I’m sitting on a bus from the North of Argentinian Patagonia to Buenos Aires. At 23 hours, it’s comfortably the longest bus journey I’ve taken in 20 years, since I nearly accidentally overdosed on Valium, travelling from halfway down Thailand, to Singapore. But that’s a yarn for another day.

My trip is nearly over. I’ll spend just over 48h in the capital before returning to our beloved little island, in time for the start of Spring, and Rossy and Issy’s wedding (and, crucially, the stag).

I’ve had 6-months of extraordinary nature, wonderful new people and stupendous levels of freedom. But… after over half a year of gallivanting, those who know me well will not be shocked to hear I’m somewhat craving a bit of routine again, e.g. my back really needs more regular yoga. So I’m coming home with a tonne of amazing memories, but not an overly heavy heart. I’m 39 and travelling for over half a year is a young person’s game!

What follows is a little overview of the last few weeks, followed by some hugely profound musings. After a scathing critique from my esteemed friend Lil G, AKA Gary, AKA Paul Kell of what he called my repetitive, ‘mountains are high’ copy, I’ll go light on the words and heavy on the photos to illustrate my final 5-weeks of trekking across Patagonia.

Refugios and Peaks around el Bolson

Gnarly hiking/climbing/scrambling around Bariloche

Mighty, mighty volcanos on the Villarrica Traverse

I’ve had the extraordinarily privilege of spending the last six weeks with Garance, aka Posh Gary. Her thoroughness in working out every single hike that is worth doing in Patagonia brings to mind the old Michael Foot adage (one for the kids), ‘read the whole bloody book’. I.e, if you’re going to do something, do it properly.

Fun, smart and better than anyone else I’ve met at making sure we don’t get lost or die on a multi-day hike: Posh Gary, thank you for the memories and for putting up with me being completely unable to remember the names of any places with Spanish names – ‘it’s Encanto Blanco, not Encampo Blanco! For the fifth time!!!’

6.5 months of intermittent showering and limited access to new clothes has left me with a deep Danny Fisher and the farm wankers smell. Even when I shower thoroughly, apply deodorant and wear a clean t-shirt, it’s still lingering in there somewhere.

A funny and baffling conversation that actually happened (in Spanish):

Man: where are you from?

Me: Scotland

Man: ah, Scotland! Yes! Walter Smith!

And finally… I haven’t felt compelled to share any ‘Graham Updates’ from this trip, despite my name continuing to be a thorn in my side in the non-English speaking world. Instead, here are a few GARY UPDATES, my occasional pseudonym when I don’t have the energy to go through the Graham-malarkey.

Gary update 1. the scene: me buying a coffee from well known, little loved multi-national conglomerate at Lima airport

Me (in my head): this matey is gonna ask my name for the cup. Let’s make things simple and go for Gary.

Matey: your name?

Me: Gary

(30 seconds later)

Matey to customer 2: your name?

Customer 2: Gary

Me (in my head): fuck

(2 mins later)

Matey: coffee for Gary

Customer 2: that’s me!

Me: actually, I think that one is mine

Customer 2: oh okay, great to meet another Gary!

Me: actually…

-

Gary update 2, potentially of much greater significance… had a lovely and lengthy chat in very basic Spanish with four Argentinian pensioners on a Patagonian lake beach. The language was a barrier, so an obvious one for playing the Gary card.

Problem is the chat seemingly went so well that one of the women was so enthused she finished by telling me her daughter is pregnant, and if it’s a boy, she’s going to tell her she needs to call him… Gary! 🤣🤣🤣

Going back a few weeks, my plan, having eventually worked through my grief at the departure of Sleepy Joe, and inspired my thrifty, adventurous French friends, was to hitchhike up the Carretera Austral, the legendary highway that slices through Chilean Patagonia.

To start this, I had to trek from Argentina into Chile, doing a winding, up-and-down, 34k over 2 days, whilst carrying all of my shit, ie around 30kg, with my wee rucksack strapped around the top of my big one.

Turns out this was a terrible idea. Halfway through day 1 my right shin was burning with pain. But with no alternative I ploughed through the next 1.5 days, undoubtedly making the injury much worse.

I spent 4 nights, including my birthday, at the Candelleria Mancilla, a little campsite just over the Chilean border, where I waited for an at times mythical seeming boat, to take me across across Lago O’Higgins, to the start of the Carratera Austral.

Upon arrival we were told by a Chilean border guard it could be 8 or 9 days until the weather was good enough for the boat to cross the lake. Or that one could just turn up any day. Really happy to put his neck on the line with his predictions, this geezer.

As it was, two boats came on day two. There were too many of us for the first one, and given I was in the ‘don’t need to urgently get across’ crew, I waited for boat 2.

It was supposed to leave later that afternoon. It eventually departed 36h later as, I shit you not, the Captain had to help the owner of the campsite slaughter a small number of cows, whilst also castrating a much larger group of them. Mad that nobody could have predicted that might take a bit of time.

The upside of this extended stay was that I got to do it with two different groups of wonderful new European friends. Funny, smart, sound folk from across the continent, all united in being incredibly jealous of what we’ve managed to pull of with Brexit. Awaaaaahhh.

During this time I am dealt the first of two body blows since we last spoke. Following the heroic delivery by Al Wade of my new, long, wide, unbelievably comfortable air mattress, a generous Christmas gift from my mum, I am, for the first time in my camping life, enjoying long, deep stretches of smug sleep.

Then out of nowhere, in the middle of the night, I wake up cold and uncomfortable on a deflated air bed. I am full of the indigent shock of the man who thinks he’s curled out a perfectly formed, traceless shite, who is wiping purely out of convention, and to confirm what he already knows to be true, only to be confronted with a full and sprawling handful of chocolatey mess.

Guided by those with much more practical nous than me (not hard), including a lovely man in a camping shop and German engineer, I made 3 exhaustive searches for the source of the puncture, but was unable to find it. Seems it’s big enough to basically completely deflate the mattress in 1–2 hours, but too small to find the little bubbles. Absolute nightmare.

Anyway… to O’Higgins and the hitchhiking adventure begins. Day 1 and and three of us get a ride after 20 minutes. This is gonna be a piece of piss! Not so for my two German friends, Tomas and Willem, who wait 7 hours before packing it in, and booking a bus for 2 days time instead.

My next ride I’m sandwiched between two delivery drivers I accosted in a car park as they were dropping off chilled goods to a shop. It’s hot and I briefly consider asking if I can sit in the refrigerated back, before quickly realising this a stupid and possibly even deadly idea.

They dropped me at a place called Puerto (Ryan) Bertrand, where I did another workaway. It’s for a woman who owns a bakery and I’m enticed by the opportunity to learn how to make empenadas. But instead I am deployed to her cabin, sorting out her garden and woodshed. It’s nice, but for a workaway there’s not actually that much work to do.

It’s around this time I start realising that between my leg rehabilitation and not making empenadas, I’ve sorta squandered about 10 days of glorious Patagonian sunshine, by not being in the mountains.

So I sack off the gardening a few days early and head north, with grand plans to do two wild, multi-day hikes, only to quickly discover that I have fucked myself with the weather. The forecast for the next 2 weeks is unrelenting wind and rain.

