Tag Archives: Brazil

REVIEW OF KIAROA LUXURY ECO-RESORT, Bahia, Brazil (for Mr & Mrs Smith)

Anonymously reviewed by Lisa Goldapple (Latina bon viveur) for Mr and Mrs Smith, March 2011.

“We’re kinda like Keith Richards, right?!”

I can see where Mrs Smith II is going with that. We’re high – 4000ft high – and feeling pretty rock and roll. That’s because Kiaroa’s airport transfer happens to be a 35 minute trip in their none-too-shabby private plane. They’re transporting us a world away from Brazil’s carnival Mecca of Salvador, right into the ecological wonderland that is Bahia’s Maraú Peninsula. She’s having a sensory overload malfunction, hollering over the propellers: “I promise I’m loving this, but I forgot to say bye to my family”. The Ralph Laurens, an elderly couple dressed top-to-toe in the designer’s gear, tell her, “make a happy smile”.

The Jungle Barbies have arrived.

By the time we’ve come back down to Earth on the private runway, just 100m from the resort’s reception, we’ve ticked off all the hallmarks of paradise: palms and mangroves, dunes and lagoons, waterways and falls, deserted white beaches and coral reefs.

‘Transfer included’ – first understatement. This bodes well for the rest of the weekend. All we need now is to be fanned and grapes peeled into our mouths.

Cue satyrs with icy flannels and fruit slices. Next wish – some bubbly please. And there it is, the first of many. Kiaroa has got the vibe right, blending into its jungle setting with tastefully modern Asian touches, from the thatched roofs and softly-lit lanterns to the collarless shirts of the beautiful Bahian boys on hand. We become slightly obsessed and want one (shirt, not Bahian boy).

With that in mind, I imagine a Brasilero stud, caipirinha in hand, showing us round the hotel. Instead we get Rodrigo, “Call me Rod”, our very patient guide. He talks us through options of tennis, volleyball, fishing trips and snorkelling in the natural pools. Obviously we ask him all the important questions:

“Is it safe to drink-cycle back from the nearby Barra Grande village?”

“Why are Brazilian bikinis so itsy bitsy teenie weenie?”

“If a coconut falls and there is nobody around to hear it, does it make a sound?”

Not to be put off, he continues the tour.

Kiaroa doesn’t seem preachy, but just eco-warrior enough, with subtle credentials from solar energy to a water treatment station. 14 rooms and 14 standalone bungalows are set around its massive doughnut-shaped pool, which is perfect as anywhere you sit feels private, not like you’re perving the loved-up Brazilian couples. Beware – South Americans are known for their public displays of affection. They’re at it all over the shop – on the sun loungers, by the swim-up bar, on the beach, on a horse. There’s heavy petting everywhere. OK, I lied about the horse.

Eventually we reach our aptly-named (but not for us) ‘bangalo’. It’s huge, with enough room to swing an anaconda and there’s definitely an elephant in the room – in the form of a giant bed taking centre-stage with another bottle of Chandon and fruit platter at its feet. A mosquito net gives that come thither oh-so-sexy four-poster look, hiding its real functionality. After being bitten 63 times on one of my pasty white Gringa ass cheeks in the Amazon many moons ago, I’m over-zealous with the repellent provided.

High on deet, we stick champagne glasses in the fridge for later and head out through the jungle, laughing in the face of the little bichos. We head to the beachside bar for a detox-friendly agua de coco and octopus fresh from the grill as we’ve heard this is the place to eat seafood. Smothered in molho de pimenta, a Bahian hot salsa, it’s a proper oral sensation. Beware though, it’s not for the weak, I have a spice vice. Mrs Smith II had to walk back to the zen comfort of our bangalo trying not to squish lizards because her eyelids were sweating. (Don’t worry, eco-warriors. She didn’t. They have eyes in the sides of their heads.)

Above us a plane makes white trails in the sky. I half expect it to be a marriage proposal and lose myself in the fantasy, forgetting I’m with Mrs Smith II. Intentions of riding a bike along the coastline fade after a hot-tub on our verandah turns into some accidental zeds in our matching Mrs and Mrs robes in the hammock. We stupidly miss dinner and awake prepared to eat as much as humanly possible to make up for it.

