Why Guyanese men are first-rate weirdos...

A 60-year-old asked if he could be my boyfriend while I was in Guyana the other day, and yes he was being serious. He has since called me sexy and chubby - the latter is a compliment too... apparently. I told him I have five boyfriends and can't accomodate anymore.

While buying an ice-cream from Demico House, a lovely man uttered the not so lovely phrase: "If you ever wake up one morning and fancy sex, call me!"
Unfortunately I was a little bowled over by him, proceeded to converse with him over tea and ice-cream and foolishly gave him my number. Alas he never called. Not that I was about to take him up on his offer - of course.

Me to driver: "Are you married?"
Driver: "Why, do you find me attractive?"
Me: "Er no, it's just a question"
Driver: "Call me sometime, we can talk. But don't tell anyone."
What is that about??? Yesterday he tried to put a ring on my finger (Beyonce style) and today he said there were many things he'd like to tell me but couldn't. Right.

The drivers here are quite something. Another asked if he too could be my boyfriend. And no, it's not exciting. While he's fairly attractive, he has terrible teeth and has told me that he's not a "work-a-man"... at anything! He also asked if he could bite my nose... in a sexual way. Oh dear.

I met a guy on the street the other day. Again, I stupidly gave him my number, mainly because he has a tattoo by his eye. However I wasn't prepared for the onslaught of text messages including my personal favourite: "Hi babes u r so special to me i need you in my life. If loving u is wrong i don't want to be right. Stay safe"
He now wants to know why he's not hearing from me! I only met him fricking yesterday!

And finally, I get onto the guy from the Halloween party, the only one that I find attractive (apart from the hot tall boy at work who I can no longer talk to since he asked me via msn, within 20 minutes of our first conversation, what the freakiest thing I'd ever done was). After declining his drink's invitations three times - the halloween boy, not the tall boy - I asked him to go for coffee yesterday. He suggested we skip coffee and have sex instead. I was appauled. However after he suggested drinks instead, I said yes. As repayment, here are the comments (not compliments) I received:

"You look much better than last time."
"You should wax off the moustache."
"You're actually quite pretty."
"If you lost weight, you'd be hot."
"When you take of your glasses, your almost shaggable."
"Wow, what a big knee you have."
"I like your arm (aka the bingo wing bit)it's so warm."

And finally after asking him what he's doing for Christmas, he replied "I'd like to do you". Nice.

Now tell me, why do I still find him attractive???

I've also joined Guardian Soulmates for some stupid reason. There are two hotties on there and after exchanging one email a piece, I'm yet to hear back from either.

Conclusion? Men are idiots, no matter where in the world you are.

Hot, hot, hot

It's been a hot today. And I mean mega hot. I've never sweat so much. In my life. It's bad. Really bad. Again, I am enjoying writing short sentences. It's one of my favourite past-times when I have nothing to do. Which is what is happening at the moment. Today, I have eaten an omelette. Played some steel pan. Been to the corner shop. And tried to put a lock on my door. Why a lock? Because the lodger is crazy. Yesterday he wrote a note saying he would come and see me in ten minutes. Psychotic or what? I told him if he came anywhere near my room I would scream. He doesn't seem like a dodgy type. However, you never do know. I have finally found the key, so touch wood, I am safe. For the time being. I can't tell my aunt about his strange behaviour as they once had relations. Hmmm, this is not good.

On another note entirely, I have discovered that Guyanese men aren't so different to English men. I went to Halloween party the other week - Caribbean style. Please note that it's the first time I've drunk, heavily, in a long time. I went with some peeps from work, when I soon discovered that the dress code isn't that dis-similar from P-Town on Saturday. It appears, that over here, less is indeed more.

So, one hour and a vodka and triple rum later (which cost no less than a pound), I was hammered. And i mean hammered. I was swaying, spinning, shaking and bumping into people galore. I somehow managed to shimmy my way over to a young man, knock his drink over and announce to him and probably the rest of the party that I was educated. Oh the shame. I then dragged him outside and whittered on at him for several hours before it got to much for him and he had to take me home.

Anyway, we went for a coffee last Monday, which seemed to go okay. How much we have in common, I don't know. However, he was fairly entertaining aside from when he asked: If we were to start dating what would you bring to the table? Er what? Who asks that. I was baffled and didn't really know what to say, much like when he asked if I'd like to do this (coffee) again.

Now, it's one week later and we've spoken once and he's now announced that he'll call me in a week or so! Which he did (I am updating this sometime later), and he can't meet until he has cash. Screw him man. These folk just get weirder and weirder.

Oh and did I mention my cousin tried to throw me out last week! Get me outta here now!!!

The original steel pan man

An article that was published in The Sunday Magazine of Guyana Times...

If the steel pan were a man, it would no doubt be Roy Geddes. Rosetta Pineapple discovers the story behind Guyana’s premier player and asks him how he’s developing the art form these days

Roy Geddes is a chap who lives, breathes and adores the steel pan more than any other. His talent is second to none, his passion is beautifully raw and his dedication is, in a word, remarkable. Oh and did I mention this man’s got style?

