New Years Eve is always a strange night I find. One always feels they need to make a big deal about it, but all we end up doing is going to extremes. Drinking too much, doing things we would never usually do, sometimes with people we would never do them with, running down the street screaming with sparklers alight in each hand...etc.
But New Years Eve in Buenos Aires was exceptionally odd. All year I had imagined it would be a night of awesome latin fiesta and pizazz, lots of salsa music, dancing in the streets, handsome people everywhere, some tango here and there, beautiful Argentinian wine, and streamers, fireworks, the lot...
But when the three of us left our hostel ready for a night of partying we were met with a strange silence. Our footsteps echoed as we wandered down the empty streets of San Telmo. BA seemed to be dead. The bars were closed, so were the restaurants. What was going on?
Looking back now though the warning signs had been there. Being hopeful Aussie tourists used to a national NYE that borders on the barbaric we ignored these signs or got distracted before we could read into them. We assumed all capitals must celebrate NYE like us Sydney-siders do.
In the lead up to the night my two travel companions and myself had been trying to somewhat gauge how NYE pans out in BA. It was so strange though, we didn't hear about any parties, any major events, no fireworks, no street closures...it was just this strange blank, an absence of information. Maybe these things aren't advertised like they are here in Sydney, we thought. Surely, on the night we will find ourselves swept up into a crowd and carried along where the night takes us. Yeah, exactly, why worry about this absence of information? Oh look San Telmo markets!
The only recommendation we found for a NYE activity was in a Lonely planet guide I think. Apparently an english comedy bar a few blocks from our hostel was really good. We could laugh our way into the new year. Anyway, it was our only option...so we leapt at the opportunity.
As I said before, setting out around 8 to see the comedy, we were struck by how unnervingly lifeless the streets of our usually bustling neighbourhood were. All the ice cream shops, pizza parlours, even the liquor stores were all closed. How strange. We wandered around missing the comedy bar several times, probably due to not only poor signage but to the fact it was closed, more than closed, it was as dead as the rest of the street it was on. The lights were out, the door was locked and there was definitely no comedy on. Our first and last resort for NYE shenanigans had fallen through
Sighing and puzzled we sat on the bars front step, waiting in the sticky heat for our fourth NYE companion to join us, as they were meeting us here, coming from a different part of the city. We joked and mused as to why everything was so dead, was there a secret party underground or something? A secret party foreigners are not invited to? Were we not cool enough?
We were still sitting musing when some drunk men ambled by slowly. I shifted in my seat suddenly feeling uncomfortable under their seedy gaze in the middle of this deserted and dark street in downtown BA. Suddenly a scream was heard from an adjacent street. A woman's voice began hurling abuse in Spanish, evidently directed at a man stalking towards us from this road. The woman pursued him still cursing and yelling abuse. The drunks then stepped into action. I am not sure what crime this man had committed but these drunks assuming role of guardians of BA Street Justice decided he deserved punishment.
One of the drunk men stepped forward and slugged him across the face with a violence that made his knees buckle. He fell to the ground. Before he could get up the same drunk struck again, this time he kicked the man square in the jaw with a force that I am sure must have nearly broken his jaw, some teeth, something. The other drunks moved in.
Watching this from the other side of the street my travel companions and I gasped. The sudden violence of it was harrowing. I closed my eyes, terrified this was going to escalate into something I didn't want to see. Were they going to beat this man to death? In the middle of the street? In front of us? Should we stop them?
Fortunately it didn't. Time which had temporarily stopped, which tends to happen in moments of surreal violence, started once more. The man got up, shook his head as if trying to shake out the shock he absorbed from his jaw and power-Walked away, muttering under his breath. The drunks ambled on, the woman shuffled home. I finally took a breath and realised I was trembling. We then burst into questions. Oh my god, what just happened? I don't know! Were they defending that woman? For a second there I thought they were going to absolutely beat the shit out of him!
Then our friend arrived. Did you see what just happened we asked her? Yes, she did, she saw some of it. It was some kind of altercation wasn't it? Yes, now let's get the hell out of here! But where would we even go? the comedy isn't on, the bar is closed. Get dinner? Yes but everywhere is closed!
Even in the part middle of the city, where our friend had come from, everything was reportedly shut as well. We were going to have to rely on luck trying to even find a place to eat that night, Still a little dazed, we walked back to our hostel, to ask for some advice and we found on its doorstep the most 'happening' gathering we had seen so far, that being five guys drinking beers and chatting casually. Our hostel receptionists couldn't give us any tips. Try the main square of San Telmo?
Once there though our options were limited. We cried out in relief when we saw our first open restaurant But were turned away. People had made their bookings months ago we were not those people. We did a lap of the square but both of the only two options had incredibly overpriced set menus. We ended up going for a bar that from the outside appeared to be serving reasonbly priced food. However things got seriously lost in translation over yet another set menu with the waiter, who also appeared to have a glass eye. He didn't speak english and we didn't speak Spanish.
"So wait, it is 500 soles for the set meal NOT including drinks?"
"No only if you have dessert."
"Wait, what. We have to have dessert?"
"Yes if only 3 of you be eating."
"But can we just have a main course ?"
"No, but you can without wine."
"Then that's assuming we don't want dessert?" Suddenly he looked puzzled.
"What is this about dessert?!"
This went on for a good ten minutes. Two of my companions began itching for a solution. One of them very aptly summed up the mood at the table: " God, It's NYE, all I want to do is get sloshed!"
We ended up sneaking out of the bar when the waiter went to ask the chef whether we could just have main courses with drinks exempt from set price, or maybe it was whether we had to pay full price for just dessert, wine not included, I can't remember.
We finally found a restaurant. It was overpriced, the set menù was uninspiring but hey, at least we would finally get some alcohol into us, we needed it. The peace didn't last long. Soon we were informed by the manager that the table we were at had been reserved. Would we mind taking a Seat at a different table? We obliged, and began what would be a good 40 minute wait for our meals. Our cocktails disappeared into a blackhole and when we left we found the staff gathered around the counter engaged in what looked like a group session of counting up of the dough coin by coin. Money was everywhere. We managed to escape the premises without having to pay the ridiculously expensive bill they were convinced was ours and headed back to the hostel to contemplate our next move.
It was after midnight, we were now in the New Year and we decided that the night would finally kick off by heading into Palermo Soho, the nightlife hub of BA.Surely, surely....
Three of the four of us headed out, flagging a taxi in a deserted street through sheer dumb luck. It was the first taxi we had seen that night, and taxis being the ants of the transport kingdom that is saying something about the state of the BA that night.
Sure enough, Palermo was packed. People swarmed in a tight snail-shell formation wrapped around the central square. There was music, there were lights, there were fancy dresses, long queues, and people spilling out of overcrowded bars drinking on the street. But something was wrong. No one, I repeat no one was drunk. It was a bizzarely sober atmosphere for nightclub central. We were bitterly disappointed.
People seemed to always be heading somewhere, moving quickly, off and away...but to where? As if stunned to find out human activity can be motivated by reasons other than alcohol on nye, we shrugged and resolved to stick with what we knew best and get sloshed anyway.
We tried out a handful of bars that were decidedly deceitful. From the outside they screamed with their packed courtyards, music and flashing lights "Woooo Par-taaay!!!" Inside however people sat around casually sipping drinks as if it was an after-work function on a thursday evening. They were just chilling but soon would have to head off because they had to feed the cat and trim the bonsai.
