WARNING: erotic content
She is lovely and she has left me … at 3.32 pm … but will return by 6.
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Often you know when a journey will be difficult, when it with wear you out, when it will numb your bum and tire your mind but hell it will be memorable and etched in your head and so this was one – one, of 100s – that I’ll remember (assuming that a mind-rotting disease doesn’t kick in) but hell for now it’s here. But how did it begin …? I forget.
On the road towards Guinea
NOTE: Presently I am in Labé in the Fouta Djalon region, the lush, canyon-ed high plateau of north-eastern Guinea, writing this on battery by candlelight … and I’ve drunken several beers at a friendly, hole-in-the-wall bar shortly after the Ramadan fasting came to an end today.
So where was I? Remembering … Okay, let me listen to my audio diary and get back to you …
Koundara: just been talking to Captain Thomas and friends – very drunk soldiers, missing teeth, red berets slopped everywhere. They came into this shack-bar/disco/hotel where I was staying – few other choices … the boss-chick has just gone out to appease them; I fucked her when I arrived – in the morning & in the evening … don’t know where to start … this was on the eve of Ramadan, drinking amid drunk, ragged, aggressive soldiers in a scene from a twisted movie.
Lone hut in the early morning light
This is a country that is deemed the next failed state – here a history of dictatorships and coups and economic mismanagement despite it being a major Bauxite exporter and having other vast mineral riches – Guinea is driven by a general who for the last 20 years has succeeded in keeping himself in power by cheating at the ballot and by changing the rules to suit himself, and who was last shot at in 2005. Even his soldiers, after a pay revision, revolted, but he survived despite an artillery siege at the presidential palace and then after an agreement there followed the sudden execution of mutineers. Today Conte still rules; this is another banana republic that we don’t know or care about. (And I read on the internet this morning that the soldiers just this week are threatening violence again unless pay owed from the late-1990s is paid. But I also hear that nothing will happen until after Ramadan).
There is no running water; electricity is either occasional in major towns or more likely not at all unless supplied via private generator. And, most roads are appalling.
Which brings me back to the roads – the journey … a test of the will, or at least this western will. Not the most difficult but (that was yesterday on route to Labé – shattered roads that are red clay hard ruts, deep festering holes, thick mud eating trucks; to avoid holes one side of the car driving along road’s outermost edge and other down lower along the mud track, car riding at a sloping 45 degree angle – branches hitting windows. Fucked up but … the mountain slopes often the best traction – less erosion uphill apart from some deep rain ruts that channel down; early in the day passing thatched huts and long green red-tipped grass then and later jungle and grouped chimpanzees on huge rocks seated calmly in dusk light as we struggle uphill. Followed by cattle and goats across the track – kids waving – when I wave at then – astonished at my white presence – Foto, they call – meaning white in the local tongue. Women with bowls on heads going nowhere obvious but greenery all around and our journey slow, bumpy, broken; painful.
Awaiting more passengers in Koundara “taxi” station
I woke at 6:30 AM in dark, waited till 7:30 for the car to fill and we arrive in dark at 9:30 PM; we have only covered 265 km … we have 4 people in the front including the driver, 3 in the back – only cos I paid double for an extra seat/space, and then 3 more cramped in the boot-bench-seat of the Peugeot 505 over the rear wheel, and one more in the tiny actual boot and two more on top of the heaped baggage on the roof-rack. And so a humble 5-seater hatchback is a 14 seat slave … But this particular journey of Guinea is another story.
So I forget, I forgot, my mind is rotting … back to this day, this journey: Her name was Monica, 3 babies at age 25, tribal slit cut down along the rims of each ear-lope; when I arrived she offered me sex … fingers placed together then the in-out motion is understandable in any language – especially mine, her washing the rooms – dusty, concrete, lino-clad floors, spider web corners, sunken thin mattress, showers equal water in a bucket, a fan when the generator kicks in at 7 pm … She got on top of me. Twice … actually, five times by the time it was over that evening.
Anyway before that there was the border crossing between Guinea-Bissau and Guinea in a crammed car, no room for legs or arms or beer bellies … that lasted checkpoints and past villages to the now searing mid-day heat of the frontier, where the Immigration officer in a small tatty concrete office was pleasant, decent, friendly but the Customs across the dirt road made me empty my backpack. But I threw off his ambitions of a full search straight away by showing him my dullest aspect of my bag first – here’s my towel, my books, my toothpaste, my … after wanting something from me – he got nothing, he actually thanked me, keen to have met a New Zealander, a nomad who had nothing but his bags – for he understood slight English and I explained my life to him. But then the soldiers in the thatch hut wanted me to enter … Alert: nasty dumb fucks ahead.
