going, going, gone

I’d only ever bought something online once before. It was a playsuit from ASOS that I was really excited about until it arrived and it may as well have been sewn by me it was so badly made. Since then, I decided that buying things online is just way too risky. You can’t try it on, you can’t feel the material and you can’t see what it really looks like in real life. It seems silly to buy something without truly testing the goods. 

(read next part in movie trailer guy voice) UNTIL... ONE DAY... I SAW... E BAY BIDDING...

A Christmas jumper for £2?! That’s great I thought so I clicked away in the hopes that I could have it for myself but was quickly warned that I needed to bid for the item and my bid needed to be above a certain amount (goddam money making bastards) so I put in a bid and received an email congratulating me on being the highest bidder! I was elated! I left like I had won a prize or that for that moment in time I was completely unique and on top of the world! I suddenly decided I liked eBay bidding and realised it could be my new favourite addiction.

Everything was going as planned until I got ANOTHER mail saying someone had out bid me. My heart dropped (the way it does when you see an ex kiss another girl/boy) and I panicked. “How dare you anonymoususer1!” I thought. I felt cheated, angry and hateful towards this person who had overidden my bid. “I’ll show you” I thought again. I fumbled over my key board and without much thought hiked my bid up by a couple of pounds. I had 1 hour and 30 mins to go and pretty much stayed glued to the screen refreshing to see if this jumper stealer had placed another bid.

My mouth became dry, my heart began to beat faster and faster as the countdown drew closer and closer. Ping! Another mail to say the same bidder had upped my bid by 50pence. HUH! “Is that all you got?!” I cursed and retaliated with an up-bid AND maximum bid. Take that fucker!

With only 1 minute on the clock and no pushback from anonymoususer1 I was getting really excited about winning this bid and even made an outloud “eeee” noise at my desk. In the last 30 seconds I noticed a link saying “learn more about bidding” which made me realise I’m a complete rooky and there is obviously some tricks and turns anonymoususer1 knows that I don’t. He’s been too quiet for too long....

5 seconds on the clock. The bases are loaded. ANNNNND..... anonymoususer1 ups his bid by 50pence in the last second! “FUCKER!” I shouted at my desk, prompting meerkat like heads from behind computer screens around my office. OH THE RAGE! I felt so exposed and a little embarrassed that I hadn’t picked up on anonymoususer1’s tactic. The final second bid. I imagined a puny computer nerd with plaque on his teeth sitting back in his chair laughing at his win right before getting called by his mother to come eat his meatloaf. I was in a glass case of emotion for about 5 minutes as I continued to search for another jumper and ended up finding one for £2 cheaper than what he paid for. MMWWOOHAHA....Till we meet again anonymoususer1

dancing 'baby goat'

When asked what we wanted to do in Greece I responded with "drink lots of ouzo!" My response was quickly followed by Mark's response, "AND ZORBA!". Yes, Mark thought Zorba was a drink. Once he found out it was in fact a Greek song and dance, the rest of the holiday somehow consisted of all kind of dancing EXCEPT Zorba. It happened mostly around The Acropolis. You'd think we would have been there for the site, but in truth it was a great dance space.

This 2 minute video highlights some of my dancing moments around Greece (with a dash of salami singing.)

My stage name 'baby goat' came from a local lady who saw me prancing around and called me a baby goat.

Fringe, minge, farts and other stories for adults

I fell in love with Scotland pretty much since I knew Paolo Nuttini existed. In truth it was secretly because of Stuart Anderson…

Actually, I have Scottish blood, so that could have a lot to do with it. Needless to say I was beside myself to be hopping on a plane to Edinburgh a few weekends ago. I expected acres of green grass, chilly weather, tasty whisky, clacky Scottish accents and of course lots and lots of gorgeous Scottish men! I got all of that and more as my time there coincided with the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. 

A slut of a festival, boasting hundreds of shows in all types of genres for all types of people. We wasted no time and kicked off our weekend with our first show hosted by none other than Mr Methane from Britain’s Got Talent.

Being very open about our eagerness to  pass wind, Dennis and I were elated to meet the man behind the mask who holds the record for the longest fart. Mr Methane is a surprisingly charming man with a great sense of humour and a unique talent to pass wind to any tune.

<Spoiler alert! His farts do not smell.>

He told us the tale of how he got into his career, the flack he had dealt with and how he brews up his farts for his performances. The acoustics were nothing short of amazing and Dennis and I were pleased to get front row seats. My favourite part of his show was when he farted The Crystals ‘da doo ron ron’ All in all Mr Methane’s show was not only different but wildly inspiring.  

