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 cheap flights, night buses, ferries and too many taxis held together by glue, prayer and earwax. I hiked in the Andes, 4×4′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. Intestineäem, 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
Photographs and Words Copyright © Esrocking the World Media Inc, 2005-2012
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