Americ-Huh?

Cookies and Rum, Airport Exile

2009-07-01T09:47:00.001-04:00

President José Manuel Zelaya Rosales, tinkers with the Honduran constitution to continue his rule over one of the poorest and most corrupt countries in the Americas. The Supreme Court rules for an immediate military coup and the President is woken up at gunpoint and flown to Costa Rica. One of the most respected leaders in Honduras’ history is threatened into exile, while wearing his pyjamas.

In a country where children play with guns as toys, protests begin on a Sunday morning; everyone is told to stay in their homes, but I have a plane to North America.
The ferry docks on the mainland and a bus takes me to San Pedro Sula. With many hours until my flight, I ask a cab driver to make me to City Mall, where they have a movie theatre. We agree on a price for the cab. I duck into the back seat. Three children leech in beside me and a woman holding a baby releases her chair back in the front seat to accommodate her pregnant belly. The family of the cab driver is going the same way as me; better to carpool.
In front of the City Mall, several militants with long guns wave their palms in my face. The mall is closed. There will be no movies, shopping, or looting protestors this Sunday. Next door there is a castle shaped Hilton Princess.
The receptionist greets me cheerfully, without sizing up my dirty jeans, filthy backpack. My expensive shave yesterday reveals my white face which goes a long way in a white face hotel.
I ask about the shuttle to the airport, and the lady asks my room number:

¨220? ¨
¨Senor, Vasquez? ¨
¨Si.¨
The receptionist, Maria, carefully mentions that all flights have been cancelled because of the dangerous protesting in the country.

Senor Vasquez, a well-respected and long-term guest of the decadent Hilton Princess, is granted gratis use of the internet lounge. The internet informs the nervous group of international travellers sharing the lounge that flights have resumed for the rest of the day.
The orange sunset hits the golden arches of McDonalds, the only open restaurant within short walking distance. After a late lunch, the airport shuttle takes off with only one passenger stowed uptight in the back row of the minivan. Two kids hold real guns to each other’s faces, near the freeway turnoff to the airport, a few kilometres outside of the city centre.
There is more militia than tourists, and more police cars than taxis, but they confirm that flights are leaving on schedule, including my midnight departure. I pay the shuttle and walk into the airport.
One solider with a rifle, extra clip taped on, asks to see my passport. He inspects the authenticity under the neutral lighting above. He kindly announces my flight will not be leaving, as the temporary government issues a country-wide curfew. I like the old corrupt government better.
My airport shuttle is gone. I’m told I will have to stay in the airport indefinitely.
“The airport is surrounded by armed military. You’re safe in the terminal; you’re dead in the city.”

A cast of characters forms, all from the same cancelled flight: a young Midwest American couple with stacks of bags recently finished a year of volunteering in Honduras; a friendly black retired postman with a thick gray moustache and a positive view on military overthrows; a German hockey player waiting for the plane that never left Fort Lauderdale; a couple of old vacationers who make a few phone calls and leave on the significantly more expensive earlier flight back to the US.

After a few phone calls our group learns that the flight has been rescheduled for seven the following night, a twenty hour wait. We’re impressed with the quick response of the airport, considering the civil war forming in the country. This Lost group would have to survive a night in an airport without food. There is a vending machine. We all pull out our change and small bills and make out with some cookies and bags of chips. I remember my Flor de Cana rum, aged four years, which I pass around the circle.
Soon I’m tapping my feet and churning my shoulders in cookies and rum joy. The mood lightens. Life gets better when the American couple reveals fresh tortillas and refried beans their home-stay family made for the flight. I invent the Dorritos baliada. And God-damn Bless America, the couple has a laptop filled with movies, speakers, and a mini-projection system. I laugh through most of The Jungle Book.

After the movie, everyone finds their room for the night. The elderly do the classic chair sloop, head in hand drool on shoulder. The resourceful American couple utilize the luggage conveyor. The German has an air mattress. I setup my sleeping back next to the closed cigar shop, and a few metres away from an armed soldier.
I sleep well.
I wake up and the airport is covered with people. A young woman steps over me and opens the cigar shop.

