Curfew

I get to the airport just before sunset, to avoid any dangers surrounding the protests, or the general problems in San Pedro Sula. I see two kids holding real guns at each others faces.

At the airport there are more military than travelers, and more police cars than taxis, but I'm told at the front that my plane will leave the airport at 1am as scheduled, so I pay the Hilton shuttle and head into the airport.

Everything seems wrong. One guy with a rifle, extra clipped taped on, asks to see my passport. He inspects it, and then tells me there are no flights leaving tonight. The new government decided to issue a nationwide 9pm curfew. Our plan wasn't flying into San Pedro Sula from Ft. Lauderdale, and it certainly wasn't going to be heading back the other way.

An unlikely cast of characters formed, all from the same Spirit Air flight, and all from different walks of life. There was the US couple, with about 8 bags, having lived in Honduras for a full year; the friendly black retired postman, with gray mustache, going home to tie up loose ends; the German hockey player, awaiting his family to arrive from the US, and unable to contact them or leave the airport... I suppose they weren't the most interesting people, but they all had cell phones.

Two individuals called Spirit representatives in the US and we found out that the flight was rescheduled for 7pm, only an 18 hour delay. I am actually pleased with this, not a bad job by Spirit for a near civil war. But we still had to have dinner in the airport, and sleep there. Nothing was open in the airport, and we got the number to a Pizza Hut but they wouldn't deliver to us. But there was a vending machine, and, yes, I remember that I have a mickey of Flor de Cana rum, 4 years aged.

I hittup the vendor 3 times, getting an Iced Tea, bag of chips, and cookies. I come back dancing towards my bag, take out the rum, and dance back to my seat. Everyone else takes a swig, and I'm already in a better state. Things only get better when for some reason the US couple pull out fresh tortillas that their friend made them, and a bag of processed refried beans. Even better, nobody really wanted any so I had two. As a backpacker, I would've eaten this meal at the best of times, so to have it now I was very happy. I even invented a new Baliada, the Dorrito Baliada. And God Bless America, the couple also had a laptop filled with movies, and speakers. With 100 titles to choose from, we somehow settled on the Jungle Book. I love that movie, and I laughed through most of it.

After the movie, everyone looks for their own way of sleeping. The old people do the classic chair sloop, head in hand. The US couple go for the luggage conveyor. The German uses his air mattress. I set up my sleeping back next to the cigar shop, and a few feet away from armed guards. And I sleep well. Surprisingly well to the point where when I wake up it's light out and the airport is swarmed with people.

"What are all these people doing in my airport?", says one of the people from my flight. But with people, comes food. There's one restaurant on our side of the security fence and it's a glorious Wendys. I'm in line at 8am, and trying to decide what size burger to get. Unfortunately burgers aren't fried up until 9 so I settle for a breakfast.

After that excitement, I figure I should go find internet to see if that 7pm flight to Ft. Lauderdale is confirmed, and furthermore, when my connecting flight to Boston will be.

The only place I find internet is Budget Rent A Car, where two girls are eating home brought breakfast, and watching You Tube videos of Presidente Zelaya, the most hated man in all Honduras airports to be sure.

I find out that there's a 7am flight to Boston, but Spirit has put me on the 2pm and naturally I find this unacceptable, but helpless at the moment. I'm more concerned about the 8 hours of boredom I'm faced with before I can check in for my flight. There are no magazine shops, and I have no book worth reading.

I decide to go into the cigar shop, to at least get some air conditioning, as San Pedro is quickly climbing to 35 degrees. Turns out they have some really comfortable couches with Cigar Aficionada magazines. I've never read it before, but it's actually really well done. It's like any gentleman based magazine, where they talk about a wide range of interesting things.

After an hour they tell me I have to buy something, so I get a Sprite. I can't even handle that much sugar after eating McDonalds, vending machine, and Wendys over the previous 20 hours. But $1 is a great price for a few hours of distraction.

I leave the shop at 1pm and go back to Wendys, and strategize for the triple patty, big, but just cheap enough to leave me with enough limperas for a bottle of water before the flight.

The afternoon passes.

I check in, and find out the morning flight to Boston was oversold.

I get on the plane. Take off, take off, take off, get me out of this COUNTRY!

Welcome to Spirit Air. I have no problem with Spirit. They're actually the most fitting airline to meet my love of Latin America transport. They don't clean up between flights, half the staff are drunk, and they offer nothing for free. And of course, I wind up sitting beside the oldest lady of time who is now shivering because the plane is too cold and complaining of headaches. We get her a sweater but she's not looking great and when she points up at the roof and tells me, in quiet Spanish, this is the air of God, I think fuck. Thank God I'm a rescue diver because when this plane goes up, this poor woman is going down.

But she makes it through the flight, and we're all in Ft. Lauderdale at midnight. Getting through customs takes over an hour because the computer keeps going down, and I'm positive I'm still in Latin America. We get through, yay. There are no Spirit reps there, but there are people from baggage check. They tell me the flight is oversold by 5 spots, but that 45 minutes before 7am, anybody who has not checked in for the flight is considered a no show, and any seat left is up for grabs. It's a shot.

I setup camp behind a flight board, and I sleep well with carpet underneath me.

I get up at 6 and wait. Every 5 minutes I ask, and they tell me the flight is full. I just keep asking different people until I get an answer that I want. At 6:20 I get no answer from a lady behind the counter, but she hands me a boarding pass and tells me to get to the gate as fast as I can, so I Home Alone it through the airport, fuddling with the AA batteries in my Talk Back, but always keeping my eyes on Dad's brown trenchcoat.

I get to the gate at 6:50 and they close the door behind me.

Civil War won't hold me down.

The ONE TIME I try to FLY! Civil war. Typical.

I did a really good job on this trip avoiding flying in any which way. However, I did book a flight two months ago for this Sunday, today, to fly out of San Pedro Sula, Honduras.

Filthy President Manuel Zelaya Rosales, good friend of Hugo Chavez, decided he´d try to change the constitution so that he could be illegally reelected for a 4th term. Nobody really took this seriously until a few days ago when all of the major generals of the army, navy, defense resigned.

I was in Uruguay, Ecuador, and Panama during Presidential elections. But while in the most dangerous country in the Americas, flying out of the most dangerous city, the tanks were brought out in preparation for full blown violence.

There´s been quite a few shootings leading up to today, but I took that as the equivalent of alcoholics turning St. Patrick´s Day into a week long event.

All locals, and tourists by the US government, were told to stay in there homes today. But I´m stubborn.

I was told there wouldn´t even be a ferry off Utila Island this morning. But there was, and there were busses. I even took it all the way to San Pedro and everything seems well fine. I got in a cab and asked him to take me to City Mall, where they have a movie theatre. I´ll miss C. America. As soon as we agreed on a price his entire family piled into the cab with me. We drive over but the the mall is closed. Beside it though, is a castle shaped Hilton Princess.

I walk in, with my dirty jeans, filthy backpack, but I got a shave yesterday so things were in my favour. I ask for a shuttle to the airport, and the lady asks my room number...

¨220?¨

¨Mr. Vasquez.¨

¨Si.¨

Things were looking up, but then she tells me a little minor detail. Oh, they´ve decided to close the airport for the day? No flights in, no flights out? Fantastic.

Luckily as a member of the hotel they´ve let me use the computers, sit at the bar and watch some football. And I´ve just read on an online Honduras newspaper that they´ve renounced the President and he´s fled to Costa Rica. I´m not exactly sure what the details are but the old guys in the picture look happy.

Maybe I can leave after all.

Alan Borenstein: Scuba Hero?

I wore out my formally sunken Batman & Superman shirt to Treetanic. A girl asked me which one I was, or which one I´d like to be. I started thinking about it when Sophie, a very charming Dutch girl, told me that I was niether; I was Aqua Man, a rescue diver. Yes.

I spent 17 days on Utila Island, and they were some of the happiest and most frustrating of the whole trip.

I got my Open Waters (beginner diver) certification. On the last day of diving we went to the north side of the island, considered some of the best reef, about 40 minutes away on the Virus. I was sitting on the front of the boat when somebody yelled out that there were dolphins!

DOLPHINS! Brian yells. And dolphins apparently love boats so we kept on driving and sure enough about 5 grey dolphins started swimming in front of the boat. I laid on my stomach and urked my neck and right arm between the rail of the boat and kept my hand flat and about three dolphins swam into my hand. I was already really happy but then there was still diving! The first few real dives we did, at about 12m, were some of my favourite because the sensation was still so new.

It wasn´t so much the fish, it was just the atmosphere, the weightlesses, looking up and seeing bubbles, looking behind and seeing 6 or 7 other scuba divers at various heights, doing quadrouple front flips followed by quadrouple front flips.

When I became certified as an Open Water diver, I wanted more. I convince Evan and Tyler to start the Advanced Course the following day, and that´s what we did. Advanced is considered the ¨fun uncle¨ of the diving certifications. It´s a lot less theory, and a lot more awesome diving. To complete Advanced you do 5 ¨Adventure Dives¨. Two of which are mandatory, Deep Dive and Navigation, and then the diver selects the other three. We picked, Peak Performance Buoyancy because Caitlin told us it was fun and useful, Wreck Dive, and Night Dive. Yes!

Peak Performance Buoyancy is fun. It´s an hour of skills like swimming through hula hoops, knocking over weights only using your regulator (mouthpiece) and then at the end you play ultimate frisbee underwater.

The wreck diving was cooler in theory, but still badass. The Haliburton was sunk 30m in 1998 and it´s big and open so it´s easy to explore. The only problem is there are very few fish that hang out there. Though to be fair, I just dove that again for my 20th dive yesterday, and we saw a massive grouper and just as large snapper. The grouper just kept its big mouth open, with its thick lips, and little fish were swimming right in.

The night dive is as cool as it sounds. You head out to the dive site right as the sun is setting. There were round patches of rippley mint green in one end of the sky and I couldn´t take my eyes off.

Everyone gets a flashlight and you do a normal dive, but you can use the flashlight to look at all the colours of the coral and there is a different group of sea life after nightfall. We saw two baby octopusses (octopi?) and little fish that excreet a flourescent blue. Near the end of the dive we sat on a sand patch and turned off our lights. When you move your hands fast you can see all the phosferescents (cant spell). Really cool.

The deep dive is definitely one of my favourite dives so far. We dove down to 32m with a bunch of eggs and a chart of numbers. At low depths, your brain is receiving less oxygen from the tank which slows down thought processes. It also gives a euphoric feeling, causing laughter, strange behaviour etc. Obviously it´s good to experience this with an instructor so you don´t freak out another time. So we get down there and there´s a chart of 20 numbers and we have to point to them in order touching our noses in between, and this gets timed. I went first and it became harder and harder, and putting my thumb over the 1 in 13 wasn´t helping matters. After finishing, I noticed my skin was starting to tingle, and watching everyone else do the puzzle I couldn´t help but laugh whenever they hesitated or missed a number.

Caitlin also brought eggs down, because the protein strands in the yolk will hold its shape in the dense water. We each cracked an egg and played with the yolks, passing them around, I took out my regulator and tried to twirl eat the yolk. At this point I know I have nitrogen narcossis, called, getting NARCed.

Now when you´re diving obviously it´s not practical to communicate with words so you use actions. There are many actions for different types of fish and it´s kind of something you learn along the way. So Caitlin makes a fist, palms her other hand on top, and wiggles here thumb and pinkie. I tell her I don´t understand, so she just does it faster.

I sat there for 2 minutes and could not stop laughing. Finally Brian came over with a picture slate and pointed to a turtle. Cool.

We started swimming up towards it, and I don´t think I was swimming properly or anything but I was able to hold my buoyancy and watch this turtle 1 ft away from me eating algae off a coral wall. It was so peaceful, sometimes looking over at me, and going back to work. It´s shell had seaweed on it. It was a great moment.

A week later, diving with Lucy, we spotted a turtle, and I went about 3 metres lower and spent a few minutes swimming with the turtle, with my arms spread.

Getting the Advanced certification is really good because it certifies me to dive at 30m which is basically the maximum most dive recreationally. Somewhere along the way, during a staff meeting my name came up to become a Dive Master, which is about a two month process, after which you can actually take people diving, and get paid to nonetheless.

They started offering me really awesome discounts, and free dives as you need 20 to start. I was definitely flattered and decided that instead of heading out into the rest of Honduras, I would stay in Utila and get my Emergency First Response (EFR) and Rescue certifications, which are required to start the Dive Master program. It also helped that I was making friends, having ridiculous nights out, and diving every day. Oh, and a regular poker game twice a week.

At this point, I was the only one wanting to start EFR so it was just me and Caitlin and we finished it in one half assed day. EFR is basic CPR, shock treatment, bleeding, on land scenerio stuff and a lot of it came back from all those years of swimming.

Underwater

I probably shouldn't throw around the term "best day of the trip". But.

I wake up at 8 and went across the street to get a breakfast boleada. It's a freshly baked corn tortilla topped with refried beans, eggs, onions, and hot sauce, and wrapped like a taco. Delicious.

I actually have class this morning. I'm on Utila Island off the northeast shore of Honduras, where diving is what most people come here for. Well, diving and drinking.

Anyway. I'm already on my second day of classes, but have yet to get into the water. My instructor is the very smart, cute, and Vancouver cool Caitlin who I really like. She's actually the one who grabbed me when I got off the ferry, checked me in, and is now my instructor.

In class, we watch movies and go over everything. There's 5 chapters of this Open Waters manual and after going over each chapter we do quizzes which are pretty much idiot proof. Another instructor, Brian, helps out. Not really. He looks exactly like the mean kid in Toy Story, and acts like Paul Rudd's finest character in Wet Hot American Summer.

Morning class ends around 1130 and Caitlin is going out for lunch with Brianne, her best friend visiting for a month, Brianne's younger brother Evan, and Evan's best friend Tyler. Caitlin invites me because she's awesome. The night before she invited me to her place where 10 Canadians sat around a small TV to watch the Penguins win the Stanley Cup in one of the best Game 7s I can remember.

After lunch. It's time to scuba. I won't lie, we have to complete a lot of skills that we go over, and I'm getting a little nervous. Not so much about the scuba, moreso because the list seems overwhelming and that leads to other anxieties.

I get off to a really bad start when we're setting up our tanks, which we learned how to do in the morning. I screw everything onto the tank upside down.

Right as we're about to get in the water all my worries fall away. We have 4 instructors for a group of 8. All help in getting us into the water and into our gear. We play around with the BCD jacket which inflates and deflates for buoyancy and I try using the tank. We swim over about 20 metres to where there's a tarp just less than 2 metres underwater.

With Caitlin and Brian in front, and Corrine and Mark in the back, we're told to deflate our jackets and try breathing underwater.

I have no fucking idea why I've never had an interest in scuba diving before. The feeling of breathing underwater is incredibley freeing, relaxing, sounds dispipate, movements slow, you breath in and out with big breaths. It's like the finest meditation you can do. We start doing our skills, one at a time, in between playing around with buoyancy. If we move out of the semicircle we've created, Corrine or Mark literally grab us and put us into place.

I thought I'd really hate the skill where the instructor turns off your tank, until you run out of air, just to know what it feels like. But it's really scary at one second but as soon as you give the signal your air returns and it's kind of a rush.

I also thought I'd hate the skill where we pull off our mask and breath for 1 minutes with our eyes closed but it was the strangest feeling .Without the mask, with my eyes closed, I felt like I was sitting on a hill with clouds above.

Brian is surprisingly helpful during the 2 hours we spend underwater. The 2 hours goes by so fast. I really never want to leave the water. Every half an hour or so I get a little overwhelmed when I overthink but I just slow my breathing down and tranquillo.

When we all get out, I'm told I owe the instructors a beer. Apparently if you place your goggles above your head that is the sign of a distressed diver so it's forbidden.

After we go back under and our weighted for buoyancy. Again, another beer. Fuck. Brian's really happy about it.

While being checked, I deflate my BCD and go about 2 metres under. Yaaaay. Corrine is instructed to tell me to come up. But now I'm incredibley excited for the following day where we do skills at 3m.

We get out, and clean all the equipment. It's almost 5pm and a bunch of us sit on the top patio at Parrots. Caitlin and Brian already have beers so I get them rum pineapples. Now, Caitlin tells me she's not drinking tonight, but I know what happens when you give anybody a rum pineapple. It can be the biggest drunk or the most conservative drinker, if you give somebody one rum pineapple on an island, 20 more will be consumed thereafter.

I take a nap after my drink, and wake up and it's dark, around 7pm. I walk out onto the street to look for some cheap food as the diving is really expensive. On the ground, 500 limperas, $25. $25 dollars back home doesn't buy much. In Honduras, it covers my dinner, a big hunk of BBQ pork with refried beans, salad, and two fresh tortillas. It also buys more than 20 drinks at 20 limp drink night at Tranquilla Bar. I go there alone, to be fair it is a 6 metre walk from my dorm room. I immediately see Connor, a big jolly American that I took the bus from San Pedro Sula to La Ceiba to catch the early ferry and we sit together and I start ordering 3,4,5 rum pineapples. We're not really friends, but anybody you get on a stressful 4 hour, should be 3 hour, bus at 5am, it's a drinking friend for sure. Brianne's bartending tonight as well and she's fun to look at.

Early enough, Caitlin arrives and sits between myself and Connor. I immediately order her a rum pineapple. She tells me it's going to be her only one, but when she's almost done that one I order her another.

I feel bad, sort of, but Caitlin and myself get into a long conversation about diving, and her ambitions to be a nurse, and Connor is kind of excluded. I really shouldn't be in this scenerio. There was definitely something between me and Caitlin from the day I got to the island. We keep drinking and we're both pretty drunk at this point. At around midnight, a 6'6 massively moustached Alaskan named Kim with short shorts and an open Hawaiian shirt approaches Caitlin and of course I'm ready to bat this weird dude away but this guy used to live on the island and Caitlin taught him to dive and Kim taught her to play guitar.Caitlin tells me he's the best guitarist she's ever met and immediately wants to go back to her place to play guitar. I follow to listen. We kick her sleeping roommate off the couch, and he goes into one of the two rooms. I know three people live there and I'm wondering now how that works. Caitlin's guitaring makes me happy, singing Neil Young with a raspy voice and a guitar innocence. Kim is actually quite good, and I appreciate his love of lyric first music. But I'm falling asleep.

I wake up to Caitlin saying we're all going for a night cap at Tranquilla bar. I pay for it, the last of my 500 limps. Brianne is closing up the bar and wants to go for her night cap at Coco Loco, about a 5 minute walk, a beautiful bar right on the water, as most things are. We obviously go to. I don't have another drink, due to insufficient funds but it's definitely for the best. Caitlin and Brianne start dancing around and then. I've never been so compelled to do anything, so absolutely infatuated. Brianne gives Caitlin an edge of space and I grab her and tell her we're jumping into the water right now. Not now, she tells me. There will be a better time. Better time? We run holding hands and jump in in our clothes. I'm wearing jeans.

Brianne follows in shortly, but gets out fast. I really can't stress how romantic this situation is. In the caribbean at 1 in the morning, a beautiful black sky with stars, the moon halved. Music is playing loud, and I'm grabbing onto the bottom of this litted dock and my legs are wrapped around her, her blonde hair wet and tucked behind her face.

"I have a boyfriend."

Now. In normal circumstances, say over a coffee, "I have a boyfriend" can hold weight in a conversation. In this situation, I kiss her.

It's a small kiss, kind of hard, and she pulls away.

"You know I have a boyfriend."

"Not really, who is your boyfriend."

"Eric."

"Shit." Eric is another instructor at the shop, reminds me of a loveable Degrassi character. But worst of all, the night before during the hockey game, they all make burgers and he offers me the last one and it's absolutely delicious. This makes us friends, by way of man code.

Worst of all, she knows a lot of people on the dock, some of which work at Parrots. I don't really concern myself with this as most people are drunk anyway. Allan, a local at the shop, helps us onto the high platform.

I take off my shirt, and Caitlin pushes me back in. My shirt falls to the bottom, impossible to see in the dark water. I tell her it's actually my favourite shirt, with Batman AND Superman on it. Caitlin tries looking for it but I hold onto her leg and bring her back to the surface. Searching is hopeless, and dangerous. We kind of hug in the water. Nothing happens.

But damn. We get out innocently and I apologize for making a move.

I make friends with Larry, as he tells me, I'm talking to the best, with lots of money, with friends that would kill for him. And he can barely keep his eyes open. I'm a little concerned because he approaches me after seeing me and Caitlin get out. I assume he knows Eric, and this guy is reaching into his pocket. I use my Canadian defence.

"HI, MY NAME'S ALAN. HOW YOU DOIN?"

Within 10 minutes I go from having this guy want to stab me, to telling me if I ever need anything "taken care of" I can ask for Larry. Thanks Larry.

I crossdresser grabs me and it's time to go. As we leave, Caitlin reminds me to have my homework ready for chapters 3 and 4.

Playa El Tunco, El Salvador

The young owner of the hostel comes out of his office and turns to his right, where I´m sitting on a chair. He gives me a stern look like an elementary school principal whose going to deal with me after; the only difference is I´m shirtless and strumming a guitar. I already know what´s going to happen...

¨You have to pay for two rooms!¨

¨Let me get this straight. Your security guard saw ME, leave room 16 and somehow enter room 12 at midnight. THEN at 4am I decided to leave room 12 and return to room 16. AFTERWARDS, a key was found in a washroom and you assume I had stolen it at some point before? What would compell me to do any of this? Do you accuse all your guests of using two rooms?¨

¨You were with the blonde girl. I´ve been in this business 5 years my friend. I know how it is, you have a girl, you want to make happy. Do I have to call the cops?¨

¨Look. I´ll pay you the $18 because I know if the police come and it´s my word against a locals I´ll have to bribe them at least 50.¨

Travelling with a girl is a good way to stay out of trouble. Travelling with a girl you have a crush on will do the exact opposite.

The four of us did have a great time in El Tunco. It was exactly what we wanted. A private room, with hammock, and the ocean less than a minutes walk away. A bonus was the pool, ping pong tables, and billiards.

Most of the days were filled slowly but with great relaxation. The girls had bought $40 worth of groceries in town and I was able to make lots of really great meals. I spent most of my time in the pool reading a surprisingly interesting autobiography about comedian Artie Lange. I would also take hammock naps at all times of the day. Sometimes I would wake up at it would be dark, sometimes I´d close my eyes watching the full moon. At night we would drink rum and beer.

The first night we went for dinner by the ocean and had fresh fish plates while the sun sets over the late day surfers.

Saturday was a bit of a crazy night. It was World Cup qualifiers between El Salvador and Mexico. Mexico had spent much media time bashing El Salvador, which made it all the more sweet when El Salvador took a very early lead. I spent the first half of the game eating popusas; the local street food in the country. It´s a corn tortilla filled with cheese, beans, and pork grinds, and sometimes chicken or fish, then cooked on a grittle, topped with tomato juice, picante, and slaw. After I walked over to one bar and sat with Helena and Marie, my two beautiful Norwegians. For the second half I went to the bar restaurant on the beach where I found Marni, Isa, and Hannah sitting with a fat drunk El Salvadorian who got up as soon as they called out my name. They were glad I arrived and so was I because the drunk left an unopened can of Brahma sitting in front of me.

Sometimes drunk locals in a bar can lead to trouble, but, located only 90 minutes from San Salvador, there were lots of older rich local drunks who were happy to give me beer if it meant they could be around my three blue eyed blondes. Smart guys. They actually brought an entire cooler of Brahmas to this bar, which is acceptable apparently but why not in when the floors made of sand and most of the guys in the room are shirtless. Somehow, El Salvador wins the football match 2-1 and we knew it would be a fun night.

