From South America…to Africa: The Conundrum of Crossing Continents

It’s amazing what you can accomplish in 37 hours. Thanks to modern day travel mechanisms and the Wright Brothers, I was able to skip across oceans and continents in a matter of hours, jetting from Argentina, to London, and finally to Cairo. But the actual process of completing such a journey, whose implications run much deeper than a simple transcontinental flight or two, is much more complicated. My flight to Egypt meant my departure from Latin America, and as I moved closer and closer to my family, I moved farther and farther from the girl who had in just 6 months become my sister.  Even the best airplane blockbusters could not distract me from this mind-blowing reality.

The perfect end to an era commenced as Aer and I cracked into, yes, our 25^th bottle of Malbec over the long feared, last supper. We let our absolute favorite hotel concierge Dana guide us to a nearby Argentinean restaurant that guaranteed us our favorite South American dish, salmon. Not just any salmon, a specially prepared foil dish where the salmon is slow roasted with Argentinean spices, fresh vegetables soaked in red wine, and lemon juice so citrusy it penetrates to the core of the juicy masterpiece.  We had the quaint restaurant to ourselves and a window seat to the small cobblestone street of estados unidos. Having learned, that epic expectations make for disaster and disappointment, we silently surrendered the evening’s events to the universe. We had our dinner plans followed by a nearby bar date with two of our favorite Argentineans and had high hopes of seeing some other friends as well, but beyond that, the night was up in the air and could go any which way. 

The universe, however, wanted to give us a proper Buenos Aires send off, complete with multiple bars and bottles, every friend we wanted to see and then some, and dawn, who’s grace greeted us as we stumbled out of one of BA’s most infamous night clubs at sunrise. It was perfection, and the endless dancing successfully distracted us from the fact that it was indeed our last night together, a thought that in any type of sobriety would have driven us to tears immediately.

But, try as we did, there are only so many hours between sunset and sunrise, and a few hours after we stumbled in, Bech was putting me in a taxi to the airport. Like a typical teen movie, we cried. Aer’s eyes were red and wet as we hugged goodbye, and as soon as I pulled away, my emotions exploded with such force that the cab driver pulled over to make sure I wasn’t dyeing on his cabbie watch. 

As mi hermana so eloquently wrote in her own blog, "All good things must come to an end. But when that good thing has been an entire way of life, a state of mind, and a friendship that has evolved to an intense kinship, how do you cope with the finish line?"

I don’t know the answer to this, but when you’re faced with a 37 hour journey to your next adventure, the only thing left to do is open a new chapter. I flew, a sleepless flight over the Atlantic. I attempted the most mindless forms of entertainment in an attempt to A. distract me from my sadness, or B. put me to sleep. The guaranteed page turner trash by Steig Larson only reminded me of the fact that Aer had read it before me, and finished nearly the whole thing on our night bus to Mendoza.  I switched to the happiest movie I could find (god damn harry potter), but managed to instantly draw up memories from our jungle trek through Ecuador, when Nixon, our tour guide, had fashioned us Harry Potter-esq glasses from some Quechua root. Fail Fail double fail. So I gave in, and started writing, lulling myself into a state of descriptive nostalgia until I touched down in London Town.

London…hung over, zero sleep, and a 7 hour layover. The idea of being left alone with my thoughts in an airport for seven more hours was almost worse than leaving Latin American in the first place. So I hopped the Heathrow express, despite everyone’s warnings that I wouldn’t have enough time to make it there and back for my connection flight to Cairo.  If they knew what was going on in my head they would know that I didn’t care and I was going to get out of that airport regardless.  One hour later, I was successfully tooling around parliament, posing under Big Ben, laughing at the fools that were lined up for hours in front of West Minster Abbey, and feeling refreshed at the sight of a new city. My biggest struggle here was speaking English. I could not for the life of me stop “donde esta”-ing, or “puedes sacar un foto” ing.  Culture shock part I…they speak my language, would only later be outdone by culture shock II… NOBODY speaks my language and Spanish is only a useful battle tool to ward off annoying Egyptian men.

Before I knew it, I was taking off from London and landing in Cairo with a new Egyptian friend named Muhammad (of course). He was the first to start teaching my Arabic, and I can proudly say that the three words I learned from him have since grown to a whopping 15-20 Arabic must-knows. Soon I was being lifted off the ground by my brother’s loving hug, and being tucked into my new 5 star lifestyle in a posh hotel in Geeza, Egypt.  I thought I’d be asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow (entering day three without sleep) but I was wrong. 

