What I Learnt in South America
It is the eve of my
departure after three months traveling in South America. I am with friends in
Lima, Peru, watching Argentina play Brazil in a World Cup qualifier, while the
halftime news has images of rioting and upheaval in La Paz, Bolivia. The moment is
perfect.
It all sounds so damn
exotic, traipsing around Latin America with a fedora. Tell someone you went to France or Scotland on holiday, and
they'll be marginally interested.
Tell them you just got back from Bolivia and they think you're a brave
soul with a titanium constitution.
Our western perception of these countries do not permit us their malls,
highways and multiplexes.
Certainly mine didn't.
My expectations of Peru lay solely with those longhaired, colorfully
garbed panpipe buskers who appear out of some vortex into every city square on
the planet. For Bolivia, I
recalled a Tintin comic book with llamas that spat into the mustached faces of
the Thompson Twins (before their name was stolen by a two-hit 80's band). Argentina? Maradona, draped in blue and white and
using his Hand of God to destroy England in the 1986 World Cup semi-final. And also "Don't Cry For Me
Argentina," the truth is, I never saw the movie or play, but couldn't stop
humming the damn tune throughout the country. Brazil?
Pele, certainly.
Carnival. Girls on
the beaches of Rio, the giant statue of Christ, bug-filled Amazon jungles. My ignorance was clearly
stupendous, and although I made frequent trips to the Vancouver library with
the aim of researching these countries, most of the time I ended up reading a
Book of Lists, or crossing the street for a beer at the Media Club. If I arrived knowing less,
perhaps I would experience more - a tabulosa rosa ready
to be chalked with culture and drowned in spirits. Theories.
Expectations. Both of
which, for anyone looking to explore South America, should be discarded
immediately.
My journey took me over 8000
miles through five countries (a mileage accurately sucked out of my thumb for
illustrative purposes only).
If you count Paraguay, that's six countries, but counting in Paraguay is
not conducive to effective haggling. I took planes, night buses, ferries and too many taxis
held together by glue, prayer and earwax. I hiked in the Andes, 4x4'd across a sea of
salt, sandboarded in the Atacama, scaled an active volcano, rafted in Patagonia
and hangglided over Rio.
According to the latest figures trickling out of the Institute for
Impressive Figures (Slogan: We Guarantee that 99.6% of our Statistics are Accurately Created
on the Spot!), I ate 32 chickens, 3 cows, 5 salmon and 53 bugs, mysteriously
missing from their homes in rural kitchens. 1 mosquito flew directly down my throat, and I have
slept in 29 different beds, 4 intimately, with bedbugs. Toilets are approaching triple
figures. Most of them
flushed. In 100 days I met,
interviewed and photographed 430 people, although many others either refused to
run my unique gauntlet of questions or I did not have my camera handy to
complete the process. I went
through 8 pens, 2 lighters (all the more impressive since I don't smoke), 4
bars of soap but only 1 tube of toothpaste. Squeaky-clean! Along the way, I lost the following articles:
1 x Mountain Equipment Coop
Fleece (on a night bus in Chile)
1 x Sunglasses (in a taxi in
Buenos Aires)
1 x Pentax Digital Camera
(on a fishing boat near Salvador)
1 x Inhibitions,
Exhibitions, Prohibitions, what the hell is a Hibition anyway?
Tell
us Robin, what was your favourite place in South America? Well, that depends if you're
Brazilian or Argentinean, because the fastest way to piss off a Brazilian is to
rave about Argentina, and vice-versa. The same with Peru and Chile. Or Bolivia and Chile. Or Peru and Bolivia. Or any other two nations except
for Paraguay, as they are too busy haggling and will love anyone with cash for
their electric nose-hair trimmers.
Actually, I lie.
Everyone hates the United States, not including Miami, because that's
where everyone's cousin lives.
At the risk of offending someone (perhaps too late), I would say my
favourite place was...look, it's like asking what mouthful of your perfectly
grilled steak you liked best. Or,
for vegetarians, your perfectly grilled portobello mushroom. The first taste is
always fantastic, because it's new and exciting. The middle is when you're beyond the hype and can
really absorb the juices.
