Chasing the Sun
The bed might have completely destroyed by back, but contrary to what my agonised screams suggested, I was sad to leave it. After rolling onto the floor, I grabbed the foot of the bed and gingerly raised myself to a standing position. The five minutes this took gave me a chance to reflect. I was in Johannesburg, South Africa on my last morning in the Dark Continent.The two and a half month journey from Kenya had been phenomenal (and delicious) but South America, a completely unknown continent, beckoned. The trip there would take 96 hours and involve not a single opportunity to lay horizontally. My hostel bed might have crippled me, but by the time I reached Peru I would have nothing but fond memories of it.
Holy Shit, I Can't Breathe
.. is what I would have screamed. If I could breathe. Although theatrically convenient, this thought didn't occur the moment I stepped off the plane in Cusco, Peru - which sits at an altitude of 3,400m above sea level. No, I was lulled into a false sense of security by the relative ease with which I was able to walk with my luggage from the airport to the taxi. Throughout the drive I breathed deeply, wondering what all the fuss about 'the thin air up there' was all about. The crisis referenced above occurred when I was climbing the second of two stairs leading to the hostel's entrance.
And so it was for the few days we spent acclimatising. Deceptively easy descents from the hostel (sadistically located several hundred meters above the main square) followed shortly thereafter by wheezy, shaky legged return trips. When, by the fourth day, my level of acclimatisation failed to improve beyond 'completely non-existent' I feared that my chances of finishing our upcoming Inca trail hike were close to zero.
With this in mind it was no surprise that the first switchback of the trail, less than one hundred meters from the bus (I could still clearly read the license plate) had me panting as I rested unsteadily on my trekking poles. Not even attempting to conceal my search for a donkey to carry me the rest of the way, I thought the following days would be the worst of my life. But things did improve. The trek presented a host of challenges - from steep ascents and steeper descents to climactic extremes and torrential, evil rain. The latter closed in as we began the 11km descent from Dead Woman's Pass late on the second day. My poncho did nothing to stem the flow of water from the atmosphere to my skin (we later found out that we had all inadvertently purchased fake ponchos - how much cheaper can non-waterproof ponchos be to produce?) and the rain cover on my day pack sucked all unaccounted-for water directly into all my stuff. When I opened my DSLR later that evening I found the battery compartment full of water, and luckily a battery. My supposedly waterproof rented hiking boots also doubled as excellent water containers, leading to foot wrinkles so intense one could grate cheese on them; leaving aside the fact that this would be a monumental waste of cheese. Not wanting to chance it, I stuck to grating cheese on my abs instead.
All of this misery was tempered by the incredible facilities provided by our tour company. Independent travel on the Inca trail is prohibited, and although we chose the provider at the very bottom end of the price scale, we spent every minute off the trail in luxury. Each meal was at least three courses, piping hot and served in a dining tent with cutlery and table linen. Our sleeping tents were set up, packed down and carried for us. Our guides scheduled regular breaks and were sensitive to my failings as a hiker. With all of this assistance, the trek was still a huge challenge, but more achievable than I had first thought.
Of course, the destination, Macchu Pichu, was the highlight of the experience. We were led around on a guided tour, although I was too exhausted to take any of it in. I took the obligatory photos (including many of confused hippies wondering why the world hadn't ended) and hightailed it down the mountain to collapse onto a sofa.
Later that evening, the train back to Cusco was the perfect example of mass tourism making me want to pull my own fingernails out. Not content letting destroyed hikers simply sit on the train doing nothing, the Chilean rail operator had manufactured an authentic Peruvian cultural experience that happened to fit perfectly into the train's schedule. Unsurprisingly, most the cultural activities involved buying things - described in gushing tones by American accented English on prerecorded commentary. To cap it off, an unexplained person in a technicolour wolf costume danced up and down the train for the entire journey. Peru. Done.
Spanish is Useless Here. Everybody Panic.
