My experience of seeing Violeta Went to Heaven was an interesting one. Being a biopic of Chilean national hero and folksinger Violeta Parra, the film is one entirely spoken in Spanish. However, Saturday's screening managed to be devoid of subtitles. Due to the mix-up, understandably about half of the audience had to depart after half an hour of failed attempts to couple the digital print with some English words. Lucky enough to have two Chilean parents, I was able to watch Violeta unimpeded by the lack of subtitulos. I was pretty chuffed with myself about that, I have to admit. That being said though, I found myself fumbling along at some points, namely the points in which characters spoke with lightning-quick urgency.
Perhaps it was the fact that at certain points I was unable to quite catch exactly what was being said, or perhaps it was Andrés Wood's choice to distractingly interweave moments of magic realism into the story, but I didn't find Violeta Se Fue a los Cielos resonating with me like I'd hoped it would.
Violeta Parra was born in 1917, growing up in rural Chile with her siblings and her widowed schoolteacher/musician/alcoholic father. In adulthood she traveled around Chile collecting folk songs before moving to Europe with her much younger lover, Swiss flautist Gilbert Favre. Before committing suicide in 1967, Parra had time to be a poet, singer and artist (she had her work exhibited at the Louvre) as well as a member of the Chilean communist party. I knew next to nothing about Parra's life before watching Andrés Wood's biopic of the singer's tragic story, which is at times irritating in its chronological choices. As a result, I had trouble piecing together the sequence of onscreen events, as well as being clear on what was actuallyhappening and what was a more fantastical scene. Held together by an television interview from the mid-1960s, Violeta Went to Heaven jumps around various points in Parra's life, as well as instances of characters thought dead gazing directly down the barrel of the camera and of Parra striding through a misty wood.
Even if the film's structure and more over the top poetic choices were at times frustrating, the music that would inevitably fill a movie about a Chilean singer is astoundingly beautiful. Indeed, I found myself being moved to the point of teary-eyed sniffling at more than one point. While that probably says more about me than anything else, there's no denying that the music within Violeta is consistently gorgeous and buoys the film a great deal. As far as I'm concerned, I find that I'm very often moved to tears by South American folk music so there was never any doubt that I was going to find some sort of emotional connection to the onscreen proceedings.
Fransisca Gavilán's depiction of Parra is an emotional, passionate one. It's also a tiring one, wanting in nuance. She carries the film though, and is dynamic enough to portray someone whose life was so tumultuous and full of tragedy and hardship. Thomas Durand too, is solid as the Swiss flautist that Parra falls in love with. However, not many of the other characters that inhabit Parra's life are given enough screen time to make a lasting impression.
Violeta Went to Heaven is a solid biopic of a fascinating character within Chilean history. While at times moving, it is also uneven and lacks the emotional weight that it could have had. This is in part because of unnecessary expressionistic sequences. The music that propels the film though, is crazy-good, and Violeta is greatly improved for its inclusion.
2.5/5 (an extra .5 given because I loved the music so goddamn much)
Is "Khe Sanh" an Australian classic? An institution? Surely one could argue that the band behind the song, Cold Chisel, is an Australian institution. At the very mention of that name, it's as if I can smell the eucalyptus and meat pie wafting through the breeze. I know that Cold Chisel is an Australian institution because my very Australian uncle loves Cold Chisel, and he's about the most Australian person I know. Growing up he'd tell us about hunting pigs and shootin' things and goin' down the pub and generally doing a lot of leaning on things while swigging a pint. He likes the Screaming Jets as much as he likes Cold Chisel. That's how I know the Screaming Jets to be A Very Australian Band. I'd like to have seen the Screaming Jets at the Espy in the years before I was a thought in the brains and loins of my parents. I think that would have been a very Australian thing to do.
This story though, is set many thousands of kilometers away from St Kilda, in Buenos Aires. It was in Buenos Aires that I was struck by these thoughts concerning how Australian a song "Khe Sanh" truly is. I was compelled if you will, to ponder the nature of "Khe Sanh" and its place in our national psyche. Brandishing a bottle of Argentinian red wine and yelling my declaration of love for my home city, it was then that I decided that the Cold Chisel karaoke go-to was The Most Australian Song That I Know. So you know, it was obviously a very profound moment.
A dance floor in its early stages, a night that by Australian standards would probably have been about to wind down or head out the door, but by a Porteño measuring stick was only just beginning. Outside on the streets of Avenida 9 de Julio it was cold and rainy and enough to warrant wearing one's most obnoxious beanie en route, but it was warm warm warm in the Lime House and I had a kick-ass posse to spend the night with, and I'd just done my laundry for the first time for about three weeks. So obviously I was on my A-Game.
The dance floor - if we're being specific, it was the space between the bar and the couch - was not a full-fledged area of rocking out as yet. It was a mere suggestion of something waiting to happen; not yet guaranteed, but nothing the right amount of musical coaxing and stars aligning and able/willing bodies couldn't achieve. It was a campfire ready to ignite, sparks ready to be fanned into action. It was just too damn bad for all involved that I had just met another Australian.
That night will go down in infamy as The Night I Met Jesse. Those who know me well will have heard all the the warm descriptions and laughed anecdotes of and about our various adventures in Santiago. Jesse would come to remind me of all the best bits of home, served as a sign that I was somewhat ready to return (albeit grudgingly). Where once was intense wincing and vague nausea, all of a sudden were smiles and fond Melbourne memories. What you might not know however, was that before these warm and fuzzy familiar feelings was our meeting at the Lime House in Buenos Aires. His Australian accent cutting through the crowd (as the grating twang of Aussie slang inevitably does) I very quickly honed in on Jesse. I even interrupted my Grade-A move-making on my Star Wars-loving American architecture student romantic interest target, Codename DM - Dorky Mike. That's what happens when you haven't spoken to an Australian in two months.
