Blog-lag: What happened next

Three and a half years ago, Dagley and I returned from 50 weeks of backpacking around the globe.

When I got back, I tried to finish off the weblog that I'd been writing on the way round. After a valiant effort, I realised I was going to have to find a 'job', and the world of great writing fell victim to my search for money.

It's now October in 2012. We've been back for well over three years.

Helen and I are living in Turnpike Lane in North London.

Writing-wise, I started scribbling about other random shit, then had a bit of a prolonged break, then I got a brain tumour.

The tumour business is ongoing, but fingers crossed there won't be much more to write about it (in a good way, not in a deathwatch way).

So, to keep a promise to myself, I'm going to finish this blog.

Bearing in mind my only notes are scrawled down in a little red A5 notepad in the handwriting of a five-year-old (not literally, I didn't get a kid to write them for me, you sick fuck) and I've also had a large part of my right temporal lobe removed, it may be a bit holey.

But I haven't forgotten one thing: it was the best year of my life so far, so it deserves to be sworn about.

To be cuntinued...

Bolivia's Road of Death

Careening down the road at four thirds the speed of doom with nothing more than a metal contraption that I had no faith in whatsoever is a buzz that I am glad that I have experienced but also quite assuredly don't want to experience again. Like the sort of buzz you'd get throwing a brick at a police car.

Helen and I actually took the trip down the 'Death-Road' at a reasonably leisurely pace, but when you're on this particular stretch of road there are still times that even if you were travelling at the speed or an asthmatic snail carrying a wedding cake made of lead up Mount Vesuvius you would feel slightly nervous. 

Seeing the decaying hunks of twisted metal that once served as family cars scattered around 150 feet below you off a sheer cliff would put the willies up even the most devout nun.

The distance between Coroico and La Paz is only 70km, but the road to Coroico starts on a summit near La Paz, 4633 metres above sea level and heads down to 1700 meters above sea level. A 3300 metre descent. Not only is the road extremely steep, but it is also narrow, muddy, and has steep drops of over 1000 meters for most the trip down. There used to be cars coming up to meet you, but that stopped after 1999 when eight Israeli students fell off and got deaded.

There are multiple companies that run expeditions down the slope. We chose a company that fell at the cheaper end of the most expensive. For our money we got very good bikes, knee and elbow pads, full-face helmet and gloves. We also got water proof overalls, which was handy because for the first couple of hours we were essentially riding through clouds.

Some of the people we were with smashed it down the mountain, and some of them also smashed it over their handlebars a couple of times – but luckily not over the side of the cliff. 

There was some Australian bloke with all the gear but no idea who tried to buzz down the hill past everyone, wait for us to catch up, then do it again. He was an annoying twat.

Loz did his best to kill himself, but only succeeded in a few cuts and bruises.

Hel and I took it slower, but you could still feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins like exciting milk through a bendy cocktail straw. This, as it turned out, was quite lucky.

About a quarter of the way down Hel started to complain that her brakes were shit.

We stopped twice and got one of the chaps who follow you down behind in a big van to tighten them up. Just before we got to the three-quarters down spot, Hel finally stopped and asked the bloke to have a proper look as it was taking her longer and longer to come to a full stop. When the feller took the wheel off and had a look at the break disc, he showed it to us. 

It was about 1mm thick when it should have been about two pound coins thick.

Helen had just done the death road without brakes.

When we got to the end we arrived at a hotel in the middle of nowhere and enjoyed a sort of shambolic buffet, everyone was pretty tired so we just lounged around an algae filled pool. The kiwis had arranged to stay there that evening and move on from there, so we made our rather sad goodbyes and trudged back into the van to go back to La Paz.

La Spaz Out

Our first hostel in La Paz was a bit of a nightmare. The place was nice enough, but on the second night the night-watchman got rat arsed with his mates and basically smashed the place up before passing out upstairs. When a taxi driver was ringing the bell for about twenty minutes I had to go down and answer the door and then kick the twat awake.

We left the next day and made the decision to go to Loki, the La Paz junction of the big chain of Hostels throughout South America.

It was like walking into the common room at Harrow. You know me, I don't like judging books by their covers, look through this blog and you can see that quite clearly, but the place was full of cunts sniffed off their tits.

Luckily, the two people in our room were fantastic. Myriam and Thomas, two French dudes. The first night we spent with them Thomas got so drunk that he made a makeshift stage to dance on in front of the entire bar, asked Helen to elope with him to Palestine and then threw up for three hours. It was nice to have someone else making a twat out of themselves for a change.

