I’ve spend more money than Paddy on the night bus to Cusco as I need plenty of rest and refreshment. I still feel like death and now every muscle in my body is screaming at me. I neglected to mention we played a five-a-side football match on Monday night against some local lads who decided to offer a challenge, with the losing team buying the beers. I was quietly confident in my own ability, and knew that Paddy could play too. That’s where the belief died.
It was dubbed ‘Peru verses The Rest of the World’. We had An English-Scotsman, an Irishman, a New Zealander, an Israeli and an Aussie. Their team consisted of four Peruvians and a Dutchman, and they played every week together. I’d not kicked a ball since November, was wearing tennis trainers and still had the golf ball down my neck. Paddy and myself gave a decent enough account of ourselves, scoring all our goals, with one cracking overhead from the Irishman; but we were too unfit, and we had an Aussie to their Dutchman. I hate losing. Especially when I know they were beatable, and a girlfriend of one of their average players was cheering and giggling from the sidelines. We were subjected to grinning and gloating Peruvians for the rest of the night. A months fitness work, some match practice and a couple of the boys from back home, and we would have torn them a new arsehole. Then we’d see who was doing the giggling. Bitch.
No sorry I got carried away.
So here I am on a night bus to Cusco, tired and aching, desperately trying for sleep. Then someone has a fit in the rows behind, and the guy to my left starts puking smelly vomit for miles. I’m talking about gut wrenching, projectile, Exorcist-was-tame chunder. I was booked into seat number 13, because this is the only one on its own. I had my face buried under my top to stop the smell, but could do little about the gurgling coming from across the isle. After a light sleep at best, I come to in a freezing Cusco morning, popping ears, the razor still in my throat, aching limbs and a cold sore. A big fucking cold sore. Paddy’s paid 40 soles less than me and had a cracking nights sleep. You just couldn’t make it up.
First impressions of Cusco is that it’s a horrible gringo town. Yes it’s nice to look at but the place is hoaching with tourists, not travelers, all of whom have jumped on a plane to Lima and made their way here. We’re staying at Pariwana, one of the most ridiculous hostels I’ve ever seen. It’s more like a castle, with over one hundred beds; soulless, impersonal, anti-social. I’m OK with the last part, due to the volcano that is appearing on my lower lip, but typically the place is rammed with attractive women. I sit with my hood up playing chess for the rest of the day in a stinking mood, falling out with myself. I’m drugged up to the eyeballs trying to combat my system shutdown while praying a carrot, orange, ginger and spinach smoothie will turn me around. I’m clearly in peak physical condition for my trek to Machu Picchu; totally out of breath at the top of the stairs.
System shut down
I’ve spend more money than Paddy on the night bus to Cusco as I need plenty of rest and refreshment. I still feel like death and now every muscle in my body is screaming at me. I neglected to mention we played a five-a-side football match on Monday night against some local lads who decided to offer a challenge, with the losing team buying the beers. I was quietly confident in my own ability, and knew that Paddy could play too. That’s where the belief died.
It was dubbed ‘Peru verses The Rest of the World’. We had An English-Scotsman, an Irishman, a New Zealander, an Israeli and an Aussie. Their team consisted of four Peruvians and a Dutchman, and they played every week together. I’d not kicked a ball since November, was wearing tennis trainers and still had the golf ball down my neck. Paddy and myself gave a decent enough account of ourselves, scoring all our goals, with one cracking overhead from the Irishman; but we were too unfit, and we had an Aussie to their Dutchman. I hate losing. Especially when I know they were beatable, and a girlfriend of one of their average players was cheering and giggling from the sidelines. We were subjected to grinning and gloating Peruvians for the rest of the night. A months fitness work, some match practice and a couple of the boys from back home, and we would have torn them a new arsehole. Then we’d see who was doing the giggling. Bitch.
No sorry I got carried away.
So here I am on a night bus to Cusco, tired and aching, desperately trying for sleep. Then someone has a fit in the rows behind, and the guy to my left starts puking smelly vomit for miles. I’m talking about gut wrenching, projectile, Exorcist-was-tame chunder. I was booked into seat number 13, because this is the only one on its own. I had my face buried under my top to stop the smell, but could do little about the gurgling coming from across the isle. After a light sleep at best, I come to in a freezing Cusco morning, popping ears, the razor still in my throat, aching limbs and a cold sore. A big fucking cold sore. Paddy’s paid 40 soles less than me and had a cracking nights sleep. You just couldn’t make it up.
First impressions of Cusco is that it’s a horrible gringo town. Yes it’s nice to look at but the place is hoaching with tourists, not travelers, all of whom have jumped on a plane to Lima and made their way here. We’re staying at Pariwana, one of the most ridiculous hostels I’ve ever seen. It’s more like a castle, with over one hundred beds; soulless, impersonal, anti-social. I’m OK with the last part, due to the volcano that is appearing on my lower lip, but typically the place is rammed with attractive women. I sit with my hood up playing chess for the rest of the day in a stinking mood, falling out with myself. I’m drugged up to the eyeballs trying to combat my system shutdown while praying a carrot, orange, ginger and spinach smoothie will turn me around. I’m clearly in peak physical condition for my trek to Machu Picchu; totally out of breath at the top of the stairs.