Break Stuff

My new German friend Benjamin is keen on learning to surf. I've explained my qualifications and agreed to give a lesson.

On the beach, we find a board rental stall of six boards, stood upright, ordered from small to large. We explain to the Ecuadorian surfer, that it's our first and second time, respectively. After some haggling over the price, he hands me a tequila sunrise coloured board, the second smallest. I know it's a way too small for me, having learnt on a big door, but I can't possibly hand back this pretty little thing.

Ben and I pick a patch of sea nearby the few other surfers that are out on the waves. I give a replay of the five minute lesson I had in Mancora - how to get up and a few pointers on what to watch for.

Two hours later, neither he or I have gotten up for so much as a second. We're mostly paddling around and being badly punished by waves. As I'm trying to paddle myself out into the bigger surf, I see waves building ahead of me. Some crash a head of me and the white water tumbles toward me. I can only hold tight with my head down against the board. Sometimes the break passes over me and I come out facing the same direction, ready to paddle again. Sometimes the wave turns me upside down and inside out. In the frequent latter case, by the time I've resurfaced and recovered, another wave is just about to hit me again. This is tougher than I remember.

Worse still, I often watch as beach-wide waves build slowly in front of me. I paddle hard to get to them before they break so they'll safely pass under me. Sometimes that works. Sometimes, just before it reaches me, I watch in horror as the break starts on both the left and right of the wave. I think I can get through the gap ahead of me where it's yet to break. More often than not, the break closes in, then curls and crashes very precisely over my head. Down under the water, I can only wait and hope, with forcefully baited breath, to resurface and start again.

Eventually, I'm up, and Tequila Sunrise and I are away. It's not more than five seconds, but it's success. My student Ben is up and away only moments later. A few waves later, and I feel like I'm just starting to get it, but I'm happy to call it a day on this mild success.

I suppose I'll start addressing everyone as 'Dude' now.

Shot in the Dark

My internet search turned up just four potential sailing boat marinas up Ecuador's coast. Other than location, I've got no practical information about any of them. I arrive at the first, Puerto Lucia in La Libertad, with a little help from the locals. The first sight isn't promising. The European marinas I'm used to are open and it's no problem to get up close to the boats. Puerto Lucia is a ritzy looking gated community. The flimsy plan I formulated in that Guayaquil internet cafe didn't go much further than arriving here. I'm not sure how this is going to play out.

The guard appears sympathetic to my cause, but assures me there's no chance I'm getting in. Nonetheless, I tell him that I'll sit here and wait for the passing sailors. Taking a walk around and up the neighbouring beach, I can see just five masts here. It's not looking good, but I set up camp under the shade of a tree and whip out the uke.

Some ten minutes later, the gate lifts and a car leaves, but stops at the house just opposite the gate. The guard points me to the woman who steps out of the car. Using the simple sentences I'm capable of forming, I explain my plan to her and ask if I can hand out sailing resumes inside. First in Spanish, then in English, she explains that this marina is currently home to just a few rich guys, and that there's not much hope of finding my boat here. I'm not too disappointed, having expected this would be tough.

Between here and the next marina, there's a town that I broadly recall being recommended. A bus ride later, I arrive in Montañita. The first few streets of the little beachfront town are full of activity, hostels and restaurants. Having not looked this place up, I'm glad to be safe in a place I can settle down for a night or two.

Runaround

I arrive at my target hostel in Guayaquil to find there's no room for me. The receptionist recommends another place which my taxi driver knows.

I don't think this hotel is the kind of thing that would be recommended from a backpackers hostel. I think my taxi driver may have taken me for a ride, so to speak. I'm paying an extortionate eighteen buck for the night. I have my own room, but I'm not impressed. The thin and, in places, torn sheets on the bed are almost enough for me to unravel my sleeping bag. The air conditioner is very loosely mounted to a hole in the wall. When it switch it on, it sounds so unnatural that when I'm concerned that it will fall out. I have a TV, but despite the set-top box, it receives just on channel. The shared bathroom is in bad shape.

I'm thankful for a basic breakfast of cake and jam. The pleasant enough lady who's running the hotel can't provide me with a city map. She's apologetic about that, but that's the least of what she ought to be apologetic about. After half an hour of walking in what I'm given to be the direction of the town centre, it's quickly becoming apparent that my hotel is in the middle of nowhere.

I need to do my piece and get out of here. I understand that Guayquil has a big port, and my plan is to find a boat to hitchhike to the Galapogos. With the help of some locals and three buses, I reach the port to find that there's nothing here for me. This is no more than cargo ships. From my walk and bus rides, it's looking like Guayaquil has little to offer. I need to get out of here. I wonder if I could get a refund on that dirty little hotel if I leave now. I doubt it.

Upon asking how to get back to town, the only advice I'm given is that I'm far, far away, and need to take a taxi. Having already blown twenty bucks with nothing to show it, I'm not impressed with that plan. A taxi driver quotes ten bucks to get back to the centre. I'm not  impressed. He tells me the buses are controlled by the mafia, and that I'll be extorted for money. Despite having survived three buses, after some conversation, he agrees to take me somewhere I can watch Germany vs. Spain for five bucks.

We arrive at a shopping centre where he tell me I can watch the game, eat and drink. It has everything, apparently. Apparently, my driver expected me to watch the game through the window of an Ecuadorian Dixon's. I'm not impressed. I've got an hour, so I'm off to find the real centre of town.

I spend another half hour walking through nothing but residential dead zones. In lots of cities this has  happened, but I have always found a worthwhile town centre. In Sarajevo, where I soon found that Google doesn't map, it took three hours of directionless searching, but I found it. Here, I'm starting to think that there really is no real centre of town. Maybe the whole place is just this. I'm not impressed.

After an hour, I stumble across a butcher shop, then a whole meat district. I've never been so glad to find a game of "Que Tipo de Carne".  Sweating in the heat of midday, I finally reach the centre of town. 


The waterfront and town centre are pleasant enough. But that's not my interest. Germany-Italy is my interest. I spend a frustrating twenty minutes try to find a bar. It seems like there's no interest in football in this whole city. I ask the bouncer outside one bar if they're showing the game. He looks back at me as if it's a stupid question. Fucking moron.


I eventually find a bar, and spend a further fifteen minutes trying to coordinate them to change the channel on their televisions from Ecuadorian pop to the second biggest football tournament in the world. The game is pretty lousy and my favoured Germans are swept aside by the Italians.


A walk around the town and an internet cafe confirms there's no boats for me here. I need to get further up the coast.


In the centre of town, there's a square with a park. It's known as the Iguana park. A few Iguanas simply wander around of their own accord, with no fences or gates securing them. I'm not hugely impressed until I'm standing by a tree and look immediately upwards to find ten or more big lizards minding their own business up there.

Thirty five, if not forty bucks later, I've got little to show for the day. That kind of money would have made a full week of entertainment in Bolivia.

Circumstances

I'm satisifed enough with my surfing efforts of yesterday to call it a win, and leave it there. The weather is isn't really upto much, so I can't even enjoy the Peruvian cigars I picked up in Lima.

In any case, once again, Euro 2012 has put a game in the middle of the day, so I can't even leave town. I'm no more a fan of Spain than of Portugual, but it's Euro 2012, so I park up and grab a beer.

