Ecuador, A grieving man named Louise and bed bugs....

Whilst Julie and I don't usually go with strangers (unless shitfaced and therefore invincible) we recently "went" with a man called Louise who met us at the bus stop off our thirty hour journey from Peru to Ecuador (Cuenca) and enticed us to his hostel with the alluring promise of "hot water and a private bathroom for only $7". In reality, Louise, a short sallow skinned man in his mid fifties with unusually large breasts (an evolutionary bewildering gift in males, perhaps in which more research cries to be done) should have said "no water, shared bathroom" and added "with occasional groping and inappropriate kisses on the neck."

I take pride in the fact that I am usually able to spot a perv from a good distance off, it's a talent I harbor, I am one myself after all. But, with Louise it was different, he had an angle which threw me off his scent, "a perv with a curve." He had a mild manner and was so damned good at camouflaging his sleaziness with friendliness, that even when his hand slid from my back to my backside during a long and lingering hug from him (of which I had many), I was confused by his actions and contrasting demeanor, even rubbed his back in return and said "Gracias". He was also all hands and kisses with Julie, to which she just smiled and hugged back. "I can´t figure out whether Louise is a nice old man, or a dirty old man" I later told Julie. "Ah, he's a nice old man", she replied whilst I wondered if like the rest of my friends she was a terrible judge of character.

Later, one of the other guests in the hostel told me that she felt sorry for Louise (though she called him Lois, which I prefer). "He has a sad look about him", she said, mistaking me for someone that cared "and he works all the time with no help", she added. I released a false "ohh", which was meant to sound sympathetic but came out more like the noise a hungry zombie might make whilst approaching a victim. This guest noticed the many photographs littered around the hostel of Lois on holidays with a woman whom appeared to be his wife, but was never seen in real life leading to her conclusion that she was dead and he was running a one man show. "Ohh" I said once again, however this time sounding more like a sympathetic human than a flesh eating monster. Pictures were proudly displayed of this elegant looking lady, sitting beside Lois on a beach, the woman wearing a bathing suit, whilst Lois bravely went topless. Therefore, Lois suddenly became in my eyes, a broken creature, a mourning widower craving human comfort rather than the randy old bear I had previously suspected he was.

In the days that followed, Lois went on to sexually assault both Julie and I whenever he saw us and we did nothing about it, which still somewhat baffles us. Him presenting me with my morning eggs at the table would be followed by his release of a low, deep noise resembling a growl as he placed his face side by side against mine and held it there for some moments whilst he rubbed my back. Now, I can´t say that I enjoyed this exhibit and I admit that having a growling middle aged man pressed against my head made eating my eggs somewhat difficult, I did however take some satisfaction in that I was providing a grieving man with the comforting warmth of another human being. "He´s not perving" I thought "just mourning!" I mentally congratulated myself on facilitating his recovery process. "Does my kindness know no boundaries?" I wondered as I imagined myself executing a small bow to a round of delighted applause. You may be reading this thinking "Is she crazy, managing to find satisfaction from one who has suffered so? Or is she just a despicable human being?" Can´t I be both?

On our last morning in the hostel, Lois clearly not able to believe his luck at having two females there who were not reporting him to the local police, went in for the jack pot and actually kissed Julie on the neck, leaving residue. This had been made unacceptable due to the surprise appearance of his wife the night before who was clearly not dead at all but chose to keep a wide birth away from her husband with the busy hands. "I only let him hug me because I thought his wife was dead", I told Julie, annoyed and feeling cheated by the big boobied man.

Louise (Lowis) and me, embracing.

Before we checked out Lois insisted on taking our photos, "for the computer" and got a few more gropes out of us. "Dirty old man!" I confirmed to Julie as I pointed at him waving us goodbye when we left and watched him blow us a kiss.

Not only did Lois give us some special memories but we also picked up bed bugs from his manky hostel, which we brought to the Ecuadorian coast with us when we left Cuenca. Bed bugs (like Lois) are extremely hard to get rid of. We had to get all our clothes washed in the hottest of water, meaning my already tight fitting items from my traveling weight gain are even tighter now. So, off we headed to the coast, itching, infested and feeling a little violated but of course laughing all the way like eegits, as per usual!

Gaining a penis and gaining weight.....

“Oh my God, you’re wearing earrings?!” Julie looked at me with great curiosity and eyed up my ten pence Bolivian purchases made from nuts which were dangling from my ears. “I am!” I replied proudly as I did a dramatic twirl. “I thought I’d make an effort since I caught you washing your face earlier! VAIN!” “Well, they go beautifully with your outfit”, she pointed out, her sarcasm far from wasted on me as I looked down and examined my clothing from the feet up, which consisted of flip flops with socks, baggy and faded grey hiking trousers, so ill fitting the crotch almost meets my knees, my beige moneybelt hanging loosely over the waistband, my black fleece, which I wear almost every day, a baseball cap with my unconditioned and dry hair sticking out from underneath and all of this spectacularly topped off with a head torch. Hillbilly anyone? Traveling is fantastic, I love it, backpacking especially, but I can’t remember at what point over the last seven months on the road I began to consider acts of basic hygiene as vanity or when I stopped getting my hair done and began cutting it myself with a crap pen knife scissors.

Back home, I wear nice clothes, dresses, skirts, I wear make- up and have my hair done. Here, after living out of a bag for so long “practical” most definitely prevails over “fashionable” resulting in me dressing in such an a- sexual manner that I could be mistaken for a boy from as close as two feet away. Before departing for this trip I was warned about the dangers of South America, muggings, robberies etc, but no one warned me about the unwanted sex change I would experience.

Girl or boy....You decide!

Looking like shit absolutely all the time can be a little depressing, so both Julie and I have started avoiding mirrors but now and again I accidentally catch a glimpse of the person formally known as myself in one. “Fuck, the state of me” a sighting causes my face to tighten momentarily into an expression of fright and revulsion. “I can’t believe you looked in a mirror”, Julie who has been wearing a bright orange rain coat everyday for the last seven months asks me, “What’s wrong with you? It’s better not to know, not to look.” “It was an accident”, I tell her in a small traumatised voice, “I won’t be doing it again, trust me”.

Unbelievably, we still get wolf whistled at once in a while by what I can only assume are men just freshly released from a long and lonely stretch in an all male prison. After hearing a whistle or a “hello baby” being aimed at us from across the street or a car, I typically turn to Julie, my black rain mac to her orange rain mac and ask “Are they mental? Look at the state of us. We’re dressed like men, are they gay and think we’re men? We’re not even hot men!”

Sometimes we find ourselves walking past clothes shops. “We don’t belong in the likes of there” I tell my travel partner who is on the hunt for some “lesbian type sandles”, i.e . practical and disgusting, black, flat walking sandles with velcrove straps. “There's nothing in there for us, look away!” I say as I clump off in my Frankenstein style hiking boots which surround my feet like boats. Gone are the days when the word “accessories” actually meant what it is intended to, necklaces, handbags, bracelets, shiny and nice things. No, now to me the word means headtorch, Swiss army knife, earplugs and spare toilet roll.

Another reason I hardly recognise myself these days is that I have gained weight, which I only partially accept responsibility for. In certain countries in South America whilst doing this type of traveling, it is virtually impossible to avoid piling on the pounds, unless like Julie you are lucky enough to get a stomach parasite living in the lining of your innards, which only allows food to stay in your body for two seconds before being ejected in ways not suitable for such a high caliber blog as this one (some people have all the luck). Testament to my theory of the difficulties of staying slim in countries such as Peru and Bolivia are the not “hourglass” figures of the local women but “beach ball” figures, which can be seen waddling down streets, sitting eating ice cream and cakes in the many establishments which sell such treats or on the street market stalls trying to sell you chocolate and cheese puffs.

Take the other morning in Peru for example, I decided to try and have a healthy breakfast, so ordered cereal with fruit, yoghurt, brown bread and coffee. I asked for all of this “Sin azucar” (without sugar) and got the usual response in South America to any issue “No problemo”. So, my ¨without sugar¨ breakfast arrived, the fruit drenched in syrup having come straight from a tin, mixed with sugar coated cereal and bright pink, sweet yoghurt, all of this was drizzled with chocolate sauce. The (sweet) brown bread arrived fried and buttered and when my coffee arrived, I was asked if I wanted “two or three sugars” in it.

The jeans I brought with me on this trip are a pair I never wore at home because they were too baggy. Now, they are so tight that I am literally bursting out of them and have had to sew almost an entire new ass in patches at the back. Steps are the enemy of these jeans, lift my leg and rip, out flops my ass.



Another day, another ass patch.

The second reason for the weight gain is that I was so obsessed with exercise before I left for this trip that my body went into some kind of shock when it all stopped. Whereas before I was in the boxing gym five or six times a week for two to three hours a go, had a personal trainer and watched what I ate, now, I stuff my face with sugar, get on long bus journeys (12 – 30 hours), sit in a catatonic state for most of it, arrive at my destination, have a nap and then get up for lunch, moving around as little as possible. Therefore, apart from the sex change, gaining weight is my only complaint about traveling. So until I get home and back to normal life, it´s bigger trousers and more ass patches for me. Pass the sugar please!

There is a glimmer of hope however as we are currently en route to volunteer in an organic farm in Ecuador for a month. The farm is really isolated and you are only able to eat what they cook for you, which is all organic and vegetarian food. Also, we will be working on it and working equals moving, which is good! After the farm, I will bid farewell to Julie for eleven days as I have signed up for a silent meditation retreat. Yes, silent, so help me God. I will not be permitted to speak, read, write or make eye contact with anyone for the entirety of the course. They will only feed me twice a day and let’s face it, it’s not exactly like I can complain if I don’t like the food or want more! My sister reckons I will only last two days on the retreat before freaking out and escaping to find the nearest bar. I however, am determined to stick it out for the entirety and also welcome any attempts at sect like brainwashing that might occur during my time there.




The new me.

Julie may have to come and rescue me after the eleventh day, she’ll find me sitting in the corner of a dimly lit concrete room, devoid of any furniture, me rocking back and forth, perhaps wearing long robes, my head shaved, repeating “feliz aici, feliz aici” (happy here, happy here) over and over. She’ll grab me by the shoulders (now hopefully boney from starvation) and shake me as I continue to stare into space, a vacant, dead look behind my haunting and hungry eyes. She’ll pull a bottle of red wine out of her bag and wave it in my face, I’ll come alive at once! “Right so, lets go!” I’ll stand up and skip out the door, hopefully a slimmer and more feminine version of my current self. I can’t wait!

tandblekning