Unboliavable

The third world, whilst incredibly interesting can be tough at times. South American countries for the most part are a bit of mixed bag. Peru certainly doesn’t pretend to be a first world country but it has the odd hint of technological advancement such as traffic lights where the green pedestrian man is actually animated and walks! Chile pretends to be a first would country but their lack of dog neutering technology would testify otherwise. Bolivia has La Paz, which looks like any other modern city, the only give away, that it is indeed a third world country, is the size of the queue outside the banks on Monday mornings. No word of a lie every bank in south America has 200 people lined up outside it every Monday morning. I guess they don’t have telephone or internet banking.

Anyway this blog is about a third world experience and is a warning to all travellers heading to counties where you assume things to be a certain way because of what you are used to. Of course not a bad thing, in fact most of the time a very healthy thing; to experience life the way other people do. However there are some experiences that, even though they build character are simple not worth it and some are so bad you would not wish upon your nemesis. And so it was, the fateful bus journey from Orunu to Uyuni. A trip that I would not even wish on the ‘utty nutty peanut butter cruncher’ from Sanitarium.

The day started with the disappointment of missing the train. Which was supposed to be a spectacular 6 hour scenic meander south from Oruna. We missed the train due to the fact that we did not have any tickets. It seemed impossible to pre book them but somehow everyone else had. We along with two couples waited on stand by. Sure enough both of the other couples got seats at the last minute with us out of luck. If only we had made it fractionally earlier to be the 1st pair waiting for tickets instead of the 2^nd ; if only the lonely planet map scale had not been completely useless, indicating a 700 m walk from the bus stop to the train station instead of the 5km it actually was, if only trains ran more often than twice a week, if only Darren was blond with breasts then the train pass might have come our way instead of to the French couple two had actually arrived after us. ‘If onlys’ are never a productive way of thinking and we realised the quicker we made friends with the disappointment the better. Morale rallied somewhat, we headed to the bus terminal to book the a bus that for that evening over night to Uyuni. Booking the bus was the next problem in this day of insurmountable shambles. Entering the station we were accosted by several different people all representing different bus companies, yelling, waving and promising. After a consultation we decided on a bus company called St Martin or was it St Shaft you, I can't remember. Having chosen our seats we headed to town to kill the 5 hours till the bus left, confident that the extra money we had spent would at least ensure us the most comfortable ride possible.

We boarded the bus, which turned out of course to be not even remotely like the one pictured. Our seats did not recline that much, they were not air-conditioned, nor were they near the TV that didn’t actually exist. Morale was beginning to decrease. There were however a few little unmentioned surprises thrown in for us in the form of the other passengers. In font of us on the floor in the aisle sat a lady resting up against our neighbouring passengers knees. On the row in font a middle-aged couple called Mr and Mrs Huskvanna shared a single seat and there were two teenage boys wedged between the back seat and the back wall of the bus. Along with an infant on the back row the last two rows on the bus that normally seated 9 had 14 passengers.

Completely over crowded, with a steadily dwindling supply of oxygen and a wide of array of equally hideous odours making their way into the roof of our brains the bus headed out of town. Morale was now at the lowest point it had been on the entire trip.

We headed off the tar sealed road and into the desert. I have to add at this point that it is a little known fact that before he fell and became the father of lies, Satan had a short stint as a civil engineer working as a road consultant for the Bolivian government. I have never used the word evil to describe a road before but it is a fitting description. I am sure that if I was a little bit calcium deficient I would have broken every bone in my pelvis over 7 hour journey. Shortly after we hit the road an elderly gentleman stood up and appeared to preach the gospel in Spanish, at which point Darren said “that’s it I’m out” as he delved into his back pack for the sanctity of his Ipod. I did the same but not before Darren tapped me on the shoulder to point out the women on the floor was starting to eat cold friend chicken and was wiping her hands on the seat next to us. We then noticed the two rows ahead a lady had bought her dog on to the bus who was sniffing ferociously at the aroma of the chicken. The bus rolled on and the road somehow managed to get even bumpier. At this point my pubis bone was smacking on the base of my rib cage. Mr Huskvanna then began to chop wood, decreasing even further the already slim possibility of getting an ounce sleep. The two boys behind had no problem however, managing to perform the standing up sleep, which resulted in them draping forward all over us. At this point there was not even a scale that could rate our combined morale. Adding to the discomfort was the fact that I was about 2 hours overdue to empty my bladder.