David Treppo is a useful guy to have around. Want to know the top thousand things wrong with the Carlton Football Club? He's your man. Curious about the propensity to and magnitude of sagging likely to occur in that concrete beam above you? He'll tell you before you even ask. He's also the proud owner of a working knowledge of Spanish - which makes him indispensable pretty much everywhere south of the United States. Or so we thought. As I care little for football and concrete the final (or first?) pillar (or beam?) of David Treppo's utility was shattered while ordering Pizza in Foz de Iguassu, Brazil.
David: "Habla usted espanol?"
Pizza Woman: "Nao."
Uh-oh. In the end, with much pointing and poor pronounciation ('Grande' is said "gran-jay", WTF?) we were all able to order our respective pizzas, which all turned out to be essentially the same. Dough. Cheese. Olives. Onions. Repeat.
Of course, communication difficulties sometimes worked in our favour. In the lead up to New Year's Eve we were in Lapa, Rio de Janeiro. During one of the twice weekly (Brazilians know how to tear it up) street parties every bar and club was packed to the gills with huge lines for entry. Conspicuously, one bar had ample space available inside. Having already impaired our thought processes with 5 reai Smirnoff Reds, we sauntered on in.
On entry we were each given a card which would serve as our tab, which we'd then pay as we left. Makes sense. For them. Kevin Diau (the USA's finest real estate agent) had to get back to his hostel and headed off ... only to return a minute later clutching his card. On the reverse was a previously undisclosed fee for 'Entrada' - a whopping 35 reals ($18) - which had to be paid before one was allowed to leave. As we were stumbling around Rio's hideously dangerous streets, none of us had that sort of money on us. And, well, it stank of a scam - and the staff knew it. Fuming, I stuffed my tab card in my pocket and stomped to the fenced off smoking area on the street to clear my head. Treppo was speaking but as I noticed something in my peripheral vision his words faded away. The security guards in the smoking area had absent-mindedly wandered in different directions. A large stretch of fence was completely unguarded. I looked up at Treppo and locked eyes with him.
'I'm going for it.'
I turned, vaulted the fence and sprinted into the crowd. A few people casually noticed before returning to their conversations. Behind me I heard nothing but the sounds of the street party. No shouts, no radios, nothing. Just broken glass crunching underfoot and cigarette vendors spruiking their wares. I had made it. I began to slow from a trot to a swagger.
Then I heard footsteps. Thousands of them. Getting louder. And, if it's even possible, angrier. I began to turn when an enormous arm appeared in front of my face and clamped me to its man mountain of an owner standing behind me. Several more arms grabbed my wrists. And neck. And legs. And carried me, unceremoniously, through the street party and back to the bar. Every one of the bouncers was yelling at me in Portuguese. The best I could manage was a meek 'Ingles? Por favor?'.
The bar's manager did speak English. And he wasn't impressed. Figuring he'd see how much I had attempted to steal before deciding how to kill me, he asked for my card. I could see the sadistic glee in his eyes as he accepted the crumpled cardboard from my trembling hands. He studied it. Turned it over. Frowned in thought.
'But ... there are no drinks on this card,' he stated, dumbstruck. 'What were you running for?'
Too shaken to attempt to argue the merits of risking my life for $18 I simply claimed to not speak English and mutely offered him the remainder of cash from my pockets - which luckily enough was exactly 35 reals. With a bar to run, he just sighed, grabbed the money and had me thrown, literally, out onto the street. Dusting myself off, I slipped into the crowd and wandered home.
But Rio isn't the party capital of the world for nothing. Despite the above incident, after 10 days there we all came to the same conclusion; Rio rocked. Everything from the hangover-negating heat, easy to drink beer, omnipresent bottle shops and the 'live for right now' attitude of every Brazilian was conducive to an awesome time. And when the party eventually wound down, Ipanema and Copacabana beaches, or the floor of the hostel common room provided perfect places to rest one's head.
But sadly, we had to leave this temple of debauchery for new pastures. The Latin America Experience continues. There were many more Noctums to Carpe. And Carpe we did.
