Twenty Something (21 page)

The memory is almost as painful as my nether regions.

‘Ha ha, you and your penis injuries. When you weren't back by midnight, I assumed you'd got lucky.'

‘It's not bloody funny at all. I've blown it again. One shot and I was chewed up and spat out and booed off stage. Right now, Catherine will be telling Leila what a weirdo I am.'

‘Yep, I reckon you've well and truly blown it this time.'

‘Cheers, Fred. Look mate, I want to go travelling. The last refuge of the failure. Get away from all this crap and nonsense. My life's going nowhere. I need to clear my head. Do you fancy coming, too?'

‘I'd love to, but I'm really too busy. Why don't you go by yourself? You're a mess at the moment. Get a round-the-world ticket. You'll meet people on the way.'

You know, I think I might just do that.

Everything is in place. I have an open-ended return ticket to Lima. Jasper is moving into my room until I get back and I have managed to palm off Jean with the hundred per cent truthful excuse that I am going to be out of the country for a lengthy period.

My bags are packed with books, mosquito nets, malaria pills and condoms. I am off to expand my mind and find the inner Jack Lancaster.

From: Jack Lancaster [
[email protected]
]
To: Buddy; Claire; Flatmate Fred; Jasper; Katie;
Leila; Lucy; Mel; Miranda; Mr Cox; Rick; Rupert; Susie
CC:
Subject: South America — my Lonely Planet

Hola amigos
(that's Spanish),

Well, I've now been in South America for a week and I'm fluent in Spanish. It is not a linguistically advanced language, and I also have working knowledge of several local dialects, as well as a passable understanding of most indigenous languages of the region. Frankly, it's embarrassing having to sit here and write to you in English, so do the decent thing and master it yourselves next time you have a few spare minutes.
Gracias
.

A week ago (when I knew no more Spanish than the rest of you), I embarked on my epic, self-searching, life-affirming adventure at Terminal Three, Heathrow, near Slough, UK. How remote the tawdry baubles of the corrupt First World seem to me now as I sit in an internet café in the Andean foothills.

Anyway, the trip got off to a bad start when my hand luggage was searched by security staff at Heathrow and two hundred condoms fell out of my washbag.

‘Are you planning on having a lot of sex?' asked the unforgivably ugly security woman.

‘No, they're in case I run out of water containers in the Peruvian rainforest,' I explained, pointing at the appropriate page in my SAS survival handbook to
illustrate my point. ‘They can hold two pints of liquid each.'

Passed the time on the flight reading the Not-So-Lonely Planet guide about the countries I'm visiting. Paid particular attention to the ‘Dangers and annoyances' section to check up on my statistical chances of being kidnapped, raped or robbed (low to medium).

I only spent two days in Lima (the capital of Peru and the armpit of the earth). As soon as you venture onto the streets, nasty little hordes of ankle-biters would swarm around you saying, ‘One dollar, mister.'

‘Oh yes, my whaggish whimsies,' I would reply in fluent Quechua, ‘a dollar is the native currency of the United States of America and approximately equal to 3.31 Peruvian
nuevo sols
. Now go and play in the traffic.'

I avoided these unpleasant menaces by spending most of my time in the hostel — a beautiful colonial building in the city centre — watching a pirated copy of
Braveheart
and talking to gap-year travellers while drinking Pisco Sour (translation: ‘sour piss') which tastes like a combination of tequila, cream and vomit. Briefly contemplated going to a nightclub called ‘Heaven or Hell,
Tu Decides
', but took an executive decision to go to bed instead.

The next day I caught a bus to Huacachina via Ica (look it up on a map) and watched an intriguing film called
Death Wish VII
en route. Went sandboarding in the desert dunes and swam around a stagnant lake. A couple of days later, I caught a bus to Nazca and flew over the Nazca Lines (much better in the postcards) and then carried on to Arequipa, which is a pretty town with amazing views of the mountains.

I am now in an adorable little village above Arequipa called Chivay, which is at 3600 metres. I spent yesterday getting altitude sickness and admiring the huge condors. Today I was invited to a local wedding and bathed in the hot springs. Just off now to the only open building in the village — an Irish pub.