River crossing on route to Labé; the barge was broken, so cables welded for 2 hours and then we crossed … by two men turning a wheel we were pulled along the cable to the other side
They tried to intimidate me: 5 of them; unfriendly. They didn’t acknowledge my greetings in English, Islamic salutations, or French. They wanted me to empty my backpack and electronics bag on the dry dirt floor and I realized there was some real danger here of a huge bribe or other hassle. I got shitty, growled – fuck this shit, having already deflected the same nonsense minutes earlier at customs and so said loudly and slowly each item. I got out my towel and mentioned its name – like a teacher – and demonstrated drying myself. Then I got our my tooth brush and brushed, my book and I read … trying to delay the search of my valuables – a Nikon SLR D80 with expensive lenses, Sony video camera, lightweight powerful laptop with extra hard drives, MP3 player, etc, etc … I got out my toilet paper – “here’s my toilet paper, this is for wiping my butt” – and held it high and started to wipe my arse – and they cracked up! That was it, I could pack my pack, and out … they asked my nationality and were pleased to meet me – although I’m sure they knew nothing of where I was from. Even the mention of Australia washed over them – but no more search. No money paid; nothing lost.
The next stage was much easier: but no vehicles were going from this deserted border post to the next deserted border post. There was only one other traveler. A guy from a Guinea, as the others in our shared taxi had raced off into a waiting friend’s 4WD, and that left us with 10 seats to fill; just 2 people and not a person or vehicle coming within hours to complete the journey and so I offered to pay the bulk of the distance: 45 km = over 1 hour of rutted track to get us to the next village and there next shared taxi probably awaiting passengers – as maybe you don’t know: but taxis, cars, buses in Africa don’t leave until full: there is never a timetable for departure – just when a vehicle is full, which by my previous experiences of Africa can mean mercifully just 30 minutes or even less but usually up to several hours waiting … so I paid nearly-the-complete taxi fare which, in this case was nothing – $10, but often it can be too much, as in 10 x $10 +/-.
When we arrived at the Guinean border – about 1 km away – I hopped over the wire that stops traffic – like there’s any – and the soldier go shitty, didn’t understand what he was saying but realized I had to go around the now limp wire down on the dirt – Not over it, like I was walking on the flag or something! Got to the Immigration shack where lines of tired Africans were waiting and was stamped immediately, without fuss. Wow. Thank you. Then as our taxi was rearing on – the Customs guy on the other side was calling to the driver to stop – but he could not hear – as we were walking on to the next post – I also ignored him while urging the local with me to stop shouting to the driver to stop … and so we cleared Customs by ignoring them.
Truck on the road in the mountains of Fouta Djalon, Guinea
The next soldier post was gentle. And that was it, across more broken mud tracks – too easy, with seats to ourselves – for an hour towards the town of Saréboido. And then it was back to cramming – should have paid a few bucks extra to avoid this but … got in the back – as in 3 people crammed in over the rear wheel for another hour of banging heads, crammed legs room, scarping shins.
And so I arrived in Guinea, in the sleepy town of my chosen stay in Koundara, found a “hotel” and gotten laid within minutes of arrival, had endured hours of cramped spaces over rough roads, had defused greedy soldiers and gotten drinking with deluded others to realize that indeed it was a lucky day; a relatively easy journey.
(PS: in Part 2: Leaving Guinea to Sierra Leone was just as crazy – soldiers, bribes and bad roads abound.)
People often ask why I sleep with prostitutes – so I’ll tell you.
Okay, I love travel and I like sex too much – for sure, and yes, encounters with strangers excites me. But simply it’s the effortless transaction of sex and company (and often real-fun) for money, sure, that’s the business, and that’s the key for me. I like to loan the lady’s time – using freelance, not brothel-bonded chicks – and treat them as a girlfriend for the night; and not as rent for the hour piece of meat so that we can ease into each other over drinks and smoke and laugh and relate, rather than the typical, mechanical, launderette love of a hurried solitary orgasm. Fuck that … no fun there; finished once, and bye bye, Mr.
Anyway, for me this beats what the average male does: going to a club, a pub, a restaurant and spying someone they like and then chasing-falsely for the catch. Yet, everyone I speak to on this subject says that they like the chase. Both male and female. But me, I don’t feel this way.