We got some drinks into us, finally, but were distracted by the little girl and her mother seated next to us. Why take a child to a bar? Is this not a bit improper!? Maybe this is why we didn't seem to fit into BA on the brink of the new year. Because we ask tedious questions like this. But at the same time just want to get sloshed till we are sick and expose the general public to terrible moves on the dancefloor...a tad ironic I admit.
We ended up having a strange rest of the night. I remember some flirty BA teenagers, one of my companions running into someone they knew, and despite searching high and low not being able to fulfil our one and only desire left after a night of systematically lowering our NYE expectations: a good time on the dancefloor.
How a culture revered for the creation of perhaps the sexiest dance in the world, tango, cannot provide even one dancefloor on NYE I will not pretend to understand.
The next day we had no regrets, we had enjoyed ourselves, but were still puzzled. Why no excessive overly expensive fireworks paid for with tax-payers money? Why were no annoying street closures and traffic jams? Why no offensively accessible alcohol suppliers? Why no oppotunities to make a fool of oneself?
Oh well, we will just have to count on another typical Aussie NYE to enjoy these luxuries. And that's the great thing about NYE, there will always be another one.
Showing posts with label South America flash backs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label South America flash backs. Show all posts
Sunday, 16 March 2014
Sunday, 9 March 2014
Ilha Grande: A long rant about Hell in Tropical Paradise
When I decided to spend some time in Brazil in between the end of my tour through South America and going on to Italy, I was introduced by my travel agent to a tropical paradise known as Ilha Grande.
Ilha Grande is a beautiful island located about 3 hours drive south of Rio de Janeiro surrounded by a collection of dizzyingly beautiful lagoons. My travel agent googled it for me, showed me some pictures, and right then and there, in STA Ultimo back in April last year, I decided that I definitely deserved from tropical paradise in my life. I paid upfront for a 3 day tour to Ilha Grande recommended by the agent and waited for the tedious year of working full-time to pass and for this exciting time in my life of travel and paradise to begin.
I can remember saying to people with thinly veiled gleeful satisfaction that 'Ilha Grande is going to be my time to relax, recover and revive after the intensity of Peru and Bolivia. A bit of time to just sit back and relax in paradise. You know what I mean? Sometimes we just need to relax once in a while?' People would nod approvingly and often say something along the lines of how envious they were. I would once again mentally pat myself on the back for my excellent taste in travel destinations.
Things in life though, just never work out the way we plan them to. That said I don't think I was unreasonable in expecting exactly what I imagined and was promised from the experience that was Ilha grande: a nice relaxing time, strolling deserted white sand beaches, sipping from coconuts, lazing in hammocks, cozying up under palm trees with a good book and strutting my stuff in my new bikini. I mean those aren't exactly activities typically fraught with peril and risks....for me though, I have this relationship with life where it likes to give me a suspicious amount of inspiration and opportunities, but never without a good ol' slap in the face upon accepting them. It is like a 'happiness tax' or something. I take what I am given, but have to withstand some kind of punishment for my audacity in doing so.
So the trip didn't really get off to a great start when my pick-up from my hostel arrived about 40 minutes late and then didn't know who the hell I was. Some other people from my hostel were on the same tour so they hopped onto the bus without any trouble, while I stood feeling a bit like a poser, waiting to be approved and seated with the others. Calls were made to head office, questions were asked in rapid portuguese, then asked again more loudly. Looks were exchanged. It seemed that there was confusion because my name was familiar but I was not on the pick-up list.
'When you book trip?' I was asked in broken english. 'This week, now??'
'Oh no! I booked this trip ages ago! Earlier this year in April...' I replied.
The pick-up man scrutinised me with narrowed eyes, as if judging my moral worthiness to come upon this tour as opposed to the logistics of whether I booked or not. Another phone call was made, voices were raised and I began to get that horrible feeling in your stomach when you know something you have counted on being easy has turned around and bitten you on the backside. Then finally he snapped his phone shut and told me to hop in the van. I felt huge relief, like I had passed the character test required, not that my very legitimate paid for tour booking had finally been located.
The drive to Ilha Grande passed pretty much in silence. I looked around at my fellow tour companions and felt a little worried that these were the people I was hoping to get to know over the next three days. I was by far the youngest person there, everyone else seemed to be in their late 20s and early 30s. Most also seemed to be groups of 3-4 friends or lovey-dovey couples. Trying to attempt some kind of beginning of a relationship, I made a comment to the American girl next to me in the van about the incredible heat. She agreed enthusiastically, but shortly. We fell back into silence. It was pretty clear she had no intention of wasting her energy on me. I began to feel a little nervous. How the hell was I going to find sharing a dorm with these people let alone make friends with them?
We transferred from the bus to the boat with a great deal of confusion. The van we were in came to a sudden holt, we jumped out, our luggage was dumped and without any directions being given, the van left us where we were, did a u-turn and disappeared. The group of us, about 12, looked around at each other as if to say 'Soooooo....what now?' Eventually we made a connection between the groups of brown and chilled looking tourists leaving the jetty and new groups of not so brown tourists replacing them on the jetty. We followed and after a great deal of confusion we were on the beautiful boat to Ilha Grande.
I read my book as the boat rocked its way for 40 minutes to Ilha Grande. From the shore it really hadn't looked that far away, but whenever I looked up from reading it seemed the distance between our boat and the island was unchanging. I realised that this was no quick swim over to the island. Well that's no problem, I thought to myself, because I am heading to tropical paradise and I won't even want to leave! I smiled smugly to myself. Oh, the innocence I used to have.
So our boat pulled up to a jetty, one of the ship-hands called out the name of the stop and this is where things got weird. Some of the people on my tour disembarked with their luggage, others remained....but weren't we all staying in the same place? Freaking out I overcame my shyness to ask one of the girls I recognised from my bus trip where we were getting off.
'We?' she said. 'Oh I don't know...it depends where you are staying? Where is your hostel?'
'What? I thought that we...were...staying...' I trailed off into that awkward confused silence of someone who has realised they have made some terrible assumptions and should probably just shut up and let someone who knows what they are doing do the talking.
'No, well we are all staying in different places, it depends what company you booked through. Like, we are getting off on the other stop. Yeah we are all staying at different places...'
Woah. Ok, no one told me this. I had a sudden sinking feeling that I had missed an important detail somewhere. Surely I should have known about this? I mean my travel agent never mentioned this, nor had I received any emails in the days before...or ever! Nothing, this was all news to me.
I ran up and asked the captain where I was supposed to be getting off. He had a list in his hand and I hoped that maybe my hostel was listed next to my name or something. He looked affronted as if I had asked him the colour of his underwear.
'Why would I know? I have no idea where you are staying!' He said this rather loudly, loud enough for everyone on the boat to watch this scenario unfold.
'Oh, it's just I don't know...where I am staying...I am sorry, I think I have not received some info-'
'What do you MEAN you don't know where you are staying!?' he cried. I suddenly felt incredibly stupid. But more than that angry. Something had gone wrong and now I was quite unfairly looking really daft.
Then a blonde girl, a hotel receptionist from the island helping people disembark, noticed the captain raising his voice at me. She asked what was going on, the captain explained to her in annoyed Portuguese, while I stood there feeling like a naughty child. As if maybe she thought I was just a slow person she nodded then repeated the captains question for me in slow stupid people's english.
'Mirundah, WHERE. ARE. YOU. STAY-ING?'
