Glutton for punishment

Have trained my workmate to throw me a chocolate whenever she gets one.

I feel a trifle ill.

However, the end is in sight because only the horrid toffee and plain dairy milk are left so I can stop eating chocolates for breakfast, elevenses, as a post lunch treat, 3pm pick-me-up and 5pm only-30-minutes-to-go reward. It's quite a relief.

We have ourselves quite the merry not so little Christmas do

Skye and I decided that we ought to have a Christmas do and to hell with the fact that we were only giving people a week's notice. And then we kindly told Mike, seeing as how he lives here on the weekends, just so he wouldn't feel left out. And then the rejection texts and emails poured in and we thought, 'bugger, we hate our friends, why the hell can't they drop all their other plans and come to our soiree?', but pretended that we didn't care.

But we went ahead anyway, and it was, of course, terribly well attended, despite us not telling anyone that we'd (Skye) made Santa's Filthy Grotto. Some charming photos are floating around. I made asparagus rolls so that Mel would come. She was threatening not to, so I pulled out the big bribes.

Side note: I had a conversation recently with someone about how you have to make asparagus rolls with canned asparagus, otherwise you just don't get that 70s housewifely feeling of accomplishment, or that nice squishy white bread and canned asparagus feeling of goodness. They were asking why on earth I'd use canned asparagus when there's so much fresh about. I don't think they'd ever had a really well rolled asparagus roll.

I think some other things have happened but obviously nothing particuarly impressive. Work rolls on - it's mostly good, but I do have the feeling that something is missing. Not sure what. It certainly isn't chocolate. All the companies that print or typeset for us have been sending us huge tins of chocolate for Christmas. One sent us an incredibly swanky box that had a four-page menu and a chocolate the size of a piece of toast. We were all very polite about not taking it, whilst secretly coveting it. And then, disaster. Word got around Sales and Marketing that editorial had treats and one morning we came in and the incredibly big piece of chocolate was gone. And no one would own up to eating it. I believe the cleaners were blamed.

London continues to get quite bloody chilly and I curse that I have yet to find a pair of woollen stay up stockings because I loathe tights and gussets. It's a hard life when this is my biggest worry.

I really do sound rather shallow, sometimes. Not all the time, of course, but quite a large percentage of it.

Am spending Christmas with Katie and Mike and Mike's family in some small village somewhere. Am going to be on my best behaviour. It can be done.

And then I believe I get a Kruse on the 28th. And if I don't, I might throw a tanty.

Cooking with gas

I feel that I may have been a bit too harsh about bananas last week. They’re edible if they’re sliced. But only then.

I managed to beat Skye home from work on Monday but my triumph was cut short when I realised that we were having a power cut. As was most of the street. Not to be deterred from food I gleefully fired up the gas stove with handy old matches and set about having a glass of wine whilst I cooked by candlelight. Skye, pre-warned of the darkness, came home bearing pizza. No risotto for her. But we did manage to set off the alarm, meet the new neighbours because of this, and get permission from the landlord to take the alarm apart by force, if necessary. In the end we only had to cut some wires.
However, our night was about to get much more exciting. We played Scrabble by candlelight. I won, but it was pretty close and there was some name calling.

Went to Crowded House on the weekend, although Kruse refuses to believe this. I think he’s just jealous. It was very good, with much audience participation and holding up of cell phones in lieu of lighters. On the tube on the way home a man asked me if my name was Shasta or Clarissa or something similar. To which I said no. Well, it’s not, is it? He pondered this for a bit and then asked if I was in Philosophy 201 at the University of Canterbury. Right university, but wrong class. Which I said, but I don’t think he believed me and whispered loudly to his friend that he did know me and it was philosophy that we took. If I had been feeling generous I probably could have helped him work out where he thought he recognised me from, but I was more in the mood to hum ‘Better be home soon’ to myself (last song of the concert, very apt) instead.

Spoke to Spanna in Melbourne and was immediately overcome with a longing for summer and drinks in the garden bars of pubs with the chums who live there.

And I finally got around to posting some presents home, so those should be turning up in about six weeks.

Spanna proposed a theory last night, and I’m inclined to agree with her, that the tube sucks energy from people through their feet. And happiness. Am not liking the tube.

And for my next trick . . .

Have been living at Mike and Skye's for two days and have already managed to give Skye and myself mild food poisoning.

Also, I was fortunate enough to experience a trip to the emergency room. Katie decided that enough was enough with my swollen foot and made me go. I did some waiting. Some reading. Some admiring of the public toilets. And then some x-raying. And some explaining of how I hurt my foot in the first place:

'So this guy was being a wrestler and picked me up and body-slammed me onto an airbed and on the way down I hit my foot on the table . . .'

The problem was, of course, that the nurses just stopped listening after I said 'wrestler' and concluded that along with my charming accent, I was a charming lunatic. Fair call, really.
But, foot is not broken, just really, really bruised and swollen so any plans I might have had to get round to doing some exercise have had to be shelved and now I spend all my spare time eating chocolate and reading. So very little's changed.

I've done older women before

Yes. This is indeed the way to get a woman. I mean, if it weren't for Kruse and the fact that I didn't find this wee 20 year old at all attractive, hell, he'd have been in with that line.

Side note: why are carrots and bananas so horrible?

Baking cures all evils except swollen feet

I spent last week recovering from the flu and baking because I'm fairly sure baking cures most things, except perhaps my pot belly. I ate a lot of cake. Good old Edmond's; when you've got no one else, Edmond's is always there for you, offering baked goods to get you through the hard times.

I think someone tried to pick me up on the bus on Friday night. A Kiwi, he very nicely stopped the bus so I could catch it when it looked like it was going to ignore me. Unfortunately, he decided this was a good enough reason to sit opposite me and chat. Londoners do not do this and tend to look at strangers who try to talk to them as though they are mad. We got some odd looks. However, being polite (that's your fault, ma and pa) I made conversation. Andrew is a banker. He plays rugby. He went to King's College. Turns out half his classmates were in my hostel in first year. I loathed them. I may have told him this a bit too vehemently. Cunningly I brought up Kruse's name as soon as decently possible, talking of my big strong boyfriend who can hoist the world on his shoulders. Best moment was when I was about to get off and Andrew said:

'Is this where you live?'
'Sure,'
'Isn't that a housing estate?'
(It used to be and I don't like the sound of snobbery in his voice.)
'Yes. IT'S FUN.'

Unfortunately, the grand exit I was planning on making after making this statement was ruined when the bus jerked suddenly and I almost fell on Andrew. And as the bus drove off and I climbed the steps to the gate, a drunk old man and suspicious looking youth passed me, no doubt adding the beauty of the environment.
I love living at Katie's.

Caught up with Lemon Nice and Nic Rowe on Saturday night for a few quiet drinks in Camden. Should have known better than to meet these two for quiet drinks at a bar offering 2 for 1 cocktails. Katie and I thought we'd escaped at 11am when they left to go to another bar. Unfortunately we ran into them about ten minutes later and they convinced us to go to yet another bar. Katie cleverly escaped in time to get the last tube home. I wound up crashing at Nic and Alex's, having lost my phone and been bodyslammed onto an airbed by someone not much bigger than me. It is amazing how booze can give one superhuman strength. Sadly, as this superhuman threw me onto the airbed, my foot hit a table and now it's all swollen and mildly blue and a spot sore. Bloody sore, really.

Hobbled home in time to call ma on the blower and have a good catch-up. And then I baked because we had a hot date at Chook's house for afternoon tea. High tea with the gang and there was much drinking of tea and scoffing of scones and clotted cream and lolling about on sofas, admiring Katie and Mike's lycra-clad bodies, yet loathing them for having spent their Sunday doing something as ludicrous as cycling.

The worst thing about London is the ludicrously early time that the tube closes. Of my five weekends here, I've spent four of them crashing at other people's houses because the price of a cab home would buy you a nice house in New Zealand.

