Travelling 101; #9: Change

Another one to baffle first time travellers is the inability of shop owners to provide change to customers.
Now, I'm not talking about paying for a pack of chewing gum with a 100 dollar note, i'm talking purchasing products totalling 4 spondulux and handing over a 10 spondulux note. The look of pure fear that passes over a shopkeep's face is a delight. They will first ask you if you have nothing smaller, you reply "no". They will then look even more worried and start to fluster, perhaps rooting in a drawer underneath the counter. They will then check their pockets, shout into the backroom where granny is watching the TV and perhaps shout at a friend on the street. Eventually after a massive combined effort and perhaps a 10 minute wait (when all you wanted was a bottle of water) you will receive your correct change. Actually sometimes you will not be allowed purchase a product due to lack of correct funds. In Ecuador I once tried to buy a bar of chocolate in a supermarket (no less) with a 10 dollar note. She had no change and wasn't budging, so I left the supermarket sans chocolate.

On a mildly related note mathematical ability is quite lacking in most of latin america. You buy an apple for 2.5 thingemebobs and a pear for 1.5 thingemebobs and the shopkeep will normally get the calculator out. Any more than 2 items and it is for certain. You then hand over a 10 thingemebob note and the calculator is once more called for to work out the correct change.

One boat ticket vendor in Brazil was also a shooting star in the maths realm. Although all the man sold on a day to day basis was a single boat ticket to the value of 170 reals he would still have to break out the calculator for more than one ticket. I mean honestly could he not have learned his 170 times tables?? Worse still is when the people in front of me ordered 4 tickets. He typed in 170 + 170 = + 170 = + 170 =... I nearly rammed the calculator down his throat. Maybe his multiply key was broken...

And GOD help you if you decide to aid a shopkeeper by providing them with an amount which will ensure a single note of change. If the bill comes to 6 whatchamacallits and you hand them a 10 whatchamacallit note and a 1 whatchamacallit coin they will look at you like you have 42 heads and have just eaten their new born grandchild. I once had a girl in Colombia almost in tears by doing such a nasty thing. Once her lip started to quiver I had to tell her it was OK and to just give me 5000 pesos.

Travelling 101; #7: Sleeping Policemen

I'm going to have to take a tranquilizer before I write this as this topic can cause me to have tourettes like outbreaks. Indeed few things whilst travelling can make me seethe as much and cause the cursing of all gods known to Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddism and Hinduism (eh, 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 49 million = 49,000,004 gods).

A sleeping policeman may be know to you as a speed ramp, speed bump, traffic calming device (well only if you are a town planner) or simply a "hump", a term which caused me endless thighslapping moments whilst living in London. Despite my thirtysomething years I cannot walk by a sign saying "humps for 450 yards" without sniggering like a teenager.

Whatever it may be called it is an obstacle in the middle of the road to slow traffic down. Fine, wonderful, dandy. Stick them outside schools or in residential areas to make sure reckless drivers don't mow down unsuspecting kids.

The problem is that in South America the drivers obey no signage known to man so the authorities stick humps literally ANYWHERE, including fucking main roads. In Brazil, where a short hop down the road means a 24 hour drive, speed bumps are even laid out in the middle of super straight, Euclid would have come in his pants, highways. You might be sleeping on a leather seats, in-drive refreshments and blowjob included super-deluxe bus (more on this later), but no matter how comfy you may get you will still be jarred out of your sleep every ten minutes as a bus enters yet another mini-hamlet with 14 speed bumps.

A holiday from travelling

So all caution thrown to the wind it was a 4 hour flight from Manaus down to Rio. A journey which would have brought you all the way across Europe. I then had a day of calm before the storm in Rio where I looked up my old haunts and had a good old trip down memory lane. It is quite weird, but after Dublin, London and Frankfurt I probably know Rio best of all cities. Slurping down Acai, drinking Guarana by the bucket and chilling out on Ipanema beach watching the beautiful people walk by, I quickly remembered why I love this place.
Erick arrived the next morning, so it was beer for breakfast and the day carried on similarly. Although sitting on Ipanema beach during a rainstorm was not the most pleasant thing ever, although it was a portent of things to come...