'I. DO. NOT. KNOW. I. HAVE. NOT. BEEN. TOLD!' I had no idea what was going on. The girl and the captain argued, gesturing at me like some child neither wanted to adopt, then finally she sighed and told me to follow her.
Dragging my heavy suitcase I followed her to the reception of the hostel that sat at the beginning of the jetty. She sat down behind her computer and as if I was a very stupid customer and she were a weary insurance consultant, began to accost me.
'Mirundah, it is very dangerous for you to just go to some place and to not know where you sleep! You need to know these things and to plan them before they happen!' I gritted my teeth. Oh wow, knock me down with a feather. Are you saying that it is best to plan your accommodation when in a non-english speaking country when travelling alone as a single white female?? Well I never. I held my silence, not enjoying being patronised at all. I tried to explain that I thought that maybe I had not been sent some important information regarding this tour, but she wouldn't let me get a word in.
She then did some searches on her computer, then finally found my name. Out of sheer luck I was actually in the reception of the hostel my travel company arranged for me to stay at. Now seeing that I was looking a bit emotional and rather bewildered she began to talk to me in a calmer more soothing voice. In a way this was worse, she was feeling sorry for me. I became even more silently livid. She took me to my dorm and when she closed the door finally the angry tears broke free. I resolved that as soon as I got access to a computer I was going to send an email to my travel agent and ask what the hell was going on.
I don't believe that what I did was wrong. By that I mean just hop into the van and assume everything would go the way I assumed, being: that this was like the tour I took through South America. I would hop into the pick-up van, our names would all be on a list, the group of us would then share the same hostel and facilities for the next three days, then leave together at the same time. No, it seems that depending on what company you go through, you are simply sent to a hotel depending on how many people you have and where has the most places available. I was not on a 'tour', all I had paid for was accommodation, a pick-up and a chance to explore the island on my own...this was not made clear at all from the beginning.
After a bit of a sulk I pulled myself together. I put on my swimmers and tried out the first beach I saw. The water was heavenly, the sand was bright white, people sipped cocktails and chatted with friends. This is when I first noticed that I was already the whitest person in sight. I returned, had a burger for dinner at my hostels cafe and then not really knowing what to do with myself (the bar was deserted, apparently people were still recovering from a party that had been held there the previous night) I returned to my hostel room and decided to get an early night. I wanted to do some sight-seeing the next day and wanted to be up early for it. I was starting to feel positive, electrified by the possibility of having a fabulous time on this stunning island despite the bad/confusing beginning.
When I entered my dorm which accommodated eight beds, one of my roommates had appeared. The rest I had not met yet were obviously still out. He was a Belgian guy, blonde, tanned and lovely. He was reading, and after a really nice chat about our respective travels he resumed his reading and I climbed onto my bunk and began to read myself. Then the hiccups began, followed by stomach cramps, followed by nausea. I had only been reading for about an hour when I realised that I was once again on this trip to South America, going to be sick. I hopped down to the bathroom and promptly threw up violently, the kind that makes you gasp for air and the back of your throat burn from the acidity of your stomach contents. Oh man, it was food poisoning, probably that godforsaken burger. I broke out in a cold sweat of dread, and in between throwing up I rested my head on the cool tiles of the bathroom that was for some inexplicable reason flooding. Just my luck. Things were not going great at all. 'This was supposed to be my indulgent relaxing treat!!' I thought to myself. 'What the hell is this??!'
Some time later, shaking and exhausted from the violence of throwing up, I emerged from the bathroom and lay on a lower bunk-bed. I couldn't bring myself to climb up to my bunk and besides I suspected my relationship with the toilet was not yet over. No point having to just get down again.
The Belgian politely asked me if i was ok, a sweet question with implications of a serious understatement, considering the poor thing knew I definitely was not, having been treated to the dulcet tones of my heaving through the paper thin bathroom wall for the past 20 minutes. I replied no, a shaky thin voice that sounded disgusting even me. He suddenly got out his medical kit and insisted on giving me some of his medications. He was so so kind, asking me if i needed anything. I didn't want to take his medicine, what if he got sick he might need it? He said he was going home tomorrow! He wouldn't need it! Of course i should take it! He wanted me to! He filled up his 2 litre plastic water bottle and placed it with some pain-killers, some gastro-stop and antibiotics beside my bed. I was so grateful to him I could have cried. I then fell into an uncomfortable, clammy sleep. it was well over 35 degrees and the air conditioners were definitely not working that night.
I woke up a little later as the rest of my roommates entered around midnight. I got up, went to the bathroom and threw up again. This time I felt a suddenly a lot better. I think I had finally got everything making me sick out of my body. I emerged from the bathroom and everyone suddenly stopped what they were doing. They timidly asked me how i was feeling. I cringed. They were just being polite, but the simple fact was they had heard me throwing up through the walls and were badly masking their disgust. Only the Belgian guy was genuinely concerned. I tried to laugh it off, rolled back into bed and didn't wake till the next morning when the belgian placed a new bottle of water beside my bed. He was leaving. He told me it was nice meeting me and that he hoped I would get better soon. I thanked him profusely for his kindness. Almost not wanting him to go....The other roommates had left too.
At some point in my lingering fever that morning I realised that I had run out of water. I was trying to stay hydrated. I wandered out to the cafe of the hotel, to buy some water and ran into the blonde girl from the reception. She double-took at my greenish complexion. She asked me what was wrong and I told her I was sick, reluctant to add to the already numerous faults I seemed in her eyes to possess. She told me I looked like I really badly needed a doctor. I asked if I could see one.
'Oh we don't have any doctors on the island! It is too small, and people never get sick here!' Oh ok, Great.
I continued on to the cafe where upon arriving I was told they had run out of water. I stopped myself from asking how on earth they had allowed themselves to run out of the life necessity that is clean bottled water and simply asked where was the nearest convenience store. I was told in the middle of town, about a 15 minute hike away. I wanted to cry. Nothing seemed to be going my way. All I wanted was some clean water! Looking kind of guilty they asked if they wanted one of the hotel staff to get me some water from the centre of town. I declined, feeling miserable and sheepish and returned to my room, as I was feeling weak and ill again. I had just settled down when a man knocked on my door, introducing himself as the owner of the hotel. He spoke to me in a kind fatherly way and told me that someone was going out to restock the cafe. They would have water soon. Seeing that I was shivery he also brought me an extra blanket. He suggested that I just eat crackers and bananas for the next few days as they were gentle on the stomach. I thanked him.
I stayed that whole day inside, miserable about the fact outside was absolutely stunning. The hotel looked onto a gorgeous beach, the water turquoise, warm and shimmery. I was dying at jump in, but was just too weak to. I began to dwell on the fact I was losing my precious time here due to illness. Then a new roommate arrived. A tall ridiculously good looking Argentinian guy strode in. He had a pierced belly button, which I know because he wasn't wearing a shirt which seems common, almost a social custom on Ilha grande. He took one look at me, sprawled, pitiful and green, wrapped up like a grandma in a blanket, scowled and resolved to ignore me from then on. Yay....new friend. Not. A bit later three Irish roommates were brought to my room by the manager. He introduced me to them, jokingly telling them they had to take care of me because I was sick. I tried to say 'hello' and 'good' at the same time, but in my feverish confusion only managed a croaky 'gello.' They chuckled uneasily, already terrified they would be held responsible if I were to suddenly curl up and die.