Decked out in burgundy plaid trousers, a red striped T-shirt and beige flat cap perched atop a bed of white hair, this is a man who remains true to his roots and is hell bent on continuing his love affair with the pan - he even has a gold pan pendant slung around his neck, glittering in the sunlight.

His evolvement into one Guyana’s leading pan players has been an eventful one and began in 1953 at the tender age of 13. “Coming from a single parent family and being the eldest of five, I had to leave school at 13,” says 70-year-old Roy. He soon took up a job as a tradesman; however the glorious sound of the steel pan soon started floating his way. “I was living on Lambert Street at the time where I was bombarded with steel pan music and that’s what inspired me to get involved. I would head to the pan yard everyday and imitate how the fellas there were playing.”
Three years down the line and a plethora of pan sessions later, self-taught Roy started to take the art form seriously.

“After that, I started playing with the Casablancas and started to think this could really be a career. The first time I performed I was so nervous and couldn’t stop trembling,” he says, his mischievous eyes crinkling into a smile. But the path wasn’t always easy. Back in the 1950s people had to work during the day to generate an income, and then head to their jam sessions in the evening.”You couldn’t just play for the love of it alone,” explains Roy.

However people soon caught onto the fact that this wasn’t just any ordinary pan man. Roy continued to make a name for himself, playing in bands in Wismar and Bartica where his father lived. “I was well known in those regions,” says Roy, “and I was one of the best as I was always willing to learn. I didn’t know how to read music, so I had to be a very good listener.”

After returning from his stint in Bartica, Roy’s star really took off. He would tramp the streets of Georgetown, pan around his neck, whipping up a melodic frenzy where ever he went.

In 1962, the original pan man was selected to hit the shores of Trinidad with the National Steel Orchestra of Guyana. “It was such an honour,” explains Roy, “as Trinidad is the headquarter of the pan and it’s where it was first invented.”

Then in 1963, Roy was once again selected to be part of the National Steel Orchestra but this time he headed to Cuba. “It was in Cuba that I learnt about respect and how to respect myself,” he says smiling, fondly remembering the seven months spent on the rhythmic island. “The trip was a blessing in disguise as we would attend lectures and they would tell you to express yourself freely.” It was almost like a second schooling for Roy and on his return to Guyana, the pan player realised there was a great deal he wanted to share with the youth of his country.

“I wanted to help people and teach them about patriotism, as well as respect for others and for themselves.”

Midway into our interview which is taking place in his steel pan museum – full of memorabilia from the good old days, hammers for building and tuning pans along with quotations and plants by the dozen - Roy suddenly jumps up from his chair. The cricket is on upstairs and while his full focus is on the interview at hand, he, like any other sports-loving man, has a radar for when something’s happened. Today, Trinidad is playing and he’s eager to find out from wife Pam, what’s been going on. Ganga’s out he informs me, as he settles back down, a look of excitement flashing across his face as he shouts thanks to his wife of 43 years.

Leaning forward conspiratorially, he confides that Pam, who not only provides him with the cricket scores, is the academic one and secretary for the band as well as a loyal companion to Roy. “Without her support, this wouldn’t be possible,” says Roy, his face glowing proudly.

Back to the task at hand, it becomes clear that Roy’s career went from strength to strength after discovering his love for teaching along with playing.

He formed his own band called the Silvertones in 1964. During his time in the band, he played for Elizabeth II, won the Guyana Music Festival twice; he also chalked up awards for Best Original Costume Band and took home first prize from the National History and Arts Council competition.

He’s also received two National Awards for his contribution to the art form from former presidents Forbes Burnham and Dr Cheddi Jagan.

Roy remains humble however, and hasn’t let the awards faze him. “I was honoured by them but that’s not what I was after.”

Today, Roy isn’t just one of the most prolific steel pan players of all time. He’s also a pan builder and tuner (he sinks drums and creates pans in his museum - every corner is chock full of drums, pans and tools), arranger, leader and most importantly, a social worker.
“My main objective is to commercialise the steel pan art form and pan production as an industry,” he says. “I want pan men to be able to take care of their family and I
want the steel pan to give the youth of today a firm direction in their life.”

Teaching is something that Roy takes very seriously. “When kids come to learn to play, I try to instil family values as it’s something that’s lacking and hampering young people these days,” Roy explains. Being a firm leader himself and adhering to a strict set of values, Roy believes discipline is essential and stresses that “you can’t lead young people effectively unless you lead them by example, which is what I am trying to do”.

As well as his social work, Roy’s other mission in life is to preserve the history of the steel pan, as he says, “a man who has no sense of history is like a man who has no eyes or ears”.

“Pan won’t die, there will always be pans around, but the development is lacking. That’s why I have a museum which I am developing so future generations can learn more about it.”

Looking around his museum (which tourists flock to regularly), you can immediately gage a sense of just how rich the steel pan culture is. This museum tells the story of Roy’s 56-year stint in the business and as he himself can vouch for, his “contribution is not just seasonal, but full-time”.

Photographs line the walls, awards are piled high on a table, a football lies on a bench in homage to Roy’s alter-ego Pele – he is a pretty mean football player - and inspiring quotations fill every nook and cranny encouraging the practice of discipline, responsibility and patriotism.

