Asylum Monologues

Ok this is a vanity thing, but it's also something I feel strongly about. The asylum process in this country is fucked and I have got involved in a group called Actors for Refugees. We've been operating for a couple of years in this country now, and the coordinator is an absolute powerhouse of a woman called Christine Bacon, who originally set it up with great success in Australia.

One of the things I should mention is that the company is woefully short of men. Actresses seem to more frequently give a shit about "things" whereas actors tend to veer more towards "beer" or "football". which count as "things" but are perhaps less pressing. But then I know loads of guys who do give a shit about "things" so if you do check out the website for Asylum Monologues. For those of you who know Sarah Masters, it's an offshoot of Ice and Fire, her company. For those of you who know me, there's a brief clip of me doing it on the video at that link - it starts around 1:55 and goes on for no more than 30 seconds. Enjoy. X

Grievances

Does your boss undervalue the work you do? Are you overworked? Do you not get enough time to see your family?

FEAR NOT. Soon there will be a new video that will help you understand better how to file a GRIEVANCE.

Bosses! If you need to know how to go through the grievance process, follow the hi-jinks of Jed and David and Natalie and their unnamed wives and partners as they file grievances and have loving conversations in kitchens.

Coming soon at Aspina. Starring Alex Barclay as David.

David has a family! His daughter Sienna is growing up by the day!! His son Ben has taken to building cardboard tanks that he never gets to play with. Laugh, cry, and shit-yourself with him as he talks to his boss Jed.

Also starring the incredible Kevin B as "grumpy extra". I used to have a link to his website and his full name, but after a man I namechecked in an earlier post left a string of remarkable comments, I felt it was kinder to avoid using his full name.

Kevin played the lead in Poliakoff's "Remember This" at the National, although the website cruelly fails to credit his work. He trained at RADA, although his CV does not state this. He occasionally does extra work in corporate videos where he looks like thunder for ages. When asked in a friendly manner - "did you know what you'd signed up for," he will respond "I should think so - I went to Bristol Old Vic and RADA."

Ok this man is a warning to actors. He probably does have credentials BUT... I really don't give a toss how desperate you are - unplug drains, clean up shit with your tongue, be someone's gimp. Don't do extra work. It WILL kill you inside. If you're not an actor, GO FOR YOUR LIFE! The money is great if you don't have self-worth wrapped up in the work.

Bless him. Give him a part.

I had fun on that job, although I stayed two nights in some hideously awful faceless golf motel in Suffolk, and was already feeling like Alan Partridge by the time I left.

The Nokia N95 is a piece of SHIT

My dear friend Whatleydude - otherwise known as James Whatley - advised me to get an N95 when I upgraded my mobile phone. This is Nokia's latest offering. It is massive, heavy and delicate. The screen is huge and the battery is weak so it runs down daily. It crashes every day at least once, it takes ages to switch on, it keeps freezing, the operating system makes no sense, the GPRS doesn't work, when it is fully charged it beeps and wakes you up, the camera is very very slow - (but good quality - as is the web browser) - and I have had it for less than a month when the microphone stops working completely and I have to take it into a Vodafone shop for repairs.

In the Vodafone shop the guy at the door points me over to the help deck and I stand in the queue. When I get to the front the guy says - "hang on I have to call out the customer numbers". He bellows the number 342. I wonder what the hell he is doing. I have no number. The bloke behind me does though, and it's 342. He says to the guy - "it's okay, let this man go, he was before me." The assistant in the shop looks at the bloke who has stood up for me, and something explodes in his brain. A membrane passes over the front of his eyeball. He tics briefly like faulty digital video. Then after a pause he bellows 343, ignoring both me and the bloke with the number. A teenage boy leaps up and crashes past us oblivious, full of hormones and the joy of life. I object loudly. Mad shop guy ignores me. I lie down spead-eagled on my back in the middle of the store in protest. The bloke next to me sits down beside me.

I have never lain on my back in the middle of a crowded store before. It's curious how much attention it can draw, considering it is such a passive thing to do. Within a minute the manager is talking to me but because I am being very polite he doesn't quite know what to do, so he helps me.

All this was after a horrid audition, hence my state of mind. I went up for the part of The Fireman and The DJ in "Mrs. Norris Plays it Safe" - an educational play for the elderly. I want it because the company is good and I am broke. But I found myself having to lie in the crazy PR firm because they are all lovely and politely interested in my career and I couldn't bear telling them I'm taking a half day to audition for something like that. I always feel awful after auditions. And I did the old - "Well then, good luck with it all" again. Must learn to practise what I preach - I quote my rather smug "actors have no business being shy."

But that's off the subject. The subject being The Nokia N95 is a piece of SHIT! For fuck's sake Nokia your brand can only hold you up for so long. Make a decent phone next time. I'd go back to sony tomorrow if I didn't have to wait another 11 months for my contract to go up for renewal. I now have to carry around a "courtesy phone" which is, dare I say it, even worse that the N95. In fact fuck it, I'll stick to my guns. It's probably better. But I have to give it back in a week when they've fixed my one.

Grubbing for pennies

Back to the money-grubbing. It's looking like I might get a good tranche of work doing the auditions at my old drama school. I did my first day yesterday and it's amazingly interesting. Also good for my ego, as one of the candidates had seen me in something and recognised me. I did my best to pretend not to be surprised. Essentially you meet lots of hopeful young people and occasionally get to witness one of them doing something wonderful in the most depressing basement room in the world ever. I had a 17 year old lad from Salford go completely and utterly mental all over the place as Mercutio yesterday - so completely all over the place that he gave himself a stitch the poor love. He was the only one to get recalled and it was a close thing. He had to convince people that he wasn't completely insane and that he could be simple and honest. I find myself having to do the same thing sometimes. Bless him though - doing the auditions can be profoundly depressing if nobody does well, but all it takes is one rough diamond to make the whole day worthwhile. And you learn how boring it is when people are afraid of themselves. Actors have no business being shy.

Even bigger houses.

I just got back from Norfolk. The day after I returned from Peru I found an email from my agent suggesting I should have a look at a proposed audition for the part of Victor in Private Lives. I had been agitating to get seen for a part in Present Laughter at The National, so by comparison this was something of a disappointment. Added to which was the fact that the money wasn't great and I was emotionally completely fucked. Nonetheless it seemed like a good idea to go along to the audition, principally because the place they had chosen was right next door to my opticians so I could order some new contact lenses after my glasses made their suicide dive into the Amazon. So off I trotted, convinced myself I had totally muffed the audition, and thought no more about it. I even went so far as to tell the director - "Good luck with it all, then" as I was leaving. Typically, in true audition form, the ones you think you've buggered are the ones you get. So it was two weeks of rehearsal and then off to Norfolk for two shows at the disguistingly vast residence of - correct me if I'm wrong - David Rock-Savage, the Marquis of Cholmondely. I say it was his residence - actually it's his shooting lodge. Which is humungous. And full of deer, which come right up to the house. And stunningly beautiful. And full of amazing pictures and clocks and carpets and chairs. Oh god I want to marry him.

We were performing in The Stone Hall, which was carefully selected as the most echoey room in the whole building. And it was a bloody marvellous job. A great play in a great place with great people. We were given digs at a B and B run by the goddess of food, a sweet, loud and virtually completely deaf christian called Janey, who bellowed at us merrily all evening while cramming meat down our throats with a plunger. As the week went on the cast grew more and more hysterical, and I think our sanity was only saved by the sad fact that we were only there for a week. Nonetheless it was packed out every night, and even though Prince Charles didn't show at the last minute - (This is the second time I've missed him. I think he's avoiding me.) - we raised over a good ten grand for FARA. So next time I go out filming in Romania I expect to see some jolly grateful orphans what ho.

Being back in the smoke is strange. I miss the good local produce, the dogs and sometimes even the fact that everybody howls instead of speaking. Still I wouldn't mind moving out there some time.

