James Vs. The Pacific

"Let´s go for a swim," I said to my newfound friends Edgar the Norweigan Viking, and Drew. Sat around our campsite in Huanchaco, lazing in hammocks, the roar of the Pacific is audible, and we can see the sunlight glinting on the waves less than 100 metres away. A swim would be refreshing and fun.

So, we wandered down to the beach, and in we went. After 5 minutes of being rolled around in the waves, we had swum out quite a distance. It was exhausting but entertaining stuff. As the waves approached, some 2 metres in height, we swam under them for a salty rush!

But suddenly, I looked behind me and couldn´t see Tash or any of our other friends who we had left on the beach. Then I spotted them, specks in the distance. We had floated down the beach at Huanchaco some 300 metres in a couple of minutes. Where we entered the water was smooth sand. Now directly behind us were jagged rocks. I started to swim back to shore, away from the rocks. Drew followed, but Edgar was nowhere to be seen. Then I panicked, as the realisation dawned that I was swimming with all my strength and not moving.

I tried to calm down, gather my strength, and swim out again. It was hopeless. We were less than 10 metres from the shore, getting dragged around, completely at the mercy of the waves. To any spectators on the beach it looked like we were having a good time. I was getting tired, and scared. Spluttering salty water, I turned to Drew and shouted "I can´t get out." He too was struggling. Then, just when I think I was about to have a "life flashes before your eyes" moment, an almighty wave crashed over the pair of us. I was thrown around like a rag doll, but then, suddenly, felt stones under my feet, and before I knew it was on the beach, coughing, with Drew next to me looking bedraggled.

As we were catching our breath, another enormous wave was breaking behind us, so we got up and ran up the beach. So strong was the water though, that as it passed us, only at knee height, it knocked us over like bowling pins. then, as if the ocean hadn´t humiliated me enough, the current actually pulled my swimming shorts down, so I was led on the pebbles, butt naked for the whole world to see. Embarrassed, exhausted and dejected, I walked back to Tash, thankful to see her, and collapsed on my beach towel. She was building a sandcastle with some friends, laughing and joking. they had seen us, but been blissfully unaware of our peril. For a minute I had thought I was done for; the scariest moment of my whole trip.

Edgar, who had swam out the furthest, made it out of the water about five minutes after us, and looked like a broken man. But we all lived to tell the tale!
So, after that encounter, I won´t be so much as dipping a toe in the Pacific Ocean for quite some time. We are really to blame, though, because stupidly, we hadn´t seen the flag that said, quite clearly, No Swimming.

The Santa Cruz Trek

"How hard can it be?" I said to Tash as our bus slowly wound its way up the steep sides of the Central Andes, on our way to the town of Huaraz. I was trying to persuade her to come on a 4 day trek through some of the most breathtaking terrain in Peru. The problem is that the trek - known as Santa Cruz - involves scaling a mountain pass 4750 metres above sea level. Being keen walkers, but not mountaineers, Tash at last (grudgingly) agreed.

One reason I was so keen to do this trek is that I tried it 6 years ago, and failed. On the very first day my head was punding, every step was agony, and then, facing a steep incline, I threw up and collapsed. Crushed, I let my friends continue, and a very kind Peruvian farmer guided me back to the main road, semi conscious on the back of a very grumpy burro (donkey)

Now, 6 years later, I want to finish what I started. So, with our backpacks suitably packed with nuts, biscuits, fruit, noodles and other essential sustenance, we set off on our way.

To arrive at the trail head, we had to take a cramped combi (minibus) over a snow topped mountain. In Peru, minibuses are: 1 - Never full. There is always room for one more person, bag of chickens etc.
                      2 - Too small for gringos, even average height gringos such as myself.
                      3 - Driven by maniacs who are not in the least perturbed when driving 60mph on a road with a  
                            200 metre drop mere inches to the right of the (nearly bald) tyre.

Then, arriving at the small town of Vaqueria in one piece, we turned left off the highway and struck out into the Peruvian countryside, for 4 days of pleasant strolling. Or so we thought.

Day 1 - The walk was easy enough, ambling between farmhouses that became more and more sparse, until we left all signs of human civilization behind. Clouds obscured the view beyond the lush green valley we were walking up. We had just passed a young campesina (peasant girl) when she told us, ominously, that rain was on the way. We picked up our pace.
Unfortunately, we were still hours from the campsite when the downpour came. It was a torrential mess, and despite our backpacks having rain covers, the contents were drenched within minutes. We marched through paths and fields that had become quagmires of mud, feeling cold and depressed. My shoulders ached and I wanted a burro again!
Then, 10 minutes from camp, two horsemen rounded a corner behind us and kindly gave us each a draught of Pisco, a strong Peruvian grape brandy. Warmed up and energised, we set off on our way, and mercifully the rain stopped just long enough for us to pitch our tent.
The night was cold, and after an unsatisfying supper of noodles, we went to sleep, shivering and wondering what the next day, the hardest by far of the trek, would bring.