They darted around the room, making noise in their attempt not to make noise, apologising to me and swearing like troopers at each other. They then disappeared to enjoy the island I had so far not been able to. Once again I was alone.
The next morning I was determined to start afresh. I still wasn't hungry but it was nice seeing the pleasant surprise on my Irish roommates face's when I could suddenly speak full sentences, smile and joke around like a normal person who no longer appeared to be on the brink of death. We talked about our travels and I even discovered that two of them are currently living in Sydney, very close to me. It was a small world moment and we bonded over that. They then went off to the beach while I chose to pace myself and slipped into a hammock beside the sea, enjoying the sun and sheer gorgeousness of the nature around me.
I then decided it was well and truly time to get some answers. Using a share computer I sent a polite or passive aggressive email, depending on how you read it, to the company that I was booked with. I found their email on the few papers I had relating to the trip. I then sent an email to my travel agent, letting her know what had happened, asking if she knew what was going on. It was at this point I noticed something. I looked around the large room the computer was located in and saw I was surrounded by beautiful brazilian girls, all a bit older than me, in a large party groups. I searched in vain for someone who looked like they had come to the island themselves or on a tour group...but no. It really seemed that the only people here were ones who came in a group of friends or with their partners. No one spoke a word of english. I suddenly felt very self-conscious and resentful of the fact I was not on a tour as I had been informed I would be. I could see that is was going to be basically impossible for me to meet new people here when we could not even communicate with each other.
I wandered over to the cafe once again to ask directions to the main street where I could buy some bananas and crackers. The secondary manager helped me, a really tall eccentric guy, who didn't seem to own a shirt. He also always seemed to have a beer in his hand. He gave me some kind of vague explanation and I made my way there, but I had over-estimated my recovery and obviously had no idea I was going so slow because by the time I got to the main road, who did I find chilling there? - the guy who had just given me directions. Awkward. We nodded at each other and I made my way down to road, painfully aware that I was the only person without company. Romantic couples surrounded me, holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes and making out. Groups of gorgeous brazilian girls trotted around laughing and joking together. I began to wonder why the hell I thought having a relaxing holiday on a honeymoon/beautiful brazilian people's getaway island was a good idea. It was just kinda depressing.
I finally found a shop selling bananas. I tried to ignore the fact its customers were starring at my white skin, glowing ridiculously, even in the evening darkness and began to choose some bananas. They seemed to come only in huge bunches weighing maybe 3 or 4 kilos. I tried breaking off a few but they were tough and I only succeeded in bursting one open. I decided to take the huge bunch up to the counter and explain I only wanted a few. A girl obviously native to the island was serving at the counter while her boyfriend playing with his phone sat to the side keeping her company. She took the huge bunch and I realised she thought I was buying the whole lot.
'Oh no, can i just get 3 please?' She looked at me suspiciously, like I was being deliberately being difficult and was pretending I didn't speak Portuguese. The boyfriend sniggered.
She gave the bunch back to me as if I didn't want it.
'No! no I just don't want the whole thing! Just 3 or 4!' I tried to show her what I meant, pointing to a few of the bananas. She said something in Portuguese and I stared back dumbly unable to say I understood. I tried to explain again, but she didn't understand. She didn't get angry but the boyfriend began laughing at the miscommunication. The confusion continued for an awkwardly long time until I grabbed the bunch, clumsily snapped off some bananas with great difficulty and returned the bunch back to its place. The girl was just shaking her head as is I was an absolute crazy, while her boyfriend was basically hysterical with laughter. Customers looking on began to laugh too. I left feeling incredibly stupid because I realised this was not laughing with me, but the girl, her boyfriend, and the customers were all very much laughing at me. With my face glowing I raced back to my hostel, their laughter still ringing in my ears hours later.
In retrospect it was an incredibly enlightening moment when I realised for perhaps for the first time in my life I was the minority in a social situation. It suddenly hit home how hard this must be for people who are the minority no matter where they go. No one makes concessions for you, no one cares if you are sick or not. Your differences are not allowed for, hell, in fact they can even be made fun of without shame or consequence. It was a grim but eye-opening moment. And it had been brought about over the act of buying some stupid bananas.
So I got a reply from the company my travel agent organised my trip through. They are called Bamba Experience. They insisted they had sent me an email with all the details on it, suggesting it may have been sorted into my spam folder. I checked and checked again, nothing. They never offered a decent apology.
On my last morning on the island I actually had breakfast with an english man who has lived for about 15 years now on Ilha grande. When I told him about my experience arriving on the island and he asked me who I was booked with. Telling him, he nodded gravely.
'Everyday I hear about Bamba and its shitty service. I hear complaints all the time. They have gone to the dogs." He also informed me that Ilha Grande has had a major problem with water pollution too. The past year has been terrible, the water used to be safe to drink, but now even locals can't touch it without getting sick. My illness now made sense too. I mused at my poor luck. It seems several factors overlapped at the same time, and I got caught in the middle.
Ilha Grande is a beautiful island located about 3 hours drive south of Rio de Janeiro surrounded by a collection of dizzyingly beautiful lagoons. My travel agent googled it for me, showed me some pictures, and right then and there, in STA Ultimo back in April last year, I decided that I definitely deserved from tropical paradise in my life. I paid upfront for a 3 day tour to Ilha Grande recommended by the agent and waited for the tedious year of working full-time to pass and for this exciting time in my life of travel and paradise to begin.
I can remember saying to people with thinly veiled gleeful satisfaction that 'Ilha Grande is going to be my time to relax, recover and revive after the intensity of Peru and Bolivia. A bit of time to just sit back and relax in paradise. You know what I mean? Sometimes we just need to relax once in a while?' People would nod approvingly and often say something along the lines of how envious they were. I would once again mentally pat myself on the back for my excellent taste in travel destinations.
Things in life though, just never work out the way we plan them to. That said I don't think I was unreasonable in expecting exactly what I imagined and was promised from the experience that was Ilha grande: a nice relaxing time, strolling deserted white sand beaches, sipping from coconuts, lazing in hammocks, cozying up under palm trees with a good book and strutting my stuff in my new bikini. I mean those aren't exactly activities typically fraught with peril and risks....for me though, I have this relationship with life where it likes to give me a suspicious amount of inspiration and opportunities, but never without a good ol' slap in the face upon accepting them. It is like a 'happiness tax' or something. I take what I am given, but have to withstand some kind of punishment for my audacity in doing so.
***
So the trip didn't really get off to a great start when my pick-up from my hostel arrived about 40 minutes late and then didn't know who the hell I was. Some other people from my hostel were on the same tour so they hopped onto the bus without any trouble, while I stood feeling a bit like a poser, waiting to be approved and seated with the others. Calls were made to head office, questions were asked in rapid portuguese, then asked again more loudly. Looks were exchanged. It seemed that there was confusion because my name was familiar but I was not on the pick-up list.
'When you book trip?' I was asked in broken english. 'This week, now??'
'Oh no! I booked this trip ages ago! Earlier this year in April...' I replied.
The pick-up man scrutinised me with narrowed eyes, as if judging my moral worthiness to come upon this tour as opposed to the logistics of whether I booked or not. Another phone call was made, voices were raised and I began to get that horrible feeling in your stomach when you know something you have counted on being easy has turned around and bitten you on the backside. Then finally he snapped his phone shut and told me to hop in the van. I felt huge relief, like I had passed the character test required, not that my very legitimate paid for tour booking had finally been located.
