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| A waitress came over. Robin and I ordered a beer |
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| each and a rum and coke for Angie. The waitress came back with two bottles of lager, a two-litre bottle of coke and a half litre bottle of rum. I explained that she only wanted a glass of rum and coke, not a distillery - a simple request, I thought, but apparently not. Realising that I was not going to win a battle against the crazy gringo expression on our waitress' face I asked for a couple more glasses and ordered Robin to get his beer down him fairly sharpish as it was apparent that Angie was going to need a little help with her drink. |
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| Our sense of unease was not helped at all by the procession of very drunk characters who took great joy in coming to our table, one after the other, and telling us their life stories in a particularly obscure dialect of fluent gibberish. Harass the Gringo night had come to Rurre and it was a big hit! Of course our attempts at getting rid of our friends by studiously ignoring them and pretending to get stuck into some highly charged and in-depth debates about nothing whatsoever in English might have been a bit more successful if Robin didn't insist in responding to their attentions by smiling his most charming smile and saying a very slurred "Si" (his only Spanish word) in a most amiable manner at frequent intervals - a reaction which seemed to encourage them no end. |
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Relaxing in hammock heaven. Note bad facial hair and adventure hat, two essential travel accessories. Only truly hardened types like Ray Mears and Steve Irwin can survive the tropics without them |
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| We charged through the rum as quickly as we could, and headed outside, giving up in the face of defeat. We stepped out the door of the establishment we were in to be confronted by a steady stream of Europeans filing in through an inconspicuous looking doorway in the next building down the street. Looks were exchanged amongst us, which quite clearly said "huh?" in a voice of mild bafflement. We poked our heads through the door and found, to our great delight, a large room full of non-scary people, both Europeans and Latinos, dancing away to some funktabulous salsa. So this was where we'd intended to be for the last hour or so. Oooops! |
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| Party mood returned and we marched in, straight away bumping into our friends from the Mosquito and a few other familiar faces as well. |
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| "Where's the bar?" I asked someone, not being able to see any obvious place in which to procure an alcoholic beverage of any description. "Over there," He pointed to the wall behind me. I turned and saw a little hatch with a haggard looking old woman perched patiently within, wearing the kind of benevolent expression that only really, really old-looking people with loads of wrinkles, sunken eyes and no teeth seem to be able to wear. I went over and poked my head through the hatch. It was apparent that my choice of drinks was limited to whatever combination I could manage to create from the crate full of rum bottles to the old lady's left and the crate of coke bottles to the right. |
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| I bought a bottle of each, then did some quick maths. Three quid. A litre of rum and two litres of coke for less than a pint of beer costs in most London pubs. I admire the Bolivian approach to drinking. They are all quite obviously rum freaks, which is not a bad thing when you live in a country which produces rum as good and as cheaply as Bolivia does. No need for messing about with rounds, trying to remember what everyone?s having, then juggling six glasses and four bottles on your back from the bar. You pays yer money, takes yer bottle and then gets hammered. Nice and simple, no quibbles. And quibble we did not. I got some glasses from somewhere and we proceeded to work our way down the bottle. |
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| I went to the toilet to discover just how badly my coordination was suffering. Whilst shaking my shoes dry and trying to remain upright at the same time (no mean feat, I'll have you know) a rough-looking Bolivian approached me. |
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| "Hello, my fren', you wan' drugs? I have marijuana, cocaina - ees very good." |
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| "Gracias compadre, pero estoy bien," I replied. |
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| I always found that proving that I speak Spanish helps a lot whenever I was feeling a bit intimidated by weirdoes in South America. |
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| "Ya estoy mas borracho que un zorrillo." He understood my refusal well enough. The phrase "drunk as a skunk", however, may have lost something in translation. |
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"For tomorro' you wan' some?" He replied, still trying to speak in English. |
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| "No, en serio, no quiero drogas, gracias." |
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| "Pero si es muy bueno, y barato." He switched to Spanish, still trying to persuade me. |