Peru is done. By 2100, I'm on my bus up into Ecuador.

I'm Still Standing

I can't sit on a beach for entertainment and I can't afford to start drinking in the morning, so today I'll learn to surf. In the beach front surf shop shack -slash- cocktail bar, I'm promised that if I can't stand up in the hour lesson, I won't pay, but for no good reason, I'm quitely confident that I'll get up without too much trouble.


In the back of the shack, a few of the local surfers killing time in a thickening scent of weed. I'm given a red Neoprene t-shirt that reads "Instructor", which I'm quite fond of. Then I'm given my board for the session. It's less impressive than the shirt. It's a hefty-looking, wide and thin yellow thing. It's essentially a big plastic door, with a rubber grip surface on one side and a set of fins on the reverse.


The land lesson is little more than five minutes of a single demonstration of how to get up, and five attempts before I've gotten the foot placement about right.


Once in the water, that land lesson is quickly forgotten. My Peruvian instructor, David, is wearing a set of fins and has a hold on the back of the board so he can help paddle me around.


Fifty metres out, we're parked and waiting for my first wave. "This is your wave", I'm told, despite only a basic grasp of English. My wave comes and goes before I've even understood when I'm meant to get up on this thing.

Take two, and I'm up and away. This is nice. Look at me, mum. As the wave fades, I'm still standing and turn to find David is still hanging on to the board. Damn. I wonder how much of that was me. A few waves later, I turn expecting to see David, but he's nowhere to be seen. I'm pretty pleased with myself.

I've got a nose, throat, and some proportion of my lungs soaked in salt water, but apparently I can surf.

Wasted Years

Lima is far, far away from absolutley everything. I´ve been stuck here for three nights because the only buses out clashed with the football. The break before the semi-final is my chance to escape.

After my most recent bus experience, I´m taking the recommendation of the hostel and using a pleasant bus company. The morning is simply a case of burning time, and maintaining a minimal and basic diet of simple, slow moving foods.

In the early afternoon. I´m on an eighteen hour bus up to Mancora. I was aiming for Ecuador, but the schedule for that twenty-six hour bus isn´t in my favour.

A Little Less Conversation

Having all but abandoned touristing whilst the football is on, I spend only some short part of the morning meandering around Lima, continuing from yesterday. The little section of Lima containing hostels, two parks and the nightlife, is nice enough. The rest of it promises very little, and doesn´t seem to suprise, but who knows what´s in many unexplored dark doorways. It doesn´t much matter, because England are about to play Italy.

After the game, all ten or fifteen england fans in the hostel bar quickly skulk away. I continue to sit for ten minutes, silent and motionless, until I´m forced to reply to a pleasantry. I´m trying to hard decide how I should respond to the defeat. I suppose that I could be sad. After Arsenal´s 2006 loss to Barcelona in the final of the champions league, I was very sad. So much so, that after I was done being sad, I was never sad again - so that´s of no help. I can´t seem to motivate any other emotion or response. Eventually, I have a coffee and continue living my life again, albeit quietly.

Gay Bar

As I´m wandering back from a Chinese restaurant, a dark unmarked doorway catches my eye. I pass it, but reverse up to poke my nose in - the simple process of city exploring. A gentlemen, probably a bouncer, explains to me that it´s a gay bar. He adds that it´s a gay bar for girls who like girls. Finally, the kicker is that drinks are free for the next hour.

I promptly return with some friends from the hostel. We very much enjoy the free drinks, not to mention the company of some delightful Peruvian lesbians.

Magic Bus

The first trick performed on the bus from Cusco to Lima was to make the three meals, promised at the point of sale, disappear into thin air. I´m not wholly convinced they ever existed in the first place. 


As we roll into Lima at 2200h, I´m reminded of the desolate socially-collapsed world illustrated in the opening scences of Robocop 3.


The grande finale of the bus has been to reveal that twenty-seven hours of my life have also vanished into thin air - though, slightly thicker than before, now that it´s carrying my three meals. The trick lacked spectacle, showmanship and slieght of hand. It was quite noticable, that for no apparent reason, the bus stopped in the middle of the night and only resumed at dawn.

Can I Play with Madness

Back in Cusco, I´m satisifed that my long awaited completion of the tourist trail is finally over. As one might guess from odd comments in my recent writing, I´ve got an eye on my return to the merry old land of England. After my afternoon "you´re out" exit meeting from the bank, as I left the room, I turned to Big Al and Adam with a smile and a parting comment that we all knew to be true: "Someone had to end the madness." Out here, it´s a very different kind of madness, but I´m pretty much over this travelling thing.

That said, there´s still a hell of a lot of this continent left. If I´m sailing back, I´ve got to get up to Panama or so, through at least Ecuador and Columbia. Then, there´s the Gallapagos, which I should probably check out. In the often recalled words of Schwarzenegger: "Two mwore. I want to see two mwore."

I´m done with Cusco, but Lima is long trip, best suited to an overnight. I can´t do anything withg my days now anyway - it´s Portugal vs. Czech Republic at 1345. Touristing is largely going to be on hiatus for now.


It seems Cusco is is celebrating something everyday this month. The main square ir cordened off to traffic and full of specatators watching people dancing about in colourful costumes. There´s elaborate paper mache floats depicting Incas, what looks like Iron Maiden´s Eddie, and my favourite, a guinea pig humping another guinea pig.


The football is disappointing. I don´t like the Portuguese. They are very greasy, both in appeareance and in style of play. The ale is in the English pub, where I´m watching the game, is also disappointing. It´s coming out of a tap, (not a pump,) as cold as lager. It improves as it comes towards the right temperature, but I don´t have that kind of time. Actually I do, but I don´t like the waiting game.

Stairway to Heaven

I was given the advice that Machupicchu is best immediately after the gates open, for a view without unsightly tourists. However, those gates open at 0600h and they sit atop an hour of stair climbing - or alternatively, a seventeen US Dollar bus ride. Andrea, a Brazilian guy, Antoine, a Frenchmen, and myself are up at half Four, and probing the unlit stairs by torchlight by quarter past Five.

My plan is simple: get up; get down; get out, and the South American tourist trail is complete. It's soon obvious that the three of us are on the same page. We're powering up the dark, steep and uneven Inca staircase. At the relatively low altitude - less that two-thousand-five-hundred metres- it´s already t-shirt temperature, and at this rate, it's quickly getting uncomfortable. We start to find other groups of young tourists, but our quick march pace leave them all eating our dust. These other tourists don't seem to understand is that this is a race, and there are winner and losers.

At the top, having overtaken every group of tourists until there were no more left, we're quite satisfied with our painful forty-five minute sprint-climb. With the light of dawn, I'm expecting to find a quiet and serene entry gate. I'm not best pleased to find over thirty tourists in a long & wide queue. I'm very-absolutley drenched in sweat. I'm confident this is the most sweat I've ever produced.

The floodgates open at Six and the tourists flow in. I'm immediatley stopped. "No musica", I'm told by Peruvian staff. Apparently, I have to bag check my Ukulele. I am severely offended. Assholes.