The drive to Ilha Grande passed pretty much in silence. I looked around at my fellow tour companions and felt a little worried that these were the people I was hoping to get to know over the next three days. I was by far the youngest person there, everyone else seemed to be in their late 20s and early 30s. Most also seemed to be groups of 3-4 friends or lovey-dovey couples. Trying to attempt some kind of beginning of a relationship, I made a comment to the American girl next to me in the van about the incredible heat. She agreed enthusiastically, but shortly. We fell back into silence. It was pretty clear she had no intention of wasting her energy on me. I began to feel a little nervous. How the hell was I going to find sharing a dorm with these people let alone make friends with them?
We transferred from the bus to the boat with a great deal of confusion. The van we were in came to a sudden holt, we jumped out, our luggage was dumped and without any directions being given, the van left us where we were, did a u-turn and disappeared. The group of us, about 12, looked around at each other as if to say 'Soooooo....what now?' Eventually we made a connection between the groups of brown and chilled looking tourists leaving the jetty and new groups of not so brown tourists replacing them on the jetty. We followed and after a great deal of confusion we were on the beautiful boat to Ilha Grande.
I read my book as the boat rocked its way for 40 minutes to Ilha Grande. From the shore it really hadn't looked that far away, but whenever I looked up from reading it seemed the distance between our boat and the island was unchanging. I realised that this was no quick swim over to the island. Well that's no problem, I thought to myself, because I am heading to tropical paradise and I won't even want to leave! I smiled smugly to myself. Oh, the innocence I used to have.
So our boat pulled up to a jetty, one of the ship-hands called out the name of the stop and this is where things got weird. Some of the people on my tour disembarked with their luggage, others remained....but weren't we all staying in the same place? Freaking out I overcame my shyness to ask one of the girls I recognised from my bus trip where we were getting off.
'We?' she said. 'Oh I don't know...it depends where you are staying? Where is your hostel?'
'What? I thought that we...were...staying...' I trailed off into that awkward confused silence of someone who has realised they have made some terrible assumptions and should probably just shut up and let someone who knows what they are doing do the talking.
'No, well we are all staying in different places, it depends what company you booked through. Like, we are getting off on the other stop. Yeah we are all staying at different places...'
Woah. Ok, no one told me this. I had a sudden sinking feeling that I had missed an important detail somewhere. Surely I should have known about this? I mean my travel agent never mentioned this, nor had I received any emails in the days before...or ever! Nothing, this was all news to me.
I ran up and asked the captain where I was supposed to be getting off. He had a list in his hand and I hoped that maybe my hostel was listed next to my name or something. He looked affronted as if I had asked him the colour of his underwear.
'Why would I know? I have no idea where you are staying!' He said this rather loudly, loud enough for everyone on the boat to watch this scenario unfold.
'Oh, it's just I don't know...where I am staying...I am sorry, I think I have not received some info-'
'What do you MEAN you don't know where you are staying!?' he cried. I suddenly felt incredibly stupid. But more than that angry. Something had gone wrong and now I was quite unfairly looking really daft.
Then a blonde girl, a hotel receptionist from the island helping people disembark, noticed the captain raising his voice at me. She asked what was going on, the captain explained to her in annoyed Portuguese, while I stood there feeling like a naughty child. As if maybe she thought I was just a slow person she nodded then repeated the captains question for me in slow stupid people's english.
'Mirundah, WHERE. ARE. YOU. STAY-ING?'
'I. DO. NOT. KNOW. I. HAVE. NOT. BEEN. TOLD!' I had no idea what was going on. The girl and the captain argued, gesturing at me like some child neither wanted to adopt, then finally she sighed and told me to follow her.
Dragging my heavy suitcase I followed her to the reception of the hostel that sat at the beginning of the jetty. She sat down behind her computer and as if I was a very stupid customer and she were a weary insurance consultant, began to accost me.
'Mirundah, it is very dangerous for you to just go to some place and to not know where you sleep! You need to know these things and to plan them before they happen!' I gritted my teeth. Oh wow, knock me down with a feather. Are you saying that it is best to plan your accommodation when in a non-english speaking country when travelling alone as a single white female?? Well I never. I held my silence, not enjoying being patronised at all. I tried to explain that I thought that maybe I had not been sent some important information regarding this tour, but she wouldn't let me get a word in.
She then did some searches on her computer, then finally found my name. Out of sheer luck I was actually in the reception of the hostel my travel company arranged for me to stay at. Now seeing that I was looking a bit emotional and rather bewildered she began to talk to me in a calmer more soothing voice. In a way this was worse, she was feeling sorry for me. I became even more silently livid. She took me to my dorm and when she closed the door finally the angry tears broke free. I resolved that as soon as I got access to a computer I was going to send an email to my travel agent and ask what the hell was going on.
***
I don't believe that what I did was wrong. By that I mean just hop into the van and assume everything would go the way I assumed, being: that this was like the tour I took through South America. I would hop into the pick-up van, our names would all be on a list, the group of us would then share the same hostel and facilities for the next three days, then leave together at the same time. No, it seems that depending on what company you go through, you are simply sent to a hotel depending on how many people you have and where has the most places available. I was not on a 'tour', all I had paid for was accommodation, a pick-up and a chance to explore the island on my own...this was not made clear at all from the beginning.
***
After a bit of a sulk I pulled myself together. I put on my swimmers and tried out the first beach I saw. The water was heavenly, the sand was bright white, people sipped cocktails and chatted with friends. This is when I first noticed that I was already the whitest person in sight. I returned, had a burger for dinner at my hostels cafe and then not really knowing what to do with myself (the bar was deserted, apparently people were still recovering from a party that had been held there the previous night) I returned to my hostel room and decided to get an early night. I wanted to do some sight-seeing the next day and wanted to be up early for it. I was starting to feel positive, electrified by the possibility of having a fabulous time on this stunning island despite the bad/confusing beginning.
When I entered my dorm which accommodated eight beds, one of my roommates had appeared. The rest I had not met yet were obviously still out. He was a Belgian guy, blonde, tanned and lovely. He was reading, and after a really nice chat about our respective travels he resumed his reading and I climbed onto my bunk and began to read myself. Then the hiccups began, followed by stomach cramps, followed by nausea. I had only been reading for about an hour when I realised that I was once again on this trip to South America, going to be sick. I hopped down to the bathroom and promptly threw up violently, the kind that makes you gasp for air and the back of your throat burn from the acidity of your stomach contents. Oh man, it was food poisoning, probably that godforsaken burger. I broke out in a cold sweat of dread, and in between throwing up I rested my head on the cool tiles of the bathroom that was for some inexplicable reason flooding. Just my luck. Things were not going great at all. 'This was supposed to be my indulgent relaxing treat!!' I thought to myself. 'What the hell is this??!'
Some time later, shaking and exhausted from the violence of throwing up, I emerged from the bathroom and lay on a lower bunk-bed. I couldn't bring myself to climb up to my bunk and besides I suspected my relationship with the toilet was not yet over. No point having to just get down again.
The Belgian politely asked me if i was ok, a sweet question with implications of a serious understatement, considering the poor thing knew I definitely was not, having been treated to the dulcet tones of my heaving through the paper thin bathroom wall for the past 20 minutes. I replied no, a shaky thin voice that sounded disgusting even me. He suddenly got out his medical kit and insisted on giving me some of his medications. He was so so kind, asking me if i needed anything. I didn't want to take his medicine, what if he got sick he might need it? He said he was going home tomorrow! He wouldn't need it! Of course i should take it! He wanted me to! He filled up his 2 litre plastic water bottle and placed it with some pain-killers, some gastro-stop and antibiotics beside my bed. I was so grateful to him I could have cried. I then fell into an uncomfortable, clammy sleep. it was well over 35 degrees and the air conditioners were definitely not working that night.
