Global Nomad Travel

Brazil to Peru

06/16/10

It was 3:15 a.m. and our hotel phone rang. Our taxi was 15 minutes early. Knowing about all the late night (or early morning) con-artists who take advantage of tourists, I asked Boxie-boo to check to see if the metre was running while I loaded the bags. Since I only had an opportunity for a couple hours of shut-eye, this made me unable sleep.

Outside it was as dark as it gets. Boxie-boo nodded. The metre was not running. I loaded the bags. We sat in the backseat, ready to head to the airport…then he said it. What an asshole.

“The ride costs 60 Reias.”

“Metre,” I sais pointing, leaned forward looking at him with a stern glare straight in his eyes. Boxie-boo, who does not like confrontation, remained silent.

“It is 60 or catch another taxi,” he said. I leaned in closer, tempted to head butt the son of a bitch.

I got out immediately. My heart galloped at race horse speed, my left hand flexed into a rock hard fist. Holding my carry-on bag, I felt my right hand fingers dig into my palms through my backpack straps. I had beem traveling too far, for too long, to deal with this bullshit. The taxi driver got out. I boxer-sized him up for a fight, shook my head, then took one large gulp of air before the plung.

I needed to Zen or drop my pants and pee on him. I decided to Zen.

Taking in a slow, long breath, I released the raging bull living in my bumhole, let go of the grip of my hands, looked up at the blackness above me, before glancing back at the driver with an ability to yoddle or Xena Warrior Princess scream. I shook my head at him. Continued my Zen. I thought about what hotel staff advised a taxi to the airport costs during the day with more traffic. Forty-five Reias. There were no cars in sight or flying pigs. No traffic. We had a plane to catch and the con-artist driver had the upper hand. I did not know how long it would take for another to arrive.

I swallowed what little pride I had left, taking in the empty calories. I offered him 50 Reias. He agreed. During the entire drive, I secretly plotted the driver´s demise like a comic book villan. In my plan, he was to spend the rest of his life forced to work as a drag queen, then die slowly of syphillis and buried in a pet cemetery.

After two flights and 11 hours later, we arrived in Lima, Peru - our first stop with no Visa fee since Botswana. Customs was casual and quick - and for the first time in a while, there was no question about my identity as they did not even look at the clean-shaven, short-haired guy I once was in my passport photograph.

We arranged a taxi through the airport cabbie desk and headed towards the Albergue Miraflowers House.

On the road, we passed vans spray-painted multi-coloured, moving by walls nearby the airport covered from images around the world, and our past: Taj Mahal, Sydney Opera House, Great Wall of China, etc. Interlocking hands connected the images in an area where men in green gowns sweeped the streets out front. In all directions were massive, faded billboards, many brick buildings, while our driver thumb danced on the steering wheel to 60´s music.

Driving across an ocean-side highway, we saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time in months, a different sight from Vancouver, where the waves crashed a dirty dark brown out front of rows of dirt, piles of softball-sized rocks. Boulders. Our driver continuously used his fake police siren horn to skip through traffic, passing escape route signs for tsunamis.

Sweet Caroline, ba ba ba….

Nearing the neighbourhood of our guest house, the area was lined with parks of green grass, the roadway lined with beautiful trees. It looked very similiar to neighbourhoods back home with giant skyrises set in front of well-maintained grass with views of the ocean.

“This area is beautiful,” Boxie-boo said. “They even keep the grass and flowers up to par.”

By the time we arrived at the Albergue Miraflowers House, I had been up for two days and exhausted. It was just what I needed. The guesthouse was comfortable, warm and our room included a private bath, T.V. and a DVD player with free DVDs available. Free internet access was quick, and part way through watching a movie, a staff member dropped us off two free vodka tonics, which tasted terrific. We capped off the night relaxing, remembering to begin our altitude sickness pills in preparation for our next stop - the mountains of Cusco.

That´s all for now.

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World Cup Fever, Brazil

06/15/10

Warning: The following post might contain evidence that you are just so attractive.

Massive waves crashed across Copacabana´s shoreline with the sound of rising thunder, mixing in with the echoes of horns blasting through the air. Drummers pounded out samba rhythms by tables draped in yellow and green, overlooking a beach filled with soccer players in restaurants covered in Brazilian flags. The tamberine´s rattled. Air horns raised above our heads. All the while, a constant stream of cars drove by honking with passengers out the window screaming and waving flags.

