Let’s talk about trekking (you pompous arseholes)

The only thing that makes me want to start haphazardly shooting hostages more than a dick-bag talking about trekking whilst smoking his imaginary pipe is a whole herd of the fuckers in a hostel common room rubbing each other down in a thick lather of snoot-laden, toffee-nosed, pious-pious cream. Yes, trekking is nice and a bit of fun but THAT’S IT. I don’t give a Jatz Cracker if you have decided to pad out 12 months latin holidaying only walking up and down hills in your million dollar wanker clothes that say — Rob Me Right Now and Yes, I’m A Gringo And That Is A Money Belt You Can See Hanging Out My Shirt. These retards can’t even order a coffee in Spanish. Seriously. How they even get from one trekking destination to another is a mystery to me (they’d probably try to tell you they trekked between them). Hey, did you know my sleeping bag is graded for minus 5 degrees and recites nursery rhymes? That’s not cold man, I come from northern Europe where it’s REALLY cold, and I trek all the time and I think… (insert wank here). What kind of world do we live in where they can freely assail me with waves of canonised monkey shit but if I was to stab them in the thigh to shut them up I’d get the restraining order?

How about I trek your face into oblivion you pretentious fart sniffing show ponies? Would you like that? That’s one story I’d happily be forced to overhear hand balled around a trash-talking circle of obscene trekking smugness. And they aren’t even listening to each other. You can see it in their twitching faces as they try not to turtle neck in anticipation waiting for a breathing pause to insert their own particular flavour of bullshit that won’t be heard.

If you are going to talk about your boring as fuck trekking adventures then tell me something interesting like how many days you got Dehydrated Food Derived Constipation, how you threw rocks at other peoples tents at night to stop them snoring like drunk beavers with adenoid problems or how you baited the outside of other peoples tents with mixed nuts to draw the mice away from yours (classic move). If you’ve got nothing then make it up. Please.

That being said, my next entry will contain trekking stories. But not these Vomit In The Mouth Tales of Woe, but ones that will make you Shit Your Pants In Wonder at how awesome I am at trekking without even trying, let alone caring. Stay tuned amigos.

On the Road (with Bus Boy)

I have caught more buses than Peter Andre has had chest waxes. Only Brahma himself could count them all on his hands. That must be a lot of onboard movies then, I hear you say? Surely, you presume, I have watched dozens of classic movies in my numerous trans-continental comings and goings? Well you’d be wrong, as well as an idiot. In fact, all buses in Chile and Argentina have televisions and DVD players but only half of the buses decide to use them. Obviously the driver and the Tits On A Bull assistant are too busy up in the front cabin pointing out roadside litter to each other and drinking Mate (a type of tea they go apeshit for here). And when they DO play a movie, they manage to fuck the experience in new and ever more ingenious methods. (A) No sound, with Spanish subtitles half off the screen or too small to read. (B) No sound, no subtitles, but available ear jacks in the seat that don’t work. (3) The bus is driving so fast, or the driver is so spanked out on Mate, that the movie randomly skips scenes giving you no hope whatsoever of following the already emaciated ‘plot’ of cinematic epics like; Dragonball, The Princess Diaries and all Wesley Snipes movies. If you are going to play trash then at least play REAL trash with integrity, like American Ninja, Rambo or anything from the Van Damne Collection.

That’s right, I am currently on a bus on the way to an airport in Punta Arenas (very south in Chile). To my surprise they actually put on a movie. I was excited, and what’s more, it looked like a Robert Downey Jr movie (I want to be RDJ and have his children). It's Sherlock Holmes in fact and subtitles came up in Spanish meaning the movie must be in English. Hell yeah! That’s an unexpected dream come true. Well guess what morons? The Lips On A Duck assistant put the volume on so low (before running back for another Mate and Eye Spy Roadside With My Little Eye Something That Begins With R…) that I could only make out what was being said when a middle aged woman was screaming it.

So now I have SEEN Sherlock Holmes but all I can tell you about the movie is Robert Downey Jr is in it, he somehow is an 18th century English Kung Fu Master, Jude Law has a wicked moustache, both got blown up in a factory explosion with not much more than a face scratch each, the English were fucking useless close range shooters a hundred years ago and the token bit part actress was smokingly hot and not even mildly English.

That being the case, I have successfully seen NO entire movies in SEVEN months of continental bus traveling. Does anyone else feel sick here? Now if you’ll excuse me I have to get to the airport to wait 6 hours until 4-fucking-am to catch a 2 hour plane flight where I guarantee you they will not play any movies except short animated ones telling me to remain calm as the plane nose dives into the ocean whilst all the air gets sucked out of the cabin. If you want me to stay composed in that situation then you better taser me in the chest because I promise you I will be screaming like a drowning piglet as I claw to death everyone around me in an airtight performance of text book hysteria.