I realised the weather was much better in Argentina, and with the possibility of meeting my old mate Posh Gary for a bike trip, I take a couple of epic bus journeys and I’m now in El Bolson, northern Argentinian Patagonia.

Which is where, disaster strikes…

I woke up after my first night at ‘El Rustico’, the cheapest campsite in town, to find that some opportunistic cunt had nicked my big bag from the porch of my tent.

The contents of said bag include every piece of clothing I have with me, barring what I was sleeping in, and mercifully, my beloved Patagonia hoodie, which I was using as a pillow.

This is, to say the least, incredibly annoying and saddening in equal measure.

As a comic aside, the owner of the hostel was quite bantz during the whole thing. He called the police, who showed up, drew a few little maps (not sure of the purpose) and then fucked off. To calm his nerves he immediately made/sparked a spliff, only for the Old Bill to quickly return to ask some more questions. Queue lots of window opening and air freshener spraying that was, frankly, kidding nobody.

Later, he offered me a free bed for the rest of my stay. Nice of him, even if the room had strong crack den vibes, with two single mattresses strewn on the floor and shit piled everywhere. Better still, when I got back later that night I walked in to discover some matey asleep on one of the mattresses, and a dog on the other. Back to the cold, empty tent for me.

As soon as I’m done writing this I’m gonna give him a 5* Google review.

So that’s basically it. An incredibly annoying state of affairs, but don’t cry for me Argentina, I’m still in a pretty amazing place, with some lovely people to keep me company, looking forward to getting back into lots of mountain based adventures.

Lots of love, G x

Ps… My hitchhiking tekkers has always been a static thumb pointing directly up. The Latin American way seems to be a slight tilt of the hand, and bizarrely/inexplicably, an up and down movement that makes it look uncannily like a wanker sign. No wonder nobody is picking you up if you keep giving them the wankers, mate!

Pps – Joke of the day: did you hear about the egg who got headhunted for a new job? He was poached.

Ppps – The trip the ‘marble caves’ in Rio Tranquilo was such a highlight I did the face to celebrate

I’m sitting in El Chalten, the Patagonian trekking Mecca that is younger than me, having only been ‘founded’ in 1985, reflecting on an amazing few weeks dominated by insane landscapes, gruelling hikes and wonderful people, notably the esteemed Al Wade…

Before I set off on the next stage of my adventure, up the legendary Patagonian highway, the Carretera Austral, here are some highlights…

The first major event of mine and Al’s time together was a surprisingly epic NYE. We gathered a ridiculously nice, fun little crew, who we would go on to do some trekking with (more of that to come).

We left it too late to get into any of El Chalten’s more obviously lively spots, so ended up in Banditos, a little shrine to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, who it turns out pulled some wild shit in Patagonia back in the day (Amongst the revelry, they were serving insane looking mixed meat Parrilla platters. We decided it wouldn’t be a great springboard for a big night out, but put it on the back burner as a perfect reward at the end of the 4-day hike that was to come).

As the night wore on, the vibes were great, but the tunes weren’t. So, many IPAs, a stealth bottle of whiskey and a few multi-vitamins in, DJ Hubris rose like a Phoenix from the flames (again) and I asked if I could put on a few tunes.

It only took the opening bars of September by Earth, Wind and Fire (pretty niche, I know) for our little NYE hideaway to explode into action. Suffice to say I absolutely delighted in playing 2 hours of funk, soul and disco bangers.

The general consensus was that the roof was TORN OFF, before I was hounded off the decks by angry Argentinians demanding Cumbia and Reggaton, that I could not help with.

The night ended, and 2023 began, with one of the best sunrises I’ve ever seen.

Post NYE we set out on our first multi-dayer, our crew of 4 heading for a remote, rarely visited Refugio at lago Diablo, close to the Chilean border.

What was supposed to be 3 days became 4 as we discovered that constant up and down, at times a non-existent path and a stubborn refusal to get up at an appropriately adult time, meant we were slower than expected.

We had just enough food to last us until the end, even if there was little relish for my pretty agricultural version of overnight oats for breakfast and lunch on the final day.

For four days much of our conversation centred on the Parrilla we’d have on our return. We walked back into Banditos with a sense of giddy excitement at the meaty extravaganza that awaited us, only to be dealt the hammer blow that, much like Hubris’s comeback set, the Parrilla was a NYE special, not available the other 364 days a year.

With quite staggering levels of ingratitude we each solemnly ordered a 400g steak instead. Levels of petulance reached fever pitch when the waitress returned 2 minutes later to tell us they had run out of papas fritas. Who the fuck runs out of chips??

Rumours they had to sell all their potatoes to repair the structural damage caused by Hubris blowing the roof off are as of yet unsubstantiated.

We reconnected with the rest of our thrifty, thrilling French crew over this simultaneously decadent and underwhelming meal and ‘‘planned’’ our next excursion – 4 days on the legendary Huemul trail. I use these little mateys ‘‘_’’ because of it quickly became clear these strong willed, independent and party-loving Frenchies were not going to be corralled into a ‘meeting’, with anything approach an ‘agenda’.

I was left with no choice but to throw off the shackles of control freakery and trust that in the presence of youth and confidence, we wouldn’t die, which, in fairness, we didn’t.

The Huemul Circuit was absolutely extraordinary. Day 1, which we were told was pretty boring, was glorious in it’s own right, giving stunning views of the 40kg+ wide Viedma Lake, the Huemul range we were circumnavigating, and the valley.

Days 2 & 3 were two of the most mind-blowing days of walking I’ve ever done thanks, largely, to the unmatched views of the Southern Patagonian ice-field, the largest frozen fresh water reserve outside of the poles.

It’s not really possible to do it justice with words, so here are some photos to perve on instead.

Half-way through day 3 you say goodbye to the ice-sheet (it took me and Al a long-time to do this) before embarking upon one of the steepest, slipperiest and generally most horrendous downhill sections of walking I’ve ever endured.

Our reward at the bottom was to arrive at the dying embers of what had been a major forest fire, caused by some clever cunt setting fire to his toilet paper.

But that wasn’t the end of the drama. Day 4 included a second zip line river crossing. It sounds more gnarly than it actually is/is supposed to be. So much so I wanted to ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’ as my soundtrack. But my speaker wouldn’t connect, so I had to ditch this idea. I would soon be very grateful for this Bluetooth malfunction.

Having watched the person before us fly over with ease, I stepped up with confidence, going first having been last at the previous crossing. But where the woman before me glided to the centre with zero effort, I didn’t move an inch. Pulling myself along to the middle was tougher than I expected, but okay.

However, where my predecessor could use the momentum from her slide to the middle to effortlessly pull herself across the rest of the line, for me each pull from the halfway strange, going against gravity, felt like trying to do a pull-up with a 20kg backpack on.

The river was wide and I was quickly exhausted. I made the mistake of turning to see how far I had to go. Far. I’d take 3 or 4 big heaves. No power left in my upper body. Scream. Breath. Rest. Repeat. The only consolation is that I don’t have Harold Melvin & the Bluenotes blaring as anthem to hubris, as a ransacked my own dignity.