Speechless

An unfortunate combination of the flu and a weekend of very little sleep and far too much socialising and, therefore, talking, has left me with no voice. At first I merely sounded as though I’d taken up smoking 50 a day. But by Monday there was nothing left. Tuesday wasn’t any better. Just as well I’m the new kid in town at work and don’t have to talk to anyone much. Have become quite proficient at sending emails instead of poking my head over the top of the cubicle-thingy and asking someone a question.

However, today I’m back to smoking 20 cigarettes by lunchtime, if my voice is anything to go by, so I’m clearly on the mend.

But the very good news of the day is that I have a bank account. I marched into the bank, with my lack of voice, and whispered loudly that I wanted, nay, demanded a bank account and here were my many bits of paper to prove that I really do exist. It was close, though. Some thoughtful tapping of the pen against their heads as they pondered if my NZ bank statement was eligible as ‘proof’ if there wasn’t a postcode on it. HA! As backup, I’d also brought along my contract. This changed everything.
Them: ‘Oh, you’re a professional. Here, have a credit card, too.’
Me: ‘I’m a what? Oooh, a credit card … what’s the limit on that shiny piece of plastic?’
It’s hard to concentrate when visions of shopping malls dance enthusiastically through my head making ta-ra-ra-boom-te-day noises, with drums and cymbals crashing as confetti falls from the sky.

I am, at this point, rather enamoured of the idea of credit card debt in two countries.

Last week saw the return of Ruthie and Mrs Spencer so we, plus Mike and Skye and Anna trotted off to The Sound of Music, the musical. It was fabulous and only mildly camp. This did mean that at times we were all giggling. The three little girls in front of us would turn around and look disapprovingly at us whenever this occurred. It transpired that they were chums with one of the small children who was singing and looking cutsey on stage. I tried to make friends with them by offering them chocolate. It seems they’d been paying attention to the ‘don’t take candy from strangers’ lesson because they just looked at me suspiciously. Admittedly, by this stage I probably had quite a few ice cream and chocolate stains on me, such is my gusto for sugar, so I probably looked dodgy. I discovered later one of the pitfalls of eating chocolate ice cream in the dark – stains all over my jersey which no one was kind enough to point out.

I have been accused of having an imaginary boyfriend. This is, in all fairness, from a friend of a friend who, in the past month, has heard me mention this ‘boyfriend’ but has yet to see any evidence of him, and I don’t help matters by admitting that I’m not too sure exactly when he’ll be turning up. I have ‘sad, almost 30-year-old delusional woman’ written all over me.

Near fatal errors

Apparently if you are in an illegal bar at 2am on a Sunday morning in London you must not ask the Italian-looking older man what it is that he does for a living. He looked at me as though I was mad. It wasn't my fault. He started the conversation and I was merely being polite.

'So, what do you do?' (I don't actually want to know but I'm being well mannered)
'My mother is Italian.'
'That's nice, but what do you do?'
'A bit of this, a bit of that ...' He looks at me strangely and then says in a quiet voice:
'You should never ask a man whose mother is Italian what it is that he does for a living.'
'I was just making conversation.' Cue muttering from me about how some people are so touchy.

Aside from upsetting people in bars, I've managed to get myself employed. Company I interned for in Auckland a while back suggested I email a client of theirs who just happened to have three resignations the week I contacted them. Marvellous. One interview and one job. I still don't have a bank account or tax number but I won't let that stand in the way of me trotting off to work each day. I'm not entirely sure exactly what my role is, but neither is my boss. They've decided to squish production and editorial together so it'll be a mish-mash. So far I've done very little but as I seem to be coming down with the flu, I think I'll just sit in my chair and look miserable. I've also managed to be late both days and spill yoghurt all over myself. Think I am making a great impression.

Am still staying with Katie. She's just started making her Christmas cake. So far she's decided entirely on her own that she ought to double the amount of brandy that the recipe asked for. I merely nodded my head.

We caught up with Justin and met some utter wankers (lawyers) that were all part of some semi-antipodean monthly pub get-together. Justin had warned us that there would be people indulging in wank-talk and gave us permission to be as rude as we liked. He also spent quite some time encouraging Katie to go about the room, taking ties off those men who were foolish enough to still be wearing them at 9pm. Katie was not keen.
I met my first stuffed shirt. So disappointing that he was a Kiwi who had somehow become more English than the English. Had annoyingly faux tousled hair that he'd obviously spent quite a lot of time and gel on getting to perfection. We had the following conversation:

'Hello, I'm Richard.'
'Hi, I'm Penelope.'
'Please, call me Richie.'
'Then please call me Pen.'
Pause.
Me: 'So, how do you know Justin?'
'Do you know ...' (rabbits off some names and I look blank) 'I don't think you know anyone that I know.' (Distaste is reflected in his voice as he realises just how far down the social scale I must be).
I go for all out Kiwi: 'Nah, not unless they went to Massey, eh.'

He turned to the very good-looking woman next him and pointedly ignored me. I thought evil thoughts about men who own more hair products than I do and took unclassy big gulps of wine in order to wash away the poor taste of the conversation.

In other news, have suffered a spot from pedestrian rage. Far too many people here. And was stuck on a bus today for an annoying amount of time with no idea of where I was.

Oh, I'm sick. Poor little 5-foot 10 pen pen. I want my mummy to make me hot lemon and honey drinks. And, AND, I'm spotty and I have bad hair. I was struck by these ailments the moment I arrived in London. Stupid old London with its huge array of shoe shops.

But, am in England now, so, mustn't grumble.

Good vs. Evil

It's the eternal fight. Good and evil. Repeated battles over the centuries, eternalised in books, poetry and film. Apparently good always wins. I certainly hope so, as in this year of 2007 we once more witness good gird up its loins, preparing to war and (hopefully) win against evil. Good, here being represented by me, Penelope, and the face of evil cavorting here as my jeans.

I think Katie might be an agent of the devil. She's made another batch of extremely delicious truffles that call to me, even when they're in the fridge.

Aside from working my way through all the different flavours of chocolate at the supermarket, I have been doing stuff. Am not sure what, exactly, but it seems to be extremely time consuming. And exhausting. Honestly, unemployment can really take it out of a girl.

Spoke to minor on the weekend. Got slightly homesick.

And went to Caro and Dom's Bonfire Night. Great fun. Everyone loves a sparkler. Also caught up with Dan Scott and his lady chum who kindly allowed me to sleep on their sofa, after escorting me to a comedy night. Surprise star of the evening was not a comedian, but came rather from the audience and was a drunk, middle-aged woman called Teresa who was determined to get her money's worth by heckling the performers, often making no sense whatsoever. I have no doubt that she felt just as proud of her performance the morning after as she obviously did that night.

London calling

Was terribly impressed at the supermarket today, when I was browsing in the tea section, as one does, and discovered that you can get tea specifically for hard water. Well I never!

Have been here a week now and not a great deal has changed. Am still having a great deal of trouble getting to sleep before midnight, which means that I have a great deal of trouble getting up at a sensible hour, which means I have a great deal of trouble getting anything done. It's just an endless circle of difficulty.

Have managed to see Caro and Dom, Chook, Em and Dan and Conrad. The last three I haven't seen since Fi and I swanned off to South Korea, so there was a great deal of 'Well, haven't you not changed at all, then, in six years, how very disappointing'. Dan proved to be very useful in that he aided in the getting of information off my broken laptop, which has been nastily refusing to give up my CV, which it had hidden in its electronic depths. Yes, I could have rewritten it, but that would mean trying to remember what I've done since I left high school.

Today I actually tried to get to the bottom of bank accounts and tax numbers. It appears that I cannot get either for weeks, maybe months, just because this is how the English like to do things. With as many complications as possible. Have had some amusing/utterly infuriating conversations with people on telephones as they try to explain the nonsense that is banking systems and tax numbers and what I need to prove that I exist and am not merely pretending.

So have taken up baking again. And eating. Finally, something I am very, very good at.

And then I got bored so I read all my blogs and was revolted by all the spelling and grammatical errors and started to seriously question what it is that I obviously only pretend to do for a living. I think job-hunting might be starting to depress me.

Am not impressed by what comes out of one's nose after one has been on the tube.