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| "No, no gracias. Con el ron me basta." I made my excuses, then ducked out of the toilet as quick as I could and back to the safety of our table. |
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| A short while later my dealer friend appeared at our table and sat himself down next to Robin. He obviously decided after my performance that the rest of our group could speak Spanish too, seeing as he proceeded to carry out a long and apparently deeply engrossing conversation with Robin, who kindly reciprocated with nods, a-has, mmmhmmms and si's at suitable points. Robin's new friend proceeded to take out a large crumpled piece of paper. He carefully unfolded it to reveal its contents - about an acre's worth of weed by the looks of it. "Diez Bolivianos," He said, ten Bolivian pesos. I pushed my poor drunken brain almost to breaking point converting Bolivianos to dollars, then dollars to pounds - or should I say pound. One pound?!?!? STERLING?!?!?!?!? I nearly fainted. There must have been at least a couple of ounces in that guy's hand. For one measly quid! Even in my drunken state, it didn't take long to realise that at those sort of prices, even after shipping costs, you could crash and then dominate the whole drugs market in the UK if you could get enough supply coming in to the country. And not a penny spent on fiddly hydroponics equipment either. Ok, so there were certain legal issues to contend with, not to mention the gang element. All the same, its nice to think that potentially, at least, crime can pay so long as you don't mind putting your future as a free citizen and the well being of your kneecaps at stake. |
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| Our man's next move was to invite Robin to dance. Its not like I don't trust dealers or anything, but I find an element of caution is maybe advisable when associating with anyone who makes their money from illegal activities. When that person is a South American male asking another (very drunk) bloke to dance, alarm bells go off - loudly. This is not the kind of thing that gets filed under "safe, normal and well-ordered existence" in the great scheme of things. I pulled Robin over and told him to give me his wallet. I don't know if he didn't understand why, or just didn't understand (I may well have asked him in Spanish by mistake!), but it took me a couple of tries to persuade him. He handed it over and I put it in a button-close pocket in my shirt, then returned to my frank discussion with the rum bottle. |
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| Much to my great surprise, Robin returned a short while late all in one piece. |
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| "Guess what? My friend's over there!" |
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| I went through the list of possible candidates. As usual there were many, "Which one?" |
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| "The waitress." |
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I looked over to the far side of the club. Sure enough, Amalia was there, sat at a table with a couple of Bolivian men. "You said hello?" |
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| "Yeah, it's her birthday!" |
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| That boy never ceased to amaze me. Thanks to me he managed to survive two months in South America without speaking a word of Spanish, yet as soon as my back was turned - especially if he was drunk - he would manage to extract the most bizarre and obscure bits of information off of people who?s English was even more limited than his Spanish. "You'd better buy her a drink then," I said, then took Robin's wallet, which was still in my care, to the hatch for more rum and coke. |
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| Unsteadily, Angie, Robin and myself got up and swayed across the room to where Amalia was sitting. "�Feliz cumpleanos!" Happy birthday! We grinned as we presented the bottles. She introduced us to her husband - a stern looking Bolivian man with an impressive moustache - and a friend of theirs, then invited us to sit and drink with them. So we did, starting of with the bottle already open on the table in front of them, before moving on to the one we had bought. Some of our friends that we had been sat with earlier joined us, another bottle in tow. I hazily recall at least one more being purchased as well. Amalia's husband proved to be a very bad influence, making sure everybody's cup was replenished as soon as it hit the half-empty mark. As the night wore on we grew careless about topping up the coke along with the rum, eventually diluting it until we were just drinking neat rum. |
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| Amalia fussed over Robin while her husband engaged Angie and I in conversation at great length. To this day I cannot recall a single word that was said. Eventually time was called and we got up to leave. Or at least I assume that was the case. I don?t actually remember it happening. Going through it in my head the following morning I could just about recall about five seconds of blur in the doorway, the next thing I knew we were standing in the street. There were people around us, but no one we knew and Robin was hanging limply from Angie's and my shoulders. I was having quite enough trouble keeping myself upright without the burden of a huge amount of extra weight on my left-hand side reaping further havoc with my centre of gravity. |