The first sight we come to is a misty view down onto Machupicchu city. Out come the many, many cameras, but I give the tourists, the impressive city and the incredible mountain landscape no more than a second glance. The race ends at the top. Stupid tourists.

Photo: wikitravel.org

Alone, and way ahead of the pack, I'm winding up the stairs and paths around Machupicchu mountain. It´s not more than fifteen minutes before I'm at the end of the line. The path is thoroughly cut off by a thick wooden log barricade. The almost vertical mountain stretches upwards for many, many more hundreds of metres. After five minutes of weighing the option to respecting the unmarked, sign-postless fence, and the fact I was promised a mountain to climb, I scale the fence. I scale it very carefully. My feet work up the rickety wooden baracade and my hands tightly squeeze the rocky mountainside. The drop off the right side of the path is at least as sheer and as deadly as La Paz´s deathroad. On the otherside, I find a wooden bridge. It's no more than five or six thin, uneven tree trunks laid long-ways across a three metre gap in the ridge-path that spirals up and around the mountain. The trunks don't feel like they're strapped down well. Again, I'm hugging the mountainside tightly. Farther ahead, the mountainside path turns from stairs to an increasingly thin and barely trodden muddy grass- & shrub-carpeted route. Like in yesterday's jungle, it's starting to seem that I'm not meant to be here. After making a small jump down from a high step and slipping to land my shin on a hidden rock, I decide that there's no way I'm going to make the summit along this route. The spirit of adventure says I should go on, but the spirit of adventure would probably kill me. As I return, across the Inca Bridge, I find the next man up is my race team mate, Antoine.

Photo: en.wikipedia.org, Wrong turn

Back at the site, I find out I had taken a wrong turn entirely. The route up Machu picchu Montaña is elsewhere. The race is back on. Antoine only paid for the city, not the mountain, so I'm on my own, chasing more tourists up more Inca steps. These stairs are gruelling. Their height and width is often uneven and extreme in both directions. The burn is different than the snowy paths of Huayna Potosi. In the increasing heat of the morning, I'm setting another new personal best for most sweat displaced. After discarding ten or fifteen of the tourists who have also made the early start up the mountain, I have two Americans in my sights and in earshot. Over the next fifteen minutes of pounding these stairs, I can almost catch up to them, but I don't have it in me to pass them. I want to stop and rest my aching legs, but I don't want them to slip farther way from me. If they stop for a rest, I can take them. I'm trying to remember the name of the third guy who landed on the moon. I don´t know. Who does know? Who even really cares?

After a full hour of climbing stairs of worsening build-quality, the end is in sight and surely only minutes away. I turn a corner to find the Americans have stopped to take a picture. Fools. I seize my chance to pass them. As soon as I do so, I can hear them start moving again. I'm scared to let my lead slide and up my pace through the pain. I'm on the fringe of breaking into a jog. I can hear the Americans matching my pace two steps behind me, at most. In the final leg of tall stairs, I'm pushing my hands down on my knees for the extra power to get up. In the very last stretch, I know I've won, but it also occurs to me how sorely competitive I've become with other tourists. I fear it might actually a little sad. I was never this competitive before, but that´s probably because my city banker fitness wasn't best-suited to competing, much less winning before. A few steps from the summit, I stop and half-turn to take those final steps with the Americans. After exchanging high fives, we wander to the lower edge of the moutainside. There's a guy sat perched on the tip of the mountain. Another American. Apparently, he crept past the gate for and made an early start on the summit. I guess that makes me Buzz.

The stairs are often so narrow, thin and tall that even the traverse down is dangerous and slow. Back at the bottom of climb, I think I'm finally almost done with Machupicchu. There's another sign pointing down a touristed path. Apparently, it's the Sun Gate. My new American friends are done for the day, but I don´t expect the Sun Gate can be very far down this path. I've got to do it - the only time I'll ever be here. Besides, I've paid for it. I'm still trying to keep a high gear and outpace the other tourists. Ten minutes across the sun-exposed mountainside path and I'm burning from both the sun and the lactic acid in my legs. After five more minutes, I'm getting pissed off. I'm wondering how far could this damn gate could possibly be. Not necessarily under my breath, I'm periodically exclaiming: "Fucking Incas". No wonder their empire fell apart. You're bound to run out of steam when you spend your days carrying rocks up and all around this bloody mountain. Fucking idiots. I eventually ask a passing tourist how much farther it is. The German estimates another twenty minutes. I'm almost ready to turn back. It occurs to me again that twenty minutes is as close as I´ll ever be. If I don't do now, I might regret it later. It also occurs to me, that I'm already heavily regretting this shit show right here and now. Fucking Incas. If only to maintain the tradition of the best of gameshow hosts, I started, so I'll finish. I arrive at the Sun Gate to find it's exactly as crap as I had predicted it would be. Fucking Incas.

Photo: travelwhimsy.com, Intipunku Sun Gate, Total shit

Finally, the tourist trail is over. As the third phase of my plan, Get Out, begins, I find Andrea. After a long journey back, we finally get to tearing into chicken, chips and beer in Cusco.

Long Tall Sally

The day starts early with the hope that I can do Machupicchu before England-Ukraine at 1345. After a shared taxi with the workers of the hydroelectric dam, I begin the two hour trek along the railway.

Before long, the railway track ends, and a path leads into the jungle alongside the often aggressive white water Urubamba river. I´m enjoying a vigorous solo jungle trek for ten minutes until I find the path has disappeared. The jungle is wild, but not impossibly thick, so I can traverse left and right. There´s still no sign of a path. Thousands of tourists should be doing this every year, but I can´t find a single track - just doesn´t make sense. I go back to find the path, then follow it forward again, more carefully this time. Again, the path just fades away. Where did these tourists go? They never left here. Hell, it's like they just disappeared. I have to turn back and return to the dam, and that makes me angry. As I´m stomping back, shouting profanities at the Peruvian jungle, I find the path splits right, from the side of the dam. This could be another dead end, and waste another jungly twenty minutes, but trying to maintain the spirit of adventure, I roll right. I find a train track with a well beaten path along side and I´m back on my way.

As I come up around a bend, ahead of me, the Rio Urubamba is crossed by an iron railway bridge with spaced wooden sleepers holding the track across it´s length. There´s a pedestrian footpath along the side, and a sign prohibiting crossing by way of skipping across the sleepers, but I´ve seen a pre-pubescent Wil Wheaton and Corey Feldman perform this feat. I´m listening for a train, but hear nothing, so move towards the track for a closer look at the challenge. Before, I can so much as step onto the track, I think, maybe, I can hear something. The PeruRail 0900h blazes out from the jungle behind me, blowing it´s horn hard. I´m a little gun-shy after that and favour the pedestrian route.


Arriving in Aguas Calientes at 1030, I´m still hopeful to get up and down Machupicchu. I´m still struggling with the Peruvian take on Spanish, but I think I´m being told there´s no way I can do it today.

In town, I´m searching for the English contingent, but despite this being a dedicated tourist base of restaurants and hotels - even slightly reminiscent of Las Vegas - I´m finding only a few gringos at all, much less anyone recognisable as English. I eventually settle for the biggest TV around. It´s a sixty-incher and is still wearing the stickers assuring the buyer that it´s 3D-ready and SuperSlim. I´m hopeful , after the progressive game against Sweden, but by the forty-five minute mark, it´s clear that no progress has been maintained.

