What I think when I run...........around South America

So here we are.

It's been a good couple of months since I wrote anything, this will be mostly because I've not run anywhere since the marathon. I've reverted to a sort of Elvis '70s, eating burgers, getting fat and dying on his toilet' sort of regime.

Don't get me wrong, I miss running, but I missed eating crap and sitting about watching TV more, so that's exactly what I've been doing.

But it's all change now as I have something worth talking about. I am going to South America. For 5 months. I'm not sure why, I just felt that I needed to go away, so go away I have.

So this will now be about the stupid things that come into my head while I crawl and possibly run around South America.

Let's start at the beginning.........

I knew it was a mistake to fly Air France all the way to Colombia. The French have a unique way of getting up my nose, not dis-similar to the Aussies. With the French it's the rudeness and arrogance. Luckly, I was sat next to a Colombian so I didn't have to drink myself into a stupor through the flight.

Watched Avatar on the 6inch by 4inch TV in the seat rest in front of me, seeing it on that sized screen you realize that it's just 'Dances with Wolves' with stupid looking people instead of Indians. Pointless.

I arrive in Bogota and try to get to Cartagena, initially I thought it could be done by taxi, however, it´s more that 300 miles away. And even with the decent exchange rate to the Colombian Peso, I was going to have to get the bus. The bus was going to take 23 hours and cost 70 quid, so I booked a flight for the next day that cost me 48 pounds, and got me there in 1 and a half hours. It's as weird as the train fares system at home, how can that possibly be right?

The first big issue is my lack of Spanish speaking ability. I am dead in the water, so there's much pointing at maps to taxi drivers, and occasional shouts of gracias from me. Cab drivers beep their horns for no reason here, my drive would be in traffic and just lean on his horn until the light changed. They seem to beep to let others know that they're there, or that they see you, or that you nearly crashed into them.

My first nervous moment comes as my driver leans behinds him to lock the back passenger door, he then motions to me to do the same to my side. He then points around and I realize that the street we're on is covered in hookers, and dodgy looking fellas. Drive starts pointing certain ones out to me, I motion that,
'yes, they are very attractive' or
'bueno, bueno'
it takes a bit longer for me to then understand through his waving arms and grabbing of his balls that he means that they're the transexual ones.

The first thing you notice about backpacking around is the friendlyness of other backpackers. People simply walk up to you and say
'Hi, we're off to eat, would you like to come?'
It's the clearest opposite of human nature I've ever experienced. But I need it as I'm on my own and can't speak a word of Spanish. Although when this woman did say this to me I intially replied
'Can't you see I'm reading?'

I land in Cartagena and I'm determined to get the public bus to the backpackers hostel. So I hail one down on the side of the road. It would seem that they don't have stops, you just stand and put your hand out.

I get on the bus and I can't get on at the front because my bag is massive and won't fit through the turnstile. He points to the back so I get on there. I move to the front to pay, and I think he asks me where I'm going, I point at my really not very good map and smile inanely, eventually another passenger says something that I think means,
'I know where you're going, I'll let you know when to get off'

2 stops later he gets off and says something to me and points at the driver. I now assume that he's going to let me know.

The bus is getting full now but nobody sits next to me. People actually stand on the bus than sit on the back seat with me. I start to feel a lot like Rosa Parks, and look out of the window and wonder if this is what racism feels like. But then I decide that I get more shit for being ginger.

As I sit pondering modern racism the bus comes to a stop and the bus driver tells the guy next to him getting the fare money something, he then tells the guy behind him, who turns and shouts back up the bus, eventually about 14 faces all turn and start gesturing towards me, and then to the road. I think it's time to get off the bus. I stand and shout gracias and the whole bus waves me off the bus with big friendly smiles. Well. They don't, the door shuts and the bus pulls away, covering me in dust, and with windows full of Colombians staring at the pasty ginger in the road. I'm sure I saw a smile though.

As I get off the bus I start a sweat that has yet to actually stop. It's similar to constantly pissing, you don't mind at first but it just doesn't stop.

I get to my hostel and move into my colonial style 6 man prison dorm. It's very weird, it's like going on a school trip with total strangers.

I meet Glyn from Canada who is basically so nice that I actually don't feel that freaked out. I almost start enjoying it.

Glyn and Julia (who's name I can't remember, and keep having to ask Glyn what she's called) go off to a mud volcano so I decide to sit by the little pool and read my book.

And then it starts. The slow strumming of an accoustic guitar fills the pool area. I look up to the balcony and see this twat walk out of his room strumming a guitar, he's wearing one of those hairband things to keep his hair back while he plays,

So this is it then? I am surrounded by wankers who bring guitars with them on backpacking trips, who then play them to nobody in the middle of the day, and ruin my day. What am I doing here? I've nothing in common with these people. I am so depressed by this hippy that I contemplate going to a internet cafe and booking a flight home.

Luckly Glyn and what's her name, come back and we go out and it's a really lovely night, and we plan to do stuff for the next couple of days so it's all looking up.

The next day I decide to shave my head, anything to lessen the heat on my body. I go for a 1 all over, but my shaver runs out of battery so I can't shave my beard. Eventually after charging it I can but by this time I've burnt my face and my now beardless chin is a bright white against my pinkish cheeks, and against my burnt forhead. I look a lot like a national flag with red, pink, and white stripes running down my face.

Hopefully it'll all merge together eventually.

I take a walk around the old town and I'm accosted by a 14 year old boy whos asks
'where you from?'
I reply Wales and he replies almost straight away,
'my name is Tony Montana, and I can get you ANYTHING you want'

I think how good it is that the Welsh reputation has reached this far .