The bed might have completely destroyed by back, but contrary to what my agonised screams suggested, I was sad to leave it. After rolling onto the floor, I grabbed the foot of the bed and gingerly raised myself to a standing position. The five minutes this took gave me a chance to reflect. I was in Johannesburg, South Africa on my last morning in the Dark Continent.The two and a half month journey from Kenya had been phenomenal (and delicious) but South America, a completely unknown continent, beckoned. The trip there would take 96 hours and involve not a single opportunity to lay horizontally. My hostel bed might have crippled me, but by the time I reached Peru I would have nothing but fond memories of it.
This map is not to scale.
Holy Shit, I Can't Breathe
.. is what I would have screamed. If I could breathe. Although theatrically convenient, this thought didn't occur the moment I stepped off the plane in Cusco, Peru - which sits at an altitude of 3,400m above sea level. No, I was lulled into a false sense of security by the relative ease with which I was able to walk with my luggage from the airport to the taxi. Throughout the drive I breathed deeply, wondering what all the fuss about 'the thin air up there' was all about. The crisis referenced above occurred when I was climbing the second of two stairs leading to the hostel's entrance.
And so it was for the few days we spent acclimatising. Deceptively easy descents from the hostel (sadistically located several hundred meters above the main square) followed shortly thereafter by wheezy, shaky legged return trips. When, by the fourth day, my level of acclimatisation failed to improve beyond 'completely non-existent' I feared that my chances of finishing our upcoming Inca trail hike were close to zero.
With this in mind it was no surprise that the first switchback of the trail, less than one hundred meters from the bus (I could still clearly read the license plate) had me panting as I rested unsteadily on my trekking poles. Not even attempting to conceal my search for a donkey to carry me the rest of the way, I thought the following days would be the worst of my life. But things did improve. The trek presented a host of challenges - from steep ascents and steeper descents to climactic extremes and torrential, evil rain. The latter closed in as we began the 11km descent from Dead Woman's Pass late on the second day. My poncho did nothing to stem the flow of water from the atmosphere to my skin (we later found out that we had all inadvertently purchased fake ponchos - how much cheaper can non-waterproof ponchos be to produce?) and the rain cover on my day pack sucked all unaccounted-for water directly into all my stuff. When I opened my DSLR later that evening I found the battery compartment full of water, and luckily a battery. My supposedly waterproof rented hiking boots also doubled as excellent water containers, leading to foot wrinkles so intense one could grate cheese on them; leaving aside the fact that this would be a monumental waste of cheese. Not wanting to chance it, I stuck to grating cheese on my abs instead.
All of this misery was tempered by the incredible facilities provided by our tour company. Independent travel on the Inca trail is prohibited, and although we chose the provider at the very bottom end of the price scale, we spent every minute off the trail in luxury. Each meal was at least three courses, piping hot and served in a dining tent with cutlery and table linen. Our sleeping tents were set up, packed down and carried for us. Our guides scheduled regular breaks and were sensitive to my failings as a hiker. With all of this assistance, the trek was still a huge challenge, but more achievable than I had first thought.
The meal tent, along with everything in this picture, was carried along the trail with us by porters.
Of course, the destination, Macchu Pichu, was the highlight of the experience. We were led around on a guided tour, although I was too exhausted to take any of it in. I took the obligatory photos (including many of confused hippies wondering why the world hadn't ended) and hightailed it down the mountain to collapse onto a sofa.
'Damn it. I wish I hadn't spent all my hemp money and quit my job at Trader Joe's.'
Later that evening, the train back to Cusco was the perfect example of mass tourism making me want to pull my own fingernails out. Not content letting destroyed hikers simply sit on the train doing nothing, the Chilean rail operator had manufactured an authentic Peruvian cultural experience that happened to fit perfectly into the train's schedule. Unsurprisingly, most the cultural activities involved buying things - described in gushing tones by American accented English on prerecorded commentary. To cap it off, an unexplained person in a technicolour wolf costume danced up and down the train for the entire journey. Peru. Done.
Not a single element of this journey made any sense.
Spanish is Useless Here. Everybody Panic.