American psycho

The next time I have to share a room with an ex-marine who appears to be asleep I will actually check that he's asleep, and not faking, before I go ahead and change into my PJs, flashing my knickers in the process.

He did redeem himself by taking me to the airport, although even this was fraught with difficulty when we discovered that we didn't have enough money for the toll and he suggested that I flash my boobs at the toll booth officer and he drive through the barrier while the officer oogled my chest.

Farewell Florida and the nutters that live within. And thanks very much for letting me crash on your floor/foldout sofa, make a mess of your house and for putting up with the fact I quite often don't make any sense. Much appreciated.

And now, London. It is cold.

Managed to negotiate my way on the tube to meet Katie in the city. Then ran into Lauren. Was just like being at home. Got to Katie's house and with a great deal of excitement, opened the box of clothes that ma and pa had sent over. I fell on them with gusto. Having worn almost the same thing every day for the past two months, I was thrilled with the idea of not wearing cargo pants ever again. I pulled out my jeans and put them on. They didn't fit. I couldn't even do them up.

I don't want to talk about it.

Bollocks, of course I do. I'm going to whine. I blame America. And maybe South America. It's not my fault, at any rate.

I eventually managed to do them up, but it took a run in the park and another 24 hours before I could finally do the zip up. In a huff, I stormed off to see Ruthie and her mum, who are en route to Israel.

We were shameless tourists. The London Eye. A river tour. Walking around the Tower of London. Great fun. And then back to where they were staying and Ruthie and I stayed up watching DVDs and giggling until 4am. Was a bit like when we were eight except now we don't get told off for still being up at that hour.

But, to celebrate actually getting into my jeans (and ignoring the overflow that Katie has kindly described as 'curves'), we're eating truffles and chocolate cake. I am my own worst enemy.

Tomorrow has been set aside for the purpose of shoe shopping, finding a costume for the two parties my popular self has been invited to this weekend, and trying to find a job. But the latter only if I have time.

They chew tobacco, like, for real, dude

Well, quite frankly I don't have to see anymore of America because I've met a 23-year-old tobacco chewer and my work here is done.

Liz, true to her word, picked me up from the airport with a cask of wine, labelled 'sunset blush', so I knew it was quality. She was accompanied by Evan and Tom and apparently we were off on a road trip. To some places that I had sort of even heard of. Like DC. However, about 90 minutes in, Evan started feeling unwell so it was decided that it would be better if we just got a hotel in Orlando (about an hour from where Liz lives) to hang out and do feck all for a bit. We were all agreeable to doing nothing so we did it immediately and with gusto. Nice resort hotel with spa bath and pool and hot tub and space travel and kitchen. Five days of cooked breakfasts consisting of bacon and sausages and eggs and waffles and maple syrup and now Penelope is pudgy. I even jumped on the scales at the supermarket and despite not knowing exactly how pounds translate into kilos, I knew the news was bad. Am now in denial and quaffing wine because it's, well it's not non-fattening but it certainly makes me feel better.

After five days we came back to Ormond beach where it is Biketober week. Thousands of motorcyclists with huge, shiny, glistening bikes roaring round, being, like, you know, bikers.

Liz's flatmate already had guests so we're all crashing at another friend's house. They are all very nice about the fact that often I don't make sense and have quite the potty mouth. I sucked up like no one's business and roasted some chooks for dinner.

Bizarre things keep giving me hysterics (such as the tobacco chewer who carved the chooks up for me - he called them turkeys, the fact that everything is prepackaged/pre-cooked, that so many of the bikers are so very, very large, and someone called me ma'am).

I've got fleas again. USA ROCKS.

Minority rules

For the first time ever, I think, I'm the only non-smoker. Two Americans, one Canadian, and they all smoke. Like, heaps, dude.

Internet where we are is stupidly, foolishly expensive, so updates later in the week. But Florida is all good, weather is nice and shiny, the pool is large and the cask is cheap. Pretty good, really. Oh, and apparently Kruse had to bribe cops at the Colombian border because he was unknowingly carrying coca leaves we thought we had lost. Good fun all round.

Nuns on the minibus

NUNS! On the bus! Heaps of them. Laughing. Chortling, even. Eating yoghurt. All dressed in white. I do like my nuns. And they smiled at me! Despite my obvious inability to look pious! What a great day.

And now, to pack for Miami tomorrow. Oh, and mother, I´m staying with elizabeth feola. In Orlando. Will email her details when I find internet that isn´t a million pesos a minute.

Even when you´re sleeping

We got robbed. Makes one a spot cross. Especially as insurance, strangely enough, demands proof of ownership and I don´t have any. Possibly, somewhere in a box, I have receipts, but I doubt it. My insurance company says photos are proof, but I don´t seem to have photos of what got stolen.

Lost my camera (about 200 photos that Kruse and Ben will hopefully have duplicates of), mp3 player (and some very bad headphones), my pencil case that sadly had my memory stick and a rather nice ring I´d just splashed out on in it, a box of wine and a mysterious sealed box I had stashed at the bottom of my bag and, this being Colombia, the nasty thieves no doubt thought it was drugs. Ha. HA! The box contained shot glasses that Kruse has been collecting from each country and a devil face balaclava. We´d tried to post it in La Paz but the astronomical price and the fact they wouldn´t let us post shot glasses put us off and I`ve been carting it around ever since. Take that, thieves, damn you. Kruse lost some warm clothes, mp3, torch and leatherman and, oddly, half the patches of each country`s flags that he´s also been collecting, but not the equivalent of NZ$100 in Bolivianos he had stashed. And they took our malaria tablets. Bastards.

However, it was done extremely well. We were on the bus, the lights had been turned off, we put our carry on bags under the seats, feeling reassured that the footrests made it almost impossible for anyone to grab them from the seat behind and we´d see or feel anyone reaching around the seats, and dozed off. Two hours later we realised our day packs were suspiciously light. And apparently our fellow travellers never saw a thing either. Not at all happy with the woman and child who had been sitting behind us only to suddenly disappear, especially as suspect that such a devious crime set in a tight spot could only have been carried out by a small child, egged on by evil excuse for mother. Feel particularly miffed that, if they were stealing clothes, they didn´t touch the spare pair of knickers I had carefully packed.

But, all replaceable, just irksome.

Colombia, though, is all good. Warm. Have been stopped by the police several times in order to show passports. Had all the excitement of walking over the border from Ecuador as there was a blockade (burning tyres and all) and cars blocking the road. Lots of people walking, a few people on motorbikes, which could slip through the parked cars. However, a band of youths took offence to these motorcyclists slipping though (it´s okay to walk but not to ride or drive though a blockade, apparently) and started hitting them with planks of wood as they went by. Saw one young man try to poke a stick through the spokes of one motorbike. Was feeling rather apprehensive about strolling past these chaps, but as we were walking they seemed to have no issues with us. Just as well, because the only weapon we had on us was a tripod.

Only five days left for me in South America and we´ve decided that as we´re behind schedule (hangovers, late buses and the blockade not helping) that we´re going to have miss Cartagena, which I am miffed about because it looked so super in Romancing the Stone. But the bus trip up and back would take at least 24 hours each way. So we´ll hang in Bogota, watch some rugby, forget and then recall that we got robbed, which will make me cross all over again, and then I´ll fly into the arms of Liz in Orlando, Florida. She´s making promises about having a cask waiting in the car. Such a nice girl.

Have decided that if one is going to get robbed in South America, having it done whilst one is sleeping, instead of being held up at knife or gun point, is probably the most preferable. And it´s all about the experience, man. Will blow it up, out of proportion, exaggerating with gusto, when telling other travellers about it.

Worst equator ever

So we´re still in Quito. The bus, all 28 hours of no doubt utterly rocking fun, doesn´t leave until 5am tomorrow. Can´t wait.