Finding My Way

Macchupichu isn't as easy as I'd expected. The nearest large town is Cusco, but it's still way on out in the middle of nowhere. Tours of cycling, trekking, zip-lining and rafting take tourists out there, but those run upto and beyond two-hundred US Dollars. This is the last great gimmick on my tour, but to my mind, that's all it is. I didn't have any great interest in the Incas before, and proximity hasn't changed anything. But, as always, I'm promised this is ancient village of broken stones is incredible.

What is of great interest to me, is my pretty red, albeit materially grazed, Tornado, but at an estimated three-hundred bucks all-in, assuming I don't crash it, that thought was discarded. I'm not being up-sold to rafting either, so I take instructions for the cheap method - a bus Santa Maria, a taxi to Santa Teresa, an hour walk to a Hydroelectric Dam, and a two hour walk along a railway track to Aguas Calientes, the town at the foot of Machupicchu. 


I'm reluctantly missing the football today, but I've got to find a somewhere in Aguas Calientes tomorrow for England vs. Ukraine. Thanks to a Peruvian bus schedule that leaves a bus-sized gap between 0900h and 0100h, I'm only as far as Santa Teresa by dark, and don't much fancy a lonely unsignposted three hour walk in the dark.

Eating Ain´t Cheating

Last night, in a conversation with a Dutch guy, Wissie, from my hostel, I learned about Ayahuasca. It´s a type of tea of tribal origin - something to do with a cactus. It´s used by shamans to cure all kinds of ailments, and to purify the body & mind. It involves a ceremony, led by a shaman, that promises a great deal of violent vomiting and hallucinating that eventually ends with great clarity of mind, a connection with nature, and the possibility to contact the spirit world. So, right up my strasse. Wissie tells me that no food or alcohol is permitted for twenty-four hours before the ceremony. After a heavy eight o'clock dinner, the hunger strike began.

Today, by early afternoon, starvation is beginning to test me. I find Wissie, and we decide we ought to find a shaman now, otherwise, this is all a waste of time. We´re prowling around the hippie side of town, San Blas, and Wissie is asking random stereotypically dressed hippies where we can find a shaman. Eventually we do, but the elaborately described ceremony is priced at a hundred-and-forty bucks. Neither of us are that keen to achieve spiritual enlightenment.

We estimate that we´ll have have cheaper luck in the town of Pisaq, outside of Cusco, in the Sacred Valley. Our pilgrimage begins by bus, then continues in the same manner as our search of Cusco.

After thirty minutes of asking around, we´re finding that there seem to be only one shaman in town, and he does two weekly ceremonies - neither tonight nor tomorrow. In desperation, we track the shaman to his house deep in the unlit village. The shaman only confirms the schedule that we already knew. Game over.

Back in Cusco, it´s 2130h and Wissie and I are each ploughing into Israeli take-out like it´s going out of fashion.

Another One Bites the Dust

As the Tornado and I grind to a halt, I am at least displeased because I'm in a awkward, tangled heap on the tarmac in the middle of the road, with the smattering of my shattered rear view mirror. I pick myself up before it occurs to me that I could be hurt. I'm pretty horrified to look back at the twisted wreck of my beautiful red Tornado. Once the initial horror subsides, I'm banging my helmet, angry with myself for making this mess. I signed the rental contract, agreeing to pay for any damage to the bike, but on the assumption that I wouldn't drive her into the ground. A few moments later, that feeling subsides, and I'm left with the thrill of having crashed a bike. It was painfully unnecessary, but it was really, really cool. Finally, I find some pain in my right knee. So there's at least a handful emotions that I'm capable of.

The ride had started well. I followed my Peruvian biker pal Samar down some broad winding roads and U-turns, eventually making a turn to reveal the awesome view of snow capped mountains behind the Sacred Valley. I'm having a really great time in my little helmet world, singing to myself, Highway to the Dangerzone, and other situation-appropriate numbers. It's much the same as childishly racing the Thames Clippers and wake riding on my beloved RIB.

Photo: southamerica.amateurtraveler.com

Back in town, I'm a little nervous of unpredictable Peruvian children, dogs, and stupid people. I slide my right hand's fingers to hover over the front brake, just in case I really need it.

Shortly thereafter, I find I've lost the back wheel. For a long fraction of second, I'm perfectly helpless as the Tornado comes down on my right side and I hear the sound of the the mirror shattering. I'm already standing in horror and anger by the time Samar comes racing back. He asks if I used the front brake. I reply "No, just the back". After a few moments of thought, it's all too obvious and I change my mind: "Nah, I touched the front brake". I've been told many times not to use the front brake, but I didn't wholly appreciate that that's because it's a suicide lever.

We pick up the bike, and I'm relieved to see most of it springing back into shape. Despite an ache in my knee, I just want to get back on and finish the last five minutes. Back at the shop, I'm concerned about the cost of the damage, but smiling anyway. I walk away, knee still aching, but otherwise happy with myself. And with just fifty bucks of damage, that was definitely worth it.

Magic Touch

The day is reserved for England vs. Sweden. A couple of fellow Englishmen and I make our way to the Irish pub. I´m thrilled to hear that this pub serves Greene King IPA and Old Speckled Hen. All the pilsner beers out here, certainly through Bolivia and Peru, are almost exclusively awful.

The game is a typically nervous watch throughout, but unusually, a good performance on our part. It´s almost unrecognisable from the lukewarm, directionless show England usually provide. The first Swedish goal reveals a table of Swedes. The second English goal reveals that my new friends and I are terrible singing louts. What is disappointing is the ale. It doesn´t have the mouthfeel that it should. It´s more like an ale flavoured water. I can only drink one and half anyway, because I´ve setup a test drive on the Honda Tornado RX 250 immediately afterwards.

As best I can tell, the Tornado is the same as the Baja, but with a cooler name. This one is red. After a short test drive, my obviously terrible clutch control is revealed.

An hour later, my feel for the clutch is a lot better. It´s not perfect, but I can usually get her in motion first time. I´m thinking that if I get a good feel for her on a half day tour tomorrow, I could take her all the way over to Machupicchu.

Still Life

I've arrived in Cusco, Peru. As usual I'm wandering about town to get a feel for the city. Maybe once I understand Peru and it's people, David & I might finally be able to defeat Nobby Solano's 2003 Peru national team in Pro Evolution Soccer 3, a feat that eluded us in over fourteen attempts.

Cusco sits in a shallow valley surrounded by moderately sized mountains, thinly covered in some green vegetation & trees. At the outskirts of the city, I'm climbing the stairs into the residential district. There's a lot of stairs, but I'm not suffering so much as I'd expect. Maybe I'm getting better at this uphill lark.

There's a festival in the streets around one of the squares. I think it's Corpus Christi or something. The square is lined with full of food stalls and rife with Peruvians. The very apparent speciality of Peru is guinea pig. From the look of it, I estimate that the preparation of the animal is to shave it, cook it at a hundred-and-sixty degrees Celsius for thirty minutes, deep fry it and plate it up. At each stall, the rodents are loosely piled in pyramid formation. They're in their entirety, still with hands, feet, faces, teeth - everything. Like the apple in the mouth of a suckling pig, the rodents are often posed with a big chili pepper. Unfortunately, I've already eaten.

