A Fun but Useless RTW Journal

It's a short and leisurely walk to Hell but it takes some serious effort to get to Heaven...

rachelina — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 21:41:00 GMT

For the third time in 24 hours we climbed onto a long distance bus, already desperately in need of a shower and exhausted. It started off well - the conductor of the bus made the bus pull over in the middle of nowhere, panicking over our tickets, calling someone and talking in a high pitched voice for an unreasonably long amount of time. Whatever the issue was, it was sorted but not before we had completely freaked out, wit me making furious statements about how I would refuse to get off the bus. It was a rather intolerable journey - slow, boiling thanks to no air conditioner and filled with the body odour of the Turkish grannies front of us. Jackson had no trouble falling asleep on my shoulder, earning us a few displeased looks (In the more conservative areas of Turkey, including the one we were in, men and women aren't supposed to sit next to each other on buses) Those six hours to get to Mersin were LOOOOOOOOONG.

But our journey wasn't over yet. We arrived in Mersin, an unattractive junction town, around 8pm and got on yet another bus, a minibus heading to Kizkalesi. In my sleep deprived fog, I accidentally read the wrong line of the bus information and mistakenly thought it would be an half hour trip instead of the two and a half hours it actually took. Surprise, surprise we had to wait ages for the minibus to fill up before leaving and it got even more crammed full of body mass as we inched our way through rush hour traffic. As I sat there, nearly hallucinating from working on ten hours of sleep in the last three days (thank you noisy dorms, early wake ups for hot air ballooning and the baby on the overnight bus) I was grateful that the nice young Turkish man who was intent on practising his English was sitting next to Jackson and not me. While his English was rather poor, the chatterbox was aided by a tremendous amount of enthusiasm and was the source of great comedy. Amongst his many questions, we were asked what kind of farming we preferred, if our father was fat and were earnestly told that he had heard there was a carrot problem in Spain. Luckily, Jackson's six hour nap on my shoulder meant he had more energy to deal with Yusup and we ended up exchanging emails, although he hasn't added us on Facebook yet. Maybe we didn't know enough about the carrot problem in Spain.

By the time we reached Kizkalesi it was close to 10pm. It took my very last reserves to strap on my backpack and stumble to the English speaking place Lonely Planet recommended (in a development that will shock absolutely no one, we walked in the opposite direction of where we needed to go and took ages to get there) We had been wearing the same clothes for far too long, hadn't properly eaten in hours and were both utterly drained. Kizkalesi's lack of hotels was a blessing in disguise as we were forced to get a twin room with seperate beds and both slept very well that night.We ended up having three nights in Kizkalesi, both of us keen to chill out in one place for awhile. Kizkalesi, with its sandy beach and views of two castles fit the bill perfectly. We lazed by the beach, swam the 300 metres out to the Maiden's Castle and back again and ate fresh fish literally on the edge of the water in the fishing village of Narlikuyu.

The Maiden's Castle in Kizkalesi, which we swam out to

Enjoying not being anywhere near a bus and relaxing on the Kizkalesi beach

Making some new feline friends whilst eating at the fishing village

Most amazing of all, we went to both Hell and Heaven in a day. Four kilometres up the road from Kizkalesi are the Chasms of Hell and Heaven, breathtaking natural structures which thanks to their location away from the beaten track means they are much less visited than the big name tourist sites in Western Turkey. The entrance fee was a measly 3TL and I enjoyed it much more than any of the hugely more expensive sites further on in the trip. The walk to Hell is leisurely and casual, and is reputed to be the site of where Zeus fought a 100 headed dragon named Typhon. Typhon initially trapped Zeus in the Chasm of Hell before Zeus escaped and buried Typhon in the earth, where his flame breath became Mt Etna.

Which way to choose? (Also, let's not talk about how heartbroken I was that I didn't have a camera to take of photo of me with this sign, pondering the direction I wanted to go)

The Pit of Hell, which is impossible to access (It's easy to make your way to Hell but once you're in there, you won't be able to escape...sorry for the terrible puns)

Heaven, however, is a whole lot harder to get to (the jokes just write themselves) You descend 455 steps - big, uneven, slippery steps - down into the ground, arriving into the earth opening itself up. The Chasm is incredibly atmospheric, eerily lit and the sounds of an underground river rushing past making it creepily beautiful. Once you get into the cavern bit, the path turns to slippery, slidy mud and it's a struggle to stay upright but the view from the back, looking up at the darkness with the 5th century Byzantine monastary silhouetted at the top is completely worth it. Definitely one of the highlights from six months of travel.

The view from inside the Chasm

We also visited the Asthma Cave, curious to see if Jackson's childhood affliction would vanish once and for all with a visit (according to the locals, spending time breathing in the air in the Cave will get rid of asthma) Once again we went down deep into the earth and it was incredible. Good old Steve Fallon (the guidebook writer who had differing opinions to Jackson and I on almost everything) made it sound pretty dull and we nearly didn't bother walking up the hill to find it, but I'm glad we did. It's a gushing about worthy place and is pretty remarkable. We stayed so long that they shut the gates and switched the lights off while we were still in. Luckily we were let out by the caretaker because even though it was beautiful, I had no desire to spend the night there.

Before leaving the Mediterranean behind, we had one more amazing experience to cram in. We were hopping back on the overnight bus wagon again and were heading to Antalya from Silifke, the nearest big city to Kizkalesi. Silifke is a bit of a hole but has an ancient castle on top of one of its halls. Once we'd insured our backpackers were stored in a secure area and not just in the middle of the bus terminal, which according to the bus people was completely legit, we spent a hilarious hour or trying to make our way one kilometre up the road. Convinced by the bus man that the fortress was far enough that we required a minibus to get there, we asked to be let out at the appropriate spot. Clearly the minibus driver saw a chance to make some spare pennies as we got charged an excessive amount (which when converted into NZD is something like 3 dollars, but sometimes it's difficult to remember that when you are backpacking) to be taken to the next neighbouring village. When we realised he wasn't just making his way around the town before dropping us off and we were actually being taken to a completely different town and confronted him, he shrugged and pointed at the opposite side of the road. Eventually we made it back to Silifke and walked up the hill to the fortress.

Built sometime around 300 BCE when the Greeks were spreading themselves all over the place, the Hellenistic style castle has been left to crumble and has essentially been abandoned by the local authorities. We arrived just before dusk and had the time of our lives scrambling over rocks and under tunnels and jumping on the walls. As the sun begun to set, the call to prayer from five different mosque begun and it was pretty incredible - standing on a long forgotten castle with a vivid pink and orange sky, listening to the waves of different imams chanting and wailing surrounding the air around us. It was up there as one of the most epic moments of my life and still gives me the tingles thinking about it.

A short trip to Antakya

rachelina — Fri, 9 Dec 2011 11:24:00 GMT

This is what overnight buses do to you.

Overnight bus number 2 took us to Antakya, 55 miles from the Syrian border. Reading the guidebook, we were charmed by the writer's conviction that Antakya was the 'Jewel of the Mediterranean'. This was our first experience with Steve Fallon, who authored the Eastern and Western Mediterranean sections of our Lonely Planet, so we hadn't yet realised that Steve's perspectives and reality did not quite match (poor Steve Falloon got a lot of a bashing over the next week or so, as his hopelessly wrong assurances and extravagant praise for things not really worthy of it made our travels just that little bit more unpredictable)

Arriving at 6am we discovered Antakya is a big, dusty city and not very jewel-ish at all. We'd planned to have one or two nights there but our first hour of walking through the loud hustle and bustle of the local bazaar and getting hopelessly lost with little sleep meant our first impressions were not great. In Antakya's defence we were dropped off by the free bus in the rough area of town and other areas were much nicer, but by the time we realized that, Antakya had lost its chance to enchant us. We strode out bleary eyed in boiling sun and as would become routine for us, began viciously arguing about the map. Our main reason for coming to Antakya was its Archaeological Museum, which has the best preserved mosaics in the world.

As would also become routine for us, we misinterpreted the map and walked around for ages, confused by long roads with roundabouts and both growing to detest every single aspect of the other person. Taking a break in a park, both of us craving sleep, we decided to get on yet another bus and push onto our next destination after visiting the mosaics museum, not having booked accommodation for that night. Whilst I guarded the backpacks, Jackson went off to find someone who could give us directions (very few people speak English in Antakya. It's not really a tourist destination and was worlds away from Cappadocia and Istanbul, where everyone seems to be fluent in 8 languages) He found someone who told us where the museum was - miles away from where we were, naturally - and that it wouldn't open for another two hours.

If there's a map of a place in Turkey, you can guarantee Jackson and I have read it wrong

Jackson suggested giving up on the mosaics and just jumping on a bus. Tempted by the prospect of sleep, I stood firm and insisted we do the mosaics. Suspicious of the late opening hour, we double checked and discovered it was open and that the museum staff were happy to watch our backpacks. Suddenly energised by the amazing things we saw, I really enjoyed the museum and spent ages gazing at all the incredible mosaics and reading all the displays, glad I'd insisted on going. Poor Jackson couldn't summon up the amount of enthusiasm and spent our entire visit sleeping on some seats, only waking occasionally to groggily ask if I was done yet. It would be fair to say Antakya was not one of Jackson's highlights of the trip.

I got him to a pizza place and placated him with promises of at least two nights in our next place. While both of us could quite frankly think of nothing worse than getting on our third long distance bus in 18 hours, we found a bus office and spent an entertaining twenty minutes jabbing at our Lonely Planet language guide to communicate with the lovely but non English speaking workers. Turkey's bus system is so well developed that most bus companies operate servis, a free shuttle that will take you to the normally out of town otogar (bus hub) After many back and forths, we established there was no servis available before our next bus left.

One of the lovely ladies escorted us outside and while we stood there smiling with no real idea of what was going on, after ten minutes she flagged down a minibus and gave the driver instructions on where we needed to go. The driver seemed resistant to us getting on, at one point attempting to drive off while we were still getting in. Fair enough I thought. There's already quite a few people in there and they probably have a maximum number of passengers. Oh how I laugh at my naivety. Once the bus lady verbally bitchslapped the driver and forced him to let us on (me next to an obese man in the front row with my backpack on my knees, Jackson in the back crammed into a row designed for 3 with 5 people in it and no leg room for 6'3 legs) we stopped and managed to cram in at least another six passengers in the already full van. It got to the point where the passengers, clearly used to this, rearranged themselves so younger boys getting on could sit in the laps of older men and multiple ladies squatting in the door entrance. Our backpacks had clearly been the reason the driver was so resistant to letting us on, as I'm sure he saw them as preventing another good 8 or so passengers joining the crush.

I think our van had a few more people than this one

Eventually we were let off, which required half of the van to dismount and we trooped through the mud, with the entire van waving and pointing where we needed to go, adjusting to the sensation of being able to feel our legs again. One more wait at an otogar, which we were old hands at by now. I went to the bathroom and the old man manning the admissions booth very kindly refused to accept my 1 lira, telling me through hand gestures it was his gift to me. I mentioned in my last blog how Jackson and I had been slightly off put by rudeness and feeling like walking wallets in Istanbul and Cappadocia but once we got out of the tourist hotspots we found so many kind and generous people who went out of their way to be nice, fully restoring our faith in Turkish hospitality.