Not being hungover today we went to the equator. There is indeed a line. We took some photos and made jokes as we jumped over it. Unfortunately, this is not actually the equator at all. Despite the very pretty monument. Someone made a small miscalculation and the actual equator is just up the road. There is another park you can go to, but by this time we were tired and cold. Cold? At the equator? Who would have thought. It was freezing. And windy. And then the rain came. We got wet so I attempted to cure it the only way I know how. I went shopping. I am really good at shopping. Didn´t make us any drier, though, and Kruse did not seem to be enjoying himself as much as I was (who in their right mind does not like shopping for trinkets? Madness.) so we went back to the hostel and got him a jersey so he wouldn´t catch cold. And then went next door to the Irish pub and got hot toddys. Nice sign on the wall asking if any foreigners can visit the two gringo girls in prison here. They appreciate old clothes and cigarettes. Ask for Anna or Angela. Sadly, we´d missed visiting time for today.

There are so many gringos here. So, so many. Too many. I don´t like it. And most of them will be at our hostel waiting for the free rum and coke in a bucket that Kruse and I are trying to avoid tonight.

Hungover. Again.

Stupid hostel with their free 12 litres of rum and coke in a bucket on Mondays.

Kruse and I are in Quito. The election is over. I think number 35 won. I wanted Dr Gilbert to win. He had a really good poster in which he was wearing his surgical scrubs so you could tell he was a real doctor.

It was decided that Kruse and Ben were looking decidedly shaggy so we got them shaved. Took them to a barber shop and watched a man hold a knife to their throats. Quite satisfying. The barber gave them both very nice manicured moustaches. And also cut Ben´s hair so that he now looks unpleasantly like Borat. I didn´t get a haircut because I look fine. Damn fine, actually. Although, I am covered with mosquito bites. Even on my bottom.

We abandoned Ben in Guayaquil and scarpered up to Banos, famous for its hot springs. They were indeed hot. But jam-packed with tourists so actually not as enjoyable as they could have been. Stupid tourists. They ruin everything.

Caught a bus with no toilet up to Quito yesterday. Two hours in and I was once again quite desperate to pee. Told the conductor who seemed remarkably uninterested in the fact that the gringo was about to soil herself. So I told the driver, stressing the urgency of my situation. I have only used the word urgent twice in South America, and both times it´s been because of my bladder. At any rate, five minutes later we stopped at a service station and I ran, ran like the wind, to save myself from the embarassment of wet trousers.

Quito seems all right. Haven´t exactly seen a great deal of it, what with the hangover and all, but tomorrow we shall go and visit the line marking the equator and get some boring photos of us standing with a foot on either side! The fun never stops.

Had to listen to some remarkably boring people last night, whilst swilling my free rum and coke. This is the problem with free booze in hostels. Everyone wants some. And then they want to talk. Talk utter bollocks. Can´t they just let a woman booze in peace?

Right. My bladder tells me that it´s about time to go. Heading up to the border tomorrow afternoon so should be in Colombia very soon. Think it might be about time to get Kruse a Panama hat. (Boring side note - Panama hats are actually Ecuadorian hats.)

Fanta is really good. How could I have forgotten this?

Ecuador by that group that was really popular back in the 90s

Hot and sticky. Bananas everywhere. Pedal pushers are back in! All right. So are wedge cork heels. Pity about my cargo pants not making a comeback but I was going to stick out anyway.

Have discovered that I have somehow put on four kilos. FOUR! Which is exactly the same amount that Ben has lost. Am really very uphappy with Ben because obviously this whole situation is his fault. I think he realises this so is leaving us tomorrow for a week to go and think about what he has done. Actually, don´t think I´m going to see him again before I leave. Think this is hurting him more than it´s hurting me.

Kruse and I will be heading up to Colombia. Not sure of which way. Will decide when we get to the bus station tomorrow. Because that´s the kind of travelers we are. Spur of the moment, you know.

Most amusing thing about Ecuador so far is that there seems to be some sort of election on, at least in the city we´re in, and they won´t sell alcohol. Kruse is not amused.

Whilst still in Lima, made a mad dash (only had 90 minutes) into the city centre to see the Inquisition museum and the catacombs. Both very good, and Monty Python jokes were kept to a minimum. I particularly enjoyed the mock people being tortured. I think I´ve just worked out where mannequins go to die.

Completely forgot. Bus up to the border of Peru and Ecuador - they fed us extremely well and got us to play Bingo. Great bus, just a pity my Spanish numbers need working on.

Might go and have a cold shower. And no, not because there´s three of us in a room so cannot leap upon Kruse, but because there´s no hot water. In this weather, that´s a good thing.

Minty fresh

Ooh, it´s been a messy and tiring few days. So tiring and messy that it deserves another ooooh. It´s hard to remember exactly what happened. There was live lady wrestling. Red wine milkshakes. Shaving with toothpaste. A 26-hour bus ride from Bolivia through to Peru. Panties for Kruse with the label ´Stripper´ and the offer of drugs whilst shopping at the supermarket . . . non-stop madness.

In La Paz, on a Sunday afternoon, families like to go to the wrestling. It´s advertised as lady wrestling, which is the reason the foreigners all go, but in reality it´s mostly men in costumes that range from the very amateur through to the rather excellent. Quite fancied the orange and silver outfit one of the guys in the final was wearing, actually.
There were three ladies wrestling. Two were in national costume. Bit weird, but very entertaining. The audience were all very into it, especially the kids, who obviously had yet to work out that it was all fake. Everyone, including the old ladies in the back row, was throwing fruit and empty plastic bottles at the competitors. We were in the front row and had people literally thrown at us a few times. Fake, but it looked a spot painful.

Went out for dinner our last night there and couldn´t translate something on the menu that had red wine listed as an ingredient, so we ordered it. Turned out to be a red wine milkshake. Of course! Rather alarmingly delicious. Red wine and frothy milk. So, so wrong, yet so magical.

Shaving with toothpaste wasn´t on the list of things to do in South America, but I got into the shower and realised that I didn´t have any soap, there wasn´t any soap in the shower and I hadn´t shaved for three weeks. I may have panicked. However, I got a nice, smooth shave and my skin smelled minty fresh for quite some time, so it wasn´t a bad experience at all.

Think have finally worked out what day I am leaving, and it´s two weeks away, so will fit in a whistlestop tour of Ecuador and hopefully at least one beach in Colombia. However, before then I have an 18-hour bus ride up to the border of Peru. These bus rides are beginning to seem perfectly reasonable - the 26 (actually 28) hour one we got off today wasn´t too bad. We watched about seven DVDs, slept a bit, ate a bit, admired the road and the suicidal driving a bit - yeah, heaps`o`fun. Kruse and I were lucky enough to be in the front seats, up the top of the bus. These are often known as the death seats because in a crash you don´t have much of a chance. However, they do give you a very good view of the road. Super fun when the driver decides to overtake on blind corners (national habit) and then oncoming traffic appears.

Now - time for dessert and then to demand Kruse models his new underwear for Ben and myself. The boxer shorts had odd sizings - along with your small, medium and large, you could also get single, double and master. Have yet to quite work out what this means.

This might prove how well we all get along

About to do 26 hours on a bus to Lima.

But would it kill you?

Have found 96% liquor. And fireworks. Might be a messy busride back to La Paz.

Kruse and Ben are hungover. I have a rash. It is just not my month.

And it appears that Ben might have been allowed some more time off so new plans need to be made. Still only about two weeks left here, though.

Oh, and I think I might also have ants in my pants.

Expanding my peeing abilities

We go to the salt flats of Bolivia. They are all white and shiny and salty. I like them. But to get there we had to take a 12-hour bus. WITH NO TOILET. Bus officially left at 7pm. However, it took about an hour for all the bags and so forth belonging to locals to be loaded on, so in the mean time, I went and peed in a dark street. Bus was very packed and the seats were not made for people with very long legs, making sleeping difficult. At one stage I was resting my legs on a bag in the aisle, only I quickly realised that it was actually a person´s bottom when they moved. Sleeping in the aisle looked a lot more comfy than sleeping in my seat. However, we eventually get to Uyuni and track down our tour company. We have a jeep with a guide, two aussies and an Israeli. Fortunately, they all turn out to be perfectly acceptable travelling companions. Just as well. I can be a right bitch when confronted with evil fellow passengers.

