Ding dong, the Witch is dead

Travelling in any sort of group while hoofing across the world is always a tricky affair. We had a ball in Europe doing things on our own, but always planned for some of our time in South America to share the love and do at least some of it with other people. And it´s fair to say that, for the most part, we had a blast.

At various times in Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia our trip was made more fun, and more drunken, by an evolving bunch of pretty fab people. Zara, Dave, Jen, Scott, Karen, Jo, Choppy, Frances, Vicky, Richard, Sophia (often when you´d least expect it) - step forward, take a bow. You guys were great (pauses to cry gently).

There is, however, a flip side to this fun loving, laugh-a-minute, raucous whirlwind of travelling wonderment. In our case, the exception looked like this:

It would take too long, and in all honesty be too painful for reader and writer alike, to detail the catalogue of horrors that the woman in question unleashed on fellow travellers, waiters, shopkeepers and random locals during her reign of terror. (And no, I´m not putting a name to this face. I think the face does a good enough job on its own.) But, in the interests of scene setting and background, I´ll run you through some of her greatest hits. Along side the general, hateful rudness, she would regularly rant drunkenly - this being the way she did most things - about immigrants, scroungers and benefits cheats. During a night out in Peru, she inhaled so many cocktails that a nineteen year old travelling companion had to take her back to the hostel after she became violent and tried to punch anyone who came within range of a flailing bingo wing. She then proceeded to push our local guide, refuse to go to bed, and instead sprawl next to a pool while a hapless bar man stood watch over her all night lest she choke on her own vomit. Personally, I would have left her there. On her back.

Using this outburst as a springboard to a more refined brand of vileness, she then proceeded to bring her nasty, petty meaness into every dorm, shared room and bus she stepped foot into. Reducing people to tears with her inane but hatefull rants, screaming at people in shops while accusing her victims of ´lacking manners´ - she was the real deal. After falling  arse over tit down some stairs and dislocating her shoulder, a fellow traveller with a medical background took her to hospital, administered drugs and care as the hospital could not, and even left her own passport as bond on the medical bill. She was rewarded with shit for thanks and a few weeks worth of snide comments. She even had to go and get her own passport back. 

But, like the lunatic she clearly was, all the hate started to go to her head. Which is why, by the time we hit La Paz, she had turned into quite the weird confection. Talking to people now only to insult them - any semblance of normality long since abandoned - she took to wearing shades at all times, and covering her diseased mouth and chin with an elaborate, middle-eastern style scarf. Which at least had the handy virtue of hiding her face.

And it was while wearing this bizarre outfit that she finally met her match. In the shape of the inimitable Karen from Croydon. You do the math... Looking back, the night had not started well. We´d gone out for dinner to say our farewells, as we were going our seperate ways that night. By the end of the meal the mouth scarf had been lowered enough for her to neck a few beers and two wines. Two bottles, that is. In the restaurant she was doing weird dances, groping passing men and demanding they teach her to salsa. Which was positively genteel compared with her dancefloor antics in the bar an hour later, where she was doing a bizarre sex grind with a slightly scared local, while drawling that she would be ``the dirtiest fuck of your life´´.

And then things went very wrong... or, I guess, very right. In something approaching slow motion, she pulled her hand up to her crumbling mouth - she was going to spew, and she knew it. But instead of dashing for a door or corner, she lurched purposefully over to the table where we were sitting, people, bags and fleeces all around. And then she hurled like a goodun, showering people and property alike. Most people fled, but not Karen from Croydon. Good natured person that she was, she sat down, wiped vomit  from the flaky mouth, and gently suggested that it was time to go home. At which point, She Who Must Not Be Named flipped, grabbing Karen´s throat, screaming obscenities and generally going utterly sodding crazy. But Karen, who as we already know is from Croydon, was utterly unfazed. This sort of shit, it must be remembered, happens in her hood most days. Karen fought back, holding her own, before bouncers and stunned clubbers - about five of them - piled in and, quite literally, threw her out.

And that was about that. Much later that night, letters were written to keep her out of the country for good and vouching for Karen´s noble behaviour. Stories were swapped, and battle scars compared; fleeces were washed of vomit, bits of glass removed from shoes. But most of all, people breathed a massive sigh of relief. And as we sauntered to bed that night, a song drifted down the corridors and on to the streets of La Paz. ´´Ding, dong, the Witch is dead´´....