Hefty Women

Anti-Antipodean

2007-01-02T03:44:00.000-08:00

WHAT I THINK OF AUSTRALIA IN LESS THAN 100 WORDS: The accent is jarring. What was that? No, I don't want to go for a beer, thank you mate. Australia, like Kiwiland, is unsure where it came from and where it's going. The transport and health infrastructures are good but it's a soulless enough kind of place. The people here are easily confused- all you have to say is "hello, how are you?". The weather is nice, if a little hot. Everyone looks post-human, such is the devotion to sport and fitness. But there is a darkness under the sunkissed corn-fed grins. Australia, it seems, has witnessed a concerted programme of ethnic cleansing and murder of its aboriginal peoples, ceasing only in the 1940s after the Stolen Children contraversy, with a huge prejudicial hangover persisting to this day. Aboriginals live mostly in penury, have an average life expectancy of 50 years and are diabetic, alcoholic and unemployed for the most part. I have never seen racism quite like it. Australia have essentially been operating an apartheid system for the past 200 years, masquerading under the banner of a constitutional monarchy. Additionally, the Aussies are a bit fucking full of themselves for my liking. For example, I was talking to a girl in a bar recently and casually enquired as to the score in the Ashes series. She looked sideways at me and said- I'm serious- "Doesn't matter. We're Australian. We win everything". Needless to say she stared at me blankly when I asked her if she had watched Australia's mauling by Ireland in the Autumn test series. I suppose the architecture of the cities almost dictates social behaviour. Melbourne, for example is geographically larger than London, such is the urban sprawl and penchant for ribbon development. This leaves people isolated in the dullness of the suburbs, peeking out of windows, driving everywhere and not having any central societal focus. The only area I've found a bit of community spirit is in the Chinatown district of Melbourne, and even then the church is a bar and the altar a karaoke machine.

In short: boring.

LANDSCAPE: Varied, but mostly scrubland and desert.

BACKWOODS CREEPS: John Tully and I decided to check out the Hunter and Yarra Valleys, which are wine regions in New South Wales and Victoria respectively. We rented a car and ended up driving from Sydney to Melborne, some 700 miles. Along the way we stopped in some of the strangest places I've ever seen; villages with no economy save that provided by truckers stopping to have lunch; the site of the last stand of Ned Kelly and the Kelly Gang: a town called Bobbin Head (honestly folks); pies, pies, pies; and karaoke, loads of karaoke. What's worse is, we almost ran out of petrol thanks to a faulty gauge and had to coast through the outback to a petrol station with the words "Backpacker Murders" ringing in our ears. But we made it to Melborne safely and breathed some relief at the fact. It was interesting; the people in the outback towns are so isolated they seem to whip themselves into a frenzy at night, usually alcohol fuelled and got out looking for trouble, or pool, or karaoke, or all three.

WOULD I EVER LIVE HERE?: Not on your life, constable.

ARE THE ASHES OF ANY CONSEQUENCE WHATSOEVER? No.

IS THERE SUCH A THING AS AUSSIE CULTURE?: Well, I saw a man crush a beercan with one hand yesterday.

AM I READY TO LEAVE?: Yes

India beckons, dear readers, and I shall hopefully emerge from that subcontinent with a bossy wife and some funny yoga positions. I'll keep you posted.

Cliff Richard On A Guillotine

2007-01-02T03:37:00.000-08:00

It has been an unorthodox Christmas to say the least. It went something like this:

23/12/06: Arrived in Sydney after a very enjoyable week in Melbourne with Ana Louise, Emma, and Michelle. We rented a swanky apartment, cooked a few times, ate out and generally enjoyed ourselves and each others company. I had missed them- there's nothing quite like being in the general vicinity of Ana and cohorts. It never gets boring anyway. They were all in excellent form and are gearing up for travels in South American early next (or this, I suppose) year.

Got the train out to Terrigal, a small beach community north of sydney and were met by Andree and Crona, two friends working in the ED of the nearby Gosford hospital. We then installed ourselves in their big rambling beach house (waves crashing within earshot) and walked the shore, catching up. Then it was down to the serious business of getting food and drink organised for the following days. I was given responsibility for Christmas eve dinner, which was a bit of a challenge as there would be twelve people around the table and calculating numbers etc proved a bit of a chore. Finally settled ona Jamie Oliver seafood pasta dish using snapper and calimari accompanied by salads. Starter: mushroom bruschetta.

Which was fine, in theory.

24/12/6:
Flurry of activity on all fronts between cleaning, tidying, prep work and general messing around. Most of the day was spent getting stuff ready for christmas eve and day dinners and I had only a short while to pop out and buy presents for the lads which were:

A reiki CD, a "mood ring", and a bottle of sarsparilla (Big Lebowski reference) for Dave
Choclate chip cookies, moisturiser and a Helen Fielding novel for Mark
A compendium of Harrison Ford films for John

As you can probably tell, joke presents ruled although worryingly, Dave was delighted with his reiki CD. I think he may be turning into a bit of a cloudfarmer. India will only exacerbate this. I am giving serious consideration to calling his mother so that she may put him back on the path of good old fashioned McQuaid Catholicism and arrange a quck marriage before he loses the run of himself completely.

We had dinner, chatted. I was presented with a bottle of Pinot Noir for my efforts, which was nice. We then strolled up the street to the house of some of the other people working in the ED for a bit of chat and a glass fo wine. It was unbelievably, excruciatingly, overwhealmingly dull. I was stuck beside some yammering gobshite who burned my ear off about what he called "the true meaning of medicine". I could never understand why doctors have a reputation for being arrogant obnoxious gobsheens. Now I do.

Back to the house. The electricity went off due to a flash storm so we played charades by candlelight. I was saddled with "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" by John. I reciprocated with "Gorky's Zygotic Mynci".

Off to bed.

25/12/06:
Woke at 8 (old habits die hard) to find that Dave had already been up for an hour. We pottered around, had some (you're not going to believe this, Mam) cornflakes with tea and exchanged gifts. Everyone had a bit of a laugh.

My stash:
A "guess that wine" boardgame from Dave
A model surfboard (I had been hit in the face by one in NZ) and a squidgy stress thingy in the shape of a can of Victoria Bitter (ref: I'm the least stressed of us and I hate VB) from Mark
A Modern Lovers CD from John (no joke- I just like them)

Mass was funny. In place of Fr Fergus Generic we got Petr, a Polish priest with great command of english but idiosyncratic phrasing and pronunciation. "The maost impaorthant theeng abaot Kressmash ees..". The altar was flanked by PowerPoint presentations showing the text of the mass and the words to the hymns. As for the choir- well, they may have been hot stuff when the boys arrived home back in '45, but now- hmm.

Back at the ranch we drank tea, ate biccies, played with our presents and chatted about the different ways each of our families "did" christmas. Everyone seemed surprised at presents on Christmas eve. I fact, noone seemed to make a big deal of it at all. Interesting how things vary. Other than that, Christmas day was as always- happy, overfed people strewn about, reading talking, watching television. We had to got to another party later that evening (I slipped away once "I saw true meaning of me bollix" guy edging closer) and I ended up talking to a girl called Liya, from London, originally Indian. Well, call me old fashioned but I don't make a habit of chatting up women on Christmas day. So we agreed to meet for coffee on St Steven's day instead (she suggested Boxing day, but I didn't know what she was talking about).

Like I said. Weird.

26/12/06:

Met Liya for coffee. She was interesting. We had a nice conversation over moccachipfrappeppermintoilatinos (or whatever fucking concoction Starbucks are serving these days) and took a drive out to Avoca, a nearby beach area. Lovely scenery, more chat but we both agreed that given the brevity of my visit it would be unwise to start anything. We may meet again at some stage, however,as she is only a flight away from home. Who knows, Diarmaid, she might even have a cute friend curious as to how nice these Irish boys really are.

I'm joking. Still, it's funny the people you meet.

THE NEW YEAR:

Sydney is famous for fireworks displays on New Year's night so we strolled downtown to try to get a good viewing position for midnight. Stopped for a few drinks in (sigh) an Irish bar and continued along toward the harbour. At twelve, the whole place exploded in the most impressive lightshow I've ever seen. It look fantastic, the bay illuminated with a thousand lights shot off the harbour bridge. Fantastic.

Then we lost PJ.