Day one involves the salt flats. Oooh, these are all shiny. I want one. Have added to the Christmas list. There´s an ísland´in the middle, covered in cacti. With a German girl in a bikini attempting to hug one. She hurt herself. I laughed. Get to that night´s accomodation. Is made of salt. Hardly surprising, really. We drink whisky. It is nice. Helps fight the cold.

Day two, we leave the salt flats. See many llama and alpaca and the other one that looks like that but is a little smaller. I pee behind some rocks. And later I do this again, but behind different rocks. And later still, behind the jeep. Am getting pretty good at peeing in the great outdoors. We spend a lot of time in the jeep, driving places. It´s mostly desert. Some rocks. Pink flamingos, not standing on one leg, like they are supposed to. Some alpaca and the rabbit squirrel thingy. Get to next lot of accomodation, which is basic. Very basic. However, I am not feeling at all well and think that perhaps I am getting whatever Ben had that made him smell bad a day or two before, so I retire to bed very early. Apparently we are also getting up at 3.30am, so sleep is no doubt a good idea.

Day three. We do not get up at 3.30am. All the drivers (there are several jeeploads of tourists around) have been boozing and apparently our driver needs more sleep. He also looks as though someone has punched him. And, what fun! Two of our tires have been let down in the night! Hilarious. Eventually get going and see some more stuff, like lakes and more flamingos. And jump in natural spring. This is all good, although goes swiftly downhill when Ben borrows my bikini for a fashion shoot.
Two real flat tires and more peeing behind rocks and boulders and we´re back in Uyuni, where there are no buses out of town until tomorrow. Llama pizza for dinner and I think I might go and wash myself. God knows I don´t smell so good. But, eye pox might finally be clearing up. Jolly good, what?

The ´real´ South America

You haven´t been to the real South America until you´ve seen local women with their brightly coloured outfits and bowler hats washing their clothes in a river. Or heard the Mission Impossible theme song done on pan pipes.

Today I also had my pockets felt up by an 18-month-year-old. I think she only wanted a coin to put in the jukebox and I was considering giving it to her older sister who had so charmingly counted to ten in English for me, but then they completely bypassed Julio Iglesias on the playlist so I decided against it.

We went out for a truly Bolivian meal of Indian curry. We are real travellers. Ran into the Irish from Machu Picchu. Glorious reunion once they´d gotten over being fibbed to by Ben about where he got his scar from. (Not from a stab wound in a gay bar from a jealous husband as they´d been informed.)

Dried llama foetuses for all

Am not sure how I´d get one through customs, but they´re the must have item from Bolivia, surely.

Ah, yes, we´re in Bolivia. Copacabana (the lesser known one) was awfully nice, very sunny and now Ben´s nose is even more scaly and peeling than it used to be. We took a boat out to the Island of the Sun and decided to walk from the south end to the north. As the island is only 9.5 kms, this sounded like a bit of a doddle. Stupid high altitude. Was utterly exhausted by sunset when I stumbled into the little village. I think we saw some ruins. Probably have some photos somewhere to inflict upon uninterested parties in the coming months. The next day we took a private boat to the little Island of the Moon. Nice. Small. Might have liked it more if my stupid eye infection hadn´t been fiddling with my vision, making things a little blurry. Took some more photos. Was quite firm with all the ladies trying to sell me trinkets.

Back to Copacobana and Ben and I bond with the small child that seemed to belong to the hostel. She wouldn´t tell us her name but was more than willing to engage in a rather strange game of cards. I was playing snap. Not entirely sure what she was playing but I´m pretty sure that we both thought we were winning. Was a beautiful day so out came the jandals and we sat on the lakefront and watched the swan pedal boats, meaning to get one ourselves the next day. (I suspect we were all thinking the same thing: swan pedal boat wars.) Beer was drunk, I sampled some more exceptionally bad red wine, we ate rather a lot and then Ben and Kruse decided to make their way through quite a bit of the cocktail list. I declined, thinking that I ought to let whatever drugs I´d been given this time for the eye have some sober time so that maybe they´d actually fix it. Consequently, I was woken at 1am by giggling men claiming that a 17-year-old boy had been giving Kruse the glad eye. Well, Ben claimed it was so and he never tells lies.

We decide to go to La Paz the next day, on a local bus (no toilet). Kruse, for the first time ever, I think, is hungover enough to need to throw up. So he does. Out the window. In his defence, it was a very bumpy road. I think we have truly impressed upon the locals how important the need is for tourism.

Got to La Paz yesterday. It has public toilets all over the place and for that reason alone will always have a special place in my heart. It also has a witches market, with the dried llama foetuses and all manner of bits and pieces. And still more of the woolly llama hats with earflaps. And the world´s BIGGEST avocados. Had one for breakfast. I like Bolivia.

We´ve just realised that we´re running out of time as Kruse and Ben´s plans for world domination, as well other things, meant they were going to be either on a boat looking at blue boobies or in the jungle at about the same time that the world cup was on, so there´s been a reshuffle of plans. Sadly this means we will probably not be getting to the Nascar lines, damn it, and getting though the salt flats and back to Lima in time for them to fly to Ecuador is going to be squashy. I shall be abandoning them in about ten days, to go and rampage it up in Florida. As I just earned Ben´s disgust by buying white chocolate, I don´t think that I shall be missed. (I bought it on purpose, so he wouldn´t eat it.)

And the best part of today was getting a new watch. It´s a Barbie watch and cost about $1.40. Have high hopes that this watch will last longer than the last cheap watch (24 hours).

Completely forgot the shower

In our little hostel room with three single beds we are lucky enough to have an attached bathroom we don´t have to share. Except, there´s what seems to be a crawl space at about shoulder height in the shower. Except, it´s not just a crawl space, it´s a short tunnel through to the shower of someone else. Kruse and Ben have been waiting with cameras but no luck so far, despite me actually being in the shower this morning whilst the other person was using theirs.

Of course, we haven´t bothered to complain about this.

Am allergic to South America

Following the wild success of the bladder infection and sad bottom, I now have an eye infection. My right eye now looks perpetually shifty. However, following another two trips to different pharmacists, am now sure all the drugs I have will make it all better.

We caught a tour bus down to Puno, on Lake Titicaca. Tour was okay, except for the very early start and the discovery that we should have had three tickets and not just one with three seat numbers on it. Some cross talk and one very loud swear word by Benjamin and we were allowed on the bus. Just as well. We then had to wait HOURS for the free buffet lunch and were reduced to eating all the bad gummi sweets we´d bought the day before. Have decided that I am not overly fond of tour guides because their voices inevitably make me sleepy.

But, the floating island made entirely of reeds on Lake Titicaca was very uber nifty. I want one. Have added it to the long list of things I want for Christmas. Amazing what you can do with reeds, when given a chance. Can even eat them! Tasted rather like boring old cucumber, but full of calcium, you know.

Leaving for the Bolivian side of the lake tomorrow, in order to visit the island of the sun. Look it up on wikipedia. Saves me having to say anything about it.

Think I might go and take some drugs to make my eye look less shifty. Am curious to see what body part goes wrong next. Will take bets.

I can´t dance with you, you vote for National

And with those words, Ben makes himself very popular with other Kiwis.

But I´m getting ahead of myself. It´s been a long week. There was some walking, some drinking, vast amounts of legal drugs, some grumpiness, not enough sleep and some possibly not so good international relations.

So, once I´d recovered from the vomitting that follows a night of boozing, we had a quiet night and then prepared to spend the next day getting ready for the Inca Trail. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of ordering something with mushrooms in it for breakfast. I´m not allergic to mushrooms, merely intolerant. Extremely intolerant. Which is a pity, because I rather like them. Anyway, spent quite a lot of my day in the bathroom, admiring the decor and reminding myself to buy more toilet paper at the first opportunity. In the end, at about 8pm, I made Kruse go out and get me some stuff to make my bottom behave. Would have gone myself but feared an incident of horrific proportions.