I woke up a little later as the rest of my roommates entered around midnight. I got up, went to the bathroom and threw up again. This time I felt a suddenly a lot better. I think I had finally got everything making me sick out of my body. I emerged from the bathroom and everyone suddenly stopped what they were doing. They timidly asked me how i was feeling. I cringed. They were just being polite, but the simple fact was they had heard me throwing up through the walls and were badly masking their disgust. Only the Belgian guy was genuinely concerned. I tried to laugh it off, rolled back into bed and didn't wake till the next morning when the belgian placed a new bottle of water beside my bed. He was leaving. He told me it was nice meeting me and that he hoped I would get better soon. I thanked him profusely for his kindness. Almost not wanting him to go....The other roommates had left too.
At some point in my lingering fever that morning I realised that I had run out of water. I was trying to stay hydrated. I wandered out to the cafe of the hotel, to buy some water and ran into the blonde girl from the reception. She double-took at my greenish complexion. She asked me what was wrong and I told her I was sick, reluctant to add to the already numerous faults I seemed in her eyes to possess. She told me I looked like I really badly needed a doctor. I asked if I could see one.
'Oh we don't have any doctors on the island! It is too small, and people never get sick here!' Oh ok, Great.
I continued on to the cafe where upon arriving I was told they had run out of water. I stopped myself from asking how on earth they had allowed themselves to run out of the life necessity that is clean bottled water and simply asked where was the nearest convenience store. I was told in the middle of town, about a 15 minute hike away. I wanted to cry. Nothing seemed to be going my way. All I wanted was some clean water! Looking kind of guilty they asked if they wanted one of the hotel staff to get me some water from the centre of town. I declined, feeling miserable and sheepish and returned to my room, as I was feeling weak and ill again. I had just settled down when a man knocked on my door, introducing himself as the owner of the hotel. He spoke to me in a kind fatherly way and told me that someone was going out to restock the cafe. They would have water soon. Seeing that I was shivery he also brought me an extra blanket. He suggested that I just eat crackers and bananas for the next few days as they were gentle on the stomach. I thanked him.
I stayed that whole day inside, miserable about the fact outside was absolutely stunning. The hotel looked onto a gorgeous beach, the water turquoise, warm and shimmery. I was dying at jump in, but was just too weak to. I began to dwell on the fact I was losing my precious time here due to illness. Then a new roommate arrived. A tall ridiculously good looking Argentinian guy strode in. He had a pierced belly button, which I know because he wasn't wearing a shirt which seems common, almost a social custom on Ilha grande. He took one look at me, sprawled, pitiful and green, wrapped up like a grandma in a blanket, scowled and resolved to ignore me from then on. Yay....new friend. Not. A bit later three Irish roommates were brought to my room by the manager. He introduced me to them, jokingly telling them they had to take care of me because I was sick. I tried to say 'hello' and 'good' at the same time, but in my feverish confusion only managed a croaky 'gello.' They chuckled uneasily, already terrified they would be held responsible if I were to suddenly curl up and die.
They darted around the room, making noise in their attempt not to make noise, apologising to me and swearing like troopers at each other. They then disappeared to enjoy the island I had so far not been able to. Once again I was alone.
***
The next morning I was determined to start afresh. I still wasn't hungry but it was nice seeing the pleasant surprise on my Irish roommates face's when I could suddenly speak full sentences, smile and joke around like a normal person who no longer appeared to be on the brink of death. We talked about our travels and I even discovered that two of them are currently living in Sydney, very close to me. It was a small world moment and we bonded over that. They then went off to the beach while I chose to pace myself and slipped into a hammock beside the sea, enjoying the sun and sheer gorgeousness of the nature around me.
I then decided it was well and truly time to get some answers. Using a share computer I sent a polite or passive aggressive email, depending on how you read it, to the company that I was booked with. I found their email on the few papers I had relating to the trip. I then sent an email to my travel agent, letting her know what had happened, asking if she knew what was going on. It was at this point I noticed something. I looked around the large room the computer was located in and saw I was surrounded by beautiful brazilian girls, all a bit older than me, in a large party groups. I searched in vain for someone who looked like they had come to the island themselves or on a tour group...but no. It really seemed that the only people here were ones who came in a group of friends or with their partners. No one spoke a word of english. I suddenly felt very self-conscious and resentful of the fact I was not on a tour as I had been informed I would be. I could see that is was going to be basically impossible for me to meet new people here when we could not even communicate with each other.
I wandered over to the cafe once again to ask directions to the main street where I could buy some bananas and crackers. The secondary manager helped me, a really tall eccentric guy, who didn't seem to own a shirt. He also always seemed to have a beer in his hand. He gave me some kind of vague explanation and I made my way there, but I had over-estimated my recovery and obviously had no idea I was going so slow because by the time I got to the main road, who did I find chilling there? - the guy who had just given me directions. Awkward. We nodded at each other and I made my way down to road, painfully aware that I was the only person without company. Romantic couples surrounded me, holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes and making out. Groups of gorgeous brazilian girls trotted around laughing and joking together. I began to wonder why the hell I thought having a relaxing holiday on a honeymoon/beautiful brazilian people's getaway island was a good idea. It was just kinda depressing.
I finally found a shop selling bananas. I tried to ignore the fact its customers were starring at my white skin, glowing ridiculously, even in the evening darkness and began to choose some bananas. They seemed to come only in huge bunches weighing maybe 3 or 4 kilos. I tried breaking off a few but they were tough and I only succeeded in bursting one open. I decided to take the huge bunch up to the counter and explain I only wanted a few. A girl obviously native to the island was serving at the counter while her boyfriend playing with his phone sat to the side keeping her company. She took the huge bunch and I realised she thought I was buying the whole lot.
'Oh no, can i just get 3 please?' She looked at me suspiciously, like I was being deliberately being difficult and was pretending I didn't speak Portuguese. The boyfriend sniggered.
She gave the bunch back to me as if I didn't want it.
'No! no I just don't want the whole thing! Just 3 or 4!' I tried to show her what I meant, pointing to a few of the bananas. She said something in Portuguese and I stared back dumbly unable to say I understood. I tried to explain again, but she didn't understand. She didn't get angry but the boyfriend began laughing at the miscommunication. The confusion continued for an awkwardly long time until I grabbed the bunch, clumsily snapped off some bananas with great difficulty and returned the bunch back to its place. The girl was just shaking her head as is I was an absolute crazy, while her boyfriend was basically hysterical with laughter. Customers looking on began to laugh too. I left feeling incredibly stupid because I realised this was not laughing with me, but the girl, her boyfriend, and the customers were all very much laughing at me. With my face glowing I raced back to my hostel, their laughter still ringing in my ears hours later.
***
In retrospect it was an incredibly enlightening moment when I realised for perhaps for the first time in my life I was the minority in a social situation. It suddenly hit home how hard this must be for people who are the minority no matter where they go. No one makes concessions for you, no one cares if you are sick or not. Your differences are not allowed for, hell, in fact they can even be made fun of without shame or consequence. It was a grim but eye-opening moment. And it had been brought about over the act of buying some stupid bananas.