Hope you're all enjoying autumn in London. Will write soon.

Love Jack
PS Fred, how's the new flatmate?
PPS Mr and Mrs Fielding, are you back from your honeymoon yet?!
PPPS Hi Buddy, long time, no see. Now rod off.
PPPPS Hello Mr Cox, you crapulent piece of crap.
Thought you'd like to hear what I'm up to.
PPPPPS That's it. The rest of you don't get personal PS messages.

From: Jack Lancaster [
[email protected]
]
To:
CC:
Subject: South America II — electronic errors

Buenas días, filos de putas,

Well, as you can see, I have learned my lesson and decided to blind-carbon-copy you all in future.

Thank you for your ‘reply all' email, Flatmate Fred. Now go away and shag Jasper.

Jack
PS Mr Cox, thank you for your request to be ‘taken off this goddamn list'. I would love to, but I don't think I have the requisite technical skills. Sorry.

-----Original Message-----
From: Fred Hardy [
[email protected]
]
To: Buddy; Claire; Jack; Jasper; Katie; Leila; Lucy;
Mel; Miranda; Mr Cox; Rick; Rupert; Susie
CC:
Subject: RE: South America — my Lonely Planet

Hello everyone on Jack's email list (that's English),
Here in London (that's the capital of Great Britain), things are absolutely crazy. Today I got up at around 8.30am. Then I had a shower and ate my breakfast. I had Crunchy Nut Cornflakes with a splash of semi-skimmed milk. Then I made some fair trade coffee — we can all save the world in our own little way. And then I sat at my desk for eight hours and worked.

Later I am going to a bar where you really get to meet the locals. It's really authentic — it's called Walkabout. The indigenous people here are so friendly and so much more real. So are the sunsets. These are just some of the little details which make living in London in your twenties one of the most rewarding and life-enriching things to do.

I am slowly mastering the English language. My name is Fred. Jack refers to me as Flatmate Fred. I have one sister. She is called Beatrice. I have one hamster. My hamster is called Gnasher. I love school. My favourite subjects are Science and Sport. I would like one blackcurrant ice cream and four gallons of unleaded petrol.

I hope you are swimming in as big pools of you/me as I am.

Love from Fred
PS Take me off this list.

From: Jack Lancaster [
[email protected]
]
To:
CC:
Subject: South America III — in the bathroom

Since I wrote to you last I have mainly being shitting for Britain.

I think it was the ‘bacon burger' that I had in the ‘Irish pub' in Chivay.

‘Would you like it heated?' asked the Irish barman (called José).

‘No, I would like it cooked,' I replied.

But I think he wafted it over the lukewarm coals just along enough to galvanise every dormant bacteria in Peru.

Extra hamburguesa con tocino y quesa y mierda
(that's Spanish again).

Ten minutes later I was running for the loo. It was like shitting an angry dragon. It reminded me of one of my university essays: wobbly introduction, a couple of cogent points in the middle and a loose conclusion. In the last twenty-four hours, I have gone to the loo twenty-eight times. Fifteen of these trips were poos alone. Eight were voms. And five blessed times I didn't know whether to squat or kneel. All in all, my work in the South American bathroom leaves a great deal to be desired. When evacuation is less controlled than desirable, one requires the balance of an eastern European child gymnast to avoid pebbledashing the pants. I have the balance of a fat Englishman on holiday.

Apologies if you're reading this over lunch. We travellers sometimes forget that normal people at home don't talk about their bowel movements incessantly. When/if I come home, it could be something of a reverse culture shock.

Have to go now. The beast is awake again.

Love Jack (half the man he used to be)
PS Rick, delighted that you had ‘so much fun shagging on your honeymoon'. I hope Lucy enjoyed Venice too.

From: Jack Lancaster [
[email protected]
]
To:
CC:
Subject: South America IV — bottom-blockers

Hola hola
,

You might be relieved to hear that I have now taken
quadruple doses of bottom-blockers and have had no movement for a hundred hours.

Alas, just as one bodily function began to function properly, another went spectacularly wrong. I have been taking Diamox to help me cope with the altitude. As well as giving you extremely unpleasant pins and needles, this makes you pee incessantly. This would have posed little problem had I not taken a loo-less night bus from Arequipa to Puno (on shores of Lake Titicaca).

