Category Archives: travel

August 28, 2012 · 2:05 PM

Conversational confidence (and a splash of Spanglish)

I am on a flight to the island of Santa Cruz on the Galapagos archipelago, and somehow I’ve landed a seat wedged in amongst a lively group of school kids at the back of the plane. Their teacher throws me an apologetic smile before returning to her itinerary in an earnest attempt to ignore flying objects and playful punches. And in amongst the excitement and chaos and chatter I can’t help but smile to myself. Why? Because I can understand a good chunk of what these hyperites are saying. (Oh, and the fact that I am winging my way to one of the world’s most awesome places for nature and wildlife. It’s definitely another good reason for my optimistic mood).

The desire to speak and understand Spanish had been a big decider in my choice to travel in South America. Back in September 2011 I landed in Ecuador and gave Spanish a good go, but realistically it was a half-hearted effort that all too often resulted in a Spanglish language mish-mash coloured with a splash of German and Dutch and Hebrew.

I got by, don’t get me wrong, but during this second trip to South America I wanted to immerse myself further in the language and culture of the place and not the language and culture of my fellow travellers (as interesting as it might be).

After my visit to Brazil (with its added confusion of Brazilian Portuguese), I had decided to head back into Spanish-speaking South America, roughing it out for over twenty-eight hours on two buses through Paraguay into Bolivia.

It had been over three months since I’d spoken Spanish yet once I arrived into Asunción in Paraguay I was easily able to sort out tickets and taxis and day stays in a hostel whilst the two English girls in tow stood tongue-tied.

I could suddenly speak Spanish! It came flooding back to me with renewed energy and confidence. Could I really have improved? People understood me! Oh happy day!

Because being able to speak the language, I’ve found, enables one to connect better with locals, to feel closer to a country, to understand its nuances a little better.

For example during the day-long bus journey into Bolivia, I chatted away with the guy who had taken my window seat. I found out he was Colombian with four kids aged between four and twenty-six. Through body language and Spanish we talked on and off for hours about religion and family and everything in between.

In Pucara I found myself eating lunch with a family from Santa Cruz discussing Bolivian and European politics and economies. I understood pretty much everything. Sure, their language was probably dumbed down in order to give me a chance, and of course I couldn’t babble away in too much detail and depth, but it was a conversation nonetheless. In Spanish!

When I returned to Ecuador in April 2012, I taxied to a hostel in Guyaquil. ‘Your Spanish is good’, noted the driver. We chatted away. And once at the hostel I went through the whole check-in question and answer process in easy Spanish. ‘Your Spanish is good’, they complimented. I glowed. It was a day for ego-boosts.

But, for the amount of time I’ve spent in South America I really should be a lot better. I didn’t do daily homework like the good girl I wanted to be. I hung out with other travellers and spoke English far more than I ever intended.

And I got over my shyness and embarked on conversations a lot too late.

But shoulda-woulda-coulda. I partially achieved my South America goal to have a conversation in Spanish. So long as it’s not too in-depth, tick. I can get by.

Not that I’ll stop now, oh no.

So here I am, on my way to Galapagos with only a week or so to go before I leave South America once again, and I’m starting to think of ways to keep my language dreams alive. Anyone want to be my Spanish speaking buddy when I’m back in Australia? Weekly food and chatter at mine, no English allowed. Bon appetit. Oh no. I mean buen provercho. Si.

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July 20, 2012 · 8:48 AM

How to travel from Uyuni to La Paz in style

Stories of a rough night ride linking Uyuni to La Paz by bus didn’t get me particularly excited about my leaving date. ‘I’m thinking of taking the train’, said my friend Nathalie, so I thought about it too. As did Carl and Patrick and Moritz and Blair. We thought and thought and talked. And then we went to the train station to book. Enough thinking.

‘You’ll have to go first class’, said the ticket man. I wondered whether tourists always got fed that line. At 112Bs. (£10.49/US$16.33) it was double that of a standard ticket. But, if we wanted to leave that night? Come on! Stop over thinking. Buy the goddam ticket.