***
So I got a reply from the company my travel agent organised my trip through. They are called Bamba Experience. They insisted they had sent me an email with all the details on it, suggesting it may have been sorted into my spam folder. I checked and checked again, nothing. They never offered a decent apology.
On my last morning on the island I actually had breakfast with an english man who has lived for about 15 years now on Ilha grande. When I told him about my experience arriving on the island and he asked me who I was booked with. Telling him, he nodded gravely.
'Everyday I hear about Bamba and its shitty service. I hear complaints all the time. They have gone to the dogs." He also informed me that Ilha Grande has had a major problem with water pollution too. The past year has been terrible, the water used to be safe to drink, but now even locals can't touch it without getting sick. My illness now made sense too. I mused at my poor luck. It seems several factors overlapped at the same time, and I got caught in the middle.
***
My last day in Ilha grande was beautiful. Finally fully recovered I went on a boat trip around the blue Lagoon. The day was spent dropping the anchor in the middle of beautiful tropical bays in order to dive off the edge of the boat and snorkel with fish. We visited secret beaches by kayak, enjoyed the waves of a perfect white sand beachs, strolled through sultry green jungle, and tucked into brazilian barbeque. When we were dropped back off the sun was setting. I walked around trying to find somewhere to have dinner when all of a sudden I bumped into the lovely Belgian guy I had met on my first night. We hugged and asked each other the same question at the same time: 'What are you doing here!?'
It turns out that he missed his boat back that morning after we said goodbye. He then had to look for another hostel with accommodation available and failing to do so ended up camping in a different part of the island. He would now be leaving the following day. We ended up getting dinner together and talked at length about travel, life and friends. He told me about his work at a vulnerable youth protection house in Brussels. About how he teaches boys martial arts and coaches them in sports, as a way of keeping them from more dangerous pastimes such as drugs and alcohol. He was very humble and I was struck by the quiet purity of his life goals. When we parted, this time for real, I laughed and facetiously told him that bumping into him again had been like running into my guardian angel. He kept manifesting at all the right times! he laughed really hard, hugged me once more and disappeared into the crowd. I felt a bit teary.
***
When I left Ilha Grande I had mixed feelings. I have decided that it was a very useful experience. Being sick is never fun but when sick alone, unable to communicate with anyone, after being let down by a tour company you placed your trust in...that was a valuable learning curve. I think back to that night when I was laughed at over the bananas and how horrified I was that no one made any exceptions for me. I just simply did not fit in, couldn't keep up with the pace of life the Ilha grande folk were used to, and was thus laughed at for my perceived failures. That was a hard and lonely experience.
I also can't say it was the tropical relaxation holiday I had intended it to be but there was no denying it, that Island was possibly the closest thing to paradise I will ever experience. It was magnificent even when I was sick and lonely. When I arrived back in Rio I hoped something crazy would happen and I would run into my Belgian guardian angel again. I didn't. All the same it was nice imagining it and nothing, nothing, could stop me from doing so.
Take that life, you haven't crushed me yet.
Sunday, 16 February 2014
The Magic Flute
While in Peru, Nasca to be exact, I contracted a parasite called Entamoeba Histolytica. Just google it or the symptoms, they sound hellish and I can confirm they are as bad as they sound. But more on that another time...
As usual on this day of the Inca Trail I was at the back of the group. At the back as in a good 40 minutes behind. I had to stop every 10 minutes to catch my breath in the thinning air and scull mandarine flavoured gatorade of which I'd brought copious quantities. Occasionally (actually more often than I wish to admit in polite society) I would also need to stop to answer the calls of nature, which after 2 days of being diagnosed with Entamoeba were still more like fire evacuation alarms informing me with a strong sharp stomach cramp 'Miranda, stay calm, you have exactly 25.7 seconds to find a bathroom or public humiliation will ensure. Good luck with your task in the middle of nowhere, lol.'
At this stage this wasn't actully a result of the illness but the treatment. The antibiotics I was on were very powerful and my stomach felt demolished.
For some reason this day our 2 trail guides had swapped places. C who usually led the fittest and strongest was now doing M's job, chasing up us 'lazy chicas' at the back. C became my company for the next hour or so as we hiked Dead Woman's Pass. The previous night whilst falling asleep in my tent I had wondered how I was going to survive this hardest part of the trail, but C's company was patient and interesting. We talked about Peruvian history, Quechua resentment of the Spanish, taking Ayahuasca and many other things. Because I was distracted (also because we paused often on a ledge when immersed in conversation giving me time to catch my breath) I found the steep jagged incline of the Pass not as hard as I had feared.
However at one point mid intellectual conversation the alarm bells started ringing indicated by a sudden aggressive cramp in my stomach.
'- C,' I said interrupting him, 'I have to go to the bathroom. Soon. As in now.'
My guide very kindly began scouting around for a secluded outdoor bathroom, finding a nice little hill covered in tussocks of tall spiky grass, just off the path around the corner of the trail.
'Ok, you can go to the bathroom here, and I will be around the corner where you can't see me. I will just play my flute.' C had played this traditional instrument many times for us on our hike so far. He seemed to love this instrument very much.
And so I furiously scrambled up the hill to use the biggest and most spacious bathroom I have ever used. Views such as this were around every corner on the trail and often I caught myself forgetting to breathe, too busy just trying to take it in.The navy blue Andes towered above as grey wet clouds floated around their midriffs. Ancient terraces could still be seen marked like choppy giant steps on the grassy mountainsides, and occasionally a llama or cow, appearing as a tiny dot, could be seen grazing nochalantly in a lofty almost vertical field. We were always in awe of how these animals could scale such abrupt cliffs.
On top of the truly sublime panorama I was treated to during my bathroom experience, I was serenaded by the pipings of a woody but delicate flute, echoing off the faces of the colossal Andes cradling our path. Despite my discomfort (going to the toilet in prickly grass can be an abrasive experience at the best of times) it was a bizzarely serene and beautiful moment, imbued with the haunting sense that it was completely one off and unique. There would never be another time in my life when these factors would come together again in the same place and time. I remember feeling rather dazed and suddenly very insignificant.
When I emerged from my spacious cubicle my guide was in full swing. I almost felt like I was interrupting something sacred. He paused his flute solo to ask me if it was ok if I could continue on and he would catch me up.
'We are only ten minutes away from the top, it is not far now.'
And so, feeling like maybe I had walked in on someone else's strange but serene dream I continued my slow but steady way up the trail, into the misty air, climbing the jagged mossy steps, followed by the mountainous echoes of the magic flute.
As usual on this day of the Inca Trail I was at the back of the group. At the back as in a good 40 minutes behind. I had to stop every 10 minutes to catch my breath in the thinning air and scull mandarine flavoured gatorade of which I'd brought copious quantities. Occasionally (actually more often than I wish to admit in polite society) I would also need to stop to answer the calls of nature, which after 2 days of being diagnosed with Entamoeba were still more like fire evacuation alarms informing me with a strong sharp stomach cramp 'Miranda, stay calm, you have exactly 25.7 seconds to find a bathroom or public humiliation will ensure. Good luck with your task in the middle of nowhere, lol.'
At this stage this wasn't actully a result of the illness but the treatment. The antibiotics I was on were very powerful and my stomach felt demolished.
