Carly also told me a good one recently. Why couldn’t the lifeguard save the hippy? Cause he was way too far out, man!!

So now I’m in Cuba and, more importantly, with my family. Mark, Meghan’s boyfriend, asked me if I changed over the last year on the road. I said yeah, but then had trouble discerning any way I actually did. After a few short days with the family it seems obvious that maturity is a category in which I haven’t changed so much. No sir. I know this by how much I still love patting the Tone-man’s belly. I really do. His annoyed reactions always make it worth it. When all’s said and done I figure I haven’t matured much over the last year so much as realized how immature I really am. That’s a step though, right? ....right? Although, as I keep finding out, his best friends and colleagues also enjoy teasing the ol’ man, so I’m not gonna hold it against myself.

Anywho, planning to meet the family in our hotel, I arrived in Havana all by myself. I found out quickly that the Cubans could give the Chileans a run for their money for the most bastardized version of Spanish. Well, the Chileans would easily win, but this island has done a commendable job in making it indiscernible for ol’ Ryan. They sounds like slack-jawed Spanish on speed who have a vendetta against pronouncing the letter S. Nevertheless, a tour guide I met on my bus to Verodero (Cuba’s Cancun) assures me that Cuban Spanish is of great quality. Who am I to argue?

Being Canadian, not Cuban, I was given only one option for the 2 ½ hour trip from the airport to the hotel – a $40 bus ride. I soiled myself right then and there as Harry’s joke echoed through my head. That’s a two days worth of spending you know! Sniffle, sniffle.

Today the family went on a catamaran tour to Play Blanca. I was keen as to come along since we got to kiss some dolphins at the end. Not quite the same as cute girls, but it was fine in its own right. And I’ll be damned, I never would have thought it, but dolphins make me just as bashful as a high school boy taking to his crush. Now, due to dolphin anatomy –no lips– the kiss ends up being a gentle nudge on the cheek. Sometimes more of a head-butt. But you never get mad at the them for that because you know kissing has never been a part of their culture, despite what impressions cartoons may have given you. Anywho, getting head-butted by a dolphin truly was beautiful. If a more sensitive Ryan existed, he would have cried. Thank god, cause less sensitive Ryan would have mocked him, only making things worse.

Just to satisfy your curiosity, dolphins feel just like those rubber balls with silly faces that you find in WalMart. The kind that are too light to throw well, so are really only fun if you’re under 6. And they’re equally as squishy, too.]]> Sat, 12 Dec 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=102853 0 23.1536111 -81.2513889 For starters, the rides had more rust. And they were much smaller, but that's expected cause Mexicans are a much shorter people. Hey oh! Aw, it's a shame none of my Mexican friends will read that. But seriously folks, the ferris wheel was only 3 meters high. With the right sneakers you could slam dunk your toddler into the highest chair. Although, hindsight tells me that maybe unlike Canadian adults, Mexican adults just don't like being whirled around in all directions at ridiculous speeds.

Another thing different is that the carnies aren't obviously carnies. I mean, back home a mullet or gold teeth will give away who's the carnie and who's not. Nope. Not in Mexico. And just to mess with ya they don't wear tacky vests or name tags to identify themselves. Although they do have fannie packs for the tickets and money, but that doesn't help cause so does everyone else. So you gotta wait until you see someone else buy a ticket before asking for tickets to see the world's smallest woman. ....then again, maybe Mexicans don't have a bad stigma against carnies.

Mexican food is generally fatty. Vegetables are scarce and fruit more so. The diet is tortillas, beans, rice, corn, cheese and meat. Oh yeah, and chilies! If you can fry something that's better, but usually it's good enough to just grill it. How you mix em together varies from region to region, but my stereotype says that generally this is the basis for Mexican diet. Now you gotta imagine a food at the Stampede in comparison to regular Calgary food. The same ration applies to Mérida's fair. Deep fried hot dogs with french fries topped with mayo and chili. Or a small bag of Dorritos topped with cheese and jalepeños. Or pork rinds with cheese, corn and chili. Or a churro (deep fried batter that taste like elephant ears) drizzled in chocolate sauce. ....okay, so I exaggerated. It's no different than street food readily found in Mérida.

Side note. According to the World Health Org here is my list of the fattest countries in the world (at least the countries you and I will recognize) as of 2008:
1-7: All southeast pacific island countries
8: Kuwait
9: USA
13. Argentina
14. Egypt
17: New Zealand
19: Mexico
21: Australia
35: Canada

Alrighty, a classic favourite of mine from ol' K-Days was seeing the half-something half-woman illusion. Ya know, the Wasp Lady or the REAL Ladybug. I dunno why they were always part insect. Here's the hook: the ridiculous illusions aren't the best part. No sir. Once you enter you ask them digging questions about their lives like, "What's it like being larva?" or "What sort of names did the other kids call you growing up?" Before seeing Maria, who had an alligator body and woman's head, I forgot to think of a question. That turned out to be no big deal cause she was submerged at the bottom of a tank, so wouldn't have been able to hear me anyways.

The carnie who took my money (at least I think she was a carnie) opened the curtain for me and I got nervous as I walked up to see Maria. Walking up I noticed the illusion had her submerged in water, but figured she would just pretend the pretend the illusion's physics don't apply and answer my question. Suddenly I got nervous being that I was about to talk to such an important person and quickly lost confidence in my Spanish. I panicked.
Ryan: "Puedes sonreír?" (Can you smile?)
Maria: [puzzled look]
Ryan: [hooks corners of mouth with fingers and pulls up]
Maria: [smiles and nods, then one-piece alligator body dances separate from head]
Ryan: [happy tension is over, but still can't think of another question and slowly walks back to the curtain]
In hindsight she prolly just couldn't hear me or understand me. I bet alligator women have a hard enough time with Spanish, let alone my accent. Ah well.

The next thing I saw were the freaky animals - a two headed rabbit, a chicken with 4 legs, a dog with 2 tails and several others following that theme. They were all baby animals in jars of formaldehyde.

The final freak show I went to was Carla, the woman with three breasts. Logic tells me three are better than two, so I was intrigued. The carnie - it was obvious this time as she was perched on her own stool - told me I had to wait 5 minutes until I could see Carla. All I could think of is why the guy before me needed 5 minutes. Just like that I had no desire to see Carla.

