Choice is Wonderful

Sit or squat, everyone's happy!

Delhi Street Cows

Cows roam free on the streets of Delhi, like enormous street dogs with an aura of absolute calm. This quiet confidence is because to Hindus, cows are sacred and are to be respected at all times (so it is the cows who have right of way.) In groups or alone, they dawdle down the busy streets and laneways, completely unaffected by the utter mayhem that surrounds them, oblivious to the congestion their bulk causes in the tightly packed thoroughfares.


The closest these beasts ever seem to come to experiencing hostility is from the odd cyclerickshaw driver, who will slap their rump and yell at them when they block the path, but apart from that, they live a blessed urban life. Shopkeepers seem to really like the cows. On one particularly hot day, I saw one man pouring water over one beast that was splayed out in front of his shop’s entrance. The cow was completely blocking anyone’s path into the store, but the clerk repeatedly returned inside to refill a glass with water before emptying it over the sacred animal’s head. Actually, perhaps this was his non-violent way to try to get the cow to move, but whatever his motive, the animal obviously loved this trickling reprieve from the heat.

On another night, I was inside a shop chatting to the owner, when a cow lumbered past. The man quickly said something to one of the clerks, who then grabbed a bag of chapatti (bread) and chased off down the street after it. He returned minutes later, a little deflated. Apparently the cow had refused to eat the bread. ‘She didn’t want it. Everyone feeds the cows’ the owner told me, smiling.


Of course with all these well-fed (but possibly malnutritioned – there is not a blade patch of grass to be seen anywhere) cows rambling about the place, a mess is inevitable. The ineffective ‘cardboard on top of it’ method of dealing with such unpleasantness is usually employed, and then the rains fall and the circle of life continues. In the heat preceding the cleansing precipitation however, the clotted, viscid odour of curry-fed bovines mixes with the smells of spices, cooking oil and leatherwork, giving the streets their unique, sickeningly pungent atmosphere.

From the Troll House to the Penthouse

After lots of messing about in Puerto Escondido, Angie found us a room. We'd hoped for something with a kitchen and a balcony, somewhere where we could settle for a week or so and cook and relax and enjoy a bus-free existence. Sadly, the hypothetical hotel room we had envisioned seemed not to exist in our price range. A terse German hotelier gave us this room instead:

Note the staircase-shaped ceiling and curtained-off toilet

The room was a dark architectural afterthought. They had built the hotel and noticed the space underneath he stairs might just be able to accommodate visitors at the low end of the price spectrum. I was reminded of my troll status every time I went to the toilet; in an Alice in Wonderland-style perspective trick, the ceiling tapered off in the shape of an upside-down staircase the closer I got the bowl, leaving me unable to stand by the time I was within range.

It wasn't all bad, though. The room was literally the closest room to Zicaleta Beach, and the delights of Mexican Pipeline.


But, on our second day, Angie discovered another hotel, run by a wonderful group of people. What made them so wonderful was the fact that they sometimes give away their rooms at reduced rates if you stay for long enough, look destitute enough or in some way manage to tickle their sympathy bone. So for the next four days, we were housed in this:

Note the kitchen, equipped with a coffee maker and oven! Also note the lack of any staircase-shaped ceilings (we were on the top floor)

Our private balcony

It was all a little overwhelming. We were sure they'd made some sort of mistake. They'd obviously given us a per-person price, which we had taken as a per-room price, but, unbelievably, there had been no error. These were the kinds of digs we hadn't even dared to dream about. It was the best room in the hotel, and for four wonderful days, this was the view:

Of course it came to an end, and when the people who'd booked the room after us showed up, we were thrust straight back in to the murky depths of true, budget accomodation.

A Room with a View

Good morning...

After a night in Mazunte, we returned to Zipolite hoping to find surf. The waves, however, had vanished. But we did find this room, which we decided had the best view of any room so far on the trip.

And good evening...

The bathroom, in Duplo chic

And the ceiling fan.

Copan Ruinas

Hotel La Posada

Day 4- Life in the Village

(Click here to start from the start)

Poop straight into the sea!

The Kuna rise at the unconventional and impractical hour of four. Sleeping in until eight o’clock felt like a guilty indulgence against the backdrop of people up and about cleaning and working well before the sun breaks. So we arose and made a further dent in the shop’s supply of baked beans, drank coffee and laid out our meagre supplies hastily souvenired from the boat when we abandoned ship. Things were grim if not heavily salted. What we had grabbed consisted mainly of snackfoods and noodles, the supplemental goodies we had brought on this trip ourselves in case of unsatisfying included fare. Laid out on the table, our supplies resembled the ragged contents of a student pantry; odd noodles, coffee, chips and peanuts and loose-end spices along with other scraps of gastronomic flotsam.