The grand room filled with it’s all encompassing silence was too much for me to handle. For the first time in over 6 months I was attempting to sleep and Aer was not within a 5 foot radius. There was no talk of what we would do the following day, no alarm setting for a morning run together, no life chats, or existential rants. The bed was large with crisp white sheets and a down comforter. There was a stocked mini-fridge and a shining platinum flat screen TV. There was electricity and hot water. Dear God there was a balcony. I should have been in heaven, but all I wanted was a sketchy hostel bed, a 10 peso bottle of wine, and my friend. I again thought of her words, "...how do you cope with the finish line?"  

I still didn’t know, so I went to the balcony and stared West until my eyes grew heavy and red.

Argentina in One Word

MALBEC

Chile...A Hyped-up Love Affair

What began with a desert, the highest and driest in the world, ended with 3 glaciers, the coldest and boldest in the world. Everything in between seems inconsequential compared to the North and South, a superlative sandwich, if you will, with a mediocre center. I lived six weeks up and down the thin coastal country and nearly every day saw some wonder of natural beauty that made my jaw drop and my heart skip a beat, but in the end…I was left wanting for Chile is a country that, it seems, developed so quickly it forgot to preserve its identity.

San Pedro de Atacamas.
Moments of desert beauty, geyser magnificence and crystal star gazing but my first memory is what seems to stand out the most;  getting off our night bus at about 8 am and deciding that running was the best thing to shake the 20 hour bus ride out of our legs. Just three weeks outside our half marathon debut, it seemed more important than ever. I was shocked when five minutes in I wanted to cry from exhaustion. Altitude+heat equal horror. It was like meeting someone, having built up years of anticipation, and getting slapped in the face.

Maybe it was the culture shock that shook me most because Chile in its haste to set the pace for the development of its continent has become a country that has become as consumeristic as the states. After leaving the beautiful cocoon of Incan ideals; this was more than I could bear. There were no women in flowing skirts offering fresh fruit from their road side stands, but instead supermarkets, with snide cashiers and sliding doors. The artisan markets of handcrafted jewelry were replaced by megamalls, and the type of happiness that is only present in those who have very little was replaced by the dissatisfaction by those that have 12 cars and thirst for 13.

Chile’s uncharacteristic middle, Santiago, was no acceptation to the precedent set in the North. La Moneda (presidential house) was beautiful and its streets were clean but beyond that there was no defining characteristic. From the chain restaurants to the Nuts4Nuts peanut stands on the street corner, the city looked and dressed like that of New York. Most moments I forgot I was in South America at all. The only thing that saved this city in my eyes was our half marathon. The energy of 25,000 people lifted me up in a way that only running can do…but even that race dominated by extranjeros (foreigners) was not Chilean…it was Brazilian, it was Spanish, it was German, and French…with just a dab of indiscernible Chile throughout.

Patagonia, thankfully, was a bit of a different beast. Here people took pride in their natural gifts; their glaciers, their meadows, their valleys, the waterways that Magellan himself had sailed through. But their pride was not one which screamed, “We are Chilean”, instead it rang, “We are Patagonian”. Torres del Pain welcomed us with open arms, begging us to walk its mountain paths, to glimpse the hidden French Valley and climb the last summit to the three looming Torres, 12 million years old and made of pure magma pushed up over time through Magellan’s basin. But it was not Chile I was frolicking through in a bright blue marshmallow jacket, it was Patagonia, and the difference was unmistakable.

Perhaps it should be expected that a country with such a unique geographical structure lacks a unifying identify. Like a long scrawny finger it scales up the length of South American, broken into 15 separate regions. Most Northern Chileans don’t know the Southern stretches of Patagonia and don’t care to, and most Patagonians have never ventured to their own capital let alone the vast expanse of desert that lies beyond it. And as for unique identity… perhaps if conquistadors hadn’t exterminated the last of the indigenous Mapuche when they arrived, there would be more definition. But the Mapuche are small and dwindling, and the rest of the Chileans seem more European than South American.

For now Argentina has welcomed me with pine trees that make me yearn for Christmas, wine that dances on my tongue with each sip, and people who kiss first and ask questions later. It is warm in more ways than one and I am devastated that this is the country that I only have ten days to explore.

### 5 Months in Numbers ###

# of months on the road : 5

# of countries traveled: 9

# of hostels slept: 33

# of cities and villages seen: 64

# of buses ridden: 39

# of hours on said buses: 224 (approximately 1/10 of  

   total travel time)

# of dollars spent: 3,300

# of times transported in the back of a pick-up: 6

# of host families: 5

# of llamas eaten: 1

# of days spent living off crackers or ham/cheese

   sandwiches: 21

# hammocks swung in: 14

# of fights with my travel companion: 1

# of fights resolved by pretty fireworks: 1

# of times I've felt homesick: 3

# of times I've been sick (103 fever or more): 3

# of times I (or Megan Rae) convinced myself I  had a deadly disease: 4

            * rabies: 1

            *typhoid: 1

            *malaria:1

            *giardia: 1

# of times Bech has taken me to the hospital for afore mentioned deathscares: 2

# of times I've actually had any type of disease: 0

# of girls who were nice to us: 13

# of girls who I wanted to throw my show at: 537

# of boys who were nice to us: 537

# of boys who I wanted to throw my shoe at: 13

Number of times I'v been completely overwhelmed:

            * by people : 7

            * by poverty: 13

            * by fear: 4

            * by beauty: 33

            * by happiness: At least once a day (152 +++)

Here's to another 2 months of living with our lives on our backs....