Big Houses

My chum Ellie is married to a lovely man who has a nice old house in the Scottish Borders - rather like Westerton for those of you that know it, and in a similar area - it's wonderfully eccentric inside, but virtually devoid of furniture at the moment. So Ellie filled it with actors from The Actor's Temple, doing Chekhov. Abigail and her sister Alex and I drove up in a sick pimp electric blue convertible car - was it a peugeot of some sort?? It was ghastly, yet hilarious. And we watched the show. I love The Three Sisters, so it was no chore to zoom so far to see it, and the three of us had a fantastic time, and camped in a walled garden in the grounds of the house.

After the show we drove around and got tangled up with a load of bikers on a memorial ride. Once upon a time there was a biker called Steve Hislop. He was someone I was very aware of growing up on the Isle of Man, and he died in a helicopter crash in The Scottish Borders at 41 after winning the TT something like 11 times. So the roads were completely blocked with fans from all over the place, all in their leathers and stinking and drinking, and occasionally exploding. Which was a problem as two of them chose to explode close to where we were heading so we had to change our plans. We were going to go and see a waterfall called The Horse's Arse colloquially, and The Mare's Tail in the guide books. All the roads were closed as they picked up the pieces. So instead we went for a drive and found a fucking huge great tibetan buddhist temple. In the middle of the gloom of the Scottish borders. Complete with big gates and a wishing tree and Buddhas galore and prayer wheels and peacocks. So I went and sat cross legged for a while with Abi and Alex and emptied my mind of bad thoughts as far as I could manage in the time I had.

The next day took us to Alnwick House and Gardens in Northumberland. This is testament to marriage being important for the aristocracy. The Duke of Northumberland is known as "the reluctant duke." He didn't want to be duke, we are told by a volunteer helper-person. He just had greatness thrust upon him. "Dammit," thought he. "It is my desire to sit in my pants and watch daytime television. It is my will to shoot small birds. I need not this house and grounds to maintain." Thankfully, the Duke had married the great goddess Gaia. She squeezed people until all their money fell out and then used it to build an incredible garden - and she's still at it. There's a poison garden where she has managed to wrangle permission to grow hemlock and weed and various opiates for educational purposes. There's a water garden where she has persuaded a water artist to come and show off his structures. The structures are great, but the explanations are disappointingly pretentious and uninformative. There's a huge great big landscaped fountain which jets off blasts of water every half an hour. There is a great deal to see, and much more planned. All said it was a great stopover and if you're around Northumbria pop by. There's even a big treehouse where you can eat in a lovely looking restaurant with a fire in the middle and a chef that ought to be hanged drawn and quartered for serving such horrendously mediocre food in such a wonderful location.

Weekends rock.

The day I died

I woke up this morning after a drunken fondue the night before with a lump on my tongue. It looked rather odd, so I went on the internet to see what it might be. "tongue lump" I put into google. That ought to help me put my mind at rest.

I get this: http://www.doctorhoffman.com/wwlump.htm

Q: I have recently noticed a lump in the right side of my tongue, approximately 1 inch back from the tip. I cannot get in to see the doctor for a few days because of the holidays, and was curious if you could help me narrow it down. It does not hurt, nor does it protrude from my tongue. If I pinch my tongue, I can feel it in there. In size, it is about the size of a pea, or possibly a fraction larger.

A: One of the odd little facts about the tongue is that cancers arise far more frequently on the borders (sides) of the tongue than on the dorsum (top surface) of the tongue. The bottom surface of the tongue can also occasionally give rise to cancers, especially in folks who chew tobacco.

Small tongue cancers usually look like ulcers (small craters with "raw" centers) but can also be nodular (a nodule is a firm ball). Since this lump is on the right side of your tongue, my first concern is that this might be an early tongue cancer. The only way to know for certain is to have the lump biopsied. Your doctor will inject a little bit of local anesthetic into the area of the lump and will then cut out all or part of the lump. This is not much fun, but neither is it as painful as it sounds.

The main risk factors for tongue cancer are tobacco use (smoking or chewing) and alcohol use. Tongue cancer tends to occur in older folks, but young people– even teenagers– have been diagnosed with tongue cancer. Survival of tongue cancer is critically dependent on early diagnosis and treatment-- so do not delay in seeing a doctor! Tongue cancers spread rapidly to the lymph nodes of the neck; even for very small tongue cancers, the doctor must consider treating the neck (either surgically or by radiation therapy) to eradicate lymph nodes that may be cancerous.

So... see a doctor QUICKLY. And if you do use tobacco or drink excessively, this little lump (even if it is not a cancer) should serve as a wake-up call for you to QUIT.

I am going to die. Clearly this is the only possibility. A little more research on this terrible cancer proves to me that I only have a very short amount of time to live. I may be saved by surgery that would remove most of my tongue and half of my neck. Shit shit shit shit shit. I haven't written my book yet! My books!! How will I ever get that part at The Globe with half a tongue?? I'll be reduced to playing people with half a tongue if I live. What roles are there for people with half a tongue. I can't think of any. Shit shit shitshitshit shit. I need to go to the doctor. Biopsy - that's the solution. They can catch it early. Then maybe I won't die. Oh God I split up with my girlfriend. I'm going to die alone. Must call her! No I mustn't worry her. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Okay think straight. I don't have a doctor. Get a doctor. Which doctor? There's one down the road - my brother uses it. Get him to call. Make an appointment. Run to the doctor. Register. Oh god the nurse is going to see me now. Oh fuck ok keep it together, Al. She's taking my blood pressure. Why is she taking my blood pressure? She doesn't like the reading. Oh shit, she's asking me if I'm stressed. NO! I'm dying!! Look at my tongue?! She looks. Gargle with TCP she recommends. FOR CANCER!! You FOOL!!!! Okay it's fine. It's not cancer. I'll just go home and bring up some photos to make sure. Here are the photos - they look the same as my lump. Shit what does she know she's a nurse not a doctor. I'm going to die after all!! Oh god I need to go to hospital. Maybe a dentist will be able to do it - they could use their dental needles to numb my tongue. Then maybe i'd be able to play those half a tongue people. Hey maybe with half a tongue I won't be able to act anymore and I could actually allow myself to get a job where I make real money. That could be good! But not if I die. I need money for an emergency dental appointment. I haven't got my card. I'm near my brother's house. He'll lend me money. My brother looks at my lump, and then passes me to his wife for a second opinion. I stick my tongue out. She looks. "I get those all the time" she says. CANCERS!! All the time!! My god how does she look so healthy. I get a cup of tea. Slowly my brother persuades me that I am not going to die. Oh thank you lord, thank you. I am saved.

The good thing is I am now registered at a GP so next time I am going to die I can get saved quicker. I think everyone should have a paranoid delusional brush with death from time to time. It helps you realise the things that are important, and gives you a kick up the backside.

