Okay So this is the deal. The travel diary is on hold. I Am updating it as often as I can, but other things happen all the time, and the diary is in hard copy elsewhere. As the entries are finished - 5 months late - I will put them up here, for the edification of me and anyone else who fancies a read about 19 days of me running amok through 10 different time zones on two continents in two different hemispheres. Today's interesting happening: The Bloody Hemorrhoid Yes, it sounds fairly grim; kinda because, well, it was. First, though, a little back story: the bloody hemmorhoid is in fact a drink. A cocktail, but without the traditional glamour (think a Pink Lady or Martini), trendiness (Sex on the Beach, Flaming Lamborghini) or heritage (Tom Collins or a Kentucky Derby classic, the Mint Julep). It is something which as near as I can tell does not exist in the modern world's cocktail recipe books; least of all the good ones like those larney ones you can buy which have the menus from the Ritz-Carlton or the Waldorf. It is something local, it seems, encountered or developed by the misguided horde with whom I do karate 3 nights a week. It first surfaced at Tony's 21st birthday back in June - undoubtedly the subject of my next entry because that was a surreal evening to be sure - and then resurfaced on Tuesday night the 20th of September, when I was taken out to celebrate my last year of youth, having hit 29 the previous day. To keep things simple, we headed to a local watering hole called Bella Roma, an Italian themed restaurant in our local shopping centre, mere pissing distance from the karate club and everyone's houses. Bella's, as it is known, has never quite hacked it as a restaurant/coffee shop; it has always basically survived by the patronage of its bar. In fairness, a mere fifty metres away in the same complex is another Italian themed restaurant, Verdi's, which has been there for 15 years, so you can kinda do the maths on it. And the suburb is not really geared towards having a coffee shop per se because it is kinda dead during the day and will lure in little passing trade. Nighttime at the bar is a whole other story, though. We pop up there as a group probably once every six weeks for a drink after training; the others go there a lot more often than I do, though - probably once a week. So there we were, getting all nice and mellow, shooting the shit and just generally being content with life, the Universe and everything and talking about various things, experiences and all kinds of stuff when Rene, all 49kg of him, decides that It Is Time for my birthday 'roid and motions Tony - looking more Nazi than ever with a newly shorn head and goatee - to discuss the recipe. I'll admit at this point that I am not usually one for raucous celebrations. I can count the number of times I have been drunk to puking point on three fingers, and the number of times I have been drunk to the point of slurring my words and being generally obnoxious on six or seven, including the aforementioned three. It is just one of those things, I suppose. I know my limit, generally, and I tend to hover around it, staying on the right side of the thin line between warm, fuzzy mellowness and alcohol-induced temporary mental retardation. Having said that, I don't regard myself as a wet blanket of any sort - I am more than happy to have a couple of beers and go streaking, or skinny-dipping, or stupid things like that. I just don't need to be piss-plastered before doing them, you see. Also, at my age, long gone are the days of the birthday drink, where everyone gets together and mixes you something so utterly rancid that you have to down it - because nobody in their right mind would slowly savour something tasting of drain cleaner and petrol - and I was a little concerned that a night's pleasant introspection, camaraderie and bonding could be ruined by me getting too drunk to drive myself home after a mere two beers and this upcoming concoction. Yeah, maybe it is party-pooping, but hey, it's my party, right? Nevertheless, when you don't go to a nightclub for the first time, opting instead to go out for dinner - or stay in and cook for everyone - that's the beginning of the end. That's when you shrug off the mortal coil of college days - even if you're still there - and move into the more sophisticated waters of young society. And that's where you leave the birthday drink behind. I voiced my concern to Keenan, sitting morosely on my left (argument with the girlfriend) and he was able to intervene to get the contents limited to the equivalent of four shots (120ml) instead of the draught glass (500ml) Rene was eyeing. I had plans for a lot of work in the morning, after all, and I did still have to get home, so I thought it was for the best. All that aside, it becomes apparent that neither Tony nor Rene nor Keenan can remember the recipe for this concoction anyway. The poor bartender - a pleasant lady who has had a stroke at some point - is getting a little ratty with them because it's late now - 11pm - and she is eager to close up and go home. Also, the last time she made one of these was for Tony, and she remembers him throwing up and is not keen for a repeat performance. I kept trying to see what was going in over my shoulder and kept being yelled at to turn around by Rene. All I saw going in was Amarula - a cream-based fruity liqueur native to .za where the marula trees grow. This is where it gets nasty, and good at the same time. The purpose of the Amarula is to give the drink some texture, because it curdles. The reason for its curdling was supposed to be unknown to me, but Rene was shoving it into his pocket and I knew what was coming. It's also what gives the drink its kick and its blood-red colour. Thank the good Lord that they had run out of stroh rum, though, because that stuff could floor a rhinoceros. Also, with no stroh rum, the drink won't light - another plus, as far as I'm concerned. Anyway, the bartender brings the drink to the table. I have wisely convinced Tony to bring me another beer as well since I am expecting to have a vile taste in my mouth directly, on account of the secret ingredient - a fuckload of tabasco sauce. The bartender kinda read the riot act to me - imminent violence hovering over me should puking commence - before placing the cocktail in front of me and giving me a tiny straw. A picture: a murkily translucent red liquid, fumes coming off the mouth of the glass from the alchol, containing grey-pink floaters of curdled cream. I resisted briefly - as much out of concern for what it contained as for the showmanship of it - before sucking the entire chunky mass of it through the straw. I'm guessing there was at least a tot of tabasco in there from the reaction of my mouth to the burn. It was extremely hot, vile and disgusting, but my brave act got me a round of applause and yet another beer. Later on, there was disappointment from Rene when he realised he'd forgotten to make me sniff up a line of salt before taking the drink. Tragic, he reckons; blissful, in my opinion. Needless to say, I was not looking or feeling my best when I got home - eight units of alcohol is a lot - and particularly not on Wednesday morning, where every movement of air through my throat (coughing, general throat-clearing and even the occasional breath) brought the sour aftertaste of semi-digested tabasco sauce and curdled cream. And let's not mention the hangover. -d-