All the while, Marni is talking to a guy from Scarborough and she tells me she´s really interested in him. At some point a long haired surfer local tells us about a party 15 minutes away so when everyones finished there drinks we walk over as a big group. Turns out it´s a party at a surfshop, or rather the pool behind the surfshop where they have music and massive bottles of ice cold Vodka. There´s maybe 30 people around drinking to beyond beligerance. Hannah jumps in the pool with all her clothes on and I follow in my boxers, back first. It becomes really easy to then lure Isa. Marni is standing on the sidelines with her Scarborough boy and tells me she´s leaving, hands me the key to our room, and says I probably won´t see her the rest of the night. Two of the guys in our crew are oober Alpha Male Americans. Niether wants to get in. But Andy, the skinniest and drunkest guy at the party tells one of them that they can get into the pool from the balcony above and the Alphaer male is up for it. It doesn´t seem very dangerous, you definitely do have to clear about a metre though. So Im in the pool watching this balcony. I see him run and while he´s trying to push off he slips on the wet wood. I see his eyes light up before he spins around and something definitely hits the side of the pool before he submerges. I start to regress to Bronze Med swim courses 10 years ago, when he jumps up. He only managed to scrape his leg.

The vibe at this party is really weird. Twice as many guys as girls and the guys are really aggressive, fighting each other, grabbing at whoever they can.

Myself, Hannah, Isa, and the two Americans decide to leave. On the walk back we pass by the completely empty Zip Hop bar and we decide to go for a night cap. I´m not happy about it because this means I´d have to put pants on. A night cap turns into a small cheap bottle of Dominican Rum which we finish really fast while a DJ, a young guy wearing a Bob Marley jumper, plays songs to our liking. We buy a second bottle, while the Americans leave, and we decide to stay and dance around a bit. We take turns going into the air conditioned DJ booth to pick songs off of iTunes. While Isa is in there, Hannah and I are flirting it up, and I notice the songs are changing really rapidly and at this point Isa has been in the DJ booth for about 10 minutes. I decide to go look through the dark glass window and I see Isa and the DJ making out. I tell Hannah and she laughs at the sight. Isa emerges, with the darkest hickie I have ever seen, the DJ with a big smile on his face. Minutes later, the DJ brings up 3 chicken wings from the kitchen? I try to talk Isa into another make out, but negotiating for hamburgers beforehand.

At some point a group of about 12 people show up, most of which are the bartenders from the beachside bar and they´re all wearing white shirts and dark jeans. The DJ throws on classic Run DMC and all these guys form a circle and start doing some breakdancing. Some British girl with the crew gets two full plates of chicken wings and almost immediately gives us one of them. No hickies required.

Ocean, pool, puposas, sunsets, full moons, hammocks, fresh fish, music, relaxation, and three awesome girls. All in all El Tunco is successful.

Myself, Hannah, and Isa leave and Marni wants to stay in El Tunco to surf and maybe be with the guy from Scarborough. I really enjoyed travelling around with her for a short time, one of the coolest girls to see the world with, I´d bet.

We don´t make it all the way to Pirqin, so we sleep in a town called San Miguel where we eat at a BIGGEST restaurant, a fast food chain in the country, where they have a TV playing our favourite song... 1, 2, 3, 4- uno, dos, tres, quatro!

On the walk home we walk down the wrong street and it can only be described as in video games when you walk close enough a group of zombies awakes and starts following you really slowly. Obviously they were just ugly old drunk guys, but still freaky. We spend the most of our night in our cheap hotel room watching TV. I actually love the show, The Mentalist.

Leon and the road to El Salvador

I had to go to Leon, volcano boarding sounded like too much fun. To be fair, it was just alright. Marni and I sat on thin wooden snowboards with only kneepads and elbowpads for protection, keeping our ankles dug into the ground with 500 metres of black volcanic rock below us tilted at a daunting enough 45 degree angle. But when our guide told us to go, the unexpected happened; we barely moved. It was definitely original and fun, but there was nothing scary about volcano boarding. It was a waste of adrenaline, but a fun morning.

At night the four of us went to the Shark Pit for taco night, each chicken taco being only 75 cents. The girls ordered 2 each, I ordered 5, just to be safe. While clarifying the order, the server got confused and brought 4 extra tacos but it didn´t seem to be a problem.

On the walk back to the hostel I layed under a round, thick green tree with a flat top beside Basilica Ascunscion. I listened to the 10pm bells go from the hollow rooms at the top of the dirty white 300 year old church, angelic woman holding up the foundation. A homeless man sleeps on the steps by the hot dog stand, but he could easily be the vendor. Im impressed with this old church and how there aren´t any lights accenting its unpolished white finish, just street lights. Towards the bottom are black markings and removed paint.

Across the street from Big Foot hostel some Israeli guys we´ve met ( and that Marni and I have made fun of... You don´t have ze Lonely?) were drinking and we joined them and had some cheap rum bottoms. They were going to a bar 10 minutes away and we joined them, had more rum, and danced to bad music. One of the Israeli´s danced particularly hilarious to the bad music, and Marni joined him.

Hannah and myself found ourselves in the pond pool inside our hostel before going to bed.

In the morning none of us were feeling great, and things weren´t made better when we walked 15 minutes in the already hot sunlight to a restaurant for bad breakfast made worse when they ran out of ketchup.

It also didn´t help that Isa lost the key the previous night. We tried attatching a key that looked nothing like the real one and the guy at reception caught on immediately. We got into a cab, to the bus station. We took a smooth, fast, small van microbus to the town of Chindega. From there, there was only one option to get to the Nicaraguan border. A super hot, slow, chicken bus where we didn´t have seats for the first half. Standing never seems so bad but it´s the constant comings and goings of various vendors that make matters difficult. Even the 60 pound woman selling some sort of ice healing cream has to squeeze past me. The 200 pound women selling water and enchiladas defy the laws of physics.

It´s really hot, but cheap bags of water keep us going.

Nearing the border, the bus empties out. The owner of the bus comes and sits with us and tells us to walk to the border and not to get into anyones cab or bicycle cart because they are trying to rob us, scam us, and get us lost. Travelling solo, this wouldn´t bother me. But with three ladies, although all very smart and capable travellers, I feel overwhelmed by the guys trying to guide us to their bikes.

But getting robbed almost seemed like a better option then walking. Nicaragua is an incredibley hot country where 35 feels like 45 and we´re walking 1 km along paved roads. We cross a bridge and by the end I´m a little wobbley. Because of an apparent boarder agreement the crossing is incredibley easy. There, a woman offers to take us to San Salvador for 15 dollars a person. We see no other busses. We aren´t necessarily trying to get to San Salvador so I negotiate a price of 25 for the four of us to get to the border as Nicaragua and El Salvador don´t connect for some silly reason. Hannah and I sit together, with Marni and Isa in the parallel seats and we´re impressed by how green and mountainous this area of Honduras is.

Along the way we do decide we want to get to San Salvador in order to make it to the beaches nearby the following day.

I go up to negotiate with the woman... $40. I standup, and she pulls me back into the seat beside her by my t-shirt but I don´t mind. I feel like I have an understanding with this woman. She says 30, I say 15, and she lets me walk away. I go back to my seat and fall asleep on Hannah´s lap. I get up at the border covered in water like I had just had a shower. The woman is walking towards the back of the bus and we both know it´s 20 more dollars.

We´re hungry at the El Salvador border but I´m the only one getting expensive fried chicken and rice at the crossing. Nobody is even going to the 25 cent washroom.

They know better. Minutes after a random drug inspection we´re taken to a gas station with a full menu and clean enough free washrooms. I have a delicious sandwich and the girls get various fried chickens. There, I see Helena and Marie off of the Tica Bus where they paid $35 dollars more but get faster bus, and air conditioning. At this point it doesn´t matter, the sun is going down.

We pass by long hills and black shilloutte trees in the orange pink sunset to the left. Stars and fireflies start to come out. At one point we start to go up into a little mountainrange and through the open windows I almost feel chilled air, something I haven´t felt since El Valle in Panama. Hannah and I are comfortable.

At nearly 10pm we´re dropped off at a gas station and told by the woman we´ll have to taxi in, and she goes about calling one for us, and helping us to get a price. We all come to like this woman and her random bus of hot air, negotiations.

We find a cheap enough hotel near the bus station, but it´s in the centre of town which we´re told is dangerous. Of course you never know if it´s like Colon in Panama dangerous or Bolivia CNN dangerous. It turns out it´s likely the former. Funeral homes everywhere, a guy walking around dressed up like a clown at 10pm on a weekday and a nearly naked man with thick black eyebrows stares us down as our cab passes. Our hotel is across the street from an empty club which plays incredibley loud music through our room which isn´t cheap but has three comfortable double beds and a big washroom.

I fall asleep with Hannah beside me.

A Long Day In Granada

Friday morning I woke up in a really hot room around 9am. Marni was excited to take pictures of the colourful and colonial city of Granada. I was really excited to get a haircut.

I went down a few blocks to a large barberia and sat down at the first chair. As usual I told my guy that I wanted my hair short and the beard shaved off. He told me it would be 50 cordobas for the cut and 50 cordobas for the shave. That seemed a little excessive but so did my facial hair.

He went to work on my hair with a massive pair of scissors. I hadnt used shampoo in several weeks and the tangles were wild. The haircut only took about 15 minutes and it wasnt bad. Then he asked me if I wanted my beard cut off with an electric razor or a straight knife. Obviously I elected for the clean cut. The barber removed my backwards cap with all the hair and cranked the chair down so I was lying back. He wrapped a yellow towel around my neck and folded a fresh knife into it. He then applied the shaving cream, using his pinkies over the moustache. The cut took about 5 minutes. When he was done, he added another layer of shaving cream and spent just as much time going over my face. He handed me a wicker fan and added a strong alcohol to my face. When the burning set in he fanned my face for a few minutes. After, he added baby powder, brushed it off, then added more baby powder. Then he took a glob of shaving cream and massaged it into my cheeks, neck, and forehead for about 2 minutes. I sat up in a daze like I had just been to the spa.

I walked around for a little, exploring the city. I happened to peek into a cafe and saw Adam and Marie eating lunch. I hadnt seen Adam since Medellin about 6 weeks prior. We both looked a lot healthier.

Marni and myself met for lunch in the central square by the big yellow church, with a cold litre of Victora cerveza. About a dozen kids walked past during the hour asking for money. Granada seems like a small town with money but its really quite poor, with endless amounts of beggars, harassing drunks, and shit sellers, trying to sell you overpriced shit. This is not the same Nicaragua as Isla Ometepe.

I woke up from a nap at 5 and saw Marni had been doing the same. Our new friends Isa and Hannah, two fun girls from Britain, moved into our room and we set out with two German guys to a baseball game that we got word of. We heard it was the playoffs, and fun. Walking over, I grabbed a hot dog along the way expecting it to be the first of many.

At Flor de Cana stadium we had no problem buying the most expensive tickets, at 1.50 US and there were hundreds of seats to choose from behind the batters box. I went down to a woman with a massive cooler and bought 6 cans of beer for the group. They were only 1 dollar each. Surely this wasnt the same baseball as the major leagues. Everything is so cheap.

Now all we wanted were hot dogs, endless amounts of hot dogs. Funny enough, there was everything you could want to eat except hot dogs and it was all cheap so I had most of it. First there was a casillo, a flour wrap with cheese, onions, and sour cream. Then I had a slice of pizza. After was a chicken burger. Isa got a ceviche and it was surprisingly good and we all somehow avoided food poisoning during this entire time. We all took turns buying beer and like in the majors we watched the vendors more than the game. We also had fun watching kids walk around collecting empty cans. By the third inning it was dark and we were down 4 runs. In the 4th inning there was lightning and a few minutes later a heavy rain started. We had a roof but the fans in the cheap seats huddled into the corner. The game didnt pause.

Between innings reggaeton plays and the bat boy dances, stamping his feet in a circle in a salsa type dance. The bag of his jersey reads KitttyTyler.

Then, in the 5th inning, the power went out. A few thousand people remained in their seats waving around their cell phones. I put my arm around Hannah because I was definitely a little worried about the pitch black. We sat like this for 10 minutes. A few emergency lights came on and seemed to intensify the wind now blowing into all of the stands. All of us started climbing seats in a panic like a volcano erupted home plate. When we couldnt get any higher we huddled into a ball to stay as dry as we could.

We sang songs.

The rain died and needless to say the game was cancelled for the evening. We hurried out of the stadium and had no trouble getting a taxi, or fitting 7 people into this little citroen sized car.

We got back to the hostel and went to work on a bottle of Flor de Cana dark, aged 5 years. This is some of the best rum you can have. At points we talk to a guy named Chuy, a 280 pound Nicaraguan who pretends to work at the bar in the hostel but really is a cause of grief for the staff there. He is funny nonetheless.

We go to two different bars, both on our block. Niether are very fun but I have a good time talking with Adam, Elaine, Helana.... ah you know, the usual group. Marie has turned into a really good salsa dancer. Marnis really fun on the dance floor.

Towards the end of the night, Isas dancing with some local who lies through his teeth but plays the psycological game of frustration nearly as good as I do. On the other side Hannah and Marni are being hit on by an old short local who looks like a combination of the egg man, the joker, and the penguin, with the laugh of the riddler. He is the ultimate super villian.

While Im trying to get Isas dude away, Marni and Hannah walk past super villain. Marni says goodbye to the guy, and God bless my friend who has only been in latin America for one week, but the guy waits outside and has two of his friends sitting in a car and starts yelling at Marni about being rude and stupid and he wants to fight me. We walk really fast back to the hostel. This is when we think to ourself, what a crazy night. But Isa is hungry and we all decide to go looking for food. This is a really small town and doesnt have too many late night options but we hear of a place near the cemetario and go looking for a cab. Shopping around, we finally get a guy down to 10 cordobas per person and as we are about to climb in another taxi pulls up. Chuy gets out.

Chuy!

He tells us to get in. Chuy moves into the front seat beside the cabbies girlfriend, squishing her in the middle and the 4 of us in the back. We get to the cemetary but the restaurant is closed. Chuy tells us that the gas station has food so we drive there. Chuy is talking complete rubbish and taking hits of coke out of a small bag and saying something about how his boys roll and all 4 of us are now starting to get that bad feeling you get at 3am on a Friday night.

The Esso gas station does have a good assortment of food. I have a croissant and a juice box. Marni has a old cold meat empanada. Chuy comes in and, grateful for driving us around, I buy him a pack of gum which he opens before I can pay for it and starts grinding the piece in his teeth. The driver and his girlfriend buy beer. Police are in the station and Chuy is talking about how he bribes them and how they wear uniforms and he wears sneakers and hes the one making all the money. That bad feeling grows.

We get back into the cab, and he drives us home. And this is what I was waiting for, and knew was going to happen. Chuy gets out and says okay you gotta pay the guy. This doesnt seem unreasonable. After all, he is a cab. But the driver is asking for 220 cordobas, 11 US dollars, which is easily 7 US dollars more than we should have had to pay. He kept telling us it was 3 seperate rides. One to the cemetary, one to the gas station, and one back. Obviously now we were being taken on the longest ride. Smartly, I tell him we are going to ask the security guard at the hostel if this is a fair price and when he opens the gate I tell the girls to get near the door where Im now standing.

After a few minutes, the driver threatens to call the cops after we pay him 5US, a fair price. I look him in the eye and tell him to do it, knowing what he had been doing all night. Chuy is sweating. The guy makes a fake phone call. I smile. In the end, we wind up paying 140 cordobas to him, but he stares each one of us down before driving away. Oh, travelling.

We get into bed but Hannah and I wind up having a long conversation until 6 in the morning. The heat wakes us up at 9.

10 Days On Isla Ometepe, Nicaragua

By the time I get to Little Morgan's it's nearly 7 and I'm hot, a little curbed by 30 hours of travelling, but I immediately feel like I'm in the place I want to be; on the lake. I climb down to the water and swim out a few metres to the view of the nearly symmetrical Volcan Conception with a large puddle of orange flowing behind. Jumping fish pop around me.

Drying off, I go to the main reception, kitchen, lounge area; an open concept with a high planain roof and hammocks strung to every pole. I'm handed a litre beer by Ty, a fully bearded dude from Kamloops, two front teeth missing, was probably a pirate in a previous life. We're watching the Penguins Carolina game on he SKY satellite. In the kitchen, I get word of a communal dinner of freshly caught fish soup. I'm not even hungry but I tell the chef I absolutely am. The soup is placed in front of me in a family style serving bowl, half filled and you can't hit the stew without a large piece of snapper hitting the spoon.

I go to sleep kind of early, trying to sleep in one of the hammocks by the water. Swinging for a few minutes and settling in like a cat on a pillow, ouch. The hammock falls to the ground but I don't really feel any pain at this tired point. I just walk up all uniquely shaped wood stairs and find a bed on a box spring.

Most of my days were a routine of happiness on the island. I would start by swimming for about 40 minutes, to a point off to the left. I'd come up to reception for coffee, and one of Lyndays's stacked omelette with fresh bread. I'd come to really know and enjoy Lyndsay, but I first bonded with her through her eggs.

Some mornings I would go off the property to a woman running a kitchen off the patio of her house. She owned 2 green parrots and a monkey and would always tell me how hot it was. And damn Nicaragua is hot, with unrivaled humidity. This woman would take at least 30 minutes to make only me breakfast as her solo guest. What would come out in hand with a rolled napkin of utensils would be an omelette, gallo pinto (a dish of rice and lentils), deep fried plantains, and avocado. A fruit shake with any variety you asked for.

After breakfasts, I take a swing in one of the hammocks and either nap, read, or play with my new best friend, Tito. Tito is a 4 week old kitten when I meet her. She's handheld adorable hilarity who loves to gnaw on fingers. I can instantly relate to her. She loves hammocks and as soon as she smells food or hears utensils in the kitchen, she goes to the kitchen to enquire. And often gets a piece of ham in return.

I spend lots of time in this kitchen too. The livein chef of communal dinners is a flamboyant lanky Nicaraguan who goes by the name Chico. He's lived an interesting life, half of which was in Canada where he managed to live in every province from Ontario and onwards west (including Saskatchewan). He was Nicaraguan at birth but Canadian by trade. He even has a spanish word for fuckin' eh... "say it Alan, pronounce this, Dyachachimba!" A former chef, Chico was always making something new and delicious for dinner. He would never tell me what he put in anything so sometimes I would just start watching him, almost every meal served with fresh flour tortillas.

After dinner would be lots of drinking and music, and hilarious conversations. Some nights there would be 3 or 4 customers at the hostel, but 4 staff that were allowed free beer and would take advantage of this 10 or 12 times over over the course of a day.

One girl, Rachel, was a on a bender the entire first week I was there. She would stay up until 3 or later drinking and as soon as she would wake at 8 or 9 in the morning she'd have a beer in her hand. Realizing she probably had a problem, she went straight sober and turned into a ball of emotions.

This was the day after the Sunday pool party we had in honour of Ty, who had spent 3 months working at Little Morgan's in a place that has only been open a total of 7 months, and his girlfriend Malory. Girlfriend, or rather the ex-girlfriend who suprised the man she loved by coming down to stay with him in Nicaragua, with varying success rates.

The pool party was fun. It was the only day I partook in the full day drinking marathons. There actually is a pool that has to be filled manually with a hose. Needly to say it was only calf deep when we stopped filling it. We sat in the cool shallow water for a while.

The next day, tattooing began. Two boys from Managua are trying to relocate to Isla Ometepe and use the patio above reception as a temporary shop. Megan, a chilled out weed farmer from the US who was already tatted up wanted one on her forearm to make a sleeve, below her lochness monster tattoo. Megan is a strange one, would often be elsewhere in her mind, but I really liked her other arm, dedicated to Pink Floyd. She told the tattoo artist that she wanted whatever he felt like putting on her arm that best represented Nicaragua, incorporating birds, flowers and the two volcanoes on the island. Nothing would be preplanned and all of it would be done in free hand. It was estimated that it would take 4 hours but the sun set over the volcano and the boys were still working, using a construction light for guidance. I was sitting up by her with a bunch of Nicaraguan guys who would often hang around the hostel playing pool. Some were tour guides, some worked on the property, and others were just friends of Morgan. We were all talking, when we heard the needle turn off and the artist simply says, "finito". All of us gathered around to one of the most beautiful tattoos I have ever seen. A magnificently coloured bird flying through a multicoloured sunset with the volcanoes in the back, Nicaraguan flowers surrounding. These big tough looking guys all had water in the their eyes and they all agreed: that tattoo IS Nicaragua. Everyone stood there in silence for a moment, like a beautiful child had just been born. It was a beautiful moment.

The next day Rachel got a tattoo that took early 12 hours of pain and the day after that her sister Lyndsay got a smaller but gentle and colourful tattoo which fitted her well.

I always like to listen to Lyndsay tell stories because she would do it with a very soft voice and a smile, gazing off with her aqua eyes into the moment. Lyndsay was a sweetheart, always giving out compliments expecting nothing in return and would call you out for no reason but she was usually right. My favourite moment was lying in a hammock and watching her hulahoop in her Where The Wild Things are dress with a cigarette in the side of her mouth and in the other singing Wagon Wheel.

There were lots of beautiful moments at Little Morgan's but one kind of hard afternoon in one of the nearby towns. We heard there was bullriding an hour away, and Lyndsay had yet to have a cultural experience in the 10 days she had been travelling, nor had she really even been off the property, always stuck looking after the hostel. But Rachel said she could look after the place and me and Lyndsay got onto a chicken bus. We were apparently early so we sat down for a few beers and some strange plate of meat with meat stewed plaintains. Gross. We tried feeding most of it to a dog who sat by us but you couldn't move to fast around this dog because it would back up like you were about to hit it. I found this a little strange but the dog was thin and obviously abused. It made more sense when the bullriding started.

We get chairs sitting unsturdily on uneven planks of wood, behind a mesh cage fence. There's a live band playing on an adjacent side of the square ring. A string of light bulbs are lifted above the arena. 12 or so bulls are in the main ring when one guy starts poking the bulls with a stick to move into a corner. When the lights are strung, they are moved into a connected bullpen. The bulls have no problem with this, they want no part of the massive ring. But they're weak and they move slowly, too slowly for the bull managers who wack the bulls, kick them, slap them, and throw rocks until they're all fenced off. In one part of the ring is a tree trunk, the top sawed off the bark removed. This tree has the same feeling to it as a medieval gauntlet, the pool in San Pedro Prison, or a gas chamber. Before you really know what it does, or what it's for, you get a terrible feeling looking at it.

One bull is selected by a man on a horse. He strings the bulls horns with a fan friendly colourful rope and drags the bull into the ring. The band plays. The bull is unwilling. It does this every weekend. The ring is now filled with 20 or so overgelled teenagers and some of them hit the bull from behind until the horseman can turn the corner on the tree trunk and the bull is then helpless but to move right up against it. Semi secured and pushed into place by the horse. Another man steps in and attatches another colourful rope around the bulls neck, the man pulls on the rope until the bulls neck is now pressed against the trunk, the bull's head can only tilt upwards, it's eyes bulge out of it's skull. A third rope is added and somehow the man finds even more strength with which to lynch the bull to near death. Now they have to get the bull angry, by pulling on it's tail several times, at this time one of the gelled superstars lifts himself onto the animal. All the ropes are removed and at the opposite end of the ring a man with a red cape attracts the bull which starts to gallop. But only for 10 seconds or even less. This bull is weak, as soon as it reaches the fence where the other bulls are, he stops running. Of course kids try pulling its tail and throwing rocks but the bull won't move. No problem, there are 11 other bulls in line to be tortured. After 4 bulls we leave.

Lyndsay and I catch a ride in the back of a truck which takes us along the sunsetted pink lake and cool air, children riding their bikes and waving, smiling.