In the northern part of town, I nose into a backstreet market. It's full of cages of chickens or ducks of various ages, then one cage of fifty fluffy guinea pigs. Just to be sure, I ask the guinea pig man: "¿Para comida?" - for food? These are twenty-five pence Sterling each. The restaurants are most often charging thirteen Pounds, which is over double anything else on their menus.

In the evening, I'm out looking for food. The nearby festival is being packed up, but there's a few stalls still open. I'm made the offer, and so I take a seat on a bench for a plate guinea pig, including a foot, an anonymous sausage, some kind of bread and something I can't identify - it's a thin, pale, stringy, elastic five centimetre length with little bobbles branching off it. I ask for a fork and knife, but that's not how things are done out here. I'm not a fan of guinea pig. Maybe it's better hot.

Higher Ground

I'm done with this place, but Holland vs. Germany is the late afternoon kick off. Thanks to Isla de Boleta, I'm strapped for cash, so last nights meal was a can of tuna, and this mornings breakfast was my last Snickers.

I know what I have to do. I'm not sure that I really want to exert the effort, but I have to climb the final and highest peak. At the foot of the climb, the sky starts throwing more hail at me. I don't need this shit, and I'm ready to hit the bar. But, I know the bar doesn't open for another fourty-five minutes, and with that, I start my way up the steep mountain and through the hail. The route up is littered with boulders, and once ten minutes of hail has subsided, it's perfect for some more light climbing. The one and a half hours upto the telephone masts at the summit takes me three hundred metres above the peak fo two days ago. Those metres make for a much greater view point. This is how mountaineering should be. A short hike upto somewhere nice for some interesting technical climbing, and you're back in the pub in the afternoon.

In the  bar, I'm not sure who not support. I like both teams. A few minutes after the start, I find myself supporting Holland. Possibly, it's because I need Robin Van Persie to be in a positive frame of mind when questions are asked about potential transfers.

Alas, Holland are outplayed by a stereotypically efficient and robust German performance and I'm muted for the remainder of the day.

Ticket to Ride

Copacabana isn't very pretty, and the enormous lake isn't adjoined to anything recognisable as a beach. The feature is it's access to Isla del Sol and Isla de la Luna, the birth places of the Sun and Moon, respectively, according to the Incas.

My ferry boat arrives on the north side of the island, and after looking lost for a minute or so, I'm given nudge towards the direction of the trek to the south. For access to the path and an small uninspiring museum, the ticket price is ten Bolivianos. The walk is pleasant, as are the views across the lake into the mountinous horizon.

An hour into the hilly paved trek, we - my English friends and a Chilean girl - approach what looks like a finish line - a wooden frame over the path. It's in the middle of the island and is manned by two locals. Apparently, the previous ticket was only for the north of the path, and to continue, another fifteen Bolivianos is necessary. We're not happy about being extorted, and after some questioning, reluctantly agree to pay. Perhaps an hour later, and shortly after our previous ticket was validated at another checkpoint, we're approaching the end of the three hour trek. We come across a handful of children, from about six to twelve years old. A twelve year old girl tells us that the tickets we have are for the north and middle of the path, and that the south path requires another ticket and another five Bolivianos. I'm not sure whether her being a twelve year old girl makes it more or less likely that i'll push her to the ground and walk on, but for what she assures us is a final tarriff of fifty pence, I again, reluctantly reach into my pocket.

At the south dock, as a final insult, I'm told that my return ticket is only valid on the north of the island, and that a different company runs the south side ferrys. Another twenty Bolivianos is necessary.

The Island is nothing special. There's only one area of ruins and the views no different to what you might see from Copacabana, and even elsewhere in the world. I hope the Sun comes back and destroys the miserable little island. That's what they deserve for extorting three Pounds from me.

I´ll Sleep When I´m Dead

I´d suggested to myself and others, that after the most physically challenging day of my life, Copacabana would be the perfect place to spend a day relaxing. This morning, as has been the case before, I realise that I don´t know how relax. I´m not sure exactly what action or inaction constitutes relaxation. Even if I did know what to do, it would feel like a waste of the four pounds I´m paying for this room. I pack my rock boots and ukuele and I´m off by ten o´clock.

Copacabana is dominated by three-and-a-half hill-slash-mountains. Despite being battered by hail for ten minutes, I set my sights on the second highest peak, which apparently has some Inca significance. After an hour and a half up, I have this peak to myself, which is quite pleasant after the queue for Huayna Potosi. I look over at the higher peak, knowing that that´s what I should do now, but it´s wet, and I´m fed up of mud and ice. After a slippery game Kevin Bacon´s Tremors, I find a nice enough and dry enough spot to throw on my rock boots for some lovely bouldering. I´m just very slightly smarter than climbing anything to aggressive, given that no one is around and I don´t have my phone. Who would I call in any case? A broken ankle up on a rock in Bolivia is hardly going to get past Jenine to Egon and the guys.

The Euro 2012 games are inconveniently positioned right in the middle of the day, at 1200 and 1445 in my timezone. I sense that this is going to slow my galavanting over the next few weeks. There´s an English-run bar where I find some English friends I met at the Paraguay-Bolivia border. France vs England is a somewhat mute nintey minutes.

I use the late afternoon to tackle the one-and-a-half peaks that are the feature of the generic Copacabana postcard. The sunset is nice enough, but at this altitude, it turns chilly the moment the sun dips under the view of the far away moutain range silhouette and impressively vast Lake Titicaca.

Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger

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.

Heroes

The group wakes and gears up at midnight. Before long, I´m tethered to the guide in front of me and a Brazilian guy behind me, each with a couple of metres of slack. It was snowing when we went to sleep and now everything I recall from a few hours ago has a layer of anything upto a foot of extra powdery snow on it. We´re the first group to march off into the night. In the dark, with no more the head torch light, I´ve got no sense of direction, so it´s back to head down - left foot, right foot.

We start across another lateral upward traverse. The hill face we're traversing across is thirty or forty degrees, but as I point my torch down that slope, the view is just of a snowy decline that fades to quickly black. After just a few minutes, the burn sets in as I´m pushing my legs through the snow, trying to make the best of what the guide´s legs have cleared ahead. After what feels like only five or ten minutes, I´m desperately hoping the guide will call a short rest, but I don´t want to ask for it. I´m relieved when the Brazilian behind me calls out for a rest, sounding badly short of breath. I collapse on my arse, and laid back up onto the inclining side of the path, as does the Brazilian. The process repeats four of five times. We're stopping so often is hardly feels like we're making real progress. I´m glad that I won´t have to ask for the breaks, but at times, I´m desperately waiting for my Brazilian partner to ask for mercy.

Each time we stop, I can see the torch lights of the tethered groups following from our camp, and another train of distant lights from a lower camp. Each time we stop those lights are getting closer, until the figures of Paul, Keith and their guide overtake us. It´s not a race, but in my mind, I want to be the first to the top - it´s a race. I´m not happy being taken over, and my Brazilian´s breaks are getting longer and longer. I find that no matter long we stop for, thirty seconds after restarting, the acid burn is back in my legs in full force. I´m head down, focusing only on the rhythm of breathing and feet. Each time I feel like I´m finding a good rhythm, there´s a tug on the tether behind me. The Brazilian is really struggling. The guide lengthens the tether between the Brazilian and I.