Donegal in the Irish Mist

I had a brilliant weekend with Harriet in Donegal. We went up THE HIGHEST CLIFFS IN EUROPE, and couldn't see a bloody thing because of the deep deep fog and howling wind and spitting rain. In August. So we stood right on the edge and leant over trying to see the sea and seeing instead a wall of white wind rushing up the vertical face. We stood far closer than anyone would feel comfortable to stand, because it looked like there was just a big white pillow below us. Now I realise that bungee jumping is probably more freaky than skydiving, because you can see the ground and it looks close enough to hurt lots. After a while we gave up on the cliffs because the fog was never going to lift, so we moved on a to a little village which has a pilgrimage route of ancient celtic crosses. The fog promptly lifted, of course. The village was hilarious. Glencolmcille it was called, I believe, and we were following a pilgrimage route around many ancient stone "stations" and a well. We followed the sign in the village to the well, and eventually ran into a large gaelic shepherd, who slipped from gaelic to english with fluidity and ease. Gaelic was for his friends and his dog. We explained we were lost. He explained that he had moved the sign to point in the wrong direction because he was fed up of Americans coming through his land in their cars. He then pointed us up the hill to the well, which is surrounded by a vast pile of stones - all the pilgrims bring three stones. The well itself had an altar where things of value had been left, clearly as prayer offerings. I said a few prayers, and then rummaged around in my wallet for something appropriate to leave. AH HA! My discount card for The Hen and Chickens theatre in Islington. Perfect! It still has some negligible value, and it's about my career which needs a turn up. So I popped it there, and there will it lie until it decays or someone nicks it.Then we had a big fat tasty meal in a twee but comfortable hotel in the village of Portnoo - http://www.lakehousehotel.ie/ Good food, and yet probably quite expensive for the area. The next morning it was frolicking on the beach and wading through a vast pile of hermit crabs to a small island, where I found a big snail shell. Brilliant!! I chucked it in the water, so one lucky hermit crab can find it and be the Uber-hermit crab. Harriet did loads of gymnastics on the beach and it was fun.

On the way home we stopped in an ancient stone circle built for the feast of Beltane. If it had been in England it would have been full of people, but no. It was in the middle of a working field with nothing but a plaque and a whole hell of a lot of pagan sheep shitting on the ancient earth-grass in the middle. But there was a lovely view.


By the time we got back to Belfast we were both feeling relaxed as if we had had a proper holiday. And I got to fly business class back! All said a brilliant holiday courtesy of Harriet who sorted the flight out on her work and did all of the driving and was superb company for a couple of days exploring Ireland!

Brief Hiatus

I got back to London and the weather is unutterably terrible. It's August. These things should be banned. I then had some shit happen to me which I am not going to go into here, but which has been a deciding factor in my having no desire to blog anything since I got back. I would just have gone on about equations. If x + y = (ab), then z. If x + (ab) = y squared, then z. If x = y, then z. Always then z.

Anyhow in this murk I have been rushing around auditioning for stuff with various results, as well as working in a PR firm as general dogsbody and doing educational theatre for Islington council. We had to devise a piece about street safety and present it to a room full of hyperactive children. It was me and Kesty and a girl called Vanessa. It turned out to be a lot of fun only because it was completely nuts. But the second half was about nutrition and I think it got a bit out of hand, since there were three actors involved in a discussion about nutrition. If you want someone to teach your children about nutrition and you could choose from any profession in the world, surely the last one that anyone would choose apart from serial killer is actor.

PR is a bizarre business. It sounds terribly legitimate, but at heart it is nothing but bribery. Friendly, charming and well spoken bribery. It makes you realise that there are very specific perks to being a journalist, since there's a whole industry snapping at your heels and trying to give you free things so that you like them more. Of course I am merely the man who fixes the sliding doors and photocopies and stuffs envelopes and arranges boxes, but it's fascinating to see this fluffy steel machine that goes on all around me. And I have to bear in mind that it's not all bribery, even if it seems that way on a brief acquaintance. Why am I fixing these shelves and carrying these boxes? Because all the girls in the office have perfected the "make that man do something for me" voice. I get brainwashed. It sounds like a great idea. It's nice to do a job where I don't have to question, and it makes me realise how easy it must be to lose sight of yourself in repetition. I only did it for one day as well. Chances are I'll be back though. The woman who runs the firm is brilliantly understanding of the protean nature of my work, as well as being brilliantly understanding of the vast hunger-monster that hides in my wardrobe when I'm not working and that I fear will leap out at me one day and make me devour myself.

Just because I can I've put up a photo of me on a swing in Vancouver. To remind us all that we like swings. And that there is such a thing as summer.

Chums and totem poles

Vancouver would be a much better town if it wasn't so horrendously expensive. The taxi from the airport cost me more than all the taxis I'd taken in Peru. I arrived in Yaletown where my best mate Dan's wife Minky works, and had a few huge lagers while waiting for her to finish work. I was peckish, and was unable to find anything on any menu anywhere that wasn't gargantuan, so I had to make do with liquid lunch.

From a tourist point of view my favorite part of Vancouver was the Museum of Antropology. This is located on the biggest university campus I have ever seen, and is a testament to how much space there is in Canada. It is a vast glass and metal structure crammed with totem poles from the restrained Musqueans, the figurative Haida and the completely over the top Kwakwakawak. I like them the best, partly because of the silly name and partly because of the brilliant dramatic sculptures. All the sculptures tell amazing stories passed down in the oral tradition, but only people who are born into the right tribe are allowed to know the stories, so all Joe Tourist can do is wonder why that bear is holding that bloke and what might happen next. (The picture is of a modern work in the Haida tradition called The Raven and The First Men.) There is plenty of information about how the British tried to wipe out the oral tradition and homogenise the aboriginal cultures by preventing them from holding Potlatches, which were clearly very important ceremonies to celebrate marriage, victories, and anything else. It made me feel quite guilty. Ironically the whole of Vancouver is involved in a more insidious homogenising project from the USA. There is a street where two Starbucks are opposite each other, with another just down the road. Worse than London.

From a personal point of view it was good to see my friends and come back to western culture. At least I got the culture shock out of the way before the jet lag kicked in. The last day was spent on the beach in the blazing sunshine, sneakily drinking beer from the cooler, as it's banned in public, and swimming in the sea. The perfect end to a crazy holiday.

Oh and we went to the auquarium and they had whales! Beluga whales, with an underwater viewing area so you could see their blubber wibbling. I worried myself a little about how they go about catching the whales, as for the most part their ages are approximates which means that they were caught. It is good to instil a respect for nature in people, but at what cost? What percentage of the whales die in the attempt to get them to the aquarium? Here's a piccie of one anyway.

Long live my Dad

My father taught me that when you fly you should always dress in a suit and arrive as late as possible. This maximises your chances of an upgrade to first class. And it worked. Besuited, I crashed the gates at Lima as late as I was comfortable and made sure I was the last to board the plane. And just as I walked onto the gangplank, my boarding pass was seized and replaced with one for Business class. SCORE! Big seats, metal knives and forks, as if your average terrorist is only going to travel steerage, and wee tiny ceramic salt and pepper shakers. And free booze and big seats. So I got tanked on gin and then passed out. Oh joy.

Muyuna and me

Having spent a day and a half in Iquitos sweating like a pig and fighting my way through touts, all of whom are hungry for my blood, I choose a jungle lodge for my six day expedition. I have some small misgivings before I leave, as all of the lodges had showed photos of fat Americans with cameras and baseball hats groping dolphins and sloths. I don`t want to grope the animals. The lodge I choose is Muyuna Lodge. I choose it for a number of reasons. It focuses on conservation. It doesn't offer commission to the legion of touts that infest the town. It is 130km upriver, and I want to get as far away from Iquitos and civilisation as possible. A little hint to anyone planning on going out to the jungle from Iquitos : No need to book ahead. Seriously, most of these lodges are busting for custom and have plenty of space. Even the big ones are going to be hard to fill. If you just show up, you'll always get a reduction on price. Although Muyuna is not an easy haggle.

The lodge is built in the local style, entirely from locally available materials. Recycling occurs and most food is from the jungle. The chef is a genius - utterly incredible. There was not a meal that wasn't superb. It is located on the Yanayaku river. Yanayaku : yaku = black, yana = water. Yanayaku is a tributary of the Amazon and just a short boat trip from the major river itself. It is built on stilts, but at this time of the year the water is very low, so all of the flooded forest can be walked in. The guides will often point to the waterline on the trees, some six feet above my head, and my imagination goes wild at the prospect of the vastness of the Amazon at high water.

Muyuna has a good selection of boats, which are driven by villagers from the local village. The language in which Yanayaku was named has been all but lost. The villagers speak heavily accented Spanish. But I'm getting ahead of myself. This is going to be a very long post.

