From the jungle I head inland to Trujillo, a town filled with the history of the area, most notably the Moche and Chimu people. I'm here to see what is left of their civilizations and to marvel at their immense buildings.
Pre Spanish cultures used to live in Peru and South America for hundreds of years, building their own towns, spiritual cities, and cultivating the land. Not being the greatest historian I'd assumed that it was all Inca people in Peru until the dirty Spanish waiters arrived, but how wrong I was.
The Chimu were the big dogs in the Trujillo area, building a huge city by the sea now named Chan Chan. The place is huge and you can see why the elders and governers used to have people carry them around, which is also why you don't see many staircases, only ramps, so that 5 or 6 men could carry the noble about the place.
And like many countries around the world today the power and riches lay in the hands of the few, while the many toiled and worked for the nobility and for their gods, usually the sky, mountain, and sea.
Not that the nobility had it all their own way of course, if the head governer died then he was to be buried with all his belongings, the Chimu beleving that you moved onto the next world, and obviously you'd want to take all your bits with you wouldn't you?
But it wasn't just his belongings mind: his wife, his cabinet, his collection of Silver Surfer comics, his friends, and his concubines were all killed and buried with him! I can picture the scene at the concubines penthouse apartment,
"Wake up Chantelle, I've got terrible news"
"leave me alone Destiny, I was up most of the night with the Gov, I'm knackered, he's got the stamina of a man half his age"
" you're knackered? Well he's dead"
"dead! oh fuck Destiny, I'm his number 1 tart, they'll bury me next to his wife!"
The following day I head to see the Sun and Moon temple of the Moche people. The Moche turned up and basically wiped out the Chimu.
The Moche built a huge temple at the foot of the mountain to appease and pray to the Mountain god. They would regularly sacrifice a lama to the Mountain god, but sometimes, if they thought he was particulary moody, they would sacrfice a young male from the tribe, but not before they'd got him ripped off his tits on crazy juice, making it easier for them to smash his skull in and pour his blood onto the mountain!
Lovely people.
And whenever the spiritual head died, or if they'd been a earthquake, they would fill the whole temple (it's bloody massive) in with bricks, and build a bigger temple around it. So far they have uncovered 4 layers of the temple on top of each other, the work must have been back breaking. And you have to wonder why bother? The mountains not that bothered.
As I wander around I wonder about mans seemingly ceaseless need to occupy and conquer other people and things around it. I'd always assumed it was the nasty western cultures that would come to other peaceful countries then rape and pillage them until there was nothing left, but no. People were killing each other and stealing their land and property in Peru well before the Spanish waiters arrived with their diseases and paella.
And it makes me wonder that if God created man in his own image, then why is man such a selfish, violent, controlling, power mad, and nasty piece of work?
From Trujillo I head along the coast to Arequipa. I should be on a night bus, but I get the 24 hour clock wrong and miss it by 2 hours. Which then reminds me of a happy childhood holiday memory. When I say happy, I mean harrowing. My Dad thought we were late for the ferry home, causing him to drive through France at around 140 MPH, swerving traffic like Dempsey and Makepeace, whilst simultaneously screaming at the rest of us to be quiet.
It was only when I pointed out that the ticket was written in a 24 hour clock, and that we were in fact 6 hours early for the ferry that he stopped shouting, slowly slowed down, and put a Van Morrison tape in the machine. Mum started giggling, and then my sister and I started chuckling, and eventually Dad cracked a smile.
Anyway, I'm glad I got the day bus because the rolling mountains of Nascar and the coast of Peru was beautiful to watch slide by. I'd also been downloading loads of Kevin Smith podcasts, so the 17 hour bus ride was a pleasure.
I sign up to do a 2 day trek of the Colca Canyon, the deepest canyon in the world, it's only the deepest because they choose to messure the canyon from the tip of the mountain that it sits below, it's cheating but the canyon is still stunning.
It's on this trek that I meet the biggest twat of my trip so far, a man so annoying that I cringe whenever he opens his mouth. Everything he says ends with him saying,
"nailed it"
He nailed the walk, the dinner, breakfast, 2 girls from Ireland, a german girl, Argentina, the sleep. everything. He jumps on the back of peoples jokes and then stamps it into the ground. He's loud and brash but without any content to what he's actually saying. I hate him. and he swears unnecessarily, which I fucking can't fucking stand.
The 3 French guys seem to tolerate him, I suspect because they don't quite understand him, but me? I get every word, every lie, every none existent girl he's 'nailed'. I understand everything, and why do I understand him so well?
Because he's Welsh. and he's from Cardiff. And his name's Gareth. The last time I was this ashamed to be Welsh was when Maureen from driving school was big on the telly.
The canyon is amazing, we walk for 5 hours down into the canyon, then have a lunch, before walking across the canyon to a spot known as the Oasis.
Owned by 3 families this area at the bottom of the canyon has around 4 tiny hotels or hostels. They have a fresh water swimming pools and amazing little mud bricked rooms to sleep in. It's beautiful but I'm too tired to sit around and enjoy it so I collapse into bed.
We get up at 5am, and start walking at 5:30am, the guide has noticed that I like to walk ahead of the group, he's assumed that I am a fast walker, rather than the fact that I can't stand to listen to other Gareth,
"you want to try to beat my record to go up?" he asks me,
"what time did you do it in?"
"It's meant to be 3 hours, but I did it in 1hr 35 minutes"
"you'll never do it Potter" pipes up twatface,
I shrug my shoulders and walk off, and I quicken my pace, put some music in my ears and dart up the canyon.
It's steep and the path basically zig zags across the side of the canyon, I start moving past the walkers in front of me and try using the local short cuts to shorten the walk.
The lack of oxygen makes my heart burn but I like the pace and keep going, I remember my father once said to me,
"Son, the quicker it's done, the quicker it's over"
He was talking about sex with my Mum at the time, but I like to think that the meaning is still the same.
I get up to the top at a couple of minutes before 7am, with lungs on fire. I sit in silence and stare at the incredible view in front of me, the only sound is my heavy breaths, but I savour the moment of tranquility and solitude, until of course, quite normally for a tip of a Peruvian canyon, I hear a Ludacris tune booming from somewhere.
Then round the corner 2 local farmer boys with a transistor radio rudeboy bounce towards me, we exchange hello's, they ask if I've just walked up, and what time I left, they seem impressed, and then they pimp walk it down the canyon, with Ludacris swearing in the background.
A strange way for my hike to end.
Friday, 24 September 2010
Thursday, 23 September 2010
Iquitos, pollution, jungle trips, and the Peruvian mindset
The first thing that hits you in Iquitos is the smell: a mixture of human faeces, stale water, sweat, and motorbike fumes. The river is a sinister colour, and I mutter allowed that I won't be eating fish while I'm here.
The town lies on the bank of the River Amazon, and is one the biggest cities in the world that you can't get to by road. It's a boat or plane.
A long time bolthole for hippies, ex-pat fisherman, and about a million people trying to sell you a jungle tour. Imagine 100 of those charity people you see on the high street, being paid 10 pounds an hour to get you to give 10 pounds a month to charity, well imagine that on every corner of every street, and you have a small idea about jungle tour people. And they're all called Carlos, or have a Uncle called Carlos, who's brother Carlos has a jungle lodge.
I am here to get into Peru, but to also try the jungle brew ayahuasca, a collection of different plants and shrubs mixed together to make a drink that people use to seek answers, cure illness, and find enlightment. It's also been used more commanly as a hallucinogenic trip for people to see inside themselves, to gain a better understanding of themselves.
I find a tour operator (called Carlos) who will take me to his lodge in the jungle, where I will take the ceremony with his local Shaman, stay overnight, and return to Iquitos.