He worked at The Carlton Club, he went to high school a mere suburb away from where I did, he lived a stone's throw from Mitch's place. Our interests were remarkably similar. Our paths MUST have crossed any number of times, but we'd never met. And here we were - sharing a bottle of Argentinian wine from the store below our creaky hostel. I hadn't spoken to an Australian in a long time - let alone an Melbournian who frequented all the places where I would more often than not spend my weekends. My brain was exploding into a million little bits. Jesse even looked like he'd just been teleported from Australia; clad in thongs (flip-flops), a t-shirt that betrayed time not yet spent on the dusty road, and without the mandatory South American-traveller-llama-sweater. We were in Buenos Aires during winter, and he didn't have a jumper. In true Australian fashion, he'd just spent time in South-East Asia. The laughter flowed as readily as the drinks and all of a sudden, I felt a pang for home in Melbourne.
Home? Until then, I hadn't been thinking about 'home' in the Melbourne sense of the word with fondness, with any longing. By that stage, my home was my backpack. Home was a crowded bus, a smelly dorm. Home was Cusco, for a while at least. Cusco was filled with the warm memories and the endless soundtrack of summer tunes that one would associate with home. Leaving Cusco was heart-wrenching. So heart-wrenching that I ended up returning about three times. Home was the feeling of complete contentment and happiness felt when floating in an Amazonian lake, thousands of miles away from Melbourne.
Hell, home was beginning to morph into Buenos Aires. Bitch please, you'd best not take me for some gringo-ass backpacker (lol); I got me a Subte map that I don't even have to use anymore I'm so damn Porteño. You want to find a cinema? Bro, I'll show you FIVE. Hueon, I got a breakfast place, and a favourite local radio station blasting out of my muy, muy barato Argentino phone "¿TIENES UNO UN POCITO MAS BARATO?" - as I emerge from the subway, grinning underneath my ridiculous beanie. Of course, it became clear exactly how gringo my ass truly was/is when my wallet was stolen a mere four days later. Oh, the woes. That's besides the point however, pray forgive my digressions.
Talking to Jesse about the places we'd frequent on the weekend, where we spent our days and nights and bits in between, I was filled with a sudden love for Australia never even felt during typical days of national pride. More so than any ANZAC Day or Australia Day, or any other day of Southern Crosses and boxing kangaroos, I suddenly felt VERY VERY AUSTRALIAN. And it was at that moment that I was distracted from excitedly describing the myriad reasons why I suddenly missed Melbourne to my Canadian and English friends by the D-Floor Happenings.
It appeared as if "DJing" duties were all of a sudden being shared by the Lime House inhabitants. The theme: YOUR COUNTRY. It seemed as if others at our hostel were in a similar state of mind to my own, because that theme was seized upon by all those around us with gusto. The posse of boozy Brazillians put on some amazing boogie-inducing dance tune. So did some Dutch guys. Ditto a couple of Brits. The D-Floor's future looked bright.
"DUDE. WE HAVE TO PUT ON SOMETHING AUSTRALIAN."
It was to be so. This was happening. We were going to hit the room with an aural punch in the face so Australian, all ears involved would be spewing VB. THE LIME HOUSE WAS GOING TO GET SOME AUSTRALIA ALL UP IN ITS GRILL. But what would we play? John Farnham? Kylie Minogue? Get the party started with some goddamn Presets? No. NO. NO. I raced over to the bar and shoved everyone aside. "IT'S OUR TURN" I declared.
Badababdababadababadbabdabdbba ... the opening strains of piano were met with puzzled faces. I remember grinning at Jesse, fist ready to be thrown into the air in the way that one must always throw ones fist into the air when singing the opening lines to "Khe Sanh".
"I LEFT MY HEART TO THE ZHHERBEROw KHE SAAAANH!!!" (you'll please note that I did not know the actual first line until I Googled it about ten minutes ago)
"AND I SOLD MY SOUL WITH MY CIGARETTES TO-THE BLACK MARKET MAAAN!!!!"
By then the dancing and two-stepping had faltered with the lack of a thumping bass line (I HAD THE VIETNAM COLD TURKEY) and the embryonic campfire dance floor that had looked so promising, so full of possibility (FROM THE OCEAN TO THE SILVER CITY) looked as if someone had poured water all over it.
"AND IT'S ONLY OTHER VETS COULD UNDERSTAAAAND!"
Jose-behind-the-bar watched us do our best Jimmy Barnes, looking more than a little confused. Here were these two Australians playing an obscure and almost unintelligible rock song, singing along loudly with fists a-pumping, effectively clearing and killing the dance floor; morphing it into a puzzled audience.
Someone changed the song before it was halfway through.
I felt like racing around the room and explaining, "No, no, no! You don't understand! This is COLD CHISEL, they're an Australian INSTITUTION. Jimmy Barnes man, he's a NATIONAL TREASURE! This song, it's about as Australian as you can get without being pure, undiluted Vegemite! This is as Australian as you can get without being the cast of Neighbours!" ... but alas, that was not going to be. Instead, the another house tune began and "Khe Sanh" was forgotten as abruptly as it had barged into the room, uninvited and unwelcome. Of course, that was to be expected. As if one could expect the song to play in its entirety without someone thinking, "what the fuck is this?"
It's okay though. No, no, I don't need your pat on my shoulder, I'm not sad. Thanks though. Mate, we did give the room a good ol' Australian-ing in the face, right in the grill. We gave the night a good ol' dose of loud yellin' Australian pub-rock. I made a new friend, one I'd meet again in Chile. I decided that I did in fact miss Melbourne a little. And while were at it, I could proudly notch up YET ONE MORE DANCE FLOOR I'D SUCCESSFULLY RUINED.
As usual, I'll be doing my packing on the morning of my flight. As usual, I expect to lose items of clothing, and a few brain cells. I expect I won't be getting my hair braided though. I may or may not come back with Bintang singlets for various loved ones. (Ev's reaction to my suggestion that he'd love one: "...nahbro.")