The last few mouthfuls, you're full but not full enough and that steak
(or shroom) is disappearing fast so you better enjoy every last piece while you
can. Chew on that
metaphor for a while. Succinctly
phrased by my friends and fellow travelers Rock and Lindsey , "You could be in
a beautiful tropical paradise surrounded by assholes and have the worst time of
your life." Well, maybe not
the worse time, because you are, after, all, on a beautiful tropical
paradise, That is unless a coconut
accidentally falls on your head, splintering your psyche so that you awake as
Liberace on an island of cello-playing school girls. No, that wouldn't be very pleasant, but the rewards for
recovery are enormous. Anyway, their point is well taken: It's the people who make the place. Such was my luck meeting swell
and friendly people, I can pretty much vouch for all the places in which I met
them. In fact, I only met
two assholes throughout my entire journey. They were English, they were young, they were rude and
obnoxious, and one of them broke his back base-jumping in Mendoza. Karma takes no prisoners.
But,
but, but, yes I know, there has to be a favourite, the chew above all
others. It would have
to be, I confess, the tongue-busting Jericoacoara (Jerry-Kwa-Kwarra). Rustically beautiful with
glorious sunsets and hot, hazy days, it felt like one of those old cigarette
commercials, where everyone was beautiful and laughing and smiling all the
time. It may have rained
hamsters and budgies, but as time and distance move me along, so the sun shines
brighter and the birds sing louder in the Jeri of my memory.
Tell
us Robin, what was your worse place in South America? Look, I'm not one to dwell on the negative, and just
about everywhere had its ups and downs (even a great steak can lead to
constipation, mushrooms certainly). There were a couple of unremarkable towns,
places like Puno in southern Peru, which nevertheless yielded some fantastic
pictures of Titicaca and a great story of my human taxi getting run-over
mid-pedal. Paraguay's Free Zone
declared a thermonuclear war on my personal space and too many people were
disturbingly lacking body parts in Foz de Iguazu. But if I had
to choose a favourite hellhole, Fortaleza in northern Brazil gets the Raspberry
Award. Its modern airport aside
(Kickback City), the town is disheveled and hostile, crawling with ugly,
aggressive hookers and dishonest taxi drivers. Nobody I met, from Brazil or anywhere else had
anything nice to say about the place, other than the airport was nice and it
was one more stop closer to Jericoacoara. Fortalesa, a pretty name for a shitty city.
I
tried to risk my life at least once a week. It was not difficult. Getting into most taxis qualifies, especially when
their shock absorbers were built for Model-T Fords. I took extreme care with the safety precautions of river
rafting, or hanggliding, or biking down a dangerous road, and then would
happily climb into Juan's beat up Fiat running on Uncle Rico's pisco
farts. Thinking of taxi
drivers, I am reminded about the snake and the frog. The frog decides to pay the snake for protection, and
the snake agrees. One day, the
snake is hungry, and eats the frog.
As he is being swallowed, the frog cries out, "But Mr Snake, we had a
deal, why are you eating me?"
And Mr Snake, somehow communicating with the frog lodged in his dislocated
jaw, replies, "because I am a Snake!"
Why,
Mr Taxi driver, are you ripping me off, charging me four times more than you
should just because I have no clue where the hell I am? Because, you gringo idiot, I am a
taxi driver. They drove me insane,
those Formula One wanna-be's.
The biggest risk I took however, was climbing Cerro Lopez in
Patagonia. It was
risky because there were no guides, no safety warnings, no 10 000 tourists
safely served. Furthermore, it
wasn't my intention to even climb the jagged cliffs in the first place - I just
took a wrong turn and ended up way over my head. It was me, a wall of ice, a 100m-drop, and the sudden
realization that I was a schmuck.
The combination gave me the willies, and if I had lost my grip, it was
over the edge for me. Mind you, if
anyone of us loses our grip, it's over the edge for all of us too. So keep hanging on, even if it's
by your fingertips.