Mr Methane’s show was held in a pokey book store called Bob’s Books. The owner was a pudgy, although strangely sexy on account of his humour, bearded man. He suggested we stay for the next show which was his comedic skit of stories from when he managed world tours for the likes of Snoop Dog and Bloodhound Gang. He was a charming and likeable character with natural comedic talents. I think I just liked him because he kept looking over and telling me how much he liked the 'lovely South African'. I’d definitely recommend seeing Bob the Slayer’s show should he be in your town.

Next on the show list was a proudly South African show called The Epicene Butcher and OtherStories for Consenting Adults. I couldn't be more proud of these two South African ladies who absolutely rocked the show! The performance is inspired by a traditional Japanese form of storytelling,  but the director, Jemma Khan, transformed it into something that adults can enjoy. A simple set with (what actually looked like a clothes horse) a cardboard box and some A2 cardboard slides with original art work used to aid the story telling. Several stories were told, all just as funny, clever or interesting as the next. There was even a slightly raunchy one where the story teller fakes an orgasm telling the story of a day dreaming man thinking of having sex with a woman.

The story teller was assisted by ‘Chalk Girl’ – a cheeky girl dressed in a short skirted outfit and a Japanese bob wig who helped with the transitions between stories.

I was completely blown away by the show. A captivating, unique and slightly provocative performance that should not be missed. Thanks for doing our country proud out there - a truly wonderful show!

I’ll close off this week’s blog piece with the final show we watched – 'Asking for It'. A one woman stand-up making jokes about men taking advantage of women. If you’ve heard of Jimmy Carr you’ll know that rape jokes are not something new to the comedic world. Having them told by a woman, however is something I haven’t heard of before. It’s a refreshing performance making light of something negative and Adrianna was totally charming, charismatic and held the audience's attention throughout the performance. One thing I have yet to mention is that she did the show completely bottomless. In between jokes, the lights turned off and images of men were projected onto her hoo-hoo, where her Brazilian cut either fashioned as hair or a beard.

All in all a fantastic performance and a great night out in Scotland that ended with a proposal from a local...

binned blackberry - as heard on 5FM

After yet another debaucherous night out we did the standard end of night run to Steers. We stuffed ourselves in the car and then stuffed our faces with copious amounts of Steers chips and Cream Soda. It was at this time that my phone rang – a call from my boyfriend in Australia. We chatted for a bit (although it wasn’t chatting as much as it was wonderful slurs of rubbish)  I don’t remember much after that, but I suspect I got home unharmed as I woke up the next day alive but missing something...

MY PHONE WAS GONE! Now, I always lose my phone so I am used to the steps I need to take in order to track it down, however this time I was terribly hungover and could barely string a sentence together. Mark and I searched and searched, far and wide, house and car, bathroom and bedroom, nook and cranny – you name it! I rang up my sister to see if I’d perhaps left it in her car the night before. She checked, her husband checked, but alas, no Blackberry Curve was to be found. I decided to shoot over there and supply some fresh eyes to the scene.

Upon arrival I unlocked my sister’s car and began my search. I dug and scratched and lifted and pulled and did everything else I could have done to find that phone, but the BB was nowhere to be seen.

Just then! A crazzzy thought crossed my mind… “Could it have perhaps….no, surely not! But it might have..hmmmm” Something came over me making me think that there was a good chance it could have landed in one of the Steers packets after my phone call with Dennis. I tried to convince myself I couldn’t have been that stupid, but decided to take a peek in the bins in the street outside where we’d thrown away our left overs.

Suddenly, a man comes out staring at me inquisitively and slightly stunned that a young, blonde and (if I do say so myself) very beautiful girl was scratching through the bin for.  

“Are you looking for a phone?” he asks

“YES! I AM! How did you know?” I reply

“Does it have a sort of country ring tone?”

“Well, it’s actually the theme tune to Jackass but country-ish I guess”

“I have it!” the neighbour cheerfully says

He wondered over to his car and brought out my shiny black Blackberry! (It was only shiny because it was covered in fried chop residue, not because it was new or anything)

Now, some people don’t believe in fate or being at the right place at the right time – but how ‘s that?!

1. The man was obviously hanging around the bin area when I was calling the phone prompting him to check the bins

2. The rubbish people hadn’t come to take the bins away

3. At the very moment I was looking in the bins the neighbour just happened to be outside (he was just about to leave to go elsewhere, he could have left two minutes earlier which would have changed everything)

Moral of the story: it is possible to be so stupid as to drop your phone in a chip bag

Warning: the story you heard in this blog should not encourage you to assume that if your phone is lost there is a good chance it is in the bin!

boom boody boom boody boom

This time last week I was successfully recovering from a series of unfortunate events. I went to the Freedom Festival, a trance party in the beautiful and lush cane fields of KZN.