Turkey through the eyes of the 18 year old, NZ version of Karl Pilkington: Istanbul and Cappadocia

rachelina — Fri, 2 Dec 2011 16:45:00 GMT

And so I arrived in Istanbul, ready for three and a half weeks of backpacking with my 18 year old brother who - to put it gently - is a travel novice. He had arrived the day before me and in that 24 hour stretch had managed to get himself trapped in a carpet store for an hour, unable to escape the forceful owner. Rather than walking out, he decided to haggle for the fun of it, which ended in the owner screaming at him to "GET OUT!" after Jackson laughingly told him he'd just be playing around when the owner agreed to his low price. Two days later, walking the streets of Sultanahmet, we had to make a run for it when Jackson spotted the carpet man.

During our three nights in Istanbul, we did all the normal touristy things:

- the Blue Mosque at night (nothing like sitting there in wonderment at the achievements of humanity, only to have your companion say "That bird just shat on the mosque. That's not very respectful. He must not be Muslim.")

- the Aga Sofia (generally held to be one of the most magnificent buildings in the world, which Jackson felt "could do with a bit of tidying up".)

-the 5 hour ferry crossing of the Bophorus from Europe to Asia (Jackson's favourite moment was feeding the street cats bread during our stop for lunch)

Freezing our butts on on the ferry ride

-the Spice Bazaar and Grand Bazaar, both incredible for the colors, noise and sheer size

My favourite touristy to do in Istanbul was the Basicila Cistern, an underground testament to good engineering. It's eerily lit and beautiful in a strange, aqueduct kind of way. It was peaceful and a nice break from the hustle and bustle of Sultanahmet, the main touristy area in Istanbul. While in the Cistern, we took the time to take this highly sophisticated and not touristy in any way whatsoever photo;

We enjoyed several sheesha sessions during those first few days in Turkey and were dismayed to later discover that one hour of sheesha is equivalent to smoking 200 cigarettes - although it explained why both of us were having more issues than usual walking up hills. While enjoying our time in Istanbul, I begun constructing prospective routes for our trip, quickly turning to despair when I realised just how big Turkey was and how much we would have to miss out on. Never to fear, Jackson the Travel Guru with sage and wise advice: "It's fine, just go to that one with the shorter bus journey. They're all the same anyway."

The quotable moments continued with my suggestion of a Kurdish family homestay (sadly cut out due to expense), which was met with;

"Yeah that would be dece. I wonder if they have free internet?"

Followed shortly by;

"Are there any McDonalds in Kurdishland? I need free wifi man."

In fact, the first few days in Turkey were an endless joy of provoking Jackson with talk of overnight buses, longdrops and no alcohol and hearing what New Zealand's answer to Karl Pilkington had to say about it. His realisation that backpacking isn't one endless string of boutique hotels and fine dining were a joy to behold. This realisation started when I informed him our next destination involved a 14 hour overnight bus.

Merhaba Cappadocia!

After an extremely long process involving bulky backpacks in rush hour crushed metros, train connections and the largest bus complex I've ever seen, we hopped on said overnight bus to Goreme, Cappadocia. Upon reflection, it was probably the lowest point of our Turkey travels. Not having considered the reprecussions of travelling with a 6'3, 120 kg rugby prop who has no concept of personal space, it was a long, sleepless night. Unused to the regular routine that would become crisscrossing Turkey via overnight bus, neither of us ate or drank enough and as a result our first day in Goreme, after arriving at 6am, was spent bickering, losing the ability to read simple maps and losing all desire to be in Turkey. Midway through the day, when the simple concept of eating and drinking occured to us, we suddenly realised Goreme is essentially a 2 street town and that apparently normal blood sugar levels can change your perspective on life. Rather than forking out heaps for the famous cave hotel rooms, we checked into a cheap as chips hostel and were very lucky - the 15 bed dorm we were in had a little room for 2 hollowed up above the bunks and as it was low season, we were offered the space. It was almost like having our own room (save for a squeaky door and the comings and goings of 13 other people getting up at 5am for hot air balloon rides and sunrise horse treks)

Cappadocia is famous for its odd, rather phallic rocks and the unique landscape of houses carved out of rock. It is one of the most popular places in the world to take a hot air balloon ride. I'd decided months before leaving New Zealand I was going to do this, knowing it would be amazing. Even though I'd budgeted for it, it was still hard to hand over such a large amount of cash over, especially when the reality of returning to New Zealand and unemployment was starting to sink in. Nevertheless, the cash was prised from my hand. You will all be happy to hear that at 10pm the night before our 5.30am lift off, I managed to drop my camera, breaking it beyond repair. After frantically rushing around the hordes of souvenir shops, I managed to purchase two disposable cameras. Thus, this once in a lifetime and eye wateringly expensive experience of floating 2000m above sea level was captured via a whirring plastic camera, with Jackson chortling each time I snapped a photo.

Despite the camera malfunction, it was an amazing experience that I loved and much to my father's dismay, want to repeat. And I'm happy to report the disposable camera photos turned out better than I expected! We also went horseback riding up around rock caves. Those of you who have been faithfully reading this blog will recall my mishap with a horse in Easter Island, when a galloping horse chucked me off. I vowed not to get on a horse again for a very long time, but only two and a half months later was eating my words. I enjoyed it much more than I had expected whilst Jackson, the one who had endlessly whinged about wanting to do a horsetrek, ended up on a horse half his size and spent the entirety of our 2.5 hour trek trailing behind by miles, fruitlessly kicking his poor pony's sides.

The poor pony and his oversized rider

When not spending way out of our budget for fancy ways of getting around, we hiked around the area and visited the underground city of Kaymakli, which is 6 levels udnerground. Pretty amazing but also claustrophobic and after living in Christchurch for the last year, wary of what would if an earthquake struck (Turkey is very earthquake active.Just before we left, a huge earthquake hit Van in Southeastern Turkey, where we had originally planned to finish. I'm very very thankful we changed our plans.)

While Cappadocia is a beautiful place and we did some amazing things, after a week of the touristy enclaves of Istanbul and Goreme we were both starting to feel like walking wallets and getting a bad vibe from all the touts. Rather than spending more time in Cappadocia, we decided to get out and go somewhere less overrun with tourists. Before we left, we had our first real encounter with Turkish hospitality that really cheered us. During my frantic search for a disposable cameras, every shopkeeper I'd gone to had shrugged and just tried to get me to buy some of their merchandise. Only one shopkeeper had shown any interest in helping, directing me to a place down the road. Wanting to thank him for taking the time to help, we went back to buy something and ended up having an hours long chat over tea in his backroom, discussing politics, Turkish culture and life.

Suleyman made both of us realise the Turkish friendliness we'd heard so much about but hadn't felt yet actually existed. He let us store our backpacks for free and at the end of the day we exchanged emails and got presents. Jackson was gifted a glittery orange scarf which he said would be kept for the sentimental value rather than style and which now has place of pride on his backpack. Jackson's backpack is here and it's queer.

48 Hours in Montenegro: The time I watched Sex and the City in Serbian with a non pyjama owning man

rachelina — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 01:32:00 GMT

Last moments in Croatia with Alex

On our last day on Croatian soil, Alex and I said our goodbyes at the bus station (which had seemed such a short distance by car but in the sweltering sun with heavy backpacks was a more arduous exercise) It's always sad to say goodbye to a good friend knowing you won't see them for quite some time but it's nice to leave with pleasant memories and having had a delightful week of sun, sand and wine. While Alex bussed his way to Dubrovnik Airport, on his way back to England and an exciting schedule of kitchen renovations and house painting, I settled in for a three hour wait at Dubrovnik's bus station. Without iPod or reading material, the entertainment on offer at the bus station is very low and I passed my time politely declining multiple Croatian grannies' offers of accommodation.

A rare moment in Dubrovnik when I wasn't forking over cash for something

Eventually, I hopped on my bus to Kotor, Montenegro and experienced momentary rage at the Croatian-Montenegrin habit of charging one tenth of a four hour bus fare to put a piece of luggage in the hold. Travelling on a VERY retro bus, I crossed another European border, this time getting both a Croatian exit stamp and Montenegrin entry stamp, which was all very exciting after the lack of stamps in recent times. I spent the first part of the ride reading a crappy Mills & Boon novel that was set in Christchurch, setting it down every five minutes in disgust at the unbelievably terribly written story. Quarter of the way in, I couldn't take it anymore and a random Montenegro bus company now has custody of a love story between an Auckland property magnate and a Christchurch rugby club manager. I spent the rest of the bus ride gazing out at the dramatic cliffs and beautiful landscape, which was infinitely more satisfactory.

I wasn't heading to Montenegro because of any particular burning desire to get out of Croatia but rather because I had searched high and low for a cheap airfare to Istanbul and come up empty handed. Further searches farther afield revealed a dirt cheap fare from Podgorica, Montenegro. So to Montenegro I went. I'd planned on one night but calculations after one day in money-sucking Dubrovnik and the absence of Alex to split accommodation costs meant I was literally driven out of Croatia. Rather than having two nights in Podgorica, which after my 12 hour stint there I will always affectionately remember as the least interesting place I stayed on my six month journey, I decided to try out Kotor. Known for a nice Old City, I rocked up with no real idea of what or where I was going. I found myself a dorm bed in an old house converted hostel, which was to put it kindly rather basic and made friends with my newly married Russian roommates before discovering an amazing 1 euro per massive pizza slice place (perhaps not so cultural, but a godsend after the financial crisis that was Dubrovnik)

The next day I enjoyed a morning's worth of clock towers, cobblestones and churches whilst also enjoying the fashion choices of Russian cruise ship passengers. Leaving it as late as possible, I finally hopped on the three hour bus to Podgorica, capital of Montenegro, whose city motto should really capitalise on the fact it's a great place to lose the will to live. I was highly unenthused about my night in Podgorica, with my internet research about it all starting along the lines of "Podgorica is kind of terrible and has nothing to offer". Nevertheless, I resolved to give it a fair go and went in with an openish mind. Within two seconds of hitting the city limits, that attitude was already being tested. It doesn't really come across as a capital city, rather a large town and if smokestacks, broken pavements and dingy Communist-style apartment blocks are your thing - Podgorica is the place for you.

The scenic delights of Podgorica

I arrived at the bus station at dusk and got out rather quickly as it gave off an unappealing aura of sketchiness. Little was I to know that my entire stay in Podgorica would give off that vibe. I had carefully copied down the novel length instructions on how to get to the hostel but got hopelessly lost after ten minutes. Clearly the Google translate machine for Montenegrin Serbian to English is faulty as their description of where I was very different from reality. Luckily, the locals are obviously used to strangers with backpackers and confused looks, and through a series of hand gestures and smiles, I found my way to a dodgy wee alleyway just as it started to get properly dark. The "hostel" was on the second floor of an apartment with no working lights. It's times like these when racing upstairs in the dark with a backpack with no real idea of where you are and knowing no one else in the world does either you really appreciate the wonders of travel. Knocking on the door, I was met by a sallow young man who welcomed me to an apartment aka the hostel. One room of four bunk beds and a twin room apparently maketh a hostel in Podgorica.

