Can't stop here - it's bat country!
On our third night aboard the M. Montiero, I came down with a fever. My wildly swinging temperature demands coupled with the multitude of insect bites all over my legs led Jim to suspect malaria. The next morning, a far more likely culprit was found: the rather dubious mince that was served at dinner.
Of the nine gringos aboard the ship, two others suffered the same food poisoning symptoms as I. Others, like Jim, were plagued with constant stomach pains that would last for the next couple of days. Most of us gave up on canteen meals there and then, turning instead to a staple of Cup-Of-Noodles and cookies.
The M. Montiero's first three days of travel were smooth and without pause. From my bedridden fourth day onwards, however, we would make port for several hours each day to offload cargo to tiny jungle villages along the Rio Negro. The more knowledgable amongst our group of gringos suggested catching a speedboat directly to Tabatinga from Friday's destination, Benjamin Constant. Eager to shed the two extra nights of Cup-Of-Noodle dinners, Jim and I were quick to agree.
Just past lunchtime on Friday, we farewelled our floating home and set out on a speedboat with seven other backpackers representing France, Canada, Norway, the U.K., and Spain. For 15 reais per head, the journey was an exciting change from the pleasantly slow pace of the cargo ship.
Tabatinga is tiny and services are rather sparse. The town is serviced by a plentiful taxi fleet of cheap, motorcycles (called
moto-taxis), but often, there is hardly a larger vehicle in sight. A search for a taxi that would take our backpacks proved fruitless, so our seven-person group embarked on a 15-minute walk from the Tabatinga docks to the Brasilian immigration office in the centre of the town. Once officially stamped out of Brasil, we crossed an invisible border on our way to the airport in Leticia, where we obtained entry stamps for Colombia.
Leticia's airport is, bar none, the smallest airport I have ever seen. Neither customs nor immigration checks seem to be well enforced, as all immigration tasks take place in a small, air-conditioned office that is tucked away to one side of the airport - which really just is one large room. A quick enquiry at the AeroRepublica counter in the airport yielded surprisingly favourable results, and we were allowed to change our flight to leave for Bogota two days sooner than planned, and at no extra charge.
Once we returned to the city centre, Jim and I split away from the rest of the group to check in to the best hotel our money could buy. In Leticia, this means the Hotel Yurupary, which at US$27 per room per night, boasts a pool, poolside bar, in-house restaurant, and air-conditioning. One thing we did not get, however, was hot shower water. Yet another profanity-spouting shower ensued. Surely I have endured way too many of these cold showers on this trip!
During our city centre wanderings later that evening, we bumped into Anja (a Norwegian girl who had travelled with us from Manaus), two others from her hostel, and their Colombian host. When asked if he was native to Leticia, I was surprised and amused to hear the host reply: "No, I am from the mainland." It was only upon flicking through my guidebook that I understood his comment on Leticia's isolation. While it is undoubtedly closer to central South America, Leticia is located in the Amazon Basin, which is a large part of the 40 or so percent of Colombia that is controlled by guerrillas.
Under this new light, the town took on more of an air of the surreal than ever. On one hand, manicured shrubbery line and divide wide, well-paved streets. On the other, armed police officers stand guard at every street corner, as if warding off some danger of which I am as yet unaware.
Also strange to me was how every man and his dog, so to speak, seems to own a motorcycle in Leticia. The culture makes for some unlikely motorcycle riders, including entire families with small children, pregnant women, and girls who, besides their shoddy motorcycle helmets, were dressed up to the nines for a Friday night date.
Then again, I guess helmet hair probably isn't too big a deal in these parts and at this time of year anyway. It is now wet season, which means constant drizzles and sudden storms - as Jim and I witnessed on Friday evening. So much for having a swim in the hotel pool!
Gently down the stream
Gathering all our willpower about us, Jim and I finally left Rio de Janeiro on the afternoon of October 15th. A six-hour-long bus ride took us to Sao Paulo, where we spent two nights in one of the city's best neighbourhoods, Jardim Paulista.
We stayed at the unimaginatively named "Pousada & Hostel Sao Paulo", which although relaxed and welcoming, was located a little too far from the city centre, offered minimal facilities, employed staff who spoke Portuguese only, and was home to a rather large cockroach that somehow decided that my right foot would be a nice little area to scamper over. Ugh.