With nothing else to occupy us, our bellies became hot topic number one. It was decided to send a party back to the boat to recover some of the more substantial ingredients we’d seen airborne in the cabin on the first night. The major hurdle we faced in getting back to the nautical pantry was crossing the bay on which Mansucum sat. To do this we tried to enlist the help of the locals, but it seemed suspiciously like they were under strict orders not to let us back near the scene of the crime. We were given a litany of reasons as to why we could not return; the walk was too long; the boat is broken into lots of little pieces; the boat isn’t there anymore; there’s nothing on the boat anymore. Our host relayed such a list to us as he was unloading his canoe of cans of tinned food and dozens of eggs, remarkably similar to what we had seen aboard our ship previously. So we were stuck in Mansucum without food and very little money and no way of accessing either. We asked our host if we could maybe have some of the booty he’d found and his wife was now cooking up. And so began a rather sticky affair in which we were cast as the ungrateful visitors and the bane of the elderly woman who lived with our host. Old people muttering to express dissatisfaction with someone or something are a phenomenon so universal it has even shown up here, I thought as we guiltily pleaded for something to cook for dinner.

The tiny huts on stilts over the water are the toilets

After negotiations we came away with some supplies (I think they only gave us the cabbage because they had no idea what it was for). Later in the day the rest of the treasure turned up in town. It seemed that the villagers had spent all morning cleaning out the ship- virtually the entire contents of the boat were now being unloaded from canoes and causing considerable excitement among the populace. Everything was stored behind one of the only locakable doors in town in the room below our bedroom. We salvaged some damp mattresses and pillows so that we could give our hosts back the use of their living room.


As I was watching the unloading of the booty, I heard a blood-curdling miniature scream from below me. Looking down, I realised I had inadvertently surprised a wandering toddler, who had only spotted me when I was far too close for comfort. The nappied child ran in two complete circles, arms flailing above his head as his eyes filled with tears of pure horror. He saw his mother, and sprinted as fast as his stumpy legs and developing sense of balance would allow, darting behind her skirt, where he jumped onto her legs and latched upon them like a koala, still wailing in pure terror. Of course this created quite a spectacle, of which I was a main, and unwilling player. It seemed that not all the locals were used to our presence yet.

We often had an audience of brave kids at the door, even when we were asleep photo:Char

Angie and Charlotte managed to construct a curry for dinner, which we greedily inhaled before getting started on the other bottle of rum rescued from certain premature oblivion. The night passed in this fashion, and we were joined by some of the local teenagers, so there was an impromptu guitar concert before bed.

Deep in the night, we were awoken by a series of girlish screams. ‘Holy F**K! F**K F**K F**K!!! Fuck ME!! Holy JESUS!! Oh my God- F**K!!!’

Everyone freaked out at this, wondering what could elicit such an outrageous response from the ever-uber-excitable J2.

‘A f**ken SPIDER, man!! Right in my armpit!!! F**ken JESUS!!!’ Those sleeping on the floor, rather in hammocks, were a little put out by the possibillty of a “F**ken MASSIVE, man’ tarantula curiously exploring these strange new smelling beasts in what was usually an empty room. Grabbing for torches, we drowsily scouted the edges of the room. A dark flash scooted between some old paint tins. It was obviously a mouse, not nearly as worrisome as hairy arachnids. J2, worked up and still yelling about his ordeal a full five minutes later, had parked himself on a pair of plastic chairs, and now that he had made sure everyone was awake, was preparing to sleep safely suspended off the floor. ‘A mouse? A MOUSE? But did you see the size of TEETH on that mouse?!? F**king HUGE!!!’

(Click to continue: Day 5- Legal Battles)

Colca Hole

Colca Canyon is located just outside Arequipa, Peru, and is touted by the local tour companies as the second deepest canyon in the world (the deepest is next door and has an extra 130 metres of down). But when I saw it, I realised they were pushing the boundaries of the correct definition of canyon. The hole is clearly a valley, at least to my eyes. But I’m not a geologist, or a tour guide, so I don’t get a say. Anyway, we walked down the thing.


We set out hopelessly unprepared, deciding along with our friends from the recent pampas trip, Paul and Charlotte plus Chris, that we’d make a camping trip of it. But nine-thirty in the evening is no the ideal time to go out trying to hire tents and other brightly coloured outdoors equipment, so, the next day, after a six hour bus to the starting point, we began walking minus sleeping gear. But that didn’t matter so much, as there were a number of small, roadless towns on our proposed route around the Colca Valley.