The following day, at breakfast we do exactly that. The poolside restaurant has obviously been designed by Jesus. You can stroll right out from your table onto its dark blue ledge and seem to walk on water. Good trick, now please turn our orange juice into a Buck’s Fizz.

No sooner than it is thought, it is done. We gorge on the sensational smorgasboard of snackery – empanadas, fruits, meats, cheeses, eggs, cereals and juices. This is impressive, even before they bring the omelette and tapioca menu. Tapioca is a fried tortilla-like Bahian speciality, thankfully not rice pudding a la Ambrosia. They fill it with either doces (sweet) or salgados (salty). I smother 2 in the spicy stuff, not that I needed any more heat.

It’s boiling, so we scrap our rain contingency plan of threesomes in the resort’s Armonia spa (in the form of their signature 4 handed massage – you do the maths), in favour of quad-biking around the peninsula with Call me Rod, who gets renamed ‘Hot Rod’ after stopping to point out hawks (gotta love a twitcher). He takes us to the natural pools to snorkel, teaches us about the jungle’s flora and fauna and finally up to the lighthouse for a 360 degree view over the coastline at sunset. We manage to convince him to let us drive the quads on the 27 kilometres of empty beach, which isn’t strictly allowed, but hey, he’s Hot Rod, he doesn’t play by the rules. At least we didn’t drive off road, roll down a ditch and slam into a wire fence like the honeymooners on the other quad. However, I do get nicknamed Jungle Barbie after managing to fall ‘up’ a tree.

We ask Rod how we can get to the fishing village of Barra Grande tonight and he replies “you can walk, run, bike, quad or go by horse”. We take a taxi.

Our driver and man-about-town, Sapo, shows us around the cute village, on foot – its sand roads, friendly locals and centre full of bars and restaurants with ‘energia boa’. As for what we get up to on our last night, what goes on tour stays on tour. What I will say is, it started very well-behaved with the best fish I’ve ever eaten (passion fruit and sesame crust) in the most beautiful setting on the beach, sandwiched between coconut palms. Then a local girl called Karma (yes, really) recommended a party. Cut to flailing about to a band with birds of paradise in their hair, with hippies dressed as Adam Ant. The stars were so bright Mrs Smith II kept trying to light her cigarette off them. Before we knew what was going on it was daylight and we were being transported into the resort on the back of a truck with the local musos. We tell them they can drop us at our plane. Rock and roll indeed.

In the Maraú Peninsula there’s definitely something in the water that’s giving the locals the horn – and it’s contagious. Being situated smack bang in the middle, Kiaroa Luxury Eco-Resort is in the most romantic natural location in the world. Legend even has it that before the god Maraú died he asked that all couples that visit the place where he lived with his beloved Saquaíra never separate.

It doesn’t look like this is going to hold true for my Mrs Smith and I. As she put it, “Is this how you’re going to behave on your honeymoon? Wow, I’d ask for a divorce.”

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Jungle Barbie & The Slow Boat to Peru

E-mail originally written & sent home in May 2003 – after a week on a boat sleeping in a hammock in ‘rather close’ quarters  – heading up the Amazon river from Manaus, Brazil to the tri-border of Brazil/ Columbia/ Peru.

Rather close quarters indeed

Rather close quarters indeed

… SLOW being an understatement. I have finally made it out of Brazil after 4 months here – and another 7 days on this boat. I know it wasn´t all a dream, because I cant remember the last time I slept.

Never thought I’d say this, but I never want to see another hammock again – my back has actually curved into a banana shape and I feel like I am constantly rocking ever-so-slightly (although that could be down to fact Brazil has given me a Caipirinha blood-transfusion). If there’s such a thing as hammock-sores I probably have them.

Emma attempts to ignore pre-concussion child

Emma attempts to ignore the pre-concussion child using my hamaca/bed for the next 7 nights as a swing. Cute for 5 minutes

This 7 day journey induced:

INSOMNIA – Over 100 Brasileros all sleeping on one deck. That means over 100 hammocks crammed into a space that was appox 12m x 6m – literally not big enough to swing a sloth.

I tried, but he was having none of it

I tried, but he was having none of it

Anyone who´s ever slept with me (not in the biblical sense) knows my love of warm, cosy, dark places. This was not one. Brazilian pop played on top deck at all hours and soaps constantly rotate on crackly tv 24/7 (actually I do have a soft spot for ‘Mujeres Apaxionadas’ – each character has a theme song when they appear on screen – the lead’s is Norah flipping Jones – they love it). To top of all off, they ring bells in your face over your hammock at 5am each morning for breakfast (loose term). Not sure who ‘they’ is as can never focus at that time, but if I ever see the soft focus bell-ringer again, they’ll be sorry!

