Jaywalker

The day after my Machu Picchu trek, instead of a $70 train ticket, I decided to walk the forty kilometres from Aguas Calientes to Ollantaytambo. All i had to do was stick to the rail tracks and step off them when the trains passed by. Which was easy, except for one occasion where i found myself halfway through a tunnel and a train coming at me from the opposite side.

I started the day with a massive breakfast of yogurt and fruit from the local market, got back to my hotel and packed. The queues for Machu Picchu tickets and the trains were already bustling. Any place with a huge number of tourists gets me edgy so i was no mood to stay longer. Twenty four hours ago i had experienced one of the greatest trips of my life and was not going to kill that with selfie addicts around me.

Without any further delay, i started my walk towards Ollanta at 10 am, deciding to stop only every 3 hours for a bite. I had walked quite a bit this entire trip and was sure my legs would work the forty odd kilometres with no trouble. The weather was gorgeous too. The clouds were still weaving in and out at great speeds like waves mixed with clear white smoke. Either that or the LSD i took the previous day at Machu Picchu was still kicking*.

About three hours in, i faced my first bunch of assholes on the path. Now Peruvian dogs are usually nice, but the ones that are not too used to people are a bit rough. Add to that a person with long hair and a backpack, the dogs think you’re out to harm their sweet old owners. Usually i hear these dogs from a distance and i’m prepared to scare them away. But this one time, it was Nine Inch Nails playing on the headphones. Hence, i didn’t hear the pack of dogs coming for me. By the time i realized, two of them had sunk their teeth into my right calf and ankle. The pain, intense. I have loved dogs all my life, and these bastards probably just gave me rabies. I kicked one in the face with my free leg, and then picked up two rocks and hurled with all my rage. Of course i missed completely. That’s usually what happens when you take a swing and you’re full of rage. I shouted a few abuses in English, Spanish, and Hindi, just to make sure they got the point, and hobbled away. I could feel the blood trickle down my leg. But at this point, there was nothing else to do but tie a knot, and keep walking. There were no docs for the next 6 hours. No train was going to stop for me here. And going back to town was out of question. So i shoved the headphones back into my ears, and kept walking. A few more packs of dogs did show interest in me during the rest of this trip, but i barked back even louder.

Tunnels are funny. There’s no alternate path to bypass a tunnel, yet they always have boards saying ‘DO NOT WALK THROUGH THE TUNNEL’. I always wondered what the worst could be, every time i walked through a tunnel. This was the day i would see for myself. The longest tunnel i came across was around 100 m. And again, the headphones were on. Funny thing in a tunnel is, with the headphones on, if you have Rage Against The Machine playing, you don’t notice the rumbling under your feet ‘coz hey that’s how Morello kills it’, and you can barely hear anything else. Even the horn of the train coming from up ahead. I saw the headlights hit the walls at the curve about twenty metres ahead. I froze, and pulled my headphones out. I don’t want to call it fear but the kinda feeling that tightens your asshole, stomach, heart and jaws all at once hit me. Yup, this one was coming fast. I looked at the walls on either side, there was not enough space to tuck myself into, to let the train pass. I turned on my heels, and ran for my life. The honks got frantic cos now the train driver could see a maniac running on the tracks.

‘Look at this idiota. Came to commit suicide and now he’s changed his mind and I’ll be the one writing a report of why there’s blood under the train.’

I didn’t turn around to look how close it got, i just ran. Which is not easy when you have 15 kilos on your back. I could see a little spot to jump into, right where the tunnel started, and i knew that was the escape. By now the ground beneath my feet was shaking hard. And i just kept telling myself ‘PLEEEASE, don’t trip, PLEEEASE‘. The dog bite pain seemed so irrelevant at this point.

A last breath lunge got me off the tracks and i stuck myself to the wall, hands spread out like Jesus on the cross. Ten inches from my face, the train rushed by. Train driver gesticulating with his hand and probably shouting ‘PUTA MAAADRE’. Tourists looking out at me, sweaty and panting and wide eyed and thanking my stars and posing like the Saviour.

