I spent the last three days glued to a toilet, eliminating every single drop of fluid my body was ever able to produce (a lot).
As much as I feel like I have nothing left that can be painfully squeezed out of my body, I still feel quite unsettled, especially when I'm not in proximity of a toilet.
For the above reason, enduring a 12 hour bus ride from Sucre to Cochabamba was out of the question. Especially because buses have no toilets and I have no nappies.
I decided to travel in style and bought a plane ticket (yes, I know, it's terrible for the ozone, but good for my ass). The ride to the airport was quite an adventure and I'm grateful to Jorge, the taxi driver, for getting me there in one piece, eventually.
Despite being only 9.30 a.m., Jorge seemed extremely awake. He either drank 25 cups of super strong coffee at breakfast or he was high on cocaine.
I told him I had 3 hours before my flight was due to leave, but I guess he understood I had 3 minutes before my flight was due to leave as he started the engine and flew away whilst half of my backpack was still outside the door.
The taxi was nothing more than an old engine on wheels. There were no windows, no indicators (at each turn he would put his arm out, thinking he was on a bike) but there was the odd addition of a metal bar across the passengers´ seat. After speeding at 90kph I understood that the bar was there so that passengers could hold onto it without falling from the windows at each roundabout.
As I was hoding onto it with all the strength I had I managed to say: "So, Jorge, I take it you like Formula Uno?". He didn´t catch my sarcasm, instead he bombarded me with questions, thrown at me at incredible speed: "what's-your-name-where-are-you-from-aren´t-you-scared-to-travel-alone-beautiful-day-isn´t-it?!!". I took a big breath and replied with the same speed: "Federica-Italy-I´m-not-scared-unless-I-come-across-weird-taxi-drivers-yes-beautiful-day-where-do-YOU-buy-your-coke?!!"
Once I arrived at Sucre Airport I kissed the ground, thanked God for saving my life once again and boarded on the plane.
I must admit, I was a bit apprehensive to fly with a Bolivian Airline. This is, after all, a third world country. I was expecting a plane so old that, in order to start, had to be pushed by a bunch of farmers. I was also expecting to wear a parachute during the flight and would have to share the ride with pigs and donkeys. Well, I was wrong. The plane was brand new and even though the flight was only 25 minutes long, the smart stewardess offered me gracious smiles (which I appreciated) and a muffin with apple juice (which I appreciated even more).
The taxi ride from Cochabamba airport to my accomodation was surprising too. The taxi had windows! And a seat belt! The handsome driver opened the door for me as if I was Angelina Jolie arriving at a Hollywood Premier.
The biggest surprise of all, however, was my accomodation. I had booked a dirty cheap private room in a hostal, but when the taxi stopped outside, I thought there had been a mistake and stayed in the car. The driver, obviously blessed with good looks but not with the gift of patience (and probably realizing I was not Angelina Jolie after all), waved me off by saying "Aqui! Aqui"- which translates into "Here!Here! You stupid moron, now get out of my car".
At the hostal, a young man insisted on taking my luggage, showed me to my mini apartment, explained how the TV worked (let me guess....I push the ON button?); explained how the minibar opened (by pulling the door! Surprise!) and explained how the toilet worked (oh, man, I have plenty of experience). He reassured me that he'd be there for me, should I need anything, absolutely anything. Basically, his mission in life was to make my stay in Cochabamba as pleasant as possible.
I was tempted to ask whether he could provide me with a night of wild and fulfilling sex, but I asked for breakfast times instead.
Finally alone and excited for being in a new place, I got ready and smeared my face with make-up as if I was going to a New Year´s party.This turned out to be totally unnecessary and utterly unpractical. Unnecessary because it was a Monday and it was just lunch time; unpractical because the glitter on my eyelids melted in the scorching sun. I did not look good with my face covered in glitter and gigantic sweat patches under my arms.
I requested a map at reception. I don't know why I keep bothering as maps remain big unsolved mysteries to me. I guess I like to look at the cute pictures of churches and museums printed on them, plus they sometimes help me feel as if I know where I am heading to. Even when, in reality, I have no clue at all.
The efficient receptionist apologetically informed me that the map available looked indeed a little old. He failed to inform me, however, that it also measured 1.50x 1.00 cm; virtually as big as me.
I ventured out. I was finally in Cochabamba! The "city of eternal spring"! World, here I come!
And then I got lost.... As much as I did not want to draw much attention on myself (as if walking around with a glittery face was not enough), I had to squat in the street to open the ridiculously gigantic map.
Needless to stay, it was totally useless and I stayed lost for 5 hours.
Eventually, with the help of a gardner, a policeman and a street vendor, I found my way back to the hostal, to realize that for 5 hours I had practically gone around the same circle, over and over.
Once in my room, I kissed the carpet and thanked God for saving my life. Well, not literally, but I COULD have ended up walking in a loop for the rest of eternity, right?
For the first time in months I had a TV in my room. This was such an exciting event that I indulged in a "TV watching marathon". For 7 hours I watched animal programs in Spanish. Motionless; transfixed.
For 7 hours I dreamed of being in far away countries, until I realized I already WAS in a far away country! What was I doing watching TV?! Resting. That's what I was doing. Getting lost in a far away country on a daily basis is a tiring business. I needed plenty of rest so I'd have plenty of strength next time I'd get lost. Soon enough, no doubt about that.
I booked a two-day tour to Torotoro National Park, the "dream of every paleontologist".
The driver/guide, whose name was original and unique (Jose) picked me me at 6 a.m. so that I could joing the group of 3 Israeli girls.
In the car, the usual chit chat took place: where was I before Bolivia? Doing what? Blah blah blah.
Coincidentally, as soon as I said that I had been working with small children, Jose stopped the car and said: "I have a small problem". I didn't even have time to think what his small problem might have been (genital warts? Fear of national parks? Hate for Italian tourists?) that a young pretty Bolivian lady, holding a chubby child, approached our car, left the child with Jose and left.
The "small problem", it turned out, was the driver's 18 months old baby, Roy, who had to travel with us. It was already 5 people squeezed in the car, so the best place to sit for the screaming thing was obviously my lap.
I thought we were taking Roy to a nearby school, to some long lost relatives, to a ditch, but the baby's final destination was the village of Torotoro. 5 and 1/2 hours drive away.
I tried everything to calm Roy down. I stroked his big head; caressed his piglet face; sang him a heavy metal song; whispered soothing words in his ears :"shut up, you little shit, what have YOU got to cry for?! this is MY tour! I should be crying!".
No, no, I did not say that . Truth be told, I felt really sorry for Piglet. I mean, imagine being 18 months old, being stuck in a car with 4 strangers, whilst wearing the thickest wooly jumper and hat when it's 25 degrees in the shades AND being put in such a situation by your own mother. I would be distressed too.
One hour passed. There was silence. Jose, noticing that his son had fallen asleep and my arms had turned blue, said: "Oh, he's asleep. I can now put him in the boot". I laughed at his joke, except it was no joke. He stopped the car, took the baby from my arms and put him in the car boot, asleep on top of my backpack.
Let me be clear here: I am the last person on earth who could give parenting advice to anyone, but even Hitler would have found this scenario disturbing. Mmmm. Maybe not.
Me and the 3 Israelis looked at each other, utterly perplexed, and thought to make a small detour and report this child abuse to the nearest police station. We didn't. Our tour was too expensive to allow a detour. Sod it.
Two more hours passed. As I was massaging my blue arms, I suddenly remembered there was a child sleeping in the car boot. A child! I checked the damage and noticed that Roy and my backpack had swapped places: the backpack was now on the top and Roy underneath. I didn't want to create panic so in a cool, calm voice I told Jose. "Hey, amigo, when you get a second, no rush, would you mind stopping the car for a second? I think my luggage is suffocating your son". He did.
Once again, imagine you are 18 months old and you just woke up in a car boot. You have lost half of your body weight in sweat and the first image you see is not the one of you loving mother, but the one of 3 grumpy Israeli and 1 furious Italian. What would you do? Exactly. Roy reached the peak of his sadness and made a siren sound to express his utter outrage.
His father, wisely, considered what could have been the best place for his son to sit, in order to calm down. The answer? Squatting on the car floor in between my legs. At this point, the siren sound was coming from me as well and the only thing that consoled me was the knowledge that after 4 hours we had finally arrived to our destination.
I got out of the car, kissed the ground covered in donkey's shit and thanked God for saving the life of an innocent child.
The actual tour of the National Park was awesome. The purpose of this blog, however, is not to make anyone envious. For this reason I shall not mention the amazing waterfall I showered under, the majestic canyon I trekked, the million stars I slept under and the most breathtaking views I enjoyed. No, I shall not.
The tour came to an end. I dreaded the journey back, as Jose was not only a lousy father, he was a terrible driver too. 2 hours into our hell of a journey, the car broke down. It happened while we were in the middle of nowhere, high up in the mountains.
Jose´s approach to such tragedy was to just stand in the middle of the road, staring at the engine.
Let me be clear, here. I am the last person on earth who could give any advice on how to fix a car, but even an octopus would know that you don't fix a mechanical problem by staring at an engine.
"Jose?", I asked. "Do you believe in God?". "I don't". "Then why the hell are you waiting for a miracle?!".
Time passed. The car would run for 10 minutes and then stop for 15. Eventually we reached the town of Cochabamba and, as we stopped at the traffic lights at the busiest junction in town, the car stopped again. This, per se, was quite good for me because in 10 minutes I learned at least 45 different Spanish swear words and insults, all shouted at Jose by other drivers.
I felt sorry for him, but above all I felt sorry for myself so I got out of the car, opened the boot, got my backpack, wished Jose good luck and continued the journey on foot.
When I got back to my hostal I kissed the receptionist, the Israeli girls, the bathroom floor, the paintings on the wall and I thanked God for saving Jose´s life: another minute and I would have killed the fucker.
Saturday, 15 September 2012
Thursday, 2 August 2012
Bolivia & Coca leaves
I crossed the boarder Argentina/Bolivia, full of excitement and fear.
I got off the bus and was overwhelmed to see children covered in dust and with runny noses. Skeletal dogs who were desperately trying to get inside empty plastic bags which contained something edible, a long time ago, perhaps. Imposing women carrying the equivalent of their own body weight, wrapped in colorful fabric.
"So this is it". I thought. "I am in Bolivia".