We leave and take a 1hr boat ride, then a 40 minute walk, then another 30 minute canoe ride, finally ending at a lodge in the jungle.
All you can hear are the cries of birds, the whistling of trees, and the occasional animal sound that I don't recognise. I eat a very light meal and wait for the Shaman.
At around 9pm he arrives, it's pitch black by now and we all sit around candle light or torch light. The shaman reminds me of a Peruvian version of the little old Chinese man with the shop in Gremlins. He doesn't speak much, and will only look at me in quick motions, but we shake hands and sit down.
He starts chanting and we imbibe the brown liquid, it tastes woody but is not unpleasant. We sit and the Shaman chants continuiously, and then it begins.
Now a girl once told me, not any girl actually, an amazing girl. A girl who I'd always hoped that when we grew older she would choose to start a life with me. Well, we grew up and she didn't, then moved abroad, and I moved on. Anyway, she once said to me,
"Gareth, nobody wants to hear about other peoples dreams, and I don't want to hear about yours"
I know I've made her sound like a right bitch there, but she wasn't, she was incredible.
And because my trip was a very dream like thing for me, if you want to know more you'll have to ask me in person.
I awake the next morning and make my way back to Iquitos, on the way I take a service ferry, carrying chickens, pigs, fruit, veg, and people. The people on their way to sell their goods in the city. I get talking to the boatman, who incredibly can understand my shitty Spanish enough for us to converse. I ask about the river, and all the waste that seems to pour out of 3 giant pipes from Iquitos into the Amazon, his reply is quick,
"That part of the river is dead. and there is a law prohibiting people from fishing there"
"A law! everything's dead! why bother with the law?"
He gets my drift and we sail slowly on in a subdued silence. I find it hard to understand the mindset of the people especially as I watch a girl throw her empty bottle and plastic wrappers overboard. I know that we have had 20 or so years to move towards a recycling society but surely the people and their goverment here must know enough by now to try to slow down the pollution?
Back in the town I'm surrounded by hippies, seemingly all living here and 'being at one with themselves and nature'. I am acutely aware that we are the main reason for the majority of the pollution and waste in this town and it's river, but these people walk around in their sandels and baggy trousers, acting as if they are doing good being there. My already very negatvie opinion of hippies takes a violent jump up a few levels, and I vow to get the fuck out of here as quickly as a plane can.
I leave the next day but not before I give away some 'summer clothes' to a homeless guy. 2 tee's and a pair of trainers are in a carrier bag, and I take a walk to find someone to give them to. I wander into the central Plaza and a man beckons me for my bag, I give it to him. He's really grateful, I wander away feeling all good about myself and wallowing in how amazing and different I am to all the other gringo hippy traveler dicks round here.
But there's a problem.
He saw me leave a restaraunt with the bag, he actually thinks the bag is left over food from my meal. I turn to see the guy hungerly wrestle the back open, he pauses, and slowly pulls out two white sunblocked stained tee shirts, and a pair of battered white trainers. He looks at them, then around, then shakes his head, and puts them all back in the bag, and starts looking for someone who can actually help him.
At the airport I get a very clear example of why the country isn't so bothered about recycling.
A small boy drinks Inca Kola from a normal sized bottle (like a plastic coke bottle at home, bigger than a can, smaller than the litre ones) he lifts the bottle over his head, and slowly pours all of it out onto the floor in front of me, he has no grasp of what he's doing, but as the bottle gets lighter he works it out.
I move my bag, the Mum, sitting opposite me, finally notices the sticky green puddle her offspring has made, and in a swift movement, slaps him round the face. The kid erupts into screams, she then cuddles him, and he calms down and all is forgotten.
The puddle turns into a river, a river that snakes through the departure lounge, all the way to the desk at the gate.
The mum doesn't bat an eyelid. She doesn't even get out of her seat. Now I know that my mum would have got up, tried to clean it herself, then found an orderly, told them the problem, borrowed their mop, and mopped it up. And if I was old enough, made me do it.
And that's the problem.
The town lies on the bank of the River Amazon, and is one the biggest cities in the world that you can't get to by road. It's a boat or plane.
A long time bolthole for hippies, ex-pat fisherman, and about a million people trying to sell you a jungle tour. Imagine 100 of those charity people you see on the high street, being paid 10 pounds an hour to get you to give 10 pounds a month to charity, well imagine that on every corner of every street, and you have a small idea about jungle tour people. And they're all called Carlos, or have a Uncle called Carlos, who's brother Carlos has a jungle lodge.
I am here to get into Peru, but to also try the jungle brew ayahuasca, a collection of different plants and shrubs mixed together to make a drink that people use to seek answers, cure illness, and find enlightment. It's also been used more commanly as a hallucinogenic trip for people to see inside themselves, to gain a better understanding of themselves.
I find a tour operator (called Carlos) who will take me to his lodge in the jungle, where I will take the ceremony with his local Shaman, stay overnight, and return to Iquitos.
We leave and take a 1hr boat ride, then a 40 minute walk, then another 30 minute canoe ride, finally ending at a lodge in the jungle.
All you can hear are the cries of birds, the whistling of trees, and the occasional animal sound that I don't recognise. I eat a very light meal and wait for the Shaman.
At around 9pm he arrives, it's pitch black by now and we all sit around candle light or torch light. The shaman reminds me of a Peruvian version of the little old Chinese man with the shop in Gremlins. He doesn't speak much, and will only look at me in quick motions, but we shake hands and sit down.
He starts chanting and we imbibe the brown liquid, it tastes woody but is not unpleasant. We sit and the Shaman chants continuiously, and then it begins.
Now a girl once told me, not any girl actually, an amazing girl. A girl who I'd always hoped that when we grew older she would choose to start a life with me. Well, we grew up and she didn't, then moved abroad, and I moved on. Anyway, she once said to me,
"Gareth, nobody wants to hear about other peoples dreams, and I don't want to hear about yours"
I know I've made her sound like a right bitch there, but she wasn't, she was incredible.
And because my trip was a very dream like thing for me, if you want to know more you'll have to ask me in person.
I awake the next morning and make my way back to Iquitos, on the way I take a service ferry, carrying chickens, pigs, fruit, veg, and people. The people on their way to sell their goods in the city. I get talking to the boatman, who incredibly can understand my shitty Spanish enough for us to converse. I ask about the river, and all the waste that seems to pour out of 3 giant pipes from Iquitos into the Amazon, his reply is quick,
"That part of the river is dead. and there is a law prohibiting people from fishing there"
"A law! everything's dead! why bother with the law?"
He gets my drift and we sail slowly on in a subdued silence. I find it hard to understand the mindset of the people especially as I watch a girl throw her empty bottle and plastic wrappers overboard. I know that we have had 20 or so years to move towards a recycling society but surely the people and their goverment here must know enough by now to try to slow down the pollution?
Back in the town I'm surrounded by hippies, seemingly all living here and 'being at one with themselves and nature'. I am acutely aware that we are the main reason for the majority of the pollution and waste in this town and it's river, but these people walk around in their sandels and baggy trousers, acting as if they are doing good being there. My already very negatvie opinion of hippies takes a violent jump up a few levels, and I vow to get the fuck out of here as quickly as a plane can.
I leave the next day but not before I give away some 'summer clothes' to a homeless guy. 2 tee's and a pair of trainers are in a carrier bag, and I take a walk to find someone to give them to. I wander into the central Plaza and a man beckons me for my bag, I give it to him. He's really grateful, I wander away feeling all good about myself and wallowing in how amazing and different I am to all the other gringo hippy traveler dicks round here.
But there's a problem.