After a couple of nights on the town we took a quick 24 hour bus down to Foz de Iguazu and in to Argentina to see the falls.
Again the rain gods were not smiling and the day we visited the falls the heavens broke with a vengeance rarely seen. We were both supersaturated in .3 seconds flat. A combination of wind and rain ensuring that there was not a square millimeter of dry clothing left on us. Nothing for it but to head to a dry bar and wait it out. The next day it was back to Brazil where we took a quick side trip to Ciudade del Este in Paraguay for lunch and a beer (shocker). CdE is like a third world Hong Kong. Nothing but electronics, shoes and perfumes being flogged by the side of the road, in shacks and even in air conditioned malls.

With time to kill before the bus to Florianopolis we headed up to the Itaipu dam, the largest in the world and one of the 7 modern wonders. Not being a huge dam fan per se, I wasn't expecting much, but it turned out to be rather fascinating. The whole scale of the place is just unbelievable. There is a 7 storey building in front of the dam wall and it just looks like a piece of lego.




Our second night bus took us to Florianopolis where we arrived early morning to watch a group of Germans militarily plan their next 4 days. Erick & I went for a sambo & coffee and by the time we came back they were still planning their next tactical move - Taxi or bus? Beach or Accommodation? This village or that? We left them to their discussions and headed to the local bus stop. We jumped out at the lake and Erick went into the local supermarket to plan our next move. It involved 2 beers and a packet of chewing gum. Strengthened we walked across the causeway, went to the beach and found ourselves a cool bungalow complete with a fridge and bbq. The bbq didn't see much action, but the fridge was a hit, due to the close proximity of the local supermarket (50 meters away) and its never ending supply of beer. We arrived on a Friday and were already running low on clothes (I had no trousers left and Erick only 1 T-shirt) so we found a local laundry where the lovely lady accepted our foul smelling garments with good grace and a smile. She then spoke to us in rapid Portuguese. Now, my Portuguese isn't brilliant but I clearly made out the words "tomorrow" and "12". We both took it to mean, come back tomorrow anytime after 12. Happy with ourselves we trotted off and had a jolly good night in Floripa. Duly hungover the next morning we surfaced at around 1 and delicately made our way to the laundry. We arrived to find it looking extremely closed. We meekly rapped on the windows, but to no avail. Oh well, Erick's T-shirt could handle another day and my board shorts were still more or less the colour I bought them in. We passed the day in our usual b&b (beer and beach) style and had another great night out.
Sunday morning and Erick jumped out of bed at 11am like a kid at Christmas and ran (probably hopping and skipping) to the laundry. My pessimism at Brazilian opening hours left me unstirred in the bed. He came back like someone who had just been told that Santa doesn't exist. Well one more day in that T-shirt (which at this stage looked like it might actually jump off him and run away, with the two little arms going like mad). But it stayed put and we headed off to Praia Mole, an absolutely gorgeous beach on the eastern side of the island. Monday morning eventually came around and we visited the laundry again like a pair of orphaned kids. She bestowed our fine smelling and expertly folded clothes upon us and we once again joined the ranks of the clothed people.

Another night bus saw us freeze our cahones off and left us groggy, grumpy and other g words in Sao Paulo at 5am. We caught an onward connection and were in Paraty for lunch. The rain gods were yet again in top form and left us with no option but to sit in a bar and wait for it to break. 5 hours later it slowed down enough for us to venture/stagger out. The two days were pretty much spent like that, except for a brief excursion to a local waterfall where I nearly killed myself by sliding down it in the wrong spot. Better off sticking to nice safe bars...

Finally it was back to Rio where we stayed in the fantastic CabanaCopa, partying up a storm before Erick's departure on Saturday night. Yes, what better time to leave Rio than Saturday at 8pm?? I was going to go to bed early in a mark of respect for his long haul back to Europe, but said fuck that and went out Sambaing until 4am. But Sunday was going to be the start of a quiet couple of weeks. Well until that was, someone said we should go to a funk party where I ended up dancing till 5am. The bass was so strong that it felt like your internal organs were breakdancing. But Monday was the start of a new week and I was flying back to Manaus that night. No better time to detox. Well until at least midday where the heat on the beach was so unbearable that I had to have a refreshing beer to cool down.

So from the beach to the plane and 4 hours later I was back in Manaus wondering if I had actually left at all...

Travelling 101; #6: The TP bin

The scatological theme continues...