You would think they had already won the World Cup, yet they were over two hours away from their first game against North Korea. We were on route to the Fifa Fan Fest - a massive outdoor T.V. located on Copacabana beach for games.

We were walking amongst of crowd where locals wore toques shaped like soccer balls, sure to watch our pockets as the crowd thickened. All around us was green and yellow, from green high heals and yellow bikinis, to bandanas, clown hair, whistles and plastic horns. Yellow. Green. The entire city united. The array of focused colour was only broken by brown police officers armed with massive sticks and helmets.

“Are you serious?” I said, before laughing. Above our heads, three small planes began flying in unison, before drawing a giant circle to represent the center of their country´s flag. Helicopters circled the crowd growing with passion like spreading fire. Men held massive steel drums on either sides of their hips, armed with cups across their chess worn like ammunition. Imitation World Cup Tropheys were held in high, often kissed, surrounded by crowds dancing.

Again. The first game did not start for two hours. The line-up to get into Fifa Fan Fest was as wide as half a soccer pitch, where more air horns were held in the air, shaken at their hips to be reloaded, adding fire to the growing flames of yellow and green. Boxie-boo and I did our best to blend in by wearing our Kaka jerseys, while she also painted her nails national colours and cheered with an enthusiasm normally reserved for a new episode of The Hills. We had passed massive sand castles of Rio, walking under the close watch of circling helicopters. We were now shoulder to shoulder, before being pushed on all angles as the mass of people moved as one entity.

“This is too much for me,” said Steve, before walking around.

The number 1 was added to the zero drawn in the sky, mimicking Kaka´s jersey. The sun beamed. The smell of bum crack sweat. Horns and drums. My entire body bumped while I tried to write. Yellow.

Green.

You are attractive (I warned you!).

The line moved up once more, then stopped. Minutes later the crowd disperced. The Fifa Fan Fest was at capacity. It was time to pull the strings of public relations, Ribatron-don style.

The crowd moved like ants surrounding a discarded apple. Boxie-boo and I walked up to security officials. Pointing at the camera around my neck and my notebook open, I said “Journo!” at which point I was told to talk to another security official. Passing through the crowds sounded like a war zone with helicopters sending bassy rhythms through the sky, sirens wailing, where people ran in all directions. The second guard told me to head left, pointing, before holding people back who tried to jump the front fence.

“Journalisto,” I said at the side media entrance, a word I hope would sound Spanish enough to jump over the language barrier. An official scanned my camera and notebook, the complete confidence of my stance. “Canada,” I said, pointing to my chest. She waved us through, at which point we were given green wrists band that allowed us into media-only areas. I will now cue the disapproving headshake of my mother and my father´s laughter.

Sitting on padded mats of green and yellow, of course, I grabbed us a couple free beers and Powerades, small sandwiches, at which point we were given large blown-up red hands, used to clap when Brazil scored. Handing Boxie-boo a beer and Powerade, I gave her the grin of the grinch who stole Christmas.

“You surprised?” I gave her the look of the dog who had just been invited for a walk.

“I never doubted your bullshitting capabilities for one minute,” she responded. My dog face changed to the confusion of an unknown wagging tail. Ra roo roo?

Now that was unfair. I was a journalist, I was planning to write about the game (and did) and every media agency I mentioned might potentially run this story or another version of it. The only lie, a mild one really, was explaining to the lady that I was simply told on the phone to come down and did not know why my name was not on the list. “My editors will be pissed if I don´t come back with crisp copy,” I remember saying. Alright, maybe she had a point, albeit a small one as the story is now published on Page59.com.

Within minutes of the first half, a massive wall was pushed over and a huge crowd powered in, moving security officials aside, the sun beaming over a mountain across the fans. It took minutes for the wall to be closed, at which point police had entered, trying to spot jersey wearing suspects in a sea of yellow and green. Their job, at this point, was impossible.

I looked away briefly. A moment to take notes. Suddenly, the crowd was standing around me, screaming and cheering. Dust clouds of sand were kicked into the air, beers aimlessly spilt, while horns blasted from the mouths of adults and children alike. Brazil had scored. Boxie-boo whispered to me that she farted.