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| In the time it took to decide upon a suitable course of action Robin was dropped at least three times, falling face down on the ground, and I'm pretty sure both me and Angie may have fallen once or twice as well. Deciding that standing in the middle of the road trying to hold up a man who couldn't stand of his own accord was a bad idea, I suggested that we should head down to the riverside where we could sit Robin down and let him get himself together. This is what you may well file under "not a very sensible thing to do." |
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| Now, Robin's not a big bloke. In fact, quite the opposite. He's tallish, but he's also probably the skinniest person I've ever met. He doesn't weigh a thing. Curiously, though, when drunk his weight would seem to go up to about 20 stone. Even with the two of us carrying him we really had a fight on our hands to keep him upright. It must have taken us a good twenty minutes to get him two blocks down the road to the riverside. I have no idea how many times we dropped him, either. How he managed to wake up the following morning with neither a scratch nor a bruise on his face will forever remain a mystery to me. |
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| With the last half block in front of us we tried to make a real push for it, to go the whole way in one attempt without dropping him or having to stop. We were doing pretty well, too, until just as we approached the lawn by the river I started to loose balance. I did my best to remain upright, but it was a loosing battle. I fell. By great fortune (or not) I fell on my back right into a pit full of rubbish and God knows what else. Trying to keep herself upright, Angie had no choice but to let Robin go. He fell face down on top of me, cackling like a madman, his eyes staring wildly, mere inches from my own face. |
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| Grimly aware of what was under me - and imagining what other foul things might lie within - I tried to push Robin off me, but he wasn't budging. He just lay there, a dead weight, all the while laughing in that hysterical, high pitched way. "Robin," I said, "Will you get off me, please?" No good. I tried pushing him again, but could barely move my arms under his weight. Panic started to rise as I imagined unseen creatures swimming towards me through the crap beneath. Tarantulas, scorpions, roaches, rats - what was that scuttering noise to my left? Was that something tugging at my trouser leg? I cried out to Angie to help, but couldn't hear a reply. I craned my neck to see if I could spot her, but it was no good, Robin's huge laughing face filled my vision, beyond was just darkness. "For fuck's sake Robin. MOVE!!!" I screamed. Then, just beyond The Head I caught a glimpse of Angie at the edge of my field of vision, or should I say I saw Angie's arm, which was apparently swinging Angie's handbag about wildly. How odd, I thought to myself briefly. Then I remembered that I was terrified. With a supreme effort I gave Robin one last almighty heave and he finally rolled off me. |
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| Gasping for air I stood up, getting myself away from the pit as quickly as I could, brushing myself off as I did so. I turned round to see Angie stood nearby, facing a group of seven or eight teenage kids. I was vaguely aware that I was still clutching a quarter full bottle of rum in my hand. At that moment, my inner Baldric was roused: I had a cunning plan. I turned to face the kids. |
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| "Mi amigo esta borracho y no puede caminar," I said - my friend is too drunk to walk, |
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| "Si ustedes lo pueden llevar al hostal Santa Ana pueden tener esta botella." Using the rum as a carrot I persuaded them to carry Robin to the hostel for us, blissfully unaware that Angie?s odd bag waving antics had been her trying to stop one of the kids from stealing it off of her. |
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| As if it was something they did everyday (they probably do!), one of the kids hauled Robin off the floor and over his shoulder in a fireman's lift with seemingly only the most minimal effort and walked off with him. When the first kid tired he passed his burden on to another. The other did likewise and so on as we made our way through town. |
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| In retrospect the blatant stupidity of my actions is more than apparent, but the rum had made me cocky. As we walked down the road I believed that I was in control of the situation and I thought that so long as I clung on to the bottle of rum until we got back to the hostel, making it quite clear all the time that I spoke fluent Spanish (as if that was going to help if a load of teenagers decided to turn on me!), I'd be quite safe. A couple of them made clumsy attempts to pick my pockets, but didn't manage to steal anything. I made sure I stuck close by Angie all the time. |
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| When we got back to the hostel I handed over the rum as promised, and got given Robin in return. Some swap. As I tried to steady him I felt a movement and before I'd even thought about it my hand shot out and grabbed something. It was the wrist of the kid who'd been carrying Robin. I brought his hand up between our two faces. He was holding Robin's cigarette packet. The kid looked at me defiantly. |