There were approx two million peope in the bay area so finding him was a little difficult but miraculously, we did. Soon after 12, we all just wanted to go home, as the streets had descended into mayhem, with fights breaking out all over the plave despite a heavy police presence. Groups of 20-30 lads prowled around looking for violence and the atomosphere turned sour. I've never seen anything like it. It was hard to believe that a city could be so magnificent and yet so inglorius in almost the same moment. We'd had enough and walked back to the hotel and went to sleep.

THE NEXT MORNING

I felt fine, walked to an internet cafe and composed this masterpiece. Shortly I may have some lunch. Generally, I am looking forward to leaving, and I never intend to live here.

As they used to say in MASH, that is all.

Paul O'Riordan, For The Love of God

2006-11-23T14:57:00.000-08:00

While skittering through the internet stratosphere, happy as a wasp in jam, I happened upon an email from one Paul "Palookaville Massacre" O'Riordan, a good friend of mine and a veteran of No 7, Lower Canal Road. Paul expressed his extreme displeasure at my failure to update this literary piece of shit for the past month.

I am sorry Paul.

The truth is, I was beginning to lose hope. The blog entries are long and tortuous pieces of prose to compose, write and eventually type and I had convinced myself from the lack of commentary that not a soul was reading. Paul, dearest Paul, you have restored my faith in the internet as a medium for the conductance of unexpurgated ramblesome nonsense and I shall recommence as such.

I'm in New Zealand by the way. I went to Argentina on the way. It was nice.

Next time (a proper entry, I promise)

Why getting smacked in the mouth by a flying surfboard and almost losing your teeth is so much fun

Pies, pies, pies

THAT accent

General catching up

Soul Mining

2006-10-16T17:21:00.000-07:00

(Retrospective)

The Devil and Muiris Llewelyn

I´ve just been downt mine, like a Welshman of yore, rugby and valleys.

Bolivia is the oft derided poor man of South America, which is quite an insult considering they share a continent with Columbia. Bolivians respond to these accusations not with political rhetoric a la Hugo Chavez, or mass bruitality and the murder of its own citizens a la Argentina (in times past); no, they have a much more lucrative and pragmatic approach: they roughly half the life expectancy of their young men by sending them down a near-exhausted mine to extract pitifully small amounts of zinc, tin, and silver ore, which is exported abroad, processed, and sold to, yes, Bolivians. Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Cerro Rico, Potosi, a mountain slowly sinking as man pulls its guts out in the hope of danglesome worthless glister.

One thing you must know, friend, is that the mine is the Devil´s realm. It is his larder that the miners steal from, and it is to him that they pay their respects; repest to "Uncle" or "Tio" for the wealth he provides at the cost of limbs and black lung. Stories abound; the man who implored Tio for a rich vein of silver, and was rewarded, but at the cost of a human or llama foetus every day unto death, to appease the dark overlord of the underworld. Soon, with wealth on his side, money in his pocket, whores on his arm, the pact was forgotten and Faustian miner experienced a streak of bad luck a mile wide and the length of infinity. His wife died; his house burned down; his daughter lost her wits; and he remained healthy, sane and intact enough to Job-like suffer the consequence of meddling with and scorning Tio.

Another supplicant to Tio´s burgeoning church thought it would be fun to play with TNT and ammonium nitrate in close proximity to two coworkers. They were immediately maimed and died later after the most gruesome suffering imaginable (both families were destitute and could not afford morphine, despite their wives´ best efforts in the only other Potosi industry of note, prostitution). he works in the mines to this day, shunned by coworkers and as yet uncharged by the terrified police. Lately, it is told, a young gopher witnessed the miner being devoured by a devil-like apparition, emerging unscathed afterwards. The miners take this as Tio assimilating the miner´s soul and await his rapid demise. The story is illustrative of the madness which pervades the place, stoked by the fatalism of the workers who have an average life expectancy of 45-50 years and thus value only silver, not life and slowly their lungs scar and contract, oxygen deserts them and they die.

Pedro, Let Me Follow You Down

As we descended we encountered first a makeshift museum, complete with a statue of Tio (these statues are common, and serve as points of worship); then to a winch station with monosyllablic Bolivians hauling baskets of rock and mineral ore up a vertical shaft. Our guide questioned one:

- How long have you worked here?
- Fifteen years
- How old are you?
- Fofty two
- Do you have a family?
- Four children

A chill filled the room, as the near-deadman continued to heft stone and contemplate his end, as did we.

We descended further into the belly of the beast via anklecrack tight tunnels not designed for men of my dimensions, as my neck curled upwards, my back downwards, contorted like an old man on a diet of arsenic. Pedro, the guide, spit lore and politics as were breathed in the dust and slid and scraped down, avoiding vertical shafts and rail buckets full of stone. We saw the other end of the winch operation, with pidgeon chested men shovelling rock and stone delivered by sweating and heaving comrades displaying a downright Stakhanovite ethic. My lungs felt the choke of dust and silica and I was invited to play miner. As I dug I thanked God that I was not Bolivian, did not work here, and would not die at 45. As I left, one of the old boys grimly complemented me on my shovelling surprisingly effective, he said, "for someone with such womanly hands". Better to have womanly hands than no lungs, I thought, equally grimly.

Did You Drink and Mine?

Further down to the fourth level and we happened upon a group of about 15 in a cavern drinking rotgut (96% ethanol) and lemonade, and we huddled in a corner a watched. Word got around; the gringos in the corner are Irish; they´ve brought booze; they have a little Spanish. Suddenly, my hand was being broken in the grasp of a man called simply "the Bear" as he poured the firewater into a plastic cup and gave it to me. A drop for the Pachamama, a drop for Tio, and a quick Hail Mary before I threw it back and felt my throat boil and my limbs twitch. The cycle was repeated about 20 times, and Irish-Bolivian relations were infinately enhanced as we drank in the most bizzare session of all time, 600m underground, in a mine, with devil-worshipping Bolivians. Further weirdness pervaded as John, refined as he is, asked if we could buy a round of beers. No problem, as a gopher scuttled off to the top and returned with a bottle of Potosina for everyone. The aforementioned diplomatic efforts were furthered (infinity to the power of n) and we laughed and blathered in broken Spanish until we were all completely peeloothered. We ascended, not minding now the vicegrip pinch or the suredeath falls. As we emerged into sunlight, I felt glad that I was out of that realm, and into a more benevolent one. Noone had been hurt, TG.

Then Pedro took out a few sticks of dynamite.

Traditional Bolivian Bomb Recipe

For this you will need:

1. TNT, one stick
2. Plastic carrier bag, one
3. Ammonium nitrate, 500g
4. Blasting cap and fuse, one
5. A spare piece of ground
6. Several drunk Bolivians
7. A lighter
8. Balls

Method:

Warm the TNT by rolling it between your palms. Break in into three pieces. Lay these side by side, mould them together and put them in the plastic bag. Set aside.

Open the packet of ammonium nitrate and spill half on the floor. Place the rest in the plastic bag with the TNT. If you have done this correctly you will still be alive.

Press the blasting cap and fuse into the centre of the TNT and tie closed the bag, fuse protruding. Take a picture. As this is happening, one of the drunk Bolivians will inevitably light the fuse, much to the amusement of all gathered. Start to run.

Place entire device on spare piece of ground. Garnish by running away in blind panic. Await "bang" sound.

Cooking time: approximately 2 1/2 minutes.

And finally..

Later we went for drinks with the miners and wound up in a total horrorshit divebar scumbucket of a club where I was offered sex for 40 Bolivianos (roughly $1.20), which I politely declined (I went for the Bs 30 option instead - just kidding Mammy). The mines, it seems, are not the only thing in Potosi which cause crippling disease in return for a pittance.

Next time...

Fishy Basquaise....

The Uyuni Salt Flat; salty, and indeed, flat....

Why Mitch Albom is a total and complete and unforgiveable and unreformable asshole....

Rhyme, Verse, and A Bad Haircut

2006-10-05T17:46:00.000-07:00

To summarise:

Went to the pampas. There were rivers, grasslands, snakes and alligators.

Went to the jungle. There were trees.

Got a haircut.

Flew from La Paz to Sucre, the gem of the Southern Altiplano, and was inspired to write the following, a poor take on "Philidelphia Here I Come!". It sometimes rhymes, sometimes not and has no meter, so its status as a poem is very much in question from the outset. Enjoy.