The experience, whilst it had given a whole new meaning to sleeping in a bed without smelly ladies, dogs, lumberjacks and mysterious heads dangling next to you would have to go down as one of the most uncomfortable experiences I have ever had.

The morals of the story are:

1) Pre-book the train where possible in Bolivia

2) Never trust a Bolivian, especially when he or she is trying to sell you something. Just say to the guy “I’m sorry I don’t “bo-liv-ia”*

3) When needing special favours from train officials; be female

4) Never trust a lonely planet map, the are all drawn by Bolivians

5) Book the bus that has the least number of people booked on it

6) Charge your Ipod battery

* back of ETA chippie packet (1987)

Perusing

After nearly two weeks in Peru I think I have been able to gather enough information to form some sort of report on the place. Peru is a very intriguing place bubbling with life and action.

One of the factors that contributes to the intrigue are the Peruvians themselves. The reality is they don’t know if they are Arthur or Martha. They are kind of Quechua, kind of Inca and they kind of hate the Spanish but yet at the same time most of them technically are at least half Spanish. They have more of a racial identity crisis than Michael Jackson’s face.

Daylight hours also mess with people here. No thought or consideration has been given to adopting daylight savings. The result is broad daylight at 5.30am and darkness at 5:30 pm every night. Sleeping in is certainly out of the question, especially in a tent. If I lived here I would invest in some black out curtains. Having said that even if you managed to keep the light out the racquet of the hundreds of wild dogs would get you anyway.

The Spanish blood is very evident in Peruvians when it comes to their work ethic. This is generalising of course as some Peruvians actually work and even Spaniards like Fernando Torres achieve a lot for noble causes. But for the most part on any given day Peruvians are having some kind of festival, of which I am told there are over 270 per year throughout the country, or they are on strike.

The 1980’s ski jacket is a very popular fashion item here. I had not seen one in real life. Only in really old ski posters, which seem to exist in every travel shop in NZ. Did somebody ban making ski posters after 1988? It is also rather strange to see the local women in the highlands dressed traditionally in their little 16th century Spanish layered dresses which they have not bothered update or in anyway modify to make them slightly more suited to the alpine environment in which they live. They look very quaint though I have say and should someone throw a spare of the moment fancy dress party they would be well prepared.

The food here is reasonable priced and pretty good but we don’t dare eat from the roadside vender/gutter restaurants that the locals seem to have no problem having a crack at. For some reason tonight being out last night we didn’t even opt for local delicacy. We had Chinese for some reason …… we must be getting home sick I guess.

Jungle Book

The next chapter in our travels sore us the next day heading to the manu national park on mountain bikes, staying in a eco lodge in the Amazon basin. We were to take part in a lot of down hill mountain biking, which for my heart rate and thighs was a good thing. But as far as my wrists and Gooch were concerned the second day was like riding a horse with a concrete saddle.

We biked with a guide (Daniel) who’s English was good enough that he even had a sense of humour. The only thing more miraculous than being able to have a good laugh with our Peruvian guide was being able to have one with our German support crew driver (Jorg).

Both of the guys were fantastic and were very passionate about nature. The jeep would sometimes be brought to a slamming halt because an Alpaca was sniffing some Lama poo. When they spotted an Animal of interest they were like a bunch of computer technicians when Halo 3 came out; levels of excitement and joy that are only warranted if you really have no life at all.

The first night we camped on top of a ridge overlooking the Amazon. The view was quite something. It was cold though I might add and whilst our guides seemingly knew everything about the birds, bees, plants surviving in the jungle they had no idea how to construct a fire. Daniel was trying to get a pile of rather damp blue gum logs going with a piece of paper the size of a bus ticket. Realising a fire was as likely to happen as vegan women shaving her arm pits we quickly took control of the situation and got it sorted.