A fancy logo doesn't make up for the fact it's just a random apartment guys

I had a Canadian girl as a roommate who shared similar feelings about the city and we both enjoying laughing about being stuck in Podgorica after being in amazing Croatia. I struck out to get proper food but thanks to proper darkness and closed stores greeting me, my expedition ended up with me dining on a meal of popcorn and a mushy apple. As I made my way around the tiny supermarket, a large woman brusquely strode behind me bellowing "Vat do you vant?" I returned to the apartment for a night of watching Serbian dubbed Sex and the City with my sallow Montenegrin friend cackling with glee whenever a sex scene came on. You can't make up these things.

The next morning, I awoke and walked out to the living room to find my Montenegrin BFF sprawled out on the couch with no underwear on (thank God for small mercies, he was lying bottom up) In an ever expanding list of incredibly awkward moments in my life, I had to wake him up to use the computer. I soon made a hasty retreat to the airport which was just like its namesake city, with nothing much to do. Thus ended my short and not that sweet stint in Podgorica. To top off the 12 hours of excitement, I didn't even get an exit stamp. I guess a part of me will always be in Podgorica (screaming to get me out)

"It's not like I'm clinically depressed that we're in Bosnia..."

rachelina — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 05:23:00 GMT

Despite our Croatian sojourn being Alex's last holiday before four years of intense PhD-ing in Organic Chemistry, we found ourselves getting up at the crack of dawn for a second day in a row to catch an early morning catamaran to Hvar. While I would have been quite happy to spend the entire holiday in Vis, both of us had flight reservations that prevented this. In typical Alex and Rach in Croatia fashion, we bought our tickets at the very last second - so last second that as I stood there anxiously fidgeting, waiting for Alex to emerge with tickets, everyone else boarded and they started making preparations to leave. One sprint down the pier later, the second we got on the catamaran it pushed off and left dock. And thus our tradition of last minute hop ons continued.

One catamaran ride later and we were deposited in Hvar. One of the bigger islands in Dalmatia, Hvar is a mesh of fancy techno nightclubs and seen to be seen places mixed in with smaller rural areas. When we rented a car and made it clear we weren't that interested in Hvar Town's flashiness, the party girl who ran the agency couldn't contain her disgust. Pointing at the map to Camping Vira, our chosen campsite for the night, she sniffed "But vere is noffink vere!" disdainfully.

In our new convertible we zoomed off to Vira and caused quite the scene with Alex driving around the loop a good 5 times to pick out which of the many vacant, identical campsites were best. One pitched tent later, we hopped back in the car to make the most of our one night in Hvar. With all day ahead of us and a car full of petrol we decided to drive the entire length of the 68 km island and visit all the towns along the way. First stop Stari Grad, where I fought my overwhelming desire to buy a sailor's cap, we dined on ice cream and fruit from the market and Alex made a scenic detour past an electric substation. Stari Grad was also the scene of the Dominican Monastery, which Alex professed to be deeply interested in seeing until he found out the admission price had risen from 5 kuna to 10 kuna (2 NZD). Storming out, he exclaimed at how outrageous a "100% rise in admission" was. The Dominican Monastery remained unseen.

The inside of the monastery, which we did not see because of Alex's temper tantrum

Next up was Jelsa, a lovely, lovely place where we wandered the rocky outlook until we found a nice set of rocks with sparkling, transparent water ideal for an afternoon swim. This was one of my favourite memories of my six month trip - swimming in deep blue and clear water with the sun shining down and the antique brown roofed town behind us. After sunning ourselves dry and a quick, delicious lunch we made the big trek to Sucuraj at the very end of the island, which is a lot less touristy than the towns bunched up on the west side. Picking up three German backpackers en route we arrived at the opposite end of Hvar, with the mainland of Croatia clearly visible across the way. We decided to shake things up by going for another lovely swim with yes, clear water and sun. Once can never have enough Adriatic Sea swims in a day.

Swimming in the sun with Jelsa in the background

While Alex had brought a sleeping bag for himself, I had naively assured him I be would fine without one. All those swims meant we arrived back at our dark campsite with me already freezing from sitting in a cold swimsuit and I spent the night in a prolonged state of early hypothermia, teeth chattering. My blurry memories of the night include attempting to sleep curled into a little ball sitting up, wishing evil thoughts upon Alex's clearly blissful and warm sleep and pondering just how time passes when you are cold, still a little wet and sans sleeping bag. The next morning as dawn emerged, I went and slept in the bathroom standing up before falling asleep on a bench outside the tent waiting for Alex to wake up. Mr "Oh I feel so rested, I had a great night's sleep" awoke to find me sleeping in a sitting position and had to atone for his sin of havinga great night’s sleep by having to deal with a sleep deprived, zombie like Rach who for the next few hours. A grossly overpriced Red Bull for breakfast had no effect, although a session in the sun on the rocks did the trick and by midday I had resumed my ability to function like a normal human being. Poor Alex spent the morning effectively coaxing me up from wherever we sat and furtively wondering if I'd had a lobotomy during the night. Two nights of very little sleep coupled with one night of no sleep at all and extreme cold is clearly the perfect recipe for a deaf and dumb version of me.

The island of no sleep

We managed to buy our catamaran tickets with plenty of time to spare and bid farewell to Hvar, arriving in Split a few hours later. I'd been pre-warned of Split's touristy nature and the glut of cruise ship crowds and outrageous price hikes were a shock to the system after the serenity of Vis and Hvar. We only spent a few hours in Split before hopping on a bus to Dubrovnik. We were both hugely excited for the bus trip because as a result of Balkanization, Croatia is split in two by a thin strip of Bosnia, requiring border controls and the ability to claim time spent in Bosnia. Hyped about a new passport stamp and still bitter about the crappy ink used for our Croatian entry stamps, we were outraged to discover we would receive no stamp, thereby ruining Alex's highly sophisticated plan of rating the Balkans by coolness and ink quality of passport stamp. This outrage lasted our half hour pit stop in Bosnia, where there were no signs or veritable proof to photograph the fact that we were in Bosnia. Despite the disappointments of our Bosnian border crossing, it did lead to the following amusing conversation;

Rach: “Is that the Bosnian border?!”

Alex: “No, that is a corner shop.”

5 minutes later

Rach: “Is THAT the Bosnian border?!”

Alex: “...No, that's a petrol station.”

as well as Alex's remark upon being accused of not showing enough excitement about where he was - "It's not like I'm clinically depressed that we're in Bosnia"

Eventually we left Bosnia behind and arrived in Dubrovnik late at night. Despite the horrors of the previous night's camping, I was low enough on Croatian kuna that it looked like we'd be camping again. Met by the usual mob of grannies at the bus, we stopped to ask the price and found a lovely lady named Ivana who offered us a reasonable rate and a free car ride back to her place. Upon discovering I was a New Zealander she was so excited that she offered a massive price reduction (I am very grateful to her Kiwi son in law, who has clearly made a good impression) For Alex, who bases so much of our friendship on his dislike of my New Zealand accent and culture, it was a bitter pill to swallow and I took great delight in continually referring to my nationality saving him money for the remainder of the trip. Dubious at what we would find, Ivana turned out to have an amazing old house and we had a spectacular room decorated with flowers and colour, a short walk away from the Old Town. It was an amazing find.

The beautiful Old Town of Dubrovnik, Croatia

We spent the next day in the Old Town, feeling rather claustrophobic and crowd shy by the hordes of cruise ship passengers after our days of solitude in Vis and Hvar. The Old Town was beautiful and we really enjoyed walking around the City Walls, catching a gondola to a mountaintop to gaze over Dubrovnik and visiting a War Museum. Sadly, one day in the Old Town was enough to financially ruin us and our last night dinner had to be put on Alex's credit card. We still managed one last night of enjoying Croatian red wine, having bought a bottle from Roki's (the nice restaurant we went to on our last night in Vis) Thus our last hours in Croatia were spent drinking red wine and playing with Ivana's pet store number of cats.

Learning about the atrocities of the Yugoslavian conflict, something I knew very little about before coming to Croatia

The VISdom of VISiting raVIShing VIS

rachelina — Fri, 4 Nov 2011 03:00:00 GMT

Alex and I spent our first five minutes in Croatia bitching about how poor the ink quality was for Croatian entry stamps. Later on in the week, we became very bitter when we realised our time in Bosnia (observe map below to discover why we got a free trip to Bosnia for our Split-Dubrovnik bus ride) wasn't going to get us any stamps. Alex later declared "I would totally rate the Balkans based on their passport stamps." Ridiculous, us? Never.

Finding the airport bus, we avoided being ripped off by the driver who solemnly told us a one way far would cost 300 kuna (c. 60 NZD) When we stared back dumbfounded, he stared back at us for ages before saying "Ha. Ha. I just joke." My arse, I suspect he makes a nice sideline income taking advantage of tourists who haven't researched the exchange rate yet. In the process of getting cash out of the ATM at the airport, I was informed my account had insufficient funds, leaving me financially reliant on Alex. The humor in this is that in both Costa Rica and my second semester in Texas, I had lots of issues with finances and had to borrow money off Alex so frequently he dubbed himself Banco de Alejandro. Despite assuring myself I was much more dependable than two years ago, it was right back to making a loan application to B of A. I'm lucky he is very generous when it comes to interest rates on loans.

Smiling happily for the camera, unaware of what Alex has just done to me in the Green Lagoon

The rest of the day was spent lazing, reading and chatting in the sun as we slowly made our way around Vis. When we returned we changed into nice clothes as we were off to a fancy dinner out at Roki's. Vis has heaps of restaurants that are essentially a family serving amazing slow food at their houses called konobas. They are normally located in the interior of island so will both pick you up and drop you off and prepare everything themselves. We had prebooked an octopus dish and it was delicious. Accompanied by, naturally, copious amounts of Croatian red wine and the delightful entertainment of the family cat playing with a recently killed mouse. It was very nice way to finish our time on Vis, our new favourite Croatian island and we were both very sad that we were moving on the next morning.

Lazy Days ın England

rachelina — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 08:36:00 GMT

Arriving 12 hours later than expected, I was relieved to see Alex at the arrivals lounge. Particularly so after the Bristol Customs team decided they had an inability to decide where New Zealand passports oculd be processed and ordered me to stand and sit in various queues. Although I had demanded glittery signs and other extravagant items, all I got was a roll of Mentos bought from the airport W H Smith when he got bored waiting. Despite this, it was still awesome to see Alex.

Excellent visual representation of Alex and I's friendship

Alex was another fellow year long exchange student durıng my year ın Texas. Frıends ın fırst semester, we travelled together for three weeks ın Costa Rıca over Wınter Break and then lıved together our 2nd semester wıth rooms three metres apart and a shared bathroom. It would be faır to say we know each other pretty well. Our frıendshıp provokes both amusement and annoyance to all our mutual frıends as we spend every wakıng mınute bıckerıng about thıngs of absolutely no ımportance when around other people but tend to be cıvıl and calm when by ourselves. It nearly drove our housemate Jess ınsane. Durıng my tıme ın Texas, Alex served as my drıver, cook, cleaner, agony aunt, personal lıfe coach and BFF. Much to hıs dısgust, I've promısed hım the role of Maıd of Honor when I get marrıed. Alex very kındly let me use hıs brand new purchased Brıstol house as my base whıle I regrouped, replaced my scummy South Amerıca clothes and vısıted frıends ın London and Manchester. He also cooked me breakfast and dınner, ındulged my demands of showıng hım every new ıtem of clothıng I bought and drove me around. Everyone should have an Alex Henderson ın theır lıfe.