Spent most of night floating back and forth from the bathroom to the bedroom. At about midnight I realised that I might also have a bladder infection. FUN! Too late to go to the chemist so instead I drink two litres of water and debate with myself and the bathroom wall as to the wisdom of getting up at 4.50am to do the Inca Trail, where I don´t think they have any chemists. Will Kruse be cross with me and the US$400 I will be throwing away if I do not go?

Manage about two hours sleep and decide that I really ought to go and to hell with the havoc the sad bottom etc. might play with my dignity on the trail. Things look up, however, as once we are picked up at 5.20am and travel for two hours with all the other people on our tour, we get to a village with a pharmacy. Much rejoycing, and as Kruse and Ben mark the start of the trail with shandies for breakfast, I march into the pharmacy, clutch my nether regions and announce ´have infection´. They give me drugs. More drugs, on top of the ones I have for my bottom. No shandies for breakfast for Penelope.

It is at breakfast that Ben notices the startling resemblance the three young English folk on our tour have to Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Why would three young magicians do the Inca Trail? Harry doesn´t have his scar but as we have a black vivid felt pen with us, we think we can remedy the situation.

So, anyway, we, like, totally, do some walking for four days. It is all good and very much worth the vast sums of cash we paid. Am all for three course meals on a tramp. Very good tour company. Inca Trail is only 43 kms. PIFFLE. Could do it in my sleep. Of course, huff and puff my way for most of the uphill (second day walk for uphill for 12 kms, and go up to 4200 metres above sea level, almost 1100 metres in a few hours) and dance like a gazelle for the downhill. A gazelle with fecked knees, but a gazelle, nontheless. Kruse impressed the many people on the trail by doing the last two hours holding a six-pack he´d bought off the ladies who dot the Inca Trail with little stalls selling liquid.

Would I recommend it? Yes. It was all fancy and with ruins and porters only wearing sandals whilst carrying 25 kgs, and westerners like myself wearing tramping boots, outfitted entirely in Kathmandu and labouring under a pathetic six kilos. The porters would wake us with a cup of tea at 5am each morning. Ben got to share a tent with Harry Potter. Machu Picchu was pretty darn fancy, although quickly full of tourists. Kruse was told off for flying the NZ flag. Is tapu. Felt superior to all the lazy folk who had just turned up on a bus for the day. They have no idea.

We make friends with the Irish. Do not make friends with the Americans. Well, I sort of did. Kruse and Ben definitely did not endear themselves to two ladies. The Germans were quite fantastically German. The English were English. The French Canadians had good accents. I don´t think anyone will be forgetting the alcoholic Kiwis anytime soon. Kruse and Ben get the guide well and truly drunk at lunch on the last day as we wait for the train to get back to Cusco.

So, now back in Cusco wondering how the hell we can get out of this town, as it keeps sucking all our money. Checked bank balance and it is very sad, indeed. So many gringos here, which is hardly surprising, really, given that it´s the biggest tourist attraction in Peru. (Kruse adds ´if not South America´). Have gone to Irish bar and English bar, to watch rugby, and one may as well be anywhere but South America. Have high hopes for leaving for Bolivia tomorrow. However, there´s a good chance we´ll still be here tomorrow night. If only we still had Harry Potter, we could borrow his broomstick and fly away.

Am fairly positive that I had a great deal more to say about the Inca Trail but cannot remember any of it. All can really say, is that it really is rather fancy, hard on the knees and that I´d do it again but with a plastic poncho as well as a rain coat so that if it rained again, I could cover my sleeping mat. A wet sleeping mat is not so much fun. ´Spose I could have asked Harry Potter to magically dry it but think he is not supposed to use magic outside of school.

Irish man was really Ben Allan in disguise. Uncanny resemblance.

Hungover

Have learnt my lesson. Don´t chase pisco sour with red wine. Was very unwell yesterday. And I went home far earlier than Ben and Kruse and was still more unwell than either of them. They both stumbled in after dawn, separately. Ben went back out to look for Kruse, who came in about 20 minutes later having found himself on a hilltop with no idea of how he came to be there. He muttered something about going to look for Ben and then fell asleep.

They indulged in hungover shopping and I threw up. Great day.

Getting picked up at 5.20am tomorrow to do the Inca Trail. Am going to be fecked.

Buses. Police. Not enough sleep.

So, it turns out that altitude sickness is not a load of bollocks. Who would have thought? Am going to attempt to cure it with the well-known remedy of cheap red wine and ´cola real´, instead of the coca tea recommended by the guide book and everyone you ask.

We´ve finally made it up to Cusco in Peru, in preparation for killing our unfit selves on the Inca Trail in a few days. We´re ´acclimatising´ but having only arrived here at 5.15am this morning, we´re really just sleeping and lolling about and trying not to huff and puff when we go out for walks. Stupid high alititude.

We left Rapa Nui last Tuesday and since then have spent three nights on buses and one and a half nights in beds. We are tired and possibly a little scratchy. But it´s all super! No, really! I love trying to sleep on buses. Such an adventure.
We made our way up the coast of Chile, stopping in a small town after one 14-hour bus ride, because it was supposed to have a superb national park. I´m sure it does, only it was closed. Basically all desert, beach and gorgeous white sand. Sadly, small town had little else to offer and lunatic local wouldn´t leave us alone - insisted on kissing my hand with dribbly lips. Ben and Kruse laughed. Hate Ben and Kruse.
At lunch see locals drinking beer and fanta. Imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, we give it a go. Might be an acquired taste but I rather like it. Suspect, however, that once I get to UK, might not. You know how things taste better in the country you try them in and just taste horrible when you try them back at home. Had this with ouzo in Greece.
In a botanical side note, however, saw some rather interesting plants that looked just like piles of horse poo. In fact, I thought they were, until regularity of piles suggested unbelievably huge roaming herd or perhaps plants instead. Ben suggested bags of onions, which they also looked a great deal like.

So, another bus up to the border, another 14 hours of fun. Get to Arrica and immediately get taxi across border and customs to Peru. This is supposed to take an hour. My unreliable and generally disliked bladder thought it could handle this. Might have been able to, if wasn´t for extremely long queue to get out of Chile. And although there were toilets, you had to pay (normal practise) and we´d given the last of our Chilean money to the taxi man who allowed us to be two hundred pesos short anyway. So I ignored my bladder (so difficult, it´s an attention seeker), waited in line for 45 minutes, had my thumb prints taken and then we got to do it all again at the Peruvian border. But, what a delightful surprise! Took about three minutes and they had FREE toilets. Love Peru.

Got to Tacna, pounced on by very enthusiastic touts who can get us anything we want. Buses, lunch, drugs . . . kind woman at a nearby table told us not trust them. I liked the cut of her very blue eyeliner and decided to listen to her. So we trot off by ourselves and get a bus to Arequipa. Five hours. No toilet. Curses. Spend the half hour before bus goes visiting toilets at bus station in an effort to be as empty as possible.
Bus is full. And not just of people. Tacna is a border town with duty free. Consequently, people have bought up large and bus is full of stuff. When we finally drive off, there are still bags left on the ground. The moment we get going, old lady next to be pushes a pink puffy jacket on to me. Am confused - is she giving it to me? Man behind me explains that we´re going to go through police checks and like most of the people on the bus, old lady is over quota (on pink puffy jackets?) so she wants me to take it through for her. Due to reading too many guide books I am wary of carrying anything for anyone in case item is full of drugs. Surreptitiously feel jacket - feels okay but I don´t like it. She also pushes a handbag on to Kruse. Am now curious to know what the quota is on handbags.
Get to first police check. I don´t like police checks, but our packs are ignored. Instead, for about 30 minutes, all the carefully packed boxes and huge bags are taken out and unpacked and pored over by the police. I take this opportunity to use the police loos.
Five hours and another two police checks later we are in Arequipa. I like this town. It´s warm, with a stunning plaza and there are beds, not a bus seat. Eat guinea pig and alpaca. Yum. I do like Peru.

Bored yet? Tough.