We´re not far behind Paul and Keith and catch them at a longer rest spot. Checking my watch, I´m reckoning there´s still over three hours to the summit. I have an ingenius plan to power my way up the rest of this mountain. My Snickers bar is all but frozen. Breaking chunks off and chewing is more hardwork, but I´m convinced it will pay off.

The next section gets even more tough as the depth of the powdered snow surface becomes up to knee deep. Several times, my lead foot falls through snow and only eventually finds a solid surface much deeper than the back foot. My third leg, the ice axe, is often equally useless. I´ve fallen on my knees and am struggling to find solid footing to stand up. The guide is urging me to keep up, both in voice, and dragging me up by my tether. Thankfully, in my mind at least, the struggles of my Brazilian are even worse.

With my estimate of two hours to go, my rhythm is broken again. The Brazilian is in a heap in the snow. I happily take the opportunity to fall over too. Lying in the snow for more than twenty or thirty seconds starts to melt it, which soaks into my trousers. Each time, I´m now summoning the mental strength and my third leg to drag my arse up to standing as quickly as I can get over the minimum of floored huffing and puffing. The guide is urging my partner to get up, but with no repsonse. He asks me if I´m okay. When we stop, I can recover quickly, at least mentally, and joke "mas o menos" with a smile. After two minutes the Brazilian manages to pick himself up, but as we plough on, the last of his energy is only good for a few more seconds worth of ploughing.

"Mas o menos", Photo: Paul Bell

My guide and the Brazilian head back down. I´m sent ahead and soon with a new guide. I´m tethered behind him, ahead of Suzanne, then Paul. I´m not sure what´s become of Keith and Hilary. I'm quietly pleased with my new position. So long as keep a basic reasonable pace and don´t collapse like my former partner, I'll to be the first of our group to the top, winning the race - if only by pointless and meaningless couple of metres of tether. The new group and I keep a quick and steady pace. I´m now even more determined. I can´t be the one to stop or slow our new super group.

It´s still painfully difficult to keep moving. I find myself thinking that there´s a good chance I can´t do this, and that I´ll later have to explain my failure to friends and family with some reason or excuse. I´m thinking that the journey so far is already more than most have accomplished, and maybe that´s enough for me not to feel bad when explaining my failure. But I know it's not. I try to use a mental technique I developed to eek out extra laps when I was running around the BMX track. I imagine I´ve got 'alf Swiss along side me. Despite his being almost totally indecipherable and unpredictable, I have to concede to being impressed as he all but dragged me up Pen Y Fan in Wales. When that fails, I replace him with Thierry Henry. When Thierry and I run out of steam, out comes Mariusz "The Dominator" Pudzianowski, then finally, Schwarzenegger, yelling "Come on! I want to see two mwore! two mwore!". That sequence of heroes, is quickly exhausted. There's no one left to inspire me after Arnie, the ultimate action hero. Then, from nowhere, I find myself trying to use Robin Williams' patented "Happy Thought" technique, usually reserved for flying around Never Neverland. Between all of this, and the simple motivation of the competition of the race, I´m able to keep one foot moving after the other, slowly but surely.

We´re finally in view of the summit. The final ridge is long, dangerously narrow, and briefly, horrifically exposed on both sides with seventy degree descents of ice and rock. I wonder if my tethered group will save me if I fall. I wonder if I can save any of my group if they fall. I´m doubtful that either is possible. We move slowly across the ridge, and find ourselves behind a queue of about fifteen of the same train of torches I´d seen far below us at the beginning of the climb. All I want to do is get to the summit, and immediately start the climb back down.

When we finally reach the summit, I find no overawing sense of accomplishment. The view is cloudy, but the clouds are moving quickly, so epic view of the far and wide surrounding snow-capped mountain tops drifts in and out. The sun rises and sky is yellow. Oddly, I´m not all that interested. The task is complete and I want to get off this mountain as soon as possible. We´re there for five minutes, all of which annoy me, because I want to get off this mountain as soon as possible. My annoyance is briefly broken as I´m happy to recognise the figures of Keith and Hilary emerge from the ridge to the highly populated summit platform. I feign being more pleased than I am with the whole moment and pose for a photo. I´m told there´s icicles hanging off my nonsense of a beard.

Photo: Paul Bell

The way down is long and frustrating. The final hour or two is especially bad because the new snow and unpredictable rocky surface forces us to slow to a near crawl, and at times, a literal crawl. In my haste to get down, I slip twice and my wrist feels a pretty bad bang from one fall. I was expecting to take this as a first climb with more to come in Peru, if not more in Bolivia. As I´m carefully travsersing this painfully slow nightmare of snow and rock, I find myself thinking only about how much I absolutely hate, hate mountaineering. Spending hours and hours trapsing through thick snow, in the dark, with my legs burning is not in the least bit enjoyable. And for what reward? I found no sense of accomplishment of happiness whatsoever.

Photo: Paul Bell

It´s strange. Maybe enjoying this stuff requires one of those emotions that I don´t have a handle on. Fuck it. I'm down now.

Misty Mountain Hop

More recent information has suggested that the success rate for reaching the six-thousand-and-eighty-eight metre peak is not a hundred percent. The operators suggest a success rate as high as eighty percent, but that leads me to believe that rumours of something closer to sixty percent are more realistic. It´s not a technical climb, but I´m gathering it´s not the tourist climb that I had branded it.

The plan is to do three hours today in the afternoon to reach high camp, then shortly after midnight, start the five hour climb for sunrise at the summit. I´m not enamoured by the idea of climbing in the dark. To make matters worse, there´s no donkeys nor llamas to carry gear. I´ll have the pleasure of carrying the heavy-set plastic boots, ice axe, crampons, helmet, clothing and other assorted items. As much as I would like to take them, the uke´ and single malt aren't on my gear list this time.

We're off at midday. At the hour mark, I'm enjoying myself and bouncing along with 'alf Swiss' breathing method in force. Left foot, breathe in through the nose, right foot, blow out through the mouth. Then it starts to get tough.

We're up to the thick snow and it's time to gear up - boots, crampons and the axe come out. My focus is all on my feet and breathing. Left foot, right foot, breathe in, breathe out. I'm at the back of the faster group, with just the Spanish girl, Susanne, Paul and the guide ahead of me. Glances up are at seemingly endless and snow path. The narrow path extends laterally upward at twenty, then thirty degrees, across a forty degree snow hill. At its worst there's a ten metre slide down. Should I slip off the path, it's a harmless slide down, but I don´t want to have to do any of this work twice.

After a steep fifty degree passage, making use of the long end of my axe to extend my arm into a third leg, I see what I deeply hope is the Campo Alto - High Camp - the end of today´s work.

Campo Alto is a orange shack of shanty-like construction. Nonetheless, I´m pretty pleased to be here. The roof doesn´t look insulated, but it´s surprisingly warm. A slightly treacherous walk leads up to the similarly constructed toilet stall.