He saw me leave a restaraunt with the bag, he actually thinks the bag is left over food from my meal. I turn to see the guy hungerly wrestle the back open, he pauses, and slowly pulls out two white sunblocked stained tee shirts, and a pair of battered white trainers. He looks at them, then around, then shakes his head, and puts them all back in the bag, and starts looking for someone who can actually help him.
At the airport I get a very clear example of why the country isn't so bothered about recycling.
A small boy drinks Inca Kola from a normal sized bottle (like a plastic coke bottle at home, bigger than a can, smaller than the litre ones) he lifts the bottle over his head, and slowly pours all of it out onto the floor in front of me, he has no grasp of what he's doing, but as the bottle gets lighter he works it out.
I move my bag, the Mum, sitting opposite me, finally notices the sticky green puddle her offspring has made, and in a swift movement, slaps him round the face. The kid erupts into screams, she then cuddles him, and he calms down and all is forgotten.
The puddle turns into a river, a river that snakes through the departure lounge, all the way to the desk at the gate.
The mum doesn't bat an eyelid. She doesn't even get out of her seat. Now I know that my mum would have got up, tried to clean it herself, then found an orderly, told them the problem, borrowed their mop, and mopped it up. And if I was old enough, made me do it.
And that's the problem.
Saturday, 4 September 2010
boat, jungle, and bites
I cooly try to ignore the large amazonian man that I have angered, due to a poor hammock hanging action by the crewman. I reach for my book and settle in, trying as hard as possible not to actually move an inch. He grabs some things and heads upstairs to the bar.
To my right a family are sitting around waiting for the boat to leave. A grandmother, her daughter, her husband, and their 2 sons. They are around 3 and 5 years old. The siren goes to announce our departure and the Dad gets up to leave, it seems that he works in Manaus and that the family had come to visit.
He leaves and the boys start to cry for their father, and I sit and watch the mum settle the children, she soothes them, and eventually manages to quiet them and get them off to sleep.
It is only then, when they are sound asleep, that the mum starts to quietly weep. I lie in my hammock and try not to stare at this incredible woman, and I begin to think about a mothers strength, and the power it takes to raise children, and in turn I begin to think about my parents and the sacrifices they've made for me over the years. I feel a knot in my stomach, which inexplicably moves to my throat, and it is then that I realize that I am about to cry. I raise myself out of the hammock and go to sit on deck to gather my thoughts.
The next few days are spent eating the same meal twice a day, reading, and sleeping when the feeling takes me. Which is about every 2 hours. Doing nothing is really tiring
I make some friends along the way, and we while away the days.
We arrive in Tabatinga and make our way to Brazilian immigration to get stamped out, and at this point I realize that I might be in a bit of bother. My visa ran out 2 weeks ago, and I refused to extend it because they wanted to charge me for the pleasure. I had hoped that there would be a fairly lax system to leave Brazil via the jungle, but there wasn't.
I decide to change the 3 from '30 days' to a 8 to make it '80 days' on the visa slip.
I get to the Policia Federal and hand over my slip and passport, the guy is quite young and looks chilled so I'm quite hopeful, and he looks at the visa, then my passport, and reaches for the exit stamp, it's only then that I realize that there's also a entry stamp already in my passport with '30 days' written inside.
Balls.
He looks once, then looks twice, shows his work mate, and stamps the exit stamp,
"Yes" I think,
"He's going to let my amateur forgery slip and forget about it, nice one fella"
But he doesn't, and I need to think fast now as he's starting to ask questions to various people walking behind him. His work mate also says,
"Why you change the date" to me in sporadic English.
I decide to lie and say that the immigration guy made a mistake, and that I always wanted 80 days, and that it was him who changed the visa not me. I also say that I'm flying home tomorrow, and that I don't have anymore money. My ability to speak anything other than English suddenly disappears
After about 20 minutes of me saying 'no comprende' over and over they start to get a little bored. My case is also helped when another traveller gets his exit stamp and his entry stamp doesn't even have any date written in at all! I point this out to the guy, and he gets my point.
Eventually we all agree that if I ever come back I've got to pay 95 raels, or I get arrested. I agree, sign the paper, and run off sharpish.
We spend the night in Tabatinga before getting a fast boat to Iquitos, Peru. Fast meaning 11 hours mind, but I fill the time by running my Ipod party out.
I get to Iquitos and start looking around for somewhere that can take me into the jungle to do ayawashka with a shamen.
To my right a family are sitting around waiting for the boat to leave. A grandmother, her daughter, her husband, and their 2 sons. They are around 3 and 5 years old. The siren goes to announce our departure and the Dad gets up to leave, it seems that he works in Manaus and that the family had come to visit.
He leaves and the boys start to cry for their father, and I sit and watch the mum settle the children, she soothes them, and eventually manages to quiet them and get them off to sleep.
It is only then, when they are sound asleep, that the mum starts to quietly weep. I lie in my hammock and try not to stare at this incredible woman, and I begin to think about a mothers strength, and the power it takes to raise children, and in turn I begin to think about my parents and the sacrifices they've made for me over the years. I feel a knot in my stomach, which inexplicably moves to my throat, and it is then that I realize that I am about to cry. I raise myself out of the hammock and go to sit on deck to gather my thoughts.
The next few days are spent eating the same meal twice a day, reading, and sleeping when the feeling takes me. Which is about every 2 hours. Doing nothing is really tiring
I make some friends along the way, and we while away the days.
We arrive in Tabatinga and make our way to Brazilian immigration to get stamped out, and at this point I realize that I might be in a bit of bother. My visa ran out 2 weeks ago, and I refused to extend it because they wanted to charge me for the pleasure. I had hoped that there would be a fairly lax system to leave Brazil via the jungle, but there wasn't.
I decide to change the 3 from '30 days' to a 8 to make it '80 days' on the visa slip.
I get to the Policia Federal and hand over my slip and passport, the guy is quite young and looks chilled so I'm quite hopeful, and he looks at the visa, then my passport, and reaches for the exit stamp, it's only then that I realize that there's also a entry stamp already in my passport with '30 days' written inside.
Balls.
He looks once, then looks twice, shows his work mate, and stamps the exit stamp,
"Yes" I think,
"He's going to let my amateur forgery slip and forget about it, nice one fella"
But he doesn't, and I need to think fast now as he's starting to ask questions to various people walking behind him. His work mate also says,
"Why you change the date" to me in sporadic English.
I decide to lie and say that the immigration guy made a mistake, and that I always wanted 80 days, and that it was him who changed the visa not me. I also say that I'm flying home tomorrow, and that I don't have anymore money. My ability to speak anything other than English suddenly disappears
After about 20 minutes of me saying 'no comprende' over and over they start to get a little bored. My case is also helped when another traveller gets his exit stamp and his entry stamp doesn't even have any date written in at all! I point this out to the guy, and he gets my point.
Eventually we all agree that if I ever come back I've got to pay 95 raels, or I get arrested. I agree, sign the paper, and run off sharpish.
We spend the night in Tabatinga before getting a fast boat to Iquitos, Peru. Fast meaning 11 hours mind, but I fill the time by running my Ipod party out.
I get to Iquitos and start looking around for somewhere that can take me into the jungle to do ayawashka with a shamen.
Thursday, 2 September 2010
Sao Paulo. Another proud moment for me, and I take in a game of football
I arrive in Sao Paulo and the speed of city life almost takes me by suprise. The place is a mass of traffic, people, noise, and excitement. It has the feel of London and New York, mixed into a weird hybrid.
I am here for 3 reasons:
1. my flight has to come through here, so why not take a moment and look around the sprawling metropolis?
2. if you have a chance in life take it.
3. my dear friend is flying in from the states to DJ there on the same weekend so surely that's fate or something? And we get the chance to hang out in Brazil.
But first I get back into hostel life: dorm rooms, new people, fun, and drinking.
