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  • Two things I never did before Covid (and may well never do again)

    Wednesday, November 11th, 2020By Annablog3 Comments
    Top tip: Remember to take your finger off the button when you want to stop screwing!

    Use a drill

    Power tools are scary. I live in fear that one day I will be required to put up a shelf and it will end with me losing control and making a big hole or screwing myself to the wall. So, imagine my horror when my internet-purchased Adirondack chairs arrived as FLATPACK. There were bags of SCREWS and other metal THINGS, and instructions and DIAGRAMS of a DRILL None of my usual odd job men were available and so I decided to HAVE A GO. I borrowed a drill from John Up the Road (not his real name), and without even a health and safety demo, got stuck in. OK, it took me all day but crucially, there were NO INJURIES and no left-over screws. And amazingly, when given a test drive by a succession of friends (of the ‘big old unit’ variety), there have been no fallings apart or splintered arses. I feel positively Amazonian! Having said that, I don’t want to drill again – it’s really quite exhausting.

    Paddle-board or should I say paddle BORED

    God, the world has gone paddle-board crazy. You couldn’t enjoy a leisurely swim off Brighton beach this summer without some smug berk in a wetsuit and wraparound shades slicing across your path and smacking you around the head with a paddle. Anyway, long story short, I’ve had a go, and can report, once you’ve learnt how to gird your quads, switch on your buttocks and, most importantly, not look down, there’s really nothing to it. In fact, it’s dreary. I had a short lesson on an ox-bow lake near Eastbourne. I fell in, twice: the first time I went under and got stuck in a foot of putrid mud and weeds. Half an hour later, I was in the throes of executing a tricksy three point turn when one of my fellow boarders whooshed alongside and asked me a question about home-cooked chips. It was all too much. I opened my mouth to say ‘the secret is in the dripping’ and the next thing I knew, I’d gone overboard, swallowing a mouthful of brackish water. At this point I called it a day, handed back my board, pulled the weeds out of my gusset and went to the pub.

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  • My Big Brown Nose – and other Lockdown Learnings

    Tuesday, August 4th, 2020By Annablog3 Comments

    Tanning irregularities

    I have the summer syndrome of big brown nose. Why does my nose tan so much quicker than the rest of me? This is a conundrum of several years’ standing. In my youth, I burnt my way through lobster to conker evenly (one year on a beach in Mykonos, I even reached the water blister stage, such was my yearning for the Bo Derek all-over bronzed Goddess look) but now, I am walking around with distinctly uneven tanning. I know my nose is closer to the sun than the rest of me but no matter how much sun cream I slather on, it just keeps getting browner and browner! And it’s not only my nose that’s afflicted.

    One toe is missing but you get the picture

    Every summer, I also acquire exceedingly brown knees. They’re sort of fried pork sausage-coloured, a brown knobble between the Rich Tea Biscuit of my shins and the Findus Crispy Pancake that is my thighs. I believe Kate Moss may have the same tanning issues as she has my knees – huge and a bit loose where the flesh above the knee can’t be bothered to hold itself up anymore and collapses in a concertina. I already have damaged legs – thanks to a lifetime of falling over and off things. I’ve fallen out of trees and cars, down concrete steps and off bunk beds. My most dramatic topple was when I impersonated Jenny Agutter’s sprint up the train station platform to meet her father (“Daddy, my daddy”) in The Railway Children. Such was my theatrical exuberance, I failed to see the small dog on a lead until I was sprawled on top of it, my denim-clad legs shredded and bleeding. I will never, ever be a leg model.

    Help, my eyebrows!

    To add to the problematics of my brown nose, I now have a hairy face. Unable to visit the hairy woman’s haven (Karisma, Narborough Road, Leicester), for my monthly threading and waxing session, I’m sporting quite sizeable eyebrows and a pubescent boy’s moustache. I have contemplated buying a home waxing kit but the last time I took the DIY route, I ended up looking like I’d been having oral sex with everyone in the VD clinic. Top tip: when you have a cluster of herpes-like lesions on your upper lip, avoid client meetings (unless they’re in a leper colony).

