I have been advised to avoid gringos...

Despite travelling a world completely foreign and exciting, colourful and dust swirled, the concept of avoiding gringos is, perhaps, just as strange as the new places I encounter on a weekly basis.  Kate and I (Jason and Flora too!) have well and truly been trekking along the so called gringo trail - a link of South American cities, towns and natural oases that are navigable by bus, boat or plane, and which will welcome with open arms pale (or not) visitors to a plethora of hostels, internet cafes, planned bar crawls and gringo friendly menus. Particularly symbolic of this well established market trend was one hostel-restaurant-tour-agency in Sucre, Bolivia that has the tagline, "Not Just For Gringos", which, ironically or not, is printed in English at the foot of all their advertising paraphenalia.  I, for one, I am quite fond of this gringoism in its milder tones, whereby you can find an English speaking hostel receptionist to plug for hot tips on the latest city, or perhaps a microbrewed beer tailored to the visitor who has come from so far away (again, English labeling is the gringoism give away, especially when you are a 20 hour bus ride from the nearest capital city).

Obviously, gringoism, as I suppose I am now calling it, also has its less attractive side.  For example, at one hostel in lofty La Paz I had to wear a lavender wristband to grant safe entry into the multi-story building, which read, in English and en Español:  "If you find me lost or drunk, please, return me to the following address...".  Aka: dignity-bracelet.  The same hostel is dotted all over with borderline lude humour in an attempt at youthful, rebellious charm, and is definitely designed for the English speaking traveller who likes a drink as well as an outdoor adventure - hence the name Adventure Brew Hostel, which aptly fits it´s combination of tasty microbrews and overpriced mountain bike tours.  However, with its reasonable quiet hours, civilised bar and movie areas, Adventure Brew is not quite the dreadful pinnacle of gringoism: the party hostel.

I have not been able to bring myself to attend one just yet, but perhaps I will at some point just to tick it off the list. There is one particularly famous party hostel in Buenos Aires called Millhouse, and I caught a fellow traveler leaving an online review of the place that reads as follows:

"Better named Sh*t house, this place houses children who very recently, if not still, have their asses wiped by their parents.... If you're 19, and in a fraternity, this might be the place for you...However if your looking for any sort of cultural experience, stay as far away from millhouse as u would genital cancer.... The only redeeming factor about this hostel is the staff, they are solid. They do their best to hold the daycare center together and promote daily activity.."

This colourful reviewer, straight outta Napa Valley, was clearly enjoying poetic license, but he nonethetheless sums up for me the worst possible strains of gringoism, in which the desire to party cheaply on foreign soil overwhelms any attempt to make genuinely rewarding discoveries or challenging explorations.   That is not to say that I am a shining beacon of environmentally clean, culturally sensitive, multilingual travel.  I too enjoy cheap drinks, shower for too long on occasion, am bashful speaking Spanish and, tragically, I left Chile without having made a lasting connection with a single Chilean!  The last point is particularly sad but true and there is no doubt in my mind that the chance to chum up with a Chilean was missed because of the redeeming qualities of the group I can not avoid be identified with: Los Gringos!

Although culturally responsible for the replacement of long-standing traditionial restaurants with Starbucks flagships, and rued in certain localities for erosions of inca trails, wildlife habitats and affordable living, there is a subsection of Los Gringos I am more than happy to be a part of.  Multicultural, multilingual, replete with travelling advice and ready to become your new best bestie within 24 hours, a large part of my trip has been defined by travelling the virtual globe that world-trotting gringos carry with them in their back pocket.  To name just a few, I've been lucky enough to be befriended by an experimental Colombian musician in Argetina, Icelandic giants in Brazil, Germans in Chile, Finns in Peru, Frenchies in Bolivia, a Canadian on a minibus and a poncho clad Dutchman on a motor boat.  Also in abundance: Belgians, South Africans, Australians, Irishmen and girls, United Statesians, and, of course, the ubiquitous English.  Often times its just a momentary affair exchanging brief life stories over a drink, or perhaps a hostel lobby chat about which beach is absolutely unmissable, what journey is cheaper by bus and which has a good probability of hurtling off an Andean cliff.