Isn’t that fucking fantastic — just got to the airport and they don’t have wi-fi. So now I am sitting in an abandoned airport for 6 hours with nothing to do, nowhere to sleep and drinking coffee made by a robot that tastes like micro-waved bin juice. They do, however, have ONE power point I can use, over by a rack of arse punishing chairs that look like they bought them wholesale from Guantanamo Bay. Good times. Good times indeed. There better be some serious snacks on this flight.

Hay Fever: The Devil's Invention

Who else would invent an extremely irritating, non-fatal, seasonal kick in the balls like hay fever other than The Prince Of Darkness himself? Terrorists? Scientologists? Maybe. Like a delicate flower, Man Abroad is cursed with skin as prone to reaction as an Acute Albino Fat Kid With Diabetes Eating A Black Forest Cheese Cake Shirtless In The Sun.

And so that you can send me some Trans-Pacific Bleeding Heart Sympathy Thought Parcels, I’ll just list of a few of the more memorable Farm hay fever Moments for you: Picking raspberries = arm rash for a day and a half. Hand moving bails of hay = two day, burn victim like arm rash with matching chest and stomach rash of a near Dive Under The Tractor Wheel or Spade Me To Death Please Chilean Grandfather like intensity. Bike ride through the hills = 6 hour arm rash, one eye fused shut and 50% of bodily fluids lost through nose. Cow herding in hill property = 4 hour arm rash, closed eye and a throat that feels like a bird got caught in barbed wire, flew into my open mouth (mid sneeze), got snagged and started to panic. Wake up in the morning and walk into the kitchen = begin the random firing of the sneeze gun and non-stop snot hose action whilst hand preparing breakfast for tourists — Occupational Health And Safety Standards? Here? You’ve got to be fucking kidding. If you can, whilst sweeping, stumble across a baby duck carcass chilling under the stove for Van Halen knows how long then there are no problems warming slices of bread between your butt cheeks before serving, or topping up the coffee pot with dirt for that rich coffee colour.

Hay fever IS a disease, and a crippling one at that and should be recognised legitimately like AIDS or Syphilis. I need government assistance to cover medical expenses; up to 300 tissues a day, recompense for the hankies that fell beforehand, the equivalent of a gallon drum full of Pawpaw cream for the mangled face and rashes, band-aids for the skin that gets scratched off, time lost whinging and especially those bullshit hay fever tablets that work when they feel like it. If I ever meet that Rhinocort fella I’m going to shoot him in the knees, chainsaw off his horn and sell it on the Black Market (eBay) at below market value, then shoot him between the eyes as he watches the final successful bid. A bit harsh you say? Especially seeing though he is a ‘Police Officer’ as well as a sell-out African Savannah Rhino-whore? Not when you’ve been through what I’ve been through man.

As the wise old saying goes; You go through life being told there's justice, then you learn the only real justice...is the justice you take – Eric Cartman, philosopher/fat kid.

Better watch your back officer—Man Abroad doesn't care how endangered you are.

The Shape of Tits to Come

H.G. Wells, damn his Nostradamus-like vision, got it horrifyingly right. The future not only is bleak and controlled by gay looking robots, but it’s fat. With a crazy Chilean Grandma that forced a dozen meals down my throat everyday I developed an out of control eating disorder that pushed my body from Dream Boat to Dream Tug Boat in only three months. The Farm Phase is now over—I loved it and could easily have stayed longer, but within another three months the full transition to Arse Bagged Gringo would have been complete and irreversible. Now that I am On The Road, I plan on getting back to The Body with nature’s greatest eating regulator: Beer, and pints of it. All this Fat business was totally unexpected, I had imagined that after three months on the farm I would be a Ripped One Man Army, only let down by an expected, vomit-in-the-mouth-like farmers tan. But I was wrong, horribly, horribly wrong.


This horrendous image would have been reality in three more months — I fed the facts into my Future Reading Mac Widget and this open handed hit to the face is what I got. I had plans to do push-ups everyday during my Farm Period when I woke up or just before going to bed. I swore to myself (quite strongly) that I would do it and to not do it would make me a massive pussy. I even swore on more powerful things to ensure I did it. I knew that swearing to God or his tradie son would be as fruitless as swearing to that toothless old ‘human crease’ peasant in the next town or his bitch-titted, cross-eyed grandson. So I made the foolish mistake of swearing on my Killer Six Pack that if, after three months of Farm Life, I hadn’t achieved the predicted Fat Guns And Sweet-As Chest Pack Combo Set then I could kiss the sixer goodbye. And guess what fucking happened? But dammit man, there were just too many hurdles to overcome:

ONE: I couldn’t do push-ups before I went to bed because I usually had only just finished gorging myself and simply bending over forced open that little throat valve thing letting a little semi-digested, burny sopaipilla back into the mouth.