I expected to see what I saw. I expected the man at Custom to be mean (why are Immigration Officers always so abrupt, anyway? It's not that I'm smuggling drugs,am I?), I expected to share my taxi ride with two local farmers and a couple from Ireland (no, actually this caught me slightly by surprise).
What I did not expect, however, was to be so utterly, desperately, shamefully sick because of the altitude.
And I did not expect to be one of the worse case the locals had ever seen, either.
Coca leaves help, they say. So I sneaked into a market, checking now and then if I had been followed by the Police and asked some stall holders, in a quiet voice, whether "they had coca". I know, I know, coca is legal , coca is not cocaine, but it still felt weird telling an old lady who looked like my grandma that I was looking for first quality Coca. "Does your mum know what you're up to?" I felt like asking her.
I'm happy to say that my mouth is way bigger than it looks from the outside. My mouth can accomodate thousands and thousand of juicy bitter leaves. I'm like a hamster, me!
I'm less happy to say that Coca leaves did not help me. But Ibuprofen did. All 13 packets of them.
I have arrived in Sucre 8 weeks behind schedule. Mind you, not that I had a schedule. Nor a plan. Nor a remote idea of what I wanted to see nor do, but I have arrived, everyone!!
I was expecting a warm welcome, balloons, confettis, a lot of hugs and kisses from locals. All I got, however, was a lousy dog's bite which send me straight to ER.
Maybe the dog was happy to see me! Maybe this is how Bolivian dogs greet their loved ones! By chewing their legs!
At ER, I expected a little sympathy, some level of understanding or at least some basic first aid. All I got, however, was a bill to pay and a patronizing look from a doctor who literally laughed at my face when I showed concern about the possibility of contracting rabies, then die.
The second doctor was no better. When I told him I feared I would die, he said :"we're all gonna die". I couldn't argue with that, could I? Dr Cheerful also advised me to find the bipolar dog who bit me and ask the locals whether they knew if he was vaccined. I'm sure this is the correct procedure indeed, but come on, Einstein, how the Hell was I supposed to find an average-looking dog in a Country where average-looking dogs are basically at every street corner?!
But I'm not one to give up without a try. Every single one of the 1.367 stray dogs in Sucre were carefully inspected by myself. Every moment of every day I inspected them. Until one day, at the market, I believed I found him.
He was with his owner, pretending to be an innocent, affectionate dog. He was even wagging his tail, to make his disguise more credible."YOU!" I shouted. "It's you!". The owner was proud that her beloved, lying dog got so much attention, until I asked her whether he was vaccined, as he bit me.
For some unknown reasons she did not appreciate that a foreign lady would accuse her pooch to be a criminal and put her under a spotlight, at a busy market, while surrounded by all her friends. How unreasonable.
The lady was confident I had mistaken dogs, her dog " is always with her", he's "never in the street" and all those bullshit that people always say to defend themselves when it is quite clear that they are GUILTY!
It never occurred to me that I might have been wrong: after all, the dog looked average-looking enough to be THE ONE.
I huffed and puffed (in Spanish) and left the crime scene believing I was right, like always.
Until, that is, a week later when I saw the unmistakable jaw of the unmistakable dog who left an unmistakable mark on my previously immaculate calf. I had found my dog after all. And when I did I was so petrified I couldn't even demand an apology for the distress he had caused.
My search for the mischevious creature came to an end. And the search for the innocent one has begun. I owe him a bone and I owe his owner a sincere apology.
As much as I have not felt much sympathy amongst the Bolivians who saw me hurt and crying (I guess it's my fault for having such juicy and attractive Gringo calves), I feel locals are extremely concerned for my body temperature.
It's winter here and people look shocked, almost worried, when they see me walking around wearing a summer vest, especially when they walk around wrapped in blankets.
I swear the tops I wear do not show an inch of my breasts (also because I have absolutely nothing to show off) so they cannot be offended by my attire. I also know they are not admiring my toned, boxer's arms, as the muscles I once had , have turned into Dumbo's wings. I'm sure they are worried I'll catch a cold! Bless them.
I wish to point out that the winter temperature at the moment is 25 degrees and if I was at home I'd probably be wearing nipple tassels, but it's winter, right? I should be cold, what's wrong with me?
My rabies jabs will continue, on and off throughout the month, so whether I like it or not (I don't) I cannot leave Bolivia and continue with my travels.
To put my time here to a good use, I enrolled to school. I thought going to school would be just like 20 years ago, so I turned up to class sporting a hangover, to then realise that NOTHING FEELS LIKE 20 YEARS AGO.
I replied with a German "Ja", when what I meant was "Si" and nearly puked all over my unfinished home work. Forgive me, Teacher, for I have sinned. "Can we just speak English today?", I begged.
Luckily, my teacher is cool. He has kindly agreed to teach me one abusive rude Spanish expression a day.
He also dosn't mind if, in the middle of class, I suddenly jump up and show him some dance moves. Nor he minds when I throw my books against the wall, moaning and cursing, because I don't know how to conjugate irregular verbs.
He's the ideal teacher for a grown up student who act like an annoying teenager. Me, basically.
I checked myself into a beautiful hotel. It's expensive, but I'm injured, so fuck it.
My neighbour for the week was Louis, from England. Louis and I became inseparable.
In a good old British fashion, we spent the entire week moaning. We moaned because it was too hot (whilst our friends back home would have sold an organ in return of a ray of sunshine). We moaned because the beers we were drinking in the gorgeous patio were just a little bit too refreshing. We moaned because the pizzas we were eating every day were just a little too delicious. We moaned and farted and laughed. A lot, especially the farting.
After my buddy left, I left the fancy hotel and moved to a hostel, where I'm hoping I will meet thousands of lovely people who every night will greet me with balloons, and confettis and hugs and kisses.
And if that doesn't happen, at least I'm saving a lot of money which will be spent buying delicious pizzas and cold, refreshing beers. And maybe, just maybe, a long sleeve top.
I got off the bus and was overwhelmed to see children covered in dust and with runny noses. Skeletal dogs who were desperately trying to get inside empty plastic bags which contained something edible, a long time ago, perhaps. Imposing women carrying the equivalent of their own body weight, wrapped in colorful fabric.
"So this is it". I thought. "I am in Bolivia".
I expected to see what I saw. I expected the man at Custom to be mean (why are Immigration Officers always so abrupt, anyway? It's not that I'm smuggling drugs,am I?), I expected to share my taxi ride with two local farmers and a couple from Ireland (no, actually this caught me slightly by surprise).
What I did not expect, however, was to be so utterly, desperately, shamefully sick because of the altitude.
And I did not expect to be one of the worse case the locals had ever seen, either.
Coca leaves help, they say. So I sneaked into a market, checking now and then if I had been followed by the Police and asked some stall holders, in a quiet voice, whether "they had coca". I know, I know, coca is legal , coca is not cocaine, but it still felt weird telling an old lady who looked like my grandma that I was looking for first quality Coca. "Does your mum know what you're up to?" I felt like asking her.
I'm happy to say that my mouth is way bigger than it looks from the outside. My mouth can accomodate thousands and thousand of juicy bitter leaves. I'm like a hamster, me!
I'm less happy to say that Coca leaves did not help me. But Ibuprofen did. All 13 packets of them.
I have arrived in Sucre 8 weeks behind schedule. Mind you, not that I had a schedule. Nor a plan. Nor a remote idea of what I wanted to see nor do, but I have arrived, everyone!!
I was expecting a warm welcome, balloons, confettis, a lot of hugs and kisses from locals. All I got, however, was a lousy dog's bite which send me straight to ER.
Maybe the dog was happy to see me! Maybe this is how Bolivian dogs greet their loved ones! By chewing their legs!
At ER, I expected a little sympathy, some level of understanding or at least some basic first aid. All I got, however, was a bill to pay and a patronizing look from a doctor who literally laughed at my face when I showed concern about the possibility of contracting rabies, then die.
The second doctor was no better. When I told him I feared I would die, he said :"we're all gonna die". I couldn't argue with that, could I? Dr Cheerful also advised me to find the bipolar dog who bit me and ask the locals whether they knew if he was vaccined. I'm sure this is the correct procedure indeed, but come on, Einstein, how the Hell was I supposed to find an average-looking dog in a Country where average-looking dogs are basically at every street corner?!
But I'm not one to give up without a try. Every single one of the 1.367 stray dogs in Sucre were carefully inspected by myself. Every moment of every day I inspected them. Until one day, at the market, I believed I found him.
He was with his owner, pretending to be an innocent, affectionate dog. He was even wagging his tail, to make his disguise more credible."YOU!" I shouted. "It's you!". The owner was proud that her beloved, lying dog got so much attention, until I asked her whether he was vaccined, as he bit me.
For some unknown reasons she did not appreciate that a foreign lady would accuse her pooch to be a criminal and put her under a spotlight, at a busy market, while surrounded by all her friends. How unreasonable.
The lady was confident I had mistaken dogs, her dog " is always with her", he's "never in the street" and all those bullshit that people always say to defend themselves when it is quite clear that they are GUILTY!
It never occurred to me that I might have been wrong: after all, the dog looked average-looking enough to be THE ONE.
I huffed and puffed (in Spanish) and left the crime scene believing I was right, like always.
Until, that is, a week later when I saw the unmistakable jaw of the unmistakable dog who left an unmistakable mark on my previously immaculate calf. I had found my dog after all. And when I did I was so petrified I couldn't even demand an apology for the distress he had caused.
My search for the mischevious creature came to an end. And the search for the innocent one has begun. I owe him a bone and I owe his owner a sincere apology.
As much as I have not felt much sympathy amongst the Bolivians who saw me hurt and crying (I guess it's my fault for having such juicy and attractive Gringo calves), I feel locals are extremely concerned for my body temperature.
It's winter here and people look shocked, almost worried, when they see me walking around wearing a summer vest, especially when they walk around wrapped in blankets.
I swear the tops I wear do not show an inch of my breasts (also because I have absolutely nothing to show off) so they cannot be offended by my attire. I also know they are not admiring my toned, boxer's arms, as the muscles I once had , have turned into Dumbo's wings. I'm sure they are worried I'll catch a cold! Bless them.
I wish to point out that the winter temperature at the moment is 25 degrees and if I was at home I'd probably be wearing nipple tassels, but it's winter, right? I should be cold, what's wrong with me?
My rabies jabs will continue, on and off throughout the month, so whether I like it or not (I don't) I cannot leave Bolivia and continue with my travels.