Roy Geddes is certainly a man with a mission and one who continues to break barriers when it comes to the steel pan. As the pan player himself says, “greatness is determined by service” and given his service to the art form thus far, that must mean, and rightfully so, that Roy Geddes is a truly great player, creator and most of all, teacher.

The Roy Geddes Steel Pan Museum is located at 190 Roxanne Burnham Gardens, Georgetown. For more information call 226 9844.

My column...

Admittedly, this is probably a repeat of much of what is already on my blog, however here is my fully published, fancy column...

Back in February, I visited Guyana, the land of many waters, many bottles of rum and where my many (well two) parents are from. From the moment I stepped off the plane I was taken by the intense heat, soft breeze and, of course, the shot of El Dorado rum I received upon arrival. So eight months later I thought it was time to pack my bags, head to the motherland, get in touch with my roots, drink copious amounts of rum, perhaps find a goat-herding husband and of course, work.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the culture shock that comes with actually living here along with working not five, but six days a week! Apparently this is normal over here (I like to conduct a survey everywhere I go to see how many days people work, six or seven is average), however for my lazy British behind it’s not. I’m slowly getting used to it though and I am finding that there’s still plenty of time to experience the wonders of Guyanese culture.

At the moment I’m staying with my Aunt, which is a mini culture fest in itself. She loves to cook every West Indian dish in the book (and tell me about every sordid crime that occurs in Georgetown). So far, I’ve sampled baigan choka, baigan curry, squash curry, black eye cook up, fish and chips, fried fish, methem, vermicelli and of course, chicken curry. (The list goes on by the way.) However all these decadent dishes means that I’ve been accompanying my lovely aunt to Stabroek Market on a tri-weekly basis.

I’ve restricted myself to heading down town once a week now though, as all those screaming bus touts, dead carcasses and losing lottery tickets have started to give me a headache. What I do love, however, are the music vendors. Tell me, where have they sprung from? I swear I didn’t see any in February. The tunes that blare out from those brightly painted, larger-than-life ghetto blasters always bring a smile to my face. It’s like going to a nightclub in the middle of the day. However, if I hear “One More Night” one more time, I might stab myself in the foot with a cutlass which, I’ve come to notice, is quite a common thing. Cutlass crime that is, not stabbing my foot. I’ve been assured though, that these are merely crimes of passion and as long as I steer clear of love, romance and water coconuts, I’ll be safe.

But Stabroek Market isn’t the only place I’ve visited. Last week, the Essequibo River beckoned, so I took a trip to Bartica. As soon as I reached Parika and jumped onto the ageing wooden speedboat, life jacket in hand, I knew I was in for the ride of my life. Zipping across the vast expanse of the stunning river brought a certain sense of freedom and reckless abandonment as I drank in the sights of the lush islands piled high with greenery, the teeny-tiny beaches beckoning to the speedboats and, of course, Eddy Grant’s awesome house plonked on top of his own private mecca. Bartica itself was quiet. Compared to Georgetown most places are, however the golden rum sipped at the Kool Breeze Wharf made the trip worthwhile as I gazed out onto the stunning river, silly (semi-drunk) smile plastered across my face.

Aside from chicken curry, speedboats and rum, I’ve also taken it upon myself to learn the steel pan drums from the truly inspiring Mr Roy Geddes. He is, in a word, awesome as is his pan yard which is packed with plants, fascinating quotations and, of course, many a steel pan drum. So far I’ve learnt the F scale, the C scale as well as Do-Re-Mi! It's simply a matter of time before The Pegasus comes knocking at my door.

So while I’ve enjoyed pretty much everything about my trip so far (six-day week aside), my stand-out moment has to be arriving at my desk to find two rolls of toilet paper sat, quite happily, next to my computer. I like loo roll as much as the next person. However, it was a quite a surprise. Apparently staff are given a toilet paper allocation each month. Yes, that's right. A toilet paper allocation. Men get one roll, women get two. Bonkers I know. But cool. In England we have to make do with what’s in the bathroom and if there’s nothing there, then too bad. But this idea is genius. I just need to make sure I go easy on the pone and don't get a bout of diarrhoea before October 23 (the next time the paper is dished out).

Crazy mad people

My aunt's house gets crazier by the day. Everything about it is swathed in madness. My aunt curses like no other 60-year-old I know. Her daughter is mad bonkers with a cutting opinion on anything and everything. And her lodger, well, he just baffles me. I was thinking I'd stay until after christmas, however at this rate I am not sure.

A builder was meant to come to the house on Monday, however he never turned up. Since the no-show, all hell has broken loose. I wake up to hear my aunt f-ing and blinding, then she gets on the phone to her daughter who hangs up on her before her lodger gets in on the act by saying, "Well I would have done xyz".

All I hear is noise, all the time.

Hence why I've been trying to entertain myself by other means. I went to Celina's Resort the other day and supped a fruit punch while I drank in the sight of the thick black mud which was devoured by the muddy sea.