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"Son mios," They're mine, he lied. |
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| "Huevon mentiroso," I said, "Los sacaste de su bolsillo, te vi." I told him I saw him take them out of Robin's pockets. He said nothing, just stared at me. I stared back. It was a stalemate. At that moment I started to believe that I could fight him. The rum really had made me cocky. Normally, the sight of people fighting makes me feel physically - not metaphorically, but honestly, deep down, gut churningly, bowel clenchingly - sick. The few times I've been threatened I've turned to jelly. At that moment, however, I was ready to take that kid on. Whatever it was that had come over me passed, thank God. I let go of his wrist. "Quedatelos." Keep them, I told him. He'd earned them, after all. |
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Mucking about on the river... (L-R) Angie, Robin and myself out on the pampas |
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| At that moment the hostel's night porter turned up and shooed the kids away. I thanked him and apologised for making such a racket. Then Angie and I turned our attentions to getting Robin back to our room. What followed is probably best told as Jon - another English guy who was staying at the hostel - told it to me the following morning: |
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| "We heard you coming from about half a mile away (Half a mile? In Rurre? I certainly don't think so young man!), then just as you passed by our window we could hear you, Paul, going, "OK, Robin, I'm going to take you up on my shoulders now." Then the next thing we heard was Robin going, "WEEEEEEE! WOOOOOOOO! WOOOOOOOOOO!" For about five minutes, which is how come he got the nickname." |
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| "Nickname, what nickname?" |
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| "Rodeo Robin, of course! It sounded like he was riding a bucking bronco out there." |
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| I've got to confess that up until that point in our journey I'd been referring to him as Boy Wonder, in honour of both his name and the fact that he was my comedy sidekick (with the exception of one carelessly typed email when I accidentally referred to him as ?Bot Wonder?, a name who's implications I do not wish to dwell upon). From that point onwards, however, he was well and truly re-christened. |
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| "But the funniest bit was," He continued, "Was when Angie said something like 'Don't worry about it, he's not your problem.' And then we heard you say in a really grumbly voice, 'He might not be my problem, but he is my responsibility.' " |
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| I honestly cannot remember any single occasion in my life when I have felt as mortified as I did right then. It wasn't just the nature of the sentence, or the wording or whatever that was embarrassing. It affected me on a much more personal level than that, a level that no one present at that moment could have been aware of. At that moment, on hearing those words, it became undeniably apparent for the first time in my life that the inevitable had come to pass. I was finally turning into my dad. Oh shit. |
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| Oh, sweet Jesus, no PLEASE!!! |
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| I struggled down the path to our room, Rodeo Robin unsteadily perched atop my right shoulder (with the odd break to pick him up again after droppages). Angie got the door open and let me in. I had barely stepped inside the threshold before unceremoniously, and with great relief, I let the double R go crashing to the floor, making sure I put a bit of momentum behind him on his way down to guarantee extra bruising. Angie suggested we move him into the bedroom and get him into bed. "Are you mad?" I asked. After the amount of trouble he'd given us, I sure as hell wasn't going to waste another ounce of energy on him. Little did I know the kind of fate those words were inviting . |
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| What followed may well have been one of the funniest sights I've ever had the pleasure of watching. Angie grabbed Robin by the ankles and dragged him through to the bedroom. As I watched his face disappearing through the doorway, arms dragging behind a "WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" of pure glee erupted from him. I dragged my very drunken self into the bedroom to find that Angie had managed to get him up onto his bed, where he lay unconscious. |
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| We started to undress him Angie working at his shoe laces, me at his shirt. Then the thought struck me: His wallet - those kids had picked his pockets. Did he still have it? We checked his trousers. Oh, shit, nothing in there. His watch was gone too. Shit, shit, shit, I started to worry. We tried to remember if there was anything important in there. His traveller's cheques and passport were in the room, which was the main thing, but how much money was in his... |