To put my time here to a good use, I enrolled to school. I thought going to school would be just like 20 years ago, so I turned up to class sporting a hangover, to then realise that NOTHING FEELS LIKE 20 YEARS AGO.
I replied with a German "Ja", when what I meant was "Si" and nearly puked all over my unfinished home work. Forgive me, Teacher, for I have sinned. "Can we just speak English today?", I begged.
Luckily, my teacher is cool. He has kindly agreed to teach me one abusive rude Spanish expression a day.
He also dosn't mind if, in the middle of class, I suddenly jump up and show him some dance moves. Nor he minds when I throw my books against the wall, moaning and cursing, because I don't know how to conjugate irregular verbs.
He's the ideal teacher for a grown up student who act like an annoying teenager. Me, basically.
I checked myself into a beautiful hotel. It's expensive, but I'm injured, so fuck it.
My neighbour for the week was Louis, from England. Louis and I became inseparable.
In a good old British fashion, we spent the entire week moaning. We moaned because it was too hot (whilst our friends back home would have sold an organ in return of a ray of sunshine). We moaned because the beers we were drinking in the gorgeous patio were just a little bit too refreshing. We moaned because the pizzas we were eating every day were just a little too delicious. We moaned and farted and laughed. A lot, especially the farting.
After my buddy left, I left the fancy hotel and moved to a hostel, where I'm hoping I will meet thousands of lovely people who every night will greet me with balloons, and confettis and hugs and kisses.
And if that doesn't happen, at least I'm saving a lot of money which will be spent buying delicious pizzas and cold, refreshing beers. And maybe, just maybe, a long sleeve top.
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
Unlucky paint brush
I left Cordoba, Argentina, looking like a mix between the Michelin man and the Ninja Turtle.
The Michelin Man look was created by wearing all the layers I could possibly can, to protect me from the freezing bus journey ahead (it didn't work). The Turtle look is easy to achieve: I just need to wear my huge rucksack. I added the word "ninja" because I'm so pissed off for wearing all these layers and carry this huge weight that I could easily attack, ninja style, anyone crossing my path. I'm not sure how I could attempt any moves, let alone ninja style, as I can barely turn my little head right and left. But trust me, I'll try.
So I arrived in Posadas looking like I had arrived from Syberia, except it felt like I had arrived in Mozambique. It was HOT. After a short walk between the bus and the taxi my layers had created a sort of "green house effect". No more water retention, then. The excess fluids built in weeks managed to escape. This was clearly visible in my crotch area. It appears that the Michelin Man just pissed himself.
In Posadas there are only 2 hostels. One has hundreds of negative online reviews. the other has no reviews at all. I opted for the second. At least once in my life time I can then say "I was the first".
The hostel proved difficult to find. The taxi driver had no idea it even existed. I would have liked to help him find his way around, but I was too busy drying my wet crotch.
Once I (him) found the hostel, I understood why it had no reviews: it wasn't even finished yet!
I had the impulse of offering the owner my help to paint and decorate and speed up the process, (maybe in exchange of a few chicken empanadas) then I thought: "fuck him! I have to pay full price for something so clearly unfinished? He can do the painting himself and stuck the brush up his ass when he's done". This, I regret thinking, because he was a nice man and he did not deserve a brush up his ass.
I'm the third person who ever stayed at this hostel. I wonder whether the first two were midgets who spent the night in the paint jars as it's impossible that normal people would sleep on beds still wrapped in their own plastic. Unless they're into bondage, of course.
I couldn't look more like a tourist if I tried. Flip flops? Tick. Camera visible? Tick. Map in hand? Tick. I might as well write "ROB ME" all over my forehead and have it over and done with.
The map....the map I was given by the hostel owner has no street names on it. It just shows a labyrinth of nameless roads. I can't read maps in the best of time, but this is a joke. Maybe the hostel owner is pshychic. he read my thoughts about the paint brush up his anus and he gave me a fake map to make fun of me.
I stayed an extra night in the unfinished hostel. Just for the challenge. And for the joy of the gang of mosquitoes which had been waiting for so long to feed. According to the state of my arm, they're done for the season.
Since I don't have much to do here in Posadas (except for making sure the mosquitoes create future generations of equally violent mosquitoes), I decided to help the hostel owner to have a successful business.
The dude has no idea. It never occurred to him that 6 people sharing a room might need 6 lockers. Or 6 tiny shelves. Or even one single hook to hang 6 coats (or hung themselves out of desperation). It never occured to him that a room might need a small paper bin (do travellers swallow their own rubbish or what?) or a curtain for the window (never heard of hangovers?). It never occured to him that 12 beds should not be placed in a room that can barely fit 2. ("I have an idea for a new name for this hostel: Auschwitz Hostel", I said, but he thought it sounded too German).
He told me with great pride that the next reservation is for a group of seven British. As soon as the words "British" and "7" clicked in my brain, my eyes automatically turned to the booze cabinet, left unattended and easy to reach. I suggested he´d put a lock on it. "Wow, you're just so clever", he said. No, no, it's you being stupid. You obviously never got drunk at a hostel with a bunch of random people before, either.
It took me exactly one month to feel relaxed and start being myself around people. In the beginning of my travels I used to measure my words, worrying to offend with my bluntness. Now, I pole dance around Argentinian flag poles, I tell people I don't want another empanada because they give me diarrhoea and I have already shared some of my anecdotes which have left people (the one who didn't leave the room) rather disturbed.
Not many people get me, but this is the price I happily pay for being so wonderfully unique (although not modest, but nobody's perfect).
I took a taxi to get to the bus terminal. As I got off the taxi a young man opened the door for me.
"Gracias". I said. "2 pesos, por favor", he replied. My outrage was senses by the stray dogs that immediately fleed the scene. 2 pesos for what? To open I door I had already half opened myself?! So I looked him in the eyes and said: "Dos pesos?! Estas loco?! (two pesos?! Are you insane?!). I expected a little resistance. I expected a little argument, but his reaction left me speechless: he just laughed and gave me the most amazing and warm smile! I guessed:
A) He never witnessed the outrage of a Michelin Man/Ninja Turtle and found it utterly amusing
B) What I said actually translated into " I won't give you two pesos, but I will suck your smelly toes"
C) He wanted to show off his gold teeth
D) Even HE recognized the absurdity of his request and was laughing at his own audacity.
I gave him nothing, of course. But I was grateful because this event put me in a great mood.
I am in Salta, my last stop in Argentina before moving on to Bolivia. The trip to get here lasted 25 hours.
I usually don't mind long bus journeys, but I'm often a little cross because it is not allowed to poo on buses (and they tell you so quite openly).So I took revenge for not being able to poo for an entire day and stole their blanket. I thought this would be fairer than poo in a bag and leave it on my seat.
I am a lady after all.
The Michelin Man look was created by wearing all the layers I could possibly can, to protect me from the freezing bus journey ahead (it didn't work). The Turtle look is easy to achieve: I just need to wear my huge rucksack. I added the word "ninja" because I'm so pissed off for wearing all these layers and carry this huge weight that I could easily attack, ninja style, anyone crossing my path. I'm not sure how I could attempt any moves, let alone ninja style, as I can barely turn my little head right and left. But trust me, I'll try.
So I arrived in Posadas looking like I had arrived from Syberia, except it felt like I had arrived in Mozambique. It was HOT. After a short walk between the bus and the taxi my layers had created a sort of "green house effect". No more water retention, then. The excess fluids built in weeks managed to escape. This was clearly visible in my crotch area. It appears that the Michelin Man just pissed himself.
In Posadas there are only 2 hostels. One has hundreds of negative online reviews. the other has no reviews at all. I opted for the second. At least once in my life time I can then say "I was the first".
The hostel proved difficult to find. The taxi driver had no idea it even existed. I would have liked to help him find his way around, but I was too busy drying my wet crotch.
Once I (him) found the hostel, I understood why it had no reviews: it wasn't even finished yet!
I had the impulse of offering the owner my help to paint and decorate and speed up the process, (maybe in exchange of a few chicken empanadas) then I thought: "fuck him! I have to pay full price for something so clearly unfinished? He can do the painting himself and stuck the brush up his ass when he's done". This, I regret thinking, because he was a nice man and he did not deserve a brush up his ass.
I'm the third person who ever stayed at this hostel. I wonder whether the first two were midgets who spent the night in the paint jars as it's impossible that normal people would sleep on beds still wrapped in their own plastic. Unless they're into bondage, of course.
I couldn't look more like a tourist if I tried. Flip flops? Tick. Camera visible? Tick. Map in hand? Tick. I might as well write "ROB ME" all over my forehead and have it over and done with.
The map....the map I was given by the hostel owner has no street names on it. It just shows a labyrinth of nameless roads. I can't read maps in the best of time, but this is a joke. Maybe the hostel owner is pshychic. he read my thoughts about the paint brush up his anus and he gave me a fake map to make fun of me.
I stayed an extra night in the unfinished hostel. Just for the challenge. And for the joy of the gang of mosquitoes which had been waiting for so long to feed. According to the state of my arm, they're done for the season.
Since I don't have much to do here in Posadas (except for making sure the mosquitoes create future generations of equally violent mosquitoes), I decided to help the hostel owner to have a successful business.
The dude has no idea. It never occurred to him that 6 people sharing a room might need 6 lockers. Or 6 tiny shelves. Or even one single hook to hang 6 coats (or hung themselves out of desperation). It never occured to him that a room might need a small paper bin (do travellers swallow their own rubbish or what?) or a curtain for the window (never heard of hangovers?). It never occured to him that 12 beds should not be placed in a room that can barely fit 2. ("I have an idea for a new name for this hostel: Auschwitz Hostel", I said, but he thought it sounded too German).
He told me with great pride that the next reservation is for a group of seven British. As soon as the words "British" and "7" clicked in my brain, my eyes automatically turned to the booze cabinet, left unattended and easy to reach. I suggested he´d put a lock on it. "Wow, you're just so clever", he said. No, no, it's you being stupid. You obviously never got drunk at a hostel with a bunch of random people before, either.
It took me exactly one month to feel relaxed and start being myself around people. In the beginning of my travels I used to measure my words, worrying to offend with my bluntness. Now, I pole dance around Argentinian flag poles, I tell people I don't want another empanada because they give me diarrhoea and I have already shared some of my anecdotes which have left people (the one who didn't leave the room) rather disturbed.