In need of some exercise, I then walked along the sea wall, encountering a plethora of junkies and mad people after which I got the bus home where I met another mad man. The 70-year-old insisted on getting off at the same stop as me before showering me with a bevvy of questions including: Are you married? Can I have your number? Why don't you want my number? The best,however, was "Don't you want a big man like me, or would you prefer a teenager?" Brilliant! How about neither you crazy!

It amazes me how old folks here actually approach girls who are over half their age and think with a bit of viagra they can have their wicked way.

My aunty recently told me about an old man who was getting it on with (what I hope)was a legally aged, consenting teenager. Several viagra tablets later, the dude conked out on top of her. Oh dear.

So that's about the length and breadth of the madness that's going on here. I am not really sure how long I will be able to stick it out. On the upside, I am coming on a treat with the steel pan and I now have a grand total of four songs in my repertoire! Yeah!

Drums rock!

A change

What a random rant my last blog was! Even I wasn't interested in it. And I wrote it. Oh dear! Does anyone really care what happened to the paper? Probably not. Anyway, I will draw a line under it. I am feeling pretty blue today. It's strange how you can travel a million miles to get away from your old life, but you can't travel a million miles away from yourself. Situations change, but people don't.

I am feeling a little stagnant at the moment. A feeling that was devouring me in London. However although you can change a situation or a place pretty easily. You can't change how you feel. Which, is essentially, what matters and to a large extent, the problem. People have the power to make themselves feel happy, sad, satisfied or lost.

With regards to myself, I seem to be experiencing an extreme dissatisfaction with my life. Which is strange, considering I have just had two amazing months travelling. I guess a feeling as such was bound to hit me at some point, I just wasn't expecting it to be here in the motherland. In some ways perhaps I was expecting too much from it. Some kind of life changing experience. A bolt of lightening. But when that bolt of lightening fails to materialise one can't help but feel disappointed. In some ways the saying is true. Expectation, indeed, only brings sorrow.

Til tomorrow.

Oh the shame

Oh dear. An almighty blunder occured when I was in charge of the paper. I am so embarrassed. Although I have to stress, it wasn't my fault. Everything was changed at the last minute. I checked the pages five times as the editor told me if there was any mistakes I would get fired. I checked them another five times. And then stupid graphics sent the old page to be exported. Hence why the front page story didn't relate to the turn on page 13. Oh man!!! Cringeworthy or what. A whole page was wrong!!! On a Sunday as well. I feel like Piers Morgan. When he was fired. Although I didn't publish anything false. And I haven't been frogmarched out of the building. Yet. However I can't get away from the fact that it's embarrassing.

Anyway, I will try and keep in mind that it was not my fault, although it sure does feel that way. It's like when someone says something's been nicked, and although you dealt no part in it, you can't help but feel guilty.

It's weird though as I couldn't sleep on Saturday night. I was awake with worry. I must have a sixth sense. Surely. If only I had that when it came to the opposite sex.

It's not right, but it's okay

So here I am, at my job, again. However, on this occasion, I'm not going to talk about the monstrosity that is work! Oh no! Instead I will write about what I've been doing. And what a backward country I am currently residing in. To be honest it's not that bad, I'd even go as far as to say it's entertaining. Today I arrived at work to find a roll of toilet paper on my desk. I like loo roll paper as much as the next person. However it was a quite a surprise. Apparently staff are given a toilet paper allocation each month. Yes, that's right. A toilet paper allocation. Men get one roll, women get two. Bonkers I know. But kinda good. I just need to make sure that I don't get a bout of diarrhoea before October 23 (ie the next time the paper is dished out).

Aside from their crazy toilet culture, I've also been immersing myself in the world of steel pan drums. An amazing 70-year-old man called Roy Geddes is teaching me to play and he is awesome. He's quite possibly the deepest (albeit preachy) man I have ever met and so far I have learnt the F scale as well as Doe A Deer! Oh yeah! It's only a matter of time until I have a band of my own. I think it will be called the Browntones. Other than that, I've been to Bartica, seen Eddy Grant's island house, declined my father's hot friend because of tiredness and had my sidies waxed off for the same price as in England. Shocking, no? I've also tried tirelessly to meet a minister. He keeps palming me off. So I've been harassing his secretary.He's now ignoring me. Oh dear. Tomorrow, I have another drum lesson, then on Friday I am going to West Coast for some roasted aubergine. I can't wait. My cousin actually makes the best food in the world and my belly is ready for it.

So on that note, I will be seeing ya.

PS How can that 13 year old child get everyone under the sun to read her blog and not one person reads mine!!!!

The sign off?

Ageism is rife.

I think I might die...

So it's my sixth night in a row working. And, to be honest, this could quite possible be the worst job in the world. It's horrible. I hate it. Even more than my last job and that's saying something. Would it really be inappropriate to quit on Monday? I think perhaps. But given my current state of mind, I think it's the only thing I can do to save my soul. I am working for one sixth of my pay, six nights a week and it is quite possibly the most awful thing ever. And I mean ever. Hang on I think I've said this. This is slave labour man. Total and utter slave labour. If this is Guyanese culture, then they can stick it up their fat ass. I come to work. Go on facebook. Sub some terrible stories. Check my facebook again. Look at hotmail. Develop a sense of paranoia. See who's on messenger. Get told my job description is sub-editor. Cry because this too horrible a thought to contemplate. Have to listen to another annoying sub-editor. Want to smack her in the face. Infact I want to smack everyone in the face. Oooh rage is what I feel. Pure and utter rage. I am thinking the only way out is to head to Panama. Perhaps I can seek salvation there and speak alot of pigeon Spanish again. That's all from me.