To begin with, I was under the impression that this trance party was in Durban. About 5 minutes before we left we realised that it was in fact in Umhlali, a farming village about an hour and a half outside of Durban. We are already off schedule and still need to get booze and non-perishable goods (my festival goods usually consist of rolls, processed Melrose cheese and chips)So after spending some time collecting our goods, we head out towards Umhlali. Not knowing how the hell to get to this place I brought my GPS along.

Everything was going well until we realised we needed to draw some more cash. Getting closer towards the rural part of town, buildings, petrol stations and ATMs started to look scarce. We eventually found a Shoprite with an in house Triton ATM. But this wasn’t just any Shoprite. It was a Shoprite in a rural village and a not only that, but a Shoprite filled with locals shopping on pay day.  Alex and I were slightly taken aback by the hordes of people buying their monthly stock of walkies talkies (a South African delicacy of chicken feet and beaks) and cabbage, which was sold in semi expired looking bundles outside the shop.

We left my sister Courtney in the car while we slipped in between masses of people to find the ATM. After a successful withdrawal and a substantial amount of germs now attached to my right index finger we return to the car only to find a very distraught Courtney telling us to “get in, get in the car, get in the car now!”. After asking her what happened, she informed us that some man propositioned her for a sex act, through the window. We already felt like we needed a shower and we weren’t even at the trance party yet!

Right, so booze – check, food – check, cash – check and we were off again to the Freedom Festival. It was silly of me not to realise that GPS’ usually take you the long way around. Although we got to the road we were supposed to turn down, we entered it from the far end, taking us to, at first, a beautiful patch of sewage and then to this beautiful road to the middle of fucking nowhere.  The view was rather spectacular except, we weren’t there for the view.

Me at the sewage plant losing my mind in trying to find this place

So this is what it looks like from the middle of nowhere

The lonnng and winding road

We first-geared up this gravel dirt road, up and up and up and up. “It’s not here guys! It’s just not here!” I scream to my friend and sister. Civilisation was getting further and further away, we were 4 hours in and we still weren’t at the effing trance party!

Out of the few people we saw on the desolate road there were four little kiddie winkles who caught our attention...or was it the bird on their hands that caught it first? Understandably due to lack of PlayStations in the area these kids had been creative and tied a birds feet together in a sort of ‘dog on a leash’ style, for fun. Alex was completely distraught about this and insisted we pulled over to command them to undo the bird. 'Undo the bird' - now there's a sentence I didn't ever expect to say...

After rewarding them for letting the bird go with a bag of Fritos (or as Courtney put it, rewarded them for animal cruelty) we took stock of our situation.

Just when things couldn’t get any worse, I notice the petrol light is on. Shit. After driving up the long and winding road to nowhere, we decided to turn around. I suggest we turn the car off to reserve petrol and start freewheeling down the gravel road. Speed suddenly picks up and I try and brake. “GUYS. GUYS! The brakes! The brakes aren’t working!!” I rant. “The car has to be on for the brakes to work” Alex replies. So we stop and restart and continue on our thus far unsuccessful journey.  We start formulating plans for how we are going to get out of this situation should the petrol run out, but before we knew it (but not before effectively completing a Lion King medley) we heard the sound of bass in the distance...boom boody boom boody boom boody boom...

We made it! We had finally made it! Without any delay we pitched the tent, poured a drink and went looking for, um 'flying ants'?

One man tent for three 

We thought it would be a cool idea to buy these Mainstay cocktail drinks. Should have known not to buy box drinks…this daiquiri tasted like a genuine bum and was henceforth called ‘the bum’, ‘poo daiquiri’ or ‘arsehole cocktail’ for the rest of the night. Still sober Alex and I tried to get our trance groove on.

The poo daiquiri! 

boom boody boom boody boom

Magical

Trancing (I assume this is what you call dancing to trance) proves to be quite difficult in a sober state so we gave ourselves some time to not judge, but simply marvel at the people around us. Looks like the trancers of today like to be accompanied by a stick, which they use to create a more prominent stomping effect.  There were a lot of wannabe hippies that seem to think they can adopt the hippie state of mind by simply wearing a head band and luminous get up and say things like...

My favourite person that we met was a Santa Claus in his own right. I had been marveling at him for ages as he fiddled with his hands, looked up to the sky, threw up and caught what I assumed was an imaginary ball and basically just got lost in the depths of his mind. Next thing I knew this guy had his hand out to me in a “will you have this dance” sort of way. I wasn’t sure what to do and told him so. “It’s trance. You can do whatever you want with it. It’s your toy. Play with it” So I take the imaginary toy (that I wish I was high enough to see) and pop it on my shoulder. He went on to make a toy for each of us that night (and also pulled my hair trying to "catch Alex’s one")

My second favorite person was a somewhat elderly lady (one of the more genuine hippy types) who propositioned us for a 'giggle spin'. Of course I assumed this was some kind of drug but I was wrong. She asked us to all make a circle, hold hands and then spin spin spin around until we were in fits of laughter. It started off quite awkwardly, but we got into it quite quickly and next thing I hear this poor lady say "wait. not so fassst!". The giggle spin was definitely a highlight for me.

The creative art displayed was beautiful, the location was amazing and most of all everyone looked like they had a dang all good time.

The trance floor to be

Alex on left and Toy Maker on right

Fire starter!

The night went on and the music didn't change much.  boom boody-boom boody-boom boody-boom. That’s not to say that I don’t like it but, oh wait for it, waaaait for ittttt, boom boody-boom boody-boom boody-boom. Alex and I incessantly joshed annnndddd waait for it YES boom boody-boom boody-boom boody-boom. Enough to make you moggy after a good few hours, so Alex and I retired to the back seats of the car and called it a night. Of course (and by no means to our surprise), we awoke to…you guessed it! The boom boody-boom boody-boom boody-boom bass beat. We were all tranced out and headed back home (on the right road this time).

steak,eggs and strips (property of @raisin'ell)

On the first night back in my home province we skipped dinner and went straight out for drinks. A couple hours in, we realised we had been foolish for not eating something beforehand and suggestions started flying for where we could get something to eat. "Teazers has food" one of my friends eagerly states. Didn't take much to convince me, and not long after we finished our rounds of brandy and coke we headed to Teazers in Durban.

I knew what to expect from a strip club but I didn't know what to expect from the food. R150 for all you can eat (and stare really) and it was goooorg-eous. I was surprised to be served such a hearty and wholesome meal at this sort of establishment. One would have though it would have been more finger foods (errhm) but no, it was a full on 'help yourself' buffet. The table was fully equipped with warming trays, stylish cutlery, sauces, spices and a delicious array of curries, chicken and vegetables. Most women wouldn't feel comfortable scoffing face with lovely slim ladies prancing about scantily clad but I was one of the first folk up. It was dark in there, so not always easy to see what you're getting but I could make it out every few seconds when the fuchsia pink party light came around to the corner of the room.

It was so funny to watch these men oogle  at their table dancer, pay her for her services, adjust their pants, engage in an awkward gaze at each other and then step over to the dinner table to dish up some grub.

Eating at the club was only part of the nights events as shortly after our meal a bachelor stepped up onto stage. Apparently the deal is that the MC asks the bachelor's friends' how many lashings (the whipping kind) he should get with his own belt. "15!" they all shout. Already my non existent balls are clenching. The stripper struts about around him and begins to take off his clothes, while the MC belittles this poor man. Eventually she gets to his pants and removes the belt in one swift pull. The bachelors face looks nervous, but quickly turns into a face of fear as both the MC and stripper tell him to get on his knees and hold the pole. He reluctantly (although trying not to look so) gets down onto his knees for his whipping. The stripper and MC belittle him a little more and tell him to stick out his backside. THWACK! The stripper whips this poor groom-to-be's bum. The friends cheer, the audience laughs and I gawk and sweat at the thought of having this done to me. Utter pain. The whippings continued until about 10 or so and then the violation was over. Or was it?

After his lashings, he is forced to sit on his bum and down a glass of red and white spirits, which I was later told was a mix of white rum, red zappa, vodka and white tequila. Well! If a whipping doesn't kill you, this sure will!

I met my very first Ukrainian there too. Not only did she have lovely breasts and could dance her socks (and zip down dress off) but who survived the Chernobyl disaster. It was all very exciting! Although, I felt very awkward after asking her how she got here...

Shortly after the show, it was home time. Our tummies were full, eyes were tired from feasting them on all the stripping and whipping and I'd had my fair share of brandy and cokes. But in truth, we mostly left because they started playing "Bands that Make her Dance" and I simply loathe that song with all my being...

Indian shamans and nesting demons

The cubicle was covered in newspaper clippings, old flowers, sticky taped drawings and just a whole load of other crap (of course it reeked on incense as well) I wasn't 100% sure what the deal was, but I asked a lady who had just finished up in there and she said it was 100 bucks to have your palm read by this Indian shaman. Of course I realised it would more than likely be scam but an interesting experience nevertheless.