    Useful/less birthday presents

    Anyone living in an igloo probably has one of these

    This year’s birthday presents were by and large useful (gin, plants, books, gin) but there was one oddity. Thanks to those crazy Icelandic lesbian friends of mine, I now have what I take to be a hand muffler for enjoying coffee mornings in a blizzard. The last time I was in Iceland, when I wasn’t getting tipsy in an outdoor hotpot (a jacuzzi to you and me), I did a ramble on a glacier in a balaclava. I could have done with a hand muffler on that occasion. One hand could have remained firmly on the rope preventing my slipping into a crevasse, the other could have been clasping a mug of steaming oxtail soup. I wonder if Ranulph Fiennes has got one.

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  • More lockdown learnings

    Friday, July 10th, 2020By Annablog3 Comments

    I am no Marie Kondo

    My one and only attempt at fitted sheet folding

    I was introduced to the Queen of Anal Retention a while ago but, unlike ASMR videos (which I find completely hypnotic – especially the ones where they tap their pointy nails on a butternut squash or fiddle with plastic toiletry bags), Ms Kondo’s frankly inappropriate relationship with her clothing leaves me feeling like I want to reach through the screen and rip her arms off, fold them neatly at the elbow and stuff them up her presumably bleached, hairless arse. If I decide to become a full-time Victorian housekeeper, no doubt knowing how to maintain a streamlined linen cupboard that sparks joy into my otherwise hollow, gusset-strewn existence, will be a boon. Until then, Goodbye Kitty you tidy freak in a child’s body.

    Only a fool handles polythene in a high wind

    Oh dear, half of my toucans are upside down

    My back passage is full of asbestos – not a euphemism. This killer material used to be out of the way, on top of my shed where I never gave it a second thought except occasionally to think how ugly the corregation aesthetic is. The shed came down three years ago but the asbestos roof has been languishing down the side of the house all that time, waiting for my sorry arse to get rid. It’s been moved out of the way countless times and occasionally fallen over; bits have crumbled away to deathly dust, ready to be ingested by anyone lingering by my back gate. Then last week I thought, treat yourself Anna, go down the tip. I did a bit of research; the Brighton and Hove council website demanded I wrap the asbestos in two layers of polythene, restricting me to four bags, and requiring two forms of ID. It also reminded me asbestos is highly dangerous and should be handled with care and in the ‘proper’ gear. I was suited and booted thus:

    . bobble hat

    . sunglasses

    . homemade face mask (made from old pyjamas) – doubles as PPE at BLM rallies

    . one pair of latex gloves/one pair of gardening gloves

    Top tip: never attempt to handle eight metres of polythene sheeting in a high wind. No sooner had I laid out the plastic on the ground than the wind would send it flying. I tried to pin it down with a spreadeagled manoeuvre but every time I stood up to lift the asbestos onto it, the wind would take it up again. Then I kept losing the end of the gaffer tape and my twice-gloved fingers were far too fat for the scissors which greatly impeded the wrapping process. Eventually, after two hours of tussling the job was done. The tip journey ensued; no-one asked to see proof of residency; they just directed me around the back of the dump and showed me where to sling it. My back passage is pristine. Hurrah!

    I still can’t make pastry

    Yes, it lacks finesse but with my magic ingredient ’twill be delish

    I’ve never been very good at making pastry. My mother said I was too slapdash – it either came out grey and under-cooked or shrunken like an old man’s penis. Now, in true lockdown spirit, I have recently revisited this hole in my culinary CV to see if, with more mature fingers, I might now be able to master what, in my legion of cookery books, looks dead simple. Disaster. My ‘breadcrumbs’ clumped. I added too much water. I rolled too thinly. The result: old male member shrinkage and a soggy bottom. I’m happy to report this final failure has provided a Damascene moment; I have discovered ready made pastry and have been throwing myself into quiches and tarts with gusto. I can now produce a rudimentary cheese flan and have even branched out into vegetables. The above number has purple sprouting broccoli and asparagus tips in it – I know, I’m really going places, culinarily speaking (if you can ignore my negligent edges, although the thrown-together or should I say rustic look is favourite these days). Oh, and my magic ingredient is mustard powder – although handle with care as it makes the lips itch and the eyes puff up when applied to the face by mistake – but is delish when consumed in a tart. Bon appetit!

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  • Lockdown Learnings x 4

    Friday, May 29th, 2020By Annablog3 Comments

    Number 1: I’ve still got it in the headstand department

    What a performer!

    I wasn’t sure if I could still go up with straight legs. But it appears I can. I am a yoga warrior! However, I am struggling to execute the sideways crow – so too the ordinary crow (my spindly arms can’t cope with my extreme body length which means I have a tendency of shooting forward onto my head). I’ve been Zooming with my yoga school for eight weeks now and whilst I often miscalculate my living room dimensions and find myself stuck under the coffee table, generally speaking, I can do my favourite classes without injuring myself or the furniture. And, I can trump with impunity which is a revelation!

    Number 2: I am a monster in Sainsbury’s

    I am that mad, hairy woman in the supermarket who uses her trolley as a battering ram and has conversations with empty shelves. “Where are they all?”, I plead open armed as I turn the corner at Jams only to find a big gap where the eggs should be. I start to move off with a growl but then spy a half-dozen box lurking at the back, its lid half open. A reject maybe? I reach out to investigate further. BLUE! I recoil. No, I do not want to buy blue eggs laid by hens fed on “brightly coloured flowers for a more intensely yellow yolk”. I don’t want Instagram-friendly boiled eggs, I just want to make a Victoria Sponge – a little bit of something sweet to take the edge off my snarl.

    Gggggrrrrrrrr!

    Despite the polite two metre queue outside Sainsbury’s, once the doors open, it’s Supermarket Sweep. People flap around me like octopus at a Five Rhythms dance gathering. Last week, I shopped for four neighbours. I was in unfamiliar territory: panty liners, cat soup, indigestion relief, sweet white wine, packet cappuccinos! It was quite an education, discovering other people’s fancies and must-haves. In a busy aisle, I adopted my usual anti-Covid comestible procurement tactic i.e. hurling my upper torso forward in a fast lunge while simultaneously drawing back my groin. I’d kept myself safe but then, on leaving the supermarket, there was an ugly incident at the head of the escalator with a chunky vegetable soup. It fell out of one of my hastily packed shopping bags and exploded all over the floor and up the legs of the security guard. This caused a bottleneck at the sliding doors with people running into each other’s trolleys and sliding uncontrollably in the soup trail. Meanwhile, the security man, giving perilous disregard to any social distancing, retrieved the squished soup carton, and came so close I thought he was going to kiss me. As if to add insult to injury, having acquired a replacement chunky vegetable soup, my trolley wheels jammed and I got stuck on the end of the travelator. Sainsbury’s resident homeless man had to jump up and help drag me off it. Another growl and a very loud ‘oh for God’s sake’.

    Number 3 – Too much Netflix can lead to wet dreams

    Me and Don pre-snog

    I have been introduced to Netflix (which I’d hitherto avoided because I wanted to have a life). And there I discover my favourite show of all time: Mad Men. Like cracking open a new tube of Pringles, I have relished my first laptop forays but now (also like cracking open a new tube of Pringles), I find I can’t stop and am binge watching to the point where my waking and sleeping life are hopelessly confused. One minute, I’m lying in bed watching Don Draper finger some woman in a hotel vestibule; the next, I’ve drifted off to sleep only to find myself smoking a Sobranie in Sterling Cooper Draper Price’s conference room while Don (who has gone off Betty but has yet to meet Megan) is delving into my panty girdle. I wouldn’t mind but I’ve already seen all 92 episodes of Mad Men TWICE. I feel sick.

    Number 4 – I have no urge to play the ukulele..

    …or learn Russian or build a cold frame from a few discarded pallets and an old pane of glass. Like many, I have cleaned my skirting boards and hoovered under the bed but that was eight weeks ago. My body may be incarcerated but my mind is free to explore the far recesses of its creativity. For example, I have fashioned a bird feeder from a discarded grapefruit skin and some garden string. Very resourceful, I thought smugly as I hung it up in the holly tree. It’s been a week of watching and waiting and now I’ve gone full Johnny Morris, anthropomorphising the wildlife: “Brown nibbles, south south east. Repeat, brown nibbles, south south east,” (seagulls on a flypast). “Fuck that manky bowl of crud, let’s have a fight,” (rival magpies pecking each other’s eyes out in my lilac tree). “Come on in, it’s a lovely bit of compost,” (sparrows having an exuberant soil bath in my raised bed). I have learnt that my tits love euphorbia and squirrels freeze when you shout at them for digging holes in your broad bean bucket. Meanwhile, my homemade feeder just swings in the breeze, forlorn and bereft of avian visitors. Are the birds blind or are my seeds bad? Is my wasted bird feeder a metaphor for my lonely, listless Covid existence? Am I being paid back for eschewing the Zoom harp and poetry writing sessions or my utter failure, despite having all the time in the world, to finally get to the end of Middlemarch and/or countless other unbearable 19th century Penguin classics? If I had my eyebrows trimmed would any of these things actually matter?