After a few minutes of huffing and puffing to recover my breath, the other group begin to arrive and I stumble across the hard compact snow to welcome them with some solid gloved high fives.

Photo: Paul Bell

I´m not wholly looking forward night stage of the climb. With an anticipated five hour stint, I´m not even certain that I can do this, but I´m not a very forward-looking sort of guy. That near-exclusive concern for the only the immediate scenario is for the best in this situation. It wasn´t quite ideal for business managing a global banking operation, but that´s why I´m throwing my high fives here and not there.

After chomping on some chocolate, a bar of Snickers - choice of champions - a handful of trail mix, and sipping a couple of mugs of coca tea - apparently a defense against altitude sickness - it´s 1830h. It´s bedtime.

Rockin´ Around the Christmas Tree

My eyes and feet are following our guide´s size seven Saloman´s up the rocky beginnings of Huayna Potosi. Half an hour of walking and we´re at the foot of the mountains glacier section for some ice climbing practise. Our group is made of two girls, one American, one Spanish, then we three boys, from England, England, and Scotland, respectively, but unusually, all most recently having lived in Old Street, Shoreditch and Bethnal Green, respectively.

Ice climbing is cool and ice axes are really cool, so I go at the ice bullishly. I soon find there's more technique to it than I'd anticipated, or that relates to rock climbing. I manage not to embarrass myself entirely, and largely avoid slipping and sliding on my belly or arse down the thirty and forty degree sections. Though, in the more vertical sections, thankfully on a rope, I fall twice in an over-zealous haste.

Photo: Paul Bell

We´re only out for an hour or two, but I´d happily have been out for many more. Ice axes are just the sort of thing I could buy and never use when I get back home. I could put them next to my chessboard, and my Kung Fu outfit, and my flute, and my enormous amplifier. Really cool, though.

-----------------

Dear Santa,
 I´ve been mostly pretty good this year, and am I nice enough guy, once you get to know me. This christmas, would you kindly arrange the following:

a KFC Megabucket
a motorcycle helmet - a cool one, with flames on the side
a pair of ice axes
a selection of real ales

Cheers,

Steven

Heat of the Moment

From my investigations of yesterday, the price of The Death Road varies between GBP30 and GBP70. I´ve been advised not to "cheap out", on account of the cheaper operators using unsafe bikes, but I decide to "cheap out".

My group and I are in a open space at the top of first part of the route to get used to the bikes. This first part is paved and non-deadly. My guide tells us that we´ll shortly start the route just around the corner at police narcotics check point. Gingerly circling around the dirt space, testing the bike, everything seems broadly ok, though the breaks are a little soft. A French girl picks out a nervous look on my face. She´s right. After some thought, I decide to hide my nervousness under a nearby rock.

We´re off. I´m behind the guide and a French guy, Antoine. Antoine appears to have ridden a bike before and can do a few nifty tricks. I´m doing my best to recall my recent bike riding experience in Piriapolis. On this downhill section, pedalling does nothing - the gears aren´t setup for downhill. We´re gliding down the road, casually, but building speed. All of a sudden, the guide veers off the left hand side of the road into a dirt drainage ditch, then rides two metres up a forty-five degree hill on the opposite side of the ditch, turns, and comes back through the ditch onto the road. Antoine follows his lead. I use my five seconds behind the Frenchmen to chicken out.

Five minutes later, I´ve lost the guide, but Antoine rides up a two metre raised dirt bank to the right of the road, then down into the roadside ditch and back onto the road. I´m unhappy with having chickened out last time, so I´m holding tight as I roll into this ditch. Even briefly, passing through the stoney ditch, the bike is juddering like it´s going to fall apart, but I come up and out safely.

Coming down a fast section, into a wide u-turn, both the guide and Antoine take another stoney shortcut path across the u-turn. As I follow, once again, my bike feels like it´s juddering to pieces and I´m holding tight to stay on it. Something feels very definitely wrong, and I reluctantly stop and lose the Bolivian and Frenchman. Looking down at my bike, I´ve actually literally juddered it to pieces. I carry it out to the road side and try to put the chain back on, only to find part of the gearing on the back wheel has broken clean off.

With my replacement bike, we´re making our way down the death road. Of course, Andy O was right, the views are as spectacular as the often sheer drop off the left hand side. However, given that drop, I don´t take so much time to enjoy those views. The winding and twisting road surface is uneven and riddled with stones. Even with suspension, the shuddering comes up through the front wheel. It´s painful to hold on tight, but if I´m holding too loosely, my hands will come away entirely. Still, the real element of danger is a more a function of the rider than the road. On two occasions, I briefly lose the back wheel and slide out, but neither incident perilous enough to slow me down.

Everyone rides at a speed they´re satisfied with, based the degree of both pain and peril. It´s not a race, but there´s a start and an end, so I´m riding to win, even if the Frenchman is a far better rider than me - which doesn´t take much.

In the evening, I´m unharmed and in La Paz´s "British Indian Curry house". I´m in the mood for something hot. the menu taunts me with a Vindaloo that specifically threatens to be so hot that finishers get a t-shirt. I´m hungry and good at clearing plates, so I accept the menu´s challenge.

The first four or five mouthfuls are fine. I´m feeling good. After that, my mango lassi begins to drain rapidly with every new mouthful. Even with my attempts to ration the yoghurt drink, I find it empty with plenty of curry remaining. I´m rigidly maintaining a false vascade to cover the burning sensation, even though I´m eating alone. The challenge is a cheat, there´s far too much curry sauce for the proportion of meat. I pick out the meat, suffering the burn, but there´s still a complete plate full of curry sauce that´s simply onions and chilli. I pay and leave, without my survivor´s t-shirt

Dr Feelgood

It´s 0100, and we´re five or six in a taxi with seats for four. I think the driver is also a doctor. From what I can remember, unsurprisingly, we´re the only group in costume at the small grimy club, but we are well received for it. Later in the morning, we´re in another taxi where the driver is taking us to another club, Ruta Triente y Seis. At what I´d guess to be 0800, we call an end to the spectacular madness and are walking back through the streets, still in full costume.

After waking up a midday, I´ve wandered across town looking for lunch. I have the crudely drawn Post-It Note picture deeply etched in the front of my mind. I´m very slowly working my way through a soup. The reality of the fifty metres and seventy degrees has dawned on me. My thoughts are very different to those of yesterday. I´m staring at my arm as I angle it to show myself what seventy degrees is. Now I´m imagining a near sheer vertical flat face of ice. I´m thinking this is almost terrifying beyond the capacity for rational thought, but in the slim remaining capacity, in theory, the guide will go first and setup a rope, so I can only die if the whole cold icey face comes off. So, it´s really just a question of whether I have the balls.

I´m walking across town to Alfredo´s office. For the past two hours I have thought absolutely nothing but wary, slow-moving thoughts this ice traverse, but without any inclination towards a yes or no. I remember Jerome´s words - "sometimes you live, sometime you die" - and ask myself what he, or Wolf, or Steve would do. With that, about twenty minutes before I reach the office, I conclude I have to do it. More than anything, I just can´t chicken out. If Alfredo says I can do it without ice climbing experience, then that´s what will happen. I have an odd feeling in my chest. It´s probably the immense terror of this reality.