Sampa, as the city is nicknamed, is said to have been an immigrant magnet in the 1950s. The result of its rapid growth is a bevy of crime-ridden slums, which we nervously witnessed during a taxi ride towards the airport on the night of the 17th. I was glad to touch down in Manaus just after midnight, where we were meticulously greeted by out hostel transfer and met another new arrival, French-Canadian Bastian.
Set deep in the Amazon rainforest, Manaus is a small, out-of-the-way sort of tourist destination with few city luxuries. Even restaurants were hard to come by, so much so that one night had me scouring the streets on an almost desperately hunt for an open diner.
The weather too was a shocker, with the heat and humidity driving me to near insanity within short hours of leaving our air-conditioned hostel room. Nights were a little cooler; however, nightfall also came with a flood of mosquitoes which would feed on my poor, scarred legs without mercy. Luckily, our room at the Hostel Manaus was perfect: a bug-free private room with an ensuite, writing desk, ceiling fan and air-conditioner for 65 reais per night.
We spent three days in Manaus before boarding the M. Montiero cargo ship to Tabatinga on Saturday afternoon. Having only read reports of rather difficult journeys in overcrowded communal rooms, we were initially wary of travelling via cargo ship. However, the M. Montiero is spacious beyond my expectations. While the lowermost deck is absolutely full of cargo including fruit, electronics, and even motorcycles, the passenger room on the second storey looks to be pleasantly full, with a decent amount of personal space between hammocks.
Being the creatures of comfort that we are, Jim and I have paid for the highest possible class of passenger tickets, which, for 400 reais each, has bought us a good sized, air-conditioned double cabin on the third and uppermost deck of the ship, with an ensuite, private balcony and bar fridge. Perfect! Having already spent two nights on this ship, I can happily say that this has easily been the best 400 reais I have spent on this trip.
Our journey so far has been smooth and beautifully scenic. The meals included in our ticket price have been of decent quality, and there is even an onboard cafeteria to satisfy our consumer desires. As I write this, I am seated on the balcony of my private cabin, staring out into the rippled Rio Negro and the Amazon jungle beyond it. The sun is setting in the most marvellous shock of peach in an otherwise blue-grey sky. Oh, beautiful world!
Copa de Vida
While at a nightclub in Rio de Janeiro, I met an Australian expatriate and his Brasilian best friend who had found each other through the surf. Perhaps what they say is true, and the beach culture that is so prevalent in Rio is largely universal.
In any case, Rio de Janeiro is a city that reminds me much of home. We're staying at the very friendly "Stone of a Beach" hostel by Copacabana beach; a location which is, too, reminiscent of home in Bondi. This is especially true during the weekends, when locals and tourists head to the sand in force. Weekend or not, Jim and I were relentless in our pilgrimages to the salty ocean air, and made the effort to walk a 500 meter stretch each day just to feel the sand between our toes with fresh, juicy coconuts in hand.
At 90 reais (45 dollars) a night and with food prices almost equivalent to those at home, our week in Rio has been the most costly this trip has seen. By the fifth night, we decided to bite the bullet for the sake of budgeting, and relocate to the cheapest dorm room there was. Even with 24 people to the room, shoddy air-conditioning and an external bathroom, however, dorm accommodation set us back a shocking 30 reais each. It took only two nights before the pain of sleeping in a dorm became too much to bear, and I took to sleeping in the TV room instead.
The party never stopped at our hostel, which was home to a host of cheery staff, gregarious backpackers, and a constant barrage of organised social events. With budgets to consider, we bypassed the usual tourist attractions like Cristo Redentor and tours of the favelas, in favour of witnessing a soccer game at the Maracana, and attending a massive street side Samba party,
Touted as the largest soccer stadium in the world with a 95000 person capacity, the Maracana is a must-see for most visitors of Rio. We had the good fortune to be in town for the Brasil cup finals on Saturday, where the country's top team, Sao Paulo, played a local team, Fluminense, which was ranked 6th in the country. It was a very dirty, very exciting game, with a total of six yellow cards dealt out for an array of delectable sporting violence. We attended the game with Pedro who worked at the hostel, and were consequently urged to sit and cheer with the emotionally charged Fluminense supporters. Ole ole ole!