The walk down was scenic at first, but soon turned into a punishing, sweaty dust march under an unforgiving Peruvian sun. It was two and a half hours of dry, steep, slowbaking switchback downhill that left a crust of dirt on our teeth and throats and an awful notion wailing loudly in my head- ‘we still have to come back up this thing’. The idea of walking into a valley only to stop, turn around and walk back to again struck me as extremely ridiculous about halfway through the monotonous descent. Walking up a mountain seems genius in comparison, with a clear goal reached after the hardest part, the reward being able to be enjoyed in the knowledge that there is a slightly easier journey back home. Putting the hardest part at the end of the trip just seemed silly, and it played uneasily on my mind the entire time…


We arrived at our revised goal for the day. Originally, we were going to walk to the hotel with a pool on the valley floor, lunch, swim and then continue to a town further up the other side of the valley wall. The next day we would complete a loop back to our starting point. That idea was scratched pretty soon into the piece, after we really started to comprehend just what we’d gotten ourselves into. For the last half of the trudge, we were able to see the lush green grass of the hotel and the shining emerald of the pool, but it seemed like an eternity before they actually started to get closer. Once there it was like a different, less punishing world. We swam and relaxed on the grass, massaged the downhill-induced RSI from our legs, drank 500 litres of water and tried desperately not to think about the next day.


We sat down for dinner, which was spaghetti with a tomato sauce. Earlier in the day, I had caused major panic within our group when, after misinterpreting the cook, returned from the kitchen bearing the news that we would be eating asparagus and tomato sauce for dinner.

After dinner, Chris returned form the bathroom with an awkwardly parted gait and a darkness in his eyes- both sure signs that something had gone terribly awry in the toilet block. Before I go further into this amazing story, it is important to realise that a group of backpackers often resembles a gaggle of new mothers in that there is one topic, universal to all, that is discussed ad-nauseum and which seems completely disgusting and inappropriate to outsiders. Poo stories, they are called- everyone has a couple and after a few of beers they come flooding out as people try to outdo each other with disgusting tales that only a continent with such a poor sewerage system and such lax food safety standards can produce. So, before we go any further, be warned. It’s perfectly acceptable to tell these tales in backpacking circles, but as I remember from the civilised world, these things are usually taboo and tend to stay in (water) closet (I think in New Zealand it’s also accepted dinner party conversation-looking at you, Ben). So the squeamish should steer clear of the following couple of paragraphs and just look at the photos….

Anyway, the toilets at the bottom of the canyon were clean and apparently safe. When Chris returned from this particular ablutionary excursion sporting the emotional and haberdasheric scars so obvious, we knew that in fact it was far from harmless. He then related a story in which the elements of plumbing and timing collaborated in what can only be described as a miracle…

Chris had been sick. Icky in the toilet sick. It happens to everyone here. You don’t feel sick, but a doctor would look in the bowl and whip out a prescription for something, for sure. It had been like this for a few days and Chris had made a courageous effort in leaving civilisation and regular intervals of flushing toilets so far behind. The mens toilet in Paraiso Hotel was situated right next to the pool- the pool that was filled with fresh water that was slowly growing slimy. To clean the pool, the caretaker simply empties the pool through a pair of pipes in the bottom corner of the pool and then puts the plug back in, letting one of the natural creeks refill the pool at it’s own leisure.

It was nightime when trouble struck- we had just finished dinner and Chris had gone off to take care of his business. Halfway through the process- past the point of no return- he noticed through the open door, the curious sight of the attendant tugging at some kind of rope leading into the bottom corner of the pool. When the whole situation clicked- large volume of water about to enter pipes, toilet close enough to pool to be plumbed into the same pipes, toilet full of disgustingness- it was too late to do anything but let out a Hollywood-style, slow motion…nooooooooo!!!! From beneath him Chris felt a violent upsurge of fluids as a pool load of water flooded the system.

What I like to think happened is something akin to one of those cartoons where the character is spat up into the air, somersaulting on top of a column of water or newly discovered oil. Or maybe the character is pinned to the ceiling by the uprush, leaving a hilarious silhouette above the source of liquid. Chris assured me it was nothing as funny as this, but his body and jeans were covered with the contents of the toilet bowl as it erupted beneath him. Of course Chris let out a string of brutal expletives, sending the caretaker scarpering, never to be seen again for the length of our stay.

The devastating scene

Chris performed the best cleanup he could, and rejoined us at the dinner table, gloomy and uncomfortable although smelling surprisingly fresh. The mens toilet was now out of bounds.