The second day was 50km of back jolting, wrist breaking and sperm count lowering on a road best described as not good*. At the bottom we had a short 15 minute hike up to the eco lodge. The Amazon jungle was incredible. It seems like everything is alive. You step off the track onto a thick bit of grass and the whole ground moves as hundreds of insects and frogs jump and scurry away. When we went for hikes Smithy would take charge of the camera and ask me to walk in front on the off chance that if I was attacked by a Jaguar at least he could get it a great shot or perhaps a video to stick on utube. At once stage I noticed he had managed to hang a piece of raw meat on the back of my shorts to try to spice things up.

We asked the guides what animal was to be most feared in the Jungle. Surprisingly it was not the Jaguar, the Anaconda or even the Piranha but a very small fish called the Penis fish. This fish apparently lives in the water and is attracted to urine and if it gets the chance swims up the end of your willey causing quite some discomfort. Often having to be surgically removed. How much more effecitve would it work if teachers told boys if they want to pee in the school pool that the Penis fish might get them instead of the old special chemical that turns red myth. Needless to say that washing nude or going commando at any stage in case those little suckers can jump, was completely out of the question.

* other terms were used at the time such as “whoever maintains this road is a loser” ,“hang on a minute I am paying to ride a bike down this road” and “this is bloody ridiculous”,

Lares Bars

The last morning of our 3 day stay in Cusco we were woken at 5am, (before even the pigeon gun had a chance to go off ) to head off on the Lares trek. This is an alternate track to the Inca trail. We like everyone we met on the track did not opt for this deliberately but because we did not book early enough to get a place on the Inca trail.

Tramping offers one plenty of time to ponder and I walked up Lares valley on the first day I was found myself astounded that that 95 % of earths population see the whole world as a big rubbish bin. Whilst it was not astounding that 95% Peruvian males see the whole of Peru as a big urinal, it was a little surprising that very little effort ever seems to be made to conceal the fact that one is relieving themselves. It’s pretty much like paying by visa people just flop it out everywhere.

Our guide Harry or Henry, we are still not exactly sure was a great guy but unfortunately his English was about as good as the average NZ taxi driver so it was hard to make a lot of sense of what he was saying. Our cook was fantastic, serving up Alpaca in many different ways trying to disguise it as beef. Our horseman seemed nice but had the people skills of Quechua tribesman who had lived his whole live in a remote Andean community spending most of his time with horses and Alpaca’s.

The highlight of the tack was a game of soccer with some young (aged 7-9) locals in Huacahuasi. We played a small game of 3 vs 3. Smithy and I teamed up with one of the locals, but for us it was always going to be a very tough away fixture. We were playing at an altitude of 3800 M and the pitch had a number of pot holes, large rocks and piles of animal defecation. The goal of the match came after Smith made a dashing run down the side line, was able to fend off one of the small children and cut back inside another, he then sent in perfect cross which Churchill volleyed home between the rocks to give us a two goal lead. Our third team member who’s most significant contribution to the match until that point had been to flop his willey out and piss all over the pitch then proceeded to pick up hand fulls of lama crap and shower us with it. The locals came back to win 3-2 despite only scoring twice with some Spanish counting helping them out. Nevertheless it was a good match.

The trip finished with us climbing Machu Pichu, which is one of those places everyone should go to. It is hard really to describe but perhaps by stating that despite their being thousands of other tourists (including Americans and the French) the place did not loose its mystery and magnificence. The views are amazing and it is just staggering to think that these little punters could build something like it.

PS: I would be very intrigued to know how is it that ‘a lot’ is two words ‘at least’ is two words ‘of course’ is two words but ‘nevertheless’ managed to somehow whack itself together to be one. If anyone can shed some light on the matter I would be delighted to hear an explanation.

Dogs Calls in Busco

The short stop in LA was not a bad one. Darren met me at the airport after I had broken the LAX world record to be off the plane and through custom es in 48 minutes and 35 seconds. We cruised and hour down the coast to a Friends place. Although only a short visit we managed to part take in all the American traditions. In and out burger for dinner. Pancakes for breakfast. we even managed to stop in a for a beer in a karaoke bar where some yokals who were either husband and wife, sister and brother or perhaps both butchered Greece Lightening. America is great place but at times it just seems a bit of a fantasy land, not all that real, including the bar ladies breasts.