Wednesday night's Samba party was another eye-opener, as the samba band that had earned the right to perform at the February 2008 Carnivale put on a spectacular rehearsal-cum-show on the outskirts of the city. Accompanying the show was a rocking street party complete with food stalls, beer vendors, and a tonne of people flooding the streets to the beat of samba music pumping through the many massive amplifiers lining the street. I was initially intimidated by the sea of locals - not to mention the colt carbine-wielding police officers stationed near the entrance of the party - but soon realised that everyone was just there to have fun and get their samba on.
On Sunday, Copacabana beach hosted a gay pride parade to promote the criminalisation of homophobia. Having never attended Sydney's Mardi Gras festival, I watched in wonder as float after float of gay men, transvestites, bisexuals, lesbians and transexuals passed us by, leaving a sea of dancing revellers in their wake. But the parade was much more than just another party - each float told the sad story of persecution and even murder in the name of homophobia.
The friendliness and genuine helpfulness of
cariocas (Rio locals) has been truly impressive. During our city-centre sightseeing on our third day here, we were approached by a retired high-school English teacher who had noticed our lost expressions and offered to point us in the right direction. Coincidentally, he lived in Santa Teresa - a beautiful cobblestoned suburb to which we were headed - and accompanied us all the way there. Our serendipitous meeting also birthed some stimulated conversation about the political history of Brasil, with our new friend carefully explaining how Brasil might have been much improved had it remained an empire. His views certainly shed new light on the anti-socialist graffiti I had noticed throughout the city, as well as on the bus ride towards Rio.
We had some initial troubles in planning how we would spend the rest of our time in South America. Air travel in Brasil is horribly pricey, and being the fifth largest country in the world, overland travel is no small feat. Hostel staff and the backpackers we spoke to were no help; apparently, most people travel around South America in a clockwise direction - opposite to our rather poorly planned venture. We eventually settled for the cheapest possible mixture of overland and air travel, and purchased bus tickets from Rio to Sao Paulo, plane tickets from Sao Paulo to Manaus, with plans of catching a cargo boat from Manaus to the Peru-Colombia-Brasil triple frontier. This certainly will be an adventure!
Onwards to Brasil
We had some initial trouble in finding a hostel with vacancies on our return to Buenos Aires, but eventually found a spot in the very good Portal del Sur hostel. After a week away in the snow and with much more travel planned, our time back in Buenos Aires was spent desperately savouring our last few big city Argentinean meals. Springtime Buenos Aires had transformed, in our absence, from a cloudy grey metropolis to a blue-skied playground. In between sunny walks, we ate at the excellent DF Mexican restaurant, re-visited La Cabrera steakhouse, and Jim (temporarily) satisfied his craving for North American excess at TGIFridays. I had never before seen cocktails or meals that large in my life!
Monday was surprisingly - and relievingly - productive. I finally got my mail issues sorted out, and now have fresh new contact lenses! Thanks, Dad! After the post office, we trekked across the road to the Retiro bus station, where we purchased "Super Cama / Tutti Leito" bus tickets to leave for the Argentina-Brasil border town of Puerto Iguazu that evening. The 16-hour journey on a Via Bariloche bus was surprisingly luxurious, with fully reclining seats, blankets, pillows, and privacy curtains, as well as a suited waiter who served up hot meals, wine and champagne. Unsurprisingly, the 220 peso per person bus was populated with young gringos like ourselves - a far cry from the local-filled bus we caught from Bolivia!
We arrived at the famed Hostel Inn in Puerto Iguazu the next afternoon, feeling fairly well-rested for the journey. The hostel is located in what used to be a casino, and hence boasts a swimming pool, two bars, a good-sized lounge, kitchen and TV room. Jim and I booked ourselves into an air-conditioned private room, which, to our delight, happened to be close enough to the lounge for us to access wi-fi Internet! Much downloading ensued - movies are such a lifesaver when in transit!
Our first evening was spent in and about the pool, brandishing Brasil's national cocktail, the Caipirinha. We awoke the next morning to find that we had missed our pre-booked 9am transfer to the Iguazu Falls. Perhaps a barrage of cold cocktails in sweltering tropical weather wasn't such a good idea after all! At the instruction of hostel staff, we waited 40 minutes or so for a public bus to the falls, but eventually gave up and caught a ride with a very helpful taxi driver, who offered us the very reasonable price of 10 pesos.