Day 2 - Up at 6am, and on the road by 6:30. The dreary drenching of the day before was forgotten as we slipped into fresh, dry socks and clothes, and were greeted to a view of the enormous peaks that surrounded our camp, wreathed in cloud and glowing a fiery red in the cold dawn sun. We set off along the trail, which soon, at the head of the valley, swung left and began to climb. I stuffed my cheeks with coca leaves but the ascent was still tough, and every 5 minutes or so I had to stop to regain my breath.At about midday, we thought we were making excellent progress, when we rounded a bend and saw our destination towering above us. Punta Union - 4750 metres high, a gap in a jagged snow topped ridge like a missing tooth. It was at least another 2 hours away, all uphill, and a daunting prospect.

We had no guide on this trek. The trail was well worn and well marked, but in some places was dubious, and we had to pick a path and hope for the best. However, earlier that morning a group of trekkers who were blessed with mules and guides overtook us, unladen with backpacks as they were.
We tried our best to keep them in sight and so follow the best path up to the pass. However, when we were about 300 metres below, we found ourselves on a large expanse of rock, with no footprints to follow. Knowing the general direction, we headed that way, climbing over rock faces, when the fog came down and the hail stone began. It was a disaster. Tash fell and hurt her back, and I started to panic. She was in incredible pain, but we had to get over the pass. I shouldered what I could of her pack, but she still struggled, every step a labour, every breath a fight.

Thankfully, fortune smiled on us that day. The hail subsided after 10 very worrying minutes, and Tash, by some force of inner strength that she summoned from God knows where, forced herself to take step after agonising step until we were at Punta Union. Situated at the tip where two valleys meet, we stepped through the gash in the rock and came out on the other side to meet...the most spectacular view of our lives.
To our right was a wall of ice, a glacier groaning some kilometres away, and below it a teardrop lake of turquoise. To our left stood three spire like peaks, unhidden by cloud for mere moments, as though our arrival  was cosmically timed. Straight ahead was our path; a meandering trail down a valley splashed with the blue of lakes.Tash wept with a bittersweet mixture of tears: relief at having climbed the path, awe at the beauty of the scene before us, and anger at me for dragging her up the bloody mountain! We could see our campsite, we just had to get down.

2 hours after reaching the pass we arrived at camp, exhausted but satisfied. The trip down was obviously much easier, and for the last few hundred metres we were practically sprinting. We did 9 hours of walking that day, and from now on climbing passes is something I will restrict to doing in the Lake District, where you can always breathe and are always within walking distance of a good pub!

Day 3 - We struck our tent and were out for 6:30 again, and as today was all downhill, we felt certain we would make good progress. Straight down the valley, past one campsite, to a second camp, leaving a mere 4 hours of walking for the final day.

Well, the best laid plans oft go awry! Within two hours of setting off we stumbled upon two trekkers who had overtaken us the day before. They had lost their guide! We were discussing what to do when he came around the corner, looking none too pleased. We decided to tag along with these trekkers, which was a very fortuitous decision, for all of a sudden the guide turned from the path when we reached a flat plain between the valley sides. "The bridge is out if you carry on that way," he said cheerily.

We finally reached the river that was thundering down the plain, when our adopted guide began to take his shoes off. "We cross here," he said, "The bridge is out!" So, after much deliberation, I took the plunge, and icy water swirled around my booted feet as I waded across. I kept my boots on because I needed balance. The last thing I wanted was for my backpack to go in the river, tent and all. I´d rather have wet shoes! So we got to the other side, and then abandoned our guide. We were lucky to meet him, as later on we bumped into a few people who were not aware the bridge was out, and walked futilely in circles for hours.

The trouble was we had crossed from the path into wild land, and next stumbled into a dense patch of thorny bushes. This is where calamity befell us again. Like the graceless bull I am, I was charging through the trees when I heard Tash scream. Like in a comedy film, a branch had snapped back and caught her right in the eye. Unlike in a comedy film, it wasn´t funny. Once again, I was miles from help with an injured wife. Well, I married a woman with an immense amount of fuerza (strength). Sporting sunglasses and a walking pole, she hobbled down the valley, winking all the way.