So I go in there and sit down. He takes my name and date of birth. He also asks me what time I was born. "I don't really remember as I was quite young when it happened." I answer. Firstly, he types all of this into a computer. Really? Since when do these spiritual healers operate from Windows? He then grabbed my thumbs and started mouthing off. "COULDN'T UNDERSTAND A WORD!"  Then in mid reading he says "have you done my yoga?" I answer no and next thing I know I'm lying on the floor and he's clicking his fingers, rubbing my legs, touching my 'heart', mumbling prayers and calling me "my daughter". Counting back from ten and mumbling in between I assumed he was trying to hypnotise me and had a moment of panic when I thought he might be trying to cast some kind of a spell on me. He also kept telling me to be "more loooooosssse", obviously doesn't know me at all.

After the 'yoga' (which wasn't really yoga at all) he insists I buy my birth stone from him - topaz -  (which isn't even my birth stone) and then continued to insist I come to his yoga classes in Camps Bay. Camps Bay? So this shaman uses Windows and lives in Camps Bay? Sure never met this kind of upgraded spiritual healer before. So after all this spiritual foreplay he says:

Shaman: That will be R200.
Me: R200?! I thought it was R100?
Shaman: No. It's 100 for the palm reading and 100 for the yoga.

Not a fuck bru. I told him I was only going to pay him R100 only, as that was the going rate and it wasn't made clear that the yoga was extra.

Shaman: No, it's fine my daughter. I trust you. You can bring it to me tomorrow or the next day.
Me: Uhm, no mister you're not getting me. I'm not paying it at all.
Shaman: Nooo it's fine.
Me: Uhm. No ( I start to walk out the room)
Shaman: The balance is 100 then (I hear after I have left the cubicle)

I wondered if it was a bad idea to mess with a shaman by not giving him his money as I have no idea what he was doing to me on the floor, but took my chances and didn't go to his fancy Windows computer infested Camps Bay house.

Anyway, so that being said I go home and tell everyone about my awesome scam of a time at the expo and eventually turn in to bed. I wake up to a scratching above my head. shick shick shick shick. I sit up right in bed and turn on the light a little freaked out. shick shick shick shick. My throat tightens up the way it always does when I get a lil' scared. The scratching continues above me through the ceiling and occasionally thumps. This goes on for hours and my mind starts to reel with fear at what this scratching could be. That fuckin' shaman! He's released something on me because I didn't pay. I started envisioning a demon like woman crouching down on the floor (effectively the ceiling above me) scratching the ground with long black nails waiting to attack. I was genuinely convinced that this is what was happening. Kind of like a 'Drag me to Hell' kind of thing. Piss off the gypsy and she will release demons on your ass.

"You shamed me!"

The time went 3am and I carefully picked up my phone.

Mark: Heelooooo (in a sleepy groggy voice)
Me whispering: I'm so sorry to call you so late my friend but I'm freaking out. There is this weird scratching noise coming from the ceiling and I don't know what it is.
Mark: A mouse?
Me: NO! It's something else. I saw this shaman today and didn't pay him and what if he has released something on me.
Mark: I'm sure it's a mouse
Me: Listen! (hold up the phone to the ceiling)
Mark: No, I can't hear it

Eventually the scratching stopped and I finally fell sleep. Turns out it was just birds nesting. Oh, how foolish I felt. Moral of the story. Never trust a shaman and birds nesting sounds an awful lot like a demon lady.

get lost

Today wouldn't be the first time I’ve ended up in a township on account of my bad sense of direction. I ended up in Khayelitsha today instead of Parow. I’m not sure at what point in my life I decided I was terrible with directions or what happened to me that put me off maps. I was never great at geography (I once thought Cape Town was on the way to Zimbabwe for example) and always found myself with people who did know how to read a map, so never bothered really. Because of my misfortune regarding my poor navigation skills it means that I don’t get caught up in those annoying travel arguments about which road we should take, which route is better, safer, faster, harder blaa blaa, so that’s great. When I am alone, however this weakness of mine results in me finding myself in some pretty dodgy situations.

I've had many encounters I could share about, where I've ended up, how I accidently got there, where I was supposed to be going and where I actually ended up but I will go on to share just two of these...