Time waster

I am worried. My blog is no longer thrilling (was it ever?). Instead, it may be worth less than a shilling. Sorry, I just wanted to rhyme. I am still in Guyana, working, six night's a week, proofreading, words, many many words. Oh man, it is sending me potty and partially blind. Worse yet, the work is sporadic, so this means I get itchy fingers. Which means I constantly check messenger. There's no one there as there's a time difference. And I send emails. Many emails. I've never written so many emails in my life. I am worried that as I send so many, certain people won't reply. Especially after my dream last night. Which I can't go into, as I am a little ashamed. Oh well, they have been sent. What can I do? What did I expect? The content is not even as bad as I am insinuating, but as I have nothing to do, I will procrastinate. I like that word, procrastinate, and I like this new style of writing. Short, sharp sentences.

That's enough about work. I went to a visit a man today. Not just any man, but a steel pan player extraordinaire. Man, this dude was amazing. And deep. I start on Monday as part of my little Guyanese culture fest. His garden is packed with plants. His garage is packed with awards. And his house is packed with dogs. I am going to be visiting him three days a week. So by the end of the month, or however long I last, I will be able to start my own band. Excitement ensues and boredom engulfs. So I will go.

The sign off?
Give me some work!

The mother of all motherlands...

I almost feel like this new chapter should herald the start of a new blog. You see, back in February, I visited Guyana, the land of many waters, many bottles of rum and where my many (well two) parents are from. From the moment I stepped off the plane I was taken by the intensely hot humidity, the soft breeze caressing the palm leaves and the shot of golden El Dorado rum you got upon entering Cheddi Jagan International Airport. I felt like I belonged and it was part of the reason I chose to leave my life in London and travel around South America as, I wanted more that anything to end up in Guyana and stay here for a couple of months, get in touch with my roots, pen my novel, drink rum and perhaps find a goat-herding husband. So, here I am, at my first day of work (however that's another story).

I've been here for a week so far and already it's been quite an adventure. As to how long I will stay, I'm still not sure. Given the fact that I'm at work and bored already is probably not the best sign, however hopefully, finger's crossed things will pick up and get better.

So one week ago, I arrived back here. Of course, it was a culture shock all over again as I am sure it was for my pal. Especially when we both learned what a crazy albeit lovely mothering (and smothering) Aunt I had. Everywhere we walked she came, anytime we crossed the road, she'd shout "get in the corner", and anytime we wanted to go out she'd ask why. But she's cool and fun and it's one way to experience the culture. We spent the week galavanting around town, drinking and hanging out with my dad's smokingly hot, hippie-esque, 55-year-old friend. Man this dude is amazing! He smokes special herbs, he sups virgin pina coladas, does yoga, listens to Michael Buble and dances as though he's making love. In fact I think I am in love, although I am pretty sure he is in love with my friend! Damn, how I wish I was white sometimes. It would have given me an edge in this town.

So as my friend departed on Saturday, I thought it was best that I get myself a some kind of job. The Merdien bar beckoned, but the pay was a pittance. Hence, why I am sat at a little newspaper at 11pm on a Monday night proofreading pages about garbage pile-ups and women getting beaten with a bat. Nice, right? Everyone keeps saying to me "you won't last long", and at this rate I probably won't especially as I have to work six days a week for one sixth of my pay back at home. However I will not let this hinder my plan, even the dead cow and dog spewed across the street yesterday won't send me running from this garbage-infested country! I wanted to come, learn about my roots and so forth garner a better understanding of myself. It may take a while, but I guess I have four weeks (if I so wish) of proofreading (god help me, as soon as monday hits, I am beggin to do some reporting), sipping rum and getting bitten by mosquitoes.

Heaven help me!

It's been so long!

So my blog fell has apparently fallen to the waste side since I've been travelling which was a shame, as I think it was rather entertaining. I was in Peru last time. Peru got better and better you know. I was not so sure about it at first. All that hiking through the jungle and up hills all to see some Incan ruins. However, the more I spent time in Cusco, the more I fell in love with it. From the gorgeous restaurants to the swanky bars to the drop-dead gorgeous... scenery! It was amazing. And the shopping was pretty awesome. We met a really cool German girl while we were travelling round Lake Titicaca (you know, the big blue bowl of floating reads, random Bolivian dancing and hiking galore), so we ended going to Cusco with her and staying at party central Loki. It was good times all around and during that week I shopped alot and hiked, yes, hiked, up Macchu Piccu! It was one of the most amazing sights I've ever witnessed. Lush green land all around with an awe-inspiring Incan village plonked in the middle. I totally and utterly fell in love with it.