You’re in a hot club, where it’s a market of sexuality and macho idiot male competition, where you meet a chick, often shouting inanely to converse above the music, to have two minutes to impress and two minutes to keep her attention before she floats towards another offer.
Basically, I can’t be bothered with the primitive ritual of male impress-succeed, dance right, spin the shit right, look right and act abnormal in the pursuit of sex; and too often, conversation is hollow laughter and at the end of it she says: I’ve a boyfriend or have to work early tomorrow, or simply, nice to meet you but I’m not interested. And even after the chase and after the great deed, you both know that by morning you’ll not be compatible, anyway.
Why waste the energy? Why tempt the exasperation of failure or play dumb mind-games – which, is not me – when all I really want is the sure-guarantee of a nice, kissy chat, the feminine scent, a cuddle & orgasm(s); an agreeable outcome that keeps most men happy …
[ Thoughts from Colonia del Plata - URUGUAY, 2002, after partying intensively in Buenos Aires for many weeks ]
What jumping out of a plane didn’t achieve for me, jumping out of a moving car in Buenos Aires has … checked back into reality: maybe I’ll stay a while.
It started as a quiet beer on Saturday night with Murray (a Scotsman I’d met in Bolivia 3 months ago) but into the evening someone notified us that it was officially the first day of Spring and hence a huge party would consume the city all night.
He was right: 4 am and people pumping in the street, even homeless folks wasted in happy huddles. From the pub I progressed to The Big One – not talking penis size but BsAs biggest discotheque to see the UK DJ collective: The Ministry of Sound. Crowds from teenagers to transsexuals, business looks to punk. An din this 3 storied-cathedral I E-ed my way across the morning til the finish at 10 am to then taxi across BA to an after-hours (BA has numerous after hours clubs, open 10 am – 10 pm).
Drunk beer on a comfortable couch upon a sunny rooftop glasshouse of the club that Sunday, amid stark-eyed smiley clubbers and everyone, it seemed, was snorting coke or smoking grass or drinking; or all three.
I met an English-speaking Argentine of Syrian decent – we talked of my experiences there in ‘89 – and his friend, a big guy – looked Samoan - from somewhere I forget in the Pacific. They were loaded with stuff, which they shared, and I returned their generosity by buying them rounds of beer.
Over the hours, tons of people joined our sofa area, including a – seemingly, small time – mafia boss, and a pock-marked, dark shades, sinister hitman-looking guy. (Both guys looked like shady movie roles). And over the hours many men and woman came over and paid their respects, check-kissing this boss, and introductions to them for me, them dudes asking which woman I wanted, I declined and was happy to just get wasted, for the moment. But substance offers were accepted across the afternoon.
I happily offered to keep buying beers, big bottles shared out among a growing crowd around me. Strange mix of middle-age cool dudes, old surfers, oldish sluts, young skins and techno teens. People came and went as did the hours because next I remember being in an underground club located in an old mansion. Must have gotten there with the two shady types but don’t remember how … got talking with a range of people including this nice chick who wanted me to return home with her and her boyfriend for a threesome. I agreed.
We left the club together but so did those two shady guys but now also with a large skinhead.
So there we were waiting in the deserted street for a taxi. Six of us. I asked what was going on and they said maybe something to the effect of sharing the taxi home, dunno exactly.
After about 10 minutes we got a taxi but the driver was only willing to take 5 passengers. Two taxis would have been the obvious solution. But no, it left empty, and I don’t know what was said but the boyfriend, coerced, I suspect, left for the club and I got very suspicious and now, somewhat bored and concerned with these thuggish characters. I’d decided (around 1.30 am) it had been time to leave back in the club when I gave the boss money to buy beer and he didn’t return (equal to about $US 20) the change; when challenged he said that he’d returned it.
Now a police car passed and I flagged it down, and the chick followed me across to the car, and speaking in English she asked what the fuck I was doing. (Most Argentineans don’t trust the cops here, who had been linked to various kidnappings and other crimes in BA since the economic crisis hit last December.) I said it was to protect her; I didn’t trust the potential of a rape. Her reasoning convinced me to back away from the cops, that she didn’t seem worried. The cops took off and the guys now looked at me. What you do that for, the boss asked. I apologized, by dismissing it, “Sometimes I get crazy …”; “cops often give you a ride in NZ”.