Day One

I am met at my hotel by a smiling potbellied man of about 46 who introduces himself as Julio. He is full of vitality and laughter, and we bundle my vast bag into a mototaxi and drive ten foot down the street to the docks. I am bombarded by people thrusting water bottles into my face, and am so busy fending them off that I overlook the fact that I need some.

A speedboat is waiting for us, and I am glad to see it is full, as the less fumes per person the better. But I begin to worry I may have booked the wrong holiday. I assumed that the relatively high price tag on the lodge was down to some sort of conservation tax, but there is a clean cut American family on the boat - young parents, two identical children, bible school T-Shirts who I instantly dub Tweedledum and Tweedledee - and they have come all the way from Colorado to sit in front of me.

"Mummy, when am I going to see a piranha?" asks Tweedledee.
"Soon," replies daddy. And yes - every question is asked to mummy and answered by daddy. I used to do that too. Poor fathers.

"Mummy, do piranhas eat fish?" I liked that one, as it met with silence until the guide piped up with "They eat meat."

Not having enough room to jump out of the boat in the hopes they eat me too, I brazen it out as Tweedledum pipes up with the question that has been troubling him since we got on this boat in the Amazon.

"Is Ice Age 2 called The Meltdown?"

So now I know I prefer Tweedledee. (Their real names Dorian and Julian. Is that any better? Perhaps.) Dorian asked at one point what The Picture of Dorian Gray was. His parents didn't know.

The Amazon is teeming with life. Less than ten minutes into the river the boat stops and we watch a pair of river dolphins. These are not a rarety as they are in the Yangtzee. They are easily found and observed.

Later we pick up a man whose boat has broken down and drop him off in the middle of nowhere so he can get help from his village. Right next to where we ground the boat is a shocking green lizard watching us. It is 100 per cent definitely not an Iguana.

"Iguana! Look!" pipes up Julio, our guide.

3 hours later we are at the lodge. After about two hours travel the sightings of boats and people have dwindled. As we enter the Yanayaku we disturb a shoal of fish, and they jump high in the air. One of them narrowly misses my face, and slaps hard into the nose of the man who is sitting at the back of the boat feeding the engine. He laughs.

At the lodge it is close. Hot. We are met with towels and lemonade.

"Does that drink have alcohol in it?" asks Tweedledum.
"Does that drink have alcohol in it?" I ask too. Only one of us is happy with the answer.

Lunch is a platter of jungle foods - (Jungle "spaghetti" insists Luis who serves us. It's a vine, but we are not told its real name. Everything is westernised for the yanks.) I sit next to an English couple who are sharing my guide with me. I know them now to be called John and Liz. I have an individual hut with a double bed - number 11. There is an ensuite bathroom with loo and cold shower and sink, and a balcony at the back with a hammock. And a hornets nest in the roof, above the all round mosquito netting.


In the afternoon Julio takes us on a jungle hike, as he calls it. It is more of a well travelled path round the back of the lodge. A gentle rain begins to fall, but not enough to discourage the mossies. Julio talks constantly this first day. He blends folklore and knowledge with a sense of humour to create a charming - if occasionally flawed - narration. We find a centipede, encouraged out by the rain. It crawls on me. We find "bullet ants". They are very big and look like they would bite like hell. Julio tells us how midday sun kills them in seconds. He is a farmers son from an Amazonian village, so he is very good on pests. I can believe the sun will kill them - they are black and large and probably can't process heat too well. Ants are in great supply - we find a huge leafcutter ant pile, and see them all at work, 2 to a leaf. The big one carries and a wee one sits on the leaf and makes sure there are no wasp eggs on it before it gets taken into the nest. Clever. The leaves aren't food. They are used to grow fungus, which is.

We then find some pygmy marmosets. They live in families on one tree, gradually killing it by boring little holes in every spare inch of the bark to suck out the sap. They are very very little and scamper like squirrels. We also wake up some nocturnal monkeys, and we hear some howler monkeys, but Julio tells us we'd be lucky to find them. Also there is a frog, that does a great job of looking like a dead leaf.

I retreat to my cabin, pleased that there is some wildlife living close to the camp. Since I've been gone they have put kerosene lamps in. I sit and write my diary on a big wooden table in my cabin surrounded by the evening sounds of the jungle - frogs, crickets and night birds. Stunning. After dinner Julio trys to find some caiman, and fails. But I am happy to be on a boat at night out here.

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Day 2 begins bright and early to go birdwatching. This is Julio's speciality. He is quick to spot and quick to name, and reference to the bumper illustrated book of Peruvian birds shows no inconsistency the first five times so I lie back and trust him. I liked the "ruffliated?" Tiger Crane myself. Odd shape. Julio tells us it roars like a tiger, hence the name. It is also coloured much like a tiger. I do not hear it roar.

Julio does not like being asked questions by me. Usually he responds to my questions with a little laugh. I am not deliberately asking him difficult questions, but I am intensely curious and he is the best knowledge base I have. As the day goes on I begin to realise that Julio is Farmer Giles. Replace the shotgun with a machete, and we're off for a nature walk round the farm.

'That'd be a tree-rat. It eats nuts it do.'
'That'd be a piggy. They can smell truffles. Truffles be chocolates."

His recognition is mostly good. He has anecdotes that are amusing if folkloric. His science is not. He is good at spotting movement. I wish he understood more about habitat. His style is to blunder through the jungle in wellies and if something jumps out he can tell you a story about it. Hunting for caiman is already proving to be difficult at night. Surely there is a type of riverside habitat where they are more likely to be found? Why not focus on that rather than shining the torch on every bit of mud.

There is so much life here that his blundering will always turn things up though, and the mornings walk provides plenty of insects. A couple of hours in, however, he stops dead and his breathing rate speeds up. He then goes totally silent, and we are hacking through pathless forest. He is marking trees and hitting dead ends. His pace speeds up. His shoulders rise. We are lost. I realise I have left my water in the boat. I hope his botany is good enough to find those vines you can drink from, or this is going to be rough.

After what feels like hours we come upon a stream. Julio laughs crazily as his body language resets. "Ah - now guys - these streams are always good if you are lost. You follow the flow of water and it leads you to the water." We all breathe a sigh of relief. And Farmer Giles is back to his old self. We find some cuckoo spit, or the Amazonian equivalent. Cuckoo Spit is what I used to call froghopper larvae as a child. It's definitely the same stuff.

"This is the Spit Beetle. Look - see them in here. They use this for camouflage. Spit Beetle."

Yep. I too would be the only white thing in thousands of miles if I wanted to camouflage myself.

In the afternoon we go fishing. This is fishing in the unskilled manner that would make my godfather Peter Rittmaster spit fire out of his ass. We use bait. I lose two hooks on submerged twigs and catch nothing but a few bait fish and one small piranha. The driver of the boat must be a local fisherman. He pulls out one after another, including a humungous piranha.

At dinner we get to eat our catch grilled. They taste great. We go caiman hunting unsuccessfully again - despite seeing their glowing red eyes in the torchlight. The problem is that they find the eyes and then ram raid them in the boat while dangling over the side in the hope of grabbing them before they run like hell. I noticed that all the caiman we saw were in reeds. Why not kill the engine near a load of reeds and use the paddles to get in close? Rather than waste all evening locating them and then scaring the shit out of them.

Back at the lodge John vomits copiously and I hope it wasn't the piranha, which was tasty white meat and I want more. Liz later informs me that he's on malarone, and hates swallowing pills so he's eating them on biscuits. Ugh. I haven't seen a malaria mosquito yet, and I imagine that I won't. But perhaps it's better to be safe.

-------

The third day begins wet, after torrential downpours all night. My hut is totally rainproof thank goodness. In the morning we see many sloths. They are hairy, so they clamber up to the tops of trees to dry out after the rain. My favorite bird today was a Greater Ani, according to our guide. I am more inclined to trust his twitching than anything else, but the book says that it likes the high ground.