Not many people get me, but this is the price I happily pay for being so wonderfully unique (although not modest, but nobody's perfect).
I took a taxi to get to the bus terminal. As I got off the taxi a young man opened the door for me.
"Gracias". I said. "2 pesos, por favor", he replied. My outrage was senses by the stray dogs that immediately fleed the scene. 2 pesos for what? To open I door I had already half opened myself?! So I looked him in the eyes and said: "Dos pesos?! Estas loco?! (two pesos?! Are you insane?!). I expected a little resistance. I expected a little argument, but his reaction left me speechless: he just laughed and gave me the most amazing and warm smile! I guessed:
A) He never witnessed the outrage of a Michelin Man/Ninja Turtle and found it utterly amusing
B) What I said actually translated into " I won't give you two pesos, but I will suck your smelly toes"
C) He wanted to show off his gold teeth
D) Even HE recognized the absurdity of his request and was laughing at his own audacity.
I gave him nothing, of course. But I was grateful because this event put me in a great mood.
I am in Salta, my last stop in Argentina before moving on to Bolivia. The trip to get here lasted 25 hours.
I usually don't mind long bus journeys, but I'm often a little cross because it is not allowed to poo on buses (and they tell you so quite openly).So I took revenge for not being able to poo for an entire day and stole their blanket. I thought this would be fairer than poo in a bag and leave it on my seat.
I am a lady after all.
Tuesday, 3 July 2012
1 gone, 4 to go.
I overestimated my linguistic abilities. Learning Spanish is hard, especially when you're sober. As much as I make myself understood, to my ears I still sound like a retarded parrot with speech problems.
In my world, there is no past nor present as I don't know how all these tenses work. Everything I say, is the present. Right here! Right now!. "I AM tired because I AM on the bus for 12 hours, yesterday". "No, sweetie, you're not on a bus, you're at a hostel. Have you taken any illegal substances?!".
Luckily, I can rely on the help of the Lonely Planet phrasebook. Here's some bizarre (and useless) sentences from the 2012 edition (and my answer to those).....
"The bathroom door is locked"
(well, someone must be taking a shit, leave them alone!)
"Do you mind if I breastfeed here?)
(what do you think? You're in a queue in a bloody supermarket, woman!)
"My travel buddy is blind"
(So? Leave him behind)
"I don't take drugs"
(you loser)
"I don't mind watching, but I'd rather not join in"
(For real? And what's the point?)
"It's not you, it's me"
(great, I can now bullshit men in South America, too)
"I'd like to explore wrecks"
(then buy a mirror)
And the winner of 2012 is.....
"I wouldn't go out with you if you were the last man on Earth".
(come on! No need to be so harsh, a simple "no" will do! Besides, how weird would it be, not to be able to say a sentence in Spanish without sounding mentally challenged, yet come out with such an elaborate answer! I don't think it would work, so if anybody asks me out I make my life easier and just say "SI!")
I see gay people. I mean, I see them everywhere. I convinced myself that 95% of the male population in Cordoba is gay. They just don't know it yet.
In UK I know many men who barely brush their teeth in the morning. In Cordoba, men get up in the morning and they look ready for a photoshoot for Dolce and Gabbana.
Also, their eyelashes are too thick and long. I don't trust men whose eyelashes are longer than mine.
Men in Cordoba smell nice. Really nice. I'm sure it's because they want to confuse women and make the believe they're straight.
In Uk, men smell of booze. I'm sure it's because they want to confuse women and make them believe they're gonna buy them a drink.
I have been away from home for a month. An entire month! I learned so much in a month.
I learned that it's worth investing extra money in soft toilet paper.
I learned that I'm one of the most accomodating, caring and nurturing people I know. No backpacker will ever share a room with me without being fed, listened to or comforted if needed.
I learned the soothing power of hugging people, even if they are strangers. It's totally acceptable, here.
In a month, I virtually hugged everyone: from the man who gave me directions to the transgender who sold me a pie. And each time, I feel like there is a flower blossoming in my heart. I want to create a huge garden!
I learned that whoever said that men stink and women don't, has never spent a night in a female dorm.
I learned that you should never take small things for granted. Next time you drink a nice cup of tea from your favourite mug, or dry yourself with a soft towel that smells like sunshine or when you crap in your own toilet....cherish the moment!!
And, of course, the most important thing I learned.....everything is possible. You just need to move your ass and make it happen.
In my world, there is no past nor present as I don't know how all these tenses work. Everything I say, is the present. Right here! Right now!. "I AM tired because I AM on the bus for 12 hours, yesterday". "No, sweetie, you're not on a bus, you're at a hostel. Have you taken any illegal substances?!".
Luckily, I can rely on the help of the Lonely Planet phrasebook. Here's some bizarre (and useless) sentences from the 2012 edition (and my answer to those).....
"The bathroom door is locked"
(well, someone must be taking a shit, leave them alone!)
"Do you mind if I breastfeed here?)
(what do you think? You're in a queue in a bloody supermarket, woman!)
"My travel buddy is blind"
(So? Leave him behind)
"I don't take drugs"
(you loser)
"I don't mind watching, but I'd rather not join in"
(For real? And what's the point?)
"It's not you, it's me"
(great, I can now bullshit men in South America, too)
"I'd like to explore wrecks"
(then buy a mirror)
And the winner of 2012 is.....
"I wouldn't go out with you if you were the last man on Earth".
(come on! No need to be so harsh, a simple "no" will do! Besides, how weird would it be, not to be able to say a sentence in Spanish without sounding mentally challenged, yet come out with such an elaborate answer! I don't think it would work, so if anybody asks me out I make my life easier and just say "SI!")
I see gay people. I mean, I see them everywhere. I convinced myself that 95% of the male population in Cordoba is gay. They just don't know it yet.
In UK I know many men who barely brush their teeth in the morning. In Cordoba, men get up in the morning and they look ready for a photoshoot for Dolce and Gabbana.
Also, their eyelashes are too thick and long. I don't trust men whose eyelashes are longer than mine.
Men in Cordoba smell nice. Really nice. I'm sure it's because they want to confuse women and make the believe they're straight.
In Uk, men smell of booze. I'm sure it's because they want to confuse women and make them believe they're gonna buy them a drink.
I have been away from home for a month. An entire month! I learned so much in a month.
I learned that it's worth investing extra money in soft toilet paper.
I learned that I'm one of the most accomodating, caring and nurturing people I know. No backpacker will ever share a room with me without being fed, listened to or comforted if needed.
I learned the soothing power of hugging people, even if they are strangers. It's totally acceptable, here.
In a month, I virtually hugged everyone: from the man who gave me directions to the transgender who sold me a pie. And each time, I feel like there is a flower blossoming in my heart. I want to create a huge garden!
I learned that whoever said that men stink and women don't, has never spent a night in a female dorm.
I learned that you should never take small things for granted. Next time you drink a nice cup of tea from your favourite mug, or dry yourself with a soft towel that smells like sunshine or when you crap in your own toilet....cherish the moment!!
And, of course, the most important thing I learned.....everything is possible. You just need to move your ass and make it happen.
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
"I speak some Spanish, I'm just a little bit pregnant"
Many people adiviced me against going to Chile. The Argentians thought it would be "a waste of time". Other travellers told me "there are many other nice places to see". Many people said it would be too cold, too expensive, too dangerous. So I decided to go. Because I like to have my own opinions and because I rarely agree with the rest of the world.
In order to prove that everyone else was wrong, I embarked on a 12 hour bus journey, got stuck on the Andes for hours in a mother fucking blizzard, with no food and no hot drinks, and sat next to a passenger who owned a mobile phone with the most annoying ring tone ever. At least now I know that there is plenty of network coverage on the Andes. Her phone worked brilliantly.
Chile was not a waste of time. It wasn't cold nor expensive. Taxi drivers are really dangerous though : they talk to you for hours in a speed you never thought possible and I was often at danger of looking like a twat, nodding and smiling randomly, pretending I understood. I didn´t.
Conversations often go like this: "Hola!". "Hola!". "blablablabla?" "si". "oh. Blablablablabla?!". "no". "no?!". "Si!Si!". That, multiplied by 10. Exhausting. The best scenario is when the taxi driver knows some random Italian singer and I get to sing him a song. I make it last long enough so I don't have to speak.
During one of my taxi journeys I realised that the Italian word "imbarazzata" (shy) does NOT translate into the Spanish word "embarassada" (pregnant). So when the talkative taxi driver asked me if I speak Spanish, I replied: "I speak some Spanish, I'm just a little bit pregnant". So I guess he thought in my home Country pregnant women become mute or retarded, depending on how advanced they are in their pregnancy. And because I was stattering, blushing, making words up and acting weird, he must have thought I was ready to pop there and then in his taxi. Which was a good thing as he stopped talking and flew to the bus station.
From now on, I am pregnant.
I went to a gorgeous port town called Valparaiso. I loved it and I loved the company I was in. No need to say, I was in the company of an Irish couple. This always helps. They were wholesome.And refreshingly "normal".
Scott and Sinead (otherwise called Janet by the the gaucho who simply could not pronuncate her name) cooked a lovely chicken soup for my birthday dinner. A freshly cooked, healthy meal, is very precious at any given time, but when you travel and feed on crisps and wine for breakfast, lunch and dinner, it becomes the most valuable thing you can think of. And you protect it with your life! So I bought the most important object that money can buy: a tupperware.
On the day I left Valparaiso (and my beautiful friends) I was smiling. Not so much because I no longer have to wake up every morning at dawn to go work. Not so much because I can do what I want, wherever I want, whenever I want. And not even because I have millions of possibilities ahead of me. No. I was smiling because I had a little cute tupperware filled with chicken soup. And that made me the happiest little one abroad!
The journey from Valparaiso to Santiago was short and sweet (like me). As the bus approached the terminal, I froze. I could smell chicken soup. I mean, I could smell the chicken soup TOO MUCH, considering it was stored in a tupperware. Fuck. Oh, fuck. The tupperware betrayed me.
It is with great regret and sadness that I inform you that the chicken soup never made it into my tummy. The soup made its way all over my clothes, my passport, my rucksack.
As I got into the taxi I smelled like a farmer´s armipts after a long day spent cleaning chicken shit. Yum.
Santiago is cool. It's lively, clean, just a little too polluted. Pollution is great: after a day walking in the streets, your throat hurts so much that you don't feel like smoking. So pollution saves lives.