I also missed Anna, the world's smallest woman. Carla had spooked me and I didn't even see her. So Wes and I wandered through the isles of fake watches, belt buckles and tattoo parlors. Woh woh woh!! Tattoo parlors?! Yeah, tattoo parlors! Well, Wes and I dared each other, but by this age double dog dares aren't effective peer pressure. Instead we took a stroll through the cattle show. That stunk and we went home.]]> Fri, 04 Dec 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=99262 0 20.9666667 -89.6166667 But the mosquitos. Hate them. Each mosquito I kill I smirk and think of all the possible offspring I stopped from existing. In Tulum, Mexico, there are a lot of mosquitos. This town shares the same beautiful stretch of Yucutan beach as Cancun and is named after the Mayan ruins looking out at the Carribean from a nearby cliff. Inland is a flat, flat, flat with a jungle of cenotes (what I'd call watering holes) and Mayan ruins.

So Tulum is where I am now, waiting for my breakfast included in the hostel price. Free use of bikes is also included, which I happily took advantage of yesterday. I hit the road with a couple of English guys, one Aussie and myself all on wide seated one-gear bikes with cute baskets in front. Let me tell you, we were an intimidating gang on the highway. With the sun at our backs and the wind in our faces we even bullied that swealtering heat away. The wind more than compensates for exercising in the heat of the day - it was cooler than relaxing in the shade with a beer (and I'm not one to readily admit that). As if the bike's wide handlebars didn't make me feel bad ass enough, when I over took a motorbike I think Clint Eastwood would have peed his pants.

Ooh, priorities! Coffee's ready. Adios!]]> Fri, 04 Dec 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=99212 0 20.125 -87.45

Relidad

When I jumped out of the truck the first thing that came to my eyes were the random chickens everywhere and the horses cutting the grass. I travelled in time to when Erna was a toddler running on the farm naked. Not really knowing what to do or where to go I asked around if there was someone I should see. They pointed down the road.

Walking down I saw little girls with babies tied to their backs with blankets and women washing their clothes or themselves in the river, which later I learned I would do the same. It was mid-afternoon when I found Sergio leaning on the side of a building. His job is to register the tourists who come by. Imagine that. Out in Relidad he's in charge of managing tourism. He really ought to have been more of a chatter, but we sat their in silence as he wrote in pen on torn paper my info. He says when he's not registering visiters, which is all the time, he takes it easy. Oddly he wasn't much of a chatter. I think he takes taking it easy very serious. Everyone's gotta have a hobby.

Several hours after arriving and sitting and waiting in silence Sergio shows me the building I can stay in. It's locked. None of the keys fit either. Plan B is to have me stay in a long hall by myself. The second night I pitch the tent to keep mozzies off my face.

Every morning the neighbour's girls come by to pester me. They come along, spit on the floor and wait for me to make conversation. Although they aren't really interested in my conversation so much as my crackers. My crackers leftover from a lunch of tuna n mayo. Mayo also seems to be the bees knees.

After getting settled in I asked Sergio about helping out the Zapatistas however I can. You know, teaching kids, working the fields or shooting guns. Turns out the ranks were all full. There was nothing for me to do, but read and play soccer. Thankfully I brought 3 books! In one short week I polished off 3 books and let in 7 goals.

One day Ryan got bored -okay, one day in particular when I was bored I decided to take a walk. Ya know, spice up life.

WHAT RYAN LEARNED FROM HIS JUNGLE WALK

plastic bottle n foil wrapper

The most modest of the graves had pine needles over the dirt mounds with flowers lovingly leaned against the headstone. The popular dead had mountains of flowers and beautifully multi-coloured wreaths that'd surely belittle Trudeau's funeral. The grateful dead just had roaches and friendship bracelets.

So at least I got to see the scene. Evidence gave me plenty of details, Erika some more and my imagination happily fills in the gaps. While I didn't see any dead out and about on la Día de los Muertos, I did get to get a makeover like a zombie a few days earlier on Halloween. Okay, a zombitch.

Not forgetting to buy some facepaint (which later turned out to be quite valuable) before, I met up with Erika at her friend Romeo's art exhibition. His vibrantly and beautifully coloured collages have heavy Catholic imagery mixed with gay culture and a plethera of penises. The religiously sensative will likely see it as a perversion of the holy, but I liken it to a fusion of that which is natural to Romeo and natural to others. The last supper with transvestites. A bearded emmaculate concepion with a halo of penises.

Anywho, I haven't told a story yet about where I am or what I'm doing, so I'll ramble on until a story comes out.

I'm in Mazulte. A town of 800, south of Ixtapa and Aculpoco. Google Maps won't produce it for me, so I tagged this entry as Puerto Escondido. But I ensure you Mazulte exists. I'll vouch for it. It's hot and mucky, so I try to strip off my salty shirty (salty from my sweat, not sea water) and take a dip in the baby blue Pacific at least twice a day. In fact, my board shorts are still wet from the ocean as I type. Although by now it might be from sweat instead of brine.

I caught an overnight bus from Oaxaca to Pachutla, then took a camioneta to Mazulte. I arrived with a Mexican and his gringa girl, who said nothing the whole time in our camioneta ride to the beach. Camionetas are pick-up trucks that haul people to and from the beach towns. Sitting under the canopy I squinted my eyes and played down my boyish smile - giddy from the truck ride. The novelty still gets me. Maybe it's nostalgia from hanging out at Jordan's farm back in the day. I suspect it's from the wind in my hair, like Guy Lafleur on a breakaway. There's one thing I share with dogs.

Anywho, under a clear sky of nothing but black and stars (what a great idea for a Halloween costume!) we jumped out of the canopied box at 6am, which is early for anywhere. But in a beach town that hour simply doesn't exist. I'm sure the coloquial definition of twilight zone is simply 6am. The Mexican and his gringa just plotted themselves in beach chairs, apparently deciding to sleep until the town woke up. I was bagged after not sleeping on my bus, so walked around looking for and finding no one. I sat myself on a rock to watch the sun rise. This land faces south, so you can't see the sun rise or set. Nevertheless the clouds light up the sand pink. Eventually at 7am there was one place open, which is where I pitched my tent and happily slept until the early afternoon.

Since then I could sum up my time with four verbs: sleep, eat, swim and read. I do all of those at least twice a day. Nothing more, nothing less. Although I met three Canadians girls from Smithers. They tell me it's the same latitude as Edmonton. Wow, that caused a lot of confusion. They were hanging out with a cute Mexican girl who's English decays when talking to me. She blames it on me speaking Spanish. I would like to blame it on me making her nervous, but that'd just be a lie to make me look cool. Doesn't matter though, she's shared more real conversations with than I've had since Carlos.

Alrighty, that's all for now folks. Keep fit and have fun!]]> Tue, 27 Oct 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=94070 0 15.85 -97.0666667 WARNING: Stereotypes point out differences between the AVERAGES of groups and by no means account for the totality of any group. Varity WITHIN groups always surpasses varity BETWEEN groups. Thus, their only purpose is to pinpoint generic social differences which make for hilarious racist and sexist jokes.

