30.12.07: nerd

In my mind I am a practical man, this bears little relevance to real life but we all have our own delusions, so I’ve never had any interest in technology beyond its immediate application in improving my life. Now, however, I find myself with a blog. What next? Writing html and speaking Klingon?

Here in the blogosphere (oh dear, is this how it starts?), I rub virtual shoulders with people I had previously assumed are so excruciatingly tedious they can’t find anyone to communicate with normally or so insane as to be incomprehensible to all but fellow believers that Lady Diana was murdered by the descendants of space reptiles.

I was, of course, wrong. Jon Snow has a blog for goodness sake. Bloggers are fascinating fellows making some very pertinent points. My new technological interest has also taken a more sedate turn—I’m at the cutting edge of pillow internet radio technology. Now I can lie in bed, tiny speakers in my pillow whispering Radio 4 via an internet radio connected to the web using the magic of Wifi. It is pathetically reassuring to know I will be able to hear the pips followed by “This is London” from La Paz.

19.12.07: the Road of Death

Exciting news: I have found a friend, Jon, who has been to Bolivia, not only that, but it is the country he liked most in South America. And he did visit others. He was enthusing about it at a party last night. Unfortunately, being heavily in the Christmas spirit and a little deaf (especially over the sound of Slade), I failed to gather much apart from the fact that it is astonishingly varied. Also, there’s a particularly unpleasant scam involving spitting on people and then pinching their wallets when pretending to clean off the mess. I’d almost rather be mugged.

From reading his travel blog www.jonathanbrain.com, it seems Jon’s love for the country did not extend to La Paz. However, he showed some excitement about the Road of Death. Susi had told me about this, a notorious single track that two lanes of traffic hurtle down from La Paz in the Altiplano (high plain) down into the jungle. As its name suggests it’s eye-wateringly dangerous. In fact, she is adamant about never travelling on it. Jon, instead, planned to cane down on a hired mountain bike. The only thing that stopped him was Cathie, his wife, who pointed out a German had smashed his head open the day before having careered off the edge doing the exact same thing. And he seemed so sensible.

18.12.07: the imperative of Spanish lessons

Critical to this move not being an abject failure will be my ability to talk to anyone else apart from Susi (who I am accompanying) without having to use Skype. To start with I will be entirely dependent on her, which will drive me and her insane and/or loco. This means learning Spanish, and quickly. As such, I have been studying before work and taking weekly classes with friends.

The first week was a lesson in affirming cultural stereotypes: our Argentine teacher, Dante, failed to turn up. This left three frustrated students, eager to learn and at a loose end. So we went to the pub and swapped what we knew of the beautiful language of Cervantes and Marquez. This almost entirely amounted to phrases that would find one slapped in nightclubs or arrested for attempting to buy illegal substances.

Things improved markedly when Dante actually turned up for the next week’s class. The lessons take place in my mate and fellow student Bruce’s office. Fabulously, one of his major clients is a brewer, so there’s always beer to be enjoyed during the class. I am learning a lot—the one great thing about starting from a position of utter dunderheaded imbecility is that it does not take much to improve in leaps and bounds. Last night was our last lesson for a month because of Christmas and Bruce is off on his hols. He’s going to Mexico, so he’ll be practising. Cheat.

14.12.07: I meet a real Bolivian

When considering places to live, my needs were clear: somewhere with a coast for surfing, mountains for snowboarding, great food and fabulous drinks. As such Bolivia was not an obvious choice. Completely landlocked, it could hardly be further from the sea; while at a lung-searing height, it only has one ski lift; the national dish is “cuy” or whole, roasted guinea pig; and its drink, “chicha” is fermented with spit. Perfect.

However, my girlfriend has an accompanied post there, so I’d better start learning Spanish. On a positive note, as a man who loves women in hats, I was delighted to hear that Bolivian ladies wear bowlers. The victim of falling sartorial standard among City gents, it’s great to hear that the noble Derby has found it’s home among indigenous women up in the Andes.

I had never knowingly met a Bolivian, so I was delighted to find the charming cleaning lady at the office was from Santa Cruz. Here was a short, dark-skinned, comfortably built godsend – a provider of first-hand details about my new home. I was expecting a rose-tinted perspective. What I was not expecting was a litany of complaints about La Paz. I was told, the residents are terrible, short, dark-skinned people, the city is cold, dirty, poor, expensive, they don’t have coffee machines, dish washers, washing machines, nice cars…

The list went on, ending with an offer: she wanted my number so she could ring me in 12 months just to tell me how great London was. What struck me, aside from her enthusiasm for schadenfreude, was her uncompromising racism about the people of La Paz. I’d read about the schism between the west (poorer and home to the indigenous people) and east (wealthy and more European) sides of the country; I hope her views are not indicative of a commonly shared hatred.

7.12.07: hobbies

By cunningly giving up my job in order to move to Bolivia, I am hoping a world of hobbies is going to open up. I have real concern about what the flagrant lack of ski lifts says about Bolivians, given their surfeit of mountains. Also, I fear access to tennis courts is going to be as limited as my ability to serve without looking outrageously effeminate.

So, hiking and mountaineering might be better options. Bearing in mind that everyone says that is exhausting just climbing the stairs, it would be wise to build up to these strenuous activities. (The Bolivian football is famed for the huge disparity between its home and away results because visiting teams can’t cope with the paucity of oxygen.)

While I acclimatise and wonder when I’ll next use my tennis headbands, I think I will take up the ukulele again. Never having played any musical instrument in any way musically, my initial attempts at learning the “oh-so-simple-to-learn” uke were woeful.

After weeks of practice, I went to the first class of the complete beginners’ course at The Duke of Uke (www.dukeofuke.co.uk)–strangely, London’s only uke shop—and was hopelessly lost after 5 minutes. Beyond remedial, hopeless. At their Christmas party last night, I met a teenage uke expert (tommilsom.com; myspace.com/tomandhisuke) and he has reignited my enthusiasm. Now is my chance to dedicate myself to it. Failing that, there’s always the panpipes.