The genuine helpfulness of our driver renewed my faith in taxis. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the tour agents at our hostel. The tour tickets offered to us by the hostel were in no way better priced than the exact same offering at the falls - besides the added inconvenience of having to pre-pay for tour vouchers at the hostel. We were already low on cash with no ATM in sight until the falls, so I am pretty disappointed at the hostel staff's insistence that we buy from them. It is a sad realisation that even in an out-of-the-way, seemingly friendly backpacker joint, the only thing that talks seems to be money, and money only.
Anyways, back to the sightseeing. The waterfalls in the Parque Nacional Iguazu were spectacular. Many a touristy photo was taken, and I did enjoy myself immensely, despite feeling like I was baking in a sauna the entire time. Our pre-booked tour with Jungle Explorers put us on a boat through the rapids and under a waterfall; consequently, I wandered the park in a drenched set of clothes all day.
After washing off layers of sweat and waterfall muck back at the hostel, we hopped into a taxi in search of a Lonely Planet-recommended dinner venue, only to be told by our taxi driver that it was too expensive and tourist-driven a restaurant. Without being too insistent, he took us past another joint instead. Suspecting undeserved profiteering, we initially refused the taxi driver's recommendation, but relented when we saw the quality of the place he was recommending. Surprisingly, he dropped us off outside the joint without seeming to claim anything from the restaurant. Yet more faith has been restored in taxi drivers at Puerto Iguazu.
After yet another day spent lazing by the pool, we decided to take advantage of our location and cross the "Triple Frontera" (three borders) to Brasil and Paraguay on Friday. We engaged the same restaurant-recommending driver at 150 pesos for the entire day, to ferry us across borders and act as our guide. I found the price quite reasonable given his advice on safety in Paraguay, (possibly questionable) methods of getting us into Paraguay without visas, restaurant recommendations, and general conversation.
Foz de Iguazu and the Brasillian side of the Triple Frontera was a surprisingly large city compared to its Argentinean counterpart, and I was a little disappointed that we did not have enough time to stay there for a couple of days also.
Ciudad del Este in Paraguay was a good jolt back into my Third World stereotype. Frightened by our driver's security warnings, we refused even to take our cameras out of our pockets, except while in the safety of the taxi!
That brings us finally to our Saturday bus ride to Rio de Janeiro. As I write this, I've only spent two hours on the bus and it has already broken down once. Surely this does not bode well for the next 20 hours of the journey!
Snowploughing for fun and glory
On Saturday, September 22, Jim and I finally left the comforts of Buenos Aires for a week on the snowy slopes of Cerro Catedral, Bariloche. We each paid US$1000 for the week through a Buenos Aires travel agent, and were very pleased with our package which included ski passes, return air tickets from Buenos Aires, and accommodation at Village Catedral, which I found to be the perfect ski resort at the very base of the mountain.
I was immensely impressed with our room at Village, which featured a wall-to-wall window overlooking the snowy mountains; warm, wood-panelled furniture; and a good, hot shower. Free access to the resort spa, room service and wi-fi were much appreciated too.
My first ever week of skiing was a challenge that I think was much alleviated by Jim's very patient coaching. Over the course of the week, I must have only really fallen over four times, although Jim did have to catch me a couple of times as I snowploughed right into him and breakneck walking speeds, yelling madly for help as I approached. Our yell-and-catch arrangement only failed once, when I freaked out on a green run and snowploughed right into an unsuspecting Jim, even though I was mostly still in control. The impact took us both out in very slow motion, resulting in a pile of giggles and some amusement-tinged concern from passers-by.
It was a nerve-wracking seven days, but by the end of it all, I had conquered the bunny slopes, the greens, and a blue training slope. Under the insistence of my rather sadistic instructor, I took on a short but rather steep blue slope on our final day in the snow, which resulted in what must have been an hour of swearing, sulking and almost-crying as I feared my way down the slope.
All the while, hypothermia was never too far off.
The porteno life
With an excellent exchange rate and a smogasbord of places able and willing to accept foreign spending, our days in Buenos Aires were spent living in excess. Numerous trips were made out to the Casino Flotante at Puerto Maderno. More numerous yet were visits to our local mall, Abasto, which housed shops, a Hoyts cinema, and an indoor theme park named Neverland.