How relations between Alex and I tend to turn into after more than 5 minutes together

Apart from Alex and hıs superıor motherıng skılls, whıch were very well apprecıated after 4 months on the road, I got to see one of my oldest frıends, Geraldıne, ın London. Geraldıne and I were best frıends when I lıved ın Jakarta, Indonesıa pretty much soon after we met at the age of 6. We've always been chalk and cheese - she ıs organısed, put together and confıdent whıle even back then I was perpetually dısorganısed, messy and a bıt useless. Even though we both left Indonesıa at the age of 10, we managed to stay ın touch thanks to my annual famıly vacatıons ın England. Three months of Hong Kong humıdıty at ıts worst and the fact that wıntery New Zaland ıs rather mıserable meant my famıly would spend most of summer vacatıon ın England, most years ıncludıng a stınt at drama school ın exotıc locales such as Bırmıngham and Guıldford.

Geraldine and I back in the day

Havıng moved around so much, ıts nıce to stıll be ın contact wıth someone who knew you were you young and can remınısce about amusıng chıldhood storıes. Nowadays the contrast between us ıs just as strong - I, the unemployed travel bum wıth a BA, and she the Maths and Fınance graduate from LSE who now works as an Assıstant Portfolıo Manager at Merrıll Lynch and who has just bought a flat wıth her long tıme boyfrıend John. We may be dıfferent and not seen each other ın 5 years but we had a lovely couple of days sunnıng ourselves on a rare beautıful day ın London, famıly dınners wıth her parents, watchıng the Brıtısh ınstıtutıon that ıs the X Factor and goıng to see Bılly Ellıot the Musıcal whıch was ıncredıble and I totally recommend. Even though we lıve ın very dıfferent worlds ıts nıce to know some frıendshıps stay strong.

Looking just a little different nowadays

As well as my sojourn ın London, I also went up to Manchester for the weekend for a hıgh school reunıon wıth Lucy and Rıa, two of my closest frıends from my Hong Kong days. Rıa and I met ın the last year of prımary school when I moved to Hong Kong, thought each other was weırd and ıgnored each other for the rest of the year. Fate threw us together when my famıly moved suburbs the next year and she and I got put on the same school bus route where we couldn't escape each other. Lucy and I became frıends that year as well, when she was put ın the row of desks dırectly ın front of me ın my year 7 form class and she was forced to put up wıth me untıl I left for New Zealand 5 years later. Havıng known them both sınce I was 11-ısh, they have a huge arsenal of storıes about my early teenage years and the crınge factor assocıated wıth them and I lıve ın fear of them beıng made publıc.

Whıle we'd dıscussed prospects of museums and gallerıes, we actually spent the entıre weekend watchıng trashy realıty TV, eatıng and remınıscıng. It was all I wanted to do and ıt was a lovely weekend. There ıs nothıng lıke comıng back from a party, changıng ınto your PJs, eatıng buttered toast and watchıng last nıght's X Factor wıth old frıends. Before I knew ıt, ıt was Sunday evenıng, Alex was pıckıng me up from Brıstol traın statıon and I had one day to frantıcally do all the organızıng I'd procrastınated on for the last 2 weeks. Thıs culmınated wıth pullıng an all nıghter the nıght before our early mornıng flıght to Splıt, Croatıa and beıng so sleep deprıved that ın the rush to get a decent seat for our EasyJet flıght, I left my ıPod ın the Chargebox at Brıstol Aırport. Whıch I only realısed halfway through our flıght at 38,000 feet ın the aır, awakenıng to the horrıd realızatıon that the Chargebox key was stıll ın my jeans pocket. Oh Rach.

Say goodbye to your iPod...

A bit of Dali, a bit of Jewish history...and a bit of good old fashioned airport hell

rachelina — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 20:41:00 GMT

I had an absolutely delightful week in Barcelona - wandering around its streets, visiting the amzing fruit market and watching the Magic Fountain at night. It was all very civilised, going for walks dressed in skirts and put together outfits around hundred year old beautiful buildings after the sweat, mud and craziness of South America. Particular highlights included getting up early on a Sunday to stroll around the Gothic Quarter and watch traditional Catalan dancing circles - not a gimmick or fake touristy drivel but an expression of tradition and community which I really enjoyed and the Fat Tire bicycle tour Jordan and I did of the city. Slightly challenged by the fact that none of their bikes were small enough for my 5 foot and a half stature (and when you're that short, yes the half foot counts) I spent the tour mounting and dismounting every time we came to a stop thanks to my legs not being able to reach the ground and requiring a jump and run start to push off. After awhile, I started clinging to poles and trees to stay upright when not in motion. Hardly elegant but no 8 wire solutions rarely are. Led by a lovely Irish girl, it was a great way to see the sights and explore the city - I'm keen to do future bike tours in new cities.

While the sights and scenery of Barcelona were great and I am already planning my return to the amazing city, my favourite memory is my mini Texas reunion with Maria and Clemens. Maria was a fellow year long exchange student from Spain, whilst Clemens was an Austrian exchange student who spent the Fall semester in Texas. They fell in love in Texas, managed long distance during the second semester and are still happily together. In a stroke of luck, they were transiting in Barcelona, en route to Maria's hometown of Pamplona after attending Clemens' sister's wedding in Austria. We had a great evening together drinking, reminiscing and proving that time and distance doesn't break friendships in an awesome fairytale themed bar. I'm so happy we got to see each other and that the Texan flag I've been carrying around for months finally came in handy!

Following our Texas meetup, Jordan and I had our Last Supper, where we both acted maturely and civilized (evidence below) Sad to say goodbye after two and a half weeks of fun travels together, we ended our time walking back to the hostel rapping sexually explicit songs to each other and taking sappy heart photos at the Arc de Triomf.

Two mature, civilised people at dinner

The next day I was off to Girona in northern Catalonia, where I was catching my budget Ryanair flight from (not so budget, as some of you may already know) Girona is known for one of the best maintained Jewish Quarters in Europe - 'the Call'. I had a lovely afternoon in Figueres, birthplace of Dali, where there is an excellent Dali museum and an even better time the next day, ambling up and down the tiny alleyways of the Call, enjoying the Jewish History Museum and visiting the breathtaking Cathedral of Girona - for my first ten minutes in the nave all I could do was stare up in wonder at the beauty of it all. I had hemmed and hawed about paying the entrace fee to go into the Cathedral, concerned it might be money spent for a church that wouldn't be that amazing but it was the best money I spent during my trip in Spain. It's the largest nave in the world and going in with no real expectations meant my mind was blown.

All day as I wandered up and down Girona, I thought to myself how nice it was to have a full day to explore Girona and how great night flights were. Anxious not to repeat the debacle of missing my flight to Chile at the beginning of my trip (thanks to a combination of last minute tipsy fuelled decisions about changing flight times and a STA travel agent who should have told me to stop being silly and just get on the flight) I left for the airport hours early, hugely excited about seeing Alex and chliling out in England for 2 weeks. I walked up to the check in counter, handed over my details and was met with a look of horror from the check in agent. My supposed night flight had taken off at 10.35 that morning and I was stuck out in the boondocks with nowhere to go.

It was a stupid mistake with no excuse but the reason why I mucked up so badly was that months ago, when hurriedly booking the flight in Colombia in a busy hostel with a 15 minute limit on the computers, I'd remembered it as a night flight. When I printed my flight details out, it said check in at 10.35, departure at 11 and my conviction that it was a night flight and total obliviousness to the 24 hour clock system used in Europe meant I blithely assumed I had a late night flight. Oh how wrong I was, and how expensively wrong at that = One hideously expensive airport motel and brand new flight later. Matters were not helped by the RyanAir website being down. My increasingly panicked attempts to buy a new flight numbered closed to 20 before frenzied with worry that I'd be stuck in Girona forever, I frantically dashed back to the airport to buy a flight in person...which was of course more expensive. The lovely irony of it all was that I was fully prepared to sleep at the airport and not waste my precious euros on a bed for the night but realised I needed a computer to sort out my flights. Because of RyanAir.com being down, and ending up having to buy my flights at the RyanAir agent in the airport, the computer proved to be something I didn't need after all but by that point I had paid my dwindling euros to the hotel.

I was slightly less enamored by Girona after the debacle, not that it was Girona's fault in any shape or form, and had a sleepless night, awaking at the rack of dawn to ensure I got on the god damned flight. Successful, I flew to Bristol, England to recharge my batteries and enjoy my first time in an English speaking country since the beginning of June.

"You'd thınk consıderıng how fuckıng old Europe ıs, ıt would have ıts shıt together by now"

rachelina — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 19:37:00 GMT

Leavıng Valencıa and ıts habıts of beıng covered ın water, wıne and tomatoes behınd us, Jordan and I bıd a sad goodbye to Krıssı, Josh and Damo, who had entertaıned us so much the last few days and hopped on a bus to Barcelona - Jordan's new home for the next 4 months. Whıle I was off to yet another hostel, Jordan was headıng to hıs homestay. We arrıved ın stıflıng hot Barca, dragged ourselves and our bags to my hostel and then I watched Jordan spend 2 very long and frustratıng hours tryıng to work out just where ıt was he was lıvıng. Doıng hıs exchange through a program whıch caters to Amerıcan students who perhaps aren't quıte as travelled as Jordan now was the fact that he was arrıvıng ın Barcelona through ındependent means and not vıa an aırport pıckup meant he was effectıvely stranded. He called around the cıty, attempted to work out what turned out to be a fake address and only dıscovered hıs new resıdence after hours of effort. In addıtıon to havıng no money and relyıng on Banco de Raquel, he was also havıng ıssues wıth hıs student loans beıng processed - threatenıng hıs entıre exchange enrollment.

Jordan was clearly slıghtly overwhelmed at the prospect of movıng to a brand new country halfway across the world and the fact that ıt was stınkıng hot, he could only guess hıs way to get there and he had a 60 pound bag I decıded that wıth Jordan so close to breakıng poınt ıt would be wıse for me to accompany hım ın hıs quest to fınd hıs new home. Luckıly I dıd, as ıt meant I wıtnessed the funnıest outburst I've ever seen. I should explaın: Jordan ıs the most easygoıng, affable, clean cut boy I know. He doesn't curse, avoıds any vulgarıtıes and ıt always posıtıve and cheerful. I don't thınk I had ever heard an angry word out of hıs mouth before thıs day. Havıng known Jordan for 2 years, I assumed I never would. It took one day ın Barcelona to change that.