The
way to a man's heart, it is said, is through the chest cavity with a sharp
scalpel. But as
that nasal French chipmunk Celine Dion might sing, "My heart will go on",
and I had a passionate affair with the cuisine of Latin America. Peru's delights are a taste
sensation. The Japanese have
sushi, but the Peruvians have ceviche, which is raw fish cooked by the juices
of fresh lemons, with cilantro, green onion, and served with sweet potato. In Bolivia I devoured perfectly
spit-roasted chicken, although I did not get the opportunity to sample their
guinea pig specialty. Something
about their cooked eyes staring back at me. Argentina was not built on the dreams of a vegetarian, and
you would do well to sharpen your canines before tearing into medium-rare slabs
of meat, as well as the other parts of the cow that arrive sizzling at your
table. IntestineŠem, you know, it doesn't taste like chicken. In Brazil, it's about fresh
tropical juices, liquidized with sugar and sometimes a dash of condensed milk
for creaminess. And through
it all, golden brown empanadas, for Latin America is pie country, and oh my, I
just love my piece of pie.
The wine is good (in Chile and Argentina, is it is better), in Peru you
can drink sweet yellow Inca Kola, and in Brazil, sweet yellow Guarana or
hunger-busting acai from the Amazon. Salsa on the table, ranging from mild spicy to
ring-of-fire, saved even the blandest meal. In Argentina, I could not fathom how a cheap hot
dog on the side of the street might cost $2.50, but $5 would buy a giant steak. I only cooked a couple of times,
because it was always cheaper to eat out. When I did too splurge on an expensive meal, it
was always too easy to justify.
And if I couldn't, I would just get drunk anyway.
The
prophecy was fulfilled. I finally
became that older guy in the
youth hostel, full of tales (long and short and stupid) and with a certain
bemusement at the impetuousness of the surrounding youth. How did this happen? How did I become that guy?
Just yesterday, I was partying all night, drinking too much, puking in
the toilets to the delight of my friends. No seriously, that was yesterday. But ten years ago I was in
Western Europe doing the same, utterly convinced at my ability to conquer the
known world with a black Lawless Rebel patch stitched onto the back of my
bright blue waterproof jacket.
I have pictures to prove it.
Invincible! Now, I see myself in these
18-year-old inbetweeners, ready to run off with anyone, drink anything, go
anywhere. Consequences are
few, because the one thing they know is they're not going to end up like that
30-year-old guy in the hostel who hasn't quite grown up. When they're 30, they're going to
be rich. They're going
to be successful! Wealth and money is a constant
conversation topic for travelers.
"With more money, I would go to more places. With more money, I would do more things." And yet just about everyone you
meet traveling, outside the locals, share similar backgrounds. Most folk are educated or on
their way to college, most come from homes where travel is encouraged and
supported. The UK, Israel, Australia, New Zealand,
France, Canada, Scandinavia, the USA, Spain, Japan, South Africa just a
handful of countries make up the inhabitants of any youth hostel (or hotel, for
that matter). Sure, these
are wealthy countries, where the youth can afford to take the time to
travel. But no, I don't buy
that argument. Just about
everyone had to work their ass off to get here, and that holds the same for
every country. OK, the currencies
of the countries above are amongst the strongest in the world. But there is
also wealth in the third world, extreme wealth, so where are the traveling
Thais, the youth of China and the Far East, the children of Africa's elite, the
scion of Colombian drug lords?
They have the means and the opportunity too, but it is left to the dozen
or so countries above to come to the table of international youth
relations. The Israelis are
particularly inspirational.
21-year-olds, having fought in the army for 3 years in a brutal
intifada, tanning on the beach with 21-year-old Australians having fought for 3
years for a cold beer in a brutal pub just outside Adelaide. Israeli girls are particularly
strong and resolute, but this cocktail of real world horror and let-the-hair-down
travel has unfortunately given the Israelis a negative reputation for their
ghetto-like mentality. Meanwhile
in Belgium, you can take, get this, five years of paid leave during your stay at a company. Five years, all in one shot! "But what happens if you get back
and decide to change your career?"
