Pre Gringoid Blues

Ill - very ill. My head won't stop thumping like a Frankie Bruno
right hook. And I feel as if I'm going to throw my guts up at any time.
Best cure of course is to go on a solo twenty four hour journey to
Merida, Venezuela.

I can't eat &; feel weak, but I suppose these things are sent to try
us.

It was the Wodka that did it. Five bottles of the stuff. Supposedly I
was saved by young Benjamin Walker from choking on my own vomit. FP.
What a crazy night. As a farewell gesture, my friends organised a mini
shindig round our pad. We couldn't score any bro', so imbibed &;
tumped away, without thought that this was the first narco free session
we had encountered in living memory.

We had a group tattooing session, that ended with two friends of mine
attempting to write 'FP' for FairPlay on my arm. 'EF' is more like what
came out. By ten o'clock, five of the nine guests were in bed &; I
shortly followed after a bifter the size of Kiliminjaro was constructed
by my debauched flatmate, Dr Danger. Ben was strolling past my bedroom
when he heard a retching sound. On entry, he saw me struggling between
breaths &; pukes.

'Wev, get the fuck up.'

'Aaayyy?'

My upper torso managed to rise a couple of inches, then it all gushed
onto my blanket.

'Bollocks.'

'Why don't you just throw the blanket out the window?'

'Alright mon.'

With that, I flailingly threw the soiled blanket out of my bedroom
window &; into the garden below.

I was awoken by my alarm clock a couple of hours later. Spliff, a furry
mouth, shit I haven't packed anything, spliff, cup of tea, toast,
spliff, cup of tea, Bethnal Green tube, airport, South America.

The plan is, to spend twelve days in the Venezuelan Andes &; visit a
family I met last year, then meet a good pal, Keels in Bogota, Colombia
(where he is teaching English) for a weekend, then the pair of us will
trundle down to the Amazon &; somehow make it to Lima, Peru, a week
later.

Surprisingly, I survived the mammoth journey to Merida, Venezuela,
after taking in the wonderful interior design of the 'Kent' sponsored
fag room in Bogota Airport (El Dorado) and the jovial cleaners at
Caracas Airport (Simon Bolivar). They found great amusement in
whistling at every snoozing traveller/worker. Damned hilarious, if
you're not actually trying to get some sleep.

I arrived in Caracas at midnight. After visiting last year, I didn't
fancy doing a solo mission on the streets at that time. I had no hotel
booked, so a quiet time in the Airport was had. Thought I wouldn't go
through Customs just yet, as the general public could rob me of all my
worldly goods. At this point, I realised I had packed things I don't
need &; hadn't packed things I need. I feel sick. I went through
Customs at 5am for my onward flight to Merida. Unbelievable - nobody
was there. And this is supposedly one of the major cocaine trade
routes.

It's quite strange getting back to South American mode. You tend to
forget that people talk to each other &; are generally very helpful.
I mean, there I am, standing in Caracas Airport, trying to get my plane
to Merida with no knowledge of Spanish apart from a few 'key' words,
when three separate people, obviously see I'm a Gringo in need of
assistance. Approached. Gibber. Then a pile of cash in my hand for
airport tax. I remember why I like this place so much. The kind chaps
even refused my skanky tobacco. Not surprising, as every drag I take,
I'm reminded of the Wodka &; go back into my pitiful shell.

I've decided to get a hotel when I first arrive in Merida. I feel I
need a little time on my own, before the onslaught of the libertine
Uncle Gyo. Lovely chap, I met him last year. He looks like the short,
bald tashed one in the Cheech &; Chong movies. I think his life
might actually be based on one of those movies, as he introduced me to
a higher degree of debauchery last year, than I have ever had the
pleasure to achieve with the chaps in London.