In Santiago I met some really weird people. Spending two days at the hostel drained all of my energy.
For two entire days I was in the company of an 80 y.o. American man who had been trying for a year to be deported back to the States and an Australian man who, for those 2 days, didn't sleep and just drank beer. I was stuck in the middle. Like a delicious piece of cheese stuck in between two slices of rotten bread. After two days I felt like I was rotting too, so I had to leave.
I'm learning more and more about different nationalities. When I'm bored I like to play (in my head) the game "guess the nationality".
British are the easiest to spot: they are the ones who like to show off their KC boxer shorts that creep up from denim jeans that are way to tight for their skinny chicken legs. They are also the ones who very rarely engage in conversations and seem quite closed up. Oh! They also don't seem to understand how penalties work, in the football games.
Americans, well, what can I say about Americans.....they are the ones who within seconds tell you that you're great, they love you, they will keep in touch.....but they never do. They are the friendliest and the fakest. I no longer trust Americans. They bomb people!
The Scandinavian are so hot that when I look at them I forget that I'm playing the "guess the nationality" game. I can't guess, I'm too busy dribbling.
French men sound gay. French women sound too sexy for the gay French men.
Germans never laugh at my jokes. But that's because they were born with no sense of humour.
Australians NEVER share their Vegemite. In fact, they're rather kill their partner than give you a little taste of the stuff.
Italians.....you don't meet Italians who travel as backpackers. Italians go to a foreign country and if they don't become drug dealers, they open a pizzeria and they invite the aunts, the uncles, the great grand mothers and newborn nieces to work for them in their pizzeria. We don't travel, we migrate. And we also know how penalties work.
Back in Argentina! Time for more horse riding, some cooking and some relaxing before heading further north. My next stop is Cordoba. But I would not be surprised if I end up in Colombia. I hear they sell great pizzas there!
In order to prove that everyone else was wrong, I embarked on a 12 hour bus journey, got stuck on the Andes for hours in a mother fucking blizzard, with no food and no hot drinks, and sat next to a passenger who owned a mobile phone with the most annoying ring tone ever. At least now I know that there is plenty of network coverage on the Andes. Her phone worked brilliantly.
Chile was not a waste of time. It wasn't cold nor expensive. Taxi drivers are really dangerous though : they talk to you for hours in a speed you never thought possible and I was often at danger of looking like a twat, nodding and smiling randomly, pretending I understood. I didn´t.
Conversations often go like this: "Hola!". "Hola!". "blablablabla?" "si". "oh. Blablablablabla?!". "no". "no?!". "Si!Si!". That, multiplied by 10. Exhausting. The best scenario is when the taxi driver knows some random Italian singer and I get to sing him a song. I make it last long enough so I don't have to speak.
During one of my taxi journeys I realised that the Italian word "imbarazzata" (shy) does NOT translate into the Spanish word "embarassada" (pregnant). So when the talkative taxi driver asked me if I speak Spanish, I replied: "I speak some Spanish, I'm just a little bit pregnant". So I guess he thought in my home Country pregnant women become mute or retarded, depending on how advanced they are in their pregnancy. And because I was stattering, blushing, making words up and acting weird, he must have thought I was ready to pop there and then in his taxi. Which was a good thing as he stopped talking and flew to the bus station.
From now on, I am pregnant.
I went to a gorgeous port town called Valparaiso. I loved it and I loved the company I was in. No need to say, I was in the company of an Irish couple. This always helps. They were wholesome.And refreshingly "normal".
Scott and Sinead (otherwise called Janet by the the gaucho who simply could not pronuncate her name) cooked a lovely chicken soup for my birthday dinner. A freshly cooked, healthy meal, is very precious at any given time, but when you travel and feed on crisps and wine for breakfast, lunch and dinner, it becomes the most valuable thing you can think of. And you protect it with your life! So I bought the most important object that money can buy: a tupperware.
On the day I left Valparaiso (and my beautiful friends) I was smiling. Not so much because I no longer have to wake up every morning at dawn to go work. Not so much because I can do what I want, wherever I want, whenever I want. And not even because I have millions of possibilities ahead of me. No. I was smiling because I had a little cute tupperware filled with chicken soup. And that made me the happiest little one abroad!
The journey from Valparaiso to Santiago was short and sweet (like me). As the bus approached the terminal, I froze. I could smell chicken soup. I mean, I could smell the chicken soup TOO MUCH, considering it was stored in a tupperware. Fuck. Oh, fuck. The tupperware betrayed me.
It is with great regret and sadness that I inform you that the chicken soup never made it into my tummy. The soup made its way all over my clothes, my passport, my rucksack.
As I got into the taxi I smelled like a farmer´s armipts after a long day spent cleaning chicken shit. Yum.
Santiago is cool. It's lively, clean, just a little too polluted. Pollution is great: after a day walking in the streets, your throat hurts so much that you don't feel like smoking. So pollution saves lives.
In Santiago I met some really weird people. Spending two days at the hostel drained all of my energy.
For two entire days I was in the company of an 80 y.o. American man who had been trying for a year to be deported back to the States and an Australian man who, for those 2 days, didn't sleep and just drank beer. I was stuck in the middle. Like a delicious piece of cheese stuck in between two slices of rotten bread. After two days I felt like I was rotting too, so I had to leave.
I'm learning more and more about different nationalities. When I'm bored I like to play (in my head) the game "guess the nationality".
British are the easiest to spot: they are the ones who like to show off their KC boxer shorts that creep up from denim jeans that are way to tight for their skinny chicken legs. They are also the ones who very rarely engage in conversations and seem quite closed up. Oh! They also don't seem to understand how penalties work, in the football games.
Americans, well, what can I say about Americans.....they are the ones who within seconds tell you that you're great, they love you, they will keep in touch.....but they never do. They are the friendliest and the fakest. I no longer trust Americans. They bomb people!
The Scandinavian are so hot that when I look at them I forget that I'm playing the "guess the nationality" game. I can't guess, I'm too busy dribbling.
French men sound gay. French women sound too sexy for the gay French men.
Germans never laugh at my jokes. But that's because they were born with no sense of humour.
Australians NEVER share their Vegemite. In fact, they're rather kill their partner than give you a little taste of the stuff.
Italians.....you don't meet Italians who travel as backpackers. Italians go to a foreign country and if they don't become drug dealers, they open a pizzeria and they invite the aunts, the uncles, the great grand mothers and newborn nieces to work for them in their pizzeria. We don't travel, we migrate. And we also know how penalties work.
Back in Argentina! Time for more horse riding, some cooking and some relaxing before heading further north. My next stop is Cordoba. But I would not be surprised if I end up in Colombia. I hear they sell great pizzas there!
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
HUNG
I love riding horses. I like to think that they like me just as much.
The afternoon spent horse riding by the Andes is the highlight of my travels, so far.
I had little expectations: I heard many stories of travellers who pay to ride a horse and they are then presented with a donkey. To be honest, the scenary was so breathtaking that I would have been happy to ride a Great Dane. But I did get a real horse!
The trainer began with the introductions (Fede, this is the horse. Horse, this is Fede) and explained us all that with horses, you have to be firm. Decisive. They need to know who's the boss. I have been dealing with plenty of animals in my life, (especially at clubs and bars) and being firm and assertive has never been a problem. However....I might have taken this advice a little too literally. I kicked the horse with my heals with the innocent intention to show him who's the Boss (Me!Me!) and off he went....my first, natural thought was how to explain my mum that I had broken several bones after falling from a horse (not a donkey). But I did not fall! I was born to ride horses. I'm the new John Wayne.
Galopping is dead easy: the horse goes 100 mph and you just pray not to be killed. Some people don't pray, they just shit themselves. I prayed. It's cleaner.
Trotting is bloody hard. Hop! Hop! Hop! And you feel all the internal organs hopping up and down into your body. I felt my Fallopian tubes hopping all the way up into my throat.
After 2 hours of strolling, trotting, galopping and tits-slapping, we stopped for dinner. Not much point in asking "what's for dinner tonight, dear?", as the answer is pretty much the same: "cow". "we shall be eating cow".
The day after horse riding I discovered with surprise that we have several muscles aound the groin area. I know because every single one of them hurts like hell. I think I might sue my horse.
My Spanish is improving, but very slowly. I'm still confused between the Spanish I learned in Spain, the one I learned in Central America and the one spoken in Argentina.
I have been asking (countless) waiters to give me a "vaso de vino tinto", thinking I was ordering a glass of red, but strictly speaking, in Argentina vaso is "vase". So I've been asking waiters for "vases of red wine". No wonder I'm always shit-faced!
So I went with my friend to a language school, to enquiry about a Spanish course. Prices are way too high so I did not enroll. I did, however, took part to what they call "language exchange". Basically I got squeezed in a crammed room, with a tiny window (closed) and a big radiator (on) surrounded by other sweaty foreigners.
Spanish was spoken for the first hour or so, then English. I cheated a little and spoke Italian, just to go against the rules and make things a little more challenging. To be honest, the scenario was a little awkward: basically I was pushed to speak a language I'm not familiar with, to sweaty people I have not met before, in a room that looked like a cell. I loved it. There is something fascinating in every awkward situation.
20 minutes into the session, the teacher (who wasn't teaching, was just pushing people to speak a foreign language) took some weed out of a bag, loaded a tiny pot, poured water into the pot and passed this kind of pipe to everyone in the circle. " WE ARE GETTING HIGH!!!", I thought. Now we're talking.(in fact, now we can start talking in any language you want me to). But what I tasted did not make me high, it made me pee. It was Mata, the traditional tea. It's packed with goodness, they say. But it's not as nice as weed, I add.
I briefly chatted to an English girl, here at the hostel. She has the cutest tattoo ever. It's just a circle, with a dot in it and all around it it's written "porque no?" (why not?). It inspired me. It really is what life is all about, in my eyes. Why not? So after I spoke to her I decided I'm going to see what's across the boarder. Tomorrow I'm heading to Chile. Why not?
The afternoon spent horse riding by the Andes is the highlight of my travels, so far.
I had little expectations: I heard many stories of travellers who pay to ride a horse and they are then presented with a donkey. To be honest, the scenary was so breathtaking that I would have been happy to ride a Great Dane. But I did get a real horse!