I look around the city and go to a few museums notebly the football museum in the 'Estadio Municipal Paulo machado de carvalho'
it's a impressive ground and through a stroke of luck there's a game being played there tonight, I ask the lady for the ticket and intimate to her that I'd like a seat in the stands, away from 'fanaticos' that fill the areas behind the goal.
Back at the hostel I meet 2 wicked Scotsmen who are up for the football and a drink after.
I get to the stadium for the 10pm kick off and walk around the ground twice because the stewards keep sending me the wrong way, eventually I find my gate.......right behind the goal mouth.
I am in the lions den of the 'fanaticos' and the atmosphere is immense. the sound is constant and pulsating, with drummers keeping the tempo on a constant high. It's the first time that I've been to a game where the singing has not stopped, they even have guys standing in front of different sections to orchestrate the fans, and to choose the songs and the waves. Yes, they have different waves that they do depending on what the rest of the crowd are doing.
The game goes well and 'we' win, me and the Scots (Rich and Ally) boys meet and head for a beers. It's agreed that will go to a nightclub called 'Vegas' recommended by the hostel.
We eventually find it on a boozy street lined with bars, sex shows/brothels, and nightclubs. And it is here where things got a little weird.
Firstly the nightclubs here have a very odd paying system for drinks, basically you give them your ID and then they give you a card. Then whenever you go to the bar you give them the card, they scan the barcode on the back, and you get your drinks.
It's a dangerous system that leads to bad things.
Rich, Ally, and myself get the drinks flowing, but in true South American fashion nobody goes out until 1am and we are a little early. By the time the crowd arrive we are fairly healthy drinkwise, but by no means legless. The boys keep going for smoking breaks so I start chatting to the Dj about 60s rock and soul.
And this is when it gets weird, the next thing I remember is trying to find the boys with the DJ, we can't find them and I feel really wasted, like proper body mashed. Not drunk, just a loss of coordination.
And then I don't remember anything.
The next thing I remember is standing in a street that is vaguely recognizable, in front of me is a chubby man wearing a tight white vest and bad jeans.
"where's my hostel from here? it's on 13 de maia" are the first words I say,
"No, no, we go to my casa, it's closer" says the guy,
"I'm not going to your house mate, where's the lime time hostel from here?" by this point I'm not even trying to speak slowly, or in patchy Spanish, I just sound like a vexed Londoner.
"Ok, I walk you there..........you very beautiful man" he replies while he tries to stroke the side of my face, I take a step back, and very quickly become very alert.
"Mate, thank you, but I want to get back to my hostel, how far is it? where can I get a taxi?"
"It's ok, it's this way, come, come"
And we walk down the street. After about 5 minutes of walking and him trying to chat me up I lose my temper,
"Mate, where the fuck is my fucking hostel? where the fuck are we going, and where the fuck are we? And who the fuck are you anyway? Where did you find me?" I must have lost it a little because he seemed quite taken aback,
"ok, we go into this hotel, call you a cab yes?"
We get into this hotel and the reception call me a cab, it arrives and vest man tries to hug me goodbye, I lightly push him away. He seems really hurt and walks off into the night.
I get back to the hostel at 6:40am, I wake the Ally and he says that they left at 4am, so I must have left the club before then becasue they looked high and low for me before they left.
Then they got into a fight with a midget doorman.
Later that weekend I will be told that it's very very common for men to put drugs into other mens drinks in order to 'get dealings'. They also say that it was lucky for me that I had a strong tolerance to drugs otherwise it would have been a lot worse. So at least my misspent youth has one thing going for it, it's saved me from getting 'intervered' with that night.
Brilliant.
My friend arrives and we head to dinner and drinks with a guy called Diego. He's wicked company and a really good guy. We get to the club which is considered one of the best in the world. The place is compact but looks amazing with giant LED EQs pulsating behind the bar and the decks
There I meet the other DJ playing, a guy called Benjamin. In the next couple of days I will quickly learn that Benny is possibly one of the sweetest and most wonderful people in Brazil.
I meet loads of people that night and they are all superb people, and I'm blessed that I've met so many nice people, and it cements my idea that good people know good people all around the world.
We drink and part the night away, sleep, eat, and sleep some more and very quickly the weekend comes to a end. My friend heads to the states, and me? I head towards Manaus for another 6 day trip through the amazon.
I get to the boat an hour before we leave and I relaize I've made a huge mistake, and that this time the trip is not going to be a picnic.
60% more people, all tough looking amazonians, lots more moody young fellas, drinking hard and staring at me and my stuff.
Obviously being a regular at this 'service boat through the amazon' malarkey I've rocked up an hour before we sail and there's nowhere to hang my new, bigger, softer, wider, more comfortable hammock. I glimpse a tiny spot and the second regret of the day hurtels through my brain,
"Why did I drop out of Cubs before we did knots?"
I stand there holding bits of rope like I've never seen rope before, looking at my hammock as if it was a crystal maze puzzle. Just before I start shouting 'get me out, get me out' a crew memeber literally pushes me out of the, whilst openly mocking me to the other passengers. He starts to hoist my hammock in about 4 inches of space between 2 other hammocks, the female owners sit aghast at the closeness of space, and all the crewman does is gesticulate that I'm next to some lovely ladies, and that I should get 'stuck in'. He then pats me on the back and wanders off whistling.
About a minute before we pull away one of my new neighbours gets up, hugs the other one, and gets off the boat.
2 minutes later a large, swarthy, battle scarred, gentleman rocks up and stares at his hammock, then my hammock, then the tiny distance between them, then at the girl, and finally at me. His face is clouded with the very cealr notion that I am invading his personal space, and that I will pay for this intrusion.
Will I get thrown overboard? Will I get physical with the lady? Will my hammock stay up? Will I ever get to a place in the world where they don't play Lady Ga Ga and David Guetta?
I'll let you know as soon as I get more time............
I am here for 3 reasons:
1. my flight has to come through here, so why not take a moment and look around the sprawling metropolis?
2. if you have a chance in life take it.
3. my dear friend is flying in from the states to DJ there on the same weekend so surely that's fate or something? And we get the chance to hang out in Brazil.
But first I get back into hostel life: dorm rooms, new people, fun, and drinking.
I look around the city and go to a few museums notebly the football museum in the 'Estadio Municipal Paulo machado de carvalho'
it's a impressive ground and through a stroke of luck there's a game being played there tonight, I ask the lady for the ticket and intimate to her that I'd like a seat in the stands, away from 'fanaticos' that fill the areas behind the goal.
Back at the hostel I meet 2 wicked Scotsmen who are up for the football and a drink after.
I get to the stadium for the 10pm kick off and walk around the ground twice because the stewards keep sending me the wrong way, eventually I find my gate.......right behind the goal mouth.
I am in the lions den of the 'fanaticos' and the atmosphere is immense. the sound is constant and pulsating, with drummers keeping the tempo on a constant high. It's the first time that I've been to a game where the singing has not stopped, they even have guys standing in front of different sections to orchestrate the fans, and to choose the songs and the waves. Yes, they have different waves that they do depending on what the rest of the crowd are doing.
The game goes well and 'we' win, me and the Scots (Rich and Ally) boys meet and head for a beers. It's agreed that will go to a nightclub called 'Vegas' recommended by the hostel.
We eventually find it on a boozy street lined with bars, sex shows/brothels, and nightclubs. And it is here where things got a little weird.
Firstly the nightclubs here have a very odd paying system for drinks, basically you give them your ID and then they give you a card. Then whenever you go to the bar you give them the card, they scan the barcode on the back, and you get your drinks.
It's a dangerous system that leads to bad things.