By the second goal, our entire stand thundered. The plastic blow-up hands banged against my back and chest. Groups of women were cha cha dancing, while young lovers gave celebratory kisses. Boxie-boo returned from the outhouse.

“It doesn´t look like the Koreans are gonna see this at home,” she said, referring to North Korean´s media cencorship - a government that has openly proclaimed game highlights will only be shown if the country wins.

The only time their horns were lowered was when North Korea scored. By the time we left the stadium, the streets were mardi gras packed, a city filled with celebration, where advertisement screens blew steam at the crowds. Boxie-boo began our commute home by constantly smacking my bootae with her giant hand clappers. All I could think of was 2014 - of the adrenaline-fuelled soccer frenzy that will fill these streets for the next World Cup. It was a nuclear bomb of football passion, of a shared dream to watch Brazil - the most winning nation in World Cup history - to raise the cup once more.

That´s all for now.

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The Sugar Loaf, Rio de Janeiro

06/14/10

I do not want to freak anybody out, but I know you are reading this right now.

Alright, the above joke might be funnier if, like all jokes, after the punch line, you imagine a guy wearing a Speedo being hit in the nuts by a football. I thought about this, while Boxie-boo utilized her famous move to get me dancing in the morning by holding up the bathroom. While she sang in the shower, I ballerina-swayed on my tippy toes, the post football to the groin position, to avoid peeing myself.

Oh the romance, our young love, where I was always happy we kissed not only for the connection it brought us, but the understanding that Boxie-boo was too close to see what’s wrong with me. I realized this, hours later, while we rode the first of two Sugar Loaf cable cars, taking us up to a 360-degree, ocean-front view across Rio de Janeiro.

During the first ride from Praia Vermelha (Red Beach) to Morro da Urca (Urca Hill), our cable car was surprisingly smooth, with a view shooting backwards towards the city. The view was nice, but my mind was elsewhere. I found myself only able to think about one thing.

“How hilarious would a nude male photo be from this viewpoint?” I asked.

“There is something wrong with you,” she responded, before laughing.

My gig was up. I knew I should not have confused my eyelash spasm for a logical thought. She looked around to make sure nobody else heard me as I spoke rather loudly. I made the mistake of presuming we were the only English speakers, the same mistake I made days earlier proclaiming “I have diarrhea” in the El Misti Hostel. Either way, we were well rested, the sun was shining in full force and we were stoked, though unhappy with the cost - 44 Reias per person.

When we reached the first peak at an altitude of 220 metres, Boxie-boo seemed in a rush to jump up the next cable car. Maybe she worried I might actually put my thought into action. I’ll be honest - there are few things in this world funnier than male nudity: just picture a streaker running across a football pitch while being chased by security officials. Hilarious? Yes.

Reaching the peak of Sugar Loaf, an altitude of 528 metres, we could see across many Rio beaches - Flamengo, Botafogo, Leme, the infamous Copacabana, Ipanema, to name a few. The view expanded all the way across downtown Rio, Guanbara Bay, the Corcovado Mountain with the Christ the Redeemer statue and as far out to sea as our vision would take us.

From this vantage point, Rio appeared more like an island than part of one of the world’s largest countries. It was an awe-inspiring view, forcing me to step back and turn slowly, attempting to widen my gaze while leaning in to catch each detail; a sight where the sun seemed to rise and fall simultaneously.

Rio was no longer a city, but a massive bonfire flame of green, fiery with blue smoke and a light cloud mist that took my eyes hostage: the ghost white buildings bursting like pockets of oxygen, the distant sea darkening a navy blue; the skeletal green skyline, smooth and jagged like the dance of coloured smoke. It was a waltz of mountainous shadows over a city, sucked up into the sky where we stood, our eyes sapphire sharp from this play of light.

I could have stood there all day content to wait for the moon to turn the mountains to stone, the sea a black sand and the buildings into an ivory of glow.

A tourist trap, indeed, but a view that will not easily be forgotten.

Boxie-boo had other plans, having discovered a small marmoset primate in a tree (above).

Women all react the same way when having a cute small animal in view: they begin by running uncontrolled, ignoring everything a man says, raising their voices as high pitched as possible, without noticing all the stupidities of men. Had she been wearing a purse, it would have been sumo smashed into my chest. For some reason, it becomes an emergency situation, as if their lives depended on the animal being able to hear them say “aww.” A man could be drooling, unemployed, openly wearing a pooped diaper, but if held a puppy, he would receive more attention than Brad Pitt’s belly button lint. True story.