On Monday, Marni arrives. Although I had seen her ony once in the past 6 years, there is no awkwardness between us. She's as relaxed as I remember her. She enjoys the lake as much as I do and does her own thing. She'll make for a good travel partner for myself. We relax the first full day on the island and I propose that in the morning we head up to a overlook, partway up the closeby Volcan Madreras. And that we wake up at 4am to get there for sunrise. She's game. Waking up after only 3 hours of sleep is surprisingly easy for both of us. We get ready and start walking, aided only by one small flashlight. The stars are still out. The trail runs through the greasy Italian owned Zipolote farm which I had been to before for tasteless organic banana muffins. It is a nice property in the hills, but hard to navigate through. Its not even 5am and we see a bald man in his house starting his day. He obviously sees somebody walking in circles around his property and he comes out, says hola, his long white beard is a black sillhoutte. I approach Mr. Zipolote and he points us in the right direction. It's still a little confusing, trailing through plaintain farms and a woman making breakfast over a tall open fire in her small wooden house, climbing over and through barbed fences. We're not sure where we're going but walking always in the direction of the Volcano seems like a good idea. At this point the sun is starting to rise, and we no longer need the flashlight. Even at this point in the early day it's really hot. We walk past a tree where three monkeys swing, birds and sounds of other animals surround us. We make it to a clearing where we can see the bright orange fire sunrise behind the trees, rise over the other side of the island with smaller islands attatched. Beautiful coastline. From here we can hear Howler Monkeys. There's no seeable trail so we start bushwacking, always following he noise of the monkeys. We don't worry about getting lost because walking 6km in any direction will surely lead to some part of the lake. We actually find a trail. I walk off a little past her while Marni sits in one spot listening to the birds. Walking, I hear a noise from the right which is somewhere between a monkey, a dog, and angry. I walk back slowly to Marni who has spotted a big monkey sitting around on the end of a tall tree branch. We're back at Little Morgan's as everyone is waking up, asking us when we're going to leave for the hike.

Every sunset I was in the water, watching the colours, the clouds, often lightning in the distance, the birds. Every sunset motivated me to stay until the next. But on Wednesday we decided on Thursday to leave, on my 11th day on the island. Wednesday night I started drinking, had great conversations with Lyndsay, Chico, Morgan, and all the others at the hostel. I told Marni we should stay until Friday but she knew it would be hard for me to leave and she told me it would be Thursday and I'm glad she did. I even had some great moments with the spanish older blonde who would come by almost every night with one of the saddest, sunken faces I had come across. Her house was robbed a few days prior. But as everyone started going to bed I got hold of the music and started to play songs that made her happy and ventful and she was dancing around like a little girl to all the old Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Zeppelin. It was really great.

Tito and I slept in a hammock on the last night. In the early morning there was a sunshower. People kept waking me up to say goodbye and at 9am we catch a ride to the ferry by the tattoo artists.

Panama City to Isla Ometepe

I had a nice vacation in Panama City, back at Lunas Castle. I read a few books, saw Star Trek AND Angels & Demons, and got to know the staff at the hostel. All of them are incredibley nerdy and they took me as one of their own after I made repeated visits to the book exchange.

There´s a company, Tica Bus, that has busses from Panama City all the way up to somewhere in southern Mexico. I figured it would be easy enough to get to Nicaragua on this bus and for the most part it was. Sure, it broke down after only 10 minutes and showed 6 car chase movies in a row including one with Queen Latifah and Jimmy Fallon. And of course, in the middle of the night while exiting Panama all of our bags were sniffed for drugs and entering Costa Rica 10 minutes later our bags were checked once again. The bus driver collected our passports as Tica Bus gets all the passports stamped as a team. Of course they missed my entry stamp into Costa Rica. No sayo, I tell the driver. Sure there´s a stamp. Oh, oops. Lo siento.

My one experience in Costa Rica was using the facilities of a 24 hour funeral home across from the bus station. And of course, my bus was filled with super loud Americans which made me happy that I skipped over this country.

Coming towards the border of Nicaragua I saw two middle aged men fighting on the side of the road and I knew I was already going to love this country. Entering Nicaragua, I naturally saw my two beautiful on again off again travel friends Elaine and Helena. It took over an hour to get our passports stamped. Not everyone had to get their bags checked. We stood in a line and one by one hit a button linked to a sign with a red light and a green light. VERDE, VERDE, VERDE, VERDE!!! I think the guard wanted to pull out this American gringo, but I was really excited to keep my 4 shirts, one pair of pants, and 2 books in its bag.

I was dropped off in Rivas, and got into a taxi to San Jorge, on the coast of the lake. A ferry was leaving in 10 minutes and I was on it, moving slowly towards the stunning Isla Ometepe.

Swami Yoga, El Valle

Day 1

Head into the dead volcano mountain town El Valle de Anton. Swami Yoga camping is an incredibley tranquil farm, a healthy mixture of Panamanians and French. Before setting down my bags Im offered a plate of pasta with lentils by the Belgian Francesco. Reggae is playing.

Im told I can sleep in a tent, the house, or on a hammock. Im hoping I can do all three.

The only downside of the site:no meat, no eggs, no alcohol.

I shop across the street and obviously my options are limited. Oatmeal and orange juice.

Getting back, everybody is standing and they ask if Id like to go for a walk.

Through the quiet, cottage feel streets we reach a point of incline. We walk up 10 minutes, through the strong scent of oranges, to a clearing. On the ground one of the girls finds a small avocado. We look up and see 20 more. With a couple of rocks, sticks, and shoes we get a few more down.

Back down the hill and over 100m we find another uphill. A few minutes up there is a giant rock with what are said to be 5000 year old markings. Its definitely a picture. One part looks like a whirlpool with people around it.

This is us. A few minutes higher up and we can hear a waterfall. Panamanian Alex leads us over a small river crossing and up to the waterfall, Casca de Amore. The small waterfall creates a whirlpool sized lagoon and we all jump in in our underwear. One of the French girls has fantastic breasts and I try not to look. Where are my sunglasses?

Back at Swamis, Elaine and Helena are there making soup. And in the night I read on a hammock.

Day 2

Swami takes a bunch of us to his friends' all organic farm. We taste heirloom tomatoes, green onions, and the greenest basil I've ever seen out of the pot. The owner also does experiments, the most interesting was a lemon infused basil. Smells like lemon, and tastes like basil.

In the middle of the farm is a natural spring where we all drink water. Attatched to a thick branch hanging over the spring is a rope. I figure I would swing for fun and come back. The come back never happens, instead the branch falls into the water along with myself. I laugh. Swami tells me I did a good thing because kids play on that rope all the time and one of them was bound to get hurt eventually. Always positive.


Day 3

Swami, Helena, Elaine and myself walk up a paved road to the top of the mountain where it is possible to see the Atlantic and the Pacific ocean. We sit and lie for a while enjoying the rainless day. At the bottom we eat lunch and then go to the thermal bath with Nathalie, an American girl.

There, we put mud on our faces and I get impatient waiting for the itching to stop so I clean off and go into the pool where I talk with a Venezuelan couple who flew to Oakland to see his daughter and are making their way back by bus. They tell me Hugo Chavez is working out quite nicely, spreading around the oil cash, They both seem incredibly happy.

At night we make dinner, a dish Swami used to make in India: Kefta. One preparation is curry fried rice, another is a reduced soup with cinammon, garlic, and curry, another is shaved plantains, flour, pepper, curry, and water to make fried cakes, and last is a tomato sauce made with paste, a sweet Asian pineapple sauce, soy sauce, and dried chili peppers. I spent a while making this and as Elaine was lifting it off the blender the bottom fell out and the sauce went everywhere but the fried cakes. We still managed to scoop enough onto the plate. Over 20 of us sat outside and there was enough food to satisfy everybody, sitting on cushions and knees around a straw mat.

After we watch a Legend of Bob Marley DVD with a lot of great performances.

Later, I do a midnight meditation with Michael, his girlfriend Pam, Alex, Nathalie, and Sunthi. Afterwards Michael, a former Windsor native who only wears white because he doesnt think colours are necessary, talks about the 7 chakras.

Michael is a hilarious character. You can be having a conversation with him and he'll casually do a 10 minute long handstand with his legs twirling above.

Before I go to sleep Pam gives me a hand massage.

Day 4

Full moon.

Day 5

I finish Every Cowgirl Gets The Blues in the purple hammock while Sunita expertly cleans a pot with the remnansce of chocolate using a spoon.

We all go to Swami´s friends property to cut down bamboo trees to build cabanas on the farm in time for rain season. Small problem when we began cutting just off his friends property but the stranger farmer was very understanding. I was happy taking a machete to a tree of my own, despite it being contraband bamboo.

Carry back two logs in hand, turning frequently to avoid wrist cramps, with Vanessa from BC.

Go for lunch at my favorite restaurant across the street. Spiced chicken, lentils, rice, and plantains, all covered in a spicy sweet homemade sauce. Eating with Swami, everything is half price.

After Swami takes myself, Vanessa, Natalie, and the French guy with a strange name, to his ¨secret swimming spot¨ that everybody with a bicycle in El Valle knows about. Trees form a gate where legend says the devil once seduced 3 sisters. The water is brown, but warm, and there´s an almost impossible to swim to waterfall at one end. I lie with my only my face out of the water, and imagine lying in a smooth morning lake in Muskoka.

Walking back a girl drives onto her ranch with a pickup full of yellow melons. We buy two and eat this very sweet melon, a combination of cantelope and honeydew.

Day 6

Tired all day, I read Motorcycle Diaries through.
I feed a rooster that limps around, one of it's feet is completely mangled. Oatmeal, cashew fruit, and water.
The stars and the fireflies race to make a first appearance. Fireflies win. I lose $50.

Day 7

Still tired, apparently not feeling great, I take naps and read a book by the Dalia Lama through.
I decide tomorrow it's time to leave.

Taking Account

My tent lies between plantain trees and a tree which looks like it could bloom any fruit, but chooses the red sweet cashew fruit. My tent area is surrounded by these fruits, and occasionally when I sleep I'm awoken by the sound of another pepper shaped fragile skinned cashew ball. My tent itself has no rain protector. Instead, a blue tarp is drapped over a bamboo stick resting on the both trees. The tent is sound, no bugs or mosquitoes bother me at night.

The rest of the property has about 7 or 8 tents, each with its own unique form of rain protection. One tent sits alone, behind the tree with a bright red heart painted on it's belly.

There are 4 cats on the property. Two black, and two white with brown spots. I would say there is somewhere between 4-8 roosters but they're always running around. They can be heard 24 hours a day as the cats like to chase the roosters. There are also 4 bunnies attached to the house. The house is primarily used for it's kitchen. The one bathroom doesn't work. A toilet is outside, attached to the house. The door, a blue tarp. At the far end of the property is a mosaic tiled toilet that serves no purpose.

For relaxing. There are 5 or 6 chairs, the cushions on the chair also make for seats on the grass. There's one hammock, and a few straw mats to lie on. Following the trail of white Christmas lights at night, there's an alternate kitchen for anybody who wants to eat meat. The kitchen is completely unused but makes for another spot to hang out.

Swami himself is very interesting. Probably in his 40s. He has two kids, no wife. He's awaiting the arrival of a girl from BC who thinks he could love based on a friends recommendation and facebook conversations. He's always willing to give a massage, read a palm. He spent 8 years of his mid-adult life in India with his guru.

Telling Two Israelis About San Blas

"You have been the San Blas?"

"Yeah, it's beaut-"

"How much does it cost to get there."

"Umm. Well. My boat took me to near Panama City. But I've heard it can cost up to $40."

"$40! For transportation. Is that with return?"

"No one way."

"But of course you are joking. Why does it cost so much?"

"You got to take a jeep to a port town, then take a boat just offshore, and then you hire a boat to take you to a remote island, anyone you want. But once you're there it only costs $5 for a hammock and food per day."

"$5, so cheap."
Quiet up until this point in deep thought, Shlomo's friend pops in "Do you think there is some sort of package deal? Maybe $80 for a week on the islands, with return."

"..."

"When you're on the islands, where do you keep your things."

"Beside the hammock?"

"And nobody will take your things?"

"There's nobody there to steal your things, it's just one family."

"And if we want to swim to another island. They will protect your things, yes?"

British guy beside me laughs.

Dream State Paradise, Panama

Captain Fabian tells Yisra to throw the anchor down. We´re at his favorite island, long, with huts at the end. This is the first inhabitated island that we´re taken to in San Blas. A tree trunk canoe pulls up, one paddles, the other bails water out of the boat with a small cup. Between them are 6 live lobster ranging from full meal to light snack and we buy all of them for $20 US and immediately row them to the three hut village with a bag of rice. The sun sets behind a nearby island and we eat lobster tail with coconut rice, drinking cheap beer. A small pig is under the table.

Later all 7 sit in the raft with the dirty plates and paddle back to the boat. We spend 2 hours giggling in the cabin. Captain discusses the problems with his bipolar wife who he will soon divorce and we all question Prince Charles´taste in women.

I find myself sitting on an island surrounded by huts, hammocks, and palm trees. A young girl brings out a plate of 7 fried and lightly curried whole red snapper and a hot black pot of rice, half of which is stuck to the sides. A few Kuna tribe children are yelled at. In the morning they drank a beer. I didn´t know they allowed yelling here.

The Stugeron seasickness pills put all of us into 10 hour dream like states. I wake up periodically to red headlights, Fabian yelling, and falling Boston cigarettes.

As we eat two puppies circle our feet, the sun opens up from behind morning clouds. I feed them the heads.

After we eat I wash my hands off in the clear ocean. My feet are dug into sand with the feel of dry of oatmeal. An orange starfish nearby.

Me and Stuart count the different blues around us. From white, and beyond until the dark ocean reef break 30 metres away. Before that are a few rocks and logs that seemingly float on top of the water. A long coral bed where earlier that day I walked and say a red crab and an orange starfish, not unlike the one I saw a few days before while snorkeling for my first time and swam with a paper thin florescent blue fish and a black one with a yellow tail. Flying fish land in the cockpit throughout the night. We throw them out by the wing.

I walk a few minutes on a different, finer sand to a place where I lie in full heat, and can sit shoulder deep in water and watch 6 islands. Each has their own natural order of palm trees. I admire the one where about 15 stand alone, touched only by heat.

In this water I make life plans.

Nearly a week before its 9pm and everyone is asleep but me and Stuart sit on opposite sides of the cockpit and watch the stars. The silver sliver moon lights our path. The higher sail dips in and out of the water, dripping thick drops when it takes it´s breath. Every meal that day was a ham sandwich. After breakfast a group of Commerson dolphins swam by while Amy and I listen to Bob Dylan on her iPod.

I take control of the wheel for an hour. When the water is choppy I can honestly feel the wind going through the two sails. I move the wheel furiously.

Tomorrow everyone but Yisra gets on a bus to Panama City. I sit on the front of the boat in my shorts, eating pork & beans out of a can, read the first 50 pages of a Tom Robbins novel, and paddle the raft 10m into the historic town of Portobelo. Storm clouds near the bay. Fruit cocktail planned for dinner. I forgot to bring my sandals; I hadn´t worn them all week.

Hikes & Hammocks

Last Friday at 10:30am I get in the front seat of a taxi, a Slovenian couple sitting behind me. The lively driver insists that I dance to the Kumbia music being played and turns it up when he turns off the highway and onto a dirt road, turns up the music and drives 5km an hour past his house which he points out while bumping uphill on a sorry excuse for a road. Along the way he drives a friend 500m. The taxi driver shakes hands with a toothless man holding up a string toll, grocery bags hang along while his 3 year old son has the other end. 2000 pesos. We then drive a woman the whole way to Tyrona Park. We´re taken just over a kilometre into the park.

The trail starts to Arecifes. Easy, flat, well marked. Sweating hard, it´s probably 35 degrees walking towards the caribbean coastline, unbelievable greens and red ants carrying specks of fauna. Find the ocean. Beautiful blue water, quiet sand, smooth round rocks up against the water in the shape of a dentist´s chair. Lie in a hammock before having a full lunch. Get lost walking to La Piscina bay, instead finding a family of huts and hammocks. The sun is hotter where I find the Slovenian couple swimming. Final walk is to Cabo San Juan de Guia. It´s the biggest sit by 15 or so hammocks. Several mounds of rocks create a cove with waveless water. On the biggest rock is a bungalow, 20ft above the waves, where hammocks are set out in a circle. All of them are taken but I find one of two on the second floor, where there are the most amazing views of the ocean. I set my bag down and go to find the nude beach two beaches down.

On the beach with little trail, and a completely dismantled blue and white boat, is an empty, nudeless beach. Figure I might as well get naked. Swim around for 20 minutes or so and still nobody else enters the beach about a half kilometre long. Go back and rinse off, put on my green pants and climb barefoot out to a rock lightly dusted with salt water and I lie down comfortably and fall asleep for a few minutes.

I climb back and meet some of the others in the bungalow. Canadians, Germans, Aussies, and one particularly cute girl with blue eyes from Wisconsin. We all talk as the sun goes. Palm trees turn black. Take our flashlights down the rock, across the beach, and into the restaurant. I have a good dinner and we all have a few rounds of beer. When we all get back I show the girl from Wisconsin how much my hammock is swinging in the ocean wind. Its cold, but alright with a sweater.

I wake up at 130am and I´m shiverring. I put on every layer of clothes but it´s still cold. I look around with my flashlight. There´s a half wall behind me with doors and I think I should hide from the wind on the other side. I look over. Turns out there´s a double bed. Without hesitation I throw all my stuff over and fall asleep in a surprisingly comfortable bed. A bed I would later find out should´ve cost $50. Wake up at 715am and pack up my things, climb back over the wall and start hiking back to the entrance. It´s an easy walk without the midday heat and getting lost. By 9:50am I´m at the entrance of Tayrona Park, with 10 minutes to enjoy a large freshly squeezed orange juice with ice and sugar.

Truck pulls up with a brown bearded Canadian in the back. Doug. 3 others walk out of the park: 2 Germans, Felix and Klaus, and the former´s cute Colombian girlfriend Martha. We drive 30 minutes down the highway and turn off onto dirt where we pass a well armed border with guns, two parrots, and a monkey. A soldier takes attendance and we´re heading up into the jungle mountains. Its like Bolivia all over again with 45 minutes of rocking, bumping, and head hitting, only making 8km of ground. We stop at a restaurant and the last place jeeps are allowed to go. Lunch is full. A donkey takes all of our food and we´re left with our two guides for the next 6 days. Asedro and Gluy, his pseudo friend son.

Gluy is 18 and good fun, running around the trails and singing songs while he cooks. He´s really methodical about things too, apparent when he unpacks the sack of food onto the shelves almost the same way every time and the way he unpacks his personal clothes into piles only to put the piles back into his bag. He is always taking account of us and the food. I told him he could easily come work in a kitchen in Toronto but he told me he´s in tourism school for a year so he can run his own tours to the Ciudad Perdida. I don´t blame him.

Asedro is somewhere between the age of 45 and 60. Dark skin, thick moustache, and an Alfred E Newman simple haircut. He´s lanky as anything, and walks his thin legs up, down, and flat at the exact same speed, usually with a smile. He´s well respected by other guides, as he´s probably been doing it longer than most. Used to work on a marijuana farm, for an American entrepreneur before the military chased away the guerillas (or paramilitary) and stopped all the cocaine and marijuana farms in the area. Always with a smile, a story, or a joke involving donkeys and pigs with surprisingly clean punchlines. Sometimes he cooks with blue flower hawaiian shorts, shirt tucked in, and his yellow hiking shoes or his rain boots. He has a camera phone and he must be one of the only guides in all of South America taking pictures.

(And the rest: Felix is finishing his thesis on the Bogota transit system while living with Martha who is super cute and I don´t think I ever found out what she did. Klaus makes prosthetic feet back in Munich, enjoys his drugs and swimming and is really quite hilarious. Doug is one of the most Canadian guys I have ever met living in a town of 50 and working at a nearby community centre driving the zamboni. He always seems a little sad but is sociable.)

The hike begins fairly flat, if not downhill, but its that strong sun and humidity that has us all seeing through our sweat. Only an hour in Asedro stops and sits on a rock and tells us to jump into the river where there is a deep green lagoon. No hesitation into our swim suits and into the amazingly refreshing cold shower water.

Feel refreshed but a tough uphill starts and it feels like a 60 degree angle, moving closer and closer to the sun. For the most part exposed. Tight zig zag trail. I move past Asedro and Gluy, into a timed rhthym with my breathing, arms still by my side. Make it to a shed where a woman sells drinks and I finish a Gatorade in three gulps. We see black bird with white wings and an orang beak in flight; a Mira bird. Past a camp of military who are on guard to deter illegal grow-ops and also to keep peace among farm owners where there are land disputes with those who lost their farms for one reason or another. Only 20 more minutes of uphill to go.

At the top, and we almost immediately are heading downhill. At the bottom of the hill is our camp. A series of tin covered sheds. One used by the family. One covers a billiards table. We have a long space overlooking the rest of the camp, where Gluy sets up hammocks and Asedro starts with dinner. Gluy tells us about a waterfall lagoon nearby and again without hesitation I get down there and jump in down about 8ft. I swim to the other end and watch the waterfall and by this point the others have found me. Feels like the picturesque jungle. Lagoon, waterfall, vines, rocks, moss, plants, trees, birds, bugs, humidity, everything. When its dark we all sit for dinner using candles to guide our spoons into the chicken. I suppose its to keep the bag as light as possible but we only have spoons to eat with for 6 days. Bugs join us and Klaus rolls something to smoke. Get into the hammock, under the mosquito net which feels like a safety blanket. Sound of the river is heard clearly. The hammock is incredibley comfortable, tied on a horizontal wood post over 2 metres apart.

Wake up to coffee, hot chocolate, omelettes. We hike for one hour uphill, past what we´re told is a still active coca farm but only producing for personal consumption. We hike for one hour downhill. At the bottom is another camp and Asedro lays down his sack. That´s it for the day. I had been told this was a tough hike but so far it´s really relaxing. Soup lunch and then 3 hours napping in my hammock. Wake up around 5 in the afternoon. The others go to swim but only Doug can find the huge lagoon we´re told about with big jumps. Beef and lentil dinner. In bed before 10. Another long deep hammock sleep.

Day 3 is to be a long 7 hour hike to the Ciudad Perdida (Lost City). Starts off with a river cross which I try out barefoot, rapid water pushing us downstream. There´s a big uphill and I do it fast taking advantage of the early morning clouds. Stop over midway beside two huts, straw roofs, wood vertical pillar walls, ¨Casa Troja¨. About 6 kids with black and light brown hair wear white pillow case type garments. They range in age from 2 to 10 with one of the younger wearing animal teeth around her neck. A 14 year old looks after them. The kids swing each other violently on a fishnet hammock for entertainment.

Pass about 12 huts gated off at a distance. Told it was once a tribe of 80 and they live like their ancestors did, being those in the Ciudad Perdida. Stone huts, straw roofs.

Finish the uphill. The water and banana salesmen is closed. It´s not a problem because on the start of the downhill we pass the house of the banana salesmen. Asedro goes up to the house and comes down holding 20 bananas. Gluy cuts up a pineapple that we´ve brought with us. I eat about 6 bananas, feeding the peels to the two horses nearby. Two children watch us from behind a thin tree. I offer one a slice of pineapple and she doesn`t share it.

Downhill, passing a contemporary art ¨Unripe bananas in wood cage¨, a black pig guides me and then runs into the bush when I get close. At the bottom I cross the river and lie against the rock with my feet in the water while the others catch up. By the others I usually mean Martha and Felix who walks aside her. Myself, Doug, and Klaus do hike fast though.

We have to cross about 8-10 more times, keeping my snndals on between which makes hiking over some big rocks a little difficult. The water is always cool, always fast. Before the last crossing Asedro and Gluy stop to make sandwiches for lunch. I love this trip and all it´s eating breaks. After clean up we cross the river and I make out a staircase in the rocks, about 3 ft out of the water. We start to climb these stairs for 40 minutes, at points seeming more like rock climbing using feet and hands. And up the steps, moss covered bricks begin to rise 15 ft out. It´s a platform. It´s the main entrance to the Lost City.

The Lost City really is a magical place. There´s no souvenir shop or admission gate, whisteblowers are armed militia teens. It´s also amazing because nobody knew it existed for a few hundred years. The place is a series of circles and stairs leading up the mountain, most circles representing where a house was, a courtyard, meeting room. One map carved into the stone of the entire Santa Marta region indicates rivers, mountains, leading into the ocean. There are several stars on the map, each representing a city. The only found one is the Ciudad Peridida and the others, if they really exist, aren´t found because there are no guides indicating which river is which, and there are lots of them. Same goes with the mountains. The area is quiet, only 50 visitors allowed per day. This is still new stuff, only discovered over 30 years ago. It was found by two men from Santa Marta. Upon the second time coming up to the city, they brought friends, an argument occured and one of the original founders was killed and buried in one of the circles where we sat for a few minutes. Peculiar. All the dead bodies which would be buried with their fortunes remain unfound. A hut is setup and we´re told the significance. The straw represents the rivers, and the walls represent the mountains. It really feels like discovering this place for the first time when walking around. During our entire tour we don´t see another person. We sleep over one of the circles on the far left end, being certainly one of the coolest places I´ve ever slept. Unfortunately no hammock, mattresses.