After a night out clubbing in Claremont I attempted to get myself out of the hustle and bustle of the southern suburbs and back to the Atlantic seaboard. After the usual “I’m going guys, how do I get outa here” speech, Alice (my lovely and faithful Hyundai Atos at the time) and I headed home. As always, I started the trip off with some music and began singing along. After I got to about track 12 or so I realised I should at least be on the M3 by now? But I wasn't.  In fact, I didn’t know what high way I was on. I had done it again. Lost, lost, lost in the depths of the night with no one to help me. Or was there? I phoned up one of me ole faithful friends who OVER THE PHONE managed to direct me out of the mess I was in, at 3 o clock in the morning. He talked me through the whole thing from where I was to the front of his house. Devin’s friend package must have come with a ‘personal GPS’ fine print.

This was bad, but not my worst. After, of course, another clubbing night out in Woodstock me and some mates hopped into my rentacar to drive back to where we were staying in Observatory (for my foreign readers, Woodstock and Observatory are two suburbs RIGHT NEXT TO EACH OTHER  only an idiot could mess up getting between these two places. Well, an idiot and me.) Everything was going swimmingly. We were actually a few roads away from the house until someone mentioned Steers. We just couldn’t say no to Steers, so we turned back to grab some burgers at the Woodstock Steers. After smashing our guts we sped off into the night with the intention of (once again) going to Observatory. All we had to do was stay on the upper main road (at that time I didn’t know there was an upper and lower FYI) “Where the fuck is the street? Are we definitely on main road?” I asked. “Just keep going, I’m sure we’ll get there.” Mark answers. Well, we drove and drove and drove and eventually there were less people, less lights, less buildings and we had reached our unintended destination…fucking Kensington!! I hadn’t even heard of such a place even after living in Cape Town for 5 years. “How the vok do we get outa here?!” I ask, stuffing my face with Steers chips in a confused and alarmed state. “Just keep going, I’m sure we’ll get there.” Mark answers. Epping, Somerset West, Bellville, the signs of places in the opposite direction to where we were supposed to be going kept appearing. AIRPORT!! Finally, after about an hour of driving around we found a turn off we recognised. I was so excited I completely missed the turn off. Back to Epping we go then, we circled back around and down and eventually managed to get back on the right track. I am 99.9% sure I am the ONLY one who has managed to get lost between two suburbs RIGHT next to each other that are connected by an obvious main road. They say getting lost is a great way to find yourself or perhaps it’s more like getting lost is a great way to find yourself in crazy situations.

club 69

Sexuality and the circus.  I can't think of a better combination of things for an enjoyable night out!

In typical Argentine style the club only opens at 1am. 'Niceto club' is your average club with an awesome twist of themed nights. On Thursday night the club transforms in Club69 - a carnival meets club/theater I suppose, with boobs and break dancers, trannies and fannies, people and performances.

We were greeted at the door by two fervent characters with heavy make up and fabulous costumes. A transvestite in a nurse type outfit with a giant thermometer she used to either, jokingly, put between your legs or under your arm and a flamboyant man with a huge feather on his head and a toy accordion.

I was already excited about being in the club just from the welcome at the door. We moved further into the depths of the club to see two gorgeous young ladies kitted out in carousel headdresses, pink wigs and corsets, an over the top go go boy on the podium pole and a ripped cupid flailing about.  The sexual energy, intrigue and excitement in the club was off the charts. I couldn't help but be jealous of these people's tasks and responsibilities as employees of Club 69. What an awesome job it must be to dress up and entertain people as you please! I assume more than anything that they don't have an office sexual harassment policy.

I was so busy swanning around the club staring and chatting to all these magical characters that I didn't see the man in the red and white tux approach me. He grabbed my hand and escorted me to the bar where two beautiful...sex Goddesses I suppose you could call them...were handing out free tequila shots. It was up to you how you wanted it. Next thing I knew one of these ladies is pouring salt on my hand and the other is feeding me tequila.

After some time admiring the club, the on stage show began. Singing, dancing, miming, touching, kissing and just pure love broke out on stage. I was totally captivated - what a great show! And what a great idea combining the stellar elements of a night club with sex and crazy sexual characters.

 I'm sad to say we missed this part of the evening, but a good time was had by all nevertheless!

Club 69 Website

swingers and mingers

Where do I begin to tell you about what we did last night?

After much discussion, we decided to visit a swingers bar. Not with the intention of swinging, but for curiosity sake. It's a normal set up club where you can drink and dance so there's no pressure to get your pants off if you're not into it. The bar is open to everyone -  straights, singles, couples, gays , transvestites, old and young. Five stories with different levels for different activities - dance floor, bar, singles room, sex rooms, pool area and sex shop. Single women get in for free, couples get a reduced rate, single men pay the full price (guess it's coz a loner girl hovering around a club like that is less creepy than a single man hovering about).Wednesday's are lingerie nights which means you have to be in the club in only your lingerie, so we
de-suited down to our bras and boxers and headed out to Anchorena swingers bar!