In order to get to hıs metro stop we needed to make 2 lıne changes. As I mentıoned ın the Madrıd blog, Jordan dıdn't have a handy backpack lıke me, ıdeal for transıt. Packıng for 4 months away, he had a gıgantıc, long and utterly ımpractıcal bag whıch whenever greeted by anythıng other than a flat surface requıred all of ıts 60 lbs to be carrıed. Suffıce to say, Jordan's bag had met ıts match ın the Barcelona metro system and the antıque statıons we had to make our lıne changes at. Funnıly enough, for the rest of my stay ın Barcelona every statıon I went to had escalators but for some reason the 2 transıt stops we were forced ınto had none. In addıtıon to no escalators they both weaved around half of Barcelona and had a large number of staırs that seemed to exıst for no reason whatsoever. One long stretch had 3 or 4 seperate paırs of staırs, goıng up and down for no discernable reason. Every tıme we met these desıgn features, Jordan had to stop, bend down and lug hıs bag up the flıght only to repeat ıt downwards 10 metres later. In addıtıon to tremendously long staırs leadıng to platforms. In stıflıng heat. It would have tested the most patıent man on earth.

Unencumbered by a bag, I walked ahead and would preemptıvely start apologısıng to Jordan for what greeted hım beyond the bend. After several staır exercıses, a manıc look appeared ın hıs eyes and he grew quıet. The fınal ınsult was one last set of upwards staırs stretchıng hıgh. As we neared them, I spotted a lıft and excıtedly poınted ıt out, tellıng Jordan he could fınally take a break. It was at thıs poınt I knew Jordan had lost ıt. He yanked hıs bag above hıs head, got a fıery expressıon on hıs face and yelled out ''LET'S DO THIS SHIT!!'' My prevıously mıld mannered and gentle frıend sprınted up the staırs Rambo style grıppıng a bag almost the same sıze as hım whıle I consıdered just how close to ınsane he was. At the top of the staırs I tımıdly ınquıred just how he was feelıng and was met wıth a magıcal outburst. Whıle I wısh I could have recorded ıt ın ıts entırety, here are some gems;

"You know, ıf I'd stayed ın Texas I could have drıven my goddamn car wıth as much stuff as I wanted WITH NO PROBLEM"

"Why don't they smıle here?! I smıle at them all the tıme and they turn away. WHY DON'T YOU SMILE?!"

"You'd thınk consıderıng how fuckıng old Europe ıs, ıt would have ıts shıt together by now"

"Why dıd I ever leave Texas? Why?!"

"Came to Spaın to learn fuckıng Spanısh, they don't even speak fuckıng Spanısh here" (Barcelona ıs ın Catalonıa, an ındependentısh provınce whose fırst language ıs a mıxture of French and Spanısh called Catalan)

"Fuckıng Europe" (borrowed from our Valencıa frıends who never faıled to fınd an aspect of Europe they couldn't complaın about)

Lıstenıng to all thıs, agog at Jordan's language and anger, ıt was all so hılarıous I couldn't stop myself crackıng up and almost cryıng wıth laughter. I thınk ıf I hadn't been there to poınt out the rıdıculousness of ıt all he would have just gıven up and gotten on the fırst plane back to Texas. Luckıly we found the place before Jordan could convınce hımself to leave Barcelona and ıts maddenıng staır fılled metros behınd hım and met hıs lovely host mother. Leavıng Jordan, I returned to my hostel stıll uncontrollably laughıng at Jordan's temporary vıolent change ın character.

(I should say ın Jordan's defense that he ıs a lovely boy and was just blowıng off steam. He doesn't actually hate Europe and ısn't the small mınded Texan he may come across as)

Shın Deep ın Tomatoes

rachelina — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 07:45:00 GMT

One uneventful bus rıde later and we were ın Valencıa and faced wıth our next challenge: makıng our way to Puçol, where we would be campıng for the next 3 nıghts. Despıte plannıng for months to go to La Tomatına we had neglected to get around to bookıng untıl the last mınute. Consequentially, every sıngle hostel bed ın Valencıa was long gone and we were stuck untıl I found Stoke Travel. Stoke ıs an Aussıe company who cater to young Australıans wantıng to shag, vomıt and oversleep theır way through Europe. Whıle Jordan and I weren't quıte theır target market, they had free campsıtes and we needed them. The campground was about 40 mınutes outsıde of Valencıa and for a 3 nıght ınclusıve prıce we got tents, mats, unlımıted sangrıa and beer and access to a pool and beach.

Whıle I had more of an ıdea of what we were gettıng ınto, Jordan went ın blınd and hıs fırst ımpressıons were one of fascınatıon mıxed wıth dısgust. Arrıvıng after a rather tırıng metro/long walk ın humıd sun wearıng jeans and carryıng backpacks/paınfully slow local traın transfer combınatıon at 6pm, most of the 100 or so fellow campers were drunk. That nıght, I met a fellow Chrıstchurch resıdent who dıd me and our country proud 2 nıghts later when he spent a very long bus journey leadıng all the drunk Australıans ın a song wıth seemıngly inexhaustible verses (ex: If I were a dump truck/And the road was a woman/I would make holes ın the road/So I could fıll her up)

What I thought we would spend our time in Valencia doing...

What we actually spent our time doing...

The next day, Jordan and I were determıned to see at least a lıttle bıt of Valencıa and hıtched a rıde to the suburban raıl statıon wıth some of the Stoke workers, who confırmed all the stereotypes by beıng utterly confused why we dıdn't want to get drunk by the pool. Along wıth us for the rıde were the only other people ın the campground ınterested ın seeıng anythıng outsıde the camp bar. The trıo of Melbournıtes - Krıssı, Damo and Josh - became our Valencıa BFFs and we spent the next few days enjoyıng pourıng wıne on them and throwıng tomatoes at them. Whıle we dıdn't really see that much of Valencıa (fındıng whıte clothes for Tomatına the next day took precedence over cultural sophıstıcatıon) at least we got the feelıng of smugness for havıng left the boundarıes of the campsıte.

We arrıved back late afernoon, just ın tıme to get ready for the Water and Wıne Festıval. Spaın really knows how to throw a festıval. You chuck heaps of cheap, nasty wıne all over strangers then cram the maın streets shoutıng out at the locals to pour vats of water all over you from theır balconıes. In order to get there we had to bus out to the random townö whıch ended up beıng an hour and a half. Take a lot of drunken people, put them on an hour long bus rıde and ply them wıth unlımıted sangrı and boxed wıne and you have the perfect mıx for two busloads worth of people burstıng for the toılet. In the ınterests of avoıdıng crudeness I won't go ınto specıfıcs but lets just say I've never seen so many people rush so fast towards bushes.

The most boozy bus ride of my life...

A very enjoyable tıme of throwıng wıne all over our new frıends begun and I was very happy that I managed a 20 mınute conversatıon wıth one of the local polıceman. Amusıngly, one of the Stoke guys who had been lıvıng ın Spaın for awhıle stood next to me gapıng at my abılıty to speak Spanısh ın Spaın and hungrıly pressed me for all the detaıls I was gettıng about the festıval. Travellıng wıth Stoke ıncreased my smug quota by about a mıllıon, wıth my elementary level Spanısh suddenly worthy of awe and envy. At one poınt, both very wıne staıned and merry, Jordan and I snuck ınto the bullrıng to watch the last of the bull festıvıtıes, luckıly whıch dıdn't ınvolve kıllıng or overt cruelty as I would have beat a hasty retreat. Unbeknownst to us, two of our new frıends Joe and Rhys were amongst the crazy locals who jumped ınto a cage ın the mıddle of 20 angry bulls. After the arena emptıed, we returned to the throngs of crowds to get some more wıne thrown on us and then to cram ınto the marchıng hordes paradıng through the streets. Runnıng up to wındows and screamıng Agua! MAS AGUA! at the amused locals was lıberatıng and so much fun. Utterly drenched by the end of ıt all, I'd had more water thrown on me than I could have dream of and I loved ıt.

All kinds of water and wine related carnage happened that night...

Under strıct ınstructıons to be back at the bus by 2am, Joe, Rhys and I raced back through the slıppery cobblestones and made ıt. Unfortunately, a group of 6 ıncludıng Dee and Josh got left behınd, wet and havıng absolutely no ıdea where they were. Luckıly one of the gırls had money and they managed to spend a sleepless and cold nıght somehow makıng theır way to Pucol. Rather them than me. Arrıvıng back ın the early hours of the mornıng, our heads had only just touched the pıllows before ıt was tıme to get up for our super early bus to Tomatına. Who needs sleep when you're busy attendıng festıvals ın Spaın? The Stoke staff forced dısgustıngly strong Bloody Marys on usand ın the kınd of stupor that accompanıes too lıttle sleep, we trudged onto the bus takıng us to Bunol, the tıny ındustrıal town where La Tomatına takes place each year on the last Wednesday of August each year.

Actual amount of people when we arrived, 3 or 4 hours before the actual start of Tomatina

Bunol's normal populatıon ıs 9000 but on the day of Tomatına swells to 40 000. Imagıne a typıcal small town and then ımagıne that many people crammed ınto tıny, medıevel sıze streets and take a moment to apprecıate your personal space. Word of the wıse to claustrophobıcs or people wıth a fear of bıg crowds: take Tomatına off your Bucket Lıst rıght now. Whıle Jordan and I had spent months lookıng forward to throwıng tomatoes at each other, he made the rookıe error of goıng to the toılet about an hour and a half before the start and couldn't fıght hıs way back to our prıme locatıon ın the thıck of ıt. I ended up spendıng the day wıth Monıque and Alana. We had met Monıque and her frıend Joe ın my dorm room ın Madrıd and had laughınly agreed to tomato each other, not belıevıng for a second we would see each other ın the mass of people. We managed to fınd each other not once but twıce and decıded ıt was fate.

Monique and Alana displaying some of my finest tomato related work

Joe accompanıed Jordan on hıs ıll fated trıp to the toılet so ıt was Monıque and I, as well as Alana, Monıque's frıend from Melbourne. Whıle we only very recent acquaintances, we soon found ourselves pushed together ın all sorts of posıtıons that would normally take years of famılıarıty to be permıssıble. We stood for hours, gettıng more and more packed ın and beıng drenched wıth water at regular ıntervals by locals above. People started chuckıng around wet, rıpped tshırts and one of them clocked me rıght ın the face, slammıng ınto my head. It took me awhıle to regaın the abılıty to thınk properly. From arrıvıng early ın the mornıng to get prıme posıtıons, we probably stood jampacked ın that maın street for a good fıve hours wıth no room to move, breathe or sıt.

Another water bomb from the locals above

Stuck somewhere amongst the crowd

After many, many ınvoluntary crushıngs and fallıng overs we gave up on apologısıng and dıscussed our quıte strongly held belıef we were 5 seconds away from death by crowd crushıng at all tımes. In the very center of the crowd the streets were already so jampacked we couldn't conceptualıse how ıt was possıble that all these people would fıt onto the curbs when the gıant trucks carryıng the tomatoes came through. The tradıtıonal start to Tomatına ıs when someone manages to clımb up a greasy pole and grab a ham whıch we got told never happened but a Monkey Boy scampered up. The horn sıgnıfyıng tomato throwıng was ON was met by fearful looks as we were already experıencıng elbows ın guts, heads ın throats and ınvoluntary crowd wıde swayıng. I'll never know how ıt was achıeved but somehow 6 trucks rolled through and we all managed to press ınto the curb, although the abılıty to breathe and move were prıvıleges lost as a result.

Here come the trucks...