Rich, Ally, and myself get the drinks flowing, but in true South American fashion nobody goes out until 1am and we are a little early. By the time the crowd arrive we are fairly healthy drinkwise, but by no means legless. The boys keep going for smoking breaks so I start chatting to the Dj about 60s rock and soul.
And this is when it gets weird, the next thing I remember is trying to find the boys with the DJ, we can't find them and I feel really wasted, like proper body mashed. Not drunk, just a loss of coordination.
And then I don't remember anything.
The next thing I remember is standing in a street that is vaguely recognizable, in front of me is a chubby man wearing a tight white vest and bad jeans.
"where's my hostel from here? it's on 13 de maia" are the first words I say,
"No, no, we go to my casa, it's closer" says the guy,
"I'm not going to your house mate, where's the lime time hostel from here?" by this point I'm not even trying to speak slowly, or in patchy Spanish, I just sound like a vexed Londoner.
"Ok, I walk you there..........you very beautiful man" he replies while he tries to stroke the side of my face, I take a step back, and very quickly become very alert.
"Mate, thank you, but I want to get back to my hostel, how far is it? where can I get a taxi?"
"It's ok, it's this way, come, come"
And we walk down the street. After about 5 minutes of walking and him trying to chat me up I lose my temper,
"Mate, where the fuck is my fucking hostel? where the fuck are we going, and where the fuck are we? And who the fuck are you anyway? Where did you find me?" I must have lost it a little because he seemed quite taken aback,
"ok, we go into this hotel, call you a cab yes?"
We get into this hotel and the reception call me a cab, it arrives and vest man tries to hug me goodbye, I lightly push him away. He seems really hurt and walks off into the night.
I get back to the hostel at 6:40am, I wake the Ally and he says that they left at 4am, so I must have left the club before then becasue they looked high and low for me before they left.
Then they got into a fight with a midget doorman.
Later that weekend I will be told that it's very very common for men to put drugs into other mens drinks in order to 'get dealings'. They also say that it was lucky for me that I had a strong tolerance to drugs otherwise it would have been a lot worse. So at least my misspent youth has one thing going for it, it's saved me from getting 'intervered' with that night.
Brilliant.
My friend arrives and we head to dinner and drinks with a guy called Diego. He's wicked company and a really good guy. We get to the club which is considered one of the best in the world. The place is compact but looks amazing with giant LED EQs pulsating behind the bar and the decks
There I meet the other DJ playing, a guy called Benjamin. In the next couple of days I will quickly learn that Benny is possibly one of the sweetest and most wonderful people in Brazil.
I meet loads of people that night and they are all superb people, and I'm blessed that I've met so many nice people, and it cements my idea that good people know good people all around the world.
We drink and part the night away, sleep, eat, and sleep some more and very quickly the weekend comes to a end. My friend heads to the states, and me? I head towards Manaus for another 6 day trip through the amazon.
I get to the boat an hour before we leave and I relaize I've made a huge mistake, and that this time the trip is not going to be a picnic.
60% more people, all tough looking amazonians, lots more moody young fellas, drinking hard and staring at me and my stuff.
Obviously being a regular at this 'service boat through the amazon' malarkey I've rocked up an hour before we sail and there's nowhere to hang my new, bigger, softer, wider, more comfortable hammock. I glimpse a tiny spot and the second regret of the day hurtels through my brain,
"Why did I drop out of Cubs before we did knots?"
I stand there holding bits of rope like I've never seen rope before, looking at my hammock as if it was a crystal maze puzzle. Just before I start shouting 'get me out, get me out' a crew memeber literally pushes me out of the, whilst openly mocking me to the other passengers. He starts to hoist my hammock in about 4 inches of space between 2 other hammocks, the female owners sit aghast at the closeness of space, and all the crewman does is gesticulate that I'm next to some lovely ladies, and that I should get 'stuck in'. He then pats me on the back and wanders off whistling.
About a minute before we pull away one of my new neighbours gets up, hugs the other one, and gets off the boat.
2 minutes later a large, swarthy, battle scarred, gentleman rocks up and stares at his hammock, then my hammock, then the tiny distance between them, then at the girl, and finally at me. His face is clouded with the very cealr notion that I am invading his personal space, and that I will pay for this intrusion.
Will I get thrown overboard? Will I get physical with the lady? Will my hammock stay up? Will I ever get to a place in the world where they don't play Lady Ga Ga and David Guetta?
I'll let you know as soon as I get more time............
Brazil: Alpha male food ordering, food, family, and life.
It is common practice in Brazil, no, not common practice, it is near enough a law that when men take ladies out for dinner or drinks they pay. For everything. This is applicable to if you're seeing each other, dating, having an affair, married, first date, last date, blind date, family, or just friends.
Now I consider myself to be a very chivalrous gentleman, and I am happy to put my hand in my pocket when I take a lady to dinner, but in these modern times, when couples go for dinner, as a foursome, more than once, there should be a fairer more equal footing when it comes to the bill. Not here though
the most interesting thing to come from this is the way Brazilian men then act at the dinner table, this acceptance of the unsaid law that you'll have to pay brings out the very worst and basic alpha male traits of needing to dominate, show control, to show the ladies present that they're in charge, and ultimatley to show authority over the other alpha males present, i.e me.
It starts before we've even sat down, the other guy had already ordered for me and my guest, I hadn't even looked at the menu and was told what I'd be eating.
The next time I've managed to look at the menu but this time we're sharing pizza so he chooses 2 other pizza and we eat those together. Then he starts picking the wine for us to drink, orders 3 bottles over the course of the meal, 2 of which myself and my friend weren't bothered about drinking, then the bill comes and it's over to me for the 50% of it!
At times it felt like the other guy was going leap onto the table, smash his fists against it in a drumming motion, make loud, threatening noises, then bite me into submission before he started rutting my friend in front of his date.
Another day I am taken to a traditional Brazilian barbecue or churrasco, these incredible places where you sit and people just keep bringing you freshly seared meat to your plate from several different animals, not to mention about 16 different cuts of beef. It is heaven if you like meat.
All the meat and beer produces a strange counter struggle within your bowels, you need to wee all the time but the other procedure is a little, err, shall we say, haltering? I leave the table and decide to treat myself to a upgrade for this movement so I turn left into the disabled toilets: more space, cleaner, and hardly ever used.
Everyone knows the joy of a overdue wee, and as I sat down on the loo (in case I'd have something else coming through, you never can tell with all the meat!) I'm not ashamed to admit that I closed my eyes to savour the moment, and after a short while but quite a long wee I looked down and realized that the front of the toilet had been cut out, leaving a gap of about 6" by 3" across the front of it. I have no idea why disabled people need this gap, but a gap it was. A gap that I had happily pissed through. For about 40 seconds. Now I don't know exactly how much piss you can piss in 40 seconds but this time I had just created a lake of piss on the floor of the disableds.
I was sitting in a way that if I tried to move my shorts up onto me then they would swim in the piss, so I kicked them across the room to the corner, leaving me in just a pair of trainers and a ill fitting tee shirt (all the meat and beer has 'filled' me out a little) straddling a lake of piss.
I stood up over the lake and took stock of the situation, there's no mop or bigger hand towels, so I'm going to have to use the toilet paper.
Now in Brazil the napkins and toilet tissue are a bit like small bits of plastic sheeting, and they absorb liquid in a very similar way, or they don't absorb at all. So I am now standing in a disabled toilet with no shorts on, pushing a lake of piss around the room.
About 10 minutes later I have emptied the toilet tissue dispenser, and managed to get the lake down to a small puddle, maybe about the size of a 7" record. I have nothing else to mop with so I am left with a difficult decision, leave the piss on the floor, or tell someone?
I walk back to my table knowing that at some point later that day a disabled person is going to get the blame for emptying the toilet of paper, and pissing on the floor.
