The Young Ones

The Lingo Loco!

Chapter 11: The Young Ones

We creep out of the hostel at the crack of dawn and purchase

a bus ticket to the legendary Inca City of Cusco. The

bus cranks into gear and pulls nosily out of the station,

spitting thick black exhaust fumes over the people below.

Some of them choke while others close their eyes and simply

accept the situation.

I drift in and out of sleep until we arrive in the dusty

town of Juliaca. It’s early afternoon and the sun is high in

the sky. There are hardly any cars or motorbikes about, just

bicycle taxis that seem to dominate the unpaved roads. I

slide open the bus window and stick my head outside.

Through watery eyes I see little rosy cheeked Peruvians

with bowler hats and thick ponchos looking up at me from

the street below. We’re high up in the clouds now, 3,855

metres to be precise. The journey has been fascinating. We

crossed the desolate mountains and small rural communities

of the Peruvian Andes, and drove through the icy clouds

and saw puddles of frozen water at the roadside. My camera

has been working overtime, and I line up a shot out of the

window and take a picture of a woman holding a baby in

the back of a bicycle taxi. The bus pulls over and two backpackers

with thick wooly jumpers and scarves on climb

aboard. They smile and sit down in front of us. The guy

with the thin-framed glasses and goatee beard is incredibly

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stressed, and shouts in Spanish at his travelling companion.

A head pops up over the seat in front. ‘How you doing,

mates? My name is Franco! De donde?’

‘Oh, uh, Inglaterra,’ I reply.

‘Cool! We are from Argentina, mates,’ he continues. ‘I am

travelling with my cousin.’

The guy with the glasses remains seated, but glances

over his shoulder and smiles.

‘We travelled here from Buenos Aires,’ Si grins.

‘You like my country, mates?’

‘Yeah, it’s beautiful. Nice wine.’

Franco flicks his scarf over his shoulder and points a

finger at Si. ‘This guy is not wrong, but I have been in

South Africa and Australia, mates. The wine is good there,

too.’

‘You seem to have picked up a bit of an Australian

accent.’

‘Thanks, mates,’ he smiles.

Franco is a big lad with thick stubble and short black

hair. He has a red llama wool scarf wrapped around his

neck. His cousin is thinner with finer hair and round

glasses. We discover they are both students in La Plata, a

city south of Buenos Aires, and had decided to go on a trip

together during the summer holidays. Franco informs us

that many Argentineans come to Peru to visit Machu

Picchu at this time of year, and that Cusco is the historic

party town they’d been looking forward to visit the most.

We thunder across the wide open landscape for a few

hours, which gives us plenty of time to become acquainted

with the Argentinean guys, and by the time we’re halfway

into our journey we’ve all agreed to find a hostel together

and paint the town red. In between catnaps and light conversation,

we begin to see snow-capped mountains and

herds of llamas grazing at the roadside. There are very few

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roads out here, yet we see remote settlements in the middle

of nowhere. It’s a hard life being poor in Peru, and the ramshackle

houses are some of the worst we’ve seen on our

travels so far. We pass through a beautiful valley with an

angry river, and cruise through a tranquil town with mud

wall houses and thatched roofs. Smoke swirls into the air

from chimneys and kids run barefoot along the riverbank.

Franco informs us we’re close to Cusco, and resting my

head against the window I smile at the prospect of exploring

the mysterious Inca City of Machu Picchu.

It’s dark and overcast when the driver sounds his horn and

pulls into the Cusco bus terminal. Franco and his cousin

are the first ones on the platform, so we quickly grab our

bags and follow close behind. Making our way through the

barrier, Franco dashes over to a taxi outside and waves us

over.

‘Let’s get a taxi to the Plaza de Armas!’ he shouts. ‘We’ll

find a hostel there.’

We leap into the back and wait for the guys to instruct

the driver. Franco’s cousin tries to negotiate the fare and

the driver fires a price at him. He frowns and looks unhappy

and they begin to argue. Franco joins in and I turn to Si

and shrug my shoulders. Then the cousin swings open his

door and climbs out.

‘What’s going on?’ Si cries.

‘The driver is taking piss, mates,’ Franco replies with a

disappointed look on his face.