I slowly got closer and closer, but I was gone. I was just a few pulls away from the bank, but I needed to get the bag off my back, in order to haul myself onto the landing post. I made peace with the idea I might lose it to the river. I swang it onto the bank and it just so it made it.

With the bag off I drew a sign of relief and finally, miraculously, pulled myself onto the other side of the river. My whole body trembled with pain and exhaustion. I nearly cried.

NB: it’s worth me saying at this point (mainly for the benefit of my Mum) that the only thing in danger here was to my ego. I was connected to the line with 2 carabiners and my friends could have pulled me back to the start, with the rope attached to the pulley. But a combo of toxic masculinity and the dread at having to start the whole thing again, meant I wasn’t willing to countenance that!

Also if I’d taken Al’s advice (the only one of us to actually watch the safety video) to clip my bag to the safety, rather than carry it on my back, it would have been considerably less awful. This, plus something being weird with the pulley, made this about 1000x harder than it should have been!

After the trek we returned to Chalten again, a group of Parrilla-hungry-s****, only to be thwarted again. Turns out Parrilla’s ain’t cheap. But French backpackers are. We stayed together as a group and got drunk instead.

The following night, we finally got our wish as a smaller group of us got our greedy hands and gobs on the fabled meat platter. It was fucking delicious.

This guy

Travelling on my own has generally been great, but it turns out being with one of your best mates is, in reality, much better. Gamier than a 9-course venison tasting menu, I need to pay tribute to my literature/navy seal/conundrum mentor Al Wade, AKA Wadey, AKA the Canyon, AKA Sleepy Joe.

We had a ridiculous 3 weeks together. We hiked, laughed, drank, ate and even when the moment wasn’t really right for it (‘Al, I’m worried I’m not going to get the chance, so I’m going to do my sentimental bit now’), got suitably deep and meaningful.

I’ve met some wonderful people in the last few months, but reuniting with someone you’ve known for over 20 years, with all the shared experiences, history and Jack Colback’s you have together, really is to be treasured.

Al, on the off-chance you’re actually reading this for the first time (you unsupportive bastard) knowing you’re likely to feature in it, thank you for coming out, these were probably the best few weeks of my trip and I love you pal (was that the right moment for the sentimental bit??).

In need of some cardio I went to a few spin classes in Buenos Aires. Very different vibes to David Lloyd, Newhaven. Less attritional battles up digital mountains, more highly choreographed darting up and down, left to right, that requires rhythm and the ability to understand quickly spoken Argentinian Spanish. Fewer lovely Scottish ladies in their 50s, more painfully cool BA hipsters in their 20s.

Throw into the mix that the inner pant of my sports shorts had completely perished over the previous months, rendering it utterly useless, meant a highly uncomfortable, disjointed and at times outright humiliating 45 minutes. You miss your little football friends when… people are talking about William Defoe and there’s nobody to say ‘Jermaine’s brother’ to.

Joke of the day, inspired by listening to reggae and watching French people eat their favourite thing… how does Bob Marley like his Nutella? Straight out of the Jah!

And finally, after months of flirting with it, I’ve decided to fully commit to a mullet. If you wanna see evidence you need to send me a WhatsApp!

Adios amigos!!

Ps, a few people said they never got the link to my last post. If you’re one of them and want to read about my Argentinian World Cup odyssey, you can do so here! Xx

Sitting in a remote farm in central Bolivia, I realised I’d missed a morning of World Cup football where Cameroon had drawn 3–3 with Serbia, and Ghana had beaten South Korea 3–2.

Overcome with football-FOMO, I decided to embark upon the biggest giri move of my trip so far – to completely abandon all pretence of cultural engagement and/or immersion in the natural world, and to dedicate myself entirely to football for the next 3 weeks.

If I could make peace a tournament drenched in the blood of migrant workers, and that trampled over the basic human rights of whole swathes of society, then I could surely cope with missing a few ‘salt flats’, whatever the fuck they actually are.

So I headed to Sucre, southern Bolivia, where you are supposed to visit the largest collection of dinosaur footprints in the world. But I’ve seen Jurassic Park, so instead I watched ALL EIGHT last-16 games, including a few excruciatingly boring 0–0 draws where I did, momentarily, question some of my life choices.

After Argentina continued to get their tournament back on track by beating Australia, I decided it was time to cross the border into the land of Maradona and Messi, for the business end of the tournament. Decent decision, that.

And so to Salta, in the north of Argentina, where you are supposed to visit the world’s only 14-colour mountain.

Instead I camped out in the main square for all four quarter finals and went all in, buying an Argentina shirt and bucket hat.

I was rewarded with the absolutely wild Argentina v Holland match (Arg win on pens), which is followed by insane celebrations in the streets.

And then to Mendoza, where you are supposed to visit some of the world’s most famous vineyards. But I’m not wine aficionado, so instead I spent 4 days painting a hallway on a brief workaway, and watched both semi-finals.

I see Argentina swat aside Croatia with my hosts and their friends, before making a solo mission to the square for the celebrations.

In truth, I slightly struggle to get into the vibe. Remove the bucket hat as not a good thing to wear while being devoid of charisma, continually disappointing strangers who are looking to you for a bit of hype.

I become aware of the ‘el que no salta, es Inglais’ aka ‘he who does not jump, is an Englishman’ chant, and that I’ve been politely nodding (not jumping) along to it. Absolutely classic giri behaviour.

And lastly… to Buenos Aires, where thankfully I will have time after the footy to sample some of the cultural delights.

But first and foremost I came for the final, after my former-Greenpeace colleagues Sol and Dani invited me to join them and their friends for the game. I probably don’t need to tell you this proved to be a great decision.

We watched the match in Sol’s Dad’s apartment. Having spent the last few years on a self de-radicalisation programme trying to re-configure my brain, heart and gut so I can support this dynamic, likeable England team, I had a major relapse.

After being introduced as ‘our Scottish mascot’, it was clear the best way to ingratiate myself with my hosts was some gentle anti-English banter, in the form of the Tartan Army Maradona song. To the tune of the Hokey Cokey, ‘oh, Diego Maradona, he put the English OUT, OUT, OUT’! Hello pettiness, my old friend.

Sorry B, Ram et al! I’ll be back to wanting it to come home by 2024, I promise!

After arguably the greatest/most exciting final of all-time, we steamed out into the streets with millions of others, to celebrate Argentina’s first World Cup in 36-years.

The celebrations were huge and wild and glorious. The crowd was young and I was struck that almost nobody there would have been around for the 1986 celebrations.

There’s no rulebook or direct precedent for this sort of once-in-generation celebration, and it was amazing to see the people creating their own history, traditions and iconography. Feeling out and flexing how wild to go, how far to push the boundaries of ecstasy and exuberance.

It felt like a different kind of footy crowd to the ones at home. There’s less ethnic diversity here than in the UK (well, London at least) so there was less of that sort of diversity. But it felt like the gender split was much more even.

There were a frankly extraordinary number of tattooed, hipster, intimidatingly cool young women who knew all the words to all the songs and were celebrating just as wildly as the men. Just about everybody seemed invested in the Argentina team in a way I don’t think quite happens at home. Or am I wrong?