Then we go out in a small motor boat and find our plans thwarted. The local villagers have erected a fence preventing us from getting into their favorite lake, as we had been there the night before looking for caiman and they were worried we were stealing their fish. So we find a very small river, totally clogged with weeds. Julio and the driver both lean out the side of the boat and start to hack, swear and paddle their way through. After some time I offer to help. "Hee hee hee," responds Julio - his favorite response to any question I ask. So I grab a paddle.

When we get to the shore some time later, the clouds open and a deluge begins. We slog disconsolately into the jungle, and I stuff my camera down my pants since it's the only dry place left. Most of the land here is cultivated. There is a plantation for watermelons and yukka. Then there is a burnt stretch of lake shore. This is to make an artificial beach, so the river turtles can lay their eggs there, which are then harvested by the villagers who even go so far as to dig pit traps in the hopes of catching the turtles. Who they will eat and then sell the shells in the market at Belen in Iquitos for thoughtless tourists to buy in order to speed the destruction of yet another species. By lunchtime we are so wet that if I didn't have a camera down my pants I'd jump off the boat and swim back to the lodge, notwithstanding piranhas and leeches. I have realised the effect that a large village has had on the local wildlife. Caiman are edible and can be sold dried out to tourists. So they are rare here. Capybara are good eating, so they've all been eaten. Monkeys are stringy so they're okay so far. But large wildlife is not to be found so close to the village. And the lodge wants us back for lunch, so we can't go far enough afield to find anything interesting. And Julio might scare it off in his wellies even if we did.

Canoeing in the afternoon, and ram-raiding caiman with no luck.

-----

There has been an article about Muyuna published in the inflight magazine for LAN Peru, the major carrier. It has been good for business. I can't go birdwatching as there are too many people so I lie in instead. The temperature has plummeted after the rain and I am cold. A good day to go swimming. The boat takes us to the main drag of the Amazon, and we see some shockingly pink dolphins very quickly. These dolphins have been saved by superstition. I'm sure that there's plenty of good eating on a dolphin, but the local legend is that if you attract their attention they may turn into a human and then take the children from your village. So they are abundant as they have not been hunted - and of course there's plenty for them to eat. John and Liz and I all jump into the river, which is warmer than the air and the showers, and filled with very icky sticky mud. YUM.

The village is home to about 200 people. They live in wooden huts much like the ones in our lodge, which must have been built by them. There is one concrete building, which is the school. There are two churches, of course. A catholic church and an evangelical one. In the evangelical church there are pews. The catholics have to stand. Their church is near the prison which is a small brick structure which looks like it would be hell to have to crouch in for the night as the mosquitos home in. I buy a present for Emily whilsy wondering what she would make of all this. I ask about the ayahuasca ceremony, and am roundly discouraged by Julio. It's not a question of IF you vomit, but HOW MUCH. It's a purgative. You hallucinate for 3 hours, vomit and hallucinate for 2 hours, then the diarrhoea starts, and all three continue all night. I decide that maybe I'll save it for next time.

This evening is magical as John, Liz and I go out on a very small canoe upstrean under the clear clear sky and see the southern cross hanging over us through the bats and the trees. Julio funds a caiman and I hold him and feel him breathing and think of how fortunate I am to be out here in the middle of nowhere clutching something that was much the same millions of years ago.

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Today was a visit to some hoatzin birds that live nearby. The guide insists that they are prehistoric. As chicks they have talons on their wings, as a defense from their natural predator - the caiman. They use them to climb trees. The adult bird makes a noise like a pig, and eats,, shoots,,,,,, and! leaves..) It has three stomachs like a cow. Odd bird.


Then we go fishing. I clamber out onto a fallen tree, and find the perfect fishing spot. Within moments my wooden rod bends almost to snapping. I try to move with it - tire the beast... It swings left. So do I. My hat hits a branch. It falls. With one hand on my rod, I grab desperately for the hat, causing my glasses to slip. Quick as a flash I snatch them out of the air. They snap in my hands. Half of them falls into the river and sinks out of sight. "My HAT!" I lament as I turn to see it slowly sinking. The driver of the boat grabs his spear and hurls it, but to no avail. I land the fish, and clutching half of my glasses go disconsolately - blindly - back to the lodge. Where they grill my big fish for me.

In the afternoon, we are reminded that it is Peruvian National Day, and Moises the guide tells us that there must be a football match - Muyuna vs the village. Thank goodness I have lenses. I play and for the first time in my life I am on the winning team in a game of football. I sample the palm sugar rum which tastes unutterably foul, and then have a little too much beer.


-----

A little hungover in the morning we go to look for lily pads - Victor Regia ones. They`re the ones that children can stand on. We find them and one of them is in bloom.


On the way back I get stuck in the mud - so much so that I have to be plucked from my boots like a radish, before my boots are retrieved with sticks. Fool that I am. Then it`s back to civilisation.

In the boat I think of how lucky I have been to have spent 6 days in the jungle. It has not been deep jungle, but the lodge struggles to have minimum impact on the environment, and despite the boat fumes I am impressed with how well they did it. The village is prosperous as a result of the lodge and I wish someone would tell them that dropping biscuit wrappers on the floor is not the same as dropping banana skins. The village is carpeted with plastic wrappers. The food at Muyuna is nothing short of spectacular. The service is invisible and brilliant. The only vague misgiving is the fact that - inevitably - the mattresses and pillows have got damp in them.

If I return to the jungle it will not be to Muyuna unless I do it with my children. I want something rougher and more hands on now I have experienced the safe and luxurious version. But for families it`s wonderful. For foodies it`s wonderful. I would recommend it to anyone who has never been to the jungle before.

Back in chaos

I kept a diary in the jungle which I´ll condense and make palatable and post here once I have a little more time - probably after my arrival in Canada. Today I went to the Laguna Quistacocha, which is a zoo and botanical garden located just outside Iquitos. It put me in mind of Gerald Durrel´s zoo from my childhood in Jersey - eccentric enclosures over a large space, and filled with endangered species. And I finally got my big mammal fix, since there were precious few in the jungle, staying as we were so close to a hungry village full of people.

On the way back I realised how much better my spanish is, since I had a conversation with a mototaxi driver that I would previously have thought was a failure of comprehension on my part.

"Do you want a taxi?" He asked.

"How much to Plaza 28th July?" I replied.

"10 soles." (About 1 pound 40)

"That´s too much. I´m taking the bus."

"The bus is 1 soles."

"I know."

"I am 10 soles."

"I know."

"Take me. I am better than the bus."

"You are 10 soles. The bus is 1 soles."

"I am not the bus."

"I want the bus."

"The bus is 1 soles."

"That is why I am taking the bus"

"There are three of you. That is 1 soles each. I am 10 soles for all of you."

"Yes. But the bus is still only 3 soles for all of us."

"I am not the bus. I am 10 soles."

"I know. I am taking the bus. The bus is 1 soles."

"Do not take the bus. Take me. I am 10 soles for all of you."

"Thank you. No. Goodbye."

This is a very typical conversation over here. I would have been convinced that I was missing something and that there was a good reason why he was better than the bus or cheaper than the bus had my Spanish not improved. Of course he was more expensive and noisier than the bus - the things almost deafen passengers. Also I´m very glad I took the bus as it was an experience in itself. There were two drivers who kept swapping jobs with one another. When one of them was driving the other one was hanging out of the window buying fanta and sweeties for both of them. They consumed a vast amount of each. There is no glass in the windows and everyone shouts and jumps on and off as the bus is moving. Halfway through the journey, a politician got on the bus. He stood in the aisle and talked about his party policies. Then he produced with a great flourish from his jacket pocket a massive bag of sweeties. These were then offered for free to all the passengers. Brilliant. Graffiti and sweetie bribes. Peruvian politics never left the playground gang era.