I managed to take a pic while still stuck out on the wall. You can tell my hands are not very steady.

You can also see how fancy these trains are. I’d have hated to be responsible for blood stains on that gold and blue upholstery.

Enough of adrenaline rushes, I packed the headphones into my bag, munched on a banana to renew the energy I’d spent on that life-saving sprint, and got on with the walk. This time just singing to myself.

Between ten to fifteen more trains passed. Sometimes i got off the tracks and walked through the hills and the valley and the river bank, where i would keep re-filling my bottle of water. Barely met a soul the entire time except for an old lady tending to her cornfields. And the loco dogs.

By 5 pm I was walking like a zombie. My granola bars were over. Bananas were finito. My legs hurt like hell, but i still had a further 15 km to cover. I gave myself two hours for this. Knowing only later that the last 8 km was uphill. It was 7:30 pm when i finally got into Ollantaytambo, hobbling into town like an escaped convict. I finished my excursion just like i had started it 3 days earlier, with an amazing veggie Pizza and the Peruanisimo (a MUST) from Quinoa Pizzeria. Content with my own fitness levels that day, I hit a local town party and then slept through the next twenty four hours. When I woke up, my legs were screaming ‘bitchface you should’ve just taken the train’.

In my next post I’ll tell you about Kinsakocha, a series of pristine isolated lakes at 4000m, where i eventually threw my phone into the water.

*I’m writing a book about that story, out soon.

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Gracias

I’m finally home. And while I sit and figure out what to do with life next, i thought i’d first send across my love and gratitude to the people who’ve come my way during the last one year. People who made me feel at home at every step of the way. Sisters and Brothers across South America, i love you and i can’t thank you enough for the food, the homes, the music, the love, the warmth, the humility, the magical ceremonies, the new tattoos… Whenever you come to my country, you will always have a home, a tour guide, and a funky new chef.

So starting with Rio de Janeiro, Ilha Grande, Paraty, Sao Paolo in Brazil, to Santa Cruz & La Paz in Bolivia, to Puno, The Sacred Valley, Cuzco, Ica, San Jose, Lima, Huaraz, Mancora, Tarapoto, San Antonio, Piura, Arequipa, Iquitos and San Roque in Peru, to Monta in Ecuador, and finally Medellin and Bogota in Colombia, I’d like to thank every soul i met and spent time with.

I’d take names but that would be way too long and unfair on the people whose names have slipped my mind at this particular moment. You already know about my memory blanks.

This is what my bro Rajat made to commemorate this entire chapter of my life. There’ll probably be some stickers out soon.

#johnnybinsouthamerica   

Gracias South America. Gracias para todo.

If you’ve liked my posts, show me love with hugs and/or donations over at johnnybizzle.bandcamp.com; also pick up free tunes while you’re there.

Yungay Ruins

In the heart of the Cordillera Blanca (White Range) and the Cordillera Negra (Black Range) in the Andes is the quaint little town of Yungay (yoongaai), peaceful and quietly sat at around 2500 m above sea level, in Ancash province. It never used to be so quiet, till 3:23 pm on Sunday, 31 May 1970.

That was the day an undersea earthquake with it’s epicenter in the Pacific Ocean triggered a landslide in Yungay. Now the Peruvians take their Sundays very seriously. The whole town is out, singing, dancing, drinking chicha (corn toddy), playing in the parks, barbecuing their meats to share with everybody. But on this certain Sunday, Mother Nature decided to play partypooper. Or maybe she just wanted to have her own big blast.

The landslide from the towering Huascaran mountain (6800 m), hit them at speeds ranging from 300 km/h to 800 km/h. That’s as fast as a boeing jet does. There were around sixty-five to seventy thousand people in town that day. And they were subjected to 80 million cubic meters of freezing water, mud, and rocks bigger than homes, hurtling at them at speeds faster than you can blink.