‘Well, can’t we just get to the plaza and pay what’s on the

meter like everyone else. It’s been a long journey.’

Franco nods and shouts at his cousin, who sighs and

slumps back inside the taxi. The taxi flies through this

ancient Inca capital, passing incredibly well preserved

Inca walls dating back to AD1100. Despite a slight chill in

the air and dark rain clouds hovering above our weary

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heads, I’m excited to have arrived and can’t wait to explore

the city. The taxi screeches to a halt beside the Plaza. We

climb out and look in awe at the amazing colonial churches

and the huge water fountain. Flicking the guidebook open

Si picks out a hostel located on Cuesta San Blas, a steep

cobbled street not too far away. All of a sudden the clouds

burst open, and the hundreds of tourists milling around

the streets dive for cover and throw on waterproof plastic

ponchos or raincoats. Downpours appear to be a regular

occurrence here in Cusco and, completely unprepared as

usual, we resign ourselves to getting drenched and dodge

the many brightly coloured plastic people running

through the streets. The rain falls harder, and quickening

our pace we struggle up the steep hill and collapse

through the glass doors of the hostel. The woman behind

reception looks outside at the rain and then smiles at us

standing there like four drowned rats. To our left is a

delightful courtyard with a colourful glass roof and comfy

looking sofas. There’s internet in the corner and interesting

paintings hanging from the walls. Hoping it’s not going to

be too expensive, I step forward and ask for the price of a

room. It’s just inside our budget, although, the Argentinean

guys look a little unsure. I feel sympathetic towards them,

knowing that with the devaluation of the Argentinean

peso, travelling in Peru is now very similar in price to

travelling in their own country. I can relate to this, as the

idea of staying in hotels in England for a few weeks would

be virtually impossible for us. Despite their hesitation, the

guys agree to stay for a couple of nights. I follow Chris up

the stairs and we throw our bags into room 12, which has

a fantastic view of the city out of the window.

‘How’s your room?’ Franco asks, poking his head around

the door.

‘This place is great,’ I smile. ‘Cusco seriously rocks

socks!’

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‘Rocks socks?’ Franco laughs, sitting on the edge of my

bed. ‘I like those words, mates.’

‘Well they’re yours.’

‘Thanks, mates.’

‘Hey, no problem…so, what’s the plan?’ Si asks, turning

on the TV mounted on the wall.

‘Well, I was thinking we could…’ Buffy the Vampire

Slayer springs up on the screen. Franco stops talking and

we all crane our necks and watch with open mouths, as

she kicks the living shit out of some dude with spiky white

hair. The fight finishes and it flicks to a boring office

scene, so Franco continues, ‘…go and eat.’

‘Yeah, and let’s check out the bars, too!’ Si yells, beating

his chest.

‘That is not a problem. In Puno we met an Alaskan girl

called Mary-Jane on a boat trip to the islands.’

Si smiles. ‘Is she pretty?’

‘Yes,’ Franco nods enthusiastically. ‘She invited us to a

party tonight. We should go!’

‘OK, sounds cool!’

‘But my cousin has headache. It must be the altitude, so

he stays here.’

‘I suppose it is over three-thousand metres,’ I reply.

Franco looks incredibly serious for a moment. ‘Yes, I

think we must be careful not to drink too much alcohol

tonight.’

Si laughs out loud. ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘We should not drink many beers tonight, one or two.

The altitude can be dangerous.’

‘Franco, please tell me you’re joking?’

He cracks a smile. ‘Yes, I joke with you. It’s time to get

pissed, mates!’

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* * *

Passing a line of souvenir shops we make our way down

the slippery cobbled street, and stop outside a café displaying

some kind of a promotion. For less than £1 you get

a starter, a main course and a dessert. It sounds right up

our alley, so we grab a table and order some beers. We

spend the next hour devouring the food and chatting about

the amazing bus journey from Arequipa. We ask Franco

about his life in La Plata, and he tells us about Argentina’s

turbulent past and the Dirty War from 1979 to 1983, when

the military government killed up to 30,000 people in

Argentina. Men in suits driving black Ford Falcons kidnapped

students, teachers and even nuns for protesting

against the military government, and threw them from

helicopters into the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a sad story and I

can see that even though Franco was too young to remember

these awful times in his country, his parents may certainly

have known people among the disappeared. Chris quickly

changes the subject and tells Franco about our journey

from Buenos Aires, and our mission to travel through the

Amazon to the Brazilian border where we’ll go in search of

the real Carnival. He loves the idea, and tells us about his

uncle who travelled the entire Atlantic Coast of South

America from Buenos Aires to Belem in the north of

Brazil. He returned with stories of an amazing Carnival in

a historic city in the Northeast of Brazil called Olinda.