The trainer began with the introductions (Fede, this is the horse. Horse, this is Fede) and explained us all that with horses, you have to be firm. Decisive. They need to know who's the boss. I have been dealing with plenty of animals in my life, (especially at clubs and bars) and being firm and assertive has never been a problem. However....I might have taken this advice a little too literally. I kicked the horse with my heals with the innocent intention to show him who's the Boss (Me!Me!) and off he went....my first, natural thought was how to explain my mum that I had broken several bones after falling from a horse (not a donkey). But I did not fall! I was born to ride horses. I'm the new John Wayne.
Galopping is dead easy: the horse goes 100 mph and you just pray not to be killed. Some people don't pray, they just shit themselves. I prayed. It's cleaner.
Trotting is bloody hard. Hop! Hop! Hop! And you feel all the internal organs hopping up and down into your body. I felt my Fallopian tubes hopping all the way up into my throat.
After 2 hours of strolling, trotting, galopping and tits-slapping, we stopped for dinner. Not much point in asking "what's for dinner tonight, dear?", as the answer is pretty much the same: "cow". "we shall be eating cow".
The day after horse riding I discovered with surprise that we have several muscles aound the groin area. I know because every single one of them hurts like hell. I think I might sue my horse.
My Spanish is improving, but very slowly. I'm still confused between the Spanish I learned in Spain, the one I learned in Central America and the one spoken in Argentina.
I have been asking (countless) waiters to give me a "vaso de vino tinto", thinking I was ordering a glass of red, but strictly speaking, in Argentina vaso is "vase". So I've been asking waiters for "vases of red wine". No wonder I'm always shit-faced!
So I went with my friend to a language school, to enquiry about a Spanish course. Prices are way too high so I did not enroll. I did, however, took part to what they call "language exchange". Basically I got squeezed in a crammed room, with a tiny window (closed) and a big radiator (on) surrounded by other sweaty foreigners.
Spanish was spoken for the first hour or so, then English. I cheated a little and spoke Italian, just to go against the rules and make things a little more challenging. To be honest, the scenario was a little awkward: basically I was pushed to speak a language I'm not familiar with, to sweaty people I have not met before, in a room that looked like a cell. I loved it. There is something fascinating in every awkward situation.
20 minutes into the session, the teacher (who wasn't teaching, was just pushing people to speak a foreign language) took some weed out of a bag, loaded a tiny pot, poured water into the pot and passed this kind of pipe to everyone in the circle. " WE ARE GETTING HIGH!!!", I thought. Now we're talking.(in fact, now we can start talking in any language you want me to). But what I tasted did not make me high, it made me pee. It was Mata, the traditional tea. It's packed with goodness, they say. But it's not as nice as weed, I add.
I briefly chatted to an English girl, here at the hostel. She has the cutest tattoo ever. It's just a circle, with a dot in it and all around it it's written "porque no?" (why not?). It inspired me. It really is what life is all about, in my eyes. Why not? So after I spoke to her I decided I'm going to see what's across the boarder. Tomorrow I'm heading to Chile. Why not?
Saturday, 16 June 2012
Una copa de vino tinto, por favor.
I'm having a shy day. I feel self conscious in my stupid traveller s clothes. I'm craving skinny jeans. And funky boots. I might have to save some money on food and purchase a pair of "emergency shoes". No, I can't save money on food. I'll save money on accomodation.
Another pair of shoes will not fit in my backpack, but hey, I'll wear them on my hands if necessery. I'll tell everyone that this is how gloves look like in Europe. They won't know and I might even start a new trend.
I have been trying to keep up with my exercise routine. My Irish room mates found obscene that I would do push ups in the room, whilst they were trying to get over their hangovers. My new room mates are Danish. They think it's acceptable. I need to carry on as I'm already putting on weight and that's not good: I'll be taking Tango classes, soon and I don't want my future dance partner to explode trying to lift me in the air.
The one muscle developing fast is my (right) arm muscle. But that might be because I'm constantly lifting pint glasses.
Food is my passion. I have established so a long time ago. Going to the local steakhouse was one of the highlights of my 'culinary life'. I felt morally obliged to hug the waiter who fed me.
The point is, I don't even eat meat. I loathe that metallic taste that leaves in your mouth, the rubbery texture, the after taste. But, Jesus Christ Almighty, the cow I ate did not die invane! Each bite made me high, I felt sparkles in my tummy, I felt my muscles absorbing all the nutrients (especially my fatigued right arm), I felt energy running through my veins! I never felt that way after eating an apple. Thank you, cow. Thank you.
I left Buenos Aires. The 13 hour bus journey was quite an event in itself. First, I nearly missed the bloody bus. I wrongly assumed that there would be some sort of screen with platform informations of some sorts. Even In Napoli we have one of those. In Buenos Aires you need to pay attention to what the lady says through the speakers. In Spanish, of course. So each time I heard the word "Mendoza" I'd grab by backpack and run from platform to platform, then find out it was not the Bus Company I had paid for. I even load my luggage on board of the wrong bus. There were 3 buses going to Mendoza at the same time, man! How am I supposed to guess?
Got on the right bus soaked in sweat and with a stress-induced headache. I was looking forward to be in silence for 13 hours. Bliss. Until an Argentian man sat next to me, that is. You can never sit next to an Argentian person without engaging in a conversation.
I don't know what vibes I was giving out, but the lovely man thought I was willing to know all the reasons why he thought that the United States of America are responsible for the imminent end of the world. Dude, I can't even understand which bus to take, do you think I'll understand any of your political crap? The secret is: you nod whe they nod. Smile when they smile, look shocked when they looked shocked. And hope to God they never ask you what your opinion on the matter is.
I'm in Mendoza! It's lovely! It's authentic! It's fucking freezing!
This is where the best wines in the world are produced. It would be rude not to try as many varities as possible. Also,this wine is magic: the more I drink, the better Spanish I speak! Me gusta!
I'll settle here for 10 days, then decide where to go next. I hope my liver won't let me down when I need it most.
Another pair of shoes will not fit in my backpack, but hey, I'll wear them on my hands if necessery. I'll tell everyone that this is how gloves look like in Europe. They won't know and I might even start a new trend.
I have been trying to keep up with my exercise routine. My Irish room mates found obscene that I would do push ups in the room, whilst they were trying to get over their hangovers. My new room mates are Danish. They think it's acceptable. I need to carry on as I'm already putting on weight and that's not good: I'll be taking Tango classes, soon and I don't want my future dance partner to explode trying to lift me in the air.
The one muscle developing fast is my (right) arm muscle. But that might be because I'm constantly lifting pint glasses.
Food is my passion. I have established so a long time ago. Going to the local steakhouse was one of the highlights of my 'culinary life'. I felt morally obliged to hug the waiter who fed me.
The point is, I don't even eat meat. I loathe that metallic taste that leaves in your mouth, the rubbery texture, the after taste. But, Jesus Christ Almighty, the cow I ate did not die invane! Each bite made me high, I felt sparkles in my tummy, I felt my muscles absorbing all the nutrients (especially my fatigued right arm), I felt energy running through my veins! I never felt that way after eating an apple. Thank you, cow. Thank you.
I left Buenos Aires. The 13 hour bus journey was quite an event in itself. First, I nearly missed the bloody bus. I wrongly assumed that there would be some sort of screen with platform informations of some sorts. Even In Napoli we have one of those. In Buenos Aires you need to pay attention to what the lady says through the speakers. In Spanish, of course. So each time I heard the word "Mendoza" I'd grab by backpack and run from platform to platform, then find out it was not the Bus Company I had paid for. I even load my luggage on board of the wrong bus. There were 3 buses going to Mendoza at the same time, man! How am I supposed to guess?
Got on the right bus soaked in sweat and with a stress-induced headache. I was looking forward to be in silence for 13 hours. Bliss. Until an Argentian man sat next to me, that is. You can never sit next to an Argentian person without engaging in a conversation.
I don't know what vibes I was giving out, but the lovely man thought I was willing to know all the reasons why he thought that the United States of America are responsible for the imminent end of the world. Dude, I can't even understand which bus to take, do you think I'll understand any of your political crap? The secret is: you nod whe they nod. Smile when they smile, look shocked when they looked shocked. And hope to God they never ask you what your opinion on the matter is.
I'm in Mendoza! It's lovely! It's authentic! It's fucking freezing!
This is where the best wines in the world are produced. It would be rude not to try as many varities as possible. Also,this wine is magic: the more I drink, the better Spanish I speak! Me gusta!
I'll settle here for 10 days, then decide where to go next. I hope my liver won't let me down when I need it most.
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
La chica con el boton
This is the main reason between a young person and a not so young person (or, to be precise, the difference between me and my room mate): I had 3 drinks and 7 hours sleep and I woke up this morning feeling as if I had been hit by a double decker bus. She had 15 drinks, no sleep, and when she came back to the room, this morning at 7 a.m., she was chirpy enough to make a speech about the negative effect that central heating has on the skin and for the environment. I could have objected that the combo " booze/lack of sleep" doesn't exactly help you look like J-Lo, but with the little energy I had left I could only manage :"pass me my water and shut up, bitch".
We all went to the hostel bar, last night, for a 'club night'. I'm not sure why they keep calling these nights 'club nights' when what they should really be called 'find-a-fuck-buddy-night'. Everyone (except me, the old cleaning lady and the poor fuckers who are in a relationship) were on heat. Sniffing each others like dogs, observing each other's body language searching for clues that would lead to the closest bedroom (or toilets. Any place goes at this stage).
I spent most of my evening sitting down as I feared someone might sniff my ass, searching for clues, but truth is, there are plenty of young, pretty and willing ladies around so no one sniffed me.
My plan to get to Bolivia by air has changed. I decided against the long and tedious 18 hour bus journey and accepted a full refund from the travel agency instead. I strongly believe that obstacles always appear for a reason. The gut feeling that never failed me, suggested I would wait so that is what I'll do. I will be enjoying beautiful Argentina for now and see what happens next. I'm so excited to slowly discover what the future holds......
When in Buenos Aires (and I suspect this is more like a South American thing.....), if you ever want to catch up with a long-lost friend, do not invite them at a cafe'. Invite them at the local supermarket instead. The tills seem to be, for the locals, ideal places to engage in very long conversations, feed the babies, observe with unnatural interest every single item slowly (VERY slowly) put on the (broken) conveyor belt, plus any other profoundly annoying and totally unnecessary activity that in Europe you would never be able to engage with, without having your head kicked in.