Shanty shanty shanty

I went for a walk in the Amazon yesterday. There is a floating shanty market but this being the dry season it isn´t floating. All the traders sit at their unfloating stalls and you walk along the ground where the Amazon was. And since the traders are used to it being wet they just hurl all their organic waste into the river that isn´t there. And it festers in the sweltering heat for months. Needless to say, the place is crawling with nasty black headed vultures behaving like pigeons. Until yesterday I had never seen a vulture close up. Now I´ve seen hundreds. Nasty little things. And yet I was so excited to see two condors in the mountains. Odd. I hate seagulls, but would be excited to see an albatross. Why is big allowed to be better?

I have a proof of the counter-argument. In the form of Nathan Chew. Nathan "God in human form" Chew. This morning I rolled out of bed, and was in the process of deciding which cheek to scratch when I got a text message from him with all my credit card details. I leapt from my room and rushed to the Amazon lodge and paid them in full and got my money and passport back. Now I have enough cash to buy water in the lodge, and beer. And do an Ayahuasca ceremony... If I dare. I understand it involves a lot of vomiting.

Salsa and balloons

All the hammering and sawing was worth it. I got to the party and they had built a bloody great big scaff bandstand with netting and dancefloor and sofas and a whacking great big free bar and cheese and tables overflowing with meat and nary a vegetable in sight. So I started getting those free Pisco Sours down me. What a blimming marvellous night. After about half an hour of standing at the edge of the dancefloor thinking "I really don´t want to have to dance" I got grabbed by Mrs. Kelly who helped me come round to the opinion that I did. And looking at my camera it seems clear to me that that´s all I did for the rest of the night. Apart from drink a whole hell of a lot of alcohol. And eat approximately 3 and a half llamas, one of them raw in carpaccio form. I may have taken something hallucinogenic too, as I remember many many balloons fighting in the air, and one gigantic huge big LORD OF THE BALLOONS who towered over me and filled me with awe at his terrible beauty.

However it worked out the party was a stormer. Best band in Peru - (As in 15 piece orchestra and loads of excellent singers). Superb cooking of the llamas, although some cows slipped in somehow. Mercifully most of the vegetables were weeded out at the expense of letting in a chicken or two. But they´re everywhere here so it´s to be expected. In fact they grow them in the desert. When I was watching the sun go down in the middle of the desert there were X-Files style long white silos in the middle of nowhere. Practising my Spanish, I asked the guide "What the fuck are those??" "Cheekens" he responded. Yep. Cheekens. Farsands of ´em. Out in the desert. Growing. Waiting.

Anyhow. Leila or however she spells it proved a patient Salasasasa teacher and taught me a new move. So now I have 3.

This internet cafe has no photo download facility. Honestly. I come to use the internet in the middle of the Amazon rainforest and they don´t even have a thing to connect my camera up and download photos. So blog is gonna be dry until I get back from the forest I guess.

Coz I am in Iquitos. Land of the motortaxi. I have yet to buy a jungle tour as everyone is too keen that I buy theirs and I don´t trust any of them. Problem is I am English and these guys are used to Americans, so they are spending way to much time explaining how clean their jungle lodges are without realising that I want a bit of dirt. Not too much dirt of course, but I don´t want to go to America in the jungle. I want to pretend that I´m in the rough of the jungle, but without the pissfish and strychnine. I´ll even put up with the pissfish if it´s not my urethra. In fact, here´s a picture of a pissfish so all the boys can wince. It´s barbed and it swims up your wee and gets jammed. Ow.

Anyway right now I´m using a good excuse to not book my Amazon tour. I´m telling them that I´m unable to pay until my new credit card arrives at my house tomorrow. Nothing they can do about that, and it would be a great way of ditching salesmen. I just wish it wasn´t true. I´m looking at the possibility of sleeping on a street filled with mototaxis. They had better let Nathan my flatmate sign for it, not least because he´s taking off work to get the fucker but also because I am properly up shit creek without it. But let´s take it one day at a time. If I get the tour you won´t hear much for a week as I´ll be up the Amazon. If I don´t get the tour you won´t hear much for over a week as someone would have run over me in a mototaxi and then reversed to steal my Tshirt, before feeding me to the crocodiles.

Oh and a mototaxi is a moped rickshaw thing. They´re everywhere here. No roads in. Where the hell do they all come from?

Party Time...

Despite Harry Potter having come out in Peru this evening - and all the Peruvian bookstores being loaded with English copies - I am suited and booted and about to head off to a party. I´m staying in a lovely flat owned by a spinster friend of Beatriz who is just the sweetest person. She gave me her bed! I had to make up for it by buying her a 20 dollar bunch of flowers. For 20 bucks you get a hell of a bunch of flowers. She then rather perplexingly asked me if I could see her Herpes and then her scotty dog attacked me.

The changing of the guards was a sight in the Plaza Major - lots of soldiers but more interesting were the policeman who were guarding the guards. They all had high calibre rifles which they were clapping against their hands in time with the music and not really paying attention where they were pointing. Apart from one of them who was sending a text to his mum. This country is universally hilarious and terrifying.

Lima time

It is pitch black and outside the window there is the sound of desperate hammering and sawing. The Peruvian workers are building a scaffold block for the party tomorrow. They have ensured Beatriz that they will hammer very very quietly throughout the night. Like little hammering mices.

I just got out of a taxi. The taxi driver drove 20 minutes in the wrong direction before stopping a policeman by driving in front of him and asking for directions. He then called his girlfriend to confirm we were going the right way, before gleefully announcing that he was infertile.

This morning a taxi driver reversed 400 yards in a race with another taxi driver who was also reversing. He then almost killed Jack and I twice in his excitement to try out his english. Of particular concern for him was whether or not english girls would like him, because english girls are nice. I told him that I´m sure there might be some english girls who liked him. This pleased him, and he was curious to know if they would give him a blow job. Or perhaps a fucky? I told him it would depend on the girl, but that he might need to work on his small talk. This was enough for him, and he retreated into happy dreams of english girls, to the exclusion of all else including traffic.

Somehow I made it in one piece.

Rocks and sand

Back to Cuszco, and nobody knows where we`re going next. Lawrence is sick and Charlotte is tired and the teachers are still on strike so that rules out Arequipa. Ayacucha is 25 hours away by bus. After much wrangling Lawrence and Charlotte book a flight back to Lima, leaving Jack and I and Louis, Augustus Joss and James to work out where we can feasibly go. One trip to the bus station later and we`re all off to Ica, for the town of Huacachina. Happy I know where I`m going I head on up to Saksaywaman, the oh so hilariously named Inca fortress just outside Cuszco. It was raining a bit, but I took a few photos of rocks. They`re massive, and just stacked on top of each other. Clever lot the Incas, apart from that lack of writing thing.

Then it`s a luxury overnight bus trip. Utterly terrifying. I was in front at the top and ended up having to close the window so I didn`t panic every time the driver overtook on a blind corner with a precipitous drop. But we arrived in Ica unscathed.

Ica is full of fat taxi drivers who pull your clothes. Jack and I got into one of their taxis with two guys we met on the bus and headed for Huacachina. The taxi driver kept trying to tell us he`d take us on a tour of the town of Ica, which is about as appealing as an offer of a glass full of shit. But we smiled and nodded and got the hell out of his cab at El Huacachinero - our hostel. LUXURY! Swimming pool, hammocks, beds with pillows, a shower that works, and the sand dune comes right to the bedroom door. The town itself is tiny - just a cluster of buildings clinging on in the middle of the desert, clustered round a stinky lagoon.