Anyway, during the long and traffic-filled drive back from work today I thought to myself that it might be wise to take off the many bracelets I've been wearing on my left wrist for the past many months. After all, they're my constant reminder of South America, and I don't want their colour and thread to fade to oblivion in the sun and sand of Indonesia. However, immediately after thinking that taking them off might be a good idea, my heart began to race and my mood shifted in a big way. The thought of taking them off and saying goodbye to them (in a sense, as I won't be throwing them out) was both saddening and terrifying. Terrifying in less of a horror movie way, more in a NOICAN'TDOTHATYET kind of way.
The ones that have lasted the distance.
As you may or may not know, one of the things I acquired in South America was a bracelet in almost every city I went to. I came back with about eighteen/nineteen (at least three were lost along the way), and slowly they've dwindled to ten still on my wrist (and one on my ankle). I remember where each one was bought/found/given, and from whom, and in what circumstance. They all have a story, along with each location they represent.
My Santiago bracelet is a orange and green affair, lovingly made by Dani, the kind-hearted, hard-drinking Argentinean living at the Moai. He was one half of the Porteño double team, the other being Guillermo. I lived there for about a month, with them, Jesse, Taylor, and the other crazy Chileans that inhabited the sprawling house. I offered Dani money for the bracelets - he was selling them, after all - but he said that all he wanted from me was that I "do a favour for a stranger who needs it". In case you're interested, I did do what he asked, by rescuing a dog while in Chiloé.
My bracelet from Potosi is orange, yellow and blue, because those colours remind me of the tshirt worn most days by Sam, the English boy I was traveling with at the time. Salta's bracelet is a kind of vomit-coloured yellowy green, because I was nursing one of my worst hangovers in history that morning. Valparaiso is bright blue, because the sky and the sea and the street art of that town were just as bright. La Paz sports the colours of the Bolivian flag, Cordoba is the blue of the Argentinean flag (it was my first big Argentinean city taken on solo). And so on, and so on. When there weren't any guys on the street selling bracelets, I improvised. In Castro, I bought some mittens from an old lady, and I asked her for some wool. I've been wearing that around my wrist until today, when it broke while cleaning the coffee machine.
Am I being overly sentimental? Probably. Definitely. To be fair, I don't think that under normal circumstances I'd be feeling like this upon deciding to take off my bracelets. However, circumstances are somewhat out of the ordinary at the moment. Remi's in town. Anyone who knows me will have noticed my constant "REMI'S COMING SOON!" and "I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE REMI!" screeching in the days leading up to his arrival. Now that he's here, South American adventure memories seem to be continually rushing back to me. Places and things I hadn't thought about in months are suddenly front and center in my brain, as Remi and I constantly end up strolling down memory lane with a beer in hand. Oh MAN, do I miss it. I don't think I've ever missed anything like I miss the road in South America (more about that another time though).
Okay, I've taken three off. So far so good. I feel weird though. Like I'm doing something that can't be undone, something cheesy like that.
A few left on. I kind of have this feeling, along the lines of, "Euuuuurghhhh, I shouldn't have done this. I want them all to be back on again." I mean, it's probably the best move ... they're disgusting. They smell, they're faded and dirty and probably crawling with germs. But I don't want to not be wearing them.
Last one. It's the one from Cordoba ... the guy I bought it from burnt the ends together, so it wouldn't ever come off. Don't want to cut it. Will struggle for a bit.
Wrestled with the burnt knot for a while, then went into Ev's room and used a stanley knife to cut it off. Quite a moment, I'll say that much. I feel naked. I felt like I'd cut off a link to a part of me. Or something. Something like that. I definitely feel naked. And I have a giant tan line on my wrist. A very, very white patch between two brown bits.
The result. The tan line. The drama. Probably a much bigger deal than I should have made over something that really shouldn't be momentous in the slightest, but I can't help it if one of my best pals from Peru is here to reminisce with. COME ON. Extreme circumstances. Anyway, let's see if I can't even out this white patch while under the Balinese sun.
Clothing. All of which now are a few shades darker than what they once were. The days of sweat, the stench of a thousand cigarettes, and the sheer effort it took to find a laundromat have taken their toll (although that seems appropriate for my dirty hippy Peruvian trousers).
A bracelet from almost every city I went to.
I'm actually missing five, but that's most of them.
A Millennium Falcon.
For the specific use of taking mediocre photos with on the Bolivian salt flats.
The world's ugliest jumper. Which (I'll have you know) I wore for two months after buying it in order to give to Ev, my brother. It was acquired after a day of walking what must have been the length and breadth of La Paz with two boys from New York. The day was spent hunting for the famous Evo Morales Sweater. Don't fret if you haven't heard of it; neither had I. Not content with coming home bearing a llama jumper, with being yet another backpacker decked out in the backpacker uniform, Dani and Andrew were determined to buy and wear proudly the sweater that had made the Bolivian president an accidental fashion sensation.
After a day of learning that as the approval rating of a leader falls so too does the ubiquity of his chosen warmth providing upper body clothing item, we finally found an almost identical sweater. Thus, the boys had their sweaters, and I had a serious case of sweater envy. So instead of heading to the top of the city in order to take in the apparently breathtaking view, we continued to the next sweater shop so I could find the ugliest one on the market. Find I did.
Never let it be said that the ugliness of a sweater negates its warmth.
Anyway, I gave it to Ev after two months of my having worn it, of it not being washed once, and with a big rip in the sleeve. He loved it. "I'll wear it to uni and pretend I'm an architecture student!" was his immediate response.
Sisterly duty, done.
The most exciting acquisition however, occurred with only four days left to spare in South America. I decided to get a tattoo.
I'd been wanting one for a while. I'd been pondering what I'd get for a while. Then suddenly it just seemed right, completely natural to get it in South America. At the risk of sounding like a dud, I felt like I had to commemorate the time I'd had on the trip with something, something drastic. And that I had to get it done whilst I was still there. Jesse and I spent one particular afternoon talking at great length about tattoos, what we'd get done if we ever felt that compelled to do it. After that, the desire to Get It Done grew and grew, until it wasn't something I wanted, it was something I NEEDED to do before hopping back onto a plane.