At times, however, and fairly frequently in my experience, the connection becomes a surprisingly strong link that has you traipsing the latest location as part of a highly inefficient motley crew.  Somewhere along the line the need to fit in as many sights and local delicacies into a day is replaced by the comraderie of an often hungover group of international twenty-somethings.  Maybe its the drinks the night before that entwine perfect strangers into toothpaste sharing survivors.  Maybe its living out of a backpack that makes people create a sense of home in the people around them (or, relatedly, maybe its the utter absence of well worn social connections from home that allow people to dive headlong into the social paths unknown).  Certainly playing into the phenomenon of rapid psuedo-family building is the fact that most people who pick up a backpack, hop on a plane and arrive in a place they've never been before without a place to sleep organized, well, those people tend to be pretty awesome!

As I mentioned, I have been advised to avoid gringos. This fairly given advice came from a new friend offering me and Kate a fantastic work opportunity in Mendoza, Argentina; speaking Spanish is somewhat of a necessity to the deal.  I fully intended to follow the advice given, to start couchsurfing, eating local, and generally avoiding gringos; I'd be a master of Espanol in mere weeks.  Eating local was about as far as I got!  The very same day that I received said advice two friends from our Salar de Uyuni tour showed up at our hostel in Sucre.  Understandably the gringo factor upped a little, but I still had gringo-avoidance as an attainable objective after we would inevitably part ways.  Parting ways became less likely once the four of us (Kate, myself, Bertrand and Andrea) were joined by an amateur musician with a great giggle, Mathieu.  When we then bumped into Jannes during a museum tour (a worshipper of life's beautiful details we had already travelled Chile and Argentina with), the opposite inevitabilty, that we would become inseperable, started to take shape.

In a peculiarly English pub, Kate and I tried our best to persuade Jannes to stay one more day in Sucre so we could enjoy his company a little longer.  We pulled out all our best tricks to keep him within convenience's range, but had caught him only a couple hours before a long distance bus to La Paz, and he had a new partner in crime from his own Salar de Uyuni tour, Benoit.  Having won the battle previously in Mendoza to pull Jannes with us to Valparaiso, Chile (more of a smiley series of suggestions than a battle!), Jannes displayed what we began to joke was his professional power of persuasion, and, just twenty minutes before Jannes had to catch his own bus to La Paz, Jannes had out-lawyered us completely.  The next day, absolutely contrary to the direction of our glimmering hostel opporuntity in Mendoza,  Kate and I joined Mathieu, Andrea and Bertrand on a Northbound night bus to La Paz.

Three frenchmen, one German, a Basque-Californian, Kate (Canadian-Greek-USA-ian) and I then spent a little under three weeks together, enabling, persuading, partying, bussing, boating, flying, trekking and cabbing across Bolivia, until ultimately reaching the zenith of most South American gringo trails:  Macchu Picchu.  I could say: "I don't know how it happened... one minute I was making my way back to Mendoza, and the next I'd seen La Paz, the pamapas, the jungle, Lake Titicaca, Cusco and Macchu Picchu!"

But I know exactly how it happened.

Despite the grand independence every backpacker gifts themselves when they start their trip, every time one of us was on the brink of naturally breaking off to get back to their "plan" there would surmount a general uproar of adoration, logical defiance and alcohol offering.  "If the problem is money, you simply can't make that argument in Bolivia... it's $20 to travel for 12 hours!"  "Did I mention the hostel we will stay at is also a microbrewery and has a hot tub next to the penthouse bar?"  "But Lake Titicaca is just 3 hours away from here - you can be back in a day".  "You can't break up the band when we're this close to Macchu Picchu".  "Just think it over quietly while we finish our beers - there's no need to rush a decision like this..."

Perhaps most persuasive, and telling, was when Kate and I were privately debating the Macchu Picchu question on a very slow moving boat that was taking us over Lake Titicaca to Isla del Sol.  My reservations were cost, primarily, the sketchy border situation between Peru and Bolivia, and a desire to really, no seriously, I mean it this time, get back to Mendoza.  Kate dissolved all of that solid reasoning when she told me that if we headed back at this point, so close to Cusco, she would regret not reaching the pinnacle of Macchu Picchu with our friends.  At that point I already regretted having not been quick enough to see it with Jason and Flora.