‘You will not regret going to this place, mates!’ Franco

cries, raising his beer. ‘It is the ultimate Carnival!’

‘It sounds awesome,’ Chris smiles flicking a cigarette into

his mouth.

‘The Brazilians are very liberal people. I would like to go

there someday.’

‘Come with us!’ I cry.

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Franco shakes his head. ‘No, it not possible right now, I

have exams when I return home. For sure I go before I die,

but tonight we are in Cusco, an ancient city on top of the

world, and I intend on getting pissed, mates!’

We all laugh and raise our beers.

Heading back into the street, Chris grabs a bottle of Bacardi

rum from a small local shop near to Plaza San Blas. It has

finally stopped raining, and with a skinful of beer to keep

us warm we lose ourselves in the ancient narrow side

streets and eventually arrive at the house. Franco presses

a buzzer and, as if by magic, the gate swings open and a

smiley blonde haired girl springs into view. She looks

radiant in jeans and a tight white T-shirt with ‘Happy Girl’

written across her breasts.

‘Franco, you made it!’ she screams, throwing her arms

around his neck.

Franco introduces us both to Mary-Jane, and she excitedly

invites us inside. We follow a garden path down to the

house, and walk past a large window where we can see

people standing in the front room. I take a deep breath and

step inside. We first meet Lisa, an Australian woman who

owns a restaurant near to the Plaza and who shares this

house with an American girl. We’re led through the cosy

house, with its colourful décor and wooden flooring, and

are introduced to Lisa’s friends.

‘Hey, more dudes have arrived!’ an American guy shouts

from the kitchen.

We pop our heads around the corner and smile at a thin

guy with brown decaying teeth and unwashed hair, who’s

sat smoking a joint at a table. He’s wearing a creased Tshirt

with a faded image of Che Guevara on it.

‘How’s it going?’ I smile.

‘Fucking awesome,’ he laughs, taking a long puff on his

joint. Smoke bellows out of his mouth and his dark eyes

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roll back in their sockets. ‘Fuck, man, this shit is good!’ he

cries looking down at the joint between his dirty fingers.

‘Want some?’

Walking over to the table, I take the joint and suck hard

on the roach and start coughing.

‘Wow, strong stuff,’ I grin, handing it back.

‘Yeah, my buddy gets it for me. He’s a cop!’

‘You’re kidding?’

Lisa laughs. ‘No, it’s true. Yankee rents a room next to the

police station.’

‘Safest place for a smoker,’ he winks. ‘You don’t shit on

your own doorstep.’

Mary-Jane enters the kitchen and slaps Franco on the

ass. ‘Where are your drinks, guys?’

‘Hey, MJ, are you trying to get these studs drunk already?’

Yankee cackles.

‘Don’t listen to a word Yankee says he’s full of shit.’

He pulls hard on the joint. ‘Hey, stoners have ears, too,

you know…and for your information everyone is full of

shit.’

Mary-Jane pours us all a drink and shakes her head at

Yankee, who is doubled over and choking his lungs out.

‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ she smiles.

We’re led into the front room where we’re quickly introduced

to her friends. Chris gets chatting to Jilly, an attractive

woman in her thirties who works for an Ad-agency in San

Francisco. She was born in England, but moved to California

with her parents when she was sixteen. I fall into conversation

with her friend Debbie, who is thirty-nine and also from

the States. I’m intrigued to learn she’s retired and made a

fortune selling her shares in the software company she

worked for. She looks like a woman who enjoys her food,

and is dressed quite casually in a pair of black jeans and a

navy blue jumper.

‘So you’re retired?’ I ask inquisitively.

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‘Sure am.’