The next day we woke up and procrastinated for as long as we could, but there was no way out of this hole except for up. We plodded off, again under a brutal sun, trying hard not think about what the next few hours had in store. Our included breakfast of two bread rolls and jam hadn’t really fortified us for this journey, and it was a convoluted hike upwards as we had to constantly stop and regain our breath in the ever-thinning air. After about four hours- four disgusting hours- we reached the top. I’d felt like passing out for the last hour, and everyone else was in varying states of sun-dried exhaustion. We tried to celebrate reaching the top, but nobody had the energy, and also we had a bus to catch in fifteen minutes. It was the last one of the day, and the edge of the valley was about twenty minutes from town. We hurriedly navigated through rice paddies and irrigation ditches, getting lost and taking a shortcut through someone’s backyard. After a frantic, Amazing Race style bolt to the bus stop, the driver informed us that we had juuuuust made it. The bus left twenty minutes later.

More unmentionable mishaps on the bus home.

Loja

There was an earthquake and a terrible smell creeping from the sink, but the bathroom had this groovy door.

Publicest Toilet Yet

Toilet with the Most Impressive View So Far

1949 Hostel, Punta del Este

Angie and Dave VS Bariloche, round 2

Back in Bariloche, a different looking Bariloche to a week ago. The weather had closed right in and the rain clouds were sitting heavy just above the lake. We checked into the hostel, ate at a VEGETARIAN restaurant. Then the weather really closed in...

Colder than it looks...

...For almost a week wind slammed Bariloche, producing surfable waves on Lago Nahuel Haupi. If I hadn't left my surfing gear in Santiago to pick up later, I might have some photos of me riding choppy little waves with snowy mountains far in the background. Back in the hostel, when the wind whipped around the windows and walls, it really sounded like the roof was about to be lifted off into the night. Visions of tiles launching, clouds rushing past my face and angie being picked up and swirled away in the gale filled my sleepy mind as I was woken every few hours each night. Eventually it all became too much for the roof, and wet patches started to appear on the floor in the bedroom. The brutal weather basically ruled out any outdoor activity, Angie fell ill for a few days and was confined to bed, I ventured out one day to climb a mountain, but the gods sent me straight back inside after moving the mountain (or i got lost) and then drenching me by horizontal rain so it would appear that I had been lying face down in ten centimetres of water. Movies filled most of the days, and on one outing to the chocolate supermarket, Angie got trapped inside a cubicle and, wait for it, had to crawl out underneath the door- disinfectant!! STAT! Apart from that, not much to report, but the lake did throw up some nasty looking photo opportunities, and snow has begun to appear on the mountains where last week laid sunshine.

A rare moment of calm on Lago Nahuel Haupi, this view is from our bedroom window.

Enter La Casa Roja

Its nightime, but even in this little suburb there are people everywhere, mostly families. I find a little place to buy a pizza and a coca-cola light, we sit out on the street in the warm air. We go for a quick walk around the place, go to a supermercado and buy some water to brush our teeth with and a bottle of wine to get them dirty again. Back at the hotel, we're too tired to try and get into the bottle, so we go to bed. Our first night in South America. Completely exhausted, we go to sleep around 11. I thought this was a good sign that we had manged to trick our bodies into local time by forgoeing sleep back home and getting in just a little on the plane.

Barrio Brasil

We wake up at five in the evening the next day. At least it was a cheap day. A quick walk and breadroll later, we're back at the hotel and fast asleep- with an alarm set this time. Not before one shocking discovery is made however. The lonely planet says that in south america it is customary to dispose of used toilet paper NOT in the toilet but in the little basket next to it. A quick check of the bathroom does indeed reveal a basket in said spot, but it still doesn't sit properly with me. Off to the internet cafe to send emails and check up on this 'basket' thing. The internet reveals that, yes, this is the thing to do in South Amercia, but it seems that this is how people deal with toilet paper all over the world! Even some places in Europe! How did they manage to keep this a secret for so long?

Barrio Brasil

Sleep is still a game of chance- the dice is rolled when you shut your eyes and you can come in and out of consciousness at any time. A breakfast of bread and jam is served after an erratic nights rest and then we pack up and leave the quaint Hotel Los Arcos. La Casa Roja is a backpackers hostel around the corner that has popped up in research, and we decide to spend at least a couple of nights there.

La Casa Roja is a huge mansion that has been renovated and converted into a backpackers lodge by a cricket-mad Australian. After clip clopping down the long floorboarded hallway, we came out into the backyard, which featured a lush green lawn, a bar and a pool with a spa. Plus practice nets for the cricket of course. The next few days are spent in the tail end of recovery, and soon sleep becomes a natural activity, rather than some bizarre forced (or unwanted) period of lying down.