So after finding Amor Real Tattoos, meeting Amaro and talking about a design, I headed back the next day to Get It Done. I burst into Jesse's room, waking him.
"Dude! What're you doing in forty five minutes?"
"Uhh. Nothing. Why?"
"Wanna come get my tattoo done with me?"
"Shityeah!"
We trouped over to Providencia, had a half-decent coffee (which is somewhat rare in South America) and went about Getting It Done. It was my first tattoo (fun fact for you), and while it's not particularly huge - it ain't a sleeve or nothin' - it's not tiny either. I wasn't sure how my pain threshold was going to hold up. So as the buzzing began behind me, I flailed my hand in Jesse's direction.
"JESSE!" I hissed.
"Huh?"
"COME HERE!" My hand was flapping at him like a epileptic fish.
"What, really?"
"YES."
I grasped Jesse's hand for dear life. I'd brought him along thinking that I'd die before pussying out in front of him, but now I wondered how much of a feat of willpower that would be. After all I'd heard varying reports on how much tattoos hurt.
First contact was made ... and it barely hurt at all. In fact, I began to laugh. "Are you alright? Is something wrong?" Amaro asked. Maybe he thought I was crying. I stopped giggling and assured him that all was well.
"Laughing it off like a boss!" said Jesse approvingly.
Shortly afterwards our friend Felipe turned up, holding the fruits of a long day shopping (he'd had a "gay day" he told us, using up the money his parents had sent to fly him to Argentina to visit them). He snapped some photos, and promptly knocked over a painting in the studio. Amaro, far from pleased, told the boys off. Jesse knows next to no Spanish, but given how quickly he bailed (with Felipe in tow), it was clear he understood Amaro's tone.
Surprisingly, my folks had nothing disapproving to say. Probably because I was still on the other side of the world. I think by then they'd resigned themselves that nothing they could do would really play a factor in changing my mind. I returned home victorious, about three hours later (tell you what, just sitting there gets pretty old pretty fast) to high fives and noises of approval from the guys. Victory beers were consumed. I was warned by a fellow Australian that it's bad to drink immediately after getting a tat but Jesse, ever the good influence, told me to shut up and drink.
Anyway, it's a map of South America with a few lines from my favourite Bob Dylan song, "Isis" inside. I've had (again, at the risk of sounding like an almighty dud) a bit of a special relationship with that particular song for a long time now, and it seemed only appropriate to include it. The verse in question in its entirety is:
I married Isis on the fifth day of May
But I could not hold onto her very long
So I cut off my hair and rode straight away
For the wild unknown country
Where I could not go wrong.
But you know, that's a little long. So I chose the last two lines.
It's a fairly bad photo I know, but you get the idea and I'm not about to fix it. Disclaimer: I'm not that pixellated in RL.
I'm comfortable with having that image on my person for the rest of my life. South America and all that came with it is an experience I won't soon be forgetting, and that song has followed me around like a stench for the past few years. Like I said, it seemed natural to get it. Hell, I'm glad this was my first tattoo experience. It sure beats getting wasted in Thailand and having 'KNOB' tattooed on the inside of your bottom lip like this guy I met in Bolivia (true story, I saw it).
I've returned, I'm back, lo and behold here I am on Australian soil once more.
Melbourne, you look the exactly like how you did when I left. Same to you, Wantirna.
The sun's streaming through my window as I listen to a record and my family sits in the backyard, elated to have me back amongst them. This should be a beautiful image. It is. The overwhelming feeling I have however, is that I might at any moment wake up from some strange dream and I'll find I was merely napping on the couch in front of the TV at the Moai Viajero. The pisco I bought at Santiago airport leaked a little, so now my bag smells like countless nights and mornings spent at the Moai, the crazy house that became my home.
Maps, ticket stubs and photos are strewn on the ground and I can scarcely believe it was only yesterday that I was still in South America. It's bizarre. Bizarro, bro. I have no clue as to how I should be feeling. How on earth does one try to explain and do justice to all of the crazy shit, the amazing adventures, the incredible people met? The landscapes and cities and culture, compared to the mundane, everyday familiarity of what I just returned to?
I promise I'll try not to become That Person who seems to begin every sentence with "When I was in Argentina..." or "This guy I met in Bolivia...", but I tell you what ... it'll be tough going I think.
The usefulness of a big friendly smile.
This cannot be understated. A big charming smile and a bit of Spanish and one will find many pesos cut off their cab fare, maps drawn for them, or even an escort to the bus station through tear gassed streets of a beach side town.
The South American personal space bubble differs greatly to that of the Australian personal space bubble.
This especially evident on public transport and during public events such as Inti Raymi.
You WILL get pick-pocketed in South America.
During my time in Peru and Bolivia, my friends had all manner of things stolen. Cameras, replacement cameras, phones, backpacks, their entire Big Pack. I didn't. Thinking myself indestructable and vaguely non-gringo, I let my guard down. As soon as I got to Argentina, things stolen. Lots of things. I now have nothing of value worth stealing and thus the space around my bunk is a bomb sight of clothes and food and assorted shit.
After spending time in Peru and Bolivia, I will never, EVER take a clean toilet for granted.
For that matter, I will never take for granted free available toilet paper, and a toilet in which one can flush said toilet paper. I think when I return to Australia I'll be puzzled by the absence of a bin next to the toilet for the paper.
I will never take a hot shower for granted.
But having said that, I am now completely comfortable with not showering for days on end.
Speeding your way through Bolivia? Pfft, 'sif shower. Can't be bothered showering? You don't need to shower, dude. Haven't showered for a few days? One more won't hurt. I kid you not, I didn't shower for over a week in Bolivia. And I was fine with that. Arriving in Salta (Argentina) however, the presence of wi-fi, cafes and designer stores made me feel like more than a little bit of a bum. I had a shower at that point.