Above: Many massive boulders still remain where they eventually came to rest after the devastation.

Anything in sight was demolished by the landslide. Below is an aerial view of the aftermath. That glacier is about four thousand feet wide at the widest, and this pic is still when it was only halfway through it’s ride.

The only survivors that day were a bunch of kids who’d gone to a fair the same Sunday, and another bunch of kids who were at the stadium, which happened to be at an elevation this landslide could not touch. Of course, when they got back home, some of them died of shock and heartache, or the resulting starvation killed them.

Here are some of the images of the five storey cemetery that now holds the remains of the 70000 that perished.

^pic courtesy Parchis

Above: This lucky baby beat the earthquake by almost two months.

Below: One of the survivors, 45 years later.

Below: This used to be a bus, and two cars, until boulders coming in as fast as comets changed them.

^pic courtesy Parchis

Mount Huascaran, where the landslide originated, despite being 15 km east of Yungay, managed to wipe out the whole town in 45 seconds.

You know what i did after? I went to the next town and had four ice creams – wine, beer, passionfruit and lemon flavours.

Our man Heysoos just hung around when all that was going down, by the way. 

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Peddla

I was just sitting there minding my own business, pooped from an afternoon of dune-boarding, and there was this model shooting for her music video by the oasis in Huacachina. So i kept busy at this spot.

That was when this couple walked my way…

‘Hi’, the guy said.

‘Hi…’

‘We’re looking for a friend of ours… thought it was you.’

‘Your friend looks exactly like me, then.’, i responded.

‘Our friend has drugs to sell.’

‘Oh…’

‘It’s not you, right?’

‘I’m certainly not the friend you’re talking about, but i think he’s two blocks down and on the right.’

‘So, you’re saying you don’t have any drugs?’

Now if i said no, that would have been a lie. It was true that i did not have any drugs TO SELL. But I couldn’t lie.

‘Look man’, I said, ‘the guy you’re looking for is behind that pub. If you don’t find him, come back here and maybe i’ll give you something. Just a little bit. But I’m not the friend you’re looking for.’

That’s a common occurence this whole trip.

That, and ‘hey amigooo/Bob Marley… you want to buy paintings? jewellery? cannabis? cocaine…?’

They really progress quick.

If you’ve liked my posts, show me love with hugs and/or donations over at johnnybizzle.bandcamp.com; also pick up free tunes while you’re there.

Huaraz, Heaven

We were at Huaraz, a town located between two ranges of mountains along the Andes (Cordillera Blanca & Cordillera Negra), and everyone’s hiking was being tested. I had already survived Llanganuco and Pastoruri, where i faced the first ever snowstorm of my life. The third and final one was Lake Churup, at nearly 5000m above sea level.

Here’s a few images from the Llanganuco valley, a place that’s breathtakingly gorgeous, even for a cynic like me.

And here’s a few more from the glacier Pastoruri, where i was fortunate (?) enough to brave a snowstorm for a few minutes. I loved it.

Our destination in the distance.

Glorious, glorious valleys.

Shaggadelic in my way. Check out the dreadlocks on the guy, thick as my wrist.

That way to the glacier.

Those were the easy treks. Now back to Lake Churup.

Now this is around the time my final wisdom tooth is popping out of my lower jaw, on the right side. As much as i’m used to the pain, it still hurts like a bitch every time. There’s five of us that undertake this trek, and we don’t need the help of any guide or expert. Parchis was in tears not even halfway up the climb, and only Bob Marley tunes could encourage her to keep walking. Now why they all say you need an expert for this trek, is because halfway up the 4800m peak, there’s a 40m straight face of the cliff, that you have to climb at 90 degrees. A straight face of a mountain. Imagine scaling up an apartment like spiderman. There are vines that you can hang on to, to help hike yourself up. And there are trees and shrubs you can use too. But if your hand slips, your bouncing down a rock face. Dead.