From the Top

The clock strikes four and the climb begins

Through gutted rain and Andean winds

From painted bridge we burst and turn

And for the top each light does yearn

To walk the trail of Incans past

To ascend gray stairs with lungs that last

With the sun we slowly rise

heavy hearts and bleary eyes

Few will reach the stone clad gates

For oxygen outweighed their haste

 I enter now with a soggy soul

Trembling limbs, rain takes its toll

We weave through houses steeped in stone

Cracked sun dials which stand alone

The toil of those 10,000 men

Whose city was just taken when

The Spanish came with bullet arms

As Chonkas lead them to Incan farms

It was not long before the city fell

Covered in mud and earthen hell

The ruins remained hidden, 400 years

Unbenounced to Spanish ears

Who sought to find what they were told

Was a city clad in silver and gold

But they never uncovered the Incan truth

Of sacred terraced mountain youth

Until a scheming American came

And took from that mountain his bid to fame

Without remorse he looted it

Sending artifacts home for his benefit

Now In an ivy tower they do lay

And without redemption they shall stay.

I am but one among the mass

I climbed the WaynaPicchu pass

And from my stone carved in the earth

I look at Macchu with dismal mirth

For had the Spanish had hearts or souls

They might have felt these grassy knolls

The hundreds of terraces born from scratch

Each engineering feet and hydraulic hatch

The 2 ton stones moved by sheets of lumber

The tombs of old where young kings slumber

The sacred realms where a child’s blood

Was offered to God in cups of mud

A civilization ended far too soon

Where clumsy travelers climb and swoon.

I curse the Spanish for what they’ve done

and descend now with the setting sun.

Carnival Warfare

Who needs Carnival Bolivia when you have Carnival Cuzco? For is not one day of getting assaulted with shaving cream and water balloons enough?

While Carnival has gained massive popularity here in South America it is believed to have been derived from the Italian Carnivale, most fabulously associated with those sparkly porcelain masks of awesome one cannot leave Venice without purchasing. The name Carnival itself, comes from the term “Carrus Navalis” the Roman festival of Isis where the image of the goddess was carried to the coast to bless the start of sailing season.

Today the festival is more closely associated with the beginning of the Lent season, a type of last Hoorah before the religious folk enter the meatless days of Christ. In Cuzco, I learned firsthand that this farewell to meat, booze and all things happy is also marked above all else by citywide water balloon-shaving cream warfare.

Children and adults alike are armed and dangerous. The adults commence primarily in drive bys, pelting rock hard water balloons as they navigate their buggies around the cobblestone streets, while the children double fist cans of shaving cream and without mercy cover innocent passersby from head to toe in frothy multicolored shaving cream. But far and away, the worst militants are the teens, who cowardly crouch from hidden apartment balcony’s armed with massive buckets of water. You can imagine the type of damage caused by such guerilla warfare, for buckets of water poured from lofty terrace barracks comprise a type of ammunition for which silly string and water balloons are simply no match.

 Four hours later, I can accurately report that while I fought about 27 children with a single can of lime green silly string, I was intern hit square on the ass with 12 water balloons, covered head to toe with 32 separate shaving cream attacks, and just when I thought it was over, was fully annihilated by a rooftop bucket ambush.  2 points: Manda, 2000 points: Carnival, Peru…. Next time I will come armed with super soakers…. Game on.

Happpy Peruvian Birthday....TO ME

Have you ever stood barefoot on top of a Peruvian hostel bar in pajamas as 200 strangers sing happy birthday to you in 20 some odd languages…? The following is the story of the 24 hours of my 24^th birthday celebration… a story which both begins and ends with a cracker. 

They say things happen for a reason, traveling South America has proven this to me time and time again; my recent bout of sickness in Pisco, Peru is no exception. The week long fury of Pisco belly and 103 fevers lasted just long enough to foil our plans of celebrating my birthday with the rest of South America at the infamous Carnival festival in Bolivia. Instead Aer and I reverted back to our original plan, boarding a bus to Cuzco, home of Macchu Picchu, a mountain we have dreamed about conquering since day one of our journey. Still feeling the waves of sickness we got on the bus armed with sleeves of saltine crackers, and eighteen hours later arrived in Cuzco.