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  • Going Nuts for Brazil – an Odyssey of Six Parts

    Tuesday, May 12th, 2020By Annablog3 Comments

    Part Five – Hold onto your handbags – we’re in Salvador

    I arrive in Salvador gagging for some culture, maybe even a bit of a booze-up. I’m ready to shake my Samba arse or maybe go legs akimbo with a spot of capoeira. But first, I need a bloody good hose down – I’m dusty and a bit crusty. I hop into a taxi and flash my phone at the driver indicating the hotel I’ve pre-booked. According to Google Maps, the seaside district of Rio Vermelho is pretty close by but Salvador is a big city of 2.5 million souls and to say it’s congested would be peddling an under-statement. We make slow progress through the city streets, over flyovers, pass by what look like hillside favelas and circle impossibly large roundabouts. Somehow, we avoid running down the countless hawkers who mill around the road junctions thrusting nuts, nick-nacks and chewing gum through the windows of idling cars.

    Bikinis by day, stabbings by night

    Eventually, we arrive at my hotel which is up a side street just off the seafront. I had reckoned that this being one of Brazil’s biggest cities, a lot of people would speak English. Wrong! In the clean and modern reception is a very handsome young man with a row of shiny braces. I ask him if he speaks English and he laughs. His female colleague, who’s sat next to him and who also has a row of sparkling metalwork in her gob, also laughs. I tell them my name and am shown to my penthouse apartment. Remember Paula’s Pousada with its polyester decked bunk beds, cracked bathroom tiles, and non-flushing WC? This is the opposite. My eyes are dazzled by the sheer luxury of my hotel boudoir for the next three days. I have pristine white bedding, purple scatter cushions and mood lighting, I have a kitchenette, a walk-in shower and a flat screen TV. A corner room, it even has two views: from one window I can watch the waves crashing onto the nearby sandy beach; from the other I can watch next door’s pizza chef smoking a fag on the fire escape while an overweight woman in a boob tube pegs out her husband’s y-fronts.

    Capoeira – legs akimbo

    A couple of hours after my arrival, I’m joined by Claudia, my new best friend and translator. Claudia, who I met at Paula’s Pousada, is a part-time chiropodist and waterworks employee at Sao Paolo council. She knows a lot about oil spillage (along with bunions, naturally). By the end of our three days together, I will also know a lot about oil spillage. She tells me there’s been an oil tanker incident off the coast of Brazil and injured and dead wildlife have been washing up on all the beaches up and down the country. That bastardo Bolsonara denies the spill is in Brazilian waters, says Claudia, but it’s hugely impacted on tourist numbers. No-one wants to swim in claggy brown oil, obvs!

    Claggy brown oil is not the only thing to put off the tourists. The first thing I need to know about Salvador, Claudia tells me, is that we stand a good chance of getting mugged. My guide book concurs; it says tourists should NEVER go off piste, and if approached by young men brandishing machetes, should resist the urge for heroics. I remember a story I’d heard about a British couple who followed their Satnav into a favela by mistake and were promptly shot. Getting ready to go out that night, Claudia removes her jewellery and shoves her money down her pants. She implores me to do the same. We walk (a little uncomfortably) to a nearby Italian. It has red and white checked tablecloths and candles; oh, and two menacing security men who hover around our outdoor table carrying what look to me like machine guns. I fancy a creme brûlée but all the hardware and glowering puts me off and we make it an early night.

    Quite possibly the biggest fish and chips I’ve ever been served!

    The next day we do a few churches (Baroque, lots of gold, lots of nuns), sample Acaraje, the local Afro-Brazilian street food (blackeyed pea ball – very hot, very messy), check out the capoeira (lots of leg cocking in a circle while avoiding kicking anyone in the face), and end up in Porto da Barra, a well-to-do neighbourhood that has a lighthouse, a great spot where people gather to jam, drink, and watch the sun go down.