One conclusion (read stereotype) I've made is that Canadians are repressed in comparison to Latinos. Yup, we're repressed. Even with the liberal Colombians and Venezuelans aside, Latin America has no problem with public displays of affection. I dunno about you folk, but I still relate to The Beatles classic "I Wanna Hold Your Hand". Yeah, a public hand hold can still make ol' Ryan self conscious. I mean, she's touching me!! But that's not even considered PDA in Latin America.

Nope, what's considered PDA here is more overt. Here you gotta be caressing your lover's cheek while tasting the salt content of their sweaty neck. ....on the train. ....at 9am. Old, young, it doesn't matter. Making out in public is the norm. In fact, the absence of affection is a cause for concern. Are you ashamed of me? Are you not attracted to me?

If you're too selfconscious in public to kiss that special lady or man or lady-man then you care too much about what other people think. The lack of PDA in Canada makes me think we're a repressed culture. Not like Japan or Korea (why do you think they have such a ....*peculiar* underground sex scene?), but repressed nevertheless. I mean, whatever happened to the sexual revolutions of the 60's?! And the other ones for that matter. I'm telling ya, the revolutions of the 60's failed on every front. We're still consumeristic, imperialistic and sexually repressed. Maybe culturally we're back in the 50's. Picture it - if you were in the 50's you wouldn't know you were repressed. You'd be all like "Hot diggity dog, we've won so many liberties and freedoms from the war. Golly jee, life is snap, crackle and poppin!"

So that's sexual repression in public. But that's not all. The other morning (note it's the morning - not the time to be crazy), I had breakfast with Carlos's family on a roof top patio at some hotel over looking Zócalo (the central historical plaza in Mexico City). There was a live band playing some music - creating that thing we like to call atmosphere. You could probably guess that this is an upper-middle class establishment, not for the poor. Nevertheless a family sitting behind us was clapping and dancing in their chairs while chowing down the dainty cuisine. A beautiful mix of two of life's greater pleasures! Anyone else take George Constanza seriously? Think about it in context. Can you picture an upper-middle class Canadian family dancing in public restaurants (without alcohol)? Let alone in the morning. See? I would call that difference repression. We're afraid to move our bodies freely. Afraid we'll disturb someone else's dinner. Afraid we'll look stupid. We will look stupid. But that's not the point! The point is feeling the music and enjoyng the moment freely. Yup, we're repressed. Not just you, but me and every other Canadian afraid to dance to the rythem. The ones who aren't we call crazy because they break those social norms that protect our obese comfort zones.

It's fitting to note here what my dad said at a conference. He was describing the differences between Canadians and Americans, which he claims can be summed up in constitutional differences. Three words can be used as principles of each document. The fur traders honour peace, order and good government, while the Yankees honour freedom, liberty and pursuit of happiness. It made me laugh.

So there we have it folks, instead of talking about stereotypes of Latin American countries I've rambled on about Canadian stereotypes. Well then, let's discuss Latin American countries. I suppose there's not much more to say other than, no one is better or worse than another. They're only distinct.

Okay okay. Peruvians, Bolivians and Mexicans are mild mannered and humble. Argentinians are proud, as they should be. Chileans speak ridiculously fast. Colombians and Venezuelans are liberally minded and live life fully. All of them know their politics.
As for the other tourists, Australians and Irish like to drink and swear and Canadian girls like them both. Israelis bargain well and are proud of it. I have an affinity for the French and a sneaking suspicion the Spanish are always holding back a rude joke. I wish they would share. There's no need to comment on the English or the Americans. And hippies are the same everywhere.]]> Thu, 22 Oct 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=93367 0 17.05 -96.7166667 I never really wanted to stop off in Babylon, but beggars can't be choosers. Can they? And man o' man, what a joke. I was laughing with a Colombian dude named Miguel - he purifies the water in Bogotá - about how they'll take a retinal scan to ensure we're not terrorists. Being Canadian I had no problems, but others actually had to get all their fingers scanned and a photo of their eyes!! Paranoia, paranoia coming to get ya. My favourate part of the Babylonian airport was the security on segways. What a contrast to where I've been. And then instead of a lady mopping the floor a frail old man drives a zamboni around to buff it up.

While trying to find a bite to eat in the Miami International Airport (which shares the same acronym as Missing In Action), I discovered something about my Spanish. No one could understand my English! So when people don't understand my Spanish it's probably the same problem: theirs. Nah, the real reason is no one in Miami speaks English, just Spanish. No worries though. The only food that was open was a coffee shop or Burger King. I haven't seen that many fat people together in one place in a while.

Did you know that the MIA benches have arm rests? Makes it awkward to sleep on. The elevator music doesn't help either. I felt like I was being drugged to stay happy, but I knew better. The only pause from the music was the lady on the intercom. She'd tell me the time every 15 minutes and reminded me not to bring liquids or gels on the plane.

Currently I'm in the very center of Mexico City. At 5pm tonight I'm going to meet Carlos - a buddy I met in Mendoza, Argentina - and crash at his place. Cool guy, Carlos is.

Alrighty, I'm gonna go kill some time before meeting him. Maybe do something touristy or Mexiano. Like eat an empanada.]]> Wed, 14 Oct 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=92316 0 19.4341667 -99.1386111 Yeah, about two months ago I started thinking about going home, continuing in my routine and seeing the same people I already know (and love), but after the last 10 months on the road it hasn't been appealing. I suppose it even scared me. I thought about it lots and figured this:

The only constant in the universe is change. We will change regardless where we go or what we do. Some change is growth, other regression and other nothing more than a unsubstantial difference. Nevertheless, if I return home I will change and - fingers crossed - grow too. However, living in Edmonton, continuing my job and watching hockey at the local pub isn't how I want to facilitate my growth over the next year or so. The path of change and growth are not definitive, but almost predictable. Granted, my future isn't written in stone and I can do much to change it, however I don't believe I would vary much from that path.

Staying in Latin America, on the other hand, will offer me a different path for change and - fingers crossed - growth. There are far more unknowns down here. That excites me! I don't know who will be my friends, where I'll live or what I'll do - which are some of the greatest influences on personal development. This may sound like I'm not satisfied with present Ryan Myers, but that's not at all the case! Nope, I still love me! hehe But think about it, it's obvious your experience makes you who you are and your journey in life gives you this experience. That much is for sure. So, if we are completely aware of this then why can't we manipulate our environment to facilitate the positive changes we would like to see in our lives!!