Exhausted and weak (no I had not eaten anything other than saltines in six days) we crawled to the nearest hostel, (Loki Hostel, a lonely planet rec.) threw our book bags on the cold wooden floor of a 15 person dorm room and without thoughts of hygiene or vanity we parked ourselves on one of the crimson benches of the hostel’s apparently very popular bar. Yes it was my birthday eve, yes I looked and smelled like a foot, but somehow within five minutes we had made ten new friends and deemed it appropriate to at least celebrate the eve of my birth with a bottle of cab sauv.

Low and behold, that bottle turned into few beers, which turned into a few shots of tequila and then Loki Bar karaoke night was upon us. It didn’t take much for Aer and I to grab the microphone and regale Peru with our very own  rendition of Madonna’s "Like a Prayer", and as I took to my knees in a literal interpretation of the pop queen’s lyrics, Aer slyly let the bartender know that I would in fact be turning 24 in ten minutes time.

Naturally, ten minutes later I was summoned to the bar…rather I was summoned ON the bar where as the clock struck midnight the 200 some-od backpackers counted down and serenaded me with a heinous version of Happy Birthday that can only be created when 200 people from all over the world speaking 20 different languages attempt to sing one song in unison. It was beautiful….I, however, WAS NOT. 

I mentioned before that I had crawled off an 18 hour bus ride and made straight for the bar. So this means that at this moment I am standing on top of a bar in the middle of Peru, I have not showered in two days so my hair is pulled back in the greasiest of buns, but I also happen to be donning black spandex with gray legwarmers, a tattered black travel dress that has not been washed in maybe 6 weeks who’s pockets are still bursting with bus tickets, tissues, and hand sanitizer… all of this under an oversized Loci hostel T-shirt that had been gifted to me by the bartender as I mounted said bar top.

Aer, I might add, was looking equally radiant in a pair of 3-sizes-too-big-for-her brown cargo pants from the used clothes bin of PSF which are being held up by a shoelace, and a gray tank top that, like my dress, had not been washed in about six weeks.  We are, if nothing else, the definition of disasters, but that my friends is the beauty of travel… everyone is a dirty disaster at all times, and it is almost unacceptable to be seen in any other state.

From here the tabletop dancing ensues for another hour or so until at around 2 the entire hostel takes to the streets of Cuzco to begin an epic dance party at another bar called Momma Africa. My chosen dancer partner, a fabulously entertaining British chap named Ben, and I refuse to do anything but the most retarded mockeries of dance moves ranging from the shopping cart, to the running man and some type of British car washing choreography that I still can’t quite rap my head around. At sunrise we all stumble back to Loki, where Momma Aer stuffs me full of saltines and water and tucks me in like the fabulous mom that she is.

I woke up the next morning to a lovely birthday serenade from four of my new favorite British boys, who as they stood over my bed proclaimed, “Where we come from you don’t start your birthday day without a song”. I made my out into the hostel courtyard amazed to find that EVERYONE still remembered my name AND the fact that it was my birthday. Aer was waiting for me with breakfast, coffee and a beautiful white Peruvian sweater that she had somehow bought in the last 12 hours (saucy little minx that Aer is).  

We spent the day frolicking around the city of Cuzco, planning our upcoming Inca Trail Trek and ultimately spending two hours with nothing but our journals, a banana split and  REAL coffee in a terrace café on Plaza de Armas. We retunred  to the hostel to find our army of new friends waiting to repeat the entire evening all over again. And repeat we did…from tequila, bar top sing-along’s and Momma Africa dance offs to the inevitable saltine water tuck in..It was perhaps the most epic 24 hour birthday celebration I could have wished for. 

But the purest and most beautiful part of it all is that not an ounce of it was planned. From the second I crawled off the bus to the second I crawled into my hostel bed, every event unfolded naturally of its own accord powered only by the spirits and energies of my fellow travelers and of course by THE fellow traveler, my one and only Aer.  Serendipitous as the day was I owe so much of it to that saucy Bech for it was she who covertly alerted the bartender (and everyone else in a 2 mile radius) that my birthday was approaching and it was she who begrudgingly agreed to belt out Madonna with me. It was Aer who woke up early to procure the perfect birthday gift, and it is only Aer who truly appreciates what an afternoon of terrace café writing and coffee can do for the weary traveling soul. 

So, goodbye 23, hello 24, Thank you Loki Hostel for providing the flawless impromptu venue, Thank you 6 dollar bottle of red for kicking the night off right, Thank you dirty travelers for embracing the hot mess that was I, Thank you Peru, you fabulous country of AWESOME you, and above all, Thank you Aer, my beacon, my bech, my one and only TC for reminding me that all we can do is go with the flow and trust that the universe will take care of us, providing infinite friends, bar tops…and saltines.