It was on to Lima and then straight out to Cusco. I say straight, we had a 6 hour stay at the Lima airport. So we arrived in Cusco at 7am having not sleep for 30 hours and with the goal of making it to the evening to try and stay on top of the time difference. My first impression of the Peru was the taxi journey to the hostel. South Americans, are renowned for being laid back and easy going. After the first 30 seconds in the Taxi I learnt that this is certainly not the case when it comes to their driving. They complete nutters behind the wheel. The use the horn like I have never seen before, they use it so much they have developed into a higher level of communication than I am sure it is meant for. First there is the standard beep - which means ¨hey¨ then there is beep beep which means ¨hey, watch it¨ then there is beeeeeeeeeeep beep which mean ¨get stuffed" they also have a beep beeeeeeeeeeeeep which means initially I was just saying hey but in actual fact you can get stuffed¨. Often they cut straight to a beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep beeep beep beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep which means ¨get (something elsed)¨

The other thing that was quickly apparent is the number of dogs here. There are just hundreds of them cruising the streets looking for feeds in the rubbish and chasing cars. I guess other nations don't have this problem because most people in Western couturiers chop their balls off and in Asia the they get eaten. They would not be such an issue if they did not smell so bad. One sits outside our hostel gate and for the first time in my life I can truly appreciate what people mean when they say something smells like dogs balls.

They are into their festivals here. We keep hearing gunshots in the city plaza. Until this morning the best theory we had come up with was that they are used to scare the pigeons away. This theory was challenged a bit by the gun shoots going off at 5am everyday but then we figured it perhaps they were sending the pigeons a message right at the start of the day. The 5am shots would not be too bad because they only last for a few a seconds and returning to sleep would be possible but the problem is that they set every one of the cities 57 thousand dogs off. So we are basically buggered when it comes to trying to sleep in.

Cusco is 3500 meters above sea level, which is basically the same as Mt Cook. It feels like your lungs are operating at about 40%. Our hostel is situated about 5 minutes walk down a cliff face into town, no problem when going in but coming back is a different story. It feels like you have some how instantly been transformed into being an unfit, overweight chain smoker with Asama. Combined with the fact that every now and then you have to completely shut down the nostril component of your respiratory system either because you have just passed a raw meat store, or a smelly set of dogs balls and it becomes very challenging.

The typical day starts with us heading to Australia owned Jacks cafe where you can enjoy a decent coffee. We then have a look around turning down invitations to buy art work and Inca knit garments. Afternoons it usually hoses down and we try to stay dry and turn down people trying to sell us ponchos. The evenings have largely been spent sucking a few beers back in back packer bars keeping an eye our for talent, which is difficult when an area such as this attracts the more seasoned hard core back packers who tend to be more liberal and less well kept. As we wander between establishments we are of course constantly turning down invitations for massages.

Sausages for Breakfast?

We don´t often think of Germany a lot down in NZ. Mostly people instantly associate Germany with the war or wars, the only reference to Germany I can think of in our regular vocabulary is referring to the German measles and the German crash helmet. The latter, a term we use because someone in Germany thought it would be a good idea to design a combat helmet that looks exactly like a circumcised Penis. However, the influence that Germany has in the world and indeed NZ, penetrates a bit deeper than that. Indeed some of their influence is due to the early success Hitler had during WWII, controlling all of Continental Europe. One could only assume that if Hilter´s parents had not taught him how to play Risk as a child we would not see such a mark on the world from the Germans. Now the Germans do bring some pretty useful things to the planet as I will explain later but it is worth adding I am not so sure things would be all good if we were over Germanised.