"What are all these people doing in my airport?” says the hockey player. One restaurant opens on our side of the security fence and it's a glorious Wendy’s. I'm in line at eight and trying to decide how many patties to get. Unfortunately burgers aren't fried up until the late morning so I order the biggest breakfast available.

After that greasy morning glory, I find internet at a Budget Rent A Car. Two girls eat home brought breakfast and watching YouTube videos of exiled President Zelaya. He gets exile in Costa Rica. I’m stuck in exile at the airport terminal.

There’s flight from Fort Lauderdale to Boston at seven in the morning, but the airline me on the late afternoon flight. There are still eight hours of aimless before checking in for the first flight.
There are no magazine shops, and I have no book worth reading, so I lounge in the cigar shop. Thick stiff brown leather couches form a circle around a stack of Cigar Aficionado magazine. I read gentlemanly articles while smoking the cheapest cigar in the store and drinking a Sprite.

The afternoon passes easier than the triple-patty burger at lunch. I check-in for my flight after four.

On the plane anxiety grows, expecting more delays.
Take off,
take off,
take off,
take off!
TAKE OFF!
We take off.

The oldest lady in Latin America shivers underneath one thin airline blanket beside me; she’s complaining of air conditioning and headaches. She looks at me, points up with at the roof with a half-extended shaky finger and whispers, “this is not the air of God.” Oh hell, this woman is going down before the plane does.

Everyone arrives alive in Fort Lauderdale at midnight. Computers are down at customs. There are airline representatives at the baggage check. The morning flight to Boston is oversold by five spots but forty-five minutes before the morning flight any seats not accounted for check-in are available to me.
I setup camp behind a flight board, and I sleep well with carpet underneath me; my second night’s sleep in an airport.

At six-twenty in the morning, a lady behind a counter, hands me a boarding pass and tells me to get to the gate, fast! I Home Alone it through the airport, fuddling with the AA batteries in my TalkBack, but always keeping a metaphoric eye on Dad's brown trench coat.

They close the gate door behind me. Civil Wars don’t bother me.

Underwater

2009-06-14T13:48:00.000-04:00

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.

Room Rummage in El Salvador

2009-06-09T12:51:00.002-04:00

The young owner of the hostel, an El Salvadorian with long dreadlocks and a heavy beerbelly, walks into his office and turns to where I´m sitting. 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 sixteen and somehow unlock room twelve at midnight. THEN at four I leave room twelve and return to room sixteen. AFTERWARDS, a key is found in a washroom and you assume I stole? 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 been in this business 5 years, friend. I know these things: you have a girl, you want to do the happy. Do I have to call the cops?¨
“This is outrageous!”
“I’m calling the cops.”

¨Look. I´ll pay you the eighteen dollars because I know if the police come and it´s my word against yours I´ll have to bribe everybody fifty bucks¨

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.

In Playa El Tunco, I took hammock naps at all times of the day. Sometimes I would wake up at it would sunset, sometimes I´d close my eyes watching the full moon. At night we would drink rum and beer.

A Long Day In Granada

2009-05-30T17:37:00.000-04:00

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

2009-05-29T12:39:00.001-04:00

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.

Swami Yoga, El Valle

2009-05-06T10:44:00.000-04:00

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.

Dream State Paradise, Panama

2009-05-02T17:58:00.000-04:00

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

2009-04-23T23:40:00.000-04:00

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

2009-04-11T17:41:00.003-04:00

Under the black marble statue of Simón Bolívar on his horse, one hoof raised. Three seniors play Colombian love songs on weathered guitars. An indifferent saggy cheeked gray haired musician looks outward, while the man in plaid looks into his untuned strings under his chin; the guitar 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 one shaking hands. An extra guitar sits in a garbage bag.

The slowest song's long finish--thunder, lightning-- then we run for shelter.

Coffee District

2009-04-07T18:47:00.000-04:00

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.

Hikin, Hitchin, & Infected Mushrooms

2009-04-03T19:35:00.000-04:00

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.

Huarascsa Park, Huaraz, Peru

2009-03-28T18:39:00.000-04:00

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

2009-03-23T12:48:00.000-04:00

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.

Jail Tour In Bolivia

2009-03-13T16:01:00.000-04:00

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.

