After another pleasantly scenic bus ride, I´ve arrived in Copacabana in the afternoon. Following three days of wearing the same clothes, some washing is necessary. Between being a stalwart cheapskate and not trusting a third party with my precious merino fabrics, the job of washing is an hours work in the shower. Throughout the trip so far, I´ve been largely working with two pairs of underwear, and three pairs of socks. I don´t go in for the modern boyish nonsense of turning them inside out in the foolish belief that double, triple and quadruple usage becomes any more savoury. It doesn´t. My bag is a comfortable forty five litres, and for that, I´ve accepted that it is necessary to live in some degree my own filth. Two chairs and my trusty length of multipurpose six millimetre rope act as a washing line across my four pound per night hotel room.
Unsatisfied with a day of only travel activity, and for lack of a drinking partner, it occurs to me that following my intensive altitude training, I expect I have near-superhuman endurance at this lowly three-thousand-eight-hundred metres.
Thirty minutes of running around the badly lit Copacabana dispells my pervious thought. The only brief moments of faster-than-a-speeding-bullet pace could be credited to the two angry dogs who chased me for some twenty metres. Had I had that superhuman composure, I could have coolly dealt with them in the mannaer taught by Schwarzenegger in the opening act of True Lies.
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