By the time I had put my own shopping in my bag (quickly and efficiently), lady numero uno and lady numero dos in line BEFORE me, were still putting the small change in their purse. In fact, I had to climb over their heads and shopping trolleys to get out of the bloody supermarket.
What have I learned today? To bring a book and a chair on my shopping trips.
I spent another evening spent at the hostel. I thought it was safer than venturing out alone, at night. Except, I got restless after a short while so, pushed by my ever-present hunger, I did venture out alone. I headed towards a very reassuring place: the local chip shop. I walked in confidently, with my head held high and with a good Spanish accent I made my statement: "Hello. I am hungry". So my friday night was eventually spent chatting to the the local drunken old man, eating greasy chips. Which is exactly what travelling is all about, for me.
I woke up feeling a little dead, so I went to visit the local historical cemetery, to feel a little more alive. It worked!! I spent the day with yet another Irish person. I absolutely LOVE Irish people. They are fun to be around and friendly and always up for a drink or 200. My kind of people, basically.
I'm leaving Buenos Aires tomorrow, but I will be back in November to learn tango. Heading north. Destination: Mendoza. The wine Country. And I am already salivating........
We all went to the hostel bar, last night, for a 'club night'. I'm not sure why they keep calling these nights 'club nights' when what they should really be called 'find-a-fuck-buddy-night'. Everyone (except me, the old cleaning lady and the poor fuckers who are in a relationship) were on heat. Sniffing each others like dogs, observing each other's body language searching for clues that would lead to the closest bedroom (or toilets. Any place goes at this stage).
I spent most of my evening sitting down as I feared someone might sniff my ass, searching for clues, but truth is, there are plenty of young, pretty and willing ladies around so no one sniffed me.
My plan to get to Bolivia by air has changed. I decided against the long and tedious 18 hour bus journey and accepted a full refund from the travel agency instead. I strongly believe that obstacles always appear for a reason. The gut feeling that never failed me, suggested I would wait so that is what I'll do. I will be enjoying beautiful Argentina for now and see what happens next. I'm so excited to slowly discover what the future holds......
When in Buenos Aires (and I suspect this is more like a South American thing.....), if you ever want to catch up with a long-lost friend, do not invite them at a cafe'. Invite them at the local supermarket instead. The tills seem to be, for the locals, ideal places to engage in very long conversations, feed the babies, observe with unnatural interest every single item slowly (VERY slowly) put on the (broken) conveyor belt, plus any other profoundly annoying and totally unnecessary activity that in Europe you would never be able to engage with, without having your head kicked in.
By the time I had put my own shopping in my bag (quickly and efficiently), lady numero uno and lady numero dos in line BEFORE me, were still putting the small change in their purse. In fact, I had to climb over their heads and shopping trolleys to get out of the bloody supermarket.
What have I learned today? To bring a book and a chair on my shopping trips.
I spent another evening spent at the hostel. I thought it was safer than venturing out alone, at night. Except, I got restless after a short while so, pushed by my ever-present hunger, I did venture out alone. I headed towards a very reassuring place: the local chip shop. I walked in confidently, with my head held high and with a good Spanish accent I made my statement: "Hello. I am hungry". So my friday night was eventually spent chatting to the the local drunken old man, eating greasy chips. Which is exactly what travelling is all about, for me.
I woke up feeling a little dead, so I went to visit the local historical cemetery, to feel a little more alive. It worked!! I spent the day with yet another Irish person. I absolutely LOVE Irish people. They are fun to be around and friendly and always up for a drink or 200. My kind of people, basically.
I'm leaving Buenos Aires tomorrow, but I will be back in November to learn tango. Heading north. Destination: Mendoza. The wine Country. And I am already salivating........
Friday, 8 June 2012
There is something better than one beer: two beers.
If first impressions are important to define your travel experience, then I'm totally sorted.
I love Buenos Aires, even though my plan to look and act confident and never show to anyone I'm lost, miserably failed. 3 minutes into my "confident/head-high walk" out of the airport terminal, a sweet old man stopped collecting rubbish from the floor and asked me whether I was lost. Actually, he didn't ask me, he TOLD me. What a genius. So he escorted me to the bus terminal and I was so grateful I could have kissed him in the mouth. But he had no teeth so I didn't.
A lot of people here look at me. If I would see someone equally small, carrying such a huge rucksack, sporting a constant drop of sweat on the moustache, I d smile too. And I would think "poor fucker". Which is bound to be their thought, too.
I have been in BA for only half a day and I have already observed as such: First, as soon as I took the first breath of air, outside the airport, I felt an incredible familiar feeling. As if I had already been here before.The air somehow smells like home. Second, when they greet each other, even men kiss each other.They are not as tactile nor affectionate, in England. I guess it s not in their culture, but it definitely is in mine!I have the desire to greet as many people as possible. Third.....I have no third observation yet (Jee! I've only been here a few hours!) but a list made of only two points looks rather silly.
I checked into my hostel. In fact, I checked into the WRONG hostel, so I had to walk through 3 blocks to get to the right one. 3 blocks is nothing! A breeze. Easy peasy. But try to walk three blocks when the strap of a heavy rucksack is pushing on your full bladder. Please, really, do try it. I arrived at my correct destination without major accidents.
The locker in my room was located 6 feet above the ground. I know from experience that if you can access your locker without having to climb on the shoulders of a random, oblivious fellow traveller, then your own (and theirs) travelling experience will benefit from it.
I requested for my room to be changed, due to "physical restrictions". The receptionist was very apologetic when she informed that there was a bed available in the mixed dorm, not in the female one. I had to clarify that she meant I had to spend my nights with young, adventurous men."Yes", she said quietly. "Happy days!" , I screamed, at which point I nearly pissed myself as my overflowing bladder could barely deal with such excitement .
So I moved to my new, bright, mixed sex dorm. And the locker, you ll be pleased to hear,it s right there, on the floor level. Perfect for when I ll crawl back home.
I love Buenos Aires, even though my plan to look and act confident and never show to anyone I'm lost, miserably failed. 3 minutes into my "confident/head-high walk" out of the airport terminal, a sweet old man stopped collecting rubbish from the floor and asked me whether I was lost. Actually, he didn't ask me, he TOLD me. What a genius. So he escorted me to the bus terminal and I was so grateful I could have kissed him in the mouth. But he had no teeth so I didn't.
A lot of people here look at me. If I would see someone equally small, carrying such a huge rucksack, sporting a constant drop of sweat on the moustache, I d smile too. And I would think "poor fucker". Which is bound to be their thought, too.
I have been in BA for only half a day and I have already observed as such: First, as soon as I took the first breath of air, outside the airport, I felt an incredible familiar feeling. As if I had already been here before.The air somehow smells like home. Second, when they greet each other, even men kiss each other.They are not as tactile nor affectionate, in England. I guess it s not in their culture, but it definitely is in mine!I have the desire to greet as many people as possible. Third.....I have no third observation yet (Jee! I've only been here a few hours!) but a list made of only two points looks rather silly.
I checked into my hostel. In fact, I checked into the WRONG hostel, so I had to walk through 3 blocks to get to the right one. 3 blocks is nothing! A breeze. Easy peasy. But try to walk three blocks when the strap of a heavy rucksack is pushing on your full bladder. Please, really, do try it. I arrived at my correct destination without major accidents.
The locker in my room was located 6 feet above the ground. I know from experience that if you can access your locker without having to climb on the shoulders of a random, oblivious fellow traveller, then your own (and theirs) travelling experience will benefit from it.
I requested for my room to be changed, due to "physical restrictions". The receptionist was very apologetic when she informed that there was a bed available in the mixed dorm, not in the female one. I had to clarify that she meant I had to spend my nights with young, adventurous men."Yes", she said quietly. "Happy days!" , I screamed, at which point I nearly pissed myself as my overflowing bladder could barely deal with such excitement .
So I moved to my new, bright, mixed sex dorm. And the locker, you ll be pleased to hear,it s right there, on the floor level. Perfect for when I ll crawl back home.
Thursday, 7 June 2012
Obstacle numero uno
The Bolivian airline which should have taken me to my final destination went bankrupt. As much as I worry for the Bolivian employees left without a job, my main concern now is how to get from Santa Cruz to Sucre.
In fact, let me be honest. I absolutely don't give a shit about all the employees left without a job. I worry about myself. Somehow the cancelled 30 minutes flight translates into an 18 hours bus ride.
After a quick but intense last minute research I found out that more often than not, bus drivers are drunk, the roads are atrociously dangerous and buses have no toilet but plenty of drafts. I can deal with drunk drivers and I could try to hold my pee for 18 hours but I don't deal very well with drafts. I explained the situation to the Sucre hostel, since I might arrive one day late. I told them I might come by bus. Their reply? "oh.good luck".
Gracias,señor.
In fact, let me be honest. I absolutely don't give a shit about all the employees left without a job. I worry about myself. Somehow the cancelled 30 minutes flight translates into an 18 hours bus ride.
After a quick but intense last minute research I found out that more often than not, bus drivers are drunk, the roads are atrociously dangerous and buses have no toilet but plenty of drafts. I can deal with drunk drivers and I could try to hold my pee for 18 hours but I don't deal very well with drafts. I explained the situation to the Sucre hostel, since I might arrive one day late. I told them I might come by bus. Their reply? "oh.good luck".
Gracias,señor.
Sunday, 3 June 2012
One goodbye drink too many
The good thing about leaving, is you have an excuse to drink as much as you want. Even better than that, most drinks are paid by your friends, who are so sorry to see you go that they will do all there is in their power to make you totally and utterly shit-faced, so that the last image they have of you, is you hugging the toilet. Glitter and all.
My friends succeeded. By the end of the evening my toilet had become my inseparable friend. A friend I could not be away from.
I had my "goodbye leaving do" at my local pub. There were many smiley faces, some tears, a lot of love and a LOT (and I mean A LOT) of gin. Gin is my favourite. It makes people look beautiful and funny. It makes conversations very interesting. It's not love that makes the world go round, it's gin!
So during the first few hours it all went well. I talked and made sense. Towards the end of the night the Pauls become Katies, the faces become blurred, I was telling everyone I loved them (including the random big boobed lady met in the toilet) and I felt a little unstable on my platform shoes. But everyone looked stunning!
Next thing I remember I'm laying on my kitchen floor, aware of who I was, but convinced I was on Jupiter.(I saw lots of stars around me!).