So another taxi came and we all got in. I made sure that I was beside the door, with the chick to my right. Not sure if I had said that I want to get out or stop or what.
But my intuition set off the final alarm bell so I opened the door as we drove down a deserted main street, around 2 am. The chick grabbed the door, the bald bouncer also, and locked to the lock. “What you doing; are you crazy? I thought you were intelligent …” she said.
Can’t remember answer or how soon before I next reacted but I think seconds as we turned – hence slowed, into another deserted main street. My light said: GO. Everything so fast. I whacked the big guys arms away from the lock, somehow opened the door and leaped from the moving car to land running and wobbling but somehow still upright.
How’s it possible – upright. Stood stunned, wow, what happened, staring at the taxi stopped about 40m ahead with its red rear lights staring back at me … then it drove off … I don’t know how I landed unscathed or how I got the nerve but just reacted – there was no thought beyond OUT NOW. I remember saying as I exited: “Bye Bye. Fuck you!”
Less than 24 hours later and I’m still trying to recall the exact patterns of thoughts and movements but they are lost to the speed of things. It wasn’t a dream. Be easy to explain if it was … But seems like it. Rushing with crazy, confused adrenaline I couldn’t believe what had happened as I sat in another cab heading into the downtown for some comfort in a club girl.
I was so fuckin’ hyped; shocked; disbelieving. What with no sleep for 40 hours, taken Es, and an ongoing menu of dope, drink and coke, no food, you could say that I had an active imagination; but then amid the haze came that gut clarity that said, Danger, GO.
It ended with whisky and a lovely, dark-haired Peruvian woman, 23. She was wonderful fun, and very beautiful. We shared loud, simultaneous orgasms across Monday morning.
Now, Tuesday: woken from a deep sleep and have changed down a gear or two as I wonder which direction is next … after weeks in BsAs am bored by the clubs, cocaine, and sex-for-money chicks … need a new hit – for a few weeks, anyway.
This latest misadventure has encouraged me to Hit the Road – time for some fresh air, time to travel again, maybe a back-to-nature trip; cos cities can make people crazy …
Was wanting to sleep but had a hot arse too close to my face … she sleeps as the traffic rakes the street downstairs as I lust over this bottle-blond’s varnished nails, her lightly tanned neck and wrists chained in gold – maybe I’m not her first customer … maybe it’s not love, afterall.
I can remember – bits, anyway, of last night; she sucks so well – but not her name. Half a dozen beers, a bottle of red and half a litre of whisky and not even a headache now – yeah, age has blessed me with a tolerance to alcohol: getting old’s fun.
I’m 36 soon. An old cunt (or maybe, just a cunt). In a recent e-mail Mum asked me how I intended to celebrate my birthday and I had to reply nothing different: Drunk and in bed with a babe (it’s not my birthday for 2 weeks but I thought I get in shape for the event …).
Been doing a lot of soul searching these last few days. You know, age and getting old and what’s my life about shit.
Thought it time for a change … Surprise. I’ve found Jesus – thought I read the bible this evening – yeah right; or maybe I’ll marry this bleeding blond – intense fucking bought her period on prematurely – beside me. Wrong again TV game-show losers, not you, my friends, but the glamour-hungry wankers on TV which I have with the sound down; yeah, I’ve finally found the meaning to life: to CONTINUE.
With that insight clarified I drink another beer on this fine non-stop afternoon… and solemnly swear, to continue to be a toxic prick addicted to sex, stimulants and wandering. MUM: a thought: maybe you should censor this for the grandparents: I feel it may get …
Check the flesh. Today - “I shot the sun … “ yeah, right. Actually I’m hallucinating. BUT I believe I’ve been in Buenos Aires a month and have been a total slut (Do sluts pay for sex? Cos I’ve been cashing in the pesos rapidly in hope of getting automatic entry to heaven, you know, my charitable, selfless work supporting women internationally … )
Ahh, yeah … Actually all the chicks I’ve been with here have been pros. And all of them have been very loving … I remember her name now, cos she’s just left at 4.13 pm. Shayla, a some-what Arabic name. She wants to ring me … PLEASE, yeah, habitacion viente-ocho (Room 28). Before she left, like the other ladies, she cleaned my room: ashtray emptied, condoms disposed from the floor, even, folding my clothes. A very inclusive service – indeed (house keeper and lover).