NO PRIVACY – ´slept in´ one day til 7am ignoring the bells, the bells. Brazilian ´neighbour´ (he´s practically on top of me) shouts “Good afternoon Gringa” sarcastically which all the passengers find hysterical… AT 7AM – is he having a laugh?

ALCOHOLISM – Induced by no.3. Upped quotient each night – Day 1 = beer, 2 = wine, 3 = vodka & orange, 4 = whisky and guarana, 5 = caipirinhas and cheap jesus wine, 6 = beers and valium. Highlight for most passengers was a toss up between me falling out of hammock lots (well, I´d broken it on the first night in my eagerness to hop in, an enthusiastic hammock virgin – oh how that changed – I am now more like a hammock slag) or the demo of my Brazilian dance moves (a slow 2 step with a partner) on the top deck whilst moored at a Catholic village… to DJ Hype. Well, we were in the Junglist Massive after all – when in Rome & all that.

 Wh -wh-wh-wh-wh-When I raise my trig-ger fin-ger all yo' fuckers hit the deck, deck!

"Wh -wh-wh-wh-wh-When I raise my trig-ger fin-ger all yo' fuckers hit the deck, deck"

CLAUSTROPHOBIA – If you have a row/ embarrass yourself/ insult someone/ flash someone/ basically open your mouth without thinking (my specialities) then there´s nowhere to escape to.

BOREDOM – breeds arguments about who ashed under who´s hammock and attempts to storm off in a huff (not possible – we’re on a boat for Christ’s sake).

Emma looks all sweetness & light, but just wait til she ashes that fag under your hammock (pictured top left)

Emma looks all sweetness & light, but just wait til she ashes that fag under your hammock (pictured top left)

She's wondering if it's wrong to minesweep & smoke the butts

She's wondering if it's wrong to minesweep & smoke the butts

FOOD NEUROSIS – brought on by bad food – my own personal hell. Rice twice a day for a week. I ran out of personal supplies of chocolate, Skittles and crisps on day 1 because of no.3.

Day 3

Day 3: No more rice... please

CABIN FEVER – when we stopped on Day 5 at a small village we all got so excited to walk more than 6 metres at a time that we rushed off the boat onto dry land and civilisation… and a bar. And decided we didn´t like civilisation and having to cope with other people – or the fact we were no longer rocking. Longed to be back in hammock with nothing to do and no reason to feel guilty about doing just that.

Weirdly this was the bar/ only place to get drinks... MTV Lanchonette

Weirdly this was the only place to get drinks... MTV Lanchonette. Really.

PARANOIA – have to sleep with passport, money, camera, music etc in bag in between legs in hammock. Not a time for a Princess-and-the-Pea type mentality. But on the upside I did have Bjork clasped between my thighs.

CHILDREN – they smell my fear and come too near. And cry. Problem is that they are so beautiful out here that you can be fooled into thinking they aren´t evil.

Pic Like mantequilla wouldn’t melt - makes you realise how minging we are in the y(UK) doesn't it? I am procreating with a Brasilero quicksmart

Like mantequilla wouldn’t melt...

Like mantequilla wouldn’t melt... makes you realise how minging we are in the y(UK) doesn't it? I am procreating with a Brasilero quicksmart

Makes you realise how minging we are in the y(UK) doesn't it? I am procreating with a Brasilero quicksmart

COLD TURKEY – No Weed. The boat was heading to the border of Columbia and Peru. Hmm, weighed up risks, and my sensible side won… actually, that´s crap, we just didn´t know where to get any in the middle of the Amazon.

PMT/ period pains/ general hormonal shit – someone was definitely having a laugh. Come on 2 weeks early for entire duration of trip. Let me tell you the toilets weren’t pretty and neither was I.

DEPRESSION – No Coca Cola.

Pic Coca Cola My name is Goldapple & I am a Consumer (but look at my tummy, yes look at it, isn’t it brown?)

My name is Goldapple & I am a Consumer (but look at my tummy, yes look at it, isn’t it brown?)