So that's one reason to stay down here. Another is that I can speak Spanish, but sure as hell am not fluent like immigrants in Canada can speak English. Another year down here ought to fix that. Another reason is that ol' Ryan has fallen in love with the culture down here. Much more open minded, social and flirty!

So far the three places I'm looking at staying are DF (Mexico City), Bogotá or Buenos Aires. I haven't been to DF, so I'm hungry to taste Mexico first before making any decisions. I hope it's spicy! However, I'm leaning towards Buenos Aires. It doesn't have the Latin flavour found in the rest of Latin America, but what a cool place!! So that's where I'm leaning towards, however if I can find a job for an NGO in Mexico or Colombia I'd happily go there instead. Plan B is to teach English. That's an easy job to find in these three countries.

Yup yup, so that's what went through my head and heart as I decided to stay here. Funny enough, I wasn't homesick once until I sent my Bob an email saying I'm not coming back. Then I started to realise it'd be much longer before I'd sip on a pint of beer in a pub while watching a hockey game with my friends.]]> Tue, 13 Oct 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=92159 0 4.6 -74.0833333 No worries folks, I'm not throwing in the towel and coming home. Nope. In fact, I just got my ticket to Mexico! There I was, complaining to the lady at the front desk of my hostel how I can't buy a ticket online when in walks a Venezuelan travel agent telling me she can get me a cheap ticket. Talk about perfect timing. So I'll be heading to Districto Federal (a.k.a. Mexico City) on October 8th on a cheaper ticket than I could find online! Woot woot!

Alrighty, so that's where I stand now. Saturday night though, I was standing on the side of an active volcanoe looking for firewood in the moonlight. And what a moon it was! Full and shiny, smiling down at us camping. Although, last night on the bus I thought that when the moon's face is tilted slightly he kinda looks like Jesus's face when he's hanging on the cross. Ya know, with his mouth open, eyes all glossy and looking down to his left. You see that picture on tons of buses here.

Anywho, Mat decided to stay for the camping trip on the volcanoe. I'm glad he did cause he's a super positive guy. Brings a good dynamic to the group. Plus, without him it would have been Melisa, her boyfriend, me and La Negra - the crazy girl from the other night. Oooh, that woulda been too coupley.

Mat and I packed up our stuff and sucked up our hangover, strapped on our shoes and mosied onto Melisa's house, where we had to wait an hour for Santo and La Negra to show up. Except they never showed up. By 1 in the afternoon I still hadn't eaten, so Mat, Melisa and I grabbed some greasy empanadas and the oldest hotdog I've ever had. HACIP would have a field day. Santo and La Negra eventually met us, then we had to buy groceries and gasoline. By the time we left it was 4:30, which only gave us one and a half more hours of sunlight for the 2 hour hike ahead of us.

To cut some time we bussed the first part. We later spent that saved time ooohing and awing at a beautiful waterfall - something like 40 meters high and only accessable by hiking through dense bush and then scaling a rock face.

When I think of camping back home it always involves driving out with my car so packed full of stuff that there's barely enough room for passengers. Then you arrive to site 8 on circle B with an outlet and a picnic table by the grilled firepit. Nope, not here. We had to walk all of our stuff up. Yup, all the way up this volcanoe that apparently errupted on Tuesday. La Negra said it was a "code orange alert".

At first the path was easy, breazey, beautiful - it was wonderful, girl. As the sun set the path started to get tricky. The dirt path would slide away under you with each step, sending a dusty shower to everyone below. There was enough dust to inspire a full Woodie Guthrie album. Plus, around this area there weren't any roots to give your feet grip either. And the rocks you did grip would just come loose and happily bounce down the hill.

After the dusty dirt came the crumbly rock face. It was exactly as it sounds. Mat went first, which sent rocks whizzing past our heads. We desperately asked him to stop, but even when he was just standing there dust would shower down with the odd rock. After that we figured it best to go one at a time. While we were deciding this I was hanging on the side of a horizontal rock face with every limb clenched, dust in my face and sneezing like mad. Man did it ever get dark fast.

Once we passed the crumbly rock face Mat and I took out our head lamps - woowee, great purchases those were!! And we were the only ones in the group with them. Even with the headlamps it was tough to spot a way through the root maze. At one point I had to take off my back pack - the big one - and throw it uphill through the roots. Although Canadians invented basketball, I still contest that we aren't very good at it. The roots were entangled such that I had to toss my bag exactly top-to-bottom through the hole - no other way - then climb through and repeat on the next root hoop.

After that was a much easier spot of just thick dirt clouds, but with trees and roots to grab onto. Finally, finally at the top was a tiny creak that feeds the water fall. This is where we camped. Mat and I both decided that the hike was the highlight of the trip. Equally as hard as Machu Picchu or Lost City, but in the dark, with dust up your nose, sneezing and rocks flying by your head ontop of an active volcanoe!

What a relief to arrive. Mat built a fire and La Negra cooked while Santo and I set up the tents. Melisa took off her wet shoes.

Like I said earlier, the moon was amazing. Once the glowing Jesus-on-the-cross rose there was no need for flashlights during our countless fire runs. Ya know, even in the remote bush on the side of the volcanoe you can find garbage. During one wood run we found a TV. Just the outside though. I can't imagine the reception would be very good. At least it made for some fun photos.

Anywho, the next day we split up. Mat went to Ecuador, the Pasteños went home and I headed back to Bogotá.]]> Mon, 05 Oct 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=91236 0 4.6 -74.0833333 Anywho, he came with me to Pasto, where I have some friends (Melisa and her boyfriend) that I met cause Mom works with their relatives in the Calgary library. So we showed up at 5am after a god awful bus ride. I bargained to get the bus tickets for $12.50 instead of $16.50. I thought it was a sweet deal, but the my seat wouldn't stick in any position and there wasn't very much space for my legs. So there I was, sitting upright cause the lady behind me had a kid on her lap and kept pushing my seat up. Of coarse the lady infront of me also had a kid on her lap, so her seat all the way back. No inch of room to play with! Thank god it was only 9 hours - anymore woulda killed me. I couldn't have slept more than 30 minutes during the overnight trip, so Mat and I checked into a hotel and slept a solid 7 hours before getting up to meet Melisa.

Meli, her boyfriend Santo, Mat and I went for a scavenger hunt around town looking for a Santo's tent. His friend had the tent, but we first had to locate his friend's girlfriend to track him down. We tried several houses and talked with several old folk just chilling on the sidewalk, but to no avail. We even went into the Urgency Room - not to be mistaken with the Emergency Room. No, if your problem is an emergency you must procede down the road to the hospital. An urgent problem though, hell come right on in!