Wake up everything is green. Only colour is a blue, yellow, and red bundles of flowers on one bush.

I love this place and don´t want to leave. The indigenous people consider it a holy place and I definitely feel it. All of their ancestors once lived in this city and they protect it well. A Japanese company was going to build a gondola from the city of Santa Marta to the Lost City. All the signatures were there except that of the people. And as of next year tourists can no longer sleep in the Lost City, instead having to sleep at the bottom of the stairs.

I sit for a moment, looking over the sacrifical rock in the shape of a frog, the group seemingly miles away. A 17 year old with an automatic rifle asks me to return to my group. We walk back to the camp from the previous night.

In the morning I´m walking in my green boxers, sandles, and hat with the boys to the big lazy river flowing undisturbed nature lagoon. It rained the day before and its a superiorly muddy 2 hours hiking alone getting to camp first.

Over the black pot first and dim lightbulbs is a total night set of trees where we watch the many fireflies.

Throughout the week in the very infantile mild rocking hammocks I find myself giggling every night at memories, others memories, things I make up. I think about current absurdities, especially those regarding big cities and capitalism.

The final day starts with a rewarding uphill at the top a green mist covered valley, walking along a clay trail which turns to chalk in wind like a summer storm. One hole in the sky is blue.

Before The Rain Starts In Medellin, 3:23pm

In Parque Bolivar, under the marble black statue, one hoof raised. Three seniors play Colombian love songs on untuned guitars. An unshaved man in a red soccer shirt with tiger print thick glasses pays 500 pesos to sing one song off beat with his head down, then walks away. Lead singer wears black cowboy hat. Indifferent saggy cheeked grey haired musician looks outward, while man in plaid looks into his strings under his chin, the guitar sitting on his gut. He sings one song, forgets the words, and is cued back in, and sings well passionately. Cigarette and coffee break.

This is music of the mountains, says the man shaking everyones hand. A 4th guitar sits in a garbage bag.

The slowest song is finished over the thunder, and then we run for shelter.

Coffee District

I left Cali early in the morning. Turns out all the busses to Armenia are actually minivans, so the whole family piles in for 4 hours of fun. Im sitting with Aunt Lacoste and big cousin Berth. Lac gets the worst of it, sitting in the middle. Im on a proper bus from Armenia to Salento, Zona Cafetera, coffee country.

We pass through a small village called Boguida (?), river, trees, indigenous people, houses with long red roof tiles. Cool. Up into the valley, Sarento. Hotels, restaurants, fake crap, English everywhere. What a tourist shithole. The hostel I want to stay at has no room, so they walk me to a hosperdaje, where they walk me to a single room right off the main strip. Works for me. So how do I get my coffee? Im told there is an English friendly farm 15 minutes out of the centre, and there are a few Spanish ones an hour outside of the centre. I start heading down a dirt street, small houses on either side. It doesnt take long to get out of tourist land, and into bamboo, wide leaves on thin brances 60m up. Im walking downhill into a valley, farms everywhere. I dont know where to get some fresh coffee because I dont know what coffee looks like. A white pickup takes me part way down the hill, grandpa driving, grandson in the middle, and father in the middle. Im sitting with two shovels and a torn potato sack. Either Im being driven by three generations of shovellers, or Ill be found next in coffee jars across N. America.

They turn, I continue walking down the hill. I make it all the way to the bottom, where theres a little village called Palestina. This makes total sense. I knew all those VIVA PALESTINA signs around S. America was a plea for fresh coffee.

I ask a kid on the street, do you have coffee? He points uphill, the way I came. ELIAS, he says. ELIAS. I continue walking into this village and sit on a bridge over a rapid cold river with a waterfall, eating Pringles. Then I head back the way I came. I walk 15 minutes, asking around. ELIAS? ELIAS? No se. Eventually I find a woman who points 10 metres away, where I find an 8x11 blue sign with white writing saying something about ELIAS 50m away. I walk slightly downhill, to a house. ELIAS! I say.

From the back of the house, Im approached by a man in jeans, denim shirt, and a dirty white stiff cowboy hat. Elias is probably 60, complete with white moustache. He tells me we can do the whole coffee process for about 2.50. This takes about 10 minutes to explain because his Spanish is very rough behind a deep raspy voice. I get used to it, more or less.

He clips a basket around his waste, puts on an extra pair of socks, and worn out rubber boots. We start walking. Pineapple, he points. Avocado tree, he points. Plaintanes, here, bananas there. Awesome. We get to a bush with red, orange, and green grape sized balls. This is coffee. This is coffee? This is chocolate. He starts getting in there, telling me everything is good except the green ones. He tells me to get in there as well. We start picking away. When that bush is colourless, we head to the next, and the next. At one point he pulls a mandarin off a tree, cuts the skin off and hands it to me. He pops one of the orange pod grapes into my hand, and two wet pea coloured things come out. No smell, no taste, nada.

We make our way back to the house, passing sugarcane, bamboo trees, odd flowers with names I forget. We throw our findings, about 40 pods into a machine that removes the skin. Then he takes me into a green house type room where he shows me how they dry the coffee for 8 days. We take a few of the dry pods and he cracks those open, and out comes the real deal, the coffee beans. We take about 10 of these blackish nuts and throw them in a pan over a hot log. He tells me we need about a full kg and 30 minutes to properly roast the beans, so in Emeril fashion he pulls out a pot of beans that he roasted in the morning. The freshest coffee Ill ever smell. He grabs a handful and slowly drops them into a grinder, the aroma is amazing. After 5 minutes Elias' wife grabs the coffee grinds, throws them into a filter attatched to a beaker holder type contraption, slowly pours hot water over the grinds and out the other end into a bowl comes fresh, pure, Colombian coffee. Elias and I sit outside, SALUD, I try it and its the finest espresso Ill ever have. I drink half the cup before adding sugar. Elias takes off his dirty stiff cowboy hat, I take off my green mesh Billabong baseball hat. We sit for a few minutes. Tells me how he enjoys showing people the coffee process. I write a little message in a book, that I look through. Looks like he gets about 5 visitors a week, lots of Canadians. For just over an hour of Elias time he charges me 3.50. Money well spent.

The clouds have gotten ugly. Elias walks me to the front of his property and tells me I should probably get going. Im walking up the hill with pretty good speed, the dirts getting a little muddy. Halfway up I come to a steel topped bus stop of sorts. 10 minutes later a red truck comes, and drives me into the centre of Salento, the woman in the front passenger seat handing me a yellow-green pomegranate type fruit. A massive peach coloured spider climbs along the roof and nobody pays much attention. In the centre I get out, and go to the window of the driver, half expecting her to ask for money. CIAO, she says. Ciao.

I walk half a block to a lady holding a baby in front of a barber chair. She does an excellent job, and shaves my whole face all for under 3 dollars. Ciao.

I have dinner under an open air tent. Trout is the speciality here and its huge, served with head and tail under mushrooms and cheese, rice on the side. I have a Poker beer. Its like my two favorite things in one bottle.

I walk down tourist lane and right near the end I hear Ella Fitzgerald. Its a candlelight blues bar and I lie in a hammock near the rocking chairs, drinking fresh espresso coffee, with Ella, Joplin, Nina Simone, The Doors. Im in the hammock for so long I start to hear the 40 song playlist over.

Two guys walk in from the hostel in Cali and we start in on some beer. They tell me of a nearby open air bar and we go, spend most of the night with a crazy but fun 32 year old Colombian girl and her friends. She doesnt stop talking and I almost fall asleep at the table just after 2am.

Welcome to Colombia

It's incredibley foggy in the valley outside the bus. We pass by discoteks in small towns but they're often the top floor of a house. Sitting beside a mother holding her 5 year old son in front of two younger woman with a 3 year old girl who looks nothing like either of them, and keeps climbing over into my seat, making it 4. There's a woman at the front of the bus with bat shit crazy hair, sticking out well over her seat. Her partner keeps going HEH HEH HEY like in that Timberland song. The driver of the bus turns on the super bright lights in the bus like it's his own personal bathroom. It's 3am and two guys speaking spanish with caribbean accents have no volume control. Breastfeeding everywhere! And this bus cost me $30,000. Welcome to Colombia.

Hikin, Hitchin, & Infected Mushrooms

To mark the halfway point of my trip, in time, money, and distance, I decided I would try to get from Banos to Quito without taking a bus. Woke up this morning at 630 and was on foot by 730. Banos has many great hiking routes and one such took me out of the valley and into the village of Patate. It´s a beautiful route, with great views of the nearby mountain, the only problem is the first 9 km is relentlessly uphill. I knew that going in and that was the reason I started hiking so early but it didnt make a difference. The sun, hot. I have over two litres of water and after 3 hours of walking up a mountain that never ends I´m thinking I´ll run out soon enough. When I got over the hump, I was really happy, walking downhill, making good time. Short lived. The valley just keeps going up and up and my breaks are coming every 3 or 4 minutes. Fuelled on Oreos I make it to a long downhill, and more uphill. There´s an old lady making soup or witches brew and I ask her which way to Patate. She tells me up. But after hiking up for 30 minutes I run into a bunch of guys working on the road and they tell me I should´ve gone down. Damn the witches brew!

My bag is really heavy. 16 KG that weighs heavier and heavier after every hill, every break, every Oreo. Most look at me like I´m completely crazy for walking around like this.

I consider cussing her out on the way back but I´m too tired and I only know so many bad words in Spanish. Walking downhill feels as tiring as walking uphill, after 4 hours of hiking noon is approaching and the sun is getting stronger. After 3 or 4 kilometres downhill I say NO MAS. I jump onto the back of a middle aged couple´s pickup full of 3o or 40 midsized branches, a saw and a machete. They leave me in a really small village where I get into the back of an empty pickup, luxury, driven by a man with a pony tail and he takes me right into the centre of town. Its nearly 1 and I´m hungry. I find a busy little restaurant and the girl cooking has a little avocado on her face which is a great sign. Lunch is fried chicken, rice, a little pasta salad, and a nice chunk of avocado. Now I have no idea where to go, no maps or nothing. I know there´s a town called Ambato north of where I am. Near the restaurant I help an old man lift 40 litres of water into his truck, where he also has three propane tanks. He´s going in the direction of north, just below a large town called Parilla. I sit in the back of his truck, trying to keep my hands away from the rolling tanks of gas. While driving he hand motions a large truck behind us, who pulls over. My guy asks if the other truck is going all the way to Parilla. Sure enough he is and I´m making my way 20km more. In Parilla free lifts seem sparce. I start walking north, using my compass. I notice a lot of people are hitchin rides on trucks with benches and roofs and things. After walking 1 or 2 km a guy takes me between San Andres and Sancredo, a really big city. Where he drops me off I walk 2 or 3 km and I´m really tired, the rain clouds are starting to build. I settle for one of these professional hitchhiking trucks, and find out it´s only 25 cents. Nice. From Sancredo everyones charging 4 or 5 US to Latacunga, a major city with lots of great hiking. I refuse to pay because I know Latacunga is less than 15 km away and they´re just gouging because I´m a tourist. Fair enough, but I´m not paying. I start walking to Latacunga. On the way, I pass a gas station and I creepily approach a family of 5 or 6 including Grandma and ask if they´re going to Latacunga. Sure enough, they´re going in the direction. I start getting hit with small drops of rain.

The city centre, or at least where all the busses are heading, is misleadingly far. The views are amazing though, the great Cotopaxi mountain shadows the city. I get to a bridge leading right into town, and it REALLY starts to shitstorm. Rain, hail, rain, cold. There´s a couple washing windows for change at red lights and they tell me I should cab to this hotel I have the directions to. $1 US. I get shown to my bed and don´t move for 30 minutes. I get into a really hot shower and don´t move for 30 minutes, cursing this idea, the trip, everything. But magically as soon as I´m out of the shower all my troubles slip away.


Wake up Saturday morning after a 10 hour sleep. I take a cab from Latacunga to Pujilo which is directly below a route into some of the smaller towns in the area. I ask how to get to Paolo and Im pointed to a staircase, going up a large hill. 500 fat staircases first thing in the morning. Fantastic. From the stairs I follow the road down into a valley where I dont see any paths, roads, trails leading north. A woman tells me I cant go north, this small town only has routes going west. I take a ride with her back to Pujilo and ask how to get north. Im told by several people that the only way is to go back to Latacunga and take a bus. No. One woman in the centre of town who is a cleaning lady in the biggest church in the square tells me there is indeed a road. With her directions and my compass I take a flat dirt path through mostly corn farms. One girl in particular is carrying a bundle on her back at least twice the size of mine.

I get laughed at by some old guys when I tell them Im walking to Paolo. Keep walking. Make it to a small town up a fair incline and rest in front of the church, drinking some Gatorade. The road that appears to go to the next town is down a long road. Another beautiful day, and Ive walked an easy 6-7 km. For insurance I ask a passing car if Im heading the to Paolo, ¨Vamos!¨, this woman says to me and I cant turn her down. Im in the back of a pickup with what smells like rotting meat in coolers but I dont dare open that Pandoras Box. I never actually wanted to go to Paolo, I was trying to get to Sasquilli. Turns out the truck was heading there too, probably to sell their spoiled meat. Drive past a funeral. Taken 10km past Paolo which is further than I imagined it would be. Get to Sasquilli. Buy a super fresh panada with sugar on top, butter in the middle. How could it be bad?

The walk to the next major town, Tanacuchi, Im told is a 6km walk. I know its the next biggest town because there are busses everywhere. Find the road with my compass. Its just past noon and Im only 2km outside of Sasquilli. I find myself faced with a massive uphill, no shade. Halfway up I spot three girls with pick axes chopping away at the dirt on the side of the road... wearing sweaters and long skirts no less. In a Disney sports movie sort of way they give me the motivation to power up and over the hill. Good thing I ask where Tanacuchi is because in village fashion there are no road signs where the cutoff into town is. I find the centre. WOW. This is the smallest of any of the towns, and completely deserted at 1pm. Where the fuck are all these busses taking people? There are no restaurants. The one chicken restaurant only has soup. Im told the best lunch is inside a long what looks like a community centre. On the inside, stainless white floors, matching walls, sinks. Looks like a butcher floor. Theres a random flower arrangement in a plastic bird pond, streamers overhead. Must be a wedding on this Saturday night. There are 3 woman with setup propane tanks making various foods. I buy the most edible from a toothless lady. Gritty, but creamy, mashed potatoes topped with two fried eggs and I add picante for onion and tomato nutrients. When I finish she hands me the change with her hands covered in potato, mostly from her scooping leftovers from plates into a big bin. Fantastic. Where now? Im really really tired but I cant stay here because there arent any hotels or hostals. Go somewhere else. I pickup one of them pickup truck taxis and for $2 he takes me to the PanAm. I get great views of the mountains, like Cotopaxi. What I cant get is a lift. I find some energy to the gas station but my legs are really stiff. There I get in the back of a pickup truck which takes me, uphill and it gets cold, to some intersection. There I wait an hour and the rains starting to spit a little. I start walking 3 or 4km and finally get a lift to Machiachi (??). Its 4pm. I see no hotels. Im 30km from Quito. I give up. Adventures over. Get on the first bus to Quito after buying an apple and peach juice boxes.

Go the wrong way on the transit system. Tell them I want the international bus terminal to get a ticket to Colombia for the following day. Take a tram to La Internacional, a street. Lost in translation for over an hour, and dont ever get a ticket.

Get to the Blue House Hostel via taxi. The guy at the desk, Santiago, is super cool. When I ask him where to get a massive dinner for around 5 US he walks me over to the Burrito joint and sure enough their biggest double meat double cheese double delicious burrito is 5 US. In front of the take out Mexicali I see two blondish girls speaking English. I ask where they´re going tonight. They tell me there´s a electronic music festival with Infected Mushroom headlining. Great answer.

Sure enough, a bunch of guys from my hostel are going. They´re all Israeli, and all wanting to party with a bottle of vodka pineapple banana smoothie in preperation to see their hometown house Gods.

We get to the show at 10 and we catch the last 15 minutes of the multi-talented super delicious Argentine DJ Camila Diaz.

After are a couple of DJs, one duo in particular Kim and Kox is exceptional and gets the crowd pumped up around midnight. I´m trying to stay awake, drinking some random energy drinks. I wind up dancing with some cute girls, one Irish girl in particular, an indirect friend of the two girls I met in front of the burrito stop.

Next is, and I thought it was Infected Mushroom because the dude was big, ugly, and bald, but it was the amazing DJ Randy Seidman who stole the entire show, great tracks, and he was playing with the crowd dancing around, always smiling, drinking beer.

With little hesitation a full band is setup around him, and the DJ booth is cleared from the stage, Seidman finishing his set from behind the right speaker.

A super pale dude with long hair starts getting on with the guitar in some sort of Van Halelectronica distortion. The singer, who looks identical to the last act, comes up. Behind him, a giant angry faced mushroom starts blowing up, unsuccesfully until 4 crew members help out. The music is kind of rock, kind of electronica, the crowd doesn´t really know what to do. I think Infected Mushroom is really awesome, kind of a less commercial and much better version of Linkin Park. As the set is ending an American friend from the hostel wants to head back, 230am and Im more than ready.

Sweet Papi & the Argentian with a blue chefs hat

Left the relaxing beach town of Mancora, Peru Tuesday night, and was in Guayachil, Ecuador before sunrise. The sick think about travelling: a bunch of us got off the same bus at 4:30am and were all on another bus by 4:50. Myself, on my way to Banos. Driving along I was amazed how green everything was, under a blue sky. After being in rainy Peru it felt like seeing colour for the first time. The air also has a light banana scent, and they´re sold by the tree on the sides of the road.

Banos is a fairly touristic town surrounded by massive green mountains. Near this hostel Blanco & Plantas, is a waterfall 200m long. I asked a guy on the side of the road about my size where I could get an amazing lunch. He told me the Municipal Market.

Midday, not a whole lot going on, but one stand was particularly busy with a 8 or 9 schoolchildren dressed in royal blue sweater were waiting for their lunch. The stand is run by Papi and the menu ranged from $.5 to $1.30 so I went for the luxury item, Papi Mixta Completa. SWEET PAPI!

It´s a small yellow bag, filled halfway with fresh cut fries, onions, lettuce. Top that with a fried hamburger, a slightly runny fried egg, and a third of a deep fried hot dog (or salchina). For the finish Saucier Papi, without asking, douses the fried bag in mayo and ketchup which sinks down through the whole bag.

What a lunch.

I take a nap from 4 to 6, get woken up by an Englishman in my room when he turns on the lights. Tells me he´s going for dinner with a group so I join. It´s too an Argentinian grill house and at $10 US with a drink it´s one of the most expensive dinners you can find in town. But picture this...

It starts with some fresh bread and a sweet pesto sauce, salad with cheese and onions in a lime dressing. Next is 4 types of sausage: pork, smokey sausage, normal sausage, and blood sausage. After is pork chop, bife de chorizo, and baked potatoes. Next, chicken with lime. Finally, bife de lomo sided with balled avocados.

And it´s all cooked by the Argentinian with the blue chefs hat.

The Lost City of Trujillo

Sunday morning I arrive in Truijillo via Linea Bus. To date it is the best bus I have taken; wide leather seats, thick blankets, pillow, with almost a full 180 bed extension. It´s 7am and I cab across the city to one of the few bus companies going to Mancora, another night bus. So I have 12 hours to kill in Trujillo. A town I had never heard of, nobody talks about, what is there to do?

I am confronted by a guy named David near the main plaza, Plaza de Armas, and he tells me about a full day of Chimu Tribe temples. He tells me 25 soles, I give him 19, good price, excellent. I have a fried chicken sandwich with a fruit smoothie for breakfast, typical Peru. I have two hours before the tour so I go to sit in the plaza, a really good one. The square is colonial, every shop a perfect two story square with over designed windows, each painted various bright tourist friendly colours. One such shop is mint chocolate but I don´t dwell on it because you can´t really get ice cream in Peru, they were all sacrificed at Machu Piccu 2000 years ago. The big milk company in Peru, Gloria, specializes in fruit juices.

There´s some sort of military party going on in the square this morning. Lots of uniforms, guns, knives, canons, tanks, everybody marching around but in kind of a half assed manner passed the big yellow church in the square with a life sized white statue of Jesus on top, hands extended over his head like he´s going to jump. DONT DO IT JESUS, WE ALL LOVE YOU!

The morning tour is in Spanish, fine by me, I pick up every 10th word. We go to the Huaca del Sol y Luna, but specifically the big attraction is the Moon Temple. We´re driven out into the desert, beside a large gray rock perfect pyramid mountain. The Moon Temple doesn´t look like much from the outside, but once we get within the walls, WOW. One of the best preserved temples I´ve ever seen, circa 160 AD. It´s so good you can really imagine what the temple was like in it´s glory days, filled with the dignitaries of the Chimu Tribe, rivals of the Incans. There´s the sacrificial rock, large and gray where they´d drug people with cactus before sacrificing them to their favourite God, the moon one.

There are full walls of original coloured faces and designs of fish and various animals. One wall has some sort of fully costumed bird super hero. The best room, where the courtyard once was, has row after row of detailed murals, and pictures of soldiers. It´s really unbelievable.

The afternoon isn´t as interesting. We go to check out the Chan Chan ruins, the highlight being in the Nikkan Temple, the moon worshipping courtyard. Within the walls is a 30 x 15m swamp where, every full moon, they´d pray in this room as the moon´s light would reflect into the water. They also used the water to make mud, and the long grass that grows from the water was used to make boats.

Culture shock, as the sun is setting I notice a baby carriage in the back of a pickup truck, the bulk of the carriage in the open air. Upon closer inspection there is a baby in the carriage. No worries, the mother has a couple fingers on the handle.

The driver kindly drops me off at the bus station, where I get on a really cheap really shitty bus to Mancora.

The jungle, the mountains, the desert, and the beach in two weeks in Peru.

Huarascsa Park, Huaraz, Peru

Thursday morning 6am Lucas rings the doorbell at Caroline Lodging in Huaraz. There´s a small once white truck waiting for us with a driver. Myself, Ida & Marleen (Mar´lane) from Holland, are int he back seat which only fits 2 people. We´re taken 5 minutes to a lot of 20 or so microbusses with a barrel of food, box of utensils, bag of tents, a bunsen burner, propane tank, and a 20L bag with our belongings. We´re heading 5 hours to the national park for an easy 4 days of hiking. We were told easy. Nothing in Peru is easy.

Our microbus filled with 7 or 8 others heading to work in other towns empties out after only an hour. We have to catch another microbus. Unloaded and filling ourselves with stale donut type pastries called Rosettas at 730am. Another hour and we´re in the park. Thats where the fun roads begin. All dirt, up and down mountains, passing big 10 trucks that are tilting uncomfortably close to our roof and the window with a Daffy Duck sticker. Fall out of the seat a couple times and trying to catch a nap likely puts me on the floor. Almost noon and we unload in a village of 5.

Lucas prepares bagged lunches with avocado sandwiches and snacks. We leave everything heavy in a pile and head into the valley. The first two hours is uphill, through farms, dirty children, roosters, sleeping pigs, horses, steer, cows, each farm a grid of earth tones of nothing. I wouldn´t expect their corn in a grocery store in the near future. Peru doesn´t have grocery stores. Nevermind.

The uphill climb is hard on the lungs, hiking at 3700m, but the top of the valley there is a wooden gate, hinges are the rubber soles of old boots. Past the gate, the landscape changes. Now we´re in a grassy wet valley surrounded by mountains with waterfalls and a fast river. Stop by some calfs sniffing at candy wrappers, take a nap against the river while scraggly orange trees hang above us. We´re waiting for Guilmad, behind a horse and a donkey carrying all of our possesions. We all walk to the campsite together, a big open valley. Lucas and Guil get to work and don´t let us help. They setup our tent, a big top blue orange circus kitchen tent, and finally their own.