However, joking aside, I absolutely loved it. It was the most surreal week of my life (especially when a crazy old biddy who looked 300 years old got on and tried to sell me 2 huge red endangered parrots for $10 – as word had somehow got around the Amazonian villages that a couple of rich Americans had got on (wouldn’t mind, but am bored of saying “No estamos Americanas”. I did toy with romantic notion of buying the giant birds and setting them free, but realised would probably fuck it up and expose them to dangerous flora or deadly fauna or summat).

Properly mental

"$10 or 2 fer $15"

When Emma and I literally jumped ship at 5am on day 6 to a faster boat it was the funniest send off that I´ll never forget. Very dramatic. Kids were crying, men were waving, and the chef (loose term) actually smiled. I thought my hand might fall off from waving, and actually felt sad to leave my neighbouring Bible basher. I was getting used to being looked at with disgust. When 2 missionaries had earlier joined the boat I was chatting to a Portugese journalist who writes for the equivalent of the Independent over there and is doing this trip for an article. I reflected on what they could say to convert me and he retorted that “No offense, but by looking at you, I don´t think they´d even try”. Does that make me temptation or sin? Anyway, I´m rambling, but its so good to be free.

Adios Jungle Barbies

"Adios Jungle Barbies"

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Masochism, Marmite and Machu Picchu

E-mail originally written & sent home in June 2003 – after Machu Picchu trek, Peru.

Where is it?

Where the fuck is it?

… so, Im alalive, oops cant speel alive. Shit cant spell spell. Right, start again.

I’ve done it! I’ve survived the hardcore 4 day Inca Trial and have returned – having hopefully lost some weight, but having gained Scabes. Which is ok as my backgammon set has caught fungus so now we can be quarantined together.

So, onto the description of my trek. You will laugh. You will cry. But your legs wont hurt half as much as mine do…

PRE-TREK INTRODUCTION TO GROUP – You can judge a book by its cover…

To say Emma and I didn’t get off to a good start is an understatement.

At the meeting the night before the trek we were introduced to our group. We’d carefully selected our agency having screened many companies to successfully avoid gaggles of American girlies or gap year youths. So, we had 8 Aussies all aged 26-32. Not bad on paper. We should have asked for photos.

For a start the 3 doctors, 2 accountants and 3 biologists all knew each other. It was easy to establish immediately that they weren’t our type of people. Let’s put it this way, I counted 3 pairs of hiking boots and 5 pairs of sandal/sock combos (this is the night before we even went – these were their clubbing shoes). These were hardcore trekkers. It turns out one had just arrived from a 2 week trek at 7000m in Bolivia and started sentences with “When I was in Bolivia/Africa” – you get the idea. Yawn, yawn.

When the worst of the bunch asked if anyone had any glue I replied (quite amusingly I thought) “O no, the coca leaves should be enough” to which they all looked really confused. He wanted it to fix his water filter. Cue tumbleweed.

To make it all worse, when the guide was explaining how everyone carries their own kit he said “Except for those 2 ladies who have hired a porter”. Omigod the shame. Well, we’re not stupid.

Onca Barbies Heart Ernesto

Inca Barbies Heart Ernesto - personal porter to the stars

DAY 1 – Start as you mean to carry on

Woken up exactly 5 mins after just fallen asleep to a stoned and clearly hallucinating Emma shouting “Its beeping, its beeping”. Ignore her and go to sleep.

Woken up exactly 5 mins after just fallen asleep to a stoned and clearly hallucinating Emma shouting “Its beeping, its beeping”.

If you think that was repetition and redundancy you’d be wrong. She did it twice. Lack of sleep is not a good start to Day 1 when it starts at 6am anyway. My watch doesn´t even beep.

Grab essential supplies had shipped out from UK – Minstrels, Dairy Milk, Marmite and Peanut Butter (Smooth, v important) and go meet the guide. Group is kept waiting 2 hours for our personal porter to show up as we hadn´t paid him on time. Then we disappear to get a breakfast bap and keep them waiting even longer. Oh dear, this really is a bad start. Still, our stomachs werent rumbling.

Stop at Ollantantambo (renamed hysterically by us ´Have you got a tampax?´) to buy bamboo walking sticks and 6 bags of coca leaves to enable ease of walking. Yeah right, just wanted to get fucked up. Didn´t realise really one bag would be enough between us. Started chewing immediately. Have a lot to get through.