As I chew my steak I am not a proud man. The meat tasted good though.
We are driving back from a day on the beach with my friends and her whole family, it has been a beautiful day walking the beaches, eating food, and enjoying the simple pleasure of being close to nature and the sea.
On the way home the smallest one in our group, a lovely little 6 year old, has fallen asleep across our laps in the back seat. I am a little jealous and wish that I could still sleep like a child: anywhere and straight away.
As she sleeps I watch the traffic speed passed and consider the previous 2 weeks, and I think about life and how unpredictable it can be. 3 weeks ago my friend in Cardiff seemingly had his life mapped out for the next 15 years: a new wife, a new home, business plans, and all sorts were all in place. And now? Gone. All change. Finshed. And why? because of a silly mistake, one quick moment in time and a life changed completely.
And I thought about being in this car and another driver could make a mistake, have a accident, or just a lapse of concentration for a slpit second that leads them into our path, and our lives would change forever. And this precious little life, that has so much ahead of it, asleep in front of me, would never be the same again.
These tiny moments, that we would then rename tragedies, happen around us constantly, and that's why we have to live our lives, to fight for everything we want, as long as it doesn't harm or hurt another human being, every single day, to make ourselves and everyone around us happy, to experience LIFE! because one day, the tiniest thing might mean that you don't have that life anymore.
Now I consider myself to be a very chivalrous gentleman, and I am happy to put my hand in my pocket when I take a lady to dinner, but in these modern times, when couples go for dinner, as a foursome, more than once, there should be a fairer more equal footing when it comes to the bill. Not here though
the most interesting thing to come from this is the way Brazilian men then act at the dinner table, this acceptance of the unsaid law that you'll have to pay brings out the very worst and basic alpha male traits of needing to dominate, show control, to show the ladies present that they're in charge, and ultimatley to show authority over the other alpha males present, i.e me.
It starts before we've even sat down, the other guy had already ordered for me and my guest, I hadn't even looked at the menu and was told what I'd be eating.
The next time I've managed to look at the menu but this time we're sharing pizza so he chooses 2 other pizza and we eat those together. Then he starts picking the wine for us to drink, orders 3 bottles over the course of the meal, 2 of which myself and my friend weren't bothered about drinking, then the bill comes and it's over to me for the 50% of it!
At times it felt like the other guy was going leap onto the table, smash his fists against it in a drumming motion, make loud, threatening noises, then bite me into submission before he started rutting my friend in front of his date.
Another day I am taken to a traditional Brazilian barbecue or churrasco, these incredible places where you sit and people just keep bringing you freshly seared meat to your plate from several different animals, not to mention about 16 different cuts of beef. It is heaven if you like meat.
All the meat and beer produces a strange counter struggle within your bowels, you need to wee all the time but the other procedure is a little, err, shall we say, haltering? I leave the table and decide to treat myself to a upgrade for this movement so I turn left into the disabled toilets: more space, cleaner, and hardly ever used.
Everyone knows the joy of a overdue wee, and as I sat down on the loo (in case I'd have something else coming through, you never can tell with all the meat!) I'm not ashamed to admit that I closed my eyes to savour the moment, and after a short while but quite a long wee I looked down and realized that the front of the toilet had been cut out, leaving a gap of about 6" by 3" across the front of it. I have no idea why disabled people need this gap, but a gap it was. A gap that I had happily pissed through. For about 40 seconds. Now I don't know exactly how much piss you can piss in 40 seconds but this time I had just created a lake of piss on the floor of the disableds.
I was sitting in a way that if I tried to move my shorts up onto me then they would swim in the piss, so I kicked them across the room to the corner, leaving me in just a pair of trainers and a ill fitting tee shirt (all the meat and beer has 'filled' me out a little) straddling a lake of piss.
I stood up over the lake and took stock of the situation, there's no mop or bigger hand towels, so I'm going to have to use the toilet paper.
Now in Brazil the napkins and toilet tissue are a bit like small bits of plastic sheeting, and they absorb liquid in a very similar way, or they don't absorb at all. So I am now standing in a disabled toilet with no shorts on, pushing a lake of piss around the room.
About 10 minutes later I have emptied the toilet tissue dispenser, and managed to get the lake down to a small puddle, maybe about the size of a 7" record. I have nothing else to mop with so I am left with a difficult decision, leave the piss on the floor, or tell someone?
I walk back to my table knowing that at some point later that day a disabled person is going to get the blame for emptying the toilet of paper, and pissing on the floor.
As I chew my steak I am not a proud man. The meat tasted good though.
We are driving back from a day on the beach with my friends and her whole family, it has been a beautiful day walking the beaches, eating food, and enjoying the simple pleasure of being close to nature and the sea.
On the way home the smallest one in our group, a lovely little 6 year old, has fallen asleep across our laps in the back seat. I am a little jealous and wish that I could still sleep like a child: anywhere and straight away.
As she sleeps I watch the traffic speed passed and consider the previous 2 weeks, and I think about life and how unpredictable it can be. 3 weeks ago my friend in Cardiff seemingly had his life mapped out for the next 15 years: a new wife, a new home, business plans, and all sorts were all in place. And now? Gone. All change. Finshed. And why? because of a silly mistake, one quick moment in time and a life changed completely.
And I thought about being in this car and another driver could make a mistake, have a accident, or just a lapse of concentration for a slpit second that leads them into our path, and our lives would change forever. And this precious little life, that has so much ahead of it, asleep in front of me, would never be the same again.
These tiny moments, that we would then rename tragedies, happen around us constantly, and that's why we have to live our lives, to fight for everything we want, as long as it doesn't harm or hurt another human being, every single day, to make ourselves and everyone around us happy, to experience LIFE! because one day, the tiniest thing might mean that you don't have that life anymore.
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Brazil. The constant contradiction, and I live in a two week episode of Eldorado
As I am driven from the airport by my friends family and her bestfriend, I regulary see 2 things on the roadside as we hurtle by:
Churches and Love Motels.
I am on the coast of Brazil to see the beaches and stay with my mates fiance's family, she is moving to England to be with him, and then her family and friends get me for 3 weeks. Sort of like a really bad wife swap. I also have this ambition to go to the furthest North, South, East, and West of South America. So when I look at a map in a few years I can say I travelled to every corner.
Anyway, religion is the order of the day here, it's everywhere: on the back of cars, on the walls, in the billboards, you cannot move for the power of religion. But at the same time you can't move for the hint of clandestine sex. Love motels are everywhere, basically offering you privacy by the hour to do what you want. And from what I witness over the next week or so it's shagging.
At the same time you can't move for the fear of danger. Everyone is scared, and I am told repeatedly that I am in a lot of danger, and that I can't leave the house, that people rob and kill for nothing, but my explanations that I live in Hackney fall on deaf ears.
So on the one hand you've got everyone following the word of the lord, but on the other everyone's killing, robbing, and shagging each others partners. All of which is covered quite clearly in the 10 commandments.
I am welcomed by my friends family, and her best friends family with open arms. It's truly a incredible experience, you're fed, looked after, and basically told that their house is yours now, and that whatever you want to so is cool with them. I can't recall hospitality like this anywhere else in the world other than South America.
However, things begin to take a turn for the worse one week in. It would appear that my commited, monogamous, 'I wanted to meet western men because Brazilian guys are all cheats and liars', trustworthy pal is in England feeling a little unwell. My patient mate puts it down to jet lag and the food, but a week of being sick it's off to the doctors.
Except it isn't, turns out the little lady is 3 weeks gone with her ex fellas kid. It would appear that she's not any of the things that she was meant to be.
Now I'm not going to discuss this but let's just say that what followed was 2 weeks of lying, backbiting, point winning, manipulation, emotional blackmail, and ugliness that I can't be bothered to repeat. But everything that did happen was in no way cool in a religious sense. I saw near enough every nasty characteristic you could think of. And I had to sit amongst and try to be nice.
I go away to a tiny beach resort called playa pipa, the Frenchies are there and I'm eager to get out of the city.
Now I met these guys on the boat trip, and they are the nicest set of surrender monkeys you could ever meet. However, they are both painfully good looking, in that annoying effortless French way. They slouch about looking perfect, and I feel like Rooney's hideous grown up baby next to these pair.
I decide to cope in the only way a ugly Welshmans knows how, get them drunk and hope they disgrace themselves. We drink a crate of lager and we are in merry spirits. Then from nowhere the Frenchies pull out the Cachaça. And in true backpacker style it's a massive bottle of paint thinner for about 2 quid. We drink it with a soya based fruit drink and bang through the bottle. I remember nothing from about 1am and wake up with the news that I have vomited all over the walk in shower, and then passed out.
Wales - 0
French - 2
I get back to Joaoa Passoa and am in a lift when I guy gets in and starts talking to my friend, about 20 seconds in he turns, looks at me, then says to my friend,
"He's not from round here is he?"
I explain that I'm from England and he immiediately invites me to go and play 5 a side football with him the next day. I go and am treated to classic Brazilian football. Sort of.
The fellas are all aged between 35 - 45 and are not at the peak of physical condition, especially the one with one arm. Except for 2 young lads who casually look very tasty. I introduce myself to everyone but the name doesn't stick, so it's agreed that they'll call me G.
15 minutes in and the G idea is out of the window, I am just called 'Ingleis' now and shouted at when I don't even have the ball. But all the classics are there, players cross themselves when the game starts, and again if they score. The tempers flare quicker and faster than a Bay City Rollers convention. The level of arguing is so big that I really think someones going to chop another arm off, and the standard of football is very very good.
I hold my own by not actually doing anything good or bad. the 'proffesor' kicks the ball in my face, and my team lose all their games. This has nothing to do with me, other than the fact that I'm put on the team with the worst players cos I'm English. And I'm sticking to that.
One cultural thing that I notice is manners. In every country it's different but it still manages to shock me. For example, in Brazil you can whistle at your waiter to call him over. whistle at him like he was a dog. It's incredible, and I consider the amount of shit that would be put into my food if I tried that in London.
Churches and Love Motels.
I am on the coast of Brazil to see the beaches and stay with my mates fiance's family, she is moving to England to be with him, and then her family and friends get me for 3 weeks. Sort of like a really bad wife swap. I also have this ambition to go to the furthest North, South, East, and West of South America. So when I look at a map in a few years I can say I travelled to every corner.
Anyway, religion is the order of the day here, it's everywhere: on the back of cars, on the walls, in the billboards, you cannot move for the power of religion. But at the same time you can't move for the hint of clandestine sex. Love motels are everywhere, basically offering you privacy by the hour to do what you want. And from what I witness over the next week or so it's shagging.
At the same time you can't move for the fear of danger. Everyone is scared, and I am told repeatedly that I am in a lot of danger, and that I can't leave the house, that people rob and kill for nothing, but my explanations that I live in Hackney fall on deaf ears.
So on the one hand you've got everyone following the word of the lord, but on the other everyone's killing, robbing, and shagging each others partners. All of which is covered quite clearly in the 10 commandments.
I am welcomed by my friends family, and her best friends family with open arms. It's truly a incredible experience, you're fed, looked after, and basically told that their house is yours now, and that whatever you want to so is cool with them. I can't recall hospitality like this anywhere else in the world other than South America.
However, things begin to take a turn for the worse one week in. It would appear that my commited, monogamous, 'I wanted to meet western men because Brazilian guys are all cheats and liars', trustworthy pal is in England feeling a little unwell. My patient mate puts it down to jet lag and the food, but a week of being sick it's off to the doctors.
Except it isn't, turns out the little lady is 3 weeks gone with her ex fellas kid. It would appear that she's not any of the things that she was meant to be.
Now I'm not going to discuss this but let's just say that what followed was 2 weeks of lying, backbiting, point winning, manipulation, emotional blackmail, and ugliness that I can't be bothered to repeat. But everything that did happen was in no way cool in a religious sense. I saw near enough every nasty characteristic you could think of. And I had to sit amongst and try to be nice.
I go away to a tiny beach resort called playa pipa, the Frenchies are there and I'm eager to get out of the city.
Now I met these guys on the boat trip, and they are the nicest set of surrender monkeys you could ever meet. However, they are both painfully good looking, in that annoying effortless French way. They slouch about looking perfect, and I feel like Rooney's hideous grown up baby next to these pair.
I decide to cope in the only way a ugly Welshmans knows how, get them drunk and hope they disgrace themselves. We drink a crate of lager and we are in merry spirits. Then from nowhere the Frenchies pull out the Cachaça. And in true backpacker style it's a massive bottle of paint thinner for about 2 quid. We drink it with a soya based fruit drink and bang through the bottle. I remember nothing from about 1am and wake up with the news that I have vomited all over the walk in shower, and then passed out.
Wales - 0
French - 2
I get back to Joaoa Passoa and am in a lift when I guy gets in and starts talking to my friend, about 20 seconds in he turns, looks at me, then says to my friend,
"He's not from round here is he?"
I explain that I'm from England and he immiediately invites me to go and play 5 a side football with him the next day. I go and am treated to classic Brazilian football. Sort of.
The fellas are all aged between 35 - 45 and are not at the peak of physical condition, especially the one with one arm. Except for 2 young lads who casually look very tasty. I introduce myself to everyone but the name doesn't stick, so it's agreed that they'll call me G.
15 minutes in and the G idea is out of the window, I am just called 'Ingleis' now and shouted at when I don't even have the ball. But all the classics are there, players cross themselves when the game starts, and again if they score. The tempers flare quicker and faster than a Bay City Rollers convention. The level of arguing is so big that I really think someones going to chop another arm off, and the standard of football is very very good.
I hold my own by not actually doing anything good or bad. the 'proffesor' kicks the ball in my face, and my team lose all their games. This has nothing to do with me, other than the fact that I'm put on the team with the worst players cos I'm English. And I'm sticking to that.
One cultural thing that I notice is manners. In every country it's different but it still manages to shock me. For example, in Brazil you can whistle at your waiter to call him over. whistle at him like he was a dog. It's incredible, and I consider the amount of shit that would be put into my food if I tried that in London.
Leticia, a ferry through the jungle, and beyond
I awake from an awkward sex dream that always ends with the woman I'm having sex with morphing into somebody I know. Not anybody that I want to have sex with though, usually it's someone I don´t like, or they don't like me. I look out of the window and take a moment to acknowledge that I am flying over hundreds of miles of trees, bunched together tightly like the queue for the opening day Selfridges sale. It's a real life rainforest. bloody hell!
It´s a wonderous site and as we land I know that the next few days are going to be very different to my normal life.
Leticia sits on a triangle of borders that combine Brazil, Peru and Colombia. You can basically walk from Colombia to Brazil and back again. It's a lot of fun.
I am officially on the booze again and sink a few beers with Phillipe, a really nice French dude who was on my flight. Lager has rarely tasted better than when you've been forced off it by a little shit of a parasite. and I learn quickly that here they like their lager ice cold. We sink a few and retire to bed. We'd arrived on the last night of a 3 day bender that they have here to celebrate the independance days of Colombia and Brazil. Everyone around looks hammered and the party was dwindling rapidly.
The next day I prepare a shopping list for my ferry through the amazon:
A hammock
5 litres of water
crisps
biscuits
I panic buy the hammock, settling on a nylon diamond stiched one in multicolours. I don't actually take time to consider the size of it, or the fact that I'll be lying in it for about 13 hours a day. I will eventually find out that not only is it not very comfortable, cuts into my back, making it look like I´m wearing a skin coloured Pringle sweater, that I paid well over the odds for it.