First things first we went out on dune buggies, where a Peruvian driver has access to a precision vehicle and a huge tract of desert. Brilliantly terrifying - I was glad that Health and Safety hasn`t made it as far as Peru, as it was highly dangerous and all the more fun for that. And punctuated with stops to strap on broken sandboards and limp down great big dunes standing on the things. After that it was time to do some lazing by the pool, with occasional breaks to walk up a dune and run down the other side. Or to eat food. Or to get up to date with this blog. YAY.

Trekking on the Ritz

"Where the hell is my backpack?"

"It`s on one of the mules."

"oh"

So I packed light and got a good backpack so I wouldn`t die on the trek. And then they go and load it on a mule. God Damn it! I only have three T-shirts and a pair of shorts. Still nice to know I get to travel light.

Day one was pretty relaxing. 20k into the mountains and the only shit bit was that we set off so late that it was dark by the time the stragglers arrived in the campsite. This first campsite came as a surprise. It had a bar and a shower. I was beginning to get the impression that it might have a swimming pool somewhere. This, I really began to understand, was not going to be a Trek so much as a manicure on a mountainside. The Union Jack that was erected at the top of the first peak we reached - despite the fact that much of the party was Scottish or French - brought home to me the fact that this was going to be one of those quests for lost colonialism. Take that, I thought to the bitter old witch I had met on the train to Macchu Picchu. The British empire still at least thinks it rules the world.

I stuffed about 27 coca leaves into my mouth with some baking soda and retched for 2 minutes before they stopped tasting utterly foul. Then I chewed them hard until they were a pulp and stuffed them into the corner of my cheek which went completely numb. "These things have no effect at all. What a waste of 9 pee," I thought as I sprinted down the mountainside to the river, leaping over obstacles and howling at the birds. Clearly it`s just a placebo, I said to myself as I overtook all the guides but one, who I collared, embraced and chewed his ear off about how beautiful the mountains were and how big the world is and how lucky we all are to be alive.

Day two was a little more trek like. I got down into a valley and crossed a pretty sturdy rope bridge, before starting a day long climb. Slog slog slog slog slog. Pant pant pant pant pant. Gorgeous but dusty. Halfway through I tried some more coca. Nope. Not much help. Mostly driven by the fact that it was stunning I got to the rest point and met some very engaging American lesbians who were travelling with another American girl and her Senegalise Italianate Rastafarian boyfriend. Of course they had guitars and bongos and a saxaphone of sorts, so Jack got out his guitar which had been providing endless entertainment and we all had a sing along. Their guitar was right handed. This was a good thing, as Jacks is left handed therefore nobody can play it but him. We had a good jam before we all were called for luch. Mealtimes on the trek were a hilarious affair, with everyone being forced to wash their hands before sitting at a really very long table and passing bowls up and down. Since almost everyone had been to or were still at boarding schools this was a very familiar ritual, and the food was surprisingly good considering it had to be made up of the lightest things possible, although bulked up with local produce - eggs from the condor proof hens, who have slippery red plastic on their backs, etc etc.

Most of us made it to the campsite on top of the mountain okay although a few ended up on mules. More jamming in the evening before realising that camping on the side of the mountain is stupid as you slip out of the bottom of the tent. I had put myself in an empty tent which was a relief as I was meant to have been sharing with Jack and Lawrence who slid down the hill, tore a hole with their feet in their tent and got eaten alive by spiders and flies. I just fell off my groundmat and froze to death.

Day three was just a hop , a skip and a jump to Choquequirao, which was stunning. Mostly buried still in cloudforest, and with some of the restoration work having been done with CONCRETE (I kid you not) the city is vast and still being uncovered. Some locals still come up and sacrifice things there - and as I discovered, the muleteers from our trek sacrificed a rooster from our campsite. Okay I cursed it when it woke me up, but that`s extreme. Either way, Choquequirao was a sight to be seen, and I fear it won`t be for long. Roads are being mooted and there were sickeningly awful blue arrows embedded in the floor to try and ferry people round it the right way. Alix de Cazotte and I got a little fed up of being herded like the mules and so we abandoned the group and pretty swiftly found a stunning view that we would otherwise have missed. Then we found a little pathway up into the Cloud Forest and wandered far enough to satisfy our sense of rebellion before heading back down to join the group who had found the most absurd place yet to have lunch, right on the side of a hill. I thought it was a good time to have my first cup of tea, so I sipped tea on the mountainside and it was jolly nice.

The rest of the trek, so as not to bore you too much, was the same as the first half but the other way round. But I was noticeably more able to breathe in the altitude which can only be a good thing. I arrived back in Cuszco feeling fit and healthy. Hurrah! And I made it back to Cachora in the first group which pleased me even if it was just coincidence as nobody was really that interested in racing. Such a huge trek and so many people, it would take me forever to go into explanations of all of them. There were French families and then there was the French family who were English and there were Australians who weren´t or were they and lots of Barclays and even some Mathers.

It was an amazing trek. We covered only 62 Kilometres but it was usually very steep and with the range of ages and experiences it was pretty impressive the way that nobody got hurt beyond one vicious spider bite to Hugo as a reward for taking a shortcut, and a stack of nasty blisters.

Politics and Coca

Finally the time for the trek had come. 43 people from many different nationalities, age groups, and walks of life gathered together and loaded onto buses to take us to the small town that would form the launching point of the journey to Choquequirao - the town of Cachora. This was an eye opener - certainly the poorest place I had yet seen in Peru, the majority of the houses are made from Adobe, which is basically mud mixed with straw. Not really built to last. Here´s a pit for mixing it up.

On the way in, I learned a thing or two about Peruvian politics. Rather than party political broadcasts or question time, it seems that elections are decided by who can spraypaint the nearest house with the biggest name. Some of the more enterprising candidates had helicoptered off to the nearest mountainside armed with gigantic lawnmowers and quite literally carved their slogans into the mountain. Brilliant.

Also the Peruvians seem to know how to strike. Currently the teachers union is on strike. The powers that be are threatening the status quo by introducing exams for all the teachers. This is because the standard of education in Peru is incredibly low compared to all other South American countries. The problem is that the teachers don´t want to take exams that they know they are going to fail and their livelihood is threatened. So they are up in arms. But rather than waving banners and shouting slogans and being ignored by their supposedly democratic government despite marching in their millions, they set off rockslides. Yes - massive huge great big whacking rockslides. Huge big boulders all over the roads. Now I have already explained that people in Peru drive like lunatics. They have already killed a busload of people this way, and they have raised merry hell with the transport system. Even if the rocks get cleared they are put back into place by crowds of gleeful children who are glad to be away from school because their teachers are so awful. Thankfully we set off early enough in the coaches to Cachura to avoid the worst of it, although there were some trees felled on the road and a couple of times the driver had to get out and hump rocks, while having insults and sticks hurled at them by the local kids.

The whole of the town of Cachora had been mobilised when we arrived. There were about 40 mules and 30 Peruvians attached to them as well as 5 guides all milling around vaguely in shock at the humungous gringo windfall that had blown their way. I went for a little wander and found a small shop that sold coca leaves. Good for altitude sickness I am told. One of the guides spotted me and made me go back into the shop and buy some baking soda as well. Apparently they don`t have any effect unless you catalyse them with the soda so that was nearly a waste of 9 pence. Phew.

I swear that the white powder there is baking soda. The leaves themselves are all pretty brown and unappetising looking. I wasn´t sure I wanted to try chewing them but virtually everyone was getting some including my brother Rupert and he ought to know...

Burgers and puppets and thieves - oh my!

Back to Cuszco, and I remember that my sister in law Beatriz told us all that temperatures in the mountains where we will be trekking have been plunging to minus 20. And all I brought is a selection of T-Shirts. So it`s off to the shops for me, and thankfully Lawrence has a good friend called Jack who has arrived on the scene and knows Cuszco pretty well. We all jump into a taxi and head off to the poor part of town where we reckon we can haggle a decent coat. Once again the God of coats is kind to me, and while Jack is buying himself an unbelievably hideous full-body orange jumpsuit and a wife-beater, I found myself a good oiled fleecy jacket, and paid 35 soles for it. Just over a fiver. And that was still too much.