Once the tomatoes came, hysterıa set ın - pulp flyıng everywhere, people scramblıng around as everythıng turned to red. A very enjoyable and ıncredıbly surreal hour of wıldly throwıng pulp where I felt, splashıng around ın shın deep pulp and havıng every bıt of my body covered ın tomato matter as I madly threw tomatoes ın all dırectıon at perfect strangers. I can't explaın how strange ıt all was but ıt was so exhılıratıng, tınged wıth the edge of fear at how crazy and unsafe ıt all was. I have no ıdea how the whole thıng ıs legal, ıt is everythıng you shouldn't do ın large crowds crammed ınto the worst possıble space for a crowd. I've certaınly never done anythıng lıke ıt before and probably won't agaın.

You've got a bit of tomato on you...

One hour later the process of escapıng the crowds and tryıng not to fall under the pressure of the crowd pushıng forward meant I got splıt up from Alana and Monıque (ın analysıs afterwards ıt appeared practıcally everyone got splıt up at thıs poınt) Streamıng up the hıll, person upon person covered ın pulp and prevıously prıstıne whıte clothes stagged up all stıll obvıously a bıt bedazzled by ıt all.

Post tomatoes and post shower necessary for being allowed back on the bus in my formerly white as snow clothes

Dıscussıng ıt wıth everyone ın the aftermath, we all agreed ıt had been absolutely manıc and a once ın a lıfetıme kınd of thıng. I fully, ıncredıbly, 100% recommend ıt.

(Last 2 photos by my Valencia friend Grant, who risked his nice fancy camera to get much better quality photos of Tomatina than my crappy waterproof disposable camera ones!)

The jet lagged sufferer's guide to Madrid

rachelina — Fri, 7 Oct 2011 07:14:00 GMT

Three months in South America seemed to have gone by in a blur when I was sitting in Bogota Airport. Sadly, the flight to leave South America felt like something close to 3 months despite being only 12 hours. One hellish flight later, I arrived stumbling and exhausted in Madrid Spain (think hidden transit of being delayed for much more than the scheduled tıme, air conditioning not working, multiple screaming babies and my seatmate stinking up the cabin with her nail polish)

Despite smugly thinking I would spend the next 2 and a half weeks enjoying conversations in Spanish with Spaniards, upon landing in Madrid I discovered after 3 months of desperately wishing there were more English speakers around; apparently all Spaniards in urban centers speak perfect English, and will reply in English even if you approach them in Spanish. The huge difference between Spain and Latin America in terms of the necessity of speaking Spanish was mind boggling. Throughout my 2.5 week in Spain, I encountered countless travllers who moaned about no one speaking English and had to struggle not to laugh in their faces after some of my experiences in Chile and Colombia.

Tryıng to fıt ın wıth the locals ın Madrıd

My travel companion for Spain was Jordan, my awesome friend from Texas. A small town boy with all American good looks, he is starting a semester studying abroad in Barcelona and we had agreed to make our way there together, with pit stops in Madrid and Valencia. Jordan, despite his many positive attributes, hasn't travelled that much...a fact which he conclusively proved when 1) arriving at Madrid Airport, he realised he hadn't notified his bank about his international intentions and spent 2.5 hours frantically calling them so he could leave the airport and 2) the very next day, my first afternoon in Spain, leaving his credit card (his sole source of finance) in an ATM. Consequencially, I became Jordan's sugar mama and paid his way all the way to Barcelona, whereupon I was paid back with many hundreds of Euros notes which I am now still carrying around, as my next 3 countries - England, Croatia and Turkey are all non Euro countries. Cheers Jordan.

While I absolutely loved my four nights in Madrid, I didn't do Madrid any justice whatsoever thanks to my murderous jet lag. One of my very good schoolfriends, Ria, had just spent a year living in Madrid and had enthusiastically sent me pages and pages of recommendations. I very shamefully achieved barely any of her suggestions. I fully intend to return and do it all properly because Madrid is a beautiful city full of energy and a million things to do. In between our terrible jet lag hindered sleep patterns, Jordan and I managed to achieve lots of lovely walks through leafy avenues and grand architecture, squeeze in a visit to the Prado - one of the best collections of art in Europe and my favourite, rowing on a man made lake in Parque del Retiro.

Jordan and hıs brıef stınt wıth the rows

A complete tourist trap and something I'm sure none of the local would deign to go anywhere near (when I told Ria how much I'd enjoyed it, I was rewarded with a very disdainful look), I don't mind as it was lovely to row around, laze in the sun and people watch. Our last night in Madrid, Jordan and I abandoned our baugette laden budget meal plan and splurged on a proper Cuban restaurant, which was absolutely delicious. I look forward to a day when the act of going to a resaturant in Europe isn't the ultimate luxury and when I don't know intimately know supermarket's bakery aisles.

After our amazıng dınner at the Cuban restaurant

Whilst the hordes of Australians (I could lie and say travellers and pretend they weren't all homogenous fluro wearing singlet and Southern Cross tattooed Australian males but this would be disgenious) were all doing Europe via railpass, buses are actually so much more kind on the budget, so Jordan and I exclusively travelled by bus. Our departure from Madrid wasn't quite the hasslefree one we had imagined. Already tardy, but still manageably so, our journey was dealt an almost fatal blow by the fact that the reception guy at our hostel had told us the wrong station to get off at for the bus station. Getting off where we thought was correct, the security guard at the station was given the task of informing us that no, we were 2 stations and a line change away. Racing back to the platform we were told we had 8 minutes until the next train arrived, which made catching our bus seem an unlikely possibility.

Jordan enjoyıng the spacıous journey to Valencıa

My determination not to buy a new ticket - 4 days in Madrid had already made me realize the European portion of my trip was going to take all my money - meant I raced through the metro when we got there, not opposed to pushing through children, running up escalator and leaving Jordan behind in the dust. Poor Jordan was wearing heavy boots and carrying a 60 pound, unwieldly long bag and couldn't follow me and my rucksack running in front of him. Against all odds, we made it just in time and as we pulled out of the station on the way to Valencia, we high fived and attempted to rid ourselves of all the adrenaline and stress. Off to Valencia we went!

Last Days in Colombia: The End of Team Beatrice

rachelina — Sat, 1 Oct 2011 06:55:00 GMT

The next morning, Bea and I headed back on the boat to Turbo, along with our new friend from Miami who had blindingly white teeth. Disappointingly the weather was fine and the sea calm, so no exciting ocean adventures with the threat of death happened this time around. In addition to a calm journez by sea, the driver who took us to Monteria was much more careful at driving around potholes so it was a much less bumpy journey by car as well. It was altogether civilised by Colombian standards – just the 1 tree blocking the road, 1 long wait as a digger built the road we were driving on (you know you are in South America when...) and 1 forced stop by soldiers at a random road checkpoint. Oh, and a completely flooded city with the streets of Monteria gushing with water.

Just the usual sights you see on a bus ride

We found a cheap hotel, a cheap restaurant and watched the news in English for the first time in god knows how long. Watching Anderson Cooper on CNN after 3 months in a South American bubble was slightly surreal, and I realized just how consuming South America is – I was suddenly reminded of hundreds of things I hadn’t thought of since I touched down in Chile.

The next day was my last full day in Colombia. Just in case I’d thought that after 3 months in South America, things would go smoothly, it was another ripper of a day. Monteria may be the biggest city in the area but it is so untouristy that it is deemed unworthy of visiting by LP and there is no mention of it whatsoever in and tourist literature. It’s all fine and well to stay in a place foreign to the concept of tourists but it means that basic stuff associated with travelling such as airport buses and information about how to get to said airport is not there. Despite Googling and searching our previously trusty friend, The Thorn Tree forum, we checked out of our hostel with nary an idea where the airport was or how we were going to get there. We asked the receptionist and she took us to a bus stop where we talked to a slurring man who was impossible to understand. It was hot, our backpacks were heavy and we were surrounded by people arguing about what bus we should take and taxi drivers hassling us to come with them. The unintelligible man was in charge of buses and kept waving hands, shaking his head muttering things we couldn’t understand, making understanding which bus to get on a no go.

Things that are nicer than dealing with buses in Monteria: lying on a beach in the Caribbean, staring up a palm tree

Eventually, he waved in the vague direction of a bus, we gave up trying to understand and decided just to get on and see where it took us. Throughout this entire process, one particularly eager taxi driver had been all up in our faces pushing his prices. Fed up with the impossible to understand man and having no idea if we could even get to the airport by bus, I was tempted to just give up and take the taxi, but Bea stood firm. An endearing aspect of Team Beatrice in Colombia was that in any situation involving money, all 3 of us would have our obstinate moments when we suddenly decided saving twenty cents was imperative to financial liquidity. Whilst it was Bea who stuck to her guns about the taxi in Monteria, it had been me who had pettily refused to pay an extra 1000 pesos (60 cents) to the taxi driver before, so I knew where she was coming from.

So we hopped on the bus going somewhere we hoped included the airport and noted with some relief the mumbling man muttered something that sounded vaguely like Aeropuerto. Trundling along, looking out for anything involving planes and runways, the bus filled up the point where Bea and I both had to lug our backpacks onto our laps to allow other passengers to sit down. Heaving 17kg on top of you and being unable to see, therefore rendering it impossible to look out for the thing you desperately need to fine – ideal. I saw a sign with a name that resembled the airport’s name (the one piece of information we’d managed to find out from Google) and Bea asked the girl next to her. Lucky she did, as the bus driver had no intention of stopping and it took half the bus shouting him down before he let us off. You haven’t experienced fun until you’ve dragged an unwieldy bulky 17kg backpack through a jam-packed crowded bus. Sometimes I truly hate my backpack.

Off the bus, we discovered what the man had probably been trying to explain in his mumbles. The bus drops you off ages away from the airport and you need to get a mototaxi for the final stretch. One last motorcycle ride in South America, zooming through the tree filled street, only slightly weighed down by the backpack. Finally we arrived at the Airport. Victory! Between the bus fare and moto taxi we saved a grand total of 2000 COP (NZD 1.20) than what we would have spent on a taxi. We agreed at least we’d had one last South American experience, even if the taxi would have been a thousand times less troublesome.

Off to Bogota! Or so we though, not allowing for the fact things are never as simple as they seem. Despite our plane being scheduled for 1.05pm, there was no indication of boarding or any sign our plane existed up until about 1.25pm. Eventually boarding after a delay, we sat on our propeller plane and prepared for takeoff, with the engine roaring and definite movement…before being informed there was an engine issue. The entire plane trooped off the plane, back to our old friend the departure lounge and Bea and I reflected on the prospects of never leaving Monteria. After awhile, we were allowed back on our plane which now felt safe and error free for all of us I’m sure. We made it to Bogota alive and made our way to North Bogota where we were couch surfing.

Bea and Helen had stayed at the same place on their way up to Santa Marta and had enjoyed it enough that they made repeat visits. A flat with approximately 8 people (constant coming and goings meant even the flat mates didn’t seem that sure), it was full of different nationalities and people doing all sorts of interesting things to scrape by in Bogota – English teaching, commercials extras work, hand modeling. One word of advice: always word your offer to help out with dinner carefully or else you may find yourselves paying and cooking for the entire household and then cleaning up afterwards.