A day later we were making the questionable border crossing into Peru; two days later we were perusing the multitudinous tour agencies of Cusco; three days later we were in the Sacred Valley hurtling down from 4500m to 1500m on mountian bikes to then go white water rafting in the evening; the next day, breath-taking trekking over inca trails; the next, ziplining over Andean canyons; and just six days after deciding to shirk the possibility of regrets, we were climbing Macchu Picchu, a group of seven gringos determined not to give eachother up.

The staggering beauty of Macchu Picchu, and the surrounding Sacred Valley, are sights that made the hard work of saving money for this trip all the more exponentially rewarded.  Words and photographs cannot do it justice, as anyone will tell you.  But even sharing stories with a friend who was next to you at the time cannot quite capture the sensation of rapture that such breathtaking scenery creates.  That was the case for me at least, and it felt just that little more special, personally, as it happened to be a year to the day since I had graduated uni, and 5 years since Kate and I had first met.  To have - in addition to that rare sense of awe before the world - six people with you who you care for deeply, who you know how to laugh with, dance with, to comfort and sit with, silent before the world's great oyster - that made every twist of my budget, every contortion of my itnierary, and every bend of my individual will a move in the best direction possible.

Sitting on a hostel sofa in Cusco, a day after our trek to Macchu Picchu, Jannes said to me that the beauty of travelling is when you begin to adjust your angle of living, when your perspective suddenly widens from the fairly narrow focus created by a steady routine of work, family and old friends.  Suddenly you're ready for any opportunity, any character to lead the moment of your life.  Rigidity slacks somewhat and coincidences surface.  You see things you could never see otherwise, things beyond the imagination of an itinerary.  Other travelers we met, as a group of seven, expressed admiration or surprise at the size of our group.  Secretly I think some of them thought us quite odd (the team moustaches probably didn't help!).  And quite right, in part; at times trying to move as a group so big was tiresome or mildly tedious.  But I am reminded of a quote a big Swede once shared with me "If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together".

Allowing eachother to lead the way, acquiescing to someone who really wants you to stay with them and choosing to enjoy the path you might not have taken alone - it might have looked sheepish to other travelers, but, for its time and place, I think we all broadened our angles of living in a way some travelers don't experience for their love of automomy.  Within three short weeks I felt like part of a nomad community that cared for all its parts, but, most importantly, knew how to create fun in any situation - a community undeniably comprised of gringos, and the best possible kind.

Over the last three days our band of seven has whittled down to five, then to three, and tomorrow Kate and I 'alone' will make our way South back to Mendoza, border protestors permitting.  Ahead of us, perhaps, and hopefully, we will have a chance to avoid gringos, somewhat, and to delve deeper into South Amerian language and culture.  Thankfully, I can write, that despite missing potential opportunities to find an adopted Bolivian family, to perhaps pick up the rhythms of Chilean Castellano or get invited to a Peruvian Sunday lunch, I have no regrets about the through and through gringotastic trail I blazed the last three weeks.  It had very little to do with hand holding in a new environment, and far more to do with sharing awe and laughter with people that mirror your own loves.

Cheers to six of my favourite gringos, and to the many others thus far.

From April 19th...

So,

two months into my adventure around South America... What have I learned?  Seen?  Experienced, felt, tasted, loved?  What did I not like?  Any of it?  What have I to say?

Better to start small probably.  I'm in Buenos Aires at the apartment of my now even dearer friend, Allie Gates.  She's at work, crafting people's hair, deciphering their desires (and their Spanish) and carving the best fit she can make with her scissors.  Kate's taking a cat nap on the red leather clad trundle-futon we just helped move from the bedroom to the living room; there's a house warming later tonight.

Labour for a place to rest has been the theme of the last week.  We just got back to our beloved barrio of San Telmo after a week excursion to an Argentinian tourist destination, Tigre, although our time was as far from fanny-packs and pocket maps as we've yet been (to set things straight, I do not own, or ever wear bumbags!).  Through the organization WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms) Kate and I connected with a Dutch-Argentinian couple setting up a bed and breakfast by the river.  Only a month in their hands, the newly renamed 'Casona del Rio' seems a long way from operational just yet - despite the proprieter's optimistic assertion that "It's two weeks till we open" - and so Stef and Carolina gave us bed and board for a week in exchange for, well, fairly tedious labour that has be done before any paying guests turn up.