"
"You
can do that ", says Guy from Brussels.
And they use mayo on their
fries.
But
I'm that guy, asking nosy questions, with a hard-to-place accent. When I arrived at the Milhouse in
Buenos Aires, I worked out that sleeping in the afternoon was the only way to
survive the all night binges.
In my room, facing the loud
street, there were 8 bunks, rotating almost daily with young English lads on
their pre-university blow-out.
Sometimes, they would come and go and I wouldn't even see them, but one
afternoon, as I was trying to sleep, the door opened and a couple of guys
walked in.
"Who's
that guy?" asked one of the blokes, assuming I was asleep.
"That's
the weird geezer who sleeps all day and parties all night, he's wicked insane!"
replied the other.
Old? These ankle-biting whippersnappers can
chew the mature, experienced fuzz on my behind,
Click here for my best pictures of South America
Is
it lonely, traveling solo?
When you're on your ace, in your space, you are forced to talk to those
around you. Even if you're
shy, not talking to anyone for a few days can start to drive you mad. So you lean over on the bus, or
at the bar, or in the common room, and you start talking. Fortunately, travelers always have something to talk about. The standard conversation, which
I've had well over 430 times, goes something along these lines:
Where
are you from? Where are you
going? How long are you
traveling for? How long have
you been traveling? Where have you
been? Was it good? I'm going there too, any
advice? Do you speak [local
language]? What do you do back
home? We're going out later, want
to join us for a [drink, meal, dance, orgy]? Once the formalities are done with, it's amazing
how quickly you get into some pretty gritty conversations. Travelers form fast, intense
friendships, with more action squeezed into a few days then months back
home. Of course, having the
conversation above can also drive you nuts. So can spending each minute with the same person. This is where traveling solo
really has its benefits. If
you want to chill out, want some me-time and don't feel like being chatty, then
you can just shut up and do your thing.
Nobody will mind.
Really. If someone starts
chatting, you can just be less-than-interested, and they'll be chatting to someone
else pretty quickly.
Solo, you are not obligated to do anything or go anywhere you don't want
to. Reading something over a quiet
lunch by yourself is the price you pay for this luxury. You're only as lonely as you want
to be.
I
hear South America is dangerous?
Especially Rio. And
La Paz, hell, according the BBC today, La Paz is burning to the ground! Roving gangs of
hookers drug foreigners in bars and you wake up stripped clean, sometimes they
even hold you for ransom! Don't get
me started on the organs!
Political instability, rampant crime, gang wars. The next time someone asks me how
dangerous Rio was, I'm going to answer with sincere honesty. "Rio makes Baghdad look
like a Club Med! Suicide
bombers? Hell, that's nothing
compared to getting the shits in Ipanema!" In one of the forums on
travellerspoint,com, Newbie223 posted something like this:
"I
want to go to South America but I've heard it's very dangerous. What should I do?"
And, to their infinite credit, another
user replied.
"Dear
Newbie223. South America is
very dangerous. In fact, the world
is a dangerous place. You
never know what could happen, anywhere, at any time. The solution is to dig a big hole in your garden, climb in,
and cover yourself up with dirt.
Don't tell anyone where you are, because you never know what that
someone is capable of. Then
sit under the sand in your garden. You will be safe. In the meantime I'll be drinking a beer on the beach."
To
put it bluntly, the reason why so many people get robbed in the third world is
because there are so many idiots traveling the third world. They are not limited to, but
primarily come from, places where awareness of danger means avoiding cow dung
on the way to the school bus. They
usually wear nametags.