We never actually found the tent. Hopefully it'll show up before the weekend when we go camping. Eventually we gave up and went to the university, where we bumped into a punk rocker friend of Santo. The five of us chilled on the pasto (grass in English) in Pasto where all the uni kids enjoy the pasto experience.

All over town, and especially at the uni, was graffiti saying something roughly like "Gringos get out of Colombia" and "No Yankee bases in Colombia". Colombia's capitalist president Uribe (and corrupt as fuck with his hands in the coke mafias and paramilitaries) wants to set up some US military bases in Colombia. Beats me why. Funny though, being a foreigner with a North American accent walking by slogan after slogan telling sepos to get out.

Later we found ourselves waiting outside the house of another one of Santo's friends - Fabio. We waited on the stoop with a big bag of contraband norteño - cheap brandy from Ecuador - for several hours before Fabio finally showed up. He arrived just after La Negra. She says her name is too hard to pronounce, so everyone calls her Negra. Man, she's one of the craziest girls I've ever met! ADHD is the easiest way to describe her. It puts in all the right stereotypes you ought to imagine. And she's never serious either - even when she's telling you about her problems two minutes after meeting her.

Later on Santo passed out, so naturally Fabio wrote on his face with everyone's help. After waking up from camera flashes he and Meli went home. La Negra was buzzing mad like normal, but Mat and I needed to crash, so we took off to the hotel.]]> Wed, 30 Sep 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=90455 0 1.2136111 -77.2811111 Yesterday Felipe, a real Colombian gentleman who I met last month in Manizales, and his girlfriend Carolina showed me around Cali, the salsa capital of the world. Normally Cali is incredibly hot and humid - that Latin heat I always imagine - allowing the local girls to flaunt the work of the world's best plastic surgeons city, but there was a fresh breeze. I suppose to cool everyone down from election day. It also helped that no one can buy or sell liquor (legally) on election day, leaving the normally lively streets empty.

Felipe and Carolina took me to a park with a comedian who thankfully used a lot of physical humour. Hell, I don't need Spanish to understand what a different guys look like at the urinals. heh heh, nah, just a rotten sense of humour! ....so yeah, he was hilarious.

Anywho, I got back to the hostel early and read a little before deciding to conk out. Just as I was about to turn off the light this guy walked in - the only other person in my dorm. He sounded North America when he said hi. Oooh, I was excited. Maybe another Canadian!
Hey, I'm Ryan.
I'm Mat.
Where you from?
Canada.
Where in Canada?
Edmonton.
Where in Edmonton?
Downtown.
No way, I'm from St. Albert!
Really! I'm from St. Albert originally!
It turns out Mat went to school with Meghan and knows Tara in addition to several of my friends. I've even partied with his younger brother several times. Finally, someone to talk hockey with!]]> Mon, 28 Sep 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=89796 0 3.4372222 -76.5225 Anywho, I hauled my buldging bag from Casa Grande to the highway and stuck my thumb out at oncoming traffic - finally putting my money where my mouth is. ....although, that phrase doesn't really apply to hitchiking, does it? After a short 15 minutes a yellow Jeep stopped. I ran over and threw my bags in the back. Unfortunately they were only going 15 minutes up the road to the small village of Huacachina. The 50 year old lady in shotgun had beautiful eyes behind her giant shades and armpit hair poking out from her white summer dress. She wanted to practice her English, so she spoke to me in English and I replied in Spanish. We chatted this way until their destination just outside Huacachina. I waved the yellow Jeep goodbye as it disappeared on a jungle road.

Not even a minute later a mototaxi stopped and told me to come with him into town. I tried to explain that I was hitchiking, but he insisted on taking me. It took me a while to realise that he wanted to give me a lift to a better spot to get picked up. I felt bad for assuming he wanted me to pay.

In town I saw the yellow Jeep again and chatted with the lady. She asked me if I believe in god. I said no, I believe in love. To her they were one in the same. For me, not so much. Nevertheless, she and her man were done their business in Huacachina and were heading further up the road, so I caught a lift with them as far as they were going. At this point I waited a couple of hours, watching mototaxis, buses and the odd car zip by. No one stopped. Eventually I flagged down a bus to Riohacha, the last town of any size before the border.

I checked into the cheapest hotel I could find and passed out from the heat. My room wasn't far off looking like a jail cell. It was just big enough to fit a bed (without a sheet), fan, toilet, sink, shower and a TV strapped to the ceiling. The toilet-sink-shower combo was separated by a brick wall, probably to keep the smell from the toilet away because there was only running water for a few hours in the morning - and only from the sink. To properly flush your crap down the toilet you needed to fill up a bucket of water. The bucket didn't fit in the sink, so you have to use a bowl to fill up the bucket. The same bowl I used to shower in the mornings. ....well, by shower I really mean rinse the sweat off. In this heat there is no escaping sweating. I imagine the locals accept it because it's simply a part of life. They know no other way.

I really only stopped in Riohacha for one reason - to take out money. Usually it's easier to just take out cash from an ATM after you cross the border, but not in Venezuela. The official exchange rate is incredibly inflated at 2000 Bolivares : 1 USD. The practical exchange rate is 3x better at 6000 Bs : 1 USD, which can only be granted through the black market. Growing up I always imagined the black market to be some giant Arabian market with shifty eyed venders selling anything and everything from nuclear warheads to stolen Picasso paintings to babies (for adoption, slavery or eating - ya know, whatever the customer wants them for). The only thing that matched reality was the shifty eyed vender. At the bus station in Maicao (Colombia's border town) a kid brings you through a few doors until you get to a room with one guy behind a desk. Unlike the Colombian-Ecuadorian border money changers, these guys were legit. Their calculator gave me the rate I wanted and I was on my way.

I took a shared colectivo to Maracaibo with a family of Venezuelans from Caracas. The kid who helped me exchange my money told me the colectivo had AC. He lied. There I was, jam packed with 6 others for supposedly 3 hours in a gigantic rusty station wagon. All cars in Venezuela are giant and most are rusty. I can't justify the rust, but the size is cause it costs only 1 USD to fill up a full tank in a big ass car.

Crossing the actual border was probably the easiest one I've crossed so far. I just had to fill out a photocopied form, recieve a stamp and then was on my way. No x-ray of my bag, no search of my stuff, no nothing. Back in the colectivo, however, the reality of the situation arose. Apparently one of my co-passengers overstayed her visa to Colombia by a few days, so every checkstop we passed gave her a hard time. It wouldn't had been a big deal, except that we passed well over 10 checkstops within the first hour passed the border. Each time she argued with the cops which ended with her bribing them. Eventually our driver - a fat man with a sleazy moustache - said to give him the money and he'd do the bribing. I was happy cause he was much more efficient at it. And the officials didn't even care to look at the rest of our stuff once they had the bribe.