Despite being a continent of rainforests, glaciers and the biggest river in the world, South America (and most of Asia for that matter) does not seem to possess enough water to propel toilet paper down a flush toilet. Yes despite the native toilet paper's flimsy nature (some people would rant about that too), most toilets seem incapable of getting enough water up to such a velocity that 4 grammes of paper would be successfully carried to the sewerage system/hole out the back of the house.

So to combat such hydrologically challenged toilets, the owners of establishments containing WCs have thoughtfully provided clients with a bin for the used toilet paper. A TP bin if you will. The bin comes in many shapes and sizes and normally possess a lid, but unfortunately not always. It is by and large also situated near the WC, but again can sometimes be found in random other locations.

In communal toilets in large restaurants or hostels the bin can become rather overflowing and there is nothing quite like a hungover early morning trip to the toilet (which can be rather often as you will have read in Travelling 101; #3) only to find a big open garbage can of brownish TP staring right back at you...

Travelling 101; #5: Mosquitoes

Much like pigeons, who I wholeheartedly believe are the Microsoft of the animal world - no one likes them but they are bloody successful at what they do, mosquitoes inhabit pretty much every square inch of the places travellers like to roam. From Nicaragua to Nepal, Lima to Luang Prabang & Stockholm to Santiago you will find them, or rather they will find you.
And find you they do with amazing accuracy and speed. It seems like only seconds go by after you turn the lights off at night before that unmerciful and rage/fear-inducing ZzzzzzzzzzzZzzzzMzzzzMzzzzzzZZZZZZZZ sound approaches your ear. Then you do the extremely intelligent and wince provoking "slapping yourself on the side of the head" manouever. Then it is normally lights on and the mosquito hunt begins. But mosquitos are masters at hide and seek and there might have been 42 buzzing around your head, but by the time you reach the light switch they have all hidden under the bed, behind the light bulb or are pretending to be a speck of dust in the corner.

As if that sound weren't enough, it seems like nature gave the mosquito the ability to transmit EVERY FUCKING nasty disease known to mankind. Malaria, Dengue Fever, Yellow Fever, Japanese Encephalitis, West Nile Virus and if you are really lucky, the Rift Valley Fever too. It's fucking amazing that they can't transmit HIV or Rabies, but I'm sure the mosquito council are working on it.

I mean they are so nasty & evil, that if the mosquito were a human it would be Ghengis Khan, Hitler, Pol Pot, Stalin, Bruce Lee, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Chuck Norris and George Bush rolled into one. In the Olympics of bad-ass animals the tiger, lion, polar bear and great white shark would all be cowering behing each other as the mosquito took the gold medal.
Thus your average traveller applies about 16 gallons of repellent each evening. This makes backpacker romance an unsavoury option, as any body part other than the mouth is going to taste like licking vinegar off a dead slug. Well, OK, not EVERY body part.

Travelling 101; #4: Pringles

Some foodstuffs seem universal but after travelling for a while you realise every country has its own beer, soft drinks and chocolate bars. But by in large there are two exceptions to this rule - Coca Cola (and maybe Fanta at a push) & Pringles. The latter seems to be purpose designed for all those travellers who don't trust the native cuisine. So on any long bus journey you will hear that familiar "once you've popped you can't stop" sound of multiple gringos getting their dinner in a metal cylinder ready.

Travelling 101; #3: Diarrhea

They say there are only 2 absolute certanties in life - paying taxes and death. I would like another one to the lis - travellers diarrhea. Yes Delhi Belly, Gyppy Tummy, Montezumas revenge, the trots, the squirts, etc. Just like an Irish winter they are wet, unpleasant, long and unpredictable. At one time you can have a piece of bread and get it, at other times you can down raw seafood and be fine.

My weirdest experience was arriving off the plane in Thailand and having imbibed NOTHING but a bottle of coke all day and I still got Bangkok Belly. It varies in viscosity (which I believe is the correct term) from slightly soft ice cream to full on "I am actually peeing from my arse". Its duration is also a mystery - sometimes it passes quickly (in one sitting, so to speak), sometimes it plagues you for weeks - in fact the entire 4 weeks I was in Cambodia it followed me round like a stray dog.

But like a slight bodily imparement, you soon get used to it. The only time it is mildly worrying is when you have a 12 hour bus journey ahead of you and your stomach is already gurgling as you board the bus, but then again it just ads to the excitement - Delhi Routlette if you will.