    Jamming in Porto da Barra

    We fancy a day trip to a beach but without the stabbings so decide to take a boat trip to the pretty island of Ilha dos Frades. The boat is rammed with cheery day-trippers dressed in colourful beachwear and carrying gigantic cool boxes. It’s only 9am but everyone’s necking the beer and caipirinhas like it’s the end of the world and when a Samba trio starts playing, they all go crazy and start doing the conga around the boat. On the island, we swim and sunbathe and eat a huge brown buffet. I let my lunch go down under a beach umbrella while Claudia combs the beach looking for oil. There’s a middle aged man sat with his back to me who has possibly had a surfeit of sun or a dodgy prawn, or just one too many caipirinhas. Anyway, I watch him casually turn his head to the side and vomit, a lot. Eventually, he’s down to dry heaving but I think it might be time to go home. Back on the boat, the Samba trio strikes up again although everyone is by now well and truly pissed so as the boat bounces through the water there’s a lot of lurching and quite a bit of grappling, especially during the Bossanova.

    One, two, three, and shimmy!

    That night Claudia and I venture out for dinner in the neighbourhood. This time, my credit card is down my bra which is slightly more comfortable than having it nestled in my gusset. We find a table in a large square where groups of young, beautiful types are eating and drinking to the accompaniment of a live band. We’re sitting ducks for the usual hawkers who weave in and out of the tables with their bags of tat. I look at the menu and plump for fish and chips but the thing that arrives at our table is a deep-fried monster. On the menu it says it’s for two but really, this is a meal for four very hungry people. We can’t even eat half of it! Claudia gets chatting to one of the table hawkers, a skinny woman in her 60s who’s selling sweets. She’s wearing make-up and is well-coiffed but by the way she’s oggling our leftovers, I can see she would eat a scabby dog, given the opportunity. We tell her she can help herself. She whisks a plastic bag out of nowhere and swiftly scoops up the fish with her bare hands along with the by now cold chips – and even the salad – saying it will feed her and her husband for two days. There’s no shame in this transaction just a brief respite from grinding poverty.

    On my last night in Salvador, I’ve been bumped out of my penthouse suite by a couple of newly-weds. I join Claudia in her windowless dorm for six. It feels like a coffin and the aircon is giving me cataarh but I can stand it for just one night. Claudia and I share a farewell beer in the lobby. As a parting gift, she trims my toenails and removes a splinter from my thumb with a diabetes needle. Cheers mate!

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  • There’s Something Nasty in the Woodshed

    Wednesday, March 18th, 2020By Annablog3 Comments
    Sun, daffodils and an off-duty sheepdog

    At Stansted Airport a couple of weeks ago, a man on the Liz Earle concession in Boot’s asks: ‘How are we today?’. Me: ‘We is fine.’ Ignoring the grammatical boomerang, he persists: ‘Can I help you? What type of skin do you have?’ Me: ‘Medium.’ Slight furrowing of the brow. ‘I don’t know what that means.’ Me: ‘It means I’m normal (sotto voce) you moron.’ To be honest, I don’t actually need any Liz Earle Superskin Moisturiser with Natural Naroli because my pores will be clogged with mud and dog hair until mid-March, the reason being, I’m in Limousin playing housekeeper on a farm during the very hectic lambing period.

    Is that afterbirth the dog’s eating?

    For almost three weeks, I am Betty, Maid of All Works, aka domestic drudge. My daily duties are legion: I make breakfast for aged Ps, let the chickens out and collect the eggs, make breakfast, make cake, make busy with the hoover, put on a big load, bottle feed a lamb with a death wish, haul a tonne of logs in from the woodshed, make lunch, wash the boot room floor, clean the bathroom, assist with sheep tagging and vaccinating, fluff up the hay, stop the dog eating sheep’s afterbirth (it gives her the runs), make dinner, put aged P in the shower, and finally, put myself into bed, perchance to have nightmares about wiping my arse with Izal toilet paper.

    The mole man cometh

    Life and death are ready to smack me in the face whichever way I turn. For example, this morning, the mole man (squinty eyes and a long nose) gaily bonjoured me then skipped out into the field for a spot of killing. Then, I was interrupted during my morning mopping to help drag a dead sheep out of its pen ready for the knacker man to pick up. Meanwhile, next door, H. was elbow deep in a ewe’s fanny (big lamb, tight vagina). It eventually plopped out and I sang ‘Isn’t she lovely?’

    Poor lamb thinks I’m its mother. Must be the Icelandic jumper

    Yesterday, there was an ugly incident at the chicken coop. I was feeding the chickens when a 15-strong herd of hungry rams came at me from the next door field. They galloped into the feed shed and cornered me and my bucket. One particularly aggressive Suffolk flew at me with its ugly head. I shouted ‘fuck off’ and lunged at it with a kung fu style kick (not easy when you’re wearing Wellington boots two sizes too big), and the ram retreated with a poo/wee combo. Talking of poo, after my ram roasting, I had to go with H. to collect some sheep dung for worm analysis at the vet’s. H. only had one rubber glove on him but luckily, I had an old dog poo bag in my coat pocket so he was able to fashion a mitt and complete the dung collecting task (somewhat of a challenge as the dung was a bit sloppy). The receptionist at the vet was less than impressed when he plonked the poo bag down on her counter next to a complimentary bowl of lollipops. ‘Zut alors’, she seemed to be saying with her eyebrows but H. simply laughed. Farmers eh!

    Larry, the he/she llama who thinks it’s a sheep. Duh…

    New-to-me fact: llamas are exceedingly stupid. One on its own in a field of sheep will think it’s a sheep and adopt stupid herd behaviour. But put another llama in there and it will wise up and know that it’s not a sheep and start behaving like a llama. Fascinating! The farm’s resident llama, Larry, is a singleton and so believes itself to be one of the flock. Larry isn’t the only one that’s confused. For six years, H. & M. have been convinced Larry is a girl (despite having a boy’s name – given to her by previous owners). Then, one day recently, M. saw a winky-like protuberance emerging from Larry’s undercarriage. So, Larry would appear to be male after all. Whatever, he’s a bit miserable right now. With all the sheep residing in the farm’s maternity unit for at least two weeks, Larry doesn’t know what to do with himself. He spends his days wandering around the farm yard or standing mournfully by the barn entrance.

    It’s turning out day

    The lamb mobile has a funny looking occupant

    On my final day down on the farm, I help M. mark and tag the lambs. This involves dangling the lamb while using a staple gun to attach two plastic tags to its ears, weighing it, attaching an elastic band to its tail so that it drops off and, finally, spraying it with its ID number. M. does the dangling and I do the rest but when it comes to the spraying, the lamb is wriggling and I’m all of a dither with the can. The poor lamb’s number 35 ends up as a big blue blob while poor M. is left looking like a Smurf. Oh how we laugh! And finally, we pile all of the off spring into the lamb mobile and transport them to the fields for their very first taste of grass, closely followed in the cattle truck by their anxious mothers. Bye bye sheep, I’ve learnt a lot about you, your water bags, your afterbirths, your four stomachs and your prolapsed vaginas. It’s been a pleasure.

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  • Going Nuts for Brazil – an Odyssey of Five Parts

    Thursday, February 13th, 2020By Annablog3 Comments

    Part Four – The Big Trek

    It’s 7am and I’m rendezvousing with my trek group for a three-hour drive into the Chapada Diamantina National Park. It’s an all-French-speaking group. There’s one Belgian – let’s call him Hercule, one Quebeccy (or is it Quebecian?) – I’m going to call her Butch, and a French couple – Philippe and Marie-Claude. Butch, a PHD chemist and part time pole dancer, has very short arms and legs and a voice like gravel. Hercule is exceptionally brown and an ear surgeon. He once spent time in Eastbourne! Philippe and Marie-Claude are having an early life existential crisis; they think starving themselves of good quality cheese and wearing the same pair of socks for a week will help them pinpoint the exact meaning of their shallow existence (at some point, I will tell them it won’t). Meanwhile, our guide, whose name is unpronounceable to me but means ‘Little Willy’ in Portuguese, has a habit of gobbling his words so although he’s apparently speaking pigeon-English to me, his unenunciated words are lost on the breeze. We’re rammed into a small jeep driven by a gormless middle-aged man in board shorts and flip flops who insists on swapping my smallish backpack for a bigger one (more of this later). As promised by the trek organiser, en route we stop in a small town where there’s a bank which has actual cash in its ATM. Glory be! I replenish my wallet with Brazilian Real while Little Willy visits the market and buys all our food for the next three days.