"Yeah, yeah, it's all v pretty n all, but have you got a Tampax?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's all v pretty n all, but have you got a Tampax?"

Stop for lunch by white water river before start the trail. Thought food provided would be of the Amazon boat trip variety ie. rice and beans. Omigod, were we wrong. 4 course meal including avocado, fresh trout and satay chicken. All looking up. If all else fails can cheer myself up with food porn fantasising about next meal.

Decide to start at sloth-like pace to assert to the group that we fully intend to get the record for slowest-moving trekkers ever. Pretend to be fascinated by flora and fauna, but really more fascinated by coca leaves and Minstrels. Didn´t realise green teeth would be a giveaway. Try not to smile for rest of day.

Coca leaves, nips & ruins - all in a day's work

Coca leaves, nips & ruins - all in a day's work

I actually found the first day the hardest even tho it was the easiest day (insomuchas it was flat land and only – ONLY?! – a 5 hour trek). That was the very reason I found it the hardest. It was embarrassing not only how out of breath I was, but also the colour I turned (an apres-ether glow). My body obviously went into shock when surprised with the first exercise it had seen since I took up yoga and golf at college in the hope they’d not be too strenuous (yoga being the most painful thing ever – get into an interesting angle and then hold it and golf being the most boring activity ever – knock a ball behind a tree, go for a smoke).

But the scenery eclipsed the pain. Being ignorant, I thought that the 4 days would involve climbing up steps to Machu Picchu, but actually it involves a 4 day trail over 42km (uphill mostly) climbing through mountains and valleys, over waterfalls, through caves and past snow-capped mountains. Masochistically pushing through the pain barrier was worth every minute as every corner and every step brought new beautiful images. Truly the stuff of movies, Lord of The Rings stylee.

Aided by my bamboo staff I decided to take on role of Gandalf. Unfortunately the only ring accompanying me was a sore one as someone upstairs was definitely having a laugh giving me the shits on day 1.

Dull dinner with possee in tent. Conversation revolved around how clever my mittens are. They are indeed clever – fingerless gloves that can be converted into mittens Optimus Prime stylee. Most exciting part of this group was their Orbital-esque head torches which they let me borrow if I promised not to look them directly in the eyes with it.

I borrowed it.

And then looked them directly in the eyes with it.

DAY 2 – She´ll be farting up the mountain when she comes

Emma wakes up v unamused by fact my stomach has decided to make sulphur smells. And we are in a 2-man tent. I, of course, find this hysterical, other than the fact I am in pain and Day 2 is known for being the hardest.

Cloud or bum cloud?

Cloud or bum cloud?

Day 2 is the hardest. Altitude sickness at 4200m whilst trying to climb thousands of steps for 6 hours gives new meaning to the phrase uphill struggle. The delightfully named ´Dead Woman´s Pass´ was the point where Emma and I had Minstrel stops every 3 steps. Adopt the age old adage ´Walk like an old man, arrive like a young man´ (is that a saying, or did I make it up?). The only time I sped up the pace was when trying to avoid the trekker downwind from me realising that I did it.

I no longer belive in a higher being. I came on a week early (as I did for the entire duration of the Amazon boat trip too) so that Day 2 is made that much harder for the crippling pains. Is this still penance for the blasphemy-under-Christ-The-Redeemer-statue incident in Rio or the sodomy-shadows-on-a-church-wall incident in Trancoso?

I deserve a badge that says ´I survived the Inca Trail AND I was bleeding´.

Celebrate as reach top of the pass to the mountain with a Skittles fiesta. Then realise we have to trek for another 2 hours to our tent and all the others are already there. Whilst laughing at the others´ stupidity at rushing to the campsite Emma and I find out the reason they make you start at stupid o´ clock. It rains in the cloud forest at this altitude in the afternoon. We get drenched and hailed on and find out that we were ripped off buying our pound shop pac-a-macs. Have had them for 5 months, might have been good idea to check them out prior to stuck-on-mountain-in-pissing-rain situation. To make things worse, I go flying into the camp on my ass and get covered in black mud as we arrive late. The rest have had to wait for us before being allowed any popcorn. We are not v popular. Doctors in the group have fascinating conversation revolving around whether I have Scabes or Fleas from my sleeping bag.