I met the last lady in the same club as Shayla, she’s an exotic dancer for it’s an Arabic / Greek-theme night – sex, not disco – club. The other woman, Angelina, has left yesterday for her native Brazil and wanted to take me with her … tempted but probably would’ve been disasterous (reading my past serious relationships with loving but crazy pros: RE: Erica, Indonesia.). Both ladies are bottle-blondes with dark eyes (and shaven pubes) as was the one before these two.
I’m seeing a trend here … I usually adore dark skin and dark hair … but all the woman here are white and of Spanish or largely Italian origin. In fact BsAs is the whitest place on earth: I’ve counted four blacks, 2 dozen indigenous brown Andeans and a million whites in a month in this city of 11 million. Surely, the least colored city in the world (in the large downtown districts, anyway).
Last week I tried to get it together by leaping from a small plane. SKY-DIVING. Tumbling, falling -and freaking, yeah, floating fast at 210km/hour for 5000 feet … parachuting the last 5000 to land fuckin’ ecstatic. Wonderful hit, but it didn’t last long. I believe I’ll take the slow, emphasis slow, ferry across the River Plate to Montevideo, Uruguay – soon, another country to kick my latest mind-less addiction.
Must leave Buenos Aires, where the prettiest – white – woman in the world reside (forget my raving about Santiago de Chile some months ago; BsAs is it. Immaculate bodies and supermodel looks – pity I land all the fat chicks – not really, anyway, Latino women are the true goddesses). Heaven help me in Rio; God save me in Colombia … (where life’s, and the powder’s too cheap and the girls too easy). Ahh, fuck it: life’s to be explored …
Went to a football – soccer – match in a huge stadium of manic supporters: I have the Latino fever; the passion.
At 36 I’ve resolved to go all out … Breasts or bust … Having not slept for days (or is that, daze) you can dismiss this ramble as shit; maybe, one day, I’ll grow up.
My 36th birthday resolution: NEVER SURRENDER (or not for another year, at least).
Love flowers & &&, &, something real sexy – MRP
PS: Maybe I should write a book titled: ‘How to Impress Whores, DESPITE Having a Beer Gut’
From my diary:
Outside the local mosque I greet people with (the Arabic but universal-Islamic/Muslim greeting): Salaam Aleikum / Peace Be Upon You; to their replies: Aleikum wa Salaam / And Peace Be Upon You.
For hours many smiles and long, curious looks or exclamations in Swahili: “Jambo!” (Hello) or “Mazungo!” (white person).
Two elderly tribal women stopped and stared. Ali, an English-speaking Muslim, laughed when he heard what they said to one another: He translated what they said of me: “How can a woman have so much facial hair?!”
Two small girls, watching from some metres away, found the courage to shake my foreign hand. They soon began plaiting my hair as Ali and I continued chatting, still seated on a log in a muddy lane alongside the village mosque.
A young woman stopped to talk. Soon she invited us to her house. There we met Consolota’s two sisters and four young brothers. She said her family was small; some here had 20 – 24 children (polygamy is common). Consolota had recently finished high school exams and heaps of Good Luck cards were strung above this room of bare concrete floor with two tattered sofas. The shack’s mud walls painted white - cracked but decorated with Jesus and Virgin pics. Consolota apologised for their poverty.
She made us a tasty meal of fried rice and tomato with lumps of meat. Afterwards, when we were wandering back Ali said Consolota had told him in Swahili that she liked me. “She was a tough woman, from the Meru tribe” he said. “She can suck all the water” (oral sex). And he recommended that I sleep with her.
I replied “Could get too complicated; maybe she wants to marry me.” “No,” insisted Ali, “she just wants to try a white man.”
On the way to my (rundown) hotel-room I pass one of the staff and she greets me with “I would like to spend some time with you.” I smile and continue. Then as I unlock my cabin door she shouts across the courtyard “I am coming.”
“Are you?” I reply (with a whiff of sexual inneuendo that was lost on her). She enters my room and gazing round, smiles and informs me she’ll return …
She’s now returned, having watched me wash my hair in the basin outside. “You have lovely hair,” she says. “Can I be in your company?”
I don’t answer.
“I want to sleep with you. I love you.” It seems she learnt English from T.V soaps. She has all the one-liners. I’m stumped. I haven’t asked her but now she’s making my bed. She’s no princess, rather big, with a braided mohawk, and wearing a t-shirt which states – Jesus sets you free.
I reply “But you don’t know me,” trying to put her off, “I could be a bad man -” But no … she responds “When I first saw you, my heart jumped.”