In the midst of all this, I thought I’d cracked the non-jumping Englishman (Scottish/British, obvs, but you get the point) danger and was blending in with the locals during the ‘no salta’ chant. Then Sol brought me down to earth with an almighty bang… ‘one bit of advice, stop jumping like an Englishman’ 🤣🤣🤣

In the days after the final I’ve been reflecting on how fortunate I was to in the best possible place for what Rossy called ‘the most seminal moment in the history of football’.

As part of that I’ve come to the conclusion that whilst it’s easy to bottomfeed on someone else’s party, it’s much harder for me to bottomfeed on someone else’s glee/emotions.

Getting to be part of these huge, joyous celebrations was an immense privilege that I will always treasure. So I almost feel a bit guilty/shameful admitting this, but it was also completely different, and in truth a much less intense emotional experience, than Liverpool winning the League or the Champions League, Raith Rovers winning the Coca-Cola Cup or even Scotland qualifying for a major tournament for the first time in 20+ years.

So, am I grateful for having been there for the most seminal moment in footballing history? 100% yes. Would I trade it in for another Scottish League Cup for the boys from Stark’s Park? Every day of the week! Football eh? It’s a helluva drug.

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Short end of year wrap-up

I’ve managed to complete 2 of my 3 stated aims for 2022 – I passed my driving test and learnt how to ride my bike with no hands. Unfortunately, I cannot speak a good level of conversational Spanish. Arguably those hours and days spent practising my hands free cycling in Edinburgh this summer would have been better spent on Duolingo.

Joke of the day, and it’s sorta relevant:

‘Did you know, Argentinians love beef?

‘Really? They seem like a friendly enough bunch to me.’

Boom.

And finally… a bit of dumb Christmas trivia for you… in Germany, the film Home Alone is called ‘Kevin at Home Alone’ 🤯… Happy Christmas my dear, beloved friends and family xx

The last few weeks have been, physically at least, much more gentle than those that proceeded them. I’m writing this overlooking a gentle valley that somehow remains lush despite the scorching temperatures and lack of rain.

There are 6 of us volunteering, plus Susie the owner and Carlos the ridiculously hardworking builder.

For the volunteers, our work consists of gardening, landscaping, cooking, desperately sheltering from the heat and trying to watch some of the World Cup on dodgy streams.

In between that, I’ve done a few things you may be moderately interested to hear about…

Dabbling in Hinduism…

In Pisac, Peru, I attended my first ever Kirtan events, Hindu chanting/music extravaganzas. Strongly on the ‘park your cynicism’ end of the activity scale, I did everything in my power to banish the thoughts of ‘what the fuck would my mates say if they could see me right now’ and had an absolute fucking ball.

The vibe was totally joyful, with a sense that everyone was gloriously connected and lost in the music at the same time. Not exactly a great revelation but it made me realise that I really need my quasi religious/spiritual shit to be gleeful. Solemnity always puts me off.

Follow it up with a sacred fire event that is a bit of a damp squib. In the wise words of Alec Baldwin as Jack Donaghy, aka the greatest comedy performance of all-time (don’t @ me, whatever the fuck that means) – never go with a hippy to a second location

Dabbling in Taoism

Day 2 at the retreat and something quite unexpected happens, my fellow volunteers and I are semi-kidnapped, escorted to the ‘temple’ (the same place we watch the footy) and I have my first ever experience with a real life Missionary, who in a mixture of Spanish and Mandarin tries, I think, to convert us to Taoism.

It’s an interesting 90 minutes or so, if less gleeful than the Hindu chanting, where we learn A LOT about the significance of the ‘third eye’. There is also a lot of bowing, which poses a problem as I’m wearing shorts I’m pretty sure are riding low and revealing a significant builder’s crack.

It somehow feels uncouth to pull my shorts up in the middle of the ceremony. But on reflection surely less uncouth than revealing a large slice of my arse, about 25 times, to the elderly Taiwanese woman standing behind me.

Regardless, later in the day she is all smiles when she gives me some sort of membership card…

Dabbling in a lot of sweat

Something I’ve been wanting to do since Natty Baker introduced me to the concept – a sweat lodge, or Tamezcal as they call it over here. Like the New Docklands Steam Baths, but with the toxic masculinity toned down and the spiritualism ramped up.

It’s a sensational experience. 2 hours in a small hut, on a dirt floor, getting progressively hotter as the stones from the roaring fire outside are brought in, over the course of 4 ‘portals’ – north, south, east and west.

We’re encouraged to think, feel and express a range of thoughts and emotions including love, grief and gratitude for the past and the present. Needless to say I blab like a 38-year old divorcee desperately seeking to crack open the unprocessed pain that still haunts his subconscious. It’s wonderful.

We were all encouraged to sing a song. I wracked my mind for something that a) fitted the bill and b) (much more problematically) I 100% knew all the words to. In a peak moment of footy lad x hippie fusion, I went for ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, keeping my fingers crossed that none of my new spiritual pals knew it was a football song. Wasn’t exactly 100% in keeping with the tribal vibes, but I don’t think it completely stunk the gaff out either.

The final portal is the ‘re-birth’, which culminates with us crawling out of the sweltering hut, absolutely covered in mud and dehydrated to fuck. Our host, Aleider, told us one of the most beautiful parts of the ritual was the way it allowed us to appreciate the simple things in life with renewed vigour. He was not wrong.

I let out long sighs of glee as I washed myself in the cold river. Could feel myself coming back to life as I gratefully slurped from my water bottle. And then there was the watermelon. Oh the watermelon. It feels wrong to say that I made love to it with my mouth, doesn’t it? But fuck it, that’s sorta how it felt. It’s perfectly chilled red flesh, speckled with smooth yet crunchy stones. I can’t think of another way to express it. It was brilliant. Magnificent. Heavenly. Possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

And on that bombshell, I’ll say goodbye for now! Lots of love! G x

Ps, oh and I made a lasagne. Because that’s a thing that I do…

Pps – the oven is not good, hence why it’s not brown/crispy enough

Colca Canyon

A classic 3-day hike from the beautiful colonial city of Arequipa. I was keen to do it without a guide, and seemingly so were others. I met Natasha and Nikki from the Netherlands and over 24h as we plan our adventure, 3 snowballs to 9.

We have a meeting where I get to write an agenda and ‘chair’. This simultaneously lights up my control freak dopamine receptors and also makes me feel like a massive Poindexter. Ultimately, despite the conflict, getting to ask ‘any other business?’ before tapping my coffee cup on the table in the style of a gavel to bring things to a close, remains as more-ish as crack to me.

Our group is diverse, fun and, me notwithstanding, young. Shortly after I impart a bit of ‘wisdom’ to the youngest of our crew, 19-year old Robert from Germany (the revelation that the Condor is the world’s largest bird) I overhear him saying to someone else ‘Graham knows lots of things, but he is 38 to be fair’. Cheeky bastard.

Day 1 we leave Arequipa at 4am. Start hiking just after 10am and get to spend the afternoon in some ridiculous hot springs.

Day 2, long day of hiking through the canyon. Never been in a canyon before. Totally different landscape and conditions to what I’m used to.