Travelling 101; #2: The Chicken Bus

Millions of American and Canadian children have no idea that one day the bus seats they occupy on their way to school will probably be graced by chickens, pigs, motorbikes and lots of women in bowler hats. As the humble yellow school bus (normally made by bluebird I have come to learn) comes to the end of its natural life in North America it is shipped or driven down by the busload to Central America where it is stripped of any useful electronics, painted in psychadelic colours, given some go faster spoilers and liberally decorated with pictures of the Virgin Mary, Jesus, Che & the entire Barcelona football team (in that order of popularity). Sometimes the drivers go for slogans such as "Solo Dios sabe mi destino" which can either be translated as "Only God knows my destiny" or the much cooler "Only God knows my destination". Love a bus driver that relies on divine intervention to get to the right bus stop.

These busses then roll out and connect the tiniest of Central American villages. They really are the lifeblood of many a C. American town - without them nobody would be going anywhere in countries where car ownership is still a privelege only the upper classes can contemplate.

These chariots stop anywhere - all you do is stick your arm out somewhere vaguely near the road (or even up a side street where the conductors with eyes in the sides of their heads will spolt people legging it from miles away). This can be slightly frustrating though as the lack of bus stops means that 5 people standing all seperately 10 meters away from each other will all halt the bus, in fact moseying towards a bus that is slowing down is most definitely frowned upon. Customer is definitely king here and the conductor is a legend. I have seen them lift on a pack of children at the same time, take 10 shopping bags off a women and even seen one conductor lift an old granny on by lifting her up under her arms. The concept that a bus wouldn't stop and let somebody on is unimaginable here, space will always been made (normally by women putting all 6 children on their lap, Chinese acrobatic displays don't even get close) and there is always time. Not like the German tram drivers that I have seen close the door on many a huffing and puffing grandmother's face.



The busses also transport any item imagineable, it is funny to read the old school signs prohibiting food when the man beside you has 3 chickens tied up between his legs. In my time I have seen, besides the obligatory chickens, ducks, dogs,a couple of goats, a moped, a plasma TV, a monkey, a pig and quite recently 2 armchairs, a 2 seater sofa and a three seater being transported.



In many countries, El Salvador being the one to come most to mind, the chicken bus is the favourite target of street vendors who hop on and off plying their wares to a captive audience. Anything from cold drinks to fruit, from doughnuts to chicken on a stick are offered (screamed) at the passengers. Even if the bus is completely packed with people, standing choc-a-block in the aisle, the vendors will still weave & dodge their way down the aisle and black. Slightly more annoying than the common or garden vendor is the snake oil salesman who you can spot a mile away. They get on with a large backpack / suitcase and stand at the front. They then clear their throats loudly and start off by wishing everybody a most wonderful trip on this perfect day and that this little interruption will only last a minute before everybody can return to their fantastic journey.

They then kick off a 20 minute rehearsed speech selling their wares, whether they be CDs, DVDs, health books or even fucking etch a sketches (still the rage over here).

But all in all the chicken bus is an institution and there is never a dull moment on one. The tube will never be the same again.

Travelling 101; #1: The Electric Shower

Herewith a new series of posts to introduce you to some of the finer elements of travelling. Today we shall start with an old traveller's favourite.

The electric shower, aka "the suicide shower" or "the hippy killer" is an implement of torture well known to any traveller in Latin America. It being a continent not known for cold (except for the extreme south and the altiplano), South America has not really had a long love affair with hot water. Correspondingly the idea of having a ready supply of hot water to purge the gringo body of all sorts of dust and detrius is foreign to most households down here. The hostals that have realised that hot water is a valuable competitive advantage have resorted to installing the cheapest option available - the dreaded electric shower.

You do not require a degree in engineering nor nuclear physics to understand the electric shower. A source of electricity is attached to a box over the shower head which is, in turn, attached to a supply of cold water. The cold water passing through this form of short circuit is heated and then pours down on to dirty gringo body. That electricity and water don't readily mix is obviously not readily known down here, so the ubiquity of the hippy killer increases.

In fairness the system works fine, but on occassion when the shower isn't grounded properly or the solar system's alignment is all wrong one can stand under the shower and receive a series of electric shocks. The closer one's hand to the box, the more intense the shock. So the habitual raising of the arm to wash the oxter can cause slightly more than expected. All in all it actually makes showering that bit more fun, nothing like waking up at 6am and not knowing if you will come out of the shower alive or with your hair still attached.