That’s all for now.

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Botanical Garden of Rio de Janeiro

06/13/10

Rio’s public transit bus broke continuously with the sound of a pig mid-orgasm. Its body swayed back and forth, adding the sound of twisting latex, as if we were in a massive Durex condom battling a rival Trojan, maddening louder as the road turned to cobblestone. I was beginning to feel feverish. The sounds were getting to me. They managed to leave the bus and enter deep in my ears: two pigs squealing in full body condoms, wrestling on my brain, while my breaths tied their tails in knots. Oink, oink, baby.

The 571 bus was colourful with yellow polls, blue chairs and a red turnstile next to a sideways sitting cashier. The turnstile was so stiff it forced people to do awkward kamasutra moves to push their hips through, a sight that made the brake pigs squeal. I suddenly felt an urge to roll in mud while snorting.

Not sure where to get off, pun not intended, I walked up to the cashier and showed him a piece of paper with our destination written on it, Jardim Botanico, and mimicked for him to pull the stop string for us. He nodded. “Obrigado,” (Thank you), I said, nodding back, while the pigs in my head kept oinking.

Outside, small squares were turned into markets. The sidewalks, lined with graffiti across walls, were covered in floral designs of black and white tile. Some women walked by in tall high heals, wearing shorts cut high enough that caused their inside pockets hang lower. Tennis-sized courts were used by barefoot soccer players pounding their feet on concrete. Nearby tree trunks appeared to be a bunch of tangled vines interconnected out front of apartment buildings draped by Brazilian flags.

My fever worsened. The sounds increased. The pigs must have been working on triplets.

“Your head is clammy,” Boxie-boo said, then helped me to remove my sweater. Steve, a middle-aged American from Phoenix joined us, also feeling off from the bus. When we arrived at the gardens, we ate some lunch and within minutes I felt better.

Coincidentally, we visited the gardens on their 202nd birthday. Dom Joao (King John), later known as Dom Joao VI, founded the Botanical Garden on June 13, 1808 when he was Prince Regent. This former King of the United Kingdom of Portugal and Brazil, used the area for a gunpowder factory to defend his crown, all the while collecting flora from Brazil and throughout the world.

The park was a gorgeous tour of history and plants, centered around the Fountain of the Muses, which represented poetry, science and art. The gardens featured a palm collection, Japanese garden, numerous cactus species, giant amazonian plants, as well as many ponds and historical statues. For the Ribatron-don, the excitement resided in my nostrils.

After smelling a clove leaf (Christmas ham ingredient), I spent a couple minutes holding a cinnamon leaf below my nostrils. I honestly did not know that cinnamon came from a tree, I thought it came from leprechauns.

“You look like a crack addict,” Boxie-boo said.

“The sense of smell is underrated,” I responded. We were in a free golf cart tour passing Mexican tequila plants, before entering a house of orchids. The air was fresh, either the smell of grass or of flowers. A stunning park. It resided at the foot of Corcovado Mountain, bringing with it a cooling mountain breeze.

For Boxie-boo, the highlight was the greenhouse filled with carnivore plants, especially the Sarraceniaceae (below).

The plant did not look like much, resembling a small brown duffel bag the size of a child’s hand. It was leafed, shaped like an amphora, which contains a volatile substance that exhales an odour capable of attracting prey. When insects land or climb on the border of its open tube, then slides down to the interior, it becomes able to escape by virtue of the inverted hairs and the smooth walls.

The most famous attraction forced Boxie-boo to have no choice but to jump in the air for a photograph. Known as the “Avenue of Palms”, the entrance was lined with over 130 soaring palm trees, perfectly set apart, spanning what seemed near 800 yards. It was originally reserved for the royal family only, all the trees grown from the seeds of a single tree known as the Palma Mater. If foklore was true, all the seeds of this majestic tree were burned to insure nobody else could grow one. The nature followed suit, later destroying the mother tree with lightning.

For the Ribatron-don, nothing beat the massive, Amazonian waterlillies, some as large as monster truck tires. They looked large and strong enough to surf with, capping off an absolutely stunning collection of rare and beautiful plants, silencing even the most horny pigs trapped inside my brain.

That’s all for now.