Blurry Details Of The Southwest Circuit

2009-03-09T12:17:00.000-04:00

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.¨

2009-03-04T08:48:00.000-05:00

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!

Devil´s Carnivale

2009-02-25T18:06:00.000-05:00

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.

Hang Dieze, Uruguay

2009-02-18T15:46:00.000-05:00

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.

3:12PM, Colonia Del Santiago

2009-02-10T13:33:00.000-05:00

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

2009-02-08T18:35:00.000-05:00

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.

My Super Bowl: Boca vs. River

2009-02-02T07:08:00.000-05:00

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

2009-01-31T17:07:00.001-05:00

On a Saturday night in July I meet Greg from Marseille, France, travelling around North America, who aspires to be a professional tennis player. He asks me to help him pick up Canadian girls at the bar but he doesn’t need much assistance after girls hear his buttery French accent. Greg doesn’t speak like the Quebecois frogs; his accent makes girls feel like they’re going to be flown to a yacht on the Mediterranean where he will cook three course dinners and pair them with vintage wines from Bordeaux and Alsace. We walk out of the bar with several phone numbers. We plan to meet up with two cute blonde girls for a picnic the next day: they bring wine and we bring the food.

In the early afternoon, I wake up mildly hungover. Greg snores on the couch at the other end of my bachelor apartment. “Greg, Greg. Wake up. We gotta get over to the supermarket before we meet the girls.”

“Ah. Okay, Al’an,” he says as he rolls onto his side and digs through his bag on the floor. “I shave, and we go.”

At the supermarket, a 14 aisle food complex underneath a trendy loft building, we find the bakery. Ignoring the tongs, he lightly squeezes and smells all of the rolls, croissants, and loafs of bread laid out in plastic containers.

“This is no good, no good, shit, stale, undercooked.” Greg critiques everything he touches.

“Well Greg, what should we get?”

“We get nothing over here. All of the bread is garbage. They don’t even have baguettes. What kind of bakery is this?” he asks, looking around.

“Well it’s a supermarket, and they do have baguettes,” I point to them.
Greg stares me in the eye. “They’re whole wheat baguettes. That’s like me putting carrots beside scrambled eggs and fucking calling it Canadian bacon!”

“Okay, Greg. Let’s just get one of these pre-sliced loafs. It’ll be fine.” We walk around to the cheese section in the next aisle. “What kind of cheese do you like?”

Greg reads the packages and smells the cheese through the thick wrappers, assorted by brand. “Al’an where are all the raw milk cheeses. These are all chemicals.”

I shrug. “I’m not really sure, buddy. I usually just get Kraft Singles.” I slide a pack off the shelf beside the butter. Greg reads the ingredients on the French side.

“This isn’t cheese. This is rubber, made in a factory.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s cheese, Greg.”

“No. Cheese comes from cows, goats, and buffalos. This comes from a factory.” He tosses me the package. I read it over.

“Yeah I guess you’re right. We don’t really need cheese anyway.” We walk down to the meat aisle.

“Where’s the meat?” he asks, grabbing down his Zidane jersey with both hands.
I select a package of Italian salami. “Al’an, this is sliced meat. It’s been sitting here for days, weeks, years, in a vacuum seal. Where’s the butcher?”

“They have a butcher, but I’m pretty sure he just packages coleslaw, potato salad, and chicken wings.”

“Okay Al’an you get whatever meat you think won’t kill me, and I’ll try it.”
We zigzag up, down, and around a few aisles until Greg stops and stares silently at the shelf of condiments. He clutches a jar of Maille Dijon mustard with both hands; he rubs the smooth glass and smells it like an orange while closing his eyes. A young woman in the aisle stares at him strangely. I mouth silently, “He’s French.”

“Ah, Al’an. Now I am happy,” Greg says after coming out of his mustard coma. We squeeze into the crowded cashier express line, holding our bread, meat, mustard, and a few snacks. “I don’t get it Al’an. You have a huge market here, and it’s filled with shit. Mustard and shit.”

Mendosey

2009-01-29T19:37:00.001-05:00

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.

Fritz Roy

2009-01-22T15:55:00.000-05:00

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.