A few days were spent wandering the delightfully shiny Buenos Aires locale. Avenida Santa Fe provided a particularly good spread of shops and people to consider. The suburb of Recoleta made for decent cemetery tourism, as well as hosting laid back crafts fairs on the weekends. Other nights (and post-casino early mornings) were spent at Puerto Maderno, whose ritzy restaurants, well-lit sidewalks, and water views reminded me much of Sydney Harbour and home.
Despite my aspirations of writing, finding freelance work, and mastering the Spanish language, day after day was spent on general lazy pleasures: sleeping in, lounging around, dining well. Even our few trips out to nightclubs stank of lethargy, as we would stumble home way too long before sunrise, and tipsy on cocktails far stronger than those at home.
Dinners were perhaps my favourite Buenos Aires activity. Favourites include: La Cabrera for excellent pepper steak; Parrilla de Abasto for an all-you-can-eat barbecue buffet; Tandoor for much-missed Indian cuisine; Gibraltar for Thai green chicken curry; DF for Mexican food (especially prawn fajitas!); a restaurant above the Bahrain nightclub for very good steak and grilled fish; and Marini for what might well have been the best buffet I've witnessed in my entire life.
Another noteworthy experience was a dinner and tango show at the Tango Rojo. At US$150 per head, this was easily the priciest meal we've had in South America, but to me, the experience was well worth the cost. I finally had my first and only taste of
creviche, which is raw fish marinated in (and said to be cooked by) lemon juice. While this was found to be much easier to swallow than sashimi, it is probably not a dish I would opt for again. A very well prepared duck was my main course, which was then followed by a dessert platter of chocolate and caramel.
The intimate, red-lit dining room was a perfect setting for the Tango show that followed. There were no more than fifteen tables, with two to four people seated at each. To the back of the room was a stage on which a pianist, two accordionists, a bassist and a violinist played. Another platform to the front of the room staged the tango show rife with singing and dancing and romance. I was surprised to find the show able to finally fulfil my Hollywood-inspired dreams of the Moulin Rouge, especially since the real deal had been unable to do so during my trip to Paris a few years back. To top things off, Tango Rojo even featured the movie version of "El Tango de Roxanne". Perfect!
At the recommendation of our Spanish language instructor, Vera, we took a day trip out to Tigre at the end of our third week in Buenos Aires. Set on the Paraná Delta, Tigre is said to be a popular porteño weekend destination, reached by an hour-long journey on the train. From the train station at Tigre, it took us another 40 minutes on a rather foul-smelling boat ride before reaching a waterfront parrilla for lunch. We had intended to return to central Tigre soon after lunch to explore a theme park near the train station, but travelling down a stinking river after lunch on a very warm day did not bode well for my stomach. So we settled instead on an hour in the air-conditioned casino before heading back to Buenos Aires with what must have been all of the city's inhabitants on the train.
During our final weekend in Buenos Aires, we took a day trip to the beautiful Uruguayan city of Colonia. While my initial reasons for the trip were purely to do with the amusement of my brothers, the trip did me a surprising amount of good. A UNESCO-listed heritage area, the city had an old, small-town feel to it. I felt much reinvigorated from the new atmosphere, and very much excited to get back on the move and out of the familiarity of Buenos Aires.
All joy aside, much of my month in the city of Buenos Aires was spent in a tussle with the postal service between Correo Argentina and Australia Post. One unregistered package from my parents containing contact lenses and mobile phones went missing upon leaving my dad's hands in Bondi. A second package (registered this time) encountered addressing issues - which were, admittedly, largely my fault - and ended up being held by the Argentinean customs office for two weeks.
One final diary note: friends may find this hard to believe, but Jim and I lasted an amazing two weeks before our apartment degenerated into an inhabitable mess. The cleaning lady's non-appearance on the second week may have had much to do with our eventual failure, but in all, I am proud of our housekeeping efforts!
What it feels like for a girl
Not long after we had settled into our Buenos Aires apartment (read - I had my belongings suitably strewn everywhere), I found paradise: Abasto. My little pocket of capitalist glory amidst the third world, in the form of a five-storey, air-conditioned shopping mall.