At the last-minute Blair bailed and bought a ticket to go the opposite way. As happens whilst on the road, my Uyuni tour crew had started to break apart. Would we catch up again with Blair? With Lance? With Gemma? Maybe. All part of the randomness of travel. Move on, let them go. No time to get sentimental.

At just gone midnight the train rolled in. To be fair to the ticket guy, all carriages were stuffed full. People pushed on board, squishing in. Martin, a 6ft6” blonde dreadlocked Swede had got one of the last standard tickets. I imagined him trying to crush himself in there. Quite a mission. Would he get any sleep?

Our carriage, first class, didn’t exist. Like a scene from Harry Potter, we were sent down to the end of the platform to wait in the dark for a special, additional carriage to be brought in. I felt such a tourist. It was a little elitist and embarrassing. And somewhat mystical too.

Choo, choo. It turned up. We climbed on board, but my friend Carl got stopped. ‘Breathe on me’, instructed the conductor. Carl sucked in and exhaled. I held my breath. The boys had been on the beers all night.

Somehow, who knows how, the train crew were satisfied that Carl wasn’t drunk. If they’d witnessed his cheery, loud address taking centre stage at the front of the carriage as we chugged away from Uyuni, they may well have gone for a second opinion.

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Part of the departing crew enjoying the comforts and space of first class

The carriage was empty, save for me and my four travel buddies and a handful of others. We each moved on to a double seat. Bedding, hot, super sweet tea and a ham and cheese roll were handed out to each of us. The perks of first class. Not really that fantastic, but a gesture, a nod towards the double cost.

I ended up drinking unwanted teas, cup-loads of sickly sweetness passed forward for me to finish. I started to feel a little nauseous and stopped. ‘Drink your own’, I finally told them, ‘I’m sugared out’.

The train started its 312km journey, moving smoothly towards Oruro. I tried to sleep. The blanket was a bit funky. At first I thought it might be the sleeping bag that I’d borrowed from one of the guys. Nah, it was definitely the blanket, so I pushed its mustiness away from my face and pulled the cords in tightly on my hoodie.

I mustn’t judge guys so harshly, I thought as I started to doze off, because many smell pretty damn good. Some even know how to wash and not just cover travel funkiness with smelly sprays. And with the gentle sway of the train and the warmth of a million layers and the thoughts of guys and good smells, I drifted off into a light sleep.

Six hours later we arrived into Oruro, took a short taxi ride to the bus terminal, bought tickets to La Paz for a group discount rate of 15Bs. each and grabbed some api and buñelo breakfast at a roadside stall.

Fed and watered, we nearly missed the bus. French Nathalie did an action hero jump onto the moving vehicle, trying to hold the doors open for me to follow suite. It didn’t happen. I waved her goodbye. We’d meet again. At least she was on board with everyone’s bags.

Not quite ready to totally give up, the rest of us ran behind the bus, flapping and shouting.

Fifty metres along the road, the bus stopped. It suddenly all made sense. In order to get into the bus terminal, one had to pay an entry fee – a terminal tax  – of 15 centavos. The locals didn’t want to spend out so they gathered around the corner and waited for free access to the bus. Smart move.

I clambered onboard and collapsed into the seat next to Nathalie.

Three hours of girlie chat about life and love and everything in between and suddenly there she was spread out below us: the mass of La Paz, beautiful and scary all in one. I felt claustrophobic panic and tingly excitement and every emotion in between. I’m not a fan of cities but wow! – if you’re going to do cities , then this is quite the place.

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Hello La Paz

And it felt so lovely, so different to arrive into the hectic belly of a city with a small group of friends. I’m used to fending for myself on arrival or otherwise sharing the fun with one other travel buddy. In a group, it was easier and enjoyable, if a little more awkward to organise.

Even the prospect of staying in the most full-on gringo haunt in town didn’t horrify me as much as it might usually. With these guys, anywhere could be fun. I had to keep an open mind and see whether the Loki hostel would eat me alive and spit me out, or just full on disagree with me.

Or maybe, just maybe, it could surprise me and I’d love the place. Time to find out.