"you got properly stung" is said to me by the 5 other travellers bunked next to me on the boat.
I spend a lot more time choosing the crisps. Crisps are a very difficult choice on a daily basis for me anyway, I will stand in the corner shop paralysed for a good while weighing up the various brand options first, not even getting into the minefield of flavours until much later. But now I am face with a Everest sized challange,
"What crisp flavour will I eat for 4 days in a row?"
And the selection is poor, after about 20 minutes I settle on what I think are bbq flavoured walkers style crisps, thinking that they spicy ish flavour will keep me happy for the week.
Turns out they were just bacon flavour, and by day 2 I was giving packets away to the kid with the scary eyes, but saying that, even if I liked them I´d have given them to him, his eyes were see through sky blue, and he freaked me out. And he stared at me all the time, but I did conseed that this could have been because he'd never seen ginger hair before!
Now I get on the boat, set up the hammock, and settled in to watch the rest of the passengers put up their bigger, nicer, more comfortable hammocks.
The boat has the look of a 3 leveled freight ferry, and that will be because it is one. The bottom tier is full of brand new motorbikes, while the top 2 decks are filled with us.
Towards the end of day 1 the sound of bongos starts to reverberate around the deck. There's no pattern or rhythm to it from what I can hear, and upon looking for the source I understand why................
Picture if you will a topless traveller in linen trousers banging these bongos with his eyes closed, nodding his head from side to side. He´s got about 6 nitted bracelets on each arm, and one on his ankle.
"this" I think to myself,
"is not going to get any better"
And of course it doesn't, pretty quickly one of his mates takes over the bongos and out comes the mouth organ, a fucking mouth organ! They don't even sound good when a professional plays one, and this clown sounds like he's bought his the day before. They then proceed to 'jam' for the next 20 minutes. And when I say 'jam', I mean 'practice being shit'
I have always hated people who play music in public, without any regard to the people around them, I consider it the ultimate act of selfishness, to force upon everyone else what you want to do.
Music should only be played in public when you are:
Invited to do so by the vast majority of people present
Being paid to do so
Very fucking good at it.
And this chief was none of these things, and if you're not any of these things then you're practicing an instrument that you can't play, in front of people who don't want to hear you, not your proud parents, who sit and watch 'little Timothy' learn the piano.
I may as well have turned over a couple of bins and start smashing them with sticks. Inconsiderate Wanker.
This debarcle went on every day, and put me right off my lying down a lot and reading. But I have always been very positive and upbeat person, who tries selflessly to let every humanbeing express themselves, so I didn't throw him overboard. Or his stupid fucking bongos.
After 4 days of very little aside from sleeping on other peoples hammocks while they played cards, watching dolphins, bird spotting, and staring at the amazon, we pull into Manaus.
Manaus is a tough seaport town surrounded by rainforest. The men are all tough looking and drunk looking. These are hard men, who work very hard, and in turn drink and fight hard too. The women don't look much better, and you can imagine them giving as good as they get.
There's a smell of booze, violence, and sex in the air. And in that order.
I'm pleased that I am flying straight out, but still manage to get drunk with Ben from the boat, and make plans with the French boys to meet up on the coast.
Onward to Joao Passoa, the coast, and me star in a real life soap opera for 2 weeks.
It´s a wonderous site and as we land I know that the next few days are going to be very different to my normal life.
Leticia sits on a triangle of borders that combine Brazil, Peru and Colombia. You can basically walk from Colombia to Brazil and back again. It's a lot of fun.
I am officially on the booze again and sink a few beers with Phillipe, a really nice French dude who was on my flight. Lager has rarely tasted better than when you've been forced off it by a little shit of a parasite. and I learn quickly that here they like their lager ice cold. We sink a few and retire to bed. We'd arrived on the last night of a 3 day bender that they have here to celebrate the independance days of Colombia and Brazil. Everyone around looks hammered and the party was dwindling rapidly.
The next day I prepare a shopping list for my ferry through the amazon:
A hammock
5 litres of water
crisps
biscuits
I panic buy the hammock, settling on a nylon diamond stiched one in multicolours. I don't actually take time to consider the size of it, or the fact that I'll be lying in it for about 13 hours a day. I will eventually find out that not only is it not very comfortable, cuts into my back, making it look like I´m wearing a skin coloured Pringle sweater, that I paid well over the odds for it.
"you got properly stung" is said to me by the 5 other travellers bunked next to me on the boat.
I spend a lot more time choosing the crisps. Crisps are a very difficult choice on a daily basis for me anyway, I will stand in the corner shop paralysed for a good while weighing up the various brand options first, not even getting into the minefield of flavours until much later. But now I am face with a Everest sized challange,
"What crisp flavour will I eat for 4 days in a row?"
And the selection is poor, after about 20 minutes I settle on what I think are bbq flavoured walkers style crisps, thinking that they spicy ish flavour will keep me happy for the week.
Turns out they were just bacon flavour, and by day 2 I was giving packets away to the kid with the scary eyes, but saying that, even if I liked them I´d have given them to him, his eyes were see through sky blue, and he freaked me out. And he stared at me all the time, but I did conseed that this could have been because he'd never seen ginger hair before!
Now I get on the boat, set up the hammock, and settled in to watch the rest of the passengers put up their bigger, nicer, more comfortable hammocks.
The boat has the look of a 3 leveled freight ferry, and that will be because it is one. The bottom tier is full of brand new motorbikes, while the top 2 decks are filled with us.
Towards the end of day 1 the sound of bongos starts to reverberate around the deck. There's no pattern or rhythm to it from what I can hear, and upon looking for the source I understand why................
Picture if you will a topless traveller in linen trousers banging these bongos with his eyes closed, nodding his head from side to side. He´s got about 6 nitted bracelets on each arm, and one on his ankle.
"this" I think to myself,
"is not going to get any better"
And of course it doesn't, pretty quickly one of his mates takes over the bongos and out comes the mouth organ, a fucking mouth organ! They don't even sound good when a professional plays one, and this clown sounds like he's bought his the day before. They then proceed to 'jam' for the next 20 minutes. And when I say 'jam', I mean 'practice being shit'
I have always hated people who play music in public, without any regard to the people around them, I consider it the ultimate act of selfishness, to force upon everyone else what you want to do.
Music should only be played in public when you are:
Invited to do so by the vast majority of people present
Being paid to do so
Very fucking good at it.
And this chief was none of these things, and if you're not any of these things then you're practicing an instrument that you can't play, in front of people who don't want to hear you, not your proud parents, who sit and watch 'little Timothy' learn the piano.
I may as well have turned over a couple of bins and start smashing them with sticks. Inconsiderate Wanker.
This debarcle went on every day, and put me right off my lying down a lot and reading. But I have always been very positive and upbeat person, who tries selflessly to let every humanbeing express themselves, so I didn't throw him overboard. Or his stupid fucking bongos.
After 4 days of very little aside from sleeping on other peoples hammocks while they played cards, watching dolphins, bird spotting, and staring at the amazon, we pull into Manaus.
Manaus is a tough seaport town surrounded by rainforest. The men are all tough looking and drunk looking. These are hard men, who work very hard, and in turn drink and fight hard too. The women don't look much better, and you can imagine them giving as good as they get.
There's a smell of booze, violence, and sex in the air. And in that order.
I'm pleased that I am flying straight out, but still manage to get drunk with Ben from the boat, and make plans with the French boys to meet up on the coast.
Onward to Joao Passoa, the coast, and me star in a real life soap opera for 2 weeks.
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