Talking Aeroplane Blues

Th' other day I packed my bags
And said, "So long, Ma, leavin' on a jet plane!
For some promised land or other
Think John Denver went there too"
So off I flew
All the azure blue beckoning

The girl behind the desk at check-in
Asked if I had anything to declare
Said "No ma'am but you sure would look better if you washed your hair
And lost some of the makeup"
And she slapped me on the face,
Handed me my boarding pass
With an assurance that if any plane were to crash this sorry day
It would be mine, a strike from God's paddle against my foulmouthed ass

The eunach at passport control
Wore a baseball cap and a stern expression
Like a hard-man leotard over a jump suit of depression
And he noted with glee the stamp on my pass that said "IRAN"
And why, pray, had I been there, young man?
"Worked for their government for a while" I said
All innocent, as such
And suddenly four more leotard wearing wrist talking security boys were all around
Didn't think working on a oil field for a while
Could land me in such a bind
It was just for a summer
They gave me one phonecall
I called my mother

"Mam!", I said, "I'm not there yet!"
And she asked how the flight had been
Not having enough courage to inform her of my incarceration
I gave the truth a wild mutation
And everything was fine in this beautiful paradise
Actually a grey room, with a grey man chewing gum
And absentmindedly fingering a gun
So I made it quick with the lies
But much to my surprise
Leotard 1 jumps through the door
And lets me go
Think it was something to do with my Dad being a senator
So in a fit of pique I asked for his name
And his badge, or something
And find out he's my cousin
Uncle Mike is doing just fine
The stroke only knocked out a hand
And his left eye

The baggage people had a look around
And pulling forth the five books I'd brought
Asked, I all seriousness

"What are these for?"

For reading, of course, was the logical reply
But logic, one feels, was far from Johnny Security's mind
And the half-chewed beard I wore
Made me look like "one of them"
And fear filled the room
Like cheap cigar smoke at a Republican Party conference

Before I knew it, the perceived danger was eliminated
John Fante burned to a crisp in a hightech oven for thoughts outside of "regular".
As I waited, I eyed the jugular of the man beside
Fall and rise
As he nervously clutched a bag marked "Coke"
And the boys came back and handed me a book of ethics and morals
Crucial to my survival
Sprung from the mouth of the Lord Himself
Called it "the Bible"

As I settled into two bottles of duty free rotgut
I marvelled again at the plight of poor pitiful me
As the dishwater pisspoor coffee
Burned my throat as I gleefully
Sucked down the last cigarette
Before making transatlantic for the first time

Unsteady on the gangway, boarding pass handed to makeup girl
With a shaky fist and a poem on the back
I stepped into the fuselage with the background clack clack of aluminium on tin
Music to my ears, and almosty on a whim
I hummed "the Great Beyond", a song I hate as much as death
But with each thinaired breath I knew in my heart of souls
That the banishment of this land's woes
Was but a temporary gain
Futher misery, it seems
Lay over this sea of pain

On The Road

2006-09-25T14:18:00.000-07:00

Muchos apologias to the rest of the guys as I was able to upload only this image (of me) before www.blogger.com had a fit. I will upload more pictures from the cycle soon, preferably with a faster connection. This image does give some idea of what the road was like, however.

Sorry Mam.

Further Down The Spiral

2006-09-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

Mary O´Sullivan, You Are Not Going To Like This

The World´s Most Dangerous Road. The Road Of Death. The Road Of Sheer Terror and 1000m Cliff Faces. The Road That Strikes Fear Into The Hearts Of Mothers The World Over.

I´m afraid the boys and I went down it at an average of 40kmph yesterday, on mountainbikes and then drove back up in a rickety GMC van afterwards.

It had taken us a number of weeks to decide whether to proceed or not. The arguement flittered back and forth:

"It´ll be the experience of a lifetime!"
"Yes, but the drop, man, the drop!"
"Okay, admittedly there are 1000m falls to the left hand side, but think of the scenery!"
"A truck went off yesterday, killing the driver, his wife, and their cargo of sheep"
"But the excitement!"
"It´s cursed. Said so in Wikipedia"
"Mary Harney sprung from that valley"
"Have you seen the pictures? "
"Of the Israeli with half his head missing? Went off last year"

In the end stupidity won, and we walked silently to the Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking agency in La Paz, looked at some pictures, examined safety records, cross-examined the staff. Soon enough, we were hyperventilating, signing insurance disclaimers, picking T-shirts and requesting decidedly non vegetarian food for the trip down. Yet more debating:

"You guys are the best, right?"
(Heavily accented English) "We haf nefer lost a customer"
"And injuries? How about injuries"
"Ya, last year we haf a man fall down and break his skull but he was trying to catch a butterfly and was a stupid pixiehead. I am sure you are not pixieheaded focks now, are you?"
"No"
"Gut. You Irish are sometimes stupid pixieheads and I do not like it"

As we settled into restaurant chairs later that night we discussed the wisdom of the decision and agreed it was the correct one. The company we had selected was the longest established and safest of them all and, as darling Sieglinda had pointed out, had never lost a customer. It would be stupendous. It would be a once in a lifetime experience. But, as someone else said, you only have one lifetime. And who could blame us when confronted with this?

As we ascended from La Paz to our start point at 4500m, my heart began to pound and the air started to get thinner. The group made gallows humour jokes and we guffawed at the profound stupidity and danger of what we were about to attempt. We were introduced to our guides, Anne and Rodrigo, and began to feel a little more secure. Anne is 13th in the world mountain bike rankings, and Rodrigo is a member of the Vertigo team, one of the top outfits worldwide. We received a pretty firm lecture on what and what not to do and took charge of our safety equipment and Kona bikes, complete with shock suspension and disc brakes. After an Almayra ritual asking the Earth Mother for protection (swig of 95% alcohol, cry of "Patchamama sancta terra!") we took off on the initial 18km paved highway descent.

What a rush! Cruising at 50kmph around beautifully cambered s-bends with the wind whistling through your ears at 4300m is quite a pleasurable experience, especially when equipped with the best bike money can buy. Pretty soon, the look of terror turned to a broad grin and a little giggle or two, why not? If you are an inch away from oblivion at speed, you might as well allow yourself a little humour.

Cocksure and swaggering, we pulled in for our first drugs check before cursing and spluttering out way through a 6km uphill section which was a little taxing as the oxygen concentration was of the order of 0.00004%. Redfaced and panting we arrived at the entry point to the vaunted, much famed Road and stopped for another lecture. Anne:

"Okaaaay, you are aboot (she´s canadian) to cycle down the most dangerous road in the world! Word of advice! Don´t fuck with it! It has killed more people than Jeff Dahmer on a good day! You are an inexperienced cyclist an a road you´ve never seen before! And do not fuck with me! If I see you cycling in a way that endangers you and those around you I will put you in the bus where you fucking belong! And I do not like accidents! If you fall over the edge through an act of bravado, and survive, I will wait until you crawl on one leg back up to the ledge and then I will fucking kill you myself! And boys- no metaphorical comparison of cock size, please!"

The safety directions are straightforward but they work: don´t be an idiot (as outlined above), park your bike and yourself on the cliff edge, bike outermost, if a car or truck is coming. Obey the whistle at all time (i.e. stop when your guide tells you). Finally, don´t overtake on a blind bend. It was only after the third bend, when the leader of rival company group went over the handlebars while trying to overtake a truck on a blind bend, a sheer drop to his left, did it become apparent how important the rules were. The guy was a total gobshite, unsafe, and putting his entire group at risk.

We zipped off down the mountain at as great a speed as we dared, as it allowed the bike to ride over the large stones littering the track and kept everything going in a stright line. The views were simply breathtaking, but looking at them for too long wasn´t a particularly good idea, as it detracted attention from the road ahead. Everything was dandy, and that old competitive urge began to creep in, especially amongst the boys. That is, until we noticed the crosses marking the final resting places of guys who thought they should be in front. So progress was slower thereafter, but none the less exhilarating. The terrain ranged from altiplano to pampas to jungle as we sped under waterfalls and through rivers, a 1000m drop perpetually a metre to the left. Oddly, the drop became less of a factor; it was apparent that the oncoming traffic was a greater danger. It seems to me that going down by bike is safer than by car- you have greater control, can handle the terrain better, and at the very least can jump off of things are getting a little too exciting. Off the bike that is.