If you're a gringo in Cusco, the phrase you will utter more than any other on any given day is, "No, gracias".
You will be offered hats, llama jumpers, weed, coke and massages at every corner. As well as in between every corner. I mean, of course occasionally you'll say yes to one of these offers, but there's only so much I can stand and only so much money I have to burn. And I'm going to go out on a limb and say that when I'm about to get into a cab with my pack and I'm in the middle of a tearful goodbye, it's probably not a moment when I want drugs.
I love travelling alone.
At first I was somewhat apprehensive about travelling by myself for a few months after hanging with Linc, especially leaving Cusco, this place that I'd come to call my home. My fears turned out to be unfounded however, as it soon became clear how much I prefer doing it solo. Honestly, I don't think I could go back to having a permanent travel buddy on a trip.
Travelling solo you're forced to introduce yourself, to make friends. You end up getting to know cities better. It becomes incredibly simple making split-second decisions and changes of plans. Stay in Salta one more night to watch the Argentina game with some friends? Why the hell not? Go to Uyuni instead of Tupiza cause I met a cool guy on the bus on his way there? Fuck yes I will.
Travel buddies picked up for a few days, a week, fun had then good byes said. I tell you what, never have before have I met so many incredible, interesting people in such a short space of time than during these three and a half months. And never have so many comfort zones been barrelled through, so many stupid risks been taken to amazing, lovely, ridiculous results.
So on that note, I have learned exactly how goddamn interesting people are.
They are. Everyone. People are fascinating.
I'm interesting too.
That may seem like a stupid thing to say, and an incredibly dumb thing to have discovered, but it's true. Apparently I'm interesting, and I shouldn't be shocked when people want to spend extended amounts of time with me. It's a nice discovery to have made.
Judging a book by its cover is a bad move.
Which is not to say that I was a judgemental person before I got here, but certainly occasionally I would look at someone and in spite of myself, make a snap judgement about them. Interesting People come in all shapes and sizes though, kids. I met a bunch of boys in La Paz, who a few months ago I may have dismissed as a bunch of irritating 'Gap Yah' dudds. However, a night spent with them ended up being some of the best fun I had in all of Bolivia. I ended up staying another night in the city (albeit not in a bed for a second), enjoying all manner of incredible conversation, dingy nightlife and weird experiences one can only really have while on the road, in Bolivia.
There are no problems, only solutions.
Phone got stolen in a crowded club? Wallet too? Don't cry about it, pussy. Deal with it.
Argentinian guys are very often completely gross and disgustingly forward.
Walking down the street, expect yells, loud kissy noises, assorted shit, from hoardes of men.
Irritatingly, Argentinian men are also the best looking I've come across in South America.
Soz, Bolivia and Peru and to a lesser extent, Chile.
Booze is cheap. So are cigarettes.
As such, it's incredibly easy to succumb to peer pressure. A favourite phrase of my main Chilean pal is 'PEERPRESSUREPEERPRESSUREPEERPRESSURE'
Tattoos don't hurt that much. Tear gas does.
Cities at high altitude mean that you won't be able to climb a hill in one go, stairs will be a challenge, slight inclines are irritating, and hangovers are excruciatingly horrid.
South Americans like football.
I knew this before. It just became all the more clear upon going to a Copa America semi final in Argentina. It was intense.
Argentinian steaks are incredible.
There is never pepper on the table at Chilean restaurants.
Chilean wine is great.
They weren't kidding about Chilean smog.
There's a lot to be said for a good house party.
Climbing a volcano is hard.
It is.
Peruvians, Bolivians, Argentinians and Chileans are some of the most lovely, hospitable and generous people you could ever find.
Which one can forget momentarily when your phone, iPod, camera and wallet are stolen in quick succession. One is quickly reminded however, when a lovely stranger goes out of their way to help, or when one meets a group four Argentinian buddies travelling through SA in an old '67 Bedford and one spends a night hanging out with them in said awesome bus.
I'd add more things to this list but I hear goings-on in the kitchen of the hostel I'm in at the moment. This hostel, which has become my home for about three and a half weeks, full of the craziest, strangest little family of guys that make up the staff. Of all the places I've been, I'd venture to say that this place - the Moai Viajero Hostel - is up there near the top of the Places I'll Miss the Most.
First of all, yes I am still alive. Yes, I am still in South America. I have HONESTLY been meaning to blog more, and I have a back log of things I want to jot down for y'all on here but ... you know. Things to see, places to be, people to meet. But here I am in Pucon, with a day to kill. I was going to climb Volcan Villarica (that's a volcano, for those of you playing at home) today, but unfortunately after hauling myself out of bed at 5:30 (in the AM, for those of you playing at home) and getting to the office at 6:45am, I was told by our French guides that there was snow falling today. I had planned to be in Valdivia by tonight, but you know what? I want to climb this goddamn volcano. This'll be my fourth time seeing snow up close and personal, and my first time 'mountaineering'. How very out of character for me. We'll soon see how this little flight of fancy pans out.
At any rate, I'm in Chile.
Chile is a great many things. It's long and thin, with the Andes looming down upon it on one side, and the Pacific Ocean on the other side. There are deserts up the top, and the glacial, volcanic tip of the earth on other end. In the middle, are mining towns and tourist towns and big cities that withstand earthquakes, and indigenous people that withstand centuries of every invading force imaginable (seriously, the Mapuche are badass). Chile is the last country in South America that I'm visiting before I return to Australia, and it's also the country where my parents, and their parents, and their parents' parents were born. Needless to say, it's been interesting to be in Chile.
Whilst growing up (for lack of a better description), I had a strange relationship with my heritage. One one hand, I was proud of it, was proud to have a family history steeped in a culture more interesting (in my opinion, at least) than that of white Australia, that I got to eat far more interesting food on the weekends with my hoards of rowdy aunts, uncles and cousins. My parents told me of how their parents had packed up their families and all their worldly posessions to come across the seas to a strange country in order to escape a very rude dictatorship, and to give their kids a chance at a better a life. They told me this and I'd feel epic buckets of love for my grandparents. On the other hand however, I took pride in how well my folks had then assimilated, at their flawless English. I was pleased that they have Aussie friends, and that they sent us to a school with a broad spectrum of pals and a good education instead of occasional gangster delusions. I take that back. That's incredibly snobby and a gross generalisation, so allow me to explain.