Then again, it's not like the rest of the city even appears to be a part of the third world in any way, shape, or form. The city is serviced by a decent bus and subway system, as well as a regulated taxi service. Brand-name boutiques line the busy Avenida Santa Fe, where strolling
porteños (Buenos Aires locals) are dressed to the tee. Besides the fact that everything costs about one third of what it would in Australia, Buenos Aires could - on the surface - pass off as a city not too far from home.
I had heard and read only good things about Buenos Aires prior to my arrival, most of which is undeniable. The city is indeed a glittering diamond in the South American rough - but the jewel does also have its share of less attractive faces.
Porteños love the night. Dinner begins at 10.30pm, and no respectable party takes place any earlier than two in the morning. The schedule worked out all too well for Jim and I during our first week or so in the city, until we cycled through a variety of sleep patterns to finally become fully nocturnal.
Not a week had passed before I found that porteño time had left me feeling a certain emptiness about each day. I awoke to traffic noises in a grey, sunless city, with nowhere to go and little to do until nightfall. It was a lonely few days until I finally found solace in a few excellent bookstores - especially
El Ateneo on Avenida Santa Fe, which is located in what used to be a theatre, and is now easily the grandest, most beautiful bookstore I have ever seen.
If there is one thing I adore about porteño culture, it is their bookstores. The selection of books is wide and much more appealing - in my opinion - than the typical romance-thriller junk that seems to plague many Australian stores. As an added bonus, it seems to be common practice for literary dilettantes to spend all afternoon reading at in-house cafes without actually buying any books. This, of course, drastically broadened my reading list to include Che Guevara's diaries from the Congolese war, a very interesting book by U.S. investigative journalist Alexander Stille about former Italian prime minister Silvio Berlusconi, and a photo-biography of Evita Peron.
The latter was a raving account of the life of an Argentinean icon, painting Eva Peron as a revolutionary and selfless leader of the people, for the people. A far cry, certainly, from the power-hungry "whore" depicted by Madonna in the movie-musical, "Evita". (Yes, we have purchased the DVD for a quick, easy, and probably highly inaccurate infusion of Argentinean history and culture.)
Colour me biased, but the movie seems to have rather unfortunately reinforced many a negativity I ascribe to Buenos Aires: pretentiousness, vanity, materialism, and undeserved arrogance. One example is how our landlady reacted to hearing of our previous travels in Bolivia, which was immediately denounced as a destination she strongly disliked. When questioned, she readily admitted to never having visited the country per se, but "it's poor", she said. I have nothing against nationalistic pride, but close-minded arrogance is another thing altogether.
Another grievance between myself and the city is with what some might label "machismo". For me, this translates into plain old chauvinism; and this in a country that has once elected a female president! I find myself constantly ignored by waitstaff, salespeople and the like, in favour of Jim - who is expected to do all the little things like order for us both, and handle the bill. I am told by our Spanish teacher, Vera, that a married woman in Argentina is commonly referred to in terms of her relationship with her husband. For example: "
Mujer de Jose", which translates literally to "woman of Jose".
On the positive side of machismo, porteño men are rather forward, and excessively free with their compliments. There's nothing like the constant assurance of "
bonita" and "
linda" to boost a girl's ego! Also, I am told the official retirement age for Argentinean women is 55, which is five years younger than their male counterparts. Perhaps this isn't so bad a city to live in after all...
Road to perdition
The 40-hour bus journey from Santa Cruz, Bolivia to Buenos Aires, Argentina was a lot less painful than I had expected. The previous, very lazy week in Santa Cruz could well have eased the journey, having provided excellent training for remaining seated with nothing but sleep, movies, conversation and snacks as entertainment.
Of course, there were a fair few annoyances on the bus that took some getting used to. First, there was the incessant blaring of B-grade movies. Stuck in our seats with no way of ignoring the audio, we were all but forced to watch movies of a surprisingly adult calibre, as they featured what a casual observer might assume to be a little too much violence and nudity for the few pre-teens on the bus. Cases in point are the shockingly bad
Battle Royale remake,
The Condemned, and a local soft-core movie about a group of poledancing women.
During our first very uncomfortable 12 hours on the bus, our only reprieve from the audioscape would be periodic announcements that were broadcast unnecessarily loudly, and in
Castellano (the most commonly spoken Spanish dialect). By the time we had finally lost enough of our hearing to be able to fall asleep, we were awoken almost immediately to carry our bags off the bus and across the Bolivia-Argentina border.