We also got change to travel to Lima which, contrary to reports I'd heard, was beautiful and after that it was on to Columbia which was okay. I had PMT however so that more or less hampered my experience there. After Bogota, it was so to Venezuela which was gorgeous. We travelled to a remote little village called Choroni where there were huge expanses of long sandy beaches set against towering mountains lush with vegetation and the twinkling blue sea sparkling from the other side. The men, however, were way too intense for my liking and in the end I was glad to make my escape. However it was bittersweet as I could feel my travels coming to the end. Trinidad beckoned for one day and one day only before it was time for the motherland… Guyana.

And on to Peru

I´ve noticed that my blog doesn´t really centre around my travels, but all the hot boys I tend to fall in love with. This, I need to rectify. I must remember why I came on this trip. It was not to become infatuated by a different man in every country, but rather to find myself and all that cliched shizzle!

Last time I updated this, I believe I was in La Paz. La Paz was cool, although as soon as I had adjusted to the altitude çand got over hummous gate, we set off to the Salar de Uyuni, the world´s largest salt plains. Man, I have never seen so much salt in my life. There was a lot of salt, and would you believe, not a sprinkling of pepper in sight. The trip was pretty awesome, although the highlight was getting on the bus and hearing some Northern bloke (who, as it turns out, lives just round the corner from me) utter, "it´s an f·$&ing desolated waaaste land out theeere with people pissing everywheerre". Oh the shame to even be associated with Preston.

Um, my blog was just posted by accident, so any reader that I may have, please don´t be confused. So more about my salty trip! We were in a group of six, and after looking at some dead mummies, four of us managed to get trashed on Bolivian rum in the middle of the desert with the sounds of Pitbull echoing in the background. It was pretty cool, up until I got back, had no clue where I was, picked an unwanted fight with my travel pal (yes I am still ashamed), fell asleep, woke up five minutes later, demanded she take me to the loo as I thought I was in some random discoteca, she refused, so the random Spanish boy had to take me. Once I got to the bottom, there was clarity. I knew where I was and I just felt like a stupid drunk idiot.

Anyway, that´s like so two days ago. Over the following days, I drank in the gorgeous sights of Laguna Colarado, Laguna Verde, the hot geysers (where the P Town man reappeared only to start downing beer and ´looking for titties´ at 8 in the morning) and dreamt I was being suffocated in my cell like accomodation which was SO cold. All in all, the trip was amazing, up until I ate some llama and it gave me food poisoning (yes, yes, I thought llama was meant to bring happiness too). Which, pretty much, takes me up to today. I still have it - the food poisoning that is, and I guess you could also say the llama - I have never been so sick (from both ends) in my life. I am hoping it will pass and I am also hoping it will be a blessing, ie it will make me mega skinny for when I encounter my next beloved, although the Argentinian and Angus are still up there ;)

As for the sign off...

Never trust a llama.

A week of excess...

I can´t believe how fast time has flown. I believe the last time I wrote, or typed rather, a little something something was over a week or two weeks ago. I don´t quite know where to start however after updating this little blog my travel pal and I met two lovely lovely Geordie lasses who we ended up travelling, firstly, to Iguazu Falls -Argentina stylee - then to Buenos Aires where we spent a truly excessive week. That place is totally party central, I have´t drunk so much vodka since university and I haven´t made such a tit out of myself since, um, a week or so ago. We were staying at party hostel central which was tres fun and what it lacked in natural lighting, boy did it make up for it with the mega hot receptionist who I am little enamoured by! Phew, I think I may just have to take a minute.

So perhaps rather than bore you with all the details, I could break it down bullet point stylee, for my own record as much as yours!

Day one
Went to a fab restaurant called Mirandas. Learnt that the best way to go against my Hindu code of conduct is to gorge on beef! Well, when in Argentina... Went back to the hostel, drank way too much cheap vodka. Ended up in the hostel bar, harrassed one young lad by calling him every name in the sun - oops - then tried to chat up his mate Angus (with a beard), who told me I was very intelligent, very confusing and that he couldn´t work me out. Er hello! If I insult you (ie tell you you have nice crow´s feet - don´t ask), it means I like you. Well in my world anyway. Needless to say that foray didn´t culminate in anything remotely mindblowing (he left) and we ended up in some dodgy Argentinian club.... enough said. .

Day two
Coppped a look at the hot receptionist - totally thought we had a connection, much like with Angus, had a terribly uncomfortable (sober) conversation with Angus, ran away, then hit the shops. Thank god for materialism and markets. Two scarves later I was happy as larry and we tangoed the night away.

Day three
Hot receptionist told me I smelt nice. Swoon. I got all flustered and tried to make a witty quip. What is the matter with me? Sometimes it´s best just to say thanks. Went on a fabulous bike ride round Palermo. Now tell me, have you ever rode a Brompton bike, by that, I mean one with curved handlebars not straight handlebars? If not, do it, do it now as they are the shizzle. I felt like such a lady. My back was straight, my helmet cocked to one said - my bike rocked! On our return we went to a very cool restaurant called Krisna, bohemian central, and then ended up at the hostel bar, again, where my friend, um, let´s call her Kat, told me she could get us all drunk in half an hour. Well she´s a Geordie, and she was right. I was hammered, saw my mate Angus, told him he had very lovely nose, tried to chase after him to confess my undying love ( he disappeared) then proceeded to tell everyone else and their mother that I was in love with him. For the record, I am not, just merely deluded. Ended up in yet another dodgy nightclub where I had a brief dalliance with a Londoner who said he was going to nail me so I left.