There was a point i almost said ‘fuck this, I’m going home’. But i was guiding two women, cos the other two guys had gone way up ahead. So i couldn’t chicken out. No way. So yeah, i climbed that rock face with my balls in my mouth, along with the brutal motherfucker wisdom tooth. Looking down was NOT an option because i recently discovered i have vertigo.

But eventually we made it, got to the top, and enjoyed the view that was Lake Churup. A mesmerizing water body so high up in the world from the rest of civilization. Once the necessary pics were taken, we climbed the way back down. And for all those who think the way up is hard, the way down is a ball-buster.

Overlooking the rest of the town by now, but we’re only halfway up. Not even halfway up, actually.

I’d bottle that water for all of you to taste. I would.

2nd from left is Andrew. There’s a reason i’m introducing him to you. Also on the extreme left is an Israeli man who learned yoga in my hometown Poona.

A good look of our summit.

It’s raining all over town but up here we’re dry.

Now here’s what happened after we finally got back home, some 6 hours after we undertook this adventure. We noticed Andrew, the 24 year old Swiss boy limp a little bit. Asked him if he was ok, and that’s when he said he was born paralysed on the left side.

Just in case you were looking for inspiration in life…

There was a point during this climb, when i took a mis-step. Suddenly I’m lying on my back on a a 45 degree rock face, slipping inch-by-inch downwards. On my immediate left is a drop, about 800 meters. About five feet to my right, is a vine i can grab, but i must jump. If my hand slips the hold on the vine, free fall. I spent about 7 minutes on that surface, and almost called out to mom.

Eventually i made it out, to do what?

To update this blog, that’s what.

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Rearview Bloopers

Back in the mid 90s, my best buddy and I used to ride our bicycles down MG Road in Poona. The weather used to be great, but the sights were even better. We’d tell ourselves how the only reason we’d crash would be cos our eyes were on some pretty young thing in little shorts instead of the traffic. Things are different in Poona now, but that little fear i had never disappeared. More than the fear, it was the shame and embarrassment of explaining to someone that you crashed ‘because booty’.

During the road trip last month there was a point where my friend had to take a wee. Somewhere in the south of Peru, I stopped the car at a gas station, and parked in front of a little store, with the bathrooms at the back. She headed in, and I waited. When she finally came out, i turned on the ignition of the car, put it in reverse, checked out the rearview mirror, and slowly started backing the car out.

Right then, a woman crossed my vision in the rearview mirror, looking something like this, swaying what her mama gave her, knowing fully well she had put the entire frame into slow motion.

So i got a little distracted. Just a little. But a little’s all it takes.

The view went from the rearview mirror to the sideview mirror. From the sideview mirror to the side. From the side to the front, and she walked away. She just kept walking. And i was transfixed. Not ogling, not drooling. Just marvelling and appreciating one of God’s billion pieces of work.

*THUD*

I hit something… I realized the car was reversing all the time while my eyes were somewhere other than where they should’ve been, which in this case was the rearview mirror.

I raced my sight back to the rearview mirror. A hand came out from under the boot of car. Obviously, not something, but someone. I hit someone.

The hand grows into a full arm. A uniformed arm. Then the head pops up. A cap on the head. The cap looks familiar. It’s a cop. I reversed into a cop.

Holy shit.

The guy started screaming in Spanish. Walked up in a huff against my side of the window, and mouthed off a few quick lines in spanish what sounded like ‘WTF ARE YOU ON IDIOTA?‘

I panicked. Instead of PERDON! PERDON! (sorry! sorry!), i screamed PERMISO! PERMISO! (permission! permission!) and i frantically pointed at the woman still swaying down the horizon. He looked at her, stared at me trying to figure out what the hell i meant, looked at her again, and then laughed real hard. My heart was racing at 200 bpm. I don’t have a valid license to drive in Peru. And I’ve almost run over a cop.

He asked me where i lived, i told him Lima; asked me where i was from, I said India. He smiled, shook my hand, told me to focus on the rearview mirror while reversing, and left.

That was one of the most embarrassing moments of the trip so far.