So in terms of travelling to La Paz in style, I guess we’re not talking helicopters or private jets, we’re not dreaming up visions of horse-drawn carriages full of sumptuous cushions and throws, and we’re steering somewhat clear of the luxury of speed and smoothness. But! – in terms of public transport travel in Bolivia, going first class on the train from Uyuni to Oruro is really quite spacious and comfortable whilst the bus ride for the next few hours is no big drama at all.

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Train timetable available here. The train from Uyuni and arriving into Oruro only leaves on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday and tickets sell out fairly quickly (unless you’re happy to go first class).

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July 13, 2012 · 6:48 AM

In Search of Adventure Abroad and Community at Home: Thoughts on Being a Vagabond

Reblogged from The Perpetual Vagabond:

I am a vagabond; that much is clear to me. But I am also drawn to building creative and meaningful community at home. This makes me feel torn on a near constant basis and the process of fuzing these two realities together seems to be more alchemy than a hard science. At least I have yet to discover the secret. It seems that the life of a vagabond is lonely and isolated from stability, while filled with adventure and personal growth; while life in community is repetitive and predictable, but gives the opportunity to know others and a place intimately.

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An interesting discussion from another adventuring nomad who raises some points to which I can totally relate.

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June 30, 2012 · 12:29 PM

What’s in my backpack?

www.travelola.orgPEOPLE HAVE ASKED ME ABOUT a post that I wrote a little while back where I downsized my backpack from an 80 litre to a 45 litre bundle of joy.

How did I do it? What am I carrying?

I wasn’t totally sure so one day in Sucre I laid it all out and took stock. I had bought a couple of extra things, but it still surprised me: it looked like a lot.

  1. Wash bag. This tough bag by North Face is waterproof but although it holds things in snugly, I find it a bit awkward to use on a daily basis.
  2. First aid kit. Everything from antibiotics to anti-malarials and antiseptics. Anti-everything, then. Oh, and some vitamins, plasters/band-aids and a thermometer.
  3. Second wash bag. Yes. Two washbags. Excessive. This one contains items that I don’t use often, such as anti-mosquito spray, make-up for nights out, spare razor blades, that kind of stuff.
  4. Electronics pouch containing chargers and cables. And a converter that works EVERYWHERE.
  5. Sun hat. My third one in the last year. The Inca Jungle Trail claimed one, a bus in Ecuador another. I get sunstroke and sunburnt fairly easily so head protection is a must.
  6. Merino buff®. This works out to be a scarf, hat, muff or whatever you want it to be. I barely used this but it is small, light and has been a blessing during some chilly moments, like in Cuenca.
  7. Zip up tops x3. One hooded fleece, one lightweight base layer and one heavier, lined hoodie.
  8. A RAB down jacket that folds down into its own pocket, and a raincoat. The raincoat was used fairly regularly, and although it took a month and half before I needed some extra warmth, the down jacket was a beautiful cuddle when I visited the glacier in Peru.
  9. Travel towel.  A little bigger than I needed; smaller would have been fine.
  10. Pants/undies/bra x10. There is no point skimping on underwear, I realised, so I stocked up in New Zealand.
  11. Legwarmers x2. Some Bolivian additions that are well loved in the chilly climate.
  12. Socks x4. One thicker pair for walking, the rest cotton. Other than when I went on hikes or travelled in Bolivia, for most of my travels my socks stay have stayed buried at the bottom of my bag.
  13. Eye-mask. Nothing exotic, just a freebie from the airplane but I wouldn’t travel without. Totally useful in hostels or when on overnight public transport.
  14. Shorts x 3. One longer pair, one roll-up, and one short. Two pairs would suffice.
  15. Jeans, combats and zip-off synthetic walking trousers. People say not to travel with jeans. Well I like them, so tough (and I have to carry my bag so I only have to face myself on that one really). I did downsize from proper jeans to skinny legs to save on a bit of space, but actually these are less versatile and only worn in cities or on nights out.
  16. Silk sleeping bag liner. I’ve used this less than I expected but the moments when I need some extra warmth or an extra layer between me and the bed bugs, it is great.
  17. Skirts x 2 and one dress. My skirts are all casual but absolutely adaptable for when I need to glam up a little.
  18. Black leggings and PJs. When I got to Oz I downsized my PJs to a shorty set to save on space. The leggings are great worn under trousers or with a skirt when it is cold.
  19. T-shirts x4: black, blue, yellow and white patterned. Versatile. Nothing fancy.
  20. Belt. Not always needed but was still worth having, either to hold my trousers up when I lost weight after my parasite incident back in Ecuador, or to open bottles with the built in opener (something I only discovered en route).
  21. Bikini. I did start my trip with two bikinis but my favourite set got left behind on a washing line in Raglan, New Zealand. One bikini, realistically, was enough.
  22. Long sleeved t-shirts x5. Mostly in plain, light cotton ideal for layering, these are adaptable to smart or casual situations. One of my favourites for that extra snug hug is my Howies’ merino top (although it has been so well worn that it is now pretty holey. Want to send me a new one, guys?!).
  23. Vest tops x 7. It may sound like too many, but I do use them all. Pretty much. And they don’t take up much space at all. Two of the seven were more going out style tops.
  24. Teva hiking sandals. Brown leather, these can come across fairly smart when I need them to whilst still being totally practical and cushioned comfortable.
  25. Salomon hiking shoes. Dark brown colour is perfect for making these not stand out too much or show the dirt too obviously. These are my go-everywhere shoes that are comfy, have good grip and are Goretex® waterproofed. The only downside is that in some countries I’ve found them to be a little too hot.
  26. Converse casual shoes. I didn’t have a pair of ‘hang-out’ shoes and didn’t intend to get any either as my trainers had doubled up fine for this purpose… but then in Bolivia I decided to buy myself a cheap pair of Converses. Probably fake but they fit and do the job.
  27. Flat, strappy sandals. Super light, these barely take up any space at all. After a backpacker in New Zealand lent me some sandals for a night out, I decided to go girly and get in on the action. And these sandals have actually been well used.
  28. Flip flops. I travelled for six months with just one pair but when I got to Brazil, home of the Havaianas, I couldn’t leave without another! Totally useful, including when using communal showers.
  29. Head torch. Most used item in my backpack, maybe? I keep this close at night and pack it at the top of my bag so that when arriving, for example, into a power cut Villa Serrano late at night, I can still find my way.