On a more positive note, there was some beauty to be found in driving through the darkness on the top deck of our double-decker bus, watching the night quite literally pass me by. We moved in a capsule beyond space and time, with the splash of our headlights to casting a surreal halo on a blurry backdrop of gravel, shrubs, and the occasional run-down shack.
Jim and I seemed to be the only non-South Americans on the bus, which did afford some insight into local tourism. Our outlandishness was blatantly obvious at rest and meal stops, during which the conductor would have to come up the stairs to communicate the purpose of our stop and any instructions in a flurry of hand motions and the simplest of
Castellano vocabulary.
Besides our first dinner, which was served in a tiny plastic container on board the bus, we were fed set meals restaurants of relatively impressive quality. Sadly, being seated beside fellow travellers with that lamentable language barrier between us made for many an oddly silent dining experience.
At around noon on August 20, two weary travellers dragged their grimy bodies from a Santa Cruz bus and onto the pavement of Buenos Aires' bus station. But our tribulations were not over yet. Having foolishly shunned a money exchange desk at the Bolivia-Argentina border, Jim and I had absolutely zero Argentinean pesos between us, leading to an ATM hunt with our taxi driver, followed by a scramble from corner shop to corner shop in search of change for 100 pesos (US$31). I suspect the driver was merely being difficult in hopes of us giving up with change and just letting him have an extra twenty or so pesos, but there really wasn't much we could do besides comply.
It was well after two in the afternoon when we arrived at the door to what would be our home for the next month. Disappointingly, we were informed that it was a public holiday so cleaners were scarce, and it would be another two hours before the owners would have the apartment ready for us.
After two hours of gorging ourselves on coffee-and-chocolate ice cream by the poolside of our apartment block, we were very much relieved to be welcomed into a beautiful, if small, studio. The place is well-lit and equipped with a brand new kitchen and bathroom, as well as a high-speed connection to the Internet. Only quarrel was with our balcony that opened onto the busy Avenida Cordoba, which unfortunately meant that we were assailed by traffic noises at all hours of the day and night.
But it was our apartment. Our new home. With our own computers. Our own schedules. Our own goals. Our own rules - or lack thereof. Many a day was spent wallowing in the freedom of our new arrangement. Dinners and breakfasts were home-cooked, improved and consumed. Hours upon hours were spent catching up with our lives on the Internet.
Sleep-ins were simply an everyday, unavoidable truth.
Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows
An undulating sea of sand stretches into the horizon. Devoid of colour, motion, and sound, the landscape is like a canvas not yet touched by the artist's brush. Sitting cross-legged atop a sand dune in the heart Santa Cruz de la Sierra's national park, it was as if I had entered limbo.
Santa Cruz is an south-eastern Bolivian city that is 13 hours by road, or one hour by air, from the country's administrative capital, La Paz. Having already reached the limits of my capacity for torturous bus rides through the Andes, I was happy to fork out US$110 for the latter option.
But catching a domestic flight in Bolivia is not quite as painless as one might expect, especially for a couple of Spanish-language-disabled backpackers. Even though we arrived at the airport in La Paz no less than two hours before take off (and an hour before our travel agent's recommendation), our misinterpretation of "pre-boarding" announcements left us sitting in the airport terminal, confusedly watching our plane taxi away.
Fortunately, flights between La Paz and Santa Cruz leave relatively frequently. Airport staff were understanding and helpful, so it was barely another hour's wait before we were on our way.
It took 30 minutes by taxi to get from the airport to the city centre, during which time I became immensely glad that I was not travelling alone. In the darkness, we were driven past sleazy, neon-addressed clubs, along streets that were surprisingly deserted at only 11pm. Our taxi driver seemed to be leaving us to our fate in a dark alley about two blocks from the town square. We were much relieved to find our Lonely Planet recommended hostel behind a locked, unmarked gate across the road.
In the light of day, however, Santa Cruz takes on a new atmosphere altogether. In stark contrast with grey, metropolitan La Paz, Santa Cruz has the look of a geographically displaced tropical oasis. Palm trees line the Plaza 24 de Septiembre, which is the city-centre town square where all-day coffee carts service relaxed
cambas (Santa Cruz residents) along with the city's few tourists.
