Robin and I, Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia.
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| Rodeo Robin's Rurrenabaque Rampage | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Rurrenabaque didn't suit Robin too well. In fact South America generally gave him a pretty hard time. That's not to say he didn't enjoy it. To this day he still claims that he had a great time during the two months we were out there. Maybe he's just being polite - or apologetic, perhaps. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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| The onslaught started off almost immediately with the non - stop gender confusion that was to plague him for the length of our trip. Its not like he's particularly effeminate or anything, just very skinny and with very long hair. But I suppose South American blokes are a bit more butch than that. Hell, a lot of South American women are more butch than that. Whenever we went anywhere near a busy tourist spot - be it a market, or the Plaza de Armas in Cuzco where the restaurant touts and shoe polishers jostle for attention, or bus or train stations, stalked by predatory hostel agents - the cry would invariably go up: "�Senoriiiiiiiita!" They'd all shout, "Senorita, mire, senorita. Compre porfavor." | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Proudly presenting the brave protagonists... Robin and I, Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia. |
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| He seemed to bear it with some dignity, externally at least, but it was definitely bugging the poor lad deep down. Then there was the inexplicable fascination that he seemed to hold for so many South Americans once they got to know him. The Chileans didn't seem overly concerned ('cept the chicks who loved all that long hair), but in Peru and Bolivia they just couldn't get enough of him. Whenever we got to know someone particularly well, say a tour guide or hostel owner, there would inevitably come a time when for no apparent reason they would decide that Robin must be paid special attention. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "�Rrrrrrrooooobeeeeeen! �Donde esta Rrrooooobeeeeeeen?" The call would echo down the corridors of a hostel, or bouncing over the bow waves of a motorised canoe drowning out the roar of the engineand scaring every caiman in a five mile radius into hiding as Robin?s latest new best friend searched for his or her quarry. Once found, the inevitable question would follow, "�Como esta el Rrrooobeeeen?" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| They always took great joy in rolling the R and stretching each vowel out for a good four or five seconds, as if savouring the myriad textures that the name had upon the palate. On entering a restaurant that we?d favoured for a few days: "�El Rrrrrrooooobeeeeeeeen!" Or the travellers cheques office: "�Rrrroooobeeeeeeeen!" Coming back to the hostel late at night: "Hola Rrrrrroooobeeeeeen." I've never seen anyone so scared of their own name before | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Later on in our journey there was the legendary Days of Thunder. Just before crossing the border from Bolivia to Peru, Robin got hit by a stomach bug, and boy, did he have it bad. Newspapers started reporting unusual localised events of seismic activity. Curiously these lasted the duration of Robin's illness and followed the pattern of our movements (no pun intended); starting in Copacabana, then along the western edge of lake Titicaca up to Puno and on to Cuzco. Every time the poor lad went to the loo, BARRRROOOOM!!! It was like lightning striking. Five times. Simultaneously. If there is a hell, then its probably being condemned to perpetually being Robin's behind at that moment in time. It wasn't just coming out of one end, either. Oh no. Good God, no. Days of Thunder could just as justifiably be called Days of Chunder. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| You might wonder what I was up to during all this time. Well, being the usual shining example of rude health and well being that I am, I proceeded as usual. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "Morning Robin." | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "Hrmfffrumf." | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "How ya feeling, mate?" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "Frrrrrkn shhhht." | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "Huh?" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "I'm dying, for CHRIST'S SAKE!!!" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "Oh, Ok, cool, I'm off to look at some Inca ruins. Don't shit in the bedroom." | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Sympathetic little bastard, aren't I? Reminds me of the party we went to in San Pedro de Atacama. They'd tightened up on laws as far as late night entertainment and music was concerned since I was last there in '97, but I got chatting to some neo-hippy "artesan" from Iquique who invited us along to a little gathering him and some of the other resident hippies were having. It was a strange night; Robin disappeared without trace for about two hours - sober when he left, paralytic upon his return and with no memory of where he'd been or what he'd done in between. I still haven't managed to get the truth out of him about that one. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| In his absence I did some mingling, eventually finding myself receiving increasing amounts of attention from some pretty big feller who'd lost the ability to talk coherently. It didn't help that his voice was so hoarse he sounded like he was talking through Stephen Hawkins' little gizmo on 60 fags a day setting. For some reason he fell under the impression that he'd be able to make me understand much better by sticking his arm around my neck, squeezing very hard, and not letting go for about half an hour. I didn't understand better. In fact quite the opposite. The earful of dribble I received only served to further impair my understanding and I ended up walking with my head at a funny angle for a week afterwards | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| While Captain Caveman was busy reciting the collected works of Dostoyevsky at me in Klingon, I found my other ear (which I was rather hoping would make it through the night intact, seeing as I had given up all hope of salvaging the previously occupied one) suddenly under attack from a fresh faced young chap who obviously believed he was in a position of some authority, accusing me of being single-handedly responsible for all the ills of the world because of September the 11th (which was just under a week ago at the time), or something. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| It was just about at this point that Robin suddenly materialised from out of nowhere, which was a huge relief as it spared me the rudeness of reminding my ever so right-on young friend that the money that was paying for him to be in San Pedro de Atacama was coming from his dear old Daddy back in Santiago who owed everything he had to "uncle" Pinochet. Under the light of the fact that his little holiday had been financed by the blood of several thousand unnamed innocent corpses lying in unmarked graves hidden all over the Chilean countryside, I think it would have been fair of me to use the term hypocrisy before introducing him to the nice man hanging off my other shoulder, who I'm sure he'd get on with like a house on fire. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Stumbling out into the cold desert night was a bit of a shock to the system for poor old Robin, who managed to walk a hesitant few yards before needing to find the assistance of a very friendly wall. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "Hhhhhhhello mishter worrrrll, djooo miiiiiiine if I lean on you fra couple of... bleurgh!" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Cheap red wine splattered the adobe like bad prop blood in a spaghetti western shoot-out. Ooooops, here comes another, "Hrrrrlweeeeer!" Wow, don't think I've ever heard that sound before. And again, "Hurrrwaaeeeuuwww!" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| In the darkness, the skinny bloke with the long hair leans against the wall, his shoulders heaving. The slightly less skinny, and considerably balder fellow stands swaying unsteadily next to him, staring at something above. He turns to speak to his wretched retching companion, | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "Robin. Oi, Robin!" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "Whaaaaat?" Groans the other, looking up, his face a mask of dribble, eyes like black holes peering out from above a grimace of pure revulsion at the speaker. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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| "Quit spewing and look up, man." |
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| "Bwwwwweargh!" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "Look up." | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "Can't!" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "But the sky - it's amazing. You've never seen stars like it. The Milky Way! Its like someone's pulled a huge white blanket over the night sky. There's not a patch of blackness visible!" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Ever attentive to people's needs, that's me. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "I'm ssssssssure izzz jus' wondrffffl, Paul. Heeeeeeeaaaaaaaawwwwwwwww!" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| San Pedro de Atacama. Sergio Leone' prop blood mercifully not pictured. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Lest we forget, there was also the parrot on the Inca Trail that tried to eat his hair, and then to cap it all, when we got back to England at the end of the trip we found that one of the pockets of his rucksack had split. Only one item had fallen out: a little plastic bag containing every single film of photos that he'd taken over the previous eight weeks! Now that, dear reader, is beyond bad luck. That is a conspiracy. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Aaaaanyway, I guess you've got the picture of the kind of good fortune that smiled on young Robin during his time in South America by now. But if one place was going to beat them all for the Town That Ate Robin, then Rurrenabaque is the prizewinner by a million miles. On with the tale! | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| When we landed in Rurre, after a one hour flight over the Andes and the jungle, we - Robin, myself and Angie, who'd had the great misfortune of joining us around the Chile/Bolivia border and not being able to shake us off ever since - felt like we'd just touched down in heaven. After too many days suffocating, freezing, roasting and dehydrating on the altiplano, the pleasure of breathing sweet, oxygen rich air at last was nothing short of orgasmic. The feel of humidity on skin, the soft tropical warmth, the sight of lush greenery everywhere and the chirp and whirr of cicadas and crickets all around pleasured the senses like a Turkish massage in which the big, fat, hairy, sweaty bloke who pummels you has been swapped for an army of supple young nymphettes with feather dusters for fingers. Or something. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| We got a lift into town on the back of a pick-up, through shrubby forest re growth dotted with bamboo thatched houses, chickens and pigs shuffling about outside them. Rurrenabaque itself was a bit less rustic than the outlying settlements, but it still had a very makeshift frontier town air about it. Open fronted houses lined the main street; tables covered in bootlegged designer sports gear, cigarettes, toiletries and other provisions for sale sat in the shade within. Outside, on the street, little moped taxis kicked up dust as they sped their passengers off to some frightfully important appointment two blocks away (you can't actually go any further than that in any given direction in Rurre). The town was bordered by forest on three sides and by the river Beni on the fourth. Down by the riverside greenwing macaws nestled in the trees while across the water a small town, Buenaventura, was almost swamped by the dense vegetation which covered the small hills behind it. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| We got dropped off in the middle of town and found ourselves a hostel. Unceremoniously dumping our bags in our room, we headed without further ado into the garden where a circular thatched pagoda awaited, hammocks draping out from its central beam. The rest of the day was spent lounging in said hammocks, drinking beer and sweating. It was hot, very hot, and humid. Then it rained - torrentially. Then it stopped raining and was hot again, but not quite as humid, until about 15 minutes later when it became humid again. That just about sums up a day in the humid tropics. Not a lot happens, because you can?t be bothered to make it happen. You lie back and do absolutely sweet blissful nothing because: a)You don't have to and b)You wouldn't be able to even if you did have to. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| At that latitude it doesn't get dark very late. It doesn't seem to get any cooler or less humid with nightfall, but for some reason you perk up a bit anyway. So does everything else, though. First the bugs - every single one of which wants to suck your blood. Hell, it's not just the insects down there that want to parasitise you. They've got fish in the Amazon that swim up your urinary tract, wedge themselves into your urethra with the aid of needle sharp spines and live off of your body fluids. Fish! Of all possible things! I reckon the poxy tapirs would get those snuffling snouts of theirs into your veins if only they were small enough to cling on to you without squashing you in the process. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| I shouldn't be so negative about the bugs, really. Some of them were really fascinating (and not parasitic in the slightest). Moths that could dwarf most British songbirds, enormous green crickets and more cicada species than I could possibly count; black ones with white spots, green ones, red ones, little pinky ones with yellow smiley faces and orange love hearts (well, ok, maybe I made that one up). They weren't very graceful creatures. If they ever wanted to land on an object they'd fly at it at full pelt, crashing with an almighty thud, presumably in the hope that they'd manage to grab hold of whatever they'd flown into before concussion set in. If they failed in their mission they would fall to the floor, lying stunned for a couple of seconds before getting up and taking off again for a second attempt. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| After the bugs came the tree frogs. Unlike bugs, we liked the frogs a lot. They were cute. I never actually saw one, mind, but you could hear them all over the place making cheerful high pitched popping noises, like little bubbles rising to the surface of a lake and bursting: bloop bloop bloop! The call was quite a happy enough sound for me to call them cute without having to see them. They made me smile. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| About the same time as the tree frogs woke up the geckos started to stir too. Little blue and black striped lizards with huge eyes and manic grins, stealthily - almost imperceptibly - creeping up behind some unsuspecting fly until almost on top of it. The suspense was almost painful to watch. Would the lizard catch his prey? Would he put a foot wrong and scare off the fly? Will he actually get round to pouncing this side of Christmas? And then, BANG! He had it in his mouth. He'd struck so quickly you hadn't even seen him move. It almost made you feel sorry for the poor fly. Little bastard didn't stand a chance. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| The last inhabitant of our pagoda to appear was, ironically, the first to wake. The reason? He was the star of the show and he damn well knew it. Such an iconic figure couldn't possibly dream of making an appearance without spending a suitable amount of time getting ready first. About half an hour before nightfall I would hear his first stirrings, rustlings and scratchings. We named him Rustle after his noisy waking routine. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| One evening I went in search of him, following the sound until I found a little gap hollowed out of the loose ends of thatch hanging off the edge of the roof. He was in there, grooming away at his red fur, making sure not a hair was out of place. He looked small and insignificant huddled up there, like a little mouse. When he finally took flight, though, that was a totally different story. It had usually been dark for a good while before he finally stretched his translucent wings and came out, charging around and around inside the conical roof of the pagoda like an upside down wall-of-death driver. He'd circle maybe four or five times before singling out which bug he fancied eating, veering off at right angles without slowing or hesitating, then zigzagging up and down, left and right, cartwheeling and looping the loop around the hammocks, avoiding high speed collisions with the beams, chairs, sometimes even ourselves, his wingtips clipping our noses as he shot past in his relentless pursuit. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| I've watched plenty of bats in my time, and never ceased to be amazed at their manouverability. Never before, though, have I seen one with such a huge wingspan at work so close to me in such a confined area with so many obstacles to avoid. Night after night we watched, breath held in terrified expectation of a crash which couldn?t be anything short of fatal for the brave little dude, but every night he triumphed, returning to roost happy in the knowledge that he'd decimated the population of things that were trying to eat us - a service we were, of course, hugely grateful for. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| After our first encounter with Rustle, we decided that it was time we were roused from our hammocks too, so we went into town in search of some dinner. Some guys at the hostel had recommended what they called "the yellow place", so we thought we'd give it a try. It wasn't hard to find, seeing as it was stuck right in the bustling centre of what a more generous man than I might call the throbbing heart of Rurrenabaque. It was indeed a yellow place, with a yellow roof (complete with the obligatory geckos and suitable prey items) over a yellow balcony with yellow chairs and yellow tables around yellow walls. It had a name too: Tacuara, and it ended up being our favourite dining establishment for the rest of our stay in Rurre. Breakfast and dinner as a matter of routine were enjoyed daily at the Tacuara. Any place whose idea of breakfast is steak, two fried eggs and chips gets my approval. Cholesterol? Pah! I laugh at cholesterol!! Pass the lard!!! | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| We sat down on some yellow chairs at a yellow table on the yellow balcony and felt very un-yellow amongst such an obvious colour scheme. A short lady with very strong indigenous features; dark (yellowish!) skin, high cheekbones, jet black hair, large brown eyes and a wide gummy grin full of (yellow!!) teeth came up to take our order. I can't really remember who ordered what now, though I'm pretty sure a banana smoothie was involved and I think I had beer, though I'm not sure I was much in the mood for it. I was starting to find the heat and humidity a bit difficult to cope with. I think Robin and Angie were finding it a bit sweaty too. There was some small talk, but it wasn't hugely animated. I vaguely remember feeling a bit spaced out. I suppose the sudden change in altitude must have been having some sort of effect. Of course everyone always warns you about going up too quickly, but no one ever said anything about coming down. Our "heaven" was becoming something of a misnomer. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Inspired by no prompt that I'd noticed, Robin suddenly pulled a weird face and his hands started shaking. I laughed half heartedly, thinking he was referring to an earlier joke, but not knowing why. Robin?s shaking became more exaggerated, his face and shoulders starting to shudder too. "Robin," I said, starting to feel a bit embarrassed, "Stop it!". Then it struck me: his face was blank. This wasn't a joke. "Robin? What are you doing?" His pupils rolled up into the back of his skull, and as if that were some sort of cue he shot backwards in his chair, landing with a crash on the floor. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "�Ayuda, porfavor!" Please help, I shouted, kicking my chair out behind me as I jumped up, a million thoughts bombarding me all at once: What's going on? Is this a fit? Can I remember my first aid training? CPR, ABC recovery position, what does it all mean, and which first? What if he has to go to hospital? Or dies - here, in the middle of the jungle? I'd have to tell his parents - how'd I do that? I remembered when I was 14, a friend I was at school with - a non-epileptic friend - had an epileptic fit. He stopped breathing and fell into a coma. Eventually he died. Call me selfish, but I really didn't fancy going through that again. Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!!! As I ran around to his side of the table I saw through the window of the restaurant, the waitress inside, a shocked expression on her face. Angie looking terrified. All the other diners turning round to look. My breath caught in my throat as I saw Robin, half under the table, shaking. What the hell am I supposed to do? I was screaming silently to myself. I stood over him feeling helpless. I knew I had to put him in the recovery position, but did I do it now, or once the fit had passed. People gathered round, shouting questions: "Is he on medication?" "Does he have a history of fits?" "Has he taken any drugs?" No, no, no, no, NO! I wanted to scream at them, leave us alone, please, you're not helping, just go away! I bit my tongue. "He's fit and healthy," I said, "No history of illness, no medication. He's had a few beers, but that's it." | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| The shaking subsided and we moved him into some semblance of the recovery position. Robin started to stir as the waitress appeared, hovering nervously in the background. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "Porfavor, mi amigo se ha desmayado," Please, my friend has fainted, I said, relief visibly dawning on her face when she realised I spoke Spanish, "Can you bring some water please?" She hurried off inside. I squatted down next to where Robin lay and touched his shoulder. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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| "Robin, can you hear me?" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| He mumbled something in response, his eyes staring into space. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "Robin, what just happened?" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| As if suddenly becoming aware of the weirdness of the situation, he sat up with a jump, blinking and looking about him in bewilderment. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Outskirts of Rurrenabaque | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| "Robin are you OK?" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| He said he wanted to sit up. I told him to stay where he was, but he insisted, so Angie helped me to lift him up on to his chair again. At that moment the waitress reappeared with a glass of lemonade, saying something about the water being unsafe to drink. I thanked her and she suggested we move Robin inside. There was a fan on, and she said she could put out a mattress for him to lie on. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Despite our predicament, I still had the presence of mind to think that laying out a mattress inside a restaurant was a bit odd, until I looked in the window and realized that there were no tables or chairs inside. There was no point having them there - who'd want to sit inside in this suffocating heat? | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| I translated for Robin, who said that he'd rather stay put. He didn't want to move, so I thanked the waitress once more. Doctors and ambulances were also discussed, all of which Robin refused politely. He just wanted to rest where he was for the time being. The waitress told us her name, Amalia, and said if there was anything else we needed, to ask, then left us. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Then Robin fainted again. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Once more we picked him up and Amalia reappeared, clucking and fussing. This time we managed to convince Robin to go inside. I was relieved just to get away from all the stares. We had got just past the door, me clinging onto one arm, Angie the other with Amalia buzzing all around us, when Robin started to shake again. Before we were able to do anything the combination of his weight and the shaking made us drop him and he crashed onto the floor once more. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| When he came to he asked to go to the toilet. Leaving Angie and Amalia outside, I helped him in. As he sat down I tried to make small talk, all the while praying to God to please not let him faint with his trousers round his ankles. That really would've been more than I could cope with. Robin was still trying to understand what was happening. I explained to him that he'd had a fit of some sort. He didn't remember anything from each time it happened. All he was aware of was waking up after the event. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| When we emerged from the toilet Angie was sat under the fan at a small table they had brought in for us. It looked quite odd, one person sat at such a little table in the middle of such a big room with nothing else in it. There was a mattress down next to the table for Robin, but he insisted that he wanted to sit. I finished my beer, eyeing it suspiciously as I did so. We changed our food order to take away, paid and left once the order was ready. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| We had planned to take a tour out into the pampas a couple of days later, but decided to leave it a bit longer to allow Robin time to recuperate. I wasn't about to complain - for me it involved spending longer still lying back in a hammock, eating mangoes and grapefruits in huge quantities, drinking even more beer and enjoying the heat, which wasn't too bad once you got used to it. During the convalescence we became regular faces at the Tacuara, where Amalia became very fond of Robin, always making time for a chat whenever we popped out for a bite to eat. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Eventually we did make it out onto the pampas. We spent 3 days navigating down the Yacuma River on a canoe in the company of a Canadian couple, Larry and Catherine, Chris and Petra from Holland and two fellow Brits, Paul and Sam. The evening we returned to Rurre we arranged to have dinner at the Tacuara with Chris, Petra, Paul and Sam. After dinner Robin, Angie, Paul, Sam and myself went to the Mosquito cocktail bar for a few drinks. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| The Mosquito was a pretty remarkable place, to say the least. To be found, as it was, in a fairly small frontier town where no one had even got round to paving the streets (and the less said about the sewage facilities the better) really said something about the effect of the spread of backpackerdom in South America. The only problem was that once you?d been in there for a short while you would inevitably be too drunk to figure out just what it was that it said, and after leaving, your memory would be far too hazy to recall precisely the statement in question. It definitely said something, though. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Whatever the case, this spot was pretty cool. In a place as hot and sweaty as Rurre it had a blatantly selfish, nay, ruthless monopoly on coolness. Even if it were in the Arctic in the middle of winter it would still register as such a formidable force on the scale of relative coolness that it could make a polar bear shiver. It had a selection of music that expensive monthly magazines with pictures of Jade Jagger on the cover and ironic post-modern articles about Robbie Williams and Madonna and Damien Hirst within - magazines that really know about this sort of stuff far better than mere mortals like you or I, obviously - would probably call nuglobalhyperfusionchillhoptripadelica, or similar. In fact, those sort of magazines would have their power lunches in bars just like the Mosquito, if only their journalists were able to pull their heads out of their own arses for long enough to eat a whole power lunch. What the hell is a power lunch anyway? | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| It wasn't just the music. The whole place was decorated with a kind of jungle-meets-funky-sleazy-shag-parlour-in-downtown-New-York-circa-1978 with just the faintest twist of Indiana Jones. It was Club Tropicana, only without a half-naked George Michael, thank God. There was a list of cocktails that would baffle Tom Cruise made from a selection of spirits that would scare off even Shane MacGowan. Hell, they even had their own brand of T-shirts for sale. T-shirts! In a town where you can't cash a bleedin' traveller's cheque! Truly admirable. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| My eyes lifted from the cocktail list to see three daunted expressions to match my own. The fourth face - Robin's - wore the look of a man who'd just found his true purpose in life after decades of fruitless searching. He was going to have, he announced with no small amount of pride, "The Bolivian Blaster!" | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| I scanned down the page. My eyes widened as I took in the list of ingredients: vodka, whisky, rum and pisco. That's doubles, by the way. Oh, and coke too - mustn't forget that now, must we? The blood slowly drained from my face as I lifted my gaze to meet Robin's delighted expression. "Are you sure that's a good idea, Robin?" I might have sounded overly cautious, but we did have a couple of beers with dinner, I quite fancied making the night last if I could and Robin CANNOT hold his drink. He grinned, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "I shall have," He declared with evident glee, "The Bolivian Bastard!" Oh no, I thought to myself, he's gone and given it a pet name. There was definitely no dissuading him now. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| I finally decided on a Chalalan Orchid - rum, vodka, grenadine and milk. It tasted like strawberry milkshake. You wouldn't have known there was a drop of booze in there. I tried a bit of Robin's Bastard, as it was now affectionately called and nearly choked. It tasted like there was about half a litre of spirit in the glass. The coke was a purely superfluous gesture, a mere nod in the direction of respectability. This beverage existed for the sheer, unashamed purpose of getting the drinker totally and unapologetically shit-faced. I honestly believe that it is impossible not to have some degree of respect for such a blatant lack of subtlety, so when Robin ordered his second Bastard, well, I had no choice but to join him. It would've been rude not to, wouldn't it? | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| We got talking to some other gringos who were heading to a club. They gave us directions and we promised to join them once we'd beaten the Bastards, in a manner of speaking. Drinks drunk, Sam and Paul decided to call it a night, leaving the remaining three of us to wander out into the Bolivian night, enough booze to fell a couple of sturdy Arab stallions in our bellies, in search of further entertainment. I've got to confess to feeling a wee touch on the inebriated side by this point of the night's entertainment. Not much, but enough to conclude that we were off to a respectably good start. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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| We found a place in the spot where the club was supposed to be. It looked a bit... well, how to put it? Seedy? Dingy? Dodgy? Downright scary? Lets put it this way: the rats had already left, the spiders weren't far behind and not one of them was looking back, either. The cockroaches remained, but they had called a public meeting to address issues of hygiene and the possibility of setting up a neighbourhood watch scheme. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Walking in, we saw no sign of our friends, or any other gringos. An awful lot of rather tasty looking Bolivian truckers took in a good, long eyeful at us, though. There was a big screen showing videos of bad Latin pop music, all soft focus shots of fake blondes in flowery meadows and large men in sombreros proudly singing through their gigantic moustaches. It was like some evil pop svengali -Pedro Watermano - had somehow created a race of Rene and Renata clones and built the entire Bolivian music industry around them. Scary. Truly, very scary. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Rurre's main road. Kinda hectic looking, huh? | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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