Take a three hour bus trip (no toilet, again) to Chivay where there is a huge canyon. Get a hostel and prepare for horrible task of getting up at 3.30am in order to catch bus (90 minutes, no toilet) to get to canyon. However, early hour is all worth it as watch sun come up on fecking HUGE canyon. Watch hummingbirds. Want pet hummingbird. Admire depth of canyon. Get cold. See native wildlife - small furry creature that looks like a cross between Peter Rabbit and Squirrel Nutkin. Want a pet one. Wonder where the hell the condors that canyon is reknowned for are. They finally turn up - and are pretty fancy. Want a pet condor. Except would probably eat pet hummingbird and pet furry native creature. By this time, heaps of tourists have turned up and are oohing and aahing over condors. They really are large. And complete show ponies, showing off for the cameras. Think they are just curious about strange mass of people. Suspect that if we all hid and just left a small child out in open, chance to get excellent closeup of condor would happen. Doubt anyone is going to let me try this out with their child. Nobody trusts a gringo.

Take bus back to Arequipa and get bus to Cusco. Horrible ten minutes when realise that it´s 8.30pm and we can´t find our bus and our luggage is on it. Aha! We are at wrong platform and realise this just in time and run, run like three tired, lazy white folk. Have ten-hour trip and fail to sleep. Am ever so pleased to see Cusco.

In an utterly fascinating side note: keep seeing people who resemble other people. Ben was furious to see a Spanish Christopher Lloyd. I´ve seen the Korean version of an ex-boyfriend (although, this was on a DVD) and there have been others but I´m too altitude-sickened to remember any of them.

An island of genital breezes

The above was on an official bookmark for Easter Island.

Now making our way up the coast of Chile, aiming for the border to Peru. Just did 14 hours on the bus. Consequently cannot think of much to write about Rapa Nui and what we did there, other than I liked it.
Good island. Expensive cocktails. Pisco jelly (homemade by us). Very good large moai just standing around looking all impressive and impassive.

Boring flight over during which I did at least this time have visual on my inflight entertainment, but no volume. On the way back, success! Volume in one ear.

So tired. Do not even want chocolate.

We get a Ben and go some more places

When last heard of I think we were in Argentina. And there was a dead cat. The dead cat was on the side of the road, looking very much like an alive cat asleep in the sun, albeit with some branches on top of it. The Irish chap we were walking with was obviously as confused as I was as to whether or not the cat was alive, so he approached it slowly, so as not to scare it, I assume, and threw another stick at it. Cat did not move, ergo, cat is dead. But, usually cats hit by cars look like cats that have been hit by cars, NOT peacefully sleeping cats. Irish and I had speculative conversation about whether someone had arranged the cat in said position - out of grief perhaps?

But enough of that. We made our way up to Mendoza where I got fleas. Nasty, itchy, huge fecking bites that I suspect were made by genetically enhanced fleas. Serves me right for patting stray dogs. But Kruse does it all the time and he´s completely unscathed. I even have bites on my face. And they´ve gone all icky and I spent most of my time trying not to think about itching them. And hoping they don´t turn into the pox. Penelope doesn´t like the pox. It makes me look so unattractive. Fortunately, bites are only on one side of face so I just try and give people the nice side. Kruse has started calling me Bumpy Face.

Came back to Chile over the Andes. They are quite nifty, as far as very big mountain ranges go. We were driving parallel to them for ages and quite frankly, they looked strangely more like a movie set backdrop than actual mountains. Got quite suspicious that that´s all they were until we drove over them.

Ben arrived on Friday. We very kindly went out to the airport to meet him, hungover. A few pisco sours at the bar and we were much more cheerful. Ben finally arrived, complete with someone to carry his bag up to us as he is a cripple at the moment, with flesh-coloured tape on his belly. This all bodes very well for his conquering the Inca Trail in a few weeks. We gave him a pisco sour as a nice introduction to Chile.

My bites are really, really itchy.

And then we, like, did some stuff. And now we´re on Rapa Nui. Where people ride horsies down the main street. Poor Kruse and Ben are slightly hungover after sampling the night life. I was too scared to go out as a local man kept calling me princess and turned up at our hostel with a sprig of flowers.

Hired a jeep and looked at some moai today. They are quite large. And probably rather heavy.

Also, simultaneously, Ben, Kruse and I all had very sad tummies today, whilst we were climbing a hill. No toilets around and our need was not for open fields but for toilet paper. Surprisingly, no one had an accident but our hostel bathroom was not a good place to be this afternoon.

On the island for three days then back to Santiago. I like the island -it´s warm and I could wear shorts if I hadn´t already tried them on only to discover that two weeks of eating bread and drinking beer has made me quite pudgy round the middle. Will have to try to avoid beer and bread. This is going to be tricky as bread is produced with every meal. And beer is so cheap. And so am I.

Right - tummy is making curious noises that might require a bathroom and privacy. Time to go.

Wine captial of Argentina. It´s okay.

Leaving Argentina tomorrow. Cannot be fecked writing.

Hostel has no wine.

But just wait. There´ll be talk of a dead cat when I can be bothered. There was an Argentinian with scary nostrils on the bus - suggest focusing on that until I get round to writing something more interesting.

Loitering with intent

Have left Kruse in a restaurant with a tv so he can watch the rugby. Wales seems to be wasting Argentina. Does not bode well for happiness of the country we are in.

Spent rest of yesterday walking round in circles trying to find a bank ATM that likes Kiwi visa cards. And then a short trip round the chocolate factory. The part of Argentina we are in (Lake District) is apparently famous for chocolate. Fine by me.

And then home, so I can pay the nice man for our cabana and Kruse can go to the supermarket for essentials such as red wine and chocolate and chips. Cabana owner and I have hiliarious conversation that neither of understand but which satisfies us both. No doubt we have both come to totally different conclusions.

Today we´re planning on catching a bus to San Martin. Have spent a lot of time on buses, and none of it productively. Instead of learning Spanish, have watched Risky Business, courtesy of the bus company. South America really seems to like the 80s. Can´t argue with that.

We seem to be in Agentina

Will be sensible and work forwards with dates. So pretend I´m still in Chile.

12 August

Wake up late again. Now that don´t have job, feel obliged to loll about in bed all morning. Have shower - apparently should take advantage of the hot water whilst I can. So I do. With gusto. Huge amounts of it. Check out of hostel and get staff to agree to not steal our stuff but rather look after it whilst we go awanderin´. Get tired of that. Back to hostel to wait for several more hours for bus to somewhere not here. Decide to use free internet. Quickly get infuriated with keyboard. Eventually computer crashes. Fortunately, is while Kruse is using so must be his fault. Decide best course of action for the next five hours is to drink red wine and watch tv. As one does in South America. Feel am seeing the real Chile. And we are in luck! The Da Vinci Code is on. A personal fave. Take great delight in telling American next to me that it´s required viewing. Slightly ruin seriousness of moment by giggling. Wine is to blame.
Movie ends and there is enough time for dinner. Walk round corner and discover Viking restaurant. Three bottles of wine makes us sure this is an excellent idea. The place has gone quite spectactularly overboard with the theme. Think they may have also taken some artistic licence as well - unless zebra roamed the Scandanavian plains and were hunted? Perhaps they did. We are given fake helmets to wear - mine has two woolly yellow plaits. Am now Viking. So eat meat and consume beer with enthusiasm. Look about for wenches.
Wobble to the bus. Has fancy reclining seats. Sleep. Get breakfast about 10 hours later. Foolishly drink the instant coffee. I don´t like coffee at the best of times but decide now is the time to get over this dislike. Start to feel ill quite quickly. Ignore this though as we´re now in Valdivia.

Aug 13
Valdivia is all nice and Germanic whilst still being Chilean. Has nice rivers.
We are viciously attacked by a tout the moment we get off the bus. Her offer seems good but we deem it a better idea to walk around with our packs on for an hour before taking her up on the offer.
Discover the mall. Excellent. Teenage girls. Remember the reason that we´re here and go to the Kunstmann brewery, after sniggering at the name. Childish, yes. Take taxi there only to discover that they are not doing tours today. We are forced to sample the beer at the bar instead and eat German sausages.
Go back to hostel and eat takeaways in bed.