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Walking Around Gloria, Rio

06/12/10

I wore sunglasses to hide the fact that my eyeballs were naked and I had not slept in days. The shades had turned the shoreline into a shadow of blackness: a tree-covered landscape became a blanket of dark green and silver pinned by grand rocks lighted a golden brown, the mountains of constant summer. Smooth crests of rocks vanished under a shoreline of tree limbs as we walked, hand in hand, lowering the sky around Boxie-boo’s smile.

For the cost of 10 Reias more, we were in good spirits having switched from the El Misti Hostel to the Golden Park Hotel in Gloria, excited for our first night of quiet sleep. The two establishments were about as comparable for comfort as a hemorrhoid is to a professional massage. We switched from a dungeon of compressed bass, mildew, urine and broken appliances, to a hot private bathroom, cable T.V., fresh air and a soft, quiet bed, where the only sound was the low, smooth breeze of the air-conditioner.

I listened to my footsteps as we switched to the sand; the absence of sensation made me feel as though I was sleep walking. Behind us, sand seemed to fall, blurring the trail of our steps. I left my sunglasses on for a moment: large, boisterous waves fell beaming away from the flawless blanket of black. Beyond the palm trees, modern buildings of reflected glass moved the water up its concrete frame, below the mountains, creating a curtain of waves.

“This has to be one of the most beautiful cities we have been to on this trip,” I said, removing my sunglasses to take photographs. I let my mind catch up with my body; silent, Boxie-boo looked across the horizon with me. Framed against the sun and shoreline, the beach was empty around her. The mountain ran like a fever heated across the sand. Rio was a city that entertained us by simply walking through it.

The city had the ability to seduce us away from our exhaustion. Being grumpy in such a beautiful setting was no more useful than yelling at a fire hydrant for smelling of dog pee, so we persevered, admiring the neighbourhood of Gloria where locals played keep up with soccer balls under trees dangling with vines.

Admittedly, though, by the time we returned to our room, we needed rest. Hearing the quiet, Boxie-boo looked utterly, carelessly happy. My body absorbed the soft mattress, leaving me to feel absent from my own body. Local beads of condensation grazed a cold beer, while we watched the World Cup on T.V. Too lazy to move, we ordered a pizza, moving so slowly our movements seemed from memory.

A night of relaxation was just what we needed.

That’s all for now.

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Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro

06/11/10

Sometimes when you backpack, you have to spend some time taking care of some odds and ends. For us, we always felt it was a good idea to circle an entire neighbourhood, to get an idea of where the bargains were, find public transit, grocery stores, etc., while remembering to always smell terrific, which I learned how to do from my readers. Do not bother checking, your deodorant is working. Trust me.

We started our morning off in search of discount laundry service and cheap food, which was tough to accomplish in the heart of Rio´s tourist central. After dropping off our dirty drawers, wondering as usual if staff will be amused by my homemade underwear, we walked towards the ocean passing multiple restaurants for blocks that were all too expensive…60 Reias, 45 Reias…

As a result of an early morning flight and two nights sleeping at the El Misti Hostel, we were no more motivated than a Wal-mart greeter. Lack of sleep gave me that hangover mindset, where I felt I could die and was afraid I might not. I know that violence is never the answer, but this morning the only question I wanted to ask hostel staff was - what is never the answer? Then pa pow! Straight to the snitzel. Staff were the worst offenders late at night and in the early morning, constantly yelling and banging plates in the kitchen, sounding like they were killing their meat indoors.

I suppose nearing six months abroad, the opposite of what I thought would be true: Roughing it had become harder, not easier. Instead of handling dorm rooms and communal bathrooms as we did at the start of the trip, it had become almost a necessity to have a private room, while hoping we could afford a private bathroom. Lack of sleep used to not bother us so much, but after months of traveling, we craved proper shut-eye. The problem was - Rio de Janeiro was very expensive, which meant our time here would be well over budget if we wanted any comforts.

I was grumpy, and had I been diagnosed with OCD, I would have counted an even 137 problems. Oh no, you are not gonna try to cheer me up, are you? I thought, as Boxie-boo kissed my cheek.

Alright, time for some honesty, we were having a blast in Rio, loved the beauty of the city and the friendly locals, I just always started the mornings off feeling the energy of a half-shaven goat, looking at everybody else as if they were wearing my fur. You bastards! I had a new goal - I would not rest until I found a cure for insomnia.