So how would the world look if the Germans were running the show. Well firstly let us consider a few things that might be a touch better. It has to be said that the bread we eat would be considerably better, although the downside of that is we would have no decent spreads to put on it. Only b-grade jams not fit for an ant trap and chocolate which tastes good on everything so it is a bit of short cut for a solution. I am sure jelly tip ice cream would taste pretty good on toast too. It has to be said that the Germans are pretty good with the old sausage and you probably would probably be inclined to buy one every time you came out of Bunnings. We would also drive much better cars, that is a fact. The Germans are responsible for the Lions share of the worlds best cars. Mercedes, BMW, Porch, VW and Audi to name a few. Our roads would be good too because they would have to be able to cope with no speed limit and therefore gone are the days of speed camera fines. Forcing Helen to come up with so new strategies to fill the government coffers. Now this last one would affect me, because it´s all about personality, but it has to be said that Girls through out the world probably be better looking because the Aryan genes would have spread a little more throughout the world, although the guys would be a bit uglier because they all look like they have had their hair cut by Stevie Wonder.

Ok, so that is some of the positives what about the negatives, well first of all hairdressers would be forbidden to cut mens hair. All haircuts for men would be done by the Barber in Lego land. Which is what currently happens in Germany. Twice a year all Germans males head across the northern board into Denmark for a short back and sides from one of our yellow friends without opposable thumbs. Just terrible, it looks like every guy is part of a boy band. Next is the fashion, it would be made compulsory to where socks with sandals, which despite having the benefit of being somewhat comfortable is a fashion crime. A crime that should be outlawed in the world today. Even those in Scandinavia don't commit this fashion atrocity and when you bear in mind that they go clothes shopping blindfolded is quite a statement. Then there is the food, whist the amount of fried food available in Germany would be received well in the States. The options available when it comes to desert would not be. There really is not a desert item in Germany that would make the top 20 in any other country in the world. The German word for desert is ¨nach tiche¨which literally translated means ´after table´. In former times this is because Germans actually ate the table after dinner in order to harden their stomachs for their desert. The key problem is that most German deserts are coated in marzipan, which is the ultimate impostor of the desert table that comes to defile the ranks of anything that might have a chance of tasting good. Most parents throughout the world would be forced to think of a new strategy for getting their kids to eat their vegetables, the old ¨if you don´t finish you wont get pudding¨ would not cut the mustard. Perhaps ¨if you don´t finish I will make you eat your pudding would work better¨.

So if you don't like eating sausages for breakfast you can be thankful that Hitlers parents did not tell him when playing Risk ¨Adolf if you want to win, don´t attack Russia until you have complete control over Asia¨.

Airports and Underpants

Before my last series of flights the only thing that Airports and underpants had in common is that going to the airport acted as a memory trigger for my jocks along with my passport . The most important items required for any overseas travel. Which incidentally in my case are stored in the exact same place.

I think an airport reflects entirely the characteristics of the people from the city in which it is located. Likewise underpants can reflect those same qualities. Auckland for example is pretty relaxed and slow paced until you try to sneak in food in or a dirty pair of shoes. Hong Kong is clean sleek and incredibly efficient, and does not really have a customs as such. Indeed I was with baggage and though customs in about 15 minutes from leaving the plane which is quicker than most domestic airports in NZ. NZ, whilst laid back is by no means that inefficient, just a little paranoid of more dirty bugs,bacteria and criminals from Australia sneaking in. Paranoid is one word which would describe LAX. Except its not just of your fruit and veg, they are paranoid of everyone and everything, except their own people of course, who when considering the fact can vote in a president with an IQ of 8, twice, with nuclear weapons at his disposal are significantly more dangerous than anyone else in the world. Hethrow airport reeks of laziness, is overstaffed and is remarkably inefficient with 1 of every 10 staff members working at any one time, while the other 9 have a coffee break. Dusseldorf in Germany is relatively efficient but is always a little suspicious of why unearth you would actually want to come to Germany, which having lived there is fair enough I guess.

Indeed if airports around the world where pairs of underpants they would be something like this; Auckland, comfy pair of boxer shorts but not providing enough support to smuggle bananas with. Hong Kong would be, if they existed, a triple pouched latex sports brief, extremely efficient and able to perform well in the most testing of circumstances. LAX a old pair of Y fronts in the back corner of your draw that are two sizes too small. Whist wearing them you have difficulty breathing and they give the impression that you are incredibly tight arsed. Hethrow, cannonball, fine for sleeping and doing nothing in but as soon as you move uncomfortable and irritating. Dusseldorf, white sports jocks with big brown stain at the back get the job done but people are a bit surprised that you haven't thrown them out.