The next day we organise a trip to the Deathroad, as it is called, to cycle down it. These plans are changed shortly afterwards however, as we find out that the gang are heading to La Paz and would be there in three days, so we asked the company to pencil them in. Not only that, but we hear that the Scouse/Irish mess Tom is winging his way in midweek as well.

That afternoon we wandered around what's known as the Witches' Market and went back to the same pub as we had eaten in the first night to try and catch the Arsenal match. Unfortunately they were only showing the rugby, and when Helen asked for some food it came out with a maggot in it. Yummy!

The day after that we went to the Valley de la Luna with Thomas and Myriam. It was okay, but after a while you realise you're just sort of walking around in a circle of rocks. Perhaps if it wasn't so cordoned off it would be better. But then you'd probably fall down a big hole and die. It's that awkward balance...






When we returned the Kiwis, Sam and Loz had turned up and we celebrated by drinking beer and playing lots of pool. It turned into a bit of a session and we ended up going to a dub-reggae bar with Pro-Palestinian regalia all over the walls.

Helen was in her element.


That is, until it got to about one in the morning and she got tired. I'd just had a naughty cigarette with two random Argentinean lads and she asks me if I wanted to go and see what's upstairs in the club, little do I realise upstairs is outside. We went home but I did't moan because I had fallen down a hill the week before.

The next day we all felt slightly worse for wear, and decided that the best way to combat that was to go out and eat the hottest curry in the southern hemisphere.

The day after that we farted all the way down the Deathroad.

Chris is a Cock and He is Sorry and He Loves Helen and Everything

The least said about the next day the better. I was a cock and I can't apologise to Helen enough. She 'actually fucking hated' me, and I don't blame her.




Suffice to say we were out on the salt flats at four in the morning in some of the most amazing terrain on the planet and I was being a moody bastard.






Once we arrived in Uyuni we went to Minuteman Pizza, a restaurant owned by a bloke from Chicago that is attached to a hostel and had a massive pizza. That evening Helen and I went to La Paz and the rest of the gang went off to central Bolivia.


Me and Hel made up over a meat pie. It was nice and we were happy again.

Pissing Hill Mate!

Pretty much the whole of the next day was spent in the jeeps, driving through incredible terrain and chewing coca leaves, occasionally stopping to take pictures and eat some sandwiches.

The amazing natural geysers and gas pits were smelly.




And there were more flamingos than you could shake a pink stick at.



When we got to the town nearest the place where we would be staying that night, the kiwis and Laurence decided that they were going to buy a few bottles of booze for dinner that night. I went in with them and we ended up getting a glorious mix of red wine, premixed Cuba Libre (with a random picture of Pamela Anderson in her pants on the bottle) and something else.

We arrived at our lodgings, a salt hotel (made entirely of salt, as the name would suggest), but a legal one that is not on the salt flat itself. It was half way up quite a steep hill, and was quite interesting to be in. I wondered what would happen if you cut yourself in a house of salt... Waiting for dinner we all sat round exchanging amusing anecdotes and humiliating stories.


WARNING: DO NOT MIX VALIUM, ALCOHOL AND ALTITUDE.

We were now at over 4800 metres and Helen was feeling particularly ill and had gone to bed straight after dinner. I had had a few glasses of wine and a few Cuba Libres when I decided to rid myself of my mop barnet, borrowing Loz's clippers. I went outside to shave my hair off and froze. By the time I came in I felt quite sober, and was sure that I should be playing catch up.

WARNING: DO NOT THINK JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE BEEN OUTSIDE AND ARE A BIT COLD THAT YOU ARE SOBER

So I cracked on through the drinks, going in and checking on Hel who had finally got a bit of sleep, more through exhaustion than anything else.

WARNING: WHAT WOULD HELEN DO?

The last thing I remember properly is dancing to Queen with Loz, a bemused mix of Eastern European and Scandinavian people looking on in sober disgust. Soon it came time for a drunken cigarette, but first I needed a wee. Fucking queue for the toilet. It's a hotel and it only has one toilet. Right. Fuck it, I'll go outside and have one off the hill while they're smoking.

WARNING: ARE YOU A FUCKING IDIOT?

So, cigarette in mouth and cock in hand, I sidled up to the edge of the hill, staring off into the distance.

Matt shouts over to me to 'Hold onto the fucking wall, you're swaying all over the place', which I did, and I steadied myself. I was laughing at something they were all talking about behind me, and I twisted my neck round to add some inevitably pithy comment. On my head's return, I stopped holding onto the wall and looked down to do up my button fly.