Once all the checkstops passed our car broke down. The driver assured me it was just a little problem. We drove at 10 km/hr for a good 45 minutes before it finally died. At this point our driver flagged down a cab for the family. I had to wait another 15 minutes before he could finally flag down a ride for me. I finished of my journey to Maracaibo in the back of a relatively new Ford pickup - not the ideal entrance into a city that has a reputation for crime and is not safe to go out after 5pm.

The truck dropped me off a few blocks away from the bus station, where I was to wait 8 hours for my night bus to Merida. At the bus station a pregnant girl shared some candy with me. First she asked me where I was from, then how long I've been travelling and finally if I have already had sex on my trip. Funny sequence of questions from a funny girl.

I almost missed my bus to Merida because I forgot to bump my watch forward. Thankfully the grumpy lady who sold me my ticket saw me and ran to the bus with me. She came with me not to show me where the bus was, but to secure me a seat. The first bus we tried was full, as was the second. It's a shame cause they were nice buses. The third bus was rickety as hell, so sure enough it had room.

The old man beside me didn't speak Spanish, he mumbled it. I couldn't understand a single word that guy said the whole trip. He never moved his lips, I think that was his problem. No biggie cause there's no need to chat on a night bus. Instead I tried to sleep while the leaky roof dripped water on my arm every time I started to drift off.

Once on the road we had to stop at 2 different checkstops. Here, not at the border, was my bag first x-rayed. At 2am we pulled into a gas station to fuel up and get some snacks. What looked like a routine stop turned into a 3 hour repair session. I stood outside the rickety bus and watched bus load after bus load of passengers get off and then back on their comfortable buses, then drive off into the darkness.

Finally, as the sun was rising, we all loaded our tired asses back on the bus towards Merida. Of coarse, my bus didn't go to Merida. I needed to catch a city bus for the last 45 minutes of the journey before reaching the beautiful Merida, nestled in the Andes. Beautiful Merida and her cool nights.]]> Mon, 14 Sep 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=87764 0 8.5983333 -71.145 Now everything has calmed down drug war wise and Jota is looking after some beach huts on the Carribean coast. He's living what we'd call the easy life, but he figures he's earned it after busting his butt in exile for over 9 yrs. Last year two Canadian brothers from Burlington entered his life and after falling in love with the place proposed setting up a surf school, which they officially did so this January by weasiling their way into a student visa.

In Santa Marta some sepos running a new hostal told me about the surf school, so I decided to check it out. I have only surfed once before, 9 yrs ago in Byron Bay on a longboard that you could safely take your family from Cuba to Miami on. With my lack of experience I chose to learn myself the ways of the board and after two days on the waves managed to catch many and wimpily stand up on one. Picture a kid first learning to walk - that's how cool I looked! ...except probably not as cute with my mullet. No worries though cause I caught the jist enough to want to try again when I get to Central America.

To be honest, I'm not sure what my Venezuelan experience will be like. There is one city which is supposed to be safe, so I'm gonna take 2 days to get there. Along the way I'll see if there are any cool places to stop off at. If it doesn't feel right then I'll probably leave within a week and jump back into Colombia.

As for jungle animals, I saw some big ass toads and tons of mozquitos n' sandflies. I can't imagine the correlation is coincidental. Now my feet are polk-a-dotted and puffy. Oh, there were also some beautiful butterflies and in the rivers there were fishies that liked to nibble on your sandfly bites. That was a little disturbing, yet oddly cute. Other then that there wasn't much fauna. The flora, however, was as abundant as it gets. Every tree was a host to 5 or so more species of plants, including vines, mosses and ferns. In the Lost City it really looked like a scene from Indiana Jones.]]> Wed, 09 Sep 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=87026 0 11.5444444 -72.9072222 The following three weeks, however, have disillusioned me. A Chilean girl I met actually warned me this would happen. The corruption, drugs and inflated gringo prices found in the main tourist areas has been getting to me. To be honest, I got used to being a novelty. Everywhere I've been (even the European influenced Argentina) I've been a novelty. In Colombia though, I've felt like a walking target. A lot of people in tourist areas aren't keen to chat and charge me prices that are outrageous in comparison to the cost of living in Colombia.

Last week I went to the Lost City with Jimmy and some English folk which marked the change for me and my experience in Colombia. The tour itself was hot and sweaty with short, but difficult hikes. The city itself was amazing in its own right, but not at all like Machu Picchu. Only 10% has been uncovered, despite much more being already discovered. This is because the natives (who still frequent the paths and live traditionally) have deemed the rest to be sacred and want left as is. And even in the 10% that is uncovered and restored, there is thick rain forest vegetation that isolates visibility of any given spot to itself. A true imagination is needed to view the city as a giant center of an ancient culture.

Anywho, this wasn't the changing point I'm slowly closing in on - just a prelude to where I was and what was happening. Our group had 15 people, 11 of which decided to finish the hike a day early. Jimmy, 2 Aussies and I wanted to take our time and finish it in 6 days. After all, we paid for 6 days, so that'd save me a days accomodation and food.

During the second last day it was just the 4 of us at the final camp. Jimmy and I heard about a waterfall nearby that you can jump 10m off of into a small lagoon, so took off in search of it. A young guy clearing some land said his dad can show us the fall if we go to his house up the road.

At the mud brick house was an older man sitting in a homemade chair apparently doing nothing. Behind him was a few ladies casually mustering around. Jimmy and I - sporting a moustache and a mullet respectively - inquired about the waterfall and the old man went searching for someone to help us get there. I figured it'd just be by the river and easy to get to.

Another old and bearded man showed up. Alfredo was his name and the first guy was his brother. Alfredo put on his rubber boots (apparently standard gear that the locals wear in this region - natives included) and had us follow him down the steepest mud path you could possibly walk on before you'd call it a slide. Along route I started asking the old man as many questions about him as I could think of. I just wanted to chat with the guy after spending so much time with gringos. He mostly fed me short, direct answers. At the bottom we scaled an intricate path amongst the rocks that you'd only know if you owned the land. We arrived at the base of one of the most beautiful waterfalls I've ever seen. I'm sure this would never win a competition against Angel Falls or Iguazu, but these falls were Alfredo's private falls on his land. You can't take a bus here, pay a park entrance and snap some photos with your cup of joe. This set of breathtaking waterfalls were Alfredo's and can only be found if you introduce yourself to the man.