Day four
Hangover central. Went to La Broca, gorgeous coloured houses, tango galore and so much crap to buy. I was in my element. Went to the hostel bar in the evening, saw the nailer man, ran away then had a terribly uncomfortable debate about the morals of journalism.

Day five
Went to Uruguay for the crack, ate a gizzard and an intestine and supped hot chocolate - aside from the intestine, not the gizzard, it was bliss. These Uruguayians sure know who to eat!

Day six
Rented a golf buggy to zip around town in. Headed back to BA for one last night of excess and went to the hot receptionist´s birthday party, he asked if I was interested, I made another unwitty quip, he told me he´d like an Indian girlfriend, cue more embarrasment, eventually gave in after ten vodkas, had a clandestine (which translates to incredibly drunken) smooch, got in a a taxi with him... oh yeah... then half way home the object of my affections had to get out to throw up not once, not twice but probably about five times. That put pay to any sexy fun, so I took him home, arrived at my hostel at 6.30, then got up for my flight to Bolivia at 7.30. Cripes! Buenos Aires is NOT for the faint-hearted.

This takes me to pretty much today, where I am in La Paz (a dizzyingly beautiful city which may cause me bankruptcy), suffering from chronic PMT (which means stay out of my way). Hence why I am trying to stay out of my travel pal´s way incase I am mean to her (which I think has already happened)! Ooops, where´s the starflower oil when I need it.

So I think that´s all. I think I will like La Paz. I have already bought a love potion from a witch and I am off to the Salt Plains tomorrow in.... a local bus (scary petrified).

On that note, I will sign off with...

Pray for me

One week down...

My trip has officially started and, believe it or not, I am enjoying my backpack. It´s kind of fun, kind of cool and I think it may help me lose a little weight in the long run. Here´s hoping anyway. So perhaps the best thing to do is give a little rundown (one word two? who knows and who cares) on what I´ve been doing.

I arrived, which is normal, took a trip to my hippie hostel and promptly fell in lust with the super- hot receptionist, Vigo (or something to that effect). After three days in Rio which included a trip to Jesus Christ Superstar, Sugar Loaf, a quick (if illegal) dip in the Copocabana Palace Hotel (no-one told me you had to stay there), people watching on Ipanema and Copocabana Beach and a fab Favela tour where we flew kites on the roof (petrifying to say the least) we headed to Illhe Grande. Ooh we also took a trip to Lapa and tried to reenact the Snoop Dogg video on those amazing steps, however it didn´t go to plan as unfortunately I was accosted by a crazy man who´d never seen an Indian before. After trying to swallow my face, he told me I had no respect for him and thought of him merely as a little boy. Two words: psycho and boundaries (please omit the and that´ll be two).

So Ilhe Grande beckoned. Basically it´s a very big island. It´s very nice but it rained for three days straight, however on the upside, it provided me with, quite possibly, the funniest incident I have ever witnessed. My travelling buddy and I headed off to the hostel bar (quite a new concept for me as I am not so ofay with hostel etiquette - being nice to everyone can prove quite an effort) and after four mega strong caiparinhas, things got a little rowdy. I told my pal I fancied an Irish man who had a girlfriend, she asked him if he was in love with said girlfriend, he proceeded to call us both C U Next Tuesdays, so my pal kicked him in the balls. Then screamed at him. And probably tried to kick him again while I laughed, alot. Needless to say the rest of our trip was spent trying to avoid anyone who´d been at the bar and suffering from attacks of paranoia and the mother of all hangovers! Ha ha! Oh, how it still makes me chuckle!! We did manage to fit in a trip to the one of the top ten beaches in the world, Lopes Mendes which was utterly gorgeous, then headed off to Paraty on the ferry boat! Yeah, I was totally on a boat (Lonely Island reference).

Since the island incident, we´ve taken the bus to Sao Paulo, where it rained alot, sambaed our socks off at O do Brigadaro (very cool), sat on a another bus for 16 mother-f@%$ing hours and been to Iguazu falls, which all in all, takes me to this moment in time, where I am sat furiously typing away, at a blog that may not be read while sniffling as I am suffering from a cold. No, not swine flu, a cold! Damn weather change.

So I believe that´s all from me. I will now go to the supermarket, buy some cake then go to bed and dry my hood with a hairdryer (but perhaps the other way around). Oh the exciting life of a traveller.

As for the sign off? I will go for the Brazilian favourite, which also relates to this trip...

It´s nice (it needs to be said Borat-stylee)!

Leaving on a jet plane...

Tomorrow I leave for pastures unknown! South America is calling and I am petrified. I've never travelled before. I don't even know if I like travelling. I know I don't like hostels and I know I don't like grotty toilets or someone else's hair getting wrapped around my toes. Hence the essential pair of flip-flops which will be permanently glued to my feet. I think I like my travelling companion, however after six weeks of living in each other's pockets I don't know how much that statement will still stand. But I guess it's a good adventure. It's just come around so quickly and now I have to furiously download lots of music to keep me occupied. Will The Saturdays provide a good soundtrack to my South American backdrop? Who knows! We will just have to wait and see.

