Frandwich

This morning I sat squashed tightly between more people than is legal in a taxi crossing the border into Peru. They seemed to be laughing. Probably at me. To cheer myself up before I left my cosy hostel I reread articles about how it is most likely that your bag will be stolen on this journey. Thus I´m wearing my hiking boots and entire red jacket collection as they´re most expensive to replace. I´d much rather buy a replacement llama bikini later, than use my North Face fleece today. I´d be wearing my sleeping bag if I could.


Whilst I was revising the scams online this morning something compelled me to read up on how exactly the French travelling girls were brutally raped and murdered by their tour guide here. This has not helped my willingness to go anywhere with anyone. The old lady trying to help me with my border crossing queue and papers had to prod me to follow her.

Well, I arrived safely in Peru with four hours to spare. Just like catching a train from Sheffield to Leeds in the old days, when Bob would join me as the train doors opened, my nerves worn to the bone, and she rosy cheeked and not having to buy her ticket.

Oh good, and Peru is two hours behind, so an extra two hours of waiting. At least the confusing earthquake alarm and evacuation test killed some time.