Soon, the end beckoned and we cruised to destination, dust laden, sweat dripping and over the moon. As we sank the best tasting beer of all time surrounded by tropical wildlife, a sense of acheivement surrounded the group and a great whoop went up. We´d survived, unscathed, and would have something to lord over the rest of humanity for the rest of time:

Oh yeah? Well I did the World´s Most Dangerous Road. How´d ya like that?

Muiris´s Top Eleven Rules For Surviving the Road Of Death

1. Go with Gravity. They have the best bikes, the best guides, and a proven record.
2. Don´t do it cheaply. Cheap means standard brakes and no suspension, and death or a broken face.
3. If you think there´s something wrong with your bike, stop and refuse to continue until you are satisfied the issue has been resolved.
4. Wear something to protect your head, your eyes and your lungs.
5. When you encounter a truck, car, or van, stop and park your bike. Don´t try to cycle the tightrope between the 1000m drop and the impatient lorry driver.
6. Cycle on the left, about a metre in from the edge. Do not cycle in the middle or try to overtake on a blind bend.
7. It´s not a race. If you want to show everyone what a big man you are, walk through Jobstown, naked, shouting "Affluence!"
8. Go at a speed with which you are comfortable, but fast enough to ride the bumps safely.
9. DON´T admire the view, take pictures, adjust your waistband, or called your mother while in the saddle.
10. Don´t pretend to be dead. The guides don´t really like it.
11. If you can´t handle it, get in the bus. Noone will call you a chicken.

Other News

Lake Titicaca was as beautiful as expected, as was our trek around the Isla Del Sol, the mythic birthplace of Inca culture. All you need know is the blue of Titicaca is unlike that of any other.

Romantic News

None. All ties to Cusco have been severed, alas.

Canney News

Hair gel futures are down on Wall Street.

Heft News

It is back with a vengeance. Bolivia is Heft Central.

Next Time on this bloody thing that noone reads:

The boys enjoy wildlife in the yunga of Runnebaque....

John informs me that he can kill me with one finger....

Yet more deep thoughts.....

Dave falls for a Spider Monkey named Kevin.....

Photographs!

All this and more on Hefty Women, sending Bolivian truck drivers over the edge since 2006

Twink

2006-09-22T16:01:00.000-07:00

This week´s blog entry is dedicated to the headmistress of panto, the darling of pants, the Salieri to Maureen Potter´s Mozart, TWINK!

It was about time someone gave Agnew a bollocking.

The recorded phone message of Twink berating Agnew ("what are ya like, ya stupid baldy fucker") may be found on www.youtube.com if one runs the search "Twink Goes Apeshit".

God bless her.

Normal service will resume later this week. It´ll be interesting. I promise.

Farewell, My Lovely

2006-09-17T09:56:00.000-07:00

O´Sullivan Checks In

The past week has been fraught with emotion, historical sights, broken Spanish and rabid dogs. I must say it has been the best so far. This correspondant has seen some remarkable things, like a modern day Sir Walter Raleigh, except without the penchant for colonialisation, tobacco, and buggery. But Peru continues to charm, even in the industrial wasteland of Puno (the southernmost point) and before I leave, I feel I must commit a few sights and sounds to the eternal hard drive of internet memory.

John, And A Baptism Of Cusqueña

A curious creature has fallen amongst us, a human frenzy of travel pants and stubble and we shall call him John Garry, preacher of the Straight Path (to the pub), a sadist, a yenta and a mensch. He is the new element, the changed dynamic and we have welcomed him to our midst as a mother would a child to her breast. Thus spoke John when he descended from the heavens at Lima airport:

"Lads. How´s it goin´?"

And the Lord said unto John "Fear not these children of debauchary and sloth for their souls are pure and they shall follow a path if a path is shown them". Thrice John struck the seal of the gourd of Cusqueña and the ground shook with the fearful clatter of the Allmighty. Thenceforth the shepherd of Abbeylawn, Ennis took his lambs to the human morass they call "Up Town" and they enjoyed the honey by the water and the bar and laughed and cried out, for they were truly alive and rejoiced.

For the uninitiated, John Garry is our newest travelling companion, and a gentleman. He hails from Ennis, a childhood friend of He Who Thinks Much About a Great Many Things But Shall Not Speak About Them Until Six Months Have Passed. He is about my height, a civil servent with the Department of Justice and a musical encyclopaedia (one can imagine the conversations). I am glad for his presence as the slightest slathersome drip of inertia had crept into our travels and our new friend has given us a much required metaphorical kick in goolies.

Macchu Picchu, the Sunrise, An Irritating Tour Guide, And Gunther´s Self-Satisfied Grin

It beckoned, it called, it flashed shiny silver dollars in front of us and eventually we gave in to the allure of Macchu Picchu, the Sacred Valley and the tourist prodution line of that corner of Peru. We accepted our fate; the processing, packaging, and forcefeeding of human souls looking for "that unique spiritual experience". Unique inasmuch as 60m people have already seen, heard, and felt what you think is yours to treasure in secret and silence. Unique whereby 60% of your so called awakening consists of listening to Americans expounding vapidly upon theories, ways, gods, and love. Fuck off. Similarly, one has to endure that most hateful of species, that most irritating entity, The Tourist Who Wants To Be First In The Queue At All Costs.

We left Cusco in the halflight under flickering stars and cigarette smoke for Pisac. During and unremarkable bus journey ("oh look, a llama!") our guide described some features of quechua
culture and language. Interestingly, quechua is an onomatopoeic language, in which the sound of the word describes the nature of the subject. For example, the actual word for Chicha (a drink made from fermented corn) is, in the native tongue "Ah ha", descriptive of the sensation of refreshment after imbibing. I found this a little far fetched; having tasted Chicha, I would called it "Ackackackspluffhurl". It truly is terrible stuff, tasting roughly the same on the way up as it does on the way down.

Pisac consisted of a huge semi-agricultural terrace with a collection of temples devoted largely to sun-worship at the summit. The temples were built in the Imperial symmetric style, the architectural mode most often associated with the Inca culture though hardly the most common throughout the empire. It was reserved for ceremonial or royal buildings. John and Mary Quechua more usually made do with mud bricks and thatch.

Ollamtaytambo was more impressive- a steeply terraced structure only partially completed at the time of Spanish conquest. There was something of a Marie Celeste feel to the site, as construction block littered the ground and the beautiful sun temple at the top was only half completed but fully defaced by the Spanish. Across the valley, two corn storage depots acted as markers for the winter solstice and equinoxand between them lay a natural rock formation similar to a man´s face in profile, apparently that of an Inca deity. Far fetched, but plausible.

Incredibly, the rocks used by the Incas to construct the Sun Temple, weighing 20 tonnes, were hauled more than 20 miles from the top of a nearby mountain, accrss the valley below and to the top of the Ollamtaytambo using ropes, tree trunks and human hands. The more I see of Inca culture, the more I appreciate the parallels between Peru and Egypt and the remarkable feats of perfect engineering carried out with the most basic tools.

After Ollamtaytambo, we made for the town centre to wait for the train to Aguas Calientes (Macchu Picchu). There we ate, drank and thought about what we had seen, happy that we had come but pondering a little what we had left in Cusco.

I must describe the walk from the town centre to the train station.We took a left one block down from the main square and stepped into the murk, the night formenting above us, the constellations peeking down like curious children. the road was rocky and ankletwist uneven underfoot and progress was made slowly, gingerly. Suddenly I heard a scuffle, the splatter of light footsteps, and in the haze of the faint carlight horizon, quechuas started to race towards me light brightly jacketed Viet Cong, packs burdening them, their feet light and fast and accurate, their progress quick and sure.

I stopped, entranced by the dust, racing and light and reached to my hip for my camera. The shutter clicked and the lens sucked up all the light it could and the beauty and mystery of the scene struck immortal into my cameratricks memorybox. It made me feel the outsideness of it all again and the happiness is pervasive. Our minds drank rich in the halflight among the cigarette stalls and coca leaf suckers. and the frazzled fragments rearranged themselves into a whole and we carried on along the trainlines to the jewel, the goal, Macchu Picchu.