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| Then I remembered - it was still in my shirt pocket. I double checked. Sure enough, there it was. I make a point of mentioning this because it?s something of an unusual event. In fact I?m pretty sure it was a one off, strictly limited edition and never again to be repeated. Yup, for the first and only time in my whole life, I managed to prevent a problem rather than have to solve one that had been created by my not preventing it, if you get my drift. That, I believe, is cause for much celebration. |
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| Why is it always the case that just when you?re thinking all's well that ends well, and the end of an ordeal is in sight at last, some last little thing has to come along and bite you on the arse? There we were, pissed as sailors, our odyssey finally over. We'd got Robin back home and into bed relatively unharmed. He may be short of a watch and a few fags, but at least he still had his wallet. At last we could relax. Then came the first sign that a new disaster was upon us. |
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| It was barely noticeable at first, a low-frequency, subsonic rumble, slowly building in volume until it became clearly audible. What the hell was it? I looked at Angie, she looked at me. It was like the very troops of doom were marching their apocalyptic war machine up from Hades - the grind of cogs, metal on metal and huge, lumbering wheels rolling steadily upwards from the deepest bowels of the Earth. then realisation struck. Angie was the first to dare give voice to our worst fears. |
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| "He's gonna be sick!" |
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| Robin lay, a picture of serenity, upon the bed, feet dangling off the edge, one arm folded over his chest. But somewhere within, something darker lurked, and it was growing by the second. I gave Angie the most pathetic look I have ever given anyone in my life. Please take control of the situation, it begged, I honestly do not know what to do. |
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| Fortunately, Angie sprang into action like the seasoned rum consumer that she is (she'll hate me for calling her that!). |
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| "Quick," She said, grabbing his left shoulder, "Sit him up!" |
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| I grabbed Robin's right-hand side and we made him sit up. Not a second too soon, either. His body reached a 90 degree angle with his legs then carried forward under the momentum of his own weight so that he was folded at the waist, belly resting on his thighs and his face hanging over the edge of the bed. At that very second the rumble, which had become a roar by now reached its crescendo, his mouth opened and the levee - as the Zep would have it - broke. The contents of his stomach gushed forth like a water mains bursting. Never, ever, in my brief but action packed 25 years of life have I seen anyone spew like it. Linda Blair was relegated to the amateur league in one short deluge. |
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| Speechless. Abso-bloody-lutely effin' speechless. Angie and I could do nothing but stare as our curse, our pox, this albatross in human form closed its mouth, unfolded itself and lay back on the bed into the arms of sweet oblivion. |
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| "S'pose I'd better clean up, then." I mumbled, turning to the door and walking out into the night in search of suitable tools for the job. |
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| What can you do? I mean, seriously, what can you bloody do? You've been to hell and back. You've nearly broken your back carrying the guy, risked severe injury by having him fall on you several times, risked death by God knows what vermin and other poxes in the pit of doom, sacrificed the last of your booze in payment for someone else to carry him, then had your porters try and pick your pockets and finally as one last humiliation begun the slow descent into becoming one of your parents - a sure sign that you are finally beyond the peak of youth. When the final chapter is written in the book of misery what choice is there, but to shrug your shoulders, accept your lot with good grace and a sigh and get on with it? |
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| So I did. I couldn't find a bucket, never mind a mop. In the end I had to resort to going around the toilets pilfering toilet rolls with which to soak up the mess, stuffing the waste into carrier bags. You would not believe how many rolls of loo paper it takes up to soak up that much spew. And then the final insult. While I laboured, the invalid woke. The first I knew of it was a giggle behind me. I turned to see what looked like an apparition from a George Romero movie - this greyish green emaciated figure, staring at me, eyes glazed, face blank except for a wide rictus grin plastered across an otherwise emotionless face, cackling like a very quiet banshee. It lifted an arm, finger outstretched and pointing at me in an accusatory manner. And then it spoke. |
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| "Djoooo know wa'?" it said "You're a fakin' c***, you are." |
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| Surprise and shock prevented even the question "Huh?" from reaching my lips. It continued, |