He told us to be careful on the slippery rocks, but assured us we could walk under the falls. What a rush!! Right underneath the falls it was hard to breath with the water surging past causing the air to scream by.

This wasn't the place to jump, just a place Alfredo wanted to show us. He had us follow him scaling the up the rocks to the jumping spot. When walking towards the area there was a log sticking out of the water that looked like a mother holding a baby. Not important, but seemed to echo the natural beauty found here. On both sides were rock faces going straight up for countless meters meeting by a single waterfall feeding the deep lagoon.

Alfredo told us we had to scale straight up the rock to get to the jumping point, so Jimmy started climbing as though to get it over with. To be honest, I don't think it was 10m high, but it was high enough that any hesitation to jump would surely leave you chickening out. It was high enough to get the adrenaline pumping too. Although, I think the secluded pristine setting added to the euphoria we felt after flying off the rock face.

After our first jumps our white haired friend stipped down into his boxers and dived in, swimming to the waterfall for a refreshing shower.

On the way back to the house Alfredo started chatting with us, telling us that he owned the land from the waterfalls up to the top of the mountain for the last 27 years. He showed us his out-of-commission fish farm, the chicken coop he's building and all of the fruit trees he has. He farms cacau and coffee. The latter we got to taste when we got back to the house and spent some time chatting with the family and joking around.

Alfredo didn't want anything from us for the guided tour of his property. Instead he gave me the freshest cup of coffee in my life and introduced me and Jimmy to his family. What a cool dude.

This was definitely a highlight of my trip. Two days later offered me a second experience that makes me believe my experience in Colombia is changing.

Colombia beat Ecuador a the World Cup Qualifier game lengthening their chance at making it to South Africa. After that win they're tied with Argentina and Ecuador for the final spot. While walking back from the internet Jimmy and I heard some drums beating at an upstairs joint - the same drums we heard from our hostel when we watched the game. We stopped, looked at each other and both knew we were going there before either of us spoke.

Inside we were the only white folk and got a lot of curious looks for it - a good sign that we're welcome. I think these types of experiences are only possible when you have one, two or three people. Big groups are intimidating.

The band was all percussion and rocked!! The played afro-beats that'd make the most prude of people bobbing their head. The crowd inside was enthusiastic as hell and dancing in ways that would be inappropriate back home. Our waitress pulled us onto the dance floor to everyone's amusement - they loved it! We knew they were laughing at us, but it was to everyone's benefit and more and more people came on the floor to show us some new moves and dance with us. And we danced having a ball. But they kept telling us to dance, which we soon realised meant move your hips. Their version of dancing couldn't be described without words like gyrate or grind or hump - and EVERYONE danced like this!! The old men, the middle aged women, the fat lady and especially the 15 yr old girl. Man, she's going to be recruited to dance in a rap video shortly. Jail bait, that is.

As long as the band was playing, Jimmy and I kept the beer flowing and our hips moving. I'd be lying if I said I could remember having more fun dancing than there. They wouldn't allow otherwise. By the time we left we had a few drunks filling our table with drunk talk.

After our stint there Jimmy and I met up with the English to head out for the night. The first club rejected us, so I cut my losses and went back to the hostel happy with the night I already had. Man, that was such a weird combo - some of the most sexual dancing I've seen, yet it was also innocent fun.]]> Sun, 06 Sep 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=87025 0 11.2472222 -74.2016667 Yesterday I went to a soccer game with Harry and his buddy Joe. En route from the metro to the stadium we were followed like the paparazzi behind a naked Angelina Jolie. Except they didn't want pictures so much as coins and cigarettes. We met a couple of young locals and they accompanied us into the stadium and showed us where they liked to sit - way up in the cheap seats with the roudies! I was happy to be with some locals because some of the crowd didn't look too friendly. They continually asked us for smokes and coins (which baffled me because they all were sitting in the same seats as us - why beg to us??) and when I told them I don't smoke they looked pissed.

Throughout the game some more friendly people came by and chatted with us - explaining which players are good and that I am lucky I didn't come on Saturday wearing my red shirt cause I would have been beaten up. The opposition today had yellow and luckily Harry changed out of his yellow shirt just before we left for the game. Damn lucky! Joe, on the other hand, got it right. He wore green - like Los Nacionales, the home team.

Throughout the game everyone remained standing, continuously chanting along to songs that made it hard to believe the home team couldn't win. The yellows scored first, but that wasn't important because everyone chanted more fiercely with lyrics like "We have to win; We can't lose!"

After a while I realised why we were sitting where we were - the fumes from the pot everyone was smoking would blow out of the stadium with the night's nice cool wind. Plus, it was a great place for the boys to bark and whistle at girls passing by outside the stadium. Mmm, that's right, I haven't mentioned that yet. There was probably only 3 girls in the whole section. It was testosterone filled, so when a new girl entered the section all eyes turned as though we were all in a restaurant waiting for our food on empty stomaches. Eyes turned like the girl was the first plate of food being served. And in case you couldn't feel the testosterone, there was a mosh pit during the game too. Just to make it blatently obvious this was a manly event.

I was happy to see Los Nacionales win the game 4-2 - an exciting match too! Although our young friend told us the opposition lost before the game started. haha, that confidence seemed to be a norm amongst the fans. The bonus of the win was it'd make for a safer return to the metro.]]> Thu, 13 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=81748 0 6.2913889 -75.5361111 National Park near Manizales. We started in the jungle where some plants had leaves bigger than bass drums and vines dangled on the road. That disappeared and was replaced by midgit palm trees that look more like they belong in the cactus family. Apparently they're only found in Ecuador, Colombia and Venezuela. That was followed by brown pine shrubs and eventually nothing. Absolutely nothing. No life. Just high altitude volcanoes and snow. Desolate.

Thankfully though, that was where the hike began. Today I learned why climbing Everest must be a bitch. The altitude alone can be a bitch and climbing uphill is never easy, but the killer was the relentless wind! When my Great Aunt Irene died there was an incredible blizzard, so we never watched the coffin let down. Instead we ran from the car to the funeral home gagging from the wind. That's what it felt like trying to breath here, except I was 5,125m above sea level and walking uphill. Sure, it was only a 1km walk with only a 300m increase in altitude, but it took close to an hour to walk it!

At the top the snow was fresh and I felt energized - on top of the world! Plus, the walk down (well, more of a skip) took only 10 minutes. :) The tour finished off by relaxing in some hot springs - you could tell it was the real deal from the wonderful sulfuric egg smell. I was a little shy to walk into the pool cause my torso is covered with 40 bed bug bites from Bogotá (I counted in the shower today). Once in the water though, all was good. Muy tranquilo.]]> Tue, 11 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=81514 0 5.07 -75.5205556 The border between Ecuador and Colombia is notorious for scams and tricks, so when I arrived I was more cautious than normal. Some other Canucks I met told me that some thieves even dress up as cops to "inspect" your passport before taking off. In hindsight that'd be pretty impressive to pull it off considering the overwhelming police presence, all decked out in riot gear.