If you’ve liked my posts, show me love with hugs and/or donations over at johnnybizzle.bandcamp.com; also pick up free tunes while you’re there.

Road Trip: Punta Hermosa

In stark contrast to the first four months in Peru, this last month in Lima has been quite leisurely. I mean breakfast-in-bed leisurely. I could get used to this but no. After getting a hang of getting back in a city, i was soon bored though. I had to get out. Lima might be the sweetest, most gorgeous city i’ve ever been in, but it’s still a city.

Sometimes the daily routine was as follows:

Then my partner in crime X, and I decided to hit the road, but on a strictly veg diet.

Now if you’ve read my earlier blogs, i’ve mentioned time and again how much i love the Peruvian terrain. It’s like a layered desert-rainforests-mountains-rainforests-mountains sandwich from the west to the east, lining the whole country. One good way to see this is to drive down the Panamericana, which is one massive expressway running down the length of the continent. Another way is to watch The Motorcycle Diaries. Since I’d already done the latter, i opted for the drive. So X hired a car, and we were off.

‘No fixed plan, just drive.’

We packed our gear and hit the road at 3 pm on a Thursday, now this was more than a month ago. Less than two hundred kilometers and two hours down, we could smell the Pacific. We decided to take in a little sea breeze at Punta Hermosa. And within minutes, we’d decided this was the first stop to this trip. Mainly cos some of the stray dogs here look like lions. And then of course, the waves and the sunset.

Here’s a few images from Punta Hermosa, which is pretty much Instagramer’s haven. See for yourself. If you want to see the full sizes, I’d recommend right click image and ‘open in new tab’.

Nobody’s watching. Punta Hermosa is literally a dead town. Maybe 50-80 people living in a 500 house colony.

Cos every ‘photographer’ needs to have a pic like this else he’s a fake photographer.

This man can whoop all your asses riding waves 8 meters high.

All these strays here sell as exotic pets back home.

Like I said, instagramer’s haven.

Just random photographers at a surf contest.

If you’ve liked my posts, show me love with hugs and/or donations over at johnnybizzle.bandcamp.com; also pick up free tunes while you’re there.

El Sauce

I’ve met some amazing souls through this trip. This one’s about a couple with hearts of gold and smiles to match. Over a month ago, Leo and Erika came to Tarapoto. They had spent a few days in town when they got invited to Sauce (sau-say) by some nice folk. They asked me to join them. I really love these two and i know them since December. But that’s still a much longer story for another day, my Mancora days. This one’s about Sauce and Laguna Azul. Should’ve been posted earlier but i was going through some shit around the time and was in no mood for the interwebs.

The best rides are the unplanned ones, yeah? So i quickly packed my bag with minimals, and headed out of my hostel with them. Leo said we were hitch-hiking, so we walked to the outside of Tarapoto town, where a pick up truck driver said we could sit on the rice sacks in the back, for 3 peruvian soles each.

An hour later we were at a small river crossing, one of the inlets of the Amazon river, and got across to the hills on the other side. From there it was a 4 hour trek uphill to Sauce, but Leo the expert got us another pick up truck to hop into, this time for free. Sauce was smaller than i expected. Barely 900-1000 people town. We grabbed a boat and headed to the isolated corner of the blue lagoon, which had one restaurant, some touristy shops, and the home of a very peculiar family, who rented the space out. By 5 pm, the restaurant and stores shut, and almost all the inhabitants, except for the family, were off on a boat to the town-side of this lagoon. We had the whole corner to ourselves, with 14 hammocks to choose from, a wooden deck to jump off into the lagoon from, a baby cheetah, and an anaconda, among a bunch of other animals to play with. Since the resto shut down before sunset, we asked the family if they were ok to cook for us, which they did. Other times we grabbed sapote fruit from the trees lining the area, and sapotes are just amazing. In the afternoon we got grilled tilapia fish from the restaurant. Those were orgasmotron.