It’s hot and the sun whacks me. Late in the afternoon I come down with heatstroke. Early symptoms include laziness, when I realise my plan to do yoga and a Spanish lesson is completely beyond me, and an inability to ‘do’ banter, as I entirely lose the ability to take part in humorous conversation. Unthinkable, surely.

Go for a lie down, waves of nausea flow over me. I stay as still as possible. After he’s had dinner, Robert comes back to our room and asks me if I need anything – ‘something to vomit into in case I can’t make the toilet?’ He returns with the bathroom bin. Released from the purgatory of stillness, I immediately spew my guts out.

In a weird twist of fate it’s genuinely just days since I learnt how to say ‘I have vomited’ and ‘I have heatstroke’ in Spanish. Don’t you love it when new stuff you learn becomes immediately useful? ‘He vomitado’ and ‘tengo una insolacion’, in case you’re interested.

Fitful, vomity sleep ended by Robert’s alarm at 4.25am. After a quick evaluation of my physical state (a bit better than 12h ago) I decide it’s better to attempt the 1000m+ ascent from the canyon, rather than stay another 24h or get a taxi. First 500m is surprisingly fine. Second is absolutely brutal, especially as the sun starts to beat down as the day progresses. More biting down on the gumshield type 2 ‘fun’, one foot in front of the other, grind it out. You’re reading this, so from that you will deduce I made it.

Chachani

From the frying pan, into the fire: Chachani, the giant 6025m volcano that looms over Arequipa.

I nearly pulled out due to the heatstroke. Like a mildly crocked footballer on the eve of a cup final, I was a doubt, but I wasn’t ruling myself out. My late fitness test involved me jumping up and down a few times, beating my chest, slapping myself in the face and saying things to like ‘come on Gilby, you can do this’. I passed myself fit and boarded the 8am bus towards the hulking volcanic monster in the distance.

A three hour drive, the second half along crazy winding dirt roads. A slow two hour climb to my first ever base camp.

A few hours bliss drinking in the ridiculous scenery and colours, eating delicious food prepared by the guides and chatting excitedly with my fellow hikers. A mixture of fear, excitement and nerves about what we were about to embark upon.

And then, let the misery commence… then sun disappeared behind the mountain me at 4.30pm and it was suddenly cold enough that you wanted to get into your sleeping bag/tent. But sleeping at 4.30pm is hard. I tried… firstly with silence/meditation, then Jon Kabat-Zinn audiobook, Quickly Kevin, more silence. It was 6, then it was 8, then it was 10, then it was 12… only 30 minutes until we had to get up. Being generous at this point I’ve had an hours sleep. I had almost spent more time outside the tent on my THREE torturous missions to piss.

Time to get up. Straight into the top 3 worst sleeps of my life. Spend enough time eating breakfast outside to lose all warmth from the tent. Hands and and feet are ice blocks and will remain so for the whole hike, it will take my left ring finger several days to come back to life.

‘Vamos Chicos’ says the guide and we’re off, zig-zagging up 900m of volcanic ash in the pitch black, in sub-zero temperatures, with a freezing wind whipping over us.

We move at a snail’s pace to conserve energy and reduce the chances of getting completely whacked by the altitude. It’s absolutely necessary, but means we never move quickly enough to warm-up.

It’s slow going. We stop every 45 minutes or so. The stops are a relief in terms of renewing energy, but a nightmare in terms of warmth. A few people have to turn back. We go on. I chuckle to myself ‘this is a funny thing to do as a leisure activity’.

I cry a few times. I think how implausible this would have been for 18-year old me. I decide we’re doing it for that version of my inner child. We’re doing it together for him now, because we can. Podemos!

After about 4 hours the previously slightly mardy guide begins to come to life and points - ‘the top, 40 minutes’. This turns out to be a massive lie, but it’s helpful to see our target at last. The sun is up, but not really on us. As a last little gift, the wind whips up a little faster. We go on.

Then a final stop. We can leave our bags. We’re actually close now. A few more punishing, wind blown steps and we’re there. I see the cross that marks the summit.

Oh the view. I jump and punch the air. The six of us who made it to the top whoop and hug and cry. It’s still too windy and cold to be comfortable and I drink it in almost hysterically.

The world stretches out in every direction, littered with volcanos.

In my mind I dance with aforementioned inner child (I’ve taken to creating these imagery parties, usually inviting an assortment of friends and family).

I listen to Nessun Dorma, my new ritual, cry a bit more and punch the air.

We take some photos and then ‘vamos chicos’ and it’s time to go. What took 5 hours up takes 45 mins to get down – skree skiing. It starts off terrifying (you may recall skiing holds some bad memories for me!) but turns out to be fun and spectacularly fast.

I get back to base camp elated but absolutely exhausted. 1 hour rest. Pack up the tents, 1h walk back to the car. 3h down the same windy road back to Arequipa.

I think I’m done with type 2 fun for a while. I don’t mind type 2 fun, but I also fucking love type 1 fun, and it doesn’t make you feel like you’re going to die, crucially.

What an experience. What a ridiculous ordeal. What a view. What an amazing thing to get to do. Grateful. Blessed. Bla bla bla… you know the spiel!

Salkatay trail to Machu Picchu

Last but not least it was time to channel my inner gap yaaar student by ‘doing’ Machu Picchu. Once again I was subject to a late fitness test, feeling deeply fatigued by the Colca Canyon, Chachani, night buses and no proper rest. But fuck it, in for a penny, in for a pound, I dragged myself out of bed at 3am and set off for this legendary hike, solo and without a guide.

Highlight of day 1 was Humantay lake. I got there early enough to have it to myself for almost an hour, before the photo hungry, insta-loving giris descended en masse.

After that I climbed up the left hand side where it was much quieter and the view were different and stunning.

Rewarded with a view of two condors frolicking in the valley below. Mad moment as one of them flies towards me and swoops pretty low over my head, close enough to see the details of it’s face and feathers. Wow.

My friend and former colleague Louisa Casson asked me recently if you ever get bored of turquoise lakes. My answer thus far remains a definitive no. They’re fucking ridiculous.

Slept in a little hut with a see-through roof which gave views of the stars at night and sunrise on the mountains in the morning.

Met my mates Hannah and Lauren on the path. Ridiculous views at the main pass.

Uphill was fine but I could feel the huge downhill section shredding my knee. Listened to the Blind Boy’s 5-year anniversary podcast and felt quite emotional. Fucking love that man.

The scenery is beautiful and wildly diverse, from snowy peaks to dense, humid jungle. Day 4 it’s roasting hot and we swim in the mighty Urubamba river and it’s fucking magic.

Doing it without a guide is a piece of piss. There are hostels so you don’t need to carry a massive bag/camp. The path is so obvious that if you get lost then frankly, you deserve to die. Doing it solo however, was more problematic.

Most folk are with guides and to (understanding, I suppose) protect their business model, they don’t like solo trekkers joining their groups in the evening. So on night 1 I had to eat my dinner alone on a tiny one-person table in a side room, in the style of a leper, while 20 people shared food and laughed their heads off next door. Tough gig for a CHS 😢🐶

But things picked up. Night two a lovely human called Georgia who I’d met at my hostel in Cusco took pity on me and my tiny table and cleared it with her guides and group for me to join them.