It is a lot, yet somehow it all fits into my 45 litre Berghaus backpack. Sure, it’s a bit of a squash but it weighs in at 15kg and is a doddle to carry around. I guess I should mention that I use some roll down vacuum bags. They’re great for packing things down small and keeping similar things together.

And! – I carry a little day pack with my sunglasses, wallet, water, pen, paper, and other valuables that I want close by, including a fake wallet with some old cards and a bit of cash so that if I get mugged, I can hand over something without losing everything. I always carry a photocopy of my passport (in each wallet) and I’ve found laminating them to be really helpful (compared to other travellers’ tatty bits of paper that means they often have to still produce real identification, my copied ID often  gets me past official  check points without any bother).

Looking at the above picture, I realise that I could quite easily prune my luggage a lot further but there does come a point where it’s quite nice having SOME choice.

So, if YOU’RE heading off soon and thinking of throwing in hair straighteners and high heels, just stop for a moment and think about the kind of travelling that you’ll be doing. A weekend in Paris? Maybe. A month trekking and roughing it? Nah. The tousled, flip flopped look will work just fine. Trust me.

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June 27, 2012 · 4:04 AM

Dinner with someone else’s boyfriend

Pic from http://www.discoverthetrip.com

WHILST ANNA* LAY SICK IN bed, I went to dinner with her boyfriend. Before you judge me as some thieving little hussy, read on. She knew. She gave us her blessing.

Maybe she had a hunch that I wasn’t that type of girl. Maybe it was because me and Anna got on really well. Maybe she’s just not the jealous type and she trusted that her man wouldn’t stray. Or maybe, just because she was sick didn’t mean that she expected her boyfriend to stay home fawning over her. She wanted and expected him to go get on with things. And not necessarily alone.