In Salvador I watched them walk around with fat cameras wagging in the
faces of people who haven't eaten for a week. They are the folk who get eaten in game parks because they
step outside the vehicle to take pictures of the lions. They are oblivious to common sense,
and, like antelope in the veldt, they are easy to spot and prey upon. It is not dangerous if you take the most basic
precautions. The same
precautions you should take at home. Being aware of everyone around you is like having a
Spider-sense, and trusting your gut as to the intentions of others is skill
just about everyone can learn. I
have stuck by one rule: Anyone who
approaches me in the street does not have my best interest in mind. They want to sell me something,
or put me in a compromising position that is going to cost me something. If I am prepared for either, I'll
talk to anyone. But when I'm
carrying my laptop, I don't need to make new friends on the street at just at
that moment. Call me rude,
but I'll catch ya'later alligator.
Of course I am generalizing, because generalizing is easy and so much
fun. And you can end up in
the wrong place at the wrong time, and that's why you have travel
insurance. I believe that
screaming for help will almost always bring aid from locals, because nobody
likes to see a gringo, or anyone else, in trouble. Unless they wear a nametag and a fat camera around their
neck - then you can call it righteous redistribution. Traveling is not dangerous, people are. And people live at home too.
Have
I changed, these last three months?
Physically, I think I've lost some weight, because I had to get someone
to punch in a new hole in my belt. Mentally, I have learnt a few
very important lessons.
1.
Wherever you are is where you are supposed to be.
The
grass is not greener on the other side, and if it is, you will never know so
stop worrying about it. When faced
with so many decisions each day, you have to be firm and confident that
whatever you decide to do, where to go and how to get there, that is the right
and best choice you can make,
2.
Listen to and trust your instinct
There's
something about the chicken on your plate that doesn't seem right? Then don't eat it. There's something about this taxi
driver that looks dodgy?
Don't get in (or get out asap). Going right somehow feels wrong? Go left. My instinct talks to me constantly, but
before this trip I couldn't hear it, or wouldn't listen to it if I could. These days I may be a little more
eccentric, but if my feeling tells me something, I take it seriously. Hmm, this restaurant gives me bad
vibes. Ciao! Period. I call it "using the force." It has served me well and is the secret behind my luck in
finding good people and places.
3. Don't sweat the small stuff.
It's
so easy to be massively ticked off over something really minute. OK, losing my camera wasn't
that minute, but most things are replaceable (or will heal). Too often I found myself
miserable because of I got ripped off (yet again) by a taxi, or harassed by a
local. Only once I lost my
camera on a splendid day in paradise did I realize I had to look through the
bullshit and appreciate where I was. When you start taking things for granted, stop
traveling and try living for a while.
4. Do it now, there is no later.
I'll
come back to it. I'll take that
picture later. I'll order
the pickled dragon liver next time.
You guessed it, there is no next time. Something always comes up, and even if I did get the opportunity
to order the pickled dragon liver again, I usually didn't feel like it
anymore. My best pictures
were often embarrassing to take, especially the fantastic ones of people just
living their day. But not
taking them would have been much worse. With no credit to Nike, Just do it!
5.
Patience, deep breaths, and understanding will take you far.
Most
locals just don't give a shit.
They can't understand what you're saying, work longer hours for less pay
than you ever would, and take a different perspective on life than the fast,
efficiency we've come to expect.
I've seen German tourists lose their rags over crap service, but in
parts of the world like Bolivia, crap service is all you get. Slow down, fit into their groove,
loosen up your schedule (if you have one), and go with the flow. And finally, don't assume or
count on anyone. South
American time functions a good hour later than Western time. 10:30 means 11:30 or even
midnight. Getting stood up seems
to be a normal facet of life.
I don't like it, but it's the way it is. I'm in their country (try this shit in mine and it's a different story!)
5.
It is the people you meet who create the paradise you find.
As
discussed above.
I
don't mean to preach wisdom, as I constantly ignore everything above and still
find the true path to my inner idiot. But I have learnt to overcome just about all my
concerns about traveling alone on less-beaten paths, and I can't encourage you
enough to take those first baby steps to your own adventure. Making the commitment to
see the world is the hardest part.
The rest just happens.
As for South America, it is a continent of breath-taking beauty, warm
people, delicious food, exciting activities, and great bargains. What are you waiting for?
30
000ft in the Sky
On
the way to Prague
11
June, 2005
Laundryland
Prague
13
June, 2005