We spent the night in hammocks. The days in the water. And smoked a lot of weed. Cut off from civilization, electricity, and all forms of connectivity for days. When you get time like that to yourself, it’s amazing how much one can spend inside one’s head, fixing and fixing and fixing a lot of buried problems. Bringing them out and fixing them good.

Here are some of the images from that serene little getaway in the heart of the amazon.

I want to get a pick up truck real bad, and a chauffeur so i can ride in the back.

And to the isolated corner of Laguna Azul, or The Blue Lagoon, we go.

Erika can make grown men blush, take these twins for example. Guy on the right couldn’t stop hammering his fists together while his brother was talking to her.

He just couldn’t stop.

Their mom cracked up at how soft they’d gone in their knees.

Or how they kept fidgeting with their noses, almost in sync.

Later their mom told me she worked for Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity in Lima. And this was around the same time Mother Teresa was in the news thanks to some illiterate BJP half-brain back home, so i was a little dumbfounded at the mention.

But back to Erika and the blushers.

A boatman once saw a 20 meter long anaconda in this very lake. He didn’t go back to work for almost three weeks.

The first boat of tourists from the civilized end started at 9 am.

The man of the house. Took a lot of convincing to allow me to take his picture. The wife totally refused.

The UHMAZING sapote tree.

Leo and Erika are currently riding a bike down the Argentine coast. One day I’ll take them around India.

If you’ve liked my posts, show me love with hugs and/or donations over at johnnybizzle.bandcamp.com; also pick up free tunes while you’re there.

Wanderjahre

The ‘journeyman years’ (Wanderjahre) refer to the tradition of setting out on travel for several years after completing apprenticeship as a craftsman. The tradition dates back to medieval times and is still alive in Germany, France, Norway, and Switzerland. As of today, there are only about 500 craftsmen still following this tradition.

During this apprenticeship under a master, they only earn food and lodging for three years.

After this duration, they are bound to take on a life on the road for not less than the duration of the apprenticeship. So if one has spent three years as an apprentice, he must complete three years and one day at least, on the road. And on the road, he must find work. He is not allowed to pay for travel, only hitch hiking is allowed. Only exception being when an employer funds overseas flight tickets.

You can read more about this tradition here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Journeyman_years

Why am i telling you this?

I got to Lima a few days ago, and my buddy Tamir who owns The Point Hostels was in town and wanted to catch up. The Point has been a regular haunt for me since last June, when i first arrived on Peruvian soil, and i also got in a stint as ‘bar manager’ at their resort in Mancora last December. But this time i wanted to talk to Tamir about hooking up a few gigs while in Lima, since he rubs shoulders with the nightclub biggies here. That chat did not eventually happen. But between 7 pm and 1 am last Friday, i might have gotten an overdose of inspiration.

I walked into the pub and this was the first thing i saw.

As he gave me the ‘man-nod’, i figured he was either another surfer in town, or some underwear model. Looked exactly the type you see in men’s fragrance ads in those glossy fashion mags. Eww, that’s the only time i’m using ‘fragrance’ on my blog. He came up and introduced himself as Kalle, and with him was Josef. I asked if the outfit was part of the night’s theme party.

‘No, it’s our tradition’, he said with a straight face.

I thought he was pulling my leg so i sat at the bar, and started talking to Bryce and Dana since i hadn’t seen them in three months. I had time to kill until Tamir got in.

Then this dude pulled up in the bar stool next to me, and started rolling one. He told me he was in Lima to cut down the pollution, by setting up a mass bicycle unit. I might be joining him for a few rides soon.

Tamir showed up for a few minutes and said he had to run for a real quick dinner and be back soon.

‘Do i look miserable?’, he asked.

‘Yeah, a little bit.’

‘That’s cos dinner is with my girlfriend and her mum.’ And he disappeared.

Much later, after the Germans had finished their game of pool, the three of them came to the bar and sat on my left. I felt like i was on the set of The Clockwork Orange. Then Kalle started telling me about the Wanderjahre.