The next morning at 5.30 we set off for the ´Picchu and as we arrived climbed one of the north facing terraces for a better view. As we sat, the sun began to peek out over the eastern mountaintops flanking this cragclad citadel in the clouds and began to paint the western slopes in the warm glow of morning. In the company of my friends I watched as the sun broke over the eastern ridge and bathed the walls and recesses of Macchu Picchu in light and dark, its rays tramlines straight from the heavens. It is not given to many people to wittness sheer and unadulterated beauty but that day, with the hum of foreign voices and birdsong in my ears ad clean air in my lungs I saw an amalgamated perfection of the union of man and nature and I will never forget it.

Thereafter we climbed Waynapicchu, a peak overlooking Macchu Picchu, and were rewarded with spectacular views of the entire complex, which is shaped like a condor in plan perspective. After our descent, we toured the actual complex by ourselves despite the admonishemnt of out official tour guide. To be quite honest, it was far too beautiful a day to listen to someone natter on for three hours about the relative merits of agrarian economies and the Inca Superman.

"MACCH PICCHU- GRACIAS POR TU VISITA" read the sign flashing past as we crawled back up the valley in search of rest in Cusco. As the klaxon sounded I thought of the glory of the sunrise at Macchu Picchu, the beautiful vista from Waynapicchu, the feeling of total experience and exhaustion, the wine, an alpaca steak, sleep.

And as the old metal dame train puttered up the river I looked around at the faces of the others, the recurring faces over of prevous days:

The Polish Girls
The German Girls
The Argentine Chainsmoker
The "I shall protect you with my life" Boyfriend and "the protected"
"Gunther Picchu", the uptight German who sniggered at us when he saw we were getting on the second bus on the day, and not the first.

It will continue, but we´re on a tourist trail, so so what?

Next on Hefty Women;

What becomes of the broken hearted?
Did our hero learn his lesson?
The Childcraft Trek continues with Lake Titicaca...

The International Language

2006-09-05T15:24:00.000-07:00

Teaching the Irish Male a Lesson Using a Figure of Speech

The past week has been if nothing else educational and cliche ridden. Three Nice Catholic Irish Boys Abroad, initial linguistic fumblings, Passionate and Resolutely Catholic South American Women (worry not, oh mother), ill advised poetry, relentless ridicule by and of various of the aforementioned.... oh, how we laughed.

Our aim was true and pure; to study Spanish in an effort to understand and converse with the local people thereby enriching our trip in multifold aspects. Unfortunately, our teacher did not fulfill expectations. Alas, she was not the mistress of yore clad in brown overcoat with questionable taste in hairstyles and a penchant for Women´s Own reverie between lessons. Instead, we got the statue-esque Carla, a 24 year old Cusqueña. Neruda could have written Cuerpo de Mujer as an ode to her, had the two been contemporaries, and had Chile not been bombing and pillaging Peru at the time of its composition. Suffice to say the following lines describe her with some justice;

Cuerpo de mujer, blancas colinas, muslos blancos,
te pareces al mundo en tu actitud de entrega.
Mi cuerpo de labriego salvaje te socava
y hace soltar el hijo del fondo de la tierra

It is difficult, on occasion, to concentrate on the task at hand. While trying to conjugate ser and estár our collective conciousness ambled unthinkingly towards las blancas colinas y los muslos blancos. We became giggling truant schoolboys, making translatory and linguistic jokes (mi corazon, mi corazon) and the occasional genuinely funny mistake. In describing my job, I said in broken Spanish "mi trabajo es muy difficle, y soy mas duro porque". "Mas duro", it turns out, does not mean "tougher". It means something altogether different.

Whoops.

Teacher´s Pet

A word of warning to the wise; do not become romatically involved with your schoolteachers. In some cases it will be illegal, and in most just plain awkward.

South American woman are passionate, beautiful, and really quite brilliant to be in the company of. But they have rules, rules which must be obeyed by all and comprise:

1. Romance. Do not love you neighbour, under any circumstances, unless your parents are in accord and you have received a papal dispensation.

2. Kissing. Kissing is a socially acceptable pursuit which may be used in the following circumstances:

a) in a nightclub
b) to annoy your older sister
c) as a statement of affection for a significant other
d) to further Irish-Peruvian linguistic relations
e) (special case) as a statement of affection for 24 year old Irish male doctors fulfilling the following criteria:

i) must be 6´1"
ii) must have curly brown hair
iii) must have googley eyes
iv) must be on a 6 month trip around the world to "find himself"
v) must have one parent from Cork and another from Galway, preferably Moycullen
vi) must have facial hair of questionable taste
vii) must have an encyclopaedic knowledge of the following subjects:

a) Bob Dylan
b) World War 2 Tank Technology

viii) must suffer from near-total self obsession

3. Behave in a manner fitting that of an woman in 1950s Ireland. Each man you meet is potential husband material and must be assessed as such

4. He pays for everything

5. Thou shalt absolutely by all means covet thy neighbour´s husband. Remember, she could be getting ahead

Much to my surprise, our dear teacher started kissing me in a local nightclub. I walked her home, got her number and bid her bueños noches with a promise to call.

First Person Singular, Presently Tense

In conventional dating architecture, it is my understanding that you wait at least one or two days before contacting your significant other. It allows romantic rumination, digestion and so forth. A little hiatus to think matters through and make some semblance of a decision, and a plan of action including get-out clauses. Though this may seem cynical, it is a logical and useful strategum, for romantic love is a cold and ruthless science in which the heart, and its damned offspring, emotion, play a limited and frankly meddlesome role.

Obviously I write this in jest but it does make sense to allow a little time for one´s feelings to duke it out . You can imagine my surprise when Carla, accompanied by a friend, turned up at my hostel on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, exactly 12 hours after our previous liason. I will admit, I was a little shellshocked for the first few minutes, thinking:

What are you doing here?
How did you find me?
What is all this?
WHO THE FUCK IS SHE?

We went out for a few hours, her friend regarding me suspiciously all the while. One cafe con leche and a sickeningly sweet peruvian chocolate confection later, she asked the immortal question, the ruination of many relationships, and a particularly terrifying one after only fourteen hours of courtship;

"Would you like to meet my parents later this week?"

What could I say? Having only three days of Spanish, a muddled head, and sick stomach I summoned the only phrase of the language that I knew was effective and subtle enough to politely refuse the offer without hurting her feelings. A perfect poetic phrase, a masterful construct of language, beauty and discretion personified;

"No"

To which she replied;

"Okay. Perhaps next week."

I Won´t Share You

Despite my bluntness, we arranged to meet again. The following night, in fact.
On this occasion, another rule from the Peruvian Woman´s Handbook emerged:

3428. You are the only woman in the world. All others must be purged from his memory.

After calling me her "Irish Angel" (diós mio!), she asked me in a rather straightforward fashion if I had ever been in love. I admitted that I had been so, a number of years ago, and explained the circumstances in what Spanish I could muster. I impressed upon her that it was all in the past, that I had gotten past it, and (warned by her facial expression) wasn´t it great that we had met and weren´t we having a wonderful time?

She stopped talking for a full ten minutes. I tried to coax speech out of her using every trick I knew, puppydog eyes and all. I reiterated that I had forgotten about the other woman, that it was not important, that it was over. Eventually, pouting like Angelina Jolie mid-workout, she said;

"I have a problem"

"What?"

"You are thinking about her"

Oh for fuck´s sake.

The Current State of Affairs

As if the situation were not complicated enough, our new teacher is hugely attractive, engaging and not an adherent of Peruvian Woman´s Handbook.

I like her.

And I think she likes me too. The trouble is, she is a friend of Carla. I know that she knows about me and Carla, and I know that she knows that I know that she knows. In the end result, I would rather like to cruise seamlessly from one relationship to another with the minimum of conflict and then leave Cusco unscathed. Unfortunately, Carla´s father is a member of local government here and is on the state policing board (a fact she proffered very early in our courtship) so any form of messing about is ill advised. Hence the Richard Kimble reference.

My next date with Carla is Wednesday night, and I suspect it shall all come to an end at the fountain in the Plaza de Armas in central Cusco. By the time you read this, I shall be a hunted man.

So you quote love unquote me
Well stranger things have come to be
But let´s agree to disagree
Because I don´t believe you

(The Magnetic Fields)

Cuzco, Are You Stonewalling Me?