Ask guide if anyone is as slow as us. He replies deadpan “No… I love you”. At least we have one fan.

The Inca Barbies have arrived.

Ernesto Hearts Inca Barbies

Ernesto Hearts Inca Barbies

DAY 3 – And Day 2 was supposed to be the hardest?…

Woken up at a time that should be illegal. Hot, hot day climbing ruins and more steps than I have ever seen in my life. Turns into freezing day as sun goes down. Porter has my jacket. My nipples celebrate by coming out to play much to observation of all who comment on raisins throughout day.

At one stop a couple of 19 yr old youths from the Midlands point to some ruins and tell us they are Machu Picchu at which point we enthusiastically start taking photos and telling all around us. Er, no, they were some v small insignificant ruins. Cue much laughter from all.

Camp under half moon in snow capped mountains. Assholes are playing Asshole again. I make gags like ´Put your Andes where I can see them´. Again cue tumbleweed. I give up. Maybe they don´t smile as they are secret coca leaf munchers too. I doubt it. They all go to bed at 8pm.

About 3 beers, 2 spliffs and 4 hours later I trip over the porters´ tent guy ropes waking them all up and everyone else as all the pots and pans fall about.

In tents everyone can smell your smoke

In tents everyone can smell your smoke

DAY 4 – Marmite is the true 8th wonder of the world…

All tents do not look the same... Racist

All tents do not look the same... Racist

I am even more unpopular owing to aforementioned guy-rope-tripping-pot-smashing incident.

We get up at 4am to trudge in single file fast for 2 hours to the Sun Gate to view Machu Picchu from above at sunrise. Celebrate with pure Marmite fiesta. Mmmm magnificent all round. I have never seen such beautiful sights and never thought I would. It was like a dream and brought tears to my eyes every which way i looked. After 4 days of sleeping in below freezing temperatures in a tent getting bitten by mosquitoes and being woken up at 4am to start trekking uphill you get there and feel so proud.

At Machu Picchu we sprawl on a rock listening to music and looking down to the Inca City. Our guide Ernesto was truly the only man in the world who can say things like ´This is life´ and sound earnest. All v corny, but the 8th wonder of the world was the most amazing thing I´ve ever seen.

Topped only by the burger and coke I bought at the cafe there.

Epic burger. View was ok too

Epic burger. View was ok too

After lunch tour of the ruins, accidentally wash hair in Moon Shrine waterfall where they used to sacrifice virgins for the gods. After being reprimanded inform all that I am not a virgin, so no fear of that. They look at me like they are not really surprised.

Head onto Aguas Calientes. Irony is though the name of this village within Machu Picchu means ´Hot Water´, could we find a hot shower to wash off 4 days of filth?

Could we, fuck?

Opt for the hot thermal springs which are another trek away. Incas didn´t like to make things easy for themselves. Unfortunately hot springs had within them hundreds of dirty Gringos who had same idea, so emerge filthier than entered. And probably gave them all Scabes.
Spend evening trying to avoid Trustafarians who got double firsts in English Literature at Cambridge and have just been in India. Emma and I are outcasts within the trekking community and we like it this way (should have informed them I´m member of British Mountaineering Society, altho only cos cheaper insurance). Had an absolute blast on our own and wouldn´t have had it any other way. Best thing I´ve ever done. Learned in the face of adversity (well, exercise) laugh. The feat I am most proud of is not losing my sense of humour throughout.

DAY 5 – No rest for the wicked…

(Oooh, must digress. Just found out guy next to me in Internet cafe is actually called Hans Solo. He is. OMIGOD. He really is.)

Wake up at 5am. No mum, don´t want to go to school today. It´s cold outside and I´m finally under a warm duvet. I´ll count to 10. Count to 10 again. I´ll just count to 20 now. Now 100. Shit, where am I? If I don´t get up I´ll miss the bus to Cusco and this´ll be the most expensive lie in ever.

Leap out of bed. Shit, forgot, immense pain.

It feels like 10 000 Incas are stabbing my legs.

They might look sweet, but at night they stab your legs

They might look sweet, but at night they stab your legs

Spend day walking like someone who has been up all night shagging, without the actual pleasure of sex.

Les Demoiselles D'Avignon?

Les Demoiselles D'Avignon?

For more tales from around the world, see the Pages widget on the right – Jungle Barbie & The Slow Boat to Peru, etc…

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