    Me, desperate to get away from the incessant yabber

    We’re dropped off at the foot of a steep climb and Little Willy shares out the food. Apparently, ours is a basic trek, i.e. there are no sturdy porters, not even a small donkey to carry our bags. We are the donkeys. Rather conveniently, Butch and Marie-Claude have very small packs so can only fit in a few cheese balls and a couple of bags of pasta. Courtesy of our driver, I have a much larger pack and so end up with three days’ worth of potatoes. I’m also carrying 1.5 litres of water! We start climbing almost immediately. It’s two kilometres straight up, the sun is high in the sky and there’s no shade. After three hours, my spuds are taking their toll. I’ve got waggy legs and my head is on a rolling boil. Hercule, with his medical training, sees that I’m probably going to pass out and drop off the edge and comes to my rescue. He masterfully takes charge of my pack, carrying it up the last few remaining metres. At the top is a flat, scrubby plateau where I collapse. Little Willy gives me a banana and pats me on the back. For the rest of our trek, he will constantly ask me ‘tudo bem?’, which roughly translates as ‘don’t you dare die on me you lanky bitch.’ At first, I’m grateful for his concern but after a while I want to punch him.

    Little Willy, cheery because I’m carrying his potatoes (not a euphemism)

    There is precious little evidence of humankind in the Chapada Diamantina. There are no roads and only a handful of homestays dotted around. There aren’t even any other trekkers. Imagine, a beautiful, wild landscape of dramatic rocky outcrops, colourful orchids and deep forested valleys where the only sounds are the gentle rustle of the wind in the trees and the chirp of birdsong. And then, rudely puncturing the serenity is le blah le blah le blah of my four Gaulish companions. They never shut up. In their late 20s, and seemingly super fit (especially Butch), they can skip up a steep incline of switchbacks, with a backpack, in searing heat, and still have enough breath to guffaw and titter at each other’s travel deprivation stories. ‘Marie-Claude, cherie, do you recall the time in Umpalumpaland when we got lost in the jungle for three weeks and had to eat our flip flops?’

    Our patron, sprucing up the front yard before she makes the apres trek cocktails

    I catch up with Little Willy who’s striding on ahead – no doubt, he’s also desperate to get away from the eternal blether. At our first homestay (think 1970s youth hostel but without the lightbulbs and hot water) we rinse the sweat out of our smalls under a cold tap in the yard while Little Willy cooks our dinner, a strange combo of rice, fried potato, cheese balls (naturally), tapioca flatbread (too much chewing) and stewy stuff – all washed down by the local beer. By the time we’re done eating it’s dark. I leave the rest of the group to get pissed on the local cachaca (rustic rum) and retire to my 20 bunk room, of which I am the sole tenant.

    Fancy some synchronised swimming Hercule?

    The next day, after a thick slurry of porridge and black coffee, we’re off up the ominously named Prefecture Slit. It’s another vertiginous climb involving lots of scrabbling around on rocks and a hazardous crawl through a dripping cave. Marie-Claude is afflicted by claustrophobia and Philippe has to cover her head with a travelling tea towel so she can’t see how low the ceiling is and freak out. We make it through to the other side and the trek culminates with some staggeringly scary views down a sheer cliff face. Under Little Willy’s direction, we inch on our bellies to look over the edge. Apparently, a few years ago a freak gust blew a trekker off the edge so he’s taking no chances. And knowing my propensity for falling over, neither am I.

    You don’t want one of these down your pants!