2006-08-30T16:11:00.000-07:00

Cuzco: Home of the Inca, Capital of the Empire, Refuge of the Gringo

Despite my previous assertions that I would never travel on an overnight bus again, I cut a deal with the Devil at Ciel Bus Company (fine, ratbastard folks) and found myself on the 8.30pm run from Arequipa to Cuzco. It was another rough, swerveball ride through high altitude, frost, and rioting llamas. Thus the solemn oath was broken, the nose was frozen, the chin dribbled upon, and the stomach assauted by some truly horrific syrup-like coca tea to help with the seeekness amigo. The situation was further aggravated by the old Aztec retribution for previous gringo sins. Rosio accompanied us to the bus station with her boyfriend Paul (nice guy, perfectly affable, want to kill him). They gave us little bags of toffees, and Rosio began to cry. We had all become friends over the previous week, and were sorry to see her go.

At the other end of the Rope of Filth, as the road was christened in my mind, we met the omnipresent omnipotent Marlon, the new player in the Peruvian tour operator oligarchy, and Rosio´s brother. “Hola amigos! I´m Marlon!”, firm handshake, award winning smile. We checked into Marlon´s House, having gotten there in Marlon´s Taxi, probably operated by Marlon´s Cousin and fell into Marlon´s Beds and fell into a deep, deep Marlon Sleep. The hostel is nice, a 16th Century Spanish Colonial building with a central colonnaded courtyard. It´s a little cold, adorned with beautiful fluorescent chandeliers, and has “hot water all day!” if you are willing to risk electrocution standing under the semi-improvised electric shower. Marlon is a genuinely nice guy, though, and we feel a strange little obligation to stay. If our requests of the best room in the hostel, with 24 hour free room service, and a thermal spring in the en suite are granted, we may consider staying. Otherwise, it could be adios amigo. Alternatively, Marlon could find out about our not entirely honourable intentions towards his sisters and it would be get the fuck out of Marlon´s house, amigos. We shall see how this goes.

After the check-in rigmarole, we went downtown to eat lunch in a dive-restaurant affair with a bored waiter, chainsmoking chef and a table of three Yanks loudly yammering about how they had “done” Central America “in like, fucking three weeks, dude”. One hour, some Campbell´s condensed and a forgettable bolognase later, Mark and Dave had a sudden urge to buy middle-aged wool jumpers. Soon they were positively ejaculating over alpaca knitwear with llama designs featuring heavily. Mark bought a nice 55 year old casual jumper, Dave following suit. I bought a scarf and we all received complementary alpaca finger puppets, which came in useful while warding off evil spirits (street vendors); “Knitted hats, amigos? One sol!” “No thanks. Fingers puppets?”. In fairness, the guys were careful not to overdo it, with some justification. While in Arequipa I saw a gringo bedecked in smiling llamas from head to toe. The locals (jeans, duffels coats) were corpsing with laughter.

I like it here. The architecture is Inca and Colonial, the latter often built over the former. It is colonnaded in the centre, and has remnants of the old citadel more peripherally, comprising narrow streets and fabulous masonry, the like of which I have never encountered. Incredibly, the entire civilization was governed from here by the Inca and his four advisors, one for each province; north, south, east and west. The street plan, especially north of the Plaza de Armes is overwhelmingly quechua, narrow and stepped. We visited the Temple of the Sun God (Qorikancha) on top of which is built the Convento de Santo Domingo. I was an Inca temple complex which was partially destroyed by the marauding Spanish, searching for legendary, nonexistent, gold within the temple walls. A large portion of the complex was uncovered in the 1950s, as a consequence of a major earthquake; the Spanish architecture crumbled and the Inca dry stone masonry stood, shatterproof and resolute. Again the architecture was astounding, perfect symmetry, perfect inclines, a beautiful simplicity. No mortar was used. Every thing they built was dry stone constructed on the interlocking male/female principle. The masonry and skill involved in this single union is extraordinary, but when one extrapolated it to walls, temples an cities, the achievement becomes monumental. As Dave inscribed in the comments book at the end of the tour

“Those Incas sure had stones”

This has whetted my appetite for Macchu Picchu, a place I first learned about while reading the Childcraft at the age of six. I´ve spent 18 years wondering what it is like; now I can see the fascination is well founded, and the excitement grows still further in the knowledge that the ruins at Sacchsaywamman and Choquequirao are as impressive and less populated. A putative trek to the latter may prove the highlight of the journey thus far.

I am a child again!

The Level Of Discourse

We are now officially students of the San Blas Language School. The course we have selected is custom designed for travellers who are looking for basic conversational skills and are not hugely keen to delve into Marquez, Neruda et al. We had our first class today and I am now quite confident of manoeuvring my way in and out of a zoo without much difficulty. I can also count to ten, and order a cup of tea, with or without milk. Dave suffered a little; when asked what age had was, he replied “tengo 26 anos” which literally translates at “I have 26 assholes”. That squiggly thing sitting on the occasional n can be mightily important (ñ).

Mark shall write a further review of these classes at a future point. He has been paying especially close attention to our teacher, Carla.

Current Reading

It´s cliché city at the moment. Dave is reading Marquez, Mark is mining On The Road, and I am trying to find my path in life with The Alchemist by Paolo Coehlo. Coehlo seems to be a bit of a shitemonger. I recall watching a documentary about him on TG4 where he was trying to find a seer in Connemara. He wandered around for a while before encountering a sheep, who looked at Coehlo, then glanced left. The bold Paolo went left, and found a bicycle repair shop. Follow the omens, my arse.

Last But Not Least

On careful review of our photographs from the trek, there is an alpaca, or small llama, in the Colca Canyon in Peru which looks exactly like Conor Lynam.

Next time on Hefty Women…

“No gracias señor” becomes an increasingly ineffective way to tell street vendors to fuck off…

The Aussies reappear, with vegemite!

Dave and Mark compare thermal underwear…

Marlon finds out…

All this and more on Hefty Women, unjustly ridiculing Peruvian culture, since 2006

Comings, Goings, Befriendings, and Sore Calves

2006-08-27T10:22:00.000-07:00

Things to do in Arequipa When You´ve Sleep Deprived

Never again shall I step on an overnight bus. They can haul me over coals, threaten me with castration, force me to drink pisco pura, but I shall not be moved. It was torrid, humid, thinaired bumpfest misery, accompanied by a chorus of exuberant Peruvian snoring. Dave acted for a large portion of the trip as a pillow for his bedfellow, and beside me Mark began to sweat and burn in the prodrome of the most venerable of travel afflictions: Montezuma´s (or Athualpa´s, I suppose) Revenge.

And our mood was so excited and childish as we left Nazca, eager for the next leg, the new adventure, the farther shore. Instead we arrived in Arequipa looking like three-day-old lettuce and swearing at the injustice of it all. We were met by the proprietress of our hostel, the incomparably beautiful Rosio. This raised our spirits somewhat, and we checked in, had some coca tea (for altitude sickness, dear Mother, nothing more) and chatted idly with our new acquaitance, Justin the Yank (more of whom later). Mark, looking increasingly like Death´s estate agent, staggered bedwards and passed out. Dave and I followed suit after a light lunch and some Arequipa sun. Goodbye excitable childishness.

The Yank, The Aussies, and Los Angeles Arequipeños.

Picture three Irish boys waiting on a street corner in Nazca, waiting on a bus. A character hovers a few feet away, trying to decipher the accent, wondering if the conversation is complete guff or actually interesting. He decides to join in and here we pick up the plot;

"Hey, you guys going to Arequipa?"
"Yes, all of us"
"Cool. I´m Justin"
"I´m Mark"
"Okay"
"I´m Dave"
"Cool"
"I´m Muiris"
"....huh? Murrt?"
"Merrrish"
"Oh. Okay, cool. So did you guys go to see the Lines today?"
"Yeah, they were pretty amazing. I didn´t really like the video before it though, the guy was an absolute gobshite"
"....Gabshyte?"

It turned out he was taking the same bus, so we shared a cab into Arequipa central and arranged to have a few drinks later on. Hey presto, the guy was interesting. He´s an artist and musician with prodigious knowledge of both, music especially. Conversation topics included baseball, national stereotypes, west coast music vesus east coast music, and of course, the Simpsons. He´s an interesting character, looks like he could have been in the Mothers of Invention, and we all plan to meet in Cuzco.