David Treppo is a useful guy to have around. Want to know the top thousand things wrong with the Carlton Football Club? He's your man. Curious about the propensity to and magnitude of sagging likely to occur in that concrete beam above you? He'll tell you before you even ask. He's also the proud owner of a working knowledge of Spanish - which makes him indispensable pretty much everywhere south of the United States. Or so we thought. As I care little for football and concrete the final (or first?) pillar (or beam?) of David Treppo's utility was shattered while ordering Pizza in Foz de Iguassu, Brazil.
David: "Habla usted espanol?"
Pizza Woman: "Nao."
Uh-oh. In the end, with much pointing and poor pronounciation ('Grande' is said "gran-jay", WTF?) we were all able to order our respective pizzas, which all turned out to be essentially the same. Dough. Cheese. Olives. Onions. Repeat.
But Allan didn't seem to mind.
Of course, communication difficulties sometimes worked in our favour. In the lead up to New Year's Eve we were in Lapa, Rio de Janeiro. During one of the twice weekly (Brazilians know how to tear it up) street parties every bar and club was packed to the gills with huge lines for entry. Conspicuously, one bar had ample space available inside. Having already impaired our thought processes with 5 reai Smirnoff Reds, we sauntered on in.
Photo credit: vandriaabroad.blogspot.com. We only carried miserly amounts of cash at night in Rio.
On entry we were each given a card which would serve as our tab, which we'd then pay as we left. Makes sense. For them. Kevin Diau (the USA's finest real estate agent) had to get back to his hostel and headed off ... only to return a minute later clutching his card. On the reverse was a previously undisclosed fee for 'Entrada' - a whopping 35 reals ($18) - which had to be paid before one was allowed to leave. As we were stumbling around Rio's hideously dangerous streets, none of us had that sort of money on us. And, well, it stank of a scam - and the staff knew it. Fuming, I stuffed my tab card in my pocket and stomped to the fenced off smoking area on the street to clear my head. Treppo was speaking but as I noticed something in my peripheral vision his words faded away. The security guards in the smoking area had absent-mindedly wandered in different directions. A large stretch of fence was completely unguarded. I looked up at Treppo and locked eyes with him.
'I'm going for it.'
I turned, vaulted the fence and sprinted into the crowd. A few people casually noticed before returning to their conversations. Behind me I heard nothing but the sounds of the street party. No shouts, no radios, nothing. Just broken glass crunching underfoot and cigarette vendors spruiking their wares. I had made it. I began to slow from a trot to a swagger.
Then I heard footsteps. Thousands of them. Getting louder. And, if it's even possible, angrier. I began to turn when an enormous arm appeared in front of my face and clamped me to its man mountain of an owner standing behind me. Several more arms grabbed my wrists. And neck. And legs. And carried me, unceremoniously, through the street party and back to the bar. Every one of the bouncers was yelling at me in Portuguese. The best I could manage was a meek 'Ingles? Por favor?'.
The bar's manager did speak English. And he wasn't impressed. Figuring he'd see how much I had attempted to steal before deciding how to kill me, he asked for my card. I could see the sadistic glee in his eyes as he accepted the crumpled cardboard from my trembling hands. He studied it. Turned it over. Frowned in thought.
'But ... there are no drinks on this card,' he stated, dumbstruck. 'What were you running for?'
Too shaken to attempt to argue the merits of risking my life for $18 I simply claimed to not speak English and mutely offered him the remainder of cash from my pockets - which luckily enough was exactly 35 reals. With a bar to run, he just sighed, grabbed the money and had me thrown, literally, out onto the street. Dusting myself off, I slipped into the crowd and wandered home.
But Rio isn't the party capital of the world for nothing. Despite the above incident, after 10 days there we all came to the same conclusion; Rio rocked. Everything from the hangover-negating heat, easy to drink beer, omnipresent bottle shops and the 'live for right now' attitude of every Brazilian was conducive to an awesome time. And when the party eventually wound down, Ipanema and Copacabana beaches, or the floor of the hostel common room provided perfect places to rest one's head.
But sadly, we had to leave this temple of debauchery for new pastures. The Latin America Experience continues. There were many more Noctums to Carpe. And Carpe we did.
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