Whatever the reason, I found her trust admirable. Because life and love whilst travelling, I’ve come to learn, are out to test every relationship going.

I’m sure there are people who it does work for, that there are people who are able to feel free from ties and really experience their travels without the constant reference to home or the other but still feel connected enough when they return, and that there are people who are faithful to each other across vast distances and despite having had such different experiences they’ll never be able to fully share.

But I’ve met many a person who has decided to leave their relationship back home or put it on hold in order to allow them to truly be free whilst travelling.

Freedom, they argue, has little to do with sleeping with someone else but rather it’s about following whatever adventure presents itself without consultation or compromise. And if, by chance, those adventures lead to the bedroom (or a beach or another hidey spot) then they want to feel free to go with the moment, not hold back.

And leaving a relationship back home is surely fairer than the behaviour of some travellers I’ve met who claim to have a partner back home, profess to missing them terribly, and then that very night share a bed and part of themselves with a stranger.

It has really made me think about relationships on the road. If you’re travelling together, that’s a challenge in itself, but something that can strengthen your connection with new, shared experiences and adventures. But, if your boyfriend, girlfriend or spouse isn’t with you on a longer stint of travel time, it seems almost an impossibility that you’ll last.

Of course we all need moments of freedom and independence from our close relationships, but planning on being away from your boyfriend for two years, as one girl I met had decided, just seemed a little silly to me, particularly since she seemed to be unconsciously searching for a substitute only two months in.

Anna was right about me, and I liked her a lot. She was a good, honest, fun girl. Her and her boyfriend were a fantastic couple who I’m sure I’ll see again in my life. Of course I had no intention of chasing him, of hurting her. Despite what people might think about solo travelling girls, we’re not all single and we’re not all on the prowl. Some of us, believe it or not, just want to travel and meet lots of different people without any added complications.

So I went out for food with Anna’s boyfriend. We ate at a place where we bumped into other travel friends and it wasn’t intimate or awkward or anything like that because, like Anna, he was a good person too. No funny business.

There are a fair few good ‘uns out there.

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*names have been changed

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June 10, 2012 · 1:09 AM

Bus travel in Bolivia that I’d really recommend

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Leaving Pucara

MAYBE I WAS JUST GLAD to be getting out of Pucara and away from the prospect of a marriage of convenience that would have seen me living small, Bolivian village life, running three rental houses and caring for an old husband who would surely be well on his way to incontinence. Maybe my favourable account of the bus journey from Pucara to Villa Serrano and then on to Sucre was therefore skewed.

But hang on. The landscape was beautiful and the variation in terrain as we descended from high altitudes to the warmer climate of Villa Serrano was well worth noting.

Steep, winding mountain roads wound down past cacti the size of trees along rubbly ground where a sparse covering of shrubs with exposed roots clung on to dry, stony earth.

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Rocky landscapes on the way from Pucara to Villa Serrano

Cacti bushes and trees along the way to Villa Serrano

The crowded bus continued on through dusty canyons and alongside wide, dry rivers. Dust swirled through the bus, coating everything. The teenager in the seat in front of me sat hugging an old school ghetto blaster whilst he puked out and down the side of the bus, the warm, sweet fumes filtering back in through my open window.

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Herding by the river

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Dry river at dusk

At parts, the road was really terrible, huge chunks missing. The bus momentarily crawled alongside browny-orange landslides and inched across and around gaping cavities whilst I held my breath. We always made it. Skilled drivers, aided by the sign up front that stated seguir a Cristo. As on most South American public transport, we were being looked after by the total trust in religious iconography. All good.

As dusk set in, mountains silhouetted against a clear sky. The guy next to me got off the bus, no houses in sight, the middle of a dark nothingness. I wondered how far he had to walk still. It was gone 20:00pm.

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Night arrives on the way from Pucara to Villa Serrano

A little boy jumped into his seat. I dozed a little, waking only when he started to blow raspberries at his friend and screech and clamber over me to look at the moon. ‘¡La luna es aqui!’ he babbled, and his friend joined him by the window, which was also my seat and my lap. Two unknown three year old kids with knees and elbows digging into me? At least I had somewhere to sit.

