Australians are tall. True, compared to me even Taiwanese seem tall, but Australians really are tall.
If you meet a short Australian man, chances are, he has Italian blood. Or Taiwanese.
Australian men shave their legs. First thing I did, after noticing
their shiny, silky legs, was to buy a new razor. Under no circumstances I
will accept any man around me whose legs are smoother than mine.
With or without hair, noticing legs is unavoidable, here. Virtually
everyone walks around in shorts, including those women who, in my humble
opinion, their huge sausage legs should chop off, not show
off. I do love huge sausages, but not when they
are attached to female bodies.
When they speak, Australians seem to put emphasis to the end of each
sentence, so that every statement sounds like a question. I keep being
confused about when and how to answer. When someone says: "it s
a beautiful day, today?", I wonder : does he want me to
answer that? Or is he telling me? And either way, of course it s a
beautiful day, we are in Australia. Australia! Not England. People don't
have grey skin here! People still have hope in the functionality of
umbrellas, here! Look at those smooth male legs,
so shiny that the sun reflects on them! (Yes, they have 'sun' here). We
can only be in Australia.
This country is EXPENSIVE . In fact, it s so expensive that even after 2
months of me being here, I still say : "are you absolutely sure you re
not mistaken?! Hand on heart?! Promise to God?!" to every single cashier
who serves me in the shops.
And each time, I look at my purse, clinging onto it, with eyes filled
with tears as I reluctantly hand over note after note....and I only
bought a pint of milk, for God' s sake! Does my pint come with an entire
cow attached to it? And is a horny young farmer
(whose legs are unshaven) attached to the cow which is attached to my
oh-so-expensive pint of milk?! But no. No cow is ever attached. And most
certainly no horny farmer either. So I started drinking my coffee black.
Everything 'fun' is expensive. Cigarettes? Man, they re so pricey that
these days I collect grass from my back yard, dry it in the sun (have I
mentioned they have 'sun' here?), roll it in toilet paper and smoke it.
And since toilet paper is so bloody expensive,
I can only use it to make cigarettes but then I have to wipe my ass with my
bare hands.
Drinking alcohol? You are having a laugh. These days I get tipsy by drinking glass cleaner. You
need to drink quite a lot of it, to be honest, but you should see how
shiny my teeth are! (My window are filthy, but you can't have it all).
So if you want to have fun in Australia by smoking or drinking excessively, quite frankly, you re fucked. The Government will punish
you for wanting to get shit faced! I think they even have a tax here,
called "the Shit faced tax", but I'm not so sure.
Bottom line is: in a Country where the sun shines bright every day (as you
might know by now), where beautiful beaches are scattered everywhere,
where the grass is always green (until I smoke it), who would want to
have fun with the aid of harmful substances? Well,
me.
Since I refuse to pay the "Shit faced tax", I'm trying to have fun in a
healthy way. I have spent time in parks and beaches, but even this, per
se, create problems: parks make me want to smoke joints and beaches make
me want to drink beers.
Thank fuck it s sunny. (It really is).
Drinking copious amount of glass cleaner made me put on weight, so I joined a gym.
Yes! You guessed it! Gyms are expensive too, but very, very effective:
after you pay the membership fees, you' re left with no money to spend on
food and you lose weight. Effective!
Since I no longer have crazy Friday nights, I no longer wake up on
Saturday mornings looking like Michael Jackson in Thriller, wondering
where I left my phone/my head/my underwear.
These day I wake up and my
phone is on the bed side table, my head is firmly
attached to my shoulders and my underwear....well, that really depends,
actually.
Anyhow, I wake up SOBER and I walk to my gym as early as 7 am.
If you walk at 7 am on a Saturday morning in England, you re likely to
come across women who wear only one stiletto shoe, wearing glittery tops stained with their own vomit and a single, sad, oversize fake eyelash clinging on
to a mascara smeared eyelid.
In my neighbourhood, all you see at 7 am on a Saturday, is happy people
jogging. Tall, fit men with smooth legs, accompanied by skinny, fresh
faced women with bouncing pony tails, all wearing high tech jogging gear
and fluorescent Nike trainers.
Everyone looks so fit! And happy! And so full of energy! Fuckers.
Since I'm known all over the world for being a spectacular dancer, I confidently chose the "Step Class" as my first ever gym class. The concept is simple: you dance around a step. I am GREAT at dancing around steps. Steps have been my friends for as long as I remember!
I walked into the class room with the same confidence Beyonce shows when coming out on a stage. "Move your fluorescent trainers on the side, bitches! The stage is mine!".
The instructor was an Asian woman who looked a little on the heavy side.
I thought : "look at this chubby lady, she thinks she can shake it like me?"; then she announced she was due to give birth in less than a week and I felt like a twat.
Could she shake it? Oh yes, she could. Could I? Oh no, I bloody could not.
My friend the step betrayed me and 3 lousy minutes into the dance routine I couldn't, in the name of God, follow once single dance movement.
When everyone was going UP, I would be going LEFT. And when I finally understood that I was supposed to go LEFT, everyone was going RIGHT.
So I gave up, but instead of admitting defeat and leave the class (and keep some of my dignity), I stubbornly stood there, going up and down my bastard step, following my own personal dance routine, under the astonished look of several bitches with bouncy pony tails. "Don't mind me, bitches, I'm having the time of my life!".
After class I decided I'll start weight lifting, instead. After all, I'm known around the world for being a spectacular weight lifter. Nothing could ever go wrong. Could it?.
Thursday, 31 October 2013
Saturday, 15 September 2012
The baby in the boot
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.
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.
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?
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