Despite taking nil by mouth for the entire day in preparation, there was no way I was going to last the distance. By 3am I could take it no longer. Even
Death Wish IX
couldn't distract me from the constant pressure in my bladder. I took myself off to a quiet seat at the back of the bus and tried to relieve myself into an empty bottle of Inca Cola. As some of you know, I have a huge and unwieldy penis. I was doing the best I could on the bumpy roads when I looked up to see the bus conductor looking down on me.

‘What do you think you're doing?' I think he said in one of the few indigenous dialects which I haven't yet mastered.

‘I am having a piss with my huge and unwieldy penis,' I replied in fluent English.

At which point he decided to throw me out at the next stop, and I had to wait by the side of the road for twenty-four hours until the next bus came along. It is these little events that make travelling in a foreign country such a mind-expanding and varied experience compared with the humdrum routine of daily life back home.

Since then, I have been to Puno (small ming-hole), La Paz (big ming-hole and capital of Bolivia), Copacabana (beautiful), Isla del Sol (stunning) and back to Puno (small ming-hole) again. Off to Cusco for the Inca Trail next.

I would tell you more, but you all lead such drab and meaningless lives in your capitalist sweatshops that it would only make you jealous.

Just off to watch the sunset over Lake Titicaca
(translation: ‘Lake Breasty-poos'). Hope you're all enjoying London and don't get stuck on the tube for more than a couple of hours today.

Love Jack
PS I did an S-shaped poo today. Perfectly formed. Quite extraordinary. Remind me to show you all the photo when I get back. I am thinking of entering the Turner Prize next year: ‘My travels across South America', which will consist of a photo collage of my bowel movements. A dead cert at the bookies, I'm sure you'll agree.
PPS Lucy, sorry to hear that Rick thought
gelato con pistachio
was a Renaissance painter.

From: Jack Lancaster [
[email protected]
]
To:
CC:
Subject: South America V — Wayne 'n' Dwayne

Hola
, those of you who haven't blocked my emails,

Some of you have been expressing concern that I might be rather lonely travelling all alone. You needn't worry; I am perfectly capable of keeping myself entertained.

For example, when someone comes up to me and tries to sell me a crappy trinket, I find it hilarious to smile nicely at them and say things like, ‘You must be absolutely off your rocker, me old china plate, if you think I want to part with my hard-earned sausage and mash for that crappy piece of overpriced tack.'

‘
Si, signor, si signor
, very good.'

Yes, I am rather good, aren't I?

But there are times, I admit, when it's nice to have some company. For example, when I bought some jam that went by the brand name of ‘Fanny', I longed for a chirpy Flatmate Fred by my shoulder. ‘Pass me the
Fanny when you're finished, Jack.' How we would have chortled.

But I have met my fair share of travellers. There were the Israelis who went for an early-morning naked swim every day in Lake Titicaca and then jogged up the nearest hill before breakfast, arguing loudly the whole way. There have been Australians heading east en route to Earl's Court and Kiwis heading back west in the other direction. There have been a couple of British city workers trying to ‘get away from it all' and a fair number of loser hippies who can't face up to real life. I have met French and Dutch travellers who speak better English than Rick, and Americans pretending to be Canadian.

I have collected dozens of email addresses and made hundreds of promises to stay in touch. I intend to keep none of them. I mean, it's all very well when you're wearing grotty clothes and talking about bowel movements in a South American jungle. But meeting up back in London? Please.

But two people who really have stood out are Wayne 'n' Dwayne. Wayne Buchanan-Dunlop and Dwayne Bernard-Carter, to give them their full names. Both from Essex, both with Burberry backpacks, both on their gap year, both about to start at the Polytechnic of the West of England.

Wayne was born Wayne Dunlop. His cousin was born Dwayne Carter (on the same day). When they were seven years old, their grandmother (Tracey Bernard) won
£
10 million in one of the first National Lottery jackpots. Wayne Dunlop became Wayne Buchanan-Dunlop; Dwayne Carter became Dwayne Bernard-Carter. Both were put down for Eton. Both should have been put down at birth.