‘You don’t work?’

‘Not anymore. I worked for the company for eleven years

so it’s nice to relax now, even though I get a little bored

sometimes.’

‘Bored?’

‘Only very occasionally, you understand. I’ve been busy

investing my money in real estate and I paint pictures of

the naked body.’

‘Wow, that sounds like fun,’ I smile, raising my eyebrows.

‘Do you need a model?’

She looks me up and down. ‘Possibly, are you available?’

‘Yes, but I charge a million pounds an hour.’

Debbie laughs. ‘Hey, I’m not that rich.’

‘I bet that’s a nice feeling, isn’t it?’

‘Painting the naked body?’

‘Yes and not working. I mean, you don’t have any pressure

to earn money to survive like most of the world’s population.’

‘I’ve always had money, so I don’t really know what it’s

like not to have any. One thing, though, having money

doesn’t solve the problem of meeting your dream man.’

I shake my head, and sigh. ‘There’s always something.’

‘Yes indeed.’

‘You’ll find him.’

‘I hope so Simon, time is running out. Anyway, what do

you guys do?’

‘Oh, we…uh, travel, write and drink beer,’ I reply with a

smile.

‘Drink beer? I would never have guessed. What do you

write about?’

‘Well, our last book was about a road trip across Russia.’

‘Cool, I love books about travel. Have you got a publisher?’

‘Kind of, but we haven’t sold many in the shops yet, or

anything?’

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‘Are you going to write about Peru?’

‘We’re not sure yet. I mean, we’re on a journey so we

might.’

‘Will you write about me?’ she grins, fluttering her eyelashes.

‘Yeah, I might do.’

‘You’d better! Where have you and your brother been on

this trip so far?’

‘We travelled here overland from Buenos Aires. We’re on

our way to Brazil for Carnival.’

‘Oh, OK, how are you going to get to Brazil?’

‘Fuck knows!’ I laugh. ‘By bus or truck we hope. Our next

destination is Puerto Maldonado, so we’ve got to find a

way to get there.’

‘You’re crazy! All of the roads are washed out at this time

of year.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. We flew over the Amazon on our way here from the

States. All I could see out of the plane window was thick

jungle and dirty brown rivers. I certainly didn’t see any

roads.’

‘Hey, Debbie,’ her friend Jilly interrupts. ‘I’m trying to

work out who Simon looks like.’

Jilly and Chris tap their chins and look over at me like

I’m some kind of art exhibit.

‘I thought it might be Shaggy from Scoobie Doo?’ Chris

laughs.

Jilly shakes her head. ‘No, it’s a real person, someone

famous.’

I feel quite flattered by all the attention, and stand with

my hands on my hips and strike a pose like a rock star.

‘Help me out here, guys!’

Both girls stare at me as they rattle their intelligent,

creative brains.

‘It’s not Jim Morrison by any chance, is it?’ I smile, winking

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at the girls.

‘No, what’s his name? Jilly sighs.

Debbie clicks her fingers. ‘I know, how about David

Hasselhof in his younger days?’

‘Nope.’

‘Ricky Martin when he had long hair?’

‘No Debbie, come on, be serious.’

Flicking my hair I quickly change my pose. ‘Is it Mark

Bolan from T-Rex or a young Johnny Depp?’

Jilly screams with excitement. ‘I know, I know!’

‘Who is it?’ Debbie cries.

‘Yeah, tell us?’ Chris frowns.

‘It’s Neil from The Young Ones!’

I immediately drop my pose. ‘You what?’

Debbie Frowns. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Remember that 1980′s British TV show I downloaded

before we came away, about four students living in a house

together.’

‘Oh my God, yeah, I remember!’ Debbie screams. ‘You

mean Neil, the longhaired hippie stoner. “Hey, man!

There’s a hole in my shoe, man.”’ she laughs, doing a

rather good impression of smelly Neil with a sprinkle of

my personality thrown in.

‘Fuck off,’ I cry. ‘I look nothing like him!’

The girls burst out laughing and Chris looks genuinely

embarrassed for me, as I straighten my posture and flick

my hair.