A little later, having reclaimed some space, I woke up to my hair being stroked. The little boy next to me was now singing gently and playing with my hair, no inhibitions.

Within another hour we arrived into Villa Serrano and I wandered through dark streets with my head torch trying to find somewhere to stay.

Electricity in the town was down. My little venture away from the modern, English speaking world with all its comforts and trappings was set to continue for at least another day, and I certainly wasn’t about to complain.

After a short night’s sleep and a chilly shower, I was back on a bus headed from Villa Serrano to Sucre through a landscape of hills covered in grasses and trees.

It was an early morning start. Wisps of mist hung in the valleys and mountain peaks stayed hidden in the clouds, shadows streaking across their green, grey bodies. The sun shone out gentle, light rays onto little mud brick buildings with grass roofs and red tiles, waking up the folk in the farmsteads that we passed.

It was flatter and greener in the valleys, dry rockiness visible every now and then alongside corn fields. Yellow sunburst flowers on long, leafy stalks sat next to short, fluffy tufts of plants, delicately blowing in the fresh morning breeze.

On board, women sporting plaits and wearing warm, woolly hats carried small children bundled up in blankets. I played peek-a-boo with a little girl in front of me whilst a young boy looked on shyly, smiling when I caught his eye. Again, the only gringo on board. The elders were politer but the children were curious. I tried to remember being that young, but all I could really recall were my mum’s stories about how I chatted away to everyone.

The rest of this journey took us past more cacti; some small and spindly, others still the size of trees. Amazing towers of red rock rose up on the roadside just over an hour into the trip before we finally arrived at flatter farm land and paved, concrete roads. The bus sped up, onwards to Sucre.

So what was so special about this journey?

Predominantly, this was about the amazing, varied scenery but also the experience of being in amongst the locals with not a tourist in sight. It was also a much more interesting way to get to Sucre, and a cheap way to cover some substantial ground.

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Pucara to Villa Serrano cost 30Bs. (£2.70/US$4.34) for a six hour journey and Villa Serrano to Sucre cost 25Bs. (£2.25/US$3.62) for a four and a half hour journey. Villa Serrano to Sucre was a much smoother journey with better roads and a comfier bus, although the scenery wasn’t quite as impressive. Apologies for lack of photos for the second day – my camera battery died! Disappointed. From Villa Serrano to Sucre I travelled with Trans Turismo Señor “La Mision”. Buy tickets in the office on the square, which opens at 06:30am. The bus leaves 07:00am.

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May 12, 2012 · 5:26 AM

A solo mission to start the Che Guevara trail

I WATCHED THE BUS FLY past. I’d been waiting for nearly four hours for the bus from Samaipata to Vallegrande, perched on my bag by the roadside, dust kicking up in my face every time a vehicle went by. Everyone I had asked had told me a different time. If I waited long enough, a bus would show eventually. I wasn’t too worried.

This was the start of my solo adventure to follow some of Che Guevara’s footsteps, apart from that I was bussing and taxiing it rather than hiking the trail. Apparently, disappointingly, this was the way of La Ruta del Che for us followers.

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My stray dog companion whilst waiting for the bus. They get attached.

A few minutes earlier I had given in to the wait and bought a cup of tea in a café, a thinly veiled excuse to use their bathroom. ‘In half an hour’, a woman told me, ‘mas o menos’. I sipped my te con carnela and was pondering why Che’s men had come to Samaipata, raided the town and robbed the police station when I looked up to see the bus drive on by. I waved madly. The woman ran and waved. But there was no stopping it. Dammit.

I was bundled into a taxi intent on getting me to the bus. The windscreen was broken, the seat belt didn’t work and the driver had a heavy right foot. After a few miles he pointed up the hill. Sure enough, there was the bus, winding up into the mountains. We gained ground. We overtook. We waved and beeped the horn and eventually it stopped.

I had to perch upfront until we reached the next village. The two young lads driving the bus didn’t say a thing and any conversation I tried to initiate was shutdown. Music played loudly, the guys kept their cool.

And then we took a refreshment break in Mairana where I tried to be inconspicuous as men and women and children stared shamelessly at the solo gringa.