Imagine further the Irish boys gazing at Jupiter through a telescope outside the Maria Reiche planetarium. Everyone takes turns doing this and I, in my excitement, step in front of a six foot four guy and his girlfriend. I apologise immediately.

"Y´allright, no botha" comes the response in strong Melbournese.

Thinking nothing more of it, we head to Arequipa, only to find the Aussies in the same hostel as us, booking the same trek as us, interested in going for a beer with us. Thus we met Glenn and Cody, our walking partners for the next few days, and genuinely funny, friendly folks. More of them during the trek.

Further to the encounters described above, we befriended the two sisters who run the hostel, Rosio and Maribel. We had been warned by their brother Julio in Nazca not to "try any funny stuff", and to be fair kept our word. This did not stop at least two of us, possibly all three acting like shy teenagers in Rosio´s presence. They are our guiding lights here; friendly, helpful, with greater than usual proportions of dark eye and straight black hair and high cheekbone. Eventually, we asked them out for dinner to which they agreed on condition that they could bring their boyfriends, one of whom sits behind and to the left of me as I type, making me write this in haste. So that was that.

"The Walking Cramp"

It became apparent, as the trek date approached, that Mark was simply too ill to go. It started, as stated, on the bus to Arequipa, consolidated its presence in the hostel and began to taunt poor young Canney with abdominal cramps, fevers, sweats, and the eventual and horrible decision by his intestine to expel that which hath displeased it. Though he improved slightly the night before the trek began, he was back to white bowl blues the next morning. We couldn´t pull out of the trek, so Dave and I went the assurance from Rosio that she would take care of him, including a tummy massage. For a fleeting moment I wished I was violently ill, but thought better of it. So we went with Mark´s assent, though his misery was abject, and our morality questionable. Mark will give his own account, as we were sundered for a few days at that point.

Trekerouac

I am tiring of my writing style, so shall pull the trick of ripping off Kerouac in style, thus breaking the fifth seal of the travel cliche inferno (the others: North Face apparel, constant use of the term "transcendent", dodgy facial hair, and "getting into" the local music despite secretly considering it utter horseshit).

Dramatis personae:

Vladimir Nikoli: our hard driving guide
Glenn and Cody: the Aussies
Dave
Me
Rodolf: an 18 year old qualified pastry chef training to be a pilot, practising his trekking and his English. Believer in UFOs and their creation of the Nazca lines. Nice guy.

Here we go- a bold new attempt to describe the Colca Canyon Trek through the medium of plagiarism

Down, down, down to the bridge at the canyon base, all our breath expended in following the crazy Vlad, tauting us as we went, for he dug misery. Then all of a sudden, Vlad kicked up his heels- "Hmm!"- and ran, Incaman swift, up the impossible incline at impossible speed, dragging our sick souls behind him until we collapsed, heartattack breathcaught. "Come on boys and girls! All like this tomorrow!" and I wanted to kill Vladimir. But he disarmed with smiled promises of dinner and took off up the crazy hill with his crazy grin and the boy and I got all manful, chests paining, and got to our lodgings in about four minutes, some kind of record.

We got to the farmhouse and dug the old man, and his woman, and his lovely browneyed daughter, and dug his little garden, far up out of the canyon, like nowhere isolated and squared and smelled the smell of the wood fire and sipped the coca tea and lashed the Antipodeans, with their talk of boguns, crazy cat characters, and Rodolfo talked about UFOs, and that was fine.

The Boy Dave was talking "Man, I´m just like one of those condors, you dig? I fly around all day and think about all things and see things and know things, but don´t tell a soul, just drift and nest". And I dug this and said I was a condor too and pretty soon we were all laughing and Canney was a hummingbird and Vlad produced a lomo saltado and the tiredness of the trek west that day got all sucked up into the stars overhead as Orion tossed the misery to Scorpio who chewed it up and spit it toward Saggitarius who shot it into the next universe. We were on the outside of the world´s envelope peering in from the archaic into the new. The old man talked about his last trek over the Andes to Cuzco in eight days flat. We drank, drunk on the high altitude and the oxygen suck and it was the fast straight trail of happiness.

Sleeping that night, I had no comfort, three blankets to hide under and my trusty fleece and socks and pants and I was freezing like Achilles and burning like a Promethean tragedy with the sweats and the chills and the fevers , my chest pounding and aching in the dust riddled air. On waking I had a terror of the next walk, the hateful trek, a full day of Vlad the Impaler´s torture. We ate breakfast and descended throught two villages, sun above, rock below and lung dust laden and into the oasis at the bottom of the canyon. There we ate and swan and felt good but sensed the pain of the incline in our minds eye, losing couage by the second. We made gallowsjokes and challenged each other to take the way of the mule, the easy route, but we all did it anyway and the peaked and the glory of or triumph shouted its great whoop over the mountainside. We were back when we started, dear Cabanaconde, citadel of the Fringe Andes, and we talked and ate and slept.

Next morning we set off early to the Cruz del Condor chattering and freezing like lemmings, but not minding as we had a date with skybound majesty. We reached the viewpoint and who was there but the lost boy, the stray cat, out friend with the Achilles gut, striding up to us like Lazarus with a smile of triumph over sickness and of happiness at us all together at the crazy hour watching the condors swoop and wheel in graceful nonchalance. It was a happy reunion.

Back in Arequipa, I gave the now heroic Vladimir 50 soles and he shoot my hand and skipped off grinning like Stalin after a nice satisfying purge.

What a voyage, what a journey.

Or something like that.

Muiris 27/8/6

Next week:

Is Cuzco such hot shit after all?

Is there such a thing as trail rage?

Is Elvis still alive? And living in Sacchsaywaman?

All of this and more in the next edition of Hefty Women, you guide to the soul of the South American tourist industry.

How Do They Do That?

2006-08-26T09:25:00.000-07:00

On The Panamerican Highway, Headin´South

In the words of WB Yeats, it was time to get the fuck out of Dodge. Time to escape from the broke up, broke down, shanty town aesthetic of Lima, and head into the history, the sun, the true Peru. Nazca, baby. The Lines, man, The Lines.

We emerged from under the pall about 200km south of Lima whereupon the sun took a knife to the smog-laced nothing-light and printed the sky with its own design, casting man´s aside. The driver of the bus got a sudden craving for naranjas, and we stopped at a roadside stall manned by brightly clad quechua. It was the middle of nowhere, the desert, with the people clinging to the side of the highway, waving down the traffic, selling oranges, scraping a living. We got out, and felt the South American sun on our faces for the first time. It was late afternoon, and the light was a striking mixture of hues; peach and cream, predominantly, with sun creeping towards rest behind the sand dunes. I felt the warm breeze on the back of my neck and breathed inthe citrus fragrance (the driver was demolishing an orange upwind) and for the first time felt like I was indeed on the far side of the world. A few kids came out from hiding and stared agog at the three far-out gringos staring up the highway into the sun, looking like they´d never before seen light from dark. It was a transition from one world to another, and it felt like paradise at eventime, only with poverty underfoot.

We checked into our hostel, Nazca del Sol, went for a drink, thought deep thoughts, and went to sleep.

Hi. I´m Gino. I´ll be Your Pilot.

The Nazca cocks crew at 6am and ruined a perfectly good dream I was having about being able to slow down time. At 8am we were picked up by a big, gold, beat-up Chevrolet van and cruised on out to the airport. The Lines, baby, The Lines!

After watching a c 1978 BBC documentary about Nazca, hosted by an utter gobshite historian (probably called Tim), we were ushered onto the airfield and introduced to our pilot and guide, Gino. He cut a bit of a dash, clad in airforce whites, and wearing a pair of impenetrable black shades. He grinned, then grunted at us, pointed at a Cessna four seater and told us to get in. Three minutes and one hallucination later, we were flying at speed over the Nazca plateau. Suddenly, Gino banked left at 300m casually pointed left and mumbled "Dere dyou see de wale". As I peeled my face off the inside of the window, I realised we were directly over a giant geoglyph of an orca, or killer whale. Gino grunted again and levelled off, returning his right hand to the dashboard, its natural resting place. We cycled through about fifteen geoglyphs, all brilliantly executed, all monumental. My favourite was the hummingbird, but I was pretty knocked out by the actual lines, especially a 3km long geometrically perfect trapezoid, which extended into the horizon like an arrowpoint to the gods. To think, they executed all this with a few tape measures, simple agricultural tools, and reverence for whatever or whomever kept the rain coming.