It’s been two and a half years since he left home. Most of that time has been spent doing carpentry work, hitch hiking, sleeping under bridges when money runs out, which is pretty frequent. After each job, they travel again, until the money runs out. And then they look for the next job. The rules are that they’re not allowed to pay for travel. They’re not allowed to be within fifty kilometers of home. They’re not allowed to have a girlfriend, wife, or kids waiting at home while they complete this task. All they’re allowed to carry is a very small backpack, and it’s smaller than my laptop bag. And in that backpack is one extra set of the same suit, that they wear every day for three years. And two books, one that certifies their works by every municipality council under which they have worked at, and the other a personal diary.

‘So, this outfit is a real thing then?’, i asked.

‘Yes. Told you, it’s our tradition. But it’s ok you don’t understand. Even people back home in Germany don’t understand these days. Everybody teases us. There are only about five hundred people that still follow this tradition.’

I was feeling a little knot in my stomach for making that theme party joke.

The three met while on the road. Their last job was in Tobago, where they built a cycling track. I’ll have the pics of that here soon as Kalle sends me some.

And while in Tobago, Josef got stabbed three times while saving a woman from getting beat up by a bunch of guys. The wounds don’t look pretty.

Yet they have a genuine smile on their faces. A sense of accomplishment that you and i can’t imagine.

It took them two months, 10 hours a day six days a week to finish that olympic grade biking track. You know, the ones that look like this:

They’re not allowed to take off those coats, no matter how hot it gets. I couldn’t even imagine wearing one of those in Carribean heat.

Then Kalle offered to show me his traveling books. I was more than excited. He ran to his room and came back with a ziplock that had two books apart from this passport and papers.

He opened the first; the official one, and it started with a one page description of the travellers in five different languages. A message to people saying these brothers may need food, shelter, or work for a while. Please try to help them.

Once past these pages, it was like a passport, only with a hundred more stamps than a passport could accomodate. Stamps from different counties, districts, territories, countries. Each of them from a place he had worked at. Sometimes the employers wrote long pages praising his work.

In between he pointed out to the bar at a third member of their entourage, and said ‘look at him trying to talk to that girl. He doesn’t speak a word of Spanish, or even English. it’s hard being on the road with no relationship for comfort. Our community is all we have during this time. They’re the only ones who understand.’

Then Kalle pulled out the second book from the ziplock bag.

‘I don’t care about the passport and visas’, he said. ‘But if i lose these books, my life is…’, his voice trailed off.

The second book was the personal diary. It had pics, flowers, cards, memories from different places across the last two and a half years, and messages from friends they’d made on the road. The book had two pages left. He handed the second last page to me, and said ‘this is for you to fill. You can put whatever you want in there. I’m only allowed to read it three days later, or once i’m fifty kilometers out of this place’.

How’s your life going then?

If you’ve liked my posts, show me love with hugs and/or donations over at johnnybizzle.bandcamp.com; also pick up free tunes while you’re there.

Estranged

Got a call to play another festival in San Roque. So i headed out as usual to the cab stand from where the ‘colectivos’ or shared cabs head from Tarapoto to San Roque. Normally i’d find one in ten minutes. Today there was more than the usual number of people heading the same way, so cabs were unavailable for the next two hours. I decided to take a cab to San Antonio instead which is halfway to the destination, maybe swim in the river Cumbaza a bit, and walk the remaining seven km.

I got to San Antonio, stripped off and jumped into the river. Got out, dried off and started my walk towards San Roque, hoping for a pickup truck or colectivos with space to maybe stop for me. Three colectivos raced past, and were already packed beyond the seven people capacity. Of course it’s a five seater car. But seven’s the norm. And sometimes there’s upto nine in a car. Like packing balls into tight jeans. 

After about 2 kilometers of hiking, i heard the blaring of a stereo behind me. The music got louder, till a familiar guitar solo caught my attention. A 1986 toyota corona fishtailed, skid, drifted and screeched to a halt a few meters ahead of me, with Estranged by GnR full blast out the equally old stereo speakers. Three heads popped out the windows. Bloodshot eyes wide open, sweaty faces.