The office is closed. The climb is already scheduled with a group for the day after tomorrow, but the death road is a full day tomorrow. Whilst I´m waiting, not sure whether to hope that the office opens, I visit another operator, again asking for something for more technical than Huayna Potosi. They show me an ice climbing route, less terrifying than Alfredo´s option, and ask about my experience. They strongly advise that it´s almost reckless for them to take me on their ice climbing route without experience. That´s all I need to be talked out of Alfredo´s plan, and his office remains closed. It´ll be the tourist mountain for me.

Crazy, Crazy Nights

I arrive in La Paz in the morning and, for lack of remembering any other hostel names, I settle down in what transpires to be an infamous party hostel.

The must-do gimmick in La Paz is cycling the death road. There´s scarcely a La Paz tourist that doesn´t do this, and with some noteworthy exceptions, everyone seems to survive, so I´m not hugely excited by the prospect. But, Andy O told me I had to do this, and Andy O has all but total credibility. What I´m actually looking to do is some mountain stuff - climbing, I guess.

After a few stops where I´m described a few climbs, I´m finding that one mountain, Huayna Potosi, is constantly mentioned. I´ve taken this to mean that it´s a tourist mountain, probably no more difficult than Ben Nevis, and certainly beneath my aptitude. That´s despite good memory of my ill-advised and failed attempt to summit Ben Nevis with Nico. Nick and I probably should have done some research before we went up. For a start, I didn´t know the Ben Nevis was there. I had just wanted to go and run around the hills where The Highlander was filmed. Then we should have looked up things like precisely where the mountain is, how high it is, how long it should take to get up, what gear is necessary, and when the sun goes down. Instead, we started our way up at a casual 1300, and my gear list included little more than a bottle of single malt, my ukulele and twelve cigarettes.

I find a climbing operator that I have a good feel about. I´m offered Huaya Potosi, but ask for something more technical. The seasoned Bolivian climber, Alfredo, begins to draw a crude diagram on a Post-It Note. It´s three lumps, one atop another, to show the three stages of the climb. The lowest of the three lumps has a line across it and the numbers fifty and seventy. Alfredo goes on to explain that the first stage is home to the technical part of the climb. It´s a fifty metre lateral traverse across a ice face of seventy degrees. Neither he nor I are too concerned that I don´t have ice climbing experience. I go away to think about it, but already thinking that this is perfect.

Back in the party hostal, after a few pints of White Russian, my new friends and I are looking to hit the town hard. Before we´re out the door, one of the gang leads us to a broom cupboard, and points at a large basket of colourful material. Having had too many White Russians, I agree that we should suit up in fancy dress. I´m in the Grim Reapers cloak and a jester´s hat. Two of the English contingent are now dressed as frogs, head to toe.

Life on Mars

At the end of the line, the Europeans are getting off and heading to Chile, whilst my substitute grandmother and I are heading back on the better part of a day´s drive back to Uyuni. As we´re switching cars, substitute nana goes quite mad. She insists that she won´t go anywhere in the new car unless the window is fractionally open for airflow. For a reason that includes words beyond my vocabulary, the Bolivian driver doesn´t want the window open. I try to interpret and explain to her that there´s no other option to return to Uyuni from this desert border outpost, but she won´t have it. The Bolivian driver and I take off, leaving her in the dust. She´s not my grandmother.

The terrain on the drive back varies dramatically. As we´re passing tall volcanoes, it´s the same sight as the pictures that came back from the Mars Rover in ´93. Later, green bushes start to appear on the martian terrain. Later still, the red rocks disappear, replaced by wide flats of yellow desert and distant mountains. I miss my Baja like this place misses the rain.

In the late evening, between the bus and road surface from Uyuni upto La Paz, four hours of fierce and relentless shaking and shuddering is so intense that I´m holding my groin just to keep everything in place.

Desert Rose

Back in the Land Cruiser, driving across a sandy desert, the electic soundtrack touches both Dexy´s Midnight Runners and Paul Simon.

We finally arrive at the reality of the picture I´d been looking forward to. The Arbol de Piedra - a rock shaped like a tree. It´s smaller than I was expecting, but I don´t hesitate to hop out of the car and pull out my bag of chalk and rock boots. I´m not best pleased to be greeted with a sign ahead of the rock: "NO ESCALADA" - NO CLIMBING. A few minutes later, I´m caught, rock-handed, by our guide half way up the tree, and reluctantly jump off. Pah, it wasn´t a challenging climb in any case.

Despite missing the pièce de résistance, I get a good go at various lumps of red grippy sandstone, some still in the shape of the overhanging waves that they once were when they poured down from the nearby volcanoes.  


In the early afternoon we´re at another basic hostal by the flamingo populated red lagoon. Once again, the Europeans favour cards rather than a hike up a distant rocky hill. Again, whilst I don´t really want them, I´m badly bothered by their total lack of inclination towards an hour of action off the tourist trail. Cards are shit.

High & Dry

I´m in one of a well spaced convoy of Toyota Land Cruisers in the middle of a desert, seemingly devoid of anything but salt. The terrain is almost perfectly flat and white in all directions, as far as the eye can see. I´m in the company of a pair of Portuguese, another pair of Germans, and an Indian woman of fifty-something years, on holiday from Australia, who reminds me greatly of my dearest grandmother. Our Bolivian driver has let us loose with the auxiliary input on the stereo. This is a good thing, because three days of Bolivian pan pipe music is three days more than I have the appetite for. My selection from the German iPod is AC/DC, so as to recreate an opening scene of Iron Man.

The main stop is a isolated rocky island of many, many cactus, upto ten metres tall and a thousand years old. The rock is almost like coral, and whilst my shoes grip perfectly, it´s quite capable of shredding my hands, so climbing is a no-go. This is where tourists insist to take tens and tens of largely unoriginal and poorly focused photos, amateurishly taking advantage of the natural "green screen" effect. I´ve no such interest.

In the afternoon, we arrive at a basic hostel. The hostel is in the shadow of a red mountain in the middle of this salty desert. The floors are covered small stones of salt, which I´m using to extract the moisture from my watch. I suspect much of the building is made of some kind of salt rock. There´s a couple of hours of sunlight left and I invite the Europeans to join me for a walk. Their preference is to play some game of cards. Their choice is entirely perplexing, but in reality, I´m happier to explore without them.

Despite being too mature for the earlier nonsense, on this rocky mountain, I have the mind of a seven year old boy. And so I being a game of Kevin Bacon´s Tremors. The game essentially involves leaping from rock to rock without touching the ground. Half an hour later, I´ve conceded that I can´t get to the top of the mountain without being eaten by the subterranean Graboids. Another half an hour later, I´m still scrambling up and have found a another type of rock. It´s red, smooth, and strong - probably a sandstone - so perfect for bouldering. From a few hundred metres up, the sun sets behind me and casts a shadow over distant salt flats. That motivates a new game of Let´s Get Off this Rock Before the Sun Goes Down. As I´m jogging and bounding down a path of switchbacks that I´d ignored on the way up, something goes awry in or around my right foot. Thankfully, I´m able to protect my sunglasses as I crash to ground and roll. With just a few small cuts, I rejoin my party and we set about emptying a bottle of rum.