I insisted that although they say that Wednesday is lingerie night there was no way they would force you to take your clothes off when you got there. "You are obligated to be in your underwear" was one of the first things the bouncer informed us of on arrival. I thought wrong. We were taken up to the locker area where a busty older lady gave us the run down of the do's and don'ts.

- you can't join in group sex unless you are invited. You can ask to join in by touching the persons hand, if they pull away it's a no if they don't you can "join in" (Mr G)
- if you entered as a couple you have to leave as a couple
- if you entered as a couple you can only enter the singles room as a couple
- the singles room is the only place the singles can go
- you can only smoke upstairs

So after the rule run down we awkwardly shimmied over to the bar in our undies and ordered a drink (needless to say the barmen pours them strong, which must be a prerequisite of being a bar man in a club where people have to be semi naked). It was disappointing but by no means surprising that most of the people in there weren't very good looking or in good shape. I was happier for it traipsing around exposed in my undies.We drink quickly and feast our eyes on semi naked couples making out, a tranny dancing around a pole on the stage, an old woman grinding up on her partner and a couple of singles dancing on their own (to 'I saw the sign' by Ace of Base which I found quite humorous).

We decided to explore and went to sit up in the pool area where my girlfriend and I were gawked at to no end. We knew it was going to be a 'flies on poo' moment when Dennis left us to get more drinks. Almost immediately after he left a stringy looking man with glasses approached the bench. "Do you want to have a threesome?". We weren't there for that kind of thing so just smiled and politely refused. He came back and asked again a few times after that. We were also approached by a dark Cuban man who asked us what our expectations were for the evening. Of course you don't want to say that you just came to see what kind of people actually do this kind of thing so we just answered with a "we're just here to have some drinks and fun". There were a couple more.

It was strange but kinda liberating just sitting around in your undies. There's no clothing cover ups or ways to hide what your real body looks like and that's a nice concept I think.We met a tranny who told us about how he was a dude by day and dame by night and on our way out a fairly good looking couple asked us if we wanted to join them in the room (which of course is complete with mirrors and plastic sheets). A woman in her 60's also groped my arm and smiled, asking me to sit with her and there was plenty more where that came from. You can see people romping behind curtains and what not, it's all very "what the fuck?!" but the most creepy part of the evening was going into the singles room. It's dark, so you can barely see what's going on but when we got in there it was like we'd entered zombieland. All these dudes just trying to feel you up (although everyone seems respectful in that they don't grope your privates or anything, just stroke your hands and arms).The three of us clung together (the only people who were doing it for protection rather than pleasure) squealed, eeekked and wormed our way out.

By the end of the night people were getting loose and there was even a man running around with his willy out. We decided it was home time so collected our plastic bags of clothes from the locker area and headed home. If you're open minded and looking to do something interesting I would suggest you swing on by to Anchorena.

Anchorena Website

take me to your willy!

I peel myself off the taxi’s seat and slowly stumble into Cuzco airport. Barely being able to carry my backpack I hobble to the nearest TACA airline desk to check in for my flight back to Montevideo. Dripping with sweat and shaking like leaf I push my passport to the lady at the counter. She looks concerned and I feel relieved that someone may actually care about the immense illness I am feeling. She takes my passport.

Lady: Where are you going?

Me: Montevideo

Lady: What are you doing there?

Me: I live there

Lady: Do you have a residency card?

Me: No, I am only living there for two more days

(flip flip flip – the lady flips through my passport)

Lady: When will you leave Uruguay?

Me: Saturday

Lady: And where will you go?

Me: Buenos Aires. I can show you my ticket leaving Uruguay if you like

(Hand over my phone. The lady seems happy with what she sees and hands me back my phone)

It was at this point that she signals a man dressed in ordinary clothes to come over to the desk. They speak in Spanish for a while. I am barely standing , with my hands and head on the counter and sobbing a little  waiting for my tickets when the man dressed in ordinary clothes comes round the front of the desk and flashes his police badge at me.

Man: I am the police, come with me, I need to check your bags

Me in my head: oh for fuck sakes!

We walk towards the interrogation room and on the way he asks.

Man: Why are you crying?

Me: I am very sick. I just finished the 4 day Inka trek up Dead Woman’s Pass and I think I have altitude sickness from the descent.

(Man looks like he doesn’t believe me)

He opens the wooden door with the Peruvian police crest on it where there are two other people waiting, a surly older man and a young nicer looking woman. I greet them and ask if I can sit down as once again I struggle to stand. I sit down and rub my stomach as it is cramping up from the sickness. They stare at me and speak in Spanish for a while and then the interrogation starts. 