Then everyone went back to the Plaza del Armas where they have recently built a Bembos. This is a Peruvian answer to McDonalds, and sent Lawrence into paroxysms of excitement. I opted not to go, and this turned out to be the biggest mistake of the holiday. While I was vaguely wondering where to go and get a sandwich a small child nicked my wallet. And then probably went off singing to his be-mittened old singing mentor for some cold cherries and custard and pease pudding and saveloys. Leaving me totally dependent on my friends until my bank gets it´s finger out and sends me my new card.

UGH.

Gay Incas?

On the train to Macchu Picchu I met a loathsome American woman who barked at me all the way about "This Fucking country! All this fucking walking! They´re so backwards they make you dump your toilet paper in the bins!" She was about 3 foot tall and shrivelled and spent the whole time we were talking trying to croak and laugh at the same time. The overall effect was like being washed with nails. When I mentioned to her that I had been perplexed by the water going down the plughole the wrong way she either roared with laughter or her pacemaker exploded loudly up her throat. She then turned her attention to the British Empire and how it was OVER and now it was time for the Chinese, and that America was OVER. We finally found some common ground over a hatred of Bush, and departed friends, although I´m sure she told the next person she met how I had tried to assault her or something.

Macchu Picchu itself was stunning although much easier to get to than I had hoped. I was expecting to have to hike for a couple of hours, but a bus dropped us off right outside the site. So of course it was overrun with tourists. On the way up I was struck by the number of gay pride flags there were - on the buildings, on the buses, on top of the mountains. The rainbow was everywhere. It was only when I mentioned this to my Nephew Lawrence that I realised I was a total idiot and that it was the Inca flag. But it´s identical, so very confusing. Our guide spoke faster than any man I have ever met and most of the time made no sense at all. He showed us many rocks, all of which he insisted were the most important rock in the whole site. Then after a brief but torrid romance with the words June the twenty first, which he must have said 15 times in the space of a minute, he left us in the queue for Wayna Picchu which is the large sharks fin mountain at the back of the site. My first bit of proper hiking. They only let 400 people up so Lawrence and Charlotte kindly waited behind while we confused the guard into allowing two more than he thought up there. Louis - (another nephew) - and his mates Augustus, Joss and James and I slogged up it in the blistering heat for some amazing views of the cloud forest and the Sun Gate and the site itself. The problem with altitude is that you get really out of breath quickly as the damn oxygen is just too heavy, so I was puffing and panting like anything and just glad that the guys I was with were as knackered as I was most of the time. Here`s me on the summit.

The odd thing is I never realised how recently the Incas were around - they only really started during The Wars of the Roses, and got wiped out while Shakespeare was writing. In that time they built some pretty impressive edifices and without using mortar - they just hewed massive boulders into just the right shape and stacked them. Amazing that they stood the test of time.

To Cuszco... AND BEYOND!

So got up in the morning and staggered back to the airport and flew to Cuszco, dosing up on altitude sickness pills so I wasn`t yakking all over my shoes for the first couple of days. At Cuszco airport we had to run the gamut of taxi drivers and eventually managed to get a lift to Urubamba - a little Andean mountain town convenient for the Inca Trail and Macchu Picchu, which I wanted to get to before the trek. This involved my first long road trip. At the time of writing I am inured to the terror of Peruvian driving having been in too many long bus journeys. But on that day it was utterly terrifying. The man in the cab had a happy smiling face on his rearview mirror, perhaps with the idea of filling us with comfort. I made a Peruvian highway code.

1. Honk at dogs. Stop for pigs.
2. All cars are your enemy.
3. If possible, only overtake enemies on corners.
4. The enemy side of the road is the best side to drive on. Do this unless they force you to move.
5. Only change your beams to full when an enemy car is coming the other way.
6. If you cannot overtake, attempt to lock bumpers with your enemy.
7. You aren´t honking enough. Do it more.
8. Play Dire Straits on the radio. (This is also true in aeroplanes, although The Thompson Twins will do in a pinch.)
9. Never ever ever let an enemy overtake you unless on the inside.




Here is a piccy of our nice taxi. Note the car in front trailing twigs onto the road. These twigs are not being transported. They are being used to make it harder for enemy cars to overtake.

Urubamba is a very typical Andean town, and I took loads of snaps of things like walls and people dressed in the Peruvian standards. If France was like Peru then everyone in France would cycle around with berets, moustaches and strings of garlic. The people outside the towns wear the stereotypical clothes - really bright colours, Alpaca, hats - you know the stuff.

I started to get to know the people we would be trekking with. So many people. I had no idea. 43 people. Yowza.

Getting to Peru

Well I thought it would be better to just post on my blog and let people follow if they have any inclination. Also I can use this as a sort of diary, since otherwise the madness will be forgotten which will be a shame.

Anyhow, I woke up in the morning on the day I was meant to be going to Peru after staying up far too late with Nathan. Of course Addison Lee weren´t answering the phone as usual. They are clearly getting too popular for their own good. The people on the phone are sarcastic bastards half the time when (if) you do get through. So I hiked my stupidly fat rucksack onto my virgin shoulders and struggled off down the grey road towards Victoria station. Hiking practise, I thought. Never too late.

Five minutes later I was on a bus. Much better idea.

Then a budget airline to Toronto, which left half an hour late. This worried me as I had a connection to make. All worries were shortly afterwards rendered meaningless by the sad fact that the plane was filled with hyperactive teenage girls with carefully filed elbows. Bruised and deafened I emerged some hours later in Toronto. I was tired, but everything was made better by the lovely rollercoaster ride that they gave me for free in Toronto airport. I took a photo.

This corner is called "Crazy Tower Fork"

The Rollercoaster is free and runs regularly. One of the coolest things about it is that you get a countdown to the next one IN SECONDS. SECONDS I tell you. No leaves on the line here, eh? I asked one of the local women to take a photo of me on the coaster but she just hooted at me like an owl. So I made friends with a gay japanese guy living in New York, and together we found the place to check in, after much confusion over which side of the escalator we were supposed to stand on.

So having left London a couple of days after a major terrorist attack, and having had absolutely no trouble whatsoever getting through customs I then had to hang around for ages and ages while some jobsworth twat tried to stop me getting on the plane because a corner of my passport was slightly loose. But I made it with seconds to spare.

My companion on the second leg was a woman from the Las Casas family, who lives in Toronto now married to a Pole, but who was born in the mountains some distance from Lima. Her mother was dying and she was going to have to take a 22 hour busride up the mountains to sit by her bedside. My heart went out to her. She distracted herself and me by trying to work out which mystic number I represented. This mostly involved making rings around letters and numbers fairly randomly before nodding in a satisfied manner and telling me that I was mostly 3 but with a strong 5 and 7. And not enough 4. Which means that I´m chaotic and need to work on my work ethic. At this point I started to wonder if she´d been following me around, so I went to sleep and woke up shortly before we landed in Lima.

Lima caused me to panic by taking FOREVER to wheel out my bag. When it eventually came I was convinced that whoever was supposed to be meeting me had gone, and that I was going to get beaten up, mugged and sold into sex slavery in Columbia. Thankfully my nephew Lawrence was there to meet me complete with funky long hair and lovely girlfriend Charlotte. We bundled into a taxi. This was my first experience of Peruvian driving. Pretty good in retrospect. We only had two near misses and both were pedestrians. We were briefly held up by a car that had managed to flip onto its nose on a dual carriageway. But we made it to the gorgeous house of my sister in law´s parents late at night but with all my luggage intact. I got inside, drank about eight litres of water, crawled into bed and passed out. Long haul sucks. Cusco was beckoning with just a short flight - wooo.