Day 4 I bumped into a Kiwi guy called Nelson who i first me at the start of the trek and a delightful group of French Canadians, and joined them for the rest of the trip.

Alongside this, the hospitality of my Peruvian hosts along the way was unbelievable. All of the hostel owners were welcoming, cooked amazing food and constantly went out of their way to help me.

And then to finish it all, there is Machu Picchu. Everyone knows what it looks like and you know it’s going to be jam-packed with giris. Tbh I only really booked it because it seemed fucking mental to go to Peru for 3 months and not visit Machu Picchu.

Helpfully, this incredibly ungrateful and negative collection of thoughts meant my expectations were so low that I really enjoyed it!

I found walking around the ruins fine, although I get frustrated with my lack of ability to connect to the mind-blowing reality that this is a place where life took place for real human beings in such a different time in human history. I want to feel that reality but somehow I can’t.

But my ticket included a hike up Waynapicchu mountain, where from the top you look down over the ruins. This part of the experience was completely magical, much quieter and for me a much better vantage point to appreciate the majesty of Machu Picchu.

I had a quite extraordinary 15 minute nap. Waking up and remembering I was looking down over one of the seven wonders of the world will live long in the memory, I think.

So these were the three treks that nearly broke me. I am currently recovering, relaxing and indulging my inner hippy in Pisaq, the main town of the sacred valley, just outside Cusco.

And now, like a multi-national agricultural commodities corporation hell-bent on destroying our planet, next on my hit-list… is the Amazon rainforest. See you on the other side, friends xx

Ps – if you’ve not had enough by now, see below for some dumb stuff…

• I thought it was toxic masculinity, but I actually met a few seemingly well adjusted women who shared a similar urge to be able to tell the world they had scaled 6000m. Who knew.
• What is a condiment? This debate raged during our Colca Canyon Trek. An otherwise lovely man from Netherlands by the name of Freek makes a play for guacamole. Sorry, but I’m not having that. I begrudgingly give him soy sauce, even though really I think it’s too thin to be a condiment and technically a seasoning. My definition you ask? Something with a long shelf life, a viscosity between mustard and ketchup, that you’d never be charged for in a restaurant. If you disagree, answers on a postcard please.
• Pump update 1 – at all altitudes I’m still finding myself pumping like a trooper. I think I’ve contributed more to global warming with my personal methane emissions than on the long-haul flight I took to get here. Rumours they had to hastily arrange an emergency plenary session at COP27 to discuss how it’s further compromising the task of keeping the world below 1.5 degrees haven’t been verified.
• Pump update 2 – I also had to spend a night in a tent with another man on the Chachani trek and he was clearly suffering from the same affliction. Absolutely astonishing how repugnant someone else’s (presumably very similar smelling) farts smell in comparison to the almost comforting aroma of your own.

That’s it.

On my first day I accidentally left one of the pens open at feeding time. Queue a mass exodus of dogs from said pen, running around the whole gaff, sending all the others into a wild frenzy.

Realising my mistake, I had to chase them around the shelter, eventually scooping them up one-by-one and bundling them back into the pen.

I felt like a trainee teacher being given the runaround by an unruly class smelling blood, or like this unfortunate matey from the Day Today. (1 min, 25 seconds) #NobodyDied

Who let the dogs out? Me, regrettably.

Over the fortnight I was joined by a revolving cast of incredibly fun, interesting, animal loving volunteers. You quickly progress from total novice to the one showing new people the ropes.

The work is 5 x 5 hour shifts a week, leaving loads of time to practise my still embryonic, but slowly improving, Spanish, to do the wholesome wellness shit I’ve bored you all with before, and do some incredible local hikes on days off.

And then there was the shit. The shit and the noise. The shit and the noise and the insane energy of 60 attention seeking, bombastic, beautiful snouts. It was harder than I expected. Even though the shifts are only 5 hours, they still left me gassed after the first few days.

On day 3, tasked with deep cleaning the inside buildings in anticipation of a school visit the next day, I almost threw in the towel. Squatting in a shit stained three-foot high cage, moping for the forth time a floor that stubbornly refused to sparkle, I thought to myself, ‘this is a weird thing to do on holiday’.

Later, reflecting on it post-shift, I had another thought, ‘just because something isn’t fun all the time, doesn’t mean you should immediately bin it off’. And the rest of the fortnight was largely a joy, even when it was hard work.

I left absolutely full of respect for Jessica and Kishor, who own/run the shelter (and the hotel we stayed in, the profits from which pay for the shelter).

Powered by their clear love for the animals, they have chosen a life that is pretty intense and non-stop. The dogs shit the same amount 365 days a year, and need attention every day. When there aren’t enough volunteers, and even when there are, Jessica and Kishor are at the shelter, very much getting their hands dirty.

Building the hotel with a view of Huascaran, the highest mountain in Peru at 6,768 meters, was also a nice touch.

Leaving the mountains 😢🗻

At the end of my fortnight at the shelter I was able to do another of the famous multi-day hikes from the region – the Santa Cruz trail.

Not only did I do it without a guide, I did it on my tod – 3 days on my own no mean feat for a committed CHS 🐶.

Like Huayhuash, the views and the vastness are totally nuts. As with all my solo walking, I spent quite a lot of time trying to mindfully and humorously bring myself back to the present, and away from fantasising about things I might cook/eat in the future, and other completely irrelevant, hypothetical logistical conundrums. E.g, wouldn’t it be nice to have, in my future home, big glass jars with industrial quantities of all my favourite dried pulses in. ‘Imagine how healthy my lunches would be… And the savings I could make vs buying cooked pulses… But wait a minute, what about the price of gas? Mate, you’re in paradise, this can probably wait’.

But after five weeks, two epic multi-day treks and a load of other day-hikes, the time has come to leave this absolute epic part of Peru/the world. I am sad to be saying goodbye. It was discovering about this region when I was in Chile in March that inspired me to come back to South America.

I’ve never been anywhere like it – the size, scale and beauty of these mountains is ridiculous. I kept trying to remind myself, gazing at another insane vista, ‘I’ll never be here again’, using that as a spur to drink it in and genuinely feel the requisite gratitude.

• Had a few beers one night and found out the local area is full of San Pedro cacti. Briefly consider cutting one open and having a bump off the end of my Swiss Army knife.
• When you think you’re the only deep cunt writing a journal, then realise everyone’s up to it. Need to think of a new USP.
• Very late to the party but I made popcorn for the first time ever. Fuck me. That shit is absolutely wild. A mesmerising, hulk-like transformation from hard little nut like thing to massive, delicious fluffy snack. Physics, bloody hell.
• Plumber in Spanish is ‘Fontanero’, ie one who takes care of fountains. Absolutely fantastic branding compared to the archetypal image of a British man with his hands in the bog, and a decent chunk of the top of his arse hanging out.
• Still pumping quite a bit, so may have had nothing to do with the altitude, as claimed in my last post. Oh…
• What do you call a heavyweight boxer who can’t stop farting? GassyAss Clay.

I’m recovering after completing the 9-day Huayhuash trek in the Cordillera Blanca mountain range in northern Peru.

The trek

At it’s simplest, the trek involved hiking around and through some of the biggest and most spectacular mountains in the world.