TWO: Exercise in the morning? Let’s be serious, when I wake up in the morning I’d rather make out with one of the dirty farm piglets. I barely have enough energy to knock out a slash let alone chesties.

THREE: I could have done them outside whenever I liked, yes, that is true. But to get caught by my Chilean Grandfather lying face down behind the chicken shed panting would have required an explanation I don’t think I could construct in Spanish, resulting in an admission-of-guilt-like shrug and even more embarrassing dinner table silences.

FOUR: Why not do them in the safety of your room then, I hear you ask? Well, smart arse, this house is made from wood that is at most 2cm thick meaning that if a spider farts in a cupboard on the other side of the house, not only can you hear and feel it, but you can smell it too. If I was to knock out my former Glory Number of 80 push-ups (and I’m talking straight back, nose to the floor type to any of you dick-bags that think you can do way more of your Fairy Taebo Push-ups), upstairs in my room, with the door shut, the odd mixture of squeaking floorboards and heavy breathing would have upset my Catholic Chilean Grandparents no end.

See what I mean? My hands were tied! As a result I found myself foiled by myself with the devastating outcome of Farm Fed Love Handles and some sort of Skin Blanket obscuring my once Mega Six Pack (that was well on it’s way to an Advance Level Eight Pack).


Men's Health: The Man Abroad Body. 
THIS was what was supposed to happen after three months working like a bitch on the farm (except that gunshot wound of a belly button — it’s like a fucking walk-in pantry!). The plan was to roll into Buenos Aires with a six pack you could wash clothes on and a pair of Man Plates than you could herd cattle with and reap the plethora of rewards (free drinks, random high-fives in the street, beating off chicks with my Farm Fashioned Fighting Sticks and more).


But have a look at this for God’s sake — I noted a normal Tuesday intake. Sure it was an exceptional day and I did a tough-as three hour bike ride but Bitch Please. Back then I could have eaten Oprah under the table. If you can't read it, click it for largeness moron, and prepare to be amazed.


I was staring down the Barrel of Fatness with no hope of escape. The future looked big and bleak. What would I have done after the Farm Phase? Taking my fat arse to Buenos Aires was not an option. I even considered moving to Hollywood to capitalise on my forthcoming obesity, earning millions as an the on-screen subject of ridicule. If you're going to be a fat fucker, you may as well be rich. But would they see my remarkable inner talent or just use me for my entertaining Man Breasts and Kodiak Bear Breadbasket? I can almost see it now with my amazing powers of foreskin; The League of Extraordinarily Fat Gentlemen — myself and various other untalented Obesitians (that's what fatties are called right?) driving around in a (reinforced) truck solving crime in between butter-loaded meals.

But fortunately, with the Man Abroad South American Odyssey Part II behind me, and with glorious farm bread out of reach, I am already returning to my former Splendor (aided by the substantial bundle I dropped during the earthquake).

Adiós Campesino

The cows have been creamed against Brazilian Blood Sucking Flies.



The Christmas Tree is well and truly dead and was chucked in the river, bucket 'n all (oh that sweet Latin Littering feeling).



The sign has been painstakingly repainted.



Acres of oregano have been cut, washed, dried and sieved into jars.



The active volcano was almost climbed (that annoying wench Mother Nature stiffed me again), this is the view from base camp (after I got up at fucking 5.30am) before we got the heart wrenching news to ‘get back in the car’ due to winds kicking people down the mountain and covering them with toxic smoke.



The cats have eaten their fill of fresh lambs blood.



The cherries have been picked. (Don’t you dare!)



The bruises have healed. And that’s my thigh not Lance Armstrong’s if you’re wondering.



The 1100 bails of hay have been safeguarded in the barn (wait until I tell you about that Allergy kick in the face).



The landscaping has been masterfully done.



The Campesino Empanada Lesson has been passed. They are Pino's and they fucking rule. I could easily kill a man (or a few children) for one right now.



The new wave of Farm Cats have made it past infancy. Awwwww.



The new-new cats indicate there is indeed a plague. And they don't look so cute, like mangled hairy Dalmation Salamanders.