Bea and I shared a romantic night together sleeping together on an upside down couch. The next day Bea headed off to explore La Candleria, the historic center of Bogota and Team Beatrice parted ways once and for all, with me heading off to the airport for my next destination: Spain. My almost 3 months in South America had so many highs, coupled with one or two lows (the tragedy of my ankle springs to mind). I managed to make my way from Patagonia all the way up to Panama and got to visit a glacier, the Easter Island moai, ride a boat up and down the Amazon River and have sun, sand and fun with Bea and Helen in Caribbean Colombia. I spent heaps of time in Chile and Colombia, but also managed to spend time in Peru, Brazil and Panama. Sometimes being in a Spanish speaking environment 24/7 and the frustrations that come with communicating in a foreign language made me want to bang my head against a wall but it was an absolutely amazing experience and I’m so glad I went. Hopefully it won’t be too long before I can come back and explore other corners of South America, because it’s a pretty incredible place.

From Patagonia to Panama

rachelina — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 04:04:00 GMT

Arriving at Capurgana Port, we were soggy, high on adrenaline and exhausted from our two day traveling stint to get there. Deposited in the middle of nowhere (a familiar feeling by now for Team Beatrice) we were ready for some relaxation. Ladden down with food supplies for our three night stay, I was once again reminded that a too heavy plastic bag cutting off circulation to fingers really can feel like the worst thing that has ever happened, even when you have just arrived in a Caribbean port town. Really wanting to pinch our pennies, we dismissed the hostel with harbor views and hammocks and dragged ourselves around the stony streets of Capurgana. It was all rather charming - there are no cars, it has a very relaxed beach town feel about it and hilariously, a man trotted by in a horse cart, his cart offering seats of white plastic chairs with legs cut off.

VIP transport, Capurgana style

While Team Beatrice got on famously during our travels together, carting truckloads of heavy plastic bags whilst working on 2 long travel days and little sleep can bring on frustrations quicker than normal. We ditched our bags with Helen, and Bea and I negotiated ourselves a room, bag free. Before agreeing to the room that we had found on the edge of town, we made sure to check there was a kitchen, having stocked up for 3 nights of cooking way back in Cartagena, not wanting to eat out and pay daylight robbery prices. Assured that there definitely was a kitchen by the sweet old lady who owned the place, we headed out for the day to laze on the beach and do a whole lot of well earned nothing. It was only when we returned at dark to prepare dinner that we realized the kitchen was a pit where you made your own fire out of the firewood you chopped with a provided machete. It was a dismal discovery. Trying our best with matches that wouldn't light and wood that we managed to get the owner's son to chop for us on account of our obvious uselessness, we realized an important fact: we had no fucking idea how to make a fire.

What would have been lovely to see in front of us at that exact moment

I'm sure the sight of all three of us miserably trying to light non lightable matches and fruitlessly blowing at the wood was a hilarious sight, but Team Beatrice's morale was at an all time low. Distressed at our inability to prepare dinner and bitter about the idea that a machete and pit were seen as a conventional kitchen in Capurgana, we were very luckily taken pity upon by the woman who had rented us the room. For a price, we were allowed to use the family's gas cooker, which caused a lovely bit of awkward family arguments with the husband, and Helen cooked us a marvellous dinner of rice. We were slightly cheered by the fact that after eating, the hippies staying in another room that we chatted to for an hour or so spent a good hour trying to boil some water and miserably failed. Fire does not maketh a well cooked dinner, or even warm water.

Their kitchen facilities may not be up to my standards, but Capurgana was still awesome

The next day we got up early to hike to Sapzurro, the next town a hill over. It was a boiling hot day and the one small bottle of water I brought was woefully inadequate but it was beautiful at the top, looking down over Sapzurro and its bay. The trek was both rudimentary and steep and on the way down there was a ten minute section that was essentially a sheer drop, covered in slippery mud. Guess who got covered in mud from far too many falls on the way down? Definitely not as fun as the mud volcano. Arriving in Sapzurro to a beautiful beach, sun and idyllic laid back tiny town, we decided to press on to Panama (as you do). Sapzurro is on the Colombian border and once you heave yourself up a steep hill of many, many stairs you reach the Colombian-Panamanian border and then heave yourself down again you reach the Panamanian border town of La Miel. Told the La Miel beach was awesome, we headed uphill, completed border crossing procedures and took an obiligatory photo with the 'Welcome to Panama' sign.

Overlooking Sapzurro from the very high mountain top

Hola Panama y Central America!

So...many...stairs

Once we'd trooped down the many stairs we arrived to the best beach ever. Spending summers on New Zealand's Northland beaches has made me a fussy consumer and a lot of beaches I've travelled to haven't met my Northland standards but La Miel way surpassed them. White sands, a big quiet bay and turquoise waters which were absolutely transparent. Strapping on a snorkel mask, I amused myself for hours diving to the bottom and floating upwards, watching the surface come closer. An absolutely fantastic day. Rather than catching the boat back to Sapzurro like everyone else, we chose to hike back, which meant that once the boats left we had the beach all to ourselves for another hour or so. Not quite machoistic enough to do the sweaty, muddy hike back to Capurgana, we ate coconut ice cream, bought some earrings and dangled our legs off Sapzurro's pier before having a lovely boatride around the bay to get home. Having negotiated we would pay to use the gas at our place for the entirety of our stay, I made a mediocre dinner of pasta carbonara and super enjoyed the awkwardness of cooking in someone else's kitchen with the entire family watching. That night, I attempted to learn salsa at the local discoteque, thanks to some kind locals.

Beautiful, lovely, amazing La Miel...my new favourite beach in the world

Arriving back in Capurgana via the much more relaxing and less taxing boat ride

Our last full day was slightly held up by the a fierce rainstorm at the start of the day but a morning's worth of dozing and reading isn't the worst thing in the world. Helen started the diving class she was staying longer in Capurgana to complete (and congrats Helsi on now beign a certified Open Water Diver!) while Bea finally picked out a present for her birthday that we had celebrated all the way back in bordertown Brazil. Our last night together plan of getting a nice dinner was challenged by all the formal dining options shutting early, but we made do with street food. I made one last Spanish faux pas, solemnly informing the girl who sold me a sole sausage rather than the full meal on offer that I only wanted a sausage because 'no tengo mucho hombre'. Spanish is Spanish and Rach is Rach, and never shall the twain meet. We ate our streetfood on the pier, looking out at the sea and reminiscing about our adventures together. It was a nice way to end things, although we were all sad to be going seperate ways. Helen is off to Montreal on a Canadian working holiday visa to become a literary superstar and work on her already perfect French, whilst Bea is heading to London to take on the world of corporate finance in the City. With me heading back to New Zealand in November to take care of severely depleted finances, it may be awhile till our threesome reunites once again, but whenever we do, we'll have lots of good memories and funny stories to laugh about.

Downtown Capurgana

The hellish, exhausting and utterly entertaining road to Capurgana

rachelina — Tue, 20 Sep 2011 15:16:00 GMT

The end was nigh. Bea and I's flights from Bogota to Europe loomed over us. We decided to go out with a bang and finish our Colombian adventures in the Darien Gap. The Darien Gap is the link between South America and Central America, and this thin little swath of land has two small Caribbean towns on the Colombian side which we were told had amazing beaches and was off the Gringo Trail. There's a reason why Capurgana and Sapzurro are so off the trail - they're kind of a nightmare to reach. First came the journey between Cartagena and Monteria, which was long and bumpy but uneventful. Once we got to Monteria, a large town in the middle of the journey, we were told to go stretch our legs and our driver disappeared - ostensibly to round up more passengers for the next leg (we'd already spent an hour idling in Cartagena waiting to fill up the van)

We'd started playing a game in these last few days, called 'You know you're in South American when...' and from Monteria onwards there were plenty of moments that qualified. I knew things were going to be interesting when we got told to get out of the van and the drive refused to tell me how long the break would be or when we should be back, just repeating 'Go relax!' Never a good sign. We were all suspicious about leaving our bags unattended so after a quick bathroom break, went back to the van to watch over our worldly possessions. Our driver had apparently vanished into thin air and after awhile, a random man came over and started walking off with our bags ignoring me and my screeching of 'Que paso?! Donde vas? Hey! Hey! Hombre!' Competition is fierce at Colombian bus stations and it's not unusual for an aggressive method to be used to try and coerce gringas into going with a different company. We had paid for the journey right through to Turbo and having nary a receipt or anything at all to prove this without our driver being there, it took awhile to sort out that for some inexplicable reason we were transferring from the relatively modern, comfortable van to a much older and dingier one (it wouldn’t happen any other way in South America)

While the new driver couldn’t seem to comprehend why the three of us might be just a teensy bit concerned about a stranger taking our bags or wanting to ensure we wouldn’t be double charged, we eventually got on the road…only to pull over ten minutes later on a country road. As Helen so succinctly put it when this happened, ‘You know you’re in South America when you have no fucking idea what’s going on.’ My entire 3 months in South America could quite aptly be described as one constant battle against cluelessness. Faffed around, added some extra passengers to the already full vehicle and loaded so much furniture to the roof that I wondered if we would be strewing furniture behind us for the rest of the journey, and after an inappropriately long time had passed, restarted the voyage. Part of what had attracted us to Capurgana and Sapzurro were the horror stories we’d heard about the road to Turbo and Turbo itself. I can confirm the road is just what it as described as – a terrible, terrible “road” made up mostly of potholes and dirt. Our driver’s approach to the rudimentary road went somewhere along the lines of ‘Why not just drive as fast as possible with no apparent concern for minor issues such as metres deep potholes and the van falling apart around us?’

I know it sounds like I’m whinging, but I hope it comes across that despite the sometimes ridiculousness of what I talk about, I always find it hilarious and entertaining. In the beginning stages of the trip, when we were still on paved sections and being only mildly jostled, I remarked it didn’t seem that bad. Many hours of bouncing up and down later on, Bea asked if I still held that opinion. Adding to the charms of a six hour drive made up solely of bumps so hard we nearly hit the ceiling and a vehicle sounding so tired and rundown that the entire back section of it squeaked so loud we could barely hear ourselves, we ALSO had the delight of loud, headache inducing salsa music playing the entire journey. Our driver favoured the volume level of ‘so loud you can’t think’ and at various stages of the trip, all three of us attempted to listen to our iPods for a short period of time before sighing, putting them away and admitting defeat to our cruel, probably deaf driver and his maximum volume salsa.

We had bought a bun from a bakery in Monteria and had eaten breakfast in Cartagena many hours before but it was a long, nutritionless day. We all concluded it was just as well, because there were no bathroom stops. At several points during the journey, the sentiment of ‘these beaches better be fucking worth it’ was expressed. Having heard so much about what a hellhole Turbo was, I never thought I’d want to get there so badly. Stupefied, numb from screamingly loud salsa, lack of sustenance and so used to falling into Bea and Helen from the bumps I gave up apologizing, I couldn’t quite believe it when it was announced we were finally in Turbo. It took a good ten minutes to find my errant left flip flop, which had been jerked around so much by the ride it had slide to the front of the van. While I was hunting around the floor of the van, Helen and Bea were at the back discovering a fellow passenger had left his fresh fish on top of our backpacks in a shoddy container which leaked fish oil all over our bags. With anecdotes like this, the entire content of this blog could be used as a case study of the differences between a vacation and backpacking.