It was a remarkable privilege to feel a part of them, immersed in their massiveness for over a week.

It blows my mind that Ben Nevis, a beast in it’s own right, is only about 1400m high. Huarez, the city you set off from, is over 3000m. The trek took us consistently between 4500–5000m, whilst marvelling at snow-covered peaks over 6500m. High. High as fuck.

At this height, altitude sickness is a thing. I am delighted to say I coped with it significantly better than seasickness. However, one symptom I did suffer from was ‘funny stomach business’. Apparently this is caused by your body struggling to re-adjust your internal air pressure as the external atmosphere changes.

Accordingly, the first few days saw methane levels in my tent that could have been confused for another malicious leak in the Nord Stream gas pipeline.

I constantly felt like I needed a pony, only to thankfully discover, when sitting/squatting, that at 5000 meters, as at sea level, sometimes a pump is enough (over share?)

Biting down on the gum shield

The trek wasn’t quite as physically brutal as I was expecting it to be. Especially surprising as we did it unguided, which meant carrying a 20kg pack with camping gear and food.

There was one notable exception to this physically smugness. Say hello to my nemesis, the San Antonio Pass…

We made our first attempt on the evening of day 5, but had to abort when the weather closed in.

In truth, I only got out of bed at 4.30am for the second attempt because I thought it couldn’t be any worse than staying cold and tired in my snow covered tent. I was wrong.

Lacking sleep, water and food, the next 90 min, climbing ‘only’ 500m elevation over 1.5km, but from 4500 to 5000m, starting in the dark, up through thick snow was, without doubt, one of the most intense physical and mental challenges I can remember facing.

For the final 45 mins, I had NOTHING in my legs. I was reduced to looking at my feet, desperately counting my steps, taking frequent breaks to gobble snow (dangerous, apparently) and occasionally screaming or laughing hysterically to stop myself crying.

I was so ruined by the time I staggered over the top of the pass, I was barely able to take in or enjoy the insane views.

Our crew

I was convinced we could do the trek without a guide by two young, charming and ferociously bright French friends I met on my first night in Huaraz, Elizabeth and Lukas.

It quickly became clear that Elizabeth’s 15-years in the Scouts, and Lukas’s can-do attitude, we’re going to be invaluable resources.

The day before we set-off we met Emma and Chris, aka lambontherhodes.com, two of the warmest, genuine, generous souls you could ever hope to meet.

Symbiotically, over the first few days, we merged into a tight little crew and a good team.

Together we hiked, chatted, built fires, meditated, luxuriated in hot springs and even jumped into a glacial lake. We supported each other (usually with tea), as everyone took their turn to suffer at some point over the 9 days. I feel very lucky to have done the trek with such a special group of people. (Oh, and thanks for taking most of the nice photos that I’ve used here!)

Lastly… When you don’t have your little football mates with you so you can’t make dumb jokes about walking along a Liam Ridgewell, or getting a fire started with a bit of Jon Moss:

Hola amigos! Giriontour is back 🥳, with a new punchier (and likely typo ridden) format, on account of writing on my phone and not my laptop.

I’ve been in Peru for 1-week and tomorrow will be heading into the heart of the Andes to take on the mighty Huayhuash trail for the next 8/9 days. Before I do that, here’s what I’ve been up to in the last week:

I tried Inca Cola for the first time. It’s always had a place in my heart, historically sitting alongside Iron-Brew as a national fizzy pop that out-sells Coca-Cola. Unfortunately I have disappointing news. Firstly Coca-Cola is on the label so clearly I’ve not been paying attention and they’ve sold out. Secondly, it tastes like pish. Scotland 1 – Peru 0 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Lima is fucking huge. I’m sure there is a lot to love but it felt pretty hectic, polluted and the traffic was worse that Edinburgh. Stayed for 36h and then fled to the mountains.

Paddington who I can only assume is paying tribute to the Queen in some way.

Since getting to the city of Huarez in the north I’ve done two amazing hikes, to Legunas Paron and 69.

The scenery here is absolutely insane. A shit tonne of 6000 meter+ snowy peaks and plethora of picture perfect turquoise lakes.

I met an lovely German man called Björn who is trained in conscious breath work. In the common room of our hostel he did a session for me and his pal Julius. We spent an hour doing some crazy breathing techniques that unlocked lots of feelings and emotions and saw both of us oscillating between hysterical crying and laughter. Very powerful.

It was pretty timely because in the spirit of emotional honesty I’d been struggling a bit mental health wise, feeling anxious/fearful: ‘I’m too old for this/I’m a massive giri/I’m a fucking idiot for not speaking any Spanish’ etc etc. So a wobbly start. Getting into the groove now but for the first 3 days this cat was legit my best mate:

• Petition to have drones banned in areas of natural beauty?
• Decided to pack a full bottle of CK1 with my toiletries. About a third of it leaked out over my bag on day 1. Bit of a waste but all my shit smelling sensational.

I think that’s it. Hope the brevity is okay and there arenn’t to maany typos.

I will see you on the other side of this absolutely insane looking hike – huayhuash.com 🏔🥾🏕 🥳❤️

I’m experiencing a mad mix of feelings; high on the list are joy, gratitude, sadness and existential dread. I’ll try to give an overview of my final two weeks by focusing on the two factors that have made this whole experience so special, joyous and life-affirming, namely:

- PEOPLE, from the spectacularly hospitable Chileans who welcomed me into their homes, to my Greenpeace Antarctic family and the army of fellow travellers from around the world. And,

- PLANET, from the massive yet ornate Antarctic icebergs, to 6000 meter+ snow-capped volcanoes, from incomprehensibly big, blue, sweeping glaciers, to never ending deserts covered in salt.

It’s pretty obvious really, but this combination of amazing people and spectacular scenery has lit up my last three months. Trying to capture my thoughts and feelings about it feels quite daunting, but I’ll give it my best shot…

So… I’ve just spent two weeks split between the Pan de Azucar National Park, where the desert meets the sea, and San Pedro Atacama, where the desert meets the volcanos. Both extraordinary places, and a totally new experience for a man much more accustomed to desserts than deserts (think Sundaes not the Sahara, Affogatos not the Atacama, Krispy Kremes not the Kalahari).

On my first day in Pan de Azucar I met Lukas, his Mum Veronica and some of their friends. They waved me down when they saw me walking alone, gave me a drink and invited me to dinner. I ended up eating with them another four times over the next week! Their amazing energy was matched only by the quality of Veronika’s cooking. Neither speak much English, and my Spanish remains disappointingly/embarrassingly limited, but it didn’t stop us sharing food, drink and warmth & rapport– even if it often required Google translate!

The consensus seems to be that Chile is one of the least hospitable countries in South America. Reversing the ‘tallest dwarf’ analogy, of which I am a fan, to me this makes them the ‘shortest giants’ of hospitality — i.e. still fucking massive/very hospitable! Over the last six-weeks I have been welcomed into people’s homes, brought much needed aid packages of food and water and been taken care of in loads of other ways. From the European/British vantage point, the hospitality was insane, and I am going to really, really miss it.