On the sidewalk beside the sand, we walked across small squares of white and black tile, mixed together like long and swooping ying-yang symbols across the sidewalk. It rained off and on in short bursts, creating gorgeous clearances of blue through white clouds across the brown sand, illuminated across the ocean. The beach of Copacabana and Leme ran for four kilometres, living up to their reputation for a magnificent mix of land and sea, where the long scalloped beach was covered in workout bars, soccer nets, but few locals. Where was everybody?

Discovering a restaurant that served steak, chicken, pork, sausage, rice, salad and beans for 14 Real (About $8 Canadian), we found a local watering hole packed with soccer supporters. The ceilings and neighbouring trees were wrapped in Brazilian flags. For the first time on this trip, we saw not only football, but football in HD.

“I want to kiss all the store clerks for this T.V.,” Boxie-boo giggled, her eyes wide and in shock; her faced amazed by the detail of the game. We could see the grass, faces in the crowd.

“It is unreal!” I said. “I could count their leg hairs.” For us, it truely felt as though it was our first time watching HD sports.

The Brazilians were in full support of South Africa to beat Mexico, screaming in circumcision-agony when Mexico tied up the game during the second half. This surprised me, as I thought they would be more likely to support a country close by, instead of one a continent away. I suppose like many Canadians, we all enjoy supporting the under dog.

Walking home at night, I was sure to walk a half-step behind Boxie-boo and wear my camera bag back on my front. The neighbourhood of Copacabana seemed safe, with many lights and busy with street vendors. However, as a foreigner in a city with a reputation for mugging, I felt it was best to keep my guard up, always doing my best to blend in, walking straight and unafraid, without hiding behind every tree and mailbox.

I also learned that dogs are tough. Passing two sitting straight forward in rain jackets facing a closed apartment door, I interrogated them for two minutes and neither of them would tell me who a good boy was. We kept moving, hoping to find cheap soccer jerseys on the way back to the El Misti Hostel.

We quickly got the impression that street vendors were not allowed in the area around Copacabana, as sometimes after they picked up their cellphones, the salesmen and women would look both ways, then pack up their products and run. Eventually we bartered down, slightly, two Brazilian soccer jerseys for 15 Reias each, then walked back to the El Misti Hostel prepared to inhale the scent of urine and listen to constant yelling until the morning.

That´s all for now.

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Tour of Rio, Brazil

06/10/10

I woke up and learned that yelling at a wall can be beneficial. It kept me from randomly walking up to a perfect stranger, saying good morning, then punching him in the face. Walking around the El Misti Hostel, I disliked everyone - except my readers, of course, because you are just so attractive - for their constant yelling that kept me up all night, before waking me up early. If people feel the need to sing in the shower, I understand, though, please be masculine and sing boy band music, not scream heavy metal.

I was definitely not sordo.

My head felt pumped with methane gas from the urine stench of our room that was cannon-smashed into my brain. Our window could not be closed, residing over the downstairs bar. I was as angry as a victim of ID theft, though my name did not have to shortened to Rib, but I did want to be called Ron-Lover (what´s up, Swonson?).

Downstairs breakfast included stale bread and cold coffee that required at least 17 hits of sugar, a hypnotist and the Incredible Hulk for distraction to taste good. To inspire myself back to life, I would have required 17 cups of coffee and a defibrillator. Instead, I decided to focused my energy on battling a mild dose of the runs. I also learned that yelling “I have diarrhea” is only cool when playing Scrabble, as seconds after saying it, I realized a fellow Canadian heard me as I headed to the bathroom. With raised eyebrows and a tight lip nod, he gave that “yup” look that goes with the thought, I feel sorry for that idiot.

Downstairs we met a traveler named Steve who shared some great news - he had found hotels online that cost about the same as a private room at the El Misti Hostel. It was as if he held a magic wand over our world, and ba boom, everything suddenly seemed softer and more beautiful, as if even the lamp posts and fire hydrants were wearing bikinis. He lent us his labtop and we reserved four nights at the Golden Park Hotel in Gloria. We hoped for the best.

In the El Misti´s defense - beyond the fact that it was over-priced, stunk and most things were broken inside - it would be a good place to go if you are single. In our case, having traveled for over five months, our energy levels were low and we needed more sleep. The El Misti was about as useful for sleep as farting is for impressing the ladies. Trust me, I have tried.