Worried about Tash´s eye, we summoned the last of our strength and by the end of the third day had not only reached the second campsite, but the end of the valley itself. We got a bus back to Huaraz, and our lovely hostel owner tended to Tash´s poorly eye. It was a long, fast-paced march through beautiful scenery, but when you´ve been rained on, hailed on, attacked by branches, slept in wet clothes, waded across ice cold rivers and got lost in a marsh, sometimes you just want a nice warm bed.

The Sacred Leaf

"La Hoja De Coca No Es Droga!"

this slogan can be seen throughout the Peruvian and Bolivian highlands, daubed on the walls of poor rural shacks, and on buses in the cities of the Andes. It means "the coca leaf is not a drug." for the coca leaf, bane of the West, is sacred in these parts. When chewed, it staves off hunger and fatigue, and prevents altitude sickness. handy when a daily stroll can take you 4000 metres above sea level.

Unfortunately, we think of the coca leaf as the mainstay ingredient in the creation of the fiendish drug cocaine. for this reason, it is illegal for Peru and Bolivia to export the leaf, and crops are regular destroyed as part of the "War On Drugs", with little regard for the farmers that grow the leaf, or the culture of the region that the leaf is grown.

Having spent months in the mountains, I have come to realise that the coca leaf is special, maybe sacred. We did a trek a week ago where we had to climb 4750 metres above sea level. If I did not have that bitter, disgusting tasting leaf packed into a ball in my cheeks like a hamster, I would not have made it.

On the same trek, Tash hurt her eye badly in a tree related incident. If we did not have coca leaves to put in boiling water and bathe her eye, the injury would have been worse.

Chewing coca predates the Incas in Peru. It is ingrained in their culture, and is as far removed from cocaine as digestive biscuits. Therefore, now I know, and say to any ignorant Westerners "La hoja de coca no es droga!"

Surfboards & Sandboards

What do you think if you hear the word Peru? Inca ruins perched atop mountains wreathed in cloud? Boats cruising lazily down rivers in the sweltering jungle? Perhaps. What about prisitine beaches, perfect for surfing, or enormous sand dunes rearing out of vast deserts, again perfect, but for the less known sport of sandboarding? Thought not!

We have spent about a month on Peru´s scorching desert coast, being beach bums in the fishing village of Huanchaco, and lazing around the desert oasis of Huacachina. It has been a very chilled, slow-paced, rum-soaked time, and we enjoyed it so much that after a month in the mountains, we are now back in Huanchaco, doing it all over again!

But first, let me tell you about the sandboarding. Imagine snowboarding, but on sand, and there you have it. It is a fun way to kill a few afternoons, but it kills your legs, and sand gets everywhere! Weeks after leaving the oasis town of Huacachina I was finding sand in places I best not mention.

Renting a sandboard costs about 1 pound for 2 or 3 hours, but the majority of that time is spent traipsing up dunes at a snail´s pace. After two days of unsuccessfully trying to descend a dune without falling, I abandoned my board and just decided to run down the dune as fast as possible. Lo and behold, it was more fun than with the board! Granted, I face planted at high speed, winded myself, ate buckets of sand and ripped my trousers, but these are the experience we cross oceans for!

After sandboarding, we had a taste for adventure, and went surfing in Huanchaco. Well, Tash went surfing. I laid down on a big plastic board and paddled around a bit. I surfed 6 years ago in Huanchaco, and was determined to do it again, as standing on the board, riding bodacious waves is an experience like no other. however, after paying for my lesson, squeezing painfully into my wetsuit and paddling into the big blue Pacific, something gave in my back. I tried to stand on my board, but it felt like an elastic band had snapped on my spine and I couldn´t stand up. No matter how hard I tried my back just twinged, refused to straighten, thus leaving me bent over like a puppet with no master, into I fell in the water, and wanted to drown from embarrassment. A 7 year old kid in my class was practically tap dancing on her board.

Tash had much more success. Not exactly like a fish in the water, I was shocked she even tried, but when she got going, she didn´t want to leave! She is now a budding surfer chick, and keeps using words like "gnarly", "radical", and "awesome".

So, Peru, surf mecca. It gave me great pleasure to know that whilst I was sat on a beach licking my ice cream, everyone back home was dreadfully cold, enduring a lovely British winter. Hahahahaha!!!

The Pub Toilet

This poem is about the two pubs where I worked during my years at university. It describes what went on in these rough drinking dens, and what I witnessed, not what I did! However, it is a rude, vulgar poem and so my family may want to give it a miss! You have been warned mother!