Aug 14
Decide that we ought to go to Argentina and Kruse has read in some guide book that we can catch a ferry from a village in the mountains. Despite being unable to find this note in our guide book, we decide to do it. So we catch a bus to Panguipulli where we wait for another bus to Puerto Fuy. Have extremely nice lunch, although am weirded out by the fact that the waitress does not want to look at Kruse. How´s that supposed to make him feel? He does need a shave, but, still. Leave and realise that we still have an hour so go to another restaurant where they don´t understand us and we don´t understand them and they laugh at us. Suspect Kruse´s Spanish as obviously no one would just laugh at me. Order beer eventually and drink two bottles despite knowing that bus will probably not have a toilet. Realise once on bus that am not sure how am going to last for two hours but have no choice at this point. Am so stupid at times.
Ninety minutes later and both Kruse and I are in agony. Apparently the scenery up here is beautiful - lakes and snow etc. I wouldn´t know - am concentrating fiercely on not wetting pants. Gets to stage where I am sitting as still as possible and holding armrest with deathgrip. Kruse has opted for the childlike option of leg-jiggling. Fact that bus is lurching and bumping over gravel road not helping. I start to imagine ways I can sureptitiously wet my pants. Bus conductor walks past and I ask, possibly with a rather wild look in my eye "Toilet?". He says we have about 15 minutes left. We nod desperately. He laughs. Hate bus conductor. A few minutes later, as we drop another passenger in his village, he passes us again and I say that we need a toilet urgently, in very bad Spanish. Passenger who is getting off overhears and says we can use the one at his house. Fecking brilliance. Almost let bladder go then and there with relief. His family are amused by the plight of the foreigners. Fair enough.
Fifteen minutes later we are in Puerto Fuy. Tiny village with about three streets on the edge of a mighty river, covered in snow and looking rather quaint. And it is cold. Hostel is really someone´s home, with extra bedrooms. We are given sheets and blankets so can make our single beds. Later, when we come back upstairs we will discover that they have been remade - apparently our bedmaking skills leave much to be desired. I blame my mother.
Aside from catching the ferry, there is little else to do in the middle of winter here, so we opt for eating dinner. At which point we notice that hardly any of the houses have any lights on. As we stand in the street, a restaurant´s lights suddenly come on, accompanied by a cheer. Suspect there has been a power cut to some of the houses here.
Walk into restaurant and are stared at. Are told that we can´t eat there (think you have to order in advance) but, thank god, they can serve us booze. About 12 other people in the room. They all seem to be blue-collar workers who were smart enough to pre-order. They sort of ignore us and concentrate on getting the tv to go. It won´t so a DVD is inserted. Transformers! Excellent. Except it is a very badly pirated copy with no Spanish subtitles. So a new one is put in. And suddenly the room feels warmer. It´s a medley of 80s music videos - 30-second clips of some all-time classics. Everyone is smiling. Impossible not to when Van Halen is asking why this can´t be love. As we leave, I spot a man droning along to Shout by Tears for Fears. I love Chile.
Slip and slide in darkness and snow to other restaurant, where a small dog challenges Kruse. I find this enjoyable as animals and small children usually adore him. As punishment for such bad thoughts, I step in a puddle and get wet socks. I hate wet socks. However, am still riding high after 80s music extravaganza (must get hold of this DVD for self) so ignore and stumble in. They say we´ll have to wait an hour but they can feed the hungry, wet foreigners. We watch tv with more workers (why the hell are there so many workmen up here? There´s almost one for every house. I can´t work out what the hell they´re doing in the middle of winter) and get pork and rice and lettuce. Remarkably good. As we are finishing, workers all gather round the telly - obviously a favourite programme is about to start. And it´s a ... soap opera. Kruse remarks that he thinks it´s the only time he´s seen seven men get that enthusiastic about a soap.
Back at the hostel we ask what time the ferry to Argentina goes. Catastrophe. It doesn´t. Only in summer. That would possibly explain why people kept looking at us oddly all the way up here.
Decide to catch bus back to Panguipulli the next day and spend the evening chatting to old man who says I have a lovely latin name, but that Kruse has a girly name. Kruse´s night gets worse when hostel dog decides it likes me the best. All good until dog farts while sitting on me.

Aug 15
Spent most of day puttering about village as bus doesn´t go until late afternoon - although we´ve been told a few different times, which is not helpful. Took some cheesy photos in the snow. Saw a cow. Talked to some dogs. Had a close encounter with a pig. Spent the afternoon staring out the window, waiting for a bus, any bus, to take us away from this rather idyllic little spot. Decide to have a final drink at 3pm as bus really ought to be here in the hour. Remembering previous day´s almost pant-wetting, I have very little beer. Kruse has quite a bit. Wonder if this is a good idea. Of course not. On the bus he gets the jiggly foot again. But - there are advantages to being a male, and he jumps off when we pick up another passenger and makes himself less jiggly. I giggle, like a girl.
Back at Panguipulli we discover that we can´t get to Argentina from there either so have to backtrack to Valdivia. Getting to Argentina is becoming a bitch. A very picturesque bitch. In mean time, we are starving and cold and it´s a two hour bus trip so we look for food. No restaurants open so it´s chips and chocolate and water for dinner. YUM. Let Kruse have a cigarette to stop him whining about the cold.
Valdivia again - eat Chinese, drink probably a little too much pisco and watch Alien vs Predator. A quality evening.

Aug 16.
Catch bus to Argentina. Terribly easy. Nice trip through the mountains with lots of snow and mildly smelly toilet. Get through both borders easily, although Kruse takes the longest because the officers want to talk to him about rugby. It was the NZ passport.
Bariloche is an Argentinian Queenstown, sort of. Very pretty, full of tourists, big lake and a bit pricey. We get a cabana to ourselves and drink red wine and I take advantage of the hot water and decent shower. Eat far too much meat for dinner. Make friends with a stray dog. Lots of stray dogs in South America. This one really seems to like us and I feel remarkably guilty that we can´t and won´t feed him.

Aug 17
Today. Find internet and answer queries from family as to whether or not we were in Peru for the earthquake. Kruse attempts to teach me chess. I don´t like chess. Kruse wins chess. Need to find a toilet. Might go and do that now.

Making Kruse cry

Definitely not a plane trip to write home about. Personal television thingy refused to work after 90 minutes, as did light so spent most of trip trying very hard not to listen to the ladies beside me. They were full of useful tips. You should always take plenty of tissues. They had a very long conversation about the fact that they had both bought 12-packs, not six, because that's the mistake that amateurs always make. I am an amateur.
After ten reasonably long hours I was met by Kruse, who seemed to have tears in his eyes. Could not work out if this was because I had finally arrived to share his adventures, or curtail them. He's trying to claim it was the smog. Went to the hostel - is a very nice place. We ate some, drank some, slept some. Repeated and rinsed the next day. Today, however, we went all intellectual and visited a museum of pre-Colombian art. Would wax lyrical but cannot be bothered. Catching bus tonight to lower part of Chile. Where there are lakes! Never seen one of those up close before.
Had heaps more to write about but put in diary, which is in bag, which is locked away in a cupboard, so you can assume that this could have been a much more interesting tale if only ...

Harry Potter is to blame for most of my problems

Am rather tired today. At about 11.15pm last night I was lured, using a technique too cunning to describe here, into starting the last Harry Potter. At 2.45am I finished and tried to sleep, but was thwarted by dementors and Voldemort and jealousy of what my chums in Australia would be doing at Cherry without me.

Have also not packed but I don't think that's so important as the plane to Chile doesn't go for 6.5 hours.

Melbourne was rather nifty. I learnt to dance like a t-rex, demonstrated that, yes, I really do have a sad and pathetic bladder that will make travelling hilarious when I demand comfort stops every 30 minutes, and there was some other stuff that might not translate so well and it is probably enough to say that 'pink or brown' is a universal question that goes far beyond Trivial Pursuit.

I might go and put a bra on now. And then begin the laborious process of deciding whether or not I really need a pair of pink heels on Easter Island.