For the rest of the night I feel deeply uncomfortable. I try

really hard to forget about the humiliation of being compared

to Neil, the smelly, ugly, skinny, loser hippie from,

The Young Ones, and eat a large slice of space cake which

the ever so sociable Yankee passes around the room. I’m

not sure if it’s because I’m a little paranoid, but I keep

noticing Mary-Jane glancing at Chris from across the room.

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She makes a comment about liking long hair, and I realise

after a few minutes that she’s not talking about me, as I

would usually expect, but Chris! I feel immediate pangs of

jealousy throbbing in my guts. I hadn’t realised until now

that Chris had sneakily grown his hair. How the hell could

I not notice that? I was always the twin with the long locks,

Chris had always shaved his head – and if this wasn’t bad

enough, it suited him better than me. I needed my long

hair to cover my big ears. It was an unspoken agreement.

He was breaking the rules and I didn’t like it one bit – he

was stealing my image!

Yankee leaps into the kitchen with a joint between his

fingers and slides up next to me. ‘Hey, dude, you like the

space cake?’

I look down at my plate and realise I’ve devoured the

whole thing. ‘Shit, yeah, it was good. I must have the

munchies.’

‘Cool,’ Yankee grins, exposing his black teeth. ‘Well, if

you didn’t have them before you sure will now. That piece

of cake was loaded.’

‘How long have you been in Cusco, Yankee?’

‘Why, is there a problem?’ he replies. His breath smells of

rotten meat and he stares into my eyes. ‘Has someone been

chirping in your ear like a little bird?’

‘Uh, no,’ I smile, moving my nose a few inches away

from his mouth. ‘I was just asking.’

I’m surprised by his sudden paranoia, but then I remember

he’s a stoner.

‘What was your question again?’ he smirks.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Oh yes it does. Tell me!’

‘I asked how long you’ve been in Cusco.’

‘Five months. I was working in British Columbia all summer,

and then I flew out here when it started to get cold.

I’ve been travelling with my bike for years.’

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I feel my vision go a little fuzzy. I look at Yankee and see

a blurry figure standing in front of me.

‘Hey, are you OK?’ he laughs. ‘It’s the cake, dude. You’re

fucked!’

The colours around the room change in brightness and

form. Everywhere spins. Making my excuses I head for the

bathroom and pass Franco in the corridor. He says something

to me, but I’m unable to understand. He laughs really

loudly and pats me on the back. Reaching the bathroom, I

lock the door behind me and study my reflection in the

mirror. My eyes are completely bloodshot, so I splash my

face and try to get my head together. The room eventually

stops spinning, and I feel ready to return to the party.

Flushing the chain, I stumble out of the bathroom and

bump into Jilly. She looks at me strangely.

‘Simon, are you OK?’

‘Yeah, man, I’m cool,’ I smile, raising my hand and making

the peace sign with my fingers.

I cringe when I realise I’ve just done an impersonation of

Neil from The Young Ones. Jilly laughs falsely and quickly

runs away. I laugh, too, and head back into the lounge and

plonk myself down on the sofa next to some Peruvian

dude. I watch a red lava lamp with intrigue on the side

table. Everything seems a little hazy, but I relax and enjoy

the trippy sensation.

At some point in the evening everybody stands up and

we head to a nightclub on the main Plaza called Mama

Africa. Floating down the street with a plastic cup full of

rum and coke, I feel incredibly happy and free. I look over

my shoulder and see Chris and Franco behind. They’re

both clutching a drink in their hands and flirting with the

girls. Inside the club it’s packed with Argentinean backpackers

and a variety of tourists from around the globe. We

dance in a circle and I notice one of the Peruvian guys

from the party, a lawyer from Lima, getting very friendly

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with Mary-Jane. Franco shakes his booty close by, but

doesn’t seem to mind and within minutes I see him kissing

a local Peruvian girl in a dark corner. Chris exits the

club sometime during the night hand-in-hand with a redhead,

and I find myself in a passionate embrace with an

Egyptian girl from Cairo. She’s beautiful with dark skin

and soft lips and she tells me her dad owns two camels.

With a slap to my ass we dance all night to a mixture of

Latin and electronic beats, and stumbling home alone in

the early hours I return to the hostel and crash out on my

bed with a big smile across my face.

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