Junkies.

They motioned for me to get in. And i did, without hesitation. 

‘San Roque?’, they asked. They’d heard about the party. About some indian dj playing there. ‘Fuck indian dj man. We play music from car, louder. Muchos louder.’

Yeah, I said.. fuck the indian dj, fucking immigrants i tell ya.

Dude driving was shaped like a potato, white bulging sleeveless vest on. Facial hair yet to break out. Next to him was a muscle-dude, constantly turning back to hand me a bottle of pre-mixed rum and cola. I kept resisting. Next to me at the back was a guy that looked like he just got out of prison for battery. Scars on his face and forearms. Eyes wandering all over the place like he was lost in a strange big city. The driver was speeding way more than anybody should’ve on slippery rainforest roads. One glitch, and you’re hurtling down a cliff 1500m high. Into oblivion. And just as i pictured in my head, the car skid, lost control, fishtailed again and went hurtling towards an edge, but came screeching to a halt a few feet within safety.

‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH PUUTA MAADRE (son of a whore)‘, they laughed. My balls were halfway up my intestines.

‘You have twenty soles? We want for gas.’

‘No have’, i said, still sweating off my brow. I could have waited two hours and paid six soles for a colectivo. Fucker was beyond stupid to think i’d give him twenty soles.

‘Aaaah. Mierda (shit).’

The engine was still running, when suddenly a bright spark came across the dude’s face in front of me, next to the driver.

He opened the dashboard, pulled out a bag of fine white powder, smashed the rocks in it with the back of his phone. And pulled out a spoon from the same dashboard. He dug into the bag, scooped up a spoonful, and sent it straight up his nostrils in one quick move. This is the same amount i’d pay between four to five grand back home for. One scoop. And half that scoop he dropped all over his pants and on the seat. And all over his ugly nose and chin. He didn’t care. The bag had maybe fifteen grams. He passed it on to the driver, who followed the same scoop-motion, and the dude at the back. And then the bag finally came to me. I held it for a few seconds. Took a pinch to my gums, and gave it back to the dude in front. I didn’t want to do it. I just needed to know how it tasted. Honest to God. And it tasted real good. Like, REAL good. Pablo-Escobar-good.  

He was offended i hadn’t stuffed my nostrils with it. ‘POR QUE NO (why not)?!?’

‘I no want.’

‘QUE PASA parcero (wtf is up dude)??’, he scowled. 

‘I no need, hermano. Can we go to San Roque now? I have work.’

Estranged moved to You Could be Mine. And the rest of Use Your Illusion 2, till half that bag was done, a few more halts later. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy that album in stereo sound off those old speakers. I was taken back to the days of my my old aiwa cassette player at home. And Sandy blasting the same beats in the bedroom off his kit. The whole skidding and screeching to a halt was well rehearsed and controlled, as i soon realized. I didn’t taste any more of it. That pinch had done enough to my face. Dude in the front kept air-drumming, and the guy next to me was air-guitaring the solos to every track on the album, though it was all a little fail, and out of sync. But i didn’t tell them.  

We finally reached San Roque, and i got off and said thanks and bye to them. I don’t think i’ve ever been that desperate to say bye to a bunch of coke fiends. They stopped to eat at one of the local joints, and i was off to the venue, hoping they wouldn’t come by. But they did, soon as they got their hands on more cola for their rum.

While i was soundchecking, they drove down to the open shed which was the venue, Estranged blasting again. Soon as they appeared, i looked over to my crew, the sober bunch. I could see it in their faces, these dudes weren’t welcome here. I walked out to them, told them straight up cut the loud shit and leave their drugs and alcohol in the car, or get the fuck outta here. They were too shocked to respond. Or they didn’t understand a word i said. Either way, the red toyota disappeared over the horizon within a few minutes, midway through Slash’s solo.

Fucking partypooper indian dj.

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