WARNING: WHEN YOU ARE DRUNK, YOUR HEAD WEIGHS THE SAME AS A LOFT CONVERSION

I essentially started to sprint down the hill, completely out of control before my right toe clipped a big rock and I fell, rolling head first down the hill, before I came to a complete stop I was actually grabbed by Matt. It wasn't until the morning after I realised he had probably just saved my life. The drop that was about three feet away from me was about 12 feet. Wowser.

Battered and bruised Matt hobbled me back up to the rest of the gang that were half worried and half attempting to stifle the huge guffaws trying to escape their chests. Dana, a nurse, ran inside and got some bandages for my now fucked knees, hands and feet. Blood everywhere and not much of my jeans left.

After about twenty minutes of painful cleaning up, I looked down to balance myself and get up.

WARNING: IF YOU FALL DOWN A HILL WHILST HAVING A PISS, ENSURE THAT YOUR PENIS ISN'T STILL OUT WHEN A GROUP OF STRANGERS GIVE YOU MEDICAL TREATMENT

Into Bolivia

The next day Sam, Loz, Helen and I went horse trekking into the semi-wilderness. Although again I didn't enjoy the actual riding of the beast itself, the scenery was outstanding. Luckily the horses were well treated and Helen wasn't forced to organise a Union meeting for them.








Helen, who had had trouble sleeping, had a much better rest that night and the next morning we headed off in our jeeps on the Salt Flat tour. Our jeep was the same crew who had been horse riding the day before, and the kiwis were in a different jeep.


Chewing our own weight in coca leaves and probably popping one or two valium too many, we eventually arrived in the little town where we would bed down for the first night.





We played hakisak with some local kids and got startled by the biggest bird carcass anyone had ever seen. Turns out it was only a baby. While this was going on, Helen was growing increasingly ill. This, as it turns out, was going to be bad news for everybody. Especially me. And especially my knees...

Salta la Linda

Getting into Salta we were so tired that the driver of the bus nearly left the station with us still on the bus as we were asleep on the back seats. Thrown off gently, we decided to walk round to a different hostel than the one we had booked, purely because it was closer. This decision would shape the next few weeks as it happened.

Pretty much as soon as we stepped foot in the hostel we started chatting to a Kiwi bloke called Matt (Mitt) who said we should 'defo' stay there as it was a good laugh and a well run hostel. We followed his advice and soon met his mates too, Ange, Dana and Clint (Clunt). Cool dudes the lot of them. This first meeting was the last time we would have a conversation where the word cunt wasn't used as a noun, verb and adjective.

Hel also made friends with a cat that weighed the same as a Fiat Punto.


That afternoon we were surprisingly active and went up on the gondola to the top of a mountain that allows you stunning panoramic views of the whole of Salta.







And a fuck load of big spiders too.





At the end of our excursion we met a lad from Cumbria back in the kitchen of the hostel, his name was Laurence and he was incredibly hung-over. We got chatting to him for a while about where he had been and it turned out we were heading in the same direction. Indeed, as we found out later, so were the Kiwis.

Helen and I had originally planned to stay three nights in Salta, but luckily we noticed that the train that we would be catching in Bolivia doesn't run on Sundays [see, this blog can be useful], and so we ended up leaving on the Friday night with the Kiwi Quartet, Loz and, incredibly, Sam who had turned up out of the blue about three hours before we left. So mob handed we all went on up to the border to get to Tupiza.

We crossed the border at about six in the morning with no problems and even received a reasonable rate on the money that we exchanged. We then had a long wait until we could catch the train to our next destination, so we wandered around trying to find a place to watch Manchester United eventually lose to Liverpool. Wonderful stuff.

Loz wandered off after this bad result for his team and bought a selection of toys that we could do interesting perspective shots with on the Salt Flats. He did not fail.

On the train we had to endure a horrific Japanese soap dubbed into Spanish that as far as we could tell was about a woman crying. It was the stuff that nightmares are made off. I would rather have wasps sting my eyeballs whilst rats nibbled at my ball sack for three hours a day for the rest of my life than have to watch another minute of that hell.

When we got to Tupiza, not unlike The Sundance Kid, Helen started to feel queasy. It was the beginning of the massive onslaught of altitude sickness that would plague her for the next two weeks. That evening we went to a place called The Alamo and had some awful food, made worse by the fact the owners had decided to put The Greatest Hits of Shania Twain DVD on. On repeat.