evo Morales isn´t so popular over here. Ouch.