From 4 to 7 we patiently wait for dinner, sipping on coca tea, occasionally taking in views of the 5500m snowcapped mountain when the clouds aren´t blocking. Marleen and Ida teach me some dutch, ¨Steech op da schtool es agna.¨ Dinner is a macoroni soup seasoned with parley and oregano. Main course is fried chicken with rice and potatoes in a carrot tomato puree. It´s 8pm, dark and below 5 degrees. Time to sleep. The three of us get to sleep with little trouble, staying asleep becomes an uphill battle. I´m sleeping in one sleeping bag with another on top of my body and face. At 11pm I wake up to the sound of rain hitting the tent, hitting my sleeping bag. There´s a leak.

I get out a flashlight and the whole tent is dripping. I wake up the girls and we push over the dryest side but we´re still getting wet. I sleep off and on the rest of the night, often swearing while off. I knew this trip was too easy.

We wake up at 615, pack, get my coca tea and egg breakfast all ready for us. Lucas hardly looks surprised when I tell him about the leak. We´re told today will be hard, 5 hours uphill to reach 4750m. If easy is Peruvian for hard, hard is Peruvian for hell. On top of everything Ida feels ill. She´s been sick for 3 weeks and gets worse the higher in altitude she goes. I nicely tell her that she´s an idiot and should be taking pills for altitude sickness. Myself and Marleen go ahead, hopping up rocks over small streams, mud, more rocks. The altitude hurts, and we take constant breaks. I try keeping my heart rate down, breathing steady, eating lots of chocolate and banana cookies I bought in Cusco. The scenery is beautiful though, tons of waterfalls, one particular flows at a 45 degree angle down a flat black rock, lots of green. But green goes away with two hours left of uphill. Green goes far away, along with any other form of life. It´s foggy, it´s hailing and raining, and we´re over 4400m up. We´re climbing smooth black rocks which are wet and icy and we try following trails of donkey crap but eventually even that ends. We have no choice but to wait for Lucas. Out of the clouds, he appears and like slicing butter with his hand he points in one direction for us to keep. 4500m, 4600m, we see the top. It looks like the stairway to hell, a zig zagging of black rock at less than 2 degrees, leading into nothing. It only gets icier, to the point where I´m almost crawling to the top because falling would be a terrible idea. But, through the fog, a sign, 4750m, THE TOP.

Just like day one, over the horizon the landscape is completely different. Still cold, but no snow or hail. Just 100m or so below us is a beautiful sky blue lagoon beneath a gray mountain covered in snow. We can see into the green valley, with no fog blocking our way. With two easy hours downhill we´ll be at the campsite. Easy. After one hour the rain starts to hit hard and we´re all completely drenched in near freezing temperatures and when we arrive to camp at 2 I run into the circus I can barely use my fingers to put on dry clothes. I refuse to leave the kitchen. Lucas makes us popcorn and coca tea and I´m sitting there with no shoes or socks, eyeing a black steer in the rain. The clouds break for 15 minutes, enough time to piss and put the sleeping bags in the tents, running around barefoot. We go to bed at 630pm and I contemplate how many decades it´s been since I went to bed that early, on a Friday night no less. The tent leaks, it´s 0 degrees, we´re at 4200m.

We wake up at 530am. We had the option to hike 7 hours and stay an extra night, or walk 9 hours and be back to Huaraz to sleep in beds. The 9 hour hike begins beautifully.

We are descending at a fast pace, taking in the scenery as it comes, blue skies for once and an amazing breeze masking the 25 degrees. We actually need sunscreen. An easy day...

We get to a stream 15m long and calf deep and we have to cross barefoot over the rocks. It´s no more than 5 degrees. At the other end I´m barely able to jump out and I have to throw my wet socks back on, they feel a lot warmer now though. The day really is easy enough, hopping rocks, no uphills. Feet are wet but it´s bearable. Ida´s enjoying herself, coincedently not feeling ill beneath 4000m. The scenic highlight is the Santa Cruz Grande, 6000 plus metres of rock and snow, beneath a dark green lake which we walk along. We really are walking fast and at one point we´re all tired and I ask how many more hours. Lucas says 20 minutes. More downhill out of the park and onto the lawn of a family. They send the 6 year old boy for two large beers and he brings them back in his colourful school bag. We´re taking a taxi back. It looks like a good car, three seats in the back and Lucas in the front. We drive for 15 minutes before the taxi driver picks up a 5th passenger and the 4 of us squish in the back...

The Trail To Machu Picchu

On Thursday at 7:21 Ritzy falls into my room and hits a bed that doesn´t belong to me, waking up half the room. He owes me 400 soles from poker the night before, where I went on to play until 5. After his alarming wakeup I can´t sleep.

I go to the main office to start looking into trips to Machu Piccu, much like the one Ritzy, his girlfriend Gabriella, and her friend Amber were taking that morning. A girl arrives and we talk about trips. She gets me really excited talking about it and I ask if I can leave that morning. There is one spot available. Without hesitation I give her 600 soles and have less than 5 minutes to pack for 4 days in the jungle.

12 of us pack into a minibus. Aside from Aurelio, the guide, it´s myself, Ritzy, Gabriella, Amber, James, Francesca (a couple), Oscar, and two sweet Dutch girls Marlous and Veronik. We drive for just over 4 hours, up into the clouds, and stop where it seems the foggiest, darkest, coldest. It´s time to bike 64 km downhill and I´m getting deja vu from the death road. Except these bikes are shit. The brakes work but poorly, Francesca can´t even ride hers and settles for sitting in the van. Lucky her because as soon as we start biking it starts to rain hard and cold. I´m wearing jeans, and a raincoat that is no longer water proof after too many washes. Thick water builds up around my tires, splashing me in my sunglasses which I wipe off every two minutes. The ride is really fun. But after only one hour we must stop, there´s a landslide blocking the road.

Three options: take the bus back to Cusco and get the train to Machu Piccu, climb through the jungle over the landslide which would take about 90 minutes, or walk across the landslide. One bus immediately headed back to Cusco, one group decided to hike over, and my group and another wanted to cross.

The landslide stretches about 40m and it isn´t just a few rocks on the ground, think ski slope in the summer. Loose muddy rocks stretching for a mile at a 75 degree angle towards the distant river down below where one car was ellegedly stuck. A few guides spaced themselves out along the rocks to help support us but looking down and seeing your feet and the guides feet shrink and slip into rocks was hardly comforting. Looking down it felt like we were walking along a cliff. I get across and then it´s a matter of climbing down the side which I try to do as fast as possible with my hands and ass clenching to nothing. We´re over and within 15 minutes everyones over. The police on the other side said we were the first to cross during the day... we would find out the next day that one local fell down the landslide the day we crossed.

Obstacle cleared. But now we´re 45km from our hosperdaje without bikes. We start walking. Aurelio tells us we wouldn´t have to walk more than 10 minutes to the nearest town. It´s more like one hour and 5km but it´s a nice walk through the clouds all downhill. At this small town there´s a restaurant where some get chicken soup. From where I´m sitting, with my wet feet almost in a fire, I see Ritzey polishing off a big bone of chicken from the bottom of his soup that had been sitting on the fire when we got there.

We go. How? A big 4 wheel chicken coup truck. 20 of us are the chickens sitting on tires, over ropes, tarps, random scattered tools. We start slowly making our way down the mountain and one of the drivers passes over a big speaker blasting mostly dance music, mostly bad dance music.

I flip over the wood box and onto the semi-white roof of the truck, lie stomach down over the windshield and feel the road passing below me. I hold onto a rope for when the truck spills over gentle waterfalls and rocks.

Nighttime comes and we´re picking up hithhikers along the way while rain starts and we unravel a tarp over our heads. Exhausted I lie against Marlous and we take a nap against each other. Love travelling.

Slept well. Wake up for breakfast with coca tea. Ritzey shows up looking paler than normal and has definitely been food poisoned. Morning is all uphill through the jungle but we take a fantastic hour break where there are hammocks and monkeys to feed water out of bottlecaps. Continuing to climb in humid 30 degrees, quickly run out of water. Parts feel like serious Inka, walking on narrow paths on the sides of mountains, green all around, steep rock staircases. This is physically the hardest part of the trip. When it´s over everyones happy. It didn´t take as long as I thought.

We have lunch at the greatest bodega in Peru. It´s a tiny village and the restaurant we eat at which doubles as the owners house is blaring Bob Marley, over the sound of their chickens, roosters, and dog; a boxer dog, I don´t know dogs but it´s got the face and it looks like a fighter. They grow everything from avocade to marijuana and make all their food from scratch which I really appreciate. Their lomo salata is some of the better food I´ve had in Peru.

The afternoon is to be easy, straight most of the way. And it is. But we come to a mudslide, ankle deep with no end in sight. Our guide decides we´ll hack it through the jungle. Most are holding onto somebody up and down muddy and under trees and over bush, Aurelio hacking our way using a blunt branch. Veronik and Oscar grab onto a thin tree swarmed with red ants and feel the effects the rest of the day.

Another obstacle tackled, rewarded with a short swamp with bright thorny green branch plants and we hop across rocks.

Our final destination of the day is a thermal spa with pools at 35 degrees, surrounded by skinny waterfalls and massive jungle mountains. We take a short bus to our hotel once it gets dark and the pool is lit up.

Dinner is at a restaurant playing more reggae. They have a 2 for 1 happy hour and our guide recommends the Pisco Sour. I´m not sure what pisco is or why it´s frothy but it tastes good. Over our shared love for the Black Eyed Peas, the bartender wearing a chefs coat which reads ¨Cheff¨ makes me a free drink. After that Chef Cheff brings me three shots of Inka Tequilla with lime and salt and I take it with Francesca and Im pretty sure it´s 70% alcohol and 30% moonshine.

Most go to a bar afterwards. I go but don´t drink; instead I watch James watching Francesca who´s flirting with a guy she met at the thermal pools. James and Francesca broke up before the trip and judging by James´face I assume she did the breaking up. James´chipped tooth breaks up and is lost forever.

I go to sleep.

Day three is easy. Walking along the train tracks that leads to the base of Machu Piccu, always with the sound of the class 4 rapid river beside. It´s a Stand By Me type of day with rain falling through most of it. Fairly uneventful, although the end of the tracks means the hiking is over. We´re here, in Tourist Town, live in population of 100 with 100 restaurants and hotels to accompany. Naturally everythings expensive but our included dinner is quite good. We go to sleep at 10 because we have to wake up at 5 to get to the top of Machu Picchu by bus. Machu Picchu.

Foggy no sunrise sunset mountaintop, live-in chinchillas, lizards, llamas. We saw a blackbear. The fog and rain lift at 11 and the rest of the day is sunny to explore one the most impressive manmade wonders of the world, getting lost in the condor temple, and contemplating the mystery of the room with two water pools. Sitting along the edges, looking down down at the river over 1000m below. There is traffic in the ruins as it is a big tourist draw but there is so much to explore, climb, hike, that it doesn´t effect anybody. Spend the whole day eating chocolate and avocado sandwiches and when the 8 hours on the top of civilization is over I don´t want to come down. Take the train halfway back to Cusco, and a bus the rest of the day. Cheers to Amber, Gabriele, Ritzy, and Oscar who we lost somewhere along the way.

St. Paddys

March 17, St. Patrick´s day, and I happen to be at an Irish owned hostel in La Paz. I had my first Baby Guiness shot,Kahlua topped with Baileys around 11am alongside a ¨proper Irish fry-up¨ of eggs, toast, baked beans, onion, tomato, bacon, sausage. After that I never looked back... until 10pm. The best part was I got to spend the day with the most Irish girl I´ve ever met, Elaine Kinsella aka Riverdance. Accent, red hair, freckles, and rather charming, we saw many Baby Guiness shots together and she even shared my second ever Guiness with me. Adam got food poisoning somewhere during the death road trip but still pulled through with a strong effort. (Note: all pictures taken before 2pm).

Death Road

2 hours of sleep after Saturday, I decided I would get to bed early on Sunday. Monday I was scheduled to wake up at 6am to take on Death Road. But 2-1 Mojito Sunday, Black Jack, and a blonde dutch girl can get the best of any man. I was woken up 5 minutes late for the bus, after another 2 hour sleep, a little drunk, not knowing what to pack.

I had 60 KM of downhill biking, and 4 uphill, descending more than 3000m over that time. 4 hours of sleep the previous two nights; good thing I was on a Canadian mountain bike.

The first hour was fast, fun, but fairly boring. A paved, two lane highway was hardly my idea of a death road. Then we entered the cloudline, orange vested bikers seemingly disappearing into mist and the whole road transformed. Gravel, thin, tropical, steep; looking metres away from your bike is an endless dropoff into white nothing.

I held my brakes most of the way, taking in everything, holding onto the middle of the pack. Getting to the end, in 4 an a half hours which we´re told is a fairly fast time for a group, there is hardly the feeling of relief but moreso, ¨WHEN DO WE GO AGAIN!¨

I´ve met a lot of great travellers this week and most of us did the bike together; Adam, Helena, Marie, Riverdance, Chris, Matt, and Natalie. A great day of biking and an overall incredible week in La Paz.

Cholitos Wrestling

Sunday afternoon and I´m taken uphill, to the outskirts of town on by bus. Food & t-shirt vendors, endless amounts of cars and taxis, crowds all heading in the same direction; the atmosphere is football tailgate.

We all head into a gymnasium, the roof transparent green and off yellow checkered tiles. The floor is matted over and all the rows of benches and chairs surround a wrestling ring.

Cholitos Wrestling is absolutely hilarious.

The first two wrestlers fight, or you know, dance around and pretend to hit each other. It´s so incredibley fake that, especially in a tired and cranky state, I´m wondering why I came to this in the first place. One wrestler wins, whatever.

Next fight, random over dressed tough guy versus SPIDERMAN? Spiderman plays up to the crowd, getting on one knee and raising a fist in the air. Should be fun to watch Spiderman win. Spiderman gets his ass kicked. I´m in the front row, where wrestlers are often thrown into the crowd without discretion. In front of my face Spiderman is thrown into the rail, collapsing on the ground. ¨I believe in you Spiderman!¨ I yell, forgetting this is Spanish Spider Hombre.

Next fight, a woman comes out, fairly large, plays up to the crowd. Seems sweet. The announcer calls for Jessica. Jessica comes out, a man dressed as Michael with shreds of locks of long brown hair. The fight looks more real than any before. The woman gets thrown around by Michael, knocked in the head by chairs, thrown out of the ring, completely beaten up. Everyone throws bottles, peanuts, cups, whatever. Most are silent. Nonetheless, hilarious.

Next fight, this time it´s two girls versus one. One of the two girls is a midget. They fight well, chocking each other with their long braided hair. The midget just kind of runs around and trips people when it´s convenient.

Last fight, tag team. Two flashy clean cut masked guys versus two ogre zombies who walk around the ring spitting raw meat off of a large carcass. It´s real. They also use this as their weapon, hitting the other guys in the groin, head, stomach, with raw cow carcass. The ring is a mess, everyones covered in cow blood. They not only use plastic chairs, but the real metal rails to beat each other up. The day ends with the entire crowd walking out while all four wrestlers continue to fight, a dog chews on the raw meat.

It´s dark when we leave and we stop to take in the view from atop the city. Little lights surrounded by mountain so dark La Paz could just as well be a coastal town by the ocean.

Jail Tour In Bolivia

I shouldn´t write about the jail tour in Bolivia because it is completely illegal. Journalists took the tour undercover and the media caught on. Taking pictures are scarce, the details are sketchy, but the tour is intensely interesting.

I get to a square with a couple people from the hostel at 10:30am . We were told to sit in the park and somebody would approach us. The jail is to our left; the size of a full city block, painted slightly pink. I had little hope of getting in because there were two flash cameras pointed at the side door of the jail and two video cameras directed at the front. It started to rain. Sure enough one bench of tourists was approached and the rest of us were waved over, about 30 in all. We were taken to the back of the jail and, when given the word, would walk in groups of one towards the entrance.

I was 4th. I was nervous entering the side door, being eyed by cops, and prisoners, most waiting for the arrival of a wife. I was pointed to a room no bigger than a washroom, one of the bedrooms of a guard just within the walls of the prison. We all waited in there until the room was filled with 13 people. We were taken to another room, 2 others joined. 250 bolivianos for the 2 hour tour, expensive by Bolivian standards. The price is split in half. Half bribes the guards, the other goes to build the community of murderers, rapists, drug smugglers.

The tour starts.

We´re directed to the main courtyard of the prison, the courtyard of the prison. A small garden, Coca-Cola advertisements, mini-market equipped with photocopying, the ¨5 star¨ hostal, and an emergency hospital surround us.

One by one, a man shakes our hand. He wears silver Nike shoes, classic blue jeans, a wool-knit white sweater perfectly clean, fake designer sunglasses, and gelled back hair slightly grey, his skin is well tanned. This is our tour guide, an inmate. I´ll call him Louis Vutton. Born in Portugal, raised in Holland, lived in Salvador, and incarcerated in Bolivia. LV was a drug smuggler and in an airport in Bolivia on his way to Milan a little black dog sniffed his bag and that was it. ¨I fucking hate that little fucking black dog,¨ he says. He says within 9 months he´ll be out of prison, it´s just a matter of scraping together $4000 US to bribe the judge, almost a guarantee to freedom. Finding the money is hard after the police stole his credit cards and drained his accounts. He hates Bolivia, and he thinks every inmate in prison with him is scum. But he´s well respected, he runs a very successful business within the walls.

Everyone does something to survive. We´re offered little ceramic trinkets, leather pouches, and perfumes. Some are craftier than others. One guy approaches us with two pictures, each of a different person in our group. It´s so flattering that both pictures were purchased. Nothing has to be bought. As Louis says, ¨Some people like these things. If you want you want, if no you don´t, no maybes. It´s up to you. I can´t control this.¨ One handiman makes things out of electric wire, everything from a little flower to a 2 foot dragon that took him over a year to create, assisted by his imagination, weed, and coke.

It´s big business in jail, everyone has a family to support. These families are not being sent money to the outside, they´re living within the walls. Children run around and ask for candy, while the wives are seen doing laundry, cooking, and spending time with their husbands. To own two properties in Bolivia would be too expensive, so they own one within a prison. Most of the families seem content, some are even better off within the walls. Of course, there are problems with raising your children in one of the worst neighbourhoods in town. Children are occasionally abused and it´s settled by the abuser paying off the parents of the children. Money is everything.

It doesn´t matter how many years you´ve been in this prison, respect is only paid in cash. Firstly, your status is immediately defined by your living space. Criminals actually buy their cell, or are forced to sleep in a big room with 20 others. These cells don´t have bars, they have wooden doors. Criminals aren´t locked up, they lock their doors when they leave. Some have televisions. I saw two kids watching Hanna Montana on the Disney Channel. Some own a tiny shack fitting families of 4-6. Others have three story cells, with all the comforts you can want. Prices range from $300 to $1000 US, one time purchase good for 20 years. There are different neighbourhoods too, each with restaurants, barbers, the nicer ones have billiard rooms. Each also has a soccer team and every year there is a championship. Prisoners are free to walk to and from neigbourhoods. Even the prionsers in special detainment, a thin strip of concrete seperated by life and prison by 30 ft walls will climb over daily to get their alcohol and coke and climb back over before nightfall. At 10pm you must be back in your room for check-in. If you´re late, there´s a punishment, the pool. The pool is the size of a large hot tub but is anything but. It´s concrete that absorbs year round night temperatures of 5, 10 degrees. At 6am the tardy criminals are thrown into this water for an indisclosed amount of time. Back in the worst years of the prison, landing in the pool at 6am meant something all together. Bodies would frequently be found in the pool by sunrise, the gangs who controlled the prison could get away with it. The pool is 4 ft away from the entrance of the daycare.

The prison is a lot better than it´s ever been but these are still criminals. A month prior to the tour one man was stabbed to death. All the inmates we come into contact with seem tame but we´re always escorted by Louis and two security guards. Both take their job very seriously, always looking around, probably holding blades. Nobody has ever been hurt in the history of the tour because the inmates realize that one slip up and all that gringo cash stops flowing in to help fix things and make life better.

The place is still a shithole. One roof we saw was made of thin bamboo, Louis believes it has been there since the founding of the prison 200 years ago when it was under Spanish rule. Uncased electric wiring hangs over our heads, touching it could be fatal. One particularly electric hallway is known as death street. It´s thin, dark, only one way in. Prisoners get drunk, and settle arguments with blades in this hallway about 1 metre wide. 5 or 6 cells are on either side.

Some people seem happy. One woman runs a very succesful restaurant and can´t stop smiling, we play basketball with another inmate and his kid and somehow I make one of the only shots, other inmates play around, smoke, try to throw each other into the pool.

Other inmates seem fucking crazy. Most of them are drunk, or on drugs. I would imagine though some of the sounder minds are made crazy by the prison. This is a very special prison, clearly. It´s a town with everything you want, family, food, business, a place to sleep, 24 hour security. The only thing you don´t have is the ability to leave this city block. It´s an absolute hyper reality. Comfortable. Like the matrix, except plugged into coke and fear.

The tour ends with Louis and us sitting in a circle in a room where the security watches the door. He reminds us of his want for freedom, and all the people involved in making the tour happen who don´t receive any part of the initial 250 bolivinos. He reminds us that if you took pictures it´s 20 bolivianos and any other tips would be great, slipping in that the security are at the door. Everyone throws in something and the money is spread around to Louis and his help. Louis repeats himself from the start of the tour, but this time talking about something else entirely.¨Some people like these things. If you want you want, if no you don´t, no maybes. It´s up to you. I can´t control this.¨ He´s asking if anybody wants to buy cocaine or marijuana. Drugs that were once smuggled into the prison get smuggled out.

We leave the prison in groups of two, nobody talks to the media.

LA PAZ

Arrived in La Paz on Thursday morning with three Brits that I met on the bus. Driving through town, the architecture has a rustic European look, circa the plague. Obviously at the hostel we can´t check in, which isn´t until 1pm. We decide we should hit the town, and meet a few Europeans along the way. Everyone is without a bed and everyone wants to go to the coca museum.

The museum for $2 gets you a reading guide, 30 pages long, on the process of coca, making cocaine, cocaine addiction, and the fight against cocaine. It´s wikipedia, printed out. But myself and Adam, from South Africa, find free shots of Johnny Red in the closed Coca Cafe. Altitude and 10am go straight to your head, I´m also working on a big gob of coca leaves with banana peel alkaline which starts off sweet but turns to metal quite fast. Myself, Adam, and Helena, a cute Norwegian girl, split off from the rest and walk through the black market which is as useless as any other black market. Helena and myself split off from Adam who has to go back to the hostel to do interneting something.

We go to the nearby central plaza where you can see gunshot holes in throughout, on the government buildings, church, the large flag hanging. These are the result of a gun battle in 2000. A woman says birdfeed for 1 boliviano and I throw half the bag into the air and 50 pigeons circle me, and I´m feeling Home Alone, Lost In New York. Helena says shes scared of pigeons but I convince her to get in on the big feed and she gets a crowd when half of what I pour into her hand attracts much attention.

She wants to go to the cemetary, for some Norwegian reason. I have no objections. The cemetary is a little different. It´s a series of rows of people with 5x4 boxes where loved ones have placed everything from flowers to Scooby Doo. There´s one complex of motels, blocks of brown coloured, three stories of dead people. I don´t know if it´s cynical or accurate but it resembles a condo complex in Florida.

I need a nap. I wake up at 7pm and the Irish pub three doors down from my room is already filling up with people, smoke, and Limeys. I´m staying at an Irish hostel in La Paz, The Wild Rover. I figure I´ll be here for St.Pattys day and what better place would there to be? Buenos Aires for my birthday, La Paz for St. Pattys day. Amazing. I grab some beers, on my dangerously growing tab, but it doesn´t take a whole lot being 4000m up. Lots of bad pool is played, songs are sung. New people walk in constantly and everyone becomes friendly. Not until 1:30am do we decide to go out, to a bar called Mangrein? We assumed it would be a club, but it´s actually more like a samba restaurant. After bad music, Shania Twain, Don´t Stop Believin, a band of about 10 begins to drum, scratch, and sing at the top of a staircase. Everyone dances around them and they slowly make there way to the middle of the dance floor where they place for just over 40 minutes and we´re all sweaty and exhausted by the end. 4am arrives, the lights come up, slow music plays. I meet a local, Danitza, who gives me good tips for bars on the weekend, but I´m sure I´ll have a good time no matter where I go.