I’ve made a career out of asking people for vast sums of money, for nothing in return but the warm, fuzzy feeling of trying (usually unsuccessfully) to help Labour win elections/prevent climate breakdown. So, it won’t shock anyone who knows me well that I had no reservations in accepting this generosity. The quid pro quo is that it’s never bothered me to be asked for help/a favour, and I try to say yes as much as I can. So, I really enjoyed that lots of people I met were really comfortable asking for a hand. At one point, in the space of 24h, I helped push a 4x4 off a beach, move a massive dog kennel to the back of someone’s house, and clean the solar panels at the Pan de Azucar lodge. The last of these earned me the nickname Gra-ham Brazos Largos (AKA Graham Long Arms). I’d be very happy if this caught on !

Next up, I got the night bus to San Pedro Atacama, where I spent 5 days exploring the desert, and rolling back the years by staying in a hostel dorm for the first time in, I think, nearly two decades. Despite somewhat fucking up my tourist tekkers, I defo allowed some late nights and poor planning to mean I missed some of the must-see attractions, I had an amazing time.

Despite (or possibly, because of) travelling on my own, the last three-months have been intensely sociable, but that went into overdrive at the ridiculously vibe-y and highly recommended Casa Voyage Hostel, where I spent time with so many wonderful people. Before I started this trip I had completely forgotten the ‘where are you from?’, ‘how long have you been away for?’, ‘what are you up to next?’ parade of questions you’re obliged to ask/answer with each new person you meet. The paradox is what whilst these intros can feel a bit forced and formulaic, I had also completely forgotten how meeting people in this context can speed up relationship building and fast-track intimacy in a fucking wonderful way.

Throughout my trip I met an unbelievable array of smart, funny, open-minded people of all ages, from many different parts of the world. Together we shared food, drink, laughs, energy, love and even vulnerability — all the good shit basically. I don’t know if I’ll keep in touch with anybody (I hope I will, and I am persistent with people I like!) but regardless, I found so many of these experiences totally joyful, fascinating and life-affirming. It also reminded me that despite going into hibernation for a few years, I remain a #CHS ’til I die (Whatsapp me if you don’t know what a CHS is and are curious). People wise, it’s been the closest thing to my life-changing first year of Uni since… my first year of Uni!

I finished my trip back in Santiago, where my new friends, Alvaro and Ale, put me up for my final night in their lovely home in the hills, 30 minutes outside the City. They cooked an amazing BBQ, made delicious pisco sours and gave me a great room/bed for a rare good night of sleep on my final night, before dropping me off at the airport. Wonderful people. If you’re reading, thank you guys!!!

Before I left I was definitely seeking solitude and wilderness. I got some of that, and it was consistently mind-blowing. But I don’t think I’d realised how much I was craving new, fun human contact. On reflection, I think I’d have gone mad if I’d got as much wilderness as I was hoping for! But I also don’t think meeting all these amazing people in a City would have delivered anything like the same experience. The people and the places magnified each others’ powers, and the combination was joyous.

Pass notes

• It’s worth being clear that amidst all this joy and adventure, I had spells where my mental health was not good. It’s weird how it fades from my memory, but I definitely had days where fear, anxiety and sadness were my overriding feelings. I guess that’s just the reality of being a human being, and by the end of the trip, that mixed tapestry of feelings almost adds to the authenticity of the experience.
• Chile has just elected a new Socialist President (who is three-years younger than me!!!) and it’s been fascinating to discuss Boric and what he is proposing to do. I’ve heard everything from wild jubilation (Viva Boric, Viva Chile!) to complete detection (He wants to take us back to the Soviet Union!’) and everything in between. And not always from the ‘usual suspects’; I spoke to older folk who are buzzing for change, and young people scared about what it will mean for their jobs and economy. I don’t understand his whole platform well enough, but he seems like a ‘pragmatic radical’ who wants to bring about real change, whilst building a big tent. And given the bloke he was up against has both Pinochet and Nazi connections, good fucking luck to him and I hope he is a success. Viva Boric, Viva Chile!
• A terrible, anxiety-inducing game you play loads when travelling is ‘how old do you think I am?’. Overshoot and you’re basically saying ‘I think you don’t look as good as you should for your age/I think you’re going to die sooner than you really should’. To ensure avoiding this awkward faux-pas, I consistently take 5–10 years off my actual guess, rendering the game pointless.
• I’ve read lots of good books in the last three months, but the pick was All The Light We Cannot see by Anthony Doerr. Not the most soothing of reads given what is going on in the world, but an astonishing account of the Second World War from the perspective of a young French girl and a German boy. Sweeping, heart-breaking and totally life-affirming all at the same time. I can massively recommend it and thank you Literature Mentor Al Wade for the tip.
• Starting on the ship and continuing to the very end, this trip and rekindled my love of the crisp sandwich. And it only works if built as a sandwich — i.e. it doesn’t taste the same if you take a bite of a sandwich and then a mouthful of crisps at the same time. Please do @ me with the physics of that one. Done right, an inexplicably marvellous combination of textures and flavours that somehow becomes more than the sum of its parts.
• Tiny bit late to the party on this one(!!!), but watched Good Will Hunting on the plane back for the first time. Incredible film. Cried a lot. I see promising futures for the young actors Damon and Affleck. 5 stars.

The joke factory has run very, very low…

• All the world’s numbers have come together to vote on getting rid of 0, because they think he’s a dickhead. It needs a clear majority to pass. Hard to see it happening. The odds are against it.

And so now the time has come to come home. I feel sad and uncertain, but not depressed or hopeless. Despite not having a job or a fixed home, I’m conscious I’ve got a lot of privilege and good luck that makes the UK a nice place to be. I made a little gratitude list to remind me of that:

• My god I miss my smart, funny and loyal gang of mates in London, Edinburgh and beyond. I am really looking forward to being back in your physical presence.
• For the next few months I’ll be staying with my wonderful family, firstly with my brother, sister-in-law and spectacularly cute niece, and then with my generous, patient, loving parents (yes I’m talking about you too, Dad).
• Riding a pretty shitty mountain bike in the desert made me remember how much I fucking love my bike and I can’t wait to get back on my #NobleStead
• I’m not coming back and having to go straight back to full-time work. Whilst I have some uncertainty about what comes next, I am lucky enough to have some wriggle room, not many responsibilities, and some interesting options.
• Even though it makes me sound like a boring old man, I’ll admit a part of is looking forward to a bit of routine again. I didn’t throw the baby out with the bathwater while I was away, but sleeping and eating better, drinking less and exercising more, will give me some extra serenity, for sure.
• Getting to watch the end of the football season with Ross and other mates, where Liverpool are going for an unprecedented quadruple, Scotland are closer to a World Cup than we’ve been for a quarter of a Century and RRFC are still, just about, in with a sniff of promotion. Squeaky bum-time all round.
• Cooking tasty, healthy food for myself and eating tasty, unhealthy food from all my favourite places.

If you’ve made it to the end — well done and thank you! I’ve enjoyed writing this and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it. Thanks to everyone who has commented, ‘clapped’ or sent me feedback. I hope I’ll be able to look back on it in years to come and remember all the fun, once my brain starts to shrivel.

Peace and love,

Graham, AKA the Gran Giri, AKA Gra-ham Long Arms x