Finally into the main bus section and I took a pew. A guy with a gammy eye wasn’t impressed and got me to move. Not wanting to offend anyone else, I waited to find a spare seat.

Everywhere was full so for the rest of the trip I wobbled around on a little plastic stool in the aisle at the back amongst groups of teenagers from Santa Cruz who fed me peanuts, took photos with my camera and teased their friend about being in love with me. A Quechua-English mix would apparently be okay, they agreed. The poor kid looked like he wanted to die.

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Teenage happy clicky: dusk in one of the villages we pass through

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Teenage happy clicky: a typical, rural Bolivian mud brick building

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Teenage happy clicky: mountain landscape on the road to Vallegrande

I arrived into a dark bus terminal in Vallegrande two and a half hours later with no idea of where I was going to stay. I hate turning up anywhere at night, particularly when I’m alone. But sometimes it just works out.

A kind soul sorted me out a taxi that dropped me off at a lovely, family run hotel where half an hour later I was celebrating a birthday, eating cake and meeting the in-laws and babies to be.

‘Us Bolivianos are warm and welcoming people’, one of the girls told me, ‘You will meet so many friendly people on your travels in Bolivia’. My earlier judgement calls were truly being challenged.

Vallegrande, the town where Che Guevara’s body was initially displayed and buried back in 1967, was opening its arms to me.

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I got my information about La Ruta del Che from Roadrunners in Samaipata. Austrian Olaf is an enthusiastic, helpful guy who gave me so many ideas and completely re-inspired me to go off and do some adventuring by myself. La Ruta del Che is the route that Che Guevara and his men are said to have taken before they was arrested and assassinated in La Higuera, although there is considerable ambiguity surrounding the exact roads. What is more certain is where Che’s body was displayed, where he was held and where he died.

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May 2, 2012 · 10:00 AM

Travel tired after eight months? Happy to keep going?

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Waiting for the bus back home? I don’t think so. Not just yet.

‘There’ll come a point where you’ll just want to stop’, said my friend Jim. I was chatting to him about another friend who had hit the travel tired moment that most backpackers experience at some point, if not at many points.

I had taken time out of whizzing around South America and New Zealand to be based up in Byron Bay, Australia for just over a month. This in itself was a bit of a challenge after an otherwise very nomadic lifestyle with different places and beds every few nights.

Whilst it was wonderful to unpack my bag, hang out with people that knew me and meet a new group of fun, active and interesting people, I knew I hadn’t yet hit that point of wanting to stop. I was thirsty to return to South America and continue my journey there.

The language, the culture and the simpler approach to life over in South America all somehow felt more comfortable and welcoming to me than the gloss and riches of developed nations. Luckily for me, my ticket was easily reversed so rather than continue on to Asia or stay in Australia, I headed back across the Pacific and landed in Brazil to continue my South American adventuring.

But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t hit travel tired moments. During one of the lows I decided to bring together experiences – mine and others – and put together an article of sorts. You can read it here.

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April 24, 2012 · 12:16 PM

World Nomad’s Travel Writing Scholarship 2012

To link in with the previous post on travelling by bus from Brazil to Bolivia through Paraguay, here is a short piece that I submitted to the World Nomad’s Travel Writing Scholarship 2012 competition:

On buses and food, and food on buses

It’s not my finest moment but it’s done now. Submitted. End of.

The biggest challenge was keeping it within the 2,000 character limit (and that included spaces) whilst still capturing enough detail.

I don’t know if it makes any difference how many people read and comment on the piece or not… some competitions seem to work like that… but of course, as ever, I’d love feedback from you (and if it’s really bad or super constructive, maybe do it on here instead!).

Not to self: never do things in a hurry.

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April 22, 2012 · 8:50 AM

Brazil to Bolivia by bus (and an apology to Paraguay)

I laughed. There was nothing else for it. The bus was truly a heap of crap and I was going to be on it for at least the next 22 hours. Oh joy. Would I even make it to Bolivia?