Blurry Details Of The Southwest Circuit

Details arent all there because the brain stops functioning a little at high altitude. Still at high altitude in the worlds highest city Potasi at 4700m.

Thursday. Taken from 3000m in Tupiza to 4200m within an hour in a Toyota Land Voyager. Scott puked. Had lunch with some llamas and our personal cook, Soledad, made us ham sandwiches and also a llama meat with potato and tomato, rather cruel. Our personal driver Willman only listened to one CD and one CD only, a mix with Hotel California, Beautiful by James Blunt, I Said I Loved You, Lady In Red, among others. Started to lose my mind around the 11th hour of bumping and grinding up steep thin roads along cliffs. The views of the valleys and rolling mountains were absolutely amazing. I had assumed when I signed up for the trip that there would be a lot of hikng and such, but reality set in when attempting to walk 100m puts you out of breath, heart beating muy rapido. That night we slept at 4200m in San Antonio de Lipez, a town with a population of 250 in the middle of nowhere while raining, maximum 5 degrees. I woke up with a massive headache, no oxygen getting to my brain because of the altitude, wanted to take a drill to my head, but Tylenol worked just as well.

Woke up at 530am, most couldnt sleep because of the altitude. I think I might have gotten 6 hours. Sole makes eggs. Still listening to the same CD in the car. Taken to a natural hot spring, heated up by the sulfur of Volcanoe Licanabur, which hangs above Laguna Verde. Were allowed to walk through, between, over the Geisers Sol De Manana. Fairly dangerous when acidic and incredibley hot melted rock bubbles up towards you. Lo Yoman, unbelievable. Slept in another small village at 4200m and took several Tylenol throughout the night.

Woken up by Michel, a Dutch guy from another truck, at 645am. Driven a short distance to Laguna Colarada, a bright red water due to the algae clorofitas in the water. 100 flamingos inhabit the 2km long laguna. Beautiful. Drive past 5 or 6 small lagoons throughout the day. Pass a couple of snowcapped dormant volcanoes. Go through the town of San Juan where we are taken to a cemetary of about 30 that died in a volcanic eruption. The bodies were taken when the lava cooled down and placed in this field where they knocked out a viewing hole, allowing passerbys to look at full skeletons wearing clothing of their former loved ones. Only 1 CDN dollar. Another 11 hour day. Arrive at a small one story house against a mountain full of cacti. The rooms are made of salt; salt walls, salt bed posts, salt chandeliers. We eat spaghetti at a small salt table on salt stools over salt ground.

Wake up at 6:22, 7 minutes after my alarm. The sunrise is amazing over what looks like a flat valley leading to large mountains. This are the Uyuni Salt Flats. I didnt know what to expect of a Salt Flat as the name is boring and I hate getting salty. But when we drive onto it, I know. Its possibly one of the most naturally beautiful things Ive ever seen. Its 200km by 5 of pure, white, crystal salt. Me and Michael P ride on the roof for about 30 minutes in the cool air at 9am. The 360 views are outstanding and we take it all in. Some areas are mushy salt, some looks like a valley of diamonds, and others, the best, have a thin layer of water that reflect the mountains and the clouds with crisp colouration. 2 hours of driving and we get to the middle, where we hike through a short mountain with cacti 900 and 1200 years old. The last 2 hours I get to ride shotgun while Michael J and Scott ride uptop. I hold onto the side handle against the door and hang my ass onto the window. Watching the clouds, feeling the breeze. Perfectly happy.

And I think to myself, ¨Now you´re travelling.¨

With the exception of a bum ankle in El Chalten and being in Montevideo, I´ve enjoyed every moment of the trip. But Northern Argentina and Uruguay were far too easy. It was almost more like vacationing then travelling with: English-speaking clean hostels, comfortable and efficient busses, sanitary restaurants.

Salta might be the most lavish of the stops thusfar. The city is carved through a round valley of tall mountains with lush tropical trees. In two days I sat on several patios, did two short hikes, and slept in one of the most comfortable hostel beds I´ve ever known. I got bored after two nights, even after my insane mission from Cabo Palonia through Iguazu to Salta.

I get on a bus to Humahuaca, 200km south of the Bolivian border. The bus dives through flat desert valley cacti, between small rawhide canyons with clay rivers, and past rock mountains each posting a dozen shades of blues, reds, yellows, purples, greens.

The bus pulls into Humahuaca, and all I see are tourists strolling around, taking pictures of churches. I´m so fucking bored of strolling. I want to be flung, thrown, taken. I get back on the same bus. I want Bolivia.

I go through immigration with Pablo from Rosario, and two girls from Buenos Aires. Behind me is a sign reading: Ushuaia- 5121km.

In Salta, every old, nervous, Lonely-Planet-is-the-bible, traveller warned me about the busses from the border to Tapiza, the nearest city to hit.

¨You MUST take the train.¨

¨Why?¨

¨I heard from a friend of an Irish traveller who was in Bolivia three years ago that there aren´t roads in Bolivia, and all the busses fall off cliffs!¨

¨Shit. Must be an expensie ticket then if they have to replace the busses every day.¨

¨No, seriously, they take a picture of everyone who gets on the bus that when you die they can identify you.¨

¨Good thing I shaved last week. Fine, how does the train work?¨

¨Well, you take the midnight bus from Salta, and get to the border at 7am. Takes about 2 hours to get through customs in the morning.¨

¨2 hours.¨

¨Then you run to the train station and wait in a line for 3 hours and hope you get a ticket. Then the train is only 5 hours.¨

There was no way I was taking that tourist train.

I paid 25 bolivianos with my Argentine friends who were heading to a town a few hours North of Topiza. Should´ve shopped around for a more expensive bus, yes expensive. 25 bolivianos is just shy of 5 CDN. The bus gets to the terminal at 6:30pm and is hard to find because it is by far the smallest bus of them all. It´s got bright colours and crap on the dashboard, but it´s rusty at the wheels are questionable. The bus is somewhere between hippie-funkadelic and retired Greyhound. The seats don´t recline, nor is there anywhere to put your legs. The windows do open though, which I was relieved because there was no toilet and it seemed like a good option for puking out of. I sat with Pablo and the Buenos Aires girls sat in the back row of 5 people. The woman in the middle was particularly large, pear shaped, and had two ruck sacks full of vegetables.

There are 3 definite problems with the roads in Bolivia. They are purely dirt, often thin, no road signs or side rails; it looks like the construction site of a highway to be completed in September 2015. When it rains, the roads turn to absolute mud and flooding occurs in the valleys. The roads also happen to ascend and descend 3km at will. I´m on the shittiest bus in Bolivia. Now I´m travelling.

The sky was blue all day until right before nightfall. As we climbed the first mountain, the sky would pulse in different spots like a broken light bulb; too cloudy to actually see the lightning. And hour into the drive and the bus stops, flat tire. The flesh of the back right wheel is completely torn away, with the rim settled stubbornly on a thick rock. Hour delay. Rain starts, roads are pure mud inducing hours of half-speed driving. Engine dies. Hour delay. 5:30 am and the bus stops behind a dozen or so trucks. A brown river has formed a few feet deep and 30 feet wide. Our bus waits. After 45 minutes the passengers get impatient. Vamos! Vamanos! Vamos! GO (me). Everyone on the bus starts to yell to the point where the driver has to go.

The engine starts, we pull forward, we gather speed, the bus hits the water, tips one way. Pablo and I hold the seats, and each other. The bus tips slightly the other way. We´re level, we´re through. Amazing. As we drive away groups of Bolivians from other busses give us dirty stares. Jealous.

The sun comes up and we´re nearly to Tapiza, 8 hours behind schedule. I´m happy though because I got a free nights accomodation. I happen to be the only one getting off the bus, not told where the city centre was. I start asking locals and get pointed in the direction of a hotel that has tours. While waiting for the tour office to open I ask about a room. It´s 60 bolivianos, 15 CDN, for a private room with washroom, pool, egg breakfast. Tomorrow morning I leave on a 4 day adventure in a 4x4.

BOLIVIA!

A Rolling Stone

On Wednesday I took a bus at 1:40 pm to Montevideo. At 11pm I got on a bus to Salto and got a few hours of sleep in the terminal. At 8am I crossed into Argentina via Concordia and caught the 9:30am bus to Posados, at 9:38. At 9pm I arrived in Posados, and got an 11pm bus to Iguazu Falls, Argentina. The bus was slow and picked people up off the street who for the most part had to sit in the aisles. Spanish Jeff Goldblum stood over me drinking mate while I watched Transporter 3 with no sound, but was able to follow along with the spanish subtitles. Jason Stathom on a BMX bike? Really? I woke up at a cheap hostel at 9am Friday, after 6 hours of sleep, and caught a 30 minute public bus to the falls.

Okay, fine, I´ll admit it, the Iguazu Falls really is one of the most amazing things I´ve ever seen. I walked to the bottom and took the ¨Nautical Adventure¨ boat where we actually went into the smaller part of the falls, I think the heaviest part would´ve killed us. It was an incredible rush and from the front of the boat I stood up with my arms out and had to yell a little bit. They took us in a second time, but I wasn´t allowed to stand. From San Martin Island I had a perfect view from the middle of the falls. To watch the power of the water amidst the tropical green rocks is something special. I stood there for 40 minutes. The sky opened up and a perfect rainbow formed in the mist, which kept the photographers quenched. I was still wet from the boat ride, and would be until I was in Brazil.

I was told that taking the public bus from Iguazu Falls, Argentina to Foz de Iguazu, Brazil they often don´t check your passport, and avoiding the 150 US dollars you must pay to enter the country along with showing proof of exit, whether via bus or plane. They´re also able to ask for documents for proof of having had a yellow fever shot. Obviously I am not willing to have any of this. Sure enough, we are stopped at a border patrol and I smile at the female guard and I get a stamp. I have no idea how the hell I pulled that off, until I realize that it´s an Exit stamp at the Argentinian border. Regardless, I´m in the country. But when I try to book a bus ticket to Florinapolis they tell me I can´t because I don´t have an Entrance stamp. Shit. So I was in Brazil, but for only an hour.

I took the public bus back to Iguazu, Argentina, where I caught a 6 hour bus back to Posado, arriving just after midnight, Saturday. Now I´m waiting for an almost 20 hour bus to Salta, but I finally caved and booked cama. There are two types of seats on the bus, ones that extend most of the way and ones that fold out like beds. The semi-cama are comfortable enough but I thought as a treat to myself for having bussed up through all of Argentina, I deserved it. I also thought about, while sitting in a Slots Casino eating a burger, watching tournament of 6 rugby: France vs Galles and speaking bad spanish to the sort of cute bartender, that when I arrive in Salta on Sunday morning I will have only had 2 proper beds in the previous 6 nights. At 5am the Casino closed so I went to the club near the bus station which is filled with minors but there´s no cover after 5 and the beer is actually cheaper than it is at the bus station.

Saturday and I was feeling a little stressed with the lack of sleep and the way too much bussing, and I needed a refresher. I got a haircut, and the barber took off my whole beard. Now I have a face again and I can´t stop touching it. I actually feel better as well, and I have my bus soon.

Cabo Palonia

My whole time in Uruguay I heard about this amazing magical village that has no roads, and is just MAGICAL; Cabo Palonia.

Me and a fun young American couple, Carter and Blair, travel 2 hours to this village. The bus drops us off along the highway and there´s no town to be seen. We actually have to get onto the back of a 4x4 truck for a 30 minute drive on sand roads, passing by trees, goats, horses, donkeys, green grass. The truck eventually comes to a wide beach and we drive along until we get to Cabo Palonia, the tip.

After being a week in Diablo, my expectations for beach towns are high. This one is 500 shacks, only 50 of which are inhabitated by locals. There are lots of artesenal markets and restaurants, the beach is packed. It´s about as magical as a hard boiled egg.

The thing to do here is rent a little shack for a however many nights, but they´re all booked because it´s still technically escape-Brazil´s-carnivale-week. The three of us find a little shack for 40 US. It´s nothing but beds but it´s clean. There´s no electricity along with running water; no Facebook either and I almost go CRAZY.

The night is the only impressive part of Cabo Palonia. All the little houses and restaurants are lit up with candles, and from the beach the stars are incredibley impressive. The lighthouse is the only main form of light and stings when it comes around. We meet up with some people we met at Diablo for a drink. This little bar, again lit by candles, has vines and plants for a roof, and upside bottles as a floor.

The night is cold and I sleep like an absolute rock.

We wake up at 9am to take advantage of an empty beach. Me and Carter rent a body board and I lash onto one really strong wave that takes me onto the beach. We climb the lighthouse because it´s cheap and we can see sea lions chilling on a rock. After lunch we get onto a 4x4 truck back to the highway. Arriving in Montevideo I´m amazed to see a sink, with soap no less.

Devil´s Carnivale

By Saturday night I was the only gringo left in the hostel; everybody else being from Brazil, Uruguay, Argentina. All the tourists flooded into Brazil for carnivale, while all the locals escaped to Uruguay. I was quite happy about it. Saturday night me and Claudio Stein, my Brazillian Jewish (?) friend. The only club happens to be really fun, Bitacora.

Bitacora is an outdoor club with a dance floor, fire pit, 3 bar areas one of which had a couple cute bartenders dressed up as various superheroes.

The problem was the light rain, and the strange music. It was bad wedding music: Celebration, Funkytown, Locomotion. I mean, I still took a first class ticket straight to funkytown, but by 5am I was a little bored.

Slept all day Sunday.

Sunday night a few new Brazillians moved into the hostel, one guy and four girls. The guy, Louis, was a loud but well spoken law student from Sao Paolo equally fluent in portoguese, spanish, and english. His cousin and her friends from a small city near Uruguay speak no english and are as fluent in spanish as I am. It´s interesting to see the contrast in languages alone from a big city to a small city. Much is the same in other capital cities compared to the smaller towns elsewhere. Another buddy of mine, Nicholas, from Montevideo, is incredibley charismatic and can discuss philosophy in any language.

All of us go out for dinner at around 10:30 to my favorite pizza place in town, El Timon Pizzeta. I think I might´ve been in this great fishing town for too long because most of the staff at the empanada stands, pizza shops, and grocery stores, knew me. Myself and Karen at El Timon even had inside jokes, bashing the local beer Patricia, and guessing numbers held behind our back.

Dinner lasts until about 1, drinking beers and trying to learn portoguese. I am finally comfortable understanding spanish so it only makes sense to get mixed up in another language. The pizza is really good.

The club doesn´t get busy until 4am so we all sit around with some beers and make jokes and such.

Bitacora tonight is a lot busier tonight, no rain, a little cool but once we start dancing we all check our sweaters. Coat check being tying our clothes to the rafters of the dance floor. I find myself pairing up with Helen, Louis´cousin. She tries to teach me how to salsa and casual tango to the Brazillian (apparently carnivaley) music they are playing.

The sun starts to come up at 7am and I´m on my last Vodka-Speed and getting dizzy. We make the 20 minute walk to the beach and watch the full sunrise. After we grab breakfast at the bakery.

I´m supposed to leave that day for Cabo Palonia but the bus is full so I hang out with the Brazillians on the beach.

There are no beds available so I stay up all that night. I planned on going back to Bitacora, but I dídn´t finish with beers at the hip-hop bar El Pico until 5am. I missed the 7:40am bus, and left at 11, having slept 4 hours over 48.

I met a lot of great people over the week; from generous and intelligent Uruguayans on summer vacation, to British and American backpackers, the type that would be attracted to a small town. The townspeople were also amazing. Their main source of income is tourism and they respect travellers and want to learn about them. After a week in Punta del Diablo I didn´t really want to leave. I had an great time surfing fat waves, eating fat empanadas, and going out every night to chilled bars and a great club. The small fishing town is probably one of the best places I´ve ever travelled too.

Pictures are from one of my first nights in Punta del Diablo with Chris, Allison, and a some British girls who I didn´t like.
My dance partner Helen from Brazil.

Diablo Tranquillo Hostel

Brian and Heidi are a young American couple, one from Minneapolis, the other from Milwaukee. Brian had worked in bars throughout University and was also an avid traveller, having travelled South America extensively, working in a hostel in Ecuador,and falling in love with Punta del Diablo in Uruguay.

Heidi had never really travelled, or "backpacked", anywhere.

At 22 Brian was working in an office in San Francisco when he decided he would combine his love of Uruguay, bars, and go and live the American dream in Uruguay, with his girlfriend.

Heidi had to be shown Uruguay on a map and knew not a word of Spanish aside from "Hola" and "Amigo".

Brian's American ambition was a bar on the beach with a nearby hostel by the same name. For the project, Brian would need $500,000 US. Banks in America wouldn't invest in a country they thought was in Africa, and Uruguayan banks couldn't loan money to an American. Brian's dream was looking stodgy but with persistance was able to find 26 investors. In the contract, Brian had signed on to operate and manage the hostel for a minimum of 5 years.

Heidi co-signed, and would be responsible for the reception of backpackers as well as manage day to day responsiblities.

The hostel and bar were built simataneously, over a 6 month period. The frame of the hostel endured a massive winter thunderstorm and Brian undured many antique stores and thrift sales along the coast of the Uruguay.

With a lot of effort the hostel and bar were completed in late 2007. The common area at the front of the hostel is effixed with a fireplace and an impressive 40 foot high ceiling with various angles and sides. A burlap chandelier hangs overhead, with also matches all of the drapes in the rooms. The rooms are small but manageable and each bed is blanketed in variously intense colours. There are hammocks everywhere. The kitchen is outside on the terrance which doubles has a great place to socialize.

The music in the hostel is very American, and ecclectic: Sublime, Bob Dylan, Easy Star All-Stars, The Doors.

Those that work at the hostel play a number of great Spanish songs but never when Heidi is behind the desk.

The hostel gained serious attention and was full only weeks after opening. The beach bar was a great success and would keep guests entertained throughout the night, into the morning.

Problems became apparent quickly.

Brian works 22 hours a day and doesn't have the time to have fun at his bar or meet the backpackers at the hostel. As Heidi never backpacked, she is unaware of what a backpacker really needs or wants. Heidi hires mainly English speaking staff for two reasons: she can't communicate well in Spanish and she doesn't trust Uruguayan workers. Niether does Brian.

90% of the emails and phone calls are in spanish and only a few of the staff can actually respond. Spanish travellers also feel alienated when they can´t communicate with the hostel staff. Imagine a hostel in Toronto that only speaks Hindu.

Brian and Heidi were much more fond of Uruguay then the people that inhabited the country. In return, the Uruguayans in town have no respect for the hostel or bar. The bar is frequently broken into and the police do nothing about it. They have no friends in town, aside from the ones they pay for laundry, groceries, etc. Nobody really wants disrespectful American gringos in their friendly village town of 500. For that reason, mostly, the rights to operate the bar as a club were revoked and they were charged with a massive fine, barely covered by the money made in peak season. Brian's main passion, the bar, dies down at 1am and the crowds leave much before.

Brian and Heidi also have their problems. They don't really sleep together, and both have their doubts about the relationship. Heidi wonders if she moved to Uruguay for love or money but either way she now hates Punta del Diablo. Brian hates it too. But both are bound to a contract of five years, and they've only completed one. They take out a lot of anger on the staff, who are underpayed. They also don't really care to meet any of the backpackers at their hostel.

Sad.

The Big Surf

Friday I tried surfing again.

I come to the beach and waves look smaller, but three of us have rented a board for the day and there's still plenty of waves to be had. When it's my turn I make my way out over the break much easier than on Wednesday. It's a beautiful day and I'm relaxing instead of swimming towards big curls.

After 20 minutes I hit a nice sized wave and get onto both knees, I have full control of the board and don't tip over until I'm within a few feet of sand. I hit two more in quick succession.

I get back out there and I'm distracted by some really good surfers, and start paddling too late on a big wave. Turns out to be the biggest wave I've ever been in front of. The lid of the wave falls over me and I bang my head against the board, spin over and am pushed towards the sand head first, then am twirled around hitting my shoulder, before finding air.

Its really fun. I think getting two feet and getting knocked out gives me full credibility for extending my thumb and pink finger while turning my wrist clockwise and counter-clockwise.

I grab empanadas for everyone: cheese & olives, and fish.

I nap.

I surf again.

The sun is setting in the golden way it hits the biggest waves on the water and eluminates the brightest painted houses. The clouds are an ice blue. Everyones showering, taking it easy before dinner.

Hang Dieze, Uruguay

Punta del Diablo, Devil's Point, is a meegly populated fishing town near the Brazilian border. Most of the houses are small, one room, red, blue, yellow, all hanging off a soft hill that leads down to the long waterfront with three beaches. Empanada, taco, and pizza stands are laid bricks along a red street and the empanada de pescado (fish) with thing brown wooden boards with roughly printed menus in white paint. On one of the many flat rock lookouts is a bronze statue of a man who looks like George Washinton, with his arm extended forward and his fist raised upwards; it doubles as a lighthouse at night.

One beach has all the fishing boats; the only two areas of employment here are fishing and tourism. It's not too busy in town right now; it's days before Carnivale here and I've been told it's a pop can waiting to be opened on Friday when the beach will be flooded with drinkers and surfers.

Everybody surfs; waves are consistently one metre high. I had no plans for Wednesday so I began by eating watermelon and apples for a few hours, then I followed that up by lying in a hammock. The hammock isn't in the shade, and it's incredibley hot and humid, even for Punta del Diablo. I had to go to the water, about a 4 minute walk.

At the beach I noticed a few people from the hostel that I had had drinks with the night prior laying by their surfboards. One class had just ended and the hostel's instructor, Santiago, told me I should give surfing a go.

Santiago and I start by carrying our boards, attatched to our ankles by a leash. It's a longboard and it's quite heavy. We walk our boards out, over the small waves. The further we get we jump on our boards over the bigger, but still small, waves. Our goal is to be about 50 metres out. Even with my swimming experience lying on the board and paddling is incredibley tiring. Constantly fighting the waves my arms only last about 20 minutes. We rest for a few minutes and he tells me how to catch a wave. It sounds easy.

I start with the front tip of my board facing the shore. Santiago sees a wave I should catch and he tells me ''Paddle, fast, fast, fast, fast''.

The waves crashing sound increases rushing behind me until it picks me up, and all I can see is wave and sky. I feel the speed and the pressure underneath my board. I try to jump up but only make it to one knee before falling. I go back out to Santiago and we wait for another wave.

Surfing is very much a waiting game, social time, like fishing, but when the right fish comes you better catch it or you'll turn up spinning around underneath rapid water with a large board possibly hitting you in any number spot of your body.

I catch a second wave about 30 minutes later, but the wipeout really sends me down and every part of my body is filled with water.

We head in and I'm so tired, somebody else goes out for little bit before coming back just as tired. Now I know why in surf films and Jack Johnson music videos there are groups of guys sitting on the sand while a few people surf. It's exhausting. I think you need a second hobby when you surf like guitar, or paddleball, or getting high.

I go out again, this time by myself. I find is very relaxing to just be floating out in the water, hearing the waves. The only problem is when the right wave comes I'm not ready. I hit an okay wave and I let it drag me all the way back to the sand.

I didn't hang 10 and I doubt I will this week, but I'll be satisfied with a 2 or 3.

The Seal

The town of La Paloma is known for its beach and my hostel is located right on it. I go for a walk when I get here Saturday late afternoon. The beach is crowded with kids, sun bathers, mate drinkers.

I walk down to the lighthouse at the far end of the beach as the sun is beginning to come down. I return as the sun is a bright orange and I notice a crowd of people looking out to the water, where there are many flat but jagged rocks. Sure enough there is a massive black seal getting pushed around by the waves, possibly caught on some rocks.

Me and a few people kind of go out onto the rocks to make sure the seals alright, and he seems to swim away. But sure enough, a shows up on the rocks 30 ft down from where we were. He must be struggling?