That is not to say we didn't enjoy ourselves, but one week was definitely enough, in part because Kate and I's natural hard work ethic (see also: over enthusiasm) began to feel somewhat exploited by the particularly lazy nature of our host Stef.  However, that discrepancy and the lack of meat in our diet, really was the only hiccup in what could be called a strange social experiment it didn't already have an official acronym: WWOOF.

See: get picked up by a complete stranger at unknown train station, get past the awkward introduction phase and walk to his little boat, discover this is the only way to reach his home-business-on-an-island-in-the-middle-of-a-delta, arrive at idyllic looking dock curious about the maritime inability of your new host, spens a week at island B & B to be, leave this property just twice in a week, and work hard enough to feel comfortable eating your fill... oh and throw in a mildly boozing brother in law who speaks no English as a fifth wheel!  And this is our vacation?

I guess thats the point: this isn't really a vacation.  Shit, if you're doing anything for 5 months its more like a vocation, no?  MOst people go on vacation to relax, to splurge, tan, drink, eat, shop... to take a break.  I can honestly say that in the last two months I have relaxed very little.  There is always some niggling worry about the next bus/meal/hostel/group activity/strange looking dude/ missing money in my pocket ( that I maybe should or shouldn't have spent on steak instead of lentils).

To those who haven't traveled like this before, or even to those who have, it may not read like there's much pleasant to write about, but, see results of said strange social experiment:

First and foremost, Easter Sunday (or Pascua) with Carolina's family who live in a far from fancy suburb of Buenos Aires, but whom, little though they materially had compared to how I have lived, gave bags, literally bags of food to someone needy that stopped at their door, who shared their home, their food, their maté and their holiday with two Español infants from California, and who couldn't have made us feel more welcome at their family asado from across the language barrier. Second: moving from Español infancy to toddler-dom due to the Pascua munchie marathon and the countless interactions with handy man Mariano, the boozy brother in law witha cheeky heart of gold, who simply cannot speak any slower than rapid and barely opens his mouth when he does.  Third: the re-appreciation that work puts food on the table and this is the way of the world; it's easy to get detached from the work you did over 2 months ago, and which you've been eating ever since!)  Further: the ability to breathe, because as much as I am enamoured with the San Telmo tuck-away of Buenos Aires, it is also tucked in torrents of bus fumes, car horns, corner crowds and dog turd - being able to settle for a week in one room of a house, a real house, and to have cockrels and river boats as the only 'fanfare'... well, it's settling.  And finally, see also the new friendships with three peculiar people starting a B & B on a river, the two dogs Kate and I tried our best to tame for those new friends (Nelson and Mandela!), an intimate heart to heart with a teearful Mariano mourning for his mother, and my new deadly ability to turn trees into fire-fodder armed only with a machete and a handsaw!

Now, if I were on 'vacation', there is no way I would want to sweat like I have this week unless I was dancing until dawn or chasing a ball on a beach (granted, I have also worked up a sweat those ways in the last couple months... and I never really want to sweat the ridiculous amount that I do).  But it was still my choice to work that hard, or to be there at all; to challange myself.  And thats what makes this travelling thing more like a voaction, or at least some strange limbo between work and play.  In theory, it may seem odd to some people to go kick your own ass in someone else's backyard while visiting another country... and it is, a bit, but no less odd than the idea of kicking your own ass at a single job for years that has lost all it's fresh lessons and experiences.

I don't want to start coming off all high and mighty after a mere two months of travelling - what I am doing is not so universally unique; evidence of this is the so-called 'Gringo Trail' which we have inadvertently been channeled along.  For me personally, however, this is a unique experience, even if at 26 I'm a little Johnny-come-lately compared to the average back-pack addict.  And thats why, two months in, I'm trying my best to record some of the things I'm learning - I suppose clarifying what the hell I'm doing is the first thing I want to get figured out!

As for figuring this particular question out - "What am I doing?" - I guess the best answer right now is: challenging myself.

Why not?