In the afternoon, we went on a tour of Rio de Janeiro in a tourist van with multiple stops throughout the city. Heading up the swervy, cobble stone road up Corcovado Mountain, our bodies continuously swayed back at fourth. The road was surrounded with beautiful rock walls covered in vines and growing ferns.

“Since the Portugese landed here on New Years, they called the city Rio de Janeiro - ´The City of New Years´,” our guide said. The driver continously swerved left and right like we were driving up a candy cane. When we stopped, our guide told us not to steal plants as the whole mountain was a park and theft would mean arrest. I was glad I decided not to dress like a garden gnome.

After ascending 214 steps, according to our guide, we reached a gorgeous view overlooking the city. I quickly realized why the Christ the Redeemer statue was such a tourist wrangler.

From up high, we could feel the wind tossing down the mountain through the winding roads. We watched as new leaves danced in the warmth of the sun as they drifted down the mountain towards a city of white, wedged between green mountains and the blue sea. In every direction, towering mountains seemed to shoot from out of the ocean. It was one of humankind´s best attempts to harmonize architecture with nature, a view that was capable to calm the agitations of the soul, a magnificent scene with not one withered tree in sight. It was a pastured lane of greenary, a darkened, massive green vine filled with white grapes, fed from a blue horizon.

Behind us stood Christ the Redeemer - a stuate 39.6 metres tall, including its 9.5 metre pedestal, and 30 metres wide. At 2,300 feet, it sits at the very peak of Corcovado Mountain in the Tijuca Forest National Park. It was one of the grandest symbols of Christianity in the world, an icon of Brazil, made of reinforced concrete and soapstone. Even the none religious, like myself, can appreciate its beauty, as if God was watching over the entire city.

After visiting many sights, including the Carnival strip and the Sao Sebastiao Cathedral that looked like a giant beehive, I was stoked to learn that Pele and I have the same sized feet, which should be no surprise to my soccer teammates (yeah right!). Our guide called him the “athlete of the century” and I was tempted to agree. To be the best ever at the world´s most popular sport, to me, deserves that title. I learned this at the Maracona Stadium, which was under renovation for the 2014 World Cup, where Brazil´s most famous footballers had their feet set in concrete like the hands of Hollywood.

All in all, Rio was a beautiful city. It was an artistic mix of the old and new, which blended in together smooth as rain in water; a place covered in flags and locals in yellow jersey - an energy fuelled by the country´s dream for success at the World Cup in South Africa. Although I never saw one, I am still quite confident Brazil must have also have a massive wax museum.

That´s all for now.

Thank you for visiting Page59.com.

Argentina to Brazil

06/09/10

Walking onto the streets of Florencio Varela, homeless men and women huddled around a fire outside Teresa´s home. It was 3 a.m. Our taxi driver, the godfather of Juan´s daughter, was out front waiting, a friendly man who gave us a deal on the ride to the airport since we were family. Most of the poor and desperate people were not sleeping. It was a scene of mix sadness - Teresa´s eyes swelling up as she waved goodbye and the shameful look of held in tears from the homeless.

As always, I wanted to know each and everyone of their stories. Nobody looks at the homeless and thinks nothing. They were all once cute babies, children with dreams, now adults simply surviving. To judge them is to judge yourself, as our inability to care for those most in need only outlines a coldness in humanity, regardless of the reasons one is homeless. For the first time in history, humankind has the ability to give every person food, shelter and clothing, yet thousands upon thousands of people die of poverty each year, from the extreme of starvation, to diseases born from drug abuse and poor water conditions. This fact has always saddened me.

I found myself feeling sorry for not only the homeless, but also Teresa.

She was a 73-year-old woman living behind high gates for security, alone, in a neighbourhood that I never saw her walk around by herself to keep safe. When we would visit her son only two blocks down, he would drive us the short distance back when dark out of fear. Nobody should have to live this way, to be afraid of their own front yard. Yet she was happy, content and thrilled each time she saw a smile on her granddaughter´s face. She never complained, said little about the poor, only complaining that welfare collectors with many children - as a result of the 200 Pesos per month - made more money off government subsidies than she did working.