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| "You're a fakin' c***, a right fakin' c*** you are, hahahahahahahahahaha!" It burst into uncontrollable giggling , still pointing, "Hahahahaha, fakin' hahahahaha c***, haha, fa - hahahahahaha - kin' c***! C***! HAHAHA!" |
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| I could not believe it. Totally bloody incredulous. Here I was, mopping up HIS vomit while HE hurled abuse at ME - why me, Oh lord! WHY ME? I"ll give you fakin' c***, you fakin' c***. |
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| By the time I'd finished cleaning up and found a bin outside to stuff the carrier bags in, he'd collapsed back onto the bed and was unconscious again. Angie left the room to go to the toilet. I paced for a couple of minutes, then stopped, looking down at Rodeo Robin on the bed. "Robin?" No answer. I went over and tapped him on the cheek with my palm. He was totally and 100% out for the count. I hit him a bit harder, just because I could. No response. Then, from somewhere deep down inside me a wave of anger came rushing up. I slapped him hard, and again. Still no response "Robin!" I shouted, then screamed, "Robin you wanker! Robin, wake up! - SLAP! - Wake up! - SLAP - WAKE THE FUCK UP!!!" SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! |
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| It felt so good to yell and to hit him over and over, harder each time, to let it all out of my system. And all the while he slept, like a baby on valium. I've not got much of a temper. I'm very good at getting grumpy, surly or sulky - especially if I'm tired, but getting angry, I mean really, furiously angry. Its not something I'm able to do unless I'm really pushed relentlessly hard. But at that moment I totally lost the plot. And it felt great! |
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| I'd stopped by the time Angie got back from the loo, but it was plain that she'd heard me loud and clear, as - I found out to my embarrassment the following day - had the rest of the hostel. |
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| The following morning the three of us woke almost simultaneously. I turned round and saw the other two stirring in their beds. Robin was the first to display any recognisable signs of consciousness. "Mornin'," he said cheerfully as he sat up. In near perfect synchronicity, Angie and I turned to him, |
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| "Do you have any idea what you did last night?" |
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| "Eeeerm," He paused for thought, then continued, "I don't remember leaving the clu...... Oh, my head!" His hands reached up to cradle his head as the blood visibly drained form his face. he sunk back onto his pillow. "I. Am. Soooooo. Hungover." |
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| "No shit," Said I, stretching. |
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| "Do you want to tell him, or shall I?" Asked Angie. |
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| Shrinking further and further under his sheets, Robin's voice rose, muffled and miserable, "Tell me what?" |
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| And so the telling - and Robin's suffering - began. |
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Bye bye Rurre! Waiting to board the plane to back to La Paz. I was really sad to leave. Robin, however, may have felt differently! Check out the registration number on the tail of the plane. ThunderPaulys are go!!! |
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| Poor Rodeo Robin, he still doesn't remember a thing of what happened, and he still feels guilty as hell. After returning to this country he went to stay with his girlfriend in Norfolk. Nine months later the two had a butt-ugly baby. Its nothing personal against the baby, I hope you understand. Its just a simple fact of life that all humans (and a whole lot of animals, too) are born butt-ugly. Lots of people, especially women, try and fool themselves that babies are beautiful little things. Face it: they're not. Sunrise over a snow-covered field, bluebells in ancient oak woodland, the smell of fresh croissants and good coffee on a Sunday morning, the feel of silk, the sound of violins. All of these are beautiful things. Babies are not. However, born it was, regardless of its aesthetic nature and it's now a year old. In years to come it will grow to be a man and ask that eternal question, "Dad, why the hell did you have to give me a name like Dillon?" To which Robin will reply, "Because, son, I am a hippy and as such have a daft obsession with The Magic Roundabout." Then, Dillon, rejoicing in the glories of young manhood will ask, "Dad, did you ever do anything really, really, stupid, I mean like did you ever explore previously unfathomable depths of idiotic stupidity when you were a young man like I have become?" And Robin will reply, as all parents do, "No, son, and do you know why?" "Why, dad?" "Because, son, drugs, and alcohol and cigarettes and sex are all bad for you." Then young Dillon will smile beatifically at his father, a look of respect and admiration that all sons save for their parents, but secretly, deep down, thinking, God, dad, why did you have to be so square? Everyone else's dads were out getting drunk and taking drugs and indulging in casual sex when they were younger, why didn't you? |
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| But out there, somewhere, lies a darker truth... |
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