I suppose it's a result of my folks speaking with irritation at their fellow Chilenos in Australia who only associated with each other, only speaking Spanish. I suppose it's the result of so many of the distant relations we have sending their kids to school in places that are conducive to wannabe gangstas driving horrid hotted up cars. I suppose it's my love of the skinny nerd whiteboy. But into my teens it became clearer and clearer that I (and my brother, for that matter) stuck out at gatherings of extended family that we rarely saw. Not only because of the things I would wear and my hair, but because my lack of any skill in speaking Spanish and my complete inability to remember the names of anyone I'd met in the family.
I tell you what, it's a strange headspace to be in. On one hand, I'd wear my Australian-ness and well-assimilated family as a badge of pride, but on the other hand I longed to spak Spanish and occasionally inwardly shook my first at my folks for not continuing to teach me when I was a kid. I was almost pleased with how much I stood out at family gatherings, yet was also pleased with my not-overly-Australian accent and my hatred of Vegemite. My eyes swell up when I watch someone dance traditional Chilean dances, and I get choked up at ANZAC Day services.
So. With all of that in mind, it's been interesting as hell to actually be in South America. My first run-in with Extreme Emotion was one afternoon in Cusco. Walking through the Plaza de Armas I saw one of the many parades/dances that occurred during the most festive of months for Peru. It was the beginning of June, so I hadn't really seen any properly at that stage. I saw the men and women dancing in their traditional Andean dress and I couldn't help but burst into tears. Of course, I was feverish, had just thrown up, and hadn't eaten in about two days (I was on my way to the doctor), so that may have been it.
I know I've mentioned in my previous (sporadic) blog posts written whilst I've been over here that I feel like this is exactly where I'm supposed to be at this exact moment. It's true, and I'm going to have to reiterate it. In a bus bumping and flying over the rocky terrain of Bolivia, chatting to a kid on my way to the Argentine border, swimming in an Amazonian lake, watching a football game in La Plata, down a mine in Potosi ... everywhere, I've found myself constantly having moments in which I can scarcely believe what I'm doing, and where it is that I'm doing it. At the risk of sounding cheesy as fuck, I'm a hell of a long ways from home yet equally, I feel incredibly close to it.
I'vemet a grand old big chunk of my family over the past few weeks. It was fascinating. The brothers and sisters of my grandparents, some of their kids, and in turn some of their kids. Tia Lucy, whom my mum and her siblings always speak of so warmly, lovingly, proved to be an absolute blast. This tiny tiny lady declared "I'm the oldest!" as she burst in the door and gave me a big hug. She then demanded to know who looked more like my grandpa, her or their brother, Manolo. The day was full of loud Chilenos talking over each other constantly, with a gigantic paella too big for the table feeding us all. Frankly, it reminded me of a weekend get together back home. My mum's cousin's husband (I don't know what on earth that makes him to me) played the piano and everyone sat around and sang me a traditional folk song about a woollen beanie. I videoed it, a little choked up, thinking, "Mum will SHIT BRICKS when she sees this". My broken, grammatically feeble yet vastly improved Spanish served me well, with glowing reports soon getting back to my parents through the grapevine of relatives.
It again served me well when I journeyed an hour or so south to Rancagua, to meet a portion of my dad's family. I admit that at one point on the train journey I wished I was back at the hostel, warm in bed, with no pressure to be on show for two days, "representing the Australian offspring". As soon as my dad's cousin began showing me around however, I felt otherwise. I saw the street, the house where my dad had grown up. I saw the mechanic in which the men of the family had worked. I saw the ice cream shop where a young Panchin would buy snacks. Holy jeezum crow Batman, that shit is priceless.
I had no idea I'd feel this way when I got to Chile, and to South America as a whole. That's not to say that I've spent the entire time being sentimental. I'll have you know that there have been myriad ways in which I've shown my badassery. But at the most curious of moments, I'll feel really in touch with my South American side. Like crawling through a mine in Potosi, barely being able to breathe. Like standing under Iguazu Falls. Seeing some tango in Buenos Aires. Like being on this horrid, horrid bus on my way out of Uyuni, Bolivia, and I happening to look out the window after literally getting air during one bump in the road and I seeing pretty much every star, ever. During that same horrid bus, I happened to find myself chatting to a little girl travelling with her even younger brother (seated on the floor amongst the boxes and bags of shit knows what) from Uyuni to some other town. She asked how I'd liked the salt flats. I said they were amazing. She looked pleased, and assured me that they're much, much better during the summer months.
Throughout my trip here, I've been struck by how proud South Americans are of their countries. I mean, I'm a proud Aussie I guess, but this is different. Maybe it's a result of having been through many years hardship over the years (when I told a local artist in Valdivia the year my parents came to Australia he shook his head sadly and replied, "Mm. I went to Paris"). My Tio Juan spent HOURS proudly explaining the history of this building, of this statue, of that park, during our tour of Santiago. Every cab driver I met in Bolivia genuinely wanted to know what I thought of his country, his town. That little girl seemed chuffed as hell when I said I loved the salt flats. I met so many Peruvians that were incredibly proud to still speak Quechua. I guess if your heritage and your history is that interesting, it'd be hard not to be. And it appears that upon seeing it for myself after all of this time, I am too.
In front of the house where my dad grew up.
Phew. No time to proof read, am using a hostel computer.
I did.
I'm in Bolivia now, about two weeks after I'd initially itended to leave that dear country of Peru. Funny, how one can grow so attached to a place.
Cusco became my base, my home of sorts, the place where I constantly ended up returning to, for whatever reason I might choose to use to rationalise the decision.