The old Baige Back Gorilla himself, Toki, has been farewelled (I even started to pat him despite that old couch smell).



The gorgeous new dog, creatively named Panda, has been successfully integrated. Although when you pat him he gets a raging boner everytime. And I don't know if you've ever seen an unsheathed dog penis up close but it's fucking disgusting — like a three-day old deep fried chorizo sausage coming at ya!



The new-new former street dog (currently sans name), who is skittish and seriously malnourished due to the mistreatment by fuckwit 'city' people in Pucon, was welcomed.



And Guacho my old pal has sadly gone missing. By the time I had left no one had seen him for over 5 days meaning he has either; been stolen, ran away then got stolen, run away and got killed, run away and prefers his new place, got hit by a car on the highway, got eaten and buried by one of the other dogs, played hide and seek devastatingly well, hitch hiked to Argentina, fell in the river and froze and/or drowned to death or finally got his comeuppance from the geese. Rest in peace my little friend, unless you aren’t dead, then go fucking tear it up man!



The all important photo of me with my Chilean Grandma, Señore Irma, in Mapuche garb was taken outside of the Ruka. Although, I made the fatal mistake of letting a grubby-handed 7 year old take it, how the hell did she managed to smear it like that?



This doesn’t fit the Farewell Theme Style of this blog entry, but fuck it, I can do what I want. This guy, who has had his faced removed to avoid admitting the embarrassing fact that I can’t remember his name, strolled in for a family friend dinner thingo wearing this piece of Australian Patriotsim — in total ignorance. He couldn’t even pronounce it! Oosy oosy oosy. Give me a break. I would have offered to buy it from him as a precious piece of nostalgia if it wasn’t so damn ugly. Never EVER wear a t-shirt with foreign writing as you could well embarrass yourself. Imagine if I told him the t-shirt meant Pussy Pussy Pussy or Boners Boners Boners?



The new recruits have passed their intense hand over training period. That’s Matthew Ready (hilariously translates to Mateo Listo) and Lisa Caprice (as in the car not the dirty pole dancer). Maybe it’s just a coincidence but notice how there are TWO people replacing me?



Mateo caught me unawares and subsequently destroyed me in a spur of the moment Man Gut Pout Stand Off. I salute you and your superior Man Tank Don Mateo.



The near and dear family have been farewelled (except Grandpa, he left to do something else without saying goodbye). That’s my Grandma in plain clothes on the left, Señore Irma, on the right is her lovely daughter-in-law Anita and the one and only Carlita.



Most of the swarm of grandchildren were properly goodbye'd. That’s me, my beard, Carlita and that over-excited pocket rocket Carmilo (whom I dubbed Corporal Carmelo — long story but had to do with my dodgy pronunciation and him always wearing full army fatigues). Look at him seeking approval as he ruins another photo, although that is a pretty fucking good set of rabbit ears he’s got there. Nice work Corporal.



And now an Ode to Carlita, my little Mapuche sidekick buddy. We passed many afternoons together picking fruit for marmalade and juice. She is one of the funniest people I have ever met and a non stop giggle-athlete. She does awesome voices ranging from the speech impeded to Latin Godfather impersonations and we used to sing a robot song (in robot) together, I even taught the dear thing to beat box. Once, when I was talking, for some unknown reason, about intestinos (intestines) she broke out into an immediate ad-lib incantation called Intestino de Amor (Intestine of Love).

And if that beard and smiling child combo doesn’t get you all buttery then you aren’t really human.



I gave her the camera one day to shut her up while I was painting the front sign and she went on a rampage and this is arguably the Pièce de Résistance. Boogers and all.



Lunch table antics were always a treat. Dancing instead of sitting or making theatrics of taking soup from a spoon. My favourite move was the Ninja Face Wipe. Because she eats like a circus animal, she gets crap all over her face, if you turn your eyes for just one second she will wipe her dirty mug on something. I tallied; the tablecloth, her own clothes, the clothes of someone sitting next to her, a newspaper, the curtains, to my fucking backpack.



This is her trying to impress me while I’m chopping wood with her fresh raspberry juice moustache. And it worked. Hat’s off indeed.



Another successful Pig Chase completed. Now that's teamwork!

Adios Carlita! Que te vaya muy bien y un abrazo! Espero que encontremos otra vez!

It’s time to hang up the mighty farm pants (after a serious washing) and say good day to the life of a campesino. I am hands down 20% tougher than I was when I arrived and for that I thank my Chilean Grandparents, particularly Grandma. Man Abroad — it’s time to go (although I am thinking about a sneaky re-visit in a few weeks, but just so they can see how the beard is going).