The spot he has landed is accessible by a long flatter rock so I walk down it. This time Im within 2 ft of the seal. We stare each other down. He breaths up into the air, spraying water. I try to reach my arm out but he opens his mouth quite large, possibly to eat me. He then turns around and swims 20 ft further down the beach. It becomes apparent that this seal isnt hurt or lost or in trouble, he just wanted a little space; some alone time.

Some stood to continue to watch the seal but I walked away. I got him.

Never Go To Montevideo

I arrived into Montevideo Thursday evening, a place that many of travellers told me wasn´t worth an afternoon.

My hostel is far away so I get into a cab. The cab driver seems nice enough, telling me about the city and such on the way. When we get to the hostel the cab fare metre reads 55, about 3 dollars. I hand him a 100 and he tells me that it´s actually 155, 100 being the base fare. The cab ride was about 15 minutes so I don´t argue, I just hand him a 1000 and ask for change. He hands me back 755 and I tell him he owes me another 100. Without arguing he hands it to me, knowing what he´s done.

At the night there´s a really good group in the hostel and about 12 of us barbeque, drink cheap beer by the litre, and smoke hash joints, playing two guitars and one drum box while singing classic rock songs that everybody know.

I wake up, and have heard the historic area is nice enough. I´m also close to the shoreline as well so I head towards the old city while walking along the water. It´s 11am and this guy comes up to me, 40, clean cut. He asks me where I´m from, tells me his Uncle lives in Montreal. He tells me he owns some club. Seems like a good guy. I tell him I´m headed to the historic area and he tells me he´s going in that direction to get cheap football tickets to the game happening that night. He tells me he can get me tickets for 220 pesos, about 12 dollars. I tell him I´d like two. We get to this building and we sit on a ledge while he calls his friend. He asks me for the money and tells me his friend will be out with the tickets. He then proceeds to go to the washroom. All the while I´m just sitting there half asleep at 11 am, and at 11 am on Friday the 13th I was scammed. I follow him into the washroom a minute behind and sure enough the building has a very accessible back entrance.

I only lost $20 but I´m more angry at myself for not keeping a higher guard. My problem was I travelled Argentina for a month where people are trusting, honest. You could ask somebody to watch your bag or your bike for 5 minutes and it will surely be there when you get back. This trust you can´t expect in the armpit of South America, a tiny country of people pissed off that travellers go through their land to get from Argentina to Brazil, cracking Uruguay jokes along the way.

After walking around this building a few times, asking questions, what have you, he´s not there. I breath it off and I know I shouldn´t let it ruin my day. What really pisses me off is how lame the historic area is. There´s not much historic about it at all. It would be like taking somebody to downtown Toronto to look at architecture. What is supposed to be the most interesting part of Montevideo is about as interesting as Everybody Loves Raymond.

By 1 pm I´m back in the hostel, contemplating staying for the entire afternoon. Everybody from the barbeque the night before had just woken up. One of them was playing poker online. I told him there were poker chips in the games area. Before long we had a 7 person game tournament for 700 pesos. 600 would go to the winner, and if I won I could forget about what happened in the morning and actually be up 60 pesos. And there was no way I was going to lose this game.

Myself, an Aussie, a Belgian, an American, and three Brazilians sat around a large table covered in a table cloth of countertop spices. The first Brazilian is out very fast, I build a nice stack catching trip 3s to make a full house, the other Brazilian is knocked out by the Aussie, I take down the Belgian with a low stack, then the Aussie who I had bluffed the hand before for half his stack. I have most of the chips, the Brazilian and the American play me very weak to avoid coming in 3rd and receiving no money. I take down the Brazilian, then the American KQ vs K9 to win. There was no way I was going to lose that game.

We all go out for lunch afterwards in a nice square, and I figure I´ll give Montevideo another try. I start walking down the shoreline, towards uptown. There´s lots of kids playing in the water, old men fishing. After 2 hours I stop at a nice dock to lie on and listen to the waves and get burned a little.

I make my way back to the hostel through the middle of the city. There are certain charms to the city: colourful houses, large trees lining most of the streets. Too bad it´s populated with Uruguayans.

The hostel has a barbeque for 140 pesos and I´m hungry so I take part, along with 7 others. The meat is really good, but one guy in particular, a flamboyant Australian with a shriek laugh, is fucking annoying. Sure enough he begins to choke on a tough piece of meat which I find funny. Instead of going to the nearby washroom he decides to puke up his meat in front of the whole table, while whimpering. ¨Aaah hu hu hu. Cough. Fu fu fu. Shit.¨Shutup. Why would you puke in front of the table? He also has no water and sure enough he offers himself some of mine. I wipe off the rim good.

The night has more singing, much like the night before. A new addition to the hostel plays harmonica.

I get ready to go to sleep, sure enough the Australian is sleeping beneath me and asks for my email address so he can send me updates about his trip. I give him a fake one and go to sleep in a really hot room.

So if you want to be scammed, bored, and borderline puked on by an Australian, go to Montevideo.

Dune Buggy Colonia

Around town I had seen heeps of rental shops for mopeds, ATVs, golf karts, and dune buggies. The dune buggies looked awesome, but were all electric.

On Saturday morning I set out to find a rental shop with gas powered karts. Sure enough, there was one two blocks from my hostel. This old guy was sitting in a lawn chair by a bright blue shop, beside him one dune buggy with a plastic bag gas cap. I talked him down in price a bit and got a 3 hour rental for about $25. I had to fill up the tank, a full 4 litres, with a very friendly girl named Florencia whose hands were covered in gas after removing the plastic bag, elastic band.

Full tank, 3 hours, 30 km per hour in a small town with no stop signs, lights, or traffic.

I raced around the historic area, my body thudding up and down uneven cobble stone streets, past all the stupid golf karts and mopeds; most guys with their families pondering my awesomeness.

It was fun for a half hour but I figured I would take advantage of a vehicle and explore the entire area. I hit the wide costal highway, speeding along the chalky water with palm trees all around me. The sky is cloudless and theres a nice breeze, after a long night of rain. My shirts off.

After about 5 km of coast, I run into a Sheraton hotel bogarting some serious sand so I hang a Rajesky inland. I wind up on dirt roads surrounded by wine vineyards, corn crops, dill, cow farms, and forest. The roads are incredibley mucky and my buggy is up for the challenge. I question the age of my ride the further I get from the city centre, but I´m not overly concerned. I only left the rental shop a $25 deposit and if the old mans ride breaks down I´ll sleep with the grapes.

I see a sign for some sort of park so I follow the arrows on windy dirt roads. The park is actually a campground beside the water. I stand by the water for a few moments to take a piss and watch the wind push around the water a little. A group of clouds hang over the ocean.

It took about 90 minutes to get to this park so I figure I should head back. I make my way, finding long roads where my motor can pick up some extra speed. I circle around what looks to the colliseum of bullrings, completely falling apart exposing rusted metal benches. I think it´s the first bullring I´ve ever seen. When I get dizzy I find my way to the rental shop, drop off the buggy, get my deposit back. I walk to a quiet bench in the historical area and watch the ocean.

3:12PM, Colonia Del Santiago

On a yellow speckled concrete ledge 20ft above flat, round rocks, a former gate to the city. 100 degree view of the bay, only see small islands, sail boats. The water is a light brown, like chocolate syrup mixed with water. Behind me a town untouched by modernistics; cobbled streets, palm trees, a windmill turned-restaurant. Two men sing and play guitar for the diners. Palm trees and umbrella trees a bright green. Sky is multilayered, clouds on clouds on gray. Over the islands thing streaks of lighting hit, 4-5 minute. A sailboat heads to shore, sail down. Umbrellas at the restaurant close. Tourists hide under their Lonely Planet guides, it´s not the rainy season in Uruguay?

An old man trims the hedges.

Rain hits with less consistency than the thunder, which grows stronger. Series of lighting, 3 and 3-4 in all directions. The water beneath me remains calm. Find raincoat in bag by luck. Rain hits hard for a brief moment. Find shelter on the porch of the secretary of the yacht club whose only in until noon (except on Sundays). The wind picks up. A field of clouds run towards the shore like a heard of black elephants. The islands disappear, a line in the water forms marking the storm. The ocean disappears. Lightning hits directly over heads, and winds increase further.

The rain falls hard for an hour.

Saturday In Gualeguaychú

Gualeguaychú is a town about 3 hours north of Buenos Aires which has a reputation for having the best Carnivale party in Argentina. My hostel ran a day long trip.

20 of us got to this town around 1 in the afternoon and were taken to a private beach. The beach was actually on a long lake with warm water. The sand and grass areas were packed with partiers and the beer lines were overwhelming.

By 3 pm most of the beach was drunk, including one of our guides, Pablo. Our second guide got kicked out for smoking weed. There was loud party music with an MC, with a large area topped with mist sprayers.

An Australian brought a beer funnel with us and we quickly became very popular. Not that any of the locals were willing to try it. They thought we were crazy and stood in a big circle and would cheer after somebody would take one down. All the Australians and Brits I was with were doing one beer, I thought I'd represent Canada well by funneling 2 at a time and not passing out on our pile of bags waking only to puke (Brits are such losers).

We danced with lots of Argentinians, drinking wine from mellons, sangria from pitchers, heavy vodka drinks from glasses. Almost got in a fight when one of the guys got too friendly with one of our girls. Probably shouldn't have pushed the guy with 10 friends behind him ankle deep in the lake.

By 9pm we were all well passed drunk, those standing were doing a poor job of it. Everyone is heading off the beach because the Carnivale parade starts at 11. We all make it to the bus and are shuttled 30 minutes away, into the small city. We're told it's time for round two.

Somehow we have front row seats at the front of the parade. We're allowed to jump over the barrier before the floats come by, and buy more beer and more wine mellons.

The parade itself surpassed my expectations. The floats were massive, colourful, each was very different. The models that walked in rows of 5 were shiny, friendly, with some of Argentians most beautiful bums.

As everyone gets more drunk, we start climbing over the barrier during the parade to dance with the models and take pictures and such. One of the girls we're with tries to jump on a float with little success, she was heavy.

Most of the floats were themed to regions around the world. The US float was by far the best. A massive, angry, greedy pig in an Uncle Sam costume, chasing an American 100 dollar bill on a string.

Beers were passed around, along with anonymous drinks, and we had been dancing to the same song for 2 hours. Then the second parade starts. Apparently each night is a series of 3 parades. We only stay for the first two because it's 3am and we're all beyond burned out. One (of the Brits) falls asleep in the second row and a local takes a picture, which he'll definitely put on the Internet in disbelief that a tourist could fall asleep to one of the biggest parties of the year.

We get on the bus and head back to Buenos Aires, arriving just before sunrise.

I woke up Sunday at 2pm, in time for the River/Colon soccer game at River Stadium. It was a relaxing afternoon and a really competitive game, as it was the first match of the Championship series. The final score was 2 all.

First 4 Days In Buenos Aires

The day I arrived in Buenos Aires it was cloudy and midafternoon so I made the 30 minute walk to the Recoletta cemetary. Walking, or getting lost, down the streets, I was blown away by the Parisien and Italian architecture, statues, and sculptures, mixed in with slummy apartments.

The cemetary, with the famously buried Evita, is shockingly ellaborate, with tombs far larger and more detailed then Montemarte in Paris, although no doubt modelled after it. Some of the tombs could be put alongside Michelangelo's David and hold their own.

I walked back at 6, almost the same way I got there. The streets often turn diagonal, or end with a large park with palm trees, benches, and statues. It's confusing. But my hostel, Milhouse, is located right in the centre of the city, at 9 de Julio and 25 de Mayo.

The Milhouse hostel is considered one of the best party hostels around and you wouldn't know it by the look of it. Aside from a bar with beer and wine, and a pool table, it's a fairly bland room with chairs and tables, though they do play music 24 hours a day it hardly seems like a party.

But around 10pm everyone woke up after sleeping all day, and started hitting the drink. About 40 people were drinking by midnight, and the hostel was advertising cheap tickets to a Drum and Bass club, similar to techno.

I wound up walking there with some Brits that I met in the hostel, around 2 am. Well fueled I danced until about 6am, and at that time the club was still far beyond half full.

Woke up very late. The hostel tells us that the museums are free all day. I walk to the Malba, museum of Latin American art, about 2 hours away. I see an original Frida Kahla, one of the few behind glass, a great self-portrait of her with a monkey and a parrot. One of the only other paintings behind glass was an original Diego Rivera, Frida's once husband. The modern art area of the museum was very original, one of note a bloody Jesus hanging from an American fighter plane.

The fine art museum was kind of boring, but also had a great modern art floor.

Next day it was raining, on my birthday. I slept all day. Around the hostel, and around Argentina, people told me that I must go to La Cabrera, a steakhouse. I was told it would be the best steak of my life. Argentina is known for it's endless amounts of grass fed cattle, although I had yet found a really tender piece of meat.

The dinner starts with a basket of bread, extra virgin olive oil, and a martini glass filled with arugula and manchego cheese. The two best options, I was told, were the Beef de Chorizo, a rib eye steak, or a Beef de Lomo, a tenderloin. I order the Beef de Lomo after much debate in my head, two girls I'm with order the Beef de Chorizo. The two idiot Australian guys respectively order a flank steak with bacon, and beef stuffed with tomatoes and ham, both options that regulars likely order on their 10th or 20th visit to the restaurant.

All around us we see big hunks of meat often sat beside two people, and Im starting to worry that I've ordered far too much meat.

When our food does come, the flank steak and the stuffed steak are put down first, and they look about as advertised. The Beef de Chorizo then comes, which as expected is a 3 inch by 5 inch beautiful hunk of meat. I can't wait for my steak. It comes and I'm a little disappointed when it arrives. It's 4 cubes of meat, each about the size of two fingers rolled inward.

I get my knife and fork and cut into one of the cubes, and it slices like warm bread, folding gently onto my fork. It appears to be a perfect medium rare. I take a bite and it really is the best steak I've ever had. So asbolutely tender that you chew it only out of formality, tasting thyme and ground pepper. I start dancing a little.

Even better, each steak comes with it's own set of sides. A black olive puree, a composed lentil pesto, lentils with tomatoes, mashed chickpeas, a rice pudding, and baby potatoes in a thick sauce. Along with that, another set of sides are brought for the whole table. A buttery sweet potato puree, a regular potato puree, a red pepper sauce, a thick apple sauce, and sweet roasted garlic. I try each side on, or along my steak.

Although not intimidating in size, my steak have no bone or extra fat to cut off, so it winds up being a very large meal.

We walk around Palmero, a very yuppie area of town with cobble stone streets, boutiques, and lounges. I don't really care for my company, so I cab back to the hostel.

The hostel is well on it's way to drunk. The Brit girls find me and give me a birthday card which was really nice of them. We go to Club 69, a large house club with carnivale costumes on cross dressers and borderline strippers alike. The place is hot and cramped so I leave at 4.30.

Two nights prior there had been a quiz night. Our team won and the prize was a bike tour of La Boca, a 70 peso birthday present. I use it the next day and we're taken through San Martin Square, the harbourfront, San Telmo, Plaza de Mayo, and La Boca, the area of town known for being dangerous but known to tourists as a colourful area to buy crap. The tour winds up being about 3 hours of biking and an hour of talking or walking around La Boca. Its a relaxing day, until the very end when we have to bike through narrow streets in Friday afternoon rush hour traffic. I almost get knicked by a cab and I almost do the same to a guy on the street who wouldn't move.

I've heard Buenos Aires is hard to leave, with the architecture of Paris, the laid back feel of Vancouver, the hustle of New York, and the party life of Barcelona. I've already extended my stay by two nights.

My 3 roomates for the majority of my time at Milhouse Hostel.

My Super Bowl: Boca vs. River

The cab driver looks at our tickets and drops us off at a barb wired entrance, and it becomes very apparent that we, myself, Chris from Sweden, and Scott from the UK, are going to the Boca entrance.

We walk past 20 minutes of blue and yellow flags, posters, banners. Smoke rises from all over, mostly from overcooked chorizo sausages and hamburgers.

We were told to get there early, despite having platinum seats which are second best. We´re there a full hour early but when we reach the line we clearly are not early enough. The line is about 700m long, and 5m thick. Everyones jumping up and down chanting Boca songs but the line doesn´t move. There are cops everywhere. Some on horses holding bats, others are on the ground with shields, some have dogs. We try to walk along the line in order to get into the stadium and people start to yell at us and some throw bottles but most have thrown there bottles at previous cutters. At the front of the line are very angry looking cops who point to the back of the line with their sticks. This is platinum treatment.

We notice that there are a ton of people walking along the other side of the line so we loop around (going through the line would be murder) and find that people are just casually going through a gate, the same gate that all the other fans go through. We are incredibley confused, but nonetheless we are in.

The stadium is old, holds about 25,000 people. Everyones running frantically to grab seats because none of them are labelled beyond the type. We enter towards the left side of the field, about 10 rows closer to center from the corner. We´re among many flags and whistlers, screamers, chanters. To our left is the Boca pit, where the hardcore fans are. They´re about 5000 heads bopping up and down, most of them have flags, if not drums, if not barrels of smoke. They´re caged off with barbed wire, and seperated from us with a line of police. There is much the same going on on the River side of the stadium.

Around 9m the game is around to start. The Boca pit sends down a banner that covers over all of their heads, 30 rows long. The River side sends down a white banner with a red stripe, their colors. The Boca pit rolls out a second banner, this one a little bigger and a little bolder. The game has started, fireworks go off. The River side sends out another white banner with a bigger red stripe. By the time both sides have their banners rolled up, the game is 3 minutes in. It´s obvious these people are not here to watch soccer.

With every close chance at the net, fans stand up and scream, and when it doesn´t go in everyone grabs their heads. A Boca goal does go in at the 46 minute and everyone freaks out and many chants are thrown at the River side. This is only an exhibition game, but for these people it might as well be the super bowl.

I pick up on many of the chants, not unlike the ones in North America. There´s the Mighty Mighty Boca chant, the We Are Better chant, and then finally at the end of the game with a 2-0 lead, the Na Na Na Goodbye chant.

At the 85 minute tons of cops surround the field holding dogs and shields, we decide to leave in hope of getting a taxi, and also to get out of there without get hurt.

Leaving early doesnt help, there are no taxis. We wind up walking all the way back to the hostel, which is only 40 minutes downhill.

I´m very aware that the Super Bowl might still be on so I turn on ESPN and I catch Pittsburghs last touchdown. Overall it was a good Super Bowl.

Grocery Shopping With A Frenchman

¨Hey Greg, did you find any bread? ¨
¨No, all of the bread here is shit. Stale. No baguettes.¨
¨ Fair enough, I guess we could just buy a loaf of bread.¨
¨Yes.¨
¨What about cheese?¨
¨I wouldn´t dare come into my mothers house holding this sliced cheese, she would spit in my face.¨
¨Sounds like a tough home life. What kind of meat do you wanna get?¨
¨I don´t understand, a whole grocery store full of shit! What a waste!¨

The French are very particular when it comes to bread and cheese. Went to the park for my second day in a row with Toronto Ted, Greg, and Aurora, both from France, travelling on their own.

The grocery store was unsuccesfull so we all shared a pizza before San Martin Parque, a place with great fields of grass with lots of shade provided by trees, a manmade lake, lots of sculptures and flowers. We all took a great nap by a small fountain while lots of kids were fishing with string attached to the bottom half of large platic coke bottles.

I´ll be going to the park for a third day, tomorrow night as that is also where the soccer stadium is. I got late tickets to the Boca-River match. It´s only an exhibition match but I got platinum seats for about 30 dollars. I only planned my stay in Mendozza until Monday so that I wouldn´t miss the super bowl. Looks like I´m missing it anyway, but seeing this game should be an awesome experience.

Last night we had a BBQ at the hostel, with every part of the cow you would want to eat, along with endless amounts of wine, different salads, and bread. It was a good drunken night with things dying down round 4am. It rained most of the night so the city was rather cool today, a nice change of pace.

Mendosey

I arrived in Mendoza after a 22 hour bus ride from El Bolson, passing by beautiful lakes and mountains sprouting off of mountains.

The city of Mendoza took me by surprise being a very large, busy, slighty smoggy city. Though the hostel is beautiful, like a villa almost with an outdoor area within the walls.

It was 10am when I arrived and I really didn´t know if I wanted to head out to the wine region or stay in the city and walk around. In the living area I met a guy named Ted, a fellow Torontonian currently living in London, wearing denim jeans in 30 degree weather and sporting the long blonde hair of a 10 year old girl. He was heading out to the wineries and that was the motivation I needed. First we had a beer.

The wineries were about 45 minutes away by public bus, passing through the busy downtown, into the industrial area, and finally arriving at a bike rental shop, Mr. Castro.

Mr. Castro introduced himself holding a full bottle of Malbec wine which we drank along with a Brazillian, Daniel, who got off the bus with us and whom we would ride to the wineries with.

We finished the bottle fairly quick, and on an empty stomach, and in serious heat, I started riding already a little wobly.

He recommended we go to the end of a long street, lined with big white trees shading our path, with fields of wine growing all around. We would embark to hit about 8 spots.

This was the Mendozza I had pictured.

After biking a few KM both mine and Daniels bike had faulty gears, chains and Teds bike sounded like it was in serious pain. We needed to stop for some food.

The winery Di Tommaso, was picturesque and we ate overpriced sandwiches but had a delicious dessert of grapes off the wine, a few months from being fully ripe, but still tasty.

We biked about 3 more km and came to the start of the wineries. The first spot offered three glasses of wine, a rose, a young red, and an old heavy-oak Malbec.

The second place was actually an olive oil producer where we had some tasty extra virgin oil, with sundried tomatoes.

Moving on, we come to another winery, but my stomach is already a little messed up from the poor combination of red wine, heat, and bikes.

We go for a glass of Chardonay, and we meet a fellow biker named Jennifer who had a Spanish accent but was born in Utah, and currently lives in Seattle. Ted and I were sure she was faking it.

She came along with us to what would be our last spot, as the day was nearing its end. It was a chocolate and jam producer. The chocolate was good, the spreads of dulce and eggplant were delicious, the shot of Whiskey was just unneccesary but it came with the tour.

Our ride back was fairly short. Jennifer was renting at the rival bike place, Mr. Hugo. We met Mr.Hugo and we tried to make a rivalry out of Mr.Castro and Mr. Hugo. But they like each other.

Off the bikes, we share some cheap beer with Mr. Hugo, the sun going down. We grab our bus back to the city and part ways with Daniel.

Now I need a nap, or a long sleep.

Leave the hostel, old man.

Leave the hostel, old man. You come here to travel and save all the money you´ve accumulated, which you keep firmly attatched to your waste while you sleep. You go home and say you´ve met people from around the world, or at least, you slept in the same room as them. Take your heavy breathing, snoring, and general uninteresting personality to a private room.

I do like the man forced into a hostel after a spousal fight, this type I´ve encountered a few times travelling; they have the best stories.

Oh Bolson

Biked 45 km on Monday. I really wanted to hike when I woke up but my foot was still a mess, so I tried out one of the bikes that the hostel rents and I was good to bike. I started out along the main road, after a nice slew of backroads. I was heading North along highway 40, relatively flat with beautiful tall trees and mountains forever. Though the trucks storming past me at 90km kind´ve shook me every 10 minutes or so.

It´s another amazing, blue sky, El Bolson. It´s hot, maybe 28 degrees, but it´s a dry heat and very tollerable, complimented by the pantagonian breeze.

I biked about 10 km North of the city, before turning around. Back in town, I grabbed lunch, 3 empanadas and 3 bananas and ate in the town centre by the pond.

I figured since I had biked 10 km North, might as well do the same South. Back on my bike the road opens up beautifully allowing for easy biking. I was heading towards Lago Puello and there were signs that said how many kilometres I was to the lake. By the time I reached 1 I felt I hadn´t gone far enough, and I hadn´t. I was in Lago Puello, the city. Lago Puello, the lake, was 5 km further. I found a beautiful park in the town and sat under a tree. This town is even quieter than El Bolson.

Riding back was tough but I only stopped a few times. By the time I reached the city I was a little bit dizzy but sat to listen to a argentinian ska-reggae band by the park.

Trippers breakfast for dinner: 5 eggs, salami, cheese, onion, and an amazing organic green-yellow pepper.