Over the my trip I've made it a habit to always ask several people what a good exchange rate or cab fair is ahead of time. I mean, the last person to tell you a fair price is the cabi or the money changer. Armed with knowledge that 2000 pesos to the dollar is fair, the money changers slowly offered me better rates from 1800 to 1900 to 1980 and finally 1990. The money changer pulled out a calculator from his fanny pack and showed me that US $80 times 1990 is roughly 132,000. That looked funny to me because 80 x 2000 is 160,000. The number should be relatively close, so I walked away, got my passport stamped and did my own calculation. It should be 159,200. I showed him how his calculator is magically wrong and that my math skills are old school, but sound. He reluctantly agreed and counted out my money. When I recounted the money he gave me there was only 132,000. I dunno how 25,000 kept disappearing. It must have been an honest mistake. Reluctantly he gave me the rest of my money and I hopped in a cab with some New Zealanders and an Austrian into the nearest town.

We dropped the Kiwis off in the centre and continued on to the bus terminal. The Austrian's guide book said US $1 is a fair price from there, but we were willing to pay $2. After all, we are tourists. But the driver was insistant that $4 is normal. He educated us that we are in Colombia now, not Ecuador. Thank you. The price of gas is much more expensive here and the 1km to the bus terminal is considered a very long ride for a cab. Interesting. After much arguing at the terminal he said, "Alright ask another cab driver!" Gladly, the Austrian walked up to another cab, turned to a local leaning on the fence and asked him. Sure enough, $1 to $1.50 is normal!! So we gave the sleazy cabi $2 that is more than fair and left. He didn't follow us or even shout at us walking away - and believe me, if there was a problem he would have!

Thankfully every other Colombian I've met since then has been incredibly nice and friendly. I even chatted with a friendly father and his son on the bus all the way from the border to Pasto. He told me to email him the next time I'm in town. And in all honesty, I'm still very happy to be in Colombia!]]> Fri, 07 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=80790 0 1.2136111 -77.2811111 I took the cheapest bus I could find from Lima to Tacna - a 17 hour bus ride. Sometimes I'm too stubborn and cheap for my own good cause whenever you take a bus overnight or over 15 hours you should spend a little more for the added comfort.

I ended up sitting by a 37 yr old Peruvian who looked 27. He smiled and said "Shhhhh!" when he told me his age. I tried to chat, but it was obvious that my Spanish is still stunted cause we couldn't understand each other very well.

After the pit stop for dinner I noticed my bus buddy smelled like he just smoked an oregano cigarette. After a short bit with the lights off he seemed to be sleeping sound with the help of his herb. I, on the other hand, could not. The seat was stiff, the 4 young kids around us were crying, whining or banging on their seat and inside my stomache a little cramp was developing that needed some relief. If I was to sleep I had to relieve the pressure down below!

In the bathroom I encountered some bad news that made me freeze. The toilet wouldn't flush. I stared at the toilet and shook my head. There was a bang on the door, so I tried to flush again, but the water was out!! Seriously, what bad luck. Panicking, I found two plastic bags in my hoodie, scooped up my warm mess and hucked it out the window in two full loads!

Opening the door I saw everyone staring at me with their shirts covering their noses!! Ooowee, did I feel bad. Back in my seat I asked my bus buddy in a whisper if we were allowed to drop a deuce in the toilet and he burst out laughing. heh heh, that answers that question. While filling him in on what I did, one of the nose-covered suffurers from the back told the bus driver of my dirty deed. My bus buddy told me that meant I'd have to clean it up. Worse things have happened.

Thank god the next stop was only 15 minutes away cause I just wanted to get this over with. I went to the washroom and explained to the lady that I didn't want to pay to use the washroom. I just wanted a bucket of water and a crap load of TP. As soon as she figured out why I wanted that she burst out laughing. And, to be honest, cleaning the toilet wasn't that bad. I did most of the work earlier with my plastic bags. When I returned the bucket the washroom lady was laughing even harder. A bunch of the folk sitting near the back were there, so I tried not to laugh, but I couldn't help but crach a smile.

Once on the bus again I slept like a baby.]]> Wed, 05 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=80581 0 -0.2166667 -78.5 To be honest, I'm not hoping to spend much time in Ecuador cause I'm booking it up to Colombia to meet the self titled Harry "American Thunder Nutz" Kleeman. haha, I miss that guy! En route I decided to make a quick detour to Huancayo to visit Cecilia and brand spanking new baby. They are afterall my Peruvian family! Plus, it also served as a nice way to recouperate my body after a solid 2 days in buses and terminals. I remember dreaming in Huancayo of how it'd be like to return after some time on the road and to have different eyes. However, I never expected Huancayo to feel so much like ...home!

This experience was strikingly similar like family vacations to Saskatchewan. I recognized road stops, landmarks and was going to visit some people whom I'd like to see much more often. This sensation left me with nothing less than a confident smile. I truly forgot how it felt to have my bearings. To know where everything was. To not have to ask people where to find a bakery, bus station or a bank. And to know what street was coming next. I could walk around freely without the fear of getting lost! What's more is I could understand everyone! heh heh, that's right, I don't have to go home to get these sensations!!

It was a treat to have Cecilia's niece Ximena greet me at the door. She's an 8 yr old brat that can take it as well as she can dish it. It's much easier to make fun of her with my bigger vocabulary! Cecilia's mom, Jesus, was already cooking lunch for us. Ooowee, did I miss her cooking! Mm-mm!
And I got a great big hug from Cecilia. I was a little surprised to see her face so tired, but it quickly dawned on me that she did just have a baby less than two weeks earlier. I was especially excited to see Guillermo cause you could always tell he wanted to talk more, but the language barrier was, well, a barrier. So when he got home from work on his new motorbike we swapped stories of the last 5 months and chatted like old friends.

I also got my watch fixed in Huancayo, but the kid messed up the hands. When the minute hand points at 12, the hour hand obscurely points inbetween two different hours. So I don't know what time it really is now. I figure I should header and catch my bus though. heh heh, not like it'll leave on time though.]]> Sun, 02 Aug 2009 00:00:00 GMT http://www.blogabond.com/TripView.aspx?tripID=5005 http://www.blogabond.com/CommentView.aspx?commentID=80200 0 -15.3813889 -71.4741667