Terry Moto: The Angry Underground Man Who Shook The Shit Out Of Me

As you are all aware, there was a tit-rocking terremotto (earthquake) that punched Chile in the coin bag, early on 27 February, the very same neck of the woods that your beloved Man Abroad is knocking about in. Five full days passed before finally the fucking water and electricity were reconnected here and still the internet is touch and go. Therefore, with no television, no internet, no NOTHIN I awake from the depths of ignorance and see the true devastation of the 8.8 Monster. I am, and was, fine. Just a severe pants shitting that nearly scared the beard off of me.

First I’ll clarify exactly where I was. Thursday I finished at the farm (and this entry fucks my Blog Chronology as I planned a Farewell Farm post — but that will have to wait) and caught a bus 5 hours up north to (Chilean) Los Angeles to visit a friend and her boyfriend, Hanna and Christian (both Germans). They live 15 minutes out of the city in a massive country villa. First night passed pleasantly and uneventfully. It’s a lovely property with fruit trees, shit loads of dogs, a pool and a 50 metre high private internet tower for extreme connection. That was Thursday. Friday passed with incident and I had a lovely 1 hour plus Skype conversation with family including The Brother.

Then it went a little something like this; phone beeped at 3.00am, another garbled nothingness voicemail that I can only assume was one of a long line of connection failures from the parents in Australia. Since I was awake I decided to knock out a ninja toilet run. Returning to bed I assumed the Pharaoh Position to relax back into a deep sleep. Then it started. A soft rumble that I noticed from the get-go being awake, Pharaoh-like and all. I had experienced a couple of these soft trembles in Santiago a few times so wasn’t too concerned until it fucking racked up ten-fold in seconds. I ran to the door that had opened itself and stood there clutching the sides. After maybe 30 seconds in actually got worse and I struggled to stand still. The noise was insane; the deep rumble of the earth, the lurching of the house, the clashing of doors and the smashing of everything that wasn’t secured in the house. It actually felt like riding in a 4 wheel drive on a dodgy dirt road or an out of control catamaran driven by a one-eyed Rottweiler. I truly believe the house was moving up to a metre in all directions. The hardcore part went for damn near 4 minutes and at around 3 minutes I thought I was going to get Crushed To Death By Country Mansion. It pattered out into softer inconsistently consistent aftershocks (as I write this right NOW — over 6 days later — there is a unpleasantly large turtle-necking aftershock).

I was extremely lucky to be where I was, away from the city. And I thank my lucky stars that I didn’t decide to visit Concepcion or Chillan first that got double teamed with Tsunamis. The only true inconvenience I have suffered has been the inability to contact anyone back home. Well over 24 hours after the earthquake I was fortunate enough to have access to the ONLY functioning phone in Los Angeles (at the boss’ house of Christian) for which I am truly grateful. Even that long was hard enough on the family but it was highly possible that they were not going to hear a word from me for 5 days! Sweet Jesus! Delia would have looked like Mr Burns on crack after that long!

But I have been more than fine here on the Estate. After the initial, hideous clean up, there was nothing to do except wash the dishes in the river every morning. Obviously kissed on the dick by a fairy, Hannah and Christian had actually prepped for a massive party the next day so we were totally stocked on food and drink. I have done much of the following over the last days; sit in a hammock, swim in a pool, played with the dogs, eaten too much fruit from the trees, played serious bouts of Pachisi by candlelight and knocked off a book. So I hope no one stressed too much about my safety as, thank Van Halen, I passed it all safe and sound. And can I just say that hammocks are the greatest invention ever. Do yourself a favour and fucking get one now and reap the abundance of rewards. Now for a few snaps...






Smashed!


Yes, there were ample supplies due to party preparations but MANY were lost in the quake — that room was a tough one to clean, let me tell you.


Thank you Jesus, Mary and Joesph that you decided to crack the pot and not the massive gas tank behind it.


Just outside the house — it's caved in a bit in the last few days, but those cracks go down over a metre!


The pool, formerly known as the communal bath — I tried the ice cold river once and it was bad (I am still waiting for my genitals to reappear). It has since been topped up but before it lost almost a third of it's water in the quake!


Oh, that sweet, sweet hammock. I NEED to get one man. Good naps and books have been had in that fella.


The mighty Night Passer. I am addicted now, but only when played by candle light. It seems familiar and I think it might be the German version of the game played as children called Trouble?

On a serious note though. I hope all the lovely people I have met in Chile have come through the other side unscathed and my deepest sympathies to those that lost a lot more than just power and water. May Terry Moto never strike Chile again.