After dinner I went back into town and listened to some live blues where the ska band had been. A three piece, harmonica, acousitc and electric guitars. Great Jimi Hendrix Red House cover, and lots of great original stuff. The main singer, the acoustic guitarist, eyes the crowd for tips and gives a glaring stare to the other band mates when a big one arrives.

The sky was several different types of blue, followed by another pink, orange, peach coloured Argentine sunset. The sky doesn´t really go black in El Bolson, the clouds go blue. Distinct milky way pointing South to where I started my trip in Ushuaia.

Walked back the hostel when it got cooled. Met a guy named Robert, a former teacher from Amsterdam, who left because he owed 1200 euro for a DVD rental a year late, Shawshank Redemption. He told me I was very beautiful, and wanted to take me out the following day. I probably shouldn´t have talked to him for as long as I did.

Went to bed around midnight, very relaxed.

Nurse El Bolson

Still nursing my foot, contemplating a two day hike over the city of El Bolson.

Woke up today and hopped the bus to Luego Puello, the El Bolson hotspot, outside of El Bolson. I spent three hours lying on flat pebbles by a massive and cold lake. It was incredibley relaxing and I found a very secluded spot. All I had to do was walk through three small rapids. It sent me into a bit of a shock.

On the way back I noticed how green everything is here. Trees line the mountains, sides of the street, and along the middle where atop a very fresh grass are purple trees, pine trees, and bushy ones. Everything is quiet here, peaceful. Even on the main road, San Martin, little can be heard beyond a distant lawn mower.

Every weekend there is an open market set up in the town centre and I had a delicious Porter beer called Otto? I usually wont drink Porter but this one had a nice light caramel aftertaste.

I walked around the pond, also in the town centre looking at amazing indian inspired scultures fleshed right into the tree. I bought a steak and made a steak & cheese sandwich for dinner. Now Ill probably go back into town for a little, drink some great Argentinian red wine, and then go to sleep when the sun goes down.

Highway 40; Israel´s in Argentina

My bus to El Bolson leaves from El Chalten at a underdeveloped house. While waiting for the bus, I hear tons of hebrew being spoken around me. There are a lot of Israeli´s in Argentina, but this is ridiculous. We play a card game and they have some sneaky Israeli rules but I still somehow win.

On these Argetine busses, the seating is assigned. I wind up sitting beside a guy who looks like he touches kids when they sleep. Short, moustache, old, sweaty. I sleep with my sweater over my lap.

We wake up in a small town and switch buses in Poreto Moreno, the city. No problem, Im used to this. And we can sit where we want and I find one of the Israelis from before who is about my age, Mia. She gets off the bus in a town called Los Antiguous, which is out of our way. Before I know it we´re back in Poreto Moreno. Shit. But somehow still on time. This is what the peso gets you.

Though, they do feed you on these busses. Two buns; one ham, one cheese (no doubt the vegetarian option). My original bus mate took some pills with his dinner and I was glad none of them were viagra. But I digress.

The peso really doesn´t get you anything. It doesn´t even get you a highway. Highway 40 as they call it is nothing more than a dirt road, made of rocks and sand. It´s pathetic. The bus shakes and rattles and rocks hit the windows like you were driving through Algonquin Park, no wonder they drive with a cage over the front window. But these aren´t roads and we´re nowhere. I look out the window but everything looks the same, dessert, and rocky hills, and bush, and Im driving through the middle of it on a non-highway. These aren´t roads, this is where mobsters go to kill people, bury them, and know the body will never be found because there isn´t a road within 30 miles.

We stop for dinner for a full hour, already delayed, in Rio Mayo, a nothing town with little history to be known beyond the population sign.

After dinner we watch the movie Surf School, a good college romp, and I fall asleep. At 7am Im awoken by one of the Israelis and tells me we´re there. But these Israelis take advantage of my tired condition. They tell me to get in a cab and that we´re going to stay on an Israeli Farm outside of the city.

It was certainly outside of the city, it wasn´t even in El Bolson. It was Polson.

Of course they don´t have beds and of course Im nowhere near El Bolson and this farm is in the middle of nowhere and has nothing to offer and is expensive with expensive breakfast but the place is backlogged with Israelis who want to feel at home. And of course the Israeli who runs the place takes advantage of this, offering feel good music, and Bob Marley posters. And this guy is arrogant enough to have anti-capitalism, question authority poster. I question where this guy keeps his Mercedez.

I leave this place and try to hitch a ride back to El Bolson. A semi-retired firefighter named Amareyo picks me up in his 80s Cadillac and tells me about a massive forest fire in El Bolson currently raging. At least it´s raining.

I find this hostel with ease which is actually a camp ground, much nicer than that Israeli Farm. Everyone hear is nice, but little English is spoken. I like this town, surrounded by massive trees and mountains. It´s a non-tourist town and a very relaxing place to be. A good place to nurse my ankle is a town know for its swimming lake and easy hikes.

Fritz Roy

My bus arrived 2 hours late, Wednesday 130am and I have no hostel, but I know where a bunch are located off the main road... if only I know where the main road is. The bus drops us off at what looks like an abandoned house because there is no bus station in El Chalten, nor is there a bank, hospital, or properly paved streets. El Chalten is the newest town in Argentina, almost 30 years old, populated quickly to claim ownership before Chile could get to it. 30 years is about as old as Thornhill. I imagine this is what Thornhill would be like had Canada adopted the siesta.

I get off the bus, wearing shorts, and the strong wind and cold air hits my legs immediately and I begin to shiver, although the cloudless sky and the dark city provide for amazing views of the stars.

I find myself in a block of houses that look more like tool sheds. I see a girls and I immediately tell her Estoy perdido, Im lost. She at least points me in the direction of the main roads where the hostels are. On the main road I ask a girl where the hostels are and she drives me past one, they have no beds, and another, where they have no beds. Finally I arrive at a small brick house where there are kids toys all over the floor and a family sits around a computer and watches the news. And this is a really dingy house, it feels like when you´re young and you sleepover and your dingiest friends house and all night you dream of your own bed while you sleep on the couch often reserved for the dog. But, they have a free bed. Albeit the bed is too small, and there are cracks in the wall where wind hits my back at the strong gusts. But Im just happy to be indoors.

I wake up after a terrible sleep, I feel bad for the British guy on the bunk below me because I was tossing and turning far too much. I open the curtain and its a beautiful day. I leave the hostel and immediately walk to the nearby Rancho Grande, or what looks like the Bellagio after my previous sleep. With some luck, and big smiles, they have a bed for me that night. My day is looking good.

El Chalten is known for its hiking, one in particular, the Fritz Roy hike. Somebody had told me it was a hard 8 hour hike so I assumed that meant a lot of uphills and such but I was up for the challenge. I get to the opening of the hike which begins as a 20 minute ascent up sandy stairs. My legs are already in trouble, so I take a break, before the next 20 minute ascent. Im starting to think this was a bad idea, but I am already rewarded of an amazing view of a valley of marsh with broad water banks and green grass, below the long canyon I am currently hiking.

The trail also starts to flatten out and Im walking with ease, a big smile on my face. I stop to have a salami sandwich by a large lake which gives me my first view of Fritz Roy, a large, imposing piece of rock, in the shape of a U, atop a nice sized glacier. Continuing on my walk, I pass along and aroung large ponds, over logs, all in the open sun, with snowcapped mountains all around.

I arrive at a camp, and the small yellow arrows are nowhere to be found. But I see a path of sorts and I take it, then theres a divided path. I knew this area had many great hikes with many great views so without hesitation I turn left and know Ill wind up somewhere amazing. Then the rocks start.

Rocks, large rocks, white rocks, rapids, rocks, small rocks, big rocks, rocks that move under your feet. A long path of rocks, that seem to lead to Fritz Roy like some sick version of the yellow brick road, a yellow brick road with rapids. Large rapids, need to pass rapids. I see a couple of guys across the few rapids and they kind of point me to where I should be jumping rocks and climbing trees. I get to them and one, Juan, immediately comes forward with his hand out, telling me we have indeed come the wrong way and we need to get to the Fritz Roy from the other side. Among this group is his girlfriend, Martin, and a tall chunky guy who looks like the lame one of the group because he doesnt talk.

We head back across the easy rapids as a group. Until we come to a new rapid that I hadnt previously passed. This path is a small, crooked log, being constantly hit by the rapids, with a few rocks along the way. They already have a friend, Rufuengo, who crossed earlier. Martin doesnt hesisitate to take off his shoes and start crawling, barely making it across. Juans girlfriend nor the lame friend want to cross, and I have my hesistations. I ask Juan how good the view is to Fritz Roy. The best Ill see in Argentina!

My shoes come off and I climb across, getting wet, and feeling just how strong the rapid really is. But I make it across. Juan has to return with his girlfriend and the lame friend. So I continue on with Rufuengo and Martin. They are great guys and we call start jumping rocks together. We must climb a bit of a tall hill of mud and rocks and down it and then we get a little taste of the view ahead. We have to skip through another rapid, but we all make it with quick jumps from foot to foot.

10 minutes later and we have arrived and Juan was right. We are at the bottom of Fritz Roy, sitting along flat rocks over beautiful glacier water. The glacier, melting slowly, creates light waterfall streams getting caught in the wind until falling into the water. We are lucky enough to watch a small break, with a loud crashing sound, sounding like 10 wooden doors closing at once. I sit there for 30 minutes and take it all in. The very top of the mountain is covered in dark clouds creating an infinite feel to the rock. Then the clouds start pushing their way over our heads until it lightly starts to rain. I stand up but my ankle has stiffened up heartily after gently rolling it eary in the day. I tell the guys we should go but they want to stay so I head back on my own.

I jump from rock to rock with little hesitation, singing songs in my head. My ankle hurts more. I find the conservative way back to the actual trial that doesnt include the crazy wood rapid cross. Its much easier but I revel in the fact that I went the way less gone. And make my way off the rocks, with my foot in greater pain, I see the sign for El Chalten: 3 horaios. Im putting a lot of pressure on my calves to make it back as fast as possible so they start hurting too.

With 1.5 hours to go, Im in complete pain, stopping every 10 minutes to whimper inside my head if not aloud. The downhill at the end proves to be the hardest but I keep going because I know there is a great bed, and definitely a great meal up ahead.

Before I shower, I open the menu book at the bar at the hostel. It turns out they have a full menu. I first order a big slice of apple pie while I wait for my main course of steak, fries, with a fried egg over each, alongside a full fresh basket of bread. I finish just about everything with a couple packs of ketchup, salt and pepper.

After the meal I hobble to the shower, hobble to my top bunk bed, and lie down. Its 9pm and I dont get up until 9am Thursday morning.

My Relaxation Day

My relaxation day started around 830 am this morning. Ive been really busy the past week so I thought I´d take a nice easy day to walk around El Calafate before leaving for El Chalten tonight. I busted out the sandals, the khaki shorts, and brown roots polo shirt.

I Keu Ken hostel is about a 20 minute walk uphill from Lago Argentina, a beautiful glacier lake, the biggest lake in Argentina, surrounded by ice-capped mountains in the north and dirt mountains in the south, beautiful. The guy at the hostel told me about a laguna by the water, a little south. He said something about flamingos and I figured it was somewhere to go. Within a 30 minute walk I was down by the water and had gradually headed south by doing so. I took what I assumed would be a shortcut leading me further south by the water and I pass a big yellow hotel called ¨Lagunas¨.

From here I realize there is a massive stretch of beach, full of pebbles and below massive hills of sand. I practically forget about the laguna and decide to walk down the beach. Nobody is in sight, there are no roads, no buildings. I stop to sit on different flat rocks only continuing to walk because the strong winds chill me. Before I know it, I can´t see the city, or anything else. Just sand, rocks, strong ocean-like waves. This seems like the time to head back.

I shouldn´t be exagerating when I say that as soon as I turn around to walk back, the winds increase almost double as the afternoon begins. I decide to walk up in the sand because there is a hard path made likely by an ATV. After 10 minutes of walking back a gust occurs into the already strong winds and sand rises from the ground and starts piercing the left side of my body. I have a windbreaker on but my likes are exposed and when they turn red I have no other choice but to drop to the ground and curl into a ball. The winds die down soon enough but no more than 10 minutes later I´m back on the ground. I develop a game of throwing pebbles straight in the air and watching the wind carry them about 3 metres.

One more time I drop the ground, the winds seriously wearing me down. Finally I make it back to the yellow hotel I had passed coming onto the beach. This time I read the sign carefully, ¨LASDUNAS¨. Funny thing mistaking a D for a G.

I walk far away from the shore and the sand towards the city. On my right a big meadow appears with wild horses grasing among daisies and unidendifiable purple flowers create clear breaks between little ponds; laguna. I almost don´t go in because I´m quite hungry at this point but I figure I shouldn´t waste the opportunity to chill with some horses.

I leave shortly after and find a La Anonima, the supermarket chain in Argentina. I get 4 empanadas from the backcounter lady and eat them all fairly immediately.

Back at the hostel and my legs are sore. So much for a relaxation day. Now I´m heading for El Chalten which supposedly has some of the nicest hikes in Argentina.

Glacier Day

On Monday I woke up after only three hours of sleep. I had arrived by bus the following night and didn´t find the hostel until 3am. There were no street signs but I knew the hostel was up a hill so with a little luck I found with hostel alongside Jean-Guy, a former Canadian Military man who wears a hilarious bucket cap folded up around the rim.

So I wake up and it´s raining fairly badly but I figure that makes it a good day to see the glacier because it won´t be as busy there. It certainly wasn´t.

Perito Moreno; the glacier´s size is certainly surreal from the suspension bridge about 200 metres away from the East side of the glacier. It´s also impressive that ít´s one of only two glaciers advancing in the world.

It´s raining pretty badly and the winds make it feel incredibley cold but you watch the glacier for the moment where a piece breaks off. It´s loud, it´s cool, it´s hard to look away. Everytime a piece would fall every guy would go ¨Whoooooa¨. The most impressive part, I think, is the sound it makes. It sounds like a ton of bricks falling into an empty room.

A little later on we have the opportunity to take a boat to see the North side of the glacier which is the longest side at 2km. From there we see an entire sheet fall of the glacier, into the cold but beautifully jade coloured water. The boat crew pull a piece of glacier out from the water and carry it into the boat. They cut it down to make ice cubes, attempting to sell us 20 peso shots of whiskey on the rocks. I pass.

Some Italians buy a large bottle of Johnny Walker Red and when we get off the boat they offer everyone a shot. Needless to say it fell like a big hug as I´m still incredibley wet.

By the time we reach the suspension bridge the wind blows away all the rain clouds and we get a view of the glacier reaching up to the peak of the nearest mountain top, 14 km away. The glaciers blues and whites become highlighted, and my pants dry. The sun is also at it´s finest point and we see some very impressive breaks. One piece about 10 x 10 m breaks off the bottom half of the glacier, falls, rises slightly back out of the water, and then floats away. Another long piece falls off the top and creates a splash about 10m long. I know my bus is leaving but I can´t look away.

It´s very peaceful to quietly wait for the next piece to fall, and then exhilirating when it does. A fine day it was.

10:50pm Freethought Between Rio Gallegos and El Calafate

Bus breaks down just as stars arrive, sun is low. Just enough light to make out yellow, white, blue, black with a thumb cloud that extends closer to earth travelling along the strong Santa Cruz winds. The gas arrives from town in a VW car. Purple clouds create a canopy seemingly feet above the earth in the horizon. I got a little piss on my pants. The two-decker bus won´t start; won´t finish bad Will Smith movie. My pants are dry. All I can smell is gas. A dark man in a maroon tie drains the motor. Might not get to El Calafate until 3 or later; at least I don´t have a room booked for the night. Frantic pliers are used by several men like a fast paced scene in a Three Stooges episode. Bus starts, shoes come off. El Calafate.

My Bum Hurts

I woke up Friday morning finally refreshed, having caught up on my sleep. However, the weather called for heavy rain all day. Most people from the hostel were heading to the big museum in town, an old jail turned historical and art museum. But I also heard that there was a really good hike up the mountain to the martial glacier.

I walked out of the hostel and kinda looked both ways, one leading towards the museum, the other the glacier. My instincts kinda took over and I picked the glacier.

I didn´t exactly know how to get there, I just heard it was northwest but signs started to appear. When I got to the entrance it was hardly near the glacier, it was the bottom of a long and windy road. So I started trekking, with the rain falling lightly. After 2 or so kilometres there was a fork in the road. One lead to the ¨diffulcado¨40 minute trail through forest and the other was a quick walk to a chairlift to the glacier. I chose the hike. The hike wasn´t too difficult despite being uphill. Halfway there was a great opening with a view of the city, and it started to snow lightly. It felt like the first snowfall of the year, it was light and I welcomed it. I climbed a little more and the hike was over, I was at the glacier. Rather, the entrance to the glacier mountain climb.

I saw the climb and it didn´t look too bad, heading across rock towards the mountain peaks with a slight incline. But of course the closer I got the incline, the steeper it looked. The snow also picked up, which turned into hail, and it was blowing into my face to the point where looking down the mountain I could barely make out the town. From a few feet below the rocks that I´m climbing at a near vertical it looks as if I´ve reached the top.

No, that was just the halfway point. Things got a little steeper and snowier as I came within 50m of the mountain summit. I almost stopped walking but obviously I wanted to see this glacier. I countinued to climb with stops every 2 minutes, my sunglasses foggy and my hands on the verge of frostbite.

The glacier is a fancy way of saying snow patch but I felt like I accomplished something after a 3 hour hike. I also drank some of the fresh glacier water. The glacier is significant in that it supplies a majority of the fresh water to Ushuaia. Fuck museums, I was on top of the end of the world. After 10 minutes of freezing at the summit, I realized how fucking hungry I was after only having breakfast. I could picture a bag of 6 Oreos by my bed and that was all I could think of trying to get down this rock.

Instead of taking the muddy climb back down I chose a large rocky declining road which I think is a ski slope in the winter. But fuck I´m really hungry. I start winding down the road and it´s taking a while because obviously it´s not as direct as the hike. I try to cheat a few times but I just wind up getting trapped waist deep in massive and disguistingly wet bush or I´m in a shithole of mud.

I go back the road but I´m not feeling great. But I can see in the town of Ushuaia down below a rainbow stretched from one end of the city to the other. Several cars stopped along me to look. One man was with his daughter and asked me to take a picture. I took his picture and then I took a chance. I asked him for a lift to the center of town which translates into spanish: ¨Senior, down es centro town?¨. Either he didn´t realize how wet I was or he knew how tired I was but he agreed to give me a lift. I was so grateful. I must be a really good photograper.

His name was Pablo and he was taking his daugher Paula for an annual Martial Glacier walk. Otherwise I didn´t get much out of him.

He dropped me off near my hostel and ran in quickly to grab my Oreos which were gone before I reached the nearby grocery store.

Back at the hostel, I laid out a loaf of bread, a package of salami, a package of cheese, and a fresh roll of Oreos, and a Quilmer beer which I and everyone else are convinced instantly gives one a headache after only 1 or 2 bottles. Craig and Lauren, a young couple from Sydney had the misfortune to have to face me while I eat, and eat like I´ve never ate before. I had 4 sandwiches and the entire roll of Oreos.

Maybe they took pity on me but they invited me to celebrate Craig´s 30th birthday bash on the top floor of the hostel, where the comfortable leather couches, pool table, nice views, and drinking occur.

After some cheap wine and 10 peso bottles of vodka I was more than ready to pass out with my body sore in many places.

Today I woke up and limped through 7 km of the National Park just outside of the city, the place that attracted me to Ushuaia in the first place. Highlights on the Costera Trail from Zaratiegui Bay to Roca Lake included seeing the end of the Pan American Highway and the chorizo sausage on a bun that I had at the end of the hike.

My plan tonight was to drink two bottles of red wine with some people in the hostel, but I finished the second one at 1, 4 hours before the bus leaves. I got talked into going to Kaltek, disco club which played such classics as YMCA, Karma Chameleon, and Usher.... yeah. Yeah! I left after an hour leaving my Italian, Dutch, and American friends to dance the night away.

It´s a quater to 4 and sunrise is starting. Im pretty far south and complete darkness only lasts from 11pm to 4am. But I head north towards the lake district. My plan over the next 10 days is El Calafate, El Bolson, Neuquen, followed by Mendoza.

El Touristo

The Freestyle Hostel is excellent. Not only does it have comfortable beds and views of the bay, you can also book just about anything through the front desk. I booked my bus ticket to El Calafate, a 22 hour experience. I also booked a boat tour for today.

I´m not a big fan of overly touristy things but for $80 I was getting a 4 hour boat tour and then a bus tour back to Ushuaia with some muy bien stops. The boat tour was fantastic. They take you by a massive rock where about 20 male big headed ugly sealions protect their resting, super preggo baby mama´s. Another hour of boating farther south, at ever increasing cold temperatures, we reach a lighthouse, nothing special. A little more sailing south after that and we reach the Marchuina Penguina´s. The medium sized boat pushes it´s way onto the pebbley shore metres away from about 100 penguins and they are as hilarious as Morgan Freeman promised. They´re all sliding around, and digging holes, taking dips in the pool. I thought we´d be able to pick up the penguins, but apparently even stepping foot on the island is an entire ordeal.

During the penguins the names of the people going to the bus are announced and my name isn´t mentioned. But the guy at the hostel said bus so I was one of the 2/3 of the boat who got off at Harberton Ranch where they used to skin sheep and chop wood, and where they currently serve overpriced soup and extensive tours through a tiny patch of trees that they call a forest.

Many pictures are taken.

At this point the only other person from my hostel, Caroline, a plump German girl just like the stereotype would suggest, informs me she paid 240 pesos while I only paid 200. I was clearly not supposed to get off the boat. We get onto these busses which will make many stops along the way back to town. The rain starts to fall and as we start driving the rain picks up.

We get off the bus. To see a dam that was once built by beavers but currently is uninhabited.

Many pictures are taken.

We get back onto the busses where the rain and wind picks up to the point where the rain hits the road and then proceeds to run up a fairly steep hill like a reverse waterslide. We get off the bus to look at specials trees affected by the wind.

Many pictures are taken.

I don´t even get off the bus to the next stop, but I assume many pictures were taken.

The last stop is a ranch where they breed dogs for sledding. This part of the tour contains no english, except the yellow subtitles during a brief movie set to the tune of 1920 speakeasy music.

Finally the stops end and we go back to Ushuaia, 4 hours later than the boat. I should´ve listened to the guide when she didn´t call my name. I guess that´s a karma situation, or one of those get what you paid for things.

Shower update: I bought a bar of soap along with Quilmes beer and Oreos. Still no towel to be had.

Slowly Learning Espaney

I´m in Ushuaia, Argentina, the southernmost city in the world, 24 hours after flying out of Toronto. I got a little Spanish dictionary and memorized Who, What, Where, When, & Why. And now I´ll use them in a sentence.

Quien forgets soap and towel? This guy. A fresh bedsheet and Fructis shampoo worked fine, the bottle says 2 in 1.

Que country am I in? When I landed in Miami I was fairly confident I was in Mexico City judging by the amount of English being spoken.

Donde does Chile get off charging $130 to land in their country. I had a stopover in Santiago and to get to my connecting flight they charged me muchos US deneroes.

Cuando does my plane leave? My first plane was delayed an hour, and when I got to Santiago I was unaware of the 2 hour time change so I jogged to my connecting flight.

Por que am I finding ¨Just For Laughs Gags¨funny? My last flight from Puerto Arenas to Ushuaia played Just for Laughs Gags and on 2 hours of sleep I laughed at almost every bit. Including the free ice cream vendor who applied sprinkles one at a time until the ice cream melts, and the skit where a 10 year old white girl goes into a washroom and comes out as a 10 year old black girl under the supervision of a stranger.

I was excited to get off the airplane, with a souvenir buttercream candy that made my hungry mouth salivate a little. The airport is only 4 km from the main road so I decided to walk, against medium sized mountains and an ecclectic variety of houses with influences from Latin America and Switzerland.

Now I need to go learn more Spanish. Watching Vicky Cristina Barcelona on the plane didn´t help much, nor did Eagle Eye (but I thought Shia LaBoeuf was a Spanish name?).