Inside the car, our driver constantly blew red lights without even braking. I breathed in before each intersection, while reminding Boxie-boo to put on her seatbelt. He seemed to know which cross streets to slow down for, even coming to a near stop at some green lights. With many lights out, the sights outside blended my memories into one night city: Suva, Townsville, Tokyo, Aranyaprathet, Siem Reap, Chengdu, Pokhara, Udaipur, Cairo, Moshi, Jo´burg, Palapye, Victoria Falls.

Florencio Varela.

Had we really been to all those places and many more? Was it all just a dream? At this point in our travels, we had visited, excluding L.A. and Zambia, 14 countries, having headed up the coast of Australia, across China to India, down Africa, now heading up the Americas. Traveling and writing. My lifestyle. Months of thought etched on my face, reflecting back from the window in a soft, dream state glow from drifting lights. I felt suspended, my eyes opened, closed, being drawn into the vortex of sleep. I no longer felt Boxie-boo´s face on my neck from a night of sleeping. I felt her absence like an amputated limb, reached over and grabbed her hand.

“It does not bother me anymore being up so early,” I said in a voice that bore the hush of a confessional. The cab drive was familiar as always, seeming summoned from our past. Blurred lights and rolling tires. “This has simply become our life for almost half a year.”

Minutes passed.

“Me neither,” Boxie-boo replied with a delay, breaking a moment of strained silence. As if trapped in a time wart, my nerves quivered with her words, then disappeared, leaving me without feeling as the city passed by softly like the rattling of a leaf. Traveling had become a lifestyle, beyond an experience, where our movements later through customs seemed more remembered than spontaneous, almost an act of self-impersonation. Here we go again.

When we arrived in Brazil after a three-hour flight, we were told by a customs official that we had too many Visas.

We reserved three nights at the El Misti hostel near the beach of Copacabana as that resulted in free airport pick up. The taxi driver seemed shocked to learn that we both had bags. “Dois sacos?” He asked, looking shocked as if we had packed a case of My Little Pony dolls instead of underwear. With no room for bags in the trunk and myself running on only two hours sleep, I sat up front with my giant backpack on my lap, looking and feeling like an obese masochist keen to be abused by his own luggage. I wanted to smash my bag into the driver´s face.

During these difficult times, I took solace in the wise words of a teacher in elementary school, “You aren´t quite right, son.” Staying at Teresa´s, the challenges of traveling seemed so far away. On this day, I had to mangina tuck away my manhood to avoid self injury from my massive bag, turn my hoodie forward to avoid having the metal bars scratch my face, all the while attempt to snap a few photos of the drive (one above). I fought my urge to scream, the same urge I get at a bank when I am constantly tempted to yell “Everybody on the floor” for my own amusement.

From out the window, I could see the Corcovado Mountain supporting the giant statue of Christ the Redeemer to my right, later the rounded incline of Sugar Loaf Mountain, standing to over shadow the entrance to the city´s bay. The hillsides were swamped with impoverished buildings, most covered in blue buckets, which I imagined were for heating water naturally by the sun. The packed traffic was cooled by trade winds that I enjoyed, though our driver eventually got mad at me for opening my window. I looked at him with a sadist glare, wondering which part of his body would inflict the most pain. Not his head, for it was softly padded with cartoons that argued with basic math problems. Two times two is?

Just when I thought the worst was over, we arrived at the El Misti Hostel in Copacabana. What a shit hole. It was one of the worst hostels we had stayed on our around the world trip. Hostel staff took over 30 minutes to check our reservation before being shown our room, they lost proof that we paid a deposit and were easily distracted by every friend who came by to say hello.

Thanks to the El Misti Hostel, I now know what it is like to sleep with my head in an elephant´s vagina, if this vagina had built in subwoofers, leaked poisonous gases and had portugese people strapped in its asshole constantly screaming. It was an impossible place to sleep. Our room had a broken fan, broken T.V., broken air conditioner. The walls were water stained, covered in mildew, looking ready to cave in, with massive patches of dirt clouds mixing into the damp smell of an outhouse. Beyond our room´s scent of bleach and urine, resided communal bathrooms that had broken toilets and only one shower that was heated. At night, I slammed my head between two pillows, inhaling the scent of piss, while music blarred in our broken window from the outside bar attached to the hostel.

Meanwhile, it cost 110 Reias per night, a price only dropped to 100 for reserving three stays in one of the world´s shittiest hostels.

That´s all for now.

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