I watch too much Banged Up Abroad because I was convinced that perhaps this was all a set up and someone had put something in my bag yadda yadda yadda but didn’t want to look nervous as this would make them suspicious. I slump down into my seat with a “I’m not bovered” look on my face, but am still sweating from the fever. He starts unpacking my bag.

Man: When did you get here?

Me: 7 days ago.

Man: And this is all you brought with you?

Me: Yes, I went hiking so didn’t want to bring too many things.

Man: But they have porters? Why did you want to carry it?

Me: Because they are expensive! 100 dollars and I’m strong, I wanted to carry my bag.

Man: Where did you stay?

Me: Pariwana hostel (I show him my entrance bands)

Man: Why are you sick?
Me: Like I said, I just came back from the Inka trail trek. I am tired and have altitude sickness.

Man: Are you alone?

Me: Yes.

Man: Did you meet people here?

Me: Yes, but only the people from my tour group. I can show you photos of the trip if you like.

(of course my battery was flat so that option was short lived)

Man: Have you been eating drugs? Show me your tongue!

I stick my tongue out which is as white as a Brit in Winter (and Summer) but only because I am not well. All three of the officials’ oooh and aaah at my tongue as if to say “she is definitely on something”.

Man: Did you smoke? (brings his index and thumb finger to his lips imitating the action of smoking a doobie)

Me: No! Not at all! I only had one beer yesterday.

Man: Can you do this? He crouches down on the floor and bounces up and down on his haunches.

Why yes I can. I crouch down on the floor and bounce up and down on my haunches and then open my hand up to the sides like “see, no drugs” and sit back down.

The questioning continued.

Why do you only have one bag?

Where do you work?

Peru is big why are you only here for 7 days?

What were you doing in Montevideo?

Does your phone work here?

How long will you be in South America?

Why do you only have one bag?

When did you get these shoes?

Where did you get them?

How much did you pay for them?

Why do you only have one bag?

I suggest that he looks through my phone so he can see mails from my tour operator or any other e-mails from work or friends to prove I’m not a fucking drug mule.

Man: Who is Dennis?

Me: My boyfriend.

Man: Who is Willy?

Me:That is my nickname. Willy bum bum or willy head, that’s what we call each other (this was the only time I thought the situation was funny)

The man told me that the woman was going to take me into the room and search my body. “Happy to” I thought. She took me to another room where I had to lift my shirt and take off my shoes.  I am still completely paranoid that my bags are now left in another room with the two men and they may slip something in there while I am gone. I am still holding my tummy and as I walk back into the other room the older man shakes his head at me as if to say “she has swallowed something”.

Man: Why haven’t you gone to the doctor? Yadda yadda yadda

I will do anything you need to show you that I am not carrying anything. I will blllpffftt (I make a farting sound with my mouth as I don’t know what pass a stool is in Spanish) or bleeeaaah (I make a vomiting sound with my mouth as I don’t know what vomit is in Spanish) or you can call anyone I know or anyone you are suspicious of to get this over and done with. “Just tell me what I can do!”

Man: How can we trust you?

Me: Well, you don’t know me so how could you know if you can trust me? What I can tell you is that I have a family and boyfriend who I love very much. I am young, healthy, work hard and love to travel. This is why I am here.

He looks at me unsatisfyingly and says “help me pack your bags”.

Finally! I can go! But this wasn’t the end.  I had told them I was sick, which I was and they had asked me why I hadn’t gone to the doctor so now I figured just to further prove that I had nothing to hide I would go to the emergency rooms in the airport. I had a 6 hour lay-over in Lima so figured it wouldn’t be the worst thing to get something for my pain and fever. The medical place was right next to the police wing. I sprawled in there and tried to explain to the nurse how I felt. She called a doctor and next thing I knew I was on a bed with the nurse over me with a giant needle.“ah shit, nice one Chanelle, you’re about to get an injection of who knows what from Peruvian makeshift medi clinic”

The doctor told me I had a bad stomach infection and this would make me go to sleep for 10 or 15 minutes and that it would make me feel dizzy if I tried to get up. Now at this point I am super paranoid and thinking “what if this is a set up? They drug me, put drugs in my bag then have someone waiting for me in Lima?!” 

I fought to stay awake and could barely string a sentence together. The doctor came and took my airplane tickets which intensified my paranoia even more. In the end one of the TACA airlines attendants came in with a wheelchair to take me to the plane and I had nothing to worry about. My bags were clean, my bottom and tummy was drug free (it always had been) and eventually I got back to Uruguay.

Never a dull moment.