For some reason this day our 2 trail guides had swapped places. C who usually led the fittest and strongest was now doing M's job, chasing up us 'lazy chicas' at the back. C became my company for the next hour or so as we hiked Dead Woman's Pass. The previous night whilst falling asleep in my tent I had wondered how I was going to survive this hardest part of the trail, but C's company was patient and interesting. We talked about Peruvian history, Quechua resentment of the Spanish, taking Ayahuasca and many other things. Because I was distracted (also because we paused often on a ledge when immersed in conversation giving me time to catch my breath) I found the steep jagged incline of the Pass not as hard as I had feared.
However at one point mid intellectual conversation the alarm bells started ringing indicated by a sudden aggressive cramp in my stomach.
'- C,' I said interrupting him, 'I have to go to the bathroom. Soon. As in now.'
My guide very kindly began scouting around for a secluded outdoor bathroom, finding a nice little hill covered in tussocks of tall spiky grass, just off the path around the corner of the trail.
'Ok, you can go to the bathroom here, and I will be around the corner where you can't see me. I will just play my flute.' C had played this traditional instrument many times for us on our hike so far. He seemed to love this instrument very much.
And so I furiously scrambled up the hill to use the biggest and most spacious bathroom I have ever used. Views such as this were around every corner on the trail and often I caught myself forgetting to breathe, too busy just trying to take it in.The navy blue Andes towered above as grey wet clouds floated around their midriffs. Ancient terraces could still be seen marked like choppy giant steps on the grassy mountainsides, and occasionally a llama or cow, appearing as a tiny dot, could be seen grazing nochalantly in a lofty almost vertical field. We were always in awe of how these animals could scale such abrupt cliffs.
On top of the truly sublime panorama I was treated to during my bathroom experience, I was serenaded by the pipings of a woody but delicate flute, echoing off the faces of the colossal Andes cradling our path. Despite my discomfort (going to the toilet in prickly grass can be an abrasive experience at the best of times) it was a bizzarely serene and beautiful moment, imbued with the haunting sense that it was completely one off and unique. There would never be another time in my life when these factors would come together again in the same place and time. I remember feeling rather dazed and suddenly very insignificant.
When I emerged from my spacious cubicle my guide was in full swing. I almost felt like I was interrupting something sacred. He paused his flute solo to ask me if it was ok if I could continue on and he would catch me up.
'We are only ten minutes away from the top, it is not far now.'
And so, feeling like maybe I had walked in on someone else's strange but serene dream I continued my slow but steady way up the trail, into the misty air, climbing the jagged mossy steps, followed by the mountainous echoes of the magic flute.
Friday, 14 February 2014
Flashback post: Donkey Herder
The Inca Trail was full of many amusing moments but one I remember distinctly was my 'donkey herding' moment.
At this stage of the trail, heading up to Dead Woman's Pass, generally considered the most challenging stretch of the 3 day hike, it was raining on and off and thick misty clouds billowed by at heads height, often straying onto the path.
Fortunately like many of my fellow tour group members I had bought a plastic poncho the day before in Ollantaytambo, the picturesque final stop before the Inca Trail. My poncho was stunning, with heavy sarcasm implied. When it was on all buttoned up it looked like I was wearing a bright blue tarpaulin, complete with peaked smurf hat. Although long ago I had relinquished my vanity (well most of it) to surviving the elements of Peru, I still felt a little silly.
When viewed from afar our whole tour group looked like a walking packet of brightly coloured jelly beans, making their way determinedly up the trail into the mist. At one point I witnessed a hiker from another group, (one of the snobby poncho-free hikers mind you), point at our group bobbing along the path. 'HA! Look at them!They look so funny!' she giggled. I don't think she realised I was right behind her.
As usual on this particular day I was far behind the group. With lungs that felt like shallow limp balloons that would not inflate and sudden cramps followed occasionally by an attack of the runs I resolved to concentrate on listening to my breathing and to repeating my 'mantra' to 'Put one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, NO, DON'T LOOK AHEAD TO THE TOP OF THE NEVER-ENDING STAIRS, just put one foot in front of the other...gasp.'
I was obvsiously so immersed in this activity that when I finally caught up to the rest of the group it took me a moment to realise they were laughing and pointing at me. Needless to say I was a little affronted, after all they looked just as ridiculous in their jelly bean outfits as I did. A few of them shouted something at me, but I could not hear due to having multiple woollen and plastic layers covering my head and ears. To my horror, some then pulled out cameras and started taking photos. However when I reached them and turned around I totally understood their amusement.
As I pulled over to the side of the steep stone path a herd of donkeys, babies and mothers decorated with traditional headwear, trotted past us with a spurt of speed that indicated sudden freedom. They had been walking behind me for a decent amount of time I assume, unable to pass me on the narrow track. As I had appeared huffing and puffing around the corner in the misty rain it looked as if I was deep in some kind of deadly serious determination to lead these dokeys to a new homeland. Despite the rain and cold, I, the poncho-wearing donkey shepherdess would guide them there.
In reality I was panting so hard I hadn't even heard all 25 or so of them. Lucky for them becuse if I had I probably would have launched myself onto the most fit and able and forced it to carry me to the top. A caring shepherdess I would make...
At this stage of the trail, heading up to Dead Woman's Pass, generally considered the most challenging stretch of the 3 day hike, it was raining on and off and thick misty clouds billowed by at heads height, often straying onto the path.
Fortunately like many of my fellow tour group members I had bought a plastic poncho the day before in Ollantaytambo, the picturesque final stop before the Inca Trail. My poncho was stunning, with heavy sarcasm implied. When it was on all buttoned up it looked like I was wearing a bright blue tarpaulin, complete with peaked smurf hat. Although long ago I had relinquished my vanity (well most of it) to surviving the elements of Peru, I still felt a little silly.
When viewed from afar our whole tour group looked like a walking packet of brightly coloured jelly beans, making their way determinedly up the trail into the mist. At one point I witnessed a hiker from another group, (one of the snobby poncho-free hikers mind you), point at our group bobbing along the path. 'HA! Look at them!They look so funny!' she giggled. I don't think she realised I was right behind her.
As usual on this particular day I was far behind the group. With lungs that felt like shallow limp balloons that would not inflate and sudden cramps followed occasionally by an attack of the runs I resolved to concentrate on listening to my breathing and to repeating my 'mantra' to 'Put one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, NO, DON'T LOOK AHEAD TO THE TOP OF THE NEVER-ENDING STAIRS, just put one foot in front of the other...gasp.'
I was obvsiously so immersed in this activity that when I finally caught up to the rest of the group it took me a moment to realise they were laughing and pointing at me. Needless to say I was a little affronted, after all they looked just as ridiculous in their jelly bean outfits as I did. A few of them shouted something at me, but I could not hear due to having multiple woollen and plastic layers covering my head and ears. To my horror, some then pulled out cameras and started taking photos. However when I reached them and turned around I totally understood their amusement.
As I pulled over to the side of the steep stone path a herd of donkeys, babies and mothers decorated with traditional headwear, trotted past us with a spurt of speed that indicated sudden freedom. They had been walking behind me for a decent amount of time I assume, unable to pass me on the narrow track. As I had appeared huffing and puffing around the corner in the misty rain it looked as if I was deep in some kind of deadly serious determination to lead these dokeys to a new homeland. Despite the rain and cold, I, the poncho-wearing donkey shepherdess would guide them there.
In reality I was panting so hard I hadn't even heard all 25 or so of them. Lucky for them becuse if I had I probably would have launched myself onto the most fit and able and forced it to carry me to the top. A caring shepherdess I would make...
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