The Pub Toilet.

Coke snorted, pills popped, joints rolled,
Coins dropped,
Condoms in the toilet bowl.
Sticky floor mopped with piss,
Urinals adorned with fag butts,
A pimply teen sneaks in a mag
And looks at the sluts.

Thew gambler, the drunkard,
The unemplyed, the old and the bored,
The students and the dealers
Drink pint after pint,
Night after night.
They have all placed their arses
On the cold plastic that is never cleaned,
And underneath the johnny machine
Are hardened chunks of collective vomit.

As the crowds pour in and drink
With greed, not thirst,
Local feuds burst, and things are measured
As only best or worst,
And as the men, side by side converse,
They bitch more than housewives at teatime,
And blind eyes are turned to this tiled office
Of small crime.

Weekends mean profits and bad dancing, and
Cloned stories echo of macho
Conquests to be, and conquests had,
Told by every dashing lad,
Who considers himself a bit of a cad.

There are locked cubicles for cocaine and fucking,
Once someone cooked up some heroin
In a MilkyBar wrapper,
And often there´s poo outside of the crapper.
The graffitti is crude, predictable shite,
You can see if Dazzer, or Dust was here last night.

The odour lingers on your fingers, a veneer
On the cracked tiles, polluting your nostrils,
As you stand with your cock out,
Looking straight down.
This is where I work.

Cuzco

Valley of myth,
Where an empire died,
Where stories are still alive,
Whispered by the grass
You tread, histories divulged by
The living dead.

Golden, visible rays of Sun
Ignite the day and shine a path
Where priests and freaks and shamans run,
To give meaning to this cosmic laugh.

Exploding in a culture clash,
Here stones can speak and their speech is old,
And alone, under stars that see, on streets so cold,
One converses with ghosts, and secrets are told,
And you keep them or spread them, and sell them for gold,
Or turn them to places where tickets are sold.

Cuzco, ancient navel,
Where I am able to see.
Qo´osco, fountain of harmony,
Sing me your songs
Enrapture me.

Peruvian Girl

She has the sharp eyes of one
Versed in commerce, but
The girl has dirty clothes.

She peers through the window
Into the other world,
They speak words she doesn´t know
And have infinite precious dollars
To pay for the food she will never taste.
She just wants one for the doll
She is trying to sell.

The man on the other side has a pale face,
And every day eats gourmet food.
He never sees the little Peruvian girls,
They don´t exist in his world.

Santiago Hangover (October 2010)

The strange yet familiar crescendo of drunkenness,
A dizzying spiral I climb, then stumble
 And try to maintain.
Any pillow will do
To end this nonsense.

The next day, a return to
Lucidity via egg and liquids,
Arbitrary words fired off
With no thought.
Sun, Yellow Face!
Fries the synapses
As I lie in parks with fresh grass
And creaky swings.
I have no home for now.

A few bars of music stops
All worrying, and I lie
Content. nothing to be proud of,
And nothing to repent..

Fate

The loaded dice somebody else rolls for you.
The web of steel shimmering in moonlight
That no blade can cut, no force tear asunder.
Stormclouds as menacing as menacing as a rough sea
That you walk towards, eyes wide with wonder.
Cages we build ourselves, and the ill-fitting key
We throw away before punching out.
Many believe, and still more doubt.

Blessings or curses of ancestral Gods
On dusty pages,
Young and old, more than gold,
The plight of all, and obsession of ages,
Fate. The wild plain we wish to tame,
The uncharted land we desire
To understand.

The Red Road

Haunting mirages from the dark centuries
On the other side of the window.
My hot breath clouds it over
And I lose focus.

Lost alphabets calling to us,
To ressurrect the forgotten,
Sew up the tear between time
And renewal.
Read the stones, the ancient lines,
Lead us away from man unkind
Summon the shepherd who can find,
the way out to the way in,
So we can end now, and again begin.

the Red Road is open,
But the trail is cold,
Footprints fossilized,
Wisdom grown old.

Sunrise On Uyuni

Arise, Inti orb
And paint my world,
Banish the turquoise twilight of dawn,
Highlight Earth curves,
I stand in awe, young yet infinite
As a new day is born.

I walk by the coloured lake,
This mighty dreamscape, conjured
In the minds of insane men,
And unfurled
In the high places of the world.

You can touch the horizon,
Leap from ash stained volcanoes,
See where the end of the plain goes
Gaze into pits, burned by the mud
They spew.
See the things that once
Every man knew.

And yet not find words.