There are four main theories concerning the origins of the lines:

1. They were monumental offerings to the gods for fertility and rain
2. They comprised a huge solar calender (Maria Reiche´s theory; more of her later)
3. Thet were a geoglyphic representation of the "shamen´s flight" (holy man takes drugs, believes he can fly, implores local people to give him something interesting to look at while doing so)
4. They were landing strips for little green men.

1,2,3- plausible;
4- utter bollocks.

The Lines, A Sweeping Brush, And A Crazy Old Lady

Maria Reiche. Maria "I´m not leaving until this plateau has been mapped, swept, and tidied up" Reiche. Maria "All I need is a stepladder and some cash to explain everything, and you´ll thank me for it eventually" Reiche. Maria "What´s my line? The Nazca Lines" Reiche.

We went to a lecture in a local planetarium named after the aforementioned. The lecturer expounded on the various theories mentioned above ("the solar calender" one was Reiche´s) while we watched overhead projections of the lines and the stars. The strongest sentiment of the lecture was perhaps the most attrractive; that the meanings of the lines was for the ancient Nazcans alone, not for us. An acceptance of the essentially enigmatic nature of the Lines, I suppose.

Maria Reiche was a pretty cool woman. Originally German, she came to Nazca in her late twenties and devote the next fifty years of her life to their mapping, interpretation and preservation (she swept all the geoglyphs alone, about 600km). When the Peruvian government proposed irrigating the valley (which would have erased the lives forever) she got on a mule, rode to Lima, walked into the parliament building and basically told the entire Peruvian political establishment to cop the fuck on. They did, and the lines are still here.

Ave Maria.

Sitting In the Waiting Room

We went back to the hostel, collected our luggage, and sat in "Los Angeles" a restaurant we had eaten in earlier that day, whiling away the time, waiting for our bus. We actually wound up acting as impromptu waiters. A huge group of tourists crashed throught the door, and the proprietress (whom we had befriended) was clearly in the weeds. We offered to help and in no time were serving up starters to snot-nosed English teenagers. In return, she gave us some biros, but charged us for the beers.

Milk of human kindness, my arse.

Next Week...

The guys befriend a Yank and some Aussies.....

Mark starts to swear at his large and small intestines; they start to swear back.....

The three intrepid hustlers arrive in Arequipa, jewel of the Peruvian southwest........

Two of them fall in love with the hostel proprietress......only one gets a massage.....the "Hefty Women" slur proves increasingly inaccurate....

The third thinks deeply about something he left back in Ireland.....

A canyon is conquered; spirits are crushed.....

Much shite, verbal and otherwise....

All of this, and more, in the next edition of "Hefty Women", your guide to the exciting adventures of three independent souls on a well established tourist trail..

The Joy of Stuff

2006-08-18T18:18:00.000-07:00

All luggage present and correct, and adorned with shiny "Department of Homeland Security" stickers. One wonders how on earth they were delayed in Miami.

It made us realise how dependent we had become on "stuff", possessions. We have become unable to function without books, mp3 players to the extent that despair, boredom, and general sulkiness prevails when we are without. Still, we coped as well as possible, with moodiness kept to a minimum. I will admit, however, that when Mark and Dave had their rucksacks and I was still bereft, I felt like the only fifteen year old at the disco who didn`t get a "shift".

Touristy update

The National Museum of Art and Archaeology was hit today, with the three gringos inflicting some serious muthafucking art appreciation shit. Three civilizations, two thousand years, and several artistic movements later we cruised, artrich arrogant, into the frighteningly chic museum cafe for a few cafes con leches. Dave and I had a high minded conversation about the motivations behind modern art. I constructed a tenuous arguement concerning the necessity for modern art to exist so that " those feelings, emotions that cannot be expressed through word or thought or sound and must be conveyed through the visual form". We then realised that we sounded like characters out of Dawson`s Creek sucking on Taschen poster books and left.

Que es esta?

The language barrier continues to contrive against us leading to much hand waving, finger twirling and eyebrow ruffling. The situation will hopefully be addressed in Cusco, where we plan to do a language course for two weeks. The most critical situations are generally in restaurants when a syllable seperates Mark from "vegetables" and "anaphylactic shock and near death". Understandably, we are being cautious.

Steve

was roasted on a spit by the locals. I provided the barbeque sauce.

Food

Contrary to Diarmaid`s assessment ("It`s all chicken and chips. Everywhere") we`ve had a few decent meals, including the mandatory steaks (we are three men on holidays after all) and some seafood dishes today. In general the dishes are pretty straightforward but the ingredients are fresh. And they are uniformly as cheap as second hand newspapers. We haven`t taken to street eating yet but I`m we`ll come around.

In all, we`re past the initial shock, stress, and American Airlines fuckups, and feel capable of getting along in most situations. The Nazca lines beckon on Sunday. I shall update then.

By the way, Dave grinds his teeth while sleeping, and Mark incessently mutters something about Noel Edmonds. I will investigate further.

Adios, buenes tardes, chao

Muiris

Lima, Pollution, and Lost Luggage

2006-08-17T12:36:00.000-07:00

As promised by the airline, we have arrived in Lima. Unfortunately, our bags have not. Therein lay all my phone numbers and email addresses so I shall rely on this blog to keep you all informed for the time being. It will be updated by Dave, Mark or I on an ongoing basis. Please let us know if we are:

1. Talking utter drivel
2. Being plain offensive, in title or entry
3. Making you feel jealous

The flight over was pretty fraught. We were surprised at check in in Dublin- the woman behind the counter (makeup, blonde hair, scowling, bitter, incompetent) informed us that the "plastic bag rule" still applied and that we were not allowed to bring hand luggage with us. We argued to the contrary, she was adamant, so the plastic bags were duly packed with passport, money, and credit cards and we boarded the plane. We checked our luggage through to Lima, said our prayers and jumped on the plane.

On arrival at Heathrow, EVERYONE had carry-on luggage. It was fucking carry-on city! So we ran for our transatlantic flight muttering curses and ruing the loss of books, mp3 players etc. Thankfully, British Airways had a good selection of films, including the Wind That Shakes The Barley. I watched four films in all, but fell asleep right before Ethan Hunt willingly electrocuted himself in Mission Impossible 3. Boo.

Miami was a bit stressful, as we had little time to get to our connecting filght. Another run, more swearing, and an excruciating wait at check in behind a Peruvian family who were at a loss to understand why their tickets from the 10th didn´t still entitle them to a flight on the 15th. Regardless, we made the flight, on which Mark was propositioned by a sixteen year old- "I know a bar we could go to, Irish boy".

At Lima, no luggage. More cursing, less running. We arrived at the hotel (Hotel Espana, Jiron Azangaro 105, Lima 1 Phone (511) 4285546) at 1am. In all, we´d been travelling for about 24 hours, and slept accordingly.

The next day, we picked ourselves up and were heartened by the news that one of the bags had been found and would be delivered by cab later that day. We got "shittered up" (bought local currency) and went walkabout around Lima. An old woman dressed in a hospital scrub top shouted "putas gringos!" at us within five minutes. We were a little paranoid for a while thereafter, but on the whole the people seem friendly and the no-go areas clearly marked, so we should be fine. There is a very heavy police presence in the city centre, which is reassuring but disquieting. they look like hey are waiting around for a coup d´etat.

So far we´ve see the Plaza des Armes, Plaza san Martin, the Cathedral, some of the govermental and administrative quarter, and a pretty impressive market with brilliant looking produce (meat and fish). I wish my luggage would arrive so I could be reunited with my knives, frying pan, and portable stove.

Otherwise, I´m not madly keen on Lima so far. There doesn´t appear to be a lot to see, it´s constantly overcast, and the pollution is pretty woeful. We plan to head north as soon as our bags arrive. In addition, we want to get way from Steve, who is the quintessential English tourist- has been everywhere, has done everything, knows everything- and doesn´t mind talking about it ad nauseum. I shall look out for this peculiar breed on my travels. "Situation´s changed Canney; take my llama gun and hand me my bore rifle¨.

Muiris

We´re Landed

2006-08-17T12:25:00.000-07:00

The inaugural post of Hefty Women, named after the phenotypically unique South American femme fatale. Hope you enjoy. Will update soon.