After leaving Arequipa, I returned to gather my thoughts and regroup. I went to the jungle, only to return to Cusco for Inti Raymi (which was great fun, just quietly). Then when it finally was time to have a Proper Farewell after all of those 'fake farewells', I found myself almost overcome with sadness. It's not because Cusco is the most amazing city in the world (although it certainly does have a lot of charm, and quirks out the yin yang). Nor is Peru the most amazing country in the world, although it is spectacular in myriad ways. More so, I was astounded to find how attached I had become to the friends I'd made during my time at Amauta-the-Spanish-school, and the weeks afterwards when I kept returning.
Yesterday was my last day in Cusco. It was spent in the sun, catching a bus and taking the scenic route to some mediocre hot springs with three friends. We were the only gringos, we took a little taxi, the four of us crammed into the back seat through a windy road where a landslide seemed to have just occurred. At the warm springs (tepid at best springs) we bobbed up and down in the murky water, we were conspicuous, we drip dried in the non-sun then took a little car back to Calca. Then we went to Urubamba. We bought stale bread and awesome avocado and sat in the sun, eating sandwiches while listening to creepy carnival music. It was a hippy market. I bought a ginger cupcake and shared it with someone spectacular. The bus ride back was long and tiring and silent but content with hands held and napping on shoulders. Shit, son. Then it was dinner at The Israeli Place one last time, playing Pigs one last time, hanging out at the school one last time then GOODBYE, time for a huge hug. Saying, "Keep in touch" and actually meaning it. On the other hand though, don't farewells while fighting back tears at five in the morning at the edge of the Plaza de Armas make you feel kind of alive? I'd venture to say yes.
If you're wondering about the jungle, it was amazing. It was exactly what I needed at that stage, time to relax, to be away from the maddening crowd, to sit in the wilderness and just think for a little while. We swam in an Amazonian lake under the moonlight, trouped through the jungle, saw monkeys and parrots and otters and all manner of birds. Tarantulas and those little crocodile things as well. It was sweaty and hot as fuck and I got attacked by mosquitoes and I fell through a bridge but goddamn, was it ever incredible.
Bolivia? It seems quite a bit like Peru so far, but slightly different. I'm fairly exhausted, not having slept much at all in the past few days. I wandered around the city tonight, wrote, ate some brie, then bought a minature Millennium Falcon, becuause that's just the way I operate, guys. Tomorrow I'll probably book a tour to the salt flats. I might take my Millennium Falcon.
I'm tired, and kind of sad, but at the same time I'm excited. I'm excited because I've got three more countries to get to, over two months. No time for hesitation son, no time for tears or moping because that phase has finished and there's a new one about to begin. CAN YOU FEEL IT?
Anyway, apologies for the lack of photos. They're a bit of a bitch to upload from shitty internet cafes. Hold on tight, I'll upload some eventually. At any rate, I'm sure most of you that read this have me on Facebook anyway, and are up to date with my photographic adventures.
I´ve had a total of three hours of sleep in the past two days. I´m exhausted.
Last we heard, the hero if this moving picture was about to head to Puno. For those of you playing at home, that´s pretty much on the border of Peru and Bolivia. I went to the bus station and asked around. The roads between Cusco and Puno had been blocked, but a couple of companies were still going to the town, just via a different route. The scenic one it seems, turning a seven hour journey into a twelve hour one.
Anyway, I spent the day hanging out with friends, eating a giant sandwich, not catching up on sleep. Then someone informs me, "Puno´s fucked". I ask someone else. "Yeah, it´s pretty much a revolution now." Well, great. I asked some more people.
"Yeah, I was going to go on Monday. Now I´m not."
"Shit. I was going to head there tonight."
"Have fun with that."
I cursed the universe. Is it that hard for the universe to let me catch a break? I'd already checked out of my hostel, and put all my bags (packed incredibly, I'll have you know) in the room of a friend, ready to catch my bus at 10pm. With four hours until that time, I decided instead that I'd head to Puerto Maldonado, a jungle town that from all accounts seems quite pretty. The plane's at 10am. I tried to book my flight, but the internets just weren't having any of that. Let me book a flight? Fuck that. I take the scenic route, bitches.
So I decided, WHATEVER! I won't pay for a hostel! I'll just stay out all night! Easy, right?
I'll have you know I made it to 4am. Which I think is admirable. I then snuck myself (a feat unto itself given the hardass doorman) into the school I stopped being a student at about three weeks ago and crashed. For two hours. Then hauled myself out of the nice warm bed and into a taxi, to make sure I got there quick enough to buy a ticket. It may seem overly early, but given how good I am at screwing things like that up, and given my propensity to have awful luck, it seemed the only course of action.
Anyway. I've spent the last hour or so searching for malaria tablets at various pharmacies, sitting around, looking spaced out and zombie-like, and smelling terrible. I've got another half an hour or so to kill. I need to sleep. I might. But then, I might not wake up for hours. I'll watch some Digimon on my iPhone.
Oh, and in case you were at all interested, it was a wonderful night out. I haven't had that much fun dancing in a truly obscene amount of time. And as sure as a bear shits in the woods, I don't often feel inclined to dance, unless it's flailing around to Limp Bizkit, or being an obnoxious twat.
GODDAMN I AM TIRED.
This was probably a completely incoherent post, but at least now you've got something to procrastinate with, Fish.
I´m still in Peru. I´ve got half an hour or so to kill before I meet some friends for funtimes here in Cusco, so I guess that´s a good an excuse as any to blag blag blag my little heart out to you all.
I tell you what though, these South American keyboards will be the death of me. Granted, it´s a little easier (certainly faster) than typing on my iPhone, so I shouldn´t really complain.
