BABY GOT BACK

You haven’t lived until you’ve sung Hey Jude to a room full of bemused Bolivians. At least that’s how it feels to me on this sunny Thursday, which is now classified as “free time” thanks to a nationwide road blockade that has seen all public transportation parked up on the highways and byways in protest against a new road tax that either has been or is being introduced. I haven’t taken the time to find out which. Just to grumble about the result.

We were planning to head to the high-plane saltflats around Uyuni today on a four-day jeep trip. But thanks to the strike we can’t get out of town for at least another 24 hours, so here I am, sitting by the pool, scribbling up my notes from the last two weeks of South American adventuring. As frustrations go it’s probably at the lighter end of the scale. After all, they have a table-tennis table, and any day you get to whack something with a ping-pong paddle isn’t wasted.

A couple of my travelling companions are actually grateful for the delay after a night drinking the appropriately named Hobo Whiskey. From what I could see this morning this Argentine firewater more than lives up to its name. Certainly the glazed look in Alan’s eyes and the time-lapse nature of our breakfast conversation point to a distillation capable of delivering all the effects of long-term homelessness in the safety and comfort of your own home.

Not that last night’s revellers would actually be homeless for long considering the consistently excellent quality of musical execution at the Tupiza Karaoke Bar and Discothèque. The locals would have been more than happy to see gringo boots left under Boliviano beds, particularly Alan’s size 11s after he dazzled the assembled crowd of mid-week drinkers with a full-throated rendition of Mumbo No 5. In Spanish.

Now I’ve been travelling with Alan for five weeks and while I don’t wish to cast stones from my own casa-el-glasso, Spanish is not a language he has fully mastered in that time. In fact, the only complete sentences I think I’ve head him utter in Spanish have related to the ordering of beverages and the requesting of bills.

So it came as some surprise when he stepped to the mike and delivered an absolutely flawless performance. Simon Cowell would have been on his feet. Danni Minogue would have cried and then, live on national television, asked him back to hers for a nightcap. It was nothing short of unbelievable. Of course, I was slightly intoxicated myself at the time so I can’t discount the fact that I may be overplaying the fluency of his delivery. But the one thing I can say with absolute certainty is that he sure as hell wasn’t singing in English. .

With the ice now broken and thawing to an extent that would require Non Government Organisations to intervene on behalf of low-lying nations all over the world, I made my way to the microphone to teach this small part of the world to sing. While the achievement of perfect harmony remains an elusive dream, I like to think my rendition of Hey Jude at least brought people closer together, particularly the sing-along end section which was delivered with splendid enthusiasm, if not precision, by several drunk gentlemen in the front row. Thanks Jugo and friends.

I retired to my seat, content that I’d probably just achieved the high point of everyone’s evening – if not year – only to have the glow of my fame-spotlight completely extinguished by Trina, who threw down a stunning rendition of Living Next Door to Alice, which conclusively proved that the good people of Bolivia are as equally perplexed as to the identity of the song’s subject as the rest of the world.

A high watermark had been achieved and, for all money, it looked like it couldn’t be bettered. Stepping up to the mike after that would be like following Vegas Elvis onto stage moments after he’d wiped off the sweat and thrown his towel into the crowd after bringing the full 15-minute encore version of Suspicious Minds to a thunderous close.

I for one was of the opinion that betters could not be bested on this occasion and looked on in pity as Kat took the mike. Little did I know that in five short minutes the crowd would have well and truly forgotten Trina (Trina? Who the f*ck is Trina?), with a new hero taking her place.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a tall blonde Australian woman stand in front of a room full of Bolivians and, without the aid of a backing track or lyric sheet, deliver a word perfect rendition of Bustarhym’s “I Like Big Butts”. But let me tell you, until you have, you haven’t experienced even a fraction of what life has to offer.

There are Bolivian men today who, having reached the pinnacle of their worldly existence, are right now making appointments with their lawyers and priests to settle up their affairs. Like Alexander of Macedon, who shed salt tears after conquering the known world because, for him, there were no more worlds left to conquer, they are destined to live the rest of their lives as broken, aimless men. But at least they’ll always have Tupiza.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson