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A Colombian Passport to Asia

Andrea — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 14:34:00 +0000

We all know that Colombian fame around the world is not the best. Our terrorist history has left scars in our lands, our past, our present, in the perception others have about us, and the relations we have with another countries. Due to this, even though we are proud of who we are, it is no wonder that traveling with a Colombian pasaporte is not easy. The procedure and paperwork required to obtain a visa is generally a headache and forces us to plan the trip with a lot of anticipation, leaving little room for flexibility in case we need to change plans.

With our plans to travel around Asia, we had to pick and choose in advance which countries we desired most to visit. Next we had to schedule each country in a specific order based upon maximum length of stay allowed. Despite the numerous countries we wished to visit, only five qualified based the numerous factors we had to consider: India, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia and Thailand. While some were easier than the others, none but Singapore was easy. This is what happened.

India

I applied in Bogota. Since it was our first destination, I had to have that one. I didn't need any appointment. The Embassy was well decorated, the staff was friendly, and there was no line, unheard of for embassies. I was asked for the most common papers: passport, copies of passport, passport photos, bank statements, plane tickets, a standard form, yellow fever vaccine certificate, and of course, the payment, $50. In comparison to the Schengen Visa (Europe) I fought for last year, it was easy. Three days later I had my visa leaving me with "good" expectations for India. Too bad those expectations disappeared the moment we arrived in country.

Malaysia

Malaysia does not have an embassy in Colombia, so you have to apply in the British Council which has the representation of this former federated Asian colony, now self ruled country. The application is online and after submitted you setup an appointment for the interview. The fee is $80. At first, we were not sure about going to Malaysia, so we skipped applying in Colombia. Later while in India we made the decision and applied at the Malaysian Embassy in New Delhi. All the information for the application was not online, so when we arrived to the embassy, I had everything (passport, photos, plane tickets), but not the payment that was supposed to be made in a local bank. No where did it say what the payment was, where or how to pay, so we assumed cash. We were wrong. The deposit required a bank and guess what, it was a holiday: bank closed. The registrar however received my application and gave permission to bring the payment confirmation the next day between 9 and 10:30am, only a 90 minute window. Like everywhere, the banks don't open until 9 so we had very little time to make it all happen. Thanks to our host Shalu we were able to make the payment (only $7 in comparison to the $80) as soon as the bank opened, rather than waiting in the 1+ hour long line, her husband skipped the line to the premier window. Finally about 10am, we hoped into a tuk tuk, but soon were stopped by the infamous New Delhi traffic. Arriving late, the office was already closed.

We'd brought the cell phone, but the battery was minutes from dead. Oops. We tried calling the embassy several times before to obtain the proper information requirements, never an answer, ever. The first day talking with others in line we found out that none of them had any luck either. But, we tried again anyway and what luck, someone answered: a miracle! Thank God. The officer gave us instructions to leave the payment receipt with the security officers on the other side of the compound. After 5 days I received my visa! Yeah! We were so excited to go to Malaysia for the next 30 days, but when we arrived in the airport immigration stamped only 14 days...what?! The embassy in India told me I was allowed 1 month and everywhere where I researched online said most of the countries were allowed 1 month. Bad news, after more digging we found out Colombia is in that "black" list with Iran, Afghanistan, Iraq, etc. Even with only 14 days, we really enjoyed our time there and will surely return.

Singapore

Arrive in the airport. No questions. No departure ticket. Stamp for 30 days. Done. Why so easy? It is soooo expensive to stay in Singapore, I guess they figure you cannot afford to overstay. We could only afford 10 days :)

Indonesia

Every visa has an expiration date, in this case the expiration for the Indonesian Visa is 3 months after the day you apply. In the beginning we'd planned to stay in India for 2 months (well, as you know, we changed our minds). If I had applied in Bogota, the visa would have expired before we arriving in Indonesia. So the best way was to apply while we were in the road. The length of the visa they give you is 60 days, which was perfect because we had planed to stay month and a half. Brendon, as an American, is allowed to enter the country with a visa on arrival for a $25 fee, but only for 30 days. So he applied for a visa as well, enabling us to stay longer than a month. The Indonesian Embassy in Kuala Lumpur impressed us by how "organized" they were. Even though there were a ton of people applying for every kind of visa, they managed to attend every one in line and were friendly at the same time. They asked me for the common papers too: fill out a form, passport, passport photocopy, passport photos, plane tickets, and a recommendation letter (optional). I'd planned this letter back in Colombia where it was a requirement. Since I already had it, we adjusted the dates and presented it anyway. It was writen by family friend of Brendon's, and I think it was a really good idea! Three days later we received the visa and moved on!

Thailand

The expiration date situation is the same as the Indonesian Visa (3 months), so I was not able to apply in Bogota either. This turned out to be the best thing that could have happened. In Bogota, they asked me for a "ridiculous" amount of papers (almost the same as for Europe): passport, passport photocopy, passport photos, yellow fever vaccine certificate, plane tickets, hotels reservation, itinerary, form, job certificate where it says job title, salary and time working in the job, and finally, bank statements for the last 3 months. I had had a stressful case applying for the Schengen Visa in the Spain Embassy in 2010, and I didn't want to go through that again. At the same time though, having to apply for the visa abroad made me nervous for a little while. It turned out than it was easier than either of us had thought it would be. After the hiccup in Malaysia, we (Brendon also applied too to stay 2 months without renewal) finally applied in the Thai Consulate in Jakarta - Indonesia. All they asked me to present was my passport, passport photos, and the plane tickets! We also had to pay the normal fee, in cash, but in dollars. We had an extra stash of emergency dollars, all 100s. Turns out, all the bills we had were in the same series flagged for counterfeit and not acceptable. We had to hit up the bank and it was already closed for the day. Fortunately, I'd booked our hotel a mere 3 blocks from the embassy so as to have no more traffic troubles (good since Jakarta has awful traffic). After a trip to the bank the next day, three days later we received our 60 day visas. Yuju!

From my experience, you can now see than we Colombians are required to present much information in application for a Visa. We wait in long lines, wake up really early to arrive to the consulate on time, spend days collecting all the papers required, just to demonstrate we are good people trying to see the world...And even after that, nothing assures you are going to receive your visa. One thing I've learned, is that applying for a visa outside of Colombia is generally much much easier and cheaper. Why? Who knows.

Me Gusta Kuala Lumpur

Andrea — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 16:35:00 +0000

When we left India, we arrived in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, where we felt in paradise by comparison. Kuala Lumpur is clean, the people are civilized, extreme poverty is not everywhere, transportation is efficient, food is prepared in a hygienic way, the lodging is more comfortable for the same money (or less)...and basically, Kuala Lumpur offers all the amenities you need to feel pleasant.

After researching online, we decided to stay in one of the most prestigious areas in town known as the Golden Triangle. Here, there are hundreds of hotels, and 4 and 5 star hotels are 30% to 60% cheaper than anywhere else in the world. So, why don't take advantage of it, pay a little bit more money than an average hotel, and receive 100+% more benefits and comfort? That's what we did and found ourselves at Lanson Place.

The touristic places where we spent the majority of time were Buking Bintang and Kuala Lumpur City Centre, both located in the Golden Triangle. In Buking Bintang there are no less than 20 malls where you can find whatever you want. We were living out of a backpack so we just bough a couple of small things, but if you are planning of buying tons of stuff, this is for sure one of the best places in the world to shop. The part we most enjoyed inside the shopping walls however, was the food. It is by far the best product, best selection, best price you can find in the Golden Triangle area of the city. With $3 you can eat a good meal, starting with just fried rice, noodles or a piece of meat. Personally, I'm not a fan of Asian food, but with these prices who doesn't find this the best way to eat for a couple of days?!

Petronas Towers

In the Kuala Lumpur City Centre are located the Petronas Twin Towers, the fifth tallest building in the world built in 1998. One of the things you must do when you go to this city, is go to the Towers and go up to the Skybridge - a bridge that links both towers between the 41st and 42nd floors. Tickets go on sale at 9am and only 1000 are sold each day. You would think they are enough tickets and you don't need to arrive early...well. that's a mistake! Lonely Planet advises to arrive at 7am to ensure your ticket. We didn't get enough sleep the night before, not arriving until 7:30am. Would we arrive as the first ones? No, there were more than a 100 people already in line. We ended buying our tickets at 10:45 am and our turn to go up in the Towers was at 2:20 pm - the second to last time slot available. Was it worth to make a line for 3 hours for something that just last 30 minutes? Well, in terms of comparison its like going to New York City and not going to the Statue of Liberty, visiting Paris but not the Eiffel Tower, or going to Rome and skipping the Coliseum. So, YES!

Other hot spots in the city are Chinatown and Little India. In Chinatown you find bazaars and markets galore, where you can buy crafts, clothes, gifts and accessories...and everything is super cheap! But you do have to bargain. The price they offer you at first is 3 or 4 or 5 times more than the original, so if you don't bargain you are going to get ripped off. Brendon bought a pair of shorts at $17 that was a first offered at $40, but I'm sure we could have payed half of that price. We just got bored of bargaining. From Little India, I don't have any detail. We didn't go there. We figured we had just spent 1 month in India so we had an idea of how it would be :).

We would have loved be able to stay more time in Malaysia, but my visa only permitted for 14 days. At first we were not planning on visiting Malaysia for two reasons: 1) not a country that most people think going in to when traveling to Asia, and 2) there was not time in Bogota for to apply for the visa. Now, we are so glad we changed our mind. It's a wonderful, beautiful country with so many places to tour. We'll be back for more, with bigger bags for shopping and longer visas for exploring!

~~~

Después de salir de India, llegamos a Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, y fue como llegar a un paraiso. Kuala Lumpur es limpia, la gente es civilizada, no se ve pobreza extrema, el transporte es eficiente, se encuentra mucha comida preparada higiénicamente, el alojamiento ofrece más ventajas por la misma cantidad de dinero... y en fin, ofrece todas las características que esperas encontrar en una ciudad para sentirte a gusto.

Después de hacer nuestra respectiva búsqueda e investigacion online, decidimos quedarnos en una de las áreas mas presitigiosas de la ciudad conocida como Golden Triangle. Aquí, se encuentra cualquier variedad de hoteles, y los de 4 y 5 estrellas son normalmente de un 30% a un 60% más baratos que en otras ciudades. Siendo Así, por qué no aprovechar y pagar un poco más de lo que generalmente se pagaría en un hotel promedio y, disfrutar de 100+% más beneficios y comodidades? Esta no pareció la decisión acertada y nos hospedamos en Lanson Place.

Los lugares turísticos donde pasamos la mayoría del tiempo fueron Bukit Bintang y Kuala Lumpur City Center, ambos ubicados en el Golden Triangle. En Bukit Bintang se encuentran alrededor de 20 centros comerciales, donde puedes comprar de todo. Nosotros estabamos viajando con una backpack, entonces solo compramos cosas pequeñas. Pero, si tu estás pensando en comprar todo lo que se te pase por el frente, Kuala Lumpur es sin duda uno de los mejores lugares para comprar en todo el mundo! En esta oportunidad lo que más disfrutamos en los centros comerciales, fue la comida. Con $3 dólares puedes comer arroz frito, noodles o carne. Personalmente, no soy fanática de la comida asiática, pero con esos precios, quién no encuentra ésta la mejor forma de alimentarse durante unos cuantos días?!

En Kuala Lumpur City Center, están unbicadas las Torres Petronas, las cuales actualmente son el quinto edificio más alto del mundo, contruidas en 1998. Una actividad obligada cuando visitas la ciudad, es visitar las Torres y subir al Skybrigde el cual es el puente por el cual se une las dos torres entre el piso 41 y 42. La venta de boletas empieza a las 9 am, y se venden 1000 diarias. Cualquiera pensaría que son suficientes y que no hace falta llegar a primera hora a comprarlas...error!. Lonely Planet advierte llegar a las 7 am para asegurar la entrada. La noche anterior no dormimos lo suficiente y llegamos a las 7:30 am. Llegaríamos de primeras? No.. ya había una fila de más de 100 personas. Terminamos compramos las entradas a las 10:45 am y nuestro turno de entrada fue a las 2:20 pm - El penúltimo turno del día. Valió la pena esperar en la fila durante 3 horas para una entrada que dura 30 minutos? Dejémolo en términos de comparación..es como ir a New York City y no ir a la Estatua de la Libertad, ir a Paris y no ir a la Torre Eiffel, ir a Roma y no ir al Coliseo. Indudablemtente SI valió la pena!

Otros de los sitios de la ciudad son Chinatown y Little India. En Chinatown se encuentran los bazares y los mercados, donde se puede comprar artesanías, ropa, regalos, accesorios...y todo es muy barato, pero eso si, es obligatorio negociar! El precio que ofrecen de primeras es 3, 4 o hasta 5 veces más que el original, entonces si no se negocia se termina es pagando más de la cuenta. Brendon compró una pantaloneta de baño a $17 que inicialmente la ofrecian por US$40, y sin embargo creo yo que hubieramos podido pagar la mitad de ese precio. Desafortunadamente nos cansamos de pedir rebaja! De Little India no tenemos nada que decir, pues siendo el tiempo tan corto no alcanzamos a pasar por allí. Sin embargo, después de haber estado un mes en India, ya podemos formarnos una idea de cómo ésta podría ser :)

En total nos quedamos una semana en Kuala Lumpur, nos hubiéramos quedado más tiempo si no hubiera sido porque como Colombiana solo me dan 14 días de estadía en el país. Originalmente no teníamos planeado ir a Malaysia por 2 razones: 1) No es un país que la mayoría de la gente tiene en cuenta cuando viaja a Asia, y 2) No tenía el suficiente tiempo para obtener mi visa en Bogotá. Ahora, nos sentimos agradecidos de que cambiamos nuestra decisión, pues es un país maravilloso con muchos lugares que visitar. Esperamos volver pronto a Malaysia, pero esta vez con maletas apropiadas para comprar de todo, y visas con más tiempo para explorar!

Starting in India: Food

Brendon — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 21:44:00 +0000

I love India food. The flavors, the spices, the smells. Nann bread, lamb masala, tandoori chicken. I have rarely ever been disappointed by an Indian meal. India was about to change that...

Everyone tells you its impossible to get out of India without getting sick. Too true. Not only ourselves, but everyone we met before and after had a story or three to tell about it.

In Central and South America, its called Montezuma's Revenge, but I never really had any issues with him. I've always considered myself to have a strong stomach. India proved me wrong. I've always enjoyed eating in the streets. Indian street food never did I touch.

Even sticking to the boring hotel restaurants and overpriced tourist joints, did not help our stomachs cope with the misery of eating India food three not-so-square meals a day. And that is more than half the problem. Our westernized bodies just simply cannot handle thaaaat much Indian. I propose even a few Indians suffer from chronic gastrointestinal nightmares.

During my travels I have a few rules about food. Number 1 on the list: No McDonald's. (Except Breakfast) I caved into Andrea's demands after less than a week. It was not the break she was looking for, everything on the menu was Indian rated S for spicy. However, on the plus side, the prices were reasonable unlike many foreign Mickey D's.

#2, No Subway. I caved again. We'd tried calling for delivery once or twice, never a driver available. One day, we decided to pick it up ourselves. In even the most remote places, the dirtiest truck stops, the worst parts of Detroit, you can find a Subway today and always they are clean, polished, bright, cheerful, speedy. McDonald's, Burger King, KFC all vary, but Subway is...Fresh! By this time we were not surprise, only disappointed now that Subway in New Delhi takes the crown for the worst run of 33,000 franchises. That a big feat, congratulations guys. Disgustingly dirty tables, nasty nappy produce, stupidly slow workers...definitely not sandwich artists.

We did however have a few randomly good meals. Typically this happened when we spent more than ten dollars per meal, a fortune by Indian society. The food still caused distress on the way out, despite tasting good on the way down.

If We Did It Again...

There isn't another way. It's simply too much India food for anyone not born in India. I look forward to the day when Andrea allows us again eat Indian food, American style. Until that day, enjoy your garlic cheesy nann and chicken tikka masala for me, we're on the wagon.

Starting in India: Transportation

Brendon — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 20:20:00 +0000

This isn't Europe. We didn't expect it to be, but we also didn't expect it to be...so degraded.

How We Did It...

Trains

The first train station, if you can call it that, we stepped into was a couple of platforms, with very few signs in any of the countless languages spoken. On the furthest track, grouped together around campfire stoves, makeshift tents, shredded blankets, was our first wow encounter with the extreme poverty that plagues India.

Trying to ignore all the mess that was around us, we sat down in expectation of our train to arrive in the next half hour. Looking around however, there really was no indication that a train had come in ages nor would be coming to whisk us away to the glorious India outside of New Delhi that awaited us. We were heading to Rajasthan, one of the most visited area of the country.

Already nervous, as I've become accustomed to on travel days, I decided to attempt to ask around. An unofficial looking man told me the worst words I wanted to hear. "Train cancelled, train cancelled!" as he pointed at a time schedule board that hadn't been updated in decades. Refusing to believe him, I checked the status via SMS. "On-time" was the reply back. Phew. Another ten minutes later, I asked again. This time I was escorted to the head train master of this mockery of a station on the edges of New Delhi. Again, cancelled. "Who says?" I ask this time. He has no idea. No one of the five guys crowding around has an idea. Finally, after idling for another few minutes as my stomach turns upside down, I get a hold of an English speaking operator. A protest a hundred miles down the track in a remote little village town has blocked the use of the tracks. All trains going this direction, cancelled. What luck!

We'd heard from Indians and foreigners alike that trains were reliable. Our hopes faded and fears enlarged. How could we trust the next train we'd pay for would actually come? What does this do to our carefully planned schedule? Why cannot we just jump on any train and go anywhere? There are hundreds of trains leaving every day, in many directions. We'd figured we'd just show up, like we always do, jump on a train and go. Turns out, trains get booked (and overbooked) weeks, months in advance. Unless you are willing to settle for the worst of the worst seats, a.k.a benches (yes, like you see in the movies), you must plan your trips and hope nothing goes awry.

It took three months for the cancelled train money to get refunded to my account. Another train we booked promised seats, but upon booking gave us only one confirmed. That took three calls to customer service and another three months for refund as well.

The rest of our train experiences went about as normal as expected. We only booked first class, paying double to quadruple. Even first class varies in quality, cleanliness. You get more space, a bed with clean-ish sheets, but it's still India. Trains leave at all hours of the night. Fortunately, our 3am departure from Jaipur, our first successful ride, came on time, but not without another shocking revelation. Thousands of Indians slept outside and inside the station. In taxis, in tuk-tuks, in rickshaws, in the grass, in the dirt, in the lobby. Laid out, curled up, one by one by one for hundreds of square meters on end.

Taxis

After our first train was cancelled, we decided to either fly or drive. The flight left in a matter of hours, so it would have been tough to get to the airport, but possible. Shalu, who had welcomed us back for another night while we sorted out the change in plans, recommended we book a taxi. The drive was only five hours and so long as we only had to pay one-way, it was half the price of flying. She negotiated the deal, confirming one-way pricing per kilometer plus tolls plus tip.

We took off the next morning, wondering why we were going the opposite direction, but ended up on the right road eventually. Tired from the night before, we tried to sleep, but it was impossible. David and I had unanimously agreed the drivers in Cairo were the worst. This day and forever more, New Delhi stole the title. Andrea says she thought we were going to die the whole time. I tried to enjoy what I could of the rollercoaster adventure, but my patience was fading fast.

Even with the erratic driving behaviors, poor roads, and getting lost in Jaipur, we arrived on time. As agreed upon, I calculated the expenses for the taxi at around US$ 70. The driver then proceeded to write x 2, asking for double to cover the drive back. Oooh no no no. That was not the deal. One-way only. The hotel manager and staff did not want to get involved. We didn't even bother arguing ourselves. I called up Shalu and heard her in a not-so-very-nice voice explain the arrangements. Period. We paid one-way and the driver finally left disappointed.

Had karma caught up with us in India? My faith in the upside of this trip was fading fast, if not already gone.

If We Did It Again...

Take one train. Sit/sleep first class. Short trip. Expect delays or cancellations. Be ready for anything. Get the experience. Hire a personal driver and vehicle for the rest of your adventure. Be sure its a nice minivan/utility vehicle with plenty of suspension, excellent A/C, and lots of room. Just as with the hotels, there is enough ambiguity in India you won't miss out on the striking poverty nor cultural differences. Those exist everywhere, no matter how you get around. If your driver speaks fluent English and/or is a reputable tour guide, even better. If you wish to cover both sides of the country, the north and the south, fly.

Starting in India: Lodging

Brendon — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 09:54:00 +0000

When traveling to areas of the globe at the bottom echelons of tourism civilization, the hotel prices increase exponentially while quality decreases in tandem. The Lonely Planet normally breaks down hotels by Budget, Midrange, and Top End. There ought to be a "Shithole" category for India. In no other travel guide have I read about any city's lodging so many terrible things. Originally (and still primarily) a tool for "backpackers", the editors of the Lonely Planet usually have decent things to say about the budget accommodations. Not true for New Delhi.

How We Did It...

After hours upon hours of research to find the best hotel price to quality ratio, I convinced Andrea to try CouchSurfing. I'd had great success in Brazil and South Africa, why not India. Save more than a few bucks and get a local introduction to Indian society from the start. After a number of email conversations with a local woman, who had a few kids and a husband priest, I thought I'd found the perfect match for Andrea's first surfing experience. Though invited to stay our very first night, we opted for a hotel offering free taxi transportation from the far away airport after arriving just before midnight. It was at best average for US$65/night. In Cairo, Egypt, another expensive, dusty, dirty capital city, a cleaner place ran about half.

The following day, around noon as agreed, I gave our couch a ring. She was running out, but could wait for us if we came now. We packed up quickly, dodged our way through the dodgy part of town to the impossible to find metro station, and arrived within an hour to another unknowingly dodgy part of town. As we would come to find out, all areas of New Delhi are dodgy with a minor exception for embassy row. Another call and we're told she isn't available now to pick us up, but her cousin will. Over an hour later, he shows up. Friendly enough and with no other real options and in keeping an open mind, we followed him down the dirt path and alley ways to his apartment where we'll stay until his aunt arrives home in a couple hours.

Cousins apartment is below basic. There are four dirty single three inch mattresses in two dirty rooms. The toilet is outside on the balcony, no running water, cat-hole style. We'd watched an episode of An Idiot Abroad about India before the trip, this was worse. On the plus side, about 6 other backpackers had stuff strewn about so I figured (Andrea no) it safe enough. Just to be sure, we left last and kept a key ourselves.
The idea was to get lunch, but we nearly got lost instead. And then it happened. Andrea fell hard, tripping over one of the countless objects littered in the dirt street. Her knee bled and the first tears were shed.

Back at the apartment, our couch friend never came. Never called. Never apologized. Never emailed. Never nothing. We stayed up all night, surfing the internet on a super slow (supposed to be fast) broadband modem, looking for another place to stay. It was still all expensive, poorly reviewed places. Then by chance or miracle, we found a bed and breakfast far from the center of town, but easily accessed by the only modern amenity in New Delhi, the metro rail. As soon as the sun came up we "got the fuck out of there" and found our way to Shalu's.

We eventually survived 10 days of traveling through four different towns. The hotel prices improved, the cleanliness not so much.

If We Did It Again...

Save up those miles, points and book the best. India is trashed enough to worry about coming back to your hotel after long day in the hot sun to a dirty shower, filthy sheets, and mediocre service. Poor hotel experiences will not contribute to your understanding of India.

Starting in India: Introduction

Brendon — Tue, 25 Oct 2011 18:52:00 +0000

Starting the third and final continent of the journey in India was probably not my best idea ever. Andrea and I traveled South America together, her native language mas o menos. We traveled Europe together, a sophisticated place of old and new first world. And then, we decided to travel Asia together...

India however is the epitome of a foreign land of foreign lands. Maybe not the best place to experience your first trip, entirely alone, as a recently engaged couple? Andrea actually claims India is another planet. The number of cultures and peoples mashed into this behemoth of a nation really would be enough to populate another earth.

As you read through the next few blogs, you will learn about just a few of the "experiences" we encountered. Most of it unfortunately will sound negative, but there are many wonderful things about India if you can dig deep, look past the aggravations of their society. Most of these positive experiences you will not find in our writings, rather in our photos. India bares countless monuments, ancient fortresses, immense temples, thousands of artworks and tapestries, but most importantly it bleeds history everywhere.

A visit to India is a once in a lifetime experience for most, but if you survive, perhaps you will desire to make it a twice. Do your research, on-line and in-person, of those who've traveled before you, with like mindedness. For many it is a magical, time forgotten place. For others it is a disruption. Understand who you are and what you expect. You will most surely will be surprised and enlightened, whether you ultimately demonize or delight the experience.

Home

David — Sat, 23 Apr 2011 21:05:00 +0000

I realize the blog is several months late, but better late than never.

For those unaware, I departed Roads Unknown this past November and returned home to the States to begin college. I will be documenting that..."experience" in a new blog. But for my Roads farewell blog, I'd like to summerize a few thoughts I wrote down, shortly after returning home, after fifteen continuous months on the road.

The first few weeks after returning were pretty...surreal. There's really no other word for it. I kept expecting and hoping that I'd close my eyes, wake up in another country, and find that I was still on the road. But it didn't happen. It still doesn't now.

It's funny the little habits of travel that have stuck with me. A couple days after I first got home, as I was unloading my laundry from the dryer, I had already rolled up half my clothes to be packed into a backpack before I realized what I was doing. Fifteen months and I had forgotten about hangers. The opposite also happened, and it's odd what came back right away, like finding I still remembered how many steps it is from my bedroom to the bathroom and where the light switches are at night in the dark.

Almost immediately after I got home, I instantly felt weighed down by all the things, all the objects I own, with an almost claustrophobic feeling. I had a taste of this when I came home after Guatemala, when I realized I didn't need nearly so many clothes and cleared out half my closet. My second trip I took even less with me, and by the end of it had widdled my travel belongings down to two small backpacks. The day after I got home this time, I eliminated my wardrobe by about half again, and continued the process of decluttering my life to some degree over the next few weeks. After other people, I think it's "things" that tie people down more than anything, and that tied-down feeling is one I've been resisting as best I can.

I am not the same person that left, and I haven't been able to fall back exactly into my old life. Not that I'd want to or expect to, it's simply that adjustments have had to be made. For now, I continue on in a stasis till the new unknown comes my way via college this fall.

I miss the road a great deal, and it's odd how travel became familiarity. I found myself considering how I wouldn't think twice about hopping a plane to some random country, but the thought of entering a Walmart horrified me. "Home" is different things to different people, and for the me, the road felt like home. So while you can't stay home forever, you do often find your way back. And I'm sure I will.

Then and Now

Brendon — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 19:30:00 +0000

If you'd asked anyone 26 months ago where I would be today, Colombia it would not be. If you had asked me 2 years and 2 months ago where I would be today, Asia, would be the best guess. In October 2008, I would not be able to tell you much about where I was going to be, who I had become, what I was going to do next. But, I would be able to tell you to not be surprised, anything really could happen, right?

That is life...I would say. Just see where the road takes me...I would say. Who knows, anything can happen...I would say. Maybe I'll be engaged...I would not say. Despite a categorical denial of the later, it does fit within the lack of confines of the formers. Life takes to you amazing unknown places, roads travelled invite you into the lives of many, anything really can happen.

And so it is today, for those of you still watching, still reading, still listening, still following me down these unknown roads, we announce officially our engagement and invite you to continue the journey with us through whatever lies ahead.

Wait? What? Who? Followed by...Congratulations! In advance, thank you for those warm thoughts. For those out of the loop, the "who" is Andrea and Brendon. The "what" was just explained. And the "wait" well...its okay to be surprised. The next question is typically...How?

Its two parts actually...how did the engagement go down? Usually asked by girls. And, how did you meet? Usually asked by everyone. A few days ago while in New York our friend Mark asked if it was in a bar. Perhaps many of you assume the same. Andrea the other day told me if she had met me in a bar or a club, we would not be together today. I'll give her that, its quite doubtful for many reasons and oh, I agree.

So here goes, I'll try to tell the short version. Tom, a sort of friend from spanish school, was visiting us in Bogotá last year October. Sort of, because I threw him in front of a car once in Guatemala and for some reason he held that against me. But David never did that so he was visiting David and I was...there. After we worked out the insurance details, we went out on a Friday night to celebrate his arrival and celebrate we did. Before memories were lost, we took Tom to our favorite bar where everyone knew our name. Unsurprisingly, if you know Tom, he already knew a girl there. Coffee date was setup for tomorrow and we went on our merry merry way, meeting more and more girls throughout the night. Tom that is. He ended up with no less than 3 dates for the weekend.

Arriving home at 5am in the morning typically means once you wake up and the world stops moving, you order pizza delivery, drink a gallon of water, soda, anything except what you had the night before. You don't move, you don't go on dates, you watch television you Tivo-ed specifically for this hungover occasion. Not Tom. He comes over about 11 am to let you know you have been invited to join him on a double-half blind date. Noooooo is your first response. Come back in a few hours is your second. Once you realize who Tom is and that you know the girl a little and her friends too, you start to feel pre-sorry for her.

Why? Tom is a character, lets just leave it at that. He does also have character, but that's another story too. Begrudgingly I force myself into attendance for the sake of keeping up our reputation where everyone knows our names and we arrive a less-than-comfortable 45 minutes late. Andrea is beautiful, I look like shit. Somehow it all works out.

This is getting long but you can tough it out because I know you still want to know the last part of the story and answer for yourself whether Brendon is a romantic or not. To be decided...

Fontana di Trevi, Rome, Italy. I asked Andrea to repeat to me all the ways we've learned to how say I Love You over the past few months. Ich Liebe Dich in Germany, Ti Amo in Italian, I Love You in English, Te Amo in Espanish. After fumbling in my pocket for what seemed like forever while she repeats these, I finally have it in my hand. No knee, no need, I am sitting on the rocks, she is starring at the make your wish come true fountain. Poor practice planning or practically great memory, I next repeat the following line I'd Googled only a few hours earlier: "Vas a pasar todo el tiempo de tu vida conmigo?" Will you spend the rest of your life with me? as I open my hand for the ring and myself to breathe. "Whaaaaat?" are literally the first words out of her mouth so I assume my translation failed. "Will you marry me?" in recovery mode is followed by "Of cooooourse!" She was just surprised she says later in excuse for the what?! and that I did ask correctly.

Later we arrived at dinner with her family. Earlier we'd celebrated a nice vow renewal ceremony at a Catholic Church in Rome for her parents who were in Europe for their 25th wedding anniversary. After the kind and thankful words of her parents for the wonderful ceremony, travel arrangements, and etc., and a quick chug of the first glass of wine, I made my own little speech announcing the "big news". Mom cried of course, Dad and Brother were proud and congratulatory. We were...relieved.

So that's it. Yes there are always some details left out, but you get the gist. For the final question, the plan non-official until the spaces are reserved, is to wed in May 2012, Memorial Day Week/End, in Cartagena, Colombia. Stay in touch for all the fun, exciting details of what we have in store. It will be the biggest party I, err...I mean WE have ever planned!

Nine down, Ninety-one to go

David — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 09:17:00 +0000

Earlier today, I came across an article on the Matador travel blog titled 100 Things to Experience Before You Die. Just for kicks, I decided to tally up how many I've done so far. I think I'm off to a decent start, but there's a great deal left I still wish to do:

13. Trek the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu.
I opted for the Salkantay route to get to Machu, but I'm still going to count this one.

28. Learn to scuba dive in the Red Sea.
Did this one this week, and as of today got my Open Water diving certification. Boom. Done. Next?

29. Discover your own Machu Picchu in Peru.
Choquequirao? Really? We were less than impressed with this one, and I don't think it belongs on the list, but whatever, we did it.

30. Hitchhike around South Africa.
It was only for five minutes, but as it was with a South African, Kiwi, Slovaks, and a bottle of rum, I'm checking this one too.

58. Live or study abroad for a while.
I think seven months of Spanish lessons and ten months total in Guatemala counts for sure, as does six months living in Colombia.

60. Watch the World Cup.
It was insane. More need not be said. Check.

71. Learn to dance Tango in Buenos Aires.
Much to my surprise, I actually enjoyed this. Or maybe it was just the fedora...

92. Get off the beaten path in Colombia.
I'm not sure how far off we went, but I think we did to a degree.

93. Drink litre steins of beer and eat pork knuckles at Oktoberfest.
This one's coming up in just a short while.

Durban

David — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 14:20:00 +0000

I can’t begin to describe the impact staying in Durban, South Africa has had on me and my trip. My month there is undoubtedly a major highlight of the trip overall. The countless people I met and friends I made, the seemingly non-stop insanity and the quiet days, the deep discussions and the silly inebriated conversations, all reminded me on a daily basis “This why I travel”.

The days in Durban, (just over a month; not many in some regards, quite a while in others) have had a profound effect on me. They changed the way I think about many things, and leave me thinking now about a great deal more. I can’t convey the experiences because they are simply that: Experiences. To be fully understood, they can only be experienced.

I could recount the many forever memorable stories I have now:

The madness that was the World Cup, fan parks, and football passion.
The historical clash of cultures and ethnicities that still remained prevalent in largely Indian Durban as well as the rest of South Africa.
The disappointment and somewhat culture shock of encountering racism.
The instant friendships made with locals as well as foreigners from across the globe.
The hilarity and randomness of riding in the back of a pickup with eight other people (half strangers) at god knows what hour of the morning chanting “Deutschland!”
The local gas station where cars gathered to blast their stereos and show off their rides like something out of a movie.
Suji (our CouchSurfing host) shared the local life in nearly all aspects, be it eating delicious Indian food at 2 am, hitting local bars and clubs where I was the only white guy, or going to work with his DJ friend (and now mine as well) Koogan at a high-school prom in the Indian township Phoenix and then a wedding in a predominantly white upper-class neighborhood.

I could spend several blogs telling these and many others. But sometimes it feels that in the retelling of a story it loses something, perhaps because they can rarely be done justice, a la the previously mentioned “experiences”.

So I won’t even try. I’ll just leave the cliffs notes above as they are. Fill in the gaps as desired

The Mozambican Visa Expedition: Part 2

David — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 13:43:00 +0000

Visa in hand, all that remained was to buy my bus tickets. It was far less painful and time consuming. I was good to go, bus for that night, now to try and get a minibus taxi home. I was unable to find the taxis to my neighborhood. Again, three people (two of them taxi drivers) send me to the wrong place. Apparently there is a South African law against admitting you don’t know where a place is.

All the while a kid who looks to be my age is following me around asking me for money. “Two-rand-two-rand-two-rand, come-on-bru-just-two, two-rand, please-bru-two-rand”. The kid overhears me ask the third or fourth time and says he knows where the taxis to Woodview are. The place he describes is exactly where my CouchSurfing host said, so I say "ok". It's a busy place, and he’s being super friendly and helpful. I'm not gonna walk down a dark alley to follow him, but if he gets me there I'll give him whatever change i got in my pocket.

He gets me there (only a block away), I say “thanks a lot” many times and give him eight rand or so, all my change except for taxi fare. The kid’s tone then gets hostile and he starts cussing me out:

Kid: "You made me walk all this way fucker. Just 1 rand more. Give me some fucking money."
Shocked, I reply: “You offered to help me! You were asking for two, I gave you all I got.”
Kid: "I walked all this way you mother fucker."
Me: "You walked a fucking block!"

This exchange continues back and forth till I reach some taxis. While he's chewing me out I try to determine how to get to home and jump in the nearest taxi even though the driver is kinda vague on where he'll drop me off because I want to get away from the kid.

The taxi drops me in a place I don't recognize at all and tells me to walk just down the road. I’m hesitant to get out in place I don’t know, but I do recognize enough to know the direction they're going is even further away. I ask the first guy I find on the street..."Woodview? Woodview...eish, that's far away, what are you doing here?" Two or three kilometers walking later, asking several more people along the way, I am home. The actual trip to Maputo was far less eventful. Aside from waking up on an empty bus at one point.

Yes, I fell asleep, and nobody bothered to wake me at the border crossing. Luckily I woke before the bus had crossed, though I had to run around and figure out which of the five different lines I was supposed to get into on my own, as the rest of the passengers on the bus were long gone towards the Mozambique side. Helpful strangers lead me on my way. At the Mozam side three British guys from my bus are getting their visas. At the border. Which I could have done. And missed all the fun of this story.

The Mozambican Visa Expedition: Part 1

David — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 11:42:00 +0000

Probably the most difficult (logistically) trip I have ever had to arrange was a seemingly simple one: to get from Durban, South Africa to Maputo, Mozambique. LP says there’s a direct bus. Nice, considering I didn’t want to go through Joburg.

So I call the company that’s supposed to run the route. “This number has been disconnected.” Hrm. Three other numbers produce a similar result. Another connects…to Standard Bank. Well, best to just go to the office then at the bus station. I catch a ride in to town, and soon find the office. Or rather, the empty building where the office used to be. In the window is a sign stating the obvious: They don’t operate in Durban any more. There is also a piece of paper in the window, listing prices for the trip effective July. It’s the end of July. So it seems this was a recent liquidation of the Durban branch. Damn luck.

After a couple days of research, I finally came to realize there were no direct buses, taxis, or friends-of-friends-of-friends-headed-that-way. Alrighty then. Greyhound South Africa (which unlike Greyhound USA is actually quite good) has a night bus from Durban and then a connecting bus from Joburg to Maputo in the morning a couple hours after you arrive. Less time in Joburg bus station = Good. It’s a longer trip overall, but still easier than the mess Brendon went through.

But wait, there’s a catch. You have to obtain a visa beforehand instead of at the border. This is a new concept to me, but whatever, a bit of research online and I find there’s a Mozambican consulate in Durban. Armed with an address, directions, and instructions, I hopped in a minibus taxi to town.

The taxi drops me off not where expected. I wander a seven block radius for approximately an hour, getting mixed directions from I don’t know how many people on the street. By the time I set foot in the building, I had unknowingly walked back and forth past the entrance four times. Grr.

The address listed everywhere on the internet is 5th floor, Room 520. I find it without too much trouble. However, Room 520 is now a driving school office. I ask if they know where the consulate is, to which the response is “What?”. I wander the floor above and two bellow, hoping to stumble on it. I don’t. I do however end up wandering the halls of several completely deserted floors that seem to belong in a post-apocalyptic movie. Luckily, there are no zombies to be found.

Descending to the bottom floor I find an empty information center. My years of reading Sherlock Holmes pays off and through sound deductive reasoning, the thick coat of dust covering the desk, and lack of anything “informative” I conclude it’s been empty for a good while. I make a last ditch effort and call the number I have for the embassy, which I had called a dozen times earlier and only rang endlessly. By some stroke of luck, I get an answer. I ask where they are. It’s the same building. Yes, I know, what floor? The thick accent is difficult to understand. It sounds like…27th? I thank him and proceed to the elevator, which has buttons from 1-15. Ok, maybe he said 7th? More empty offices. Ok, 11th? Nope.

After walking ten floors in vain, I call again, lightning strikes twice, and they answer again. Different guy, more difficult accent. I swear he’s saying 27th. WTF? Wandering the ground floor behind a corner here and around a bend there, I somehow find another elevator, 16-30. Score!

Listed Location: 5th floor, Room 520
Actual Location: 27th floor, Room 2719.
Time to find the office: 2.5 hours
Time to actually get visa: 5 minutes

A Special Report on ZA: Part 3

Brendon — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 21:11:00 +0000

Experiences. The acquisition of, good and bad, are what this adventure, as are most, is ultimately about. With experience you have the opportunity to gain knowledge, insight, wisdom into the lives of others as well as yourself. South Africa came with more than expected. Different than expected. Better than expected. Experiences.
On Violence
Having never heard stories first hand about the lack of appreciation for human life, South Africa become my first. Violence, sometimes out of retribution, other times not, has rifled this country for decades, centuries, millennium? Its sad. While often times you can find an instigator, a reason, an explanation for an inhumane act, many times you cannot. You try and try to understand why individuals, parties, families, tribes, cultures behave, but you cannot. Perhaps it is our western way of thought that prevents us from fully understanding and therefore, unable to progress the lives of those living by ethical and moral standards we find appalling. Talk to most modern South Africans and they boil it down to one issue: lack of ability to reason.

When I am asked to compare crime in South Africa to South America, both developing worlds striving to become noticed in the push for globalization, I often use one simple story to explain. In Colombia I was mugged by a homeless man using a sharp piece of broken glass he found in the alley. While no doubt it could have done damage, it wasn't the firearm I would have been shown South Africa. Tricky to dodge a knife wielding thief, nearly impossible a trigger happy bugler. And the biggest difference between South Africa and the United States, the keywords being "trigger happy". Blame it on the proliferation of weapons or parenting. Your pick.

On Racism
Living in Phoenix was not considered "safe". I think its one of the best decision we've made on this journey. Talk to any "white" on the street and they will return one of the following reactions: Surprise. Disgust. Interest. Those in disgust quickly leave the conversation. Not change the topic, not question why, simply leave. Is it for lingering racist mentality? Or based upon class status? Or a little of both? Often difficult to tell, other times not. The minority we hope, but quite a surprise and disgust to us. We were appalled at said actions as were they with ours.

Surprise. Those who never visited Phoenix, ever. Not a big surprise to us, as many have never visited the Bronx of New York City, Five Points of Denver, or Compton of Los Angeles, despite living in these cities all our lives.

Interest. In experiencing for themselves? None.

On Death
Over 43 persons a day die in road accidents in South Africa. The next closest country halves that number. Most westerns divide by 4. They say driving is more dangerous than flying. In South Africa, my nerves finally agreed. Riding in the back of pickup trucks, swerving around corners in taxis, and seeing the conditions of rural roads sent me longing for the prick cops of the US of A, high fuel taxes, and un-bribablep pain-in-your-ass DMV.

Talk to just about anyone and you will find less than 6 degrees of car accident and death separation. Whether it be one-vehicle accidents or the 70+ car pile up we nearly avoided ourselves that took lives of 4 individuals. Our couch surfing host in Rustenburg shared stories of losing her brother, her father, several friends or friends of friends to death. Either via sudden accidents, premature illnesses, or violent robberies. She didn't lament or show any surprise in retelling.

In South Africa, death happens. Violence happens. Racism happens. More frequently than I was willing to accept, but a part of normal life for citizens.

These are a handful experiences I created or stories listened to in earnest about South Africa. While the above does not "paint a pretty picture", it is by no means "the whole picture". I struggled whether to write this blog, how to write it, and how it would be perceived. South Africa is a wonderful country, with wonderful people, with wonderful scenery, with wonderful food, and with a wonderful, unique, culture. I hope I was able to convey that in Parts 1 and 2. Tormented by a past most of us have never truly experienced and just like any country, it is not without problems, trials, and tribulations. I have great hope, but I fear many do not, both foreigners and locals alike. Only time will tell which way goes South Africa, but that time may be sooner than everyone expects. I pray for the nation to truly become united, to truly become the rainbow nation of Tutu and Mandela.

If you have read this far, but missed reading the article from the Economist, and wish to know more about South Africa, please read the real "A Special Report on South Africa". You will not disappointed. You will be enlightened.

A Special Report on ZA: Part 2

Brendon — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 07:58:00 +0000

Brazil v. Portugal was up next and with almost week out on the farm without television, we were feeling left out of the World Cup madness. Little did we know when we set out at 4 in the morning, sleeping in the back of the "bucky" on a mattress for an 8 hour journey across the country, what type of madness we would be encountering.

On Durban
Durban: "The Warmest Place To Be For 2010". The slogan was fitting, we'd left the cold shivers, the wrapping up in coats and blankets, of Koster and Rustenburg and replaced them with sunny sunny 80 degree Durban. While they say the waters are warm enough to swim in, even though its technically winter, I challenge the comfortability of that statement.

The next two weeks were a blur. FIFA Fan Fest, bars, beaches, malls, sleeping, partying, eating, eating, and more ensued. Before we knew it the World Cup was almost over. Suji, our couch surfing host, Koogen, Nishan, Roderick, Pun, and many may many more, became our new family, our Indian family. Durban, most do not know, houses the largest neighborhood of Indians, outside of India, in the entire world: Phoenix.

We ate curries, with more spices than I'd ever had in my life. We ate roti rolls, the Indian version of a burrito. We ate bunny chows, a loaf of bread hollowed out and filled with sugar beans or lamb or chicken curries. No fork included, tear off a piece of bread and grab the food spilling out. I finally understood why the Christophers and Magellans back in the day went searching half way around the world for a more direct trade route to India. If not for its quest for spices, the Americas may not have been discovered for many more centuries to come. Many thank yous to India for your spice!

The matches kept on. Brasil went out. USA went out. My only favorite left was Germany. Assuming, of all games if any to be sold out, the semi-finals must. Not true, more on that in "A Letter to FIFA" later. Not only were we Americans surfing in Little India Durban, so were three Germans, two Canadians, one French, and three Argentinians over the course of our stay. One of the Germans determined to find tickets to the Germany v. Spain semi-final, left early in the day to sit out around the stadium beachfront and scour for tickets. We wished him luck and thought no more. Merely an hour before the match was to begin we received a call: he had exactly 1. A Category I ticket at face value is $600, I paid $150. Score.

Unfortunately Germany did not, but I had checked off one of my previously believed to be inconceivable goals for World Cup 2010. The night was ripe with partying and I enjoyed my share of the festivities, speaking in Spanish for the first time in many weeks.

I wish I could now continue to inform on how it all ended. A big bash, an explosion of football fun, a crazy beach party, but alas I cannot. With family obligations looming, I set off on detour. Home. Temporarily...of course.

A Special Report on ZA: Part 1

Brendon — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 09:00:00 +0000

Africa is lost in many respects to the world. For many, literally they get lost looking for it on a map. For others, its a continent doomed to demise. For few, its the next new thing. I couldn't even begin to write an deserving blog of Africa, specifically South Africa, our home for nearly the past 2 months. While we have traveled very little in terms of places, we've experienced much more in terms of culture: life, death, happiness, sadness, hope, fear.

My attempt at this point will not be to continue down this road of political histories and futures, but rather point you in the direction of a very well written article published by the Economist just before the start of the World Cup. More than a primer for tourists, its an in-depth look at current situations in South Africa, positives and negatives both included: "A Special Report on South Africa" - Economist, 3rd June 2010.

On Cape Town
Arriving in Cape Town we enjoyed our first real British-style pub in many moons within the first few hours. We saw amazing views of the oceans from atop Table Mountain. Down on Long we drank with the best of 'em. From coffee shops to pubs to shopping malls, it was the closest I had been to home since I left. I could imagine a life here in a beautiful city with great weather, wonderful beaches, friendly people and all the other things from the western world.

But you could be fooled. We still gripped our pockets in fear of grubbing hands, we walked faster down roads at night staying only in lit areas, we got goosebumps when passing suspicious characters day or night. Told stories of this and that, despite the modernization and look, it all still lacked the sense of security.

On The Garden Route
The next few towns visited were small coastal villages along the infamous Garden Route. As the public transportation is a wash in South Africa compared to South America and Europe, we rented a car for a day and I learned how to drive on the left side of the road from the right seat of the car. Keep in mind I had not driven in over 18 months. It is just like riding a bicycle minus the changes in position in the car and road. We lived.

A highlight of my trip was visiting Monkeyland just outside of Plettenberg Bay. If you know me, nothing more really needs to be said, but imagine a giant fenced in jungle where the monkeys run around freely. Rescued from poor homes, zoos, etc. they are given food and shelter from the wild while nursed back to health. Just before spending our time here in the new with a great view, friendly and familiar Plett Backpackers (Ben: I promised I would plug you!), we visited Nysna, touring an old gold mine closed down many years ago. Our tour guide was phenomenal sharing both the history of our surroundings as well as the mining culture.

We made it by 4am bus to Port Elizabeth, arriving at 7am for a flight that wouldn't take off until 7pm. Just a heads up for any future travelers to ZA: rent a car. The public transportation is virtually non-existent compared to Europe, Asia or South America. With twelve hours to wait it out, we ventured over to the Boardwalk. From everyone we talked to before and after, its about all there is to do here anyway. We kicked it in a cafe once everything opened and watched a movie in the cinema to pass the rest of it.

The flight was quick and prompt to Jo'burg, but we arrived in a mess of confusion, as expected on the day before the opening match, the night of the opening ceremony. Instead of watching Shakira perform her Colombian magic on the crowd, we instead were treated to triple the normal price cab ride to the other side of town were had a place to crash for the night with family of friends back home. Miscommunication had ensued hours before, but we brushed it all aside with a good braai and beer thanks to Rein and Sue Marie.

On Rustenburg
Next day was up and at it early for our ride to Rustenburg, where England v. USA would play the following day. Last minute (see miscommunication above) we found a place to couch surf with an amazing family, in an amazing home just outside the town, on a pig farm. Kickoff in the FIFA Fan Fest, South Africa v. Mexico carried on exactly as expected that night! The World Cup festivities began in full swing, with full excitement. A big night of celebration, post-game partying, etc. ensued.

Having lost our bid (and hope) for game tickets many months before, we set our expectations on the Fan Fest that night, not realizing the bigger party was actually outside the stadium. However in a last ditch effort, we went to the ticket office hearing rumors that unsold tickets remained. Waiting in line, they ran out. Again, hopes shattered, we waited a little while longer as the rest of the unhappies fled the scene. Upon our eventual exit, there still remained an English tour operator trying to sell off the extra tickets he had. Price?! Face Value!? What?! Awesome!! Unfortunately, the game was a draw.

We returned to the farm, happy for a tie, but leaving much desired still for the World Cup. Already 3+ draws, where is the beautiful game boys?

The next few days were spent laying around the house, catching up on work, eating great homemade food, and just chilling out. My family's friends' parents were back a few days later and we took a ride out to the game farm where they stay as caretakers of the land with a small farm of corn and cabbage. Zebras lived just around the corner. How cool is that? Once again we were treated to wonderful home-cooked, South African meals, but now three-times a day! Ian and Ana were amazing hosts, with many many stories to share, happy and sad.

We talked for days on end when not eating or sleeping or working...Being in the middle of nowhere, the cellular signal does not always cooperate and I found myself freezing outside in the pickup, windows rolled up, jackets (plural) on, until my battery died on several occasions. A few days later we found an extension cord and worked in the afternoon sunlight until the freeze of the night came upon us. Hot chocolate would be waiting for us inside beside more conversation on life, education, security, war in South Africa...

I Returned

Brendon — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 03:50:00 +0000

I boarded a plane with an expected 20 combined hours of flight travel. I spent 8 hours in airports, 6 in the Johannesburg bus station fearing for my pockets, 12 in a train to the Mozambique border, 4 in taxis waiting to leave, cross, and arrive in Maputo. I spent the next 3 walking lost around a new city, a new country.

I figure at best, Maputo is a form of Rio de Janeiro 30 years ago. I think perhaps it is the common language of Portuguese, the feelings of the ocean airs, or the comparable 1970s architecture, but still, making these comparisons is a bash to A Cidade Maravilhosa.

I arrived in Maputo, dropped near an unknown taxi rank. I didn't want any help really, but many offered. I indulged for a few minutes until more and more "helpers", i.e. taxi drivers came over. I said "I will just walk." and was replied "No its too far to walk." I'd heard this all before telling myself "its never too far to walk".

I quickly found my bearings and started my journey across town. I first found a park, always a good landmark, and I entered it freely without suspicion. I should have paid attention to the metal gates surround the park, keeping everyone out at night, it was one of those places. I felt a little uneasy even with the daylight. I quickly exited and continued walking forgetting to check the map again. I ventured down towards the oceanfront instead of up I later realized. I still had an upbeat in my step, my bag not yet wearing on my shoulders as it would an hour from now. I did not dare climbing the hill back to the "upper" side of town. I assumed upper before just meant richer, not a big hillside, it actually meant both.

I opted to walk around rather than retreat, I hate going backwards. I read later in the guidebook my decision wise to not hike up the hill, one of the three areas of town told to forcibly avoid. I underestimated how round about I had to walk though, but I made it up, almost stepping inside the no-go zone in front of the Department of Defense. I quickly excused myself before the armed guard did it for me.

I turned on a random road again forgetting to double check the map, but I eventually ended up at my destination. I gave in to finding a room at the hostel on the map, as the original choice had no "x marks the spot". I was told it was full, as was the other map-listed backpacker hangout. I was given a map and a direction, but no road, no additional details. I was told I could find a tuk tuk taxi for around 100 local currency, however by the time I found one 30 minutes walking later, I was laughed at. I kept walking.

I had needed to pee for a little over 3 hours and passed boy after man pissing randomly, indiscreetly on the sides of roads, buildings, etc. yet I still could not bring myself to let it hang out so publicly. I bought a grape soda in the supermarket and walked 2k with an empty can refusing to throw it into the streets with the others, but unable to find a public waste bin. I asked in broken Portuguese slash English every few blocks to confirm I was in the right direction. I was told "just down that way" followed by "very very far, taxi here" 10 minutes later.

I continued my trek across the city. I was joined on the road by a kid my age looking to make a buck off of escorting me to wherever I was going, no English was spoken, but I understood enough: "...give me something, I will accompany you there...". I knew he had no idea where I was actually going. I had had the same problem with everyone else. "I can give you a ride there...", but "You just told me you don't even know where it is...". I kindly refused all offers, thus I am still walking.

I eventually tossed the can and peed on a fence. I needed more liquids another 45 minutes later where I asked again for directions, believing this time to be almost there. I was wrong, another 4-5k. I finally succumbed and jumped in a minibus-taxi and 10 cents, 3 kilometers later was dropped off just outside my original destination. I first asked where was the shower. I'd none for the past 3 days of traveling. I found my bed hard, not the desired comfortable, soft. I hoped before arrival in Maputo for more. I was disappointed, but here, with a beach at my doorstep, a temporary place to rest. I ate my first sit down meal in many days and I returned to the hostel where I fell asleep around 7.

I am exhausted.

An American in Lima

Brendon — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 10:38:00 +0000

Contrary to common practices, this past weekend turned into an culinary exploration of America in Lima, Peru. Culinary is absolutely the wrong word, but I do like the more distinguished sound of it.

It first started with Andrea wanting a wrap. After reviewing 10s of menus between the two main parks in downtown Lima, down the tourist laden pedestrian zones, the odd streets where the locals figured I was lost, over a 15 block stretch, we found nothing of the sort. Every restaurant, one after the other had a collection of daily lunch menus, every one containing exactly the same thing, just the typical Peruvian dishes: lomo saltado, ceviche, and poor man's steak.

Until we came upon the cluckingly popular KFC. I rarely ate pollo from here in The States, but it is wildly popular in Ecuador and Peru. Odd because there is a guy selling fried chicken for half the price just down the street out of the back of his car. They must love the buckets. As customary in almost every fast-food American chain gang restaurant these days, something is offered wrapped in a tortilla. And Andrea, who never eats more than half of my standard meal, ordered the largest wrap possible. I followed suit and so began the tour of American food in Lima.

A cup of joe, American-style. Starbucks. A big coffee fan, who isn't from Colombia, Andrea had never tasted the over-priced, found-on-every-street-corner, cup of coffee from the-one-and-only Starbucks. Well we had already started our downward spiral, why not continue it. Her only comment: the size of the small was 3x of that in Colombia. My white chocolate thing tasted just like back home.

The last time I remember going to a T.G.I. Friday's I was 12 or something. With 2 down, we figured we'd make a day of it so I could write this blog. Plus, I wanted a gigantic real-American hamburger. American-sized portions were enjoyed tremendously while I explained the "flair" on the red and white striped overall uniforms to Andrea using Office Space as a reference.

Basking in the influence of American food and drink culture for a day reminded me of why American culinary institutions are so successful. As I eat out 99.9% of my meals these days, I truly miss not the American-food, not the American-selection, not the American-portions, not the American-cleanliness...the most. But the service...with a smile :)

Free Weed!

David — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 16:19:00 +0000

We’ve been in Cusco a little over a week now. The greatest annoyance (and it is very annoying) is the countless women offering cheap massages, shady dudes offering drugs, and restaurant owners shoving their menus in your face. The level of hassle here greatly surpasses that of any other touristy town I’ve been in.

It’s gotten to the point where we walk an extra two or three blocks the long way around to avoid getting bombarded by offers for things we don’t want. Whatever tactic we try, nothing seems to work. Everything from ignoring them and walking by in silence, saying a polite “no gracias”, saying a less polite “no gracias”, to Brendon’s idea of muttering obscenities as we pass, all have failed.

Their persistence is quite remarkable. The other day we spotted (or I should say, we were spotted) by one of the infinite massage girls down the street. They are actually massage girls, not hookers, not most at least. We detoured around a large group of people, and in her attempt to follow us, she nearly crashed into them. No more than twenty feet down the same street, after dodging that bullet, a little girl selling gum walked right in front of Brendon and stopped, nearly tripping him.

We’ve come to the conclusion that Machu Picchu being closed is partially to blame. That means less gringos, and that means fighting desperately over those of us who are here. It’s understandable, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying.

You gotta give points for creativity though, and yesterday’s walk to lunch found just that. As we passed a couple waiters showing off their menus (which by the way, are the same as almost everyone else's) and ignored their calls of “Hey friends, good food, lunch, friends, hey, friends, hey...” one shouted just before we left hearing range, “Free weed!”

I wonder how that works…

This is Bogotá

Brendon — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 16:51:00 +0000

For the past 6 months I experienced the joys and nots of living in Bogotá. A tribute to what this trip has become, Bogotá was an expected series of changes, coincidences: life.

Bogotá is modern life meets yesterday. A horse-drawn wagon waits in traffic behind a bright yellow cab. A steam train moves slowly down the tracks parallel to a freshly paved autobahn. A street vendor flips arepas for a quarter each out front a fine dining establishment pouring wine at $25 a glass. The presidential palace, combing with elites and politicians, is surrounded by a barrio full of beggars and thieves. A human phone booth wears 5 mobiles off his jacket while businessmen stroll by on Blackberries.

I prefer modern. The "center of economics and politics" in el gran país of Colombia, Bogotá at over 8 million inhabitants is a genuine metropolis on the edge of a few booms:

Technological
Hundreds of vendors selling every piece of computer hardware, made in China, Taiwan, Japan, and the United States, fill stories of edificios on Calle 15 between Carrera 75 a 80. The street corners in front are lined with too-many-to-count independent software salesmen, pirated and not, I typically crossed the street before being bombarded with offers. It gets annoying after the zeroth time.

Cellular phone and data services are as common here as everywhere else in the developed world as does banda-ancha internet. While internet cafes exist, not in the numbers they do in less developed cities, a sign of in-home, always-on access. WIFI is catching on just about every upscale establishment, over 25 open signals can be found sitting on a bench in Parque 93. I had a $20, likely stolen 10-year old Nokia, but then again, I only ever called 1 of 5 people in the book.

Walk along Calle 100 east of the TransMilenio stop and you will find brand new environmentally efficient, technologically loaded office buildings and condominiums rising every few blocks within the chic neighborhood of Chicó. Someone please buy me one.

Gastronomical
Parque 93, a green pasture of nappers, ballers, and doggers, is surrounded by European-American styled, but Colombian influenced cervesarias, restaurants, bars, and nightclubs cluster to garner the patronage of Rolos and a small handful of "first worlders". I love food and people watching, there may not be a better place in Bogotá if you do too.

Just 10 blocks south resides Zona T, part of the larger Zona Rosa. A beautifully-lit during Christmas, pedestrian-only 3 blocks of even more pubs and eateries. Whether its Irish, English, Mexican, French, Spanish, or Colombian you desire, it all exists here, however there was no way I had ever enough money to try every place recommended. Pick one, then pick another, until you find your favorite (or her's).

When I arrived in Colombia I was not a daily-cup-of-joe type of a person, but when I left, I nearly was. Ridiculously famous around the world, Colombian coffee is everything it's hyped. Bring in 21st-century marketing and you have a chain of cafes to rival Starbucks. Bogotá has one on every corner.

Turistical
Around Zona Rosa you will find within 3 blocks of each other, 3 modern shopping malls, all bustling with activity found in only in world class cities. While I am not a traveler-shopper, I did find myself taking long walks through the air-conditioned goodness of these centro comercials (8 out of the 20+) or catching Avatar 3D at one of the many theaters inside, all a few steps above any cinema I've wasted money on in The States with coffee shops, affordable candies, free refills on soda, and premium Lazy-Boy-Seating.

Situated in the middle of the country, we expected to explore other parts of Colombia on the weekends. Until those weekends turned into outing-on-the-town (see above), but we did manage to visit the Catedral de Sal and Villa de Leyva a mere hour-to-hours outside.

So why isn't Colombia over-ridden with tourists already? Someones tell me its "bad publicity". It's no lie, there is a ton of cocaine in Colombia, a tourist industry in-and-of itself. It's cheap, easily accessible, and overlooked. The para-politics-military culture also contributes and yes, it is still a struggle for the locals and their culture, but improvements are being seen and rarely does a turista ever feel the impact. And Bogotá, unbeknownst to many, is the numero uno destino en Colombia.

So how did I get to Colombia? And why did I stay so long? Jason and I first arrived months late in January 2009 after blowing off gobs of time and braincells in Central America, with just enough time to get our visas for Brasil before Carnaval started. After a week in the city, we were sad to leave and pledged to return. While Jason disappeared to start a new life, I found myself still desiring to visit the off-FARC-mentioned country of Colombia and figured why not Bogotá as a starting point?

An initial idea of working diligently for 2 months turned into a guestimated 4 finding no short terms leases. An early December departure turned into a late January forced departure when visas expired after 6. An unexpected reunion with Tom turned into an unexpected relationship with Andrea. A diminishing grasp of the Spanish language turned into a moderately conversational speaker.

And so while I travel the rest of the Spanish-speaking continent of South America, I will look back to my days, months in Bogotá with fond memories of all, despite the boredoms, the bads, and the bettys, but if I am to remeninse about anything, it will be the culture itself, the passion of the people, something I have not explained, nor feel like I ever am able. Cultura must be experienced for one's self. But what I can tell you, is that this es Bogotá, and Colombia, es pasión...

5 Tips to Poorly Run Your Latin American Hostel

David — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 11:02:00 +0000

These five tips are all too commonly applied in Latin American budget hostels. Follow all of them and you’ll still probably get plenty of guests if your prices are cheap enough and you're in the right location.

1) Don’t give your guests a tour.

Sure, many hostels aren’t that big and you can find everything without much trouble. But I can’t count the number of times I’ve found a TV room or an extra kitchen or bathroom I didn’t know existed after living in a hostel for a week. At the very least, tell your guests what extra services you offer.

And if you don’t give me a tour, then you can’t get mad at me when I use the unmarked ladies bathroom instead of the unmarked men’s (not that that’s happened…twice).

2) Don’t provide purified water.

It’s early morning. Your head is pounding from last night’s bender as you wake up ready to drink an ocean of agua, your mouth bone dry. You walk to the kitchen hoping there’s a self-service fridge of water bottles for sale or maybe even a water cooler. No dice. It’s too early for stores to be open, but even if they were, you’re in no condition to stray more than 50 feet from the comfort of your bed. You glance at that the tap and think, “How many parasites can the Guatemalan tap water really have?” It looks so clear, so refreshing.

Five months later and twenty pounds lighter your doctor is pulling 12 feet of tapeworm out of your stomach. On the plus side it worked better than a diet.

3) Offer 24 hour access, but be sure to hire a night watchman who can sleep through the detonation of an atomic bomb.

“Come on dude. It’s 4:30 in the morning, I had to walk an hour and a half back here after my wallet got jacked downtown and I couldn’t pay for a cab, and now the drunk guy on the corner who looks awful shady is watching me. Wake. The. Hell. Up.” You continue to plead, pounding on the door and ringing the buzzer but the night watchman’s snores are the only response. Fifteen minutes of knocking later, his dreams of being a ruthless drug-cartel jefe (boss) on a Mexican soap-opera are finally interrupted by you, and he makes his displeasure all too clear in his expression as he lets you in.

“Forgive me for coming back at one of the hours not included in your 24 HOUR ACCESS,” you say, but he’s already snoring, back in the Spanish version of One Life to Live as he finds out the police officer that arrested him is actually his half-twin-brother Raul who was thought to be dead*.

4) Have dogs/cats in the house that are not house trained, and/or birds that squawk earsplittingly loud at every bump in the night.

I generally like animals. But when I can’t sleep because Pedro the Parrot is on crack and feels the need to alert the entire building that a fly has entered the room, my head becomes filled with murderous thoughts of feathers strewn across the floor.

I’d have the cat do the dirty work for me, if I wasn’t already planning his demise after I stepped in something that belongs in a litter box or outside.

5) Use the bacteria infested closet in the back as a kitchen.

Of the many false claims hostels frequently make, the kitchen is almost always one of the greatest disappointments to me, as someone who likes to cook. A Coleman stove with one working burner, pots and pans warped beyond recognition, and three forks missing half the prongs does not qualify as a “fully equipped” kitchen. And that’s not even taking into account the general filth and grime that most budget hostel kitchens share that kills your appetite after glancing at it.

*There is no Spanish version of One Life to Live (that I know of). But if there was, I’m sure it’d have a ruthless drug-cartel jefe who gets arrested by his presumed-dead-half-twin-brother Raul.

context is everything

David — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 14:26:00 +0000

There are times when as soon as the words are out of your mouth, you realize that out of context, they would sound truly hilarious, ridiculous, perverted, or just plain weird. When traveling, these situations occur most frequently...Here are a few to get started, more later.

“Me and the rock had a love making fest out on the jetty.” - Brendon
We can’t remember for sure why the hell these words were spoken anymore, but they come from an accident Brendon had on the jetty in Santa Marta, Colombia. The rocks on the jetty were not as close together in some places as they could have been, which led to a fall, resulting in a broken sandal, some nasty cuts and scrapes, and the above quote.

“You’re the lesbian love child of Monica and Phoebe.” - Brendon
This little gem is taken from a lengthy discussion on which Friends character each of us is. It was fueled by alcohol and initiated by a dream Brendon had in which he argued with dream-people over whether or not he was Joey. We eventually came to realize that nobody is just one character, but rather a combination of traits/characteristics of at least two of the six “friends”.

“The guy who just offered us drugs is doing a line in the bathroom.” - Brendon
One of the many joys of traveling through Latin America is the countless offers for narcotics from guys on street corners, in bars, or my personal favorite, by church security guards just outside the church. This line comes from one night in a bar in Ecuador. Apparently after we turned him down, he decided not to let his coke go to waste.

“Why don’t you take a lesson from field of dreams? ‘If you build it, they will drink it.’” - Brendon
In one of our many discussions about bars, and how to start and manage one, we talked about how “you have to spend money, to make money”, and the importance of the initial investment in your bar. Somehow we landed on Field of Dreams from there. If you don’t build it, they won’t come.

“That'll help him when he's trying to hide out in the strawberry patch.” - Brendon
This one doesn’t have as much of a story behind it. The following picture, taken at Mitad del Mundo (“Middle of the World”) in Ecuador, pretty much sums up this last quote regarding this guy’s camo.

Sick in Santa

Brendon — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Andrea's parents told me a story before they left about how Dad took ill one trip to Cartagena after indulging in unknowingly tainted foods. I didn't make it that far.

By day 2 of Santa Marta I found myself unable to move past the bathroom, spending most of my day in bed lacking any energy. Odd thing was, our meal the night before was at a decent, respected gringo-owned establishment. But apparently the lobster disagreed and reeked havoc on me for the next week.

By day 3.5 I was moving about, albeit slowly.

Day 4 was New Years and with tradition, I spent it still mildly sick and sober (usually, due to a hangover) except for the two glasses of Flor de Caña I downed. I could handle no more. There were no spectacular displays of fireworks, no big parties in Santa Marta, most everything was shut down, but there were people in town, somewhere.

New Years Day we taxied over to a smaller beach town named Taganga, known mostly as the center for diving in Colombia. Classes are cheap, around $200 for the basic course, and I had planned on taking a dip under under the ocean myself, but my condition was not improved enough for that kind of adventure underwater.

The beaches of Taganga were packed. I think its where all the people missing from Santa Marta were spending their days. We hiked 30 minutes up and over a huge hill to Playa Grande, but it wasn't that big. More people. After a nice afternoon nap in the shade, we threw around the football I had dragged all the way from Bogota for the sole purpose of playing on the beach. That was the first and last time we played.

Forgetting the being sick part, the town of Santa Marta was nicer (and larger) than I expected. We stayed in the historical slash touristic district. It seemed smaller, more quaint. It was confirmed safe once I saw kids playing tag in the streets after ten at night. The dogs traveled in packs as normal, but instead of fighting, also played tag in the streets. The streets themselves except for the large amount of trash, were constructed very well using a nice combination of quality concrete and red brick. The number of pedestrian paths was unexpected. If you add few more places to eat, I see Santa Marta as town ready for a tourism explosion. Just hopefully the prices, which are quite affordable right now, do not go through the roof as they have in our next stop, Cartagena de Indias...

Te odio. Te odio.

Brendon — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 14:00:00 +0000

We spent the end of December, beginning of January traveling about northern Colombia. It all started here in Bucamaranga, the capital of the departamento Santander. Lonely Planet says there is "not much to do here" and "the only real reason to stop here is to break up an overland journey". They are correct.

We spent 2 hours in the city, got chased down by a drunk homeless man yelling crazy shit while burping literally every 10 seconds, some of the loudest I have heard, and couldn't find anywhere clean or open to eat. We returned to the bus station 4 hours earlier than planned to change our tickets for San Gil, the real highlight of this state, the "adventure capital of Colombia".

Te odio. I hate you. Te odio. Those were the most common words heard from the mouth of Andrea. Weighing in at little-to-nothing and under the stated requirement, the paragliding instructors waited until the very end of the day to see if the winds would calm down enough that she wouldn't fly fly fly away. They didn't. An extra 10 pound bag of weights was rested on her lap for the flight. The hours preceding, Andrea continued to try and run away, tell me how much she hated me, say she was scared of heights, and pretend like she didn't want to go. She went. I don't like people telling me no. She enjoyed.

The views were amazing and we were quite tired by the end of the day. We went rafting that morning too, which is where the curses started flying first.

Before we even left Bogota, Andrea mentioned her fears of rafting. I had however already promised David we would float down the river. The river we signed up for however was not a float. It was a never ending roller Splash Mountain coaster ride without emergency breaks. Classified as a 4-5+, the videos when we arrived in San Gil were enough to convince both David and I we were not in shape for such a treacherous run down the Rio Suarez. We caved (and compromised) for the significantly cheaper Rio Fonce (no expensive kayak guides required). A ride everyone enjoyed without anyone hating the others after.

After sleeping the next day, we found our way to the local watering hole where we climbed up a small waterfall and swam in the pool below. A refreshing relaxing day before our night bus to Santa Marta...

bus, troles, bus

Brendon — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 09:14:00 +0000

The day started with waking up to the owner of our hostel arguing with a guest. "You not stay tonight. Period." A group had rented out the entire place. While we'd "reserved" our room the night before just in case we wanted to stay, we figured we might as well pack and be ready...

Good thing. We left our room and were asked to checkout. After lunch we grabbed the bags and headed to the bus. Quito has quite a few different public transportation systems, none of which connect directly to the other, but all of which cover a good majority of town. We boarded the bus rapid transit, similar to Bogota's Transmilenio, yet light years older. It was relatively empty despite the plethora of school kids boarding. Nice, as we carried two backpacks, each.

No problems there, we jumped off on the north side of Old Town Quito, walked through the park, and in the direction of another transit system, the Trole. This one would take us to the nearest bus station about 15 blocks away. It was packed. We never boarded, instead opting to walk through the Old Town one last time. Thirty minutes later we passed the Trole station we would have disembarked and walked down the steps to discover this bus station was abandoned. Lonely Planet FAIL.

We ought to have verified it still existed, but its not everyday a bus station completely disappears from a guidebook. Well, it didn't exactly disappear, but it was deserted. Having no idea where the new station might be and not in a part of town we felt completely safe in, we flagged down a taxi. "$10 dollars. Very far. That way." Screw that.

We walked back up to the Trole station and while David went to ask, a friendly old gentleman questioned were I was trying to go. I told him. He responded with the correct directions. If I had only listened to him instead of everyone else over the next 2 hours.

The Trole went directly to the new station, literally drove up right inside it he said. So we bought tickets, $0.25 apiece and boarded. There was absolutely no room. I am not sure how we pushed inside, but imagine a bus being so packed you do not require the assistance of the handrail when the bus lurches forward and back, starting and stopping at each estacion. The lady who sold us the tickets told David 5 minutes, so at about 5 minutes and what looked like the right stop, we jumped off along with half the bus.

After 2 minutes, we realized we'd jumped the gun. David was exhausted though. I thought he'd gone to ask for directions so I just stood there for another 5 minutes until I saw him on the bench. The police officers confirmed we were on the right line and that we had to take it all the way to the end. But, he did not say how far the end was. The next stop appeared to be the end to David, but I refused to get off thinking otherwise until I asked if this was that stop. Yes was the reply. Shit. Doors were already closed. No exit possible.

Again, we offloaded, bumping everyone in the process with our bags, at the next stop in order to turn around. Something was wrong though, the next stop was not the last stop. We had continued south as I had predicted, but I took the word of the man on the bus. Wrong. We asked and finally received the same directions as the man on the street originally described. Ride it all the way, all-the-way to the end.

We boarded again, but not more than 4 stops later we exited, again. David couldn't handle it anymore. He barfed all over the platform immediately clear of the bus. While he recovered, I worried about getting to the bus station early enough to arrive in our destination before dark. Another 10 minutes later, an uncrowded trole stopped and David took a seat.

One bus and 4 troles later, we finally arrived at the brand spankin' new bus station on the farthest south side of town. The taxi driver was not lying, it was far, very far. But for 50 cents each, we saved ourselves at least 12 dollars for the day by taking an adventurous ride on two of Quito's mass transit systems. Fortunately, there was a bus immediately departing for Riobamba. We arrived an hour earlier than expected, dusk slowly fading into darkness. This time we took a cab ($1) to the hotel. Enough excitement for one day.

the worst bus ride ever?

Brendon — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 15:06:00 +0000

Planning in advance, we bought our tickets 8 hours before departure time. After stashing our bags at the equipment check, we headed out sightseeing around Medellin. Our last day of "vacation", we were returning to Bogota the following morning. Except for a few bumps, our trip was an enjoyable success. Here is one of said bumps.

The town of Medellin was beautiful today. Without much of a schedule, we walked quite a bit, drank a few cafes, ate and basically spent a lazy day wondering around the Universidad area between the Jardin Botanico and the Parque de los Deseos. We skipped the amusement and science parks. Money. The planetarium was closed. But maybe we ought to have slept the entire day.

Maybe I should blame the guy who was taking the largest dump of my life while I waited patiently for ten minutes as he ruptured his spleen and my eardrums with his Montezumas Revenge. Or the guy in line at the baggage check who was being non-cooperative and holding up everyone trying to get somewhere. Though I am not sure these few minutes would have made too much of a difference in the first-come first-seat arrangement. For the record, we had seats 1,2,3 - the first purchased of the day.

When we boarded, there were 2 seats, apart empty. Andrea in her sweet, little girl voice whined to the lady pretending to have control of the situation that she did not feel safe or comfortable sitting with a stranger. Hell, I didn't either. In one of said empty seats sat a guy in a full head-to-toe body suit. No shit...I don't want to know what mutation of H1N1 infected him.

The stewardess-ish motioned to request a guy from the back to come sit up front so we can share a dirty by the bathroom seat together. By the time he moved and we navigated around him (and the rest of the people still standing in the aisle), a couple had stolen the seat. And when questioned why, jackass guy responded with a virtual fuck you.

Ok. Asshole number one, check. We ended up in what they vacated, non-reclining seats. Ass...No problem. It's only 8 hours. We can do this. The bus left an hour late, asshole yelling at the stewardess-ish in the minutes leading up to departure. The aisles are still full of people. Now sitting. Inconsiderate people. In a chicken bus, this would be totally acceptable. But this was not. In all the buses we had taken collectively in Colombia, the rides were generally nice. Seats comfortable. People friendly. Not so much.

After 30 minutes of the guy sitting less in the aisle and more in Andrea's little corner of the bus, I offered to switch seats as she had this scared, "I am about to get off this bus and cry" look. Being quite a bit larger, homeboy eventually moved himself entirely into his aisle. Now call this a dick move all you want, but no apologies, no requests, no excuse me's were ever said. By the way, seats in the aisle are half the price for half the space.

But my troubles were not over. Andrea drifted off into sleep or watching the horrible version of Rush Hour 3, dubbed in Spanish. Some movies should never be voiced-over. It's just wrong. Meanwhile I had new issues with an old over-make-up-ed awfully-faked blond and her pink painted toenails on my arm rest. After I made an obvious this disgusts me move/face/gesture, she put on her sandals. Wrinkly toes still apparent. Puke.

Eventually those disappeared too after the bus stopped for a longer than required rest. This is not counting the 10 or so random pull-overs to the side of the road to do absolutely nothing. When I re-entered the shithole-of-a-bus, the floor people had managed to find a way to crawl into balls and not outright encroach my space. Of course this meant no one could enter or exit the on-board bathroom which would have been okay if it weren't for people continuing to try.

After two thirds of the trip was over, I finally managed to pass off into dreamland and awake in safeland. Home sweet Bogota. It was a welcoming sight to see the city and I recalled the last time I was so dearly ready to be off a bus and into the comfort of familiar surroundings.