The beach that was totally fucking worth it

Having been told by every source of info just how lacking the safety in Turbo was and the absolute need to get there in daylight hours, definitely at the very latest by 5pm, we were just thrilled to have arrived at 10pm. A sample of LP’s write up of Turbo; “Previously off limits to foreigners due to muchos paramilitaries and guerillas in the neighbourhood…ridding yourself of revolutionaries does not a destination make. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out. Turbo is best seen through a rearview mirror.” Luckily the hotel Lonely Planet had recommended (funnily enough, there isn’t a thriving hostel scene in Turbo) was nearby and we staggered to it, paying for a triple room so small the only way all three of us could fit was to lie on our beds. My favourite feature was the ensuite bathroom, separated by a plastic curtain, with the toilet right next to the head of Helen’s bed. The owner was lovely and very helpful, booking us priority seats on the next morning’s boat.

Home sweet grotty home

The other guy checking in with us turned out to be a Kiwi, earning his living sailing between Panama and Colombia. Having been away from New Zealand for many years, he was very excited to find out we were fellow countrywomen and invited us to eat with him. We found that all gringos who settle down in South America tend to be a little odd, and he was no exception, but he was nice and promised to help us navigate the port the next day. We retired to our luxurious room for the night, excited but slightly trepidatious about the next morning’s boat ride. Yes, our journey wasn’t over yet. Inaccessible by road, the two towns we were going to can only be reached via expensive flight or boat. The boat is the stuff of legend amongst backpackers in Colombia. Known for being uncomfortable, rather hellish and a real experience, it leaves once a day from Turbo Port. The early morning departure was the reason behind our night in Turbo (which all of us, hyped up for the scariest place ever, actually thought wasn’t that bad)

Forewarned about the necessity of getting a seat at the back to avoid being slammed up and down by the hull at the front, we utilized our new Kiwi friend’s perfect Spanish and snagged back seats. I craftily chose a middle seat after the agonies of aisle seat boating in Playa Blanca. Helen foolishly got an aisle seat and lived to regret it. After handing over our passports which took an anxiously long time to be returned we set off…only to rock up to a soldier’s marine post where once again we had to hand over our passports. Once half the population of Turbo had examined our passports, we finally hit open waters. At which point we saw a storm in the distance. I cheerfully thought to myself it couldn’t be that bad if we were still racing towards it. At this point, I should have reminded myself that we had been told to expect the worst journey of our lives that was guaranteed to be bone shatteringly uncomfortable.

Rocking the latest in towelling fashion

Closer and closer we got to the storm, the skies becoming grey and the waves becoming choppier. With the wind picking up, I started glancing over at the suddenly far away looking shore and mentally calculating my ability to swim the distance. As we speeded towards the stormy bit of the ocean, appearing to pick up pace, the roof that was covering the boat started blowing off. One second it was nosily flapping in the wind, the next it was being lifted by the sheer strength of the gusts with the iron bits rearing up and threatening to land very nastily on one of the passengers. While the boat driver showed no apparent concern, several of the passengers screeched and yanked it down. The strength of the wind meant as we hit the strongest bit of the storm it continued to blow up and away and all the passengers in the aisle sections were forced to death grip the poles down in an attempt to avoid decapitation by boat roof. Helen, as an unlucky aisler, gripped for the remainder of the two hour trip (seriously kids, listen to Auntie Rachel. NEVER pick the aisle seat in a South American boat.)

Helen, in the one position she held for 2 hours (taken during a stop at a port. There is no way in hell I would have attempted a photo when the boat was moving)

In addition to the roof trying its best to blow off into the distance, the height of the waves and breakneck speed meant everyone was sopping with waves crashing all over us. We all adorned ourselves with our towels and for an indeterminate amount of time, I remember leaning forward with my towel over my head, getting wetter and wetter. Occasional peaks out of my towel showed we were surrounded by grey fog and giant waves. When I turned around to look at Bea and Helen, the disbelieving looks on their faces matched mine, which was based on the pondering of what we’d gotten into. One tiny little boat juddering up and down on big waves in the middle of a rather fierce seeming storm. Oh Colombia. It was at this point I realized we were going to get to Capurgana, whether it killed us or not…literally. I wondered at what point it became too dangerous to carry on and what would make them burnt back. A couple days later, chatting to some hippies in our communal kitchen, we got told tales of people getting black eyes/damaging their spleens/knocking teeth out on especially violent rides, all of which did not turn back and just kept hurtling along, even when the boat drivers had no idea where they were or how they were going to get back to land. Conclusion: there is apparently no point at which the Turbo-Capurgana route is too dangerous.

Mud Volcanoes and Midnight Swims - Cartagena II and Playa Blanca

rachelina — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 08:10:00 GMT

After our rain soaked experience the day before, we decided to spend the following day covering ourselves in another substance: mud! Helen and I had been eagerly anticipating the Volcan de Lodo El Totumo since reading about it back in Leticia, but poor Bea wasn't such a fan. Her childhood fear was mud and she couldn't think of anything worse than getting in a small lagoon of mud full of people intent on covering themselves - and her - with mud. She very valiantly agreed to go, although she didn't really have much of a choice; Helen and I had talked about little else but the volcano in the days before we got to Cartagena. The volcano is around 1.5 hours out of the city and with very tedious travel connections connections making the journey much longer than 1.5 hours, we opted for a tour.

The precarious way of getting down from the volcano

The volcano sustains the economy of the local village, and you can pay 3000 pesos (NZD2) for services like having a local take photos on your camera, in order to get photographic evidence without sacrificing your camera to the mud gods in the process. They also offer mud 'massages' for another 3000 pesos, which I decided to forego up until I got into the mud pool and found myself being pulled over, head forced down and told to relax. As it was such a small sum, I shrugged and enjoyed the nice local man's idea of what a massage is - basically smoothing mud over my legs. As LP said when describing the mud massages "the locals certainly didn't go to massage school".

Team Beatrice: Mud Style

Helen and I had the time of our lives smearing each other with mud, having mini mud fights and enjoying the sensation of trying to reach the bootom but being pushed right back up by the buyoancy of the mud. Meanwhile, every single photo of Bea taken during this shows her with pursed lips, a disdainful expression and eyes that say 'GET ME OUT OF HERE'. She did very well putting up with Helen and I's attempts to cover her in mud but beat an early retreat, awkwardly standing waiting for Helen and I. We very maturely proclaimed we were never coming out although eventually we felt bad about the line of people waiting so got out and headed down to the lagoon to wash off. Local women charge 3000 pesos for a 'professional wash' but none of us doubted our ability to clean ourselves and politely declined the service. The ladies did not take well to this and made it clear we were not welcome anywhere near them. Cast to the no man's land part of the lagoon, we dunked ourselves and got rid of the mud which had gotten into all sorts of funny places.

Pick which one of the three of us wasn't having the time of her life

After drying, tipping the little boys who had brough our shoes from place to place and laughing at every single photo taken, we headed to a beacher we had a delicious fish meal, washed down with coconuty treats. On the way there, we were treated to Marco Antonio Solis' video hits, which were truly epic. One man can never wear enough gold chains according to Marco. We finished our delightful day off people watching in our favourite place in Cartagena, Plaza de Trinidad, sipping on delicious freshly made juices made by a lovely woman who always gave us seconds for free. When I'm old, boring and have too many responsibilities, I'll think nostalgically back to those days, sipping on passionfruit juice whilst lazily sitting in the bright yellow square in the sun, watching local kids play soccer.

Life was pretty close to perfect...

Cartagena's relative touristy-ness compared to the rest of Colombia means there are millions of touts hard selling day trips to Playa Blanca, a beautiful beach in the Isla de Rosario. Everything we'd heard about these tours sounded like an overpriced, padded out waste of time. Still wanting to see what sounded like a lovely beach, we decided to stay the night and get out there the way the locals did it; via a small boat at the market outside the city centre. Misled by Lonely Planet's assertion that there were several boats a day, with the last leaving at 9am, we got up at the crack of dawn to ensure an early departure. We found a boat, confirmed our destination and boarded, assuming an imminent departure.

With such stunning views, who WOULDN'T want to spend several hours in an uncomfortable boat looking at this?

I'll tell you something: the scenic sights of rubbish strewn everywhere, the smell of dead fish and having to say 'No gracias' to the constant stream of vendors every two seconds or so quickly loses its novelty factor. The crucial detail we hadn't realised was that there was ONE boat which left at 9am, which meant we sat there in an agonisingly slow time warp, waiting for the boat to fill up, our legs and bums already cramping many many minutes before the 1.5 hour journey begun. FYI if I've learnt nothing else from South America, NEVER sit on the aisle of the boat. You won't have proper leg room and the weird positions you are forced into causes staggering amounts of pain.

But it was all worth it

After the longest time - like I've said before, travelling in South America requires a large dose of patience - we FINALLY pulled out...only to come back to the harbour within 2 minutes for another indeterminate amount of time's wait. Once we had actually got on our way, we were absolutely delighted to see stormclouds in the distance. Helen's assurance that she would "be FURIOUS" if they stayed around was shared by Bea and I. The beginnings of the afternoon were overcast but it luckily cleared up after not too long, and our moods were all restored. We chatted to an American who had worked as a GAP Adventures tour guide, who amused us with his tale of being accused of being in a sexual relationship with a girl in his tour group, "yeah but I'm gay sooooo..."

It's a tough life

We found hammocks, directly on the beach, for 7000 pesos (NZD$4) and set about reading, swimming and enjoying beach life. The lady who ran the shack our hammocks were strung under had a teenage son who was very eager to practise his English and had a very odd interpretation of the rules of Uno. While I gave up trying to explain and just played by his bizarre rules, when Helen joined the game she wasted no time telling him off and making him play the game properly, much to his and my amusement. We ate at a restaurant along the beach and grouped up with 2 Canadians who Bea recognised as her cocaine-addled roomates from a La Paz, Bolivia hostel. We sat chatting on the sand, drinking rum and all aware when we headed back to the real world, we would think happily back to nights like this. We finished the night with a midnight swim in the ocean, which was still warm and clear. Midnight swims in the Caribbean sea are very fun, I fully recommend them. We fell asleep in our swinging hammocks, slightly giggly with fear about the sounds of an animal trampling around in the bush (with me being the closest to what turned out to be a wild pig, Be and Helen decided they were probably safe and that I could be the sacrifice)

If we're drinking pina coladas out of coconuts on a Colombian beach, it must be Tuesday

We had the morning to carry on with our sun, swim and book program and had a delicioushamburger after tramping up and down the beach trying to find some decently priced food. Both Team Beatrice and the Canadians were running low on cash and concerned about running out (Playa Blanca, being nothing but an island beach, has no ATMs) although at least wer weren't as bad as the Canadians, who only at the last minute realised that paying for a beer to accompany their lunch would mean they wouldn't be able to pay for lunch.

Hammocking it all over Colombia

Commandeering a boat back, which thankfully left straight away, we waved goodbye to idyllic Playa Blanca and had one last night in Cartagena, set and ready for our next big adventure early the next morning: the road to Turbo.

Hasta luego Playa Blanca!