A very kind friend threw a blanket on me, like you would do when you see a homeless in the street and took pity on him. No one threw money, though, which is a result in itself. I have no recollection of reaching my bed, but I do remember wondering if there are any pillows on Jupiter, since mine was nowhere to be found.
The morning after my goodbye drinks I felt as if I had spent the night fighting with an angry bull in a Spanish arena (and the bull won). I wondered the usual: "did I do or say something really stupid?!"; "did I keep my clothes on?!"; "did I demand to touch the boobies of the random lady I met in the toilet?!"; "did someone post Facebook any pictures of my puking my undigested pork chop in the toilet?!".
I think it went well. I woke up to a lovely note left under my pillow: "You are my favourite person in the world and I love you". I woke up with the worse hangover ever, but I also woke up to a line of goodbye cards left on my bed side table. After reading them I realized tht even if I had demanded to touch someone's boobs, even if I did say something stupid, my friends would still love me. Their love makes me invincible. I'm ready for everything! Even ready to fight with an angry bull..... Just give me a couple of minutes though..... I think I might be sick......
My friends succeeded. By the end of the evening my toilet had become my inseparable friend. A friend I could not be away from.
I had my "goodbye leaving do" at my local pub. There were many smiley faces, some tears, a lot of love and a LOT (and I mean A LOT) of gin. Gin is my favourite. It makes people look beautiful and funny. It makes conversations very interesting. It's not love that makes the world go round, it's gin!
So during the first few hours it all went well. I talked and made sense. Towards the end of the night the Pauls become Katies, the faces become blurred, I was telling everyone I loved them (including the random big boobed lady met in the toilet) and I felt a little unstable on my platform shoes. But everyone looked stunning!
Next thing I remember I'm laying on my kitchen floor, aware of who I was, but convinced I was on Jupiter.(I saw lots of stars around me!).
A very kind friend threw a blanket on me, like you would do when you see a homeless in the street and took pity on him. No one threw money, though, which is a result in itself. I have no recollection of reaching my bed, but I do remember wondering if there are any pillows on Jupiter, since mine was nowhere to be found.
The morning after my goodbye drinks I felt as if I had spent the night fighting with an angry bull in a Spanish arena (and the bull won). I wondered the usual: "did I do or say something really stupid?!"; "did I keep my clothes on?!"; "did I demand to touch the boobies of the random lady I met in the toilet?!"; "did someone post Facebook any pictures of my puking my undigested pork chop in the toilet?!".
I think it went well. I woke up to a lovely note left under my pillow: "You are my favourite person in the world and I love you". I woke up with the worse hangover ever, but I also woke up to a line of goodbye cards left on my bed side table. After reading them I realized tht even if I had demanded to touch someone's boobs, even if I did say something stupid, my friends would still love me. Their love makes me invincible. I'm ready for everything! Even ready to fight with an angry bull..... Just give me a couple of minutes though..... I think I might be sick......
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
A week to go and I'm shitting my fashionable pants
I'm ready.In fact, I'm nearly ready. Well, I'm very close to be ready. No, I'm not ready at all.
Looking after the practicalities was easy. I'm not a control freak for nothing.
Quitting my job was dead easy.
Giving up my flat was quite easy.
Selling my belongings was easy, with some difficult brief moments (I sold my beloved red dress to a chav. And in the name of money!).
Giving my plants up for adoption was not easy at all.(I hope the new parents will remember that they like to be talked to but not shouted at).
Saying my goodbyes will be hard, but with the help of a large amount of gin I won't even remember who my friends are. (And they will be likely to forget who's leaving).
Leaving your comfort zone (and a very happy life) is difficult.
Many people told me I'm brave for the choice I'm making, but it takes no bravery to pack some t-shirts in a rucksack, withdrawn your life-long savings, buy a plane ticket and go. Going to war takes bravery. To die in the name of your Country takes bravery. (or stupidity if you come from MY Country) You don't need to be brave to go travelling. You just need a good travel agency.
Many people told me I'm lucky. But lucky are those who win the Lottery and can afford to travel wherever they want, whenever they want. Lucky are those spoilt brats who get sponsored by rich mummy and daddy. Lucky are not the ones who work hard, really hard, to get where they want. That is called "determination".
So, am I ready? I have a first aid kit, trekking shoes, maps, books, a great travel insurance and a lot of enthusiasm.....does it mean I'm ready?
I'm anxious, to put it mildly. But luckily, there is always someone who tries to make you feel better! The travel nurse, for example, said I NEED Hepatitis B vaccine. Because "I'm a woman travelling alone, so I might be raped". Thanks, love. And the countless people who told me they know someone who knows someone who got kidnapped/killed/attacked/robbed/beaten up in Bolivia? Thanks to all of you.
So I did do the vaccine. I guess you have to be ready for everything, don't you? And I also packed a knife, a survival kit, a whistle and a compass. And I trained for months in the gym ,wearing boxing gloves, so that now I can potentially beat the shit out of anyone who's stupid enough to try and hurt me. Because I am, after all, a woman travelling alone. And you never know. Right?
Looking after the practicalities was easy. I'm not a control freak for nothing.
Quitting my job was dead easy.
Giving up my flat was quite easy.
Selling my belongings was easy, with some difficult brief moments (I sold my beloved red dress to a chav. And in the name of money!).
Giving my plants up for adoption was not easy at all.(I hope the new parents will remember that they like to be talked to but not shouted at).
Saying my goodbyes will be hard, but with the help of a large amount of gin I won't even remember who my friends are. (And they will be likely to forget who's leaving).
Leaving your comfort zone (and a very happy life) is difficult.
Many people told me I'm brave for the choice I'm making, but it takes no bravery to pack some t-shirts in a rucksack, withdrawn your life-long savings, buy a plane ticket and go. Going to war takes bravery. To die in the name of your Country takes bravery. (or stupidity if you come from MY Country) You don't need to be brave to go travelling. You just need a good travel agency.
Many people told me I'm lucky. But lucky are those who win the Lottery and can afford to travel wherever they want, whenever they want. Lucky are those spoilt brats who get sponsored by rich mummy and daddy. Lucky are not the ones who work hard, really hard, to get where they want. That is called "determination".
So, am I ready? I have a first aid kit, trekking shoes, maps, books, a great travel insurance and a lot of enthusiasm.....does it mean I'm ready?
I'm anxious, to put it mildly. But luckily, there is always someone who tries to make you feel better! The travel nurse, for example, said I NEED Hepatitis B vaccine. Because "I'm a woman travelling alone, so I might be raped". Thanks, love. And the countless people who told me they know someone who knows someone who got kidnapped/killed/attacked/robbed/beaten up in Bolivia? Thanks to all of you.
So I did do the vaccine. I guess you have to be ready for everything, don't you? And I also packed a knife, a survival kit, a whistle and a compass. And I trained for months in the gym ,wearing boxing gloves, so that now I can potentially beat the shit out of anyone who's stupid enough to try and hurt me. Because I am, after all, a woman travelling alone. And you never know. Right?
Friday, 25 May 2012
And why, exactly?
Countless people have asked me why I started this travel blog. (I'm lying, nobody asked me anything, but it sounds like I'm popular, doesn't it?).
Well, for two main reasons. First, there is a slight possibility that I will become the new internet sensation, with 4 billion readers (the best thing since Susan Boyle!) who will absolutely love my witty observations and who'll create the biggest media interest to which would follow TV appearances, interviews and lots and lots of lucrative deals (handy to finance my next trip to Central America and my next blog).
Second, there is a slight possibility that I will lose my travel journal like it happened during my trip to Mexico and I wanted a way to immortalize my memories forever, so if one day I will marry a man with children I can read them the stories of my travels and they'll realize how cool their step mum really is.
Besides, my memory seem to be deteriorating (just yesterday I was reminded I owe some dude some money, I could not remember THAT)
So here I am, with exactly 14 days to go, a lot of pots and pans to store, a lot of boxes to fill with junk, a lot of goodbye drinks to have and no spelling check. Wish me luck. I need it.
Well, for two main reasons. First, there is a slight possibility that I will become the new internet sensation, with 4 billion readers (the best thing since Susan Boyle!) who will absolutely love my witty observations and who'll create the biggest media interest to which would follow TV appearances, interviews and lots and lots of lucrative deals (handy to finance my next trip to Central America and my next blog).
Second, there is a slight possibility that I will lose my travel journal like it happened during my trip to Mexico and I wanted a way to immortalize my memories forever, so if one day I will marry a man with children I can read them the stories of my travels and they'll realize how cool their step mum really is.
Besides, my memory seem to be deteriorating (just yesterday I was reminded I owe some dude some money, I could not remember THAT)
So here I am, with exactly 14 days to go, a lot of pots and pans to store, a lot of boxes to fill with junk, a lot of goodbye drinks to have and no spelling check. Wish me luck. I need it.
10 things that all beginner travellers should know.... before they go
- Rucksacks are heavier than they look.
- Do not leave dentist appointment to the last minute. If you need any work done (and if you love chocolate praline as much as I do, you WILL) your teeth will need time to adjust. Oh, and your wallet will, too.
- Do not expect genuine joy from all of your friends. Some of them will hate the fact that whilst you're sunbathing on a warm beach, they'll be sitting in front of a computer from 9 til 5. "I'm so happy for you" sometimes translate into a "I hate you, you lucky bastard".
- No matter how old you are, do not tell your parents that you have just booked a jungle tour and you will be spending 4 days looking for alligators and 4 nights sleeping in the bushes, without even having a sleeping bag. Yes, you're an adult. Yes, it's your life. Yes, you're a tough cookie. But why make them worried?
- Eat your most favourite food any time you can. God knows when you'll eat a decent pepperoni pizza next!
- Meditate. No, fuck that, just get drunk.
- If you buy shoes for your travels, make sure you don't just walk in them beforehand. Jump, run, climb, dance and even sleep wearing them. Blisters? No, thank you.
- Buy yourself a guide then do the opposite of what's recommended. What the Hell, you only live once.
- Do not spend a fortune in Outdoor Shops, buying the coolest travel clothes. Instead, buy everything super cheap and leave everything behind.
- Have I mentioned that rucksacks are heavier than they look?
Less than 2 weeks to go and I already need an Imodium.
Things to do before I go:
- Wax. Even the unwaxable.
- Eat more vegetables
- Call banks
- Get drunk
- Make sure the waxing did work
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