    That night at the homestay, the Gauls are on the cachaca again and Butch demonstrates some of her pole dancing moves. ‘It’s not sexual’ she growls flinging herself into a Martini Spin around the corner pole of the veranda. The boys, evidently feeling a prickle in their testicles, then have a press up competition. I leave them to it. The next day, we have a long 24km trek across the plateau back to the beginning of the trek. En route, we see a humming bird bathing in a creek and some wild horses. Oh yeah, and I’m so tired, on one of our periodic rests, I narrowly miss sitting on a lizard. It’s time to go home. We descend the same way we came up (so much easier without the potatoes), meet up with our driver and make our way back to Lencois where we celebrate our safe return with a can of Coke. I’m gagging to get back to Paula’s Pousada for a big old lather but my backpack (the one I’d exchanged for a bigger one at the start of the trek) has disappeared, as has our driver. I have a row on WhatsApp with the trek organiser (very difficult as a. his English is shit b. the mobile signal keeps dipping out, and c. he’s not even sure who our driver is and I don’t know how to say ‘gormless’ in French). Needless to say, at 6am the next morning said driver turns up at Paula’s and thrusts my backpack at me with a scowl. There’s no mea culpa forthcoming, nothing. Time to move on I think; before I kill. Next stop – Salvador.

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  • Going Nuts for Brazil – an Odyssey of Five Parts

    Thursday, January 16th, 2020By Annablog3 Comments

    Part Three…..the Bus to Lencois

    At Brasilia’s interstate rodoviaria (why so many syllables – it’s only a bus station!) I’m bewildered by the vast concourse with its multitude of ticket desks, each one for a different coach operator. It takes me a few abortive attempts using a combination of pigeon Portuguese and charades to establish where to go to pick up my ticket to Lencois. Eventually, I find a jolly man in a Hi de Hi blazer who directs me to a self-service machine where I tap in my reference number and print the ticket. Bingo!

    The ubiquitous Brazilian cheese puff

    I’m feeling peckish so I cross the concourse to a Lanchette (that’s a caff) where there’s the familiar ‘brown buffet’, a long counter populated by cheese balls and a mass of insipid looking pies and pasties. As my body is now a meat-free temple, I go through the usual rigmarole of trying to negotiate something ‘sim carne’ but despite smiles and nods from the dollies behind the counter, I end up with a mouth full of ‘con carne’. I wince and swallow like a good girl.

    Chapada Diamantina, Brazil’s number one trekking destination

    I spend the next 22 hours on my arse on a coach heading north to the state of Bahia, home to the Chapada Diamantina National Park. The highway runs through a flat, sandy landscape; there are scrubby hills in the distance and scary looking roadside cacti. Huge birds of prey hover ominously and every so often there’s a dead dog to swerve around. Onboard, we’re kept entertained by a middle-aged mama who lolls across two seats while shouting into her phone and then playing us tinny renditions of her fave samba ditties. She sings along, loudly and badly, waving her phone in the air. Thankfully, as night draws in and we close the curtains, she runs out of steam, wraps herself in a blanket, and the coach heaves a collective sigh of relief. The next morning, bright and early, we roll into Lencois, an old colonial diamond mining town.

    Nice colours but the cobbles are a killer

    I get off the bus and, whether my legs have gone a bit waggy from all the sitting around or I’m delirious from lack of proper sleep (thanks loud bus lady), I somehow manage to immediately fall flat on my face in front of a man selling coconuts. He helps me up and while I dab my bleeding knees he directs me to the centre of town. Lencois is a pretty town of shady squares and brightly coloured houses. I hobble up the cobbles in search of a hostel before alighting on Paula’s Pousada, a somewhat down-at-heel terraced house with multi bunk rooms and a small, windowless dining area. Paula is a chirpy young woman who dresses like a rapper and has a dicky eye. We converse via Google Translate and she shows me my room – clean but basic. Within a few minutes, following a major evacuation, I’ve broken the toilet flush but on the plus side, Paula has made me scrambled eggs for breakfast. Never mind her brioche is stale – I’m eating my first eggs since leaving the UK. Bloody marvellous! I spend the day booking a trek and trying to get cash out of the town’s solitary bank; the ATM says NO and the trekking company doesn’t take plastic but I’m informed by the French dude in charge that there is one bank in another town that has cash on a Monday! And since this bank is en route to the park and tomorrow is Monday, I should be able to draw some money out so I can pay the trek guide. Allebloodyluia! My evening is spent celebrating in a pavement cafe singing along to Bob Marley’s greatest hits while nursing a pint of caipirinha. I scan the menu – it’s very meaty but I’m heartened to see that the cheese is ‘artisanal’. I do love a bit of culinary bullshit. That night as I lie on Paula’s rock-hard bed looking forward to another egg dominated breakfast, I wonder: Will the bank really have cash tomorrow? And do I come clean with Paula about my toilet incident? And if I do, will I mime it?

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