The previous night I’d left Foz do Iguaçu at midnight on board the amazing comfort and space of a Sol del Paraguay bus destined for Asunción in Paraguay. Although I’m now pretty hardened to long distance bus travel, when unexpected luxury enter the mix, it’s a wonderful surprise.

Just across the border into Paraguay there was a visible return to South American poverty. Tens of makeshift tents lined the roadside leading up to the bus terminal of Ciudad del Este, little hives of activity, some adults and lots of kids spilling out onto the pavement. Blankets and bodies and unforgiving concrete. Such a contrast to the comfort that I was privileged to be experiencing.

www.travelola.org

Sunrise in Bolivia, not far past the first border crossing

The bus drove on into the night, a smooth service that allowed me to sleep for a few hours. I almost wished the journey to be longer. But come 06:00am, I was back to a chaotic reality of cramped shops and money exchange stalls within Asunción bus station.

It would be unfair of me to comment on Asunción (or Paraguay as a whole) because my time there consisted of bus terminals, taxi rides, border crossings and a daytime sleep in a hostel with an unusually old clientele. I was battling infection, sore throat and a high temperature. The real threat of Dengue fever (discussed on the news the very night I was there) was enough to make me want to push on to a more trodden path where my poor Spanish and ill health would be less problematic.

So Paraguay, I am sorry for not stopping by and giving you a chance. Another time.

Having bought Bolivia bus tickets for that same night, I split a taxi with two English girls. The ride right across town cost 40,000₲. It sounded a small fortune but in reality Paraguay is South America´s second poorest economy and 40,000₲ is just US$9.32 or £5.92. We passed by some NSA buses. We’d booked through NSA. Their buses looked great. We were in for another nice journey.

So back to the start where I’m boarding the bus for Bolivia in Asunción bus station. Although I laughed when I saw the actual bus, I also felt that little trapdoor of gloom pull open and frustration start to bubble out of its depths. Despite a snatch of sleep in a hostel during the day, I still physically felt like absolute crap. Disgusting toilets (avoid use), limited stops with bush hideouts, 03:00am border crossings and military checks and a man who nicked my window seat were all things I had to look forward to. All I really wanted were crisp, cool sheets on a comfy, bug free bed in a Westernised country. And I wanted a cuddle from my mum. Or someone nice.

www.travelola.org

One of many immigration stops en route from Paraguay to Bolivia

www.travelola.org

Another military stop and´the bus´

The bus was pretty full. Although close to the front, I couldn’t see out: not only had the co-driver shut and locked the door to the front section but heavy curtains blocked any view. In my experience, this is pretty standard for buses in South America.

Across the aisle was sitting a thick set, broad bottomed woman with long, glossy hair. She took out a cup and flask from her bag and started to make up some mate. Sipping slowly on the straw, she eventually finished, put everything away and reclined her seat. She turned on her side, had a bit of a wriggle around and was finally comfortable, cushioned by the chair and a good dose of curves.

Raul, the guy who had taken my seat, received a call shortly after we set off. He smiled down the phone. ‘I’m on the bus’, he said, ‘it’s great. Air conditioned, food, reclining bed seats’.

And I thought, hell yeah, who cares about a seriously shabby appearance, about a looped Bruce Willis movie where the sound is screwed, about dry bread and chicken nugget dinners, about the many stops and bumpy, dire roads I was due to encounter over the next day. It really could be worse.
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Buses leave regularly from Ciudad del Este, Paraguay for the five to six hour journey to Asunción. If you want to leave from Foz do Iguaçu, as I did, then Sol has a service leaving at midnight that costs R$40 (£14.55). Buses for Santa Cruz, Bolivia leave Asunción at 20:00pm most nights (not Thursday and possibly not Sunday). A number of offices on the top floor of the terminal sell tickets but the most reputable seems to be the official NSA office where tickets cost 250,000₲ (£37.02) (cash/card) or US$60 (£37.73) (cash only). The journey takes 22 hours and includes many military stops and border checks including stamps in and out of Paraguay and Bolivia. It feels like an extended process where the first check point is in the middle of the night, the last some time around midday. There are basic meals on board but I would recommend bringing some water, at the very least.

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