So I don't really have much to say. Perhaps I will go and gaze at my backpack for a while and contemplate what lies ahead. Two months of friendship bracelet-loving hippies with matted rastafari plaits I think. Yikes, I'm petrified again.

The sign off?

Never trust a hippie...

Packing sucks

I'm not sure what else I can say about this topic! It's rubbish. I hate backpacks and I hate packing them, it's almost as bad as having to talk to my stupid Greek landlord on the telephone (FYI I'm not, in any way, shape or form, trying to be racialist about Greeks, oh no, I like Greek people - my friend is marrying one - I also love My Big Fat Greek Wedding and hummous is a my favourite low-fat snack however whenever I talk to him, his stupid accent just weedles it's way into my inner psyche and grates on me). The three words that best describes both situations? Tiresome, agitating, infuriating and can I have one more? Irritating.

Anyway, more about the packing nightmare that is currently engulfing me and consequently draining, squeezing and ringing any excitement that I may have had about my pending trip out of me. I am attempting to pack three years of clothes (I like clothes, infact no, that's an understatement, I love clothes - it's my thing) into one tiny stupid, 60 litre backpack - all because I thought it was necessary to travel the world (well South America to be precise) to find myself. Now tell me, how does one fit everything in? I've just packed my underpants and toiletries, and lo and behold, my stupid backpack is already full!!!! How do people do this? How, I scream from within, how? I think I might cry. It may seem ungrateful but this is too much for me to take. Backpacks suck! Royally. Sucks.

I now have to go and bake some cakes to avoid the blue canvas explosion that is lying all over my bed!

The sign off for today?

Backpacks suck!

My first blog...

Wow, how strange. I've never blogged before. I am pretty excited by this prospect. I can write about anything, anyone or anywhere. I feel this blog may lack purpose at the moment, but hey, it's making me smile so surely that's gotta be a good thing.

Well, perhaps I'll start with a bit about what's happening in my world. That's what these things are for, right? And a rant, too? Brilliant! So here goes. After three years of living it up in the big smoke, I've swapped my high-flying glossy magazine job for two months travelling around South America. Perhaps not the smartest thing to do given the stupid recession and all (my dad still isn't talking to me) and the fact that I've NEVER backpacked before (what? I can only fit three pairs of shoes in my super-swish backpack? Jeez, I am screwed), but hey you gotta just live (as Welsh Elliot, my former dance teacher once said). Now I haven't embarked upon my travels just yet. Oh no. I am currently living it up in my hometown... the glorious, the wonderful, the fan-bloody-tastic, P City! Yep, that's right, Preston. Don't get me wrong, I like Preston, I'd even go as fast to say I love it (sometimes) - who can complain when two double vodkas (mixer included) costs less than a fiver (I did what last weekend?) and you can purchase a mega tasty jacket potato, cheese and beans for £2, then sit on a bench, surrounded by pigeons, in the middle of the market and get chatted up by a drunk at 3 in the afternoon! It's pretty cool. And while I do lament for my old life, I am trying to think of the latter - the potato that is, not the drunk!

Um, yes this blog is still rather pointless, I know. So what else have I done? I've been to the post office many a time, I've got a bit of an ebay habit! Some ASBO's just screamed obscenities about my baggy jeans (I ran). And I went on a date with a 40-year-old (oh the shame). This is what boredom does to me. And the reason I mention his age is because I'm not 40, not nearly, and no, I'm not ageist - well maybe a little. It was actually quite fun, aside from the fact that he's into fitness (I on the other hand can run for five minutes before dying), I think he was wearing fake tan (I'm 'of colour' so it seems kinda pointless to me) and he matched the colour of his shoes to his belt to his bracelet (ever heard of overkill?).

Nevertheless it was a most entertaining three hours where we talked hamstrings, Camden and bingo wings - oh and mid-life crisis's! I even thought it went quite alright up until he tried to pin me to a wall in broad daylight. That I can forgive, if it wasn't seven in the evening and I wasn't sober I may have gone along with it (yes alcohol is my crutch). However, what really rattled my cage was when he suggested we meet again on Saturday and yes, you guessed it, never called. I waited for two days, then my impatience got the better of me, so I asked him out, then there was no reply, so I sent a mildly crazed message how all men were weirdos and yeah, just weirdos. Hey, I'm on a time limit, don't you know (and not desperate at all, although this blog seems to suggest otherwise). Needless to say there was no reply! That's right, I have officially been dumped by a fake-tan wearing, convertible-driving, bracelet-matching 40-year-old! And now I think I am starting to sound like that crazy little ginger girl from He's Just Not That Into You! Don't judge me! It's my first blog! I don't know what I'm writing! I've never done this before! And that's why I am going to stop! Now!

Comments would be most welcomed, or advice, or just general chit chat, ooh or maybe a new word for the week. I also think I will end with some kind of cool sign off every time! Brap brap? Does that work? No, not really. Okay then I will go with my usual and try and improve next time.

Peace out

PS This blogging malarky rocks!