There were three of us that went to South America; myself, my longtime girlfriend of eight years, Jasmin, and my childhood friend and subsequent best mate Danny.
Jasmin and I had planned for a trip through South America for months previous to our departure. The idea of travel to South America had been all but tangible to me since childhood, when my eldest brother and his girlfriend - now wife - began a year long around the world trip in South America. In the year leading up to our trip, I had fed my thirst for latin culture, sexy music and a expansive land of lax rules with max adventure with travel novels. They were the kind that provoked desire and passion to travel with outlandish tales that have the capacity to cripple one's comfort and stability in everyday living. 'My Colombian Death', by Matthew Thompson, was perhaps my favourite, a recount of an Australian Journalist who abandoned his pregnant girlfriend, temporarily, to chase his personal demons and stave off premature mid-life crises. He encountered merciless bull fighting, dodgy drug dealers, and sought after shamanic experiences to vanquish his inner demons.
Another novel that edged me closer to the airport with every page was from author Yossi Ginsberg, entitled 'Jungle'. It provided the perfect backdrop (and most uncannily as we shall explore later) for a trip into the Bolivian Amazonian basin that we would later take. 'Jungle' is a survival story of an Israeli man who in 1981 attempted a virtually independent venture with three other fellow backpackers into the Amazon jungle in Bolivia in search of unhindered and raw trekking experience.
These stories continued to provide a source for my lust for Latin America leading up to our arrival. But as usual, real and personal experiences outweigh those of others tenfold. And this is mine.