Pygmys can Fly

Arriving at the check in counter at Taupo airport I knew I might be in a small bit of luggage trouble and my ‘you cheap grab-seat-gypsy’ status was not going to see me reap any special luggage allowance. After the first weigh in a repack was required to create the illusion that 5-6 kilograms less would be getting on the plane. By putting books into my hand luggage, wearing my suit and stuffing a shot put in my underpants I was able to pull the wool over the check in counter ladies eyes. This flight on the twin propeller 1900 Beechcraft would be my 1^st of 18 in the next 60 days. That is 18 times queuing in check in lines trying to work out why some of the people checking in before me have such difficult check in procedures and 18 times coming into land trying to convince myself that this is statistically safer than driving my car into town. Flight 1, aside from the bumpy landing almost causing the shot put to crush my left testicle, went well and reassured me that I could trust the statistics.

The next major event was boarding NZ 39 from Auckland to Hong Kong. Long haul flights, although feeling much safer exacerbate every problem there is to do with flying. For example a screaming baby from Auckland to wellington for 1 hour is not nearly as discomforting as one in the row behind you on a 20 hour flight from Hong Kong to New York.

Let us consider the two biggest problems of flying. The first I have already mentioned. Crying babies are just one of those inconvenient situations in life where everyone loses. The baby is obviously not very happy. The parents feel bad, the other passengers feel increasingly distressed and airline staff are left feeling helpless. Once on a flight to Australia I found myself surrounded by a choir of screaming children. Whilst I tried to exercise all manner of grace by the end of the flight I was wishing a herd of Dingo would come swooping though the cabin and take them all away. There are of course some simple solutions ,Dingos aside. Firstly banning any children under the age of two from flying. This may seem harsh but when considering the actions of both Pharaoh and Herod when faced with similar dilemmas at two separate points in history, this is not as bad as their actions. Secondly a crying baby cargo hold could be employed on long haul flights. Babies are simple checked and stored in a sound proof area of the cabin. Thirdly babies could be “debarked” much like the poor old dog who is trying to let his owners know that buglers are coming though the back window but he is buggered with no voice box. I must say that I was fortunate to be spared this fate on my first flight and the next leg from Hong Kong London the only child was seated in another part of the cabin and visited our end of the plane only for short bursts. The second and equally as troubling problem is being seated next to the fat passenger. On this particular occasion, not being on a flight to or from America there was much less chance of my being affected. With this problem there is not quite so much sympathy, bottom line being that as understanding as people try to be and rare genetic conditions aside, deep down everyone knows that people are overweight because they eat too much. It is hard to have sympathy, unless of course they are deliberately putting on weight to audition for the lead roll in Kung Fu Panda or Hair Spray 2. So the airline passenger clasping for breath because they are sandwiched between two, three ton sumo wrestlers will be less patient than with a crying baby. Solution 1) pay for two seats – before you say ‘discrimination’, is it discrimination that someone has to buy two big mac combos instead of one? 2) Weight limits to include the weight of the passenger – before you say ‘discrimination’, is petrol cheaper in places where only fat people live….. actually at $4 per gallon in the states it actually is.

To elevate these problem airlines try in vain to provide good service. A vital part of good service is friendly, efficient and good looking staff but as Flight of the Conchords rightly point out in their song 'Most Beautiful Girl in the room' “your so beautiful you could be an air hostess, in the 60’s”…. in the 60’s. Since the 60’s only surf shops and red bull promo girls seemed to have somehow bypassed the equal opportunity thing regardless of how good you look. These days for organisations such as airlines there are much more diverse employment criteria. Such as needing to have one of staff member from every people group known to man. Getting served on the plane is like some kind of world youth event. I was served a glass of wine by a petite Hungarian, my meal from a Himalayan Sherpa and my coffee from a Pygmy tribesman from the amazon basin.

Overall, considering my luggage rearranging, the lack of crying babies, lack of fat passengers and multicultural flight stewards my flight to Europe was a pretty comfortable experience. I suppose largely due to the fact that almost nobody else thought it was a good idea to head over for the start of winter!