For Bolivia's most populous city, with a population of 1.3 million, Santa Cruz seems surprisingly laid back. Streets are wide and uncongested, and all around are seemingly content people strolling along meandering paths. It is near impossible to get anything done between the hours of one and three in the afternoon, when most stores shut for a siesta. This was somewhat of an annoyance for Jim and myself, as we would often only emerge from sleep during this time.
Santa Cruz's majestic sand dunes lay a 20 minute drive from the city centre, in the Parque Lomos de Arena. The recently restructured national park is said to be a popular weekend destination for local families. However, when we visited on a Thursday morning, the park was completely deserted but for a few rangers and other staff.
Without the use of a four-wheel drive, arriving at the dunes is a challenge in itself. It takes about an hour to stroll from the park entrance to the dunes, but the walk is well worth it just for a whiff of the surreal blankness atop the mounds.
By night, Santa Cruz is as quiet as ever - at least, until at least 2am when the city's nightclub strip, Equipatrol, comes to life. How
cambas keep themselves entertained between dinner time and nightclub hour remains a mystery to me. Unable to find much with which to amuse ourselves in the interim, Jim and I limited our nightlife experiences to the average-sounding Santa Cruz Rock festival, and a visit to the rather infamous Caesar's.
I very much enjoyed the relaxed feel of Santa Cruz, but was definitely ready to leave by the end of our week-long stay. And what an adventure leaving would be - we were bound for Buenos Aires, Argentina on 40-hour-long bus ride!
Brave new world
The bittersweet tang of freedom mixes all too well with loneliness. I couldn't help feeling at a loss as I finally awoke to an activity, and authority, -free Sunday. The next three days were spent chilling and regrouping in Cusco, with much sleep, magnificent dinners, and unhurried conversations over glasses of wine.
It felt amazing to relieve myself of all unnecessary baggage at the local post office, and to finally have all my possessions fit neatly into one backpack again. It is somehow strange and wonderful to know that I am responsible for this backpack alone, and that I could be comfortable just about anywhere as long as I have it with me.
After some discussion and many hours spent online, Jim and I have decided to head southwards through Bolivia on our way to Buenos Aires, Argentina, where we would spend a month on Spanish lessons and culture immersion - our way.
We left Cusco on an uncomfortable five-hour Wednesday morning bus ride towards Puno, of which memories had faded into surprising nostalgia. This time, being less affected by altitude sickness made Puno seem all the more accessible. Jim and I were easily walking distances that Joel and I did not while on the tour. And somehow, we managed to navigate the town with only instinct to guide us. We quickly sought out, and miraculously stumbled upon, the hotel-sauna of our last visit to Puno. Sadly, the sauna had shut by the time we returned from lunch.
Thursday began with a mad rush to the bus station, at which we arrived with only three minutes before our bus to La Paz, Bolivia, was due to depart. As we have already proven multiple times on this trip, punctuality does not seem to be a forte of this duo. Fortunately - or not - our bus was delayed by two hours. At that horrid pre-noon portion of the day, a wait could only spell one thing: coffee. We had an excellent coffee-and-cake breakfast at Rico's Pan, in between the old moral debates that had long become our in-transit staple.
We re-visited our old favourite Mexican restaurant, Mongos, that night in La Paz. Vivian's afterwards was successful also, although it did lead Jim to lament a lack of "decent strippers" in the Bolivian administrative capital. A total of three days were spent in La Paz, during which Bolivia became, to my mind, a land of dreams. Purchasing air tickets to Santa Cruz de la Sierra and laptops were achieved with surprisingly few hassles. In fact, the land seems to answer my every desire as I wish it; Saturday morning, for example, took us coincidentally past the perfect cafe with iced coffees and Wi-Fi access while we had our laptops on hand!
Less exciting, however, was our airport experience enroute to Santa Cruz. Fooled by a "pre-boarding" screen, and unable to comprehend audio announcements, Jim and I ended up watching some Beyonce-Shakira music video in the airport lounge while our 7.10pm flight taxied down the runway. And all this, despite having been two hours early! Fortunately, being in beautiful, idyllic Bolivia, airport staff had us booked on the next flight with no worries at all. Lovely.