So. Update. Last time I wrote we were in the Sacred Valley. We headed back to Cusco, oh city where I will leave my heart, for some fun and frivolity and friends and farewells. As well as obnoxious amounts of alliteration. Then Linc and I set off to Machu Picchu, by way of a four day trek through the Lares Valley. Those of you who know me well, your minds should be boggling at the fact that I was wearing grubby clothes, not showering, not brushing my teeth and walking for quite obscene amounts of kilometers up mountains. It was ridiculous. If it weren´t so disgusting, I´d post up pictures of the myriad bruises that are on my ass. I already posted a picture of my disgusting big toe on Facebook (sorry, Fish) so I think that one will have to be given a miss.
So the trek had its amazing points and dudd points and I did have some small child steal the case that contained my sewing kit, battery for my camera, toothbrush, toothpaste and hand sanitiser. So that was irritating. But something certainly has to be said for the feeling one gets (especially if one is incredibly unfit, like yours truly) when one reaches the top of a huge mountain and you can look down and think, ¨I FUCKING DID THAT, BITCHES.¨ We actually did the trek with two AWESOME Austrians, who happened to hire horses for the duration of the trek. I was jealous at first, but I think the feeling of accomplishment may have been worth it.
Machu Picchu? It was great. All those things that people say about it? Tick all those boxes. Yes, it´s touristy. Yes, it´s spectacular. Yes, it´s amazing. Definitely glad we went. It would have been a crime had we not gone.
Post Machu Picchu, Linc and I headed to Arequipa, which is a gorgeous city. More European than Cusco. Prettymax. Not really much worth noting though, given that we didn´t go to the Colca Canyon, nor did we go out on the town. Mostly, I just went to various cafes and wrote. Wrote and wrote. A lot of drivel, some shit worth keeping.
After Arequipa I was meant to go to Buenos Aires, and Linc was meant to go to Columbia. Linc did go to Columbia, I didn´t go to Argentina. Thanks to the Chilean volcano, my flight was cancelled. Awesome. Then it became actually slightly awesome, because that meant that I was put in a five star hotel for my trouble, with obscene amounts of free food, as well as running hot water and a working shitter (with toilet paper provided, unlike much of Peru). YES. I had the longest shower I´ve had in a month, I ate way too much, and I had a glorious nap with the TV on in the background. Cheap thrills, y´all.
Anyway, I didn´t end up getting on my flight to Buenos Aires. I´ll be doing Argentina in about a month. For now, I´m back in Cusco, then heading to Puno tomorrow. Then I´ll be back here for the Inti Rami festival which will be all manner of radfun, then I´ll head to Bolivia properly. I know it´s a hell of a long time in Peru, but I´ve grown rather attached to this place. I´ll be glad to get to the next country, but there´s plenty here that I´m fond of.
Okay, I´ve successfully killed about twenty minutes. Ugh.
I´ll tell you a little about Cusco. Today I went to a market, and across from the beanies and jumpers and a little internet corner, there was a TYPEWRITER CORNER. A bunch of typewriters. Ready to be typed with. I thought, ¨Fuck me, I want to type something on a typwriter.¨ ... so I did. I typed it good, I´ll tell you that for free. The man asked me if I wanted him to type something for me, and I was all like, ¨BITCHNAH.¨ ... to be honest that might have been the highlight of my day. Cheap thrills, y´all.
Cusco is full of stray dogs. But believe it or not, maybe one in fifty could be described as ¨manky¨. They´re all pretty cute to be honest. Some of them hang out in posses of three or four. They´re mostly really friendly. I´ve seen maybe three get mad at people. Well, apart from this one night. I was wandering the streets with a pal of mine, and suddenly we hear barking and running footsteps. Look up at the plaza, there´s a gang of about five dogs cracking the shits at this man, who´s running backwards as fast as his legs will take him, pulling off his jacket and whipping it at the dogs, trying to keep them at bay.
Needless to say, we bailed.
Also, the dogs are tough as fuck. Same night, same pal, different plaza, we laughed at this one badass boss dog running alongside, sprinting alongside this taxi. It wasn´t happy. Then oh god the taxi rounded the corner and the dog was under the car. I screamed and was ready to burst into tears. But lo and behold, the dog was fine. It gave a little whimper, then got up and trotted off. Barely limping. I kid you not, this dog hit the bumper and went under at least one of the tyres. Granted, the cars here are pretty tiny, but it was INSANE, the toughness of this dog. We saw it later, and it was fine. Honestly, what the poo.
Not even kidding. It's currently 12:30am, and I'll be leaving home to begin the journey to Tullamarine in two and a half hours.
In the meantime, I've found myself on the couch next to Elvis the Dog. He's snoozing, barking every so often in his sleep while I desperately try to finish editing a Backstreet Boys video the uni girls and I made recently.
Looking back, I was incredibly overambitious in thinking I'd have time to edit it. Mitch came to visit earlier this week, which kept me occupied for a few days. I then did my last shift at the call center, caught up with some family, packed, and had some farewell drinks last night.
It's become obvious that I won't have time to finish it. Or at least, I could finish it, but it wouldn't be nearly as good an end product as I'd like it to be. We went all out for this video, and it deserves real time spent on it. I'd planned to finish it tonight, but the last minute, "OH! I've still gotta do that!" moments just kept piling up and I've only just been able to sit down and do it. Looking at the time, then looking at how much needs to be done on the video, combined with how tired I am means that I feel utterly horrid.
Immy, Alice, Karin, Jaz, Siggi, I'm being sincere when I say that not being able to finish the video upsets me terribly, not least of all because I know how much you've all been looking forward to it. Reb: Shit guy.
My face now:
:C
Anyway.
So I'm leaving. The fact that I'm exhausted I think is contributing to my current state of mind. Which, for those of you playing at home, is one somewhere in between panic, excitement, glee and a little bit of sadness. Is that weird? Probslol. Maybslol?
I can't wait to have adventures with Linc, to see all these amazing places, to experience new and wonderful things. But at the same time, the thought of not seeing my room, my pals, for months... that's a little sad. Aw.
I need to sleep.
I'll post on here every time I have a chance. Promise.
x
"Bye!" said the sleep deprived, slightly crazed trekker.
